by Jocelyn Fox
“It needs to be said, and I will say it aloud as many times as I like,” Ronan replied to her. “Cowering in fear is no way to live.”
“I am not cowering in fear, Ronan Rowanshield,” snapped Bren, her voice taut as she rose slightly from her seat, “but there’s no need to frighten Tess with bedtime stories and nightmares.” Ramel put a hand on her arm, and after a moment Bren sat back in her chair.
“She is bound here until the Queen releases her,” Ronan pointed out.
I waited. Ronan looked at Bren, who looked away; and then he glanced at Ramel, who nodded.
“Emery?” Ronan said. “You’re a better teller of the tale than I.”
Emery inclined his head. “When shall I start the tale? From the shutting of the Great Gate?” he asked the table at large.
Before I properly thought about it, I said, “The Great Gate was shut after the Iron Sword was lost.”
Ramel grinned at the looks from the other Sidhe at the table. “She may be a mortal and a pretty thing, but she’s got a sharp mind.”
“You all talked about it a bit at table this afternoon,” I reminded them.
“So we did,” Emery agreed, glancing at Bren. “But I shall elaborate, if you don’t mind.”
I smiled. “I’m eager to hear it.” I took a sip from my cup to encourage him, listening attentively.
Emery sat up a little straighter, placed his hands before him on the table, and the rest of the group settled back into their chairs, ready for his story. “After the loss of the Iron Sword, and the discord between the Queen of the Bright Court and our own Dark Lady—” he inclined his head gracefully—“it came to the attention of the Knights at that time that a plague had come upon the lands to the west of the Dark Court’s domain, at the edges of the Edhyre Mountains. As this was the border of the Dark Queen’s power, the place where her domain mingled with the dominion of the Bright Court, neither Lady possessed enough power singly to overcome the sickness killing the lands. And the Great Gate, the fabled portal which drew so many mortal dreamers into our fair realm, stood at the center of the troubled lands.”
“Mortal dreamers,” sighed Bren with a far-away look in her eyes. “I’ve read about them. Poets and artists…and some warriors too, Tess. War-fighting is its own art, in a way.”
I wondered why Bren looked at me so emphatically when she talked of warriors.
“Ah, to have been alive before the Code,” said Ramel longingly. “Such nubile young mortal women, all curves and rosy cheeks and—“
“Ramel,” I said. “Please.”
He glanced at me and grinned. “I only speak the truth, fair one.”
I shook my head as his eyes twinkled. Emery waited patiently.
“At first,” continued Emery after the side conversation died into silence, “the Gate’s own power was enough, the wards and seals upon it so great that it stood unaffected by the blackness that killed every living being it touched. But then, as the plague grew and spread, the Great Gate, too, became infested with the sickness. It was not,” he said to me, glimpsing my questioning look, “a sickness of the body. It was more a sickness of the soul that sapped all the will to live from its host, and grew and fed on death. Then the pestilence began to seep into the Gate, and no power could stop it. It began to travel in the veins of Faeortalam itself, the flows of taebramh. And it began to poison the dreams of your world, gaining a foothold among mortal minds.”
“That was a dark time,” said Bren in a low voice.
“The Queens came together for the last time,” said Emery, “each with her three Knights with drawn swords by her side, and they bore the perils of the poisoned land to seal the Great Gate.” Emery paused. “They sealed the Gate with such power that only one thing in this world or the other could open it again.”
“The Iron Sword,” I said.
Emery nodded. “And the Iron Sword can do other, terrible things: sever the soul from the body, bend men’s minds, take life with just a thought of the bearer.”
I shivered to think that one person could wield so much power.
“It was once used for good,” Emery continued. “Once it was the foundation of the accords between Doendhtalam and the two Queens. But it was lost by the last Bearer, and the Great Gate was sealed, and even now the lands that were afflicted by the old soul-sickness still lie blackened under the moon, breathing poisonous mists into the night. It harbors creatures foul and twisted, creatures which otherwise would have no hold in Faeortalam.”
“Like the garrelnost,” I said.
Emery nodded. “Those lands are called the Deadlands, and it is peril to journey through them.”
“And…Malravenar?” As I said the name, I saw Bren flinch slightly. Names have power, for good or ill, in the world of the Fae, I remembered.
“He is an Enemy of the Courts,” Emery said softly. “Some think it was he that created the plague of old. We do not know for certain, or perhaps the Queen knows and she does not say, as is her right. But he is a very old and very strong Enemy, and like the plague he feeds on fear and death.” Emery locked eyes with Ronan. “Which is why we should not fear him, though he is a great and perilous foe.”
Ronan nodded, and Bren made a sound in her throat that might have been a snort as she drank a few swallows from her cup.
“The Enemy…” Ramel cleared his throat. “Malravenar, it is said, has been breeding creatures of shadow in the Deadlands. Some even say he is raising an army of the Dead.”
“Foolish talk,” said Donovan in his firm way.
“Who knows what is foolish and what is not,” replied Ramel. “But there have been three knights killed in the past fortnight alone, with the Vaelanseld himself barely victorious in the last skirmish.”
“Vaelanbrigh, Vaelanmaver and Vaelanseld,” I said. “Those are all the Named Knights?”
“Yes,” said Ronan. “The Vaelanseld bears the Eldbranr, the Ancient Sword. He is the oldest of the three Knights, and it is said that the Eldbranr was forged in the same fire as the Iron Sword.”
“What is the name for the Iron Sword, in your language?” I asked.
Emery shook his head. “That is not for us to know. It is so old that its name is part of its power.”
I thought, putting all the pieces together in my head. “I’m guessing the Iron Sword is the only weapon that can kill this Malravenar?”
“We hope,” said Bren softly.
“But what we know is that the Enemy is searching for the Iron Sword,” said Ronan. “He is searching for it and when he finds it, he will twist it to his own dark purpose.”
“I have heard,” Donovan said slowly, carefully, “or at least this is the rumor in the barracks from those who have served in the Western Reaches, that he means to sever the bonds between Faeortalam and Sionntalam.”
I glanced around and saw the grimness written on the faces of every Sidhe at the table. “But how would he gain anything from that?”
“No dreams for mortals,” said Bren sadly. “No more taebramh…I think in Doendhtalam you call it magic.”
“Magic?” I repeated, frowning.
“It’s a simple word for a complex power, and one that has been used wrongly for many years in your world,” Emery clarified.
“And without a way to the mortal world, without a Bearer…none would be able to destroy Malravenar. He would hold our world in thrall,” added Ronan darkly. He took out a dagger from its sheath at his waist and balanced it on its point upon the table.
“The Iron Sword is powerful enough to do that?” I received no answer. The dismal silence twisted my heart. From what I had seen, the Sidhe were a proud, noble, valiant people—or most of them, anyway—and I could see what it cost them to admit their danger, especially to a young mortal. I actually thought of myself in those terms, I realized, with no surprise now.
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“And so the Queen,” said Bren, “sent the Vaelanbrigh into the mortal world to find the half-mortal child. The Prophesied One.” She looked at me. “Both the Queen of the Bright Court and our Queen almost killed your friend, you know, before she was even born, to satisfy the High Code. But one of the Scholars found a prophecy, and stayed their hands, so they bound her Fae half and let her live in the mortal world.”
“She was marked for this her whole life?” I asked.
Bren shrugged. “Who can say what wisdoms lay in the old scrolls? Some might call it her destiny. In any case, she is here now, to bear the Iron Sword in the battle against Malravenar.” She saw my thoughts behind my eyes—Molly was still half-Fae. The power of the Iron Sword traveled through its Bearer, and the Sidhe could not be Bearer for a reason. Bren smiled sadly. “It will probably kill her, Tess,” she said gently. “We cannot even come within a few feet of it, when it is unsheathed, or so the legends say.”
“Why didn’t the Queen choose a mortal to do this?” I asked, feeling the furrow in my brow.
“Because, Tess,” Bren answered, “the Queens are bound by the Code as much as us, and they could not knowingly call a mortal, especially when mortals now have no loyalties to the Courts, and most do not even believe in Faeortalam except in their dreams.”
“Except in their dreams,” I repeated.
“And we do not know how far Malravenar’s reach has grown,” Bren continued. Her voice wavered a little when she said the Enemy’s name, but she raised her chin. “He has probably poisoned the dreams of mortals, so that even those are not safe anymore. Mortal minds are strong, but we cannot take a chance with the power of such a weapon.”
For a few minutes I stared into my silver cup, the sounds of the ongoing celebration flowing around our pocket of silence like a river flows around stones.
“It is much to think about,” Emery said with surprising gentleness, the cool aloofness leaving his voice for a moment.
I took a breath and cleared my throat. “It is. And I’m sure I’ll have questions…later, when I’ve thought it all through.” I looked up at them. “Thank you, for trusting me.”
“You passed the Queen’s test,” Emery said by way of explanation. “If you were unworthy, she would have killed you.”
I couldn’t help but smile wryly. “Always good to know that you have confidence in me, Emery.”
A ghost of a smile crossed Emery’s lips, and Ronan grinned.
“Now,” I said, “we can talk more about this later. But tell me,” I asked with a grin, “do you know any drinking games?”
Emery, Ronan and Donovan looked at me blankly. Bren’s eyes twinkled and Ramel grinned.
“All right then,” I said, “who’s got a coin? There’s a game called quarters that I think you ought to know…”
Chapter 13
An insistent booming roused me from a deep, dreamless sleep. With a groan I rolled over, realized with perplexity that I was somehow in a bed when I hadn’t remembered getting there from the celebration….Well, damn. It had been awhile since I’d drank so much I had trouble remembering the end of the night. I sat up and rubbed my eyes before going to the door, not caring that my hair was probably a mess and I was barefoot.
Ramel tried unsuccessfully to hide his amusement as he took in my appearance. I scowled at him.
“I’m never playing drinking games with non-mortals ever again,” I groused. “It’s just not fair.”
“We do have uncanny coordination,” Ramel agreed seriously, his eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth.
“Did you wake me up for a reason, or just to gloat?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck. Thankfully the vinaess didn’t seem to induce hangovers, or I would have had to crawl to the door instead of walking.
“Gloating is all well and good,” he grinned, “but I came to get you for your lessons.”
“Lessons?” I stared at him blankly.
“With that long sharp object we call a sword?” prompted Ramel, arching one eyebrow and making a thrusting motion with an imaginary blade. I saw he wore his own blade at his hip.
“Thank you, but I’m not that thick-headed.” I scowled at him again for good measure. “Really? No day off after the celebration?”
“A warrior must always be ready to fight,” he replied with entirely too much vigor and enthusiasm.
“Ugh,” I responded. “What time is it anyway?”
“Almost noon.”
“Great,” I muttered. But as my head cleared I thought that it wouldn’t be so bad to break a sweat with a blade in my hand. One lesson and I was hooked, I thought ruefully. Ramel helped me adjust my sling—I’d only have to wear it for a few days more, much to my relief. I changed into suitable clothes while he waited outside, pulling on my boots and grabbing my sword hastily.
“No practice on an empty stomach,” he said as I came out into the passageway, handing me a little bundle of food wrapped in what felt like some type of wax-paper. He carried my sword and I discovered that the bundle contained a hearty piece of slightly sweet, nutty bread and a slice of cheese.
“There was another piece of cheese,” he said as we headed toward the gymnasium, “but I got hungry while I was waiting for you to change.”
I laughed and shook my head. Once we reached the gymnasium, Ramel sent me right into warm-up drills, and the session lasted longer than the day before, ending in a short sparring session. He slid edge-guards over our blades—thin little sheaths that made our swords into sparring blades. “Better than using the clumsy wooden sticks,” he explained. “You can still feel the balance of your weapon this way.” I knew Ramel was only going half-speed, if that, but I still felt a spark of triumph when I spotted an opening in his defense and snaked my blade through, touching the blunted point to his chest.
“Good,” he said with a grin. Then he launched into a full-speed attack that made me lurch backward in surprise. I managed to recover and desperately blocked his blows, the shock of his blade hitting mine running up my wrist and into my shoulder, making me gasp. After blocking four or five of his swings, he lunged and cut at my side. I couldn’t move my sword to block in time, and his blade hit my ribs hard. I went down on one knee for an instant, then stood again, using the tip of my sword against the floor as support as I tried to catch my breath through the pain.
“You’re doing well, Tess,” Ramel said in his teaching-voice, not even winded, “but remember that if you’re ever in a real battle, that is what you’ll have to deal with, so you must learn fast.” Then his eyes darkened as he realized how hard he had hit me.
“I’m fine,” I said, brushing off the question before he could ask. “I do need to learn.”
“Well met,” he said with a nod and a small smile. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet, pretty one.”
I felt a small nudge of curiosity at Ramel’s flirtatious pet-name as I balanced my sword against my leg and wiped the sweat from my brow. But I’d seen him interact with other ladies at the Court and I told myself that it was just his personality, nothing more. “So,” I said. “will you tell me more about the knights that were killed?”
Ramel’s face darkened for an instant, and I glimpsed his face devoid of his good nature. His expression became purely Fae, smooth and bleak and terrifying, his eyes glowing with that light to which I hadn’t yet put a name. It was the Fae-spark, I decided, suppressing the customary chill that tried to crawl down my spine. I was getting used to glimpsing the inhuman aspects of the Sidhe. Before I knew it, I spoke again. “What’s it like?” I heard myself ask in a soft, intrigued voice. “When your eyes are alight like that…and it seems there’s a door shut on all your emotions…”
Ramel took a shuddering breath and ran a hand through his coppery curls. “Far from it,” he said, shaking his head. “You mean when it seems as though our faces show no e
xpression. That is because there is no expression suitable for what we’re feeling. There’s a poet in your world, Bren doesn’t particularly like her but I have read some of her works…she describes a particular emotion by saying that she feels as though the top of her head’s been taken off.” He smiled at my surprise. “Yes, we read mortal poetry still. We cannot help ourselves when it comes to things of beauty. In the time before the High Code, poets were often the favorites at both Courts. Some were even lovers…some say to the Queens.” He lowered his voice at that last bit, as if it were a piece of particularly juicy gossip, which it was, I supposed, discounting the fact that it was hundreds of years old. I couldn’t help but smile.
“So…it’s not that you’re not feeling anything at all,” I said, stretching my legs. “It’s that your emotions are too intense to be expressed.”
Ramel paused and then nodded. “I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any you’ll hear.” He gestured. “Let’s sit, and I’ll tell you about the knights.”
After Ramel took the edge-guards from my sword, I sheathed it and we went to sit on one of the low benches that lined the wall of the gymnasium. A few other pairs were practicing, scattered across the great space like pebbles thrown at a handful into a pond, the ripples of their practice-sounds overlapping and muddling as they reached Ramel and I. Finnead and Molly weren’t there.
Ramel must have seen me scanning the rest of the gymnasium. “You know,” he said, “if it’s your friend you’re looking for, they moved her quarters to the North Wing. That might be why you haven’t seen her.”
“Oh?” I said, readjusting my sword so I could lean back against the wall without it digging into my hip.
“If,” Ramel said, drawing the words out, “that’s who you were looking for.”
I chose not to reply, thinking that silence was probably the best response. Let them all think what they may, I thought, surprising myself with the vehemence surfacing in my mind.