Any Man So Daring (18 page)

Was not Quicksilver evil and a murderer?

Oh, had she been mistaken? In Proteus's fair face did a monster hide, like a dragon in a flowering cave?

Yet every poem, every story, every legend, human and elven both, said that virtue and beauty went hand in hand.

Again, Quicksilver interposed his hand, between him and the stab that would kill him.

His lips were healed, but his hand, arm, and shoulder bled in persistent rivulets.

And now Proteus reached into his jacket for the net that would deprive Quicksilver of all magical power and allow him to bleed and die as a mortal would.

Miranda could save Quicksilver. She could pull back Proteus or deal an unexpected, stunning blow to her lover.

But he was her lover, was he not? Did she not love him well?

Oh, her mind was like one of those models of the spheres, which went round and round a fixed point and never arrived anywhere.

For she knew that Proteus was good — he had been kind to her.

Yet here was Quicksilver, whom Proteus had said was a villain, and, the king of fairyland was sparing Proteus, holding back his superior strength, his superior speed, his sheathed weapon.

Miranda could feel that strength in Quicksilver that could have reduced the young elf to nothing with a glancing blow.

Why didn’t Quicksilver do it? Who’d ever heard of a villain who held back from causing harm?

Could Proteus be wrong, and Quicksilver not be evil, after all?

But if it was so, then Proteus's father had been evil and Proteus's own bend on revenge must make him evil.

Proteus brought forth the glittering net from his jacket.

Miranda heard a scream emerge from her throat, ripping it raw as it erupted from between her lips.

The mortal turned to stare at her and, for a moment, the two combatant elves stopped -- Proteus holding his bloody knife in one hand and the net in the other -- like some statue in a long-ago monument, where models of long dead men carry on the form of a fight that future generations have forgotten.

The net dangled from Proteus's hand, and Quicksilver spared it but a glance, before staring at Miranda, stunned, worried.

He put his hand out to Miranda, as though he’d give her strength, as though he’d help
her.

Miranda could understand none of it.

For so long she’d dreamed of living with Proteus and ruling in fairyland, yet when offered that dream, when offered that chance, on a silver platter, Proteus clamored for blood and vengeance.

And when offered vengeance deferred, he clamored for it now.

Was her lord then so hot, his thirst for blood and death so great?

Was he then her lord?

She didn’t know and she couldn’t think, with the magical storm roaring around her and howling in her mind. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t look upon the two combatants.

If she could go way, then she could think--

Diving in, close to the combatants, she reached for Proteus's hand that held the net and pulled it from his fingers.

It felt cold and burning in her hand, cold and burning both.

She saw Proteus's look of outrage. Would he come for her, now? But before she could decide whether the look she saw was anger or just offense, her feet, reasoning before her head, carried her running, away from the howling sand and wind, away from the combatants, away from her doubts and fears.

Away into the forest, with the magical net.

Scene Fifteen

The same howling sand, the same beach, the sound of magic waves that beat upon a magical shore, and the two combatants frozen mid-fight, and Will staring at the elf maiden as she runs inland, towards the green fringe of woodland.

P
inned to the sand, beneath Proteus's fury-strong arms, Quicksilver struggled, as the girl elf — Miranda? — ran into the forest.

“Miranda,” he called, as Proteus let go of Quicksilver and stared after the girl and the magical object she carried.

Quicksilver had felt the magical strength, the dread power of that object. What had Proteus planned to do?

While Proteus was thus distracted, Quicksilver shoved him away, struggled to his feet.

When Proteus turned back, Quicksilver was on his feet and danced back from Proteus's reach.

He felt blood drip from his hand and arm, but it was nothing. Scratches, nothing more.

He looked on Proteus's furious face, his contorted features, his clenched teeth and felt only pity.

Oh, how the young elf must smart, how his injuries must hurt for him to rebel thus, to take a young human from his family, to make use of a young maiden who had been brought up in seclusion in a land beyond fairyland.

“She loves you, Proteus,” Quicksilver said, as he danced away from his cousin’s reach. “She loves you, Proteus, and you’re a fool if you don’t thank the gods for the blessing.”

But Proteus's teeth stayed clenched, and his face contorted as he lurched and launched towards Quicksilver.

His blood leapt, eager for Quicksilver’s blood.

“She was the one who cast the spell, was she not?” Quicksilver asked, this time parrying the stab with his arm. He should bring his dagger out. But his mind reminded him of other times when he had not meant to kill and yet had ended killing.

Once the dagger was in his hand, who could say what would happen and who would suffer for it?

And he’d not kill Proteus. He’d not.

Proteus was almost his last relative. Only the girl, Sylvanus's daughter, was closer. Only the girl. And the girl loved Proteus, and for the sake of her tender, young heart, Quicksilver would spare him, no matter what his crimes.

Aye, Quicksilver would spare him were his crimes ten times worse, his heart ten times blacker. “You made her kidnap the young mortal, did you not?” Quicksilver asked. “And it was her inexperience that took him to the crux.”

He spoke, trying to distract Proteus. Yet Proteus, teeth clenched, stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, hot breathing vengeance behind his mad strength. His need to kill Quicksilver glimmered from his eyes like holy fire.

“Poor girl, what will she do when she finds that you marred her power and twisted her magic,” Quicksilver said. “What will she do when she finds that you’ve endangered us all and all of magic besides? Go to her, Proteus. Go to her. If we get out of the crux, then I shall, in rightness and by my honor, and by this dread oath I swear on the darkness of the Hunter and his dark vengeance, allow you to kill me and ensure you don’t suffer the vengeance of fairyland. I’ll make you king of the hill first. Only spare my queen, the fair Ariel, and do with me as you will.”

Just when Quicksilver thought his words fell on deaf ears, he saw that Will, standing just behind Proteus, had been riveted by them and now ran, out in the same direction the girl first had run.

Too late, Quicksilver realized that Will thought the girl, having got them here, would know how to get them out, how to get young Hamnet home safe.

“Will, stop!” Quicksilver yelled and, momentarily distracted, felt searing pain and terrible coldness upon his shoulder, where Proteus's dagger had entered to the hilt.

Quicksilver felt his blood rush out, as the blade entered. He felt cold. Cold, as though eternal ice had come into his flesh from the dagger. His love for the mortal brought him ill luck, he thought, his vision blurring.

Faith, it had almost killed him.

Oh, curse the luck and mortals and love too, that made Quicksilver such a fool and all of them, all such vulnerable creatures.

“Curse you,” he said, and, reaching for his shoulder, he pulled out the dagger Proteus had left there.

Something to his fury, to the madness he felt, must have shown in his eyes, for Proteus stepped back as Quicksilver dropped the dagger onto the sand.

The magical blood that rushed from Quicksilver’s shoulder, fell onto the sand, and each drop increased the force of the storm. The storm blew and grew around Proteus.

Proteus screamed, blinded, impotent.
 

Quicksilver ran into the forest, or what he hoped was into the forest, following the girl and the human, hoping to find them.

His thought of giving Proteus the throne seemed sacrilege. How could entrust the hill to such an untrustworthy elf?

Away from the shore, the wind died down.

He stepped into the forest, and it was like stepping into another world. Suddenly, there was green calm, and green filtered light, and the moist smell of growing plants all around.

Above him a canopy of leaves grew entwined. The air felt warm and so moist that sweat ran in rivulets to soak his hair and course down his back.

He put his hand to his shoulder wound and pressed, willing the blood to stop flowing. Were he in fairyland, it would have stopped instantly.

But even here, even in the crux, how bad could it be? For was Quicksilver not an elf and of that blessed race which can be killed by nothing save cold iron?

Yet it seemed to him — and perhaps it was because of his blood loss — that the sounds around him were remote and distant. The rustling of leaves, the howling of the wind on the beach, all of it seemed to recede, as will the sounds of the waking world upon the ears of the sleeper.

And from this distance, nothing seemed to reach him — nothing.

Was his vision growing dim, or had a fog sprang up all around him, perhaps in response to the drops of his blood falling on the soft ground underfoot?

Fallen leaves and the remnants of other seasons’ leaves cushioned his steps and drank, eagerly, of the blood of even royalty. It seemed to him as though, beneath him, a thousand mouths sprang up to drink his magical strength, his power.

Through the fog, he saw as though a fractured landscape: now the trunk of a tree and now large, luscious leaves reaching out for him with fleshy eagerness.

The caresses of leaves felt like so many fingers fondling him as he passed.

He stepped between them and around them, hoping, guessing, imagining that he followed the path the girl and Will had taken.

Had Will even taken the same path as the girl?

Oh, fools that they were to have allowed themselves to be trapped in the crux. Fools they were, who, with each step, took themselves deeper into this unpredictable magical land.

Fools.

Yet, Will had gone and Quicksilver must go, and make sure no harm came to the human to whom so much harm had already come from fairyland.

Quicksilver must go and find the child, Will’s son, and restore him to father and family.

He remembered legends that said that each day in the crux was like a year in the mortal world, and he hoped it wasn’t true.

Would Will age a year in a day? Or would he find, once he rescued his son, that his son was a man and didn’t recognize him?

The boy would be in the castle in the center of the crux, the magical point, the nexus of power and magic. Would the effect of the crux be stronger there?

Would the child age faster?

Quicksilver shook his head, his mind as fogged as his vision.

There were no answers to his questions and nothing to do but find the people who had preceded him into this green fog, this confusion of leaves and green light.

A root made him trip. How weak he was. His vision seemed more fogged, or else, ahead of him, a pink mist rose, all pale and soft.

He leaned against a tree and felt his shoulder, and he would swear blood had stopped dripping. The soaked fabric didn’t seem to be getting any more wet, nor did the wet patch seem to expand.

Or perhaps Quicksilver’s sense of touch misgave him as much as his other senses.

It seemed to him as though, at the edge of his hearing, horses galloped. Horses in the crux? He must be mad.

He took a gulp of the too-moist air and wished he could find Miranda. If the girl had brought the child, and herself, and Proteus too, to the crux, she must have power of an extraordinary kind, power that would make her a natural ruler of fairyland.

Happily would he give
her
the throne--happily, happily hand over the crown of a kingdom that more and more seemed to resemble a family quarrel with ill-defined borders.

And if she would be kind, then he would go, through the world, like a beggar or a mortal, taking upon him only that much power that would keep him from craving death and feeding on suffering and becoming one of the dark spirits that tormented men.

Oh, let him go. Let him go and be glad of it.

He felt cold and his teeth chattered. It seemed to him that his energy was leaving with the blood dripping from his arm.

He remembered, long ago, a friend dying of a seemingly harmless wound inflicted by an iron weapon.

But he must find the girl. And then he had to purchase his healing, his freedom and life from her, at whatever dear price.

He let go the tree and, on unsteady feet, stepped into the pink mist ahead.

It seemed to him, for just a moment, that amid the obfuscation of fog and diffuse light, a woman moved, or something like a woman.

There was an impression of a long skirt, a green dress, and graceful, feminine movements.

“Miranda,” Quicksilver called. “Gentle maiden.”