4.
Beltan knew there was no way out of a fight this time.
Not that he minded, he had to admit, baring his teeth in a grin. After all, during the course of his five-and-thirty years, he had been a knight of Calavan, a commander in Queen Grace’s army, a master swordsman, and a disciple of the war god Vathris Bullslayer. It went without saying that he enjoyed a good battle.
The monster hulked before him: gleaming red, belching heat and smoke, blaring a shrill cry to signal its aggression. Beltan’s fingers tightened around a shaft of cold steel, green eyes narrowing to slits, nostrils flaring. He sized up his enemy, and each of them tensed, waiting for the other to make the first move. Both of them knew there could only be one victor in a duel like this. And by Vathris, Beltan vowed it was going to be he.
The traffic light changed. Beltan floored the gas pedal, double-shifted into third, and spun the steering wheel. The black taxicab roared in front of a red sports car, cutting it off, and whipped around the traffic circle.
“Hey there!” came an annoyed voice from the backseat of the cab. “I told you to be careful. I’ve got a tart on my lap.”
It was one of the magics of the fairy blood that ran in Beltan’s veins that it helped him to understand the language of this world. Even without it, he probably could have made do, for he had learned much about the world Earth in the last three years. All the same, some words—like
tart
—still had the ability to confound him. He glanced in the rearview mirror, not certain if he would see a pie on the man’s lap, or a saucy-smiled wench like one might find in King Kel’s hall.
It was pie. Though it wasn’t just on his lap. It was on his shirt and tie as well.
“Sorry about that,” Beltan said cheerfully.
The man dabbed with a handkerchief at the crimson goop on his shirt. “I wouldn’t be expecting a tip if I were you.”
Beltan wasn’t. He didn’t drive the taxi because they needed the gold; he did it for fun. Behind him, the driver of the red sports car honked his horn and made a rude gesture. Beltan stuck a hand out the window and waved, then turned down Shaftesbury Avenue.
He dropped his fare in Piccadilly Circus—the man paid with a sticky wad of cherry-covered pound notes—then maneuvered the cab through the frenzy of cars, buses, and tourists that filled the traffic circle. A group of men and women wearing white bedsheets like they were some sort of ceremonial robes clustered beneath the winged statue that dominated the center of the Circus. They held up cardboard signs bearing hand-scrawled messages. The Mouth is Hungry, read one of the signs. Another proclaimed, Are You Ready To Be Eaten?
The people in white sheets were almost always in Piccadilly Circus these days. More could be found haunting other busy intersections around London. The tourists gave the sign-holders a wide berth, edging past them to snap furtive pictures of the statue before retreating. Above, gigantic neon signs blazed against the dusky June sky, glimmering as if made of a thousand magic jewels.
After several quick offensive maneuvers—and a few more offensive gestures from other drivers—Beltan was out of the Circus and heading down Piccadilly Street, toward the Mayfair neighborhood and home. Driving a taxi in London was definitely a warrior’s job. All the same, it had not been Beltan’s first choice of occupation.
After arriving there, he had assumed he would join the army. Peace was simply the time a warrior spent sharpening his sword before his next battle, the old saying went, and Beltan wanted to make sure his sword—and his mind—stayed sharp.
He knew this country had a queen. No doubt she was good and just, for this land was free and prosperous. So he decided to go to her, kneel, and pledge his sword. However, when he went to her palace, the guards at the gate had given him dark looks when he spoke of presenting his sword to the queen, and he had been forced into a hasty retreat.
After that, he asked some questions and learned one could join the army simply by speaking to one of its commanders and signing a paper. He went to see one of these commanders—
sergeant
was his title. He was a doughy man, and didn’t look like he had swung a sword in a while, but Beltan treated him with deference. He bowed, then informed the sergeant that he had served in the military all his adult life, that he was a disciple of Vathris, and had heard the Call of the Bull.
The sergeant didn’t seem to know what to make of all this, which seemed odd, but Beltan explained, and the man’s face turned red.
“We have quite enough of a problem with that sort of thing already,” he said, shaking his head. “Good day!”
Later, when Beltan stopped for an ale at a pub where other men who had heard the Call of the Bull often gathered, he had told this story, and the bartender said he wasn’t surprised, that in most places in the world men like themselves weren’t welcome in the military.
That seemed nonsense to Beltan. The generals of this land could not think it was better to send into battle men who would leave families behind, rather than men who were comfortable in one another’s company and who would leave no children fatherless should they never return from war.
And do you not have a child, Beltan?
He turned the cab onto a narrow lane and had to concentrate as he wedged it into a parking spot that was no more than four hands longer than the car itself. There was no doubt that having fairy-enhanced senses was an advantage when parallel parking.
Beltan paused a moment to clean out the cab, using a discarded newspaper to wipe the pie off the backseat. As he did, a headline caught his eye: CELESTIAL ANOMALY EXPANDING.
The article below discussed the dark spot in the heavens that had been detected some months ago. Beltan had never been able to see this dark spot himself—the night sky was obscured by London’s bright lights—but he had watched a program on the Wonder Channel about it. Men of learning called astronomers had discovered the spot by using giant spyglasses that let them see far into the heavens. They did not understand what caused the darkness—some suggested it was a great cloud of dust—but according to the article in the paper, it had just blotted out Earth’s view of two more stars, and the pace of its growth seemed to be increasing. Soon now it would be visible to the naked eye, even in London.
While the astronomers in the article claimed the anomaly was too far away to affect Earth—out beyond the farthest planet—a few people claimed the blot was going to grow until it consumed the sun, the moon, and everything. People like the sign-holders in Piccadilly Circus. So far, no one took those people seriously.
Beltan stuffed the trash in a nearby bin, locked the cab, and headed toward the narrow building of gray stone where they lived on the third floor. It was a good location, as there were a small, friendly pub and several eating establishments in the alley next to the building, and all sorts of markets lined the street before it. With the tall buildings soaring around like parapets, it made Beltan think of living in a modest tower on the edge of a bustling castle courtyard.
In other words, it felt like home.
He stretched his long legs, bounding up the timeworn steps, and started to fit his key into the front door. As he did, a tingling coursed up his neck, and he turned. Just on the edge of vision a shadow flitted into the alley, its form merging with the deepening air. Compelled by old instincts, Beltan leaped over the rail and peered into the alley. Four people sat at a table in front of the pub, and a waiter was setting up chairs outside one of the restaurants. There was no sign of the shadow.
All the same, Beltan knew his senses hadn’t lied to him. Something had been there. Or some
things
, for it had seemed more like two shadows than one. Only what were they? He had felt a prickling, which meant
danger
. Perhaps they had been criminals, off to do some wicked deed. Sometimes the fairy blood allowed him to sense such things.
Whatever it had been, the shadow was gone now, and his stomach was growling. He headed back to the front door, let himself in, and bounded up two flights of steps to their flat.
“I’m home,” he called, shutting the door behind him.
There was no answer. He shrugged off his leather coat and headed from the front hall into the kitchen. Something bubbled in a pot on the stove. Beltan’s stomach rumbled again. It smelled good.
He headed from the kitchen into the main room. It was dark, so he turned on a floor lamp— even after three years, being able to bring forth such brilliant light by flicking a switch amazed Beltan—then moved down the hall. Their bedroom was dark and empty, as was the bathroom (a whole chamber full of marvels), but light spilled from the door of the spare room at the end of the hallway. Beltan crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
“So here’s where you’re hiding.”
Travis looked up, setting something down on the desk by the window, and smiled. Beltan grinned in return. A feeling of love struck him, every bit as powerful as that first day he saw Travis in the ruins of Kelcior.
“What are you smiling about?” Travis said.
Beltan crossed the room, hugged him tight, and kissed him.
“Oh,” Travis said, laughing. He returned the embrace warmly, but only for a moment before his gaze turned to the darkened window.
Beltan let him go, watching him. Travis’s gray eyes were thoughtful. He looked older than when Beltan first met him; more than a little gray flecked his red-brown hair and beard. However, the years had done his countenance good rather than ill, and—while sharper—it was more handsome than ever. Beltan’s own face had been badly rearranged in more than one brawl over the years. How Travis could love someone as homely as he, Beltan didn’t know, but Travis
did
love him, and these last three years had been ones of quiet joy and peace.
Only they had been years of waiting as well. The Pale King was dead, and Mohg was no more, but Earth and Eldh were still drawing near. What that meant, or how soon the two worlds would meet (if they would even meet at all) Beltan didn’t know. But somehow—maybe through some prescience granted him by the fairy’s blood—he knew Travis’s part in all this was not over. And neither was his own. Sometimes, in the dark of night, he found himself hoping he was right—hoping that one day the waiting would be over, and his sword would be needed again.
You’re a warrior, Beltan. You aren’t built for peace.
He dismissed that thought with a soft snort. This wasn’t about him and his warrior’s pride. Something was troubling Travis; Beltan didn’t need magical senses to know that.
“What is it?” he said, laying a hand on Travis’s shoulder. Then he glanced at the desk and saw the frayed piece of paper lying there.
Beltan sighed. “I miss her, too. But wherever she is, she is well. She knows how to take care of herself.”
Travis nodded. “Only it’s not just her, is it?” He kissed Beltan’s scruffy cheek. “It’ll take me a few more minutes to finish burning dinner if you want to take a shower.” Then he was gone.
Beltan hesitated, then picked up the piece of parchment. It was as soft as tissue. How many times had Travis read the letter?
Probably as many times as you have, Beltan.
One cloud had dimmed their happiness these last three years, and that was thinking of all those they had left behind. Grace, Melia and Falken, Aryn and Lirith, and so many others. But of them all, none were in their thoughts more than one.
“Where are you, Vani?” he whispered.
He had asked himself that question a thousand times since the day they found the letter in her empty chamber at Gravenfist Keep. It had been early spring, just a month after Queen Grace slew the Pale King and Travis broke the Last Rune. A caravan of Mournish wagons had arrived at the fortress, bearing the happy news that Lirith was one of their own, that she and Sareth could wed. Yet the Mournish must have brought other news, for the next morning Vani was gone.
Without thinking, his eyes scanned the letter. However, he needn’t have bothered to read, for he had the words committed to heart. The letter was addressed to him, and to Travis.
I hope you both can forgive me, but even if you
cannot, I know what I do is right. I think, in time, you
will agree. It does not matter. By the time you read
this, I will be gone. There is no point in trying to
search for me. I am
T’gol
. You will not be able to
follow my trail, for I will leave none.
For many years I have known it was my fate to
bear a child by the one who will raise Morindu the
Dark from the sands that bury it. As so often happens,
my fate has come to pass, but not in the way I
imagined. I will indeed bear a child by you, Travis
Wilder, but not
to
you. And nor to you, Beltan of
Calavan, though you are the one who made her with
me. Instead, I choose to be selfish and take her for my
own.
Why? I am not certain. The cards are not yet clear.
But I have spoken to my al-Mama, and one thing is
certain: Fate moves in a spiral about my daughter.
She is at the center of something important. Or
perhaps something terrible. What it is, I cannot say,
but I intend to find out. And if it is dangerous, I will
protect her from it. Even if it means keeping her from
her father. From both her fathers.
Again, I beg your forgiveness. I have taken our
child away from you both. In return, I give to you
something I hope you will find equally precious: I
give you one another. Do not squander this gift, for
what I have taken from you cannot be replaced. You
must love one another. For me. For us. Just as I must
do this thing for our daughter.
May Fate guide us all.
—Vani
That was it. There was no more explanation, no chance of stopping her. She was simply gone.
What she meant when she said lines of fate swirled around her—around their—daughter, they didn’t know, and nor had Vani and Sareth’s al-Mama offered more explanation. The old woman simply cackled and said that each had their own fate to worry about. “Except for you,
A’narai
,” she had added, pointing a withered finger at Travis.