Worlds Without End (17 page)

I slid to a stop. The sleek silver, green, and white of the Cinanestial counter was in front of us. A male elf stood at the counter with a datacord jacked into a silver slot in his left temple running to the ’puter hidden behind the top of the counter. At the door to the plane stood another elf, who looked pleasant enough until you noticed that she had cyberware implants in both arms and a nasty-looking taser slipped into a tasteful sleeve on the side of her uniform.

Both elves were wearing the Cinanestial uniform: skin-tight dark-green material with bold color blocks of silver and white. Though I suspected they were both expert at being polite and serving the passengers, anyone who gave them any grief would likely be pulling pieces of his favorite anatomy part from his throat for a long time to come.

Before we even reached the counter, another uniformed elf appeared in front of us. I didn’t see where she came from, and the fact that she got the drop on me irritated me to no end.

“I need to see your VAVs, please.” she said. The please was a mere formality. I had spent most of my time avoiding Tir Tairngire—and with good reason. Now I was waltzing in chin-first. Even with Caimbeul as my companion, I wondered if this wasn’t a bigger mistake than facing Ysrthgrathe alone.

I passed my VAV across to Caimbeul, who put it with his and gave it to her.

“Stay here.” she said. She turned and walked over to the elf at the desk. They talked together in low voices for a moment, then the counter-elf said something to the one with our passports. The customs elf put a deliberately blank expression on her face, then walked back to us.

“Go on through.” she said. “Have a good flight.”

Caimbeul took our papers and walked past without saying a word to her. I followed, trying hard not to give a smug grin. I failed. Oh, well.

Just as we reached the door to the loading ramp, I heard a commotion behind us. I looked over my shoulder in time to see the customs elf tossing a scared-looking troll to the floor as if he were a rag-doll.

All brawn, no brains. Some things never change.

* * *

The flight to Portland was about two and a half hours. I didn’t make small talk with Caimbeul. I was afraid I might blurt out that he’d been in my dream, and then I’d have to listen to him crow about that for the rest of the flight.

He was a conceited bastard under the best of situations—I didn’t want to think about how obnoxious he would become if I told him.

And what was going on with my dreams anyway? I hadn’t dreamed of Ysrthgrathe in several nights. It scared me because if he wasn’t coming to me through that window, where was he going to come from?

Was he already here and waiting for me? Waiting to rip my life apart again? Or had I just dreamed him up? Pulled him from my nightmare past as surely as I had pulled him to me all those millennia ago? I wasn’t sure now. No, I had to be sure. The fate of the world was riding on me. There was no room for mistakes.

* * *

We sank into the gray clouds as we made our approach to Portland. From up in the golden sky to down into the rain and muck. I could barely make out the green land below as we popped in and out of the clouds. Rain smeared the double-paned windows.

“How are we going to get the Council to hear us?” I asked.

“I’m going to petition the High Prince.” he replied.

“Lugh Surehand?” I asked. “I didn't realize you were on such close terms.”

Caimbeul looked away.

“Don’t tell me.” I said. “He has no idea that we’re coming, does he?”

“I’m sure he knows we’re coming. There’s very little that goes on in Tir Tairngire that he doesn't know. But
I
haven’t contacted him directly. I thought it would be better to wait until we’re actually in Portland.”

“Why? And stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting. I don’t fidget. That’s an awful word. Fidget. You make me sound like a three-year-old.”

“If the age fits.”

He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the band that held his ponytail. Then he cursed when the band got tangled up in his hair. The more he tugged at it, the worse the snarl became. I slapped his hand away and gently began to work it loose.

“It’s Aithne, isn’t it?” I asked. “You’re worried that when Aithne knows I’m in Portland, he’ll do everything he can to see that I’m not heard.”

I was surprised to see him look so embarrassed. The band came loose and I ran my fingers through Caimbeul’s hair to make sure there weren’t any more tangles. It was as silky as I remembered, cool on top and warm near the nape of his neck. It was an odd moment, filled with promise and regret. Then I pulled my hands away and held out the band to him. His fingers slid over mine as he took it, and lingered there for a moment.

“It’s been so long, and he still hasn’t forgiven me.” I said. “I know I have no right to expect that he would, but all the same there’s the hope in me that he might.”

Caimbeul took my hand and gave it a little squeeze. “He attends his grudges like a jealous wife. Age hasn’t tempered him. It’s only made him more of what he is. But isn’t that the way it is with all of us?”

“I suppose. But what about you and Ehran? I know you engaged in the Game some time ago. Did that resolve any of your differences? Or did it merely let you keep them simmering for another hundred years or so?”

“Simmering, my sweet, simmering always. I never like to bring things to a boil.”

I held his hand tightly for a moment, then released it.

“I seem to remember a time or two when that wasn’t the case.”

“You are an evil woman, Aina.”

I just smiled at him, then went back to looking out the window.

* * *

We passed through Tir customs easily. Whatever mojo Caimbeul had worked with his friend, it breezed us through the usual tediousness of the bureaucracy. I’d made it a point in the past to avoid Tir Tairngire at all costs. Oh, I’d been here a few times, but always as quickly and discreetly as possible. Though I knew Aithne would never act against me directly, I wasn’t about to force the issue.

Tir Tairngire was, after all, his baby.

He’d cooked the idea up with Sean Laverty, Lugh Surehand, and Ehran. They’d moved with a purpose and precision to establish the Tir that preempted anyone who might have stood in their way. Not that I would have been foolish enough to try. I like to think that I’ve developed some measure of sense in my old age.

They tricked the Salish-Shidhe Council into giving over part of their land to the elves. Oh, I had to admire their cunning. Like all good mundane magic, it was done with clever distractions and sleight of hand.

It was Ehran who did the initial dirty work. And how he must have enjoyed the charade—posing as an Amerindian—Walter Bright Water—newly released from the Pyramid Lake Re-Education Center. He pretended that his wife and children had died there, then deceived the tribal elders with his knowledge of Cascade Crow tribal rituals. The treachery of it astounds.

Perhaps I am letting my history with Caimbeul color my comments, for his and Ehran’s relationship is a bitter one from long ago. The enemy of my friend is my enemy. Not that Ehran had the slightest idea of my opinion of him, of course. That would be foolishness of the first water.

Anyway, eventually, he received a place on the S-S Council, and parlayed that into his final plan. He encouraged the segregation of metahumans, saying that Awakened individuals were better off away from humanity and their prejudices. But, at the same time, he encouraged the Salish-Shidhe and the other Native American Nations to welcome metahumans into their territories.

This brought metahumans into NAN and the Salish-Shidhe territories in ever-increasing numbers over the years just before the establishment of the Tir. Before Bright Water disappeared (faking his death, by the way. Something I know he is quite proficient at), he encouraged the metahuman population to segregate itself into the southern region of the Amerindian territories. They did so, and this was the beginning of what would later become Tir Tairngire.

Of course, Aithne and the others hadn’t been sitting by doing nothing, but they did let Ehran have all the fun. After “Walter Bright Water’s” death, they appeared on the scene and began to lead the “renaissance in the south.” By the time there was a formal declaration of independence by the Tir, the Salish-Shidhe was no longer a cohesive power and there was nothing NAN or any other nation could do to stop them.

By this time, of course, Ehran had re-emerged as himself. The rest, as they say, is history. The Tir went on to be recognized by every other nation, with the notable exception of Aztlan. But then they are both special cases unto themselves.

Now they had set themselves up as Princes, no less. Of course, that is how most of us thought of ourselves. After all, we had always ruled, whether overtly or covertly. The hand that guides the puppets does not have to seen.

They had made all the preparations, but I suspected they still didn’t believe the time would come when they would have to use them. Only that they would have the world made over in their image and no one would stop them.

None but those who had always stopped us before.

* * *

Caimbeul had booked us into the best hotel in Portland. It overlooked the Willamette River and was as lush and palatial as any Louis the XIV wet dream. I’d never been particularly impressed by the elven fondness for royal pomp and circumstance. It seemed pretentious and ultimately destructive to me. But then no one had asked my opinion on the matter, had they?

I wasn’t sure what influence Caimbeul wielded here, but there was enough bowing and scraping to make even Alachia happy. We were shown to the uppermost penthouse, being informed along the way that the High Prince had resided here while having his home remodeled.

Caimbeul and I were suitably blase about the whole situation. And why not? We’d seen Versailles at its height. And the Taj, that jewel of a building, small yet almost perfect. How could any hotel room, no matter how sumptuous, compare?

Finally, we were left alone. The staff would have to be spoken to about the hovering. I dropped down onto one of the brocade sofas, sinking into the real feather cushions.

“Well, what now?” I asked. “How long do you think we have until Aithne finds out I’m here?”

Caimbeul went to the French doors leading out to the terrace and pushed them open. The air was sweet up here, with none of the sour, acrid smells I normally associated with cities. I knew they’d done much to manipulate the land in the Tir. The magical energy fairly pulsed in the air. If they’d put out a large neon sign telling the Enemy “Come and get us.” they couldn’t have done better.

I knew there were now old-growth forests where only a few years before there had been fallow land. Extinct species populated these forests—how they’d managed that I suspected I knew, but I hoped I was just being paranoid.

“Not long.” Caimbeul said. “Aithne has spies everywhere. Fortunately, he’s away from Portland right now. And we know Alachia was in Tír na nÓg. Though I suspect after our visit she might be here already. But I've never been very good at predicting what she will do next.

“There’s a celebration planned for this evening. Something to do with The Rite of Progression.”

I got up from the couch and came over to where Caimbeul stood by the open doors. It was already getting dark. The gray misting sky oppressive and bleak.

“You don’t like it here.” I said.

“No.”

“Neither do I. It reminds me too much of the days when Alachia was Queen. What she turned so many of us into. It frightens me because I think it could all happen again. Especially when I see that the Enemy is coming again.”

Caimbeul stepped behind me, then wrapped his arms about my waist. It was very comforting to stand there in the slowly falling chill night with him warm and solid against my back. He rested his chin on my head.

“But things are different now.” he said. “The world is different. We can keep the past from happening again.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.” he said. “I am.”

And we stayed there for a while, in the darkness, resting against each other for support.

 
“Did you think I had forgotten you?” Ysrthgrathe asks.

She freezes, finding herself not in the safety of Caimbeul’s arms, but embraced by her enemy. His arms are thickly muscled and hold her so tight that even though she struggles, it’s as if she has never moved.

Then his mouth is at her ear, breath hot against the tender flesh. “I have been waiting for you so patiently, my sweet. This delay is but a heartbeat for me. The blink of an eye. And there is nothing you can do that will stop me this time. Not running to your precious Aithne. Not dragging that clown behind you. None of them will save you from me this time.”

Somehow, she manages to slip free of his grasp, but then he laughs and she knows he’s let her go.

“This isn’t the past, Ysrthgrathe.” she says. “I’m not that foolish girl anymore. You can’t frighten me like you did then.”

“Liar.” he says.

21

Caimbeul had insisted we bring formal attire. I had wondered at this, but as we entered the grounds of Royal Hill where Lugh Surehand occupied the Royal Palace, I was glad of his foresight. An elf attired in livery opened the door to our limo.