Silver's Edge. Anne Kelleher

him, hurrying to keep up in boots that suddenly seemed clumsy and stiff, ignoring every injunction every goodwife ever whispered at the end of every tale involving the sidhe. “What about the Silver Caul? Isn’t it supposed to keep the goblins out of Brynhyvar? Why isn’t it working? Is that the magic you mean has failed?”

      He turned and made an impatient gesture. “Hurry, maiden. There will be time enough to explain it all to you in safety.” He stretched out his hand and she realized he was wearing gloves of leather so finely wrought they fitted with no more wrinkles than his own skin. “Come. I dare say no more here.”

      Was this not what she’d come for? It was too late to have second thoughts now, even as the ferocity with which the goblin had attacked sparked the doubt that perhaps Griffin was right and that the OtherWorld was far too dangerous a place for her to be wandering around in alone.

      With a quick nod, she let him guide her through the trees, his steps quick and sure, following a narrow trail which threaded through a thick forest of golden oaks and yellow beeches and blazing red maples. They had gone not even half a league when he stopped suddenly and pulled her close to him, one finger pressed hard against her mouth. Her senses exploded as she inhaled a scent at once so vital and pristine it felt as satisfying as food. No wonder mortals withered, rejecting coarser, more substantive nourishment. Without thinking, she leaned into him involuntarily. Their eyes met again and it felt as if her blood had turned to molten metal in her veins. She thought of Griffin’s clumsy kiss, and knew this as different as a ripple from a wave. But the sidhe closed his eyes and turned his head. “Maiden,” he said, in a whisper so low, she partly read his lips, “make no sound.” For one brief moment, they swayed closer, while she wondered idly in some remote corner of her brain, the possible source of his attraction to her, for she felt herself to be unbearably dirty and disheveled, her clothes and hair stinking of goblin. And then she heard the low grunt.

      A cold wave of fear ran down her back as he lifted a horn off his shoulder and handed it to her, then drew the sword out of its scabbard. The brisk leafy-scented air was suddenly polluted by something that stank of the cesspits, a stink she recognized far too well. He drew a breath and swung his sword up, circling around her. “That track beneath the trees, maiden, will lead you to my fellows. Run hard, and blow the horn. They will be alerted to my need and take you to my Captain. Do you understand? You must run, quickly, maiden, upon my signal.” He pointed with the sword at the track, which threaded through the trees. “You must run. And you must not look back.” He moved around then, pushing her behind him. Suddenly he shouted, “Go!” as three goblins armed with battle-axes roared out of the trees.

      Nessa charged down the trail, the sack with the head thumping against her rump. Thank the Great Mother that her father had seen fit to let her run with the boys of the village, and not confined her to kitchen and courtyard like the rest of the girls. Her boots felt weightless as she sped in the direction her rescuer had indicated and she lifted the horn to her lips, and blew. The horn sounded one pure clear note, and it echoed through the trees, loud and long. Immediately another horn blew in answer, then another, and she raised the horn once more, dropping Griffin’s pack off her arm. It slid to the ground, as she blew hard into the horn again. Sudden movement in the trees all around her made her knees quake, and she stumbled in midstride. Forgetting the injunction not to look back, she glanced fearfully over her shoulder, and in that moment, collided with a solid form that gripped her with steady arms. She twisted her face up and around and gasped to see a sidhe, every bit as beautiful as the other, staring down at her. “By Herne’s horns,” he said, in a voice as richly sweet as honeyed wine, even as he gestured his fellows to continue on in the direction from which Nessa had come, “a mortal maiden, as I live and breathe.”

      3

      It was always the light that Timias noticed first whenever he transversed the fluid borders between the Shadowlands and Faerie. Elusive and fey as the sidhe themselves, it shimmered through the trees, limning the edge of every leaf, pulsating with seductive radiance. More than one mortal had become a captive to the glamour cast by Faerie light, bound for mortal ages by fascination with its constantly shifting play of contrasts more acute than any ever cast by the bleaker sun of Shadow.

      Now he strode through the thickest part of the stream, the bottom of his staff encrusted in mud, moving as quickly as his aged bones would allow. In mortal years, he was old beyond reckoning, but he, unlike most sidhe, bore the stamp of it upon his face. For Timias had dared to do what few would even contemplate—he had lived among the mortals, allowing the harsh mortal years to take their toll upon his face. His frame was bent, his face was lined like a walnut, the hair which hung in long silken strands around his shoulders was gray. He had thought, once, that the mortal woman for whom he’d given up one lifetime in the Shadowlands, though not a tenth of that in Faerie, had been worth the price he’d paid. Now he wasn’t so certain. For when he’d returned to Faerie, to claim his place among the Councilors to the Queen, he found that Vinaver, that foul abomination, the Queen’s twin, had managed to convince several among the lords and ladies of the Council that so long a sojourn as his in the Shadowlands represented some kind of technical resignation and a vocal few had even had the audacity to call for his removal.

      In retrospect he should have expected such a move on Vinaver’s part. They had been instinctive enemies from the moment of her birth. Timias would never forget how the infant, born aware as all the sidhe, had hissed and spat directly into his face when the midwife had placed her into his unwilling arms. From that moment, Vinaver had worked to do all she could to discredit him with her sister, the Queen.

      But Timias had a hereditary right to a seat upon the Council—the most honored right of all in Faerie—and no one had ever heard him surrender it. And so he kept his seat, but it was not as before. For he had been irrevocably changed by his extended time spent among the mortals, and in Faerie, change usually happened so gradually it was hardly discernible at all.

      Each day in Faerie was as glorious as the day before it, a long progression of hours that flowed as sluggishly as a lazy river. Few things in the Shadowlands could compare to the stately pace of Faerie time, and nothing within Faerie could equal the breakneck speed with which life progressed in Shadow. It was that, as much as anything that had prompted Timias to stay in the Shadowlands so long. Mortals may not live as long as the sidhe, but their lives were lived more intensely. To one accustomed to the leisurely flow of Faerie time, it was as intoxicating as an inhalation of winter dream-weed.

      But if his had been an unexpected return, it was also very timely, in Timias’s opinion. For it was immediately clear to him that Alemandine was not the Queen her mother, known as Gloriana the Great, she who’d vanquished the Goblin King and constructed the Silver Caul which kept the deadly silver out of Faerie, had been. Compared to Gloriana, Alemandine was only a pale shadow of the great Queen whose reign had ushered in this Golden Age that had endured for more than a thousand mortal years. Gloriana had birthed her triplets, Alemandine and Vinaver, and her half-mortal son Artimour, without so much as a hiccup in the great webs of power that held the goblin hordes at bay, and Timias was disgusted that it was whispered in some quarters of the Court that Vinaver, who in both coloring and temperament more closely resembled her mother, should have been Queen. Vinaver’s hair was like her mother’s fiery-copper, her eyes the dark green of mountain firs. Alemandine’s hair was white, her skin paler than milk, her eyes like chunks of river ice chipped from the shallows. It was as if Vinaver had somehow sucked up all the pigment out of her twin, as if she would’ve claimed all the life, all the energy for herself. He disliked her just for that.

      But tradition, of course, was on Alemandine’s side and so she had taken the throne when the time came at last that Gloriana chose to go into the West. For the first hundred or so comparative mortal years of her reign, Alemandine ruled competently, if with a less sure and certain hand than her mother. The trouble began with her first attempts to call forth her own heir, when the physical strain of her pregnancy seemed greater than it should, and Timias believed that on this short visit to the Shadowlands, he had identified a potential cause that could, with some effort, be ameliorated. Unfortunately it was difficult to persuade the Council of anything, for Vinaver and her supporters managed to convince the others that he was merely the mad sidhe overcome by his addiction to human passion. It was