“Are you?” he whispered. The world felt like it was settling around him like a heavy cloak.
“Of course not. What’s wrong with you?” She was backing away from him and he blinked, hard, and shook his head to clear away that sense of being carried away.
He got to his feet, reached for his shirt, wondered where his boots were. “I—I just got lost in here. I’m new, I don’t really know my way—”
“And so you thought you’d take a nap?” She was looking at him as if she clearly didn’t believe him. “I think you’re just looking for a way to avoid Cook.”
“I’m not a scullion,” he replied, horrified that she should think him one of the servants. “I’m Bran.”
But the name didn’t seem to mean anything to her at all, for she only shrugged and looked over her shoulder before she said, “I’m Lys, and I’ve never seen you before.”
“I told you I only arrived the other day. I’m Bran,” he said again. “Can you just tell me how to get to the queen’s bower?”
“And what do you want with the queen?” she asked, her hand on her hip, her expression changing from curiosity to disbelief.
“Lys?” An older woman’s voice floated through the orchard. “Lys? Are you in the orchard? Cook needs those onions now!”
“She’s my mother,” Bran replied. He looked around. The light was brighter than he’d remembered it, the daylight full and intense. He glanced up and the sky was cloudless and blue, the sun warm and yellow.
Lys laughed. “Of course she is. And I’m her sister. Everyone says her son’s a fisherman from Far Nearing. You don’t look like a fisherman to me, either.”
“What time of day is it?” he asked. It was pointless to argue with her when he was so hungry.
“Almost noon,” she answered.
“Almost?” he repeated. Hadn’t it been late in the afternoon when he’d fallen asleep? If he’d slept a whole day through no wonder he was hungry. He rubbed his eyes again.
“Lys!” The summons came again, more impatient this time.
“Come on, boy. It’s coming down to time for dinner—cooks needs all the help they can get and the still-mistress would beat you raw if she found you in her orchard.”
“I’m not a scullion,” he protested as he scrambled to his feet and took off after Lys. But in the kitchen yard, before he could ask her which way to find his mother, he saw Mordram the Master Smith, gesturing and arguing, and he tried to dodge behind a wheelbarrow piled high with sacks of grain, but Lys shoved him so that he tripped and fell. His foot caught in a spoke and the pile collapsed. The blacksmith, along with everyone else, turned to stare in his direction.
“Well, there you are at last, you laggard. Disappear on me, will you? Make a fool of me before the Court, will you? Do you know we’ve been looking for you for a night and a day?” The blacksmith strode over, grabbed Bran by the ear and dragged him out of the kitchen, swearing loudly, Bran twisting and kicking in his pincerous grip.
“I see you’re right, boy,” laughed Lys, as she stepped aside to let him pass. “You’re not a scullion at all, are you?”
“I’m not a blacksmith, either,” he shouted after her.
“You got that right, maidy,” Mordram shouted over his shoulder as he dragged Bran under the archway.
“Let me go,” cried Bran, kicking and struggling. “I’m not going—I’m not going until—”
“Master Mordram.” A tall shadow blocked the path. “Bran, where’ve you been? Do you know the fit you’ve caused your mother? Master Mordram, I see you found him. His mother will be pleased with that.”
Bran tumbled to the cobblestones as Mordram let him go, sprawling at the knight’s feet in an undignified heap. “Lochlan, did you talk to my mother? Did you tell her?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw a trixie clearly dart across the path. It turned, bent, and blew a puff of stink in his direction, then ran off toward the forge.
Lochlan picked him up by the scruff of the neck as if he were a puppy, gave him a shake and stood him on his feet. “Aye, Bran, I spoke to your mother—and she spoke to Master Mordram here and—” He broke off. Lochlan looked tired. There was a dark haze of beard on his chin, dark circles beneath his eyes. He reeked of mead and sweat and something else. He held up a hand to Mordram. “Just wait.” He pulled Bran to one side, put an arm around his shoulder and said, “Running away is no way to solve anything but it’s a very good way to get yourself whipped. I can intervene now—once—you’re not his apprentice, after all. But—”
“Lochlan, I didn’t run away,” Bran said, bewildered. “I was asleep under the tree—I guess no one saw me but—”
“You’ve been asleep?” Lochlan raised one eyebrow. “You mean to tell me that you’ve been asleep the whole time we’ve been looking for you? Bran, they about tore the place apart—” He broke off and ran a hand through his tousled hair.
Bran nodded, scratched his head. “I wasn’t trying to run away. I just wanted to get away from those miserable trixies. They’re making my life a torment. Please, Lochlan. You have to believe me.” A crowd was gathering, and he wondered, briefly, what a knight of the Fiachna was doing in the kitchens.
Lochlan narrowed his eyes. “Do you realize how long you’ve been asleep? You went missing yesterday afternoon.”
“Yesterday?” Bran’s jaw dropped as Mordram reached for his upper arm.
“Come on, boy. I won’t beat you. Your mother made it clear.” He looked at Lochlan. “It’s nice she lets you up for air long enough to check on her whelp.”
Beyond the blacksmith and the knight, Bran saw Lys watching. He felt his cheeks burn at the blacksmith’s insult, and he felt his cheeks flame. But Lochlan only smiled and shrugged. “Go on with him, boy. Do your best to do his bidding. There’s a revel tonight. You’ll like that.”
“You come with me or the only part of the revel you’ll attend is the part where they clean it all up.” But at least the smith was gentle as he pulled Bran through the snickering crowd.
Eaven Morna
Finnavar, in the form of a raven, swooped low over the burning embers. She tried to alight in several places, but the heat drove her back. She circled low as she dared, searching the blackened remains. Melted puddles of blackened silver pooled on more than half the bodies and even she recognized the pattern on the tattered remnants of charred cloth. It was unmistakably the plaid of Mochmorna. Someone had slaughtered the druids of Mochmorna. With a shriek that would’ve been a curse, she rose with a flap that fanned the flames, heading back to Loriana and Faerie with the news that the druid who’d woven the spell so effectively to Bran was dead and in the Summerlands, well out of the reach of Finnavar or any other sidhe.
6
The sun was a thin red crescent barely above the horizon’s rim when Argael nudged Cwynn awake. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said.
For a moment, he lay staring up at the shingles overhead, trying to remember where he was. The light was blue, the air heavy with damp and the smell of mildew. The ocean was louder, too. Then he got up and pulled on the dry clothes Argael had left him.
In the kitchen, she handed him a mug of warm cider and a hunk of cheese. “I packed some food for you—salt fish and bacon and a few of last year’s apples. It’s not much but should see you to the nearest crossroads.”
He swallowed the cider and set the mug down. “You know I’m worried about Shane and the twins.”
“I was thinking last night.” She uncovered a bowl of dough and frowned into it. “That’s odd. Hmm.” She frowned, poked it with an experimental finger and shook her head. “Bread didn’t rise.” She put the bowl aside and wiped her fingers. “I was thinking I could send them across the bay, to my sister. She married a herder over there. Ariene and the boys would do well on fresh goats’ milk, I think.” She handed him his grandfather’s plaid, all dry. “Ariene’s upset you’re leaving. There’s been talk, you know, of banning the Beltane practices, to avoid this sort of thing. Without a druid to sort it
out, bad feelings linger. Sometimes I think Ariene’s too much like her own father. What she doesn’t understand, she fears. But you go on and don’t you worry. I’ll make sure those boys are safe. And another thing,” she said, as he wrapped the plaid around himself.
“What?” he asked.
“You should speak to the druids about your hand. They’ve magic, you know. They can make you something much better than this hook.” He met her eyes, gray as the light now strengthening through the clouds. “Ariene’s always had feelings for you, Cwynn.”
“It’s just she liked Sorley better,” he said. He pulled his arm away. “I didn’t mean to scare the boys.”
She patted his cheek. “You’re a good lad, Cwynn. Now don’t lose that disk, whatever you do.”
Cwynn led Eoch out of the stable and down the path that led out of the village. He gathered up Eoch’s reins and nodded a last farewell, then made his way down the rocky path where the shells lay heaped in piles with seaweed and driftwood churned up from last night’s storm. Red sky at morning; wise sailors, take warning. The sea still looked choppy, sullen storm clouds still piled along the gray horizon. He remembered last night’s narrow escape and thanked the Great Mother, with the customary wish he might live to return the favor.
Be careful what you wish for. The silent voice that ran through his mind had something of Cermmus’s bite but it wasn’t quite Cermmus. He turned to take a last look at the keep over his shoulder as he slipped past the gatehouse. From inside, he could hear the guard snoring. At this hour, even the gulls were quiet. A thin thread of white smoke drifted from the direction of the kitchens. The smell of fish was strong in the heavy salt air.
At the stone bridge over the estuary, he hesitated. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he sniffed, but all he could smell was fish. There were stories told around the fires at night that long ago a goblin had taken up residence beneath the bridge. It had hunted with impunity until a druid was summoned and the goblin was chased back to the bowels of TirNa’lugh where it belonged. The stories had terrified Cwynn the child, and even now, he never approached the bridge without caution. He’d left his skiff tied up to the dock, and now he realized that the configuration of boats was not the same as it had been the night before.
The horse pawed the ground, impatient to be off. She tossed her head and nuzzled his face. He slipped an old carrot out of his pocket and fed it to her. To his right, the tide was low, and the sandbars beckoned seductively in the middle of the bay. Theoretically, it was possible, if treacherous, to cross to the mainland. But the sandbars could be illusive, the channel deeper in places than it frequently appeared. Distances were deceptive, too. Movement caught his eye, and far out on the sandbars, he thought he saw a big white dog with a plume for a tail bounding toward the beach.
Startled, he peered more closely, and the dog seemed to disappear. “Trick of the light,” he muttered and slipped the mare an apple. Eoch’s big liquid eyes met his with a calm he could not share. “Just wait here.”
He peered down the wide beach. A few of the boats were missing. He wondered if that many had been lost in the storm, then noticed the fresh footsteps across the sand. A chill went down his back and he tried to dismiss it.
Shane knows who you are, now, lad. You’re worth more dead than alive. Cwynn had no doubt Shane had overheard their conversation. But there was nothing to say Shane was the one who’d taken the boats, either. Cwynn chided himself as he swung up into the saddle. So his uncle had killed his father in a fit of rage. Such things happened; the druid court had seemed to think it of scarcely any consequence. He patted the dagger he wore at his waist for the reassurance only it gave. He gathered the reins and touched his knees to the mare’s sides.
But by the time they’d crossed the bridge, every instinct was screaming not to take the road that disappeared beneath the scrubby pines, the only road leading to the mainland. Between here and the mainland, he thought, as he slowed the horse, there were plenty of places where it was easy to beach a boat and lie in wait. He wished he’d had the presence of mind to count the number of boats missing, or the number of sets of footprints. It was entirely possible, however, there were other dangers up ahead that had nothing to do with Shane.
He glanced to his right and saw that the white dog was not at all an illusion, for it was running back and forth, splashing in and out of the shallows, kicking up wet sand. It stopped when it caught sight of him, barked and wagged its tail. Eoch pricked up her ears and Cwynn patted her neck. “You think we should head that way, hmm?”
He glanced at his saddle roll. There wasn’t much to weigh the mare down. Whether to risk it at all, that was the question, for the sandbars were deceptive and even at low tide, there were waters deep enough to drown the unsuspecting. On the other hand, Eoch could swim so well the old women called her a sea-mare, a horse with the blood of the ancient lost land of Lyonesse running in her veins.
The dog had reached the beach. He ran in circles, barked again, wagged his tail and headed out toward the water. There was no doubt at all in Cwynn’s mind the dog wanted him to follow. “What do you say, Eoch? Shall we go with him? Make a run for it?”
She tossed her head back and whinnied a response he could only assume was yes. “But can we outrun the tide, do you think?”
She pawed the ground and stared straight ahead, her nostrils slightly flared. With a shrug, he touched her sides, and she leaped forward, eager and ready. The dog barked joyously and took off. The first arrow sang past his ear as they broke past the estuary. Cwynn glanced over his shoulder as a second arrow whistled overhead and landed with a splash a few lengths away. It was Shane—Shane and maybe five or six of his gang. The water was deeper now, almost up to the mare’s knees, and he urged her on as another arrow splashed into the water just beyond her rump. She gathered herself up and leaped onto the next sandbar, and he was about to turn in one direction when the dog suddenly leaped in front of him, forcing him to turn and head out toward what looked like deeper water. Another arrow whistled passed his ear and he bent low, urging her on, but Eoch needed no encouragement. She seemed to understand the danger as well as he did.
Nervously he glanced over his shoulder. The dog was just ahead now, barking and bounding, and Cwynn realized the dog was leading them across sandbars underwater, guiding them through the shallows, across places where in less than a footstep in either direction, the bottom dropped steeply.
One of their pursuers had already foundered in the deeper water. But Shane, curse him to the Summerlands, was gaining. Cwynn pressed his knees into the horse’s side and she leaped ahead, the white dog bounding just a few lengths ahead. A dagger thudded into his calf, and he cried out, yanked the blade out, turned and hurled it back at Shane. It splashed harmlessly into the water.
The white dog had doubled back, somehow, and now stood planted in front of Shane’s horse, barking ferociously, baring its teeth. Shane whipped his sword out and swung at the dog, and Cwynn plunged ahead, the cold water numbing the pain in his leg. Another arrow whistled into the shallows, and Eoch spooked, stumbling into shoulder-high water.
Her eyes opened wide, her hoof flailed and he was thrown off the saddle. Cwynn rolled into the water, floundered for a second, then kicked and pushed his way to the surface. Eoch thrashed in the water, her eyes rolled back in her head in absolute terror. Even though he knew he risked his own life, he took a deep breath, then dove beneath the surface. Her leg was stuck between two rocks, but her other hooves flailed in the water. He broke the surface, gasped for air, then dove down again in time to see a pair of pale white hands shift the rocks around the horse. As the horse kicked and righted herself, a creature with a pale white face and bloodless lips peered out of the sand-swirled water. She tugged the gold disk off his neck with one swift jerk, then disappeared. The burning in his chest forced Cwynn to surface. As he filled his lungs with a fresh draught of air, he thought he saw a silver tail break the waves with a flip before it disappeared. Frantically, he felt
at his chest but the disk was gone. Eoch was free, swimming strongly once more, heading directly toward the opposite shore. The sandbars around them seemed to be shrinking at an alarmingly fast rate.
The rising tide and the white dog had driven his pursuers back. Even Shane had given up the chase and was now picking his way back. Not a turn of the glass from home, thought Cwynn, and already he was wet, cold and had lost his disk. One thing at least was certain. He couldn’t go back.
There was nothing to prevent Shane from following him to Allovale. Cwynn sighed as he stared at the mainland rising dark and forbidding in front of him, a solid block of forest behind the fishing villages clustered up and down the coast. Had he really seen what he thought he’d seen? The fishwives told stories about the beautiful creatures who lived below the waves, who lured unlucky fishermen to their deaths below the water. They loved beautiful jewels and bright objects of all sorts. The salt water had clouded his eyes, and the dog seemed to have disappeared again, too. When he looked back over his shoulder, all he saw was the flat surface of the bay, shining opaque silver in the sullen morning and he forced himself to concentrate on reaching the opposite beach.
The white dog was running up and down the headland, wagging its tail when Cwynn splashed ashore, leading Eoch by the bridle. The water was up to his thighs, and the horse’s mane and tail were stiff with salt water, but at least they’d managed to outrun their pursuers.
Cwynn estimated he had perhaps one turn of a long glass to lose himself somewhere on the mainland, but Eoch was already exhausted from the swim. Hopefully, Shane would be forced to wait until the entire channel was navigable by boat, and then come after him. The dog barked, one short woof. Cwynn looked up, but at just that moment, the sun broke through the clouds, and the dog appeared to vanish. Cwynn grabbed for the reins as a sharp series of barks rang out. Eoch nosed him as Cwynn squinted into the mist.
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