Bride of Fae (Tethers)

by Rigel, LK

  Cissa was a thief and a trickster, but she was right. If the faeling’s true nature didn’t settle in, she’d never know what she was. It was a nasty way to live. Always the feeling something was missing, never able to quite grasp what it was. Everything colored by a sense of loss. A nagging underlying sense of injustice.

  Every bitter human Max had come across was part fae and didn’t know it.

  In the shadows further up tunnel someone cleared his throat and brought up a goodly mass of phlegm. He hocked it into one of the hammered copper spittoons distributed throughout the tunnels. Disgusting. An older gob, evidenced by the old-fashioned candle in his helmet, stepped out to the center of the tunnel and leaned on a pick handle, his beady stare lit by the dim candlelight.

  “I’ll be right back, girl.” Max fished the last carrot from his pocket for Mavis and went over to see what the old gob wanted.

  “Vulsier.” Max nodded.

  “Hmph.” Vulsier grunted. He removed his helmet and set it on the ground, the candle still burning.

  “Cool and dry in the tunnels today.” Max gave a standard noncommittal goblin greeting.

  “I won’t keep you, Maxim,” Vulsier said. “This is a courtesy, to let you know I’m done here. I won’t be back.”

  “What do you mean?” Vulsier was an older gob, afraid of no one. He worked hard when he liked a job and not one minute when he didn’t.

  “You’ll know soon enough when you see what he’s done. Get your eyes off the ground in there. Look at the ceiling.”

  No question, the he Vulsier spoke of was Idris. Max glanced back at the gobs unloading the iron. They were all younger goblins. Now that he thought about it, the older gobs had been pulling out for weeks.

  “I’m sorry to see you go, Vulsier. Truly. But I understand.”

  “My grandnephews, Sturm and Drang, are staying on,” Vulsier said.

  “Sturm and Drang. You’re kidding.”

  “My niece thinks she has a sense of humor.” The old gob chuckled. “She loves Goethe. At all events, the boys are young. Idealistic. They believe something good can be salvaged from this mess.”

  “Salvage.” Max grunted.

  “I’ve told them to trust no one but you, Maxim. Should you find yourself in need, they’re your men.”

  Sun and moon, he had enough to worry about without taking on two neophytes. “I appreciate that, Vulsier. I’ll do what I can for them.”

  The old gob bristled. “That’s not what I meant, Maxim, and don’t insult me or my family by taking it that way.”

  “You’re right, Vulsier. Of course.” He’d embarrassed himself. He hated that. “I’ve been too long mixed up in court intrigues and pandering. I apologize.”

  “I don’t know what hold Idris has over you. It’s not my business to know. I don’t want to know.” Vulsier picked up the helmet, the candle still burning. “Sturm and Drang are yours to command, by my command.”

  Max grunted and nodded. “The truth is, I’m unworthy, Vulsier. You know that.”

  “Yes, Maxim. I know that.” The old gob blew out the candle. “When the time comes and the fairy prince is ready to fight for the moonstick throne, light this. There are many who live quietly in the hollows and vales, eager for that day. The candle’s summoning spell will call me, and I will call them.”

  Max felt like a treesap. “I strive to honor your faith, Vulsier.”

  “May your tunnels be cool and dry, my lord.”

  Max winced at the honorific, but Vulsier disappeared up tunnel into the darkness before Max could protest. He was no one’s lord.

  Bugger. He slipped the candle into his tool bag. Cissa would be leaving soon for Igdrasil, but he had to know. He had to see for himself what Vulsier was talking about. He went back to the wagon and reassured Mavis. Then he hoisted a load of iron rods over his shoulder and headed into the bower.

  Sturm and Drang were coming out, and the three exchanged acknowledging nods. The young gobs looked positively sick at heart, and Max’s dread increased with each step deeper into the bower. And then he saw it.

  It was dead center in the cavernous room, the thing that had repulsed Vulsier. “Great gods.” The rods slipped from Max’s hold, and one landed on his foot. “Dammit!”

  The thing had no top and no floor. It was a simple construct: iron poles jammed into the ground about four inches apart in an arc, three-quarters of a circle. When the circle was complete, it would be large enough to hold a fairy or two.

  A cold iron cage.

  It didn’t need a roof. A fairy surrounded by those bars wouldn’t be able to fly away. Wouldn’t be able to use magic at all.

  Look at the ceiling, Vulsier had said. Max bent his head back and squinted. It made him sick to his stomach. At regular intervals, tether jewels were imbedded high in the rock walls and in the ceiling. Idris was building a damn panopticon. He’d be able to spy on his prisoners whether they wore tethers or not.

  A young gob searched his tool bag and withdrew a 260 diamond lap. He tapped it against his chin absently, studying the bars on the unfinished cage.

  “Sun and moon.” Max let out a barely contained growl. He grabbed the gob by the vest and dragged him away from the cage. All work stopped and the bower went dead quiet.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The gob paled. “I—I’m getting ready to do a rough,” he said.

  “You’d dignify this…this atrocity with bright-cut?” Max seethed. “What design did you have in mind? A river of tears?”

  The gob paled. “I…I didn’t think.”

  “Hear me now!” Max roared into the bower. “Any gob who puts lap and graver to this work will answer to me!” He let the poor treesap go and stormed out of the bower, consoled somewhat by the approving grunts among the goblins he passed. Sturm and Drang, Max noticed, stood a little taller as he passed by them.

  Not surprising, Cissa was nowhere to be found at court. The courtiers were unusually relaxed, almost giddy. In the throne room a leprechaun was sprawled over the moonstick throne, his head thrown back while two pixies poured wine into his open mouth. When he saw Max, his face turned white. He fell over himself scrambling off the dais.

  A serving pixie popped in and crashed against Max’s shoulder. “Ooh, the gob, the gob!” she said. “Exqueeze me!” She bowed dramatically in the air and lurched to the side. Drunk. She fit right in.

  “What’s going on?” Max said. “Have you seen Princess Narcissus?”

  “She’s gone, she’s gone.” The pixie hiccupped. Her eyes widened and she blushed. “Maybe she went to Sarumos with King Idris.”

  “Idris is in Sarumos.” That explained why Cissa and Morning Glory chose today to bring Lily. “For what purpose?”

  “Shhh. A secret, a secret,” the pixie said loudly. “He’s going to marry Queen Brienne!”

  “Hmph.” Max turned on his heels and walked out of the throne room. Cissa must already be on her way to Igdrasil to meet Morning Glory and the child.

  He was still grumpy when the pony cart reached the edge of the faewood. He never liked coming out on this side. One clean portal between realms was better than a hundred haphazard rifts on a threshold.

  Glimmer Cottage lay to the south, far too close for his comfort. He didn’t hate the wyrd as the fairies did, but it was always good practice to keep clear of that witch Elyse.

  He jumped down from the wagon and patted Mavis. “Stay here, girl, until we see what’s what.” The pony nickered and batted her hoof against the ground, but she didn’t follow him.

  He kept to the edge of the woods, passing in and out of the fae and human realms, and moved north toward Igdrasil and the cliffs of the Severn Sea. He couldn’t stop thinking about the bower. There had to be a way to confound that cage.

  He was lost in an idea when he became aware of shouting up ahead.

  “No!” Morning Glory cried out. She was standing near Igdrasil with Lily in her arms. “You can’t have her!”

  Idris’s cold
laugh rang out over the fields clearly, as if Aeolios himself carried the sound. The regent’s entourage joined in with clapping and jeers. So much for going to Sarumos to court Brienne. But Idris hated being in the human realm. He must have discovered Morning Glory’s secret.

  Max scanned the clearing and the trees frantically. Cissa had to be here somewhere. Thank sun and moon. He spied the princess but a few yards away, watching the scene from behind an ash tree. Her eyes sparkled with terror and fury. She began to extend her wings.

  No! Max’s heart raced with fear. If Idris saw her, she’d be in more trouble than poor Morning Glory. Max ran. He tackled the princess and pinned her to the ground. She started to protest, but he put a finger in her face.

  “There’s nothing you can do.” He half whispered, half mouthed the words. She stopped struggling and nodded understanding. Max felt his cheeks burn as he fully appreciated the position he’d put her in. He pulled her to her feet and focused on Glory.

  “Great gods,” Cissa whispered behind him. They both watched in horror, helpless as Morning Glory ran with the little faeling looking over her shoulder, wild-eyed.

  “Your magic is nothing to mine, Glory.” Idris didn’t bother moving. “It’s absurd to think you can run from me. Do you imagine Igdrasil will help you?”

  Idris’s entourage erupted with mocking laughter as he stretched forth his hands. “Come to…”

  King Idris didn’t finish the spell, for he had nothing to lay it on. Morning Glory and the child had disappeared.

  “Find them!” Idris screamed. His bewildered entourage scattered and pretended to look under flowers and among blades of green grass, all careful to stay away from the dreaded Igdrasil. “Bring them to me!”

  “She’s gone,” Cissa said.

  “And so should we be, princess. Now.” Max took Cissa’s hand, and she didn’t pull it away.

  He led her through the trees toward the pony wagon. He should be worried about Idris, about Glory and poor vulnerable Lily. Instead he was enraptured by the strong beat of his own heart and the soft exquisite smallness of Cissa’s hand in his.

  They reached Mavis and the wagon, and he lifted the princess onto the driver’s bench and jumped up beside her. Idris’s screams carried on the breeze as Max grabbed the reins and urged the palomino onward.

  “Let’s take no chances.” He set a goblin spell over them all—pony, wagon, and everything—and said, “Go.” The sunlight faded along with the sound of the wind in the leaves. For one full second their senses were inoperative. Then they were deep in the bowels of the earth, safe in the goblin tunnel to Mudcastle.

  Cissa trembled beside him on the bench, not with fear but with rage. She put her hand on his thigh. “Glory is really gone.” Her eyes sparkled with tears, bereft of their usual prankish fun.

  Max didn’t know what to say. He leaned over and kissed Cissa’s cheek, her face even with his, and she didn’t wince. “Walk on,” he said to Mavis quietly. Neither gob nor fairy acknowledged the kiss.

  Nonetheless, for the remainder of the ride to Mudcastle Cissa’s hand never left Max’s thigh.

  Tea at Bausiney’s End

  1976. Igdrasil

  “BEVERLY!” DANDELION’S CRY SOUNDED so far away.

  A familiar queasiness rolled over Beverly’s stomach, and something pulled her backwards and off her feet. The force field that had brought her to Mudcastle lifted her once again and swept her into the whirlwind with no wind, strange vibrations buffeting against her.

  The force dissolved and she fell on wet ground. Pain squeezed her head like a vise.

  The rain was different here, falling in thicker drops, and the air smelled of the sea. She drew the cold salt air as deep into her lungs as she could and blew it out, trying to purge the headache. Her surroundings were familiar, comforting, and yet she felt heavy with sorrow.

  Dandelion’s voice echoed in her mind, but it was more memory than sound. Her heart hurt. She struggled to her hands and knees and looked up to see Felicia and George Sarumen staring at her.

  No, no. It was a struggle to keep from crying in front of them.

  “How did you do that?” Felicia said.

  George looked down the front of her dress. “You look good.”

  She glared at him and got to her feet. She was at Igdrasil. Her VW was in the car park. She was grasping a clump of chamomile. Morning Glory’s tea!

  “How did I do what?”

  “You walked behind the tree,” Felicia said, “and when you fell down on the other side you were wearing that.”

  George peered behind Igdrasil and over the cliff. “Is this part of the entertainment?” he said. “What’s on the playbill at Tintagos Castle, possession by ghosts?”

  Beverly touched the fabric of her dress. Her handbag lay on the ground beside her jacket in the hollow between the two gnarled roots. “I have to go.” She picked up her things and started toward her car.

  George and Felicia called after her, but her brain couldn’t deal with the caustic noise their human voices made. She fumbled with her keys, hyperventilating, and pulled onto the Ring with the fleeting thought she was in no condition to drive. Bugger it all.

  At home, she tossed the fish and chips into the rubbish bin and the chamomile on the kitchen counter and went upstairs to look for something to wear. Sun and moon. Everything in her closet was horrid. Ugly, cheap, unnatural fabrics. It all smelled horrible.

  She took the flowers out of her hair and stared at the two blooms in her palm. “Dandelion,” she whispered. A tear ran down her cheek.

  She thought of the shimmering lights of the borealis and his reassuring voice. I have you. A lump rose in her throat. Her shoulders shook, and she couldn’t stop the tears. Dandelion, Dandelion.

  The front door slammed.

  “Bevs, I’m home!” There was the sound of Marion tromping into the house books and of dropped on the kitchen table. “They’ll be here any minute!”

  “I’ll be right there, Marion.” Beverly went to the bathroom and blew her nose and splashed cold water on face and went down to the kitchen. Marion was bent over, poking around in the refrigerator.

  “Aren’t you eating with the Brennans?”

  “I can’t wait that long.” Marion stood up and closed the door, biting into an apple. She nearly choked when she saw Beverly’s clothes. “Cor, Bevs. You’re beautiful.”

  “All good to wear to Bausiney’s End? I’ve been asked to tea.” Beverly found the invitation in her bag and showed it to Marion. Everything was normal and surreal at the same time.

  “Nice.” Marion ran her fingers over the embossed moon and stars on the envelope. “You do look lovely.”

  “Yes, I feel quite posh.” It was a good thing Marion didn’t ask where the clothes came from, because Beverly had no idea what she’d say. “Ian said to tell you to stay out of mischief.”

  “Ha-ha,” Marion said. “Ian’s nice. You should marry him.”

  “Too young for me,” Beverly said. “But he’s all right. If you fancy him that much, you can marry him when you grow up.”

  “He’s too old for me.” Marion turned red. “Seven years older!”

  “Try twelve hundred.”

  “Huh?” Marion looked out the kitchen window.

  “Nothing.” Twelve hundred years older. Immortal. “When you’re twenty-five, seven years older will seem just right.”

  A horn honked outside. “They’re here.” Marion ran to the front room for her suitcase. “Got to go.”

  “Wait a minute, kid.” Beverly followed her and opened the coat closet by the front door. “Don’t forget your brelly.”

  The mansion in the hills above Tintagos Village was grander on the inside than all Beverly’s imaginings, but a sense of disappointment permeated the place. She was left to wait in a long hall-like room that served as a portrait gallery. Past earls and countesses looked down on the empty space, witnesses to their dynasty’s fall.

  Bausiney’s End wanted a family.


  She should have begged off the visit. She was still disoriented from her time trip. What else should she call it? It was all beginning to feel like a dream, but her circadian rhythms told her days—even months—had passed since she woke up this morning, and yet today was still today. Her brain accepted the fact, but not the feeling.

  And how to explain her dress? Her boots? The chamomile drying on the kitchen counter? The dandelions now pressed in her mother’s bible?

  “Oh!” She stopped at one of the portraits. She didn’t need to read the brass plate beneath the fourteenth Lord Dumnos: Donall James Utros Cade Bausiney, 1858-1928.

  It was Lord Tintagos. Donall from the picnic by the lake. He was older in this painting, but it was the same person. His wife’s portrait hung beside his. Lydia, the woman who knew so much about wyrd and fae.

  Good for you, Donall. You beat out a Sarumen to win your fair maid.

  All the other countesses were surrounded by their children, but Lydia Pengrith Bausiney was alone in her painting. She wore peacock feathers in her hair and held a large black leather journal with the title embossed in red: Tales of Wyrd.

  She cradled her journal as one might an infant. Perhaps the countess meant to show the world she was more than a broody hen. Her contribution wasn’t her children but her scholarship, her knowledge of the wyrd and fae.

  She stared at Beverly across time.

  “I see my illustrious ancestors have been keeping you company.” The present Lord Dumnos said as he entered the hall. Behind him a butler pushed a teacart laid out with tea and cakes and champagne. Lord Dumnos took Beverly’s hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  He didn’t kiss her hand, but he nodded over it slightly. She didn’t know what to do. Did people still curtsy? “My lord.” She bent a knee and kind of stooped.

  “No, no.” The earl patted her hand. “We’ll have none of that. Not in private between you and me, Miss Bratton.” He dropped her hand. “Forgive me. Ms. Not Miss. Women’s lib. I’m all for it, you know.”

  Maybe he was trying to be cool, but people his age shouldn’t do that. It was just awkward. He must be close to fifty.