By Elizabeth Bear
She is called Seeker. Spellbound via the Faerie Queen, she has kidnapped human childrens for her mistress’s excitement for what sounds like an eternity, not able to unfastened herself from servitude and reclaim her personal humanity. Seeker’s newest prey is a Merlin. Named after the mythical wizard of Camelot, Merlins should not easily those that wield magic––they are magic. Now, with the Prometheus Club’s brokers and competitors from Faerie either vying for the desire of this being of unlimited magic to tip the stability of strength, Seeker needs to convince the Merlin to affix her cause—or else possibility wasting whatever much more worthy and extra very important to her than the destiny of humankind.…
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Additional resources for Blood and Iron: A Novel of the Promethean Age
I just . ” Her eyes changed, away from the music— dark as moss-covered stones, now, and as prosaic. “Sometimes I look at somebody, and I know what they need to hear. Sometimes I find a song, and it seems to mean something, and I sing it. And things happen. People react. ” “I felt you reading me tonight,” Seeker said after a pause. She nodded. “Sometimes I just know,” she said. Seeker’s eye was drawn to the sway of a knotty lump of blue-and-gold glass that finished one escaped braid. It clicked on the edge of the Formica tabletop, and the Merlin tossed it absently behind her shoulder.
Quarters were so tight the keyboardist was crammed half behind the drummer in the corner; two guitarists and a bass player paced the dime-sized space between their amps, taping and tie-wrapping cords. Seeker stepped forward, leaning over the partition between support pillars and pretending to watch the musicians. The bassist caught her eye: a rugged-looking blond, neat beard redder, with broad shoulders and nimble hands. It could be one of the musicians. The lead guitarist was too old, she guessed—a stocky round-cheeked black man in his fifties—and so was the rhythm guitar.
Her eyes were even more bottomless up close. “Excuse me,” Seeker said. ” Her accent wasn’t island at all. Pure mainland, and educated. Local. Seeker focused on the smaller woman’s eyes and put all her sincerity and power into her words. “I’m the Seeker of the Daoine Sidhe. ” The woman blinked. Her mouth fell open, and if she shaped words, no sound came out. Lost her. Too much, too fast. It had been a gamble, and an easier path than stalking her like a fish to be tickled from the stream. Seeker swallowed on a dry mouth.
Blood and Iron: A Novel of the Promethean Age by Elizabeth Bear