by Dani Harper
Caris’s stomach lurched, but she dared not show any reaction. Nor did she dare interrupt the vibration of the strings beneath the press of her fingers and the glide of her bow.
“Animal skins are useful, of course,” he continued. “Human skin is another matter. It’s far too flimsy to be made into saddles or boots. Shall I have soft cushions covered with them? Perhaps make them into fine clothing?” His eyes narrowed. “You hold their fates in your hands. Play from your mortal heart, now.”
She couldn’t stall him any longer, could buy no more time. Caris slid skillfully from the song she’d been playing into “Dacw ’Nghariad.” It was an old Welsh folk song, a sweet lover’s tune, but she made it a bold anthem as she faced Maelgwn. He grunted in satisfaction as she poured her heart into the notes without further bidding. In her mind, she sang the words:
Away is my sweetheart, down in the orchard
Oh how I wish I could be there myself . . .
Here is my harp and here are my strings
Who am I without him to play my songs to?
She watched the prince take up his position before the brazier and begin chanting once again. What am I going to do? She knew her music was strengthening him and energizing his spell, the very thing she’d sought to avoid. When should she play the songs that Ranyon had so carefully taught her? He’d told her to wait until help reached her—but as yet, she saw no sign.
She allowed herself to dance a little as she played the song over again, thinking of Liam the entire time. I’ll wait in the shade until my love comes . . . Caris twirled near the stony lip of the plateau and bent low . . .
She was so astonished by what she saw, she nearly stopped playing. There was Liam himself, perched on a small rocky ledge on the steep hillside just below her—with a fiddle in his hand.
He grinned as Caris’s eyes widened in surprise. She brilliantly managed to render her tune without missing a beat, even as she risked a glance over her shoulder to where Maelgwn was shouting words at the Way in a language Liam didn’t recognize.
She looked back at Liam. “’Tis time for Ranyon’s songs. Can you follow me?” she whispered.
He nodded and tucked the fiddle beneath his jaw—and he could swear both heart and soul jerked as if electrified into life. There was no time to practice, no time to find out if he could still play. Everything he cared about was on the line. Knowing Caris had been the last one to touch the bow, he kissed it quick for luck. And hoped like hell that the ellyll knew what he was doing.
Liam’s own plan had been simple: bring his rifle to bear, take out Maelgwn, and whisk Caris off the summit with Dodge. The ellyll had had to explain twice over exactly why that would not work. Apparently fae princes weren’t that easy to get rid of with human weapons. In fact, even an Apache helicopter with laser-guided missiles might not do the job. So Liam had agreed to Ranyon’s scheme even though he didn’t understand it in the least. But the little guy hadn’t been wrong yet.
His back against the rocky hillside, Liam held the bow poised and waiting, ready to jump into whatever song Caris played next. He glanced down only once. It wasn’t a cliff, but it was the next thing to it—the steepest side of the entire hill. The good part was if he fell, he wouldn’t roll all the way to the bottom. The bad part? It would be a toss-up as to whether the jutting rocks would break his fall or the narrow strip of road even further below. Either way, it would definitely leave a mark . . .
There! Caris had launched into something Celtic, and he listened intently for a moment, then drew the bow long over the strings, the sound strong and true. He followed her lead, every sense he possessed straining to hear, to anticipate. Caris fed him the notes, and he picked them up, scarcely a heartbeat behind her, his tune an underlying counterpoint to her song. By the second verse he was improvising, and by the third they took turns leading.
He could still hear Maelgwn’s voice, and it seemed to him there was a note of desperation in it. Was he already feeling the shift in the music, or was it the strain of the task he’d undertaken? Just keep on chanting, asshole, Liam thought. Ranyon had said that the words to a spell could not be interrupted. When it was done, however, all hell would surely break loose.
Lurien, his hunters, and every last Cŵn Annwn from his kennels, emerged onto a grassy slope. Like all the hills at this time of year, it was dried and golden, the color of a lion’s pelt. He scanned the tawny landscape until he spotted Steptoe Butte looming higher than the surrounding hills—and he cursed when he saw the glittering black tear hovering at the edge of its summit. How in Hades was he going to get there in time without a mount?
“Lord Lurien?” It was Trahern. “The hunters I left here, Emrys and Heulog—they’ve got something you’ll want to see.”
What else is wrong? he wondered, but followed Trahern around the curve of the hillside. The men in question stood in a swale between the hills. And with them was a large herd of tall, heavily muscled creatures with great sweeping antlers. The humans called them elk.
For the first time since the attack on Gwenhidw, Lurien smiled. “It would seem that Arthfael himself is watching over us.” The king had always preferred his great gray stag, Hydd, to any fae horse.
“Collect the hounds and keep them silent,” he ordered. “Every man mount up and follow me. Don’t sound the horn until my signal.”
The twilight had faded to full dark, and the glowing rim of the Great Way was vivid against the night sky. The portal’s shape now resembled a half-moon—and remained so, despite all of Maelgwn’s efforts. He faltered slightly, struggling to continue the spell. He was weak and dizzy, and for the first time he wondered if he’d miscalculated just how much power was needed to seal the Great Way. He could see more and more anghenfilod gathering near the entrance he was trying so hard to close—and they seemed agitated. Undoubtedly it was the immense volume of magic he was wielding that was attracting them. Shouldn’t the Wild Hunt have galloped into the shining passage by now? Where were all the indignant fae seeking vengeance for their dead queen? They should have been racing by the hundreds down the throat of the Great Way. He’d promised the Anghenfilod a fine feast, and then they would be free to spill out into the Nine Realms to hunt at will.
Instead, several more of the featureless creatures appeared—and some were poking dark appendages through the glittering aperture.
If only he could get the twice-cursed way shut.
At least there was no more pain from the stones or the breastplate. A small voice in the back of his mind suggested it was because the flesh beneath it had been burned away, and he hushed it immediately. Dizzy or not, weak or not, burned or not, he would continue the spell. Another thought occurred: the little mortal . . .
He’d obviously been successful in frightening her, as her music had burst from her with unfettered power ever since. Who knew but that it was the real reason his pain had stopped? Yet . . . Surely it sounded as if there was a pair of fiddles, not one. No doubt a trick of his hearing, considering the state he was in, or the sound was being affected by the magic it contained. He shook his head and doggedly continued to recite the ancient words, though the Great Way gave no appearance of closing any further.
That’s when it occurred to him that there was an unusual tone to the woman’s now-passionate songs, a resonance, a repeating cadence that . . . The little witch is stealing my power! The realization shot through him like lightning. His increasing weakness was not because of the difficulty of his task but because her music was draining his magic away!
Blinded by temper, he abandoned the spell and took a step in the human’s direction, freeing the light whip at his side with a single smooth movement. Tiny blue-tinged fingerlets of energy crackled along its length, a far cry from the streamers of raw lightning he had once called down. Knowing he had so little power left planted a cold thread of fear within him, and his rage immediately swelled to cover it. I require no magic to
wield this weapon! The snap and bite of leather could still remove tender flesh from mortal bone.
“Stop playing,” he hissed, and took another step.
The woman was afraid, but she refused to heed. She jutted her chin and drew her bow ever more fiercely. He could feel his energies ebbing, like water leaving a cracked bowl—and for the first time he clearly heard a countering tune, an undercurrent of supporting notes, from somewhere nearby.
Another ffidil! He had not been mistaken after all. Maelgwn had already lifted his hand to strike her, but now a different tactic was called for. He lowered his arm as if he’d changed his mind—then snaked the whip out sideways. It caught her full around the waist and the prince yanked her to him. His free hand gripped her by the throat and shook her until both instrument and bow dropped to the ground. All he had to do now was wait . . .
Pressed tightly against him, Caris’s fingers clawed at the prince’s gloved hand around her neck, and she kicked back at him with her feet. Through her thin clothing, she could feel the unyielding breastplate beneath his garb—and the fiery heat from it shocked her. It was like being held against a hot stove, and she fought harder to free herself. The prince stood perfectly still, however, unmindful of her struggles as if focused elsewhere. He’s waiting for something. That’s when Caris realized that all was quiet save the prince’s harsh breathing. She seized Maelgwn’s thumb with both hands and bent it away.
“Liam!” she screamed. “Don’t stop play—”
The prince’s hand closed like an iron trap. As she thrashed and choked, she turned one wild eye toward the edge of the hillside, terrified that Liam would climb up where Maelgwn waited with his whip ready. But even as her vision began to darken, there was no sign.
A flurry of notes sounded from far behind them, and the prince whirled to face it. The movement and the distraction loosened his fingers just enough to let Caris draw a shallow, desperate breath. The bluish glow from the Great Way suddenly illuminated Liam as he emerged from the darkness, drawing one of Ranyon’s songs from his gleaming fiddle.
“Let her go!” he commanded, his bow arm never slowing. The tune was sprouting new branches here and there, new leaves and buds in the form of flourishes and grace notes that lingered as if suspended in the night air. Rather than diminishing the song’s effects, they seemed to strengthen them.
Caris felt Maelgwn shudder, and without warning, his fingers released her as if he couldn’t hold her up any longer—or because he was desperate to conserve his strength. She dropped to her knees gasping as the fae prince stalked toward Liam. The whip was no longer alive with energy, yet it was coiled and dangerous just the same. She wanted to shout a warning but could coax no sound from her throat.
His magic might be gone, but Maelgwn no longer cared. He was running on white-hot rage now, and he was still physically stronger than any foolish mortal. He would enjoy killing this one—right after he destroyed the cursed ffidil. In a blur of motion, the leather struck out like a viper, but his aim was off and he missed the instrument. The results were still rewarding however, as the whip laid open the man’s face from temple to jaw. Blood—that strange bright scarlet that separated human from fae—rushed from the wound, but though he reeled from the blow, the mortal would not stop playing! His intense blue gaze was locked on Maelgwn like a warth who had singled out his prey, and every pull of his relentless bow was like a punch. The blood ran freely over the fiddle—and Maelgwn realized with horror that it was fueling the already-powerful magic of the song.
He had just added oil to flame.
Desperation collided with madness. A wildness overcame the prince, and he tore his robe away from his body, revealing the shining silver cuirass set with glowing stones. Advancing on the mortal, who stubbornly held his ground, Maelgwn raised the whip again.
The blow didn’t fall. Instead, an enormous goat materialized out of nowhere and knocked the prince to the ground. Before he could recover, the beast rammed him again, kicked him in the face twice, then bounded away as its diminutive rider made an insolent sign with long twiggy fingers. Both vanished as abruptly as they’d appeared.
Wheezing and winded, Maelgwn nearly choked on his own anger even as he fought his way to his feet. He would not be beaten by such inferior beings! Yet the unrelenting song was still beating at his brain, still dealing blow after invisible blow . . . And the prince realized for the first time that if he didn’t stop this musician, he would lose more than his magic. His very life essence would follow it.
“Maelgwn of the House of Ash!”
The voice from behind him caused him to freeze in place. He knew it—every fae creature knew it—but it wasn’t possible. Slowly he turned and found himself face to face with a ghost: Queen Gwenhidw of the Nine Realms, Brenhines of the Faery Kingdom dan Cymru. Her long hair fanned out behind her like a cape, her shining robes fluttered as if by phantom wind, her iridescent eyes were as flames as her gaze locked on his, and she held the sword of her ancestors before her.
“I killed you,” he spat out.
“I live,” she said. “And so will my kingdom.”
With an incoherent roar, he slashed at her with the whip. The sword caught the blow and a withering blast of magic traveled up the leather and staggered Maelgwn, buckling his knees until he dropped the weapon and fell to the ground. The image of Gwenhidw, however, abruptly wavered and faded to reveal Rhedyn standing defiantly before him.
“How dare you betray me!” he shouted. Still on his knees, he sought the light whip, spotting it just out of arm’s reach.
A slender and delicate foot, fair of skin and perfect of form, placed itself firmly upon the fallen whip before his fingers could seize it. “It is you who are the betrayer.”
The prince looked up at the white-robed figure, his face contorted by hatred. He would feed this woman to the Anghenfilod a piece at a time . . . “Think you to deceive me a second time?”
“Think you to rob my people of their future?”
Maelgwn had only a heartbeat in which to glance back and see that Rhedyn had not moved in the least. He looked up just in time to recognize the true queen—and the shining silver sword that was already descending from its high arc.
The blade passed through his body from neck to hip, sundering it and the silver breastplate like paper.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gwenhidw wanted nothing more than to put some distance between her and what she had been constrained to do, but she hadn’t gone many steps before her knees wobbled and she sank to the ground, physically and emotionally spent.
Rhedyn dove at once to catch her. “Your Grace, are you all right?” she asked, cradling her in her arms. “Tell me what to do for you!”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she was just tired and not to worry . . . but as the queen looked up at the fae woman’s anxious face, she saw the glint of steel against the night sky above them.
Before she could react, the clash of swords rang directly overhead. And then there was silence, save for a single heartfelt curse from a familiar voice. Gwenhidw quickly put her palms together for a moment and opened them like a book. The small sphere of light that rested in her hands revealed the Lord of the Wild Hunt, his sword blocking the downstroke of another fae’s weapon. Lurien also held a dagger that was currently buried to the hilt in the heart of the queen’s would-be attacker. Lurien shoved the heavy body away from him and knelt at her side.
“Are you saving me yet again, Lurien?”
“I cannot seem to help myself, my queen. Are you hurt?” He glared at Rhedyn suspiciously. “There is blood all over your gown.”
“It is the prince’s, not mine,” said Gwenhidw. “I am simply resting before I undertake my next task.”
He digested that for a long moment. “I truly fear to ask what you have planned.”
“Why, I must negotiate with the Anghenfilod, of course. The Great Way cannot be l
eft open here, and we have not the power ourselves to close it. I believe the creatures of the Inbetween can do so. Besides, it is long past time we made peace with them.”
She could see his jaw clench as she smiled up at him—and was that a slight twitch at the corner of his eye? Truly, she never tired of surprising her llaw dde.
“We will speak of it after you rest, Your Grace,” he said with great effort.
She didn’t doubt that there would be a great deal of speaking, mostly on his part as he attempted to dissuade her. She looked forward to it. “I assume the rest of Maelgwn’s followers have fled the hill?” she asked.
Lurien nodded. “I have set six men to watch over you here. I must return to the Hunt.”
A great antlered creature emerged from the shadows. As Lurien mounted the great stag, Gwenhidw’s heart leapt and broke between one beat and the next.
For an instant, he was the very image of her Arthfael . . .
Caris savored the haven of Liam’s arms as long as she dared. Then she made him sit on the ground so she could take a better look at his face. The glow of the Great Way revealed that his left eye was swollen shut, and the long gash across that side of his face had covered the front of his shirt with gore. “Duw annwyl, you’re a proper mess,” she said, pulling off her outer shirt and tearing a sleeve from it. Wadding it up, she pressed the cloth gently against the wound, and he obligingly placed his palm on it to hold it in place. “Now, whatever has happened to your leg?”
His right leg was a dark crimson mass of shredded blue jeans and deep, ugly bite marks. “One of those damn grims got me,” he said. “Everybody woke up when the queen finished off Maelgwn—his followers, the horses, the dogs—and they were in a helluva panic to get off this hill. I was headed in your direction when a couple of the fae ran right into me and knocked me down. And then a grim chewed the frickin’ daylights out of me until a goddamn elk charged by and scared him off.”