The Seelie King's War

by Jane Yolen

  The wizard was gone, but his magic not only lingered, it had powered an illusion that fed every sense. She could see, hear, touch them. She thought she could smell them, too. And they hadn’t dimmed one bit since she’d been away. But of course, such an army didn’t dare leave the tented place, not as long as it was raining.

  She shared none of her fears with Dagmarra or Maggie Light. She guessed they’d already figured it out for themselves.

  Ahead of them, but still beneath the pavilion’s sheltering roof, was the wagon, with a buzz of real soldiers around it. The Poppy Clan, and a few of the Toad Clan as well. Sitting in the wagon and holding court was the queen, though she looked older, shrunken, and pale.

  How she has faded in a single day and night, Snail thought.

  The queen’s voice, though, was still powerful, and when she spotted Snail, she called out, “Give way for m’lady.”

  Dagmarra turned and looked up at Snail.

  Snail shrugged. Winked.

  Maggie Light said nothing. She didn’t have to. Dagmarra’s face said it all.

  “Snail!” From behind, the familiar voice welcomed her back.

  Snail turned, resisted curtseying, stepped forward, and was enveloped in a big hug. She stood rigid, afraid to give in to his brotherly affection, when all she could see was doom ahead.

  “I’m soaking wet,” she warned Aspen.

  “But you’re here,” he said. “With Maggie Light. And Dagmarra.” He grinned. “Everything is going to be all right now.”

  Snail thought about the Unseelie army awaiting them. The Red Caps and Border Lords, the ogres and bogles, the swords and arrows, lances, talons, teeth. And all they had was a handful of real soldiers and a regiment of shadows.

  “Everything . . . all . . . right,” she whispered, lying to her king and knowing she lied. And when he gave her a second hug, she allowed herself to forget fear and instead to breathe hope. It was a small victory. Perhaps the only one that she’d have in this night before battle.

  27

  ASPEN CHOOSES THE WAY

  “How far away is Odds’s army?” Aspen said as he watched Snail tear into a hearty soup Molintien had provided. She had provided a spoon as well. He had no idea where the ingredients for the soup had come from, and decided not to ask. He assumed the spoon had been sent along by Balnar.

  Dagmarra and Maggie Light sat on either side of Snail protectively, neither looking entirely comfortable being surrounded by so many fey. Dagmarra had a smaller bowl of soup that she was simply drinking from as if it were a cup.

  Maggie Light did not eat at all, and no amount of argument from Molintien could convince her to. Finally Snail said, “She’s a made woman, like your soldiers in the tent. She neither eats nor sleeps.” Only then did Molintien stop trying.

  I wonder when last Snail ate? Aspen thought.

  “A day,” Snail replied, after a quick swallow.

  It took Aspen a moment to realize she was answering the question he had asked aloud, not the one he had thought.

  “If you can call it an army.” She glared up at the silken roof that still held despite the now-pounding rain. “Might be longer if this storm continues.”

  Aspen nodded. “I think I can give them a day. Then we can all retreat to the palace. I think we will feel better with walls around us and an actual army beside us.”

  Snail nodded in agreement and went back to shoveling soup into her mouth.

  But Dagmarra looked furious. “Retreat? How can you think of retreat? We’ll have the numbers to go forward. Retreat is no treat. It’s just a stupid rout. The route to despair and defeat. Arms carry us forward; backward-running feet make for a defeat.”

  Aspen thought about what he had learned from Jaunty about an army in retreat. It was not much. But he did remember that a retreat was the most dangerous time, even if the army wasn’t running from a lost battle. The mere act of moving backward made soldiers lose heart, and any attack launched at them then could have a disastrous effect. It would be even worse for Odds’s men. They were more rabble than army, lacking the training necessary for an orderly retreat.

  “Weapons,” he told Dagmarra. “Bloodthirstiness. Battle-savvy. Brute force. It’s what they have and we do not.” He shook his head. “We need the palace walls around us for strength, to give us room to maneuver. This was never about fighting the Unseelie face-to-face, but about buying us time to outthink them, outrun them, and outscheme them.”

  I will lend Croak to the changelings, he thought. If Odds heeds his advice, they should be able to make it to Astaeri Palace safely. And with the changelings manning the walls with us, we will at least have a chance of victory. Or at least a chance to outwit defeat.

  He knew it wasn’t much of a chance, but not too long ago defeat was a near certainty. He glanced over at Snail, and the sight of her eating cheered him. She was done with the soup and was now tearing off bits of the black bread the bowl was made of to sop up the remnants. Laughing at something Dagmarra said, she pushed some flyaway orange hair back behind her ear. She noticed Aspen smiling and saluted him with the last of the bread.

  I could stay by this fire forever, he thought. He was warm and happy and mostly dry. He had friends and family near.

  But—he thought—a king’s duties pull me away. Maybe it was like that with his father. The man his mother had loved had been consumed by the role he had to play. If so, I forgive you, Father.

  Because now he understood. He knew he had to check the perimeter and make sure no enemy scouts got too close. He had to check on the fires and see that they were well fed. No, he couldn’t stay by the fire forever. He couldn’t stay for more than a few more moments.

  Who would ever wish to be king? he mused. The answer came to him immediately. All those who are not.

  Turning his eyes away from the fire, he looked out into the darkness toward where Jack Daw was encamped with his army. And many of them will lie, scheme, betray, and kill to become king. He thought of the skulker and the three crones he had killed, the Sticksman walking to the water with no memory of what he once was. Did the skulker do all that to become king? There was no way to answer that question. But having seen the terrible lengths Jack Daw had gone through to make himself the virtual king of the Unseelie . . .

  If they only knew how little the prize is worth.

  “Sire,” Croak said, stepping into the firelight and interrupting his reverie. “Scouts.”

  Aspen nodded and stood. He thought about asking where the scouts were and how many. Keep the old Toad talking so he could stay in the warmth of the fire for just a little longer.

  Instead, he said, “Show me,” and followed Croak out into the dark.

  THE SCOUTS WERE gone by the time Aspen arrived. All that was left were their footprints, already half filled with rainwater.

  “Must’ve just wanted a peek at Her Majesty’s weaving, sire,” Alicanson said, crouched behind a rock, still gazing downhill toward the stream. The red of his Poppy Clan emblem looked black in the low light. “Went back to camp when they saw it’s just to keep us dry.” He smiled and brushed a few strands of soaking wet hair off his forehead. “Well, most of us, anyway.”

  Aspen suddenly realized that while he sat safe and dry by the fires, his scouts had been working far away from the silk cover and firelight, crawling through mud and darkness to make sure the rest of the small army stayed alive through the night.

  “Pull your scouts back under the cover, Croak,” he said. “Let them dry out as well.”

  Croak stared at him for a second, then spit on the ground but away into the dark so as not to offend. “No,” he said. “Sire.”

  “Umm . . . what?”

  Croak shrugged. “No.”

  “If I might explain, sire,” Alicanson said, talking to Aspen but looking to Croak for permission to speak. The old Toad soldier nodded imperceptibly. �
��You probably think being a warrior is about killing. And, sure, that’s a part of it. But nobody becomes a warrior just so’s they can kill.” He paused, lips pressed thin. “Well, some do, I suppose. But most don’t. Not Croak, here. Not me. Not anyone in your company. We became warriors for one reason: to keep our friends and family safe. And a bit of discomfort is nothing if it lets us do that.”

  Aspen looked to Croak, who nodded his agreement.

  “Very well,” Aspen said, “but cut the watch by a third. I think Old Jack Daw will be content to rest most of his soldiers for the battle he thinks is coming tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sire,” the two warriors said in unison.

  He left them there and marched back up the hill alone.

  ASPEN WAS CORRECT; Jack Daw only guarded the Unseelie lines that night and left the Seelie to their own devices. So the king was not called upon again till dawn. And if he’d been able to sleep, he would have started the day well rested.

  As it turned out, he was tired and cranky from a fitful night of nightmare-filled catnaps. He scowled at Molintien when she brought him hot spiced tea just before daybreak, and barked at Fortuna, the Clover Clan soldier who gave him a stuttering morning report that all was clear.

  He would have snapped at Snail, too, but she looked even crabbier than he did.

  “Do we have a plan to live through the day, Your Majesty?” Her voice was emotionless, as if they were talking about a walk around the castle grounds.

  “Yes,” he said, “though it will not sound like much of one.”

  At that, she smiled. “They never do.”

  “This one even less so.” He cleared his throat. “Today, I plan for us to do nothing. But bravely.”

  “What?” She gawped. “Nothing?”

  “Bravely,” he reminded her.

  She ignored him. “Nothing? How is that a plan?”

  “That is why I added the bravely. I toyed with gallantly for a while, but I think bravely is better.”

  “Bravely? Nothing?” Snail sputtered. “You . . . I . . .”

  Aspen threw back his head and laughed. It felt good.

  “How,” Snail said, “can you laugh at a time like this?”

  “How can I not?” Aspen said. “I am trying to face down the greatest threat the realm has ever faced with a midwife, a moat troll, and an army of illusions. And my only hope is that a man who hates me arrives with reinforcements in time for all of us to run away together.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .” Snail showed the smallest of smiles. It was only a rueful, slightly cynical twist of the lips.

  But nonetheless—Aspen thought—a smile.

  “I know, it is like the beginning of a joke. A midwife walks into a tavern with a moat troll on her head . . .”

  Now it was Snail’s turn to laugh. She laughed and Aspen laughed with her until they were both coughing and crying and bent over from sore bellies. Several of the soldiers looked on with concern but were too polite or perhaps too disturbed to interrupt.

  Dagmarra was neither. “In Odds’s name, what are you two doing?” she asked, striding up boldly, Maggie Light close behind.

  “Moat troll,” Aspen said, then broke off in a giggling fit.

  “On my head,” Snail said, unable to stop laughing.

  Dagmarra frowned at them for a few moments, then stomped off, muttering, “Worse than my brothers, they are.”

  Maggie Light peered at them curiously, then eventually followed Dagmarra.

  Snail regained her composure first. “But seriously, do nothing? And don’t say bravely!” she said, raising a finger to forestall him.

  Aspen cleared his throat of humor. “Old Jack Daw will not know what to make of it. He will spend all day waiting, but nothing will happen. No attack. No talk. Nothing.”

  “So, that’s the day. Why won’t he attack that night?”

  “Well, that is the weakness in my plan.” He went on quickly before Snail could pounce on that statement. “But I am betting he will not. His defensive position is so advantageous, I think he will give me another day to attack. And by then, hopefully Odds will have arrived.”

  Snail was quiet, obviously thinking hard. “It is,” she finally said, “a shockingly good plan. Especially considering it involves doing absolutely nothing.”

  “But bravely!”

  She nodded sagely. “I can see why you added that.”

  “I will go tell the troops.”

  THE TROOPS—ALL thirty or so of them—took the news better than Snail. The storm had passed and all looked forward to spending the day drying out. And it looked like the thought of doing nothing while their enemies braced themselves for an attack that would not come appealed to them. They ate their food slowly and with great relish, guessing they were being watched.

  Aspen tried to join in their nonchalance, but he found he could only nibble at his journeycake, and grew more nervous as each hour passed.

  Tonight, he thought, tonight will be the test.

  At midday he made sure his scouts were resting, not talking or drinking or playing nine-man.

  “I will need you tonight,” he told them. As if I have not needed them every other night as well.

  He checked in on his mother several times, but there seemed to be no change for the good. If anything, she looked thinner, paler, less aware. As if magically holding the pavilion up in case the rain should return was draining her of everything that made her who she was. He was painfully aware, actually shivered with the memory, of how the old wizard had killed himself doing such hard magic. He would not let his mother wear herself away on his watch.

  He ordered the queen’s brow wiped with a cool cloth and checked in on Snail, Dagmarra, and Maggie Light. They discussed whether another flight to check on Odds’s progress was wise. Aspen decided against it.

  “I do not want Jack Daw to see anyone leaving this camp. If he suspects reinforcements are coming, it will force his hand.”

  Halfway to sundown an Unseelie herald marched to the middle of the stream. The rain had started up again, and his parley flag hung sodden and limp from his spear. Aspen sent no one to deal with him.

  “Let him soak his boots. And his head, too,” he said to the great delight of his soldiers, especially Snarl and Bite. Eventually, the herald returned to the Unseelie camp. No other heralds came. And Jack Daw’s army stayed encamped on their hill.

  When darkness fell, Aspen sent out his scouts. All of them.

  No one sleeps tonight, he thought. He had special orders for them.

  “As usual, no one crosses the stream,” he said. “Except for us. Tonight I need eyes on the enemy camp. I need to know if they move.”

  The soldiers all nodded, and young Alicanson said, “Yes, sire.”

  “But there is more.” He swallowed. His next words might send his soldiers to their death tonight. But it had to be said. “If they move, I will need you to attack.” He watched the words hit them, but none flinched. “Just a feint! But I need you to do enough damage to sit them back down behind their lines to wait for morning.”

  Croak spoke for all of them. “It is done, sire.”

  There was nothing more to be said. Everyone there knew that an attack—even a feint—by so small a force against an army as big as the one the Unseelie had fielded was suicidal.

  So this is what it is really like to be king, Aspen thought. I get to make new friends, then send them to their deaths.

  Remembering what the wizard had told him, he looked each soldier in the eye, letting them know he knew what he was asking. Letting each one of them understand that he did not do so lightly. Then he bowed to them as if they were all kings themselves. They bowed back, then disappeared into the dark.

  ASPEN RETURNED TO the central fire, where Snail looked a question at him. He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. Cross
ing his legs beneath him, he stared at the fire and waited for the distant sound of clashing arms to tell him that his friends were dying.

  The hours could not have passed more slowly if they had been dipped in treacle. Or, more likely, blood, he thought. His flippancy from earlier in the day was long gone, and now he worried constantly. He worried that Odds would not come at all, or would come too late to do anything but bury the bodies. He worried that his soldiers would be killed, had already been killed, would die uselessly, and the Unseelie would attack at night anyway. He worried that Old Jack Daw had seen through his plan and outflanked him in the night, slipping past them to put Astaeri Palace to the torch. He worried that the old drow had not slipped past and was still there in the dark, and knew that most of the Seelie army was illusion. He worried his mother would never recover, that Snail would die horribly, that all his friends’ trust in him was misplaced, and that he was a fool who would forever be known as the king who lost the Seelie kingdom.

  Like his scouts out in the rain and darkness, he got no sleep that night.

  BUT THOUGH TIME was slow, it still moved, and eventually the sun returned and with it his soldiers. They limped into camp scratched and bruised, most wounded in some small way, some in bigger ways. Snarl was missing half an ear, and Fortuna of the Clover Clan had an arrow in her calf that Snail would have to remove, but they were all alive.

  “They did not move,” Croak said, standing plank-straight in front of his king, even though he was obviously exhausted and his ankle looked black and swollen enough to be broken. “They. Did. Not. Move.”

  “Thank you, Croak,” Aspen said. And if tears filled his eyes, he figured they were used to it by now. “I—” He was interrupted by Snail.

  “Aspen!” she shouted, forgetting decorum in her excitement. “Look!”

  He followed her pointing finger and saw cold iron spiders cresting the hill, and behind them changelings, hundreds of them, thousands even. They were a rabble, armed haphazardly and lightly armored if at all, but there were a lot of them.