by Tom Deitz
David paused a moment, his resolve weakening, but then squared his shoulders and picked up the small sleeping form, not bothering to bring the blanket that wrapped it. The changeling moaned and stretched. David was surprised by how light it had become; it had visibly lost weight in the few days it had been in this world, and its face looked shrunken—both its real face and the ghost face it wore when David’s eyes tingled. David backed out of the room with the changeling in his arms.
“Davy!” cried Liz. “No!”
“If you don’t want to watch, Liz, then don’t. Maybe you should stay with Uncle Dale till this is over.” He nodded toward his uncle’s room. “Unless you’d like a look over my shoulder, just for proof. This is not my brother. Let me repeat that: not my brother.”
“No, thanks,” she whispered fearfully as she drew away. “But I’m not going to hide in the dark. You can do whatever you think you have to. But remember that I’m gonna be there watching. And if it looks like you’re gonna do anything . . . permanent, well, we’ll see about that.”
David did not reply, but he stared at Liz for a long moment before heading back to the kitchen.
Alec moved aside nervously when his friend strode over to one of the drawers and pulled out a long-bladed butcher knife.
“You two can watch or not,” said David. “Either way, I’ll be alone and responsible—”
“Actually, I think this makes us accessories,” Alec interrupted.
David ignored him and went on. “If anything happens, just remember: iron and ash.”
“Will I be able to see anything?” Alec ventured.
“I dunno. Try is all I can say. Maybe some ghost of Sight will linger for you.”
“I’ll try, Davy.”
David opened the back door, shouldered the screen open without looking out, and stepped onto the porch. The banshee stood a scant two strides from the bottom steps. Her mouth was open, her lips pulled back from her gums showing uncannily white teeth. A low, low moan issued from her throat. It set David’s bones to vibrating. For the first time he got a good look at her.
Although the banshee stood in the yard and he on the porch three feet higher, their eyes seemed nearly level with each other. She was tall—inhumanly tall, but then she wasn’t human—and dressed in long white robes with flowing sleeves that trailed away to vapor at the edges. Her arms were raised at her sides, and she twitched them slowly to a kind of unheard rhythm, the fingers long and pale, and very, very thin. Her hair, too, was white; unbound, it flowed free in the night air, no strand quite touching any other, and it fell to below her waist. And when David finally dared look fully upon her face, it seemed close kin to a skull, though some semblance of its former beauty clung yet about it. The skin was nearly transparent, and David could see dark shadows under the cheekbones, and dark hollows where the eyes were—eyes that burned round and red like living flame. Those eyes had nothing of beauty about them. Only of hatred: hatred of life.
David straightened his shoulders, shifted the changeling so that it was cradled awkwardly in the crook of his left arm. Slowly he eased himself down to a wary crouch, but his gaze never left the face of the banshee. He freed his right hand and took a new and firmer grip on the knife.
“Greetings, banshee,” he said tentatively, suddenly realizing he had no idea how to properly greet such a being, and feeling rather foolish the moment the words escaped him. His eyes burned so much with the Sight that he felt they might take fire in his head; he could feel tears forming in them.
The banshee remained where she was, but her gaze shifted down to meet his, the movements jerky, uncertain, like a lizard’s. For a moment it seemed to David that the flesh fell away from her face and he truly looked upon an empty skull with burning eyes.
“Greetings, Banshee of the Sullivans, I say,” he continued, swallowing hard. “Looks like you’ve had a long journey tonight—but it’ll do you no good, I’m afraid. I can’t let you have what you came for.”
The wailing of the banshee faltered. She looked—there was no other word for it—puzzled.
David coughed nervously, and carefully laid the changeling before him on the porch floor. “I have a child here, a Faery child. I don’t know if he has a soul or not, but I guess I’ll have to find out very shortly, unless some things change real fast. I have no doubt that this knife—this iron knife—will have some effect.” He raised his voice and looked up, his gaze searching the darkness beyond the banshee. “You hear me? I’m going to kill the changeling. The Sidhe took my brother; I claim this life for myself!” He raised the blade.
The banshee took a tentative step forward and extended its arms; its fingers caressed the air.
David jerked the knife toward it in a warning gesture; his eyes flashed. “Back off! I may try to kill the dead before this is over.”
He glanced down at the changeling. Its eyes were open, blue on green, but the green predominated now—and by some trick they reflected a hint of the red gleam from those other eyes.
“I’m not kidding, banshee! Go back to Ireland, and leave Dale Sullivan in peace. I don’t want to hurt this . . . whatever it is. Really I don’t. But I will if I have to, because I know my uncle is real, half alive though he is, and I know he doesn’t deserve what you people have done to him.” David suddenly realized he was not addressing the banshee so much as an unseen host he imagined in the darkness.
The banshee took another step; the hem of her robe touched the bottom step.
David raised the knife higher.
“Stop!” came a voice from the shadows by the barn.
David’s head jerked up sharply.
The banshee, too, turned; its wild hair flowed like water about its shoulders. The keening had quieted to a low, thin hiss, like the wind between skeletal teeth.
A woman stepped into the light before the door: A beautiful, pale-skinned woman clothed in deep blue-gray—a black-haired woman of the Sidhe.
“Who are you talking to?” David asked sharply. “Me, or the banshee of the Sullivans?”
“I speak to you both,” the woman said. And he could see that rage wrapped her like a cloud, but he was unsure of its focus.
She stepped closer even as the banshee stepped back to regard her. They faced each other across the backyard, ten feet apart. David picked up the changeling and walked to the top of the steps.
“Do not harm my child!” the woman cried angrily as she turned her head slightly to face the banshee. She extended a pointed finger. “Banshee, begone! I would speak privately with this one.”
The towering figure did not move.
David laughed in spite of himself. “Seems like she won’t listen to you, either,” he said. “But I’m still not satisfied. Is this your child, woman?”
The Faery woman looked David up and down contemptuously. “It is.”
“What am I doing with it, then?”
“Ailill stole him from me.”
“But you let him be stolen. You haven’t tried to get him back. The child is sick, woman; he’s probably going to die anyway. I’m just going to help him along, a little.”
“Not by iron! Not wielded by mortal hand!”
David shrugged deliberately. “Talk to the banshee, then.”
The woman turned her head a bare fraction. “The banshee does not concern me. All I desire is my child’s safety.”
“Well, why don’t you just take him, then?” David said carefully. “All you have to do is help me first.” He knelt and gently laid the changeling lengthwise before him—and then set the flat of the knife against its throat. It did not flinch. David was scared as hell.
The Faery woman stepped forward and stretched her hands toward the still form, brushing her fingertips across its face—then jerked them back abruptly to hold them clenched at her sides. “I may not!” she cried. “And not because of that flimsy bit of iron, either. I touched my child with Power to learn what manner of binding was laid upon him—and bitter indeed was that learning. It is as I feared: A
ilill has bound him to the substance of this World with a magic that is beyond my Power to break—probably beyond any Power but his own.”
“I don’t believe you,” David said, forcing his voice to remain calm.
The woman glared at him. “Believe it, mortal. I would not lie about such a thing as this, not with iron pricking at my little one’s throat. I have not the Power to set his proper shape again upon him, nor to restore a mind that has already been broken once by the switching of Worlds. Were I now to take him back to Faerie, ensorcelled as he is, it would quickly bring upon him a madness in which he would have to dwell through all eternity. That I dare not risk.”
David shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure you can. He may die anyway.”
“I cannot take the child,” the woman repeated coldly. “And you would be a fool to harm him, for then you would have made yet another enemy in Faerie, which I do not think you need.”
“That’s true,” David agreed. “But what about Uncle Dale? Surely you could cure him.”
The woman shook her head. “Ailill’s influence is at work there, as well. I would be foolish to try, even if it were not forbidden.”
“Forbidden?”
“Lugh has exiled Ailill and . . .”
David’s breath caught in his throat. “Exiled?”
The Faery’s face hardened. “Exiled. He leaves tonight. Lugh no longer cares what damage the Windy One has done in your World, he only wants him out of Tir-Nan-Og. Meanwhile, he has forbidden the rest of us to interfere more with mortals. He feels too much has passed between the Worlds already. I court his wrath simply by coming here.”
“But aren’t you interfering now, just by talking to me?”
“I fear for the life of my child, more than I fear my king.”
“So what difference would it make, then, if you were to interfere again?”
“Talk is one thing, action is another. The first Lugh might forgive, the second he would not. I play a game as dangerous as the one you play, and for higher stakes. Do not forget that.”
David nodded grimly.
The woman said nothing at all.
He took a deep breath. “Well, then,” he said thoughtfully. “If you can talk but not act, tell me two things, and I’ll promise you not to harm the changeling.”
“Ask. But I warn you, I may not be able to answer. Ailill’s Power is involved here, and I truly do not know its limits.”
“How may I drive off this”—he gestured at the banshee—“thing?”
The Faery woman cast a scornful glance at the apparition. “I can banish the spirit for a time, but she will return if your kinsman does not recover. She is bound to do that.”
“Unless Uncle Dale is healed?”
The woman nodded. “It is as I have said.”
“You’re certain you can’t heal him?”
Again a nod.
“And there’s nothing I can do?”
“Nothing.”
David considered this for a moment.
“You had another question?” the woman snapped impatiently.
“Is there no way I can get my brother back?”
“No way that would do you any good. . . . Fool of a mortal, do
you not think that I would tell you, if it were anything you could possibly achieve? Ailill’s quarrel with Nuada and Lugh is none of my doing. I hold no ill will toward you and your kin. I want only my child’s safety. I . . .”
“Wait a minute!” David interrupted suddenly. “Did you just say you would tell me if it was anything I could achieve? Does that mean there is something that can be done?”
The woman grimaced—a strange expression on her inhumanly beautiful face. “No . . . it is impossible. The changeling now wears the substance of your world as well as the form, and even so does your brother wear the substance of Faerie. Only by bringing them face to face in the bodies they now wear might they return to their proper Worlds.”
“Damn,” David swore. “So all you have to do is get the real Little Billy back from Ailill—or take this one to him? Seems like you could do that. Why haven’t you?”
“Do you think that if it were that simple I would not have done so?” the woman flared. “I told you. For one thing, my child would soon go mad if I returned him to Faery and did not effect the change very quickly. For another thing, I respect the law of my king. For a third, finding your true brother is no simple thing. Ailill has hidden him so that I cannot find him—perhaps in some secret place, perhaps in a form not his own. He could be wearing your brother as a ring upon his hand, for all I know.”
“I’d know,” said David.
“Ha!” the woman exclaimed scornfully. “If I cannot find him, do you think you could?”
“I could try. I’m supposed to be protected, after all.”
“It is impossible, I say. The way to Faerie is closed to you.”
David’s brow creased thoughtfully. “Is there no other way? Couldn’t Lugh grant me a boon or something? Couldn’t I go to the Straight Track and ask him?”
“You might stand there a thousand years and get no answer. Lugh is angry, as angry as I have ever seen him, because of the contention that has been caused in his realm because of you. What you desire might possibly be within his power, but he will not listen to you. He will not listen to mortal men at all.”
“Nobody?”
“Among mortals Lugh will only listen to heroes. To them only will he grant boons.”
“So I need to become a hero, is that it?” David said sarcastically. “Well, that sounds simple enough.”
Fire flashed angrily in the woman’s eyes. “Say no such things in ignorance, boy. There is a Trial of Heroes, but it has been a very great while since a mortal man has risked it. Still, if you would undertake it, you must act tonight, before Ailill leaves Lugh’s realm, and with him the knowledge you seek.”
“We both seek, you mean.”
“You have no time for talk, mortal lad,” the woman broke in sharply. “There is a chance—a bare chance—you might succeed, and thus fulfill both our desires. But if it is your intention to dare the Trial of Heroes, you must act now. I myself will relay the word to those in Faerie, for the Trial is a thing ancient and sacred, and even Lugh must abide by it. Half of one hour I will give you to decide, and then I must be gone. If you truly would assay the Trial, tell me, and I will set the Rite in motion.”
David took a deep breath. “But how will I know what to do? What kind of trial are we talking about? I mean, I’m not a hero, I’m not even an adult. If I thought it was something I could do, I’d do it, just to have an end to all this—this Faery stuff.”
“The Trial consists of three parts,” the woman said. “A Trial of Knowledge, a Trial of Courage, and a Trial of Strength. No more than this may I say. Little more than this do I know.”
“But . . .”
“Time passes quickly, boy, and death hovers near—or have you forgotten? I await your decision.” The Faery woman drew herself up to her full height and folded her arms.
They both faced the banshee then. She had dwindled to a mere patch of pale light, not unlike a spot of moonlight.
The Faery woman said something in a tongue David did not expect to understand, and the glimmer winked out.
“She has made a long trip in vain,” the woman observed.
“I hope she doesn’t have to do it again,” David replied, as he withdrew the knife from the changeling’s throat and slipped it carefully into his belt. He picked up the limp form and cast one last look toward where the Faery woman had stood, but she too was gone.
He turned back into the house then, leaning for a long, breathless moment against the doorjamb, realizing suddenly that he had a serious decision to make—the most serious in his life, for two lives hinged directly on it—and little time to make it in.
Alec raised an inquiring eyebrow as David reentered the kitchen.
David glanced around the room in confusion. “Where’s Liz?” he panted breathlessly, as he
handed the changeling to his friend and laid the knife on the kitchen table.
Alec inclined his head toward the hall. “Soon as the light vanished, she went to check on Uncle Dale.” He paused. “How’d it go?”
“I have a reprieve . . . I think. “
Alec gaped incredulously. “You mean you really accomplished something with that stunt?”
“The changeling’s mother came; we reached . . . an accommodation . . . didn’t you see?” David added sadly.
Alec shook his head. “Not much. But what do you mean by ‘an accommodation’? Do you mean you may have a solution?”
David nodded slowly. “I think so, but it’s not over yet. I have a decision to make—fast—and I have to see Uncle Dale.”
He met Liz coming out of Uncle Dale’s room. “Uncle Dale seems to be getting a little better,” she said. “Is the . . . she . . . you know, gone?”
“Until she comes back—which, I hope, will not be for a long, long time. Now come on, I have work to do. I have to go look in on Uncle Dale one last time . . . and then I have to go out to the Straight Track.”
“The Straight Track . . .?”
David flashed them a guarded glance. “I don’t have much time, folks, I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”
“You know, I never did get a chance to read Uncle Dale,” mused Liz as they quietly opened the door into the old man’s room. He was sitting propped up in bed where Liz had left him, and though his eyes were closed, a sort of vague agitation about him told David he wasn’t sleeping.
“Uncle Dale,” he called softly. “Uncle Dale . . . Liz, turn on that little light over there.” He motioned to a night stand. “Uncle Dale, can you hear me?”
The old man opened his left eye and tried to speak, but the words were slurred, indistinguishable.
