“That much, we know,” Kory said, stern and sad, though neither of those emotions was aimed at her.
Of all the ways this particular encounter could have gone, this was not one of the ones Ria would have put high on the list of “likely.” She felt a catharsis, finally telling someone just what kind of burden her father had laid on her young shoulders in an effort to make her as hard as he was. She’d never dared say these things to Eric. Eric cared too deeply, felt too much. It would have hurt him. “Perenor made certain I would know exactly how much my life had cost. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to him that having a dozen teenagers—and my mother, in the end—die so I could be born would bother me. After all, why should the strong care about the weak?”
“But that can’t be the only way,” Beth said despairingly. “There have to be others!”
“Crossbreeds are rarer than elven children,” Ria said bleakly. Suddenly, she had to give them hope. Beth’s naked anguish, although she didn’t exactly understand it, had to be answered. “Perenor chose the most convenient method, but he knew most of the others. They all have the same basis: parity between the energy states of the two partners. Either find some way to turn yourself temporarily into a Sidhe without killing anyone—or turn your elf-friend here temporarily human.” Kory and Beth looked at each other with an unreadable expression. “He did find some hints that Sidhe who’d slipped into Dreaming were more fertile with humans than normal Sidhe, but I don’t imagine that’s an experiment you wish to try?”
Kory shuddered, and Beth took his arm protectively. “There has to be some other way.”
Ria looked at Beth’s woebegone expression, and again offered a breath of hope. “It isn’t impossible to find a way, you know, even if Misthold or Sun-Descending or even Melusine doesn’t know how to get its hands on enough life-force. There’s more to the World Underhill than the parts of it the Sidhe live in, and creatures out there old and powerful enough to make the Emperor Oberon look like a wet firecracker in comparison. Do what you’d do faced with a problem like this in the World Above. Find an information specialist and consult him. There have to be trade fairs of some kind here—the inhabitants may not be human, but they’re not that different.”
“I know of one.” Kory spoke up. “I do not think it is precisely the sort of place you mean, but we may begin there.”
“Do,” Ria suggested. “And let me know what you find out, okay? Who knows? The day may come when I need to know myself.”
One of the will-o’-the-wisp servants guided Eric through the labyrinth of interconnecting castle rooms all filled with revelers, finally arriving at the castle’s equivalent of the RenFaire’s Main Stage. Here only the most elite performers would present their work for the entertainment of the high-ranking nobles and their own coteries.
When Eric got there, Dharniel was talking to the Lady Harawain, one of Maeve’s sponsors and a famous Bard. He’d played her work many times while under Dharniel’s tutelage. Her instrument was the harp, and she carried it with her now, slung over her shoulder in a velvet bag. She was one of those Sidhe who had chosen to modify her natural form: her hair and skin and eyes were all in shades of gold, until she looked like a statue of living amber.
“—the young Bard must go last,” she was saying in firm tones. “He’s the one everybody will want to hear today, being Maeve’s father as well as a great hero.”
Me? Eric thought. They can’t be serious.
“My dear Lady Harawain, your own natural humility keeps you from seeing what is truly the proper place for so honored a guest. He must go first, of course.” The speaker was an elegant and very dandified Sidhe, with waxed moustaches and a goatee. He held a lute festooned with trailing ribbons by its ivory neck.
“If first is such a desirable place, Pirolt, by all means, it should go to none but yourself,” Harawain shot back silkily. “Don’t you agree, Lord Dharniel?”
“Oh, but I regret that I cannot accept. My lute, she is a temperamental mistress, and I could hardly be ready in time. I will, of course, be more than willing to perform last,” Pirolt said hastily.
From his days on the RenFaire Circuit, Eric knew that the end position was the one most coveted by performers. It assured that yours would be the piece the audience remembered best because they’d heard it last, gave you plenty of time to warm up (and the audience to assemble and warm up for you), and meant you didn’t have to spend the day waiting around for your turn or rushing to fill in if something happened to someone else. First was also good, for a lot of reasons, but the star attraction always went on last.
And Dharniel was saving that slot for him?
“Eric goes last,” Dharniel said. “I am Master of the Revels and that is my decision. Pirolt, your concern for my protégé does not go unremarked. You will play first, so I suggest you begin tuning now.”
The foppish elf drew himself up to his full height. His eyes flashed dangerously.
“You will find in me an implacable enemy, Master Dharniel.”
“And you will find in me your last one, Master Pirolt. But do take your complaint to Prince Adroviel, by all means. I’m sure the prince would relish the chance to settle your dispute.”
Pirolt looked as if he might say more, but settled for spinning on his heel and stalking off.
“Harawain, dearest lady, I place you just before Eric,” Dharniel said.
Good lord—is Dharniel smiling? I thought his face would crack if he ever did that.
“The best of the Old Ways followed by the best of the New,” she said without ego. “It is a pretty conceit, Master Dharniel. And here is the young Bard now.”
Dharniel turned to Eric as Lady Harawain gracefully made her exit. “I suppose you, too, have some complaint of your position in the order of play?”
“None,” Eric said hastily. “But there was actually something else I wanted to talk to you about. But if this isn’t a good time . . . ?”
“So long as it is not a matter of artistic temperament,” Dharniel said. “But stay. You will need your keeper so that you can attend upon the music in good time.”
He plucked a knot of glowing ribbons out of the air and touched it to Eric’s shoulder. Eric heard a faint chime, like the ringing of crystal bells.
“It will sound when it is time for you to come to the stage. Do not fail to heed it.”
“I won’t,” Eric promised. As if he’d stand up the biggest audience he was ever likely to have, or miss the chance to hear the cream of Underhill Bard-dom play!
Dharniel regarded him, and Eric realized the elven mage was waiting for him to speak.
“I’ve found another Bard, Master Dharniel. A human Bard, in New York—”
Quickly he told the story of meeting Hosea Songmaker in the subway, of sensing his Talent, and related the bits of personal history Hosea had confided in him.
“And he’s got a lot of natural talent, but he’s looking for a teacher, so I thought . . .”
He stopped. Dharniel was smiling again. Mockingly.
“Congratulations, young Bard. You have just acquired your first apprentice.”
“I—Me—? But I thought . . . I don’t know how to train anyone, Master Dharniel!” Eric sputtered.
“So—as I thought—you slept through all my lectures. Well, no matter. As you are so fond of saying, you can always ‘wing it.’”
“But I can’t—” Eric said in panic.
Dharniel’s face took on an expression of sternness. “Eric, for every Bard comes the time when their first apprentice is sent to them. None of the good ones think they are ready for such a responsibility. But you have learned everything I have to teach you, and learned more in your own life. Who better than a human Bard to train another? I shall look forward to meeting him when he is ready to present his masterwork.”
And that seemed to settle that. Eric gulped. “I— Um, thanks, Master Dharniel. I think.”
Maybe Hosea won’t want me for a teacher, Eric thought hopefully, then banishe
d the matter from his mind to think about later. Right now he had more immediate things to worry about.
All too soon it was time for him to go on. He’d switched from pear cider to plain water awhile back, and was glad he had—there was enough magic floating around in the air to make him dizzy.
The magic had another effect as well. Music—good music, no matter the style—was always about real things: hope and heartbreak, people and places long gone or yet to be.
Here, music made them real.
Music and magic went hand in hand; Bardcraft had always been about magic as well, about the controlling or the unleashing of power. But now he was seeing what that actually meant.
When the Bards performed, what their music spoke of became real for everyone to see. It was like stepping into virtual reality, bringing the audience with you.
Some of the Bards went for simple flashy effects—fireworks, showers of flowers. Others worked more subtle and more powerful magics. For her last piece—each Bard was restricted to three—Harawain had played a Homecoming Song that had left the audience weeping tears of joy—and Eric, too, even though he wasn’t quite sure why. But at that moment, it had all been real: the cry of the gulls, the salt smell of the ocean, even the deck rocking gently beneath his feet.
A tough act to follow.
He knew better than to try to beat the Sidhe at their own game. For this performance, he was going to give them human music, ending up with “The Huntsman’s Reel,” the piece he’d composed for Maeve.
He started with “Bouree,” a bouncy flute piece he’d found on an old Jethro Tull album and liked instantly. A touch of magic, and he was playing all four parts of the contrapuntal melody in perfect harmony with himself—a neat trick, and one he’d worked hard on. The music spun shapes of pure geometry in the air, sparkling and changing with each note. As the last note died, delighted applause washed over him. He could see Kory grinning—he, Beth, and Ria were seated beside the Prince and Princess in seats of honor—and Beth shot him a thumbs-up of approval.
For his second piece, he’d used Mozart’s The Magic Flute as his inspiration. No magic this time beyond what the music itself produced, but that was enough. He lowered his flute at the end of the piece, and there was a moment of hushed silence before the applause began. When it had died down, he stepped to the edge of the stage.
“Your Highnesses, ladies and gentlemen, for my last piece I would like to play a new composition, dedicated to the Lady Maeve and written in her honor.”
Suddenly there was a new quality to the respectful silence. An electric anticipation, almost hunger, that he had never felt before. After a moment, he realized why.
A new piece. New. I spent all day explaining to Ria that elves never create anything because they can’t, and never stopped to think what an effect something like this would have. Even the Sidhe Bards don’t create new music—they just adapt the old. What have I set myself up for?
There was no choice now but to go on with it.
He raised his flute and played.
The inspiration for the piece was a dancing tune, and the dance was still in its heart—but this was the mortal dance through life, growing and learning. Each time he returned to the original melody it was more complex, deeper, as the child became a woman, then a mother, then a wise counselor to her children’s children. Then he stripped away all the ornament and reprised the motif as the woman stood alone, wise and full of years, looking back on all she had done.
When he stopped, there was a long silence from his audience, and for a moment, Eric was sure he’d mortally offended them. These were the Sidhe—firstborn of Danu, Folk of the Air, eternal and unchanging. What had ever possessed him to play something that was nothing less than a celebration of human mortality for them?
Then the cheering began. One by one, the audience stood, clapping and cheering. The Prince wept unashamedly. Beth was alternately hugging Kory and bouncing up and down. Ria, standing behind them, spoke silently, but he could read her lips:
“Only you, Eric.”
He guessed he’d better get off stage while they were still applauding. Master Dharniel was waiting in the wings, most of the other Bards clustered behind him. The cheering could still be heard, though more faintly than it would be in a World Above venue.
“You’re more than ready for an apprentice,” Dharniel said curtly, turning away abruptly.
“As I said, the best of the New,” Harawain said. She reached out to touch him gently upon the shoulder. “Won’t you stay here with us, in Underhill? Your own kind will never value you as we do,” she said wistfully.
“I’m sorry.” Eric smiled regretfully.
Just then the first of the well-wishers arrived, the Prince among them. His presence kept things from turning into a mob scene, but Eric was still glad to make his escape. Fortunately, on this particular night, Beth could have anything she wanted, even the Bard that everyone wanted.
“Oh, Eric, you rock! That was so . . .” She stopped.
Eric grinned. “Just so you know there’s more to me than bunnies, m’lady.”
“You could have given us no richer gift,” Kory said. “Truly this will be a night long remembered.”
“‘And gentlemen in England now a-bed/Shall think themselves accursed they were not here/And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks/That fought with us upon St. Crispin’s Day,’” Ria said lightly, quoting Shakespeare to good purpose. Beth shot her a wicked grin—it looked as if they’d settled whatever issues still remained between them, Eric noted with relief.
“So what do we do now?” Eric asked.
“What else?” Beth answered. “Party like there’s no tomorrow.”
SIX:
TO RIDE THE NIGHT-MARE
You could get used to anything, even fear. After a while, Jeanette Campbell stopped worrying about a bullet to the head.
There were worse things than death.
Being a madman’s captive, for one.
There was something not right about Elkanah. She hadn’t noticed it at first, of course. She’d been trying to get used to the idea of being dead. But after a while it’d become clear to her that he didn’t mean to kill her—not immediately at least—and her mind had turned, with inevitable self-preservation, to what would happen next. Escape. Survival.
They drove all through that first night and well into the next day. He stuck to the back roads, so she still couldn’t tell where they were going. She had the growing feeling that he wasn’t sure either, and that was the first thing that worried her. The second was his driving. She’d stayed mouse-quiet, hoping to convince him she was no threat, but when the van began to weave from side to side on a road that was only a car-and-a-half wide—if that—fear of immediate death made her bold.
“Either find a place to pull over or let me drive. I don’t want to end up dead at the bottom of a ditch.”
Elkanah slowly turned to look at her, letting the van drift to a stop. His eyes were almost yellow, she noted with clinical detachment, and the skin beneath them looked bruised and puffy with sleeplessness and something more.
“Let you drive?” he said, in slow echo of her words. “And where would you go, Ms. Campbell?”
“How should I know? This was your idea,” she snapped. “I don’t even know where we are!”
He chuckled, an almost-soundless rasping that came from deep in his chest. “Don’t you? I think you’re funning me, Ms. Campbell. I think you know exactly where we are. You shouldn’t’ve been so talkative back in the day, Ms. Campbell. I knew just where to find you.”
There was no answer she could give to that because she’d never talked to him at length at all, and so she just stared at him, scared and defiant. After a moment, he put the van into gear and began driving again. But an hour later they’d reached a more traveled road, and he followed a weathered billboard advertising “Lester’s Country Rest.”
It wasn’t much of a rest, but it was certainly country. He left her in the car alon
e—shackled to the door, of course—while he went to talk to the owner, and came back a few moments later with a room key in his hand.
“I guess you won’t mind sharing a room.”
He drove the van around to the back of the little row of battered cabins, got out, and came around to her door to open it. Mutely, Jeanette held out her wrist, and he unlocked the shackle. She rubbed her wrist, still able to feel the weight and coldness. She climbed down out of the seat, feeling stiff and unsteady on her feet.
“Come on.” He put a hand on her arm and led her to the end cabin. The cabin door stuck, and he shoved it open. A wave of musty hot air rolled out. She walked inside, and when she turned, Elkanah was pulling another set of cuffs out of his pocket.
“Now, Ms. Campbell, I figure we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”
Jeanette swallowed hard. “What’s the easy way?”
He smiled then, an expression more frightening than his bland disinterest had been. “I cuff your hands behind your back. And you stay put.”
She nodded agreement, unable to trust her voice. As he approached her she turned her back, holding her wrists out behind her. As soon as the cold metal settled over her wrists, she realized she should have asked to take off her jacket first. It was hot in here, and would only get hotter as the day progressed. But something inside told her to stay as quiet as she could, not make him think about her too much.
She sat down on a corner of the bed as Elkanah went back outside to the van. She knew it was a test. Elkanah was armed, and somehow she didn’t think that Lester would call the cops if he heard a shot. She’d been shot before, once a long time ago when she’d gotten careless. It was an experience she had no desire to repeat.
A Host of Furious Fancies Page 45