Bedlam's Edge, page 17
She snarled. How would she ever return to her proper place Underhill at this rate? Her Queen, Trondael, had exiled her, saying that Ailionóra took too much pleasure in their Great Hunts, and didn't return the proper tribute to her, and all sorts of other things.
Ailionóra snorted. If this necklace worked, it would be Queen Trondael begging for Ailionóra's pleasure. That's why this necklace had to work.
"M'lady?" A thin, balding human male crouched low at her feet. She deigned to notice him, finally gesturing that he could rise. "There's a large dam—"
"I feel it," Ailionóra said, running her long fingers through her raven-black hair; she'd changed it to go with her all-black leather outfit just before she went Underhill after the necklace. "What about it, man?" Yes, she could read his mind, but why bother? Gerald would gladly tell her anything she needed to know out of what he thought was love, and why waste the amusement?
"M' gran'da used to tell me about ways to tap power when you, um, needed extra help to solve a problem," the man said quietly. The other three humans in her current camp were nowhere to be seen, which Ailionóra appreciated. "Tapping the power of Hoover Dam might work well to, um, give you additional energies, since you are so far from home." He looked uncomfortable. "Me and the men, well, we've noticed that you seem to be feeling poorly. . . ."
"Thank you, Gerald," she said softly as she tilted his head up a bit with a forefinger, putting just a touch of her magic behind it; Gerald shivered with reaction. "Tell me more about this dam. . . ."
* * *
Kevranil and Catriona had been riding for some time, back and forth across Las Vegas and several miles out along each of the highways that ran through the city, then back again. Finally, Kevranil could take no more and asked Hval to pull off at a rest area along the interstate heading toward Lake Mead, wherever that was. Kevranil took a few minutes to walk around, stretching his cramped legs to get his circulation back, then decided to strike up a conversation with Catriona. After all, talking wouldn't hurt him—or her—would it?
"Lady Catriona?" he began. When he had her attention, he asked, "Before you met Uncle Aelbrigr, Lady Catriona—what did you do?"
"I played at all the royal courts of Europe," she said. "Not that they're very different from your various Elfhames Underhill." She smiled.
"Were you very famous?" he asked wistfully. She must have been as close to a Bard as most humans get; could that help us somehow?
"In a modest way, before Herr Hitler decided to start munching on countries. Why do you ask?"
"I've wanted to be a Bard forever," he replied. There has to be a way to get the necklace safely, then get her back to Uncle Aelbrigr! Diffidently, he went on. "And . . . and you're a Bard—or at least, you could be one. And that might help us . . ."
"Tell me more," Catriona said.
* * *
Ailionóra's small cadre of followers had set up camp near Hoover Dam. It hadn't been difficult: unlike Cold Iron, the aluminum fences around this "off-limits area"—as if she cared the slightest about human restrictions—almost leapt to obey her magical commands, and would, with the addition of only a very minor warding spell, keep anyone from disturbing her. She hoped Gerald was right about the power available here; of course, if he wasn't, he'd have to pay the price for his failure.
She reached out to tap into the electric current coming from the great generators in the building at the foot of the dam, reveling in the amount of sheer power she felt. Then, she extended a hand and motioned for the necklace. Gerald—helpful Gerald—gave it to her gingerly, not touching any part of it except through the silken cloth Ailionóra had wrapped it in. She unwrapped it reverently, then held it up and cried out, "Brisingamen, you are mine, by right of conquest! Hear my words and give to me your power!"
She felt some power adding itself to that which already resided in the necklace; soon, it absolutely glowed to her Othersight, but there was something still wrong with it. It didn't look as it had before; the glow seemed almost unhealthy, somehow. Ailionóra shook away such thoughts as unworthy of her. Of course Brisingamen was responding differently to her; the last Bearer, the one from whom she'd taken it, had been male!
She lowered the necklace again and turned to Gerald. "I think we're ready now," she began, just as her other human helpers slumped to the ground.
* * *
Their steeds had followed Brisingamen's magical traces and come out near the top of a bluff overlooking an enormous concrete dam. Below them, closer to the dam, was a rough-looking sort of camp: a couple of old, dirty-looking tents, an ugly, clunky, much-beat-about vehicle of some sort, and—looking very much out of place—a large, boxy camper that shone with both the gleam of careful cleaning and the subtle glow of Sidhe magic.
After a single glance around, Catriona pulled on Kevranil's sleeve and pointed to a group of five people standing just beyond the camp, maybe a hundred paces from their own spot on the bluff. He looked down, then took a closer look. Four of them were human, all male, standing in a loose circle around the fifth—who was neither male nor human. She was Sidhe, and she was holding something in the air before her. It bore the stamp of power as well: it could only be the necklace—Brisingamen.
"I have to get that," she said softly, pointing to Brisingamen. "It's not keyed to her yet, but if she stumbles into how to do it—"
"By killing you, you mean," Kevranil said brusquely.
Catriona only nodded. "Let's just say that if she gets the power to actually use the necklace, we're all doomed."
Kevranil conjured his sword and armor, wishing that he were more of a Magus. But he didn't have enough magic to help Catriona; all he could do is hope that she could do enough, somehow, to avoid disaster. His sword would have to be enough protection for her, somehow, even if he'd never beaten his uncle Aelbrigr in a single bout—or anyone else he could think of at the moment. How well would he do now?
No matter. He'd just have to do the job; that was all there was to it. At least he knew he could put those humans to sleep—he didn't have to be a Bard for that—and he concentrated on doing so as Catriona scuttled away through the grass. He sang of sleep, of peace, of harmony, aiming his spell at those below and carefully crafting it to exclude Catriona from its effects. Slowly, one by one, three of the four men folded themselves down to sleep.
The fourth human, the one who had been on the other side of the woman, ran directly toward Kevranil. Although he felt like cursing, he tried to touch the man's mind in the few moments he had before the man reached him; he neatly evaded the first blow from the puny iron knife the man thrust toward him. But this man was resistant; he, too, had shields, although in his case, they had been put onto him by the Unseleighe woman, not naturally part of him at all. Kevranil danced away from the man's small knife again and again as he worked to take those shields down, hardly using his sword. After all, it was possible that this human was an innocent, beglamoured by the Unseleighe, and Kevranil did not hurt innocents if he could avoid it.
The man ducked back, dug something out from under his leg, and came up with a bigger, longer knife; this one was nearly as long as his arm. Kevranil continued to dance around, hoping he wouldn't have to hurt the human, while he kept working to unravel the Sidhe-wrought shields. Finally, just after Kevranil had disarmed the man completely, the shields came down, and Kevranil once again sang of sleep—and this time, the man tripped and fell flat, snoring loudly as he came to rest on a grassy verge near the man-made lake.
Kevranil looked to see what else was happening; did Catriona need him?
After what seemed like an eternity, he spotted Catriona and the Unseleighe woman at the top of the Hoover Dam. They were locked in a hand-to-hand battle that had all the finesse of a clowder of kittens—wet kittens. The necklace that was the focus of all this had fallen unheeded to the ground; neither had it. But Catriona looked—well, she looked like more than she had before.
To his Othersight, her body had disappeared. In its place was the astral image of a woman of great power . . . a red-haired, green-eyed vixen who'd spurn you as easily as she'd notice you, then take you up again just as you thought your cause was lost. . . .
::Aelfling,:: the red-haired spirit image whispered into his mind. ::Do not interfere. This is for My Chosen to do. She's run from her responsibilities long enough.::
::Who are you?::
::Whom do you think?:: she sniffed. ::Train her well, young Bard.::
::But . . . but I'm not a Bard—:: he stammered mentally.
::Not yet,:: she—or She—said. ::But soon.::
Then, as Catriona elbowed the strange Sidhe in the throat and followed it with a clasped-hand blow to the side of the head, the red-haired vision winked. ::Don't take no for an answer.:: Then the image of Freya—or whoever She was—vanished.
Catriona appeared to be in control of herself again as she grabbed the necklace and clasped it around her throat.
"All my work, ruined!" the stranger wailed.
"Such as this is not for you," Catriona said frostily. "You can't wield it."
"And you can? A mere mortal?" The Unseleighe woman spat on the ground.
"What makes you think there's anything mere about a mortal who can wield Brisingamen?" Catriona replied calmly, power echoing around her words. Kevranil knew that Catriona hadn't used the necklace in years, perhaps ever, but that lack of practice wasn't affecting her now, as she called up the power that had been infused in Brisingamen during its forging. As the silver metal took on a gleam brighter than the stars, the amber caged within began to glow with a golden light that outshone the sun, the two lights merging to form an aura that made the most brilliant gemstones Kevranil had ever seen look like so many lumps of mud. He felt himself going down on one knee in unconscious reverence. He could feel a wave of power wash over him, urging willing obedience and allegiance to the wearer of Brisingamen.
Dimly, he heard Catriona speak to the woman again, her voice deceptively soft and caring as she asked, "What's your name, child?"
"Ailionóra." The reply came just as quietly.
"Will you be my follower?" Catriona asked.
"Yes," Kevranil heard Ailionóra say. "Yes, I will. What must I do?"
"Take care of this . . . this mess—" Catriona waved her hand at the sleeping men on the ground "—but no killing. That is wasteful." A curiously amused note crept into her voice. "After that, just . . . live well. Living well is always the best revenge."
"You want nothing more?"
"And leave this necklace alone," Catriona said. "This is mine to Bear. It is not for you to bear or use, only to protect. Will you do these things?"
"I will," Ailionóra promised. She turned away, gathered up her followers, and set them to the task of breaking down their camp. Kevranil could hardly believe it: she was acting as if he and Catriona had left already—or as if they had never been there at all.
He waited, still kneeling, as Catriona walked down from the dizzying height; when she got there, Catriona had a strange, small smile on her face. "You've served me—and Aelbrigr—well, Kevranil. Freya told me what I must do." As Kevranil continued to kneel, she put her hand—just her hand—down on his shoulder, and power poured into him from somewhere. It was heady stuff, that power; it burned, but brightly, almost reminding Kevranil of what happened to carbon when exposed to too much heat and pressure.
::But you're the diamond, Aelfling,:: Freya whispered. ::Trust yourself more.:: Then the power stopped, and her voice faded.
"Sing something," Catriona ordered. Kevranil nodded, and thought of his gittern; it flew into his hands, something that should not have happened, as he didn't have the magic—
"Did you do that?" he asked.
"No." She smiled. "Sing something."
He strummed his gittern and started to sing; the notes echoed, resounded, and more to the point, took nothing out of him. In fact, the music was giving him more power as he continued to sing, and that power built, and built, and built. . . .
Their elvensteeds came up; almost without noticing it, he was on Hval's back and Catriona had swung up onto Epona's saddle, and they were headed Underhill. He stopped singing, but still felt the power.
"Is it real?" he asked her as he passed through yet another Gate.
"As real as anything," she promised. "Now, let's hope we can get back to Aelbrigr soon enough to help him."
At last, Hval and Epona slowed their breathless dash through the Lands Underhill and passed through one last Gate to arrive in Elfhame Liefdraumar, right outside the Healers' Hall. Somehow, Aelbrigr was up, alert, and clasping Catriona in his arms before Kevranil could even dismount.
"My beloved, why do you weep?" Aelbrigr asked gently. The necklace Brisingamen, its aura muted, roused no comment.
"I thought you were dying," Catriona cried. "And I had to leave—but you're all I have—"
"No, you're all I have, all I hold dear," Aelbrigr murmured into her hair, glancing meaningfully over her head at his nephew. Kevranil called his gittern to him again and began to play a love song, turning politely away so they could have their reunion in as much privacy as the Healers would allow. As the gentle notes poured out, he wondered how, exactly, he was going to tell Aelbrigr that his lover was a Bard-in-embryo, and that he, the too-flighty-to-be-worth-training Minstrel, now had the power of a Bard as well. . . .
BOTTLE OF DJINN
Roberta Gellis
Roberta Gellis has a varied educational background—a master's degree in biochemistry and another in medieval literature—and an equally varied working history: ten years as a research chemist, many years as a freelance editor of scientific manuscripts, and nearly forty years as a writer.
Gellis has been the recipient of many awards, including the Silver and Gold Medal Porgy for historical novels from West Coast Review of Books; the Golden Certificate and Golden Pen from Affaire de Coeur; The Romantic Times Award for Best Novel in the Medieval Period (several times); as well as the Lifetime Achievement Award for Historical Fantasy and the Romance Writers of America's Lifetime Achievement Award.
Gellis's most recent publication is This Scepter'd Isle from Baen books, a historical fantasy coauthored with Mercedes Lackey. A prequel to this story is "Moses' Miracles" in Renaissance Fair, edited by Jean Rabe and Andre Norton.
The yellow telephone rang. Lily Baywater turned her head to look at it and sighed. If it had been any one of the other six phones, she would have ignored it, since she had already flipped the switches that engaged the voice mail.
The yellow phone, however, was for personal calls, the number, unlisted, of course, only given to people her boss always wanted to hear from. Even the President, the DOD, the FBI, and the CIA didn't have that number. They had a separate, exclusive number—connected, in accord with Dov's sense of humor, to the black phone.
Lily lifted the phone. "Dov Goldberg," she said. "Lily Baywater speaking."
"Please." The voice was high and thin, frightened. "Mr. Dov needs to come with Ms. Rivka to the booth at the Faire. It is about the bottle of djinn."
"Who is this?" Lily asked, much surprised because she had believed she was familiar with every voice that called that number.
"Shining Water. Please. It is important. He must come to the Faire as soon as possible. He needs to find the bottle of djinn."
"The Faire is closed," Lily said. "It's the end of October. The Faire closed at the end of September. No one will be there. And they don't sell liquor anyway—at least not by the bottle. Gin? A bottle of gin?"
"Yes. Yes. The bottle of djinn. Yes, the Faire is closed, but Qaletaqua's booth is still there. He will be in the booth."
"Qaletaqua!" Lily exclaimed. "Oh! But—"
At that point a recording interrupted to say that time was up and more money should be deposited. The thin frightened voice said. "Oh, hurry, or the bottle will be broken."
"Wait," Lily said, and then, "Shit!" but it was too late to learn any more. The line was dead. Lily hung up.
She stood staring for a moment. The reason Lily handled Dov's philanthropies was because she knew when people were honest. She had no idea how she knew, but her instinct never failed. Researchers and accountants could examine the economic aspects of the proposals made to Dov—he could do so himself—but Dov could not judge integrity; Dov didn't believe in integrity, but Lily had proved him wrong again and again.
Lily's instinct about people was not as strong when judging by voice alone, but under the rather formless fear that the voice had held, she sensed sincerity. She crossed the hall and went into an office very much like her own, except that she had windows on two walls and this one had two doors on the wall beyond the desk instead.
Rivka Zahara, the curator-librarian of Dov's billion-dollar collection of ancient manuscripts and artifacts, was as dark as Lily was fair. As Lily came through her door, her head jerked up from a printed list she was cross-checking against a handwritten manuscript. Lily knew that like herself, Rivka was special. Not that Rivka was any better at judging people than Dov—and she was just as cynical—but Rivka was physically affected by fakes. Artifacts and manuscripts that were not genuine caused her skin to prickle and her stomach to roil.
For a moment Lily hesitated in the doorway. This was a bad time. There were lines of tension around Rivka's mouth that hardened the rather sensual lips and her dark brows were drawn together. Under them, her black eyes were all but shooting sparks. Nothing innocent about Rivka, but she was a beautiful woman. Lily smiled.
"Rivka, is Dov still here?"
"In his office," Rivka said. "But if you've got a live one you want him to support, I'd advise you to put it on ice if you can. He just got off the phone with the secretary of defense and he's foaming at the mouth. They still won't let him check on the stuff that was returned to the Baghdad museum after the looting. He says he thinks they're afraid to let him compare the really important artifacts with his inventory, that they're lying, and that very little was actually recovered."
