“You don’t really want to know.”
“Yeah, I kinda do.”
The two stared at each other. Colby shrugged.
“All right, the universe is energy. All of it. Everything is energy that can be altered simply by willing it to be altered. It’s as if we are God’s waking dream, each gifted with a small piece of his consciousness; the beauty of that arrangement is that we create the dream for him. If you can understand that, if you can wrap your mind around it, then you can conjure up anything you want from out of the ether. Provided there is material enough to do it.”
“That doesn’t make a lick of fucking sense. Show me.”
Colby shook his head. “What? No.”
“Show me something,” insisted Ewan. “Show me some magic.”
Colby hesitated for a second. Then it dawned on him.
He breathed deep. Then, with a bit of theatricality, he waved his hand needlessly through the air. His fingers danced whilst he exhaled slowly, deeply. He pushed a clenched fist toward Ewan—as if battling a current—placing an open hand on his chest.
Ewan felt warm. His wounds closed up; the swelling about his eyes receded, their bruising eroding with it. Blood dried, flaking off like dead skin. In a few short seconds, Ewan was whole again.
“You didn’t tell me your ribs were broken,” said Colby.
“You never asked.”
“You walked all this way with broken ribs?”
“Yeah. You impressed?”
Colby nodded. “That’s actually kind of badass.” The two smiled weakly.
“Hurt like nothing else. I threw up twice.”
“I can imagine.” He paused. “So this girl of yours . . .”
“Nora.” Ewan stopped himself. “Well, she told me her name was Nora. But they kept calling her something else. Mallaidh or something.”
“Mallaidh? That sounds right.”
“Sounds right? You don’t remember?”
Colby shook his head. “Come on, she was a girl I met once when I was eight.”
“You know, you really should . . .” Ewan stopped himself. He relaxed. “No, you’re right. You can’t recall the details of my life any better than I should be able to.”
Ewan took a seat on the well-made, handcrafted leather boat of a couch that puffed slightly as he sank comfortably into it. He looked around the room—a cluttered expanse of trinkets, knickknacks, and items almost indescribable whose purpose one could only guess at—and it was at once clear to him that he didn’t really know his friend very well at all. Colby walked to the fridge, pulling from it a couple of beers, popping their tops off with the bottle opener affixed to the door, and ambled back to the couch, handing a beer to Ewan before plopping down beside him. They both drank.
The two shared a moment of silence, each unsure of what to say. Ewan was the first to speak up.
“Is that a night-light?”
Colby looked over at the wall nearest the door. A small, beige piece of plastic covering a smaller lit bulb jutted from the electrical outlet. “Yep,” Colby answered without missing a beat.
“All right, I’ll ask the obvious question. Why do you have a night-light?”
“To scare away monsters.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Monsters are real, and if millions of children believe in the power of the night-light, then you can bet your ass that so do the monsters. Never underestimate the power of belief.”
Ewan nodded. “Why do I get the feeling that I’ll never fully be able to wrap my mind around all of this?”
“Probably because I’ve been trying since I was a kid and I barely understand any of it myself.”
Ewan stared at his beer, swishing it around a little in its bottle. “So what the hell is my girlfriend?”
Colby sipped, shaking his head. “I’ve no idea. A Sidhe of some kind, if I remember correctly.”
Ewan stroked his chin—thick with a sandpaper-like layer of stubble—and thought deeply. He remembered what the Sidhe were. Noble. Proud. And they had tried to kill him. It really was a strange sensation; he was reliving a life he’d forgotten through flashes of incongruous memory. He remembered snapping a man’s neck, fondly, but couldn’t fathom why; he recalled frolicking with monsters but being fearful of dancing with beautiful women. Everything was alien and he lacked the vocabulary to describe it properly.
“So why do they want to kill me?”
“There’s no telling without asking them directly.”
“You can’t hazard a guess?”
“Fairies are creatures of pure emotion. When they love, they love wholeheartedly. What they hate, they hate ceaselessly. Where they are satisfied, they never leave. These are not creatures that do anything in half measures. For them it is all or it is nothing at all. Middle ground and gray areas are things of the mortal world. It is what makes people special; it is also what make fairies so hard for people to understand.”
“So what now?” asked Ewan.
“Now you tell me again what happened, this time very slowly. And don’t leave anything out.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE FAIRY SABBATH
It was Friday, and thus Rhiamon the Gwyllion was amidst a herd of her goats, combing their beards until each was silky and straight, just as she did every Friday for as long as anyone could remember. Though it was still early in the day, she had combed quite a few goats already, humming enthusiastically to herself, blissfully engrossed in her chore. Rhiamon looked old and tired, an aged crone kneeling before an endless sea of coarse, matted fur, her tangled gray-white hair and crooked spine causing her to blend in with her goatly surroundings.
She smelled them coming before she could see them—redcaps gave off the most distasteful odor, worse even than the goats—and where the redcaps were, Knocks was rarely far behind.
“How dare you disturb me on the Sabbath,” she called out into the herd, knowing full well who they were. Her voice resonated, deep and sonorous, drowning out even the ceaseless bleating of her flock—if only for a moment.
“Sorry to disturb, mistress crone,” said Reinhardt, appearing seemingly from nowhere. “But the young master desires a word with you.” The redcap had one leg forward, attempting an awkward curtsy as if he were the emissary of some distant, foppish nation. There he teetered, fumbling with his hands, mangling the proper etiquette.
Rhiamon looked up at him disdainfully. “Why you insist upon running around with that absurd little creature rather than tearing him apart and soaking your caps in his blood is beyond me.” She spat upon the ground.
“My lady,” nodded Reinhardt, still attempting his ridiculous half bow, refusing to make eye contact. He was at once both offended and afraid, but dared not speak up; Rhiamon was a dangerous sorceress and could hex all sorts of mischief upon him with but a thought. It was in his best interests to remain polite, even when insulted—a fact Rhiamon was more than willing to exploit.
She waved him closer. “Come.”
The remaining redcaps shuffled out from behind a gathering of unkempt, anxious goats. Knocks stepped forward from the gang, holding his bloody cap in his hand, showing more restraint, every bit as scared as Reinhardt. “Mistress crone?”
“Yes, young changeling?” She looked up at him, for a moment showing no emotion at all. Then she puzzled over his wounds, suddenly realizing that these fools who stood before her wanted no mere favor. Often fairies from the court came to her asking for potions or a spell—always wanting the most trivial of help—they were in love with a mortal or needed to chase off some spirit that had taken up residence in their part of the woods. This was different; she could tell by the way they stood, the way bruises crept slowly across their grim countenances. “What have you done?” she asked. “What is it you boys have gotten yourselves into?”
“Trouble, mistress,” said
Knocks.
The crone smiled, her wrinkles forming deep chasms of age. She set her comb down beside her. The wrinkles upon her forehead surrounding her knobby, gnarled horns began to smooth out. Rhiamon so loved misfortune that the very thought of it made her feel and become younger. Her eyes brightened and she instantly shed five years. “Go on,” she prodded.
“It is the boy Ewan. He still lives.”
“Of course he does,” she said. “He has powerful friends.”
“It was just him,” said Knocks bitterly.
“Who did this to all of you?” She looked at them incredulously.
“Yes, mistress.” The redcaps nodded in unison behind Knocks.
“And how did he accomplish such a feat?”
“He stole the cap off Karl’s head and put it on.”
The crone smiled broader still. Her hair began to untangle, turning from a frazzled white mess into a fine, silky, distinguished gray. The wrinkles around her eyes gave way to loose bags of skin—not yet smooth, but well on their way. “So he wears the cap?”
“Yes,” said Knocks.
She cackled, alarming the goats nearest her who pattered in place.
“This isn’t funny,” said Knocks, his voice dripping with restrained anger.
“Oh, but were that true. If you knew what it is you’ve actually done, you too would be laughing.”
“What have we done?” asked one of the redcaps.
“Perhaps it is best that you not know,” she said with a wicked simper, the years now cascading off her a decade at a time. “Perhaps you should enjoy the pleasant surprise.” Her hair shaded from gray to blond, gaining a lustrous vibrancy that shone more brightly with each passing moment; it now toppled upon her shoulders rather than nesting atop them. Her wrinkles were all but gone now, her skin becoming smooth and delicate, her eyes radiant and sparkling. Sagging flesh grew taut, firm with supple muscle. Rhiamon looked no older than thirty-five now, a very beautiful woman revealed beneath the sixty-five or so years that she’d lost—albeit one adorned with a single knobby goat horn.
“I don’t understand,” said Knocks. “How could not knowing be in our best interests?”
“Because you might try to stop the inevitable,” she answered. “And that should not happen.”
“Well, what do we do?” asked Reinhardt.
The crone, now a twenty-five-year-old knockout with curves that could stop a city bus, narrowed her eyes. “You do exactly what I tell you—step by step.” She retrieved her comb from the ground and returned to working out the knots in the beard of the nearest goat.
“There are three things you must do,” she said. “First you must separate the wizard from his djinn. He must not be able to simply wish his problems away this time.” She reached into a bag beside her, drawing from it an ornate glass bottle, intricately carved, with fine gold inlay and words in ancient Persian: May you rest undisturbed for one and one thousand years. “Without the djinn, he is but a wizard. And a wizard can be bested by using his own magic and arrogance against him.
“Next you must separate the wizard from his friend. If he has done this to you alone, then I can only imagine what the two of them will be able to manage together. For this, I must teach you to use the one gift given you that you do not yet fully understand—a technique as old as the Devil himself. We must bind you together nice and tight with the hatred that makes you whole. Finally, you must use the boy’s own weakness against him.”
“What is that, mistress crone?” asked Knocks.
“That depends; how did you find him before?”
“The girl. The Leanan Sidhe Mallaidh; the two are in love.”
Rhiamon smiled so wide that her face itself began to shed and shrink. Her curves tightened and vanished, she dwindled in size, and her eyes sat large and luminous upon her fifteen-year-old face, filled with unholy joy. “Then you must use his love for the girl. No man has ever known love that he would not foolishly walk into death for.”
“How do we do that?”
“You’re a changeling. You’ll figure it out.” She continued to smile, effervescent and now all of eight years old. “Come, if this is to work I have many things to teach you. But first, we must comb out the beard of each and every goat. Hurry, sunrise approaches.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THE DWARVEN FORGE
Colby hummed to himself, occasionally mouthing silent lyrics to a song with which Ewan was entirely unfamiliar. The two walked the streets together, heading west, Colby mumbling, taking all manner of turn and side street. At first, it felt as if the two were lost, but Colby walked with purpose, each step determined to get to the next. He knew where he was going, even if he didn’t look it.
“What are you doing?” asked Ewan.
Colby stopped humming. “What?”
“What are you doing? The humming. What is it?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s a long walk.”
“I’m trying to remember where this place is.”
“And the humming?”
Colby looked around, speaking as if from rote memory rather than really listening to what he was saying, his attention focused on finding a nearby landmark. “Space and time aren’t so much expanding as they are unfolding. And if you know where the wrinkles and creases in the fabric of the universe are, you can slide down them from one thread to another. People”—he looked squarely at Ewan, paying more attention to what he was saying—“well, fairies mostly, write songs about them. If you know the words and the melody, you can find things that are otherwise hidden to the naked eye. Places like where we’re going now.”
“And where are we going now?” asked Ewan.
“To speak to a man about a sword.”
“What?”
“So to speak,” he said. “A dwarf. A kind of wood spirit. He’s a man, and I wouldn’t really call him anything else.”
“I guess it would be rude to say I’m going to see a dwarf about a sword.”
“You’d think,” said Colby, hinting otherwise.
“It’s not?”
“Dwarves have it easy. They can go out into the world, live a life like anyone else, and disregard any jokes with a withering glance and a comment about insensitivity. Most people won’t ask and try very hard not to stare; even when they’re acting just a little peculiar, they won’t notice that a dwarf’s feet are bent the wrong way or that they have a few too many thumbs. It’s easy to mask the magical behind a veil of politeness. The power of shame is a handy trick in this modern world.”
“So we’re going to see a dwarf.”
“About a sword, yes.”
The two turned a corner, past a thicket of trees, wandering down a long, winding gravel road seemingly leading directly into the middle of nowhere. Trees and brush grew thicker here, as did the light buzzing of cicadas in the air. They were no longer in Austin, a seeping darkness creeping in as the lights of the city faded into the faint orange glow of the clouds.
Half a mile farther up the road, a metal gate wrapped end to end in barbed wire greeted them. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT. Ewan gave Colby a cold but worried look—Should we? Colby nodded—Yes, we should.
The main house wasn’t much farther; just beyond it was a blacksmith’s workshop, a wood-and-steel open-air structure blackened and charred from heavy use. The air smelled thick of smelted metals, and as they walked closer, the two were blasted with blistering heat billowing out from the building. Black smoke choked the air above them, blotting out the night. But the fires were bright and the entire yard behind the house was lit as if by flickering daylight.
In the doorway stood a diminutive, stocky man, covered neck to toe in a leather apron and goat-fur leggings. His skin itself was like the apron—leathery, cauterized, cracked by constant exposure to the heat. He smoked a cigarette lazily, peering su
spiciously at the visitors before stabbing out his smoke on a timber beside him. He frowned, furrowing his brow.
“Colby,” said the dwarf.
“Mimring,” said Colby.
“You shouldn’t have brought him here,” he said in a gruff, gravel-hewn voice. “Not in his condition.”
“And what condition would that be?” asked Colby.
“Fucked.” He waved the two over. “Come on in.”
Inside the temperature was almost unbearable, a sweltering stream of heat pouring out of a raging furnace. Colby felt as if the sweat would sizzle from his brow, but Ewan was entirely at home, and didn’t so much as glisten. Instead, he scratched the scruff of his chin, grimacing at the sandpaper he found there. He looked down at his hand, sure that he’d taken off a layer or two of skin, but he hadn’t.
The oddest thing about Mimring wasn’t his size; his thick, calloused skin; or his hobbies, it was that he spoke in a slow Texas drawl. While hundreds of years old and hailing originally from Germany, he’d spent the last century in and around these parts. He had grown to love it, becoming not only acquainted with the culture, but one with it, so much so that he’d become a stereotype. He took a deep breath, putting both hands on his hips, nodding with puckered displeasure.
“Whelp,” he said with a sigh. “You’re in for some rough times there, son. Y’all got yourselves in a heap o’ trouble.”
“Word travels fast,” said Colby.
“I reckon it does when you’re the guy everyone comes to for a good weapon.”
Colby narrowed his gaze. Mimring shrugged.
“Who else were they gonna git? I’m the best smith on the plateau.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Well, I told the other ones that I weren’t gettin’ involved.”
“Is that true?” asked Colby. “You’re gonna sit this one out?”
Mimring spit onto the dirt floor and made a clicking noise with his tongue, thinking long and hard as he stared at Colby. “Naw,” he said, drawing the syllable to its inevitable, but protracted conclusion. “Redcaps are good for business, but bad customers. The fewer there are around, the happier I’ll be.”
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