The Crafters Book Two (20 page)

Roman turned to her, appalled. “But you are too young to cast away seven years of your life, Miss Gosling, no matter how much good you may do with them!”

“Speak honestly, mortal!” Qualin snapped. “It is not her youth that thou dost care for, but herself! Thou dost wish to have her for thine own! Do not dissemble!”

Roman turned to stare at him, nonplused, and Anthea felt the blood drain from her face. Was there truth in what the Lord Qualin said? But surely there must be—the Faerie Folk could see to the heart of any mortal.

But Roman had recovered his poise, and turned to her with a bow. “I surmise you find the choice unbearable, Miss Gosling.”

“You ... surmise correctly, Mr. Crafter.”

“‘Miss Gosling’! ‘Mr. Crafter’! Can they not be done with such pretenses?” Qualin burst out. “ ’Tis plain to all who see him that he is in love with thee, and plain to anyone who can hear the heart, that thou art in love with him! Canst thou not at least call one another by personal names?”

Anthea blushed and lowered. her eyes, her heart pounding.

She heard Roman’s voice, slow and wondering. “Miss Gosling ... Anthea ... No, I’ve no right to ask!”

“Yet I will answer, though not at this moment,” she replied.

“I shall call you ‘Roman,’ though, if I may.”

“I would be honored. And may I call you ‘Miss Anthea’?”

“You may not, sir,” she retorted. “ ‘Anthea’ will do.” She was gratified to hear him let out an awed breath.

“Well,
there
is some vestige of honesty, at least,” Qualin said, and Lolorin added, her voice low, “We cannot ask thee to stay with us now, Anthea, if thou art in love.”

“Unless ... “ Qualin looked up, eyes burning. “Thy lover would stay with thee?”

“Instantly,” Roman said quickly.

Sir Roderick coughed into an iron fist.

“That is, if the proprieties could be observed,” Roman amended.

“Indeed.” Qualin’s lip curled. “And where are we to find thee a minister, or a chaperone?”

Sir Roderick looked up, as though at a sound, then said, “That may not be so vast a chore as you think. If you will excuse me a moment?” He disappeared. \

“What ... what could he have heard?” Anthea stammered.

“There is another matter I have neglected to mention,” Roman began, but footsteps—of more than one person—echoed in the passageway.

Qualin whirled, backing up to shield Lolorin with his body, and she tensed behind him. She didn’t move, but her eyes seemed to grow even larger. Shaking his head, Qualin lifted a hand slowly, wrist turning in a complicated pattern as the fingers seemed to stroke the air. He began to chant in words that Anthea and Roman did not know, and the cave walls disappeared, replaced by the rich wooden panels and the tapestries. The floor was carpeted again, and Lolorin lay once more, richly garbed, in the four-poster bed.

Then Sir Roderick stepped out of the tunnel—and beside him were Aunt Trudy and Hester.

“Aunt Trudy!” Anthea cried, and lowered her gaze. “Oh, forgive me!”

“In an instant, child.” Aunt Trudy bustled over to her and caught her hand, chafing it, then touching a palm to her forehead. “Lord Delbert is another matter—but you I’ll forgive in an instant, the more so because I feel certain you’ve learned the reasons underlying some of the strictures surrounding a young lady. There, child, are you well? Such a deal of damp! And really, who are these people who live in so unseemly a location?”

“I might ask the same of thyself,” Qualin snapped. “Have a care how thou dost address a lord and lady of Faerie!”

“A lord of Faerie?” Aunt Trudy turned, staring. “My heavens, it’s true! Well, I am the Lady Gertrude Brock, wife to the late baronet—and I trust it will not be necessary to call upon his aid! Yourself, sir?”

“I am the Lord Qualin, and my wife is the lady Lolorin. Our son is only a fortnight aged, and hath a need of mortal aid. Wilt thou grant him such?”

“Sir!” Aunt Trudy cried, drawing herself up.

“I feared not,” Qualin said, thin-lipped. “But if not thee or thy niece, then who?”

“I ... I am not wellborn, Lord Qualin,” Hester said hesitantly, “but I am human.”

“Hester!” Aunt Trudy cried. “You speak out of turn!”

“Yet such speech is perhaps welcome.” Qualin’ s eyes glowed, and Lolorin pushed herself a little further upright, hope in her eyes. “Wouldst thou nurse my babe then, mortal lass?”

“Oh, the poor wee thing!” Hester cried, and ran to the Faerie’s bedside. She caught up the baby and rocked it, crooning. “Oh, how could I turn away, with one who would need me so! Yet I fear there’s little good I could do it for some months yet, for my milk has not yet come.”

“You are with child?” Lolorin’s eyes swelled.

“Yes, milady, though the father will not acknowledge my babe.” Hester bowed her head ruefully.

“That doth matter naught,” Lolorin said, “and a small spell will suffice to bring thy milk before its time. Yet know, mortal woman, that if thou dost stay to nurse my babe a year, seven will pass in thy realm outside this hill.”

Hester stilled, and Aunt Trudy said, “I really cannot allow a servant in my employ to be so badly used.”

“We will not use her ill, but well,” Qualin said with surprising force. “She shall be honored, and shall live in luxury—and when her service is done, she shall have Faerie gold aplenty.” He turned to Hester. “Name thy fee!”

“Oh ... why ... “ Hester looked up, startled, but Aunt Trudy nodded slightly, and she said, “Why ... a hundred pounds, I should think.”

“A thousand,” Aunt Trudy said. “Ten.”

Qualin glared at her, then shrugged. “One thousand or ten, what the matter? She shall have it, and Faerie magic shall grant her a safe and easy birthing.”

“But what of my child, after?” Hester wondered.

“What of yourself?” said Aunt Trudy. “Your son we can foster easily enough—but how shall you live when your service here is over?”

“Why ... I had not thought ...”

“I shall take you back into my household gladly, if I am still alive,” Aunt Trudy assured her, “and I intend to be—but one never knows ...”

“I shall surely be able to provide for her, Aunt,” Anthea offered, “and I shall be pleased to have her services.”

“Oh, will you, miss?” Hester cried. “Oh, thank you!”

“Though there will be small need for it, if you’ve ten thousand in your own right,” Aunt Trudy finished. “Such a dowry should attract a worthy husband—but we should speak of love, Hester. How will you feel to lose seven years with young men?”

Hester shrugged. “I’ve little enough interest in them of the moment, milady—and it may be they will be better when I return.”

Roman turned a grunt into a cough, and Sir Roderick said, “I doubt that exceedingly, young woman.”

“Well, then, mayhap my Robin will have position enough to want a wife and babes,” Hester said, then shrugged. “Though I’m not so certain I would want him anymore. ’Twould be hard to find any other husband, though, when I’ve already a babe.”

“If thy mistress cannot find a home for thy child, he shall have one here,” Lolorin said firmly. “ ‘Twould not be the first time a mortal lad hath been raised in the Faerie realm.”

Hester turned to stare at Lolorin, her eyes growing huge.

“Oh, milady! If you only could ...”

“We can, and shall.”

“And there, I think, is Hester’s trouble solved, at least for the present,” Aunt Trudy said, “though you must call on us, Hester, as soon as you have come back to the daylight world.”

“Oh, yes, ma’ am! And I’ll be forever grateful!” Hester dropped a curtsey.

“And so, I think, you have no further need of myself, Lord Qualin, or of my niece,” Aunt Trudy said.

“No, none at all.” Qualin was standing by the bed, one hand on his son’s head, one hand on Lolorin’s shoulder. “Go in peace, mortal folk—and I thank thee for thine aid in this.”

“It was our pleasure, I’m sure. Anthea?”

“Oh, thank you, Hester!” Anthea rose and followed her aunt out of the tunnel, very much aware of Roman’s presence behind her. Not that she needed to worry about making conversation, though—Aunt Trudy was doing splendidly at that, and not leaving much opportunity for anyone else. “Well, really, Sir Roderick! I didn’t even begin to recognize you! Your head, at last! After all these years! Oh, it is so very good to see you again! But how has this come to pass?”

With a shock, Anthea realized that she had not been the only lonely child to be reared at Windhaven.

“Really quite remarkable, Trudy,” Sir Roderick replied. “By excellent chance, that cad Delbert laid a route straight past the battlefield where I lost my head, so many centuries ago. Really quite a bit of luck, that. And as to your seeing me again—well, I fancy your contact with Anthea may have had something to do with it. But it’s mostly the result of these Faerie Folk, d’you see—they fairly exude magic, they’re surrounded by it, and I’ve no doubt it amplified your own gifts and woke them again, in a fashion ... .”

Anthea realized, with a start, that they had come out into the light of false dawn—and that Aunt Trudy and Sir Roderick were moving off to the side, not at all obviously, but moving quite a deal faster than they seemed to, and there was quite a bit of space opening between the two of them on the one hand, and herself and Roman on the other. The ball of light had emerged behind the American, and was waning in the half-light, disappearing with the deep-chimed admonishment, “Call me at need, Roman.”

“I thank you for all your assistance, Erasmus,” Roman said, then turned back to the lady. “Well, Miss Anthea, it would seem our long night is nearly done.”

She took a breath, nerved herself up to it, and said, “Just ‘Anthea,’ if you please, Roman. I believe I did give you that permission.”

“Anthea,” he murmured, and his voice caressed her name as though it were a fabulous jewel.

Then, somehow, fantastically, insanely, he had taken hold of her hands and was gazing deeply into her eyes and was saying, “Anthea, the Faerie lord is right—I am a fool to dissemble any longer! I have loved you since I met you, and every succeeding acquaintance, every word from your tempting lips, has made me love you the more! Desire for you burns so deeply in me that it will drive me mad, if you do not assuage it by a promise to wed me! Marry me, I beg of you, and I swear I shall do all that I may to ensure your happiness!”

“But ... but Mr. Crafter ... Roman ...” Anthea caught her breath, and what was left of her senses. “How ... how can you still wish to be with me, when you have ... had to confront the fact that I am ... haunted?”

“Haunted? Oh, now, sweet lady!” Roman stepped closer, as though to reassure her. “It is merely that you have the sensitivity, the gift, to see what others cannot!”

“But do you not see that I must be fey? That I must be one of those born to—” She forced herself to say it. “—to a weird? And that I come from a family so accursed? And that my children, in all probability, shall be so, too?”

“Children! Oh, Anthea!” Roman pressed closer still. “If they were my children as well as yours, you may be sure they would have the Talent—for do you not see that I am one even as yourself? Nay, I assure you that in my family the Talent does not only run—it is a virtual torrent! For six generations, my family have cultivated their gifts, learning the science of magic! The trait has bred true, and has grown and grown.” He took her by the shoulders and held her off at arm’s length. “How can you think that I would be put off by meeting with Sir Roderick, when you yourself have seen my own supernatural friend? And he not inherited, but discovered and befriended by me myself!”

“Then ... you do not know what it is to have a family ghost!”

“A ghost? No, but there is a will-o-the-wisp that has been our friend for a very long time, and it is rumored that we are long-lived because an ancestor made a friend of Death himself. Nay, there has scarcely been a single Crafter who has not had his own spirit-friend, and they march in a legion to the aid of the present generation when they are needed! Oh, Anthea! That
I
could be put off by only
one
ghost? Nay, nay, sweet lady, especially not when the damsel who is ‘haunted’ is a lady of such beauty, intellect, and charm!”

She gazed up into his eyes, blinking. “I ... I don’t know what to say ... .”

“Then say ‘yes,’ “ he pleaded, “and kiss me.”

She did. Both.

A few yards away, Sir Roderick appraised Roman’s technique with a practiced eye. “Not terribly experienced, I’d guess, but I wager he’ll learn.”

“I’d wager he will delight in it,” Aunt Trudy said tartly, “and so will she, though I suspect I’ll be hard put to make them wait for a wedding.”

“Trudy!” Sir Roderick gasped.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense! Did you think William and I had lived as plaster saints all those years? A chaperone must know her duties from the inside, Sir Roderick—and don’t tell me you don’t know that, for I seem to remember you making a few timely interruptions when I was fresh from the schoolroom!”

“I did,” Roderick sighed, “and from the look of these two, I’ll have another generation to attend.”

At Sea

Anno Domini 1812

One of the best known limitations on magic is that of water. Like Cold Iron, flowing water is inimical to most magics, at least those based, upon the powers of land and sky. Vampires are said to be unable to cross flowing water and many spells can be escaped by simply crossing some sea or river. Water, it seems, has it own magic which is powerful and quite alien to men. To those who tap this watery magic, if can mean great power, but a power that often brings with it the burden of an even greater evil. Stand on the beach of any ocean and you call feel the fascination and the strange power emanating from the waves. So all seamen become superstitious, and those who fight among the waves soon learn to respect and fear the power that dwells beneath the waves.

The road that ran from Baltimore through Annapolis was wide and well-tended—fortunately for the young man who walked down its center at an hour when most honest young men were long since asleep. David George Crafter Holywell moved slowly, as much because of near-complete darkness as for the load he carried. There was no light save the few stars that could be seen above the circle of tall trees, scarcely enough to set the road apart from the deep, wet ditches that flanked it. Earlier, when he’d been fresh and walking quickly, he’d stepped offside and nearly tumbled into the brackish, green-slimed standing water he could smell whenever the light breeze died.

“Well,” he murmured to himself, “by now there’ll be no chance of anyone to come after and persuade me home.” The sound of his voice, faint as it was, seemed to echo through the woods all around him—alarmingly, he thought. He swallowed, set his lips together in a firm line, and trudged on, left hand picking carefully at the strap of his heavy canvas bag in an attempt to relieve the pressure against an aching collarbone and now-tender muscle where the weight of the bag was beginning to become a problem. The shift helped for one long moment; after that his arm began to go to sleep and he had to shift it back again.

I should not have brought so much with me,
he thought tiredly.
What more does a seaman need than himself and his wits
—
and a hand to set to the papers?
But then, after this last argument with his mother and father, his only clear thoughts had been
Annapolis,
and
Go, now!

The road ahead was suddenly much clearer, and moments later he strode into the open. With a sigh, he knelt and shed the sack that held his one decent change of clothing; his winter cloak and the new, heavy stockings his mother had knit him; the tools he’d made for himself the previous summer, when he’d helped build the house for his sister and new brother-in-law. Atop all were the precious sketchpad and crayons, the soft lead sticks that had caused so many arguments with his father the past two years.

Davy flexed his shoulders cautiously, winced and reached back to massage them and his neck. His head ached. “Ah,” he said softly, and turned a little to look back the way he’d come, “but I’ve done nearly half the distance already tonight! By morning, when they find my message, I’ll be already at the docks along the bay, and with any fortune at all have signed my seaman’s papers. Even
my
father can’t gainsay the Navy Department!”

God knew David Alan Holywell had gainsaid everything else his youngest son wanted for his future.
How many times have I heard him say it
—
bellow it, rather
—
this past year?
“I’m a plain carpenter, no nonsense about
me!
I’ll not have a gimcrack for a son, fussing about with pretty scribblings; that’s no living for a true man!” He’d been equally adamant in his arguments with Davy’s mother. “And there’ll be none of this other nonsense, plants and candles and odd smells all the day and night! Let your sisters spread this uncleanly family craft to their young, I’ll none of it.” When Amanda had suggested the study of medicine for Davy, her husband had simply laughed at her. “And how shall I find the money for him to learn such a profession? He’ll stay at home, learn a decent, honorable trade, marry a proper girl when the time comes, and care for us in our dotage.”

Davy wiped sweat from his forehead, closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. He could feel his chest tightening, his breath coming short and painful, the headache growing worse. “Leave it be, that’s all behind you now,” he told himself flatly. The tightness remained; finally, he sighed and began repeating his mother’s soothing litany which she’d had from her father and he from his mother right back to his many times great grandfather, Amer. Possibly beyond that; no one really spoke about those beyond many-times Great-grandsire Amer. Odd, though, how simply working his way back through his mother’s family relaxed him a little. Perhaps because Amanda, his mother, had recited it to him so often when he was very small, he’d thought it simply another of her songs to send a little boy to sleep. Amanda, daughter of the explorer Jedediah Crafter Moss, who was twin brother of Jebenzum, both sons of Amelia Ruth Crafter Levy, daughter of Lucinda Amelia Crafter Greene—and so on.

Davy gave his neck one final rub, fumbled out his water bag and drank before climbing reluctantly to his feet and pulling his canvas sack up with him. It felt heavier than ever. He glanced over his shoulder before setting out down the road once more. Toward Annapolis and the Navy shipyards, toward two years aboard an American frigate and a chance to fight the British as his great-uncle Jeb had done.

The woods were closing in and the road began to climb toward a low ridge. His steps slowed; he squared his shoulders then, lowered his head so he wouldn’t have to watch the grade, and forced himself to as strong a pace as he could manage. Just a few more yards, he assured himself at each step; just up to the top, where he would be able to see lights along Chesapeake Bay, and he’d take a proper rest. Eyes fixed just before his toes, he was unaware of the shift in the air near the top—a shift that became a spiral of faint, greenish light. He saw it only as the light spread and touched the road. He stopped short, the sack hitting the ground with a thump as he set both fists on his hips and glared at the whirling mass. There were two sad, reproachful eyes in the very center of it.

“Sprite,” Davy warned, “that had better not be you!”

“Happen that is a very poorly put speech.” A lisping, oddly accented voice came from the swirl of pale green. “Were you not taught how to speak proper gentleman’s English? But—what if it is not me?”

“Are you playing with me?” The young man bared his teeth. “Begone, at once! Leave me in peace!” No answer. The eyes were more visible now and, if possible, even sadder. Davy cleared his throat and set his legs astraddle—as much to keep his knees from shaking as anything. For some reason, he had always found it difficult to argue with the little, near-invisible being that was his mother’s friend—or ally—more than he did with either parent. Possibly because of those reproachful eyes—more likely because this was the only one of the three that never won an argument by sheer volume. “If Mother sent you—and if you think,” he went on sharply, once he was certain he could trust his voice, “if you
dare
think I’ll turn and follow you home like a tamed pup, you’re very much mistaken!”

“Happen I know better than to try and persuade
you.”
The voice was high and piping, like a reed flute; it never failed to amaze Davy just how much sarcasm such a voice could express. “There is a lead shot somewhere out there which bears your name. Or a salt wave.” Silence. When it became clear Davy intended to outwait it, the sprite fetched a little sigh and went on. “Your mother—”

“Don’t bring my mother into this,” Davy warned.

“—is upset,” it went on, as though he hadn’t spoken. “But she has been upset ever since your brother John argued with your father and left home. It is not possible for
any
of you to agree and leave the poor woman in peace, so she can concentrate upon her work?”

“I have done as much, can’t you see?” The young man grumbled. “I am gone now. With only herself and Father about, and he off at work so much of the time, perhaps she’ll find that concentration.” It was the sprite’s turn to hold a stubborn silence and the boy’s to sigh then. “All right, that
was
rude and inexcusable. But why can’t they understand? I can’t take pleasure in building if it’s under my father’s eye; he carps so, no one could do a proper job. Mother’s notion is no better; she’d have me dabble in the family craft and I have no talent for that.”

“That is not so,” the sprite objected.

“I haven’t,” Davy said grimly. “I will not have. I do not want it. And then, to keep me safe from those who’d hang me as a warlock, she’d have me cover craft with medicine! Sprite, does no one ever
listen?
I do not want to be a doctor! The very thought of mending broken bones or great bleeding cuts makes me ill, and Mother only laughs and says I’ll become used to it once I begin!”

“Happen you might. But I see the matter distresses you—”

“It angers me very much—”

“—and so you’d go to sea instead, to fight the British, where men die in droves,” the sprite said accusingly. “For a lad who does not care to see blood, happen you seek it in plenty.”

“That isn’t necessarily true, you know; after all, my uncle didn’t die, and
he
sailed clear into the Mediterranean, after the Barbary pirates. He came back wealthy enough to buy a good patch of land west of the Cumberland Mountains, and if he now chooses to dabble in family magic and send a reek of herbs and spells up his chimney, why, he has no neighbors for two days’ ride in any direction to complain of it, has he?” Davy squared his shoulders and drew a deep breath. “Your reasoning is flawed, as always. It’s not all dying, or why would anyone choose to go to sea?”

There was a little silence; the whirl of light became agitated, then stilled again.

Got you, once again,
Davy thought, suddenly cheerful. Whatever other talents the sprite might have, its grasp of logic was pitiful, and when it couldn’t respond to his arguments, it invariably gave up at once.

“Ask this of
me,
who cannot even approach the great water,” the creature replied. “And would not, even if I could,” it added loftily.

Pretending indifference,
Davy thought.
I’ve won.

“There’s the matter of pride, too,” Davy went on, and somehow kept the triumph he felt from his voice. His mother’s companion was notoriously touchy about losing arguments and it had plenty of ways to make its displeasure felt, literally. This was scarcely the time to find himself covered in an itchy rash. “Those new men in the Congress, those Young War Hawks as they call themselves, they have a good grasp of what is important, you know. Why should we let these arrogant Britishers run the sea as they please, taking our ships, our men, our cargo—telling us what we may and may not sell and buy and in what ports? We fought a war against them and won it in 1783. Was that all for nothing?”

“Happen I know nothing of these politics,” came a rather prim response. “You will not be persuaded, then?”

Davy shook his head so hard, fine brown hair swung free of the confining black ribbon and tickled his nose; he sneezed.

“Knowing that once you board a ship your mother will have no bond with you? That I shall not? Water, you know,” the sprite reminded him as Davy frowned and shook his head in confusion. “Happen that water, especially so much salt water, nullifies power.”

“There isn’t such a bond between me and Mother,” Davy said evenly. “You must think I am my brother John. Don’t tell me there could be such a bond, either; perhaps I am more Father’s son than John is, but there’s no Crafter Talent in
me.”

“That is not so, but we will leave it for now.”

“We had better.” Davy ran a hand across his hair, snugging loose ends back into the ribbon as best he could. “Give over, sprite. You’re accomplishing nothing save to make me unhappy; you won’t change my mind. Do you think I haven’t thought it out? I can’t live at home anymore. I feel like a mouse between two cats. I can’t please either parent, so I’ll please neither.”

“And please yourself instead?”

“Perhaps. Is that so wrong? I won’t know for certain if the sea pleases me so much as I believe it will until I’ve tried it, shall I? But it’s more than that, didn’t you listen?”

“Patriotic duty,” the sprite replied sourly. “Happen I heard what you said, and a pretty little speech you made of it, too. Never mind. If I cannot persuade you, will you at least heed a little sense? Your brother John lives not far this side of your destination. Why not talk with him a little, sleep at his hearth, arrive to sign your paper awake and alert?”

Davy opened his mouth to say no, then closed it again.

He picked up his bag, shrugging his shoulders forward in an effort to stretch outraged muscle. He felt a momentary qualm as he set one foot before the other—
if this is a trap of Mother’s!
—but
he rejected the fear as foolish, almost at once. His mother wouldn’t have found that note yet, surely; this wasn’t a trick or a trap on the part of the argumentative little being to ensnare him somehow and keep him from his destination. The sprite wasn’t—dishonest—like that. Nor was Amanda; if she’d discovered her son missing and wanted to bespeak him, the sprite would have said as much. Or his mother would somehow have found a means to communicate with her power-poor son.