Jack, the giant-killer by Charles De Lint Read Free Book Online

back under the vehemence in his voice. She remembered Finn saying something about being turned into a toad and her knees began to go weak.
    “I don’t know what I can do,” she said finally. “But at least… at least I’m willing to try.”
    The Gruagagh said nothing for a long time. He returned his gaze to the park, frowning.
    “That’s true,” he said. “And one should never ignore aid when it’s offered, even by such a—” He looked her up and down, “—such a tatterdemalion.”
    “I didn’t know this was supposed to be a fashion pageant,” Jacky began, then put her knuckles to her mouth.
    She hadn’t meant to come out with that. She flinched as the Gruagagh lifted his arm, but he only patted the window-seat.
    “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “That’s twice I’ve spoken out of turn, and twice I’ve deserved a reprimand. What do they call you?” he added as Jacky cautiously made her way to the windowseat.
    She sat as far from him as the seat would allow.
    “Jacky,” she said. “Jacky Rowan.”
    The Gruagagh nodded. “I see now,” he said.
    “What? What do you see?”
    “Why you’ve come, for one thing. You’ve a lucky name and are kin as well.”
    “What’s your name?” she asked, then corrected herself. “I mean, what’s your speaking name? Or does everyone just call you the Gruagagh?”
    “No one speaks to me at all,” he said. “Except for the night. And it whispers with the voices of the sluagh. But my friends, when I had them, called me Bhruic Dearg.”
    Jacky nodded. “Is Bhruic your clan name?” She pronounced it “Vrooick,” trying to approximate the way he’d said it.
    “You’ve been talking to hobs,” he said. “No. My clan is that of Kinrowan, the same as the Laird, though he’s not so likely to own to that as he once was. Bhruic Dearg is my bardic name—Dearg for the rowan’s red berries. I was a bard before I was a gruagagh—but that was long ago now, too.”
    “What… what should I call you?” she asked.
    “Bhruic, if you wish.”
    “All right.” She tried a small smile but the Gruagagh merely studied her.
    “How did you mean to help us?” he asked finally. Jacky’s smile died. “It’s…” She paused and began again. “Finn told me about… about the Laird’s daughter…” She glanced at him, saw his eyes darken with shadows. She went on quickly. “I thought if we could retrieve the Horn—the Wild Hunt’s Horn—we could use them to find her and then, then we could rescue her… if…”
    “If she lives.” The Gruagagh finished the sentence where Jacky didn’t quite dare.
    “Oh, I’m sure she’s okay,” Jacky said. “She’s got to be.”
    “There,” the Gruagagh said, “speaks one who doesn’t know the Unseelie Court as we do.”
    “But if she is alive…”
    The Gruagagh sighed. “Even if she is alive, she might be changed…”
    “What do you mean?”
    “When the Host catch one of the Laird’s folk… if they don’t kill them outright, they change them. They diminish their light… their goodness… and make them over into their own kind.”
    “Then we’ve got to try and do something!”
    Jacky wasn’t sure why she was so caught up with the fate of the Laird’s daughter. She just knew it was important. Not just to the Laird’s folk, but for herself as well. It held… meaning.
    “Do you know where the Horn is?” she asked. The Gruagagh nodded. “It will be in Gyre the Elder’s Keep.”
    “Where’s that?”
    “I’ll show you.”
    He tugged a fat leather shoulder bag from under the windowseat and took out a roll of parchment that he laid out between them. A startled “Oh” escaped Jacky as she bent over it. The map was of Ottawa, but all the names were changed. Parliament Hill was the Laird’s Manor and Court. The Market area was the Easting Fair. The Glebe became Cockle Tom’s Garve.
    “This shows Kinrowan,” the Gruagagh said.
    “Kinrowan proper—the Laird’s Seat. And this is the countryside,