He was already on his feet as the first pixie screamed, a tiny crystalline tinkle. His hands made an odd movement, as if clasping a slender stave not yet visible. “Stay behind me.”
Not here. “Go through the kitchen. I shall—”
“Do as I tell you, woman.”
The music below her thoughts sharpened. She turned on her heel, inhaled smoothly, and the first wight’s gaze settled upon her, chill as Unwinter itself. She would have unloosed a phrase of song, but Gallow’s hand closed about her bare arm, warm and hard, and he shoved her. The lithori went flying; she had the presence of mind to whistle a piercing, drilling note that ignited its shining arc. The whistle peaked, and a flaming whip hit the wight ghosting through the crowd.
Pixie screams shattered, the Unwinter hunters howling as well. She held the whistle as long as she could, whooping in a breath after the lithori-fueled flame, silvery at its edges, twisted dried-leaf as its impetus died.
Gallow moved forward, his boots slipping slightly in a foaming tide of ale—who had spilled their drink? It didn’t matter, though her own shoes slid a little, too, the battleground turned treacherous in more ways than one.
Had she thought to protect him? A moonlit lance resolved out of empty air, filling his cradling hands, and flicked serpent-tongue, its head shifting between narrow needle-blade and a broader one that glowed red as true iron, shearing off half a wight’s face.
The wights had swords and curses, but Robin had her breath back now. Her throat swelled, a net of throbbing sonic gold catching black-flapping maledictions, crushing them, stripping smoke-veined wings. The bartender, a four-armed drow-giant mix without a clanplug dangling from his large green ear, rumbled again.
Under a suddenly gold-stippled roof, the former Armormaster danced. Half-turn, lance sweeping, a wight’s black brackish blood rising in a perfect arc before splattering on a ghilliedhu girl who shrieked and cowered, steam rising from her white, white skin. The weapon flickered through shade and glow, striking and reversing, and for a moment Robin almost forgot to breathe.
He advanced, and the lance flicked again as one of the wights leapt, its smooth noseless face twisting as it hissed. A crunch, the barrow-wight spitted neatly and flung toward the bar, where the ’tender snarled and brought one of his clublike fists down. There was a splatter, a crunch-popping, and the ghilliedhu girls fled en masse, flocking to the door in a tangle of white limbs and long wood-colored hair.
Tables and chairs scraped; the brughnies burrowing into the woodworked walls and the bartender spreading his four arms wide again, muscle flickering in his torso under his tasseled leather vest. “No more fight!” he yelled, in the peculiar half-throat accent of the outcast drow, and his eyes flared with yellow glow.
Robin inhaled, trying to decide which one of the wights she should aim the song for. If she misjudged, she might well harm Gallow.
He leaned back as their curved silver blades whispered from blackened sheaths. One darted in from the side, and he stamped, dropping his shoulder and somehow avoiding the wicked gleam of a short curved bone knife. He hit the wight with a crunch, and the butt of the lance popped out, catching this one just below the ribs with a sickening, bonebreaking crack.
The remaining wights scattered. Pale gilt gleamed at their wrists and fingers; one wore a fluid rune-scored torc and halted as Gallow stepped to one side, almost mincingly, his black hair slightly mussed despite the fogwater from outside weighing the cropped strands down.
The lance-tip made a tiny circle in the air, its hum a silver thread stitching the chaos together. Pixies and ghilliedhu girls still screaming as they fled, the pixies clinging to long hair, the kobolding massed in a corner, watchful. The brughnies had scattered, more than one straight up the wall, hanging from the ceiling as they craned their very flexible necks to witness. Other sidhe crept or cowered, pressing into corners and crannies.
Puck, of course, was nowhere to be seen as his mischief—whatever of this he’d planned—ran its course. She found herself breathing deeply, wondering why Gallow did not strike again. The wights were drifting apart; they might be able to flank him unless Robin could gain a clear—
He seemed to be waiting for something, caught in curious stasis. Perhaps for the torc-wearing wight to speak, in its throatcut whisper.
“The Ragged,” it said, slowly and distinctly. “He wantsssss her.”
Scalding ice flamed over every inch of Robin’s body. She took a single step back, finishing her inhale, the music under her thoughts sharp and dissonant as it prepared to loose itself from her throat.
“The Ragged is no part of this.” Jeremiah Gallow gave a bitter breathless approximation of a laugh. “I find myself of a mind to do you a mischief, to repay the one your kinsmen wrought upon me.”
What?
Her own confusion was echoed by the wight, which made a fluttering little motion with its strangle-fingered hands.
“Sylvia,” Gallow said, and struck again. The lance described a sweet-whistling arc, shearing the torc-wearing wight in two. It blade lengthened, curving impossibly backward and glowing red-hot. Black blood burst as the remaining barrow-wights leapt for him, and glimmering droplets of sweat flew from Gallow’s brow as he moved with the impossible, blurring speed of the sidhe. Choked cries rent the air, and those collected gasped.
The lance blurred as it sang, a low, hungry keening. Halting, a hook instead of a knife, slicing down and pulled back with a small jerk. The last wight howled as its arm, sheared from its body, dropped to the floor. Their cut-grass reek was overpowering, everywhere; Robin’s nose was full and her eyes ran with sting-hot liquid. Her mouth gapped, her throat kept clear and ready despite the stuffiness.
“Return to your master, and tell him that Gallow does not serve.” Level, furious, and very deep, his tone sliced the hubbub. “Free or Court, none commands me, and I repay.”
The wight fell down, wriggling, its right hand clutched against the spurting wound that had been its arm moments before. The stink of charring rose—even if it survived, the iron would poison-burn it into a crippling Twist.
The lance vanished. Jeremiah Gallow turned on his heel, his greenleaf gaze finding hers. “Come.”
“There are bound to be—”
“More outside, yes. Can you sing?”
Why do you ask? She nodded. “If I may breathe, I may sing.” Despite the thick reek in the air, she could breathe well enough.
“Good. Keep their curses off us.” The lance vanished, and the thing writhing on the floor hissed an imprecation. Gallow stepped aside, scooped up his backpack, and shrugged into it. He finished by catching Robin’s arm again. A malformed curse struggled and writhed on the floor as well, a quick stamp of his heavy workman’s boot and it made a ripe-melon sound of breakage. “Through the kitchen.”
“Peleaster?” The Rolling Oak’s cook was never of a sweet temper, and it was all the warning she could muster and still keep her breath in reserve.
“I might almost welcome killing again, should I need to.”
What else could she do? She followed.
And wondered who Sylvia was.
He had seen her sing, and seemed curiously unmarked by the experience.
Though Peleaster the Cook was not happy, his great bulk shuddering through the smoky hell of his kitchen and bubbling brew-vats, the fume of violence on Gallow had actually kept Peleaster’s roaring to a deep throbbing, an out-of-tune orchestra instead of an earthquake.
They spilled out into a narrow alley, Robin blinking furiously as the smoke grew even more caustic, billowing in thinning strands around them. One of the Cook’s tentacles, a fibrous gray-greenish thing, slammed the door behind them with cracking force.
Robin coughed, cleared her throat, brushed at her skirt. Gallow coughed, too, leaning against a brick wall pitted by only Stone knew what. The Cook, in his fury, nevertheless had spat them out a long way from the Oak.
For a few moments she simply savored the air—tinged with smoke, wight-
death, and exhaust, but she was still alive to draw it.
Gallow retched, bending almost double, and she patted his back awkwardly. It was different from touching Sean, bird-bones under fragile skin. This man was hard with muscle, and twice now he had fought before her.
It was enough to make a woman feel charitable.
She glanced about, alert for danger as he shuddered. Did he often do this, after battle? Some did. A mortal stomach rebelled at death, as the saying went.
Where will we rest tonight? Perhaps he knows of a place. If not…“It will soon be midnight.” She patted his back again, smoothing his heavy, scarred coat. She carefully avoided touching the backpack; the lance, with its frightening shapeshifting, had vanished. It had looked like dwarven work, but its winking out of existence troubled her slightly. She did not bother much with weapons, unless it was her voice. “We must find shelter.”
He nodded, straightening and wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “Yes. You… That’s quite a song you have, Robin.”
She shrugged. Perhaps he would fear her now. She couldn’t explain that the music only came through her, if she would let it. Robin Ragged could hum, very softly and for a short period of time, but singing let the golden music loose, and she had little control over its form. Whoever her sidhe father was, perhaps he had been a musical beast.
There was no need to tell this man any of that, though. She fell back upon the almost-rehearsed sentences she’d settled on long ago to explain the bare minimum. “I sing it at her command, and to save my own life. That’s all.”
“That’s probably enough.” He declined to elaborate further, though, and did not step away from her hand. Instead, she let it drop, a pale bird shot down.
“I know a place.” Why was she offering so much? “Not far, and lacking a roof, but safe enough for us to rest. Unless you wish not to—”
“I’ll go with you. Come dawn we can slip over into Summer.” He’d caught his breath, and regarded her now, his gaze level and disconcerting. She was nervously aware of his size, and his strength. It made her step back, carefully, slowly, as if he were a troll’s kin she didn’t wish to startle.
Maybe, in the dimness, he mistook her movement for agreement, because he followed. Which meant she had to halt, step aside, and pass him, heading for the alley’s mouth. The awkward dance ended when he caught her wrist, warm mortal-Tainted flesh like her own. To those not sidhe-touched, they would seem feverish.
You’re so warm, Rob. Curling around a thinner, younger child when the power was cut off, sharing that warmth. Before the song began showing itself with the first vague stirrings of puberty, she had hummed at night while Mama and Daddy Snowe fought. Comforting another had comforted her.
Was that why she had asked for Sean?
Gallow’s fingers were gentle. “Robin.” Testing the name.
“Gallow.” She tugged away. “Come, we must hurry. Peleaster may not tell them anything, but it’s safest not to trust his mercy. One does better trusting his temper, which has probably been sorely tested tonight.”
“True.” He didn’t try to catch her again, simply followed meekly in her wake.
THE TRUE DANGER
24
Nestled in a greenbelt on a run-down residential street, thickly fringed with holly and laurel—good wood, and healthy—was a mossy stone that vibrated ever so slightly when Robin brushed her fingertips against it. Jeremiah looked again, and realized that it must be a meeting of two ley lines. The earth had arteries, and the lines of chantment, however tangled by mortal iron, were part of that great net.
No wonder the stone looked like its roots ran deep. This was safe—probably much safer than his own house right now.
No reason to be nervous. Just… he’d grown used to sleeping in a bed.
“Do you know the warming breath?” She knelt, gracefully, and looked up at him. In the shadows her hair reminded him again of Daisy, though everything else was different, and he had to suppress a guilty start.
The Half and Tainted learned the breath early, if they didn’t begin using it instinctively. Of course he knew. “Ah. Yeah. Yes, I do.”
“I’d suggest using it tonight. I don’t dare chantment a fire. It might draw attention.” Little traceries of steam rose from her bare shoulders. The sidhe ran warm, except the riverkin and trolls. Even the drow had fire in their blood.
Before he knew it, he’d dropped his backpack and slid out of his coat. “Here.”
“There is no need for—”
He draped it around her. She wouldn’t need its shelter, but he’d already given. No reason to take the chivalry back. “Call it a gesture, then. You fought with me.”
“Only because I feared for myself.” Her mouth twisted down, bitterly. “Or so many would say.”
“Would they be right?” He squatted easily as she scooted back, settling against the stone.
“Perhaps. I would ask you a question.” The coat was ridiculously large on her, and its shabby wornness only made the gloss of sidhe beauty on her more incandescent. Now she was shadows and silk, her eyes blue glimmers and the russet in her hair lost. Very little light from the streetlamps penetrated this hollow. The jagged slices in the coat’s material where the wights had almost caught him had vanished in the dimness.
He nodded, watching her pale throat as she swallowed. “Ask.”
“Who is Sylvia? You slew them in her name.”
It jolted him into sudden alertness. “They killed her earlier today.”
“I am sorry.” She dropped her chin, probably staring at the ground. “Panko. And Sylvia. I will remember.”
“They aren’t yours to avenge.” Now he sounded harsh. It was only because there was a dry stone in his throat. She had remembered, something exceptional from a flighty sidhe. Even Half aped forgetfulness sometimes. Or it rubbed off from the highbloods.
Like a disease.
The unsettling idea that he might not truly remember Daisy’s face occurred again, circling like a lazy broad-winged curse.
“Very well.” She went still. Her hair fell forward, shadowing her face. She could probably sleep there, propped against the stone. He should keep watch, but it had been a hell of a day.
Even highbloods needed surcease.
“Robin Ragged, I would ask you a question.” I’ve earned at least that much.
“Ask.” Did she sound wary, or half amused? Or both?
“Do you have a family? You were older when you were taken.…” He let it trail away. A question and a half—perhaps she would bargain.
What would she ask in return?
“My mortal kin… they didn’t want me.” Softly, very softly. Of course, now that he’d heard the song swelling from her—no, not song. Pure music, a swelling of organ notes, deep and throbbing hurtfully in the bones, as her lips opened and her face changed, transfigured. She probably could have sung the horseman an injury or two, but she’d been running, and tired—and probably breathless as well. “A free sidhe found me, told me of the sideways realms, and stood almost-godfather to me. When I was brought to Summer she accepted me as a gift.” A long pause. There was almost certainly more to that story. “I am… grateful, that Unwinter didn’t find me first.”
He might find you yet. Or both of us. “I am, as well.” He wanted to ask more, but she sighed, a weary sound like and unlike Daisy’s. “Rest. We’re safe enough here.”
She nodded, and was gone, slipping over sleep’s border. Sagging against the rock, she tipped her head to the side, and for a few moments he struggled with temptation. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to approach her; she could probably use the warmth, right? Even if she couldn’t, there was such a thing as a knight’s right to a damsel. Among the sidhe, such a thing wasn’t the crime it was elsewhere.
Christ, she reminded him of Daisy. He hadn’t had a woman since, sidhe or mortal.
Jeremiah, you’re a bastard.
Despite the damp, the ground here was dry, covered with sere grass and crackling de
ad leaves. A good scent of spiced cherries, threads of smell mixing with the cold exhaust breathing of the city around them, and he pillowed his head on his backpack. Moved around a bit to get comfortable. Stared up into the branches. The trees leaned over, secretive, the hollies darker than the laurels.
Robin’s breathing was almost inaudible. Her feet, in those same black heels, lay on the grass. Her shins were bare, she hadn’t curled up, but his coat would keep the worst of the dew off.
Night outside was full of noises, creaks and whisperings, stealthy movements and the sense of vulnerability from sleeping without a roof. A very mortal feeling.
It took him a long while to fall into blackness.
He must have thought Summer would never change. Why else would a strange fluttering void open under his heart when little details caught his gaze? The gnarled trunks of the Queen’s apple trees, with their carved-agony faces, under white drifts of blossom, had gained a few millimeters of girth. Some had gained new faces, too, but there was no flash of skin hidden deep in the cracks of brown bark. As usual, imagining the rough wooden tickle as the tree absorbed its prey—or Summer’s—sent a chill down his spine.
The grass was just as green, and the paths were just as flour-white. The blossoms were just as fragrant, and the four white and greenstone towers of Summer’s Keep pierced a sky softly blue and endless. Dew lay on the long grass. It was the morning of the world, and yet little things bothered him.
No brughnies a-gathering herbs in the shadowed dells, no pixies humming in the grass collecting ice-bright drops of water-breath. No fetches shimmering between shapes, no riverfolk gamboling or woodland sprites dancing as they did all day. There were gleams in the shadows of fernbrake and leafshade—eyes watching, of course, as Robin walked before him. The sidhe sunlight was a flood of gold, turning her hair to a furnace and burnishing her dress as the skirt fluttered, kissing her knees. Muscle flicked under her flawless skin, and he couldn’t imagine she was Daisy, because his wife had never walked like this. No, here in Summer her mortal imperfections would have shone, burnished to a high gloss… and would he have felt the lack if he’d taken her back to the mortal realm afterward and seen her fade?