by L. K. Rigel
The old woman bent down and took up a bit of the stuff I’d made, still spread over the rock. She whispered something over the dust in her open palm, and as the knight wandered by she spread the charm over his tunic.
“Hello, Elyse.” She knew my name.
She clasped my forearm and, not at all subtly, worked the same dust into my skin. Did she think I wouldn’t notice? I noticed! And yet… I didn’t so much care.
She chuckled. “That’s right. You don’t mind.” She had the sweetest, friendliest smile I’d ever seen.
“Kaelyn?” I said.
“There’s a fever mist about.” She nodded. “Why don’t you come have a nice bowl of stew with me?”
“What’s a fever mist?” I said, following her. We left the knight to his own devices. I was disappointed to walk away from him but… I’d found Kaelyn!
“Hmph. For a King’s Oracle, you don’t know much.”
I stopped. My stomach felt like it had turned over. “There are no kings in Dumnos anymore.”
The old woman waved her hand and kept walking. “Tell me that’s not the Oracle’s ring on your hand,” she said over her shoulder. “You have nothing to fear from me, my dear. But let’s get inside, away from the mist.”
I’d never seen the mist come off the bay so far as the Small Wood, but then I didn’t look in the glimmer glass every day, did I? And I’d never seen a mist that scared me. I laughed at the thought, but I followed Kaelyn as she turned onto a wide path that ran along the side of a hill.
I don’t know why I trusted her sweet smile. My sister, Lourdes, had shown me how evil could lie in wait behind a sweet smile.
Then again, I had destroyed Lourdes. The evil was in me.
But I did trust Kaelyn. At least she didn’t call me a fairy, like those awful Threshers, and throw salt at me. In truth it felt so good to hear another human voice, and one so friendly and accepting, I had no thought of not following her.
Abruptly she said, “Here we are. Home, sweet home,” then turned and without hesitation walked straight at the hillside.
“What are you doing?”
She was swallowed up by the hill, but I could hear her. “What do you mean? Come in, come in.”
I looked for the way, but felt rather foolish doing it.
Kaelyn walked out of the hill again like she’d just stepped out her front door. “So that’s how it is with you,” she said. “I suspected as much.” As if it all made sense. “Give me your hand.” She took hold of me without waiting and pulled me into the hill.
“Wait a minute!”
“Too late.” Kaelyn laughed and laughed.
I stood inside a cave, the world outside plain to see, as if the entrance had been there all along. Something smelled wonderful cooking in a pot over a fire pit. I couldn’t see how she kept smoke from filling the cave.
“So you’re faeling.” Kaelyn filled a bowl and stuck a spoon in it. She handed it to me and gestured toward a chair near the fire. “No wonder Frona left you in such ignorance.”
“You know of my mother?” A thousand questions fought to be the first asked. “How can you tell I’m half fae?” I sat down and balanced the stew on my knees.
“Half? Interesting. Well, I had to pull you into the cave, didn’t I?” the old woman said. “You couldn’t find the entry through the boundary I’ve embedded to keep out the fae.”
That stopped me. I didn’t give enough thought to unintended consequences. Of all the wyrds I’d laid against the fae, had any backfired on me?
The stew was as delicious as it smelled. I’d finished half of mine by the time she’d fixed a bowl for herself.
“I saw that you would come with the fever mist,” she said. “But I had no idea you were part fae. Life is interesting!”
“And a fever mist is?” I renewed my question and started to take another bite—then stopped and stared at the chunk of carrot on my spoon. What was I doing eating food prepared by a stranger, and a wyrding woman at that?
“I’ll tell you all about it.” Kaelyn seemed unaware of my dilemma. “This one doesn’t look too bad.”
“This one?”
“This fever mist. Your fair-haired knight is about to get a dose. All are dangerous no matter how strong or mild. The worst came when Gorlas was duke of Tintagos, about six hundred years ago. It ended very badly. Very badly.”
I felt myself blush inside at her reference to my fair-haired knight. I hoped he’d be safe. Surely he’d shelter at the hunter’s cottage by the lake. I kept to the safe subject of an obscure, long-dead duke. “Gorlas?”
“Those were the days of a myriad of self-styled kings and dukes. Gorlas of Tintagos, Utros Pendragon—”
“Ah, Utros,” I said. “Father of Artros Pendragon.”
“Oh, of course. Everyone knows about Artros.” Kaelyn sniffed and looked at me sideways. “My great-great-aunt Morwenna taught him transmogrification.”
“No.”
“There was a King’s Oracle then too. The great Merlyn.” Kaelyn wrinkled her nose and said great as if she’d said poop.
“No! Merlyn lived, truly? Will you tell me about him?”
“Don’t look so full of wondrous adoration, girl. Merlyn was a self-important ass. He cared more about being famous than doing anything worthy of fame. He did terrible things in the name of the wyrding way.” Kaelyn pointed in my general direction with the ladle. “He created that ring on your hand.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. Oh.” Kaelyn sat down and balanced a bowl of stew on her knee. “Ah, who am I to judge? I’m no different from Merlyn in what I’m about to do.”
Much later I would have all the time in the world to reflect on Kaelyn’s words that day in the cave, clues subtle and obvious that she was up to something. But sun and moon! My thoughts then flew about like leaves in a whirlwind.
If Kaelyn knew about the Oracle’s ring, what else did she know?
« Chapter 3 »
A Goblin’s Heart
Fifth century Dumnos. Fae realm. The Blue Vale
MAXIM OF THE BLUE Vale was barely four hundred years old when, ignoring all goblin tradition, he stood before the eldergob and asked for his heart’s desire. As the last word left Max’s mouth, he realized the request must appear cocky, improper. Even shocking.
Or sun and moon, worse: lacking in manners.
“Hm…” Vulsier leaned back in his chair with no heed to the others gathered at his table, now uncharacteristically silent. Every gob looked Max over, expressions mixed. Some appeared insulted, some perplexed. There was one look of admiration—or perhaps Max imagined it.
No goblin had ever been apprenticed to anyone other than his own father.
Max felt the eldergob’s critical assessment of every button on his tunic and cloak, the stitch work on the pouch hanging from his belt. Vulsier’s gaze lingered on the bright-cut wheat etched on the belt’s silver clasp. His fingers thrummed on the table, and his mental wheels of calculation slowly turned. Max listened to the sound of his own breath.
The old goblin was the very picture of all Max aspired to. Not merely tall, handsome, and noble in appearance, Vulsier was also talented in fact, with finely honed skills in the arts and crafts and unrivaled command of the deep magics. His summoning candles were legendary.
The diamond and sapphire rings Vulsier wore were fantastic pieces of art. Max had been cutting jewels for fifty years and had never set free such fire and light. He’d come close recently with a sapphire bracelet—a piece he’d intended to bring today as a gift for Vulsier’s wife.
If it hadn’t been stolen.
Maybe it was just as well the theft happened. Compared to jewels from her husband, Max’s poor bangle would have insulted ux Vulsier. Everything the eldergob made was wonderful.
From the copper foil designs in the lamps to the enamel cloisonné inlays in the great oak table, Vulsier’s home evidenced the craftsmanship Max revered and aspired to. Indeed, the very lintels and door hardware boasted of his m
astery.
The longing in Max’s heart cried out to be heard. Please, Vulsier. Let me be your apprentice.
“You say you’ve learned all he can teach you.”
“I have.” Ack. Max forgot to say sir. What a treesap!
“And where is your father, Maxim? You’ve come alone, behind his back?”
“I meant no dishonor, sir, but to spare his pride,” Max said. “Even if you agree to take me on, I fear he won’t.”
“He’ll agree if I say he’ll agree!” The eldergob brought his fist down on the table, his beautiful features contorted. His jaw clenched, and angry black brows came down over his deep-set brown eyes.
In one movement, the gathering of goblins shifted attention to Vulsier. Max fixed his respectful expression in place—and conquered his inward smile. The ground had shifted. The question had changed. This was no longer about a young gob’s audacity but Vulsier’s authority.
“All right,” Vulsier said, the other gobs nodding approval. “We’ll start with bright-cut metals, wood carving, and gems.”
“Thank you, Vulsier,” Max said.
“But you’ll stay with your father for quarrels, darts, and arrows. If you’ve surpassed his skill there, you’ve surpassed my own.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Max left the cottage with a light step. As he reached the end of the walkway, he jumped up and punched his fist in the air. “Whoo-hoo!” He’d just taken the greatest risk of his life—and won.
He set out for his own place on the other side of the commons, stopping along the way to exchange cheerful greetings with his fellow gobs in the square and to buy an apple pocket in the market from the baker’s daughter. It was great to be alive! Luck was with him today. Perhaps he’d even catch his thief.
Wherever Max went, he received admiring glances—and a look of outright desire from the baker’s daughter. Among the fae, goblinkind were celebrated for their beauty, rivaled only by fairies—depending on what sort of beauty appealed to a person. Fairies had an ephemeral, effervescent, sparkling, beyond-all-reach sort of loveliness. Goblin beauty was solid, grounded, secure, actualizing, nourishing, eternal, and tactile.
Today Max stood taller than anyone. His dark hair fell in thick waves over his shoulders and down his back. He knew he was considered the most gorgeous gob in the vale, and today, with everything he ever wanted handed to him for the asking, he felt particularly fine. Still, he returned none of the approving looks he drew.
He was no innocent. He’d had dalliances and infatuations, but that’s as far as it went. Much as he wished otherwise, he’d yet to meet the woman to inspire his heart to pound a little faster or his blood to rise with heat.
One time years ago, he’d taken to one of Vulsier’s daughters, but then she’d given her favors to another and Max had found he didn’t mind. Whatever had drawn him to her, apparently it wasn’t love. Sometimes he feared he’d never share his little cottage with another.
Ah, well. There was always good work to be done. As Vulsier's apprentice, there’d be no limit to what he could accomplish.
He remembered then something the eldergob had said about quarrels, darts, and arrows. If you’ve surpassed his skill there, you’ve surpassed my own. Ha. Max had long ago surpassed his father’s skill with bow ammunition. Wouldn’t it be something to teach Vulsier a thing or two!
He turned onto the slate walkway to his cottage and smiled again as he opened his front door. Vulsier said yes!
The moment he crossed the threshold, Max dropped the grin. Someone was in the house, and he had a good idea who. The thief.
Lately some treesap had been breaking in when he was gone and had taken several jewelry pieces—even loose gems meant for future projects. The favorite plunder was anything sparkly—emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, rubies, bright-cut gold—which meant the thief must be a fairy.
When the sapphire bracelet for Vulsier’s wife disappeared from the worktable, Max had made a new matching necklace and bracelet of emeralds, not for ux Vulsier but as fairy bait, and he kept a binding swath with him at all times. He checked his belt bag—it was still there.
Before leaving earlier, he’d half hidden the emerald set in his sleeping quarters. By the low murmurs of approval coming from that direction, someone had found it out. He stopped in the doorway, leaned against the frame, and watched her—a fairy, for sure—admiring her image in his long mirror.
Even from behind, her shape was enticing. She was lithe, as fairies tended to be, with rounded hips, a cute backside, and long supple legs. Her short red hair spiked in every direction, she had graceful arms and shoulders and a pretty neck—where the emerald necklace had found a new home.
She examined the bracelet, held it up to the light, so engrossed with her loot she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone. In a few strides Max was behind her. “I’ve got you now, you little thief!” He grabbed her wrist with one hand and reached into his bag for the binding swath, swinging her around to face him.
She was young. Couldn’t be over two hundred; her eyes had yet to turn.
To be sure, her eyes appeared green, as brilliant as the jewels she meant to steal. But that color quickly faded, and the baby blue of a young fairy reasserted itself. Her heart-shaped mouth was sweet, her full red lips pursed.
“Ooh!” She caught her breath, and the sound of it sent a thrill through Max’s being. So lovely. So full of audacity… and fire.
She felt something too, he could tell. She looked him over. Desire bloomed on her face—the green returned. Without thinking, he pulled her close and kissed her.
A thousand tingling prickles danced from her lips to his. Shocks of desire flooded his senses in waves. He pushed his tongue between her lips. She accepted him, teased him, and lured him on. He ran a hand through her hair and pressed her to the wall, his chest against hers, his growing desire evident to them both.
Was he still on earth or had Brother Sun and Sister Moon transported him to heaven? He pulled back. “Who are you?”
His words broke the spell, and she gasped.
“Give me your name,” he said.
Her cute fairy mouth constricted in a pert O. Her devilish eyebrows shot up, and her eyes widened. She put a delicate hand over her heart, her painted nails like pomegranate seeds begging to be tasted, and fingered the glittering emerald necklace. She seemed to remember where she was and why she was there. She gave him an impish grin. Her eyes flashed. Her dimple deepened.
She disappeared.
She was gone.
Max stared dumbly at his image in the long mirror. He was alone, holding the emerald bracelet the fairy had dropped before popping out. The bauble looked all wrong lying on his open palm. He couldn’t imagine it on anyone else’s wrist. Had this room, this cottage ever felt so empty?
She was gone!
His heart pounded so forcefully he wondered if he would be ill… until he became aware that the sound originated elsewhere. Someone was pounding on his front door.
« Chapter 4 »
Merlyn
THE MAN AT THE door was no goblin. No fairy, no leprechaun, no brownie. No fae at all at all, as Niall of the Nine used to say.
The man pounding on Max’s front door was human.
He was Max’s height, a little over six feet tall, stick thin—and gaudy, all pink and red and black and white. What was a king’s fool from the human realm doing in fae? And how had he come so deep as the Blue Vale without being put to use as some fairy’s toy?
On closer examination, this was no fool. The fabrics of his costume were of far too superior quality. Over a calf-length, rose-pink silk tunic he wore a lush dove-gray mantle embroidered with pink and red apple blossoms. On his brow was a hammered copper circlet in the shape of blackberry leaves. Strands of silver and gray infiltrated his long black hair, yet his face and demeanor were that of a young and vigorous warrior.
His blue-gray eyes were old, and his gaze burned with intent.
“The wyrd have no power here,” M
ax blurted out. He’d never seen a wyrder in the vale—and he was disoriented. The taste and sizzle and befuddlement of that red-haired fairy’s kiss had yet to leave him.
He scanned the area beyond his door, embarrassed by his uncivil tone. There were but few gobs about, and all going about their business. Indeed, no one seemed to notice the strange visitor on his doorstep.
“Eh, you’d better come in.” Max led the wyrder inside.
To make up for the rude greeting, he went to the kitchen and pulled two pints of stout. He returned with the tankards to find the wyrder sitting by the cold fireplace in the good chair.
Max had carved the rocking chair from a single burl and infused it with a comfort charm. No gob who ever sat there got up again without making an offer on it, but the wyrder didn’t even look at ease, let alone extraordinarily comfortable.
“Well, you’re in my house, wyrder.” Max put a tankard down on the little table beside the rocker. “Will you give me your name and purpose?”
“My name is Merlyn.” No protest at being called a wyrder.
“I’ve heard that name.”
The corners of the wyrder’s mouth twitched, and his brow softened.
“You’re brother to Morwenna of Avalos.”
“Avalos.”
“The apple isle, sacred home of the wyrd. The abbess is called Morwenna—or was, the last I heard anything of it. She’s supposedly a great wyrding woman.”
Max had heard nothing in praise or contempt for the powers of the abbess of Avalos, but something about this wyrder’s pride bugged him.
“Morwenna’s magics are adequate,” Merlyn said. “I now live in the mundane realm. I serve Utros Pendragon, who will one day be king of all Dumnos.”
“Very nice, but what’s that to do with me?”
