Worlds Without End

8

I jerked awake as the plane passed into the Veil. It was a nasty jolt of reality, being sound asleep one moment and wide-awake the next. A tingling started at the nape of my neck and worked its way up my skull.

Pushing the plastic shade up, I peered out the win- dow. There was nothing but thick gray and white clouds like the smoke of burning leaves. I struggled against the effects of the Veil. The clouds tried to form themselves into shapes. What part of my subconscious was being dredged up? I didn't want to know and pulled the shade down with a snap. We'd be on the ground in half an hour. I could hold out against the effects until then.

"Pretty potent stuff," said Caimbeul. "The Veil. It makes me wish they would use some other sort of protection."

I shoved a hand through my hair. It was virtually gone now. After centuries of having it long, I'd finally cut it all off. All that was left were spiky white sprouts about an inch and a half long. My head felt smooth and cool under my fingers.

"Too potent," I said. "They're only aggravating things."

"You've said that every time anyone's used magic on any scale."

I didn't answer him, knowing that we'd just run over the same ground again. The engines whined and I felt the thump as the landing gear lowered. Then I shoved the shade up again. We broke through the clouds and I could see buildings below us. From here everything looked small and not at all real. Up here we were still safe.

I closed my eyes then, breathing slowly and deeply to relax myself. I had my usual landing death-grip on the chair arms. Blowing up in a ball of fire was not the'way I wanted to end my unnatural life. My ears popped several times and I opened and closed my mouth to help. Then I felt it.

The smooth calluses and the suede glide of Caimbeul's hand closing over mine. I didn't pull away. It was too comforting and familiar. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to see when we burst into a huge ball of fire.

There was a sudden bounce and we were on the ground. Caimbeul's hand disappeared and I was left with only the memory of his warm touch.

Once, years ago, I lived in the United States.

I'd come to America during the eighteen-hundreds when news that the Sioux were using ritual magic drifted across the Atlantic to the fashionable parlors I frequented then. It was a topic of much conversa- tion for a few months, until other, more interesting scandals pushed their way into idle gossip.

But I knew the Sioux were playing with danger- ous mojo.

The reports told of self-mutilation to help the magic. Blood magic. It was too early for that sort of thing-unless they'd found a place of power. They were playing with forces they couldn't understand and wouldn't be able to control, even if by some freak chance they did work.

I booked passage on the next available steamer and was making my way west in a matter of weeks. There was no time for me to admire the rawness of the country. Everything was new here. Fresh starts for anyone willing to take it. The weight of history had barely settled onto the land.

But that is another part of the story. The time I am thinking of came later, in the late nineteen-thirties and early forties. I was living in Texas then. The war known as the War to End All Wars was barely cold. The embers of it still smoldered in the battlefields of Europe. But apparently they weren't ready for them to be out yet. That little Austrian man stirred it all up again and the depths of his hateful vision wouldn't be known for another six years. But by then, it would be too late for us all.

But in Austin we didn't know about any of that. The world came to us through newspapers, maga- zines, radio-and through the movies.

It was a blistering hot summer. But that was noth- ing unusual. Most people left the city for cooler parts of the Hill Country. The ones who remained made do with fans, ice blocks, and shade. In the eve- ning the temperature would drop into the high sev- enties. It was almost bearable.

Once the initial shock of the war wore off, life went on as usual. For the most part. Most Americans thought they would be exempt from the conflict. Af- ter all, what did it have to do with them, this bloody war in Europe?

And so, on this summer night with the heavy scent of lantana and moonflowers in the air, I went to the movies. Some people were afraid of being in closed places because of the polio, but that was never a concern of mine.

The theater was dimly lit and I used a fan given away at the local Herbert E. Butts grocery store to push the sweltering air about. The lights went down and the newsreel began. Of course, the war in Eu- rope was the first item. I watched as scene after scene of destruction flashed across the screen. Many things were being blown up in Poland and France and England.

Then we were looking at images of happily wav- ing crowds. The little man rode through them mak- ing his straight-arm salute to the frantically waving masses.

And then I saw her.

At first I couldn't believe my eyes, but the shot held and I knew what I was seeing was true. It was Alachia.

She was sitting in one of the cars in the rear of the procession. An expression of perfect happiness was etched in her face. A blond man with his hair slicked back and perfect Aryan features waved at the crowds while his other arm encircled her waist. He smiled down at her and she smiled back. They were gone in an instant, replaced by the image of refugees fleeing down some unknown road.

The screen went black and then the Parade of Fashions appeared. Sweat rolled down my face but I was suddenly cold. So very cold.

We rode the shuttle bus headed south toward Dub- lin, hooking up to Dorsett Street once we were in the city proper.

We'd made it through customs relatively easily. There was no need to resort to the sort of tactics I'd used on that idiotic bureaucrat from before. Like many of the Dublin streets, this one turned and bent and changed names. We took a left onto Church Street and headed south toward the river. Four Courts was to our left. The dome of the central building was covered in the green patina that comes to all copper as it ages. It was a beautiful piece of neoclassical work. All white columns and statuary at every corner. The fact that it was standing after all this time gave me a fleeting feeling of permanence.

As we crossed Whitworth Bridge, I looked out the window. Below us the Liffey River flowed a gray- jade color, the dark clouds of the late-October sky barely reflected in its depths.

At the next stop, we left the tram and cut across West High Street. It was a strange experience, to see almost as many elves as humans walking about. No one gave us a second look. Oh well, perhaps one or two. We were dressed better than the average Dub- liner. I know the reports out of the Tir have it that the land is green and milk and honey flow from ev- ery stream, but after all, this is Eire.

Poverty has been at the throat of the people for generations. And goblinization hadn't changed that. Perhaps no one was starving, but all was not well in the Tir.

At St. Nicholas Street we headed south and cut west before we reached St. Patrick's Park. I glanced back to see if anyone was following us. An old woman pulled a shopping cart filled with vegetables, but as far as I could see there was no one tailing us.

"How long since you've been here?" I asked Caimbeul.

"Oh, I get about," he said, shrugging.

"Meaning you've been here recently."

He gave me hard stare. "Yes. I was here recently. I was invited to attend a wedding."

"Whose wedding?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Because I wasn't invited?"

"Well, yes."

"Well, I don't care about that," I lied. Weddings were highly symbolic events in the elven commu- nity. Full of alliances and power-jockeying. Not being invited meant I wasn't considered a pow- er anymore. That would hurt me when I went to the Court. No doubt Alachia's hand at work once more.

We worked our way across the maze of streets that led to St. Stephen's Green. Nestled next to ancient stone buildings were brick flats put up in the nineteen-hundreds next to chip-implanting shops. Dublin wasn't a flash city like New York or LA. She crept up on you and worked her charms in subtler ways. A hint of the past here. A bit of the future there.

Once we were in St. Stephen's I relaxed a little. I was certain no one was tailing us: the old woman had turned off on Bride Street. Since then, the crowd thickened and thinned, but no one seemed at all in- terested in Caimbeui and me.

"Where do you want to stay?" Caimbeui asked.

"Stephen's Hall?"

"Do they have a decent security rating?"

"Good enough," I said. "It's not like we're going underground."

The hotel overlooked St. Stephen's Green with its emerald grass and drooping willows. We checked in and followed the troll bell boy up to our suite.

We left a wake-up call for six.