“While I appreciate her brave declaration and your unfounded belief in my abilities, I can only act stealthily on my own behalf,” Robin said wryly. “I cannot change another creature into a mouse, or a squirrel. Although I might wish with all my heart things were different, I don’t have the capability of slipping her past the passageway guards.”
At that, Morgan swore, viciously. “You’ve been nothing but a curse.”
“Yes. I cannot undo what I have done, but I can do everything in my power to aid her and help break you free from that which binds you.” Robin paused. “If you’ll let me. I’ll understand if you will not. But, sorcerer, think carefully before you repudiate my offer. You don’t have many options, and with the right motivation I can be a powerful ally.”
Powerful, but chaotic. Lowering his eyelids, Morgan studied Robin intently, trying to decide if accepting his offer of help was worth the added danger and aggravation. If there had been a hint of insincerity or duplicity in the puck, Morgan would have killed him right then and there. Instead, he saw nothing but an earnest desire to help.
Am I really going to gamble everything on the word of my enemy? he wondered.
But the puck was his best choice. As a nature sprite, when Robin was a cat, he smelled like a cat. When he was another creature, he smelled like that creature. There was nobody better to slip around the castle, and the puck’s audacity proved it.
Morgan dug into his pocket and pulled out the diamond wrapped in its cloth of concealment. “Sidonie needs this before her performance,” he told Robin. “She doesn’t know how to play any of the musical instruments here well enough to perform.”
Robin’s expression changed to one of surprised dismay. “None of them?”
“No. Her expertise lies in other instruments… the violin, the guitar, and I don’t know what else. She said she can play five instruments well enough to perform with them, but none are collected in the music hall. The closest instrument is the lute. She’s been picking it up incredibly quickly, but not in enough time for tonight’s performance.”
“How can she survive the night?” Robin’s expression looked troubled.
“With this battle spell.” Morgan held up the cloth-wrapped diamond. “I’ve amended it to transfer my experience of playing the lute to her. It will last long enough to get her through tonight. She needs this spell, and you need to get it to her.” His voice roughened. “No excuses, puck, and there’s no room for failure.”
As Robin held out his hand for the jewel, his gaze darkened with sincerity. “I will see she gets it,” he promised. “I swear it on my life.”
Yes, he would. Morgan would see to it.
He said harshly, “I’ve shown you more mercy than you deserve, and right now, I’m showing you more trust than you’ve earned. If you don’t get this to her, I will pull your lungs out with my claws and watch every moment of your struggle to breathe until you die. I swear that on my life.”
Soberly, Robin accepted the jewel. “I believe you.”
“Tell her the spell will be triggered by her touch, so she shouldn’t unwrap the jewel until she’s ready for it.” He took a deep breath, his mind already leaping to the next obstacle. “And tell her there’s a hiding place in the rafters above the great hall. I will do my very best to be there for her performance.”
In fact, he would make damn sure he was there. If Robin failed to deliver the diamond, he needed to have a backup plan. He didn’t have time to create another magic item of such complexity, so he would have to get within enough proximity to cast the battle spell himself, despite the increased danger of being discovered.
“I will pass along your message.” Robin slipped the jewel into his pocket then hesitated. “About the geas that binds you… I remember very well the knife Isabeau wears on a chain at her waist. Sidonie said it’s called Azrael’s Athame, or sometimes Death’s Knife?”
Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Yes, that’s what Isabeau has called it. I’ve wondered if it might be one of the Deus Machinae, so I’ve been searching for references in various texts to try to find ways of breaking or dissolving the geas, but I haven’t had any luck yet. Why, do you know of it?”
“No, but when we were talking earlier, I realized I hadn’t heard Lord Azrael and his hounds on his Wild Hunt for a very long time. A very long time indeed. Perhaps even as long as you have been ensorcelled.” Robin tilted his head, and the feral gleam was back in his eyes. “I’ve listened for sounds of the Wild Hunt, you see. I thrill to hear it, even as I hide safely indoors.”
Morgan narrowed his gaze. “Just how old are you?”
“Old, sorcerer,” he said. “As old as you are, you are but a child to me.”
Before he could ask the puck any more questions, Robin slipped out the door and was gone.
As the door settled into place behind him, Morgan thought, we’ve cast our dice, Robin, Sidonie, and me.
Now all we can do is watch them tumble and land where they may.
Chapter Seventeen
Morgan had one more casting he needed to do that day, a simpler one that should go much faster than the creation of the battle spell. Tired though he was, he sat down with his tools to see it got done.
Once the null spell had been set into an uncut sapphire, he wrapped it carefully in a plain piece of cloth. Like the battle spell he had crafted for Sidonie, the null spell would activate when it came in contact with skin, so he didn’t want to touch it unless he absolutely had to.
Then, finally, he let himself relax on the dusty bed to nap until the light changed and the cottage cooled in the early evening.
Coming to instant, full alertness, Morgan straightened off the bed. Remembering he had entrusted the jewel that would save Sidonie from prison to Robin, of all creatures, made adrenaline surge until his muscles tightened and he felt ready for battle.
There was only one way to get to the place he had described to Robin, in the rafters that soared over the great hall, and that was by climbing one of the buttresses outside to reach the top of the windows. Long ago, Morgan had broken one of those windows and covered the break with a small spell of illusion.
The challenge would be to reach the buttress and climb it without being detected. Once he had reached the rafters, the shadows would hide him from the people down below.
He finished his second-to-last bottle of the hunter’s spray as he prepared for the journey. The sun was setting when he stepped out of the cottage. As he strode toward the castle, a slim black cat bounded up the path to him. The cat’s form shimmered and changed, and suddenly it was Robin who jogged up the path.
Morgan stopped, and as Robin joined him, he rapped out, “Well?”
“All went very well,” Robin told him. “I slipped through the kitchens carrying the jewel in my mouth, and when I reached her door, I scratched until she opened it to let me in.” The puck’s gaze gleamed. For all the danger in the situation, he looked like he was enjoying himself. “She was most surprised when I spat out a diamond.”
“She didn’t touch it, did she?” Morgan demanded. “You told her how to activate it?”
“Indeed,” Robin said. “And indeed. She was calm, sorcerer, and relieved to hear you were safe. She looked ready. She also has a plan for when to activate the spell. A nervous musician may take a few moments of privacy to ready herself just before a performance, perhaps even make a trip to the privy.”
Relief eased the knot of tension between his shoulders. “Good. You did well.”
“You do not need to sound quite so surprised.” Robin fell into step beside him. “I am capable of good deeds as well as ill.”
“You have a long way to go to make up for what you did.” He shot the puck a hard look. “Don’t get too complacent.”
Robin’s face tightened. “Understood.” After a moment, he asked, “Have you thought any further about the Athame?”
“That’s all I think about,” Morgan replied shortly. “That, and how to help Sidonie.” And how to stay free as l
ong as possible. “Why, have you?”
“Yes, I have had a thought or two. I don’t believe it is one of the Deus Machinae. It has been too stationary for too long. The Machinae are active manifestations of the gods’ will. They were meant to tumble through the world. When they come into someone’s possession, and they’re prevented from that movement, they create more and more havoc around them until the person who holds them undergoes some kind of crisis and releases them back into the world. I don’t witness that kind of dynamic in Isabeau’s life.”
Frustration clawed at Morgan. If the puck was right, all the research he had been doing would have been for nothing. So much precious time had been wasted. “So you believe the Athame is something else.”
Robin glanced at him, feral eyes gleaming. “If Occam’s razor is to be believed, the simplest explanation is usually the best. In that case, Isabeau herself may have given you the answer, and the blade is quite literally Azrael’s Athame—Lord Death’s Knife.”
Morgan tilted his head, thinking that through. “When I first met her, she mentioned Azrael and his Wild Hunt. She said, ‘When Lord Azrael rides, nobody on this earth is ready.’”
“She was correct,” Robin whispered.
“At the time, I hadn’t paid much attention to it, but that moment keeps coming back to me in my dreams.” Morgan rubbed the back of his neck. He was getting a headache where his skull connected to his spine, deep in his hindbrain where the most primitives urges dwell.
Where the lycanthropy virus lived.
“Perhaps your soul knows more than your mind has allowed. Azrael’s Athame helped to create you, and Sidonie said you create the other Hounds.” Robin frowned. “But you and the other Hounds are different from the lycanthropy plague that was loosed in England hundreds of years ago.”
Coming to a halt, Morgan turned to face Robin. “I’ve thought for some time that that strain of the virus has spread from the bites of the other Hounds. I create Hounds only when Isabeau orders. What happens when those Hounds attack others who survive?”
“They are a weakened form of what you are. They do not have the same strength or control that you do. They suffer bouts of frenzy as they lose themselves during a full moon, and they live the normal span of a human’s life.” Robin’s gaze met his. “You and the other Hounds let loose that bloodcurdling sound when you lunge to the attack, so like the baying I’ve heard on those distant past winter nights. What if you are, indeed, Death’s Hounds, and as long as Isabeau has possession of Azrael’s Athame, she controls the Wild Hunt?”
Not long after that unsettling conversation, Morgan knelt on the massive rafter high over the great hall, while Robin crouched beside him. The puck wrapped both thin arms around his legs while his eyes gleamed with interest.
It was a good vantage point from which to watch what happened down below. Morgan got a clear view of the high table, where Isabeau, Modred, the visiting nobleman Valentin, and other notables sat.
He could also see the musician’s alcove where Sidonie would be seated. The alcove was located on a mezzanine above the ground floor near the high table but still far below where he and Robin were perched. Various personages from town clustered around the other tables, prominent merchants and officials, along with other courtiers, Hounds, and those from the castle household who were elevated above the class of servant.
While Morgan had been careful to use the hunter’s spray to hide his scent on the journey to the castle, he knew he was perched too high for the Hounds below to catch his scent. He doubted anyone at the evening’s gathering would think to try to telepathize to him here, of all places, but to be safe, he pressed one finger to the sapphire in his pocket to keep the null spell activated, while he plugged his ears with beeswax. He was determined no stray comment would entrap him.
When servants began to carry out huge platters of food and jugs of wine and beer, the alcove curtains parted and Sidonie stepped out. Behind her, in the shadows, Kallah handed her the lute. She nodded to the other woman, and Kallah let the curtain fall into place.
A hush fell over the people below as they turned to gaze up at this new entertainment. Morgan caught sight of Freya in the crowd. Her expression was avid.
He turned his attention back to Sidonie, who looked magnificent and composed. The brown dress she wore should have been drab, but instead the rich cloth made her skin look creamy. The golden glow of the torches highlighted the curve of her cheekbones, those long, elegant eyes, and her short, black hair hugged the sleek, graceful curve of her skull.
Morgan’s jaw tightened as he stared at her. Even dressed as plainly as she was, she looked too spectacular, and it was too late for him to give her all the advice he longed to say.
Don’t play too well. Don’t show your real genius. Isabeau doesn’t like other stars that shine more brightly than she.
As Sidonie bowed to the head table, he glanced at Isabeau. She lounged in her chair, looking bored. Beside her, Modred studied Sidonie with narrowed eyes, while Valentin sat forward with an arrested expression.
The conversation in the hall resumed. Isabeau gestured at Sidonie with one hand, and Morgan removed his earplugs. Taking Isabeau’s gesture as her cue, Sidonie began to play.
He had not thought to give her advice until it was too late, and Sidonie did nothing to hide her talent.
The conversation below faltered to a halt again as she played….
What was she playing? He didn’t recognize any of the songs.
Suddenly Robin clapped both hands over his mouth. When Morgan glanced at him, the puck appeared to be shaking with laughter.
Taking his hand away from the null spell, he demanded telepathically, What?
I believe she just played a song called “Mrs. Robinson,” Robin told him, eyes dancing with glee. Oh, and that one—I forget what that one is called. “You’re Vain”? Maybe “You’re Very Vain.” No, it’s “You’re So Vain.” She just played a song about vanity to the Queen, who will never know it.
Morgan sucked in a breath. Sidonie was playing adaptations of pop music, one right after the other, with unmistakably beautiful prowess.
He tried to recognize the songs she played, and he thought he knew a few of the tunes—while he had lost interest in music before he’d attended her concert, he hadn’t been living under a rock—but he only knew one thing for certain.
He couldn’t hold back a grin as he told Robin, She’s not playing any of her own music.
She wasn’t giving them anything of herself. Instead, she put on the performance that had been commanded of her, without offering one iota more.
The music was brilliant, of course. He didn’t think she had it in her to be anything less than brilliant. But it was the most flawless, professionally executed fuck you he’d ever witnessed, all delivered to her xenophobic audience with a perfectly composed expression and a slight, unshakable Madonna-like smile.
After the first few strains, the harmonics in the hall activated. At first, streams of pure color flowed over the open space above the audience. Then, after a few songs, the colors entwined, blended, and vast, transparent images began to appear, sweeping across the hall.
Haunting and evocative, the images hinted at stories not quite told, and adventures in exotic places. Lovers entwined in a kiss, then broke apart in anger. A herd of wild horses ran along a shore. A foreign city sat golden upon a hill, and a wild storm crashed across a desert. Morgan had never seen the harmonics respond with such rich, vibrant complexity before.
And they loved it. Loved it. Isabeau’s music master, Olwen, had talent, along with a great many years of polish, but he didn’t have the same fire of genius that Sidonie had.
At one end of the hall, someone began to pass around the performer’s hat, a long-held tradition for the audience to show appreciation. People threw coins into the hat, sometimes flowers, silken handkerchiefs, gold rings.
Sidonie’s hat filled quickly, evidence of her resounding success. As Morgan glanced at it, he saw that she
would have enough from this evening’s performance to support herself in style for a few months. She could rent a house in town and hire servants, if she so wished… and if Isabeau let her.
Oh, that song. Robin sighed with pleasure. I think it’s by the Garfinkels, or someone like that. “Scarborough Fair”—I like that one. That’s an adaptation of a very old song. She’s amazing.
Yes, she is, Morgan agreed.
“Musician, stop.” Isabeau’s order rang out.
Sidonie froze without changing expression. She looked perfect and almost as lifeless as a mannequin. The images died and silence filled the great hall, while alarm and dismay flashed across the faces of the people throughout the hall.
Modred angled his head, rubbing one thumb along the edge of his lips while his quick, assessing gaze took in the scene. On the other side of Isabeau, Valentin appeared transfixed. Lips parted, he never looked away from Sidonie.
Isabeau leaned forward, her expression alive with more delight than Morgan could remember seeing in quite a very long time.
“That last song,” the Queen said. “Play that one again.”
Smoothly, Sidonie began playing “Scarborough Fair” again. Relief and pleasure rippled over the audience, and a smattering of applause broke out. The knot of tension that had driven Morgan through the past three days eased.
She had done it.
She had successfully appeared for her audience with the Queen, and the Queen was quite pleased.
* * *
Supper had finished for the diners below, and Sidonie had just begun to reach the dregs of the battle spell.
Like the first time, the tide of epiphany began to withdraw, but this time she could feel something was different. She had played the lute long enough now that she felt confident in her plucking technique, and the position felt familiar, even comfortable.
Still, her energy waned to such an extent she was starting to get worried when, finally, the curtains behind her parted, and Kallah whispered, “Make this your last song.”
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