Uncertain Allies

by Mark Del Franco

  She pursed her lips and gazed into her mug. “ ‘Imposter’ is the wrong word. The Wild Hunt rises for many reasons, and Arawn doesn’t always lead it. How did you run into it?”

  “I’ve been tracking missing persons in the Weird. Witnesses report a blaze of essence followed by disappearances. I thought it might be related to the solitary/Dead conflict because the surge seemed to be following old Dead essence, but last night Murdock and I encountered the surge, and it was all Dead essence.”

  She squinted. “It’s a leap to call it the Wild Hunt, don’t you think? I mean, the original hunt was about weather superstitions and enforcing conformity. You’re talking about a few kidnappings,” she said.

  “True—but right now the Weird is full of centuries-old Dead who believe that stuff.”

  “Aren’t they calmer now that the Taint is gone?” she asked.

  “ ‘Calm’ isn’t a word I would use to describe the Dead, Briallen. Maybe they’re more rational in their approach— and forming a unified band could be evidence of it. There’s a guy wearing an antlered helm and riding a dream mare,” I said.

  “You said people are going missing. Is there a pattern, or is it random?” she asked.

  “Mostly scryers and fortune-tellers,” I said.

  She tapped her nails against the sides of her mug. “People seek the future when the present is unsettled.”

  “That pretty much describes the Weird,” I said.

  She arched an eyebrow at me. “That pretty much describes everything right now. I don’t have to remind you of the uncertainty around here. We have an acting police commissioner, an Acting Guildmaster, no one directing the Consortium consulate since Eorla left, and Eorla setting up her own court. People are worried.”

  “But what would the Dead gain by forming a hunt? TirNaNog is gone. The Dead have no place to go.”

  She made a slight swirl of her coffee. “The social structure is destabilized. While people in power struggle to get their acts together, one person has managed to bring order to the situation: Eorla. Maybe the Dead see what she’s done and want to duplicate it on their own terms.”

  “Are you suggesting they’re setting up their own version of TirNaNog?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s another power play by another player,” she said.

  “People join Eorla willingly. The Dead are kidnapping people. Eorla doesn’t do that,” I said.

  Briallen gave a sly smile as she drank her coffee. “A little defensive about her, aren’t we?”

  I frowned. “I know you’ve been talking to Nigel. I didn’t think he’d be able to poison you against her that easily.”

  She poked me. “I’m teasing, but I should point out that Eorla is hard to say no to. People may join her, but there’s more fear involved than you’re willing to admit.”

  “And I should point out she’s not the only person like that around here, Ms. Gwyll,” I said.

  Briallen chuckled. “I do take that for granted, I guess. Anyway, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone is rallying the Dead. People down in the Weird might not trust the Guild or the Consortium, but that doesn’t mean they will automatically trust Eorla.”

  “I told her pretty much the same thing,” I said.

  “And, don’t forget, the old gang structure fell apart last fall. Whoever’s riding that dream mare might be making a power play.”

  “Well, if the Weird falls any more apart, there won’t be much to play with,” I said.

  “Something new will form, Connor, maybe not down in the Weird, but somewhere else. It always does. That’s the Way of the World. One thing ends, and another begins, but the World goes on,” she said.

  Briallen and I had an old argument about whether places like the Weird had to exist. She believed they did, that society always had a class of people who didn’t succeed for one reason or another. Solving that problem always created a new one in her view. She had no hesitation helping to make people’s lives better, but she assumed the same issues would crop up elsewhere. Nigel, though, accepted the existence of places like the Weird as necessary evils. If improving the lot of most people meant sacrificing a few, he could ignore the Weird. A few desperate or dead didn’t bother him. Between those views, everybody else fought over turf and power.

  “Donor might have a role in this. He’s actively campaigning against Eorla with the Guild. Aldred Core has shown up several times warning macGoren that Eorla is a threat.”

  “She’s more a threat to Donor,” I said.

  “True. But if he can isolate her politically because he says she’s dangerous, he forges alliances elsewhere,” she said.

  “There’s a platoon of U.S. Marines at the airport,” I said.

  “And a frightened human population in the city. Creating more trouble in the Weird would work in Donor’s favor,” she said.

  I leaned my forehead against my hands. I didn’t care about Donor or macGoren. I didn’t care about their strategies and games. I cared about the woman upstairs and wanted her back. “Do you trust Nigel?” I asked.

  She studied her cup. “No, but I trust the Wheel of the World. It’s given us a path to take, and I think we should take it. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t watch our step.”

  22

  Later that afternoon, I waited in a small anteroom at the Rowes Wharf Hotel. The strange behavior of Eorla’s people in the Weird concerned me. Some seemed to have crossed the line from not helping to interfering in the community policing Eorla was trying to establish. Keeping fey away from the warehouse fire when they could have helped or hindering investigators from doing their work were not the best ways to create a safer environment. Eorla might have her reasons, but it was getting to the point where her people needed to stay out of the way.

  Security had been tightened in the building. I had been asked to show identification even though the person asking me for it addressed me by name. I didn’t take it personally. They were doing their jobs, and the policy wasn’t directed at me. At least, I didn’t think so.

  As I watched people stream in and out of Eorla’s office, I realized they were not the usual petitioners and construction people. More security and administrative staff attended to the room. Their stressed and concerned faces brought to mind Briallen’s thoughts about Donor.

  Rand appeared at the door. “Her Majesty will see you.”

  I gave him a playful poke on the shoulder. “You’re a receptionist now?”

  Elves, in general, were aloof with people outside their social group, and elven guards more so. Rand was no exception to the point of appearing not to get that I was joking. “I won’t be serving coffee.”

  Yet again, he surprised me. His bowed head hid a small smile as he stepped back to let me pass. Eorla sat behind an enormous desk stacked with files and paper. Unlike the receiving room, this office was her working space. The dwarf Brokke perched on the edge of a couch beneath the windows, skimming some documents. He gave me a cursory glance and went back to his reading.

  I hadn’t figured out what Brokke’s motivations were. He claimed to be an advisor to Donor Elfenkonig—and was—yet had informed me about some crucial court gossip in the past. Now he sat with Eorla, a renegade of the Elven Court who had been threatened by the king himself.

  Eorla came around the desk to greet me with a kiss on the cheek. “I wondered that we haven’t spoken.”

  “I’ve been helping the Boston police with the dwarf murders,” I said.

  She gestured toward the seats by the windows with a drab view of the city’s elevated highway. Brokke didn’t acknowledge us as we sat in the chairs to either side of him. “Are you having problems with the police?” Eorla asked.

  “No, but the case looks like it’s leading to something they can’t handle. I have reason to believe the murderer is a leanansidhe,” I said.

  Eorla raised a considering eyebrow. I had yet to find something that flustered her. “I haven’t encountered one, but I understand they can be debilitating.”

  I
smirked with affection. “Eorla, they debilitate people to death.”

  Annoyed, Brokke shifted in his seat. He didn’t like my lack of deference to royalty, nor Eorla’s indifference to it. Eorla chuckled, then hid her mouth with her hand. “Do not tell anyone I laughed at that.”

  I tilted my head. “Promise. How have you been?”

  She leaned sideways in the chair and stared out the window. “Cautious. Donor is trying to persuade the human government to allow him to move against me. So far, he has not met with success. I haven’t been able to determine what his true game is.”

  I gave Brokke a sharp glance as she spoke. He didn’t impress her, and she often spoke to him in a dismissive tone when she wasn’t ignoring him completely. Her admission in front of him that she knew something of Donor’s movements struck me as strange. “After they let the Guild have free rein down here, I can’t say I blame them. They’re getting enough flak for not moving against you themselves,” I said.

  She nodded. “For now, it’s to their benefit to let me lead the fey down here. They know I’m taking care of things the Guild doesn’t, and it eases their burden. I haven’t banned them from the Weird, so they can pretend they still have the territory under control.”

  “Except you don’t let them bring anything more than handguns in,” I said.

  She waved a dismissive hand. “They know that’s common sense. They saw what happened when their National Guard came in with tanks. I’ve kept the neighborhood calm, and that’s what they want.”

  “Is that why your people are keeping the fey away from the police?”

  Curious, she cocked her head. “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve witnessed your guards either refusing to help the police or keeping other fey from helping them,” I said.

  “I gave no such order. In fact, quite the opposite,” she said.

  Brokke shuffled through his documents. “In life, I find, Your Royal Highness, not everything—or everyone—is who they appear to be. One must look beneath the surface to understand the depths.”

  Eorla pursed her lips as she tapped her foot. “I see. Donor has been secretly moving his men into the city. A few have attempted to infiltrate our operations. Perhaps you have met some?”

  “He’s trying to discredit you?” I asked.

  She smoothed her long skirt down her leg. “Of course. I know he has been working with the humans. My sources tell me he has been trying to make a side agreement against me with the Guild.”

  “I’ve heard that, too. I guess your attempts at getting the Consortium and the Guild to work together are working,” I said.

  To Brokke’s annoyance, Eorla laughed. “I suppose this is an example of that phrase ‘be careful what you wish for.’ He’s been exploiting the fears and suspicions among the people in the Weird. Not all of them trust me yet, especially the Dead.”

  “The Dead have no interest in anything that doesn’t benefit them, and the living have nothing to offer them,” I said.

  “Which might make them perfect mercenaries for Donor,” she said.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about the Dead. They played that game for the Guild, and it got them a war,” I said.

  “Anything can be bought for the right price,” she said.

  I stared at Brokke point-blank. “If only there was someone who had access to the king who might advise you.”

  Brokke glowered. “His Royal Majesty knows full well my loyalty and my whereabouts.”

  I nodded toward him. “You let him in your office knowing that?” I asked Eorla.

  Her mischievous smile revealed the answer. “I feed him misinformation, and he runs to Donor with it like the trained puppy he is.”

  Baffled, I stared at both of them. “I do not understand elven politics at all.”

  Brokke rustled his papers and went back to reading while Eorla laughed. “It’s an old game—like all court intrigue. We pretend to be fooled by subterfuge while using it to further our own ends. By saying I give my cousin’s dwarf misinformation, I reveal my awareness that he is not to be trusted while making him wonder what is true and what is not.”

  Brokke sighed. “And I am no one’s dwarf.”

  Eorla observed Brokke with bemusement. “He says that often, and I tend to believe it is the one thing he speaks always true. Brokke may provide counsel, but he keeps his own more often.”

  “Maybe he can tell me why one of Donor’s men was after an essence seller down in the Tangle?” I asked.

  Brokke dropped his papers on the seat beside him. “Her Royal Highness may entertain herself by speaking about me as if I were not here. You may not.”

  I shrugged. “Sorry. I got confused.”

  “The Elven King knows Eorla is concerned about the blue essence moving through the Weird. He made the connection to essence sellers before you did,” Brokke said.

  “Why does he care?” I asked.

  “Answers have advantages when you are the only one who has them,” Brokke said.

  “Did he find any answers?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but he will find something. I have seen him in a vision, sure and elated as he moves through this city,” said Brokke.

  Brokke’s visions were what made him valuable to the Elven King. His predictions held up, and that made him dangerous as an ally or foe. He saw truth and likelihood where less skilled scryers saw hints and guesses.

  “And then what happens?” Eorla asked. Donor had come to Boston to bring Eorla to heel. Anything that made him happy did not bode well for her.

  Brokke shrugged. “The vision fails. I see nothing beyond those moments.”

  The downside to seeing a future, even for those who were good at it, was that the scryers could not see their own future. Knowing the future changes the future. For scryers, events that included them became difficult to decipher, if not unseeable. When scryers were part of events, thinking about them muddied the vision. “You’re going to be there,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Or you are.”

  Time and again, scryers had told me that they cannot see me in their visions. The obvious conclusion was the black mass in my head, but how that related to the future—or affected visions of people I had never met—puzzled me. “Is it asking too much to find out what Donor knows?”

  Brokke gave me an enigmatic smile. “Not at all. Sharing that answer might be another matter.”

  23

  Meryl lay propped up in her bed in Briallen’s guest room, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall. Upstairs, Briallen and Nigel prepared the sanctum sanctorum. I played with Meryl’s hand, twining my fingers through hers. “I don’t know if this is the right thing to do, Meryl, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t trust Nigel, but Briallen says this might work. I can’t stand seeing you like this, but I’m afraid, okay? I’m afraid you might never come out of this, and I’m afraid Nigel has some motive I haven’t figured out. But I can’t not do anything. I’ll be right beside you, and so will Briallen.”

  She didn’t answer. That would have been too much to ask, never mind too-perfect timing. A cool touch against my forehead preceded Briallen’s sending. We’re ready.

  I lifted Meryl’s hand and kissed it. “Time to go.”

  Her weight barely registered in my arms as I picked her up. She curled into me like a child, her head bowed and leaning into the crook of my shoulder. I didn’t rush to the fifth floor of the house, worried I’d slip or bang against something. At the top of the stairs, I paused to catch my breath.

  Soft yellow light filtered out of a stone arch centered in the wall on the top-floor landing. The stone door stood open, Celtic spirals and knots inscribed over its entire surface. Essence flickered in the swirling patterns, glowing shades of blue, white, and yellow. The door replaced another that had been destroyed last year. That was my fault, but I didn’t feel guilty about it. No one got hurt that time, and lives were saved. Briallen never said a word about replacing it. The new door was more ornate than
the last one. I was sure it cost her a pretty penny. Not that I could afford to pay her back, but I liked to know my debts. Despite its weight and size, it moved with a bare touch, balanced on carved-stone hinges.

  I waited in the doorway as Briallen and Nigel finished their preparations. Dressed in plain muslin robes, they faced each other across a long granite slab that took up the center of the oval room. The room was a jeweler’s dream, every surface encrusted with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and other gemstones that glittered in the light from candles set in niches. The floor tiles had bloodstone and quartz embedded in them. Sapphires and opals—ward gems of a moon worshipper—clustered about the foot of the table. Some stones glowed with their own inner light, evidence of the resonant essence that created a safe environment in the room, sealing it from outside forces.

  I had seen Briallen’s sanctum once before when she needed me to act as her anchor while she went into a trance. What Nigel had proposed was similar. The problem was that none of us had been designated as an anchor when whatever happened to Meryl happened. The challenge would be getting her essence to latch onto someone, who would then guide her back to the waking world.

  That someone wasn’t going to be me. Nigel explained his intentions, which depended on a fine understanding of body essence. The dark mass was a wild variable. Without knowing what the black mass was, it was impossible to take it into account in the spells. I understood and had to accept that. It didn’t mean I liked it.

  I lowered Meryl onto the slab. A thin white cloth over the table didn’t provide much cushioning. Briallen arranged Meryl’s arms and legs in as comfortable a position as she could for someone lying on cold stone. Nigel moved to the head of the table and placed his hands on Meryl’s shoulders. “You need to leave now, Connor.”

  He didn’t say it with the usual snide tone he had adopted for me. It was a statement of fact. Even without the ritual starting, the dark mass in my head pounded against my skull, eager for the ambient essence in the room. I caressed Meryl’s hand and stepped away.