by S A Archer
“Rejoice, druidess.” Manannan gestured with handsome grace toward Lugh. “Your patron is restored.”
As Lugh smiled down at London, his gaze lowered to his symbol hanging like a charm about her neck.
His smile faltered. He’d forgotten something. The golden symbol gleamed, as if to recall it to his mind.
But it eluded him.
Manannan continued, “The perfect Seelie Champion.”
Inhaling, Lugh nearly corrected him. Nearly reminded him that he was the Sidhe Champion, not merely the Seelie one. But before he could speak it, the protest fluttered away from his heart like a flag caught on a wind to tumble out of sight. A cold conviction arose within him to take its place, making Lugh feel tall, and strong, and whole, and Seelie once more. Embraced by the chilled power that restored him, Lugh replied, “I am your Champion, my king.”
“As you should be.” Manannan smiled, broad and handsome. Reaching out as Rhiannon joined them, Manannan accepted her thin, moon-pale hand within his stronger one. Guiding her forward, the king offered the dark Sidhe beauty to Lugh. “Your Rhiannon, my Champion.”
Turning from London, Lugh smiled at Rhia. She moved with liquid grace, sheathed in her flowing silk gown that draped about her enchantingly lithe figure. Gathering her against him, Lugh kissed her perfect lips. Her taste, like a midnight stream. Her scent, summer moon flowers in full blossom. Her body, soft and pliant against his muscled frame as a woman should be. Utter perfection. His Rhiannon, restored to him by his king.
“Now, come.” Manannan gestured to the deeply cushioned sofas on the dais against the wall between the entryway and the glass doors of the balcony which were opened to the brisk pre-dawn air. “There is much to discuss.”
Chapter Thirty
Hardly conscious of his bare feet on the cool floor, Donovan walked out of the war room. Then out of the Glamour Club. Fey spoke to him, but Donovan paid them no attention, passing out of the doors and into the alley beyond without slowing. The magic filling him guided his footfalls more powerfully than instinct. More commanding than conviction. The ancient voices within sung their will into his soul, and he followed without question or resistance. He submitted to a will greater than his own, and discovered purpose in the surrender.
As his strides carried him down the sidewalks of Kilkenny, Donovan knew with clarity that his destination lay much farther to the south, so he teleported in mid step. A shoreline, leagues away from where he began, caught his next footfall, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down as he strode off the eastern shore and into the chilled waters of the Celtic Sea.
The earth below the surface rose up to meet each of his steps, giving him the appearance of walking on the water. As he passed over each yard of the walkway he created, it dropped back down beneath the waves from whence it came, and the next bit arose to catch him. His earth magic did this without his conscious effort, knowing what he needed and providing, like the beating of his heart or the filling of his lungs. Donovan simply continued onward. Farther and farther across the water like he could have walked forever. And if the magic from the first realm of fey that guided him demanded that of him, he would have been content with his lot. With perfect faith, he followed that power.
And when the echoing whispers in his mind stilled him, Donovan stopped.
Water splashed up onto his legs, where he stood on a lone pillar of earth just beneath the choppy surface of the sea. There was no land as far as his eyes could see, in any direction. The situation could have been singularly startling, to find oneself standing in the middle of the waves and foam as cold water splashed around him. Faith did not allow Donovan to question even this.
Instead, moved by the ancient power surging within, he raised his hands. The magic churned within him, reaching down into the earth far below and pitching it upward. The rocks sheered and fractured, causing the water to roil from the concussion of it. And then the ground burst upward in a great flow. Transforming and morphing. Pushing and rising. All Donovan’s magic bled from him, merging with his element until he’d nearly no sensation of himself. Only of the massive earth that he commanded.
The layers of rock twisted and compressed, crushing together as it charged upward from beneath the waves.
And then the peak of it burst forth from the surf, splashing and tossing the water about Donovan. And yet it rose still.
Donovan gave himself to the magic. Gave himself so completely, that he could have expended his life in this effort and been blessed by the sacrifice. Every ounce of strength and magic he possessed, he surrendered to this moment. The earth continued to lift. More and more. Bending and molding as a mountain folded upward. Fractures formed, but nothing that compromised the integrity of the mass. It continued to rise and spread outward. Growing ever taller and wider. Bigger than a city. Bigger than a county. And yet it still came.
And his magic continued to flow as if he were nothing but the conduit drawing the power from the ancients. It gushed through him as massive as the waves crashing away from the mountainous island rising before him.
Donovan didn’t see with his eyes any more. Nor felt with his body. He was the magic. He was the island, rising more as he inhaled and spreading as he exhaled the power.
He didn’t even realize when the island consumed the pillar he stood upon, so that he now stood on the shore of this massive new land.
He didn’t feel his legs give out. Didn’t feel himself fall to his knees in the sand and the surf.
The center of the island sharply inclined into a mountain, standing tall and proud like an ancient volcano that has long since gone dormant.. And sloping down from this single monument of magic, foothills rolled in gentle cascades to the flat expanse then tapered into the water.
Donovan didn’t feel himself collapse onto the sand. Didn’t feel himself roll onto his back with the push of the waves.
The magic released him and he surrendered the island from his control, allowing it to stand on its own without his will to hold it into existence. The rocks settled into place, perfect and content.
And as Donovan lost himself into oblivion, he too was content as he’d never before been in the whole of his life.
Chapter Thirty-One
Malcolm turned the riding crop over in his hand. The fibers of the magic rose and waved from the artifact like the hairs on his arm caught in static. They knew where to go. Even tugged a little, wanting him to climb on the stepladder and weave it into the magic at the very top of the glowing artifact puzzle. Only, there wasn’t any room up there. And even if he got it into place, the whole of the magic would spread again, like it did every time. Getting bigger. Getting more twists and wiggles of magic lacing through it. “Maybe the dwarves can bash out the ceiling. You think?”
The Scribe consider this, his big eyes blinking. “Will that be enough? For the next time too?”
Malcolm scrunched up his face. “Probably not.” He’d not thought about that. Not thought about the next step. Only the one before him. Only the thing that the magic wanted him to do right now. His fingertips stroked over the hairs of magic, knowing what they wanted him to do and wanting so much to do that. It made him ache inside. He wasn’t sure why, but it did. The voices sung longingly at him, beckoning him, pleading for completion. The pull swayed Malcolm in the current of magic, trying to carry him closer, trying to convince him to put the artifact in its place anyway.
What would happen if he did? Would the magic push the ceiling out of the way? Or get squished down by it?
Again the current surged around his body, as if it might lift him up in its power. That decided him. He tucked the riding crop into his back pocket and went for the stepladder. He pointed to Willem. “Grab that hammer for me, will you?”
“Donovan said to wait.” The Scribe didn’t get his bum off the stool, just blinked those too b
ig eyes at him, looking like a Precious Moments doll. “Didn’t he say to wait?”
Malcolm’s hands hovered just over the stepladder, just short of actually grabbing it. Donovan had said he’d handle it. And the magic had… like… reached for him. More than just reached for him. Some of the glittery specks that floated in the cloud of magic had… like… gone into him. Spoke to him, even. Not like it spoke to Malcolm, who could hear the singing of the magic and feel the hairs of it on accounta he was a bloodhound.
Suddenly, a boom like some troll just hit the floor pitched the ground. The force of the jolt knocked Malcolm off his feet. He splat on his left hip, catching himself with one hand so he didn’t land on the artifact.
“Are you ok?” Willem sat perfectly fine on his stool, doing the blinking thing again.
The ground quivered beneath Malcolm, just a little at first, and then getting stronger and stronger. “What’s happening?”
“What do you mean?” He asked, like he hadn’t the first clue.
It was magic. Magic only Malcolm could sense.
Dropping the riding crop into the crate of artifacts, Malcolm scrambled to get to the door. The shivering of the ground tricked his feet, making it hard to get them under him. Willem hopped down and reached for Malcolm, but he shoved the Scribe aside. “Something’s happening!”
More and more, the magic of the world pitched from side to side. As he scrambled down the hall it slammed Malcolm from one wall to the other as if some giant grabbed the whole of the Glamour Club and shook it up like a can of whipped cream.
Struggling against the massive earthquake of magic, Malcolm half ran on all fours. The ground jerked violently from beneath him as if trying to shake him off. Even with his fey agility he couldn’t keep his feet beneath him.
No one in the Glamour Club noticing the wrenching of the magic. Just got out of Malcolm’s way like he was insane and screaming nonsense and scrambling around on hands and feet because he’d finally gone feral like they all whispered he would. Just like every other bloodhound before him had gone feral.
But they didn’t understand! Something was happening! Something magic and terrible!
Malcolm didn’t care who he pushed out of the way or what anyone yelled at him. A screeching was building, like the ley lines themselves were keening in pain. Scrambling into the stairwell, Malcolm grabbed the handrail to propel him up the steps faster. The noise in the Glamour Club thumped and jingled and chirped around him, but the torrent of power contorting the very fabric of magic roared over all of it.
People yelled. Hands grabbed at Malcolm, but he slapped them away.
Slamming out of the door at the top of the steps, Malcolm burst out onto the rooftop. It was so early that the sun hadn’t chased the stars away yet.
But to the south a spreading glow stained the sky, getting brighter and brighter like the sun. Or a nuclear blast.
Much more like a nuclear blast. The sound of breaking stone and moaning earth rose, mercilessly shaking the world in tormented violence.
Malcolm gripped his pointed ears and screamed against the noise of it. It tore into him anyway, until his ears couldn’t even define the sounds anymore, just a massive pain that wrenched inside his head. A light suddenly flared as an explosion burned outward in a shockwave that billowed across the whole of the horizon, over the whole of the city and impacted Malcolm, flinging him from his feet.
Slammed down to the gravel-covered roof, Malcolm curling into himself, screaming and screaming and not hearing himself over the blast. He crushed his head in his arms, but he couldn’t block out the noise and vibrations. Even with his eyes squeezed shut the light seared him into blinding agony.
He felt someone grabbing him. Shaking him. Trying to uncover his head.
But the sensations were too much! Tearing him apart!
Malcolm kicked and jerked away from them.
Again the arms snatched at him, fighting to keep him still even though the magic was shredding him.
He rocked as a fresh wave of power rolled through the world. It tasted of soil. Smelled like mud. The cracking of stone was like a thousand rock slides. Malcolm screamed, tearing his throat with the effort of it even though he couldn’t hear himself. “Donovan!”
Arms wrapped tight around him, like Malcolm would fly apart if they released him.
And then…
A cold pressure against the back of his hand.
Silence…
Utter… Utter… Terrible… Silence…
Silence like death.
Except a sob.
His own sobbing.
Malcolm crushed his head between his curled arms as if it would explode if he let it go. And he was pretty sure it would. The migraine was splitting him open.
The frozen pressure slid along his hand. Then slipped around his index finger.
The cold was silence. It was stillness.
It hurt a little. Like frost biting into his skin.
But it was peace.
“Malcolm?” Kieran’s soft voice reached him through the ringing silence.
The arms about him rolled Malcolm to his back. His eyes were squeezed closed so tight, it took effort to slit them open even a little. But when he did, he looked into Kieran’s frightened, dark eyes.
“Are you ok?” Kieran’s hands ran over Malcolm, as if checking for injuries. Or to soothe down the static ache of thousands of burnt out nerve endings. Calming.
Unable to make words, Malcolm just shook his head.
Kie pulled Malcolm to him. Embraced him. Curled him against his solid chest inside the tight circle of his arms. Held his vibrating body. Steady and just there. Warm and solid. “Take it easy, Mal. Just… Just breathe, ok?”
“Donovan…” Malcolm heard his own whimper.
Kieran didn’t answer. Just hung onto Malcolm like he’d just rescued him from drowning.
And he really, really had.
Malcolm’s forefinger started to itch.
And then he understood.
Kieran had put silver on him. A silver ring.
And he’d silenced the magic of the world with it.
Silver.
The goblins had used silver.
His face was already slick with tears. It didn’t matter if more ran down now.
Struggling to breathe, Malcolm trembled against Kieran. His overloaded senses ached horribly in the sudden peace. Memories of silver and goblins wrung his soul, making the silver on his skin seem to burn all the more.
And then he remembered. And remembering snapped him out of the spiral of torment that meant to suck him down into the black hole of his past.
“Donovan!”
Malcolm pushed himself up. He wiped at the moisture in his eyes that made the world all blurry. “Donovan,” he repeated, focusing on just him and pushing every other thought out of his head. His eyes going wider. “Oh, man! Donovan!” He shoved away Kieran and got to his feet. The world didn’t shiver even a little bit, now that the silver shackled his magic. There were no sounds tearing open the sky or searing river of light burning up the night. But he knew it had been there. And he knew without a doubt, “Donovan’s in trouble!”
“Where is he?” Kieran got himself up.
Only now that he was standing did Malcolm notice they weren’t alone. Willem and Bryce stared at them from a couple steps away, as if they’d been afraid to get too close when Malcolm was going spastic. Malcolm didn’t care what they thought. He didn’t care what anyone thought. Donovan needed him. Malcolm pointed. “Way, way over that way! Like an explosion!”
“Like an earthquake?” Bryce held up his cell, the line of his headphones going from it to the bud in his ear. “The radio bloke just said there was an earthquake in the middle of the Celtic Sea.”
<
br /> “Earthquake?” Kieran whispered, thinking the same thing as Malcolm.
“Donovan!” Raking his fingers through his hair like his head might crack open and fly apart, Malcolm moaned, “How’re we going to get to the middle of the Celtic Sea?”
“Oh! Oh!” Willem held up a finger, his big eyes shining and his pointed ears twitching. The little fey, about the size of a fairy at several inches shy of five feet, grinned up at the six foot tall Sidhe around him. “I know who can help.” The Scribe fumbled with a phone from his pocket and started poking at it, the tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Relaxing back on the sofa, Lugh extended his long legs. Rhiannon draped herself across his lap, pillowing her neck against the crook of his arm. With absent caresses, Lugh’s palm stroked over the silk covering her flat stomach. Her tapered fingers traced the recesses defining the muscles of his bare chest. The play of a light Touch rippled between them as they reacquainted themselves after too long apart.
The servant that brought the crystal tray of wine glasses was no fey. Lugh searched his king’s face. “Wizard?”
“They worship magic, just as Changelings crave power. I am the god of both.”
Manannan’s explanation rang with logic. If he’d the power to tame his enemies, bringing them into his service, was that not merciful with its own poetic justice?
The king lifted one of the glasses with a clear stem. “Drink not of the black stemmed glasses, Champion.”