“Yeh know where ah’ll be.”
Rosenwyn nodded her thanks. Byl made his way back behind the bar. As usual, he would pay her when most had left the common room—and beg her to stay one more night. She might accept. The Raging Drunk was one of her favorite places to play in all of Annwn. And Byl paid her better than most innkeepers, which meant she received more than just food and lodging. But not much more.
“You play with magic, love.”
Still gathering her things, Rosenwyn turned. A man stared at her with piercing blue eyes, as bold as any hunter’s. He was younger than her but that would not matter in his mind. She cursed inwardly. These were the moments she hated.
“It is a gift,” she said simply. “And I work hard to improve upon it. Thank you for coming to the Raging Drunk. It helps keep me playing here.”
“May I buy you a beer?” he asked. “Better yet, a meal?”
There it was. Men could be so transparent sometimes, especially the younger ones. He prized her more for her status and appearance than the woman behind the music.
“If there is one thing I already get paid in, it's the necessities of life,” Rosenwyn said, smiling her best to defuse the forthcoming situation. “And besides that, I see you coming from a town away, sir. Better for you to find another woman to entertain.”
His smile became uncertain. “If I gave you the wrong impression, I apologize. You play lovely music but it pales to your beauty. One drink. That is all.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere this night.”
He darkened. “I think you misunderst—”
“Lady Rosenwyn Whyte!”
Both Rosenwyn and her suitor cringed as a fairy flew into their midst, its rainbow-hued gossamer wings a blur. The fey creature was no more than a hand tall, his naked body the color of damp ash. With the defeat of Philip Plantagenet’s crusade against the Tuatha de Danna, the fey were becoming more prevalent in cities when once Templar Knights would have killed them outright. Rosenwyn did not care much for the fey. But she was pleased this one had interrupted a conversation that was about to become ugly.
Rather than talk to her though, the fairy hovered before the man and gave him a knowing grin that held no humor.
“Crotchlove, leave before this becomes painful for you,” the fairy said.
“Fairy, do you want to die right now?” he asked.
“I will only say it once.”
The man turned crimson. “Fairy, no one tells me wha—”
“I know why you stand here still,” the fey creature said, his tiny black eyes now appraising Rosenwyn. “Her hair, red as flame, a powerful shade to possess. The alabaster skin, as if it has never seen the tarnishing effects of sunlight. The blue eyes, so deep one could drown in them. The sharp cheekbones and lithe figure. A worthy prize to lust after.” The fey creature magically called forth a tiny sword that flared briefly and returned his gaze back to the man. “But if you do not leave us to our business, whelp, I will start with your sight. Test me, and you will never view another beautiful woman again, ending your days as a lonely blind beggar, likely outside this very inn, frost burn slowly killing you.”
The words held an impatient edge to them. The suitor glared, assessing his small foe. A fairy was a lightning-fast creature; given a sword, it could be quite dangerous. The man knew this. Rosenwyn hid her smile as she watched the man’s bravado diminish.
“I beg your forgiveness, Lady Whyte,” the man said finally and, giving the fairy an angry last look, vanished into the crowd.
“Now, where were we?” the fairy asked, his sword returning to ether.
“He may have offered me a bed this night, creature,” she chastised, never actually wanting the man’s bed but trying to keep the fairy unbalanced for what was to come. “Or, at the very least, a meal. Or another job.”
The fairy grinned. “I watched from the rafters, Rosenwyn Whyte. You were hoping for no such thing from that turdwollop. If you were, my benefactor would be greatly unimpressed in your taste.”
“You play your game,” she said. “I have my own.”
“A redhead’s birthright. The game is about to get more interesting,” the fairy said, bowing to her in midair. “I come with an offer far better than what that jackhole would promise. I am Bazltrix. And I am here on the behalf of Lady Audeph Klestmark of Mur Castell, a woman in need of your help.”
“Never heard of her,” Rosenwyn sniffed.
“She knows of you though. That is what matters.”
Rosenwyn hated being at a disadvantage. It was a part of her life though. Playing in taverns, surrounded by unknown people. Most of them simply enjoyed her music. Some had ulterior motives though. Bazltrix had scared off one such person but the man’s motives had been easy to decipher. The motives of the fairy and his benefactor were not.
“What is this lady’s request?” Rosenwyn asked.
“That is for Lady Klestmark to share.”
“Where is she then?”
“Outside,” Bazltrix said, his charcoal face pinched with the gravity of his request. “Anonymity is a requirement. The Everwinter offers it best.”
The tiny hairs along the back of her neck prickled warning. The area where the Raging Drunk conducted business was one of the safest districts in Mur Castell. Annwn had become more chaotic after the fall of Caer Llion though. Evil existed everywhere, dangers a slight woman like herself needed to worry about no matter the area.
“To be alone on the streets of Mur Castell at night with an unknown woman and her fairy is not wise, I am afraid,” Rosenwyn said, turning to grab her things. “I think your benefactor will have to find aid elsewhere.”
“Lady Klestmark anticipated this,” Bazltrix said. He removed something from a small cloth sack Rosenwyn had not seen on his back.
He then offered the item to her.
Curiosity trumping apprehension, she accepted it. She immediately wished she hadn’t; a dark rage filled her as she held a small diamond spider, no larger than her thumbnail. It caught the candle and torchlight and glowed like the summer sun. It was a beautiful piece of art, symmetrical and flawless. There were only three in existence. And it was worth a fortune.
Its monetary worth did not matter to Rosenwyn, though. She gripped the spider, its legs cutting into her palm. The present world faded around her until all she could see was a past she had tried to escape, tried to forget.
This had once been her sigil. The Lleidr Corryn.
The calling token for a master thief.
“Unfortunately, someone else is not an option,” Bazltrix sniffed with indignation. “I trust you are ready to go now?”
Rosenwyn cursed her luck.
#
The Everwinter swirled about her as she left the Raging Drunk.
After having donned her fur-lined sable cloak and boots, Rosenwyn followed the fairy as he flew through the streets of Mur Castell. She pulled her cloak and its cowl close for warmth. She had spoken to Byl briefly, sharing she would be leaving the inn for a while, telling him only what he needed to know. He had nodded, worry darkening his thick features as he frowned at the fairy, but he did not ask questions. She knew Byl well. He would undoubtedly send one of his kitchen boys to follow and watch from the shadows. It gave her a small measure of security, as did the familiar comfort of the crwth on her back.
Despite his nakedness, Bazltrix flew through the Everwinter seemingly unbothered by the elements, a silent black form in a world become white. She did not know what to expect from the forthcoming meeting. Her past had found her, one way or another, and there was no escaping it. Not from someone who possessed the Lleidr Corryn. The life she had left behind long before the Everwinter began had been one of high reward with high risk. On reflection, it should have led to her death many times. Back then, of course, that thought had never crossed her mind. She had been young and impulsive, fearless and naïve.
She was older and more cautious now. She had left that life for one of music. Old memories were kept wher
e they belonged—in the past. She had changed.
Fingering a dagger in her cloak’s inner pocket with one hand and wearing a knife-ring on the other, Rosenwyn felt a stab of irony twisting inside her.
Some things never changed, it seemed.
At least there was no moon or stars this night to worry about.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked darkly. “I thought you said she was just outside.”
The fairy either did not hear or was ignoring her.
She kept her frustration in check. They eventually entered the primary courtyard of the city, one that stretched far away. In summer, a market blossomed here, filled with colorful tents bearing produce, clothing, weapons, sweets, games, and many other items for sale. It was now a gray void. Directly across from her rose the ruling castle of Mur Castell, its walls tall, thick, and coated in ice and snow, torchlight flickering from various places giving just enough light to see by. Rosenwyn kept a keen eye on the fairy as he flew directly toward a massive stake that had been driven into the courtyard’s stone. There, a figure stood, waiting.
Rosenwyn considered the situation. She didn’t like it. The courtyard of Mur Castell had become a place of death. Earlier in the year, Caderyn Llewellyn, the lord of the great city, had burned a witch to death at the stake, retribution for the murder of his wife. The city had watched. Rosenwyn had not seen it, but she knew the tales and they chilled her. The fire. The screaming for mercy. The stench.
Its length charred, the giant stake remained as a gruesome warning:
Do not attack the royal family of Mur Castell.
While no one else appeared, it was an unsettling place for a meeting. And even as Bazltrix landed on the charred pole, a black stain amidst the Everwinter, the hooded figure by the stake did not move to meet her.
“Well met, Rosenwyn White,” the woman said as the musician approached. “I am Lady Audeph Klestmark. I have to say, I am impressed. I could not hear you approach despite the snow and ice, your footfalls were so light.”
“My craft often requires steady hands and steadier feet.”
“And what craft is that exactly?” the lady asked with a hint of dark amusement. “A musician? Or a thief unfettered? No, do not answer. It matters not. I do, however, thank you for responding to my request.”
“It felt like more a summons. One I could not deny,” Rosenwyn said, fingering her hidden knife. “But you know that already.”
“The diamond spider does possess that power.”
Rosenwyn nodded, observing the other. There was not much to see. Like the musician, Lady Audeph Klestmark wore a cloak and hood, a tall, thin figure, cut like a dark blade. What light existed emphasized round eyes above sharp cheekbones, full lips, and a hint of black hair curled beneath her cowl.
“I am no longer a Lleidr Corryn,” Rosenwyn asserted. “She was a master thief. And died long ago.”
“You have many gifts, Rosenwyn Whyte, but playing coy in an attempt to deceive me is not one of them,” the lady said coldly. “Do not be any more foolish than you have just been, Spider Thief.”
Rosenwyn had once been a favorite tool and done the bidding of many wealthy patrons, from lords and kings to merchant princes and their wives. No matter her outward appearance, Lady Audeph Klestmark was not one of them. They possessed a languid, indifferent air. The woman standing before her emanated an icy righteousness and a willingness to risk everything. Lady Klestmark would do anything to possess the thief’s talents—as evidenced by the Lleidr Corryn. If the thief denied her, the woman would have her killed. Outright. Likely this night. Chill not born of the Everwinter infiltrated Rosenwyn. Despite her youthful appearance, the woman’s shadowy gaze possessed a hatred so potent it could never be refused, especially not by a mere thief, retired or no.
For the first time in many years, fear gripped Rosenwyn Whyte. Real fear, as bone deep as the Everwinter itself.
“I have been called Spider Thief, yes. Never to my face.”
“A first for everything, I fear, my dear,” Lady Klestmark said with a small laugh, the threat behind her gaze gone as quickly as it had come. “You are also the Unseen Hand. The White Shadow. The Caer Ghost. Several other colorful names you have undoubtedly heard. The rich and powerful in all cities have different names for you. You are a legend, albeit a dubious one cursed aloud in private chambers or uttered in dark whispers upon the wind. And I have need of your legendary talents. I will pay handsomely for them, regardless of the token I possess.”
“That part of my life is over,” Rosenwyn said.
“The past.” Lady Klestmark scoffed. “The past is always a part of our present, Lady Whyte. Do not be so quick to dismiss that fact.”
“What does this have to do with?” Rosenwyn, steeled by anger again, tried to maintain some kind of control over the situation, but she knew what would happen if she refused the offer.
“As I said, I need your talents.”
“To do what?”
“Finally we are getting somewhere useful,” Lady Klestmark said. “A bit of background first. There is a history in this land, mostly forgotten, mayhap purposefully so due to the pain it caused. It is the story of Saith yn Col. Once, the ruins were not ruined, rather a castle and keep called Caer Dathal where the first Druid Order built their home upon arriving in Annwn from those long-lost Misty Isles. The Druids worked hard at acquiring knowledge of all kinds. And people benefited from that. But when a dark faction overtook the order and tried to enslave Annwn, the most powerful fey of the Tuatha de Dannan gathered and destroyed that menace. The rebel Druids were killed. Caer Dathal of Old was destroyed in those battles, renamed Saith yn Col. It has remained that way since, a reminder of the danger excess power creates.
“The Druids who did not join the rebels were free to begin their order again, this time at Caer Dathal the New, where they live to this day.”
“Then you want me to break into Caer Dathal and steal something that has been kept there from the days since it moved?”
“No.” Lady Klestmark smirked. “I want something from Saith yn Col.”
“I am a thief, not a ruins digger.” Rosenwyn hated to admit still being a thief.
“Do you think for one moment I would need to acquire your services if I could just visit the ruins of Saith yn Col myself and take what I desire?” Lady Klestmark said, laughing without humor. “Maybe you are not as bright as I have been led to believe.”
Rosenwyn hated being mocked even more.
“Have you played your music at Caer Dathal?” Lady Klestmark asked.
“Several times.” Rosenwyn’s breath plumed on the air. “It is a beautiful keep. Arch Druid Aengus Doughal is always warm and welcoming. So too his Druids and students.”
“You know of the grotesques that ward that keep then?”
“The gargoyles, yes,” Rosenwyn said. “They sit about the keep. I have never seen one move though.”
“Oh, they are more than alive, my dear. Caer Dathal of Old had similar magical creatures protecting its walls. They could not withstand the might of the Erlking and Tal Ebolyon’s dragon might. The grotesques were destroyed like their rebel Druid masters, reduced to broken statuary and dust. All but one.” The lady paused. “One grotesque survived, the strongest among them, and this stone creature has been there ever since, within the ruins of a keep he could not protect.”
“I am to steal something from this gargoyle then?”
“He is named the Nix, a terrible creature, powerful and ancient.” Lady Klestmark’s gaze intensified. “It should have perished as the rest of his brethren. Caer Dathal of Old is destroyed; there is no need to protect Saith yn Col. Yet the Nix remains. He does not possess the power to leave his ruins, magic binding him to the former Druid keep. But I believe he is gathering more than just secrets from that age.”
“If the Nix cannot roam free, how does he gather anything?” Rosenwyn disliked the fact she was already intrigued.
“No one knows. Perhaps a thief in his employ. Or
a magic unfamiliar to me; regardless, this task I ask of you will be dangerous for numerous reasons.”
“I have heard those words before, all too often.”
“Little is known about the ruins of Saith yn Col,” Lady Klestmark said. “It will be fraught with peril. Less is known about where the Nix holds his treasures. It will be dangerous, even for one of the Lleidr Corryn.”
“My price is steep then, perhaps too steep for one such as yourself.” Rosenwyn stood straighter, showing her resolve. “You possess the Lleidr Corryn and you have a certain amount of power over me because of it, but no power over my price, which I and I alone set.”
“Hear that, Bazltrix? She knows her worth.” An icy smile crossed Lady Klestmark’s pale features. The fairy nodded, barely interested, even as the woman removed a glove to reveal rings adorning every finger. “You are right, Lady Whyte. Jewels. Precious metals. Like these. These would be poor attempts at acquiring your talents. I wonder though, looking at you, knowing something of your past, if you would rather gain the ability to walk in the light—sunlight, moonlight, starlight—without others staring at you, hating you, or questioning you? Would that be an adequate price for your services?” She paused. “What is the price for being human?”
Rosenwyn barely breathed. Lady Klestmark knew of her bane, the very thing that had shackled her to the shadows for the majority of her life. If she accepted the charge, the reward would be a chance at something she had wanted since a child.
A normal life.
“That is impossible,” she whispered, hating the weakness she heard.
“Is it?” Lady Klestmark asked, just as serious. “Even Bazltrix does not know the full extent of my standing. With wealth comes power and with power comes opportunity. I know people. More importantly, I know the right people. There are those in my employ who possess magic. A great deal of magic.” She smiled. “How ironic. The music you have replaced your former life with might be the very talent that undoes that past.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because grotesques are fond of music.”
Rosenwyn now knew why she had been chosen. She had once been a master thief, true, but she was also a musician. The other two Lleidr Corryn were not.
The Twilight Dragon & Other Tales of Annwn: Preludes to The Everwinter Wraith (The Annwn Cycle) Page 12