by Rex Sumner
With studied deliberation, Susan used her knife to smear the cream on a piece of flatbread, broken from the side, and chewed with delicate precision as if she were taking tea and scones with her ladies at court.
“Meet him? He was a count, he hated me and he died.”
“You think it was Abean?” Arthur asked Oona, ignoring her, biting into a strip of dried meat and tearing off a sliver.
“He is always wandering through the lands of men, searching for the next song,” said Oona. “Twenty years ago he wandered there, for several years.”
“Is he a singer?” Susan recalled a strong red-haired man, throwing an infant Susan high in the air while singing a song in a strange language.
“He says he is,” said Oona, “always trying something new, not happy with the songs of old.”
“So I am part Tuatha De Danann? I need to learn more; my children need to know of their heritage.”
Oona leaned over, to rest a sympathetic hand on her wrist. “The offspring of an elf and a Tuatha De Danann is rare enough, with a human is unprecedented. Your father must have loved your mother very much, for he needed much magic to create you. Magic you do not have, my dear.”
The words sank in, and Susan placed a stricken hand on her stomach, on her womb.
“I am sorry, my dear, but you are a mule, a child of two races and barren.”
Expected the words may be, but the world still spun as Susan sat still, hand paused in the air. No wonder she never created a child with Ricky or King Richard, despite the potions and exercises. She closed her eyes, and unbidden tears pushed against her lids, fighting for daylight to trail down her cheeks in a steady stream. Fionuir put aside her own troubles and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her head down to her shoulder while Susan expended her grief in racking sobs.
The sobs subsided to tremors, and Susan raised her head, blowing her nose on a dock leaf. “I’m sorry,” she said, “don’t know what came over me. So I will never bear a child. Good thing I didn’t marry the king after all.” A tremor marred her voice, betraying the wan smile. “And my father waits for me where we are going, inside the sidhe? What is a sidhe?”
“A sidhe is an entrance,” said Arthur in his deep gruff tones, as he plied cream to a flatbread. “We shall pass through to the Other Lands, where the Tuatha de Danann dwell. Abean could be anywhere, I haven’t seen him in two, three years.”
“Why do you want us? Me? Why do you take us to these Other Lands?”
“We always seek priestesses to pass knowledge of Danu on to those in the surface world, and Fionuir will receive the training. You are called, for a higher purpose, Danu told us to fetch you.”
“Danu? She is your god?”
“We are the Tuatha Da Danann, the children of Danu. I do not think of Danu as him or her, just as Danu and Danu wants you. Enough of this talk, have you finished your tea?”
Susan knocked back the last, throwing away the dregs, before rescuing her goblet as Arthur prepared to fill it up with nectar.
“Once was enough for me, I don’t want to go through that experience again.”
“This is no elven brew, but the real deal, the arcane drink of the Tuatha de Danann, brewed by Goibhniu himself, following the sacred recipe laid down by Danu. Drink it you will, and more, for we travel far and fast.”
With true reluctance, Susan sipped her drink, and found the flavour quite different, and warmth swept through her veins, bringing euphoria to her brain. Again, the colours of the forest, her companions and even the food changed, becoming more intense. She and Fionuir sat on the ground, while Oona and Arthur packed away lunch. Visions started to appear, and Susan watched entranced as a small pink rabbit flew round and round a young blue spruce before switching attention to her. As the rabbit arrived and hovered in front of her face, allowing her to see the nose wrinkling and the whiskers twitching, something cold nudged the back of her neck and the rabbit dissolved in a burst of multi-coloured stars.
Her elk nudged her again, getting down on her knees and Susan mounted, carefully placing her blanket for a saddle and remembering her staff just in time. She adjusted her sack, tucked her staff under her arm, admiring the cool green fur before Arthur fired into the air a sparkling comet of iridescent blue and silver, which all the elk followed, Fionuir letting out a whoop of joy. Susan let out an answering whoop which her elk took as instruction to fly, rising at a steep angle over the trees at the edge of the clearing, last in line.
Susan giggled, and moued in frustration when she couldn’t persuade her elk to loop the loop, though she would sway left and right, passing under Fionuir’s elk after which the two interchanged position, up and down, left and right, as if they were weaving an intricate braid. After brief moments, Arthur pitched down and alighted in front of a large turf covered hill, Susan pulling up beside him, staring in wonder.
The hill stretched perhaps three hundred paces wide, seeming to be a perfect circle, and in front of them ran a white cliff around the front, like a wall, the height of two men. From the top of the wall, the hill sloped at a gentle angle, covered in short turf dotted with wild flowers, heath orchids, heather, ragged robin and the startling red of poppies.
The white wall shone, smooth and translucent, hieroglyphics appearing under the skin. Moving closer, Susan found images along with the writing and found herself in the middle of a story. Entranced, she made her way sideways searching for the beginning before Oona called her.
She stood under a wide entrance with imposing pillars and ornate portico, which Susan had failed to notice. Skipping up to Oona, Susan accepted what she assumed to be a flatbread, but proved to be a honey cake. About to eat the cake, she raised her head and paused at the peculiar carving above the door. A small figure, bald with large eyes, big head and nose and a small body. She goggled, and her mouth dropped open as she realised the figure’s arms reached under her bent up legs and pulled open her own vulva, wide and gaping.
Oona smiled at Susan’s immediate blush, the blood transforming her face into incredulity. Never had she seen such an indelicate sight.
“Sheelagh na Gig,” she said. “She is a Grail Maiden, Guardian of the Goddess and the Entrance to the Otherworld. We pass through her womb to reach Elphame”
Fionuir dropped to her knees, eyes wide. “We pass through to Sacred Elf Home, the Kingdom of Heaven?”
Susan didn’t hear a reply, as she chewed the delicate crumbs of the cake, which dissolved on her tongue with a lingering sweetness and her vision imploded, leaving her with coloured swirls and shooting stars, changing colour by the moment. Oona took her hand and tugged, Susan following without resistance.
“Come, children, into the Sheelagh, we cross to the Otherworld. Your mortal eyes may not view the change and retain your sanity, so take my hands and stay strong as I lead you down the path.”
Cold touched them, as they moved from the sunshine and the little group moved through the darkness, lit by the visions moving across the tapestries of their minds. Susan could sense them walking a great circle, widdershins, and time stretched, space dilating around them. She staggered a fraction as the hard cold stone of the floor changed to soft moss or grass and sunlight warmed her skin. A hand pressed something into her mouth and she chewed again, another honey cake.
“Sleep, my children, sleep in Elphame, the Kingdom of Heaven.”
Stuarts
Jeremy sulked at the back of the column, consoled by Matt, who lapsed into uncharacteristic silence. Jeremy felt he deserved more accolades for killing the dangerous Spakka, while Asmara continued to express her fury at his failure to obey her command.
She rode at the head of the column, beside Lionel, the unwilling recipient of her slashing tongue. They had passed the village without stopping two hours before, the inhabitants staring from beside their hovels while the Lancers rode past, unmoved by the salutations the boys gave to the three girls in the village who might pas
s muster after a good wash. They moved at a good pace, a fast walk, which allowed them to converse on their horses, some of the Lancers sitting backwards.
Lionel shut out Asmara’s words as he watched a scout race towards him, while a new patrol cantered forward to replace the returning scouts. He nodded to the scout to acknowledge the all clear, and returned his attention to Asmara, who described the punishment she felt Jeremy deserved, settled upon after considering a multitude, most outside Lionel’s experience or knowledge.
“You don’t think impalement a little over the top,” he ventured with caution. “After all, this is the man who won the battle of the Hardenwall, knighted on the spot by your father.”
“He refused my direct order,” said the princess. “I can’t think why you seek to protect him. What route are we taking? This isn’t the way we came.”
“Straight down the trail, too fast for them to prepare an ambush. They will panic as we approach, run and hide and think to do something about us when we are well clear and gone.”
“Mmmmh. So we will pass through some villages, even towns?”
“I don’t know of any up here, if they have a name and I couldn’t be bothered to question any locals. We can’t go top speed, horses are tired and we don’t have enough spares. We won’t stop, and I’ll still have you back with your dad tomorrow.”
“I wonder… You know, I found out something about these people as we travelled. They are the same folk as those south of the border, just they don’t like paying taxes.”
Lionel snorted. “Who does? Main reason we haven’t followed the church in Fearaigh, they want us to tithe them five percent of our income. Five percent! Crazy. Bad enough your bloody salt tax and the ten percent produce tax.”
“As if you pay any tax! I haven’t seen any of these horses in the capital, you should have sent some yearlings up.”
“What would I pay tax for? My dad is paid by the crown and the courts. We’re not landowners or merchants. None of us are.”
“Well, anyway, I want to stop in the next town. In each town that we come to.”
“Oh, the Princess of Galicia would like to enjoy some afternoon tea, would she? Or to pass water in a chamber pot rather than behind a bush?”
“Idiot.” Asmara snapped the end of her reins at him, causing his horse to shy a trifle. “No, I want to talk to the people. I won’t have them fighting against the crown.”
“Like they’ll listen to you. These people are thieves, one and all. Filthy inbreds. They like fighting and want the border as an excuse.”
Asmara wavered between savaging Lionel for insulting her people or suggesting she couldn’t talk to them, when his words hit home and she fell silent, considering the options.
“Damn it, you’re right, they want a border so they can keep raiding. Well, I will just have to come up with an answer for that. And stop insulting them, they are my people too.”
“Did you not notice in that village? Outhouses and not a single bathroom. A stream nearby where they collect water. How do they wash? I’m pretty ripe after chasing after you, we haven’t washed in four days. Can still smell those villagers.”
“Different customs. Who wants to wash in freezing water? Galicians don’t bathe very often either, cover themselves in perfume instead. Anyway, we’re to stop in the next village.” She dug her heels in and cantered forward, ending the conversation. Lionel muttered under his breath.
Behind him, somebody started up a song, a trail song, where everyone joined in the chorus while individuals extemporised verses. Lionel considered the landscape, and decided this song was not rowdy enough to reach far, plus it set a good example for watchers. Warriors spoiling for a fight would not sing such a song. Asmara reined in and fell back to join the singers, laughing at the verses and bowing prettily to those lancers who made up a verse about her, though Ben received an out-stretched tongue for his effort.
A scout came at the gallop, causing the song to wind down.
“Boss, we’ve got a party coming down the trail, about two miles ahead of us. Twenty-five riders, give or take, on their little ponies, some girls riding behind their man, some loot but not much. Big man up front, looks like a clan lord. Big bear fur.”
“Boyos coming back from the war?” Lionel raised an eyebrow and the scout nodded. Lionel cast an eye across the ground in front. “Anywhere better ahead to meet them? That we can get to in time? Somewhere to hide the horses?”
“Not really, boss. All the same country, broken and few places you can risk a horse at the gallop except down the trail.”
His war leaders listened in, all arrived before the scout, and now waited for orders.
“Jez, you and your boys on foot in the trees. There’s a hollow behind the copse for your horses. Robbie, take most of the lads into the fold there, ready to go. One lad in that rock out of sight of the clansmen, ready to relay my signal. Matt, you choose ten to stay with us. Princess, let’s see how well you talk. If they’re your people, keep them sweet, otherwise we’ll take them.”
Asmara watched as the men dispersed, concentrating on Jeremy as he led his band from the hollow, shadows flitting through the trees. She waited beside Lionel in the centre of the trail, perhaps a hundred yards from a bend. A scout climbed a tree on the bend.
“I don’t understand, Lionel, how you and your men are so efficient. You are as good as Pathfinders. How can that be? You are city boys and cowboys, from a peaceful province, with no chance to get experience and most too young.”
Lionel smiled into his four-day old beard. “Who trained the Pathfinders?”
“Experience. You don’t have it.”
“You might not know it in Praesidium, but we have a bit of a problem in Fearaigh these last few years. No work. Too many people. Jez rode off when he was fourteen, came back the next year and took me and many of the others with him. We went to Coillearnacha and fought in the Elf war, helped them put down the rebellion. We’re elf trained, like the Pathfinders. Heard about your invasion up here and came to help.”
“I didn’t hear anything about an elven rebellion.”
“They didn’t advertise it. Nasty business. Two thirds of us died and a whole lot of elves. One of their oldest war leaders took me under his wing, trained me.”
“You were all fighting elves? But there are five hundred of you, and you said so many died? How did we not hear of fifteen hundred boys going off to fight elf wars? Impossible!”
“Oh, only a few hundred of us actually fought in those wars. We brought the other lads with us from Fearaigh, been training them as we go. The core of us were in the elf war.”
“Why are you the leader and not Jez?”
“I care. Can see the whole campaign. Jez is a warrior, an individual. The elves call Jeremy Crom Brionne. Means Beloved of Crom, or Disciple of Crom, something like that. Crom is their war god. We’re a team, work together. Hush now, they’re coming.” The scout in the tree waved, his hand flickering with a count.
A rag-tag band of brawny men on tiny horses came round the bend, pulling up after a few yards at the sight of a dozen great horses in the road, recognising the Lancers instantly. For a moment they appeared to want to cut and run, the horses milling around and men shouting at each other, one of the girls screaming. But they quieted at the lack of movement from the Lancers, and the large man pushed his horse forward a trifle.
“Who’re ye and whaddya want?” He bellowed, his accent crucifying the Harrhein.
Lionel nudged Asmara, and she raised her voice, speaking with a clear, silver note in her voice.
“I am your Princess, returning to Hardenwall.”
The men erupted into argument, milling around their leader. Lionel waited, a half smile on his face. “They believe you, and now they seek to find an advantage. See, they are looking for other Lancers, for a trap. In a moment they will come forward and try to bully you, Pri
ncess.”
The clansmen pushed forward slowly, spreading out across the trail, leering through bearded, dirty faces. The girls stared at the princess over the shoulders of their captors.
The princess sat her horse in her best regal pose, considering the clansmen through the ears of her gelding. She addressed the large man in the middle.
“I regret we have not previously had the pleasure of your introduction. With whom do we have the honour of enjoying this conversation and fortunate encounter?”
The large man stared at her, bewildered, till nudged by the younger man beside him.
“She wan’s to know yer name, yer hinny,” he growled.
“Ah’m the Stuart, Gordon Stuart, Laird of the Hidden Bog. These are my men. Some of my men.”
“A great pleasure, Gordon, I’m sure. I regret we are unable to dine with you, or even partake of tea, for I need to report to my liege and father on the state of the nation to the north of the Hardenwall. Do you have a message you would wish me to convey?”
The Stuart gaped, trying to follow her precise and elegant Harrhein, before shaking himself and starting to bluster. Asmara cut him off, changing her language.
“Quiet, Stuart. You will understand straight talk. I will not have you fighting the crown helping invaders. Do it again and I will hang you from your own gate. You are now part of the Kingdom. Oh, don’t worry, I don’t want taxes from you, as if you could pay them anyway. I don’t even care if your sport is raiding other clans. But you will not raid Crown property. Is that understood?”
As she spoke, Lionel made a gesture, relayed by the man in the rocks. The Stuart threw back his head and bellowed to the sky, reaching for the claymore by his side, his men following suit.
Jeremy and his fellows slid out of the heather and Robbie brought the riders up the slope into the open. The Stuart gaped, his men looking right and left, and Jeremy strolled past the noses of the horses, throwing knife in hand, exuding menace in his gait. The Stuart stopped dead still, his claymore half drawn, his eyes flashing from Jeremy to the Lancers.
