The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  Emyr blinked and turned his head. “Thomas Rymour,” he rasped. He coughed and spoke again. “I thought you’d left, son?”

  “I did.” Tom bowed his head. “I came back.”

  “Stand.” Tom did as he was ordered. Emyr sighed. “Yes. You have aged. Perhaps you’re older than me now.”

  Tom cast an eye over Emyr’s hair, deep brown mixed with grey, long with a luxurious beard to match. There were a few wrinkles, and his body had lost the battle with age, growing thicker and meatier. But he was not an old man. Not yet.

  “Perhaps I am.” It was odd to think a figure of legend could be younger than him.

  “This is Emyr?” Katharine asked. “King Emyr?”

  “I am,” he replied.

  “It’s not possible.” She shook her head. “King Emyr has been dead for a thousand years.”

  “Has it been so long?”

  “It has, my king,” Tom said.

  “How can this be?” Six asked. He wore a look of child-like wonder.

  “It’s part of the magic here,” Tom told him. “You can age in Faerie, but you can never die.”

  “You expect me to believe this is the great and mighty Angau?” Brega snorted. “He’s just a man.”

  “What were you expecting?” asked Tom.

  “He is meant to be a body for death.” Draig shrugged.

  “I can assure you that’s how I feel.” Emyr offered a weak smile. “You don’t often bring mortals to gawp at me, Maev.”

  “They come with great purpose.”

  “That never bodes well.” Emyr looked up at Tom. “Is that why you came back?”

  Tom nodded. “Lord Neirin,” he gestured to the elf as introduction, “asked me to lead him here so that he might find your sword.”

  “What does he want with that?”

  “King Idris of the Western Kingdom has enslaved dragons with magic and is using them to conquer Tir. Lord Neirin thinks your sword can break that magic and send Idris back into his own kingdom.”

  “Ah.” Emyr closed his eyes and smiled. “And you, Tom, have offered your aid?”

  “To bring him here, yes.”

  “Are the people of Tir in danger?”

  “I think so.”

  “And there is no other way to protect them?”

  Tom couldn’t imagine a thousand swords slowing the dragon in Cairnalyr. “The dragons are too strong,” he said.

  Emyr grunted. “They are mortal,” he said. “They can be killed.”

  When he said no more, Neirin said, “Mighty Lord Angau, it is an honour to be in your terrible presence.”

  “You are too kind.” Emyr smiled but didn’t open his eyes.

  “We surrender our deaths to you.” Neirin was sombre, all pretense gone. “We ask only that you make them honourable.”

  “Your deaths are nothing to do with me.” Emyr opened his eyes and peered at Neirin. “Will you protect the people of Tir?”

  “I will gladly die in service of the people if that is your wish.”

  “It is not my wish that you should die, Lord Neirin.”

  Neirin looked like he’d swallowed something unpleasant.

  “My king,” Tom murmured. “The Easterners worship you. They believe you value a good death.”

  “They’re wrong.” Emyr took a deep breath and for a moment his pain looked more than physical. “There are no good deaths. Just an end to our time.”

  Tom didn’t know what to say. It seemed tactless, to knock down the elfs’ beliefs so carelessly.

  “Do you truly think that?” Neirin’s words were slow and careful.

  Emyr blinked and came back to them. “No. I am sorry, Lord Neirin. I am tired and in pain.” He turned to Tom and asked, “So why is Idris doing this?”

  Tom blinked. “Um.” The truth was he hadn’t given it any thought. Neirin had talked about evil and a lust for power with his usual rhetoric. But Tom had accepted the invasions as simple fact, as basic and uninteresting as a sunrise. If it got him back to Faerie, what did it matter why? He looked up and caught Maev’s eye; she was looking at him like he was a puzzle to solve.

  “Fear, Lord Oen.” All eyes turned to Six, stood at Emyr’s feet. The elf looked only at the man on the bier, golden face relaxed and peaceful. He wore a beatific smile and spoke with a reverence Tom couldn’t have imagined. “He’s afraid.”

  “Of what?” Neirin sneered.

  Six ignored the other elf’s tone. “Idris thinks the rest of Tir is plotting against him. That they seek to break up the Kingdom. That they stole his daughter, poison his people.” This wasn’t conjecture. Six spoke as if it were truth. How could he know this?

  “Put a sword in a frightened man’s hand and a lot of innocents can get hurt,” said Emyr. Six just laid a hand on his armoured shin, gently, as if the man was glass that might shatter.

  Emyr drew a deep, ragged breath. “The sword is not mine,” he said. “You don’t need my permission.”

  “Begging your pardon, Lord Angau.” Lord Neirin spoke in a hushed, reverential tone. “But if we do not need your permission, perhaps you will offer us your blessing.”

  “You don’t need that either.” Emyr gave Neirin a weary look. “As your elf said, I’m just a man. I can no more bless you than Tom can.”

  Eyes turned to Tom, as if he had been able to bless them all this time but hadn’t.

  “Nevertheless,” said Neirin. “It would mean a great deal to us.”

  Emyr sighed. “Very well.” Neirin knelt and Emyr placed his hand on his head. “The father and the prayers, and fasting and charities, and calmness of the soul until death.”

  He took his hand away but Neirin remained in place. His hair was tousled and his coronet was askew. But he breathed, “Thank you, Lord Angau,” with such emotion that it moved Tom. He blinked, sudden tears behind his eyes.

  “Tell them where the sword is, Maev.”

  “If you will it, Emyr.” No honorifics here. They were both monarchs, though both of their realms were made of something other than reality.

  “I do.” He looked to Tom. “But I want you to carry it, my boy. Just you. No-one else.”

  “Me?” He couldn’t. He wasn’t going. He was staying. But how could he tell him that? “Why me?”

  “Because I’ve come to think of you as a son,” Emyr took one of Tom’s hands, patting it. He took two arduous breaths. “Because I trust you to do the right thing. Because you’re the only man of Tir here. Pick one.”

  Tom was shaking his head. “I can’t.”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes, you can.” He smiled. “You might not think you can. But you can.”

  “This is Lord Neirin’s quest.”

  “I would be happy to bear your blade, Lord Angau.” Neirin had stood and, whilst Tom could see he was disappointed, he hid under a serious and earnest expression.

  “I’ve no doubt in you, Lord Neirin.” Emyr’s speech was becoming hesitant, laboured. “I mean no offence. You would do a fine job. Call this the whim of a dying man.”

  “My king, do not ask this of me.”

  He frowned. “You would refuse me? Truly?”

  Emyr had told Tom all the stories of old, the true stories, without the glory and glamour of legend and myth. Yet that had only made him seem greater. He had stopped two elfish armies from overrunning the human kingdom. He had pushed them back, conquered them. He had ushered in a golden age of peace and prosperity the likes of which had not been seen since, nor would likely ever be seen again. And he was just a man. Like any other and like no other. He had watched over Tom during his time in Faerie, offered him counsel. Offered him companionship. He was like a father and Tom wished, with all his heart, to make him proud.

  “Never.” The word almost caught in his throat and he felt his hope dim and dissolve.

  Emyr’s brow relaxed and he closed his eyes. “Good.” He let go of Tom’s hand. “I am tired now.”

  Maev placed a kiss on Emyr’s brow. “Sleep, old king.”

 
; Emyr mumbled something unintelligible but Maev smiled. “True,” she said, and then led them all away.

  Tom cast a glance before the scene was hidden by barrows. Ankou had returned to his duties. Emyr’s face was slack, sleeping away the pain he’d been suffering for centuries. How could Tom say no to a man who endured so much for the sake of others? But how could he promise to carry the blade? Maev had told him he could stay. If he left, she might never let him back. He daren’t test the whims of the fay.

  Draig was the first to speak. “Tom, you tell us Malvis is Faerie king.”

  It was Maev who answered. “Our King Melwas has gone by that name, it is true.”

  “Give to me forgiving, Queen Maev.” Draig bowed his head. “I was thinking Malvis and Emyr are enemies.”

  Maev shook her head. “Melwas just wanted Emyr’s wife for himself. They were rivals, nothing more.” That was an understatement. It had been Melwas who had cut Emyr down at Camlann. That was more than rivalry. To beg entrance to Faerie after that must have been galling. “After he fell, Emyr asked us for a boon. We promised to admit him to our realm so that he would not die.”

  “But it’s been centuries,” Katharine replied. “If he hasn’t died, why isn’t he better?”

  “His wound is mortal,” Tom said. “It’s beyond the fay’s capacity to heal.”

  “So he’s stuck like that? Forever?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Why not leave?”

  “You’ve heard the story of Emyr and the Oracle?”

  “The oracle who told Emyr he would rise from his grave to save Tir in its darkest hour?” She looked askance at him. “It’s a children’s story, Tom. No-one believes that.”

  “It’s true. Emyr told me himself.”

  “How can he rise from the grave with a wound like that?”

  “He believes, one day, they’ll be able to heal him.”

  “A foolish dream,” said Brega.

  “No.” Six’s eyes were wide and his smile was broad. “It’s hope.”

  Brega snorted. “Much the same thing in my experience.”

  Tom watched Maev striding across the beach, toes curling in the sand. She walked with such grace, such power. Chin up, movements sensuous, body swaying.

  He had come a long way for his foolish dream.

  He would go back to Emyr, maybe when Calgraef had begun. He would go back alone and explain everything. Emyr might be disappointed. But Tom was nothing in Tir. He wasn’t a seer nor a man of great counsel. He wasn’t even the farmhand he had been raised to be. Only in Faerie was he something. Only in Faerie could he find a place.

  He wasn’t like Emyr. This wasn’t his war. So he would not fight it.

  Chapter 15

  By the time they returned the celebrations were in full swing. Maev clapped and laughed like a girl. Tom had time to remind the others not to eat or drink anything before she pulled him into a wild dance. It was swift and breathless and he stumbled at first before his feet remembered the rhythm. They had danced like this before, at another Calgraef. Midhir had been watching them, so she had pulled Tom into the dance circle by the hand. She had been provocative, putting Tom’s hands where they ought not to be. Everyone knew that Midhir was chasing another mortal woman. And Tom knew Maev was dancing for Midhir’s benefit rather than his own. But he had closed his eyes and pretended otherwise.

  He did the same now. The dance was the same, the steps were the same and Maev was as close as before, her breath hot and heavy and insufferably sweet. His hands began on her sides but she worked them down to her hips and pressed her body against his. Her eyes sparked with excitement and possession. She knew he was hers. It was uncomfortable and thrilling at the same time. Their foreheads touched, eyes only for the other.

  It was over too soon. The music stopped, Maev stepped away and they were surrounded by a cheering crowd Tom had forgotten about. He made an effort to hide his excitement, feeling blood rush to his cheeks. Maev smiled and turned with a flourish and a curtsey.

  “Our king.”

  Tom looked and saw Midhir sitting in a wooden throne, his pair of white swans either side. Just like before.

  Then he saw Katharine out of the corner of his eye. She wore her disgust openly and turned away when he looked at her. Not exactly like before.

  “Old Thomas Rymour.”

  “King Midhir.” He bowed, but not as low as he ought to.

  Midhir smirked. His face, a stereotype of nobility with its prominent cheekbones and aquiline nose, was framed by a cascade of golden curls. He rose out of his seat with languid grace and stepped across the grass as if walking on a cloud. Tall, slender, clad head to toe in green and decorated with impossible jewels, he was every child’s idea of what a king ought to be. The image ought to have been ruined by the wooden crown on his head. But it was buffed and polished and shined to a beautiful golden brown that fit perfectly. It was no wonder so many mortal women fell under Midhir’s thrall.

  Tom hated him.

  “What a pleasure it is to see you in our realms again.” Midhir’s voice was like golden honey, soft and melodious, at odds with Maev’s dark and tempting tones. “Robin seems quite beside himself.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “And you, old Tom? Are you pleased to see us?” Midhir’s eyes flickered with amusement. It was the first time he’d had a chance to test Tom’s fay-given honesty. Perhaps he hoped to catch him out, or force him to say something offensive? Tom hid his smile. Midhir had always underestimated him. “I am very happy to see all of you once more, Your Majesty.”

  “All of us?”

  Tom bowed his head. “Faerie would not be the same without every one of you.”

  Midhir’s smirk had disappeared. “Indeed.” He turned to Maev. “And you, our queen. You seem to enjoy having back your man.” He spoke with a light and jolly tone. But Tom knew he was jealous. Jealous despite having had a string of mortal lovers himself.

  “We have back our loyal and loving servant,” Maev replied. She spoke, not with the anger or defensiveness Tom hoped for, but with a laugh and a gentle reminder. “We must not forget that.”

  Midhir wrinkled his nose. “We have many servants.”

  “But none like Tom.”

  The two fay stared at each other for a moment. What were those ancient eyes saying to each other? What was it he didn’t know?

  Midhir clapped his hands. “Wine!” he called and then laughed, as if the whole exchange had been so terribly droll. “Where is our music? Our wine? Let us celebrate the darkening of days!”

  The music started up and Midhir waved a hand at Tom. “Come, walk with us a moment.”

  He spoke as if they were old friends. Tom bowed to Maev. “My lady.”

  She gave him a nod full of sympathy and promises.

  Midhir led them on a winding path through the celebrations. Fay parted before them and Midhir gave a nod and smile, even a word or two, as they passed. He seemed beloved wherever he went.

  “We have heard of your purpose here, old Tom. We must admit we were surprised to see you take such interest in mortal affairs.”

  “I had only one purpose, Your Majesty,” said Tom, cool and civil. “Return to Faerie.”

  “Why?”

  Another test? Midhir still wore his king’s smile but there was a hint of suspicion in his eyes. “You doubt my love and my commitment?”

  “You were released from our service many years ago. Much time has passed.”

  “But I have remained true.”

  Midhir laughed. “We suppose you have,” he said. “Is that not frustrating? To be honest all the time?”

  “It is.”

  Midhir nodded, solemn. He caught two cups from a passing tray. Tom took one but did not drink while Midhir took a swig. The fay savoured it, eyes closed and a beautiful smile on his face. It was what Tom hated most about Midhir: that he could look so fair without and be so foul within. “This is what it’s about, old Tom. The little things. A cup of wine on
a gorgeous evening. What more can a fay ask for? Hmm?” He grinned as if there were no cares in the world. “So you would stay with us?”

  “I would.”

  “And yet your king has made a request of you.”

  “You have made no request of me that I can recall, Your Majesty.”

  Midhir waved a hand, finishing his wine and tossing the cup onto a nearby fire. “Come come. We heard you speak to Emyr. You called him your king.” His light and airy manner hid something. Tom could see it.

  “Emyr has made a request of me, it is true.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I wish to remain here.” It felt good to say it out loud. Liberating. The atmosphere of the party seeped into him. Things weren’t so bad. Why worry about the little things? Why let someone else’s cares upset him? He was back in Faerie. He smiled. “Why would I want to leave again?”

  “Even a paradise can be a prison.” Midhir sobered and looked back the way they had come. Maev was sat in his vacated seat, Robin Goodfellow at her feet, watching the festivities. “The same patterns, the same cycles. Habit, old Tom. Habit is an invisible chain and a gag.”

  The same patterns and the same cycles. The same dance with Maev, the same jealousy in Midhir’s eyes. The idea felt comforting to Tom. It could be relied upon. But he said nothing.

  “Ah, well.” He smiled again. “It is for the good. Do not be offended, Tom, but we do not like the idea of you roaming across Tir with Emyr’s old blade. We prefer that you be here. Where we can keep an eye on you, eh?”

  He spoke as if they were friends. It repelled Tom. “What is it you do not like, your majesty?”

  Midhir waved a hand. “It matters not. Come, let us watch them light the bonfire.”

  Tom stepped in Midhir’s path. It was a bold move, even a rude one. It elicited murmurs from around them. Midhir’s smile faded. “Please, Your Majesty,” Tom said. “A curiosity aroused and not soothed is a terrible thing.”

  At first Tom thought the Faerie King was going to become angry. There was something dark in his eyes and his mouth was set. But then he smiled. “You speak such truth, old Tom.” The darkness did not fade but the rest of his face relaxed. “Very well. Emyr’s blade is apt for misuse. Terrible things could be wrought with it.”