Page 43 of Crown of Tides and Fury

The white mist snaked out the toe of Wickham’s boot, curled back on itself, then sent tendrils, like fast-growing vines, toward the old man’s roughly shod foot. Another bit of mist—a mirror of the first—came out of the old foot and reached--two white fingers inched toward each other, touched, then slowly returned the way they’d come.

“I am dead?” The Grandfather looked up sharply, his eyes wide. “Iamdead. And ye’re…theSeanair!” He lunged across the space between them, his cane forgotten, unnecessary. He grabbed Wickham’s shirtfront in his fists and shook him. “When? When will ye kill me, ye bastard?”

“Relax,Seanair,” Wickham mocked, plucking his shirt out of the thick-knuckled hands. “I had no such ambition. I dinnae want it even now. But I wasgiven no choice.” He didn’t say it was the old man who had cornered him, but he probably guessed as much.

The old fellow curled his tongue, showed his teeth, and sent a shrill whistle toward the house. He sat down and caught his breath, giving Wickham the chance to do the same. The front door opened, and the twin-wives came outside, one carrying a jug and the other, three cups made of horn.

Kitch came close and accepted his drink, but moved back to his position, cup in hand. Wickham accepted one as well, then took the third and handed his cup to the old man, making his distrust plain.

The latter tapped the side of his nose. “Canny lad.”

The women disappeared again, and Wickham rebooted the conversation. “Keep in mind that it will do no good to kill me, when we meet later. It wasnae I who gave my power to another. Without me, The Covenant will still be broken.”

The old one nodded, then took a drink. “I believed The Covenant would be forgotten, that the lore would be lost…safely lost.”

“Hardly. Misunderstood, certainly. But bits and pieces are out there, like wandering sheep, waiting to be gathered. Being gathered now, by those of us who have been pulled into this game.” He suddenly felt as weary as the Grandfather looked. “I’ve seen it, by the by. Read it. Saw yer signature next to the King of the Fae’s.”

“Still readable, is it, in the year…”

“Nice try. Aye, it was readable, well maintained, and protected. But it’s been stolen--”

“Ambition! First thing, ye must find the Fae that has escaped…”

“Escaped…what?”

The old man shrugged. “A realm within this realm. Not a pleasant place.”

“Hell?”

“As apt a word as any.”

Wickham nodded. “We believe we ken who he is. A Fae who calls himself Orion.”

Those eyes flew wide again. “Orion?”

“Aye.”

“A taunt for me, I reckon. I dinnae suppose I’ll be around long enough to face him one last time?”

Wickham held his tongue between his teeth, didn’t so much as blink.

“I knew him, ye ken. Would recognize him again. Mayhap ye should take me back with ye?”

“Nay. Only one Grandfather at a time, eh? Even now, I feel the White One pressing me to quit this place.”

“The White One?”

Wickham pointed at his toe, and the old man snickered. “Doesnae warrant a name. It is power, nothing more.”

“It is a parasite.”

“It is a tool, a weapon, just like any that hang from yer belt. Wield it. Dinnae wield it. It will not care, just as yer sword will not care. Toss it in the corner and forget it, but asSeanair—”

“Nowthatis what I’d like to toss in the corner—”

“Dinnae blaspheme here, laddie.”

Wickham reined himself in, tried to pretend that this was not the same man who had used him as just another tool around his belt. At least not yet.

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