Anne Kelleher - Silver's Edge

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—”