Dockalfar (46 page)

“And others where it will respond so strongly that I can’t control it, or myself?”

“Very possibly. Sidhe women are more reserved in their biological workings than humans. If what you tell me is so, then you may be rather difficult to deal with during the cleansing of the menses.”

“Oh lovely,” Victoria grumbled, feeling vaguely embarrassed by the subject matter when so personally connected to herself. “So I can expect to be a raving, very powerful bitch, each and every month?”

Neira’sha blinked at her in surprise. “If my estimation of the human calendar is correct… that is a bit frequent, isn’t it?”

“No. How often do sidhe women…?”

“In your terms, Victoria – about every ten years.”

She had to hold back a laugh of amazement. “Lucky you.”

“It is also unusual for a sidhe woman to have more than one child in her lifespan, my dear. It is not surprising that our bodies are so much laxer than your own.”

The conversation lulled. The light was starting to fade from the sky again and the both of them were feeling the pangs of hunger.

“Maybe,” Victoria suggested, “we could take the lesson down to the kitchens before I start wishing up a feast and magic cooks and all right into your room.”

A slight smile touched Neira’sha’s lips. “I think Vera would find that very disconcerting.”

~~~

The Mistress of the Hunt, her sun streaked hair in a tight braid at her neck, her helmet under one arm, walked the length of the great hall towards the Lord of the Unseelie court. He watched her progress from under half-lidded eyes. He wore battle armor himself, his ornate helmet on the floor next to his throne. His lady mistress stood at his side, her own soft form obscured by the harsher angles of armor. The women of his court were no less the fighters than the males. His daughter had yet to make an appearance.

Not so subtle hint of her displeasure. He would not force her. Not on this particular campaign. Let her sulk in his mountain fortress while he made war on the Seelies.

Let her play with her human toy, while he sought a far more dangerous human component.

“My Lord,” Tyra bowed at the waist, then stood up straight, her level gaze demanding he return one of his own. He deigned to look up at her, a twist of his lips and an opulent arch of the brow in inquiry as to her news. She took nothing amiss. Ever unflustered, his Mistress of the Hunt.

“The Hunt is ready to move,” she informed him. “All of the ogre forces have been sent ahead. They await us in the Hallow Hills west of Neira’sha’s grove. I dared open a portal no closer and have the Seelies retaliate through it to here.”

“Wise,” he drawled. “And is the court anxious to be on its way?”

“Over anxious,” Tyra replied, dryly. “It has been too long since they’ve wreaked unmitigated havoc.”

He did not quite smile at her. She did not quite smile back. He lifted a hand and negligently waved it. “Then by all means tell them to prepare to ride. Prepare yourselves, Ladies.”

Neferia stared at him, bright eyed. Anxious. She knelt suddenly and caught his hand, placing her lips on his gauntleted knuckles. “My lord,” she whispered. “We shall be avenged.”

She rose and fled. He stared after her in bemusement. Then at Tyra who had not seen fit to depart.

“Avenged for what?” she inquired.

He shrugged and rose, sweeping up his helmet as he did. “I’ve no time to dissect her thoughts.”

“Hmmm? I do wonder what she feels she needs vengeance for.”

“Then you waste your time, when your mind should be on fulfilling this campaign.”

“At your whim, my lord,” she replied respectfully. “But one cannot help wondering why you go to so much effort for so little.”

He stopped and pinned her with an icy glare. “Is it your place to question me, Huntress?”

She shrugged. “I’ve pledged you my loyalty, Azeral. Not the cessation of my curiosity. You spin a wonderful tale with the humans, this concern for the state of both our worlds. The young and the naive might have no reason to doubt you, but you and I both know that the human magic in this realm or theirs can no more be alleviated by those two mortal sorcerers, than you or I can stop the rotation of this world. And even if it could, why bother?”

“You overstep your boundaries, Tyra,” he warned. “My reasons are my own and not for your scrutiny. Let it be enough that I want this girl back in one form or another and I will have her.”

She inclined her head, face calm. No other of his court would have dared try his patience so. She was overconfident of her power.

“Do you know what is strange?” she asked, as if he were not upset over her inquiries at all. “That when Deigah fell from the balcony, his dagger was half way across the garden.”

Azeral blinked at her, caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. He was momentarily at a loss for words. He merely kept her pace and waited for her to say more.

“Rather makes one wonder if his fall was quite so accidental. Your lady mistress seems to be still rather distraught over it. You might ask her why.”

“What do you know of this?” he demanded. He was beginning to feel just a bit unnerved by the topics she chose for conversation. Blatant curiosity into things he would rather not discuss and then abruptly dredging up the unfortunate and incidentally forgotten incident with Deigah. What dagger? And what did Neferia have to do with any of it?

“Nothing,” the Huntress declared. “Mere speculation. No more.”

He lost his chance to question further as they reached the central portal. Ogre guardians bowed deeply and gracelessly before wrestling the massive doors open.

The Hunt in all its glory, waited outside. It was a spectacle of color and nervous motion, all beauty and bristling weapons.

This was nothing like the entertaining midnight ride in search of worthy prey.

This was not that hunt. This was a war party elite. The Unseelie court going to war.

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She felt alive. And powerful. As if she had been reborn into the body of some glorious fabled creature that before might have only graced her dreams. And the wonder of it all, was that she was still learning. That she was only a fraction of what she might be. Despite the long days of lecture and experiment with Neira’sha, the weariness was tinged with overwhelming excitement. She was certain that she would never allow herself to be as manipulated and overwhelmed as she had been in Azeral’s court. She would not let the power to defend herself be taken away again.

It was late afternoon. The sun looked wanly down upon the open courtyard outside the kitchen. Victoria sat on a carved wooden bench, breaking a fast that had lasted the long morning. It was quiet here. The sidhe were busy else where, warding against an attack that seemed all too possible.

Phoebe had rediscovered her. Phoebe was twice the cub she had been when Victoria had left, weeks ago. Guluns, she was told, grew at an incredible rate. They had to – their mothers abandoned them at an early age, being solitary animals, and the cubs had to gain size and ferocity quickly to compete with the varied and vicious chain of predators that roamed the forests of Elkhavah. Phoebe’s thickening shoulders reached just above her knees, and her lithe, snow-furred body was as long as Victoria’s torso. She was beginning to lose the spotted markings of infant-hood. Her mewing cry, though, was still as plaintive as ever as she begged scraps. Victoria surmised that she was going to grow up as spoiled a gulun as ever lived. And as tame a one. The sidhe had taken to the idea as a gulun as a mascot rather wholeheartedly. Even so far as letting their precious children play with her under the watchful supervision of an adult. The cub, if a bit rough due to her nature, was careful not to use her claws in mock play with thinner-skinned companions. She was insistent on gnawing, though, and the increasing strength of her jaws made that practice somewhat painful.

Victoria had to nudge the broad head aside as the cub targeted her boot for chewing material. Phoebe laid back her ears in mock indignation.

There was nothing else to do but reach down and scratch behind them to coax them back up. Phoebe was a wonderful tease. She was adept at getting belly or chin scratched. Victoria thought of her as an overgrown house cat, fond of table scraps and outrageously pampered.

Since guluns did not have an overly developed sense of maternity, she had no notion what Phoebe thought of her.

She finished up the last of her fruit and sat listening to the bird song and the faint voices of the kitchen women. She contemplated going back to her room and curling up on the soft pillows. Sleep seemed a wondrous temptation. But it was still early and Neira’sha would probably want to have one more session before retiring. Victoria sighed and practiced a little bit of what she had learned. She pulled the moisture out of the air, formed a hazy ball of it before her. Phoebe’s ears pricked forward and her dark eyes followed the apparition with interest.

Victoria thought of cold.

She let her mind dwell on icy frost and arctic chill. The ball of moisture crystallized, forming a small fist-sized chunk of ice. She pulled more water from the air and made it grow, until it was roughly the size of a melon. At will she might hurl the ball of ice with devastating speed.

Instead she made it rise slowly, then gracefully bob about the courtyard, invoking the gulun’s immediate attention.

It was a minimal drain of her resources.

No more strenuous than taking a walk. The longer she played with it, the more winded she might become, but with such a minuscule effort that promised to be some ways off.

The cub leapt at the floating ball of ice and Victoria whisked it out of harm’s way.

A rather strange feeling washed over her. It came upon her all of a sudden, a tingling that was neither physical or mental, but disturbing nonetheless. The notion cemented itself into her head that she was being observed. The ball of ice dropped with graceless alacrity when her concentration left it. Phoebe landed on it with claws extended. Ice chips flew.

Victoria looked about. The garden was empty. No one stood in the door way of the kitchen and there was no one looking out of the windows above.

Just her and the cat and a melting ball of ice. The sensation subsided. The shiver ran the length of her frame. So very strong that feeling. She wondered if her normal senses might be enhanced by the usage of her power. Telepathy, as far as she could tell, was not her strong suit, but perhaps she sensed someone thinking about her.

Perhaps Neira’sha had magically ferreted out where Victoria was.

She shook her head and stood. The garden no longer seemed friendly.

She walked towards the kitchen.

Phoebe spared one further moment to harass the defenseless ice ball before padding behind her, making whining little sounds as she did. After all they were in the domain of the kitchen. The cub knew very well to be in begging mode when in the vicinity of Vera and her staff.

As she passed through the kitchen she heard the whispers and speculation over the events of the past few days. She felt the stares on her, as central cause for all the trouble to begin with. If they had never resented her, a human among them before, they must certainly now that she had brought the wrath of Azeral down upon them. She feared for them. She had every intention of seeing they came to no harm.

The garden where the children usually played was empty of young revelers. But a figure did stand there. His back was to her, hair twisted into a braid over his shoulder. She paused under the archway, behind a fall of thick ivy, suddenly terribly afraid to pass by and chance his awareness of her presence.

Phoebe however was the least convenient companion in pursuits of stealth. She let out a testy cry, planting herself at Victoria’s feet. In the garden, Okar turned around. He saw her and attempted a smile.

“How do you fare?” he inquired politely, as if she had not almost been responsible for his death.

“Fine. I’m fine. How do you?”

His expression turned wan. He shrugged. “Better. I think I shall use the magics again without it feeling as if morbibeasts stampede through my head.”

She winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he told her. “We chose to find you.”

“You wouldn’t have had to if I hadn’t been a fool and run off to begin with.”

“No. We would not have.”

She waved a hand at the atmosphere in general. “None of this would be happening if not for me.”

“You mean the ogres at the gate?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“The forces Azeral are most likely gathering to fetch you back,” he clarified. “The ones that would be ungathered if you were still at his keep and ‘we’ had not chosen to take you from him. This situation does not lie directly on your shoulders.”

She stared at him in misery, not knowing what to say and settled for dropping to her haunches and hugging Phoebe.

“I also, I think,” he said, leaning back against the old twisting willow, “owe you my thanks. You saved my life.”

A laugh of disbelief escaped her. He owed ‘her’ thanks. Was the world so totally upside down?

“My concentration was somewhat fixed. I’m told I came to the slash I have across my back from the blade of a huntsman that you deflected.”

“Oh.” She had managed not to think of that unpleasantness. “I-I never killed anyone before.”

“It is not a thing to boast of. But I owe you my life all the same.”

“I – you’re welcome. Did you get into terrible trouble with Ashara? I know she bit Aloe’s head off.”

He opened his mouth then paused as if thinking better of his first response. He settled on, “She was very explicit on just how displeased she was with the venture. She is not displeased with the results.”

“You mean me?”

“I mean you.”

“So what are you doing to protect the keep if Azeral does decide to come here?”

His frown was instant and dark. “I am doing nothing. I have been forbidden by my lady, among others, to put effort towards the wardings. Others, however, are strengthening the wards already set in the grove as well as placing new ones. The grove itself is the product of Neira’sha’s care, and will deflect what she wills it to. If it comes to that.”