by Dani Harper
“They’re still drained. We all are. Even at full strength, it would take all of us together to come close to the magic of the queen or the Lord of the Hunt.”
He nodded. “And you are both a queen of the dragon territories, and a hunter in your own right, are you not? Besides, you will not be without resource. Save for the ones the envoys are carrying in their pockets, I’ve had all the bwgan stones gathered and moved to the top of Mynedfa, where its summit becomes Holyhead Mount in the human realm.”
“Not giving me directions are you? I’ve been there.”
“And I need you there again. There is no one else I can trust with this task. The envoys must not fail. The Way must remain closed at all costs.” He pulled her close and leaned his forehead to hers. They stood like that for a long moment in silent communion.
When she looked up at him at last, she grinned. “The Anghenfilod will find no entrance here—even if I have to tie rocks to each and every envoy and toss them into the Great Way to fill it up.” She knotted her hands in his hair then and kissed him hard on the lips. “Hela da,” she said, and spun away.
“Good hunting to you as well,” he murmured.
For his queen, Lurien would endure anything. If it had been anyone else who required aid, he might have wished he’d traded places with Aurddolen. For one thing, with her smaller frame, she’d feel far less cramped in this infernal way that they’d found. The location, as she promised, was a surprise. It was in the kitchen of a very large and very busy tavern—for coblynau. The little fae were gracious enough, wanting to help their beloved queen in any way possible. They cheered and lifted their glasses as Lurien’s tall men trooped through the hazy atmosphere of the pub and into the bakery end of the squat-ceilinged kitchen.
The way itself wasn’t much larger. In the end, the entire Wild Hunt had to walk single file, and slightly stooped as well. Although the tunnel was formed of bright blue energy rather than rock, the walls were just as solid. Every man held a dagger at the ready, the rest of their weapons on their belts or on their backs. There were frequent stops to readjust a sword or a bow or a pack in order to fit through the cramped passage. Lurien set a brisk pace, but it was still slow going on foot, and he cursed at his inability to get to Gwenhidw any faster.
At least the way was relatively short, considering it was taking them to another continent completely. And it was far too small for fearsome creatures like the Anghenfilod to inhabit. But glowing leechlike creatures did live here, and they were starved for the taste of magic. It wasn’t long before every man had been bitten several times, and their weapons were slimy from killing the pests. Lurien sighed and yanked another one from his sleeve—the gelau had worked its needlelike teeth right through the charmed leather.
The only good thing about this ordeal was that Maelgwn would never suspect their approach. As far as anyone knew, the Wild Hunt could travel only through the Great Way—and the traitorous prince was counting on that.
Lurien was looking forward to disappointing him.
“We will have but one chance, Rhedyn,” said Gwenhidw. “Are you certain your magic is up to this? More important, is your resolve? Maelgwn has had much power over you.”
The fae woman bowed her head. “I am strong enough. I will take any chance to redeem myself, Your Grace. And to be free of him.”
Morgan watched from the doorway of the barn. She hadn’t been convinced when the queen first proposed the idea. Now she looked from one woman to the other, then turned to Jay. “You know, I think this could actually work.”
He nodded. “As long as their horses cooperate. Kirk Leland brought over a pair of his best Quarter Horse mares, just like you asked. Both of them are real splashy Paints, so they should be spotted enough to do the job.”
“They’re here already?” Kirk lived in the area, but still . . . Morgan looked at her friend suspiciously. “How the hell did you get him to move so fast?”
Jay looked positively embarrassed. “Well, he thinks the world of you since you saved his daughter’s champion barrel racer last spring. So I said the only thing I could think of. I told him you wanted to buy the horses as a surprise gift for Rhys, and he was coming home tomorrow.”
There goes the livestock budget, thought Morgan. Hard to worry about that when you’re trying to save two worlds. “Most people look over an animal before they make a purchase. He didn’t question that I wasn’t there?”
“Of course he did—and I lied accordingly. You had a veterinary emergency and so I examined them and wrote him a check. Said you’d seen both horses at the state team roping finals—but actually, I’m the one that saw them there. It got a little convoluted after that, so I’ll have to write it all down for you so you have the story straight the next time you talk to him.”
Good grief. “Kirk left the trailer he brought them in?”
“Are you kidding? He was so happy to be paid up front that he would have left his truck, his wife, and his dog if I’d asked. We’re good to go. I’ve got the trailer hitched to the clinic truck, I found enough tack in the shed, and the horses are saddled and loaded.”
“Well, then, let’s see how close we can get the queen to Steptoe Butte.” Morgan thought of phoning Rhys again. He’d been adamant that she wait until he could fly back to help—and frankly, his warrior skills might be damned handy—but she’d already checked the schedules of the flights from California. He’s going to be absolutely furious, but we can’t wait for him. “Your Grace, if you’re certain you’re up to this, it’s time to go. We’ll get you and Rhedyn as close as we can before you’ll have to ride.”
“The Nine Realms are in grave danger,” Gwenhidw said, sliding the baldric and its sword over her shoulder. “I must be up to this. Sometimes action cannot be delayed for a more opportune time.”
Yeah, tell me about it, thought Morgan.
The sun was a flame-colored ball just a finger’s width from the horizon, and they’d traveled only partway along the road that wrapped two and a half times around the broad butte. That’s when Liam heard a fiddle. Ribbons of music carried through the air from the hilltop, winding through the air currents like streamers. He felt that if he just squinted hard enough he’d be able to actually see the perfect notes floating by. Only Caris’s incredible talent could have produced them—but they didn’t have the passion he remembered.
In fact, none of the tunes he was hearing had the stamp of emotional power—probably because they weren’t from her heart and soul but were being commanded and coerced.
Hope that slows down Prince Asshole’s plans.
Rounding a corner revealed two mounted fae guarding the halfway point, right in the center of the narrow road. Liam reined in Dodge and put a hand on the stock of the rifle—but the guards didn’t react at all. In fact, they looked bored. What the hell? While it wasn’t quite broad daylight anymore, Ranyon and Liam were right out in the open, and all the charms jangling like Santa’s sleigh bells. Nothing. It was like being a ghost. He hadn’t really believed in that whole spotted-animal magic stuff, but it was tough to argue with the evidence. I owe the little guy an apology.
Liam looked around only to find that the little guy had left the road and was urging Harley straight up the side of the goddamn hill! Ranyon glanced back once, and beckoned him to follow, though it was impossibly steep and treacherous terrain for a horse. He really is trying to be a gorilla. “Whaddya think, Dodge?” he murmured. “He’s been right about everything else.” The stallion answered by simply following the goat and its rider without any hesitation. Liam quickly laid flat—well, as flat as the saddle pommel would allow—and wrapped his arms tight around Dodge’s muscular neck as the horse climbed at a gut-wrenching angle. Liam didn’t bother looking down. He already knew that what they were doing was absolutely physically impossible, and that if they fell, there’d be no hope for either of them. Instead, he made himself concentrate wholly on the music and o
n the woman he loved who was creating it.
And the need he had to save her. As long as there was breath in his body, he would not leave her in the hands of the fae. She’d suffered that cruel nightmare once already. Not again. Never again.
They came up on the paved road just below the summit. Above them was an ugly assortment of telecommunications equipment, microwave relay and transmission towers clustered on one side of the flat-topped butte. Liam dragged himself off Dodge, grateful to be on level ground. Ranyon dismounted as well, and together they climbed the rock behind the towers, made their way around the fence, and lay flat to look out over the top of the butte.
As a hilltop, it was unimpressive, a small plateau fringed with bushes and rocky outcroppings but otherwise barren. Directly in front of Liam, a paved parking lot stood ready to receive about twenty cars and buses. Thankfully there were no vehicles at the moment—no doubt due to the faery guards stationed at various points along the road. Instead, Liam counted about sixty horses clustered together, as close to the edge of the butte as they could possibly get. At their feet huddled a monstrous pack of the biggest, blackest dogs he had ever imagined. They could only be grims, the death dogs his friends had spoken of. That Caris had been cursed to be one of . . .
But she hadn’t been this big. Some of the grims looked like oversize wolves, others like immense mastiffs. Immediately he thought of the war dogs spoken of in ancient Roman history—and yet these mighty canine specimens seemed not just subdued but fearful. Stranger still, both horses and dogs were motionless, as if cemented in place. Every one of them faced northeast, their eyes fixed on something at the other end of the—
Liam recoiled, staring in both wonder and horror. He would have sat up without thinking if Ranyon hadn’t yanked him back down into the dirt.
Suspended in the air was a gaping maw with glowing blue edges. Jay had described the Great Way as a rip in the fabric of reality, some kind of wormhole like in a science-fiction movie, but nothing prepared Liam for what such a thing would actually look like. The surreal phenomenon was round like the eclipse of a moon—or Alice’s rabbit hole. Within, however, was darkness so complete that even the dogs looked pale gray by comparison. Liam could swear he felt a punch to the stomach when he realized that the darkness was not the tunnel. Instead, a monstrous shadow appeared to move aside to reveal a shimmering passage of light beyond—and more nebulous shapes moving within it.
What the hell are those things in there?
As if he’d heard him, Ranyon whispered. “Those are the Anghenfilod—monsters of the Inbetween.”
Liam clamped his teeth together rather than reply, because only curses would come out. He’d expected scary dogs and armed fae hunters and a big dick named Maelgwn in charge of it all. No one mentioned honest-to-God monsters. Maybe he should have stuck around for the queen’s planning meeting instead of charging off. But I had to get to Caris.
He forced his gaze away from the gaping tear in the landscape to study the figures on the far side of the entrance of the tunnel—and noted with relief that the woman he loved was indeed there. As far as he could tell from a distance, she was okay, but it scared the hell out of him that she was standing so close to that hulking anomaly with goddamn monsters living in it.
Caris was still playing, swaying slightly in time to the music, but not dancing as she usually did. Maybe she was tired? More likely she’s just holding back. She wasn’t the type to cooperate one bit more than she absolutely had to, and she definitely wouldn’t put her heart and soul into this forced performance.
The prince’s followers, close to sixty strong, were as strangely motionless as their animals. Seated in a great half circle, they formed an impromptu stage for Maelgwn—and he was definitely putting on a show. Hands upraised, he chanted strange words in a loud voice. His wine-colored leathers had been covered with a golden robe, and his white hair hung in a long, thick braid behind him. Wisps of scented smoke curled up from some sort of squat bronze kettle at his feet.
“That idiot prince is trying to close the Great Way,” said Ranyon. “And he’s draining the magic from every fae creature on this hilltop to do it. Ya see how strange they are?”
No kidding. Liam watched as a pair of ravens landed near one of the fae and plucked silver beads from her clothing. She continued to stare straight ahead, even when one of the birds yanked a shiny pendant from her throat. “Christ, that’s creepy,” he whispered. “They’re not dead, are they?”
“They’re alive fer now. But there’s not a one of the Tylwyth Teg that would volunteer to part with their powers, not even if Maelgwn promised them the earth itself. He’s tricked them fer certain, and he’ll kill them all if he’s not careful.”
Liam couldn’t help but flinch as Ranyon continued to speak in his normal tone of voice. Yet a quick glance at the grims, who should have been the first to hear, revealed no reaction at all. Only the occasional quivering of their flanks revealed them to be anything more than statues. Definitely spooky.
“So if he’s sucking in power, will you be okay?”
The ellyll snorted. “I have a charm fer that, a’course! Besides, I’m thinkin’ the fool may have overreached himself—leaned too much on that fancy breastplate o’ bwgan stones that Rhedyn told us about. And counted on Caris’s music to make up the difference.”
“Let’s tip the scales a little further then.”
“Aye, it’s time,” said Ranyon. “The Way is beginning to close.”
The new king of Tir Hardd sucked in great lungfuls of air, yet it felt as if he wasn’t getting enough. The atmosphere of the mortal world wasn’t of the same purity as the fae realms, but it should have been adequate. It was the spell—the spell was exhausting him. So was the pain. The thirty-three bwgan stones were searing his skin to the point that he could smell it, and the silver breastplate that held them had heated accordingly. He wanted to claw the metal from him, peel it off before his skin became fused to it. But he wanted Tir Hardd more, and he fisted his hands until his nails made his palms bleed. He let the blue drops fall into the brazier at his feet as he continued the chant. All he had to do was seal the Great Way, and he would have all the power he’d ever dreamed of, including the power to heal himself of terrible burns if need be.
The spell should be working by now. It has to be working.
He was close to completing the first recitation of the spell when the perfect roundness of the portal distorted, one side indenting the way a full moon wanes to a lesser one. Finally!
Maelgwn redoubled his efforts even as he strained against the excruciating pain. He’d taken such care to create perfect conditions for the spell, particularly since it had never been tried on such a large way. The brazier at his feet contained great nuggets of pure amber from long-ago forests and the ground bones of dead bwganod, to facilitate and enhance magic. He’d ensured that he had more than his own powers to draw on too. His ambitious followers all thought they’d chosen him, but he’d been grooming each one of them for years, cultivating only the allegiance of those who possessed large natural wellsprings of magic—magic he was now using.
He knew he was performing the incantation correctly. He’d studied the bloodstained parchment every day since he’d first snatched it from the aged sorcerer’s broken fingers. Maelgwn had practiced the archaic language it was written in, and memorized not only every word but every nuance. The lengthy spell had to be recited perfectly three times—once to initiate the process, once to close the Way entirely, and once more to seal it for all time.
The music was wrong. That had to be it. Music should have eased the entire process. In fact, the mortal-spun melody should have caused things to happen far more quickly, should have delivered more power than everything Maelgwn was drawing from his followers and his breastplate combined. He finished the first recitation to the last syllable, then whirled to regard the small human woman playing the ffidil.
T
WENTY-SEVEN
Caris swore she could feel her very bones chill as the prince suddenly turned his attention to her. His gaze seemed almost mad, his perfect features drawn tight as if in pain, and his breathing ragged and gasping. Still she made certain her bow never hesitated, that tunes were drawn from the strings of the instrument without ceasing—he must not suspect that the faery fiddle could not compel her. Silently she thanked Ranyon for the blue-stoned charm she wore around her neck, and she was doubly grateful that fae eyes could not perceive the pendant. She still had no idea how she was going to escape, however.
Meanwhile, the prince snarled at her like a feral animal. “You,” he hissed. “You’re playing like an ungifted student, when I know you have far superior talents. I will have your passion, your heart! Play like your life depends on it, like the lives of those you care about depend on it—because surely they do.”
“You generously gave me your royal word, good sir,” she said quietly, not wishing to incite him further, although the title of good sir tasted foul on her tongue. Truly, there was nothing good about him. Even Rhedyn, who knew the prince better than anyone, had admitted he was both ruthless and cruel, and ever had been. Like most of his followers, she had been foolishly drawn to his rapidly growing power, willing to endure his foul treatment of her in exchange for the elevated position it provided, and the chance to rise even further with him.
Maelgwn laughed at Caris. “Ah yes, that little gift to celebrate my coronation. You forget that your friends are protected only if they do not leave their dirty little farm—and you know they will not stay there forever. My men will be waiting to seize them and then I will have a gift for myself—their skins taken while they yet live. All of your friends, four-legged and two-legged”—he pointed at her—“and you will watch.”
