by Terry Madden
Two of them appeared, wrapped in the mossy cloaks of their order, their hoods pulled low so she could not tell if they were male or female.
“You’re lost, traveler,” one said.
“I seek the judges.” She showed the mark of the water horse on her wrist, and they showed their palms in respect.
“What injustice has troubled you, solás?” By the look of this one’s hands, he was male and the elder of the two.
“More than one,” she replied. “I seek the judgment of the nine.”
“Stars and stones grant you that and more.” He handed her a grain sack, which she knew to pull over her head, for the way to the nemeton was known only by the few who served the trees. Not even a druí such as Lyleth was allowed to know the way.
With a light touch on her arm, they allowed her to see the trail beneath her feet through their eyes, but nothing more than that. Logs to traverse, stream crossings on moss-slick rocks. She had grown weary of concentrating when at last they removed the sack. She stood on a forested ridge. Below lay a crescent-shaped vale sheltered by rocky crags. The crowns of the nine trees of the nemeton, as tall as the ridge, swayed in a slow dance, creaking in the gusts that threaded through the wood.
Standing before the oak stump that guarded the way into the nemeton, she began to feel the effects of weeks of travel, her soul flitting about her like a bee. The Cernos, the stump was called. Stag horns had been fitted into the brow and garlands of wilting flowers were draped over it. The hollow “O” of its mouth held berries and meat as if the stump could eat. It did nothing but draw flies.
A greenman placed a jug in her hand, and she joined the supplication in the tongue of the Old Blood, “Blood of wood, blood of man, joined by the roots of time, protect us.”
Could they feel her contempt for the gods who had betrayed her? There was no hiding it. She could only hope their justice was not selectively distributed.
She stoked her defiance and silently goaded the green god, challenging the Cernos to prevent her passage, to devour her as he was said to do with those of false heart. But his unblinking eyes of smooth black stones simply watched her walk past.
In the bowl of the valley, the nine ancients slept through a still twilight, the scent of their green exhalations sharp with sap and spring budding. Rowan, oak, ash, hazel, yew, hawthorn, alder, holly, apple. Trees understand that men are as short-lived as the flies that buzz about the mouth of the Cernos, aware of nothing but our brief glimpse of the vastness of true existence. The trees cared for Lyleth’s problems no more than the flies.
The judges, brehons, met her in the stone circle that lay in the shadow of the trees. Young and old, men and women, eight of them had been chosen by the divination of the High Brehon, an aging man who reminded Lyleth of a warbler, his nose a sharp pointed beak and his eyes full of worry.
“Come, solás.” He offered her his hand. “You must be hungry.”
He led the way to their dwelling, a cave not far from the grove. Her hand in his allowed him to probe her intentions. She opened her mind and heart wide to his scrutiny. Let him see her distrust for his green gods and the path she had forged alone in this world.
A single long table occupied the damp cavern. The chamber was lit by a hole in the rock above, allowing sunlight to filter through like golden pollen.
“Tell us why you’ve come, solás.” The High Brehon motioned for her to take a seat at the table, she on one end and he on the other. The eight sat four on either side.
The High Brehon seemed carved from an ancient branch himself, and for a moment, Lyleth thought she knew him as she took the offered bowl of nettle soup. Had he studied with her at the isle? Or had they met when she served in Nechtan’s court?
“I seek justice.” She’d had two weeks of hard travel to prepare her case, and it spilled out now. “Talan is king because he slew Nechtan. He ran his own uncle through with a spear, there on the battlefield. And now he’s killed his own solás, Maygan, and taken a child to serve him instead. My child.” She met the eyes of each judge in turn, measuring their response which they hid with expert dispassion. “Is it lawful for a man to murder his king and take his throne?”
“You witnessed this murder?” the High Brehon asked.
“Nechtan’s harp. The harp of the drowned maid. Before I cut the strings, it named Talan as his killer.”
The High Brehon’s eyebrows humped up in bushy gray surprise, the first hint of a response she’d gotten.
“When the king dies, by whatever means,” he proclaimed, “the throne belongs to his kin, and Talan was the only kin left of Nechtan’s. If this were not the case, the Five Quarters would be pitched into civil war.”
One of the eight spoke up. “Talan’s right to rule was what you fought for when you raised an army against Ava, wasn’t it?” The speaker was a woman about Lyleth’s age. Tall and long-faced, her eyes, anything but deeply set, were mismatched, one an unsettling violet blue and the other dark brown. The difference in color made the blue eye appear larger than the other, putting Lyleth in mind of the Hound of Cellamor that raced with the Wild Hunt, its pale eye seeing this world, while the dark eye saw the other.
Lyleth sensed that whatever she said would be twisted by this woman. “Would you have preferred I handed the Five Quarters over to the Bear?”
The woman with the strange eyes went on, “Nechtan was not dead when you found him, yet he did not tell you who cast the spear. Why do you think that was so?”
Lyleth didn’t like the answer this green sister was searching for. “Perhaps he himself did not know.”
The wild-eyed woman shook her head. “Or perhaps it was because he would do nothing to subvert the hope he placed in his nephew. He hoped Talan would be the king that he was not. And your motherly selfishness has obscured your prudence, sister.”
The High Brehon added, “Nesta is saying that we all must do what is best for the land.”
“You’re sworn to uphold the law of the Ildana.”
The woman called Nesta stood and drew herself to her full height, saying, “Talan murdered Nechtan, who had been murdered less than a season before. Tell me, solás, what law is it we are to consult to understand such an act? Or the desperation required when you attempted to wield sorcery known only to the Old Blood?”
Lyleth had not attempted to wield the Old Blood’s magic, she had succeeded. But these judges saw it as a transgression to call Nechtan back from the dead. Apparently, it was forbidden to seek out the wisdom of those who were long gone from this land. She would offer no defense for something so clearly in the right, for their answer would be the same as Pyrs’. The Five Quarters prospered and were at peace. Nothing else mattered. To anyone.
“So, you're telling me that it doesn’t matter that Talan murdered his own solás not one month ago? His ‘peace’ gives him the right to execute those who are bound to him?”
Their silence was their answer.
Lyleth pushed the bowl of soup away. “I will seek justice elsewhere.”
“You must know something before you leave the nemeton,” Nesta said. “Come, we must talk.”
Lyleth said, “There’s nothing you can tell me that will change my mind.”
“Perhaps not. But hear me out.”
Lyleth followed Nesta out of the cave into the gathering dusk, considering what she would say when this druí demanded that she accept the brehons’ misguided conclusion.
Nesta squared with Lyleth and gripped her shoulders in strong hands. “Your hive was destroyed.”
The bluntness of the words was like a clubbing.
“We thought you dead with the rest,” Nesta stated. “Ice-born reavers put all those on the Isle of Glass to the sword.”
“How can that be?”
“Your hive on the Isle of Glass was pillaged and burnt. None survived.”
For a moment, Lyleth thought it was a ruse to bring her round to their twisted sense of justice. Then she felt the truth seep from Nesta’s hands and into her
heart. They’d received a message. All the children, all the teachers, all the young lordlings in her care? Gwion and Breaca? Lyleth could no longer stay on her feet. She slumped to a stone and buried her face in her hands. It must have happened within a day or two of her leaving. If she had been there, she would be dead as well, and if Talan had not taken Angharad…
“Why didn’t you tell me when I arrived?”
“We wanted to hear your request, without this—”
“Ice-born? You’re certain it was ice-born?”
“Pyrs sent word,” Nesta said. “He said a fisherman put in at the isle and found the hive destroyed, none alive.”
“The lordlings in my care were worth far more in ransom than all the wealth we possessed. Ice-born would know that as well as you and I. So many children… Desmund’s son and Maddoc’s daughter. Their sires will seek vengeance—”
“Maybe they were not after wealth,” Nesta said.
“They most certainly weren’t.” They were after Lyleth. Hired reavers of Talan’s tasked with making certain Lyleth could not protest her child’s abduction, could not make it known to the world that Talan had murdered Maygan. That was why he was so confident in sharing such a memory with her. He was gloating to the person he planned to kill next.
Nesta placed a hand on her shoulder, and Lyleth shook it off. The woman was casting about with hidden magic, spewing soothing charms meant to quiet distrust. But Lyleth shut her out easily and completely. No judge would search her soul against her will. Ever.
“Did this fisherman see longships?” Lyleth demanded. The ships of the ice-born were easily identified.
“We were not told if he did or did not.”
“No longships. How does Pyrs know it was ice-born?”
“I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you, sister.”
“You turn blind eyes on Talan,” Lyleth said, willing her anger to staunch the tears. “He’s murdered his uncle and taken his own cousin, not yet seven years of age, as his solás. Never in the annals stored on the tongues of our bards has a king done such a thing, and yet the judges look the other way because this king has brought wealth. And to silence me, he slaughtered my hive.”
“We don’t know that—”
“I know that.”
“Then the green gods speak to us in different languages, solás,” Nesta said evenly. “You cannot speak mine, nor I yours. But we serve them still.”
“You serve them.” Lyleth found her satchel and bow, slung it over her shoulder and started up the dark path that had brought her here.
**
Darkness had fallen completely when Lyleth found her horse. She had lit her way with rushlights, and the horse’s eyes flashed red by its light as she approached. The mare was where she’d left her, grazing at the edge of the wood. She nickered as Lyleth drew near and the two of them slept the short span remaining until dawn.
The way out of the Wistwood had been easy; the wards cast on the nemeton protected it from those who wished to enter, not from those who wished to flee it. Lyleth had upbraided herself for seeking out the judges who had crowned Ava. They had failed to see the work of a soulstalker behind her rise to the throne, and now they refused to see that Talan had murdered far more than Nechtan.
What would Talan do when Lyleth walked into his court? His face would tell her all the truth she needed to know. She would leave with Angharad, or the chieftains, Maddoc and Desmund, would know who had killed their children on the Isle of Glass. She still had a silver ingot. Enough to buy a messenger.
The road to Caer Ys led her through the high pass that crossed the Felgarths. When she reached the village of Brittas, she found a man she could read like the open sky. A woodsman. An honest man who gave her shelter for the night in his saw shed without ever asking for coin. It smelled of fresh-cut pine, and she made her bed upon the boughs.
In the morning, she placed the last silver ingot in the woodsman’s hand and had him recite three times the message he was to deliver to Maddoc and Desmund.
“The king would do such a thing?” the woodsman asked.
“Aye. That and worse. Now you’ll tell no one of it but Desmund and Maddoc. Not even your wife. You will only leave here and travel north to their courts if I fail to come to you within the fortnight. You’ll speak of it to no one. Give me your word.”
“By stars and stones, I’ll speak of it to none but the two chieftains in the north.”
She gave his shoulder a friendly pat, then mounted her horse. “I’ll be back within the fortnight, and all will be forgotten.”
The road wound down from the mountains into the lush, narrow Long Vale. Dunla’s meadstead lay just off the road here. The beekeeper had given Lyleth refuge after Nechtan’s death. She missed the old meadmonger, and by the looks of the place, Ava’s men had burnt it down when they’d come searching for Lyleth six years earlier.
She stopped here, wandered through the blackened ruins as if Dunla might be here still. The old woman had escaped Ava’s torching somehow, and in Caer Cedewain, she’d escaped the Bear’s slaughter for her body was not found among the dead. Lyleth entertained a desperate hope that she might have returned here.
She remembered the undercroft where Dunla kept her mead barrels. The way in was partly buried by mud, but Lyleth was able to move enough of it to gain entry. Anything left inside had long ago been pilfered. It was foolish to hope to find Dunla here. But it made for a good place to sleep for the night.
**
Just after sunrise, Lyleth prepared to mount her horse and continue on the road toward Caer Ys. In the distance, she saw a fluttering standard, but she could not make out the sigil. A company of mounted men flowed over a distant hill.
After hiding her horse in the woods, Lyleth slipped back into the narrow hole of the undercroft. From there, she watched them approach. They flew the sigil of the water horse. Ten guards, Talan, Elowen, Dylan, and Angharad riding a white cob. They took the road east, toward the Wistwood. Could Talan be seeking out the judges? Did he come to make a case for his actions?
Lyleth knew the road forked a few leagues away. One road led to the high pass into the Felgarths while the other crossed the hills into IsAeron, and beyond that, Emlyn. Could he be headed there?
Lyleth had started out of the undercroft to follow them, but just as she reached the narrow slip, a hand closed on her shoulder. She spun, drew a knife from her belt and had it pressed to her assailant’s throat.
“A soothblade,” Nesta said, indicating the knapped stone blade Lyleth held as if she were merely displaying it for her. She smiled. “I’ve never seen one before.”
Chapter 6
Dish was stronger than Connor expected. After he had rolled his wheelchair to Merryn’s bedside, he grabbed Connor by the throat and pulled them both to the floor. Dish’s chokehold was easy to evade. In the next instant, Connor was the one who pressed the chokehold.
“Just hear me out.”
He slowly released Dish, but as soon as he was free, he landed a fist to Connor’s jaw and repeatedly hammered Connor’s face. He would gladly let Dish beat him to a pulp, but he didn’t have time right now.
Connor pinned Dish’s arms to the floor, saying, “It’s not what it looks like, I swear to you.” Dish was still struggling to free his arms.
“You killed my aunt!”
Connor said, “I just did what she asked me to! Just listen.”
“Listen my ass!”
With surprising strength, Dish tossed Connor aside as if he were a child and started crawling for Merryn. He couldn’t let Dish break the spell now. Connor got to his feet and dragged Dish away from the baking pan that collected a steady ribbon of Merryn’s blood. He hoped she had already left her body behind and entered the seed that lay in the center of the pan.
Connor dragged the wheelchair out of Dish’s reach as he crawled toward it.
“Sodding bastard!”
“It’s what she wanted, Dish.”
“You murdered my a
unt!”
“I did exactly what she asked me to do!” Connor had planned to deal with Dish later. He wasn’t supposed to wake up. Connor touched the blood that streamed from his nose, saying, “I’ll explain when I’m finished.”
“Oh, you are finished!” Dish struck out at Connor’s legs and missed, then began pulling the dead weight of his body across the floor in a commando crawl. He was going for the soothblade. Knocked out of Connor’s hand in the struggle, it lay under Merryn’s bed. Connor got to it first and tucked it in his belt.
“Where did you get that?” Dish demanded.
Connor didn’t want to hit him, but dawn was coming, and Dish might call the police. He drew back his fist, saying, “It will all make sense, I swear it.” But he couldn’t do it.
“How about you explain it now, you sodding killer! Where’d you get a soothblade?”
The electrical cord from a lamp was the only thing handy to tie his wrists together. Connor didn't tie him to anything, just gagged him with some gauze the nurse had forgotten and left him on the floor.
The candle had burned low, casting flickering warmth over the uneven stone walls. The room smelled of old woman and ashes from fires long burned out, and the decorative gas heater warmed the room to an unbearable temperature. Dish lay in the fetal position at the foot of Merryn’s hospital bed, bound and gagged and sweating. He’d stopped struggling, his eyes brimming with tears and hatred.
Connor gave Merryn a kiss on the forehead.
As she had instructed, he collected the baking tin that sat on the floor below the bed. It was half full of blood. Inside the pan sat an open oyster shell, looking like the ragged wings of some bloody bird. Inside the shell, Merryn’s once-black lock of hair was now a sticky red pool upon which rested a single acorn, now covered in blood. “Not just any acorn,” she’d told him. But it looked like any acorn to him.
