“I’m sorry. I was looking in on Catrione and saw you sitting here. Thought I’d come and say good morning—I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He bowed and took a step back.
You should be nicer to him. “How is Catrione?”
The look he gave her as he answered was one of doglike gratitude. “She…” His expression darkened. “The same. She comes and goes, in and out. One moment I think she knows me, the next, she babbles and gibbers. They tell me this is the way it is after an experience like hers. Young Bran—he was too out of it, I suppose, while it was all going on. He can’t tell us a thing.”
Morla was silent. “So no one knows what happened?”
Fengus shook his head. “Not till she comes out of it and can tell us. But even if she comes out, she may not be able to tell us. Apparently she didn’t go in prepared the way they’re supposed to. And she didn’t have another druid with her—she was with some lad who was discovered here one night under very strange circumstances.” He ran a hand through his grizzled hair. Morla felt a wave of real compassion. Whatever else he was, the man appeared to genuinely care about his daughter.
“I hope she recovers, too,” Morla said softly.
Fengus took a deep breath, then said, “Morla, I’m a plain-speaking man, not like your mother, meaning her no disrespect, you understand. But I lack her wit and her way with words. So I’ll come right out and tell you what I’ve been thinking, what your mother’s been thinking—”
“I know she wants me to marry you.”
“She told you that?”
“She didn’t have to.”
There was a long silence. Fengus squared his shoulders and lowered his head. “I can see what you think of that idea.”
Morla felt herself flush, felt the warmth spread across her scalp.
“I know I’m old enough to be your father. But my last Beltane bride was less than twenty, so you’ve no need to fear that I cannot perform my obligations. The land needs us, Morla. We can’t let those foreigners take Brynhyvar. Your mother, goddess save me, is right. Between the two of us, we’ll bring the other lairds together. It will be a good thing, Morla. You’ll see. I’ll never be unkind. There’ll always be a home for you and your brother.”
Morla looked down at her knotted, white-knuckled hands. You should be nicer to him. He saved your life. “I—I am—I’m not unaware of the great honor you do me, Fengusda, by asking me to be your wife, nor am I unaware of my responsibilities as my mother’s heir. I told my mother I’d think about it. I’ll tell you the same thing.”
Fengus nodded. “All right, Morla. But Lughnasa’s coming. I’d like to take a bride then. I think your mother would like to see a wedding, too.” He bowed and strode away, his shoulders thrust aggressively forward. He was a man who was used to getting his way by one means or another, and Meeve had frustrated him for twenty years. Now he saw an acceptable ending in sight. Morla didn’t feel so much wooed as pursued. She gathered herself up and hobbled out of the garden, into the quiet corridor and down to Lochlan’s room.
In the doorway, she met Bride making her rounds. The woman met the question on her face with the same soft smile. “No change, I’m afraid, my dear. No change yet.”
Morla limped inside the room. For weeks now, Lochlan had lain, gripped by fever, shaken by chills, locked inside some dark place no one could go. Twice the druid women had attempted to call him out of it, but both times, they’d back away, shaking their heads, saying his body was not yet strong enough. Increasingly, discussions about his recovery were prefaced by “if” rather than “when.” That he’d survived this long was deemed miraculous, and Morla knew some of the druids believed he would cross to the Summerlands with Meeve, her champion and protector into death.
But he’s not Meeve’s champion. She sank down on the chair beside him and leaned forward, hands on her chin, watching his drawn profile. The window was open, and a soft breeze blew through it, ruffling the white linen curtains, ruffling the long curls around his face. She touched his cheek with the back of her hand. Stubble darkened his jaw. She traced his lips with her finger, kissed his cheek. What would he say to do? she wondered. Marry Fengus? Beltane marriages could be entered into at any of the four high festivals of the year, though Beltane was the traditional time. She could agree to that, perhaps. A Beltane marriage, begun at Lughnasa, for a year and a day. But what if he came to and heard she’d married Fengus? What would he think?
That you’d done what was right for the land. The voice sounded suspiciously like Meeve’s. When you marry the land, you’ll understand. Bees buzzed outside the window in the roses that twined around the frame and the sweet scent filled the sickroom. Her heels throbbed. Maybe there was something in what Meeve was trying to tell her. She remembered the looks on the faces of the hungry people of Dalraida. A marriage alliance to Fengus—if it strengthened the land—wasn’t that worth it?
But where did that leave Lochlan?
All the women love Lochlan. Lochlan loves all the women. Again, Meeve’s voice echoed in her head, stinging as the memory of the brand. In all ten years, he’d never sent her a message, never found a reason to ride north. A Beltane marriage had a limit, after all—a year and a day wasn’t forever. She drew a deep breath and clasped her hands, then leaned over and pressed a kiss on Lochlan’s lips. “I love you, Lochlan. If you can, come back to me. But if you can’t, these three things I bid you keep…” Her throat filled and tears ran down her face. She leaned closer and kissed his jaw, then his ear, and whispered, “The memory of merry days and quiet nights, quiet days and merry nights, of honor unstained by word or deed—” her voice broke “—and all the love I bear for thee.” She kissed him once more on his unresponsive mouth, then stumbled, blinded by tears, out of the room and down the corridor to learn that Meeve had crossed to the Summerlands at last.
Cwynn heard the gulls crying and smelled the powdery sand beneath his cheek before he opened his eyes to see he was lying on the beach just below his grandfather’s keep. It was just before dawn and already the birds were fighting over the refuse washed up by the tide. He was lying in it, he realized, and his clothing, what remained of it, was soaking wet. He had seashells and sand in his hair and under his fingernails—all ten of his fingernails. He sat up with a start.
Catrione, he thought with an unexpected pang. And Bran—his brother—what happened to him? Bran had been so close to death, he’d been surprised when Catrione managed to make him move. But he’d been too busy fighting the sidhe to know if they’d really got away. He felt around his neck. The flat gold disk was there, just as he remembered before he’d gone into TirNa’lugh. “Let me not go back there again,” he muttered and a soft breeze ruffled his hair. But he had his hand back and he had his disk back. He looked up at his grandfather’s keep. White smoke belched from the kitchen chimneys. He was ravenously hungry, he realized, his stomach felt shrunken, almost as if it clung to his spine. His tongue felt shriveled in his mouth. How’d I get here? he wondered. His last memory was of bolting up the steps and out the door, through a greenwood and toward home. HOME—he remembered how the word had reverberated through his mind, pounding like goblin drums in his bones. Home…Home…Home. No wonder he’d found himself here. He must’ve washed up on the tide.
He felt weak and worn as he tried to get to his feet and he stumbled a few times, collapsing into the powdery sand. Catrione and Bran had gone up the steps before he had, he remembered, trying to recall details, and he’d seen no sign of them—not that he’d paused to look. What was the name of that grove, he thought—the one he’d gone to, the one where he’d killed that HORRIBLE MONSTROUS THING?
The image of it blazed up out of nowhere, searing itself back into his brain, just as it had before Catrione had erased it. The inhuman creature rose up once more, renewed, expanded its segmented body writhing, eyes shining with hate. “You killed me,” it hissed silently. “Now it’s my turn to kill you.”
With a cry, Cwynn collapsed onto the sand, clawing at hi
s eyes with both hands. He heard the creature laughing. That’s what it wants, he thought, and with every ounce of willpower he possessed, he scrabbled deep into the sand, burying his arms to the armpits. But the creature didn’t stop. It danced and capered and gibbered through his head. Maddened, Cwynn twisted and contorted on the sand, bellowing like a bull as a pale sun rose. His cries roused the keep and the village, and from somewhere far away, he heard voices calling, knew that people reached him, touched him, tried to help him. He felt himself lifted and carried, and put into a wide bed. A soft hand covered his head, a firm palm lay over his heart. As if from far away, he heard Argael call his name.
It won’t let me come back to you, Cwynn tried to say, over and over again but the creature only howled and spit poison or small needles into his mind that stung and made him shake and sweat and cling to the ropes that bound him to the bed. It won’t let me come back. Again and again he tried to break free, fighting it with all his might, but the thing was strong and clever and had an unending repertoire of torments.
“Come back, Cwynn. Come back to us. We need you, Cwynn. We need you.” Another voice was breaking through the cacophony, this one clearer and brighter. “Please come back, Cwynn. Come back and live with your boys. Come back and be with me.”
It was Ariene’s voice, reaching out through the mists, through the fog. For the first time, since the thing had come back, its face flickered and Cwynn realized he didn’t have to see it. He could look through it, he realized, as if it weren’t there.
“Please, Cwynn, please come back, we need you. The boys need you. Don’t go to the Summerlands yet.”
“I don’t want to go to the Summerlands.” He opened his eyes and looked through the creature, and the remnants of the apparition dissolved into nothingness. Ariene’s face appeared, looking down at him, and he saw he was in his grandfather’s room, lying in his grandfather’s bed on sweat-soaked linen, his arms and legs tied spread-eagled to the posts. At least a week’s growth of beard sprouted from his chin. He was naked and so was she, and a small puddle of semen lay in the shallow bowl of his belly. She wiped the corner of her mouth, and he realized what she’d done to bring him back. He looked deep into her blue eyes and felt the same kind of peace he felt when he looked out across the sea. “I want to stay here. With you.”
19
Sunlight burned Catrione’s cheek, waking her with a start. She tried to open her eyes and realized her eyelids were held closed by a bandage. I don’t remember hurting my eyes, she thought. And then she remembered the drops from the Hag’s cauldron. She drew a deep breath and smelled lavender, soap and sun-warm wood. Her last memory was of collapsing into her father’s arms. She lay flat on her back and wondered where she was.
“Catrione? Are you back with us, dearie?” Baeve’s voice spoke from somewhere above her and to the right. Catrione turned in the direction of the sound and realized she could perceive Baeve—not as person, but as swirling colors and patterns of light against a midnight background. A chill went through her as she looked around the room. She remembered how everything appeared in TirNa’lugh—all shapes and shadows and blazing colors. What will you pay for the vision of the Hag?
Catrione pushed herself up in the bed. She put out her hand and the older woman wrapped it in both of hers, her grip gentle and strong, comforting and kind, all at once. “Baeve?” Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, her throat dry. “Is that you? How long—how long have I been here?”
“It’s me, Catrione. You’ve been in and out a long time. It’s nearly Lughnasa.”
“MidSummer’s passed?”
“Weeks ago.” She released Catrione’s hand with a gentle pat. “Here, dear, drink some water.”
A goblet was brought to her lips, and Catrione swallowed. “What about Bran?”
“Bran’s fine, dear. He doesn’t remember much but he’s making the brothers mad with his questions. He’s taken to following Athair Emnoch around like a puppy. He’ll be fine. It was good Meeve had a chance to see him.”
“And my father? Is he still here?”
“Oh, no, he left after Meeve’s funeral.”
“Meeve’s gone.” A pang went through Catrione. No wonder the world felt so different, somehow. It wasn’t just the blindness, it wasn’t just the strange patterns of color and shimmering light. No wonder she had such a sense something was missing. A great bright spirit had gone back to the Summerlands and the world was more the shadowy for it. She’d be back, Catrione knew, some day when the time was right and the world needed her again. But Meeve had wreaked her own kind of havoc. She had lessons to learn before she came back.
“The poison had done its work, I’m afraid. You knew she’d been poisoned by her own steward? By the time we got her, there wasn’t much we could do, I’m afraid—or that we were allowed to do.” Bride finished with a sour little laugh.
“Allowed to do? What do you mean?”
There was a long silence while Bride bustled around the room, moving back and forth, her footsteps sharp and angry. “Bride?” Catrione reached out and touched her arm, her movement as precise as a sighted person’s, and Bride froze and looked at her more closely.
“Now that you’re awake at last, your father hoped you’d be at Eaven Avellach by Lughnasa. If you leave in the next sennight, you can be there for the wedding.”
“What wedding?” asked Catrione, momentarily diverted, just as she suspected Bride wanted her to be. “Fengus-da is getting married?”
“He was hoping you’d be able to officiate, though that might be too much to expect, yet. But, still—you might see—”
“Who’s he marrying?” Catrione cut through the older woman’s prattle.
“Meeve’s daughter, of course. Deirdre’s twin.” Bride was on her knees beside the bed, transferring folded laundry into a chest. “Her name’s Morla. She was married before, of course, and has a son in fostering. I know it’s what Meeve wanted.”
“You don’t approve?” There was something the woman wasn’t saying. Catrione could see a small figure eight, in ugly shades of muddy green and brownish yellow, swirl in the area of the woman’s throat.
“My approval wasn’t asked,” Bride answered, and the colors flared clear for just an instant, as something of her true feelings slipped out. Then the colors darkened, the green almost to black, the yellow to jaundiced brown. “You should go, Catrione. Your father was beside himself with worry.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Bride?” Catrione sat up, clasping her arms around her knees. “I can see there’s something you’re holding back.”
Bride froze on her knees. Her spine went stiff, she turned her head over her shoulder. “Catrione.” She paused, her voice heavy. “Catrione, I don’t know what you remember, or what you realize, but your eyes—your eyes are gone, Catrione. There’s no chance you’ll regain your sight. I don’t mean to be harsh. I just don’t want to give false—”
“Oh, Bride.” Catrione sighed. “That’s not it, and you know it.” She patted the side of the bed, then held out her hand. “Please—”
From somewhere down the hall, a door slammed and women’s voices echoed. Bride cocked her head, went to the door, then shut it. She hurried over to the bed and knelt beside Catrione, picked up her hand, and gently pushed her back against the pillow. “That’s Niona. Listen to me, Catrione. I don’t have much time. Things are different now—things have changed. It’s not just Meeve’s passing—most of our kind are gone. The goblins attacked Ardagh—the night of the battle here, or thereabouts. Except for a few druids sprinkled here and there, we’re the only grove left in all of Brynhyvar. Niona’s in charge. And things are different.” She pressed Catrione’s hand, as if to imprint her words.
“Please—please, wait. There’s so much I want to know—there’s so much I want to ask you. What about Cwynn?”
“No sign of him, Catrione. I suggested we send to Far Nearing—wasn’t that where he came from? But Niona would have none of that.”
“Wh
y not? He’s Meeve’s son—”
“Oh, child, you don’t know the half of it.” Baeve sighed and patted Catrione’s shoulder. “Believe me, child, get yourself beneath your father’s roof as soon as you can. Niona’s making so many changes—” Bride stopped as footsteps marched up and down the corridor past Catrione’s door.
“What kind of changes?”
The bed creaked, the mattress dipped, and the muddy light moved across a flat field of varying shades of gray as Baeve stood up. “Catrione, Niona’s blaming you. It’s better for everyone, I think, for you to go now you’re awake….”
“Leave? Bride, you don’t understand I—I’m not injured, I’m not disabled. I can see…I can see you, I can see the window…”
“Drink the water, child. I’ll be back with some gruel. Sip it slowly, now. It’ll be good for the baby.”
“What baby?” Catrione bolted upright.
“The one you’re carrying, dearie. The one with which you’re nearly two months’ gone. Rest now, child. I’ll fetch you something to eat.” Then she was gone.
The quick patter of Baeve’s footsteps faded down the corridor. Catrione sank back against her pillows, the sheets clenched between her hands. Whatever had happened in TirNa’lugh, nothing in this world was better. The idea of a marriage between her father and a girl the same age as Deirdre made her vaguely ill. Or maybe that was just the result of the child she was carrying. She touched her stomach, but her abdomen was flat. But beneath her hand, she felt a throb, faint as an echo but definitely there. Cwynn, she thought. Cwynn’s the father.
She remembered the bargain they had made before they went to TirNa’lugh. Before she went to Fengus-da, she had to keep her promise to Cwynn. He was a good father, she thought, or would’ve been. But wouldn’t I know if he, too, were in the Summerlands? She could feel Deirdre’s spirit, dark and maroon, she could even feel Meeve’s, all gold and copper. She could feel Bog’s, pure and crystal. But she couldn’t feel Cwynn’s.
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