Sive had paused a heartbeat at the entrance of the temple, and he measured it by the flutter of her breast against the tight bodice. Her summoned Art was as noticeable. It bathed her in beauty, an echo of lost Anu.
Air around her billowed up warm and sweet, rose petals swirling in it like captured moths, sticking to her pale cheek now and then. In this spiralling aura, Sive took her first step toward him. The faint breeze lifted the butterfly thin silks that enmeshed her body so that when she moved, she appeared to float down the ancient steps. The Bright light shimmering about her was soft, not dazzling those who waited, but making Sive appear as if through transparent gauze.
Mordant smiled—it was an effect mortal woman would happily kill for. He whetted his lips in anticipation. The Fey threw handfuls of flowers down, so that each step was full of scent, and destruction. They could not know the symbolism was most apt.
Sive smiled her best, most beguiling smile, almost convincing Mordant that she harboured some joy in their union. He had more than mortal senses, and he could feel her disquiet. Still, he smiled back as, in a haze of scents and music, she walked to the altar.
Mordant waited at the King of the Fey’s side, before the wide silvered-pool that was the heart of the temple. Auberon wore the white and green of the Mother; Mordant the black he always favoured. His bone pale hair slithered like a white snake about his shoulders as he held out his hand for her to take.
Sive’s violet eyes skidded away, though her cool hand rested unshaken atop his. They both knew that there had once been a time when her smile would have been genuine, and her passion unfeigned.
Mordant turned as a few of her rose petals settled on his shoulder. He was pure silver perfection, and he knew it. He had never been stronger or more in control. Paler than the lilies of the human realm his eyes reflected no light, being as colourless as the pool near which they stood. He still had the grace and beauty of a cat, only now he also had the power of a storm. Sive finally met those eyes she had once sighed over. Her gaze travelled to his bone coloured hair and knew which way her thoughts flowed. It didn’t matter how much time had passed since those days, she could still recall twining its length about her hands, bending to his will for a fiery kiss. A Fey does not forget. A shudder of anticipation flared at the base of Mordant’s spine.
It mattered little to him that her thoughts were distant; she was the symbol of his conquest over the Fey. With her at his side he would become what they had said he could never be.
Sive smiled at her brother across the short distance of the pool, for all the world as though she had chosen this match. Auberon inclined his head and then reaching across the water bound their joined hands together with a soft linen strip. Today he was not only King of the Fey, but also representative of their Goddess.
It was impossible to ignore the feeling, the tremble that echoed in every bone and muscle of their bodies, and meant the presence of the Mother was with them. That power was stronger than their own, unknown and unknowable. To the humans the Fey were as gods, and to the Fey the earth was one. She never spoke to them, simply was, and from her all Art came, and all joy. None knew how to chain such power, and few would have the bravery to dream of doing so.
But once the Master comes all that will change, Mordant said to himself.
Auberon began with the Song of Morning, the invocation to the Mother of All, in the Old Tongue, which human language had not yet corrupted. Its liquid sound thrilled the soul of the Fey.
Alorn neath fain, mai sigh ce tai Ni naoith n’chados su tai sigh ramhi nia Ni laoine lamhu, nach tai glain. Mathae s’yousae, fain nia sul caroid.
Arise fair sun—claim the light that is yours.
We fear no shadow while your light shines upon us.
We the people of the earth, burn with your joy.
Mother of creation, remain between us and chaos.
Tucking his hands within his sleeves, Auberon closed his eyes. The voice that issued from his throat was no longer his own.
In the coldness of nothing, before time, shadow and the light had been born. The darkness was destruction, the sun creation. The sun called into being souls to reveal in her beauty and took the name Mother of All. The darkness made nothing, but was Named by the Goddess the Unmaker. Should he come among us, destruction would fall on everyone. The Mother called us to hold against her dark brother, and we commit ourselves to this cause.
They knew nothing. They might mutter the words, but they had forgotten the pledge. Though they had once been warriors and protectors, they had fallen into ignorance, and would pay the price. Since heads were bent, they missed Mordant’s sneer. He swore this would be the last time he’d have to listen to such foolishness. Auberon was like them all a weakling—a brother who had given away his own blood out of fear. His time would soon be over, and he would bitterly come to regret his stupidity.
Mordant wished it over. He was anxious to have Sive in his arms, to begin her education that she might learn who her master was. Even now as she stood next to him, her mind was working on how best to turn this to her advantage. She needed to find the cure for the malaise that was whittling away the Fey. It was what held her to him.
Auberon finished his speech. Leaning over, the King poured a cupful of the pool’s holy water over their bound hands so that it ran down between their clenched fingers, and back to whence it had come.
Both Mordant’s and Sive’s Art sprang up at the feel of this other, more primitive, more powerful magic, and white light illuminated the inner curve of the temple. All those assembled gasped at the huge display. They took it as a good sign.
It was only Mordant, looking down, who noticed that it had been any more than a pretty light show. The fierce fires of magic had sundered the delicate strands of fabric that had bound him to Sive. He shook the smouldering remains free with a certain grim satisfaction.
Auberon smiled at him, and Mordant could read the triumph in his eyes. With this joining the King could now tap his new brother’s power. The blind royal thought he had won when all he had done was taint everything he touched with the Unmaker’s power. In trying to halt the malaise he had only bought it closer to the Fey—the irony was incredibly sweet to Mordant.
Though he would not dwell on it now. He was a newly wed, and should be rushing to other duties. He turned to Sive, and sweeping his dark cloak about them both, smiling his white as bone smile, he carried them away from the temple. Sive’s fingers dug into his shoulders, and he laughed into her cloud of dark hair. She wasn't used to being overcome, but she would soon learn.
When the Art subsided they stood on the highest hill of Fey. Below the valleys and forests ran out into the misty fringes of the realm. It was a sight he knew Sive enjoyed. Still through their nearness, Mordant could sense warrior instincts clenching her muscles, and he knew that she was ready for an assault.
“Ah Sive,” Mordant’s fingers flickered at her hair smoothing back a dark curl. She did not flinch. “I know that this is not what you wanted, “his breath was now brushing against her throat, “But I also know that in time you will come to see that this is the most natural thing for both of us. We are meant to be together.”
“How can you know that?” she asked. “There must have been other women to interest you in other realms?”
He grinned against her neck so that she might not see. Already she was probing to see what she could learn from him. He thought of the dangers of Between that had crushed so many other foolish Fey. No, such secrets as he had learned he wouldn't give away so easily. And when the time came for her to learn them, there would be nothing that even she could do about it.
He chuckled, a low soft sound that could only remind her of that long lost Mordant she’d cherished. “I can tell you truly, my dear, that in all the realms I have visited there is none to match you.”
She pulled back from him a little, and he allowed it only so they might look into each other’s eyes; his were as still as a millpond but betrayed nothing, hers were a f
iery violet.
“That tells me nothing, Mordant. You are not the same Fey I loved—I knew that the moment you returned. So explain to me why you still want me?”
“Because you should have always belonged to me. You sent me into the Between, and there you were promised to me.” He let her taste it then, the power of the Unmaker that dwelt within him. To him it was hot power and strength—but she recoiled in horror. It flowed from the core of his being and touched the cool centre of her Art. He felt her agony, the acid reek that burned its way through her Feyness, and made her cry out.
“What are you? What abomination are you to take Mordant’s name?!” With a rough sudden gesture Sive threw him off and pulled darkness about her. Mordant whipped a tendril of power within her defences, sending sweet erotic images into her head, making her body respond where her mind would not. Lightning crashed about Sive as she drew herself tall and magnificent against the skyline. Clouds sealed the hill apart from the rest of the land, and for the blink of an eye Mordant could not see. She was powerful enough to steal the breath even from the strongest of Fey—except he was more than that now. He was not alone.
Mordant stroked his chin, head on one side, considering this mistress of dark and war he had taken to bride. “Once, Sive, you would have beaten me in all things—but not now. I have learned and grown stronger, stronger than anything that is Fey.”
“You do not deserve to walk the land of the Goddess,” Sive snarled, her hair rising in dark ribbons about her head, while lightning screamed striking the ground in savage snaps. “And I will not suffer you a moment longer!”
“O, sweet Sive—but you will give yourself to me.” He had lost all his patience, no longer willing to battle his own desires that his master was inflaming. Instead he strode towards her, and their Arts grappled. The hill shook, trembling under the assault of such mighty powers. Where hers was all strength and voice, Mordant’s were mist and subtleties. He closed the distance, and then when he was only a stride away his Art broke her defences. Immediately he filled Sive with his own lusts and passions, transferring his needs, so they were her needs now too. Her clothes whispered hungrily against her body, and when Mordant’s fingers trailed along her arm into her hair, she pressed herself against him with a whimper.
Sive recognized the symptoms of a powerful glamor, and she still hated him with all her soul, but souls didn’t concern Mordant. His desires thrust against her, and she was helpless.
Mordant peeled the layers of her dress from her, heedless of rends and tears that he put in the fine fabric, until his eyes could feed. Sive licked her lips, her traitorous desires surging against her flesh. Just before she pulled him in, he smiled victoriously at her.
“And thus you will learn, my Sive—and learn well. It begins here.”
* * *
The wind ruffled through the rows of wheat, sending a savage chill through the child’s cotton jacket, and tumbling dark curls around his face. The breeze was sudden and sharply cold—unusual for high summer. The boy looked over his shoulder, back the way they had come, but the wind disappeared.
The childish whisper broke through his thoughts. “William,” he glanced down into his young brother’s wide eyes. Gilbert was only four and scared by many things. He was shivering in his russet coloured homespun, but the elder William couldn’t help being a little frustrated all the same.
Gil tugged on his hand with small sweaty fingers, his chubby little legs already turning unconsciously towards home. “ What if Bridie misses us?” his voice quavered with concern, and already William could discern the beginnings of a tantrum—that certain brightness to his eye heralded trouble.
“Bridie can wait,” William returned firmly. From the extensive wisdom of eight he knew it would be some while until their nurse realized that they had escaped their afternoon nap, giving them plenty of time to reach Arden wood.
From the safety of a warm hearth it had sounded like a good idea. Gilbert was Friar Tuck to Will’s Robin Hood, and Arden became Sherwood. In his mind’s eye William could see them racing through the wood with their mighty longbows, the twigs crackling under their feet.
“Will,” Gilbert whined again, tugging at his hand, “I want to go home. I’m scared.”
Despite his youth William was already learning the fine art of wooing people to his way. He pointed ahead of them into the ranks of wheat where a pale spear of a tail flicked amongst the gold, “Look, White Cat isn’t scared—he thinks it’s fun.”
The boys couldn’t remember a time when White Cat hadn’t been about. His lithe pale form had been a constant presence since their swaddling clothes, twining his way around Mama’s feet, tripping Bridie on the stairs, and stealing licks from the saucer of milk she left out for the brownies. The adults barely tolerated his golden-eyed, haughty-looking stare, but found him an excellent mouser. Their father was loath to have his valuable leather chewed by vermin, and White Cat always showed off his prowess by laying rats of enormous proportions over the doorstep. Everyone in Stratford said that their house was the least bedevilled by the creatures.
The boys could hear White Cat’s chirps in the grass ahead—hot on the trail of some other less fortunate smaller creature. He had followed them from the house, and though Will had tried to chase him off, he’d known there was no chance. White Cat went where he wanted, and generally that meant anywhere the boys went. Will had been in many scrapes with his friends over his unusual cat that would insist on following him around more like a dog than a proper aloof feline.
But here at least White Cat was a comforting presence, and a reminder of the secure world they had left behind. Still Will’s determination grew, and he was sure that if Robin Hood was anywhere in England, he was in Arden wood.
Gilbert had thrust his thumb into his mouth and was slurping on it. It was something that Bridie would have halted immediately, but it meant that he had given up all thoughts of having a bawling fit. Will tugged his breeches up a little higher and grinned down at him. “Just to the top of this hill Gilbert, if we can’t see Sherwood from there then we can go home—I promise.”
His younger brother smiled up at him beatifically, good humour restored, and followed after Will as he stomped to the rise. Below the land curved away in a rivulet of green and gold, all shades of summer perfection. The boys both gave a little cheer, and hugged each other, for at the bottom they could see the dark edges of the wood.
White Cat—suddenly realizing that they had outdistanced him—bounded after, leaping over the tall grasses, until he sat at their feet. His yellow eyes took in the vista with profound disdain.
“White Cat our horse,” Gilbert crowed placing either leg astride the animal, and grabbing two handholds of fur.
The feline looked up at the boy with some disgust, slashing his tail in annoyance.
“I don’t think White wants to play today Gil,” Will grinned and tugged at his brother’s sleeve. “Let’s hurry before we’re missed.”
The boys ended up running helter-skelter down the incline, falling over a couple of times in their haste, but bouncing up like kittens and giggling all the way.
White Cat licked a paw, considered, and then followed after with a profound feline sigh.
The brothers had stopped short of the forest, their young necks craning up to see where the trees brushed the sky. It had a dark music all of its own, Arden, made of leaves murmuring against each other, far off birdcalls, and the mossy scent of the undergrowth. Will thought it was not unpleasant like father said, merely different.
“Don’t like it,” Gilbert’s lower lip had begun to shake again. “Where’s Robin Hood?”
He should have left Gil at home—this happened every time! Will was a kindly boy, but he had all the intolerance of older children for younger. It was terribly unfair to have walked all this way, risking Bride’s wrath, to stop here. Even though his own heart was pounding, he strode into the wood a little way. “Are you going to have a bawl?” he said with obvious bravado to the confu
sed youngster, “Or shall we find him?”
Gilbert didn’t know if his brother would leave him there or not, but he wasn’t brave enough to risk it. Wiping half-shed tears on his sleeve, he tottered in after Will.
White Cat paused at the edge too. Humans were not blind, just foolish. They had sensed something here, but chosen to ignore it. His ivory whiskers twitched. Something odd in the breeze made his tail whisk. His senses told him not to go into the wood, but he was used to following Will—more than that, he had to. With a sudden surge of resolution the feline darted in after them, thundering up behind their stumpy legs, and dashing past in a stream of white fur.
Both boys jumped in alarm, and tiny squeaks escaped them—two field mice caught at mischief. Will grinned at the sudden image.
“It’s only White Cat, silly,” he reassured Gilbert, all the while trying to conquer the lump in his own throat. Arden had sounded all very well huddled around the hearth with Bridie and Mama, but in it was quite different in the middle of so much dark ominous greenery. Every tree concealed a dagger-wielding thief, every bush a hobgoblin. The two boys crowded closer to each other, but since neither could admit their fright now, they went on.
White Cat scampered up a tree, chirping his challenge to the leaves, promising fiery feline anger. Curiously there was no birdsong now they were in the wood. Will stopped. Turning around he frowned. Before they had entered there had been many sounds, but once enmeshed in its cloak, Arden was silent.
Gilbert thrust his chunky thumb into his mouth, and sucked loud and furiously, his eyes wide over the top of it. Both boys could sense the menace in the wood.
“Come on Gil,” his brother seized his other hand, “this doesn’t look like Sherwood after all. Let’s get home.”
Chasing the Bard Page 5