by N. D. Wilson
“Endor rises,” Magdalene said. Henrietta didn't take her eyes off the horse, but she listened. She had a feeling that if she were to tell the whole story about her involvement with the cupboards back in Kansas, Magdalene would be demanding her back. And not just to keep her around.
“Endor sleeps in its own dust and madness,” Caleb said. “It is Nimiane that rises, and she does so in the halls of Carnassus in the far north. I have spent these last weeks pursuing death and its currents. How she is free, I cannot tell you, for I stood beside my brother when she was entombed. But I felt her curses in my bones then, and they recognize her voice now. This news is easily spoken, and did not require me to come so dangerously. What more? What that I do not know?”
“We shall fall,” Magdalene said quietly. “FitzFaeren goes to its final grave.”
Henrietta could hear a general rustling and shifting of feet. She glanced over at Benjamin and Joseph and the men around them. Their faces were red and their jaws were set. In some she saw anger, in others, emptiness.
Caleb said nothing.
“And after us,” Magdalene continued, “every mountain people and village. The forests will fade until she has drunk her demon-fill. Your city will crumble into the surf, and your people with it. And after us, the greater kingdoms, the empires of the three seas, they are easily seduced by strength. She will turn her eyes toward them. She will find a throne again, a higher dais, new lands to reduce.”
Caleb sighed. “There is a mourning dove nested above my window who sings such songs of death to me every dawn because the sun has risen, and every night because it has set. Will you dig your graves and make your beds inside?”
Henrietta watched the short men squirm. What their queen was saying was making them angry. Caleb was pushing them further. And they were allowed to be angry with him. They glowered, but remained silent.
“Do you deny that she is drawing more power than she alone can hold?” Magdalene asked.
“I cannot say.”
“There is another with her,” Magdalene said. “We must stand together or each receive our own slaughtering day in turns. And if we fall, we will fall at once, at least embalmed in glory.”
Caleb rubbed his stubbled chin. Magdalene said no more, and so he spoke. “Of course you will have all the support we can provide. But that is sparse indeed. What had you in mind?”
Magdalene rose from her seat, and as she did, every man around her dipped their heads. “Make your stand here,” she said, “within the halls of old FitzFaeren. We are the farthest north. You are well beyond the mountains and deeper south. If you make your stand there, with your backs to the sea, you will be abandoning us to an early and lonely fate, and only postponing your own defeat. Here, together, we may turn the witch back, or find a quick end.”
“Queen,” Caleb said, and his voice was strained. “Do you know what you ask? Even now, unripened crops are being gathered within our walls, and villagers struggle in from the mountains with their lives on their backs. We have been preparing for a siege since Nimiane's star rose in a new quarter of the sky. I could not give you twenty of my eldest men, to say nothing of erasing all of our preparations. There is not time. I have traveled through the mage roads to get here, but I would not bring all my people through those ways, nor are they mine to command.”
Magdalene looked around at the houses and at the hills behind them, lost in her own thoughts, sampling old memories.
“The blow falls here first,” she said quietly. “It has fallen here before.”
“I do not think it will,” Caleb said. “You are nearer, but many of the ways are still open in the mountains, as you can feel and I have come. Five hundred miles to our foothills is as within her reach as your fallen outposts along your forgotten northern border. Hylfing stood against her once. She was turned back at its walls. There are no old grudges waiting for her here, but no doubt she has filled her dreams with pictures of our blood darkening the sand.”
Hooves pounded into the square, and all heads turned. Eleven heavy horses trotted and slowed to a walk. Men dressed like Caleb sat on each one. A bouncing sack dangled over a horse rump behind the leader. Beside them all loped a tall black dog, the size of a small pony. To Henrietta, he looked like a Dane, but his chest and head were broader.
Caleb whistled, and the dog broke into a run. The remaining birds lifted off the ground and found perches on the fountain. When it reached him, the dog lay down at Caleb's feet.
“Queen,” Caleb said, and he bowed slightly. “Come to us instead. The council would welcome your people. You have strengths that we do not, and our walls have never been breached. Now we must go. I would be inside my city's gates before the blow falls, and dark ways lie ahead.”
“We will stand or fall in FitzFaeren,” Magdalene said.
Caleb lifted Henrietta up onto the horse, pulled out his bow, and swung up behind her.
“May heaven stand with you,” he said. “And may it never fall.”
Caleb turned Chester away, but quickly turned back.
“Would you have us leave your brother?” Caleb asked. “Or shall we take him?”
“We have no brother,” she said again.
The sack squirmed.
Henry was cold. Very cold. His pants were wet and clinging to his legs. His blood had been replaced with frigid water, and greasy coils of brown rope were digging into his cheek. His eyes seemed to be working again, but not well. He tried to push himself up, but his hands were tied behind his back. The floor was rising and falling beneath him, and he could feel water puddling and spilling around his stomach and legs.
Groaning, Henry tried to roll onto his side, at least to get his face off of the rope. He lifted his head up and set it on a gray bag.
The bag kicked him in the cheek.
Behind him, men laughed. Hands reached around him, and Henry blinked when he saw metal flick toward the bag, and a thick string fall away.
“Faerie,” a voice whispered. “Bide a while.”
Henry was rolled onto his back, and he propped himself up on the rope. The wind was blowing around him now.
The small wizard was crouching in front of him. His brown hood was up and inflating in the wind. Pale gray eyes stared out of the shadow. He was looking over Henry's face and put two fingers up to the burn scars on his jaw.
“I have a burn like the one on your hand,” he said quietly, “but none like these. Are you strong?”
It wasn't a hard question. Henry never felt strong, but especially not when he'd been knocked out, tied up, and frozen in the bottom of a boat.
He shook his head.
“Keep your arms behind you,” the young man whispered, and Henry felt a blade slide between his wrists, nicking his skin. The rope fell loose.
The small wizard backed away from him, ducked beneath the sail that flapped above them both, and huddled down in the boat. Henry could see three of them, all hooded. The fourth must be behind him, steering.
The boat itself had only one sail and no deck. It wasn't much longer than twenty feet. Now that Henry could actually see the water around him and watch the prow rise and fall with the waves, he immediately felt ill. An island in the distance climbed and sank with the horizon. Shutting his eyes, he swallowed. He didn't want to start throwing up. Not ever. But especially not now. He didn't know what the young wizard was planning, but vomiting wouldn't help, no matter what it was.
A gust of wind parted the hair on the back of his head and bit into his neck. He shivered as the sail snapped and the boat surged up a wave and dropped.
The gray bag erupted beside him.
A very small man with a pronounced belly bounded up, yelling. He booted Henry in the ear and leapt to the rail, balancing perfectly with the ship's motion.
Henry fell over and covered his head.
The three wizards jumped to their feet, grabbing at the rail and at the mast for balance.
Henry watched flame sprout from beneath the faerie's feet and flare around t
he ship rail. The wizards yelped, staggering and pulling away their hands even as spray from the bow doused most of the flame.
The fourth wizard jumped forward from the back of the boat and stood facing the fat little man where he balanced.
“Faeries sink like stones,” he said. His face was as sharp as his voice. “Drown, or slink back into your sack.”
The faerie rolled his eyes in his head, stuck out his tongue, and folded it. Both of his rather thick ears stood out from his wet and tousled brown hair.
As the wizard raised his hand, Henry could already feel the violence of the words in the man's throat. His own body tensed like it was waiting for a blow.
The curse came out of the man's mouth and became thunder in the air. Guided by the wizard's upraised hand, it tore out a bite of the ship's rail and wall where the faerie had been standing. The faerie was gone.
Henry blinked. The faerie, with puffed-out cheeks, had dropped to the ship bottom and curled into a tight little ball. The air shimmered around him.
The men all spun, looking for the faerie, while he began crawling to the mast with bulging cheeks and a red face. When he reached it, he shinnied quickly up to the top. Henry looked from him to the confused wizards. The small one could obviously see the faerie, and he was stealing quick glances up. The rest hung on to the ship rail for balance and scanned the boat around them.
The young wizard looked at Henry and nodded toward the man that stood closest to where Henry was lying. Then he looked back up the mast. He pointed. “Up there!” he shouted.
The men all looked up. The big bald one leaned back against the rail, and his hood fell away. Suddenly, the smaller wizard hit him in the ribs and flipped him into the sea. Black-beard turned, surprised, and a knife flicked into his chest, burying itself up to the hilt. His legs collapsed, and he slumped into the bottom of the boat.
Only one remained—the one with the icy voice. He turned toward the smaller wizard and smiled.
“Monmouth,” he said calmly. “You are only fit for kitchens if you need a blade to do your killing.”
Henry braced himself and found his feet. The wizard glanced at him and smirked, tight-lipped. Henry could feel something building, static, tension, something.
The pulse came suddenly, without words. It came from inside the wizard.
Monmouth jumped behind the mast, but was thrown back into the prow as the boat shivered and wood cracked. Henry lunged for the man, but a raised hand stopped him. He felt his throat close and his feet lock in place. His body began to arch backward, grinding his spine.
As the wizard laughed, the faerie landed on his head.
The two of them fell to the ground, with the faerie's legs clamped around the man's throat.
Henry picked himself up and stepped toward the bodies to help, but he froze in confusion. What he saw was more than two bodies. Fire and frost and even lightning all took shape in the air and faded before striking either. Water was turning to ice in the bottom of the boat. Henry's eyes widened and saw even more. The faerie's strength was green. Writhing webs swirled around him and around the wizard's body. All of them met and withered against a cloud of sharp whiteness. But the faerie's threads were fewer, fading.
“Help him!” Monmouth yelled, lunging to the bodies with a lifted knife, its blade already painted dark. The faerie was thrown off and lay limp and panting. Mon-mouth's knife shattered in the air.
Henry blinked and collected himself. What was he doing? He jumped forward and felt the air around the wizard bite into his skin. Monmouth had both hands suspended above the man's throat, struggling to close.
Henry picked up the gray bag and slid it over the wizard's head. The man screamed, but it was cut off by Monmouth's hands slamming into place.
“Don't kill him,” Henry said. “Not like that.”
Monmouth looked up, confused, but he didn't stop.
“Kill him now,” a throaty voice said. “Now, now, now. Now!”
The world cracked, and Monmouth flew into the air, grabbed on to the sail, and fell into the boat. The bag ripped open, and the wizard stood up.
The faerie bounded past Henry, and flame burst from his hands into the taller man's chest, wrapping around behind him. The wizard stepped back and overbalanced as the boat dropped down a wave. The faerie wrapped himself around the man's shins and pushed him backward through the splintered gap and over into the sea.
The thick faerie immediately ran to the tiller at the back of the boat and swung them slowly away from where the man had fallen. Then he ran to the sail, untied a rope, swung a beam, retied it, and ran to the rail to look for the wizard.
“Ha,” he said. “There's one more of the necronancies gone to feed the merpeople. In that water, he'll be ice already, and that's the truth.” The faerie turned around and faced Henry. “And you,” he said. “I sit inside that spider sack and listen to them jabbering about you. Mordecai's son? Just a bit of paddy's cake, and that's all, standin' there oglin' a fight like it were a bit of puppet entertainment. We should toss you over, too.”
Monmouth sat up and put his hand to his head. His features were sharp, and his face pale beneath his jet hair. He was slight and very young. Henry hadn't noticed just how young in all the chaos. He couldn't be eighteen.
The faerie looked over at Monmouth and then up into Henry's eyes. His face was even with Henry's ribs. Bright eyes sparkled above flushed, puffy cheeks, and his brown hair was as thick as fur. His nose looked almost round, like a knob.
“I'm sorry,” Henry said. “I'm just slow right now.”
“Slow?” The faerie laughed. “Do you even have the sight? Are you a true seventh? What am I doing now?”
The faerie held his breath and stood on one leg.
“You're standing on one leg,” Henry said.
“Beginner's luck,” said the faerie. “What now?” He stuck out his tongue.
Henry reached out and poked it. The faerie sputtered, grimacing.
“Right,” the faerie said, and he took a deep breath and held it, still standing on one leg. His cheeks grew, and his eyes widened. His skin went red and then purple, and the air began to shimmer around him.
“Are you serious?” Henry asked. “You're doing a headstand.”
The faerie gasped and dropped his foot. “I knew it.”
“I was joking,” Henry said. “You were just on one leg again. What are you trying to do? Do you think you're invisible?”
The faerie squinted at Henry and rubbed his belly slowly.
“I don't think,” he said. “I am. How're you doing that?”
Henry was confused. “I can see you. I do it by looking.”
“He's real,” Monmouth said, standing up carefully. “I wouldn't have just done what I did if he wasn't. Probably shouldn't have, anyway. That was Carnassus's son you just tipped over, and he won't be pleased to lose him.”
“Carnassus?” the faerie asked. “That old mountain goat will have his own life to mourn soon enough, sending his little wizmancers onto a faerie mound. There are protocols, you know. The committee won't stand for it.”
“And what could a gaggle of yelping faeren do about it?” Monmouth asked.
“A gaggle?” The thick faerie marched over to where Monmouth stood. “Shall I gaggle you?”
Henry could hear the two arguing, but he was feeling sick again. Too sick to pay attention. The small boat continued to bob and sink, but with no one steering, the bow slid back and forth as well. His legs were turning to jelly.
“Where are we going?” he asked, swaying. “I need to get back to Badon Hill.”
He slumped down into the bottom of the boat and curled his legs against his chest.
“Or the Deiran Coast,” he said, and he shut his eyes.
stood in the quiet throne room. Moist, cold air drifted through the high windows and settled around him. His senses were throbbing. He could feel the strength in the stones beneath him. Each one was ready to burst, filled with life that belonged elsewhere. Any
more, and they would begin to move.
He pulled in a long, slow breath, noting each droplet that he drew into himself from the air. He was full to bursting as well, teeming with the treasured, savored glories of grasslands and streams, of insects and gnarled trees. Some of the strength had been woven around the rest, to keep him from flying apart. But inside, somewhere, Darius knew that he could never turn back. Despite the cool air, sweat stood out on his broad forehead. His own spark was gone. He had become a mere jar for the stolen lives of others, and he would be forever drawing more.
He looked slowly around at the black, curtained doorways that lined the room, sensing each. There was the one that he himself had come through, leading back into the strange house where his adopted son had been imprisoned.
Not one led to the world he knew. He had come through into a place of legend, a place he had first heard about in the gibbering marginalia in the oldest, most unintelligible books that had belonged to his own adoptive father, Ronaldo Valpraise—a man he had believed to be wise, but had only been a fool, afraid of real power.
This was real power. Nimiane, daughter of undying Endor, sat on the throne a dozen steps from where he stood. Her face, lovely and terrible, was smooth in rest. Her eyes were closed, but the white-faced cat was alert on her lap, and her pale hand moved slightly through its black fur. Darius stared into the cat's eyes and knew that Nimiane was staring back. She possessed the animal, and its vision had replaced her own.
Darius felt life approaching, and then he heard feet slowly climbing the stairs from the hall into the great stone room.
Carnassus, the old wizard, wizened, with flesh like the skin of a withered mushroom, rose into view, leaning on his staff, and stepped onto the thriving stone floor. His neck was thick on his small body, and a long white beard grew from the tip of his chin. He looked up at the gray sky through the windows and around at the doors.
“The boy.” Nimiane's voice was flat. Her eyes remained shut. “They have not returned with the boy.”
“No,” Carnassus said. “They have not. The voyage to the doorway is short, but the seas may be rough.”