Silver's Edge

But Dariel was continuing, relaying the mortal woman’s story, “—and what’s more, my lord, she’s insisting she intends to show it to the Queen.”

“Great Herne, that might kill her.” He accepted the shirt Dariel held out, pushing away all thoughts of resentment and Finuviel. He had to deal with this latest crisis with a clear head. “The Queen, I mean. Not the mortal.” He shoved his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. Before last night, they might have laughed. Now not even the ghost of a smile bent either of their mouths. “Any word from—” he hesitated, loathe to speak the name of the rival who’d supplanted his command “—Finuviel?”

“A dispatch came in for you shortly after dawn. I had thought it better not to disturb you.”

“I appreciate that, Dariel.” And he did appreciate it, for there’d been very little rest for anyone lately. And after last night, he doubted there would be more until Finuviel arrived with the reinforcements. And once Finuviel arrived, who could say what changes he’d insist on? The mortal was right in one respect—the Queen and her Council might not need to see the goblin’s head to believe it, but they had to be made aware that a goblin had somehow crossed the border into the Shadowlands. For such a happenstance could only mean one thing. The magic of the Caul—the Silver Caul of lore and legend and song—forged by his mortal father and imbued by his mother Gloriana with her sidhe magic, had somehow—momentarily at least—failed. It was the only thing that could upset him more than the possibility of losing three more of his troops after last night. If only Finuviel were here—it might be amusing to watch him struggle with this unexpected development.

But Finuviel was not. Artimour plucked the doublet from Dariel’s hand and whipped it on, then sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached for a boot, thinking fast. Perhaps there was a way to turn this unexpected calamity to his advantage. “Bring the mortal to the library, then have my horse saddled and pack my saddle roll. The Queen must be told of this as quickly as possible.” Tidings such as this should be brought directly to the Queen and her Council. It would also provide him an opportunity to discover how his replacement had been engineered. He paused in tugging his first boot on. “You’re sure it’s a goblin’s head?”

Dariel looked up from handing over the second boot. “You’ll smell it on the mortal yourself, my lord.”

Artimour allowed Dariel to tug and brush and pat until he stepped away, satisfied. “I’ll see the mortal now. And something to break my fast—I can’t remember if I ate dinner last night or not.”

“You had no time to finish it, my lord.” Dariel handed him a parchment packet, and with a quick bow, was gone.

Artimour stalked down the hall to the library he shared with the other officers and sank into the deep cushions of the chair behind his desk. On the one hand, he was sickened by the potential loss of three more soldiers, soldiers they could not afford to lose, men who’d become friends in the long days of their preparations. And on the other, a mortal maiden come to show the Queen the head of a goblin found lying dead in Shadow could only mean that against all expectation, all assumptions, the Caul’s power had failed—or fluctuated, perhaps, like the webs of magic that bound the borders. But how was that even possible? he wondered. The magic of the Caul was supposed to be a special blending of mortal and sidhe energies. It was not linked to the reigning Queen in the same way as the magical wards containing the goblins, and thus, was not expected to be affected by Alemandine’s pregnancy. But how else to explain how a goblin could have fallen into Shadow? It struck him odd that the task of bringing the goblin’s head here—a wholly unexpected stroke of logical behavior coming from mortals he would not have foreseen—should have fallen to a mere girlchild. Were there not warriors worthy of the task? Born under the shadow of mortal taint, he had always distanced himself from anything having to do with humans. And yet, even to him, this action seemed extraordinary, the last thing one might expect from a mortal.

He ripped open the parchment packet. It was from Finuviel advising him to expect the reinforcements in ten days. Ten days? He put the parchment down and rubbed his eyes. Ten days meant something different today than it had before last night, before he’d witnessed his first true death. Ordinarily the sidhe did not die. They boarded ships and went into the West, when their time in Faerie grew wearisome. That is, unless they were slain by either goblin or silver. It was not something he had ever seen until last night, and it had shaken him profoundly, shocked him to his very core. The goblins that had roared across the boundary last night were different, he thought, his mind replaying the events with such crystalline clarity it felt as if he relived them anew. Their hides were tougher, their claws longer and thicker, and they fought with a ferocity he’d never seen before. The web was strained nearly to the breaking point and though ultimately it had held, and they’d successfully driven off the goblins, it had cost him a knight. He had seen Lothalian’s eyes flash green as his essence, his soul, his self was consumed on the spot before them all by a greedy goblin who grinned as he raised the lifeless corpse to his slavering maw. “No!” Artimour had heard himself roar, and with a mighty sweep of his broadsword, he’d beheaded the goblin where he stood. But there was no saving Lothalian.

And now, possibly three more lost to Faerie forever? Winter was coming soon, when the landscape grayed, and the goblins’ natural color gave them an added advantage. He felt a grim and growing certainty that something worse than was predicted lay in store. He scanned the dispatch again. Finuviel had sent it three days previously. They were still seven days out. Riding hard, and alone, he could intercept them probably within two, maybe make it to Court in three. Or he could go directly to Court, and send another messenger to intercept Finuviel.

He’d hear for himself the mortal’s story, and then be off. As if on cue, the door opened, and Dariel stood aside to let the mortal woman pass. Artimour looked up, scrutinizing the first mortal he’d ever seen with an interest far more intense than he would have cared to admit. Dariel followed her into the room, carrying on an inlaid serving tray a basket of bread, fresh from the ovens, a pot of warm yellow cheese, and a pitcher of foaming milk beside two crystal goblets. The squire set the tray on a corner of his desk. He poured the milk into the goblets.

“Thank you, Dariel. You can leave us.” He motioned the squire to shut the door, and stared at the girl who stood before his desk, with raised chin and squared shoulders, proud as any princess, and grubbier than the meanest garden gremlin that had ever worked in the Palace gardens. Long, black curls tangled around her face, haphazardly tied back with a rough ribbon of indeterminate color. Her simple tunic was made of undyed homespun. The front of the tunic was stained with soot and sweat and suspicious smears that stank of goblin. It fell just below her exposed knees, revealing bare legs covered by the slightest shadow of fine dark hair. Her boots were made of leather so crudely cut and sewn he wondered how she could walk in them. She wore a cloak that had as much style as if she’d pinned a tent around her broad shoulders, and a belt barely worthy of the name, a rude scrap of leather buckled around her thick waist. Her face was just as dirty as her hands, which were black to the nails. Her cheeks were streaked with grime, but it was her eyes, her eyes that burned like two dark coals, that arrested him. There was such mettle, such passion in those eyes that something deep inside him responded immediately. His sidhe half recognized it as the potent lure of the mortal, the magnetism that sucked his kind into a vortex of need for the rush of raw energy said to emanate like a tangible thing from every human. He drew a deep breath as those dark eyes seared his skin. He could feel desperation rising from her pores like a hot mist.

But even as part of him responded, another part recoiled, disgusted by the dirt that seemed embedded into her skin, by the sharp odor of stale sweat, by the lank strands of greasy hair. No wonder his mother’s people regarded his father’s as something to be toyed with, or, better yet, avoided altogether. No wonder Timias was mocked and scorned for being mortal-mooned, as they called it. It looked as if these creatures lived little better than their own animals.

Suddenly Artimour was angry, angrier than he could ever remember being. It appalled him to think that three of his comrades—creatures of grace and light and beauty all—might have died for such an appallingly filthy clod of mortal flesh that had the audacity to live and breathe and stand before him as though her dirty little life might be worth even half one of theirs. “They tell me three scouts are missing.” He spoke quietly, evenly, but the accusation was clear. “At dawn, the goblins should have returned to their lairs, weakened by the rising sun. But your human scent drew them on, and into the patrol who should have been safe in their barracks. But for you.”

She cast down her eyes, her hands laced together like a lump in her lap. “I did not mean to make trouble or cause you grief.”

He pressed his lips together. What in mortal experience could compare to the death of a sidhe at the hand of a goblin? He thought about what he knew of mortals. They were born, they dashed through their helter-skelter lives, breeding faster than rats, and then died, burned out like cinders, their bodies turned to ash. In between, they tempted hapless sidhe foolish enough to bother with them. “Cause me grief?” He shook his head, spitting out the words like cherry pits. “You’ve no idea what you’ve caused or what’s been lost.” He looked away, overcome by scorn and disgust and the weight of the potential loss of not just one comrade to the true death, but four.

When she spoke, her words shocked him speechless. “You’re part mortal, aren’t you?”

He gripped the arms of his chair, stunned into forgetting his grief, for he had always been reassured by everyone how remarkable it was he bore no human stamp upon his face. If anything, from the time he could remember, everyone went to extravagant lengths to agree that his eyes were like Vinaver’s, his seat upon a horse like Gloriana’s, his dance step, Alemandine’s. And since Finuviel was born, his hair and skin color were compared most favorably to those of his cousin, as the sidhe referred to every kin relationship which was not parent and child, or consort and mate. “Maiden,” he nearly choked. “How did you know?”

“You aren’t like the others—not exactly.” But her attention had already drifted, her eyes ranging around the room, from ceiling to floor, lingering over the wall-hangings, the scrolls and the weapons. She looked at the food and he saw her throat work as she swallowed.

In what way? he wanted to demand, but her attention was riveted on the intricate patterns in the carpet. Judging by her clothing and the state of her person, the outpost must appear as sumptuous as a palace. He gestured to the food. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head slowly. “I dare not—don’t you know? To eat or drink of the food of the OtherWorld—it’s dangerous to us—there’s an enchantment in the food—” She broke off, her attention caught by some aspect of the weapons hanging on the long walls above the bookshelves. “I brought some food with me, but I dropped it in the forest when the goblin was chasing me.”

“I see.” Better get on with it, then, he thought. At least she had a compelling reason to go back to her own world quickly. The sooner she returned to her world, the sooner he could be on his way. “They tell me you wish to see our Queen.”

Without leave, she sank down onto the edge of the chair in front of his desk. He heard the soft rasp of her rough fingertips caressing the supple leather on the arms, as once more she fixed him with that piercing look, which rendered him wholly incapable of reprimanding her. “I need to see the Queen. I need her help. My father’s missing. And we—the people of my village—we found the goblin floating dead in the lake. The sidhe who found me here told me there is a similar lake in this world. I believe my father killed the goblin and fell somehow into Faerie. I’ve come to find him.”

Artimour placed the tips of his fingers together carefully. If her father had foundered into the Wastelands he was as good as dead. But she was looking at him with such mute appeal, such naked need, his own heart twisted in his chest and he knew he had to convince her to leave. Her very presence was too unsettling, too distracting, too intoxicating. And the way this one looked at him with her pleading eyes that burned like tiny twin flames in her sweat-streaked face and her desperate need to find her father—this one was rousing memories and feelings and questions he’d thought long buried and forgotten.

Where’s my father? he had asked his mother, one evening when Gloriana had favored his nursery with a visit, for he had just learned that such things existed and that most had one. And she had laughed, softly, touching his cheek with a caress as light as a rose petal. “Don’t worry about your father, child,” she answered. “He’s gone to a place you can never go.” Why has he gone there? he’d asked. “He has returned to his people, who need him,” she replied. But why did he leave me? He was desperately curious as to the identity of the faceless person few ever spoke of. “Because,” his mother answered gently, “you belong to me.” And that was the end of the only conversation he could remember having with his mother concerning his father. Even the Lorespinners generally considered the mortal’s contribution to the making of the Silver Caul scarcely worthy of mention, let alone detail.

He rubbed at his head as if erasing the memory, pushing all the questions he’d ever had about his father back into the dark place to which they’d long ago been consigned. The last thing he needed was this girl, who stared at him as if she expected him to conjure her father out of the air. But her very presence signified a potential problem so large it made his head ache to consider it. “What’s your name, maiden?”

“My name is Nessa. My father is Dougal, the finest blacksmith in all of Gar.”

His head jerked up. He looked at her more closely, observing the deep slices of grime beneath her fingernails, the scars and calluses beneath the charcoal-stained skin. “Your father’s a blacksmith?”

“Yes. He was.”

Again he sat back, stunned, even as that one slip of her tongue told him that the girl who could spot the mortal stamp upon his features was not blind to the possibility of her father’s fate. He stared at her, every question he’d ever had about his own father rising to his lips, for the fact his father had been a smith was the only other piece of information Artimour had about him. A wild, insane thought leapt to his mind from what could only be his mortal half—that Dougal and Nessa were somehow related to his own father. He could smell the scorch of burning metal in her clothes and in the wild tangle of her hair. He hesitated, torn between the urgency to address the situation and the sudden desire to ply her with questions.

But he saw clearly that the consequences of a failure of the Caul’s magic were so dire, they made even his rancor at being shunted aside seem petty. He had to get to the Queen as quickly as possible, not to confront, but to warn. So he drew a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “My name is Artimour, Maid Nessa. I am the second-in-command here, under Prince Finuviel.” What else was there to say? He should send her on her way, but something held him back, something wanted to keep her talking. A few minutes more wouldn’t hurt. “Tell me how you came to find the goblin.” He leaned forward over the desk, observing every minuscule detail of her appearance. Surely his father hadn’t smelled quite that—that ripe? Distress poured off her like a tide, dragging him back to the present, making him disregard the odor.

“My father left the smithy just before dusk last night—earlier than usual, but he—he—had gone to check the traps at the lake.” She paused, and looked at him, as if considering what to say.

“Go on.”

“He’d been gone just a short time, when some of the children came running back from the lake saying there was a dead goblin floating in the water. And so we all—everyone who could walk—dropped what we were doing and followed the children back. And there it was, floating in the water, among the traps we set to catch the lakefish. But my father was missing. We looked, everywhere we could think of, but there was no sign of him. Only the goblin.”

“And so who decided to cut off its head?”

“I did.”

“How did you know to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Cut off its head. We—the Faerie and the goblins that inhabit this realm—cannot be slain by mortal weapons, but by beheading. If your father really did kill that goblin, unless he used the goblin’s own weapon against it, it would’ve revived ere the sun had set on another day. Did you not know that?”

“There hasn’t been a goblin in our parts for over a thousand years, they say. I’m sure there’s a few things we’ve forgotten twixt then and now.” She leaned forward, fists clenched. “I lost my mother here. I will not lose my father, too. I know about the Silver Caul. I thought the Queen would listen to me if I brought the goblin’s head. Why didn’t the Caul work?”

He shook his head, silent, uncertain how to answer. It was difficult to think at all, because the stink coming off her was enough to turn his stomach. At last he decided to tell her as much of the truth as he believed she would understand. “I don’t know. The Caul was forged in another age—under another Queen. The present Queen carries an heir at last, and thus this is a dangerous time in Faerie, for her magic, which normally sustains the land, is diverted to another source, and the wards that contain the goblins within the Wastelands are strained. This we expected and have, to the extent we can, prepared for. But the Caul was made of greater magic. We did not think that it would fail. And if it has—” Artimour stopped. The possibility that the Caul would fail had never even been considered, and no contingency had even been bandied. The idea of a mortal world vulnerable to the goblins was not what made him shudder. The Caul’s failure meant Faerie lay open to silver. “You’ve achieved your purpose, maiden, for I myself will bear this message to Her Majesty. Even now, my saddled horse awaits. You can re—”

“But—” she leaned forward, and once more he felt the scorch of her stare “—I didn’t come here just to tell the Queen about the goblin. I’m here to find my father. I won’t go back until I find him.”

Her obstinacy was like a brick wall. He couldn’t take her to Court—that in and of itself would cause such an uproar, he would never hear the end of it. It would most assuredly end all his hopes of regaining his command. What could he say to convince her? He cast about. She cared passionately about her father. Maybe there were others for whom she cared just as deeply. “What about the others—the other people—”

“What others?”

He spread his hands. “The others—the other people in your village? Don’t you care about them?”

“Not the way I care about him,” she shot back. She leaned forward and for a moment he thought she would leap over the table. “You don’t understand. The other people in the village, in our district, they all know about my mother. They all know about me. They think I’m tainted somehow. My father raised me to be a blacksmith just like him, and they think that’s odd, too. So no, there aren’t any others. I have no one else in the world. He’s my whole life. I am not going back without him. Dead or alive.” She raised her chin and he groaned inwardly, even as something deep inside him recognized a kinship with her.

He knew what it felt like to stand on the margins of all that is acceptable and accepted. But he had to make her understand that this crisis was greater than even her need to find her father. So he leaned across the desk and met the fire in her eyes with as much calm assurance as he could muster. “I see that your father means a great deal to you, maiden. But there are more lives than his at stake. You must go back and warn the mortals of your village. If the magic of the Caul has indeed broken in some way, the people living nearest that lake are in utter danger. And time runs differently in our two worlds. You’ve spent but a few hours here by my calculation, but a few days or more could’ve run in Shadow. Guards must be set about the lake, armed with weapons tipped in silver. For if even one goblin somehow fell into Shadow, living or dead, it is possible that more will find a way there. And they most likely won’t be dead.”

He watched the realization of the truth in his words dawn across her features and war with her own desire. “But my father—”

“Was he wearing silver?”

“Of course. Everyone does. No one ever takes it off—though I did, so I could get in.”

“Then it’s still extremely unlikely that he’s here, maiden. A magic as great as the Caul cannot simply fail all at once. Even the magic here within the wards that hold the border—a much different sort from that which made the Caul and not as strong—it fluctuates, but does not fail.” At least, he thought, he hoped great Herne would see that it wouldn’t.

“But if a fluctuation in the—the Caul’s magic has let a goblin into Shadow, is it not possible that despite the fact my father was wearing his amulet, the silver wasn’t enough to keep him out?” She pressed on relentlessly, arguing with a determination the most exacting Lorespinner might envy.

The force of her logic, fueled by the intensity of emotion, was inescapable. Much as he would prefer to deny it. He sighed and shifted in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “You force me to agree. Such a possibility—that at the moment the goblin fell into Shadow, a mortal slipped into Faerie—does exist. So I will order the scouts who escort you back into the Shadowlands to search for him, once they see you safe across, and alert all the patrols from now on to search as well. And if your father has not fallen into the Wastelands, I’m sure we’ll find him. But much as you wish to stay and search for your father, I tell you, your people are in danger. You must make them understand they must act to protect themselves immediately. Samhain is approaching in Faerie, the time when the veils between our worlds are thinnest. If the Caul is failing in some way, the goblins may break through on Samhain, and nothing here will hold them back. Whatever defenses you can mount will have to come from your side. Surely your father would not want you to leave your people so vulnerable?”

To his relief, Nessa sat back. She lowered her eyes. Thank Herne he’d found a way to get through to her. A last-minute check with the captain of the guard—an inquiry into the fate of the scouts—and he could be off. Then she raised her chin, and straightened her back, and this time, when her gaze collided with his, he saw a renewed fire that made him groan inwardly. “There’s something else you ought to know.”

He cocked his head. “Say on, then.”

“No. I won’t tell you, unless you promise to help me.”

“Help you how? I’ve already promised to help you, maiden. My troops are in utter jeopardy out there—and I have duties and responsibilities—”

“Is it not your duty then to hear what I say? I’ve done you a service by coming here—I’ve risked much—you’ve said it yourself. Now you know about a problem you wouldn’t have known otherwise.”

He slumped back in the chair, assessing her eager face, her shrewd eyes, and resisted the urge to wipe his brow. “I shall instruct my soldiers to search for him, maiden.”

“Then I’ll leave and not tell you what else I know.”

“What else you know about what? Maiden, these are troubling, difficult, dangerous times we live in. I don’t have time to play games with you.”

She folded her lips and turned her head away. Exasperation boiled through him. No wonder the sidhe were warned to avoid mortals. This up-and-down rush of feeling was dizzying, disorienting. He slapped his hand down on the desk. “What is it that you want?”