The Heir Reluctant is
the second concealed Kingdoms novel, and features some of the same
characters as The King's Ward, which is available for 99cents on the 27th only.
The fey are a race
apart, with us since the dawn of time. As children, they are all but
invisible, instantly forgotten. As Kelly Smith puts it in her review
- Imagine you were a living, breathing human being but no one could
see, hear or remember you? That you had to make a fuss just to be
noticed for one minute?
At breakthrough,
triggered by the touch of another fey, their abilities blossom. The
weave illusions, read minds, communicate with others by telepathy,
and can manipulate reality. Those with the most powerful creative
power can build worlds, adjacent to our own, hidden, hard to reach
and mostly reserved for their own kind.... and the creatures the fey
create. These are the Concealed Kingdoms of the series title.
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Excerpt, from somewhere near the end.
I walked slowly over
the frozen ground, headed toward the isle in the frozen river and the
fort that rested there. I had nowhere else to go, no better idea in
mind. I would leave the cold, bleak landscape of Nifflheim behind me,
having no better plan. And the world would die.
My mood did not inspire
me to hurry. Kieleth had left me alone, and alone was how I felt. The
watcher on the wall of the fort seemed indifferent to my approach,
the fort itself uninviting, and thoughts of my arrival there offered
no comfort.
Ophelia and Gyr were
behind me, somewhere. Following, or not. I'd left hem behind.
Somewhere out there were Gunnthra, Aun, Bjorn and Starkad. They
searched for me, but would not find me now. I would never see any of
them again. I was going back, back to a world where no one saw me or
remembered me. The thought was intolerable, but there was nothing I
could do here, nothing I could do to change things other than allow
myself to be used by Freya or Hel, either one a bad as the other. And
without Odin, nothing would change.
Hopelessly, helplessly,
I closed to within two hundred yards of the bridge, its struts locked
in the ice of the frozen river. The figure at the gate disappeared,
but I paid no mind. It didn't matter. There was no reason to suppose
he meant me any harm. Who here had sought to harm me? No one. Only to
use me for their own ends.
The gate was pushed
opened as I set foot on the bridge. The wood echoed underfoot. I kept
my gaze on the figure who stood at the threshold to the fort,
dispirited and disinterested, but without anything else to occupy me.
He waited, a dark figure against the pale world we inhabited; his
hair was long and dark, fell over broad shoulders clothed in black
leather, open to the waist. He wore blue jenes over black boots. In
one hand he carried a sheathed sword. He studied me with an
appraising expression and calm, brown eyes.
“You,” he said,
mildly, “would be Syn the fey.”
Now I was closer,
perhaps too close, I could see the jene jacket under his leather, and
clearly see his colors. I stopped a few paces away.
“Bikers,” I said,
listlessly, too surprised to realize how relevant the comment might
seem.
He grinned broadly, his
expression softening and his eyes twinkling with humor.
“And I am Beowulf,”
he said, “though in the world outside, most people just call me
Wolf.”
When I didn't respond,
he turned and sketched a bow, one arm flourished to indicate I should
pass through the gate. “Welcome to the Hall of the Wild Hunt,” he
grinned at me and straightened. “Don't be shy, now.” He said when
I hesitated. “We won't eat you.”
“Bikers?” This time
I made it a question, my incredulity plain in my voice.
He shrugged, looked
beyond me to scan the bleak landscape beyond, then looked at more
thoughtfully. “Really, Syn, there's nowhere else to go. Here,
there's food and shelter and warmth.”
I shook my head,
bemused, and gave up on making choices. I walked past him and through
the gate. I stopped inside and looked around while he closed and
barred the gate behind me. Stout rail fences stood either side of a
wide path, and in the corrals to either side there were two dozen
horses that reacted to my presence more than I felt I could react to
them. Some drifted our way to investigate us.
In the middle of the
stockade stood a longhouse, a wooden hall with tiled roof. From
inside, I could hear music. Thrash metal, played strangely low and
with an odd overlay to the sound.
Wolf came to stand
beside me as I looked around. Nearby, a big gray horse put its head
over the top rail and watched us. I looked at the horse, the hall,
and then back up to Wolf, who stood better than two feet taller than
me.
“Music?” I asked.
“I thought electricity didn't work here.”
“Vinyl,” he
grinned. “Bakolite, in fact. And a wind up player. It cost a buck,
but definitely worth it. Beer?”
I nodded, absently.
Then shook my head. “Bikers?”
He stepped forward and
I matched his pace as we headed for the hall. “Why not? We travel
in a group. People assume we are on a run. No one bothers us much, or
is surprised to see us come, or much other than relieved when we go.
While we're there we live up to our reputation, well enough. We hunt
and kill monsters.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He leaned
closer, a wild grin breaking out all over his face, his eyes widened.
“Because it's fun!”
I blinked in surprise
and shrank from him a little.
He laughed at my
reaction, then carried on toward the hall. “Come on now, little
fey. Let's get that beer,” he said, lightly, and then more
ominously, “and then we will decide what to do with you.”
Beowulf threw open the
door to the hall and stepped inside while I hesitated, outside, close
to the threshold, trying to adjust my thinking. The smell of cooking
wafted out to me on a breath of warm air. The sound of music was
louder but as loud as it was going to get. I recognized the strange
undercurrent to the music now, the scratching sound of a needle on
the physical surface of a record. The thunk and clatter of pool cue
and balls rattling round a table made me blink in surprise.
Just inside the door,
Beowulf slapped a big bear of a man on the shoulder and jerked his
thumb over his shoulder. The bearded man looked out the door and
grinned at me. He reached to one side and when he momentarily filled
the doorway in passing, the twin blades of a butterfly ax flashed,
the long haft held in one meaty hand. He winked and grinned as he
walked past me and I stepped to one side and watched him pass. He
headed for the gate, the big ax slung casually over one broad
shoulder.
Overwhelmed by a sense
of unreality, I drifted into the hall. Beowulf kicked the door closed
behind me while I stood and looked around at the half a dozen bikers
who inhabited the huge room of the hall. Two played pool, three sat
at one end of a long table nearby and watched the game as they talked
and drank beer, the last splayed full length on a huge leather sofa
and watched me with half lidded eyes before he closed them,
dismissively. The brief looks they turned my way, were not
unfriendly. Each seemed to decide I was of no immediate concern or
interest, not important enough to stop what they were doing.
The hall was a strange
mixture of ancient and modern. Metal lamps with tall glass chimneys
probably burned kerosene. At the far end of the hall, a huge open
fire held wrought iron ovens and a blazing fire. To one side, a
closed door seemed to draw my attention above all else and I found
myself staring, my attention fixed.
Beowulf looked from me
to the door and back again. “The gates are made to draw the
attention of those with fey blood,” he commented. “If I didn't
know who you were already, I'd know you were fey by that alone.”
I shivered, though the
hall was warm enough that I'd have to shed layers soon. “How do you
know who I am?”
He headed across the
hall and I followed in his wake, wanting his answer.
“Freya was here,”
he told me as I caught up to him. “You missed her by just a few
minutes. She flew in, manifest as the black dragon she is so fond of,
threatened us some, and tried to persuade us as well. Then flew away
again.”
He stopped by the fire
and casually filled an bowl with hot stew from a cooking pot close to
the fire to keep it hot. He dropped a spoon into it and passed it to
me.
“You'll be hungry, I
bet.” He steered me to a chair at a long table and took another at
an angle to me. “She told us you were brought here by some of her
people, but that they had lost you somehow. An unquickened fey, a
girl named Syn. And look at you,” he said, his casual gesture
encompassed me from head to toe. “Who else would you be?”
I felt sick with
nerves, but hungry as well. Too hot on the outside, too cold inside.
I shivered, began to undo the fastenings of my parka. I opened my
mouth to ask a question but my lips trembled instead; then, abruptly
and to complete my misery, I began to cry.
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