Morla looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t know druids called on warriors that often.”
“They don’t as a rule,” Lochlan answered. “But if you’re wounded, they take you there to heal, if you’re lucky.”
“If you’re lucky?”
“If you’re lucky.” He gazed into the distance, smiling wistfully. “With a druid to guide you in and out, TirNa’lugh’s a wonderful place—a place of light and rest and healing. But it takes something from them.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “I think that’s what ails him.”
“What makes you so sure he’s really druid?”
“Maybe you’ve not heard. When I was bringing him from Pentland to Eavan Morna, he led us right into TirNa’lugh, easy as a knife cutting through soft cheese. You wouldn’t even think the border had been there. He may not look like a druid, but both Athair Eamus and Cailleach Connla told me to watch him.”
She looked at him steadily, wondering if he told the truth. He had no reason to lie. “If you were really there, how’d you get out?”
“I told him to ride for home, to ride to Meeve. Gave him something to hook on to, I suppose, for he had us at the gates of Eavan Morna in less than a blink of an eye. Connla warned Meeve before she left, but all Meeve would do is agree to have him watched. And she set him in the smithy because Connla told her hard work would be good for him.”
“Why’s my mother so angry at the druids? Because she’s dying, and they can’t help her?”
“She told you, then, did she?”
Morla glanced over her shoulder again. “You don’t think Bran knows?”
“No one knows, but you and me. And Connla, because she guessed.”
“And Briecru.”
“Really?” That seemed to get his attention in an entirely new way, for suddenly he turned and looked at her.
“That’s not surprising, is it?”
He didn’t answer her at once. “No, it’s not. But I’m sure she’s not yet told the boy.”
“And you’re saying we shouldn’t, either?”
“Well, what do you think?” Lochlan glanced over his shoulder and nodded at Morla to do the same.
Bran was staring at some point just above his head, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide. “Look at him,” Morla murmured. “He looks completely mazed. Why didn’t Mam let Connla have him?”
“She blames Connla for the blight, among other things. And considering what’s happened to Deirdre, your mother was loathe to hand over another child, I suppose.”
“Is that really how she sees it?” Morla could not keep the bitterness out of her tone, and Lochlan raised his brow.
“What are you insinuating, Morla?”
“My mother keeps a very grand style, Lochlan.” Morla stared straight ahead. “The blight’s hit Dalraida hard.” She glanced at him sideways. “But she throws gold and copper and silver around like trinkets, and kills cattle on a whim. I walked in past a spread that would’ve fed a family in Dalraida for a week. And it wasn’t even dinner.”
“She’s been entertaining the ambassador,” Lochlan said.
“If you think anyone outside a day’s ride of Eaven Morna eats like that, you’re mazed as my brother.” The expression he’d worn as her mother claimed him on that long-ago Beltane flashed before Morla as their eyes met and she felt a pang in her gut. She looked back over her shoulder at the other three knights, Urien, Murdo and Ongus. Her mother had plenty of everything. Why had she chosen Lochlan, the one in all of Eaven Morna Morla had considered a friend? For the first time, it occurred to Morla that Meeve had had a motive. But all she could bring herself to say was, “Maybe we should send Bran on to Ardagh.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Their eyes met and Morla felt that shock of connection she’d always felt with him. Fleetingly Morla wondered what might have happened if he’d gone with her that night instead. “What do you suggest? Divide in two groups?” She wondered why the thought of being separated from him seemed to open a hole in her gut.
“I say we go to Ardagh first—take Bran to Connla, and then go on to Far Nearing. I just don’t like the idea of dragging him all over the country. There’s too many opportunities for—for accidents.”
“Why don’t you just take him to Ardagh and I’ll go to Far Nearing?”
“I can’t do that,” he replied.
“Why not?”
“I swore to Meeve I’d see you safely to Far Nearing and back. I can’t let either of you out of my sight.” He looked directly at her.
How commendable. She bit the sarcasm back as their eyes met. Heat surged through her, forcing her to lower her eyes and look away as the breath caught in her throat. What’s wrong with me? she wondered. I can’t possibly still care. We were never more than friends and riding partners. She tightened her hands on her reins and forced herself to stare at the road ahead, as Lochlan continued, “We’ll keep to the high roads—no shortcuts through dark valleys and such—and we’ll stay at druid-houses as long as he’s with us. That’ll be safest for him, I think. And us. We don’t want to find ourselves lost in the OtherWorld—Bran’s not headed any place he knows.”
“What do you mean?”
“In order to find your way out of TirNa’lugh, you have to have an anchor in this world—whether a trixie or another druid, or at least some very clear and potent desire to go someplace else. But even then, even then, the druids say, the chance you won’t come out is still greater than the chance you will.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
Their eyes met and again, sensation fluttered through her. But he didn’t answer, because Bran came riding up. “How much farther are we going before we stop?”
Morla glanced at Lochlan. “There’s been a change of plans, Bran. In light of what Sir Lochlan tells me, it seems we’re better off to stop at Ardagh first. We’ll leave you with the druids, and—”
“Really, Morla?” To her amazement, his eyes brimmed with tears. “Really?”
“Yes, of course.” Pity for him overwhelmed her. What was her mother thinking, to bring the boy away from all he knew, then to set him in the forge a full year before any other? If what everyone—but Meeve, apparently—suspected were true, he deserved to be treated far better than he’d been.
Lochlan reached across Morla and punched Bran gently on the shoulder. “Buck up, boy. Just three or four turns of a short glass, right?”
The others had somehow fallen behind and for the moment, the three of them were alone, Morla flanked by Bran on one side, and Lochlan on the other. Was this something like what Bran felt, she wondered, this constant, steady assault on her senses, so that she felt stretched and taut as a too-tight harp string? She was so aware of him she could smell the sweat steaming from his pores. She glanced at Lochlan. He was looking at her so intensely, she thought he might burn a hole through her.
She felt a little dizzy. To cover her confusion, she uncorked her water flask and took such a deep drink, the water spilled down her chin, down her neck and trickled between her breasts. She saw him glance down, then away. You wanted me as much as I wanted you then. I know you did, she thought.
Why did you disappear afterwards? she wanted to ask, but the words stopped in her mouth, dry as an old sponge washed up on the sand. She knew why he’d gone with Meeve, because of course, he had no choice. It was afterward, when he had nothing to do with her, that hurt. She had been too proud then to seek him out. She let go of the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. And now, more than ever, he was Meeve’s.
The others trotted up and Bran whooped off. Lochlan made a face, uttered an oath, and took off after him. “Oh, no, you don’t, boy,” he cried as he galloped after Bran. “You wait up there, you hear? We don’t want you leading us—”
He broke off in midsentence, just as Morla and the others rounded the curve to see both Lochlan and Bran halted before what appeared to be the gatehouse of a druid grove.
“I didn’t know the drui
d-house was quite so close,” Ongus said as they reined in abruptly.
The knights exchanged glances and Bran nosed his horse up beside Morla.
“I don’t remember this house even being here,” said Urien.
Before anyone could answer, an old man doddered out of the gatehouse. He wore a filthy gray robe that might’ve once been white, and clutched a knobby staff. “Who’re you?” he demanded, glaring first at Lochlan, and then at the rest in turn. “What d’you want?”
“Travelers, athair-da,” Lochlan replied. “We’re on our way to Far Nearing on Queen’s business, and we’ve a young lad with us who’s a bit mazed. He could use a druid—”
“There’s no one here.” The old man waved his staff in the direction of the road, and Bran had the distinct impression he could accidentally on purpose strike one of the horses. “You’re best to keep going down the road, until you come to the lake. There’s another house beside the lake. But you’d better hurry if you hope to make it there by dark.”
“But what’s happening here?” blurted out Bran. His face grew pale as he gazed at the walls, and Morla glanced up and down them herself. Ivy clung in heavy clumps to the wall. His breathing changed and he wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?”
Morla sniffed. A smell vaguely dank, like laundry left damp too long, hung heavy in the still air.
“Something happened here—something’s happening here now,” Bran was insisting. He turned to Lochlan, voice high and pleading. “I can smell it—there’s something happening here.”
“Who told you anything happened here, boy?” demanded the old man. “Nothing’s happened here. They all up and left.”
“Where’d they go?” asked Murdo. He eased off his saddle, then shook the gates. He nudged Lochlan in the ribs as the old man waved his staff toward the road. Lochlan tried them himself, stepped away, looked up at the walls, clearly assessing.
“They went to Ardagh, of course—where else would they be? I think you all look a bit mazed.” He squinted up at Bran. “Who’re you, boy? I know your kind. I’ve seen your kind before. Didn’t think there were any left, to tell you the truth.”
“What do you mean, his kind?” asked Morla, nosing her horse forward, understanding the implicit threat in the way in which the old man waved his staff.
“You know, there’s one thing I don’t understand,” Lochlan interrupted before the old man could answer. “If they all up and left, why are the gates bolted from within?”
“I don’t think we should go in there,” said Morla. “I know that smell.” She glanced at each knight in turn. “That’s blight. Isn’t it, old man? This place should’ve been torched.” She looked up at the walls, but they were so thickly covered with ivy they would not easily burn.
“You go on, all of you. Just leave.” The old man turned away, shaking his head, muttering.
Bran’s face was pale, his eyes huge. In the murky light, he looked very young and very scared. She looked up, expecting to see clouds covering the sun, but the sky was mostly clear. Still, she could’ve sworn the light had darkened just as they’d approached the gatehouse. She shifted uneasily in her saddle. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything, but something was telling her to put her heels to her horse and ride as far and as fast as the beast would carry her.
“They’re still in there,” whispered Bran. He tilted his head. The knights glanced at each other, and Bran looked back over his shoulder at each of them in turn. “They’ve been in there since it started. Can’t you hear them?”
Morla slapped her gloves against her hands. “Listen to me. I know this smell. It’s blight. If the druids barred themselves inside, they did it for a reason. We should send help back, but—” She broke off.
“I can hear them in there, and they’re screaming for help, Morla,” Bran whispered. Sweat was rolling down the sides of his face in great drops. “Please?”
Morla bit back a curse.
“The gates are barred from the inside, my lady.” Murdo rattled the gates. “See? There has to be someone inside.”
The old man limped forward, clinging to his staff, his bulbous nose and grizzled cheeks flushed nearly purple. “Here now, don’t be doing that. The callies and a’dares don’t want any folk disturbing the Grove whilst they’re gone—”
“They’re not gone—I can hear them calling,” Bran said again.
When was the last time you had a man? The thought intruded out of nowhere and Morla blinked. Beltane last, she thought, and suddenly it was that Beltane so very long ago and she was watching Lochlan as Meeve led him out of the wall, a look of triumph on her face. The memory stabbed through her, made her gasp, so that Lochlan looked at her strangely.
What’s wrong with me? she wondered. And then she remembered. The blight didn’t just kill your body. It affected the mind. Suddenly everywhere she looked she saw a pair of strong shoulders, muscled thighs, a broad back. “We have to leave. You all don’t understand. It’s playing tricks on us, it makes us think things are there that aren’t.” She planted herself in front of the gates. “Come on, all of you. We’ll send help back. But there’s nothing we can do here.”
Bran was staring at the gates, his fists balled. He stumbled a little as he reached the ground, eyes fixed on the gates as if he would burn his way in. Sweat beaded his forehead and pearled above his upper lip. “Please, oh, please,” he was murmuring, and she realized with a chill he was repeating what he heard. “We are wanted, Morla, oh, we are. They’re calling out to us. Please, Lochlan, Murdo—”
“I hear it, too,” put in Murdo.
“Bran, you have to believe me—” she began, but before she could protest further, the knights moved quickly.
The old man waved his staff and cried, “Those gates are warded—”
But the wood was rotted and any ward placed on the gates had rotted along with the wood. The blades cut through the iron bar on the inside like knives through soft butter. They kicked and pushed the splintered gates aside.
Morla put a hand on Bran’s arm. “Look, Bran, I know you can see and hear things the rest of us can’t, but I’ve seen blight and I know how dangerous it is.”
“Morla, they’re in some kind of trouble. How we can leave them in there?” Bran’s face was white. “You wait here if you want.”
Lochlan met Morla’s eyes, and in spite of her fear, she noticed at once how blue his eyes were, how the hair curled at his nape and the strong cords in his neck ran from chin to chest. It’s the blight, she thought. It’s only the blight. When was the last time you lay with a man? She felt sweat run down her back, down her sides and he said, “We’ll be right back.”
The old man shook his head, muttering, and Morla turned to him. “How long ago did they bolt themselves in?” Morla asked. “And what did you mean when you said my brother was one of them? One of who? A druid?”
The old man paused and met her eyes. “Of course he’s druid. Any fool could see that. I mean he’s a rogue druid. He’s got that written all over him, too.”
“What do you mean, a rogue druid? What’s that?”
The old man rolled his eyes. “They don’t teach anyone anything anymore, do they?”
From inside the court, she heard the unmistakable sounds of retching, and she didn’t wait for the old man to finish his answer. She sped into the courtyard to see Bran on his knees, vomiting on the cobblestones. Dust lay on abandoned items, spiders’ webs were thick in corners and the place smelled like moldy laundry. “Bran? Are you all right?” She whipped a small flask off her hip and pulled the cork off, then dampened a linen square. She waited till he finished retching, then handed it to him. “Here.” She looked at Lochlan, which was difficult, for the intense blue in his eyes, the breadth of his chest, even the hairs on the back of the hand that gripped the sword made her knees weak with need. “This is blight. It’s not good for him to be here.”
“I hear something now, too, chief. Coming from around there.” One of the other knights was g
esturing with his sword. He turned back to Lochlan, brow raised. “What should we do?”
“Leave,” pleaded Morla. “Let’s leave now.”
“I can hear them,” Bran wailed, pressing his hands flat against his temples. “Please,” his voice dropped to a whisper. “Please, we have to help them.”
“What do you want us to do, chief?” another repeated.
“Bran,” Morla said, smoothing back his hair, “This place is making you sick.”
His face contorted as he swung around on her and for a moment she was afraid he was going to wrap his hands around her throat. “Don’t you understand they need my help? They want my help.” With a sound that was something between a scream of rage and a cry for help, Bran staggered to his feet and stumbled off at a full run before anyone could stop him.
“Go after him,” cried Morla. The whole scene had taken on an air of unreality, as if crossing the threshold had let them into a different world all together. They rounded the corner of the main building and stopped so abruptly, Morla crashed into Lochlan. As their bodies made contact, she was acutely—preternaturally—aware of his solid strength. She felt a burst of heat between her legs strong enough to make her knees buckle. When their eyes met as he turned to make sure she was all right, she knew she blushed and his expression changed from concern to confusion.
Then she forgot everything as Lochlan moved aside. Morla gasped. The grove, small as it was, had been beautiful once, she saw that immediately; the trees arranged around a central ring of stones. Care had been taken to accommodate each tree’s shape and color, so that light-barked birch stood out against the darker holly; slim ash behind fat pines, oaks like sentries on either side of the opening.
But otherwise, the grove was hideous. Cancerous sores covered even the straightest of the oaks and the ashes, the bark of the alders bubbled and wept yellowish slime. The hollies were all black. But the apple tree was the worst, for bloated apples hung like living drops of blood, bright red and pulsing, as if comprised of beating hearts. A subtle smell of rot pervaded the air. It was the worst case of blight she’d ever seen. “Bran?” called Morla. “Bran, come out of there at once.”
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