by Vox Day
“She could, but majesty, may I suggest another destination?” Puck broke in. “I don’t believe the Queen would betray you, but the Mad One’s Eyes will be everywhere and with the escape of a royal of Albion, surely one or two will alight upon the others.”
Lahalissa looked like she wanted to argue, but did not dare. Oberon’s bearded face was still with thought for a moment, and then, to Robin’s relief, he acceded to caution’s counsel.
“I am not sure I know you, old friend. The Puck of my remembrance was never one to follow wisdom’s course.”
“Nothing’s changed, O king. One could argue this rescue was the epitome of foolishness, and its seeming success nothing more than fool’s luck. Which appears to be running swiftly out.”
For even as he spoke, there was the sound of an onrushing wind, a ferocious howling and then ominous silence. Robin could feel the weight of great power dangerously near. Albion’s enemies had arrived—it was past time for her king to flee. He placed a hand on each of his companion’s shoulders and squeezed lightly.
“I hope you don’t mind squirrels,” he told them. And with a flash of green light, they disappeared.
Thirty miles south of London, there is a garden park located on the edge of the Sussex Weald. It is a quiet place, and beautiful, graced by a chain of five lakes linked by waterfalls. Only a few paces outside the park’s boundaries, three trees stood next to each other in a single row, two chestnuts and a mighty oak, with branches interlocking and knobby roots digging deep into the rich, loamy dirt of the quiet forest. Such a sight would not normally occasion any cause for comment, except for the fact that ten seconds ago, the area on which they stood had been largely devoid of vegetation, with the exception of a solitary ceanothus, the continued thriving of which looked less than promising in light of how its access to the sun had been unexpectedly curtailed.
Two squirrels, which had been happily occupied with chasing each other’s tails until the sunlight suddenly vanished, pulled up from their sport in some confusion. They were quite familiar with the location of every nut-bearing tree in the immediate vicinity, and even to their diminutive rodent minds it seemed implausible to the point of impossibility that they could have somehow overlooked the massive acorn-producing factory that now towered over their furry grey heads.
The smaller of the two squeaked quizzically at his companion, who sat back on his haunches with an expression of overt skepticism that would have been comprehensible even to an observer who did not happen to be a member of the greater sciurus family. The small squirrel was not to be dissuaded, though, not with the promise of what appeared to be the finest unmarked claim that southeastern English squirreldom had seen in five generations.
His nose quivered, then he cautiously took a step towards the giant oak. Then another, and a third, followed by a little leap that brought him within a single bound of the great tree. An ill-timed gust of wind caused its branches to rustle threateningly, and the second squirrel chirped a warning which encouraged his more adventurous friend to think twice about venturing the giant on the first go. Instead, he scrambled up the leftmost tree, the taller of the two chestnuts, and edged out on a limb that would bring him to within inches of one of the mighty oak’s lower branches.
He never made it, though. Without warning, without even the smallest breath of wind, the limb on which he was crouching twitched violently and sent him tumbling head-over-tail to the ground eight feet below. No sooner had the surprised rodent touched the ground than he was scampering off for the protection of more familiar trees, more proper trees, trees which held still as trees were supposed to hold still, and suffered the pitter-patter of little feet with forbearance. Only slightly behind him was his friend, who was squawking angry imprecations over his shoulder as he retreated hastily.
“Oh, that’s not nice,” commented the tree, now sans squirrels.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” muttered the other chestnut.
“I couldn’t help it, those tiny claws, they tickle!”
“You have to relax, be the tree.”
“I don’t believe everyone is quite as accustomed to the need to hide from pursuit as you, Puck,” commented the oak in a deep oakish bass. “So, what do we do now?”
“We wait. Beowaesc will be here soon, I’m sure. I told him I might be needing to lie low for a while, and this is a good place to do it. No one ever comes here except the woodland spirits and tempters stuck watching over the occasional eco-freak. He’ll probably have noticed our arrival, and if not, those disgusting little squeakers will probably run right to him anyhow.”
“They’re not disgusting,” protested the first chestnut. “Their feet just tickle, that’s all.”
“Rats with tails,” insisted the other chestnut, shaking its branches. “Don’t be fooled by the cute fluffy act, it’s nothing but a charade. If you’d ever been a tree before—”
“Silence!” The oak commanded an end to the discussion. “One comes.”
An outline of a face appeared on the bark of the chestnut tree. The face resembled Robin’s, in the same way that a face pressed up against a bed sheet resembles the face of the person behind the bed sheet. It was not entirely recognizable, but as Robin had said, Beowaesc was expecting him. And then, Beowaesc was more than a little accustomed to differentiating between one tree and another.
“Ah, so there you are. You don’t know much about trees, do you, Puck.”
“Er… a good day to you, my lord. Why do you say that?”
Beowaesc was a tall forest god, with richly hued skin that shone like varnished beech. His well-kept beard was mahogany and of middling length, and his eyes, filled with the ancient wisdom of the woods, were set deep into his craggy face. He carried a neatly polished staff, and his bare feet were so hard and horny that Robin pitied any poor boots forced to protect the earth from them should he ever choose to wear a pair. Antlers sprang from his forehead, not a great stag’s rack like the Hunters, but a humbler pair of three-tined horns. Like his forest, Beowaesc had a touch of civilization about him, and yet there was a sense of earthy power radiating from him even so.
The forest lord pointed to the blue-flowered tree shrouded by their branches. “It’s quite simple. No ceanothus could ever grow to such heights enshrouded by the likes of you three. Anyone who knows the first thing about vegetation would know something was amiss. Why, even a mortal would have noted it!”
A look of chagrin crossed the bark face. Robin’s lips twisted in an expression of frustration, and in the blink of an eye, the chestnut disappeared and he was himself again, albeit clad in an appropriately woodsy brown robe.
“You make it sound so obvious!”
“It is, if you know what to look for.”
“Very well, what would you advise, then, should we seek to avoid drawing unwanted attention.”
Beowaesc stroked his beard and smiled at Robin, as if he were a favored nephew. “Why don’t you introduce your companions to me first? Then, I shall advise you as to a suitable locale. There is a pleasant glen with a lovely view of the main waterfall not far from here. It’s only about a five minute walk. I’ve spent many a pleasant season there.”
Robin tried not to roll his eyes. A season? And more than once? This was not his first time as a tree, nor even his twentieth, but it was a guise he wore only out of necessity. It was mind-crushingly boring, for one thing, and for another, Lahalissa was right. Squirrel feet tickled something terrible. “How very kind,” he answered, leaving his thoughts unvoiced. “This is Lahalissa, in service to… a Shadow Lady of some note known as Dr. Sprite.”
“Indeed,” Beowaesc nodded politely as the second chestnut transformed before him. As Robin hoped, the forest lord had no knowledge of the world of mortal academics and would ask no dangerous questions. Beowaesc smiled in appreciation, though, as the lovely daemoness curtsied to him wearing a leafy woodland outfit that honored his position as well as her figure. “The aspect suits you well, my dear. Be welcome
in my weald, Lahalissa.”
“Thank you, Great Lord,” she breathed submissively.
“And this—”
“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Beowaesc’s eyes widened and he backed away from the place where the giant oak had stood only a moment before. “That’s not possible. It can’t be!”
“So you recognize your rightful liege, old friend?” said Oberon, and his voice was like frost running down the edge of a sword blade. “Or perhaps you have forgotten oaths sworn long ago, sworn by Rose and Thorn.”
“I… I forget nothing.” His eyes flicked desperately between Robin and the angry Faery King. “But you cannot think to stay here! Not here, no! It is not safe!”
“For you or for your king?” Robin asked sarcastically. He had not told the forest lord exactly who would be requiring refuge, but he had never considered for a moment that Beowaesc would refuse his lawful king. Was he not once a knight of Albion?
“For none of us.” Beowaesc recovered from his momentary surprise and drew himself up to his full height, for he was, after all, a spirit of some substance and standing in his own demesne. “Oberon, I am pleased beyond words to see you have escaped, but you are a king without a crown, without even a kingdom. Albion is no more.”
“I see,” hissed Oberon. “And did you fight for her? Or did you see the turn of season, and then quickly turn your coat?”
“You wrong me. You do not know how it was. One day, Albion was there, strong and proud, unassailable, like her king. And the next, both were gone, swept away like Atlantis before the waves.”
“Waves of treason, mayhap—”
“Stop!” Lahalissa stepped between the angry Fae, both of whom towered over her like the oak over the chestnuts. “Lord Beowaesc, this is not your battle, not yet. We will not stay if you will only hold your silence, may we not ask that much of you?”
She stilled Robin’s incipient protest with an upraised palm, as Beowaesc briefly met Oberon’s eyes, then looked away. “None shall know,” he said. “I would serve Albion, but truly, it is not safe here. The mansion—it is over there, beyond those gardens—is host to two cohorts of Divine. We have a truce, of sorts, but I do not think your presence would escape the notice of their captain. He often walks these woods, and he is not only strong, he is clever as well. He would know you, Majesty, and he would have no reason to hold his tongue.”
“But—” Robin almost betrayed himself; at the last moment he recalled himself. No, it was impossible. It was too soon, far too soon. First the king, then the sword, and then, with luck, the throne. For now, he was on his own.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, a foolish thought, that’s all.” He raised his chin to indicate his displeasure with their reluctant host. “Will you give us time to find another refuge? He is your rightful king! You owe him that much loyalty, at least.”
“How long do you require.”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“That, you shall have.” Beowaesc raised a long, gnarled finger in warning, but was nevertheless careful to avoid meeting Oberon’s eyes. “But no more. Now, return to your trees, and I shall mount a guard of dryads to watch over you. They are young, they will not know you, but I beg you, do not show your faces to them all the same. I am careful with those I take in my service, but it is not entirely uncommon to see an animal that watches with more than its own eyes. Be wary.”
“Squirrels, I’ll bet,” murmured Robin to Lahalissa. She did not respond, except to elbow him viciously in the ribs. Beowaesc seemed to be of like mind, for as the lord of the forest bowed to his erstwhile king and nodded to Lahalissa as he took his leave, he did not so much as look at Robin.
And then, once more, there were three trees standing next to each other in a single row, two chestnuts and a mighty oak, with branches interlocking and knobby roots digging deep into the rich, loamy dirt of the quiet English forest.
Chapter 8
Stalking the Beast
Setting up categories and policing them is therefore a serious business. A philosopher who attempted to redraw the boundaries of the world of knowledge would be tampering with the taboo. Even if he steered clear of sacred subjects, he could not avoid danger; for knowledge is inherently ambiguous.
—Robert Darnton, The Great Cat Massacre
Robin caught Lahalissa as she abruptly reappeared in front of him and staggered backwards into his arms. Her hands were clapped to her face, and green flames licked out from between her fingers for a moment, until she was able to reassert herself and staunch the bleeding.
“What happened?” asked Robin, incredulous. They were standing together in a small clearing about two miles from Oxford, and only a moment before, Lahalissa had disappeared with the intention of visiting Gloriana. Though he’d imagined she’d be back quickly to bring him to her lady, he certainly did not expect her return to be immediate.
“I don’t know! It was like I hit something, like smashing into an invisible wall, face-first!”
“Ah,” Robin nodded. “I see.”
“See what?”
“A spirit ward. But they don’t last long, and they’re seldom very large. How close did you go to Gloriana’s rooms?”
“The corridor, just outside. Where I brought you last time. They don’t last long?”
“No, they’re massively draining. Hmmm. An archon might be able to set a small one, but based on the size of it—assuming they covered all of her quarters, I’d imagine it must have been set by a Power at the very least, more likely a Domination.
The two fallen angels looked at each other. Lahalissa shook her head.
“That bodes ill. Do you suppose they dared take her?”
“I can’t say. It could be they’re using the ward to keep her inside….”
“Wouldn’t a troop of guards be easier?”
“You’d think so.” Robin shrugged. “Then again, we may be dealing with the Mad One, after all. I can’t imagine it would make much sense to try to figure out his logic. And then, we don’t even know if he’s connected the king’s escape with her. If we’re lucky, he’s still clueless and we’re only dealing with a gung-ho archdemon who’s taking every precaution.”
“Lovely, that’s all we need now, an enemy who thinks. I can’t fight an archdemon. Can you?”
Robin took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. “No,” he admitted reluctantly. “But brains are better than brawn.” He tapped his head and did his best to look clever. “Come on, unless they’re a lot more frightened than I think they are, there should be an easy way through this.”
“Really?” Lahalissa looked impressed. “What do we do?”
“We walk. Just switch into the material and stroll right through it.” He grinned at her. “If an eagle’s on the lookout for another eagle, then best thing to do is act like a snail. Why do you think they never found me? No one pays much attention to mortals unless they have to.”
But Lahalissa didn’t return the smile. “I don’t know, Robin. Perhaps it worked for you, but it doesn’t look as if playing the mortal worked for my lady.”
It certainly had not, if the strange quiet that pervaded St. Hilda’s College was any indication. Plenty of mortals went about their daily business, but there were fewer of their keepers about, of either sort, than one might have expected. It was a sure sign that something of supernatural significance had taken place here, and not too long ago. The two-mile walk from outside the town was not easy; Lahalissa’s dancing served her well, but Robin was ill-accustomed to mortal exercise. They reached Cowley House and he labored up the stairs, breathing hard and relieved that they were almost at their destination. Lahalissa was at the top, waiting nervously as she eyed the invisible barrier that had repulsed her so firmly less than a half an hour before.
“Do you think it’s worn off?” she asked hopefully.
“Give me a minute,” Robin begged. The faded yellow of the aged interior corresponded rather well with how he was feeling at the moment. Interesting to note tha
t the eyes of the Mad One had been on Gloriana even in these squalid surroundings. Or, perhaps ominous was probably the better word to describe it. It seemed eight hundred years was not enough to make him feel secure on his throne.
Lahalissa caught his eyes, and Robin nodded.
“Sure, I’ll go first this time.” He stepped forward warily, and when he encountered nothing, he dared another step. Nothing. Feeling more confident and a touch less knackered, he strode to the door marked “Sprite” and gestured to his companion as he drew one of his daggers.
“It’s good. Come on now.”
He knocked, but there was no answer. Lahalissa joined him and pushed her hair behind her ear as she placed her head next to the door. She frowned and shook her head.
“I don’t think anyone’s inside.”
The door was locked, but Lahalissa was not in a mood for half-measures. The door blew inward and a mass of splinters peppered the room. Robin leaped through the jagged remnants of the door, brandishing his blade, but he felt like a fool when he realized no one was there.
But someone had been there before them. Of that, there could be little doubt, for the door was not the only thing destroyed. The tidy little room looked as if a cohort of gremlins had run amok in it, as picture frames were smashed, the china was in fragments and the splinters of the two chairs mingled with those of the shattered door. Whatever had been here was far stronger than gremlins, though; the writing desk was smashed in half, collapsed in upon itself as if a single powerful blow had caved it in.
I’m glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of that! Robin shivered. Had they come here first, instead of going to Sussex Weald, he might well have been.
“We’re too late!” Lahalissa cried. This, in Robin’s opinion, was not necessarily the correct way to view the matter, but he held his tongue in view of her obvious distress. “Look, she must have fought.”