The king’s table was in no way singled out by finer clothes or tableware. Even its position was ordinary, down amongst the others, and he was served in his turn like the rest with the same foods. She sat at his right hand. Dominic, so far as she could tell, wasn’t even at the same table.
Glancing up and down the table, she noticed with a flutter of humor that she was, without a doubt, the least attractive person there. On each face, she saw ageless, poreless skin with every brow and lash achieving perfection without cosmetics or, so far as she could tell, assistance of any kind. Teeth were white and even, eyes bright, large, and clear regardless of shade, whether lapis, coffee, or emerald. There was a vast variety among them—skin and hair of every color from an alabaster white to a lustrous ebony. Their voices were musical and whenever one of them laughed as they often did, Clarice could imagine that angels must pause in their flights to listen.
The king saw her shake her head ruefully and demanded to know what amused her.
“Oh, sire,” she said, “if ever I suffered from vanity, this last hour has cured me.”
“Why so?”
“I know at this moment how ugly I am.”
“Ugly? Not a bit of it. You are very well to pass, for a mortal.”
“That is what I mean, sire. Even now, I am aging, whatever beauty I possess fading from instant to instant.”
‘That must distress you.”
“On the contrary, it is a great relief.”
The lovely creature seated across from them leaned forward to say, “How can that be true? Do you not live in terror of the moment when you are quite old?”
Clarice smiled at her for she’d never seen a female more enchantingly lovely. Her face was sweetly heart-shaped, her brown hair rising from a widow’s peak on her brow to tumble in long closely curled ringlets to her waist. The dark green of her gown emphasized the deep tan shade of her smoothly rounded bosom and elegant throat. She looked no more than nineteen but Clarice had to assume that she might have been thousands of years old.
“I confess that I used to stare into my mirror wondering when I would show age, but now I think I shall welcome my first wrinkle and gray hair. There is no point in struggling against my fate for, try as I might, I shall never equal the least of you.”
The breathtaking maiden in the green gown laughed, rendering herself even more exquisite. “A toast against that hour! Come, pour wine for the Lady Mortal.”
One of the servitors, less elegantly gowned but no less beautiful than the ones who sat and ate, appeared at Clarice’s shoulder, a magnificently turned vessel of wood in her hand. She poured an opaque red liquid into the goblet before her.
The king raised his wine-cup, as did the Fay on either side of him and across the table. Remembering Dominic’s warning, Clarice did not lift hers. “Among my people, we dare not drink a toast to ourselves. It brings ill-fortune.”
“No ill can befall you here, but I respect your custom,” the king said. He rose to his feet. “A cup of honor to the Lady Mortal!” he called.
Though his voice was not loud, it seemed to carry to every ear. All the Fay rose to their feet. The sound of their voices was like a storm falling upon the sea. They raised their cups and drank to her. When they resumed their seats, a silence came over the banquet. Clarice felt them all watching her and knew again a moment’s fear as though she felt a trap closing about her. She had no choice but to return the compliment.
The king nodded encouragement when she caught his eye. With a smile she was very far from feeling, Clarice stood up in her fine white gown. She hardly knew what to say. It was customary to wish good fortune or long life to one’s hearers but these people already had all of that.
“I feel I move in a dream far too wonderful to long for waking,” she said, wondering if the magic that had amplified the king’s voice worked as well for her. “You are very kind and I thank you.”
She reached out for the goblet, hoping she could pretend to drink and not be detected. The wine-cup gleamed as though it were hammered out of highly polished gold, yet the grain under the polish told her that it was made of wood as well. She lifted it and the heady fragrance of the wine—raspberry, honey, and oak—made her dizzy as soon as she breathed it in.
At that instant, she heard a mighty voice shout “Stop!”
The very air seemed to ring with the sound. Clarice was so startled that she dropped the cup before the wine touched her lips. It fell to the grass and split in two, cleanly from top to bottom, splattering her white gown with the red wine. At once, the stains vanished, leaving not even a damp spot behind.
Clarice looked around, hoping insanely that it had been Dominic who had stopped her, defying his king and his service, but it was not. She stared in amazement at the man who stood behind the king, her heart leaping at the prospect of rescue from a danger all the more real because it was hidden behind smiles.
“Blaic?”
Chapter Twelve
“His father,” the newcomer said with a bow.
Clarice stared, rudely but helplessly. The resemblance was extraordinary. The same dark hair curling to the shoulders, the same eyes of forest green, and the same aura of hidden strength made the father his son’s image.
Yet there were differences as Clarice now saw. Her brother-in-law was a man of about forty; his father appeared to be approximately thirty, Blaic’s age when Clarice first knew him. His height was perhaps a trifle less, his shoulders not quite so broad and his hands, she noted, were much better kept than those of her dear sister’s husband.
The king’s smiling geniality left him. “You here?”
“I am come to assist you, my overlord, in your struggle.”
“You are welcome in Mag Mell, Morgain of the West. You have brought troops, I take it?”
“I have, many and a many. They await a word of welcome from their High King.” Blaic’s father smiled at Clarice with a warmth so genuine that she found herself smiling involuntarily in answer. “I will myself take charge of your charming guest, Forgall. I believe we have much of interest to say to one another.”
Forgall did not seem very content to leave Clarice in Blaic’s father’s hands. His beard bristled as he sank his chin against his chest. “You are come opportunely,” he said in a deeper voice than he’d used hitherto. “There is much to be said, and much not to say.”
He turned a hand over on the table and it, ail the others, the guests, and the food disappeared. Clarice found herself alone with Blaic’s father in die midst of an empty meadow.
Morgain of the West sighed. “Forgall is known as the Wily for good reason, my dear. Do not imagine for a moment that he is not listening.”
“I do not know why he should take such an interest in me.”
“Unfortunately, I cannot tell you that or this interview would be cut short, probably unpleasantly. But come, sit and speak with me. We have never met, yet I feel I know you tolerably well, my dear.”
He made a courtly gesture, as though encouraging her to be seated. She glanced automatically behind her, only to see the earth heave up silently, forming a kind of winged armchair covered with short grass, soft as velvet, for upholstery. It was exceedingly comfortable and she did not fear that it would mark her gown. Such annoying things were not possible in the fay world.
She asked, “I’m sorry to be so rude, sir, but who are you?”
“I am Blaic’s father, King of the Westering Lands and vassal to Forgall, who is lord of Mag Mell and High King of the People and of the Living Lands.”
Clarice put her hand to her temple. “I don’t understand anything.”
“You shall ere long know all, I’m certain.”
Without disturbing her in the slightest, the earth-chair lengthened and became a settee. The King of the Westering Lands seated himself beside her, regarding her with a pleased smile, “I am certain of more than that, my dear Clarice. I know you are dear to Morgain Half-Fay’s heart. For that reason, if no other, you may count me as your friend
.”
“Of course,” Clarice said as a spark of illumination lit her thoughts. “You are Morgain’s grandfather!”
He inclined his head. “Yes, strange though it is to say it, I am. They named him for me.”
“Do you ever visit him?”
“I have seen him from time to time, hut I have not intruded upon him since he was an infant in arms. Once he began to notice and remember, I ceased to play with him.”
“That is too bad. T cannot help but feel that he would benefit from knowing you, sir. He is growing up with a far too serious a view of existence.”
King Morgain chuckled. “You judge me rapidly, my dear.”
“Do I do it wrongly?”
“On the contrary. You are right; I have something of a frolicsome nature. It has often landed me in difficulties with those of your race prior to the law forbidding contact between our peoples. Now it lands me in difficulties with my own people. I should like, indeed, to grow to know my grandson better. However, it is his parents’ wish that Morgain grow up as a mortal and it is not for me to meddle in that.”
“Perhaps Morgain is more like his father than anyone else. I would not say that Blaic was ever of a sportive nature.”
“Once upon a time, my dear ... but he loved a princess of the People who could not return his feelings and then ...” The slim shoulders lifted and fell fatalistically. “One must admit that being turned to stone for several centuries does take quite a lot out of one.”
“I suppose it would do so to anyone of any nature.”
“Now I, on the other hand, loved a maiden who gave her heart to me at first sight! So I was far more lucky than my own dear son. Ah, Amphysis! They call her the Incomparable and for good reason. She had something of your coloring, my dear, and seeing you brings her back to me in some part.”
“She is no longer with you? Surely she did not die?”
“No, nor yet did she join our former king and queen among the Sleepers.” The smile which seemed to hover perpetually about his mouth faded almost to nothing. He stared straight into her eyes and Clarice realized he was trying to convey something of importance. She remembered how he said their conversation might not be as private as it seemed.
She asked, “Who, or what, are the Sleepers?”
King Morgain relaxed. He gave a tiny nod of his head as if in approval. “Oh, when one of the People grows weary or can no longer bear some heavy sorrow—yes, we have our burdens too!—they lie among the Sleepers, drifting eternally in dreams. Have you never been asleep and experienced a life not your own? Seen ravishing images, wandered in strange paths, worn a face utterly unlike that which you bear in waking hours?”
“Of course. Who has not?”
“Then in all likelihood you have been touched by a Sleeper in your dreams.”
“Fascinating. But you say your wife is not among them?”
“No, she would find it far too dull!” Once again, he took to looking at her steadily as though urging her in some direction. Clarice remembered what Forgall had said about being unable to read her thoughts, thanks to some long-ago fay ancestor. Thought-reading would have been most useful at this moment.
King Morgain said, “My wife enjoys visiting the far-flung courts of the Deathless Realm. At the moment, I believe she is visiting her distant cousin, the Snow-Queen. Amphysis does so revel in the winter sports. She won a medal for skiing the Northern Lights the last time she was there. She could have never done that lying at the bottom of a lake, you know.”
“The bottom of a lake?” Clarice echoed, her brain reeling.
“Where the Sleepers lie, my dear. You can see them lying there, so they say, when the sun goes behind the clouds. I have not gone to Homashyl, the Depthless Mere, since our former king went to join his queen there. It is a beautiful place, very silent, the water entirely still; sad, you know, but peaceful.”
“I think all of this world is peaceful,” Clarice said dreamily, and was surprised to find him looking at her with renewed approval.
“It has been called so, yet all things change, even this aerie of we immortals.”
“I think I can guess what has changed, sir. Mr. Knight, the soldier who was sent to guard me from the Rider, he said that my mother lives still.”
“Forgall sent you some protector, then? Are you certain he was sent for that purpose?”
“What other purpose could he have? At any rate, he did protect me. He defeated the Rider when he would have carried me off. Dominic was injured. . ..”
“I have heard much of this mortal’s prowess. They do whisper that he is the best of the werreour and that Forgall would make him immortal soon.”
“Isn’t he?”
“No, Forgall has learned a hard lesson about making humans into People. Dominic Knight is a human being like yourself. His lifespan has been lengthened by Forgall’s will. Forgall is long-sighted and he saw that the day might come that we would need soldiers who can handle cold iron in our defense.”
Though Clarice’s curiosity was aroused by this description of Dominic’s place in this Realm, she found herself wondering, “About my mother, sir... Dominic said that the Rider was one of her soldiers, even as he himself is one of King Forgall’s. Can you tell me, sir, why does my mother have soldiers? She is not a general or a queen.”
“Now we come to the crux... .” King Morgain, looking very much like his grandson when contemplating the results of some piece of mischief, did not complete his sentence at once. He glanced about him as though expecting an interruption.
Clarice, without thinking, reached out to lay her hand on his, wanting only to urge him to speak. Before she could touch him, King Morgain faded away like mist before the morning sun. She saw him grow fainter. It was only then she recalled that to touch a Fay was to make him her servant.
When he reappeared, he stood a few yards off, his back to her. She called, “I apologize, sir; I did not.. .”
Then she saw that instead of dark hair curling to his shoulders, her new visitor had hair clipped close to his nape and his shoulders were wider than King Morgain’s by far. “Dominic!”
She was up and halfway to him before she knew she’d meant to go. He spun about abruptly at her shout. “Clarice! I did not know what had become of you.”
“Nor did I know what happened to you. Where were you?”
“Where were you? Here all the time?”
He caught her hands in a welcoming clasp, bringing them to his chest. Clarice hadn’t realized how much she missed the warm fellowship of her own kind until that instant. The People of Mag Mell were beautiful beyond compare, but she had nothing in common with them. However unusual Dominic’s life had been, no matter how old he was, he and she shared something fundamental. They were both human.
Yet no sooner had she thought it than she knew their shared humanity was only part of the reason she was so happy to see Dominic. If it were only because he was a fellow human being, why did she doubt that seeing a prize fighter, her aunt Amabel, or a Chinese mandarin would have made her equally happy? They were all humans too, yet it was not any other face she wished to see nor any other touch she wanted.
“Dominic,” she asked, “what is all the mystery?”
“Mystery?” He seemed to notice that he still held her hands and let her go. “You walk in a world of mysteries and demand answers of me. I do not know that I can satisfy you, Clarice.”
“You can. Tell me. What is my mother doing?”
He too glanced about him in the same fashion as King Morgain. “I don’t know if I am permitted tell you.”
“If you are worried about Forgall, it doesn’t appear that he intends to tell me anything himself. He should know I am not the sort of woman who takes silence for an answer!”
His smile came slowly. “If he does not know it, rest assured that I do. Come, sit down, and I’ll explain, though the king’s wrath may strike me a moment after.”
He did not sit beside her. He rested his foot on the seat and crossed his
arms, frowning at the grass. Clarice waited impatiently for him to collect his thoughts. But when he spoke, he did not bring up her mother.
“What do you think of King Morgain?”
“He seems a most droll gentleman. I can see my nephew in him.”
“Is that all?”
“Why, what else?”
His smoky eyes studied her as though attempting to plumb the depths of her spirit. “You marked his resemblance to Blaic?”
“He is very much like him. At first, I thought it might be Blaic, transferred here by some magic or miracle.”
“You thought he’d come to your rescue.”
“I’d hoped. So much is strange here that the sight of a familiar face is very reassuring. I should love to see Blaic come striding over that hill.” She studied him, noticing how his lips had tightened into an expression of pain. “Did the king heal all your wounds, Dominic?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you know how grateful I am that you rescued me from the Rider. I was terrified—I don’t believe I’ve ever known such terror before. I hope I never shall again.” She shuddered at the memory. “I dare not wonder what would have become of me if you had not followed me out of the house.”
He pushed away from the grass-covered settee and turned his back on her. In a bitter tone, he said, “Better you do not know.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You say you are grateful to me; I wonder how long that will last.”
“I am not, in general, thought to be an ingrate.” She stood up, unable to understand him. “Everything is so strange,” she said again, reaching out to put her hand on his shoulder. The muscles there bunched and jumped under her touch as though to throw her off. “I don’t even feel strange calling you by your name and I was taught from girlhood that a woman doesn’t even address her husband so familiarly. My mother was always very strict about such things.”
He did not turn to face her, so she walked around him. “Tell me what you know, Dominic. I am not afraid of the truth.”
Magic by Daylight Page 17