He wished, wanting to know, hoping for some sign to tell him what he was supposed to do.
But nothing changed.
He sat, alone by the side of pool, looking down at an elf's lace. His face. Was that the answer? Would the elf's life soon be his as well?
He closed his eyes and rocked back, not wanting to look at I hat face anymore for the moment. He became aware of a shift in the rhythms of the place. Someone else was nearby, perhaps more than one person. Opening his eyes, he turned around and saw Faye approaching; she had followed in spite of his stated desire for solitude.
"You didn't really want to be alone, did you?" she asked almost timidly.
She knew him so well. There was the alone of a personal privacy and the alone of privacy shared. She'd known which he'd meant before he did.
"Is Bennett following you?" he asked, to be sure.
"He's still waiting on the hill." She giggled. "He doesn't pay much attention to me."
John didn't have that fault.
"Sprites are beneath his notice," she continued. "I slipped away so we could be together for a while."
She sat beside him, her body close. In the perpetual twilight of the otherworld, her skin was cool against his where l heir shoulders touched. John put his arm around her and she snuggled close.
"Bennett says you're not a suitable companion for an elven lord."
"Because I'm not an elf like you."
"That's what he says."
"Does it bother you that I'm not an elf?" "No." He'd been bothered when he thought that they might be related.
"Then it doesn't matter." She smiled radiantly, melting his heart and tearing at his last shreds of inhibition. Her fingers teased across his chest.
He knew what she wanted. He wanted it too. "What if Bennett comes looking for us?"
"Then he will find us."
"But we're out in the open."
"That doesn't matter."
Other things did. "Faye, should we be doing this?"
"Why not?"
There were some why-nots, but John was having trouble focusing on them as she nuzzled at his neck. "What about—"
She put a finger to his lips, stilling his objection. He wasn't sure that he'd be able to talk to her about Sue anyway.
"Nothing matters but now," she said, replacing her finger with her lips.
Desire spurred them both on. Her hands worked at the fastenings of his pants. He tugged on her dress, pulling it up around her waist, then her shoulders. The flimsy fabric was in their way, frustrating their mutual desire for total contact. They parted momentarily to rid themselves of their encumbering clothes, then fell together again on the fragrant grass and moss.
Faye was a lot more skilled than Sue had been. Rather than wondering where she had acquired such skill, he accepted it. No, he enjoyed it. A lot. Faye was right; nothing mattered but the moment. He lost himself in her. After they had shuddered to conclusion and lay resting in each other's arms, she whispered to him.
"You will always be my prince, John."
"Sweet Faye, I've never known anyone like you."
"Will you always remember me?"
"Forever."
She sighed, satisfied. He was too. As they rested in each
other's embrace, John again began to feel that someone was nearby. He listened, unwilling to do more lest he disturb I aye, but she seemed to pick up his shift in mood.
"What is it?" she asked.
"1 don't think it's anything." He had heard nothing to con-lirm his feeling. His statement didn't satisfy Faye.
She squirmed free of his embrace and pushed herself up on her arms. Her eyes took on a wary look as she sniffed at the air.
"John, I think we'd better go."
It was his turn to ask, "What is it?"
"It's time we got back," she said, not really answering his question. Her eyes continued to dart about as she pulled her dress back on. John scanned the trees and brush around the pool as he dressed. If there was something or someone lurking nearby, he saw no sign.
Faye remained nervous until they left the copse that hid the pool. Bennett remained where he had been, sitting and waiting. He smiled wryly at their return together, but said nothing. Instead he pointed to a distant hill.
Over the crest came a rider, mounted on a dark-coated elven steed and leading a train of three other mounts, each as brightly caparisoned as his own. The cavalcade drew closer—surprisingly quickly—and John thought that the dark-haired elven rider looked familiar. When the steeds came to a halt and the rider dismounted, John put the face together with this place, the animals, and another time. This was the elf who had met Bennett during John's first trip to the otherworld, and who had taken Bennett away, leaving John and the others to find their own way through the deceptive countryside of the otherworld. This time, though, the elf had brought enough mounts for everyone.
"I know you," John said to the elf.
"I doubt that," the elf replied. "But we have met."
Bennett rose and made the introduction. "Shahotain, this is my son Jack."
"Jack?" Shahotain raised a haughty eyebrow. "Your name
in the sunlit world, I gather. Will you take another name here?"
"I'll stick with Jack, thanks." "As you will," Shahotain said. "As I am Bennett," said Bennett.
Shahotain turned to him and, after a moment, nodded. "The will of the prince."
"The will of the prince is that we be on our way," said Bennett, mounting his steed.
The others mounted as well, John somewhat awkwardly. And then they were away, riding at speed across the hills to an unknown destination.
CHAPTER 8
Carlos Quintero wasn't particularly good at his job, but then he didn't have to be; he was necessary. Even in this age of information, there were still physical commodities that had to be moved, and many of them moved most cost-effectively by ship. And ships required sailors, at least according to union rules.
Used to be that a sailor had a hard life, but that was before Carlos's time and so really didn't bother Carlos at all. Used to be ships were a lot smaller than S.S. Wisteria, too. Being on a small ship, now that would bother Carlos. He didn't have to worry about that. Container ships like Wisteria were bigger than just about anything that had ever sailed.
The big ships were more sophisticated, too. Most of the, time it seemed that Carlos was a supernumerary, that ships like the Wisteria could sail themselves. And most of the time they could. That was fine with Carlos. It gave him time for other things, like surfing the vid nets.
Weather was a feature of the sailor's life that Carlos didn't care much for, especially cold weather. Wisteria was chugging along in the grip of the West Wind Drift just now, well inside the iceberg limit—not that it mattered much this early in the season—and letting the currents do most of the work in taking them across the shortest distance between New Zealand and South America. The weather was as cold as it would get for this trip. Carlos would be glad when they headed up the Chilean coast, gladder still when they made port in California. Meantime, when he didn't have monitor duty, he'd stay in his cabin or in the lounge and stay warm. Why the bridge couldn't have better heating he didn't understand. The lounge was heated just fine, and it was crew space like the bridge. Had a bigger vid screen too. Only natural that he prefer the lounge to the bridge. Too bad he couldn't convince the captain to patch the monitor feeds down here. Sometimes the captain was a little too by-the-book.
As if in response to Carlos's thoughts, the loudspeaker spoke with the captain's voice.
"All hands, this is the captain."
Carlos sneered at the formality. Too by-the-book.
"Our weather radar is picking up a small storm that isn't showing on satellite weather feeds. It's probably just a glitch in the system, but I want everyone ready for weather just in case."
A small storm wouldn't faze Wisteria. Carlos hoped it wouldn't fritz vid reception. The non-corp channels often had weak up-down links, and it w
as a non-corp channel he was watching now. They had all the good stuff.
The show was right on target with Carlos: an expose on McKutchen Wood. He liked the way the reporter—Lauder, the name was; he'd remember that—was getting to the meat. Lauder had the Wood pegged as a doorway to other dimensions. Carlos had figured that out as soon as he'd heard about the Wood. How could anybody with a brain not know that something was lurking at the edge of reality, trying to get in? It was so obvious! Some things had already slipped into the real world. Places like McKutchen Wood were doorways for otherworldly things. People like Lauder knew. Carlos knew too.
Carlos focused down and forgot about the captain's order. The images on the screen were too compelling. He knew all about this kind of stuff, but had an insatiable need to know more. This Lauder had a good line, a good angle, real perceptive. Carlos knew there were plenty of things that ordinary science couldn't explain. Plenty of real things. Things that people like Lauder had the scoop on. The paranormal was all around.
Not that Carlos had had any personal encounters. But lately Carlos had been seeing a lot more reports about the up-urge in magical things. It used to be hard to find that sort of stuff. Not hard anymore, and the quality of the information was much better. The eyewitnesses were less obviously over die edge, the pictures less fuzzy, and the physical evidence— DNA, for God's sake! Sure, the establishment still said that all the data on this kind of stuff was faked, simply the efforts of crackpots, lunatics, and hoaxers; but the government had a lot to hide. Didn't he know it?
A ship as big and serene as Wisteria still had its share of noises. Carlos was used to most of them, so he dismissed the first few scrapes and bumps. Then he began to wonder if the captain's storm had arrived. He ordered the computer to re-polarize the viewports, bringing them to transparency. There was no storm outside. He darkened the windows again and went back to Lauder's report.
A sound, like someone rubbing a handful of gravel on the cabin's outer wall, intruded on his concentration. He realized that he was shivering. The room was colder. Definitely colder, but not so cold as to make him shiver. So why was he shivering?
Something scratched briefly against the door to the corridor. A light sound, barely audible. Probably just his imagination. The cold was not his imagination.
"Computer, is there something wrong with the heater?"
"System normal," the machine reported.
"What about the temperature?"
"Temperature within normal parameters."
How could that be? Carlos was shivering; it was cold. There was no point in trying to order a temperature increase; only the captain could do that. There had to be something wrong with the heating system or with the computer monitor. Much more likely the monitor. Computers always sounded so sure of themselves, especially when they were fritzed.
That was it. The computer must be fritzed. He'd call Salmon and get him to take a look at it.
Something moved at the corner of his vision. He turned his head, looking for it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He had seen something, hadn't he?
A thump behind him made him turn. One of the captain's books, which had been on the table, now lay on the floor. Carlos was the only one in the room.
Wasn't he?
A dark, viscous thing, like a snake made out of the very stuff of the night, slithered out from beneath Carlos's chair and wrapped itself around his ankle. His skin burned with a cold so intense that his skin blistered. He screamed.
Belief in the unnatural had its downsides. He knew this was no nightmare—knew it with a certainty that nearly froze his heart—and he knew he could not explain away this monster from the other side that had come to steal his soul.
He couldn't move. As much as he wanted to tear the thing away from himself, he could not. His muscles were solid ice. All he could do was scream. No words, just terror. Carlos screamed and screamed again as the night serpent crawled up his leg. His screams stopped only when the awful thing forced his mouth open and slithered down his throat, and his awareness perished.
CHAPTER
9
The passage of time in the otherworld was hard to gauge. John had yet to see a daytime sky. The stars seemed eternal. Yet he knew that time passed because occasionally he felt hungry, and more occasionally he felt tired enough to sleep. Other than the cues his body gave him and the fact that he was progressing with his lessons, however, there was no hint that the moment was anything other than constant. Trying to figure out the passage of time became less and less important; he had other things on his mind, like magic.
Bennett had kept his promise that John would learn magic, placing him under the tutelage of Shahotain and others. John was learning how to touch and control the energies he had sensed for so long. And learning quickly—because he was in the otherworld, where the magic was stronger? Or because his elven tutors were better magicians, or maybe better teachers, than Dr. Spae? He wasn't sure. It really didn't matter; the important thing was that he was getting better at understanding and controlling real magic. Even more important, he was beginning to understand how much magic had to do with being an elf. Magic, he knew now, was a part of his heritage, a hole in his life that he hadn't known existed was being filled. With each lesson John grew more amazed that he had survived without being able to touch the magic.
It was a whole new life, and a good one. John saw little of Bennett, which was fine. He saw more of Faye—which was finer—and even more of his tutors which—with the new doors they constantly opened for him—was perhaps finer still.
He understood now that he had been born to magic; Bennett hadn't lied about that. And Bennett, the liar, hadn't lied about arranging for John to learn. John wasn't sure what to make of that, but he was sure that he was going to take advantage of it. He intended to learn all that was offered.
At last he was coming into his own!
There was, however, still a matter that disturbed him, a matter that Shahotain had finally agreed to address. They met in the place that John thought of as Shahotain's study, though there was nothing about the place that suggested any study John had known in the sunlit world. There were no books, no desk, no comfortable chairs, just four paneled walls, a planter filled with a riot of vegetation, a pair of intricately carved chests that served as seats when necessary, and a tiled floor of even more intricate and delicate decoration. The place seemed more suited to meditation than to study.
"This is untimely," Shahotain said, not for the first time, when John entered his study.
"You already said you would do it," John pointed out. "Besides, Bennett said the spell would be removed if I came to this place with him. I'm here, and it's been long enough. You're not wimping, are you?"
"I merely suggest that you reconsider."
John didn't want to reconsider. He wanted to be done with wearing a lie. Having his own face would be his first step in making his life his own. He was more than ready for that. "Let's do it."
Impassively, Shahotain nodded. With that, John felt the power begin to rise. He felt the energies that Shahotain manipulated and knew that an unraveling was being done, but he had little comprehension of the forces involved. Still, he knew the magic touched on him. How could he not comprehend the manipulation of energies so closely tied to himself? But he didn't—at least not fully—somehow the details escaped him. He felt a little like the time he'd watched a me-chanic work on one of the elevators in the rezcom where he'd grown up. He saw everything that the mechanic had done, but he hadn't understood the why of any of it. The ritual ended abruptly and Shahotain said, "You may look now."
John took the offered reflecting glass with trepidation. Shahotain had certainly done something. What, exactly, John wasn't sure, but he had felt no harm in his tutor's working. So why was he reluctant to look?
Foolishness.
He looked and saw the elegant arching of his cheeks, the subtle slant of his eyes, and the delicate pointed ears. There was no magic in the glass. What he was seeing was
a simple reflection of his face. His true elven face.
"You did it," he said, touching his features to convince himself of their reality.
Shahotain shrugged. "A trivial exercise. You will soon be capable of similar work if your progress continues as it has begun."
"Is that the next lesson?"
"There is no lesson for you now. Go. I have other matters to attend to."
John went, having already learned that Shahotain's forbearance was far from limitless. A bogie met him outside the door with a summons to a training session with Loreneth the Lightspinner. The Lightspinner was educating him in glamours.
John shared such sessions with nearly a dozen young elves. He might have thought of them as his classmates, if they had been more friendly. For all that he was one of them, until now he had not looked like one of them, and appearances seemed to matter greatly in Faery. The other students remained aloof, apparently reluctant to spend any more time in his company than necessary, so John seldom thought of them. He was used to being a loner. Of course he wasn't really on his own. He had Faye to keep him company when he wasn't busy having the secrets of elven magic drilled into him. Let the others have whatever revels they went off to, he had Faye.
What would Faye think of his new face?
He would have to wait to find out, since at the moment he needed to respond to the Lightspinner's summons; she was no more forgiving than Shahotain. John let the bogie lead him. Having such servants around was extremely useful; the elven keep was extensive and, apparently, mutable, but the bogies always seemed to know their way around. John supposed that otherworld navigation was another Faery magic he'd be taught at some point.
John's arrival caused a minor sensation among the students. He might have been showing up for the first time. There was no time to deal with the interest on the part of the others, since the Lightspinner allowed none. She set them to work shaping phantoms of sight and of sound. Sometimes she let them choose the glamour they shaped and other times she set them to shaping a specific illusion. To John's surprise he earned a word of praise for his skill in emulating the nearly silent sound of an elven steed galloping.
Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves Page 8
