Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  Macha; a hot tear leaked from her closed eyes and spent itself against the stone. Mordant had taken his rage out on her ancient friend.

  Sive ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips, mustering her remaining energy, pulling herself off the floor and onto her knees. Her elaborate skirts twisted around like her like chains and dug into her body. The room was so dark that had she been mortal, Sive would be blind. The only window in the stone cell was narrow and set above eye level, but told her all the same that it was night; though which night she could not have said.

  On all fours Sive hauled herself to the wall, and then using it, managed to get to her feet. The once mighty Fey had to scramble against the stone to see through the window. It was as she had feared. Sive now shared the same fate as all those unfortunates who had displeased the Queen. She was locked in the Tower.

  Her legs surrendered. What would Will think when he returned and found her gone? He would only know that she had left with the Earl, and were he to follow that clue, then he might fall into Mordant’s hands. He could not know that his patron had fallen to the power of her husband. A wave of despair swept over her, and oddly it was not because he was her last hope of redemption for the Fey. It was something more than that.

  Having nothing else left, Sive whispered into the dark, “Do not follow, Will.” In the chill stillness of the cell her voice sounded frail, cracked and terribly mortal.

  Still Sive’s stout heart was the same as it ever was, and though she realized there was little hope, she would not give Mordant the satisfaction of seeing her cast down.

  Settling her robes around her, she spoke again. “Please do not look for me, Will,” she whispered one more time, as though her voice could travel to his ear. “I can suffer, as long as you do not.” Then wrapping her arms around her knees, she rested her head and tried to recall how his arms had felt, safe, sensual and above all warm.

  * * *

  The London Will knew and loved had been torn away. He stood in the darkness of the alleyway watching the doorway of Sive’s lodgings, and the once cheerful familiar city he loved was dead; it had stolen his love away.

  Though new ideas for plays and poems were banging away in the back of his head, desperate to get themselves written down, and he could not move from this spot. This was where he had last seen Sive, and some part of him knew this was the only chance he had. Whoever had taken her wanted him as well, so he would let them find him.

  Will had already scared young Margery, Sive’s maid, half to death. She had only seen her mistress go off in the escort of a handsome man and his entourage. While the style of clothes was impressive, she could recall nothing about who it might have been. She’d added rather tartly that Sive had obviously made a move up in the world and a playwright, even a famous one, was second to a gentleman of the court.

  But the tight knot in Will’s stomach did not abate, and despite his earlier certainty that such a thing might happen, the appearance of unworldly thugs by the Theatre did not comfort him. Those creatures had been more in her world than his.

  So in the face of a thousand nasty possibilities, perhaps the idea of her running off with someone else was the best.

  So he waited all night, hollowed eyed, and set in misery. When he appeared once more in the house, Margery squeaked with horror, but was also quick to point out that Sive had not returned yet. The maid was almost beside herself with excitement, imagining her mistress had found favour with the queen, or one of her courtiers.

  Will however was a good deal less impressed. The idea was beginning to take hold. Sive belonged more in the Court than she did on the rough city streets and playhouses he frequented. He could think of little to do, and the players were anxious to practice the last scene he had rewritten. So it was not until the early evening that he managed to call again. By this time Margery was getting very terse with him, reminding him that the aristocracy was not at his beck and call, thank you very much.

  Will was used to the Court looking down their noses at lowly players, but not servants. He left with what he hoped was a haughty look. Buying a rosy-cheeked apple from a stall on the way home, he tried to dispel the uneasy thoughts that flew about him.

  These were interrupted when he caught sight of the Earl of Wrothesley and his companions, making their way through the press of people. Perhaps he had seen Sive.

  Gulping down the last bite of his apple, he shouldered his way through the boisterous crowds. Dusk was falling, and all of London was on the move to where ever they had a bed for the night. The daring and the desperate were all that went abroad after dark, and after midnight only the thieves and the foolish. Any sensible citizen of London locked themselves into their abode as soon as night fell.

  Over this bustle Will caught glimpses of the Earl’s finery, and his elegant voice calling out to his companions to make haste.

  So intent on his quarry was Will that he didn't notice when a diminutive shape emerged from the press of people and deftly applied a shoulder, driving him sideways towards an alleyway. But Will had been living in London for a long time, and such tricks were not unknown to him; he reached for his knife.

  “Now, Will,” Puck’s mischievous smile flashed, “There’s no need to get angry. You wouldn’t mistake your own sweet Puck for a filcher now, would you?”

  The shock was so great that before he knew it, Will was well out of the flow of people, and had lost sight of the Earl. “A filcher never, Puck, but an inconvenience all the same. I was trying to talk to...”

  “You wouldn’t want to talk to that one, mortal,” a smooth light voice interrupted him.

  Will frowned and turned on the speaker who remained hidden in the shadows of the alleyway, tall and cloaked. The voice was not familiar, but when he pulled back his hood, Will knew the look of the man. Though the hair was golden, the face masculine, there was an echo of Sive’s angular pale beauty there. Neither could he ignore the intangible glow of the Fey about this newcomer. In shock, Will looked to Puck.

  The Trickster shrugged. “My former Lord is ill prepared to hide his nature as his sister has done.”

  “You are her brother, Auberon. then,” Will said, “And as foolish as Sive said. If any saw you like that there would be a hanging or a burning for sure.”

  “I have little concern for mortal threats.” The royal Fey shot Will a disdainful look from the corner of his eye. “I am only concerned with the danger that Mordant poses. A danger that you almost walked into, mortal.”

  Puck nudged him. “You should be more careful of your associates.”

  “You mean the Earl of Southampton? He is my friend, my patron.”

  Auberon sniffed and withdrew back into his cloak. “He reeks of Mordant; he obviously does not choose his friends wisely.”

  Will rubbed his head. “This is all Fey madness.”

  “Madness or not,” Puck snapped, “It is the truth, and you must deal with it. Your Earl is in Mordant’s pocket. If you spoke to him now, you would be in terrible danger.”

  “I have spoken to his Lordship many times; I do not see what the difference is.”

  Puck pulled a face, “That is bad indeed, for Mordant would have recognized your Feyness at once.”

  “What little there is of it,” Auberon snorted. “But we are not here to warn you, or any other mortal, but to find my sister.”

  “I have not seen her since yesterday morning.” Will emphasized the significance of the hour, hoping to knock Auberon down a peg or two. “I was about to ask the Earl if he knows where she is. Her maid said she left in the company of a fine gentleman, and I do not think Sive knows many of that sort in London yet."

  Puck and the Fey Lord exchanged glances, and the Trickster slumped back against the wall. “It is as we feared then.”

  “What?” Will looked between them, his heart racing and the tumultuous knot in his chest tightening.

  “Your Earl knows very well where she is,” Auberon spun away. “And there can be no doubt Mordant has her. Her pain wil
l only end when he has had enough amusement.”

  Will closed his eyes, and tried to hold onto the facts, even though the idea of Sive’s sweet skin open to attack almost drove him mad. “Well, then,” he managed, “we must get her back.”

  “She is in that place.” Auberon’s eyes strayed in the upriver direction. “That Tower.”

  “Your queen put her there,” Puck said somewhat accusingly.

  “All this time I have heard nothing but how powerful you Fey are," Will hissed, “And yet the Tower of London scares you?”

  “Not scares,” Auberon replied darkly. “It is merely an inconvenience that Sive is in such a place.” Pucks’ eyes sparked silver in the half-light. “The Tower is a place of much magic and power; the Lord who built it was a canny man.”

  “A Fey that carried your name, mortal,” the King said, “A lost son of my realm that was powerful in all Arts, so he chose his fortress well. Only one of our kind could have found such a crossroads of power lying next to a river.”

  Though their words sparked curiosity in Will, it was not something that he wished to pursue. What he wanted was Sive safe. “It doesn’t matter, does it? I mean you are both supposed mighty Fey ‘lords’.”

  Auberon shifted and turned his hooded face away.

  “Well, you see, Will my friend,” Puck paused and glanced in his former King’s direction, “Sive’s brother here is much depleted from his last brush with Mordant. He might not be quite up to it. He may recover with a little time—we just don’t know.”

  The expected denial was not forthcoming, and Will was shocked, but also wary. “Is this why you have come to me, then? To make me your puppet?”

  Auberon tore off his cloak and throwing it on the ground stomped on it. “This is the creature my sister has pinned all her hopes on, Puck? It beggars the imagination. He has no spine, no courage, and he has denied all his heritage!” The dazzling Fey shirt and breeches shimmered like butterfly wings in the golden light that oozed from his tall form. Auberon, cast down King of the Fey, was a doomed and yet a heart-stopping candle flame in that dim London alley. The bittersweet aura of loss and pride that rolled from him made tears spring to Will’s eyes. Only now did he wish that he had not turned away from Sive when she had revealed her Fey form to him. In a similar light she had captured his soul.

  And though Auberon stirred much anger, there was still a part of the bard that could not help feel the sting of truth. Though he feared being moved like some Fey chess piece, standing in the Fey King’s glow, sensing the beauty of Sive’s hidden world, Will started to understand. Creatures of such beauty couldn't be left to die simply because of his mortal fears. All that mattered was that she whom he loved would survive.

  Will looked over at Puck. The Trickster’s eyes were dark and unreadable, waiting for his answer.

  Embarrassed, Will bent and scooped up the abused cloak. “You best put this on,” he stood toe to toe with the Fey King. “It wouldn’t do to have you burnt at the stake, not when we all have so much to do.”

  17

  Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain

  The roars of lions made Sive spring awake. At first the ice-cold stone that made up the tiny cell gave no clues where she was.

  The lion called again, a long roar that sounded more desolate than frightening. A creature that once ruled was now nothing more than a prisoner.

  Once she and Puck had journeyed to those distant mortal shores where jungle and vast golden grasslands were in equal number. Puck had picked up many wonderful shapes to mimic, and Macha had flown the skies with eagles and vultures.

  Gritting her teeth, Sive held tight to those memories. Now she could only guess Macha’s fate. Mortal ravens lived in the Tower, but no sounds came from them, and stripped of power neither could Sive touch their minds.

  But Sive still had the sharp Fey senses; she could hear her captor’s footsteps long before a mortal prisoner would have. Sive waited, as the key rattled into the lock and the door opened. Even when Mordant stood there, she couldn't muster any anger. The door closed with a resounding clang behind him.

  Mordant sniffed as if the very smell of her offended him. “Mother of All, Sive—I wouldn’t even waste a glamour on you anymore.”

  “And you think that disappoints me?” she muttered, feeling her lips ache where she had gnawed them in her agony yesterday.

  Her husband laughed. “You will still have your uses, Sive, never fear.”

  "At least I know,” she whispered, “It was not Mordant that did this to me. I know about the Unmaker.”

  He grasped her chin, angling it so their eyes met. In hers he saw inevitability of death, in his she saw the abyss; nothing mortal or Fey lingered behind them, only emptiness. “Then you also know, you will die in agony,” the void promised.

  “You want to destroy all realms, but I know why.” All Sive had now was a thin veneer of defiance; hope had fled in the night.

  He released her chin, flicking it away hard enough to make her jaw ache. “Foolish being, you cannot judge what I want. You can have no concept of my desires. You cannot imagine the end of all, but I can, and I know what will come after.”

  Sive shook her head, suddenly knowing how the mortals must feel about the Fey. The vast sphere of other realms was more dangerous than her people in their arrogance had imagined, and somehow they had attracted the attention of something worse than themselves, something ancient that their elders had worked hard to contain.

  He dipped in his pocket and removed the book she had been reading. Flipping over the cover, he smiled, “Reading Chaucer, dear wife? What on earth did you think to learn from this?”

  There was no further need to hide anything from him. “You were reading. I found your little library. I wanted to know what you were doing.”

  Mordant laughed, a sound like shattered glass. “There are many ways to destroy a people, Sive. But in all of them, you must know what moves them,” he bent down to her, “What makes them weep in the night, and howl for death. I was simply finding out what that was.”

  Sive looked away.

  “But I think for you it was more than that,” Mordant purred. “You found more in these books than you bargained for, perhaps even a bit of yourself you didn’t even know about... such as your humanity.”

  She held her breath, but he already knew that much was obvious. She would not take the bait.

  “In fact, I must thank your human friend.”

  Sive lay very still, trying to calm her thoughts; he could not mean...

  “The Bard went too far, dearest. I do not know what he was doing, but I felt his power. It is what drew me here. Once I have done with you, there will be a reckoning with him as well.” He leaned down so she could feel his breath on her shoulder. “So will I crush all that you love.”

  She looked up at him with battered rage, but said nothing.

  Disappointed, Mordant regarded her, head tipped on one side, as if she were an insect. Then with a bleak grin, he twisted his hand sideways and slipped it Between. When it remerged it was holding a dark iron birdcage though what it contained was certainly not much of a bird. The crumple of feathers and blood on the bottom of the cage had once been Sive’s most ancient friend.

  Mordant’s alien eyes flashed with darkness as he dangled Macha from his fingertips.

  Sive’s reaction surprised even her. Coming off the bed like Puck’s tiger form, she leapt for the Earl’s throat with all that remained to her, mortal strength. The cage dropped to the ground with a clatter, only just heard over Sive's full-throated scream. All of her body committed itself to scratching and kicking and punching, anything that might hurt him. Rolling across the floor, Earl and Fey smashed hard into the far wall, Sive ending up atop the empty-eyed shell. With her long fingers tight about his neck, she forced all the strength of her body about his windpipe. The sound of his gasp was so sweet in her ears.

  Mordant’s fist connected with a snap to he
r jaw, set her head ringing and knocked the breath out of her. Taking the opportunity, he struggled free, but did not flee for the door. For a moment they fought near the window, trading blows and wounds, but whereas every injury was like a hammer blow to Sive, she couldn't reach him through whatever foul power had him.

  Her hands slipped on the knife at his belt, eager to have it and plunge it into his chest. But in a heartbeat he stole that chance away. Wearying of the fray, Mordant summoned Art. Before Sive knew it, she was skidding over the floor, with her chest aching like a warhorse had kicked it, the rest of her body throbbing in sympathy.

  Lying gasping near the door, she opened her eyes to the inside of the raven’s cage. Macha, broken and bloodied, but incredibly still alive, looked back. Sive almost forgot to breathe. From this angle Mordant couldn’t see the contents of the cage, and now that he had the main prize, the bird was of no more interest. Sive sat up, blocking his view, trying to organize her ringing head. Cautiously she licked the warm trickle of her own blood from her lips and waited for his next move.

  “Unexpected and foolish,” he shook his head, “Amusing as it is, I didn’t want to fight with you, dear wife. But I am sure that you know one thing I do want.”

  She blinked up at him

  Crouching down to her level the Earl whispered in her ear like an eager lover, “Your agony. Enough talking, enough fighting, enough of everything—now there is only time for pain.” His icy fingertips pressed against her forehead, removing her strength to resist. One thought alone remained in this brief seconds: she had a victory. Macha was alive. Then indeed, there was no more time for anything. The agony began, and only night would see its end.

  * * *

  Breaking someone out of the Tower was not what any sane Londoner would even consider, and indeed armies thought better of attacking such a well-defended powerful castle. Will, lying in the rear of the quiet wherry punting its way down the Thames, was calm. He watched with bemused detachment the lift and stokes of his wherryman’s arm against the pull of the river and wondered what his family would have thought of the company he was keeping.