Landslayer's Law (17 page)

David’s breath caught—as, by the sound, did most of his companions’. He gazed at Fionchadd expectantly, seeking some cue as to how to proceed.

“Watch,” the Faery murmured. “Wait.”

David did, scarcely breathing as lights awoke on the panel framed by that arch; lights that became a pattern of a thousand colors, like stained glass lit from within, save that
these
patterns moved.

The captain—or perhaps it was Nuada, David couldn’t tell from the rear—rode forward, to halt directly before the center of that vast glowing portal. Dead silence came with him. And then suddenly that one uttered a—well,
maybe
it was an actual word, but it was more like the sound of command itself: absolute desire made manifest, whereupon the panel slowly split down the middle and folded outward to either side.

“Dismount,” that one ordered, in what David was still not certain was either heard with the ear
or
in English.

Another glance at Fionchadd showed him already down from his saddle, and David took the hint and also dismounted. Someone was there beside him as soon as his feet touched the ground: one of the guard—and
not
Nuada. “Follow,” the knight said, and before David could so much as blink, another had joined the first on the other side, and he was being escorted into the palace of Lugh Samildinach. Fionchadd was up ahead, he saw with relief, as his eyes adjusted to the surprising gloom of what proved to be a hallway barely wide enough for three grown men—or Faeries—to march abreast, but with vaults too high for light-dazed eyes to discern. The dominant impression was of piers of silver-toned marble marching endlessly away, the spaces between filled with wide stone panels carved with yet more whorls and spirals.

For a long time they trooped along—so long David actually began to tire—but just as he was about to voice that complaint, their hallway suddenly teed into a far wider one at least as tall. For a wonder, this one was carpeted—in burgundy, red, and black—and even better, it was brightly lit, with what looked amazingly like Georgia sunlight, save that this gleamed from complex gilded globes set at ten-step intervals twice their height along both walls.

Another door loomed ahead, with two more guards flanking it, and as Fionchadd walked toward it, the two knights who had accompanied David fell back to either side. “After you,” Fionchadd offered, with a sad smile. “And welcome to Tir-Nan-Og.”

David could only grunt and roll his eyes. Impulsively, he spun around—protocol be damned—and located Liz and Alec. Their faces were unreadable, so much emotion registered there: fear and awe most obviously. Without further ado, he slid between them and threw his arms across their shoulders.

So it was then, that with his best friend on his left and his girlfriend on his right, David Kevin Sullivan, of rural Enotah County in the wilds of extreme north Georgia, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and strode through that final portal.

Chapter X: Revelations

(Tir-Nan-Og—high summer)

David’s first impression as the massive doorjamb fell away behind him and he stepped into the space beyond was of surprising intimacy, almost—dared he think it?—homey disarray.

Certainly the room he entered, that the rest of his comrades were now crowding into, forcing him further forward, was not the vast chamber he’d have expected from such an imposing portal. Though high-vaulted, with simple round arches of rough-cut stone, the space itself was small when compared to the scale of the rest of the palace: thirty feet wide, perhaps, and no more than half again as long: the size of a small house, say.

And filled with light. For the walls between the piers opposite were almost entirely glazed: panes of honey-toned glass interspersed with white or clear, all frosted with more of those interlace designs; while the plain granite blocks of the other walls were brightened by tapestries depicting wildly romantic landscapes and vivid hunting scenes that would not have been out of place in a French Renaissance chateau. The pale limestone floor was piled thick with oriental rugs—human work, by the look of them, and priceless. A fireplace dominated the right hand end, carved of ruddy stone in the shape of a slightly whimsical hell-mouth. Real flame reddened that rocky gullet, while ranks of metal goblets steamed on the raised hearth that served as the leering sculpture’s tongue. The smell was wonderful: wine, herbs, and delicate spices. David’s stomach rumbled.

As for furniture—they’d been summoned to a council, and the room was set up as a council chamber—sort of. The rugs were strewn with comfortable-looking seats of every kind, interspersed with diverse small tables, all facing inward toward a larger trestle table, behind which a pair of what could only be described as thrones were set—empty, for the nonce, save for the dozen or so enfields that dozed or padded or stretched lazily about them. Lugh’s pets, if David recalled right.

Those were the
only
empty places however—save a quarter arc of seats directly in front of them, into one of which Fionchadd had already settled, motioning him and his companions to do likewise. David chose a low sofa-loveseat thing upholstered in nubby green, but he did so mechanically, for his gaze swept wildly about the room as he took in all those people who had turned to stare at him, like schoolmates sizing up the new kid in class.

That was the second thing that had startled him:
all those people.
There were fifty of them if not more; enough to fill the place, yet not to make it feel crowded. But the thing that charged him with absolute awe was that they truly were people.
Human
people. His kind, not the strange grim beings who claimed this World. Not the Sidhe, the Seelie Court, or the Tuatha de Danaan.

No, these were just regular folks. Some old enough to be termed ancient, some—a few—clearly younger than he. Most had an American look to them, and most, though not all, were Caucasian. As for dress, that too was southeastern standard: jeans or fatigues, a lot of T-shirts, one or two folks in what he thought of as church attire. A couple in bathrobes. Though he knew it was impolite to stare, and seriously uncool to gape, he couldn’t help doing either, gaze flitting from face to face around the room. He was searching for someone, he realized, anyone…any face at all that looked familiar. He half expected to see his Uncle Dale somewhere, or even his brother, Little Billy. Certainly both of them had experienced Faerie firsthand more than once, and not in the most pleasant contexts, either.

In spite of his care, however, he almost missed the lanky, middle-sized man lounging in a juncture of pier and wall, for the man’s denim jacket was the faded blue of the ocean worked on the tapestry behind him, and his shortish hair nigh the same auburn-brown as the cliffs above those woven waves. The face, however—angularly bland, but basically good-looking, thirtyish and worn by experience and a life outside—he’d seen before. A glance at the man’s hands confirmed it. The right was bare and tanned, the left gloved in tight black leather.

David’s heart leapt.
John Devlin!
That was John Devlin! A man he’d met exactly once, though they’d spoken on the phone a score of times. But more to the point, a man who’d befriended his namesake uncle in the weeks before that uncle’s untimely death in Lebanon. Devlin knew some
stuff,
David reckoned, though he’d been unable to determine exactly what, save that the man seemed to have arcane knowledge, arcane power, and—apparently—arcane connections. He’d never managed to ferret out the specifics, but he suspected from certain objects he’d observed the one time he’d visited the guy’s north Georgia cabin, that he practiced ceremonial magic; and from what little else he’d managed to discover, it was magic from a different…tradition than that which empowered the Sidhe. That he was present now was more than a surprise. Christ, the man had never let on a thing, though David had revealed as much of his own outré adventures as he absolutely dared.

At which point his reverie was cut short because Devlin had caught him staring. A brow quirked up, a sly half-smile curled Devlin’s lips. He raised a hand—that hand—minutely, in subtle acknowledgement.

“Close your mouth,” Myra muttered behind him, prodding him with a well-placed finger. “You’re starting to drool.”

David turned half around. “All these people….”

Fionchadd shot him a wicked grin. “You didn’t think you were the only one, did you?”

“Son of a bitch knew all along!” David growled, nodding toward the smirking Devlin.

“Who did?” from Liz, who had joined him.

David nodded again. “Him. John Devlin. You know, the poet?
Where Youth and Laughter Go. That
John Devlin. David-the-Elder’s friend.”

“Oh, right. Wonder what he’s doing here.”

“The same thing we are, obviously,” David drawled, then finally managed to tear his gaze from that lone familiar face that had not accompanied him, to check on the rest of his party. They’d taken care of themselves, apparently, and claimed the remaining places—an even mix of sofas, cushions, and well-padded chairs. Alec alone remained hesitant, but when he saw David scowling, he scowled back and eased around to a cushion on the floor, scrunched up between David and Liz’s legs. David reached out to pet him on the head. “Don’t worry, big guy; I think we’re safe. This doesn’t look like a dangerous crowd.”

“It looks like a
scared
crowd, though,” Alec retorted. “Or haven’t you noticed.”

In spite of himself, David glanced around again. A few of that host did look apprehensive. But most merely looked tired or sleepy, which made sense, if they’d been roused from their beds for what he feared was an emergency meeting. He started to query Fionchadd, but at that moment his stomach gurgled again.

Fionchadd lifted a brow, then motioned to one of the white-liveried figures who had just entered and were now ranging themselves around the walls. One nodded in turn, and slipped toward the fireplace, where he retrieved a pair of goblets from the hearth. Others mirrored his example, and with them came still others bearing trays of food. The room became a flurry of motion, as food and drink were dispersed. A particularly full and mounded plate of meat, bread, and melon was set on a small stone table between David and Fionchadd, even as one of the—did you call anyone who was obviously Faery a servant?—well, whatever they were, one handed him a steaming goblet of gem-encrusted gold that would’ve made the Ardagh Chalice seem like foamware from Burger King.

He examined it warily, then shifted his gaze to Fionchadd. “Last time I heard, it wasn’t safe to eat Faery food.”

“Why, whoever told you that?” Fionchadd teased, eyes wide above a far-too innocent mouth, as he helped himself to half a small glazed fowl. “Besides, what makes you think this is from Faerie?”

Liz poked him in the ribs. (Did everyone have to do that?) “Just eat, Davy! I did before I caught myself, and if I’m gonna be stuck here forever, you’d better be too.”

“Humans!” Fionchadd chuckled, as he lifted his goblet. “Do you trust no one at all?”

“No,” Alec grunted from the floor. But his hands, too, were laden—with a long slice of crusty bread piled high with sauced meats and mushrooms.

“Makin’ yourself at home, are you?” David chided.

A weary shrug. “Might as well, seein’ how we’re stuck here. God, I wish Lugh’d put his ass in gear and get things going.”

“Cool it!” David warned anxiously. “These folks have got mighty sharp ears.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Liz reminded them, eyeing Fionchadd speculatively. “They’re also telepathic—some of ’em, anyway.”

“Wish
we
were,” David grumbled. “Then we could get some idea of what’s goin’ on.”

“You are about to find out,” Fionchadd murmured. “Watch.”

And indeed the room was falling quiet, as what David had taken for a window overlooking a sunlit garden suddenly opened, and with far less fanfare than had attended their own arrival, two tall figures strolled in.

One was Nuada Airgetlam, called Silverhand: no longer in armor and thus instantly recognizable by his long blond hair and the intricate silver vambrace and gauntlet that replaced his missing right arm—what of it showed beneath a robe of thick-napped velvet, gold on one side and white on the other, and open down the front like a dressing gown. Nuada nodded to someone as he took a seat, and David followed that gaze, surprised to see that this great lord of Faerie had acknowledged John Devlin.

Why…? But then he knew. Devlin too was down a hand. The left had been shot off trying to save a friend in some “police action” or other, back when the guy had been an army Ranger. The glove he always wore covered the prosthesis that replaced it.

“Is that Lugh?” Sandy whispered behind him, elbows braced on the sofa.

“Yeah,” David acknowledged, inspecting the other figure who had accompanied Nuada.

He didn’t look much like a great lord of Faerie at the moment (though David suspected that was a deliberate ploy, designed to put them at ease). Though tall, strong, and handsome, he had entered casually—his tread steady, but no regal stride. He’d eschewed a crown too, or any other symbol of rank. Instead, his black hair flowed unbound past his shoulders, a spill of ink down a long plain robe of gold and scarlet.

His mustache flowed as well, the long ends brushing his collarbones. Neither he nor Nuada were smiling. They conferred briefly, then scooted their thrones closer together. A further pause ensued, while each received a goblet from a lingering server, then another for a pair of savory swallows and a clinking of vessels, as if to say, “okay, comrade, here we go….”

At times, David thought, they were all too human. If only he didn’t fear this was all for show, all a carefully contrived PR event.

Lugh cleared his throat, then tapped his goblet gently with a nail. It rang bright as a gong, but far more piercing. The servants sketched deep bows and departed in haste through the door by which Lugh and Silverhand had arrived.

As the last fragment of conversation rumbled into silence, Lugh sat down. A leader among equals, he was, yet clearly in command, though trying very hard (it seemed) to appear nonthreatening. He surveyed the room for a long moment, examining every face—and, David feared, every mind—then puffed his cheeks and spoke.