Any Man So Daring (33 page)

“Hylas told me how, once, you and your servants blocked the entrance of a cave with burning branches, and there suffocated a whole clan of trolls, male and female, infants and children.”

His eyes looked, if possible, more opaque and more expressionless. “That might have been my clan.”

Quicksilver swallowed. What he’d been afraid the monster would find out, the monster had indeed found out.

Lying on the ground, staring at the creature’s great, gnarled feet, with their huge, hard claws like horns, Quicksilver wondered what would happen if Caliban kicked him.

He could imagine the claws rending him, tearing into him. He remembered the feel of troll claws, of troll teeth, of the immense strength of trolls holding him pinned while they gnawed on his shoulder.

Had Malachite not come then, Quicksilver would have been dead. Dead and eaten by trolls.

But how could Quicksilver explain this to the creature who, in many ways, whether he believed it or not, was as innocent as the little fairy princess?

“It was a war,” he said and, to himself, his voice sounded tinny and false. “When the gods cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war, what can elf or man -- or troll— do, but fight and do his duty till his duty is done and victory or defeat reaped from the bitter harvest of fighting?”

Caliban shook his head. “That might have been my clan,” he said. “And man and elf
can
think. So can troll.”

“And yet,” Quicksilver said. “I could still make it all better. I could give you honors, riches. I could protect your mistress, whom you prize.” Quicksilver strained against the threads of the net, fine as spiderweb, that seemed to cut into him and freeze him to the heart.

Caliban glared at him, out of the corner of his black eyes. “Even you, O king, cannot restore life to the dead, nor can you undo your injustice with honors.” He grinned at Quicksilver, showing his sharp fangs, his yellowed teeth. A smell of putrefaction floated from his breath. “The net remains, till the centaurs come back. And till they finish their job and kill you. And you’ll kill no more trolls, O king of elves.”

Scene Thirty Two

Miranda, walking through the forest, meets Proteus. They run towards each other.

O
h, how Miranda had missed Proteus.

Seeing him now, amid the swaying greenery, was like seeing an old friend among strangers, like knowing your home from a long distance, looking through sheets of dreary rain.

“Proteus,” she said.

“Miranda,” he said, and ran towards her, graceful and swift, skipping over roots of trees and jumping over low branches, till he met her with open arms and encircled her and twirled her. “Miranda. I was worried — I feared— the gods know what I’ve feared. But you’re here. You’re well. You’re well, my love.” Thus speaking, he set her down and ran his hands up and down her arms, caressing her. “My love, my Miranda.”

She smiled and cried, and crying she smiled through her tears, like a spring day when rain dims sunshine and sun shines through rain.

Her voice came out, high, strangled, telling him of the centaurs, how the centaurs had tormented Caliban and how they’d insulted her and how the little mortal — the ugly little mortal whom she’d assumed was evil because he was ugly — had come to her rescue.

Proteus held her in his arms and exclaimed at her tale, and kissed her tears as they fell, sparkling and hot, down her face.

She cried, and, her breath coming in gasps, she said, “And he was so kind. So kind, Proteus, and he says you have it all wrong. He says that my father
was
a villain and taken by the Hunter as the Hunter’s own dog and that it was when the Hunter took him that my father, craven and heartless, delivered me to the Hunter also.

“What father would do that, Proteus? How
could
you think him good when he did that?”

Proteus's kisses stopped. His arms still around her, he straightened. “How can I explain the mortal’s delusions, Miranda? How would I know what he thinks? Faith, they think little at all, being but little more intelligent than your pet monster, your Caliban.”

Miranda opened her mouth. She looked up and into Proteus's eyes. In them she found uncaring amusement.

How could he speak like that of the mortal who had saved her? How could he speak like that of the troll whom his erstwhile allies had so frightfully tormented?

How could Proteus smile thus at her, so unconcerned after all she’d revealed to him? Why was he not exclaiming over her hurt? Why was he not hurt on her behalf? Why did he not vow to hunt down the centaurs and avenge their offense towards her?

Through her mind, the mortal’s words echoed:
a man may smile and smile and be a villain.

She’d been about to tell him of the flag on the castle, the emblem of the Hunter upon it. She’d been about to tell him of the boy, Hamnet, and the strange feelings he awakened in her.

For it was as though she’d met the boy long ago, or in a dream. She knew his golden falcon eyes, his features, his regal bearing. It was as though she’d waited all her life to meet him.

She’d never felt this way about anyone.

All this she was going to tell Proteus, all this reveal and in all this ask for her love’s comfort and his wisdom.

But that bright, uncaring smile, that disdainful of way of referring to the creature who’d saved her, it seemed to stop every thought within her head, every word upon her lips.

“But you’re well,” Proteus said and grinned. “And that’s what counts. All these questions of guilt, all these ancient, blood-soaked feuds can wait. For now, we’ll go to the castle, along the true path, and there find the boy and restore him to his father.” He winked at her. “And then the two of us will go to fairyland, where all might meet you and admire your beauty. And there, by peaceful means or not, I’ll crown you queen.”

Miranda looked at him, at his blithely happy face.
By peaceful means or not?

Something there was behind his smile, his easy-going expression, like a shadow behind a curtain, hiding the window that would let in the blessed day.

Like a shadow, this patch of darkness hid who knew what. What thoughts did Proteus have and not share? If he loved Miranda, why hide his mind and heart from her?

Oh, Miranda hated suspecting her lord so, but she did. The words of the mortal came back to haunt her. If ugliness did not mean evil, indeed, why should beauty mean goodness?

What a fool she’d been, what a besotted fool!

All of a sudden, Proteus felt wrong, different, separate from her.

It was as though, both being in love, they’d lain side by side in the same bed but, upon waking, didn’t recognize each other. When they’d lain together they’d been lovers, but the ringing, pale morn found them strangers to each other.

“From fairyland I’ll conjure us food and water, for this water is not safe to drink. And then we’ll set out,” Proteus said. “Soon, my lady, soon, all this strife will be over. We’ll be married, and you’ll be my queen.”

Miranda nodded and forced herself to smile.

Why did his words put a shiver down her spine?

Scene Thirty Three

Will, walking along the true path alone. He looks ready to drop — the color of tallow, bedraggled, with dark circles round his golden eyes.

H
ow tired Will was. How far he’d come, with no food or drink.

Nothing but his longing for Hamnet could have got him to do it, his love for his son, his love for wife, his daughters — his need to restore his family to what it had been.

He walked along the winding path, while branches flogged him and leaves tugged at his coat like beggars attempting to detain him.

The stick in his hand pulled on while, tired and confused, Will kept holding on to it.

Thirst and hunger warred within him. It was all he could to walk on.

Suddenly, as though out of nowhere, he heard voices again, as he’d heard them before, in the night.

He slowed his step and, stowing the stick beneath his shirt where it beat and pulled like a living creature, he walked cautiously amid the trees, over tree roots, keeping himself hidden.

Ahead, in a clearing, men were talking — or perhaps not men, but those creatures that Will had met before, for these had the same accent, the same haughty tones, the same foreign intonation.

Cautious, Will stepped forward.

The dappled horse-body and the black one sat by a fire upon which a hunk of still-bleeding meat roasted.

Whence that meat?

Will felt uneasy over Caliban, Miranda’s troll, the one Miranda had said narrowly escaped being eaten.

But then he spied the monster sitting by the spit, turning it, while the meat roasted. Behind Caliban--

Hola. What was here?

A bundle lay on the ground behind Caliban, and for a moment it looked to Will like a bundle of green cloth — a large blanket or a roll of baize.

Then he saw the moonlight-bright hair and, looking harder, spied Quicksilver’s pale, severely beautiful face beneath the hair.

Was Quicksilver alive? Was he dead?

Forgetting himself, Will stepped farther forward till only a few branches, a few sparse leaves stood between him and the centaurs. Such was his anxiety over the king of fairyland that Will’s breath came short and shallow.

Many years ago, Will himself had unjustly imprisoned Quicksilver. He’d wrapped him in iron, almost killing him.

Quicksilver had looked like that then — drained and pale, his moss-green eyes dull, his lips bled of color.

The then-prince of fairyland had forgiven Will for imprisoning him, for almost killing him. He’d taken no revenge. He’d forgotten all.

Will thought suddenly, startled by the thought as though it were an alien intrusion into his mind, that Quicksilver had as much reason to resent him as he had to resent Quicksilver.

Had Will not, once upon a time, ambushed Quicksilver and wrapped him in cold iron, almost killing him?

Hadn’t Will’s father, while Will was still a youth, beguiled by Sylvanus's evil schemes, helped murder Quicksilver’s own parents?

Hadn’t Will, in London, spurned Quicksilver so that the hill and London, aye, and the world entire, had almost been lost to the dark Sylvanus?

And yet, did Quicksilver complain of mortals? Did he fear the mortal world and refuse to face it? Did he tell Will to go elsewhere, to apply for help from some other supernatural being? Did he tell Will to go beguile another elf with his facile mortal lies, his mortal problems?

No. No. Quicksilver’s devotion was still such that when Will’s son was kidnapped, he followed without thinking.

Will was here because Hamnet was his son.

But why was Quicksilver here, if not to rescue Hamnet and spare Will the grief of losing a son?

And yet — without this being Quicksilver’s strife -- how Quicksilver suffered for it, captive, on the ground, wrapped in something. Iron? He looked tired, almost dead.

He could be in his hill, with his retainers, but for Will’s sake he was here, in the dangers of the crux, captured by centaurs, brought low by his enemies.

It was only by staring intently that Will could discern the minute rise and fall of Quicksilver’s chest.

A great relief flooded Will at seeing that movement.

Alive. Oh. Quicksilver was still alive. But for how long?

Slowly, slowly, trying not to snap a twig beneath unwary feet, trying not to set his foot wrong, Will walked around the clearing.

The centaurs talked, and Will listened with half a mind, noting only that they talked as people do who do not know they’re watched.

“So, we’ll see him tonight?” the brown one said.

“Tonight as it ever was, if he manages to give the shrew the slip.”

“Is the meat not done yet, worthless creature?” the brown one said, and aimed a kick at Caliban.

Caliban stepped out of the way in time and turned the spit faster.

“And tomorrow will be the end of that haughty creature,” the black one said. “That tyrant king for whom so many have been killed.”

Will crept forward silently, holding onto the trunks of trees to avoid accidental falls that would lead to noise.

He had no very clear idea what to do.