Darkthunder's Way (17 page)

“What’s that?”

An eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, and then her fingers found the hem of his T-shirt.

A moment later they sank down together atop fur that was whiter than the starlight that shimmered across their naked bodies.

Chapter XI: Tracks and Tracking

Calvin was tired of waiting. It was not that he was uncomfortable, exactly; indeed, crouched as he was atop a low clay bank hidden between two clumps of laurel eight or so feet from where that preposterous ship had departed the cove, and with his back lodged firmly against a convenient boulder, he was quite at peace. It was just that it had taken all the patience he had—and all the woodscraft his grandfather had taught him—to follow David and Liz through the forest. Once, he was certain, they had heard him, though he walked barefoot—and shirtless, lest a twig snag some unwatched sleeve or collar and betray him.

And yet he waited. He had seen a Mystery, that much was obvious, but such things could not be. No one could do what this new friend had done: enlarge a toy ship with flame from a ring—never mind that proof of it lay before him in the form of a sensuously curved, furled-sailed silhouette floating on the dark water not a hundred yards away. Yes, it was a Mystery; though now he knew why David had been so secretive about the model. But Mysteries demanded answers, and for this one the only solution was watching and waiting.

An hour passed, and still he sat, unmoving.

*

David took another sip of Morwyn’s wine and clicked the silver goblet against Liz’s. The liquid was tart and sweet and sparkling, with a hint of mint. He could not tell its color in the uncertain light, but thought it might be green. Certainly it glowed very faintly.

Curled on the thick fur beside him, Liz smiled and stretched luxuriously. She ran a finger along his bare side from armpit to hip crest, then continued it along his thigh. He shivered, almost giggled because it tickled; and glanced down at her, slim and pale against furs that were paler yet. Every sense bombarded him with stimuli, from the texture of the fur to the smoothness of Liz’s skin to the cool tickle of the wind across his own bare flesh. And there was the sparkling darkness: an endless panoply of black and blue and silver; and the smells of pine woods and cold mountain water and Liz’s hair and the muskiness of their own sweat-sheened bodies. He wanted the moment to go on forever. It was ironic, he thought: he had tried to give Liz a memory, one to make her stay. And she had—without one word being spoken—given him a far more lasting one instead.

His plan had all been in vain, though, that much was clear; come the morrow, Liz would leave. But
her
endeavors had not been so futile, for he was bound to her now by a love that was deeper than love, by magic older than time. Man and woman; earth, sky, and water. He felt newborn: the first man—and more aware of himself as a man than he had ever been, now that he had shared the greatest mystery. Last summer he had undergone one change, born of magic, when his whole worldview had been turned upside-down by his encounter with the Sidhe. But now he was initiate to another, greater magic. Suddenly he felt at one with the whole vast scope of creation.

Liz moved beside him. He bent over and kissed her.

“What time is it?” she asked sleepily. “I really do have to get home.”

“Do you?’ He yawned and stretched. “I wish we could stay here forever.”

“So do I,” she murmured. “If it was always like this. But nothing can ever stay the same—even Faerie changes. Eventually the sun’ll rise; eventually we’ll see the knots in the boards and the thin places in the fur and the tangles in each other’s hair.”

“And the warts and moles, and—”

“David!”

“Liz!”

She ran a finger along his cheek. “And I guess eventually you’d have to shave, or else you’d look like a barbarian, and I couldn’t stand that.”

He glanced at her askance.
“What?”

“You’d look yucky with a beard.”

“And if we stayed here forever, we’d get all sunburned, and peel.”

“And get gross and fat and old!”

“Not fat. What would we live on?”

“Love?”

“Fat for sure, then.”

Their lips met again, then David sat up abruptly. “I guess you’re right. We really ought to be gettin’ back.” He slipped into his skivvies, then grabbed his damp trousers.

He had just zipped his fly when he became aware of a subtle change in the air, as if every invisible dust mote were being charged with electricity. Abruptly his eyes began to burn and twitch, the sign of the Sight about to kick in—which meant that Faery magic was astir nearby.

Simultaneous with that realization, a fog began to rise, extending pale tendrils from the lake’s suddenly-glassy surface to greet a strip of glitter that was coalescing off their port side into a tenuous tunnel of light, the closest part of which continued to thicken and brighten until a section of it ripped asunder and Fionchadd stepped through. A golden glow bathed him for an instant, then faded. He was clad in a short black tunic over dark blue hose, all beneath a long cloak the same shade as the nighted mountains. A gleam of metal at waist and fingers
mirrored the cold sheen of the surrounding water. He looked breathless and unhappy.

David, still bare-chested, glanced around, automatically concerned for Liz’s modesty, but she already had her shirt on and was tugging up her jeans beneath the long tail. As Fionchadd flopped wearily against the railing, her hand found his.

“David, my friend,” the Faery panted, “I have an urgent message.”

*

Calvin couldn’t stand it any longer. Wasn’t it enough that he was having to fight to stay awake while David and Liz were up to…he bet he knew what…out in the lake, while he sat there on the night-moist ground chewing on a stick of beef jerky and repeating one of the hunting chants, all the while rolling over in his mind the implications of what he had just witnessed?

But now there was
another
Mystery, a brazen glitter that lay a little above the water as if starlight had crystalized upon low-lying fog and turned to golden filigree there; and then a brighter glow right beside the ship that reduced his friends to shadows against it before it dimmed again.

His eyes were burning, too; as if they rejected what yet they told him. Yes, this was a Mystery he had no choice but to explore. Soundlessly he stripped off his remaining clothing—except for his medicine bag—and slid into the water. An instant later he was swimming silent as a shadow through the starlit lake toward what he hoped would be an answer.

*

“A
message
?” David practically shouted, while Fionchadd helped himself to a long squirt of wine.

“An Annwyn vintage,” the Faery speculated absently, ignoring David’s indignation. “From Arawn’s southmost vineyards, unless I miss my guess. My mother must have laid a strong spell upon it for it to last so long in your World.”

“You mean you can’t tell?” David muttered sarcastically.

Fionchadd shrugged. “I was raised among my father’s folk in Erenn and thus learned the arts of their tradition. They feared to have me reared among my mother’s folk, lest I grow mightier than they; and the Powersmiths, for their part, feared for their secrets to pass too far from their control.” He paused to drink again.

“You said something about a
message?”
David gritted impatiently.

“Oh, aye,” Fionchadd replied, wiping his mouth. “You are summoned, David Sullivan, and your lady as well, since she is here, to a meeting with High King Lugh.”

“Lugh!” David gasped. “What could
he
want with me?”

Fionchadd shrugged again. “He has been much troubled of late, though there is no time now to recount the reasons. But come, I have wasted too much time. Already your escort approaches.”

“
Now
?
He wants us
now
?”
He’d had other plans for the evening—like prolonging Liz’s company as long as possible—and he was damned if he was going to have them ruined by any more Faery foolishness.

Fionchadd lifted an eyebrow ever so slightly. “I have no choice in the matter.”

“Stranger and stranger,” David mumbled, tugging on his T-shirt.

“Aye, passing strange, but let us be on our way.”

“I have to go home,” Liz reminded David softly.

Fionchadd glanced at her, and for the first time seemed truly to take in the ambience: fur and wine and the dishabille of clothing and hair. His face split in a grin. “Ah,” he said with a chuckle, flopping his arm across David’s shoulder, “I see what you have been about.”

David grunted noncommittally, but could feel his face starting to burn.

Abruptly, Fionchadd released him and was kneeling at Liz’s feet. “Have no fear, gentle lady. You know a little of the ways of time in Faerie, and I tell you now that you need not fear its passage. This aspect of the Tracks, at least, even I can master.”

“How ’bout it girl,” David sighed, moving to stand beside her. “You up for one last trip into the Otherworld?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“Then let’s get this thing in port and travel.”

He had not taken two steps before he felt Fionchadd’s firm grip on his shoulders. “Actually,” the Faery said, “we do not need to go to port. Let me show you.”

David nodded sourly and turned, hands fisted on his hips. “Okay, get on with it!”

Fionchadd glared at him; eyes flashing sudden cold fire. “It is not
my
doing,” he hissed. “Do not forget that. And do not forget that though there is debt and perhaps even friendship between us, our kind are not alike and our goals ofttimes at odds!”

David folded his arms stubbornly. “Suppose I choose not to go.”

“Then you would be in peril! Now that Oisin’s ring has lost the ability to shield you, your protection is by grace, not by right or Power.”

Suddenly they were face-to-face and chest-to-chest, mortal and Faery gazes locked in challenge.

“
Okay
,
you guys!” Liz shouted. “Grow up, both of you. I’ve had enough of this macho-man crap.”

Fionchadd relaxed a fraction, and the spark of anger dimmed in his eyes.

“Oh, okay,” David grumbled. “Do your stuff.”

Fionchadd inclined his head stiffly, then moved his hands a certain way. The glitter in the air brightened immediately, and he stepped back onto the Track, motioning David and Liz to follow. David did—reluctantly, for he never truly trusted the surface that was
not
a surface to remain beneath his feet, those walls that were
not
walls to keep out the outer dark. And this time there was no ground beneath, only a yard or so of fog, then water. It was, he thought grimly, like trying to stand in a tunnel made of moonbeams.

Yet it held, gave back pressure in response to his weight. And at a word from Fionchadd, he stroked the golden dragon’s head.

Cool air spurted from the tiny nostrils, quickly growing into a far stronger breeze. It did not disturb the Track’s drifting motes, but as it blew and twisted around the ship, the vessel shrank, until an instant later it was once more a toy floating on the water. A flick of Fionchadd’s wrist raised it to their level. He snagged it from the air and handed it to David, then indicated a pair of white mares that stood beside his own black stallion a little way back down the Track. David nodded and climbed atop one, while Liz took the other.

Fionchadd also started to mount, then glanced over his shoulder. David followed his gaze—and saw other steeds fast approaching. Each bore a rider, and at the head rode Lugh Samildinach, High King of the American Sidhe.

“Christ!” David cried. “I didn’t realize Lugh was coming
here
!
Where’s this meeting gonna be, anyway?”

“Well,” Fionchadd replied, “we thought it would be best if we met at your uncle’s house—since this matter likewise concerns him.”

David started to reply, wondering if there was more to the earlier gifts than had first appeared, but by then the riders were upon them.

Lugh led that procession. Tall he was, and black-haired, and—rare among his kind—black moustached. He wore a dull red tunic with an ochre sun-disk worked upon it, and boots and gloves of burgundy suede leather.

Fionchadd was instantly on his knees. David started to dismount and do likewise, but thought better of it, and contented himself with a deep bow over the saddle’s high pommel. Liz followed David’s example.

Lugh reined in his horse and cocked an eyebrow at Fionchadd. “I see you have trained them well, cousin,” he said, laughing. “But rise up, David Sullivan, for you are no subject of mine—though some among my folk already call you the Young Lord of the Mortal Lands.”

“Good grief,” David gasped before he could stop himself. “You’re kiddin’!”

Lugh shook his head. “My jests are far more subtle, as a rule. Now come, the others are waiting.”

The rest of the company crowded up, and David took quick inventory. Nuada was there in white, and Oisin in gray. The black-haired woman in the red dress with the crow on her shoulder was the Morrigu, the evil-tempered Battle Mistress; she was supposed to be a triple goddess, though David had never dared ask her about it. Rash young Froech was there also, he who had once been Ailill’s keeper, and with him quiet Regan the Healer in green. And there
she
was in a gown the color of forgefire: Morwyn verch Morgan ap Gwyddion. Fionchadd’s mother; daughter of a Fireshaper sorceress by the brother of Annwyn’s queen. A hasty exchange of greetings, and they were off, galloping along a stream of golden motes that faded from view behind them.