Silver's Edge. Anne Kelleher

you?”

      Cadwyr flushed a dark red and he drew back as though stung, but he lifted his head and met Donnor’s eyes with a brazen assurance. “Nothing that will matter to either of us. But I’ll let him explain. You’ll see.” A high thin wail curled through the open window as a lone piper called the changing of the watch, and Cadwyr jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Come, Uncle, the Prince is here. ’Tis rude to keep him waiting.” With a dark look, Donnor shouldered past Cadwyr, flung the door wide and strode back into the antechamber, where Finuviel waited beside the empty hearth. In the light of the single candle, he cast an enormous shadow against the dark bricks. “Why’ve you come here?” Donnor asked without preamble.

      There was a brief pause while Cadwyr and Finuviel exchanged a look Donnor didn’t understand. Then the sidhe began to speak, and Donnor was forced to concentrate, lest he lose the thread of meaning in the seductive rise and fall of the sidhe’s speech. “I understand you mortals are at war amongst yourselves because you seek to wrest the throne of your country from the mad King who reigns over it, and from the foreign Councilors and the foreign Queen who rule in his stead.” As musical and as lilting as the voice was, it was yet entirely and completely masculine. Donnor blinked, trapped for a moment in the full thrall of that compelling stare, so vividly green in the candlelight, as Finuviel continued. “And just as you have need of my help to drive the foreign infection from your soil, I have need of yours.”

      Repelled, but utterly fascinated, Donnor found himself wondering if Finuviel’s skin really were as velvety as it appeared, if the curls that spilled over his hood and brushed against his smooth-shaven chin were truly as soft as spun silk.

      Abruptly Donnor straightened, even warier than before. “And what do the affairs of your kind have to do with us?”

      Finuviel had grace enough to shrug. “Not a thing that need concern you, my lord Duke.” Once again his eyes locked with Donnor’s. They glittered with an alien light, so cold, so foreign, that despite the superficial perfection of his manner, his look sent a chill down Donnor’s spine.

      “Then what kind of help do you look for from us?”

      Cadwyr leaned forward, as if he feared Donnor would insult the sidhe. “My lord—”

      “Hush, Cadwyr.” With a flick of his hand, Donnor silenced Cadwyr and turned back to confront Finuviel. “Let him answer.” The idea that there was something within their ken a sidhe needed enough to bargain for was even more unbelievable than Cadwyr’s sudden arrival in Finuviel’s company. For all the old stories—especially the ones about the great-grandsire who’d been seduced by the Queen of the Sidhe herself—emphasized that the sidhe treated humankind as playthings, and at best, in something of the same way as Donnor might a favored hound. He met the sidhe’s eyes and this time steeled himself against the beguiling charm. “Well?”

      Finuviel’s gaze shifted to Cadwyr, who shrugged and answered. “He only wants a dagger, Donnor. I told you ’twas nothing we couldn’t provide easily. He only wants a dagger—a dagger made of silver.”

      “Made of silver? What for?”

      “That’s none of your concern, mortal.” Finuviel’s voice was so cold, Donnor swore the temperature in the stifling room dropped noticeably.

      But Donnor was the veteran of more battles than together he and Cadwyr had years and he would not be intimidated. “You agree this is an unusual request, my lord sidhe. For a silver dagger must be commissioned—it’s not that we have such things lying stored. How soon must we produce this? And why would you be wanting or needing such a thing? Is not the touch of silver poison to all your kind?”

      “The hilt will be of leather and bone,” burst in Cadwyr. “The blade itself won’t hurt him so long as he doesn’t touch it. And what does it matter to us how he means to use it? And as for where to find it, we go tomorrow night to get it.”

      “Where?”

      “I went to your favorite smith, Donnor. Dougal—the smith who forged your own sword.”

      At that Donnor felt as though the air had been punched from his lungs, and he sagged as though he’d been struck. For a moment, he said nothing, as he gathered his scattered, racing thoughts. He wondered if perhaps exhaustion had finally brought on some sort of waking dream state. But the stench of his own sweat and the ache in his muscles assured him that he was indeed wide awake. “You went to Dougal?” he said at last. “Dougal of Killcairn?”

      “And why not? Is he not most skilled? And there’s some story of how he was taken into Faerie—”

      “It was his wife, not him,” Donnor muttered.

      “That’s not the story I’ve heard.”

      “What matter the story? What story did you tell him? What did he say when he saw a sidhe at his own door?” Donnor sat back, incredulous at Cadwyr’s daring. He could not imagine how Dougal had reacted, but something Cadwyr said must’ve convinced him to do such a thing. That or what Cadwyr had offered to pay. Or what Cadwyr had threatened to do. Suddenly a cold finger of fear traced itself down his back. What else would Cadwyr dare?

      “I told him we needed such a dagger to win the throne of Brynhyvar. What else would I tell him but the truth? For that is the truth, Uncle. Think of it—a host of the sidhe—with such a force we need not wait for the northern chiefs to bestir themselves, nor crowd upon the walls, searching the horizon for signs of allies. We need not beg for favor or parley away that which is not even ours yet to parley. We need not rely on the strength of new friendships bandaged over old sores. With a company of the sidhe we can draw the foreign scum through the Ardagh Pass and drive them into the sea. Just think of it, Uncle.” Cadwyr shook Donnor’s forearm. “Think of it. Renvahr and the Queen can never prevail if we have troops that can’t be killed—”