“And so you came at once to me,” Dharniel said sourly, for it was plain that Eric’s news hadn’t made very good hearing for the Sidhe Bard. He shook his head. “ ’Tis a long time to mourn a lass, even one so fair as Aerete the Golden.”
“You know her?” Eric asked, surprised. Hosea had told them what little Jeanette knew about Aerune’s lost love, but Eric hadn’t expected it to be common knowledge.
“She was a Lady of my Line—one still revered Underhill, for she gave her life to save her people from the scourge of war and slavery. That her sacrifice was all for naught when Aerune slew the folk she had taken under her protection does not make her deed any the less, and so we honor her, though her name is lost to Men.”
Oh.
“Well, Aerune still seems to be in the slaying business, and if he’s teamed up with a bunch of humans to broker a human/Sidhe war, you ought to be worried, too.”
“If he can,” Dharniel commented. “But mortalfolk are kittle cattle, as likely to betray him as aid him, even if he can forget his ancient feud with them for long enough not to strike out at them first.”
“I think he can—and so do you, or else you wouldn’t have warned me about him in the first place,” Eric said boldly. “His allies won’t get too far with their war without his help, though, so that brings us back to the original problem.”
“To slay him, or to trap and imprison him,” Dharniel said. “You cannot kill him, Sieur Eric—once your kind believed him a god, and worshipped him in terror, and he is not easily slain by such guile and power as you and your allies might command. And the Wild Lands are littered with the bones of those who cried Challenge against him, and sought to fight him in accordance with our ancient laws, so you would be well advised not to attempt such a course. But to imprison him in a labyrinth . . . such a course might well succeed, if it is crafted with sufficient power. And yes, I think it would be for the best, for he has long been a trouble to us, and should he turn his attentions to his fellows once more, no good would come of it.” Dharniel sighed, as if the words had cost him something to say.
“I would suggest that you ask Lord Chinthliss to aid you in crafting your prison; he has certain ties to the Elfhames, and is well disposed to Sidhe and mortalkind alike. And it would be just as well that my lord Arvindel and the rest of the Folk were not consulted in this matter.”
So he’d been right about the way the winds of Elvish politics blew, Eric thought to himself.
“Chinthliss?” It was the second time in two days Eric had heard the name—Chinthliss was the dragon that Beth and Kory were consulting.
“Who better to build a labyrinth than one of the kings of the earth?” Dharniel said, as if it were incredibly obvious. “Such a prison as he might craft could baffle the power of a god, let alone one of the Folk of the Air.”
“I . . . er . . . well, do you think he’d do it?” Eric asked.
“If you put the question to him with as much wit and style as you have just put it to me, how can he not?” Dharniel asked waspishly. Eric grimaced. He was a Bard, not a diplomat!
“But as I have said, he bears your race a certain love, and if you bargain well with him and meet his price, I do not think it impossible,” Dharniel said, relenting. He regarded Eric, obviously waiting for his former pupil to say something intelligent. Eric took a deep breath.
“Okay. How do I find him?”
Distances in Underhill were difficult to measure, as so much depended more on how you went than where you went. Time was a slippery concept Underhill, and Eric tried to think about it as little as possible. Fortunately, no matter how long he spent here, Lady Day could make sure he got back to New York the same day he left, so there was little possibility he’d miss Jimmie’s funeral. Before dousing the spell-candle, Dharniel cautioned him again not to speak of his mission to anyone else in Misthold, and said that if asked about Eric’s visit, he would put it about that Eric had come to consult with him about Eric’s new student—a plausible enough excuse for the visit. Eric had no trouble agreeing to keep the real reason for his visit a secret. Aerune scared him, and he had no desire to bring the Dark Lord’s vengeance down on his friends.
Even if that would wake them all up to the threat he presents. But there are prices too high to pay for being proved right.
Dharniel provided him with a guide to his destination—maps were as little use Underhill as clocks were—and a short time later, he and Lady Day stood before the gate to Chinthliss’ domain. The glowing will-o’-the-wisp that Dharniel had given him in lieu of a map hovered in front of them, blinking impatiently.
“Okay,” Eric said aloud, to quiet it. “I’m here, but how do I get in?”
The ornate bronze doors gave him no clue. He’d walked all the way around them once. They looked the same from the back as they did from the front, but if he could manage to pass through them, he knew he would be inside of Chinthliss’ domain, a kingdom carved by the dragon’s power and will out of the formless Unmanifest of the Chaos Lands.
The question was, how to get them to open? An ordinary Gate—one put up to allow travelers to shuttle from one domain to the next—would have keys for as many as six destinations, but this one didn’t seem to have any key at all. Not even a door knocker. And him without his flute to play a tune and hope someone inside heard him.
Oh, crumbs. I must be short on brains along with sleep. That hardly needed to be a real problem right here, right now, did it? He always forgot how strong the magic was in Underhill. It didn’t take any strength at all to summon up a flute out of thin air. The flute he summoned was a thing of solidified air, no more than a shimmer to the eyes, but real and solid beneath his fingers, smooth as glass. He didn’t really need one to conjure the music, but Eric liked the feel of the instrument between his fingers, the interplay of body, breath, and power that shaped the Bardic magic.
He thought for a moment about the most suitable tune to play—he planned no more magic than a simple announcement of his presence—and then began a sprightly and very baroque version of “Break On Through,” one that Jim Morrison would certainly never have recognized, though Ian Anderson might have enjoyed it.
The will-o’-the-wisp departed in a miff, its purpose completed, but something seemed to be listening. Emboldened by even that amount of success, Eric’s playing grew more fanciful. He drew the melody to a close and waited expectantly.
Nothing seemed to happen, but now, when he looked at the ornate bronze door, he could see a door knocker, set just at human height. Had it been there before, and he’d just missed seeing it? Or had it appeared because of what he’d played?
No sense in breaking my brain about things that don’t matter, Eric told himself, and stepped up to the door. The knocker was in the shape of the head of an Oriental dragon, and the scaled ring of the door knocker was cool in his hand. He brought it down against the door—once, twice, thrice—and heard unreal booming echoes, as if he knocked at the door of an abandoned church.
The doors swung inward. Eric walked inside, Lady Day following closely. The hall he was in was as big as an aircraft hangar, decorated in hues of red, yellow, and black. The place had the same vaguely Oriental look as the doors of the Gate he’d just walked through—Chinese dragons were supposed to be very wise, and concerned with the welfare of mankind. Eric hoped this was a good omen. Lady Day snorted and nosed him nervously.
“Welcome, Bard.”
Eric blinked, though after all his time with the Sidhe, he ought to be used to surprises like this. The speaker didn’t look much like a dragon—more like a really high-priced lawyer.
Appearances could be deceiving. Eric produced his best courtly bow.
“Thank you for allowing me into your home. I am Eric Banyon. I’ve come seeking the great Lord Chinthliss.” A little sugar never hurt, especially when you were coming to ask a favor you weren’t sure you were going to get.
The man in the bronze Armani suit bowed his head. “You have found him, Bard Eric. And he i
s entirely at your service.”
Not bloody likely. Eric knew better than to take such courtesies at face value, but they were certainly nice to hear. He bowed again.
“Lord Chinthliss. My master, Lord Dharniel of Elfhame Misthold, sent me to you. I need help.”
Chinthliss inclined his head graciously. “Surely you will receive it here. But come. We will go someplace more comfortable, and take tea. And you will tell me of your need.”
A few moments later the two of them were sitting in an ornate and very English drawing room that wouldn’t have been out of place on Masterpiece Theater, being served tea by a genuine English butler. Eric had attended weirder parties. He kept his face smooth and put on his best company manners. He’d never met a dragon before, but Bards were traditionally used as go-betweens in Underhill, and Dharniel had included a few lessons on diplomacy in his training. He’d never thought he’d need to use them, though.
“I’d hoped for a chance to meet you,” Eric said, shading the truth only slightly. “My friend, Beth Kentraine, spoke very highly of you.”
Chinthliss smiled. “Ah. The Lady Beth and her fair knight Korendil. Did you come seeking them? I regret to say they are not here at the moment. They are discharging a small commission for me in the World of Men. But if you would care to wait, I am certain they will return soon.”
“No. That isn’t really why I came. I need a maze. I think.”
Chinthliss looked pleased. “A maze. It has been long since one of the Children of Men came to me to ask for a labyrinth.” He regarded Eric with open curiosity. “But perhaps a maze would not serve your purposes best. Pray tell me everything. Leave out no detail, no matter how seemingly insignificant.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingertips, waiting.
“I, um . . . no disrespect, sir, but is it safe to talk openly? The person I’m concerned with . . . I don’t think it would be completely healthy to draw his attention by saying his name.”
“Be of good heart, Bard Eric. I am not quite no one, and all who sojourn within my realm are under my protection.”
Once again, Eric found himself explaining about Aerune. It turned out that Chinthliss did indeed want to know everything. Under the dragon’s probing questions, Eric found himself backtracking, clarifying, explaining everything he knew about the entire situation, from the trouble with Threshold that had drawn Aerune to New York in the first place, to as much as he knew about why the elf-lord had chosen to make it his home, and the death of his love, Aerete the Golden, which had driven him to his bitter hatred of mankind in the first place.
“And it’s not like I approve of the Unseleighe Court, because they can be a real pain in the—well, they’re evil, but it’s not like they have the power to wipe out the human race, just to add a little more misery here and there. But if Aerune gets this government connection of his up and rolling, it could make real serious trouble for everybody. I’m not sure what to do about that, but if we can just separate Aerune from these guys, his conspiracy might curl up and die. So I guess that’s where we want to start—putting Aerune somewhere that he can’t meddle any more.”
“It is always best to use as little force as possible, and allow your enemy to defeat himself. And such a prison as you describe would indeed be sufficient. He would be trapped within it forever, unable to extricate himself.” Chinthliss sat forward and reached for his fragile Sevrés porcelain teacup, staring meditatively into its depths before replacing it on the table before him. “I can build such a structure as you require. But my help comes at a price.”
“Fine.” Eric set down his cup as well. “I’ll pay it.”
The dragon raised his eyebrows. “Without knowing what it is?” he asked.
Eric sighed, exhausted from answering the dragon’s questions. “I’m no good at bargaining,” he said bluntly. “Dharniel says you’re good people, and Beth and Kory wouldn’t have anything to do with you if you weren’t. I trust you to set a fair price. Whatever it is, I’ll find a way to pay it. This is too important to haggle over. Aerune’s about as cold-hearted a murderer as I’ve ever heard of. He’s killed a personal friend of mine already. He’ll kill everyone I know, and a lot of people I don’t, if he isn’t stopped.”
“The trust of a Bard is no small gift,” Chinthliss said gravely. “Wait here.”
He got to his feet and left the room, leaving Eric to wait. Eric was too keyed up to stay seated. He got to his feet and began to pace the room, not seeing any of its contents. Even if Chinthliss could give him what they needed to trap Aerune, even if this turned out to be a good idea, they still had to get the Sidhe lord into it.
And what if they failed?
Well, then, at least I won’t be around to see what happens next. Cold comfort, but all he had. And if he kills me, at least that will get Misthold up off its duff. Not that I’m sure that’s a good thing. I just know that things can’t go on the way they’re going now.
Just when Eric didn’t think he could wait any longer, Chinthliss returned carrying a small box. He held it out to Eric.
“This is what you seek.”
Eric took the box. It looked awfully small for a labyrinth, but appearances could be deceiving. The box was about four inches square, made of a highly-polished close-grained golden wood. He opened it. Inside, nestled on a bed of blue velvet, was a small, wrinkled, silvery object about the size and shape of a walnut. He glanced at Chinthliss for permission before lifting it from its case. It was remarkably heavy, as if it were made of some substance denser than lead, and tingled coldly between his fingers as if a faint electric current were running through it.
“It is a seed,” Chinthliss said. “Plant it anywhere in the Chaos Lands, and such a maze as you desire will instantly appear. It will work in the World Above as well, of course, but the maze that will grow there will be of a different sort—and I do not think it would serve your purposes as well.”
“Thank you,” Eric said, a little stunned. It almost seemed too easy, but having the maze to trap Aerune in was actually the least part of the problem he and the Guardians faced. “How can I repay you, Lord Chinthliss?”
The dragon smiled. “As I have said, the trust of a Bard is no small gift, and I would be sad to see the place from which comes so many beautiful things destroyed. Only think of me kindly, Bard Eric, and perhaps some day you can do me some trifling favor in return.”
“Count on it,” Eric said feelingly. “I . . . thank you again.”
The dragon bowed. “No small thing, to render a Bard speechless,” Chinthliss observed. “Fare you well, Bard—and good luck to you in the coming battle.”
“We’ll need it,” Eric said bleakly.
It seemed unfair that the day on which they laid Jimmie Youngblood to rest should be so bright and sunny. It was one of those clear sparkling late August days—hot, but without the heat haze that cloaked New York through most of the weeks of summer.
The NYPD had turned out in force to salute their fallen comrade. Jimmie’s coffin was draped with a flag, and the chapel where the funeral service was held was filled with officers in dress uniforms and detectives in plain dark suits and dresses. A number of Guardian House’s tenants had come as well, and tonight there would be a wake in her honor at the apartment. Jimmie had been well-loved, though no one had known her very well.
Did I know her? If I’d known her better, could I have stopped all this from happening? Eric wondered desolately. He stood beside Hosea at the front of the chapel, both men dressed in dark navy suits with mourning bands on their left arms. Ria was there as well, looking severe and correct in a black Chanel suit. Even Kayla had been persuaded into something less flamboyant than her usual Goth garb. In a plain black dress, her face bare of all but the most minimal makeup, she looked very young. Far too young to expose to Aerune’s danger.
If there’s any way around it . . . Eric promised himself.
Toni stood close beside Paul, wearing dark glasses to conceal eyes red and swollen from grieving tears.
She held a rosary in her gloved hands, her fingers moving over the smooth beads. Paul’s face was cast in harsh and impassive lines, the mask of a man who felt deeply and knew the emotion must not be allowed to sway him.
The minister spoke of a life dedicated to duty and service—soothing words, meant to comfort those Jimmie had left behind. But there was no comfort for the Guardians, knowing she had been slain almost randomly by her own estranged brother in a bizarre side effect of Aerune’s plotting.
The service and its aftermath passed in a blur, and Eric barely registered the names and faces of those who came up to him to offer their condolences and share their grief. Her co-workers were the men and women who knew Jimmie best, who knew that her death could have come for any of them.
After the service itself, the coffin was taken to a cemetery on Long Island for interment, at a second ceremony attended only by the departmental honor guard and Jimmie’s closest friends. As the coffin was being lowered into the ground, the terrible finality of it all struck Eric like an unanticipated blow. This was real. This was forever. He stood, gazing down at the ground, until Kayla came and pulled him away toward the waiting Rolls.
Ria had volunteered her car to drive the Guardians and Eric to the cemetery, as New Yorkers rarely kept cars, Lady Day couldn’t manage anything larger than her Lotus Elan shape, and Toni’s venerable Toyota couldn’t accommodate them all.
Why do we grow up thinking life should be fair? Who told us that it should be? Because it never is, and finding that out . . . hurts worse than a lie.
As the car passed through the gates on its way back to New York, its occupants were unusually quiet, constrained by the depressing occasion. Even Kayla had nothing to say.
Ria leaned forward in her seat and caught Eric’s eye. “Whatever you’re planning, I want to be a part of it.”
A Host of Furious Fancies Page 68