Roadside Magic

by Lilith Saintcrow

  So it’s Hilzhunger who has me. Great. Okay. Where the hell am I going? He glanced at Puck Goodfellow, who looked vastly amused by this entire exchange. Jeremiah coughed, the draught threatening to come back up. The cough turned into a word, the only possible reason the Fatherless could be standing here so far below the free earth. “Robin.”

  Puck’s grin did not alter one whit, but he paused. “Yes, Gallow-my-glass. We have a little bird to rescue.”

  “What is thy interest in the Ragged, Goodfellow?”

  Puck still did not move. His eyes flamed yellowgreen, and the strength flooding back into Jeremiah’s body was welcome.

  But not enough.

  “Oh, the Ragged delights me.” Puck turned, skipping. “Such a fine voice.”

  And you used her to invite Unwinter into Summer. What hold did Puck have on her?

  None, now, she’d said. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding her.

  “I might ask you the same,” Goodfellow continued, as he strode for the door left ajar by the healer. Glove-shod, and in new leathers. There was something off about him, too. “What do you intend with my little Ragged, Armormaster?”

  Your little Ragged? “My lady Ragged has many enemies.”

  Puck laughed, capering, and pushed the door wider. “Indeed she does, sirrah. Indeed. A hunter has snared her, and who knows what Summer intends? We must hasten.”

  “Crenn.” Of course. He was off alerting the dwarves, or Summer herself. He’s grown canny. Did he predict Robin?

  How could he, when I can’t?

  “What reward could she offer him, do you imagine?” Puck’s laugh, merry and raw, bounced off the stone. “He bears you a grudge, I’ve heard.”

  “So many do.” It was work to keep up with Puck, and Jeremiah began to suspect that were he to fall behind, the Fatherless might not stop. The antidote—or as close to an antidote as a dwarven healer could manage—burned in his limbs. False strength, maybe, but he’d take it.

  The scar on his side twitched, but Jeremiah broke into a run, following the brown-haired boy.

  WHEN YOU ARE MAD

  42

  Green hills of Summer lay in the distance under a blue dusk, the stars just beginning to twinkle in indigo. The white paths gleamed, and the orchard was a cloud of fleece, cupped around Summerhome’s familiar, beautiful towers. Pennants snapped in the freshening breeze, bringing the spice and velvet of appleblossom scent to every corner of Seelie. Even this one, where worn stone steps rose between juicy green thornvines, their tangles starred with small yellow roses bearing only five petals apiece. Pixies glimmered and fluttered among the vines, clouds of pinprick light as they chimed excitedly. Some pointed at Robin, their mouths tiny O’s of surprise, showing sharp ivory fangs.

  Robin dug her heels in, but Crenn was much stronger. He didn’t hurt her, but he did prod her in the ribs a little ungently. Her throat, still numb, tingled a little, and she gagged afresh on the strawberry-mint of shusweed.

  The stairs went up, and up, and up. One of the roses snapped shut, a pixie’s wings beating frantically inside it, the tiny thing’s glow fading while the tight-cupped petals squeezed. A formless murmur filled the air, and Robin blinked away furious, scalding tears. You bastard. You utter bastard.

  She had sometimes contemplated what it would be like, to be robbed of the song’s power. To be just as helpless as a mortal girl under her stepfather’s belt.

  The thought spurred fresh panic, and she almost dove to the side, into the thorns. Better than what probably awaited her at the top of these stairs, no doubt. Or maybe he was just going to toss her from the cliff—for the murmur, growing louder now, was the mouthing of the Dreamless Sea upon the sugar-white Seelie shore. The chalk cliffs rose high, kissed with low cloud on some mornings. If not for the chantment in Robin’s heels, the hunter might have had to carry her.

  Now there was a thought. But if she went limp and made him drag her, he would.

  He yanked her back from the edge of the step. “Shhh, pretty girl.” Hot breath in her ear. “It will be done soon.”

  Oh, it certainly will. Hate you. I wish Gallow were here to kill you.

  Except Gallow had probably perished of poison by now, even if Hilzhunger’s clan had a healer skilled enough to stave off some of the effects. They had no love for him, and it would suit them to hand his corpse over to Unwinter and perhaps claim a rich reward.

  She kicked at Crenn; he avoided the strike, and she spat a mouthful of shusweed juice at him. It flung wide, spattering the vines, and they writhed with dissatisfaction.

  “Stop it.” Crenn grabbed her arms, shook her so her head bobbled. She tried to knee him; he spun her, his arm a bar across her throat. “Listen to me, pretty. She cannot kill you, Gallow saw to that. Endure.”

  Fine thing for you to say. She longed to open her mouth and let the song free. She could produce nothing more than a formless croak.

  Helpless. Again.

  “You’ll have help,” he whispered, those lips pressing against her ear. His breath was sidhe-warm, sweet with drugging certainty. “I paid them for Gallow’s life and to spare; now you’ll have help, too.”

  He is already dead, and you are a liar twice and thrice over.

  “Listen. I’ll only say this once.” His arm tightened. She had rarely been so close to a man before. Hard muscle, the woodsmoke of a sidhe’s fury, an indefinable tang of lemon and male, along with a fresh green edge that was probably swampwater and moss. “He comes too late, or not at all, does the Gallowglass. I speak from experience. He’s not worth you, pretty girl.” A pause, she tried to kick him again, clawing at his arm with broken fingernails. He exhaled sharply, and she wondered if he was going to do what men always did when a woman was helpless. “You have more friends than you know,” he finished. “Remember that, and endure.”

  He half-carried her up the next few steps, then twisted her arm behind her back, his fingers gripping just short of bruising.

  Oh, fine friends indeed. None of them will aid me. That was the most important lesson she’d ever learned, in the sideways realms or the mortal.

  When it counted, you were always alone.

  She kept pitching from side to side, seeking escape. He was so damnably strong, and he hadn’t lost hold of her once.

  The last step came as a surprise. She pivoted, seeking to throw him back down the long chain of stone edges, but he gave one of his bitter little laughs and pushed, neatly throwing her off-balance instead. Dusk had deepened while they climbed, and a salt wind tugged at Robin’s curls, fingered her velvet coat, and stung her eyes.

  He means to throw me from the cliff. Her entire body turned cold. But there was no cliff. The vines tangled over a rough stone wall barring the Dreaming Sea from view, and she looked up.

  And up, and up. A tower rose from this thorn-grown courtyard. White, but it didn’t glimmer like Summerhome. Instead, it was matte, except at the very top where a hurtful glitter gave one piercing flash. No doubt that high spire caught the last gleam of Seelie’s sun.

  Or something else.

  Robin’s mouth turned dry.

  There, at the foot of the steps leading to the tower’s single narrow, graceful entrance, stood Summer.

  Just as lovely as ever, her long golden hair in rippling waves, her mantle deepest pine, its long sleeves brushing the ground. The Jewel at her forehead was dull, a foxfire glow instead of a beacon, and her face was one of the sharper ones, cheekbones like blades and her scarlet mouth lush-cruel. A crimson scarf was knotted about her right wrist, floating and flowing as the wind tugged at it, and over her head pixies flittered in complicated patterns, drawn by the faint glow ribboning upward just as fireflies would be, down in the shadowed dells.

  The first feeling was shock. She’s changed.

  But how? She was ageless, eternal, so all the songs said. The change was difficult to pin down, too. Robin had no time to think, observe, and suss it out, because Summer spoke.

  “Robin,” the
Queen of Seelie murmured. “Robin, Robin, Robin.”

  Shudders seized Robin Ragged, racked through her, and Crenn grabbed her arm to keep her upright. Summer’s eyes, black from lid to lid, held few sparkles now. They danced where the very center of the pupils should be, and if you drew close, breathing in her drugging breath, you could watch those lights forever—and not feel a single thing as the flint blade pierced your chest.

  The changelings rarely struggled. When one did, Summer gazed upon it exactly like this, and it stilled soon enough. Even those closed in wicker towers and set alight with elf-fire did not scream, for she stared into each one’s face for a long moment before they were led, small and docile, to the oven. Little gingerbread dolls, ready to be consumed for her glory, to keep Seelie just sideways enough and safely away from the deeper folds of the Veil.

  At least Pepperbuckle is out of her reach. Robin sagged in Crenn’s grip.

  “My little Ragged. How you wound me.” The Queen sighed. “I longed to see your face, but you were gone.”

  You bitch. You killed Sean.

  Except she could not lay that death fully on Summer’s threshold. It had been Robin who thought just one more day, just one more day, keeping him because she could not bear . . . and now, Sean was dead, his parents were dead. Everyone was dead.

  Except Robin. And this sidhe bitch who ruled everything she looked upon.

  “I brought her.” After the soft music of Summer’s tones, Crenn’s words were harsh. Robin lunged, almost broke free of his hold—but he dragged her back. “Without a scratch, though that took some doing. Unwinter wants her, too.”

  “He may not have her.” The Queen smiled, her pearly teeth peeping past those carmine lips. “Not until I am finished, and I am not yet.”

  Crenn nodded. “You promised her life to Gallow, I’m told.”

  “Rumor again, huntsman?” Her smile widened. “Her life I did pledge, at the spring revel, no less. I do not intend to deprive her of one moment of it.”

  “Then what do you aim to do?”

  Now her gaze turned to Crenn. “Nothing that concerns you.”

  “I haven’t been paid yet.” He shook Robin, but halfheartedly. She sagged, her fury turned to ashes now. What was the point?

  What was the point of anything?

  At least she’d avenged Sean, and Daisy. And Pepperbuckle was safe.

  At least that.

  “You think me false? Come.” Summer indicated the tower’s narrow, arched mouth. “Just a few more steps, and you’ll have delivered. Then you’ll be beautiful again, Alastair Crenn. You’ve done what no other knight of Summer could do.”

  He made no reply. Just stood there, holding her arm.

  She tried to yank away. Velvet tore. She shoved him, and his hand fell free.

  “Nothing to say, Robin? No song to sing?” The Queen shook her head. “I expected more. Ah, I see. Shusweed.” Summer sighed. “Well, Crenn. Bring her hither.”

  Robin hopped away from him, her heels clicking. She lifted her chin, glaring at him, willing him to . . . what?

  Gallow would not do this. She swiped at her mussed hair, settled her torn coat. He is dead now, and there is no hope. But I won’t scream and struggle. She’ll like that too much.

  Robin Ragged lifted her chin, stalked for the tower.

  The Queen smiled, a benevolent, pacific expression. Robin drew abreast of her, glanced back at Crenn. Hoped he could read the disdain on her features. You bastard. You’re ugly within, and that’s where it counts. No amount of glamour will ever make you half as fine as Jeremiah Gallow, even if he’s a cursed male.

  When she turned back, Summer still smiled. “Tell me,” she murmured, “what do you see when you look into a mirror, you little Half slut?”

  Robin’s mouth was dry, and the shusweed numbness still sank its claws into her throat. Still, she had a gobbet of dry phlegm.

  She hawked, just as the boys in the trailer parks did, and spat directly at Summer. I wish I were plagued. Then maybe you’d take it, and sicken and die, you whorebag.

  For the first time, the Queen of Seelie actually looked shocked. Her eyes swelled, her mouth dropped open, and Robin might have enjoyed that if she hadn’t already been moving. She flung herself up the three low stairs and plunged through the entryway.

  Whatever Summer had in store, at least it was Robin’s own choice to face it, now.

  WHAT I HAVE WROUGHT

  43

  The redheaded girl spat at the Queen of Seelie, launched herself . . . and vanished into the high-arched, narrow black mouth of the tower. Its dull sides brightened slightly, and Crenn stared.

  Why did she do that?

  The tower shuddered, and the aperture slammed itself shut. Smooth and seamless-white, it rose, and the glitter at its top turned blood-red.

  Summer’s face twisted. Even enraged, she was beautiful, but Crenn took a step back. That paleness, slim and enticing, was clotted cream, and his gorge rose for a brief pointless moment. No man could look at Summer and stay unmoved, true. Maybe it was just that he’d spent so long without any female attention at all—his entire body tightened, the swelling where a man felt everything first before the brain kicked in eating at his belly.

  Summer laughed, her face smoothing into a young girl’s, altering seamlessly. A warm wind rose, mouthing the tower’s rough bisque.

  “Silly girl.” The Seelie Queen glided away from the steps. Her step was light as a leaf, and the appleblossom reek on the wind intensified as she drifted closer. “And you, huntsman. Questioning me.”

  She’s here alone. Without guards. He was armed, too. The thought vanished in a red flash, but she probably heard it anyway.

  “Still, I promised you.” Ever closer, a playful breeze, but his sensitive hunter’s nose caught a whiff of something foul. What is that? And why is she glamouring so hard?

  She was very close now. Close enough to dizzy a man. The blossom-scent filled his nose, made his eyes water.

  “You did well,” she whispered. Her breath touched his hair—when had he closed his eyes? The tower was still glowing behind his eyelids. What was in there?

  The Ragged, sleeping, her face pale and peaceful. Her fierce loyalty. He saved my life, she’d said, her expression softening ever so little. Facing down Unwinter himself, and spitting in Summer’s face to boot. A woman like that could make a man immortal, or so close he couldn’t tell the difference.

  A woman like that was worth . . .

  It was deathly silent except for the Dreaming Sea’s endless song. Sweat greased him, and he was suddenly aware that his breeches were too tight, he smelled of the salt of mortal sweat and Marrowdowne fens as well as exhaust and cold iron. There was a rotting reek wafting from Summer’s robe, and he stepped back before he could help it, his bootheel catching a stray thornvine and grinding, sharply. Crushed, it oozed heavy, sticky sap, and the vines shifted against one another with creaking, cracking groans.

  Summer stood very still. “Afraid of a woman? And I was told you were brave.”

  “I did what you asked.” What was that smell? He’d never come across its like in Seelie before, not even in the deepest, greenest bits of Marrowdowne where the bones of giant beasts submerged in the peat bogs and the spongy masses could drag even a kelpie or a lightfoot pondrunner down in moments.

  They were ancient, the choke-thick hummocks of moss-hung Marrowdowne, and hungry.

  “I did not ask, Alastair Crenn.” A glacial cold in Summer’s tone, now. One soft white hand reached out, touched his shoulder, then bit, cruelly. Her nails were claws now, sliding through his shirt and jerkin, pricking at skin underneath. “I am Summer.”

  Crenn screamed. Fire roared through him, as if the pitch had been set alight again. He fell, tangling in the thornvines, which hissed and blackened as Summer crooned in the Old Language. Chantment ran spiked rowels under his skin, and he thrashed among the hissing, cringing vines. Thorns striped him, only pinpricking their warning
s; Summer laughed, a tiger’s low, coughing growl, and they were blasted away from his struggling form, curling and shriveling.

  She took her time, grinding the pain in. When she finally released him, her laughter was just as chill, and just as merry as ever. She surveyed his supine form with gleaming black eyes.

  “Come to Court soon, Crenn; for I shall wish to see what I will have wrought.”

  He lay, panting and wrung-wet with sweat, and listened to her soft footsteps recede. She was singing, in a lovely lilting nymph’s voice. It was part of Belgasson’s Lay, when his lover Andariel was shut in a blackstone tower at the edge of Unwinter, and died of longing before he could return from the last of the Sundering Wars to free her.

  “Oh beauty’s pain, and pain is pain, and nothing else will do; For all the world’s a trap, my love, without the thought of you . . .” A jingle, a jangle, and Summer was gone, taking the hideous scent under her appleblossom perfume with her.

  God. He twitched, weak as a kitten. The vines cringed, tasting her displeasure.

  It took two tries for Crenn to get to hands and knees. The scars burned, but when he scrubbed at his face with dirty hands, he felt only smooth skin. His shoulders were no longer ridged with thickened tissue, and he felt under his shirt. No trace of the horrific burning remained, and the pain was already receding.

  He retched, dry, coughing heaves turning him inside out. Crawled across blackened stone, his skin moving fluidly, sweetly, the hitching of scarring gone. His nose was no longer a ruin and his cheeks were soft again, though he could feel a stubble-rasp he’d forgotten.

  The burns had not grown hair.

  Three steps before the tower. They were cold; he snatched his hands back, pushed himself upright. His knees threatened to give. He felt the chillscorch through his boots as he stepped thrice up, nervously.

  The tower swayed, gently. Deathly silent, except for the billowing of the Dreaming Sea.

  He spread his hands against the stone. It throbbed a little, uneasily, as if the entire edifice was a harpstring plucked by the salt wind.