Any Man So Daring

by Sarah A. Hoyt

Let the blood flow. Let it all flow.

  Why should not Quicksilver die now, painlessly, who’d already lost half of himself? Or why — why — could he not go home, to his palace and his wife, his home and his safety?

  Quicksilver had determined this land was a trap for him. In his resentment, Proteus wished to murder Quicksilver. Therefore why stay?

  No other king of fairyland would have done so.

  But here, Quicksilver found he was not like other kings of fairyland. Though he’d pushed Silver away, though he’d given up a half of himself, yet he had certain responsibilities and certain feelings that would not be ignored.

  Will’s face appeared in his mind: a Will who looked anxious and harried, puzzled by this one more unwonted intrusion of the supernatural into his ordered life.

  Will, in whose life Quicksilver had intruded twice, once led by lust and once by need for help.

  Will who hated fairykind and did not wish to become enmeshed in the elves’ plots of love and faceless treason, but whom the elves could not leave alone.

  In this trap, Will had fallen also, and here he would remain till he found his son.

  Quicksilver, whose actions had led to the revolt that had made Proteus commit this folly, could not wash his hands of Will’s fate and walk away from it all.

  As he was the king of elvenland, it might be his duty to preserve his throne and his life, so that the many that on him relied would not be left bereft. But, as he was guilty of causing this snare in Will’s fate, it should be his penance to clear it.

  He’d find the boy, he thought to himself, while stumbling naked amid the strange wood, and give him to his father, and then send both mortals to their proper sphere. And then could he judge who was guilty and who should be punished in elvenland. And, if in himself he found the greater guilt, could he perhaps leave, exiled from the hill.

  Save only that he had misgivings about Proteus's ability to reign in his stead -- indeed, to reign at all.

  “All infections that the sun sucks up, from bogs, fens, flats, on Proteus fall,” a rumbling voice said, from beyond the trees and the fog in front of Quicksilver.

  Quicksilver jumped, surprised. Looking from whence the voice came, it seemed to him that amid green tendrils, tall trees and bubbling fog, he saw a movement, a thing... a man?

  “And make him by inch meal a disease,” the voice growled from the bush. “For this land where he hath transported my lady and me, it breathes with spirits and boils with strange events. His spirits hear me, and yet I needs must curse: but they’ll neither pinch, fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me in the mire, nor lead me, like a firebrand in the dark, out of my way, unless he bid them.”

  Amazed, Quicksilver watched, till the creature emerged out of the fog and the surrounding vegetation— a rough creature with the general shape of a man, but as much resemblance to a dog as to a human, and to neither enough likeness that either race could call him a brother.

  For though his face looked furry and dog-like, his hair grew hirsute around brown eyes that owed nothing to faithful devotion. And his mouth, where it closed, with black, lipless fissure, showed only powerful canines that overhung the top of his mouth like the promise of cruel death.

  His arms were thick and likewise his torso, and the legs with which he advanced, step on step, heavily, upon the root-covered ground, were bent permanently backwards, so that he slouched.

  Quicksilver knew these looks well. This was a troll, like the ones who’d been his enemies in the just-ended war.

  And he spoke of Proteus. Had Proteus then not severed all his connections with the treasonous trolls of the northern mountains?

  A smell came from the beast, like the smell of wet dog fur. And he muttered under his breath, his voice more growl than human speech. “For every trifle are they set upon me, sometime like apes, that more and chatter at me, and after, bite me. Then like hedgehogs which lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount their pricks at my footfall. Sometime am I all wound with adders who, with cloven tongues do hiss me into madness.”

  He stopped, having reached the path and seen Quicksilver.

  Quicksilver cleared his throat and searched frantically.

  The troll opened his mouth, as if to cry out or mutter, and Quicksilver took two steps back, hastily.

  Trolls were vile creatures, at the fringe of fairyland, and this example looked not like the most civilized of the trolls Quicksilver had ever encountered. And though their magic, was but curses all, it could be powerful and withal change the fair to foul and foul — rarely — to fair.

  But the creature gave Quicksilver the weather eye, and with lowered brow stared upon him, while he raised his hairy hands to heavens in disapproval. “Here comes a spirit of his; and to torment me, I doubt not. For it has the look of the elf around it, and it must be one Proteus's faithless companions who helped Proteus land my mistress in this.”

  Quicksilver breathed shallowly. Who was this strange troll who seemed to despise Proteus? And how had he come to the crux?

  Caught in the puzzle of who this creature might be, Quicksilver wondered how a troll would get to the crux. And why did he speak of Proteus? They were pack creatures, and of low magic. Who was the mistress of whom he thus spoke?

  Quicksilver opened both hands wide in a sign of peace.

  “Peace, creature--what are you? I am none of Proteus's, and do not do his bidding.”

  The troll stared for so long that for a moment Quicksilver imagined that it didn’t understand speech and that the words the creature had said were like those of the parrot — learned and spoken, but with no true meaning behind them.

  Then, his eyes wide, the creature fell upon his thick knees and cried out, “Do not torment me, pr’ythee. I’ll do anything you want.”

  Speaking thus, he put his head down and moaned.

  And Quicksilver, half curious and half pitying, advanced on him, and the creature cowered further into himself, forming himself into a ball, as like unto a furry hedgehog.

  Yet, Quicksilver guessed, long knowing the instinct and proclivities of this race, had the troll quills he would, gladly enough, sting the king of fairyland.

  The king.

  Quicksilver’s dignity told him to get away from this creature. What had he with such as this monster?

  Of old, traditionally, the king of fairyland had not dealt with trolls, nor with those more unclean spirits of the woods — the Pucks who snagged maidens' hair and, deluding horses, made them run mad, or soured milk, or converted everything to ill that was good, till humans despaired of their livelihood and the creatures' tricks. Or the centaurs — strange, hot-blooded creatures who remained aliens in elvenland, though they’d lived there almost as long as elves.

  In horrible wars, before pacification, in times so far away that men were but one small band upon the vastness of the Earth, trolls had flung themselves at the well-guarded precincts of the hill and been mercilessly mowed down by elves’ greater magic.

  Quicksilver had heard stories of trolls’ heads displayed in front of the hill palace, their corruption and gore magnifying the high, clear wall of elven might.

  Now were trolls a naught, a people of little account, who neither influenced the politics of elvenland nor deserved the attention of elvenland’s monarch.

  Yet, looking on the troll, Quicksilver felt uneasy and for the first time wondered if the policies of his ancestors towards trolls might not be wrong.

  For though the trolls, like all other feyfolk, contributed their magic to the king of elves, yet they got naught in return: no protection, no care in their illnesses, not even defense from other kingdoms of trolls.

  Would that not cause trolls to be more vile than nature had made them, and less disposed to mild civilization?

  Vargmar had tapped into the trolls discontent, and, arming the half-witted mountain hordes with crude stone axes, had unfettered their rage and loosened the worst plague ever on the fairy kingdom of Avalon.

  It had been those axes a
nd trolls, those malicious canines that had put the scars down Quicksilver’s left shoulder, rending the tender, magical skin with magic-poisoned sharpness that would, ever, leave a scar--even when, by dint of potions and healing spells, it did heal.

  It seemed to Quicksilver that his scars tingled now, anew, as if a memory of past pain made him suffer. And the wound on his shoulder, still not healed, was still another magical wound that would leave a permanent scar. It trickled a little fresh blood as he thought of the trolls.

  As for his head, it pounded with aching sharpness. Were his ancestors wrong? How could they be, when their policies had held the hill in prosperous peace so many years?

  How dared Quicksilver, a shape changer, imperfect spawn that he was, to doubt the elven kings of yore?

  And trolls were low beings. Just look at them, furry and dim-witted, living in packs and never having aspired to art or architecture or the works of civilization.

  How could they be included as equals in the same court as the higher races?

  Quicksilver looked at the sharp canines, the dim-witted hatred in this troll’s dull eyes, and he knew that the king of fairyland should leave here, now.

  But Quicksilver paused and restrained himself from doing what he knew was proper. Quicksilver and not the king of fairyland should operate here. That was, he thought with tears stinging his eyes, what Silver would have told him. And perhaps Silver was right.

  Perhaps admitting trolls into equality with the other races of the hill was not the best thing. And yet, perhaps it was, for if no race were left out, where would the next rebellion find malcontents to feed its angry ranks?

  Perhaps mild mercy would serve where strength had not, and kind caring reach where the power of elf law had remained defeated.

  Forcing himself to look friendly, Quicksilver bent down, and touching the creature with his hand — the coarse slickness of the fur disgusting upon his fingers — he said, “Get up, for I am no spirit, nor do I wish you ill. My name is Quicksilver, and I am an elf, the ruler of fairyland.”

  The creature looked at him just a moment out of a rolling terrified eye. “If you are such, then I worship you.” He knelt. His slobbery lips touched Quicksilver naked foot. “But would the king of fairyland go naked? I thought he had velvets and silks, great furs and warm wool, and other good fabrics to cushion his flesh against the harsh world.”

  Quicksilver forced his mouth to smile, despite the creature’s smell, the creature’s proximity, the repugnant memory of his touch upon Quicksilver’s foot. “I had an encounter in the bush which rendered me naked. But I warrant you, I am the king.”

  Or the king was him, he thought, which might better describe this condition by which Quicksilver had been sucked into kingship and the weight of the crown had become the essence and fact of Quicksilver.

  The creature looked at Quicksilver, this time with both eyes wide open, both seeming very dark and as unreflective as those of the dead. “Oh, but then you must have power enough to clothe your self and to make a fire, by which we can escape this dank dampness — and power to get Caliban some food and some drink, too, like the victuals conjured up at the table of the king of fairyland.”

  Quicksilver opened his mouth to say he would not squander his magic in such futile endeavors. Besides, he was none too sure he could reach beyond the crux and get solid substances from the outer space, from fairyland, or earth, or elsewhere. And all he could make with his own unaided magic, like most other powers of fairyland, was illusion and a trick of the light.

  Cold and tired and hungry, he took a breath and tried to reach for magic of which he could not be sure. Yet he might as well try. Uncertain as the outcome was, he knew that this cold, dreary tiredness would find no other comfort but what he could conjure.

  The creature looked expectantly at him. Quicksilver waved his hand in cabalistic passes and wished for the clothes that, nightly, lay upon his bed waiting for him to change for the dance in the palace.

  It would be his dark suit tonight — dark in mourning for Vargmar, who, though a traitor, had been Quicksilver’s nearest living relative.

  But it would be splendid too, in lace, and rich velvet, for tonight would be a victory dance.

  Quicksilver, feeling the nip of the magic-laden wind of the crux upon his bare body, longed for this suit, longed to be covered, to feel like himself again.

  Only the fear of facing Silver — with her grief, her undeniable separate identity — kept him from going back and claiming his other clothes.

  As he called up magic and reached for the hill palace, he could almost feel the warmth of his suit upon his flesh.

  He felt his extended magical power snag upon something on the other side — past the barriers of magical force that were the shell of the crux.

  The something was soft and inert. He tugged on it. Soon, he’d be clothed.

  Instead, he found himself holding a green, light blanket, the covering of his bed.

  He tried to look as though he'd intended this, and, wrapping the blanket around himself, further tried to command food from his palace kitchens.

  Upon the soft sand of the path, in succession there landed a bottle of wine, and a very large cauldron which only missed smashing the bottle because Caliban had snatched it away. Into the cauldron banged, one after the other, a large hunk of bleeding venison, a mess of vegetables, and a container of oil.

  Caliban, watching it all with rounded amazed eyes, stared at Quicksilver with something like admiration.

  Quicksilver wondered what was wrong with his power and his strength that this should happen thus, for he wanted the food cooked, the venison readied.

  But Caliban, sipping from the wine bottle, said, “You’re a brave god and bear celestial liquor. I’ll bow to you. I’ll swear upon this bottle to be your true subject, and kiss your foot.” Again he crept forward, and again he slobbered upon Quicksilver’s foot, while Quicksilver disciplined himself not to shy from the ignoble touch.

  “I’ll cook our meal, milord, my king,” Caliban said, and crept away carrying with him both bottle and cauldron with its contents. “I know me where water runs. I’ll lay some wood by, if only you’d touch it with your grace and thereupon make fire.”

  And thus speaking, the creature scurried, hither and thither, bringing half-rotted wood and hollowed trunks, which he laid in a rough pile. Then he returned, the cauldron filled with pond water. Did Caliban know that what seemed like water was naught but liquid magic?

  Quicksilver stared the pile of wood into flame and then the creature, with great industry, set about filling the cauldron, which soon bubbled and put forth savory enough odors.

  But what happened to meat submerged in magic?

  Though Quicksilver’s stomach growled in hunger, the king was none too sure he could eat the food.

  Upon a repellently wet log, the king of fairyland sat and looked at the fire and at this strange servant he’d acquired, and dreamed of being not the king, but what he’d been while his parents were yet alive and himself young and irresponsible.

  He dreamed of being free to be who he truly was. He fantasized about being whole, a dual creature. That dual nature he’d often cursed he now craved, and wished — wished — he could be Quicksilver and Silver both, and nothing more.

  Scene Twenty One

  The beach where all this started. Proteus sits on the sand, dazzled, looking lost. Miranda emerges from the forest. As she runs towards him, he lifts his head and, with joy shining in his eyes, extends both hands to her.

  Oh, how could she have abandoned him?

  As Miranda walked upon the cold shifting sand of the beach and saw Proteus sitting on the sand, looking sad and deserted she couldn’t comprehend her own thought.

  Gray waves still pounded the shore, but the magical wind no longer howled. The crux, having absorbed its invaders, had calmed its magical fury. Only the unseen beating of ghostly waves upon the gray edge of the beach, gave the impression of continuing tempest.

 
How tired Proteus looked. How wan his complexion. How his shoulders sagged in despondence.

  Had Miranda’s desertion hurt him so?

  And how ragged his clothing looked, how ill his whole aspect. Had his uncle then fought back, after Miranda ran? Had his uncle hurt him so?

  Proteus looked tired and ragged and destroyed by the encounter with his uncle, by Miranda’s desertion.

  His hair was disheveled, having escaped the leather binding with which he normally confined it. In a blond mess, it surrounded his face, making him look wild, barely civilized.

  Blood that had trickled from his nose had dried upon his skin, marring its smooth whiteness.

  When she first arrived upon the beach, he turned at the sound of her steps. On seeing her there, his eyes seemed to fill with the joy of a man seeing paradise.

  He stood up, but his attempt at rushing was betrayed by his left leg, which gave out under him -- as he stood -- and caused him to grimace in pain and steady himself upon the other leg.

  Miranda’s heart misgave at that grimace, and she hurried to him and offered him both her hands, feeling guilty that she’d ever deserted him. For he was her Proteus, a hurt Proteus, a miserable and bedraggled Proteus, but hers nonetheless, her lord and her love.

  “Milord,” she said, as her hands met his cold, too-dry hands.

  Had Quicksilver, then, hurt him so much? Was Quicksilver, perhaps, one of these villains who held their temper a little but, when aroused, did more damage than any other?

  But she would not think on it.

  Had she not seen Quicksilver hold still while Proteus attacked him?

  The matter was too complex for her mind, and she’d not judge Quicksilver, yet. Or Proteus.

  If Quicksilver had defended himself, he’d done no more than any elf would, stopping the knife that would slay him, the hand that would hurt him.

  If he’d hurt Proteus, maybe Proteus deserved it.

  Yet need he have hurt Proteus so badly?

  Proteus squeezed her hands hard and said, in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper, “Do you forgive me, then? Does Miranda speak, yet, to her misguided Proteus?”