“She is my associate,” Jackaby answered. “And she is generally quite sharp. Usually. Sometimes. She’ll surprise you from time to time.”
“I’m sure she will,” said Arawn. “You humans never do exactly what one expects. I kept one in my castle for an entire year once.”
“A human?”
“Yes. I let him wear my glamour and everything. He left to go be a prince of some petty kingdom in the end. A shame. I rather liked him.”
“We’re here on rather urgent business, I’m afraid.”
“So I understand.” Arawn sauntered toward the dais at the end of the room. “You have concerns about the old Dire Council?”
Jackaby nodded. “More than concerns. The council has risen again. They’re active. My associates and I have managed to incapacitate a vampire and to nick a nixie at the heart of their ranks, but the Dire King remains at large, planning his next murderous maneuver.”
Arawn turned lazily as he reached his throne. “Such an excitable species, you humans. So rash. There is no Dire King lurking out there.”
“There is,” I said. “I’ve seen him.”
Arawn’s eyes fixed on me as he slid into his chair. “Have you?”
I screwed up my confidence. “I’ve seen his eyes,” I said, “glowing red in the darkness. He said that the age of man has ended, and that he is tired of waiting. He intends to destroy the barrier between the earth and the Annwyn and rule over whatever is left as king of both realms.”
Unimpressed, Arawn reached a hand down and absently stroked one of his snowy white hounds between its crimson ears. “At any moment, there are almost certain to be a dozen scurrilous seditionists who intend to destroy my barrier, a hundred who intend to usurp my throne, a thousand who intend to see the age of man come crumbling to an end. Let the rabble continue to amuse themselves with their idle intentions.”
“It’s only an idle intention until it becomes a reality,” said Jackaby.
Arawn rolled his eyes. “It is an absurd fantasy.”
Said the fairy king to a traveler with magic beans in his pockets, I thought, but I kept the observation to myself.
“You’re being a fool.” Jackaby took a step toward the dais. The twin hounds raised their milky white heads and their eyes narrowed. “Your veil is not impervious. Unseelie creatures have already slipped through the cracks—as I’m sure you’re well aware. Innocent people are dying while you reassure yourself you’re in control!” The hounds began to growl, and Jackaby drew to a stop, just a few paces from the king. “I’m at the heart of this now, whether you help me or not. More people will die. People I care about will die. Don’t let your ego blind you. Don’t wait for the veil to fall and for people you care about to start dying before you take this seriously.”
“Very forward, Seer,” said Arawn coldly. “You do not know your place.”
“No, I don’t. I’ve been told it’s one of my most endearing qualities,” Jackaby replied.
Arawn smirked in spite of himself. “One of your only,” he said. “Yes, there are cracks in any wall. Cracks can be mended. What you’re describing is something else entirely. It is laughable.”
“Humor me, then. Please.”
Arawn eyed Jackaby. “Very well, if it sets you at ease. Let us imagine the impossible. I will speak slowly. Do try to keep up.”
Arawn gave a casual wave of his hand, and the heavy oaken tabletop beside me shuddered. Before my eyes, the surface rippled and rose unevenly, forming hills and plains and sprouting miniature wooden towers with paper-thin pennants.
“Anyone intent on destroying the barrier would need to subdue my army first,” Arawn drawled.
As I watched, transfixed, miniature oaken figures rose out of the wood grain and snapped to attention, forming row after row of tiny soldiers.
“The Seelie forces are the most powerful army in this or any realm,” Arawn continued, “and they have one sworn duty—to protect the veil. A rebel king would need to rally a legion equal to my own, the likes of which has never been seen. The Unseelie, unlike my forces, are the most capricious and unruly creatures in the Annwyn. Preventing even a paltry horde of these brutes from tearing each other apart would be nothing short of extraordinary, and mobilizing an entire army of them toward a common goal would be nearly impossible.”
Chips and splinters had begun to peek out of the tabletop, circling the oaken army like wolves in the underbrush.
“But I am humoring you,” said Arawn dryly. “So let’s take this preposterous pretense a step further.”
The wolves attacked. Wave after wave of jagged monsters fell upon the soldiers. Toothpick javelins flew and wood-shaving shields crumpled. When the sawdust settled, the wooden army lay still. It had been a massacre in miniature.
“Supposing your would-be king could achieve the impossible and overcome my army, he still would not possess the raw power to bring down the veil. The magical potential required to unhinge the established enchantments holding the barrier in place would call for more focused energy than all of the strongest mages in my army could produce combined.”
The table rattled. Inch by inch, the wolfish shards and broken soldiers began to slide along the surface. Concentric circles formed as the armies were dragged across the wood in opposite directions, the bristly horde spinning clockwise and the fallen soldiers sliding widdershins. From the center of these orbits rose a solitary figure. A tiny jagged crown sat atop its wooden head.
“Supposing it could be done,” said Arawn, “unimaginable raw power would need to be focused toward a single goal, to be channeled through a single mind.”
The rumble of the tabletop had become an unsettling hum. It made my teeth hurt. The tabletop began to splinter at the edges. Around and around the circles spun, faster and faster until, with a crack, the figure in the center exploded into a burst of wood shards. I shielded my eyes with my arm, and when I looked again, the table had returned to normal, its surface smooth and polished, minus one rough gouge in the center.
Arawn leaned back in his throne. “It cannot be done. The veil is safe. The Dire King is dead.”
“Dead?” I said. “Then there was a Dire King?” Arawn’s half-lidded eyes flicked in my direction.
“There was,” he conceded. With slow, deliberate movements, the king rose and stepped down from the dais toward me. “Until there wasn’t. Do you want to know what came in between?”
I nodded.
“Me.” He drew so close I could see my own nervous face in the reflection of his circlet. “The Dire King was a formidable opponent, but he was outmatched. I have the wretch’s crown in my trophy room,” Arawn said. “Removed from his lifeless head as his corpse lay cooling on the field of battle. He’s dead.”
“His crown?” Jackaby’s eyes flashed with a sudden thought. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever met a fellow called Father Grafton?”