Stone Cold

by Rory Ni Coileain

  Yes. I see, I understand, through you. We would not have sent him there had we known. The wind that was Coinneach’s voice faded to the barest whisper. And you are free to go as you will. Coinneach stared at the floor, but this time there was no air of communication about him, no sense that he spoke with his darag. You are likewise free to return. But if the Marfach is still there, we dare not release the last of the timeslip to bring your human home.

  Taking a deep breath, Maelduin released his white-knuckled grip on his sword. Such a grip made a blade useless as anything but a cudgel. “If the Marfach is still there, I will kill it.”

  Conall cleared his throat. “We’ve given that some thought ourselves, a time or two. Legend says it can’t be done, and so far legend’s been a pretty reliable source of information.”

  Maelduin shrugged. “Has anyone tried a bloodsworn sword forged with truesilver?”

  “No.” His uncle’s voice had an edge to it. “And neither can you. Even assuming you don’t kill yourself just drawing the damned thing, it’ll kill you if you use it on the Marfach before you…” Tiernan glanced at his human, who was doing a fair impression of a thundercloud, and subsided.

  “If it does, see that someone brings Terry home.”

  That really is all that matters. Even if I don’t understand why.

  Carefully, Maelduin stepped down from the raised piece of flooring—caught himself in time to keep from flinching as Tiernan stepped forward and took his arm. There was none of the mockery Maelduin expected in Tiernan’s blue-topaz gaze, and only a hint of the eternal calculation of the scian-damhsa. What was his uncle thinking?

  “Where should I go to Fade safely?”

  Conall pointed toward an unfinished doorway, down what might at some point become a corridor. “Go all the way to the back of the studio—get as far away from the wellspring as you can—and you’ll minimize the damage you do to the wellspring.”

  Maelduin hadn’t gone more than a few paces when a sudden insistent warmth clasped his finger. A heavy gold ring, the air around it shimmering with something like heat—a signet ring, carved or cast with the image of a flame. Or was it?

  Conall craned his neck to look at the ring Maelduin held up. “The Croí na Dóthan,” he breathed.

  Heart of Flame. “What is it?” Maelduin stopped short just before running into a bare metal wall support.

  “It’s the Royal signet of our Prince in exile, Rian Aodán. It’s truegold.”

  Heat flared from the ring, as if the metal knew it was being discussed. Which it might; truegold, like the truesilver in Maelduin’s sword, knew its own purpose. It differed from truesilver, though, in that it made up its own mind as to what that purpose was.

  Maelduin recognized the name of the Prince, of course. The tale of the Lost Prince had been a scandal when he had been stolen, and again when he had returned—not that Maelduin had paid much attention. He had had other things with which to concern himself. Even now, the story mattered chiefly because Prince Royal Rian Aodán had been—was—a Fire Royal, a Fire elemental.

  Hope for Terry encircled Maelduin’s finger.

  * * *

  Why can’t I move?

  Actually, he could move. A little. The only things that were frozen to the surface under him were his jeans and one arm of his light jacket. Terry blamed the heavy mist — it had soaked his clothes, and now it was freezing them.

  Maybe the wind was doing that, though. It sure as hell wasn’t helping.

  It had been a while since he’d been able to open his eyes — they were frozen shut, too — so he didn’t bother trying. There wasn’t anything to see, anyway. Just ice, and magick. And the wind had been like knives against his eyeballs anyway, so nope, no point in trying to get another look around.

  Magick.

  Maelduin.

  He was an idiot for hoping the gorgeous Fae would come after him. Certifiable.

  But, then, he’d been an idiot all along. It was just a shame he wasn’t going to get a chance to be the right kind of idiot.

  … sorry…

  * * *

  “I’d channel all the blankets you could carry—I’d channel you a bonfire, if you could carry it.” Conall glanced back over his shoulder, to where the sparking, flaring pattern in the floor, and the dark figure guarding it, were still visible through the partly-finished walls. “But drawing on living magick right now would just make the wellspring worse.”

  Maelduin wished the mage would shut up. He needed to relax, and he needed to concentrate, and neither was possible at the moment. Still, he might need the information Conall was giving him. Know the ground before engaging. “Will it even be safe to bring Terry back through the wellspring?”

  “I wish I could give you a guarantee. But it’s the only way, for a human. Fading requires magick, and even a fully Shared human doesn’t have enough of it to Fade.”

  Kevin cleared his throat. “That’s not quite true. Tiernan Faded me once, accidentally. I lived through it.” His hand sought and found Tiernan’s. “But we don’t know what kind of shape Terry’s in, and we do know that letting the daragin handle the transportation doesn’t damage the wellsprings as much as using living magick around them does.”

  Maelduin was glad his uncle’s mate seemed somewhat less likely to want to murder him out of hand than he had previously. Assuming Maelduin survived to return from Terry’s prison, Tiernan was not likely to need help.

  Unless he and Terry somehow Shared.

  …why can’t I move?

  Not a memory, this time—a whisper, barely a breath, wind and moonlight, cut into his thoughts.

  “Maelduin, how are you going to—”

  Maelduin waved Conall to silence and focused on the whisper.

  … Maelduin…

  Maelduin’s heart kicked painfully in his chest. “I have to go. Now.” He closed his eyes, his magickal sense questing outward, and inward. Seeking the other half of his soul, and the human he would have sought even without it, on the other side of a strange world.

  … sorry…

  Maelduin Faded.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The cold and the wind combined to take Maelduin’s breath away almost before he was solid enough to have any. Even the rapidly spreading warmth from the Royal signet on his finger did little to make it easier to breathe. He was surrounded on all sides by rough walls of ice in every shade of blue, rising perhaps four times his height to a circle of bright cloud-covered sky.

  The scian-damhsa in him saw all this, assessed dangers, prepared defenses. Maelduin saw only the still, ice-limned body lying huddled on a floor of swirling darag magick.

  How did this happen so quickly? He dropped to his knees beside Terry, brushing ice crystals from his face, shivering with the intensity of his relief as mist from one wisp of breath and then another curled from between Terry’s lips to be caught and whirled away by the wind. And the ice melted where his fingers traced; gently he stroked Terry’s eyelids, his mouth.

  Eyelids fluttered, then closed. “Too cold.” Only a Fae could have heard Terry’s whisper. “Le’ me sleep.”

  “No.” Maelduin lay down alongside Terry, wrapping an arm and a leg around him, hoping the warmth of his hands extended to the rest of him. “I will not let you sleep.” The Realm had its cold places, generally visited only by the foolhardy; a Fae died only from mortal wounds or extreme old age, but he could freeze, and wait indefinitely for some other Fae to find him. A few had told their stories… so Maelduin knew that letting Terry fall asleep under present circumstances was a very bad idea.

  “Sleeping.”

  “No.” Maelduin pressed his lips to Terry’s forehead and tightened his grip.

  A few minutes passed, during which Maelduin went from staring intently at Terry’s closed eyes to squinting up into the bright cloud cover, eyes slitted against the icy wind, wondering when the image out of his race’s nightmares would appear. And then Terry began to shake, deep shuddering waves. Maelduin wished
he knew whether this was an improvement. He suspected it wasn’t.

  What can I do?

  Even newly lost in an unfamiliar world, betrayed by his own body, Maelduin had never felt this helpless. He’d never actually been this helpless, because he’d had Terry with him.

  It was more than a matter of getting back what he had lost; Terry gave him more than the missing piece of himself. The warmth, the sweetness of the human’s touch… his own desire to say, to do anything that might make Terry smile… his longing for another’s soaring beauty… none of this had been a part of him in the Realm, when his soul was whole.

  Terry was… more. More than the other half of his own soul.

  And Terry was freezing, despite Maelduin’s embrace.

  I have to do something. Something else.

  Once more, he brushed the ice from Terry’s cheeks, stroked his eyelids. Once again, dark lashes fluttered, stilled.

  “Lán’ghrásta—” Maelduin’s voice broke; he laced his fingers with Terry’s cold ones and held on tightly, willing heat and life back into his human. Willing in vain, as the wind forced its way between their bodies.

  What use was a lifetime of skill, of hard-won grace, against this preternatural cold? Only magick could ransom Terry’s life, magick no Earth Fae possessed.

  Truegold gleamed between the linked fingers of Fae and human.

  Maelduin’s hands shook as he removed the Croí na Dóthan and slipped it onto Terry’s icy finger. Instantly the lash of the wind bit deeper; Maelduin felt as if the air were being drawn from his lungs, and his every gasp for breath left him empty, colder within than without.

  A Fae could ignore the chill, for a while. Maelduin held his shivering human close, and waited.

  * * *

  What do you mean, it’s gone? Gone as in you left it in the shower? Or gone as if it’s gone off gallivanting?

  Rian rolled on top of Cuinn, tangling both their legs in the bedsheets, and held his hand up in front of Cuinn’s face—the hand with a dent around the base of the fourth finger. The Croí na Dóthan goes where it fecking wants to. A fair enough characterization, given that it had followed the infant Prince Royal Rian Aodán from the Realm and had managed not to get itself lost in the twenty-one years it had taken said Prince Royal to realize who he was. And no, it’s not in the shower, I saw it go off just now. Gallivanting, if you like.

  Well, hell. Cuinn grimaced; his bondmate was still growing into the Royalty of which the ring was symbol and token, true, but the signet was a part of Rian’s own personal history as well as his connection with a life he didn’t remember. Can you sense where it’s gone?

  Give me a moment, and I might. Rian closed his eyes, reaching for Cuinn’s hand as he did so.

  Cuinn curled his fingers around Rian’s, lending his bondmate his strength without stopping to think about it, while holding back just enough to avoid distracting him in his search. Being in constant mind-to-mind contact with his almost-human Fae prince was starting to grow on him—although it would have been nice not to have been left with no way to communicate with anyone else unless Rian translated his thoughts into speech.

  Not that he blamed the daragin for what they’d done to him—

  Feckitall. Almost had it. Rian growled, in a way Cuinn found incredibly fetching. I think it went to D.C. But if it did, it’s gone again.

  Care to go track it down?

  Cuinn purely loved Rian’s grin. Think we should put on some clothes first? It was somewhere near Raging Art-On and Big Boy, and we don’t want to go about making promises to the humans we’ve no intention of keeping.

  I’d say you’re no fun, but I’d be lying. Cuinn slid out of bed and reached for the jeans he’d tossed over the bedside chair. Or had his bondmate done that? Seemed more likely.

  By the time he had matters settled to his liking, Rian was already tucked into his skin-tight leather trousers and was shrugging into a vest of the same. Cuinn stifled a groan—at least he could still show his appreciation for his scair-anam’s literally scorching sensuality, the daragin had left him that much. Remind me to spank the Croí when you get it back—there are some things a Fae doesn’t appreciate being dragged away from.

  One thing, in your case at least. Rian’s laughter didn’t help Cuinn’s condition any. The sooner we’re off, the sooner we’re home. Back to their tiny Greenwich Village apartment, all the Royal chambers the two of them needed. Shall we aim for Raging Art-On? The Croí was somewhere near there, at least for a moment or two.

  Cuinn shook his head. It’s early enough that Josh or Terry might still have customers. How about the dance studio? That’ll be empty.

  Good thought. With a wink, Rian Faded.

  Cuinn followed, third and fourth fingers hooked in a surreptitious luck-sign. He knew where they were heading, of course, but his own Fades tended to gravitate toward the strongest source of magick near his destination. Hopefully that was going to be Rian, this time, and not the restless great nexus next door to the studio.

  He hadn’t quite finished taking form when he was swarmed by angry silver-blue sparks like hornets, stinging against his chest and arms. What the particular fuck? He raised a hand to channel a ward—

  —but then he saw where he was, and lowered his hand with another hasty, silent curse. Channeling Loremaster-level magick in an angry wellspring was as far from a good idea as he could imagine, and his imagination was excellent. Especially when the magick-well was probably pissed precisely because he’d landed in the middle of it.

  Slaidar-mhor.

  The leaf-whisper language of the daragin and the Gille Dubh calling him the “Great Thief” was not what Cuinn wanted to hear at the moment, and under the circumstances Coinneach’s frowning face wasn’t high on his list of favorite sights, either. Several sarcastic responses came to mind, but he resolutely ignored all of them. One never knew what the Gille Dubh might hold against the Fae race as a whole, and he personally was running out of faculties he could spare in the event Coinneach took offense at a stray—or not so stray—thought.

  Slowly the flock of silver-blue shards settled back into the web of the new wellspring, flaring when they touched—Cuinn was almost willing to swear he heard them sizzle. Untethered living magick—they’d seen it at the wellspring next to the nexus, but not at the other ones. Fuck. He drew a deep, unsteady breath as the last of the magick disappeared back into the lines of the wellspring, unable to escape the feeling he’d just dodged a bullet.

  Now all he had to do was dodge a lightning strike, a lightning strike named Coinneach—

  We need to speak with you, Loremaster.

  So much for dodging. Yet Coinneach didn’t seem angry, just pensive. Looking from the floor to Cuinn to someplace off in the distance, as if listening to a wind only he could hear. Which he probably was.

  Trying to sneak off was probably a bad idea. But so was interrupting the Gille Dubh’s communion with his darag. Of course, so was not having any clue how a wellspring had turned up in the middle of a half-built dance studio, and not knowing where Rian had landed. And so was ignoring a summons to conversation with the entities who had taken his voice.

  Cuinn cleared his throat—which was purely unnecessary to mental conversation, but some habits were hard to break. Can it wait? I seem to be missing my scair-anam, and I think he needs to see what’s going on here.

  He is near. But we must speak first.

  For the first time, Cuinn noticed that darkness had fallen around the wellspring. Some magick of the tree folk, probably, since the wellspring wasn’t throwing a fit. And he himself couldn’t do a fucking thing in response, not without risking blowing up the wellspring under his feet.

  Although he knew someone who could, and probably would. I hope whatever you want to talk about is worth having a pissed-off fire elemental waiting on the other side when you drop this channeling, with the instincts of an arsonist and all the patience characteristic of his kind.

  Coinneach laughed—a genuine, thoughtful
chuckle, not a mocking dance of moonlight on leaves. I think it is. Perhaps even your scair-anam might find it so.

  I’m willing to listen. Especially being as short on other options as he was. But you might want to tell me what’s on your mind before it starts getting hot in here.

  Our minds. The Gille Dubh’s smile faded, but didn’t go away entirely. We were wrong about you. I was wrong about you.

  Cuinn blinked. Me personally?

  Yes. All the slaid—all the Fae of Purgatory. But you in particular.

  There was a chance, a nonzero chance, that the world might be ending. Prudently, Cuinn kept that thought to himself. Seriously?

  I saw what you sought to save us from in the Sundering.

  Íosa, Muire agus Iósaef. The gods were Rian’s, as was the exclamation, but the exclamation, at least, was catching. He’d tried in vain, millennia ago, to explain the Marfach to the tree folk, and his failure to do so had all but killed two races. How did you—why did you—

  My darag had thought to shield me from seeing, but when he showed Terry, I also saw.

  When it—wait, Terry? Cuinn held up a hand. Terry as in the gorgeous dancer who’s so bad at relationships he could almost be a Fae? That Terry?

  I believe so, yes. Unless there is another Terry.

  You were showing Terry the Marfach? Why?

  There will be time for that tale later, if Maelduin is able to bring him back.

  Maelduin? Someone had apparently let a razorwing loose in Cuinn’s gut. The feeling was unpleasant in the extreme. Almost as unpleasant as the thought of Tiernan’s vengeful nephew having found his way to the next world over, and being mixed up with Josh and Bryce’s ex. Back from where?

  Others will answer your questions soon. No one else, though, can say what I must. Coinneach squared his shoulders, showing off—inadvertently, Cuinn guessed—a hard-muscled physique that would undoubtedly prove a sore distraction to any Fae not scair’ain’e. You did what you could to save us—not just the Gille Dubh and the daragin, but all the folk of two worlds. And the Fae… I have seen, you are not as you once were.