A brush of Art had her dressed in the clothes of the day. Not a highborn lady which would attract too much attention, but enough so that they might mistake her for a merchant’s wife. Still the restrictive clothing was not her usual and did not help alter her mood. The high collared bodice itched against her neck and heavily boned and corseted it felt like some terrible mortal prison. The skirts, while full and heavy, were at least cut to the ankle so that she could move. Why mortal women allowed themselves to be so confined, she would never understand. With a brisk gesture she gathered up the skirts in one hand and then turning she fluttered aside the Fey Veil once more. “Bayel,” she called.
Obedient, the horse stepped through, though his head tossed nervously. For too long had the soft downs of the Fey world pampered the tall stallion, and even though he'd been born here, he was nervous of this realm; he considered himself a truly Fey creature now. Still the dappled grey coat, the finest to come from this world, was not the dazzling unearthly beauty of one born to the Fey.
Mounting in the clumsy human made saddle, and with a quite whisper in Bayel’s twitching ear, Sive rode out of Arden.
The wood parted from them, its haunting whisper tickling Sive’s neck. Too long had the Fey been from under its shadows, and it was heartily sad to see her go. Long branches brushed against Bayel, trying to savour the taste of the other realm that still clung to him. Sive moved on from the almost-known world of the forest, into the rapidly changing one of man.
Any niggling trepidation that the dark goddess might have felt at doing so was not visible. Her pointed chin came up, and she looked around with interest. The dark violet of her eyes dipped onto the little plastered and thatched houses, the calling sheep in the patchwork fields, and the gentle cow chewing its cud by the roadside. Overtaking a group of shepherds also heading into Stratford, she nodded her head towards them, taking the admiring glances as her due.
The village was pleasing enough she supposed, no better or worse than any other town that humanity constructed for itself; shepherds downing ale in the local tavern, dairy maids chattering in the corners of streets, the usual ragged bunch of children, but the signs of poverty were all about. Times were hard for the poor as usual, but there was something else. The stench of death was in the air, a smell that never touched the Fey, but that Sive was only too familiar with. These people were living in the middle of death’s country, and not only the clean sudden death of a soldier, but the festering dreaded thief that came in a thousand painful shapes. Despite having seen it all before Sive shuddered and walked Bayel on a little faster.
Some of the humans glanced up and nodded to the passing lady on a horse that would have cost them more than a year’s income to buy. Their thoughts were bland and uninterested, but she kept her Art close about her nevertheless—mortals were nothing if unpredictable.
She found the house easily enough; a prosperous glovemaker’s two-storey home, with the smelly process of whittawering announcing itself in the yard. She wrinkled her nose at the stench. The front window on the right was open so that the inside of the shop was visible, and she caught a glimpse of rows of gloves all neatly laid out.
Leaving Bayel to wait, Sive stepped into the shop. Inside she nodded to the young apprentice and feigned interest in their goods. Rows of gloves of all descriptions stood testament to the craftsman’s skill; fine white leather ones to stretch over delicate hands, coarse thick ones for the drivers of coaches, and all the varieties in between.
Sive picked up a fragile pair, beaded and bejewelled. Indeed, perhaps humans did have some arts that please the Fey eye. Her people seldom worked with their hands. The effort that humanity put into making things was one of their few redeeming qualities.
The owner came hurrying over, deciding that perhaps here was a customer with enough taste and money to be able to afford his best work. One look told Sive that this was the father of the child. He had the faint glow of the Fey legacy about him, but she could already trace cares that the world was laying on him in the grain and creases of his face. His future was writ there, and it was not to be an easy one.
She had no time for his sales patter or his desperation; with a sharp gesture she cast a little glamour over him so that when she had left, he would think that he had passed the afternoon stitching together furs and leathers. He had ceased to be of any interest to Sive.
She left the shop and entered the house itself; it was well enough endowed, clean and neat, suggesting someone cared. Though sparsely furnished, each piece was clean and made for its task—quite different from the beauty shown in the gloves. Obviously, another ruled here.
The mother, a strong-boned and handsome creature for a human, was brewing in the kitchen, her back to the door, but she too had the hint of Fey about her. Sive cocked her head on one side, considering for a moment, and then extended the glamour to her before walking on. She found him in a carved little cradle not too far from the fire, and with a rustle of velvet the Fey bent down to him.
All small things possessed a certain attractiveness of their own, something about large eyes and soft features was designed to tug at the hardest heart. The baby appeared well and waved his clenched fists in front of impossibly blue eyes with a determination that was rather startling. Fey children were so rare that Sive had only seen one in her lifetime. They were delicate blossoms next to this creature overflowing with vigour; a common English cowslip next to their orchid blooms. Sive knew all too well which weathered the storms better.
She leant down over him, her soft Fey breath brushing his skin as she inhaled his scent. The babe made a little chirp of alarm and looked straight at her. Sive started up with a stunned gasp, her Art unconsciously gathering about her. A power had brushed the edges of her consciousness, something that set her defences ablaze. Reaching down she felt for it—but her Art clutched at nothing. A small frown touched her flawless forehead. Surely one so young could not have the Art? It was unheard of even in Fey children.
The boy’s sturdy little fingers wrapped around one of hers, but now all she could sense was his Fey blood. She probed deeper. From both sides this little one had it, a blessed blending of bloods that had created the Bardic gift within him. The most rare of Fey talents, it was a powerful tool she could not ignore. Creativity and a strong empathic nature meant the boy would become a man with the ability to make real his dreams—or if she played him well enough her dreams too.
Sive crouched back on her heels, staring hard at the baby and considering. Certainly there was no way to know how the gift would work in the Fey realm, but if she took the child now she might well damage it. Sometimes these things were fragile and needed the golden light of the mortal realm to flower. Then there was also danger—for such power could attract attention. Her aunt had no exclusive claim on the Sight. The child could be in danger, or worse cut down before she could make use of his gifts. Sive had no desire to be in the human realm often; Auberon, or her soon-to-be husband, would notice for sure.
What she needed was someone to look after the child—someone whose comings and goings would not attract notice, someone who spent an inordinate amount of time here, anyway. The solution came to her.
With a dark grin, she rose and let her Art flow silver bright around her arm. Thrusting her arm into the Fey her long strong fingers twitched on the other side and found what they were looking for. Sive grabbed a furry leg and pulled.
Puck snapped into the human world with a terrified squeak. He must have been annoying Macha again for he was in the form of an ivory-coated cat, and he had one dark tell-tale feather in his jaws. Sive dangled him by his back leg and smiled, rather pleased with herself for tricking the Trickster.
Puck hissed, spat and struggled in feline indignation. Then changing so that the taller Fey was holding him by far more intimate parts, he grinned. Horrified, Sive let him drop to the floor with a grunt of disgust. Puck rolled and arose ready for his applause. He got nothing but a stern look.
“How do you manage to do tha
t every time?” he asked and scratched the top of his head while spitting out the feather.
Sive rubbed the palms of her hands on her dress, “You know that nine times from a score Puck, you will always be doing something wicked—so it is hardly surprising that I always catch you at it...”
Puck was already ignoring her, scanning the room for some mischief to make. “Oh my,” he spotted the child, “Now here’s a long lost cousin.” He began making a series of ridiculous faces and noises that sent the babe into a giggling fit. Puck chuckled, “I think he likes me.”
“Of course he does—you are one step off a baby yourself.” Sive snapped. “Now settle down and listen carefully.” The other Fey didn’t seem to hear, too busy flickering his head into a variety of shapes and making the child wriggle and laugh. “I said listen,” Sive repeated, adding a little more emphasis by picking the unfortunate Puck up by his well-timed donkey ears.
Dangling him at her eye level she gave him a little shake, “Now since you don’t seem to be doing anything...”
Puck made an offended face, “Now ‘seemed’ isn’t the same as knowing I wasn’t doing anything. I was in fact very deep in important business.” He caught her dark look at the raven’s feather lying near her feet and decided not to risk it. He hushed.
“Since you aren’t doing anything," Sive continued, “I have a little job for you. It shouldn’t take more than twenty years of human time—barely a blink in your rapid eye, Puck.”
He opened his mouth, searched for a clever comment, but knowing this wasn’t the moment he smiled instead.
“I want you to look after this child.” Sive gave him her best, scariest look.
“It’s not nice to jest with me,” Puck spluttered, swinging around in Sive’s grasp like an indignant fruit. “I mean I am flattered, dearest cousin—but you see children and I, we don’t get on. Not at all!"
The child squealed louder, and clapped his little hands together, enchanted by Puck’s antics. Sive raised an eyebrow at her captive.
“Now he thinks I am amusing,” Puck went on, “But twenty years is a long time for humans, and he’s bound to get tired of me. Bored even.”
“I don’t care if he does,” Sive replied, dropping the woebegone Fey to the floor. “You are not here to amuse—but to protect. He has a mighty possibility in him, this one, and I want him to survive. You, Puck, despite your best efforts to deny it, are a powerful Fey. I expect you will do well as a guardian.”
“But how will you manage in your hall without me?” Puck’s bottom lip was trembling a little.
Sive was unable to control a short laugh. “Oh I think we will survive somehow Puck, and so will you.”
She turned to go, then spun about. “But do not forget to return to the Fey often. I will not have the guardian of this child lose his Art.”
Feeling remarkably content with herself, she swept from the room, velvet hissing against the floorboards.
Puck glared after her, his slitted cat-like eyes boring holes in her back, but as he could see no way of escaping this little task, he in his own fashion decided to make it as much fun as he could. Turning to the still smiling baby he chucked him under the chin, “Well then little one... let’s see if we can’t keep you amused for twenty years. I guess you haven’t heard all my jokes yet, or seen all my shapes. That should pass ten years or so at the least.”
The baby chuckled with anticipation and wriggled happily. His tiny toothless mouth gaped in a smile bigger than his face. Despite everything Puck grinned back, “Why you know I think you could be the best audience I’ve ever had. We’re certain to get on famously.”
* * *
Outside the house, Sive had already mounted Bayel, eager to shake the dust of this realm from her. In her head she was assessing the intelligence of her rather rash decision. Puck had all the right motives in the world—but very little of the common sense to go with it. How he would behave when asked to raise a small child was anyone’s guess. She comforted herself with the knowledge that the mother appeared sensible enough—and after all it was only a human child. So, how much harm could Puck do? The important thing was he kept the human safe. Banishing thoughts of disaster Sive decided she had done the right thing.
Not bothering to ride from Stratford, Sive parted the Veil before Bayel was forced to take five more steps on mortal soil. The sheen of the barrier passed around them, and once more his unshod feet were on the cool grass of the Fey. The stallion snorted and tossed his fine head, glad to be back in his adopted home. Sive smiled and patted his shaggy neck. If only she could share in some of the animal’s simple pleasure. Her homecoming would not be as fine.
Brigit was waiting on the hilltop for her; Macha’s dark form perched on one shoulder, the other hunched against a strange cool breeze that surrounded them. A chill evening wind had whipped up, itself a very peculiar sign; cold was unknown in the Fey. Shifting in her saddle Sive turned and looked to the west, her sharp eyes piercing the mist around the valley; Mordant was coming.
Slipping down from Bayel’s broad back and dismissing his trappings with Art, she exchanged a glance with her aunt. A rare silence prevailed, untouched by laughter that had always been Puck’s stock in trade. Perhaps they would miss him in the hall after all.
Brigit held a thick fur-lined cloak that she wrapped about Sive’s shoulders. Macha shifted uneasily, her dull feathers stirred by the wind that heralded the approach of change. Despite all her age and wisdom Sive was afraid. Though nothing of her outward appearance betrayed it, within she was trembling.
Brigit’s eyes were dark, as if she had her Art on a tight leash. “The child is what I said.”
It was hardly a question, but Sive answered it as such, “He has a possibility in him. Puck is guarding him.”
Her aunt’s mouth twitched into something that might once have been a smile. Her iron grey hair whipped around her face, “You’d best get ready for Mordant then.”
“Very well,” Sive replied, trying not to let any of her doubts show. Turning to the hall, she could not stop thinking how she would have once welcomed this turn of events. Auberon would never have allowed his sister to marry the quiet Mordant before he returned with power. Whatever Mordant had been, he is no longer, and I must bear it for the sake of my people. Perhaps human women weren’t the only ones with constraints.
* * *
All the Fey court gathered that day. Many Sive had not seen for years, but her marriage was obviously interesting enough to pry even the most hermit-like of her kind from their burrows. They had all filed past her into the sacred hill, most with a little bow. Sive managed in most cases to return one.
Once the assembly was in, they sealed the doors before her. Powerful Elder Art that had been lost with Anu was threaded through these oaken doors. Sive could not extend her own powers past them.
So she lingered in the antechamber trying to figure a way out of this ‘happy’ event. She wished she still loved him, perhaps she could find it again. She had to if there was to be any joy in this union at all.
Within, the pipes began, a sign that Mordant had arrived by the southern entrance. Sive traced the curving intertwined carvings on the ancient door with a finger that was almost trembling. Her own mother had stood here, but with far different feelings. After all she’d wed a Fey she loved, Mannan of the Oceans. And if she had foreseen his death in a foolish mortal battle—she had still chosen to go on.
But what now awaits me from behind those doors. Her body ached with tension, and she realized she was alone. No one stood with Sive. Brigit was banished and unable to attend. She needed her mother here, Sive realized as she brushed her dark curls out of her eyes, and waited for the sound of pipes to give way to the lutes. Those glorious violet eyes and all that energy and strength had died alone somewhere out in the Between. It was a bitter thought, and whatever foolish dream her mother had been chasing remained unknown. Some said she had gone mad with her husband’s death, others that she had wanted to find the Goddess h
erself.
Sive buried the lump in her throat. If her mother had not left them all then this whole farce would not be happening; Auberon would be romping in Fey meadows not trifling with the life of his sister, and perhaps the malaise might never have happened.
Sive fidgeted with the thick drapery of her almost ridiculously elaborate gown. Silver and gold threads sketched the curves of her body sheathed in purple silks. She had made herself beautiful for Mordant, an offering to secure his power for her brother.
Well I may have no one to stand with me but I will go in as a Fey.
When the lutes played, she smiled savagely, called her Art, and stepped into the Temple bathed in the Bright light that was her due.
It is a willing sacrifice.
3
If one should be a prey, how much the better To fall before the lion than the wolf!
With a sigh, the doors sprang open on the ancient temple, and the assembled Fey turned. Mordant’s guardian tightened in his chest with expectation. It was a great victory for them both, and best of all the Fey didn’t know they had sealed their own destruction. Indeed, they were celebrating it.
They had transformed the temple with flowers whose colours and scents would please the Mother of All. A million shades of gold and wheaten hair flowed freely around Fey shoulders, and tiny pale lights flickered and danced in the air as the ever-present sprites carried their lanterns through the vast dimness of the temple. Even so, the edges of the cavern faded off into the distance, a sign of the Mother’s untapped power for this was in all senses her womb. Almost all the remaining Fey had gathered to see Sive wed, and they huddled like pretty frightened children near to the altar. Once, there would have been teeming hordes in all shapes and sizes, but since the time of the malaise the numbers had waned. Mordant smiled, cosseting the fact he alone knew the cause. To hide his glee, he turned to await his bride.
Chasing the Bard Page 4