by Dani Harper
“Esteemed delegates. Lawfully chosen envoys of your peoples. We have grown together in friendship and understanding as we have worked together this past while.” Actually there were still several of them that he’d like to use his light whip on—or even just his fists. Curses ran in a constant stream through his head, as he fought for the right words, words that Gwenhidw might use in such a formal setting. Finally, he gave up and sat down on the edge of the stage. He motioned to all of the delegates to sit as well.
“Let us deal in truth. We have not always gotten along. Many of us disagree on issues. Some of us have little or no liking for others in the group. But when we were atop Mynedfa, what mortals have named Holyhead, we accomplished something. We managed to set aside our differences and work together. We fed our collective power to the Great Way, and I believe we would have succeeded in our goal had not our queen been attacked.”
There were many gasps around the room. Aurddolen had been right. Most thought that the blast that hit the queen had been a natural recoil of power from the Way. “It was indeed another attempt on her life.”
A coblyn jumped to his stubby feet. “Is she all right, then?”
“Where is she?” hissed a fire drake. Others took up the questions, clamoring for details.
Lurien put his hand up for silence. “Her Grace, Queen Gwenhidw, is unharmed.” He hoped like Hades that was a true statement. It had to be. As for the other question, he’d thought long and hard as to whether to reveal her location. Finally, he’d come to the conclusion that to win the cooperation of this unruly group, he’d have to take the risk. And embellishing the truth ever so slightly might help all the more.
“Our beloved queen has been taken to Tir Hardd against her will.” True, in a matter of speaking—she certainly hadn’t asked him to send her there. Although she wasn’t actually in the faery territory—if she was with Morgan, she was in the human world. “She is alone and undefended.” Mostly true. Her mortal friends would do their best, but they had no magic with which to protect her. “And I need every one of you to work with me to open the Great Way again, so that the Wild Hunt may ride to her aid and bring her back to us.” That was completely true, regrettably enough. For the first time in his long, long life, he did need their help. He, Lurien, Lord of the Wild Hunt—who could not only open the Great Way by his powers alone but could hold it open for the passage of his entire entourage—didn’t have enough magic left in him to so much as light a candle.
He’d expected some hesitation, at least some discussion, but where Gwenhidw was concerned, her people were united. They stood and yelled, cheered, growled, roared their assent. They would return to Holyhead and tear the Way open with their bare hands, claws, and teeth if need be.
That was where the clamor died down and the gathering suddenly looked rather lost. “How will we do such a thing?” gasped a kelpie—the same one who had helped Aurddolen save him. “Our magic is drained, and we have not enough between us to open the Way.”
“We need time to recover,” said a tree nymph.
An undine hissed at her. “The queen has no time for you to rest!”
Lurien raised his hand as arguments broke out. “It seems that a solution has already been found.” It hadn’t been his idea, but he knew a good one when he heard it, and he’d acted on it with all the haste at his command. Better that the author of the idea presented it, however, and he motioned to Aurddolen to speak.
The dragon woman declined to climb the dais but stood in front of it.
“Each of us owns cyfareddau—relics, artifacts, stones, items that hold energy and power, that amplify the magic of living beings. We value and collect such things. Most of us are reliant on at least one cyfaredd, although some of us who are learned in magic eschew these objects as if they were mere props.” She shot a meaningful look at Lurien before continuing. “But they are not props, they are tools. And at such a time as this, when our resources and our magics are low, and our queen and our kingdom are in danger, we need all the tools we can get our hands on. Every monarch has known this from the beginning, and a collection of such objects has been preserved in the treasuries of the palace. Under the direction of Lord Lurien, we’ve brought these things here.”
He wished it had been that simple. No records had been kept over the endless centuries, no tally made of such things, as royalty tended to be somewhat casual about numbers. It was enough that the treasures were secure—somewhere. In the end, many trusted hands had been conscripted to hunt through the very roots of the palace, and many doors were forced open whose hinges had not moved in millennia. As the queen’s llaw dde, he had indeed directed the search though it seemed more like ransacking. Still, he would have torn down the entire palace, stone by stone, with his bare hands if it would have helped save Gwenhidw.
Lurien drew a symbol in the air, and his hunters entered the room bearing ornate golden boxes, elaborate silver urns, containers and chests embellished with gemstones and jewels. The rich trappings on the outsides were valued highly in the human world. Here, in the Nine Realms, the contents were the real treasure.
Bwgan stones. Thousands of them. From the size of a fingernail to the size of an apple, they had been accumulated over eons and stored in the very foundations of the palace, saved for a day of need.
And Aurddolen had been right: that day had come. Lurien watched as some of the envoys rubbed the stones on their skins and hides as though bathing with them. Others pressed them to their foreheads, and a few, like the basilisks, curled up on little nested piles of the stones with strange blissful looks on their faces.
The dragon woman grabbed Lurien’s hand and plunked a large bwgan stone into his palm. He was about to protest that he didn’t want to look weak, but the sensation was simply too good. The dark chatoyant stone, laced with hidden fires, filled the void in him with clean, enlivening energy. He was a desert wanderer drinking deep at the shaded spring of an oasis . . .
“Tools,” she said wryly. “Once in a while, you need them.”
Once in a while, indeed.
“My Lord!” One of his hunters, Trahern, raced through the vast room and handed Lurien a palm-sized leather pouch sewn shut with rough individual stitches, as though someone had been in a hurry. “This just came through one of the small ways.”
He held it in his gloved hand. “Odd. Who brought it?” he asked.
“It was tied to the back of a fat speckled bird. Actually, I could not see the fowl at first, only the pouch moving in the air by itself. When I touched it, the bird was revealed to my eyes—but I have never seen one like it here.”
Lurien frowned. If the bird had spots, it was no surprise that it had remained hidden. It was a curious fact that few fae beings could discern a creature both dark and light by sight alone. But Trahern had been a hunter all his life—what bird could he not identify?
“Nodin says it’s called a chicken.”
It must be from Gwenhidw! Lurien opened the packet and read the letter within. He read it a second time, then stood before the assembly. This time it wasn’t long before they quieted and turned their full attention to him.
“Friends,” he said. “It seems we need to alter our plans. There has been treachery, and a trap has been set for us. We will have to combine our talents to find another way to send the Wild Hunt to Tir Hardd. And we will have to do all within our power to keep the Great Way sealed at this end.”
He read aloud every word of the queen’s letter.
Mounted on Dodge, Liam followed the top of Finger Ridge. The basalt formation curved away from his farm and melded into the Palouse Hills. His brow was even more furrowed than usual, trying in vain to anticipate how to free Caris while reflecting on the incredible events of the past few days. The existence of faeries didn’t amaze him as much as how he’d come to love a woman in such a short time. Such things happened only in the movies—or maybe they just happened when you met t
he right person. He’d never known anyone like her, and he needed her like he needed air—but right now she needed him. Hold on, Caris. Just hold on. He still had no idea what he was going to do once he got to the butte, but get there he would.
At least nobody had to look for the place. Steptoe Butte was easy to see. It was a wide conical hill, thirty-six hundred feet or so above sea level. That might have been impressive somewhere else. Here, it was merely the tallest bump in a sea of rolling hills. In fact, it didn’t even look like a proper butte, at least, not like the kind you saw in cowboy movies. The tourist pamphlets often described it as “thimble-shaped,” but the truth was, the small flattened top remained hidden until you were practically standing on it. At twelve years old, Liam certainly hadn’t been impressed when he’d gone there on a school field trip. That is, until he got out of the bus at the summit and got his first look at a view that stretched two hundred miles in all directions. It had taken his breath away.
Now, that same view could get him killed before he ever got a chance to help Caris. If that asshole prince and his followers were up there, surely they’d see anyone approaching. “Ranyon—tell me again how this spotted thing works?”
The little ellyll urged his mount alongside Dodge. Ranyon had insisted on riding a goat, and he’d chosen one of Liam’s herd sires, a big solid buck with a fine sweep of horns and a coat nearly as spotted as Liam’s horses. The animal had certainly never been used as anyone’s mount before, yet it behaved with all the dignity of a noble knight’s destrier. Perhaps it is one, thought Liam. After all, the little tree man certainly had a noble heart.
Noble or not, damned if Liam didn’t have to rub a hand over his mouth to keep from smiling. Ranyon wore an ornately fashioned silver bandolier over one shoulder. Despite the ellyll’s explanation that it had been Caris’s magical collar at one time, Liam automatically thought of a Wookiee every time he saw the thing. Even harder to ignore was the fact that the ellyll didn’t use reins, but simply guided the big goat by steering it with its big sweeping horns. They looked for all the world like ape-hanger handlebars on a motorcycle . . .
And it didn’t help a bit that the buck’s name was Harley.
“Ya needn’t be worryin’,” said Ranyon. “That fool prince won’t even see us coming, not when we’re mounted on such fine pied creatures. As I was tellin’ Morgan, the mix of dark and light repels faery sight. Only touch can overcome it—and he won’t be layin’ a finger on what he can’t see! Your good Dodge there will protect ya without ya havin’ to do a thing.”
“The fae don’t have to see us—they’ll hear us coming a frickin’ mile away.” Liam was referring to the strange creations of copper wire, gears, stones, keys, bells, and feathers that had been loosely fastened around all four of Dodge’s legs between the fetlocks and the hooves like bizarre ankle bracelets. They jangled as the stallion walked, and Liam could swear Dodge liked them. Harley was similarly festooned. “I don’t understand why we have to have these.”
“You’ll be understandin’ soon enough if we find ourselves with a pickle,” snorted Ranyon.
“In a pickle.”
“’Tis sour either way. Fae horses are faster than any mortal creature, dontcha know, and every one o’ Maelgwn’s followers has one. Plus that traitor’s got fifty grims that can keep up with faery horses. If we have to make a run fer it, you’ll be glad fer the extra speed those charms will give yer mount.”
Liam was impressed. The Appaloosa stallion was already fast. It could be fun to see how much speed Dodge could muster with the charms—but not if riders and hounds were at their heels. “You’re absolutely certain they can’t hear us? Because I can sure hear us.”
“Ah, but yer ears don’t matter, now do they? I promise ya that fae ears won’t be hearin’ a thing,” said Ranyon. “Did ya not see the thistledown woven into each and every one o’ the charms? That’s fer silence, dontcha know. We’re going to be as quiet as gorillas.”
“You mean guerrillas, right?”
“A’ course—them things that swing through yer trees.”
Liam gave up then and simply trusted that Ranyon knew far more about magic than about some of the details of the human world. He couldn’t argue with the fact, strange as it was, that they’d covered more miles in a couple of hours than they should have been able to. Still, it bothered him that the afternoon sun was on the wane. Instinct told him he’d rather not encounter the fae after dark.
Instinct still wasn’t giving him any great strategic plans as to how to save Caris, however. A lot was going to depend on what the situation was when he got there. He didn’t have much for weapons, just the fiddle in his backpack, and his uncle’s .30-30 Winchester carbine shoved into the scabbard on his saddle. Ranyon said the fiddle was the most useful of the two, but Liam felt better with a rifle along. Whether it was any good against a faery prince remained to be seen.
He studied the looming shape of Steptoe Butte and felt like a hobbit heading into Mordor.
TWENTY-SIX
The sound of dripping water echoed in the sea cave. Lurien held the lantern aloft and peered further into its depths. It was one of many dark and uninviting places he and his hunters had investigated today, and this one didn’t look any more promising than the last six. “You’re certain there’s a way through here?” he asked the undine with the long blue hair. Her name was Morien, and she was the only one who would speak to him, although several others stood huddled together at a distance to watch. Perhaps they were intimidated by the dark image he presented.
“We found it when we were playing in the tidal pools. Sometimes we find pretty treasures in caves.” Morien twirled the gold chains that spilled over her naked breasts. “So my sisters and I like to go exploring.”
The undines liked lounging naked in fountains at parties too, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was that they were among the few creatures that could simply sense the existence of a way. He had the kobolds and coblynau combing the area, as well as a pair of basilisks. And word had gone out to everyone in the realm to report any way they knew. The kingdom was honeycombed with them, so much so that no one spared them much thought. Of course, that was because most were disappointingly small and therefore useless. The one that the chicken had obediently followed under Gwenhidw’s direction, for example, would hold nothing larger.
“Did you go in it?”
“Teleri did. She has more power than I do, and she’s not afraid of anything.”
Except me, apparently.
“She thinks it comes out somewhere near Tir Hardd, but she wasn’t sure. None of us has ever been there before. The way is big enough to walk through, but only one at a time.”
“Horses?”
“I don’t know if they’ll fit. I don’t think so.”
Worth a try just the same, Lurien thought, as he thanked the undines for their help. He couldn’t afford to rule out any possibility—even one that would leave his riders without mounts. “Iago, take three of your men. Find out where it goes and if we can use it.”
Lurien rode back to the palace and returned to the throne room, which had become the unofficial headquarters for the envoys and their retinues. Those who didn’t have natural talent like the undines were helping with the search using more pedestrian methods. It was a testament to how they all felt about Gwenhidw that no one fought, no one griped, and no one gave up. A huge hairy bwbach, with his ever-present cask of beer, was helping several kelpies pore over ancient maps—in some cases literally pour, as the waterhorses tended to drip a lot and the bwbach’s mug sloshed freely. Lurien didn’t care, as long as someone, somewhere, found a way to get to Gwenhidw.
He felt naked without his magic, and even if he rolled his body in a barrelful of bwgan stones (he’d spotted a fire drake doing just that), he knew of only one spell that could transport someone halfway across the world without using a way. He’d used it to save Gwenhidw’
s life. But moving a company of horses and riders? Not a chance in Hades. One person would be the extent of it, and one was far from enough. In fact, since Maelgwn had essentially initiated a rebellion, it would likely take the entire Wild Hunt to put it down—and Lurien wasn’t sure even that would be enough. The prince was young by fae norms, arrogant, cruel, vain, and ambitious, as were those who followed him. But Maelgwn had proved he was far from powerless. Lurien knew all too well what it took to open the Great Way. The prince was also far more cunning than anyone had suspected, according to Gwenhidw’s letter. Somehow, the upstart had persuaded the Anghenfilod to help him.
A head like that needs to be removed from its shoulders . . .
Aurddolen came in with Trahern and Nodin. They looked as tired as he felt, but there was a spring in their step. “We found one,” said the dragon woman. “And you won’t believe where it is.”
Lurien was on his feet at once. “It goes to Tir Hardd? You tested it?” Too many ways had looked promising at first only to end up back in the Nine Realms. Others led to strange, unknown places in the mortal world. Sending the Hunt to the frozen land the humans called Antarctica would help no one.
“It comes out on the mortal plane, amid the sea of hills surrounding the mouth of the Great Way,” said Trahern. “There’s no room to spare—the horses cannot fit. But it’ll work. I left Emrys and Heulog there to keep an eye on things.”
“We cannot ask for better. Sound the horn,” Lurien commanded, even as he hated the idea of leaving their mounts behind. “Tell our men to arm themselves well. Summon the hounds. We will leave at once.” He grabbed Aurddolen’s arm as she made to follow Nodin and Trahern. “Someone must lead the envoys, someone with sense and the nerve to push them to their limits. The Great Way must not open.”
