This was a surprise. “Surely thou dost overstate the case! I can not imagine thee—“ But confession was upon her. Neysa made a little shake of her horn, advising him to be silent, and Stile obeyed.
“The geas was inherent in his choice of me to wed. He had asked the Oracle for his ideal wife, but had failed to include in that definition the ideal mother of his children. Thus I learned when I queried the Oracle about the number and nature of my children-to-be. ‘None by One,’ it told me in part, and in time I understood. There was to be no child by my marriage to him; no heir to the Blue Demesnes. In that way I wronged him. And my love—“ She shrugged. “I was indeed a fool. Still I thought of him as a lad, a grown child though I knew him for a man, and a creature of incalculable power. Perhaps it was that power that straitened my heart against him. How could I truly love one who could so readily destroy all who stood against him? What would happen if ever he became wroth with me? And he, aware of this doubt, forced me not, and therefore had I guilt. So it was for years—“ She broke off, overcome by emotion. Stile remained silent. This was an aspect of her history that instilled misgiving, yet he knew it was best that he know it.
“Those wasted years!” she cried. “And now too late!” They had come to rougher territory, as if the land itself responded to the Lady’s anguish of conscience. These were the mere foothills to the Purple Mountains, Stile knew, yet the ridges and gullies became steep and the trees grotesquely gnarled. The turf was thick and springy; the steeds were not partial to the footing. Stile found the landscape beautiful, original, and somehow ominous—like the Lady Blue.
“Can we skirt this region?” Stile asked Neysa. The unicorn blew a note of negation. It seemed that this was the only feasible route. Stile knew better than to challenge this; the unicorn could have winded a dragon or some other natural hazard, and be threading her way safely past. So they picked their path carefully through the rugged serrations of the land, making slow progress toward the major range.
The Lady’s horse balked. She frowned and gently urged it forward, but the mare circled instead to the side—and balked again.
“This is odd,” the Lady commented, forgetting her re-cent emotion. “What is bothering thee, Hinblue?” Then the Lady’s fair tresses lifted of their own accord, though there was no wind.
Neysa made a double musical snort. Magic! Stile brought out his harmonica. “Nay, play not,” the Lady said hastily. She did not want him to show his power in the vicinity of the land of the Little Folk. But her hair danced about and flung itself across her eyes like a separately living thing, and her horse fidgeted with increasing nervousness. Neysa’s horn began to lower to fighting range.
“Just a melody,” Stile told her. “Neysa and I will play a little tune, just to calm thy steed.” And to summon his magic—just in case.
They played an impromptu duet. Neysa’s music was lovely, of course—but Stile’s carried the magic. It coalesced like a forming storm, charging the immediate atmosphere.
And in that charge, dim figures began to appear: small, slender humanoids, with flowing hair and shining white robes. They had been invisible; now they were translucent, the color slowly coming as the music thickened the magic ambience. Stile’s power was revealing them. One of them was hovering near the Lady, playing with her hair. “The Sidhe,” the Lady breathed, pronouncing it “Shee.”
“The Faerie-folk. They were teasing us.”
Stile squeezed Neysa’s sides with his knees questioningly. She perked her ears forward: a signal that there was no immediate danger.
Stile continued playing, and the ethereal figures solidified. “0, Sidhe,” the Lady said. “Why do you interfere with us? We seek no quarrel with your kind.” Then a Faerie-man responded. “We merely played with thee for fun. Lady of the Human Folk, as we do so often with those who are unaware of our nature. Innocent mischief is the joy of our kind.” His voice was winningly soft, with the merry tinkle of a mountain streamlet highlighting it. Stile could appreciate how readily such a voice could be mistaken for completely natural effects—flowing water, blowing breezes, rustling leaves.
“And thou,” a Sidhe maid said to Stile as he played. “What call hast thou, of Elven kind, to ride with a mundane woman?” Her voice was as soft as the distant cooing of forest doves, seductively sweet, and her face and form were similarly winsome.
Stile put aside his harmonica. The Sidhe remained tangible; now that they had been exposed, they had no further need of invisibility. “I am a man,” he said.
