Shirley Murphy - The Catswold Portal

They had watched the two old women and the Harpy wander off together as the gathering in the main hall finished and folk, yawning, headed for the chambers that Briccha and Terlis had prepared. They had watched Tom and Wylles, too, as the two boys made the first tentative advances in a wary, uncomfortable relationship.

Wylles and Tom had ridden together side by side as the Affandar troops returned to their homeland. The two boys, prince and changeling, were visual proof of Siddonie’s deception. To the peasants they passed in the villages, the living signs of the queen’s betrayal had been as impressive as word of her defeat.

Melissa didn’t know where Efil had gone, or care. Anyway, Affandar had no more royalty. King and queen had been replaced by a council. Soon all the Netherworld would be ruled by elected councils.

Only Tom had spoken well of Efil. King Efil had shown him how to resist Siddonie, and had caused him to be awake when Pippin came to the window of the palace. “When I saw my yellow tomcat looking in from the balcony,” Tom had said, “that was pretty great. I didn’t believe it at first, but then suddenly Pippin wasn’t a cat anymore.” He had grinned broadly. “A warrior was there. But,” Tom said, “the warrior had Pippin’s eyes.”

Melissa turned, watching Braden. “I’ll miss Pippin.”

“And so will Tom. I think Pippin has become a true Netherworlder.”

“Maybe he’ll come back sometime,” she said wistfully.

“Maybe he’ll come up with Olive when she’s ready to leave.”

“If she’s ever ready. She’s as at home as if she belongs here.”

“Olive longed for years to know about this world.” Melissa slid closer against him. “So many things to sort out, so much for the new councils to do. And at home—all the legal things about Siddonie’s enterprises. So complicated.”

“Did you say, at home?”

“I guess I did,” she said, grinning.

“You would leave the magic?”

“There’s magic there,” she said.

“And what about the legal complications? Do you want to stay here, forget them?” He stroked her cheek.

“I want to be where you are.”

“No one said we can’t live in both worlds.”

“No one said that…” She sighed. “We can live where we want to live, as long as we’re together.”

He kissed her and drew her to him, kissing her throat, her breasts. She returned his kisses at first lazily then with a hot, magical passion more powerful than any spell. He put his hands under her, lifted her to him. The fire’s shadows played across them, cloaking their slow, sensuous lovemaking. He saw the room for an instant as a painting, then he was lost to her; saw the chamber cloaked in breast-shaped shadows forming a rich, dark world, with two pale lovers at its center; and the shadows trembled in the firelight.

Near to dawn she woke with the sudden need to become cat. She whispered the spell and, as the calico, she snuggled on Braden’s chest; he was deliciously warm, hard muscled, safe. She kept her claws in, but let her pleasure rumble deep in her throat. And of course her purring woke him; he raised his head, surprised, then lay stroking her, laughing at her.

She rolled over on her back and lashed her tail, biting at his hand. She felt giddy, wild. As cat she was small and vulnerable, but she was safe with him. He stroked her until she bit his hand too hard, then he swore at her. She leaped off the bed, raced to the dressing room, changed to girl, and pulled on her leathers and boots.

Within half an hour they rode out through the palace gates, heading northeast. When Melissa looked back at the palace windows, their departing reflections were sharply defined: two lovers riding out with a picnic basket tied behind his saddle.

By mid-morning they were skirting the Affandar River. They had passed through half a dozen villages teeming with returned warriors already plowing and planting crops. They had passed children who had yesterday gone to war as grooms and pages, now gathering wild roots and mushrooms and small wild fruits, and hunting the game birds that yesterday had been forbidden to them. Melissa had shown Braden the dry underground river with its water-carved caves, and they had crossed the high ridges above the sheep meadows. Where the Affandar River ran deepest, foaming over boulders, they tied the horses and spread out their blanket. And on the banks of the deep Affandar River they made slow, easy love, then dozed.

They woke ravenous, and attacked the picnic. She had packed cold roast dove and fresh bread, peaches and berries and grapes. They had not finished eating when the river began to change.

Within the foaming rush, the center of the river grew still. A glassy pool formed, reflecting the low stone sky. At its center, deep down, something dark stirred. Braden sat up, watching.

The dark shadow moved again. Then the pool’s glassy surface broke into ripples, circling outward. And suddenly, a hump broke the water. Another. Another, until seven humps made a line across the river like the back of a huge water beast. Braden had eased his knife from its sheath, but Melissa stayed his hand. And then the farthest hump pushed up out of the pool, and they saw it was a horselike head, its nostrils distended, its mane streaming water. Then another surfaced. Another. She laughed out loud at his surprise when he realized he was looking at seven horses swimming.

The horses heaved up out of the water onto the opposite bank. They were wild-looking, stocky beasts with wide nostrils, wide eyes, and tangled, sodden manes. The water ran from their manes and tails. They stared at Braden. Their eyes were dark, mysterious. And suddenly the horses were gone and in their places stood seven stocky men with wide, dark eyes, their beards streaming water. They spoke as one.

“Welcome, image maker.”

Braden looked amazed, then grinned. He lifted his hand in greeting to the selkies. The seven old selkie men looked at Melissa. “Welcome, sister—shape shifter. Welcome, Catswold queen. Your work has been well done. The whelp of Lillith is dead.” They turned, expecting no answer, and moved away upriver walking single file. Only far upriver did they turn into stocky ponies again. They switched their tails, cocked their ears, and leaped straight down into the fast water.

She said, “Few have seen the selkies. It is a sign of peace that they have returned.”

“I would say wonder was more descriptive. How long do you suppose they were there?”

“Not long,” she said, coloring.

He laughed. “Gram would have loved seeing them.”

“I think your Gram would have been at home in the Netherworld.”

He nodded. “She would have.”

“Maybe she was, once,” Melissa said.

“Maybe,” he said, laughing. “Anything’s possible.” He reached for her and held her by the shoulders, looking at her seriously. “I want to paint this world.” He searched her face. “But I never can. It would reveal too much.”

She touched his face. “It would reveal too much only if the paintings were seen in the upperworld.”

“But no one—there are no—”

“There is no one here to feel the power of your paintings? Are you so sure?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No galleries. No critics,” she said. “No one learned enough to praise you.”

His eyes blazed. Then he laughed.

“They know power when they see it,” she said. “They know magic when they see it. And they know love. They don’t need a degree for that.

“You could,” she said softly, “be the first image maker this world has known. You could bring to the Netherworld a new kind of magic.”

Chapter 75

Sun flooded through the windows of Mathew Rhain’s reception room. Melissa stood within the warm light looking down at the city. Five stories below her lay neat squares of clipped grass and beds of flowers. The streets bordering Union Square were solid cars, moving in a tangle of noon traffic.