wyrd & fae 04 - glimmering girl

by L. K. Rigel

  But if one’s equal number of men carried superior weapons into the fight—blades that could pierce armor and slice through a normal sword with a quarter the effort—the advantage would be not merely decisive. It would be overwhelming.

  Lord Sarumen had wanted more than a gift to please a king’s ego. He wanted to whet that king’s appetite for enough Dumnos steel to arm his entire force. In a flash, Ross saw forward, and he saw backward. Four years ago when Sarumen himself had come to Tintagos to knight the baron’s son, it had been but the first step in a long march to one objective, a plan executed with eternal patience.

  Sarumen wanted to control all the iron of Dumnos.

  « Chapter 11 »

  The Fisher King

  Igraine spread her wings, caught a wind drift, and soared high and free above Avalos. Then she swooped down and circled the small island within the island, at the center of the freshwater lake where the marble rock kept Mistcutter safe from the world.

  She lifted higher until all the island came into view, twenty-three miles long and seven miles wide. She flew east, away from the eternal spring, and plunged through the encircling mist which hid Avalos from the outside world.

  Muscle memory told the way to Igdrasil. Igraine dismissed an avian impulse to scan the world tree for prey and kept on.

  She’d never transmogrified outside of Avalos. It was winter in Dumnos. White mist in from the Severn Sea mingled with the smoke of fire pits and chimneys. Northeast of Igdrasil lay Tintagos Castle, the cliffs on one side and the remaining perimeter surrounded by a wall imposing to a human—and nothing to a falcon.

  Inland and somewhat south lay the faewood. Even in peregrine, Igraine shuddered. Since coming to the mainland when she was thirteen, Igraine had roamed the hills and fields freely, limited only by her stamina and perseverance. The faewood was the one place Kaelyn always warned her away from. The fae were the enemy.

  Igraine headed toward the castle. While in peregrine, she might as well eavesdrop on Bishop Quinn and learn why he was here. And if she also caught a glimpse of Sir Ross, she might find out what sort of man he had become.

  But then, out of the corner of her peregrine eye, Igraine spotted smoke rising from a two-story cottage at the edge of the faewood. A cottage that looked older than any house or hut in the surrounds of Tintagos, yet one she’d never seen before. She pulled in her wings and dived down closer. Her tiny falcon heart pounded with excitement.

  A woman was on the roof, sitting on a chaise. She was talking to herself—it looked like she was arguing with herself. Anger and bitter regret emanated in waves from the cottage. Something was terribly wrong here.

  Dread flooded Igraine’s little bird body. Instinctively she caught an updraft and flew away from that horrible place as fast as wing and air could take her.

  Elyse! She had seen Glimmer Cottage… and Elyse. It had to be!

  Remember, remember, she told herself—though she usually retained little of her transmogrifications. A random sound, an elusive sense of face or place, with the feeling of snippets from faded dreams.

  At the castle she flew over the gate and perched neatly on the smithy’s roof. The air within the keep was intense and a bit nauseating. Igraine turned her eye toward a smell of possible food. A fat man in a brown robe dropped a piece of whatever he was eating. She flew down to the ground and snatched it up in her beak.

  Ack, disgusting. She spit out whatever it was.

  The man said, “What’s that falcon doing there, free of tether?”

  She raced back up to the smithy’s roof. From that safety, she looked down into the face of Bishop Quinn, standing beside the fat man. His greedy gaze burned up at her, a reminder of everything she disliked about him.

  “A silver coin to the man who brings me that bird,” he said. “She’s too beautiful to fly free.”

  How dare you! Igraine held the bishop’s gaze while his entourage began to climb the smithy walls.

  “See how she waits so patiently.” He sounded disappointed.

  Still she stared at him, watched his excitement and desire, and waited until his best man was nearly upon her. When she saw triumph in Quinn’s eyes, she took off with a gleeful laugh that came out as a screetch.

  “The bird played you, bishop.” The smithy joined in Igraine’s cackling laughter.

  She circled over Quinn’s head, just beyond his reach, until he said bah! in frustration. Flying away from the castle and the horrible man, a niggling feeling told her there was something else she’d meant to do, but should couldn’t remember what it might have been.

  Having come this far, she might as well fly home and check on Kaelyn before returning to Avalos. She went north past the Ring road. For a minute she followed the troop trail that led to the most sacred fairy circle of the Dumnos fae. There Prince Dandelion would be made king one day.

  Dandelion! How could Zoelyn take him as a lover? What they said about fairies and sex must be true. Zoelyn had certainly seemed pleased with her memories.

  But still. A fairy? Ugh.

  She continued north over the Small Wood, a grove of ash and yew. Kaelyn’s cave was just beyond, a short distance to the east. Something shimmered and glimmered below, a river. She followed it to a little freshwater lake. Seeing the water, hunger took her over. She had to eat. Now.

  Her breathing quickened and her heart pounded. Fish darted about in the clear lake below. Beautiful. Exciting. What would it be like to swim under water with no need for air, to glide weightless and free? She’d never changed before without returning first to her human form. Was it even possible?

  She fixed on a trout and rotated clockwise in the air. A wave of nausea passed through her—and was gone. The world was dark and cold, liquid and silent. The light from overhead seemed physical and wavering. This felt wonderful! She moved through the water.

  What was that pretty red thing dancing ahead of her? Urgent need—painful, really—shot to her mind from her fish belly. She needed that thing. She wanted to eat it. But another fish darted up on her left and wanted it too.

  Eat. Now. Hunger was the only thing she was about. She had to eat. She had to have that good red thing, so pretty. It was hers—oh, no! It was getting away!

  Leaping ahead of the other fish, she lunged and clamped down on the red thing with her strong jaws. Oh… So… Delicious! Juicy and cool and—it hurt. It hurts! She writhed and spit, spit, spit the hurting juicy thing out.

  But it wouldn’t get out—and she couldn’t breathe. A monster grabbed her around the waist and ripped the hurting thing out of her mouth and threw her into a cage of knotted ropes. She gasped and gasped, desperate for air, swinging in the rope cage with the monster’s great strides.

  She was going to die…

  The monster went into a cottage and dropped her cage down on a floor. She gave one great awkward pull, and air started into her lungs again. It came in gulps and gasps, but she could breathe. She lay on a thick rug beside a fire, her bare skin warmed by the heat. The apple blossoms glimmered in her hair, and an open net lay on the floor near her feet.

  She needed to speak, say someone’s name to force her mind to reorganize, but she didn't know anyone’s name—not even her own.

  Across the room, a man was sharpening a knife on a whetstone, his back to her. She tried to stand and rose shakily, gasping in the effort. The man turned around, and her breath caught in her throat. He was… wonderful—like a powerful and noble king.

  Who was he? It felt as if she’d known him all her life—and more. As if she’d had other lives, and had known him through them all. Yet she couldn’t place his face or think of his name.

  He looked at her, into her. Her heart swelled, as if it had found its true home. A scar ran from his eye down his cheek. She’d once heard of someone… a handsome man with such a scar…

  “Sirr…oss?”

  The man’s eyes widened. Her heartbeats quickened. As the world started to make more sense, one thing became clear—she’d never seen tha
t man before in her life.

  “Don’t be afraid.” He raised his hand—holding the knife.

  One thought filled her mind.

  Run!

  « Chapter 12 »

  Because a Fire Was in My Head

  Ross slept late, there being nothing better for sleep than the crisp salt air coming in with the mist off the Severn Sea. He woke to the homely sounds of servants at their work within the castle and felt content. He never wanted to leave Tintagos again.

  He dressed and headed down to the armory for a new sword. On the way he met Braedon, who requested leave to visit his parents in Bodmin.

  “Unless you want me here, Sir Ross.”

  “You’ve done well, lad. Go. Let your mother know you’re alive.”

  The armory had a number of swords that would do in a pinch but were no better than that. A proper, self-respecting knight should carry a proper weapon. Ross went out into the keep to see the smithy and found the man and his apprentice discussing a customer who’d just departed.

  “Someone ordered a sword?” Ross said.

  “Not a sword, Sir Ross. He wanted as many as I had Dumnos steel to make.”

  “Sun and moon,” Ross said under his breath.

  “The bird confounded him,” said the smithy’s apprentice. “He wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “Bird.”

  “A wild falcon flew into the keep and taunted the bishop,” the apprentice said. “When she perched on the roof, he sent his man to catch her, but she wasn’t having it. She knocked off Quinn’s purple skull cap and laughed as she flew away.”

  “It sounded like a laugh, sure enough,” the smithy said. “Enough, anyway, to put the bishop in a mood. I was sorry to disappoint him a second time, but it had to be done.”

  “What do you mean?” Ross said.

  “I explained to the good bishop that he should speak to my lord, the baron, about the swords as all Dumnos steel belongs to Tintagos and has from the time of King Jowan.”

  “Good man,” Ross said. “And on that subject, I’m in need of a new sword myself. You may be gratified to know the last one you made for me now belongs to the king of England.”

  “All fine and good, Sir Ross. But I’d rather you told me it belonged to the king of Dumnos.”

  “Best keep that sentiment between us while the bishop is here.”

  They discussed the proposed weapon’s design, its furniture and scabbard. “An etched decoration on the blade above the guard would be a fine thing,” the smith said.

  “Yes.” Ross remembered the cloak made by Sarumen’s tailor. “Honeysuckle and hazel blossoms?”

  “Signs of Tintagos Castle.” The smith nodded approvingly. “Nothing better.”

  As they talked about the sword, the smith’s apprentice drilled Ross for accounts of the holy land and then of London. By the time the order was complete, the fire had come back into Ross’s head. He had his horse saddled and rode out into the countryside, away from the sea, toward the hills. He turned off the Ring road and went on through the Small Wood and on until he came to the sacred lake. The setting was as lovely as in his memory.

  He tethered his horse at the hunter’s cottage and, feeling nostalgic, went inside for a look. In one corner by a window was the bed where he’d sat eighteen years ago, blood gushing from his cheek. He ran his thumb down the line of his scar, remembering how worried the baron had been. For that brief moment in time, Ross had been his father’s sole concern, the only thing that mattered in this world. It had felt wonderful.

  Judging by the very light coat of dust on the rough furnishings, the cottage had been only recently abandoned. A broom and short axe leaned against a vaguely familiar cupboard in the corner. On the shelves he found a tinderbox, a few candles, a little ball of string, and a hook.

  Whoever lived here had fished from the lake and cut their firewood from surrounding woods. There were wild berries in the summer and apples in the fall and plenty of rabbits in the Small Wood for the pot hanging from the fireplace hook. Everything a man could want to live, and not so roughly.

  Everything but companionship.

  Ross couldn’t live alone, but a night’s solitude would help him shake the clutter out of his brain. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay at the hunter’s cottage tonight. His father would want him to witness his fealty oath along with the other knights of Tintagos.

  Besides, Quinn’s reaction to the Great Wyrding story and his opinion of the celebratory tapestry was not to be missed. A few hours’ peace would have to do.

  Ross picked up the short axe and went out to collect kindling and to break up a few of the logs stacked against the wall. In the lake a fish jumped, a good omen. He would put the hook and string to use and catch something to tide him over.

  Sun and moon willing, tonight’s banquet would go smoothly and Quinn would leave early tomorrow for London.

  Ross followed the lake’s shore around to the hazel trees and cut off a small branch with his knife. He peeled and smoothed the wand a bit, then notched it at one end and slipped the string through. A hawthorn loaded with late berries obliged him with some fat red fruit that would surely lure a fish to the hook.

  Perhaps one that had eaten seven hazelnuts.

  The fire in his head smoldered, and he realized it was born of longing. He was lonely for a life that existed nowhere on this earth. The obligations of his position didn’t intimidate him. He looked forward to serving the people of Tintagos and improving their lives. But he longed for peace. Why must there be so much war, so much strife among different people? Why did Brother Sun and Sister Moon allow it?

  And he wanted love. True love, the kind his father and mother had had.

  Poor Rozenwyn never would have satisfied this longing. He was sorry for her, but he felt nothing like the grief his father had suffered—still suffered—for his mother.

  Ah, well. He stuck a hawthorn berry on the hook and backtracked to the cottage side of the lake and the long, flat slab of slate that jutted out a bit over the water. A perfect perch.

  It was the golden hour of the day. The Dumnos mist didn’t reach this far in from the sea, and the bending light of late afternoon washed the rocks and trees in pink-gold light. A swirl of white moths danced over the lake, winking and blinking as the sun struck their fluttering wings.

  Ross dropped the berry in the water and thought of the man who’d been living in the cottage. How could anyone abandon such serenity?

  The line bobbed and tugged. “Aha! I’ve got you!” He pulled his dinner from the water, a fine little silver trout. It fought with valor, but the hook stayed fast. Ross flipped the fish onto the net and worked the hook out of its mouth. One would be enough. He drew up the net’s corners. Catch in hand, pole over his shoulder, he went back to the cabin to cook it.

  He laid the trout on the hearth before the now-roaring fire and opened the net. The beauty still squirmed, fighting for breath that wouldn’t come. He’d called it a silver trout, but its scales were gold as well, so pretty Ross really could believe it was a magical fish that would impart to him the wisdom of the world.

  He got up to get the flat iron pan, and while his head was stuck in the cupboard he heard something rustle by the fire.

  “Sir Ross?”

  A woman’s voice, like tinkling music. He turned and caught his breath.

  A girl stood beside the fire. She was naked and perfect, with smooth, creamy skin and blond, nearly white hair that fell down around her shoulders past firm, plump breasts to a narrow waist. Her rounded hips were like life calling to him, and her thighs and arms were muscular and fine. Her only adornments were white apple blossoms in her hair, the petals rimmed in silver and gold.

  Their eyes met, and Ross felt sure she was real. This wasn’t a dream. His heart opened. No one had ever seen him like that before, seen into who he truly was. It was terrifying—and wonderful. Her sparkling, striking blue eyes widened with her own fear and wonder. He saw directly into her soul—and felt as if he’d c
ome home.

  There was blood at the corner of her lips.

  “Don’t be afraid!” He offered his hand in friendship—too late, he realized he still held the knife.

  She ran.

  He bolted out of the cottage after her, but she was too fast, dashing away from the lake to the northwest. She ran into the Small Wood and disappeared through a close stand of ash and yew trees.

  “Come back! I won’t hurt you!” Pre-twilight sunbeams shot through the leaves and set the world on fire with their golden light. “Stop!”

  She faded through the brightening air, into the glimmering.

  The sun dipped behind something and the light was gone, suddenly, as if the low gods had gleaned the rays. The evening sky welcomed the coming night. Ross looked up through darkening tree branches and whispered to the first stars, “Bring her back to me.”

  Something had happened to him.

  He could hear still the music of his name on her lips. He could see her flowing hair, laden with silver apples of the moon and golden apples of the sun. Was she a goddess? A fairy? An angel?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t care. She lived and was real. And he would die if he didn’t find out where she had gone.

  « Chapter 13 »

  Candle and Goblin

  Disoriented, weak with hunger, she ran.

  There was no water, yet she breathed.

  She had no tail, yet she moved.

  With each stride, it felt more right to be in this body. A name… a name… name. If only she could remember her name, then surely the world would make better sense.

  The fisher king followed, so close she could hear his breathing, feel his strength… and his wanting. She couldn’t go any faster. The freezing December air seeped into her muscles and hindered her speed.

  “Cloak!” She called out the wyrd automatically, from muscle memory, and raised her hands to the sky. “Shoes!”

  A green and gold cloak slid over her arms, the fabric thick and soft and warm against her bare skin. She secured the front of the garment and pulled up its hood. Sun and moon! Two short black boots fell, buh-bonk, to the ground beside her.