He heard a shrill scream, a boy’s ragged cry, and he looked up as the rocks above shuddered and groaned. Gremlins rushed out, burrowing up and into the crevices, heeding his previous bidding to keep the great structure standing. Energy jolted through him and the mortal lost his footing and tumbled backward onto the floor. He rolled and clung to the floor as it tilted, shuddered and settled back into place. He got to his feet and rushed at Timias, who caught the mortal’s upraised hand easily in his own and began to twist it with all the new-made magic coursing in his veins. As the bones began to crunch, he saw the mortal’s eyes widen almost comically as he realized what had happened. Timias let the mortal’s hand go.
The mortal realized his hook was now a flesh and blood hand, as much a part of him as the one he’d been born with, and his jaw dropped.
“Silver’s not possible in Faerie anymore,” hissed Timias, and he coiled himself, ready to strike, when Loriana cried from the top of the staircase:
“Don’t kill him!”
“What?” Timias looked back at her, over his shoulder.
“The magic’s done—the mortal threw the silver on top of the globe—but it didn’t do what you said it would do, Timias. It didn’t fit over it—it melted, in a way. I let the druid take the boy. And you can’t—you mustn’t kill this one.”
“Why not?”
The mortal scrabbled backward, and Timias saw the cloak of shadows float around his shoulders. Clever Catrione, he thought. She was the one who noticed everything. No wonder the Hag had rewarded her so well.
“Because,” said Loriana, her expression soft, “he’s the new High King. You have to let him live, Timias. He’s my Consort. Don’t you see?”
Thunderstruck, Timias swallowed hard, resisting the impulse to crumple to his knees. “A sidhe doesn’t take a mortal as a consort, Loriana.”
“But my heir is already conceived, Timias.” Loriana looked at him over her shoulder and held out her hand, the other caressing her lower belly. “We made great magic, indeed. I think there’s more than one swimming in me already. I can take who I choose. You said I’d be the greatest Queen ever seen in Faerie. And this mortal is the first of my Consorts. Don’t you see, Timias? When one dies, I get a new one.” She put her hands over her mouth and giggled.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Cwynn scrambled to his feet and bolted up the steps after Catrione. “I’m going home!”
His footsteps faded. Timias looked at Loriana. “You let him go?”
“He’ll be back, when they mate him to the land. Maybe I’ll keep him for a while. Just because.” She turned and began to walk up the winding steps, beckoning to Timias. “Just because I can. After all—” they reached the top of the steps, where the moonstone shimmered beneath the fine silver caul “—everything is different now. You were right, I can feel it.” She threw her arms wide. “I can’t wait.” Timias watched as she bent over the caul, a knife twisting in his gut. How could this have happened? he wondered. She was supposed to choose him. He was her savior—he was the creator of the Caul that saved Faerie from goblins and mortals and the destructive power of silver. He was the builder of the new magic. She held out her hand to him. “What’s wrong, Timias? You look very glum. You were right. Imagine what all the Council will say now? You’ve given us a place to live, a means to make a new world—you should be smiling. I almost feel I can fly.”
“Then I am pleased, Most Glorious Majesty.” He put his hand over his heart. He felt empty and drained and the wound beneath his tail itched. “But perhaps I, too, should go to the Deep Forest, await my time of changing—”
“No!” she cried, taking his hand. “I want you here with me, Timias. You created all this. You created this.” She brought his hand to her belly and he felt, unmistakably, the flicker of life. One, no, two, he thought, and then was troubled to feel a third. He remembered Deirdre’s child. No, he decided, he wouldn’t think about that anymore. He twined her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Now, Glorious Majesty, shall we decide how best to rid ourselves of the goblins before the sun completely fades?”
“I will rely on you, Timias,” Loriana said. “I will rely on you to make the goblins go away.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then strolled out of the room, humming a little to herself. She looked, he thought, like a cat who’d had a dish of cream.
For a long moment, he stared at the Caul, as it shimmered on the moonstone globe. The sky above had turned to violet, the goblin drums were beginning to beat. They were coming back, he knew, gorged on druid flesh, strong in a new way, just as the sidhe were. Only they didn’t realize that the sidhe had the advantage. For a moment, he was tempted to rip the Caul off the moonstone, to let the goblins rampage and plunder, to let the trees of Faerie burn, the trees of Shadow fall to blight. But then it would all be nothing, and he would never see his dream of Faerie all powerful become reality. He glanced out the door into the courtyard, which was washed in lilac light and echoed with the sound of Loriana’s singing. She carries the future, he thought, and that decided him.
If wise councilor she wanted, then wise councilor he would be. With a final look at the Caul, he strode purposefully from the chamber. Just over the threshold, he hesitated. He looked back inside the room. “Doors,” he murmured. A set of brass-bound doors appeared immediately, almost before the final sound had faded from his lips. “Sealed.” A click and the lock was cast. That would do for now, he decided. With a final glance, he strode away, to plan Macha’s defeat.
Run, run, the goblins come—run away from goblin drums—run away fast, run away run, run away, run away, run away run. The old rhyme pounded through her brain, even as she stumbled, half carrying, half dragging Bran over the border and into a gray void that stank of blood and excrement. Catrione tripped and fell, hands extended to break her fall. She recoiled as they landed in something soft and squishy, something that reeked of the charnel pits. Had she somehow brought the boy into a goblin-hold?
As the horror of that possibility crashed over her, a bird cawed above her head, and she felt the rush of wings past her cheek and the scent of carrion on the breeze. She felt a rush of air overhead and looked up, seeing nothing but the gray blank, even as the harsh cries of crows filled her ears. She heard trees bending overhead, felt raindrops pelt her cheek. She raised her hands to her face and felt her eye sockets, felt empty scabbed pits. She really was blind.
“Cailleach?” It was Bran’s voice, dry and hoarse. He sounded as if he’d not had anything to drink in days. Which, she realized, he probably hadn’t.
“My name’s Catrione,” she said. “Your sister, Deirdre—she—she was my friend.”
“She told me you were coming,” he rasped.
“What do you mean?” she asked, feeling the splash of rain drops on her cheek. She was blind, and it was raining.
“She came to me. When I was down there, or over there, or wherever it was. She told me to hold on, that she was sending her best friend in all the world to get me and bring me home. She told me I just had to hang on a bit more.”
Scarcely aware she did so, Catrione sank down, feeling the rocky earth beneath her fingers. The soil was chopped and hacked; it felt raw and newly turned. Her groping fingers came to something rubbery and gelatinous and she flinched again. She felt the sharp edge of something that felt like a dagger, then realized it was the broken head of a spear. She turned half to the right and felt a sword, the pommel still clutched in a rigor-stiff hand. “Bran, do you have any idea where we are?”
“No,” he said, and she heard him gulp. “But this rain tastes good. It looks like there was a battle here. There’s all kinds of stuff lying around—and bodies, too.”
She took a deep breath and was nearly overcome by the smell. “Is it day? Night?”
“It’s gray. I can’t really tell.”
“What kind of soldiers? Can you see what they’re wearing?”
“I see a lot of purple-blue. I think our fellows beat the Lacquileans. Looks like a lot o
f foreign bodies left lying where they fell.”
The wind blew harder and Catrione tried to gather her scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. She had to do something, before both of them began to experience the aftereffects of so much time in TirNa’lugh. They’d escaped Tiermuid and the goblins only to find themselves lost and alone in the middle of what seemed like a battlefield, surrounded by the hacked-apart dead. The rain trickled down her neck, seeped down her back. She heard Bran gulping. “We can’t stay here. Do you feel strong enough to walk?”
“I feel a little better. I’m so hungry, though, so weak. I feel…thin.”
You’re not thin; you’re practically transparent, she thought. “We’re not likely to find anything appetizing here unless we turn to crows. If you can lead me, maybe we can find a road.” They had to reach a place of safety before the backlash hit them, but she didn’t want to frighten him further. She was alarmed to feel how hot and dry his flesh, how sharp his bones. There was almost nothing left of him, she thought. He still might die, but at least if he died in this world, he’d go to the Summerlands and come back when he was ready, probably to face Tiermuid in some other guise again. The boy had a brave, bright spirit. He didn’t deserve such a fate as an eternity in Herne’s Hunt.
“Catrione, I think I see a dog—a white dog.” Wispy as his voice was, Bran sounded excited and Catrione smiled inwardly. There was a chance, she thought. A chance they both might make it back. If they could reach a place of safety before the backlash hit them both, they might both make it through. “I wish you could see him. He’s over there on that wagon, and he’s wagging his tail. Hey, where’d he go? He was just right there!”
Catrione pushed her hair out of her face just as she felt a pointed nose nudge her thigh. “Bog?” Catrione whispered. “Bog, is that really you?” Another nudge, another lick and a flat head pushed up against the palm of her hand as tears filled her ruined eyes and leaked down her face. “I think we’ll be all right, Bran.” She smiled, despite the rain and the cold, and the scent of death rising all around. Despite knowing Cwynn might be lost forever. “Bog’s come to take us home.”
18
“I owe you my life, Fengus-da.”
In the antechamber of her mother’s sickroom, Morla paused, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet, chewing her lower lip. Ever since the battle, when Fengus, with a ragged army cobbled together mostly from refugees, had overcome the Lacquileans, Meeve had said those very words in Morla’s hearing at least a dozen times. It was usually accompanied by a sidelong glance.
Morla was indeed grateful that Fengus had rescued her, but she felt no wish to spend any time at all in his company. She spent most of her time, in fact, in a chair by Lochlan’s bed, where Lochlan clung to life by the slenderest of threads. A Lacquilean arrow had buried itself in his back as they’d fled the camp. Morla only cared whether or not Lochlan lived, though she knew exactly how Meeve expected her to repay Fengus.
“Come in, dear.” Bride, the pigeon-breasted still-wife with a chin like a rabbit’s stood in the doorway, smiling.
“They said my mother was asking for me?”
Bride nodded. As Morla limped past, the still-wife touched her arm and said beneath her breath, “We don’t think she has much longer.”
Morla nodded. The poisoned perfume had done its work. Meeve’s health continued to decline and in the days since the battle, had taken a precipitous turn for the worse. Now she lay, noticeably fading day by day, her pale flesh falling off her bones. In the bedroom door, she paused.
Fengus was sitting in the chair beside her mother’s bed, hunched over, Meeve’s pale hand sandwiched between both of his. He looked up, then down, when he saw Morla, and jumped to his feet awkwardly. Morla herself glanced down, for to make matters worse, Fengus seemed smitten with her. But I love Lochlan, she thought as she nodded a greeting to the king, then bent to kiss her mother’s forehead. “Good morning, Mother.”
The summer sun was less than kind as it streamed across the dying queen’s face but Meeve seemed to crave the warmth. Soon she’ll be in the Summerlands. And then what would happen was an open question. The victory over the Lacquileans had bought them a little time, Morla knew. But the Lacquileans weren’t fools. They knew Meeve was dying. And once she was dead, they would be back. It was critical a strong leader took control and Fengus saw himself as that strong leader. As, apparently, did Meeve, who smiled up at Morla and took her hand. “Good morning, daughter. I see you’re walking better today. Have you looked in on Bran?”
Morla nodded as she perched gingerly on the edge of Meeve’s bed. “He’s better, they say. He’s stopped eating so much.” She turned her back to Fengus and smiled at her mother.
“Well,” said Fengus. “I’ll leave you two alone. Good morning, Morla. Perhaps I’ll see you later.”
“Perhaps.”
With a brief bow he was gone, and Meeve raised an eyebrow as she shifted restlessly on the pillows, her mouth pinched in her skeletal face. “You might be nicer to him, Morla. He did save your life.”
“I don’t want to encourage him.”
“I owe my throne to Fengus,” Meeve said. “And you owe him your life.”
“Then let the druids set a head-price, Mother, and let him have it. Twice, three times, as far as I care. Mother, I know what you want. But I don’t intend to marry Fengus. I love Lochlan. I always have. And now that I’m branded, I can’t be High Queen.”
Meeve drew a deep breath and pressed her lips together so tightly they nearly disappeared. She shook her head. “Stupid girl.” She waved her hand. “After all this, after all you’ve seen in the last weeks—no, the last year—after everything that’s happened how can you not see what threatens us? Have you a mind to send tribute to such a land—”
“I do see what threatens us. I understand we must stand united. I swear to you now so long as I draw breath in this body, I’ll never make war with Fengus—unprovoked, I mean. But I don’t want to marry him.”
“You were happy with Fionn.”
“But I love Lochlan.”
Meeve’s mouth twitched and she snorted softly. “All the women love Lochlan. Lochlan loves all the women. And besides…” Her voice trailed off. “From what they tell me, they expect him to be waiting for me in the Summerlands.” The queen’s bone-white face softened. “Morla, I understand you love Lochlan. But I think you have to accept what’s happening. The Wheel’s turning, his work is done, just like mine, obviously. And Fengus wants to marry you. You made quite an impression.” She chuckled.
Morla opened her mouth, then shut it.
“You know, Morla,” continued Meeve, “you’re the only one left. Deirdre is dead, poor thing, Bran’s mind may be gone and Cwynn’s lost….”
It cut Morla to the quick to think that Bran could be gone forever. As Meeve stared out the window, Morla spoke over the drone of the bees. “Isn’t there something the druids here can do about Bran, Mother? Some way to find his essence in Faerie? I know they said they’d try—”
“They have tried, Morla—they assure me they’ll try again. I’m past the point I can force anyone to do anything.” She lay back against the pillows, and then, just as suddenly as her strength seem to fade, she was back, her eyes as piercing as ever. “All I ever wanted was to leave this land settled and at peace. Now it seems I shall do neither.” She plucked the sheet with one thin hand. “I understand Fengus is not your first choice. So does he, poor fellow. But he is chieftain-king of Allovale, Morla, what about a Beltane marriage? A year and a day—see how you like him? Maybe at the end you’ll find he’s not so bad?”
“I don’t want—”
“Don’t you understand it’s not about what you want?” Meeve shot upright, eyes flashing fire. “Maybe that’s what’s the problem—you’re not married to the Land as I am, as Fengus is. You were Fionn’s spouse, not the Land’s. Maybe you can’t really understand what’s at stake.” Meeve sank back, a fine sheen of sweat on her cheeks, but her e
yes still burned.
“I’ll think about it, Mother,” Morla answered. “I make no promises.”
She expected her mother to protest, to continue, but to Morla’s surprise, Meeve only sighed. She turned her face into the sunlight, and closed her papery lids. “I’m tired, Morla. I have to rest. Keep an eye out for your brother—your brother Cwynn. Goddess only knows what he’ll think of all this. If he’s wise, he’ll head straight back to Far Nearing.”
What a strange thing for Mother to say. She wanted to ask what Meeve meant, but Meeve turned on her side, and curled up like a child, her palm pillowed on her cheek. “Rest well,” was all she said.
Meeve spoke when her hand was on the latch. “Morla?”
“Yes, Mother?”
“I didn’t know Briecru was stealing the food I was sending you. I didn’t realize you were starving. I thought you were being selfish.”
“I know, Mother. Lochlan told me.”
But the only answer was silence. Morla looked back. Meeve was still, and she wondered if her mother had really spoken. With a heavy feeling in her chest, Morla made her way out to the garden. She sank down beside the fountain, where the speckled fish darted under the lilies. Meeve’s political instincts were unerring—a union between a princess of Mochmorna and a king of Allovale would indeed be a clear signal to the scattered lairds and chieftains that Brynhyvar should unite. But, oh, at what a cost? She gazed across the fountain, to the window she knew was Lochlan’s. The window was open, the white linen curtains waved gently in the breeze. Cream-white roses twined around the frame. She felt no connection to anything that seemed to require such a sacrifice but her mother. It would be one thing if Lochlan were dead, she knew. But he wasn’t. He clung to life, just as she clung to the hope of their love.
“Morla?”
Fengus’s rough voice startled her out of her reverie. She turned, startled, and gasped, for he appeared to be a big black shadow blotting out the sun.
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