Worlds Without End

by Caroline Spector

  A spell. There is light.

  This is no kaer. This is a coffin.

  And she’s been buried alive in it.

  14

  Lady Brane motioned for me to sit. The room was an odd mixture of magic, antiques, and hardware. Though I dislike the technology that Caimbeul so adores, even I was impressed with the array of hyper-edged toys. Any shadowrunner would have been drooling at the chance to get his hands on Lady Deigh’s high-tech toys.

  I didn’t sit. Instead I wandered about the room, looking at the collection of elven artifacts. Encased in a glass box was a long silver sword whose hasp was plated in gold and set with cabochon emeralds and rubies. So, this was where the Sword of Nuadha had finally come to rest. I thought it had been lost long ago.

  Next to it was a plain cup roughly carved from horn. It should have seemed prosaic, sitting there next to the glory of the sword, but it was the other way round. The Sword of Nuadha seemed coarse and obvious.

  I’d just stepped over to a lovely painting of Caimbeul in some costume I didn’t recognize when he and Alachia came into the room. Lady Brane smiled at her and she smiled back. My heart sank when I saw this. Already I was at a disadvantage. I could only hope that Caimbeul would provide a strong argument for my position.

  “Now that we’re all here.” began Lady Brane. “Shouldn’t we start?”

  “You are the only Elders?” I asked, more than a little shocked.

  “No, of course not.” said Lady Brane. “But the others have agreed to let me handle this situation as I see fit. They have deferred to Lady Alachia and me.”

  I glanced over at Caimbeul, who kept his face blank. And I wondered if he knew this would be the situation going in.

  “Very well.” I said. “It’s really quite simple. The Horrors have returned.”

  Alachia let out a silvery laugh that I just knew would enchant any man who heard it and which set my teeth on edge.

  “You are still so melodramatic, Aina.” she said. “Good heavens. It is far too early for them to have returned.”

  When I answered and my voice was calm, it surprised me. For as long as I could remember, Alachia had the power to anger me with her flip comments.

  “I realize that you are far older than I.” I said. “But my experience with what you so blithely refer to as the Enemy is hardly inconsiderable. Even you would have to admit that.”

  She gave a small nod of her head, the best acknowledgment I could hope for.

  “Caimbeul came to me the other day and told me of his recent experience with them.”

  Alachia and Lady Brane looked at him expectantly, and he preened a bit under the attention. What an ego. But he did manage to tell them about Thayla and the bridge from the astral planes and how he had stopped them.

  “Well.” said Alachia. “There you have it. Thayla’s there protected by one of those hirelings, and we’re all quite safe.”

  “Are you completely mad?” I asked, losing my temper at last. “Hasn’t anything he’s said sunk in? Oh, I expected him to be full of beer and sausages. He’s always had this messiah complex, but you know better. If they don’t get through that way, they’ll find another. They’re coming back now because they can. Look at what happened in Maui.” And then it dawned on me. I almost hit myself for being such a fool. Of course, she knew the dangers. But she didn’t care. I thought back over our history together and realized that Alachia had been at her most powerful during the times when we faced the Enemy. Her dark knowledge had been as much a bane as help. But it hadn’t mattered because we would do anything to survive. And I knew what she wanted was for that time to come again. She was tired of waiting.

  But perhaps I could reach Lady Brane.

  “Lady Brane.” I began, “I know you have heard terrible stories about me. Some are even true. But that isn’t what is important here. What is important is that I’m telling the truth. I know better than most the evil these creatures will unleash should they come through before we are prepared. They will lay waste the world and everything in it. And this time we aren’t prepared to stop them. We haven’t the power.”

  “You seem powerful enough.” said Lady Brane. “You call down the Hunt, or part of it, at least. You live beyond the rule of either Tir. You consort with the Great Worms as though you were one of them instead of one of us.”

  “Now, now.” said Alachia. “Let’s be fair. Aina has always been very forthright about what she believes in. She has never challenged the authority of the Tirs. Nor has she sought temporal power for herself. I prefer to think that she has been terribly misled and will someday see her error and come back to us.”

  I looked at Caimbeul, trying hard not to lose what little I’d had to eat in the last few days. The expression on his face was shocked, then suspicious. Yet, still he didn’t speak up. What was wrong with him?

  “Alachia is right, of course.” said Lady Brane. “What other proof do you have that the Enemy is near?”

  “Dreams.” I said, hoping she would understand the importance of this. “And the certain knowledge that one of the most powerful of them is already among us.”

  “And where is this dread creature?” asked Alachia.

  “I know not.” I said. “Only that he is here now. He has contacted me.”

  “And why would it bother to come for you?”

  “Because.” I said. “It knows me. I am the one it wants.”

  “Ana you are so special?”

  “Yes.” I said. “You should remember. It was the monster who marked me so many millennia ago.”

  I thought I saw Alachia go a little paler. Lady Brane seemed a bit confused, and I suspected there was much that Alachia had left out of her history lessons.

  “How do you know for certain that it is this one?” Alachia asked. “This could be the work of another Elder. You have your enemies, my dear.”

  My eyes narrowed. “I know of no enemy of mine who would use such matters for the Game. That would be a gross breach of etiquette. No, it is he.”

  “But what would you have us do about it?” Alachia asked. “It seems that this is really your problem.”

  “Now, perhaps.” I said. “But it means they can get through. We are not safe any more. We must prepare for them, and also curtail our use of magic.”

  Lady Brane came out of her chair. “Stop using magic? Now I think you are the one who is mad.” she said. “I hardly think one of these creatures is a serious enough threat to us. You are terribly powerful. Why don’t you just kill it?”

  “I’ve tried.” I said bleakly. “I thought I had rid the world of him long ago. But I was mistaken. That is why it is vital for us to put a stop to them now—before they get a better foothold in the world.”

  “How are you going to stop everyone from using magic?” asked Lady Brane.

  “It isn’t small magics that are the danger. It’s the great acts that draw them. The Great Ghost Dance. The Veil, I’m certain, is creating a pull. While it will protect you from them, it will also bring them like carrion to a carcass.”

  “Not a very appetizing thought.” muttered Alachia.

  “You know what a danger they are.” I said. “Why haven’t you told her?”

  “I have told her. But I’ve also told her we dealt successfully with them before.”

  Caimbeul and I both laughed—harsh and sarcastic.

  “Did Alachia tell you what was done to survive?” I asked Lady Brane.

  “Not yet.” Alachia said coldly. “What difference does it make now? We survived.”

  “Do you think Aithne would agree with you?” I asked.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But he would no doubt agree with me long before he would agree with you.”

  I turned away and walked to a small tray set up in one corner of the room. Bottles filled with amber, gold, and red liquid glowed softly. I picked one at random and splashed a healthy amount into one of the cut crystal glasses. It burned going down. Irish whiskey.

  “I have a proposal.” sai
d Lady Brane. “Though I am inclined with Alachia to think you are overestimating the threat of this creature, I do not wish to completely disregard your warning. You are, after all, one of the Elders. And you have not meddled in our affairs unnecessarily.

  “So I suggest that you go to Tir Taimgire. Though we are at cross-purposes with them in many things, this matter could certainly constitute a danger that concerns the entire elven nation. If you can convince the Elders there that the threat is real, then I shall lend you any support you might need.”

  A politician’s answer, but better than none. Or an unequivocal “no.”

  “Thank you, Lady Brane.” I said. “I see the Tir chose well in you.”

  A little flattery never hurt.

  “Yes.” said Alachia. “I knew you would do the right thing. And Aina, do say hello to Aithne Oakforest for me.”

  The sky is blue as a robin’s egg. Blue as only a summer’s day can be. Blue as the eyes of her child.

  Where is her child? He should be here. No, that was long ago. He’s dead now.

  Then why does she hear his voice?

  Momma, she hears. Momma, where are you?

  Here I am.

  Then she sees him. The rotting corpse shuffling to her with outstretched arms. And she runs to embrace him.

  15

  “Well, that went pretty well, I thought.” said Caimbeul.

  We were sitting in the Dublin International Airport waiting for our flight to Tir Tairngire. Well, we weren’t going directly to the Tir. I wanted to stop over in Austin and take care of a few things there first. Rubbing my eyes, I tried not to snap at him. How he could have thought things were going well was beyond me.

  Oh, we were certainly given the royal treatment. But underneath I could feel the tension. The hostility. Things were changing and the Seelie Court knew it. They just didn’t want to face what was happening. And he’d said barely a word the whole time.

  But isn’t that always the way of it? We hate change. Consider it the enemy. Yet it is the one constant in our lives.

  I pushed an impatient hand through my hair, which had grown out just enough to be a nuisance. Sticking out every which way. Even in these dire times, I was vain enough to be concerned about my appearance. Or maybe it came from spending so much time alone with Caimbeul.

  Had it really been almost two hundred years since we’d been together? I wondered at the thought that time could slip away so quickly. Why didn’t I do something to stop it? I shook my head.

  Stop what? Stop us from hurting each other? Stop us from being who we were?

  “Something wrong?” Caimbeul asked.

  “No.” I replied. “Nothing much. I was just ... remembering.”

  His eyes were bright and curious. Oh, Caimbeul, you wicked creature to make me remember such things.

  “Paris?” he asked. “That cafe on the Rue Saint-Jacques . . . what was it called?”

  “Well, Monsieur Rimbaud called it ‘L’Academie d’Abomphe.’ But I can’t remember what it was really called.”

  He laughed. “I almost had a heart attack when I saw you there. You were wearing the most peculiar outfit .. .”

  “It wasn’t peculiar. It was the height of fashion.

  Besides, I had to keep people more concerned with my dress than my nature. Unlike you, it hasn’t always been easy for me to pass through human society. The color of my skin made it difficult at best. And my hair ... I guess those are things people might remember.”

  “I remember.” he said. His voice was soft, and suddenly it was as if we were all alone. That was a gift of his, making you feel as though you were the only person in the world. “The dress you wore was gray silk, shot through with jet beading. You had a hat on which had an enormous feather on it. Ostrich. Or was it peacock?”

  “Peacock.” I said softly.

  “And you were drinking absinthe. I remember it looked as though you were embracing a lover when you drank.”

  I shut my eyes . . .

  * * *

  The first clear day of April. Paris, 1854. I sat in a cafe on the Rue Saint-Jacques. At the time, I didn’t know its name. After a while, I wouldn’t care. I had found something powerful enough to distract me from the horrors of living: absinthe.

  My own sweet mistress. My dearest friend. The green fairy in the bottle who would steal a little bit of my mind every day. And how I adored it.

  The rituals I’d built up. First, a stop at the bank where my pounds would be converted into francs.

  Then on to the small bakery for a pastry before I went to my first real appointment of the day. I told myself that as long as I ate something before I drank I was fine. Hence the obligatory croissant, most of which I threw away on my way to meet my little friend.

  That’s what I called it: ma petite amie. Perhaps I should have said mon amour, for that was indeed what it had become: my dearest friend, my closest confidant, my love. And, just like all lovers, we had our rituals.

  There were a number of cafes that sold absinthe, and I was well-known at all of them. In the spring and summer, I would settle myself at one of the outer tables. To take the air, of course. The air was very important—far more healthy than the smoky atmosphere indoors. In the winter, well, I just endured the smoke and noise. The things you will go through for a loved one.

  After I sat at a table, a waiter would come over with the jade bottle, a water jug, and a glass. He would line them up neatly in front of me, then fill the glass with water. I tipped generously, and they knew what I wanted.

  From inside my reticule, I would pull my silver absinthe spoon. It was slotted and diamond-shaped, intricately carved with flowers and scrolls. The spoon was placed over the glass. Plucking a sugar cube from the jar on the table, I would place it neatly atop the spoon.

  Next came the moment I liked the best. First, I uncorked the bottle. The aroma of the absinthe floated to me. Licorice-scented and bitter.

  Then I slowly poured the absinthe over the sugar. It dripped through the spoon into the water, swirling the color of new leaves, turning the water cloudy like a stormy day. The sugar cube sometimes wouldn’t completely dissolve, and I would take it into my mouth, sucking my first bit of ecstasy from it.

  When it crumbled into nothing, I would take the spoon from the glass, then slowly lift the glass to my lips. What wonders will it show me this day? I would think. What sweet remembrances from the past would come to me? What memories would be created to fill my mind and keep me from the truth ?

  And as I felt the warmth rush through my veins—sliding into my mind, seducing my thoughts—I would smile. Sometimes men would come to me and tell me how beautiful my smile was. So I would smile at them until they became nervous and went away.

  And so, on that clear spring morning in April, when I saw Caimbeul for the first time in many a century, I thought, at first, that he was a product of my imagination. That I had conjured him up from the pretty places I went in my mind.

  “Hello, Aina.” he said.

  I smiled. He smiled back. I didn’t say anything; neither did he.

  He didn’t go away.

  “I suppose it really is you.” I said at last.

  “I’m wounded.” he said as he touched his chest over his heart. “Have you forgotten me so easily?”

  I poured more water into my glass and put the spoon on top.

  Sugar cube.

  Absinthe.

  “No.” I replied. “Not so easily. Would you care for some?”

  He took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and opened it with a little click.

  “Isn’t it a bit early for this sort of thing?” he asked. “I hadn’t figured you for the type.”

  The sugar cube crumbled in my mouth. My tongue was already numb and felt a bit grainy. Wonderful numbness.

  “What type is that?” I asked. “The type that indulges in pleasure? Think of it, Caimbeul. All the years and years stretching ahead of us. All the ones behind. And it doesn’t mean anything. Nothing we do
matters. It all keeps happening again and again. I’ve spent plenty of time worrying about what has happened. And far too much concerned with what will happen. So, now, I don’t care.

  “This,”—I raised my glass—“gives me a brief taste of happiness. I have had far too little of that.”

  Silently, I toasted him, then drank. Ah, nectar. I was borne up by angels into clouds of gossamer and silk.

  He said nothing then. Just sat down there with me as I drank, then walked me home as the sun sank full and red into the gray twilight.

  Every day he came and sat with me as I drank. Sometimes, I would go to a different cafe, but he always managed to find me.

  One day I woke and discovered that I no longer wanted to go to the cafes. Caimbeul’s presence had muddied the pleasure of the absinthe for me. I hated him for it. I dressed hurriedly, rushing out without my hat.

  He was waiting for me at the cafe on the Rue Saint-Jacques.

  “I hate you.” I said.

  “I know.”

  “You’ve ruined everything.”

  “Perhaps.”

  I stood there, frustrated, not knowing what else to say.

  “Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

  “Because it’s a beautiful day.” he replied. “And I’d like you to come with me.”

  I saw the waiter coming toward the table with the absinthe and water. My hands started shaking and I felt my mouth go dry. Caimbeul. and I didn’t say anything as the waiter put them on the table and left.

  “Well.” he said. “Are you coming?”

  I looked at the absinthe. Ma petite amie. My life.

  Just one more, I thought.

  I could feel my mouth pucker, anticipating the bite of the sugar, the anise bitterness of the absinthe.

  Caimbeul held his hand out to me. Slowly, very slowly, I took it.

  * * *

  “Why did you stay?” I asked Caimbeul.

  “When?”

  “When you found me in Paris at that cafe. You could have left. It might have been better if you had. It was certainly out of character.”