I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania some time of the night,
Lulled in these flowers with dances and light,
And there the snake throws her enameled skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.—William Shakespeare
Under a dome of stars, mocked by the pulsing faerie lights, Karl Cullinane rode with his three companions down into Ehvenor, his sheathed sword bound across his saddle, his right hand never straying far from the butt of the short-barreled single-shot shotgun in his rifle boot.
Kethol, the broad-shouldered redheaded warrior riding at Karl's left, worked his pistol loose in its holster. It was just a nervous habit; the shoulder holster didn't need to be primed to release its cargo. "'Ware the crazies," he said quietly. "They're not after a reward, more'n likely. But they're dangerous, just the same."
"Tell me something I don't know," Pirojil said. He rubbed a blunt finger against his heavy brows. He was a remarkably ugly man, his flat nose splayed to one side from some long-ago fight. Karl could understand why Pirojil hadn't bothered to have the nose taken care of. It wouldn't have helped.
Pirojil visibly winced every now and then. He'd taken an arrow in the thigh during the ambush outside of Tinkir that had killed Aren and Ferdom, and the scant portion of healing draughts that Kethol had doled out hadn't quite been enough to bring him back to health; a steady regimen of riding and walking hadn't allowed the wound enough time to heal. But Pirojil pushed on, bringing up the rear, he tugged at the ropes of their two packhorses, keeping the animals and the party's supplies close.
"Movement, off to the left," Durine said. A treetrunk of a man, he rode with his reins held daintily in his hamlike left fist, his massive right hand holding his shotgun easily, as though he didn't notice the weight.
"Just a rabbit," Pirojil said. "Ta havath, eh?"
The Cirric glistened in the starlight, small waves lapping the shore. As the company rode down toward Ehvenor, Karl could see only two large ships docked there, although a wide-bellied sloop seemed to be putting in.
Between the road and the water, Ehvenor stood, waiting.
Ehvenor. The sole outpost of Faerie in the Eren regions. Off in the distance, the faerie embassy, woven of light and mist, glimmered in the night, its brightness refusing to dispel the darkness surrounding it. It was almost cylindrical, almost three, four stories high. Almost, almost, almost—always almost; it was hard to look at; the building seemed to change before his eyes, to mold itself into another form ever so slightly different from what had been the moment before, but the change so slight and subtle that Karl couldn't put his finger on just what it was.
"Want me to go on ahead, sir?" Kethol asked. He was no Walter Slovotsky, but he did a good recon.
"No. Just keep alert." Best not to go separately; the Ehvenor crazies sometimes ran in packs. And who cared that a warrior could take down a dozen of the filthy creatures before they brought him down? The idea was to avoid the crazies, not to kill them. "And let's keep quiet."
Kethol nodded, transferred his reins from his right hand to his left so that he could draw his blackened saber, holding it easily in his hand.
The main road into the city led past a row of ramshackle houses, none of them issuing any light at all. Perfect cover for another ambush, for someone else after the guild reward on Karl's head.
Karl didn't like the looks of it; he nodded at Kethol, who led them down a side alley.
The alley twisted and turned through the dark, dung-laden streets, past the hovels of Ehvenor. Occasionally they could see dim faces peering out through windows or shutters, only to disappear instantly when Durine brought his shotgun into line, or at the whisk of Kethol's steel cleaving the cold night air.
The plan was to go down to the pier and make a rude camp until morning, when—they hoped—passage to Melawei could be procured. They carried with them twenty coins of good Pandathaway gold and ten fine Nehera-made swords, both the gold and steel distributed among the party; leaving it all on the packhorses could leave them in trouble if they were separated from the animals.
There were also a few surprises in the horse's pouches. This Side wasn't used to explosives yet, and the twenty or so pounds of guncotton on the rear horse might come in very handy.
Not that it would make much of a difference, not in the long run, Karl thought, wishing that he could take his amulet out of his saddlebags and put it on again.
But he couldn't. It had to be known that Karl Cullinane—
With no warning, a dim shape rushed out of the shadows and leaped on Kethol, dragging the warrior down from his saddle before he could begin to bring his sword into play. It clawed at the man, uttering a satisfied, low growl.
Instantly, Karl was off his own horse, his drawn saber in his hand. Firing a gun at whatever had jumped Kethol was out of the question; he'd be as likely to kill his own man as whatever it was.
Durine's animal reared, while the huge man looked desperately for a target for his shotgun.
Karl couldn't exactly make out the form of whatever it was that was clawing at Kethol, but he could find parts that he knew weren't his warrior; Karl stabbed into the dark mass, and felt his blade slice through flesh and cut into bone.
With a hideous, liquid scream, the form went into a spasm, arms and legs twitching and then falling still as the body went limp, the body voiding itself of its waste in the final reflex of all animals.
Karl kicked the stinking mass away from Kethol, and then immediately ducked to one side to make himself a bad target for the next attack.
But there wasn't any.
Pirojil spoke up. "I don't see anything."
"Me, neither," Durine put in. "Nothing."
Kethol got slowly to his feet; he looked okay, if a bit shaken.
"Light, Pirojil," Karl said.
As Pirojil pulled a glowsteel from his tunic, horribly bright blue light flared in the alleyway, sending a watching rat scurrying for cover. But there was nothing else there, nothing except the rag-clad, half-starved body of the man Karl had killed.
As he got painfully to his feet, Kethol used the toe of his boot to turn the crazy over, after stabbing the corpse a couple of times with his own sword, just to be on the safe side.
That's all it was, just a crazy. It happened in Ehvenor. Spending too much time around faerie was very bad for some humans, turning them violently, self-destructively insane. It didn't affect many—perhaps no more than one in five hundred, perhaps less—but that was enough.
Above, the faerie lights pulsed more brightly, echoing Karl's pulse.
Walk this way. Come to me.
Kethol muttered a startled cry. Durine brought up his shotgun. Pirojil spun his horse around.
Walk this way. Come to me. The voice was directionless, and quiet.
Karl started. "Who is it? Pirojil—douse the light."
Walk this way. Come to me. As Pirojil tucked his glowsteel away, the faerie lights hovered over the alley, pulsing even more intensely, the speed of the pulsations become an urgent staccato. Strangely, though, they didn't make the alley any brighter.
Walk this way. Come to me.
Karl retrieved his amulet from his saddlebag and slipped the thong over his head. It should provide some protection from whoever it was that was—
Walk this way. Come to me. The faerie lights descended to line up over the alley, a path in the air that wound toward the faerie embassy.
Embassy is such a silly word. "Finger" is better. Walk this way. Come to me.
"Are you for me or against me?" Not that he could trust an affirmative answer, but perhaps a negative one would make his decision easy.
No. Walk this way. Come to me.
He decided not to, and was turning to tell the others that they were moving out when the universe twisted.
* * *
When it untwisted again, they were all standing in front of the faerie embassy, squinting at the uncertain shapes.
"What do we do now, sir?" Kethol asked.
Durine's beefy face was sweat-sheened in the harsh white light; he raised a flipper of a hand to his forehead to wipe away beading sweat. "I don't want to go inside."
Distant memories returned to Karl, of himself ordering the others to follow him, and of them following the path of light to the embassy.
But the memories were flat, emotionless, unconvincing.
True. I warped things. I can do that in Faerie. I find it convenient.
"But this isn't Faerie."
That's a matter of opinion, in Ehvenor. My opinion differs, Karl Cullinane. In Ehvenor, in Faerie, my opinion is what matters. It's my opinion that you and I are—
The world twisted yet again, and he was alone in the glow. It wasn't exactly a room, he decided. More of a place.
—in the same place.
While it didn't look like it, it felt like nothing so much as the room where he'd last encountered Deighton. Or Arta Myrdhyn, or whatever name was really his.
"Both are, actually," a nearby voice said.
"Deighton?"
"Is his name. Oh, you think I'm him? Hardly." The voice took on color and tone. "He is human, of a sort."
"And you're not?"
"Good guess, Karl Cullinane."
"Who are you?"
"My name? Oh, anything will do." There was a distant chuckle that became distinctly feminine. "Titania might be best, all things considered. If you can do that. Or even if you can't."
"Queen of the faeries?"
"Quite."
He forced himself to speak calmly. "I take it you're not after the guild reward."
Another chuckle. "You take it correctly."
She appeared in a blink: an immensely ugly, remarkably fat woman, reclining on a tattered purple couch. She played with a gilt tassel on her shiny red silk vest with one hand, while another reached out to grab the greasy leg of mutton lying on the mist next to the couch. She took a hefty bite. "Or would you prefer another form? It's not important. I'll change the rule a little for you." The immense fat woman stretched broadly on her side. The leg of mutton disappeared.
He must have blinked, because he didn't see the change. And while the couch was the same, as she finished her stretch, she was different, and so beautiful that he had trouble swallowing; her high, firm breasts threatened to rupture the mist that barely contained them as it swept down her torso, leaving her long, lovely legs completely bare.
"Is this better, Karl Cullinane?" she asked in a warm contralto. She propped her chin on the palm of one hand and eyed him levelly. The face said that no worry had ever crossed her mind; it was smooth, the high cheekbones touched with pink. Alien eyes stared at him unblinkingly from beneath long lashes. Ruby lips parted for a momentary grin, revealing sparkling white teeth, and a tongue that momentarily peeked out, then hid.
"Do you like what you see?" She rose and stood in front of him, the mist clinging to her like something live, swirling about its tight confines.
She was beautiful, like a combination of all that was supposed to be lovely in a woman, but the effect was chilling. It wasn't real; it was only for display.
You've got a staple in your navel, lady.
A real woman's breasts moved and sagged with gravity; when standing, a real woman didn't float above the ground to point the toes of both feet in order to emphasize the curve of her legs. Flesh was soft and real, not a sterile illusion.
He closed his eyes as longing for Andy cut into him. God, Lady, I miss you.
"I'm sorry, Karl Cullinane," Titania said. "I don't mean to tease you. I just wanted to meet you and maybe send you on your way. Think of it as an idle impulse." She laughed, her laughter distant silver bells. "I—we? they?—I have many idle impulses. Like this."
He opened his eyes again, and Andy-Andy stood in front of him, dressed only in a silken robe. She shook her head, sending her hair flying.
"Andy?" Karl Cullinane didn't question his fortune; he took a step toward her.
"No," she said, in Titania's voice. She shook her head and stood back, the features melting. "And it seems I've hurt you again. You humans are so . . . delicate, aren't you? Is this better?"
Again, he must have blinked; she had become some sort of compromise between Andy and the beautiful woman she had been moments before: Andy, but without the wear that the years had laid upon her; no bend in the nose, no laugh lines around the eyes, none of the scattered gray hairs.
Andy. He missed her so much. They had been together ever since the Hand tabernacle, and in that time he had never had another woman. It wasn't that there hadn't been opportunities, it wasn't that he hadn't been tempted, it was something very simple: She could chase away the darkness, if only for a while.
And this creature had the gall to mock her form. He let a distant coldness sweep over him. "That will be enough of that, faerie."
"It wasn't mockery. Maybe this would be best," Titania said, the voice now issuing from a dark patch in a mass of mist. "I do have something to show you."
"Why?"
"Because I'm bored, and you're entertaining. Be nice to me and I might even have an offer to make you."
The air in front of him shimmered, and then solidified into an aerial view of a shoreline. The viewpoint had to be at least a thousand feet up; Karl couldn't make out any of the individuals below, although he could see a dozen or so Mel outriggers on the sands below, and a two-masted ship of some sort bobbing in the waves offshore.
"Ahrmin," Titania said, "is there. Waiting for you. You've now distracted him sufficiently. Were your son wandering loose around Pandathaway, he would remain safe; the guild's attention is elsewhere."
And I get to be elsewhere. That was good, if true; things were going according to plan. "Why are you showing me this?"
"This was beginning to bore me; you didn't have a chance."
He kept his voice slow and steady. "You think this is all a game, Lady?"
"Don't be silly; threatening me is nothing better than absurd. Your sword can't cut mist.
"Besides, I didn't mean it that way. What I mean is that by the time you and your friends arrive, the slavers will have you. One ship is out at sea to cut off escape that way; the populace of village Eriksen has been driven away. Most of them.
"Karl Cullinane, if you wait for a ship heading toward Melawei, by the time you get there, the trap will have already been laid out. Ahrmin will simply take you, either dead or alive. I offer you two choices. Turn around here, and ride back. Or . . ."
"Or?"
"Or I will weave mist and light and air, make you a boat, and send that boat to Melawei. Just you and a few knapsacks, no more." She laughed again. "You will arrive stark naked."
"Why?" He didn't understand any of this. It was as though she was playing with him. But why?
"Amusement. Don't look for deep motivations, Karl Cullinane. You will find none in me. All I offer you is a little chance to escape alive, but more chance to save those you care for." The mist grew firmer. "Choose."
"Why?"
"Why do I help you? Beyond the fact that I'm bored and you're fun?" The mist swirled. "If you need a reason—your kind always needs these reasons, don't you?—then think that I'm doing it because the guild is of Pandathaway, and Pandathaway is human magic, while I am faerie magic. The two are not the same, nor particularly friendly."
That wasn't news. "But why help me?"
"Reasons, reasons, reasons. You want a reason? Because I owe it to Arta Myrdhyn for all the amusement he and you have provided me."
Anger rose. "I take no favors from Arta Myrdhyn. And I'm not going to abandon my men."
"As to your second point, they will think that you ordered them home. As to your first, it is not a favor from Arta Myrdhyn. It is the gamble of a powerful and weary creature to prolong a game she finds entertaining. Even if you, Karl Cullinane, are now beginning to bore me."
The world twisted, again, and all of the gear that Kethol, Pirojil, Durine, and he had brought was in front of him.
"Choose."
He pointed to his sword, to the bag of explosives, to the . . .
"Enough. I see your method. Very well." Again, the world twisted.
* * *
Karl Cullinane found himself stark naked beside the Ehvenor dock, the pile of goods he would have selected in front of him.
Beside the dock . . . he was on a five-meter-square platform woven of light, mist, and air. It was solid, but not persuasively so; it stretched and gave, threatening at any moment to give way beneath his feet.
Soundlessly, the raft pulled away from the pier, accelerating smoothly, evenly as it passed into the bay.
Even in the darkness, he could see three figures on the shore, spurring their horses toward the dock, calling to him. Kethol, Pirojil, and Durine.
He lifted his arm and waved a goodbye as the accelerating raft left the docks far behind.
"Better see to your gear, Karl Cullinane. You'll be in Melawei by morning. Farewell." The voice went convincingly silent.
"Fuck," he said. "What have I gotten myself into now?"
Mmmm . . . perhaps it was just as well. Karl didn't need the others to draw Ahrmin away from chasing Jason. In fact, he had already drawn Ahrmin away.
Now it was time to make the distraction permanent.
There is a notion, he had said, many times, called the last run. The idea is this: None of our lives are taken cheaply.
He swallowed three times, hard. None of our lives are taken cheaply.
Hell, he even had an outside chance to survive. Whatever the slavers were looking for, it wasn't going to be Karl Cullinane arriving on a faerie raft. They'd probably be expecting him to arrive on dragonback. But if Ahrmin's spies knew that Ellegon couldn't leave the Middle Lands now—or if Ahrmin had helped to arrange events so that Ellegon was needed in Holtun-Bieme or to resupply Daven's team—the slavers would be expecting him by some overland route or, more likely, via ship.
But if they were following his path, via magic, they'd see that he was moving, even if they couldn't triangulate on his exact location.
His hand fell to his knapsack and brought out his amulet. He could even put it on and sneak up on them.
No. Not yet, he decided. It was important to keep the slavers chasing him, not giving up on a wild goose chase. He would put the amulet on when he reached Melawei, not before. If Ahrmin couldn't locate Karl, he'd assume that Karl had backed off, and might divert his men and his attention toward finding Jason.
He clutched the amulet tightly, then shrugged his shoulders and tucked it back in his pouch.
What next?
Better check the gear, he decided.
His sword and his Nehera-made bowie were both fine. He eyed the Damascus striations on the knife.
The knife had never been blooded. That was about to change.
His four pistols were laid out in a row next to his rifle and shotgun, his repair kit and powder horns beside them.
He stooped to check the contents of the next two knapsacks. Yes, the fifty cylinders of foot-long steel tubing, each containing a hefty charge of guncotton, were still intact, each bomb in a tightly sealed tube of pig intestine for waterproofing—like a steel sausage. They looked fine, as did the blasting caps in their separate bag.
A role of fusing and a firekit completed his sapper's bag.
It finally hit him: He was scared as all hell, but he was looking forward to this.
The young Karl Cullinane, the one who had vomited in horror after killing those men outside of Lundeyll, was gone. Slaughter had become second nature to him; he'd missed it since the war had ended.
His only regrets involved the people he was leaving behind. It had been too long.
And what does that make me?
He didn't care, he decided, as he stretched out on the too-soft surface of the raft and willed himself to sleep.
* * *
He was never sure how many hours later the raft beached itself on the Melawei shore; until the harsh grinding of sand underneath the craft woke him, he had been sleeping. Sleeping soundly, for the first time since he'd left Biemestren.
As it pushed itself ashore, the half-solid raft, woven by faerie out of mist, light, and air, suddenly became mist, light, and air; with a deep sigh it vanished underneath him, leaving him lying upon the wet sand, only half awake.
Even sleepy, warrior's reflexes took over. In an instant, he had scooped up his gear and dashed for the treeline, his ears straining for the sound of a cry or gunshot.
But there was nothing. Only the lapping of waves on the sand, the whisper of wind through the trees, and a distant mocking call of a crow.
Nothing.
He peered out onto the beach. It was empty.
There was no sign of habitation; he was between villages, or beyond the Mel range of settlement.
The first was more likely, he decided.
Dawn was still some time away; the sky was barely beginning to brighten in the east.
He couldn't tell where he was, but a bit of exploring would see to that. The first thing was to find a place to cache what gear he wouldn't need for a quiet stalk, and the second was to hide out for the day.
Night was the time to stalk.
He slipped the thong of his amulet over his head. For now, he would hole up in the woods, but he would have to find a more permanent place eventually.
Where to hide?
Of course! There was only one place, and he had been a fool for not thinking of it sooner.
"Now you see me, now you don't," he whispered, "but I'll see you."
He cursed himself silently for talking aloud. Asshole. It wasn't time for gestures; it was time to get to work.
He took a piece of hard cheese from his knapsack and wolfed it, then washed it down with a quick swallow of water from his canteen.
His smile was that of a stalking tiger.