A Host of Furious Fancies

by Mercedes Lackey

  One of them reached for something she could not see from inside the cell, and the portcullis rose with a rattle of chains.

  “Come out, little girl,” the other said, leering. His voice was low and hoarse, like granite boulders mating. His teeth were huge and yellow, like a horse’s, but with long upper and lower fangs. Jeanette could smell his breath six feet away. It smelled like rotting meat.

  “Bite me,” Jeanette said sullenly. No matter how unnatural they looked, they were only another incarnation of big, stupid street muscle, the sort she’d dealt with when she ran with the Sinner Saints. They answered to a master—Aerune—and to show them either fear or deference would be a bad mistake.

  The troll looked puzzled, trying to decide whether to be angry. He shifted uncertainly, gazing at his partner.

  The other troll walked into the cell. He was not so much tall as massive—must weigh close to a thousand pounds—Jeanette estimated. He bowed, holding the billhook to one side and resting the knuckles of his free hand on the floor.

  “Mortal lady. The great prince Aerune requires thy presence, and we are sent to escort thee into his presence.” The words were subservient, but his manner wasn’t.

  The smart ones are always trouble. He made her feel like Elkanah always had—as if he knew something she didn’t, as if all the knowledge and power she possessed would be useless against that secret wisdom. She got to her feet.

  “Okay. Fine. Let’s go.”

  She stepped past him, out into the corridor. The stone was rough beneath her bare feet, and cold. Torches lined the walls, but again the illumination was flat and directionless, as if the torches were only a sort of window dressing, and not the real source of the light. Barred doorways, such as the one she’d come through, lined the walls all the way to the ceiling. From some of the higher ones, liquid trickled down the wall, staining the gray stone to black. There was a faint whiff of latrine, perceptible beyond the ripe rankness of her guards. She felt queasy and ill, as if she were coming down with the flu, but put it down to a combination of emotional shock and T-Stroke. She steeled herself against showing how she felt; any show of weakness could be fatal, and she still had to face the main event—Aerune.

  The dumb one led the way, and the smart one followed. They went up a winding staircase, the steps sized for trolls and not humans; Jeanette was aching and breathless by the time they reached the top. Here the workmanship on the stones of the corridor was finer, the doors of solid wood.

  They walked for at least half an hour, seeing no one, as the corridors slowly changed, becoming more refined and upscale, until at last Jeanette was walking across smooth mosaic floors between walls of carved alabaster hung with tapestries. She felt less sick now, though all around her there was the same sort of waiting tension that heralded the storm. There were guards here and there along the way—elven knights, this time, not trolls, wearing elaborate jeweled armor and holding long silver pikes. At the end of one corridor, her captors stopped before a pair of them. The elves’ faces were invisible within their helmets, but she could see the faint red spark of eyes deep within the shadows.

  “Here is the woman whom Lord Aerune has summoned, lord,” the smart troll said.

  The elven knight bowed silently, and gestured for her to advance.

  “Be good, human girl,” the smart troll said. “Or the prince will give you back to me to do with as I choose.” Despite the unspoken threat, Jeanette had the odd feeling the words were kindly meant.

  “And if you can’t be good, be careful,” she said in return.

  “Silence!” one of the elves snapped.

  This time both members of her escort preceded her, obviously unable to imagine that she would run (they were right, but she still thought they were stupid). They walked only a short distance before stopping before a pair of gigantic doors that seemed to be carved of one giant sheet of black jade. As they approached, the doors swung open, and she followed her guards into Aerune’s throne room. Once inside the doorway her escort stopped, and waited for her to go on alone.

  The throne room was enormous—big as a sound stage or a church, and empty save for Aerune. The walls were carved in the semblance of a forest, copies of the same black trees she had seen upon her arrival, their carved branches rising to form a vault above the room.

  The floor beneath her feet was the glassy dull silver of liquid mercury, treacherously smooth. In the center of the room, atop a round three-step dais of the same smooth black material as the doors, stood a throne. It was black, massive, and intricately figured, but somehow it was not quite there, as if parts of it curved off in directions the human eye was not equipped to perceive.

  And on the throne sat Aerune.

  This was the first time Jeanette had gotten a really good look at him, and once again her heart twisted at the sight of his beauty. Save for the helmet—for Aerune’s head was bare—he wore the same full ornate field plate armor as his guards, but of a silver so dark it seemed black. On his head was a black crown set with cabochon rubies that glowed as brightly as if they were lit from behind, and on his black-gloved hand he wore a matching ruby ring.

  All her life Jeanette had dreamed of a moment like this, when she could cast aside the bonds of Earth and walk the halls of Faerie. And now that the moment had arrived, she could think of only one thing.

  He can’t be serious.

  Everything that she’d seen was just too overblown, too derivative, too much. It was all done with money to burn, but it still looked like an episode of Dr. Who. It had no heart to it. Actually, Dr. Who had heart; it didn’t take itself seriously and it was on a bargain budget, so heart was all it had, but it had a lot of it. No, this looked as if some avaricious goon with all the money in the universe had decided to copy Dr. Who on an infinite budget without the least understanding of what made the BBC series live for its fans. This place was hollow—the exact opposite of creative.

  So now you know why they call them The Hollow Hills. Good going, Girl Detective.

  “So, mortal girl. At last you face your ultimate desire—for I am Death, and Pain, and the end of all things.”

  Jeanette wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or just stamp her foot in frustration. She’d ruined her life, killed hundreds, to get here . . . and this was all there was? This fanboy weenie from hell?

  And worst of all, she was still terrified. And he was still beautiful as the morning.

  As she stepped onto the floor, something lying at the foot of the throne raised its head. She hadn’t seen it before because it was so black; it looked a little like a wolf crossed with a Doberman, if the result were the size of a small pony and had eyes that glowed a featureless red. It opened its mouth and yawned, exposing ivory teeth and a blood-red tongue, then put its head back down, joining the other creatures coiled at the foot of the throne in sleep.

  “Lord Aerune,” she said, reaching the foot of the shadow throne and looking up at him.

  “Come, little alchemist. Kneel at my feet, and I will tell you how you may serve me.”

  Despite herself, Jeanette stumbled forward and up the steps of the dais to kneel at his feet. One of the hellhounds growled as she approached, and Aerune held out his hand to silence it.

  “Know, first, that all your comrades are dead, including your former master. The slave Elkanah, whom I sent to retrieve you from the human world, is undoubtedly dead now, and by your hand.”

  Tell me something I don’t know, Jeanette thought sullenly. She’d hated Elkanah, and feared him, but part of her was happy for him. He was dead. He was free. No one should have to live with the memory of being Aerune’s pawn.

  “Very well,” Aerune answered, a hint of displeasure in his voice. “I shall tell you that I shall destroy your pestilent, arrogant race, and your work shall be a weapon in my arsenal. If it can kindle the power of the Starry Crown in such fleeting creatures of mud and stench, then what more may it do for the Children of Danu? Armed with its power, we will nevermore fear your Cold Iron, no
r your foolish violence. And my Aerete shall be avenged.”

  There was genuine sorrow in his voice, and when Jeanette dared to look up, she could see that his face was set in lines of bitter grief.

  “Once,” Aerune said softly, “the world was ours. There was no Dark Court, no Bright—only the Immortal Sidhe, the firstborn of Danu. Your kind was less than the beasts—animals whom we raised up from the rest of the brute creation and taught to serve us. And for many years you understood your place and kept to it. But you became presumptuous—and to our eternal doom and sorrow, there were those among the Sidhe who helped you to rise from the dust where you belonged. Aerete the Golden was one such—guardian to your tribe, aid and protection against all who would harm you, though I offered her my heart and my crown. Yet even would I spare you for her sake, turn aside when you incurred my just wrath . . . yet you slew her with your deathmetal, and I will never rest until all your race has paid the price in full measure for slaying her whom I loved—my soul-twin, my mate, the only creature who could lift my being from the darkness and eternal night. . . .

  “And you yourselves shall be the instrument of my vengeance—you and your endless inventiveness.”

  “I won’t,” Jeanette said. Tears were running down her face—fear for herself, grief for Aerune’s loss. She knew what it was like to be denied the chance to be through a cruel trick of fate, and she felt his sorrow as if it were her own. But she could not help him kill again. “I won’t make T-Stroke for you. I won’t shoot up your guinea pigs.”

  Shockingly, Aerune laughed, and reached down to tousle her hair as he might pat the head of an unruly dog.

  “Do you presume to know my mind, or to tell me the extent of my power? I do not need you to create more of your poison—I already have enough of your Crownfire to ken enough to drown the world. And as for proving its worth . . .”

  He raised a hand and gestured. The doors to the throne room swung inward once more, and Jeanette blinked. This time they were gold and jeweled. This was what living in a world made with magic was, she realized: a universe in which there were no certainties, even those extending to the continuity of the world which surrounded you.

  Two of Aerune’s armored knights entered, dragging a third between them who struggled and snarled curses in some unknown language. The bright silks he had worn were in rags, and his body bore the marks of a world-class beating, but he was still defiant. As he approached Aerune’s throne, the hounds raised their heads and growled, watching him intently. And somehow his speech turned to English, so that Jeanette could understand what he said.

  “Kneel before your master: Prince Aerune, Lord of Death and Pain!” one of the knights said.

  The stranger fought like a wet cat as they forced him to his knees. He spat at Aerune, and one of Aerune’s guards backhanded him with a metal-clad fist. The impact of the blow was a sound like wood hitting wood, and blood sprayed across the mirrored floor. Jeanette felt pain shoot through her, leaving her weak and shaking, with a throbbing headache. But the stranger remained defiant.

  “Prince of nothing! Oathbreaker and fool! Know that I am Aliagrant Tannoeth, Knight and Magus of Elfhame Thunders-mouth, herald and cupbearer to Prince Seithawg and the Lady Cyndrwin, traveling beneath a ward of truce across lands held by no lord! Release me at once—or risk my lord’s terrible vengeance!”

  “Such passion,” Aerune murmured. “Such foolishness, here in the stronghold of your enemies, but I forget: you are but a boy. Do you truly think Aerune is bound by the treaties that bind the Dark Court to the Light, or that your people will know what fate has befallen you? Shall I fear Seithawg, whose father’s father I slew, or the lennan sidhe who rules beside him? Or shall I fear Lady Aniause to whom you ride, and who will seek for you in vain once word reaches her that you have vanished? There is danger in the Chaos Lands. All know that. But in your pride you would dare them, and so you have found . . . me.”

  From his expression, Aliagrant was not hearing anything he liked. It was as if Jeanette could feel his fear, like silent music. And Aerune was right—he was young. Even if the elves were immortal and eternal, Jeanette could tell that much about him.

  “So. You see I speak no more than the truth. Bow down and swear fealty to me, boy, and perhaps I will allow you to live.”

  But afraid and in pain though he was, Aliagrant still would not submit. “Kill me, then!”

  “Perhaps in time. Meanwhile, you will serve me—in one fashion or another.”

  Once more the doors opened, admitting two more . . . creatures.

  One looked like The Old Witch from the cover of EC Comics: an ancient, ugly, hunchbacked woman, dressed in rags. Her nose and chin were hooked, her toothless mouth fallen in upon itself. One eye was white and bulging, the other a narrow slit. She carried a tray upon which stood two objects: a jeweled wine cup, and one of the brown plastic bottles of T-Stroke that Jeanette had in her jacket pocket back at the van.

  The hag’s companion was small, barely the size of a child, but with a distorted, misshapen form . . . and very long arms. It wore a laborer’s smock and ragged pants, and upon its head there was a soft cap of bright scarlet, as bright as the blood of men. It looked like it had wandered out of the background of some Hildebrandt painting. It looked like a hobbit on crack.

  “Don’t do this,” Jeanette whispered, cowering and shivering against the foot of the throne. She could feel Aliagrant’s pain radiating from him like heat from an overstoked stove, and in the middle of everything else, she had a horrible intuition that the T-Stroke had worked—and what the Talent it had given her was.

  Aerune stepped down past her and over to the hag. He picked up the brown bottle and poured a generous dose into the wine, then stirred the mixture with a long golden spoon. Then he picked up the cup and gestured to the redcapped hobgoblin.

  It scampered over to where the two elven knights were still holding the boy on his knees. The redcap crouched behind him, pulling his head back with one hand and forcing his jaw open with the other.

  Then Aerune stood over him and poured the contents of the cup into his mouth. The boy choked and tried to struggle, but the redcap was far too strong for him. Wine ran down his chin and onto his chest, but he ended up swallowing more than half of the mixture.

  “You see?” Aerune said, turning to Jeanette. “I have no need of your assistance.” He gestured to the knights, who released their victim.

  Aliagrant began to scream, joined half a beat later by Jeanette. She was burning, she was dying—she felt what Aliagrant felt, and the pain was hideous, it felt as if she was drinking Drano, and far worse than the pain was the terror of an immortal creature being sent down into death.

  For Aliagrant was dying. She could feel it more surely than she could feel her own body—the flesh withering and dissolving as his body burned away to nothingness.

  And then it stopped. Blessedly, it stopped.

  Barely able to focus, she looked up fearfully, scrubbing her face dry on her bare forearm. All that was left of Aliagrant was a mess on the floor, as if a mummy were in the process of crumbling away into ash. As she watched, the body crumbled further, then dissolved altogether, leaving only a smear of dust that sank into the mirrored floor, leaving no trace behind.

  “Interesting,” Aerune said impassively. “What calls up magic in your race destroys it in mine—and that, you will have observed, my mortal alchemist, is fatal.” Aerune sounded more interested than put out by that fact. “Still, its effects are entertaining—are they not, Urla? Far more so than elfbane or caffeine.”

  “Yes, Great Lord,” the redcap answered. It had a high, hoarse voice, like that of an evil child.

  “And it still works on humans—on precisely those humans who will have to be eliminated to ensure that my race may once more assume its rightful place as their overlords—the magic users, the Crowned Ones, whose ancestors mingled the blood of their race with my own. Why should they not be useful in death?”

  He looked back at
Jeanette, smiling gently. “I never needed you to make more of your wizard’s potion. I needed to find out what you knew, and to keep you from falling into the hands of my enemies to become their weapon. And now I see that the sorcery you have worked has made you useful to me beyond that.” His smile grew wider and more razored. “You think that this T-Stroke will save you from me, that it will grant you a quick and easy death beyond my mercy, but in truth, for all your arrogance, you know so little about my kind. How can the sands of your life run out if Time itself does not run Underhill? No, you will live as long as I choose, and serve me. But not in that unpleasant form . . .”

  He reached for her, smiling, and when he touched her, Jeanette began to scream.

  TEN:

  (I’LL STOP THE WORLD AND)

  MELT WITH YOU

  The day that had started out so badly did not improve. Eric was inattentive in class, and Levoisier took a sadistic delight in gigging him for it. He was sloppy in rehearsal, fumbling around like a novice, unable to keep time with the other musicians or make his entrances on cue. Finally he gave up. The world wouldn’t come to an end if he cut his last class. And besides, Eric wanted to see how Toni and Hosea were coming with the basement apartment.