Unquiet Dreams

Meryl caught my eye. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

We came to a wide shallow bowl ringed with ancient oak trees. Among them, fire pits had been dug and filled with more druid-fire. Down in the center of the clearing, an earthen ramp led into a freshly dug pit. Chairs fa

Down near the pit, Keeva paced. She kept tapping the side of her head in a way that told me she was wearing an earpiece. I could imagine she was sending just as much as listening to the earpiece. She probably had a multitasking nightmare on her hands. Not far from her, Gerin Cuthbern stood in a cluster of druids, but his eyes were more interested in the gathering crowd than anyone near him.

“Anyone see Nigel?” I asked.

“He’s at the Guildhouse. He and Gerin were concerned that the entire Guild leadership in one place was a security risk.” How Murdock manages to find out these details, I’ll never know.

Farther along the section of seats where Gerin stood, I could see several high-level Guild administrators, but not the Guildmaster. “What about Manus?”

Murdock came through again. “Too ill to travel. Gerin’s going to do the tribute for the Guild.”

Among the human normals, ranking politicians ranged around the state governor and Boston’s mayor like moths. A few men who were obviously police out of uniform, but not many. “Why so few Boston P.D.?”

“Will you relax? I’ve seen the plans. This place is locked down tight.” Murdock was a helluva lot more confident than I was.

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “What could possibly go wrong, right?”

He smiled and shook his head.

At full dark, music began playing, a mournful dirge filtering down from beyond the druid-fires, Celtic pipes weaving in and out of the sad strings of dulcimers. People took their seats to watch the royal dignitaries from both sides of the fey world process in a wave of green mourning finery. High Queen Maeve’s envoy stepped delicately along the main aisle, a ridiculous fop wearing an ornate brocade tunic over green leathers, his hair and wings fluttering around him like a peacock fan. His melodramatic expression of sorrow was priceless. A long line of courtiers followed him, intently aware of their spectators, as they moved with mincing steps behind the envoy. Next to the envoy, the Elven King’s ambassadors strode, a male and a female, both dressed in battle armor painted green. They trooped in formation ahead of a company of archers and infantry. The male ambassador held a broken spear, while the woman walked with an unstrung bow and empty quiver. The two contingents separated as they reached the center of the clearing, winding their way into seats that faced each other across the open grave.

Horns blew and everyone stood. A solemn drumroll began as four elves in dark green livery pulled a cart along the ridge of the bowl. They turned onto the earthen ramp and eased the cart down into the pit. As they came even with us, I could see Kruge’s remains, a linen-wrapped form wearing ceremonial battle armor. Someone had had the dubious honor of putting his body back together. His arms were crossed on his chest, and a ceremonial sword lay grasped in his hands, blade down. The cart bristled with weapons, an accumulation of years, part of the ritual burial of a warrior. The liverymen marched out of the pit and stationed themselves at the top of the ramp. More attendants appeared and placed a small wooden bench at the top of the pit ramp.

Eorla Kruge approached from the ridge, resplendent in her widow’s weeds, a long tunic coat embedded with small gems that flickered in the light of the druid-fire. She wore a small diadem of gold and a long sheer veil draped over her head, a gossamer net of faint green that trailed across the ground behind her. In her hands, she held another diadem, plain and large. With careful steps she entered the pit, placed the large diadem on Kruge’s chest. She removed one of her rings and tucked it into his hands. Everyone watched respectfully as she stood solemnly, her hands on his in final good-bye. She returned up the ramp. When she reached the wooden bench, she turned to face the grave and sat. The drumroll stopped.

A woman cloaked in dark blue stepped up to the opposite side of the pit from Eorla. With no introduction, she began to sing the Teutonic death ritual. Sitting between Murdock and me, Meryl groaned. “Wake me when she’s done.”

I suppressed a laugh. Teutonic priestesses had put more than one person to sleep with their songs. True to form, this one launched into a mind-numbing aria on life in High Elven German. Meryl squirmed. As the priestess sang, servants brought a vat of mead before her, and she blessed it with her song. The servants ladled the drink and passed the cups into the crowd.

Murdock’s hand went to his ear. He leaned across Meryl. “Fighting at the outer perimeter. I have to go.”

As Murdock hustled his way out of the aisle, I watched security agents, both elf and fairy, reposition themselves along the ridge. Keeva leaned toward Gerin Cuthbern to speak to him. Gerin rose from his seat, bowed to Eorla, and walked up the ramp.

The ceremony continued uninterrupted. Word of the fighting outside must have filtered through the crowd because I could feel body shields activating around me. The calling of so much essence in such a confined area made my head ache. I could see it, my own body activating my sensing abilities instead of its almost useless body shield. Essence of all colors glowed around me like small lanterns of light.

The mead reached the last row of seating and made its way toward us. Distracted by more security, I took the cup from my neighbor and began to sip.

Meryl’s hand came up suddenly and grabbed my arm. “Wait!”

I looked at her curiously, and she took the cup from my hand. She peered inside, consternation on her face as she swirled the dregs. She inhaled and blanched, her body shields coming up so quickly she shuddered.

“It’s Float,” she hissed under her breath.

As soon as she said it, I caught another wave of essence rolling over the gathering. It tickled into my nose, laden with the spell I had felt at Carnage. I tried to shake my head to clear it, but only felt dizzy. My vision blurred suddenly, then my sensing abilities went into overdrive. All around me, essence crystallized sharply in my vision, a disconcerting overlay of color outlining everything. I could see the spells working in the druid-fires, the glamours that people wore, their i

It was just like when I held the drys, her essence boosting my ability to its greatest potential, but twisted by the compulsion spell C-Note had put on it. As essence materialized more distinctly around me, I realized why.

“I can feel the drys. C-Note is here, Meryl.”

A collective gasp went up from the crowd. Heads that had been nodding with boredom shot to attention. At the top of the low ridge, C-Note leaned on his black staff. Keeva leaped to her feet before anyone else and moved into the aisle. Brownie and druid security materialized from the crowd and surrounded C-Note in moments. Eorla angrily rose from her seat as Consortium agents closed ranks around her.

“So much for security,” Meryl muttered.

C-Note raised his staff. “Look at you, facing each other across the corpse of unity. You speak to unity, but you still plot against each other. Even now, some among you seek revenge for age-old grievances.”

Surprised murmurs rippled through the audience as more people got to their feet. Keeva made her way up the ramp toward C-Note. He waved the staff, and she froze in place. Not a good sign. More people stood to watch the confrontation. The Teutonic ambassadors began to push their way up the ramp. Not to be outdone, the Seelie envoy led his own security closer.