Brigit snorted, “More like too afraid to look if you ask me. Why you could have Seen what Auberon was planning if you knew the ways. You could have avoided having to marry that festering boil Mordant if you bothered.”
Sive wasn’t surprised her aunt already knew about the engagement, nor that it offended her. Even before Mordant had left for the Between Brigit had not approved. She would never explain such an irrational dislike, but would only mutter about ‘visions’. These days she was not so diplomatic.
Sive always wondered if it was the Sight that allowed her aunt to remain in the Evening Realm, and yet so well informed of the goings-on in her nephew’s court. Still she did feel a need to explain herself to Brigit.
“I have no love for Mordant, aunt—he was gone too long, and returned too changed. If we can add his new power to the Fey, then perhaps we can find a cure for the malaise, and save our people.”
Brigit’s back stiffened, but she said nothing. Instead she picked over a range of woods she had assembled before the hearth, choosing ash and willow to make a new fire. “We need a Seeing,” she muttered to herself.
Sive sighed. Sometimes there was nothing to do but let Brigit have her way, and at least she did not start an argument on it.
Her aunt struggled with flint and stone, and after much cursing, managed to light the kindling. Cosseting it like a small child, she managed to get the flames so high that they were in danger of licking the sod roof. Curiously there was little heat from it, but plenty of choking waves of smoke. Sive’s Art kept a small circle of clean air about her, but she still watched befuddled as Brigit embraced it. The older Fey’s knotted brown fingers wove complex interlaced patterns in it, sending it trailing after her gestures, until the whole mass was moving; tickling her under the chin, flowing over her sparse grey hair, and twining about her form. Sive found it rather pretty—while she didn’t have to inhale the smell.
The dark goddess would never admit it, but she was curious. Seeing had never been one of the Arts that Sive had troubled to learn. Previously she had thought it rather foolish. Why bother about the future when it would be here soon enough? And it was so fragile; so many things could alter its course. Since things had been going in rather a different direction to that which she had planned, Sive had begun to think that there might well be something to this Art. So she found herself sitting on the edge of the stool, and watching more intently than she intended, while her aunt carved the smoke with her hands.
Brigit’s back was to her, but Sive could sense the thick coils of Art moving within her, and the noxious cloud.
“I see... A child,” Brigit muttered, “A child born on the tail of two before it, with the blood of the Fey within.”
“A human?” Sive asked.
“Yes, a boy child,” Brigit turned to her, the smoke obscuring her darkened eyes, her fingers still shaking.
Sive didn’t try to hide her disappointment. “What use is a human to us, aunt?”
Brigit wasn’t listening, too deep in her Sight, “A child with the gift of the bard. A child of good soul, and brave heart.”
Sive rolled her eyes, “That’s the last thing we need! We don’t need another good heart, aunt—what we need is a warrior.”
Brigit’s eyes snapped back to normal, and she dismissed the smoke with a quick gesture. Her face was thunderous, “Warriors come in all shapes and sizes, niece—you of all people should know that! And this one has more of our blood in him than has been seen since the old times.”
Sive had grown impatient. She rose, and dusted the fine ash powder, which had collected on her skirts off in short brisk gestures, “That was your generations mistake, aunt—cavorting with humans—giving them children. It was that which led to the whole malaise which we all now must face.”
“That is not true!” Brigit snapped, her eyes hardening. When she did that there was no mistaking the resemblance to her sister Anu, Sive’s own mother, “No one knows why the Fey is dying—not you, not I—and certainly not your brother. We should be with the humans, breeding with them, strengthening both our races—not hiding in this realm like frightened children. We need each other.”
“Their realm is dangerous, it changes us,” Sive said. “We become more like them, and our Art diminishes.”
“It is true, we must return to the Fey or lose our connection to the Mother of All, and our Art—but there is much there of beauty too.”
Sive sighed, “That is what got you banished here is the first place, Aunt. Auberon may like his games in the human world, but he will not give children to the mortals. The thought is,” the younger Fey shivered, “Abhorrent. We all remember Arthur.”
Brigit’s brow furrowed in sorrow. The Once and Future King had been her child, and her greatest hope. When his own people put out his bright light, it had been a blow to the Fey. Their grief had led to the ban on passing to the human realm. The Fey emotions were powerful, and the passage of time had not weakened their pain at Arthur’s loss.
Brigit passed her hand over her eyes. “I have perhaps been wrong, blinded with my own loss. I remember the pure times as well.” Her face curved into a distant sort of smile. “There is no love like that of a mortal—like smelling the sweet perfume of a perfect rose, for you know it will not last.”
Getting caught up in her relative’s sordid remembrances was not Sive's plan. “Then what pray tell is the point of it? How can you love something when you know it will end?”
Brigit frowned, “But all things end, dear Sive. We Fey like to believe we are immune from the changes of the world, but it is not true. Change works on us far more slowly than the rest of the world, but work it does. Your mother knew that, and she was not afraid—unlike her puling son. The malaise could not touch us if we but embraced the humans—exchanged a little of our power, for a little of their strength.”
Sive sniffed, “You will not win any friends with that attitude, aunt. Most Fey would rather mate with a ...with a ...”
“A cow?” Puck’s bovine form made an uncomfortable entrance down the steps, hooves clattering on the stone, and large horns almost catching on the rafters. He struck a pose, lapping his forelegs over each other in totally human manner, his bright pink tongue slurping over his moist brown nose.
“Puck,” Brigit shook her head turning back to her hearth, and threw her comment over one shoulder, “That is not a cow—it’s a bull.”
Sive choked back a laugh as the shape-shifter tried to get his head far enough around to check. He slipped back to his usual form and blushed scarlet. “Well,” he spluttered, “I was just trying it out. What were you two talking about anyhow?”
“Mating with humans,” Brigit said. “Nothing,” Sive replied at the same time. Puck grinned, his teeth bright white. “That’s certainly not ‘nothing,’ pretty Sive. You got anyone in mind for your fair attentions?”
She glowered at him and snapped her fingernails in his direction. A small spark of Art set his pointed ears twitching so hard that he had to clamp hands to head. “Don’t be so impertinent, Puck. Living in the same hall as me does not entitle you to be so cursed rude!”
Puck’s lips twisted into a little moue of contrition. “But we won’t be in the same hall for much longer will we—not once you marry Mordant.”
For a brief second, Sive considered hurling him across the room. It wouldn’t get rid of him, but it might make her feel a little better.
Brigit stood at her elbow. “You know the human realm could be where Mordant gets all his power from, Sive. How could it hurt you to try to tap some of that for yourself? This babe in my Seeing could be a clue—my Sight is as true as it ever was, if a little less frequent. Do you think you are strong enough to miss even a faint hope?”
Much as it riled her, Sive knew her aunt was right. Mordant disturbed her. The Between realm was dangerous, and she misliked anything that came from there. If things turned badly for her, she might well need a source of power to rival his.
Brigit’s generation had wan
dered the human realm at will, treating it as their personal playground, but also seeding it with wild Fey blood. Uncontrolled, unpredictable as this blood was, it sometimes threw up a creature of great power—even some that the Fey did not possess. A true Bardic gift was one of these rare occurrences; potent enough in the human realm, in the realm of the Fey it became even mightier. The thought of the malaise always lurked in the back of her mind.
Brigit’s eyes were tiny bright pin-pricks of light; even the Dark Goddess could not be unmoved by them, “Remember, Sive, we dream each other's dreams. Human and Fey are linked, and for every one of us there is an equal there. Perhaps this one—perhaps he is yours.” Sive knew very well her aunt was goading her and smiled at through gritted teeth.
Still although Brigit was always giving forth great prophecy and advice, it certainly could not hurt to visit this child, and see with her own eyes if there was any use in him. Sive gathered her robes around her.
“I doubt you are right, Aunt, but I will see for myself. This shouldn’t take long.” She swept from the room, not looking back, not wanting to see the satisfied smile on Brigit’s lips.
2
the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge
Mordant watched the black snow falling around him. Raising both arms, he caught flakes the colour of cinders on opened palms. He examined the dark remains, head tilted to one side before reaching out with the tip of his tongue, and letting it melt inside his mouth. It was so cold his tongue froze still for a second. He laughed, making the icy hilltop echo with his delight. The taste was familiar to him—madness.
Wyreck, ever the faithful companion, eyed him somewhat warily from a warped and twisted branch he had taken as a roost. The sprite’s eyes were as expressionless and dark as tiny stones, but his charcoal-black moth wings were fluttering in a vain attempt to keep warm. “It can’t be right to have winter come upon us like this Master. The Fey is never winter.”
“Aren’t you heartily sick of endless summers, Wyreck? I thought a little mortal season would be good for my people.”
Sprites never wore clothes, their pale tiny bodies being sexless, and their fancy running to nothing more than flight, so Mordant’s companion was not faring well in this spot. Still, he knew better than to grumble.
Mordant smiled to himself; since his return the Fey showed far more deference to him—as was right. The things he had seen, the power he had touched, had all left their mark on him. For all things there was a balance; while the Mother was creation and harmony, the Unmaker was destruction and chaos. He had tasted the strength of both halves and found the darker power to be mightier. The Fey had laughed at him once before his transformation. They had even thought him a lesser immortal to Auberon and Sive. They had said he would never marry the sister of the king, and now that was going to happen. Everything he'd been promised in the swirling mists of the Between was coming to pass.
“Who is the fool now?” he called into the falling snow.
The amusing thing was if he ever chose to tell his story, Mordant was sure there would have been cries of dismay. The listeners would have thought him a prisoner of his own curiosity, like a mouse drawn by cheese, or some foolish suitor drawn to a murderous woman. Although what the Unmaker had done to him had been painful beyond his endurance, he did not regret an instant of it. He could recall that moment of purest terror when the trap had closed on him, and the vision of beauty and loveliness had changed to darkness. The agony as the Unmaker stripped his Fey gifts from him and made him anew was still very real to him. Even recalling his own terror had no effect because he knew what came after—power.
And the amusing irony of it was that it was Sive herself that had set him on the path. He remembered loving her so much, more than anything in a long immortal life, but that too he could no longer feel—only memory remained. His master could use the memory of love for his purposes.
They had always seemed to be dancing; across the clouds, through wildflowers, making love in a haze of power, totally reckless. Immortals should have known better; nothing lasts forever, not even amongst the Fey. When the first hint of the Malaise struck the most inconsequential of their kind, Sive and he hardly noticed, so wrapped in each other.
Brigit had found them and drawn the smoke down to find a path—though neither of them had asked for it. She told Mordant in hushed tones that they would inflict pain on each other, but that they would marry.
He had told Sive about the pain, but not the marriage. Sive had laughed. “What do I care about pain? I am the goddess of war. I would take all the pain in the world to be by your side Mordant.”
He recalled those words now, and would hold her to them. She had pointed the way to the Between and wondered aloud if there was something hidden there to cure the Malaise. Only he, driven by love and confidence in his own immortality, had dared it. Even Sive had not.
He surveyed the bones of the trees, and the coating of snow forming like coal dust between them. These plants had only ever known summer. The Fey were children of balmy nights and sultry days—snow and ice were alien to them and their realm. So Mordant, by his delight in it, knew that he was far different from them now. Now their very weather, which had previously only bowed to Auberon’s wishes, obeyed his commands.
“It’s a sign, Wyreck, a sign that this little corner of Fey is now mine. It all begins here for us.”
The sprite was not by nature an optimist—their time traveling Between had stripped him of his race’s usual traits. Wyreck’s face scrunched up like a tiny bitter fruit. “Even if we conquer that fool Auberon, my Lord, there is always the Sive the Shining waiting in the wings. She will rule when he falls.”
Mordant’s eyes twinkled. “But we will marry, and I will rule her.”
Wyreck snorted, folding his arms, and turning away in disgust. “Didn’t have much success last time, I notice," he muttered softly, unfortunately not softly enough. Mordant’s Art flared, and for a moment the heat of an iron forge stroked Puck’s face, could already imagine his delicate wings curling at the edges. However his Master had lately learnt some control, and the heat slowly withdrew. “This time is different,” Mordant’s whisper barely disturbed the fell snowflakes that surrounded him. “This time we will be joined before the Court, and this time my Art will prove greater.”
“I thought you had given up on that foolishness of love.” Wyreck twisted around, trying in vain to straighten the faint curl in his wings.
“Love is a tool,” Mordant replied, “And Sive is a symbol of my power.”
The wind began to whirl, spinning the dark flakes of snow about them, the whistle of this dark storm screeched through the trees, and through them. For moment Wyreck and Mordant were obscured by the storm.
Mordant screamed aloud, feeling it whip around and through him. He was its creature, and he alone could tame it. Even though the Fey would never know what fools they were, their destruction would still be sweet.
* * *
Humans were used to time being a static thing, a line from one point to another. Birth to death, they could plot their own demise by its relentless ticking. The Fey, as thoroughly different creatures of a thoroughly different place, had no such relationship with time. Their realm set its own pace, not conforming to the restrictions of the mortal world. Indeed a day could pass in either realm, and none could tell what time it would be on the other side. It made stepping into the mortal somewhat intriguing, Sive thought to herself as she prepared to do just that.
The thin Veil was never far away, and when Sive reached out she could feel it dancing at the tips of her fingers. As simply as if she were a young maid pulling back a curtain, Sive moved aside the fabric between the realms, and stepped through into the mortal world into the cold of the Between. The ability to do this came naturally to her kind, for human and Fey were close, far closer than any other realms; they nestled in the chaos of Between like twins in their mother’s womb. Little danger existed in passing into the human world for little of the Bet
ween. For many it was enough, but few had dared the deeper paths as Mordant had. He alone had returned—unlike their beloved Queen Anu.
Such dangerous pursuits with such little reward did not intrigue Sive, but as she passed into the human realm, she could understand the little thrill of the new.
The mortal earth was sighing at the touch of Fey on it—it too dreamed of better days. It welcomed Sive the Shining, and its gentle greeting bought a smile to her face.
Arden wood was beloved of the Fey, and still occasionally haunted by Puck. In the past its mossy ground had often echoed to their faint footsteps. Many mortals had worshipped the Green Man and the Great Goddess beneath the trees, and patterns of Art still overlaid upon each other here. In those days all of this land had been forest. Puck had once gloated that he could run from one end of the isle to the other and never break into full daylight. He had been, like them all, a child of the dappled sun and moist earth. It had been a time when the Fey had loved the mortal realm—almost as much as they loved their own home. Time though had brought changes to this place; now it was just one wood of many, and though the forests were still strong, Sive missed that great ancient one which had possessed its own gentle yet powerful spirit. These days, mortals lived in fear of being swept away by that primitive call of the forest, and avoided it at night.
Sive herself had never been to Arden since humans had given it that name. Other more isolated parts of the human realm were more to her liking. Where the chances were slim of meeting a mortal, and where she could still walk in silence. If she wanted to see this child, then she would have to venture deep into human territory; into their bustling little market town, whose name she believed was Stratford.
Sending her Art ahead, Sive sensed months had passed for the babe. Spring had turned itself into high summer, and the first breath she took from this realm was full of heat and life. Not allowing herself to pause and enjoy these sensations, she linked her powers to the tiny frail infant heartbeat.
Chasing the Bard Page 3
