“Lady Gwynn!” Puck managed to make his somewhat hasty arrival seem like a grand entrance. “You’ve forgotten something important.” With a wink and a shuffle step, he affixed a set of bells to Felicity’s mane. She shook her head and they jingled merrily. “So you won’t forget to find the joy, also. I shall miss you, my brilliantly powerful sorceress.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” I asked on impulse.
His cheerful expression crumpled like celadon tissue paper in the rain. “Alas, I cannot.”
“Why stay with Falcon? You can’t possibly like him.”
Puck tossed his strawberry blond curls, using the movement to see if anyone was close enough to have overheard, then produced a sunny smile. “I can’t possibly leave the war! So much glamour and excitement! You go. Success in your quest, Lady Sorceress.”
He danced off, singing a song about pigs in the rain. Everyone watched me expectantly.
“All right, let’s head out then.”
My word their command, everyone sprang into motion and we rode away from the war camp and the sea.
Part II
Early Failures
Chapter Eight
The Crystal Cave
Fairy stories tend to leave one with the impression that travel between the realms is solely the provenance of the fairies—but is that truly the case?
~Big Book of Fairyland, “Magic”
I enjoyed the ride more than I had any others up to this point. I noted everything with an eye for sorting out this strange land, wishing up a little notepad to write on. Starling shook her head at me when she saw it, but remarked that at least it kept me from asking her questions about everything, which was likely true. Instead she wisely used her time to flirt with some of the human soldiers, who seemed to find her quite attractive. Not Liam—he remained stoic, with an alert eye on the countryside. He might avoid being in my company, but he never failed in his duty.
Darling, at least, provided interesting commentary, sending me images of what could be stalked, chased or eaten—usually all three, in that order—in the various meadows and copses we passed. Some of the creatures he pictured looked exactly like familiar rodents, others like something out of anime, badly drawn with complete disregard for the laws of bilateral symmetry.
Never any birds though.
We rode along at a fairly good clip, Larch and the other Brownies jogging alongside and the dragonfly girls doing this kind of skipping/dancing movement that moved them inexplicably along at the same speed.
In the dazzling sunshine, Faerie appeared to be a landscape of such improbable beauty and iridescent colors that it seemed to be something created in a Disney film—and then brutally twisted sideways. I half expected elephants in pink tutus to pirouette past, though I fortunately possessed enough control now that they didn’t pop into sight from my visualizing.
Some of the hills and fields looked as civilized as the English countryside, which made no sense, since there were no farms. No settlements of any kind, as far as the eye could see, though Liam had mentioned there were human villages somewhere. I’d ask him about it, but I felt sure he wouldn’t be wanting to chat.
I was no ecologist, but I’d had to study the basics. Nothing about the landscape we traveled through followed the ecological laws. Apparently wild forests dripped with bright, heavy fruit or panicles of iridescent blossoms suited to tropical climes then gave way to groomed lawns with no border succession areas between. Lakes were crystal clear or bright blue, never swampy or remotely oligotrophic. Simply put, the ecology should not be sustainable. So why was it?
Once I was even certain I spotted a stream flowing uphill, but when I wanted to ride closer to see it, everyone protested about being late to meet Rogue.
We moved at a pretty good clip, away from the flatter coastal lands and into rockier foothills. When we stopped at midday, Larch gave me some traveling biscuits—like having cookies for lunch—and we remounted without much delay. Toward late afternoon we reached a glen nestled at the foot of some craggy hills and the group, as one, began to set up camp just as a gentle rain started to fall.
Of course, I didn’t get a job. Lady of leisure and all that. One thing I’d learned was not to get in the way. So, since there was no sign of Rogue yet, I grabbed my grimoire from the bags and found a relatively dry spot under a tree. Starling hastened up, handed me my cloak to keep me warm and dry, along with a little velvety pouch. Then, seeming terribly busy, she dashed off again.
I tucked my cloak and skirts around me and pulled a dragon’s egg out of the pouch. Larch never missed a beat. It filled my palm, glittering with intricate facets and colors, a fae Fabergé egg. But, now that I examined it closely, it became clear that this was not something created by human—or inhuman—hands. The spirals and hash marks marched across the surface with the internal precision of a nautilus shell. If I measured them, I’d bet they’d follow the proportions of the Golden Rectangle. Which meant, more like the natural world whose laws I understood than the sideways tangents of Faerie.
Unlike the eggs I knew of, however, this one did have a distinct pear shape, bulging more at one end than the other. As far as I recalled, eggs were always spherical or ovoid, never uneven. Likely that came from them being soft and watery when laid, so the rules of surface tension applied. Perhaps this egg was already hardened when produced?
I focused on the metallic shell, then dipped into it, feeling for life. The odd deadness of it to my mind reminded me of the dragon’s blood. Not surprising. Still, it neither repelled nor drew the magic energy in me—aside from that cool, endothermic quality. In some ways, it was almost as if it didn’t exist to my magical senses. If I set it on the grass next to me and closed my eyes, I couldn’t detect it at all. When I held it cupped in my palm, my mind registered the weight and feel, but with my eyes closed, I could no longer remember exactly what it looked like. Interesting.
When a long-fingered hand dropped on my shoulder, I started almost out of my skin and very nearly dropped the egg.
Rogue knelt on one knee next to me, sleek as a cobra, shining with raindrops. He slid the sphere from my unresisting fingers. The eyebrow on the clear side of his face arched, Rogue held it up to the misty light, turning it to see the raised lines shimmer with prismatic color.
“Where did you get this?” His dark blue eyes glittered like mica as they ran over my face and I felt uneasy.
“I don’t know—it was in my tribute stuff.”
“A grand tribute indeed. Be careful who you accept gifts from.”
“How can I when this stuff just appears? I don’t mind giving it back, if I knew who to return it to. It’s not as if these things come with gift tags.”
Rogue inclined his head, black hair gleaming with cobalt and silver highlights in the rain, and moved to hand it back to me. I raised my hand and he laid it in my palm, wrapping my fingers around it. “Just...be careful.”
“Thanks for that ominously vague warning.”
The egg felt curiously much warmer now, more than simple contact with Rogue’s skin should have made it. I tucked it back in the velvet carrying pouch and pushed it into my pocket with the vial of dragon’s blood, wondering if I should mention I had that too. For some reason, I didn’t want to. It remained one of my few secret weapons. A girl needed to keep something in reserve. Just in case.
Besides, the blood hadn’t been a gift. I’d extracted it myself and so I should carry no obligations for it.
“Are you ready?” He stood, offering me a hand up.
“For what—new lesson?”
“Yes. Something you’ll enjoy. Walk with me.”
I left the grimoire sitting under the tree, knowing someone would pick it up and put it with my things. How did I ever live without an army of servants? One wondered.
We climbed the muddy trail up the hill, the trees dripping in counterpoint to the greeting rain, the air filled with pine resin, moss and petrichor. The misty weather colored all the world in sage greens an
d sliding grays of liquid mercury, so the raven silhouette of Rogue’s long back cloak stood in sharp relief. He moved easily, striding up the hill on long legs. I straggled ungracefully behind on the narrow path. What I wouldn’t have given for my Levi’s and Keens at that moment. The cute little riding boots were definitely NOT for hiking.
Fix it, dummy. Taking a moment, I paused, concentrating, and wished the riding gown and boots into a neat pile beside my grimoire under the tree—Starling would be pleased I’d thought to save them—and replaced them with my favorite pair of old jeans, a sweatshirt and my lime-green Keens. That kind of swap-out is a little tricky, requiring attention to detail and a deliberate disregard for the conservation of mass, but I pulled it off. I wiggled my toes in the comfortable shoes. The sight of my old-world clothes in this landscape made me giggle. Find the joy, indeed.
I caught up to Rogue, who stood on a bit of level moss in front of a cave. He looked me over, eyes alight with interest, focusing on my hips and thighs.
“Most alluring,” he commented.
“The cowboys always thought so.”
He snorted out a laugh, making me wonder what image he’d gotten from my quip. I’d meant more as a general thing, cowboys liking girls in jeans, not me in particular.
With a courtly wave of his hand, he gestured for me to go in. Now, I was from mountain country where one just didn’t wander into inviting dark caves unless you were really excited to see a grizzly or cougar up close and personal.
“Afraid?”
“Justifiably cautious.”
He chuckled and preceded me into the cave. I followed close behind, suppressing the urge to wind my fingers into the back of his cloak. I clutched my own instead. The meager light from outside barely filtered in, then diminished into black as we turned a corner.
“Hold on to my cloak,” Rogue said quietly, “unless those cat’s eyes of yours see in the dark.”
I wished. Rogue’s cloak, though damp, felt soft as angora in my hands. Only the rain clinging to it kept me from burrowing in. We walked for some while this way. I’d always been terrible at judging the passage of time, but it seemed we walked for ten or fifteen minutes. How Rogue could keep us from clonking into a rock wall I didn’t know. The cave was completely lightless. More of that magic vision, most likely.
Rogue finally slowed, then stopped. We stood in the lightless space. Just as I was about to make a smart remark about how incredibly uninteresting this was, the room came ablaze.
“Ack!” I covered my eyes, cringing from the sudden onslaught. My eyes adjusted, slowly, to the crash of bright light. We stood in a chamber about as big as my tent but entirely rimmed with crystal. It was as if we stood inside an enormous, diamond-bright geode. Light shards ricocheted and repeated, mirroring and amplifying.
“It’s like Merlin’s cave,” I whispered in awe.
“He uses it from time to time,” Rogue answered.
I narrowed my eyes at him, unsure if he was teasing me. He returned my gaze with bland indifference. Maybe we weren’t talking about the same person. Who knew how that translated?
“Where’s the original source of the light?”
He shrugged out of his cloak and tossed it on a rock outcropping just outside the entrance, a lightless and narrow opening in the blazing radiance of the cave. “Does it matter? It’s a good place for focusing and intensifying magic. Crucial for certain kinds of magic.”
“Like what?”
“Do you want to discuss or learn?”
“Both.”
Rogue tipped the hood off my head, running a hand over my hair in affection. “Take off your cloak. We’ll be here for a bit.”
Obediently I draped my cloak next to Rogue’s. He settled himself into a smooth glassy spot on the floor and gestured me to sit opposite. I plopped down with far less grace, Indian-style, as we did in elementary school, ever so grateful I’d changed into the Levi’s. Rogue raised that supercilious eyebrow but refrained from commenting.
The crystal we sat on echoed infinitely clear, with facets running deep within. It reminded me of being on a glass-bottom boat, only instead of fish, below us stretched what seemed to be endless depths of shining crystal. Was the entire inside of the small mountain made of it?
Rogue watched me, navy-dark eyes somehow just as brilliant as the blazing crystal around him. He held out a hand, so I scooted closer to lay mine in his. He tugged a bit, so I got closer, until our knees touched. Or more precisely, my knees lay over his lower legs, which lay flat against the floor, flexible as any yogi. I had become accustomed to the inhuman length of the fae’s limbs and noted it far less, until something jarred me—like Rogue’s knees extending a good half a foot on either side of mine. It seemed almost insectile.
“It would be better if we held both hands,” he said with careful quiet and I could understand why. Now that we sat in the middle of the domed room, his voice amplified, running over the crystal and returning in echoing murmurs. “Can I have a two-hand dispensation for this room only?”
“Okay,” I agreed, only realizing when I saw the flash in his eyes that I’d been too dazzled to remember to limit the time frame. I gave myself a swift mental kick and gave Rogue my other hand.
“Close your eyes.” The cave whispered the words back at me. “Quiet your mind.”
I allowed my eyes to close, shutting out the fantastic prismatic radiance. And found Rogue in my head. Startled, I nearly opened my eyes again, but he soothed me, almost like a hand against my cheek.
“I will show you three things, curious Gwynn. Pay attention.”
He rarely spoke directly mind-to-mind. In this chamber, though, I imagined we were sealed in, the mental energy reverberating back as the sourceless light did. Funny, too—I’d long become accustomed to his habit of prefacing the name he’d given me with various adjectives. Hearing it directly from his thoughts, it became more clear that these words were simply my interpretation. I’d never quite understood why he picked “Gwynn” except that it was an old Celtic variation of my name. But it was me who put that spin on it. Rogue simply called me “you,” colored with however he was thinking of me.
“True. You named yourself, clever Gwynn. I simply gave voice to it.”
I did feel clever. My mind, Rogue’s thoughts, it all seemed defined and clear. I felt smarter than I had in years, as if my brain were twenty years old again, full of fresh neurons and infinite capacity.
“That’s the crystal—it intensifies and clarifies thought.”
So cool.
“Create something.”
“Anything?”
“Something you like. You’ll have it for a long time.”
Excitement thrilled through me. He was showing me how to make a permanent spell! What should I make? Damn, the performance pressure was killing me. I knew there had to be things I really wanted to keep around, but I couldn’t think of any of them right that second.
“Something. Anything.” He mentally yawned. “You will have other opportunities.”
Right, right, right. Umm. Okay. I took a piece of my sweatshirt and wished it into a little gold horseshoe. Why? I didn’t know. Thinking about cowboys and ol’ Wyoming, I supposed. It lay next to us on the smooth glass floor, shining in my mind.
“Now hold it in your head. The shape, the feel. How it’s infused with your magic.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Now feel how the crystal is echoing your magic—how it’s bouncing back to you, only more clear, more sharp, more lasting?”
“I do!” I wanted to gush about it, but he mentally winced so I hauled it back. Quiet.
“Better. Layer that in. Just add...more.”
He kind of shrugged but I followed his meaning. I poured more in, layering the magic into the little horseshoe, like electroplating tungsten probes for neurophysiological experiments. Feeling full of power as endless as the echoing crystal layers, I crammed more into the gold, making it dense and full.
“Stopstopstop!” But Rog
ue was laughing.
In chagrin I pulled back. The poor little horseshoe shone with a beacon of magic. Like a cockroach, it would likely outlast a nuclear blast now.
“That’s the first thing. Follow my mind for the second.”
He wrapped himself around me and I rode with him. We rose up, toward the cavernous crystal ceiling and into it. I looked down to see our bodies, hands clasped, far below and felt a pang of fear.
“No. You are safe. I will take care of you, sweet Gwynn. Never fear. And never look back.”
Lots of old stories about that kind of thing—Lot’s wife, Orpheus, the guy in the movie who just had to look down while crossing the dissolving rope bridge over the chasm while cannibals raged at his heels.
Always good to pay attention to the cautionary tales.
Disembodied, we flew over to the camp, looking for all the world now as if it had been there for weeks instead of hours. Smoke billowed from damp wood, but the fires sparked merrily and my entourage all seemed to be happily eating and dancing—the former for the soldiers’ side and the latter for the fae side.
“Pick someone.”
“For what?”
“One of your experiments.”
That gave me pause. “You don’t just experiment on living beings, especially sentient ones. Even a lab animal I wouldn’t sacrifice without a strong purpose and a clear experimental design.”
His exasperation washed over me, tinged with impatience. I refused to apologize. I might be slowly losing my humanity, becoming some cat monster, but I wouldn’t willingly throw all ethics to the wind. Particularly ones ground into me by NIH.
“Pick someone or I will.” His mental voice was metallic. Tasted like it too. “You must learn that this is a different place. Your cultural ethics don’t apply. The lower orders of fae are numerous because they are mortal and expendable. Easily replaced.”
Rogue’s Possession Page 11
