Bound

8. A Piece on the Board

3

A Piece on the Board

February 17, AD 643. Eoforwic, Deira

“I’m telling you. It is necessary!”

Raegenold, King of the Unseelie Fey, drew back, his eyes narrowing at the edge of anger in Wulfram’s tone. “Necessary? To meddle in the humans’ affairs is one thing—small mischiefs and trifling games only. But I sense you ask for more than this.”

Be careful, Wulfram reminded himself. So close now. Raegenold had come at his invitation; he dare not scare him off. They stopped at the river, looking out over the sluggishly moving water. Its icy grey water matched the equally grey sky.

Wulfram stifled his impatience. The failure of the Alder King rankled. Matthew McCadden was a problem that still needed solving. Now he was reunited with his wilding son. He set the thought aside, his gut clenching. It was all so delicate, this manipulation of the strands of history. Difficult to know which string should be plucked, and which should be severed completely.

He eyed Raegenold. Confident and bright with Fey power, the young king was not easy to manipulate. But for his plan to work, he had to have him on his side. Or at the very least, not getting in his way.

“My king,” he said in a conciliatory tone, spreading his hands wide. “Forgive me. But there are opportunities here that we dare not lose.”

Raegenold lifted his chin, his blue eyes glittering bright. “We? This plan is yours, not mine. I have not yet agreed to anything.”

An errant beam of sunlight speared down through the trees, outlining the king’s form in gold. Like a bloody spotlight. And he’s not even a Ward. Wulfram tamped down his anger, the small word yet fuelling his confidence. “Your caution is understandable, my lord. You hold the lives of the Unseelie Fey of the North in your hands. But I urge you to think bigger, to be bold. I tell you again: the fate of all the Fey, Unseelie and Seelie alike, are at stake.” Wulfram saw the unease in Raegenold’s eyes and pressed home his point. “The signs are clear. Domnall mac Aed, High King of Ireland, dead. Oswald, Bretwalda of the Saxons, dead this past summer. Cynegils of Wessex on his deathbed, and rumours that Bridei of the Picts has been killed in a skirmish amongst their clans. And recently, Domnall Brecc, King of Dál Riata, dead, leaving his co-ruler Ferchar in place. All these kings, gone. The humans are in disarray and confusion. The winds can shift in our favour if we give but some small assistance.”

“You urge the Fey to strike at the humans? To wrest control of the human kingdoms?”

Yes. The word hissed through him, but he dismissed it, ignoring the spurt of excitement the suggestion brought. “Of course not,” he said instead, with some scorn. “It will be more subtle than that. I told you—this plan is one that can only happen over long years, small adjustments here and there. Occasionally there is the opportunity for a bigger strike, a more telling blow.” He paused, searching the Unseelie King for any resistance. Raegenold was listening, but he had not yet been won over. “Now is one of those times.”

“You have said this before,” the king said, scowling. “Tales of the wind, with no substance. You have not yet told me what it is you ask of us.”

Wulfram kept his face mild, even though he could taste the triumph. So close. “Oswy is the key. Upon the success of his rule lies the fate of the Fey. Presently he is weak, unable to be Bretwalda, no matter how much he longs to reclaim his brother’s glory. Deira is not fully his. And Penda is gathering strength in the south. The other kingdoms see his weakness, smell blood. They are biding their time until they can strike.”

Raegenold waved a hand, impatient. “You have said this before. I know these things better than you, Traveller. Speak plainly. What do you wish of me?”

Wulfram’s fists clenched, but he took in a breath, schooling himself to patience. Raegenold understood the shifting allegiances of the kings and warlords of this time more clearly than he did. But could he understand the big picture? Could he step beyond the politics of the day and embrace Wulfram’s larger vision?

He took a deep breath, thinking of his brother, reminding himself what was at stake. “My king, I beg you. A few moments more, and all will be revealed.”

Raegenold sighed, and waved him on.

“Ferchar of Dál Riata is not nearly as sympathetic to Oswy as his brother was, no?”

Raegenold c****d his head. “I have heard thus. But Ferchar would not risk their alliance with Bernicia.” The young king folded his arms across his chest, his muscles bulging. “The humans always plot against one another. What is it to us?”

Several yards away, Raegenold’s two companions lounged by a stand of oak trees. Their stances appeared casual, but Wulfram knew that one was watching for anyone who might approach, and the other had his eyes fixed on them, ready to jump to Raegenold’s defence. He had to be careful not to give them any cause for alarm.

He tamped down his urgency. Easy does it. “Do you not have a Fey well placed in the Dál Riatan court? Talorc the Healer, one of Ferchar’s kinsmen, and a trusted counsellor?”

“Do not play games with me, Traveller. You know well that he is. What of it?”

“Merely this. Get word to him. Get him to fan the flame of doubts that Ferchar has against Oswy. Subtle hints. Turn him towards Penda, away from Bernicia.” Wulfram spread his hands. “The same can be done amongst the Alt Clut. Whispers of Oswy’s weakness. Influence towards Penda.”

Raegenold frowned. “Why the Mercian?”

“Mercia is the only one that can take on Oswy and win. We must ensure Penda’s victory, give him allies in the North that will turn against Oswy.” He let out a breath. “I dare not tell you more, my king. Not yet. It is too dangerous for you to know too much, as you well know. In time, all will be revealed.”

Raegenold stepped closer to Wulfram, power filling him, making him as bright as the sunlight had a moment ago. Wulfram kept his own carefully masked. This was mere posturing. As long as the Unseelie King agreed, he could put up with it.

“The Alder King has ridden,” Raegenold said. “Chasing a Fey, thwarted by Nectan and the Seelies. What do you know of this?”

Wulfram’s mouth went dry. Careful. “I have heard of it. But I know no more than you, I assure you.”

“Hmm.” Silence fell as Raegenold regarded Wulfram with narrowed eyes. Finally he spoke. “I am not a piece on your game board, Traveller. I will not be trifled with, moved here and there according to your grand plan. I will think on your request, and if I do as you say, know this: it will be for my reasons only. Do not think that I am your puppet. You have pledged to me and to the Court of the Unseelie Fey. If you harm us by your actions, you will suffer for it, I promise you.”

Wulfram let out the breath he was holding. The power woven in Raegenold’s words was impressive. But Wulfram had power at his disposal that this arrogant Fey could not even imagine. He could afford to be gracious, for now. Resist the urge to show Raegenold who was really in charge. That would come soon enough, if need be.

He bowed as if he were thoroughly chastened. “Of course, my lord king,” he murmured. “My intentions are to help you, to help the Unseelie Fey, I assure you.”

True words. That he would sweep Raegenold aside if he had to in order to do that, he kept very carefully to himself.