Bess had her eyes closed, but the angelic smile on her lips was something to behold. It was as though she looked into the face of God.
“The Mother loves a midwife,” she murmured, folding her hands on her lap. “Blessed are we that help new life into Her world.”
Now a shiver of power ran up Will’s spine, making each individual hair tremble erect, and his muscles shake. “Old mother, you shouldn’t be out here all alone.”
A faint chuckle. “So much Art, so little brain, lad, I am not alone. This is the best and last place for me to be. I’m here to meet Her.”
The hint of blasphemy was enough to send Will’s church teachings into overdrive.
Bess gestured that he should sit on the cool earth close to her, “You don’t say it, Will, but you are afraid, afraid to burn in your Christian hell. But She is not your enemy; she is merely another face of God. Older and more mysterious, but the same.” It was certainly not a teaching that the local vicar would have agreed with, but it made sense to Will. He dropped down beside the old woman, and tilted his head to the sun as she was doing. With the faint breeze moving over his face, and the strength of the oak against his back, everything was a little more peaceful.
“It’s almost my time,” Bess said it like it was a piece of town gossip. “She is near.”
Will should have been afraid, should have leapt up and made for his horse, but such a mantle of peace had settled on him that he could not.
Bess’s wrinkled and toughened hand stole into his, and her voice when it reached him was very deep and very sweet, like a drip of honey on the curl of his tongue. “Don’t be afraid, William. Open your eyes.”
Will sighed, looking away from the sun into Bess’s revealed face, and straight into the eyes of the Mother. In that split second he knew that this was love, unlooked for and yet given. No judgment was in the goddess’s gaze, no disgust at anything he had ever done or said, only complete acceptance. His soul and his life were precious to her. Will wanted to sink into that love and never stray from it. In the eyes of age, the Mother of All was as beautiful as the oak against which she rested.
“We see each other finally, William, you and I,” she smiled, “And I have been waiting for you for so long.”
He could hardly breathe with joy.
She eased her hand from his, and instead stroked his curls away from his eyes. “You are the one Bard I dreamed of, all alone in the Unmaker’s darkness, even before the dawn of worlds.”
A goddess could dream, he thought dimly, And she thought of me?
“Accept all that you are, William, and you shall defeat Mordant. I have given you all you need to succeed, but it must be your decision to do so. Sive needs you, but your gifts are your gifts alone.”
“But how do I...” he managed to speak.
“You know how to reach her, William, you always have. The Veil cannot stop you.”
Despite his love for Sive, he didn’t want to leave the Mother, knowing that he would never see such again.
“You will if you care to,” she whispered. “Now go to her and leave me with Bess; we have much to talk of.”
Will dragged himself to his feet, and saw what she had said was true. He could see the Veil before him like a fine spiders’ web; it was as easy as brushing it aside to find his Sive.
20
My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.
The Between released the Bard with an almost sigh, and he stepped into the realm, eager to make his peace with Sive.
But it was Auberon he found. The King propped against a scorched tree, in much the same way as old Bess had been, and indeed the same comfortable aura of near death clung to him. He greeted Will with a small smile. “I guess I win my bet with Puck then. I said you’d be back.” His voice was strong, but the whistle of pierced lungs and broken bones accompanied it.
Will scanned the evening realm, but there were no other Fey about, and changes were writ everywhere he looked. Gone were the green hills, and the purple mist; instead the whole land simmered with heat, the earth blasted clean of any plants. The scent of jasmine was long gone, vanished, replaced with smoke and ash.
“Not much to look at, is it?” Auberon said. “But it will grow again.” His shadowed eyes drooped a little. “All it needs is a little time.”
Will shifted from one foot to another. He was eager to find Sive, but common decency dictated not to leave what was obviously a dying man alone. Where was everyone else?
Some part of his concern spilled over; the King heard his thought. “Remember what I am,” a hint of the old Auberon surfaced, “And I am not alone. A King is never alone as long as he has the land. It was all I ever wanted, to be King, but I was wrong.”
The sound of bone snapping was like a whiplash, and Will winced in sympathy as Auberon’s hands tightened. The King had displeased Mordant indeed to merit such attention.
“Sive is directing what will be the last charge of the Fey.”
Will took this as a dismissal, but death spurred Auberon to reckless talk. “Look after her if you can, mortal. She’s not what she once was, maybe not even a Fey anymore.”
Something in Will moved him to touch the dying King’s shoulder. Auberon’s breathing eased, and his ragged form straightened a little. He looked up with amazement at Will. “You have the Mother of All’s blessing, human, and now you have mine.” It had been only a moments respite, but the King had drawn strength from it, and when the next snap came, he was white lipped but silent.
While Will’s human decency moved him to stay, he had learnt a great deal about Fey pride in his life. He knew a moment to go when he saw it, so the Bard turned away, and left the King to his pain and regrets.
The pull of Sive thrummed in Will’s veins, making his heart race hard and fast. Once he had her, he could revenge his son, and after that everything else was bearable. He moved on with grim purpose, seeing and smelling the devastation, but not letting it touch him
Even though scorched, the Evening Realm still had a little beauty. Somehow a corner of the Evening Realm persisted, and it was this purple shaded dimple in the earth that contained the last of the Fey.
Will crested a small rise and looked down into Sive’s refuge. Though he had seen her people before, it was with newly opened eyes that he understood them now. They were in their death throes, and yet they still held more magic than anything from his world. How they would have appeared in their glory days he could only imagine, for now, even mud splattered and wounded, the Fey commanded attention. They huddled around Sive as beautiful and ethereal as wind tossed waves; proud-shouldered men with haunted eyes, dimly glowing sprites, and fierce-eyed shattered looking women. On the very fringes were the animals of the realm, foxes, cats, songbirds and arched necked horses, all with the glow of Fey magic on them. Raised on stories about them, Will learned to fear their wild allure, but now he allowed himself to love them.
And how, he thought with a stab of grief, little Hamnet would have crowed to see such beauty; how they would have described all the wondrous shapes and forms to each other. Will’s marvellous imagination cut him with the thought, as easily as it pleased others.
And then over their heads Sive looked at him, and grief pierced Will through. She still had the odd Fey and mortal eyes, but they were more precious to him now. Will noted with sorrow every dent in her once gleaming silver Armor, and the dark shadow of bruises on her face. But for all that he wished this were not happening, it made it easier to understand her.
Like a weary herd of deer bought to bay, they were now all looking at the Bard, and he could feel the weight of that sorrowful regard. Yet they hadn't lost all their spirit, and a few swords rattled in their sheaths at a mortal daring to intrude. Sive did not move.
Then a scarred proud stallion, the colour of churned cream, shouldered its way through the crowd to Will, pressing its warm muzzle into his hand. It was looking at him with the violet eyes of Puck. No matter
what shape the Trickster wore, he was still his friend.
The tension evaporated, the Fey released a collective breath, Sive was moving to his side.
Her bandaged hand, rested on her cousin’s equine flank. Sighing, she shook her head. “It’s probably too late, Will. We cannot possibly break the bounds of the realms now; the Unmaker is ready for us.”
He’d been a fool, and more than Hamnet was paying for it, but Will had to try.
Puck slid back into mortal form and slipped his hands about their waists, his silver topped head barely reaching their chests. “It will be harder now; you will need a sacrifice. If the Fey attack Mordant in his own lair, then it could weaken Unmaker.”
The Bard exchanged a look with his lover over the top of the Trickster’s head. They said nothing, but both were at the point where there was no sacrifice they wouldn’t make, one for survival and one for revenge.
“His lair?” Sive said.
“The Shattered Realm.” Puck’s voice was light.
Sive’s face went very still, like the reason to live had dropped away from behind it. “We can’t ask that of them...”
But Puck spoke the truth though somewhat snappishly.
“Can you think of anything else?”
Sive’s tired eyelids dropped, and she leaned in against the two others. Then she turned to her people. Her ragged Art reached out to them, seeking the will of the Fey. Each life she touched, asking it if it was willing to give that final piece. Each burned differently, some weary, some angry, some despairing, but in all was the same desire, not to die needlessly. This was their only chance to avoid that, and the Fey was, as it had ever been, committed to burning brightly.
Hundreds of violet ancient eyes dipped, and a huge almost relieved sigh went through them. Creatures that had seen the beginning of the mortal realm who were the only true magic remaining, were now willing to give themselves up, so that it might live—so the Unmaker would only swallow one more realm—and then no more.
The decision was complete, the die cast, and once the Fey resolved anything, it wouldn't get turned aside or changed.
“Short enough time remains.” Sive’s fingers touched Will’s for a second. “I will speak with my brother.”
Already the other Fey were slipping away to find little moments to spend as they wished. Some wanted to take in the last sullied breath that the Fey realm had to give while friends and lovers that had known each other for hundreds of human years sought a moment to spend together. It cut Will to the quick that Sive had not chosen to spend it with him, but his melancholy would not stay her progress over the brow of the hill.
Soon only he and Puck stood in the hollow.
The smaller Fey sighed. “I never thought a time would come when I wouldn’t know what to say.”
It only raised a small smile on the Bard’s lips, but a small smile was better than nothing, and all this moment could offer.
Companionably the two of them sat down on the bleached grass and waited for the end to come.
* * *
It was the very world breathing its last. Sive’s bare toes curled into the evening grass, but her heart was still in her chest, at peace, resigned to an end. Sive finished her short prayer to the Mother of All and rising to her feet, went to her brother. Auberon still rested against the last tree standing, his eyes glassy but clear of pain.
“You know once it is all over this oak will recover,” Auberon said before reaching out to her. “But I will not be here to see it.” What use was it to argue when they could both hear the sound of his bones grating on each other? So Sive remained silent, concentrating instead on helping Auberon to his feet as gently as possible, and keeping her tears unshed.
It was strange how such things had become so very important while others had faded into the background. Sive had heard of this phenomenon from mortal warriors, but never expected to experience it herself. For this moment, the most vital thing was not to lose the connection with her dying brother.
Looping an arm around her shoulders, Auberon whispered into her ear, “You know I’m coming with you, don’t you?”
Sive would have laughed, had not his tone been so serious. But his white-hot grip held back admonishments. “I have it in me, sister, and it is something that I must do. I’m finished anyway. Give me a purpose, please.”
The King of the Fey had never used such a word, and it shocked Sive to the core. Between them flowed the unbroken bond of blood.
Auberon smiled. “I still have enough Art so you won’t have to carry me.” His Art, so far stronger than his body, exerted itself, and he pulled free of her hold. With one eye half shut, he almost looked like her brother of old.
Irony twisted Sive’s lips; that was not someone she wanted to return.
A shuffling of feet behind the fixed siblings alerted them to the fact they were no longer alone.
Will, always polite, always thinking of those around him, even in this dark predicament, waited for them to acknowledge him.
Auberon held out a hand to the Bard and gripped it firmly when it met his, but silence remained between the three of them. They had reached a point were no words were needed. Already their Arts were reaching out, like ancient vines beginning to wrap around each other. The two men stood either side of Sive, their Art and minds resolute even if bodies were shaking.
As one, their power reached out, pulled the Veil away, and they stepped through.
* * *
For anyone that craved power, this sight would have been a thrill. Puck was trembling though, even when he found enough courage to turn and face them. All the Fey were looking straight at him, Puck the Trickster, and all had the very same emotion in their eyes: desperation. The Fey host had to ride forward, and he was to lead them.
Bayel’s none too gentle nose thumped into his back, and the tattered Macha cawed. Both were reminding him that it was time; the scattered remains of the Fey were ready.
Brenna, whom he had once so admired, smiled at him from beneath a bandage made up of one of her fabulous dresses. Even though she had been a warrior, this was not what they were meant to be. The Fey loved dance and music, not battle and death. The silver sword at his side was an alien thing, and the proper Puck would have thrown it away in an instant, but not today. Now his life would depend on that sword.
Puck ached with loneliness, horrified to find himself standing alone at this point. But he still swung himself up onto Bayel’s broad back and raising an arm gave Macha somewhere to sink her claws. The rest of the host moved to follow, mounting the few Fey horses remaining, those that could shifting to animal form. They bellowed and called, filling the grey realm with sudden life. The atmosphere was heavy with ancient rememberings of past glories and pride in their own, diminished though it might be. All in all not a bad way to die, the Fey said to each other, in ways only they could.
We will at least not go easily. Puck clenched his fists in Bayel’s mane.
We are not dead yet, sharp-tongued Brigit reminded him, not by a little spell at least. The Great Seal burned against his chest, telling him that for now he was very much alive.
A prayer to the Mother of All was ringing inside Puck’s head, though he was unsure if it was one of fear or of jubilation. Bayel trumpeted his equine pride and danced on his rear legs, his front ones lashing out. So this is mortality. Puck heard his heart thundering for the first time in his life and decided he liked it. As the rest of his people whooped and whirled around him, Brigit was so close Puck swore he could feel her withered arms around his waist.
Now my boy, she yelled in his ear, Lead the Fey.
Puck's body was distant to him, but his hands moved, calling out to the Between. And this was no doorway into that place the Trickster summoned, this was a gate so large it consumed the horizon. Even the eldest of the Fey had never seen such a display of Art. The Veil tore wide open until all that was before them was the heaving purple mists and endless possibilities.
Puck was now an instrument of someth
ing greater, and he couldn’t say if it was Brigit, or someone else. That revelation terrified him, more so than the Unmaker, but somehow he managed to find some strength of his own.
Whirling Bayel around, he drew the stunned Fey’s eyes to him, and let his broad grin fool them into thinking he had done this thing himself. They couldn’t see that frightened core as he and the stallion galloped towards that strange place.
Only a moment of indecision, and then in a mighty surge they roared through the Veil.
As soon as they moved into the Between the host became confused. Puck heard their calls of alarm and realized that most of the Fey had never dared the mists of Between realms. Only Brigit showed him where to go and were he to rely on his Fey senses he would lose himself. By guiding Bayel about them, Puck was finally able to call them to something resembling order, a heaving mass of inflamed desperation that only needed somewhere to go.
Into the Shattered Realm, Brigit called, sounding how she had when her cauldron was threatening to boil over.
All traces of common-sense had long since vanished, so Puck shrugged and urged Bayel on towards that blighted place. Behind, the Fey host followed.
* * *
Between Will and Sive, Auberon sagged. The trip into the Between had sucked his remaining strength.
Sive pressed her head close to his. “Can you feel your tormentor, brother?”
“I have him in my bones, sister. I will find him for you.” he replied with a grim smile.
The Bard and his lover could feel something else, a twisting of their senses and Art. It was as if someone had unwound their separate senses of self and knitted them back together into one garment. They could see out of each other’s eyes, feel each other’s pain, and draw strength from the other’s determination. When thoughts came it was even difficult to know whose they were.
What could it mean?
Chasing the Bard Page 29
