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Quietly she said, ‘We are the Nac Mac Feegle, and we dinnae bow down to queens.’
Rob Anybody was silent, but the sound of him whetting his claymore against the stone was a song, an invitation to death. Then he looked up and his gaze was fearsome. ‘We are the Nac Mac Feegle! The Wee Free Men! Nae king! Nae quin! Nae laird! Nae master! We willna’ be fooled again!’ he thundered. ‘Your life, elf, is on the edge o’ my blade.’
There was a scuffling noise behind them and Tiffany crawled in, followed by Hamish, with more Feegles pushing around after them.
‘It’s happy I am tae see ye, hag o’ the hills,’ Jeannie said. ‘We have ourselves . . . an elf. Tell us, what shall we dae with it?’ And at that word ‘elf’ every weapon sang.
Tiffany looked at the elf. It was in terrible shape and she said, ‘We aren’t the kind of people who kill those who are unarmed.’
Rob Anybody put up his hand. ‘Excuse me, mistress, but some of us do, or are.’
Nonplussed, Tiffany thought, Well, I’m their big wee hag, and the kelda has asked for my help. And then, despite its bedraggled state, she recognized the Feegles’ captive. After all, how could she have forgotten?
‘I know you, elf, and I told you never to come here again,’ she said. She frowned. ‘You remember? You were a great elvish queen and I was a little girl. I drove you away with Thunder and Lightning.’
She watched the elf’s face when she said that. It had gone white.
‘Yes,’ said the elf faintly. ‘We came raiding into your world, but this was before the time of . . . iron.’
Her face twisted with fear and Tiffany sensed a change in the world, a feeling that she stood between two courses of action, and what she did next would matter. This, she realized, was what she had suspected was coming her way, what Jeannie had warned her about. A witch is always on the edge, between the light and the dark, good and bad, making choices every day, judging all the time. It was what made her human. But what was it that made an elf? she wondered.
‘I hear that the goblins believe that the railway engines have a soul, elf,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me, what kind of soul have you? Do you run along your own elvish rails? With no time or place for turning?’ She looked at the kelda and said, ‘Granny Aching told me to feed them that was starving and clothe them as is naked and help the pitiful. Well, this elf has come to my turf – starving, naked, pitiful – do you see?’
The kelda’s eyebrows rose. ‘Yon creature is an elf! It has nae care for ye! It has nae care for anyone – it disnae even care for other elves!’
‘You think then there is no such animal as a good elf?’
‘Ye think there is such a thing as a guid elf?’
‘No, but I am suggesting that there is a possibility that there might be one.’ Tiffany turned to the cowering elf. ‘You are no queen
now. Do you have a name?’
‘Nightshade, my lady.’
‘Aye,’ said the kelda. ‘A poison.’
‘A word,’ said Tiffany sharply.
‘Well, yon word has been kicked out as if life was nae more than a game o’ chess; and now it turns to the lassie she tried to destroy years ago,’ the kelda said. ‘She ha’ been beaten verra severely, but here she comes, to your steading, asking ye for sanctuary.’ There was a gleam in her eye as she said, ‘What now, Tiffan? It’s up to ye. Only ye can decide. This elf nearly killed ye afore, and yet ye want to help her . . .’ The kelda’s face looked grave. ‘Fairies are nae to be trusted, we Nac Mac Feegle ken that! But ye are the girl who made the Wintersmith mind his manners. Don’t fret for the Quin, but through her footsteps there may be a war . . .’
Tiffany bent down to the shrunken, quivering elf. Face to face with her she quietly said, ‘Last time we met, Nightshade, I was a small girl, hardly capable of any magic whatsoever.’ She pushed her face closer. ‘How much better at magic am I now! I am the successor of Granny Weatherwax, aye, and you elves were right to fear her name. And now you might say that the life of elves is hanging on you. And if you let me down, I’ll send you back to the Feegles. They have no love for elves.’ The kelda caught her eye and Tiffany said, ‘Does that sit well with you, Kelda?’
‘Och, weel,’ said the kelda, ‘somebody had to taste the first snail.’
‘Yes,’ said Tiffany. ‘And goblins were treated as nobodies until somebody gave a thought to them. Give the Lady Nightshade no reason to hate you, but if she breaks the rules then I promise you – and, ye ken well, a promise from the hag o’ the hills is a serious business indeed – that will be the end of it.’
Feegle eyes were still watching Nightshade with unabashed loathing. It seemed to Tiffany that the air between them and the elf was humming with hatred, in both directions.
Rob Anybody said, ‘You, elf, ye know that your kind will nae trick us agin. And so it is for the sake o’ Mistress Aching that we are lettin’ ye live. But be told. The hag o’ the hills gets a bit restive when she sees us killin’ people, and if she wasnae here, ye would be bleeding again.’
There was a chorus of threats from the Feegles – it was clear that if they had their preference, Nightshade would be a damp little piece of flesh on the floor by now.
Rob Anybody smashed his claymore against the ground. ‘Listen to the big wee hag, ye scunners. Aye, ye, Wee Clonker and Wee Slogum, Wee Fungus and Wee Gimmie Jimmie. She’s made a truce with the auld Quin, believin’ yon schemie might have a wee passel o’ goodness in her.’
Big Yan coughed and said, ‘I dinnae want to gainsay the hag but the only guid elf is a deid elf.’
‘I suggest ye dinnae tak that road, brother. As a gonnagle, I say to leave a space for goodness tae get in, as it was in the Lay of Barking Johnnie,’ said the gonnagle, Awf’ly Wee Billy Bigchin, an educated Feegle.
