Changelings at Odds Read online

  But she could not truly relax. As always, there were far too many problems. A night of wild cavorting and open-air sex did little to solve any of them. Tensions between the faeries and the British were rising rapidly, and the death of Moonshadow had left Everbright torn between rival factions of the Summer and Winter Court.

  Theodora still deeply mourned the loss of her half-sister and dear friend Moonshadow. Without Moonshadow it seemed Everbright had transformed suddenly from a beautiful dream realized to a misfit nation under siege from all sides and threatened from within. The streets of the city creaked and strained in the night without the magic that had been used to rotate them each day. The random movements of the streets were meant to create a place that truly lived up to the name—a City of Everlasting Change. But without Moonshadow casting the spell each morning, the streets lay sprawled in a chaotic jumble that could not right themselves.

  And then there was the situation down below. The children. She must find some way to save them. She must.

  Theodora put on a layered linen dress and wrapped a light woolen shawl around her shoulders against the September chill. She took the stairs down six flights to the ground. A hopeful glance across Seelie Park revealed Meadowlark was no longer sleeping where she’d left him. Instead Pox stood glowering up at the West Tower.

  She walked quickly to the center of the park where the great ash tree stood as memorial to Moon Dancer. The linkage was far more than just symbolic. Upon her death, Moon Dancer’s soul had merged with the great tree. But that had been many years ago and no vestige of Theodora’s mother could still be felt within the tree. Nevertheless, Theodora caressed the flaking bark with a tender ‘hello.’

  “How I wish you were here, Mother,” she whispered. “If I ever needed you, I need you now.”

  But wishing couldn’t make it true. If anyone was to rescue Everbright from its looming demise it would just have to be Theodora, all on her own if necessary. She bent down where two of the ash’s huge roots formed a Y along the ground. A clump of wild primrose filled the depression. The pale, cream-colored flowers remained always in bloom regardless of season or weather. She whispered the secret word which removed the glamour, and a dim purple glow outlined the entrance to the caves down below. Theodora descended a short wooden staircase.

  The caverns at Barrow Downes were empty now. The Summer Court faeries had all taken new quarters in the city above, enjoying fresh air and sunlight every day and more importantly, moonlight, every night. They had spent the better part of seventy years hiding in these caves, safe from the vengeance and bloody wrath of humankind. Theodora had called these caves home too, when she wasn’t living at Grayson Hall. For the most part, she remembered them full of life and laughter and faeries living free. Now she walked their rocky passageways in silence. The place seemed much more like a tomb.

  An alarming pressure pricked her eardrums. She thought it just a bit worse than the last time she’d passed this way. She could feel the tension in the air as the last of Moonshadow’s magic spell strained against the impending collapse. She had no idea how much time remained before it would all come crashing down. Some of the caverns had shrunk around the edges already, toppling a few of the empty houses and crushing the colorful mushrooms that grew along the avenue.

  She walked with a sense of urgency, passing through the empty streets until she entered the great cavern, humid and dark, where the caretaker mushrooms grew. She had brought no lantern but could see well enough in the dark. The air was thick with the scent of wild mushrooms growing in a green, damp place. Several dozen giant mushrooms stood in neat rows. They each stood twenty feet high. Encased within these mushrooms were the children of Barrow Downes. The flesh of the strange plants was slimy and nearly translucent. Theodora counted twelve children, ranging from infancy to several years old. She paused to look upon the face of a faery girl-child, floating naked within one such mushroom. The child’s eyes were open but she did not notice Theodora. A dreamy expression was written across her face, not unpleasant, as she floated in a pool of shimmering fluid.

  Theodora recognized this as the mushroom that had raised herself as a child. She had spent several happy years inside Eobard, sipping from its mind-altering nectar, discovering the secrets of the whole of nature, making the acquaintance of every creature great and small, every root and shoot and flower under the shining sun. The mushroom had been her nursemaid, her teacher, her confidant. Eobard had a whimsical personality, and sang such wonderful songs. Theodora remembered those early years as an idyllic, joyful existence in a state of total communion within the mushroom host. After she’d been released from the caretaker, their intimate bond had been broken. She had never spoken to Eobard after that, nor would she again; the caretaker had a new charge now, this young faery girl.

  Even so, Theodora felt a few stray mental impressions emanating from the incubating child. The girl must sense the increasing pressure in the caverns just as she did. It was disturbing her, disturbing all of them. Theodora placed her palms on the fleshy pulp and tried to transmit sympathetic thoughts directly into the mushroom. “I’m here, sweet child. Don’t worry. Mommy wouldn’t leave you alone. Everything will be all right, I promise. I promise.”

  She broke off the contact as a tear flowed down her cheek. Thankfully they were all too young to realize what a dubious promise she had made. But there was nothing else she could do. Nothing.

  Just then a sudden inspiration hit. There was a chance. If she couldn’t help, then how about someone who could?

  She kicked herself for not thinking of it sooner. James had told her of the secret Scrying Pool hidden away down below. Moonshadow had used it to transport him to Avalon one time. Avalon—the place where dwelt the fabled Effranil. Theodora knew little about them except their legendary status as the guardians of King Arthur’s burial chamber and that their spiritual purity was renowned among all faery folk.

  The cavern James had described was not far, just round back from the caretakers. Theodora found it without too much difficulty, the ruins of an ancient Roman amphitheater with the Scrying Pool at its center. She knelt before the pool, which held a few inches of clear water. Her reflection stared back at her—light green skin, honey-blonde hair, gently pointed ears. More than a century old, she still appeared youthful enough, but some tell-tale wrinkles nested under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Worry lines. She was no Effranil, no perfect faery.

  How to summon them? If only James where here and not running around the countryside having some existential crisis. What had he said? The Effranil had a thing for music. Moonshadow had opened the portal by reproducing one of Dresdemona’s songs, of all things. Using Everbright’s little grove of emotion trees, Dresdemona had performed the song a few months ago. Theodora had no real recollection of the melody. She hadn’t exactly been Dresdemona’s biggest fan. But a lot of people had heard that performance. The emotions it had evoked had been strong and disorienting. She doubted any of them could remember the song well enough to reproduce it here. But if there was one person in Everbright who might, she knew just who it would be.

  Chapter 4

  James came late to the performance.

  He’d missed several of the best songs, but considered himself lucky to have found Edwin Theobard at all. The fabled troubadour wandered the countryside of Northern England in an erratic fashion, sleeping out of doors and playing impromptu concerts in public squares wherever he found them, and then disappearing again into the wood. James finally caught up with him in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, a village that had suffered much in its history. A hundred years ago, plague had wiped out half its inhabitants, leaving the town completely devastated. And just two short years ago, the village had suffered the rampage of Aldebaran and his Wild Hunt on All Hallows Eve. The blood-crazed band of faeries had terrorized several farming families and assaulted their small rural church. The attack culminated in Pox kicking open the door of the church, throttling the priest to within an inch of his life and murder
ing Lord Hargrave on the front steps. As might be expected, there was no love for faeries in Newcastle.

  But Edwin Theobard was no ordinary faery. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t a faery at all. Twelve years ago, while employed by the Grayson family, Edwin had witnessed the appearance of the Chrysalid. As that other-worldly entity showered Wild Tyme upon those who had faced it, Edwin had been transformed. He was one of the Changed Men—now the last of them, in fact. James had cured all the rest.

  Edwin, who had known nothing of music before, had suddenly received the gift of music and set off cross-country, to begin a new life as a troubadour, playing his beautiful compositions for rich and poor, for human and faery alike. His green-tinted skin and weird face were thought by most to be nothing more than a bit of clever stagecraft.

  At least thirty people had assembled in the square to hear him play. James hung back, positioning himself beside a decorative elm at the outskirts. Unable to alter his appearance, the antlers were impossible to hide. He did not want to cause a scene that might interrupt the performance. A few people snickered as they passed James by, giving him a wide berth.

  Newcastle was a typical north country town. Its large tracts of rural farmland cradled a small city center that served as a hub for traders and craftsmen. Landlocked, the village relied heavily on carriage and cart traffic, but its mud-track streets and unsophisticated people lacked the vibrancy of a cosmopolitan center like London proper. Across the square stood two large factories—the town was particularly well-known for its printing and bookmaking facilities—and the pungent smell of ink permeated the air. The scent felt strange to James’ faery senses, bringing the bizarre taste of sun-burnt tapioca to his tongue. He shook it off. He wanted to concentrate on the music.

  Though Edwin had mastered several, his instrument of choice was the violin. Nestled under his pointed chin and oddly elongated neck, a look of concentration and rapture lit his weird face. His ears were gigantic and floppy rather than pointed, his nose large and torturous, his lips flabby and crooked. But his eyes sparkled with a silvery twinkle as he played.

  His song, an original composition, was unlike any James had ever heard. Edwin’s long, elegant fingers danced on the strings. The bow swung back and forth with extreme energy, his bony elbow cutting the air like a piston. He seemed to make enough music for three people, playing both melody and thematic accompaniment at the same time. One fingertip, as if it did not already have enough to do, rapped rhythmically against the body of the violin to provide occasional percussion.

  Despite the whirring speed with which Edwin played it, the song seemed particularly maudlin. The melody spoke to James of an old man lamenting all the things time had robbed from him. Vigor, clear sight, energy—all had been slowly sapped away. The narrative was extremely clear, told through notes alone without need for lyrics, and James could almost hear the old man’s voice, see his milky eyes, brimming with tears. The bitter taste of defeat replaced the sweet flavor of tapioca the ink had placed in James’ mouth. He wondered if the human ears all around him heard the song the same way.

  The theme of the song slowly twisted, bringing to mind specific recollections of the old man. The singing violin actually brought pictures to James’ mind. A field of clover, a pretty girl’s face, a baby’s smile. James felt his heartstrings vibrate along with the violin, as the old man thoughtfully recollected all the joys and loves of his long life. The song came to a close way too soon, as the old man’s attitude changed and he surrendered to circumstance, limping away into sweet oblivion. A wave of uproarious applause rang out from the people in the square. Edwin smiled at them and bowed low, remaining bent at the waist as his crumpled top hat received the gift of a few coins tossed into its brim. Some coins missed their target and tinkled to the cobblestones. James noticed that the adoring crowd made sure not to come too close to the performer.

  James felt no such prohibition. After the crowd had moved on, he quickly approached the troubadour.

  Edwin had just finished gathering up his hat and coins. “Well met, good fellow!” he said.

  “Well met, Roger Eddington.”

  “Eh?” Edwin’s weird face twitched. “I beg pardon. I’ve not heard that name in quite a long while. Do I know you, sir?”

  “I’m James Grayson.”

  “Are you?” He squinted at James. “Truth? Ha! You’ve changed much, good sir.”

  Edwin’s foot began tapping excitedly. He took James’ arm at the elbow and gave it a friendly squeeze. “Did you enjoy the show?”

  “Spectacular.”

  “But you didn’t come all this way just to hear me play?”

  “That alone would have been worth the trip, surely. But there is something else. I’ve an offer for you. You may not have heard, but I was able to cure the others. The Changed Men. They’re all human now. Completely human. Just as they were before.”

  “Cured?” Edwin examined James’ antlers with his glittering eyes. “I see.”

  James nodded. “Yes. I have assumed their affliction, it’s true. But that is inconsequential. I can do the same for you. Tonight, if you want.”

  The look on Edwin’s face in some ways mirrored the song of the old man. His expression went through the same changes, reflecting on what he had lost but then turning to a fond remembrance of all he had gained.

  “When I worked for your family, when I was human, you know I couldn’t play. I knew nothing of music. I had all these feelings, these ideas, but no way to express them. I couldn’t let them out. I had no way to let other people know—for them to hear me—the real me. And then I changed.” He gave his massive nose a comical tweak. “Now I have a lot of things I didn’t have before. This?” Again he touched the misshapen nose. “This doesn’t matter. To know such music! To see the looks on their faces!… They hear me! They know me. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. I’m afraid I must refuse your kindly offer, Lord Grayson.”

  “If I changed you back, I suppose you’d still remember how to play.”

  “Would I? Can you make that guarantee? And even if I could play… I would be Roger Eddington again. He might remain a competent violinist but he wouldn’t be Edwin Theobard. Not any more. You know that.”

  “You had a wife and children...”

  The expression of great loss returned. “My wife remarried. She had me declared dead, although they all knew it wasn’t true. My children… well, they’re fully grown now. They’ve moved away from Graystown I’m sure. Wherever I roam, I always look for them in the crowd. I keep hoping they’ll see me perform one day.” He shook his head. “No, it’s much better this way. You must understand that. I dance at night, you know, out under the stars. No audience then. Just me and Mother Moon.”

  “Have… have you ever seen her?”

  He shook his head again. “I don’t need to see her. I know she’s there.”

  James snickered. “For my part, I’m not so certain. I’d give much to see her face. To know for sure.”

  “Well,” said Edwin, “if the night sky isn’t enough for you, I’ve heard some things in my travels that may help. There’s a place, just south of Alnwick. You’ll find a small lake there. It’s her special place. Its waters are always still as glass, they say, no matter the weather, and when the full moon is reflected on its surface the lake wears her face. Her true face.”

  James considered. “Arcadia? I’ve heard of it. In fact, I’m bound there myself. First thing in the morning. But how do I find it? That’s rough country. South of Alnwick, you say? Is that West or East?”

  “I would tell you if I knew, but…” The troubadour showed a pair of empty palms.

  “Fair enough. And I’m grateful for the help, Edwin. And the song. Let me at least put you up at the inn tonight. How long has it been since you last slept in a real bed?” James fished his pocket for his money purse.

  “A real bed of thistle and pine needles?” laughed Edwin. “Why, every night.”

  James held a two-pound note out to him, but the mu
sician waved it away. “Keep your money, Grayson.” He jiggled his top hat. “This will keep me in ale and kidney pie until the next town. I’ve no need for anything more.”

  ***

  James did not fall asleep until very late. With a poorly-concealed sneer, the innkeeper had taken his money and rented him a drafty second-floor room at the back of the inn, far from the warmth of hearth or kitchen stove. The September chill kept pricking him awake and the information Edwin had provided had set his mind abuzz with excitement and anticipation. He wondered how he could best locate the little round lake in the country woods of Alnwick, and what marvels he might find there.

  Eventually his eyes drifted closed, but he’d not rested very long when someone roughly shaking his shoulder dragged him back awake.

  “Wake up! Wake up!”

  He didn’t recognize the raspy voice. He shook off his visitor’s hand and sat up, staring into the gloom. Something stood close by the headboard. James could only make out a small rounded silhouette with one flaming red eye.

  James swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to do. Was he under some kind of attack? The figure of a little man slowly resolved itself through shifting smoke, his eyes gleaming in the murk. As his face came into view, James saw a head of wild, curly brown hair with an unkempt beard to match. The tip of an ill-smelling cheroot glowed at one corner of his mouth. He was dressed in a loose blouse of brown wool and black linen trousers, but there were no boots on his feet. He did not need any. His legs ended in a pair of sharp goat’s hooves that clacked impatiently upon the floorboard. At last James recognized his visitor as the homely fawn he had previously encountered in Avalon.

  “Young hunter—”

  James shook his head. “What? No, you’ve got it wrong. Merry...?”

  “Merrywhistle.” The faun tilted his head politely.

  “You’ve got it wrong, Merrywhistle. I’m no hunter. I’ve never killed anything in my life.” James recalled many a hunting trip with his father Eric and the Grayson master-at-arms Fitzroy March. Never would he raise a rifle to kill any inhabitant of the woods, much to his father’s distaste. Eventually Eric had come to accept his son’s pacifistic nature.