by LJ Rivers
“And you think a pair of wings would change that?”
“Somehow, I do. Maybe it would be the final stitch in the fabric that makes me a true Avalonian.”
“It’s not the wings that make you a true Avalonian, Ru, just as the lack of them doesn’t diminish your heritage one bit. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, watching you grow into your royal position, it’s that you’re as Avalonian as they come.”
“So …” I dreaded asking, but had to know. “You think I belong here? That I should stay, I mean?”
He kissed the top of my head and cradled me closer into the crook of his arm. “Honestly, I don’t know. I know I love you, and although there’s this nagging fear inside me—like a steel spring being loaded, ready to spring free at any moment—I choose to focus on the only important task at hand. Winning your throne back. Whatever you decide to do with it afterwards will be exactly that. Something to decide afterwards.”
I knew how he felt. The fear was growing inside me too, but like him, I had chosen to leave the thoughts of what—or when—Earth was on the other side of the portal.
“So, you’re awake?” The captain came down the five steps from his raised deck at the back of the Mirthin. Behind him, standing tall as a grown-up, Mervyn had taken the helm, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “If you go to the main deck up front,” Morien continued, “you’ll see the lights of Gwyn Tala Port rise from the horizon in a few moments.”
“Thank you, Captain. I’d like that.” How could he be so calm after what we had gone through only a couple of hours earlier?
I stood and held my hand out to Brendan. “You coming too?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’ll love it,” Cynthia chirped. “Gwyn Tala Port is perhaps the most beautiful village in all of Gwyn Fanon.”
“I hear that a lot,” I said, cursing myself for allowing the sarcastic tone to shine through. “I mean, I’m sure it’s lovely, but that’s what many say about their villages.” I tried to disarm my tone with a smile, but the metaphorical knife of jealousy was still poking at my insides.
Looking at her, however, I found it hard to dislike her. How it was possible to look so fresh and stunningly beautiful after having slept sideways on a wooden bench was incomprehensible.
“We might have to go back some day, then, my intended and I. For now, my goal is less focused on the scenery.”
Her Colgate-smile vanished and was replaced by tight lips. “Of course, My Queen. I didn’t mean—”
Crap!
“No, I didn’t mean,” I said, holding my hand up. “I’m just anxious about all of this, and my nerves are strung tighter than your bow.”
Her lips twitched, almost returning to a smile. “We are all on edge, I guess. After all, our foe is a dangerous one.” She patted the tip of her bow, which hung over her shoulder. “But Michael and I have a few things to show him.”
“You’ve named your bow? After someone in particular?”
Now her smile was back in full, and the Juniper archeress winked at me. “Someone.” She jumped up on the railing and balanced all the way to the bowsprit.
I wondered if this Michael bloke could be a boyfriend. It might just have been a desperate hope, but it worked wonders on the knife’s edge poking at my heart.
Jen and Pullhelli strolled up the small stairway that led to the quarters below the steering deck. Pullhelli was carrying a roll of vellum under his arm.
“You should have a look at this, Your Majesty.”
“What is it?”
“A map of the Talani territory.”
“In a little while. Right now, I want to look at the lights from the port ahead.”
“That’s where we’re heading, too,” Jen said. “Morien said we’re just over half an awr out.”
We went to the front deck, Brendan and I hand in hand, and Jen with her arm in Pullhelli’s. Knowing her, she would have said something about a young woman needing a gentleman, and not that she did it to support the old Sorcerer in any way.
And having learnt to know Pullhelli, he would be the perfect gentleman, and not reveal to her that he knew that was exactly the reason why she did it.
I loved them both.
According to the magical grains in Halwyn’s hourglass in my belt, we reached the outer barriers of Gwyn Tala Port half an hour later. They comprised rocks and boulders, some more than ten feet in diameter, rising twenty feet above sea level. Inside, behind a narrow opening, the lights of the supposedly most beautiful village in the realm reflected on the surface of the lagune. Two fifty-foot lighthouses, one on each side, cast bright cones of light through the narrow strait. The one to the left was connected to a brick building, what I reckoned to be barracks for the guards. Five of them on each barrier watched us closely, pointing arrows and spears at various parts of the ship. Or various passengers and crew.
“Who’s there?” a voice bellowed from a ledge halfway up the left lighthouse.
“Morien of Pixilen, Captain of the Mirthin.” The captain’s voice boomed over the water, amplified by a spiral-shaped horn.
“What is your business in Gwyn Tala Port?”
“To claim a debt, you son of the Nethers.”
What?
“What?” Brendan whispered. “Has he lost his marbles?”
“I have no idea,” I replied under my breath. “But this could mean trouble.” I showed him my hands, in which two tiny red orbs rested, ready to cause mayhem on my command.
“Oh, crap,” he sighed and grabbed the hilt of his sword.
But before he could draw it, laughter filled the air. That was, if laughter could sound like a ton of boulders rolling down a hillside.
“You never give up,” the voice from the lighthouse said, each word fighting its way through the thundering laughter. “I have told you before, and I’ll tell you until the end of time, Morien: I won the wager!”
Our captain guffawed. “Never!” He turned to me, shielding his mouth with his hand. “That bastard cheated at Chonkle, using magic on the dice.” He looked back at the light and raised his voice again. “Will you drink with me tonight, Thom-Kar?”
“Have I ever said no?”
Brendan let out a long sigh, and my shoulders loosened. I retracted the fire and shook my head. “Men!”
“I know,” Jen said, rolling her eyes.
We sailed through, and the man on the ledge came into view as the shine from the light above him pointed out to sea again. I had expected a bear shifter, based on the volcanic voice, but Thom-Kar turned out to be a Goblin. Under his crooked nose, he flashed a semi-toothless grin and pointed at Morien.
“The Rhosyn Rhuddoch in an awr?”
“Be late, and I shall never forgive you,” the captain replied before he walked back to the steering deck.
Mervyn stepped aside, and Morien manoeuvred the Mirthin towards a vacant spot along the impressively wide harbour. There were at least fifty boats and ships in the lagune, half of which were moored to the wooden quay. The rest lay anchored at varying distances from the shore, and a handful of small rowboats were moving to and fro, carrying singing and shouting sailors.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked Mervyn, who had joined us up front.
“I don’t understand, Your Majesty. Occasion?”
“There seems to be some kind of celebration.”
He snickered. “Oh, that’s just how it is. Seafarers like to have a good time when they can finally rest after days at sea.” He skipped around himself, singing, “Ale or wine, both are fine, now where’s that red-haired lass of mine?”
Jen furrowed her brows. “Poetry of the finest kind.”
“It’s my favourite song,” Mervyn said gleefully. “There’s not a single bardd who doesn’t play it at least five times a night in the taverns, lest they want to be thrown in the sea.”
Part of me wanted to say something about a thirteen-year-old going to taverns, but I guessed I would have to accept it as part of the culture.
“You might think twice about that song, young man,” Pullhelli said, “if you learned whom the so-called red-haired lass is a reference to.”
Mervyn tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, no,” Jen moaned. “You’re not going to like it, if my guess is right.”
“What?” The young Fae looked more desperate than puzzled.
“The song is forbidden in Avalon,” Pullhelli continued. “That should tell you something.”
Mervyn threw up his hands. “Will you stop with all the riddles and just tell me … oh!” The truth dawned on him in the form of a rush of hot blood to his cheeks. “By the Lady! I—it’s about the queen, is it not? Morgana?”
He spun around and faced me, fear gleaming in his eyes.
“Relax, Mervyn,” I said. “I’m not her. Besides …” I leaned forward and ruffled my short hair. “This is purple, not red.”
“Please, forgive me.”
“I do.” I lowered my voice, trying to keep the laughter at bay, which wasn’t easy, given the fact that Pullhelli, Jen, and Brendan were grinning like idiots behind Mervyn’s back. “But you might consider finding a new favourite song, don’t you think?”
“My Queen,” he replied, breathing heavily. “From now on, it’s ‘Oh, Lady of Avalon’ for me.”
“An excellent choice. Now, young Mervyn, let’s talk about my reason for being here.”
A ton of imaginary bricks fell from his shoulders. “Yes?”
“I need to speak with the leaders,” I said. “Who would that be?”
“Leaders? Uhm, there’s quite a few of them up here, what with all the packs and clans. I reckon you’ll meet at least some at The Crimson Rose.”
Shaking his head, Brendan scratched at his beard and gave me a sideways glance. “We can’t risk you going there. Too many eyes.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m going.”
“She’s not alone, Bren.” Cynthia stepped up next to Jen. “We’ll keep her safe.”
Bren? Welcome back, knife of jealousy.
I had heard enough. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.” My neck let out an audible pop as I stretched it. “Besides, I look like any old purple-haired Pixie, having a pitcher of ale with her Changeling friend.”
“And Fae friend,” Cynthia added.
“Friends,” Mervyn said.
Brendan slapped himself on his forehead. “Kill me now.”
Chapter Sixteen
The village of Gwyn Tala Port reminded me of the older parts of the Forge, the magical community several hundred feet below street level in London. It used to be called Berlysh Cae when it was a secret Goblin village, and I could easily see where the architecture originated. The streets of Gwyn Tala Port were narrow and cobbled, with mostly two-storey houses on each side. The majority of houses were whitewashed stone on the ground floor, with the upper level made in a half-timber style. As all second floors protruded a foot or two from the bottom level, all houses seemed to be leaning towards each other, creating a very intimate vibe to each street and alley.
“Your words ring true,” Brendan said to Cynthia. “It really is a beautiful village.”
I knew he would come, although I did agree with Jen that it might be a bit risky if anyone found out he was human. Right now, I didn’t care.
“You should see it when the sun comes over the hills to the east,” Cynthia replied. “Or better yet, when it sets the horizon on fire over there.” She pointed out to the sea behind the lantern tower where we had met Morien’s Chonkle-playing friend.
“Some day, we will.” I took Brendan’s hand. “For now, I think we should find this Rhosyn Rhuddoch place. That’s Crimson Rose, right?”
“In ancient Wallish, yes. Follow me.” The young sailor boy happily skipped across the cobbles, stopping at the corner ahead. “It’s two alleys down this street.” He motioned with his head.
As we turned, laughter, singing—incoherent belching, mostly—and clamouring filled the air, as well as the heavy scent of yeast and fermented barley. If Brendan had stretched his arms out, I reckoned he might have been able to touch the houses on each side of the street. Every other house was a tavern, it seemed, and for every dark brown door, there were at least three or four guests standing by the entrance.
“Evening, friends!” A man raised his pitcher of ale at us. In his gigantic grip, the two-pint clay cup looked like a shot glass.
“Evening, bear,” Pullhelli replied. “Not much room inside?”
The Changeling slapped his belly. “Not for all of me, there ain’t!” His fellow drinking buddies seemed to enjoy the joke just as much as the bear himself, and their howling laughter rang in my ears long after we had passed them.
We continued our walk, passing below tavern signs that read “Fang Talani” and “Gwyn Morwyn”, and quite a few others. Charlie had told me a while back that the Avalonian and Dewinian languages were based on the ancient Wallish tongue. Growing up, I had always liked words and the English language, both to read and write, and viewed myself as a sort of layman’s linguist. So, as we approached the sign with “Rhosyn Rhuddoch” in ornate, rose-decorated letters, I pondered the absurdity of my situation.
I was literally walking in the origins of Welsh, a language that would have never come to fruition if my ancestor, the late Queen Morgana, hadn’t opened a portal to Earth and sent her people there. If the Welsh people had known they were speaking the language of Magicals—
“There you go again.” Brendan squeezed my hand. “Lost in thought.”
“How can I not be? The whole concept of us being here, looking for allies for a war in a realm ages before the world we left behind. It’s unreal.”
“It is.” Moisture coated his eyes, and I had a feeling I knew why. I had said left behind. At this moment, standing outside a tavern, fifteen or so hundred years before any of us would be born, I had no idea what to say to help him.
“Let’s go inside,” seemed just as smart as anything else.
The two ubiquitous guests moved aside, allowing us to duck inside the low door and enter the dimly lit room.
“My nose is begging for mercy,” Jen groaned as we stood inside.
I could see where she was coming from. Even in her human form, she had a sense of smell at least ten times stronger than mine, which meant that what I thought was a heavy smell of barley ale would feel like a punch in the nose to the she-wolf next to me.
“Oh well.” She shrugged. “If you can’t beat them, join them. Let’s get some of that liquid gold, shall we?”
“Anyone got coins?” Brendan asked.
“Allow me, Ru … Ruanna.” Pullhelli stepped forward and weaved his way up to the heavily built woman behind the bar at the far end of the narrow locale.
“So, Ruanna.” Jen grinned. “Let’s find a table.”
The Crimson Rose tavern was about fifteen feet wide and maybe forty-five deep, leaving room for only ten or so tables. Next to the bar was a spiral staircase, and judging by the stomping feet above, the next floor was part of the serving space.
I motioned to the corner. “Maybe upstairs?”
We started moving through the crowd. Some smiled and raised their cups at us, while others were too far into their debates to notice us. I picked up a word or a phrase here and there as we passed.
“… give you ten for the old one, that’s my final …”
“… he said, as if I would ever touch …”
That comment, however it finished, earned the white-haired man a roaring bellow from his friends around the table.
“… meeting in that lady packmaster’s village. You know, Naheena. I heard all the Changeling clans are gathering …”
I froze. What had he said?
“Excuse me, sir.”
I edged closer to the table under the staircase. Two men sat hunched over a game board of sorts. The one closest to the wall shook a black cup in his hand and turned it upside down. Four dice, none of which had the usual eyes on them, c
ame to rest on the wooden surface. The man sighed and shook his head, while his friend across the table chuckled.
“The Lady has no time for you tonight, Poe.”
“A minor setback. I am still way in the lead. Your Chonkle will be mine in an eyeblink.”
“Excuse me?” I repeated. “I couldn’t help overhear you mentioning Naheena?”
“I did,” said the man closest to me. “What’s it to you, lass?”
There was something about his face—both their faces—that made me uncomfortable. I cleared my throat. “I’m Ru—Ruanna.” It was hard to break old habits, and I didn’t like lying, but it was necessary. “Of Pelles. I met Naheena a few years back, and was thinking of paying her a visit when I came back to these parts.”
The man narrowed his seaweed-green, beady eyes. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he was trying to recognise my scent.
“Ru,” Jen said behind me. “You coming?”
“In a minute.” In the back of my mind, something told me it would be better if Jen didn’t hang around this man. “Go ahead, I’ll join you momentarily. Just talking to these gentlemen first.”
“Gentlemen.” The beady-eyed man guffawed and threw his head back. “Did you hear that, Poe? We’re gentlemen, you and I, we are! And she’ll join her friend momentarily.” The corners of his mouth dipped downwards as he said the last word and made a mockingly posh voice.
Poe flashed the few teeth he had. “That’s what I’ve always said, Zacarias. We should be nobles, eating apple pie with ripe grapes for breakfast.”
I waited patiently while the two jokesters laughed some more. “What’s this about a meeting in Naheena’s village, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Zacarias wrinkled his nose, just like Poe had done moments earlier. I had seen that before, a special kind of Magical who used their sense of smell to identify me. “From Pelles, you say? What’s your father’s name, Ruanna of Pelles?”