by T.A. Barron
He shook his head. “Your mother and father loved each other deeply, and did not want to part. If Tuatha had not commanded your father to stay, I believe he would have sailed with her. Moreover, I suspect that Elen could sense trouble brewing, and did not want to leave him. So they lingered long before parting. Too long. Your mother was already in her ninth month when at last she set sail.”
Feeling something warm against my chest, I looked down at my tunic. Beneath the folds, the Galator was glowing faintly, making a circle of green light over my heart. Swiftly, I covered the place with my hand, hoping that Cairpré would not notice and interrupt his tale.
“Soon after the ship had launched, a terrible storm arose on the waves. It was the kind of storm that few sailors since Odysseus have survived. The ship was battered, nearly drowned, and forced back to shore. That very night, huddled in the wreckage of the ship, your mother gave birth.” He paused, thinking. “And she named the boy Emrys, a Celtic name from her homeland.”
“So that is my true name?”
“Not necessarily! Your true name may not be your given name.”
I gave a nod of understanding. “Emrys has never felt right to me. But how do I find my true name?”
The deep-set eyes pondered me. “Life will find it for you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“With luck, you will in time.”
“Well, my true name is a mystery, but at least now I know I belong in Fincayra.”
Cairpré shook his gray head. “You do, and you do not.”
“But you said I was born here!”
“Your place of birth may not be where you belong.”
Feeling a surge of frustration, I pulled the Galator out of my tunic. Its jeweled center, still glowing faintly, flared in the light of the fire. “She gave me this! Does this not prove I belong here?”
A new depth of sadness filled the pools beneath Cairpré’s brows. “The Galator belongs here, yes. Whether or not you belong here, I do not know.”
Exasperated, I demanded, “Must I destroy the castle and the king and all his army, before you will tell me I belong here?”
“I may tell you that one day,” answered the poet calmly. “If you tell me the same.”
His demeanor, if not his words, soothed me somewhat. I replaced the pendant under my tunic. Feeling again the pain between my shoulder blades, I stretched my arms out wide.
Cairpré observed me knowingly. “So you too feel the pain. In that way you are certainly a son of Fincayra.”
“This pain in my shoulders? How should that make any difference?”
“It has made all the difference in the world.” Seeing the confusion in my face, he once again leaned back on his stool, clasped his knee, and began to tell a story.
“In the far, far reaches of time, the people of Fincayra walked upon the land, as they do now. Yet they also could do something else. They also could fly.”
My eyes widened.
“The gift of flight was theirs. They had lovely white wings, the old legends say, sprouting from between their shoulder blades. So they could soar with the eagles and sail with the clouds. Wings of white to endless height. They could venture high above the lands of Fincayra, or even to lands beyond.”
For an instant, I could almost feel the flutter of the feisty hawk who would swoop through the air before landing on my shoulder. Trouble had so enjoyed the gift of flight! I missed him, almost as much as I missed Rhia.
I smiled sadly at Cairpré. “So the Fincayrans had both the ears of demons and the wings of angels.”
He looked amused. “That’s a poetic way to put it.”
“What happened to their wings?”
“They lost them, though it’s not clear how. That is one story that has not survived, though I would gladly give away half of my books just to hear it. Whatever happened, it took place so long ago that many Fincayrans have never even heard that their ancestors could fly. Or if they have, they simply dismiss it as untrue.”
I watched the poet. “But you believe it’s true.”
“I do.”
“I know someone else who would believe it. My friend Rhia. She would love to be able to fly.” I bit my lip. “First, though, I must save her! If she still lives.”
“What happened to her?”
“Carried off by goblins! She tricked them into taking her instead of me, though what they really wanted was the Galator. She is probably at the Shrouded Castle by now.”
Cairpré tilted his head, frowning. From that angle his face looked like a stern statue, made of stone rather than flesh. At last he spoke, his resonant voice filling the room so crowded with books.
“Do you know the prophecy of the giants’ dance?”
I tried to recall it. “Only when giants make dance in the hall, Shall every . . .”
“Barrier.”
“Shall every barrier crumble and fall. But I don’t have any hope of destroying the castle! All I can hope to do is save my friend.”
“And what if that requires destroying the Shrouded Castle?”
“Then all is lost.”
“No doubt you are correct. Destroying the castle would destroy Rhita Gawr’s presence in Fincayra. And neither he nor Stangmar is about to let that happen! A warrior as great as Hercules would find it impossible. Even if he carried some weapon of enormous power.”
Suddenly an idea struck me. “Perhaps the Galator is the key! It is, after all, the last Treasure, the one that Stangmar has been searching for.”
Cairpré’s shaggy mane wagged from side to side. “We know very little about the Galator.”
“Can you at least tell me what its powers are?”
“No. Except that they are described in the ancient texts as vast beyond knowing.”
“You’re no help at all.”
“Too true.” Cairpré’s sad face brightened only a little. “I can, however, give you my own theory about the Galator.”
“Tell me!”
“I believe that its powers, whatever they are, respond to love.”
“Love?”
“Yes.” The poet’s gaze rambled over his shelves of books. “You shouldn’t be so surprised! Stories about the power of love abound.” He stroked his chin. “As a start, I believe the Galator glows in the presence of love. Do you recall what we were talking about when it started shining under your tunic?”
I hesitated. “Was it . . . my mother?”
“Yes. Elen of the Sapphire Eyes. The woman who loved you enough to give up everything in her life in order to save yours! That, if you really want to know the truth, is why she left Fincayra.”
For a long while, I could find no words to speak. Finally, I said regretfully, “What an ass I was! Never calling her my mother, never putting her pain ahead of my own. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am.”
Cairpré lowered his eyes. “As long as you stay in Fincayra, you will never have that chance. When she left, she swore she would never come back.”
“She should never have given me the Galator. I know absolutely nothing about how it works or what it can do.”
“I just told you my theory.”
“Your theory is mad! You say it glows in the presence of love. Well, you should know that I’ve seen it glow once before since I came back to Fincayra. In the presence of a bloodthirsty spider!”
Cairpré froze. “Not . . . the Grand Elusa?”
“Yes.”
He almost smiled. “That strengthens my theory all the more! Do not be fooled by the Grand Elusa’s alarming appearance. The truth is, her love is as great as her appetite.”
I shrugged. “Even if your theory is correct, what good does it do? It doesn’t help me save Rhia.”
“Are you determined to go after her?”
“I am.”
He scowled. “Do you know what the odds are against you?”
“I have some idea.”
“But you don’t!”
Cairpré stood up and started pacing
down the narrow path between the stacks of books. His thigh brushed against one large, illuminated volume, and it fell to the floor in an explosion of dust. As he bent to retrieve it, stuffing loose pages back between the covers, he looked my way. “You remind me of Prometheus, so certain he could steal the fire of the gods.”
“I’m not that certain. I just know I must try. Besides, Prometheus finally succeeded, didn’t he?”
“Yes!” exclaimed the poet. “At the price of eternal torture, being chained to a rock where an eagle would gnaw forever upon his liver.”
“Until Hercules rescued him.”
Cairpré’s face reddened. “I can see that I taught your mother too well! You are right that Prometheus found freedom in the end. But you are wrong if you think for a minute that you will be so fortunate. Out there, in the lands controlled by Stangmar, people are at risk just by showing themselves! You must understand me. All your mother’s sacrifices will have been wasted if you go to the Shrouded Castle.”
I folded my arms. While I certainly did not feel courageous, I did feel resolved. “I must try to save Rhia.”
He stopped pacing. “You are no less stubborn than your mother!”
“That sounds to me like a compliment.”
He shook his head in defeat. “All right, then. You ignore my warnings. Thou withered breath, approaching Death. I suppose then I should at least give you some advice that might conceivably help.”
I slid off my stool. “What is it?”
“More likely, though, it will only hasten your death.”
“Please tell me.”
“There is one person in all of Fincayra who might have the power to help you enter the castle, though I doubt that even she can help you beyond that point. Her powers are old, very old, springing from the same ancient sources that brought the very first giants into being. That is why Stangmar fears to crush her. Even Rhita Gawr himself prefers to leave her alone.”
Cairpré stepped closer, wading through the sea of books. “Whether or not she will choose to help you, I cannot say. No one can! For her ways are mysterious and unpredictable. She is neither good nor evil, friend nor foe. She simply is. In legend, she is called Domnu, which means Dark Fate. Her true name, if it ever was known, has been lost to time.”
He glanced at Shim, now sleeping soundly on the pantry shelf, his hand inside the empty jar of honey. “You and your little friend may not have the pleasure of meeting her, however. Getting into her lair will be very dangerous.” He added under his breath, “Though not as dangerous as getting out again.”
I shivered slightly.
“To find her you must start before sunrise. Although the light of dawn is now only a pale glow through the spreading darkness, it will be your best guide. For just to the north of the sunrise, you will see a notch, cut deep into the ridge of the highest row of hills.”
“I should head for the notch?”
Cairpré nodded in assent. “And you will miss it at your peril. If you cross the ridge to the north of the notch, you will find yourself in the middle of Stangmar’s largest encampment of goblins.”
I sucked in my breath. “No risk of that.”
“And if you cross the ridge to the south of the notch, you will be even worse off, for you will enter the Haunted Marsh.”
“No risk of that, either.”
At that moment, Shim released a loud, prolonged snort. The books lining the shelves seemed to jump in surprise, as did Cairpré and I.
The poet frowned, but continued. “Passing through the notch itself will not be easy. It is guarded by warrior goblins. How many, I don’t know. But even one can mean trouble enough. Your best hope is that these days they are unused to travelers, for reasons you can well understand. It is just possible they will not be paying much attention. There is at least a chance you could slip past them.”
“Then what?”
“You must proceed straight down the ridge, being careful not to veer to one side or the other, until you reach a steep canyon. Eagles once soared among its cliffs, but no more, since now the canyon is always darker than night. Turn south, following the canyon to the very edge of the Haunted Marsh. If you make it that far, you will encounter the lair of Domnu. But not before you have met some other creatures almost as strange as she is.”
Feeling weak, I leaned against my stool. “What does her lair look like?”
“I have no idea. You see, no one who has ventured there has ever returned to describe it. All I can tell you is that, according to legend, Domnu has a passion for games of chance and wagers—and dearly hates to lose.”
Cairpré bent down to the floor and pushed a pile of books aside. He threw a sheepskin on the spot. With deep sadness, he said, “If you mean to pursue this idea of yours, you had better try to rest now. Sunrise will come before long.”
He pondered my face. “I can see by the scars on your cheeks and the strange distance in your eyes that this is not the first time you have shown bravery. Perhaps I have underestimated you. Perhaps you possess all the hidden strengths of your forebears and more.”
I waved away the comment. “If you knew me better, you would know that I am no credit to my forebears! I have no special powers, at least none that I can use. All I have is a stubborn head, and the Galator around my neck.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Time will tell. But I will say this. When first you entered my home, I was looking for an answer in some forgotten volume. Now I am wondering whether I should be looking for that answer in some forgotten person.”
Wearily, I stretched myself out on the sheepskin. For some time I lay awake, watching the firelight dance on the walls of books, the scrolls of papyrus, the piles of manuscripts. Cairpré had returned to his high-backed chair, absorbed in his reading.
So this is where my mother learned her stories. I felt a swell of desire to stay many days in this room filled with books, to travel wherever their pages might carry me. Perhaps one day I would do just that. But I knew that I must travel somewhere else first. And that I must depart before dawn.
30: T’EILEAN AND GARLATHA
Shim scrunched his pear-shaped nose in puzzlement. “Why is she called Dumb Now? That is muchly strange.”
“Domnu,” I replied, pushing myself up from the sheepskin. “I’ve told you everything I know, which isn’t much.” I glanced at Cairpré, fast asleep in his chair with three open books in his lap. His long gray hair fell over his face like a waterfall. “Now it is time to go.”
Shim’s gaze moved to the pantry, whose bottom shelf glistened from spilled honey. “I is not gladly to leave this place.”
“You don’t have to come, you know. I will understand if you want to stay.”
The pink eyes kindled. “Really, truly, honestly?”
“Yes. I am sure Cairpré will make you welcome, although he probably doesn’t have much food left.”
The little giant smacked his lips. Then, glancing toward the wooden ladder up the tunnel, his expression clouded. “But you is going?”
“I am going. Now.” For a few seconds, I studied the little face at my knee. Shim had turned out to be not such a bad companion after all. I took one of his tiny hands in my own. “Wherever you go, may you find plenty of honey there.”
Shim scowled. “I is not happy about going.”
“I know. Farewell.”
I moved to the ladder and grasped a worn rung.
Shim ran over and pulled on my tunic. “But I is not happy about staying, either.”
“You should stay.”
“Is you not wantsing me?”
“This will be too dangerous for you.”
Shim growled with resentment. “You is not saying that if I is a real giant, big and strong. Then you begs me to come.”
Sadly, I smiled. “Maybe so, but I still like you the way you are.”
The little fellow grimaced. “I don’t! I still wishes I am big. Big as the highlyest tree.”
“You know, when Rhia was irked at me once, she t
old me Just be yourself. I’ve thought about it now and then. It’s much easier to say than to do, but she had a point.”
“Bah! Not if you don’t likes the self you are being.”
“Listen, Shim. I understand. Believe me, I do. Just try being at home with who you are.” I paused, a little surprised to hear myself say such a thing. Then, with a final look around Cairpré’s crowded walls of books, I began climbing up the tunnel.
As I squeezed through the door in the stump, I scanned the eastern horizon. Dry, reddish soil stretched as far as I could see, broken only by the occasional scrawny tree or cluster of thorned bracken. Although no birds were around to announce the dawn, a faint line of light was already appearing above the Dark Hills, which stood blacker than coal. To the north of the glow, I made out two sharp knobs, divided by a narrow gap. The notch.
Standing beside the stump, I concentrated on the formation, trying to memorize its position. I did not want to miss the notch, even by a small margin. And I couldn’t be certain it would remain visible as the day progressed.
Seeing my staff on the ground, I stooped to pick it up. Dew frosted its twisted top, making the wood slippery and cold to the touch. Suddenly I noticed several deep gashes along the shaft. Teeth marks. I had no way to tell what kind of beast had made them. I only knew that they had not been there when I climbed down into Cairpré’s tunnel last night.
I reached to close the door, when Shim’s bulbous nose emerged. The little body followed, clambering through the opening.
“I is coming.”
“Are you sure?” I showed him the staff. “Whatever chewed on this last night could still be near.”
Shim swallowed, but said nothing.
I waved toward the dimly glowing horizon. “And to find Domnu, we have to make it through that notch in the Dark Hills. No room for error, either. To one side lies an army of goblins, to the other lies the Haunted Marsh.”
The little giant planted his feet firmly. “You is not leaving me.”
“All right then. Come.”
Hopping over the trickling stream by the stump, I strode off in the direction of the notch. Shim, hustling to keep up, followed.
