The Dire King Page 3

  Jackaby and I found ourselves alone with Lord Arawn. The fire crackled away.

  “Well,” Jackaby said. “You and I have different taste in decor, but I can’t argue with the entryway—a door like that gives quite the first impression. Nowhere to hang a knocker, though. Or a horseshoe.”

  “In a thousand years,” Lord Arawn said, “that veil-gate has never been opened for a human. You may be the first mortals to ever cross through it.”

  “It is quite an honor, sir,” I said. “Er—your majesty. It’s quite an honor, your majesty, sir.” I immediately wished I had remained silent.

  “And what is she?” Arawn regarded me with detached amusement.

  “She is my associate,” Jackaby answered. “And she is generally quite sharp. Usually. Sometimes. She’ll surprise you from time to time.”

  “I’m sure she will,” said Arawn. “You humans never do exactly what one expects. I kept one in my castle for an entire year once.”

  “A human?”

  “Yes. I let him wear my glamour and everything. He left to go be a prince of some petty kingdom in the end. A shame. I rather liked him.”

  “We’re here on rather urgent business, I’m afraid.”

  “So I understand.” Arawn sauntered toward the dais at the end of the room. “You have concerns about the old Dire Council?”

  Jackaby nodded. “More than concerns. The council has risen again. They’re active. My associates and I have managed to incapacitate a vampire and to nick a nixie at the heart of their ranks, but the Dire King remains at large, planning his next murderous maneuver.”

  Arawn turned lazily as he reached his throne. “Such an excitable species, you humans. So rash. There is no Dire King lurking out there.”

  “There is,” I said. “I’ve seen him.”

  Arawn’s eyes fixed on me as he slid into his chair. “Have you?”

  I screwed up my confidence. “I’ve seen his eyes,” I said, “glowing red in the darkness. He said that the age of man has ended, and that he is tired of waiting. He intends to destroy the barrier between the earth and the Annwyn and rule over whatever is left as king of both realms.”

  Unimpressed, Arawn reached a hand down and absently stroked one of his snowy white hounds between its crimson ears. “At any moment, there are almost certain to be a dozen scurrilous seditionists who intend to destroy my barrier, a hundred who intend to usurp my throne, a thousand who intend to see the age of man come crumbling to an end. Let the rabble continue to amuse themselves with their idle intentions.”

  “It’s only an idle intention until it becomes a reality,” said Jackaby.

  Arawn rolled his eyes. “It is an absurd fantasy.”

  Said the fairy king to a traveler with magic beans in his pockets, I thought, but I kept the observation to myself.

  “You’re being a fool.” Jackaby took a step toward the dais. The twin hounds raised their milky white heads and their eyes narrowed. “Your veil is not impervious. Unseelie creatures have already slipped through the cracks—as I’m sure you’re well aware. Innocent people are dying while you reassure yourself you’re in control!” The hounds began to growl, and Jackaby drew to a stop, just a few paces from the king. “I’m at the heart of this now, whether you help me or not. More people will die. People I care about will die. Don’t let your ego blind you. Don’t wait for the veil to fall and for people you care about to start dying before you take this seriously.”

  “Very forward, Seer,” said Arawn coldly. “You do not know your place.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve been told it’s one of my most endearing qualities,” Jackaby replied.

  Arawn smirked in spite of himself. “One of your only,” he said. “Yes, there are cracks in any wall. Cracks can be mended. What you’re describing is something else entirely. It is laughable.”

  “Humor me, then. Please.”

  Arawn eyed Jackaby. “Very well, if it sets you at ease. Let us imagine the impossible. I will speak slowly. Do try to keep up.”

  Arawn gave a casual wave of his hand, and the heavy oaken tabletop beside me shuddered. Before my eyes, the surface rippled and rose unevenly, forming hills and plains and sprouting miniature wooden towers with paper-thin pennants.

  “Anyone intent on destroying the barrier would need to subdue my army first,” Arawn drawled.

  As I watched, transfixed, miniature oaken figures rose out of the wood grain and snapped to attention, forming row after row of tiny soldiers.

  “The Seelie forces are the most powerful army in this or any realm,” Arawn continued, “and they have one sworn duty—to protect the veil. A rebel king would need to rally a legion equal to my own, the likes of which has never been seen. The Unseelie, unlike my forces, are the most capricious and unruly creatures in the Annwyn. Preventing even a paltry horde of these brutes from tearing each other apart would be nothing short of extraordinary, and mobilizing an entire army of them toward a common goal would be nearly impossible.”

  Chips and splinters had begun to peek out of the tabletop, circling the oaken army like wolves in the underbrush.

  “But I am humoring you,” said Arawn dryly. “So let’s take this preposterous pretense a step further.”

  The wolves attacked. Wave after wave of jagged monsters fell upon the soldiers. Toothpick javelins flew and wood-shaving shields crumpled. When the sawdust settled, the wooden army lay still. It had been a massacre in miniature.

  “Supposing your would-be king could achieve the impossible and overcome my army, he still would not possess the raw power to bring down the veil. The magical potential required to unhinge the established enchantments holding the barrier in place would call for more focused energy than all of the strongest mages in my army could produce combined.”

  The table rattled. Inch by inch, the wolfish shards and broken soldiers began to slide along the surface. Concentric circles formed as the armies were dragged across the wood in opposite directions, the bristly horde spinning clockwise and the fallen soldiers sliding widdershins. From the center of these orbits rose a solitary figure. A tiny jagged crown sat atop its wooden head.

  “Supposing it could be done,” said Arawn, “unimaginable raw power would need to be focused toward a single goal, to be channeled through a single mind.”

  The rumble of the tabletop had become an unsettling hum. It made my teeth hurt. The tabletop began to splinter at the edges. Around and around the circles spun, faster and faster until, with a crack, the figure in the center exploded into a burst of wood shards. I shielded my eyes with my arm, and when I looked again, the table had returned to normal, its surface smooth and polished, minus one rough gouge in the center.

  Arawn leaned back in his throne. “It cannot be done. The veil is safe. The Dire King is dead.”

  “Dead?” I said. “Then there was a Dire King?” Arawn’s half-lidded eyes flicked in my direction.

  “There was,” he conceded. With slow, deliberate movements, the king rose and stepped down from the dais toward me. “Until there wasn’t. Do you want to know what came in between?”

  I nodded.

  “Me.” He drew so close I could see my own nervous face in the reflection of his circlet. “The Dire King was a formidable opponent, but he was outmatched. I have the wretch’s crown in my trophy room,” Arawn said. “Removed from his lifeless head as his corpse lay cooling on the field of battle. He’s dead.”

  “His crown?” Jackaby’s eyes flashed with a sudden thought. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever met a fellow called Father Grafton?”

  “The name is meaningless to me,” said Arawn. “Is he a mortal?”

  “Decidedly mortal. Downright mort,” said Jackaby. “Shuffled off the old coil on our doorstep just this morning, as a matter of fact. He mentioned a crown right before he died. A spear and a shield, as well. He called them the harfau o Hafgan. Is that meanin
gless to you as well?”

  Arawn’s measured calm fell away, a look of genuine surprise taking its place. “The instruments of Hafgan,” he said quietly. “I had almost forgotten that there was a time when he was called Hafgan at all. That name was once like thunder in these halls. Hafgan is the Dire King. Or he was. Those days are long past.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain he’s dead?” Jackaby asked.

  “His followers and mine both watched me kill him. Yes, I’m sure—as are a lot of other fair folk and oddlings from across the realm. The duel was a public spectacle, if you could call it a duel at all. It only took a single stroke to shatter his shield and pierce his heart. Ballads were written and paintings done. Most of them were awful, to be honest, but there isn’t a fairy in my kingdom who does not know the tale.”

  Arawn gestured above our heads and I glanced behind me to see a tapestry hanging over the wide hearth. In it, a fair-haired figure with a bronze circlet and a purple cape stood gallantly in the foreground, his sword raised to strike. His opponent was wielding a spear of midnight black. Hafgan wore dark armor, and on his head was an obsidian crown, its edges tall and sharp and jagged.

  “That crown,” said Jackaby. “Did it have any special power?”

  “Only the same as any. A crown is a symbol. It stands for authority, for the right to rule. There is great power in a symbol like that, as there is power in taking it.” Something approaching a smile danced at the edge of Arawn’s lips. “Would you like to see it?”

  Arawn’s pale hounds trotted at his heels like royal escorts as he led us through cool corridors and down drafty staircases.

  “The crown, the spear, the shield,” Jackaby mumbled as we followed. “If you have his crown, what became of Hafgan’s spear and shield?” he called forward to our escort.

  “Splinters in the mud when I saw them last,” Arawn replied. “I have no interest in a dead man’s detritus. Ah. Here we are.”

  We had come to a heavy door set into an inner wall of the castle. It had no visible handle or keyhole, but as Arawn approached, it responded to his presence, swinging open noiselessly. The room beyond was less of a chamber and more of a long, wide hallway. Brilliant lanterns sparkled across the ceiling, and on every wall hung remarkable artifacts. My eyes slid from a silver arrow as long as a javelin, to a sword made of bright green jade, to a helmet made of beaten gold in the shape of a boar. Finally I looked to my employer.

  Jackaby’s eyes had lit up like a toddler’s in a toy shop.

  “Oh, Miss Rook—look at these! I do believe this is the actual club of the Dagda. Good heavens, the Dullahan’s whip! Is that the eye of Balor over there?”

  “That is the eye of Hagen,” corrected Arawn languidly. “The eye of Balor remains in Balor’s head, which can be found farther back in my collection. You will find relics here of dynasties stretching back to before the age of Llyr, before the age of Dôn, long before the age of man.”

  The lanterns flickered as we passed and I caught a flutter of movement. I stopped, squinting up at the bright lights.

  “Coming, Miss Rook?”

  I almost missed it, but just as I looked away again, a flurry of delicate wing-beats swept the glass inside the lantern. “What are those?” I asked, catching up.

  Arawn glanced where I was pointing. “You might call them prisoners of war,” he replied. “Sprites and oddlings. They are the spoils of a conquest before my time.”

  “What? But they’re alive! How long are you going to keep them locked up like that?”

  Arawn looked nonplussed. “As long as I have need of light in my trophy room, I suppose. They serve a purpose here, which is more than I could say about their lives as free fae. Now, then. The Dire Crown is just past . . .” Arawn’s voice petered off. He had come to a stop before a marble plinth. The podium stood empty.

  “He has already taken the crown,” said Jackaby, drawing up beside him. “That’s what the old man said.”

  The Fair King’s jaw set, and his practiced ennui fell away.

  “You were saying something about there being great power in a symbol like that,” said Jackaby, “as there is power in taking it.”

  Arawn’s eyes were glued to the empty plinth. “It is time for you to go,” he said darkly.

  “You helped me once,” Jackaby said, “a long time ago. Let me help you now. Let us help each other.”

  “I do not need your help,” Arawn answered through gritted teeth. He took a deep breath. “I have not forgotten your debt, Seer. I have not fallen so low, however, that I cannot manage my own affairs without calling on the help of mortal men.”

  “Your majesty, please,” I implored. “The return of the Dire King affects us all. This affair is more than—”

  “The Dire King is dead!” Arawn shouted. He composed himself, and when he spoke again it was in measured breaths. “Hafgan is dead. Stolen crowns cannot make kings of commoners.”

  “Someone is collecting the instruments of Hafgan,” said Jackaby.

  “Someone is trying, and someone will be found,” snapped the king. “If someone is fool enough to brazenly trespass into my castle, then their capture will be all the more swift and their punishment all the more merciless.”

  The Fair King led us back up the drafty staircase and through the dim corridors.

  “Don’t underestimate them,” Jackaby said.

  “Don’t underestimate me,” Arawn replied.

  He pushed open the door to his council room and we stepped back into the heat of the roaring fire. His hounds trotted to take their place on either side of the throne.

  Serif had been waiting within. She hurried to her master’s side and dropped to one knee. “My liege, we have just received news of the Valinguard.”

  “Excellent.” Arawn continued forward into the chamber, and Serif rose to follow behind him. “Tell me. I could do with some good tidings.”

  Serif glanced at us, as though nervous to speak freely in our presence. “The Valinguard”—she swallowed—“have ridden together to the Mag Mell, my liege.”

  Arawn froze. He turned slowly to face Serif. “All of them?”

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her mouth twitched, pulling nervously where the alabaster scar met her lips.

  “I see. Thank you, General.” The king’s face had become ashen. “I shall expect your full report after I have seen our guests out.” With a distracted wave of his hand, Arawn reopened the shimmering portal back to New Fiddleham. A gentle breeze and the sweet smell of the grove in Seeley’s Square wafted over us. Arawn turned to face Jackaby. “I . . . I have reconsidered. I think perhaps we might help each other after all, Seer.”

  Jackaby and I exchanged a quick glance.

  “You have a reputation for finding things,” Arawn continued. “You have made something of a career of it in your realm, have you not?”

  “I am a private investigator, if that’s what you mean,” said Jackaby.

  “Then privately investigate those cracks in my wall. Find them on your side, and I will repair them on mine. Help me to seal the rend, and I will consider your debt repaid.”

  “Who are the Valinguard?” Jackaby asked.

  Arawn smiled weakly and did not respond.

  “Where is the Mag Mell?”

  Arawn drew a slow breath. “My envoys will be checking up on you. Good-bye, Seer.”

  Virgule straightened up as we emerged into Seeley’s Square once more. The veil-gate closed behind us almost the moment we were through. “Lord Arawn is done with you?” Virgule asked.

  “Well, you know how it is.” Jackaby shrugged. “He might have wanted us to hang about for a cup of tea, but we have places to go, ducks to feed. Quite a talker, that king of yours.”

  Virgule scowled. “What did the Fair King have to discuss with a pair of humans?”

  “Not certain we should d
ivulge that information,” I said. “A bit above Mister Virgule’s pay grade, don’t you think, sir? You’re what, a first lieutenant?”

  “I’m a captain.” Virgule bristled, gesturing to his forest green robes, which were apparently indicative of his rank.

  “Right,” I said. “Yes, still—it’s all rather inner-circle, top secret stuff, the things we were discussing with your king. I don’t imagine you’re allowed to know.”

  “Was it about the Dire Council?” Virgule asked. “Because I know all about the council. I even know about the last holdouts of their acolytes.”

  “Do you?” Jackaby raised an eyebrow.

  Virgule nodded emphatically. “I was there when the Emerald Garrison raided Hobb’s Hill. We flushed out a whole mess of sympathizers. I was the one to bring our report to the general.”

  Jackaby suppressed a smile. “Old news, Hobb’s Hill. Our conversation with Arawn was of a much more sensitive nature. It would take a far higher clearance for you to know about, for instance . . . the Valinguard.”

  “The Valinguard?” said Virgule. “That’s no secret! The Valinguard are Lord Arawn’s most elite force. Every one of them is at least a twelfth-order magus, unparalleled in combat, subterfuge, and spellcraft. When the Fair King wants something important done right, he sends the Valinguard.”

  “Obviously all that.” Jackaby made a show of dismissing the captain with a wave of his hand. “It’s their latest mission that’s so hush-hush. I’ve said too much. I really shouldn’t . . .” He trailed off, and Virgule took the bait.

  “I know about that, too!” he said, eagerly. “The rend! They’re looking for the rend in the veil, right? The Amber Scouts couldn’t find anything, so the Fair King got impatient and sent his Valinguard to find the rend and seal it immediately. They’ve been gone for weeks. That’s not normal for them. We’re all on alert to bring any news directly to Lord Arawn.”

  “Well,” said Jackaby, “it seems you’re not too far out of the inner circle after all.”

  Virgule looked pleased with himself.

  “Although—don’t tell Lord Arawn I told you about all that,” Jackaby added. “I would hate for him to know that I gave away so much confidential information.”