Worlds Without End

by Caroline Spector

  “And if I don’t agree?”

  “I’ll find someplace where I can leave you to rot.” she said. “You won’t die, unfortunately. But you’ll certainly wish you had. That is, if you still have your sanity intact after all those years locked up and alone. It’s really not much of a choice, is it?”

  She had me there. I couldn’t stop her from what she was about. But I could certainly see my way clear to making her life difficult once she let me out. “Very well.” I said. “I agree.”

  * * *

  She came to the throne on November 17, 1558 and ruled for an astonishing forty-five years. And at every turn I made her way as difficult as possible.

  Oh I didn’t act directly; that has never been my way.

  But I knew people on both sides, and it was a simple matter to sow the seeds of distrust and paranoia. All I had to do was stir the pot. Between juggling the French and Spanish, she was forced to look to the welfare of the country.

  Besides, it was a source of constant amusement to me that she was referred to as the Virgin Queen.

  That wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, time she did such a thing. But the brazenness with which she acted in this matter always amazed me. And after that time, I always made sure to stop her whenever I could.

  Do you think you’ll escape me through the past? Do you think that by telling them you’ll be safe? Don’t you know that I’ve been waiting—as patient as time itself?

  Don’t you know you can never stop me?

  7

  “I tried to stop her.” I said.

  “What?” asked Caimbeul.

  I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud.

  “Nothing.” I said. With a quick snap of my wrist I pulled the drapes together and shut out the storm. “I suppose I should pack.”

  There was the creak of leather as he settled back into my chair.

  “So,” he said, “you’re going to tell them. Where will you go first?”

  “The Seelie Court.” I said. “It should be the least hostile reception.”

  “If you can find them.”

  This made me laugh.

  “Ah, Caimbeul.” I said. “That will be the easy part.”

  * * *

  It was drizzling the next morning as we loaded our bags into Caimbeul’s rental car. I’d set the alarm and cast spells, and as I locked the front door I had the terrible feeling that this would be the last time I would ever see Arran.

  Damn them all, I thought. If they would only have listened. If they’d stopped playing with things they only barely understood. Then I wouldn’t have to leave my house and venture into matters I’ve spent hundreds of years avoiding.

  But I knew the worst of the bunch were the ones who knew the dangers and went ahead with their foolishness anyway. Damn them, too.

  Caimbeul had opened the passenger-side door and stood there waiting for me to get in. I dropped into the synthleather seat, sniffing the vinyl scent of new car as I did. After shutting the door behind me, Caimbeul came around the front of the car and got in on his side.

  “I made some plane reservations while you were still asleep.” he said. “It was bloody expensive and I expect to be reimbursed.”

  “I can’t believe you’re bringing up money at a time like this.” I said.

  Out the corner of my eye I saw him shrug.

  “I know you’re good for it.” he said.

  “So are you. You’ve got piles of the stuff hidden everywhere. What’s a plane ticket to you?”

  “That’s not it.” he said, primly. “It’s the principle of the thing.”

  “The principle of the . . .” And then I couldn’t continue because I was laughing too hard.

  * * *

  I contented myself with watching the passing scenery and playing with the vid, trying to get some decent signal to come in. But all I found were walls of noise and static. Finally I managed to tune in a prehistoric station that was doing a retrospective of turn-of-the-century music. Snapping off the trideo portion, I let the sounds wash over me. I confess I liked the older flat-screen stuff: Nine Inch Nails, Cold Bodies, Sister Girl’s Straight Jacket. Nothing like a little atonality with my angst.

  Every so often I would glance over at Caimbeul. Excuse me, Harlequin. I don’t think that name will ever come trippingly to my lips. And I hate what it represents even more.

  Yes, I know you think you understand him. You might even think you know him well, but you don’t. I’ve known him for longer than either of us cares to remember. And he wasn’t as you see him now. That stupid painted face. Though he wasn’t what many would call handsome, I have always found him attractive. Maybe even beautiful. Oh, I know that sounds peculiar, but there is an aspect of ugliness that is so shocking and strange it becomes beauty.

  And his wild hair, all gold and brown woven together. He’d let it grow long again, which I like. But he insisted on pulling it back in that ridiculous pony tail. It made me want to sneak up behind him with a scissors and cut it off. Either you wear it long or you don’t was my way of thinking.

  His hands lay easily on the wheel. I knew they were smooth and feminine with calluses on the fingertips. There was a hint of yellow between the first and second fingers where he held those Gaullets he smoked. And he smelled of tobacco and clean linen.

  And I wondered whether he remembered those sorts of things about me. The little details that only come from intimacy.

  “Will you turn that off?” he asked.

  “I like it.” I replied as I leaned forward and nudged the volume button up a little.

  “I know.” he said. “You always did have terrible taste in music.”

  “No, I’ve always had broad taste in music. Unlike you who only seem to like classical music and the occasional jazz group.”

  “I prefer to think of it as a refined taste.”

  “I know you do.”

  We didn’t say anything else and I went back to watching the kilometers slip by as the rain streamed across the windows.

  * * *

  Edinburgh was crowded. Old ladies were crying and hugging uncomfortable-looking teens. Suits hurried by, oblivious to everything but their own sense of self-importance. I've never been too fond of corporate thinking. That whole bigger is better drek was what had led to most of the problems in the world, as far as I could tell. Okay, indoor plumbing was the one exception to this rule, but otherwise . . .

  We found the gate for the flight to Tír na nÓg. As we came around the corner, I saw that the usual security measures were in place. All our luggage was going to be searched. There would be the usual weapons scan and the endless procession of bureaucratic red tape. Like I said: corporate thinking.

  The worst of it was that once we got to the Tir, all this would begin again.

  As we approached the head of the line, the elven official looked up from the display screen where he was sliding credsticks to check documentation. He gestured us forward, ignoring several people ahead of us.

  “May I see your passports and visas?” he said. He tried to keep it polite, but you could tell he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  We handed over our sticks with our IDs and travel permits on them, and he asked us to step into a small room off the main corridor. As the door shut behind us I could hear the other passengers whispering to each other. You could cut the paranoia with a knife.

  “Is there a problem?” Caimbeul asked.

  The security drone didn’t answer as he sat down at a display on the far side of a small formica table in the center of the room. The walls were a dirty white and one of the fluorescent lights flickered on and off erratically. I read his name off his badge: Clovis Blackeye. No wonder he was an officious prig. With a name like that I’d be a drekhead, too.

  He was gaunt and stoop-shouldered for an elf. His hair was tied back into a ponytail and was shot through with premature gray. A perpetual expression of misery lined his face and made his eyes look sunken and bruised. He knew he would never be an
ything more than a low-level bureaucrat.

  Sometimes there was no explaining UGE.

  “I said, ‘Is there a problem?’ ”

  Clovis finally looked up from the screen. His beady eyes swung from Caimbeul to me.

  “It says here that you’re visiting relatives in Tír na nÓg. But it doesn’t list who those relatives might be.”

  “Is that necessary?” I asked.

  “How do we know you really have relatives in the Tír? Maybe you’re from that other place, come to cause trouble.”

  “That other place?”

  “Tir Tairngire. The fallen ones.”

  I glanced at Caimbeul and he rolled his eyes. Nothing worse than a patriotic officious prick.

  “And perhaps we have relatives who don’t want every low-level clerk knowing who their relatives are.” I said.

  His flat piggy nose flared slightly.

  “That’s not for you to decide.” he said. “Now tell me or you don’t get on that plane.”

  I leaned forward across the table then and grabbed his collar. For a moment I thought he might resist, but the force of my will kept him from moving. It was as easy as a snake hypnotizing a rat.

  “Listen to me, little brother.” I said in Eireann sperethiel. My accent might have been a bit off, but otherwise I was letter perfect. “You are playing in things far beyond your knowledge or concern. You wish to know who we are to visit? Then come closer and I shall tell you.”

  I jerked him across the table and whispered a name in his ear. The blood fled from his already pasty cheeks. As he pulled away, I let him see me—really see me. These are the kinds of tricks I hate—obvious displays of power—but he’d slotted me off.

  “Now you can well imagine how annoyed this person would be if they discovered their name came up in this sort of situation.” I said. “So I would suggest that we all forget this unfortunate incident.”

  Old Clovis was only too happy to oblige. He gave us back our papers like he’d just discovered they’d been tainted with VITAS. We were ushered onto the plane without further delay. I settled into the thick leather upholstered seats of the first-class section and smiled at the attendant who handed me a glass of single malt scotch.

  “Was that really necessary?” asked Caimbeul after she moved away.

  “What?” I said, letting my eyes go wide and innocent.

  “That show you put on back there.”

  The plane gave a little lurch as it backed from the gate. I glanced out the scratched window. Below me I could see the orange lights on the ground.

  “No.” I said. “We could have missed the flight snaking around with him. But I didn’t have the patience for it. Besides, he’s going to be too scared to tell anyone. He believes in the omnipotence of the Elders. You could see it in his eyes.”

  “But you showed him ..

  “I showed him what would impress him the most. Some people are so literal.”

  “I missed you.”

  “What?” It was a strange and unexpected non-sequitur. And I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “Well, I didn’t miss the arguing. But I missed you when you get like this.”

  I didn’t say anything to that.

  It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway.

  She’s running.

  The forest is alive with sounds and smells. In the distance, the dying rabbit cries sound like a child’s screams. The heavy scent of new-dug earth hangs in the air. Branches slap against her face, and no matter how she tries to push them away, they keep coming back.

  Something is behind her. She doesn’t know what it is—only that it will kill her if it can. Looking over her shoulder, she tries to see what it is. So she doesn’t see when she steps off into space.

  She’s falling now.

  Falling with nothing to save her.

  8

  I jerked awake as the plane passed into the Veil. It was a nasty jolt of reality, being sound asleep one moment and wide-awake the next. A tingling started at the nape of my neck and worked its way up my skull.

  Pushing the plastic shade up, I peered out the window. There was nothing but thick gray and white clouds like the smoke of burning leaves. I struggled against the effects of the Veil. The clouds tried to form themselves into shapes. What part of my subconscious was being dredged up? I didn’t want to know and pulled the shade down with a snap. We’d be on the ground in half an hour. I could hold out against the effects until then.

  “Pretty potent stuff.” said Caimbeul. “The Veil. It makes me wish they would use some other sort of protection.”

  I shoved a hand through my hair. It was virtually gone now. After centuries of having it long, I’d finally cut it all off. All that was left were spiky white sprouts about an inch and a half long. My head felt smooth and cool under my fingers.

  “Too potent.” I said. “They’re only aggravating things.”

  “You’ve said that every time anyone’s used magic on any scale.”

  I didn’t answer him, knowing that we’d just run over the same ground again. The engines whined and I felt the thump as the landing gear lowered. Then I shoved the shade up again. We broke through the clouds and I could see buildings below us. From here everything looked small and not at all real. Up here we were still safe.

  I closed my eyes then, breathing slowly and deeply to relax myself. I had my usual landing death-grip on the chair arms. Blowing up in a ball of fire was not the way I wanted to end my unnatural life. My ears popped several times and I opened and closed my mouth to help. Then I felt it.

  The smooth calluses and the suede glide of Caimbeul’s hand closing over mine. I didn’t pull away. It was too comforting and familiar. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to see when we burst into a huge ball of fire.

  There was a sudden bounce and we were on the ground. Caimbeul’s hand disappeared and I was left with only the memory of his warm touch.

  * * *

  Once, years ago, I lived in the United States.

  I’d come to America during the eighteen-hundreds when news that the Sioux were using ritual magic drifted across the Atlantic to the fashionable parlors I frequented then. It was a topic of much conversation for a few months, until other, more interesting scandals pushed their way into idle gossip.

  But I knew the Sioux were playing with dangerous mojo.

  The reports told of self-mutilation to help the magic. Blood magic. It was too early for that sort of thing—unless they’d found a place of power. They were playing with forces they couldn’t understand and wouldn’t be able to control, even if by some freak chance they did work.

  I booked passage on the next available steamer and was making my way west in a matter of weeks. There was no time for me to admire the rawness of the country. Everything was new here. Fresh starts for anyone willing to take it. The weight of history had barely settled onto the land.

  But that is another part of the story. The time I am thinking of came later, in the late nineteen-thirties and early forties. I was living in Texas then. The war known as the War to End All Wars was barely cold. The embers of it still smoldered in the battlefields of Europe. But apparently they weren’t ready for them to be out yet. That little Austrian man stirred it all up again and the depths of his hateful vision wouldn’t be known for another six years. But by then, it would be too late for us all.

  But in Austin we didn’t know about any of that. The world came to us through newspapers, magazines, radio—and through the movies.

  It was a blistering hot summer. But that was nothing unusual. Most people left the city for cooler parts of the Hill Country. The ones who remained made do with fans, ice blocks, and shade. In the evening the temperature would drop into the high seventies. It was almost bearable.

  Once the initial shock of the war wore off, life went on as usual. For the most part. Most Americans thought they would be exempt from the conflict. After all, what did it have to do with them, this bloody war in Europe?

  And so, on this s
ummer night with the heavy scent of lantana and moonflowers in the air, I went to the movies. Some people were afraid of being in closed places because of the polio, but that was never a concern of mine.

  The theater was dimly lit and I used a fan given away at the local Herbert E. Butts grocery store to push the sweltering air about. The lights went down and the newsreel began. Of course, the war in Europe was the first item. I watched as scene after scene of destruction flashed across the screen. Many things were being blown up in Poland and France and England.

  Then we were looking at images of happily waving crowds. The little man rode through them making his straight-arm salute to the frantically waving masses.

  And then I saw her.

  At first I couldn’t believe my eyes, but the shot held and I knew what I was seeing was true. It was Alachia.

  She was sitting in one of the cars in the rear of the procession. An expression of perfect happiness was etched in her face. A blond man with his hair slicked back and perfect Aryan features waved at the crowds while his other arm encircled her waist. He smiled down at her and she smiled back. They were gone in an instant, replaced by the image of refugees fleeing down some unknown road.

  The screen went black and then the Parade of Fashions appeared. Sweat rolled down my face but I was suddenly cold. So very cold.

  * * *

  We rode the shuttle bus headed south toward Dublin, hooking up to Dorsett Street once we were in the city proper.

  We’d made it through customs relatively easily. There was no need to resort to the sort of tactics I’d used on that idiotic bureaucrat from before. Like many of the Dublin streets, this one turned and bent and changed names. We took a left onto Church Street and headed south toward the river. Four Courts was to our left. The dome of the central building was covered in the green patina that comes to all copper as it ages. It was a beautiful piece of neoclassical work. All white columns and statuary at every corner. The fact that it was standing after all this time gave me a fleeting feeling of permanence.

  As we crossed Whitworth Bridge, I looked out the window. Below us the Liffey River flowed a gray-jade color, the dark clouds of the late-October sky barely reflected in its depths.