by Tom Deitz
Yet he did hear, sort of, and realized at the same time that he was stretching upward, out of the water, returning to his own shape with startling rapidity, without the rush of pain that usually accompanied it.
Too fast, though, so that by the time he had feet under him, he was balanced wrong to stand upright, and so made his reentrance into his own right form sprawling forward on hands and knees in the sand.
Laughter tickled his ears: female first, then…feline. Calvin blinked, coughed, sluiced hair from his face and water from his eyes, and finally managed to scramble to his feet and take stock of his surroundings.
He was in a cave all right, pale limestone of irregular height, the walls and crevices of which writhed with coiling, sliding life: snakes of every species, including some foreign to Georgia. Yet he noted that peripherally, for his attention was focused on the woman who sat before him clad in a buckskin skirt that left her bare above the waist, exposing fine round breasts, their upper curves brushed by waves of thick hair, black as his own. And the eyes: green and wicked-looking, almost cat eyes—he couldn’t tear his gaze from them. The woman smiled. Calvin blinked once more, having finally sorted his memories enough to recognize her. “Okacha!” he blurted through a grin, rushing forward, then checking himself at the last moment, having realized first that he was wet, second that he was naked, and finally, that this woman, whom he’d helped send here in the first place, commanded a fair bit of authority hereabouts.
“Edahi!” she laughed, giving him his birthname in Cherokee. “Siyu! Welcome to Galunlati!”
“Uh, yeah,” Calvin choked, recalling a jumble of things at once, one of which was the mission that had brought him here; another, that he had friends somewhere about; and finally, that no less a personage than the King of the Faeries had been his companion of late. He twisted around abruptly, gazing at the pool, and saw only a large salmon swimming angrily in tight, jerky circles while a pair of handsome young cougars looked on with languid interest.
“It’s not for me to free him,” Okacha chuckled. “And I’ll probably hear words I won’t like for having freed you, but you did me a favor once and I’ve never been one to claim the easy road.”
Calvin nodded, looked around for something to wear, then shrugged and sat on the rock nearest the woman, taking care to confirm that it was a rock and not a turtle, which such seats had been known to be.
“Your friends will be here shortly,” Okacha continued. “My husband’s gone to fetch them.”
Calvin eyed the pair of gleaming felines. “And the…boys?”
She lifted a brow at the cats. “They’ve grown, haven’t they? I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize them, though perhaps your brain was feeling…crowded at the time.” She clapped her hands. “Lads?”
One cougar yawned and stretched, then kept on stretching in odd places, shedding hair as it did, so that a moment later a boy sat there: early teens, naked, more pretty than handsome, and feral-looking in a feline way.
Which was to be expected when his father was a demigod connected with thunder, and his mother the last survivor of a long-ago mating between a proto-Cherokee woman and a race of werecougars who lived, by choice, underwater. And which were also gifted magicians, Calvin recalled, especially when it came to weather-type things and shapeshifting.
Okacha sighed dramatically and shook her head as the boy acknowledged Calvin with a silent, wary bow. “His brother, I fear, is not so obedient and prefers four legs to two. I wonder what a psychologist would make of that.”
Calvin laughed amiably, amazed at how relaxed he was now that some order had been restored to his life. “This is a very strange conversation.”
“And a very strange visit.”
“And strange hospitality,” a third voice echoed from the rough arch of the entrance. Calvin looked around to see Fionchadd standing there, bare as himself and the cougar-boy, and no more concerned about it than the other. The Faery looked angry, though; as angry as Calvin had ever seen him. “You!” he demanded, leveling a finger at Okacha. “What was that you did? You and your pets! You could have injured me! You could have killed one who is your better. You could—”
“Show more courtesy to my wife, Dagantu!” yet another voice thundered, almost literally. To Calvin’s vast surprise and amusement, Fionchadd jumped straight up, nearly braining himself on the low roof there.
Which brought more laughter from the passage behind him, some of it human and recognizable.
Fionchadd recovered quickly, and ever the courtier (even stark naked) managed to execute a formal and very contrite bow as he stepped aside to admit the true master of the cavern and the land around it.
Hyuntikwala Usunhi. Uki, for short. The man—demigod, or whatever—was well past six feet tall and sported black braids to his knees, but though his face clearly displayed Native American features, his skin, of which a great deal was visible (for he wore only a sketchy loincloth), was so white it almost glowed. Calvin had first met him years ago, when he, David, Alec, and Fionchadd had entered his realm in search of a back route to the Land of the Powersmiths. One had been found, and Fionchadd had left them there. But the highlight of that adventure had been the uktena hunt they’d undertaken, which had earned them all Uki’s great respect, and himself a mentor.
“Siyu, adewehiyu,” Calvin murmured in ritual greeting. Greetings, very great magician.
“Siyu, Edahi,” Uki acknowledged, his face sterner than Calvin would’ve liked, nor did he miss the omission of his war name. Without further comment, Uki strode forward. Snakes slithered from his path as he approached. Okacha rose, as did her human son. The other cougar likewise found its feet, but made no other obeisance. Calvin felt a pang of apprehension, which was only slightly relieved when the rest of their band filed in; Liz first, then David, followed by Sandy (carrying Calvin’s discarded clothes) with cousin Kirkwood bringing up the rear, sharp eyes darting everywhere. He could practically hear Churchy scribbling mental notes as he found himself entering what was, to him, a childhood myth. For their part, Sandy and Liz looked remarkably smug, though perhaps that was because half the men in the room were handsome, well-built, and nude, while another wasn’t all that modestly draped either.
“Okacha,” Uki snapped. “Bring food. Bring clothes. Then we will talk.”
Calvin scowled at that, wondering how such orders would fly with someone as independent as the cougar-woman, never mind the cultural norm. Yet she heeded those commands. He watched her go; it was impossible not to, the way she moved—and jumped half out of his skin when soft fur brushed his legs to either side: the cougars, both on four feet again.
Uki had paused a short way off and was studying him curiously, then frowned and continued his approach. “Gather ’round the pool,” he told his guests, motioning them forward. “You, Edahi,” he continued, “what am I to do with you? I knew of your coming. And truly I am glad to see you. But to arrive so, and then act so irresponsibly.”
Calvin bit his tongue as anger surged within him. “How so?”
Uki’s eyes flashed fire. “Have I not warned you about shifting shape without good reason? And did you not just do that very thing?”
“I had reason!”
“Did you think I would allow an envoy such as yours to enter unescorted?” Uki retorted. “Or permit an ailing visitor to escape without effort made to recover him? Do you forget that I also am a shape-shifter, that my wife is, and that her sons likewise can choose some forms at will? And,” he added, eyeing Fionchadd speculatively, “that Dagantu here could also have effected that pursuit without the risk you take every time you change, about which I have warned you more than once.”
“I’ve found a way to keep track of changes,” Calvin challenged.
“Have you?” Uki snapped back. “But are you certain it is reliable here, or in other Worlds, with so much else awry? Power flows strangely these days, both within Worlds and between them.”
Calvin gazed at him steadily, neither admitting guilt
nor denying it.
Uki’s brow furrowed. “Still, your rashness was well intended,” he sighed, “and perhaps you did act in ignorance. I suppose, too, that I punished you enough, for it was I who denied you your own shape when you would have resumed it earlier. Here!” He reached to a pouch at his waist to retrieve the uktena scale necklace Calvin had abandoned with his clothes. Calvin caught it on the fly. “Now you are better dressed.”
“I like him that way,” Okacha purred, rejoining them with a pile of leather clothing, the top item of which she presented to Calvin. It proved to be a deerskin breechclout. Calvin hesitated as he shook it out. “I’ve got my own clothes,” he dared.
“You do,” Uki acknowledged. “But they are better suited to your Land than this, and to action, not reflection.”
Calvin shrugged and donned the garment. He was just doing up the ties and wondering whether Uki had his companions so cowed they were afraid to speak (unlikely, since only Kirkwood had never met him), or if they were acting under orders, or were simply deferring to him as de facto leader, when a sharp splash from the pool reminded him that one matter remained unresolved, though if what Uki had just said was true, that he regulated shapeshifting in his realm, he had an idea why.
“Adewehi,” he began again. “If I may be so bold—”
“You have been bold enough for one day,” Uki rumbled, gazing curiously down at the pool, where an irate salmon swam in ever more agitated circles.
Uki grimaced dramatically and squatted by the edge of the pool, extending one hand toward it. Calvin wondered if he intended to tickle the King of the Faeries into his grasp. He also wondered whether, given the volatile politics bouncing about just now, that might not also be construed as an insult, thereby precipitating another war, with the Lands of Men caught not so innocently between forces.
Instead, Uki merely clapped his hands. A tiny bolt of lightning exploded from that juncture, flashing down to strike the water before continuing on to smite the salmon. Steam hissed into the cool, clammy air. The air stank of ozone and, ever so slightly, of cooking fish.
Nor did the steam show any sign of abating. Instead, it swirled higher, grew thicker, acquired a man-sized darkness in its heart; which clarified a moment later, when Lugh Samildinach, magnificently and unconcernedly naked, and with anger in his eyes like black ice, rose from the pool. Calvin scanned that smooth, firm flesh in search of the angry weals that had marred it. And found none.
“Nor will you, Red Man,” Lugh spat gracelessly. “Why thought you I changed my shape? Here, in this Land, I could draw on Power as I could not in your rude World. I used what I could to adopt a form that had no hair, thereby disposing of the last of the iron caught within it; a form that likewise had gills, so that the iron I had inhaled could be washed from my lungs. I am free of pain, now. Free to be myself.”
“Free to offer thanks to one who freed you,” Uki added dangerously.
Christ, what a screwy situation, Calvin thought. Sun-god and thunder-god, facing off inside a cave behind a waterfall. David cleared his throat.
Uki’s gaze never wavered, nor did Lugh’s.
“Thank you,” Lugh growled at last, inclining his head minutely. “Never let it be said that courtesy is absent among the many skills I claim.”
Uki merely extended a hand to help Lugh onshore. Calvin was struck by how alike they were, not only in having pale skin, dark hair, and sleek but efficient muscles, but also in the way they carried themselves and their eyes flashed and sparked at every thought, word, and idea. “Many-skilled,” Uki mused. “In my tongue that would be—”
“Samildinach,” Lugh finished. “I would not seek to rename you in my realm, Thunder Lord. Respect me as much in yours.”
Uki raised a brow, then motioned Okacha forward with another deerskin loincloth, which Lugh proceeded to don. A fabulous, floor-length cloak of iridescent feathers followed, fit for a king of any World.
Calvin eased aside to watch, exchanging occasional glances with David and Sandy, who seemed as overawed as he. Clearly, Uki and Lugh—and maybe Okacha—were the big guns here. And equally clearly, each had a separate agenda.
“Welcome to Galunlati,” Uki said at last. “I have sent for food.”
“I would welcome it,” Lugh replied with an easy smile, which made them all relax. “First, however, oh Chief of Walhala, I would withdraw for a time to compose myself. My mind has been much confused of late, and my body in constant torment. A moment of silence, of peace, of the coolness that lies without, would render me better company.”
Uki smiled tolerantly. “Of course. The opening by which we entered leads outside. I have often found peace there, with the earth to my back and water pouting before me, while the sun beams through to color both water and air.”
“Exactly what I sought,” Lugh affirmed. “By your leave?”
Uki stepped aside as Lugh made his way among the stones, shells, and other excrescenses that littered Uki’s chamber as artfully as rocks in a Japanese garden. He paused at the cavern’s entrance to sketch a bow and murmur, “Thanks to mortal and Faery alike,” then disappeared into the moist darkness there.
It was almost an hour later, with the feast Okacha had spread before them growing cold upon the sand, that Liz first raised the notion that perhaps Lugh was not returning.
“No,” Fionchadd informed them a moment later, having scoured the land about with his mind. “Nor is he anywhere close at hand.”
Chapter XII: Tossing the Dice
(Tir-Gat—high summer)
“A challenge,” Aife mused, rolling the word around her tongue as though it were the most savory of morsels. “I have not been challenged in a very long time indeed.”
LaWanda, who’d been observing with keen (if nervous) interest, felt her adrenaline fix kick up another level. Which might be just as well. She’d been walking a ragged edge for a while, poised between the cool common sense she prided herself on and the hard edge of take-charge, you’re-gonna-wind-up-fighting-anyway-so-why-not-get-it-over-with forcefulness. The same determination that empowered her music when she really got going. Shoot, she’d already fought one battle in the last two days and had done herself proud in it too. There’d almost been another last night, and her main regret there was that she’d missed it, otherwise she’d have been out there in the yard with David and Aikin, beating Faery butt.
But now another challenge had been called.
Yd shifted his weight, which made his sword gleam wickedly without his flourishing it, which subtlety LaWanda noted even as he inclined his head in acknowledgment and spoke once more. “You have challenged, I have accepted, you have confirmed your intent. But though the rules that bind such things give choice of weapon to the challenged, I defer that choice to you, Lady Aife.”
Aife bowed in turn, her face, though beautiful, at the same time hard and grim. LaWanda was vastly proud to have such a woman on her side. Perhaps even as a friend—if they survived. Warily, she eyed her comrades. Myra was very still, which could mean anything, though her artist aspect was certainly filing away images for future reference. Alec was tense as a bowstring, sweating and swallowing hard, and Aikin beside him wasn’t much better, though he disguised it. And Piper—Aife wasn’t the only one with a strange, sweet, nonassertive lover.
Aife cleared her throat. “Very well, Lord Yd, I accept the challenge. I also accept the choice you have set me. But tell me: is that not the lilt of Annwyn in your voice?”
Yd’s eyes twinkled. “Aye, Lady. I was born of that land and fostered at the court of Annwyn’s king.”
“And is it not true that in Annwyn, as in Cymru, which that land overlaps in the Mortal World, things that come in threes hold significance and Power?”
Yd nodded. “It is. Do not forget that even the Trial of Heroes has as its base three trials: one of knowledge, one of courage, one of strength.”
“I have not forgotten,” Aife informed him. “What say you then to three challenges in lieu of one, each with a dif
ferent weapon, wielded”—she paused for effect—“by a different warrior?”
LaWanda’s heart skipped a beat. Not at the notion of fighting, but that Aife would so casually commit the rest of them to something they neither desired nor might survive. It was Faery conditioning, she supposed: mortals—any mortals, even de facto friends—were ultimately expendable, like lab animals or pets. Still, it was an intriguing concept. She shifted her weight in turn, letting the uncertain light inside the blasted tower glimmer along her own blade: her trusty heirloom machete. And then she grinned ominously, straight at Yd, fingers moving slyly in a charm of intimidation.
Fortunately, Aife missed her machinations, yet it was clear the woman had been thinking fast and hard, and without caprice at all.
“So be it,” Yd murmured with a lifted brow and a quirky smile. “Lady, name your weapons and the warriors who will wield them.”
Aife drew herself up very straight, one hand on the hilt of the sword at her waist. “Hear me, Yd of Tir-Gat, and heed my voice. Three challenges you have accepted, and three weapons I have in mind. Yet if you will, Lord, I would name both weapons and warriors one at a time.”
“So it will be,” Yd acknowledged. “Declare your first.”
“Very well,” Aife replied with what had to be pride. “I name first of weapons, the blade. I name as wielder…LaWanda Gilmore.”
It was all LaWanda could do to retain a straight face, though from fear or relief, she had no idea. Part of her was crazy-eager to burn off a week’s worth of angst and kick some serious ass. Another part realized that it was serious ass, and more than her own fine black skin rode on the outcome. Like her friends’ lives. Like the fate of Sullivan Cove. Like the fate of the whole Mortal World, if worse came to worst. Still, it wasn’t like folks hadn’t confronted similar pressure before. Besides, Aife had turned toward her, and no way she could be less than all she was before a woman like that. She pointedly avoided catching Piper’s eyes, however; though she could hear him softly reciting, “No, no, no, no…”