Dion said: “How? How did you infuse iron with magic?”
“With some difficulty,” admitted Padraig. “But it’s not exactly iron, in a manner of speaking. It’s more what you’d call an alloy. They call it steel: a bit of carbon in it, and the magic holds just fine.”
“But that’s Fae magic!”
“Aye, so it is,” Padraig said, with a curious smile. “It’s what you might call an alloy, too.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Dion said in fascination. “It’s so intricate and complicated!”
“Aye, but I’m a complicated fellow,” said Padraig complacently. When Dion didn’t answer, caught up in studying one of the most intricate webbings of magic that she had ever seen, he added: “See now, you’re meant to giggle and flirt with me when I say a thing like that.”
Dion was surprised into glancing at him. He winked at her, which made her look away again in confusion. She said hastily: “You’re Coinnach’s son, aren’t you?”
“Ah, so there was a bit of teaching done! I am. We’re partners in this world-saving venture.”
“It will be a pity for these to be used up,” said Dion, running her fingers over the anvil.
“Aye,” said Padraig; and there was that odd smile again. “And ’twill be a pity for–”
“For me to die?” said Dion, when he stopped short. “There’s always Aerwn. Llassar won’t be left wanting.”
“You know you’re to die?” said Padraig, visibly startled. “Who would be telling you such a thing?”
“I’ve known since I was seven,” Dion said. He was still looking at her fixedly, and she knew why. She said, with a flush: “It’s all right. I’m not going to collapse again.”
“Now there’s a curious thing,” he said, gazing at her with such an affectionate sadness that it was hard to meet his eyes. “Sure, Aerwn did tell me you were the better twin. Last night you were all but incapacitated when you saw the evil that had come on your people. Today you tell me you are to die without the slightest quiver in your voice.”
“I’ve had a long time to get used to it,” said Dion quietly. “And it’s different. I know what I have to do. But with the Fae–” she trailed off in despair. “This, all of this: it’s our fault, the whole royal family of Llassar. We did this. My blindness– my parents’– well, I don’t know. But we allowed it. We even welcomed it. I can’t see how that can ever be repaired.”
“Well now, that’s what we’ll be doing, isn’t it? You and I, saving the world. We’ll have a bonny time of it, Di from beyond.”
They crept quietly from town to town over the next two weeks, working their way carefully toward Harlech. Padraig seemed to be known in every town, and in every town there were signs of quiet, careful organisation that chilled Dion to the bone. It was almost as terrible to consider as the icy grip of the Fae that held the country in thrall. It promised that, barring quick, decisive change, Things Would Be Done. Fae and Llassarians would be at war; and worse, the royal family would be on the wrong side.
During the day they travelled and talked. By night they stayed in a series of homes that welcomed them under cover of darkness and sent them away before the dawn broke. It made Dion wonder exactly how well known Padraig was around Llassar, and exactly what would happen were they to draw the attention of any of the increasing numbers of Fae guards she saw as they got closer to Harlech. Her uneasiness was only doubled by the presence of two very visible reminders of their quest: Padraig’s anvil, made small by some extension of its enchantment, hung from his neck by a chain while his hammer swung from his belt. As obvious as they were to Dion, she was constantly fearful of the Fae discovering them.
With every Fae guard, every insult, every instance of brutality and wrong to Llassarian humans that she saw, Dion grew sicker and angrier. By the time they reached Harlech in the cool of late afternoon two weeks later, she was by no means prepared to sneak in by darkness and return to the castle by stealth.
“Aye, well, who can blame you?” said Padraig, with half a smile. “Here is where my journey ends, then.”
“But–” But I wanted to present you to my parents. That was no good. “My parents will want–”
“Your parents will want to hang me from the closest gibbet,” said Padraig. “And the Fae will want to– well, they’re an unpleasant lot. Here is where we kiss and part, cherry.”
Much to Dion’s embarrassment, he did kiss her. This time he gave her ample time to pull away if she wished, and to her further embarrassment, Dion didn’t do so. In an effort to hide her confusion, she said: “Will you go back to Bithywis?”
“I think not,” said Padraig, with an amused smile at her red cheeks. “I’ll be around for a while. If you need me, tell Aerwn to get a message to me.”
He was gone in an instant, melting into the streets at the very moment the gate guards saw Dion. They snapped to attention, their Fae eyes wide and worried, and Dion set her shoulders. It was time to go to battle.
Dion entered the Court of Affairs at a good time: the king and queen were presiding over the citizens’ complaints—of which, she was very well aware, there were seldom any—and it was the easiest thing in the world to join the line of three other citizens. The citizens were all Fae, she noticed with a bitter smile. They all hesitated, but as the entire court came to attention Fae reluctantly moved aside, and Dion swept before her parents in all her travel-weariness and dirt. She was a little sorry not to see Aerwn attending, but then, Aerwn rarely did attend; something that no longer surprised Dion.
“Daughter!” said the queen gladly. “We are glad to see you home safely! We received news that you had lengthened your tour.”
“Yes,” said Dion, and heard the tremble in her voice. “Yes. I did.”
“I see you have news,” said the king in indulgent but slightly reproving tones. “We will be glad to hear it, but this is not the place.”
“No,” Dion said. Her voice was louder, and though it was rough around the edges it didn’t tremble this time. She saw the Fae around the court moving in a watchful, worried flow of movement, a breeze of unease sweeping through them. “No, this is exactly the place. As a citizen of Llassar, I bring a complaint to the Crown, and as heir to the Crown, I bring with me the complaint of my people.”
Tutor Halfhelm, her instructor in foreign affairs, hurried up to her, exclaiming: “You are fatigued, your highness! Surely a moment can be taken to sit down and refresh yourself. You are disordered and confused!”
“Stay away from me!” said Dion, in such a savage tone that Halfhelm stopped at once. “I will not rest while my people are unrepresented.”
“My dear!” said the queen, her face dismayed. “You’re weeping! You must sit down! We can meet again after you’ve rested: we’ll speak in private.”
Dion, aware of the furious tears rolling down her cheeks but unable to do anything about them, said: “We’ll speak in public, and now. My carriage broke down outside Bithywis two weeks ago. My Fae attendants were rendered unconscious and I was left to walk back to Bithywis alone. I spent a night and a day there unknown, and saw humans enslaved while their Fae masters live on the best of the land.”
The king stood, white and wrathful. “My daughter attacked and nothing of it discovered?”
The captain of the guard, a smooth, beautiful Fae in glossy leather armour, stepped forward. “Your Majesty, there was the question of a ransom demanded,” she said, bowing. The grace of the action couldn’t hide its insolence in Dion’s eyes. “The Princess’s abduction was discovered a bare week and a half ago, and it was thought best to return her to your majesties without worrying the queen or further disordering Princess Aerwn.”
“I wasn’t kidnapped,” said Dion. Beside the captain’s assured, melodious tones, her voice sounded small and weak. “There was an attack, but I escaped. It isn’t important.”
“We received a ransom demand,” said the captain; politely, smilingly insistent. She approached Dion with a measured tread,
so powerfully smiling and polite that Dion felt almost physically battered. “An anti-Fae group, your Majesties. They are well known for aggression toward Fae citizens. Undoubtedly the princess has been frightened to within an inch of her life and is repressing these unpleasant memories with something easier to understand.”
“Let the girl speak!” said a sharp, whip-crack of a voice. It belonged to Duc Owain ap Rees, and Dion found herself spurred into life again. “Are the Fae so afraid of one young girl?”
“You forget yourself, ap Rees,” said the king dangerously; but he sat down. “Speak, daughter. What is this foolishness?”
“Look at her!” exploded Tutor Halfhelm. “She’s beside herself with fatigue! She needs to rest!”
“This comes of being held captive for two weeks,” said Tutor Iceflame coldly. “On a weak mind, pressure and repetition produce every kind of evil. She has been brainwashed, your Majesty. I must take some of the blame for also having neglected to tell you the true state of affairs. Please believe me that I was with the captain, working constantly to find and free the princess.”
“I am not beside myself and I am not brainwashed,” said Dion, her voice cracking. “I am angry. My people have been reduced to chattel and enslaved to the very Fae we welcomed with open arms! I have seen it with my own eyes. Humans tagged like cattle and forced to queue in the streets for their daily food. Fae who feel themselves free to assault and offend where it pleases them.”
There was a growl of anger around the room, but Dion, looking for a moment into Duc Owain ap Rees’ stern, approving eyes, took fresh courage. “Human Llassarians have appealed to the courts and directly to the Crown but have been denied or prevented.”
“Daughter, you are beside yourself,” said the king. There was a sternness in his face, too; and Dion felt the first awful chill of knowledge. She swayed where she stood, and heard him say through a buzzing in her ears: “The human Llassarians have been weak and resentful. They have provoked and attacked until it was necessary to curb them. Their unsteadiness would have led to anarchy and death throughout Llassar. Do not think of them as under enslavement but under a benevolent guide for their own good. It is only through the wisdom of the Fae that Llassar will become great. Do not let me hear you speak in this manner again. Daughter though you may be, if you align yourself with the enemies of the Crown, you will suffer punishment with them.”
A roar of approbation rose around the room and Dion sank to her knees, shivering, the world narrowing around her in a smothering darkness. She tried and failed to stand until an arm caught her around the waist, lifting her to her feet once again. The Duc ap Rees was beside her, his sinewy old arms bearing her up and lending strength.
“No,” she said quietly. “Duc–”
“It’s my honour to serve, your Majesty,” he said. A few of the nearer Fae, hearing the title of address, hissed, but he ignored them with a stony face. In her ear, he said: “Finish your piece and shoulder the consequences. You are not alone.”
Dion, raising her spinning head, said: “If the king and queen refuse to do what must be done to free our people, I will do it myself. The Fae will not have our land as they have the land of our neighbours.”
There was a murmur among the Fae, soft at first, then louder. “Treason,” it said; and then shouted: “Treason!”
The king rose again, this time with great heaviness. “Dion ferch Alawn, do you challenge the Crown?”
“No,” said Dion. “I remind it of its duty to its people. I warn it that unless the Fae are removed and the Llassarian people free again, it will suffer dearly.”
“The Fae are under our protection, daughter,” said the king. “Do not speak against them.”
“Treason!” came the many-voiced howl again. Dion saw the beautiful faces around her in their cold, satisfied fury. She had fallen, and they had won. “Treason to the Crown!”
“Dion ferch Alawn, you are charged with treason to the Crown,” said her father. Dion looked to her mother and saw on her face a resolute kind of sorrow—an almost peaceful resignation—and gave herself up for lost. “In the presence of this court you have spoken threats to the Crown and treason against the Fae. You will be imprisoned overnight and executed tomorrow at noon.”
Dion was shut into the small, bricked holding room behind the Court of Affairs for an interminable time before she was hauled away to be locked up for the night. The carpeted halls didn’t feel quite real beneath her feet as she was hurried along, nor did the lit fireplace in her newly acquired prison take away from the chill in the air.
She still seemed to hear the hisses and shouts of the Fae (or was that just the buzzing in her ears?); still seemed to feel the bruises around her elbows from the Fae guards who had torn her away from Duc Owain ap Rees as he roared and fought like a madman. She hadn’t seen what happened to him. Dion crouched by the fire, her shaking fingers digging into the material of her overskirt and making holes in the material as her thoughts reeled over and over. She tried to tell herself that Owain was still alive, still safe, but the uncertainty of it ate away at her in imagination and sickness until she stumbled into the bathroom and lost the contents of her stomach in the bare bathroom.
When she returned to the main room, shivering and light-headed but able to make herself think again, Dion found it as rich and bare as the bathroom. It was one of the guest rooms, hurriedly stripped of anything useful for escape. The windows were bound with iron on the outside, as were all the windows this low in the castle, but the inner-facing glass had been bound with magic. In fact, the walls had all been threaded with binding magic, too; the strongest and most insidious of magic. Dion, gazing at it, recognised the work of her Instructor of Magic, and knew that she would lack the strength to break it until she was better rested.
If she looked through the keyhole of the locked door she knew she would only see the uniformed backs of the two Fae guards who had borne her grimly along with cruel fingers even though she didn’t resist. It was no use trying to escape that way, either. Instead, Dion walked the floorb until the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep. She trembled bodily, weary and frightened. She was used to feeling uncertain and afraid, but there had always been the certainty of her mother and father, and of her position as Princess and Heir. Dion had always been certain that, destined to die as she was, she would yet be Queen first.
Instead, she was to die the death of a traitor. Worse, she could no longer cling to the hope that her parents were ensorcelled: she could see them before her eyes even now, not a scrap of magic in or around them. Fervour and sincerity in their eyes as they betrayed their own people and delighted in the alien Fae. Absolute righteousness in every line of their faces as they condemned her to prison, and after that to death.
Dion clasped her arms around herself and rocked in a desperation of regret. Her destiny to save the human world from the Fae had been nullified: her training, her magic, Barric’s work– all in vain. Dion would have been certain just yesterday morning that nothing could happen to her; or at least, not until the fullness of time when, as Queen, she would give her life to seal up the land. And Aerwn? What of Aerwn? Who would look after her– who would believe her? Dion had seen the joyous satisfaction in the eyes of the court at her downfall, and she wondered how long it would be before her parents declared a Faery heir.
A time of darkness came over Dion, and when she recognised light and feeling again, she was crumpled on the rug before a dying fire. Her whole body was shaking in huge waves that sapped the strength from her limbs and added weight to the dreadful weariness that had overcome her. Into the silence of the room, her heart beat loud in a parody of heavy footfalls, beating a certain path of death and destruction for her people.
It was some time before Dion recognised that there really were approaching footsteps outside the door of her prison. There was a swift, precise scuffle on the other side of the door: the shifting of feet, two short, surprised grunts, and two soft thuds. Dion raised heavy eyes to the door
but couldn’t seem to gather together her leaden limbs. She would have liked at least to stiffen her spine, but everything was too fuzzy and soft, and Dion simply watched the door open without being able to do more than wonder dully if she was about to be taken to judgement. But it wasn’t her Fae guards who appeared through the door: it was Barric, amazingly real and stunningly present.
“Barric,” she said, catching her breath. “You’re here. And here. Is it time to die?”
“It’s time to go,” said Barric. He picked her up gently, one arm supporting her knees and the other cradling her shoulders.
Dion’s head lolled into his shoulder, her teeth chattering as convulsively as the rest of her. She said, with an effort: “Owain? The Duc? Have to get him safe–”
“The Duc is safe and well,” said Barric. “A few bruises, nothing more. You and he still have a friend or two in the Court.”
He kicked the door aside, stepping over the two fallen Fae guards, and Dion saw them briefly over his shoulder, pale and unconscious– or were they dead? She couldn’t bring herself to feel anything for them, but she found that she was crying anyway. Barric hefted her slightly and Dion lost sight of the Fae, her sight curtailed to the single reality of his collar.
They passed through light and dark, sometimes walking, sometimes running. Soon Dion felt herself being carried below stairs and perhaps below ground, the air cool and dark around her. So Aerwn had been right: there were tunnels below the castle. Dion was aware of the world around her as in a dream, and in that dream, she heard Padraig’s voice saying sharply: “Is she injured? Cherry, are you well?”
Shards of a Broken Sword Page 31