True points me in the right direction, then sways, almost toppling, before lowering his bulky form to sit on one of the large flat stones that have been placed around the gathering area for this purpose. “You’re hurt,” I say. “What is it? Show me.”
But True waves me away, gesturing, It’s nothing. I’m fine. Go.
It’s nearly dark, so I leave him with the others and head off into the woods. One of the beings has passed me a small lantern, and I am glad of its glow here, deep under the trees where finding a way is tricky even by daylight. Rowan won’t have a lamp; we usually make sure we are back from our patrols well before dusk. The moon won’t be visible for a while, and it is so dim that a person could get lost within a few strides of the path.
“Rowan!” I call. “Rowan, are you there?”
Nothing but the murmuring exchanges of birds settling for the night and the faint rustling of leaves. I walk on. From time to time I call. Why didn’t he and True come back together? This makes no sense to me. I dismiss several troubling possibilities and keep going, concentrating my thoughts on the task ahead as I learned to do on Swan Island, back in the time when I expected to spend my life as a warrior. But the bard will not be suppressed. In my mind a song starts to write itself. I won’t be singing this one for Eirne. It’s a piece about the Crow Folk and it’s full of darkness and confusion. The melody is based on the pattern the druids call yew mode, with halftones in awkward places, and the overall effect is unsettling. I make sure I don’t hum aloud. The song tells of a clan that has lost its way and is condemned forever to wander far from home; of folk cut adrift so harshly that they can no longer tell right from wrong, war from peace, cruelty from kindness. I plan to end it with two strangers laying this clan’s slain to rest with a prayer and beginning a path toward healing, but before I can form the final verses I hear Rowan’s voice.
“Brocc! Over here!”
He’s not far off, standing in the shadow of the trees, an awkward burden in his arms. Not one of the Crow Folk, surely, even shorn of its wings as True suggested; Rowan is holding a bundle of cloth, a small bundle, and whatever is in it is moving.
As I come closer I see that he has something on his back as well. It’s knotted into his short cloak, from which he has fashioned a makeshift sling. But it’s the thing in his arms that is bothering me most.
“What—?” I begin, but I fall silent when he draws back the cloth that covers the wriggling contents. I raise the lantern, and warm light illuminates Rowan’s exhausted face and the creature he has carried here. It’s one of them, one of the Crow Folk, it’s alive, and it’s only the size of a half-grown chicken. But it’s not a chicken, and it’s not a young crow. It has a look of wildness and desperation I know well. It has, in miniature, the lethal beak, the crazy eyes, the fearsome claws. It looks strong for its size; Rowan’s having trouble restraining it. Now that I’ve seen it, he wraps it up again, tightly, then passes it to me. I set the lantern on the ground and take it. It’s vibrating within the cloth, which I recognize as Rowan’s tunic; under the cloak he’s in shirt and trousers. “A young one?” I ask. “Where did you find it?”
“I found the two of them,” Rowan says, turning and crouching down so the light shines on the sling and its burden. What I see makes my gorge rise. The creature within the sling is dead, no doubt of that. Its wings have been hacked off crudely, and its body is marked with that sign. It has other wounds, to its eyes, to its skin, to its feet.
I murmur a curse. We thought the Crow Folk were evil; we thought their mindless acts of cruelty the worst danger Breifne faced. But this, surely, is a deeper evil. “Where?” I ask again as we turn toward home.
“Within this realm, but close to the border. The adult lying dead, maimed as you see. The small one crouched beside its body. When it saw us it shrieked defiance. I would have left it there. True said no, you would not want it abandoned. He was hurt trying to pick it up, but we gathered it and wrapped it. I told him to go back first and I would follow; True was in pain. He would have carried one or the other of them, but I ordered him to return without a load. He doesn’t tell you when he’s injured. It’s not in his nature.”
“He was right,” I say. “About my not wanting it left to die in the forest with the body of its parent. But what are we to do with it? You know what Eirne will say.”
Rowan glances sideways at me; the lantern he carries casts light on his bright-eyed fox’s face. “She is the queen, yes, and makes the decisions. But you are her husband, Brocc. You are our bard. You are our war leader.”
“Hardly.” I think of Swan Island, and how different it is from this place with its motley clan of assorted beings, a few of them capable of fighting, a couple of them able to strategize, and some of them with surprising magic at their disposal, but only Rowan—and perhaps True—worthy of the title warrior. War leader, me? I’m a floundering mixture of hope and disappointment and wild ideas, with a song or two thrown in.
“You must stand up to her,” Rowan says. “If she does not like one idea, give her another, and another.” We walk on in silence, then he adds, “With a new babe born to Gentle-Foot, perhaps the queen will be kindly disposed to this young one, enemy though it is.”
“And perhaps she will demand that I wring its neck. She feels our losses keenly. She feels responsible.”
“I will support you.” This statement, and what he said before it, shows me just how much Rowan has changed since I first met him less than a year ago. He was Eirne’s protector and champion. It seemed to me then that he would die for her; that may still be so. I thought he would always take her part. Back then he was slow to trust me. But my trust in him and True to share responsibility for the patrols, to make their own decisions, to play a real part in keeping the community safe, has wrought a change in his thinking. I wonder, now, how Eirne feels about that. She has never spoken of it, but she must see it.
“Thank you, Rowan.” I pause in my steps, moving my squirming cargo to a more secure position. “Perhaps I should leave you to return to the gathering place on your own. I could take this creature straight to Mistress Juniper. I think she would help without judgment.”
Rowan gives me a penetrating look. If he had eyebrows, he would lift them. “Imagine the ripples it would make if the creature harmed her. It’s strong and wild, even if it is an infant. Ripples that would soon reach King Faelan and the human court. Besides . . .”
“Besides, my wife would not be well pleased if I took myself out of the Otherworld without her permission, yes, I do know that. Even if Mistress Juniper’s house is within walking distance.”
“A very long walk. In the dark. Carrying that. And . . .”
“And what? Come, we’d better move on.”
“If anyone needs the attentions of Mistress Juniper, it’s True. He may seem as strong as stone, but he is not impervious. The creature’s claw marked him on the chest as he was lifting it, dead and cold as it was. I saw the wound swell and turn red quite quickly. If the queen will not let him go to the human world for help, then he must travel the Long Path.”
The first time I heard one of Eirne’s folk speak of the Long Path, I thought they meant the passage to death. The Fair Folk are long-lived; their span is far greater than that of humankind. But they are not immortal. Several of Eirne’s people have been killed by the Crow Folk, one of them during my time here. And she fears that their number will dwindle until the clan cannot survive. That is why Gentle-Foot’s child is so precious. It is why Eirne will not welcome this other child, the strange one I hold in my arms now. But I have learned that the Long Path is not what I thought. It leads to different realms and different clans, all within the Otherworld. I knew they must exist; what of my parents’ friend, the fey nobleman Conmael, who brought me to their door as a newborn? His clan is in the north of Dalriada, that is, in the Otherworld kingdom of those parts. My parents have known him since before I was born. But exactly
how that realm links up with Eirne’s, and with others across the isle of Erin, I don’t entirely understand, and the explanations the Fair Folk offer can be confusing. Eirne once spoke of her realm as beneath, above, beside, beyond the human world, and indeed, one step can take a person over that border. But a human man or woman can enter this world only through a portal, and generally those portals, whether they be hidden doorways or deep caves or mushroom circles, open or close at the will of the Fair Folk. As for those of us who live in the fey realm, even half humans like myself and Eirne are supposed to comply with certain rules. Those rules are designed to keep us safe, and I respect them. Mostly. Sometimes, though, I believe rules must be broken. Perhaps that is the influence of Swan Island.
“Rowan, does the Long Path lead to healers? Healers as expert as Mistress Juniper but of the Otherworld?”
“The Long Path leads many ways,” Rowan says. “Not all of them are easy. But yes, that is what I meant. True is a good soul; he would find help there.”
“But he couldn’t go alone, could he? What if he collapsed along the way? And how would he know where to go? Mistress Juniper is surely far closer.”
Below us, between the trees, I see the lanterns of the gathering place, and folk moving about. “Rowan?”
“Those are questions for the queen,” my companion says. “They’ll see us in a moment. Are you ready for this?”
“No,” I say, matching his honesty. “But I’ll do the best I can. Show them your burden first. Let them see how cruelly someone has treated the creature. Perhaps that will lessen the shock of what I’m carrying.”
“Perhaps,” says Rowan in a tone that tells me he doesn’t believe that any more than I do. Then we walk forward and enter the gathering place.
Rowan takes off the cloak, lays it on the ground, unfastens it to reveal the slain creature, wingless, mangled, marked with that strange symbol. He warns folk not to touch, tells them the claws can not only scratch but also poison, even when the being is dead. Eirne’s folk are torn between fascination and disgust. None seem especially interested in who inflicted the wounds or why. The Crow Folk are their enemy. Perhaps they think whoever hurts the Crow Folk must be their friend.
Eirne is here, with Nightshade. She glances at the sad corpse, then quickly away, as if she cannot bear to see the thing.
“Another act of deliberate cruelty,” I say. “This being did not die in a fair fight. It was not killed by someone defending their folk or their home. It’s been tortured. That is wrong. No matter what we think of the Crow Folk, it’s still wrong.”
“Brocc.” Eirne’s voice has a troubling note in it. “What are you carrying?”
My arms tighten around the bundle, which lets out a squawk of protest, and suddenly all eyes are on me. “What I bear is . . . a child, a young one, surely an innocent.” A pox on it, I sound as if I’m trying to convince myself that this was a good idea. It won’t do. I clear my throat and do my best to sound like a leader. “True and Rowan found it crouched by the body of its parent.” I nod in the direction of the wingless corpse, which still lies on the ground. Eirne’s folk have stepped back; the dead thing has an empty space all around it. “There were no others of its kind to be seen in that place. Left on its own, the young one would surely have perished from hunger, cold, or fear. So we brought it with us.” I loosen the cloth just enough for the being to poke its head out, probably not a good move since that head is all mad eyes and stabbing beak. That the beak is a very small one does not render it harmless.
“Why in the name of the gods would you bring one of them into the center of my realm?” Eirne is all queen now, commanding, furious. “Why would you show the vile creatures the least scrap of pity? How dare you risk our safety in this way!”
Her anger hurts me. It wounds me. But I will not sacrifice my conscience. I will not give up compassion, kindness, a knowledge of right and wrong. “If you wish,” I say, “I will take the small one to Mistress Juniper. Now, tonight. Let it have at least a chance of life. The child is not responsible for its parents’ ill deeds, whatever they may be, nor for the wrongdoing of its clan. Act on that and we show ourselves to be barbarians.” I am astonished by my own words; that sounded like something my sister would say.
“It is the Crow Folk that are barbaric,” Eirne says. The full chill of her disapproval is turned on me. Never mind that it was Rowan and True who decided to spare the young one. “We cannot harbor one of them here,” she goes on, “be it infant or adult or featherless ancient. How could this creature grow to become anything but vicious and wayward? Its eyes are venomous. Its beak is a weapon.”
Nightshade speaks. She is calmer; her words are measured. “Mistress Juniper would not thank you for such a burden. What is she to do, cage the creature for her own protection? Would you have her nurture it in her house until it grows to adulthood? Human folk come to visit her, Brocc. She is healer to the whole district. If you take this thing there, you place her at great risk.”
“Will not its clan believe it a captive there?” asks Nimble-Swift. “They might descend on the wisewoman’s house in an attempt to free it. You might find yourself responsible for Mistress Juniper’s death.”
It’s a good point, and so is Nightshade’s. I cannot bring myself to ask Eirne, or any of them, what they would have me do. I can guess what their answers would be, but I will not kill this small one and I will not abandon it. Perhaps there is one argument they will understand. “You say the Crow Folk might be angry, that they might seek out their lost one. That is one possibility, yes.” Gods, I hope I don’t have to stand here holding the thing all night while we argue the point. It needs to be somewhere warm and safe, with food and water. It’s still trying to get free, and I’m afraid it may hurt itself. “But if we take some other course, if we let the creature come to harm, might they not then seek retribution? What if this were your child, lost in the forest, and someone came along, and instead of looking after it, they walked away and left it? Or did something unspeakable?”
After that, there is silence. Even from Eirne. I can’t let this drag out any longer. What about True, sitting there so quietly while the Crow Folk’s poison sinks deeper into his body? “With your permission, Eirne, I will take this creature to my hut for the night. I will put it somewhere secure; perhaps Rowan will help me. If it survives the night, then in the morning we can decide what happens next.” Eirne still makes no comment, but Rowan nods and moves forward. “We’d best do that now.”
“Shut it in well.” Eirne’s tone is icy. “If ill comes from this, it is on your shoulders.”
“I need no reminder of that, my lady.” My voice is as cold and remote as hers. I hate myself for that; this is not the man I am. “I ask you, or Moon-Fleet, to look at True’s injury. It is serious. He needs expert attention, and quickly.”
True rumbles a response. “It’s nothing. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“The bard speaks the truth,” Rowan says. “Our friend here was wounded by the adult creature’s claw; there may be poison in his body.”
“We will do what must be done.” Nightshade sounds calm and capable, and I feel relief. I want to check True’s wounds myself; I am the son of a healer and I do remember some of the remedies my mother uses. But I cannot be in two places, so I offer my wife what I hope is a courteous half bow and head off for my hut, with Rowan following. As we walk, I wonder if I have so angered Eirne that she will cast me out of the Otherworld, husband or no. She spoke to me as if I were a stranger, and one she did not particularly like. Can the bond between us have unraveled so soon?
Rowan finds a sturdy wooden box. One-handed, I fetch a sack and some strong twine. I cannot set the creature down until I have a secure place for it. Rowan brings in a pile of leaves and grasses; he makes a nest in the box. He finds a small bowl, fills it from my water barrel, sets that in one corner. “What will you feed it?” he murmurs.
It is crow
-like. A crow parent might feed its young on worms, grubs, scraps of this and that. But we’re in the hut, and in the forest darkness is falling. The being squirms in my arms, fighting to get away. I wonder, for a moment, if it would be kinder to let it go.
There’s a tap at the door. On the step outside are two small beings, and each is carrying a lidded jar in its hands. “Worms,” says one. “Bugs,” says the other. “Baby will be hungry,” they say together.
Rowan thanks them and takes the offerings. As soon as the jars are in his hands, the small ones vanish into the night.
We work well as a team, Rowan and I, despite our differences. He lays the sack over the box and ties it to leave only a small space open, a gap big enough to admit a creature the size of a half-grown chicken. With only one candle lit, the hut is dim; Rowan has closed the door. I edge with ever-slower movements toward the box. Rowan holds back the sack. I slip the bundle in, my hands still firm around the shivering body.
“Now,” I murmur, and let the creature go, withdrawing my hands. Rowan whips the sack over the gap, and together we tie up the fastenings. Within the box there is fluttering, scratching, a flurry of sound and movement. We wait, eyeing each other, breathing hard. So far, so good.
When the box’s occupant has quieted, I use my knife to make a small hole in the sack. I open the worm jar and extract a fine wriggling specimen. I do not speak an apology to this healthy creature, not aloud, but I say it in my mind. When I make to drop it through the hole, using my fingers, Rowan puts out a hand to stop me.
“Wait,” he says, and fetches a pair of small sticks from the wood basket beside my little stove. “Here.”
He is wise. When I lower the worm, held between the sticks, the creature’s beak snaps up at lightning speed to grab it. I might have lost a finger. I feed the thing another worm, and a bug or two. It would eat everything the small folk brought, I think, but I don’t want to make it sick. I want it to rest. I set the jars aside for now. There’s squawking for a little, then silence. When I peer through the hole, taking care not to get too close, the thing is in a corner, nestled into the bedding, its head under its wing. I hope it will be warm enough. I’d best keep the stove going overnight.
A Dance with Fate Page 10
