Chasing the Bard—Philippa Ballantine

All Rights Reserved

Chasing the Bard by Philippa Ballantine © 2010

Cover Art by Alex White of the Gearheart © 2010

Chapter 1: Lord, what fools these mortals be!

It was a guilty pleasure. When Puck parted the Veil Between Worlds, and stepped into the forbidden delights of the human realm, it was with a delicious shudder of anticipation. If he were found out there would be more than the Christian hell to pay for it. He could think of a hundred unpleasant things that Auberon could punish him with, probably even more than the king himself, and yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to step back.

The wood was so pleasant, and the trees were actually sighing to him as he took his first step into the crisp layer of leaves. Surely the rest were wrong about this human world. Beauty still lingered here—even if his people’s music had faded.

He bent, scooping up a handful of the trees’ castoffs, and with a little flicker of his Art he formed them into a very passable brown coat which he slipped over his head with an almost—giggle. What he wouldn’t have given for a mirror.

The trees whispered again, the slight wind giving them an eager breathy voice, and, head cocked, Puck listened.

“Why thank you,” he leapt on light feet to where a sliver of water had gathered between the roots of a grandfather oak. Reflected in nature’s mirror the Trickster admired his handiwork. He flicked his silver white hair out from under his new vest, and grinned. The dark leaves looked good—even on this his smallest, and most childlike form. It still needed something.

Head on one side, Puck considered. Another flicker of art brought a sleeping hyacinth out from its hiding hole. He thanked it just as kindly as the tree before plucking it, and putting it behind one ear. He’d just settled down for a decent spell of admiring himself when a smell came to him on the breeze. Something human was plodding towards his little nook. Quick as a startled squirrel he’d bounded up the tree, and nestled into its friendly crook long before the old woman came puffing around the corner. She paused with a great huffing sigh, and wiped a thread of sweat from her creased face.

Puck had never seen a human so weighed down with objects, a scraggly bag on her back, a sheaf of herbs under one arm, and even more interestingly, an oddly shaped stool under the other. His eyebrow went up a notch, and despite not wanting to be seen, he leaned perplexed over the branch for a closer look. The woman passed right beneath him, all the while muttering to herself in a low angry voice.

The Trickster had never been one to resist his impulses, and was not changing that today. Nor was he known for his skill with Art, but even his stern cousin Sive the Shining would have been impressed with the sharp sliver of Art he sent into the human’s consciousness; she didn’t feel a thing.

The old woman’s mind was heaving with anger, all tied up with someone called Joan who had obviously failed in some way, and not aided by the fact that her burden was heavy. This Bess’s bones hurt, her feet were almost worn raw in her clogs, and the path was slippery at this early hour. Still the concern at her slowness was not solely for herself; she had a duty that he had not quite winkled from her brain, but it was what drove her to walk so quickly in the chill misty morning. She had a good heart, and he’d always had a soft spot for her sort of humanity, so if he called his Art to strengthen her muscles he wasn’t to be blamed. Sive’s stern look was a whole world away. It was only a moment’s work.

It was gladdening to see her face relax and her back straighten as the power filled her. It wasn’t his imagination; her eyes did drift to the tree he was hiding in.

“Thank you Lord Callirius,” her voice was very low but his otherworldly ears were equally sharp.

Bess had straightened and moved on by the time Puck recovered. He should have been incensed that she’d mistaken the reprieve as a gift from his cousin, but he was more shocked that she’d named a Fey at all. How extraordinary, thought Puck as he climbed atop the branch, to watch the woman walk away, faster, and with a great deal less puffing. Could it be that some of the old ways still remained in the humans even after his kind had forsaken this realm? It would have been remiss of him not to find out.

His people had always hidden from the humans. However as Bess was moving quickly beyond the reach of the trees there was nothing left to do but to wrap a glamour of invisibility about himself, and follow after. Sive should be proud of his determination—if he ever got around to telling her the whole adventure.

Unseen then he trailed after the old woman, his hidden shape masked by wind-blown grass, or a minor cloud of dust kicked up by her heels. True invisibility was beyond him, so this was more his Art giving any watchers a gentle nudge to look somewhere else. Certainly Bess was moving with such speed she never spared a look over her shoulder. Puck had to really set his mind to keeping up, turning away from every distraction that tempted his eye. He would have loved to pause a while, and delve into the hedgerows they passed, or perhaps shapeshift to gamble with the thick-coated sheep he saw on the rolling hills, but he had a higher purpose today.

They approached a town, a fact he had detected long before he saw the huddle of buildings. That was the one thing he disliked about humans; no matter how amusing or pleasant they were, there always remained a vague scent of decay about them.

As if she had picked up on his stray thoughts, Bess drew up for a second, letting her eyes wander dismally over Stratford. “Aye the plague is here,” she muttered darkly before stamping on.

Protected he might be, but Puck still shuddered. He knew all about plagues, and buboes, and shrieks of agony—more than anyone of his light nature should. Many was the time when his cat shape had been lapping up the milk a goodwife left out to please him, and he had heard the moans of the afflicted. Why would Bess be going toward a place of infection, when she was clearly no fool?

Curiosity overcame his desire to avoid any unpleasantness. As they drew closer, the smell became worse, so that even Bess had to halt, and wrap a portion of her cloak around her face. Puck recoiled. Great Mother, they had come upon the limed cesspits where the dead were thrown. He wasn’t his cousin, he wasn’t used to the ugly nature of this realm—he almost fled.

“Great Mother, hold my life,” Bess whispered, clutching her bundles tighter before plowing on.

It really would not have been very brave of him to abandon her after that. Holding his breath, Puck and his glamour passed quickly on, almost knocking the old woman’s heels, until they reached the somewhat less odorous village itself.

Piles of refuse were burning on the street, which did not add to the atmosphere. A group of women perhaps the same age as Bess were gathered around one smoldering near the corner, bonneted heads pressed close together, clucking into each other’s ears dismally.

“Bad time for birthing I’d say.” One nodded sagely.

“Oh yes, hardly worth the bother,” another pressed her hands together pronouncing judgment.

Bess passed them in silence as their eyes turned contemptuously on her. They could never place how, but they knew she was not one of them.

Puck though had enough to concern himself with. Being surrounded by humanity in all its grime was bad enough, but there was something far worse about the town, a tension that rang through his head. Preternatural senses told him that behind every wall was an anxious human, terrified of death for themselves or their loved ones. Some were locked in fornication in a desperate attempt to forget, others were wearing holes in their knees trying to pray past it, but all wore fear around their heart like a chain. Puck pitied them, as was his nature, but there was not enough Art in his body to cure this malaise.

They turned a final corner in the strangely still street, and Bess’ mind was ringing with relief. Finally there was her destination. For a single one of his immortal breaths Puck was unimpressed, for it looked like any other of the houses in the row, and then his Art broke loose. His ears buzzed with a mighty hum, his vision drained of all color, and his skin suddenly became hot. In that one instant he almost lost hold of his glamour, and his shape. The power he had always wielded with such ease was abruptly staging a revolt, the center of which was the house Bess was now approaching. It was bright white to Puck, as if the sun was caged within its frail walls, and even as he stood struggling with his Art, it pulsed faintly like a human heart. And he now he could hear it calling to him, softly but persistently like a half-recalled dream, and so much of him wanted to follow after Bess that tears spilled from his eyes. The ache inside him was a burning pit, and every ounce of Art was urging him toward the house.

Puck was not a great Fey. He’d not walked the elder days, nor taken up a godhood among the humans; he was the Trickster, not made for serious or important matters. But still he knew when he saw them, and better still he knew those that were more equipped to deal with such momentous events.

With a half cry of sorrow, Puck threw open the Veil, and quit the suddenly frightening human world. Whatever secrets the house held would have to wait. He could not let it burn his foolish eyes, and change him forever. As he passed Between and into the Fey realm, he couldn’t have even identified what he did as cowardice. For the Trickster it was merely survival.

***

The bronze doors of the banqueting hall burst open as if struck by giant fists. The rows of candles illuminating the Fey Court flickered and twisted against the sudden onslaught of air. The willowy golden forms of those revelers within turned their masked and bejeweled faces to the remnants of the door, still ringing like a thousand mistuned gongs on the marble floor. A remainder of blue lightning danced its way across the metal. The courtiers though were used to such amateur dramatics—every sprite and member of the Fey toyed with them in their formative years—the difference was who was using them now.

Sive stepped up onto the shattered remains of the door, and glowered at the twittering amused faces of her brother’s court. She wore a heavy black velvet dress, which though thoroughly inappropriate for the eternal summer of the Fey, still suited her well. Violet eyes still boiling with Art fixed on her brother lounging at the far end of the hall. Such raven black hair, which human poets had swooned over for centuries, was at this moment standing around her head—a corona of angry darkness.

Certainly none could doubt that she had heard the news.

Auberon, all golden sun to her dark rage, shook his head a little. “Sive, I hope that you will at least have the courtesy to fix the door.”

The rest of the rainbow-garmented Fey flinched at that. Surely none but he would ever dare to jest with such an enraged Sive. But for once she neither blasted nor yelled. “Why certainly brother,” her carefully measured tones echoed dangerously down the length of the hall, “With as much courtesy as you showed in giving me to him!”

The Court held its breath as the heat of anger rose to their King’s cheeks. Then almost casually he raised one pale perfect hand, and examined it, “I warned you, sister, that Mordant had asked.”

“But not that you were honestly considering it,” Sive stepped over the still trembling doors, and brushed down the long hallway, eyes locked on her brother. Unwary but amused, sprites fluttered around her like moonstruck moths, piping voices unashamedly querying Sive’s distress. The taste of her Art in the air drew them; power was a magnet to their kind. Flickering her hands at them, Sive sent not an inconsiderable number of their butterfly-winged forms tumbling across the room. It mattered little; if they hit anything they merely squealed with laughter, and leapt into the air with renewed vigor. But other Fey with not quite the sprites’ recuperative powers bowed if they had time, or scuttled from her reach if they did not. Next to her brother, Sive was the most powerful of their number, and it did not do to get beneath her feet.

The Fey were on the whole a pale wheaten-haired race slim to the point of thinness, but in all things, like her very personality, Sive was the opposite of the norm. Tall yes, but dark like a moonless night, and strong-boned and vigorous where they were light enough to blow away on the wind. It was probably what irked Auberon the most, for in all things she was the exact image of their mother Anu.

As she approached her brother’s throne Sive could feel her Art swirl around her, the desire to destroy barely sated by the door’s sacrifice. She could almost hear the roar of the warriors of old urging her on—but those days were gone, and this was merely the latest in a series of insults. None but her brother had ever treated her in this way, and even he had just recently come to it. The time when they had both laughed and played, innocent as mortal children, was long gone now. It was a desperate time for every Fey, and their king was not immune to fear. He needed a cure for his people, she understood that—but kin was still kin, and she had expected far better.

It had all really begun with the mysterious departure of their mother. The beloved queen Anu had simply left them without warning one day. It was the beginning of all their problems. The first of which was the arrogance of the son she’d left behind to rule.

It had not always been so—before Anu’s loss, Sive and Auberon had been close, spending much time riding clouds on Fey horseback, their laughter making even the birds envious. He had played a silver flute, and made the flowers dance for her amusement. It seemed that all she could remember of that time was joy, and their thoughts so closely woven it was hard to tell his from hers. The departure of Anu had blasted them apart, she into a dark rage, he into icy indifference.

“You never even mentioned this marriage to me,” Sive said as evenly as she could.

“I am still the head of this royal house, sister. I do not need to ‘mention’ anything to anyone.”

Sive surged forward, until she stood just a few insolent feet from the top of the dais on which his throne sat. His icy blue eyes regarded her with boredom. Sive knew him better though; with her brother everything was an act, and he hid his fear well beneath a cloak of indifference.

Auberon shrugged, an elegant spare gesture that he accompanied with a carefully measured grin. “What else could you expect me to do, Sive? Mordant has grown greatly in power, and he has the strength that the Fey need, and quickly. Need I remind you how our numbers have diminished? How the malaise could destroy us all?”

Sive dropped her eyes for a moment, knowing the mysterious illness he spoke of was no trifle. But her love for Mordant had died the moment she’d set eyes on him after his return from the Between. Though she could not put an exact name to it the coldness in his eyes had set a deep chill within her. She’d known immediately that whatever she had loved had died in the Between.

“I am as worried as you are, brother, but something in me says this is not the way.”

Her brother snapped erect in his chair all banter gone from his pale face, “We are running very short of options Sive. Do you know another way to save our people?”

All anger drained from her. She thought of the bright immortal beauty that would be lost if a cure for the malaise could not be found.

Mordant had been long gone from the Fey, traveling to distant realms, but doing what he had never revealed. Perhaps he had found answers in the places others had never returned from. Maybe he was indeed the salvation of their people.

Auberon nodded with a slight smile, “Then Mordant will be in this hall tomorrow ready to claim his delightful bride. Though how he could be willing to marry the queen of battle is beyond me.” He waved his hand dismissively, “All those ravens and swords.”

As always her mother’s words rose from the past. We all are slave to our responsibilities, dear heart.

“I fear we will all rue this day, brother, but for the good of our people I will do as you ask,” Sive responded sadly.

Rather than be humiliated she spun on her heel, black robes circling around her, and strode back down the Hall. A ring of gossip followed in her wake, like a stone dropped into a still pond.

***

Young Mary grunted in pain as the contractions began again. This was her third birthing, but they had not gotten any easier. The midwife was whistling a little tune to herself as she laid her small bag of herbals on the window sill, unconcerned that the woman she served this day was the wife one of Stratford’s most prosperous and influential men. To Bess each woman was the same, and yet special. She had seen more joys and tragedies than any town citizen, and was neither excited nor worried as to the possible ending of this one.

Her youngest granddaughter Joan was hovering by the door like a bird with scalded feet, casting glances between their patient and Bess. Flaxen hair bound up neatly under her cap, hands washed, and sleeves rolled up, Joan was ready to work. She’d been late, but at least she was here.

“Bring the stool here, child—near the light.” Bess tried to keep the edge of impatience from her voice. Joan scampered to position the low birthing stool to her grandmother’s satisfaction. Bess smiled reassuringly, “Now help Mary onto it. Time is near.”

In the midwife’s mind, men were all the same, and it was women that did the real work. She had labored with Mary through two other births, smooth they had gone, and bonnie children both. But her inner sense told her that they would not last long in this harsh world. Calmness in a child was not natural, for the mortal realm was a difficult place to live. Babies needed strength, and pigheaded determination to survive it. Bess as always had been proved correct, and both girls had let loose their weak hold on life within a few months of birth.

Joan helped their patient to sit as comfortably as possible on the stool, and as she had been taught took her place at the back, ready to provide support. Mary’s eyes were fixed on Bess now, her young face opened up with pain, seeking some reassurance from the older woman that this would have a different ending to her last births.

Wishing she could at least lie, Bess sighed and picked out the necessary herbals. The labor had gone on much longer than it should, and there was hardly any sign of the baby’s head. Many women birthed easier after the first, but Mary was determined to be the exception to the rule. The room stank of sweat and blood already, and Bess knew that there would have to be a baby soon, or both might die.

Mary grasped Joan’s hand, and moaned through gritted teeth, her face covered in a veil of sweat. No matter how high or mighty the woman, it all came down to this one animalistic moment when the body ruled over the mind. Bess laid her practiced hands on the swollen and twisting belly. Something more powerful than merely a baby was moving within. The title of witch in this time was a dangerous one, and Bess did not consider herself such. The old ways though had always called her, and she had always followed. The Art was essentially a woman’s power, born of the creator goddess, and given to those who had need of it. Those old paths were less strict than the Christian one; they didn’t mind if she had to bend her head in a church now and then. It was later out in the woods and in her true heart that religion burned.

Naturally Bess strenuously avoided telling of any of the sights she was sometimes granted. Many wise women had ended up hanging from the end of a dirty rope for their gift’s sake, and she was determined to not to be one of them. In this age a loose tongue was often the last mistake—one like Bess would make. If any asked she was merely a midwife; that was where it ended, plain and simple.

However Bess was called back to herself with a lurch when she touched the grunting Mary. The sudden flash of white light that she saw in that moment surrounding her patient made her gasp. Bess took a step back, hands tingling with the contact. Thankfully the pregnant woman, her eyes glazed with concentration, scarcely noticed, but little Joan gave her a worried look.

Was it another vision from the Old Ones, Bess wondered, or something else?

Shaking off the feeling, and once more laying her hands on the straining woman, she tried to look beyond. Whatever she had seen before did not happen again, but something had definitely changed in the womb. She moved between Mary’s legs. The baby was coming, and coming fast too. She could already see head and shoulders emerging from a haze of blood. Mary grunted deeply, a primitive powerful sound, and her whole body spasmed. The midwife cleared the baby’s nose, and shifted the shoulders to allow easier passage for the little one. Poor Joan’s fingers were almost crushed as the burgess’s wife bawled her pain into the world, and gave another life to it. The little boy slipped free into Bess’ twisted old hands.

She turned him over, and with a thundering heart realized he had the thick rubbery coating of a caul over his face. Swiftly she removed it, and stuffed it into her pocket.

The midwife found with shock that a tear was wetting the corner of her eye, but she wrapped the baby up, and delivered him to his mother who had slumped back against Joan. Like all mothers, the sudden lack of pain and the success of the moment made her smile joyously.

“Not done yet, my dear,” Bess murmured, but already Mary’s body was telling her that.

While she moaned and delivered the afterbirth, Bess comforted herself that Mary had not seen the caul. In previous years, it would have been a sign of good luck, but in less tolerant times it was often pointed out as a devil’s mark. She would save Mary the knowing of that.

After mother and child were settled in their broad bed, the healthy little boy suckling contentedly, and the worried father reassured, old Bess sent Joan back to her mother’s house. They had planned to walk the hedgerows together and find more herbs, but Bess feigned being tired. Joan, the sweet girl, wanted then to see her back to her little hut, and that’s when Bess reached the end of her short tether.

“I said I want to rest,” she snapped, feeling the caul weighing her pocket, “Now get back to your mother before I tan that foolish hide of yours.”

Joan’s bottom lip slipped out, but she obeyed. And with her leaving Bess was free to go where she needed to go, back to Arden wood.

It was a long walk, and Joan would have willingly accompanied her, but she would not have understood—not at all. The things her grandmother needed to do were horrifying to young Christian raised Joan.

It was near sunset when Bess reached the woods. The old midwife watched the sun drag itself beyond the stand of trees, and smiled. Once she had been young here, had picked wildflowers, and made love in the tall grasses by the streams. Today was special indeed to remind her of that time.

Beneath a knurled oak, the equally knurled midwife bent, and determinedly scooped out a hole in the brown earth. Carefully she laid the caul there, and covered it back over.

It had been many years since her own mother had delivered her with a similar gift, in a field not far from here. A caul was a mark, a sign that this child was meant to be something rare and precious to the Great Goddess. Perhaps when she herself had been born, it had been to deliver this boy today—she could not tell.

In her heart she conjured the image of the goddess as it had come to her first, a dark-haired maid with stars in her eyes and a smile on her lips. “Mother of All, take back your own, and guard this child,” she prayed.

For a moment Bess knelt there, listening, hoping against hope that there might come a sign after so long a time; perhaps a crack of lightning, or an unusual flock of birds, anything that might signal she had the goddess’ attention. But there was only the lonely breeze among last autumn’s leaves, carrying with it the faint scent of life and hope. Bess smiled a little.

Perhaps that was the only sign the Old Ones could give, and certainly it was more than she had felt since childhood. It was not so very wrong of her to want to believe that she’d been heard. Levering herself up from the ground, Bess began the long journey back to town, her heart a little lighter.

***

From the glittering Hall of Auberon, Sive went down. Her home was smaller, and more to her own liking anyhow. This Evening Realm was where her brother sent those dispossessed and unfortunate whom he no longer wished to set eyes on. Sive herself had never been formerly banished to this lonely corner of the Fey, but she had found it pleasant, and populated by those malcontents whom she felt the most affinity for.

Across the endless green rolling hills of the World Beyond the Veil she ran faster than a roe deer, her feet given wings by her Art. She was a bird, or perhaps a wind-tossed flower, but she still could not escape the growing disquiet within her. At last she reached the tumbling gray clouds that shielded all that her brother did not want to see from view. She pushed the mist aside and entered.

The mortal world had day and night, the Fey had the Sunrise and the Evening. The Mother of All permitted no darkness here, only two types of soft light, and mists to divide them. It had its own rhythms and nature.

Whereas before Sive stood in the golden light of morning, here things were the more muted tones of dusk. Trees caressed by the half-moon murmured together, and the soft scent of the eventime flowers replaced the splendor of the rose that filled the other side of the mist. She breathed an unconscious sigh of relief. Roses gave her a headache anyway. Wrapping purple-cloaked mists about her so they spilled from her shoulders and sighed into her ears, Sive walked alone to the hill that was home. Like all dwellings of the Fey it was a hill, part of the earth itself set aside for them.

Into the soft turf was cut a series of wide and deep steps, and her feet found them with an easy familiarity. Once safely underground the chamber opened up miraculously, but how the huge curving ceiling was supported would have beggared a mortal builder’s imagination. Thick, still living branches of half-buried Fey tree clasped the earth up like a gentle hand, an impossible and yet glorious thing. The mortal world’s restraints meant nothing here; in the Fey Art ruled, and imagining a creation was half the work. Sive’s aunt had made this home with a sudden burst of inspiration, and it welcomed all her kin—even those most ungrateful ones.

A sharp caw of alarm made Sive spin about, just in time to catch Macha’s clawed feet on her arm. The giant raven squawked indignantly, and shuffled sideways on the Fey’s shoulder, her feathers ruffled, beak half open. A gentle query brushed the edge of Sive’s mind, filled with her friend’s distress.

“Ah Macha,” Sive crooned, “It is done now.” She stroked down the bird’s chest, noticing how many of the once night black feathers were dull, almost gray in color. Macha was suffering the fate of many Fey, and it might still claim the battle raven as it had others. The thought alone made Sive tremble. The sickness was spreading like wildfire, and none knew how to stop it—nor even what caused it. Their prayers to the Mother of All had bought nothing, and if she had forsaken them then the end was indeed close. Finding a cure for the malaise had been the reason Mordant dared the Between, and though he had said nothing of finding one, he now had the power that could help. Yet in his eyes she had seen more darkness and loss than that held in any victim of the malaise. He had come back from the Between stronger than Sive herself, and possibly even than Auberon. At the back of her mind, Sive considered the possibility that her brother was actually afraid of Mordant.

“As well he should be,” she whispered. Macha let out a plaintive croak, sensing her mistress’ mood. “Yes, yes, I am heartily sick of losing too, Macha,” Sive closed her eyes for a moment.

“Maybe I can brighten your day, dear cousin,” the sweet dulcet tones to her right made even the stalwart Fey jump almost out of her skin. She should have known better.

“Puck,” Sive snapped angrily, while Macha leapt into the air, feathers rattling, and flew off to rest on a high-backed chair, “I have told you to stop doing that!” Her cousin loved to appear without warning, and shake her up—just for the fun of it.

He smiled easily, “Might as well ask a snake not to bite—it’s simply my nature, cousin.” He had chosen his usual Fey form, a slight silvered haired man-child. He was now sitting cross-legged on the table, dimpled cheek resting in his hands, for all the world like an innocent—too many had made that mistake. Sive was well used to Puck’s ways and was only thankful he had this time deigned to wear clothes. Sive had been at court to see the incident that had bought about his latest banishment. Needless to say, her brother did not find the very amorously endowed Puck amusing, especially when hanging upside down from his rafters. And even more especially, when the lady Moira, whom Auberon had been courting for some time, found the said Puck momentarily interesting. But then Sive’s cousin was so used to being exiled that by now it was no punishment at all. Like Sive, Puck loved the Evening Realm best of all, which was lucky in many ways.

“Besides,” he slipped off the table, and wriggled his arm against hers until they were as snuggly linked as twins, “If you are nice to me today, beautiful Sive, I may warn you about our Aunt.”

She sighed, “What is it now?”

“I might have mentioned something interesting I saw today in the human realm...”

“Puck,” Sive could feel herself snapping, “The mortal realm is out of bounds—most of all to you.”

He had at least the sense to look abashed. “It was only a little visit.”

“And yet you managed to upset Brigit with it!”

“I’ll admit it did seem to get her in a tizzy.” Puck dropped to all fours, and let his front half turn into a pig, and his rear into that of a donkey. His voice remained unchanged though. “She can’t tell her ass from her elbow.” Looking over one shoulder he caught sight of his furry gray tail, and in mock shock ran off squealing into the corner.

Sive rolled her eyes—it was not one of his better jokes. Leaving Macha as Puck’s only disparaging audience, she took the next flight of stairs down to her aunt’s rooms.

Thick waves of smoke stung her eyes, and it was only by using a touch of her Art that she was able to breathe at all. Trailing her hand along the mossy wall, she finally found her Aunt Brigit huddled over her hearth—indeed that was hardly unusual, but the smoke and the fact that she did not turn made Sive worry.

Brigit had, since her banishment here, allowed her Fey form to age as any mortal might. It was a very bad sign, and one that in any other might have heralded the desire to slip the immortal bonds, and pass into nothingness, but not in Brigit’s case. If anything the ancient Fey had only become more determined, more aggressive.

Her wrinkled cheeks and limp hair were a message to her nephew Auberon that she had not forgotten, even if he had, Anu’s prophecy; one day Sive would lead the Fey. Brigit might well have claimed the crown, but instead she’d chosen to support Auberon, while Sive learnt some of the diplomacy needed to rule. It was a decision she had long since learnt to regret. Auberon showed no signs of stepping aside for the sister he regarded as definitely inferior.

“Aunt?” Sive moved closer, intrigued by what might have caught Brigit’s attention. The older Fey was bent so close to the spluttering flames of the fire that her limp hair was in danger of igniting, but even so there was still no reply.

“Aunt?” Sive ventured a hand on Brigit’s shoulder, feeling with shock the taunt thinness of the flesh beneath.

With a gasp Brigit tore herself from the fire. Spinning about she almost collided with her niece. “Sive,” she said, obviously becoming aware of her presence for the first time, “Never interrupt a Seeing. I almost had it that time.”

Puck was right. Brigit’s sharp blue eyes were glazed and distant, and when her hands plucked at Sive’s sleeve, she could feel a faint tremble in them. Fey for all their immortality still needed sustenance and refreshment. Putting off telling her aunt the news, Sive instead moved to the nearby larder, and softened a handful of bread with some liquid honeydew. She gave it to her aunt with a somewhat stern look, and was not satisfied until she had completed it. “ Now,” she said as the other finished her last mouthful, “What is it?”

“Something is in the air, “ Brigit nodded sagely, and wiped the crumbs away fastidiously, “Something is happening—but not in the Fey—in the mortal world.”

Sive chided herself for being away so long. Who knew how long the older Fey had gone without food or water? Puck as her only guardian was hardly reliable, prone to going off to find his own amusement. Her cousin had a kind enough heart, but unfortunately barely a brain to go with it.

The fire had spluttered and died while they talked, for which Sive was grateful. Brigit however had turned once more to the flames, and picking up a scorched stick she tried to poke them back to life.

Sive dusted off a nearby stool, and sat down next to her aunt with a sigh, “Why don’t you use your Art to get it going?”

“Never listen do you, Sive?” the older Fey glared at her, “How can you expect to rule if you do not know all the Arts of the Fey?”

“That’s not necessary, Aunt, because I don’t want to rule.”

“Well, you should,” Brigit grumbled, stabbing the fire aggressively. She gave her niece a piercing look, and continued on as if Sive had all along asked for a lesson. “Now you should know, a pure flame is needed for a Seeing. Listen to me! How will you understand the future when I am gone?”

She decided to ignore the barely concealed threat in that. “No one cares about the future anymore—they are all too happy living in the now.”

Brigit snorted, “More like too afraid to look if you ask me. Why you could have Seen what Auberon was planning if you knew the ways. You could have avoided having to marry that festering boil Mordant if you bothered.”

Sive wasn’t surprised her aunt already knew about the engagement, nor that it offended her greatly. Even before Mordant had left for the Between Brigit had not approved. She would never explain such an irrational dislike, but would only mutter about ‘visions’. These days she was not nearly so diplomatic.

Sive always wondered if it was the Sight that allowed her aunt to remain in the Evening Realm, and yet so well informed of the goings-on in her nephew’s court. Still she did feel a need to explain herself to Brigit.

“I have no love for Mordant, aunt—he was gone too long, and returned too changed. But if we can add his new power to the Fey, then perhaps we can find a cure for the malaise, and save our people.”

Brigit’s back stiffened, but she said nothing. Instead she picked over a range of woods she had assembled before the hearth, choosing ash and willow to make a new fire. “A Seeing is needed,” she muttered to herself.

Sive sighed. Sometimes there was nothing to do but let Brigit have her way, and at least she did not start an argument on it.

Her aunt struggled with flint and stone, and finally, after much cursing, managed to light the kindling. Cosseting it like a small child, she managed to get the flames so high that they were in danger of licking the sod roof. Curiously there was little heat from it, but plenty of choking waves of smoke. Sive’s Art kept a small circle of clean air about her, but she still watched befuddled as Brigit embraced it. The older Fey’s knotted brown fingers wove complex interlaced patterns in it, sending it trailing after her gestures, until the whole mass was moving; tickling her under the chin, flowing over her sparse gray hair, and twining about her form. Sive found it rather pretty—while she didn’t have to inhale the smell.

The dark goddess would never admit it, but she was curious. Seeing had never been one of the Arts that Sive had troubled to learn. Previously she had thought it rather foolish. Why bother about the future, when it would be here soon enough? And it was so fragile; so many things could alter its course. But since things had been going in rather a different direction to that which she had planned, Sive had begun to think that there might well be something to this Art. So she found herself sitting on the edge of the stool, and watching more intently than she intended, while her aunt carved the smoke with her hands.

Brigit’s back was to her, but Sive could sense the thick coils of Art moving within her, and the noxious cloud.

“I see... A child,” Brigit muttered, “A child born on the tail of two before it, with the blood of the Fey within.”

“A human?” Sive asked.

“Yes, a boy child,” Brigit turned to her, the smoke obscuring her darkened eyes, her fingers still shaking hypnotically.

Sive didn’t try to hide her disappointment. “What use is a human to us, aunt?”

Brigit wasn’t listening, too deep in her Sight, “A child with the gift of the bard. A child of good soul, and brave heart.”

Sive rolled her eyes, “That’s the last thing we need! We don’t need another good heart, aunt—what we need is a warrior.”

Brigit’s eyes snapped back to normal, and she dismissed the smoke with a quick gesture. Her face was thunderous, “Warriors come in all shapes and sizes, niece—you of all people should know that! And this one has more of our blood in him than has been seen since the old times.”

Sive had grown impatient. She rose, and dusted the fine ash powder, which had collected on her skirts off in short brisk gestures, “That was your generations mistake, aunt—cavorting with humans—giving them children. It was that which led to the whole malaise which we all now must face.”

“That is not true!” Brigit snapped, her eyes hardening. When she did that there was no mistaking the resemblance to her sister Anu, Sive’s own mother, “No one knows why the Fey is dying—not you, not I—and certainly not your brother. We should be with the humans, breeding with them, strengthening both our races—not hiding in this realm like frightened children. We need each other.”

“Their realm is dangerous, it changes us,” Sive shifted uncomfortably, “We become more like them, and our Art diminishes.”

“It is true, we must return to the Fey or lose our connection to the Mother of All, and our Art—but there is much there of beauty too.”

Sive sighed, “That is what got you banished here is the first place, Aunt. Auberon may like his games in the human world, but he will not give children to the mortals. The thought is,” the younger Fey shivered, “Abhorrent. We all remember Arthur.”

Brigit’s brow furrowed in sorrow. The Once and Future King had been her child, and her greatest hope. When his own people put out his bright light, it had been a blow to the Fey. Their grief had led to the ban on passing to the human realm. The Fey felt emotions more strongly, and their pain at Arthur’s loss was not weakened by the passage of time. Humans, it was decided, were not worth the gift of light such as he had been.

Brigit passed her hand over her eyes. “I have perhaps been wrong, blinded with my own loss. I remember the pure times as well.” Her face curved into a distant sort of smile. “There is no love like that of a mortal—like smelling the sweet perfume of a perfect rose, for you know it will not last.”

Sive had no wish to be caught up in her relative’s sordid remembrances, but she could not help it. “Then what pray tell is the point of it? How can you love something when you know it will end?”

Brigit frowned, “But all things end, dear Sive. We Fey like to believe we are immune from the changes of the world, but it is not true. Change works on us far more slowly than the rest of the world, but work it does. Your mother knew that, and she was not afraid—unlike her puling son. The malaise could not touch us if we but embraced the humans—exchanged a little of our power, for a little of their strength.”

Sive sniffed contemptuously, “You will not win any friends with that attitude, aunt. Most Fey would rather mate with a... with a...”

“A cow?” Puck’s bovine form made an uncomfortable entrance down the steps, hooves clattering on the stone, and large horns almost catching on the rafters. He struck a pose, lapping his forelegs over each other in totally human manner, his bright pink tongue slurping over his moist brown nose.

“Puck,” Brigit shook her head turning back to her hearth, and threw her comment over one shoulder, “That is not a cow—it’s a bull.”

Sive choked back a laugh, as the shape-shifter tried to get his head far enough around to check. He slipped back to his usual form, and blushed scarlet. “Well,” he spluttered defensively, “I was just trying it out. What were you two talking about anyhow?”

“Mating with humans,” Brigit said. “Nothing,” Sive replied at the same time. Puck grinned, his teeth blindingly white. “That’s certainly not ‘nothing,’ pretty Sive. You got anyone in mind for your fair attentions?”

She glowered at him, and snapped her fingernails in his direction. A small spark of Art set his pointed ears twitching so hard that he had to clamp hands to head. “Don’t be so impertinent, Puck. Living in the same hall as me does not entitle you to be so cursed rude!”

Puck’s lips twisted into a little moue of contrition. “But we won’t be in the same hall for much longer will we—not once you marry Mordant.”

For a brief second, Sive considered hurling him across the room. It wouldn’t get rid of him, but it might make her feel a little better.

Brigit stood at her elbow. “You know the human realm could be where Mordant gets all his power from, Sive. How could it hurt you to try to tap some of that for yourself? This babe in my Seeing could be a clue—my Sight is as true as it ever was, if a little less frequent. Do you think you are strong enough to miss even a faint hope?”

Much as it riled her, Sive knew her aunt was right. Mordant disturbed her. The Between realm was dangerous, and she misliked anything that came from there. If things turned badly for her, she might well need a source of power to rival his.

Brigit’s generation had wandered the human realm at will, treating it as their personal playground, but also seeding it with wild Fey blood. Uncontrolled, unpredictable as this blood was, it sometimes threw up a creature of great power—occasionally even powers that the Fey did not possess. A true Bardic gift was one of these rare occurrences; potent enough in the human realm, in the realm of the Fey it became even mightier. Always the thought of the malaise lurked in the back of her mind.

Brigit’s eyes were tiny bright pin-pricks of light; even the Dark Goddess could not be unmoved by them, “Remember, Sive, we dream each others’ dreams. Human and Fey, we are always linked, and for every one of us there is an equal there. Perhaps this one—perhaps he is yours.” Sive knew very well her aunt was goading her, and smiled at through gritted teeth.

Still although Brigit was always giving forth great prophecy and advice, it certainly could not hurt to visit this child, and see with her own eyes if there was any use in him. Sive gathered her robes around her.

“I doubt you are right, Aunt, but I will see for myself. This shouldn’t take long.” She swept from the room, not looking back, not wanting to see the satisfied smile on Brigit’s lips.

Chapter 2: the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.

Mordant watched the black snow falling around him. Raising both arms, he caught flakes the color of cinders on opened palms. He examined the dark remains, head tilted to one side before reaching out with the tip of his tongue, and letting it melt inside his mouth. It was so intensely cold his tongue froze still for a second. He laughed loudly, making the icy hilltop echo with his delight. The taste was familiar to him—madness.

Wyreck, ever the faithful companion, eyed him somewhat warily from a warped and twisted branch he had taken as a roost. The sprite’s eyes were as expressionless and dark as tiny stones, but his charcoal-black moth wings were fluttering in a vain attempt to keep warm. “It can’t be right to have winter come upon us like this Master. The Fey is never winter.”

“Aren’t you heartily sick of endless summers, Wyreck? I just thought a little mortal season would be good for my people.”

Sprites never wore clothes, their pale tiny bodies being sexless, and their fancy running to nothing more than flight, so Mordant’s companion was not faring well in this spot. Still he knew better than to grumble.

Mordant smiled to himself; since his return the Fey showed far more deference to him—as was right. The things he had seen, the power he had touched, had all left their mark on him. For all things there was a balance; while the Mother was creation and harmony, the Unmaker was destruction and chaos. He had tasted the strength of both halves, and found the darker power to be mightier. The Fey had laughed at him once, before his transformation. They had even thought him a lesser immortal to Auberon and Sive. They had said he would never marry the sister of the king, and now that was going to happen. All that he had been promised in the swirling mists of the Between was coming to pass.

“Who is the fool now?” he called into the falling snow.

The amusing thing was if he ever chose to tell his story, Mordant was sure there would have been cries of dismay. The listeners would have thought him a prisoner of his own curiosity, like a mouse drawn by cheese, or some foolish suitor drawn to a murderous woman. But although what the Unmaker had done to him had been painful beyond his endurance, he did not regret an instant of it. He could recall that moment of purest terror when the trap had closed on him, and the vision of beauty and loveliness had changed to darkness. The agony as the Unmaker stripped his Fey gifts from him and made him anew was still very real to him. But even recalling his own terror had no effect, because he knew what came after—power.

And the amusing irony of it was that it was Sive herself that had set him on the path. He remembered loving her so much, more than anything in a long immortal life, but that too he could no longer feel—only memory remained. And memory of love could be used for his master’s purposes.

They had always seemed to be dancing; across the clouds, through wildflowers, making love in a haze of power, totally reckless. Immortals should have known better; nothing lasts forever, not even amongst the Fey. When the first hint of the Malaise struck the most inconsequential of their kind, Sive and he hardly noticed, so wrapped in each other.

Brigit had found them, and drawn the smoke down to find a path—though neither of them had asked for it. She told Mordant in hushed tones that they would inflict pain on each other, but that they would marry.

He had told Sive about the pain, but not the marriage. Sive had laughed. “What do I care about pai? I am the goddess of war. I would take all the pain in the world to be by your side Mordant.”

He recalled those words now, and would hold her to them. She had pointed the way to the Between, and wondered aloud if there was something hidden there to cure the Malaise. But only he, driven by love and confidence in his own immortality, had dared it. Even Sive had not.

He surveyed the bones of the trees, and the coating of snow forming like coal dust between them. These plants had only ever known summer. The Fey were children of balmy nights and sultry days—snow and ice were alien to them and their realm. So Mordant, by his delight in it, knew that he was far different from them now. Now their very weather, which had previously only bowed to Auberon’s wishes, obeyed his commands.

“It’s a sign, Wyreck, a sign that this little corner of Fey is now mine. It all begins here for us.”

The sprite was not by nature an optimist—their time traveling Between had stripped him of his race’s usual traits. Wyreck’s face scrunched up like a tiny bitter fruit. “Even if we conquer that fool Auberon, my Lord, there is always the Sive the Shining waiting in the wings. She will rule when he falls.”

Mordant’s eyes twinkled almost merrily, “But we will be married, and I will rule her.”

Wyreck snorted, folding his arms, and turning away in disgust. “Didn’t have much success last time, I notice, “ he muttered softly, unfortunately not softly enough. Mordant’s Art flared, and for a moment the sprite felt the heat of an iron forge stroke his face, could already imagine his delicate wings curling at the edges. However his Master had lately learnt some control, and the heat slowly withdrew. “This time is different,” Mordant’s whisper barely disturbed the fell snowflakes that surrounded him. “This time we will be joined before the Court, and this time my Art will prove greater.”

“I thought you had given up on that foolishness of love.” Wyreck twisted around, trying in vain to straighten the faint curl in his wings.

“Love is a tool,” Mordant replied coldly, “And Sive is a symbol of my power.”

The wind began to whirl, spinning the dark flakes of snow about them, the whistle of this dark storm screeched through the trees, and through them. Wyreck and Mordant were for a moment thoroughly obscured by the storm.

Mordant screamed aloud, feeling it whip around and through him. He was its creature, and he alone could tame it. Even though the Fey would never know what fools they were, their destruction would still be sweet.

***

Humans were used to time being a static thing, a line from one point to another. Birth to death, they could plot their own demise by its relentless ticking. The Fey, as thoroughly different creatures of a thoroughly different place, had no such relationship with time. Their realm set its own pace, not conforming to the restrictions of the mortal world. Indeed a day could pass in either realm, and none could tell what time it would be on the other side. It made stepping into the mortal somewhat intriguing, Sive thought to herself as she prepared to do just that.

The thin Veil was never far away, and when Sive reached out she could feel it dancing at the tips of her fingers. As simply as if she were a young maid pulling back a curtain, Sive moved aside the fabric between the realms, and stepped through into the mortal world; she barely even felt the chill of the Between. All the Fey were born with the ability to do this, for human and Fey were close, far closer than any other realms; they nestled in the chaos of Between like twins in their mother’s womb. Little danger existed in passing into the human world for little of the Between was chanced. For many it was enough, but few Fey had dared the deeper paths as Mordant had. But he alone had returned—unlike their beloved Queen Anu.

Such dangerous pursuits with such little reward did not intrigue Sive, but as she passed into the human realm, she could understand the little thrill of the new.

The mortal earth was sighing at the touch of Fey on it—it too dreamed of better days. It welcomed Sive the Shining, and its gentle greeting bought a smile to her face.

Arden wood was beloved of the Fey, and still occasionally haunted by Puck. In the past its mossy ground had often echoed to their faint footsteps. Many mortals had worshipped the Green Man and the Great Goddess beneath the trees, and patterns of Art were still overlaid upon each other here. In those days all of this land had been forest. Puck had once gloated that he could run from one end of the isle to the other, and never break into full daylight. He had been, like them all, a child of the dappled sun and moist earth. It had been a time when the Fey had loved the mortal realm—almost as much as they loved their own home. Time though had brought changes to this place; now it was just one wood of many, and though the forests were still strong, Sive missed that great ancient one which had possessed its own gentle yet powerful spirit. These days, mortals lived in fear of being swept away by that primitive call of the forest, and avoided it at night.

Sive herself had never been to Arden since it had begun to be called by that name. Other more isolated parts of the human realm were more to her liking. Where the chances were slim of meeting a mortal, and where she could still walk in silence. But if she wanted to see this child, then she would have to venture deep into human territory; into their bustling little market town, whose name she believed was Stratford.

Sending her Art ahead, Sive sensed months had passed for the babe. Spring had turned itself into high summer, and the first breath she took from this realm was full of heat and life. Not allowing herself to pause and enjoy these sensations, she linked her powers to the tiny frail infant heartbeat.

A brush of Art had her dressed in the clothes of the day. Not a highborn lady which would attract too much attention, but enough so that she might be mistaken for a merchant’s wife. Still the restrictive clothing was not her usual, and did not help alter her mood. The high collared bodice itched against her neck, and heavily boned and corseted it felt like some terrible mortal prison. The skirts, while full and heavy, were at least cut to the ankle so that she could move. Why mortal women allowed themselves to be so confined, she would never understand. With a brisk gesture she gathered up the skirts in one hand, and then turning she fluttered aside the Fey Veil once more. “Bayel,” she called imperiously.

Obedient, the horse stepped through, though his head tossed nervously. For too long had the soft downs of the Fey world pampered the tall stallion, and even though he had been born here, he was nervous of this realm; he considered himself a truly Fey creature now. Still the dappled gray coat, the finest to come from this world, was not the dazzling unearthly beauty of one born to the Fey.

Mounting swiftly in the clumsy human made saddle, and with a quite whisper in Bayel’s twitching ear, Sive rode out of Arden.

The wood parted regretfully from them, its haunting whisper tickling Sive’s neck. Too long had the Fey been from under its shadows, and it was heartily sad to see her go. Long branches brushed against Bayel, trying to savor the taste of the other realm that still clung to him. But Sive moved on from the almost-known world of the forest, into the rapidly changing one of man.

Any niggling trepidation that the dark goddess might have felt at doing so was not visible. Her pointed chin came up, and she looked around with interest. The dark violet of her eyes dipped onto the little plastered and thatched houses, the calling sheep in the patchwork fields, and the gentle cow chewing its cud by the roadside. Overtaking a group of shepherds also heading into Stratford, she nodded her head towards them, taking the admiring glances as her due.

The village was pleasing enough she supposed, no better or worse than any other town that humanity constructed for itself; shepherds downing ale in the local tavern, dairy maids chattering in the corners of streets, the usual ragged bunch of children, but the signs of poverty were all about. Times were hard for the poor as usual, but there was something else. The stench of death was in the air, a smell that never touched the Fey, but that Sive was only too familiar with. These people were living in the middle of death’s country, and not only the clean sudden death of a soldier, but the festering dreaded thief that came in a thousand painful shapes. Despite having seen it all before Sive shuddered, and walked Bayel on a little faster.

Some of the humans glanced up, and nodded to the passing lady on a horse that would have cost them more than a year’s income to buy. Their thoughts were bland and uninterested, but she kept her Art close about her nevertheless—mortals were nothing if unpredictable.

She found the house easily enough; a prosperous glovemaker’s two-storey home, with the smelly process of whittawering announcing itself in the yard. She wrinkled her nose at the stench. The front window on the right was open so that the inside of the shop was visible, and she caught a glimpse of rows of gloves all neatly laid out.

Leaving Bayel to wait, Sive quickly stepped into the shop. Inside she nodded to the young apprentice, and feigned interest in their goods. Rows of gloves of all descriptions stood testament to the craftsman’s skill; fine white leather ones to stretch over delicate hands, course thick ones for the drivers of coaches, and all the varieties in between.

Sive picked up a fragile pair, beaded and bejeweled. Indeed, perhaps humans did have some arts that please the Fey eye. Her people seldom worked with their hands. The effort that humanity put into making things was one of their few redeeming qualities.

The owner came hurrying over, deciding that perhaps here was a customer with enough taste and money to be able to afford his best work. One look told Sive that this was the father of the child. He had the faint glow of the Fey legacy about him, but she could already trace cares that the world was laying on him in the grain and creases of his face. His future was writ there, and it was not to be an easy one.

She had no time for his sales patter or his desperation; with a sharp gesture she cast a little glamour over him so that when she had left, he would think that he had passed the afternoon stitching together furs and leathers. He had ceased to be of any interest to Sive.

She left the shop and entered the house itself; it was well enough endowed, clean and neat, suggesting someone cared. In the style of the time it was sparsely furnished, but each piece was clean and made for its task—quite different from the beauty shown in the gloves. Obviously another ruled here.

The mother, a strong-boned and handsome creature for a human, was brewing in the kitchen, her back to the door, but she too had the hint of Fey about her. Sive cocked her head on one side, considering for a moment, and then extended the glamour to her before walking on. She found him in a carved little cradle not too far from the fire, and with a rustle of velvet the Fey bent down to him.

All small things possess certain attractiveness of their own, something about large eyes and soft features that were designed to tug at the hardest heart. The baby appeared well, and waved his clenched fists in front of impossibly blue eyes with a determination that was rather startling. Fey children were so rare that Sive had only seen one in her lifetime. They were delicate blossoms next to this creature overflowing with vigor; a common English cowslip next to their orchid blooms. But unfortunately Sive knew all too well which weathered the storms better.

She leant down over him, her soft Fey breath brushing his skin as she inhaled his scent. The babe made a little chirp of alarm, and looked straight at her. Sive started up with a stunned gasp, her Art unconsciously gathering about her. A power had brushed the edges of her consciousness, something that set her defenses ablaze. Reaching down she felt for it—but her Art clutched at nothing. A small frown touched her flawless forehead. Surely one so young could not have the Art? It was unheard of even in Fey children.

The boy’s sturdy little fingers wrapped around one of hers, but now all she could sense was his Fey blood. She probed deeper. From both sides this little one had it, a blessed blending of bloods that had created the Bardic gift within him. The most rare of Fey talents, it was a powerful tool that could not be ignored. Creativity and a strong empathic nature meant the boy would become a man with the ability to make real his dreams—or if she played him well enough her dreams too.

Sive crouched back on her heels, staring hard at the baby and considering. Certainly there was no way to know how the gift would work in the Fey realm, but if she took the child now she might well damage it. Sometimes these things were fragile, and needed the golden light of the mortal realm to flower. But then there was also danger—for such power could attract attention. The Sight was not limited to merely her aunt. The child could be in danger, or worse could be cut down before she could make use of his gifts. Sive had no desire to be in the human realm often; Auberon, or her soon-to-be husband, would notice for sure.

What she needed was someone to look after the child—someone whose comings and goings would not be noticed, someone who spent an inordinate amount of time here anyway. The solution came to her immediately.

With a dark grin, she rose and let her Art flow silver bright around her arm. Thrusting her arm into the Fey her long strong fingers twitched on the other side, and found what they were looking for. Sive grabbed a furry leg and pulled.

Puck snapped into the human world with a terrified squeak. He must have been annoying Macha again for he was in the form of an ivory-coated cat, and he had one dark telltale feather in his jaws. Sive dangled him by his back leg and smiled sweetly, truthfully rather pleased with herself for tricking the Trickster.

Puck hissed, spat and struggled in feline indignation. Then changing so that the taller Fey was holding him by far more intimate parts, he grinned brightly. Horrified, Sive let him drop to the floor with a grunt of disgust. Puck rolled and arose ready for his applause. He got nothing but a stern look.

“How do you manage to do that every time?” he asked, and scratched the top of his head while spitting out the feather.

Sive rubbed the palms of her hands on her dress, “You know that nine times from a score Puck, you will always be doing something wicked—so it is hardly surprising that I always catch you at it...”

Puck was already ignoring her, scanning the room for some mischief to make. “Oh my,” he spotted the child, “Now here’s a long lost cousin.” He began making a series of ridiculous faces and noises that sent the babe into a giggling fit. Puck chuckled, “I think he likes me.”

“Of course he does—you are one step off a baby yourself.” Sive snapped. “Now settle down and listen carefully.” The other Fey didn’t seem to hear, too busy flickering his head into a variety of shapes and making the child wriggle and laugh. “I said listen,” Sive repeated, adding a little more emphasis by picking the unfortunate Puck up by his well-timed donkey ears.

Dangling him at her eye level she gave him a little shake, “Now since you don’t seem to be doing anything...”

Puck made an offended face, “Now ‘seemed’ isn’t the same as knowing I wasn’t doing anything. I was in fact very deep in important business.” He caught her dark look at the raven’s feather lying near her feet, and decided not to risk it. He hushed.

“Since you aren’t doing anything, “ Sive continued, “I have a little job for you. It shouldn’t take more than twenty years of human time—barely a blink in your rapid eye, Puck.”

He opened his mouth, searched for a clever comment, but knowing this wasn’t the moment he smiled encouragingly instead.

“I want you to look after this child.” Sive gave him her best, scariest look.

“It’s not nice to jest with me,” Puck spluttered, swinging around in Sive’s grasp like an indignant fruit. “I mean I am flattered, dearest cousin, really—but you see children and I, we don’t get on. Not at all! “

The child squealed louder, and clapped his little hands together, enchanted by Puck’s antics. Sive raised an eyebrow at her captive.

“Now he thinks I am amusing,” Puck went on, “But twenty years is a long time for humans, and he’s bound to get tired of me. Bored even.”

“I don’t care if he does,” Sive replied tartly, dropping the woebegone Fey to the floor. “You are not here to amuse—but to protect. He has a mighty possibility in him, this one, and I want him to survive. You, Puck, despite your best efforts to deny it, are a powerful Fey. I expect you will do well as a guardian.”

“But how will you manage in your hall without me?” Puck’s bottom lip was trembling a little.

Sive was unable to control a short laugh. “Oh I think we will survive somehow Puck, and so will you.”

She turned to go, then spun about abruptly, “But do not forget to return to the Fey often. I will not have the guardian of this child lose his Art.”

Feeling remarkably content with herself, she swept from the room, velvet hissing against the floorboards.

Puck glared after her, his slitted cat-like eyes boring holes in her back, but as he could see no way of escaping this little task, he in his own fashion decided to make it as much fun as he could. Turning to the still smiling baby he chucked him under the chin, “Well then little one... let’s see if we can’t keep you amused for twenty years. I guess you haven’t heard all my jokes yet, or seen all my shapes. That should pass ten years or so at the least.”

The baby chuckled with anticipation, and wriggled happily. His tiny toothless mouth gaped in a smile bigger than his face. Despite everything Puck grinned back, “Why you know I think you could just be the best audience I’ve ever had. We’re certain to get on famously.”

***

Outside the house, Sive had already mounted Bayel, eager to shake the dust of this realm from her. In her head she was assessing the intelligence of her rather rash decision. Puck had all the right motives in the world—but very little of the common sense to go with it. How he would behave when asked to raise a small child was anyone’s guess. She comforted herself with the knowledge that the mother appeared sensible enough—and after all it was only a human child. So really, how much harm could Puck do? The important thing was he kept the human safe. Banishing thoughts of disaster Sive decided she had done the right thing.

Not bothering to ride from Stratford, Sive parted the Veil before Bayel had been forced to take five more steps on mortal soil. The sheen of the barrier passed around them, and once more his unshod feet were on the cool grass of the Fey. The stallion snorted and tossed his fine head, glad to be returned to his adopted home. Sive smiled, and patted his slightly shaggy neck. If only she could share in some of the animal’s simple pleasure. Her homecoming would not be as fine.

Brigit was waiting on the hilltop for her; Macha’s dark form perched on one shoulder, the other hunched against a strange cool breeze that surrounded them. A chill evening wind had whipped up, itself a very peculiar sign; cold was nearly unknown in the Fey. Shifting in her saddle Sive turned and looked to the west, her sharp eyes piercing the mist around the valley; Mordant was coming.

Slipping down from Bayel’s broad back and dismissing his trappings with Art, she exchanged a glance with her aunt. A rare silence prevailed, untouched by laughter that had always been Puck’s stock in trade. Perhaps they would miss him in the hall after all.

Brigit held a thick fur-lined cloak that she wordlessly wrapped about Sive’s shoulders. Macha shifted uneasily, her dull feathers stirred by the wind that heralded the approach of change. Despite all her age and wisdom Sive was afraid. Though nothing of her outward appearance betrayed it, within she was trembling.

Brigit’s eyes were dark, as if she had her Art on a tight leash. “The child is what I said.”

It was hardly a question, but Sive answered it as such, “He has a possibility in him. Puck is guarding him.”

Her aunt’s mouth twitched into something that might once have been a smile. Her iron gray hair whipped around her face, “You’d best get ready for Mordant then.”

“Very well,” Sive replied evenly, trying not to let any of her doubts show. Turning to the hall, she could not stop thinking how she would have once welcomed this turn of events. Auberon would never have allowed his sister to marry the quiet Mordant before

he returned with power. But whatever Mordant was once been, he is no longer, and I must bear it for the sake of my people. Perhaps human women weren’t the only ones with constraints.

***

All the Fey court gathered that day. Many Sive had not seen for years, but her marriage was obviously interesting enough to pry even the most hermit-like of her kind from their burrows. They had all filed past her into the sacred hill, most with a little bow. Sive managed in most cases to return one.

Once the assembly was in, the doors were sealed before her. These oaken doors were threaded with powerful Elder Art that had been lost with Anu. Sive could not extend her own powers past them.

So she lingered in the antechamber trying to figure a way out of this ‘happy’ event. She wished she still loved him, perhaps she could find it again. She had to if there was to be any joy in this union at all.

Within, the pipes began, a sign that Mordant had arrived by the southern entrance. Sive traced the curving intertwined carvings on the ancient door with a finger that was almost trembling. Her own mother had stood here, but with far different feelings. After all she’d wed a Fey she loved, Mannan of the Oceans. And if she had foreseen his death in a foolish mortal battle—she had still chosen to go on.

But what now awaits me from behind those doors. Her body ached with tension, and she realized she was alone. No one stood with Sive. Brigit, her only female kin left, was banished and unable to attend. She needed her mother here, Sive realized as she brushed her dark curls out of her eyes, and waited for the sound of pipes to give way to the lutes. Those glorious violet eyes and all that energy and strength had died alone somewhere out in the Between. It was a bitter thought, and whatever foolish dream her mother had been chasing would never be known. Some said she had gone mad with her husband’s death, others that she had wanted to find the Goddess herself.

Sive buried the lump in her throat. If her mother had not left them all then this whole farce would not be happening; Auberon would be romping in Fey meadows not trifling with the life of his sister, and perhaps the malaise might never have happened.

Sive fidgeted with the thick drapery of her almost ridiculously elaborate gown. Silver and gold threads sketched the curves of her body sheathed in purple silks. She had made herself beautiful for Mordant, an offering to secure his power for her brother.

Well I may have no one to stand with me but I will go in as a Fey.

When the lutes played, she smiled savagely, called her Art, and stepped into the Temple bathed in the Bright light that was her due.

It is a willing sacrifice.

Chapter 3: If one should be a prey, how much the better To fall before the lion than the wolf!

With a sigh the doors sprang open on the ancient temple, and the assembled Fey turned. Mordant’s guardian tightened in his chest with expectation. It was a great victory for them both, and best of all the Fey didn’t know they had sealed their own destruction. Indeed they were celebrating it.

They had transformed the temple with flowers whose colors and scents would please the Mother of All. A million shades of gold and wheaten hair flowed freely around Fey shoulders, and tiny pale lights flickered and danced in the air as the ever-present sprites carried their lanterns through the vast dimness of the temple. Even so, the edges of the cavern could not be guessed, fading off into the distance, a sign of the Mother’s untapped power for this was in all senses her womb. Almost all the remaining Fey had gathered to see Sive wed, and they huddled like pretty frightened children near to the altar. Once, there would have been teeming hordes in all shapes and sizes, but since the time of the malaise the numbers had waned. Mordant smiled inwardly, cosseting the fact he alone knew the cause. To hide his glee he turned to await his bride.

Sive had paused a heartbeat at the entrance of the temple, and he measured it by the flutter of her breast against the tight bodice. Her summoned Art was just as noticeable. It bathed her in beauty, an echo of lost Anu.

Air around her billowed up warm and sweet, rose petals swirling in it like captured moths, sticking to her pale cheek now and then. In this spiraling aura, Sive took her first step toward him. The faint breeze lifted the butterfly thin silks that enmeshed her body, so that when she moved she appeared to float down the ancient steps. The Bright light shimmering about her was soft, not dazzling those who waited, but making Sive appear as if through transparent gauze.

Mordant smiled—it was an effect mortal woman would happily kill for. He whetted his lips in anticipation. The Fey threw handfuls of flowers down, so that each step was scented, and yet destructive. They could not know the symbolism was most apt.

Sive smiled her best, most beguiling smile, almost convincing Mordant that she harbored some joy in their union. But he relied on more than mortal senses, and he could feel her disquiet. Still he smiled back as, in a haze of scents and music, she walked to the altar.

Mordant waited at the King of the Fey’s side, before the wide silvered-pool that was the heart of the temple. Auberon wore the white and green of the Mother; Mordant the black he always favored. His bone pale hair slithered like a white snake about his shoulders as he held out his hand for her to take.

Sive’s violet eyes skidded away, though her cool hand rested unshaken atop his. They both knew that there had once been a time when her smile would have been genuine, and her passion unfeigned.

Mordant turned as a few of her rose petals settled on his shoulder. He was pure silver perfection, and he knew it. He had never felt stronger or more in control. Paler than the lilies of the human realm his eyes reflected no light, being as colorless as the pool near which they stood. He still had the grace and beauty of a cat, only now he also had the power of a storm. Sive finally met those eyes she had once sighed over. He felt her gaze travel to his bone colored hair, and knew which way her thoughts were flowing. It didn’t matter how much time had passed since those days, she could still recall twining its length about her hands, bending to his will for a fiery kiss. A Fey does not forget. A shudder of anticipation flared at the base of Mordant’s spine.

It mattered little to him that her thoughts were distant; she was the symbol of his conquest over the Fey. With her at his side he would finally become what they had said he could never be.

Sive smiled charmingly at her brother across the short distance of the pool, for all the world as though she had chosen this match. Auberon inclined his head, and then reaching across the water bound their joined hands together with a soft linen strip. Today he was not only King of the Fey, but also representative of their Goddess.

It was impossible to ignore the feeling, the tremble that echoed in every bone and muscle of their bodies, and meant the presence of the Mother was with them. That power was stronger than their own, unknown and unknowable. To the humans the Fey were as gods, and to the Fey the earth was one. She never spoke to them, simply was, and from her all Art came, and all joy. None knew how to chain such power, and few would have the bravery to dream of doing so.

But once the Master comes all that will change, Mordant said silently to himself.

Auberon began with the Song of Morning, the invocation to the Mother of All, in the Old Tongue, that which had yet to be corrupted by the human’s language. Its liquid sound thrilled the soul of the Fey.

Alorn neath fain, mai sigh ce tai Ni naoith n’chados su tai sigh ramhi nia Ni laoine lamhu, nach tai glain. Mathae s’yousae, fain nia sul caroid.

Arise fair sun—claim the light that is yours.

We fear no shadow while your light shines upon us.

We the people of the earth, burn with your joy.

Mother of creation, remain between us and chaos.

Tucking his hands within his sleeves, Auberon closed his eyes. The voice that issued from his throat was no longer completely his own.

In the coldness of nothing, before time the shadow and the light were born. The darkness was destruction, the sun creation. The sun called into being souls to reveal in her beauty, and took the name Mother of All. The darkness made nothing, but was Named by the Goddess the Unmaker. Should he come among us, all would be lost to destruction. The Mother called us to hold against her dark brother, and we commit ourselves to this cause.

They knew nothing. They might mutter the words, but the pledge was forgotten. Though they had once been warriors and protectors, they had fallen into ignorance, and would pay the price. Mordant’s sneer was seen by none of those with bent heads. He swore this would be the last time he’d have to listen to such foolishness. Auberon was like them all a weakling—a brother who had given away his own blood merely from fear. His time would soon be over, and he would bitterly come to regret his stupidity.

Mordant wished it over quickly. He was anxious to have Sive in his arms, to begin her education that she might learn who her master was. Even now as she stood next to him, her mind was working on how best to turn this to her advantage. She needed to find the cure for the malaise that was whittling away the Fey. It was what held her to him.

Auberon finished his speech. Leaning over, the King poured a cupful of the pool’s holy water over their bound hands so that it ran down between their clenched fingers, and back to whence it had come.

Both Mordant’s and Sive’s Art sprang up at the feel of this other, more primitive, more powerful magic, and the inner curve of the temple was illuminated with white light. All those assembled gasped at the huge display, the size of which had not been seen in generations. They took it as a good sign.

It was only Mordant, looking down, who noticed that it had been any more than a pretty light show. The fierce fires of magic had sundered the delicate strands of fabric that had bound him to Sive. He shook the smoldering remains free with a certain grim satisfaction.

Auberon smiled at him, and Mordant could read the triumph in his eyes. With this joining the King could now tap his new brother’s power. The blind royal thought he had won, when all he had done was taint everything he touched with the Unmaker’s power. In trying to halt the malaise he had only bought it closer to the Fey—the irony was incredibly sweet to Mordant.

Though he would not dwell on it now. He was newly wed, and should be rushing to other duties. He turned to Sive, and sweeping his dark cloak about them both, smiling his white as bone smile, he carried them away from the temple. Sive’s fingers dug reflexively into his shoulders, and he laughed into her cloud of dark hair. She was not used to being overcome, but she would soon learn.

When the Art subsided they stood on the highest hill of Fey. Below were spread out the valleys and forests that ran all the way out into the misty fringes of the realm. It was a sight that he knew Sive enjoyed. Still through their nearness, Mordant could sense warrior instincts clenching her muscles, and he knew that she was ready for an assault.

“Ah Sive,” Mordant’s fingers flickered at her hair smoothing back a dark curl. She did not flinch. “I know that this is not what you wanted, “ his breath was now brushing against her throat, “But I also know that in time you will come to see that this is the most natural thing for both of us. We are meant to be together.”

“How can you know that,” she replied cautiously, “There must have been other women to interest you in other realms?”

He grinned against her neck, so that she might not see. Already she was probing to see what could be learnt from him. He thought of the dangers of Between that had crushed so many other foolish Fey. No, such secrets as he had learned were not to be given away so casually. And when the time came for her to learn them there would be nothing that even she could do about it.

He chuckled, a low soft sound that could only remind her of that long lost Mordant she’d cherished. “I can tell you truly, my dear, that in all the realms I have visited there is none to match you.”

She pulled back from him a little, and he allowed it only so they might look into each other’s eyes; his were as still as a millpond but betrayed nothing, hers were a fiery violet.

“That tells me nothing, Mordant. You are not the same Fey I loved—I knew that the moment you returned. So explain to me why you still want me?”

“Because you should have always belonged to me. You sent me into the Between, and there you were promised to me.” He let her taste it then, the power of the Unmaker that dwelt within him. To him it was hot power and strength—but she recoiled in horror. It flowed from the core of his being, and touched the cool centre of her Art. He felt her agony, the acid reek that burned its way through her Feyness, and made her cry out.

“What are you? What abomination are you to take Mordant’s name?!” With a rough sudden gesture Sive threw him off, and pulled darkness about her. Mordant quickly whipped a tendril of power within her defenses, sending sweet erotic images into her head, making her body respond where her mind would not. Lightning crashed about Sive, as she drew herself tall and magnificent against the skyline. Clouds sealed the hill apart from the rest of the land, and for the blink of an eye Mordant could not see. She was powerful enough to steal the breath even from the strongest of Fey—except he was more than that now. He was not alone.

Mordant stroked his chin, head on one side, considering this mistress of dark and war he had taken to bride. “Once, Sive, you would have beaten me in all things—but not now. I have learned and grown stronger, stronger than anything that is Fey.”

“You do not deserve to walk the land of the Goddess,” Sive snarled, her hair rising in dark ribbons about her head, while lightning screamed striking the ground in savage snaps. “And I will not suffer you a moment longer!”

“O, sweet Sive—but you will give yourself to me.” He had lost all his patience, no longer willing to battle his own desires that his master was enflaming. Instead he strode towards her, and their Arts grappled. The hill shook, trembling under the assault of such mighty powers. But where hers was all strength and voice, Mordant’s were mist and subtleties. He closed the distance, and then when he was only a stride away his Art finally broke her defenses. Immediately he filled Sive with his own lusts and passions, transferring his needs, so they were her needs now too. Her clothes whispered hungrily against her body, and when Mordant’s fingers trailed along her arm into her hair she pressed herself against him with a whimper.

Sive recognized the symptoms of a powerful glamour, and she still hated him with all her soul, but souls didn’t really concern Mordant. His desires thrust against her, and she was helpless.

Mordant peeled the layers of her dress from her, heedless of rends and tears that he put in the fine fabric, until his eyes could feed. Sive licked her lips, her traitorous desires surging against her flesh. Just before she pulled him in, he smiled victoriously at her.

“And thus you will learn, my Sive—and learn well. It begins here.”

***

The wind ruffled through the rows of wheat, sending a savage chill through the child’s cotton jacket, and tumbling dark curls around his face. The breeze was sudden and sharply cold—unusual for high summer. The boy looked over his shoulder, back the way they had come, but the wind was gone just as swiftly.

The childish whisper broke through his thoughts. “William,” he glanced down into his young brother’s wide eyes. Gilbert was only four, and scared by many things. He was shivering in his russet colored homespun, but the elder William couldn’t help being a little frustrated all the same.

Gil tugged on his hand with small sweaty fingers, his chubby little legs already turning unconsciously towards home. “ What if Bridie misses us?” his voice quavered with concern, and already William could discern the beginnings of a tantrum—that certain brightness to his eye heralded trouble.

“Bridie can wait,” William returned firmly. From the extensive wisdom of eight he knew it would be some while until their nurse realized that they were not tucked in for their afternoon nap, giving them plenty of time to reach Arden wood.

From the safety of a warm hearth it had sounded like a good idea. Gilbert was Friar Tuck to Will’s Robin Hood, and Arden became Sherwood. In his mind’s eye William could see them racing through the wood with their mighty longbows, the twigs crackling under their feet.

“Will,” Gilbert whined again, tugging more firmly at his hand, “I want to go home. I’m scared.”

Despite his youth William was already learning the fine art of wooing people to his way. He pointed ahead of them into the ranks of wheat where a pale spear of a tail could just be seen flicking amongst the gold, “Look, White Cat isn’t scared—he thinks it’s fun.”

The boys couldn’t remember a time when White Cat hadn’t been about. His lithe pale form had been a constant presence since their swaddling clothes, twining his way around Mama’s feet, tripping Bridie on the stairs, and stealing licks from the saucer of milk she left out for the brownies. The adults barely tolerated his golden-eyed, haughty-looking stare, but found him an excellent mouser. Their father was loathe to have his valuable leather chewed by vermin, and White Cat always showed off his prowess by laying rats of enormous proportions over the doorstep. Everyone in Stratford said that their house was the least bedeviled by the creatures.

The boys could hear White Cat’s chirps in the grass ahead—undoubtedly hot on the trail of some other less fortunate smaller creature. He had followed them from the house, and though Will had tried to chase him off he’d known there was no chance. White Cat went where he wanted, and generally that meant anywhere the boys went. Will had been in many scrapes with his friends over his unusual cat that would insist on following him around more like a dog than a proper aloof feline.

But here at least White Cat was a comforting presence, and a reminder of the secure world they had left behind. Still Will’s determination grew, and he was sure that if Robin Hood was anywhere in England, he was in Arden wood.

Gilbert had thrust his thumb into his mouth, and was slurping on it loudly. It was something that Bridie would have halted immediately, but it meant that he had probably given up all thoughts of having a bawling fit. Will tugged his breeches up a little higher, and grinned down at him. “Just to the top of this hill Gilbert, if we can’t see Sherwood from there then we can go home—I promise.”

His younger brother smiled up at him beatifically, good humor restored, and followed after Will as he stomped to the rise. Below the land curved away in a rivulet of green and gold, all shades of summer perfection. But the boys both gave a little cheer, and hugged each other, for at the bottom they could see the dark edges of the wood.

White Cat, suddenly realizing that they had outdistanced him, bounded wildly after, leaping over the tall grasses, until he sat at their feet. His yellow eyes took in the vista with profound disdain.

“White Cat our horse,” Gilbert crowed placing either leg astride the animal, and grabbing two handholds of fur.

The feline looked up at the boy with some disgust, slashing his tail in annoyance.

“I don’t think White wants to play today Gil,” Will grinned and tugged at his brother’s sleeve. “Let’s hurry before we’re missed.”

The boys ended up running helter-skelter down the incline, falling over a couple of times in their haste, but bouncing up like kittens and giggling all the way.

White Cat licked a paw, considered, and then followed after with a profound feline sigh.

The brothers had stopped just short of the forest, their young necks craning up to see where the trees brushed the sky. It had a dark music all of its own, Arden, made of leaves murmuring against each other, far off birdcalls, and the mossy scent of the undergrowth. Will thought it was not unpleasant like father said, merely different.

“Don’t like it,” Gilbert’s lower lip had begun to shake again. “Where’s Robin Hood?”

He should have left Gil at home—this happened every time! Will was a kindly boy, but he had all the intolerance of older children for younger. It was terribly unfair to have walked all this way, risking Bride’s wrath, to stop here. Even though his own heart was pounding he strode into the wood a little way. “Are you going to have a bawl?” he said with obvious bravado to the confused youngster, “Or shall we find him?”

Gilbert didn’t honestly know if his brother would leave him there or not, but he wasn’t brave enough to risk it. Wiping half-shed tears on his sleeve, he tottered in after Will.

White Cat paused at the edge too. Humans were not blind, merely foolish. They had sensed something here, but chosen to ignore it. His ivory whiskers twitched. Something odd in the breeze made his tail whisk madly. His senses told him not to go into the wood, but he was used to following Will—more than that, he had to. With a sudden surge of resolution the feline darted in after them, thundering up behind their stumpy legs, and dashing past in a stream of white fur.

Both boys jumped in alarm, and tiny squeaks escaped them—two field mice caught at mischief. Will grinned at the sudden image.

“Just White Cat, silly,” he reassured Gilbert, all the while trying to conquer the lump in his own throat. Arden had sounded all very well huddled around the hearth with Bridie and Mama, but in it was quite different in the middle of so much dark ominous greenery. Every tree concealed a dagger-wielding thief, every bush a hobgoblin. The two boys crowded closer to each other, but since neither could admit their fright now, they went on.

White Cat scampered up a tree, chirping his challenge to the leaves, promising fiery feline anger. Curiously there was no birdsong now they were in the wood. Will stopped. Turning around he frowned. Just before they had entered there had been many sounds, but once enmeshed in its cloak, Arden was silent.

Gilbert thrust his chunky thumb hurriedly into his mouth, and sucked loud and furiously, his eyes wide over the top of it. Both boys could sense the menace in the wood.

“Come on Gil,” his brother seized his other hand quite suddenly. “This doesn’t look like Sherwood after all. Let’s get home.”

Their little legs scurried to escape so much strangeness, but they had become turned about in confusion. Will couldn’t understand it—they had surely not walked so very far into the wood as not to be able to find their way out again.

“We’ve only gone a few steps,” he muttered unconvincingly to himself.

The bushes rustled ominously around the boys. Things shifted in the trees all the worse because they remained unseen. It could be deer, Will supposed—he hoped.

White Cat darted down from his tree, and scampered to the boys. His colorless fur was all puffed up, even his tail. White Cat was never afraid of anything, but now his big golden eyes were almost black with alarm. He opened his mouth and let out a frightening hiss, not directed at the boys, but at the surrounding wood.

Gil had jammed his hands over his face, and was softly whimpering. Will felt a sickly lump well up in his throat as he put a comforting arm around his younger brother, his own tears threatening. Every muscle in his young body was clenched with alarm

“We’re alright, we’re alright,” was his newfound litany.

And then something dark and many clawed leapt out at them from the right. The boys had a glimpse of a drooling wide mouth, and hot red eyes. Both screamed, and stumbled back, landing heavily on their bottoms as whatever it was charged at them, gibbering like one of Bridie’s worst tales made flesh.

It could and would have ended there; two frightened children alone in the woods attacked by something that defied description, but had plenty of hate and hunger. It bore down on them in long strides, made partly on its oddly jointed hind legs, and partly on its hairless knuckles, swinging from terribly long arms. But then White Cat was there. Will caught sight of his mighty leap, blurring against his eye like a lightning strike, but full of hope and magic.

In one brief instant the cat had flickered to a far more ferocious mirror form. A powerful striped feline, all orange and black stripes, long ivory teeth, and bunches of terrible muscles. This shape roared loud enough to shake the two boys’ bones, and with one supple move caught the approaching dark menace in its mouth. A sharp crunch and shake, and the thing was dead, like so many rats before it. The large cat spat its victim to the ground, and turned its savage golden eyes on the boys.

Horrified Will yelled, and yanked Gilbert to his feet with sweaty hands. He didn’t know which he was more afraid of, the sudden charge of the horror, or the calm ferocity of that which had been his childhood companion. He only knew that he had to get his brother to safety. He could already imagine his mother’s cries, and his mind boiled over with that one thought; save Gilbert. Half-pulling half-carrying his brother, he plunged further into the woods. Luckily profound shock had set in, and Gil was silent and limp in his arms. If only he had someone to guide him as he was doing for his brother, but there was no one else. He had never felt more foolish or alone.

Leaves and trees ran at them, striking tender young skin, and every stone turned against them. They blundered into sharp twigs and brambles, only to pull loose barely feeling the welts and scratches they received. Around the two boys, the forest was alive with pursuit; behind the heavy strike of heavy feline paws on their trail, and to the side even more frightening unidentified scuttling.

Gilbert stumbled and cried out, his tender foot catching in a traitorous branch. Will picked him up properly, heaving his not inconsiderable childish weight over one shoulder, and running on. Now there were the sounds of more roars, and screams of pain behind. Whatever those things were, they sounded all too human when injured. He reached a small stream, and though he sensed them closing in on him, Will’s heart leapt. He splashed quickly through the few inches of water, and stopped on the other side to catch his breath.

Dropping Gil onto his own feet once more, he hugged him tight, “S’alright Gil. Remember Bridie said they can’t cross running water.” In their infant world, Bridie was the font of all knowledge.

Two of the creatures burst from the undergrowth snarling and spitting. They barreled right up to the water, eyes locked on the children—and then stopped.

Will smiled in triumph—even though they were only yards from them. He felt proud that he had managed to save them both—without any adult help.

“Will,” his brother stammered, choking over his tears, and pulling at his sleeve.

Low growls from behind made Will turn, heart stammering in his chest once more. Four horrors were emerging from the half-light of the trees on this side of the stream. Will almost gagged on the stench of them. It was far worse than his father’s whittawering, which was the worst smell he knew. They spread their full lips, grinning at the two boys, and the eyes above those terrible mouths were full of a cold intelligence.

The lead one paced towards them, assured now of its prey. Will gathered Gilbert behind him, though his own immature body was shaking, and scarcely protection against what must follow. He tried in vain to remember all the other things his nurse had told him. Reciting scripture was an assured way of banishing such evil. His treacherous memory failed, and his mouth choked and dried before he could say anything.

The creature was now so close he could feel the unnatural heat its body gave off. It shuffled forward, jaws swinging open to reveal teeth the color of plump maggots.

Something shifted within the young boy between one breath and that which would surely become his last. Suddenly, the entire world narrowed down to this creature and himself. The tautness between them was like a bowstring. The wood, the stench, his brother’s whimpers, all disappeared. A little smile flitted across the elder brother’s lips—why, it was all so simple. Calmly Will raised his hand, and pointed at it.

“I see you, and you see me, so I command, this shall not be.” It was a foolish, silly little piece of rhyme, and yet there was a childish power to it.

The beast’s spiky black fur rippled, as if it were a wind-touched wave, its muscles heaved, and then it obeyed. It was simply Not. It disappeared into the nothingness. A slight displacement of the air was all that marked its end. Not even a hair remained in the paw prints it had made in the soft earth.

Will grinned with triumph, his mind already locking on the other two, but then the world narrowed further, suddenly becoming a darkening, constricting tunnel. He had taken too much from himself and this realm. A terrible lethargy swept over him, muscles were no longer his to command, and legs crumpled under the weight of his body. Gil’s scream of horror was the last thing to reach him before the darkness washed over him, and drew him to it.

Chapter 4: Who will not change a raven for a dove?

He was righteous fury, and unstoppable strength. He was tooth, and claw, and flesh, whose sole purpose was to rid the world of these horrors. Puck lashed out with a deep snarl, sending boogarts tumbling left and right. The taste of their vile blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic, but in this tiger’s form it felt good. It made his rage all the greater, and he grew strong on the fear he was creating amongst them.

But there were a terrible number of them in the wood. So many could not be mere chance. Something was planning to kill the young Shakespeare this day, and worst of all Puck could not be sure they hadn’t succeeded. The unworldly horrors were keeping him far too busy to chase after the children.

More boogarts leapt from the trees, landing all around him, two on his striped back, one burying its teeth in his vulnerable ear, and three even clenching onto his lashing tail.

Puck snarled and batted at them, eliciting yowls of agony, but he could not manage to dispatch them quickly enough, being literally buried by their weight.

How odd that what might be his last thought was for Will and Gilbert. If he were to die now there would be no hope for the boys. So he had no choice, nothing else could be done. Now he dared to do what none had ever done. Puck Spun his Art into the Fey, and one sharp dagger of consciousness pierced his cousin through.

A clap of fierce thunder lit up the wood in pure white as Sive exploded into the mortal realm. Her silver-edged sword caught a boogart mid-leap before its wielder had even taken two steps into this world. The cleaved remains tumbled unmourned into the undergrowth. As always there was time to admire his cousin. Sive wore her armor of burnished silver, dull costume being for dull mortals, and about it her dark hair circled with a powerful life of its own. Sive had not danced her web of death on this realm for generations. Catching a charging boogart on her shield and slamming it into the ground by her feet, she pierced it through, thus sending it on to whatever miserable afterlife could await such as these. But the blade was the least of Sive’s weapons. Her Art burned through the undergrowth, lancing out with flashes of light exploding the attackers where they lurked, or simply making them Not.

Puck had always known that he was in love with his cousin, but in that moment he would have given his life to be hers, even for one heady breath. To be held close, to lose himself in her would be sweet. But it was a dangerous fancy, and the dark patterns she wove about them reminded him of that.

In a few moments together they had cleared the boogarts. Sive brushed hair from her eyes, and glared about, sword still shuddering naked in her hand, “Where is the boy, Puck?”

Politeness or civility had never been Sive’s area of expertise. Puck was about to point this out to her, and maybe ask if he wasn’t at least deserving of a thank you for all his mortal years spent babysitting, when they both heard it, a shrill childish scream some distance off.

Sive’s head came up, eyes narrowed, and then without so much as a ‘by your leave Puck’, she swirled her cloak about them and Carried them to the sound. Swept up in his cousin’s Art and heady scent Puck was disoriented for a moment. It took him another breath to get his bearings. They were by a patch of running water across which he could see the two boys, lying almost obscured by some ferns.

Little Gilbert was clutching his brother who was lying quiet and still as a stone on the ground before two advancing boogarts. Will’s chest was moving, and his pulse beat like a trapped butterfly at his throat, but for how much longer could not be said.

The boogarts’ heads came up, swiveling towards the suddenly arrived Fey. They might be only low animals, but they sensed when their time was up, and, gibbering and howling, made startling leaps for the children. Puck called out in horror, and bounded across the small stream—but Sive was faster by far. Her hand lanced out, and lightning danced where she pointed. Both boogarts were gone in a flash of unearthly power that left the earth trembling.

Just then Will’s head lifted dazedly from the ground, and looking right past his weeping brother he met Sive’s gaze.

Puck paused, wondering how the young bard and the ancient Fey would seem to each other. Sive looked curious, almost entranced. Will remained very still, but totally aware of that which he was seeing—the very heart of Sive the Shining. It was not a look that would please her. Something flickered between them, and then she moved swift as she had been with the lightning, wrapped a glamour of sleep around the boys.

Puck shifted to his proper Fey shape, and ran to catch them before their heads met the ground. Sive could be so thoughtless sometimes, but luckily both boys looked to have escaped unscathed. He straightened their little limbs, and with small flickers of his Art healed their scrapes and cuts.

But it seemed she had already dismissed them, showing only her back to Puck as he tended to the boys. Instead, striding over to where the boogarts had been, she scuffed her boot in the leaf litter.

“They’ll be fine,” Puck told her tartly, “Thank you for asking. Naturally, I’ll have to use a glamour to bury all this from their memory. They’d have nightmares for years otherwise.”

“Only the eldest is our concern,” Sive shot the remark over one shoulder, as she bent to examine the boogarts, tracks. “Do not waste your Art on simple humans, cousin.”

Puck made a face behind her back, but heedless cast the glamour on both boys. Gilbert was a good lad, and it would be a shame to spoil him merely because he wasn’t considered important. For though Gilbert showed none of the Art, he still had as much Fey in him as Will, and Puck had come to think of the whole family as kin.

After ascertaining that they would sleep for a good long while, he went to Sive’s side. “Well, this is nice!” he snapped, “ Eight years of living my life in a skinny cat’s body and not even a ‘hello’. I suppose it would be too much to ask for a ‘I’ve missed you, Puck’, or a ‘How have you been, Puck’?”

“It has only been a month in the Fey, but I can see nothing has changed with you, cousin. Still, it’s comforting to see your sorry hide intact.” Sometimes it was hard to tell if Sive was joking or not, those dark and alien violet eyes giving little away.

“Well that’s something I suppose,” he sighed,.”I should be glad that you even noticed I was gone—I would have thought you were too busy with your new husband.”

Sive’s mouth worked, and the pale light of the Fey seemed to dim around her. “I can say... Mordant is not what I expected. He is more powerful than I imagined.”

An icy chill played havoc on Puck’s spine. “Are you all right, cousin? Does he treat you ill?” He could hardly imagine a situation where Sive would allow that to happen, but something about her expression tumbled the words out of his mouth.

She laughed at that. “No—it is just this realm. I mislike the air, it makes me feel quite... odd.”

“The human realm is not to the taste of every Fey.” Puck tucked Gilbert’s thumb into his mouth, “But I have found it suits me well enough. They even like my jokes.”

Sive shot him a brief unexpected smile, but bent as something caught her eye.

“Admiring your handiwork, are we?” Puck muttered darkly.

“Not just mine,” she replied, “Look here, another set of paw prints. There was a third boogart before we even arrived.”

Puck frowned and scratched his head, “A third? But how could that be?”

Sive looked over her shoulder at the sleeping boys. “It seems our young bard may just have had his first taste of Art. He must have commanded Not.” Though this proclaimed the lad’s talent, her expression was unfathomable.

Puck rocked back on his heels, for once unable to find words. Not was one of the highest Fey spells, only attempted by a master. He worked his tongue around in his mouth, trying to find anything but surprise. “Well,” he finally managed, “It seems to have taken it out of him.”

Sive stood over Will, looking down thoughtfully, and probing with Art. “He is young, yes, but it is the mortal realm’s lack of power that has done this. He must have called on his own reserves to perform the Not. In the Fey he wouldn’t have to.”

“Then Brigit was right about him,” Puck raised one eyebrow. “Who’d have guessed.”

“And who can say what might have been achieved had he been in the Fey realm when he tried. But the boy is not ready for that experience just yet. He still has much to learn. You must watch him closely, Puck. He might draw more dangers to himself as he discovers his power.”

Her cousin nodded, in what he hoped was a sage manner. Many things walked the Between, nightmares of many worlds, and they were sometimes drawn by Art into the human realm.

“More years in a cat body for me then, I suppose,” he grumbled unconvincingly. Sive’s strong hand caught his elbow, dragging him into the shadow of her Art. Her words when they reached him were not soft, “You are doing well, Puck—I can trust no other. You have my thanks, and will have this mortal’s too when he learns of it.”

That was one thing Puck was more than a little doubtful on—in his time with mortals he had already learned they were flighty things, and stubborn too. How the young Shakespeare would react to the Fey was unknown. Still, Sive’s presence kept that thought unvoiced.

Breaking loose, he brushed at the invisible creases in his sleeve. “Well, I suppose I should get these two back home. I don’t want to turn into a pony this late in the day though, so I’d appreciate some help. You know how I hate making an ass of myself...”

Lips twitched despite her best efforts, and as she flared her cloak once more wide Puck grinned up at her.

Anything could be borne he thought if it meant being close to Sive, even for a moment. Surely there could be no wrong in such a simple pleasure.

***

Mordant’s hall was everything that might be expected of the home of the Lord of darkness and blood. Sive returned to it with great reluctance; even the human realm was more attractive than this. She had left Puck tucking the two boys into their straight little beds, and for a moment had envied the simplicity of his task; not for him the dread cold of a lonely hall, or the weight of cold eyes on his back. A warm hearth and the laughter of children did not seem such a terrible thing to her now.

She wished she could have spoken to Puck about this place, but her husband’s glamour would not allow it. The bitter words simmered within her unshared. And the leash of his power pulled her back to his hall, always back here. She could not stay long away, before it started to seem like an ache within her. Only being in its dark presence could satisfy her after a while.

Where a decent Fey home tunneled into the ground, Mordant’s home was perched high on a stony outcrop. It looked not to the bright forests that were the center of this world, but outwards to the purple mists that encompassed the Fey. The hall hunched upon the hilltop, its back turned to all that the Fey had been and loved.

Made of rock and twisted wood, it did not resemble human or Fey construction, having no windows or chimneys, nor the relentless cloud of sprites that clustered around Fey halls. Seemingly they had more intelligence and sense than her brother who had positively latched onto Mordant since the wedding. He was Sive’s only chance of a visitor in the hall, and little comfort that bought.

Her mother would have blasted it clean, ridding the Fey of its abhorrence. Auberon, apparently only her son in body and not soul, rattled around the fell structure and brightly spoke of eccentricities. Sive couldn’t decide what was worse, the place itself, or her people’s acceptance of it. They stumbled forward blind in the dark, and she was prevented from saying anything.

So her husband perverted the inherently beautiful nature of the Fey world, and cowed its inhabitants. And though she could not put a name to the source of his power, she knew it was terribly wrong.

And yet she dreamed of him. Sive could not ignore flashes of the hot passion that had ignited between them, spearing into her consciousness, for she ached for that too. It was a waking nightmare. Mordant was driving her mad, and the terrible truth was she liked it. He had trussed her up with her own passionate nature, turning pleasure in the joys of flesh, muscle and sinew against her. They had shared them before, but it had never been like this, for at least back then Sive had been herself; now she felt a prisoner to these desires.

Mordant could not conjure love, but passion was just as good for his purposes. He couldn’t claim a heart, but then he didn’t want that.

Sive was snapped back to reality by the rasping call of Macha. Raising one arm without thinking, the raven flew to her, jet-black and wickedly curved claws sinking into her mistress’s flesh. Sive welcomed this small pain as a reminder of the greater ones. Looking into the round ebony of Macha’s eye she smiled a fraction. Brigit might not be welcome in Mordant’s hall, but the raven was tolerated. Once the bird had been a proud symbol of Sive’s power. Warriors had looked for the dark winged form over the battlefield as an omen. In fact the raven was better known than her own flawless Fey face, but now she had been reduced to a token of Mordant’s magnanimity. He could afford such little gestures. The humiliation was something that she felt extra keenly—never before having been subject to charity.

“Ah sweet darling,” Sive crooned to Macha, stroking one gentle hand down the bird’s chest, “How were things while I was away?”

“You shouldn’t have been away at all!” a harsh voice that reminded Sive of nothing more than a dagger rasping across chain mail, hissed from above the Hall’s door.

Macha cocked her head, and an ear splitting caw cracked the silence. The raven had no love for Mordant’s sprite.

Sive frowned, and in response the constant mist rumbled, threatening to solidify into thunderheads. She raised her violet eyes to the lintel.

Wyreck perched on the cross beams, his sly little face lit with a nasty grin, swinging his booted feet against the stone. Wings of basalt black thrummed at his shoulders. He was as perky as any other sprite, yet everything else was their antithesis. For he was Mordant’s creature, and had traveled with him to places other sprites could only have nightmares of. He bared his slightly pointed teeth, and waited for Sive to squirm. “The Master will be interested to know that you have been jaunting to the human realm while he wasn’t looking.”

Sive barely controlled the urge to grasp the sprite up and squeeze him into an oily sludge. Instead she smiled her most intense smile. “I wasn’t aware that Mordant had denied me anything. Why—last time I saw him, he was more than pleased with me.” She ran one coy finger over her collarbone, and looked up at the sprite through her raven wing hair. Macha squawked and shifted on her shoulder, eager no doubt to lay her snapping bill around Wreck’s neck. Sive calmed her with a thought and a promise; one day love, one day.

For now, they would have to put up with the sprite’s sharp looks and hostility. He was very quick to report to Mordant, and that was probably his purpose. He reveled in the power he had over such as Sive, but she would see that he had little joy of it. She would refrain from champing at the bit like some spirited horse. For now, and only now, Mordant had the reins, but that could not last, and then she would be free to follow instincts.

So she hid her bitter smile, and entered the hall, leaving the little sprite to fume.

Sive gave no hint she was listening, but when her ears discerned the sound of his wings thrumming into the distance, she smiled. Descending into the hall, being wrapped in its dreary atmosphere, soon took away the edge of triumph. This place was enough to make anyone despair.

It was not truly ugly inside, as nothing that came within a heartbeat of the Fey world could be, but it reeked of something that was alien to this realm—despair. The smooth walls that led to the interior of the hall were a seamless surface of wood and stone, so cunningly blended that it was impossible to tell where one left off and another began. What sort of magic could marry stone and wood even she could not imagine but it was still another sign of Mordant’s power.

Sive trailed a hand idly along the wall. Fey halls were supposed to be crowded, with brownies, or sprites, or the laughter of the Fey themselves. Even the hall she had previously lived in with Brigit and Puck had breathed, had smelt of life and hope. This place was truly dead, and in it she felt herself expiring.

Macha’s claws dug deep, and an unvoiced croak of alarm thrummed in her chest. Macha had always been there, a gift of the goddess perhaps, and that was the worst of it. For though the bird’s descent into weakness had reversed, it had been replaced with an odd lethargy that could not be dispelled by any number of flights across Fey skies. The possibilities of what that could mean for Sive the Shining weighed heavily on her mind.

Sive stroked Macha’s chest absently, and though her fingers registered the plumpness of health, Art sensed a retreat in the bird. Was this to be the fate of the Fey as they turned to Mordant for help: A return to apparent health only to be eaten from within? Was this her fate?

She would be a fool not to entertain the possibility.

For once within the hall’s boundaries, Sive felt the vague draining of power—of her will. Where once she had raged and burned fierce, now she barely found the strength to think.

Macha’s metallic claws punctured through fine fabric, slashing into Sive’s shoulder, making her jump. She turned her face accusingly to the bird. The dark eye barely reflected anything in the dim hall, but the raven’s head twitched, and her ear feathers rose in a warning. Pain was Sive’s friend here, protection against the aura of the Hall, and under its application she recalled the plan. While Mordant played across the realms, doing his own foul mysterious deeds, she would put this time to use. The hall must have some of the Fey’s secrets, some hint to the source of his power.

She had already finished examining the almost empty upper floors, and had been steeling herself to search those below ground, when Puck’s summons had come. Truthfully she hadn’t wanted to venture there, as it was the storehouse of the hall’s lethargy. But with Macha’s claws clenching and burning in her shoulder, she decided to act now—while she still had the strength to resist.

Through the deserted corridors Sive strode, fixing her mind on the pain the raven was inflicting, and not on the miasma that surrounded them both.

Down icy cold stone steps she went quickly, her feet making lonely distinct echoes in the silence. Blue flamed torches sprang to life ahead, giving little in warmth or light. Only one door waited at the end of the long corridor, and it was bound with iron. Sive stopped, perplexed for a moment. Iron was not a common substance in the Fey. Mostly it was an uncomfortable metal to her people, but some it burned like flames, and others it could kill stone dead. Mordant, like herself, would be little affected by it—but still it was an odd material for a Fey hall. How could he have even bought it here?

Macha’s wings flexed and shuttered near her ear, claws stabbing deep, keeping her to the task at hand. The cloud of weariness was invading Sive’s senses even so, and she must move swiftly. Without Macha’s aid it was doubtful she would have made it this far.

Opening the door boldly, Sive half expected Mordant himself to be within, but was relieved to be wrong.

A broad desk of roughly chiseled slate waited beside a blue flamed hearth for its Master to return—indeed it felt like he might have just stepped out for a minute. It was a small enough room, but lined floor to ceiling with dark wooden shelves, and each shelf bore more books than Sive had ever seen in her long life.

The written word was not a Fey art, and while some had professed an interest in it gained from the human realm, the skill was seen as of little value to the long-lived. After all what was the use of writing things down, when they lived on to remember the past? Humans had need of books as they had the life of a candle flame, and without books all their knowledge would be lost to time. Fey needed no such, it was considered beneath them: human magic for a human realm.

Yet here was Mordant’s inner sanctum dedicated to them. Sive curiously pulled one volume out, feeling the caress of the leather against her fingers. They must be very new; the pages smelt dry and crisp, and the lines of writing within were as fresh as though they had just poured from the pen; the words eluded her. Sive had some understanding of the written word, gained from worshipers who had carved her name in the stones, but that had been centuries of mortal time ago, and these words were foreign. She almost threw the book on the floor in disgust.

Why would Mordant be interested in such things? Perhaps he had found some kind of power in these books—an idea that had never occurred to her

Sive had to know what this all meant; if a secret was indeed contained in books then it was unknown territory. The Fey knew nothing of book learning, for the application required was not their strongest suit. If pleasure could not be gained from the pursuit of something within the first few heartbeats, then they generally discarded it.

Still it was the only clue Sive had discovered in her husband’s hall, and there could be something to it. Hoping it would go unnoticed by Mordant, Sive tucked one book under her arm. In order to win out over Mordant she needed not only to think like him, but also to know his secrets.

A quick glance around the rest of the room showed nothing more of interest. The desk was a plain slab of stone, the fireplace a simple curve in the wall, and so the books were all the other contents of it.

The miasma was beginning to assert itself. Sive was just about to flee from the room, when Macha flapped away, landing on the wooden chair behind the desk. Squawking loudly and harshly, wings stammering in the cool air, Macha hopped aggressively on the chair back. Sive frowned; something had caught the bird’s attention. Curiosity won out over the lethargy. Sive walked behind the desk, and immediately saw what the raven had spotted.

Curled against the leg of the chair, like some fragile ghost, was a veil of whiteness. Not being able to immediately identify it, she picked it up. It was so fine that for a moment her fingers denied she had anything at all. It uncoiled in her grasp, dropping lengthwise from her hands to the floor. It took a long moment for Sive to understand.

If a snake were to stand as tall as a man, and retained his shape, this might be well what it shed instead of a serpentine form. Sive bit her lip. It had arms and legs and a pale mask of skin that she could now recognize.

Even this dark goddess of war shuddered, dropping it back to the floor like a rotten fruit. What madness was this that Mordant’s cast skin rested on the cold stone? What sort of creature would require its flesh to do that?

Nothing Fey, nor anything human could be responsible for this insanity.

Macha hissed through an open beak, hopping onto her mistress’s shoulder, making her own dark comment on the veil of skin. Sive needed no further urging; on shocked feet she escaped the room. Its frightening, alien secret was something she could only wish not to have seen.

Chapter 5: Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

“William!” father’s desperate voice chased after his errant son, but by the time the words were barked out it was already too late. To a young man with the world calling alluringly from outside the door, a father’s irate voice was no incentive to go back. In Will’s mind it would be well worth a thrashing to have one whole afternoon away from the shop, a little slice of time stolen from the mundane—a little time to breathe and to be himself.

Will had picked an excellent moment to escape. With his father busy haggling over wool prices with one of the local farmers, the outraged call was all he could manage. Which was a good thing. Certainly there had been nothing more embarrassing for either father or son than the last incident, which had degenerated into an uncomfortable public argument out on the street. So this time Will had been more careful, and better prepared.

Having saddled Robin earlier, when his father had thought he was eating lunch, the boy’s heart lifted at the sight of the pony waiting in the backyard. The faithful steed whinnied and shook his bay head, scenting the adventure already calling to them from the other side of the Avon. His shaggy fetlocks ruffled like a lady’s fine lace when he stamped the ground, and he arched a rather disreputable stout neck like the aristocratic mount he had always thought he was. He certainly had the spirit of one of Sir Richard Lucy’s best-bred stallions—if not the looks. Will grinned, and threw himself the short distance up to the pony’s back. In his pocket was some dark bread, a wedge of hard cheese and two small, wizened apples all filched with the best possible of intentions from his mother’s kitchen. In itself that had been an adventure worthy of its own tale. Mother, with her growing brood of children, was becoming harder and harder to outwit.

“Away my charger!” Feeding off each other’s youthful excitement, pony and rider made their hasty exit. Being not entirely confident that his father might not break off negotiations to fetch after his son, a swift getaway was imperative. With a clatter of hooves and an excited yell, they galloped into the sunshine. Gentles and peasants alike hurried to get out of the way, as the young Shakespeare hurtled along Henley Street. He waved merrily to Richard Wheeler leaning heavily on the corner of his shop, his face set in its usual fold of dull anger. Robin barged through a bunch of squawking ducks along Bridge Street, sending them scattering every which way, and causing no little confusion to the good-wife who was trying to round them up and escape the fine she’d have to pay if any of the town council noticed. Will called out his nearly heartfelt apologies as they galloped on. Past the village muck piles, and the houses were almost behind them. Finally rattling and whooping along the great length of Clopton bridge—they reached freedom.

Such an escape was not unfamiliar to the citizens of Stratford. And although a good many of them whispered under their breaths about the goings on in the Shakespeare home, and deplored the changes wrought in its eldest son, most could understand it. Will had been an exceptional student at the grammar school, and when his father had been a rising star in the town council it had been expected that he too would make a great leap, and attend university. However the family’s depleted fortunes now denied the boy a chance at that bright future.

As Will rode down the lazy curve of the Avon he smiled in triumph, for clenched in one hand was his prize for the week; several small scraps of parchment, with only the remains of orders written on one side. In one pocket was a thick stick of charcoal, but more importantly in his head was another idea he could hardly wait to get down into the physical world.

Will rode Robin until they reached his favorite spot. Here the river rolled gently against the green banks, its sounds muted to gentle rhythmic slaps. Beneath the sounds of the river there were the whispers of the wind playing in the reeds, and in the hair of the willows bending their hands down into the river. Sliding off Robin, who was already taking grateful mouthfuls of the grass, Will spread his cloak out on the bank, and let a huge sigh of relief escape him. He felt like it was his first real breath of the day. Unlacing his boots and stripping them off his feet, he curled his toes in the moist grass, feeling the wetness soothe his soles. Leaning his arms on his bent knees, he allowed himself to gaze over the river. The shop was a fine enough business, and there was a certain beauty in creating the soft gloves, or making a profit with a consignment of wool, but he had found the last years very hard.

The family fortunes had been slipping for quite a while, his father being unable to afford town levies, or to pay his subscription for militia upkeep, or contribute his share of poor relief. That was bad enough, but then last year, affairs had taken a sharp downturn.

The reason was all too simple, and all too humiliating. John Shakespeare had been illegally dealing in wool—and to be sure he was not the only wool brogger in Stratford. It was a trade that could bring a handsome profit, but it was also one that relied heavily on credit. So when the Privy Council had clamped down on the practice three years earlier, John was badly affected. He’d bought wool on credit from Walter Masshem, and not being able to sell it was crippling. Family debts were piling up even as Will lay there in the grass.

John Shakespeare had taken enormous satisfaction in his role as Stratford’s burgess and town beer taster. He’d risen to the top of Stratford society swiftly, and though the downward turn was admittedly not as sudden, it still reeked of bitter humiliation.

So for all the personal hardship felt so keenly by Will, he knew that it was hardest on his father. The normally gentle man had become more snappish and withdrawn, as he was forced to sell parcel after parcel of the land he had bought over the years. Worse still was when he’d had to sell part of his wife’s dowry. For a proud man it was a hard thing. Knowing though didn’t make it any easier on a young man—especially one who’d placed his sights on a university.

All this conspired against Will and his family, and he had been forced to work with his father in the shop. Though he tried to put a brave face on it, such afternoons as today were his only way of staying sane. The stench of the whittawering, and the interminable placation and lies that needed to be lavished on every customer, were wearing his spirit down, until he could feel it seeping it out his boot soles and wasting in the dark floor of the shop.

Will picked grass from around his feet absentmindedly. He usually managed to keep the disappointment hidden, but today it had overflowed. Overhearing Lord Lucy recalling with his wife how their son had enjoyed his time at Oxford stirred little fingers of jealousy in him.

Will smiled. It was this emotion that had caught in his brain, and he had a mind to start a little poem on it. Spreading out his hard won scraps, Will put his make shift pen to use. The idea was elusive, but he knew that if he could just find the right words he could nail it down—and it would be his.

But finding peace even this far from home was going to prove difficult. Will tried to ignore it, but the sounds of girlish laughter carried from downstream. He huddled further into the long grass, and hoped its owner would pass by. For a moment it felt like he might be lucky, but when they were just above him on the bank, he heard a sound that made his heart sink.

“Isn’t that Robin?” Then came the rustle of skirts in the grass. The little bay with the bright white star on his nose was unmistakable. Neither did it help when the treacherous beast put up his nose and huffed a greeting at the girls.

Will, not knowing what else to do, lay back further closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Not holding one’s breath when you know someone is coming up to you is actually quite difficult, he found.

Two pairs of feet approached to within a few yards of his head.

“Oh really, Will Shakespeare,” an unimpressed voice giggled, “It’s only us. You don’t have to pretend.”

Reluctantly he opened his eyes. Kate Baker and Anne Hathaway stood above, looking down their pretty blue skirts at him. Kate’s hand was over her mouth stifling what few giggles she could, but Anne looked distinctly unimpressed. It was Kate that had so impudently addressed him—Anne was not one for idle laughter.

The Hathaways were large landowners from Shottery, and also good friends of Will’s father, so he and Anne had seen a lot of each other growing up. Though he had some experience with girls, Anne was quite another story. As Richard Hathaway’s eldest daughter, she was considered something of an heiress in the district, and Will was of the firm opinion that this had gone to her head. She was twenty-four to his sixteen, and so adult as to make her almost alien. She had a sweet enough dimple, and fine straight hair of amber gold, but hardly said a word. Will had long ago decided that she was arrogant and thought herself above the poorer Shakespeares. If Will had to admit to a fault, it was that he did not like to be thought of as inferior. It only made matters worse that she was so much older than he.

“I knew it was you,” he replied with unfelt bravado. “I was just composing.”

“Composing what?” Kate chirped, finally noticing his paper and ‘pen’ and trying to peer over his shoulder. “A love ballad? Oh do let me see—who can it be for?”

Though he had in truth not even written a line yet, Will flinching hid the paper. He had never shown anyone any of his work—it was too raw, too fresh and untried. How he could ever bring himself to expose it he didn’t know. It was just there was too much of his soul in it. Countless ballads and sonnets had gone to the flames untested by other mortals.

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” Kate tugged at his sleeve.

“No,” Will growled, now feeling slightly foolish, but even more unwilling to let this silly girl see his distress.

“Oh come on, Kate,” Anne finally stepped in, prying her friend’s fingers from Will’s arm. “Leave the boy be. Let him write in peace.”

So many girls did not understand, mainly because so few of them had been taught how to set pen to paper, that Will found himself gaping up at Anne. Kate finally gave up with a huff of anger.

“Oh keep your silly thing, “she looped her arm in her friend’s. “I don’t want to see it anyway.” She gave her companion an impatient little tug, and swirled her skirts, as if it was he that had been at fault all along—bothering them!

As they departed Anne locked gazes with Will, gave him a smile, and then rolled her eyes comically. The boy stifled a chuckle as the two girls wandered back up the river. Perhaps Anne wasn’t as bad as he had thought; anyone who understood his creative urges was something unusual.

Slumping back in the grass again, Will tried to chase after the dissolving fragments of the poem. Rolling over on his back he fished out the bread and cheese. The distractions might be gone, but they had taken his inspiration with them. His head which up until now had been crammed with ideas had suddenly run dry. He didn’t know why he bothered sometimes. Certainly his writings wouldn’t get him anywhere in the world. What was the practical purpose of it all? Why would God have given him this talent, this drive to create if he was meant to be a mercer, or a glover for the rest of his life?

It was hardly fair. But young Will had already observed that there were many things not fair in this world. Surely there had to be shepherds and milkmaids out there bemoaning their fate too, so why should little William be any different?

Robin sidled over, demanding the two wizened apples with a sharp snort. Will grinned and relented, enjoying the waffle of the horse’s breath on his open hand. He had already learnt the value of savoring small pleasures.

The papers almost unnoticed fluttered out from under his leg, and rustled through the grasses, moving away from him as the idea had fled. Dropping back to the grass with a sigh, Will closed his eyes and concentrated on the far more animalistic pleasures of the hot summer sun on his face, and the cool caress of the wind on his cheek. The only sounds were the chatter of the river and the occasional contented chomp from Robin lingering nearby. If only it could all be this simple, this easy to pass away in a haze of unknowing, not thinking of the future or the present, only each crystal sensation.

The boot nudging him in the side made Will start up, all too ready to give Kate and Anne a sharp reprimand. The pair of violet stern eyes looking down at him gave him pause.

A lady towered over him, but a lady unlike he had ever seen. Everything about her, from the dark green overskirt tastefully hitched up just enough to show the fine stitching of the underskirt to the bonneted head proclaimed her class, and yet there was something different about her. A mixture of challenge in the eye, and set of the jaw, made her seem quite different to the other ladies he had seen in Stratford, even Sir Richard’s wife. The dark curl on her cheek was like the spill of night on the pale moon, and he thought she was beautiful enough to make women weep, and men go quite mad.

Will could have lain there forever examining every flawless inch, had she not inserted her boot once more into his side. “Get up boy, I have a job for you.”

Blushing scarlet, he rose quickly, shamefully trying to hide his naked feet in the grass. He had never seen this woman before that was sure, but she appeared to know him. Not far from Robin he could now see, was a fine looking dappled stallion grazing. How both rider and mount had managed to come up so unannounced he couldn’t imagine.

“My lady,” he stammered, trying to decide what on earth a gentlewoman could be doing this far from the road.

His confusion and embarrassment made no difference—she completely ignored it. “I hear you are well versed in this,” she produced a small slim book from the folds of her sleeve, and waved it at him like it was a weapon.

For a good few seconds Will stared at it. “Yes, my lady, I can both read and write well enough.” He thought it best to undervalue his skills until he knew what she wanted.

“Good then, “ she gifted him a small shadow of a smile. “You may teach me.”

Will only barely refrained from pinching himself, surely there had to be some mistake. Most gentles allowed their women to learn to read at least, if not actually write. He had the feeling it was some terrible joke—or even worse. He couldn’t help looking over his shoulder. A woman of her station could not be out alone, and certainly shouldn’t be talking to a man—even a young one. The trouble it could cause was not inconsiderable.

“My lady, there are others who are better suited to teaching you surely?” Will unconsciously backed away, fearing some sort of trap.

She gave him an odd look, tapping the book impatiently with the nails of one hand. With a little twist of her mouth, she replied concisely enough, “Certainly there are. But I have recently returned to England, and my husband does not know I cannot read. It would shame me for others to find out. You, I do not think will tell—you are therefore the most suitable. You shall come here every second afternoon for a few hours and teach me.” It was definitely not phrased as a question.

The whole thing was a scandal, and yet despite that Will was smiling. A sweet subtle charm had worked his way round the edges of his common sense, made in part of the lady’s beauty, and the rest in the secrecy of it. It would be good to have a little something that was his alone, in a world that had taken his university dream away. Brushing hair back from his eyes, Will felt that foolish grin broaden. But then reality hit him, with the whip like snap of a voice all the way from the glovers, “But my father, lady...”

The violet eyes brooked no arguments. “I think you will find that there is no problem there, young Will. We women have ways of getting what we want.” She reached across, and he felt the surprisingly heavy weight of the book slide into his hands, “You may study this until we meet. I wish to know all that it says.” With that she turned to her horse, summoning it with a low whistle, and a snap of her fine fingers—fingers he now noted were not gloved. She mounted with grace, and economy that a man would never have been able to match.

He blinked; suddenly feeling his heart begin to beat again, a sudden thought giving him enough nerve to grasp her mount’s bridle before she could leave. “May I at least ask your name, milady?”

She frowned, looking down at him from the tall stallion’s back. “You may call me Sive.” Seemingly reluctant to even part with that, she jerked the reins and shouldered the horse past Will, and in a surge both were up the green bank and gone.

They left so little trace behind it could all just have been an odd dream, if it were not for the book still nestled in his hand. The name she had thrown to him was an unfamiliar one, it could have sprung from Greece, or Padua, or a thousand other places he had never seen. Still as Will stood there in shock, it sat heavily in his mouth, ripe and full of promise.

***

“So what do you think of my boy?” Sive barely turned her head as the silver haired Puck form sprang into being behind her. She didn’t need to look to know that he was grinning.

Carefully, and firmly adjusting his nimble Fey fingers so they rested only about her waist, she corrected him tartly, “He is not your boy, Puck.”

“He is too, my lovely Sive, as much mine as his parents. Who do you think got him through all those scrapes and fights?” “And I’m sure got him into just as many, and besides I do not think that the path is that clear yet. He still has a ways to go.”

Bayel snorted, and jogged sideways a little. The stallion had never been overly fond of the energetic Fey; there had been too many incidents of tugged and plaited fetlocks, and nasty surprises in the hay. Sive calmed him with a pat and a soft word.

Puck’s fingers were now winding flowers into her hair, and for once he was being gentle—and even more remarkably silent.

“What use is the book, Sive?” he asked, the scent of his conjured roses lingered in her nostrils.

“It is something I found in Mordant’s hall—it may well be nothing, but it is all I have found in my time there. I need to know my husband’s ways—and I could hardly ask him to teach me to read, now could I?”

“But still—an interesting choice of tutor, cousin, plenty of other mortals to teach you such things, why young Will?”

She was beginning to become displeased with his tone. Living in this realm had changed Puck, she sensed, in ways that were not at all suited to her purpose. Sive chose to remain silent.

“And your name, cousin,” Puck went gamely on, “You gave him your true name. Surely such a thing is not wise—why, pray tell, did you do it?”

A part of the dark goddess flinched, for in truth she didn’t know. The boy had asked something she had not been prepared for, and her true name had popped out. Certainly that was not something to be proud of, in fact it was downright foolish to give a mortal such power, but when his wide gray eyes had looked straight up into hers, the truth had escaped. It was a mistake Sive was sure she would later regret. Still it was not an error she needed pointed out to her. “It means nothing, Puck.”

Out of the corner of her eye she caught Puck’s smile. “Mighty strange, cousin—especially from you.”

Through gritted teeth, Sive tried to maneuver the subject in the direction she wanted. “It is time for me to judge what use he may be put to. Time to see if Brigit was right.”

His fingers stilled in her hair, and she heard a long drawn sigh wrung from his body.

“Why, Puck?” Sive said, “You are not concerned over the mortal, are you?”

“He has a good soul,” Puck muttered, “And a kind heart.”

Sive almost laughed, “A soul, Puck? My, you have been too long among these humans.”

“Seems to me,” he replied snappishly, “You told me to look after this boy—so you shouldn’t get angry when I do.”

Sive heard the tone. She pulled Bayel up sharply and slid to the ground, wanting to see the look in the other’s eyes. He sat cross-legged on the stallion’s back, and determinedly did not meet her gaze. “Puck,” she warned menacingly, “This boy has but one purpose—to aid me. I neither want to know about his soul, nor care about it—and you should not either. Do not become too attached to something that is essentially a tool. It may well have to be sacrificed later.”

“I would never have thought it, “ Puck was in a very rare, very angry mood, “But you are in danger of being as bitter and twisted as your brother. Can you really only see the value of the boy to your cause? He is a person, a good one.”

Caught off guard by such fire, Sive unconsciously took a step back. Puck’s form was bristling, very like the feline shape he had chosen to wear all those mortal years. Yet she would not be barked at by anyone—least of all, this foolish Trickster. Her eyes went dark with power, and a thrust of her Art sent Puck sprawling from Bayel’s back. A thick clump of grass broke his fall, thus stymying any satisfaction she might have got. Though uninjured Puck didn’t bother to arise. Instead he glared at her, with eyes gone pale with anger, as Sive once again mounted. She feigned interest in her skirts’ placement, trying to find the words to explain how she felt; how a month in Mordant’s hall had frozen her heart, and made her more afraid than she had ever been. What were the words to describe the dark alien things she had seen, and even more, felt in that dreadful place?

But she only knew sword and battle, so she did not answer his question. “I must return to the Fey, Puck—Mordant may well visit his hall tonight. It would be better for us if I was there to greet him.”

Puck, who had still not moved, sniffed, “Laying the honey on a bit thickly there, Mordant is not a fool.”

Sive threw back her head, and laughed at the sky, “Dear Puck—he is no match for me.” She fixed him with a piercing look, and was gladdened to see him squirm a little under its application. If he only knew the real truth of what she faced daily he might well sympathize, but sympathy was something Sive would not have. Sternly she went on, “But your job here is not yet done, Puck. Guard the boy, watch him well, great power is stirring within him. He could be a danger to himself at this stage. If there is any danger—you may have to reveal yourself to him. Do not be afraid of that.”

“He may not take kindly to be so used, dearest cousin,” Puck smiled, showing his slightly pointed canine teeth, but the smile did not extend to his chill eyes. “Beware—these mortals have developed claws since you last meddled in their affairs. Perhaps you should consider that before you wreck this young one’s life.”

Bayel stamped and snorted, jigging sideways as he caught the waves of rage and Art washing from both Fey. Sive ground her teeth in scarcely controlled hostility. She had never seen Puck like this before, not so serious, not so deadly. But still, she reminded herself, she was the stronger—she had more experience at winning than he. She turned the stallion in tight demanding circles around the other Fey.

“You have chosen an ill time to develop a conscience Puck—very ill indeed. Either you serve me—or you risk seeing all our people fall away. I think even you would find that unacceptable.” With a sharp word to the stallion, she cut through the Veil, and rode Bayel back into the Fey. Her parting words fading as magic sealed the gate. “Think on that Puck, should you dare consider getting in my way.”

As the faint strains of the Fey realm dissipated into the air, Puck’s anger faded, replaced with an almost overwhelming sadness. He had not the Sight, but he would have been the total fool that many took him for, if he could not see that trouble was brewing, faster and in greater proportion than Sive could imagine.

“Silly, beautiful cousin, “he murmured, “One day you will regret these choices.”

But as always she had not paused to listen.

Chapter 6: Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear.

Puck was gone, Sive had been stolen, and none of those bright Fey Brigit had once been part of dared to break Auberon’s command. So Brigit was alone, more completely alone and bereft than ever. It was enough to make anyone bitter, she thought dully, huddling next to the dying hearth fire. She was now a pariah. With so much misery around, she could surely be excused for thinking on better times when she and the dazzling Anu had been the center of the Court.

Brigit’s throat tightened at the thought of her lost one, and she poked the fire to life against the sudden chill.

They had been close as sisters, as close as any other motherless children, though they had a mother. The Goddess might indeed be all things, and yes love and beauty was her domain, but so was harshness and death.

Firstborn of the Fey, they had all found it impossible to truly love Her in the intimate way of a mother. So Brigit had turned to her older sister, making of her a vessel of admiration and love. Anu had been more worthy of affection, accepting it with good grace, but never using it against her. How terribly the emptiness burned in Brigit, even now her whole being felt hollow with the loss.

The fire spluttered and hissed on the hearth, bringing little heat to her aging bones, and the temptation was very great to change that, to become what she had once been.

But Brigit the Blessed had forsaken youth and beauty on that long ago day, in the wake of her sister’s disappearance. And it was that day too she’d laid her curse on the Hall of Auberon.

Brigit sighed, pulled the gray shawl tighter about her shoulders, trying to keep the memories at bay. The world had been a young precious thing when she and Sive’s mother had been born into it. They had treated it lightly too, imagining as all young things do that it would always be the same. They were immortal and beautiful. Change, when it came, was both violent and shocking.

Those fearful days of the Unmaker when each day might have been the last, Brigit now realized, was when she’d been most alive. How they had trembled with fear, and laughed, and loved with great abandon. They had thought them the worst of times.

“Until now,” Brigit whispered bitterly, and did not bother to catch the old woman’s tear that dripped down her face. Anu and Brigit had been a match for anything, even in the end the Unmaker.

“Oh Mother,” wrapping her arms about herself, she cocooned around the pain. It was not a plea—it was an accusation. But the Goddess knew the unspoken rest of it. Why did you let her die? As always there was no answer. Brigit hated that above all.

And still it was not over. She levered herself up from the chair, feeling the creak of bones like any other elderly woman. No Fey understood why she had allowed her body to decay, thinking it part madness.

Old watery eyes, that had once been bright and much admired by mortal and immortal a like, stared into the rekindled flames, seeing that long dead face still cherished and loved within. “You know why, don’t you, Anu.” The dead Queen’s face smiled at her, full of acceptance. “It is for your memory dear sister—to show that I had not forgotten you, even if others have. How can I have youth when you are dust?”

The taste of betrayal was just as fresh as it had been all that time ago. The other Fey may have been able to wipe their crimes from their minds, helped by the frivolous round of pleasures Auberon encouraged in his court, but the wrong still burned deep within Brigit’s heart. They had not stopped their queen from going to her doom.

Brigit’s assertion that their salvation was in the human realm was all that remained, and she clung to it with tenacity. It was not such a foolish idea, but none now lived who could remember the time when humanity and Fey had joined together against the Unmaker.

Turning over her wrist, she looked down at the most shocking thing of all, a scar on a Fey body. Running her finger lightly over the pale ridge of skin bought back that moment.

“Stand firm sister,” Anu yelled through the howling wind of the void.

The human bards had been already overcome, most whipped screaming into the Shattered Realm, even as they cast the last of their Art into the narrowing doorway. Brigit’s eyes were burning, her body was tearing at the seams. Never before had she held so much power. She could barely see Anu, who seemed to be only a flame of light to her left.

Ahead the Unmaker was thrashing, a dreadful pit of darkness desperate to be free of the Shattered Realm before the doorway was closed. It was the heart of chaos and destruction, set only on breaking all the Goddess had made. It had moved beyond mere balance, and would now destroy human and Fey once free.

“It is too strong,” Brigit called, feeling her Art beginning to wilt, “I cannot hold.”

“Then we die, little sister,” her voice full of sadness.

Love welled up inside her for Anu then; she would not give up. With a little cry, Brigit ran forward, streaming Art and tears, and threw herself towards the darkness. Strangely it was a moment of utter peace.

The Goddess was near then, nearer than that primal force of destruction. Brigit felt her mother’s light touch, a blessing perhaps, and then there was nothing but darkness.

“Little one,” Anu’s hand was cool on her forehead. Brigit felt herself lifted, and the healing Art of her sister wrap around her. When her eyes finally felt capable of opening, the Between was changed, once more the still expanse of mist and quiet.

“It is done, Brigit,” Anu hugged her gently, “But both of us will wear the scars. The Unmaker has touched both of us, and his wounds are not to be healed.” Hers was exactly the same as Brigit’s, a pale mark on the perfect flesh of her arm.

“I will wear mine proudly,” she replied, “For no other Fey has one, and ours were won with courage.”

“And love, dearest sister,” Anu hugged her again, tighter this time. ��

Brigit sighed at the memory, but did not cry. It had been a good moment, one of triumph that they had shared. Even a Fey gets only few of those perfect crystal moments. But now she questioned whether it had really been such a success, because she had begun to dream.

Brigit had practiced more than any other the almost lost Art of Seeing, and yet she could only recall a great fear when she woke. The dreadful thought that something was preventing her Seeing had not escaped her.

The time had come to find those dreams. The flames Brigit had built at the beginning of the day had been for warmth, but now they must be for something grander.

Woods given by both Fey and human trees fed the flames; ash, rowan and birch. But only when the fire was licking the roof did she give it what it hungered for. Fear had made her belly an angry knot, but taking a silver knife Brigit cut a long length of gray hair, and cast it into the heart of the conflagration.

As Brigit fed the starving fire she hummed a little tune, one that Anu had been particularly fond of.

“Yes,” she chatted on, feeling her sister standing close, “The three realms are close tonight, a pity I could not have any from that which was Shattered.” It would have immeasurably added to the power of the spell she was weaving. That place was locked by the Seal, and was impenetrable—or at least she prayed it was.

“Please don’t let it be,” Brigit’s cracked and wrinkled fingers knotted together in a prayer. “Let the Grand Seal stand until I am gone.” One hand went to the dark coin worn on a chain pressed against her sagging bosom, and her greatest fears in turn rose to haunt her. Only she and Anu had known, and now only she remained, but if the Seal was broken....

“It cannot be,” she said forcefully, and turned back to the fire.

Fed on such powerful fuel the flames were ready. Breathing the aromatic smoke in and letting it fill her body with a curious weightless sensation, Brigit felt nothing but relief as her bodily senses drifted away. Separated by this most fickle of sensations, the pattern of the realm about her became apparent; Sive’s terrible fears, Auberon’s grim dedication to mindless pleasure, and all the range of Fey between. Foolish and brave, bright and terrible, the ancient Fey touched them all. Then summoning her Art, Brigit plunged on, searching for the link, the answer in all the futures that would bring her the hope she must have.

Moving quickly from the Fey, knowing in her heart that it did not lie there, she dared the tumbling mists that moved between the realms, the Between.

So many worlds, so many pulses of life and destiny whirled about her that for a second Brigit was confused. In the corridors where time and space had little meaning, it was easy enough to lose sight of exactly who and what she was.

“I am Brigit the Blessed, daughter of the Mother of All and loyal sister to Anu the Bright.” Whispering this to herself Brigit pushed on.

The three realms were the closest in the Between, but there were others too, further away and stranger still. They beckoned her, and burned brightly in her eyes.

Brigit was not so foolish as to follow those lights and be lost in the mists. Instead she focused on the whirling masses of the three realms; the mortal humming with green life and chaos, the Fey pulsating with a dim yet pure white light, and the Shattered with its own grim shadows. The triumvirate spun and turned around each other in an endless incomprehensible dance. It sapped the senses and sang sweetly in her veins, that dance; even an ancient Fey could only marvel at its beauty. At the point where all three hung existed the Nexus, a pure crystalline place in the mist, made of otherworldly stone, where fate and power met.

But Brigit turned her attention to the place she least wished to see.

Her Art reached down as close as she dared to the Shattered world, probing, but with the image of the old coin held up before it like a shield. Brigit was buffeted by the strength of the Great Seal, but retreating, she was at least reassured that it remained. None could as yet pass into the Shattered and reclaim what was there. Their mighty work still held, even after Anu’s death, so it could not be from there that the danger emanated. She breathed a bodiless sigh of relief. Her greatest fear was eased.

Drawing Art back from the realms, Brigit waited and observed some more, knowing that the answer must lie here somewhere. And then, just by watching, she saw what she had never seen before—a fragile silver thread ran between all three, as ethereal as a spider web, joining the triumvirate’s great dance. Brigit guessed before she even touched it what it was. Pulsing with its own faint, sickly life, Mordant’s soul traveled between the realms. Impossible as that was, it flowed from the Shattered Realm. Without thinking Brigit reached for it, to snap it or pull it away she could not have said. It was like grasping an end of molten iron. Brigit’s distant heart stuttered and twitched with the pain, like a beast suddenly caught in a barbed net.

The layers of her Art were no protection; the attack was as sudden and as unheralded as a slash of lightning. It pierced her through with a dark menace and hunger that at once filled her and rendered her apart. Brigit was drowning in thick darkness, which had only one purpose, the end of her. She’d thought long lost the desire for life, but under pressure, it suddenly reignited.

Only the instinct to flee saved her. Tearing Sight free from its maniacal clutches, she sped for the safety of the Fey realm with the attacker all the time savaging her heels. It buffeted at Brigit like a wild storm, trying to knock her free of the path home.

Brigit came to herself with a half scream and a lurch. Legs gave way, smashing her head on the rough stone of the hearth. The pain was welcome. For a moment she lay clutching the chill rock, reacquainting herself with the aches of the physical, and recalling what she’d felt in the Between. Whoever or whatever the attacker had been, it had known her in that moment, known her heart, her past, and her fears, and then it had hated with such power that she was left breathless at the memory. Brigit had seen its darkness, felt its destructive power—it felt all too familiar.

And no Art was needed to tell her that she had drawn something’s attention to the Fey either. The air was thick, and the attacker’s touch was moving more heavily over her land, with all the weight of a lecherous hand. Brigit cursed her own clumsiness.

Now there was no safety in this realm or any other. By her daring she’d accomplished the opposite of what she had set out to do. Sive and the mortal warrior were all there was, and how fragile that hope felt now.

***

Mordant shook the icicles of the Between from bone hair and clenched shoulder; they rattled and fell to their doom at his feet. He watched their destruction with an eerie detachment that even he recognized as alien. It was obvious that each time he ventured into the Between, a little less of Mordant returned. But no matter the number of times he traveled that dangerous path, he still could not like the chill it bought to the bones, or the emptiness it left in its wake.

Behind Mordant the boogarts hissed and growled amongst themselves, eager to be at play in this new vibrant realm he had summoned them to. Razor claws screeched against the stone floor, and their stench outraged even Mordant’s dulled senses. He had dared many things to find them, and now when his eye rested on them it was with a certain paternal gleam. Each musclebound body was matched with a head more tooth than face; they were well made for their purpose.

He sent them hunting free in the Between, searching for signs of Art to rend and kill. Mordant had released hundreds of their kin, and relished the thought of the chaos they must be creating.

Wyreck was waiting for him, perched in a crevasse of the cavern wall, his flinty eyes barely registering the boogarts. He said something to Mordant, but could not be heard above the growls and grunts that now filled the cave.

Mordant spat a command in the terrifying Shattered language that bought the boogarts to a sudden silence, and split the corners of his mouth with red. A harsh language from a harsh realm, but it was the only thing they would obey.

“Report then, Wyreck, tell me what ills my wife has been about while missing me,” he said, mopping the droplets of blood from his lips with the back of a hand. The sudden scarlet they made against his white skin held him entranced for a moment.

Wyreck began the usual litany of complaints; Sive was about in the world too much, she poked about the Hall, and above all she had no respect for the sprite. Mordant barely heard the buzz of irritation in Wyreck’s voice anymore, nodding at the right places, but his mind was ranging far ahead.

While the sprite twittered on, hovering terribly close to his ear, Mordant bound the slavering boogarts with Art to the chamber. They would await his will here, until he had decided where best to use their unique skills. Then he climbed the stairs to the trapdoor that led to his chamber. The seal was worked with Shattered Art, and even the sharp-eyed Sive could not have located it in the slate floor of the study. Closing the secret entrance with another barked phrase, Mordant was somewhat disappointed to see Wyreck had followed, and had certainly not ceased with his list of Sive’s crimes. Mordant pulled the chair nearer to the blue flames of the fire, and dropped into it. Even an immortal sometimes grows tired.

Wyreck was reaching some sort of crescendo, however. “She is not, as you said my Lord, doing all your bidding.”

Mordant’s hands barely moved, and yet the truth could not be denied, he had fingers firmly wrapped about the sprite’s delicate ribs, which were on the point of cracking. Wyreck was now eyeball to eyeball with the merciless eyes of his captor. “She is mine—never doubt it.”

Mordant considered a moment, and then threw the sprite away in boredom. Even anger these days was an emotion he could not hold for long. The Between was leaching into his bones.

“Give me no more of this,” Mordant commanded softly, but with infinite malice, “Tell me instead of the rest of the realm.”

Wyreck, perhaps realizing how close he’d come to the edge, coughed uncomfortably. “Auberon has soaked himself in another round of frivolity with his latest strumpet, Moira, I think her name is.”

“I have no interest in how Auberon cares to spend his last days,” Mordant waved his hand dismissively, “Nor the names of his women. They will all share the same fate.”

Wyreck landed on the slate desk, and his eyes narrowed, “And what of Brigit my Lord? Is she of some interest to you?”

Mordant fingers clenched—that wizened Fey, sister to the loathed Anu. Her survival past that of her sibling was an error he’d long meant to correct. The dread passenger inside him twitched in fury, it remembered well enough. Anger rose like bile in the back of this throat.

Brigit still had power though, try as she might to hide it, and she needed to be watched. “What of her, Wyreck?”

“She has been seeking a vision from the Between, seeking the knowledge of where the malaise comes from.”

Mordant’s heart quickened; Brigit was the last Fey with enough knowledge and age to see such a thing. “The Great Seal?”

“She looked and was reassured.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he had been holding, “Then she knows nothing.”

Wyreck’s flinty wings closed with an audible snap, “Unfortunately she did not stop there. She tried to follow your lifeline my Lord, and was repelled.”

Mordant closed his eyes, and concentrated on the piece of the master that lay buried. Yes, it had thrust Brigit back, but by doing so Brigit had awakened his master more than was wise. “Meddling hag.” His nails cut like razors into his palms, and more precious blood trickled down across his wrists. “Brigit cannot be allowed to interfere—we are not yet ready. My creatures are not yet at full strength.”

“There is a way, “ Wyreck sidled closer to Mordant’s hands, now resting lifelessly on the desk. “She will seek a deeper Seeing, and to do that she will need a the fruit of the goddess. The death of one of the First will add to my lord’s power immeasurably.”

Mordant’s almost blue lips curved. Most dangerous of the Mother’s gifts, it would be the perfect way to rid himself of meddling Brigit, and gain strength as well. Cupping his hand, he dipped into the Shattered Art. Mordant was so enmeshed in this communion that he almost did not feel the gift appearing on his outstretched hand.

The fruit looked like any other Fey apple, round and perfect, smelling of all that was good and sweet, but where the immortal gift of the Mother led to greater Art and understanding, this fruit would lead Brigit down a completely different path.

When she found the apple waiting in her Hall, it would appear as a gift from the Mother of All, Anu’s bounty reborn. She believed so easily in signs and portents. Mordant could not think of a more fitting end to the troublesome crone. Kissing the fruit’s glossy skin, with a gleam in his eye he handed the ancient Fey’s doom to Wyreck. He was only sorry not to hear her tortured screams, or watch as her body was torn to a pulp.

Leaning forward Mordant smiled at the sprite. “Conceal and watch, dear one, and bring me news of her death.” His lips made a resounding smack, “Bring me all the details.”

***

Puck dawdled by the riverside. All about was noise and movement; the low whisperings of the river to itself, the waves of rustles that passed through willow and elm, but all of that faded in importance to the echo of laughter that lifted up to him. In his usual Fey form, sitting astride an overhanging willow branch, Puck was trying not to look at the two figures huddled together in a patch of golden sunlight just below.

After all there was nothing sinister about the dark heads, which might have been almost twins, pressed close to the book they both studied—nothing in appearance anyway. But Puck could see changes in Sive. She smiled differently these days, and it appeared that every time she read a little of the chill lifted around her. Puck knew he should have rejoiced, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his Sive was slipping away from him. Foolish Puck, he shook his head, She was never yours to begin with. Two circles of the seasons had passed with barely a murmur in the mortal realm. Summer to summer, and once again to summer, young Will had met Sive here by the riverside, all the while pretending his sole purpose was to aid a lady in distress, when any fool with eyes could see that the burgeoning man’s heart was being woven to hers.

The two of them had long ago finished that first book Sive had taken from Mordant. It, and all those that followed, had been nothing but works of science and mathematics, mostly written by those Greeks whom Puck had never been able to understand.

Pliny and Homer indeed, Puck’s face resolved into an unfamiliar frown. What could they know of the danger and fun of this world, they who reduced down to boring lines and angles? Many more interesting things could be found in any wood or stream.

At least now they had moved on to poetry and tale. The things Sive was learning were not Fey in the least; they were pure human thought.

With each passing mortal month there was more to see between Sive and the young Shakespeare. She rarely stayed long in Mordant’s hall now, dipping back only briefly to satisfy the requirements of the glamour he’d placed on her.

Puck shuddered, but could not avoid noticing the way that Will’s leg brushed against Sive’s, the way his face, now springing forth a manly beard, blushed when she looked at him. In White Cat form, Puck had followed the youth backwards and forward from Henley Street to the river—not wanting to, but having to.

No matter what Sive said, he cared about the young Shakespeare in a way that he’d never felt for a mortal. Puck had trafficked often with humans, but had never experienced the connection he felt with Will. It was not just the young man’s Fey blood, but his gentle strength and truly kind heart that had won Puck’s admiration. Oh Will had the usual raging fiery dreams about Sive, Puck might have been concerned had he not, but Will had never once pushed those boundaries between female and male, never gone beyond the reach of honor.

Poor Will. Poor blinded Will. Puck shook his head. He wanted to do something to reveal his cousin’s real intentions, but knew very well that he could not. Sive might laugh, and call him irresponsible, but for all that he knew as well as any other Fey that their time was running out. Mordant’s power had been able to halt the malaise, but had replaced it with something else. Grayness was stealing over the Fey. Hard to pinpoint, but the sense of his home was fading. This boy might well be all that they had.

Sive was certainly taking a great risk, though. By spending so much time in the human realm, she chanced drawing Mordant’s attention, and he was not known for evenness of temper. Whatever powers Will might grow into, they had not yet fully formed, and he was no match for Mordant yet.

Below Sive laughed at one of Will’s subtle jibes, and for a brief moment Puck forgot his torments. The dark fierce Fey he knew would never have laughed like that. Frowning he looped his legs over the branch and hanging down, focused on Sive. While she giggled like a young maid she had never been, he felt her barriers were down for the swiftest of moments. Puck darted his Art beneath, probing, seeking some reassurance for William.

Sive glanced up with eyes like thunderclouds. Art clashed on Art, and the weaker Fey was rocked back on his perch. Almost losing his grasp on the tree, his body nearly forgot shape and form. By the time Puck had recovered, Sive had her attention once more fixed on Will, a finger tracing the line of text they were studying.

But Puck had sensed something he had before only guessed. Whatever her protestations, Will was not the only one losing a heart in this spot by the river. It should have been an ill thing to Puck indeed, for Fey and human love was not something to be cherished—it was a razor’s edge, on which someone would certainly be cut.

In all of their history in this realm, in all of their stories of love between Fey and human, not one such affair had ended well. Far too many terrible occurrences waited for these two. Puck should have been at least a little jealous, because he had always been in love with Sive—but he was not, perhaps because he was also half in love with Will too.

It was all too much for his Fey heart, steeped in the ways of fun and frivolity, to bear—all these maudlin thoughts and prophesies of doom. With Sive at his side Will did not need one very worn out cat, and Puck had a sudden longing to inhale the warm air of the Fey. Forcing himself not to look back at the two seated below, Puck tugged aside the Veil between the realms and slipped away.

Much as he would have liked to walk the sunny hills of Auberon’s domain, such a move was not wise. Sive had told him how Auberon’s power had grown since his pact with Mordant, and even Puck was not game to test the ruler’s temper by showing his face. That little trick on Moira had certainly worked better than expected, for he had surely never known even Auberon to hold such a grudge.

So instead Puck chose to appear in the sweetly scented misty vales of evening, the place to which he had been banished. A cloud of dusky winged sprites sprang from some tall misty grass not far from where he had appeared. They must have been waiting. “Puck... Puck... Puck,” they twittered, in their voices like plucked lute strings, fluttering around and filling the air with the sound of their wings. “We missed you, we missed you! Trick, give us a trick.”

He smiled, “Well, it’s nice to know someone did.” Feeling a stab of something that might have almost been loneliness, he tried to shake it off. Sometimes the human realm did that, played oddly with emotions.

The evening was heavy over the hills though, and as the sprites crowded closer it enveloped Puck, wrapping him in further melancholy. He attempted to brush the sprites away, so as to hone in on the disturbance, but they swarmed closer, their wings and tiny bodies battering against him, like moths at a lit window. It wasn’t like they posed any danger, but he was oddly perturbed by their persistence. Sprites were never known for their strength of Art or will. Puck spluttered, and found that they had lost what little sense they had once possessed, as he caught a butterfly wing in the mouth. The sensation was entirely unpleasant.

Finally both concerned and annoyed, he employed a thrust of raw Art to clear the path. The sprites tumbled over and over, caught by the unseen winds, their tiny bodies seeming to drop limp. Horrified Puck reached out, and caught one frail body. Raising the sprite to eye level, he peered at it. It hung listlessly from his fingers; eyes that should have gleamed like uncut jewels were almost faded. It was still murmuring ‘Puck’ to itself even as it dangled there, the pale sexless body offering no resistance, and indeed hardly able to breathe.

A wave of fear washed through Puck. He had played with sprites as children, and they were energy personified, for even if you were quick enough to catch one, holding it was usually another story. They were the closest things to the Mother of All—so this change boded ill indeed. Tossing the sprite back to the air, he was at least glad to see it fly off.

Since his last visit things had got worse. Sive had mentioned the strange lethargy felt in Mordant’s hall. Puck had never been one for complicated thoughts or plans and schemes. In his world life was for living, not for endless hours of examination—he lived so totally in the now that the sudden realization that there might be very few nows left hurt almost physically.

With leaden feet, Puck found his way to the hall. About him the land whispered to itself, but was remarkably bereft of Fey life. Apparently Auberon had in a fit of magnanimity pardoned and recalled a great many of those banished, but still Puck sensed there were others in hidden halls that simply could not be bothered moving about.

“Mother of All,” Puck murmured, “What has happened here?” Apart from Auberon, he had always thought that most Fey found him at least amusing, for they certainly always gathered around him enough. Truthfully he wasn’t used to being alone, so that even a sharp curse from Birgit would be welcome after this.

Down the sod steps, which had once been springy underfoot but now positively squelched, Puck went. The scent of smoke was strong down here, and that could not be a good thing.

“Brigit?” No sound, his voice eerie and muffled in the gloom. The upper levels had not been lit, and the darkness was so complete that for a moment even his Fey eyes were baffled. Stubbing a toe on a stool lying in the corridor, he spat out an oath. “Damn it, old woman—what are you trying to do?”

But if Brigit heard she made no reply, and how could she fail to hear when all was so still? Neither was Puck blind to the waves of Art filtering up from beneath his feet.

He had nearly forgotten that Brigit was of the same blood as Sive. In all her time in the evening realm, she had barely lifted Art to anything apart from the odd halfhearted Seeing. Puck had not yet been born when the great works of Brigit and her sister had been completed. The thin candy glass dome of the Fey hall had always existed to him, and the forging of the Court, as an entity to be reckoned with, was just a tale he had listened to in infancy. His mother had been born after all such momentous events of the Fey were over, and her simple head was filled with nothing more than dandelion thoughts. The tales of the past were all she had given to him, before retreating to the wildness of their realm to play with the sprites. Hearing the stories however, was not like living them. To a creature of the now they had meant little. To Puck, Brigit had always been a haggled old woman, with knotty hair, and a nasty attitude. But the present pulses of Art reminded him sharply that Brigit had, in her time, only been surpassed by Anu in strength, and made him suspect she had been hiding the remains of it beneath an ancient form.

Puck stood undecided for a moment at the head of the last flight of stairs. This could be tricky. If she had chosen this moment to flex Art, he could be walking into a nasty, if not deadly, situation. Diplomacy was something that Puck had not had any experience with.

“Do what you do best—go where you’re not wanted,” he decided, and barreled down the stairs. Tucked almost cunningly behind his back, his hands did slowly shift into claws—just in case.

Puck had expected Brigit to be twining smoke, as she was wont to do while Seeing. It took him a moment to realize that she was in fact slumped in a chair against the far wall. In the hearth, an enormous fire was roaring, consuming huge amounts of living wood in a conflagration that denied all Fey reasoning. One only used a little of Mother’s gifts for a Seeing. Not only that, but the room was writhing with unleashed Art, given no form or direction by Brigit, ready to explode raw from the earth itself. Puck held his breath on reflex, for it was akin to a roomful of that dreadful gunpowder the humans had just discovered. Hurriedly he scampered to Brigit, but didn’t dare try and damp it down himself, Fey reflexes being pernicky things.

Coughing into a sleeve, Puck gently rolled Brigit over, and cradled her head in his lap. Her arm fell to the side, and the grass green apple that had been in her hand dropped to the floor, rolling away into the smoke. Puck watched it go, aghast. He’d seen only one before, but there was no mistaking the fruit of the goddess. The two round crescents bitten into this one could mean only one thing; Brigit had tried to use it to gain a better Seeing.

Puck looked down into the old, stubborn face. “You fool,” he whispered somewhat accusingly, but the gray lips did not move, and the eyes rolled back in the head and did not focus. Brigit’s shoulders under his hands shook, and Puck’s Art quivered too. It knew something was approaching. No, it was already here; Puck’s finger’s tightened their grip. Indeed something was feeding.

Brigit’s flesh shifted, becoming waves of energy, and he could almost hear the sound of tearing. This was now becoming far too much like a nightmare for his liking, but he dare not summon Sive to a room so full of Art; anything might happen.

Her mouth dropped open, and a thin vapor curled lazily out from deep within her throat, stinking of both chaos and fury. Whatever Brigit had found with Seeing, was not at all pleasant, and unless he could free her from it, she would be ripped apart. Puck, having no desire to return to Sive and explain the death of their aunt, swallowed the welling panic in his own throat.

A sound very like a roar rocked the tiny room, and Brigit snapped from his grip like a piece of lightning struck iron. The air blossomed red and purple. Puck dived for cover as the Art exploded around him.

Chapter 7: Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.

The soles of Puck’s feet were singed, even as he rolled for cover underneath Brigit’s upturned stool. Multicolored flashes danced on the inside of his eyelids, and the smell of his own burning hair was not exactly welcome either. The room was bubbling and swirling with power. It bounced off the walls, zinged along the floor, and methodically exploded every one of the potions and lotions Brigit had lined the shelves with. The taste of the power was hers. It was a primitive Fey reflex, Art merely reacting in defense, but in the process it had managed to burn her nephew’s eyebrows off.

Peeking over the stool now reduced almost to charcoal, Puck could see his aunt’s body shaking and near to buckling under the strain. While her Art might be strong enough to hold her attacker off, her body was only capable of taking so much punishment.

Puck was all she had, a fact that would have made Brigit laugh out loud. The Trickster was not made for reliability. How could he possibly help her? But then just as quickly the feeling of helplessness faded, and was replaced in turn by strength of purpose that would have profoundly shocked all that knew him. Unconsciously Puck’s spine straightened, and the usual wicked gleam in his eye became a determined one.

I have her blood, he reminded himself, I have the strength of Anu in me. But that still left a thorny question, what exactly he should be doing to help.

His nervous foot knocked against something round and hard. The innocuous seeming apple rolled from side to side, daring him to make a decision. Brigit might not be able to fight off her attacker by herself, but if he added his strength to hers...

Before Puck could find sanity again, he scooped up the apple, buffed it lightly against his charred sleeve, and then in one swift gesture took a bite. Only one, but it was enough.

The thick juice coated tongue and throat. He almost gagged on the rich flavor, so powerful it eclipsed all other senses. It boiled within Puck, swelling Art till his head pounded. The room expanded with color and magic.

Puck’s power was an essential part of his being, inextricably linked with his thoughts and character, so the effect of the juice was stunning. It separated and expanded his Art, until it felt no longer part of him. Now it was far more an angry and powerful serpent that writhed inside. Terrified of losing control, he plunged desperately after Brigit into the Between.

Puck had never been much of a walker of the ways; he had only skipped to the mortal realm in all his long life, and so the thundering chaos of the Between caught him unawares. The rolling misty paths of the Way of Worlds shredded thought, until he felt his body would break. Then the realization hit him—only his spirit trod the Between.

Somehow, Puck the Trickster was without his body. He tried not to panic, tried to remind himself that this was probably the best way, but he couldn’t help it—he felt naked. His body was the best protection—his spirit couldn’t possibly be up to this.

Right then and there, he probably would have turned tail and run, had he not see her. Not far ahead in the swirling Between, Brigit struggled with something. Her spirit, as lovely and young as her body had once been, was bent double and overshadowed by her attacker. Thick, powerful tentacles had wrapped themselves about his aunt’s spirit form; in fact they were partly buried into her. The horrific sound of something tearing filled Puck’s ears. Whatever it was, it was feeding on her; he could almost see it grow in size with each heartbeat—soon there would be nothing left of Anu’s sister.

Some part of the Trickster found courage and spurred his spirit form towards the combatants. He did not, he dare not, look at the creature, it hurt him to even be near it, but he latched onto Brigit, and tugged mightily to free her. A great rumble shook the silver mists, but Puck also felt his aunt’s strength meld with his.

The union of blood and unspoken love breached the final bounds the attacker had placed on her. A terrible shudder ran along his arms, and then both were snapped clear of the Between, like falling into a bright well of pain.

Puck opened his physical eyes, very glad to smell the smoke and feel the chill of the room. Brigit’s head moved on his knee, and he brushed back a silver curl. “It’s all right, old girl.”

But it wasn’t, something in him knew immediately. The eyes looking up at him were misted with death, and her clutch on his fingers very cold. How pale and set her features were, the appearance of deeply wrinkled cloth. How heavy her head felt on his knee. Puck’s tears fell on her parched lips as she strained to say something, but through the link that still lingered between them he knew—the creature had burrowed into her spirit, taken what it needed, and now death was only a moment behind.

Brigit’s final thought reached him. The Last Breath must be taken.

Anu had died far from kin, and all that she had known and been was lost to them. Brigit would not have the same said of her. Cupping her head, Puck stared down into the eyes that had seen the dawn of Fey, and loved and cared more than was safe. He didn’t feel worthy of her Last Breath—it should be Sive’s.

Brigit’s head shook slowly, a graceful little smile curving near-blue lips, denying his feelings of unworthiness. And she Breathed her Last into the world.

Puck had no time to think, or be rational, for he could not let all that Brigit was be in vain. The tearful nephew dipped his head and inhaled, drawing all that Brigit the Blessed had been into himself. The first-born Fey exploded in his head, and both knew no more.

***

In the King of Fey’s hall, they felt it. Auberon was dancing close to Moira, holding her in his arms, enjoying the restored power that flowed through his veins, and the heady aroma of his beloved. Perhaps he would summon the Fey steeds, and the entire court would tread the clouds to celebrate their renewed vigor, and then later his lady would wrap her impossibly long hair about him, and make him smile. A heady atmosphere of anticipation had him, and Moira’s copper curls smelt sweetly of honeysuckle. The day was as perfect as any he could remember, a golden echo of former times.

And then the earth sobbed. The court screamed in alarm, and the Hall echoed with the musical shattering of hundreds of crystal glasses dropping at elegant feet. Fey landed heavily against each other, in a storm of exquisite jewelry and ripped clothing. The Hall bucked, becoming an alien, horrifying place to those not used to change. Auberon and Moira fell against the wall as the ground continued its dance, rolling and shuddering under their feet, and then all was silence.

The court lay still for a moment, all pale faces and wide eyes at what had just happened; fear had dried their throats and stilled their laughter.

Auberon helped the disheveled Moira to her feet.

“What was it, sire?” she whispered, perhaps afraid to wake the earth to anger again, her faith in their all—powerful lord obviously fled.

The King did not answer, cocking his head and listening to the whispers that the realm was making. Masking the dry startled sobs now coming from the Court, he heard the faintest of sounds that had the greatest implication, the gentle hiss of rain amongst the green grass, in the eternal realm of summer. Frightened, the court followed him out of the gilded hall, and stood looking up in astonishment at the now gray sky. Never before had there been anything but sun and the odd misty cloud, but now the horizon was filled with darkness, and the rain began to beat harder and faster down on them.

The beautiful Moira pressed closer to the King, perfect crown of hair now plastered against her head, while her body shook with fear. “What does it mean?”

Auberon felt a terrible, leaden certainty settle about his heart. “The Mother weeps for her child. One of the First Born has gone.” And in that instant, Auberon knew true fear and dismay. The world had abruptly changed.

Brigit the Blessed was born in the golden dawn of worlds, when the Mother of All was only a breath away, and all was clean and new. The sound of birds made her laugh, and the whisper of trees made her dance in their shade in those simpler times—before the coming of the Unmaker.

Brigit raised a hand, and brushed the glorious curtain of her auburn hair from her eyes. Anu, beloved sister, was sitting close, white arms wrapped around her knees, keen violet eyes watching the clouds on the horizon dance and burn. She laughed at Brigit’s hair. “Little one, why do you never listen to me?” She picked a bunch of curling white daisies from the grass, and in barely a moment had woven her sister a crown. “Now that,” she said with evident satisfaction, “Suits you.”

Brigit smiled, but as usual said little in the queen’s presence. She had always been the silver moon to Anu’s blazing glory, but it was something she never envied. A complete, total love for her sister had marked her entire life; it made her feel warm and complete.

The two siblings shared this little time together, a gift they had given themselves now that their greatest undertaking was done. The Great Seal was made, and the First Born could feel satisfaction that two realms at least were safe. They had lost much of their innocence to the battle, but at least others would be born and not know fear as they had.

Brigit recalled the beauty of that now Shattered Realm, the creatures who had lived there, and the cool beauty of its own sunsets. Perhaps it was that beauty which had drawn the ire of the Unmaker, the great opposite to the Mother of All. He had found her realms in the Between, and taken the first of them for his own. If Anu and her warriors had not succeeded in separating the realms, and locking away the Unmaker...

Brigit shuddered, and closed her eyes. All would be broken now, and not just one.

Anu leaned across and clasped her warm hands around her sister’s icy ones. “He did not succeed, little one, today we celebrate.” Her voice was light and strong, but Brigit felt the tightened place where skin had burned.

Anu’s face went white, as she felt the brush of her sister’s thoughts. She rose to her feet, and turned to the sunrise. A cloud of singing sprites crowded around her, never touching, but filling the air with adoration. Anu smiled, and with a flick of her Art blessed them with a fragment of her golden light. It was a tiny demonstration of her power; Brigit had seen her draw on the surface of the two worlds, and had write dread spells into the very fabric of their earth.

“Do you remember, little one,” Anu asked very softly, “When we first saw humanity?”

Brigit knew where this was leading. She went to stand next to her, and taking her hand found it was now her sister’s hands that were chill. “Indeed, we laughed at their foolishness, and lack of Art.”

“Yes—but perhaps we were the fools, not they. They may have no Art, but they have their own power. Without them, the Unmaker would have won.”

It was true, but Brigit wished somehow that they had been able to succeed without them. Her sister had grown strange from her visits in the realm, and was not what she had once been. The smallest distance had grown between them as well, since Anu had taken her human lover.

“Little Brigit,” she whispered, “It is not his fault, but mine.” As always their thoughts were too close to hide.

Brigit dropped her head, and tried to hide her darkest thoughts. It was how they had won over the Unmaker; children of Fey and human, with wild talents and unpredictable gifts had helped make the Great Seal. However that didn’t mean that Brigit thought it was something fit for her sister. She cast a surreptitious look at Anu’s still hidden belly.

“I knew what I was doing, little one. This child will be the last of her kind,” a silver tear ran gently down one cheek, “But I do not regret it.”

Brigit felt loss too. What could be left for them all now? After such an achievement, what could possibly match it? Would all the rest of the world fade to a sensual dance with nothing to challenge their might?

She reached out and brushed away the tear. “Do not cry. I will always be here and your daughter will even never know of the Shattered. We have made it safe.”

It was Anu’s choice; the First would never speak of the Shattered Realm. The Fey would in time grow bored, and their endless curiosity would need to be sated; if they knew of such a place, sooner or later one would try to see what lay beyond the Seal.

“Do you promise?” Anu asked softly. Brigit looked into eyes that had spanned worlds, and loved as rashly as any human. “I promise,” she murmured, though they needed no words. She kissed Anu’s fingertips, and smiled. “I leave you two alone; I must also commune with the Mother.”

Anu kissed her on the forehead, her hand resting on her stomach. “I understand, dear heart. I will see you soon for the ceremony.”

Brigit’s feet found their own way through the mist-hung meadow and into the trees. Walking the scented forest trail, Brigit touched the smooth, silver bark of the trees, and caught wind-blown flowers on her upraised palm. She felt as complete as she had that first day when she stepped from the Mother’s womb. Her perfect brow furrowed, something worming in the back of her mind, Silver light? Why was that important? Down to the little dip of water hidden in the trees her bare feet led her, where sprites sang to themselves and spun patterns only they knew the meaning of in the air above the lake. Burying her bare feet in the cool loam at the water’s edge, Brigit stared down at her own reflection. The iris-less eyes of the First Born had changed, becoming a brighter version of the human. She hadn’t understood why, but now she wondered if it was the bridges they had built with the men of that world. Near human eyes watched her own fingers trail along the ice white skin of her cheek, and she wondered what Anu’s child would be like.

The thought rolled through her, a wave of fear and understanding. Brigit looked once more into her reflection, seeing something far different.

This is Not, she whispered into the past that had her trapped, This is memory. What a sweet memory though, a time when the Fey had been at their most golden. What would be the harm in sinking into memory?

Brigit’s immortal eyes looked past and into Puck’s. You are needed, lad.

He didn’t want to go—didn’t want to be separated, but even in the unreachable past, she had a power he didn’t.

The tearing sensation was bitter indeed, but reality beckoned, the dream was shattered. So instead, he took the knowledge she had given.

Puck’s first breath was all his own, and he coughed it violently into the malevolent face of Wyreck. For a long moment the sprite and the Trickster stared at each other, both too shocked to move. Puck’s limbs were not yet his own to command again, and as much as he wanted to squish Wyreck against his chest, he couldn’t. The sprite must have realized that at the same time he did, for a truly dark smile spread his narrow lips.

“This is a first,” he waved his tiny, sharp sword near the tip of Puck’s nose. “The Trickster at a loss for words. I must make the most of it.” Turning his head he glanced disparagingly at Brigit’s gray remains. “She wasn’t much of a fighter after all—weak like all the rest of you.”

The wicked sword sketched the air before Puck’s eyeballs, and he didn’t need to be told that the tip was poisoned—he could smell it. “What did she tell you?” Wyreck demanded his face screwed up with menace and delight, “What was in her Last Breath?”

Control of his body appeared to be returning, and already Puck’s mouth was his own again. “A hundred ways to roast sprites—even little bitter ones like you.”

Puck could feel his body returning. The sprite and he shared another look. Understanding flashed across Wyreck’s face a moment ahead of death. The Trickster moved like lighting, but the sprite moved faster, making for the door like a fire—scorched bee.

“Go on, run,” Puck yelled after him, “And tell your master to run too!”

He was full of a heady mix of grief and power, but it drained quickly. Kneeling slowly next to Brigit, he straightened limbs that death had left its mark on. He could find no tears, though there was grief aplenty. His aunt was gone, and unlike humanity, the Fey had no surety of any afterlife. All they had was the Last Breath, and the hope that a small portion of their existence went on.

Puck could already feel her flesh evaporating into the air. Fey were not creatures of the earth like mortals, they were sunlight and Mother’s Breath, and with the loss of Brigit’s spirit, their goddess was reclaiming what was hers. In the way of his people, Puck turned and left her there, knowing there would be nothing remaining when he returned.

Or perhaps more precisely—if he returned. No one was there to dissuade him, so he left the Hall, and turned his face towards Mordant’s. Just how much of himself Puck had lost by taking Brigit’s Breath, he could not say, but a dreadful fear was burning in him. Only he should know of the Great Seal, but a certainty had crept up that Mordant too shared the secret. Just what lay beyond that perfect Fey mask Puck had to know, and some answers had to be within his unnatural Hall. Sive did not have the knowledge Puck now possessed, and armed with it perhaps he could find something that had eluded her. For although Sive thought she had a devious mind, her cousin was the master of trickery.

His nerve almost failed him at the door to the hideous colossus. The evening had given way to an unfriendly darkness once he passed to the far side of the mist, and there was an eerie wail in the wind that did nothing for confidence. But then he remembered the still form of his aunt, and on the wings of that outrage, found himself within. Still, he walked on tiptoes through the silent corridors, peering around corners, every moment expecting Mordant to appear.

The need for haste drove Puck on, and he began to poke about in dusty chests and clamber up tall shelves. He found ample evidence that Mordant was no housekeeper, and even more that his taste in ornaments bordered on the macabre, but nothing that hinted at any connection with the Great Seal.

He stumbled into what must be Sive’s rooms purely by accident, and if he did linger overly long in the sweeter smelling air there, and maybe rifle through the odd cupboard of her pretties, what of it? Nevertheless, he made sure that everything was put back as he’d found it.

Closing the door of Sive’s chamber slowly, he went on to the end of the corridor where a dark set of stairs leading down beckoned. The silent corridor oozed unfriendliness, but Puck was more than used to that, and there was an intriguing smell of something ahead. While he sorted through the memories Brigit had left him, he reached the ironbound door at the end of the corridor.

“Iron?” he whispered, “How very impolite.”

The room beyond was remarkable only for the books and the slate desk. This must be where Sive had found the books she tempted Will with, but she had never mentioned the smell. Puck’s sharp little nose wrinkled, and his foot tapped nervously on the stone floor as he tried to work out its source.

On hands and knees, he shifted into a stout little terrier he had once seen ratting in Will’s uncle’s barn. The odor intensified twentyfold, and now Brigit’s memories told him what it was; the chaos of the deeper realms in the Between left their mark on those who went there. The icy tang was unmistakable.

Returning to his favored form, Puck stood at the exact spot where the scent was strongest, and peered at the floor; that did nothing. Repeated jumping on said spot had no effect either. Mordant would not have relied on mortal tricks.

“How typical,” Puck shook his head in dismay, but sent forth his Art. It wrestled unsuccessfully for a moment with the tendril of power holding the trap door shut, and then with a snap broke it. Not exactly the effect Puck was hoping for, least of all if he wanted his visit to remain a secret.

“Oh well, too late now.” His childish fingers lifted the heavy slate slab up from the floor. Despite his recent grief, Puck couldn’t help but be intrigued. Secret doors were a human invention, and barely needed in the Fey.

“I wonder what Mordant is hiding.” Dropping to his knees, he stuck his head into the space below.

The razor—toothed boogart waiting at the top of the stairs almost took it off for him. Puck rolled backwards, even before registering the yellow eyes and the slobbering jaws, and his attacker ended up with only a mouthful of silver hair. He did get a glimpse of many other equally equipped large boogarts waiting just behind their companion, eager for their chance at a piece of Puck. He swiftly dropped the slab back into place. Sitting on top of the bouncing trap door, working feverishly to secure another Artful lock on it, he could only muse on the need to be more careful where he stuck his head next time.

Barely had Puck secured the lock before his ruminations were cut short. Forced to eat slate, he felt the path of something hot pass over the top of his back, and more hair was sacrificed. It really was the day for it. Wyreck had returned, and obviously found something better to play with than merely a poisoned sword.

Crouched in the corner of the room like some vile little bird, the sprite had a ruby bright sphere in his hands, and was positively beaming with delight. The ball swirled with malice, and Puck was left in no doubt about what had almost burnt the remaining hair off his head.

“You really shouldn’t play with your master’s toys,” he admonished Wyreck, and then rolled for cover as another blast of lava-strength fire shot at him.

Wyreck was laughing too much to muster any witty repartee, but was more than happy to make up for it with a few more blasts from the sphere.

Puck slipped to cat form, and scurried as fast as possible out of the door, belting back up the corridor—he had no desire to find out what burnt fur smelt like. Having made it to the next floor, the sprite not far behind, Puck made a dive for Sive’s room. Hopefully Wyreck would not dare fire in here, where his precious master’s house would almost certainly burn.

Wyreck was not put off, instead using his Art to crash pottery and hurl chairs at Puck’s lithe form. Puck scrambled under the bed, a heavy stone pedestal grazing his tender tail, while its mate narrowly missed his head. An ill-advised blast of fire made Sive’s rack of flimsy finery into a Viking pyre, and Puck knew that he had to end it quickly.

Lurching upright in his proper form from the other side of the bed, Puck threw a nearby stool at the giggling sprite with all his might. Unfortunately for Wyreck, Puck had no idea of his own strength. The heavy stone stool smashed directly into the dark winged form, and then continued on to smack against the far wall. A sickening crunch followed that made even Puck wince in sympathy, and there was a muted pop as the fireball imploded. The stool dropped to the floor with a resounding thump, and no sound of spritish wings followed.

Puck peered through his fingers, afraid of what he might see, but apart from the dark stain on the wall and the smell of crisped wings, it wasn’t too bad.

An uncertain silence followed, in which the Fey found himself slowly smiling. True he had just ruined his cousin’s bedroom wall with a rather sooty smear, but it wasn’t all bad—Wyreck was dead.

Suddenly there was a little piece of sunshine in this terrible day. Oh certainly, there would have to be a reckoning with Mordant, and it might not be one he could walk away from, but his aunt was avenged. For once it would be better to have things out in the open. Puck could almost visualize Mordant’s anger, but he quelled the urge to rub the smear off the wall.

“You know,” he chuckled to no one in particular, “That was probably worth it.” Now if he could just explain to Sive the loss of her dresses, he might survive all of this.

Sive watched Will leave, even if it made her heart race more than it should. It was funny really, how his eyes now and then dipped almost shamefully back to where she sat beneath the willow. Smiling despite herself she gave him a small wave of farewell, but wished that mortal time did not have to pass so quickly.

Will was nearly a man now, teetering on the edge of change, and she didn’t know if she should try to hold him back, or press him forward into it. Perhaps she understood a little of what Brigit had meant, for Will certainly had the uncrushed beauty of youth.

Sive the Shining sighed with what might have been regret. Just as she had never felt the weight of age, she would also never know the giddy heights of youth. Will was putting his foot on a path she did not know and could not follow him down. But down that road, he would find his Art, and his power. The irony of it was not unobserved.

Trying to think of something more positive, Sive reminded herself that his Art was already blossoming. On her lap lay several sheaves of paper, thick with densely written words. Once they would have been incomprehensible, but now, thanks to William, their secrets were laid bare. The near-man’s work was even more important, and more rare than anything that foul Mordant had in his dim library. These few scraps that nestled on her lap were the beginning of a young Bardic power she could feel seething just below the surface. Sometimes when they sat close together, she could almost feel its heat.

William had been hesitant at first to show her his work, afraid of rejection—but she had coaxed him with not infrequent smiles and sporadic gifts of paper. Today he had surprised her with not one, but five new poems.

His scarlet look and averted eyes told her what was obvious—they were about her. They were the expected odes to her beauty and fire, somewhat mawkish in their tone, a little naiveté that would be lost soon enough—but there was more there too. A rugged, creative power tingled at the very edge of her Art sense, and excited her with its possibilities.

Sive tried to look on these developments were stern disinterest—trying not to get thrilled by the hopes they sparked. The idea that Brigit had been right had ceased to annoy, some while back.

Eagerly scanning the poems there is no mistaking it—there was something deeper in them. Sive’s fingers trailed across the paper, trying to feel the Art contained within—but it was beyond her. She could sense it, but not identify it, or what it would do. Power enough lay within young Will, simmering in this realm; none could tell what it would be like in the Fey. A bard had to have many things: the voice of his people, the sensitivity to read others’ emotions, and most importantly the ability to see right to the heart of life.

The Fey had only produced one true Bard in their time, a sad, lonely creature that had eventually been consumed by his own melancholy and shaken off his immortality. Even his great music had not been able to save the mortal woman he loved from death’s embrace, and he had followed soon after. Even fickle humanity still recalled his name, but his tale was a warning to all other Fey.

No, the Bardic gift was far more suited to the human condition, and yet even there it was rare. William was a gift not only to the Fey, but the humans as well.

“Soon,” she murmured, “Soon you will come to your ancestral home, and discover your True power. The time is very near.”

Sive tucked the bundle of papers into her belt, arose from the grasses, and brushed herself off. When they next met, she abruptly decided, she would reveal the Fey to him, and he could begin to become useful.

Will was a good-hearted young man, and he would want to help her. That was not the only reason; she wasn’t foolish enough to have relied on mere friendship to bind him.

In the two mortal years that they had met, he had changed, become a man. Tall and broad-chested, with a smile always at the ready, he had the easy manner that would win him friends in any realm—indeed he had worked a perplexing magic on Puck. Watching Will covertly she had noted how well he was received in Stratford, how he had a word for even the smallest, how animals were drawn to him. William exuded a subtle power on all around him, and that boundless energy would have to be tapped soon, or else she risked losing it to a human woman. Sive knew such things could easily happen.

“Not if I have anything to do with it, “ she whispered to Bayel, who was nuzzling at her, “And who could ever compare with the Fey.” The horse had no answer for that. Slapping the shaggy neck fondly, she caught up her skirts, and leapt to his back. “We best return in case Mordant is about. We’ve been lucky so far.” The stallion snorted, and jogged sideways; even the mention of the dark Fey was enough to upset his nerves. The Veil parted with barely a sigh, admitting her home.

Sive dismissed the saddle and bridle from the stallion and Bayel, as usual, kicked up his heels to be free of the silly trappings. If only her own bondage was as easy to set aside.

Sive stood for a moment, rather forlornly watching him gallop away down the hill to graze in the sweet grass. He never stayed within sight of Mordant’s hall, nor could she blame him. Given the opportunity, she too would be running down the slope, never looking back.

The hall of her husband was a sullen presence against Sive’s back, and she was unwilling to face it. Macha dropped from the sky to roost on her shoulder, and while those talons still hurt, the raven’s gentle thoughts gave her mistress some ease.

I am here, the raven murmured against her mind. We are together—never alone. Fey creatures had few words, but the images of strength and love were stronger than any voice could give. Not for the first time, Sive gave thanks to the Mother that she had seen fit to send Macha.

Touching the raven’s chest, she straightened her shoulders against whatever might come.

Her usual tormenter appeared to have missed her arrival. Could the evil sprite have found someone else to torture?

Cautiously, Sive pressed the front door open, her whole body braced for a fight, and then stopped in shock. From down the hall came the unexpected sound of weeping. What could possibly make Wyreck cry? But more outrageously the noise was coming from her chambers. The idea that the sprite had the audacity to enter that personal domain bought her in long strides down the hall, all trepidation forgotten.

Sive burst into the room, expecting any kind of violation to be taking place. Chairs and tables were overturned in every direction, dark wine had been spilled, inching its way across the floor, but in the midst of it all Puck sat cross-legged, his face hidden in his hands. It was her cousin that was crying.

Sive touched his shoulder, concern outweighing her stymied anger. But when he looked up, he was chuckling rather than sobbing.

“Oh dearest, “ he clutched her hand, “I’m extremely sorry about the mess—but it wasn’t all my fault.”

Looking around for Puck’s accomplice, Sive gave a groan of disbelief. The dark, vaguely human shaped smear and crushed wings on the wall by the door could be only one thing—all that remained of Wyreck.

“Puck, you fool,” she spun on her still grinning cousin, “ It’s not like I haven’t thought of the same thing—but really!”

The smile faded as something dark passed across his face, “Sive, I think you...”

“I mean, do you honestly think Mordant won’t notice Wyreck’s missing?” Her foot caught in a pile of strangely singed clothing, and she flicked it away impatiently.

“Brigit’s dead,” Puck broke in before she could draw another breath.

It took a long immortal heartbeat for that to sink in, but when it did Sive felt herself washed clean of smaller concerns. All sensation ceased, except for the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Now she understood mortal pain, now she knew real fear. The last of the First Born was gone, and there was none left who had seen the dawn of worlds.

“Oh Puck.” Her hand opened palm upward on the bed where she had dropped almost unconsciously. He took it, pressing his warmth into her sudden coldness.

“There’s more,” fingers clenched on hers, “Much more. I took her Last Breath, I saw...”

“Wait,” Sive’s eyes glassy with tears sprung open, and her body held deathly still. Puck had not heard it, but she was used to the sounds and nature of Mordant’s Hall. The slight shift of attention, the little creaks it gave signaled one thing—its master had returned.

A dagger of concern for her kin went through her; after all only he and Auberon remained. Picking Puck up by the shoulders, Sive clasped him briefly to her, and then stopped his questions with one hand to the lips.

“Mordant returns,” she hissed. “There is no time for this. Go back to Will and wait for me there. I will come when I can... if I can...”

Thankfully her cousin did not argue—he must have seen fear, and felt the atmosphere of the hall. On the other side of her hand Puck’s mouth pursed in a faint kiss, but Sive pulled him close to her so they were for a second eye to eye, so he could see that she was deadly serious and meant every word. “Look after Will, Puck—promise on your life. No matter what.”

“Of course,” he said, but there was no time for any more. Parting the Veil, Sive thrust him mercilessly into the human realm. At least there he would have a measure of protection from what could well follow, and Will might live. Mother let it be so! Still, with Puck gone she was now truly alone.

Brigit, my mother-sister, my kin gone? Strange how thoughts were unable to find any purchase knowing that her aunt was no more, but there were things to do. If any portion of the world that Brigit had loved was to survive, then only her niece could save them. I will not fail you, Sive promised.

Her Art moved to her command, smoothing Wyreck’s remains from the wall and returning the room to its former state. In a moment, the whole incident might never have happened. She briefly considered casting a glamour of the sprite to smooth things over, but Mordant’s Art surpassed hers. Once that would have enraged, but now on the other side of Brigit’s death, it was just another fact of her new life.

The Hall was rousing, stirring awake to the presence of its master, and nor was it the only one to feel the change. The glamour he had worked on Sive had once more sprung to life; heart was beating faster, skin aching for his repulsive touch. All of his possessions knew that their owner was returning.

Sive’s hand rested on the slick dark wall, its tremble traveling up her arm, and settling in a dread knot about her heart. He’d killed Brigit, she reminded herself, logical brain struggling against physical glamour. The vague erotic tendrils scuttled ahead of him down the corridor to tickle her defenses. Sive braced herself, easing from the chair in which she had waited. Surely now she would find out if she was worthy to call herself Anu’s daughter.

Sive plastered a half smile on, and waited to for her enemy to come.

Chapter 8: All this the world well knows; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

The time had come. Planning and drawing on his resources, Mordant was almost ready to let the dark light within shine forth. Inside, he could feel his master’s touch readying him for action.

“Soon,” he whispered reassurance, “You’ve waited long enough to be free... soon.”

The Unmaker replied with a flash of remembrance.

It was an easy thing to be lost in the Between; the mists and paths were elusive, never remaining the same. Many times Mordant wanted to turn back and return to the Fey, but the memory of Sive pushed him on. She would perhaps marry him if he returned with a cure for the malaise.

The mists were chill, and even his Art could not keep that out. He stopped to clear ice crystals from his eyes and rub his hands together, as humans did. In that moment of distraction the path he had been following withered away. The biting winds of the Between leapt up around him, demanding entry into his very bones.

Mordant cast about, looking for any sign of a path, or a direction. But there was none, and he could feel his Art diminish—too long had he been gone from the Fey.

“Too long indeed.” A figure emerged from the clouds, tall and dark, a stark contrast to the white of the Between.

Mordant tried to see beyond the shadows, but he could make out no face or sex. What creature could live in this place?

“A creature with the answers,” the reply came softly, and now he could feel a fingering touch in his mind, gentle like his own mother’s. “Why do you come?”

“The malaise, a sickness in my people, we thought there might be a cure here.”

“I see,” the figure stepped closer. “And if there was a cure, but there was a price to pay, would you pay it?”

Despite the calm the creature radiated, Mordant felt a flicker of alarm. Glancing back over his shoulder he realized that there was really nowhere to run. He swallowed his panic as best he could, “Who are you?”

“A child of the Between, a maker of myth.”

He took a step back, regardless of there being no path. “That is ridiculous, the Mother of All is the only child of the Between. Every Fey knows that.”

The figure grew taller, so tall that the mists seemed to dwindle. Mordant tried to pull his eyes away, but they would not obey. It was closer, and it made the chill of the Between seem like a summer’s day—this froze him to the very core. “She hasn’t all the answers—not at all. I am the malaise; the only cure is within me. Do you have the courage to save all you are?”

His blue lips moved. “Yes.”

Now all there was darkness, he couldn’t even remember what Sive’s face looked like. Hope dwindled and was gone.

The Unmaker laughed at his courage, and tore away his resolve, until he was but a shell. He hollowed Mordant, drawing away all his emotions and thoughts, until there was room.

“And now I fill you,” it hissed with delight. The dark light of the

Unmaker poured into him, and agony was all he knew after. ��

The taste of recalled horror was a goad, a recollection of the Unmaker’s power. It told him that he had offered himself to it, and all that passed after was his fault.

“I wanted it this way,” Mordant said calmly to the piece of the power within him. “I don’t regret it.”

And there was much to do. As the Veil fell behind him, closing off the swirling Between, Mordant sampled the Fey. Boiling under the excitement of the Hall was the endless hunger of the caged boogarts, and layered over that was the sweet fear of Sive. Mordant’s lips twitched. Yes, his wife had certainly learnt the appropriate response to her husband.

Stripping off the delicate black gloves he had taken to wearing recently, he searched for the bitter resonance that was Wyreck—and found none. A frown darkened his brow, as probing deeper he felt the violence recently past. Blood had been spilt, and Wyreck was dead. No wonder Sive was awaiting him with more than a touch of trepidation.

Mordant stood very still and listened to his master, trying to hear its thoughts, understand what it wanted, but it was a boiling mass of hatred that could not be comprehended by anything—except itself.

Walking down the corridor, and up into the first floor, he knew full well as he passed his wife’s chamber that Wyreck’s Last Breath had been there. Once Wyreck’s death should have cut deeply, once he might have even cared that Last Breath had been lost, but all such weaknesses had been swept away.

Now there was only Sive, and the cool horror of the Shattered Realm. He had only room for one concern; he had to keep control of Sive. He would not tolerate being beaten by her.

The piece of the Unmaker within Mordant went suddenly still, and the Fey was transfixed, sure its eyes were upon him.

Yes, it whispered without words into him. There is a way. Let me show you.

Its desires coiled around Mordant, and when he finally went into the hearth-room where Sive waited, he knew exactly what to do.

Mordant deliberately let his tall form block what little sunlight scuttled into the drear hall, and heard with satisfaction Sive’s breathing hissed over her eeth. The pretence of calm that she had wrapped around herself was paper thin, easily broken by his slightest move.

Mordant’s bright eyes rested on his wife, while long pale fingers toyed with the hilt of his sword. “Dearest Sive,” his voice was flat and possessive, as he beckoned her to him, “Your welcoming kiss is all I need to set an end to this tiresome day.” How nice it was to see hope rise in her eyes, hope that he did not know.

He let his eyes travel possessively down Sive’s body, and the glamour he had cast on her began its work. The smell of his day’s work was on him, the foulness that lurked in the Between. That was the best part to him, that her brain would still be sickened even as her body responded.

Sive’s thoughts were obvious; the desire to take his mind from Wyreck, the ways she considered how to do that, and over it all, the burning desire to know what he had been doing. The stench that had followed in his wake and the flat look in his eye made her shudder, but the glamour had turned it into one of desire.

“Dear wife, you really should not keep things from me,” Mordant watched his words hit home. Turning and strolling almost thoughtfully around the room, he waited for her to speak, but well aware she could not, knowing full well every breath lodged in her throat. “There should be no secrets between us.” Reminding a wife of her place never did any harm.

Regaining some composure, Sive smiled. “And there are none, Mordant.”

His master whispered softly, and in the silence it reminded him what had to be done.

Mordant’s Art clenched like a mighty fist, driving the candles atop the nearby table to spluttering death, and knocking the shocked Sive against the wall. Even he gasped in the teeth of the Unmaker’s power. Impossible to imagine, but this was only a fraction it would have when their work was done.

His wife rolled to her feet, already clothed in her silver armor. That hopeless gesture made Mordant roar with laughter. Seeing Sive like that, though, pressed against his Art; eyes alive with hatred and anger, she looked very like her mother, and for an instant he was sorry. Once her spirit had been stripped from her, she would obey him. This burning spirit would be crushed as easily as the candle flame. How sad.

The master wailed and lashed him for his incompetence, but it was too late. In that moment of regret, Sive had taken her chance. Comprehending her fate gave her unexpected and desperate strength. His Art, powerful as it was, moved as slowly as his body, and she slipped past him into empty air. The guardian howled in frustration, as without a thought Sive threw herself into the random grasp of the Between.

***

Will was finding it very hard to compose odes to Sive’s beauty over the festering whittawering tub. Even if he closed his eyes and imagined her dark, beautiful form, the foul stench got inside his head, chasing off the image before it had time to settle into poetry.

Tucked inside one pocket was his latest creation for her. Even to his too critical eye, it felt almost ready to be presented, but his stomach knotted at how it might look to her. Would she laugh and call him a foolish boy? Would she throw it in his face and summon that as yet unseen husband to defend her honor?

And just as mysterious was Will’s own reaction to any of these. His love had yet to find any sort of reality, and being his first he had nothing to judge it by. His first and last, he reminded himself—after all, what woman could compare with the violet-eyed Sive? He sighed into the stench of the tub, for a heartbeat transported.

Surely his love would be able to see the craft and love that he had put into those fourteen lines. Maybe she would look up from the paper with a reflection of it in those wonderful eyes. Will had already decided that if and when that happened he would move to her and...

“William, for pity’s sake, watch what you are doing!” Father’s strong hand wrenched the delicate lambskin out of the solution in front of Will, and spun him clear from reverie. The older man looked with exasperation at his eldest son. “A trifle longer and you would have ruined it, boy! Do you think this family can afford to have you wrecking valuable stock? Do you?”

Will winced, knowing all too well that they could not. The family fortunes had taken another terrifying plunge downhill this past summer. The shame of causing more worry to his father was not something he wanted to bear.

Will quickly doused the frail piece of leather in water, cleaning it of the brew that both stripped it white and threatened its destruction.

John Shakespeare watched with a weary eye, and sighed—perhaps recalling his own far too brief youth. The summer day was long and hot, and there was little chance of William’s labor saving their fortunes this afternoon.

“Go on,” he waved a hand in surrender, “Get yourself from beneath my feet—Gilbert can finish your work.”

Managing to conceal his grin of relief, Will whispered apologies to his already overburdened brother as he passed him in the yard. Gil held no grudge; it was not in his sweet nature to grumble.

“Better let me finish, Will, or we’ll both be for it,” a quiet whisper under his breath. A certain understanding had grown between the brothers, so different in their nature, but close in their hearts. Gil’s shy smile was almost hidden beneath his ducked head, and tousled mouse-brown hair. He knew his brother very well, and still managed to love him.

Knowing he should feel at least guilty, Will called his thanks to Gil over his shoulder, fingers already wrapped tightly around the secret poem in his pocket.

So Will escaped, but as always pondered how odd it was that father had banished him just when he needed to get away to see Sive. If it weren’t for the state of their finances he might have suspected she had paid to have it that way. But then if the word ‘magic’ had not been so lacking in his life, he might have used it as well.

Pausing only to splash some water on himself and change clothes in an attempt to banish the smell of the whittawering, he dashed for the door. In his haste, Will collided with Anne just as her hand was reaching for the door.

Ever since their ill-timed meeting on the riverside, they had become good friends. Her father had passed away only that past winter, and she was finding it hard to live with the shrill demands of her stepmother and younger siblings. Will admired her quiet strength in the face of her great responsibilities. He had often heard her father tell his own how he could not do without her. And for her part Anne seemed willing to talk with him, even if she occasionally looked on him as the flighty young man he was. Perhaps it was the discovery that William was a poet at heart which had captured Anne’s imagination. Whenever their families met, the two had chatted and discussed poetry and the wider world. They knew little about it, but it was something that seemed easier to discuss than their current realities.

For a woman, Anne was well enough educated, and he certainly appreciated her opinion on things that the rest of his family knew little about. He sensed she found him attractive, and that their families would not be averse to a match—especially since it was becoming obvious Anne was on the far side of marriageable age. And she was a fine woman, but that was nothing to compare with the perfection of the other who even now waited for him by the river.

Anne made a mock-exasperated sound, and fumbled with the bundle of herbs she was carrying. She made a tisking noise under her breath, and shook her head, lost for words.

Will spun her around by her elbows and grinned brightly, so that she couldn’t bear to frown. “Looking for me, Anne?”

She dusted off her skirts brusquely though she had not fallen, “Of course not, William—my mother had a message for yours.”

“Then what’s that? A present?” he teased, spotting a small book that she appeared to be hiding.

Will had struck a nerve, and he suddenly saw in a flash that it was meant for him. They had never bought each other gifts, and for once she lost her composure.

“Nothing,” she murmured, pulling away a little, “Just something I was reading on the way over—nothing important.”

For a second Will paused. Anne’s face was closed, and she was hiding behind her straw blonde hair. If he had not been brimming with excitement to see Sive, he might well have stopped to put her at ease—instead he shrugged. “Mother’s in the kitchen, Anne. I’m on a bit of a mission myself. I’ll talk with you later.” With that he whirled around and was gone.

Anne stood there for a moment feeling remarkably foolish, her hand half raised to stop him, or call after him—she wasn’t quite sure which. Shutting her mouth with a snap, she turned to the house. “You’re acting like a silly girl,” she admonished herself sternly.

Will noticed none of these things. Sitting by the river a short time after, he felt a little bad about running off on Anne like that, but after all, she was a friend, and Sive, he dreamed, might be so much more.

Manhood had come creeping up on Will, a gradual stirring of alien passions and hopes that he had just learnt to give names too. He secretly hoped that Sive might help him learn the rest. After all, he had never seen her husband—he was probably an old man with dying embers of passion and life. While he waited, Will scribbled on piece of well-worn parchment an idea that had been buzzing in his head since the last time they met.

“Love doth not alter,” he wrote, and then leaned back to look at the green leafy canopy above. He thought of all the impediments to his love for Sive, and when despair washed over him, he rolled quickly over and wrote, “I look on tempests and am not shaken.”

It was how he felt about her, sure as he had ever felt about anything. She was his star and his passion.

Will was so wrapped in his thoughts, that he didn’t even notice her arrival—he looked up and she was simply there. He hurriedly stuffed the scrap of paper into the back of his trousers.

No horse in sight this time. She stood quietly enough, leaning breathlessly against the rough willow, her violet eyes huge, almost afraid. She looked terribly like a beautiful country maid who had run through the grass to meet him. Her cheeks were pink, and her pale skin rose and fell hypnotically against the sharp outline of her dress. Blood surged in Will, as well as a sense that he stood on the edge of something wonderful. Such powerful emotions made his fingers itch for pen and paper, almost as much as they itched for her.

She was so unlike any of the Stratford girls. No matter how sweet and attentive they were, how much they fluttered their eyes or called to him from quiet corners of village and field, his attentions had always been elsewhere. As he had grown she seemed not to have aged at all, still the same beautiful face and figure. And she was wise too, initiated into acts he could only imagine. In Will’s mind there was no uncertainty, she was the woman of his dreams.

In the way of the young, he had built vast towers of imagination, wherein they could be together. She would teach him those things he longed to know, and he would write beautiful poetry to her beautiful eyes. In none of these plans did her husband figure.

Will had been so sure of himself before, so ready to lay this latest scrap of his imagination at her feet, but now that the time had come he found himself struck dumb. He had grown in the last two years, and when he finally drew up to her, with a start he saw that their eyes were level. In a flood, boyish uncertainty was swept away. Now he was a man—and a bard.

“I am cast out,” Sive whispered to him, her voice tinged with something akin to surprise. “I cannot return home, Will. I will be worse than dead if I do.” In her face he saw something that made him both sad and joyous—fear. Sive had always looked so strong, so powerful to him, and yet now she was just as vulnerable as he.

If she was indeed cast out of whatever stately home she had lived in before, then now was a chance to prove to her that he was grown—that he loved her, and that meant something.

Before Will knew it, his mouth had let out what his heart hoped for, “Stay with me then, Sive. I’ll protect you.”

Stray fingerlings of passion seeped from Sive and into his bones. “I know you would, William—but it is impossible,” and though her words denied him, she drew closer, fingers trailing on the bark of the willow she leant against.

Emboldened by her quietness, Will’s hands strayed to her shoulders, trying to communicate his faith, “It’s not, Sive. We could go to London, find a—”

“No, William,” Sive took a step forward, “There is so much more in you than that.” Will suddenly felt very odd, as if he were watching her through water; her movements slow, and her face somehow transformed.

His fingertips brushed her cheek, bringing her eyes to bear on him. He looked into the eyes of the Fey, and really saw her for the first time with his Bardic Art.

That part of him recognized her alien nature, but he had gone too far down the path of wanting her to turn back now. The failed desires she had bought with her finally broke his fears down.

His sense of himself totally dissolved at the touch of her soft lips, though neither could have said who kissed whom. A low groan shuddered through his flesh, igniting needs and thoughts that drove him finally over the edge into manhood. He wanted to crush her against him, and hold her as delicately as a flower. He wanted to consume her, and yet hold her up for admiration.

Sive was strong and fluid in his arms, a force of nature, primitive and demanding; that, the ribald conversations with his friends had not prepared him for. Desire had a rhythm and understanding all its own, though. If he cried out in delight, would she think him less a man?

Around them, obedient to Sive’s passions, the thunder clouds raced. The dark goddess had never loved in this realm, and its happening signaled change.

Farmers who had moments before seen nothing but clear blue sky were abruptly deluged with stinging rain, while milkmaids shouted at suddenly belligerent cows who kicked over their pails and ran bucking to the hilltops. In Stratford, an ill wind sprang up, knocking down market stalls, causing the citizens to hurry indoors. Anne Hathaway, trudging her melancholy way home, pulled her bonnet tight about her whipping hair and ran for the shelter of a nearby stand of trees. The Avon twisted like a skein of wool within its banks, waters shifting from gray to silver. Swans honked in fear, raising frightened white wings and scuttling for safety.

And in a tiny hovel in Arden wood, an infirm old woman raised her one sighted eye to the sky, hearing the song of power she had not heard since she was a babe. Old Bess smiled her gap-toothed smile, her thoughts turning to the boy-now-grown-to-a-man she had helped birth all those years ago. To her, the sound of thunder heralded renewed hope.

Sive’s Art sundered and shredded Will’s barriers, and while her flesh pressed white hot against his, her Art urged his to blossoming. Threaded within him was the Bardic gift that had only before shown itself in slips of poetry, and in that one terrible day in the wood. Beautiful William, the dark Fey whispered into his soul, Oh be free, Be powerful, Be mine.

The knowledge Sive thrust upon William was all that she could give; the taste of his Fey heritage, the realization of what he was, and what she needed from him. Sive was desperate, half-mad with fear and passion.

The knowledge poured down onto Will, a deluge of immortal longings and pain. His mere human soul buckled under the weight. Yet he could not tear himself from her, they seemed already fused.

She whispered into his wet hair, “Come away with me, Will, to the Fey where you belong. We will cast out the monsters and make it great again.”

He could see the unearthly beauty of the place; she opened his mind to the wonder of it. It seemed like somewhere Bridie, his nursemaid, had once told them about when he was a child. His feet longed to be there.

But then... Will pulled back a little from Sive, “Could I come back to England?”

Her white brow furrowed at the idea. “Why would you want to?”

Will thought of all those legends, people trapped in fairy realms, who returned to find time had moved on much too fast. He imagined all his brothers and sisters turned old and frail, and his parents dying before he could ever see them again; all that he had ever known fallen into decay. The woods and fields he loved seemed to brown and wither around them.

He could see it in her; Sive knew what would happen. Those violet eyes, too beautiful, too knowing for a human face, dropped away from his.

“They do not matter—nothing matters as much the Fey. We need you.” Thunder roared closer, and he could feel the weight of her power.

But another emotion was gradually taking over within Will, anger. “They don’t matter? Really? Don’t they?”

“They are human, we are immortal. We must go on, they fall into dust.” Sive raised a gentle hand to his face. “I have watched you since you were born, William, waiting for the moment to take you back.”

That thought was more disturbing than anything else. She’d cared for him like a farmer does a crop, waiting for it to be ready, and now harvest time was here. He and his kin meant nothing to her. Will took a step back. “They matter to me, Sive. If I go with you I will lose all that, and without them, without time, I am not human anymore.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” The rain had suddenly reached Sive, plastering her hair against her head—she was still too beautiful. Her thoughts reached out to him, trying to tell him that she really loved him, and always would. They were wonderful and persuasive, but Will was not easily fooled.

It would have been easy to step across to her, to pass out of humanity’s reach, but her words chilled him more than the rain. “I’m sorry, Sive, I have to go back. Your Fey is not for me.”

Her resolve cracked then, and she attempted to use Art to persuade him otherwise. Her strength wrestled with his burgeoning Art. The storm bent around them, howling and roaring like a beast uncertain of its master. Lightning spat, smashing in an explosion of bright light into the willow nearest them.

Sive cried out to him once, but he would not be her pawn. The air itself seemed to fold around them, as neither gave way. But the natural world would not hold such conflict for long; the centre blew out in a flash of light and sound. Will and Sive both found themselves thrown clear.

The spell was broken. For a long moment they stared at each other across the distance, as if they had never met before. Will shook his head, his voice shaking with real anger. “Do not try that again, Sive; I would rather be destroyed by you than manipulated. I won’t be used.”

In the life of the Fey, there had never been one that contended with them before. Sive’s face was an odd mask of fear and rage, but she could see the determination in him.

Will got shakily to his feet, “I don’t ever want to see you in Stratford again.” He caught himself against a tree. “If I do, then there will be a reckoning.”

He turned and walked as normally as he could away from her. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t say her name—it was as if the woman he loved had died in that explosion. The creature behind him now was a calculating thing he didn’t want in his life. Will would mourn the love, but he thought he had made the right decision for his family.

It was Anne that found him first, walking raggedly along the road back to Stratford. His eyes were wide and dark, and his clothing torn. She took his trembling for fear, but he did not tell her it was anger that still burned in him.

“Sweet mercy—Will,” she rushed to him, lending a shoulder when he seemed ready to stumble, “Were you caught in that storm?”

“Take me home please, Anne,” he whispered into the ground, “Ask no questions—just take me home.”

When she took his hand, he clenched it hard to assure himself it was real. It felt cold and damp, like his own, reassuringly human.

***

It was really too much. Auberon tried to ignore the dreary setting, but he was beginning to think that Mordant had left him out here deliberately.

The Hall was chill, and everything about it made the King of the Fey’s heart a little grayer, and a great deal more concerned. Brigit might have been standing at his elbow shaking her finger, lips already mouthing ‘I told you so’.

Auberon creased his brow. Perhaps if he had seen how Mordant lived, he might have thought differently about dealing with him. How could anyone live in such a drear and dreadful place? And yet, he reminded himself, this was where he had sent his sister.

The ironbound door swung open to his right, and Mordant finally emerged like a pale worm from its hiding hole.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” his tone suggested otherwise. “But just recently I have found myself,” a pause, “Without servants.”

Auberon grew even more uncomfortable, feeling somehow that there were hidden depths behind the other’s words. “Well, that’s as maybe,” he blustered, “But I am still King, and when I say I want to see my sister—I want to see my sister!”

Mordant was eerily still, even as Auberon’s words echoed down the deserted hallway. He cocked his head, and those cold eyes slid away from the King. Apparently he was hardly worthy of his attention.

Auberon was not used to being so dismissed, and for once he paused. Moira, his light and his love, had been right; Mordant was still not fit for his sister. She’d whispered it into his ear the night before that handfasting, and he’d been too enamored of power to heed her. He should have listened.

Drawing himself up, so that he stood toe to toe with the other Fey, he demanded attention. “I have come to fetch her home to the Court, Mordant. She has been too long gone.” And once there, she surely will not come back here, he thought to himself silently. He had Mordant’s power, so there was no further need for Sive to remain.

Mordant’s eyes finally focused on Auberon, and the King immediately wished they had not; twin triangular pits of nothingness that were like no eyes on either side of the Veil. Auberon’s heart clenched, and he took half a step back.

“You are ill informed then, my liege,” Mordant’s words skewered him in place with their malice. “My wife is not at home presently—so she cannot do you the honor.”

All the power that he had begun to enjoy drained from him, and a cold fear settled in its place. “Our aunt has died,” he managed over chill lips, “She must be told.”

Mordant drew closer, so that his stench wrapped the King of the Fey in its embrace, “Oh rest assured—she knows.”

Bile bubbled at the back of Auberon’s throat—this thing, whatever it was, could not be Fey. What had he done? Surely his sister could not have survived a long month with this creature which wore Mordant’s body like a cloak.

“Well, good then,” even he couldn’t believe that he could still speak, “As long as she knows.” His feet were scrambling to get away.

Pulling himself together, Auberon spun about, trying to make a marginally dignified exit. His retinue waited outside, with wide eyes and questions on their lips. The tall, proud-shouldered Fey horses were snorting and jigging sideways, unhappy to be near the Hall.

Seeing his face, Moira merely handed him the reins, and with a collective relieved sigh, they rode away.

Auberon was silent, infinitely glad to be free of the place, but knowing he would be unable to escape what he had learnt there. Moira urged her mount closer to his, and even as shocked as he was he could only admire her dark red curls blowing in the wind, and her sweet look. She stilled his heart somehow.

“She was not there.” Even he could hear a note of guilt in his voice.

“But she’s not dead,” Moira reached out for his hand, effortlessly keeping her mare next to his.

“But you did not see...”

“She is not dead,” Moira repeated. “The Mother cried only for Brigit, not Sive.”

As always she rescued him, throwing him a slender lifeline.

“I know.” His heart lightened, but only a little. He looked to his right at the youthful Fey that rode around them, noticing their unlined faces and bright eyes, but also their flimsy silks and empty scabbards. His mother had at least kept her honor guard and their sharp blades about her. Their broad-shouldered and fiery-hoofed battle mounts had been left to roam the endless hills of the Fey, and where they were now was anyone’s guess. He’d wanted the Court to be a place of mirth and happiness after her austere rule, but in the light of recent events Auberon considered that he might have gone too far. What good were palfreys and laughter against Mordant?

“It’s not too late,” Moira’s leg brushed against his, willing her strength to the King. “We can still do something.”

Mother of All, he wanted to believe her, but most of all he wanted his armored and passionate aunt, mother, and sister to be there. He had never fought, never struggled against anything in his life. The horrible thought that he was more like his reprobate cousin Puck crept up on him.

Well, that simply couldn’t be allowed. As the King of the Fey rode back to Court he summoned a bright silver light to illuminate them, so that his people would have hope again. A way would have to be found to deal with Mordant and bring Sive back home.

***

She hadn’t kissed him. Even as Puck fell back through the void of the Between, he couldn’t help but be a little put out. How many other life threatening situations could there be, and she hadn’t even bothered to kiss him goodbye.

Foolish boy, Brigit’s voice cracked in his head. Your cousin is not meant for you.

“Well now you tell me,” Puck grumbled, and looked with some concern at the heaving silver void which was the Between.

Your fated one will come in her own allotted time, and her own form. It has yet to be decided if she will even be born.

Typically, his aunt remained as cryptic in death as in life. “Less talking about unborn soul mates, and more help please,” Puck pleaded as his body tumbled further into the mists of time. “You forget, I have never walked the deep Between.”

Brigit took control of his body, spreading his fingers, and using his Art in new ways within him. He dare not think about how easily she had done all that. But it worked; Puck had found stability in the chaos.

Probably my own fault, Brigit said somewhat wistfully. I should have shown you and Sive the paths before this.

“Yes, well, that might have helped,” Puck smoothed back his ruffled silver hair. “But a bit late now.”

Is it?

His aunt’s spirit was silent a second, and he had the disturbing sensation she was deciding something. Having an uninvited guest in his head was not as fun as it might seem.

“You realize, Brigit, if I’d known Last Breath meant hauling you around, I might have reconsidered.”

I’m as surprised as you are, boy. Last Breath is meant for the transfer of memory and wisdom, not spirit. Perhaps it’s because I am one of the First Born, or perhaps you are especially weak.

“More likely it’s because you’re a meddling old woman,” Puck hissed to himself.

I can hear you, Brigit reminded him. So try and keep a civil tongue in your head!

Puck sighed; this was not going to make being the Trickster any easier. “Well since you’re here, I suppose you couldn’t help me out of the Between?” She had to be useful for something.

Brigit looked through his eyes; a very unnerving feeling it was too. Sive was in a hurry; it may take me some time to work out where we are, and how to get back.

That was not what Puck wanted to hear. Will and Sive needed all the help they could get. “Well hurry up, old woman, this isn’t a walk in the woods, you know.”

Almost on cue, a howl tore through the Between mists, and it sounded uncomfortably close, and even more uncomfortably familiar. He thought back to the snarls and strength of the boogarts in the wood, and the banging trapdoor in Mordant’s Hall.

I hope you bought a weapon with you, Boy, Brigit chuckled. This could get ugly.

“Easy for you to be cheerful,” Puck snapped. “You’re dead already.”

Don’t get churlish now, lad, get moving!

The mists around them darkened, and the howls grew louder.

And even though Puck had seldom obeyed his aunt while she was alive, he decided this would be a very different occasion. “Just get me out of this old woman, or we’ll both be out of a body.”

Chapter 9: The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love.

The little girl raised her chubby leg high, but still stumbled over the cart track. Her hands and feet were covered in dirt, and though the mud was sucking at her feet, nothing could dissuade her from her goal—the market.

She wobbled, coming close to falling, but then mustering infant strength, she ran gamely on. The light rain had misted her dark curls, but the chill in the air had no effect. Having slipped the chains of her mother’s attention, she was intent on getting as much as possible from the moment.

Stratford’s main street was full of raucous laughter and the complaints of sheep. It was market day, and the powerful scents of dung and sweaty bodies assailed her young senses. It was packed with bickering, jovial people, all which made it a good time for escape.

Ahead, a roan-colored sheepdog was harassing his charges down towards the market. The little girl stopped, her dark eyes at once locking on the canine shape, and then lighting with intrigue. Her hands came up, already clenching with the prospect of getting in amongst sensitive dog hair, and her legs regained their strength. The beast backed away and snarled, used to sheep and sheep alone, but this young one knew little of fear and the possibility of hurt.

At the point where canine and child would have discovered just what the others’ intentions were, long pale arms grasped the girl, lifting her clear of the street. The dog cast a suddenly frightened look at the newcomer, and darted away.

The little girl threw back her head, ready to wail at being stymied, but the fast strong hands tossed her lightly into the air, and a giggle sprung up instead. She was a big girl, and rarely cast about so easily anymore. Immediately delighted, she looked down at the lady.

Sive knew the child saw right through the glamour; there was no hiding from those piercing Shakespeare eyes. Other mortals saw a slightly tired looking, middle-aged woman, whose only remarkable features were intense violet eyes. This little one saw with her father’s sight, but unhindered by anger.

Sive shivered; it had been a terrible mistake she’d made with William, and though this little one was a shining example of her failure, she could find no dislike of the child in her. Susanna smiled, her fingers clenching on the plain cotton dress that Sive was forced to wear these days.

“Goodwife Hardy,” Anne’s voice reached Sive just ahead of her stumbling form. Seldom was Will’s wife seen without their children. Apart from Susanna, there were twins as well. Sive knew their names were Hamnet and Judith, after Will’s friends the Sadlers.

She should have had more satisfaction from seeing Anne. The whole of Stratford knew of their troubled marriage. It had been a swift event, followed on the heels by the appearance of their first daughter. It had been rumored to be a love match, but Sive knew in her heart it was Will’s way of securing himself from her. Whatever the reasons, it was no longer a happy union, and Sive had heard that Will had taken to longer and longer periods wandering Arden wood. She couldn’t tell if he wrote poetry anymore.

Anne was smiling at her, seeing nothing but the wretched looking goodwife Hardy. It was a thin glamour, and one Sive had taken up just months before Will’s marriage. Mistress

Hardy was well known for her quiet ways, and excellent brewing skills, but then being married to the owner of the Three Crowns she had to be.

The look of pity on Anne’s face was very hard for Sive to stomach, even as the accompanying thoughts reached her. Even hiding behind the glamour, she still found it impossible to like Anne. Not for anything that she was—Will’s wife was as mundane and dependable as any woman produced in this age—but because of what she had. This particular woman possessed all she had once desired, even if it had taken years for Sive to realize that.

“You should take better care of your charges, Mistress Shakespeare,” she snapped coldly, plumping the child into Anne’s arms, and turning swiftly away, “Next time you may not be so lucky.” With a snort of derision, she picked her bundle of kindling up from where it had dropped on the street, and hurried away.

Stomping back to the inn, ignoring the trail of thanks that Will’s wife was burbling, Sive felt the clutch of loss in her heart. Perhaps she shouldn’t have lingered in Stratford, perhaps it would have been easier to find another town to hide from Mordant’s wrath, but some small, stubborn part of her determined to stay put. Even though every little sight of Will and his new family was a sharp edged javelin through her, she still couldn’t bring herself to leave.

Already she’d had been too long from the Fey. It could not be long until what Art Sive kept hidden would weaken, and then not very long after that, it would fade completely. Then truly, she would be doomed.

Sive’s face flickered between two expressions she had previously only seen on others, concern and fear.

Henry was arguing with the cooper as she stalked towards the Three Crowns. As usual the innkeeper was dithering over the price of barrels, and as usual he had become a target of amusement from the citizens. It seldom did any good, but for him it was a necessary ritual. Whatever the reasoning, Sive didn’t want to be drawn into it.

“Jane,” she paused with a sigh just short of the door, but turned at Henry’s almost whine, “The peddler came with some velvets for you.”

His middle-aged eyes saw only one of his own kind—one who had suffered in life, and so he did not ask much. In recognition of it, Sive let the glamour give him after dusk sweet passions, even as she slept lightly in the kitchen. His Jane was but an illusion, and yet she made him happy. Sive, tucked away in a chair by her hearth by night, told herself he was merely a necessity—a cover amongst strangers. Mortal he might be, but at least he had happiness.

Hitching her bundle of sticks up beneath one arm, Sive sighed. “Thank you Henry, I am sorry to miss him, but I best get dinner on.” He nodded and smiled, already turning to the familiar patter of the argument.

So she was free to enter her mortal domain, the back rooms of the Three Crowns. While glamour filled them with the sounds and smells of a well-run kitchen, Sive was in fact able to do other things, none of which involved cooking.

Since Mordant would be searching, her powers were restricted—in fact mostly confined to the necessities of the glamour of goodwife Hardy, but today something had changed. After bumping into the ignorant Anne, Sive had decided enough was enough; today she would attempt a Seeing, just as her aunt had taught her.

She assembled the willow and ash branches gathered by hand from Arden in the hearth, and reflected how Brigit would have appreciated the irony.

Sive missed her aunt’s sharp tongue, and her comforting, though often thorny, presence. Mordant had made an error of judgment; by killing Brigit the Blessed, and banishing Sive to slow torture in the mortal realm, he had given her nothing to lose.

Being in the human’s world might have done nothing to improve Sive’s temper, but it had impressed on her many things. A better understanding of Will’s world helped her understand why he had reacted how he had. Humans cherished what power they had over their lives; they had so little that every loss was felt greatly. When she had shown herself, he had felt betrayed and threatened. But yet in those moments before Will’s rejection, he had unconsciously been drawn to what she offered. After all the same blood flowed in his own veins.

“What a fool I was,” Sive hissed to herself as she built the fire. But she had been shocked by Mordant’s attack; bewildered by his power, and the death of Brigit, she’d reacted in a familiar way. She still didn’t know if she should be afraid or jubilant that Will had challenged her.

It mattered little now—she had lost him. He was mired in the trivial base concerns of everyday life, and might never reach his flowering or his true self. Will was locked into his roles as father, husband and son.

Sive was in despair at how to win him back to her side. Though she had managed to find a way to be near, she had been unable to see him. His Bardic eyes would pierce her disguise as an arrow through muslin, and some part of her knew that neither of them was ready for that meeting yet. The little hurt part of her, which she barely acknowledged, needed to know that he would not reject her again.

The Seeing was necessary, hopefully showing what was going on in the Fey, and what Mordant was up to, or perhaps what had happened to Puck. The very idea that another of her kin might be gone made her heart cold. Now she was reduced to this most fickle of Arts, and the very one she had rejected learning.

Sive lit the bundle of twigs and concentrated, but her power was ethereal, hard to hold, angry perhaps at not being used for so many years. It would diminish in time, and long after Mordant’s plans had come to pass, she would be a shell of a Fey—only slightly more than human.

Uttering a sharp annoyed oath, she turned her Art to her bidding, it was like reining in a nervous horse; concentrating it on the spiraling smoke, demanding answers.

It was worse than Sive had feared. The reawakening of Art brought the heady scent of the Fey realm to her, a seductive reminder of all that lay so very close. The scent of jasmine filled her head and tempted with memory. The parting from Macha was the hardest, and now she could almost hear the raven’s caw, feel the touch in her thoughts. All Sive needed to do was order the veil parted, and she could return there. She could command it done, and her chilling life in the mortal realm would be but a bad dream. Surely it could not hurt just to try—just to take one breath from there? But then the memory of Mordant’s plans for her intruded on that fantasy.

A single tear slipped down Sive’s cheek, as she pulled free of the temptation. This separation from home had made her less, and loosed the bonds she usually had over her own thoughts. Until her husband was defeated, the Fey was closed to her.

Mordant had left nothing to chance; by weaving a spell into the fabric of the veil between realms, he would know if Sive attempted to go home. Even if she survived the battle that would follow, she couldn’t be sure of avoiding the sexual glamour laid on her previously. And the knowledge that he had much worse planned for her now made even the hotheaded Fey give pause.

“No,” Sive murmured under her breath, narrowed her eyes, and concentrated on the smoke. “No,” she repeated more firmly, “Show me the Fey. Show me home.”

The smoke bucked and twisted like a wild thing, reluctant to surrender its secrets, but Sive persisted. Grimly her Art pierced it through, searching for what its mistress needed—a shred of hope.

The mist resolved into shapes and visions that flashed lightning—quick across Sive’s eyes, like she was racing past them. Brigit had practiced this form of Art for long years, honed her skills to sift through the grains of fate. Sive could not hope to match such skill, and the smoke and distance were eating into her, luring her deeper, tantalizing her with more knowledge, should she just step into its grasp. Sive could not afford the price demanded for that.

Grasping what meaning she could from the smoke, Sive quickly doused the fire. Even such a small display of Art might alert Mordant. Seating herself at the kitchen table, she carved a slab of dark meslin bread, and chewing on it morosely replayed in her head what she had been able to steal from the mists of time.

Through the blowing cold winds of Between, brilliantly colored people laughed and danced, spinning and slowly turning to bone. The lonely cry of an orphaned child echoed down from a great distance, piercing her through with unexplained longing. The smell of rot and decay, combined with the erotic thrill of warm skin under her fingertips. And lastly, a dark bronze coin with odd writing burned into it, spun end over end, and the eerie sound it made scoured her brain.

Sive knew they were more than simple facts, and in that lay the trick of Seeing. Her aunt had been practiced at winnowing out the meaning behind such things, but she was gone. It certainly was an odd mixture of signs, spelling both hope and despair. That which thrilled might just as easily be the signal of doom. And yet the visions had tempted her, sweet fruit of hope hanging just out of reach.

The gritty taste of the bread reminded Sive suddenly and terribly that this was the humans’ realm, not Fey. Here Sive stripped of her power was restricted to their rules, and forced her to play their games. It was frustrating beyond words.

Something was happening in the Fey, of that there was no doubt. But what could it be?

A hundred possibilities crowded her head. Mordant had free rein in the Fey, and with Brigit dead, Puck lost, and she fled, there was only Auberon to stand in her husband’s way. Brother and sister had never been close, but now as she folded her hands, and felt the chill in the room seep into her bones, she wished him the Mother’s strength. Auberon was all that the Fey had now, and should he falter so would all hope.

***

“They’re here, Will!” Anne’s voice shattered the hopeful silence. His customer, a stiff-necked gentleman who obviously had little patience as it was, responded with an accusatory look—blaming him for the shrieks of delight. Will caught an even sharper look from father, tucking away new gloves in a drawer. Every customer counts, would be the admonishment later.

Even though he was slaving away, working as an usher at the school, Will was still expected to help out in the shop. It didn’t matter that he was a grown man with three children of his own—John Shakespeare still ruled the house in Henley Street. Anne would complain quietly to Will in their tiny room at night, and his father would lambaste him in the shop during the day.

And it certainly didn’t help matters that his selling technique had not improved, even after all these years.

The more exposure Will got to the paying public, the more he despaired for humanity. And working at the school offered not much more hope; he was quite sure he’d never been as course and rude as some of the boys there. Their faces were so quick to fold into ugly expressions, and they heard none of the beauty of words as he did.

The shop’s patrons were no better—just older examples of the schoolboys. The possession of money in the purse automatically removed all human reason and logic. Sir Lucy and the rest of his ilk treated shopkeepers as completely below their notice, only there to serve.

This customer showed little chance of being any different. While Will’s head was momentarily turned, the fox-faced man decided against a purchase. Up until that very moment, he’d had been almost positive that the man would buy the gauntleted gloves his father had labored hours on, but like a cunning pike he slipped the hook and escaped through the door. Will was too used to it to even spare a curse of annoyance.

He shrugged across at father, seeing with newly opened eyes the silver sheen in his hair, and counting each fear and concern in the web of lines beneath the eyes. Rather than dwell on yet another disappointment in a life of them, he went to the door.

His wife was wending her way through the press of people making her way to the knot of Shakespeares who had taken an excellent spot on the other side of the Henley Street. He caught a glimpse of a smile, which for a moment recalled the young woman she had been. He missed that person.

But it slipped sideways quickly, and Anne of recent years reappeared. Will couldn’t blame her for her sharpness; the house and shop were packed, times were hard, and money short. Yet Will couldn’t help the uncharitable thought that his mother still remained calm in the face of it all. Anne had perhaps had too much of it in her life; first a barrow load of demanding siblings and step-mothers, and then their current arrangement.

The guilt was greater because he felt he really ought to still love Anne. But somewhere in the middle of all this, they’d lost each other.

“Was is my fault?” he whispered under his breath. But even if he ran across the street right this minute, she would not be what she had once. Idly tracing the grain of the wood, Will felt his body leave him for an instant, “Youth’s a stuff will not endure.” The words felt thick and bitter on his tongue, pulled out of him from some place unknown. It was true though—their love had not endured with the loss of youth.

Across the road Anne had reached the front of the crowd, where Mary Shakespeare was standing with Susanna clutching her skirts. Will’s sister Joan was upstairs watching over the twins, but his bright-eyed brothers, Edmond and Richard, had managed to slip out from father’s thumb. Gil obviously had not been so lucky. Edmond was only just seven, and could probably not remember the last group of players very well, but he was holding his little niece’s hand, and talking to her solemnly about it. Will smiled a little sadly; once that would have been he and Gil.

Richard waved madly from the other side of the street, his hands red raw from the witterwaring he’d been doing that morning. He hadn’t even been allowed to stay at school as long as Will had—but he bore it a lot better. Richard yelped theatrically when Edmond stood on his foot in excitement. All in all, the Shakespeares were rambunctious and difficult to miss, part of the spectacle.

Anne and his mother smiled properly for the first time in months, as the excitement of the crowd reached them. Even though Edmond had done his best, little Susanna still didn’t understand. She was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, and looking up at her grandmother with wordless anticipation. Her quick eyes darted back across the street to where her father was, and she flapped her hand at him. Will grinned back at his daughter, and their smiles were exactly the same. No matter what the rest of the world did to him, Will always felt complete in the eyes of his children, even the tiny Hamnet and Judith.

Anne lifted Susanna up, perching her on one hip, while craning her neck to see the newcomers just appearing at the far end of Henley Street. The Shakespeares all crowded forward, knocking up against their neighbors for a good view.

Sighing, Will leaned against the doorpost. The prospect of the travelers’ arrival did not fill him with the enthusiasm it once had. Instead of being enlivened by it, his mouth filled with bitterness. The freewheeling troupes that roamed across England, performing in all the villages and great houses of the nation before settling in London for the winter season, were a symbol of all that was wrong in his life. They came regularly to Stratford, on the way to play in Sir Edward Lucy’s manor, and many times stopped to perform for the citizens. Their bright rich costumes and smell of freedom enticed and chilled him.

The famed Richard Tarlton had come the previous year with the Queen’s Men. He’d held court in the tavern, bantering with the out of depth villagers, amusing them with his bewildering buffoonery. But behind those eyes was at all times a burning intelligence.

William had lingered on the fringes, feeling the fold of paper in his pocket like a hot ember. If only he had the courage to take it out, to revel his ideas. But one look into that face that had seen London and all the wit it contained had stopped him in his tracks. He’d returned quickly to father’s shop, reminded of his place.

And now here they were again, as certain as the turn of seasons. Surely it was someone mocking him, because they always passed along Henley Street on their way to the town square. They would seek permission from the council to perform, and then would most likely set up in the tavern. He’d watched, like all the others, since he was a boy, but he didn’t know if he could bear it this year. Some excuse would be easy enough to find; no one would care if he remained to guard the deserted shop, in the deserted street.

Another had joined the little knot of Shakespeare’s on the far side of the street. William could make out Gilbert’s fair head bowed low next to Susanna’s dark curls. If John Shakespeare caught his second son out gawking at players, when he should be supervising the younger apprentices sewing, there would be plenty of drama—none of it from the traveling theatricals.

The players were now waving their slightly grubby hands and calling out to the crowd, behaving for all the world like they were royalty. A woebegone horse stoically pulled the heavily laden cart up the middle of the street. The bundles on the back were full of costumes and props. Tarlton was once again amongst them, and the citizens cheered all the louder for that.

Something else caught Will’s eye though, a flash of white almost directly below the creaking cart. It was a cat, though moving with little of the economic grace that marked one of that breed. This feline was dragging itself in the shadow of the wagon, each step wobbly and desperate.

A memory was stirring inside Will’s brain; a hare-brained idea that was ridiculous in the extreme. His consciousness had no time to give shape to it though, before the battered cat did something incredibly odd. Just as the cart drew even with the door to the shop, the animal made a startling run. It dodged, none too nimbly, through the legs of the throng, and before Will knew it, the cat was collapsing at his feet.

He looked around, certain that others must have seen its bizarre approach, but the rest of the citizens were still cheering on the arrival of the player, oblivious to everything else.

The feline head dropped almost directly onto Will’s boot, and now he could see the true reason for its strangeness. Vivid red slashes had torn through a coat that might once have been bone white, the fur now stained a pink color, even over the places where meat and sinew were not exposed. How such a small animal could such sustain terrible injuries and still breathe was a complete mystery.

Then all that was forgotten, for incredibly he recognized the animal. “White Cat?” he whispered, hard put to believe it. That feline hadn’t been seen since the evening when he had discovered the truth about Sive. Half in his head, he’d decided that she was somehow responsible for that too. Yet despite the improbability of it all, something about this sadly mauled cat was very familiar. When it opened one blue eye, and stared at him through blood and pain, he knew for certain that it was indeed his childhood companion.

Not taking any notice of the dripping blood, Will scooped the cat up as gently as he could, and took it inside.

So, while the rest of his family joined the curious town in milling around the players, Will took the small feline out into the quiet yard, and gently bathed and tended to its wounds. How could it have managed to survive such an attack? He would have guessed that only a large dog would be able to inflict such wounds, and yet they were the tears of claws rather than of teeth.

“How did you find me, old boy?” No reply from the cat.

Will shook his head, and wrapped the comatose animal in one of his brother’s old shirts. And just as he was in the process of tucking White into a box next to the fire, his mother came bustling in.

“Haven’t got time to stand around watching that lot,” she muttered grimly under her breath, and practice made it sound almost true. Will watched her nervously from the corner, as she tucked her fine graying hair behind one ear, and set out toward the apprentices’ yard.

He almost got away with it. Mid-stride though she paused, turned on her heel, and gave him an appraising look. “Another stray?” She’d already tucked the bottom of her faded skirt into its waistband, and was rolling up her sleeves.

“An old friend mother—you remember White Cat?”

“Nonsense—that creature must have died years ago,” she marched over and peered into the box. “Doesn’t look good, Will.”

Mary Shakespeare’s word was law; she’d seen many storms since marrying, and she knew a lost cause when it presented itself. She also had the ability to make her son feel ten again.

Will hovered anxiously over White Cat, uncertain just what to do now. “He’s so hurt mother, you must know something to that would help.”

“Dare say I do, but he wouldn’t make anyone a decent mouser now.”

“He’d be a playmate for Susanna,” Will coaxed, knowing that somewhere within her, lurked the gentle mother of his youth.

She made a small snort of disapproval, but bustled off to get her herbals from the kitchen. Will smiled, but didn’t say a thing. The cat lay very still while Mary tended him. “It’s a miracle but there seems to be nothing broken,” she finally concluded.

“But whatever dog it was nearly shredded the poor animal—I don’t think he’ll live to see the morning, Will.” At the pure despair forming in her son’s eyes, she patted his hand awkwardly. “Why don’t you go to the Three Crowns, and see the players—half of the town will be there. Most everyone else has gone.”

He held his tongue, knowing she meant well, but also knowing she could not possibly understand the mix of desire and repulsion he had for the players. “I would rather see this creature well, mother.”

Mary had seen that look a hundred times, in a hundred different places. Will might look and act like the meekest creature on God’s earth, but when his mind was made up, it could not be shifted.

“Well at least bring him inside next to the fire, then both of you can keep warm.”

She left him to settle White inside next to the hearth. Will sat close to the cat, wanting to pet his childhood friend, but not wanting to do any more harm. Cat and man had claimed the quietest corner of the room, but the house was always full of people, and never completely silent.

Upstairs Joan was singing to the twins, mother was pottering around in her kitchen, and outside the apprentices could be heard arguing amongst themselves. It could have almost been the same house that White Cat had disappeared from, years before.

And yet how could that be? No cat could have possibly lived this long, Will’s rational brain said, but just as firmly his eyes told him the truth. He wanted to be happy about it, but as always, the memory of that day by the river tainted everything. Could this be her doing?

Memories of Sive and their magical moments stolen together bubbled to the surface, and the bitterness of her betrayal was softened somehow with White Cat’s return. For the first time in many years, Will loosened the bonds he had placed around those memories. He couldn’t help a small smile.

Night was drawing on, and when Mary Shakespeare found her son, grown man though he was, nestled next to the wounded cat, she shook her head and smiled.

Will barely felt the good wool blanket being tucked around him. The real world had receded, and Art filled his mind. For once he let it.

***

They knew only two things; hunger, and their Master’s will, and both drove them with an unnerving intensity. These were mindful hunters, tracking their prey through the Between, and they would fall dead of the hunger before giving up.

They had such little liking of each other that sharp claws and teeth had already ripped ragged holes in their companions’ scaled hides. Pain was something to be cherished however, not avoided, and others’ agony they found particularly attractive. Several of their number had been killed by their whelp mates in the chaos of the Between, quick fodder that did not satisfy their hunger, but was part of their nature.

It was their only weakness, and one that had allowed their desperate quarry to escape.

Certainly grief was not numbered among their emotions. Only the hunger drove them, a hunger that would not be abated no matter how many of their own bones they snapped or muscles they chewed. The three that had survived were certainly the strongest of the pack. Heavy set jaws and rasping tongues had sucked all Art and nutrition from Fey before, and their taste for that meat was heightened considerably by their Master’s demands.

The monsters now sought to sate their hunger on Puck, the Trickster. He had eluded them in the Between, but it would not be for much longer. He could not deny his own nature, nor throw off his Art.

Once his flesh had been consumed, there would be peace—for a time at least. A space to rest and recall—to remember past times, when they had not been monsters, when they had been as loved as any other creature.

What passed for their leader, the nightmare with the strongest jaws and most unaffected intelligence, felt the waves of the Between wash over it, as seductive as the cool ocean—and a moment later the ache followed. A terrible whisper of a memory reminded it of its loss, a loss which had flung it apart from what it had once been and into the pit of madness and change.

But then, as before, the demands of its form washed over it, clouding what might well have resolved into conscious thought. No time for that, no time for pity or pain, only time to feed. With a half snarl, it led its companions after the scent. Like the Fey these creatures could walk the realms, the Veil obeyed them. Through it they slipped easily into the mortal realm. The earth itself shrunk from their footfalls. They scarcely noticed, excited by the knowledge that their prey was very close. Paws that had once more resembled feet stepped out into the muddy Stratford street with scarcely a sound. Around the three were the sounds of sleeping people, blind to the nightmares that had slipped their leash and entered the human world. Dark pointed heads lifted in the cool air, inhaling great lungsful of scents. All told a story to the creatures, pain, lust or simply the mundane chores of existence—none of that interested the beasts overly. Though they would have spared a few moments to crunch on mortal bones, feasting on the terror alone, more important prey was on order; the Master to be obeyed.

Hunkering down onto its haunches so that its foremost limbs dragged on the ground, the Leader narrowed its gleaming eyes, honing in on the ether. They had fed in the Fey recently, hunted the dreaming and foolish Court, and now its rewards were many, both in increased sensitivity and boosted strength. Unlike the Fey, who would weaken if kept too long from their realm, this creature needed only a steady supply of Artful energy to sustain it—and there was much of that here.

Written in the ether was the Trickster’s sign, like a wounded deer in the snow, his rush to escape marked with trails of Art. A long, purple tongue snaked out from the fearsomely jawed mouth. Its two companions brushed against its hide, sharing its sight, snapping irritably against their Leader’s flank. However, all senses concentrating on the chase, it ignored them. The creature’s lips drew back in a cruel imitation of a smile, and with a low growl it leapt away up Henley Street. Its two compatriots followed barely a heartbeat behind.

Chapter 10: when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Puck awoke with a snap. The smells of blood assailed his sensitive feline nose, and for a moment panic washed over him. He struggled pitifully with the blanket someone had laid over him. He wouldn’t let them wrap him in a shroud—not just yet!

His bed was a padded warm box next to a cooling hearth, and above him tucked childishly into a chair was Will.

What had he done! The cat mewed feebly, and struggled again. Through the miasma of pain, the Fey recalled how his last conscious thought had been of his erstwhile charge. In Puck’s panic, he’d come to the one place he had known calm. But now, returned to his senses, Puck shuddered to think of the trouble that might have followed.

He had done worse than failed. Thrust into the raw furnace, he had been found sadly wanting. That thought caused him more distress than the wounds. Brigit was silent in his head, and he could not be sure that she would return.

His last recollection was of blue fire surrounding his body, an Art far beyond his talents, but not Brigit’s. Perhaps summoning enough strength to save her nephew had been the final death for her.

You wish me gone already? Brigit’s voice in his ear was soft, as if she was much further away than before. It will take much more than Mordant’s minions to be the end of me.

Puck was so weak he could not even frame a reply.

No matter boy, but you know you must get out of here. Death is following on our heels.

Mustering flimsy reserves, Puck cracked a slitted eye open, the other he discovered, sealed firmly shut with dry blood. His feline sight revealed more of the interior of the house than human or Fey would have, and acute hearing told more of the story. Upstairs, scarcely muffled by the intervening floor, he could make out the sounds of sleeping humans, and the sweeter lighter noise of children chattering covertly to each other in the dark. The house was brimming with human life, Shakespeare life that his presence endangered.

Dropping his exhausted white head back onto the stone, Puck considered the options. This form had probably saved his life, but now he needed the strength of the Fey, to heal and think. He needed to risk Will seeing him in true form.

Art had always been there like a well-trained muscle, like a blink and it happened, with barely a thought required. So when it failed to obey him, Puck was stunned. His true shape remained hidden; he was frozen in feline form. The pain could have affected his control, but the possibility that Mordant had somehow reached out, perhaps ripping his birthright away could not be discounted.

Brigit offered no reassurance, silent, nursing her own wounds perhaps.

Above him William stirred, and Puck felt a stab of guilt. The boy had become a man, built a life for himself, and didn’t need to have that threatened.

Unfortunately right now, even the unconscious Will had more power than Puck. The Fey flexed his muscles a little, each spike of pain reminding him how near he’d been to dying in that monster’s jaws.

We have company, Brigit whispered.

A little girl stood in the doorway, the dying embers of the hearth fire shining in her wide eyes. What could have woken the child and bought her downstairs? She looked a bright wee thing, an echo of her father. However she also had some of his Art, so curiosity alone had not bought her downstairs.

Puck let out a faint feline hiss of fear. Something was drawing closer, the prickle of fear up his back and the shudder in his flesh told him that. It was terrible and familiar. The tangy taste of it, the dark horror he had faced between the realms, was something that Puck knew he couldn’t survive again—neither could the Shakespeares.

Go now, Brigit ordered, flushing his body with a strength not his own.

Whimpering with pain, Puck dragged his shattered feline shape up from the hearth. Bone and muscle protested, but broken and torn he staggered for the rear door.

She’ll be somewhere nearby, Brigit whispered, she would not abandon her mortal man. You must find Sive. Hurry lad, she is the only chance now.

The sound of mortal bone grinding on mortal bone was the only noise as Puck dragged himself away.

The door was shut. The cat leaned against the table groggily, uncertain how to manage this, being out of both Art and strength. And then the girl was at his side. She’d felt the same horror he had, and yet still managed to help him. Without a word, she pulled open the door.

Clever child, Brigit whispered in Puck’s head, sounding almost admiring.

But neither of them had time or ways of thanking Will’s girl, for already the Veil was parting allowing the nightmares through. It would not be long before preternatural senses found Puck.

With grim determination, the Fey escaped the Shakespeare house, motivated by desire to protect those who he loved. He managed a brief prayer to the Mother for their protection—that was all he could offer.

Brigit had retreated, her presence now only a dull muttering in the rear of his brain. She whispered of darkness, and a Shattered world reopening, with all the horror that would come with that. Puck couldn’t afford to take notice all that would come later—for now he just needed to find his cousin. Once he saw her face, everything would be better.

***

Sive seldom slept—she had not quite slipped into all the habits of mortals. So instead she sat by the dying light of the fire, a forgotten book lying on her lap. In the quiet moments such as these, she could almost imagine being once more at her aunt’s hearth, or sitting on her mother’s knee.

It was the books, they were changing her—she could feel it. It had been a mistake to read them. Will’s bardic heritage were in everyone, and every little bit she touched made her less Fey and more them.

She cried at the smallest things. Laughter could knock her down like a gale. Depressions seemed to come and go like the wind. Sometimes she would find herself staring at the stars, lost in the depths, considering her own demise.

Violet eyes were almost blurred, almost ready to express a moistness and weakness that they’d never done in the Fey. It was to be an ignominious end for her then—and how Mordant would enjoy it when word reached him.

Things could be different, which made it even more frustrating for Sive. If she could only force Will to see that his destiny lay with her. Why could he not?

Sive’s knuckles clenched in her lap, and tears spilled over her cheeks, ready to rail against the world when something shifted outside.

Her dark head came up like a cat sensing another, her eyes narrowed, her senses tightened. Something stirred out in the street, not just another drunken farmer unable to find his way home, but something more—something Fey. With stern discipline, she managed not to flex her Art—it could be Mordant come on wings of rage. She could not let Stratford be destroyed. Subtly she thrust her Fey sensitivity out. That thin finger of awareness met something joyously familiar. Sive bolted for the door, wrenching it open and tearing her nails against the rough wood. Puck’s smashed feline body had not borne him further than the alleyway, and for a moment she thought she was too late. But dimly she could feel his thoughts. Tearing off her shawl, Sive wrapped it around the bloody white form, and with an almost-sob carried him into the house.

Gently laying him on the table, she winced on seeing the wreckage. Fresh blood seeped from wounds someone else had recently dressed.

“Mother of All! Puck, cousin.” she whispered, afraid that that even words might inflict more on him, “What has happened to you?”

With Fey eyes she could see that the wounds were not only physical; terrible damage had been inflicted on Puck’s Art. Whatever could have possibly done this Sive couldn’t imagine—certainly nothing Fey or human. What could have been going on in her own realm while she’d been trapped here? What fell things now stalked the path between human and Fey, a doorway that had always been safest for the youngest and most inexperienced of her people?

Puck raised his head, a miracle in itself, and his thoughts pushed briefly into her. “They’re coming after me, Sive. Will is in danger...” all strength drained away, and he fell back on the table, blood flowing from nose and mouth.

Sive’s jaw clenched; the time had come. No more cowering, no more hiding—her hand had been forced. Though concern for Will froze her heart, a slight smile flickered, her teeth baring a little. At least now the goddess breathed again. Better to be a burning pyre than a guttering candle flame.

***

Sleep had never been Will’s friend; dark demons and sinister shapes had always followed him there. But now they were ever so much closer. He could feel their fingers reaching for him; his skin trembled and twitched at the thought of their foul touch. They knew his name, knew his home—there could be no escape. In an instant they would be on him.

Will lurched awake with an animalistic cry. For a dreadful moment he thought that they were in the room; his hand twitched, feeling icy fingers on it.

But then looking down, Will had to smile; no demon had him, only Susanna’s chilly little paw in his. She was certainly looking at him oddly, her dark eyes curious beneath an infant frown, almost as though she’d never seen him before. A cool shudder ran up Will’s spine at such an expression on his daughter’s face, and he scooped her up on his knee, inhaling the sweet scent of her baby hair. She said nothing, merely leant her sleepy head against his chest, and let a big sigh escape.

Will peered over her shoulder, suddenly wondering how White Cat was faring. But there was nothing by the fireside but his brother’s stained shirt. The door from the kitchen was open a little.

How could a cat have done that? “Susanna,” he whispered softly, “Did you open the door and let the cat out?”

His daughter’s head buried deeper into his shirt as she wiggled it vigorously, though it was hard to say if this was a denial or embarrassment. And then surprisingly she began to whimper, a low sob very different from a normal cry—as though afraid of being heard.

He could try and deny he felt it too, but the hard goose pimples on his skin and the knife of cold in his bowels couldn’t be easily ignored.

Bending down, he tucked Susanna into the warm chair. Though her bottom lip trembled, she was quiet and serious. Will couldn’t let White Cat die, and so despite his fear he went after the cat into the night.

The night watchman was doing his job exceptionally well tonight. Though the players were in town, always an excuse for merriment, the silver white moon and cool stars were undisturbed by mere mortals. No arguments were heard from any house, no animal stirred on the streets, the very world itself was stifled.

Will’s breath grew terribly noisy in his own ears, and his heart tripped faster in his chest, but still something drew him on. Down Henley Street he walked as quietly as he could, out to the edges of the town. He could hear nothing; just following the feeling of dread in his chest. It was not exactly a sane thing to do, but tonight, in the eerie still darkness, it felt right.

Will reached the midden heaps where all the refuse of Stratford was piled. The smell was beyond unpleasant, but it was something else entirely that made his world change.

For a brief moment Will was out in the open, looking at nightmares. Three creatures such as hell itself might spew up rummaged in the remains of Stratford, utterly at home among the refuse and stench. They howled and hissed to each other as they circled the pile, now and then delving into it with taloned alien limbs.

Carefully and deliberately, Will stepped back a little, pressing against the reassuring wooden wall, removing the abominations from his sight. But doing so did not stop their hideous calls that made his ears ache, and it certainly didn’t make them go away. They were here to kill; every movement told him that, and the look of the hunt lurked in their dimly lit eyes. Who that poor creature might be he could not know.

Before Will could decide quite what to do, a howl like a scream of the damned echoed down the street. Will felt the menace in the air, a thousand pins piercing his skin. Every sense was alive and taut—he had not experienced such a feeling since his last confrontation with Sive.

Could this be her doing, come with war in her heart and with terrible demons to claim what was hers?

The creatures were moving, not even bothering to keep their silence; they ran right past him up the street. The thoughts of his children, sleeping an undoubtedly spelled sleep not very far away, forced Will to follow after.

They moved as quickly as loping hounds, but he ran heedlessly after them, his breath filling the back of his throat and fear constricting his chest. Will wished he had brought one his father’s knives with him; at least his hand would have been full.

The creatures had reached the Three Crowns, and pulled to a stop so suddenly that Will had to dive for cover. The monsters stood on all fours outside the tavern, scaly terrible heads tilted to the window where a single candle was burning. Why were they so interested in this house? Will couldn’t guess, but he did think briefly of the traveling players within. Could they be the source of so much hellfire and brimstone?

And then the door opened. The faintly stooped figure of Goodwife Hardy appeared at the door, like she might be greeting another guest with candle in hand. The light moved with her as she bent and placed it on the doorstep. The four figures, in all their strangeness, looked at one another, the monsters seeming more surprised than the woman.

And then quite suddenly, the candle was not the only light in the street. The tavern owner’s wife began to glow. She was filling up with a pale silver light, pouring out of her, and spilling onto the street, getting brighter all the time. Will almost forgot to breathe.

“You have chosen the wrong prey this time,” the woman said, and as she did the words changed, until the Fey spoke. The shabby glamour fell away from Sive in rotten shreds, as her true shape erupted from it in a burst of the Art. She stood like a stroke of brilliance in the dullness of the mortal realm, a bold statement in all the darkness. Silver armor surrounded her, and in her hand was a bright sword, as a saint might carry.

For all that her appearance stunned Will, it had the opposite effect on the monsters; evil faces hardened, and sharp tails lashed. They screamed and charged.

Will witnessed what few ever had, a Fey fighting for her life. Women were not warriors in his mind, they were mothers and lovers, not destroyers, but he found something beautiful in the weaves and thrusts Sive made in her defense.

The light streaming from her bathed the monsters, outlining even their terrible forms in a weird beauty. Sive moved like a thing of water rather than a creature of this realm, darting and striking, laughing in the face of pain and death. For there was no doubting it, there could be only one conclusion. Fast as Sive was, as skillful as her blows were, they were just as fast, and pressed her hard. Something in their snapping jaws and sly looks said they were in fact merely playing.

Sive’s sword skidded off their metallic hide, until the street ran with its screeches and the blows she took from their tails, and flat claws wore heavy dents into the once flawless armor. More than just wickedly curved teeth and claws and bunched muscle, was winning the day for the nightmares. Power was flowing from Sive in a deep steady stream, but the creatures were unimpressed. The silver light seemed to flicker and dim a little.

She has never known defeat, Will realized. She does not know it is coming. His heart clenched, and tears sprang to his eyes.

Sive roared at them, lashing out with her bright sword, calling more Art to aid her. The mighty commands made the houses keen and shake but rattled off the metallic hides as smoothly as the sword did. He saw it then, the realization, and a pause in her attack—a stumble back in shock.

And then came their magical counterattack, slicing at the threads of her Art, already weakened by years in the mortal realm. Sive threw up a barrage of defensive moves, physically and ethereally, shocked by the strength of the counterstrike. While two of her attackers pressed her toward the middle of the street, the other, with a look of intense cunning, began to circle around the back. A hint of fatigue tugged at the edges of Sive’s attack. This could not last much longer.

Once more the monster’s howl echoed down the street. It said ‘we have won, and the end is here’. And that was when the power surged up in Will’s chest like a hot flower, pushing against his throat and setting his muscles alight with sudden strength.

Will’s head was spinning like a fever had him, and he was having terrible difficulty even standing. The world reduced to the heat inside him, the battle before him, and the bile rising in the back of his throat. No matter how she had lied to him, he was not about to see Sive slain before his very eyes. When his groping hand found a nearby hoe leaning against the house wall, it was enough for what had to be done.

With a cry, the fever in Will’s head drove him out from safety. Felling the circling creatures with a sweeping blow, he darted in close to Sive, and pressed his back to hers. This close, he could see mortal sweat beading on her forehead, and even a faint trembling in her sword arm, but there was certainly no time for discussion. Her attackers had now become his as well. They lunged at this new threat undeterred.

It felt right to be there, but still it was with a sense of unreality that Will fought next to the woman he had so wanted. Each stroke of his makeshift weapon felt as though it had already been struck and he knew where it would land. The hotness in his head built to a blinding pressure. He was no longer William, meek son of a tradesman; he was Sive’s creature.

However, even the two of them could not hope to prevail. He would die here tonight, Will was suddenly sure, beside the woman he still loved and hated. It could have been funny.

But Sive had other plans. Perhaps acceptance wasn’t her forte, or perhaps she was merely furious at losing, she didn’t say. Instead she simply did the unthinkable, the unholy. Not pausing for permission, not saying a word, she violated him. Grabbing hold of Will’s free arm and wrenching him about, Sive pulled him against her. Suddenly his world reduced and was filled by eyes of the brightest violet burning with power which plunged into him.

Only a heartbeat remained before both of them would be torn to pieces by the triumphant monsters, so only one gasping breath escaped Will’s lips before he was thrown into chaos. Savagely, and without care for the pain or shock she was causing, Sive thrust her Art within him.

Will was blinded and screaming, his sense of self washed away in a flash of white agony. The ancient Fey delved his inner recesses, commanding all that was hidden to come forth. It would have taken a stronger man than he to ignore such a call.

Like quiet embers long denied air, the full force of Will’s Art leapt upward. Lightning struck behind his eyes as it roared to life, as uncontrollable and as unpredictable as any other force of nature. Will’s head snapped back, pure white streams of power erupting from his body from every pore, every nerve ending.

Humanity was blasted aside. He was so alive it hurt. He could feel the very pulse of the earth herself moving in him. Her creativity bloomed through his tight hot skin, breaking him until the William he had been was gone. He was a conduit to the very fabric of the earth mother herself. All sound and sight was wiped out in one bright moment. Incandescent, Will dissolved into the power and exploded with fury. The world rang like a struck bell, dissolving into light.

***

Pain was a just reward for foolishness. Sive’s whole body ached with mortal bruises and cuts, and she sampled each agony a little curiously. When she managed to pry eyes open, it was to find someone’s legs in an ungracious tangle above her. It took a little while to realize they were her own. Her back was against the cool nighttime earth, while her lower half rested against the wall of the Three Crowns. Now she knew exactly how a discarded child’s toy might feel.

How Brigit would have chided her for doing such a foolish thing. To wake a bard’s power was a task to be approached with the greatest caution, not something to be forced, and not something to try without warning. Well, she thought glumly, I’ve done it now.

Sive felt along her ribs, fully taking in the unusual sensation of injury and bruising. Then rolling to her knees, she quickly took in the rest of the street. The road looked as though it had been swept clean by a giant hand, but the buildings all stood and quiet had been restored. Of her assailants there was no sign but three scorched patches near the steps, and not far from where a battered silver haired man-child was sitting on the doorstep of the tavern. His face was resting on his folded arms, and he could have almost been asleep.

Licking her lips experimentally, Sive ventured a word. “Puck?”

He didn’t move from the spot, or answer, but he raised his head and looked past her, to where the crouched form of Will was rocking backwards and forwards.

His face too was averted, and no sound came from him. Sive was suddenly more afraid that she had hurt Will than any chance that she might have damaged his Art. Truthfully, she’d never expected such power. And at that very moment she could not quite decide if that was good or bad. Those creatures had very nearly torn her apart, and yet he had destroyed them so completely—not even their stench remained.

So the survivors of that moment waited, frozen for a time by what they had seen. Will was the first to break free of it. Pushing back his hair, he unsteadily rose to his feet. His eyes when they met hers were almost a Fey violet, but glazed with bitter tears.

Sive suddenly felt desperately alone in that gaze, an alien and ugly creature. His voice when he finally spoke was thick with resignation. “It’s done, Sive, and you have made me what you wanted. But it will not do you any good.”

Puck too had got to his feet, but was unable to decide where to go. He swayed uncertainly on the doorstep, looking between his cousin and his charge; perhaps hoping one of them would reach out. But Sive had fallen back to old habits, and in a burst of impatience had covered the ground to him. In that one stride she had the silver haired Fey by the elbow, and half dragged him back towards the Three Crowns.

Fighting down the strange hard lump that had taken up residence in her throat, she barked at Will. “It’s enough for the moment,” she snapped over her shoulder. “Now I must tend to my cousin.”

Will’s eyes flickered between them, and only then did she realize that he knew nothing of White Cat and Puck. The pale child on the doorstep was a stranger to him.

However at the moment Sive hadn’t the strength to tell him, to reveal what he would undoubtedly think of as further evidence of her scheming. Frustration and fear battled within her, and yet he wanted even more.

Even that dreadful time by the river, he had looked more kindly at her than now. Surely he could see that she wouldn’t have harmed him if at all possible? But what had he expected from her? Did Will honestly expect her to drop to her knees and beg forgiveness from him? Sive was sorry she had broken into his Art like that, but not sorry that they were all alive as a consequence. Foolish mortals—always concerned with themselves.

Anyone could have seen it, the desire to ask more, but he too had reached the end of his tether. Will’s face was a still and death white mask of anger. Shutting his mouth with a snap, he spun on his heel and strode away.

Sive stood at the doorway, undecided and uncertain, almost letting him get away before making up her mind. “We will still need to speak, William. This will not go away like last time.” She tried desperately to keep all contrition from her voice.

He paused at the edge of the darkness, and for a moment she thought he might object, but then he nodded sharply, “At dawn then, in the usual place.” The foolish man made it almost sound like a command.

She tried her best to mimic Will’s anger; turning away from him with what she hoped was as much ease as he showed in leaving. She went in to Puck. He sat silent and quiescent as she tended his wounds, and pumped him full of what power she could spare. He told her in a hushed voice how Will’s burst of power had freed him from the feline form, and how terrifying it had been to be denied his Art. Sive heard with one ear, nodding at all the right places, but her thoughts ranged far ahead and chased rebelliously after William.

She’d never been so aware of the changes in herself. But how could she tell her cousin that, when all he wanted to hear was she could make it better? He had fled to her across the Between, had battled his way to her side, and it was not in her to tell him that she had no idea what next to do. The creature she had once been was just a distant memory. Only she knew how well she was playing the part.

So Sive hid behind the steely mask, developed over many mortal years. Puck quietly insisted on going with her to talk to Will, and something frail but determined lurked in his eyes. The Trickster had been forever altered.

Nothing more remained to be done; the cousins went to the Avon. The sun had just slid over the rooftops as they left the Three Crowns, shutting the door quietly behind them. Puck kept his favored form, and indeed with head bowed, eyes trailing along the ground, he could have well been a beaten child. Together, clothed in glamour and hand in hand, they walked through the town. Despite the hour, people had come to their doors and peered warily out. They had the look of dreamers recently woken. Bemused and befuddled, they had felt the touch of magic, but had no idea of how close they had come to it. In such a place it was not a word to be mentioned, so they merely stood at their doorsteps, waiting for an answer to find them, when in fact it was passing them by. Sive and Puck walked through the village like ghosts, and if anyone noticed the child with Goodwife Hardy, none stopped to ask about it. Every now and then he would look up to Sive, but he said nothing, weariness and bitterness welling in his eyes. She clenched her cousin’s hand tighter.

How strange it was, Sive thought as they drew near the river, that now she was coming as the penitent to a mortal. Even stranger was how emotional she felt about it. Mordant would have laughed to see her walking in human shoes, to meet a man who had her fate in the palm of his hand.

Seeing the spot where they had been happy made her wince, and an odd little pain swell in her breast. The water, the trees all reminded Sive of better times. Here, she now realized she had lost her heart to the foolish young Bard.

William was not here yet though. Was that good or bad? Puck slumped down in the shade of the willow that had once been very dear to her. Sive could see the tucked up forms of the still sleeping swans by the water’s edge, their tiny minds filled with only the thoughts of the river and their next meal. She however was not so lucky. Images of the horrors Mordant could already be inflicting on her home danced in the recesses of her mind.

Puck was murmuring to himself, long Fey fingers laced about his knees. His voice was so low Sive was forced to draw nearer, and only then realized he was in fact singing. It was a foolish rhyme, one sung to children to draw back the fear of the dark. She knew who she’d last heard singing it too. “Brigit?”

“Yes, I’m quite dead,” the cadence changed, becoming suddenly familiar.

Sive’s heart leapt, with hope or terror she could not say. Surely Puck’s mind could not have been snapped in the Between, surely he could not think Brigit lived within him. But she could not be sure of either possibility, so Sive asked. “What happened, aunt?”

“It was Mordant—he has gone too far...”

“Wait, Brigit,” Sive could see Will’s tall dark form walking down the bank towards them. “He does not need to know our woes—just yet anyway.”

Brigit in Puck’s body turned her head, and whispered urgently, “There is so much more for you to know, but for now all you need to understand is that Will is our hope.” He pulled her a little closer. “So for the sake of us all, Sive, choose your words with care.”

Will had twigs and leaves as well as dew in his hair. The hours she’d spent healing Puck, he must have spent walking through the dark woods. He had a troubled brow, but the unmistakable air of power still about his shoulders. What she had woken today could not be undone, and now he was in as much peril as Sive. It was easy to tell, just by looking at him, that he knew it too.

Sive brushed away tears—now was not the time to let him see weakness, so when she faced him, it was as an ancient Fey and not the frail creature he might be able to move. Will’s fingers clenched, but he did not flinch.

Finally noticing the dejected form of Puck beneath the tree, he was seeing as he never had before. For now woken Art told Will the truth, he was able to see the Fey ethereal shapes that hung about the Trickster. One was a white cat. “So you were her creature all along,” Will said bitterly.

Puck’s eyes were brimming with hope and pain, neither of which he’d had much experience with. He bit his lip, “I hope you can forgive me not telling you, Will,” pausing, finding a spark of his old self somewhere. “Think of all the mice I forced myself to eat on your behalf.”

The short, but tense silence, was broken by Will’s sharp laugh. Older heads than his had tried to stay mad at Puck, and failed, “I guess that explains why you were always getting me into trouble then.”

“But we did have fun, didn’t we?” Puck’s quicksilver smile flashed briefly.

“Yes, indeed we did.”

Sive’s heart flared resentfully. Why was it so easy for him to forgive Puck, accept him, and yet he could not look at her as kindly? Was the love she had seen in him only her imagination? Whatever the truth, Sive the Shining would never plead with him.

Still, even while angry, Will couldn’t be anything but fair, something she admired about him. Turning he nodded stiffly in her direction. “I want to thank you for saving my village, Lady. I know you must have had your own reasons for doing it, but the outcome was the same.”

Sweet Mother, how well the man could turn words to advantage! “Well at least you know the truth, William, and you can no longer run from it either. You’re a beacon in the night now, all magics and dangers you’ll draw to yourself. You endanger all that are around you.... Just like me.”

Will’s back stiffened at that—but he knew Sive was right. He might dismiss her motives as manipulation, but the changes in him would not be ignored.

His eyes darkened, and his determined brow knitted together. “Lady, I think you know more of this trouble than I do—and I would appreciate you telling it. I have a family and loved ones to think of.”

Sive stared at him, hearing the formality in his words, and recalling with some sadness the closeness that had been once been between them. Could they even be the same people that had laughed and smiled in this very spot?

Taking her pause for denial, Will stepped closer, until they were toe to toe, “Even you could not withhold information that threatens my family—my children, for God’s sake!”

“What good would it do you to know?” Sive replied. “What would you do against my dread husband? Gather all your foolish villagers and storm his Hall with your pitchforks? Would your god protect you from his wrath—I think not.”

“I will defend what is mine.”

“He doesn’t want anything you have—except your life! He will not rest until both you and I are ground beneath his heel—and if you do not take up your heritage, he will have his way!”

Bard and Dark goddess stared at each other for a long time, uncertain feelings passing between them. The air was warm; the sleeping swans stirred anxiously, and the willow bent and moaned, hoping that lightning would not come. Even Puck got to his feet, his hair an erect mane of silver, but uncertain which way to run should chaos come.

“Lady,” Will finally replied evenly, “Once, I prized you above all things—before I knew the deception in your soul. And yet in this I know you speak the truth.”

A spark of hope lit in Sive. “Unite with me then, Will—together we may defeat Mordant, save your family and my world.” Unconsciously she was straining towards him, hands out in almost-supplication. But as always she could not understand, not appreciating that part of William that was human. “It is your only choice.” She whispered desperately, and by doing so lost him.

Puck shook his head, and turned his face to the weeping willow.

Will’s whole body stiffened, his hands brushing away any conciliatory gesture he may have been tempted to make. “It is not the only way. You forget, Sive, that I am not one of your slaves. I am a free man, and will make my own choices.”

Then he swirled his cloak about him, turned on his heel, and strode back up the hill into the morning mist.

Rage and sorrow choked Sive for a moment, as unbelieving she let him go. But her nature was such that she could not help it. “Your own grave be it then, Will—and mine too.” She called after, her voice thickening into a howl of outrage. The river slapped in its banks, and the disturbed swans woke, breaking into horrified flight at the Fey’s scream. She knew an omen when she saw one.

Chapter 11: He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

Sive’s words chased Will all the way back to Stratford. How one woman could arouse such contrary feelings was a mystery. Anne was a placid lake in which he might drown quietly, while Sive was a tempest beaten sea that could crush him. The Fey still riled him to fever pitch, so that he could not decide whether to throttle or make love to her. She was incapable of love, being twisted by her own demons. If he gave into his own temptations and followed her path, he knew the story would end badly for him.

So Will returned home. He slipped into the kitchen, where Anne was preparing meat for luncheon. She knew he was there, he could see it in the utter stillness of her back to him, but she did not speak. Will opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it with a snap. Instead he went outside and, sitting down on the bench, watched his father’s apprentices about their chores.

He knew that he had always been alone in a sense, but it had never felt this bad before. Susanna found him, and demanded to sit on his lap. He dawdled her there, singing nonsense rhymes into her ear. Words and images were bounding through his head; a madman capered, a villain plotted, a magican gave up his power. Sive was right. His gifts that before had been stifled beneath the weight of living had sprung forth. His fingers itched for paper, and behind his eyes the curtains were being pulled aside. A singular thought struck him.

Perhaps today wasn’t the worst day of his life—perhaps it was only the beginning. Surely it couldn’t be mere coincidence that his Art, as Sive called it, was awakened today of all days, when the players were in town. Those dreams he had...could it be that now was their time to blossom?

Kissing his daughter on the forehead with a smile, he raced into the house. All his papers were stuffed into a chest at the foot of their bed. Quickly he chose those he considered his best. Anne called to him, but he was already out of the door and running down to the Three Crowns. He looked up at the inn sign swinging in the breeze, and listened to the early morning but still drunken laughter within. For a second doubt assailed him, but then the voices of the stories rose up in a chorus.

This was one of those moments when Will could feel the crossroads of life shifting beneath his feet. He had to choose a path—run back to Sive, or take what she had awakened in him and do something with it. It was a murky, dangerous path, with no guarantee of success, and yet the possibilities...

With a grin, Will thrust the door open. Giggling milkmaids clustered around the traveling players within, enraptured by the tales of the open road and the marvels of London. The atmosphere was thick with alcohol. Apart from milk, which was the sustenance of the ill, beer was the only liquid a sane man drank. Water could kill you. The players seemed to be enjoying the morning medicine.

But Will’s eyes were fixed on the man standing by the door. Tarlton held court, much as he had last time Stratford had hosted the players, probably as he did in every village and town. William had stood close to the player before, listening and hoping, but never daring to speak the words. This time however he was spurred on by the Art in his head.

The famous actor’s head was thrown back, laughing at one of his own jokes, when the young Shakespeare appeared. This time his sheaves of paper refused to remain hidden.

“Mr. Tarlton.” God, how his words echoed in the suddenly still tavern, and everyone turned in his direction. “I would be pleased if you would look at these.”

He was suddenly looking into startlingly intelligent eyes. Whatever japes and tricks Tarlton offered to the crowd, they were on his own terms, and for his own reasons. So he should have perhaps pushed the dog-eared pages away; undoubtedly others had made such a suit to him along the road, along the years. Something stopped him though, his brows knitted, but he ruffled through the scraps.

His eyes widened after only a few moments. He raised them from the paper, with an appraising look. The moment seemed very long, until at last he smiled. “Due to a slight... disagreement, we are actually short of a player at the now.”

In the scheme of all things, it was a small enough choice. However Will was fully aware that the fate of his young family rested on his shoulders, and in London, there would be no one to catch him if he were to fall. How long his parents could afford to support themselves, and his brothers and sister, let alone Anne and the children, was the question that troubled him deeply. Yet the Art that had been woken knew nothing of such trivial concerns—it had its own needs. It demanded more of him than Stratford could give.

London was where he could let his gift take flight, and Talton was the person to teach him how. He introduced Will to the little band of players, and explained their next job. He would join them after they had put on their play at Richard Lucy’s manor. Then, he would be Shakespeare of the Queen’s Men, making his money by wit and luck.

Will’s paths all converged, driven by his awakened Art and the need to protect his family. He would have to find a way to tell them that he was leaving—that was the hardest thing. Anne turned away before the words were even out of his mouth, and if she had any emotion at all, he could not tell. The rest of his family smiled and nodded, his mother cried. But they understood. Anne could not.”You might as well go,” she snapped when he cornered her, and demanded to know what she was thinking, “You’ve never really been here anyway.”

Will felt that one bite deep. For once he couldn’t find the right words. “I’m sorry, Anne,” was the best he could manage.

She shook her head. “I tried, Will, I really did, but since that day when I found you on the road, you weren’t the same. You never tell me what you are thinking—you never share. You’re just like my father.”

Will couldn’t offer anything to that—it was all painfully truthful. He thought he’d blocked himself from Sive, but maybe in reality he’d blocked himself from everyone else as well. The sad fact was that there was no going back. No one could make love bloom by sheer force of will, but he had sense enough not to share those hurtful words with Anne.

“I will make try to make it up to you—in whatever way I can.”

She waved her hand at him. “Go, Will, perhaps we can both be happier at a distance.”

It was almost a relief when the day dawned to leave. The little ones cried, his mother’s eyes watered, but the crowd of his siblings glowed with excitement. However it was Anne and his father’s faces that would follow him down the long road to the capital. John Shakespeare had embraced him, the first real contact they had shared since Will’s youth, and when they pulled apart something that might have been a tear glinted in his eye. “God speed,” his father said gruffly, before retreating into the shop.

Anne’s farewell was the last, and most awkward. Whatever joy they had once had in each other was long gone, and Will knew he would wear that guilt forever. Anne had herself retreated into the protective role of efficient goodwife. Her face was that of a stranger.

“Good travels, husband,” she said somewhat forcefully, clutching the bawling Hamnet. “I hope London brings fortune.” Will clasped her fingers briefly. “I shall make it happen,

Anne.” It was the only thing he could offer now. Then Will turned aside, locked away the memory, and set his eyes instead to the future. Stratford dwindled and was gone, but was not replaced immediately by London. First there was the road. The players were a lively bunch, seven men with an odd way of looking at the world, held together by Richard’s constant banter and the sheer necessity of trust. Each was as valued as the next, including Thomas the hard-pressed carthorse, and Crab the dog, who was Tarlton’s best friend and comic sidekick.

The players were making their summer income in the smaller villages and towns. They saw both beauty and squalor around them, and found both joy and disgust in the eyes of the inhabitants. The mud of these places clung to him, while the slick professionalism of the others served to make Will aware of his own inexperience. He spent his first days caring for the props and the heavy, valuable costumes. It was hardly what he had imagined life in the players to be, but he contented himself with the fact that he was learning all the time.

Ample evidence came his way that a place in the Queen’s men was highly prized; for in every place they stopped, some young hopeful thrust himself into Richard Talbot’s path. Each one made Will nervous, for surely among them was another more worthy than he; until he proved himself, nothing was certain.

On Will’s third night, they stopped at a dingy little inn, not far north of Stratford, and put on a short rendition of ‘All for Love’. It was in the third act, Richard was in front of the makeshift curtain, down with the beer drinkers and slack-jawed farmers, doing what he did best, making them laugh. He certainly was the master of bawd, and was so at ease that Will had quite forgotten his part in the grand scheme of things.

That was, until that moment when Richard called for Crab. The players woe-begone dog had been standing all quiet and nice by Will’s heel, shaggy head downcast waiting for his moment like the professional he was. Had been, Will suddenly realized. His fellow actor’s voice rose another octave. “I say come here, Crab the mighty!”

Shakespeare did a quick spin around, looking desperately under the muddle of tables and props, feeling like a complete fool.

John Heminges was in the corner, waiting for his own slightly more distant cue. He didn’t laugh, didn’t curse, but did roll his eyes a little. “Crab gets the odd bit of stage fright,” he whispered. “Richard should have warned you.”

“What do I do?” Will replied, feeling heat building under his collar.

“Don’t worry.” John pulled out a ragtag ball of fluff that once might have been a hat, clapped it on Will’s head, and hurriedly shoved him to his knees, “Now’s your chance to make your name.”

It wasn’t the best of starts, but once the initial shock wore off, Will thought he did rather well. He bounced around the stage chased by Tarlton, making his best dog noises, and trying not to think what his father would have thought of this. He got the biggest laughs when the rebellious Crab did return and tried to make off with Will’s cap. The dog was none too pleased to have a rival.

Embarrassing as it was, the incident broke the ice. The whole troupe of players drank tankards and toasted his first stage performance. Everyone agreed Will was a natural.

“Perhaps you’ll even get to stand on two feet next time,” John grinned. That prompted a round of bawdy comments that almost raised the roof.

Eventually though, Richard called time on the travels, and they made the slow way to London. The players were more cheerful than ever, talking of lovers and excitement waiting for them there. All it meant to Shakespeare was that soon his talents would be really called to account. The players had owners and shareholders he would have to impress.

It was drawing near dusk on a cold miserable day when Richard cut Will’s morbid musings short. “There she rises, boy—that ill-tempered whore London.”

Lifting his gaze from the road, Will caught sight of the city that would be his testing ground; she was a monster, the greatest city in Europe, bursting at her tight fitting, gaudy seams, curled about the Thames, wreaths of smoke visible for miles in the still air, proclaiming both her vigor and her filth. The largest city in the world, Will thought, and I am come to pay her court. I wonder if we will be to each others’ taste.

Perhaps reading his mind, Richard nudged him. “Best make friends with the ugly strumpet, Will, she can swallow you or bed you, but either can kill.”

Bravely Will inhaled her reek as the players stepped forward more lively. So much humanity packed together produced a plethora of ignominious scents, and some were even a match for his father’s whittawering.

As they passed through Newgate, the severed limbs of the hapless London criminals mounted on pikes on either side of the gate waved the young Shakespeare on into their domain. It was a harsh reminder—London made a few men rich, and devoured the rest.

As Will was hustled from right to left in the street, he contemplated that there was at least one advantage to the city. Surely even Sive’s angry, unearthly husband would be unable to find him amongst all this mass of humanity. But that was chill comfort, as faces both welcoming and hostile turned in his direction.

People obviously recognized the players; some clasped hands with Richard, and passed friendly words, while other sterner faces averted their eyes and made an effort to not even brush sleeves with them. To these, Will knew, the players were ungodly; a sign how far fair England had slipped from the path of righteousness. And here he was, pious John Shakespeare’s son, walking right in the middle of the sinners.

Richard chuckled, a low hearty sound that for a moment held back the icy effect of the dissenters’ eyes. “Oh yes, Will, there they are, the sanctimonious horde; to them every laugh or smile a smack in the face of God. So beware you do not commit the gravest sin.” He pulled Will close. “Show them their own foolishness.”

Will hoped that was humor, but he tucked each word away for later examination.

“We’ll find you a place in one of the Stew Houses,” Richard clamped him on the shoulder. “They’re noisy—but there is always plenty of life going on in them.” With a broad wink, he added, “Just what a writer needs, boy—experience.”

Will smiled. “And when can I expect my work to be performed?” Despite his fears, the very idea of his jottings reaching the stage was a thrill. His Bardic Art whispered feverishly.

Richard roared with laughter, “Oh come now, lad—you can hardly expect to step in and take over like that. Plenty of other scribblers in the troupe—you’ll be fighting with them to get that far. But I will show them what you showed me.” He’d sounded much more hopeful back in Stratford.

Will fought down disappointment, but realistically he had expected something of the sort.

Richard jostled his elbow. “Don’t make that face, boy, you’re no fool. You’ll have to work your way into the troupe like all the rest before you.”

Will managed a brave smile. “I’m not afraid of a bit of hard work. Anything will be better than whitterwaring.”

The actor’s famous moustache twitched. “I dare say so. But perhaps I should warn you, we’re a careful bunch.” He looked over his shoulder to emphasize the point. “We have to be.”

Richard found him lodging close to the city gates. The downstairs was a rowdy public house of the kind that Will was unfamiliar with, but upstairs were a variety of rooms, used for a variety of purposes, one of which was boarding for travelers like himself.

Alice the tavernkeeper welcomed Will with open arms. “Won’t be the first player we’ve had here,” she said, but this didn’t make Will anymore comfortable. “In fact,” she beamed through her broken teeth, “Mr. Tarlton here once enjoyed my hospitality when he was younger.” Her well-plumped bosom heaved at the memory, at which Richard suddenly became rather intent on escape.

“Yes... how nice of you to remember, Mistress Alice.” He was already backing for the door. “Get your way to the Rose tomorrow, Will, bright and early, mind.” And with a swirl of his cape, he departed.

Alice made a pout, but then turned on her one remaining player. “I’ll show you to your room then, sir. And then I’ll tell you about other services available to our guests.” One eyebrow wriggled suggestively.

Will took a look over his shoulder into the heaving public room, and suddenly felt like a teenager. The acts going on in there certainly wouldn’t be tolerated in Stratford. Still one had to be as politic as possible. “I’m a bit tired from the long journey. Sir Richard certainly sets a fast pace.”

Mistress Alice sighed regretfully before leading him up to his room. “That he does young man, that he does.”

***

The Fey had no real desire to leave the Avon. After Will had left, Sive hadn’t returned to the Three Crowns. Perhaps Henry would think his sweet wife drowned in the Avon—perhaps he would not even notice. It mattered little; that part of her life was over. Around them the riverbank was quiet, swans tucked up under the reeds, willows whispering to each other in the wind, everything afraid to move and attract Sive’s attention.

In truth, she was ill inclined to follow Will this time. London was not for her, and the idea of so much humanity stacked up was disgusting. And yet soon enough she would have to traipse after William. No other option remained.

Stratford was beginning to look more like home, the river a balm to her shattered senses.

“Will you come with me, Puck?” Her voice barely rose above the trickle of the water under the reeds. “London is not a place I want to go to alone.”

Puck, nestled in the reeds not very far from her, sighed, “I would just be in the way—I have nothing more I can say to the boy. I shall stay here—Will has family he loves, and I don’t think he will look kindly on us if Mordant finds them unprotected.”

What good would it do? If her husband came they would all die and Puck’s sacrifice would only put that fate off by a heartbeat. But it was plain he would not be budged, so Sive did not argue. Let him choose his own path.

Instead her hand closed gently on his arm. “Then at least tell me what you wanted to before. What was it that killed our aunt?”

Puck froze, neither pulling away, nor breaking at this rare sign of affection. “He is no longer the Mordant you once loved, fair cousin. He probed too far into the Between, and something relentless found him, and made him its creature.”

“What?”

Puck’s skin shuddered under her hand. “You would not believe me if I told you, no Fey nor mortal would.”

“Then what makes you believe?”

His heavy eyelids drooped, as he contemplated something deep within. “Because I took Brigit’s Last Breath, and she knew. She was killed for that knowledge, and that is why Mordant hunts me now.”

Sive slumped against the willow, losing the will to stand. “If Brigit wasn’t powerful enough to beat Mordant, what hope is there for us?”

“I can show you the end, then you may understand.”

Something in her voice made her afraid, but the fact remained at this very moment her foolish brother and his Court might all be dead, and all that had been beautiful and precious of the Fey swallowed up.

Slipping her hand into Puck’s small one, Sive clenched his fingers. “Show me.”

Briefly raising her hand to his lips he grinned, and there was a hint of Brigit’s strength hidden in it.

Puck fished under the loose shirt he wore on childish shoulders, and pulled out a dark knotted cord. It took Sive a moment to realize that a strange dark pendant hung from it, and as it described a lazy arc in her cousin’s hand she felt vaguely uneasy. Her eyes were tempted to skid away, almost, as though there was a type of glamour on it. But it looked familiar all the same.

Her cousin’s fingers grasped hers firmly. “This will not be easy, Sive, but believe me that it is the only way.”

It was not very long ago that she wouldn’t have trusted Puck to do the simplest task, and yet now she did not hesitate. “I’m ready,” she muttered, though she had no idea for what.

He shut Sive’s eyes with his fingertips, and then the icy cold metal of what could only be the amulet pressed to her forehead. First a chill came, then total numbness; her body slipped loose of its chains so swiftly that she had no time for shock, or to reach for her Art. Puck had become more powerful than she’d realized. Though his voice was very far away, it echoed forcefully in the back of her head. He was using words of power she’d never heard before, but they resonated through her being, summoning the past. The only thing left for Sive to do was trust.

The world collapsed into a spiraling pinwheel, but she was not afraid—not afraid at all. How could she be afraid? She was powerful and beloved, and she was Anu.

“Sister?”

Anu opened her eyes, and smiled into Brigit the Blessed’s sweet face. “Is it time?”

“You know it is,” her sister grinned. “As if you could not know he is coming.”

Anu’s hand drifted to the contented swell of her belly, and though this would be the last time she would see her love, she was not afraid. They had said what needed to be said, and had always known this time would come. She brushed Brigit’s copper bright curls from her face. “You do not need to come dearest—the setting of the Seal needs only one mortal and one Fey.”

Those violet eyes met her own. “I would not leave you all alone in the Between when it is over. You might need me.”

It would do no good to pretend that there was no danger. Both Anu and her sister had seen too much death to take any chance lightly. So she merely nodded, before drawing Brigit in for a swift hug. It was the Mother of All’s blessing that they had both survived, and she could not deny that this moment meant something, both as queen and as mother-to-be. She locked her sister’s hands tightly around her swollen belly in an unspoken pledge to the future. When her lover had returned to his realm, they would be alone again, sister and sister as it had been before.

“Come then,” Anu opened the Veil with gentle caress. “You will be our witness.”

The Between was a far quieter and safer place since their victory, and both sisters were grateful for that. The cool light was kind to tired eyes, and the air like thick honey pressed as balm against battered senses. In the Between there was no direction, no sun to mark the passing of time, no air to fill the lungs. It was a place where time had paused, and space did not exist. Some Fey had speculated it was the place where the Mother of All’s thoughts came from, a physical expression of her spirit.

Brigit and Anu’s shared thoughts wandered through melancholy memories, the people they had loved, both human and Fey, the pain they had shared, the terrible face of their enemy, until finally settling amazed on the fact that they had indeed won.

Anu kept her eyes cast down as they walked, finding the way through the mists easily to the place where he waited; it would not be so simple to let him go though.

Finally The Nexus welcomed them. It was the place where lines of power meet, not just those of one world, but of three. It bound and held the triumvirate worlds together, much like the great stone circles in the human world, or the sacred oak groves in the Fey.

The thousand colors of a million possibilities rattled against their eyes, as the light of Between passed through the great columns of the Nexus. Even now, after so many times in this place, Anu felt her breathing slow and her heart race. Those columns were as smooth and tall as trees, as broad and solid as stones. The purest of the Mother’s creations, they were made of a thousand faceted crystals through which the light from the triumvirate passed, emerging on the other side as millions of bright, colored lights. Where these touched Anu’s skin, she ached. It was the most sacred place in any realm, and a fitting spot to find him this last time. Her heart leapt in her chest at his tall dark form waiting in the brightness.

Brigit stepped aside, her eyes glistening with empathic tears, but wanting her sister to savor the moment by herself.

Galentus was Anu’s human half, and she’d known it the moment she saw him. He was not exceptionally beautiful even by mortal standards, but he had fire and passion. His strength had held the queen of the Fey up in those moments when hope had been impossible. She had thought him lost in that moment when the Unmaker was defeated, yet the Mother must have watched for him. Anu had never doubted that he would father a child with her, and never been unaware that he would return to his world. They’d known it from the start.

He strode across and pulled Anu to him. His kiss seared, his thoughts leapt across to hers. The last time. Neither could bear to speak to the other, and what words would they have used instead? They had said their good-byes before.

Together, fingers intertwined, they stepped between the pillars where the light was brightest. Both could feel the pulse of the worlds in that spot, and almost see the bubble curves of the triumvirate around them. Even now, with the Sealing almost complete, the Shattered realm pulsed with malice. Together Galenta and Anu held their hands high locked around the amulet they had cast from Fey and mortal earth. Art of two races belled forth, making the crystal pillars sing, and both could feel the Mother of All was with them. The Nexus rang, and the Sealing was complete. The hand of human and Fey sealed the Unmaker. Anu wept for victory and loss.

Sive dropped back to herself, feeling her face wet with her mother’s tears, and her heart just as broken. So now she knew what had happened, and seen the face of her long dead father. How could Anu have done it; to let the man she loved remain in his world, knowing he would perish before his child was even born?

She should have been mortified that her father was a human, something she once would have denied, but she had seen the world through Anu’s eyes, and felt the love between them. Her memories were now Sive’s memories

Sive cleared her throat, and wiped away the tears. “Thank you, Puck,” she finally managed.

His hand was gentle on her shoulder. “It was best you see it—better to understand that way.”

Mordant meant to undo what her mother and her father had done. By destroying the two realms Sive could see, he would be able to free the Unmaker. And some remnant of Anu told her that the only way to stop it was to break the Nexus, and move the worlds apart. It was not something she could do by herself.

Brigit and she knew who could do it—but the question was how could either of them convince him that it was so?

“I will go to him,” Sive whispered, abruptly seeing the path. “If I am clever he will come to see the need.”

Puck made a face that was extremely doubtful. “Not now he won’t, Sive. He was so angry I doubt you’d even get near enough to press the issue.”

Her foot tapped for a moment as she looked out across the river, seeing her mother’s sacrifice and understanding for the first time that virtue she had never possessed—patience.

So if time was what Will needed—then time he would have. Puck reached her conclusion a moment too late to stop his cousin. Sive had already reached out for the Veil, but not to cross into the Fey. She called out with all her Art into that void, willing it to move and part for her. Puck’s call was distant and long ago.

Across time Sive the Shining stepped, through mortal worlds and years; she left Stratford-upon-Avon, and went to into the future of London and Will.

It took almost all of her remaining power, but it was also her last hope; those years would be telling to Will, and perhaps that was all he needed.

As she left her stunned cousin years behind, Sive could only hope she was right.

Chapter 12: Love by another’s Eyes

The coach had not been conjured from thin air, nor from any sort of root vegetable. It was a normal vehicle, pulled by two grumpy, shaggy horses. Their discomfort and unhappiness were apparent to the occupant of the coach, not only by the little care they had for taking corners or avoiding massive potholes, but also in the whisperings of their equine minds.

Dark eyes, once violet, blinked in the dimness of the carriage. Her foray into the future had left her marked, no doubting that. Gone were the piercing, startling eyes of a Fey, replaced instead with the warm brown eyes of a mortal woman. Sive concentrated hard; trying to imagine it was merely another disguise, and not something that had been thrust upon her. Nothing could be done about it anyway, for whatever Mordant was doing in the Fey, it was changing her too.

Her power was almost exhausted. And how Brigit would have enjoyed Sive’s current discomfort, and been amused at the trappings of mortal womanhood. The way the stiff flat corset pushed her breasts to ridiculous heights, or the incredible bell-like underskirts which made Sive’s lower half into a heavy piece of architecture. Sive had yet to work out how exactly she was supposed to manage narrow doorways. She felt neither attractive, nor particularly elegant. It seemed she had escaped the constrictions of marriage only to fall into those of a human woman.

Still this was how humans dressed for their queen. And despite Elizabeth being a mortal, Sive had a profound respect for any woman that could hold her own in this world. With her powers diminished, the Fey knew very well that she would have to tread warily.

Sive winced as the coach found another ditch in the middle of the road, her spine having been mortally abused as it was. After being jolted and bounced around like this, getting to Court was going to be a relief.

Her stomach fluttered nervously at the thought. Nearly six mortal years had passed since she took that step through the Between, and during that time Will had not been idle. As player and writer, the young man from Stratford had made a name for himself in the largest city of Europe. Sive had heard his plays drew thousands. So if his plays and poetry had bought success and fortune, she could only hope that they had bought a larger measure of compassion.

Sive frowned and buried her clenched fingers in the thick material of her dress. She’d approach him differently this time. She’d open her soul to him, let him love her, and then through her, learn to love the Fey. Only then, he might see it not as some unwholesome realm of demons, but as a bright and beautiful place deserving of salvation. It was not easy for Sive to put aside old ways, but it was all that was left.

A scream sounded outside, and Sive started upright to the sound of desperate fingernails catching in the wood of the door. A flicker of half-mad thoughts invaded, warped by hunger and pain. Then the driver snarled, and the whip cracked out—he was used to such attempts on his passengers. Those who had nothing to lose sometimes tried their luck against the speed of the horses. The carriage raced on with another resounding jolt.

Sive sighed and, huddling back as best she could in the seat, tried to find a better position for her maligned muscles.

Concentrate, Sive forcefully turned her thoughts to her predicament once again. Her Art traced the coach’s passage between the gates and guards, up to Greenwich castle itself. Now the noise and bustle of London was shut away, and she was fully in the domain of a mortal queen.

The coach lurched to a halt, and Sive waited with impatience for the door to be opened. When it was, she stepped down into a world that could almost have been Fey. The wide courtyard was full of life, the air thick with sprightly music, and even the candlelight dancing in each window was eerily familiar. Torches spluttered, lighting up brightly dressed men and women, clustering together like fragile colored moths, each seeking to outdo the other in beauty and wit. Sive immediately felt the dowdiness of her attire, but held her head high under the curious glances.

Powdered faces of both men and woman turned to follow this darkhaired, somberly dressed newcomer, and the whispers began before she had even passed out of earshot. She plowed through the wave of scents, sweet and powerful, but masking more pungent body odors. Wrinkling her nose, Sive crested the stairs and found the way blocked by a trio of men. Used to people stepping instantly aside for her, Sive was confronted with an unusual situation. This skirt would not allow her to move past them, but neither was it possible to thrust them out of the way as she might want.

A pretty face always attracts attention. Two of the men smiled somewhat archly and bowed even more sparingly before moving off, the remaining man turned slowly. It was as much for her benefit as it was for his. The dark eyes that confronted Sive were made for mischief, dancing over this newcomer, obviously finding something to impress.

She in turn raised an eyebrow, and appraised him just as brazenly. He was a bejeweled, dark Adonis, and obviously well aware of it. The cut of his garment showed to best advantage his fine leg, and the carefully manicured moustache surrounded a set of lips used to getting their own way.

A small frown touched his forehead, perplexed no doubt by her lack of companions; after all a single woman presenting herself at court was hardly common.

“My lady,” he traced an elaborate bow, managing to display both his excellent manners and calves at the same time, “I do not believe I know your name...”

Sive returned his bow, and she smiled her most beguiling smile. “Lady Margaret Shelton. Her Majesty sent for me.”

He had captured her hand and raised it to parted lips before she even realized. “Then I owe yet another debt to my sovereign. For wherever you were hiding, my lady, must have been very distant for me to miss such radiance. I can only be thankful of the chance to take advantage of it now.”

Sive restrained her smile before it had time to show, certain he wanted to take advantage of more than her pretty face. Still this man had more than enough charisma to make the lechery seem charming. Sive looked down the length of her arm at him, thinking how his mortality enhanced rather than diminished her attraction to him. Pleasures of the flesh with a mortal could not seem so distasteful, now that Sive knew the truth of her own past.

A little blush crept into her pale cheek. The human realm may have altered her, but now was not the time to weaken. Nor was this popinjay about to break habits of hundreds of years. She had his measure, and had heard the stories. Her earlier reconnaissance told her that she had the hand of the Robert Devereux, the queen’s current favorite.

“My lord Essex,” she murmured. “I would stay and tell you where I have been hiding, but I have been summoned.”

And yet still he waited another interminable moment before drawing her into the palace. Obviously Essex thought his title of favorite gave him more leave than anyone else. Sive could only hope that he wouldn’t try anything else. She knew very well that dark corners and empty rooms could be found by the right people, and couldn’t afford to waste her waning Art on cooling mortal ardor. Something in Sive’s eye must have warned him; perhaps he’d seen similar in his own ruler. In Essex’s confusion, he sketched another superfluous bow. “Then allow me to bring you to her Majesty.”

Sive took the offered hand, and matched him stride for stride into the heart of the palace. Curious eyes followed her at every turn, made worse as she could hear their thoughts. Who was this dark beauty walking next to Essex?

The partially lit halls were bustling with nobles of all creeds, and she observed the little tightknit groups, talking in hushed whispers, believing that they could not be heard, plotting and dreaming. Each person was yet another insight into the treachery and deceit of this realm.

Her companion leaned gently toward her ear. “You have chosen a fine night to arrive, my lady. The Queen’s Men are performing, and all the best and brightest of England are here to see it. Her Majesty herself is very fond of the revels.”

Sive’s heart leapt. “These are some of the players who perform the young Shakespeare’s plays?”

“Of course,” Essex chuckled. “Even in the farthest reaches of England William is known. Every troupe in London has his plays.”

Sive noted his familiar use of her protégé’s name, but said nothing, for they had arrived at the impressive doors; beyond were the sounds of music and laughter.

Essex took her silence as nervousness at meeting the Queen of England. “All is well, milady,” he crooned, remarkably managing to ease a little closer even through her rigidly constructed kirtle.

Sive was not afraid of Elizabeth, just concerned how she would appear to other eyes. Her guide nodded, and the doorman did their duty. Sive and Essex entered the room.

Sive might have slipped back to the court of her mother, so much so that for a moment she stood fighting longing on the threshold of the scene. Prettily dressed courtiers lounged and laughed at the fringes of the Court, while the center was given over to a surging group of dancers, both beautiful and joyful. Bejeweled and bedecked men lifted and guided equally elegant women in complex steps that echoed all that Sive loved about the Fey. The room was thick with the scent of rosewater and sandalwood, mixed with the heady ring of laughter, run through with the unmistakable pungency of hedonism.

“Quite something the first time, isn’t it, milady.” Essex’s breath lay against her neck, but he jumped back when he looked to the crowd. Oh yes, he might make plays at power, but someone else still held his leash.

Sive turned and saw the queen bee of this hive.

Time had not been any kinder to Elizabeth Tudor than to any other mortal. The long face had once been beautiful, but the teeth were gone, the skin raddled, and the hair on her head was not her own. Her dress and wig were the most elaborate, her face paint the thickest, and beneath it all, was a body that was giving way to mortality. She gleamed and glittered as she must have in her youth, but it was all veneer. And yet age had not touched the core of the woman, those shrewd eyes missed nothing in the room, least of all Essex’s abrupt retreat from Sive. But this queen was determined in her battle to hold off death; she was dancing with the youngest and most beautiful men in the room, with the energy to match them. A youth who looked into her face as he lifted her still had the bedazzled look of one in love.

This queen had something Sive had not seen before. The Fey’s eyes narrowed, feeling with her Art for the kernel of truth beneath the mask. She thrust past dark haunted memories of father and danger, feeling the fear and anger that still lingered there after all those years, and deep into the soul of the Queen of England. The steel of her nature still held strong, an incredible strength of will that would not be broken by anything in this life. Sive was rarely impressed.

And then the eyes of Elizabeth turned to hers. For a moment tension sung between the two women, unfelt by any, almost as if the queen had sensed the Fey probe.

Sive sketched a curtsey, as befitted one royal to another. Elizabeth brushed away her partner, and the crowd feeling her unspoken command parted, so that nothing lay between the two of them.

“Lady Shelton.” Elizabeth’s voice was surprisingly sweet and untouched by age. “It was a dream of mine last week to bring you to court. A fancy to see a distant relative, and when you have lived as long and as hard as I have, you learn to obey your fancies.”

Sive felt a little regret in the deception, but was just glad her Art had worked.

This child of the Boylen line had inherited that sad family’s entire Fey heritage, though luckily not her mother’s tenth finger. It made this queen more powerful and more determined than any other before. What a shame that, like all mortal things, it would all pass to dust. But this was also, Sive reminded herself, William’s fate—indeed the fate of all mortals.

“Your majesty.” Sive bowed her head, and yet let her now brown eyes lock with Elizabeth’s. “Your court and presence are as fine as I heard tell, even in my distant home.”

The queen raised one eyebrow and fixed her with a puzzled stare, used to picking out the subtle meaning in everything that was spoken to her. “I cannot tell what old maid’s fancy made me send for you, Lady Shelton, but you are nothing that I imagined.” With a swirl of fabric and the faint jingle of crystal, the queen imperiously raised her hands and clapped. “The dancing is over—time for our play.” The musicians were swiftly silent, and the Court filed out of the hall, and into a side room. Here a carved throne set amongst a sea of chairs, and a small stage was directly before the most important spot. This clear space was lit by shielded candles and backed by a magnificent tapestry.

Elizabeth sailed over, settled smoothly into the throne, and rattled her fingers impatiently on the arms, “My Lady, you will sit next to me while the players perform. I would have your opinion on the quality of this Shakespeare’s art.”

Sive smiled, taking a position to the right of the old queen. They sat so close that Sive could not help inhaling the scent of sweet marjoram and aging mortal.

“This should be intriguing,” Elizabeth’s tone betrayed excitement. “And there are few things in a ruler’s life that are both intriguing and safe.”

Sive grinned; in her brother’ court this was just as true. “Have you seen many of Shakespeare’s work, your majesty?”

“They performed last year at the Christmas revels. I thoroughly enjoyed Two Gentlemen of Verona, and it has been quite the rage with my people as well.”

The two queens, mortal and Fey, sat in a companionable silence, as the rest of the Court took their places around them. Like a flock of roosting birds, they twittered and preened, obedient to the unwritten rules of this community, squawking quietly for the best spots where their plumage might be noticed. Glances were exchanged, unspoken alliances confirmed, and hatreds hardened around them. Though they passed in invisible eddies around her, Elizabeth was more than aware. She had to be; each one could be a newly sprung rebellion, and even in old age such things concerned her. Still when the play began, the monarch was completely absorbed by William’s Art. Nor was she alone.

Sive at first thought the display a little pathetic. Despite the fine fabrics and elegant costumes, they were still a bunch of men and boys trying to make real the unreal. Willowy young men portrayed women, and sounds of battle were merely the rattling of pots and pans offstage. But then the Fey in her began to appreciate the illusion. Despite her skepticism, she was carried away by it all. The slim boys clad in dresses gradually became ill-fortuned women, and the men were both brave and foul. Sive the Shining had never seen such a thing.

When it finished, she had tears in her eyes. It conveyed so perfectly the bittersweet taste of mortality that she had for quite a time forgotten it was not her fate. Will’s Art had found its own way to flourish, and its own time.

Sive risked a glance across at Elizabeth. No tears marred the thick make up, but her eyes were surprisingly bright, and her hands clapped admiration with all the rest. What power Will had, to be able to carry away the steely thoughts of this queen, and to bear her beyond the palace and into other realms?

The Court stirred around them, awakening from the spell, and found themselves back in the set pattern of betrayal and treachery. Elizabeth remained still for a moment, disinclined to move.

Then the actors emerged, and a fresh wave of clapping broke out. Their queen called bravo, and tossed heavy gold coins at their feet.

Sive was on edge once more. She averted her eyes; terrified and hopeful that Will would arrive. Only steely resolve kept her in her chair.

Lord Essex and another highly powdered youth sauntered behind the curtain and emerged with the playwright. His eyes were downcast, obviously ill at ease in the bright court. Lord Essex’s friend was joking with him, making much of his familiarity with Will, that much Sive could see.

Had Will changed? She could not tell easily, not without catching his eye, and for some odd reason she wasn’t ready to do that.

The three men made their way towards their queen. Sive arose as quickly as she could and slipped back a little; now might be the only time she’d get to observe him.

Will bowed calmly to his queen, his shoulders tense, but his smile genuine. For a long time he captured her entire attention. Time had marked his face, and like all Fey she found that fascinating. The sweet shadows of youth had arranged themselves into the mature planes of a man’s face, and placed a few lines on his brow for good measure. His rising fortunes were displayed in a richly embroidered brocade doublet, a real beauty to her Fey eye. The face above the finery also told her much; he appeared calmer and happier. However, she could not be sure, as any dipping into his mind was impossible.

He smiled and bowed before his queen, eyes locked on the golden splendor she displayed. Sive kept her body turned a little, the galleon of her dress obscuring his view of her.

“Your Majesty.” William took the proffered ring hand, and kissed it. “I hope our meager offering did not offend.”

Elizabeth snorted, “It did nothing like offend, as you all too well know, Mr. Shakespeare. Do not think to get empty compliments from me... but it did amuse.”

Sive caught Will’s knowing smile as it was pressed against the cool metal of the queen’s ring. He knew the nature of his queen.

“You have yet to meet my newest addition to court.” The queen nodded to Sive. “The Lady Shelton is a distant relative whom I have just now winkled out of hiding in the country.”

Sive barely heard Essex introduce his grinning companion as Lord Southampton, and unnecessarily speak Shakespeare’s name as well, for by then she had turned to him. Will’s eyes finally lighted on a face he’d never expected to see again. Sive could see his shock in the miniscule tightening of his jaw, though perhaps no one else did.

Will gave her a bow calculated to a precise degree. “My Lady. I hope you too enjoyed our little show.”

“I have seen nothing like it at home,” she replied evenly. Shockingly, Sive could feel her cheeks warming under his gaze.

Will’s blue gaze narrowed, perhaps trying to find some hidden meaning, some barb to her comment, but there was no anger in the look. The moment wore on.

Essex grinned askance, and Southampton, who Sive had ignored utterly, shuffled his feet. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, smiling archly. “Were I so sure it was impossible, I might think you two had met before.”

Sive ducked her head. “Quite so, your majesty, that is quite impossible.” It was silly to feel this way; perhaps she should never have forced Will’s hand so publicly. He was glaring at her, she was sure.

The queen lost interest in this odd little moment, and rose to her feet, “I have a fancy to dance, my Lord.”

Essex took her upraised hand, and led her back into the further chamber. For a second Southampton looked like he might say something, but a tilt of Sive’s head sent him scurrying after his friend. The tide of court shifted and followed Elizabeth, and while Sive and Will stood still the musicians in the other room began to play.

They were trapped in an awkward stance, neither willing to speak first, and yet neither wanting to move away. Sive could tell many things merely from how he stood, the way his eyes were pools of hurt, but his body leaned towards her.

“Have you given up your power, milady, and become human?”

Sive could hear the yearning in his voice, and oddly when she replied it was there too. “Perhaps you would say, I have found the mortal inside me.”

A low groan came from his chest, and he shook his head like an unwillingly woken sleeper. “Are you here just to torment me, Sive? Does it give you pleasure to do this to me?”

“No—never Will. I just need a place to hide for a time, like you.”

“And you chose here, of the thousand places you could have gone?” he said, with a short angry laugh.

“I...” Sive was lost for words. She bit her lip, trying to find the determination she’d had only an hour before.

Will advanced. “And don’t ever say you’re like me You don’t have even the faintest idea how I feel!”

“Alone,” she whispered, “frightened sometimes in the night. Wondering what might be happening to your loved ones, and how it will all end. Trapped.”

Will stopped short, breathing heavily.

Sive went on bravely, “Knowing that your whole family is depending on you—and you’re the only one to do anything about it. And all the time afraid of failing.”

It was strange how clearly she could see the trip of his pulse on his neck; he was standing closer than he had in a very long time.

“Well, William,” Sive tilted her head, and looked him in the eye, “That is exactly how I feel—only worse. For I know the man I love loathes me.” She certainly hadn’t meant to say that.

They stood for a moment not moving, breathing each other’s breath, and everything else was very still.

And then Will raised his hand, brushing it against her cheek.

How odd, how strange that her heart was beating in her throat, and her dress had become so constrictive. So this was how mortal women felt—this feeling could surely only be a rush of blood. Sive the Shining had never felt so uncertain.

Will’s eyes were scanning her, searching for some sign, some hint of Fey nature—anything that might let him push her away. However there was none, Sive in that moment as human as she had ever been, all nervousness and hopes simmering near the surface.

His fingers found hers and tightened, hard surfaces where the quill had rubbed pressed against skin that had never known calluses. Will’s thoughts surged across the thin barrier between them; the long restless nights where she had haunted him, how he had fought his love, and then in dreams claimed her. But now the Bard had finally reached a place where words were no longer an issue.

But Will spoke anyway. “I have never hated you, Sive, only hated myself for wanting you.” And then he decided that was enough.

They kissed in the half-lit hallway, and though it was not as sweet and innocent as when he had been a boy, it was at least a kiss that they both understood the implications of.

What’s more, something marvelous happened; Sive the Shining and the disapproving William quite disappeared. All that was left was two lovers pressed against each other, and for the now it was enough.

Finally Sive pulled her mouth free, only too glad to let the rest of her body lean against his. She felt as though she had already stepped over the boundary and become human.

“Take me home, William,” her lips stumbled around the words.

He pulled her head against his chest, but said nothing. He only drew her away from the torchlight, wrapping her in darkness, and towards the passion they both wanted.

Chapter 13: Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

Outside the air was cold, but inside the rattling carriage there was a warmth which had nothing to do with the season. They travelled in silence like any other couple. Will leaned back in the shadows, apparently relaxed, but Sive could see that was far from the truth. His body was in fact as taunt as a bow-string, and his eyes never left hers. That gaze as lay hot on her skin as the sun, warming parts of her that had lain dormant all her time in Stratford and perhaps longer.

Beneath the tight confines of her bodice her previously languid immortal heart was racing like a hare’s while her breath seemed lodged in her throat. It was beyond foolish. Sive had loved more times than she could remember with Fey, both of the court and of the mecurial feral kind that roamed the hills of that realm. She had never been drawn to a human, never in any way—let alone this surging desire. Sive told herself repeatedly that it was his Bardic Art working magic on her, even though she could feel none of its presence.

Tucking her hands into her cloak she felt the tremble in them move down her arms and into the very core of her. She wanted to touch Will, and it took tremendous control not to at least reach across and lace her fingers with his. She knew however that if she did that all her crumbling barriers would be quite overcome. Time weighed on them as the coach creaked, groaned and shuddered through London and once again Sive was reminded how mortals were its plaything.

“You were brave to come,” Will’s voice was low and rough, emerging from the darkness to fill her ears. He had a beautiful voice, melodic and low and she longed to hear it stretched out into a moan.

Sive knew at this moment most men, Fey or human would have praised her charms, her beauty, but Will saw right past those superficials. Her lips curled in a smile as she recognised he was praising something else—her courage.

“No braver than you,” she replied softly, trying not to break the delicate moment, “Leaving all that you had in Stratford for this.”

Will’s laugh sounded bitter for a second, and then he leaned forward, so that their legs pressed against each other. Sive’s breath jammed behind her teeth as she held herself rigid. His grey eyes traced along her face, though he did not touch her. “You know why I left,” and there was no accusation in his tone, just sadness.

Sive had no answer for that, and she was in truth too scared to reply. So not knowing what to do, she leaned forward and kissed him. It was meant to be a gentle, understanding gesture but they had long ago passed that point.

Their kiss roughened, hardened and became desperate as Will’s tongue brushed against hers. Sive gasped as the Bard pulled her tight against him, jerking her across the distance and across onto his lap like she was a wench not a goddess or a Fey. Yet it felt like just the right place for her to be, even if this foolish human clothing got in their way.

Luckily as they kissed and clutched at each other in the suddenly humid interior, the coach lurched to a halt. The driver pounded on the roof, announcing they had reached their destination, the rooms Sive had taken.

Reluctantly Will pulled back from her, his hands dragging over her soft skin. “I have taken you home m’lady,” he whispered into her ear, “Just as you asked.” His breath hot on her neck sent an almost painful twitch through her body.

The Fey laughed—low and predatory. “Forsooth Mr Shakespeare, you would let a lady enter a darkened building alone? Anything could happen.”

The Bard shot her a wicked smile, well accustomed to the fact that she was more than capable of taking care of any dangers London might present.

They paid the driver his coin and Sive led the way up the stairs to her chambers, concious that she was actually trembling a little. It was ridiculous, she was not a child, this was not her first time and yet despite all that the Fey realised she was nervous. It was not that she thought she could control the Bard—time had finally taught her the recklessness of that. It was all about the look in Will’s grey eyes as he turned her about. They stood before the door in the moonlight and looked at each other for a moment. Sive was taken aback at the naked desire in his eyes, the kind of smouldering primitive emotion that she had never seen on any Fey face and have never mattered on any humans. This time it was different.. this time it was her love looking at her like that.

“Will you wind me in your magic net?” the Bard asked, his fingers tangling in her loosened hair. “Send sprites to do my bidding, or perhaps bend me with your lightening?”

His words bought such a swell of emotion to her throat, that Sive could make no reply. She shook her head slowly. Even if she had enough Art in her she wouldn’t have wanted to endanger this moment.

His hand grazed against her cheek and she leant into his touch, relishing the feeling of his warmth against her. Will bent and whispered against the soft skin of her cheek. “The prey is bought to bay, but which of us is the Hunter I wonder?”

Sive swallowed hard before undoing the latch, and swinging the door open silently. “Let us go in and find out.”

The Bard took two quick strides in after her and pulled her roughly up against him. Sive realised with a start that they were eye to eye—she had never noticed that before. Then his lips were once more on hers and thinking became far less important. She did not summon her Art, she had so very little of it left, but Will did, and as Sive slid her hand up his chest and against his neck she could feel it sizzling under his skin.

She leaned in, her lips softy parted wanting there to be no space between them, wanting him, but it was the Bard that pulled back. Will’s grey eyes were hard to read, even with Fey sight, “Say it Sive,” his voice a low rumble in his chest, felt more than heard.

It was the last of his resistance to her. He needed to know that this was not another of her games.

The Fey let out a low soft sigh, and blinked back what might have been tears. Will waited, his body taunt and pressed against her, not letting her go but also holding himself back until she had said what he needed to hear.

Sive tilted her head, her eyes finally darting up to lock with his. Her words were almost human, “I am sorry Will. I didn’t understand you… love. Now I do and I hope you can forgive me.” It was not a lie and the honesty came very easily.

It was all he had been waiting for. With a deep growl Will thrust his hands into her thick dark hair and pulled her lips to his. Sive had been kissed by Fey men, enjoying the erotic tickle of Art and flesh, but this was something different. The love she had carried for Mordant felt like it had been merely an echo of this passionate want and desire, that was as thick and real as the earth of this realm.

When the Bard’s mouth opened against hers an unknown room opened inside her. Passion licked up through her core as they kissed, so sudden and unexpected in its rawness that she let out a groan of delight.

This was not some etherial pleasure that tickled the senses languidly like a warm summer afternoon, this was a primative fire that came from somewhere deeper she hadn’t even known existed.

Together they tugged and tore at their clothes, skin screaming to be free. Sive was unfamilar with human buttons and ties, but Will stilled her hands, pressing her back against the wall. The Fey’s breath was coming in short gasps, but she lowered her head a little and glanced at the Bard with hungry eyes.

“Let me look at you,” he said, as the moonlight streamed in through the window. To remain motionless now became a matter of honour as Will’s hands trailed down the curve of her face, stroked her neck and lightly sculpted the curve of her breast. The tempest of sensation that his lightest touch caused her was a hard to resist. Sive bit her lip as his strong, sure hands loosened the points on her bodice, more used to human fripperies than she was. Will unpinned her sleeves and skirts letting them drop from her like a curtain on one of his stages. His last gesture being to unfasten her hair and spread it across her shoulders. It ran like a dark curtain over her breasts and curled delicately on her hips. Sive stood there, unashamed but only just holding herself in check as Will’s gaze devoured her. Certainly she knew she was beautiful and plenty of humans had worshipped at the altar of the dark goddess, but this was very different.

She smiled a little wickedly at him, enjoying that feral hot look. “Composing an ode Mr Shakespeare?”

Will made no clever reply, no rhyme or sweet words. Sive could see his breath quicken underneath his opened shirt. “By God I could look at you forever,” The Bard hissed over his teeth, “But I am not going to.”

He was suddenly there, against her, his hands sliding up the length of her naked back. The roughness of his clothes, honest homespun burned against Sive’s soft flesh. They whispered each other’s true names as they pulled his shirt loose so that skin met skin.

The thought flashed across Sive’s mind that she now understood what Brigit had meant. Being in this moment of pleasure and forfilment was worth every terrible moment she had waited previously. The bed was in the next room, but neither of them could move to it. It had to be here and now.

The dark goddess’s mind whirled with surprise and ecstasy, feeling herself pinned against the coarse texture of the wall as the Bard entered her. This must be what it is to be truly alive, she thought carelessly and Will thrust into her again.

Surrender was something the dark goddess had never entertained, but she was prepared to let the Bard show her the ways of human lovemaking and fragility.

But first it was something else. Desperation had to be fed and given its due like a hungry dog. Sive quite lost her sense of dignity and Fey decorum.

It was a revelation. It was sweat and groans, the delightful strain of muscle and sinew. Will was delving into his Art, though if he knew it or not Sive did not contemplate, as his body drove her to heights of animal passion. Certainly there was no other way a human could have matched the stamina of a Fey, yet Will was channeling earth magic in a way that she would not complain of.

Eventually they made it to the bed, and found new luxury there that made Sive appreciate the comfort of a feather matress and the taste of humanity. The Bard was in the goddess, at first rough and demanding and then as the morning began to crawl its way towards them, dipping to gentle and concerned. Pushing her hair, now corded with sweat out of her eyes, he kissed her once more. “My love,” he whispered and they were the sweetest words she had heard from lips immortal or mortal. It was a moment she had never thought would come.

“Still no verse?” she asked running the pad of her index finger over the fullness of his bottom lip, entranced with it.

On that taunt, Will smothered her breath with his mouth, hungrily taking in her gasp as would a sprite sucking dew from a buttercup. His eyes gleamed almost green in the light of the early morning creeping between the drawn curtains. He parted from her and twisted her on to her stomach. "It is a verse you are wanting is it?" he hissed hungrily. "Then what of this?"

Sive gave out a moan she had not contemplated giving again this morning. Something in his stroke, in feeling the Bard enter her in such a fashion, blanketed her in pain exquisite, intense, and delicious.

Then his hand drove into her long raven hair and he pulled her tight up against him, the sweat on her breasts cooling in the grey air around them. She felt her nipples tingle, some in part to the dark's cold caress. Some from the excitement in how this mortal took her, claimed her—she had never felt like this in her immortal life.

She felt him thrust at the end of every line, her breath locking in her throat, as he whispered into her ear.

"My love, mysterious, dark, and wanton,

How is't you bewitched me so.

This craft thou hast weaved about me

Cannot be ill, cannot be wrong,

For ne'er have I know such sweet delights as thee."

Sive reached over her shoulder and grabbing Will, now felt his hair between her long, slender fingers. Her teeth ground together determined not to cry out as wantonly as he obviously wanted her to. Yet she felt something else, a delicous flow of Art feeding into her. Somehow the Bard’s grasp of earth magic was feeding her. It added to her pleasure, as nerves and sinews denied Art for so long tingled and ran with it. As she pulled herself closer to his body, their sweat mingling, a sweet musk now wafting in the air around her as he recited though his own ragged breath.

"No, you are not of darkness bred,

Nor art thou a curse wished upon an enemy.

Thou are true and sweet, a purest love divine

And upon chasing the bard, your desire is wholly mine."

It was not his best or greatest piece, but considering their position and the scent of madness in the air, she was impressed. Sive laughed and groaned and abandoned herself completely. The Bard had her and she found miraculously that she enjoyed it.

Chapter 14: The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time

The Court danced, and the air was full of laughter and sprites. Auberon tried to let the mood wash over him, carry away all those disturbing things he had seen in Mordant’s Hall. But whenever he looked down into Moira’s troubled eyes he was reminded again. How had he not noticed that his love hid a thoughtful mind behind a mask of smiles?

And was it only his imagination, was there not a hint of reproach there too, or was it merely a reflection of his own guilt? He’d made promises to help his sister, to find Mordant’s source of power—but none had come to anything. Once beyond the uneasy Hall, the heady taste of power washed all those good intentions away.

For the King had no further need to worry; the malaise was gone, and his people were once more in full health. As Auberon looked around the Court he saw many that had come close to vanishing, and the curved dome of the Court’s interior was lit with thousands of swarming sprites. It could have been the same place his mother ruled over and he had grown up in.

Except it wasn’t—Brigit was gone, so there was no chance of her bursting in and remonstrating him for some indiscretion. He should have been glad of that. But then those were recent memories, Auberon could also recall her tight hold on him after his father died, and the way she had sung him to sleep in the quiet green woods after. A hollow pit was opening in the Fey King’s chest.

“Sweetling,” Moira touched his cheek, “What are you thinking?”

How could he tell her? What words were there to describe this alien alarm that had been building in him? She’d loved him for his wit and his power, now both seemed to have abandoned him.

Auberon had just opened his mouth to demure when the roof of the Court rang like a dread bell, first once and then again, and again. Auberon could only think it was a horde of maddened birds, because after each resounding thump came a terrific clawing.

Moira’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “My lord, I think we are under attack.”

Her beautiful eyes were full of fear when they turned on him, but not of surprise. Perhaps they had both been expecting something like this.

The Court erupted as hundreds of shocked Fey ran for the doors, rainbow clothes streaming behind them. A few of the elder Fey who had lived in the Court of Anu swam against the current, trying to reach the armory behind the throne. Auberon caught the eye of Brenna, the old captain of the guards, and yes, there was accusation there. The King dithered for a moment, wrapping his arms around the strangely quiet Moira, and in that space the first of the Court flung open the doors. True chaos entered.

A Fey stallion burst through the gap screaming in equine fear, for a many-clawed nightmare rode his back, tearing and ripping at his flesh, and it was not alone. Black masses of its kin were smashing through the doors. In the confusion Auberon’s cry of horror was almost lost. The horse was Bayel, his sister’s mount that he had flown through the clouds that morning. The King’s hand came up, Art boiling in red flames down his arm, and with a blast of rage he burned the creature from the horse’s back. He would teach these invaders what real power was.

But something was not right; in the disorder Auberon could not find exactly what. The Court was screaming, the roof falling in under the weight of what were very definitely not birds. More clawed creatures were crawling in through the gaps, like hideous insects. They caught up all the bright and beautiful and broke them with a snap. Bayel appeared at Auberon’s side, flanks streaming with blood. Quickly Auberon bundled Moira atop the terrified horse, and got up behind her, ready to let forth the full power of the king.

From above, he caught sight of a sturdy knot of Fey led by Brenna; they had reached the oaken doors that led to the long disused armory. But there was no need, none at all, there would be nothing but memory left of their attackers soon. Auberon shouted aloud and called the Art to him; confident of the might he had just recently recovered.

But only a whisper came in return.

The cries of his people battered him, but his Art barely answered. Auberon was as hollow and as useless as an empty jar. It could only have taken a few seconds for the truth to run through him, but it felt like a mortal age, and then just as slowly Auberon looked up. Perched in the crumbling wreck of the roof, Mordant was watching, and if his look was for the Fey king alone, his laughter was for all the Court.

The fell invader’s thoughts were thrust into Auberon. The Mother would not aid him now, not once he had accepted Mordant’s power. The only Art he had was his own, and it would not be enough, not nearly enough to save his people.

Auberon let out a sob. Around him all was perishing; he didn’t even have a weapon of plain steel to defend what he loved. Bayel was lashing out in desperation, as the monsters nipped and snarled at his legs. Moira was clutching his mane, and using her Art in green ribbons to cut her way forward towards the throne. Auberon slumped against her, barely capable of caring. Everywhere he looked was death and guilt.

And then they broke through the panic for a heartbeat, and Brenna was there, with her now armed cohorts circling protectively around Bayel. Others had formed a union of Art, and using combined might were creating a sphere of protection. The odd pearly glow in the air that was driving the monsters back seemed very fragile indeed. How could it have come to this?

“My liege.” Auberon barely felt Brenna’s tug at his arm; why should he when there was so much more happening.

“My liege!” This time she nearly unseated him from Bayel. “We must retreat.”

Oh sweet Mother of All, the woman was mad. Where was there to hide?

At his desperate look Brenna yelled louder, as if that would help impress on him the urgency, “The Evening Realm, sire, we can shore up the barriers there.”

Another guilt for him then; the Art that separated the two halves of the Fey could well serve as some protection. At least there, the Mother’s power still lived.

“Send the call,” Moira’s voice was quiet, but still heard even while all was madness. “Summon your people to the Evening Realm, my love.”

Auberon felt a dry sob lodge in his chest, but his Art went forth at Moira’s asking. Those of his people that lived would hear and obey. Little enough of the Court remained to obey though; beyond the pearly lined protection, only grim eyed monsters lurked, wetting their claws in Fey blood. Brenna and the rest of her warriors were pulling him away, summoning Art to wing them to the Evening Realm, but as he looked back Mordant’s eyes were boring into them.

Auberon held Moira tighter, for their foe was smiling slowly, and his creatures were not following them. The King grew more and more afraid, even when they broke through to the shelter of the Evening Realm. Once again he could not exactly place why.

Moira interrupted him, clasping his fingers lightly as they entered the purple, sweet smelling mists. “My lord...”

Auberon heard her gasp go through him like it was his own, and when he pulled his hands from Moira’s waist, they were soaked in blood.

Dimly he could hear the Fey cluster around Bayel, the remainder of his people asking terrified questions, but all he could see was his love’s life leaking away. Pulling her closer, Auberon tried to push his Art into her. Either he didn’t know how, or maybe his power was not enough, but in the next moment, he was holding Moira’s still body. No time even to catch her Last Breath, she’d been so quiet about her wounds that she’d slipped away before he had even time to notice.

Everything, even the pain of his people, for a moment ceased to be, and Auberon King of the Fey screamed aloud.

***

Everything had changed in one night. Will lay with his arm wrapped around the sleeping Sive, and watched the ceiling. His whole body felt deliciously warm and lethargic, as years of pent up desire and love washed out of him. It had been light outside for more than an hour. He could hear the morning hubbub of London rising outside the window, but he wasn’t inclined to join them. Here in bed with a woman he loved was a whole world he had not yet explored. And yet his mind was alive with words, such words that made his fingers itch for the quill.

I should have been at the Theatre already; he thought idly, one hand stroking the softness of Sive’s shoulder. Her skin twitched under his touch like a well-bred horse. She was full of so much energy and power it almost frightened him. But her new eyes contained only mortal love, and he hoped that it would be enough to bridge whatever voids there were between them. Barely had the words entered his head before he could see the largest one; she could still be immortal, and might yet live to see him wither and die. But she would always be perfection; he wondered how he would cope with that—would he rejoice or become tortured with jealousy?

His head could not contain such thoughts, not yet anyway.

Outside a bird squawked, not a rooster, and yet not a lark. Will managed to regain enough of his power, and slipped out of bed. He would have thought she would wake at that, but looking down she seemed deeply asleep. She was too beautiful; beyond what a mere mortal could ever hope for; such beauty would be dangerous in his world.

But I will dare it.

He didn’t want to leave without speaking, but he didn’t want to wake her either. Finally he fished around in the pile of papers on the desk by the window, and found the poem he had started in his first youthful feelings for Sive.

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove

The plays and the epic poetry were for the people, but he had never shared these lines with anyone else. These were private words, and he knew she would understand what he meant immediately. Tucking the thin piece of parchment under her hand, he let himself out of the room and into the world.

London met him at the door; the criers at the street corner, the harlots at the corner, dozens of grubby urchins underfoot. It was a dangerous place, and this rose like every other part of the city had her thorns.

By the time he had struggled through Aldersgate Street, and beyond the walls of the city itself, the glow of his lovemaking had dimmed a little, for around him was still the scent of the plague. It had washed over London like the tide the past year, each wave taking more and more people, and leaving the survivors almost exhausted with surprise in its wake. The theatres had been mostly closed, and the players were almost at their wits’ end. Most of the group had ventured out into the countryside to make what money they could, and try and avoid the death.

But with Sive’s arrival, things had taken a turn for the better for all of London. The Master of the Revels had declared London clean enough for the playhouses to open. This coming week, some of his plays that had lain idle for almost a year would finally be performed; the Rose across the river would have Two Gentlemen of Verona, and the Theatre his newest Romeo and Juliet. It was an honor that only his friend Kit Marlowe had received, to be played in the two eminent houses of the city.

The Theatre was one of the grandest, even though not much to look at; still Will smiled when he saw the tall walls, and the flags even now flying above it.

“Will!” Richard Burbage’s voice as always commanded attention. His square figure could be seen barreling out of the doors of the Theatre, a sheaf of papers clenched in one fist. At first it might have seemed he was angry, but as Will got closer he could see a smile under his moustache. Will might have served his apprenticeship with the Queen’s Men, but it was with Richard’s company that he had found a true home.

Burbage was positively beaming. “The Master of Revels has passed Romeo and Juliet without alteration. We can open in two days!”

It was a good thing too. Will was still smarting from his last encounter with the censor’s pen.

“Excellent timing,” Will replied. “I have at least another play in my head right now.”

They went into the Theatre, and Will realized what Richard was really smiling about; the whole of the troupe men were there. They had been forced to scour the countryside for work for months, and Will had missed them all. Sly was there, blustering at a couple of the younger boys. Ned, checking his costuming, stood in the shadows, while Robert Armin and William Ostler argued over parts as usual. And all the rest with their color and noise, finally seemed to make the Theatre come alive. Its days of silence were apparently over.

“See, Will,” Richard clapped him on the shoulder, just about knocking him over, “We’ll be ready tomorrow to get this play of yours on the stage.”

“Well, it has been waiting a long time. Like a songbird without a voice, a painting unseen...”

Richard gave him a sly smile. “Why damn me, Will, but you’re in love.”

Burbage was astute in everything, and knew Will better than anyone in London, now that Tarlton was gone. His voice however cut through the hubbub of the players like a knife. Everyone stopped, and suddenly Will could feel every eye upon him.

Ned bounced down from the stage and came to join them, “Well, about time I would say; all these years in London, and only a distant wife to warm your thoughts. I’m surprised you could write anything at all.”

Richard waved Ned away. “I’m sure he’ll be even more prolific, now that his pen has ink.”

The players roared with laughter, and made a few of their own colorful comments. Once these would have made Will blush to the roots, but now he just threw them back in good order.

“Wish Kit was here to see this,” Ned commented, and for a moment they all stilled. Marlowe’s death was still very close for them. Killed in a bar brawl the year before, he had been one of their brightest lights, and a good friend to Will, if an unpredictable one.

“He said you would find her,” Ned went on, “And when you did we had better all watch out.”

Will nodded, but brushed his way through the silence. “Don’t let me get in the way of your rehearsal. I’ve just come to get some writing done.”

The players turned away, and began their usual arguments over roles that always preceded a play. “What about a part for you, Will,” Burbage asked, “Perhaps the apocathery?”

“Not for a while, Richard—I have a lot of writing to catch up with. Maybe in a couple of weeks.”

Burbage snorted, for a moment looking almost exactly the same as his father, “Writers!” he exclaimed before turning back to the bickering players.

Will left them to it, and went to his quill. The tiring room was noisy, costumes flying, and players grumbling over who got the best costume. But next-door was the small office where Will had squirreled away his latest work in progress. Removing the papers from under the loose back of the desk, he sat himself down and got to work. After efficiently stripping and preparing a quill, he twirled it between his fingers, waiting for an idea to strike.

As much as he enjoyed the company of his fellows, they really had no idea what exactly Will did, how solitary it was. They were all about voice, and communication, and getting their cues, but Will’s Art was something else entirely. It was tenacity, and imagination, and not much of it could be shared with others.

This piece he was working on at the moment, Midsummer Nights’ Dream, was becoming harder as he went along. The first few pages had flowed, all based on the stories his nurse had told him, but lately he felt as though something was drying up inside him. The Art within was no longer enough.

He sat pen poised over paper, and reached along the possibilities of story. How could this end? The tale was one of magic and a world that might have almost been part of Sive’s. He needed inspiration. The Art she had woken strove for him, delving into some other place he could not name. The thoughts began to flow thick and fast. It was like a river had broken. Will knew better than to question where it had come from—all he thought about was writing fast enough before the thoughts dried. He really felt he had broken the back of the story.

He worked until midday, when he realized with a start that he could not linger here. Below the players had settled, and were lying about the stage, listening to Ned’s wild tales of the women he’d met on the road. Smiling to himself Will went quietly out the back door.

He had told Jack Merlon that he would meet him near Tower Bridge. Jack had been nursing his sick sister, and wouldn’t go too far from her side. Will though would have no other to play Juliet. He knew the part would suit the young man, and perhaps help him show Richard how good he really was. Will liked to feel as though he was mentoring the lad, perhaps a bit like Tarlton had done for him.

So he bought some warm chestnuts, and waited in the shadow of the bridge, scarcely noticing the stench of the decomposing heads nearby. London was not a pretty spot to be sure, but there was a certain muted beauty to her. The calls of the streetsellers were loud, that was true, but something about this day, when the plague had retreated, made even the goodwives throwing out their nightwater appear more considerate of those below. The streets were full of revelers who had already taken a skin full of beer and made it their own. Some of them Will knew by sight, and he either graciously pretended not to have seen them, or shared a quick word and jest. But she was always there in his mind, an unseen, but perceived shadow at his back.

He had loved other women in London, but never had he felt so in danger of losing his soul to one. That alone caused him pangs of remorse for the patient woman raising his children in Stratford.

But he and Anne had an agreement, she to tend his offspring and growing property interests at home, and he to keep the money flowing west into her capable hands. Only Anne’s recently adopted stiff-lipped morality would cause her to be outraged by Sive, certainly not jealousy.

“Buy some more nuts or move it,” a burly seller huffed completely unmoved by Will’s impression of a lovesick traveler. “You’re blocking my customers.”

Will rolled his eyes; the last outbreak of plague had not done anything to improve people’s humor. It was enough these days to get what you could out of life before the Grim Reaper came, and the nut seller obviously had his eye on making a healthy profit before the sickle fell. Will moved on before he was strong-armed into another purchase.

A none too gentle hand picked at his sleeve before he could get far. “They say nuts are good for your man workings, Will, so perhaps you should get some more,” Jack Cowling’s narrow face was all grin, “But then again perhaps you shouldn’t. Anymore mooning over women and there’ll not be another play out of you.”

Will, despite his morbid thoughts, smiled back. There was something affable about Jack, a natural born actor, who could make the most of his only passable face, and turn it into a variety of forms. His wit and good humor also stood him in good stead for the life of a player. Though some of the other senior partners in the troupe looked down their noses at the boys, Will liked to be reminded of his very humble beginnings.

“One day soon you’ll understand, Jack,” he said sagely.

A flash of panic robbed the teenager of all blood in his face. He had played all Will’s female leads, but like all the boys, he knew full well that it could not be forever. Lately the first down of manhood had crept to his cheeks, and it remained to be seen if he could make the transition to playing male roles. In truth very few boys carried on once their voice broke. Too used to the mannerisms and walk of women that they practiced for years to achieve, it went against them later.

Jack flicked his sand and gold hair nervously back from his face and ducked his head, “I hope not, Will.”

An awkward moment passed, both thinking the same thing, and both struggling for a way to avoid saying it. Jack broke it with a half laugh, “I don’t know if this is a good time or no, Will. Perhaps you’d like to talk the part over later.” He glanced quickly over his shoulder.

“Why?” An odd chill scampered up Will’s spine.

“Couple of people asking about you over by the tinker’s there, heard them as I was coming to meet you.” Jack, used to the nature of life in London, didn’t point, just subtly moved his eyes in their direction. Will saw the tops of two dark heads moving towards him, like undersea monsters pushing their way through the bobbing refuse of the crowd.

Chewing the corner of his lip for a moment, Will considered. Henslowe and Tarlton had taught him well; in the face of what must be misinformed debt collectors, always retreat. They were as stubborn as bulls, and as brainless as carp, and the only method open to the often cash strapped players was to run for it.

“Thanks, Jack,” Will patted him on the back.”I’ll catch up with you later.” The lad more than understood, and in fact was already making his own strategic withdrawal. Pulling his cap low over his eyes, he nodded to Will and crept away in the opposite direction.

Avoidance was a skill a player learned after a few weeks in London, and Will managed to slip away quickly enough. But as Will walked the last few streets to the Theatre he did a quick mental assessment. Admittedly, in his early days in London he had accrued a number of debts to shady characters, but since things had been going so well at the theatre he had managed to avoid unpleasant threats and the equally unpleasant realities. So who was so very eager to catch up with him? That was the trouble of becoming better known; it was getting harder to blend into the crowd. Everyone was all too eager to point out Will Shakespeare.

It was going to be nigh on impossible to avoid whoever these people were forever.

Tarlton had offered one other piece of sterling advice about debtors; when absolutely forced to face them, at least choose the ground yourself. With that in mind, Will had now almost completely circled back to the Theatre. Here he loitered, rather skillfully he thought for one not used to loitering, by the bakehouse across the road, back turned to the theatre door, and listened.

Danger was near, and though he still feared the Art, he would have been worse than a fool not to realize its advantages. So as he leaned somewhat over casually against the chill wall, his heightened senses leapt ahead of him.

Two burly men shouldering their way through a London crowd was nothing unusual. They could have been anyone’s hired muscle, and the common folk gave way in the face of such grim faced determination. However as Will sensed their approach he turned for a better look, and was almost frozen to the spot. The steel gray eyes that bored into him across the street held no emotion that he was familiar with, as expressionless and empty as those of a fish; a more perfect example of animated flesh could not be imagined. Will’s body spasmed in a physical reaction that sent pain snapping up his spine. Not human, every inch of him responded to that, and their one purpose was written in every line, his destruction.

A heavily pregnant woman was brushed aside like a twig, and a beggar boy received a mindless blow to his ribs when he made the mistake of getting in their way.

This was unnatural business, and could only involve Sive and her terrible unseen husband.

With a tight knot developing in his stomach, Will turned suddenly, consumed with the need to find her. All he knew was that whatever made Sive afraid must be very bad indeed; in such a situation his place was with her.

London was home, Will knew the back streets and little corners. At that second, and in that situation it didn’t matter to him what Sive was, he loved her, and he wasn’t going to let her be hurt. Will only hoped that he was quick enough.

***

Puck could hear the whisperings of the Fey, as he wandered almost indolently down the path to Shottery. Indeed, the sound had never strayed very far from him. The Fey world did not forget its own, even when it was being torn apart.

His eye traveled lazily over the bare curves of the hills, admiring how winter displayed the beautiful bones of the land. Seasons were still a thing of marvel to Puck, something that he awaited with anticipation. The Fey was eternal summer and spring, but here the world turned to ice and snow. He found beauty in its harshness, and how even in the coldest depths, it still managed to promise later kindness.

He was content in Stratford. While he had idled away fruitful autumns, golden summers, flowery springs and stark winters in the bosom of Will’s family, Sive had only just begun her work. He had felt her arrival in the mortal realm, and known that his time of rest was over. Both he and the splinter of Brigit within him feared the change, feared the loss of simple pleasures.

Pleasures such as today held. The twins were not far out of sight, fine pale heads bent together in conversation only they could understand. Puck admitted cheating now and then, dipping into their minds to see if any of their father’s Art had been passed to them. Neither of the younger Shakespeares was touched by his gift, only the elder Susanna had any hint of it. Best to let it lie, Puck had decided, certainly it had bought Will nothing but trouble, and there was no need for these little ones to be burdened any further than they were. What with their father so seldom home, and their mother becoming more and more bitter, the children had latched onto Puck as someone deserving of their affection. He had sparingly used his Art to give him the illusion of kinship to the family, and had been more than happy with the result.

The three of them strolled along amicably through the clear winter day; Puck now and then chortling at the young human’s antics. Hamnet had grinned wickedly back when he stomped in the mud, getting his sister’s clean kirtle sopping. He knew full well that discipline was not ‘Uncle Robert’s’ way.

Puck heartily admitted he was content here. The Shakespeares had fallen in easily with his glamour, and taken him into hearth and home. And he suspected, all those miles away, Sive was beginning to feel the same. Though the strains of Fey music reached him here, they were only pieces of a half remembered song, and one that he felt he no longer had to dance to. For the first occasion in a very long time, Puck the Trickster was both free and happy. Brigit was quiet, not even disturbing his dreams. Take what pleasure you can from the moment, Puck reminded himself.

And then the mortal world trembled. Long pale Fey ears picked it up first, a far off rumble that could have been mistaken for mortal thunder, had not it been accompanied by a sudden stilling of the Fey music.

Puck froze instantly, all senses he had available straining for more information. Ahead the twins had stopped, craning their tousled heads to the abruptly changing sky. Dark clouds tumbled over the hills, emerging from the very interior of the earth itself, and smothered the sunlight so quickly that even Puck’s superior senses left him momentarily without sight.

The smile evaporated from his lips as he rushed to the twins. Bundling the frightened Judith and Hamnet into the frozen ditch, he tried to get as much of his body as possible between them and whatever danger was coming.

“What’s going on, uncle?” the trembling Hamnet asked, his eyes wide as an owl’s.

“I don’t know, boy, but I fear a storm; stay down.” The twins huddled together. Puck shrugged off his thick coat and dropped it over them. It wasn’t much protection against even a normal downpour, and he had little hope of it protecting them from the likes of Mordant. Still with their eyes shielded he could at least put on his proper Fey attire. Sloughing off human shape and swapping it for the powerfully muscled feline form, he awaited the arrival of whatever the storm bought, with fang and claw ready.

The air was hung with wreaths of moisture, and the acid tang of lightning almost overwhelmed Puck’s feline senses. He had no hope of defeating Mordant, and this would undoubtedly end with his and the twins’ deaths in the ditch. Flight for him was not an option; he had played the role of guardian too long to abandon it now.

The veil of the worlds rippled and tore before Puck’s eyes, and though he slitted the feline’s pupils, still he was blinded for a moment, unable to see through the glare of white light that flooded about them.

So Auberon fell almost unnoticed at his feet. Then the rip sealed itself, the clouds tumbled back, and the mortal realm’s balance was restored as quickly as it had been shattered. Puck shed the form of fangs and claws, and put on his respectable uncle Robert shape.

And yet once normality returned, the king of the Fey still lay at his feet like one of Will’s crumpled bits of poetry. Auberon’s shimmering robe was torn to shreds and coated with the mud of an unforgiving mortal world. Indeed his pale flawless features lay in it, so that only his silver white hair was visible. For a moment Puck was uncertain what to do.

“Who is it?” Hamnet’s trembling voice at his shoulder reminded him that the twins should not be exposed to the strangeness and danger that surely followed on the heels of such an event.

“Just a poor victim of some brigand,” Puck helped the dazed Judith up from the ditch. “I’ll see him home, you two best return to your mother. Undoubtedly this wretch’s story is not suitable for youngsters’ ears.”

The twins pouted and made some half-hearted protests, but they had been shaken by the unnatural storm, and their mother’s hearth suddenly looked very inviting.

Puck watched them scamper back down the road towards Stratford, and cast a light glamour over them to make sure they didn’t stop along the way. Then he turned to his erstwhile King.

Rolling him over, Puck at first thought he might have to bury him, for there were very few signs of life, and his normal paleness so increased that he looked drained of all blood. For a creature so full of wrath, he looked suddenly deflated. But placing his ear down to Auberon’s dry lips, Puck was able to detect the faintest of breezes.

The Trickster crouched and considered, head on one sid,e rubbing his chin in an almost human manner. He could not take the King to Henley Street, even if the idea was amusing. But unfortunately, neither could he abandon Auberon and leave him lying in the road.

He needed some place where the chances of him attracting unwanted Fey attention were the least. Puck grinned broadly; why hadn’t he thought of it straight away?

With perhaps something less than parent care, he tossed the king of the Fey over one shoulder, and made off towards the river Avon.

Sive had chosen a particularly excellent spot to meet with Will, one where the distortions of the nearby river carried away most all of the signs of Art. Running water, like iron, affected each Fey differently, but it always masked their workings. The

Bean-Nighe gave her pronouncements of doom near rivers, but it also was a barrier to lesser Fey.

It made an excellent spot to hide, so Puck constructed a simple lean-to under the shade of a willow tree scarcely ten feet from the waving reeds of the riverbank. Some part of him couldn’t help chuckling at the thought of the King in such rude quarters. Still, considering how badly Auberon had treated the Trickster in the past, he was lucky not to be left lying in the roadside mud.

But grateful appeared not to be in the King’s repertoire. Ripped and scraped he might be, but it had not softened any edges, nor blunted his arrogance.

“You!” he rolled his eyes, and let out a disappointed groan. “I can hardly believe the luck of it. Where is my sister?”

“Well that’s very nice, I must say,” Puck stretched out his hand and began to idly examine his fingernails, “Here I am after putting myself out and all by scraping you off the roadside, and you still haven’t the decency to say ‘thank you’. What on earth can your mother have taught you?”

Auberon struggled upright, vainly attempted to pull the remains of his clothes into alignment, and ignored Puck’s jibe. “Answer my question Trickster: where is Sive?”

“Now?”

“Of course now, you idiot,” Auberon managed to raise enough strength to snarl.

“Well, currently I imagine she is making the beast with the two backs with a young virile mortal.”

The King of the Fey looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

Just in case Puck checked that he hadn’t. He grinned impishly at Auberon, “Now I know what you are thinking: never in a million mortal years, but our Sive the Shining has quite come around to the delights of humanity.”

The sound of grinding teeth was almost audible, then with a sigh Auberon slumped back against the willow tree. “Much as I would love for you to explain exactly what you mean by that, Trickster, there are far more important things pressing on me.”

Puck leaned back on his elbows and kicked his heels in the thick grass; his quicksilver mind weighing the options while his body gave the illusion of disinterest. “Having a bit of trouble with Mordant then, are we?”

The King’s silence said everything he needed to know.

“You were wrong, weren’t you? And you should have listened to your sister, shouldn’t you?” Somewhere in the rear compartment of his head something vaguely Brigit stirred.

“Trickster,” Auberon moved like a coiled spring, picking Puck up easily, and slamming him into the tree, “Only you would dare to say I-told-you-so to your King. Believe me, today is not the day to goad me.”

This spurt of rage washed over Puck. He shrugged nonchalantly in the other’s grip. “As I’ve said before, it’s my nature, Auberon. You keep trying to punish me for just being me. Hardly fair.”

Sive’s brother shook his head, and gave up. “At least you are consistent, I suppose, Puck, consistently foolish.”

Being returned to his feet, the smaller Fey dusted himself off with some dignity. “The difference is, Auberon, that my foolishness does not matter much in the scheme of things, whereas yours does.”

Auberon’s shoulders slumped, and the fire in his eyes dimmed a little. “I was duped, Puck. Mordant is not the Fey that he used to be—in fact I doubt that he is truly Fey at all now.”

Things must have become bad indeed if Auberon could admit that. A dread chill invaded Puck’s normally bright heart. “What has happened? And where is that annoying Court that usually travels with you?” Brigit was sitting just behind his eyes waiting for answers.

The King of the Fey turned his face from Puck’s demanding gaze. “He came down from the hilltop like an ill wind. A grim mist swept before him over the valley, covering everything and no Art would move it. I could hear their screams, sounds to tear the fiber of your being and rend the mind. Some of us managed to escape to the Evening Realm; we were the lucky few. Moira and so many others did not.”

“And yet you are here, not much of a King to leave his people,” Puck could hear the bitterness in his own voice.

“I need to find my sister,” he replied. “I need her power.”

“So the Summer Realm is gone?” Puck whispered, scarcely believing it. The vapid Fey Court had always been a source of amusement and ridicule. He’d laughed at their airy graces, their dependence on protocol, and how things appeared—but yet he could not imagine a world without them. Foolish they had been, but ethereal beauty walked in their footsteps, and that had meant something. Both realms would suffer for their loss.

“And now I must ask, Puck, you have my aunt’s remains within you—do you know? Is there any hope?”

He didn’t know the answer to that, and neither did Brigit. Still there was nothing to be gained in crushing their King; if he could learn how to fight and restore his Court, then Puck would feed him on hope.

“All that is Fey cannot die, and your sister has been working on a plan against this very day. We shall recover from this, my Liege.”

Auberon sucked up the deception from Puck’s convincing eyes, and the untruth tasted very bitter to the Trickster. Such deceit had never been his stock in trade, but now he was once again finding himself in alien territory.

Auberon nodded curtly, recovering some of his normal demeanor. “You are right, Puck, the Fey cannot be lost. Once my sister and I combine forces, nothing in any realm can stand against us. You must tell me where she is so that we can begin.”

Puck thought of the King rushing in all puffed up with righteous anger, and wondered what sort of reception he might find.

It will be hard for Sive, Brigit said. By now the mortal world’s delights will have filled her. Auberon might not be able to bring her back.

Puck’s idyllic moment had come to an end, as all things did in this world, but he couldn’t help regretting it.

“We will find her together, my Liege,” he found himself saying.

And Auberon would have to be content with that, grasping what hope he could from a situation he did not, as yet, fully understand. Puck could only wish to be as ignorant.

Chapter 15: Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her

Somehow, improbably, Sive was crying. Will had the power to draw things from her that once she wouldn’t have been able to even name, like love and desperation. She pushed the book that had caused all this away from her on the bed. Mordant had been reading, trying to learn about humans, and following in his footsteps, she now understood as well.

The book held nothing but grief, a terrible tale of human love torn apart by death. It had touched an unknown part of her deeply.

So lying curled on the tangled human-scented sheets, Sive cried long and hard, abandoning herself to the sensation.

When the veil of tears finally lifted, Sive felt an odd and very still moment steal over her. The sudden calm after the storm of emotion left her feeling drained and distant. Was this then how mortal lovers felt about each other? These swirls of emotions, deeply writ, but always covered by the barely hidden thought of death? If so, Sive pitied the poor creatures, for by comparison her long ago love for Mordant had been a simple thing. Fey knew death had little power over them, and so love was not as powerful either.

Sliding from the bed, feeling the chill wood under her bare feet, Sive mused on her fate. She’d jumped into a mortal situation, and suddenly felt dread. Perhaps she’d also accepted a mortal lifetime.

The frightening thought of passing blindly out of this world bought Sive up short. The idea of simply not existing was terrifying. Suddenly all those ancient mortals she’d sent to their deaths for her own ends were gray ghosts standing at her shoulder. Perhaps this was the Mother’s revenge on her for it.

Rolling this unpalatable possibility in her mouth, Sive slowly dressed, letting her fingers touch lazily what might be now-mortal skin. She tried to imagine it wrinkling and sagging, tried to imagine it being something other than what it had always been.

These mortals were brave. Used to looking down on them, Sive now considered that they might well be stauncher than she, for while she’d always possessed eternal youth and immortality, they lived in the constant shadow of death and change.

Now more than ever Sive wanted to go home, wanted to breathe the sweet uncomplicated air of the Fey once more. This mortal realm was not hers, and the idea of facing Mordant was becoming more welcoming than the possibility of staying here.

But one thing kept her here, one person. Sliding on soft shoes and lacing them, she wondered if he loved her enough now to help. Surely that had been the soft light of love in Will’s eyes as they lay together. But she also knew that she would not be the first woman, mortal or immortal, to make that mistake. It was just all too complicated!

The soft knock at the door interrupted her tangled thoughts.

Fey sharp ears had been fooled by the brain’s confusion, and only now could her newly acquired servant’s muffled voice be heard. The good woman’s protests were of no avail. Sive hastened to make herself decent. While she dressed, one ear was pricked to the sound of the male voice. It was not a familiar one, but yet something about it tickled her memory.

Finally, as best prepared as she could be, Sive called to the maid that she was ready to receive.

The figure that burst in was one that she had not expected. The tall well formed and most elegantly attired Earl of Southampton.

He was Will’s patron. Elizabeth had her eye on him, liking what she saw, but as always no one could tell how long that would last. The lifestyle of a favorite was not for the timid, and many within the court, not having the head for heights, were glad to have Henry Wrothseley up there. Plenty would enjoy his fall, from what Sive’s sharp ears had picked up.

Still he was young, and full of not only the natural brashness of the green courtier, but also the giddiness of one born to power; commonsense was not a prerequisite. His wide childlike blue eyes took in Sive’s dark beauty and was unmoved by it. She read his brash surface thoughts, something about her lack of fashion.

“My Lady,” he sketched the lightest of bows, “Glad to find you at home.”

“My Lord of Southampton,” Sive inclined her head, counting on her country bumpkin reputation to cover its almost derogatory slightness. “You will have to excuse my appearance. The hour is still early.”

“At any hour, ma’am, you are a delight to the eye.”

Sive tilted her head, but remained quiet, waiting for him to give good reason for even being here.

Southampton perched himself on the windowsill, close to both Sive and the long fall to the street below, though which of these was the more dangerous he couldn’t possibly have guessed. His muscular leg was turned to her, and he had miraculously positioned himself for the best possible advantage, where the morning sun spilled decorously onto his golden head. Sive saw at once he rivaled Auberon for vanity, but lacked even her brother’s remnant of good sense.

“Her Majesty has been perturbed by odd dreams these last few months.” Southampton waved his hand. “Such things are troubling in a monarch, and though she has consulted all the usual clerics and sages, no light has been shed on it. So she has called for you, m’lady.”

“Me?” Sive frowned; she had not Sent any more dreams to the Queen since meeting Will.

“Yes, Her Majesty’s fancy has settled on the fact that you may know some country simples to ease her sleep.”

Thinking of all those harmless old wives who had lost their lives for such things, Sive chose her next words carefully. “It is not my place to disagree with her Majesty, but I cannot imagine how I can help. The only comfort I can offer would be my presence and company.”

A light of respect and surprise flickered across the Earl’s eyes. “Then that, milady, I would say was enough. The queen is at the Tower.”

Sive weighed up her choices. Living in the mortal realm made her vulnerable. Just as the mortals must live in fear and respect of this queen, so too must she.

“Give me a few moments to get properly dressed.”

The Earl smiled and paused for a moment, perhaps suggesting that she might invite him to stay. When she remained staring pointedly at him, he retired graciously enough.

This could at least provide an amusing diversion until Will returned from the playhouse in the evening. Her mind toyed with the idea that perhaps there might be something to Elizabeth’s dreams. Or it could be that she was simply a mortal queen wanting to be pampered and taken notice of.

Boredom was another peril of the mortal world, and something Sive did not want to encourage. The outing would improve her mood, and ready her to speak of more pressing things when Will returned. Perhaps by then her troubled mind would know the words required to do the task.

Chapter 16: The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger

The gaily-dressed ferrymen stood waiting for them at the water’s edge, not far from the shade of London Bridge. He greeted Southampton warmly, inquiring after his health in a loud voice designed to show what good friends they were.

Sive eyed the craft warily. The elaborately embroidered cushions in ruby red protected sensitive rears from hard wood, and a tasseled canopy overhead guarded against the sun; all told of a prouder heritage than the less well to do wherries further down the ranks of the river. Sive boarded the barge with more certainty than she felt. Her realm had no sea, so her people were not natural sailors. Only one, her cousin Mannann, had felt the pull of the waves, and what had become of him in the mortal realms’ watery expanse none knew.

So it was with some trepidation that Sive seated herself in the unfamiliar craft bobbing on the Thames. Southampton took his place next to Sive on the cushioned seat, while his various hangers—on jostled loudly for a place on the wherry.

The wherryman’s trade depended on the constant stream of boats across the Thames, the richer the better. Their guide, one John Fuller, began his chatter as soon as they pulled away from the bank. The Earl had hired him on retainer, a fact that he profusely thanked him for every five minutes.

The sun had finally struggled clear of the clouds, and was running in thick ripples across the Thames. Everywhere it touched, it illuminated the fickle currents and dangers, but their wherryman had been born with the sounds of the river in his ears, and set their course with ease. The bunch and heave of his muscles sent the boat darting forward. Sive concentrated on the rhythmic sweeps of the oars.

“I hear that you are an admirer of the plays.” the Earl almost idly flicked some imaginary dust from his elegant velvet sleeve.

“I am my, Lord, they are like nothing I have ever seen before.”

“They are not exactly proper fare for a woman, but they provide certain amusement, and they are rather unique. In this world at least,” he replied, but said nothing more as their wherry glided past another equally elaborate vessel. His carefully measured nod was returned from across the short distance between the boats.

Sive held herself very still, trying to taste the meaning behind what he had said. She’d never been a subtle creature, but something greater was moving around her, like the invisible currents in the river.

She was the only Fey in London, so it was impossible; nothing stained the ether of London, except the constant hum of humanity. And in the mortal queen she had not sensed any taint of her husband’s doing. .

The grim thickset towers loomed over the waterway, as if they had suddenly sprung from the river itself. They docked, and Southampton offered her his hand to the bank. Sive’s eyes were drawn to the Watergate, the so called traitor’s Gate which she had glimpsed in Elizabeth’s mind. Despite being a royal palace, the Tower of London had layer upon layer of unhappy memories deeply ingrained into it. It took no Art at all for Sive to hear the cries of the doomed within these close walls.

So engrossed with the presence of the place was Sive that for a moment she did not see the dark figure waiting in the shadow of the main gate for them. He stepped out of the darkness to greet them, and for an instant she thought she had gone quite mad. It was her husband.

The world tilted, and became suddenly a nightmare. Sive took a step back, calling on whatever power remained in her, but caught nothing at all. Southampton grabbed her arm, and guided her closer to the elegantly dressed Mordant.

“As you commanded, sir, here is your wife.”

Sive tried again, reaching desperately into the earth itself for assistance.

Mordant’s eyebrow rose, and she could feel the glamour he had cast of Southampton slip a little. “Now, dear wife, do not try to run.”

With that came pain, the kind of pain only Mordant and his master could inflict. That was when reality tipped, and Sive dropped to her knees, catching her shin against the rough stone of the causeway. This little pain did not register in the spiraling world of agony that Mordant had plunged her into. She might have screamed.

Her husband gestured to the waiting guards, and with brisk efficient movements they bundled her up and into the walls of the Tower. One spoke to Mordant, but the only word that Sive could make out beyond the pain was ‘treason’.

Mordant smiled grimly, and followed them in. Unseen by anyone however, a handful of night-colored feathers fell from his fingers, drifting away in the breeze.

Just how Auberon and Sive could be related honestly escaped Puck. Raising his head from his hands, he looked morosely at the former King of the Fey.

At first the former king feared his Art was dead in this realm, but he calmed a little when told with time his power would fade only gradually. If he was cautious he would not be robbed of it all.

Auberon’s spirits lifted, and that was when the trouble began. Caution was not a word in his vocabulary. A few traces of Art had procured him fitting kingly clothes and a bright and shiny sword. He certainly cut a figure in the spring sun, Puck had to admit, but the Trickster was doubtful it would impress the likes of Mordant terribly.

Tucking his legs under each other more firmly, barely controlling a sigh, Puck finally asked the question that he didn’t really want to. “So what is the plan, oh mighty liege?”

Luckily his sarcasm was missed completely. “We find Sive, and once she has joined me we will go back and reclaim my realm.”

Puck rolled his eyes, and let his head fall back into his chill hands. “And how, pray tell, can we do that? She is lying low from Mordant, and not likely to be proclaiming her presence to anyone.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Auberon’s flawless brow, and he sheathed his bright sword. “Perhaps our connection as brother and sister might help.”

Puck tried hard, but it was impossible, he burst into gales of laughter. “Surely, my Lord,” he spluttered, “It is a fraction late to play that card?”

He must be really desperate, Brigit commented ruefully.

Auberon heard neither of them, his eyes wandering from the river and turning to something far more distant. “I fear Mordant has followed after me, but found other prey more to his liking,” he whispered softly.

“What?” Puck strained his Art but could tell nothing of what had alerted the other.

“He has scented the one fair hope in this blasted land.”

“I would appreciate it,” Puck tugged imperiously on Auberon’s bejeweled sleeve, “If you would talk properly sometimes. What in the Mother’s name do you mean?”

“Sive the Shining, Sive the dark Raven, Daughter of Battle.”

“Yes, yes I know her.” All unnoticed a darkly striped tail sprouted out from Puck’s spine, and began to whip the air, “Dark hair, violet eyes... nasty temper—why, what about her?”

No reply was forthcoming. And then, without a single warning, the King of the Fey dropped to the ground like a bundle of dirty laundry, twitching on the ground. Auberon’s back arched until it was fit to break, his mouth stretched in a silent scream.

Puck stared a moment at the spasm-wracked ex-ruler of the Fey. “Now that can’t be good,” he mused, idly prodding the prone body with one foot. It was a sad day indeed when the future of the Fey depended on this unlikely specimen.

Tempting isn’t it lad, Brigit hissed, Just to tip him into the river.

Puck heaved a heavy sigh, but crouched down next to his former liege. The lashing tiger tail got in his way, and he dismissed with a thought. Unlike Sive, Puck had not lost any of his Art, and he guessed it was the Brigit within him that made it so. After all, a Trickster without any tricks was the saddest thing. Amusingly, he was probably the most powerful Fey left in any realm.

“I bet you never thought that would be so, my Liege,” Puck chuckled, “Even when you saw my glory hanging from your chandelier.”

With very little of anything approaching gentleness, the Trickster levered open Auberon’s mind and peered in. It was remarkably easy, considering the King’s former power—obviously a brush with Mordant was not healthy for the Art. Puck made a mental note to avoid such confrontations.

The source of the problem was immediately apparent. Even after all that had passed between them, Auberon was right, there was still a connection of blood between the siblings.

Puck concentrated his Art on the thread, merging his thoughts with it, trying to understand what was passing between brother and sister. Immediately he wished that he had not.

Every inch of his being was being stripped away, such pain and confusion.

With a wince Puck released the link, but an odd smell of burning feathers lingered in his nostrils.

Brigit was frightened now, just as much as he.

Mordant’s final assault on his wayward wife had begun. Now they could only cling to that small hope that she would not break easily

Give, like you’ve never given in your whole life.

Obediently Puck thrust his thoughts through to Auberon, Send Sive our Art. The King’s mind was reeling with shared torture, but he struggled to reverse the flow through the connection. A pale nimbus sprung up around him and the Trickster, so that any coming along the river would have been much surprised.

Take it, Sive, Puck thought, Take it and hold on, we are coming.

A flash like earthed lightning snapped across the link, and suddenly Auberon could breathe once more.

Puck helped the erstwhile ruler to his feet, shocked at how his body was shaking. It took a few moments for Auberon to recover and push his golden hair from his eyes. “He has her now, and though Sive and I have seen differently on many—well in fact on most things, I would not wish this for her.”

“We have bought time with our Art,” Puck replied, thinking of his cousin’s suffering. “But it will not last long against Mordant.”

“We must rescue her.” Auberon dusted off the last of the grass from his formerly fine garments. “But without Art we are reduced to whatever transport these mortals use.”

Puck considered for a moment the oddness of Auberon’s willingness to rush into danger.

The former king grinned at Puck, recovering some of his arrogance. “Never fear Trickster, I am thinking that given time, Mordant will be able to use our sibling link to trace me. Besides which if Sive falls to him, then there is no hope for any of us.”

Auberon might have been stripped of most of his Art, but Puck was not.

In an instant he had shifted his body to that of a mighty stallion. He was rather proud of its enormous size, jet-black color and prancing legs.

Auberon, showing his usual lack of manners, didn’t even pass a pleasant comment. Instead he mounted up swiftly.

Still if he thought this was going to be a comfortable ride, he might be in for a shock.

***

Having descended into a river of pain, the removal from it was almost as traumatic. Sive stuttered back into consciousness, feeling the cool surface of stone pressed against one cheek. She lay very still for a moment, counting the little pains, but avoiding the larger ones that were still waiting in the background. Somehow she had found the strength to hold back Mordant’s assault, from where she could not guess, for Art was the greatest source of pain at the moment. It was what had been used against her, and the only way to shelter from agony was to keep it at a distance.

Macha; a hot tear leaked from her closed eyes, and spent itself against the stone. Mordant had taken his rage out on her ancient friend.

Sive ran the tip of her tongue over dry lips, mustering her remaining energy, pulling herself off the floor and onto her knees. Her elaborate skirts were twisted around like chains, and dug into her body. The room was so dark that had she been mortal, Sive would have been rendered blind. The only window in the stone cell was narrow and set above eye level, but told her all the same that it was night; though which night she could not have said.

On all fours Sive hauled herself to the wall, and then using it, managed to get to her feet. Her Art was removed so completely, the once mighty Fey had to scramble against the stone to see through the window. It was as she had feared. Sive now shared the same fate as all those unfortunates who had displeased the Queen. She was locked in the Tower.

Her legs surrendered. What would Will think when he returned and found her gone? He would only know that she had left with the Earl, and were he to follow that clue, then he might unwittingly fall into Mordant’s hands. He could not know that his patron had fallen to the power of her husband. A wave of despair swept over her, and oddly it was not because he was her last hope of redemption for the Fey. It was something more than that.

Having nothing else left, Sive whispered vainly into the dark, “Do not follow, Will.” In the chill stillness of the cell her voice sounded frail, cracked and terribly mortal.

Still Sive’s stout heart was the same as it ever was, and though she realized there was little hope, she would not give Mordant the satisfaction of seeing her cast down.

Settling her robes around her, she spoke again. “Please do not look for me, Will,” she whispered one more time, as though her voice could travel to his ear. “I can suffer, as long as you do not.” Then wrapping her arms around her knees, she rested her head and tried to recall how his arms had felt, safe, sensual and above all warm.

***

The London Will knew and loved was gone. He stood in the darkness of the alleyway watching the doorway of Sive’s lodgings, and the once cheerful familiar city he loved was dead; it had stolen his love away.

Though new ideas for plays and poems were banging away in the back of his head, desperate to be written down, he could not move from this spot. This was where he had last seen Sive, and some part of him knew this was the only chance he had. Whoever had taken her wanted him as well, so he would let them find him.

Will had already scared young Margery, Sive’s maid, half to death. She had only seen her mistress go off in the escort of a handsome man and his entourage. And while she was very impressed with the style of his clothes, maddeningly she could recall nothing about who it might have been. She’d added rather tartly that Sive had obviously made a move up in the world and a playwright, even a famous one, was second to a gentleman of the court.

But the tight knot in Will’s stomach did not abate, and despite his earlier certainty that just such a thing might happen, the appearance of unworldly thugs by the Theatre did not comfort him. Those creatures had been more in her world than his.

So in the face of a thousand nasty possibilities, perhaps the idea of her running off with someone else was the best.

So he waited all night, hollowed eyed, and set in misery. When he appeared once more in the house, Margery squeaked with horror, but was also quick to point out that Sive had not returned yet. The maid was almost beside herself with excitement, imagining her mistress had found favor with the queen, or one of her courtiers.

Will however was a good deal less impressed. The idea was beginning to take hold. Sive belonged more in the Court than she did on the rough city streets and playhouses he frequented. He could think of little to do, and the players were anxious to practice the last scene he had rewritten. So it was not until the early evening that he managed to call again. By this time Margery was getting very terse with him, reminding him sternly that the aristocracy was not at his beck and call, thank you very much.

Will was used to the Court looking down their noses at lowly players, but not servants. He left with what he hoped was a haughty look. Buying a rosy-cheeked apple from a stall on the way home, he tried to dispel the uneasy thoughts that flew about him.

But these were then interrupted when he caught sight of the Earl of Wrothesley and his companions, making their way through the press of people. Perhaps he had seen Sive.

Gulping down the last bite of his apple, he shouldered his way through the boisterous crowds. Dusk was falling, and all of London was on the move to where ever they had a bed for the night. The daring and the desperate were all that went abroad after dark, and after midnight only the thieves and the foolish. Any sensible citizen of London would be locked into his abode as soon as night fell.

Over this bustle Will caught glimpses of the Earl’s finery, and his elegant voice calling out to his companions to make haste.

So intent on his quarry was Will that he barely noticed when a diminutive shape emerged from the press of people and deftly applied a shoulder, driving him sideways towards an alleyway. But Will had been living in London for a long time, and such tricks were not unknown to him; he reached for his knife.

“Now, Will,” Puck’s mischievous smile flashed, “There’s no need to get angry. You wouldn’t mistake your own sweet Puck for a filcher now, would you?”

The shock was so great that before he knew it, Will was well out of the flow of people, and had lost sight of the Earl. “A filcher never, Puck, but an inconvenience all the same. I was trying to talk to...”

“You wouldn’t want to talk to that one, mortal,” a smooth light voice interrupted him.

Will frowned and turned on the speaker, who remained hidden in the shadows of the alleyway, tall and heavily cloaked. The voice was not familiar, but when the hood was pulled back, Will knew the look of the man. Though the hair was golden, the face masculine, there was an echo of Sive’s angular pale beauty there. Neither could he ignore the intangible glow of the Fey about this newcomer. In shock, Will looked to Puck.

The Trickster shrugged. “My former Lord is ill prepared to hide his nature as his sister has done.”

“You are her brother, Auberon. then,” Will said, “And as foolish as Sive said. If any saw you like that there would be a hanging or a burning for sure.”

“I have little concern for mortal threats.” The royal Fey shot Will a disdainful look from the corner of his eye. “I am only concerned with the danger that Mordant poses. A danger that you almost walked into, mortal.”

Puck nudged him. “You should be more careful of your associates.”

“You mean the Earl of Southampton? He is my friend, my patron.”

Auberon sniffed, and withdrew back into his cloak. “He reeks of Mordant; he obviously does not choose his friends wisely.”

Will rubbed his head wearily. “This is all Fey madness.”

“Madness or not,” Puck snapped, “It is the truth, and you must deal with it. Your Earl is in Mordant’s pocket. If you spoke to him now, you would be in terrible danger.”

“I have spoken to his Lordship many times; I do not see what the difference is.”

Puck pulled a face, “That is bad indeed, for Mordant would have recognized your Feyness at once.”

“What little there is of it,” Auberon snorted. “But we are not here to warn you, or any other mortal, but to find my sister.”

“I have not seen her since yesterday morning.” Will emphasized the significance of the hour, hoping to knock Auberon down a peg or two. “I was about to ask the Earl if he knows where she is. Her maid said she left in the company of a fine gentleman, and I do not think Sive knows many of that sort in London yet. “

Puck and the Fey Lord exchanged glances, and the Trickster slumped back against the wall. “It is as we feared then.”

“What?” Will looked between them, his heart racing and the tumultuous knot in his chest tightening.

“Your Earl knows very well where she is,” Auberon spun away. “And there can be no doubt Mordant has her. Her pain will only end when he has had enough amusement.”

Will closed his eyes, and tried to hold onto the facts, even though the idea of Sive’s sweet skin open to attack almost drove him mad. “Well, then,” he finally managed, “We must get her back.”

“She is in that place.” Auberon’s eyes strayed in the upriver direction. “That Tower.”

“Your queen put her there,” Puck said somewhat accusingly.

“All this time I have heard nothing but how powerful you Fey are, “Will hissed, “And yet the Tower of London scares you?” “Not scares,” Auberon replied darkly. “It is merely an inconvenience that Sive is in such a place.” Pucks’ eyes sparked silver in the half-light. “The Tower is a place of much magic and power; the Lord who built it was a canny man.”

“A Fey that carried your name, mortal,” the King said, “A lost son of my realm that was powerful in all Arts, so he chose his fortress well. Only one of our kind could have found such a crossroads of power lying next to a river.”

Though their words sparked curiosity in Will, it was not something that he wished to pursue. What he wanted was Sive safe. “It doesn’t matter, does it? I mean you are both supposed mighty Fey ‘lords’.”

Auberon shifted uncomfortably, and turned his hooded face away.

“Well you see, Will my friend,” Puck paused and glanced mischievously in his former King’s direction, “Sive’s brother here is much depleted from his last brush with Mordant. He might not be quite up to it. He may recover with a little time—we just don’t know.”

The expected denial was not forthcoming, and Will was deeply shocked, but also wary. “Is this why you have come to me, then? To make me your puppet?”

Auberon tore off his cloak, and throwing it on the ground stomped on it angrily. “This is the creature my sister has pinned all her hopes on, Puck? It beggars the imagination. He has no spine, no courage, and he has denied all his heritage!” The dazzling Fey shirt and breeches that were now revealed shimmered like butterfly wings in the golden light that oozed from his tall form. Auberon, cast down King of the Fey, was a doomed and yet a heart-stopping candle flame in that dim London alley. The bittersweet aura of loss and pride that rolled from him made tears spring to Will’s eyes. Only now did he wish that he had not turned away from Sive when she had revealed her Fey form to him. In a similar light she had captured his soul.

And though Auberon stirred much anger, there was still a part of the bard that could not help feel the sting of truth. And though he feared being moved like some Fey chess piece, standing in the Fey King’s glow, sensing the beauty of Sive’s hidden world, Will was truly touched. Creatures of such beauty could not be left to die simply because of his mortal fears. All that really mattered was that she whom he loved would survive.

Will looked over at Puck. The Trickster’s eyes were dark and unreadable, waiting patiently for his answer.

Slightly embarrassed, Will bent and scooped up the abused cloak. “You best put this on,” he stood toe to toe with the Fey King. “It wouldn’t do to have you burnt at the stake, not when we all have so much to do.”

Chapter 17: Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain, Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain

The roars of lions made Sive spring awake. At first the ice-cold stone that made up the tiny cell gave no clues where she was.

The lion called again, a long roar that sounded more desolate than frightening. A creature that once ruled was now nothing more than prisoner.

Once she and Puck had journeyed to those distant mortal shores where jungle and vast golden grasslands were in equal number. Puck had picked up many wonderful shapes to mimic there, and Macha had flown the skies with eagles and vultures.

Gritting her teeth, Sive held tight to those memories. Now she could only guess Macha’s fate. Mortal ravens lived in the Tower, but no sounds came from them, and stripped of power neither could Sive touch their minds.

But Sive still had the sharp Fey senses; she could hear her captor’s footsteps long before a mortal prisoner would have. Sive waited, as the key rattled into the lock and the door opened. Even when Mordant stood there, she could barely muster any anger. The door was closed with a resounding clang behind him.

Mordant sniffed as if the very smell of her offended him. “Mother of All, Sive—I wouldn’t even waste a glamour on you anymore.”

“And you think that disappoints me?” she muttered, feeling her lips ache where she had gnawed them in her agony yesterday. Her husband laughed shortly. “You will still have your uses,

Sive, never fear.” “At least I know,” she whispered, “It was not Mordant that did this to me. I know about the Unmaker.” He grasped her chin, angling it so their eyes met. In hers he saw inevitability of death, in his she saw the abyss; nothing mortal or Fey lingered behind them, only emptiness. “Then you also know, you will die in agony,” the void promised.

“You want to destroy all realms, but I know why.” All Sive had now was a thin veneer of defiance; hope had fled in the night.

Her chin was released, flicked away hard enough to make her jaw ache. “Foolish being, you cannot judge what I want. You can have no concept of my desires. You cannot imagine the end of all, but I can, and I know what will come after.”

Sive shook her head, suddenly knowing how the mortals must feel about the Fey. The vast sphere of other realms was more dangerous than her people in their arrogance had imagined, and somehow they had attracted the attention of something worse than themselves, something ancient that their elders had worked hard to contain.

He dipped in his pocket and removed the book she had been reading. Flipping over the cover, he smiled, “Reading Chaucer, dear wife? What on earth did you think to learn from this?”

There was no further need to hide anything from him. “You were reading. I found your little library. I wanted to know what you were doing.”

Mordant laughed, a sound like shattered glass. “There are many ways to destroy a people, Sive. But in all of them, you must know what moves them,” he bent down to her, “What makes them weep in the night, and howl for death. I was simply finding out what that was.”

Sive looked away.

“But I think for you it was more than that,” Mordant purred. “You found more in these books than you bargained for, perhaps even a bit of yourself you didn’t even know about... such as your humanity.”

She held her breath, but he already knew that much was obvious. She would not take the bait.

“In fact, I must thank your human friend.”

Sive lay very still, trying to calm her thoughts; he could not mean...

“The Bard went too far, dearest. I do not know what he was doing, but I felt his power. It is what drew me here. Once I have done with you, there will be a reckoning with him as well.” He leaned down so she could feel his breath on her shoulder. “So will I crush all that you love.”

She looked up at him with battered rage, but said nothing.

Disappointed, Mordant regarded her coolly, head tipped on one side, as if she were an insect. Then with a bleak grin, he twisted his hand sideways and slipped it Between. When it reemerged it was holding a dark iron birdcage, though what it contained was certainly not much of a bird. The crumple of feathers and blood on the bottom of the cage had once been Sive’s most ancient friend.

Mordant’s alien eyes flashed with darkness as he dangled Macha from his fingertips.

Sive’s reaction surprised even her. Coming off the bed like Puck’s tiger form, she leapt for the Earl’s throat with all that remained to her, mortal strength. The cage dropped to the ground with a clatter, barely heard over the full-throated scream from Sive. All of her body committed itself to scratching and kicking and punching, anything that might hurt him. Rolling across the floor, Earl and Fey smashed hard into the far wall, Sive ending up atop the empty-eyed shell. Her long fingers were wrapped about his neck, forcing all the strength of her body about his windpipe. The sound of his gasp was so sweet in her ears.

Mordant’s fist connected with a snap to her jaw, set her head ringing and knocked the breath out of her. Taking the opportunity, he struggled free, but did not flee for the door. For a moment they fought brutally near the window, trading blows and wounds equally, but whereas every injury was like a hammer blow to Sive, Mordant could not be reached through whatever foul power had him.

Her hands slipped on the knife at his belt, desperately eager to have it and plunge it into his chest. But in a heartbeat he stole that chance away. Wearying of the fray, Mordant summoned Art. Before Sive knew it, she was skidding over the floor, with her chest aching like a warhorse had kicked it, the rest of her body throbbing in sympathy.

Lying gasping near the door, she opened her eyes to the inside of the raven’s cage. Macha, broken and bloodied, but incredibly still alive, looked back. Sive almost forgot to breathe. From this angle Mordant couldn’t see the contents of the cage, and now that he had the main prize, the bird was of no more interest. Calmly Sive sat up, blocking his view, trying to organize her ringing head. Cautiously she licked the warm trickle of her own blood from her lips, and waited for his next move.

“Unexpected and foolish,” he shook his head, “Amusing as it is, I didn’t want to fight with you, dear wife. But I am sure that you know one thing I do want.”

She blinked up at him

Crouching down to her level the Earl whispered in her ear like an eager lover, “Your agony. Enough talking, enough fighting, enough of everything—now there is only time for pain.” His icy fingertips pressed against her forehead, and abruptly the strength to resist was removed. One thought alone remained in this brief seconds: she had a victory. Macha was alive. Then indeed, there was no more time for anything. The agony began, and only night would see its end.

***

Breaking someone out of the Tower was not what any sane Londoner would even consider, and indeed armies thought better of attacking such a well-defended powerful castle. Will, lying in the rear of the quiet wherry punting its way down the Thames, felt remarkably calm. He watched with bemused detachment the lift and stokes of his wherryman’s arm against the pull of the river, and wondered what his family would have thought of the company he was keeping.

Will was neither of the Puritan mind nor, despite his father’s leanings, on the side of Popery. He went, like all his countrymen, to services as the law dictated, but the faith never truly pierced his heart. Were he really honest with himself, he would acknowledge that the only times he felt in touch with the divine was when he held a quill, or Sive. In those hot moments when Will’s soul transcended his body’s failings, he could almost feel the touch of God.

He struggled to find room for the Fey in that world, and yet they existed. He loved one.

The wherryman shot an odd glance over his shoulder at Will’s unprovoked sigh. His name was John Fleming, and Will had taken his boat many times over the Thames to the Rose. They had always joked and traded colorful stories, but not today. Undoubtedly the wherryman was worried that the playwright was sickening for something, for the plague was still about in some parts of the city. How could he guess that Will’s mind was far from the mundane dangers of life?

“Careful now,” John had to nearly drop his oar, in order to grab hold of Will’s sleeve. His unschooled twitching about had nearly upset the whole wherry. Water had never been a friendly element to Will. He recalled with a little shudder how Sive had whispered in the dark that some Fey had an unpleasant reaction to water.

And who knew what Puck and Auberon were doing now? They had left him with his own errands, and left on mysterious business of their own. Will felt nervously behind his back, but the heavy bag was still there.

A slight mist had risen, and Will could barely see two feet in front of him, let alone to the riverbank. He hoped whatever the Fey were doing, they would arrive soon. Puck found humanity so interesting, he could easily have become engrossed in watching a maid tip out the nightwater and forgotten all about rescuing his cousin.

“Hoi, watch it!” John bellowed as another wherry came dangerously close to colliding with theirs; the Thames invaded a portion of the low-slung boat, and Will’s boots and nethersocks received a soaking. John shook his fist, and offered all sorts of indignities on the other boatman now pulling away from them with remarkable speed. He for his part waved cheerily, and Will groaned when he recognized Puck’s silver hair crammed under a dingy little cap. Whatever the Trickster had learnt in this realm, commonsense was not part of it; the hat barely covered his decidedly pointed ears, and the speed of his craft might well set a few tongues to wagging.

But John at least had noticed either. “Blimin’ fools,” he muttered, before dragging their craft once more into the appropriate current.

They glided past Westminster’s long line of towers and grim windows, and then in due course the string of homes inhabited by the rich and those favored by the queen. The whole area was dedicated to the monarch, and like a complex hive bent itself to her needs. None of those courtiers ever guessed that an alien insect had found its way to the core. He and Puck would not only be helping Sive, but also the Queen herself by rooting out Mordant’s insidious presence.

John guided their little craft into the bank where Puck was already waiting, boat nowhere in sight. The wherryman pushed his hat back and scratched his head, trying to place the youth. Will paid John and made a hasty exit from the wherry.

Puck’s unshod feet were beating against the muddy riverside, while his eyes scanned the variety of people bustling about him. Water was by far the most convenient way of traveling in London, and everyone from street-seller to archbishop used it. Even in the quiet morning, wherries were skating across the water like a collection of various water beetles. Puck’s eyes were shining with curiosity and mirth.

Will for a moment did not see Auberon, cloaked and lurking in the shadow of the pier.

Will caught hold of Puck’s elbow. “Remember what we are here for.”

The Fey looked affronted. “Certainly there is a little time, you mortals are always in so much hurry to get places that you miss all the good things around you. Don’t you know there are always milkmaids to frighten and drunkards to lead about by the nose?”

Will kept a tight rein on his rising anger. “I have those things you asked for,” he said instead, thrusting the bag at Puck. “One might ask what you were doing while I was scouring the underbelly of London.”

“Visiting,” Auberon finally spoke. “There are places where Art still lingers, even here, under all this humanity.”

“Places?”

Puck was busy rummaging in the bag. “You would know them, high places where the sun gods were worshipped, bends on the river where sacrifices were made to the ancestors. The people may have forgotten, but never the land.”

“Drained of power I might be,” Auberon went on, “But I can still draw from those old wells of Art.”

“And do you think you are strong enough to rescue Sive?” Puck was suddenly still, watching his erstwhile king. Auberon’s face twisted in anger that a mortal dare question him, but he answered evenly enough, “That I do not know.” Mortal and Fey stared at each other for a long time, waiting for the other to turn away. Puck finally broke the stalemate. Hopping down from the rock, he swung the bag over his shoulder with no effort at all. “If you two are quite finished, we have a goddess to rescue.”

He led the way without looking back, leaving Will and Auberon to fall into step.

One thing he was already learning was that Puck was in his element. They strutted along the street, the Fey waving and smiling at commoner and gentry equally. Any mortal would have been in serious trouble with such a display of overt friendliness, but where Puck went he left a wake of smiles. Annoying though many of the Trickster’s habits were, he was much beloved. Will was reminded of his nurse’s tales of Robin Goodfellow, and the discreet saucers of milk left out for him.

As they got closer to the Tower Will felt the enormity of what they were doing catch up with him. The Tower of London was built to repel all comers, the symbol of the monarch’s power. The only people who went there were those condemned as traitors; getting out was usually a matter of surrendering one’s head.

The houses gave way, and there it was. Long low walls surrounded a complex of towers of every shape and kind. Every inch of the wall was strength, and the towers seemed to glower through the dispersing mist. Guards lined the walls, and were at the gate even at this early hour.

“It is not like we can simply wander up there,” Will muttered. “I hope you have a proper plan.”

Auberon remained silent. Puck laced his fingers together and arched them away from his body, looking as if he was about to step out onto the boards of the Theatre. “We do indeed have a plan; we simply wander in there.”

“He has no idea,” the Fey king said dismissively from within the shadow of his cloak.

Puck made a face. “This, my boy, is where the glamour comes in. Properly done, even old snake in the grass over there won’t realize that we are coming.”

Will’s hidden Art prickled with alertness, but he could not sense Puck’s gossamer fine glamour as he wove it within scarce feet of him.

“Even Sive cannot match me when it comes to these,” Puck’s blue eyes were swirling when he turned them on Will. “I guess it’s just practice. I could tell you some stories, lad...”

“I would prefer it if you just did what we came here for.” Will jerked his head in the direction of the main gate

“Careful now, careful,” Puck’s flawless forehead showed wrinkles of concentration, but that was all there was to suggest any effort.

“Do not distract him,” Auberon warned. “The Trickster is the master of the glamour—he’s had to be to survive in your world.”

“‘Tis done,” Puck stepped forward boldly and beckoned them to follow.

Will gulped, glanced at Auberon, and did. Each step closer brought prickles of fear, and he almost jumped out of his skin when one of the guards waved at them.

“Say nothing,” Puck hissed.

Whatever the men saw reflected in the glamour it was obviously enough, for the three intruders passed under the great arch of the gate and entered the tower. It was like a sudden weight had dropped on him. The place pressed down on him, and the air was full of voices, some whispered, some screamed, but all of them wanted his attention. A horde of angry ghosts yammered for revenge.

Will stopped and clutched his head, only willpower keeping him from calling out.

Puck was at his shoulder, and somehow his voice reached him. “It’s your Art, Will.”

“He cannot control it,” Auberon’s voice was as bitter as a snake’s hiss,”We should leave him.”

“He can, and we won’t.” Puck’s hand rested on Will’s shoulder, providing him a brief anchor against the tide of history. “Claim your power, Will. This is one of those Places where the past is close, and the power great. You can get through it.”

The voices rose to a crescendo; kings roared at ancient wrongs, ladies screamed in horror at blood, young children sobbed at being robbed of their lives. Will felt their stories bury themselves in his bones, as if by that very act they could live again. “Too much, too much,” that weak voice could not be his.

“Think of Sive,” Puck cried. “She will join them if you do not take control.”

He did not know how. The voices of the past battered him in a flood of longing, a rending desire to live. He could not stand against it. Instead he opened himself to them.

The memories and lost passions disappeared into the strength of his Art, and were silent. Standing tall, Will looked about him; up the causeway to his left he could see Tower Green. In memory he could hear the roar of the crowd, could feel the cut of the axe. The whole Tower was full of such stories, and he now had every one inside him.

Auberon was at his shoulder, “A brave thing to do for a human. I’m not sure if it won’t drive you mad, though.”

“I am glad you didn’t take me to these other Places,” Will replied hoarsely.

“You’re stronger than you know,” Puck growled. “Now come on, we have to find Sive.”

Auberon led them, drawn by some unexpected sibling bond. They walked up onto the Tower green, to where the low line of houses stood with its back to the river. “She’s in there,” Auberon said quietly.

“The Queen’s House?” Will said with something like mounting horror.

“The Tower beyond.”

The bard knew enough of this place; it was the Bell Tower, which had held many of the richer unfortunates. He did not want to hear the ghosts of that place.

“The only way in is through the Queen’s House itself,” he told the Fey. “And how are we to explain ourselves there?”

“Nothing for it.” Puck held out a hand to each of them. “I will take us.”

Auberon looked worried under his hood.

Puck positively bristled. “I still have Art, unlike the power you took from this land. I hope you are as ready as I am.”

With a shrug the former king took one, Will did the same. All that could be felt was a brief second of bone-numbing chill, and then there they stood, in the darkness of a castle corridor. The only sounds were those of distant guards and the wind whistling through the windows.

“Very good, Puck.” Auberon withdrew his hand quickly. “She is just down here.”

“One minute.” Puck pulled him back. “Let’s at least make sure we are prepared.” He took the bag from Will and distributed the tools to everyone. Auberon took the oak and elder branches, while Puck tucked the eagle feather and elder leaf into his belt.

When Will gave him a very doubtful look Puck rolled his eyes. “There is power in the commonest of things, young man, you will see.”

“Don’t I get anything?” Will said, “I mean it took me a long time to get all these things, I went to some unpleasant places.”

Puck shook his head. “These are gifts of this world; they would not aid you.”

They could hear Sive before they saw her; her screams rattled the bones of the tower. Will didn’t even hear Puck’s yelp of warning; he charged the thick wooden door with his shoulder. Surprisingly it gave, and Will found himself flying into the tiny cell. He was face to face with a tall Fey with eyes of utter darkness and hair like ice. An instant of recognition flashed across his face; he opened his mouth as if to speak, but then Puck came hurling into the room, followed by Auberon.

Puck had cast off the last remnants of his mortal glamour, and fairly pulsed with silvery white light. The former king blazing like the sun, tackled Mordant around the chest.

Puck’s voice boomed in Will’s head, Get her out of here Will, quickly

But there was no time. Apart from the struggling Fey forms on the floor, which he could not even see beyond the writhing mass of light and shadow, Will could hear the shouts and running footsteps that could only be the guards.

He hurried to Sive, who was wrapped around a birdcage, of all things. He picked her up, and she whimpered. Will spun around just as Puck was thrown free from the melee with a loud bang. He rolled to their feet, shook his head, and clambered to his feet.

“This could have been a bad plan,” he yelled.

The words had just left his lips when there was a roar that sounded like thunder had entered the room, when the swirling mass of light and power bounced against the wall. The stone could have taken bombardment, but never unearthly power; the wall exploded outward. The three of them were blown against the far wall, showered with dust and chips.

Scrambling to the edge, they peered out into the most unearthly sight. Two new stars were being born in the sky above the Tower.

It was a vision that would have sent simple folk running for the clergy, and the clergy in turn running for their crucifix.

Auberon and Mordant were pressed together, chest-to-chest, and toe-to-toe in a blazing corona of light, even though there was nothing beneath their feet. The battle was being conducted in midair, at the same height as the Bell Tower they had sprung from. Both swung bright swords in swift deadly arcs, seeking to gain the upper hand, while waves of Art that radiated from them put the battle on more than a physical level.

Will licked his suddenly dry lips, feeling he was falling rapidly into a fatal Fey world.

Puck tugged on his arm, drawing his attention back to the pale Sive in his arms. Will forgot all his fears, as a greater one overwhelmed him. He hugged her in his arms all limp and quiet. Sive’s only strength appeared to be in her hands, clutching the birdcage.

Will laid a hand against her cool throat. The flicker of life still leapt there, but as they watched the deadly dance above them, he knew that it would not be for much longer. Auberon was faltering already.

Puck cursed in a language Will did not understand, and flicked his hand towards the door. It slammed itself shut.

Puck’s hands grasped his, immortal eyes boring into his own mortal ones, “This is it lad. Auberon cannot match Mordant, and if he falls, so do we all. You must unleash what is in you.” And then the final low blow, “For her sake.”

The sounds of battle rang like bells in his ears, and Will knew well enough that there was no great time for soul-searching. He might be lost, but Sive knew how to wield the Fey Art.

Will slid his hands into the thick dark hair of his love. “Take all, my love, take it all. All that is mine was always yours. Save us.”

Giving his Art to Sive came as naturally to him as making love to her. His Art streamed into veins long parched of it, and suddenly she was full of his vital mortal strength. Will felt Sive stir.

She throbbed with Art, enlivened as she’d not been for centuries, and the light that came from her now was no gentle dying kind, a conflagration erupting in Will’s arms.

The couple moaned and cried, feeling the ecstasy of union touched with the power. The Tower snapped with Art, singing in response. No time remained for thought or reason, for that blinding second they had one direction, one power. Sive awoke, and Will looked into her eyes and was swallowed up.

Consciousness and self dropped away in a short minute. The mortal realm sagged and was gone.

Puck shielded his eyes as Will dropped like a stone away from Sive and the terrible white light enveloped them all. His cousin exploded into the sky, a streak of silver against the thunderclouds Auberon and Mordant had conjured. Puck averted his gaze and scuttled to Will, as above the Fey made the world shake. Outside the cell, he could hear guards calling on their god.

As he looked down into the gray face of the bard, Brigit’s voice battered in his head as though the old Fey was standing at his shoulder. Even now she cannot win.

Could the old woman never say anything positive?

The siblings were making the sky red, battling Mordant, their forms obscured in a tumbling shower of color.

Puck heaved Will over his shoulder. “Why couldn’t you use the Art yourself, dimwit?” He grumbled, but Brigit already knew the answer to that one. The Bard did not always choose the path of least resistance.

But as to why it was always Puck that had to do all the work—that she could not answer. Puck slipped his hand into his tunic and pulled on the Seal, in his haste almost losing his grip on the precious round of clay. He could sense in Sive the thundering desire to go nova, exploding like a sun. Her thoughts were grim and determined, and filled the air with threat. She knew how easy it would be to fall into death fighting Mordant.

Not that way, Brigit called from where ever she was. Quickly boy!

Holding the Seal aloft and summoning his own Art, Puck smiled a weary smile. “Yes, as always to the rescue.”

His Art pumped from him, ripping the Veil open as easily as thought. The Seal was burning into his hand, and Brigit was screaming directions into his head. He felt, not for the first time, like a storm-torn sail, expected to do more than it had ever been made for.

Go, lad, now, Brigit commanded.

Art leapt along his senses, and wrapped all that the Trickster held dear with itself. “Home,” he said, “Take us home.” And then that was all he remembered for a very long time.

Chapter 18: How now, my flesh, my child! What, makest thou me a dullard in this act?

Unconsciousness was reluctant to abandon Will, but the whiff of jasmine and evening invaded, demanding that he pay attention. He lay quiet for a moment, savoring the heady smells, unwilling to face whatever reality was waiting. It was not impossible that he might be dead.

Then strong fingers grasped his shoulder roughly, as if to test how real he was, and somewhere in the near distance came the faint twinkle of bells. It took him another moment to realize that the bells were talking.

“Is he dead?”

And then Puck’s familiar voice. “Course not, he’s just faking it.”

“Humans can do that?”

“Yes, but more often they are pretending they’re alive.”

Laughter swirled about like a delightful slide of music, and curious despite himself Will opened his eyes.

He lay on his back beneath a bower of jasmine, and their beauty was something refreshingly familiar. So too was the Trickster’s face hovering over him, but the origins of the laughter were somewhat stranger.

At first it looked like a string of tiny lanterns were suspended just behind Puck’s head, but then Will realized that they were in fact glowing orbs of light, each around a separate tiny winged creature.

He snapped upright in shock, but some dark force gripped his head, and with a groan he sank back under the flowers.

“Easy now,” Puck cautioned just moments too late, “Stepping through the Veil for the first time is not always a pleasant experience for a mortal.”

Puck’s winged companions drew closer, their golden light making Will’s head ache even more.

“He’s awfully ugly.” “And grubby,” one chirped.

“And smelly,” a third held its miniscule nose, drawing in for a closer look.

Will suddenly felt very awkward indeed. The diminutive Puck and his even smaller friends made him feel like a cumbersome giant. He gave the Trickster what he hoped was an appealing look.

The little people squealed as his friend shooed them away from Will’s face, like a bunch of gnats.

“Sprites always say what they’re thinking,” his friend grinned. “There’s only room in their head for one thought at a time.”

Will’s tongue had somehow stuck to the roof of his mouth. Working his jaw a few times helped. “Sive?”

A shutter pulled behind Puck’s face, and he straightened up brusquely. “She’s fine, lad.”

The flighty creatures darted back around Will, and he couldn’t help but notice their faces bore tiny frowns.

“Where am I?”

“The last bastion of the Fey.” Puck helped him to his feet. “The Evening realm, but...”

“Not to tell, not to tell,” one of the thistledown creatures fluttered between Trickster and mortal. “She wants to see him. You’re not to interfere, she said.”

Puck waved his hands almost irritably. “Damn sprites... but Sive is waiting for you.”

Will staggered somewhat groggily to his feet. “Where?”

“Me, me!” the golden sprite hovered a scant yard from his face. “Follow.”

Puck turned away his narrow shoulders hunched, not offering anymore, and so Will had no choice but to chase after the will-o-the-wisp form. Levering himself up, he followed his unlikely guide.

Beyond the bower, the world resolved itself into dim lavender forms in which the rise and fall of the land was reduced to a half-seen presence. Will paused for a moment, his guide fluttering near his shoulder, and by this dim light he got his first view of the Fey realm.

The earth was soft, thick and lush with dewy grass, the warm air heavy with exotic scents he could not place. Will was on a small hill, with all this quiet land falling away, and in the barely seen distant plains he could make out the darker green of a huge forest. He had no doubt he was no longer in England, nor with the strange but beautiful light could he be anywhere civilized man had been before.

But Will was not alone in it. Around him, huddled in cloaked and whispering groups, were other creatures, some near human, others not. This was the place humanity recalled in its dreams and nightmares, so he should not have been surprised to see horse-bodied men or huge wolf eyed women flicking glances crosswise at him. He could not help noticing that they pulled away, shielding themselves from his crude human eyes. And their language, however sweetly it hung in the air, was full of pain and fear.

Will’s guide finally lost all patience and fluttered away, and in such a landscape it was nearly the sole light, so he followed, desperate not to be left alone in this alien place.

They walked down the purple hill and climbed the gentle slope of the next one. The mist that clasped it was nearly impenetrable, and Will nearly stumbled across a low stone circle much like those in his own England. These rocks, though, gleamed with a power that the ones in his realm had long given up.

The tiny sprite guide would go no further with him. She spun about and flew off, her wan light disappearing into the ever-present mist. Now he was alone, until one of the smaller stones moved, and then he could make out two cloaked forms; one laid across the centermost stone, and one standing before it.

Will would have known her anywhere.

Though they had shared sighs, caresses, and he hoped love, he was hesitant to approach Sive. The cloaked head was bent, and she was focused on the other body. Will moved as silently as he could towards them, until he stood behind her shoulder.

The King of the Fey looked like death. Auberon’s breath barely disturbed the chill evening air; his eyes stained and closed. Will read the long denied filial bond in the gentle gesture as Sive tucked the cloak laid over him closer to his chin.

“We never saw eye to eye on anything,” Sive’s voice was rough with grief. “And he was a fool in many ways, but he is my brother. I would have spared him this.” She did not turn to face Will, but the tremble in her shoulders was plain to see.

Amazingly words failed the Bard. That which had always come easy to him fled in the face of uncertainty.

Sive turned and Will gasped. She was just as he remembered from all those years before by the Avon; the woman he had known in London was gone. Nothing soft or delicate remained. The gentle smile that had curved her lips and branded his memory had been replaced instead by a hard set of jaw.

And yet looking harder she was not totally the same creature she had been; the eyes betrayed the changes mortal time had wrought. One remained the soft dark eye he had made love in the light of, while the other had returned to the alien shining violet he recalled from beside the Avon.

Sive’s fingers fluttered briefly to her face, but her expression remained frosty. “Do not ask why, Will, I do not have the answer. Perhaps some jest by the Mother, but she has given me back what Mordant took.” She gestured to the tallest standing stone, where a bedraggled raven was perched watching the whole moment unfold

Silver light pulsed brighter from Sive’s body, every inch exuding the power she’d hidden in London.

She raised one perfect brow, reading his thoughts as easily as she had once read his heart. “That is right, Will, I am myself again. I can now afford to be little else. With my brother near death I must be the leader my people need.”

Could she not see that the end was near for this place; even he with only a little time here could not ignore that reality. Her people knew it, why couldn’t she? A half step took Will closer until he was but a hand’s reach away, “We must leave this place, it has the smell of death on it. Come home with me.”

A fierce look of such brightness nailed him to the spot. “This is my home. I am ruler of the Fey, what little of it remains.”

Every fiber of him wanted to hold Sive, wanted to say that it was going to be all right, but he was far too truthful for that, and she was no longer the woman he knew. “What do you mean to do?”

“The only thing that is left to me, fight. I will draw on the power of all that remains, so at least we will not die on our knees.”

Sive drifted closer so that he was wrapped in her intoxicating scent. “I was wrong about you, mortal. At the Tower you had your moment to become what you should, and you could not.”

Will stiffened at the accusation in her voice.

Human and Fey eyes were weighing his worth to her, perhaps looking for more ways to manipulate him. “But if you join us in this fight you may redeem yourself in my eyes. Claim your power and do as I say, mortal.”

Will searched for a hint of the woman he loved, but the words were ice and the title of ‘mortal’ like a whiplash. How quickly Sive reminded him exactly what he was, and precisely how large the gap was between them. If she had only looked at him with his lover’s eyes, Will would have given up his soul for her.

Suddenly he could not bear the stink of the place; its desperation sunk to the bottom of his stomach and turned it. And yet, he could not say the words either.

But Sive saw it in him. She spun away with a short laugh. “All the time I thought it was Auberon who was the fool. How blind I was, I should have known better than to trust a weak mortal.”

Will’s teeth clenched together at the bitterness in her voice. This was the heartless goddess that had sent thousands to their deaths in the ages past, and she had always played him for a pawn.

Unexpected rage sparked, and he could not reply, so choked was his throat with bile.

Sive the Shining’s voice was now as icy as the wind, howling over the hills. “Puck will return you to your little life, little man. We have no further use of you. Fey will defend Fey as I should have realized all along.”

What words could there be between them after that? Indeed, the wordsmith could think of none to heal this ragged wound, so, caught between rage and frustration, Will was glad to go.

His last glimpse of Sive was her ramrod straight back, her pale hand pressed to her brother’s cheek. She could have been another granite stone.

Will found the Trickster back in the bower, and once again words were redundant. Puck needed no explanation; there was enough history between Will and Sive to make it all plain. The pinched lines about the Trickster’s face compressed even more. “I’ll take you home, lad. Nothing more you can do here.”

Will was anxious to shake the dark Fey air out of his lungs, so he could only feel relief when Puck opened the Veil. They stepped through into his world. Puck had bought him back to the London he was so familiar with, but now the bustle of the mortal town was rough and ill conceived, compared with the memory of the Fey only a few steps behind him. Despite himself, Will clutched onto all that remained of that nightmarish dream.

Puck delicately removed Will’s fingers from the cobweb fabric of his Fey attire. “You should appreciate the fact that I have returned you on the evening of our departure. Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with your friends.” Amazingly the Trickster was angry.

“I’m sorry, Puck.” Will smoothed back his hair, and tried to gain control of his see-sawing emotions. “I tried my best.”

“Did you?” A slantways look suggested he thought otherwise. “It matters little now anyway, Mordant will have the last of us in his jaws soon enough.” He sighed heavily, and could not meet Will’s eye. “But pray tell, when the little magics of this realm are gone, what will you do? Who will you blame?”

Will was too baffled to reply.

The Fey gave an odd little smile, bittersweet and simple. “Sometime soon you’ll understand, lad. One day the goodwives will forget Robin Goodfellow and his plates of milk, the woods will stop whispering Fey songs to each other, and then the magic will die here too.”

“I don’t think I can be blamed for that,” Will muttered, though his throat was choked.

Puck shrugged, and then clasped his chill hands. “It might not be much in the scheme of things, but I just want you to know—I loved you in my own way.”

Will felt as low as a common worm, and could think of nothing to make it any better for either of them.

“Think of us when you can,” Puck’s fingers tightened on his. “Remember us, and try to hold fast to what we were.”

And then with a mere flicker in the air he was gone. It all could have been a dream, and Will was left standing on the wet London street, feeling as melancholy as any mortal creature ever had—all the worse because of guilt.

Chapter 19: Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever; We’ll ne’er come there again.

No matter what had happened, Will’s world was still the same. No one had even known he was gone, and who would believe in the course of an evening he had been in the land of the Fey. His friends, his career, and his occasional visits home to Stratford all reclaimed him.

Nothing had changed in the London he had returned to, not even Southampton. The Earl had survived his brush with Mordant, and obviously remembered nothing of that time. All but Will had forgotten those moments above the Bell Tower. Southampton would continue to be the patron the Bard needed, but he would never be his friend.

Will’s plays were now becoming so popular that between performing, the business of production and the actual writing itself, he was as busy as a bee once the summer had come.

And yet he could not quite shake the Fey from his thoughts or his blood. Will was plagued more than ever by night fears, things stalked his sleep in various shades of shadow, and always without fail she was there. He’d awake with a great hollow pit in his stomach.

Many of his fellow players wondered at the dark shadows beneath their friend’s eyes, but Will brushed off their concerns, and as long as the plays kept coming, there was nothing more to say about it really. And the writing did keep coming, in a flow he felt totally unable to control. Sometimes his hand cramped around the quill, until he was afraid that something Fey had possessed him; he couldn’t really be sure it had not.

But after that first year he managed, at least on the surface, to forget his Fey love. He stuffed the sweet memory down under a deluge of mundane existence, and a fierce work schedule.

The second summer after his return, he went on his accustomed trip back to Stratford. Hamnet and Judith, now hovering on the very brink of adult life, ran up to him on happy, hot young feet. They always knew when their father approached.

As Will smiled into their eager young faces, he realized with a stab time was racing away.

“I heard you coming father,” Hamnet crowed, making a face at his twin.

Judith, always the quieter, more hidden, pouted and mumbled, “You did not. I dreamed it last night.”

Will looked away, “It doesn’t matter. I am just glad to see you both so well.”

Each claimed a hand, and solemnly walked him back to the house. As they went, they regaled him with the latest exploits of home and village. Judith was excited by the burst of flowers she had seen in the meadows, and Hamnet was taken with a next-door neighbor’s litter of kittens.

“May we have one, Father?” he tugged on Will’s fingers. “White Cat has been gone for ever so long now.”

The pang of loss went right through him; assailed by bitter sweet memories of his own childhood, Will grumbled, “I think it is better that we leave the kittens where they are Hamnet. There are enough living things at home to contend with.”

Though he cast down his eyes, his son did not complain, sensitive to his father’s mood. His hair was soft and curly underneath Will’s hand that day, the sun having turned it the shade of liquid honey, and Will would remember that moment long after.

The Shakespeare house was the bustling refuge that it had always been, bulging at the seams with his siblings, children, and other assorted family. Still, they made themselves scarce whenever he made his first approach to Henley Street. Anne had never exploded about anything, but it was better not to be there, just in case. She met him calmly at the door again though, the young dark Susanna tucked almost meekly behind her skirts.

For a moment they stood examining each other, like two strangers sizing each other up. Something like contentment was in her eyes this time.

But no matter how much money Will sent home, no matter how the Shakespeares rose in the village community, the Anne he had loved had not tarried. Her once wheaten hair was now the color of idle bone, and she seemed to have forever shut the door on caring about what Will got up to.

“Husband.” her voice was neither welcoming nor cold, merely a statement of fact.

Will embraced her awkwardly, and received a quick peck on the cheek as reward. Her lips were chill and dry. He was merely another factor to be taken into consideration; she would move her routine around him, but once he returned to his real life, she would return to hers as well.

She did not ask how long he would be staying; she knew that it would not be long. Ah Anne, he watched her retreating alien back, I’m sorry.

Sive would have heard him.

But still the children reveled in his company. Hamnet was a wild rambunctious boy, perhaps how Will might have been, had he not had the constant ignominy of poverty hovering over him. Hamnet ran with a rough and tumble group of village boys, the one uncontrollable force in his mother’s world.

The girls were quieter, having absorbed some of their mother’s stillness, and yet he sensed their depth too. Susanna had a quick wit, and a sudden sweet smile that could melt the stoutest heart. Judith, Will suspected, had a touch of her twin’s wildness, but hidden much better, only awaiting the chance to come out.

On these visits Will would spend every waking hour with his children, trying to absorb their special nature and imprint their love on his memory. Hours he would spend with them, discussing history, or practicing writing. Even his girls would know how to read and write, he determined; he would not shut them off from the magic that he wove.

And then there were the walks. No child could be cooped up inside for hours, and he would walk with them, the route that he and his brother had taken all those years before to Arden wood in search of Robin Hood. Perhaps along the way they would meet their cousins, or other more distant relatives, or perhaps a rainbow might show itself above the hilltops. Whatever day it was, there was always the chance of something exciting they could share together.

And though the children didn’t know it, she walked with them Sive the Shining, or at least her memory. He would see her leaning against a tree, her night black hair curling against the rough trunk, her pale flesh almost one with it. Or if they went down by the river she was there dabbling her naked feet in the icy water, watching the swans honk amongst the willows.

Will sighed heavily.

“What’s the matter, daddy?” Judith tugged his hand; large eyes wide even in the sun.

Though his heart tightened, Will managed a smile. “Nothing, my sweet.”

Hamnet, not a few paces from them, was rolling a tender blade of grass in his fingertips. “There is magic here today, isn’t there, father?”

Will raised his head, tasting the air like an animal, but whatever powers he might have had told him there was nothing. “Not today, Hamnet. Once there was great magic and beauty here, but today, I can’t feel it.”

“I can,” Hamnet said rather wistfully.

In the end, Will let the children run and play, seating himself beneath the shade of an elegant willow and watched them, content for a time.

So this was his life now—how that thought chilled him. A quiet life was something that he had always wanted, and now he could see it all laid out; work and career in throbbing London, only broken by the occasional return to the gray shelter of the home Anne had made for the family.

He felt hollow inside now, all the drama and magic drained from him, and he was just left a mortal man like any other.

Will looked down at his fingers, marked with the calluses and ingrained stains of his trade. Once they had caressed Sive and made her smile and gasp. All the true pleasures in his life had come to him through his hands. Now only one was left to him, and he didn’t know if he could bear it.

Without thinking further, Will clenched his fingers in the warm grass on either side of him, and tried to find that Fey kernel, that one spark of it that yet remained. Suddenly, the idea of returning to that strange evening realm was not so frightening. Time ran differently there; she would still only be preparing herself for battle. If Sive were to die, then she would not die alone. After all true love could outlast even death.

Will always imagined that his Art was only waiting for his efforts, like an unbroken horse waiting for its master to arrive.

So it was a tremendous shock not to be able to find the reins, nor indeed the animal. Nothing but a gripping emptiness was within him now.

So Will was alone, suddenly mere mortal, just as he had always claimed he wanted to be. And just as quickly he realized that it wasn’t true.

***

The huddled thick shadow watching from the ditch licked its lips in anticipation.

This smallest of the Shattered’s brood was not particularly clever, but its spark of self-preservation had made it slip aside when its master had gathered them all together. Some crafty corner of its consciousness told it that when the Fey fought, no matter how few in number they were, many brood would perish. And one of its few thoughts was of survival. The other was gaining Mordant’s approval; the rewards for that were great indeed.

Sive was a worthy target, but a little too large for this small menace; Will seemed better. But now as it crouched in the barest of shelter in the hedgerow, it could see the mortal had sturdy Artful defenses. Self doubt and fear had cut his power off from him, but even if he never knew it, Art still protected him. The awesome threads of this power made the little Shadow tremble. It was not the mightiest of its kind, and there was only non-existence to be found in trying to slay Will.

The eyes of unparalleled void tracked the mortal’s distant thoughts. Despair and hopeless were emotions it was well acquainted with, but when Will’s head came up and he watched his children dance and squeal across the meadow, the shadow took a moment to identify these unknown feelings: hope, love and joy.

Its gray eyes trailed across the swaying grass to rest on the children. In its dense dark heart, something that might have almost been a smile formed. Oh yes, this mortal’s thoughts dwelt warmly with the thought of his son, cherished and beloved, the hope of his line.

The shadow settled further into the prickly bushes; there were always more ways to slay a mortal than mere physical force. Mordant himself would be pleased with the scope of its plan, a plan that would plunge this hated mortal down into horror.

Already it could feel the warmth of its Master’s satisfaction.

***

Auberon lay very still and listened to the dying pulse of his realm. Each labored breath bought him pain and joy; pain because Mordant had irrevocably crushed his ribs, and joy because each sip of air tasted Fey.

To his right he could feel Sive’s fingers wrapped about his, and they were so hot they burned, but he wasn’t about to let go. He and his sister had not been this close since Anu’s abrupt departure. He hadn’t said what their mother’s last words to him had been. But now might well be Auberon’s only chance to let her know. Through their contact he could feel her body shake, and when she dropped her head down her hair draped across their linked hands. Sive was angry. Nothing unusual in that, but she was not angry in the normal way, full of arrogant rage that only a Fey could muster. Now in the evening of their rule, she was angry in that dreadful hopeless fashion, previously only mortals knew; the end was near.

Auberon gasped as another crack shuddered through his body, somewhere within a bone had snapped. His natural Fey strength was competing against whatever Art Mordant had used, but it was not enough. That mad and terrifying embrace Mordant had wrapped him in was not easy to get away from. Each time Auberon healed, that alien power would flex and drive him a little closer to the end. It would be an agonizing way to die, broken slowly apart from the inside.

He wished Moira were alive to hold his hand, or his mother. He wished in the way of the dying another thousand impossibilities, but at least he had one chance to set something right.

“Sive,” his voice whistled past broken bones and teeth,”Sister—I need to tell you something, something about Anu.”

Her red-rimmed eyes met his, and the need for words dissolved. The siblings had not shared a link for hundreds of mortal years, but now death made it easier somehow.

Sive was the elder, but Auberon had always been the stronger. Back then; when Anu still breathed and the Fey had appeared unbreakable, he had walked that last moment with his mother.

She’d held his hand so that it tingled with her Art. The most beautiful unknowable creature was Anu, and while that was attractive in a goddess, in a mother it was less so. Auberon had spent his whole life wanting to know what went on behind those eyes, what could make her smile.

They’d ridden Fey horses through the clouds, laughing giddily, but had walked the last steep climb up to this very circle where he now lay gasping his last moments away.

But even if Auberon had known, he could not have understood, time was a weary concept to the Fey. Anu’s long delicate hands rested on the ancient stone, her eyes looking across the Evening Realm, and her face set just as firmly. That dreamy, aloof expression she usually wore was absent.

“I love you, my son,” she whispered, perhaps to make him doubt she had spoken them. “But when I am gone, you cannot rule.”

It was a double shock—Anu gone, and not wanting him to be King? Sive had never shown any desire to take his place, and the court was ready for a male hand. They’d felt it in the air like he had, their Queen was drifting away from them, and the aura she exuded was that this was right.

His mother’s finger rested lightly on his shoulder. “Our goddess calls me, Auberon; a power I was given in the dawn of worlds must now be paid for.”

Tears burned their way down his cheeks, but something held him back from speaking.

“Sive must be Queen after I—there are reasons I cannot tell you.” Anu’s breath caught, and she pulled him into a tight sudden embrace, “Oh beloved boy, I know you’ll do the right thing, but I cannot bide here a moment longer.”

That scent of warm roses and sunshine filled his head, and he wanted to speak, wanted to release the buzz of questions in his head, but Anu would not stay. She was already dissolving into nothing, falling into another realm he could not follow her to. Auberon raised his hands, tried to grasp her, but just as all the other times she was an airy enigma, and he was left holding nothing. She wasn’t there to see his tears.

And now Sive’s eyes were the ones he had to face, as the realization of what he had done hit her.

Auberon watched her trace the shapes of hurt, anger and weariness. He bit his lip as another snap sounded deep inside him, and turned away. “You were right, sister, I was wrong.” Once those words would have been bitter, now they were barely enough.

Sive clasped his hand tightly, “Still the fool, Auberon; even if you had come to me, I would not have believed you.”

“I could have found a way, if I had tried. Anu must have Seen this moment. I cannot think why, but there must be a reason you are needed now.”

Pain speared through Auberon as another bone snapped like a dry piece of kindling. Sagging back against the ancient stone he whispered, “Think hard, Sive, there must be something.”

She was silent, shoulders sagging beneath yet another burden. Finally the words dragged themselves from her. “My father was human. I just discovered it myself.”

He should have been disgusted, shocked at the least, but Auberon’s heart leapt. With a great effort he reached out. His fingers barely brushed hers, but Sive flinched as if he’d struck her.

Every word was a struggle, but she had to see, “Then you might not need a human to break the realms apart. You have both bloods within you!”

He dropped back exhausted.

Sive brushed back forming tears from her eyes, and smiled falteringly at him as the idea began to settle. “Why brother, I believe you have had your first workable idea.”

***

It would be a scene that Will would remember for the rest of his life. Anne, Suzanna and Judith were all there, but it would be his son’s open happy face that would haunt him through all the nights to come. And above all it would be that he had not told Hamnet that he loved him, that he had only showed as much affection as his own father had done to him; a brisk ruffle of the hair and admonitions to look after his mother and sisters. That was all young Hamnet had from his father.

Will had only been back in London a scant week when the summons came. He was rehearsing scenes with the excited troupe when looking up he saw the grim faced Hamnet Sadler standing near the door. His old Stratford friend had occasionally journeyed to London, but his expression said it all. His son had been named to honor this man. Life was full of unkind ironies.

Taking his horse, he rode hard through the night. Not even the threat of the animal dropping slowed him, but Will was still too late.

Anne’s scrubbed red face and empty look told him all. All the remaining life had been sucked from her eyes. Brushing past his family clumped uncertainly near the stairs, Will went right to his son’s room. The still form on the bed was not Hamnet; his spirit already fled. Will froze at the door, unable to go any further, part of him thinking that if he didn’t look into the boy’s blank face, it wouldn’t be.

Someone moved up behind him. His mother’s soft hand, not Anne’s, fell on his shoulder; the faint smell of lavender recalled the comfort she’d given him in youth. How he wished adulthood permitted him that now.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely, throat tightening about reined in tears.

“A sudden fever, Will, it came up the day after you had gone. It carried him from us so swiftly.”

Such things could not be. Looking into her pained and weary eyes, he saw the truth. She, who had birthed and buried two children before he even breathed, knew it; there could no denying death. Life was hard, and loss far too easy.

Patting her wrecked hand, Will whispered, “I’d like to be alone with him.”

She nodded and retreated, letting her son grieve, as she had once done for her own dead babies.

Will approached cautiously, dragging his unwilling body to Hamnet’s, until at last he stood at the foot of the narrow tiny bed. The body of his boy looked peaceful as they said the innocent should lie. Will had seen all kinds of death in his time; a knife in the night, the agonizing swellings of the plague, the gentle retreat of a woman after childbirth, but this was different—this was his boy.

“Don’t leave me behind, Sweet Hamnet. Without you all is silence”, Will whispered, but his boy could no longer hear him. Looking down into that face which had been so precious to him, he suddenly wondered. If he had taken up Sive’s challenge, if he had surrendered his soul and become immortal—could not his children have been immortal too? The idea dropped him to his knees, so that fingers clenched in bedsheets, and breath fell on a son who would breathe no more. “What have I done to you?” he whispered to Hamnet. “If I had not been so foolish, could you not have lived?”

No mortal ear would have been able to hear the sound, indeed Will did not hear it, but he sensed it. At first he sat rigidly still, heart beating in his head. But it was there, a furtive dry rustle under the stool by the window. It was neither the patter of rat’s feet, nor the dry creaking of the old house; it was something that should not have been here in this human realm. As long as Will didn’t look, his world would remain the same as it had for the past year, as long as he did not turn and look over his shoulder, all would be as it should. But this was his son lying dead, and the truth was more important than comfort.

So when the noise rattled against his brain again, he turned his head slowly. The ragged little shadow underneath the stool glared back at him, confident that mortal eyes could not see it. Except Will’s eyes were not completely human, and they never had been. The creature grinned; its own eyes flat and malicious locked on its work, the dead son.

Will roared and sprang up from the bed. Picking up the little table by the bed he hurled it with all his might at the evil shadow. It dodged with ease. Below his family was no doubt raising their eyes to the ceiling, hearing the maddened man thump and rage above. Such unseemly displays of grief were best ignored.

Will didn’t care. He chased the malicious scrap of shadow around the room. The creature was not however of the human realm, and far faster than Will’s very human reflexes.

It stuck its little hooked feet into the daub of the wall, grinning wider, and then worst of all it spoke. “Mordant laughs, puny human, your line will end. No son for the enemy of my Lord.”

Will, half blinded by tears, felt his heart shatter, his grief a very real hardness in his throat.

He had done this, denied all he was, and left his family unprotected. How foolish he had been to think that he could meddle with the Fey and not draw danger to those he loved.

“I shall have my revenge, foul and unnatural creature!”

Art bloomed behind his eyes, rushing through his body like water suddenly let loose from a dam. He felt flooded by it, carried away by its strength.

The shadow too late realized its mistake. It should not have stayed to gloat; it proved to be a fatal error. Will’s hand lashed out holding nothing but his newfound Art, and where it pointed golden light followed. His voice found words that seemed to bite in the air. “I will kill you in a hundred and fifty ways. Ttremble and despair.”

The malicious shadow was trapped in the light. It squawked in terror.

The mortal’s expression was calm, but his blue eyes were not’ they swirled and sparked with Art and immeasurable rage. Grabbing the slayer, he held it struggling aloft. “Your master will pay for my child’s death, but you will pay now!”

He didn’t even need to think, for his Art had already plumbed the depths of horror, and now obeyed his grief.

The light snapped sending the room into complete whiteness, when it faded enough for Will to see again, only a sprinkle of fine dust on the floor told of the creature’s fate.

Will sunk once more to his knees. It was not that he felt drained; he had never felt better—but it was the sudden realization that his path was chosen. He knew full well that there was no going back now. He would track Mordant down, and dispense justice with the gifts that fate had given him, Art and all the rest. No other choice remained now.

And that path would lead Will back to her, Sive the Shining.

***

The darkness leapt into the light. The Evening Realm was invaded, but even as Sive stood with her cousin Puck, and knew this could very well be the end, she felt the surge of her true nature. Sive’s heart thundered under her ribs, and every inch of her skin prickled. She had never fought in the Fey, nor had this much to lose. At her back were her people, and while she drew strength from their presence, she wished them out of harms’ way. Each life behind was precious.

Sive settled her fingers more firmly around her sword and murmured a prayer to their goddess. Puck shifted nervously at her side, and sitting in a ragged apple tree not far away, Macha croaked her own battle cry. No soaring above the battlefield today for the raven, her wings were still crushed, but they would share the same fate.

The maw into the Between was gaping wide now, and there couldn’t be much time left. Their plan would have to work the first time, they both knew that.

As badly as Puck wielded a sword, he was still better than most of the Fey. Sive’s people were a gentle race, who sang music and danced rather than fought. Brenna and those who had been part of Anu’s guard were their strongest arms, and their only real hope. This battle could only be short, so her mission would have to be rushed.

Puck shifted uncomfortably. “So this is what a last chance looks like.”

“Once we are gone the mortals will be next.” Sive’s lips compressed and went bone white. “And then they will regret being so foolish.”

By ‘they’ she meant ‘he’. Puck shook his head, “You turned Will away, cousin, and he would have tried.”

“He had nothing to offer,” she spat. “I have the all the blood that we will need.”

They both knew the price of failure. What remained unsaid however was her desire to have Will live, even if it was for only a little longer.

The Between finally gave up its nightmares, all claws and hungry eyes they spilled into the Fey. The scent of decay and despair followed obediently, rolling out and cutting into the ranks of Fey long before the real enemy did.

The dark shadows that moved towards them were hard on the eye and difficult to judge. Alien claws and legs churned up the green earth.

Sive pulled loose her sword, drawing her people’s gaze away from destruction, and let the cry she’d been holding in leap forward “A light arises. Forward the Folk!”

It was from the Elder Days, the Dawn of worlds, and her mother’s battle cry. Auberon had whispered it to her through torn lips before surrendering himself to unconsciousness. That tortured face Sive kept in mind as she and her people leapt forward like greyhounds off the leash.

Not one of them faltered, even in the teeth of the nightmare, and in a mass their Art came alive, for wherever the Fey went they were never entirely unarmed. Art surged ahead in bright ribbons of light; silver blossomed from Sive, Puck’s strands of ochre arched to her left and a thousand other colors. Against the stench of the Unmaker, Fey music blossomed, and the light of Art blended to a blinding white.

Where it touched the shadows were forced back, snarling and snapping like mad hounds, or if they were not quick enough simply unraveled to nothingness. It did good to all hearts that saw it.

But the Fey brightness was very little compared to the power that rushed at them. The howling darklings were urged on by something that still lay beyond the open Between portal. Driven to snarling, foaming fury they tumbled like a dark wave through and over the Art of the Fey, heedless of their brood lost to it.

The physical battle was joined, and the combatants finally came fist to claw. Sive howled, the sound ripped from her deepest being belled out across the battlefield, and in it was the sound of ravens. Bright ecstasy consumed everything, even as a savage claw slashed her head. Still the pain could not reach her, and even as the sundered helmet fell apart and blood coursed down her neck, she felt her immortal heart would break with joy. This was the way for a goddess to die.

“Now quickly, Sive,” Puck’s voice in the chaos of battle sounded in her head, “Do what you need to.” She caught his gaze through the slashing weapons and heaving bodies. It could not be mistaken, her aunt’s eyes looked back.

But now was the time for action, not grief. Breaking loose from the press of attackers, Sive fell back to clear ground. A sudden vice like grip on her shoulder nearly ended in her slicing Macha from her shoulder. But the raven, even disheveled and wounded, knew her proper place.

Sive’s heart lightened a fraction. Move swiftly like the eagle, she reminded herself each moment is another Fey life. She broke open the Veil and moved into the mists of nothingness.

The heaving Between wrapped itself about the raven and Fey, eerie in its sudden quietness. With Mordant’s creatures busy, Sive might just have a chance to do what needed to be done. Mouthing a quick prayer to the Mother of All, Sive walked the misty ways to find the point where Three Realms were joined.

Macha crooned fearfully to herself, and hunkered down tighter on her mistress’ shoulder. Unhappy though the raven was, it was still good not to have to tread these paths alone. Very little imagination was needed to see things in the bright Between. Clenching her teeth, Sive went on.

She had never been to the Nexus, but the memory of Anu’s journey there made the finding of it easy. Still the sharp beauty of the place when she actually saw the huge crystal stones crushed her ribs and made her eyes burn. Sive could only wish she had time to sit and look at the Mother’s wonder.

“Forgive me, goddess,” she said, as she passed as unseeing as could be managed onto the central gleaming pillar.

Just as Anu had noticed, each pinprick of light that radiated through it made her skin prickle. It was a disturbing and yet erotic feeling. But the question still remained: what should she do? No textbooks had been written on how to undo the Mother’s work, no one had even mentioned how the breaking of realms might be achieved.

Only Art held a possible solution. Sive stepped uncertainly forward, blinking her eyes against the swirl of colors the Nexus let out. Macha pressed her feathered head against her ear, and suddenly it was as if a conduit between Sive and goddess was opened. Sive let a breath go, and let her Art have its way. It shot along her abused synapses like lightning, reminding her how half-alive she felt when it was not there, and pushing back the tide of humanity that had lately been sneaking up on her. But not too far, Sive reminded herself, for that too would be needed.

By the light of her power Sive could see the thick bindings of the realms, like silver umbilical cords tying the Three together. They turned and spun to their own rhythms, weaving strange patterns on the surface of the king stone. Sive kept her eyes averted from the Shattered Realms’ light, but could see the dark canker that was beginning to spread.

Not knowing what else to do, Sive reached blindly out. Grasping the bindings, she could feel the pulse of life within them, but could not halt now. A deep breath, a summoning of all the Art she had, and with a scream she thrust at the ribbons of life. Her power flared like a sunburst in the misty Between, scalding the ether with its might. Sive’s insides burned, and her Art felt stripped bare. But still, only when she had no more to give did she let go. Head spinning, Sive tried to find herself in the barren space left behind. She had touched the Mother of All’s Art, and found the measure of her own tiny in comparison. Everything had gone into that moment, but the bindings of the realms remain unmoved by her efforts. So Sive lay shuddering in the mist, trying desperately to think beyond the now, find the answer and save her people. And then like a gentle caress the voice reached her. “Daughter?”

Of a thousand impossible things, this was one she could never have expected. Time held its breath as Sive looked slowly up into her mother’s face.

“What are you doing, Sive?” Anu’s violet eyes were as hard as gems, offering nothing like the welcome her daughter had often dreamed of.

Stumbling to her feet, she reached for Anu, questions bubbling in her mind. Where have you been? What happened to keep you away from the Fey? Don’t you care about me?

But Anu slipped back a little; nothing about her flawless features betraying any emotion. “The Realms must remain bound.”

It was incredible how the elder Fey could be so callous. No one had ever found out what had happened to her in the Between, and now she stood there, not batting an eye at her daughter’s distress. A chill scampered up Sive’s spine, and she dropped the half-raised hand she had turned toward Anu.

The two women now eyed each other as warily as any stranger. And then a hint of an icy smile twitched Anu’s mouth, like she’d been caught out; or more precisely the puppeteer realized he had been discerned.

Sive swallowed hard, but managed to sound vaguely calm. “You didn’t ever think I’d be fooled by this, did you?”

A sibilant laugh broke out of Anu’s throat, like a rough hand shattering a beautiful mask, and voice that followed could have sent weaker beings into insanity, “But this is your mother, Sive, why you haven’t even given her a kiss?” The perfect lips parted to reveal a void of darkness behind, which promised nothing but a need to swallow realms. In that emptiness the destroyer lived.

Sive neatly sidestepped the suddenly reaching arms. “My mother is dead.” She inched further away around the curve of the king stone.

“True, true,” the Unmaker twitched Anu’s head in mockery of agreement. “She knew that I had marked her at the Sealing, so she disappeared into the Between. Gave up crown and children to save her realm, but she shouldn’t have bothered. For today it perishes.”

Sive ground her teeth, but kept her anger in check.

The Unmaker chuckled. “First, of course, her daughter dies.”

It was said so conversationally the sudden lunge almost caught Sive. She had been expecting her opponent to gloat a little more, but the Unmaker was not Mordant, and that mistake almost proved most expensive.

The blow caught Sive’s half turned head, and knocked her feet from under her. Every bone rattled, her body spasmed against even this proxy touch from the Unmaker. This force of destruction horrified everything made by the Mother. It looked down at her for a moment, deciding her fate as calmly as a human crushing a fly. “No matter what the prophecy says, you are still more dangerous alive.”

“Prophecy?” Sive stammered, hoping at least to get on her feet to meet death.

Anu’s lips pursed, “It would be good to have control of the Between, to travel to more realms, but I cannot wait for your child, when you are causing so much trouble.”

Sive could not understand what it meant, but was deeply angry that there would be no chance to discover the answer. Something flexed behind the eyes of her dead mother, and they changed to a deep void in which only pain and death awaited.

***

Brigit would not be silent. And it was quite difficult to tackle a battle while an undead Fey was rattling on in one’s head. Puck strained upwards with his sword, trying heartily not to allow the flexing claws of his opponent to reach him. What could possibly be keeping Sive?

Surely separating the realms would not be taking this long? Already the line of Fey was breaking apart, and as they gave ground there were fewer and fewer of them.

The Trickster couldn’t even give enough concentration to his aunt’s voice to understand what she was rattling on about. He was already bending at the waist, as a creature’s full weight was pressed against his blade. The sound of its dark insect carapace on the steel was high-pitched, as unforgiving as the monster itself. Puck felt like he was going to snap in two at any moment. He dared to free one hand from his pommel, and groped for his ankle. Finally, his fingers found the silver dagger he’d stuck there at a whim. When he slammed said blade into the creature’s chest only inches from his own, it made a resounding shudder. The precious Fey blade sang and died in such a spot, but it did the job.

Now the monstrous dead weight pushed him to the ground. He was terrified of another of its kin taking the opportunity, and used all his best wriggling skills to get hurriedly out from under it.

In that heartbeat, Brigit finally made herself clear. The sudden bellow made his head ring. They’re leaving.

And so they were. Puck wiped his sweaty and bloody forehead, and watched in exhausted amazement as the grim tide ebbed back to the gap in the Between where they had come from. It could have only been a few minutes before, but it could have just have easily been hours in the Fey realm.

Beside Puck, the survivors, numbering in the bare hundreds, let out a solid cheer; they had beaten them! The Trickster threw up his arms, and shook his sword at the sky. The Fey had triumphed.

But as always Brigit had to spoil the moment.

No, no you foolish boy! They were called back. Sive is in trouble; the Unmaker has need of all his power. That is why the horde has retreated.

Swelled with fear for his cousin, Puck caught the shoulder of his nearest surviving soldier; Brenna with her hair matted and face bruised. “Pull back and regroup,” he told her. “Sive needs my help. If neither of us come back... do your best.”

Once she would have laughed at any orders from the Trickster; now she merely nodded and did as bid.

Quickly, lad, the Nexus. Brigit’s urgency gave wings to his tired body. His Art felt limitless at the moment. He pulled open the Veil and crossed quickly into the treacherous mists of Between. They thrashed and boiled around him as he ran with fear in his heart.

Puck shifted skin, wearing his dark haired man form, thickly muscled and capable of earning more respect. The Unmaker would not care either way, but it made him feel stronger.

He’d tried to ignore his aunt’s dire warnings; he’d not taken any notice when she wailed into his brain that Sive was not the one to break the bonds. She had the blood, but only the Bard had the Mother’s gift to do it.

Puck was angry with himself for ignoring the obvious; he’d let himself be carried along by his cousin, and now she would be the one to pay the price. The Unmaker was massing his power ready to strike at the dark goddess; the mists knew it, and so did the Trickster.

He saw Sive, and his heart began to beat again, but then his eyes felt as though they were melting in his sockets. Brigit had seen the Unmaker before, and it was just the same. And what further horror it was that it wore the shape of Anu.

Scarcely knowing who it was that moved his body, Puck stepped between the Unmaker and his cousin. He was so terrified it felt as through his brain might melt in his head. Only Brigit held him upright.

Puck’s hands drew out the dim shape of the Great Seal. Not much remained of its power, the lines etched on it fading even by the second, but it might yet gain them a heartbeat.

Quickly, cousin, Puck’s mind whispered to Sive’s, to the Fey while we can.

But Puck wasted no words on the Unmaker. He only held the worn stone seal up before him, in clenched white fingers that were no longer shaking.

Anu’s lips peeled back in a hideous snarl. “That trinket won’t save you now, Brigit.”

And it was indeed his aunt’s voice that rang from Puck’s chest, but not the tired bitter tones he could remember, but the sweet and proud call of the Fey who had seen the dawn of worlds.

The voice that bubbled up, rich with power and confidence, spoke words of such Art that even the Between Mists bucked in response. The part that remained of Puck did not know what they meant, but hoped they spelled safety.

The seal in Puck’s hand hummed and white lines shot forth and drew themselves against Anu’s face. She cried out once, sounding like the aunt he recalled.

But there was no time for horror or regrets. Puck grasped Sive’s hand, and with an odd gesture he threw an invisibility glamour over the both of them before tugging her into the Between.

Puck’s heart was thrown into his throat, and abused Art flinched against the torrent of power Brigit had released like a storm about them. He dared not stop and think how she had done it.

No time and no chance to fight, Brigit’s mind said into his, the Great Seal is almost broken. Only enough remains to hold the Unmaker’s physical body in the Shattered Realm. Flee!

Puck, obedient to his aunt, tugged Sive about like a whip at the end of his fingers, grown suddenly strong in both Art and muscle. They had reached the spot where the Fey could be seen dimly pulsing through the edges of the mist.

The Trickster had her by both hands, and a look held her still. “We have held them back as long as we can, cousin.” His hands tightened on hers. “Now we need Will.”

Sive’s face came as close as it ever had to crumpling. “He won’t come.”

Brigit was Seeing more than Puck could imagine, as if her lack of body only made her more powerful. The Bard’s path was clear to them both. “He will, cousin. We should be ready for him.”

It was either sad or wondrous that Sive the Shining grasped such a small hope so easily.

***

The weather cleared for perhaps with the going of the shadow demon it was free. It was the sun climbing above the scattering cloud that reminded Will that he still breathed, and if he was going to be able to live with himself, he had to make his son’s death at least a little meaningful.

They had buried Hamnet two days before, and although his friends would be expecting his swift return to London, he had already decided against it. Other far more risky dealings called.

Anne was making a great show of getting on with things, though her gray skin and haunted eyes told of a far deeper pain. Will had little to give her; perhaps all he had ever been able to give her in this life had been the children. Sive had taken all the rest in that respect.

And he had to reach his Fey lover. And though his Art was in full flowering, he knew nothing of how to part the Veil and step into the Fey realm. He had not paid much attention when Puck or Sive did.

So there was only one place to go. Saddling his horse, and strapping his sword to his side, Will rode purposefully to Arden. The sweet chill air and the beauty of the day he recognized, but they did not truly touch him. The son he had lost still occupied his vision, and the dull heat of vengeance kept him company on the journey.

Arden wood was still a place of magic, and even Will’s rise to adulthood hadn’t stripped it of that. As he reined his mount in, he recalled with sudden vividness that dramatic attack when he had been younger. Sive’s revelation had stripped that old glamour from his eyes.

I have been nothing but a fool, Will thought, I have always been different. If I could have only seen that, Hamnet might still be alive.

Dismounting, he tied his horse to a nearby tree and breached the forest’s defenses. He had an adult’s height, and an adult’s perceptions, but it all came back to him; the excitement turned to terror, and that wonderful clear moment where his Art called to him for the first time.

A vital part of Will thrilled to its musky wood scents and hint of magic in the air. He had hoped that this alone would tell him how next to proceed, that he would know how to reach the Fey. But if the forest knew the answers it was not telling him.

A profound lance of despair went through him, failure not something he knew much of, but at this point he felt crippled by it. Will’s grief escaped him, and tears he would never have shed in front of even his own family fell to the waiting earth.

The voice, when he finally heard it, was soft and tinged with the burr of the north. It was so low that he at first had taken it for the wind in the trees.

“...But I knew, even then you’d be special, lad. Marked by the Mother and watched by fair folk. I knew...”

Will brushed his hair back from his eyes and followed the voice to its origin. At first he almost missed the speaker as well. The old woman’s tattered and stained garments were brown, like the tree she rested against. She looked as old as the hills, but there she was, propped against the knotted tree as though it were a comfortable bed. Her face was not turned to him, and the way her ancient face was raised to the treetops it appeared as though these were her audience.

“Don’t I know you?” Will ventured closer.

She shifted a little, perhaps finding a better patch of bark to rest against, and smiled at the sky. “I would say you do, young William. It was me that guided you into the world over thirty years ago.”

He recognized her now, old Bess the midwife. She’d not been seen for many years, not since her granddaughter had taken over her work in the village. She couldn’t have been sitting here all this time, living off air and sunlight.

Bess’s eyes were closed, but the angelic smile on her lips was something to behold. It was as though she looked into the face of God.

“The Mother loves a midwife,” she murmured, folding her hands on her lap. “Blessed are we that help new life into Her world.”

Now Will felt a shiver of power up his spine, making each individual hair tremble erect, and his muscles shake. “Old mother, you shouldn’t be out here all alone.”

A faint chuckle. “So much Art, so little brain, lad, I am not alone. This is the best and last place for me to be. I’m here to meet Her.”

The hint of blasphemy was enough to send Will’s church teachings into overdrive.

Bess gestured that he should sit on the cool earth close to her, “You don’t say it, Will, but you are afraid, afraid to burn in your Christian hell. But She is not your enemy; she is merely another face of God. Older and more mysterious, but the same.” It was certainly not a teaching that the local vicar would have agreed with, but it made sense to Will. He dropped down beside the old woman, and tilted his head to the sun as she was doing. With the faint breeze moving over his face, and the strength of the oak against his back, everything was a little more peaceful.

“It’s almost my time,” Bess said it as conversationally as a piece of town gossip. “She is near.”

Will should have been afraid, should have leapt up and made for his horse, but such a mantle of peace had settled on him that he could not.

Bess’s wrinkled and toughened hand stole into his, and her voice when it reached him was very deep and very sweet, like a drip of honey on the curl of his tongue. “Don’t be afraid, William. Open your eyes.”

Will sighed and looked away from the sun into Bess’s suddenly revealed face, and straight into the eyes of the Mother. In that split second he knew that this was love, unlooked for and yet given. No judgment was in the goddess’s gaze, no disgust at anything he had ever done or said, only complete acceptance. His soul and his life were precious to her. Will wanted to sink into that love and never stray from it. In the eyes of age, the Mother of All was as beautiful as the oak against which she rested.

“We see each other finally, William, you and I,” she smiled, “And I have been waiting for you for so long.”

He could hardly breathe with joy.

She eased her hand from his, and instead stroked his curls away from his eyes. “You are the one Bard I dreamed of, all alone in the Unmaker’s darkness, even before the dawn of worlds.”

A goddess could dream, he thought dimly, And she thought of me?

“Accept all that you are, William, and Mordant will be defeated. I have given you all you need to succeed, but it must be your decision to do so. Sive needs you, but your gifts are your gifts alone.”

“But how do I...” he finally managed to speak.

“You know how to reach her, William, you always have. The Veil cannot stop you.”

Despite his love for Sive, he didn’t want to leave the Mother, knowing that he would never see such again.

“You will if you care to,” she whispered. “Now go to her and leave me with Bess; we have much to talk of.”

Will dragged himself to his feet reluctantly, and saw what she had said was true. He could see the Veil before him like a finely spun spiders’ web; it was as easy as brushing it aside to find his Sive.

Chapter 20: My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.

The Between released the Bard with an almost sigh, and he stepped into the realm, eager to make his peace with Sive.

But it was Auberon he found. The King was propped against a scorched tree, in much the same way as old Bess had been, and indeed the same comfortable aura of near death clung to him. He greeted Will with a small smile. “I guess I win my bet with Puck then. I said you’d be back.” His voice was remarkably strong, but the whistle of pierced lungs and broken bones accompanied it.

Will scanned the evening realm, but there were no other Fey about, and changes were writ everywhere he looked. Gone were the green hills, and the purple mist; instead the whole land simmered with heat, the earth blasted clean of any plants. The scent of jasmine was long gone, banished, replaced with smoke and ash.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Auberon said conversationally. “But it will grow again.” His shadowed eyes drooped a little. “All it needs is a little time.”

Will shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. He was eager to find Sive, but common decency dictated not to leave what was obviously a dying man alone. Where was everyone else?

Some part of his concern spilled over; the King heard his thought. “Remember what I am,” a hint of the old Auberon surfaced, “And I am not alone. A King is never alone as long as he has the land. It was all I ever wanted, to be King, but I was wrong.”

The sound of bone snapping was like a whiplash, and Will winced in sympathy as Auberon’s hands tightened. The King had displeased Mordant indeed to merit such attention.

“Sive is directing what will be the last charge of the Fey.”

Will took this as a dismissal, but Auberon was obviously spurred to reckless talk by death’s nearness. “Look after her if you can, mortal. She’s not what she once was, maybe not even a Fey anymore.”

Something in Will moved him to touch the dying King’s shoulder. Auberon’s breathing eased, and his ragged form straightened a little. He looked up with amazement at Will. “You have the Mother of All’s blessing, human, and now you have mine.” It had been only a moments respite, but the King had drawn strength from it, and when the next snap came he was white lipped but silent.

While Will’s human decency moved him to stay, he had learnt a great deal about Fey pride in his life. He knew a moment to go when he saw it, so the Bard turned away, and left the King to his pain and regrets.

Will felt the pull of Sive thrumming in his veins, making his heart race hard and fast. Once he had her, he could revenge his son, and after that everything else was bearable. He moved on with grim purpose, seeing and smelling the devastation, but not letting it touch him

The Evening Realm was scorched and barren, but whereever the Fey went there was at least a little beauty. Somehow a corner of the Evening Realm persisted, and it was this purple shaded dimple in the earth that contained the last of the Fey.

Will crested a small rise and looked down into Sive’s refuge. Though he had seen her people before, it was with newly opened eyes that he really understood them now. They were in their death throes, and yet they still held more magic than anything from his world. How they would have appeared in their glory days he could only imagine, for now, even mud splattered and wounded, the Fey commanded attention. They huddled around Sive as beautiful and ethereal as wind tossed waves; proud-shouldered men with haunted eyes, dimly glowing sprites, and fierce-eyed shattered looking women. On the very fringes were the animals of the realm, foxes, cats, songbirds and arched necked horses, all with the glow of Fey magic on them. Will had been raised on their stories, been taught to fear their wild allure, but now he allowed himself to love them.

And how, he thought with a stab of grief, little Hamnet would have crowed to see such beauty; how they would have described all the wondrous shapes and forms to each other. Will’s marvelous imagination cut him with the thought, as easily as it pleased others.

And then over their heads Sive looked at him, and Will was pierced through with another grief. She still had the odd Fey and mortal eyes, but they were infinitely more precious to him now. Will noted with sorrow every dent in her once gleaming silver armor, and the dark shadow of bruises on her face. But for all that he wished this were not happening, it made it easier to understand her.

Like a weary herd of deer bought to bay, they were now all looking at the Bard, and he could feel the weight of that sorrowful regard. Yet they were not totally beaten, and a few swords rattled in their sheaths ominously for a mortal daring to intrude. Sive did not move.

And then a scarred proud stallion, the color of recently churned cream, shouldered its way through the crowd to Will, pressing its warm muzzle into his hand. Suddenly it was looking at him with the violet eyes of Puck. No matter what shape the Trickster wore, he was still his friend.

The tension evaporated, the Fey released a collective breath, Sive was moving to his side.

Her hand, heavily bandaged, rested lightly on her cousin’s equine flank. Sighing, she shook her head. “It’s probably too late, Will. We cannot possibly break the bounds of the realms now; the Unmaker is ready for us.”

He’d been a fool, and more than Hamnet was paying for it, but Will had to try.

Puck slid back into mortal form and slipped his hands about their waists, his silver topped head barely reaching their chests. “It will be harder now; sacrifice may be demanded. But if the Fey attack Mordant in his own lair, then the Unmaker may be weakened. Hopefully they are still connected enough for it to make a difference.”

The Bard exchanged a look with his lover over the top of the Trickster’s head. They said nothing, but both were at the point where there was no sacrifice they wouldn’t make, one for survival and one for revenge.

“His lair?” Sive finally said. “The Shattered Realm.” Puck’s voice was remarkably light Sive’s face went very still, like the reason to live had dropped away from behind it. “We can’t ask that of them...” But Puck spoke the truth, though somewhat snappishly.

“Can you think of anything else?” Sive’s tired eyelids dropped, and she leaned in against the two others briefly. Then she turned to her people. Will felt her ragged Art reaching out to them, seeking the will of the Fey. Each life she touched, asking it if it was willing to give that final piece. Each burned differently, some weary, some angry, some despairing, but in all was the same desire, not to die needlessly. This was their only chance to avoid that, and the Fey was, as it had ever been, committed to burning brightly.

Hundreds of violet ancient eyes dipped, and a huge almost relieved sigh went through them. Creatures that had seen the beginning of the mortal realm, who were the only true magic remaining, were now willing to give themselves up, so that it might live—so the Unmaker would only swallow one more realm—and then no more.

The decision was complete, the die cast. And once Fey resolve was made it could not be turned aside or changed.

“Short enough time remains.” Sive’s fingers touched Will’s for a second. “I will speak with my brother.”

Already the other Fey were slipping away to find little moments to spend as they wished. Some merely wanted to take in the last sullied breath that the Fey realm had to give, while friends and lovers that had known each other for hundreds of human years sought a moment to spend together. Will felt cut to the quick that Sive had not chosen to spend it with him, but the melancholy he felt would not stay her progress over the brow of the hill.

Soon only he and Puck stood in the hollow.

The smaller Fey sighed. “I never thought a time would come when I wouldn’t know what to say.”

It only raised a small smile on the Bard’s lips, but a small smile was better than nothing, and all this moment could really offer.

Companionably the two of them sat down on the bleached grass and waited for the end to come.

***

It was the very world breathing its last. Sive’s bare toes curled into the evening grass, but her heart was still in her chest, at peace, resigned to an end. Sive finished her short prayer to the Mother of All and rising to her feet, went to her brother. Auberon still rested against the last tree standing, his eyes glassy but mercifully clear of pain.

“You know once it is all over this oak will recover,” Auberon said before reaching out to her. “But I will not be here to see it.” What use was it to argue when they could both hear the sound of his bones grating on each other? So Sive remained silent, concentrating instead on helping Auberon to his feet as gently as possible, and keeping her tears unshed.

It was strange how such things had become so very important, while others had faded into the background. Sive had heard of this phenomenon from mortal warriors, but never expected to experience it herself. For this moment, the most vital thing was not to lose the connection with her dying brother.

Looping an arm around her shoulders, Auberon whispered into her ear, “You know I’m coming with you, don’t you?”

Sive would have laughed, had not his tone been so serious. But his white-hot grip held back admonishments. “I have it in me, sister, and it is something that must be done. I’m finished anyway. Give me a purpose, please.”

The King of the Fey had never used such a word, and Sive was shocked to the core. But between them flowed the unbroken bond of blood, and brother’s blood said that he would not be left behind.

Auberon smiled brightly. “I still have enough Art so you won’t have to carry me.” His Art, so far stronger than his body, exerted itself, and he pulled free of her hold. With one eye half shut, he almost looked like her brother of old.

Irony twisted Sive’s lips; that was not someone she wanted to return.

A shuffling of feet behind the fixed siblings alerted them to the fact they were no longer alone.

Will, always polite, always thinking of those around him, even in this dark predicament, waited for them to acknowledge him.

Auberon held out a hand to the Bard and gripped it firmly when it met his, but silence remained between the three of them. The point they had reached did not need any words to be spoken. Already their Arts were reaching out, like ancient vines beginning to wrap around each other. The two men stood either side of Sive, their Art and minds resolute even if bodies were shaking.

As one, their power reached out, pulled the Veil away, and they stepped through.

***

For anyone that craved power, this sight would have been a thrill. Puck was trembling though, even when he found enough courage to turn and face them. All the Fey were looking straight at him, Puck the Trickster, and all had the very same emotion in their eyes: desperation. The three were gone, the Fey host had to ride forward, and he was to lead them.

Bayel’s none too gentle nose thumped into his back, and the tattered Macha cawed impatiently. Both were reminding him that it was time; the scattered remains of the Fey were ready.

Brenna, whom he had once so admired, smiled encouragingly at him from beneath a bandage made up of one of her fabulous dresses. Even she, once part of Anu’s guard, was not meant for this. The Fey were made for dance and music, not battle and death. The silver sword at his side was an alien thing, and the proper Puck would have thrown it away in an instant, but not today. Now his life would depend on that sword.

Puck ached with loneliness, horrified to find himself standing alone at this point. But he still swung himself up onto Bayel’s broad back, and raising an arm gave Macha somewhere to sink her claws. The rest of the host moved silently to follow, mounting the few Fey horses remaining, those that could shifting to animal form. They bellowed and called, filling the gray realm with sudden life. The atmosphere was heavy with ancient rememberings of past glories and pride in their own, diminished though it might be. All in all not a bad way to die, the Fey said to each other, in ways only they could.

We will at least not go easily. Puck clenched his fists in Bayel’s mane.

We are not dead yet, sharp-tongued Brigit reminded him, not by a little spell at least. The Great Seal burned against his chest, telling him that for now he was very much alive.

A prayer to the Mother of All was ringing inside Puck’s head, though he was unsure if it was one of fear or of jubilation. Bayel trumpeted his equine pride and danced on his rear legs, his front ones lashing out angrily. So this is mortality. Puck heard his heart thundering for the first time in his life, and decided he liked it. As the rest of his people whooped and whirled around him, Brigit was so close Puck swore he could feel her withered arms around his waist.

Now my boy, she yelled in his ear, Lead the Fey.

Puck could only dimly feel his body, but his hands were moving, calling out to the Between. And this was no doorway into that place the Trickster summoned, this was a gate so large it consumed the horizon. Even the eldest of the Fey had never seen such a display of Art. The Veil had been torn wide open, until all that was before them was the heaving purple mists and endless possibilities.

Puck was now an instrument of something greater, and he couldn’t say if it was Brigit, or someone else. That revelation terrified him, more so than the Unmaker, but somehow he managed to find some strength of his own.

Whirling Bayel around, he drew the stunned Fey’s eyes to him, and let his broad grin fool them into thinking he had done this thing himself. They couldn’t see that frightened core, as he and the stallion galloped towards that strange place.

Only a moment of indecision, and then in a mighty surge they roared through the Veil.

As soon as they moved into the Between the host became confused. Puck heard their calls of alarm, and realized that most of the Fey had never dared the mists of Between realms. Only Brigit showed him where to go, and were he to rely on only his Fey senses he too would be lost. By guiding Bayel about them, Puck was finally able to call them to something resembling order, a heaving mass of inflamed desperation that only needed somewhere to go.

Into the Shattered Realm, Brigit called, sounding just how she had when her cauldron was threatening to boil over.

All traces of commonsense had long since vanished, so Puck shrugged and urged Bayel on towards that blighted place. Behind, the Fey host followed.

***

Between Will and Sive, Auberon sagged. The trip into the Between had sucked his remaining strength.

Sive pressed her head close to his. “Can you feel your tormentor, brother?”

“I have him in my bones, sister. I will find him for you.” he replied with a grim smile.

The Bard and his lover could feel something else, a twisting of their senses and Art. It was as if someone had unwound their separate senses of self, and knitted them back together into one garment. They could see out of each other’s eyes, feel each other’s pain, and draw strength from the other’s determination. When thoughts came it was even difficult to know whose they were.

What could it mean?

Auberon was feeling their hesitation. He clutched Will’s and Sive’s arms. “I must get there; you can’t leave me.”

The King’s thoughts were scattered like windblown seed, but the others could see random images of Anu, and the remnant of the Great Seal. Armed with their combined wills, they drew Auberon on with more power than the Unmaker’s pain had to stop him.

Will pulled the crippled king to his feet, almost callous in his disregard for the pain, though all three shared it. Auberon wished it, and so the three of them pressed on.

The Between stood still for them, its mists quiet and lying lightly against their skin. Each step was a descent into madness for Will, Sive knew that, but she could also feel resolve that his son’s death would not be in vain. How odd, Sive thought, each of us has reasons for doing this; Will revenge, Auberon guilt, and I guess I am here for my mother’s sake, but none of that matters to the Unmaker.

Were these even her thoughts? Are they mine? Will shook his head, and tightened his grip on the King. Together they went forward, unerringly towards the center, the Nexus. Whatever had finally killed Anu, some part of her still lived in Sive, and she led them to it.

It was every beautiful light and sweet sound that could be imagined. Sive tried to hold the trio together; tried to get Will to ignore the moment, but the Nexus could simply not be disregarded.

They were only a few steps within its aura before the Bard lost himself. Dropping Auberon into his sister’s arms, he strayed from them, almost as if he was still being led. His thoughts drifted away from theirs. Unsure if this was supposed to happen, Sive waited.

Will reached the king stone, that blinding pillar of light where time and three realms meet. His eyes were half hooded against the brightness, but he raised his arms and encircled it. The rainbow splashes of color become brighter, and half-visible mist forms seemed to hover around his head. Sive blinked hard, but they remained, twirling and twisting to the eerie hum of the stone. Some of the forms looked almost familiar.

She couldn’t help it; their thoughts were now separating like drifting clouds, so she called to him, “Will?”

He did not hear, his chest rising and falling rapidly, somewhere between ecstasy and agony.

She made to go to him, but Auberon clutched her harder. “No, sister, this has to happen to him. Wait.”

Will’s head snapped back, and he took the longest deepest breath he ever had in his life. The mists had been waiting for this, and taking their chance poured relentlessly into him, down his throat like a silver flood. Will’s body shook, threatening to snap in half, muscle and bone resenting this intrusion.

And then the torrent passed, and all was suddenly calm. Will turned and looked straight at Sive with clear determination. A hard knot tightened her chest. In that brief moment all that had been between them faded into inconsequentiality.

But nothing was safe or certain in the Between, and Auberon was first to realize it. He called out in horror, as the mist on the far side of the stones rolled back and his mother’s face emerged from the grayness. The Nexus might have accepted Will, but the trio was suddenly made aware that their plan had not worked. Puck had not even given their enemy pause. Now the Unmaker strode towards them purposefully, all the destructive power in three realms at its back.

Will was still wrapped in an embrace with the Nexus, and his thoughts were as blindingly incomprehensible as the light it gave out.

Sive bared her teeth, letting Art arch out from her in a white hot shower of light, knowing full well it could not halt the Unmaker, but hoping it might buy them some time. But it gained them not even a stride.

Anu’s mouth stretched in a terrible snarl, displaying yellowed fangs, and ink black stream replied in kind to Sive’s attack.

Only Auberon’s quick thinking saved them from instant destruction. His rainbow colored Art wove a hasty shield above them, which deflected most of the Unmaker’s power. Sive heard the rest of it hiss against her armor like acid, but drew her sword.

“You are the only one,” she called to Will, praying he could hear, hoping he could look straight into her heart. “It all comes to this moment.” And then she leapt into the Unmaker’s grasp.

***

Brigit recalled with a pain how beautiful the Shattered Realm had once been. Watching from behind her nephew’s eyes, she remembered with sorrow the bright hills, and white-gold streams that had once flowed here, until the Unmaker had come. But now she was the only one left alive who could recall that time. Well, not completely alive, she reminded herself.

It was a decidedly odd feeling, to be inside Puck’s head, and it had taken a while to find herself amongst all his quicksilver thoughts and hare brained schemes. At least he could hide nothing from her now; at this point in the proceedings she needed to be closer than ever.

Shrieking Fey rode hard next to Bayel’s bunching shoulder, their white teeth gleaming in faces that had only just learnt the heady joys of mortality. The Fey were remembering what it felt like to live again. If it were not for the circumstances, it would have been good for them.

They’d burst from the Between like vengeance personified, every one of them filled with loss and rage. Each had a lost friend, relative or lover held before them, a talisman against the cruel blasted rock of the Shattered and the danger ahead.

Puck too yelled in triumph, as the Host crested the dreaded hills of the interior, and plunged down the treacherous slope to where Mordant had gathered his minions.

Too soon, Brigit hissed to her nephew, too soon for triumph, wait, you fool!

But they did not hear her ragged ghost, and poured over the chest into the arms of chaos.

Every dread creature of the Shattered was awaiting them, and many more from the distant realms that Mordant had scoured for nightmare and terror. The Fey were a tiny bright sparkle embedded in this new darkness. But still who could not be a little proud of them, as they smashed down amongst the horror with no pause.

I did not want to see them die. Brigit wished she could weep, wished she could be there in the flesh to help them.

Puck’s body began to hack and slash at his enemies, vision blurring with battle fury. He wasn’t very good at this, he was going to get himself killed, and take her along for the ride.

Control, Brigit ordered that body, pushing all of her power into wresting dominance from her nephew.

Anu knew this day would come, and a poor weapon you are Puck.

He could not answer her; for by now she had the reins, literally.

With a wrench Brigit had gained control, and using Puck’s own Art, she shifted his body. Puck surrendered control with a little whimper, and Brigit breathed again.

A great winged bird now sprang aloft from Bayel’s heaving body, the symbol of the Great Seal hanging from around its neck. It was the color of a bright dawn, wings burning with fire.

She scanned the swelling battlefield below, noting dispassionately the little waning knots of the Fey below. The enemy was not difficult to pick out from that.

Down the bird dropped, ripping the air around her, knowing full well that only by Mordant’s death could anything be saved of the Fey.

He whipped around when her human feet touched the ground. The Unmaker had equipped his champion well; the dark armor and twisted sword were the exact opposite of her niece’s, but equal in power. Still even Mordant was surprised when he came face to face with a tall fierce Fey.

She could see it in his eyes; he did not recognize her.

For this was Brigit’s natural form, the tall fierce blonde warrior who had stood at her sister’s side and beaten the Unmaker. A simple thought summoned her old blade to her hand. It didn’t matter how many hundreds of years it had been, it was still six feet of mean gray Artful sword.

“Hunter,” Brigit welcomed it. Pride was still a hard thing to shake, and she enjoyed the look of shock.

And it gave him pause, when he did make the connection. “Remember me?” Transferring his sword to his other hand, he smiled slowly.

“Stealing bodies now, are we, Brigit?” “Yes, but better than you; Puck will survive.”

“That I doubt somehow.” He sprang, sword swinging, but his Art foremost.

Light danced across Brigit’s fingertips, blocking the blow of both more effectively than any shield. Oh, she was a prideful old lady, to grin so wide at the ease of it, nor could she help a little jab of her Art at his windpipe.

He gasped for a moment only, making her laugh. But Brigit did not ignore the chance, she charged him down, hoping to knock him from his feet. But Mordant was not that off guard, he used a combination of his lighter sword and Art to parry her heavy blow.

Her summoned sword screeched along the length of his. They danced along the scorched earth, shoulder-to-shoulder, blow after blow passing between them in a blur of motion.

Her attacks had determined his strength, and for a while they circled, testing, side stepping, making little rushes, all the while eddies of power played out their own battle.

Unseen but more dangerous was the whirl of Art, reaching out to stop a heart or crush a windpipe. A whirlwind was born around them. The Shattered earth beneath heaved and bucked. The two giant powers wrestled with each other, until they overflowed into the battle itself. Alternating, the Fey and the spawn felt buoyed up as their champions writhed.

Brigit would have enjoyed the dance if it were not for the fact that her people were dying with every heartbeat. For their sake there was no other way. She’d always known it would come to this moment; she’d just been enjoying the ride.

So at last, as her sister would have, Brigit used her last and greatest trick. Mordant and she stood hip to hip, each straining muscle and Art against the other. She had regrets, but it had been fun to avoid the abyss for a little while.

“Good luck, Puck,” she said, and then let go.

The final shred of Brigit the Blessed flew like an arrow from her nephew’s lips, straight into Mordant. Puck sagged back in shock, his body snapping automatically into its proper shape. Mordant though, was not as lucky. Flesh and muscle cannot have three masters, especially if they are at war with each other.

A scream of sheer frustration and anger burst from Mordant’s already unraveling throat, and though he thrust his arms in the air in supplication, his master could not hear him.

Disgusted as he was by the threads of flesh and bone disintegrating before him, Puck could see the irony. He’d wanted to find the Unmaker, and now Mordant was unmade. Muscle, sinew and bone whirled about in the air, summoned by the Master’s only gift: oblivion. The sound was like a great mass being sucked up in a small straw. Despite all the things Puck had seen, he blanched.

The instant his avatar was destroyed, the Unmaker’s hold on the chaos was broken. The Shattered Realm once more became, what it had always been intended to be: a prison. It obeyed ancient commands given to it by Brigit and Anu.

The Fey, so resigned to oblivion, had it snatched away at the last moment. The tired and bloody survivors were denied their enemies, as the magics that Anu had created so long ago awoke again. The prison claimed its wards once more, and the Great Seal hummed, reviving against Puck’s skin.

The nearly overcome Fey were shocked to discover their foes being swallowed up by the very ground they stood on. Fangs or claws did not avail the spawn of the Unmaker. The patient earth wrapped around them, pulling their screaming forms once more within it. Slowly their howls faded, until only the wind whistling over the blasted earth remained.

Fey stood there for a moment disbelieving, counting their injuries, bewildered by their change of fate. Macha perched on the clawed and marked Bayel’s back, both soaked in the gore of their enemies. The rest of the pale-faced Fey were looking around with wild eyes. Then the earth creaked, and despite himself and the hollow ringing in his head, Puck awoke.

“Quickly,” he called to the survivors, “Home to the Fey.” Brenna, her right arm hanging limp and disjointed at her side, was the next to recover. She reached out with her Art, calling for the Between, but it was as abused as she was, and there was no way only one could do it.

Puck sent his own, much-diminished power to hers. “Hurry, or we’ll be trapped here,” he called to the others.

That idea got them moving far more quickly than he could have. If Sive succeeded then the realms would be moved, and if she did not, at least they could die in the Fey. It was home, and they were far too shattered themselves to question what had happened.

Puck would not count his wounds, both physical and otherwise, until his cousin came back to him. If she did not, then there was no hope or joy left in the world.

With not a glance back, the host of Fey gathered themselves and went home.

***

Auberon and Sive danced with the Unmaker. Will felt their pain, but it did not touch him. He watched them distantly; knowing as well as they did that there could be no other ending but death. They might be forces of nature, but the Unmaker was greater than that, equal to the Goddess whose eyes Will had looked into. The Unmaker and the Goddess; the adversaries behind every battle, were behind every event, the twin forces of creation and destruction.

Still, understanding would not change this moment.

Will was still wrapped around the kingstone, feeling its own slow heartbeat with his, looking deep into its interior of white light. In it was reflected every moment of the three realms, if you looked hard enough. Pain, loss, love, betrayal—all the emotions that both Fey and human could feel—each was written in the Nexus, and as Will watched, written into him.

The feeling of immortality was so complete that he had ceased to care about the battle. He was too busy being alone. Will couldn’t ignore the shifting of the realms around him, lives and hopes turning on this moment.

But what did it really matter? Even seeing Sive cry out in pain was fruitless. All this would happen if they succeeded or not; life would hand out its share of death and sorrow, no matter what insignificant Will did.

Children died, hopes were crushed, and all kinds of unfairness went on. The Unmaker was already abroad in his realm and all others. Fey and human were more alone than they ever wanted to realize.

And then it came to Will. She stood behind him, the sweetest voice in all worlds. “It is the struggle that matters.”

He closed his eyes, inhaling the goddess scent. He did not want to turn and see her there, see that impossible love in her eyes. He could feel her draw closer, wrapping him in understanding.

“You know there is meaning in this, Will, in anything worthwhile there always is.”

Will came alight. He’d been born to this moment; to understand the realms, and all that walked in them. To not be above them, but to walk in their path, just a man with a soul, and all that went with that. Waves of his power rippled out, disturbing the low slung mists of the Between, halting the combatants briefly in their struggle.

The Between shook as the Unmaker, screaming darkness, thrust aside Auberon and Sive, and lunged at the Bard. The siblings tumbled aside, sobbing in horror, even as their swift enemy struck at Will’s unprotected back.

A blade of darkness conjured from the depths of destruction had formed at the end of their enemy’s finger. Will felt it plunge through his flesh, his heart, and into the King Stone. He barely heard the snap as it broke free of the Unmaker, leaving him nailed to the Nexus, and thankfully was too far gone to hear its shriek of victory.

The only sound now was the slowing beat of his heart, as blood ran down the thorn into the crystal. It was shocking, and final, and almost satisfying.

Will sighed against the King stone, like a baby breathing in his sleep, and gently let the universe take him back.

So when the bounds of the realms parted, it was not by force, or by anything that was destructive; to do so would have only given the Unmaker more strength. It was his blood flowing into the King Stone, his heart pierced through by darkness, giving the Between more power than it had ever had, even from Anu. Slowly the worlds obeyed.

But the flow between Nexus and Bard was not only in one direction. Within Will destruction and creativity bloomed, the power of the Nexus and the Unmaker. Sorrow and delight poured into his blood and heart, and the chaos thorn melted away.

The Bard breathed, was alive, but couldn’t decide if he should be grateful or not for it.

The Unmaker roared, a sound of stymied destruction, like a volcano bursting into a chill silence. Anu’s face melted and slipped away, and the bald, snapping head of darkness was revealed. Every beauty that the Goddess held had its antithesis in that form. It was not a face Fey nor human could behold without risk of madness. The Unmaker was still bound to the Shattered, and it knew soon there would be no crossing over. In great haste it made its bid for freedom.

The link between them was only fractionally too slow, and Sive heard his decision a moment too late. “No!” she called out in raw desperation, but already Auberon’s broken body was making the sacrifice no one had thought he could.

Jet-black vines clawed out from the Unmaker’s body, breaking through the final fragments of the Anu illusion. These were its last hope then, anchors to tie it to a world already receding from reach. The King of the Fey held his own arms out to take their embrace for himself.

Sive, in her despair, came too close, and several thick strands looped around her chest. Like a vicious ivy, the Unmaker would use them to pull itself through the Between and away. Sive howled, as her brother was smothered before her eyes.

Darting forward, Will put himself between Sive and her attacker, blocking her view of Auberon’s struggles. Where Will touched, the tentacles melted away, and he was able to pull her free.

Her eyes were wide and horrified, staring over his shoulder, hands reaching for a brother already beyond her grasp.

Auberon managed one final call, begging her to go, before Will turned her around, thrusting her back the way they had come. She struggled with all remaining strength, but his for once, was the greater.

He carried her along with the sheer weight of his determination, and so Sive was spared seeing the spears of darkness that the Unmaker finally sent ripping through her brother.

Auberon had known all along that a sacrifice would be demanded, just as he had seen that same understanding in his mother’s eyes that last time. She had warned him not to become king, because she had somehow seen that this would happen. Auberon’s final thought that reached Sive and Will was gratitude; he had proved the world wrong. Auberon King of the Fey had not failed. He was no longer the fool.

Will and Sive sobbed into each other, but their shared Art still obeyed. The Between rippled, and they stepped through the

Veil to whatever remained for them.

It was the second dawn for the Fey. In a realm of perpetual evening, the sun was rising for the first and therefore last time. It was a sunrise that they all deserved to see, and no matter how battered or how broken in spirit they might be, the remaining Fey host turned their faces to it. Morning mists hovered on the distant hills, before rolling gently back to the blasted earth they had been cast from. The Fey let out a collective sigh, and settled on the ground to wait for it to reach them.

A ripple ran through the air near the quiet Puck, and the Veil parted just as it always had. Will and Sive, huddled against each other, stepped through. The Trickster felt no surprise that Auberon was not with them. Even without Brigit he had foreseen that.

Sive was finally holding him, and for the first time there was nothing hard or unyielding about it.

“Puck.” Sive’s voice was dry and heavy. “Auberon...”

He didn’t need to know, didn’t want to hear about what was already done.

***

“Hush, cousin,” He turned her to where the sun had crested the hills in a blaze of scarlet and fuchsia. Sive needed to see what her brother had helped win.

“Look and feel, “ Puck said, his voice touched by real awe. “The Shattered is leaving, and soon the mortal realm will too.” Sive was silent, her cheeks silvered with tears, but her back as straight and proud as it had ever been. After all what was not to be proud of, all her people were heroes today. She glanced across at Will, whose eyes were half-hooded with an emotion she could neither read nor guess.

So the three of them stood very still, and listened to the shifting of worlds together. In the mortal realm Will’s girls would live to see the end of magic as Fey and mortal parted. Sive the Shining hunched her shoulders; it was a bittersweet victory that she could hardly bear. They had won, but had also lost.

With Auberon gone, the surviving Fey were already gathering around Sive; she would be their queen, and perhaps under her they would grow strong again. It was something she’d never wanted, but after her brother’s sacrifice there was no choice.

Will finally raised his eyes, and now Sive knew that they were shadowed with hurt. The chaos thorn had put something melancholy and powerful in him, as much as the Goddess’ Bardic gift.

No words were needed for Sive to see the truth then; he would not stay here. She’d seen it all, and knew love for his children would draw him back to Stratford. Poor Hamnet had lost because Will had not been there, Judith and Susanna would not, he’d determined.

And Puck. Sive held out both hands to her cousin, but he didn’t see the gesture. He was looking elsewhere, to where traces of green were already poking their heads out of the blackened earth, and the exhausted Fey warriors were raising their heads, smelling the jasmine once again. The Mother of All was smiling on them, healing what she had never meant to be hurt. Her mists and gentle rains were falling on smiling upturned faces, the Fey breathing again.

But if there was a scent of hope in the air, Puck was not inhaling. Sive ached to see the changes wrought in the Trickster. He had not emerged unscathed from the Shattered; Brigit’s final departure had broken him. Everywhere he looked there was another memory. For one who had thrived on frivolity and mirth it was more than painful.

He was turning, and another certainty had already lodged itself inside Sive. Puck opened his mouth, shaping it around something, perhaps a witty remark, something to make her laugh, and forget. But he stopped, and instead pursed his lips thoughtfully, thinking and deciding.

Then Puck called his Art, and his shape became that of a young world—weary mortal, in whom there was little of Fey. Perhaps in this form he would it easier to deal with the darkness he’d found himself guardian of. In his cousin’s head he planted a goodbye, but that was all he could spare. He nodded to Will, making his peace with the man he’d once guarded against harm.

Sive told herself she would not cry, and definitely would not ask him to come back, but when he turned away she could not help one thing.

Good luck, she whispered into his bruised head.

But he gave no sign of hearing, and simply parted the Veil, and stepped across into the mortal world before it sped away entirely.

Around Will and Sive the worlds began to heave harder, as if the Trickster’s leaving had been a sign.

Will was now clasping her hand, trying to pull her closer, but she resisted. Neither wanted the words to come, but they did. “I wish...”

Sive shook her head sadly, and rested her fingertips lightly on the place where the thorn had pierced. To come this far, to have struggled so hard—there was no fairness in it.

Her fingers brushed his lips, “Do not say it; there must be a way. You have my heart foolish mortal, so trust me. I will find a way for us.”

Will nodded, taking the small hope she offered to him, clutching onto it.

The mortal realm and his daughters were calling; if he waited a heartbeat they might be beyond him. Sive’s Art cleared the way, and the Veil parted for the last time, opening into the world that was already losing its magics.

Will’s last glance of Sive the Shining was of her hand half raised in parting, the glow of Fey once more lying about her. Hers was of his trusting smile. And then, like her cousin, he walked through and was gone.

They were coming to her now, the still hurting Fey, scarred and afraid of what the Between had shown them. Perhaps it would help them in the days ahead, that new knowledge, perhaps they would not be as foolish.

As her people drew around, Sive felt the return of some of her own lost strength. The realms might be parting, but she would not give up on Will. She never had before, and if they could defeat the Unmaker, finding a way to be with him would be easy.

Chapter 21: As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.

Where to does a broken Fey go to hide and lick his wounds? Puck supposed few would understand his choosing the human world, but as he stood watching the sunrise over golden fields of wheat, and heard the sounds of the world coming awake, he knew he’d made the right choice.

Even the most well meaning of his kind could ever understand the gaping hole within him left by the final slaying of his aunt. He could only hope some human time would heal it.

In the distance, his naturally sharp hearing made out the noises of humans bickering in the farmhouse, and his lips twitched in something that could once have been a smile. Dangers there would be in trying to live as a human, and his Art severed from the Fey would probably not last forever. But he was prepared for surprises, ready to learn how to live with regrets and guilt like mortals did.

Ah yes, there was the farmer and his dewy-eyed son, making their way through the wheat, heads bent in concentration. What things were they looking for, what signs could they read, that Puck could not? A tender bruised part of his psyche was excited. After all, this realm had seasons and weather, and was all the things the Fey were not: chaos and change.

Death might exist there, but his people had been very wrong about that; they were not immortal, just long lived. No, Puck told himself, I am ready for this.

Farmer and son were coming up the slope towards him, somewhat cautious because of the muscular body the Trickster wore, but when he managed a smile they returned it, not immune to his charm. That was something that didn’t rely on Art.

Puck already knew they would accept his offer of help with the harvest. A thought struck him then; he could choose another name, one to begin again in the mortal world. He would give up the Trickster, and become something new. The thought pleased him.

The boy waved energetically, despite his father’s scowl. But in both was a genuine good heartedness.

And so Puck raised his arm in greeting, and began a new journey.

***

The skip of mortal time was not enough to contain all that a person was, and the run of days between Fey and human worlds a cruel one. Sive the Shining had worked hard to find their only chance, but even then the course of time had nearly beaten her. Mortals lived too quickly.

Standing at the foot of his bed, Sive felt the fingers of uncertainty reach out. A great congress of Fey with linked Art had let her enter the mortal realm one last time. The Veil was now much more difficult to pass, and her time here was short.

But then, so too was his.

The room was gray and dark, and Sive could barely see Will. Inching closer she perched on the edge of the bed, and looked down at her love. However long it had seemed to her, for Will at least it had been twenty years.

The question was then, had she left it too late?

Anne had long since made her peace with her husband, and retreated to the kitchen to await the final conclusion. Only then would her husband be truly hers, when he was laid in the cool earth. For these last moments though, Will was finally Sive’s alone.

She held his hand tight, and tried not to see how his once handsome face was drawn taut by onrushing death. His watering eyes darted from place to place, his mind skipping along old paths that she could not follow him on.

Will had become so thin that he barely disturbed the flatness of his bed. Sive ran her hand over the sheets, and along the bone sharp length of his leg. Her thoughts were meshing with his, and she felt his labored breath as if it was her own. How sweet the singing of the lark outside the window was to him.

Sive’s hand touched his, feeling the thin coolness of it, in vain trying to draw him back to her. Every line and care of life was magnified twenty fold, until that was all there was. He might be nothing but skin and bones and barely moving flesh, in her memory he still burned young, vibrant and most of all alive.

Suddenly deep within the ancient, perfect heart of Sive the Shining something snapped, and welled up in her throat. She had cried before, bright tears for a brave solider, or for a sweet moment that touched her heart, but now she cried like a mortal, deeply, without care, and knowing there was nothing she could do. Her shoulders shook, and the silver tears exploded. Perhaps she too could die right there.

Her aunt had lied; there was no comfort in this moment, no bittersweet revelation that made it all better, and only a vast hollow in her chest.

Don’t die. Her fingers clenched around his; willing him to deny his nature, and be as she was. Will’s head shifted on his pillow, looking for the first time at her, and through her to another time.

His impossibly thin fingers caught the lock of hair that ran against her right cheek; gray had grown into it after his going, strands to mark their trials in the Shattered Realm. He raised one eyebrow as he had used to, but said nothing, only smiled a little, resting his hand against her cheek.

Sive pressed Will’s chill hand there and wept into its palm. “I love you, William.”

“Love will only take you so far.” His voice was already something from beyond the grave. “And if ours was wrong, I will pay for it soon enough.”

Sive watched a trail of sweat run down the furrows and hills that Will’s face had been reduced to. That the Queen of the Fey should be begging at an old man’s bed seemed right. Humility was something that had developed from her time in the mortal realm, and by now she was accustomed to it.

The worst of it was that Will seemed ready to depart, ready to give in. In the face of such acceptance, she offered something else, something to pin their hopes on.

“Remember, my love, I told you I would find a way for us to be together.” Sive whispered her hope into his ear. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Will. Enough of the Fey Art dwells in you to find another body and home there. You need only wish it.”

The Mother of All owed him some time, and the Fey needed a Bard to heal those remaining wounds. With Art, and Art alone, he could be what Sive had always wished him to be—a creature of the Fey.

Will smiled at her enigmatically, his throat too dry to speak. When he next gasped for breath, she flinched. Sive heard herself murmuring, begging Will to follow her into the Fey, to be hers forever. Will’s eyes fluttered.

All the simple moments of his life, all the little horrors, the small joys, the tiny dreams, ran down to this one gasping moment—his last breath.

Sive leaned forward to catch it and bring him home with her, but the choice to stay or go was his.

“Please, my love,” she pleaded with all her heart, as only a woman could.

None could say if her call even reached him. With a barely-felt soft sigh, William’s spirit flew free into the realms he had saved. The Bard went home.