Once the tea was set, and the second cake nibbled a bit more, the metal man was able to move about more freely, and his voice had mellowed to a timbre suitable for a gentleman.
“I was a man once,” he told Molly as she packed away the magical teapot. “I had a family and everything, before the world came to an end.”
“Why did you decide to destroy the world?” Molly asked. “Were you tired of it?”
The metal man shook his angular head and wept tears of clear oil. “Hubris,” he said, the shame obvious. “We had made wonderful discoveries, like the ability to copy ourselves into robots.” He turned once, his six arms extended and his weapons sheathed. “We were no longer confined to the fragile shells we once were. We’d conquered death.”
Molly sighed as she leaned back with her toes pointed to the fire. “And yet, you have all died, it seems.”
“Alas,” the metal man said, kneeling by the fire. “I fear you are correct.”
“What were you about before I woke you?” Molly asked.
“I was seeking another,” he said quietly. “Someone else to have a conversation with.”
“And here I found you.” Molly said, smiling. “And we may converse as long as our hearts allow.”
“I would like that,” the metal man said. “And I will watch you while you sleep. Keep the wild things from your camp.”
“There are wild things?” Molly asked, yawning. “I have seen no one at all until I met you. That is, beyond the bony dead.”
The metal man, Sir Reginald, Molly dubbed him, knew of a place, many days from here, where he’d had a signal once upon a time.
“It could be a bunker,” he said.
“Like a castle?” Molly asked.
“Yes,” Sir Reginald said. “Like a castle where the good folk hid while the world burned.”
“I would like to find this place,” Molly said. “I grow weary of this lush greenery and the sparkling sunsets.”
“Is that so?” Sir Reginald asked.
“Perhaps not as much as I had thought,” she admitted. “Now that I have you here for conversation.”
The whole wide world woke one morning to the sound of Sir Reginald whooping and cavorting like men-at-arms when they’ve had too much of the hard cider on festival nights. The clanking was what woke Molly, and she sat up so fast, she nearly sent the seedling flying into the underbrush. She’d only just thought to reach out and catch her as her hair went flying around in all directions. She tightened the braid that held the seedling, stood up and straightened her shirt before clearing her throat at Sir Reginald.
“I’ve found it,” he said solemnly. “I’ve found the signal once again, thanks to you and your divination.”
“The tea guides, and the blood follows,” she quoted the White Queen. “We only have to be open to the way.”
Sir Reginald bowed to her and a crooked smile touched his metal-plated face. “You are a wonder, that’s for sure.”
They had a spot of morning tea, where Molly drew out the serving and the eating to the point that even Sir Reginald, who was a novice in the way of tea parties, grew restive.
“Why do we tarry?” he asked after Molly had had her third cuppa and picked the tiny seeds off a sliver of cake. “Did you not understand I have found a signal to a bunker, er . . . castle, where there may be people?”
Molly looked sideways at the metal man, who’d grown less stiff since he’d been sharing her cake and tea. “You grow tired of my company?” she asked. “Are you so quick to abandon our grand adventure?”
The metal man sat back at that, a thoughtful glint in his bejeweled eyes.
“Do you not wish to return to your tea parties and the princesses?” he asked quietly. “Have you not regaled me with tales of the Master of Hounds, the Mistress of Switches, and the scullery maids and their scandalous ways?”
“You know I have, sir knight. And I told you those tales in confidence.” She paled at the thought of those stories getting back to the palace of the White Queen. She’d not sit again for the welts and blisters she would receive for such impertinence.
“We must complete your mission,” Sir Reginald offered.
“Of course,” Molly said, standing and tossing aside the last of her tea. She hastily bundled the pot, cakes, plates and blanket back into her satchel. She spun around four times, and stopped facing the metal man. “I have flung off my melancholy and am ready to face the unknown.”
“You are a peculiar young woman,” the metal man said. “More comely than a rose, as witty as a jay, and as innocent as freshly fallen snow.”
Molly cocked her head to the side and looked at him. “Do you jest, Sir Reginald?”
He bowed once again. “You are the fairest lass I have seen in a thousand sunrises.”
Molly blushed, but straightened. “Let us off, then, you sly one. I would bet a thousand sunrises have passed without you seeing a soul alive, until I came along.”
Sir Reginald sniggered.
Soon the merry band was climbing down a steep ravine, chasing the signal that the metal man could hear.
“Tell me of it,” Molly asked as they rested part way down the ragged cliff face. “Do they sing to you, these old ones? Or do you hear the voices of other metal men such as yourself, full of clicks and clacks such as you sang to me when we first met?”
“They call for aid,” he said solemnly. “For rescue and succor. I do not know if they live, but I have hope for the first time in an eon.”
“Then that is good enough for our adventure,” Molly said brushing dust from her britches.
They climbed for the rest of the day, only pausing when the sun dipped below the edge of the mountains to the west. They made camp along a deep ledge where they could have a small fire and sleep without fear of rolling to their deaths in the midst of the night.
The next morning they climbed again, a sense of urgency suddenly overcoming Molly. The metal man, Sir Reginald, had grown quiet and would not speak of the signal any longer other than to say, “It is very old, and very sad.”
At the bottom of the great cliff wall, they turned northward and walked amongst the jumbled stones and thick brush.
“We are close,” Sir Reginald said on the second day after they’d reached the bottom. He held out his cup for a second helping of tea. His hand had grown softer, rounder in the intervening days. Between the whispered kisses that Molly blew to him each night, and the power of the tea, the metal man transformed.
By the third night, they happened upon a vault door: a great gear pushed into the side of the rock face.
“Here is their final resting place,” he said. “They are inside.”
Molly hefted her satchel up higher on her shoulder and stood as tall as she could. Time to be brave, she told herself. This is the moment of truth.
She took the gloves from her satchel and put them on. When Sir Reginald looked at her, she wiggled her fingers at him and smiled. “The Mistress of Switches always says to present your best when meeting new folk.”
“Sound advice,” Sir Reginald said.
“Here,” Molly said, bending and plucking a small red flower from the ground at their feet. “Place this in your hair.”
She stood on her tip-toes and wove the red flower into Sir Reginald’s wavy, golden hair. The metal of his complexion had faded to a softer texture and his angular head flowed with golden locks.
“I believe,” he said as she stepped back to admire her work, “that the tea may have some magical powers I had not expected.”
“As the Mistress of Switches reminds us, we must be who we truly are when we sup with another and share our table.”
“I see,” Sir Reginald said. “Shall we see if any others remain to satisfy your quest?”
Sir Reginald strode forward, touching a sequence of keys on the great door. After a moment, the whole world shook as the great cog rolled to the side, revealing a long passage into darkness. After a minute, pale light began to shimmer in the tunnel, and M
olly poked her head inside.
The cavern was filled with great, long couches, each covered in glass. “Like the tales of Sleeping Beauty,” Molly said to Sir Reginald as they examined the sleeping forms within.
They were children, from the smallest infant to children old enough for skipping and knitting, tea parties, and grand adventures.
“So many,” Molly said as she walked deeper into the cavern. “Do you wonder where all their mommies and daddies have gone away to?”
Sir Reginald turned to a bank of glittering and glowing machines. With a swipe of his hand over what appeared to be a large crystal ball, he was able to learn the fate of these many children.
“There are no parents,” he said quietly. “No one to raise them once they wake.”
Molly was horrified at first, clasping the seedling in her fist and spinning in a slow circle. When the tiny light of the day hove into view a second time, she paused and looked back at Sir Reginald.
“Can you wake them? One at a time?”
“Yes, I believe so,” he answered her, his voice full of questions.
“Then we shall do as I was asked,” she said with confidence. “The White Queen asked that I return a girl child to her in exchange for this seedling. A fair trade that would serve both her whims and the whims of the fickle fates.”
She leaned over one of the sleeping couches and brushed the frost from the glass. Inside slept a girl of about six summers, her fiery red hair falling around her pale face, a splash of freckles coloring her cheeks.
“We will start with this one,” she said, turning to Sir Reginald. “I will take her to the White Queen. The Mistress of Switches can show her how a child should behave and we can let the seedlings have this world. They would grow here, and make it a place for themselves.”
“That is a fine idea,” Sir Reginald said, tears in his amber eyes. “There are many children here. Will your Mistress of Switches accept them all?”
“If she will not, the Master of Hounds will accept a few,” she said with a growing sense of right. “And the scullery maids all lament their childlessness. It is obvious by their actions and the way they skulk about with the men-at-arms.”
“And how do we get there from here?”
“Easy-peasy,” Molly said. She took out her jackknife and strode out of the cave. Sir Reginald followed quickly, as if afraid to be left alone.
“Here, watch.”
She took the knife and scoured a circle in the thick grass. Once she’d done this, she took out the teapot and dribbled a bit of the sweet nectar into the circle, allowing the brown liquid to fill the cuts she’d made into the earth.
Finally she sat and sang a quiet song about moonbeams.
Sir Reginald gasped as a ring of toadstools sprouted before his eyes.
“Here is our way home,” Molly said rising.
“And the seedling?” he asked her.
Molly reached up and took down her long braid. For a moment, she struggled with the knot, but the seedling seemed to leap from her hands and onto the ground. In a heartbeat, a young girl stood before them, eyes like seashells and hair as fine as corn silk.
“You have grown, sister,” the seedling said with a lilting laugh. “The Mistress will not recognize you all big the way you are.”
Molly spun on her knees, as the seedling ran toward the woods. “Bring me a sister,” the seedling called as she disappeared into the shadow of the wood.
“Well, isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do?” Molly asked, standing.
Sir Reginald had stood too close to Molly. Her head came nearly to Sir Reginald’s chin. She was too close to him, and he to her. For a moment, she thought to step back, to catch her breath, but a wave of dizziness nearly overwhelmed her and Sir Reginald caught her. She lifted her eyes to his and as the world succumbed to a fiery sunset, she found her lips pressed against Sir Reginald’s.
The Mistress of Switches had not mentioned this in her tea lessons, Molly thought. Once they had parted, she picked up her satchel and took Sir Reginald’s hand. “Let us get this child to the queen,” she said. “Won’t the princesses be surprised when we bring this lot home?”
HUNTING THE UNICORN
Jane Lindskold
Black moon against a white sky. The scent of dried rosebuds fills the air. It is a lovely night for a unicorn hunt.
From the Unseelie Court, the champion rides forth. She is the daughter of a bodach and an urisk, but unlike either of these, she is lovely as a night sky lit only with stars and the glow of the palest of crescent moons.
Her hair falls long and silken, its hue the shining reddish brown of polished chestnuts. Her dark eyes are large, shaped with a piquant slant, framed with thick lashes. Her lips are full, yearning for kisses they have never felt.
This beauty’s name is Blackrose. She is clad in close-fitting leather armor, supple as the sealskin from which it was crafted, embossed with arcane runes of protection. Her riding boots come to just below her knee, showing off shapely calves and surprisingly dainty feet. A cloak of moss green shadows is draped about her shoulders, fastened with a brooch of tiger ’s eye.
She is hung about with weapons: a bow of rowan wood and a quiver of birch arrows, a long sword whose blade is silvered steel, and a hunting knife with a hilt of ivory and a blade of pearl. To her saddle is strapped a heavy ax, its honed head protected in a leather case.
Her mount is a kelpie, currently in the shape of a shaggy dark-brown pony with a wicked eye. This is cheating, because the hunting of the unicorn is supposed to be a contest between the two champions alone and unassisted.
If the kelpie has a name, he’s not telling.
Upon Blackrose’s slender upper arm is an ruby-colored armband not only shaped like a twisting, curling dragon, but which is, in fact, a twisting, curling dragon, small but ferocious, capable of breathing fire or spitting acid. Its name is Flamewing.
More cheating, but since when did the members of the Unseelie Court not cheat or lie or trick when such would be to their advantage?
From the Seelie Court, the champion rides forth. He is the son of an enchantress who loved a hero of the Rade. From his mother he is gifted with a talent for sorcery, from his father an ample allowance of luck. From both he has been granted beauty.
They called their child Sunset, because he was born in the twilight years. When he grew into manhood, his name became Sundeath for reasons no one could explain, yet no one questioned. Sundeath’s features are noble yet strong, chiseled from oak, not pine. His hair is the brilliant gold of the sun at midday, but his eyes hold the dark purple of late summer iris or the violets that nestle almost forgotten in the grass. His shoulders are broad and his figure strong, yet granted the willow’s gift of bending. His lips hold a smile, but there is something wistful about it, as if they long for a sweetness they have yet to find.
He is clad in a tunic the tawny golden-brown of a mountain lion’s coat. Beneath it he wears tight-fitting trousers a few shades darker. His riding boots are of matte black leather, his belt and cuffs of the same material. The cloak that falls from his shoulders is made from leaves enchanted into silk, myriad sizes and shapes fitting into each other with miraculous skill.
His long hair—it has not been cut since Sundeath was declared a man—is braided tight, interwoven with a filet of silver, dewdropped with sparkling gems.
He carries no weapons but a hunting knife, sheathed at his belt. From behind his saddle hangs a coil of rope. On the other side is cased a fine meshed net. Both rope and net are woven from the same remarkable materials: a father′s love, sunlight on water, the breeze ruffling a kitten’s fur—all strong, all gentle, all nearly impossible to touch. Sundeath crafted these himself, for he is a sorcerer of some note.
He rides upon a stallion named Zephyr. Zephyr possesses a high crested neck, liquid eye, and flaring nostril. His coat is dapple grey, his flowing mane and tail pale silver. His trappings—even his shoes—are gilded. Otherwise, there is nothing extraordinary about thi
s steed, unless it is that he is of a breed that is closer kin to flame and storm than to any earthly horse.
In the hands of Sundeath as he rides beneath the black moon is a small harp of gold, set with gems. Each of seven strings is enchanted to play some desire if so invoked. His work again, the result of many long hours delving into the mysteries of the heart and soul. Mysteries that, especially when related to love, are very strange to Sundeath indeed, for although he has been given much love—children are rare in the Seelie Court—and given back love in return, the magnificence of passion has been hidden from him so that someday he might be a champion.
Blackrose knelt in the moist duff, checking tracks that an eye less sharp would certainly have missed. The tracks had been made by a small cloven hoof and were similar to those of a deer, but with more delicate lobes.
A human tracker viewing these marks would have been puzzled, for they were far enough apart to indicate a relatively long stride, yet the tracks were not as deeply pressed into the soil as those of a deer of the appropriate size would be.
But Blackrose was of the Unseelie Court, intensely trained over many long years for this very hunt. Rising, she dusted off the palms of her long-fingered hands. Then she motioned the kelpie, who had been off to one side idly eating centipedes, to her. Untwining Flamewing the dragon from her arm, she showed it the trail.
“Find and follow,” Blackrose commanded as she swung herself into the kelpie’s saddle.
When Flamewing had the scent, Blackrose dug her heels into the kelpie’s flanks.
“A good pace, but not too great,” she commanded as the horse-like beast broke into a gait somewhere between a trot and a canter. “We have the trail, but even Flamewing may lose it. Unicorns are wise and clever, else what delight would there be in the hunt?”
“The queen and king might disagree,” replied the kelpie in a voice like slow water. “You may care about songs to be sung, honors to be won, but they care for little but the creature’s horn. Poisonings have been rising in the court. The waters run foul. The unicorn’s horn offers remedy for this and more.”
Courts of the Fey Page 15