Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  It will be hard for Sive, Brigit said. By now the mortal world’s delights will have filled her. Auberon might not be able to bring her back.

  Puck’s idyllic moment had come to an end, as all things did in this world, but he couldn’t help regretting it.

  “We will find her together, my Liege,” he found himself saying.

  Auberon would have to be content with that, grasping what hope he could from a situation he did not, as yet, understand. Puck could only wish to be as ignorant.

  15

  Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her

  Somehow, improbably, Sive was crying. Will had the power to draw things from her that once she wouldn’t have been able to even name, like love and desperation. She pushed the book that had caused all this away from her on the bed. Mordant had been reading, trying to learn about humans, and following in his footsteps, she now understood as well.

  The book held nothing but grief, a terrible tale of human love torn apart by death. It had touched an unknown part of her.

  So lying curled on the tangled human-scented sheets, Sive cried long and hard, abandoning herself to the sensation.

  When the veil of tears lifted, an odd and very still moment stole over Sive. The sudden calm after the storm of emotion left her feeling drained and distant. Was this then how mortal lovers were about each other? These swirls of emotions, deeply writ, but always covered by the hidden thought of death? If so, Sive pitied the poor creatures, for by comparison her long ago love for Mordant had been a simple thing. Fey knew death had little power over them, and so love was not as powerful either.

  Sliding from the bed, feeling the chill wood under her bare feet, Sive mused on her fate. She’d jumped into a mortal situation and experienced dread. Perhaps she’d also accepted a mortal lifetime.

  The frightening thought of passing blindly out of this world bought Sive up short. The idea of simply not existing was terrifying. All those ancient mortals she’d sent to their deaths for her own ends were grey ghosts standing at her shoulder. Perhaps this was the Mother’s revenge on her for it.

  Rolling this unpalatable possibility in her mouth, Sive dressed, letting her fingers touch what might be now-mortal skin. She tried to imagine it wrinkling and sagging, tried to imagine it being something other than what it had always been.

  These mortals were brave. Used to looking down on them, Sive now considered that they might well be tougher than she, for while she’d always possessed eternal youth and immortality, they lived in the constant shadow of death and change.

  Now more than ever Sive wanted to go home, wanted to breathe the sweet uncomplicated air of the Fey once more. This mortal realm was not hers, and the idea of facing Mordant was becoming more welcoming than the possibility of staying here.

  But one thing kept her here, one person. Sliding on soft shoes and lacing them, she wondered if he loved her enough now to help. Surely that had been the soft light of love in Will’s eyes as they lay together. But she also knew that she would not be the first woman, mortal or immortal, to make that mistake. It was all too complicated!

  The soft knock at the door interrupted her tangled thoughts.

  Her brain's confusion overwhelmed her Fey sharp ears and only now did she hear servant’s muffled voice. The good woman’s protests were of no avail. Sive hastened to make herself decent. While she dressed, she kept one ear pricked to the sound of the male voice. It was not a familiar one, but yet something about it tickled her memory.

  As best prepared as possible, Sive called to the maid that she was ready to receive.

  The figure that burst in was one that she had not expected. The tall well-formed and most elegantly attired Earl of Southampton.

  He was Will’s patron. Elizabeth had her eye on him, liking what she saw, but as always no one could tell how long that would last. The lifestyle of a favorited was not for the timid, and many within the court, not having the head for heights, were glad to have Henry Wrothseley up there. Plenty would enjoy his fall, from what Sive’s sharp ears had picked up.

  Still he was young, and full of not only the natural brashness of the green courtier, but also the giddiness of one born to power; common-sense was not a prerequisite. His wide childlike blue eyes took in Sive’s dark beauty and was unmoved by it. She read his brash surface thoughts, something about her lack of fashion.

  “My Lady,” he sketched the lightest of bows, “Glad to find you at home.”

  “My Lord of Southampton,” Sive inclined her head, counting on her country bumpkin reputation to cover its almost derogatory slightness. “You will have to excuse my appearance. The hour is still early.”

  “At any hour, ma’am, you are a delight to the eye.”

  Sive tilted her head, but remained quiet, waiting for him to give a good reason for even being here.

  Southampton perched himself on the windowsill, close to both Sive and the long fall to the street below, though which of these was the more dangerous he couldn’t have guessed. His muscular leg turned to her, and he had positioned himself for the best possible advantage, where the morning sun spilled decorously onto his golden head. Sive saw at once he rivalled Auberon for vanity, but lacked even her brother’s remnant of good sense.

  “Odd dreams perturb Her Majesty these last few months.” Southampton waved his hand. “Such things are troubling in a monarch, and though she has consulted all the usual clerics and sages, they can shed no light. So she has called for you, m’lady.”

  “Me?” Sive frowned; she had not Sent any more dreams to the Queen since meeting Will.

  “Yes, Her Majesty’s fancy has settled on the fact that you may know some country simples to ease her sleep.”

  Thinking of all those harmless old wives who had lost their lives for such things, Sive chose her next words with care. “It is not my place to disagree with her Majesty, but I cannot imagine how I can help. The only comfort I can offer would be my presence and company.”

  A light of respect and surprise flickered across the Earl’s eyes. “Then that, milady, I would say was enough. The queen is at the Tower.”

  Sive weighed up her choices. Living in the mortal realm made her vulnerable. As the mortals must live in fear and respect of this queen, so too must she.

  “Give me a few moments to get properly dressed.”

  The Earl smiled and paused for a moment, perhaps suggesting that she might invite him to stay. When she remained staring pointedly at him, he retired with grace.

  This could at least provide an amusing diversion until Will returned from the playhouse in the evening. Her mind toyed with the idea that perhaps there might be something to Elizabeth’s dreams—or she was simply a mortal queen in need of some pampering and to be taken notice of.

  Boredom was another peril of the mortal world, and something Sive did not want to encourage. The outing would improve her mood, and ready her to speak of more pressing things when Will returned. Perhaps by then her troubled mind would know the words required to do the task.

  16

  The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger

  The gaily dressed ferrymen stood waiting for them at the water’s edge, not far from the shade of London Bridge. He greeted Southampton warmly, inquiring after his health in a loud voice designed to show what good friends they were.

  Sive eyed the craft. The elaborately embroidered cushions in ruby red protected sensitive rears from hard wood, and a tasseled canopy overhead guarded against the sun; all told of a prouder heritage than the less well-to-do wherries further down the ranks of the river. Sive boarded the barge with more certainty than she felt. Her realm had no sea, so her people were not natural sailors. Only one, her cousin Mannann, had heard the song of the waves, and what had become of him in the mortal realms’ watery expanse none knew.

  So it was with some trepidation that Sive seated herself in the unfamiliar craft bobbing on the Thames. Southampton took his place next to Sive on the cushioned seat while his various hangers—on jost
led for a place on the wherry.

  The wherryman’s trade depended on the constant stream of boats across the Thames, the richer the better. Their guide, one John Fuller, began his chatter as soon as they pulled away from the bank. The Earl had hired him on retainer, a fact that he thanked him for every five minutes.

  The sun struggled clear of the clouds and was running in thick ripples across the Thames. Everywhere it touched, it illuminated the fickle currents and dangers, the sounds of the river in his ears were with him since birth, and set their course with ease. The bunch and the heave of his muscles sent the boat darting forward. Sive concentrated on the rhythmic sweeps of the oars.

  “I hear that you are an admirer of the plays.” the Earl almost idly flicked some imaginary dust from his elegant velvet sleeve.

  “I am my, Lord, they are like nothing I have ever seen before.”

  “They are not exactly proper fare for a woman, but they provide certain amusement, and they are rather unique. In this world at least,” he replied, but said nothing more as their wherry glided past another elaborate vessel. His carefully measured nod got returned from across the short distance between the boats.

  Sive held herself very still, trying to taste the meaning behind what he had said. She’d never been a subtle creature, but something greater was moving around her, like the invisible currents in the river.

  She was the only Fey in London, so it was impossible; nothing stained the ether of London, except the constant hum of humanity. And in the mortal queen she had not sensed any taint of her husband’s doing.

  The grim thickset towers loomed over the waterway as if they had sprung from the river itself. They docked, and Southampton offered her his hand to the bank. The Watergate drew Sive’s gaze, the so called traitor’s Gate which she had glimpsed in Elizabeth’s mind. Despite being a royal palace, the Tower of London had layer upon layer of unhappy memories ingrained into it. It took no Art at all for Sive to hear the cries of the doomed within these close walls.

  So engrossed with the presence of the place was Sive that for a moment she did not see the dark figure waiting in the shadow of the main gate for them. He stepped out of the darkness to greet them, and for an instant she thought she had gone quite mad. It was her husband.

  The world tilted and became a nightmare. Sive took a step back, calling on whatever power remained in her, but caught nothing at all. Southampton grabbed her arm, and guided her closer to the elegantly dressed Mordant.

  “As you commanded, sir, here is your wife.”

  Sive tried again, reaching desperately into the earth itself for assistance.

  Mordant’s eyebrow rose, and she could feel the glamour he had cast on Southampton slip a little. “Now, dear wife, do not try to run.”

  With that came pain, the kind of pain only Mordant and his master could inflict. That was when reality tipped, and Sive dropped to her knees, catching her shin against the rough stone of the causeway. This little pain did not register in the spiralling world of agony that Mordant had plunged her into. She might have screamed.

  Her husband gestured to the waiting guards, and with brisk efficient movements they bundled her up and into the walls of the Tower. One spoke to Mordant, but the only word that Sive could make out beyond the pain was ‘treason’.

  Mordant smiled and followed them in. Unseen by anyone however, a handful of night-coloured feathers fell from his fingers, drifting away in the breeze.

  How Auberon and Sive were related honestly escaped Puck. Raising his head from his hands, he looked morosely at the former King of the Fey.

  At first the former king feared his Art was dead in this realm, but he calmed a little when told with time his power would fade only gradually. He wouldn't be robbed of it if he was cautious.

  Auberon’s spirits lifted, and that was when the trouble began. Caution was not a word in his vocabulary. A few traces of Art had procured him fitting clothes and a bright and shiny sword. He cut a figure in the spring sun, Puck had to admit, but the Trickster was doubtful it would impress the likes of Mordant.

  Tucking his legs under each other, barely controlling a sigh, Puck finally asked the question that he didn’t really want to. “So what is the plan, oh mighty liege?”

  He missed his sarcasm. “We find Sive, and once she has joined me, we will go back and reclaim my realm.”

  Puck rolled his eyes and let his head fall back into his chill hands. “And how, pray tell, can we do that? She is lying low from Mordant, and not likely to be proclaiming her presence to anyone.”

  A flicker of doubt crossed Auberon’s flawless brow, and he sheathed his bright sword. “Perhaps our connection as brother and sister might help.”

  Puck tried hard, but it was impossible, he burst into gales of laughter. “Surely, my Lord,” he spluttered, “It is a fraction late to play that card?”

  He must be really desperate, Brigit commented.

  Auberon heard neither of them, his eyes wandering from the river and turning to something far more distant. “I fear Mordant has followed after me, but found other prey more to his liking,” he whispered.

  “What?” Puck strained his Art but could tell nothing of what had alerted the other.

  “He has scented the one fair hope in this blasted land.”

  “I would appreciate it,” Puck tugged on Auberon’s bejewelled sleeve, “If you would talk properly sometimes. What in the Mother’s name do you mean?”

  “Sive the Shining, Sive the dark Raven, Daughter of Battle.”

  “Yes, yes I know her.” All unnoticed a striped tail sprouted out from Puck’s spine, and began to whip the air, “Dark hair, violet eyes... nasty temper—why, what about her?”

  No reply was forthcoming. And then, without a single warning, the King of the Fey dropped to the ground like a bundle of dirty laundry, twitching on the ground. Auberon’s back arched until it was fit to break, his mouth stretched in a silent scream.

  Puck stared a moment at the spasm-wracked ex-ruler of the Fey. “Now that can’t be good,” he mused, prodding the prone body with one foot. It was a sad day indeed when the future of the Fey depended on this unlikely specimen.

  Tempting isn’t it lad, to tip him into the river?

  Puck heaved a heavy sigh, but crouched down next to his former liege. The lashing tiger tail got in his way, and he dismissed with a thought. Unlike Sive, Puck had not lost any of his Art, and he guessed it was the Brigit within him that made it so. After all, a Trickster without any tricks was the saddest thing. He was probably the most powerful Fey left in any realm.

  “I bet you never thought that would be so, my Liege,” Puck chuckled, “Even when you saw my glory hanging from your chandelier.”

  With very little of anything approaching gentleness, the Trickster levered open Auberon’s mind and peered in. It was easy, considering the King’s former power—a brush with Mordant was not healthy for the Art. Puck made a mental note to avoid such confrontations.

  The source of the problem was apparent. Even after all that had passed between them, Auberon was right, there was still a connection of blood between the siblings.

  Puck concentrated his Art on the thread, merging his thoughts with it, trying to understand what was passing between brother and sister. Immediately he wished that he had not.

  Every inch of his being was being stripped away, such pain and confusion.

  With a wince Puck released the link, but an odd smell of burning feathers lingered in his nostrils.

  Brigit's fright joined his own.

  Mordant’s final assault on his wayward wife had begun. Now they could only cling to that small hope that she would not break.

  Give, like you’ve never given in your whole life.

  Puck thrust his thoughts through to Auberon, Send Sive our Art. The King’s mind was reeling with shared torture, but he struggled to reverse the flow through the connection. A pale nimbus sprung up around him and the Trickster so that any coming along the river would have been much surprise
d.

  Take it, Sive, Puck thought, Take it and hold on, we are coming.

  A flash like earthed lightning snapped across the link, and suddenly Auberon could breathe once more.

  Puck helped the erstwhile ruler to his feet, shocked at how his body was shaking. It took a few moments for Auberon to recover and push his golden hair from his eyes. “He has her now, and though Sive and I have seen differently on many—well in fact on most things, I would not wish this for her.”

  “We have bought time with our Art,” Puck replied, thinking of his cousin’s suffering. “But it will not last long against Mordant.”

  “We must rescue her.” Auberon dusted off the last of the grass from his fine garments. “But without Art we must rely to whatever transport these mortals use.”

  Puck considered for a moment the oddness of Auberon’s willingness to rush into danger.

  The former king grinned at Puck, recovering some of his arrogance. “Never fear Trickster, I am thinking that given time, Mordant will be able to use our sibling link to trace me. Besides which if Sive falls to him, then there is no hope for any of us.”

  Auberon might have little of his Art left, but Puck did not.

  In an instant he had shifted his body to that of a mighty stallion. He was rather proud of its enormous size, jet-black colour and prancing legs.

  Auberon, showing his usual lack of manners, didn’t even pass a pleasant comment. Instead he mounted up.

  Still if he thought this was going to be a comfortable ride, he might be in for a shock.

  * * *

  Having descended into a river of pain, the removal from it was almost as traumatic. Sive stuttered back into consciousness, feeling the cool surface of stone pressed against one cheek. She lay very still for a moment, counting the little pains, but avoiding the larger ones that were still waiting in the background. Somehow she had found the strength to hold back Mordant’s assault, from where she could not guess, for Art was the greatest source of pain at the moment. It was used against her, and the only way to shelter from agony was to keep it at a distance.