by Ken Altabef
Meadowlark was crushed. He let out a low moan of disappointment.
She sat up, turning to look at him. “Wasn’t that pleasurable?”
“Yes, but—”
She stood up from her bed. He watched her step toward the window, drinking in every detail of her naked back, the coppery skin with its slight metallic sheen, the tall, lithe figure, her muscular shoulders and arms, the tattoos along her spine, the gossamer wings.
She ran her fingers through her hair, gathering it in back of her head as she leaned out the open window.
The howls of the dogs outside were frightening even to Meadowlark, but she purred back at them. “A perfect night for the Hunt. Samhain—the beginning of winter. A good time for the Winter Court.” She licked her lips with a sharply pointed tongue.
“He’s not…not…” Meadowlark stammered, “Not coming back right now, is he?”
“Mmmmm?” She turned, gazing down upon him with a matronly smile that was as wicked as they come. “I see. You realize how jealous he can be, don’t you?”
Yes! Deadly and jealous. And that, he thought, was kind of strange. “I’ve never met a jealous faery before.”
“What do you care? So long as he is gone, and we can play?” She smacked her lips. “You’re wondering what he might do if he caught us? Like this?”
“No. I sort of already know. Or at least I can guess well enough what he’ll do to me. But what about you?”
She snickered. “He’ll do nothing to me, except what I allow.”
Meadowlark swallowed hard. Best to change the subject. “But why the Hunt now? The king is dead. I killed him—for you. Why risk the wrath of the new king?”
“I don’t care about his wrath—I welcome it. This hunt is a distraction, a play. A pageant I have designed for the new English king.”
“A prelude to war.”
She sat again on the bed, teased her breast with the palm of her hand. “I don’t want war. I want to rule England.” She laughed again, showing two rows of small triangular teeth. “I have a plan.”
“Tell me more.”
“In time. I’ve a part for you in it, should you prove worthy.”
“Haven’t I done that already?”
“Mmmm. To some extent. We’ll see.”
She threw herself on top of him, her mind questing out, almost forcing the joining on him again. “Do this for me—show me everything.”
“I already have.”
“Again.”
He let himself fall into her, hoping this time might be different…
The Wild Hunt rolled on across the northern English woodland. After running down a few more victims as it neared the village of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, they came across a pack of children with painted faces being led from farm to farm by a man dressed as Láir Bhán, the white mare. The children carried lanterns made from hollowed out turnips and mangelwurzels and carved with grotesque faces. The human hobby horse had been leading them in reciting verses in exchange for offerings of food and sweets. It was Samhain, after all.
The Hunt descended upon the children mid-verse, breaking their chant into screeches and terrified screams as they scattered. Aldebaran called the dogs off and let the little ones run away, their candles scattered and pulped beneath the horses’ hooves. Instead, the pack ran down the white horse. His costume was soon torn to shreds and red with blood, but Aldebaran held off from killing him as well. His paper mache headpiece still intact, the hobby horse joined the hunt, a hapless victim dragged along in their wake, wholly under their spell, forced to do shameful things to himself as he plodded along behind them.
The Wild Hunt finally reached its destination—the old church at Newcastle-upon-Tyne. By this time the entire faery host had devolved into a pack of frothing, braying dogs with Aldebaran, a gigantic black mastiff, at their head. On the doorstep of the grand church he resumed his usual appearance of the tall, broad shouldered fairy with the sleeveless velvet jacket, purple skin and black horns. He wanted them to see exactly who had come knocking at their door. Neron and Ragwort transformed as well as they kicked the tall double doors of the church in.
Several dozen people cowered inside, attending a late-night mass in honor of the souls of the recent dead. Upon seeing the pack of bloodthirsty faeries outside, their candlesticks trembled in their hands. All manner of disorganized, frightened cries rang from the crowd, “War! Plague! Death!”
“Lord Hargrave,” said Aldebaran in a deep, commanding tone, “fourth Earl of Tyne, we have come for you.”
Hargrave, a chubby, well-dressed man in his late forties, stepped backward into the crowd.
The priest, a tall man dressed in black robes and a white mitre, sought to comfort his flock: “O Lord our God, increase, we pray thee, and multiply upon us the gifts of thy grace: that we, who do prevent the glorious festival of all thy Saints, may of thee be enabled joyfully to follow them in all virtuous and godly living.”
As the farmers sought refuge in their faith, Hargrave sought refuge inside the mob.
Aldebaran mounted the stone steps in front of the open double door. While it was true he could not enter this sacred place, the faeries were under no such prohibition. He signaled his lieutenants to go inside. Ragwort entered the church, passed straight through the long line of pews and grabbed the cleric by the throat.
Startled gasps came from most of the parishioners but none were roused to action. They had no weapons inside the cathedral, but still they outnumbered the faeries and had enough men among them they could have put up a fight. They simply couldn’t believe what they were seeing—their priest throttled right there in the middle of the nave. When the priest had turned sufficiently blue Ragwort let him go, leaving him sputtering and gasping on his knees.
“Lord Hargrave,” called Aldebaran again. “We have come for you.”
Hargrave’s voice, trembling and weak, returned from somewhere deep within the pack. “Why are you doing this?”
“They are evil!” pronounced the priest. “It has ever been so.”
Aldebaran sent a handful of the huge dogs into the church, just to let the earl know he would not find sanctuary there. “Come out, Hargrave! Spare these others.”
“There are women and children—”
“Then you should come outside. Yes?”
Hargrave knew he was lost. He stepped out from the throng of frightened churchgoers, although it might have been that they’d already been stepping slowly away from him. He hardened his expression, stiffened his lip, and straightened his spine. He walked, very stiffly, out of the church.
Outside, the Wild Hunt had simmered to a boil. A foul wind circled the building, carrying with it bits of twigs and dried leaves, and the howls of the dead. Hargrave stepped into the center of the maelstrom, ringed by leering faeries and snarling dogs. The rest was easy. Aldebaran had a firm grip on the situation. The intensity of the Hunt was such that the man fell entirely under his spell. So much so that Aldebaran had to pull back a little. He did not want a mute automaton to suffer his depredations, he wanted to see a little fear, a little anguish along the way. He wanted them all to see.
And it was so. Hargrave moaned and grunted as he tore at his clothes. Jacket and shirt were ripped away to reveal rolls of fat and pale white flesh. One of the farmers came charging boldly from the church, having drawn an illicit knife from his boot. The dogs cut him down before he got twenty paces from the doors.
Hargrave writhed under the spell, hearing music that Aldebaran presented for his ears alone. Naked and dancing to his tune. Howling at the moon. Aldebaran was pleased thus far. What else shall I make him do?
The faeries were laughing and enjoying the show, but it wasn’t enough. He sent Ragwort back into the church again. The people cowered, the priest hurled curses. Ragwort snapped off a tall pole that marked the end of the laws pew. A slender wooden lance with a beaded cross at the top.
Suicide, thought Aldebaran. Suicide is the final act of disgrace for a Christian. Hargrave will pl
unge the stake to his own heart, he will fall to the ground, the cross sticking up out of his chest like a flag of conquest.
Lots of witnesses. Yes, that would do nicely. A fine night’s work.
And then the Hunt would go home.
Chapter 27
Theodora broke contact and pulled back, exhausted. Kneeling beside Moonshadow at Threadneedle’s bedside, she took a deep breath. She felt a little bit dizzy.
The healing chamber was the most beautiful place in all of Barrow Downes. Each wall was lined by plaited screens grown from creeping vines and dotted with bright flowers—yellow kerria and ripe honeysuckle in orange and pink and a swath of Morning Glory in vibrantly glowing purple. With so much positive energy concentrated in this one room, it was the only place in all of the underground settlement where flowering plants could grow. Theodora took a moment to steady herself, breathing in their sweet perfume.
The small earthy room had only one patient—Threadneedle. He lay insensate on the bed, so deathly pale and still. Moonshadow still holding his hand, her head bent gracefully as she continued. Theodora had added her own energy to the healing session for as long as she could but her power was only a fragment of Moonshadow’s. Still, she’d given her all, in case it would help even a little.
On the other side of the bed Theodora met Nora’s inquisitive gaze. She tried to smile. Her daughter was so concerned, her tear-stained cheeks glistening. They had not yet had a chance to talk properly—the girl would not leave the faery spy’s bedside for a moment.
Theodora wondered what type of relationship had developed between the two. Was Nora so upset because she felt that she had somehow caused Threadneedle’s injury? Or perhaps some other, more heartfelt, reason? From what Theodora had heard, Threadneedle had been stabbed while creating a diversion so that Eric could meet with the king—the former King George—and had gotten carried away in a fight posing as their shared persona of the Green Man. She didn’t see what Nora might have done to prevent such a thing, or to have caused it.
A moment later, Moonshadow released. She sighed deeply, opened her silver-blue eyes and raised her bald head. Theodora could tell the beautiful faery’s power was depleted as well. The bald top of her head, which normally shown with a faint glimmer of moonshine, now appeared dull and covered with a fine sheen of sweat.
“Why won’t anyone tell me anything?” asked Nora. “How is it going?”
Moonshadow offered her a wan smile. “As well as can be expected. He’s lucky to be alive, you know. If he wasn’t so stubborn, he wouldn’t be.”
“If he wasn’t so stubborn he wouldn’t have gotten into this situation,” snapped Nora. Theodora recognized a particular shade of possessiveness in her voice. Yes, some deep emotions ran there. A lot more than just concern. Nora had passionate feelings for this man, whether she knew it herself or not.
“Oh,” Nora continued. “I didn’t mean that. And I thank you for your efforts, very much, I do. But he looks no better than yesterday, or the day before…”
“He was grievously wounded. The assassin’s blade was mostly iron, and specially treated. It’s left its poison inside him. It will be a long road still, but at least the bleeding has stopped.”
“I thank you,” Nora said again. “And you too, mom.”
“Why don’t you take some rest, dear? In a proper bed, this time.”
Nora shook her head. She would sleep this night as she had done the past few—her head resting on Threadneedle’s shoulder. There was nothing more to be said about it.
When Moonshadow stood she seemed a bit shaky on her feet. Theodora had felt her working hard, as they were joined in the healing. Even though she was exhausted as well, Theodora felt exhilarated. Any contact with Moonshadow’s spirit, even the passing caress of the joined healing, made her feel that way. Moonshadow was such a good soul.
Moonshadow indicated that the two of them might take a short walk and they left Nora to her vigil.
Directly outside the healing room, they entered the large circular chamber that lay beneath a gigantic white ash tree. This naturally magnificent underground chamber could rival the ribbed vault of any gothic cathedral of human construction. In contrast to the large communal areas that hosted the seasonal festivals and dances and community gatherings, not to mention the occasional orgy, this central chamber was as close to a place of worship as the faeries would ever care to acknowledge. This tree was the very one with which Moon Dancer, whom both Theodora and Moonshadow understood to be their mother, had merged with at the end of her life.
“Tell me,” said Moonshadow, “Eric? How is he doing?”
“Not well. Terrible. He’s moping. It’s terrible. He’d swayed the King to our side. The King was with us! And then the man drops dead. Just like that.” Theodora shook her head.
“Are we sure that’s all there is to it?”
“He was an old man. And not in good health. Why? Do you suspect something else?”
Moonshadow tilted her head. “I don’t know. I can’t say, but it seems just a bit too convenient.”
“Convenient for who? He died of natural causes, right there on the privy seat. I’m sure he had his enemies but… an assassination. I don’t see how.”
“I’m not thinking of a human assassin.”
Realization dawned on Theodora. “A faery stroke? Do you think it might have been? If so, I just don’t understand it. He was with us! He was giving us what we wanted.”
She thought fleetingly of Meadowlark, though she could not tell precisely why. The last she had seen of him, angry and spiteful, leaving Barrow Downs in quite a state. But he was always in some hysterical state or other. He wouldn’t sabotage their plans on a whim. He wanted the liberation of the faeries as much as anyone else. Of that she was certain.
“If only Threadneedle had been there…” Moonshadow said. “But without him we’re blind as to what goes on in the palace.”
“Poor Threadneedle. Is it hopeless for him?”
“I can’t say. We’ll do everything we can.”
“Is it hopeless for us?”
Moonshadow was startled at this negativity. “What do you mean?”
“Now that we’ve lost the King’s support, there’s nowhere else to turn. After what just happened with the Hunt, we’ll never get an official sanction from the new king.”
Moonshadow shrugged. “Then we won’t.”
“But we can’t just go on as if nothing were happening. You must know—you must realize, there are those among us who are not content to sit and wait.”
“You mean Arabelle?”
“Arabelle and others. They’re agitating for a revolution against the Englishmen. And that movement goes straight through you. The state you’re in, giving so much for our friend, it wouldn’t be difficult for them to topple you from the high seat, to take control here.”
“No, it wouldn’t take very much. If you took their side, for example, I suspect that would tilt the scales. Is that what you’re going to do?”
“No. Of course not.”
Moonshadow sat at the base of the grand old oak. She rested her delicate cheek against the rough bark. “Let Arabelle speak her mind. I won’t silence her. That’s not our way.”
“She’s young and foolish. I don’t care what she says, but I’m afraid of what she might do.”
“She won’t do anything.”
Theodora thought Moonshadow was being naïve. Moonshadow was such an impressive figure it was easy to forget that she was also young and inexperienced. Was she in over her head? It didn’t seem as if she had any idea of what to do, how to hold things together in the face of determined opposition. The Summer Court was not immune to ambition and righteous anger. Faeries could be very unkind.
“She won’t do anything,” said Theodora, “if we do it first. We have to do something. Time is now. Time to stand up. The faeries are restless, you can’t deny it. We have no more chances at court, but Eric will grant the land anyway. We can set up our own country, rem
aining non-aggressive toward the Englishmen, but willing to defend it against them if we have to. A minor revolution. With all the violent talk coming from the colonies, who would even notice? The new king has plenty to deal with as it is. We’re all the way up here in the north, out of his way…”
“Yes, but he will hit hard. This is too close to home, especially with the dissent in the colonies. He’ll have to make an example. A new king has to prove himself. It will be war.”
“War, then? It’s what Arabelle and the younger faeries want. If we make the move first, there will be no effective challenge to your leadership.”
“No. I thought you said you were with me…”
“I am! But something has to be done. If we take action first—”
“No!” Moonshadow snapped a twig off the great tree. She scowled. Theodora had never seen her scowl before. “I won’t have that—it’s too destructive. What good is holding power if one must act so foolishly in order to do so?”
Theodora smarted as if she’d been slapped in the face. All of a sudden she knew she’d gone too far. She was exhausted from her efforts at healing Threadneedle and saying things she shouldn’t, pushing Moonshadow too far.
Moonshadow continued, “This decision is easy. We can not reveal ourselves. We have to stay underground. If the others won’t follow—if they have their own ideas—let them do what they want. I won’t lead us to destruction, Clarimonde. We stay here.”
Theodora sighed. It was getting harder and harder to see that point of view. “It’s like a tomb down here. We’re getting weaker, not stronger. We have so few children. Too little moonlight and no fresh air. It’s like we’re already dead and buried.”
“We will persevere.”
Theodora brushed herself of and left Moonshadow still crouched and resting against the great tree. The faery stronghold was a place where emotion hug palpable in the air. She could taste trouble. After all they’d been through she felt barrow Downes being torn apart. Is it enough just to persevere?
Chapter 28
