“What then?”
“At a guess? Something to do with the spells we build with our poetry. It would go a deal toward explaining why thou hast been unable to break the drought, if they’ve … Baines,” and Will felt Kit’s shiver, “said the bridle, the stopping of a poet’s voice, was the symbol that drove the spell.”
“Spell?” Will turned again, and laid a hand on Kit’s shoulder, watching him swallow and continue to stare straight ahead at the musicians. “Spell?”
“You re too easy to talk to, Will.
As it may be. Spell. You said nothing.”
“What happened in Rheims,” Kit said, “was some sort of black magic. Promethean magic. Baines called me …” a deadly levelness, the tone of a boy reciting latin verbs vessel.
“Christ, Kit.”
Kit didn’t turn, but a casual gesture dismissed Will’s fury. “So, logically, if that’s what’s bottled up in me, and how they did it …”
“Canst prove it?”
“Nay. Tis speculation of the rankest sort.”
“What are we going to do about it?”
‘We.’ He felt Kit’s relief at the word, the way the smaller man relaxed as he turned to give Will a fragment of a smile. “Damn, Will. We haven’t an idea. But we’ll be sure to let us know when we figure it out, won’t we?”
Will squeezed and let his hand drop, turning back to the music, aware that the appraising eyes of Cairbre and the stag-headed Fae rested upon them.
“We’ll certainly do our best.”
That love is childish which consists in words.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Dido, Queen of Carthage
Kit watched Will turn away, admiring the resplendent and obviously uncomfortable figure he cut in trunk hose, a starched ruff, a plumed hat, and a gold-and-aquamarine-wrought doublet of the vivid blue called inciannomati. Blues were unfashionable in London; it was the color of apprentice gowns and Elizabeth detested it, but here in Faerie there were no such considerations. The color looked very fine with Will’s dark hair and startling eyes, the trunk hose showing a sinewy leg.
“Give Morgan that, Kit thought. She can dress a man.”
And then he laughed, remembering many an attempt to dress Will up in years gone by. Will glanced over his shoulder as Kit pushed away from the fountain and fell into step beside him. Together, they wandered away from the little clutch of musicians and observers to circumnavigate the conservatory. “What?”
“My William doesn’t look like a Puritan today.” Kit watched Will’s eyes to see if his friend flinched at the endearment, and was relieved when it seemed to pass unremarked except by a flicker of smile.
“Can you call it a day, here? And would a Puritan be welcomed in Faerie?”
“That’s a ballad of a different sort,” Kit said.
“A bawdy one, or I miss my mark. Perhaps I should write it:
With a black cloth coat
and a starch’d white ruff
all strewn o’er thegreensward …
Will sang to the tune of a common tavern song, and Kit laughed. “So, sweet Christofer, how shall we entertain ourselves until the dinner hour?”
“Hast eaten?”
“A pastry and a bit of small beer. It will do.”
“I could introduce thee to the gardens.”
“If they outshine the conservatory…” Will’s stagy gesture took in the glittering dome overhead, the marble planters full without regard to season of nodding blossoms, the scent of the wisteria as heavy and sweet as treacle. “Shall I be called upon to sing for my supper again tonight?”
“I should count on it, my friend. The Fae,” Kit said softly, as they came upon the rest of the group, “will pay handsomely to be made to feel. They are cold and strange, and I sometimes think …”
Will’s curious gaze stroked his face. Kit felt it as a palpable touch, and sighed. He stopped, and turned aside to toy with the cool, silken petals of a chimerical chrysanthemum.
“Put it aside, Marley I sometimes think they envy us our passions, and half the reason they steal us mortals away is to keep us hothoused like these blossoms. Nothing ever dies in Faerie. It just grows chill and dark. I could wish a little chillness in trade for a little life.”
Kit glanced up at the bitterness in Will’s tone, and almost reached to take Will’s arm. The stiffness of the other man’s posture, his averted eyes, gnawed at Kit with sorrowful teeth, and he let his hand sink back to his side. “Will, I’m sorry.”
“No,” Will said. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. There’s nothing you can make better, Kit.”
I could have been there,Kit thought. You said it yourself.But he waited, dumb, as Will wandered away to plunge his hands into the fountain again.
A tug on Kit’s sleeve startled him; he jumped and turned to his blind side. “Geoffrey!”
“Your pardon, Sir Poet. You seemed pensive.”
“I am pensive, Geoff. Has the music lost its charm for you already?” He tilted his head suggestively at Amaranth, Puck, and Cairbre, who were still in full swing.
The stag shrugged, which Kit found anatomically interesting, and looked down his long muzzle at the poet. “This Shakespeare is a friend of yours?”
“Aye,” Kit said, “a good one.”
Geoffrey raised a placating hoof at the warning tone in Kit’s voice. “I meant nothing by it. One tries to stay apprised of the poetical rivalries in court, of course, and it’s been long since we had bards to choose between.”
Kit laughed. “Friendship has never stopped us being rivals. The two are not exclusive. Is politics and poetry the main course tonight, then?”
Geoffrey’s cloven forehoof moved like a scissors. He lifted the dark violet, golden-eyed blossom he’d snipped from the planter to his nostrils and sniffed. “Do you remember when we spoke of war, and bondage?”
“Love-in-idleness. I couldn’t forget.”
“Then you know tis always politics. Politics and poetry. Politics and love. Politics and fairy tales.”
“This is the introduction to a seducement, Geoffrey.”
“Am I so transparent?”
Kit let his voice go low, but kept the banter in his tone for the sake of eavesdroppers. “It’s been a long time coming,” he said. “What does it entail? The overthrow of the Queen?”
“Nothing so dire,” the stag answered, just as soft. “Merely a little magic. Which you well began in song already, I wot.”
“Why now? Why not last year, or the year before?”
The stag arched his head, observing the musicians and Will both through the advantage of his wide-spaced eyes. “You’re reclaiming yourself at last. You show you are a man of loyalty, once that loyalty is won.”
“I wouldn’t be so hasty as to think so. I’ve never been known for choosing sides based on anything other than expedience.”
“Haven’t you? You’ve been careful not to choose, here, Sir Christofer. It has not gone unnoticed that you share your gifts between factions, and permit none of them, quite, to claim you.”
Kit caught himself chewing a thumbnail, made himself stop and tuck his hands inside crossed arms. “What can you offer me that Morgan can’t, or, failing that, the Mebd?”
“Freedom,” Geoffrey answered, the sunlight shining on the silver-gray patches where his antlers would grow come the fall. His wet nose quivered softly. “If you like.”
Kit felt Puck’s curious eyes on him when he reached out and eased the flower from Geoffrey’s hoof. He crushed it in his hand, satiny moisture and a violet stain, that vanished when he brushed the ruined remains on the raven’s-wing velvet of his doublet. “We’ll talk again,” he said, and nodded once before he walked away.
Leaning against a marble satyr, Kit folded his arms and watched Cairbre and the towering Amaranth show Will the esoteric fingerings of a silver Faerie flute. He covered a momentary pang of jealousy with an idle smile. Give him his glory: a poet in Faerie.Kit laughed silently. If Orfeo stole his lover back from the Faerie king, what does that make of me, having done the reverse?A moment before the fallacy sank in and his mouth twisted in bitter whimsy rather than humor.