The Treachery of Beautiful Things (19 page)

Puck wasn’t able to look him in the eye anymore, and some deep dark part of Jack was glad. That part of him took a malicious joy from the hobgoblin’s shame. That part would be slow to forgive and quick to suspect. It always had been, and he should have known better and trusted it more.

Jack turned onto the Ridgeway now, the hilltop shielding him from the White Horse as he descended the other side of the summit, following the wide, ancient trail. Thick knots of trees and undergrowth pressed along the edges of this pale chalk path, lush and dark—rose, oak, holly, and hawthorn tangled together. The white mud was churned and rutted as if a great many people and chariots of enormous size had passed that way.

Nothing fae strayed along this road, not willingly. Not along the Ridgeway. There was no place for them here, and the place where it led…Well, the less anyone dallied there, the better. Humans too. Though the people of this place might think the Ridgeway was their oldest road, it was far older than mankind, older than anything. The path took him off the hill, into sheltered land where mankind farmed and tilled, where the Ridgeway met other, newer roads, but still
carried on its own way, paying them no heed. At the crossroad, he tried to ignore modern man’s way-markers, white ciphers on blackened wood. Each one was carved with an acorn, pure white like the chalk of the land, meticulously detailed. Even the things that showed him his path seemed to point at what a fool he was. Another of life’s ironies? Or just fate’s way of mocking him?

It was a place of magic, the Ridgeway, a place
between
. The only way to approach it was to step from the world of Faerie into the world of men, and from there into another world, one where both should fear to tread. This was the doorway to a place of another magic and other gods. This was Jack’s destination.

The moon reappeared, just for a moment. The path ahead was overgrown, its center thick with grass. To the side of it, dense hedgerow surrounded a large field of swaying wheat. But then the hedgerow parted, broken by a gate, which revealed another, narrower path cutting its way through the crops. Beyond it was an unfarmed area, shaded by ancient beech trees. The dome of trees hid the interior from sight.

Only a gate stood in his way. Jack frowned at the chest-high barricade. That wouldn’t stop him. It wouldn’t stop anything. He climbed over it easily. Was it really meant to keep people from entering? Modern man should be more worried about what might get out.

Jack walked quickly up the narrow white path—chalk
again, smoother and less traveled, but not overgrown. He passed beneath the ring of trees and stopped, staring at the burial mound that now rose before him. It lay like a monster sleeping beneath a blanket of earth, fronted by its teeth of stone while its body sprawled back to the trees. The sign nearby named the place, giving facts, figures, and dates, and offered free entry for all. Humans had no idea of the true price demanded, but Jack did. No one had really entered this place in over a hundred years. They may have walked in the shadows of the standing stones, or made their way up onto the mound. They may have listened to descriptions of barrows and dates so long ago that they had no meaning anymore. But they would never be able to enter the smithy.

Jack felt the power of the place, the earth and fire energies seeping up through his legs even as the chill rain ran through his hair and down his face. He approached the mound, step by onerous step. All around him the beech trees swayed and whispered warnings that should have driven him back.

Every few feet, enormous rock slabs, standing upright like sentinels, guarded the narrow path cut into the mound. Once, it might have been a tunnel, but its roof had long ago been stripped off. A rock wedged across the opening before him gave the message loud and clear—stay away. Jack didn’t listen, couldn’t. He skirted up and over the cold, wet stone to the path inside and walked toward the black mouth at its far end, like a doorway, two upright stones and one on
top, and beyond them darkness. Thick rocks on either side made walls that appeared to teeter on the edge of crushing anyone unwise enough to venture farther. But he couldn’t stop now.

In the flat rock at the height of his eyes was a gap, barely discernable without fae sight. Jack reached for the pouch hanging at his belt, only to find it was now a portion of the britches themselves. Like in Jenny’s clothes—
pockets,
she had called them. He smiled grimly, remembering her bemused expression in having to explain so simple a concept to him, the way the small line had creased between her eyebrows.

He tucked thoughts of her safely in the back of his mind and took out the first coin. It carried the image of a king on a horse. On the other side, the image had been worn clean away. Oberon had only given them grudgingly. He guarded such objects with a fierce possessiveness. The mortal metal sizzled against Jack’s skin, but he could touch it, so heavy was the gold in it. The king had won it long ago, in a far-off land, in one of his many wagers. Oberon rarely lost.

Jack closed his eyes, murmuring his request, and set the ancient coin in the hollow, an offering to something far older than him. Then he leaned back against the nearest rock to wait, pulling his hood up over his head for shelter.

It didn’t take long, but then, these things rarely did when you knew the way. He couldn’t say exactly when it appeared,
but between the blinking of his eyes to clear the rain, a ruddy glow appeared in the dry gloom of the barrow doorway. It stained the ancient stones, illuminating hidden runes around the entrance.

Jack read them each in turn. Old magic, as old as the stones themselves, foreign to him, but strangely familiar, as if he were finally seeing something he always should have known. Runes were not part of Faerie magic. But they were nonetheless powerful. They were the symbols of ancient things, things that Jack’s absent heart would know intimately. Things stolen from him, perhaps, like his heart.

Is,
it sounded like a voice, hissing in his ear, like water falling on a hot stone.

Rad,
a distant shout, a violent urge, cut off too soon.

Ger,
the growl of a cat, a murmur on the edge of sleep, a threat.

He might not understand their meaning, but that didn’t really matter. It was magic, and the message was so very clear.

Know yourself,
the runes seemed to warn him in the flickering glow,
before you enter here. Before you ask a boon you can never repay
. Kings were not patient. Not even the fallen kind.

The runes glowed a fiery red for a moment, the rain hissing as it came into contact with them and turned to steam in the frigid air. The shadows in the doorway to nowhere
deepened, glowed red, and suddenly it didn’t lead nowhere anymore. It led to a very definite place, the last place his instincts wanted him to go.

“Well,” said a rough voice from inside. “You’d better come in if you’re coming.”

S
omething dark lurched between the stones and the fire, a huge figure, misshapen and hobbled. The rain worked its way under Jack’s collar and ran icy fingers down his skin. He moved on reluctant limbs and stepped out of the rain, laying his wet cloak aside, shaking wet hair from his eyes. The center of the circular room was dominated by the forge, its fire bright and hot. The heat hissed life back into his skin. He hugged his arms around his chest and looked up into the black eyes of the enormous figure who stood on the far side of the forge, his features turned demonic by the glow.

He had gray hair, the color of smoke, but he didn’t look old. At the same time, Jack knew, he was as ancient as the stones around them. This was no mere man. The relaxed stance did nothing to hide the strength in his hulking shoulders and arms. He wore a leather apron, and leather cuffs around his wrists. His thick beard was neatly trimmed, but the wildness in his dark eyes remained untamed. In one meaty grip he held a hammer. All around the edges of the
room were workbenches, cluttered with objects in various stages of completion, each one so beautifully detailed that to look too long at them would draw tears from a stone.

“Cat got your tongue?” asked the smith.

Jack forced his voice out.

“Greetings and honor to you, Wayland. Peace be at our meeting.”

“And at our parting.” Wayland squinted at him. “I don’t know you, yet there’s something familiar to you. You have my name, lad. What’s yours?”

“Jack.” He found himself hesitant and then ashamed. He raised his chin defiantly. “Jack o’ the Forest.”

Wayland seemed more amused than surprised. “A Jack?
Is,
Rad,
and
Ger
came for you, then? The first and last I understand then—a traveler from afar, a walker on the Ridgeway with the patience of stones, a creature of earth abroad on the way between worlds—but
Rad
? What has befallen a Jack that he needs to change so much? To call on such power, your need must be great indeed.”

Jack’s mind whirled as he struggled to keep up with Wayland’s magic. This was another world, the magic of another kind than he knew. It wasn’t like the way he heard the trees, the way the forest sang for him, the way the earth warmed beneath his touch. It was old and formal, a magic of iron and fire. A magic that threatened to burn him away if he leaned in too closely.

But he needed it.

“I need a sword. Puck said—”

Wayland surged to his feet, his features darkening still further. His eyes flamed red.

“What mischief is Loki making this time?”

Jack frowned at the unfamiliar name. “My Lord Wayland?”

The smith limped toward him, dragging his lamed legs one after the other.

“Or is it Alberich, whom your kind call Oberon?” He spat toward the fire and flames surged to a white heat. “Who sent you, Jack, and on what errand?”

“Puck—you call him Loki? He gave me the information on where to find you, and the means of crossing the Edge. But the errand is my own.”

That seemed to give him pause, though Wayland still looked suspicious. The giant shuffled closer. “Since when has a Jack had his own business? You serve the king and queen of the elves, do you not?”

“I’m a border guard. I simply patrol the thresholds, the area around the Edge. A mortal in my protection was taken by the Nix and I need a sword—one of your swords—to rescue her.”

A great rumble like the tremors of a volcano shook the forge as, to Jack’s surprise, Wayland laughed.

“Ah yes, a girl. There’s usually a girl somewhere along the
way. Come.” He lurched away again and filled two goblets with ale from a skin on a nearby workbench. He handed one to Jack, who eyed it carefully. The cup, though gilded and studded with gemstones, was formed from a human skull. Wayland sat down, still laughing, and threw back his head to drain the liquid from its gruesome container. It flooded his broad mouth, glistening as it soaked his beard, turning the dark gray to black. His eyes met Jack’s over the rim in challenge. Jack drank his ale more slowly, waiting to hear what Wayland would say next.

He lifted the skull-goblet toward Jack in a macabre salute. Rubies winked in the sockets. “They were the sons of my enemy, Nidung, the man who lamed me and trapped me on this waterlogged island. They came, like you, demanding mighty weapons to do great deeds and win fame. They were vain and arrogant.” He refilled his cup and tossed the ale-skin to Jack. “Some may speak kindly enough of me, Jack, but they are few.” He leaned forward, the fire demonizing his blunt features again. “There is a price for everything, from a sword to a human life, be they commoner, king, or queen. Or Jack. Are you prepared to pay that price?”

Jack drained the ale from his cup and refilled it. “I’ll do what I must, Lord Wayland.”

“Just Wayland, lad. I’m a craftsman, not a lord. And kingship?” He shrugged. “That is as it does. I learned my trade well and wanted nothing more than to live a simple life with
my wife. So tell me about this girl you want to rescue. Is she beautiful?”

Jack closed his eyes, thinking of the faces he knew—the women of the Sidhe, Titania herself, the Dames Vertes and the River Maidens. They defined beauty and grace. And Jenny? How could a mortal compare?

“No. She…she’s not like other women, the women of my Realm, I mean. She has hair the color of autumn leaves. She’s gangly, like a newborn fawn, and awkward with it.” A smile played on his lips. “She makes me laugh, usually without meaning to. Usually without realizing she’s said or done something. She makes me want to be better, makes me think that maybe there’s more to me than— She was lost and asked for help. I was duty-bound to give it, but the help I could offer wasn’t what she wanted. We struck a bargain.” He laughed bitterly at the thought and drank a little more, aware that Wayland’s eyes never left him. The smith was studying him, examining him, intent on his every word. “I think she tricked me, but I’m not sure how. She gave me this.” He fished out the necklace. The golden heart flickered as it turned, the light bouncing back into Wayland’s face. It danced there, like a lure. “I promised to help her find her brother, stolen by the trees seven years ago. He’s Queen Titania’s thrall, her servant, but Jenny wouldn’t listen to reason.” He started to smile again, but his expression became a grimace as he felt his eyes burning. “But I can’t.
I’m tied. Between the king and the queen…He gave me his protection to come here, to ask your help. He’d never done such a thing before. To get her back for him. I can’t help but betray her. To one of them. I don’t want to, but…” Screwing up his face, he turned away, tucking the necklace back into the safety of his shirt. “I don’t think I can help it. It’s part of what I am.”

A huge hand took the goblet from him. To his surprise, Wayland squeezed his shoulder. Under the spell of the ale and the firelight, he hadn’t heard the smith move.

“She sounds like my Alvit, my wife. Stubborn and impossible, not beautiful, but…compelling. And with that, more beautiful than any I had ever seen.” He huffed and the fire blossomed again. “You might be as wise to let it go.”