Te korero ahi ka, p.9
Te Kōrero Ahi Kā, page 9
“It is a sign of most extreme divine favour, Majesty,” said the priest on the left. The other two stared at him in horror.
“What? To be an albino with a strawberry birthmark covering the whole of the right-hand side of her face? Do you have any idea what your typical seven-year-old makes of that? She is my daughter. And she is the heir to the throne. In ten years, gentlemen, she is going to be thinking of marriage…”
“The mark was quite hard to see for the year Princess Dual was black, Majesty,” put in the priest on the right.
“What did you just call her? It better have been Jewel, not what I thought I just heard, because if you give me any good reason to suspect that you have not been acting entirely faithfully to the commission Her Majesty gave you, or contrary to my daughter’s best interests…well, let us just say that so far I have protected you from the Queen’s wrath, and that I love my daughter…”
The Prince sat for a moment, his face unreadable, though his left hand gently and automatically checked his sword was loose in its scabbard. Then he sighed, and the priests could breathe again. “No, gentlemen, I want my daughter to look at least halfway normal. And the Queen still wants her to be beautiful. In fact, she paid you a great deal of money once, and more since, to ensure Jewel would be beautiful, and, to put it bluntly, she isn’t beautiful, she’s scary. And when she isn’t scary, she’s ugly. Every time you try to fix the problem, she’s different, but a new problem appears.”
The High Priest began, “We have a new—” but stopped under the Prince’s withering gaze.
“Are you prepared to bet your life, and that of every member of your Order, that this new spell will work to the Queen’s satisfaction? Because that is precisely what you would be doing.”
The High Priest didn’t have to think about it long. “Err…No.”
“Well, take it from me, the most pleasant part of what she has planned for you if you aggravate her again will be the ravens tugging on your entrails. Stay out of her way.”
The priests stood in white-faced silence.
The Prince continued. “She has lost faith in your ability to set things right. To quote her very words, ‘Those two-faced priests of that two-faced god are worse than useless. Find someone who can and will do the job.’ And so, gentlemen, I shall.”
“Not the witches?” gasped the priest on the left.
“No. Her Royal Majesty has no wish to be beholden to the worshippers of the Triple Goddess, even if she thought they could do the job.”
“Dealing with Hell always has too high a cost, Majesty,” the High Priest cautioned.
“Just how stupid do you think we are?” the Prince snapped. He held up his hand. “Wait! As you value your lives, do not answer that.” His aide took the opportunity to slip a document where the hand had rested. “Gentlemen, Her Royal Majesty has been both patient and generous for seven years, and has seen no progress. Consequently, it would be an act of prudence to offer to pay for someone else to do the job. Have I made myself perfectly clear? Ask now, because any misunderstanding could be fatal for you…”
“Yes, Highness. Perfectly clear. But where will you find such a powerful mage?”
“Faery, gentlemen,” the Prince said. “I am sending an emissary to Faery.” He waved them away. “I have taken the liberty of arranging you a guided tour of the torture chamber. Pay close attention. If you manage things right, you may never see such a thing again. Go on, shoo! The guards will escort you.”
Beth was sure she had made a mistake. No, that wasn’t right. She’d made lots of them. First, she should have let Josie get her own clothes down out of the trees. Second, she should never have told her mother what she was about. Third, she should have told everyone concerned to keep their mouths shut—no, that would never have worked…
She was startled out of her reverie of self-recrimination by the arrival of yet another interrogator. This one bore himself with the unmistakeable air of a military man, and one of high rank. He was accompanied by a finely-dressed man who poured a glass of wine for him before retiring to a side-table with the rest of the wine and the remaining glasses. Beth noted with amusement that this flunky wasted no time pouring wine for himself and getting comfortable.
The officer cleared his throat. “I am General Robert Longley. You are Beth Hawkins, from the village of Grimley-on-Tyde.”
Beth, of course, had heard of him, but since the last half-dozen interrogations had all been conducted by men who held the power of life and death over her, she was no more frightened by this one. She nodded in acknowledgement.
“This will hopefully be the last interview for you. Lying or attempting to mislead us at this stage will be construed as treason. Any changes in your story will not be held against you. We just want the truth.”
“I understand, Sir. But to tell the truth, I’ve been questioned so long and so hard that I’m no longer sure what some parts of the truth are.” This brought a scowl from the General, and an understanding smile from the flunky.
“How about you just tell us your story, and tell us which bits you’re sure of, and which bits you aren’t?”
“Well, Sir, me and a bunch of the village girls went down to the swimming hole, and after we undressed, Josie insisted on putting a religious medallion on top of her clothes. I forget which god’s it was, but she insisted it would protect her clothes.”
“And you argued over this?”
“Yes, Sir, and eventually I told her that if she upset the Fae, whatever they did would be her own damned fault, beggin’-your-pardon-sir, and let her do it.”
“What made you think it would upset the Fae?”
“Well, my gran’s ma used to say that openly displaying any religious symbol in the woods was a bit like carrying the Pretender’s flag into a royal castle. They just could not let it pass.”
“And this grandmother’s mother, she was something of an authority on the Fae?”
“Oh aye, Sir. Friends with some of them, she claimed, as much as mortal can be friend with Fae. Strange, she said they were, and uncanny.”
“And she taught you about them?”
“No, Sir. She died just before I was born. But Ma talked about her a lot. And I’ve worked out a fair bit for myself.”
“Why was none of this in the reports?” The General’s voice was low and terse, straining not to shout in angry frustration at his absent subordinates.
“No-one asked, Sir,” Beth said. “They kept telling me just to answer the questions, but they wouldn’t ask the right ones. They seemed much more interested in hearing about the Puck catching us naked in the swimming-hole, and what Josie did when she found her knickers flying like a flag from the top of a pine tree.”
The General closed his eyes in despair. “I see. And the milk and whisky?”
“An apology, Sir, and a bribe to get the Puck to bring her clothes back. He may be terrible mischievous, but there’s no real harm in him.”
“You’ve had frequent dealings with the Fae, then?”
“Oh, not that frequent, Sir. Maybe twice a year, someone’s cow will get lost, and I’ll talk to the Fae, and give them a gift, and next day the cow will show up. That sort of thing…It’s dangerous to have too much to do with them.”
“But you do know how to contact them?”
“Oh, that’s easy enough, though they can be tricksy and wild. Just a matter of etiquette. It’s not like they’re scarce, y’know.”
There was an awkward silence.
Finally, the silence got too much for Beth, and she said slowly, “You didn’t know?” Then it came to her. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve never been out of a town without your weapons and armour and a great host of men scaring away even the boldest of beasties. No wonder they never let you see them.”
There was a rustle of silk as the flunky stood. He strolled across and perched himself on the edge of the table and quietly poured her a glass of wine. “I think, General, that we may have found our emissary.” He smiled at her.
“I think, Highness, that you may well be right.”
To her credit, Beth did not faint.
She could have said no to the General, with his Duty and Honour. She could have said no to the Prince, with his offers of honours and wealth. She could even have said no to the Queen, with her tears and her threats. But she hadn’t been able to say no to a sad-eyed little girl, so she cursed herself for a fool.
And there she sat in the woods, under a great, spreading oak, with a small untouched cup of good whisky in front of her, and another set out for an unknown guest who hadn’t arrived yet. A small donkey browsed nearby, hitched to a travelling pack and its saddlebags. She had been able to talk the Queen out of sending a full entourage, but not out of equipping her, and providing a donkey laden half with travelling supplies and half with the Prince-Consort’s best whisky. She’d tried to explain it was too much—that the Fae weren’t drunks—but to no avail.
The crack of a twig announced the arrival of a guest. Politely, she turned her head toward the distraction, then looked back. The cup opposite was untouched, but a quarter of hers was gone.
“Oh, it’s you, Puck,” she said.
A peeved-looking Puck showed himself and picked up the cup again. He tasted it again carefully, and pulled a face. “Arr, your great-grandmother’s was better…And how did you know it was me, anyways?”
“Anyone else would have taken this one,” she said, and leaned over to pick up the untouched cup.
“It’s the curse of all Pucks,” he said, woebegone. “Too much cleverness and the compulsion to show it.”
“Well then,” she said and raised her cup to him. “To all Pucks everywhere—may their cleverness never fail them.”
“I’ll drink to that,” cried the Puck, leaping to his feet with cup still in hand, and never spilling a drop.
“Of course you will,” she said. “You’ll drink to any-bloody-thing.”
He clutched at his heart melodramatically. “You wound me, mistress. I may be overly fond of strong drink, but I am not such a tosspot as that.”
She smiled fondly. “No, you’re not, but you have to admit it was funny.” She leaned over and topped up his cup.
“Could it be, mistress, that you are trying to out-clever a Puck?” The Puck wasn’t sure whether or not he should be offended.
Beth carefully hid her smile. “Nay, never, for that were foolhardy indeed, and doomed to certain failure.”
Honour satisfied, the Puck perched himself on a great gnarly root, and attended to the whisky.
After about three cups, Beth broached the real reason for her visit…
“You want to what!!??”
“I want,” she repeated slowly and patiently, “to talk to a Faery mage powerful enough to sort out what those priests have done to Princess Jewel.” She topped up his cup again. “Do they exist?”
“Oh, they exist all right!” The Puck was too disturbed to even think about the whisky. “And tell me, lassie, how long have you been hankering after death or something worse?”
“Worse?”
“They are a strange and uncanny lot, yon mages. And they all have a whimsical sense of humour and no regard for others. There’s no telling what they might do to you. I saw one poor mortal turned into a fish.” He shuddered.
“And what was so terrible about that?”
“He left him like that for thirty years, and wouldn’t let him die, or get near water…” He closed his eyes in horror. “The mage was just amusing himself. Nothing personal about it at all.” The Puck looked at her slyly. “Still want to talk to one?”
“I don’t really have a choice.”
“Then on your own head be it!” He made a single pass across her field of view with his right hand. “Sleep now!”
She slept.
She came awake with a start. The Puck was still sitting facing her. “How long was I asleep?”
“Who can say? An instant? A moment? Forever?” He gave an enigmatic smile. “Ask me not when, but where, for you, my lass, are now in Faery.”
“It doesn’t look any different.”
“Can ye no see it? Look closer.”
And she could see. There was a difference, something subtle in the way the light danced perhaps, a life in the wind, an awareness that even the trees might be sentient, or the rocks…Or maybe it was just her that was different…
The Puck stood. “Night comes,” he said. “We had best be getting you somewhere out of reach of the nightwalkers.”
“Nightwalkers?”
“You know what a nightmare is?” He waited for her nod. “Here, they’re real.”
Suddenly, it seemed like a very good idea to be moving. She packed quickly and followed the Puck.
It was evening when they reached the palace: an alabaster edifice, elegant and rather smaller than Beth had expected.
“Who lives here?”
“The Duke of the Western Marches. He’s an elven sorcerer, and your best bet for getting your princess fixed.”
“Is he powerful enough to do the job?”
“He’s one of the great lords of Faery. The question is not ‘Can he help?’ but ‘Will he?’ Catching his interest could be tricky. He has about as much care for the concerns of mortals as you do for the cares of ants.”
“Oh,” Beth said, chastened. She fastened the donkey’s lead rope to a small tree outside of the garden perimeter. “Will he be safe here?”
“For the meantime. I’ll see to moving him later.”
“Thank you.” She strode through a gap in the boundary hedge. “Even the garden is perfect.”
“No horseshit in the courtyard neither,” said the Puck. “Me, I like things a little more natural.”
The guards paid them no attention, but the same could not be said of the courtiers inside, as all eyes followed them as they approached the Duke. They stopped at a respectful distance and waited.
Eventually, the Duke finished his other business and turned his attention to them. “Well Puck, what have you brought me this time?”
“An emissary, Your Grace, from a queen in the mortal realms.”
The Duke snorted. “And what do they want this time? A sword to carve them an empire? The Key to All Knowledge? Or mayhap just a charm to smite their enemies with the Itching Pox?” The wide grey eyes fixed on her and she trembled like a rabbit transfixed by a polecat. “Well? Speak up, girl!”
“If it please Your Grace, Her Majesty is in need of a working of magic. One small to one of your obvious puissance, but beyond the reach of her own powers.”
“Get on with it, girl.”
“Well, Your Grace, a spell was cast upon her then-unborn daughter, and, oh Your Grace, they made such a mess of it. Instead of making the girl beautiful, she has a face straight out of a bad dream. They have tried all they know, but nothing has helped.”
“There would be a price…”
“Her Majesty has told me she is prepared to be generous.”
“Indeed? I will think on it. Steward, show our guest to suitable quarters and see she is provided for. I will send for her once I have reached a decision.”
The room Beth found herself in was small, but immaculately appointed. She sat down on the edge of the bed and removed her boots. She had a moment of fright when she heard the key turn in the lock behind her and realised that there was no other way out of the room, but they did not seem to intend her harm. She lay back and let herself drowse.
Beth came awake suddenly, and would have cried out but for the small hand across her mouth. It was full night, and moonlight streamed through the window slits.
“It’s me, the Puck,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Be as quiet as you can. Put these elfboots on. We’re leaving.”
Beth struggled to put the strange boots on. Eventually, the Puck gave up and put them on her.
“Now,” he whispered. “Follow my lead. Be quiet. Do what I tell you when I tell you, and we’ll get you out of here.”
They stepped out between two sleeping guards. The Puck relocked the door and hung the key back on one guard’s belt. Then they slipped into the shadows and away out of the court.
After several miles, she stopped to catch her breath.
“Come on. Come on.” The Puck jigged up and down in anxiety. “We must be well away before daybreak.”
“I’m not going a step further until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I heard them talkin’,” said the Puck nervously. “They was going to put you to sleep.”
“So?”
“They was arguing whether forty years would be better or fifty…”
A sudden chill ran up her spine. “Oh…Thanks are definitely in order, then. And we’d best cover our tracks.”
“No need while you’re wearing those,” he said. “Best elfboots, them. No noise, no tracks, never slip. The scout I stole them from will be livid. Now come on.”
“What about the Duke’s hounds?”
“Well, when they wake up, in about a week, the trail will be too cold. Now come on.”
And so she did.
“You can speak normally now,” said the Puck. “We’re safe here.”
“Where are we?”
“Oh, this is just a hidey-hole I made for when I need to keep out of sight. Being a Puck means sometimes you have to avoid certain people until they cool down. First, the water rushing past the end of that corridor is a waterfall. We get water, light, and air that way. Second, that way comes up under a rather large, unruly, and extremely thorny blackberry bush. Third, that way comes up between the roots of a tree, though you’d have to cut your way through some spider-webbing.”
“Isn’t anyone who finds one of those going to investigate it?”
“Not unless they’re a Puck, or one of the wee folk. Yon elves would just think it was a mouse hole. They don’t have size-mastery.”
“Oh. So I’d be what—half an inch tall?” She thought about this a moment, and decided not to think about it more, because it made her dizzy. She sat down.
“There’s a bed over there,” said the Puck. “It’s yours as long as we’re here.”
