by Jane Yolen
Edging back to the center of the bowser, she knew she had to trust Snaggle, Snap, Dagmarra, Thridi, and Maggie Light to do as Odds had promised.
She wasn’t sure she trusted the professor at all.
19
ASPEN MAKES A NAME FOR HIMSELF
Aspen crawled through the rocks behind Snarl, silently cursing every sharp pebble that scraped his palms or bruised his knees or found its way down his breeches.
The indignity alone would have killed me not too long ago.
The Wolf Clan warrior was wearing a cloak with reeds and grasses woven right into it so that he’d look a part of the ground. He stopped suddenly and motioned Aspen to him with the smallest of waves.
“There, sire,” Snarl breathed, barely audible, even with his mouth nearly touching Aspen’s ear. He pointed toward a group of rocks on the far side of the stream.
“Where?” Aspen said.
“The rocks, sire. Watch them.”
It took a few moments, and he certainly wouldn’t have noticed if Snarl hadn’t pointed it out, but the rocks were moving. And they weren’t rocks.
“A dozen of them, sire.”
Now that he knew what they were, the rocks resolved into a dozen figures making their own way through the actual rocks on their bellies much like he and Snarl had just done. The moat troll waited at the top of the broken ground, ordered to stay still. He certainly couldn’t sneak, but if he kept still, he looked much like one of the boulders strewn about.
“There is none else, yet,” Bite said into Aspen’s other ear, startling him.
Aspen kept his teeth gritted. A jump by me would spoil the ambush . . . just a bit.
“A long-run scouting party,” Bite continued, “well in advance of the others.”
“They’ll be fast, sire,” Snarl said. “And we weren’t in position quickly enough to see their approach.”
“What does that mean?” Aspen said.
“They may have already seen an empty fire.”
“Why would they come on, then?” For they were definitely still coming forward. Slowly, oh so slowly. But coming nonetheless. “Why not report back immediately?”
“One empty fire is a curiosity. They’ll want to know more before they report.”
“If any escape . . .” Aspen said.
“Bite and I will work our way round behind them to keep that from happening,” Snarl said. “If it pleases you, sire,” he added after a moment.
Probably hard to remember I am the king when we are all facedown in the mud.
Aspen nodded. “Go.”
Bite pulled the hood of his cloak up and disappeared as if he’d never been there. Snarl, only slightly more visible in grey-and-black-spattered leathers, crawled off after him. Neither made any sound.
Aspen realized belatedly that they had chosen no signal for when the Wolf brothers were in position and he should attack. He looked at the advance scouts crawling toward the stream. They were close enough that he could now see the broad shoulders and kilts of the Borderers, the ragged fur on the backs of the much smaller bogles.
I need to attack before they see another empty fire. Like Snarl said, one is a curiosity. He shook his head. Even one is too many. I cannot have any doubt enter Jack Daw’s mind.
They were almost to the stream, and signal or no, he had to attack now.
And I am done with crawling.
He stood and gathered the flame to him, trying to think only of what was at stake. Why he needed to do what he was about to do.
Think of Snail. Think of your mother. Think of all the Seelie peoples who are counting on you to save them from the horrors of an Unseelie invasion.
Instead, all he could think about was the Battle of Bogborough and all the foes—and some friends—who had died horribly by his hand.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly to the scouts, who were just now looking up at him, eyes reflecting the red glow of the regal flame.
Then the fire rained down on them and their eyes shut forever.
“OH, THAT WAS well done, sire!”
“Not a one escaped, Your Majesty!”
“I’ve never seen the like. Sire?”
“Your Majesty?”
“Is he . . . weeping?”
Aspen’s eyes cleared, and he saw that Snarl and Bite were there again, upright this time. The moat troll was there as well, looking at Aspen with concern in his giant yellow eyes. He had no memory of any of them arriving.
I only remember fire.
Shaking the tears from his eyes, he somehow found his voice. “Find me sooner next time.” He wanted to say more, thank them for their dangerous work, tell them he never meant to be short with them but that he was having a bit of a hard day. He was afraid, though, that if he spoke, he would start crying again and never stop.
He turned and walked back up the hill, the moat troll lumbering behind.
ASPEN WAS CALLED on six more times that night. Snarl and Bite had obviously spread the word to the other scouts, and each time he was able to make contact with the enemy well beyond the stream. They had no chance to see any empty fires, and since they were scouts, more interested in acquiring information than doing battle with the king of the fey, Aspen was able to drive most of them off instead of slaughtering them. Still, he killed five more Unseelie before they stopped coming.
He wept for each one.
As he lay by the fire, wishing now he hadn’t given his cloak to Mishrath, he heard one of the soldiers—he was too tired to identify which one—whisper to another, “The Crying King.”
It did not sound like an insult. The whispers were passed from soldier to soldier in awed tones, until Aspen heard Croak’s voice.
“No,” Croak said. “He is the Weeping Warrior.”
The soldiers muttered their consent, and that was that. The reign of King Ailenbran, the Weeping Warrior, had begun.
I hope it is not too short a reign, Aspen thought as he closed his eyes. Moments later, or so it seemed, Molintien was shaking him awake.
“It is almost sunrise, sire,” she said. “And Mishrath says he is ready.”
“You told him what we need?”
She shook her head. “He knew already.”
Aspen was unsurprised that Mishrath had figured out his plan. It only matters that Old Jack Daw does not, he thought to himself.
Aloud he only thanked Molintien and looked across the fire at Mishrath, who was sitting up with a cup of something steaming in his hands.
“Are you truly ready, wizard?”
Mishrath adjusted his grey hat, nodded, then held his drink up to Aspen in salute. “By sunrise,” he said, “this hill will seem to hold the greatest host the Seelie have ever assembled. And at my death, the illusion will take hold until you need it no more.” He took a sip from the cup. “Or at least it should. And that needing it no more . . . may mean when you are dead or when the battle is won or lost or . . .” The old wizard took a deep breath. But before he could add what else might threaten the illusion, Alicanson, the young House of the Poppy soldier, ran into the firelight.
“They come,” the boy said breathlessly.
Aspen hoisted himself to his feet, feeling pain in nearly every part of his body. “How many this time?” he asked, hoping for a small group. They were easier to drive off. The bigger groups tended to have at least one overly brave warrior who would charge and end up dead.
“Thousands!”
“Oh,” Aspen said. He turned to Mishrath. “I will have that army now, if it please you.”
Old Jack Daw had finally arrived.
20
SNAIL RIDES THE WIND
Once again Snail settled herself on the bowser’s back. She could tell they were heading south and west, which made sense. But did the bowser really know where they were going? Even if she asked, she knew she’d
get no answer. She simply had to trust him as she had to trust Snaggle and Snap and the rest.
At least, she told herself, I can relax a bit and enjoy the ride. There was nothing else she could do till they got to Astaeri Palace.
Peering carefully over the edge of the bowser into the fading light, she saw they were passing over a river that coiled like a serpent, then a series of three meadows, and at last they sailed over the top of Little Sister, which looked rather fiercer this close, its rock face jagged with intricately balanced stones.
There was an eagle banking to one side of them, which then circled back around to check them out. Snail could see its yellow eyes assessing both rug and rider, as if measuring them for food, before it turned sharply and dove down. Next time she spotted it, the eagle was coursing along a narrow meadow that was shaped like a hammer. Suddenly the bird swooped down, landing on its prey.
The bowser, too, was now banking, and Snail had to grab on more tightly.
Even in the coming darkness, she could see in the distance the outline of the palace alight with hundreds of candles. So the bowser did know where they were heading.
She grinned. “Good boy,” she whispered.
Suddenly a different fire caught her eye. A blaze of light was shining far to the west. She squinted hard, leaning dangerously over the bowser’s left side.
No—not a single light but many blazes.
She knew what that had to mean. The Unseelie horde was camping not more than a day’s march, two at best, from the palace.
For a moment she considered going closer, scouting the size and weight of the army for Aspen. Then she realized what danger that might put her in. An arrow or a catapult could easily bring her down, and then how would she tell him what she knew? Dead scouts can’t report.
The bowser, not part of her inner conversation, simply headed now for the palace. Snail knew they wouldn’t get there until well after dark, but at least the candlelight would show them the way.
“Faster!” she hissed into the bowser’s fur. “Faster! We have to warn Aspen. He needs to know it will be several days before the human reinforcements can make it to Astaeri. Somehow, we have to find something to hold off that horde.
“But the changelings,” she shouted into the thin air, “the humans and their iron monsters are on their way! They are on their way!”
The bowser must have understood what she was saying, for it put on an extra burst of speed.
That speed called up a fiercer wind, which hit Snail with such cold power, she was afraid she would faint. Trying to snuggle deeper into the bowser’s fur, she glared down at his back as if that alone would let him know that nothing—not even being turned into a snow fiend, one of those creatures of northern legends—would stop her from telling the king that she’d successfully carried out her mission.
She could feel droplets of ice forming at the corners of her eyes, told herself she was being fanciful, worried she was not. Then, just as she just closed her eyes, the bowser dropped so precipitously, her legs flailed behind her in the air, and she was frightened she might pull out hanks of his hair and be set whirling into the wind on her own.
But his hair—like her hands—was well anchored. They sped along the lower lanes of sky, sometimes barely over the treetops. She warmed up enough to open her eyes just in time to see the palace lights rushing toward them at such a fast pace, her newest worry was whether the bowser would stop in time.
SNAIL HAD NO idea how long the whole ride had taken them, but the moon stood above Astaeri like a round lantern. From gripping so hard in the cold wind, she could barely feel her fingers. But when the bowser settled into a long, slow glide, she lay more fully against him, and they rode down as one being until he landed on the Queen’s Walk, which ran around the top allure of the castle.
The actual landing happened so quickly, she had the breath knocked out of her and had to lie on the bowser for a moment simply to catch it again. But now that they were out of the wind, she was measurably warmer.
After a bit, she could even feel her fingers.
Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she patted the bowser. “Well done, golden one. Wait here till I tell the king. Then I will come for you, and you will lie in state, be bathed in warm water and admired by all.”
That should hold him for a while, she thought.
Then she found the door to the stairs and hurried down.
She was surprised at how quiet the palace was, and even more surprised that she passed no one along the way. Normally a palace is a noisy place, even in the fullness of night: servants, guards, footmen, ladies in all sorts of waiting, cleaners, pot boys, servers, cooks would be awake and busy. It was said in the Unseelie Court that “the king’s castle never sleeps.” And even in the smaller Astaeri Palace, with few enough people left, she could always hear movement outside her bedroom as she tried to fall asleep.
In fact, going down the three flights of stairs, she met not a single soul, which was odd and a bit frightening. She wondered if everyone had fled.
But if they have, she told herself, who was it lit all the candles? And where is Aspen?
When she turned into the throne room, only Balnar and the queen were there, conferring at a long table. As Snail came closer, she realized they were looking at a series of maps.
As always, Balnar was in an impeccable black tunic with silver buttons, and black hose. His storm-cloud-colored hair was carefully brushed back and tied with a dark bow, and on his shoulder was a golden bar pin from which hung medals.
Well, Snail thought, the bar and medals are new.
The buckles on Balnar’s shoes were silver and so well shined, a courtier could see his face in them.
If—Snail thought—anyone wanted to bend over that far.
The queen, too, was impeccable in a dress so full of mourning black lace and flounces, it was hard to realize how thin she was beneath all the puffery.
“Here!” the queen was saying, stabbing her finger at a place on the largest map.
Balnar’s nose was almost right at the spot she was pointing to, and for the first time Snail realized that he was probably half-blind with age.
“Where is Aspen?” Snail said.
The two jumped and spun around. Obviously, they hadn’t heard her come in, so engrossed with the maps. “I have news for him.”
“Gone,” the queen said solemnly.
“Gone?” Snail felt the shock of it in her chest. “How can he be gone? How did he die? How could I not have known it here?” She touched a hand to her chest, feeling as if once again she’d had the wind knocked out of her. Wind she’d never be able to get back.
She glared at the queen.
“Oh, my dear,” the queen said, coming quickly to her side. “Not dead. But gone with a small . . . um . . . force to try and give you time to . . . um . . .” She put her hands on Snail’s shoulders.
The queen had never seemed flustered before, and Snail wondered what it meant.
“Then who is guarding Astaeri?”
The queen turned to Balnar, who had the grace to look at his feet. “Why, we are,” she said. “Along with a loyal force of six soldiers, seven underage pot boys, three ladies-in-waiting, several counselors, a cook, and the royal smith. The smith has a bad leg and can’t walk far. He has made us weapons, and we have practiced barring the gates at a moment’s notice.”
“And the rest . . . ?” Snail asked.
“Ah, well, the rest have fled, to the north, and the mountains. I fear they will find no comfort there.”
“My queen, perhaps you have forgotten the three house brownies, the hedge witch, the farmwives, and their young children from the outlying towns getting in what harvest they can. Oh, and the woman in white, ma’am,” said Balnar, adding as an aside to Snail, “the upstairs ghost. Though I suppose she will do nothing but weep. That is what she does, yo
u know.”
Snail had once caught a glimpse of the woman in white, and indeed that was all she did, that and wring her transparent hands.
“Madam,” Snail said, using her best court language, which felt like pebbles in her mouth, “the regiment of humans will be a few days yet getting here. They are walking and riding. Mostly walking.” She took a deep breath and added in a rush, sounding more like the old Snail, “I flew. There’s a huge camp of Unseelie troops a day’s pace, possibly two, from here.”
“You fly?” The queen looked puzzled. “I was not informed you had wings. Nor have I ever seen any.” She gave Balnar a quick look.
He shrugged back. “The bowser, ma’am, the animate rug. Your son and the . . . m’lady . . . made their escape from the Great Battle on its back, arriving here when you were . . . discommoded.”
Discommoded. Snail almost snorted. Balnar meant the time that the queen had been in the dungeon, sent there by her own husband for letting their son escape. She is, Snail knew, a tough woman, for all the lace, ruffles, and trimmings.
Snail explained further. “The bowser had fled back to the human encampment, madam, where I found him again and persuaded him to bring me here with the news for the king that the humans had agreed wholeheartedly to fight for the Seelie cause.” It was a long sentence, with a bit of a lie embedded in it, and she felt every word of it like the knell of a death bell, when all she really wanted to do was speak to Aspen and tell him everything that had happened straight out. So they could laugh at it, make fun of it, make sense of it.
Then she added, “Where is he? I can fly to him and . . .”
“We will fly together,” the queen said.
“Madam . . .”
“Ma’am!”
“The queen needs to stay in the palace,” Snail said, glaring at Balnar.
In response, Balnar said, agreeing, “The queen is still too frail to go gallivanting about on a flying carpet.”
The queen drew herself to her full height, which in fey terms was not high at all.