Authors: Katherine Perkins,Jeffrey Cook
A Fair Fight (29 page)
Book 4: All’s Fair
Chapter 1: Frozen
Even the snow took on a platinum sheen, piled high against the pale stone walls of Gorias. Thick layers of ice clung to everything else, giving the walls a crystalline sheen over the white stone and barring the windows with icicles. The silvery gates were taller still than the twenty-foot giants that stood sentry. High above them, patrols moved atop the walls, while small crews of slaves kept alive long past their time labored behind them to keep the walkways free of ice.
Inwar of the Ljosalfar watched the images of the city within the crystal that the platinum-haired sidhe lady had presented. It was one of many scrying resources lining one half of the War Room, into which the General had converted the front of his suite. The other half was dominated by a table, lined with maps, and occupied by his best advisors and tacticians. “The forces are still there, certainly,” Inwar said. “What of their efforts to dispel the firewall?”
The crystal's gaze withdrew from the city itself, retreating past the point where more and more snow-covered ground crumbled and tumbled into the strangely-bubbling lake. Finally, it shifted to the flickering-but-unbroken line of blue and white flames—and to the lines of Fomoire sorcerers, blurred figures moving at the edges of the fire, trying to continuously dampen it with rituals of their own.
"The flames continue to weaken,” the sidhe seer said. “The theories that their efforts would grow more effective with the shorter days are proving sound. And the Solstice is coming soon."
“And within the city?” Inwar asked.
A small woman with long, lavender braids passed a hand over a bowl of water. Inwar stepped near her to watch the images that appeared.
Since the founding of Gorias, the throne room and war room had been one and the same, the city's martial nature reflected in all of its architecture. The centerpiece of the room had always been Esras's throne, but ever since the Fomoire had determined they'd be trapped there for a time, the great chair had been torn out, sacrificed to the forges, and replaced by a monstrosity of black iron, hammered and shaped cold, and sized for Indech's massive form.
Indech occupied the throne, mostly still, shark-like eyes shifting from one to the other of the pair in the room, ignoring the gaunt slaves, marked with distinct black lines that seemed to shift and writhe under their pale flesh, that were chained to the walls, or occasionally moved about the room doing menial tasks while the Fomoire spoke.
Bres was the second, nearly as large as Indech, but as perfect in form as Indech was monstrous. Indeed, he almost seemed to be carved of marble, idealized in form and proportion—and just as cold.
The final figure, Cethlenn, Balor's widow, knelt before a patch of polished ice on the floor—a scrying pool of her own. The misshapen witch watched their progress, the images shifting, some clear, others blurred as she sought answers of her own.
In the war room of An Teach Deiridh, the third oracle, tall and veiled in dark cloaks, spoke from under the hood. "They speak of blood—the shedding, the ties of family, and blood oaths sworn between untrusted allies.”
“They have cause to,” Inwar said. “Between the three, they have mother, wife, children and grandson among the Gods. Blood calls to blood. They might all return to drive them back—or better.” He paused. “What do they say of allies?”
“They have friends in the dark places, who even now obscure them from eyes on high. They do not trust these allies, and they do not trust each other. They fear the Gods' return... but do not believe it will happen. Too many shadows pass between the Godshome and this world.”
“Of course they do.” Inwar sighed, setting a hand on the shoulder of the troll woman maintaining the scrying water. “And yet the dokkalfar have not obscured them from us. Well done.” He looked back to the veiled woman. “What of Cethlenn? Does she see what she wishes?”
“One,” replied the oracle.
Inwar managed to glimpse the image within the image, to see the pale, dark-eyed face, the white hair with a red streak. “Tiernan. Of course,” he said. “Cethlenn cares about the Dance. For her power, and for their allies, faithless or not.”
The scrying within the scrying shifted. For a moment, there was another face, as human as it was fae, framed by red hair, but it quickly vanished in flames.
The term the veiled oracle used next made Inwar force himself not to flinch. “The new Queen,” the seeress said, “moves from realm to realm, and the Sword of Light is often near her.”
As the oracle spoke, the images in the Fomoire witch's ice continued to blur. Cethlenn gestured, and the chained slaves on the wall writhed in pain, as she drew upon their life-forces for more power.
Inwar had seen it before. Divine forces could be empowered by many things, and the Fomoire were a people of water, iron, and blood. Cethlenn's magics had often drawn on the lives of others, when they last walked the worlds above. And she'd be seeking more such vessels soon. The pool shifted away from trying to focus on Megan and instead settled on an image of Inwar's war room. This brought on a few startled movements, but the General remained just as he was.
“The witch is not as neglected as she was before Mag Tuired,” Inwar said calmly. “But the Fomoire the Gods drove under the ice were not the force they had then.”
Again Cethlenn gestured. Again the chained figures writhed. Inwar almost thought, under the black lines, he recognized a face.
“She speaks of her souvenirs,” the veiled oracle said, her voice strained.
There was a sudden quiet sound from the lavender-haired troll as her scrying water twisted itself, no longer showing a full view of the room.
Instead, she and Inwar looked into the water and up into one crooked face, one sculpted one, and one like a shark's. Indech's flat, lifeless eyes were not the only ones staring blankly. Inwar stared right back.
“...And they speak of rats in the larder,” the veiled oracle said.
The troll's bowl of water suddenly froze, then cracked from side to side.
The sidhe seeress's breath hitched as her crystal viewing the firewall crumbled into ash in her hands.
“When the flames die,” she said. “They will come here in force." The other women nodded.
Inwar smiled. "They will. And they will try to destroy the Ballroom, to stop the turn of seasons while winter is still in power.”
Acknowledgements
As the series has progressed, so many people have had a hand in both supporting us, and helping the world of the Fair Folk Chronicles grow and come to life.
We'd like to extend our thanks to our families, with particular thanks given to Benjamin Perkins and Matthew Lewis for the feedback and assistance.
Thank you, in fact, to all of the beta readers, and the people who've given us feedback on the characters and story so far. Thank you to the host of friends who provided background information here and there.
In a story where art and music are so important to the story and the world, I want to extend especial thanks to the artists and musicians who have helped contribute to the books or our research. Thank you to Clarissa Yeo for the covers. Huge thanks to Christopher Kovacs for the title page icons. Thank you to Shayna Walsh, Kaylin Anderson, David Burke, Matthew Rose, and Danielle Harada for providing the inspiration of some of our first fan art.
Thank you to the ladies and gentlemen involved in starting to bring Megan and co. to life on film. Jackie Faye, Tai Sager, Sierra Till, Nora Paxton Timmerman, Sheri Budrow, and James Lozlink Garrett, to start with.
Thank you to Jessica de Leon (aka Vicious Poppet) and Kenneth Petrie for bringing the music to life
To Lee French, Sechin Tower, all of the Writerpunk community, the online and Seattle Nanowrimo communities, and all of the other authors, aspiring authors, and others—thank you for the help and inspiration.
And an especial thank you to our readers and fans. You make it all worthwhile.
www.authorjeffreycook.com
About the Authors
Jeffrey Cook lives in Maple Valley, Washington, with his wife and three large dogs. He was born in Boulder, Colorado, but has lived all over the United States. He's the author of the
Dawn of Steam
trilogy of alternate-history/emergent Steampunk epistolary novels and of the YA Sci-fi thriller
Mina Cortez: From Bouquets to Bullets
. He’s a founding contributing author of Writerpunk Press and has also contributed to a number of role-playing game books for Deep7 Press out of Seattle. When not reading, researching, or writing, Jeffrey enjoys role-playing games and watching football.
Katherine Perkins lives in Mobile, Alabama, with her husband and one extremely skittish cat. She was born in Lafayette, Louisiana, and will defend its cuisine on any field of honor. She is the editor of the
Dawn of Steam
series and serves as Jeff’s co-author of various short stories, including those for the charity anthologies of Writerpunk Press. When not reading, researching, writing, or editing, she tries to remember what she was supposed to be doing.
