The Collected Short Fiction of C.J. Cherryh by C J Cherryh

Author:C J Cherryh [Cherryh, C J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Anthologies, Science Fiction, Sci-Fi Short, Fantasy
ISBN: 9780756405267
Google: MuRKLwAACAAJ
Amazon: 0756405262
Barnesnoble: 0756405262
Goodreads: 126488
Publisher: Daw
Published: 2004-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

He’s come to see the revenge. To keep his word to you.”

“Get us out of this.”

Dubhain stopped his pacing. Another scream shuddered through the air and Dubhain wrung his hands. “The wards—the wards—they—muddle things.”

“You mean they work? Nuallan can’t get out?”

The phooka said nothing.

“He’s testing me, Sliabhin is.” Caith got to his feet, staggering as he did. “Using Raghallach—

Nuallan. It’s for my benefit, all this—O gods.” There was another scream. Caith tried the door again and again, at last turned his shoulders against the rough wood and stared at the twin red gleams that glared at him. Still another cry echoed beyond their dark. “Maybe he’s laughing at them all the while. But I don’t care for your jokes, phooka. Do something. I’ve got a brother in this place, remember? Where is he? Listening to that?’ He laughed, a brief, strained laughter. “O

gods, you do love a joke. But this is enough, phooka, enough!”

“Be still, man,” Dubhain hissed, sinking down on his haunches and hugging his arms about himself. The red eyes gleamed, feral and terrible, glowing alternately brighter and dimmer as scream after scream echoed up the dark. “Be still. He’ll give up soon, Nuallan will. Even his humor doesn’t carry to this.”

It went on, all the same, and on, and on.

“The wards—” Caith said.

“Fair Folk,” said Dubhain.

“What does that mean?”

“Nuallan’s of the Fair Folk. He says wards aren’t that much against him.” Caith crouched down in like position, facing the boy-shape in the dark. “He says.” The phooka said nothing. Dubhain’s face was not good to look on, nor his eyes good to look into.

“My brother, phooka. You bargained. Do something. Find him. Where is he?”

“Patience,” the phooka whispered at last, a voice so still it seemed to chill the air. “Patience, mac Sliabhin.”

It was long that Caith waited, crouched there with his arms clasped about his knees and shivering. The wailing died and began again. “Phooka,” Caith said.

“Hssst.” The look that fixed on him was dire and distraught. “What will you pay for it?”

” Pay for it? It’s your friend down there!”

“There’s the boy,” the whisper came back; the red eyes looked into his with sudden keenness as if Dubhain had been somewhere and now came back to him. “I know where your brother is. What will you pay?”

“Curse you, you’ve already bargained for that answer, for all I’ve got!”

“Your scruples, man. I told you you had that left to trade.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ll tell you. If we survive this. When I go, hold to me.” Dubhain shut his eyes till only the merest slits gleamed fire.

Suddenly it was the black horse rising to its feet, a scrape of hooves on the stone, the surge of a large equine body. Caith scrambled to his feet and in the scattering and gathering of his wits seized it by the mane and swung up to mount it in that low-ceilinged room. The door was like mist about them as they passed, like nothing at all; and abruptly it was

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