by Ken Altabef
For her part, she had to hold Graymane back lest he overtake Eric completely. The faery-fed horse could have run rings around her husband’s steed. Eric pursued his southward course, passing acres of Grayson farmland and heading into town. Theodora followed along.
In the end, Eric brought them into a small farming village. He had to slow along the crumbling main road. Theodora pulled up alongside but neither of them spoke.
Eric pulled to a stop at the fresh well and swung himself down. He went to the well and cranked up the bucket.
Theodora climbed down from Graymane. A few people were already about town, opening their shops or watering their horses at the trough beside the well. A couple of men greeted Eric and a few stared at Theodora. Eric waved them off and drew a ladle of water.
Theodora approached.
He held out a cup for her. She took a sip. “Thank you.”
“A beautiful morning for a ride,” he said.
“I enjoyed it.”
He took the cup back and drank off the rest.
“Eric, why did you bring me here?”
“This is the exact spot where we first met.”
“I remember.”
“You were playing a role, posing as a barefoot young girl dressed in a tattered country dress.”
“And?” Theodora felt a slight flush of embarrassment. She had no desire to rehash those old sins again. Now she appeared as a middle-aged Englishwoman, tall and lithe and perfectly poised. But also playing a role.
“I was pretending too,” Eric said. “Do you remember? No wig, plain riding togs, the sleeves rolled up. A black riding cloak.”
“With silver buttons at the collar.”
“Ah, the one lone concession to wealth and power. Just the right touch. I was the young lord, newly-titled, who rode out into town alone, a man of the people unconcerned with wealth and privilege. That was a lie. Fitzroy March put me up to it. He said I needed to gain the people’s trust. Really, on the inside, I was very much obsessed with my ships and holdings, obsessed with money and family legacy. But it all changed that day, Theodora.”
His tone had softened, but she still didn’t quite grasp what he was trying to say.
“You know,” he continued, “when we first met, I owned this whole town.”
“You don’t anymore?”
He shook his head.
“I was never interested in your money, Eric.”
He chuckled. “And from the day I met you, right here on this spot, neither was I. Not any more. I was only interested in one thing after that. And it was a good thing, just like that ride we just had. It’s funny you should show up today like this because I’ve been thinking about the past a lot lately.” All signs of confidence ran away from his face. It was difficult for him to go on.
“The past,” he continued, “lies behind us. That’s where it belongs. Not in front of us. Otherwise we’re just going round in circles. A lot has happened between us and not all of it good. But some of it, I think, was truly great. I sit at my desk, I go over my books, my ships, the farms—I don’t really care about any of it. The house is empty. My life is empty.” He looked deeply at her and she could only imagine what he was thinking. He didn’t smile. There was a pained look in his eyes as if he were gazing at the sun. He didn’t want to look too closely. It was painful. She was disturbed by it.
“Theodora, I can’t guarantee what may happen—I don’t know if we can recapture what we had before. I just—I just don’t know. But if you’re willing to come home, I would like to try.”
Theodora was stunned. These were the words she had long hoped to hear.
“Can we put the past behind us,” he asked, “and make a new future?”
Theodora felt her eyes well up and she swallowed hard. Eric was no longer the confidant devil-may-care young man she had once known. He seemed broken and unsure of his feelings, unsure of himself or anything at all. He seemed like an old man, grasping for a last chance at happiness.
He looked earnestly at her face, trying to read her emotion. She was too choked up to say anything. Seeing that, he should have smiled. He should have, but he didn’t. She saw a flicker of panic behind his eyes.
“I’m asking you to stay.”
“Stay? At Grayson Hall?” Instead of joy and elation, Eric’s offer caused an involuntary shudder. She suddenly thought of Grayson Hall as a gloomy place of constricting walls, of overbearing etiquette, a prison of stale air and food, a sentence she had borne in the past mostly for the benefit of her children. Even her rose garden, as magnificent as it could be, paled in comparison to the glowblossoms and fragrant wild orchids of Everbright. And then there was that grim portrait of Griffin Grayson in the dining room, and the family crypt with its sepulchers and death. Now that she had it once again within her grasp, it didn’t feel right at all.
“Will you stay?” he asked again, his forehead furrowed.
“I can’t do that.”
She was surprised to hear herself say it. A few weeks ago she wouldn’t have believed that she could turn him down. But things were ever changing. She was certain now that she belonged in Everbright, the City of Everlasting Change.
“Oh,” he said. It was a small, broken sound. Theodora was sure he’d never imagined she would turn him down. But he shook his head slightly as if, even though he hadn’t expected it, her refusal was somehow destined to have happened. “So what did you come here for? A ride? I—I don’t understand.”
Theodora felt embarrassed now after all that had just happened, but she must go through with it. “I came to ask you for a favor. It’s about Trask.”
It took Eric a moment to remember. “Trask? Your pet alchemist?”
“He was a friend to us both, Eric. He’s been arrested. It seems he may have committed a crime—he did commit a crime—capital murder many years ago when he was young and foolish. It was a lover’s quarrel and practically an accident. He’s been arrested. They’ve taken him to Westminster for extradition back to Belgium.”
Eric seemed no less enlightened, nor particularly interested.
Theodora went on, “You still have connections at the Old Bailey. We can supply whatever money you need for an appropriate bribe. Whatever needs to be done. There has to be some way to help him.”
Eric shook his head. “For years I plead your case at the Bailey, at Westminster, at St James’, everywhere. And look where it got me. Now you want me to argue for Trask? I don’t care a whit for Trask.”
“You should. Eric, he stood with us, on the field outside our house, and risked his life, facing down that monster.”
“The faery monster.”
Touché. What more could she say to that?
“He helped us save the world. He’s a good man who made a mistake.”
“He’s a murderer. Murderers deserve what they get. Or was he under some sort of faery spell when he killed whoever it was that he killed?”
Damn, she thought. We’re back to that again.
“Please Eric, please just think about it.”
Chapter 38
James paced back and forth across the alchemist’s laboratory. He gave a wide berth to the Wild Tyme in its glass tube on the work table. A vague murmur drifted out from the stuff. No distinct words, just a nattering buzz. The sound, heard only in his mind, made him feel uncomfortable. During the many times he’d reached out to others with his own mind, to heal the sick or soothe the tormented Changed Men, he had always acted with consent of the other party. But this nattering was a repugnant sort of an invasion. Unwanted, unbidden. It forced its message on him. “Dance with me!”
He could hardly understand how such a small amount of fluid could deliver such a potent message. It seemed as if the Chrysalid existed as a whole in each of its parts. A monster in the sky, a thing with a thousand eyes. It had come back after thousands of years and the Graysons had turned it away. Why had it returned? Had it come back for him?
The tube held only a small amount of Wild Tyme yet it had the
voice, the sublime unearthly power, of the whole. There was a little in each of the Changed Men, a little inside him as well. And Nora. And each of the faeries. Were they all themselves parts of the monster?
And how did the moon fit into all this? He’d long wondered about that too. If he ever succeeded in contacting whatever was up there, that was the first thing he’d ask. Hmmph! He could almost laugh at himself. Asking questions of the moon. Battling an ancient monster. Perhaps his imagination was running away with itself. He had troubles enough on terra firma. First and foremost were the words Gryfflet had said:
“Arabelle wasn’t Arabelle.”
His meeting with Arabelle at the market proved the truth of those words. He had never known the real Arabelle. The switch had taken place long before they’d even met. The woman he’d loved had been a fable, a sham. A pretender. But it had felt so real. Who was the woman he had carried on with for three years? Who was Willowvine?
When they had made love in the fashion of the faeries, a spiritual merging of souls, a baring of all secrets and desires, he’d found a beautiful soul, fun-loving and free, and totally devoted to him. All of that could not have been an act. He supposed the imposter had played Arabelle for so long she had accepted the identity as her own. Having buried the deception underneath a lifetime of experiences, the switch of identities would be easy to hide. But the rest? Her tender caress, the playful private jokes they’d shared, the passion in her kiss. He was sure all of that had been real.
But how could he be sure of anything? This woman, this imposter, this spy—this Willowvine—what did he know of her? Nothing. He didn’t even know what she looked like or where she was. She’d cast him aside like a used rag. But not quite. She had reached out to him again, sent him a message, returned Gryfflet to them. He thought of what she’d said in her poem: “A true heart is the sun not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes.” The message was clear.
A knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Threadneedle and Roderigo stepped into the laboratory.
“Just in time,” James said, “to save me from myself.”
“A problem?” Threadneedle asked.
James shrugged. “Matters of the heart. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Don’t be so sure of that.”
“Oh? Trouble with Nora?”
“No. Never.”
“Fine. Let’s get on with it then. How are you, Roderigo?”
The Changed Man made a hand signal that indicated he was as usual.
“Well, I hope to have you better very soon.” James clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Would you take a seat?”
Roderigo settled into his usual chair. James went to the work table and reached for the Wild Tyme. His fingertips hesitated just a moment before circling the tube, but touching the glass didn’t change anything. It only made the distracting murmurs slightly louder.
He held up the container so Roderigo and Threadneedle could see the luminous fluid that writhed within.
“This is what Trask called Wild Tyme. It’s the chemical element the Chrysalid forced upon you, Roderigo. Somehow he managed to isolate it from your blood.”
Roderigo offered a mournful little yip.
“Yes, the leeches. I know. But that method won’t work as a cure. We can’t take all your blood out, can we? So… no more leeches!”
The dog-faced Changed Man let out a substantially happier yip.
“I thought you’d like that,” James said. “So I’ve thought of something else we can try. I have to be honest, I’ve no idea if this will actually work. But you’ve been such a good sport all along. I promise whatever happens it will not hurt.”
Roderigo nodded.
“It speaks to me,” James said. “It calls to me and I think I can call to it, too. At least I hope so. But first I need to get this out of here. Damn distracting.”
He handed the tube of Wild Tyme to Threadneedle.
“You know what to do?”
Threadneedle smiled his enigmatic smile. “I’m on my way.” He tipped his hat to Roderigo and went outside, taking the murmuring tube with him.
As soon as he had gone, James felt a bit more clearheaded.
“What I really want to do here,” he said, “is find a way to draw the Wild Tyme out of your blood once and for all.”
He pulled up a chair next to Roderigo.
“I need a way for our blood to mix. I think this will do the trick.” He held up the little device he’d made the day before. It was a thin leather thong attached to a little rubber ball with sharp needle-points jutting out all around. He wrapped the thong about his middle finger so the little ball rested in his palm.
Roderigo signaled he didn’t like the looks of it.
“Don’t worry. You won’t be hurt. I promise you. At least, outside of the handshake, that is.”
Roderigo hung his head and extended his palm. James winced as they clasped their hands against the spiked ball.
And nothing happened.
Of course, thought James, it can’t be that easy.
He took a cleansing breath and relaxed his mind. He saw Roderigo’s dog face go slack as he began to concentrate as well, his tongue flopping between his teeth. The two of them had interacted mentally several times before, most often while playing music. It did not take long to establish the connection.
“Let me help you,” James said.
I want you to.
“You must trust me,”
I do. You know I do.
James began glimpsing images directly from Roderigo’s mind. He recognized the man’s wife and little daughter. Memories of the little girl were particularly painful. Roderigo missed his family terribly but couldn’t imagine a return to them. He couldn’t face his daughter. Not looking like this, like some type of animal.
James was familiar with all of these woes. There was something else he was searching for, some echo of that voice. The Wild Tyme. Now that he knew what it felt like, how it spoke, how it moved, he felt better able to identify it. And yes, indeed, there was something lurking there, something alien, a tricksy spirit peeking out from between the fibers of Roderigo’s soul. James shifted through the man’s psyche, a forest of memories, clogged by weeds and aberrant impulses. Memories, desires, hopes, sorrow, pain.
He heard something calling his name in a weird, shrieking echo.
“Jameeeeess.”
It was here. James concentrated on the image of that luminescent silvery fluid. How to draw it to him?
The voice echoed weirdly in the landscape of Roderigo’s mind. “Jameeeseeesy.”
“Mother!” James said. “Come to me Mother!”
James felt his palm sizzle. Roderigo felt it too and tried to loosen his grip on the ball but James held tight. He felt the Wild Tyme running into his hand, flowing like a twisted stream of fire. It brought a wild head rush that left him dizzy and out of breath.
Roderigo yanked his hand away and James tottered backward on his chair. He had such a headache, pounding with the beat of his heart, and colorful ripples of light obscured his vision wherever he looked. His mouth came alive with a cascade of tastes that just wouldn’t stop. Peanut butter, stale beer, vomit, tabasco, black pepper. He felt as if he could fly, but had not the strength to lift his head.
His heart beat faster, his headache intensified, he was dully aware that his chair had tipped backward and hit the floor. His vision fragmented into bursts of bright light in every color imaginable, flashing without reason. It was all too much. He heard himself scream.
James opened his eyes. The pain in his head had passed and he felt a great sense of relief. He could see clearly again. Still, the riot of odd tastes continued to parade across his tongue. Bitter lemon, stale bread, cinnamon, rain-dampened felt, chocolate pudding, rotten eggs. That last one left him spitting onto the floor, though it did him no good. Coconut, spoiled milk, dead fish.
“Are you alright?”
James saw his friend Roderig
o bending over him, a look of concern on his face. But what a face! The dog-like snout had retreated, the slack jowls had tightened. His eyes still had the huge irises of dog eyes, but his features had turned distinctly more human. His voice was a rough burr.
“You look much improved,” James said, still smarting on the taste of jalapeno pepper.
“I feel wonderful,” rasped Roderigo.
James took a deep breath. “If we do it another time or two, I’ll bet we’ll have you good as new. I just need a little rest now, I think.”
“Let me help you to bed.”
“I’d be grateful.” With Roderigo’s help, James rose unsteadily to his feet. His palm was sore where the skin had been cut and he found his hand had turned a dusky purple. At first he thought it was a bruise but then he remembered the night as a child when the Chrysalid had torn open the sky. His skin had all changed to purple that night for a time, though it had quickly changed back. Mustard, whiskey, whale oil, honey, avocado, blood…
“And James,” Roderigo added, “I most want to say… thank you.”
Chapter 39
“I still don’t see why we have to stand so far in the back,” Moonshadow whispered.
“It just wouldn’t do for you to be seen at the front,” Theodora returned. “That would look too much like an endorsement. And besides, from back here we can observe her effect on the people and see their reactions. That will be useful information. Here, let’s switch.”
Theodora changed places with Moonshadow as there were no particularly tall faeries obstructing her own view. A large group had assembled to watch Dresdemona perform her dance. No one in Barrow Downes had ever seen one of the legendary Effranil songs performed before. Interest was high.
Dresdemona stood before the grove of emotion trees, stretching her legs in preparation for the dance. She had chosen to wear a simple, short white summer dress, something any peasant woman along the English countryside might wear. Quite the humble choice. The wardrobe selection didn’t fool Theodora one bit. None of this did.
