“Now, child, now. Catrione—sit down. You’re all flushed—get her some water, dear,” said Bride to Sora.
They pulled her onto the long bench, pressed a goblet filled with herb-scented water in her hands. Baeve watched her drink, then took the cup from her shaking hands. “I heard it,” Catrione said. She looked at each woman in turn. “I know I did. It said, ‘Father’s coming.’”
“Your father?” asked Bride.
“No—no, the child’s father—Tiermuid. I think he’s coming back—and I think that child—that child—” She gripped Baeve’s hands. “You said it yourself. In forty years, it’s the most unnatural thing you’ve ever seen. Look at Deirdre. Not only is she turning into something hideous, she’s doing things—how could she possibly have gotten into the Tor, even made it up to the top? She snuck in and out of the chapter-house and took the khouri-crystals. I don’t think we’ve time to wait for a raven to fly back from Ardagh. Please—you know herb-lore better than I, better than any of us. Please, let’s all look?”
Bride and Baeve exchanged glances. “Sora, fetch the barks,” said Baeve.
“All of them?” Sora asked.
“All of them,” replied Catrione.
Cwynn wasn’t sure when it occurred to him that there was something strange about the white dog. It could’ve been the way Eoch followed after him, trotting docile at his heels as a puppy. Or perhaps it was the fact that they’d been traveling for hours and he hadn’t seen the dog lift its leg once. As if in answer, the dog trotted off to the roadside, sniffed around a boulder and a stump, then lifted its leg. He turned around to look at Cwynn as if to say, “Is this what you expected?”
Cwynn narrowed his eyes, but the dog merely trotted on. He sighed and settled into the saddle and wondered if the dog really did know where it was going. The few travelers he’d passed had all agreed, however, that he was on the road that eventually led to Ardagh. Every one pointed west and nodded. The dog just bounded on and on.
The light was warm and tinged with gold, and the rolling green hills were dotted with red sweeps of clover and white heather and purple sage. A light wind was on his back, and the red-clay road seemed to rise to meet his feet. From time to time, they passed white cottages where men and women sat tending their fires, singing and joking and telling tales. No one seemed to do any work at all, nor did there seem to be work that needed doing. Everything seemed tidy and clean and very, very bright. Everyone seemed very happy. They all nodded and smiled and pointed him on his way.
On the road he met an old woman carrying a basket of the reddest and most fragrant apples he’d ever seen. They had obviously just come from the tree for most had fresh green leaves still attached to their stems. She smiled at him and held the basket up for him, indicating he should choose one. The sun turned her white hair silver. Her eyes were blue and freckles dotted across her nose and her teeth were very white.
On Far Nearing, he mused, the apples were barely recognizable as fruit. Could the climate on the mainland be that different? “Where’d you get these apples?” he asked.
“Over there.” She pointed to rolling hills covered in apple trees extending far as the horizon, all laden so heavily with fruit, their branches bowed to the ground. “Take one, if you like. And when you see Bruss, tell him Apple Aeffie said hello.”
Without thinking, Cwynn reached into the basket and plucked one. It was warm in his hand and he could almost feel the juice in it, rich and ripe, bursting against the red-and-green speckled skin. It made his mouth water, his tongue itch to taste it. “What kind of apple is this?” he asked, but the old woman had disappeared. The dog whined and woofed heavily. Eoch took off, forcing him to run to catch up with her. He tucked the apple into his bag and ran.
They rounded a bend in the road, and he could’ve sworn the sun was suddenly on the other side of the sky. The countryside was distinctly different, too, from the broad meadow land through which they’d journeyed—the road steeper, rockier. From somewhere nearby, he heard the splash of water and looked down and saw a brook tumbling down the side. He looked back and realized he was looking back at an entirely different landscape. The forests rose all around them, dark and forbidding in the twilight. The gently rolling hills, the warm light, was gone.
In the sky, the first stars were beginning to twinkle. He had the feeling he’d rushed not only through space, but time, as well. He slid off Eoch and looked around. The white dog ran back and forth, whining. Beside him Eoch whinnied, nosed his neck. Her soft nose, the barest edge of her teeth grazed his skin, her hot breath blasted down his back, grounding him as his head spun and the fog rushed in around him like a cloak. A curious light was gleaming over the hills, a pure white radiance that glowed like a pearl above the treetops. He had never seen anything like it before. He wondered where he was and how he’d got here and if perhaps, ahead lay Ardagh.
“Is that it, boy?” he said to the dog. “Is that Ardagh up ahead?”
The dog only barked joyously and ran off down the road. Eoch neighed and took off after him at breakneck speed, forcing Cwynn to jump on and cling to the reins as best he could.
The buildings of the White Birch Grove were just visible through the trees when Timias stepped across the twilit border from Faerie into Shadow and frowned at what he sensed. He could feel his shape shifting, feel flesh settling around his frame like a slightly different suit of clothes. You don’t pretend to be a mortal—you become one. Just like you became a goblin. What would Finnavar think of that? Never mind what she’d think, or Auberon, or even Loriana, he thought as he steadied himself beneath a tree. He wasn’t sure what he thought or felt about it. The flesh felt slippery on his bones, like an unfamiliar set of clothing.
He looked down at himself. He was still naked. If he could get into the laundry, he might have a chance of filching some clothing, but without so much as a cloak, he had little hope of blending in enough to slip through even a side gate. Then he saw that there were people all around the gates, and camped on either side of the road. What was going on? he wondered as he eased as quietly as possible through the underbrush. For the most part, they appeared to be farmers and shepherds, all members of the local clans. Then he remembered the mortals the goblins had been feasting on and realized that these people fled either rumored or real attacks.
An unattended wagon yielded tunic, plaid and trews. Timias finished tying a makeshift belt around his waist when he heard the voice clearly for the very first time. Father. Timias jerked up and looked around. It was as faint as the brush of a butterfly’s wing, fragile as the tip of a dragonfly’s tail, yet compelling as the bleating of a new lamb. Father…Father…Father, are you coming?
Mesmerized, Timias turned in the direction of the Tor, away from the buildings and the people.
Father? The voice came again, this time tinged with joy.
You know me, Timias thought. His heart began to pound against his mortal chest as a rush of exultation so pure it took his breath away surged through him.
Father!
Timias felt dizzy. He reached out, grabbed the nearest tree and sank to the ground. The ground beneath him felt as if it were tingling, sending up pins and needles into his spine. Was it possible the magic he and Deirdre made had created a child? A child conceived as the cloak of shadows was woven? Amazed and overwhelmed, Timias fell back against the trunk.
I’m mortal, he thought, raising his hands before his face, examining the broken, dirty nails, the newly forming scab across his knuckles, the red bump of an insect bite. Mortals and sidhe can’t mate. He touched his cheeks, felt the rough prickle of his beard. So what was he? he wondered once again. What kind of creature was he? Goblin, mortal or sidhe? Or some strange hybrid of them all, all of them and none of them? But I have a child, he thought. I have a child. A child, who knows me. Cautiously, lest he overwhelm the infant consciousness, he tried to send an answer out as a test. Child?
Faster than a hawk plummeting from the sky, a response returned, at once joyous
and demanding, echoing in his skull like the ringing of a great bell. Here…here…here. HERE.
This was the last thing he’d expected. There was a child, he thought, his mind twirling and spinning, even as he set off in the direction of the Tor, forgetting the mortal and the horse, stunned to realize that the magic had created life. He and Deirdre, in the coupling that created the cloak, had conceived a child. The druids and the sidhe coupled on the hillsides and in the green-wood had never conceived children of each other. While he and Deirdre…had done not only the unthinkable, but the impossible.
Finnavar, may she burn in the belly of the Hag, was right. He wasn’t really like the other sidhe—he wasn’t like other mortals. But for the first time, he didn’t care. An image filled his mind, claustrophobic, hot and wet, and he felt the weight of ages worth of dirt pressing in all around him. HERE, FATHER…. HELP…HERE!
The plaintive cry galvanized him, breaking through the shock. He took off in the direction of the Tor, ready to confront whatever threatened his child.
9
“This is it,” Catrione whispered. The air within the still-house was stifling as the four women huddled over the birch-bark scrolls, trying to make sense of the etched glyphs. “The child who can’t be slain by the hand of woman or of man…” She ran her finger along the line. “Once in every full revolution of the Wheel…the last child is born to the Mother and Herne heralding a period of confusion and discord and turmoil, until the child…” Her voice trailed off. “The rest…The scratchings are so faint. This isn’t the symbol for death.”
“Isn’t that the symbol for balance?” asked Sora.
“That would fit the general sense of it,” said Baeve. She looked around. “I’d say I’m ready for some balance in the midst of all this chaos.”
Catrione scanned the bark scrolls. “Ah. Maybe it’s this. Every time the Great Wheel turns, everything gets shaken up again, like pieces of a puzzle. When the pieces spill out, how they land is how they are. In other words, if we’re not careful, every time this happens, there’s always a chance the goblins could end up in control.” She tapped her finger on the bark and a piece cracked beneath her nail. “Oh!” she cried.
“Careful, they’re that fragile,” said Bride, shaking her head. “Why don’t the khouri-keen know this?”
“This suggests that we’re not powerless—we can choose one thing over another, depending on what we’re willing to give up…what we’re willing to risk.” She peered down at the bark, wondering what that might mean for each of them. Deirdre risked everything, willingly, and had paid a terrible price, was paying it still. It could’ve been me, she thought. Or Sora, or any of us, really. She looked down at the scroll again, but there was nothing more. “Part’s missing. See here how it ends and then—nothing? This next one’s about mead-making.”
“But what about this child? This child that can’t be killed by the hand of woman or of man?” asked Baeve. “Clearly it can’t be part of anything good—isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Well, there is something,” whispered Sora. “I wanted to show it to you, Catrione, because when you came in, it was the first thing I thought of. This part—this part here—” She fumbled through the fragile scrolls. “This part speaks of following the trees into the ground—through the roots. Some say the ancient druids were able to travel this way across great distances, otherwise impossible.”
“And how’re we to do it?” sniffed Bride.
“It describes the way.” Sora handed Catrione a scroll. “I’ve always wanted to try it, but I was afraid.”
Catrione raised her eyes to the others. “Maybe Deirdre wasn’t afraid. Maybe this explains how she was able to move in and out and up to the Tor.”
“Tiermuid was in here a lot,” Sora whispered. Her face flushed deep scarlet. “Maybe I should’ve told you before.”
“He was? When?” Bride began to sputter. “You never said a—”
“Hush now,” Baeve said, patting the other woman’s hand. “Everyone is free to read them.”
“But no one ever does. Didn’t it occur to you, child, there was something strange about that?”
Sora hung her head, twisting her hands together miserably.
He had her under his spell, too. Maybe it was all of us—not just me, not just Deirdre. Maybe all of us were affected. Something twisted in Catrione’s gut, like a snake coiling and uncoiling. She stood up and patted Sora’s hands. “What does it matter, now, Bride? Who knows what he thought he was doing, or why he was doing it. Come, let’s see if there’s something in this scroll we can put to use. Maybe we can get inside the Tor, see what’s going on, and try to figure out how to get the khouri-crystals back. It doesn’t matter now, Sora, what you did or didn’t do, or who you didn’t tell. Let’s just hope that anything Deirdre or Tiermuid understood enough to use, we can, too.”
The white dog raced across the meadow, heading directly for the line of trees that ringed the lower level of the Tor. It rose above the treetops, the highest peak for leagues and leagues, topped by the double circle of standing stones. Cwynn squinted into the gathering twilight. He had no idea where he was but he was quite sure the community built beside the Tor wasn’t Ardagh. He had no idea how close he was to Ardagh, or even how far he’d traveled that day. For a moment, he was tempted to take the road that led to the main gates of the community. But the dog was so insistent, stopping and barking at him every few moments, making it clear he was expected to follow, and Eoch seemed to have no will to obey him, even when he tugged at the reins a few times. She whinnied and knickered and flatly refused.
All right, all right, he thought, and relaxed into the saddle, letting the horse have her way. But where in the name of Herne are you taking me? A footpath wound up the Tor, but he could also see shallow steps, cut into the turf and reinforced with stones and wooden beams. They led directly to what looked like a hollow. The shadows were long; it looked like a navel set into the hill. The white dog paused halfway up the steps, ears alert, hackles raised. Cwynn frowned. He had reached the base of the Tor. The trees were all white birches. He swung out of the saddle and tied the reins to one of them. “You stay down here,” he told her. He patted her on the neck and her liquid eye found his in the dusk.
He followed the dog up the steps, hand on the hilt of his dagger, surveying the scene that spread out below him. The leafy crown of trees gave way to a partial view of the thatched roofs of the druid community that clustered near the base, chimneys that drifted white smoke and the smells of cooking oats. The place seemed bustling with activity and suddenly, with an unexpected pang, he thought of home, of Argael and Ariene and the dish of buttery clams. His mouth watered and the dog growled.
Cwynn looked up. The dog seemed on full alert, its tail low and tense, ears back. Cwynn looked around, but the Tor appeared deserted. Everyone’s at dinner, he thought, and his stomach rumbled again. The dog growled. The sky overhead was turning deep purple. The stars were beginning to shine. Cwynn paused and surveyed the trees, but nothing seemed to move beneath or within their branches. “I don’t think there’s anything there, boy, but Eoch.” He looked over his shoulder at the dog. The dog was at the top of the Tor, wagging its tail, pawing at the ground. “How do you do that?” he asked aloud. But he knew he wasn’t getting any answer. He bounded up the rest of the stone steps.
A lot of feet had tramped up and down the Tor that day, he thought, for there were gouges in the thick turf and places that appeared as if someone had tried to dig shallow holes. He paused, considering the dimple in the Tor. It was filled in with rocks, through which he got a whiff of something rotten. The dog woofed once.
“I’m coming,” Cwynn answered. The ground shuddered, as if an enormous beast beneath the ground turned over in its sleep. He lost his footing on the steps and fell to his knees and then on to his face, and his hook sank deep into the soft turf. The dog was growling, hackles raised, pawing at the ground above him. There was something coming, thought Cwynn, somethi
ng the dog’s afraid of. It took him a moment to wrestle his hook out of the grass. The sky was darker now, the last lavender fading in the west.
The dog was a white blur. Cwynn scrambled up as quickly as he could, cursing the uneven holes, the rough patches, that made for difficult footing in the dark. By the time he reached the summit, he was covered from his hips down in smears of mud and bits of grass. The dog was behind the farthest stone, he saw, frantically pawing at the ground. When Cwynn bent to examine what the dog was digging at, he saw a rusted iron ring. Further clearing of the sod revealed rotted wooden slats. “It’s a door, isn’t it?” he muttered to the dog, who was clearly patrolling the top of the Tor, whining and prancing.
Cwynn bent and tried to pull it up. He peered through the rotting slats, wishing he had some sort of light. A foul odor drifted up, the same as that which seeped through the rocks on the other side. As he tried to push aside a piece of wood, it crumbled in his hand. The dog threw back its head and howled. “You want me to go down there, boy, don’t you?”
The dog was beside him, nudging him, nosing him, whining and licking his hand, his arm, any part of Cwynn he could touch. With a sigh, Cwynn shattered the rotted wood. It crumbled and split and splintered. A shallow set of steps led down. “Down there, eh?” The miasma sifting up gagged him. It was impossible to see how far down the steps led. “Let’s see if there’s another way, boy.” But the dog butted up against his legs, surprising him, so that he lost his footing and tumbled down the slippery stone steps. His eyes slowly adjusted but the shadows were so thick it was nearly impossible to see anything at all. From the top of the steps, the dog woofed twice.
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