Blood and Iron (49 page)

I'd never wondered what became of those tithed to Hell. I'd assumed that they were tortured, enslaved . . . and yet here he was, splendid in crimson and scarlet and a deep orange like bittersweet berries on the vine. The doorman opened the main portal for us, and we swept in past him. My skirt rasped on the stone, still leaving marks like a dry-brush dragged across paper. Somewhere, a piper played a lighthearted air, at odds with the graveyard hush lying over Àine's palace. The interior doors were high and ornate, wrought, I thought, of ivory. There was no doorman here, although a quartet of guards stood watch, and Murchaud pushed the right-hand door open with the fingertips of his gloved left hand.

In a room as white as Whiskey's hide, the Cat Anna stood before a simple throne of hammered silver cushioned in white silk like the draperies that blew beside windows paned in clear and ruby glass. They cast a shifting rose-dappled light upon a floor of pale, green-veined marble. She acknowledged our entrance, a gracious nod catching light on her coiled and braided dark hair. She wore a diaphanous gown not unlike the one I'd seen her in when last we spoke, when she caught my sleeve on the steps of the dais.

Whiskey stamped one foot in the silence, and I laid a hand on his arm to steady him, feeling his skin shudder.
This one, I should have seen coming. You keep forgetting you're living in a Faerie tale, Elaine.
“Cliodhna.”

“Elaine.” She smiled and swept down the stainless white stairs, silver bells jangling on her ermine slippers. Kadiska and my father looked like spots of smoking blood against all that white, stepping away as the Queen came toward us. “I apologize for the subterfuge.”

Whiskey's eyes were wild. I squeezed his arm once and stepped away, blood flaking from the rags of my dress. Schooling my expression to one the Mebd might have worn—not unlike the one the Cat Anna wore herself—I went to meet her as an equal. “I haven't come to bargain,” I said.

She dipped her head and dropped what might have been the first increment of a curtsy. “I wish to speak of alliances. With you, and with Duke Murchaud.”

“There will be no alliances.” The strength of the land flowed through me like a green current, even here in this Snow Queen's palace. I thought of Dylan Thomas, suddenly: a poet kissed by the Faerie muse if ever one was. I wondered if he had seen Cliodhna the Leannan Sidhe—or someone like her—plainly before he died, or only through the vapors of his bottles.

The light from the windows fell across Àine's alabaster profile like the glow from a fire. She turned and winked at me, her eyes liquid and lovely as a doe's. “We still need each other,” she said.

“You have something of mine. I mean to have it back.”

She was just opening her mouth when my father interrupted. “There are old bargains to be kept. A new Queen— or King—of the Daoine does not abrogate the treaties signed long ago.”

“The treaties, father, that cost you your freedom? Whose stead did you go in? Who would she have commanded to the tithe in your place?”

He didn't answer. The Cat Anna reached out and trailed one cold, clawed hand down his sleeve, her talons glistening like mother-of-pearl. Her lips were lacquered red as the rubies woven through her hair like frozen blood, and diamonds set in platinum glittered in her ears and on her wrists and at her throat, cold as a frost-hardened dew. “Those treaties have kept us alive for many a long cold year,” she said, spreading hands white as lilies. “The Snow Queen, the Summer Queen, and the Queen of Air and Darkness too, for all she won't claim her throne.”

“And all of you scared and shaking? I don't think so. And I won't live like that, or ask my children to.”

“You have no choice, Elaine.”

“Father”—understanding, suddenly, why the word
mother
sounded so strange on Ian's tongue—“I have the only choice any of us can make. Do you know how the debt can be paid?”

He took a breath and looked at me, and I saw red light flicker behind the coolness of his gaze. “There's a sacrifice that would do it.” I saw him holding that breath, saw it swelling in his throat.

“Father.”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry.
‘Blood is the god of war's rich livery.'
I am not permitted to say more.”

“Never mind,” I said. “My predecessor told me.” The Cat Anna's pearl white talons dug through the sleeve of my gown, piercing my flesh. More red welled to stain the green-and-silver cloth, and I glanced at her in irritation.

“If you want Ian's heart back, you'll do what's wise.”

Kadiska hissed, and Gharne reared up over my shoulders and hissed right back. “Right now,” I said, “Keith's forces—all the wolves of the pack—and the Daoine are on their way to do battle. The Magi have a grip on Annwn, and they won't let it go. They mean to anchor us to the mortal world and finish out the bindings they began so many years ago. And where are your men, Àine? Where are the forces of the Morningstar, father?”

“Renew the treaty,” he said, with a twist of his mouth that I recognized in the mirror. It told me he was lying, and I knew by the look in his eyes that he intended me to know. “And he will send them. The bill is all but due.”

“Rebels are as rebels do,” I replied. “Funny how these bright new kingdoms always turn into bureaucracies and empires, and repeat the sins of the Kings of old under different names.”

“They do call him the Prince of Lies.”

“He's playing both ends against the middle, isn't he?”

“It's what he does,” my father said, and I knew by the strained look on his face that he fought a geas to say that much. “His goals are—what they are. And he has hoped these long years to find a way to regain the attention of his Creator, who has turned His face away from the Morningstar and all he does.”

I felt Whiskey beside me, comforting and powerful, a massive, irascible presence. “You're telling me that the Devil is misbehaving to get the attention of the Divine? Like a sulky child, Murchaud?”

And my father tilted his head and twisted his lip into the second cousin of a smile, nodding as he sighed.

“What if I gave him the Queens?”

The Cat Anna snarled and ripped my arm from elbow to wrist, pulling me off balance so my hurt knee gave way. Air rippled as Gharne launched himself from my shoulder. I heard Kadiska squeal when he hit her, but I couldn't turn to look; I staggered, trying not to fall, and went down as my knee failed in a white light of pain. My father moved, stepping back, stepping away—and Whiskey saw it and moved toward Àine, blocking her swipe at my face with a massive forearm, whickering as her talons opened red gullies in his flesh. He closed his other hand into a fist as I fell back onto ice-hard flags. I gagged, my diaphragm spasming, and drew a painful breath.

Adding insult to injury, the broken toe twinged.

My unbraided hair fell into my face. Whiskey struck Àine across the face, his shout rising up to a whinny as she too fell back on the stones. My father folded his hands, and Gharne and Kadiska rolled on the floor, a blur of crimson on black, and jangling bells. I pushed myself up on one elbow and raked my fingers through coarse dark locks.

It had been nice while it lasted.

Uisgebaugh pinned his half sister and held her down on the stone while I spat blood and recited the binding, closing my eyes so that I couldn't see the bright tears tracking his cheeks.
Uisgebaugh. Maat.
Morgan gave me the names, knowing how they would be used. Knowing, along with the Mebd, what I would use them for.

Scian, Lile, Maat, Uisgebaugh.
“Lile,” I whispered. She was strong. Powerful, and ancient, and a Queen. And I was fresh from my initiation on the horns of a stag, and with the lifeblood of Annwn, the Mebd's dying gift, running through my veins like coursing, clean springwater.

The Queen of the Unseelie Fae went limp, and fell against the floor.

Gharne squeaked.

“Àine, tell your Seeker to quit fighting. Whiskey, you may let her up now.”

Murchaud came forward to offer me his hand, and I ignored it. Red ran through my fingers, dripping to the white, white stone. It fascinated me. I smeared it in bloody handprints and spatters as I forced myself to my knees and then my feet. I might have been walking on nails from the pain in my leg. Whiskey held me up.

“Father.” I lifted my chin to look in his eyes. “Tell the Morningstar that Annwn will aid him. That we will pay him one last tithe, once the battle is done. And that in return we are quit of our debt to him, and the prices paid, and the protectorate is ended.”

He smiled tightly, and didn't spare a glance for the cursing Queen who still knelt on the floor. “He won't be happy.”

“I don't give a
shit
if he's happy,” I answered, and turned away. Gharne launched himself toward me, wobbling in flight, one wing beating crookedly. He settled on my shoulder with a hiss. Kadiska looked better, but not much; he'd gouged her face and breasts and her blood too was puddled on the stone. “Kadiska.”

“Mistress.” Smoothly and as if she meant it.

“Once you're free of the Cat Anna,” I asked her, “do you want a job?” A thud, as Whiskey did something I didn't observe to silence the Queen.

“Yes,” Kadiska said, slowly rising.

“It means more blood.”

She shrugged. I squared my shoulders and swallowed hard, shaking with reaction. “Excellent.” Gharne rubbed his petal-soft cheek against my face. “Bring me the heart of my son.”

Within the palace gates, the Puck brought Keith a blood-bay stud to ride, a dish-nosed, fine-boned animal big enough to be a cart horse if it weren't for the grace of his lines. He looked like a red horse who'd splashed through a pot of ink. Keith eyed him uncertainly for a moment, but the horse sniffed his proffered hand like a gentleman and ducked his head to be rubbed across the poll. “Fine fellow,” Keith said. “What's his name?”

Robin Goodfellow coughed. “Petunia.”

“Petunia? You're pulling my leg,” Keith said, but the big horse's ears flickered and he lipped Keith's jacket. Keith scratched his nose. Crowd noise outside the gates told him his army was gathering. He heard the distant resonance of Arthur's horn, and shook his head, keeping his hands gentle for the horse's sake. “I am not for eating, Petunia.”

“He says neither is he,” Robin translated.

Keith couldn't tell if he was joking.

The horse whuffed. Keith accepted the reins and walked to the near side. Once he was in the saddle, he remembered more than he expected to, his body settling comfortably into the leather. “Just like falling off a bicycle.” Somebody had already gotten the stirrups right.

Fyodor came from upwind, making no pretense of hiding his scent. Eremei accompanied him like a figurine cast from the same mold, and Ian—released by Elaine's decree—sulked between them. Keith smiled; the boy had a lot of growing up to do. He was spoiled, stubborn, and unaccustomed to living with the consequences of his actions.
But that changes today.

“Younger Brothers,” he greeted them.

Fyodor tilted his head in slight deference. Eremei's obeisance was more direct, and Ian acknowledged Keith's words only with a chin-lifted stare. His sling shone white against the velvet blackness of his doublet. “I could have made this unnecessary,” he said.

“I'll pay my own prices,” Keith said, his voice harsher than he intended. “I want your parole, Ian.”

Ian ground the sole of his boot against the ground, but to his credit he didn't scowl as much as he obviously would have liked to. “What would you like me to promise?”

“To follow my orders, and comport yourself as befits a wolf of the pack.”

The boy sighed, fingering the golden collar that flashed behind the open neck of his shirt. “You have my word, father. ”

“Sire,” Eremei corrected gently, much to Keith's surprise. He laid a hand on Ian's shoulder and squeezed; Ian gave him a wry sideways look.

“Sire,” Ian echoed. “Am I to stay confined to my rooms?”

“No,” Keith said, looking into Fyodor's eyes when he spoke. “You'll ride to war with the pack, as is your place. Go and fetch a sword. Your woman is bringing your mount.”

Carel and Hope didn't appear until Morgan did. They'd gotten the Merlin up on the back of a docile bay mare, where she clung as if she'd be happier with training wheels, and Hope led one black gelding and rode another. Puck excused himself and brought horses for Fyodor and Eremei, and Vanya arrived a few moments later on a muddy chestnut. No one spoke.

Ian rejoined them within the half hour, Cairbre in tow. A suspicious expression twisted the bard's thick lips, but he held his peace as he swung into the saddle and unlimbered his lute.

Keith's bay never budged through the delay, except to shift his weight from one hoof to another every few moments. “Well,” Keith said, glancing around the party.

“That's it but for the army,” Eremei said. Keith gave him a tight smile. At least somebody's sense of humor was intact.

Arthur's horn sounded once more. “Come on,” Keith said. “We ride.”

Arthur had arranged the muster into a pageant, and Keith, at first reluctant, now began to comprehend the Pendragon's intent. Arthur had lined up the Daoine Sidhe along the road leading through the gates of the palace, three and four deep, centaurs and man-headed bulls and bull-headed men, pixies and sprites and creatures that were such random assemblages of parts that Keith could not begin to describe them, or guess what they might be called. And they cheered as he passed.