Page 31 of Made (Not Too Late #9)

CHAPTER ELEVEN Bird Watch

Vidar’s connections formed a network that reached far and wide across dimensions.

Since he needn’t rely solely on informants of the two-legged variety, he knew he wouldn’t have much trouble learning Niall’s whereabouts.

He bided his time, knowing that soon after his return to Eire, Niall would seek out a “public” place to cause mischief.

Maybe even in the human dimension. Gods forbid.

Because, to the shame of his family, the prince could certainly wreak a memorable havoc when he chose.

The storied brothers of Scotia had sent him back to Eire, probably thinking Niall was a better kid.

They were wrong. But the task they’d been assigned was to keep him for a year and try to cuff some sense into him, not to evaluate the results.

It hadn’t been difficult. There was little Niall could do to upset either the brothers or their lifestyle.

If he annoyed them or stepped out of line, they’d amuse themselves with various bizarre punishments.

Sometimes, punishment took the form of ridicule.

For many young men, that might be the worst form of discipline.

But Niall didn’t really care if he was sent to face a corner like a child, or forced to dance a tabletop jig in a skirt, or wait tables like a barmaid while having his butt pinched by thick fingers.

The younger Irish prince simply wanted his way and didn’t mind being laughed at so long as he attained whatever goal was presently in his sights.

Any and all nuisances blocking the path to his target were seen as inconveniences and not as deterrents.

Had his desires been for things or attributes that were desirable, his commitment and persistence would even be thought admirable.

With a thought, Vidar dressed himself in a costume of traditional thick woolens so as to blend in and appear at home in the Eire countryside.

While Irish fae tend to prefer colorful clothing soaked in dye long enough to absorb maximum hue, he wore a muted salmon color tunic with tan leggings and roughout boots.

Though he was never cold, he wore a vest over the tunic because it was thought farm-fashionable at the time.

The weather in mid-Winter mimicked that of Ireland in the human dimension, warmed by surrounding ocean currents, on a latitude south of Scandinavia, one such as he might even call the December temps balmy.

Though Vidar was demigod of the Northern hunt, he could communicate with any species, anywhere, in any dimension.

It was a very handy talent. He arrived on a hillside near the royal seat, knowing ahead of time what he was after.

A murder of crows. As everyone knows, when you want information, ask a crow.

Birds are, without question, the best of spies.

He’d walked for less than a quarter hour before finding a few crows perched in a leafless oak.

Having first looked around to make sure no one overheard his conversation, he said, “Which of you is known for gossip?”

At first, the crows cawed at him and each other. After all, they weren’t invited to converse every day, but the sound quickly resolved to a speech that only he could understand.

“Aye. ‘Twould be meself,” said a crow sitting on one of the lower branches.

“Do you know of a fae prince named Niall?”

The crow hopped to an even lower branch so as to get a better look at the questioner. He angled his head to the side and jerked his neck, first this way, then that.

“Aye. I know ‘im. Though there’s not a whit to care for ‘im if ye ask me.”

“I am asking you. What’s your name?”

“Carnigal. ’Tis Carnigal.”

“Hmmm. A good name.” The bird preened, clearly pleased by the compliment. “The lad has a reputation for being mean-spirited. Nonetheless, I need a location. Might you know where I’d be likely to find him on this fine winter’s night?”

“Ah.” The bird sniggered, which sound would probably be disconcerting to anyone but Vidar. “He likes his drink, he does. Skulks about taverns where peoples sing ugly songs with ugly voices.”

“So, you’re an educated bird.” Vidar smiled. “Skulks is a fine word. Likes to sing, does he?”

Carnigal ruffled his feathers. “Nay. Nay. The prince sits alone by the fire and watches. He chooses the taverns that are also inns because he does no’ care for sleepin’ in the castle that is his home.”

Vidar nodded, considering the implications of that. “Which taverns?”

“What reward will ye offer for me trouble then?”

“I’ll not leave you bald, without a fine feather coat, and unable to fly.”

At that, the bird hopped three inches and cawed angrily, feathers standing straight up. “No need to be unkind to Carnigal. No need. No need.”

Vidar laughed. “I’ll not be unkind, Carnigal. But I do require respect. What would you like in exchange for the information I seek?”

The bird again angled his head and looked Vidar over in jerky movements, seemingly thinking about it. Finally, he said, “I want to be king of birds.”

At that, the crows still perched in the oak, observers of the dialogue, set up a cacophonous objection.

Vidar heard a few other species in nearby trees join the ruckus. He held up his hand to stop the noise that would be discordant to all but crows and said, “I’ll not be making you king of birds, Carnigal. But I will make one of your chicks king. A lifetime appointment.”

If a bird could smile, Carnigal would’ve shown Vidar his pleasure visibly. Instead, he briefly bowed and said, “Acceptable. Carnigal thanks His Grace. O’Malley’s in Canshee, Fare Thee Well in Ballyntubber, and The Knight’s Goose in Foulkesmill.”

Though he didn’t show it, Vidar was impressed with the bird’s memory and made a mental note to use him as a potential resource.

“Very good.”

At that, Vidar intended to be off to hopefully find Niall on a stool or bench or chair close to a fire in a tavern where music is supplied by the raised voices of ale drinkers, but he was stopped by Carnigal.

“You’ll no’ be forgettin’ yer promise, will ye?

” asked the crow. It was audacity of the inappropriate and perhaps insulting variety, without regard for Vidar’s warning.

But what does one expect from a crow? The way Vidar turned his head toward Carnigal made the bird wish he’d kept his beak shut.

“Never ye mind. No mind. No matter. Carnigal is aloft.” Without another sound, he took flight.

Smart bird , thought Vidar. What would it be? O’Malley’s, Fare Thee Well, or The Knight’s Goose? Which to try first? He liked the sound of Knight’s Goose. Irish royalty hadn’t knighted citizens for a thousand years, but some were still infatuated with the idea.

In a cloak of invisibility, Vidar leaned against a wall across from The Knight’s Goose and watched patrons come and go.

He’d checked to see if Niall was there when he’d first arrived and confirmed the prince was nowhere to be seen.

After a decent wait, he decided to proceed to O’Malley’s and whiled away an hour watching without success.

It’s been said you’re likely to find what you’re after in the last place you look. It’s a statement full of both wisdom and silliness, both of which can sometimes live together happily.

A brief foray inside Fare Thee Well found Niall sitting alone on a bench at a small round table made for two people facing each other. As Carnigal had said, the lad was studying the goings on like he was doing field research on tavern-goers.

Vidar collected a large mug of ale from the bar and casually made his way past rowdies toward the back wall where a healthy fire cast moving shadows on people and things close by.

“This seat taken?” he asked Niall.

After giving him a critical look laced with something that might’ve been confusion, or perhaps irritation, Niall shook his head wordlessly.

As demigod of the north, Vidar was a hunter at heart.

And there’s one thing at which all hunters must excel.

Patience. It’s even more important than precise targeting.

More than once, it had proven to be a great advantage.

It helped to win Ilmr. It would also help to gain Niall’s confidence.

So, rather than attempting to initiate conversation right away, Vidar sat, sipped his ale, and joined in with a couple of drinking songs topped off with raucous laughter.

Finally, after an hour and three rounds, Vidar looked at Niall. “You seem familiar to me.” Niall nodded. “Your looks favor the royal family.” Niall said nothing and gave away nothing. “Ah! I know! You’re the prince. The… younger prince?”

Niall turned face and body toward Vidar. “Keep your voice down. I’m not fond of being recognized.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because, when people figure out who I am, they always want something.” Vidar shrugged. “What is it you want? Let’s get it over with. Name the thing. I’ll say no, and you can be on your way.”

Vidar laughed softly. “It’s your lucky night, young prince. I have a surprise in store.”

Niall blinked rapidly then showed a flicker of interest. “Well, what is it? I warn you. I’m not fond of the unexpected.”

Vidar smiled. “That’s unexpected.” Niall couldn’t help a tiny smile from forming at Vidar’s clever play on words. “I’m out this dark night for a bit of song and company. I want nothing more.”

The prince did look surprised. “Truth? Or ploy?”

“Truth,” Vidar lied. “I’m Vidar. And I’m the sort who can get what I want on my own.”

Niall nodded. “Niall,” he said before downing the last large gulp of grainy red ale.

He looked at the sediment left at the bottom of his mug.

“If you’re seekin’ nothin’ from me, that is a surprise.

” Niall held his mug aloft, a signal for one of the barmaids to scurry over with a refill.

“Quite novel actually. ‘Tis why, if you’ll forgive me, I’m findin’ it hard to believe. ”

“Nonetheless. It’s still true,” he lied again.