The Seelie King's War

by Jane Yolen

  Mishrath coughed twice more and snorted. “More importantly,” he said as if Aspen had not spoken, “one becomes the Sticksman by being in the skulker’s way.” Then he finally waved Aspen off and lay back down.

  “But that tells me nothing!” Aspen said, exasperated. “I still do not know who the skulker is or how the Sticksman was in his way. I do not . . .” And then it hit him. “But I do not need to know that. If I get the Sticksman to let go of the staff, he will return to his old self and can answer all those questions himself!”

  Mishrath smiled and waved Aspen in close. “Now you’re thinking like a wizard.” He closed his eyes.

  Aspen didn’t know whether to feel insulted or not. But—he realized quickly—such feelings counted little on the road they were on.

  Only the road counted.

  And what lay at its end.

  14

  SNAIL LOOKS FOR ODDS

  With the sound of the magical song keeping the mob mazed, Snail, Snap, and Snaggle and their horses followed Maggie Light. Since her fingers were firmly in her ears, Snail only managed to stay on Goodspeed by squeezing her thighs so tight against the roan’s sides, she could no longer feel her feet.

  The horses alone seemed unfazed by the magic. And they kept moving along, while wave after wave of the mob simply stopped in their tracks to let horses and riders through.

  In a matter of mere minutes, they’d pulled up next to the professor’s wagons, the unnatural green of them so familiar to Snail, and yet so foreign, too. The wagon sides were still plastered with garish posters proclaiming that Professor Odds and His Magnificent Players had performed before kings and commoners alike.

  Well, Snail thought, remembering Prince Aspen’s performance, there was nothing magnificent about some of those players! And the one performance she’d been involved with had ended in the first real skirmish of the Seelie Wars, with deaths and maimings on both sides.

  She knew that on the wagon’s other side, the script wrapped around a painting of one of the made spiders and read: “Professor Odds’s Traveling Circus of Works & Wonders, Performance & Prestidigitation, with Occasional Flights of Fancy & Fantasy, Not to Mention a Marvel of Mimicry and Action.” She hoped that Odds and his people really were up to action now. Though from the looks of that crowd . . . She turned and saw that the mazement had begun to wear off. Many in the mob looked stunned, wary, confused. She had to agree with Snaggle and Snap. This was no army, and there was no time to make them one.

  What had the king been thinking? The only thing this mob was good for was soon-to-be-dead bodies lying between the two armies. Buying time with somebody else’s blood. And that, she knew, was the sort of thing that Aspen could never countenance. But could King Ailenbran?

  Snail shook off the thought and took a deep breath. If King Ailenbran could inspire the loyalty of someone like Alith—she refused to think about Alith back in the forest. She, the envoy, had one job to do. And only she could do it. And against all odds, I’ll get it done! She giggled wildly to herself, at the repetition of that stupid wordplay in the middle of this awful situation. Clearly she was becoming part of the dwarf’s hule, their clan. Or an apprentice to the professor’s own strange wordplaying games.

  Over to the left of the wagons, the unicorns were comfortably munching a mixture of hay and grass that someone had gathered into barrels for them.

  Snail could feel rather than hear Goodspeed whinny, for the little horse’s body positively throbbed as she tried to pull off course to get a share of the unicorns’ food.

  “Hush!” Snail said. “Not yet.”

  Something touched her right leg, and she looked down fearfully. But it was only Thridi, Annar’s brother, his head barely reaching to her knee. He motioned to her to pull her fingers out of her ears.

  Quickly Snail glanced over at Maggie Light.

  Maggie had indeed stopped singing.

  Of course, she still could be humming, Snail thought. But she knew Thridi would have been mazed if such was the case. So she took her fingers from her ears, and it was like pulling corks out of unwilling bottles. Her ears popped simultaneously. But the moment she did, the noise of the encampment rolled over her like an unwelcome wave. It took all her willpower not to jam her fingers right back in her ears.

  Climbing off her horse, once more aware of how badly she did it, she signaled for Snaggle and Snap to dismount as well.

  Snap immediately took his fingers out of his ears and leapt from his steed, grinning.

  More careful, perhaps because caution was an old soldier’s habit, Snaggle kept his fingers in his ears and asked aloud, “Safe, m’lady?”

  Snail nodded, mouthing, “Quite safe now.”

  Only then did he pull his fingers from his ears and dismount, though she didn’t doubt that if there’d been any sort of trouble, he’d have thrown himself in harm’s way to keep her safe first. She wasn’t sure Snap would have done the same.

  Making swift introductions, she said: “Thridi, these are Snap and Snaggle. They’re the fey warriors who brought me safely through the woods. And, yes, your brother sends greetings from the top of the spider. He seems quite comfortable up there. I found it . . . wobbly and disconcerting.”

  “Likes being big, does Annar,” grumbled Thridi. “Big without breadth. He’d best be certain he’s not without breath soon.” He said that last bit while looking critically up at the two elves.

  “Twins, then?” said Snaggle. “Where’s the third?”

  Snap looked confused. “Third?”

  “A dwarf hule is always three to start. Usually sibs. They take in others who earn it. Did ye nay pay attention in school?” Snaggle groused.

  The argument made Thridi grin.

  Snap saluted sharply, taking in both Snaggle and Thridi at the same time.

  “Snapped to,” mused Thridi, frowning now. “Snap judgment. Bound to be trouble. Snapped in two.” He turned to Snaggle. “My sister is the third.”

  “The true warrior of the hule, then,” Snaggle said.

  “I’ve been blooded,” Thridi snarled.

  “Two of ye, then,” Snaggle said. It was not a peace offering, more a true acknowledgment.

  Thridi’s quick anger was as quickly forgotten. He grinned and shook Snaggle’s hand. “No one’s as tough as she is.”

  “Families.” Snaggle grinned back and gestured toward Snap with a flick of his head. “I keep him on a short rein. Sister’s only boy.”

  Snail’s head went up at their exchange. Snap and Snaggle were related? Uncle and nephew? How had she not known? Why had she not even guessed? Saying little, Thridi had found out more about Snap and Snaggle in the first moment of meeting them than she had in the entire long and grueling travel from the Seelie palace.

  Was it some sort of dwarf magic? Or—she suddenly realized—is it simply a matter of paying attention? Perhaps she was believing in this m’lady business too much. Suddenly she remembered how it felt to be an underling in the Unseelie Court, how she hated the automatic dismissal of her wants and needs. How the toffs laughed at those they considered beneath them, used them, abused them. She decided she had to be more aware of those who served.

  Like Alith, she thought. She’d commanded but knew her warriors intimately and did not discount them ever. As she thought of Alith, her hand felt for the knife at her side she’d promised to deliver to Alith’s son. She’d make sure he got it. If . . . Snail shuddered as though a spider—a real spider, not a made one—had crawled over the back of her neck. If I live through this war. All that stood between her and the destruction of everything she knew and had come to love was Professor Odds. She hoped he could do what Aspen thought he could.

  Just then, the back door of the final wagon opened and out came another dwarf, carrying a baby so large its feet were dragging on the ground. The dwarf’s eye took on an odd glow when she saw Snail.

&n
bsp; “Skarm drema!” the dwarf cried.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Snap asked, his voice low enough to be called a growl. “Is it Dwarfish speech?”

  “‘Free one,’” said Snaggle. “Or ‘newlywed.’ ’Tis all in the tone, you know. Or you would if you listened in school.” He pointed to Snail. “I think the dwarf means m’lady.”

  “Well, m’lady’s not even promised to a husband,” Snap said. “So it must mean ‘free one.’ Though free from what, I wonder?”

  “Probably wishes she was free from you,” Snaggle said with a snarl.

  “Shut . . . your . . . bolt holes,” said Snail, and not quietly, either. “And stand straight. This small person is worth two of you!”

  Snap and Snaggle straightened and looked ahead, unblinking.

  “Her name is Dagmarra, and she’s to be treated with respect. She’s a hero.” Snail’s voice was as unyielding as Alith’s had been. Snail moved toward the dwarf woman, and her voice softened. “Dagmarra, that can’t be baby Og.”

  “It can and is. Who else would it be?” Dagmarra said. “He’ll be walking soon enough.”

  “Soon enough for him or soon enough for you?” Snail asked, and they both laughed.

  “Not soon enough for me, obviously, my friend. But we make do.” Dagmarra shifted the child in her arms. He was asleep as if the stir around him was but a lullaby.

  Maybe, Snail thought, troll babies need noise to put them to sleep. She knew she should be getting on with her mission, but talking about the baby seemed like a safer option. Normal, even. If a dwarf raising a troll baby can be considered normal!

  But Dagmarra wasn’t fooled. Little ever got by her. “Is it Himself you’re coming to see?” she asked bluntly.

  Snail nodded.

  “He might not want to talk to you. Raged when he found you missing. Said he’d thought better of you, thought that minstrel prince not worthy of your notice. Said you had Making Magic in your fingertips.”

  “I’m a midwife,” Snail said. “And I dropped a baby once.”

  “If that’s all you drop in your life,” Dagmarra said, “you’ll be a happy woman.”

  “If I live,” Snail said.

  “We all die,” Dagmarra told her. “Dwarfs and trolls, patriots and spies, kings and kidlings, stupid fey with big mouths”—she glared at Snap and Snaggle—“and big men with swords. The problem is not how you die, but how you live.”

  “When did you become a wise woman?” Snail asked. “Next you’ll be sealed up in a cave and making prophesies.”

  “Don’t need a cave to see war’s coming,” Dagmarra said, “and that we’re the least ready of the three armies to fight it. As for wisdom, it comes with watching a child grow. And this one grows fast. So I’ve had to be a fast learner.”

  “Yes, and that’s why I’m here. To see Odds,” Snail said. “The new Seelie king sent me as his envoy. M’lady, the warriors call me, though I don’t know that I’ve earned the title. The king wants to join forces with the humans, to give them land for those who stay, and a high standing within the feydom. But for those who choose to leave for the human world, he promises a gift of parting.”

  “New king? What’s wrong with the old one?”

  “Dead.”

  The dwarf shrugged, as much as she could with an armful of sleeping troll baby. “One is like the other.”

  “Not this one.”

  “I’ve seen princes before. Even the good ones change when they become king. It’s that gold shine around their ears does it.”

  “Not this one,” Snail repeated, and Dagmarra stared at her oddly.

  “Hmmmmph! It’s not Poppinjay the minstrel . . . ?”

  Snail glared at Dagmarra, who seemed not to notice.

  “I thought there were older brothers. And him a hostage from the Unseelie Court.”

  “The land chooses.”

  “As if the land is always right. Feh,” said Dagmarra. “You should see some of the choices the land has made! We’d be better off doing the choosing ourselves.” But she pushed baby Og into Snail’s arms.

  “What . . . ?” Og’s weight staggered Snail, as if he was made of stone. But it was evening, and there was no sun. And it was the sun that supposedly turned all trolls into stone. Snail was careful to make no complaint.

  “You hold Oggie, and I’ll go and ask Himself. But you may not like the answer.”

  “At least he’ll have to say something that way,” Snail said, shifting the heavy baby to her shoulder. “There’s hardly a Seelie army left, and so nothing stands between you and the Unseelie folk. Trust me, you don’t want to be conscripted by them.”

  “Maybe not,” said Dagmarra. She hopped up into the wagon and was immediately gone from sight.

  “Well, that went well,” Snaggle whispered in Snail’s ear, the one farthest from the baby.

  “Well as could be expected,” Snail replied, meaning it hadn’t gone well at all. “And now we wait.”

  Snap snorted. “Waiting is what warriors do best.”

  “I heard that was fighting,” Snail said.

  “Then you heard wrong,” said Snap.

  BUT THEY DIDN’T have to wait long after all. Dagmarra was back quickly, and the news was neither good nor bad. “He said he’ll give you his answer in the morning. Meanwhile, you bunk down in the wagon and your warriors under it. They won’t be disturbed. I’ll make sure of it.” She took baby Og back into her arms, and he stirred comfortably but never woke.

  So Snail went in, found her old room, lay down on the bed. She heard a snuffling from the floor. The bowser lay curled there, looking ragged and unwashed.

  “I’ll give you a scrub in the morning,” she promised aloud and was immediately rewarded with a loud snore.

  She fell asleep quickly herself and dreamed of the three dead Border Lords in the forest, with Alith beside them. The Border Lords began multiplying, wearing faces she knew and faces she didn’t want to know. Suddenly she found herself in a green meadow where there were three stone cairns, the topmost stone on each carved with a name.

  She moved closer and read them: Alith, Odds, Snail.

  Shivering, she woke up, smelling like Goodspeed after a long gallop.

  I don’t believe in dreams as prophecy, she told herself. But afraid to fall asleep again into that same dream, she got up and opened the door, expecting deepest night.

  It was morning. The encampment was a-bustle with cook-fires and a low hubbub of voices.

  Snail walked around the outside of the wagons until she came to the one which she knew to be the professor’s. Snap and Snaggle were there eating fresh journeycake with the dwarfs. They seemed like old companions now, part of the hule. Snail was surprised that she felt left out.

  “Morning, m’lady,” said Snaggle.

  Snap nodded, his mouth too full for a greeting.

  “Is he in?” Snail asked Thridi.

  “Definitely in but not up,” he replied.

  “Up but not out,” said Dagmarra.

  “Out but not by,” said Snap, having swallowed the journeycake and followed it with a swig of hot cav.

  “Out, out, out!” gurgled baby Og.

  “There!” said Thridi. “I told you he’d get the swing of it.”

  They all laughed, except for Snail.

  “In, in, in!” Og said, trying for another laugh.

  “You’re corrupting him,” Snail said.

  The door of the wagon opened. “Not corrupting,” said Odds. He was in a morning robe that was dotted with twinkling stars. “Teaching him grammar instead of grammary.”

  Snail glared at him.

  “A fine choice if he is to become one of us,” Odds continued.

  “He’s a troll,” Snail said. “Remember—huge and hungry, eats people, turns to stone in the sun.”

&
nbsp; The professor pointed to the sky where a sullen sun sat on the shoulder of Big Sister. “Sun.” He pointed to the baby. “Troll.” Then he smiled. “Not stone.”

  Snail felt her jaw beginning to drop, closed it. How had she not noticed? But she didn’t stop glaring.

  “People can change,” Odds said. “Trolls can change. Countries can change, too.”

  And suddenly Snail knew what to say. “That’s what I’ve come to tell you.” She forced herself to smile.

  Odds opened the door more widely and ushered her into his room.

  15

  ASPEN ON THE ROAD

  With the road clear and no enemies expected until late the next day, Aspen didn’t call the halt until well after the sun went down. They had reached a sparsely treed hilltop with a clear view in all directions, and a lucky full moon that lit the countryside for miles around.

  We are not likely to find a more suitable spot, he thought. Even if he hadn’t noticed how perfect the place was, his soldiers were casting meaningful glances at the ground and occasionally giving exaggerated yawns. They do not dare give advice to their king. No matter how much I may need it.

  “We will make camp here,” he called, watching the soldiers breathe a sigh of relief. “If my soldiers agree.” He picked one at random, an older elf in the muted colors of the Toad Clan. “Does this spot suit you?”

  The old soldier balked for only a moment at being addressed directly by the king, but recovered quickly. Glancing around, he said, “Good sight lines,” then nodded at the few trees and occasional scrubby bushes. “Bit of cover.” He nodded again, even shallower than before. “Suits well, sire.”

  “Then we make camp here,” Aspen said, loud enough for all to hear. He started to dismount, then paused. The Toad Clan soldier was still looking at him. Or rather he is looking at my horse’s left ear and occasionally flicking his eyes in my direction. “Is there more, soldier?”

  The soldier nodded again, so shallow that it was as if he hoped Aspen wouldn’t notice.