Silver's Edge. Anne Kelleher

Timias sighed inwardly. He had hoped that Alemandine would be sufficiently rested first thing in the morning to willingly entertain such discussion, but now he saw that the demands of her pregnancy had intensified to the extent that such opportunities were becoming unpredictable, if they yet existed. They had better yet exist, he thought suddenly, once more overwhelmed with concern for this fragile creature who bore such a great weight. She was nothing like her mother, but she had ruled perfectly adequately for nearly one hundred and fifty mortal years. Why now did he compare her so unfavorably to her mother? Because, a small voice muttered deep in the back of his mind, she wields the power unevenly, and thus she is vulnerable in ways her mother never was.

      “Why should we invest even the time to speak of it, when clearly it would divert us from our concerns?”

      He leaned upon the table, his gray robes falling around him, the long locks of his gray hair hanging over his shoulders like a cloak. “Your Majesty. This is no diversion. The welfare, not just of your child, but of all of Faerie hangs in the balance. This is not merely one of their usual disputes, Your Majesty. You must believe me when I tell you that this is a most serious war—with the potential to engulf the whole of Shadow, not merely the country that lies nearest our borders, the one mortals call Brynhyvar.”

      At that, Philomemnon sat forward, arching his own brow. “Then tell us, Timias, how is this war different?”

      “The King of Brynhyvar is mad—there’s some talk it’s because of one of us, but I haven’t found anything to substantiate that, thank the Hag. It surfaced shortly after the young Prince died last winter. At any rate, his Queen is a foreigner, and her relatives see an opportunity to take over Brynhyvar. But the Duke of Gar has raised his standard against the King, and now, war not only overshadows Brynhyvar, but all its neighbors as well, even to the Farthest Reaches, for the web of blood ties, trade agreements, and strategic alliances stretches across the entire world.”

      “And how, exactly, do you propose we intervene?”

      “A decisive battle on Gar’s side would win the war before it had a chance to spread. But Gar’s forces are spread out, and the troops which the Queen has summoned from her native land are a professional army capable of decimating the current rebels, unless, you see, Gar calls in alliances from other countries, and thus the war will escalate.”

      “Surely you are not proposing we send our own soldiers?” Berillian was incredulous.

      “I am proposing we send Lord Artimour as an emissary to the Duke of Gar, along with perhaps one of our own hosts—”

      The table actually shook as those around it exploded with guffaws. “Surely you jest, Timias,” put in Vinaver, leaning on her hand. Her mouth curved up in a languid smile, as though she tolerated the ranting of a dotard. “Since when have you ever had time for Artimour? And now, now that Finuviel, by the Queen’s grace, has seen fit to answer her call to assume command of the defenses of Faerie—why, Finuviel depends upon Artimour as he does upon no other—Artimour has become his most trusted second. Even now, Finuviel leads a hosting of our finest knights to the Western March, where Artimour holds the line. And to send such a force into Shadow is unheard of and I’m surprised, good Timias, to think you of all of us would even suggest such a thing. What are we of Faerie but our traditions?” Those were his own words, spoken in this very chamber, now flung back at him. The wings she had grown in deference to Alemandine’s fashion quivered.

      Timias flushed as Alemandine raised her goblet. “Our brother is needed where he is. The border there grows more tenuous every day—is that not what the reports tell us, good Timias?”

      “I do not doubt what the reports tell us, my lady. And I do not dispute that Artimour is a brave and worthy captain, and that his presence is a great help to Prince Finuviel on the border. But among the mortals, his father is revered and loved and stories of him are told around every hearth in every dwelling no matter how rude. Gar would listen, if we offered him enough forces to make the difference. I have every reason to believe he would accept our help if properly presented.”

      “And you would risk our own—”

      “There is no risk. We cannot be killed by mortal weapons—wounded perhaps, but as you well know, nothing short of total beheading will kill us. A quick victory will stabilize the Shadowlands. One battle, and the entire problem could be settled.”

      “But there’s silver there, Timias. Our knights could be killed by that, or have you forgotten the stuff exists?” Hudibras shook his head.

      “And what guarantee of victory is there, Timias? Forgive me, my old friend,” said Philomemnon, “and I do not hesitate to call you that, for though your years in the Shadowlands have aged you, long we have dwelt in the same region, you and I. I understand your concern, and I, unlike some others—” here, he paused and looked at Hudibras and Gorlias “—well appreciate the effect the Shadow-world has ever had on ours, much as many of us would prefer to deny it. But there’s no surety your strategy would work. For one thing, mortals are marvelously unpredictable, not to mention wholly illogical. One thing I’ve learned, in my admittedly limited experience of them—” and here he sighed and a bemused smile flitted across his face, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings “—is that the only possible way to predict what they are likely to do is to decide what I would do in a given situation and then assume they will do the opposite.” He inclined his head with a little flourish, and another chuckle, louder this time, perhaps even a bit forced, went around the table, and Timias shot each Councilor in turn an assessing look. There was an undercurrent he could not quite understand, but Philomemnon was continuing, “Better our energies remain concentrated here.”

      To what purpose, wondered Timias, as his gaze fell on the back of Vinaver’s head, where her thick copper braids hung massed in jeweled caul. What mischief had the witch planned in his absence?

      “And what’s in it for us, Timias?” put in Gorlias, interrupting Timias’s train of thought. “It’s not as if we could expect their help against the goblins—except as bait.” This time the laughter was longer.

      Timias shook his head, suddenly weary with frustration. “Laugh at me if you must, Gorlias. I tell you all, if the war in Shadow expands across the entire mortal world, we will disappear—like the lost land of Lyonesse.” There. He’d said it. He straightened and folded his arms across his chest.

      An awkward silence fell across the table while the courtiers exchanged shocked glances and Delphinea shifted uncomfortably in her seat. This time she avoided his eyes. Alemandine rubbed her temples as if her head ached. Vinaver snorted. “If this is all the tidings you bring my sister, Lord Timias, you might consider a stint on the perimeter, yourself. A few weeks and you might begin to understand what we face. If you hadn’t been off indulging yourself in Shadow, you’d have been here to hear Finuviel speak of the situation himself. We have not the troops to spare to such a dangerous distraction.” Her green eyes flashed in a manner so reminiscent of her mother that Timias took a step back. Vinaver raised her head and her wings quivered.

      No one could accuse her of not being utterly loyal to her sister, thought Timias.

      But now she was rising, bending like a copper lily over Alemandine, her skirts rustling with a soothing swish. “Come, sister, soon we’ll be away from all this. Allow me to make you a posset. ’Twill soothe your head and we’ll talk about what to pack.” Glaring in Timias’s direction, she rose, edging him aside with her skirts, drawing Alemandine to her feet. “You foolish, blind old man. Come, dear sister.” With gentle murmurs, she drew Alemandine from her chair, allowing the Queen’s head to droop against her shoulder, as she led the Queen away. The breeze raised by the trembling of their wings swirled past Timias’s cheek like a voiceless reproach.

      “I hope you’re satisfied, Timias.” Hudibras bit savagely into the apple.

      “I shall not be satisfied, my lord Consort, until everyone at this table, within this entire realm, understands the gravity of the situation we face.” He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “Our Queen is no Gloriana. We all know it—Alemandine herself knows it. She needs more from us than a nod of approval.