by Jane Yolen
Snail knew that after this ride, she would forever envy birds their wings and miss the feel of wind rushing through her hair. That is, if she had a forever.
And thinking that, she was brought back to the war that, for much of the ride, had somehow been far from her thoughts.
• • •
WHETHER SNAIL WAS guiding the bowser with her mind or he was simply on his own flight path, she was never to know for sure. But later that evening, just as the sun was going down behind the highest peaks and dusk spread its orange cloak across the sky, the bowser suddenly banked and headed down, like a hawk in its perilous stoop.
“Wait!” she cried. “Where are you going? Why are we going down?” But the wind snatched the words from her mouth and she was holding on too tightly and was too frightened by the precipitous fall to steer with her mind.
Even if she had known how.
In the end, after a short glide across an empty glade, the bowser slid to a stop. He rose slightly and dumped Snail off. She landed in some high grass that cushioned her as she tumbled along.
She’d no idea where they were, but evidently the bowser did, because he scrunched along the grass toward a copse of trees as if he knew something she didn’t.
Snail hurried after because she dared not lose sight of the rug.
Suddenly, the bowser rose up and wrapped himself around one particular tree, shaking it like a boy trying to shake apples off a bough.
Something large fell out of the tree, and the bowser caught it expertly.
“Stand aside,” a familiar voice shouted. “Let me go!”
“Your high and mightiness,” Snail called, “the bowser’s found you. He probably thinks you’re his master.”
“It’s a he?” Aspen said, standing.
Snail nodded.
“How do you know?”
“Maggie Light told me.”
“Well it . . . er, he . . . has nearly killed me,” Aspen said. “And I am no one’s master.”
“What were you doing in the tree?”
“Scouting,” he said. “Though it is rousingly difficult. There are two armies out there, and only one me.”
“Now there are two of us, Prince. Plus the bowser.” Snail smiled into the darkness. “And he flies.”
ASPEN OVERSEES THE BATTLE
Aspen had so many questions to ask Snail. How did you find me? Did Odds send you? Have you forgiven me? Are we still friends? But all he said was, “It flies?” The doubt in his voice was palpable.
Snail nodded and laughed. Aspen was so relieved that he almost forgot their situation.
Almost.
“We must leave,” he said. “Immediately.”
“But I must tell you about Odds.” She frowned deeply. “We have a third army to stop.”
Aspen shook his head. “Tell me in the air.” He looked doubtfully down at the bowser, which was rubbing against his leg. He said again, even more doubtfully this time, “It . . . er . . . he flies?”
“Get on,” Snail commanded. “Hold tight. Watch the horizon.”
He sat down cross-legged in front of her the same way she sat, knees drawn up. He grabbed two handfuls of the bowser’s fur, thinking, Not possible.
Snail put her right hand on his right shoulder.
For a moment he thought to reprimand her. But only for a moment, for the bowser shuddered beneath him, began to lift, then rose straight up into the air.
The air, he thought, suddenly realizing that there was nothing now between him and earth but colorless, unseen air. He looked down at the ground suddenly rushing away beneath him and felt something like a boulder drop into his stomach.
“The horizon,” came Snail’s steady voice. “Watch the horizon.”
He looked up, saw the familiar thin line where land and sky met, and was glad of Snail’s hand.
“Those who are meant to fly are given wings,” he muttered. “And elves are not so blessed.”
“What?” Snail asked, then—without waiting for an answer—said, “We have to stop the battle! Odds has an army and is going to attack the winner of the battle when they’re weakest.”
Aspen stared straight ahead, trying not to think about how far up they were, how fast they had gotten there. “The winner won’t be weak,” he managed at last.
“Why not?”
“Because Old Jack Daw will not have left anything to chance.”
Aspen felt her hand tighten on his shoulders at the mention of the old drow.
“Look,” she said, and pointed ahead of him and down.
He peered over the edge of the bowser, trying to ignore the feeling that he was going to tip over it. The bowser had returned them to Aspen’s perch of yesterday, where he had first looked down and seen the Seelie and Unseelie forces on the plain.
The two armies were still there, though they looked more like one army now, for they had closed the distance between them. Infantry clashed at the center, while bolts of lightning and balls of fire screamed over the ranks.
There were creatures in the air as well, though well below the bowser—harpies and dragonets—but they had to dodge arrows in the spell-filled sky. Luckily the bowser sailed far above both arrows and magic.
The sounds of screams and explosions, of weapons clashing, all drifted up the mountainside, though at this distance they were barely louder than the dawn chorus of birds had been. Aspen tried to make out the colors of banners, the movement of troops, but it was hopeless.
He had no idea who was winning.
“There!” Snail said, pointing at a flurry of activity to one side. “Is that your father’s cavalry?”
Aspen looked where she pointed and saw a large troop of cavalry moving away from the main hostilities toward their enemy’s left flank.
“No one else has any, so yes, it must be.”
He watched, trying to discern the meaning of the maneuver.
Does my father flee?
It seemed unlikely. But Jaunty had always said that in war the bravest men sometimes do the most cowardly things and cowardly men the bravest. Thinking of Jaunty brought back memories of his long hours studying battle strategy, and suddenly he saw a magic smoke spell between the armies fizzle out. There was a groan from his father’s soldiers. But then the groan turned to a cheer.
That is so brilliant! Aspen thought.
“Oh, Aspen, I’m so sorry the spell failed,” Snail said into his ear.
It seemed clear that—outnumbered, and forced to attack or be overrun in the night—his father had thrown the bulk of his force at the center of the Unseelie lines. It looked like a hopeless attack, providing a lot of chaos and confusion. But what Aspen realized at once was that the failed fireball spell had thrown up a wall of smoke screening the cavalry from view as they wheeled right and made for the enemy’s rear.
He turned his head and said to Snail, “In fact the spell didn’t fail. It did what it was supposed to do—smoked and fizzled on purpose.”
“What?” Snail sounded puzzled.
Aspen assumed it was because, as a girl and a servant, she had never had the opportunity to study the strategy and rules for war. And there was no time to explain it all to her. But as he watched in awe, the cavalry gained the high ground behind the enemy, then pointed their lances downhill.
And then they began to charge.
“Oh my!” Snail exclaimed, lifting her hand off Aspen’s shoulder. “Is your father actually going to win?”
“A skirmish,” he said, quoting Jaunty, “is not a battle, and a battle is not the war.” But he kept on grinning at what was unfolding below.
A small group of Red Caps were quickly scattered without slowing the charge, and then the lancers raised up in their saddles ready to hit the main army. In theory, they could—he knew—split the Unseelie forces down the middle and break them. But as
Jaunty often said, “Theory and practice, difficult neighbors, uncomfortable friends.”
“I think—”
Just then, the lead horse faltered and fell, throwing its rider aside. The other horses reined in and the nearest riders dismounted. They grabbed the rider from the ground and slung him over a horse’s rump. Then they remounted and all turned, galloping straight away from the fight.
And just like that, the battle was over. The Seelie center broke and ran, making for camp as if that would offer them protection.
The flank farthest from the wooded hillside threw down their weapons, but apparently surrender was not an option. They were ridden down by dire wolves and kelpies who slaughtered them where they stood.
The nearer flank made for the woods, but none reached the trees without at least one arrow in them. Most never made it that far.
Exhausted wizards were plucked up by harpies, who made great sport of dropping them from on high. Those with any juice left waved their hands in frantic, mystic passes and popped out of sight.
Fleeing soldiers met the reserves in camp, and they began to fight each other over the few carts and horses they thought to escape on. When the Unseelie army arrived moments later, there was no resistance, only more slaughter.
Difficult neighbors, indeed, Aspen thought, his eyes filling with tears.
Terrible neighbors.
The worst.
And who should know better than he, having lived so long among them.
The bowser whined and Aspen finally tore his gaze away. The wind was suddenly cold on his face, and he realized he was weeping. He raised his hand to wipe his face and stopped. His fingers tingled; his palms were wreathed in a golden aura.
No! he thought. Not Father! No wonder the cavalry turned and ran. With his body.
“Odds is here!” Snail shouted over the noise Aspen dimly recognized as his own wracking sobs.
To the west of the destroyed Seelie camp a line of giant spiders was just stepping out from the concealment of the trees, their metal carapaces gleaming in the morning sun. Thousands of motley humans gathered around their legs, armed and eager, if not well organized.
Enough, Aspen thought, to run right through the depleted Seelie army had the cavalry charge actually hit home and destroyed the greater Unseelie army.
He shook his head and wiped the last of the tears from his eyes. My father never had a chance today.
A horn blasted from the nearer camp and the Unseelie army lined up to face the new threat, looking large and professional and not overly tired.
Odds has no chance either if he attacks now, Aspen thought.
The professor seemed to have the same thought, and the human army disappeared back into the woods as quickly as it had come.
“Take us down,” Aspen said.
He felt Snail stiffen behind him. “Are you mad? We need to fly away. Now!”
“Take us down!” Aspen shouted, and the bowser obeyed, diving swiftly but pulling up at the last moment to settle gently in a bed of pine needles.
Aspen rolled off the bowser and turned to face Snail.
Her face, which had been red and angry, was suddenly blanched white. “What’s happening to you?” she asked.
The golden aura so recently tickling his palms had now spread to his arms, and a slight burning sensation came with it. Not unpleasant, though, he thought. Soon it would spread to his entire body. Not a disease, but a dis-ease of spirit, of necessity. He had read about it, but never seen it of course.
He spoke plainly to Snail. “My father is dead. Most likely my brothers as well.” He was glad to have stopped weeping. This was a moment that should be handled with dignity and—perhaps—hope, though at the moment, hope seemed very far away.
“You don’t know that, Aspen,” Snail said. “They may have survived the battle.”
The glow moved to his chest now, and he felt it inside.
“Actually, I do.” He put his arms to his sides, bracing himself for what came next. “In the Unseelie Court,” he went on, “succession is decided by primacy: the oldest male child of the current monarch takes over when he dies.”
“What does—”
“Which usually makes for a lot of dead male children.” He smiled at Snail, but the look on her face told him it was much more of a grimace than a grin. “However, in the Seelie Court the land chooses its own king. Usually by primacy—which is why my brothers have most likely perished—though not always. But my father has certainly died.”
His whole body glowed gold now, and he knew by the yellowing of his vision that soon his head would, too.
“But how can you know?” Snail asked.
Before he could speak, the golden aura encased his head and he felt it enter him fully.
I am Faery.
I am silent stone and rumbling rivers. I am shifting sands and tumbling rocks. I am woodlands and grasslands and the caverns below. I am the mythic isles and the water around. I am the river of blood and the broken hedge. I am the scarred plain defiled by darkness. The darkness pierced by the thorns.
I am Faery.
“Because the land has chosen me,” Aspen said. “For good, for bad, for the length of my life, I am now the Seelie king.”
Snail gasped and froze for a moment, then hurriedly began to duck down into a deep curtsy.
Aspen reached out a hand to stop her. “No.”
A part of him could not believe that he was telling a human, a servant, not to bow. But it was a very small part, and easy to ignore.
“Never bow to me, Snail. I am not your liege. I am your friend.” He thought that he sounded very kingly, but then ruined it by continuing in a rush. “At least I think I am. Are we still friends? I hope so. I did not mean to leave you behind, but you would not speak to me because of the changeling thing and—I had no one else . . .”
“Of course we’re still friends, stupid.” There were tears on Snail’s face now, too, and he wasn’t sure why.
Aspen drew himself up and pretended offense, but he was grinning too hard for it to be believable. “I do not think you should call a king stupid.”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, then.”
“Fair enough.” He puffed his chest out and spoke loudly. “Herefore and henceforth and from this day forward, Snail the Midwife shall not have to perform me any obeisance and may call me ‘stupid’ and ‘muddle-minded’ and ‘dunderhead’ or any designation of her choosing if I have, in her opinion, acted in a stupid, muddle-minded, or otherwise idiotic manner.” He nodded at her. “There, I have made my first decree as king. I hope I live long enough to make it into law.”
Snail barked a short laugh that had little feel of humor in it, then cocked her head to one side, listening.
Aspen heard it, too: a mass of people moving up the mountain, no doubt Unseelie soldiers searching for survivors.
“And possibly your last decree if we don’t get out of here,” she said.
Fresh tears sprang to his eyes. He wiped them away harshly, steeling himself.
I have no time for sadness, now. I am king. He stepped onto the bowser. Not much of a start to my reign, fleeing from battle with only a changeling and an animate rug. However, all he said aloud was, “I need my friends around me now.”
She smiled tentatively. “Guess I’m it.”
He smiled back, in what he assumed was a kingly manner. “Guess you are,” he said, holding out a golden hand and pulling her onto the rug with him.
They rose into the sky as the golden aura faded from around him and settled deep in his chest.
I am Ailenbran Astaeri, Bright Celestial, Ruire of the Tir na nOg, and Lord of the Seelie kingdom.
I have promises not yet kept. Friends not yet made. Enemies not yet met. Mourning not yet begun.
I am Faery.
And I am at war.
&nb
sp; END OF BOOK TWO OF THE SEELIE WARS TRILOGY
WWW.THESEELIEWARS.COM
JANE YOLEN, called “the Hans Christian Andersen of America” (Newsweek) and the “Aesop of the Twentieth Century” (The New York Times), is the author of well over three hundred books, including Owl Moon, The Devil’s Arithmetic, and the How Do Dinosaurs . . . series. Her work ranges from rhymed picture books and baby board books through middle grade fiction, poetry collections, and nonfiction, and up to novels and story collections for young adults and adults. She has also written lyrics for folk-rock singers and groups, and several animated shorts. She’s done voiceover work and talk radio. Her books and stories have won an assortment of awards—two Nebulas, a World Fantasy Award, a Caldecott Medal, the Golden Kite Award, three Mythopoeic Awards, two Christopher Medals, a nomination for the National Book Award, and the Jewish Book Award, among others. She has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. She is also the winner of the World Fantasy Association’s Lifetime Achievement Award, the Science Fiction Poetry Association’s Grand Master Award, the Catholic Library’s Regina Medal, the Kerlan Award from the University of Minnesota, the 2012 de Grummond Medal, and the Smith College Alumnae Medal. Six colleges and universities have given her honorary doctorates.
Also worthy of note, she lost her fencing foil in Grand Central Station on a date and fell overboard while white-water rafting in the Colorado River, and her Skylark Award—given to her by NESFA, the New England Science Fiction Association—set her good coat on fire. If you need to know more about her, visit her website at www.janeyolen.com.
ADAM STEMPLE is an author, musician, web designer, maker of book trailers, and professional card player. He has published many short stories, and CDs and tapes of his music, as well as seven fantasy novels—five for middle graders and two for adults. One of his middle grade novels, Pay the Piper (also written with Jane Yolen), won the 2006 Locus Award for Best Young Adult Book. The Locus plaque sits on the shelf next to two Minnesota Music Awards and trophies from his Fall Poker Classic and All In Series wins. His first adult novel, Singer of Souls, was described by Anne McCaffrey as “one of the best first novels I have ever read.”
