Knight's Blood

by Julianne Lee

  But then when the changeling had come...

  It was a little faerie man. Or an elf. Leprechaun or brownie, perhaps; it was hard to tell sometimes with those folk. Filthy and evil, and lying there in the crib with a terrible grin on his face as if it were a huge joke on her. She’d caught the creature by the throat where he lay and shook him. His eyes bugged out with fear, and that fed her anger. She demanded to know where her son was, and the thing in her hands pointed to his throat. He was choking. She let up just enough for him to gasp for air, and growled at him that he should comply with her request or be strangled.

  He said, “Search the past, for he has died there. In the place of his conception. He’s returned home.”

  “Why?” Died? In the past? “When? Who killed him?” She could go there and stop it.

  “‘Twas his fate.” The faerie in her hands grinned. “And yours.” Then he laughed. Shrill and manic, his laughter cut to her core.

  Outraged, she strangled the creature, throwing the dust of death every which way and leaving her with nothing but an empty crib and a photograph of the child with deformed ears. Perhaps it had been a bad idea not to take him prisoner and bring him with her, but to see that... thing where her baby should have been was too horrifying. Too evil. She’d not been able to countenance letting him live in place of her baby for even a moment.

  After that, memory grew a little fuzzy. All she could think of in her rage and grief was that she must find Nemed and make him give back her child, then kill him so the boy would be safe. Now she was close to her goal. Nemed was here somewhere. She would find him, make him give back her son, then kill the elf.

  Now she opened her eyes to continue her search and thought of how upset Alex would be when he learned of the ears. Those ears. God knew where they’d come from. A spell? What had Nemed done? Was the child even Alex’s genetically? And if not, then how had she conceived? She was not conversant with the ins and outs of fey magic; she imagined anything was possible. If Nemed did this to her — destroyed her marriage to Alex — for that alone he should die. He certainly would once she caught up with him.

  Finally she found herself in the room she sought. This was the place; she was sure. But no Nemed. It figured. Cowardly wanker. She set her bag on the dirt floor that sloped to the middle like most earthen floors packed hard by the feet of occupants. Off in the corner was the secluded spot where they’d seen Nemed before, but though she peered into it she couldn’t discern any presence. That meant little, for she knew the lack of light made for deceptions she couldn’t penetrate.

  She pulled open the zipper of her bag and took the rolled elastic bandage from it. Quickly she unbuttoned her blouse and removed it, pulled off her bra, then wrapped the wide bandage around her breasts to press them flat. Or, at least, as flat as she could get them just then. Her teeth clamped to her lower lip at the pain of binding breasts filled with milk, and her heart broke that it would go away soon unless she could find her son very quickly. It was already dwindling; her breasts had been rock hard at first but now seemed only heavy. The milk would keep coming if she expressed it, but that wouldn’t be possible, nor even a good idea, where she was going. Anyone there who saw she was lactating would expect her to hire out as a wet nurse, and as a woman there would be no freedom of movement to look for the elf. No, she had to return to the guise of Sir Lindsay Pawlowski, in search of his nephew, the child of Sir Alasdair and Marilyn MacNeil of Eilean Aonarach. Lindsay Pawlowski was supposedly dead, but it would be a simple story to resurrect the brave young man who had fallen down a mountainside in a struggle against a bandit, for the body had never been recovered.

  When she finished, the bandage was tight and bulged more than she liked, but the tunic and mail hauberk she’d brought went over it and hung well enough to disguise her gender. She looked like a barrel-chested man. A pouch she attached to her belt contained a large packet of the thinnest, most compact, yet maximally absorbent sanitary towels on the market. The postpartum bleeding would continue for a while yet. In the past she’d used pieces of linen for her periods, which she’d then burned or buried to keep her secret, but though the sanitary towels would cause questions if discovered, it would be worth the risk not to have to carry so much bulk. One of these would last so much longer and protect so much better than a plain piece of cloth.

  It was a tightrope she was about to walk. A dangerous game of deception, to present herself as a man in a world where she could be killed for it if discovered. But she had experience moving like a man, walking, talking, and behaving like one. Her shoulders shrugged, and the chain mail settled over them. The garb felt heavy, but familiar. The gauntlets that had also been Alex’s were a bit large on her, and the spikes riveted to the knuckles would probably not be terribly effective because of that, but there was nothing for it. A weird nostalgia for the days when she rode with Bruce’s army against Edward of England made inroads beneath her hatred for Nemed, and it made her feel stronger than she knew she was.

  She reached into the bag again and brought out the sword. It was an authentic reproduction of a real medieval weapon; she’d bought it in London. Nearly a museum piece in its own right, it was not a toy or sport piece like those favored by people who attended historical reenactments and such. This was a real weapon. Made of genuine tempered steel, it bore an edge and balance worthy of the knight she would have to become on the other side of this wall. The hilt was not solid silver as it appeared, but nobody would know that. The grip, however, was wrapped in silver wire and would tarnish normally enough not to raise eyebrows. She knew how to use this weapon, as well as the dagger she’d also bought. She hung them both in scabbards, on a leather belt she then slung about her hips over her surcoat and mail, then donned the mail coif and addressed the walls.

  “Coward. Show yourself!”

  The voice then came. “You’re serious, I can see.” It sent a frisson of fear down her back and out to her fingers, but she clenched her jaw and kept the emotion to herself. Nemed was there, as she’d expected.

  “You have my son.”

  “I have no such thing. Go away. Leave me alone, and tell that idiot American you’ve married to do likewise. I’ve finished with the both of you.”

  “Where are you?” If she could get him to show himself, she thought she might be able to fight him right there and have done with the whole issue. But his reply was a disappointment.

  “Not here, I assure you. That husband of yours nearly killed me with his demand I send you both home. I barely exist anywhere anymore.”

  “Liar.”

  There was a great heaving sigh, then, “If you say so, but in any case I’m neither where nor when you are currently. I really don’t care to discuss it.”

  “Where is my son?”

  “I’ve no idea. Now go away.”

  “I want my child back.”

  “And I can’t help you. Not even were I so inclined, which I decidedly am not. I’ve no idea where your cursed brat might be.”

  “But you know where I am.”

  Impatience tinged the voice. “Were he lurking about my burrows, I expect I might also know where the little monster was. But he is not, and therefore I couldn’t tell you where you might find him.”

  Lindsay’s throat tightened with frustration, and now she was more afraid of having to give up and leave the way she’d come than she was of anything Nemed might do. She said, “Then allow me to search for him myself. If you don’t have him, then someone does. I want to go looking.”

  “By your costume I assume you mean to search a century other than your own. What makes you think you can find your offspring there?”

  Because I know you have him. But Lindsay didn’t say it out loud. “The changeling. There was a changeling, and he told me the baby had been taken to the past. Back to where he’d been conceived.”

  “To Eilean Aonarach. Fourteenth century.”

  “Right.” 1315.

  “And you need my help in this because...”

&nbs
p; “You can send me back.”

  “I can?”

  “You’ve moved me through time before. You can do it again.”

  “At what cost do you think I did that? You think it such a simple thing to send a being back and forth in time? Surely you know better than that.”

  “Alex and I both once traveled seven years and a number of miles in this very knoll. It seemed simple enough for you at the time.”

  “It was. And it was random. What you ask is not the same thing.”

  “It’s not? How? What’s the difference between that and what you’ve already done on a whim?”

  A great exhausted sigh came from nowhere. “Och, that I would be saved from impertinent mortals.” Then the elf said, “How might I explain this so your tiny, modern human mind might grasp it?” There were some more sighs and mutterings, then, “Take, for example, a boat on the ocean. The boat drifts. It moves. It travels from one spot to another without any effort on the part of its passengers. No cost.”

  “All right, then, a boat on the ocean.”

  “It travels neither fast nor far.”

  “Right.”

  “Now compare that to travel to the moon. Nobody arrives on the moon accidentally, nor without a great deal of effort.”

  “Fast and far.”

  “Indeed. Not to mention costly.”

  “So, what happened to Alex and myself in this knoll was like drifting. Accidental. Even though it was you who sent us there.”

  “I tossed you through the wall only. What awaited you was there without my influence.”

  “And now what I need is influence, such as what got us home. Such as what sent us to the past to begin with.”

  “Such as what has made me but a ghost of my former self. Your vile husband has nearly destroyed me. Twice.”

  “And for that you’ve taken our son?”

  “I’ve nothing to do with your brat!” The outburst was loud, and assailed Lindsay’s eardrums to the point of pain. She knelt, gasping, her hands covering her ears, until she thought she could stand sound again. For all the elf’s complaints of weakness, his voice was powerful. Then she looked up, drew a deep breath, and made an offer.

  “Let me bear the cost. Take from me what is necessary to get me there.” Just don’t kill me doing it.

  “I could, you know. Kill you by doing that. That is to say, you could die in the attempt.”

  Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut. The wanker was reading her mind. She knew Nemed couldn’t kill by magic. Nor could any fey being, but she also knew accidents could happen. The spell he’d fashioned, the one ruined by Alex’s plane, had killed thirty Nemedians who had been the last of their kind.

  “I can’t read your mind. Not well, in any case. Some things are just obvious.”

  “Allow me to search for my son.” What she really wanted was to go where the elfin bastard was and kill him. She guessed — hoped — the path to the past of least resistance would be within Nemed’s natural lifetime. If he sent her anywhere, it would be there.

  “I told you, I have no idea where you might find him.”

  “Then let me search where I think he might be. That Danu. Perhaps she would have an idea of where to look.” Danu had once given her a book of psalms, a gift Lindsay had puzzled over and had never understood why it had been given.

  “What do you know of the faerie queen?”

  “Only that Alex has spoken to her. That she took an interest in him and our situation. He used to talk about having met her in the forest on Eilean Aonarach. They had chats.”

  There was a long silence. Nemed was thinking about that. Lindsay looked around at the flat, gray room, and for a second thought she might have glimpsed the elfin king lurking against a wall. Two red eyes against a gray background. But it was only a glimpse, then it was gone.

  She addressed that space. “Send me back to where I can find her, then I’ll be out of your hair and will seek my son with her help.”

  His silence continued until she thought he’d gone for good and she would be forced to either press farther into the burrow or retreat empty-handed to the century from which she’d come. But then he said, “Go. The way you went before.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Just go, before I come to my senses. But be warned. You won’t find what you seek. I guarantee it.”

  Says you. It was with a deep relief Lindsay reached toward the earthen wall through which she and Alex had been thrust the last time. Her hand went into it, and it hurt. A burning sensation that worsened as she pressed on.

  “Ow.” She retrieved her hand.

  “I told you there would be a price. If you shrink from that little pain, you’ve no hope of making it to where you wish to go.”

  Asshole. She touched the wall again, and the burning came again. Her hand jerked back.

  “Who’s the coward now, eh, Sir Lindsay?” His voice was thick with derision.

  Disgusted with the scheming creature, she glanced around for him and wished he were there so she could take his head with her sword, watch it roll across the floor, then piss down his neck. But that wasn’t yet an option for her, so she turned back to the wall. Deep breath. Let it out. Another deep breath, then she leapt at the wall.

  As hard as she threw herself, it still wasn’t enough force to put her all the way through. Agony of burning took her. It began to consume her. She thrashed and struggled against the substance that held her, stuck in that place between centuries. A wail of pain wrenched her. She kicked, and swam through, burning all the while. Thoughts of fire and brimstone filled her head, and despair accompanied it. She had to kick harder, and somehow she found the strength to do it. Finally she was through, and collapsed. One hand gripping the hilt of her sword, she then fell mercifully unconscious.

  Chapter Four

  The cold was at Alex’s core, and he was shivering. Shaking so hard his joints rattled. As he regained consciousness, the pain he felt was monstrous. Every inch of flesh, every nerve, each joint was in such screaming pain that he tried to return to blissful oblivion, though through the haze of semiconsciousness he knew he might die if he didn’t get warm soon. But then, it also seemed he might die if he became fully conscious of his agony.

  He wasn’t that lucky. Against his will he came to and found himself facedown in the rain, on grassy ground with his face pressed against a hard, black fungus. The drizzle was light but insistent, and rivulets ran from him here and there over his body. The realization he was naked seeped into his brain, and it made him feel even colder. When he tried to move, his stomach heaved. It hitched and rolled, and he swallowed hard to keep the bile down, but in the end was forced to raise his head and vomit on the grass. That made him sicker, dizzy as well, and he rose up on his hands to vomit again. Gummy strings dangled from his mouth to the ground as his stomach continued to heave and jerk. Now he was glad for the rain, and he wiped his face with his wet fingers. He spat as he struggled to keep from throwing up a third time, and turned away from the steaming puddle before him.

  There would be no standing up for him. Not for a while. Elbows trembled under his partial weight. He continued to shiver and his stomach hitched in an effort to rid itself of whatever might be left in it. This time he was able to keep the heaving under control, but knew it was probably because there was nothing left to hurl. Rain ran from his hair down his face, down his back, down his arms. It sprayed from his lips with each shivering gasp and dribbled from his chin to his chest.

  He looked around. It was a small clearing, and it appeared familiar. He’d been here before. Grass mingled with black fungus patches and a line of toadstools.

  Toadstools. The familiarity of this place clicked, and he looked around to find the toadstools surrounded him. He was in the middle of a faerie ring, one he’d seen before. And off to his right was the log. The one eaten up with moss, that had graced Danu’s place on Eilean Aonarach. Not only was this his island, it was also his time. Or near to it, in any case. Within a few decades.

&n
bsp; Excitement surged in him, causing his stomach to hitch again, and he choked up dregs from his gut. Nothing there to speak of, and he spat mucus onto the grass in front of him. Then he sat up. Hunched over to keep the rain from his eyes, he thought he might yet collapse back onto the ground. Deep breaths seemed to help the pain, and he took several long moments to settle his stomach. But the cold was monstrous and the shivering uncontrollable. He needed help.

  “Danu?” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed to clear it.

  His query was met only with silence. He tried again.

  “Queen Danu? Are you there’?” He hated the pathetic sound of need in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He needed her. But she wasn’t responding.

  “Bitch.”

  Neither did that bring her from hiding. So he looked around in hopes of finding his clothes, but those damned faeries had left him nothing. Not even his tote bag with the medieval clothing, which was probably still in the twenty-first century. They’d thrust him into this time, more than likely almost killing him, with not so much as a swatch to cover himself. And if he didn’t get to shelter soon, he might end up dead in any case. Painfully, the shivering voiced with each breath, he began to pull himself together and rise to his feet.

  His knees buckled, and he knelt in the soggy grass. The rain had increased and now was beating his back rather than just dropping on it. A steady stream came off his chin, a smaller one from his nose, and he gasped for air as he watched the water dribble to the ground. It was miles to the castle, and he had no guarantee there would be anyone there. An equal distance in the other direction would be a farmhouse, but without knowing the year he couldn’t say whether it was occupied either. No telling what the year was. He recalled that before he’d taken possession of his award there had been a long-running feud over the island between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods. God knew who was in control just then, and he wouldn’t put it past that crazy little freak Brochan to have set him in the midst of a war in this condition.