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The central streets of Dragon’s Hollow were crowded with all manner of fey enjoying the cool evening air and entertainment. Jugglers and acrobats were performing under the Wolf Moon on the lakeside; huge spherical lanterns made of paper and metals that imitated the Wolf Moon, hung along the streets and by the water. They glowed yellow and orange and were etched with the snarling faces of wolves. The dragon fountain loomed above everything, and water shot from its mouth, frothing across the lake.
The Wolf Moon was almost full, and it looked enormous as it hung over the city, casting a malevolent eye over the activities. Tom felt the expectations of the next night weighing on him.
Bloodmoon walked ahead with Woodsmoke and Arthur, navigating through the crowds with a certain assurance. Every now and then he nodded at someone he knew – it was clear he was well travelled. Woodsmoke and Arthur kept up an easy stride next to him, glancing back occasionally to check Tom and Elan were still behind.
Tom pointed to where the water ruffled and something moved on the surface. “What’s that in the lake?”
Elan dragged himself out of his reverie. “Mermaid, probably. Although I think they prefer salt water. May be a nymph?”
“That’s so cool! I can’t believe you’re not looking at everything – this place is amazing!”
“Sorry, I’m distracted. We have twenty-four hours, and we haven’t got everything we need.” He slumped against a balustrade and looked over the lake, despondent.
“We’ll do it. I know we will,” Tom said, wishing he was as convinced as he sounded. “I can understand why you attacked me now – you know, at the tournament.”
Elan fidgeted with his leather jacket. “I’m sorry. I was feeling pretty desperate. Stupid, I know. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Like that would have solved anything.”
“People do stupid things when they’re desperate,” Tom said, thinking of Nimue and her curse on Merlin. Although Nimue’s act was a very calculated one.
Elan finally looked at Tom. “I’m worried that either we can’t break the curse, and that would be devastating, or that the curse will shift to me.”
Tom felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach. “Why do you think it would shift to you?”
Elan shrugged. “I don’t know. But I just feel it can’t be that easy.”
Tom spluttered. “Easy? How is this easy? It’s taken thousands of years just to get this far. And we haven’t even broken it yet!”
“All right, not easy. But you know what I mean? Assemble the ingredients, and break the spell.”
Tom was now frustrated. “But everything was hidden! It’s only through luck and hard work that we’ve got this far. Stumbling into the Realm of Fire wasn’t easy – I was nearly destroyed in a lava flow.”
Elan sighed. “I’m not explaining this very well.”
“You’re just worried, understandably. It’s weird to think something that’s been hanging over your family could be over in a day.”
Elan nodded. “You’re probably right. We’d better go, before we lose the others.” He headed back into the crowd. Tom hurried after him, remembering what Woodsmoke had said about a twist still to come. He hoped they were both wrong.
They caught sight of Bloodmoon and the others just as Bloodmoon turned down a side-street. It was narrow and winding and led back behind the markets, past a few small shops. Then they turned to the left and disappeared under a sign that read, “Smuggler’s Retreat.” Tom and Elan followed them down a flight of steps and pushed open a heavy wooden door, entering a low-ceilinged room – or rather, a cave. In fact several caves, all connected, shadowy in the low light. Smoke filled the air and the sound of music drifted from another room.
Bloodmoon stood at the bar, drink already in hand, while Arthur and Woodsmoke admired the enormous range of beverages. Tom had never before seen so many different colours and styles of bottles. There was wine, beer and spirits, and half a dozen hand pumps lined up with names in front of them.
“So what’s your poison, Tom?” Bloodmoon said, grinning.
One caught his eye – Nymph’s Nectar. “A pint of that, please.”
“Good choice,” Arthur said. “I’ll join you.”
Nymph’s Nectar turned out to be a caramel-coloured beer, rich and sweet and malty. Tom sipped it appreciatively.
“Nothing like a good beer to clear the head,” Woodsmoke said, as they settled themselves onto stools around a small round table in the corner. “This was a good idea, Bloodmoon, but aren’t we supposed to be finding the stone?”
Bloodmoon seemed completely at home, looking animated and relaxed at the same time. “It is possible to combine business with pleasure, you know!”
“So who are we looking for?” Arthur asked, leaning back against the wall and surveying the room. “With a name like Smuggler’s Retreat, this place must be about more than a great choice of beer.”
“This is the best place for information on interesting goods,” Bloodmoon said. “Many years ago it was used to store all sorts of things – gold, gems, weapons, art – all making their way out of the Hollow by slightly underhand means.”
“And it still seems to have an unsavoury atmosphere,” Woodsmoke added, although he didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. “It worries me that you know this place exists.”
“Well –” Bloodmoon started, but Woodsmoke stopped him with a shake of the head. “I don’t want to know.”
Woodsmoke was right about the atmosphere. Tom glanced around the room, trying not to stare, but there were some very interesting characters. A group of satyrs were talking loudly over a table full of glasses, the discussion becoming heated, and there were numerous shifty looking fey hunched over tables, deep in conversation, avoiding eye contact with anyone else as they exchanged packages and money. There were goblins, a couple of sprites, and even some sylphs, who looked huge in the low-ceilinged cave. There was a tenseness in the air that Tom hadn’t noticed when he first came in, but he noticed it now and felt increasingly uncomfortable.
“Is this safe?” Elan asked in a low voice.
“Of course,” Bloodmoon said breezily. “And we’re all armed, aren’t we?”
“That’s not really reassuring me,” Tom said.
“Anyway, I had a quiet word with the barman when we came in, and the fey we need to speak to is over there.” He nodded towards the next cave, linked to theirs by an archway. “He deals with rare artefacts and interesting esoteric items. Are we ready if I go and fetch him?”
“Ready for what?” Tom asked, confused.
“Negotiation.” He looked directly at each of them. “Leave the talking to me.”
Woodsmoke and Arthur exchanged a long glance as Bloodmoon headed off, returning a few minutes later with a small immaculately dressed fey who reminded Tom of a car salesman. He was dressed in a black velvet jacket, slim trousers, highly polished boots, and a dark blue linen shirt with embroidered cuffs and ornate cufflinks.
He took a seat and looked expectantly at the others. “Good evening. I understand you need my assistance.” He placed a glass of what looked like port on the table in front of him.
Bloodmoon slid back into his seat. “Carac, your reputation precedes you. May I say how much I admire your work.”
Carac nodded, looking smug. His little finger was raised as he sipped his drink. “So does yours, Bloodmoon. I have followed your career with interest.”
Bloodmoon smiled and lowered his voice. “We are looking for an Arach Frasan Fuil, complete with its anchor, and we believe you are the man to find one for us.”
Carac’s feline grin disappeared. “If you know what that is, you’ll know what you ask is impossible.” He started to rise as if to walk off.
Bloodmoon leant forward, hand on Carac’s drink, and said in a low voice, “I know what it is, and I know you can get one. Money is not a problem.”
The fey narrowed his eyes at Bloodmoon and sat down again. “The object you speak of is extremely rare. And very expensive.”
“But you have one?” Bloodmoon stared at him, refusing to look away.
“No. But I know someone who has.” Carac stared back at Bloodmoon, ignoring everyone else at the table, and Tom felt his breath become shallow.
“Here in the Hollow?”
“Maybe. But he won’t give it up.”
“Who has it?”
Carac hesitated. “He would not like strangers to know.”
Bloodmoon leaned forward until he was inches from Carac’s face. “I. Don’t. Care.”
“He won’t sell it to you,” the fey persisted.
“That’s not for you to worry about.”
“And what will I get out of this?”
Bloodmoon named a sum that had Tom almost choking – Arthur too, judging by the look on his face. “And our silence of course – your name shall not be mentioned. And this conversation never happened.” He raised a quizzical brow at Carac.
Carac took only seconds to decide. “Your offer is generous.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “The most royal councilman, head of the city council, Finbhar of the House of the Fireblade.”
Even Tom had heard of him. Finbhar owned a palatial building on the opposite side of town to the House of the Beloved. It was a vision of white marble, pink granite, and silver inlay. He remembered meeting him at Raghnall’s funeral. He had long blue hair and small neat beard.
Bloodmoon sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Tricky.”
Carac grinned unpleasantly. “Very. My money, please.”
Arthur reached into his cloak and pulled out a small leather bag. He checked the contents under the table, and removing only a few gold coins, slid it across to Carac.
With a nod the fey grabbed the bag and tucked it into his jacket. “Have an excellent evening gentlemen,” he said, leaving them.
Arthur exploded. “Great Herne! Did you have to offer so much? I haven’t got enough cash to buy the damn thing now.”
“Arthur,” Bloodmoon said quietly. “We aren’t going to buy it. We’re going to steal it.”
