Spirits White as Lightning

by Mercedes Lackey

  "Lord Aerune," she said, reaching the foot of the shadow throne and looking up at him.

  "Come, little alchemist. Kneel at my feet, and I will tell you how you may serve me."

  Despite herself, Jeanette stumbled forward and up the steps of the dais to kneel at his feet. One of the hellhounds growled as she approached, and Aerune held out his hand to silence it.

  "Know, first, that all your comrades are dead, including your former master. The slave Elkanah, whom I sent to retrieve you from the human world, is undoubtedly dead now, and by your hand."

  Tell me something I don't know, Jeanette thought sullenly. She'd hated Elkanah, and feared him, but part of her was happy for him. He was dead. He was free. No one should have to live with the memory of being Aerune's pawn.

  "Very well," Aerune answered, a hint of displeasure in his voice. "I shall tell you that I shall destroy your pestilent, arrogant race, and your work shall be a weapon in my arsenal. If it can kindle the power of the Starry Crown in such fleeting creatures of mud and stench, then what more may it do for the Children of Danu? Armed with its power, we will nevermore fear your Cold Iron, nor your foolish violence. And my Aerete shall be avenged."

  There was genuine sorrow in his voice, and when Jeanette dared to look up, she could see that his face was set in lines of bitter grief.

  "Once," Aerune said softly, "the world was ours. There was no Dark Court, no Bright—only the Immortal Sidhe, the firstborn of Danu. Your kind was less than the beasts—animals whom we raised up from the rest of the brute creation and taught to serve us. And for many years you understood your place and kept to it. But you became presumptuous—and to our eternal doom and sorrow, there were those among the Sidhe who helped you to rise from the dust where you belonged. Aerete the Golden was one such—guardian to your tribe, aid and protection against all who would harm you, though I offered her my heart and my crown. Yet even would I spare you for her sake, turn aside when you incurred my just wrath . . . yet you slew her with your deathmetal, and I will never rest until all your race has paid the price in full measure for slaying her whom I loved—my soul-twin, my mate, the only creature who could lift my being from the darkness and eternal night. . . .

  "And you yourselves shall be the instrument of my vengeance—you and your endless inventiveness."

  "I won't," Jeanette said. Tears were running down her face—fear for herself, grief for Aerune's loss. She knew what it was like to be denied the chance to be through a cruel trick of fate, and she felt his sorrow as if it were her own. But she could not help him kill again. "I won't make T-Stroke for you. I won't shoot up your guinea pigs."

  Shockingly, Aerune laughed, and reached down to tousle her hair as he might pat the head of an unruly dog.

  "Do you presume to know my mind, or to tell me the extent of my power? I do not need you to create more of your poison—I already have enough of your Crownfire to ken enough to drown the world. And as for proving its worth . . ."

  He raised a hand and gestured. The doors to the throne room swung inward once more, and Jeanette blinked. This time they were gold and jeweled. This was what living in a world made with magic was, she realized: a universe in which there were no certainties, even those extending to the continuity of the world which surrounded you.

  Two of Aerune's armored knights entered, dragging a third between them who struggled and snarled curses in some unknown language. The bright silks he had worn were in rags, and his body bore the marks of a world-class beating, but he was still defiant. As he approached Aerune's throne, the hounds raised their heads and growled, watching him intently. And somehow his speech turned to English, so that Jeanette could understand what he said.

  "Kneel before your master: Prince Aerune, Lord of Death and Pain!" one of the knights said.

  The stranger fought like a wet cat as they forced him to his knees. He spat at Aerune, and one of Aerune's guards backhanded him with a metal-clad fist. The impact of the blow was a sound like wood hitting wood, and blood sprayed across the mirrored floor. Jeanette felt pain shoot through her, leaving her weak and shaking, with a throbbing headache. But the stranger remained defiant.

  "Prince of nothing! Oathbreaker and fool! Know that I am Aliagrant Tannoeth, Knight and Magus of Elfhame Thundersmouth, herald and cupbearer to Prince Seithawg and the Lady Cyndrwin, traveling beneath a ward of truce across lands held by no lord! Release me at once—or risk my lord's terrible vengeance!"

  "Such passion," Aerune murmured. "Such foolishness, here in the stronghold of your enemies, but I forget: you are but a boy. Do you truly think Aerune is bound by the treaties that bind the Dark Court to the Light, or that your people will know what fate has befallen you? Shall I fear Seithawg, whose father's father I slew, or the lennan sidhe who rules beside him? Or shall I fear Lady Aniause to whom you ride, and who will seek for you in vain once word reaches her that you have vanished? There is danger in the Chaos Lands. All know that. But in your pride you would dare them, and so you have found . . . me."

  From his expression, Aliagrant was not hearing anything he liked. It was as if Jeanette could feel his fear, like silent music. And Aerune was right—he was young. Even if the elves were immortal and eternal, Jeanette could tell that much about him.

  "So. You see I speak no more than the truth. Bow down and swear fealty to me, boy, and perhaps I will allow you to live."

  But afraid and in pain though he was, Aliagrant still would not submit. "Kill me, then!"

  "Perhaps in time. Meanwhile, you will serve me—in one fashion or another."

  Once more the doors opened, admitting two more . . . creatures.

  One looked like The Old Witch from the cover of EC Comics: an ancient, ugly, hunchbacked woman, dressed in rags. Her nose and chin were hooked, her toothless mouth fallen in upon itself. One eye was white and bulging, the other a narrow slit. She carried a tray upon which stood two objects: a jeweled wine cup, and one of the brown plastic bottles of T-Stroke that Jeanette had in her jacket pocket back at the van.

  The hag's companion was small, barely the size of a child, but with a distorted, misshapen form . . . and very long arms. It wore a laborer's smock and ragged pants, and upon its head there was a soft cap of bright scarlet, as bright as the blood of men. It looked like it had wandered out of the background of some Hildebrandt painting. It looked like a hobbit on crack.

  "Don't do this," Jeanette whispered, cowering and shivering against the foot of the throne. She could feel Aliagrant's pain radiating from him like heat from an overstoked stove, and in the middle of everything else, she had a horrible intuition that the T-Stroke had worked—and what the Talent it had given her was.

  Aerune stepped down past her and over to the hag. He picked up the brown bottle and poured a generous dose into the wine, then stirred the mixture with a long golden spoon. Then he picked up the cup and gestured to the redcapped hobgoblin.

  It scampered over to where the two elven knights were still holding the boy on his knees. The redcap crouched behind him, pulling his head back with one hand and forcing his jaw open with the other.

  Then Aerune stood over him and poured the contents of the cup into his mouth. The boy choked and tried to struggle, but the redcap was far too strong for him. Wine ran down his chin and onto his chest, but he ended up swallowing more than half of the mixture.

  "You see?" Aerune said, turning to Jeanette. "I have no need of your assistance." He gestured to the knights, who released their victim.

  Aliagrant began to scream, joined half a beat later by Jeanette. She was burning, she was dying—she felt what Aliagrant felt, and the pain was hideous, it felt as if she was drinking Drano, and far worse than the pain was the terror of an immortal creature being sent down into death.

  For Aliagrant was dying. She could feel it more surely than she could feel her own body—the flesh withering and dissolving as his body burned away to nothingness.

  And then it stopped. Blessedly, it stopped.

  Barely able to focu
s, she looked up fearfully, scrubbing her face dry on her bare forearm. All that was left of Aliagrant was a mess on the floor, as if a mummy were in the process of crumbling away into ash. As she watched, the body crumbled further, then dissolved altogether, leaving only a smear of dust that sank into the mirrored floor, leaving no trace behind.

  "Interesting," Aerune said impassively. "What calls up magic in your race destroys it in mine—and that, you will have observed, my mortal alchemist, is fatal." Aerune sounded more interested than put out by that fact. "Still, its effects are entertaining—are they not, Urla? Far more so than elfbane or caffeine."

  "Yes, Great Lord," the redcap answered. It had a high hoarse voice, like that of an evil child.

  "And it still works on humans—on precisely those humans who will have to be eliminated to ensure that my race may once more assume its rightful place as their overlords—the magic users, the Crowned Ones, whose ancestors mingled the blood of their race with my own. Why should they not be useful in death?"

  He looked back at Jeanette, smiling gently. "I never needed you to make more of your wizard's potion. I needed to find out what you knew, and to keep you from falling into the hands of my enemies to become their weapon. And now I see that the sorcery you have worked has made you useful to me beyond that." His smile grew wider and more razored. "You think that this T-Stroke will save you from me, that it will grant you a quick and easy death beyond my mercy, but in truth, for all your arrogance, you know so little about my kind. How can the sands of your life run out if Time itself does not run Underhill? No, you will live as long as I choose, and serve me. But not in that unpleasant form . . ."

  He reached for her, smiling, and when he touched her, Jeanette began to scream.

  TEN:

  (I'LL STOP THE WORLD AND)

  MELT WITH YOU

  The day that had started out so badly did not improve. Eric was inattentive in class, and Levoisier took a sadistic delight in gigging him for it. He was sloppy in rehearsal, fumbling around like a novice, unable to keep time with the other musicians or make his entrances on cue. Finally he gave up. The world wouldn't come to an end if he cut his last class. And besides, Eric wanted to see how Toni and Hosea were coming with the basement apartment.

  The phone was ringing as he got into the apartment, and when he looked at the counter, it registered 27 previous messages.

  "Eric," he said, picking it up.

  "Eric!" Ria sounded absolutely frantic. "Where were you? I've been trying to reach you all afternoon!"

  "Not everybody's cellular," Eric said irritably. "Sorry. Bad day. What's up?"

  "Kayla's coming. Today." Ria made it sound as if Kayla was a combination of the Black Death, the Four Horsemen, and the IRS. "And I'm stuck in this damned meeting—in fact, I'm supposed to be in there right now—and I can't get away. I don't know how long I'll be. Her plane's coming in at three; I've sent a car for her, but I don't want her coming back to an empty apartment. Could I have the driver drop her at your place? I swear I'll be there as soon as I can."

  Eric had never heard Ria sound so rattled. It struck him that she owed Kayla and Elizabet a great deal. Taking care of Kayla properly on Kayla's arrival in New York was probably as important to Ria as being a good teacher to Hosea was to him, and she was probably just as uncertain of her ability to do it right.

  His black mood vanished. "Hey, Ria. Don't worry about it. Have the guy drop her off here. We'll order pizza and watch DVDs until you get here. Promise."

  "Thanks." He heard Ria breathe a deep sigh of relief. "I hate to ask, but could you possibly call Anita for me and tell her? She'll phone the car. I have got to get back in there!"

  "Sure," Eric said. "Knock 'em dead." The phone went dead before he'd finished speaking.

  Well, that takes care of the rest of the day. He looked up the number and made the call to Anita, then went to look over his DVD collection, wondering what sort of movie Kayla would like. "Hey, Greystone," he said aloud. "Company for dinner."

  * * *

  Hosea came in about half an hour after that, looking very much like someone who'd spent a hot August day cleaning out a non-air-conditioned basement.

  "Better hit the shower," Eric advised him. "A friend of mine's going to be here pretty soon. Name's Kayla. She's a Healer. Going to be going to school up at Columbia—but not living here," he added, noting Hosea's faint look of alarm. "I'm just taking care of her until Ria can pick her up."

  "Ayah, a shower sounds good. I feel like I've been juggling pianos," Hosea said ruefully. "But I got all that lumber moved out of there, and after I scrub it down with lye soap, I can paint it up spicker than span." He shot a curious look at Eric. "A Healer, say you?"

  "That's right," Eric said. "But I'll let her tell you about it herself. Wait till you meet her."

  Hosea headed for the shower.

  * * *

  :They're comin' 'round the far turn: Greystone told Eric about five minutes later.

  "That was quick," Eric said. He thrust his feet into sandals and headed for the street.

  The car was just pulling up as he reached the sidewalk, which felt very much like walking into an oven at this time of day, as the concrete gave back a day's worth of stored heat. Ria'd sent her personal car: a maroon vintage Rolls Royce limousine. The driver—in matching livery, right down to the archaic jodhpurs and riding boots—climbed out and walked back to open the passenger door.

  Kayla wasn't waiting for him to get there. Eric saw the door swing open and a . . . vision . . . in glitter and Spandex stepped out of the car.

  The last time Eric had seen Kayla, the sixteen-year-old had been heavy into punk, right down to the safety pins in place of earrings. But two years was an eternity in a teenager's life.

  Things had changed.

  She still had the black leather jacket—and was wearing it, in defiance of the weather—but now it seemed to glitter in places. She was wearing artistically-damaged fishnet stockings, and on her feet were spike-heeled pointed-toed ankle boots with more straps than a Bellevue special. Between the ankle boots and the leather jacket was a black lace tutu, the layers of black lace tulle glittering with purple and black sequins and standing almost straight out.

  Kayla reached back into the car to grab her backpack, and blew the driver a kiss before striding across the street to Eric. As she approached, Eric could see that she'd carried out the glitter-Goth look in all aspects: her hair was dagged and shagged, dyed flat black with indigo and fuchsia streaks. Her face was powdered dead white, eyes heavily lined in kohl and mascara, and mouth painted a glistening red-black. Silver batwing earrings dangled from her ears. Under the jacket, she was wearing a very tight, cropped tank top with a black velvet rose pinned to the neckline.

  "Hiya, Eric," Kayla said. She held out a hand. She was wearing fingerless lace mitts—black, of course—and her nails, still cut back almost to the quick, were painted black with a dull silver glitter overlay.

  "This is a new look for you," Eric said. A lot more high-maintenance than the old one, but he guessed Kayla'd finally gotten used to the fact that she had a home and a family, and didn't have to scrabble on the streets just to survive. He waved to the driver, who'd followed Kayla across the street.

  "Are you Eric Banyon?" the man asked.

  "That's right," Eric said.

  "I just wanted to make sure the little lady got where she was going," the driver said. "I've got a daughter about her age." He smiled and went back to his car.

  "Sheesh," Kayla muttered, embarrassed.

  "Hey, you know Ria'd have his head if he let anything happen to you," Eric said. "C'mon, let's get upstairs. It's hot out here, and you must be about to fry."

  * * *

  "Nice place," Kayla said, looking around the apartment. She set her backpack down on the floor and peeled off her black leather jacket. Her shoulders glittered with a mix of makeup and sweat. "Nice air conditioning," she added a moment later. "Gotta say, Eric, you do know how to land jelly-side-up."


  Hearing voices, Hosea came out into the living room. He was wearing jeans and a new white T-shirt, his shaggy blond hair still damp from a hasty shower.

  "Hey," Kayla said appreciatively, "you didn't tell me Chippendales was in town."

  "This is a friend of mine," Eric said. "He's staying with me until his place is ready. Hosea Songmaker, meet Kayla Smith."

  Hosea stepped forward and held out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Kayla took it. If he noticed her outlandish costume, he didn't indicate it by so much as an eye blink. Eric could see the look of concentration on her face as she made sure her shields were in place—any touch was intimate if you were an Empath—but then he saw her relax and give Hosea a genuine smile.

  "Any friend of Eric's is a friend of mine," Hosea said firmly in his slow pleasant drawl. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Healer Kayla."

  "And yours . . . Bard," Kayla said after a short pause. "Hey, Eric, you didn't say you were collecting 'em."

  "Just a happy accident," Eric said. "Hosea came to the city looking for someone to show him the ropes, and I guess I'm elected."

  "I couldn't ask for a better teacher," Hosea said. "But you must be plumb tuckered out from all that traveling, Miss Kayla. Would you care for something cold to drink? There's lemonade, fresh-squeezed, and every kind of water you can imagine."

  So that's why we've got all those lemons.

  "Lemonade, please," Kayla said. She glanced toward the sound system. "Mind if I check out the tunes?"

  "Mi casa es su casa," Eric answered in bad Spanish. "Feel free. I don't know how long Ria's going to be—she said she'd get here as soon as she could, but—"