Worlds Without End

by Caroline Spector

  I shoved everything to one side. “Stand here.” I instructed, pointing to the center of the room. I placed the candles around him in a rough circle, then lit them. The incense I lit and stuck in-between the drawers of the bureau. Then I switched off the lights and went over to the window and drew the drapes.

  The effect was getting pretty good. Lots of sandalwood smoke wafting through flickering candle light. I made him hold out his hands and dropped a skull into one and the strange bones into the other. Then I made him open his mouth and popped one of the charms inside. I almost started laughing at the face he made, but I knew that would break the spell.

  The rest of the charms I placed in his pockets and down his shirt. Then I began to chant softly and wave my arms in front of him. In Sanskrit I told him what a complete imbecile he was and how his mother was probably a goat-herder who slept in cow dung for fun while she mated with snakes at the bottom of a cesspool.

  From the expression on John Mortimer’s face, I knew he thought he was being transported to the next level of existence. And how close he was.

  It took me a while to run through his entire family lineage back to his great-great-grandparents, but I managed to think up appropriate comments for all of them. Now it was time for the big finish. I distracted him as I tossed flash paper into one candle after another. He gave a little squeal and jumped.

  “Ack.” he said. “I’ve swallowed the charm.”

  “That’s all right, you’re supposed to.” I said. “How do you feel?”

  He looked down at himself as though he expected to see something different.

  “The same. I’m getting a bit of a headache from all the incense.” he said. “Are you sure it worked?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” I said. “The most important thing.”

  I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. I held it there for a long time. I could see the weave of his life. Could feel the singsong of his blood as it raced through his veins. His delicate and vulnerable veins. Especially those in his brain. So thin. So easily stressed. It took a bit out of me, the subtlety of it, but I had no other choice.

  He stepped back from me.

  “What's this?” he asked, reaching out and touching my cheek.

  There, suspended on the tip of his finger, was a single blood tear.

  'The price of immortality.” I said.

  “I think I felt something.” he said.

  “I’m sure you did.” I reached out and gently wiped the tear away.

  * * *

  The aneurysm killed him on his flight back to London. I had told him to go home and get his belongings and meet me in Scotland. It being a slow news day, his death actually made the paper in a small item. Freak accident, the report said. A terrible tragedy for one so young.

  November 21, 1998

  Anna Sluage Earldom of Arran Arran Island, Scotland

  Dear Countess,

  It is my most embarrassing duty to tell you that my late client, one John Mortimer, had apparently become fixated on you during the last few years of his life. Upon his death, I was instructed to open a parcel he'd left with me a few months ago. In this parcel were documents and writings of Mr. Mortimer claiming a tale as regards you, of the most fantastic sort. His instructions to me, as his solicitor, were that should he die under unusual circumstances I was to go to the media with this story.

  Due to the nature of my client’s death, I recognized these bizarre accusations as the demented ravings of a mentally ill man. It is a great sadness to his family that they did not realize how ill he was until his untimely demise.

  Please rest assured that I have forwarded all these materials to you for you to dispose of as you will. No copies have been made by me or my office. I can only hope that my client did not make himself a burden on you. Rest assured that this matter will go no further.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mecham Bernard, Esq.

  Several months later I received a note from John Mortimer’s mother. She had gone to clean out his flat and had discovered his diary and a bulletin board covered with photos of me. In her letter, she said that she hoped her son had not bothered me. She explained that his obsession with me was no doubt caused by the same weakness in his brain that killed him.

  She also told me that she had destroyed all the papers and pictures of me she had found.

  I wrote her back, thanking her for her concern, and assured her that her son had never bothered me in the slightest. We actually developed a bit of a correspondence, which lasted until her death in 2021.

  She’s traveling in a car. Or maybe it’s a bus. She isn’t sure, because it continually shifts shape and form. Caimbeul is driving. He is wearing that horrible makeup. Garish and clownlike. A hideous red gash of a mouth. Black diamonds over his eyes. Hair streaked with blond and orange. His usual garb is replaced with faded blue jeans, cowboy boots run down at the heels, and a washed-out T-shirt that says: Ninety percent of everything is drek.

  “I was wondering when you’d get here.” Caimbeul says.

  “Where is here?” she asks.

  “You know.” he replies. “It’s wherever you want it to be.”

  She glances out the window, which shows an endless display of black night. The headlights occasionally catch a scrubby tree, then slide back over the broken road. Looking back at Caimbeul, she sees that the saying on the shirt has changed: I prefer the wicked to the foolish. The wicked sometimes rest.

  “Didn’t? Wasn’t?" she asks.

  “Oh.” Caimbeul says looking down at his shirt and shrugging. “It’s your dream. Don’t ask me. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “You always did steal your best lines.” she says. He drops the car into overdrive. It surges ahead, the G-force slamming both of them back in their seats.

  “Hang on.” he shouts over the roar of the engine. “It’s going to be a bumpy night.”

  20

  Runner’s Revenge was blasting a cover of the old tune “Do You Believe in Magic?” over the trideo system at LAX. They’d done something strange to the song, pumping a reggae beat under the glass-shattering shriek of the cyberjacked vocals of the lead singer, whose species, much less gender, I had yet to determine.

  As the lead singer seemed to pop from the trideo, I looked around for connecting flight info. Nothing as simple as a screen showing takeoffs and departures, I thought. Just as I was about to get on a tear about the uselessness of technology without practicality, Caimbeul grabbed me by the arm and steered me to a bank of flatscreens on the opposite side of the trideos.

  We had ten minutes to make our connection to Portland on Cinanestial. Wasn’t that always the way of it, though?

  “We’ll never get through Tir customs in time.” I said. “When’s the next flight out?”

  Caimbeul grabbed my bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Oh ye of little faith.” he said. “While you were puttering about with Thais, I was making a few calls. No need to tell me how much you appreciate it. Let’s just say we’ll be experiencing no trouble about our VAVs. And, most importantly, there will be no need for your strong-arm tactics. Now, don’t give me that look.”

  “I’m not giving you a look.” I said as I raced along beside him. Though I am long-legged, I had to break into a quick trot to keep up with him. After all, he is a good head taller than me.

  “I knew you’d never give up a tissue sample, and you know how persistent these low-level customs security types are. I didn’t want you to do to them what you did to our friend in the UK.”

  “It got us in, didn’t it?”

  “But here it might set off alarms. And I want our arrival to be as quiet as possible. I’ve arranged things with a friend. We should have no problems.”

  I frowned. “And who are we going to be beholden to for this favor?” I asked.

  “I don’t like owing anyone anything if I can help it. This will be dicey enough. You know what the politics are like here. They make the Borgias look like a close
and friendly family.”

  “I’m the one with the favor owed, not you.” he said. He sounded a bit exasperated. “I had forgotten how difficult you can be on a trip. At least you’ve learned to pack a little lighter.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” I said. But it came out more like, “And ... just (gasp) what . . . isthatsupposedtomean?”

  “Nothing.” he said. “Do you have your Visitor’s Authorization Visa ready?”

  “Yes.” I said. “And don’t change the subject. I don’t recall you ever complaining about my luggage before. Have you been nursing this grudge for long? As I recall, the last time we traveled together for any length of time was back in eighteen ninety-eight. Vienna. And everyone had trunks, not just me. You had two of them. Plus a rather large leather portmanteau that never would have fit on any horse . .

  “We’re here.” he said.

  I slid to a stop. The sleek silver, green, and white of the Cinanestial counter was in front of us. A male elf stood at the counter with a datacord jacked into a silver slot in his left temple running to the ’puter hidden behind the top of the counter. At the door to the plane stood another elf, who looked pleasant enough until you noticed that she had cyberware implants in both arms and a nasty-looking taser slipped into a tasteful sleeve on the side of her uniform.

  Both elves were wearing the Cinanestial uniform: skin-tight dark-green material with bold color blocks of silver and white. Though I suspected they were both expert at being polite and serving the passengers, anyone who gave them any grief would likely be pulling pieces of his favorite anatomy part from his throat for a long time to come.

  Before we even reached the counter, another uniformed elf appeared in front of us. I didn’t see where she came from, and the fact that she got the drop on me irritated me to no end.

  “I need to see your VAVs, please.” she said. The please was a mere formality. I had spent most of my time avoiding Tir Tairngire—and with good reason. Now I was waltzing in chin-first. Even with Caimbeul as my companion, I wondered if this wasn’t a bigger mistake than facing Ysrthgrathe alone.

  I passed my VAV across to Caimbeul, who put it with his and gave it to her.

  “Stay here.” she said. She turned and walked over to the elf at the desk. They talked together in low voices for a moment, then the counter-elf said something to the one with our passports. The customs elf put a deliberately blank expression on her face, then walked back to us.

  “Go on through.” she said. “Have a good flight.”

  Caimbeul took our papers and walked past without saying a word to her. I followed, trying hard not to give a smug grin. I failed. Oh, well.

  Just as we reached the door to the loading ramp, I heard a commotion behind us. I looked over my shoulder in time to see the customs elf tossing a scared-looking troll to the floor as if he were a rag-doll.

  All brawn, no brains. Some things never change.

  * * *

  The flight to Portland was about two and a half hours. I didn’t make small talk with Caimbeul. I was afraid I might blurt out that he’d been in my dream, and then I’d have to listen to him crow about that for the rest of the flight.

  He was a conceited bastard under the best of situations—I didn’t want to think about how obnoxious he would become if I told him.

  And what was going on with my dreams anyway? I hadn’t dreamed of Ysrthgrathe in several nights. It scared me because if he wasn’t coming to me through that window, where was he going to come from?

  Was he already here and waiting for me? Waiting to rip my life apart again? Or had I just dreamed him up? Pulled him from my nightmare past as surely as I had pulled him to me all those millennia ago? I wasn’t sure now. No, I had to be sure. The fate of the world was riding on me. There was no room for mistakes.

  * * *

  We sank into the gray clouds as we made our approach to Portland. From up in the golden sky to down into the rain and muck. I could barely make out the green land below as we popped in and out of the clouds. Rain smeared the double-paned windows.

  “How are we going to get the Council to hear us?” I asked.

  “I’m going to petition the High Prince.” he replied.

  “Lugh Surehand?” I asked. “I didn't realize you were on such close terms.”

  Caimbeul looked away.

  “Don’t tell me.” I said. “He has no idea that we’re coming, does he?”

  “I’m sure he knows we’re coming. There’s very little that goes on in Tir Tairngire that he doesn't know. But I haven’t contacted him directly. I thought it would be better to wait until we’re actually in Portland.”

  “Why? And stop fidgeting.”

  “I’m not fidgeting. I don’t fidget. That’s an awful word. Fidget. You make me sound like a three-year-old.”

  “If the age fits.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the band that held his ponytail. Then he cursed when the band got tangled up in his hair. The more he tugged at it, the worse the snarl became. I slapped his hand away and gently began to work it loose.

  “It’s Aithne, isn’t it?” I asked. “You’re worried that when Aithne knows I’m in Portland, he’ll do everything he can to see that I’m not heard.”

  I was surprised to see him look so embarrassed. The band came loose and I ran my fingers through Caimbeul’s hair to make sure there weren’t any more tangles. It was as silky as I remembered, cool on top and warm near the nape of his neck. It was an odd moment, filled with promise and regret. Then I pulled my hands away and held out the band to him. His fingers slid over mine as he took it, and lingered there for a moment.

  “It’s been so long, and he still hasn’t forgiven me.” I said. “I know I have no right to expect that he would, but all the same there’s the hope in me that he might.”

  Caimbeul took my hand and gave it a little squeeze. “He attends his grudges like a jealous wife. Age hasn’t tempered him. It’s only made him more of what he is. But isn’t that the way it is with all of us?”

  “I suppose. But what about you and Ehran? I know you engaged in the Game some time ago. Did that resolve any of your differences? Or did it merely let you keep them simmering for another hundred years or so?”

  “Simmering, my sweet, simmering always. I never like to bring things to a boil.”

  I held his hand tightly for a moment, then released it.

  “I seem to remember a time or two when that wasn’t the case.”

  “You are an evil woman, Aina.”

  I just smiled at him, then went back to looking out the window.

  * * *

  We passed through Tir customs easily. Whatever mojo Caimbeul had worked with his friend, it breezed us through the usual tediousness of the bureaucracy. I’d made it a point in the past to avoid Tir Tairngire at all costs. Oh, I’d been here a few times, but always as quickly and discreetly as possible. Though I knew Aithne would never act against me directly, I wasn’t about to force the issue.

  Tir Tairngire was, after all, his baby.

  He’d cooked the idea up with Sean Laverty, Lugh Surehand, and Ehran. They’d moved with a purpose and precision to establish the Tir that preempted anyone who might have stood in their way. Not that I would have been foolish enough to try. I like to think that I’ve developed some measure of sense in my old age.

  They tricked the Salish-Shidhe Council into giving over part of their land to the elves. Oh, I had to admire their cunning. Like all good mundane magic, it was done with clever distractions and sleight of hand.

  It was Ehran who did the initial dirty work. And how he must have enjoyed the charade—posing as an Amerindian—Walter Bright Water—newly released from the Pyramid Lake Re-Education Center. He pretended that his wife and children had died there, then deceived the tribal elders with his knowledge of Cascade Crow tribal rituals. The treachery of it astounds.

  Perhaps I am letting my history with Caimbeul color my comments, for his and Ehran’s relationship is
a bitter one from long ago. The enemy of my friend is my enemy. Not that Ehran had the slightest idea of my opinion of him, of course. That would be foolishness of the first water.

  Anyway, eventually, he received a place on the S-S Council, and parlayed that into his final plan. He encouraged the segregation of metahumans, saying that Awakened individuals were better off away from humanity and their prejudices. But, at the same time, he encouraged the Salish-Shidhe and the other Native American Nations to welcome metahumans into their territories.

  This brought metahumans into NAN and the Salish-Shidhe territories in ever-increasing numbers over the years just before the establishment of the Tir. Before Bright Water disappeared (faking his death, by the way. Something I know he is quite proficient at), he encouraged the metahuman population to segregate itself into the southern region of the Amerindian territories. They did so, and this was the beginning of what would later become Tir Tairngire.

  Of course, Aithne and the others hadn’t been sitting by doing nothing, but they did let Ehran have all the fun. After “Walter Bright Water’s” death, they appeared on the scene and began to lead the “renaissance in the south.” By the time there was a formal declaration of independence by the Tir, the Salish-Shidhe was no longer a cohesive power and there was nothing NAN or any other nation could do to stop them.

  By this time, of course, Ehran had re-emerged as himself. The rest, as they say, is history. The Tir went on to be recognized by every other nation, with the notable exception of Aztlan. But then they are both special cases unto themselves.

  Now they had set themselves up as Princes, no less. Of course, that is how most of us thought of ourselves. After all, we had always ruled, whether overtly or covertly. The hand that guides the puppets does not have to seen.

  They had made all the preparations, but I suspected they still didn’t believe the time would come when they would have to use them. Only that they would have the world made over in their image and no one would stop them.