Unthinkable (23 page)

of a forest clearing, barefoot, in the beautiful dress. The elfin
lord held her tightly to his side. Unearthly music filled her
ears: the high trill of a flute, the low beat of drums, the
intertwining of voices singing in a language she knew not,
in a key that should not have existed. Light poured down
from the full moon, which glowed larger and brighter than
any she had ever known.

Before her, in the clearing itself, hundreds of strange
creatures danced.
“See?” The elfin lord’s breath was warm in her ear. “See
how few of them are like me? But you, you are like me. We
belong together. With you as my mate, I will make a place
for myself here.”
“No.” Fenella’s lips moved, but if the word was audible,
she couldn’t hear it.
She was in a nightmare of warring senses and memories.
She could still feel the weight of Robert’s head in her lap from
when she had pulled him desperately into her arms. His body
had been warm, but his head flopped unnaturally to one side,
and his beloved face held nothing of his personality.
But no, now she was standing in this strange place.
Beneath her feet the ground was cold and damp. The
handsome elfin lord held her tightly. Her ears rang with
the strange, haunting music. Creatures that she did not
have the imagination to make up twirled and frolicked
and reveled before her.
The dancers were a mixture of animal and plant and human and reptile and bird and even stone. While many were
humanoid in the general shapes of their bodies, many
others were not. She saw hoofed feet, and leafy backs, and
wing-like arms.
“Come,” said the elfin lord, and pulled her into the dance.
The steps were nothing like the figures Fenella knew, and of
course she had no wish to dance at all. But the music seemed
to talk directly to her limbs and her feet and there was no question of refusing its command. She stomped and jumped and
revolved, with the bell of her skirt whipping out gracefully.
She curtsied and went down the line accompanied by a man
with antlers. She swayed left and right and left again in order
to weave the dance through a flutter of enormous red-winged
bird creatures with ferocious, intelligent eyes. A willow branch
caught her waist and twirled her briskly around seven times.
A giant snake-like creature writhed forward and back, and she
stepped nimbly into the curving pattern of its movements.
The whole time, hardly a step or two away, danced the
elfin lord, tense, unsmiling, and expectant.
At one point the music changed and the dancers paired
off, and then she was caught close to the lord, forced to take
his hand and feel his too-long fingers fold around hers, feel
his body curve close to hers. She kept her eyes level with his
shoulder, not looking up. Her heart had been pounding so
frantically for so long that she had stopped hoping it meant
she would soon collapse and die.
He whispered in her ear, “I shall love you forever.”
If he had been human, she would have known him for a
madman. If there had been people she recognized around
her, she would have known how to demand help. If she had
not been sunk deep in shock and terror and grief, she would
have found some way to break free.
At last the music changed, softened, and Fenella’s feet
ceased to move. She turned, and so did everyone else. She
found herself moving into a perfect circle around a female
creature so tall that Fenella had to blink in astonishment.
The female wore a crown of flowers on her long hair, hair
composed of dozens of colors that were all to be found in
nature, though never together. The yellow of a bee’s fur; the
russet of a fox’s pelt; the white of a dandelion gone to seed;
the shiny black of a songbird’s eye. The female’s hair fell in
waves that looked alive against her skin, skin that glowed
green in the moonlight, skin formed from leaves.
The circle around her bowed as one. The elfin lord jabbed
an elbow into Fenella’s side. “It’s the queen. Dip your head.
Curtsy.”
Fenella did, belatedly.
Near the queen stood her attendants, equally strange
and beautiful. Something drew Fenella’s attention to one of
the attendants in particular, and a moment later she realized that she was responding to the elfin lord: His gaze kept
flickering between the queen and this attendant. It was as if
he was trying his best to avoid looking at the attendant, but
could not help himself.
He had a strange expression on his face, a mixture of
longing and hate.
Compelled, Fenella studied the attendant. She was
small, the top of her head as high as Fenella’s elbow. She
had human limbs and face; she had pale, glimmering skin
and floating reddish hair only a shade lighter than Fenella’s; she had insect wings that sprouted from her back; and
she had the delicate, pointed ears of a fawn. In fact, she
looked precisely as a faerie should look, according to the
tales.
But there was another striking feature about her, and it
was her expression. The half-size faerie had, quite literally,
the sweetest, kindest face that Fenella had ever seen.
Then the fawn-faerie turned her head, as if she felt
Padraig’s gaze on her.
Smiling vaguely, she looked right through him.

_{Ah, said Ryland,}
nodding his furry head. Yrenne. The
Mud Creature’s mother. Now, this is where my memory starts
to fit in with yours. I remember the Mud Creature pulling you
forward in front of the court. I was with the old queen that night
too. You don’t remember seeing me? I was an extremely cute cub.

She’s never been one to miss a party.
“Maybe not, but I am,” Fenella snapped. “Anyway, yes,
I’ve seen her since. Although not lately, I suppose. But she’s
never paid any attention whatsoever—and Padraig never
said—his mother? Are you sure?”
Of course I’m sure. Everyone knows.
Fenella said slowly, “I thought she was just another female who had rejected him.”

She had felt sure of this, because Padraig spoke often
about Yrenne. He said something every time he saw her, as
if he couldn’t help it. That Yrenne has the brains of a blade
of grass, he would say. Or: That Yrenne is certainly looking
her age. Or: Someone ought to slap that Yrenne. If there
had been any concept of sluttishness in Faerie, he would
have spoken about that too. He had certainly been known
to comment on how frequently she changed lovers.
She did reject him, said the cat, stretching. Yrenne left the
egg by a mud pond to hatch or not, as it pleased. She never
looked back. The Mud Creature raised himself.
Fenella felt as if her head had been snatched off her
body and then restored, backward. Eventually, she managed, “But didn’t he at least have a father—or fathers—
to take care of him?” She had chosen her least confusing
thought to utter.
Ryland’s voice was noticeably patient. No. The Mud Creature is not one of us. Obviously. He must have some human
father. Some long-dead half-wit who stumbled on the Midsummer Revels, I would imagine. He waved a paw. Don’t ask
me for the specifics. Only Yrenne would know, and no doubt
she has long forgotten.
Fenella was aghast. It must have showed in her face, because Ryland squinted at her and added: You humans are
so sentimental about young. For what it’s worth, I’m sure
Yrenne—if she thought about it at all—believed her egg would
not survive. These mistakes rarely do.
Especially if you abandon them, Fenella thought. “But
when he did survive—surely—” She waved a hand aimlessly. “Surely someone should have taken responsibility?
For a child?”
Why? Ryland was genuinely puzzled. Who would want
the Mud Creature?
She could not get over it. “But a child—”
He shrugged. He should never have been viable. Really,
it’s rare. At the least he should only have had a human lifespan. Every single year he’s lasted has been a surprise, and he’s
only gotten more annoying over time. Then there was what
happened during the crisis. Nobody really minded him stealing power in the old days, but when it was scarce, it was not
acceptable. He simply did not conduct himself like one of us.
“Well, no wonder,” Fenella said tartly.
Really, Fenella, this is an excess of concern, especially
coming from you. It’s not as if the Mud Creature treated you
well. The cat stretched out his front paws. You really didn’t
see me at the ball? Truly, I was an adorable cub. Everybody
said so.
“No,” said Fenella flatly. “I didn’t see you.” She felt flummoxed. Should she have known about Yrenne? Yet how
could she have, if Padraig had not told her? She talked to
no one else except the tree fey, and that had been later, and
she couldn’t imagine them being concerned about Padraig’s
parentage. Any more, apparently, than Ryland was.
The other point was, however, that she would never have
asked Padraig about his parentage, even if she had thought
of it. She had never wished to express any curiosity about
Padraig at all.
She asked slowly, “When did all of this happen? When
was Padraig born?”
Several years before me, in the early reign of the old queen.
“The queen your mother. Who did not abandon you in
the mud,” Fenella said nastily, she knew not why. Her mind
filled with puzzle pieces that she didn’t want to fit together.
One question pressed at her. “How old was Padraig when he
kidnapped me?”
I don’t know exactly. The cat’s tail crooked irritably.
“But if you were a cub at the ball, and he was born several
years before you—was he—was he around my age? Seventeen, eighteen?” She waited tensely.
That would be about right, I suppose.
Fenella inhaled sharply. She had always thought Padraig
ancient, steeped in evil. Had he really only been her own
age?
Why are you asking these questions? Does it change anything?
“No,” said Fenella after a moment. “It changes nothing. He did what he did.” She put a hand to her head and
rubbed her temples. Fenella thought of all the years of
terror. Of Robert and Bronagh and all the Scarborough
girls, suffering, dead. “You’re correct,” she said. “It changes
nothing.”
Right, Ryland said. Now, go on with your story. We were
at the ball. You noticed the Mud Creature looking at Yrenne,
and then, what?
“He pulled me forward before the court,” said Fenella.
“Before the queen. There was an argument.”

abruptly and discordantly. He spoke words in a language
Fenella did not understand. He yanked Fenella to the center
of the clearing before the queen and the fawn-faerie and the
others. He held his head high, arrogant.

The faces that turned to them were surprised, and
amused, and also scornful. These others said more things
that Fenella did not understand, but she felt the elfin lord’s
hands tighten almost cruelly on her. Those hands were on
her shoulders; he held her before him like a prize on display.

Quickly, urgently, the elfin lord spoke again. There was
something different, portentous, about the timbre of his
voice. His hands burned cold, right through the fabric on
Fenella’s shoulders. Pain shot through her and then dizziness. She would have fallen if he were not holding her.

The queen’s eyes turned to slits. She drew herself up to
her full height. Her voice crackled like thunder as she spoke.
The elfin lord seemed angrier now too. Angry and also
righteous. He said more words. The queen shook her head.
The elfin lord said something else, and the queen shrugged.
This went back and forth for some minutes.
Fenella turned her head to follow the conversation, or
argument, even though the language was strange to her. She
was aware of the queen’s attendants looking at her in the same
way you would eye apples at market that might prove wormy.
Then the queen looked directly at Fenella and spoke. It
took Fenella a few moments to realize she was being addressed in English, and a few more to disentangle clear
meaning from the sibilant music of the queen’s accent.
“He has brought you here to be his bride. But I perceive
you are with child by someone else. In nine months, you
will bear a human daughter.”
The elfin lord sucked in a shocked breath. Fenella could
not see his face, but she felt his rage flame.
Hope flared in her. She was indeed pregnant! And somehow this queen knew that it was a daughter.
“Yes.” Her voice came out strong and vibrant. She held
herself straight. “It is the child of my true love.”
“So you are not here voluntarily?”
“I am not. The lord”—she was unable to interpret the
expression on the queen’s face at this—“murdered my lover
and kidnapped me.”
“She belongs to me,” interjected the elfin lord. “I took her. I
choose her for my bride. Is that not the way of the court? The
strongest do whatever they want?”
Fenella held her breath.
She felt the elfin lord holding his as well.
The queen drawled, “No. It is not. The girl must have a
chance of escape.” She eyed Fenella up and down. “A fair
chance. An artful chance. A chance that will entertain us all.”
Her gaze moved to the elfin lord as she finished. “Devise a
riddle! Show us what you can do. We’ll even loan you some
power to do it, if you haven’t enough of your own.”
The court laughed.
The elfin lord let go of Fenella. He bowed deeply.
At this point—and this was something Fenella could
comprehend in any language—bets were laid, all around.