Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  Will was neither of the Puritan mind nor, despite his father’s leanings, on the side of Popery. He went, like all his countrymen, to services as the law dictated, but the faith never truly pierced his heart. Were he really honest with himself, he would acknowledge that the only times he felt in touch with the divine was when he held a quill, or Sive. In those hot moments when Will’s soul transcended his body’s failings, he could almost feel the touch of God.

  He struggled to find room for the Fey in that world, and yet they existed. He loved one.

  The wherryman shot an odd glance over his shoulder at Will’s unprovoked sigh. His name was John Fleming, and Will had taken his boat many times over the Thames to the Rose. They had always joked and traded colourful stories, but not today. Undoubtedly the wherryman worried that the playwright was sickening for something, for the plague was still about in some parts of the city. How could he guess that Will’s mind was far from the mundane dangers of life?

  “Careful now,” John had to drop his oar, in order to grab hold of Will’s sleeve. His unschooled twitching about had almost upset the whole wherry. Water had never been a friendly element to Will. He recalled with a little shudder how Sive had whispered in the dark that some Fey had an unpleasant reaction to water.

  And who knew what Puck and Auberon were doing now? They had left him with his own errands and left on mysterious business of their own. Will felt behind his back, but the heavy bag was still there.

  A slight mist had risen, and Will could only see two feet in front of him, let alone to the riverbank. He hoped whatever the Fey were doing, they would arrive soon. Puck found humanity so interesting, he could have become engrossed in watching a maid tip out the nightwater and forgotten all about rescuing his cousin.

  “Hoi, watch it!” John bellowed as another wherry came close to colliding with theirs; the Thames invaded a portion of the low-slung boat, and Will’s boots and nethersocks received a soaking. John shook his fist and offered all sorts of indignities on the other boatman now pulling away from them with remarkable speed. He for his part waved cheerily, and Will groaned when he recognized Puck’s silver hair crammed under a dingy little cap. Whatever the Trickster had learnt in this realm, common-sense was not part of it; the hat barely covered his decidedly pointed ears, and the speed of his craft might well set a few tongues to wagging.

  But John at least had noticed either. “Blimin’ fools,” he muttered, before dragging their craft once more into the appropriate current.

  They glided past Westminster’s long line of towers and grim windows, and then in due course the string of homes inhabited by the rich and those favoured by the queen. Dedicated to the monarch, the complex hive bent itself to her needs. None of those courtiers ever guessed that an alien insect had found its way to the core. He and Puck would not only be helping Sive, but also the Queen herself by rooting out Mordant’s insidious presence.

  John guided their little craft into the bank where Puck was already waiting, boat nowhere in sight. The wherryman pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to place the youth. Will paid John and made a hasty exit from the wherry.

  Puck’s unshod feet were beating against the muddy riverside, while his eyes scanned the variety of people bustling about him. Water was by far the most convenient way of traveling in London, and everyone from street-seller to archbishop used it. Even in the quiet morning, wherries were skating across the water like a collection of various water beetles. Puck’s eyes were shining with curiosity and mirth.

  Will for a moment did not see Auberon, cloaked and lurking in the shadow of the pier.

  Will caught hold of Puck’s elbow. “Remember what we are here for.”

  The Fey looked affronted. “Certainly there is a little time, you mortals are always in so much hurry to get places that you miss all the good things around you. Don’t you know there are always milkmaids to frighten and drunkards to lead about by the nose?”

  Will kept a tight rein on his rising anger. “I have those things you asked for,” he said instead, thrusting the bag at Puck. “One might ask what you were doing while I was scouring the underbelly of London.”

  “Visiting,” Auberon finally spoke. “There are places where Art still lingers, even here, under all this humanity.”

  “Places?”

  Puck was busy rummaging in the bag. “You would know them, high places where people worshipped sun gods, bends on the river where they made sacrifices to their ancestors. The people may have forgotten, but never the land.”

  “Drained of power I might be,” Auberon went on, “But I can still draw from those old wells of Art.”

  “And do you think you are strong enough to rescue Sive?” Puck was still, watching his erstwhile king. Auberon’s face twisted in anger that a mortal dare question him, but he answered evenly enough, “That I do not know.” Mortal and Fey stared at each other for a long time, waiting for the other to turn away. It was Puck that broke the stalemate. Hopping down from the rock, he swung the bag over his shoulder with no effort at all. “If you two are quite finished, we have a goddess to rescue.”

  He led the way without looking back, leaving Will and Auberon to fall into step.

  One thing he was already learning was that Puck was in his element. They strutted along the street, the Fey waving and smiling at commoner and gentry. Any mortal would have been in serious trouble with such a display of overt friendliness, but where Puck went, he left a wake of smiles. Annoying though many of the Trickster’s habits were, he was much beloved. It reminded Will of his nurse’s tales of Robin Goodfellow, and the discreet saucers of milk left out for him.

  As they got closer to the Tower, Will understood the enormity of what they were doing. They built the Tower of London to repel all comers, the symbol of the monarch’s power. The only people who went there were those condemned as traitors; getting out was a matter of surrendering one’s head.

  The houses gave way, and there it was. Long low walls surrounded a complex of towers of every shape and kind. Every inch of the wall was strength, and the towers seemed to glower through the dispersing mist. Guards lined the walls and were at the gate even at this early hour.

  “It is not like we can simply wander up there,” Will muttered. “I hope you have a proper plan.”

  Auberon remained silent. Puck laced his fingers together and arched them away from his body, looking as if he was about to step out onto the boards of the Theatre. “We do indeed have a plan; we simply wander in there.”

  “He has no idea,” the Fey king said from within the shadow of his cloak.

  Puck made a face. “This, my boy, is where the glamour comes in. Properly done, even old snake in the grass over there won’t realize that we are coming.”

  Will’s hidden Art prickled with alertness, but he could not sense Puck’s gossamer fine glamour as he wove it within scarce feet of him.

  “Even Sive cannot match me when it comes to these,” Puck’s blue eyes were swirling when he turned them on Will. “I guess it’s just practice. I could tell you some stories, lad...”

  “I would prefer it if you did what we came here for.” Will jerked his head in the direction of the main gate

  “Careful now, careful,” Puck’s flawless forehead showed wrinkles of concentration, but that was all there was to suggest any effort.

  “Do not distract him,” Auberon warned. “The Trickster is the master of the glamour—he’s had to be to survive in your world.”

  “‘Tis done,” Puck stepped forward and beckoned them to follow.

  Will gulped, glanced at Auberon, and did. Each step closer brought prickles of fear, and he almost jumped out of his skin when one of the guards waved at them.

  “Say nothing,” Puck hissed.

  Whatever the men saw reflected in the glamour it was obviously enough, for the three intruders passed under the great arch of the gate and entered the tower. It was like a sudden weight had dropped on him. The place pressed down on him, and the air was full
of voices, some whispered, some screamed, but all of them wanted his attention. A horde of angry ghosts yammered for revenge.

  Will stopped and clutched his head, only willpower keeping him from calling out.

  Puck was at his shoulder, and somehow his voice reached him. “It’s your Art, Will.”

  “He cannot control it,” Auberon’s voice was as bitter as a snake’s hiss, "We should leave him.”

  “He can, and we won’t.” Puck’s hand rested on Will’s shoulder, providing him a brief anchor against the tide of history. “Claim your power, Will. This is one of those Places where the past is close, and the power great. You can get through it.”

  The voices rose to a crescendo; kings roared at ancient wrongs, ladies screamed in horror at blood, young children sobbed at being robbed of their lives. Their stories buried themselves in his bones as if by that very act they could live again. “Too much, too much,” that weak voice could not be his.

  “Think of Sive,” Puck cried. “She will join them if you do not take control.”

  He did not know how. The voices of the past battered him in a flood of longing, a rending desire to live. He could not stand against it. Instead he opened himself to them.

  The memories and lost passions disappeared into the strength of his Art and were silent. Standing tall, Will looked about him; up the causeway to his left he could see Tower Green. In memory he could hear the roar of the crowd, could feel the cut of the axe. The whole Tower was full of such stories, and he now had every one inside him.

  Auberon was at his shoulder, “A brave thing to do for a human. I’m not sure if it won’t drive you mad, though.”

  “I am glad you didn’t take me to these other Places,” Will replied.

  “You’re stronger than you know,” Puck growled. “Now come on, we have to find Sive.”

  Auberon led them, drawn by some unexpected sibling bond. They walked up onto the Tower green, to where the low line of houses stood with its back to the river. “She’s in there,” Auberon said quietly.

  “The Queen’s House?” Will said with something like mounting horror.

  “The Tower beyond.”

  The bard knew enough of this place; it was the Bell Tower, which had held many of the richer unfortunates. He did not want to hear the ghosts of that place.

  “The only way in is through the Queen’s House itself,” he told the Fey. “And how are we to explain ourselves there?”

  “Nothing for it.” Puck held out a hand to each of them. “I will take us.”

  Auberon looked worried under his hood.

  Puck bristled. “I still have Art, unlike the power you took from this land. I hope you are as ready as I am.”

  With a shrug the former king took one, Will did the same. A brief second of a bone-numbing chill wrapped itself around him, and then there they stood, in the darkness of a castle corridor. The only sounds were those of distant guards and the wind whistling through the windows.

  “Very good, Puck.” Auberon withdrew his hand. “She is down here.”

  “One minute.” Puck pulled him back. “Let’s at least make sure we are prepared.” He took the bag from Will and distributed the tools to everyone. Auberon took the oak and elder branches while Puck tucked the eagle feather and elder leaf into his belt.

  When Will gave him a very doubtful look, Puck rolled his eyes. “There is power in the commonest of things, young man, you will see.”

  “Don’t I get anything?” Will said, “I mean it took me a long time to get all these things, I went to some unpleasant places.”

  Puck shook his head. “These are gifts of this world; they would not aid you.”

  They could hear Sive before they saw her; her screams rattled the bones of the tower. Will didn’t even hear Puck’s yelp of warning; he charged the thick wooden door with his shoulder. Surprisingly it gave, and Will found himself flying into the tiny cell. He was face to face with a tall Fey with eyes of utter darkness and hair like ice. An instant of recognition flashed across his face; he opened his mouth as if to speak, but then Puck came hurling into the room, followed by Auberon.

  Puck had cast off the last remnants of his mortal glamour, and pulsed with a silvery white light. The former king blazing like the sun, tackled Mordant around the chest.

  Puck’s voice boomed in Will’s head, Get her out of here Will!

  But there was no time. Apart from the struggling Fey forms on the floor, which he could not even see beyond the writhing mass of light and shadow, Will could hear the shouts and running footsteps that could only be the guards.

  He hurried to Sive draped around a birdcage, of all things. He picked her up, and she whimpered. Will spun around as with a loud bang Puck was thrown free. He rolled to their feet, shook his head, and clambered to his feet.

  “This could have been a bad plan,” he yelled.

  The words had just left his lips when there was a roar that sounded like thunder had entered the room when the swirling mass of light and power bounced against the wall. The stone could have taken bombardment, but never unearthly power; the wall exploded outward. It blew the three of them against the far wall, showering them with dust and chips.

  Scrambling to the edge, they peered out at the strangest sight. Two new stars were being born in the sky above the Tower.

  It was a vision that would have sent simple folk running for the clergy, and the clergy in turn running for their crucifix.

  Auberon and Mordant pressed together, chest-to-chest, and toe-to-toe in a blazing corona of light, even though there was nothing beneath their feet. The battle was being conducted in mid-air, at the same height as the Bell Tower they had sprung from. Both swung bright swords in swift deadly arcs, seeking to gain the upper hand, while waves of Art that radiated from them put the battle on more than a physical level.

  Will licked his dry lips, feeling he was falling into a fatal Fey world.

  Puck tugged on his arm, drawing his attention back to the pale Sive in his arms. Will forgot all his fears as a greater one overwhelmed him. He hugged her in his arms all limp and quiet. Sive’s only strength appeared to be in her hands, clutching the birdcage.

  Will laid a hand against her cool throat. The flicker of life still leapt there, but as they watched the deadly dance above them, he knew that it would not be for much longer. Auberon was faltering already.

  Puck cursed in a language Will did not understand and flicked his hand towards the door. It slammed itself shut.

  Puck’s hands grasped his, immortal eyes boring into his own mortal ones, “This is it lad. Auberon cannot match Mordant, and if he falls, so do we all. You must unleash what is in you.” And then the final low blow, “For her sake.”

  The sounds of battle rang like bells in his ears, and Will knew well enough that there was no great time for soul-searching. Though he was lost, Sive knew how to wield the Fey Art.

  Will slid his hands into the thick dark hair of his love. “Take all, my love, take it all. All that is mine was always yours. Save us.”

  Giving his Art to Sive came as naturally to him as making love to her. His Art streamed into veins long parched of it, and now she was full of his vital mortal strength. Sive stirred.

  She throbbed with Art, enlivened as she’d not been for centuries, and the light that came from her now was no gentle dying kind, a conflagration erupting in Will’s arms.

  The couple moaned and cried, feeling the ecstasy of union touched with the power. The Tower snapped with Art, singing in response. No time remained for thought or reason, for that blinding second they had one direction, one power. Sive awoke and looking into her eyes Will lost himself.

  Consciousness and self dropped away in a short minute. The mortal realm sagged and disappeared.

  Puck shielded his eyes as Will dropped like a stone away from Sive and the terrible white light enveloped them all. His cousin exploded into the sky, a streak of silver against the thunderclouds Auberon and Mordant had conjured. Puck averted his gaze and scuttled
to Will as above the Fey made the world shake. Outside the cell, he could hear guards calling on their god.

  As he looked down into the grey face of the bard, Brigit’s voice battered in his head as though the old Fey was standing at his shoulder. Even now she cannot win.

  Could the old woman never say anything positive?

  The siblings were making the sky red, battling Mordant, their forms obscured in a tumbling shower of colour.

  Puck heaved Will over his shoulder. “Why couldn’t you use the Art yourself, dimwit?” He grumbled, but Brigit already knew the answer to that one. The Bard did not always choose the path of least resistance.

  As to why it was always Puck that had to do all the work—that she could not answer. Puck slipped his hand into his tunic and pulled on the Seal, in his haste almost losing his grip on the precious round of clay. He could sense in Sive the thundering desire to go nova, exploding like a sun. Her thoughts were grim and determined and filled the air with threat. She knew how easy it would be to fall into death fighting Mordant.

  Not that way, Brigit called from where ever she was. Quickly boy!

  Holding the Seal aloft and summoning his own Art, Puck smiled a weary smile. “Yes, as always to the rescue.”

  His Art pumped from him, ripping the Veil open as easily as thought. The Seal was burning into his hand, and Brigit was screaming directions into his head. He was a storm-torn sail, that was expected to do more than it was capable of.

  Go, lad, now, Brigit commanded.

  Art leapt along his senses and wrapped all that the Trickster held dear with itself. “Home,” he said, “Take us home.” And then that was all he remembered for a very long time.

  18