The Realm Rift Saga Box Set

by James T Kelly

  “Interesting.” She looked at him. “That is what you think makes you immune to our song?”

  “It is.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “Magic is for children, Thomas Rymour.”

  “Then how does your song work?”

  She shook her head. “I promised you the sword,” she said. “Not my people’s knowledge.” She took the pouch and walked back into the water.

  “Goodbye, Tom,” said Ambrose.

  “You could come with us?” He knelt by the rocks again. It didn’t look like there was a lot of room in there. In fact it looked like there was enough space to stand only.

  “I stay here,” he said.

  “You can’t stay here.” That’s what he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. Ambrose clearly could stay there. He tugged again at the strange rocks. There was something about them, but it wasn’t magic.

  “It isn’t time for me to leave yet.”

  “He is our guest,” Nimuë said without looking over, without slowing her walk into the water. “He stays at our pleasure. He leaves when we say so.”

  “That’s what I let you think,” he said to her. Then to Tom he said, “I’ve been waiting a long time to see you with that sword.”

  “I’m just carrying it,” he said. “It belongs to Emyr.”

  Ambrose shook his head. “He was just carrying it too.”

  Tom thought of asking more but he was too distracted. How could he be comfortable? How could he want to stay in there? And how could he even be alive?

  “I want you to take this,” Ambrose said and his hand emerged from the darkness holding a single pearl veined in black.

  “What is it?” More magic. He could feel it.

  “The merrow name for it is a Call,” Ambrose whispered. “You speak to it and put it in water. Then it repeats your words so merrow can hear them. Very clever.”

  Tom gazed at the Call. “Is that what Nimuë is? A merrow?”

  Ambrose ignored the question. “Go now.” His eyes closed and Tom could see nothing.

  “I’ll come back for you.”

  “I know you will.”

  “We will not let him go.” It was a parting shot. An attempt to have the last word. “He belongs to us.” Nimuë disappeared beneath the water.

  Six and Neirin gasped as if coming up for air. Whatever spell she had over them, it must have gone. Six looked a little sheepish. Neirin looked furious.

  “Unhand me.”

  “My lord?” Siomi looked uncertain. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not going to dive in after her, are you?” asked Brega. She earned only a glare. She shrugged and untied him. He climbed to his feet with as much dignity as he could muster. Which wasn’t much. His cloak was covered in dirt. He had grass stains on his face.

  “Good work, Tom,” he said. It seemed to physically pain him.

  Tom nodded. “Thank you, my lord.” He thought about mentioning Nimuë’s song, trying to make the elf feel better about falling under its thrall. But he thought better of it. Neirin preferred to pretend embarrassing things didn’t happen. To prove the point, the elf climbed into the saddle. “We have the sword,” he said, as if it had been a great battle and a personal victory. “We have triumphed where many said we would fail. Tir will tremble under the yoke of King Idris no longer. We shall prevail. We shall overcome. We shall be the shield upon which his blows shall fall.” He wheeled and rode out of the clearing.

  “That elf lives in his own world, doesn’t he?” Six said.

  “Hold your tongue,” Brega snarled.

  “Neirin is by no means perfect,” Siomi said as she remounted. “But who among us is?”

  “Most of us are ready to admit that.”

  “He is a leader. It is his burden, to be always perfect. So that people can draw on him for strength.” Siomi shrugged. “If you were a leader, you would understand.”

  Was that how Emyr led his kingdom? Tom couldn’t imagine so. Emyr seemed too humble, too plain-spoken. There were other ways to lead.

  “He doesn’t have to pretend his feet don’t touch the same mud ours do,” Six said.

  “Perhaps.” Siomi’s look was hard. “But his father is remembered as someone whose feet did not. Who walked above such base things. Lord Neirin must try to live up to expectations that no elf could ever match.”

  Six seemed put out. “He should be who he is. He doesn’t have to pretend.”

  “He feels he does. He doesn’t feel ready. It weighs on him.”

  “Siomi.” Brega put herself between her and Six. “You shouldn’t be telling them this.”

  “I want them to understand.”

  “You betray his trust.”

  “I shall let him be the judge of that, Brega.” But she flicked her reins and rode away. Brega glared at them as she followed. Six sulked; Siomi’s words had hit home but he still wasn’t willing to back down. Tom let him be, watching him ride ahead surrounded by his thoughts. Katharine followed at a distance behind. Tom thought of trying to talk to her but her eyes told him not to. So he rode alone, in the middle of the pack, trying not to feel guilty about leaving Ambrose behind. What must it be like in there? Not comfortable. Not pleasant. A cold, dark cell underground. And for centuries, too. Only decades had passed for Emyr, trapped in the strange time of Faerie. But that place wasn’t Faerie. There was magic there, maybe even a link to Faerie. But it was in Tir. It was mortal. Ambrose would have felt every second in that cell. It wasn’t right to leave him. He ought to go back.

  “You handled yourself well, Tom.” Dank fell in alongside him.

  “Thank you.”

  “We are impressed.”

  What should he say to that? “Good.”

  “She will remember it, though. Nimuë has been holding a grudge for centuries. But she always finds room for more.” Dank’s smile was knowing, his gaze distant as if remembering something.

  “You know her, then?”

  “The fay know her well indeed.”

  “But she is not a fay?”

  Dank laughed. It was a boyish laugh, raucous and high-spirited. But there was another laugh in there too. Dark and throaty. “It’s complicated.”

  Tom peered under Dank’s hood. Those tattoos. It reminded him of something. “You’re not a fay either,” he said.

  “We are a part of the fay.”

  “But you’re mortal too.”

  Dank shrugged. “Perhaps a part of us is still mortal. But it is a small part.”

  “Tell me more,” Tom said as they rode into the camp, but Dank shook his head.

  “Maybe later, Thomas Rymour. If we survive.”

  “Survive?”

  “Dismount, hands in the air, weapons down.” A Westerner stepped out from behind a tree. Cloaked in his white robes and furs, he had been invisible.

  Bow strings creaked above them. There were a dozen white-clad archers sitting in the branches. They were surrounded.

  “I hereby charge you with treason against the King and arrest you on such charges.” The Westerner smiled. “Now. Which one of you has the sword?”

  Chapter 18

  Tom had wondered what it was like for Ambrose in his underground cell. Now he knew. The elfs had taken them back to Cairnalyr and thrown them in the dungeons. Into tide cells, so they called them. A narrow chamber with room only to stand, the ceiling a grate, within reach but immovable. But it let in the light, which would have been a boon except it meant he could watch the tide come in.

  The cell had a small channel at his feet that led out to the sea. At low tide the channel mouth opened to fresh air. But as the tide rose, the channel let the water fill the cell, until it was filled at high tide. Their gaoler had laughed when he’d explained it.

  “Means we don’t have to keep you clean,” the elf had said. Then he’d locked the grate. Tom wouldn’t appreciate the joke for a few days, once he’d realised that, while the tide might wash away his filth, it brought it back a few times first. The water wou
ld be murky and stink of brine and waste. It disgusted him to stand in it.

  He knew the others were nearby. They’d all been brought down to the dungeons together, so he’d seen them go into their own cells before he was forced into his. They’d tried to talk to each other until one of the gaolers had threatened to add some of his own water to their cells. He was mean enough to do it, too. He liked to spit into their cells. So they waited. Sometimes the elfs would abandon them. They would hear them down a hallway, drinking and swearing and gambling. Then they could talk, in short quick whispers.

  The water was coming in now, lapping at Tom’s feet. It would take a while to fill. The anticipation and the dread were almost worse than having to stand on his toes for hours, holding his nose above water to keep from drowning. Almost worse.

  He’d lost the sword. It had been taken from him, along with all of their other weapons and possessions. They were left the clothes on their backs. But not shoes. He had to stand barefoot on the slimy rock. But the sword, Caledyr, that’s what they had wanted. Their leader, Proctor Gerwyn, his eyes had shone with greed when the elfish captain had presented it to him. They’d been taken to the tower of Cairnalyr, bound and walking, and Gerwyn had pontificated about the unstoppable force of the Western Kingdom. He had also said that he only needed to keep Neirin alive. The rest of them were disposable.

  “But I shall keep you,” he said, smiling an oily smile at a joke only he knew, “until you become useful.”

  Tom wasn’t sure how long ago that was. He’d already lost count of the number of tides. It had been days. That was all he was sure of. Days with the memory of Cairnalyr, unchanged and unrecognisable. The tower still stood strong albeit with a few scorch marks. The city around it was more or less intact too, and those buildings that had suffered damage were being repaired. Tom had been surprised at first to see Erhenni carrying out the repairs. For some reason he had imagined the elfs would have driven them off the island. But, if anything, there were more people on the Harbour. The city had been reoccupied, shops were open, children scampered through the streets, and sailors queued for jobs. It was a hive of activity.

  At first Tom had wondered if he was helping the wrong side. Neirin would have him believe King Idris was crushing duchies under his heel. But what he had seen in Cairnalyr was not a people crushed. He saw elfs unloading ships of food, building materials, supplies and succour.

  But after a few days of standing in water and waste the doubt had vanished. Soldiers had patrolled the streets of the Harbour. The people had been muted, eyes downcast. The air had been soaked in paranoia. Even the children had picked up on it and were careful where they did and did not scamper. The Erhenni were not crushed. But they were conquered. That’s what he told himself when the water was gone and all he had was thoughts and doubts.

  The water was up to his knees now.

  But Emyr had invaded the West and the East. Had the conquered elfs been the same at first? Had they been quiet and afraid only for time to make them forget? Had they realised Emyr the conqueror sought only to unite? Not to crush or punish. Is that what would happen this time?

  Was this worse than the water? The doubts?

  He’d lost the sword.

  They’d established that both Draig and Six was missing. No-one knew why or how. Brega had suggested that Six had betrayed them and they were interrogating Draig. It would be their turn next. But days passed and no-one came for them. Just the guards bringing them old bread and stale water. Katharine asked about escape. Siomi counselled patience.

  “Lord Neirin will secure our release,” she whispered.

  But days passed and no-one came for them. Just more bread. And the water.

  Had they been betrayed? Tom couldn’t imagine they could have been found so quickly otherwise. Before they’d been put in their cells, Proctor Gerwyn had said to Six, “A traitor once and a traitor twice, brother? We shall have to think of a suitable reward for you.”

  Six had said nothing.

  At first Tom had thought the Proctor was calling Six a traitor for helping Neirin. But time eroded that idea, washed it out with the tide. Now he wondered if the Proctor hadn’t meant that Six had betrayed them. That Six had told the Westerners where they were and what they were doing. That Six had told them about Caledyr.

  Emyr had trusted him. He’d held the blade for mere minutes before losing it. How disappointed would Emyr be? How disappointed would Maev be?

  It was odd, though. He felt its loss emotionally, yes, he was upset to have lost Caledyr. But he felt it physically too. No, not physically. But it was like a close friend had been taken away. He missed the sword. Keenly. Sometimes, at his lowest points, he could imagine he heard it calling to him, telling him to rescue it.

  It was possible he was already losing his mind.

  The water was freezing. It seemed at odds with the notions of the Erhenni, the sailors and the lawmakers, that they would have such barbaric cells.

  At first he’d lifted himself above the water using the grate above and braced his feet against the rough cell walls. But it was too tiring. Sometimes he felt so tired he wedged himself into a corner and slept, part-crouched, mostly standing. He could sleep for a few minutes before the discomfort woke him.

  The cell was growing smaller, the water up to his waist. He reached up to the grate and looked down at the water. Dirty. Stinking. He hated it. He had never imagined he would hate water. But he did. He hated it and he feared it. What if the tide was higher than normal? What if he drowned in here? The elfs had called the cells ‘rat pits’. Before he’d seen them he’d thought they’d be filled with rats. A child’s fear, to be amongst rats. Now he understood the name. How many prisoners had been fished out, waterlogged and drowned?

  His foresight had been coming back. Weak at first, and inconstant. The fakeroot had worn off. Now he had foresights of stinking marshes, foul and stagnant water, and of a black-walled castle. Dark tunnels in which Katharine seemed to die. Dark corridors in which he waited to die himself.

  “Scared?”

  Tom nodded.

  “You should be. Dying is painful.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “I am.” Emyr turned to him and smiled in the darkness. “You need that fear. Take it and hold it close. Be terrified.”

  “Done.”

  There was a hammering on the great door. Something was trying to get it.

  “Now remember that the only way to protect yourself from what you fear is to kill as many of those things as possible.”

  He blinked and came back to his cell. His cold, dark, wet, rough, small, claustrophobic cell. The water was up to his chest. His legs were numb. A tiny fish swam in circles around them; it had been pushed up the channel by the tide. Tom found himself smiling, grinning like an idiot.

  “Hello,” he whispered, so quiet even he could barely hear himself. He reached into the water and waved his fingers at it. It darted away behind his knee. He laughed. “I won’t hurt you.”

  It was the first living thing he’d seen in days. Even when the gaolers brought bread and water, their faces were hidden from him, the torchlight too bright for him to see. The little fish was a pale red, fading into pink, with thin blue stripes. It was only small, maybe the length of his thumb, but it was thick and quick. He saw it gobbling up tiny motes in the water.

  It occurred to Tom that he’d not eaten meat in days. His stomach growled. It was tiny, yes, but it was fish.

  It drifted in front of him, coursing a lazy circle around him. He could catch it.

  But it was his only companion right now.

  “Maybe you could tell me what it’s like out there,” he whispered. “They say Ambrose could speak to birds and fish. Maybe you could speak to me?”

  He found himself staring at it. Was he waiting for it to speak? Iron nails, he was losing his mind. He needed to get out of there. He reached up to the grate and lifted himself up. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He’d already examined it a doz
en times. Metal bars, thick and strong enough that it could take his weight. Hinged on one side, locked to a hoop in the ground on the other. The grate was a well-made circle but the cell itself seemed to have been ripped out of the ground. That meant there were gaps between the grate and the cell. He’d tested the gaps already; enough space to fit fingers through there, his hand up to his palm there. What could he do with that? Nothing. The gaps weren’t near the lock and, even if they were, Tom had no tools with which to pick it.

  The bars were iron. He could sense it. He wondered if that was why Dank hadn’t spoken. Was he sick? Was he dead? Could he die? If part of him was mortal then he could.

  An elf walked past and glared down at him. Climbing up to the grate was permitted. It amused the elfs to watch them try to escape the water. But this elf resented his duty. Tom had heard him complain before. He lowered himself back down into the water.

  Higher now. To his neck. He found his breath coming shorter and faster. The cell walls felt closer. He was running out of room, out of air.

  The fish swam calm as ever.

  Focus, he told himself. Think. There is a way out.

  There wasn’t a way out. If there was, Siomi would have found it. Or Katharine. They were smarter than he was. If they couldn’t escape, none of them could.

  He’d lost the sword. He’d failed.

  The guards started talking, in elfish so he couldn’t understand. But then two of them were walking between the cells, talking, asking questions. They stopped at his and one of them unlocked the grate.

  This was it. Gerwyn had realised Tom was useless. No reason to waste bread and water on him. How would they do it? Hang him, behead him, or just throw him out to sea?

  The grate lifted and hands reached down. No. No, he didn’t want to die. He fought them. He shouted at them. But he was weak and tired and they were strong and rested. They lifted him out of the water. The fish. He’d left the fish behind. He hadn’t said goodbye. The grate closed and they stood him on it, stripped him of his wet, filthy clothes. Tom struggled to keep his balance on the metal grate. His feet seemed to find all the gaps and the bars dug into his soft, wet feet. There was a breeze coming from somewhere. He shivered.