Summoned to Tourney

by Mercedes Lackey; Ellen Guon

  Not bloody likely—I hope, he thought, and clung a little tighter to Beth’s waist as she rounded a curve and the bike began to lean. The elvensteeds weren’t metal; Beth had learned with great glee that they wouldn’t reflect radar-guns. So she only gave speed-limit signs any weight when it was obvious that the limit was there for reasons of safety. At any other time—well, he’d learned his lesson on the first ride. Now he no longer watched anything, not even the passing landscape; he just closed his eyes and listened to the music in his head. There was always music in his head these days; he was only now starting to learn what it meant, instead of flying on instinct.

  His stomach lurched. Better not think about flying.

  The advantage to Bethie’s driving, as he had learned when they showed up for pre-Faire auditions and rehearsals, was that they got to the Fairesite in a reasonable length of time. Beth must have really been pouring on the gas this morning, though, because he felt her slowing down much sooner than he had expected to, and he cracked open one eye to see that she was about to turn down the gravel “back road” to the campgrounds. He relaxed, and flexed his fingers a little, one hand at a time, as she pulled onto the road, gravel crunching under the bike tires.

  Kory pulled up beside them, and Eric felt the gentle touch of inquiry, mind-to-mind, the elf sent to him. I’m okay, he thought back. Just a little stiff from the ride. Now that they weren’t racing along at ninety-per, he could enjoy what there was left of the drive, despite the jouncing. It was going to be a beautiful day, that much was certain. Not too surprising, really; some of Kory’s kin were coming to the house-warming party, and Kory had hinted they might Do Something to ensure cooperative weather.

  Convenient. Wonder if maybe I’ll be able to do something like that someday… With Southern California in the grip of a five-year drought with no end in sight, he’d be real tempted to tamper…

  But would that be right? If he mucked around with the Southern California weather, what would that do up here? Would it have consequences that would reach even farther than that? What if he inadvertently created another Dust Bowl?

  He mentally shook his head. There had been a time when he wouldn’t have thought about consequences, he’d have just done what he wanted to. Was this a result of being sober for more than a year, or was it something more than that?

  Jesus, I’m getting responsible in my old age. Maybe it was watching Ria Liewellyn, seeing what she did to people and things by running over the top of them to get what she wanted. Strange. He loved Bethie —but there was something about Ria… the memories concerned with Ria, half elven child of the renegade Perenor, were the sharpest of all of his recollections of the battle to save the elves of Elffiame Sun-Descending. There was just something about her—

  He shook the persistent memory of blue eyes away, with just a faint

  hint of regret. In the end, ironically enough, it had been Ria who had

  saved them all. She had fought her father, when it became obvious that Perenor was mad, stark, staring bonkers—and that had given Terenil and Kory their chances to strike. And it had bought Eric and Beth time to move the magic nexus of the Sun-Descending Grove from the old, destroyed Fairesite, to a new Grove in the heart of Griffith Park, a place central to every elven Grove and a place that would—at least in the foreseeable future—never fear the destructive hand of humans. That had freed, awakened, and empowered the elves of the L.A. basin, who were slowly taking their lives out of holding patterns they’d been in for more than ten years.

  Yeah, well, Ria’s at the Happy Home at the moment, with pineapple yogurt instead of brains. That Healer-chick thinks some day she may be able to bring her out of it, but frankly, I doubt it. Not being a fan of necrophilia, I doubt there’s much of Ria Llewellyn in my future.

  Some of Beth’s hair escaped from inside her jacket to tickle his nose, and he bnished it away with a grin. Now that was a distinctly odd circumstance: Beth with a full mop of dark red hair. The girl he’d broken up with just before his involvement with elves and magic started had red hair. Maureen —who, he’d heard from the grapevine, had really abysmal taste in boyfriends since. One had ordered her around and made like he was her agent until her real agent threw him out; the next one had sponged off her for six months, then disappeared; and he’d heard that the current one was a borderline psycho and leaving bruises on her, occasionally.

  Yeah, well, I was no prize, either.

  He’d expected the color-change on Beth to make him feel really uneasy —but it didn’t. She was still Beth Kentraine, only now instead of black hair in a punk tail, she had the most glorious mane of deep red curls he’d seen outside of a movie. Like the chick in The Abyss, and not like Maureen at all. It was lots of fun to play with, too—though he could sure understand why she didn’t want to camp out on site with it to worry about. Hard to keep a mane like that clean and unsnarled without magic helping. And Beth Kentraine was not at all happy about using magic in ordinary life.

  They’d decided to go ahead and bring the bikes into the parking lot, after quite a bit of discussion, and park them in the middle of a lot of other bikes. Then Kory would work something like the “Obi-Wan” thing on them, only it would make people ignore the fact that they were there. So even if the Feds were on to them, it was unlikely that they’d try to meddle with the bikes, even if they were looking for them. Eric hadn’t quite believed in the “spell,” if that was what it was, until Kory had proved it to him—parking his bike in the worst area in Chinatown, throwing the spell on it, and walking away. They’d come back five hours later, and there wasn’t even a fingerprint on the bike.

  Kory’s learned a lot from his kin up here. A couple of the other elves had been taking the Southerner under their wings, so to speak; teaching him little things that didn’t take a lot of magical energy, but were very effective. And they had helped him out by kenning and replicating a lot of the raw materials they’d used in restoring the house, letting him save his energy for harder things, like restoring the wood and brickwork. Eric had gathered that this lot was in contact with more elves —and even humans— out on the East Coast; a set of elves that wanted to integrate as much as possible into human society. They even had something to do with —of all things— racecar driving.

  More power to them. There was a hefty faction—from what Eric had been able to make out—that were deadset against that. And it seemed that Perenor wasn’t the only renegade in the world, either, though fortunately there didn’t seem to be any more like him on this Coast. “Sheebeg Sheemore” all over again—only it turned out there was a name for these renegades and they even had their own organization of sorts. “The Unseleighe Court,” that was what Kory’s cousin called it. But they seemed to keep themselves concentrated away from Cold Iron and in areas as isolated as possible—which meant they weren’t real fond of the West Coast. North Dakota, now, maybe…

  Eric shook himself out of his daydreams; the parking lot was just ahead, and it was time to stop worrying about the problems of the world and start thinking about the day ahead. They still had to make some money—”the old-fashioned way”—because they’d pretty much drained the cookie-jar dry setting up for the party tonight. It was gonna be slim pickings unless the hat filled well this weekend and next week.

  Don’t think I can handle any more miso soup and ramen noodles for a while.

  There was a cluster of bikes of all sorts off to one side, huddled together like musk-oxen; Beth brought the bike to a halt just behind Kory and all three of them got off. Eric took the bags from both of them, Beth and Kory walked the bikes over to the herd and parked them; Kory passed his hand over both.

  That was it; no fireworks, no flashes of light. But as the three of them moved off, a couple of other riders came up and parked their bikes right behind the steeds, blocking their egress—something that would never have happened if they’d “noticed” the bikes were in place. Eric grinned, and slung his bags over his shoulder. All was as it should be.

 
Including Kory; when Kory took his helmet off, there was no way of telling him from any ordinary human.

  Well, any ordinary, incredibly blond, six-foot-six, hunk-of-all-time, rad babe of a human, anyway.

  Pointy ears and cat-pupiled eyes had been effectively camouflaged by another tiny little spell. Kory stood out, all right—and that was a good thing. He was the most striking of the three, visually; if there was anyone still looking for them, they wouldn’t be looking for someone that looked like Kory. That in itself should throw confusion into the pursuit. And anyone who was looking for “Beth” and “Eric” would spot Kory first; since he was a stranger to the Faire-circuit, no one would connect him to any of the regulars. Because of that, the existence of “Tom and Janice Lynn”—who just happened to bear a superficial resemblance to “Eric Banyon and Beth Kentraine”—would be more plausible. And they would all be accepted as newcomers without too much question.

  Some of their old friends, most notably a few of the Celts, folks who knew how to keep their mouths shut, were in on the ruse, but most of the Faire regulars weren’t.

  Beth got the passes at the Admin building with no problems and no questions asked; from there they went off to Celtic Camp (or as Eric liked to tease Ian, Keltic Kamp) to borrow a tent for a quick change. About thirty other Celts and Celt hangers-on had the same idea; the competition for space was fierce. But Beth and Eric were old hands at this; they managed to wiggle out of their leathers and into their costumes using no more than about two square feet of space. Kory undressed with sublime unselfconsciousness —but Eric did not miss the stunned expressions of those around him and the covert glances out of eyes, male and female. Clothed, Kory was a hunk. Stripped to the skivvies Beth insisted he wear in public, and he was causing a lot of people to reach for their drool-catchers.

  Yeah, I don’t think there’s going to be too many problems with people recognizing us. He grinned as he wriggled into his leather Faire pants. Nobody’s gonna be looking at us. This is gonna be fun.

  The bike leathers and helmets went into the costume-bags; the bags went to Admin to be locked up. Beth wasn’t taking any chances on someone making a try at their expensive-looking riding leathers, even if Kory could magic up new sets right away. For one thing, producing identical leathers within an hour of their loss would cause some serious questions to be raised, even if only the thief knew the leathers had been taken. Anybody who’d snitch someone’s personal property could be low enough to try and peddle the information of the miraculous reproducing clothing to some other interested party. And if it was the Feds who snitched the suits—the cat would definitely be out of the bag.

  Not a good idea.

  He laced up his leather vest over the front of his silk shirt, transferred the flute to his embroidered gig-bag, and slipped outside the tent to wait for the others. Funny, the bag used to be the classiest part of his costume; now it was the shabbiest. He’d have to ask Kory if the elf had the energy to make him one to match the rest of the costume. Beth followed a moment later, trailing Kory. As they conferred for a moment, getting their bearings, one of the ultra-period Elizabethan types sashayed by, in all her black-velvet, pearl-embroidered majesty, a galleon in full sail. She paused for a moment, one eyebrow lifted.

  Eric waited for the usual comment—or, more scathing, the eyebrow to lift just a bit higher, followed by a slight sniff, before the galleon sailed on. Authenticity Nazis, he called them, and not entirely in jest. He’d gotten used to them over the years. They’d given him no end of grief because of his careless approach to costuming; he usually shrugged and ignored them. She probably wouldn’t care for the light leather breeches, or maybe the silk shirts—or even the appliqued leather vests that matched their boots. Granted, it did look a lot more like Hollywood’s idea of Elizabethan than was accurate, though Kory swore he hadn’t made that many changes; simply given them an older version of breeches than the silly little puff-pants that were correct. But he hoped Kory wouldn’t be upset when she gave them the inevitable thumbs-down…

  The eyebrow remained where it was. “Quite_striking,” the galleon pronounced. “Really, quite elegant.” Her eyes lingered on Kory’s legs, and Eric did his best not to snicker. He should have known. She was a sucker for a hunk in tight leather pants. For that, she’d probably have forgiven them if they’d worn their biker leathers. “You must be professionals,” she continued. “I don’t remember seeing you here last year.”

  “Not as a group, milady,” Kory said, bowing so gracefully that the galleon flushed with pleasure. “We’ve been rather busy getting settled in the area. We’ve had some jobs Outside, but this is our first year at the Faire together.”

  “I’m looking forward to hearing you.” The great black construction picked up her skirts and sailed majestically on to her next appointment Opening Parade, no doubt. Eric checked Beth out of the comer of his eye. Her mouth was twitching.

  “Was that a queen?” Kory asked, politely. Beth fell apart, laughing. Fortunately, the galleon was out of sight and hearing range.

  Kory looked sorely puzzled, but Eric managed enough of an explanation to satisfy him as they dropped their bags at Admin—where Caitlin gave them a cheerful if harried “thumbs-up” as a welcome for them. Just Caitlin’s little way of encouraging the newcomers, who were, by her very different standards, a class act. Caitlin was not in on the secret; Eric had wanted to tell her, but Beth voted him down. In the end, he’d had to agree, reluctantly, Caitlin knew too many people, and she might let something slip without meaning any harm.

  They hit the “streets” and headed for their chosen busking-site near the tavern, hoping to get it before anyone else staked it out.

  Their luck held; they reached the shelter of the trees and got themselves arranged just as another group arrived: a lutanist, a harpist and a mandolin player. The dark-haired harpist sighed; Beth shrugged. “Try back in a couple of hours,” she said. “We’ll be doing the Celtic show, and if you get here before we leave, we’ll just wrap up and turn it over to you.”

  The harpist brightened. “Thanks!” she called, as they headed off at a brisk walk to whatever had been their second choice.

  They won’t be trotting like that in a couple of hours, Eric noted. He hadn’t recognized any of the three players—there was a certain amount of turnover among “Rennies,” and these three didn’t have quite the same casual saunter of seasoned hands. Although the morning had begun cool, by noon it was probably going to be pretty warm, and most Renfaire costumes got very hot quite quickly. Heat exhaustion was a constant problem, especially among those who were new at the game. That was why he and Beth had agreed on several particular shady sites for busking, if they could get them, even though their costumes were a lot cooler than they looked.

  He was fitting the pieces of his flute together when he was startled by a familiar voice calling his name.

  “Eric? Eric Banyon?”

  He came within a hair of turning; he certainly jumped a little, nervously. Then—:Gently, Bard,: came another voice, this one deep inside his mind, steadying him as if Kory held a comforting hand on his shoulder. :Remember who you are. Do not react. She is coming up behind you— she is going to touch you.:

  “Eric?” A real hand touched his elbow, and he turned, carefully schooling his face into a mask of surprise and puzzlement, mixed with a bit of annoyance at familiarity from a stranger. “Jesus, Eric, did you dye your hair or some—”

  She stopped and stared at him when he didn’t respond. It was Kathie, of course. Kathie, who had driven him out of Texas Faire and contributed in no small way to his drinking problem. Dressed, not in one of her carefully embroidered Faire shirts and bodice-skirt combinations, but as a “traveler,” one of the paying customers, in designer jeans and a halter-top.

  “Like, excuse me?” he said, in a deep Valley accent. “I think you’ve got, like, someone else in mind, I mean, y’know?”

  She looks terrible, he observed, dispassionately. She’d lost at least twenty,
maybe thirty pounds; her complexion was pasty, and from the harshness of her speaking voice she’d been doing way too much grass. She had that vague, not-quite-focused look of someone who’s been smoking dope for so long it’s gotten to be a permanent part of her system. Stoned and anorexic. She stared at him with her mouth a litfie agape; not a pretty sight.

  And I used to be in love with her. Like his reflections on the days when he’d taken that driver’s test stoned, it seemed worlds away, as if it had been someone else entirely who thought he’d lost the universe and all reason for living when this woman threw him over for a chance to sleep her way into a pro band.

  :It was another person, Bard,: Kory said solemnly, as Beth kept her own expression icily aloof. :You were another person entirely. You met misfortune and grew; she met with fortune and diminished.:

  She looked prosperous enough; at least her clothing was expensive. Kathie collected herself as Eric moved enough away that her hand was no longer in contact with his arm. “Come on, Eric!” she said—or rather, whined. “Quit the BS! I know it’s you! Y’still have the bag I gave you!”

  “What?” he said, thinking quickly. “Like, this?” He pulled the embroidered gig-bag around and looked at it. “Oh, man, listen babe, I mean, I hate t’like, yknow, thrash out yer day, but like, I got this’n the flute in a pawnshop down in Pasadena.” He wrinkled his lip a little, in simulated disdain for the bag and its contents. “I didn’ wanna, y’know, take a really good instrument out here in the boonies.” He scratched his head in an utterly unEric-like gesture, and shrugged in a good imitation of the moneyed youngsters he’d watched on Rodeo drive, when they weren’t impressed with someone. Indifferent to any distress they might cause, but going through the motions. “You’re like, about the fifth person t’think I was, y’know, this Eric dude. I mean, sorry babe.” He shook his head. “Name’s like, Tom, okay? This’s, like, our first gig out here, right Jan?”