The Last Knights of Cambria Book 4: Secrets of the Mountain

Chapter 7: I go on a catch and release deer hunt

Dancer
I did expect Gideon to be alive and show up in some ridiculous manner. I did not expect him to write to us from England and the nest of our mortal enemies. I don't know why I didn't expect this. But I didn't.
"Gideon is alive," Rhiannon informs us, coming to breakfast holding a note. Us is King Elis and myself who were having breakfast on one of the ramparts. Usually she does join us up here.
"What?" Elis asks.
"A message from Windsor, the messenger road half the night," Rhiannon says, triumphantly, holding it up, "Here, look."
"Who sent it? Not the King?" I ask.
"No, based off the completely legible signature it's the younger Henry," Elis says, looking at the message, " 'Dealing with a crisis and after being slightly kidnapped while minding his own business' ? "
I mutter an expletive.
"It's odd—but entirely in character," Rhiannon says.
"How the devil did he get to England?" Elis asks.
"Magic more than likely, and something stupid," I say, burying my face in my hands.
"He's alive and says he's coming home soon," Rhiannon says, "That's what's important."
"What's important is I figure out what's going on in his stupid head," I sigh.
"Dancer, I know your magic is limited but could you—aid him somehow?" Elis asks, "I'd sooner he were home in Wales not in Henry's court."
"My magic is basically non-existent, but I'll work on it," I need to kill him personally.

Gideon
I don't actually know how I'm going to do this, but I'm hoping my simple plan will work. Simple plans are usually the most painful, the Duke of Conwy says. We're usually talking about torturing people. It's not a good use of the phrase. Anyway.
I asked Prince Harry for two favors last night and this morning I see him in the hall and he bounces and smiles his precious grin and holds up two fingers and nods so that means he did both things which I thought he would because he's awesome. The note to Wales I'm worried about in that I want everyone to know I'm okay. The other is a bit more urgent, however, I need the hunting dogs, but I realize Prince Harry is probably going to be confined with his mother today and so he can't give me more information.
I am in the kitchen packing my little rucksack because I'm never leaving a castle without food again, and wondering how Harry arranged the dogs. I'm hoping it doesn't involve his father whose boot I still feel in my back, when someone politely taps my shoulder.
"So, I just don't react well to being touched I'm noticing that, still better than a kick—hello, you're Owain aren't you?" I ask, I'm usually in a Welsh accent so his proper name rolls off my tongue. The loyal knight is ready for the day in leather armor and some mail, sword at his side. His ashen blonde hair is neat and nearly to the nape of neck, and soft blue eyes are almost kind. He's barely a year older than our Queen Catherine making him not far past thirty now. He has a kind smile, and he's not a tall man nor lean, with thick shoulders and arms fitting of a bowman. With his heavy features and thick bones he'd be more of a fit in our Welsh court than this English one.
"Tudor," he corrects, little trace of his Welsh accent now.
"My apologies, I thought you a Welshman," I say, knowing damn well he is in blood, if not in allegiance.
"No. I am a knight of the King," he says, smoothly. I wonder how much conditioning it takes to deny your name in its native tongue? Loyalty to the King, some hate of Wales, or something else all together, like love of his Queen? It's not particularly sordid to suppose, we've been over Henry not being the most affectionate or supportive husband or human being on the planet, along with being decently older than his lovely bride. Owen is her age, handsome without the need of a foggy day or a laundry list of accomplishments to corroborate that.
He's soft spoken and would likely be kind, and quiet, something the private queen wants. I mean, it's pretty clear they met at court when he was serving as Henry's steward, she wouldn't marry him till nearly ten years after her husbands' death. If she hasn't looked his way I'd be surprised if nature didn't take it's course and he look hers. In my world he'll never marry another, rumors of an illegitimate child years later after her death, but I never corroborated those sources and he never married before (he was in his thirties when they finally got together) nor after when he clearly could have. And he had no benefit from loving her, it only meant a price on his head and a lifetime of being the man who dared to love England's forbidden rose. A steamy romance that doesn't show up in enough history books or TV dramas, perhaps because it's likely the Queen initiated any relationship, and they are happy and he is good to her. The public isn't fond of happy stories I don't think.
"Of course, I miss home, someone had said your family was Welsh," I lie, because I know that from Wikipedia.
"I left when I was a boy, I don't remember it," Owen says, a little kinder, but his manner is still stiff. I forget because in Wales I'm more of a fixture, but to him I'm on par with the nobles. Hell, he got sent to get me dinner last night. He's a knight sure, but he's a man at arms, he's barely above a servant no land no title. I'm no better. But my magic puts me at higher rank. He's reporting to me and putting up with my questions. I feel bad. I'm used to the bowmen and the knights in the Welsh guard making idle conversation with me over breakfast and the like.
"Sorry, you probably got sent, ignore me I got little sleep last night," I say, quickly as I finish stuffing my sack of food. "I tend to talk away—well when I do get sleep I talk a lot as well I find. But last night I kept getting disturbed by someone who wanted attention."
"My son wakes at all hours, still," Owen says a little bit nicer. Oh, that's interesting he has a kid? He's admitting it as well?
"Hm, some don't grow out of it," I say, rubbing my back, "How old's your boy?"
"Two. He stays with his mother, but," Owen shrugs a little, he's implying it's an illegitimate child. Well, as I said there are a couple sources he had one later? He's clearly seeing the kid if it wakes him up. "The prince sent me with charge of giving you two of our hounds."
"Yes um—," of course he had Owen do that —do they make him do everything? I'm shocked they didn't make him take the message to Wales. "—best deer hounds, if you can."
"I'll show you to the kennels," Owen nods, watching as I stuff more food in my bag.
I follow him out of the kitchen, "Do you and your wife live in town?" Come on, I'd really like more information.
"I'm not married. The child lives with his mother, in Cheapside," he says, briskly. Again it's not actually much disgrace in this day and age, to have a child out of wedlock. Not for the man anyway. Woman it is of course, but for him it's little matter. But he blushes when he says it.
"I've been to Cheapside, briefly," I say, following him quickly. He's a bit shorter than I am but his pace is quick as he leads me out of the palace. "I confess I am not overly fond of London."
He glances at me and shrugs a little, I have no idea what that would mean. He seems unwilling to talk. That has yet to stop me.
"How long have you been a knight? What age were you knighted, that is? I'm trying to settle a bet with no one," I say.
"Probably older than you," he grunts.
"How old do you think I am?" I ask.
"Probably twelve?"
"I'm sixteen—well I'm going to be seventeen, we don't actually know when I was born," I say, quickly, "I'm—illegitimate. And then my mother gave me up. Nobody much cared to remember."
"All my mother knew was I was born in winter," he offers, tone softening a little, "I was fifteen. It was Agincourt."
"You were at Agincourt?" I start vibrating happily, "Could you—tell me about it? Sometime, I realize we're busy?"
"I was King Henry's steward, I watched him take an axe to his head. He turned and slayed the man," Owen says, "If you hear them tell that story, it's true. I saw it myself."
"Oh yes, please, tell me more things," I say, hurrying after him as we enter the kennels. It's similar to a stable but it's got lower pens for the various sets of hunting dogs. A few page boys scurry about feeding them.
"Kennels. Dogs, this one here, and this one with the dark patch over its eye," he says, leaning down to pet two of the deerhounds. They're a bit closer to wolfhounds than our modern idea of deerhounds, but much the same, with scruffy coats. These have a bit bigger patches of white though than their modern cousins.
"Are they your dogs?" I ask, "Do you handle them?"
"If the Prince is of a mind to hunt I'm the one that takes him," Owen says, so loyally and believably. That definitely means he takes the crown prince on little walks with his dogs around the yard probably while the boy reads and Owen carries an extra book or something.
"Right, but these are actually good at hunting are they? Not good at following a little boy around and being petted? Because I know that's all he does is cuddle with them, which is relatable, however?" I ask.
"Yes," Owen narrows his eyes a little, "These are actually good at hunting." A bit quieter, "The ones he likes to pet and play with are over there we started breeding the quieter ones and that's a couple litters in, they don't do much but like being leaned on. Can't hunt at all."
"I'm surprised the King lets you do that," I say.
"You ask a lot of questions," Owen says, the edge back in his voice.
"He doesn't let you? You all as a group just started breeding tame dogs because the Prince is that sweet and you want him to have pets to cuddle?" I laugh.
"The point is if you're hunting you want these, not those, at all," Owen says, emotionlessly, gesturing to the proper dogs.
"I'm on your side that's hilarious—okay right thanks," I say, as he hooks up the leashes for two of the dogs he indicated as actually being good at hunting.
"If you don't bring them back you answer to the kennel master, not me," Owen growls, giving me the leashes.
"Please tell me you let lose the tame dogs when someone you don't like is trying to hunt? Please? It would make me so happy," I ask.
"Of course we do that. We're not stupid here in England. Now get going, I have work to be doing," Owen says, like 'work' isn't waiting for whatever next weird side quest the royals will have for him.
"Thank you, Sir Tudor," I bow, "It's been an honor." Your son, your one son, is one of my favorite people. In my world he and Catherine have a son named Jasper Tudor, aka the only guy to survive the War of the Roses start to finish. Brilliant fighter, clever man, loyal brother and friend, he'll hole up in Harlech castle of all places, and raise his nephew future Henry VII as a single dad, lone wolf and cub style. I can't make this stuff up there should really be about ten Netflix original series on this guy.
"You're a curious fellow," Owen frowns at me a little.
"I've heard that. Anyway, best be off. Good luck," I say, bowing a bit again before backing away.
I veer away from the place gardens towards the woods. If I were an Oisin, I wouldn't hide somewhere so, inhabited. And let's face it. He's likely close. All that magic to summon those ghosts. Ancient spirit or no he's bound to be tired. And he spent the night in the woods, no food, after having gotten himself back somehow from modern London, which is where the amulet took him. No, he's close. He's just hiding. And he looks like a poacher, a peasant. The guards won't even note him he looks like a boy. Any one of them could have seen him and not paid any mind.
I kneel down by the dogs, they both immediately lick my face. I pet them a moment, then hold their collars, "Velocitas tecum sit, capreae quaere mihi." I whisper the spell, feeling my eyes glow hot blue as the magic seeps from my words into them. The dogs' eyes go blue for half a moment, and then they take off into the woods, barking.
I run after them, cursing that I didn't bring a horse. Now, a horse probably would have trouble in these dense woods, but even so. I'm well behind the dogs and tired as I am the last thing I needed was a jog. Whose idea was this anyway? Oh yeah. Mine.
I trip through the dense undergrowth of the woods, following the dog's trail and also their baying. It rained a bit last night and everything smells damp and nicely of the earth. I'd sooner be walking quietly looking for a good place to read. Speaking of reading, I hope Prince Harry's parents are giving him quiet time to read like he's used to with them being gone. So far as I can tell he spends 90% of his time alone and he uses that to be quiet and religious. Anyway, now there's a houseful and I pity the boy being unable to have his usual routine. I always hated when everyone was home from work for a holiday or something and they expected me to sit and just exist and not read or anything at the table like I liked.
The dogs slow but their barking intensifies, so I pick up my pace as best I can. If they found an actual deer I'm going to sue Owen. Not really, but I may cry a little. I probably should have given them a command not to actually hurt anything. Yes, I'm a professional court wizard and I am good at this magic stuff.
But the dogs have not found a deer. Of course they haven't.
Oisin, looking about as ill as I feel, is curled up in the hollow of the roots of a tree. His white hair is messy and stuck with leaves and moss, and he's hugging his knees and looking as though he might cry, as he tries to push the dogs away. For their part, they are trying to lick his face.
"Oisin MacFionn I presume. Want to talk?" I ask, hands on hips, tiredly.
He glares at me a little, "Fine."
"Come on, lets get you some breakfast," I offer him a hand to stand up.
"Really?" He asks, frowning.
I nod, holding up my bag of food stolen from the palace kitchens.
A few minutes later I've quieted the dogs and put them back on leashes, then we set up our picnic on a dry rock not too far from his hiding place.
"So. Is this some sort of guise? Considering you're about a thousand years old? You wrote the Fianna cycle, right?" I ask, waving at his general appearance. He doesn't look much older than me though I'm guessing he's a very powerful wizard.
Oisin glares at me, "I did. But I was not old. When I wrote it—the tale is better if I tell it where I also get to grow old. It's happier that way."
"According to the legend—that you told. You helped a fairy, and then when you returned to the world three hundred years had passed," I say.
"Something like that," he says, softly, picking at the bread.
"You sealed yourself in the mountain when your father died?" I prompt.
He nods, "He told me not to. He said to go on. I was not under his spell to sleep with the Fianna. I only wake with them. I can help."
"So you can leave the mountain, like now," I nod.
"If you're so interested in us why do you help the English? My father said they go to war on you as well," he says, selecting a bit of bread tentatively.
"Because. As hard as this may be to believe. King Henry is not—currently—actively—posing a threat to Ireland. He's indulging in his favorite of hobby of being ridiculous in France and occasionally abusing Welsh teenagers. He's not your threat to Ireland. I realize he looks like it," I say.
"Why should I believe you?" Oisin asks.
"Because I'll swear it on whatever you like—moreover I'll prove it to you. But for now, just hold off a minute with the bloody revenge, you've got the wrong person," I say.
"He has the horn of the Fianna."
"Yeah, I didn't say he wasn't an idiot," I mutter, "We can get that—couple of ways actually. I'm just against you calling down the Fianna in the middle of England. Innocent people—that is not Henry—will be hurt and he's currently not actively doing anything. Which means something else is threatening Ireland and that's an issue as well. And I respect your father very much but in your own poems you don't exactly paint him as someone who doesn't rush into things, his own dogs stopped him from killing you and as I recall he killed one of the dogs at one point."
"My father is very brave," he doesn't confirm or deny the legend, sadly.
"Yeah, so am I. So's King Henry, that's not an apt synonym critical thinking," I say, eating.
Oisin glares at me.
"Stop doing that. Now, I think you're as wasted as I am yesterday plus I'm still tied to the mountain somehow," I say, poking the furrows on his forehead. He leans away a little, not ceasing frowning.
"My father will be angry you escaped."
"Well, he can get in line. At the moment my —friends are worried about me and you took my ring. So how about this, Oisin? You and I form a pact you do the spell if you like, to find what's threatening Ireland and help each other. And we go home, chat with my friends so they're not worried about me, we both regain a bit of strength, and then eventually when we're both emotionally up to it we meet King Henry and  when he doesn't act like less of a threat to Ireland, but you come to realize he's not the current threat because there's no way he wouldn't rub it in your face if he were. Sound good?" I ask, cocking my head, "I realize you don't probably get this a lot—but I do want to help you."
"I don't get anything a lot. I sleep in the mountain," Oisin says, rubbing his face a little.
"You woke with the Fianna? Or does your father wake you from the spell?" I ask.
He nods, "Second thing. He looked back and saw King Henry had taken the horn, so he knew the Irish could not use it to call us."
"So why don't we return the horn to Ireland, that way they can call you if needed?" I suggest, "That would help."
"Why are you so willing to help us?" He asks.
"It's kind of what I do. Get involved in quests. Go on adventures," I say, eating.
"That's is not a good way to live long."
"I'm not trying to. I'm trying to have a good time."
"Stupid," he gets up and kicks a tree, tipping his head back in obvious frustration, "Stupid. Stupid stupid."
"Are you okay?" I ask, watching him.
"Ignore me. Yes. Fine. We swear to help the other," he's got his head buried in his hands, "Keep talking."
"We swear to help each other. We get the horn back to Ireland in case they need it at any time. We don't tell Henry we're doing this we give him a replacement for his collection of plundered goods. And that way Ireland can all the Fianna anytime they need. Problem solved," I say.
"My father will not agree to this," Oisin says, coming back to sit down, having composed himself.
"It's only logical," I say, my mouthful. I'm still hungry, breakfast was a while ago.
"I'm not arguing with you. I'm saying he will not agree to simply return the horn. He believes King Henry is going to invade Ireland."
"Well—up till he found out a magical set of warriors was guarding Ireland Henry also believed Henry was going to invade Ireland," I say, shrugging a little, "But he's not the current threat. In fact, since it makes him look good, he's willing to help with the current threat."
"Lovely. My father will not agree or believe any of this if I go back and tell him," Oisin says.
"Can we not—summon him? Just him, not the whole Fianna—to meet with Henry?" I can't believe I'm suggesting this. "Henry can be—charming and diplomatic if he likes; he doesn't want the Fianna being summoned at all."
"Why?" Oisin asks.
"He's devoted—like, a decent amount of time to convincing his people HE is Arthur returned another king coming out of a mountain would spoil it."
"My father is no king," Oisin says.
"Well. Close enough, anyway that's his reasoning. Can't we summon your father to like—chat with him? Henry will explain in a clever manner he's not currently threatening Ireland? He's offering aid," I say.
"Why would a warlord help us?" Oisin asks.
"Because he enjoys it. He'd like the bragging rights and the actual country and another crown, but he'll do it for the first one," I shrug.
"Fine. We'll get the horn back, and then see," Oisin says, "How do you plan on doing that?"
"I've got a couple of general plans, they involve some of my countrymen and fellow wizards, though, also I do need to get back to Wales and let everyone know I'm okay, so if you wouldn't mind letting me use my ring again? I've not got it on which is interesting and I'm still here. I sort of need to get back to my original time then back to Wales—don't know how I'm going to do that—,"
"It's a port-key. It's not set to one particular time or other. They just go wherever you pick. This was set for somewhere horrible it took me hours to get back," he says, twisting the ring.
"Oh don't undo it! I need that—that's my friend's dad's house, I need to go back there," I say, sadly.
"You can, I've just told you. It works anywhere, I just needed it to help get out of the mountain and to England," he says, "I'll show you how to change it so you can go anywhere. You're strong. I'm sure you can."
"Really? Would you?" I ask, hopefully.
"Yes," he says, glaring a little at me.
"Thank you. Nobody really teaches me magic except Courtenay and he's tried to kill me so I'm not counting that as actual help, and Dancer but he's not much better than me and part of the time he was trying to kill me," I say, happily.
"Who are these people?"
"My friends, mostly, you'll meet all of them except Courtenay if we can help it that's awful nobody needs to meet him," I say.
"How do you make all these friends?" He asks.
"Well, to begin with I was minding my own business, in a treasure trove of sorts, trying to find cursed objects to touch so I could have an adventure, and I found a ring like that and it dropped me in this time period about a year and a a half ago, I got killed by one of my best friends, was a ghost, haunted King Henry a bit, my friend helped resurrect me, then we got blackmailed into helping invade France, did that, got Wales semi-independence, now I'm doing this," I say, still eating.
"You—-let me get this straight—you—found a port-key, come back here get killed twice, and then, year and some later, you are just in a cave reading my clearly cursed scribbling just to do it?"
"I thought something fun might happen. It did! Look, I met you," I say.
"Can you excuse me for one moment please?" Oisin asks, standing up, smiling politely.
"Sure—?"
He goes over to the tree and starts banging his head against it and and whispering, "you are better than this" over and over to himself and also possibly "pull yourself together" and other things in ancient Irish. I don't know; it sounds like a private mental break down. I decide to rescue Oisin's half of the picnic from the dogs and let him give himself a nice little pep talk. I get it. People sometimes need breaks from talking to me. I know I talk a lot.
Oisin finally gets done, puts his hands through his hair, and comes back and sits down like like nothing was wrong.
"You okay?" I ask.
"This is me being fine."
"Okay. Question. Why'd you have the writing in the cave anyway?"
"It's instructions for druids to call upon me. It's supposed to be—clans of druids come wake me, my father woke me when you spoke it, and then I brought you to the mountain. My father was already awake, waiting for the horn," Oisin explains.
"Oh. Then why the devil did you two leave me decaying in the cave for a week?" I ask, "I'd have helped day one, your dad can see whatever, everything, he surely knows that about me? I'm always up for an adventure that's like my main personality trait and also how I got to be protagonist of this series."
"I know. We were arguing."
"For a week?" I ask.
"Yes. Does your father not argue with you?" he asks.
"I don't—really have a father. I was a foundling," I say, eating more cheese, "My mother left me someplace."
"My mother died," he says, quietly, "She—you know the poem I suppose—,"
"Not from you," I say, gently.
"She was killed. We were deers I didn't—I'd never met my father. Or been human before. His hounds found me, and he was going to kill me but they would not let him. He realized the truth and turned me back. I tell that story sometimes. Sometimes I lie and I say I met him when I was grown. I wasn't. I was small and I didn't know how to be human, I was scared of him for so long. That's why he called me his little deer, he said I still acted like one," he says, looking away as he twists grass between his fingers.
"I'm sorry," I say, "About your mother. My mother left me—like I said she left. And then she died. But people, just people found me. And some people took me in but they didn't really care about keeping me."
"My father is good to me. He taught me everything. How to hunt, how to shoot, everything, he and the Fianna raised me. When they went to sleep—he told me not to come. He said to go live my life. But I didn't want to. I wanted to be like him. Important. Save Ireland," he says, picking at the grass.
"You are important. There are more poems and tales about you, than your father," I say, gently.
"Stories don't mean anything, most of them aren't true," he shakes his head.
"Stories mean everything. Because when you don't have anything else you always have stories, it's tales of greatness, of bravery, of loyalty, that keep us alive, that give us hope when we have none," I say, fiercely.
"If you're strong enough to believe in them still," he says.
"I do. And so do you—you're the story teller, you have it in you. And so far I like you more than your dad, so there's that if you want my completely biased review. A week huh? Argued for a whole week? What about?" I ask.
"Oh, yes, about this. I took you from the cave, and I told him I could use you, a wizard, and your port key, and go and find the horn. He said no, you'd worked with King Henry, so he didn't trust you. And he didn't think I could handle it," he says.
"You're handling it just fine!"
"I haven't handled anything yet."
"Well, you will, you're trying, you're doing a fine job, we have plan."
"No, trust me, I have handled nothing," he glares at me specifically.
"Well, we have a plan; that's mean. What was the final decision of the argument?"
"He got his way, take your port-key and he keep you with him. I said we should let you go he said no, how did you get out anyway?" He asks.
"You actually," I hold up my right hand and show him the crosslet ring, "It's linked to Prince Harry, he can summon me when his life is danger which it was, because of you."
"Oh. Good. That's why you're still tied to the cavern, here, lean forward," he says.
"Okay, why?" I ask, crawling over.
He pushes me over, "Never trust someone you just met like that! Who raised you?"
"Wikipedia."
"I don't know what that means. Moving on," he holds out his hand. I take it to help me back up. "Rule number 1, don't just trust some wizard you just met who locked you in a cave that's very bad."
"Rule number one of what?" I ask.
"Realty? Life!? Not getting cursed again? Stop smiling and nodding and—never mind," he growls, placing a hand on my face. I feel a hot rush of magic so much my skull aches. Then I feel instantly better.
"What was that?" I ask, happily.
"I freed you of tying you to the cave so you no longer need to waste energy getting free," Oisin says.
"Oh. Nice, thank you!" I say.
"Your welcome, my father will have enough to talk to me about this little experience, one more thing won't matter," Oisin mutters.
"I mean, you're grown up, like I get he's in charge but it's your mission," I point out.
"I'm seventeen. That is not a man to him, not when he's hundred of years old now. And the first seven years he didn't even have me," Oisin says.
"That's—are you counting however many times you've been woken as a part of the Fianna?"
"Yes. Because it has not happened, we have not been called before. Twice we've woken but the horn was never sounded," Oisin explains, "I went to check on things but it was never dire enough. The people of Ireland, always handled it, with a little of my magic. Like now I should have been able to kill them. A few days, weeks maybe."
"Oh. Oh so this is a big deal. Oh, so no wonder he's raring to go fight Henry. I mean, that's justified I too have met Henry, whatever, this was good you want to return the dogs and find more food?" I ask, starting to wrap up my picnic things.
"No, I want to get going," Oisin says, helping me pack up, "We must get the horn back. And if you're right and King Henry is not the threat to Ireland, then we must find what is. As you say if we can stop it, between us we are powerful wizards, the Fianna need not be called."
"Okay, but I have to return these dogs," I say.
"We'll return the dogs later," Oisin says, "We're coming back here, eh?"
"Yes, we have to, Henry has the horn—someplace, don't worry I have a way of finding that it's called Prince Harry and he's very helpful," I say, quickly.
"Great," with no enthusiasm, "You want to learn how to reset this to wherever you want it to go?" He holds up his right hand with the iron ring on it.
"Yes! Please! That would simplify the plot so much," I say, eagerly.
"Come here," he takes it off, and tosses it in the air, blue light glows around both of us. Impulsively, he reaches out and takes my hand, and I let magic flow into him readily, echoing around the ring, my mind feels like it's draining. Everywhere I've ever been. Everywhere I've ever seen, flashing before my eyes. It's dizzying. Blue, electric light dances around us, forming a halo. It glows through Oisin's white hair as his eyes smolder deep blue.
He releases my hand and we both drop back to the ground. The ring falls back into his palm, "There, no more taking on and off. It's just a key. Nothing more."
"Fantastic, thank you, that does help a lot," I say.
"I don't know any of these places, just do it," he takes my right hand. His fingers are cold, almost unnaturally so, and magic jumps on his skin as he slides the iron ring onto my right middle finger. "Find the place in your mind, and we'll be there."