Ambrose looked around, eyes narrowed.
“Go to dinner, I guess,” Ambrose said after a moment’s consideration. “He said he wanted to talk to you. Maybe you can convince him that you’ll be a lot more fun and festive once Rihyani isn’t bleeding to death.”
Looking into the inscrutable pavilion where the marquis sat unmoving even as his guests filed past, staring into the swirling smoke, Milo wasn’t certain of anything.
16
The Intrigue
“To the marquis!”
The cry went up for the fourth time and the entire dining hall answered in kind, then the fey downed their various horns, flutes, chalices, and goblets. It seemed that the marquis’ guests were eager to celebrate their host, even if he wasn’t present. Milo and Ambrose had been ushered in by a corvid butler in the wake of the other guests, but even as they were shooed in by the black-feathered servant, the marquis did not emerge from his tent. Now nearly an hour into the drinking and toasts, the lord of the manor had yet to make an appearance.
Milo ground his teeth as he glared at the drink in his hand, a crystal flute filled with dark wine. The shade of the vintage reminded him of Rihyani’s eyes, and that only made the waiting worse.
“Why do you think they laughed?” Ambrose asked in a low voice as he stood with Milo toward the back of the dining hall. While the magus brooded, the bodyguard had watched the graceful, glowing fey moving amongst each other, suspicious of every elegant gesture. It seemed he’d decided they were in no immediate danger.
Milo shrugged, telling himself to control his temper but feeling as though he could hear the dripping of Rihyani’s blood from cursed wounds.
“Maybe they think it’s cute how much you care for her?” Ambrose offered as he watched an amazonian fey stride by, muscles rippling beneath her slit corset and skirt of studded leather. At her heels scampered red hounds the size of ponies with black spines running down their backs. Milo couldn’t shake the thought that their jowled faces looked a little too human.
“What do you mean?” he asked distractedly as a small man scuttled by, suspended three meters in the air on a quartet of spider legs. The man’s face was flushed and his suit coat was liberally stained with wine, or what Milo hoped was wine.
Ambrose stepped back to avoid being skewered by one of the chitinous limbs and cleared his throat.
“I mean, they might find it odd that a man, a human, that is, has such strong feelings for one of their kind?”
“Are you suggesting,” Milo began, hearing the edge in his voice and not much caring, “that I want to save her for a reason besides the debt we both owe her and her usefulness to our mission?”
Ambrose frowned, his eyes scanning Milo’s face before he went back to watching the crowd.
“No, I don’t suppose I am.”
“Good.” Milo grunted and then spotted the butler from earlier across the hall. “Huh, did he just try to get our attention?”
“Who?” Ambrose asked, but then the raven-like servant locked eyes with them across the hall and motioned them over with a black-pinioned arm.
“Seems the old crow wants to have a chat,” Ambrose said, adjusting his rifle over his shoulder. “Shall we?”
Milo nodded, and as quickly as the crowd allowed, they made their way to the butler, who stood watching them with large, dark eyes set into his sharp, pale face.
“My master asks you to attend him in his library,” the butler cawed softly. His head twisted at the end of the question as he thrust his beaky nose forward.
“Lead on,” Milo said, handing his undrunk wine to a passing server.
The butler bobbed once and led them on a winding path through the corridors of the manor. Uncomfortable memories of the tunnels in Afghanistan began to surface as they followed the raven-like fey down dim passage after dim passage that all looked very much the same, devoid of decoration. They passed simple dark wood doors and intersecting passages, but the former were always closed, and the latter looked identical to what they’d already walked down.
It was a shock when the butler came to a door that looked very much like all the others and paused to wave his hand much in the same way Bakbak-Devi had at the iron gate. The door swung inward and the birdlike footman hopped aside, bowing his head as he gestured them in.
The simplicity of the door did not prepare Milo for what lay within. He had been expecting a room, even a large room with several shelves of books and maybe a desk and some sitting chairs.
What he stepped into was nothing less than a temple to the written word. Shelves twice Milo’s height swept around the vast circular space, and above them, walkways circled the room and gave access to even more shelves. Above those was a third layer of shelves. Rolling ladders hung from each shelf, and emblazoned on brass plaques were the categorical divisions and subdivisions of the books enshrined upon the ornate shelves of mahogany chased in burnished brass. Scattered across the polished marble floors were overstuffed chairs and plush couches, with small tables complete with what looked like table lamps, except instead of flaming wicks creating tiny islands of light, they had what looked like captured stars sat inside the glass bulbs.
Seated next to one of these tables was the marquis, who stood upon their entrance.
He was as tall as Beli at three meters but far more svelte. His appearance was stretched further by a pair of backward-swept horns that grew from his brow. The thick horns shone a steely shade of gray that was quite striking above his long countenance of milky skin. He wore a suit that might have been in fashion a hundred years ago, a Regency tailcoat ensemble of rich cream. Most everything seemed sized for a smaller creature, the collar not quite rising high enough to cover his long neck, while the coat and the trousers came to just past his elbows and knees respectively. In many ways, his whole form seemed stretched, yet he moved with easy fluidity Milo had come to associate with fey.
“Welcome,” he said in that same subterranean voice. “I appreciate your patience. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy, but as you will soon see, the situation is now not as dire as you first thought.”
“I would be very thankful if you’d enlighten us, Marquis,” Milo said as he and Ambrose closed the distance. Their footsteps didn’t ring on the floor as they should have, and Milo guessed there was a chance that some sort of magic was at work to keep the library a place of quiet reflection.
“All in good time,” the marquis said, smiling and reaching down with a long-fingered hand to gather up the books on the table he’d been sitting at. This close, Milo could see the fey’s eyes possessed the horizontal pupils of a goat.
“I mean no disrespect, but I’m afraid that isn’t good enough,” Milo said, feeling Ambrose tense next to him as the words were spoken. “Contessa Rihyani is depending on me, and every second counts. I will do whatever it is you ask, but please, no more delays.”
For his part, the marquis paused for a moment, and Milo felt the strange eyes sweeping over him. Milo couldn’t quite remember if the huge presence he’d recognized before felt the same as the pressing awareness, but he imagined it was close. As the stare continued, he could almost hear Ambrose coiling like a spring next to him. Milo began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. He contemplated making an apology for the abruptness, but another smile, warm and admiring, stretched across the fey aristocrat’s long features.
“There it is,” he said softly, stepping closer, books in the crook of one long arm. “That fire, that immediacy. It is invigorating.”
The towering fey leaned down, bending almost double with no sign of difficulty or discomfort to stare at Milo.
“That’s what this is all about.”
Milo met the goat eyes uneasily at first, the stare striking him as alien and sinister despite the gentle expressions of their owner.
“I still don’t understand,” Milo said, then squared his shoulders and planted his feet. “But I would learn. Please, explain.”
The marquis waited for a second longer, studying Milo,
then straightened and moved toward the shelves.
“Since you are assisting the contessa, I can only assume you are involved with the conflict between the factions commonly referred to as the Shepherds and the Guardians?”
“I am,” Milo called after him, the volume of his voice seeming almost sacrilegious in the library. To avoid having to do so again, he moved to follow the marquis, Ambrose at his shoulder.
“Were you aware that I’ve been approached by both parties?” the marquis asked over his shoulder as he began to shelve the books.
“No,” Milo admitted, feeling a prickle of anxiety race across his skin. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
The marquis nodded as he tapped a clawed digit down a row of books playfully before finding the cavity where the last book went.
“I haven’t declared for either side yet, obviously,” the fey said as he slid the final volume home. “This particular situation offers me a unique predicament and opportunity.”
The prickling flared, and Milo fought the urge to sweep the room as the skin between his shoulder blades tingled. He knew Ambrose was doing that for him and would probably do a far better job, so he decided to keep his gaze fixed on the marquis.
“You’re considering turning us over to the Guardians then?” Milo said, the words coming out hoarse and harsh.
“Oh, no, nothing so duplicitous,” the marquis declared, his tone hinting at offense at the suggestion. “You are my guests and under the protection of my hospitality. No, I could win favor among the Guardians simply by refusing to help you. Contessa Rihyani is known to both factions, and while I could justify my actions to the Shepherds as not wanting to get involved, the Guardians would appreciate an enemy agent killed, even if simply by inaction.”
Milo’s fingers tightened around the raptor cane, but he reminded himself that the marquis hadn’t said this was what he was going to do, only stated it as a possibility.
“Is that what Ezekiel and Percy asked you to do?” Milo asked. “Just let Rihyani die?”
The marquis frowned, an odd expression on his long, pale face.
“The Americans? No, they had other interests. In fact, if you are operating under the assumption that they are allied with the Guardians, I’m afraid they seem quite ignorant of the conflict.”
Milo pulled back and narrowed his eyes as he studied the marquis. Seeing no sign of deception, Milo supposed the marquis, who so far had been quite forthright, had no reason to lie. He made a mental note to consider the new information later as he reminded himself that Rihyani’s life still very much hung in the balance.
“So, you could let her die,” Milo said, keeping his tone even. “Or you could help us and save her life.”
The marquis nodded, his strange horizontal pupils fixed on Milo.
“I could, and I think I will, at least in part,” he said slowly, gauging Milo’s reaction. “I will give you something, and what you do with it will decide whether you can go and save the contessa. Also, your success or failure in this endeavor will be the deciding factor of which faction I put my support behind immediately.”
Milo stared for a second, and during the pause, Ambrose cleared his throat to speak up.
“And by immediately, you mean…”
“If you succeed, I will not only ensure you have the means to save the contessa but also that you will reach her in time,” the marquis declared solemnly. “If you fail, you will be given a day to leave my vale, and then I will call the hunt to pursue you both to the edge of the mountain's shadow.”
Milo didn’t need to study the fey’s expression to know he was serious.
“No pressure, huh?” Milo swallowed.
“Do you accept my terms and agree to abide by them?”
Milo turned and met Ambrose’s eye. He knew the answer, but he was glad to see Ambrose give him a determined nod and then a subtle wink. A hearty cheer or slap on the back couldn’t have been more encouraging.
Magus and bodyguard looked into the marquis’ face, jaws set and shoulders squared.
“We accept,” Milo said.
The marquis nodded and then raised his long arms straight out to either side.
“Very good.” He smiled, raising his face toward the moonlight beaming through the windows high above the looming shelves. “Now, for this next part, I ask that you please remain very still. It can be confusing, but please don’t move.”
Milo’s expression changed from bemusement to shock as the room began to spin around them. Faster and faster the room revolved around them, all the more frightening for their silence as images of ladders, walkways, and shelves flashed by. Soon the room was an eye-watering blur of colors and light, so Milo fixed his attention on the fey standing in a cruciform posture at the eye of the soundless storm.
“You are both doing very well,” the marquis said as the lights around them began to change color. “Almost there now. Just remember to not move. I’d hate for you to hurt yourselves.”
* * *
Moments later, the spinning room came to an abrupt stop, and Ambrose gave a muffled heave and managed to stagger a dozen paces away to be sick in a convenient decorative vase.
Milo felt a flutter of nausea, but it was not so severe that he didn’t realize they were no longer standing in the library.
They stood in a tall, narrow corridor where one wall was set with a series of portals that looked out over the marquis’ dining hall. The noble’s guests danced, and drank, and sang, and drank some more in what was fast becoming a bacchanalian revel below. The fact that the creatures engaged were alien combinations of beatific creatures and Boschian nightmares only made the scene more surreal.
Milo stood staring down for a moment, doing his best to block out the sounds of Ambrose hawking, spitting, and cursing. They were clearly in a gallery overlooking the hall, but Milo had stood on the floor below and couldn’t remember seeing any such gallery.
“This wasn’t part of the manor when we were down there earlier,” Milo said, turning back to the marquis. “Is it invisible from below?”
The fey shook his head, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth upward.
“No, but that isn’t a bad idea.”
Milo stared at the marquis, then gaped at the structure that stretched the width of the hall and was decorated to match the rest of the manor.
“You don’t mean to tell me you fabricated all of this out of thin air on a whim?” Milo asked, unable to keep the heady mix of incredulity and awe from his voice. He’d known fey magic was different from that the ghuls practiced, but he struggled to believe it was so much more powerful as to create such vast, complex structures with what seemed like very little effort. Milo’s head spun with the possibilities.
“Not as you might imagine,” the marquis began. “The first thing you must understand about the Art, which is what we fey call our magic, is that it is tied to our will, which is itself tied to our very natures as creatures of will.”
Milo blinked like an owl at noontime, struggling to understand the fey’s words.
“You just will things into physical existence?” he said, his tone approaching flabbergasted. “You think them, and they are real?”
The marquis laughed, and though it was a kindly sound, Milo could tell he was getting more wrong than right.
“We need to clarify two things,” the marquis said, raising two clawed fingers demonstratively. “First, will and thought are not the same things, particularly among the fey. Will in the sense I talk about is an interwoven matrix of identity, intent, and desire. A thought is fleeting, a series of reactions to stimuli either internal or external. Will is fundamental and enduring, a consistent declaration.
“Second, something does not have to be physical to be real. The greatest disservice done to your kind was when many of you came to believe that only things that are real can be weighed on a scale or measured with little notched sticks. Just as lamentable was when you forgot that belief can be as tangible as water and stone.”
&n
bsp; Milo clamped his hand over his forehead and massaged his brow.
“So, this gallery is real but not physical,” Milo said slowly. “And you made it with your will, not just because you thought about it.”
The marquis smiled.
“Yes, in its simplest form, that is true,” he said. “But I think we’ll need to back up a step.”
Milo nodded, bewildered but striving to remain hopeful.
The marquis stepped back and gestured to himself with a wide sweep of his elongated arms.
“Every fey is whatever they will themselves to be,” he explained. “What you see of me is what I wish you to see of me and the truth of what I am that I reveal to the world. You may have noticed that amongst the fey, there seems to be little homogeneity in form, and you’d be excused for thinking the likes of my servant Bakbak-Devi and the butler who brought you to the library were different species or breeds of fey, but that simply isn’t the case. Each of us is what we will, the pixie-formed sprite dancing on lily pads or the jotun king as huge as a mountain.”
Ambrose, a little paler than before, had rejoined them and was alternating between staring at the marquis and the fey on the dance floor below.
“So those are all fey, just fey, and they can be whatever they want?”
“Yes, they are all fey, but no, not whatever they want,” the horned aristocrat said patiently. “Wants tend to be transitory, symptoms rather than causes. The will of a fey like Bakbak-Devi is bent toward being a powerful, watchful guardian. He will not become the pixie or the swan-bride because that is not who he is.”
Milo nodded and swept a hand toward all the fey below them.
“The characteristics of the fey may be mutable, but what he or she wants to be, what they will, isn’t going to change, right?”
“Almost,” the marquis said, his alien eyes twinkling with a flash of puckish mirth. “Will is fundamental, but even fundamentals can be bent or broken. And that is where the Art comes into play.”
World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set Page 52
