Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  The beautiful Moira pressed closer to the King, perfect crown of hair now plastered against her head, while her body shook with fear. “What does it mean?”

  A terrible, leaden certainty settled about Auberon’s heart. “The Mother weeps for her child. One of the First Born has gone.” And in that instant, Auberon knew true fear and dismay. The world had abruptly changed.

  Born in the golden dawn of worlds, Brigit the Blessed knew the Mother of All was only a breath away, and all was clean and new. The sound of birds made her laugh, and the whisper of trees made her dance in their shade in those simpler times—before the coming of the Unmaker.

  Brigit raised a hand and brushed the glorious curtain of her auburn hair from her eyes. Anu, beloved sister, was sitting close, white arms wrapped around her knees, keen violet eyes watching the clouds on the horizon dance and burn. She laughed at Brigit’s hair. “Little one, why do you never listen to me?” She picked a bunch of curling white daisies from the grass, and in a moment had woven her sister a crown. “Now that,” she said with evident satisfaction, “Suits you.”

  Brigit smiled, but as usual said little in the queen’s presence. She had always been the silver moon to Anu’s blazing glory, but it was something she never envied. A complete, total love for her sister had marked her entire life; it made her feel warm and complete.

  The two siblings shared this little time together, a gift they gave themselves now that they'd completed the greatest undertaking. The Great Seal was made, and the First Born could feel satisfaction that two realms were secure. They had lost much of their innocence to the battle, but at least others would not know fear as they had.

  Brigit recalled the beauty of that now Shattered Realm, the creatures who had lived there, and the cool beauty of its own sunsets. Perhaps it was that beauty which had drawn the ire of the Unmaker, the great opposite to the Mother of All. He had found her realms in the Between and taken the first of them for his own. If Anu and her warriors had not succeeded in separating the realms and locking away the Unmaker...

  Brigit shuddered and closed her eyes.

  Anu leaned across and clasped her warm hands around her sister’s icy ones. “He did not succeed, little one, today we celebrate.” Her voice was light and strong, but the place where skin had burned tightened.

  Anu’s face went white, as her sister’s thoughts brushed over hers. She rose to her feet and turned to the sunrise. A cloud of singing sprites crowded around her, never touching, but filling the air with adoration. Anu smiled, and with a flick of her Art blessed them with a fragment of her golden light. It was a tiny demonstration of her power; Brigit had seen her draw on the surface of the two worlds and had write dread spells into the very fabric of their earth.

  “Do you remember, little one,” Anu asked very softly, “When we first saw humanity?”

  Brigit knew where this was leading. She went to stand next to her and taking her hand found it was now her sister’s hands that were chill. “Indeed, we laughed at their foolishness, and lack of Art.”

  “Yes—but perhaps we were the fools, not they. They may have no Art, but they have their own power. Without them, the Unmaker would have won.”

  It was true, but Brigit wished somehow that they had been able to succeed without them. Her sister had grown strange from her visits in the realm and was not what she had once been. The smallest distance had grown between them as well since Anu had taken her human lover.

  “Little Brigit,” she whispered, “It is not his fault, but mine.” As always their thoughts were too close to hide.

  Brigit dropped her head and tried to hide her darkest thoughts. It was how they had won over the Unmaker; children of Fey and human, with wild talents and unpredictable gifts had helped make the Great Seal. However that didn’t mean that Brigit thought it was something fit for her sister. She cast a surreptitious look at Anu’s still hidden belly.

  “I knew what I was doing, little one. This child will be the last of her kind,” a silver tear ran down one cheek, “But I do not regret it.”

  Brigit experienced loss too. After such an achievement, what could possibly match it? Would all the rest of the world fade to a sensual dance with nothing to challenge their might?

  She reached out and brushed away the tear. “Do not cry. I will always be here and your daughter will even never know of the Shattered. We have made it safe.”

  It was Anu’s choice; the First would never speak of the Shattered Realm. The Fey would in time grow bored, and their endless curiosity would lead them astray; if they knew of such a place, sooner or later one would try to see what lay beyond the Seal.

  “Do you promise?” Anu asked. Brigit looked into eyes that had spanned worlds and loved as rashly as any human. “I promise,” she murmured, though they needed no words. She kissed Anu’s fingertips and smiled. “I leave you two alone; I must also commune with the Mother.”

  Anu kissed her on the forehead, her hand resting on her stomach. “I understand, dear heart. I will see you soon for the ceremony.”

  Brigit’s feet found their own way through the mist-hung meadow and into the trees. Walking the scented forest trail, Brigit touched the smooth, silver bark of the trees, and caught wind-blown flowers on her upraised palm. She was as complete as she had been that first day when she stepped from the Mother’s womb. Her perfect brow furrowed, something worming in the back of her mind, Silver light? Why was that important? Down to the little dip of water hidden in the trees her bare feet led her where sprites sang to themselves and spun patterns only they knew the meaning of in the air above the lake. Burying her bare feet in the cool loam at the water’s edge, Brigit stared down at her own reflection. The iris-less eyes of the First Born had changed, becoming a brighter version of the human. She hadn’t understood why, but now she wondered if it was the bridges they had built with the men of that world. Near human eyes watched her own fingers trail along the ice white skin of her cheek, and she wondered what Anu’s child would be like.

  The thought rolled through her, a wave of fear and understanding. Brigit looked once more into her reflection, seeing something far different.

  This is Not, she whispered into the past that had her trapped, This is memory. What a sweet memory though, a time when the Fey had been at their most golden. What would be the harm in sinking into memory?

  Brigit’s immortal eyes looked past and into Puck’s. You're needed, lad.

  He didn’t want to go, but even in the unreachable past, she had a power he didn’t.

  The tearing sensation was bitter indeed, but reality beckoned, the dream shattered. So instead, he took the knowledge she had given.

  Puck’s first breath was all his own, and he coughed it into the malevolent face of Wyreck. For a long moment, the sprite and the Trickster stared at each other, both too shocked to move. Puck’s limbs were not yet his own to command again, and as much as he wanted to squish Wyreck against his chest, he couldn’t. The sprite must have realized that at the same time he did, for a truly dark smile spread his narrow lips.

  “This is a first,” he waved his tiny, sharp sword near the tip of Puck’s nose. “The Trickster at a loss for words. I must make the most of it.” Turning his head, he glanced at Brigit’s grey remains. “She wasn’t much of a fighter after all—weak like all the rest of you.”

  The wicked sword sketched the air before Puck’s eyeballs, and he smelt the poison on the tip. “What did she tell you?” Wyreck demanded his face screwed up with menace and delight, “What was in her Last Breath?”

  Control of his body appeared to be returning, and already Puck’s mouth was his own again. “A hundred ways to roast sprites—even little bitter ones like you.”

  Puck could feel his body returning. The sprite and he shared another look. Understanding flashed across Wyreck’s face a moment ahead of death. The Trickster moved like lighting, but the sprite moved faster, making for the door like a fire—scorched bee.

  “Go on, run,” Puck yelled after him, “And
tell your master to run too!”

  He was full of a heady mix of grief and power, but it drained quickly. Kneeling next to Brigit, he straightened limbs that death had left its mark on. He could find no tears though there was grief aplenty. His aunt was gone, and unlike humanity, the Fey had no surety of any afterlife. All they had was the Last Breath, and the hope that a small portion of their existence went on.

  Puck could already feel her flesh evaporating into the air. Fey were not creatures of the earth like mortals, they were sunlight and Mother’s Breath, and with the loss of Brigit’s spirit, their goddess was reclaiming what was hers. In the way of his people, Puck turned and left her there, knowing there would be nothing remaining when he returned.

  Or perhaps more precisely—if he returned. No one was there to dissuade him, so he left the Hall, and turned his face towards Mordant’s. How much of himself Puck had lost by taking Brigit’s Breath, he could not say, but a dreadful fear was burning in him. Only he should know of the Great Seal, but a certainty had crept up that Mordant too shared the secret. What lay beyond that perfect Fey mask Puck had to know, and some answers had to be within his unnatural Hall. Sive did not have the knowledge Puck now possessed and armed with it perhaps he could find something that had eluded her. For although Sive thought she had a devious mind, her cousin was the master of trickery.

  His nerve almost failed him at the door to the hideous colossus. The evening had given way to an unfriendly darkness once he passed to the far side of the mist, and there was an eerie wail in the wind that did nothing for confidence. But then he remembered the still form of his aunt, and on the wings of that outrage, found himself within. Still, he walked on tiptoes through the silent corridors, peering around corners, every moment expecting Mordant to appear.

  The need for haste drove Puck on, and he began to poke about in dusty chests and clamber up tall shelves. He found ample evidence that Mordant was no housekeeper, and even more that his taste in ornaments bordered on the macabre, but nothing that hinted at any connection with the Great Seal.

  He stumbled into what must be Sive’s rooms by accident, and if he did linger in the sweeter smelling air there, and maybe rifle through the odd cupboard of her pretties, what of it? Nevertheless, he made sure to put back everything.

  Closing the door of Sive’s chamber, he went on to the end of the corridor where a dark set of stairs leading down beckoned. The silent corridor oozed unfriendliness, but Puck was more than used to that, and there was an intriguing smell of something ahead. While he sorted through the memories Brigit had left him, he reached the ironbound door at the end of the corridor.

  “Iron?” he whispered, “How very impolite.”

  The room beyond was remarkable only for the books and the slate desk. This must be where Sive had found the books she tempted Will with, but she had never mentioned the smell. Puck’s sharp little nose wrinkled, and his foot tapped on the stone floor as he tried to work out its source.

  On hands and knees, he shifted into a stout little terrier he had once seen ratting in Will’s uncle’s barn. The door intensified twentyfold, and now Brigit’s memories told him what it was; the chaos of the deeper realms in the Between left their mark on those who went there. The icy tang was unmistakable.

  Returning to his favoured form, Puck stood at the exact spot where the scent was strongest, and peered at the floor; that did nothing. Repeated jumping on said spot had no effect either. Mordant would not have relied on mortal tricks.

  “How typical,” Puck shook his head in dismay, but sent forth his Art. It wrestled unsuccessfully for a moment with the tendril of power holding the trap door shut, and then with a snap broke it. Not the effect Puck was hoping for, least of all if he wanted his visit to remain a secret.

  “Oh well, too late now.” His childish fingers lifted the heavy slate slab up from the floor. Despite his recent grief, Puck was intrigued. Secret doors were a human invention and not needed in the Fey.

  “I wonder what Mordant is hiding.” Dropping to his knees, he stuck his head into the space below.

  The razor—toothed boogart waiting at the top of the stairs almost took it off for him. Puck rolled backwards, even before registering the yellow eyes and the slobbering jaws, and his attacker ended up with only a mouthful of silver hair. He did get a glimpse of many other equipped large boogarts waiting behind their companion, eager for their chance at a piece of Puck. He dropped the slab back into place. Sitting on top of the bouncing trap door, working feverishly to secure another Artful lock on it, he could only muse on the need to be more careful where he stuck his head next time.

  Barely had Puck secured the lock before he had to drop to the slate floor. Something hot pass over the top of his back, and he sacrificed more hair. Wyreck had returned and obviously found something better to play with than a poisoned sword.

  Crouched in the corner of the room like some vile little bird, the sprite had a ruby bright sphere in his hands, and was beaming with delight. The ball swirled with malice, and Puck had no doubt about what had almost burnt the remaining hair off his head.

  “You really shouldn’t play with your master’s toys,” he admonished Wyreck, and then rolled for cover as another blast of lava-strength fire came at him.

  Wyreck was laughing too much to muster any witty repartee, but was more than happy to make up for it with a few more blasts from the sphere.

  Puck slipped to cat form, and scurried as fast as possible out of the door, belting back up the corridor—he had no desire to find out what burnt fur smelt like. Having made it to the next floor, the sprite not far behind, Puck made a dive for Sive’s room. Hopefully Wyreck would not dare fire in here where his precious master’s house would almost certainly burn.

  It didn't put Wyreck off; instead using his Art to crash pottery and hurl chairs at Puck’s lithe form. Puck scrambled under the bed, a heavy stone pedestal grazing his tender tail, while its mate narrowly missed his head. An ill-advised blast of fire made Sive’s rack of flimsy finery into a Viking pyre, and Puck knew that he had to end it.

  Lurching upright in his proper form from the other side of the bed, Puck threw a nearby stool at the giggling sprite with all his might. Unfortunately for Wyreck, Puck had no idea of his own strength. The heavy stone stool smashed into the dark winged form and then continued on to smack against the far wall. A sickening crunch followed that made even Puck wince in sympathy, and there was a muted pop as the fireball imploded. The stool dropped to the floor with a resounding thump, and no sound of spritish wings followed.

  Puck peered through his fingers, afraid of what he might see, but apart from the dark stain on the wall and the smell of crisped wings, it wasn’t too bad.

  An uncertain silence followed, in which the Fey found himself slowly smiling. True, he had ruined his cousin’s bedroom wall with a rather sooty smear, but it wasn’t all bad—Wyreck was dead.

  Suddenly there was a little piece of sunshine in this terrible day. Oh, there would have to be a reckoning with Mordant, and it might not be one he could walk away from, but he had revenged his aunt. For once it would be better to have things out in the open. Puck could almost visualize Mordant’s anger, but he quelled the urge to rub the smear off the wall.

  “You know,” he chuckled to no one in particular, “That was probably worth it.” Now if he could explain to Sive the loss of her dresses, he might survive all of this.

  Sive watched Will leave even if it made her heart race more than it should. It was funny, how his eyes now and then dipped back to where she sat beneath the willow. Smiling despite herself she gave him a small wave of farewell, but wished that mortal time did not have to pass so quickly.

  Will was nearly a man now, teetering on the edge of change, and she didn’t know if she should try to hold him back, or press him forward into it. Perhaps she understood a little of what Brigit had meant, for Will certainly had the uncrushed beauty of youth.

  Sive the Shining sighed with what might have been regret. As she had
never experienced the weight of age, she would also never know the giddy heights of youth. Will was putting his foot on a path she did not know and could not follow him down. But down that road, he would find his Art, and his power. The irony of it was not unobserved.

  Trying to think of something more positive, Sive reminded herself that his Art was already blossoming. On her lap lay several sheaves of paper, thick with written words. Once they would have been incomprehensible, but now, thanks to William, she discerned their meaning. The near-man’s work was even more important, and more rare than anything that foul Mordant had in his dim library. These few scraps that nestled on her lap were the beginning of a young Bardic power she could feel seething just below the surface. Sometimes when they sat close together, she could almost feel its heat.

  William had been hesitant at first to show her his work, afraid of rejection—but she had coaxed him with not infrequent smiles and sporadic gifts of paper. Today he had surprised her with not one, but five new poems.

  His scarlet look and averted eyes told her what was obvious—they were about her. They were the expected odes to her beauty and fire, somewhat mawkish in their tone—but there was more there too. A rugged, creative power tingled at the very edge of her Art sense, and excited her with its possibilities.

  Sive tried to look on these developments were stern disinterest—trying not to get thrilled by the hopes they sparked. The idea that Brigit had been right had ceased to annoy, some while back.

  Eagerly scanning the poems there is no mistaking it—there was something deeper in them. Sive’s fingers trailed across the paper, trying to feel the Art contained within—but it was beyond her. She could sense it, but not identify it, or what it would do. Power enough lay within young Will, simmering in this realm; none could tell what it would be like in the Fey. A bard had to have many things: the voice of his people, the sensitivity to read others’ emotions, and most importantly the ability to see right to the heart of life.