12: No Irish Need Apply
Eric stared through the grimy window, as the RTD bus chugged painfully up the hill over the Sepulveda Pass to the Valley. Even though it was still early in the afternoon, the traffic was already slowing to a turtle's pace, creeping along the freeway through the smog-shrouded hills.
His mind felt just as smog-shrouded. Nothing seems to make sense anymore . . .
He leaned against the glass, gazing down at the cars creeping past the bus.
Only a few days ago, everything, seemed so . . . normal. I was busking days, playing different gigs nights, Maureen and I were still together, life was fine. Now, in less than three days—
He sighed, and rubbed the back of his sweaty neck with his hand. Now there's two women in my life. And one elf.
How did my life get so complicated so fast?
Eric wedged himself closer to the glass and closed his eyes.
Ria Llewellyn. Even her name is magical. What a combination. What an incredible combination. Corporation president, a half-elf, and one helluva lady. Not to mention staggeringly beautiful. She's like something out of my dreams. It's hard to believe she's real.
But there's something about her—
He recalled the odd light, the predatory chill in her eyes when he'd left her, and shivered involuntarily.
There's a funny intensity there when she looks at me. Like a cat, a cat that's got a mouse trapped, and is thinking about playing with it instead of eating it. It's damn scary—like I'm nothing to her, only a toy, or a tool—
A car honked right under the window, but the sound seemed to come from another world entirely. As if the world that held traffic jams and the world that held Ria Llewellyn couldn't possibly be the same. He replayed the scene with her over and over in his mind, concentrating on it, trying to sift some kind of meaning out of it, but all he got were contradictions—
—like that other way she looked at me, like she's just a child, only wanting someone to hold onto, someone who'll take the pain away. So lost, so vulnerable. It took everything I had to keep from taking her in my arms right then, trying to comfort her. It's like someone hurt her once, hurt her real bad, and she's never admitted it to anyone; maybe not even herself.
He chewed his lip with frustration. God, I can't make heads or tails out of it; one minute she's about to take a piece out of me, the next, she's like a little kid—
And yet another facet of memory focused. —Then she changes again—she looks at me with that little bedroom smile, those come-hither eyes, teasing—inviting—brushing her hand against mine—
He blushed, and pillowed his head into the crook of his arm, hoping no one in the bus was watching him. I don't understand that, either. Sure, I'm always making a fool of myself in front of women, but she—she's really something. All I want to do when she smiles like that is drag her off to a cave somewhere. That's not like me, usually. I try to be a little more . . . dignified about my sex life.
And everything about the meeting was washed in a kind of glowing fog. The more he tried to concentrate on some memory-fragment, the more the memory slipped into a haze. It's so hard to think straight when I'm around her. It's like everything is wrapped in gray fuzz, I don't know where I am, what I'm doing, what to think.
And that led him back around full circle, to last night and this morning. Those memories were as clear as crystal, everything sharp-edged and diamond-cut. That's sure not like the way it is with Beth. With Bethie, I always know what's going on.
Or, at least, I think I do—
He pondered that, and concluded ruefully that maybe he didn't know what was going on between himself and Beth.
She's got me going too, I guess. I mean, I thought we had something special, something really nice. Maybe even something permanent. I think she understands me, better than anybody else. After all, she's kinda like me, she's a gypsy too. I make my way by playing street and gigs—she works in TV. A production manager is always between gigs, moving from studio to studio; or on hiatus, like she is now. She understands how it is.
But when he'd looked for her in the lobby, she'd been gone.
She didn't even wait for me, back there at the Corporation. Just left without me.
Maybe she thought I'd already taken off—after all, I did kinda vanish from the protest meeting. But she didn't even leave a note with the receptionist—
It had been like the time his mother had forgotten to pick him up from school. He'd stood on the curb forlornly for an hour, clutching his flute, watching for the car that never came—until one of his teachers took pity on him and took him home.
Another car—or the same one—honked again, and this time he jumped. Well, that really doesn't matter, I guess. What matters now is what I'm going to do. I just don't know who to believe, Kory or Ria. Which of them is telling the truth?
Korendil—what he'd said—the elf believed his own words, that was the truth, anyway. But how much of the truth?
Kory—I really don't know what to think about Korendil either. Everything is moving so fast, too fast to figure out. I like him—he's a friend, like no other friend I've ever had—
But there's something about him that makes me feel so . . . uncomfortable. The way he looks at me, like I'm everything he ever dreamed of, the answer to all of his prayers. It's more than a little embarrassing. And whatever it is that Ria's got—that magnetism, that . . . allure—he's got it too . . .
God, why am I thinking that? Maybe it's just that he got himself so trashed trying to keep Perenor away from me and Bethie, or the fact that we healed him, but—I feel so—
He gave himself a mental shake. Confused. That's how I feel. All of this is so confusing, Kory, Beth, the magic—Ria—
He clenched his fingers in his hair. God. Magic. I can't disbelieve in it anymore. What we did this morning to heal Kory, me and Beth—it happened, it was real, as real as I am. Which means that it all is true, the elves, the magic, everything. It must be true—I am a Bard. Whatever that means. And—and if that's true, then what happened, all those years ago, it was real, too—
He shivered, huddled close against the window. The memory came back, as clearly as if the living nightmare had occurred just the night before.
He was standing on the stage, the bright lights making everything look so distant, out-of-focus—the orchestra was beginning the first notes of "Danse Macabre."
Then he began the opening solo.
And the music—suddenly it was so strong, so powerful, better than he'd ever played before; everything coming together and clicking into place and perfect—
Then—
Caught in the spell of the music, he began to shiver. The weird melody called up his nightmares, the things of childhood; the things that lurked under the bed, behind the closet door, and waited for the light to be turned off—
He felt unfriendly, hungry eyes on him—looked out of the corner of his eye at the wings—
—and saw them.
The watchers in the darkness of the theater, the creatures detaching from the shadows. Unnoticed by the audience, gliding toward him like cloaks of liquid night, hands outstretched, reaching for him—
He stood there, frozen in place, not believing what was happening—
Then flung the flute away and ran, ran—his throat so choked with fear he couldn't even scream—just whimper—
He opened his eyes, and clenched his hands on his knees to stop their trembling. I ran all right. Ran like hell. The conductor was horrified by the kid prodigy freaking out backstage; my parents were freaking out almost as bad as me. Two years of psychoanalysis, of everyone telling me that it wasn't real, it didn't happen. I just imagined it. Two damn years being told I was crazy that night. Then the kids at Juilliard found out about it—
More years of taunting, tricks with things being hidden in his closet, with "practical jokes" and attempts to scare him into another fit of hysterics in public. Notes addressed to "Loony Banyon." Getting on the mailing list of every nuthouse in the country. Good old Chuck Marquand, the second-best flautist at Juilliard, setting up phony appointments for Eric with the local shrinks.
Beginning to doubt his own sanity.
But—if all of this is real, then that was real, too—those things, staring at me with such hunger and need, they were real; creatures that shouldn't exist but did, all because of me.
Because of me—
Because I'm a Bard.
Christ.
He tried to laugh at himself. You know, I really wish somebody else could've been picked for this honor. How did I get so lucky? Anybody else would be better for this. Like Bethie; she'd be perfect. She's got it all together, knows what she wants to do; she never falters or feels like she can't cope.
He gritted his teeth to keep from shivering. I do, all the time. I'm not the right one for this, for whatever it is I'm supposed to do. I feel like I'm being pulled in all these directions, with no idea which way I want to go. Everyone wants so much from me—
But he needed answers, and the only place he was going to get them—
—was from himself.
I'll figure this out for myself, that's what I'll do. I'll make my own decision, and stick to it. That's it.
He glanced out the window, and leaped to his feet, diving for the rear exit of the bus. Shit, I missed my stop!
Eric stumbled down to the street, and looked around sourly. Oh well. It's only a few blocks back to the apartment. I'll live.
He trudged across the intersection, sidestepping several kids on skateboards. With the way my luck has been lately, I'm likely to get run over by a rollerskater in Woodley Park. What else could possibly happen that would complicate my life even more than it is now?
Strike that. I don't even want to think about anything that might complicate my life!
Eric started down Sherman Way, past the sprawling Post Office building. Ahead of him, he could hear the faint roar of a cargo plane taking off from Van Nuys Airport, only a few blocks away. Probably one of those big World War II bombers. I think some of those pilots are still living through the war, the way they fly those big clunkers. Not living in reality.
Hell, who am I to talk about living in reality? Me, the Bard, with my best friends the witch and the elf. Some reality, Eric.
He coughed a bit as a junker growled past, burning more oil than gas. More had happened to him in the past week than had happened in the last year—
And it had taken some of the starch out of him, that was for sure. He was sweating by the time he reached his apartment; hot and tired, and a little gritty.
He'd never noticed quite how much of an eyesore the tacky old pink building was. He couldn't help but contrast this—and the steel and chrome sleekness of the Llewellyn Building. And Ria Llewellyn's office—no plastic couch with a lump in it for her. Nothing but the best . . .
So what could she possibly see in him? Grubby little busker, no money, no muscles, nothing a woman like that couldn't have just by snapping her fingers—
Maybe she saw the same thing that Beth and Kory did. Whatever that is.
He unlocked the security door and trudged down the hall to his apartment, suddenly wanting both of them around. Needing them. Badly.
I need a sanity check. I need to find out how much of what she said is true—and why she's so hot on me—
But as he unlocked the door of his apartment, a voice spoke from the shadowy living room before he could call out.
"They are not here, Bard."
A voice like broken music.
He opened the door; slowly, carefully.
There was an elf sitting on his living room couch.
Blond, like Kory, and long-haired; but his hair was unkempt and neglected, dulled and brittle. Tall, gaunt, with lines of pain etched around his mouth and eyes. And the eyes themselves—
If Kory's eyes were crystalline emeralds, and Perenor's clouded jade, this elf s eyes were reflections of the sea on a moonless night. Deep gray-green, and haunted, they gave Eric the feeling that something too terrible to think about moved beneath the surface. Ancient eyes; anguished eyes.
Eric tried to speak, and found he couldn't get his mouth to work until the elf looked away. "W-which one are you?" he stammered, as he shut the door behind himself. "And where are they?"
"I do not know," the elf replied, again in that beautiful, ruined voice. "They had departed before I arrived." He raised a wing-like sweep of eyebrow at Eric, "I took the liberty of removing the blood from the carpet. Dangerous, to leave it there, and not just for Korendil."
Eric could feel a thousand unspoken, fear-ridden questions behind the elf s calm facade.
"Yeah, well, we weren't thinking about that—"
"No. I would imagine—from the amount—" The elfs eyes closed briefly, and the pain-lines about them deepened. "Was the boy badly hurt?" he asked, his voice a harsh whisper.
"Yeah," Eric began. "Perenor really trashed—"
The elf opened his eyes, and sea-fire raged in them. Eric flinched away from his fury.
"Danann—if he is dead, I swear by my honor I will—"
"He's okay—" Eric stammered, interrupting him. "W-w-e healed him. Me and Beth—"
The elf stopped, frozen. "You. Mortals. You healed him. And you put no binding upon him?" A darker emotion lurked in those gray-green eyes, roiling with restrained violence.
Eric blinked. "Say what?"
"No, I see that you did not." The fire died in the elf's eyes, and he slumped a little. "No Bard would, I think. It was not all Dreaming, then, what the boy said of you. Korendil is wiser than I." He pondered that for a moment, then placed one hand on his chest and bowed, with a smile of self-mockery. "Bard Eric Banyon, you see before you all that is left of Terenil, prince of Elfhame Sun-Descending. I would ask for your help."
Eric felt his jaw slipping. "My help? But—"
The elf rose and walked a little closer, and now Eric could see that he was dressed, incongruously enough, in stained, scuffed, deep-scarlet leather. Like Robin Hood, only in red. Eric's jaw slipped a little more.
"Well. . . that is less than the truth," Terenil admitted. "I came to search out Korendil; I could not sense him nor trace him with magic, and I feared—"
Eric felt a chill; if Terenil could find his way to the apartment, how long would it take Perenor? "How did you know he was here?"
"The blood," Terenil replied. "Suddenly I could sense the blood. But when I arrived, he and the witch had already gone. I was not certain what to think; especially after I found the blood and . . . those—"
He nodded his head toward the chair next to the door. On it were the ravaged and bloodstained garments Korendil had been wearing. Eric eyed them mournfully.
My best Faire shirt—and my boots—
"It was only moments later I heard your footsteps. I still cannot sense him, therefore she must be shielding him. If he has been hurt, that is just as well—"
"Yeah," Eric said vaguely. They're not here—so they must be at Beth's place. That means he was in good enough shape to move. Jealousy cramped his throat. No wonder she didn't wait around for me. Why should she? What am I, compared to him? What have I got that he hasn't got more of? And on top of it all, he's an elf. What'd that old guy say to her? "You've finally got your wish"? She's been looking for an elf like him for years . . .
"Bard—I still need your help." The elf broke into his unhappy thoughts. "Please—help me."
"Why?" Eric spat, suddenly angry at the whole race of elves. Yeah, I can guess what Beth is doing, now that she's found her elf. They're probably—
"Because—" Terenil's shoulders sagged. "Because no one else will," he said raggedly. "Those few of my own who are not lost themselves have given me up for lost. Even Korendil. I—I failed him, last night. I failed him . . ."
Eric's anger ran out of him. "Hey," he said awkwardly. "Like, it wasn't your fault. You aren't in real good shape, y'know?"
Oh shit. That's it—that's probably why she had to move Kory in a hurry. He was in lousy shape, and she didn't want to risk Perenor tracking them down. Maybe that blood . . . well, whatever. That's probably why she didn't wait.
Though I really wish she'd left me a note . . .
"And whose is the fault, then?" Terenil asked, his voice rough with self-accusation. His eyes caught Eric's for a moment, just as Kory's had—
Thoughts ran wild in his head, with an underscoring of lament, dirge to something lost past recall.
Korendil vanished; more of the Low Court falling, into Dreaming by the day. Those of the High Court who had not gone north to Elfhame Misthold or under the Hill, had slipped hopelessly into Dreaming themselves. Without Korendil to rally the High Court remnants, to help him—it was useless to struggle on against the Dreaming. For he, who should have been able to protect them, who was responsible for protecting them, was helpless, helpless . . .
Only a Bard could have saved them—and Perenor had seen to it that there would be no Bards here.
So why not give up, give in, let Dreaming take him too? They were all doomed. Better that he would not be capable of witnessing or understanding the end . . .
Despair too profound even to register as pain nearly knocked Eric to his knees. Only once had he ever run across anyone who lived with anguish like that. An ex-'Nam vet named Tor, up at the law school at Stanford, who used to let Eric stay with him between Faire weekends, feed him and give him crashspace on the dorm floor when the busking got too thin—
And who used to get drunk with him when the pain was too much, and neither of them wanted to get stoned alone.
Wonder what happened to Tor? It's been years. Did he ever get out to Colorado like he always said he wanted to? He answered Terenil's despair with Tor's own words. "Sometimes shit happens, no matter what you do. Sometimes all you can do is try and keep yourself in one piece, so you can figure out what happened, and figure out how to keep it from happening again." Yeah, you had the right idea, old friend—
He was rewarded by seeing some sanity come back into the Prince's expression.
"I have done poorly at even that," Terenil replied bitterly.
Eric cocked his had to one side, and took a really close look at him. Well, he looks pretty strung-out, but he doesn't look drugged. And hell, enough people have written me off—too many times—
I'm damn sure not gonna slam the door in his face.
"It happened," he said. "Not even one of you incredibly powerful magical type elves is going to be able to change the past. So, how can I help you out, Your Highness?"
Terenil raised his eyes to meet Eric's, astonishment erasing some of the pain-lines.
"You'll help me?" he said incredulously.
Eric shrugged. "Sure. Why not? I think you deserve help. I don't know that I can help you much, but whatever I can do, I will. I told Kory I'd do what I could for the elves, and last time I heard, you hadn't turned in your union card."
The gratitude in Terenil's expression was as hard to face as his rage had been. Eric had to turn away from it—and to cover his lapse of manners, picked up the ruined clothing and looked it over, hoping to find some sign it could be salvaged.
"It is beyond repair, I fear.''
The voice was right in his ear, and he jumped, dropping the shirt. "Y-yeah, it's pretty totaled," he agreed, "I mean, I don't grudge it, but—how come he had to take my clothes?"
And how the hell did he ever fit into them?
"Because, Bard, we cannot create with our magic. Alter, easily. Copy, yes—if we know the article intimately. But not create. Only a Bard or a very powerful Adept can create something from naught but power."
"Okay—but why my clothes?"
"He would have been rather conspicuous without them," the Prince said dryly. "Being as he was bespelled wearing his armor—and so woke in the same condition."
"Lots of people wear armor on the Faire Site," Eric objected.
"Armor like this?"
The Prince straightened, gaining at least two inches in the process—and began to glow . . .
Eric closed his eyes; the Prince's outline wavered in a way that was making him slightly ill—and besides, he was hearing music again—
Slow, majestic chords; a massive pipe organ, like the one in that chapel in the Santa Cruz hills—
The music faded, and he opened his eyes—and lost his jaw entirely.
The Prince looked like a Prince now; clad head-to-toe in some fantastic suit of gold and scarlet enamel, chased and filigreed and articulated so finely Eric had no doubt that Terenil could dance in the stuff. It made the armor in the movies look modest and restrained. Not to mention bulky and awkward.
Terenil favored him with an ironic half-smile.
"Yeah, I see." Eric swallowed. "I guess he would have been kind of conspicuous."
"And he was bespelled ten years ago. The only clothing he could replicate—assuming he could spare the mage-power, which I do not think he could—would have been bell-bottomed jeans and leisure suits, Bard Eric; or High Court garb. Equally conspicuous."
The idea of Kory in a polyester leisure suit made Eric splutter with laughter. When he looked up again, Terenil was back in his scarlet leather.
"I guess—I guess I don't mind so much," Eric admitted. "Not when you put it that way. But—" He surveyed the blood-stiffened boot in his hand with regret. "I'll miss my boots. Be a while before I can afford another pair."
"If you will permit?" Terenil took the boots from him, held them in front of his chest, and frowned at them.
A quick, staccato chord—
The mocassin boots were gone. What was in Terenil's hands was something else entirely. Eric had lusted after the famous "Faire boots," tooled and decorated, handmade, custom-fitted boots, for years. These made those look like his worn-out moccasins. Brilliant scarlet, and embellished with tiny metallic gold sunbursts—
Like Terenil's armor.
"Not your colors, I do not think," the elf muttered; and as a strange little fluted melody played behind Eric's eyes, he watched the tint deepen to wine, watched the sunbursts vanish, to be replaced by a simple vine and leaf pattern, all in silver, threading from the sole to the top.
"Here," Terenil said, with a touch of pride, holding the boots out to him. "In simple things, at least, it seems I have not lost my abilities."
Eric took them. This is it. I have gone around the bend. I am no longer operating in this reality—
Nevertheless he kicked off his sneakers and pulled the boots on. It was almost with relief that he found them to be miles too big
Thank God. Reality. Next, I find out I'm wearing Baggies on my feet, and that he hypnotized me.
"They're—"
"Indeed, I expected. They are, after all, copies of mine." The elf knelt for a moment, and ran his hands down Eric's legs—
The feeling of Terenil's hands upon him was disturbingly sensual.
Christ! First Kory—
Then the leather moved, tightening around Eric's calves and feet until the boots might have been painted on him. He'd have jumped, if Terenil hadn't been holding his ankles.
Jesus H—
The elf stood and straightened. "Now do they fit well enough, Bard Eric?"
Eric swallowed hard. "Uh—yeah, sure."
Too weird for words.
Definitely. I'm almost afraid to think what could happen next . . .
The Prince hailed a cab at the curb, directing the driver to some place in Beverly Hills. Eric was too bemused to note the address. He kept expecting his boots to turn back into Baggies, or into his old, ruined pair.
All this talking about magic—but these are real; I can touch them. And Kory being healed was real, too. It's not talk, it's not F/X. It's happening.
The cab stopped, Terenil produced a fifty from nowhere (literally), and handed it to the driver, who opened the door for them. Eric found himself stepping out onto a driveway that looked like it went on for miles.
The cab pulled away, leaving them standing beside a wrought-iron gate with more security hookups than Eric had ever seen in his life.
Terenil idly placed his palm on one of the mysterious black boxes, and Eric heard a complicated burst of twelve-tone—
And the gate swung open.
"I have the feeling that this isn't your house," he said, nervously. "Are we going to get arrested for breaking and entering in the next five minutes?"
Terenil raised his eyebrows again. "Are you more concerned with the impropriety of appropriating someone else's property, or the possibility of being caught at it?"
"Being caught," Eric said promptly, with a grin.
"You should have been born one of us." The Prince pushed the gate completely open and beckoned to Eric to follow him. "The owner of this manse is an old friend of mine. He is currently in Eire, and will be for some months. He has left only one caretaker, who is surfing, and will not return until sundown. I have convinced the alarms that we hold the proper keys. There will be no police here."
The driveway did go on for miles, white and glaring under the afternoon sun. "So why are we here?" Eric asked, following the scarlet figure up the hot stretch of concrete. "I have the feeling you've been here before."
"I have," Terenil sighed. "Often—though not for this purpose, precisely. I came here when I . . . needed a place . . . undisturbed."
Eric flashed on a glimpse of one of the elves last night, sitting in a corner stoned out of his wits. He nodded to himself. Yeah. Being an elf isn't going to keep the cops from hassling you by day if they think you're blitzed.
"So why are we here now?" Eric persisted.
Terenil moved off the white desert of concrete and onto a path of tastefully arranged stones. "We are here, Bard Eric, because we need a place undisturbed. A place of combat, and this manse has such within it."
Place of combat?
"What's wrong with the park?"
They had reached a portico of rough-hewn redwood beams. Terenil played his trick with the door, and it, too, swung open at a touch. He strode inside as if he knew exactly where he was going.
He said he did.
"This a place where we will not be conspicuous," Terenil said carefully, leading the way through the tiled entry and down a birch-paneled hallway. "My abilities are not . . . what they were. I cannot make us 'invisible,' engage in combat, and hold my memories in your mind, all at once. Two of the three, yes, but not all three. Here."
He touched another door and motioned Eric to precede him, and Eric found himself in a dojo.
Who the hell's house is this, anyway?
"Why do I need your memories?" he asked in confusion, as Terenil shut the door behind them.
"Because, Bard, I need very badly to regain my skills in fighting, both by blade and magic—and to do so, I need an opponent." He tapped Eric's chest with an outstretched finger. "You."
"Me?" Eric's voice squeaked.
"Indeed."
The elf-prince placed his hand on Eric's forehead before Eric could scramble away.
The world vanished with a shout.