Thankless Task (part 2)

If the little cabin at Martin’s Hill was hard to spot by day – and it was, and had been built to be – it was near-impossible to find by moonlight, at least to anyone who didn’t know what they were looking for. Most of the structure had in fact been built inside the hill itself, so the parts that showed aboveground (little more than a door, a stone wall, and a bit of peaked and crooked roof) rose up out of the earth as naturally as the rocks and trees. Even that was masked, behind a rising growth of creepers and vines and bramble, and the roof jutted out between the arching roots of a massive and ancient old oak, fat and twisted with age, and half-dead; only a few of its limbs showed leaves even in summer.

But once you knew what was there, a host of little secrets revealed themselves: that some of the mist settled on Martin’s Hill was actually smoke, curling out from a squat little chimney that looked like a pile of stones; that under that curve of willow roots was a window, set deep in the hillside and framed in sturdy log beams; that mingled in the smell of trees and fallen leaves and damp earth were homier scents, woodfire and bread and tea.

Alyson Shae knew the way to Martin’s Hill well enough that she could probably find it asleep, which after three restless days at The Cottage she was starting to feel afraid she’d have to. But the walk through the forest paths in the cool night had given her a second (or third) wind, and she found that by the time she reached the heavy, low door set into the wall of rough stone she felt almost invigorated. She stepped up and rapped lightly but firmly on it, in a peculiar syncopated pattern.

The door creaked outward, so the Master was at home, but no answer came. Alyson frowned and ducked under the arch of the doorway (wondering, as she often did, how it must look when he had to bend his own considerable height to go through, a thing she’d never managed to see for herself), and stepped into the hallway.

“Master?” Alyson started to take off her wool coat to hang on one of the rough pegs, next to the black greatcoat and battered stovepipe hat, and stopped; it was chilly inside too. She looked down the hall. There was indeed a glow coming from around the corner where the passage bent into the cabin’s main room, but it was awfully low. She stepped down and around.

“Master?” she asked again, and this time it brought a stir from the chair made of hewn logs that sat in front of the guttering fire. With a creak, the seated figure leaned forward and peered around, dislodging a couple of the ragged quilts and blankets that covered it. A long hand reached out and picked up a pair of old-fashioned spectacles from the table nearby, and set them on a long nose.

“Ho, there, if it’s not Goodie Shae her own self,” said a voice with a more than a little creak of its own. Alyson started at that; she was used to it coming out in a boom, like a bass drum. “Deirdre, isn’t it?”

“Alyson, Master. Deirdre was my nan.”

“Of course, of course,” said Calangaeaf, his brows waggling. “Forgive me. What brings me the pleasure of your company, Alyson Shae? It’s been a while.”

“It has, and I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to wake you, Master.”

“Oh, no, just having a sit-down,” said Calangaeaf, plucking off the blankets and shifting himself into the dim firelight. Alyson caught herself before she gasped, but only just. She was used to him being scarecrow-thin, but now he looked drawn and gaunt and gray. There were deep bluish circles under his eyes and his cheeks were sunken. The long thicket of his bristling beard had faded from red-orange to dull brown and ash. All over he looked worn and bent and drawn, like a tree that has shed its leaves for the last time.

“Master?”

He smiled, thinly. “No use fooling you, sure. I’m not well and I haven’t been. It’s harder and harder to come out the Hill these days, and I’m sorry to say it. It’s some sickness that’s deep in the roots, I fear, and I don’t know if I have the strength to beat it.”

“But… why?”

“Here, let’s not have you standing about. Sit. Would you like tea?”

“I’ll make it.”

“No, I – well, that would be nice, I won’t lie.” He sighed and sat back. “Some of the blackberry kind, I think. The spice is too hot these days, I’m finding.”

“I brought bread and apples, too. And tobacco, though maybe that’s not so good for you now.”

He chuckled, dry and low. “Three and a half hundred years on the stuff, young mistress, and surely it won’t be what does for me now. No, it’s a more terrible and subtle sort of ill I fear for.”

Alyson unhooked the kettle from where it hung beside the motley assortment of pots and utensils, most heavy and blackened with age and use. She gathered tea and honey from the nearby shelf and brought everything to the hearth. “It’s not going to hurt to have this fire built up a little, either. It’s too damn cold in here.” She pulled another couple of logs onto the coals and stoked the embers, and when it looked to pick up, she put on the kettle and sat down in the empty wicker chair. “So. Tell me, Master. What’s wrong?”

“Fill me a pipe, here, and I’ll tell.” She frowned, but pulled out the oiled leather pouch from her bag and thumbed a bit into one of his heavy, horn-shaped briars from the mantel. He lit it up with a coal and leaned back, letting the blue smoke wreath around him. “Ah, it’s the Wood, see. It’s not well, though it looks well enough yet. That’ll turn all too soon, come the winter. One more season of glory, for this is a realm of Autumns, as I joyed in when first I came out of Mabon to be bound to it in the time gone by. But after that, the slow end, and so for me too, as I wane here when the Wood does. So pass we both into the Mystery and the long twilight of things, as the worlds must.”

“I don’t understand. Why?”

Calangaeaf puffed at his pipe, sending little smoke rings into the ceiling shadows, where they broke and vanished. “The veils all grow weak, and tear. Here the Other is always close at hand, always awaiting at the doorstep, but now the doors all stand ajar, and no gate is left to bar the way. The Wood has no strength to hold it back any longer. The Lord of Otherwood’s bargain was ill-made and the sacrifice too great, and all for naught.”

Alyson felt heat come into her face. “The Lord of Otherwood? What did she do, Master?”

“She? No, not this one. The last. Her father. He meant to save us, and sold us all into the shadows instead.”

*

The clanging of the iron knocker at the front doors of Hartshorn was the thing that technically woke Rayne out of a deep and pleasant and much-needed slumber, but that, at least, was one thing he felt confident was not his problem, so he turned over into the sofa cushions and went back to sleep.

It was, alas, a brief respite. He’d just slipped back into restfulness again when he felt the hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see the round earnest face of Penrod the butler looking down on him.

“Master Rayne, sir. There’s a visitor.”

“For me?”

“No, sir. It’s Captain Argus of the Folk Under. But her Lordship will be some small time before she’s prepared for company, and the Magus is assisting her. Could I trouble you to be host for the moment, while I get things in order?”

“Oh, why not. Is this someone I’ve met already?”

“No, sir. You’d remember.”

“Right. Give me five minutes, okay?”

“Very good.”

He rose and scrubbed his face, put on a fresh pass of lipstick, and slid a suitably opulent-looking dressing gown on over his silk pajamas, though from what he knew of the Folk Under, wardrobe was the last thing they would be concerned about or even notice. He then took a deep breath, put on his best smile, and walked out barefoot into the main hall to play hausfrau.

Actually, there were three of them: a big creature in a leather coat, with a dozen or so eyes placed asymmetrically all around his head; a tall woman with long dark hair and pale skin, apparently naked under a big loose overcoat, who had what looked like freshly healed burn wounds on her face and neck; and a little fellow with a mole’s snout and hedgehog quills for hair, clutching an armful of ancient-looking books. The one with the eyes took a step forward and gave a curt bow.

“His honor Argus Kermassy, Captain of the War-Band of Hesh,” said Penrod. “With him, his lieutenant Anemone, a Daughter of Nyx, and Pagourie, his scribe and counsel.”

“A rare pleasure,” said Rayne, turning on his most musical voice and bowing deeply. “I’m Rayne, Her Lordship’s concubine. Can I get you any refreshment?”

Argus shook his head. “None for us, thanks. Are you speaking on Otherwood’s behalf today?”

“Alas, I do not have that honor, sir. But give her just a few minutes, if you will, and she’ll be down presently to hear you. Meanwhile, can I persuade you to make yourselves at home in the Cathay room?”

He didn’t wait for an affirmative, but swept down the hallway, and they trailed after him into a round chamber hung with red and gold draperies, dragon woodcuts on silk, and big, spare watercolors showing processions of Buddhas or mountain landscapes. He settled onto one of the low couches and gestured for the others to do the same.

Argus lowered himself down with a creak of leather and nodded at Pagourie, who followed his lead, a bit more nervously. Anemone remained standing, her eyes on the door. Rayne gave them all another round of his smile.

“It’s an honor to have you as guests at Hartshorn, Captain,” he said. “I understand it’s not often you’re out and about so early in the day.”

“Nor would we be, not where the Sun can see us. But I spoke to our Elders and they sent me here without delay. Hopefully the Marchess will have an answer for our problem.”

“Your problem? Not ‘lack of vision,’ one hopes?”

Argus grinned. He had an impressive number and variety of teeth. “I bet you’d be even funnier without a nose, Brightland man,” he said.

Rayne arched an eyebrow, started to speak, and paused. “Point taken,” he said, inclining his head.

A sudden tumult of flapping passed over their heads. Gregor settled himself down on the far end of the couch, next to Pagourie, and croaked low at him. The mole snout nodded.

“I see. Thank you.” He looked up, and the raven flapped back out. “Captain, he says Her Lordship’s pet wizard is on her way in to give us audience and speak for the house.”

“Wonderful,” growled Argus. “Well, at least we weren’t kept waiting too long. This one’s all right, though. Nem likes her.” Anemone flashed teeth and nodded.

“Did he really just call her that?” Rayne wondered aloud, but no one was paying him any mind. Jenny Haniver, in jeans and an oversized sweater, strode into the room, and Argus and Pagourie stood. The Captain gave her a bow, which she returned. Gregor made another entrance, and settled onto her shoulder.

“Greetings, Captain. Been a while. Good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Magus.”

“I see you’ve already met our new house Fool. I hope he’s been keeping you entertained.”

“Oh, I’m thinking of getting one myself, now.” Those teeth flashed again, and Rayne could’ve sworn at least one of the eyes winked at him.

“Well, we’ll see what we can do for you.” Jenny turned to Rayne. “I think Her Lordship could still use a little assistance. If you don’t mind.”

He arched a brow back at her, but got up. “Of course, Great Magus, Your Wizardship. My pleasure.” He gave her a genuine full-on courtier’s bow, with an extra little gesture of his own in it.

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, and he rose and swept out.

*

Upstairs, the Marchess of Otherwood had apparently gotten dressed and then half-crawled back under the covers with a pillow on her head. Rayne stood over her and let out a theatrical sigh.

“You should probably come make an appearance, at least. If I’m up here alone with you too long, people will talk.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and put a hand on her shoulder. “How do you feel?”

“When I woke up, I was afraid I was going to die,” she said, thick with pillow. “Now I’m afraid I’m not.”

“Well, now we know all about the dangers of hard drinking,” he said. A hand flailed at him, half-heartedly, from under a blanket. “Now, now. I’m here to help. Let’s have a look at the patient.”

He peeled back the covers. Marcie was lying face-down, and pulled her arm up across her eyes when he lifted the pillow off. “No, stop that. Relax, lie still. Let’s get this jacket off you.” She groaned, but cooperated. “Good. Now, breathe.” His palms rested on the muscles of her back, and his fingers started to knead, along the sides of her spine.

“Nng. No. I’m not up for a backrub, Rayne. It hurts.”

“Shush. Of course it hurts. You were very stupid, love. Now relax and let me work.”

She let out a whine of protest, but didn’t try to move away. He kept his fingers working, steady and firm, letting the heat of his palms run out through his fingertips. In a few moments he felt her start to relax into the rhythm of his hands, and her breathing got slower and deeper. He matched his own to it, slow and deliberate, and then as she loosened more he began to take the lead, deep full breaths of cool, clean air, and felt the rise of her back as her lungs expanded with his own. The first of the pain started to creep into his hands, a cold throb in his palms and wrists, but he held it there without pushing it away, started to work up her back from the top of her hips, rolling towards the center as if gathering sand into a line. He moved slowly and carefully, to her shoulderblades, her shoulders, her neck. Finally his hands rested on either side of her head, fingers spread over her cheeks and temples, and he took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and pulled. The last of it came loose, and he sat back on the bed, his hands held in front of him as if around a large ball. The space between his fingers felt chilly and oily and thick.

Marcie rolled over and looked up. “Damn. What did…?”

“Hold on,” he said. “I need to put this somewhere. Can I use your bathroom sink?”

“Sure.”

He stood up and walked, quickly but steadily, into the little powder room adjoining her bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot. There was a glazed ceramic pedestal sink inside; he held his hands over the wide bowl of its basin and let go. It felt like something greasy and cold slid off his fingers and palms, and he ran warm water over them for a long moment before coming back out.

Marcie was sitting up with her back against a pillow. Her eyes were bright. “Wow. That was… intense. You think you could teach Jenny to do that?”

“Yes, and speed on my obsolescence. Besides, that’s about fifteen years of practice, before you get that really right without just taking it on yourself.”

“Well, I think you got it down.Gods, I wish I’d had someone around me who knew that when I was at the Scholomance.”

He sniffed. “A proper Scholomance would be teaching that to you, instead of all that silliness with incantations and circles. But nobody asked me.”

“Well, I’m awfully glad you’re around now, lover.” She smiled and ran a hand over his head, brushing the first of the day’s sandpaper stubble. Then she leaned in and closed her eyes and kissed him.

“Darling,” he said, after a moment, “you do feel better.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Ah, no. You have business waiting downstairs that you might even be in time to catch the end of, and while I’m sure Jenny is handling things just fine, it wouldn’t hurt for you to at least put in an appearance. That fellow with all the eyes seems like the cranky type.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, but smiled at him. “Okay, okay. You’re right. Later.”

“Later, oh yes. I’m holding you to it.”

“I hope you’ll do more than that.”

“Oh, hush,” he said, feeling the heat in his cheeks, and elsewhere. “And save some of that for your wife, dear. She’s been working hard all morning, you know.”

*

Jenny Haniver took off her glasses and set them in her lap, and rubbed her face with both hands. “Okay. How big?”

“It’s young still. A dozen yards at the most. Not a flyer yet, thank the Moon. But it has fire, as Anemone will attest. And that blast might have been the end of any other of us.”

“Great.”

“It’s not the beast itself so much that worries me, Magus. It’s that it’s here.” Argus scratched a horny nail under the ridge of his jaw. “I’ve been thinking on this. No big sloths hereabouts in years, and one wanders into our path out of nowhere. Fine, then; that’s a country just a turn or two off the main road, if you follow me. That’s how it is around here, after all. But at the same time, a wyrm too? That’s one oddity in a night too many, I say. And this isn’t dragon country, besides. That means it coming all the way here from the Marchenwald, and I know there’s paths that way hereabouts, but I didn’t figure them to be that easy to cross.”

“They’re not,” said Jenny. “They shouldn’t be, not in this direction. Otherwood should be keeping that kind of traffic out.”

“Aye, that’s what I thought.”

“Alright, let’s think of the possibilities here. Could it have been around here since it was a hatchling? Some faery prince’s pet that got loose?”

Argus grunted. “Maybe. Not likely, though. We’d almost surely have learned of it by now. A growing wyrm does a lot of hunting and a lot of damage. It wouldn’t stay hidden this long.”

“Yeah, that’s about what I thought you’d say. Well, dammit.” She ran a hand through the tangle of her hair. “Okay, down to practicalities. We can get worked up about the implications later. How do we catch it?”

“Why, Magus.” Argus grinned. “Are you telling me you’ve never faced down a dragon before.”

“No. This is a whole new opportunity for me.”

“Well, then. Pagourie?”

The little mole-nosed man coughed and hefted one of his books. The pages threatened to drift loose as he cracked it open; he turned them aside, gingerly, to where a tattered ribbon marked his place. “From the Captain’s description, this would seem to be a variety of the Common European or Silvan Worm. Reptilian, but not cold-blooded, thus unaffected by temperature. Prefers to hunt at twilight or a little after. Entirely at home in forested terrain, and able to hide surprisingly well for a creature of its size. Exceptional sense of smell and good eyesight, hearing less so. Not really sentient, but cunning, and utterly without fear. It will attack to feed on anything it regards as easy prey – which is practically everything – but it will also eat carrion if it’s available. And if it is indeed from the Marchenwald, as I think we can safely assume, then it will have certain tastes with folkloric resonance – maidens, possibly, and maybe treasure.”

“Uh-huh. Dagger teeth, claws like swords, armored nose to tail, and all that?”

“Uh, just so, Magus.”

“Lovely. So, with all that in mind, I ask again: How can we catch it? How do we get rid of it?”

Pagourie swallowed. “I believe the answer is, ‘With great care,’ Magus.”

“Right. So we’re probably stupid to try and hunt it down right where it’s on home turf. That leaves luring it out, somehow. Oh, gods.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Alright, I think I’m beginning to have an idea of what we can do. But I think I may need your assistance, Captain. If nothing else, to help me kill off the witnesses afterwards.”

*

The Abbey of St. Masbeth is on a hill just outside the more populated areas of Otherwood township. It looks almost like any other large, old-fashioned, well-built country church – a handful of sturdy stone buildings sprawled around the central spire of the cathedral, all connected by low passages or covered walkways. There are lovely stained-glass windows all around, and graceful pointed arches on the doorways, and from certain vantages a tall, beautiful statue of a six-winged seraph can be seen at the end of the wide courtyard. There is a large, well-tended garden out back, and down on the next hill is a small, neat orchard with a grape arbor at the end. If the presence of monks in dark cassocks attending to their tasks is somewhat out of the ordinary (as much as anything can be said to be out of the ordinary in the environs of Norton), it at least fits in perfectly with the backdrop of ecclesiastical serenity and order that the Abbey provides.

On closer inspection, it can be seen that the crosses adorning the walls and steeple are not quite what one might expect: the arms are equidistant, and the circle around the crux widens at the bottom into a distinct crescent shape. The monks who live and work at the Abbey often have a certain impious quality about them that seems at odds with their vestments (and the Lucid Order of St. Masbeth the Fallen is, indeed, a brotherhood in name only, as there are nearly as many women as men among its members). And the pictures in the glass of its windows show scenes from a variety of gospels, some more unorthodox than others: the ascension of Sophia; Krishna and Arjuna at the field of Kurukshetra; Thoth inscribing the Book of the Dead; the coming of the Fomorians to Toraigh.

Alyson Shae, reflecting that a shortage of sleep, breakfast and caffeine was probably not ideal conditions under which come come into the serenity of St. Masbeth’s, yawned and did her best to catch up with Matra Rinnah, the entirely too lively Abbess, as she hurried down the vaulted hallways behind the cathedral’s narthex. She had almost, on arrival, apologized for the early hour, until she realized that Rinnah had almost certainly been up before the sun, and had to remind herself that it was bad form in a church, even in thought, to wish ill on morning people.

“Well, the good and bad news is that he’s pretty much the same as ever,” said Rinnah over her shoulder. She was small and round-faced, with an untamed quantity of dark, curly hair, the youngest Abbess the Order had seen in a generation. “So he’s not slowing down much, despite my begging and pleading, but he isn’t any less cranky either. Fra Betzalel’s doing his best, but it’s hard when you can’t get someone to admit they’re in pain.”

“So I recall,” said Alyson.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t even have anyone in there, but he’d be furious if he knew I was turning people away for his sake. And, to be honest, it’s not going to hurt to have a fresh set of eyes looking in on him, if you wouldn’t mind giving a professional opinion afterwards.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Abbess.”

“Thank you.” Rinnah half-smiled. “Not that I expect anyone can really do anything, now. I’m just not ready for this to be happening, and hoping for miracles. It’s part of my job, see.”

They stopped in front of the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway. Above the lintel, a tapestry showed Christ in Eden, an ourobouros on his robes, offering the Fruit of Knowledge to Eve. Rinnah gave a knock, and pulled the doors open, and they went into the Library.

The collection of Lore and arcana at St. Masbeth’s is housed in a great round chamber, two stories high, with a balcony running around the second floor and a wide round skylight set in the roof above, and a pair of spiral staircases twisting up either side for access. The shelves are two layers deep all around, free-standing, with volumes lining each front and back. There are those who say that tracing the path of that labyrinth in a certain pattern will open doors that even Otherwood and Tower do not know; but all persons in a position to confirm such a rumor have remained resolutely silent on the matter.

Alyson and Rinnah stepped into the center of the room, where a number of chairs and a scriptorium made a small island. “Fra Myron?” called the Abbess. “There’s someone here to see you.”

The answer came in the form of a long bout of coughing followed by a muttered oath, and then the lean, dark figure of the Abbey librarian emerged from behind a shelf on the second story and leaned over the balcony. “Aye, well. Hold on a moment, then.”

Alyson couldn’t help but note how painfully careful his progress down the staircase was, or how tightly he gripped the railing. But his gaze, down through the half-moon glasses perched on his crowish nose, was as sharp and incisive as ever, and the smile that crooked his mouth was the same she had known for long years.

“Well, young Mistress Shae. Good to see you again, lass. I’m sure the books is all a-tremble, though, thinking they’d had their last savaging from you.”

Alyson blushed and laughed. “And me thinking I’d waited long enough for them to forget. Hello, Fra Myron.”

“Do you need anything?” asked Rinnah. “Tea, breakfast?”

“No, thank you kindly, Abbess. I’m sure I’ll be just fine with our witchy friend here, unless perhaps she’s thinking to enchant me inter a frog and put me out of my misery at last.”

Rinnah laughed. “All right, then. I’ll leave you two be.” And she bowed and went, closing the doors behind her.

“Right, right. Let me sit a moment, then, and you can tell me what you’ve come by to learn. Though I expect you’ll know where everything is, still, and I’ll have hauled my bones all down the stairs for nothing.”

“Ha. Maybe. I bet this place still has a few surprises you haven’t let me see yet, though.”

“Well, I suppose if it did, now’d be the time for tellin’. I expect the Mother’s been telling you all about how terrible sick I am, and fixing to die any moment?”

Alyson crooked an eyebrow at him. “Are you saying that’s not true?”

Myron chuckled, drily. “No, of course it’s true. And long past due, I’m sure. Four and a half centuries is more than fair for any man, and I’m to pay the Gray King his wages soon. And that’s all my debts discharged when I do, too, Mystery help me.”

She sat down on one of the other chairs, across from him. “I think the Abbess keeps hoping you’re going to come back around. I don’t think she’s quite ready to see you gone. I can’t imagine anyone is. I’m not.”

He sighed and ran a long hand over his carefully tonsured head. “No, I expect not, lass. I’m not settled on how I feel about it myself; that long in the world gives you a taste for livin’, no doubt about that. But I’m tired, see. Long tired, and I think I’m done. Time to quit lingering and on with the tale, now.” He shifted and cleared his throat. “And that’s more than enough of that. You’re not here for the sake of my woes. Tell, tell. Distract me.”

“Okay.” Alyson took a breath. “I need to know about one of the Covenanti, Myron. Whatever it is you know or can point me to, however fragmentary. I need to know about the Ephesian.”

Both his feathery eyebrows went up at that. “Ah. Is that all? And me worried you’d ask me for something hard, girl.”

“I know. Just whatever you can tell me, or point me in the right direction. I think it’s important.”

“Oh, no doubt it is. But I send you far enough in the right direction and you’ll have to find a way to get your answers without the help of a head. Not a thing a man at the gates of night wants on his conscience, is it?”

“Myron.” Alyson closed her eyes. “I don’t really have a good way to say this, so: The hell with your conscience. Stop protecting me.” He started to speak, and she held up a hand. “No. I’m going to say my piece first. I mean it. Everyone’s been trying so damn hard to keep me out of danger, for years now. Jenny drove me crazy with it, until she finally drove me away. But it’s like she made sure and trained everyone else to do it too. Every time I turn around, I hear about how someone’s worried about me. I have to drop in on the godsforsaken Spirit of the Wood to find out he’s fading, and Otherwood’s fading, and he didn’t tell me because he didn’t want to get me involved. And now you, too. Well, stop it, all of you. Maybe I’m not Jenny bloody Haniver Urantica the Indestructible Adept. But I am the best damn witch in Otherwood since my great-grandmother’s time, and I can damn well take care of myself.”

Fra Myron looked at the floor, scratched at his chin. He looked up. “You done?”

She considered. “Yes.”

“Right. Well. First, it’s got to be said there’s worse troubles than having a lot of people around who worry about you. Lots worse.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“No, you said your piece. You’re done. My turn.” He cleared his throat. “Second, one reason you’re a damn good witch – and you are that, Alyson Shae, no question about it – is all that time you spent paying attention to people what knew more than you did. Not sure why you think it’s time to stop now.

“Third—” He paused and chuckled. “Third, it ain’t like you’re the first Shae that dug in her heels and didn’t move till she got what she came for. Story or two I could tell you about that great-grandmother of yours, you know. Well, let’s see if you can keep yourself from being the last. So.” He stopped and coughed, the force of it doubling him over for a long moment, and he drew a tattered kerchief out of his sleeve at the end and wiped it over his mouth. “Ah. Damn. Yes. The Ephesian. Well. Not one of the first Five of the Covenanti, though I guess you knew that. We’re not sure which of them brought him into the order, though there’s a suspicion it was Saint-Germain after he’d broken off with the others, for reasons no one can fathom. Reasons of his own, no doubt, as they always were, if it was him that did it – and none of the other four would’ve been likely to bring him in, I think.

“He was, we think, a king in Asia Minor sometime in the days of Cyrus the Great. Seems to have taken his cue in the leadership department from studying the old Assyrians, and I don’t need to tell you how unpleasant that school of kingdom-building can get. Not popular, either, and he was deposed – not sure how, exactly – but not before managing to destroy most of the records of his reign, a job Alexander seems to have helped finish for him when he came through later. So we don’t know his True Name and we don’t have much of an idea what he was up to for most of his exile.

“Seems he’d come back to Ephesus by the time of Nero, because that’s when he was made Covenantus and got a whole new boxful of toys to play with. Lot of horrible things going on in Rome around then, not all of ‘em in history books, and it’s almost sure he hand a hand in a lot of them. Stayed in the shadows after that, though, and started collecting all the dark Lore he could get his hands on. He has a real taste for atrocity, but he got subtler after a while, and learned he could play his games slower and smarter, but it seems like every so often he gets bored and has to break something open just to look at its insides. But mostly he likes to hoard, and have things so no one else can, and pull strings so he can watch people dance for him.

“That’s who he is, or about what we know of it, anyway. What he is, is a little simpler. The Ephesian is the half-breed child of the King of the Manticores.”

Alyson blinked, and realized her breath had caught. She let it out. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”

Fra Myron’s head bobbed in his bird’s nod. “Yes. Not sure what poor soul he was sired on, or how long ago. Nor what gifts he’s got from his father’s bloodline, though we assume the worst. But we know as sure as we know anything about him that he’s the Manticore King’s get, and more than likely his chosen heir.”

Alyson sat back, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. She suddenly felt even more tired than when she’d arrived. “Alright. So far it makes sense. Now there’s just one more thing I need to know about. Year ago, the Lord of Otherwood made a bargain with him. Calangaeaf told me a little bit about it, but he’s not his most coherent these days, and I’d like to hear about it from you. Something about an ash wand taken from his own house, and the tree it was made from. I’d like to know what you know about it, and why it’s so important.”

“Ah.” Myron sighed again, almost a rattle. “Was wondering if you was about to get around to that. Well, this is a tale that’s going to take a bit of telling. What do you know about Hartshorn?”

*

“No, Jenny. No, no, no. That can’t be the best plan you can come up with.”

“Well, we’re not going to go charging into the woods after it and hope we get lucky, are we? Or did you just want to let the thing run all over the countryside and let some farmer find it in his barn with a bellyful of ploughhorse?”

“So it’s better if you’re the one getting eaten?”

“Okay, first, I have no intention of letting it get that far. Second, who the hell else is going to do it? You? You want me to put Rayne out there?”

“I told you I’d go, Jenny.”

“Shut up. You stay out of this. Think about it, Mar. Nobody else around here can do what I can. I’m the only logical choice. Plus, it’s not like I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve taken down qlippoth the size of buses, and you can’t tell me a big snake with wings is any worse than one of those.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t feel like a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Right, and that’s your decision to make for me.”

“Honey, you’ve been back home for less than a day and you’re about to go right back out and be a worm on a hook. I think I’m allowed to be less than happy about that.”

“You’re allowed to feel however the hell you want. You’re just not going to stop me, is all.”

“Gods and Powers. It always comes down to that with you, doesn’t it?”

“Well, I sure the hell hope you’re not waiting around for me to change now. And Mar?”

“What?”

“I’m not going to be the worm. I’m going to be the hook. I just need – so help me – a little help from the Prom Queen here to help me hide the barb.”