by Ben Galley
Rhin moved to crouch on a pillow, muttering. ‘You don’t need to know.’
‘I think after the last time, I’ll decide for myself, if you don’t mind.’ Merion’s voice was momentarily stony. The hard edges of his words made Rhin flinch.
‘Fine,’ Rhin grunted. Slowly and carefully, he began to unwind the bandage around his hand. He winced here and there, whenever he grazed his palm. Merion watched him bare his teeth as he came to the last few turns. He moved even more slowly now, twisting his injured hand to make it easier. Merion shuddered as he caught sight of what lay beneath. Rhin held up his hand and splayed his fingers, so the boy could get a good look.
‘What in the name of the Almighty have you done to yourself?’ Merion asked, revulsed.
‘I didn’t do it,’ Rhin answered. ‘Not directly I mean.’
‘Don’t start speaking in riddles, Rhin Rehn’ar. You tell it to me straight.’
‘Alright, alright!’ Rhin hissed, hunkering down so the pillow half-swallowed him. Faeries are deceptively heavy. ‘Thousands of years ago, just as the dawn of your First Empire was breaking, we Fae were celebrating the end of our fifth empire. This was before Undering, before you humans started encroaching on our borders, before we were forced back to Eyra. Our empire was crumbling, rotten to the core. All thanks to the Fae King who ruled it, an old and cruel Fae. And so there was a coup, led by his son. After forcing his father from the throne, the new Fae King, Reghan, if I remember rightly, tore down his father’s court and appointed his own, kicking off a new empire, one that would be prosperous and beautiful, and all that. To cut a long song short, the old king was not the slightest bit amused, and plotted to start a war between the Fae and the bean sidhe, or banshees as you would call them. They were once wild things of the wastes. Wiry, tall, more beast than Fae, and twice as dangerous. They worshipped the dark magicks, and hunted together in warring clans. When they weren’t fighting amongst themselves, they sold their services out to rich Fae lords when a good fight was needed. They would scream and howl when they ran into battle, wild bony things that fought like demons, tooth and claw. They glowed sometimes with a red mist behind their small dark eyes. Or so the stories say.
‘Anyway, the old king escaped from his prison and fled to the wastes. He went to the banshees and gave them what was left of his own Hoard. He told them to start a war with the new king, convincing them with all sorts of vicious rumours and lies about what his son had in store for them. He stoked them into a frenzy and pointed them in the right direction.’
‘What does this—?’ Merion blurted, but Rhin cut him off with a gesture. The faerie had wrapped himself in his arms, as if the story itself were hard to speak aloud, as though the history of it chilled him.
‘So in the depths of a cold morning, the banshees attacked the palace of the new king, climbing its walls and creeping in through the windows and balconies. They slaughtered half the palace before the guards brought them down. Fae King Reghan was dead, along with his two sons. Only his daughter and queen remained, and there, drenched in blood, they swore to force the banshee kind into extinction. So started the rule of the Fae Queens.
‘So one by one, clan by clan, the Fae exterminated the banshees. It took centuries, and the rule of several Fae Queens before they saw it done. In the end only three remained. Three sisters. The queens cursed them to wither and die, but tethered their bones to the earth. Undead, they made them, and charged them with an oath which they must keep until the last Fae Queen dies. That is that they can be called up, whenever and for whatever a queen desires. Assassinations. Battle. Personal errands. Slaughter. Anything.’
‘I still don’t understand what this has to do with that cross on your hand, Rhin,’ Merion sighed, steepling his fingers.
‘When a bean sidhe found a live one after a battle, they would take a claw and gouge an X in his or her palm, to mark them as an offering to their gods. Then they’d usually rip their throat out, or dig out their heart. Once they were in the service of the Fae Queens, cursed and withered, it became a message, a sign you’d been marked.’
Merion leant forward, his backside now barely touching the stool. ‘Marked for what?’
Rhin stuck out his chin. ‘Whatever a Fae Queen wanted for you.’
Merion was on his feet in a flash. ‘What?’
The faerie nodded slowly. ‘That’s right. Sift’s sought them out and sent them after me. I never thought she would go this far.’
‘I …’ It took Merion a few moments to summon the wherewithal to answer. ‘Can we stop them?’
‘It’s almost impossible. They might come next year, they might come tomorrow. But they always come. Banshees get their mark, no matter what.’
‘Almost, you said almost impossible,’ Merion pointed out.
Rhin nodded again. ‘There is one thing they hate, one way to give yourself a fighting chance, at least. But that is something only I can do, not you,’ he replied. His voice was calm and restrained, though the colour had drained from his face. It was hard to see because his skin was grey, but Merion knew him well.
Merion began to shuffle around. The helplessness of it prickled him, turning his shock to anger. ‘You seem far too calm about this,’ he retorted.
Rhin started to bandage up his hand again. It was healing more slowly than he liked. ‘Like I said, they are coming, no matter what.’
Merion was pacing now. ‘So you’ve just accepted your fate. Great.’
‘No. This is my problem, not yours. But Sift has pulled out the big guns, and I’ve got nothing,’ Rhin said it plainly. Like Merion, he was reticent to ruin their surroundings with worry, especially when it was as useless as a shield made of butter. ‘It’s not going to end until she gets me back in her clutches, or I beat her to it and end it myself. Neither of which I’m too eager for. Better just to live on, until they come for me, enjoy these strange folk, and watch my good friend smile for a bit longer,’ Rhin paused to smile himself, wanly mind you, but a smile nonetheless. ‘This mark is several days old, Merion. I’ve had plenty of time to think about this, hiding inside that satchel.’
Merion must have started half a dozen sentences before he fell silent. Each attempt withered on his tongue. ‘I can’t believe you’ve given up,’ he finally mumbled.
‘Not quite. I’m not going to let them take me without a fight. I’m no coward,’ Rhin said, firmly. ‘Not anymore at least. Not after Fell Falls.’
Merion just nodded and paced some more. ‘They’ll have to get through me first,’ the boy promised the faerie. ‘I’m not just going to let you be taken away.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Rhin said as he bowed his head. ‘But understand, you need to leave this in my hands. It’s my problem.’
Merion scowled to break the tension of the moment. ‘Besides, it would be very unfair of you, to reach the shores of Britannia before me,’ he grunted.
Rhin flashed his trademark smile. ‘We wouldn’t want that.’
‘Come on, let’s get ready.’
*
‘Show us what you’re made of, lad,’ hollered Big Jud Jepson, sprawled as he was on the edges of the clapping, cheering crowd. The mood was positively electric. They surrounded him on all sides, their cheers crashing like waves on the shore of his stage. And in the circle between the three fire-pits, where the heat was fierce, and the roaring of the flames was its own brand of applause. Merion held his hands up and let himself bathe in the noise.
The young Hark had worn a long coat and tall hat for his show. This costume he had chosen for his act was admittedly a little Lurker-ish. He sweated underneath it, but he did not dare regret it. It would be short-lived.
Merion waved his hands about, calling for silence. He was given it. With exaggerated motions he reached inside his coat and brought out the vial of bright orange sprite blood. Already there were whispers, he could hear them floating atop the roaring of the fires. It was the wrong colour for the shades he had admitted to, and they knew it.
Merion smiled daringly and flicked the cork into one of the pits, letting it pop and crackle before he raised the vial to his mouth and poured its contents down his throat.
It struck him like a hammer, like all myth veins do. The blood is drenched with an older magick. It is purer, like the taste of rain on the tip of your tongue. Merion savoured it as fleetingly as he could. The magick was already starting to build in his stomach. He held on to it, gathering all its ragged edges before he let it loose into his veins, from where it would flood into his brain. Merion grit his teeth to the sound of whoops and yells from the circus folk. All it did was spur him on.
The boy let the surging flow up his arms and shoulders. He raised his hands to help it and felt the rushing into his skull, where it pounded and roared, and made his eyes itch. Merion managed to smile as the magick broke its onslaught and settled in, flowing through his entire body, throbbing in his arms and fingers. He had it by the tail now.
Already he could feel the fires calling to him, their roar and crackle entrancing. Merion moved closer to the nearest pit as the crowd began to clap, slowly at first, fractured but drawing together with every beat.
Merion reached out and spread his fingers. He could feel the fire, not just the heat but the shape of it, the depth of it. He saw it as something he could mould, or push and pull on. He pulled at a strand of it, letting it reach out towards him, as if he were reeling in a rope. The circus folk began to laugh. Merion, as awed as the rest of them, made a show of pulling back and forth before letting it snap back to the fire.
He gathered a handful this time, and made it soar high, like a pillar. He began to feel the strain at around a dozen feet, and let it fall in a huge whoosh of flame. He had to slink back, and the crowd laughed again. Merion bowed. It was time.
The young Hark moved from one fire to the next, pushing them inwards and building them up to burn fiercer and brighter. He circled them once, twice, three times, slapping hands and knocking fists as he traced the edges of the crowd.
The magick was slowly crumbling from his grip. Merion could feel it. He skipped back to the middle of the fires and dragged on them with every last scrap he could muster. The fires bent inwards to his will, screeching, burning white-hot and yellow. Merion held them until he felt himself starting to cook. With a roar of conflagration, the fires snapped back into their pits. It could have been daytime in that fleeting moment, the fires were so bright. They were blinding enough to make the whole crowd lean back and cover their eyes.
As they cowered, Merion reached into his coat pocket and plucked a certain faerie from its depths. Moving as fast as he dared, he raised him up on the flat of his palm. He was there, though faded, and bloody heavy as always. Merion could feel his sharp boots digging into his hand as he balanced. The fire illuminated just a hint of the faerie’s spell, scattering light like pimpled glass. They each took a big breath and held it.
Throats and hands went to work once the circus folk had blinked the light from their eyes. The cheering and wild applause was nearly deafening. But it was short-lived, and died quickly. Merion remained standing there with his arm out straight and his palm up and empty. The whispers sprang up again. At the edge of the crowd, Yara stood up so she could get a better look. Soon enough, the crowd was abuzz with confusion. Merion had them right where he wanted them.
He raised his other hand now, fingers dancing. He held it over his open palm, as if he were casting some manner of spell. He let the tension and noise build, waiting for Rhin to make the move.
One. He felt the faerie tap his boot.
Two. There was the second. Merion raised his hand.
Three.
Click!
Merion snapped his fingers, and low and behold, Rhin burst into vision, standing cross-armed and confident on the palm of the boy’s hand. The circus folk were stunned. Half of them looked poised on the edge of screaming, or cheering, Merion couldn’t tell. A few poured their cups of moonshine out on the ground, rubbing disbelieving eyes.
It was Yara who walked forwards first. She crept across the dust, hesitant, hand held up against the flames. ‘Is that …’ she breathed, noticing the wings.
Rhin blinked at her, flashing his lavender eyes. He held his tongue for the moment. The speaking part always drove them crazy, so he would bide his time.
‘Is that a fairy?’
‘Not your usual fairy, Miss Mizar,’ Merion explained. His arm was aching from the effort, but the act wasn’t over just yet. Not until the penny had dropped for all of them. ‘This is Rhin Rehn’ar. He is one of the Fae. A faerie.’ Merion sketched out the letters in the air.
‘And what, pray, is he doin’ here?’ Nelle Neams had removed his hat and placed it to his breast, and was creeping up as if he were approaching an altar.
Merion stared at him straight. ‘He is my friend of many years. An outcast from his own kind. I took him in and saved his life. He has saved my life many times since.’
Nelle leant closer to Rhin. The faerie chose his moment.
‘I wouldn’t get too close, if I were you,’ he said, with a smirk. Nelle flinched backwards and Rhin chuckled. ‘Every time.’
‘He speaks,’ Nelle whispered. It was easy to tell the ones that had seen a faerie from the ones who hadn’t. They had trouble finding their voices.
‘I speak, I eat, I write, I swing a sword. I do lots of things, Mr Neams.’
‘He knows my name,’ hissed Nelle, looking at Merion. The boy just nodded and shrugged his aching arm.
‘I’ve also got a name.’
‘Rhin Rehn’ar,’ announced Yara, in that silky voice of hers. She stepped forwards and extended a hand towards the faerie. Rhin shook one her fingers solemnly.
‘Miss Mizar,’ he replied, and then bowed as low as only a faerie can.
Yara turned to the others who had come to test their eyes. They looked on in disbelief, delight, and a smattering of utter confusion here and there. ‘If you know Nelle, I imagine you know the rest of my family as well?’ There was something of a squint in her eye, though it could have been the light.
Rhin looked around, nodding. ‘I do indeed,’ he replied. ‘I’ve heard your names.’
There was some whispering, as Yara paused to think. When at long last she clapped her hands, Merion felt himself taut with anticipation. Was it back to the road for them, or onwards east?
‘Well, what is there to say apart from well done. I can see why you hid him, Merion. And I will not treat it as deceitful, something we do not normally take kindly to in Cirque Kadabra. We shall call it shrewdness, and care. So, I believe this means welcome to our circus, Rhin Rehn’ar.’
Rhin grinned, showing off his sharp teeth, and let his wings buzz. Some of the crowd laughed, and as they gathered around to formally introduce themselves, Merion’s heart danced. It had worked, after all.
Chapter XII
OF ENTANGLEMENT
3rd July, 1867
‘They say a lion always runs faster when it’s hungry,’ Gavisham snorted, watching the girl quicken her trot. Cheyenne was breaking over the rolling, rocky horizon, and it seemed she thirsted to reach it, striding faster than she had all day.
‘Do they now?’ Asha shot him a sardonic look. ‘Never heard that one before,’ she replied, half-muttering. ‘I just want water and rest. Is that a crime?’
Gavisham shrugged. He was only making conversation. It had been an hour since the last word had passed between them. Gavisham was fond of silence. It allowed him to stew his thoughts, of which he had many lately, and he had savoured it every step between the London docks and Fell Falls. But now here was the girl, and something about her made him itch. It was a scratch he could not quite reach, and he was having a hard time pinning it down. No amount of stewing was helping relieve it. The itching was the sort that only questions can appease, as any good interrogator will proudly tell you.
‘What town is that?’ Asha asked hoarsely. The dust and dry heat had got to her throat.
Gavisham cast a
nother glance at her. There was dust on her sweat-slicked cheek, where the twisted skin was now healing into a puckered scar. She had taken to wearing her blonde hair to the side, so it covered most of the baldness. That fire had kissed her with all its passion, so its mark would never fade. He had seen far too many wars to know differently.
‘Why does it matter?’
‘It matters because I asked,’ Asha retorted. There it was again, that inner fire, as though it had settled into her bones. Few maids would have dared to speak to him like that. Not Dizali’s man. But this was not London, and she did not know him from the next dust-kicking stranger in this sweltering desert. He would have ignored her tone had it not stank of privilege. The suspicion was like strong liquor, seeping in, taking over.
Gavisham cracked a smile, his gold tooth flashing in the afternoon sun. ‘Well then, young Madam, this is the town of Cheyenne.’
‘We’re still not out of Wyoming.’ More of a statement than a fact.
‘Not yet, though if I get my way, that won’t be true for long.’
Gavisham’s feet were getting tired and hot. He could already feel the prickle of several blisters on his heels. His hand momentarily lifted to his coat, but he caught himself. He had already put far too much red in his belly today, and any more would sour his abilities. This wild west sun was beginning to beat him, and Gavisham didn’t like that one bit. How did Suffrous do it? he wondered, for the hundredth time since putting boot to desert.
‘Oh?’ Asha looked up, one half of her forehead wrinkling.
‘I think it may be time to find ourselves a couple of horses.’
‘You don’t sound so convinced,’ Asha commented.
Gavisham adjusted his scarlet tie. ‘A horse is a bad mood gifted with legs, in my eyes.’
Asha snorted. ‘Kicked, I assume? Or bitten? Thrown, even?’
‘Never met a single one that liked me.’