Blood and Iron (20 page)

“A Duke of . . . Hell.”

“It's not quite what the stories would paint it,” he answered, after his lips had brushed her skin and their eyes met over twin calm smiles. “They say Hell is the absence of God. And the presence of the Morningstar.”

“You have known other Merlins, Murchaud?” Slowly but definitely, Carel withdrew her hand.

“Ah,” he said. “Two or three. Never one so determined not to be wooed, I warrant.” But he smiled when he said it, and turned his attention to Matthew. And was wise enough not to extend his hand. “Dr. Szczegielniak. Are you well?”

“Very well, Your Grace,” Matthew answered, with the odd formality that always came over him when he was confronted face-to-face with their strangest ally. “And yourself? ”

“Well enough, for one in Hell,” he answered, the way he always did. He bowed to Carel again, and nodded to Matthew, and took Jane's arm in a courtly hand and squired her away.

“Well.” Carel watched them go. “That was a surprising thing to find here. Where does he enter into the equation?”

“An equation is balanced,” Matthew said. “We're at a disadvantage, and always have been. But as I understand it, Murchaud's master also has an interest in seeing the power of Faerie contained. Strange bedfellows, and all of us have made sacrifices. In addition to what we've lost less willingly.”

Carel's eyes were unwinking as a snake's when she turned them on him. She touched his hand again, and again he felt it up the inside of his arm, in the hollow of his throat. “And what have you sacrificed, Matthew Magus? Children? A home, a wife?”

“More or less.” He stuffed his fists into his pockets. “We should make ourselves comfortable. It might be a little while.”

The Circle was an anticlimax, as it always was; Promethean rituals were usually efficient, rarely dramatic, and mostly without pomp. Matthew sat and chatted with Carel, introduced her to a few more friends and acquaintances among the New York and Connecticut Magi, and when it was his turn he walked up to the front of the workroom, laid his hand on the iron helix that curled from floor to ceiling, and murmured the words of consent. The rush of strength out of his body left him light-headed and weak as if with hunger; he staggered back to Carel, who was standing, framed by a window in the failing light.

“See?” he said, rubbing his aching hands together. “Nothing to it. Shall I walk you back to your train?”

“I think the Fae are not the only seducers about,” she said, and offered him her arm to lean on.

He accepted shamelessly. “How fortunate I'm immune.”

Chapter Nine

At dinnertime, Seeker sat on the Puck's left, toying with her jewelry, deflecting his forays into curiosity, and watching courtiers ply their trade while she waited for the Mebd to arrive and begin their meal. The hall was long and tiled like a checkerboard, heavy tables ranged on either side of an open dance floor strewn with flowers. Cairbre and Hope played softly upon a small stage by the wall. Outside, black night pressed against the soaring windows, hanging over the roof that arched overhead like a clerestory made of glass and the branches of golden trees.

Both Seeker and Puck started up when the doors swung open, but it was not the Queen. Rather the Mebd's herald entered, flanked by dignitaries. On his left slunk a Leannan Sidhe, jet hair wound around her proud head like a braided crown, her long neck white as alabaster. Whiskey turned to watch her walk: like quicksilver puddling and flowing. The water-horse's head came up high and proud, nostrils flaring red.

Seeker didn't need a little bird to warn her of trouble. Not when the Unseelie emissary arched an eyebrow black as squid ink and narrow as night, watching Whiskey watching her, and acknowledged him with a wink. Leannan Sidhe were not, generally speaking, known for their good intentions.

But then, neither was Whiskey.

The Mebd's herald drew a breath and announced the Leannan Sidhe by name as Cliodhna. Cairbre, his waved dark hair and beard neatly trimmed, his shoulders wrapped in a bard's patchwork, left the stage in Hope's care and came to the Leannan Sidhe; she allowed him to hand her down the broad stairs, her robes dripping from her body in diaphanous folds. Puck watched.

“She'd eat you alive.”

“What a way to go,” he said with a grin that split his face from ear to ear. “And what bragging rights, if she didn't. Tell me you haven't been tempted to sample . . .” He jerked his head at the Whiskey, his long ears waggling lasciviously. “Even a little.”

“Even a little,” she said, and changed the subject. “The Mebd can't be far behind.”

“Indeed.” He helped her to her feet. “We should find a good spot as soon as possible. Oh, and what's that?”

Seeker turned at the clatter of Whiskey's horseshoe rings on the floor. The great doors at the far end of the hall swung open silently, framing a figure clad in red velvet and silk who gazed about with obvious wonder. “Hell,” Seeker said, because it seemed like the only thing she could say, and began walking across the wide-open space in the middle of the floor to intercept the Merlin, leaving Robin behind.

Whiskey got to Carel first, claiming her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They made a handsome if mismatched couple, the ivory of his garments dramatic against the crimson of her swirling skirt and tunic, his skin only a shade or two darker than hers. She didn't tug against his grip, nor did she move closer, while her eyes scanned the crowd.

Looking for me,
Seeker thought, and it was confirmed when Carel's eyes met hers and the other woman smiled.

Heads turned to track Seeker's arrow-straight path across the floor. The last voice Seeker heard was that of Cairbre the bard, cut off midsentence, offering his temporary companion a glass of wine. Then he too fell silent.

A curt gesture brought the herald across the floor at a near run. She heard the patter of the herald's hooves and the jingle of Cairbre's bells. The walk the length of the hall was interminable, even as Whiskey guided the Merlin toward her—or, more precisely, was swept along in her wake.

“Carel,” Seeker said. “How did you get here?”

The Merlin giggled like a satisfied schoolgirl, trying to gawk unobviously. “I watched you do it, and the other Seeker—Kadiska. Simple once you know the trick. And Morgan told me—among other things—how to find the palace when I went to visit her. But I seem to have crashed a party.”

“A big party, yes. Thank you, Whiskey.”

“A pleasure as always to serve, mistress.” Irony soaked his tone, but she couldn't be bothered to glare.

Seeker took Carel's arm, but made no protest as Whiskey fell into step behind them. “It's dangerous.”

“So I've heard.” Carel ducked her head and nodded to a tall gray-limbed being who stepped aside to let them pass. She put up a reasonable front, but Seeker saw dilated pupils and felt the Merlin's pulse shuddering against her skin. “This is all real.” Around them, the rustle of conversation resumed.

She just parted the veils and walked here. Into Annwn, as if walking to the corner store.
“Since you're here,” Seeker said, “you'll be expected to meet the Queen. Later. She's making an announcement tonight. In the meantime, have some wine.”

Cairbre caught up with them, the Mebd's herald dogging his heels. Seeker, turning to face them, saw Cliodhna standing nearby but separate, watching in silence. “Herald,” Seeker said over the chatter. “Master bard. This lady is Dr. Carel Bierce, the Merlin. Announce her, if you will?”

The herald took a step back, his green-and-violet livery catching the torchlight just so. He pawed the floor and shot a look at the dais. But the bard Cairbre merely nodded, his resonant baritone taking on a flirtatious tone that Seeker knew was entirely affected. “As the lady commands.” The bard's hair fell over his shoulders as he turned to face the room. “Oyez! Oyez!” he cried, casting the hand unencumbered by a wineglass out wide. “My lords and ladies, sprites and Faeries, elves and spriggans. Sidhe, Annwn, and noble Fae! Attend, pray, attend!”

Conversation halted. The rafters groaned, dust sifting down from the vault, and Carel started. “What?”

“Spriggan,” Seeker muttered. “Don't worry.”

“It is my pleasure and my honor to introduce one who has traveled far and hard on a weary road to reach our shores. Lords and ladies of the Daoine Sidhe, honored guests”—he nodded to Cliodhna and, surprising Seeker, to Whiskey—“may I present Merlin the Magician.” His voice rose at the end and he bowed with a flourish, spilling not a drop.

Silence hung thickly. Seeker held her breath, feeling every eye upon her. No, brushing past her, pinning the woman whose arm she held. As if they could peel the Merlin open, uncover her secrets, learn her Name.

Collectedly, Carel freed herself from Seeker's grip and bowed from the waist. “A great pleasure indeed,” she said, and turned to Seeker as if their talk had not been interrupted.

Seeker saw the Unseelie coming, limiting her strides to a casual stroll, and caught the barbs of tension flowing from her. The wall of silence cracked and voices rose in a tumult cut by crystalline tones. “And very welcome you are, my dear Merlin.”

What else could possibly go wrong?
Seeker lifted her head to regard the Mebd, who had slipped through the crowd and stood just behind Whiskey, crowned in radiance. Whiskey snorted and shied, banging the herald. Seeker glanced around for Ian, and did not see him.

The Mebd chuckled softly. “Merlin,” she said, extending her milk-white hand. “How good of you to come. May you always be welcome in my court, and come and go as you please.” Her hair was uncovered, and it fell around her shoulders in silken plaits thin as ribbons. Seeker looked from the Queen to the Merlin, watching their braids swing as they spoke.

Carel took the Mebd's hand cautiously and bent over it. “Your Highness, thank you.”

Seeker caught Cairbre's eye, and he nodded. Carel would need to be taught court titles on top of everything else.

“Not at all, magician. But I see your colleague approaches, so I will leave you to her tender mercies. Master bard, I will need your services, and those of your apprentice as well.” She released Carel's hand and let her golden eyelashes dust her cheek, looked back up coyly and smiled. And then she turned imperially and moved toward the dais, trailing Cairbre and the herald, stopping to speak to Cliodhna along the way.

Carel watched her go, and slowly shook her head. “So that's the Queen of Faerie.”

“One of them,” Whiskey answered.

The Merlin breathed in Seeker's ear. “Colleague?”

Seeker pointed with her chin. “Cliodhna, I presume. She's beholden to the Cat Anna, Kadiska's Queen.”

“A usurper?”

“Nay. Another kingdom within the Kingdom of the West. Be careful. She's a Leannan Sidhe.”

“Leannan Sidhe?”

“A Faerie muse,” Whiskey answered, licking his lips. “The sort that burns mortals up in the fires of creation.”

Seeker took Carel's arm and led her toward the tapestry-hung wall, each breath an effort. The stones were cold and hard under her slippers, people slipping out of focus as if she were already drunk, the confusion of voices and presences making her eyes in the shadows more distraction than use.

Whiskey leaned against the wall, watching a footman serve the women. “Is it safe to drink this?” Carel asked.

“The Mebd has promised you may come and go as you please,” Seeker answered. “Her word is binding.”

“Ah.” Carel raised the wine to her lips, breathing the aroma from a mouth-blown spindle of red glass wound with golden filigree, delicate as a soap bubble. “It's lovely.”

Seeker wasn't sure if she meant the wine or the glass. But she nodded anyway, and turned to greet Cliodhna.

“The Merlin,” Cliodhna said, a smile narrowing dark eyes. Her voice was furred like catkins and chimed like silver. “I had not thought, forgive me, that you would be a lady.”

“Have there been no others?” Carel sipped her wine, and did not extend her hand for the Leannan Sidhe to touch.

“No,” she said. “And I have known some few Merlins. Do they still teach magecraft in the mortal lands? Are you a musician?”

“I am a musician,” she answered. “Would you like me to sing something for you?” Her eyes sparkled, and she was looking at Seeker, not at Cliodhna.

“Yes,” the Sidhe said, and licked her lips.

She's charmed by Carel,
Seeker thought.
We all are.
“Not ‘Tam Lin,' ” Seeker whispered aside to the Merlin.

Carel winked. “Of course not,” she answered low, and sipped her wine. And then she tilted back her head, half closed her eyes, and let her sweet high singing voice, such a contrast to her spoken tones, roll from an open throat.

And the vast reaches of the ballroom fell silent again.

Cliodhna turned slowly on her heel and raised her black-maned head like a startled swan. Whiskey leaned forward, his big human hands twined together, his blue eyes glistening. Seeker felt the ache in her chest grow to something she thought would consume her, and bit back the tears.

And then another voice rose up, plain and unornamented, from before the dais. A baritone, resonant as a cello, strong and controlled. Cairbre, wearing the strangest expression as he took the following chorus.

The Mebd stood now, her green gown draped upon her still as if on a statue, her face frozen in a mask like pain or like peace too terrible to be spoken of. Carel picked up the second verse as Cairbre's chorus was dying away, and she leaned into the song as if it were a strong wind over the bow of a ship.