The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “No, my lady,” Tom said. “This is Regent’s map room. We won’t be disturbed here.”

  Maps covered the walls, some woven into tapestries, some drawn on delicate parchment framed behind glass. Most, however, were working maps, and so the tables and shelves were filled with scrolls and codices. Some had been left unrolled or open where Regent had last used them. Most were tidied away. The room, however, was dark. Because of the huge amount of paper, Regent did not allow any candles in this room. That was why there were so many windows, huge glass panes to let in as much natural light as possible. But, now the sun had gone down, the only light available was from torches outside and the moon itself. It created a lot of shadows and the elfs looked liked skeletal monsters in the dark.

  “Duke Regent, I hear, has accorded you many honours.” Neirin walked around the room with a possessive air. “You must do him a great service.”

  “I do my best.”

  “I hear that you are a good man, Tom.” Neirin turned his attention to the enormous round table in the middle of the room. “I hear that you are the only one who can help me.”

  Tom’s first thought was to ask where he had heard such things. But Regent would want him to ask instead, “Help you with what, my lord?”

  Neirin didn’t seem to hear him. He stared instead at the map built onto the central table. The table itself seemed part of the stone floor, rising up in a grand column and then mushrooming at the top to allow men to stand close. Its surface undulated, rising into miniature mountain peaks and falling into tiny valleys. Towns were modelled in intricate detail, roads and rivers carved their way through the surface, and the great capitals rose in all their diminutive glory. The table was a solid piece, a recreation of the whole of Tir.

  “I hear Idris has something similar in Cairnagwyn,” Neirin said. He ran his fingers over the surface, over the mountains of the north, down across the Heel to rest a single finger on top of Cairnagan.

  “Does he?” Tom said.

  “Yes.” Neirin lifted his finger and stalked around the map to glare at Cairnagwyn, the Western capital, as if he could stare it into oblivion. “His conqueror’s map.”

  Tom waited. Before Faerie he would have filled the silence, asked a question or made a comment. But he’d come to realise that other people had the same compulsion. Nobody liked an unfilled silence.

  So Neirin spoke. “You know what King Idris plans, don’t you?” He didn’t look away from the map.

  “No, my lord.”

  Neirin shot him a look. “Isn’t it plain?” He swept a hand over the map.

  Tom said nothing.

  Neirin sighed. “Siomi, please close the door.” The other elf obeyed and, as she did, Neirin pushed back his hood and pulled off his mask. He revealed a slender face, dark olive skin peppered with small tattoos, a triad on one cheek, four on the opposite temple. His features were smooth and unweathered, making his nobility clear, and his mouth was small and set. Tom got the impression he didn’t smile very often. His hair was long and dark and disappeared against his black robes.

  “The Marches have fallen.” He pointed to the north of Tir, the duchy sat between the Western Kingdom and the Heel. “Idris sent in dragons, burning and destroying. The people tried to fight. But to bring down a dragon is no mean feat. So they did the only thing they could: by the time the troops arrived, the horsemen had surrendered.

  “Now the Westerners are at your door.” His gloved finger pointed to the border between the Marches and the Heel. “They mass troops. They ready themselves. To attack. Dragons first, to burn and frighten the people. Then troops, to occupy the land. And do you think they will stop there?”

  It had been a question that had consumed the court of late. No-one knew why Idris had invaded the Marches. So no-one knew if he would invade other territories. “No.” It was his honest opinion and it seemed to please Neirin. “An army like that has too much momentum. They won’t stop.”

  “No. They won’t,” Neirin replied, finger moving to Erhenned, Tanabawr and finally the Eastern Angles. “They will march on us all, one by one, until their Kingdom stretches from shore to shore.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Idris is a maniac,” Neirin said. “Because he fancies himself the new Angau, the new king of Tir.”

  “Angau?”

  “The ancient king. The harbinger. The reaper.” Neirin gave Tom an indulgent smile. “You call him Emyr.”

  Tom frowned. Emyr was no reaper.

  “It is clear what must be done,” Neirin continued. He walked to the window and stared out into the night. The moonlight washed his skin, making him look pale. “He must be stopped.”

  There was a silence. He was waiting for Tom to ask how. Tom sighed inwardly. “How?”

  But Siomi answered instead. “The dragons are the key.” She stepped up to the table as well. She too had removed her mask, but her hood remained in place. She wore a thick black veil, too, which covered her entire face except for her eyes, leaving her voice muffled. It made her harder to read, too; Tom had to watch her eyes. “If we can take away Idris’ dragons, then all he has left is a mortal army. An army can be fought.”

  “At great cost.”

  “Perhaps.” Siomi nodded as if she understood all too well. “But it can be done.”

  It was an idea that spoke of desperation. But how could they be so desperate when the armies of the West were hundreds of miles from their borders?

  “How will you fight these dragons?” he asked.

  “We won’t,” she said. “It can’t be done. But Idris has sorcerers manipulating the dragons like puppets. Remove the magic and the dragons will not fight.”

  “You sound so sure.”

  “They are animals,” she said, but with compassion. She felt for them. “If they could be trained to be loyal, why would Idris need magic to control them?”

  “I didn’t know that he did.”

  “We have greater resources than this little duchy, Master Rymour.” Neirin sounded so proud, as if he had done the work himself. “Trust me. He needs magic.”

  Tom didn’t like his tone. He was too superior. He seemed to be looking down on everything. “So you’ll assassinate the sorcerers?”

  “No,” he said. “Idris can just train new ones and this all begins again.”

  “So what will you do?”

  Siomi pointed to a small, cuboid point on the map near Cairnagan. “We break the monoliths.”

  Tom looked at her finger for a long moment. The idea was ridiculous. Impossible. The monoliths were huge, ancient, and impervious to blade, fire, or blunt force. Everyone knew you’d have better luck making carriages from pumpkins than chipping a monolith. Not to mention they were scattered all over Tir. Even the greatest Pathfinder didn’t know the location of every one.

  “You think it impossible.” Neirin sounded amused. “As did I. But we found something in our library at Cairnabel. An ancient text on the monoliths. A way to destroy them all.”

  Tom fought to keep his face blank. Neirin seemed the sort to take offence at disbelief.

  “We don’t need to break every one,” said Siomi. “Just the one at Cairnagwyn. That is where the magic that binds the dragons is born. If we break that central monolith, all the others will break too.”

  “Like the centre of a spider’s web.” Neirin’s grin was predatory. Tom preferred it when he didn’t smile. “And as to the how, the text said that only one blade was strong enough to cut the monoliths.”

  One blade. Tom knew the answer before they could speak. “Caledyr.”

  Siomi looked surprised but Neirin only nodded. “So the stories are true,” he said. “You do speak truths.”

  Tom said nothing. It was obvious. Caledyr was the most famous sword in all of Tir. Any text speaking of one blade would be talking of Caledyr. “But it’s gone,” he said. “It disappeared with Emyr.”

  “It did,” Neirin said. “And while we elfs are long-lived, nine hundred years is too long even for u
s. There are none alive today who know where the sword lies.”

  They were both looking at him as if waiting for him to tell them the answer. But he had nothing. He didn’t know where it was either. His foresight showed him things yet to come, not what had already been.

  “Don’t you see?” Neirin asked.

  Tom shook his head.

  “Any mortal alive in the time of Angau is long dead,” Siomi said. “So we need help from someone who isn’t mortal.”

  “Ah.” Now he saw where this was going. “You want to ask the fay.”

  Neirin nodded.

  “That isn’t a good idea.”

  The nod stopped and turned into a frown. “Why not?”

  How to put it? “The fay don’t help people like you or I might. If you ask for their help, they won’t ask for anything in return.”

  “Good.”

  Tom shook his head. “That’s to encourage you to agree. The fay will offer a boon and they’ll act like it’s a gift. But a boon always backfires. Always. They make sure of it. They take pleasure in turning your heart’s desire into a curse.”

  “So you’re saying they will help, but they will try to make us pay later?” Neirin asked.

  “No, I’m saying if they see an opportunity to entertain themselves at your expense, they will take it.”

  Neirin dismissed Tom with a wave of his hand. “The fay are welcome to their pranks. Saving Tir from the tyranny of the Western Kingdom goes beyond personal comforts.”

  Tom sighed. It wasn’t a case of a prank or two. It was often a case of a life being ruined. Tom had seen the fay bestow dozens of boons that undid the victims piece by terrible piece. “You will wish you had never asked for their help.”

  “Perhaps.” Neirin looked out the window again. He was posing. Looking strong, noble, self-sacrificing. “But it is for Tir.”

  He was worse than Regent for this. It was like he was playing at being a lord. “And how will you find them?” Tom asked. “No-one knows how to find Faerie. And you don’t have the Second Sight. You wouldn’t be able to see them.”

  “That’s why we have come to you,” Siomi said. “You can lead us to Faerie.”

  The idea sent a chill down Tom’s spine. To find Faerie was his fondest desire, yes, but to lead a bunch of begging mortals to Queen Maev’s door? He could think of fewer ways to guarantee she never let him return. Tom shook his head.

  “Faerie is not a place in Tir, Lord Neirin. I can’t point to this map and show you where it is. You can’t cross a border and find yourself there. Faerie is another realm altogether.”

  “But you’ve been there before,” Siomi said. “You must know how you got in, and how you got out.”

  “I was taken in by one of the fay,” he replied.

  “So you can show us the entrance.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Because he had already gone back and found nothing. “Please, Lord Neirin,” he said. “Find another way.”

  “We tried,” said Siomi. “We searched every library, consulted every scroll and book we could find. This is our only option.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Neirin.” Tom bowed. “But I must disappoint you.”

  Then he opened the door and said, “I will take you back to the feast.”

  Regent could wait until morning. Tom was done with politics and feasting and elfs for the day. Instead he returned to his rooms and climbed into bed. But he didn’t sleep. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, wrapped up in imagination. He imagined agreeing to Neirin’s request, embarking on a journey across Tir to find an entrance to Faerie. With the resources of the Eastern Angles perhaps they could do it. And then what? He would present the elfs as a gift. Look what I have brought you, my queen, he would say. Mortals, for your pleasure. Mortals that seek a boon.

  Perhaps she would be pleased by that after all. An opportunity for amusement. Perhaps she would tell them where the sword was. And then she would let him stay. You may not go, sweet Thomas, she would say. We let you go once before. We shall not make that mistake again. And she would embrace him, openly, never minding King Midhir. He would stay by her side until the end of his days.

  Except it was a dream. A nonsense. In seven years she embraced him, yes, but in secret. Away from prying eyes. And she’d be offended he’d been away for so long. Why didn’t you come back, she would ask him. And he would tell her that he tried. But she would say he didn’t try hard enough.

  And she was right. If he’d tried harder he’d have found Faerie again. Now it was too late. She’d probably forgotten him anyway.

  There was a knock at the door. “Yes?”

  He heard the door open. There was no light save the narrow beam of moonlight from the arrowslit. No sound save the gentle breeze. Should he get up? Why didn’t they announce themselves? He wondered if he was about to fall victim of some jealous courtier, an assassin in the night. Before he could decide what to do his bedroom door opened and a woman stepped in.

  “Hello, Tom,” she said.

  He recognised the voice. “Katharine?”

  She bowed in the shadows. Never a curtsey from Katharine.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What kind of Pathfinder would I be if I couldn’t find one man?” She lit a candle, illuminating a warm, gentle smile. Had she been a maid or a servant she might have been described as plain. But she had a smile and a spirit that won every man’s heart. Her blonde hair was bound in a single plait, an old-fashioned style chosen for practicality over appearance. Her clothes were a dif-ferent matter. An Eastern travelling cloak of rich black with a fine ivory border of skeletal designs, leather Marchman tunic and trouser, boots from Erhenned. She wore a handful of necklaces all filled with human, elf, and dwarf charms. An eagle feather earring in her ear and a handful of rings completed the garish motley. But it was the uniform of the Pathfinder. It told people where she’d been and where she could take them. And only Katharine managed to make it look good.

  “You’ve come a long way from the horrible little mud hut,” she said.

  “That hut is my home, Katharine,” he reminded her.

  She shrugged. “Looks like this is your home now.” She pulled a chair to the bedside. It was heavy but she didn’t struggle. One of the boons of the Pathfinder’s life was it made you fit and strong

  “It’s just until the tensions with the West die down,” he replied.

  Katharine gave him that smile. It was the smile someone who has seen the world gives to someone who has not. “I wouldn’t hold your breath on that one, Thomas.”

  Tom didn’t want to talk about the West. He had enough of that in Privy Council meetings, watching Regent and his earls make plans, discuss strategy and weigh likelihoods while he sat dumb and useless. “You look well,” he said. “How long has it been?”

  “Two years,” she said as she sat, arranging her cloak around her. “I was coming from Cairnakor.”

  “Yes,” Tom said. She had stopped at his hut for a few days. “You’d been with the dwarfs. You gave me that book.” A strange book, the letters bland and identical. ‘Printed’ she had called it.

  “Yes. Do you still have it?” She asked as if it were the most important thing in the world.

  “Of course.” It was written in a language he didn’t speak but he couldn’t have discarded one of Katharine’s gifts.

  “Good.” She seemed to relax and smiled. “How is life at court?”

  Tom nodded. “Regent treats me well. I want for nothing. He has accorded me some great honours.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “I sit on the Privy Council. I am named a special advisor. I hold a good seat in the hall, amongst nobles and dignitaries.”

  “Everything you ever dreamed of.”

  She was smirking and Tom couldn’t help but smile too. “You’re making fun.”

  “I am.” She lifted her hands to encompass the room. “You were happy as an aurochs in hay in that hut of yours. And you co
uld fit it in here three times with room to spare. How well do you sleep in that bed?”

  “Not that well.”

  “No. And I bet all the bowing and the titles and the protocol make you itch.”

  It was true. Tom had been raised on a farm. He had lived in a small village, where dukes and lords were unseen creatures that demanded taxes. He struggled to understand the unwritten rules of protocol here. Who should he bow to? How deep? How do you address an earl, an emissary, even a stable boy? He knew he had to wait until his betters had begun to eat. But he was never sure who his betters were supposed to be.

  Katharine smiled, satisfied by his silence. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?”

  “I did that already,” he pointed out.

  “True.” She stretched, arching her back, showing off her figure. She kept his eye the whole time. “It’s a long answer. And it’s a long way back to my chamber.”

  If protocol felt like shifting sand beneath his feet, being with Katharine was standing on the edge of an unstable cliff. He often felt like one wrong move would send him tumbling down. So he said nothing.

  “Is there nowhere in these grand rooms for an old friend?” Her eyes ran over the bed, large enough for a half dozen.

  The room felt small then. She had often made such offers. He had always been tempted. But there were invisible eyes watching.

  She sighed. “Thomas Rymour. Deer freeze when they’re afraid. Do you know what big cats do?”

  “No.”

  “They hunt it anyway.” She stood. “Got anything to drink?”

  “There’s a bottle of mead in the sitting room.”

  She smirked. “Thomas Rymour with a sitting room. No, don’t get up. I’ll find it.”

  Tom felt awkward sitting in his bed after her barely unspoken suggestion. He thought of getting up and dressing. But she would know why he did and either be offended or make fun of him. Before he could decide if that was better than sitting there in his nightshirt she returned with the bottle.

  “Only one glass.” She handed it to him and poured. “I’m guessing you don’t have much company.”