Free Ghosts of Engines Past by Sean McMullen Page B

began Tordral.
    “No! No, stay. For seven years I have been plagued by physicians selling eye potions to make elves visible, rogues peddling goblin traps, and fraudsters selling fairy nets. They demand gold, but offer no proof. You offer proof, but ask no payment. For that you have my attention.”
    “I am honoured.”
    “You say you were twisted by our enemy, your very name derives from the French word for twisted.”
    “Indeed, but that was not always my name. Are we allies?”
    “You tempt me. I have kept vigil at that bridge for seven years. I have seen eyes watching me that float upon air, I have shot good arrows with heads of cold iron at illusions that dispersed like smoke, and I have fallen into slumber then awakened to find my bowstring cut. Their laughter mocks me from invisible lips, yet still I stalk them, because... come in for a moment, I would show you something.”
    They entered the garden, which was bright with flowers and heady with their scent. Gerald turned about several times, his arms outstretched.
    “Enchanting, is it not? The illuminations in holy books show paradise as a vast church, but I think it is a garden.”
    “Briar roses, grown in spirals,” said Tordral, slowly pacing along a path leading to the centre. “Dozens of them, except for that big, wild bush in the middle.”
    “My grandmother was one to control people, animals, and anything else alive. It was she who twisted the wild and untamed briar roses into spirals. After her death, my sister Mayliene tried to straighten one of them, but it snapped at the base and died. She planted a young briar in its place and let it grow quite free.”
    “That central bush?”
    “Yes.”
    “A symbol of freedom amid those without hope,” said Tordral, nodding.
    Sir Gerald pressed his lips together and breathed heavily and evenly, as if trying to fight down the urge to sob. He was betrayed by a tear which meandered down his cheek.
    “Master Tordral, tell my sensechal all you need. I shall support you.”
    “So very easily?” replied Tordral, genuinely surprised by the sudden change in the knight.
    “You and my sister... you are of a kind. I think she would have liked you. I know you would have liked her.”
    Gerald gestured to a stone seat half smothered in ivy.
    “Fourteen years ago that was her favoured place for reading. She knew five languages, and read Aristotle as easily as any French roman courtoise. I was lying on the grass, not four yards away, when a great lethargy washed over me and I was scarcely able to move. As I lay helpless, an elf lord came. He tried to entice Mayliene away to Faerie. Do you think that sounds insane? Feel free to laugh.”
    “I believe, pray continue,” said Tordral in a voice held studiously level. This was the moment a charlatan would sound sincerely sympathetic, so this was a very bad moment to offer sympathy.
    “She refused his advances.”
    “Brave girl, elves take badly to rejection.”
    “Indeed. He—he had his revenge. He afflicted her with a cruel but subtle blight. She had to be sent to a convent, to be cared for as an invalid. For seven years she languished there, then one morning her footprints were found leading into a river. I returned from the wars in France and came here, to my family's summer tower. I have kept my fruitless vigil ever since.”
    “Not fruitless, Sir Gerald. Over the years I have gathered many others blighted by Faerie into my company. It was the story of your vigil that drew me here.”
    “Then if you succeed my vigil of seven years will be time well spent.”
     

The Blacksmith
     
    A massive blast echoed among the hills around Keswick. The shouting and bustle in the town market suddenly died away, then slowly picked up again. Shepherds cursed as startled sheep and sheepdogs scattered in panic. Sir Gerald was on the way to see Tordral, and although his palfrey was used to bombard fire, the horse drawing the cart behind him reared and almost bolted. The encampment