"Worlds Without End" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spector Caroline)

8

I jerked awake as the plane passed into the Veil. It was a nasty jolt of reality, being sound asleep one moment and wide-awake the next. A tingling started at the nape of my neck and worked its way up my skull.

Pushing the plastic shade up, I peered out the win- dow. There was nothing but thick gray and white clouds like the smoke of burning leaves. I struggled against the effects of the Veil. The clouds tried to form themselves into shapes. What part of my subconscious was being dredged up? I didn't want to know and pulled the shade down with a snap. We'd be on the ground in half an hour. I could hold out against the effects until then.

"Pretty potent stuff," said Caimbeul. "The Veil. It makes me wish they would use some other sort of protection."

I shoved a hand through my hair. It was virtually gone now. After centuries of having it long, I'd finally cut it all off. All that was left were spiky white sprouts about an inch and a half long. My head felt smooth and cool under my fingers.

"Too potent," I said. "They're only aggravating things."

"You've said that every time anyone's used magic on any scale."

I didn't answer him, knowing that we'd just run over the same ground again. The engines whined and I felt the thump as the landing gear lowered. Then I shoved the shade up again. We broke through the clouds and I could see buildings below us. From here everything looked small and not at all real. Up here we were still safe.

I closed my eyes then, breathing slowly and deeply to relax myself. I had my usual landing death-grip on the chair arms. Blowing up in a ball of fire was not the'way I wanted to end my unnatural life. My ears popped several times and I opened and closed my mouth to help. Then I felt it.

The smooth calluses and the suede glide of Caimbeul's hand closing over mine. I didn't pull away. It was too comforting and familiar. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to see when we burst into a huge ball of fire.

There was a sudden bounce and we were on the ground. Caimbeul's hand disappeared and I was left with only the memory of his warm touch.

Once, years ago, I lived in the United States.

I'd come to America during the eighteen-hundreds when news that the Sioux were using ritual magic drifted across the Atlantic to the fashionable parlors I frequented then. It was a topic of much conversa- tion for a few months, until other, more interesting scandals pushed their way into idle gossip.

But I knew the Sioux were playing with danger- ous mojo.

The reports told of self-mutilation to help the magic. Blood magic. It was too early for that sort of thing-unless they'd found a place of power. They were playing with forces they couldn't understand and wouldn't be able to control, even if by some freak chance they did work.

I booked passage on the next available steamer and was making my way west in a matter of weeks. There was no time for me to admire the rawness of the country. Everything was new here. Fresh starts for anyone willing to take it. The weight of history had barely settled onto the land.

But that is another part of the story. The time I am thinking of came later, in the late nineteen-thirties and early forties. I was living in Texas then. The war known as the War to End All Wars was barely cold. The embers of it still smoldered in the battlefields of Europe. But apparently they weren't ready for them to be out yet. That little Austrian man stirred it all up again and the depths of his hateful vision wouldn't be known for another six years. But by then, it would be too late for us all.

But in Austin we didn't know about any of that. The world came to us through newspapers, maga- zines, radio-and through the movies.

It was a blistering hot summer. But that was noth- ing unusual. Most people left the city for cooler parts of the Hill Country. The ones who remained made do with fans, ice blocks, and shade. In the eve- ning the temperature would drop into the high sev- enties. It was almost bearable.

Once the initial shock of the war wore off, life went on as usual. For the most part. Most Americans thought they would be exempt from the conflict. Af- ter all, what did it have to do with them, this bloody war in Europe?

And so, on this summer night with the heavy scent of lantana and moonflowers in the air, I went to the movies. Some people were afraid of being in closed places because of the polio, but that was never a concern of mine.

The theater was dimly lit and I used a fan given away at the local Herbert E. Butts grocery store to push the sweltering air about. The lights went down and the newsreel began. Of course, the war in Eu- rope was the first item. I watched as scene after scene of destruction flashed across the screen. Many things were being blown up in Poland and France and England.

Then we were looking at images of happily wav- ing crowds. The little man rode through them mak- ing his straight-arm salute to the frantically waving masses.

And then I saw her.

At first I couldn't believe my eyes, but the shot held and I knew what I was seeing was true. It was Alachia.

She was sitting in one of the cars in the rear of the procession. An expression of perfect happiness was etched in her face. A blond man with his hair slicked back and perfect Aryan features waved at the crowds while his other arm encircled her waist. He smiled down at her and she smiled back. They were gone in an instant, replaced by the image of refugees fleeing down some unknown road.

The screen went black and then the Parade of Fashions appeared. Sweat rolled down my face but I was suddenly cold. So very cold.

We rode the shuttle bus headed south toward Dub- lin, hooking up to Dorsett Street once we were in the city proper.

We'd made it through customs relatively easily. There was no need to resort to the sort of tactics I'd used on that idiotic bureaucrat from before. Like many of the Dublin streets, this one turned and bent and changed names. We took a left onto Church Street and headed south toward the river. Four Courts was to our left. The dome of the central building was covered in the green patina that comes to all copper as it ages. It was a beautiful piece of neoclassical work. All white columns and statuary at every corner. The fact that it was standing after all this time gave me a fleeting feeling of permanence.

As we crossed Whitworth Bridge, I looked out the window. Below us the Liffey River flowed a gray- jade color, the dark clouds of the late-October sky barely reflected in its depths.

At the next stop, we left the tram and cut across West High Street. It was a strange experience, to see almost as many elves as humans walking about. No one gave us a second look. Oh well, perhaps one or two. We were dressed better than the average Dub- liner. I know the reports out of the Tir have it that the land is green and milk and honey flow from ev- ery stream, but after all, this is Eire.

Poverty has been at the throat of the people for generations. And goblinization hadn't changed that. Perhaps no one was starving, but all was not well in the Tir.

At St. Nicholas Street we headed south and cut west before we reached St. Patrick's Park. I glanced back to see if anyone was following us. An old woman pulled a shopping cart filled with vegetables, but as far as I could see there was no one tailing us.

"How long since you've been here?" I asked Caimbeul.

"Oh, I get about," he said, shrugging.

"Meaning you've been here recently."

He gave me hard stare. "Yes. I was here recently. I was invited to attend a wedding."

"Whose wedding?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Because I wasn't invited?"

"Well, yes."

"Well, I don't care about that," I lied. Weddings were highly symbolic events in the elven commu- nity. Full of alliances and power-jockeying. Not being invited meant I wasn't considered a pow- er anymore. That would hurt me when I went to the Court. No doubt Alachia's hand at work once more.

We worked our way across the maze of streets that led to St. Stephen's Green. Nestled next to ancient stone buildings were brick flats put up in the nineteen-hundreds next to chip-implanting shops. Dublin wasn't a flash city like New York or LA. She crept up on you and worked her charms in subtler ways. A hint of the past here. A bit of the future there.

Once we were in St. Stephen's I relaxed a little. I was certain no one was tailing us: the old woman had turned off on Bride Street. Since then, the crowd thickened and thinned, but no one seemed at all in- terested in Caimbeui and me.

"Where do you want to stay?" Caimbeui asked.

"Stephen's Hall?"

"Do they have a decent security rating?"

"Good enough," I said. "It's not like we're going underground."

The hotel overlooked St. Stephen's Green with its emerald grass and drooping willows. We checked in and followed the troll bell boy up to our suite.

We left a wake-up call for six.

The rains came at four. I woke to a crash of thun- der and the sound of hail hitting the windows. For a moment I was disoriented and thought I was back in the kaer. A suffocating darkness pressed against me. But then I saw the night sky as Caimbeui opened the drapes.

"Where did this come from?" he wondered aloud.

"If I were more superstitious," I said, "I would say it was a sign."

"A sign?"

"Yes. They know we're here. But it's more likely this is the Doineann Draoidheil."

He didn't say anything to that. Knowing he was watching there at the window made me feel safe. And as I drifted back to sleep, I smiled.

Tonight she doesn't dream.

Bells.

I swam up from the murky depths and realized be- fore I opened my eyes that it was the telephone. Couldn 't they afford to replace these fraggin' an- tiques? I thought. Swatting at the phone, I managed to drag it from its cradle and sent the base crashing to the floor. Damn things, I never got used to them when they appeared and now that they were obso- lete, I was still plagued with them.

"Whazzit?"

"Your wake-up call." The voice was computerized and pretematurally perky. I hate that.

I let the receiver drop. It missed the base and thudded on the carpet. Burrowing further into the covers, I let the lovely blackness drag me down again.

"Aina," said Caimbeui, pulling the covers off me. "Time to get up."

I lay there for a moment not moving. It occurred to me that though we Elders weren't supposed to mortally wound one another, there was always a first time for everything. Instead, I rolled onto my back and glared at him in what I hoped would be a fright- ening manner.

"That won't work," he said. He was dressed in black. His hair was pulled back into that annoying ponytail. At least he'd laid off dyeing it red for a while. "I'm not even a little intimidated by your bad moods. I lived with them for years. They just don't impress me anymore."

I muttered something unintelligible, hoping it would be taken for a scathing remark. But it wasn't. He knew me too well.

Stumbling to the bathroom, I hoped that there was at least hot water for a shower.

We rented a car and made our way west from Dublin out of Dublin County through Kildare to Of- faly and into Galway. A heavy mist lay over the land making the greens muted and soft. Much of the land had gone wild. I knew this was part of the Awaken- ing.

The land was going back to what it was before hu- mans had put their mark upon it. Remnants of that earlier time existed before the Awakening. The Giant's Causeway in Antrim was one such place. Some said it was cooling lava that produced the hexagon-shaped stones leading from the mountains down to the sea, but I knew better.

"How are you going to find the Court?" Caimbeui asked. "They could be anywhere."

"Yes, but those who know where they are keep to certain places. We're going there."

"To the tombs?"

"Yes, and other places." "You know how I hate the tombs." "Life is suffering, Caimbeul. Didn't you know that?"

Because of the fog, it took us four hours to reach The Bun-en. The land here was wilder than other areas of the Tfr. Perhaps because the people who lived in this part of Ireland had never been far from their Celtic roots. Even before the Awakening, Gaelic was the primary language for large sections of Galway.

As we passed, I saw fingers of gray rock clawing up through the thin soil. Dark green thorn trees twisted against the fierce ocean wind. Sheer cliffs dropped down to rocky seashores.

The Burren was a flat plain of gray limestone rock. Deep fissures cut down into the slabs of stone, scarring the rock. The only things that grew there were wildflowers that sprang up between the cracks.

I parked the car and we started up the Burren. Once there would have been tourists clambering over the outcroppings. Now there was a stillness that hung in the air and seeped slowly into my bones.

"Come on," I said softly.

We made our way, for once not bickering about how fast or slow one or the other was going. I stopped every so often to pluck flowers that grew from the crevices. I wove them into necklaces as we walked. I kept one for myself and handed one to Caimbeul. He gave me a skeptical look, but slipped his into his pocket.

The mist was getting thicker and thicker as we walked. I stumbled over the uneven rock and wished I'd thought to bring a walking stick. Then we were upon it. A large fissure in the rock. It was large enough for one of us to slip through at a time.

"Well," I said. "I'm going down. You can wait here for me if you want."

Caimbeul gave a disgusted snort.

"You think they'll listen to you without me?" he asked.

I looked up at him then, deep into his forest-green eyes. We knew each other well, Caimbeul and I, and I knew this ploy for what it was.

"Oh yes, dear Harlequin," I replied. "I think they will listen to me very well. They know who I am."

It was cool in the cave. We were crawling on our stomachs down a long passageway with only a small light to lead us. I'd cast the spell once we'd found ourselves in this narrowing corridor and I couldn't hold my flashlight any longer.

"Remind me to tell you how much I enjoy crawl- ing through a cave in my very best shoes and coat," Harlequin said.

"Don't complain," I replied. "It could be worse."

"How so?"

He ran into my heels and gave a little oomph.

"It could be wet."

"Oh, what a lovely thought."

Just then I crawled around a comer and popped out into a large cavem. Stalactites and stalagmites grew down from the ceiling and up from the floor. 71

In the center of the cavern was a lake. Its surface was mirror perfect and black as night.

I turned around and helped Caimbeui as he too crawled out. There was dirt and dust covering his clothes. He slapped at it, but it didn't help. When he looked up at me again, I could see the annoyance in his face. I put my finger to my mouth, then pointed at the lake.

I walked away from him toward the edge of the water. The only sound was the crunch of stones under my boots. As I reached the edge of the lake, I leaned over and picked up a small stone. Straight- ening, I spoke,

"Hear me, Fin Bheara, King of the Daoine Sidhe, King of the Dead. It is Aina. I would speak with you."

My voice rang out and echoed against the silent rocks. For a long moment there was nothing. No an- swering sound. Then, there was a grinding noise. The ground trembled and I stumbled a bit before re- gaining my balance.

The water began to bubble and boil. Steam rose from the surface and soon blanketed the entire room. From the water rose a boat. It was made of wood and gold. A throne was affixed in the center of the deck. Sitting in it was the spirit who liked to be known as Finvarra.

He was as I remembered, perhaps even larger than before. The power of the Awakening had seeped into his veins as well as mine.

The boat moved toward the shore where I stood, cutting smoothly through the water, leaving only the 72

slightest wake to mar the perfect sheen. I could see no oarsmen or sails, but that is the way of faerie. It stopped about a meter from shore and rested there. "Greetings, Finvarra," I said. "You do me a great honor."

He laughed. It was harsh and grating, and yet it sounded like music to me.

"Aina," he said. "Sweet mother. How may I help?"

"I would find the Seelie Court, Finvarra," I re- plied. "Though to hear some tell it, I am no longer considered a power in Tir na nOg."

"Come down from there, Caimbeui," Finvarra said. "You make me nervous lurking about."

I heard Caimbeui curse as he slipped and slid his way toward us.

"You haven't answered my question," I said. "Where is the Seelie Court?"

Finvarra leaned back on his throne and studied me. I returned the favor. His gray eyes were as piercing as ever and the sharp planes of his face were more cruel than kind. A thin gold circlet rested on his brow. Long thin hands rested on bony knees. His clothing, made of leaves and bark and animal pelts, reminded me of what we'd worn in Blood Wood all those centuries ago.

Then I noticed that lying at his feet was a young woman. She was dressed in a tight purple dress with thigh-high black patent leather boots. Part of her head was shaved so the datajack she'd had im- planted could be easily accessed. She seemed to be asleep.

"Up to your old tricks again," I said. " "This is nothing," he said. "A harmless amusement." m "What would Oonagh say?" I knew I had to play along.

"What she doesn't know… Besides, this is all rather off the point. You wish to know where the Seelie Court is currently residing."

"Yes." "Perhaps they don't wish to be found." ' "No. I suspect they don't. And I suspect I know why they don't want to hear from me."

Finvarra smiled at me. His teeth were yellow and, very long. "Now we're getting somewhere," he said. "Perhaps I can help you. If you are willing to do something for me." "And what might that be?" I asked. "A test," he replied. "A simple challenge of your will. My subjects will be more than happy to admin-, ister it. If you succeed, we take you to the Court. If you fail, well, that will be your lookout, won't it?" "And who decides whether I win or lose?" J "Why that, dear mother, you will have to figure «out for yourself."

With that, the boat sped away from me. It left u barely a ripple in the water and the mist closed m around it, hiding it from my sight. I stepped forward, the edge of the lake touching my toes. What now? I wondered» "Well, that was helpful," said Caimbeul. I spun about, ready to give him a cutting remark when behind me something burst forth from the water and grabbed me.

In a flash I was being pulled down into the black- ness. The water was freezing and I hadn't caught a breath. I fought against the urge to inhale. My eyes were open, but I couldn't see much. I looked down and saw that I was being held by a each-uisge. My legs were helplessly stuck to its chest and forelegs. Its clawed hands were clasped about my thighs. The head was that of a horse with razor-sharp teeth.

It would pull me down into the water until I drowned and then feast upon my flesh, except for my liver, which it would no doubt spit up at Caimbeul's feet. It was a prospect I didn't relish.

I let myself go limp, playing dead, hoping this would slow its descent. It did. Then I jerked my arms apart and uttered the words. Between my hands a whirling of water started. It began to glow and lit the each-uisge with blue light. The water spun faster and faster until it narrowed into a fine, laser-like point. I pointed it downward at the each-uisge's head. There was the muffled sound of a shriek, and then the creature's head disappeared. Its claws went slack on my thighs, but I was still stuck to its chest.

My lungs were burning and spots floated before my eyes. The dead weight of the each-uisge was pulling me down. I had a panicky moment as I started to inhale some water. With every ounce of power left in my arms, I swam up to the surface. Just as I thought I would never reach it, I broke through. The air hurt as I gasped. I floundered for a moment before Caimbeui grabbed me by my collar and pulled me from the water.

He laid me, none too gently, on the stony bank. I coughed up water and hacked out some bile. My legs felt heavy, and I realized the each-uisge was still stuck to them.

"Cut it off," I said.

"That won't work. You'll have pieces of it stuck to your pants forever."

"Well, it's better than dragging the whole thing along with me," I said, coughing up more water.

"Take off your pants," he said.

"Oh, fragging hell," I said. I unbuttoned my jeans and skinned them off. It took a while between the wet and the each-uisge.

"And so that was the test?" he asked.

"N-n-no," I stammered. My teeth were chattering and gooseflesh had broken out over my body. "T-t- that was a warning. They're serious about the test."

"Well," he said, looking chagrined that he hadn't helped, "we'd better get you out of those wet things."

He wrapped his arms around me. I let myself lean against him and take in his warmth and scent. It was good to be there, if only for a moment.

She can't move. Legs and arms like lead. But she hears… things.

Things rustling beyond her line of sight. Things with evil intentions.