Barb Caffrey holds a master's degree in music from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and a bachelor's degree from the University of Wisconsin-Parkside, plays three instruments (saxophone, oboe, and clarinet), and composes music. She's also worked for several newspapers as an opinion columnist and arts and entertainment reporter. She is a freelance writer and part-time music teacher, but would say that Michael's her main occupation.
Michael Caffrey calls himself a "pre-Renaissance Man"—that is, he's stuck somewhere in the Middle Ages . . . however you care to look at it. He's held the usual miscellaneous assortment of jobs, from cookie dropper (yes, that's a real job title) and comic-book salesman through contract administrator to computer equipment operator . . . and that's just the Cs. His primary occupation is Barb—with occasional forays into writing and gainful employment.
"Bright as Diamonds" is their first published story.
Catriona smiled. For the first time in months, she felt content, maybe even happy. She and her lover, Aelbrigr, were taking a break from their "normal" Underhill life, and instead of being two among many at Elfhame Liefdraumar, they were visiting one of Aelbrigr's far-flung holdings in the Chaos Lands to "get away from it all." After months and months of dreary court business, they were finally alone together in a Pocket Domain far, far away from the Liefdraumar Court and all the petty people in it.
And being together, without any other people—elven or human—was helping her to relax. Aelbrigr was cooking, a hobby he indulged whenever he thought he could get away with it, and those calming kitchen-type noises helped her relax even more. She'd been too nervous lately to even play her clarinet. It was only after she hadn't touched the instrument for a month that Aelbrigr had conceived of their little retreat.
She tried not to think about what else they would have to do here. That wasn't important right now; the only things that were important were the two of them and her music (and, eventually, the meal he'd cooked for her).
For now, she concentrated on how much she loved the clarinet; she loved how it sounded, how much it could do. More than that, she loved how she felt when she played. The sheer power and beauty, the feeling that she was tapping into something beyond herself . . . there really weren't words for it.
She frowned slightly as she took a breath; Aelbrigr had stopped cooking. He darted out from the kitchen to their luxurious, silk-lined living room.
"What are you doing out here?"
"I heard something," he spoke aloud. "Worse, I felt something."
"Something's wrong with the wards?" she asked, striving for lightness. If the wards are awry, does that mean . . . no. Aelbrigr will fix it, if it's broken, and we'll go on as we have. . . .
"I don't know, but I'll take care of it. You go on with your playing."
Obediently, she went back to practicing, picking this time to play one of her original compositions. The notes poured through her to her clarinet, and seemed to multiply; enchanted, Catriona kept playing until the composition was nearly at its end. Too bad Aelbrigr had had to go out to check the wards—
Screech!
It wasn't really a sound, but that was the only way she knew to represent the feeling: as a dissonant clash of chords cutting across her music-making as if to wipe it away. Then she felt something inside her, something she'd hoped never to feel again, and a picture formed in her mind; Aelbrigr, helpless on the ground outside. He wasn't moving; worse, he didn't appear to be breathing. A dark-haired elf woman ran lightly away, carrying a silver-and-gold necklace . . . but Catriona couldn't worry about that right now. Aelbrigr was hurt. She had to do something.
She ran outside to the edge of their Pocket Domain, to where everything turned to drifting, formless grayness.
She bent down; good, he was breathing, if shallowly. What did that elf bitch do to him? Who is she?
Alas, Catriona didn't have to wonder what that elf was doing here—she already knew that. She came for the necklace, she thought. She has to know what Brisingamen is, and she needs it for something. Probably something unpleasant.
But that wasn't important right now; that could wait. Aelbrigr couldn't.
Catriona turned him over gently, and saw a long, jagged scar that had rent his clothing and split the back of his skull open. She had to get Aelbrigr to a Healer, then leave to go after the damned necklace; it was magical, that thing, and always caused trouble. That was why she and Aelbrigr had taken it and hidden it Underhill in the first place.
And who knows where that elf bitch has taken it? But Catriona would know; the necklace would pull her to where it was, because she was its Bearer, and it was her responsibility. Even if Aelbrigr couldn't help her get it back this time . . . she shivered.
It had been many years since she was last in the World Above, although Aelbrigr had made sure she wasn't ignorant of how much time had passed.
And our side won the war, she reminded herself. I'll just have to get the necklace back on my own.
Time was wasting. She whistled for her elvensteed, Epona, who came to her, knelt down, and waited patiently while Catriona pushed and pulled the limp Aelbrigr into her saddle. Unbidden, Aelbrigr's own Sleifnir came and allowed Catriona to mount; together, they went to find the nearest Healer.
I hate cities, Kevranil thought as he rode through the streets of Las Vegas on the back of his elvensteed, Hval. Hval had taken motorcycle form, and Kevranil wasn't comfortable with it; he kept thinking he was going to slip off and fall ignominiously in the middle of the street. So he was concentrating on something else, something he already knew he didn't like: cities. They're too crowded, and there's far too much of the deathmetal for my taste—
"Watch where you're going!" someone on the sidewalk yelled, shying away as Hval, with Kevranil still aboard, barely got out of the way of a large Greyhound bus. "Stupid foreigners . . ."
Kevranil grinned to himself. As a Sidhe—an elf, the humans would say—he was probably more foreign to most of the humans up here than any of them would ever guess, despite the illusions and clothing that made him seem like one of them.
After what seemed like forever, his elvensteed found the parking ramp for the hotel Aelbrigr, his uncle, had told him about years ago, the TirNaOg. Hval went up the ramp and dropped him off near a low-hanging, garishly colored sign, then sped off. Kevranil snorted; just as well this was Sidhe run, or Hval might have just brought the humans down on top of his head.
But no; no one had noticed a motorcycle driving and parking itself, it seemed. Kevranil just shrugged and ducked under the sign, wishing for once that he was just a bit shorter. He stood six feet six inches in his bare feet, although his black hair and the brownish tint that turned his leaf-green eyes to hazel were unusual for one of his people—too drab an alteration for most, but he kept them that way as a mark of subtle distinction—he did have the cat-slit pupils and sharply pointed ears, along with long, slender fingers that made it easy for him to pick a tune and play it on the lyre, harp, or twelve-stringed gittern. But never to become a Bard, he thought mournfully. Not enough magic for that, they said—not enough magic, too flighty to ever be more than a minstrel, not worth the effort. And probably not even enough magic for this, whatever it is that has Uncle Aelbrigr so worried. I don't believe he'd be so concerned just because his lover had chosen to take an ill-timed trip to the World Above; what is bothering him?
As it was, Kevranil knew this errand was unusual; since he was still quite young as his people counted such things and didn't have much magic, he would never have been asked to come here if his uncle hadn't insisted. Aelbrigr had been adamant: Kevranil had to find his human lover, the Lady Catriona Armbrister, nicknamed "the Fair." Kevranil had met Lady Catriona once—just once—but her beauty and poise were hard to forget. He had dreamed of her for days afterward, until he finally managed to shake her image from his mind—something that had never happened to him before or since—and he had taken steps soon afterward to get himself sent away from Elfhame Liefdraumar. He hadn't really wanted to go, but it was necessary.
Kevranil loved his uncle; he would never try to take his consort from him (even now, the thought of her light blond hair and grass-green eyes made him more than a bit giddy), but if he'd stayed around Liefdraumar's Court, he'd have been trying to do just that. Kevranil wasn't sure why, but Lady Catriona had enchanted him, just as she had enchanted many of the younger Sidhe males in Liefdraumar. Normally, Kevranil wouldn't have gone anywhere near Lady Catriona, just because he knew how much he wanted her, and because he knew he couldn't—wouldn't—do anything to shame his uncle, himself, or her.
This time, though, Kevranil had no choice. Aelbrigr was in no shape to go after Catriona. Worse, Aelbrigr hadn't been able—or was that willing?—to tell him very much about why she had left.
The only hard facts Kevranil had were that Aelbrigr had been hit by a levin-bolt, had been hurriedly brought in to the Healers' Hall by Catriona, and that she had left at some point after that—but nobody knew exactly when. When he had heard she'd left, Aelbrigr had refused to let the Healers help him until Kevranil had been brought and had promised to find Catriona.
"She's in trouble," Aelbrigr had rasped. "She needs help. I can't go to her. Please . . . More than my life is at stake."
As soon as he'd promised to go, his uncle had stopped resisting the healing trance, and Healer Ardvaen had hurried Kevranil out of the room. At his concerned look, Ardvaen said, "I'll do all I can for him. But he needs healing and rest." She fixed him with a cold, green glare. "Find his lover. Find her fast. Because I can't guarantee that he'll get better."
All Kevranil had managed to learn was that Catriona wasn't Underhill. And since Ardvaen refused to have any more to do with humans than she absolutely must, she had probably been very curt with Catriona while she was treating Aelbrigr.
No wonder Catriona had left. At least she had taken Epona, the elvensteed Aelbrigr had given her.
His own elvensteed, Hval, had managed to get some sort of hint of where Catriona and her elvensteed had gone from Aelbrigr's Sleifnir; all Kevranil had done was to hang on.
When they had finally emerged aboveground, Kevranil had made two immediate discoveries.
They were on the outskirts of Las Vegas, Nevada.
And Kevranil himself was as uncomfortable as he had ever been anywhere. He reminded himself that, so long as he wasn't in direct, physical contact with iron, he'd not be harmed.
But he still felt queasy.
He hummed under his breath, wishing he had the strength to conjure his gittern to help him, but knowing that he had to be near the limit of his magic already. He hated being so magically weak, even though Uncle Aelbrigr had always told him it wasn't the strength of the magic, but what you did with it that counted. Still, thinking about his music helped; it calmed him down, and allowed him to enter the casino proper.
For whatever reason, he had a shadowy sense of foreboding as he crossed the threshold, and wished he could wear his armor openly. He knew that was stupid; Uncle Aelbrigr had told him years ago that the TirNaOg was a neutral place, one where neither the Seleighe nor the Unseleighe would war against each other. Nothing would happen to him here.
Providing you can resist the fair maiden, a part of his mind mocked. That's the real temptation—stay away from her.
Once inside, he reveled in the feel of an Elfhame; he no longer felt absolutely bombarded by the amount of Cold Iron around. Kevranil could feel the protections drawn around the Elfhame: Nexus-powered wards—Sidhe wards. If that wasn't enough to help him begin to relax, there was additional proof in the form of one of his own people coming through a door behind the registration desk to trade places with one of the humans there. Beglamoured to look like a human, of course, but no Low Court Sidhe could fool one of the High Court, no matter how minor, that way. That was the person to talk to.
The Sidhe counterwoman pointed Kevranil toward a small bar-restaurant set off to one side of the lobby, cautioning him only to, "Enjoy your time, but be careful." Kevranil knew this was the only warning, cryptic though it was, that he would get to not break the truce Uncle Aelbrigr had told him existed between Seleighe and Unseleighe in this place.
He sat down at the first empty table, hoping he'd get served quickly, because it was the only thing he could think of to do.
A server came by and took his order, returning promptly with the house special—scrambled eggs with a large beefsteak on the side—and a pitcher of mineral water. As he set the plate down, the man said, "Compliments of the management," whatever that meant.
Kevranil chewed slowly at his food, not really tasting it. He still wasn't sure why he'd allowed himself to be sent in search of Catriona, the way he felt about her.
And setting that aside, what was she doing here? If she was even here at all?
As quick as that, the lady in question sat down across the table and called for the server. She was heavily warded and shielded, and didn't say anything to him other than a brief "Hello," before she ordered some coffee.
"Lady Catriona. Glad to make your acquaintance again." He bowed as well as he could while sitting at the table, hoping he wasn't making too big a fool of himself. "Uncle Aelbrigr sent me. What's wrong?"
Then he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. Their sparkle was as bright as any diamond he'd ever seen Underhill. Those eyes—those incredible eyes—seemed to see everything, be everywhere, and know all there was to be knowing.
He wrenched his eyes away from hers with an effort; what had she just done? This time, it wasn't just longing he felt, it was more. It felt like a glamourie, but humans weren't supposed to be able to do that! Not even to a Magus Minor like himself.
He reached out with his mind again, but met with a blank wall. She had shields, and strong ones. Uncle Aelbrigr had said something about that once; what was it again? Oh, yes. "My lady can block out most Elves," Aelbrigr had said. "But not me." Kevranil wrenched his mind back to the present; even if he couldn't read Catriona's mind, he still might be able to steer the conversation to find out what he wanted to know.
As he opened his mouth, she cut him off. "I know who you are," she said in a low tone. "You're Aelbrigr's favorite nephew, aren't you? Kelvin—? Keevan—?"
"Kevranil," he muttered quickly. "Uncle Aelbrigr sent me; he said you're in trouble. I want to help."
"How is my love?" she asked quietly. "He didn't look too well when I left."
"He's stable," Kevranil said. "In a healing trance. Ardvaen wasn't sure how much time he'd have, though."
"That figures," Catriona grumbled. She'd obviously dealt with Ardvaen before. "But sad to say, he's not the most important thing right now. Nothing matters, except getting—" She broke off suddenly and looked around furtively.
"There really shouldn't be anything to worry about here; there's a truce," Kevranil said quietly.
"Not for this, there isn't," Catriona snapped. She passed him a picture. "This is the last picture my brother ever took, before we found out what this thing really was—and is—"
It was an old, tattered, black-and-white photograph in which she, Aelbrigr, and a human man were standing in the middle of a field of flowers.
"This man? Who is he?" Kevranil asked.
"That was my brother, Percy. He's dead now," she said flatly. "But that's not why I showed you this. Look again. Look at the whole picture."
He looked again. She was wearing a two-piece, well-tailored woman's suit; his uncle was wearing a human three-piece suit more than fifty years out of the current fashion.
"Other than what Uncle Aelbrigr is wearing, I don't get it. What am I supposed to get out of this?"
"Look at what I'm wearing, you dolt!"
Compelled by something in her voice, he looked. She wore a necklace, a very old, very rich-looking necklace that didn't go with her clothing. He used his magic to enhance the photo, make it look exactly as it had right after it had been taken. There was a pattern to the necklace: golden flames almost leaping out of a silver filigree cage—even in a black-and-white picture, the colors came through to his Othersight—heavy, massive metalwork, probably Nordic in origin. He must have said that aloud; she nodded.
"This necklace—what is it?" Nothing human-made would shine like that, even in an old photograph.
"It's very old, and only a woman can wear it."
Catriona glanced around again, still trying to make it seem as if she wasn't looking at all; sensing that there had to be some reason she was acting so suspicious, Kevranil quietly made sure no one was watching them, then searched for listening devices, magical or mundane, just in case her paranoia was justified. After he had assured her that he could detect no interest in what they were saying from anyone—or anything—else, she went on: "A woman wearing that could lead an unbeatable army, and raise its fallen warriors from the dead, too—or so the legends say. Aelbrigr and I weren't too keen on finding out, and neither was Percy."
She shook her head irritably. "It has powers, that thing. Leading armies is only the start. Taking men's free will away; showing them only the beautiful, the perfect, the desirable. Lying to them." Her lips twisted bitterly. "It'll start a war up here, one that might even spread Underhill. I have to get it back. It's my right, and my responsibility as its Bearer."
He whistled thinly through his teeth as it finally clicked. Brisingamen. The magical necklace—the elf-forged necklace—that the Unseleighe and the humans allied with them had wanted over sixty years ago.
More important, it was the necklace his uncle had found and told him a few things about—piecemeal, in fits and starts—but had not explained how recent the find had been.
"And you're the Bearer?" he asked quietly, unsure he'd heard correctly.
"Yes," she spit out. "Not that I want the bloody thing, but . . ." She threw up her hands. "We didn't have a lot of choice, back then. It was the Second World War—do you know anything about our wars?"
"Not very much," he admitted.
"Suffice it to say that it was a very big war. Few could be trusted. And after my brother and Aelbrigr found this—when they knew the Nazis were hunting it—"
"I understand," Kevranil said.
"Good, because I don't," she said bluntly. "The necklace needed a Bearer, quickly. I was elected. We took it, and hid it, but the Nazis kept sniffing it out. Finally, Aelbrigr and I went Underhill, while my brother laid a false trail." She swallowed hard. "The Nazis killed him before he reached Abbéville."
"I'm sorry," Kevranil said. He wished he could do something to comfort Catriona, as waves and waves of utter despair washed over him. He felt like laying his head down and crying.
She shouldn't be able to do this to me, he realized dimly. Even if I do like her too much for my own good, she barely knows that I exist.
He thought about what he knew about Lady Catriona. Not much, other than that she was beautiful. Oh, and she was a musician; she played several of the human instruments, Uncle Aelbrigr had told him proudly more than once. As it stood, she was the most unusual consort to any of the Sidhe he knew personally; one of the very few adult humans brought Underhill in the last two hundred years. He'd never known why; not even his uncle's cryptic hints over the past few years had been enough to clue him in.
Now he understood.
The Bearer of Brisingamen couldn't be left in the World Above, because Catriona was right—that necklace had started more than one war Kevranil could think of. And the Bearer of Brisingamen was powerful, even if she did nothing; people and events would converge around her, almost as if the necklace itself refused to lie fallow.
Kevranil drew a deep breath between clenched teeth. Was it because of the necklace that he'd been so drawn to Catriona? And if that was the case, how had Aelbrigr seen through the compulsions rumored to be on Brisingamen?
He wrenched his mind back to the task. It wasn't just to get Catriona back, he could see now; it was to make absolutely sure that Brisingamen, her charge, would not fall into the wrong hands.
"Who stole it? And how?"
"As for who?" Catriona just shrugged. "Some strange elf; I didn't recognize her. She didn't feel like any of the Bright Court Elves I know."
Kevranil stared at her. "Why not?"
"I saw her with my Talents, not my eyes," Catriona snapped. "All I can tell you is that she just didn't feel right." She frowned. "It felt like chords clashing when she attacked Aelbrigr." She thought a bit more. "And she felt dissonant, not consonant the way you Bright Elves do; I wish I could explain it better than that."
"That's all right," Kevranil stammered. She has more power than I do; more than that, she might have Bardic power. She is a musician, and she can tell friend from foe by how they sound magically. And she sees the power as chords; my last teacher, Adonvael, said that was how he saw and manipulated energy. So she's not just the Bearer of a powerful necklace, and she's not just someone with an odd wild talent; she might be one of the most powerful magicians alive. Why has she hidden herself?
"As for how," Catriona continued, "The elf b—um, woman," she hurriedly self-corrected, "attacked him somehow. But as to how she got his guard down long enough to do it, or as to how she hid herself long enough to allow her to do whatever it was, I don't know. Aelbrigr is a gifted Magus and a canny fighter; it's hard to believe that anyone could take him unaware. But she did—whoever she is."
"I'm surprised you didn't feel something as soon as she showed up, as sensitive as you are," Kevranil said as gently as he knew how.
"I was practicing my clarinet," Catriona said. "When I do that, I don't feel anything except the music. But I think that's why that elf didn't come after me; I don't think she knew I was there." She frowned lightly. "Thing is, Aelbrigr had felt something strange, and he went out to investigate. All I know is what I saw—" her voice broke. "You've been to see him; you know how he looks."
"I do know," Kevranil said quietly. He couldn't help it; he reached out and patted her hand, then pulled his hand away. The touch of her was too potent; he had to remember that she was not his.
"I feel guilty," Catriona said, as tears started to fall from the corners of her eyes. Kevranil watched, entranced; even crying, she was the most beautiful woman he knew. "If it wasn't for me . . ."
"You're not the one who attacked my uncle," Kevranil said forcefully. "Blame that Unseleighe Sidhe, not yourself."
Catriona smiled gamely. "Ah, but you don't know the whole reason we hid the necklace, do you?"
"I will if you tell it to me," Kevranil countered.
Catriona sighed. "Years ago, Aelbrigr and I decided that the best way to hide B—um, the object—" She looked away, evidently unwilling to name Brisingamen even above the ground "—was in relatively plain sight." At his look of incomprehension, she added, "In the Chaos Lands."
She continued: "Your uncle has gone to great lengths to hide what that object is, what it does, even from his own people, and he especially went out of his way to minimize what I did—what I was—so that if anyone ever had the power to take . . . it . . . they'd strike at him, and leave me alone." She closed her eyes briefly and put her head in her hands; after a bit, she looked up again and continued. "He was right to be cautious; after all, it was an elven woman—dark hair, dark eyes, although I know you people can change your appearances as easily as you change your minds, so that's not much description—who struck Aelbrigr down."
Kevranil only had one question: why would the Unseleighe risk the truce?
The power, you idiot, he thought, disgusted with himself. They want the power—"And they can hide it easily here," he finished aloud.
"Exactly," she nodded. "They took it, brought it here somewhere, and figured no human could find it." She grimaced. "They thought wrong."
"But what's the point? Why not just use it Underhill?" he asked.
"Two reasons. First, I imagine she left some sort of magical traces that the Liefdraumar Court might wish to follow, and that's why she couldn't keep the necklace Underhill. They'd just find it, and take it back, starting an outright war Underhill." She shook her head. "No, she couldn't risk that, whoever she is."
"And the second reason?"
"I think she's planning on using it here, in the World Above, and gaining facility with it, so when she does return Underhill, she can take over everything."
"I think Empress Morrigan and Emperor Oberon would have something to say about that," Kevranil objected.
"Doesn't matter if they do; that necklace, if she can figure out how to use it, might be enough to topple even them. Our problem is to get it back before she—damn her eyes, anyway!—ignites a war up here that makes the Second World War look like a walk in the park on Sunday."
He stared at her, horrified.
"Listen, Kevranil," she said insistently. "The situation up here in the World Above hasn't been so good lately. Haven't you read the papers?"
He shook his head ruefully.
"Never mind," she said. "The point is, there's been unrest in places Aelbrigr believed the Unseleighe had been; those same places always blew up right after those of the Dark left." She looked at him intently. "If one of the Foe uses that object, how much more death will there be?"
"We can't have that," he said faintly.
Somehow, he'd lost the train of the conversation. He looked up; she grimaced. "The necklace is pulling me; I should be able to find it. When we get there, then we'll worry about what we have to do next."
Kevranil wasn't sure what, if anything, a human and a Magus Minor could do against an Unseleighe Sidhe powerful enough to strike Aelbrigr down, but he knew he had to try. For the moment, he concentrated on the small things, like getting up and walking out. They called for their elvensteeds, and were once again on their way.
Ailionóra paced near the luxurious custom-built recreational vehicle parked on a hillside overlooking the place her human servants called Lake Mead, Nevada—much good knowing that did her! She swore feelingly; she felt miserable here in what the humans considered to be "the great outdoors"—she couldn't even take her usual pleasure in the knowledge that those Bright Court fools at that southern Elfhame had never realized just whom they'd built the totally iron-free camper for. Not even the necklace she'd tried so hard to get, Brisingamen, was much comfort; was its much-vaunted power just a myth?
So far, she hadn't managed to get it to do anything it was reputed to be capable of, and it looked nearly inert magically, far different than it'd looked Underhill when she and her servants had found it (incidentally knocking over the Sidhe guarding it in the process).
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. . . .