Three Wells of the Sea Series Box Set: Three Wells of the Sea and The Salamander's Smile

by Terry Madden

  He’d let the little man take over. He’d handed him the reins to his soul. Could Talan cast out the little man whenever he wished? Is that what his mother had come to say?

  “Come,” she urged him again as the thistledown settled on the back of his hand.

  The words were just shapes on his lips, devoid of breath. “I… cannot…”

  Angharad had said it would be soon. He would do battle from inside this carcass as she battled from outside.

  As he thought her name, the rap of tiny knuckles on the door sounded. Where were the guards? Where was Nesta? Where was the little man?

  A bolt of excitement shot through him. Had he gone? Or did he sleep deeply?

  Talan tried to sit up, but he was knotted in bedding soaked in blood or sweat; in the darkness, he could not tell which. A whisper came at the door. No, he mustn't wake the little man. Standing. Pissing. All of that woke him. Where did he go when he slept? How could Talan sever the rope that brought him back? No one could tell him. Not even Angharad. Not even Lyleth. Not even his mother.

  Ever so slowly, he spilled to the floor and crawled the distance to the door. He slid the bolt, ever so slowly. Angharad had come.

  “Shhh,” he entreated her, opening the door just a sliver.

  “It’s time,” she whispered.

  Her breath smelled of cheese and summer fruit and the flame of hunger burned in Talan’s guts. He had refused all food, believing the little man required it like all other beasts. But he’d been wrong. Only Talan required it. Not the little man.

  Torchlight cast an ember aura around her hair. Two tiny fingers came through the gap in the door. Talan clutched them. He had forgotten to breathe. He had forgotten that she was warm and alive and her fingers warmed his.

  “You were a child once,” she whispered. “You played games. You were free.” She said it with such sorrow in her voice.

  “Aye,” he answered hopefully. “I’m here. I’m here.”

  “We will play games again one day. You and me. Hide and go seek.”

  “I want to.”

  “The seven sisters rose tonight,” she said. “They dance in the eastern sky. Ceinwen says it's time.”

  “My mother called me,” he whispered. “But I did not go.”

  “You are strong. I know you are. Here.” She opened one of her horns of medicines and Talan smelled the bitter powder that made the little man sleep.

  He opened the door just a little wider. He could see both of her eyes now. Angharad dipped her fingers into the powder and held them out. Talan sucked the poison from them, hoping the little man would never wake again.

  “We must go to the bog,” she said, “and there prepare for battle. I will come for you at dawn. You must bring the druí, Nesta.”

  When her face had retreated from the door, torchlight from the hall stung his eyes. The sound of her bare feet receding down the flagstones meant he was alone again. He fought back the panic as he crawled back to bed. He must think clearly while the little man slept. He must be ready, for he would lead an army at dawn.

  Chapter 24

  Lyleth tied a rope around Connor’s neck before Dylan helped him into the saddle. That way, if he fell off his horse, she would know. And with his wrists tied behind his back, she wouldn’t have to worry about him conjuring anything while they traveled. But by the look of him, she doubted he would last the day. In spite of her stitching and bandaging, the wound on his arm still seeped blood, and they had many leagues to travel if they were to reach the bog and Talan. If she hoped to trade Connor for Angharad, he’d better be alive.

  As they descended the rocky road from the woods, Brixia trotted beside Connor, touching his foot every now and then with her muzzle, maybe to assure herself that he still lived. What caused her to watch over such a foul soul? Lyleth had thought she was a water horse, had watched her transform into a beast that carried her enemies to a watery death. But maybe her origin lay not with the green gods as she had thought. Maybe another hand had shaped her.

  The expanse of the plain opened before them, and it became clear that the locusts had moved on. A defined line separated the ravaged land from the verdant pastures that comprised the hinterlands of Caer Emlyn.

  In the distance, she could see the dark snake of Talan’s forces headed toward the causeway several leagues distant. At least a thousand soldiers blackened the plains, marching in ranks four abreast. They flowed from the outskirts of Caer Emlyn north and east, vanishing beyond distant hills. But they would have to cross the bog in single file on the causeway or slog through the mud which would slow them. She doubted Talan expected to be pursued, least of all by Lyleth.

  She had considered routes that might allow them to bypass the causeway, but all of them involved crossing marshland and wading through shallows for leagues. No, they would have to pursue Talan’s army in the open if they were to reach them before the ritual began.

  Lyleth sent Dylan on ahead to make certain the way was safe. He’d hesitated to leave her with Connor, but she assured him that the blood scribe was tied and nearly dead. As she towed Connor’s horse behind hers, she glanced back at him every now then to be certain he still lived.

  Connor gazed out over the rolling hills, his face reflecting the same reverie Lyleth felt. He said, “This plain was once covered with a forest so thick it blocked the sun.”

  It was as if she looked at this land for the first time.

  “I remember,” Lyleth said. “And you and those like you sapped the life from this place to create abominations like the one you left on the ridge behind us.”

  “Creatures to battle the steel of the Ildana,” he replied. Did he think he could justify his misuse of the green flow?

  “Creatures in the service of Tiernmas,” she said, “a creature himself, shaped from the life force of so many innocents.”

  “You could never understand Tiernmas the way I understood him. He fought invaders to save his people from destruction.”

  “Tiernmas cared nothing for his people,” she spat back at him. “He cared only for himself. Black Brac offered peace. He offered to share the land if Tiernmas would set aside the magic that could destroy it.”

  “Black Brac would blindly forbid that which he did not understand.”

  “Oh, and you understand?” she scoffed.

  “Like every action in this world, it’s the intention that defines it. You seduced Nechtan with the very definite goal of birthing a child that was greater than both of you put together, a child who acts as the hand of the green gods. But your intention was unconscious, so does that leave you free of guilt? Or was it simply the satisfaction of a lifetime of desire?”

  “Say another word, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

  “Please do,” he said. “And cut out my eyes too, for I want to see no more of what’s to come.”

  “I want you to see the beast you’ve made,” Lyleth replied, “right before I kill you.”

  “How will this help you? Do you think you can kill him? Stop him? Fight him? When the Sunless return, they will take up the fight where we left it a thousand years ago. You can kill me, but there are many like me who will come through that well.”

  She had no reply. It galled her that what he said was true. She had no means to kill what could not be killed.

  Dylan returned.

  “The way is clear to the lowlands of the bog as far as I can see,” he said.

  They rode on in silence for most of the day. It was late afternoon when the rope she held went taut and nearly jerked her from the saddle.

  Connor hit the ground and lay there, unmoving.

  Lyleth dismounted and loosened the rope around his neck. She felt a faint pulse, fluttering like a trapped bird against the walls of a room. She dribbled water between his lips, saying, “You can’t die yet.”

  He coughed and came to, a look of disappointment on his face to find himself still alive.

  “Tie him to the saddle,” she told Dylan.

  “What is it
you hope to do with him?”

  “Nechtan always said, ‘Never sit at a bargaining table with nothing to trade.’”

  “You hope to bargain with the Crooked One?” Dylan said.

  “If I have my way, I’ll be bargaining with Finlys, the little man, the Sunless druí who pulls the strings in the king’s body. But we have to reach him before he tries to open the well.”

  “You can’t do this,” Connor argued weakly. “You don’t understand…”

  “I understand one thing. I want my child back.”

  “You know that opening the well is the only chance we have against the Crooked One,” Connor said. “The Old Blood are the only ones who can stop him.”

  “I am Old Blood.”

  “Yes,” Connor agreed. “But you won’t stop him by handing me over to him. Let Angharad open the well. If Nechtan comes through, the land will have a king again.”

  She could not ignore the hope she felt at the mention of his name but refused to nurture it. The reality was very different. “He’s a cripple,” she said. “By the laws of his own people, he cannot lead.”

  “Not unless someone gives him his legs back.”

  How often had she wondered about Nechtan’s soul? Trapped in the flesh of a crippled teacher. A king who had led men to battle, had defeated the Bear of Sandkaldr, had protected the nephew who murdered him for his throne. What must he be thinking now? With Connor lost to the waters and Elowen at his side. Would they find the salamander as Angharad had? What hand would guide them to the well stone and the twilight of opening now that Merryn was gone?

  And Merryn? Her soul was tangled in the roots of a tree somewhere. If no one found her, she’d be born again as a babe the way Lyleth had, forgetting everything she’d learned in the land of the living and the dead, a greenwood babe. Lyleth had to find her before the tree sprouted forth in this world. A task for another day, surely. But where to look?

  Merryn had sent Connor, the blood scribe of Tiernmas, to Lyleth. Why? Maybe she had turned against the Old Blood, and cast her lot with the Sunless. After everything they’d been through, Lyleth refused to accept this. But the only way to know for certain would be to find her.

  “Look,” Dylan said, and spun his horse to point behind them.

  Lyleth followed his gaze to see a second army, far behind them.

  “Fiach,” Lyleth said.

  It was true. A river of horsemen closed from the south, not a mile away, bearing the standard of the golden barley sheaf on a blue sky.

  **

  Lyleth rode beside Fiach, with Dylan and Connor not far behind. A snaking line of horses pranced and marched to the rear, followed by foot soldiers and archers. Emlyn was feared for its horsemen, but horses may be a burden rather than an advantage in the bog. It would be the archers Fiach must rely upon if it came to a fight.

  “Your archers will find no cover other than beds of cattails,” Lyleth was telling him.

  “The island isn’t that big,” Fiach said. “While my horses drive a wedge through the middle of them, the archers will take position. We’ll break their ranks and send them into the archers. But what if the sacrifice is made before we reach them? He has the druí from the Wildwood with him. Nesta.”

  “She’s Sunless,” Lyleth said. “I would think even the High Brehon is one of them. We’ll get no help from them.”

  “Nor will it be sought.”

  “How many are there?” She meant Talan’s army, but her mind turned to the Sunless. How many would cross when the well was opened? How many Ildana like Finlys secretly worshiped at the altar of darkness? They would come too.

  “At least nine hundred strong.”

  She said, “Nesta will have sent for the Sunless as far away as Arvon.”

  “What of your message to Pyrs?” Fiach asked. “Could it have reached him?”

  “I have doubts. And if it did, he would send a message to you, I should think.”

  Fiach glanced over his shoulder, his blue eyes burning with scorn at Connor. Lyleth had told him what she knew of his Sunless soul, his life as blood scribe to Tiernmas. “Do you think bringing him near this place is a good idea?”

  “No. But I will have my daughter back, and then we’ll put an arrow through him.”

  “And then the battle will begin,” Fiach agreed. But he knew as well as Lyleth that his numbers fell far short of Talan’s. He could try to surround them, but his losses were bound to be high.

  They rode through most of the day, stopping to rest and eat. Connor was fading in and out of consciousness, and the wound was still bleeding.

  “Tie one of those ropes above the wound,” Lyleth instructed Dylan.

  “What?”

  “Cut off the blood flow to the wound. He needs to stay with us for a while longer.”

  “You’re a fool.” Connor called to Lyleth weakly as Dylan wrapped a rope around his arm. “Nechtan said you know how to bring peace. But this? Your daughter is more important than the land?”

  “You would have me sacrifice my own daughter?”

  “What makes you think Talan intends to kill her?”

  “She will open the well—”

  “By dying? You don’t know that.”

  “I can’t risk that.”

  “She told you herself,” Connor croaked. “She’s here to open the well. Let her.”

  They rode into the night.

  The stars known as the seven sisters would be rising soon, and the night was lit by a moon just past full.

  When they reached the summit of a small swell of land, they halted to take in the view below. The stone that imprisoned the Crooked One sat upon a mound of earth that formed an island at the center of another island. The larger island sat within the shallow, but vast, Red Bog. The islands were a microcosm of the Five Quarters, surrounded by a sea that reached to the lands of the west and those of the east. A cup within a cup, a land within a land. A fitting place to hide a passage to another world.

  Surrounding the pool of the cromm cruach, the Knights of the Stoney Ring rose like gray mourners in the moonlight. The remnants of trenches could be seen stretching across the flat, grassy island, evidence that someone had tried to drain it, to remove the watery chains that had held the Crooked One for a thousand years. But Lyleth knew the bog would not allow it. The water would have seeped back to fill what was removed, for the blood of the Knights would not be so easily diverted.

  Much of Talan’s army was arrayed in defensive battalions at the shoreline of the large island. The rest formed a shield wall on this side of the bog. They waited where the causeway ended at the water's edge, the blockade.

  Lyleth rode beside Fiach toward the line, leaving his soldiers some distance back. She towed Connor’s horse behind hers and showed empty palms to the line of men brandishing spears. When she drew close enough, she called, “I demand to talk to my king. Tell him I have his blood scribe, the man who made the Crooked One.”

  Chapter 25

  Dish began talking before Celeste stepped into the cottage. “I’ve had so much on my mind, I lost track of time. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Understandable. Apology accepted.”

  “Excuse the mess.” He led her to the drawing room and indicated the sofa. The coffee table displayed five partially empty glasses of whisky. There was no hiding that now.

  Iris took over talking while Dish made himself presentable. He heard another glass of whisky poured as Iris talked about the collection of items boxed up and carted to the thrift store. She mentioned Connor several times, quoting from the faked text messages about his grief.

  Dish stripped off his tee shirt and pulled on a dress shirt. All the while, Elowen hid in the bedroom with the salamander. Bronwyn was passed out on the bed beside her.

  “While I’m out,” Dish whispered to Elowen while wrapping a tie around his neck, “you’ll search this photo for the location of the well stone. It’s on this farm somewhere. I suspect near the brook where you appeared.” He handed her the bo
ok, opened to the photo of Lyla Bendbow and the stone. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Celeste decided on a gastropub in Falmouth. During the drive, she gave Dish her full resume—years at university, years as an advocate for physicians, and now in practice for herself as a contract attorney. All less than interesting.

  As she sipped her ale and prodded her Nicoise salad, she expounded on the common points of contention between family members and how to unify them in their grief, something like that.

  “Bronwyn hurts as deeply as you do. You need to validate her emotions, share with her how Merryn’s death has affected you.”

  If Celeste only knew what Dish had recently shared with his sister…

  Dish was trying to find a way to eat a sandwich and surreptitiously glance at the Starry Night app on his phone beside him. It showed the constellations at any given time from the viewer’s latitude. He had started it running in fast forward, and as he nodded and made intermittent eye contact with Celeste, stars wheeled across the phone screen.

  He had been successfully nodding in agreement at what seemed like the appropriate times when Celeste asked, “Don’t you think?” She cupped her chin with a manicured hand and gazed at him.

  “Think? Why, yes. Yes,” he agreed again to something unknown.

  “Lúnasa is Saturday,” she said.

  “Lúnasa?” How is it she even knew about the ancient Celtic festival?

  “Your Aunt Merryn was quite the eclectic. She’s the one who turned me on to it years ago.”

  “Turned you on? to what?”

  Celeste proceeded to describe an open-air festival that sounded rather ghastly: three days of music, food and drink, medieval recreationists, cheesy arts and crafts, all just adjacent to Merryn’s farm in a pasture that bordered Trevaylor Wood.

  “They have a permit for such a gathering?” Dish asked.

  “The landowner has granted us access,” Celeste said. “It will be a New Age Woodstock.”