Summer (20 page)

“Can you do it like that?” Richard wondered, fascinated. “Open it just a little bit? Is that doable?”

“It’s a portal,” Water-Bearer snapped. “Of course it’s doable. Now be quiet and let me think how. Gates are difficult things. I’d rather not emerge fifty fathoms deep in the Bitter Sea.”

Aine bit her lip. William rolled her knife on his palm, studying it with undisguised interest. Richard closed his eyes and lay on his back on warm stone and listened to the Dread Host scrape and moan and whisper on the other side of the wall.

“It can’t be that difficult,” he mused. “Winter was only eight when he managed to punch one through.”

“Aye, and your friend didn’t exactly hit
Tir na Nog
first try, did he?” the
sluagh
retorted. “Lucky for you and I, apostate, this portal should recall from whence it originated. Come. Stand. On your feet. I need you upright.”

Richard was beyond protest. He let William help him back to standing, swaying when the chamber waltzed around his head. The wright slipped an arm around his waist. Richard leaned into the other man’s embrace, grateful for the support.

He met Water-Bearer’s one-eyed stare without flinching. Water-Bearer looked back, blinking once and again. Then it nodded, obviously coming to some decision.

“Stand by me,” it ordered. “The
siofra
between us.”

William propelled Richard forward until he stood wedged against the
sluagh
. Water-Bearer was almost as warm as the mountain, its shoulder bony against Richard’s own. The
sluagh
curved one wing around Richard. He couldn’t help but lean into inky feathers.

Aine squeezed against Richard’s hip, bowl and buck knife in hand. She looked straight ahead into the white radiance without faltering. She’d demonstrated once she was willing to risk mortal harm on a slim chance that she’d be returned home. He wondered if it was easier the second time around. He also wondered how much of the Mending magic she had left in her small form. The Mending hadn’t seemed to help much in the Metro.

I should stop this
, he thought, and it wasn’t imaginary Winter behind that nervous realization, or even the part of Richard that sometimes sounded like Bobby.
This is probably a very bad plan
. He knew if he wasn’t so muddled by
draiochta
he’d be able to come up with a better one, one that didn’t involve putting their trust in the enemy.

Because Water-Bearer
was
the enemy. Richard had spent years killing ghouls and he’d liked it, felt just fine about it, because he knew what hungry
sluagh
would do to fill their stomachs. He’d heard all of Winter’s grisly stories.

This is a very bad idea
. He peeked sideways at Water-Bearer.

But the Dread Host was beating at the mountain and Richard knew they wouldn’t be kept back forever. The Prince would break every last bone in Richard’s body when it caught them and then feast on Richard’s soft organs, and that might not be so bad in the end because Richard was tired and lurking pain was as much a monster as Water-Bearer, and what use was he without two good hands, even to Winter, especially to Winter…but the Prince would also do those same awful things to Aine once it was finished with her and Richard could tell Aine wanted to live, Aine wasn’t ready to give up because Aine was brave like that and Aine had a home still waiting for her.

Richard had blown his home up trying to do the right thing, and look how that had turned out.

Besides which, Richard had made a promise. Which was really the crux of the thing, because Richard never broke a promise.

“I’m ready,” he said, “do what you need to do. Just…make sure Aine survives this. I’ll do my part. Close your eyes, and I’ll make us all into nothing worth noticing.”

Water-Bearer smiled, or at least Richard thought it did.

“Go raib maith agat,”
it said. “Thank you. Richard, son of Adam. Then, let us begin.”

“A
cèilidh
, m’lady?” Morris looked apoplectic. He coughed and stared down at his hands, clasped at his belt, white gloves properly spotless. “Are you sure? So soon after we’ve lost Himself?”

Siobahn stared back across her desk and wondered how Morris had ever survived Gloriana. If she hadn’t herself seen the man funnel broken bodies into the Progress’ hungering gut she’d never have believed him capable.

“My husband adored a good
cèilidh,”
she replied evenly. “He’d not begrudge us celebration.”

On the sofa by the crackling fire Barker uncrossed his legs and set both booted feet on the carpet with a thump.

“A celebration, my lady? Are we not premature?” His thumb tapped restlessly against damask. “I left Summer in Yorktown three days ago. Your optimism is admirable, but mayhap not tempt fate’s fickle favor just yet.”

“Alliteration, Barker?” Siobahn mocked. “You’ve been visiting our poet. Time runs differently across the Way. For all we know
Samhradh
may be sitting now upon my throne.”

Barker propped his elbows on his thighs and his wrists on his knees. He didn’t try to hide his disgust. “If the
geis
was broken you and I wouldn’t be sitting here watching the snow fall on Central Park. And while your optimism
is
admirable, it’s also foolish, and you, my lady, have never been that. What are you up to?”

Siobahn stretched in her chair, lazy as a cat, even as privately she seethed. Morris shifted from toe to heel and back again. Worried, she supposed, about Barker’s blood on The Plaza’s antique rugs. And for good reason.

“You’ve grown bold of late,” she said, speaking to the inlaid ceiling instead of the red-headed
sidhe
sulking on her sofa. “I’ve given you a long leash, I admit. And I’ve been gentle. You loved Malachi as I did. You failed him and that shook you.” Barker made an angry noise but Siobahn ignored him, preferring instead to enjoy the black and white filigree above her head. “I should have killed you then. Flayed you myself and used your skin for my rug.” Barker tensed. She could smell new fear in the room. Morris reeked of it, metallic and pungent. Barker’s dread tasted on her lips and on her tongue like numb acceptance. He wouldn’t fight her, she realized, and that took some of the pleasure from her threat.

“You chased after my daughter with mine own interests foremost,” she continued, and now she did look at him, studied his wide green eyes and furrowed brow. He really was beautiful. In another life she might have taken for one season the form of a handsome warrior and brought him willingly to bed. “And so I forgave you. Now you’re angry and think to test your tether. Don’t,” she warned. “I count each exile precious but I’ll not ignore insolence. Malachi was merciful; I am not.”

“Nay,” Barker agreed as Morris wrung his gloved hands. “Merciful you are not, my lady.”

She met his unblinking gaze with her own. “You wish to die? You snap at my leniency like a rabid dog at his master’s feet, hoping to be put down? You’ve finally had enough? You’ve tasted freedom, seen this rotten land past the boundaries of our island, and found it untenable?”

“Nay,” Barker said again. Siobahn saw how his throat worked around the word even as his expression remained placid.

“Nightingale, then,” she decided. Morris went still. Siobahn almost laughed. Did they suppose she didn’t remember old tragedies, old gossip? She knew as well as anyone why Barker had aligned himself with Angus against Gloriana. Angus and his wrights may have shattered Alex Pope and knit him back together into something more than human and less than desirable, but it was Gloriana who’d ordered it done.

“I’d hoped—” Barker wet his lips. “I’d assumed it was—” He finished on a breath of despair. “Not here.”

“Destroyed,” Siobahn said because Barker couldn’t.  “I understand your shock. Move past it. You mourned his loss centuries ago; I recall the tales. Do you fall into recklessness grieving him yet again,
sidhe?
Because I haven’t another oubliette to drop you in until you return to your senses. Angus was kind. My father knew what it was to suffer a broken heart.”

“Aye,” Barker whispered.

“M’lady,” Morris interrupted. Siobahn knew he was thinking of her own broken heart. For that she almost forgave him his cowardice. “Your
cèilidh
. It takes some time to plan a party, especially in this town. Why, we started three months in advance for Summer’s last birthday celebration, and that was barely enough time, and at Alice’s Tea Cup, which is hardly The Campbell Apartment, likely a more appropriate venue for something such as this, but the private room has a waiting list longer than—”

“Enough.” Siobahn clapped her palms. Morris clicked his teeth together, every inch the high-strung attendant but not before Siobahn caught the flicker of relief in his eyes. She tilted her head slightly in his direction, awarding him the point. She’d let Morris defuse the situation as he liked, let him nudge the conversation back on track, chatter while Barker remembered to look humble and Siobahn recalled that the red-headed
sidhe
was in general more useful than provoking.

“We’ll have it tonight,” she told Morris. “Barker’s quite right. There’s no better time than now to work strong magic for my daughter’s benefit. Besides,” she mused, “the temperature bottomed out days ago. The ponds will be frozen near-through. I fancy good music, strong drink, and dancing. Send word at once, Morris. We’ll have it below Vaux’s castle, in the darkest hours. Make it clear.” She locked gaze with Barker. “The queen requires full attendance.”

“Yes, m’lady.” Morris turned to go, shaking his head. “Summoned twice in a handful of weeks. They’ll not know what to make of it.”

“Let them wonder,” Siobahn replied, pleased. “Let them remember pomp and circumstance. They’ll be better for it, when we return to Court. “ But Morris was already gone, fled on his majesty’s latest whim. Barker was stretched out on her sofa again, lost in his own head or pretending to ignore her rising excitement.

“You’ll dance with me,” she declared because she hated being ignored and Barker was one of the few of her exiles who could make her feel less than royal. “The very first
fada
, you and I. I’ve seen your jig. Only Malachi had a lighter step.”

“Aye, of course, my lady,” Barker replied absently. “As you wish.”

Siobahn chose her dress carefully, costuming herself as Fay Queen instead of in the guise of Manhattan socialite she so often preferred for simplicity’s sake. She spent an hour in front of her closet in the deepest night, waffling between couture and historical office. She spelled the floor to ceiling windows in her bedroom to quicksilver with a Cant so she could catch her reflection in Gathered light. She tore through one fantastic creation after another like a callow maid before her first
cèili
and it was true she wished more than once for Summer’s opinion.

In the end she tossed aside Wang and Vauthier and Valli and even Dolce & Gabbana in favor of the ancient
léine
and
crois
she’d worn the day of her exile, the garb she’d chosen for the banishing ceremony, the tunic and belt that had come with her across the Way from
Tir na Nog
to sixteenth century New Angoulême
.
The
léine
was linen, dyed robin’s egg blue and embroidered about the sleeves and hem with fine silver thread. The dye and the thread were the privileges of royalty, as were the fine chunks of turquoise and amber adorning the
crois
. The gem-studded belt had once belonged to Siobahn’s mother. If she closed her eyes and brought a handful of the leather and stone to her nose she could smell the fleeting scent of childhood and affection.

Once there had been slippers to match the belt and a cloak for warmth. The slippers hadn’t lasted those first sodden winter months without shelter. The cloak had saved a life, torn into strips and used as bandages the morning Malachi had snared his first island bear. Malachi had worn bear scars on his shoulder until his dying day but Siobahn still remembered the animal with absent fondness. The bear meat, smoked to hard jerky, had fed the exiles for weeks and the skin had become a rug in their nest of leaf and log and grass.

Siobahn tugged the tunic over her head, smoothing linen over her belly and arms. It fit as it had in her youth; snug across shoulders and breasts, loose over her hips. The wide
crois
sat low on her pelvis and when she arranged it just right it pulled the fabric of her tunic into flattering folds.

“Perfect,” she told her admiring reflection and wished with a pang she could see the same admiration in Malachi’s eyes.

She left her hair long and loose down her back and crowned her brow with a circlet of silver and fairy amber. She chose low-heeled black boots for her feet. On a sentimental lark she picked the old bear pelt from its place of honor now on her bedroom floor and draped it across her shoulders for warmth. Her reflection pirouetted on its own, eager for the dance. Siobahn dismissed the Cant with a flick of her fingers and went to meet her escort.

They waited for her in the hotel lobby: Barker and Morris and Nightingale and young Carran. Barker was Barker, all black leather and white silk and heavy boots. Nightingale, standing quietly to the side and watching late night arrivals flutter in and out through the lobby doors, had sculpted black miasma into a semblance of hood and gown. None of the busy mortals paid it any attention for the simple reason that human minds tended to ignore what they didn’t want to see.

Morris and Carran had chosen disparate
céilidh
attire. Siobahn couldn’t help but be amused by the younger
sidhe’s
skin-tight denim and paisley button down. He’d ringed his neck and wrists with the glow-in-the-dark loops so popular in Manhattan clubs and pinned his dun locks up into odd little tufts and tails. He’d also painted the nails of his dirt-encrusted toes with starlight.

Carran bowed extravagantly and without a hint of mockery, welcoming his queen. Siobahn smiled her approval.

“Morris,” she said gently, eyeing her man up and down. “How do you plan to dance a proper jig in that monkey suit?”

Morris’ jaw twitched but he didn’t quite return her smile. “I’m afraid I shan’t be dancing, m’lady. Someone needs to see to it that security holds.”

Siobahn, who knew as well as Morris that her exiles were the wolves out amongst the sheep of Manhattan, didn’t bother to reply. Carran, thumbs busy on his mobile, jerked his chin toward the doors.

“Car’s waiting outside,” he said. “Plenty of room for us all. Good thing, too, because I didn’t expect
it
along.” The boy carefully didn’t look at Nightingale.

Nightingale turned from its contemplation of the blissfully ignorant human behind the front desk and regarded Carran instead.

“Oh,” it said, all baffled innocence even as its skeletal fingers flexed on black mist, gears and wires shifting. “Are there others still about who know how to sing the
rinnce fada?
As you’ll not have a proper dance without the proper calling.”

Carran blushed to his ears. “Not yet discovered the iPod, has it?” He shrugged. “No skin off my arse if you want it along. Might put a bit of a damper on the party. Literally.” He shrugged again and strode toward the hotel exit. Nightingale watched Carran go, head tilted slightly to one side, blunt human tongue wetting pink lips.

“Have you changed so much?” it asked. Siobahn didn’t think it expected an answer. She also thought the creature saw too much. Even Winter with his callous mistakes and stubborn pride would never, even as a child, have chosen the lure of mortal technology over the traditions of his people.

“As rain falls over stone,” Barker agreed. And then, with dark amusement. “I’ll drive, shall I, my lady? Morris seems distracted.”

Belvedere Castle was beautiful in the hush before dawn and Siobahn, walking the path between bare trees, Barker’s hand on her elbow, knew that she had chosen well. The wide pond at the castle’s base was shelled in ice so thick it was more white than blue. Several
sidhe
were already making use of the slick surface, sliding about this way and that, arms linked in graceful chains or waltzing along in the light of long-stemmed torches burning on the shore and on Belvedere’s ramparts.

Some enterprising exile had coaxed the army of lilacs at the base of the castle into early blooming. Pink and white and purple clusters wept nectar from skeletal branches, perfuming the night. The trees would suffer for the forced eruption, perhaps wither and die before spring, but Siobahn couldn’t fault the beauty of the display.

“M’lady,” Morris said into her ear. “The Glamour’s set and anchored. No mortal will venture near this place till well after dawn. Even the birds and beasts are like to stay away.”

Siobahn thought the last was excessive but didn’t say so. Instead she stepped forward and hopped atop a bench on the edge of the frozen pond. She lifted a hand for silence and at once all sound of merriment ceased. As one the exiles bent knee and the response was so much better than the lackluster display in Malachi’s Gold Street office that Siobahn laughed aloud in delight.