“What’s that you got there, Ms. Campbell?”
“Coke.” Her voice was hoarse but steady, a tiny triumph to set against the sins of a lifetime. “Want some?”
“You first,” he said, unsmiling.
She put the straw to her lips and sucked hard, tasting brackish warm sweetness, a faint tang of carbonation, and nothing more. She gulped hard, forcing herself to swallow the contents of the cup. Forcing herself not to know she was drinking poison.
“Here,” she said, holding out what was left.
He took it and drank deeply, and as he did, his expression changed. Realization. Terror.
But not of her. Not of what was in the cup.
Bright pale spots appeared on his forehead. She watched in horror as something glittery burst through his skin, shooting out, branching, shining bright as chrome.
Horns. Antlers. Silver antlers.
He screamed, dropping the empty cup.
Then he reached for her, fast as a striking snake, yanking her out of the van and onto her knees on the summer-damp ground.
“Run, girl! As you love Jesus—run!”
She scrabbled away from him, moaning low in her throat with pure terror. Elkanah was clutching at the antlers, trying to tear them from his head, oblivious to her now. She managed to make it to her feet, staggering into the glare of the van’s headlights, unable to make sense of what she was seeing. He swung his head from side to side, striking the antlers against the side of the van in his frenzy to remove them. The sound they made was a chiming like struck crystal, a high sweet ringing that grew louder instead of softer, growing and changing until the air was filled with deafening music.
Hearing it, Elkanah turned and ran, crashing off into the night. The horns he wore glowed as if they were made of starlight.
The music stopped. The grass crackled as it froze, turning from green to silver.
Oh, please, no.
Jeanette clutched at the hood of the van for support, then turned, clumsy with terror, to put her back against it.
An armored figure on horseback stood silhouetted in the glare. His black horse gleamed like polished stone. His armor was like something out of a medieval fever dream, fantastically ornate, the gleam of pure silver sparkling beneath a coat of night-black enamel. Long black hair flowed down over his shoulders, framing a face of inhuman beauty, such beauty that she wanted to run to him, throw herself beneath his horse’s hooves, weeping, and beg his forgiveness for her ugliness. Behind him the night rippled, as if it had been shattered into a thousand pieces and re-formed once again. He was death and ruin, despair and pain, the end of all hope, all light.
She knew him.
“Aerune,” she whimpered, sliding to her knees. Her heart hammered, flushing the T-Stroke through her system, promising her death or transformation, but neither soon enough to save her.
Aerune mac Audelaine, Dark Lord of the Sidhe, Prince of Air and Darkness.
Lord of Death and Pain.
Nothing could save her.
She closed her eyes, hearing the soft chiming as Lord Aerune walked his horse slowly forward.
“They said my hunt had failed.” His voice was like ruined music, making her ache with sorrow. “But my hound has brought me the quarry I sought. Look at me, human girl.”
Her eyes snapped open as if he had shouted, and she stared up into his eyes, wanting to look away, unable to do anything but obey. She felt herself lost, felt as if she were falling into a deep pit lined with the sharpest of knives.
He leaned down from his horse and took her chin between his fingers. His touch was so cold it burned, as if his touch alone could wither her flesh and turn her skin to ash.
“You are the mortal alchemist who crowns men with fire?” he asked.
She didn’t understand what he meant, but something inside her must have. Without conscious volition Jeanette felt her throat move, felt lips part and tongue move to form a single word.
“Yes.”
Aerune straightened in his saddle, releasing her. Warmth and weakness flowed into her as he released her; she fell forward into the dirt, catching herself on her hands.
“And now the same unnatural fire flows through your veins.” He sounded lightly amused. “No matter. Now you will be the hound to my hunting, mortal child. Now you are mine. Get up.”
Once more his voice acted upon her as if it were a physical force. Jeanette lurched to her feet, swaying unsteadily before him. He held out his hand, and his eyes gleamed cold and black. “Mount up and ride with me, Child of Earth. We have far to go, you and I.”
Numbly, helplessly, incapable of doing anything else, Jeanette reached for his hand. All her questions were answered now: Elkanah had found her because he was Aerune’s hound, given the magic to seek her out in the World of Iron. Aerune had given Elkanah another gift as well: forgetfulness, so that he did not understand why he hunted her or how he succeeded. His bruised and tormented mind had woven fantasies to cloak the workings of Aerune’s magic, while all along Elkanah worked to bring Jeanette to Aerune, not knowing what he did.
Aerune pulled Jeanette up behind him on the horse, and wheeled his mount in the direction of the shimmering black rainbow. A moment later they were gone, leaving the park to slow darkness as the van’s lights dimmed and faded.
SEVEN:
WHEN THE GOING GETS
TOUGH, THE TOUGH GO SHOPPING
It took her a few days to recover from the ceileighe—when the Sidhe threw a party, they threw a real party—but Beth spent that time planning her quest. Meeting Ria had not been particularly enjoyable, but Beth was honest enough with herself to admit that a lot of her current reasons for her feelings toward Ria were rooted in envy.
Back in her television days, Beth had always hated the game-playing necessary to get the job done. Working in television was as much a matter of playing political games as having the needed skill set to do the job, and she’d always resisted following the unspoken codes of flattery and expediency that allowed you to get and keep an assignment.
Hell, she’d even hated it in the RenFaires. But Ria Llewellyn seemed to swim through that treacherous sea with ease. Partly it was the power that came from being majority stockholder in a multibillion dollar company, Beth was sure—no groveling and scraping for jobs or funding there—but mostly it was Ria herself. Take everything away from her, and she’d build it back up with ease.
Beth wished she could be that kind of person. But everything she’d ever had—the glamour job in TV, the music gigs with Spiral Dance, the busking at RenFaires, even her place Underhill—she’d had to work hard to claim in an arena where ability counted no more, and sometimes far less, than networks of favors and friendships. As a small child, her battle cry had always been: But that’s not fair! and she’d always been willing to do battle with the world as it was in the name of Fairness. It was one of the things that had drawn her to Wicca. The Craft placed a great premium on taking responsibility for your own life, working to ensure fair-dealing and justice for all, not just its own members.
Even going Underhill with Kory had seemed to her to be a defeat sometimes. The people chasing her had no right to do what they did. But while they didn’t have Right on their side, they did have superior force. And so the three of them had gone: she to exile, Kory back to a home that sometimes chafed, as home did.
But Eric . . . for him Underhill had only been a way-station, not a final destination or a goal. He’d learned and grown, and gone back to take his place in Ria’s world. To put it most unfairly, he’d succeeded where Beth had failed. Even having Kory’s love wasn’t enough to make up for that sometimes.
But having Maeve had changed everything. Through all the long months of her pregnancy, impatiently awaiting the birth of her daughter, Beth had thought she was ready for motherhood, willing to take up the responsibility, eager to protect and guide a new life.
She’d had no clue.
The moment she held her daughter in her arms, felt her weight an
d smelled her baby scent, looked into her kitten-blue eyes, the whole world had changed. Beth became the second most important person in her own life. All the old stupid clichés were true: she no longer cared about things because Beth wanted them, but because Beth-and-Maeve were important. Beth looked into a future that had to be put in order because Maeve would live there; she had to think and plan and prepare for the future because Maeve would be the one to grasp the opportunities there, this utterly beloved one who wrapped Beth in a gossamer web of responsibility for every detail of her existence.
It wasn’t crushing. It was liberating and ecstatic and joyful all at once. Maeve didn’t diminish her. Maeve gave her a strength and power she had never imagined possible—and suddenly so many things she hadn’t thought about were vitally important. She wanted Kory’s children for the joy they would bring to both of them, but now she also wanted those children for Maeve—brothers and sisters to tie her human daughter firmly into the web of kinship that linked all Underhill, friends and allies and protectors to share Maeve’s grief and happiness as no one else—even her mother—ever could.
Suddenly all the things her friends with kids had said made perfect sense. Maeve completed her, changed her, made her stronger. Made her whole.
Made her worry every moment, even when she knew that at least some of those worries were irrational.
Beth grinned, leaning over the bassinet. No meteor was hurtling toward the Earth. No war was about to break out to ravage the halls of Elfhame Misthold. It didn’t even rain. “And there’s a legal limit to the snow here. . . .” Maeve had her very own Protector. And the Seleighe Sidhe adored children—all children—with a single-mindedness that was almost enough to satisfy a new mother’s fierce protective instincts. It wouldn’t be easy to leave Maeve behind, but Beth had no fear that she’d return to find anything other than a very pampered Elven-American Princess. It was for Maeve, for the future, for her daughter’s unborn siblings, that she was going. And if she didn’t come back . . . well, she was doing what mothers did, and she felt a peace in her soul that hadn’t been there for a very long time.
Yep. It’s a whole new Beth Kentraine . . . and ain’t that a kick in the head?
Kory had taken care of the practical preparations for their trip. This was the first time Beth would be going outside the boundaries of one of the Elfhames, but to find what they needed would take them out into the Lands Underhill, and that world was far wider than the territory claimed by either Sidhe Court.
“If you need information, find an information specialist,” Ria had said. This was the first step. Kory had consulted one of Prince Arvindel’s advisors, the Lady Vivalant (who was also the librarian of his very eclectic collection of books) for information about a place called the Goblin Market. He’d told Beth that it was said that all roads Underhill led eventually to that place, and there you could find anything you sought. It was the closest thing to a trade fair that Underhill held.
There were dark rumors about the Goblin Market as well. It was said that you could buy nothing you did not already possess, nor sell that save what you wished to keep. But both Kory and Vivalant—and Master Dharniel as well, when she’d nerved herself to ask him—had thought it was still worth trying.
There was no day or night in a hame, but it still felt like early morning when they left. The elvensteeds stood ready, their saddlebags packed with the necessities of the journey, as well as some trade goods from the World Above: coffee, chocolate, and even a couple of six-packs of Classic Coke.
Beth had been mildly shocked—all three contained caffeine, a deadly drug to all the Children of Danu—but Kory had assured her that not everything living Underhill shared the Sidhe’s liability, and that such items were often eagerly sought.
“Figures. Next thing you know, McDonald’s will be opening a branch down here.”
Kory grinned at her, tightening his mount’s girth. “Ah,” he said wistfully. “Chicken McNuggets. Thick creamy shakes. And ketchup.”
He was dressed in his full knightly regalia: elvensilver armor and sword, and looked every inch the faerie knight. Somehow the wistful look at the mention of Mickey D’s didn’t seem to go with the rest. Cognitive dissonance, that was what they called it.
“Don’t,” Beth begged, grinning. She’d lost her taste for junk food while she was pregnant and had never regained it, but ketchup was something she still missed.
“And Chinese food, no MSG. And pizza,” Kory continued teasingly. “’Tis a pity we could not bring any of that with us. We could gain empires.”
“You’re right at that, kiddo. I guess when we get back I’m going to have to set up a kitchen and see about satisfying some of your . . . cravings.” She winked at him, camping up her saucy Faire-wench persona—though her costume would certainly never have passed muster with any of the Authenticity Nazis. Beth was wearing woven leggings—embroidered down the outside of each thigh with a pattern of fruits and vines in glittering thread—tucked into high soft boots of green and gold. Above that she wore a cowled tunic in a green to match her boots, its hood, now lying over her shoulders, lined in a gold satin that matched her leggings, and around her neck a glowing pendant, warning any who could read it—and that was practically everyone they would meet—that Beth Kentraine was under the protection of Elfhame Misthold: mess with her, and you messed with them. Her tunic was gathered in with a wide belt of tooled leather, from which hung a very businesslike dagger. Under her tunic was a chain mail shirt of elvensilver worn over a linen shift, and beneath that, in a protective silk pouch embroidered with spells and hung from a thong about her neck, was her old flip-knife. Its blade was Cold Iron, anathema everywhere Underhill, carried only to be used as a last resort if things turned really bad.
She’d thought about asking to wear armor, but elven armor was as much for display as for protection. Kory’s armor proclaimed him a Seleighe knight, and Beth, he’d insisted, should dress to reflect what she was as well. She’d drawn the line at the idea of wearing a long dress, though. She’d always been more of a blue-jeans person—and besides, neither she nor Bredana really cared for the sidesaddle that went with the dress.
Kory patted Mach Five on the shoulder—named long ago out of a Speed Racer cartoon, he’d once explained blushingly. The elvensteed whuffled and stamped his foot, and Kory turned to inspect Bredana. Finding everything there to his satisfaction (it was amazing, Beth reflected, how much of Pony Club stayed with you through the years), he held out his hand to Beth.
“All is in readiness, my lady. Shall we away?”
“You’ve been reading Howard Pyle again,” Beth said, giving his shoulder a playful shove. He knelt and made a stirrup of his hand—elven armor was far lighter and more flexible than its World Above counterpart—and Beth stepped up, swinging her leg carefully across the saddle. The cantle was higher than a modern saddle; though Bredana could have created saddle and tack to look like anything, for this trip it was best that everything be Sidhe Classic. In a lot of places Underhill, it was safest to look like exactly what you were.
Kory mounted Mach Five and took up the reins. Grooms rushed to open the stable doors, and the two of them rode out.
The park was lit with the silvery unchanging light of Underhill. The air smelled of roses and apricots, and the world was filled with the singing of birds. In the middle distance, Beth could see another party, much larger than their own, lords and ladies out for a morning of hunting.
Beth had never been to the edge of the parklands that made up Elfhame Misthold—or rather, she had, but the magic had simply brought her back to the far side of the park, as if the whole place were somehow built on a Moebius strip, which for all she knew, it was. But today they were going through a Gate that would lead them into the world beyond.
Every Gate was essentially the same, Kory had told her, just as the essential magic of all the Lands Underhill was the same. Most Gates could be set to take their user to any of six “pre-set” destinations. Some could be set to open
only to the proper code, others operated by anyone. You had to travel overland, hopscotching among friendly or neutral Gates, until you got to where you were going. Most of them led in and out of neutral or unclaimed territory; you couldn’t just ride through a Gate and find yourself in the middle of somebody’s living room. The Gate that led into someone’s personal domain was usually well-guarded or well-defended—or both—and whoever was behind it would have a lot of warning that you were coming.
The Gate that led out of Elfhame Misthold was a golden archway—some long ago elfmage’s pun on the Golden Gate, since Misthold’s anchoring Nexus was in the San Francisco Bay Area—with an ornate design covering every inch of its surface. The space in the center of the archway shimmered faintly, like a curtain of gold chains. Two Sidhe in full armor stood before it. Once upon a time Beth had been surprised that with magic available for the asking, the Folk performed so many mundane tasks for themselves, like guarding doors and sweeping out stables, but at heart the Sidhe were warriors who knew that someday they might be called upon to fight. There were hames as decadent and luxurious as she could possibly imagine, and even hames where all the work was done by human changelings, but Misthold wasn’t one of them.
Age and power seemed to radiate from the Misthold Gate. One of the knights saluted as they drew near.
“Fair morrow, Lord Korendil, Mistress Beth,” he greeted them formally.
“Fair morrow, Sir Vinimene. My lady and I ride upon quest, at my lord Arvindel’s good pleasure,” Kory answered, equally formally.
“Quest well and come home safe,” Vinimene answered. He stepped back, and Beth and Kory rode through.
She’d gone through Gates a lot of times, traveling between Earth and Underhill, but they’d always seemed to go from outdoors to indoors, or the other way around, and her mind had accepted the change. Here, it was as if the whole world vanished in an eyeblink. The flare of bright sunlight—sunlight?—caught her by surprise, and she swayed in the saddle just a little.
A Host of Furious Fancies Page 47