The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (highly recommended books txt) 📗

sudden was the tug in his gut. He’d lived in villages of hundreds, but each person’s Pull tugged him in a distinctly different direction. The Pull he felt now was urgent and centered in one direction alone. But despite the strength of the Pull, Aidan could only sense five humans in the near distance. Four had a Pull lesser than the average human, but one was making it hard to breathe. One person with that strong a tug on me? he scoffed. I must be delirious.

Triumph seemed to sense his master’s urgency, for he broke into a gallop, whinnying.

Aidan leaned back, pulling on the reins. “Whoa. Easy there.” Whether he said this to himself or his horse, he was uncertain.

Blue smoke wafted over the hill up yonder. Aidan continued to calm his beast and resist the urge to run perhaps into a trap. It wasn’t easy; the closer he got, the more he wanted to shout in frustration. The Pull was nigh unbearable.

At last he gave in to his temptations and followed the path to the source of his longing. The trees thinned shortly, and there sat an open wagon pulled by four milk-white horses. Glamour, he thought with both excitement and dread. A haze hung over all, and the image of how things were was clouded by shadows of how things were wished to be seen.

It was too late to retreat. Whoever was casting the Glamour knew a stranger was near. Why cast it otherwise?

Aidan dismounted and called out a greeting. The one with the strong Pull, he could tell, had run off into the brush beyond the small encampment, but he could feel that four beings remained near at hand. Aidan blinked, trying to separate reality from illusion so he wouldn’t trip, and entered into the four’s line of sight.

Four old women sat around a fire, though the Glamour showed him quite a different picture. In the illusion, three young noble women stood to greet him, their green frocks whipping in a non-existent breeze. They were beautiful beyond compare, quite a contrast to reality. The sight of them put lead in Aidan’s stomach, and when they spoke, the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. “Who are you and what do you want?” one of the women asked.

Aidan made sure to look at the illusion instead of the person who was really speaking. The fact that he could see through Glamour could be the trick up his sleeve that he needed. He’d hesitated too long.

“Speak up, my good man. We are not seers to know your mind.”

Aidan smiled with difficulty. He was no actor, but this surely was a charade of the most dangerous and irksome kind. “Of course. I am called Aidan, and my business concerns—”

“Where did that urchin get off to?” said one of the old ladies, her voice raspy and thick with phlegm. “I be needin’ my tea.”

“Hush, Treevein,” said one of the others.

The three illusions and the four real women stared at him, until, with a pop, the Glamour faded. It took them a moment, but squinting, the leathery-skinned horrors seemed to realize that they were no longer protected from view. “Leech, what did you let it drop for? We had him good and rightly fooled. Look at how shocked the poor man is.”

The largest of them, presumably Leech, grunted and shrugged and muttered something about it not being her fault.

“Aye it were,” said the smallest of them. She leered at Aidan, who pretended to shake himself out of a daze. “Now we’ll have to kill him or hear him out.”

“Not a good idea to attempt a murder,” said the one they called Treevein. “Not before tea at least, and definitely not before we know whether or not he’s got power.”

“Of course he ain’t got power,” said Leech. “Look at the boy. He’s got mortal written all over his face.”

“Where is the urchin? She could sort this out for us.” The oldest woman turned her wrinkly head to address Aidan. “She’s been complaining of a headache for the last twenty-four hours, but we all know she was having one of her fits.”

“Fiddle-faddle. Slaíne don’t have no fits,” said Treevein. “Jus’ loses control, ’tis all.”

As they spoke, Aidan sensed this Slaíne moving about in the wood. The Pull distracted him from the banter, making him an easy target for the four elves – for he was certain that was what they were – if they were to turn on him. He knew this, berated himself for it, and yet could not control his steps that led past the brush.

All four began hissing and spitting at him in protest. “Now where do you think you’re going, me good lad? Ain’t nothing worth havin’ back in the wood. Unless you’re in the market for a no good, lazy, dawdling servant,” Leech said, then she shouted, “Slaíne, show yourself.”

The one with the large wart on her nose chimed in. “Yeah, girl. Pour us some tea. We have a guest.”

Aidan felt Slaíne come nearer to the camp, and strained to see what made his heart leap with excitement. Instead of enlightenment, he found himself puzzled.

She was a wisp of a girl, so thin it physically pained Aidan. She wore the clothing of a boy and seemed to have the bearing of one. Her gray eyes locked on Aidan, accusing, before she turned to her mistresses.

This is what’s Pulling at me? This mite of a girl? Perhaps there is someone yet in the woods. But as he studied her, explored her Pull on him, he realized there was no one else within a mile, and even if there were, he would not give them a second thought.

The elves must have noticed him staring at their servant, for the fattest one said, “Oi! Girl, show the man your hair.”

Aidan resisted the urge to groan. “Really, that’s all right.”

“You not in the market for a serving wench, then?”

The girl peered at him sideways and stumbled over to the woodpile.

Aidan unwittingly took a step