The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) (13 page)

"Then at the least allow me to speak with the one who
leads the Seelie Court," he asked, struggling to hide his frustration.

"And you shall," the warrior agreed, signaling to
the sentries.

"Many thanks to you, son of Niamh-sidhel," Conan
Doyle said as he followed his escorts into the tunnel's entrance. It was damp
inside the great tree, the ceiling dripping with sweetly scented moisture. Conan
Doyle paused and turned to glance back at the commander. The other
Lhiannan-shee were curiously watching Conan Doyle, this stranger to their
worlds, as he moved through the dripping darkness. "And who now leads the
Seelie Court?"

"Why, the Lady Ceridwen, of course," the commander
replied.

Conan Doyle felt his pulse quicken and his throat go dry. Something
fluttered in his gut.

"Oh my," he said aloud as his escorts took him
firmly by his shoulders and he was urged deeper into the tunnel.

From the darkness of the tunnel they emerged into the light,
and Conan Doyle had to shield his eyes, for the sun of this world shone
brightly upon the splendor that was the kingdom of Faerie. He heard the snap
and creak of their tunnel passage closing behind them, but could not pull his
eyes from the fabulous view that lay before him. Though he had seen the forest
citadel of King Finvarra many times, and even lived within its abundant halls,
he still marveled at its magnificence.

Nudged from his reverie by his escorts, Conan Doyle left the
shadows of the great tree and proceeded down an open hillock to an elaborate
suspension bridge that would allow access to the fabulous settlement nestled in
the breathtaking valley before them.

Faerie legend claimed that the kingdom, and all its
intricate structures, had been made from the desiccated remains of a long,
forgotten god. As Conan Doyle and his Fey companions crossed the great bridge
and the buildings loomed closer, Conan Doyle could think of no reason to doubt
this ancient tale. The citadel of the royal family rose up from the center of
the kingdom, its high, pointed spires the color of polished bone. There was an
organic look to the place, all straight lines and rounded curves. His memories
did not do it justice.

The trio came to an abrupt stop at the end of the bridge,
before an intimidating gate that very well could have been made from the ribs
of some gigantic deity. Conan Doyle gazed between the slats of the gate to the
courtyard beyond, and saw that there was no sign of life. If his memory served
him correctly, this was highly unusual, for the courtyard served as a
marketplace for the citizens of the kingdom, and usually thrived with activity.

Conan Doyle turned to his escorts. "Why is it so quiet?
Where are the Fey?"

They ignored his question. "Our responsibility is
fulfilled," the more talkative of the pair said with little emotion, and
they both turned back down the length of the bridge, leaving him alone.

"How will I get inside?" Conan Doyle asked their
departing forms.

"That is not our concern," the sneering sentry
said over his shoulder.

The sound of a bolt sliding home distracted Conan Doyle, and
he turned back to the gate. To its right was a door of thick, light-colored
wood, its pale surface marbled with streaks of a darker grain. The door began
to slowly open outward, and he watched as a hooded figure, clad in robes of
rich, dark blue, with golden brocade about the sleeves and hem, emerged.

"I am here to speak with she who leads the Seelie
Court," Conan Doyle said formally, squinting his eyes in an attempt to
discern the features of the one whose identity remained hidden within the
darkness of the hood.

"We know why you have come, Arthur Conan Doyle." The
mysterious figure reached up with pale, gnarled hands to pull back his hood. "The
land has warned us of your return, and the grim tidings you bring."

From a copse of nearby trees a murder of crows rose into the
air, screaming their panicked caws. Nothing remained secret for long in the
realm of Faerie. Even before he had removed the hood, Conan Doyle had
recognized the voice of the king's grand vizier, Tylwyth Teg.

"Greetings, Tylwyth Teg, it has been a long time."
Conan Doyle bowed his head.

The vizier's hair was long, wisp-thin and white, like the
delicate webs of a spider upon his ancient skull. It drifted about his head and
face, caressed by the gentle breezes that rose up from the valley. As always,
Tylwyth wore a scowl of distaste. He had never approved of Conan Doyle's
presence in Faerie, and vehemently opposed any attempt to teach a human the
powerful magicks of the Fey.

"The wound has not yet healed from when last you were
among us," Tylwyth snarled, his cadaverous features giving him the
appearance of an animated corpse.

"I would not have returned, but for the danger that
threatens both our realms," Conan Doyle summoned as much reverence as he
was able. "Please, I must be allowed to speak with your mistress."

Tylwyth Teg again raised his hood, then turned and passed
through the doorway from which he came. "You come too late, son of man,"
he hissed cryptically as Conan Doyle followed. "For catastrophe has
already struck our kingdom."

The vizier shuffled across the empty courtyard and Conan
Doyle shuddered with the sense of foreboding that permeated the air. Carts that
would normally be overflowing with produce lay abandoned in the corner. Booths
used to display the finest wares of Fey craftsmen were empty.

"What has happened here, Tylwyth?" he dared ask as
they entered one of the outer structures of Finvarra's citadel. "Where are
the merchants, and the people?"

"They are in mourning," the vizier croaked,
stopping in the high-ceilinged hallway to remove a ring of keys from within his
robes. Even the citadel itself, which normally bustled with life, was deathly
still.

"Who, Tylwyth?" Conan Doyle asked, as the vizier
produced a key that resembled the petrified branch of some primeval tree and
unlocked a heavy wooden gate. "Who do they mourn? Has King Finvarra
— ?"

The Faerie advisor gestured for Conan Doyle to proceed
through the gate, which led into the king's private garden. "Who do they
mourn?" he echoed, shaking his head sadly. "The future, perhaps? Perhaps
they mourn the future. But it is not my place to explain."

After Conan Doyle had stepped through, Tylwyth Teg pulled
the gate closed behind him with a resounding clatter. Conan Doyle frowned and
glanced back through the bars of the gate at the vizier.

"Step into the garden and all will be made clear, Conan
Doyle."

Knowing he would get little else from Twylyth Teg, Conan
Doyle turned and strode into the garden. Either side of the stone path was
adorned with the largest red roses he had ever seen. The faint sound of
gurgling water reached him and he knew that he was near his destination. A
moment later he caught sight of the top of the fountain in the garden's center.
Though he could not see more than its apex, he recalled an intricate ebony
sculpture of a great fish, water jetting from its open maw to rain down into
the pool that surrounded it.

He passed beneath an archway woven from a flowering vine
known only to the world of Faerie, its blossoms welcoming him to the garden of
kings with voices like those of tiny children. And then his feet froze and he
could not move. Even his breath was stilled in his chest. It seemed to him that
his heart paused as well. Laid out upon the ground around the stone fountain
were the unmistakable shapes of bodies, covered by sheets of ivory silk.

"Dear Lord," Conan Doyle whispered. Everywhere his
eyes fell was a body, their coverings rippling as the breeze caressed their
silken shrouds, tormenting him with glimpses of the corpses beneath.
There
must be fifty of them.

A tremor went through Conan Doyle. He sensed movement behind
him and whirled to face the object of his dread, the reason why he had expected
never to return to Faerie. He had tried to fashion a ward, some sort of
magickal defense that would protect his heart from the devastation he knew he
would feel, but there was nothing to save him from this.

Ceridwen was dressed in flowing robes of soft, sheer linen,
dyed a deep forest green. Her pale skin was accentuated by the dark hue of her
garb. When her eyes met his, she drew a gauzy scarf tight about her shoulders
as if experiencing a sudden chill.

"My lady," Conan Doyle whispered, his breath taken
away. The ache caused by simply being within her presence was bone deep.

"You said that I would never see you again," the
Fey sorceress said, her voice the lilt of a gentle spring breeze, still
carrying the melancholy of a long winter. "And I had come to accept that."

When she walked across the stone floor, her dark robes
billowing about her, it was with such elegance that she seemed to float,
carried by the wind.

"You once told me you would never trust the word of a
human. Even one that you loved," Conan Doyle said. He tried to search her
eyes but there was only ice there. Never had he felt so torn. Part of him would
rather have been experiencing the fires of damnation in that moment, and yet
another side of his heart felt utter joy merely to be in Ceridwen's presence
once more.

She knelt beside one of the bodies, her long, delicate hand
reaching to draw back the sheet that covered it. A dead face was revealed to
them, a twisted look of pain permanently frozen upon it.

"Why have you come, Arthur?" she asked, her thumb
tracing arcane sigils upon the corpse's forehead. It was a ritual he had seen
before, during the Twilight War, when an ally had been stuck down by infernal
magicks. It freed what life energies remained within the confines of the body.

"To seek answers, and to warn you of a great evil on
the rise," he said, tentatively kneeling beside her. To be this close to
her again was almost more than he could bear. "But I fear I have come too
late."

Ceridwen covered the twisted features of the fallen Fey,
raising her head to look into Conan Doyle's eyes. He would drown in those eyes,
and there was nothing that could be done to save him.

"Who did this, my lady?" he asked, ignoring the
urge to reach out and touch her face, to caress her alabaster skin.

She tore her gaze away and moved to another of the covered
corpses. "I am your lady no longer, Arthur Conan Doyle. As to the hand
behind this tragedy, that is a tale almost too sad to tell." She drew down
another sheet of silk to reveal the dead beneath. The countenance of this
corpse was even more disturbing than the first. "This evil of which you
speak has touched our world as well."

"Who is it? Whose hand has done this?"

Ceridwen glanced up from her ministrations, her dark,
soulful eyes again touching his. "It was one of our own," she said, a
tremble in her voice, and his heart nearly broke as he watched tears like
liquid crystal run down her cheeks, to land upon the upturned face of a dead
Fey warrior.

"Two hundred and fifty channels and not a damn thing
on," Squire muttered as he aimed the remote control at a thirty-five inch
television monitor in a hard wood cabinet. The goblin flipped past countless
images, each of them dishearteningly similar — another apocalyptic vision
of the northeast United States, or static. Whatever the hell was going on
outside was interfering with the digital cable signals.

He reached a stubby hand into the bag of greasy potato chips
and brought a handful to his mouth. Squire lived for junk food: candy and
chips, burgers and fries, cookies and donuts. Especially donuts. He loved food
of all kinds, in fact. It was his greatest pleasure. But the sweetest and
saltiest were his favorites.

Stopping at one of the all-news channels, the goblin watched
a live feed from Virginia Beach, where the ocean had begun to boil and the fish
were leaping up out of the water in a frantic attempt to escape death. Somewhere
off-camera people had begun to scream.

"That'll help," he said, taking a swig from his
bottle of beer to wash down his snack. "Nothing like a good shriek to calm
everybody's nerves." Squire belched mightily, flecks of unchewed potato
chip speckling his shirt and pants. Bored with watching fish die, he changed
the station.
Maybe a nice game show,
he thought, flipping past channel
after channel of the world in turmoil. He tried not to think about what was
happening outside. Conan Doyle's agents were in the field, and it was only a
matter of time before things were wrestled back under control. That was how it
always was. If there was anything Squire had learned in his many years working
for Mr. Doyle, it wasn't over until the fat lady shit in the woods.

On a pay station that hadn't gone to static, he finally
found a movie. A large grin spread across his face. A nice piece of Hollywood
escapist fluff was exactly what he needed. His smile quickly turned to a frown
when he realized the station was showing the abysmal Keanu science fiction
flick that the actor had done before
The Matrix
.

As if Keanu wasn't torture enough
, Squire thought,
continuing his search for something to amuse him.

He had clicked all the way to the end and was about to start
over again when something on one of the local stations caught his eye. He
leaned forward on the sofa, crumbs of potato chip raining to the floor. The
handheld footage was shaky and made his eyes hurt, but he recognized the area. The
camera was pointed toward a bunker-like structure in the midst of a sea of
orange brick. It was the exit from the Government Center subway station, not
too far away, and there were things not usually associated with public transit
pouring from the underground and spilling onto the plaza.

"Corca-fuckin-Duibhne," he growled, turning up the
volume. There had to be hundreds of the coppery-skinned bastards. It was like
watching a swarm of bugs emerging from their nest. Whoever was manning the
camera was hiding behind a newspaper kiosk, peeking out from time to time for
the disturbing footage. For some reason there was no audio, and Squire imagined
that it was probably for the best.