I have, for some considerable time, found my travels to be remarkably, for want of a better word, mundane. Aside from the portal that takes me from Awenia to the mortal world and back, I have taken only such means of travel as are available to the ordinary folk of the world; the bus, the taxi, the train and such like. There are planes too, but they are not needed for my travels have always been within the city itself. I sometimes forget that I am privileged to have means other than these, for when I wish to travel further afield, such as to join my beloved wife in this place she tells me is called Callisto. Even there, I have options. I could, should I choose to, take the Shadow Roads, for those can take me anywhere I wish. That, however, holds too many memories of my Cait friends, and, of course, my much missed friend, and other Queen, Valene of the Cait. She, at least, I know lives, somewhere, and I sometimes feel her presence, if only by the faint scent of mint at times when there should be none present.
So, no, I opted not to go to the Shadow Roads this time, but to take advantage of one of the gifts that the much lamented Alec gave me along with that of making me my own anchor, that ability to walk between the realms. There, however, my navigational skills are less developed, for I do not use that ability often. That said, when it comes to finding places, or people I am familiar with, or have a strong attachment to, then there is no difficulty. And there is none so familiar, or more attached, than my beloved Gwyn, so that is the road I took.
I stepped across the realms and found myself in what would seem to be a sithen of sorts. I looked around, lost for a moment in my memories, recollecting sithens I knew before. In Ashmourne, and even way back further on the Isle of Legacies, in the Underhill Club. It was but for a few moments, though, as I knew the presence of Gwyneth close by and so I turned and approached for a kiss.
Gwyn was there, looking as lovely as ever, though, as is ever the case, looking subtly changed from when I saw her last. That I am used to, for she can be as changeable as the wind. And, I remembered that she had mentioned that this place had a glamour of its own. She stepped back a pace, though, as if avoiding my kiss. There was, she told me, some contagion here that might be passed by touch. Apparently, it was something to do with some mushrooms. She pointed at a circle of fungi nearby, where a small demi-fae was enthusiastically licking one. She urged me not to follow its example. Otherwise, she said, it was so good to see me although this was perhaps not the best place for a holiday.
I recalled a time, when I was a young boy, being told by Mother to not lick things I did not know were safe. I cannot, all these years later if it was when I ate some of her pot-pourri or mistook a cake of carbolic soap for cheese. I told Gwyn of this and assured her I had no intention of licking anything if I could help it. I hugged her and said that whatever was going on here, it was bound to be more interesting than waiting on the committee stages of processing the Accords.
Gwyn laughed and said she was always telling me I should take time off. She led me over to a bench where we sat. She was not entirely sure that this contagion, or sickness, whatever it was, was carried in the air or by touch, only that she did not get sick until she was touched by the King. Speaking of which, she said, I should probably sit down.
I speculated aloud what I might do with time off. I had, I knew, much neglected my music, my reading, my writing, and even those woodworking skills so long ago taught to me by my father. What was this about being touched by a king, I asked, and why did I need to sit down for it? I was not really that perturbed. Jealousy has never been an aspect of our relationship and we have not always been entirely exclusive, so that in itself did not worry me. I thought back, with a sudden pang, to the time when our children were conceived, and wondered briefly how they fared.
She told me she had been approached, a few days before, by a well-spoken older gentleman who introduced himself as Lord Berkshire and said he was King here. Not a name she knew, but then, she had only been here a short while. He had suggested to her that they move to a different part of town where the grey mist, which has apparently been affecting people in these parts, was less dense. This gentleman claimed that he knew her of old, despite the glamour that the place casts on anybody. He then kissed her hand formally and she felt the cold, the extreme cold, a somehow familiar cold. This man, this King, she said, was Llwydbrynnos.
The name did not register at first, and then the memories came rushing back. Llwydbrynnos, the son of Faermorn and Gwythyr, the mad prince. All the madness and destruction in faerie, the battles around Mysthaven, the corrupted roses, the violent demi-fae whose blood I had boiled. The final battle when Faermorn tempted Gwythyr out of Llwydbrynnos’s body and dragged him off to whatever passed for the afterlife for them, the final demise of Maric. Llwydbrynnos, captured by Vedis and taken away for whatever punishment and imprisonment she chose to apply. That Llwydbrynnos?
Yes, that madman, she agreed, though he had said to her that he had left the madness far behind. She was not entirely convinced, but for now, she thought it was safe enough to remain. While leaving might still be a good option, there was much here that was good. There were other problems, she said, creatures from the Deep that had risen in the mist, possibly summoned by some of the residents. Meanwhile, the King had been infected by whatever had come from the mushrooms and was very sick himself.
I mused for a while on the nature of madness and evil. Llwydbrynnos was the product of his mother and his father. And while much of the evil and madness might have come from Gwythyr, there was still the influence of Faermorn to be reckoned with. And, with Gwythyr, much of his madness and destruction and evil were choices he made. Llwydbrynnos might not have had such choices. I was prepared to take things as I found them and not judge until I had dealing with him myself. I was not in fear, I told her. She and I were not the people we had been back then. We were stronger, better, possibly even wiser now than we were before. If he tries anything, he’ll find out we are not to be messed with.
He had been most proper and polite, thus far, Gwyn told me, and they said that at some point, they should have a talk, so that past events, history, should not be repeated, which I agreed was wise. Perhaps we might have that talk together. She then told me a little about this place, this Callisto. It reminded her of Jasper Cove. There were many fae and others here. Some monsters too, but overall, it seemed to be a nice enough place to be.
I asked if there was anything to drink and she pointed me at a bar, where we found some rum and some absinthe that she had tried on another day. We reminisced about our days in Jasper Cove, when she used to call me a “posh fuck”. She said I still was, but I was her “posh fuck”. We were about to take our drinks and find our way to guest quarters when she spotted something in a pool by a fountain. It was Llwydbrynnos! He did not seem to be aware of us, or indeed anything. Perhaps he was in deep meditation or a catatonic state. Gwyn muttered to herself about having not slagged him off. I tried to reassure her. Nothing we had spoken of was anything less or more than the truth. And, if he was aware of anything we had said, it was nothing we would not have said to his face. With that, we took our drinks and retired for the night.
Home is the Sailor 