The Treachery of Beautiful Things

by Ruth Frances Long

  “And at our parting.” Wayland squinted at him. “I don’t know you, yet there’s something familiar to you. You have my name, lad. What’s yours?”

  “Jack.” He found himself hesitant and then ashamed. He raised his chin defiantly. “Jack o’ the Forest.”

  Wayland seemed more amused than surprised. “A Jack? Is, Rad, and Ger came for you, then? The first and last I understand then—a traveler from afar, a walker on the Ridgeway with the patience of stones, a creature of earth abroad on the way between worlds—but Rad? What has befallen a Jack that he needs to change so much? To call on such power, your need must be great indeed.”

  Jack’s mind whirled as he struggled to keep up with Wayland’s magic. This was another world, the magic of another kind than he knew. It wasn’t like the way he heard the trees, the way the forest sang for him, the way the earth warmed beneath his touch. It was old and formal, a magic of iron and fire. A magic that threatened to burn him away if he leaned in too closely.

  But he needed it.

  “I need a sword. Puck said—”

  Wayland surged to his feet, his features darkening still further. His eyes flamed red.

  “What mischief is Loki making this time?”

  Jack frowned at the unfamiliar name. “My Lord Wayland?”

  The smith limped toward him, dragging his lamed legs one after the other.

  “Or is it Alberich, whom your kind call Oberon?” He spat toward the fire and flames surged to a white heat. “Who sent you, Jack, and on what errand?”

  “Puck—you call him Loki? He gave me the information on where to find you, and the means of crossing the Edge. But the errand is my own.”

  That seemed to give him pause, though Wayland still looked suspicious. The giant shuffled closer. “Since when has a Jack had his own business? You serve the king and queen of the elves, do you not?”

  “I’m a border guard. I simply patrol the thresholds, the area around the Edge. A mortal in my protection was taken by the Nix and I need a sword—one of your swords—to rescue her.”

  A great rumble like the tremors of a volcano shook the forge as, to Jack’s surprise, Wayland laughed.

  “Ah yes, a girl. There’s usually a girl somewhere along the way. Come.” He lurched away again and filled two goblets with ale from a skin on a nearby workbench. He handed one to Jack, who eyed it carefully. The cup, though gilded and studded with gemstones, was formed from a human skull. Wayland sat down, still laughing, and threw back his head to drain the liquid from its gruesome container. It flooded his broad mouth, glistening as it soaked his beard, turning the dark gray to black. His eyes met Jack’s over the rim in challenge. Jack drank his ale more slowly, waiting to hear what Wayland would say next.

  He lifted the skull-goblet toward Jack in a macabre salute. Rubies winked in the sockets. “They were the sons of my enemy, Nidung, the man who lamed me and trapped me on this waterlogged island. They came, like you, demanding mighty weapons to do great deeds and win fame. They were vain and arrogant.” He refilled his cup and tossed the ale-skin to Jack. “Some may speak kindly enough of me, Jack, but they are few.” He leaned forward, the fire demonizing his blunt features again. “There is a price for everything, from a sword to a human life, be they commoner, king, or queen. Or Jack. Are you prepared to pay that price?”

  Jack drained the ale from his cup and refilled it. “I’ll do what I must, Lord Wayland.”

  “Just Wayland, lad. I’m a craftsman, not a lord. And kingship?” He shrugged. “That is as it does. I learned my trade well and wanted nothing more than to live a simple life with my wife. So tell me about this girl you want to rescue. Is she beautiful?”

  Jack closed his eyes, thinking of the faces he knew—the women of the Sidhe, Titania herself, the Dames Vertes and the River Maidens. They defined beauty and grace. And Jenny? How could a mortal compare?

  “No. She…she’s not like other women, the women of my Realm, I mean. She has hair the color of autumn leaves. She’s gangly, like a newborn fawn, and awkward with it.” A smile played on his lips. “She makes me laugh, usually without meaning to. Usually without realizing she’s said or done something. She makes me want to be better, makes me think that maybe there’s more to me than— She was lost and asked for help. I was duty-bound to give it, but the help I could offer wasn’t what she wanted. We struck a bargain.” He laughed bitterly at the thought and drank a little more, aware that Wayland’s eyes never left him. The smith was studying him, examining him, intent on his every word. “I think she tricked me, but I’m not sure how. She gave me this.” He fished out the necklace. The golden heart flickered as it turned, the light bouncing back into Wayland’s face. It danced there, like a lure. “I promised to help her find her brother, stolen by the trees seven years ago. He’s Queen Titania’s thrall, her servant, but Jenny wouldn’t listen to reason.” He started to smile again, but his expression became a grimace as he felt his eyes burning. “But I can’t. I’m tied. Between the king and the queen…He gave me his protection to come here, to ask your help. He’d never done such a thing before. To get her back for him. I can’t help but betray her. To one of them. I don’t want to, but…” Screwing up his face, he turned away, tucking the necklace back into the safety of his shirt. “I don’t think I can help it. It’s part of what I am.”

  A huge hand took the goblet from him. To his surprise, Wayland squeezed his shoulder. Under the spell of the ale and the firelight, he hadn’t heard the smith move.

  “She sounds like my Alvit, my wife. Stubborn and impossible, not beautiful, but…compelling. And with that, more beautiful than any I had ever seen.” He huffed and the fire blossomed again. “You might be as wise to let it go.”

  “I can’t. Even if she’s to be lost to one of them eventually, I can’t. Not like this.”

  Wayland nodded slowly. “My ale has wondrous properties, they say. It never runs dry, always leaves you wanting more, and of course, makes you tell the truth, even if you don’t know it yourself. Everything must be paid for, Jack. Mortals don’t understand that, but we do, you and I, all our kind. I fear the price asked of you will be too high. If she’s in search of her brother, aren’t you just a means to an end?”

  And what was she to him? A way to gain his freedom? Maybe once. Not anymore. That option was gone. Titania lied, and Oberon had made him promise to give up everything for this chance to save her. Freedom was a dream now lost. And if he could still reach for it…if the option was still open to him, he’d still turn away. For Jenny. The realization tasted of ashes and regret.

  Was that all he was? A means to an end?

  For so many people throughout the Realm, yes. Jenny was the least of it. Just the latest and most gentle noose around his neck.

  “Probably,” he admitted. “But now she lies in an enchanted sleep, watched over by the forest folk, and her soul is caged in the Nix’s hall, his plaything and trinket. Just waiting for the queen, helpless. She’d hate anyone to think of her as helpless.”

  He fished out the remaining two coins, older by far than the first. Pure gold, they didn’t sting him, but they were unnaturally heavy. Each had a hole in the center and the gold bore a red hue, as if bloodstained at their minting. Both surfaces were worn clear, but at the sight of them Wayland froze.

  “Where did you get them?” The words came out in a desperate rush. A fierce hunger filled his blazing eyes. The forge became incandescent, illuminating the barrow as if it were full daylight.

  “From my Lord Oberon.”

  “Alberich’s rings,” the smith breathed, and stretched out a trembling hand. He stopped, a low hiss coming from between his teeth. “My gold. The gold he stole from me. And what price did your king demand? He would never relinquish them lightly. What other bargains have you sworn?”

  Jack closed his fingers over the rings. “She’s the May Queen. What choice do I have?”

  “You’re a fool,” said Wayland at last. “And a traitor to boot. A self-confessed traitor to yo
urself, and the folk, and, aye, to her as well. Like as not she’ll curse you before she takes her leave of you, or let you rot in your own coffin. Help her, obey him, accept what’s offered…You can’t keep all these vows.”

  Jack remained silent. Wayland heaved in a sigh, his chest like bellows. Then he seized a huge sword from the wall where it was mounted. Runes glistened like water along its length. The counterweight was shaped like a flame.

  “This is Mimung, once called Hrunting, the Jester’s sword, the Blade of the Fool. That alone makes it suited to you. With it you may slay any foe, and save your May Queen. It was mine once, then I lost all use for it. I’ll give it to you for the rings, but I fear it will bring you no joy.”

  Jack stared at the smith, surprised to find the deal was done. Wayland cradled the red-gold ring-coins in his hand, turning them over and over, marveling at them in the firelight, while Jack took the Jester’s sword. It was fantastically light to hold, perfectly balanced. Radiance rippled in the steel, making the endless folding that had created it appear like the age rings of a tree. As it sliced through the air, he heard the steel sing, and it brought a grim smile to his face. He’d never held such a weapon before.

  “What do the runes say?” he asked.

  “Know yourself,” said Wayland, his gaze fixed on Jack’s rapt expression. “Advice to live by.”

  Jack couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was what he’d felt at the doorway, the same feeling, the same warning. Flint and bronze were one thing, but this…Its music sang to him of mighty deeds, of heroes and valor, of Jacks who had transcended what they were, what they were made to be, to become instead legends. It sang old stories and lost stories, and things that never were. Couldn’t be. Dreams, some might call them. Lies with a kinder name.

  “’Ware its song,” Wayland’s voice warned. “Mimung, like your elf king and his queen, or indeed like the Nix, has the power to beguile. It is a tool, Jack. You must wield it, not the other way around.”

  The words were like a punch to the stomach. The vision shattered, cracking like ice in a thaw, leaving him openmouthed and breathless. The sword murmured on, but its effect lessened now. Jack bowed his head, his face warming with embarrassment, and he nodded, sheathing the sword. It was a dangerous thing, as Puck had warned, dangerous to all of the folk, but perhaps to a Jack most of all. Jacks could dream. It was part of their tragedy.

  He strapped it across his back and thanked the smith somberly as he made to go. Wayland, still entranced by the gold rings, gave no answer. Perhaps, Jack thought, he should heed his own advice. Jack slung his long-dry coat on, covering the sword. It wasn’t until he made for the door that the smith straightened up.

  “Wait. The runes Is, Rad, and Ger greeted you. You heard them, didn’t you? At the door? Man of earth come to the crossing, to the places between, with a need to change…to change everything he is. And it can be done. But only at a great cost. Is,” he said with the same sibilant whisper Jack had heard outside. “The ice before spring, the bridge between worlds—this is where you came from. Winter has its mark on you, Jack, and will cling to you. Rad, the change, the quest, the need to act—this is where you are now, and the need will drive you. And finally Ger, the earth, the harvest, the final reckoning, when all things are tallied and winter starts to reclaim its own, the grave—that’s where you’re headed. From earth you came and to the earth will you return. You have no place in the water. If you go in after her, you won’t come out again. Not as you were.”

  Jack frowned. “Is that a prophecy?”

  “Yes. And it cannot be turned aside, unless you turn aside. Your bargains and your honor, however, will not allow that, and something more. Something that, being what you are, you cannot understand yet.” Wayland sighed, shook his head. “I was a king once. Do you know what that means?” Jack didn’t answer, his voice lodged in his throat. The world around them—this world, Wayland’s world of rune magic and fire and iron—shivered as the old king spoke, and Jack could only listen, though all his instincts told him to flee. “Don’t even recall that much of the stories, eh? I was a god and a king, and I lost it all. Through a trick. The kind of trick Alberich, whom you call Oberon, plays so well. The kind he used on you. I know what you are, Jack. Better than you do.”

  Fires flared around him, melting the ice inside him, freeing Jack’s voice at last. “And what am I?”

  “Now? You’re a Jack. You are a guardian, bound by duty and obedience. He’ll want his price too, as I wanted mine. You aren’t like your Jenny. When she finds out what you are, and what you’ve promised to secure the sword—”

  “I know. Puck has already warned me half a hundred times.”

  “Pah,” Wayland spat into the fire, which sizzled and spat back. “You place too much trust in that trickster. At least you’ll betray with the best intentions. He’ll do it just for the fun.”

  Jack, who had known Puck all his life, withdrew. “He’s my friend.” Perhaps not entirely true, especially in light of recent events, but what did that matter now? He might doubt Puck himself, but that didn’t mean he would listen to someone else say it. “My thanks, Lord Wayland, and all honor to you, but I must go.”

  Wayland narrowed his eyes as Jack turned once more to leave.

  “Wait!” His voice held a plaintive undercurrent, yet was still commanding.

  Impatience gnawed at Jack’s guts, but Wayland was holding something out to him. He hesitated, feeling the chill that emanated from the small, spiked object in the smith’s hand. Jack’s skin recoiled from it.

  “What is it?”

  “Your payment exceeded the price. Give it to your Jenny. It’ll make her smile, I promise you.” He produced a piece of soft leather and wrapped it around the dreadful thing. Jack’s revulsion subsided. He took it hesitantly, half expecting the sensation to return when he held it, but there was nothing. The leather protected him from it. He slipped it carefully into his pocket. “Don’t touch it yourself, Jack. Nor allow any of the folk to touch it. Just give it to her. She’ll understand. It may even be of use to her.”

  “Why?”

  “It will offer her a protection you cannot. It’s made of iron.” Jack winced, thinking of the thing now as a poison vial at his side. “If she really is the May Queen, they’ll all want her—the queen, the fae, your lord and master most of all. If you love her…You do love her, don’t you, boy? I can see that much on your face. Are you prepared to do that, though she be the Wren? You are more than a slave, you know. Or you were once, weren’t you? Before he captured you. Before he created you anew and made you simply one of many. Practiced and practiced until he had it perfect and then turned his arts on you. But now the holly wears the crown. And the May Queen comes. Will you abide her thorns to hear her voice?”

  Jack had no answers to give. Every sentence presented another riddle, and yet everything Wayland said was true. He drank the ale as well. They were things to puzzle out perhaps, when he sat in the full sun of the Realm and could turn his face to its touch. When he wasn’t lost in this gray world anymore. Jack pulled the green coat around himself, noticing for the first time that it was patterned chiefly of oak leaves. If Jenny was the May Queen, that marked her as a child of the hawthorn, the May Tree. The two would never mix, or so the forest lore went.

  Oak and thorn. Mortal and fae. And the king and queen. Everything stood between them. Everything.

  chapter sixteen

  In the watery depths, Jenny regained some sense of consciousness, but a consciousness like nothing she had ever known. She was cold, cold to her core, and deep water surrounded her—water and weeds. She tried to turn, but found her body unresponsive. It was like one of those dreams, the kind where she ran from something monstrous only to find that she couldn’t move, that her own body was betraying her. Something from the forest, part of the forest, with burning eyes and leaves, moss and vine. In such dreams, she felt she had lost all power, all control. Like now. Just like now.

  Something glinted in front o
f her. As her vision adjusted, she could make out bars, golden bars, no thicker than a wire, woven close together in a glimmering net. They twisted around her, enclosing her completely. High overhead she could see light moving on the surface, a shifting, chaotic pattern that she longed to escape toward. To fall upward, to float to freedom. But the golden bars held her fast and her world was upside down. She was trapped, what there still was of her. Her body, whatever insubstantial form she held now, was not her body. That lay somewhere on the shore, abandoned, shaken off like old skin. Or worse, drowned in the river.

  A figure surged out of the darkness beneath her. Her abductor was even more impossibly beautiful in the water that was his home. His hair flowed around his face, framing it like a halo, and his body was lithe, graceful as a golden eel. He loomed over her, impossibly large, and then he smiled, baring small fishlike teeth, inserting a finger into her cage to prod at her, as one might to encourage movement in a reluctant pet. She shied back from his chill touch. It seared her skin, like bleach in a cut. But she didn’t have skin, not anymore. The pain felt vivid, even though she knew she had no substance down here. Her disembodied spirit still tried to cry out in pain and fear at the touch of this fae thing. No sound came out. The Nix smiled as if he knew anyway.

  He was joined by two others, women so beautiful Jenny wondered if she was looking at the source of all those legends about the mermaids’ beauty. Golden hair undulated around the cage as they leaned close, their long fingertips rippling the water to agitate her. Their smiles lit up their faces, glittering like the lure on a fishing hook.

  The Nix took out his harp, strumming his fingers across the strings. Music swelled beneath the water, the vibrations stirring up more ripples, which lashed against her flimsy form. Each touch shivered through her, burning, both pleasure and pain. She wanted to weep, but there was no weeping in this watery grave. She darted around, desperate to find some escape. But there was nothing, no way out.