"I think I'll stick to fruit juice. I'm driving."
A servant appeared at his elbow holding a large silver cup. He bowed and offered it to Eric. "Your cider, my lord."
Eric took the cup. The servant vanished from sight. He sipped. Pear cider. One of his favorites, and hard to come by even in as big a city as New York.
"Sometimes I wonder why you left," Ria said. "This kind of service would be very easy to get used to."
"Maybe," Eric said. "But I'm not tempted, and neither are you. We belong in the World Above. Down here we'd just wither away and die. There's no challenge to life here. That's why most of the changelings go back eventually. To a better life than they left, of course."
"I guess that's why the Elfhames never really severed their connection with our world," Ria said slowly. "And you're right. Rough as real life is sometimes, I do like a good scrap. If you can have anything you want with a wave of the hand, there's no savor to it."
In the next room, musicians were tuning up. The dancers stood waiting impatiently for the music to begin.
Sidhe danced. All the mortal accounts of them agreed on that much, and Underhill Eric had gotten a chance to see how good a dancer you could become if you had centuries to do nothing but practice. The formal dances tended to be elaborate, complicated, and very long: Master Dharniel had told Eric tales of elves so caught up in their dancing that whole Courts had dwindled away into the Dreaming, still dancing.
But while no mortal could live long enough to learn the steps of the Court dances, there were others far less complicated. He and Ria skirted the first set of dancers, following other music already playing, and found themselves in the midst of an Irish jig. The musicians were all wearing plaids—the Great Plaid, twelve yards of fabric and nothing more—and the dancers looked as if they'd just stepped out of Riverdance. The music was like a double shot of uisighe, going straight to the blood.
"C'mon," Eric said, grabbing Ria by the hand.
He'd expected her to refuse and need to be coaxed, but instead she grinned, as caught by the music as he was, and dragged him onto the dance floor. The other dancers quickly made room for them, pulling them into the dance.
They danced until they were glowing with exertion and the musicians—fiddler, bodhran, and pipes—stopped to refresh themselves from a keg of beer placed nearby. The dancers broke apart, into groups of twos and threes.
All of them were looking at him. They began to chant, clapping their hands rhythmically.
"Bard—Bard—Bard—"
"Oh, hey," Eric said, raising his hands in protest.
The chanting continued, and now Ria had joined it, eyes sparkling.
Finally Eric gave in and walked toward the stage. He took his flute out of his gig bag and fitted it together as they watched him expectantly.
"Lords—ladies—good gentles all," he said in his best Faire brogue, "I am but a mere traveling player, not fit to play for such a grand company—"
Happy catcalls, whistles, and hoots greeted these remarks, and Ria was shouting as loudly as any of them.
"—but since you're so insistent, it's an exception I'll be making for your foigne selves." He bowed deeply, and then raised the flute to his lips.
Nothing sad or solemn today, no reminders of ancient battles or beloved dead. He blew an introductory trill and swung directly into "Susan Brown," one of the pieces he and Hosea had worked up together. Fiddle in the middle and I can't dance, Josie/Fiddle in the middle and I can't get around/Fiddle in the middle and I can't dance, Josie/Hello, Susan Brown! The dancers whooped and flung themselves into the music. He followed the tune immediately with another—"Turkey In The Straw," a fine old dance tune—and then another. After the first few, the musicians joined him, their instruments blending seamlessly with his own.
At last, fearing he'd be here all night, Eric played a last song, Mason Williams' "Cinderella Rockefeller." It was slow and sweet, and very silly, even without the lyrics, and by the time he was done, the dancers had all stopped to listen.
"Thank you, ladies and gentles all," Eric said. "It's been a great honor to play for such fine folk, but too much honor can kill a man with thirst. And so I leave you in good hands!" He bowed to the dancers, who cheered him lustily, and quickly made his escape to where Ria stood on the sidelines.
She handed him his cup, and Eric drank deeply. The pear cider was still cold, and the cup was still full, but he was used to that. The rules for normal were different in Underhill.
"Juilliard doesn't do you justice," Ria said. "You're at your best in a situation like this, playing for an audience who feels the music."
"I didn't go back to school to learn to perform for a crowd," Eric said. "I wanted to learn what I don't know, not what I do. C'mon, let's go find the food. I'm starved."
They passed other groups of dancers and other musicians—wild Cajun fiddles playing for an enthusiastic band of selkies; another fiddler and a caller playing for a group of centaurs whose square dancing more resembled polo; a small chamber orchestra playing a minuet for Sidhe in stately Georgian dress. Every form and period of music was represented—every form of acoustic, that was. While many of the Sidhe were passionate rockers, rock didn't mix well with unamplified venues and would be off in a separate space of its own.
Eventually they were forced to ask one of the servants where the dining hall was. He pointed to a Portal; once Eric had seen it, he could see others hanging in the air as well. They passed through. Here the musicians played for listeners, not dancers, and the air was filled with savory smells.
Soon they were sitting in what looked like a garden. It was night here, but the trees were filled with golden fireflies, and glowing will-o'-the-wisps floated gently through the air, shedding multicolored pastel light. Just inside the doorway stood the original Groaning Board where they'd filled their plates. Elsewhere in Adroviel's castle tonight there was everything from a formal sit-down banquet to world-class sushi chefs preparing food to order, but this was the first place they'd found.
"If I eat this, will I be trapped in Underhill forever?" Ria asked, holding up a cluster of Underhill grapes. They glowed with a soft violet light.
"That's just an old tale," Eric told her, biting into a hot roll. He'd loaded his plate with prime rib—all that playing and dancing had given him an appetite, and the evening was far from over. "It only works if the food's bespelled, and nothing here tonight is. Try them. They're good."
They weren't alone in the garden. Around them were other guests taking the opportunity to rest and refuel. Between the trees, the ground rose up in couch-shaped hummocks carpeted in green moss. They were just as soft as they looked. Eric saw a woman with green hair and skin who wore a garment of shining leaves. Her plate was piled high with bread and fruit—a little cannibalistic, considering that she was probably a dryad, but who was Eric to judge? Her dinner companion was a satyr. His small horns were wound with ribbons, and his hooves were polished and gilded. The Sidhe can look like anything humanity can imagine, and a number of things they can't.
It was peaceful here. "We'd better go find Beth and Kory after this, or we never will. They should be done with opening baby presents by now."
"It'd be easy to miss them in this mob," Ria said. "Fortunately, no matter how long we're here, Etienne can get me back to nine o'clock Saturday night. I've got a lot of work to get through tomorrow."
"You should take a day off once in a while," Eric said.
"I'm here, aren't I?" Ria answered. She tossed a grape at him; he grabbed for it, but a flying critter snagged it out of the air before he did. "You're so easy to tease, Eric. Always worrying about everyone but yourself. Who's going to worry about you, eh?" She reached out to brush a lock of hair back from his forehead.
"You are," Eric answered. He leaned forward, into the kiss.
There was scattered applause.
Both of them recoiled in opposite directions. They had an audience of tiny Sidhe, naked and sexless as kewpie dolls. The crea
tures had bright butterfly wings, and each wore a different full-sized flower as a hat.
"Scat!" Eric yelped, swinging at them with his flute. They scattered and ran, giggling in high squeaky voices. He glanced at Ria, who was at least trying not to laugh.
"Why don't we go find your friends?" Ria said after a long pause.
* * *
Beth and Kory were dancing—one of the simpler Sidhe dances. Five rings of dancers, each rotating in a different direction, jumped and spun and twirled to the music. At intervals, the rings would break into sets for a measure or two, as dancers worked their way into the inner circle of dancers and back out again. The two of them were completely intent upon the dance—it wasn't as simple as it looked, as the pairs bowed and curtseyed and flung themselves into the air.
Kory saw them and waved, and in a few minutes they worked their way to the outermost ring and freed themselves from the dance. There were others more than ready to take their place; the music itself seemed to have no end.
"Master Dharniel's looking for you," Beth said, only slightly out of breath from her exertions. "He's in charge of the playing order for the Bards."
Eric winced. Not even the sanctity of a Naming could squelch the dueling egos of most Bards, a circumstance not calculated to improve Master Dharniel's temper. No matter what order they went on in, someone wouldn't like it.
"I'd better go find him," Eric said. And do what he could to soothe matters. He glanced at Ria.
"Oh, I'll stay here," she said with fulsome sweetness. "I'm sure Kory and Beth will take very good care of me."
He had no choice but to leave her there, and of the two women, he wasn't sure which one he was worried about.
* * *
"So," Beth said. "Are you enjoying the party?"
"It's lovely," Ria said. "And you?"
"Oh . . . hell," Beth said, grimacing. "We could go on billing and cooing until the end of the world. I'd rather get real. Eric vouches for you, and the Prince and his lady accept you. I don't know whether I like you or not—I never had much in common with corporate types."
"Like me," Ria said. "And I don't know that I care much for elves, myself." She gave Kory a mocking glance.
"But you're . . . oh." Beth said. "Yeah, I guess I can see that. But all the Sidhe aren't like . . . your father."
" `Perenor the Destroyer.' How pleased he'd be to know he was so fondly remembered. Still, done is done: he's dead, and Sun-Descending is still there, keeping the wells of imagination flowing in southern California. Isn't it odd that the Sidhe, who aren't creative themselves, seem to inspire so much of it? Ireland . . . Canada . . . California . . . New York . . . wherever there's a hill, it seems to bring out the best in humans."
"Or the worst," Kory suggested. "Just as humans do, we cherish most what we lack. Mortals create. The Sidhe live nearly forever. You would not trade your imagination for our long lives, if you truly knew what it would entail."
"I, on the other hand, have the best of both worlds," Ria said lightly. "Human creativity, and at least a little of the Sidhe longevity." She looked at Beth. "Just as any children you and Kory produce will have," she said pointedly.
"Why don't we go somewhere more quiet?" Beth said. "Eric will find us."
Kory gestured, and a Portal opened in the air. The three of them walked through.
"This is the day nursery," Beth said. "Maeve's through there. Don't worry. We won't wake Maeve. Once she's asleep, she's dead to the world."
"Do you want to see her?" Kory asked.
"Yes," said Ria honestly. "I'd like that very much."
They went through the doorway into the night nursery. In the middle of the room stood an elaborate bassinet, covered with ribbons and lace. Lady Montraille sat watching over Maeve, unlikely though it was that anything might happen here. With her were more ordinary nursemaids—in this case, three gleaming balls of light, one pink, one blue, one green—hovering above the bassinet. If Ria squinted, she could see a tiny figure at the center of each light.
She approached the cradle and looked down. Maeve no longer wore the elaborate christening gown, just a simple pink T-shirt and Pampers.
"I grew up in a commune until I was four," Ria said, speaking softly, looking down at the baby. "I hated it. There was never enough to eat, never anything good to eat—I slept in the same room with all the other kids. The older ones used to scare the littlest ones to make them cry, creeping around the floor growling like bears. I never cried. I already knew there were worse things than bears."
Beth sighed. "The more I see of other peoples' childhoods, the more I appreciate my own."
For some reason, that felt more real to Ria than expressions of sympathy or horror would have been, and she acknowledged it with a nod. "I didn't see much of my mother. She spent most of her time getting high any way she could. She didn't have much time for me. I suppose I don't blame her. She was just doing her best to stay alive after my father's magic fried her mind and killed her twin. She used to have terrible nightmares, waking up screaming about drowning in blood. I guess the others thought it was just acid flash. I don't know what I thought."
"What could you think?" Kory asked. "You were only a child. I suppose you accepted it; young things are like that, they accept whatever form the world takes, however cruel or strange."
That, too, was more sincere than Ria had expected. Now the words she had so much difficulty in forming flowed from her. "Then one day my father came for me. Perenor always liked to leave the dirty work to others. Now I was old enough to follow orders and be an asset." She shook her head, plunging back into a memory that had seemed golden at the time.
"I thought he was the most wonderful thing I'd ever seen. He came driving up in a big black limousine. He brought me candy. It was the first time I'd ever had chocolate. I suppose he gave it to me to see if it would kill me, if I'd inherited more from the Sidhe side than the human." And now, she recalled the calculating look on his face as she devoured the treat, the satisfaction when she asked for more. "He took me back to the commune and started to leave, and I ran after him, ran after the car. I'm sure he was waiting for that. Basically, he abducted me, not that anyone there ever cared. At the time, all I knew was that it was wonderful. He took me to a toy store and let me buy anything I wanted. I had pretty dresses, my own room, a governess who let me do anything I chose—it was paradise. But it came at a price. A few days later, when I started asking whether my mother was going to join us, he told me she'd killed herself. When I was old enough, I checked that out for myself, and he hadn't lied. She'd lost the battle. The commune was on the coast; she just swam out into the ocean and didn't swim back."
Beth and Kory both nodded, saying nothing, and she was grateful for that. Oddly, or perhaps not so oddly, that particular memory gave no pain. Her mother had never been more than one of the "chicks" who cooked, tended the kids, and did the housework when they weren't stoned. In fact, she'd seen less of her mother than any of the others because her mother had been stoned more often, trying to escape.
"He never stopped telling me how fortunate I was to be alive; how he'd wanted me so much he'd used special magic to sire me on a mortal woman. The only way that can happen is for the human partner to somehow become equally a . . . oh, I don't know, `creature of magic' sums it all up. So either the Sidhe partner has to be weak and close to death, or the human partner has to become a temporary mage. Of course, that was the method Perenor chose. He found some potential mages—about ten percent of humanity has that potential, or so I'm told—and stole their power: their joy, their hope, their creativity—all of it—and fed it to my mother. One of them was her twin brother—that was one of the reasons he picked her, because her brother was a nascent Bard, and Power ran in her Line. Of course, along with the power of everyone Perenor sucked dry, she got their dreams, their memories, and their deaths. No wonder she went mad. Later, of course, he found other uses for that power."
"That much, we know," Kory said, stern and sad, though
neither of those emotions was aimed at her.
Of all the ways this particular encounter could have gone, this was not one of the ones Ria would have put high on the list of "likely." She felt a catharsis, finally telling someone just what kind of burden her father had laid on her young shoulders in an effort to make her as hard as he was. She'd never dared say these things to Eric. Eric cared too deeply, felt too much. It would have hurt him. "Perenor made certain I would know exactly how much my life had cost. I don't suppose it ever occurred to him that having a dozen teenagers—and my mother, in the end—die so I could be born would bother me. After all, why should the strong care about the weak?"
"But that can't be the only way," Beth said despairingly. "There have to be others!"
"Crossbreeds are rarer than elven children," Ria said bleakly. Suddenly, she had to give them hope. Beth's naked anguish, although she didn't exactly understand it, had to be answered. "Perenor chose the most convenient method, but he knew most of the others. They all have the same basis: parity between the energy states of the two partners. Either find some way to turn yourself temporarily into a Sidhe without killing anyone—or turn your elf-friend here temporarily human." Kory and Beth looked at each other with an unreadable expression. "He did find some hints that Sidhe who'd slipped into Dreaming were more fertile with humans than normal Sidhe, but I don't imagine that's an experiment you wish to try?"
Kory shuddered, and Beth took his arm protectively. "There has to be some other way."
Ria looked at Beth's woebegone expression, and again offered a breath of hope. "It isn't impossible to find a way, you know, even if Misthold or Sun-Descending or even Melusine doesn't know how to get its hands on enough life-force. There's more to the World Underhill than the parts of it the Sidhe live in, and creatures out there old and powerful enough to make the Emperor Oberon look like a wet firecracker in comparison. Do what you'd do faced with a problem like this in the World Above. Find an information specialist and consult him. There have to be trade fairs of some kind here—the inhabitants may not be human, but they're not that different."
Spirits White as Lightning Page 12
