Althea, serenely closing the window behind everyone, said: “It’s a long story and the princess is tired. We’ll talk about it tomorrow after you’ve all slept.”
After they’d slept turned out to mean the next evening when everyone finally gathered together again in a large library equidistant from their various rooms. Kako and Rafiq had been with Markon’s steward Sal all afternoon, their wingspan frequently seen over the battlements and widow’s walks as they showed him the holes in his security. Fancy and Carmine were also out of sight for most of the day, and when Barric appeared again he smelled of fire and forge. Dion had the impression that he had been preparing Althea and Markon’s forge for the reforging that was to happen early tomorrow.
Dion herself spent an entirely delightful day with Padraig, bullying him in the pleasantest way imaginable to lie down on one of the settees in the library and allow her to check on his healing wound. Their ideas on how Padraig should heal were wildly different, but since Padraig’s idea of healing was to pull her down on the settee beside him and kiss her until she was breathless, Dion didn’t object as much as she thought she ought to. They were interrupted by Barric in a quiet moment, and though he would have pulled back out of the room, he was followed so quickly by Althea that he returned with a slight smile. Althea situated herself somewhat carefully on a fat, velvety chair and seemed determined to strike up a conversation with Dion, while Barric sat in a corner and methodically went over his blades and sheaths. He was always inclined to regularly check his gear, but Dion had the impression that he was deliberately withdrawing from the company.
They were very soon joined by the rest of their company, who besides an air of frivolity and hilarity, brought with them an assortment of tiny pies and an inclination to discuss the mythos behind the Broken Sword.
“My people have an old legend that says the original forgers broke the Sword in pieces to keep it better hidden from the Fae,” said Rafiq, in one of his rare moments of speech.
“That’s not entirely correct,” said Althea. “The Song of the Broken Sword never comes right out and says it, but I think the original makers weren’t as inclined to give up their lives, willy-nilly. I think they tried to get around the life-giving bit by joining together and each giving a good bit of their own magic to bind Faery. That’s what split the Sword, if I’m right. It’s just a theory, mind. Now the reforging–”
“It’s a good theory,” said Barric. He was sharpening his sword with a steady, regular rhythm of whetstone against iron, and the sudden cessation of noise seemed to startle the company as much as his sudden speaking. “It’s the truth.”
Althea looked at him speculatively, and Dion thought that two questions seemed to vie for precedence. At last, with a half-glance in Dion’s direction, the enchantress said: “Were you there, then?”
“No,” said Barric, and went back to his sharpening. “But I knew someone who was.”
“I see,” said Althea. “I’m a little curious about the reforging, however. Perhaps you could–”
Padraig, from his seat beside Dion, said: “What a thing to be speaking of! We’ve enough dole to last us until next winter, and the Sword is to be reforged tomorrow. Let’s be merry and enjoy our night.”
“Enjoy?” asked Althea, her eyes flickering from Padraig to Dion. She was frowning, and Dion had the feeling that she was distinctly disapproving. “I must say that I’m a little confused. I’d thought the reforging to be more of a draining kind of–”
Padraig’s eyes met hers rather convulsively, and Althea stopped short, her frown more pronounced. Dion saw it and felt the sharp clutch of discomfort: she hated hidden words and secret meanings, now more than ever. She said abruptly: “I’m going to sleep,” and left them to their secrets and hidden meanings.
Her annoyance had worn off by the time she got back to her room. Her mellowing was due in a large part to the fact that now the shards of the Broken Sword were together again, her death approached in all its calming certainty. It was hard to be distracted by petty annoyances when something so important stood in comparison with them. It was also, thought Dion, smiling slightly, very hard to remain annoyed with someone so consistently delightful as Padraig.
She flopped on her bed and gazed up at the cream-coloured mouldings that ran around the ceiling, enjoying the silence of the evening. She didn’t realise she’d fallen asleep until a loud rattle at her window-casement woke her with a start. Dion froze, her heart pounding loud in her ears, and heard the clatter again. She crept from her bed, spilling the duvet onto the rug, and was just wondering rather wildly if she should scream for Barric or simply fling open her window in the hope that it would dislodge the murderer and send him plummeting to his death, when she distinctly heard a voice say: “Hist! Cherry! You’ve never gone to sleep, have you?”
“Padraig!” Dion hurried to the window and opened it to find him on the narrow balcony outside. His eyes were glittering and wild, with more than a touch of the Unseelie about them. “What are you doing out there?”
“My balcony joins with yours,” he said. “And the big man’s door is opposite mine in the hall. I didn’t fancy sneaking past his door to get to yours, so here I am! I’ve come to take you out for the night, cherry!”
“We can’t!” protested Dion. “You’re supposed to be reforging the Sword tomorrow: you should be sleeping.”
“No time to waste,” sang Padraig, waltzing toward her and sweeping her across the floorboards to a tune that only he could hear. “No time to waste, my darling cherry! We’re to be married, sure!”
Dion, swept irresistibly toward the window, found herself laughing. “We can’t get married!”
“We can,” said Padraig, and kissed her. “We will!” He kissed her again. “What’s the matter, cherry; don’t you want to marry me?”
Dion looked into those bright, entreating eyes and said without hesitation: “Yes. Oh yes! But don’t you want a Fae bonding ceremony? We can have it after you’ve reforged the Sword, with everyone there.”
“I don’t want everyone there,” said Padraig, dragging her out through the window. “I only want you. And I don’t want to wait.”
Dion, catching his bubbling brightness, was bundled across the balcony into Padraig’s room and out of his door, after much giggling and many suspicious looks up and down the corridor. They ran through the castle hand in hand as if they were a pair of children, attracting amused looks from the few servants they met with and a decidedly disapproving look from the stiff individual who let them out into the courtyard and arranged for a small, sleek carriage to take them into the city streets beyond the castle wall.
“Well now,” said Padraig, pulling Dion close to him in the carriage. “There’s meant to be a wedding-band. We’ll have to fix that.”
“I don’t need a bracelet,” Dion said, laughing. Padraig paid as little attention to that as he had to her protestations that he should be sleeping, and leapt from the slowly-moving carriage as it rolled smoothly through a brightly-lit night market that crossed several streets and filled the air with the mingled scents of various Montalieran specialty pies. The carriage slowed as the driver caught sight of Padraig’s antics, but by the time it stopped he had vaulted eagerly back in, kissing Dion with breathless abandon. When he had made Dion as breathless as he was, he knelt on the carriage floor and presented the fruits of his escapade: a child’s bauble with bright glass beads in peacock colours. It was nothing like a proper wedding band, but Dion put out her hand unhesitatingly for Padraig to clasp it around her wrist.
He said: “Marry me, cherry?”
“Yes,” Dion said simply. “But where’s your band?”
“Ah, it’s a pretty thing!” said Padraig, his eyes dancing as he slid back into the seat beside her. “Here you go, cherry!”
Dion took it and bubbled over with laughter again. Padraig’s band was just as bright and childish as her own; nothing like the plain, masculine thing a groom’s band usually was. She slipped it onto his wr
ist anyway, kissing his palm. That pleased Padraig so much that it was quite some time before they had leisure to look out the windows again in search of either a Watch Station or a sign that indicated an Officiator of the Court.
When they were again attending to their surroundings, it was Dion who said eagerly: “There! A Watch Station!” and pulled on the bell-cord to stop the carriage. They bowled to a stop before a flight of stone stairs that climbed to the entrance of a tidy Watch Station, well-lit and cheerful. Dion was spun out of the carriage, clinging tight to Padraig’s shoulders, and laughed her joy to the starry sky above.
“Onward and upward!” said Padraig, as bright and glittering as the stars. They danced up the stairs together, Dion breathless with laughter and wondering if it was possible that they were both drunk on the night air.
The door was opened to them by a Watch Captain with an off-putting likeness to Duc Owain ap Rees and a stern, honest look that managed to bring a touch of solemnity to both Dion and Padraig without quenching their joy. He married them in his sensible, tidy office, then sent them off again with a piece of paper testifying to the fact and a small apricot pie that must have been his dinner, judging by the touch of regret that Dion saw in his eyes. She kissed his cheek in passing, delighting in his instant gruffness, and was dragged off by Padraig.
“I’ll not have my wife kissing other men,” he said firmly.
Dion had given up wondering what hour it was by the time they sneaked back into Padraig’s room. They had wandered through another street market, danced in a tiny corner-eatery where the music was fast and the tables open to the night air, and eaten their pie under the stars with their feet in a fountain dedicated to some long-dead Montalieran heroine before returning to the castle.
“The nicest wedding I’ve ever attended,” said Padraig, kissing Dion below her left ear. “Mm, you smell like apricots, cherry.”
“So do you,” objected Dion, both surprised and disappointed to find that Padraig was dancing her back out to the balcony and into her own room.
“Not a complaint,” murmured Padraig, his lips grazing her ear. Dion sat down rather suddenly on the bed, breathless and weak in the most pleasant way imaginable. “I hope you don’t mind, cherry, but I’d much rather not spend my wedding night alone.”
“Nor would I,” said Dion, watching with fascinated eyes as Padraig’s nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt. “I thought you were going to put me to bed.”
“Aye, and so I am,” said Padraig.
Dion woke with a smile, a feeling of unaccustomed lightness buoying her heart. She had woken briefly early in the morning to find Padraig beside her, his arms possessively around her and one ankle hooked with hers. He had kissed her in his sleep, clumsy and warm, and Dion had drifted back off to sleep with the entirely contented feeling that she could die happily tomorrow.
When she woke again he was gone, and sunlight was edging the curtains. Dion had a moment of lazy happiness to stretch and admire her bright wedding band before it occurred to her that she had slept much later than she meant to. Both sets of curtains had been drawn to shut out the light, possibly by Padraig when he left. Moreover, Dion had woken only because someone was tapping at the door. She tumbled out of bed, scrambling to find her borrowed dressing-robe, and opened the door to Althea’s worried face.
“You’d better get dressed,” said the queen. Her eyes fell on the gaudy wedding-band that sat below the sleeve of Dion’s robe, and widened a little. “Oh dear. Have I been mistaken? Has he already told you?”
“Told me what?” Dion’s stomach had taken on the fluttering consistency of a swarm of butterflies.
Althea looked slightly annoyed with herself. “No, of course not. You wouldn’t still be here if he had. You’d best get down to the forge as quickly as possible, then: they’ve already started.”
“The reforging?” Dion stared at her. “Why would they start without me?”
“Get dressed,” said Althea, her face set and stern. Dion did as she was told this time, shrugging into her clothes from the day before. The queen, entirely unembarrassed at her nakedness, said: “I take it that no one has explained to you exactly what happens when a Fae uses up all of their magic?”
“No,” said Dion, her tones laced with dismay. “But– but Padraig has his hammer and anvil–”
“–which he ensorcelled with his own magic,” said Althea. “Every last drop but the bit that binds them to his will, I suspect. I shouldn’t bother to do your hair if I were you. You’ll need to be as quick as possible if you want to see your husband before he dies.”
“No!” said Dion, dashing after Althea. The queen was a swift walker despite her pregnancy. “No! It can’t be true! I’m the one who will die: Padraig was just to give up his magic!”
“That’s what you don’t understand,” said Althea grimly. “For a Fae, to give up their magic is to die!”
Never had a journey of ten minutes seemed so like ten hours. Dion, now far outpacing Althea in a desperate sprint for the castle’s forge, felt as though the world moved in slow motion around her. The halls were a darkened maze, the castle courtyard a blinding confusion of light; and when she at last saw the door to the forge, she could feel the cool essence of Unseelie night flowing from it despite the fact that it was bright morning. There was a darkness of magic at the door: Dion plunged into it, following the sound of hammer against anvil, and found herself in a room that flickered with white flame.
For the first time she saw Padraig in all his Unseelie beauty. His hammer and anvil worked themselves, glowing impossibly with moonlight and sending off starry sparks as hammer struck sword and anvil. Padraig himself, dipped in shadows and touched by moonlight, circled them at a prowl, his eyes on the work and a faint smile of satisfaction that was equal parts light and dark. He sensed her at once, and when his eyes met hers Dion had no doubt that he knew he was to die, and that he wouldn’t turn back.
“You shouldn’t be here, cherry,” he said.
“Please,” Dion said, and stopped. It would be treason against Llassar to finish the plea– treason against her whole kind. She could feel the hot tears running down her face, and a numbness creeping up her legs. Barric was there a moment later, a stirring in the air behind her that held her up effortlessly.
Padraig, his blue eyes steady, said: “What, cherry? Are you permitted to give your life for your people while I must not?”
“No,” whispered Dion. “I’m sorry. I wish you’d told me.”
“How could I? I knew you’d not long to live yourself, and why should you be made unhappy when I could make you happy?”
Dion smiled through her tears. “You made me very happy.”
“Well now, that’s all an Unseelie outcast could ever hope for,” said Padraig, his eyes bright and tender. “I love you, cherry.”
“I love you, too.”
Padraig looked behind him at the hammer and anvil, hard at work. “It’s time to finish the work,” he said; and Dion could see that the sword was complete again. It luminesced with the same pale fire in which it had been reforged, the dividing lines between pieces glowing briefly and then fading until it was one gleaming, unblemished whole. Deeper than the metallic surface was the magic that had once been Padraig’s; subtle, soft black, against which the scarlet of his destiny-thread showed bright when he bound the reforging together. Dion was watching at the moment he tied the last knot and the destiny-thread became one unbroken band. Padraig’s hammer and anvil grew dull– dead, empty metal, as they must once have been before he brought them to life with his magic.
“It’s done,” he said, and the words were a whisper of leaf against leaf in the moonlight. He turned, and Dion saw the last brightness of his eyes—or was it the gleam of moonlight on leaves?—as he walked once more toward her, one hand outstretched. She reached out to catch that hand and for an instant felt the warmth of flesh; then she was holding leaves and loam, Padraig’s wedding band glittering amidst them. Across the floor of the forge, leav
es tumbled and scurried as if in a gentle breeze. Moonlight and stars alike were gone: the forge glowed with only the dull remains of a fire.
The First Spring of Hope
If only they had known, thought Dion; and smiled sadly. It was becoming something of a mantra in her life. If only she had known the Fae weren’t to be trusted. If only she had known her parents and Aerwn a little better. If only she had known that Padraig was to die.
If only they had known just how many Fae were on the borders of Montalier– or already in Montalier, if it came to that. And if only they had known that reforging the Broken Sword would bring down that furious horde of Fae on their heads before the day was half spent...
They just barely escaped from Montalier as the soft morning turned to warm noon, but they left behind them a kingdom besieged. Althea and Markon had sent them on their way as soon as the first skirmishes were reported, and when Kako and Rafiq sailed too close to the ground over the Avernsian border, such a hail of arrows and magic were directed at them that it took all of Dion’s hastily spun defensive spells and all of Kako and Rafiq’s terrifyingly quick aerial manoeuvres to avoid them. Barric took an arrow to the upper arm in bundling Dion tightly between himself and Rafiq but the others escaped injury, even the dragons. When Dion tried to call for a halt to take care of Barric’s arm he refused to allow the time, and she was forced to turn sideways on Rafiq’s huge back with one leg hooked achingly tight around a scaly spine so that she could attend to the injury herself.
“Don’t,” said Barric, removing her hand when she tried to heal the wound. “You’ll need all the energy you can conserve. Wrap it tight and forget about it.”
“I don’t want you to die!” said Dion fiercely.
“It’s not my death that should concern you,” said Barric; but it did, because he was the only precious thing left that Dion could still cling to. Aerwn, as near to Dion’s heart as she was, was half a continent away, and Padraig– Padraig was even further out of reach than that.
Shards of a Broken Sword Page 39