"What are you saying?"
"That perhaps the fay hadn’t found us. Perhaps this Gwyllion was simply passing by until you ran into her."
"You think it was a coincidence?"
Six shrugged. "It’s possible." But he didn’t seem certain at all.
"It seems unlikely," Tom said. Mennvinn tugged her thread, tying knots. Eirwen's grace. He felt like every inch of him was cut or bruised or somehow damaged. "Hunted by the fay and we happen to bump into one?"
"You were the one doing the bumping," Six corrected him. "If you had stayed in the cave, perhaps she would have walked on by."
So the elf was blaming him. Tom shook his head. "I think it’s more likely I caught her before she had a chance to attack us all."
But Six wasn't convinced. "Let's see what the others think."
"In the morning." Tom wouldn't see Katharine woken. She hadn't moved, not since she'd first laid down, and she still looked tired.
When he looked back to Six, the elf's expression had softened. "In the morning," he agreed.
"Rest you all now," Draig told them, and Six and Mennvinn didn't need persuading to return to their respective corners. "You too, Tom."
But Tom shook his head. "I'll take a watch," he said. "Six can relieve me before morning."
"Lucky me," Six muttered.
"Need you rest."
Tom gave the Easterner a smile. "So do you."
Draig looked unconvinced, but the thought of sleeping by a fire was too much to resist. "Wake you me, if you are tired."
"I will."
He waited until everyone's breath came soft and even before reaching into his saddlebags. Out came the jar, swaddled in blankets, and Tom huddled by the cave entrance, hunkered over the wad, and pulled aside the cloth.
His face was bathed in unearthly light and the sprite said something in a voice too small to hear. Tom held the jar closer.
"They won’t forgive you for keeping us in a jar like this."
He’d already known it, but the confirmation still cut him deeply. "You’re hunting us," he replied. "You’re trying to hurt us."
"You hurt our king."
"You used me."
"What did you expect?"
The sprite’s words stunned him into silence. He’d watched the fay toy with mortals for seven years. Why had he expected them to treat him any differently?
"How did Gwyllion find us?"
"Will you release us if we tell you?"
And trade uncertainty for sure knowledge that the fay would find them? "No."
"Then why should we answer your questions?"
He had no power here. As ever, with the fay, he was at their mercy. Frustration boiled out of him before he could stop it. "Tell me," he growled and shook the jar.
"You can’t hurt us."
But he could. He had Caledyr. And, he recalled, he had a piece of the stone from Ambrose’s prison. The same stone that made the monoliths. That pushed back magic. He set down the jar and reached into his pocket, found the fragment with his fingertips.
The merest brush tugged his mind from the moment and he found himself drowning in the world. Brega was stood in a room filled with light as Puck said, "We can help each other." Western soldiers were trying to build a barricade inside Cairnalyr and cursing as fay, invisible to their eyes, undid their work while human soldiers pounded on the door.
Tom jerked his hand away, panting as if he’d been running. It had been just like standing atop the central monolith in Cairnagwyn. How could such a tiny stone have the same effect on him? He shuddered. He’d almost failed to find his way back last time. What if he’d lost his way this time, and Katharine had found him drooling and mindless?
He wrapped the stone in a rag before touching it again, though there remained a dead chill beneath the cloth. The sprite shied away as he held it up to the glass jar.
"What will this do to you?" he asked.
The sprite shook its head and said something inaudible. Tom slipped the stone back into his pocket and said, "I’ll put it in with you, if you don’t tell me what I want to know."
He lifted the jar to his ear and the sprite said, "She’ll never forgive you."
No. Perhaps not. "How did Gwyllion find us?"
"It was a coincidence," he told them all.
Tom’s eyes burned with a lack of sleep, his back ached, and the freshly stitched cut in his side throbbed. The sprite’s words still haunted him, though he hadn’t expected Maev to forgive him anyway. But he’d eaten hot goat meat, unusual but tasty, watched the sun rise, and seen the clouds skip away to reveal a clear, blue sky. It had cured a lot of ills for Tom, and he felt reassured that the fay weren’t actively hunting them.
But Six didn’t seem pleased that Tom was agreeing with him. "How can you be so sure?"
Because Dank’s sprite told me. "Gwyllion is a solitary fay. After Calgraef she disappears into mountains to hunt and terrorise innocents." It was odd to say such words with a smile. But it meant safety. "It was just bad luck she found us."
"Or that you found her."
Yes. As the elf had said, Gwyllion might have passed them by.
"And the truth is,” Six continued, “they know where we are now, even if they didn’t before. Even if last night was a coincidence."
"Isn’t that what you think?" Tom asked.
"I’m not sure what happened last night." Six folded his arms, stared at Tom as if trying to see through him. "It seems strange to me that you seem so certain this morning."
"You do seem very sure she wasn’t sent," Dank said. Was he suspicious? Perhaps. He hadn’t been allowed to see his sprite since they’d captured it in Cairnagwyn. How would he react if he discovered that Tom had spoken to it? Would he be angry? Jealous? Upset?
"Six made a convincing argument last night," Tom replied. "And Gwyllion is a solitary fay, isn’t she?"
Dank nodded. "Usually."
"Not always?" Six asked.
"Not always."
"So Tom is guessing?"
Dank squinted at Tom. "We suppose so."
Six shook his head. "We can’t base anything on guesswork," he proclaimed. He drained his cup of snow water, shook the last few drops free. "It’s not safe."
It wasn’t safe anywhere. Tom looked over at Katharine, eating strip after strip of goat meat. Elaine hadn’t been able to keep anything down when she had been with child, but Katharine had an appetite to rival Jenny Greenteeth. "Six is right," Tom said. "Even if Gwyllion didn’t mean to find us, she did. We need to keep moving." He stood, spoke to them all. "Carry iron at all times. Keep each other safe. That’s our biggest concern."
"No." The cave lent Ambrose’s hollow voice an unnatural echo. “Our only concern is finding the glarn."
"I don’t want to see anyone hurt," Tom told him.
"But you will."
Everyone’s gaze turned on Ambrose, all wondering which of them the old sorcerer thought would be injured. So Tom said, "That’s enough, Ambrose."
"Why?"
"Because you’re upsetting people."
Ambrose levelled a deep and dark stare on Tom. "There are evil days ahead of us, Sir Tom. Full of evil deeds. My only concern is surviving to do what must be done.
"I don’t care about their feelings at all.”
"Please, my king, will you tell him to stop?" Tom was riding in the wagon with Emyr and Ambrose again. They had broken camp in quiet unease and Tom could see a number of them wondering if they shouldn’t turn back. "We have enough to think of without Ambrose’s dire warnings of pain and suffering."
"I know." It was all Ambrose kept saying. But he said it without conviction, like he was reading from a book.
"Then please don't do it."
"I cannot do otherwise," Ambrose replied. "This you know."
"Then you know I will ask you again."
"Just as I know you will stop asking soon."
"Please. Both of you." Emyr was sat up that day. Though he was clearly still in pain, he seeme
d to be forcing himself to sit, as if he was convincing himself that he was healing. "Please don't squabble."
"My king, he keeps telling us all that bad times are ahead, that we’re unprepared, that we’ll be hurt and killed." Surely Emyr had to see how bad that was? Emyr, the leader of men. The man who had rallied to his cause everyone he met. "It confuses and upsets the others."
"And you, Tom?" Emyr looked up from his bowl.
"Yes, it upsets me too."
"Why?"
"Because we face a task not all of us believe is possible. It doesn’t help if someone’s calling it impossible and refusing to help."
"Is that true, Ambrose?"
"No, my liege. I have never called our task impossible. And I help in the only way I can."
Emyr’s gaze fell on Tom. "Is this true, Tom?"
He opened his mouth to disagree. But he couldn’t. So it must be. And, Tom supposed, it was. Ambrose remembered what was to come. How many times had Tom felt shackled by his foresights, going through motions he had already seen before? And that was how Ambrose lived every moment. How could he change his actions if he’d already taken them?
Emyr took a deep breath. "It is difficult to be around Ambrose. I’m sure he’d be the first to agree."
But Ambrose said nothing. And Tom wondered how it had felt to wait a thousand years, knowing his king would call him difficult.
"You will have to manage him," Emyr added. "And the others. It’s part of being a leader."
"I’m not a leader,” Tom said.
"They follow you, don’t they?"
"Ambrose follows you."
"Ambrose follows himself. He always has." Emyr gave his friend a fond smile that wasn’t returned, and Emyr’s expression faltered a moment later. "Though he is not the man I knew."
"He is still your friend."
"Is he?" Emyr shook his head. "He had such a sense of humour. Childish, really. He knows many arts, and he used to use them to play tricks and pranks on people. Once he fashioned a powder and scattered it on Emoddir’s seat so it created a coloured mist whenever he broke wind." Tom could barely imagine the man smiling, let alone playing such a childish prank. "He was my closest advisor, my fool and my friend. Now I’m not sure he is any of those things."
Tom waited for Ambrose to inject. To persuade Emyr otherwise. To say anything. But he was silent, and it seemed cruel to say such things as if he wasn’t there. "That seems unfair," Tom said, but Emyr waved him away.
"He won’t remember any of this."
"No," Tom agreed. "But he’s remembered it for a thousand years." Tom gestured to the old sorcerer, who stared at nothing. "And suggesting he isn’t your friend seems like poor thanks for waiting all that time in order to help you again." Emyr gazed at Tom with surprise and awe, and Tom remembered just who he was speaking to. "My king," he added, and lowered his gaze.
For a time, the only sound was the creaking wheels of the wagon beneath them. Tom began to wonder if he’d offended Emyr.
But the old king sighed and said, "You’re right." Tom looked up to see Emyr reach across and place a hand over Ambrose’s. "Forgive me. You are my friend. And I am yours. Always."
Ambrose lifted his gaze to Emyr’s and, for a moment, he seemed unburdened by the weight of his years. "Thank you. This moment has seen me through many a dark time."
The hurt in Emyr’s eyes spoiled his smile. "I am sorry that you have suffered."
"No more than you."
"So much more." Emyr turned to Tom. "Thank you, son. You show me the error of my ways."
Tom bowed his head. "If I can serve in any way."
But Emyr snorted. "Serve?" He waved a bitter hand over the wound he had covered with a blanket. "I am a broken old man, son. My time is past. This time belongs to you now."
Tom shook his head with a grin. "I fear I’ll be a poor substitute for King Emyr of Tir."
But Emyr was sombre and serious. "When you came to Faerie you were a boy. Now you are a man. You are capable of far more than you think."
His gaze seemed to penetrate past layers and pretense and Tom felt his plan exposed and the thought of admitting to his king that he was going to abandon Katharine and his child tightened his chest and his palms grew sweaty. He bowed his head under the weight of what he had to do and said, "I fear I am not what you think."
"You’re right." Emyr spoke so casually that his words brought Tom’s head up again. Emyr added, "I see in you the same potential as my son. And I will not see that squandered again."
Cairnoher was at once like and unlike Cairnakor. The streets were paved, the buildings cramped, the air thick. But it was so much smaller. There was less bustle, fewer people, and while certain thoroughfares were packed, there were plenty of streets that were empty. But, though it seemed like a smaller version of Cairnakor, its skyline was broken by many more wonders. Huge wheels planted along the river’s edge were turned by the rushing water. Great balloons hung in the air, some tethered to the ground or to rooftops, others drifting in the wind, bound for other cities. Jarnstenn said they were powered by hot air, but Tom couldn’t see how a little air could keep something that big aloft. It had to be some sort of magic, although the air felt still in that place. Like there was a monolith nearby.
But before Tom or Dank could say that it would be dangerous to enter the town, the decision had already been made. "This is the last town before we enter the Northern Wastes," Katharine told them all.
"You mean our last chance for a warm bed and a roof over our heads," Jarnstenn replied.
"Exactly." And Katharine had turned to Tom when she added, "I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m not passing that up. And if the fay want to come between me and a hot bath, let them see what happens."
Tom stared at the town, feeling his desire to make Katharine happy at odds with his desire to see her safe, both overshadowed by a deepening guilt at what he had to do. But it was a selfish desire to make her smile, for her to be happy with him once last time, that spurred him to say, "Very well."
Dank wasn’t happy about it. But once Gravinn found them a tavern with beds enough for all of them and plenty of strong dwarfish beer on tap, it wasn’t long before everyone was smiling and relaxed.
Except Tom.
Katharine had nothing to drink, but she had the slow, dopey air of heavy fatigue when he took her up to their room.
"What’s wrong?" she mumbled as she climbed into bed.
She was too good at reading him. And he couldn’t lie, if she cornered him. "Nothing that can’t wait until morning," he told her. And she accepted it without question, pulled him into bed and put his arm around her. His hand rested on her belly, feeling the little movements of their unborn daughter, sometimes no more than a tiny shift within, sometimes a sharp little kick. Each one felt impossible, like she was here before she was here. Like she was reaching out for him.
Each little movement seemed to cry out to him: don’t leave.
I have to. You won’t survive with me.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. They were enveloped in a bubble, a sort of sleepy tranquility. Despite everything going on, everything they faced, somehow Katharine had created a little slice of bliss.
A bliss that Tom’s guilt prevented him from enjoying. He realised that he hadn’t had sisters; he had no experience of little girls. Yes, they were all the same when they were babies. But when they were older? He’d have no idea what to do with her. What if she didn’t like him? What if she didn’t love him?
Then he remembered he was never going to meet her, and the pain was so sharp he clenched his jaw.
"Shh." Katharine sounded half-asleep and very comfortable.
"I didn’t say anything," he whispered.
"You were worrying."
How could she tell? "I suppose that’s what I do now."
"It is." She took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. A contented sigh? Or had he broken the bubble. "You worry all the time now."
"There’s a lot to wo
rry about."
"Everything will be fine." She placed a hand on top of his. The baby kicked.
Nothing was fine. The fay had taken his first life from him. Now he had a chance at a second, and the fay were going to take it away again.
No. He couldn’t blame the fay. He was the one abandoning his daughter.
"Ssh."
"Sorry."
She patted his hand. "I like that you worry. It means you care." She was right. He did care. "But you worry too much. Sleep."
She drifted off minutes later. Tom couldn’t. The knowledge of what he had to do was too heavy to sleep under. How would he do it? Use Mennvinn’s medicine on Katharine first. Lure Six to the room, use it on him. Tell the others the two of them had ridden ahead. No, that would involve a lie. That Katharine was ill? Also a lie. That she couldn’t ride, and Six would stay behind and look after her. Yes. That would be true. But what if someone suggested they wait until she was better? Too much could go wrong.
And if it went right, he’d never meet his daughter.
Rest.
That was easy for the sword to say. But how could he rest, knowing what he had to do?
Rest.
Help me.
Rest.
Words spoken by Emyr and Six blurred and mixed and haunted his dreams. The same potential as my son. Be loyal, be honest, and save her life.
He woke with a guilty start, a vision of Katharine stood over him, his plans laid bare. But she slept on, and he watched her as consciousness crept back to him.
He wanted to live up to Emyr’s expectations. He wanted to be loyal and honest with Katharine. But he would fail. He had foreseen it. Better to fail her now, so she could live.
He had to do this. He didn’t want to. But what else could he do?
He was doing it for his daughter.
He rose without zest or vigour, limbs heavy around a hollow core, as if his defeat had scooped out every spark of life and left cold resignation in its wake. The little bottle Mennvinn had given him was hidden in his shirt and he fished it out, stared at it as if it was the source of all his woes. Soak it in a rag, she’d said. Let her breathe the fumes.
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 82
