Mike Shevdon - The Road to Bedlam

"I need it," she said. "I need the knife. I have to finish this."

"You can't touch it, don't you see?" said Meg. "Even having it near is upsetting the babe. You'll do more harm than good with that and no mistake. It's not meant for your kind."

"Get me something else, something iron." whispered Blackbird. She sat on a chair, breathing slowly, bringing herself back under control.

Lisa ran upstairs.

"Where are you going? Come back down here right now!" said Meg.

By the time Meg had reached the bottom of the stairs, Lisa was on the way down again. She came back into the kitchen holding a long-bladed knife in her hand, its blade dark but for the bright metal at the edge, the wooden handle burnished to a dull gloss.

"I made it myself," she said, passing it carefully to Blackbird. "It's too soft to keep an edge properly, but it was the first one I made, wasn't it, Grampy?"

Blackbird tested the weight of it. The iron in it still made her bones ache, but it would do.

Lisa went back to her grandfather and eased in under his arm. Ben ruffled her hair. "The metal's a bit soft. It's hand-beaten, closer to wrought iron than steel, so it should serve your purpose well."

Lisa raised her chin. "Use it for Topaz." She stared at the body of the dog on the table, eyes dry.

Blackbird stood, easing the cramps from her back. She lifted her bag and took the horseshoe from it. "Might as well go for broke," she said.

She went to the kitchen door. "Once I'm outside, bolt and bar the door and don't let anyone in, not even if you think it's me." She paused and then said, "It won't be."

She looked around the room as if memorising the faces, then opened the door, stepped out into the darkness and closed the door behind her. Standing in the dark, she waited until she heard the bolts shoot home while her eyes adjusted. The sky had been clear black and starlit, a good night for a fight. Now a mist had risen, clinging to the ground, swirling around her ankles, rolling away as she moved into the open yard. She stood in the middle where she could see all around her.

"You're going to have to come and get me," she called out to the dark. "I'm not playing hide and seek."

The words sounded muted and close, making her seem small and frightened. She uncurled and curled her fingers on the handle of the iron knife.

Over the building to her left, something large sailed out of the night. It bounced once and landed in a floppy bundle near her feet. It was the other dog, what was left of it.

"It's not my dog and I don't care," she called, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.

The dog had come from the left. She watched the right carefully.

The minutes stretched out. She waited, feeling the sweat condensing cold and running down her spine. For a moment there was a shadow where there was no moonlight to cast one and then there he was, walking out of the mist into the yard, clothed in black silk, a long blade hanging easily from his right hand. His hair fell over his eyes in a way that was almost feminine. Dark eyes glinted from beneath his fringe. He stopped, some way away.

"You're going to have to get closer than that," she said, shaking her head.

She blinked and he was yards closer. She hadn't even seen him move. The damned mist hadn't even stirred.

"Closer than that," she said. "I have something for you." She tightened her grip on the horseshoe, setting her feet apart. The sword would give him reach. She wanted him in close where she could use the knife.

"Come to mommy," she said, bracing herself.

"I can taste your scent," he said. His voice was high and light. It added to the impression of delicacy.

"Good for you," she said. "But you can't smell me to death. Come closer."

He sighed, softly. "Not you," he said. "Them."

On either side of her two shapes coalesced out of the mist.

Amber held a long straight sword casually, allowing it to swing gently from her hand as she walked forward. Slimgrin stepped forward, circling the long double-ended spear around until it pointed directly at Deefnir's feet.

"You waited for your moment," said Blackbird.

"We wanted him to show himself," said Amber. "Time to go home, Deefnir. Your master is calling."

"And the others," said Deefnir. "Show yourselves."

From behind him, Tate and Garvin moved out of the shadows.

"We're not going to have any trouble, are we?" rumbled Tate.

Garvin spoke. "I think our visitor knows when he is outnumbered."

There was a strange mewing sound from Deefnir, prompting Amber to lift the tip of her blade. It resolved into tinkling laughter.

"There, you see? It wasn't that hard in the end." His amusement was at odds with the tension.

"We are arresting you in the name of the High Court of the Feyre," called Garvin. "You are charged by your Lord to return to the High Court peacefully and await his pleasure."

"Not before I complete my mission."

He blurred into motion. Blackbird flinched as she found him kneeling before her. Amber's blade was across his throat, the end of Slimgrin's spear pressing under his ear.

"For the runaround you've given me, I'd cheerfully kill you," said Amber. "Go ahead, give me an excuse."

Deefnir ignored the threats and reached towards Blackbird slowly and gently with his empty left hand. Blood ran down his throat where the pressure of Amber's blade increased.

"It is good fortune," remarked Deefnir, "to touch the place where the child rests; good both for the mother and for the one who touches."

"It won't be good luck for you," said Amber quietly. "I'll send you back to Altair in two pieces. Hear my words."

"I am charged by my Lord Altair," said Deefnir, "to bring to you, Blackbird, the felicitations of the Seventh Court."

"What?" said Blackbird.

"My Lord Altair sends his greetings. He would present them himself but he is otherwise engaged, so in his stead he sends me, his grandson, to carry his good wishes and congratulations to you for the coming of your child."

"One more move and you die, Deefnir," said Amber. "Stop playing games."

"I swear on my honour that I will not harm anyone here gathered, most particularly the half-breed Blackbird and her unborn child. Even if I wished to, I could not. It is foretold."

"What's this about, Deefnir?" Garvin stepped in, turning aside the blades, placing himself between Deefnir and Blackbird.

Deefnir remained kneeling. "The son will rise and they shall fall," he intoned.

"What? What is he talking about?" demanded Blackbird.

Garvin raised one eyebrow. "I'm not following this any more than you are."

"What are you saying?" Blackbird moved around Garvin, tightening her grip on the knife. Slimgrin stepped in close to her, his hand wrapping gently around her wrist where she held the iron knife, preventing her from using it.

Garvin glanced at the hand with the iron knife. He nodded to Slimgrin. "We don't want any accidents, do we?"

"He's talking about my baby, Garvin. I want to know what he means!" said Blackbird.

"Deefnir?" said Garvin. "You want to explain why we're running around the country so you can bring Blackbird a greeting?"

Deefnir smiled. "What hour is it?"

Garvin's expression darkened, "It's after midnight, why?"

Deefnir stood, slowly and cautiously, leaving the sword lying on the ground beside him. He opened his hands, showing he was unarmed.

"My tasks are complete. I have brought the felicitations of the Seventh Court to the mother and to the son, and brought the Warders to me. Four Warders here, Fellstamp and Fionh with Lord Altair and the High Court. That makes six."

"We are seven," said Garvin.

"Not for long."

"What do you mean?" asked Blackbird. "Where's Niall?"

"He's in Ravensby, in Yorkshire," said Garvin.