Page 18 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
“Why not?”
“I think my magic only works in the human world. This is a different place. You’ll have to be brave, Thornby, but I think—” John broke off, wondering how many of his suspicions to tell him.
John had woken hours ago to find himself trapped. The thorn-bush looked brittle as ice, but it was impossible to break, either by brute force or by magic. He’d tried every release sigil he could think of, every counter-spell, every kind of ward. Nothing had worked. It was like a nightmare. No magic. No power. The horror of it had nearly panicked him one point, the fear and the helplessness rising up, paralysing his mind. He’d crouched on the grass in his spiky prison, eyes tight shut, forcing himself to breathe. But after a while, when the creatures did not come back, he’d found himself able to think more clearly. Perhaps he had no magic, but he still had his wits. He could still reason. He could still bargain, if it came to it. And so he had begun to plan and to think. And after a while he had found himself thinking of Thornby.
He couldn’t help staring at Thornby now. He could tell that only minutes had passed for Thornby since they’d talked in the blue saloon. He could smell the brandy on Thornby’s breath. Oh, what he’d give for a slug of brandy himself right now! Or better, a drink of water.
So, how much to tell Thornby?
How do you tell a man you think he may not be quite human?
Thornby looked human enough, yet the facts were suggestive. That same fleeting oddness John had noticed about Thornby and the hedgehog—and now John had been caught in the epicentre of that oddness for the last twelve hours.
As a child, John had listened to fairy stories on his mother’s knee in the stuffy little kitchen behind the shop. As a slightly older boy, he’d read Tam Lin, and begged stories from the Irish washer-woman on washing day, and she’d told him of Fionn MacCoull and the Fianna and their adventures in the many-coloured land. And then he’d gone away to the Institute, trained as a magician, grown up, and completely forgotten everything he ever knew about this other world. Because fairies weren’t real and neither was fairy-land.
And yet, here he was. And here too was Thornby. A man who was impervious to John’s magic, as the beings here seemed impervious. A man who was bound in some mysterious way to the estate, not with human magic, but with some power John couldn’t detect beyond that faint, vague strangeness.
So howdoyou tell a fellow you suspect he isn’t human? John didn’t know how to begin. They had bigger worries at the moment.
“Thornby, I think you might get out, even if I can’t. Go and look for the path, and if you find it, don’t leave it. Will you tell Lady Dalton to get her cousin to tell Rokeby what happened. Got it? Tell Rokeby I used the Woden’s Eye sigil in salt, and to bring anyone he can.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
“Goon. I don’t want your bloody noblesse oblige.”
“It’s not that. If you’re stuck here, I can’t get away from Raskelf. I’m not—”
“Will you bloody well leave? Damn,look!”
Thornby spun around to face the procession of creatures that was coming out of the woods. John saw him wobble and cut his hand on one of the thorns as he grabbed it for support. The procession formed into a rough semi-circle about them and a woman stepped forward from the crowd. She wore a golden diadem which seemed to grow directly from her skin, and long copper-red hair. Her breasts were bare, and great folds of green satin grew out of her slender waist and fell to the moss. Her face was narrow and marvellously beautiful, marked with a pattern of blue lines and dots on forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were black as sloes and had no whites to them.
“My lady.” Thornby’s voice was a croak. His bow was jerky. Yet John felt a sudden leap of hope.Be polite, he’d said, and it seemed Thornby had listened.
The lady clapped her hands and smiled at Thornby. Her teeth were sharp as a cat’s. “Oh, you’re a pretty one!” Her voice was melodious as a stream. She had a strange accent, so ‘pretty’ sounded like ‘praty’. She reached out a white hand. “What has it done to its face?” She stepped forward, and a goat’s hoof peeped from under her skirts. John could see Thornby steeling himself not to flinch as she touched him.
“Poor little sweetling.” She stroked Thornby’s face. “It isn’t whole.”
“It’s broken,” growled the huge red dog. “Let’s put it out of its misery. I’ll bite its throat out.”
“No!” John said loudly, before he could stop himself.
Thornby took a step backwards and bowed again, more gracefully this time. “I’m not miserable, I assure you, sir. I—er—how could I be unhappy when such beauty is before me?”
The lady smiled again, a terrifying sight, her cat’s teeth gleaming white. “See, Pooka! Oh, he’s pretty! Let’s keep him!”
The dog sniffed at Thornby’s silk stockings. Its feet were the size of dinner plates. “They’re never nice for long,” it growled. “Let’s have it now, while it’s fresh.”
“Does it hurt, beautiful one?” the queen crooned to Thornby. She was again stroking his face. His back was rigid with tension. Sweat had sprung out on his brow, but he was schooling his face, wearing a social smile.
She began to hum a lilting melody, as if she were alone, stroking a pet. “And such a long way from home! What are you doing here? Did you come to look for me?”
“I, we, got here by mistake—er— Since you’re here, my lady, will you let my friend out?” said Thornby. “If it pleases you. I think he’s finding it tiresome in there.”
“Friend?” The lady frowned. “Friend?”
“Well, perhapsfriend’s a bit strong. But he is our guest. And it’s bad form to let a guest get lost in the woods in his own bedroom, don’t you know?”
The queen hissed. Possibly she was laughing. She gave John a sideways glare. “He prickles. And smells. He is full of gramarye, that one.” She smiled again at Thornby. “You don’t wanthim, do you? You could come dancing withme!”
