Bourn’s Edge (21 page)

“So the Fae must have enemies.” She resumed their earlier conversation. “Who?”

“Other Fae,” said Tarian. “We’ve had our wars too, you know.”

“How long ago was the last one?”

“A thousand years, give or take a century.”

A thousand years without conflict? The idea was as staggering to Cassie as Tarian’s apparent indifference to centuries.
Immortals must judge time differently
. “Are things peaceful now?”

“Of course.” Tarian gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Once the realms of Faerie were brought under the sway of a single ruler, the need for conflict ceased.”

“Queen Mab is sole ruler?” Tarian grunted assent. “How long has she been queen?”

“Seventy years.”

Cassie contrasted that titbit of information with Mab’s youthful appearance. “How old is she?”

Tarian thought for a moment. “One hundred and eighty-six.”

Cassie gulped. “And how old are you?”

There was a pause before Tarian answered, and Cassie thought she detected a note of apprehension. “One hundred and fourteen.”

I did ask
.

“Does that bother you?”

Cassie twisted around and saw that a crease had appeared between Tarian’s brows. “A little,” she said truthfully. “But I’ll get used to it.” On that she was determined. The crease disappeared. She smiled and faced front once more. “Who ruled before Mab?”

“Her father. And his mother before that.”

“What happened to them? I thought Fae were supposed to live forever.”

“There comes a time, even for immortals, when they grow weary of life,” said Tarian.

“Really? What happens then?” asked Cassie.

“We petition the current King or Queen for release, and if they look kindly on us, they grant that wish.”

Cassie chewed on that unsettling thought as the horse scrambled down the last few feet of incline. “By ‘release’ you mean they unmake you?”

“Yes.”

“But what if Mab herself grows weary? Can she unmake herself?”

“No. That is why one day she must create an heir. The power to unmake runs only in the direct royal bloodline.”

The implications were staggering. “Are you saying that Mab unmade her own father?”

“Her mother too. It is common for couples that love one another to petition for simultaneous release. My own parents made just such a petition, and I witnessed the granting of it.”

Tarian sounded unperturbed, but Cassie could not say she felt the same.
To witness the death of your parents, and, in Mab’s case, to kill them yourself. My God! The Fae are made of stern stuff
.

The horses reached the bottom at last, and Cassie let out a sigh of relief. The dogs rose and came to greet them, tails wagging. Tarian let the stallion and mare catch their breath and crop a juicy patch of grass, before urging them on once more.

“Where exactly are we going?” asked Cassie.

“The manor house.” Tarian adjusted her grip around Cassie’s waist.

They followed the track past the water mill and skirted the hamlet beyond it, where a Fae woman hanging washing on a line regarded them with a curious stare. They were seeing more and more Fae about. Cassie had only encountered nobles and livery-clad servants, and she was surprised to see Fae labouring in the fields and smallholdings, looking like peasants in their sweat-stained tunics and breeches.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why work so hard when you can do things by magic?”

“They’re lesser Fae,” said Tarian, as though that should be explanation enough.

Cassie worked it out. “They can’t cast spells?”

“Only weak ones, such as producing Fae light.”

That must put them at a disadvantage
. “Do they own their own land?”

“Of course not. Those aren’t their houses either.” Tarian sounded surprised, and Cassie twisted round to see her face. “As tenants, they must pay their lord or lady for the cottage and the land that comes with it with their labour and loyalty.”

“But that’s Medieval,” said Cassie.

“It has always been this way,” said Tarian, indifferent. “Nobles rule; the lesser Fae serve them.”

“Why can’t nobles serve themselves?”

“Magic has its limits and its costs.” Blue eyes pinned her. “You’ve seen how a spell backwash affects me. The larger the spell, the worse the drain on its user. It would be foolish to use magic when the lesser Fae can achieve the same end by mundane means. Besides,” Tarian went on, “it would be taking the bread from their mouths. Without employment, they would starve.”

“I doubt that,” muttered Cassie.

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “It’s not all one way. If a servant falls ill, it’s the duty of his lord or lady to cast a healing spell.”

How generous
. But it was obvious they weren’t going to agree on the merits or otherwise of serfdom, so Cassie let the matter drop. “How far is this manor house?” she asked.

“Not far now, according to the dogs.”

They rode on in silence, Cassie’s eyes roaming while her mind wondered what awaited them. Tarian had said James Farley’s circumstances were bad. Being mortal must put him at the bottom in the pecking order. In light of their discussion about how lesser Fae lived, what did that mean?

A walled estate came into view, and Cassie’s eye was drawn to the large, stone manor house within. To its side and rear lay a complex of barns and outbuildings, and she could see a horse being led to what must be the stables.

Tarian turned in at the front gate. A servant scything the long grass in front of the house stopped work and stared at them.

“Aren’t we going to sneak round the back?” asked Cassie. She hadn’t expected a frontal attack.

“Best not to sneak up on Fae,” said Tarian. “They know you’re there, and it tends to antagonise them.”

She halted the stallion by an arched stone porch, slid off, and reached up to help Cassie down. Cassie groaned with relief as she massaged the ache from her backside. The servant dropped his scythe and hurried towards them, but Tarian waved him away. With a shrug he returned to his work.

While Tarian told the dogs to wait on the porch and stay alert, the horses wandered over to a pile of freshly cut grass and began to graze.

“So what
are
we going to do?” asked Cassie. “Ask the kidnappers to give James back? I thought you said that wouldn’t work.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow at her tone, but said merely, “I intend to bargain.”

“With what?”

“You’ll see.”

While the dogs made themselves comfortable on the benches that lined both sides of the porch, Tarian crossed to the small door within the larger one. Before she could lift the knocker, the door opened, revealing a livery-clad Fae with a drooping black moustache.

The bunch of keys hanging from his belt jingled as he bowed then straightened and stepped back. “Enter. I am Puw, steward here. My master is expecting you.”

Expecting?
Cassie felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, and Tarian’s face was suddenly still. They exchanged a glance and followed him inside.

A blast of heat struck her cheeks. It was coming from a huge oven. They were in a kitchen, she saw. At one table, two red-faced women were scraping and chopping vegetables while a third made pastry. At another, a sweating man with massive shoulders was jointing a side of venison with a cleaver.

The steward threw Cassie an impatient glance over his shoulder, and she hurried to catch up. A wooden screen separated the kitchen from the next room, which proved to be a large hall with a high-timbered ceiling. Though the hall was draughty, a haze of blue smoke hung in the air, its source the huge central hearth.

He led them past servants, trestle tables, and hearth towards a raised dais at the far end. On it were placed two ornately carved chairs, and in them sat the lord and lady of the manor, watching their progress with hooded eyes. At their feet lounged a pair of wolfhounds.

Tarian sighed.

“Do you know them?” whispered Cassie. A magnificent ankle-length gown—red silk, bound with a golden girdle—showed the woman’s figure to good effect. The man was thickly bearded; his black tunic and breeches highlighted the gold torque around his neck.

“Angor and Ysbail,” said Tarian. “They’re distantly related to the royal bloodline. If they hadn’t fallen from favour, they wouldn’t be living in the back of beyond.”

“What did they do?”

“Had ambitions above their station. Mab’s father had to slap them down.”

They halted in front of the seated pair. The woman was beautiful in a rather blowsy way. Her dark eyes were watchful, her full lips pressed together in what Cassie took to be disapproval. The steward bowed and backed away.

“Tarian.” The seated man looked down his hawk nose at her. “What a pleasant surprise.” It was obvious he thought the opposite. “Welcome.”

Tarian bowed her head. “Angor.” She inclined her head to his companion. “Ysbail. Well met.” She gestured. “May I introduce my companion? Cassie Lewis.”

Cassie wasn’t sure whether to curtsey or bow so she restricted herself to a nod and a smile. “Pleased to meet you.”

Angor didn’t return her greeting. “You keep company with mortals?”

“I do,” said Tarian. “And she is under my protection.”

After a moment he shrugged. “Very well.”

Tarian made a show of looking around for somewhere to sit. “Are guests not permitted to conduct their business with you in comfort?”

Ysbail flushed at the implied slight and beckoned a servant over. Moments later two more chairs had been brought.

Tarian sat and waited until Cassie had done the same, before saying, in a conversational tone, “You were expecting us, I gather.”

Angor gestured at the wolfhounds lying at his feet. “Did you think my dogs would be unaware of yours?”

“It was a risk,” agreed Tarian, provoking a pang of guilt in Cassie.

A risk I made you run
.

“Now here you are in person.” He drew himself up in his chair. “You mentioned business dealings. Well?”

Tarian nodded and pulled out the changeling doll. “Yours, I believe.”

Chapter 9

It was just as well she had put a protection spell on the doll, thought Tarian, as Ysbail cast a surreptitious spell. When the crude wooden artefact remained intact, a flash of unease crossed Ysbail’s face, gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Angor threw his wife a warning glance before turning back to Tarian. “You’re mistaken. That vile thing has nothing to do with us.”

“Why then did your wife just try to destroy it?”

For a moment he was at a loss, but he recovered quickly. “You know as well as I that our present Queen outlawed such things. My wife was but abiding by the law.”

Tarian arched an eyebrow. “I thought you might plead ignorance, living on the outskirts of Faerie as you do. You knew of Mab’s decree, yet you created and used a changeling?”

With a show of indignation, he rose to his feet. “Who says so? Point him out and I’ll rip out his lying tongue.” He paused. “Or is it you who slanders me?”

Cassie shifted in her chair, and Tarian threw her a reassuring glance. Angor’s bluster didn’t scare her.

“Perhaps you are unaware, my lord, that when a changeling doll is created, a bond links it to its maker.” She cocked her head. “Or perhaps you knew but thought that the trail would fade with time. It didn’t. And it led me to you.”

Was that panic in his eyes?

“So you say. But of what value is the word of an exile? Oh yes.” He scanned the watching faces of his retainers and servants, who had edged closer, eager to hear what was going on. “We may be on the outskirts, but we still hear tidings. Tarian daughter of Brangwen daughter of Eyslk, the Queen’s former champion, was exiled and ordered never to return,” his gaze returned to her face, “on pain of her unmaking.”

The resulting silence was so intent Tarian could almost hear Cassie’s heart beating.

“Mab knows you’re here,” he went on, his smile full of malice. “I sent word.”

Cassie sucked in her breath.

“I see.” Tarian kept her voice steady.

A hand slipped itself into hers. “We must leave,” said Cassie urgently.

“Not yet.”

“But if the Queen comes—”

“Hush.” Gently, Tarian extracted her fingers from Cassie’s. “You sent word to the Queen, my lord?” She shook her head in mock pity. “Rash. Very rash.”

His smile disappeared.

“Never mind what may happen to me. What do you think Mab will do to you and your wife when she learns you broke her edict about changelings?”

“Husband!” Ysbail looked frightened. He shook his head at her, and she fell silent.

“I propose an exchange. This,” Tarian held up the changeling doll, “for the red-haired babe.”

“What babe?”

“Don’t play games, Angor. He’s a man now, that’s true. But he was a babe when you took him from his crib.”

Angor shifted in his seat. “Suppose we had done such a thing?” There was uncertainty in his eyes now.
Good
. “What concern is it of yours?”

Tarian gave him a smile. “Beyond the natural concern of any good and loyal subject, you mean?”

His lip curled but he nodded.

She let her mask of good humour drop. “Don’t try my patience, Angor. We both know the man is here. Bring him to me. Now.”

He pointed at the doll. “Will you remove the protection spell?”

She nodded.

For a moment more he hesitated, then he beckoned the waiting steward. After a brief conversation, the steward bowed and hurried away.

“I have sent for the pigboy,” said Angor, smoothing his robes.

“Pigboy?” muttered Cassie, indignant. “His name is James.”

“Good,” said Tarian.

A RIPPLE OF laughter and crude comments marked the arrival of the red-haired young man Tarian had last seen eating pig swill. It followed his progress across the hall towards the dais, as did the ripe smell of pigs.

Angor and Ysbail pressed perfumed silk kerchiefs to their noses as his escort, a Fae in a farrier’s apron, jerked him to a halt in front of them and swiped his legs out from under him. “Show some respect for your betters.” The thud of knees on the hard floor made Tarian wince. “The pigboy as requested, my lord,” said the farrier with a bow.