Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  No one but Bran seemed to notice. Bran watched, dizzy, but fascinated, as the page lost his balance and toppled into the water, raising a wave of water that lapped the edges of the pool, raising little shrieks and growls of displeasure, bringing Meeve off the ambassador’s lap.

  The moon had risen, Bran noticed, as the crowd shifted and parted and moved in front of him, blending into a kaleidoscopic pattern that lacked all resemblance to any reality he’d ever experienced. He pushed his head back against the stones, hoping that the pain of the sharp edges digging into his scalp would help him stay grounded.

  “Look, there is someone in there,” cried a woman.

  “Get the boy out,” shouted another.

  “There’s no one in there,” scoffed a third. “It’s but a trick of the light.”

  “Nonsense,” answered the first. “Didn’t you see the splash?”

  The voices rose and fell in an excited babble, separating and blending into subtle skeins of sound, forming harmonies that somehow matched the visions unfolding before his eyes, but had no resemblance to any language he understood. He found the goblet and gulped more wine, and in that moment, understood what he was drinking, what the foreign taste in the wine was—the water of the sacred spring.

  The trixies danced like sparks against the swirling backdrop that in some rational corner of his mind he understood was unfolding in a quite normal fashion. He just had to wait until the effects of the water wore off. He took a deep breath, aware that the page was being dragged up and over the lip of the pool. Droplets landed on his cheek, cold and hard as disks of ice, sharp enough to flay open his skin. He wished with all his might some druid might materialize out of the mist.

  But the next time he opened his eyes, he was lying on a mossy green bank beside a rock-lined pool and a girl with huge green eyes and long dark hair knelt over him. “Hello, boy.”

  He didn’t just hear her words. He felt them, smelled them, propelled by the urgent pleading in her eyes. “W-who are you?” he whispered. Sweat broke out all over his body and he scuttled backward on all fours. “And where is this place?”

  The girl smiled and looked up, where the sky was an impossibly cerulean blue. “This is Faerie. You call it TirNa’lugh.”

  “How’d I get here? And what happened to the trixies?”

  “They’ll come and find you, I suppose. But they don’t much like water, so for a while, we’re safe.”

  “If this is TirNa’lugh, what about the goblins?” Bran looked around. Part of him was frightened and apprehensive, but another part of him felt as if he’d been reborn, as if his blood had somehow turned to foam and was running through his veins in streams of light.

  “Silly boy. We don’t have to worry about them during the day.” She leaned forward, smiling at him as if she’d like to eat him and Bran found himself both fascinated and repelled. “Is your name Bran?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “My grandmother’s been watching you. She says you’re ‘special.’”

  “She does?” For some reason, he thought of Apple Aeffie in his dream.

  “Oh, yes. I think you’re special, too.”

  “Who are you?” he whispered, staring at her mouth. Her teeth were like even little pearls.

  “My name’s Loriana. I’ve been keeping watch on you while my grandmother looks for the druid who put the word on you.”

  He startled upright, moved a few inches back.

  “The one that keeps the gremlins on you. Can’t you feel it?”

  Bran stopped.

  He could, now that she mentioned it. “How do I get it off?”

  “The druid who put it on you has to take it off.”

  “How do you know who did it?”

  “Every druid had his own essence…We can sense it—we know it. I can feel yours on you.”

  “You—you can? No one else does?”

  She moved a few inches closer, sinuous as a cat. “What can you expect from water-logged mortals?”

  “Water-logged?” The term was so apt he burst out laughing. “That’s exactly it, isn’t it? And some are pretty muddy, too.”

  Her laughter joined with his as she moved to sit beside him, her shoulder close enough to touch his. He felt a ripple of gooseflesh spread across his body. “I know you’re druid, but you’re not quite…awake yet.” She touched his face with the tips of her fingers, ran her hand down his cheek and through his hair.

  “I’m not?”

  She shook her head, leaned in close enough so that he felt her breath, warm and sweet on his face. “No,” she whispered. “Not yet.” She picked up his palm then traced the tip of his finger down the center of each of his. With each stroke he felt a line of fire drawn from his finger tip into the center of his palm.

  I can do magic, he thought.

  With a groan he reached for her as her mouth closed down on his, and a warm tide of pleasure surged through him. Her arms reached up, around his neck, drawing him down beside the pool, onto the thick green moss. His back touched the moss and sensations exploded up and down his spine, into his head, where images began to unspool of himself and Meeve and Morla. I see it, he thought as her tongue pushed against his, twining over and around. Colors exploded in his mind as sensation upon sensation cascaded through him.

  “Here he is—look we found him—him and that Faerie girl!”

  The shrieks and screeches seared like a brand into Bran’s brain. What felt like a hundred tiny hands pried him loose and dragged him, writhing and screaming, back to the pool. They plunged into the depths, and Bran kicked and struggled as the water closed over his head, filled his nose and made him gag and choke and struggle. A murky orb of light filled his vision just before the world went dark.

  The next thing he heard was his name. “Bran!” Morla shouted.

  In a daze he rolled over flat on his back to stare up at the spider-webbed pile of barrels beside the fountain. Straw stabbed at his back. He was lying naked in a patch of yellow sunlight, and he judged it midmorning or later. He had never been so grateful to see anyone in his life, even though he was immediately embarrassed and it was clear she was furious.

  “Look at you. Have you no shame?” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. She was wearing a new riding outfit, with a brand-new plaid and her boots had been polished to a high sheen. She put her hands on her hips. “What exactly were you doing last night, little brother? I looked for you at the forge and among the prentices, but no one had seen you since noon yesterday. No wonder they call you a lazy wastrel.”

  He looked down at himself and flushed, scrabbling back, feeling frantically all around for his clothes. He couldn’t remember how he’d come to shed his clothes. Or why.

  “Have a go with the sidhe, did you, lad?” It was one of the grooms, leading yet another saddled horse with a saddle roll strapped to its back, and saddle bags on its flanks. His eyes danced.

  Bran felt himself flush scarlet. “Morla, I’ve been in TirNa’lugh. Morla—” He grabbed for her hand. “Morla, you have to help me get back there. I can find out what to do—I think I see it—”

  Morla shook her head, hands on her hips. He saw she was dressed for traveling, although Mochmorna’s plaid and not her Dalraida’s was knotted over her shoulder and held in place by an enormous copper brooch. “Go make yourself presentable. You’re coming with me.”

  “Where we going?” Bran’s heart leaped. Was it possible his mother had heard his agony at last? “Are we going to Ardagh?”

  “Eventually. Aye. First we’re going to Far Nearing.”

  She turned on her heel, but before she disappeared into the growing crowd, he called, “What’s in Far Nearing?”

  “Family,” she replied, her voice swallowed by the stones, by the voices of the knights. “We’ve got a brother there named Cwynn.”

  “Family?” he repeated, stumbling into his breeches. A huge hand came down on the back of his neck, and he looked up to see Lochlan shaking his head.


  “Go on now, Bran, get yourself into some semblance of order. No one’s in a mood for nonsense—we’d hoped to be on the road hours ago.”

  Bran blinked. He sensed the man was implying he, Bran, was to blame, but he didn’t understand why. “It’s not my fault.”

  “It is your fault. You’ve had us looking for you since dawn. You’ve got to stop this running away, Bran,” Lochlan answered. “This is no way to settle things, no way to get what you want. I’m not just telling you this for your own good, Bran. I’m telling you so you’ll understand I’ll have none of it on the road. I’m responsible for getting you safe to Ardagh. Do you understand me?”

  Stunned, Bran could only stare. Lochlan stifled a curse. “What ails you, lad? You mazed?”

  Bran nodded. What else could it be? Lochlan expelled a great sigh. “Go on, boy—go splash cold water on yourself. Tell Cook to give you something to eat. Are you all right?”

  Bran nodded again. The feeling was diminishing rapidly, leaving him feeling hollow and light.

  “Go on, then.” Lochlan pushed him, but gently, and Bran felt a little comforted. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the big knight watching him until he rounded the corner.

  On the road, Morla was still angry. Bran wasn’t sure why, and he wasn’t sure at whom, but he could feel the emotion emanating off her in waves of heat, burning around something she carried deep inside. It interfered with his recollections of all he’d experienced in TirNa’lugh.

  He looked at her and remembered the message he was supposed to give her from her husband, but he didn’t dare. He felt sick and weak, as if his skin were stretched tight as a drum over his bones, thin as a horn pane, brittle as a shell, as if his body were hollow and he might collapse upon himself. But he had to find a way back over the border.

  Besides, although Morla answered his initial questions regarding their destination with a brusque “yes” or “no,” once they reached the main road, she made it very clear she was in no mood for any kind of chatter. She especially ignored the Fiachna, who bantered back and forth between themselves and tried to include the two of them. She caught Bran, once or twice, eyeing her, and the second time, she snarled, “Get out of my head.”

  He jerked upright in the saddle, startled out of the reverie the horse’s motion had lulled him into. He hadn’t been in Morla’s head—had he? He’d been thinking about her, that was true…but…He thought back, to the last few minutes or so, trying to remember what he’d been thinking.

  “Get out of my head,” she said again, and this time, she smacked his upper arm hard enough to sting.

  What is she talking about? he thought in a moment of pure, sheer panic. I’ve no idea what I’m doing. His pulse began to race and he found he had to concentrate very hard on his breathing. He felt too…too thin, somehow, as if his skin were as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. He glanced at Morla, wishing he were young enough to fling himself into her arms and bury his head on her shoulder as he remembered doing when he was small. Morla immediately turned her head and glared at him. He cringed, glanced away, jerked on the reins accidentally and the horse tossed its head in objection. What’s wrong with me? The back of his throat felt dry, his head was spinning, he felt hollow and weak. He glanced at Lochlan, who met his eyes and said mildly, “Anyone give you anything to eat?”

  Bran looked up at the big knight. “Bread and honey before we left.”

  “That’s not enough.” The knight reached behind his saddle and rummaged around in his saddlebag. Finally he held out a little wrinkled apple. “Here. Eat this. You look like you’re about to blow away. Most find they’ve a prodigious appetite after a round with a sidhe.”

  Bran accepted the apple gingerly, hesitant to bite into it. It was from last year’s harvest, a hard, pathetically shriveled thing, its flesh like leathery pulp. But its concentrated sweetness exploded on his tongue, thick and rich and nourishing, and before he knew it, he was licking at the core. “It wasn’t like anything else—”

  “More or less like a dream than the other night on the road?” Lochlan stared straight ahead with a frown as if he didn’t like what he was seeing.

  “Both.” Bran licked each finger in turn. “I wish Mam hadn’t sent all the druids away. Why’d she do it, Lochlan? Why’d she not at least leave one for me? I need to get back there, Lochlan. I need to talk to that sidhe I met there, the one who pulled me in. There’re things she showed me, things I know—”

  Lochlan held up his hand. “There’s a druid-house not far up the road. We’ll stop there. Maybe someone there can help you, Bran.” He dropped his eyes, then said, “Your mother’s got a lot on her mind these days.” Lochlan shut his mouth, just as Bran sensed his mind slide over something, something Lochlan didn’t want Bran to know. He glanced over at Murdo. “You got any salt meat in that saddle bag of yourn?”

  Silently, Murdo handed over a strip and it was all Bran could do not to cram the entire thing down his gullet in two enormous bites.

  “Don’t choke now, boy,” said Lochlan. “There’s a Grove a few leagues ahead, maybe another three or four turns of a short glass. You can hang in till then, can’t you, boy? Sure you can. Chew the salt meat nice and slow. It’ll give you something to hang on to, like.”

  “See, it’s not the crossing in that’s hard, lad,” put in Murdo unexpectedly. “It’s getting out. We’ve all of us been there, one way or another.”

  “You have?” Bran glanced at from knight to knight. “Why?”

  “The druids take you there to heal, if you’re lucky.”

  “That’s what’s kept you alive, isn’t it, Murdo?” Urien hooted. “You’re lucky.”

  “Better lucky than pretty,” Murdo retorted as Lochlan guffawed.

  Bran grinned then glanced at Morla. She was riding a few paces ahead of everyone else, shoulders rigid. He remembered when he was very young talking about the beautiful people who came and watched him sleep. He remembered laughing at the antics of the trixies chasing each other behind the walls. Morla had believed him, he’d always thought. Now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe she’d only been pretending. No one else had known they were there. He remembered a few times laughing aloud at things no one else in the room could see. Only Athair Eamus seemed to understand. But all his other experiences were as much like this one as the lick of candle-flame to a Beltane bonfire. The sidhe had kindled it, and now the heat made his teeth itch, his skin tingle. He could feel colors and see feelings.

  Morla’s anger was like a hot simmering pot on the back of a fire, the kind that was easy to forget about, easy for others to ignore, the kind that could explode unexpectedly—like the kettle that had blinded his old nurse. “Morla?” he ventured. When she looked at him, he said, “Why are we going to Far Nearing?”

  She glanced from Lochlan to Murdo. “To get our brother, Cwynn. Don’t you remember? I explained all this before.”

  Fog swirled through his head, clogging his ability to string thoughts and words together into coherent sentences and forms. As he tried to find the words to tell her that no, he really didn’t remember, Lochlan cantered up to Morla on the other side and touched her forearm fleetingly. “Will you ride up a ways ahead with me?”

  “For what?” asked Morla as Bran struggled to express himself. But the expression on her face stopped the words in his throat, as did the unmistakable shimmer of a silver cord that appeared to bind itself around the two of them. They’d been bound since birth, he realized, in a sudden flash of insight so intense he didn’t think to question how he knew.

  “To speak about the journey.” Lochlan’s jaw was tight, and his shoulders and rigid back conveyed a volume more than the short words.

  Morla turned a wary eye on Bran. “Are you all right?”

  A pale pink light appeared to flow from behind her, toward him, enveloping him in a gentle sensation that inexplicably soothed him. “I’m fine,” he managed. “You go on. Talk to Lochlan.”

  With a wary look, Morla jogged on ahead after Lochlan,
leaving Bran to stare in awe at the fountaining rainbow of emotions that blazed ever brighter the closer she got to the big knight.

  “Now what? What’s wrong?” Morla caught up with Lochlan and hoped her face did not change as their eyes met. Every time she looked at him, she saw one of two things—his naked body in Meeve’s bed and the look on his face as Meeve led him away that long-ago Beltane.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I wanted to talk to you about Bran.”

  “My mother said he’s been causing trouble.” Morla glanced over her shoulder. Bran didn’t seem to notice. He was cramming the last of the salt meat in his mouth, and Urien was handing over another apple. “Great Herne, he’s eating like he’s never seen food before. What ails him?”

  “He’s been in TirNa’lugh,” replied Lochlan. “Or so close to it, he might as well have been there. Haven’t you ever noticed how hungry the druids all are after they come out of there?”

  “I don’t have much to do with druids.” Morla raised her chin. Rituals were fine for those who fed regularly, but nothing the druids did seemed to affect the blight anywhere as far as she could see. “There’ve not been any in Dalraida since…” The last Beltane before the fever took Fionn, she thought. She remembered how proud he’d been of the bower he’d made—for her, of course, since there was no question of her choosing anyone else. She was too aware of how he’d feel if she chose another.

  “Well, I have, and it leaves you famished. Every time I’ve come out of there, I’ve felt like a whole ox would only make a good start.”