Aes Sidhe

by Fergal F. Nally

  “Peace, child,” the crone said. “You’ll get your eyes back. You will need your eyes for where you are going. First, I need to find my sister. She was in the Screaming Mountains if I remember correctly. Your steel will help me find her. The Nephilim, they took all the steel from Inis Cealtra―they took the spirit from the island, the fight from her soul.”

  Sive’s dirk became warm in its leather scabbard. Sive scrambled up as the blade began to smoke, the heat reaching through the scabbard and burning her thigh. The stitching on the scabbard went up in flames and Sive heard the red-hot blade clatter to the floor. Sive writhed as the smell of her burning flesh filled the air.

  “Where are you sister?” the crone said. “Let me find you. Reach out, feel my presence . . .”

  Sive stayed silent, her teeth chattering. She felt heat on her cheek, heard sounds and incantations she could not explain. She became aware of the crone looming above her, sensed the woman’s movement, felt her spittle as it landed on her arm.

  Time passed. Sive lapsed in and out of consciousness. She heard the crone muttering about her search, felt deathly cold and then warm.

  “Ah sister where is she? Ah now, back, back, back, yes . . . there, there . . . Monkwood! It was always a backwater . . . ” the crone’s voice became animated. “There, I’ve found you, sister, the monks have hidden you well. On their backs, in the endless forest. This one will have to reanimate you, bring you back to the Erthe, ready for your new master.”

  Sive heard the crone gasp, the sound hoarse and forced.

  “Mmmm yes, they approach. The chosen one, Ae’fir, he is near. We are not too late―timing is everything, yes it is. I am sending you this one―she has woken me and I, in turn, you. Know that Inis Cealtra is now free; all we need is for this Ae’fir to deliver Scalibur to the island and the yew can throw open the Banishment. We can allow the Aes Sidhe back to take what is theirs.”

  The crone had barely finished when she threw back her head and screamed. Sive could hear the bones in her hands crack and shatter. The crone slumped to the floor in a heap, Sive felt suddenly cold. The fire must have gone out. Sive grasped about, her hands running over the dusty earth. There, in the dirt, she found the hilt of the dirk. Cold, dead metal.

  “Hello?” Sive said.

  The room was empty.

  Chapter 14: Bridge of Insanity

  Mevia stirred on the floor.

  Danu was gone. She blinked and looked around. All was dark and she could hear distant wind. The room was freezing. She sat up and was surprised to find she was unbound, her arms and legs free.

  “Hello?” she said.

  Her words fell, dull in the darkness. She stretched and heard her joints crack. She reached out into the darkness, tentatively exploring the space around her.

  She felt cold stone. Her fingers brushed against a metal object, and she recoiled instinctively and listened. She reached out again and picked up the object. It was a small box with a pitted surface. She explored it with her fingers and managed to open the lid. She heard a scattering on the floor.

  She knew that sound.

  Firesticks . . .

  Mevia picked up one of the sticks and brought it to the box’s pitted surface. Holding her breath, she struck. Bright light flared hurting her eyes. The flame took, growing in strength along the stick. She looked around, only for her puzzlement to grow; she was not in a cell after all, but a natural cavern with rough hewn walls. The floor was dry, the air musty. A fine layer of dust coated every surface. She did not understand. Listening hard, she thought she heard a low droning. Perhaps the wind? The flame reached her fingers and she dropped the firestick, shaking her scorched finger. Feeling round on the ground, Mevia found twelve more. She must be here for a reason―her mind raced back to what Danu had said.

  “You will bear the key you found on the wreck to the Screaming Mountains. You will unlock the mad crone’s mind there. The Aes Sidhe have sent an emissary to Dal Riata, a warrior named Ae’fir. The unhinged crone is useless to him as she is, but this key will release her.”

  Mevia swallowed hard. When will this nightmare end?

  Mevia checked the chain around her neck. There it was―the key. She did not trust Danu, but she could see him hurting her sister if she didn’t obey his instructions. She would find the crone, she would do this thing he asked of her. What choice did she have?

  Mevia turned in the dark and tried to locate the source of the distant sound. She struck a firestick, following its flickering light through the darkness. She walked across the uneven floor toward a recessed area and saw an opening in the wall. She made it just as the firestick went out. She put the box and rest of the sticks in her pocket and reached out to the passage wall.

  There it was again: distant droning, only louder now, amplified in the confines of the passageway. She was sure she was heading in the right direction. In the cold and dark, she felt numb, dead―the earlier fear had gone. She bent her mind to the task and followed the wall.

  After twenty steps, the passageway rounded a corner and went up. Twenty paces on, the passage turned once more. A draft touched her cheek―the sound was nearer now. It is wind, Mevia thought, but something else too.

  She stopped counting after two hundred steps and lost herself in the intimacy of the rock against her fingers. Her chest started to feel warm―at first, she paid no attention but as she progressed the warmth increased. She frowned and reached under her tunic, feeling her skin. Her fingers brushed against the key―it was warm. She felt a tingle as her hand touched it.

  She took the key out and found that it was glowing. The gems encrusted along its side were pulsing with inner light. The glow was feeble but enough to light the passageway a little. Using the key’s light, she pressed forward and continued up the passage.

  The draft strengthened as she went. At the end of the passage was another door, this one opening onto a small room. The room’s walls were smooth and gave out a low, rose-colored glow.

  Swaying in the center of the room stood a skeletal figure shrouded in a ragged smock. The figure’s hands were held down by chains and rings of iron, binding them to two marble pillars. Long, lank hair fell from the creature’s scalp.

  An intense feeling of sorrow filled the room. Sorrow and anger―palpable, tangible.

  Could this be her? The crone?

  Mevia stepped into the room. She was instantly struck by a tide of cold air, and her breath frosted the air. Goosebumps ran up her arms. Instinct told her to run―this was wrong, this was a bad place. This must be the crone, a creature without a spirit, a husk inhabited by madness. What was she doing here?

  Mevia allowed her fear to return for a moment before pulling the numbness back into her heart. She noticed an opening on the other side of the room, another passageway extending off into the distance. The sound of the wind was stronger there.

  The way out.

  But her job was here with the crone and the key. She had to prepare the ground for Ae’fir. She had to unlock the crone’s insanity and she had to find out about Scalibur. And, through doing this, lose herself in its mind.

  The thing swayed in front of her. Mevia took a step into the room. The creature let out a sibilant hiss, lancing Mevia’s mind. The crone’s head snapped up and it let out a long groan.

  Mevia felt lightheaded. Her body became weightless, her feet leaving the ground. She hung, suspended in the air, and began to move around the room. She floated around the crone, eventually coming face to face with the creature, her body now horizontal, her hair billowing. Their foreheads touched and the crone’s movements stilled.

  Mevia could smell its decay, its death. She felt her blood thickening.

  The crone’s breathing continued, shallow and rapid, its chest rattling in the darkness. Its parchment skin lay stretched over the bones underneath. Mevia looked into its sunken eyes and saw shriveled eyelids shut tight and crusted over. She reached out to the crone to steady herself.

  As Mevia’s fingers clasped th
e thing’s skull, it opened its eyes. Hollow pits stared back at her, and Mevia sensed a void open within her and a corresponding emptiness reaching out from the crone. Its emptiness was vast, unfathomable.

  Insane.

  Mevia felt the pull―this was what her whole life had led to. Everything else would recede from this moment. She acquiesced, allowing herself to be drawn into greater emptiness―she had nothing and everything to lose. She felt a rush through her body, a giddy sensation. She remembered days as a girl spent swimming in the lakes near her home, and suddenly she was back there, the secrets locked away in her heart exhumed and exposed to this vast emptiness.

  All traces of her former life left her and she was subsumed into the crone’s mind.

  She blacked out.

  And awoke in a vast, sunbaked desert, the ground cracked and dry beneath her feet. The heat shimmered in the air before her, and she felt it in her lungs and bones. Was this real? Was this a lie? An illusion? Time hung suspended.

  Why was she here? She remembered some distant task, abstract now, unimportant. A voice penetrated her consciousness, merely a whisper at first, then becoming more insistent.

  Danu’s words resonated through her. Find the crone’s knowledge. Where is the sword? Find Scalibur . . .

  A dust devil swept up nearby, and Mevia watched it distractedly. Tumbleweed moved across her feet, scratching her leg as it passed. The breeze seemed to hiss at her―she closed her eyes, trying to become open to its caress, its message.

  It’s not here, the trouble you seek . . .

  The voice was that of a young woman, not the old crone she inhabited.

  “Who is that? What’s your name?” Mevia heard her own voice puncture the stillness.

  You are here, within me. I haven’t had company for so long. They think I’m insane, don’t they? Everyone on the outside. They think I’m insane. They don’t know where my other sister is, do they?

  “I don’t know. Wait, yes . . . they think you’re insane. I’m supposed to unlock your mind and find Scalibur. A warrior is coming―he must have Scalibur to defeat the occupiers of Dal Riata, to bring back the Aes Sidhe.”

  Yes, I know all of this. It was meant to be, it was coming, it was always coming. The tide may go out, but it will return. The Aes Sidhe are due, their time is come. But once Danu has her way, she will kill me and my sisters, for we will have no further use. She cannot hear me in here―no one can, except you. If I give you the information you seek, you will be in my debt. There is a way out for you. Are you willing to listen?

  Mevia was open. She was captivated by the young woman’s voice. “Yes, I’m listening.”

  Good. In return for giving you Scalibur’s location, you must do something for me. You must kill Danu.

  Mevia blinked. Kill Danu? Kill a goddess? The crone’s voice exploded in Mevia’s mind.

  I can hear your thoughts. Don’t forget, here we are as one. So yes, I will reveal the secret of Scalibur’s resting place to you, for I am not insane―my body is only an outward appearance. I will allow you to return to your body and you will assist this warrior, Ae’fir. You will take him to Scalibur and he will trust you. Things will unfold, battles will be fought, men will die, and you will eventually find yourself once more in Danu’s presence. She will be distracted by her success, and you must catch her off guard and kill her. She has only one weak spot: the bones behind her ears. Pierce that with a silver blade and her immortality will vanish and she will die. Do this for me and my sisters and you will be free―you will have your life back.

  Mevia processed the crone’s words.

  “And if I fail?”

  And if you fail, Danu will kill us both . . . and my sisters.

  Mevia’s head spun. She laughed bitterly. Her life was forfeit no matter what she did.

  Time stopped.

  Mevia stretched her arms out and felt the desert wind on her skin, she felt the sting of its sand on her face.

  “I accept. I will do as you say.”

  Chapter 15: Monkwood

  Six monks carried the simple wooden coffin, just as they had for the past six years.

  Rain beat down. The land of Dal Riata was harsh, its king cruel, unjust. Their beliefs were barely tolerated. Bandits would let them pass, not out of respect but out of superstition. The coffin was light, its contents centuries old.

  The instructions handed down with the coffin: Never stay in the same place for more than a few nights. Keep the coffin moving, and when it rots from wind and rain, build a new one for the Blessed One’s remains and continue the eternal journey.

  The Blessed One would return when it was time, for she was one of the sacred Trinity of Angels that had escaped destruction, one of the three that remained to protect and bring back the Aes Sidhe. Even if the other two sisters were found, there would always be the third, the Blessed One, the one they carried on their backs.

  Day after day, year after year, century after century, their order had endured. And so, the monks plodded on through the mist and snow, their lives brief pages in the story they carried on their backs.

  Death found those who stayed in the same place.

  Keep moving, keep living.

  Keep her safe, free from harm, ready to strike back at those who would stop the Aes Sidhe prophecy.

  The monks crossed the stream, entering new ground. The trees were huge, with massive trunks drinking deep of the Erthe’s goodness stretching high into the distant sky.

  The monks stopped, looking back. The stream had disappeared, the land behind them swallowed by trees. They were cut off, in new territory, on unfamiliar ground.

  The resurgence was close at hand. It had come on their watch, and they were prepared. They would not fail the Blessed One.

  Monkwood would not defeat them.

  ~

  One ship was destroyed.

  They had got off lightly. Crowe bit his lip. It was colder that he remembered here―or maybe his bones just felt the cold more. The years were catching up with him.

  But he still had the edge . . . that was why the king had chosen him. He was ruthless. He grudgingly acknowledged the king’s wisdom in sending the warlock. The chimera attack had been a close call.

  But they had come through. He stood at the prow of the longship, looking out over the ice. They would arrive in Wyndrush later that night. Wyndrush’s comforts would do his men good―they could regroup and rest up, build their strength for the next stage of the journey: the trek to the Serpent’s Tail and the Southlands . . .

  “She wants to talk to you, my lord,” Jande said.

  Crowe turned and looked at his second in command. “What does she want?”

  “She wouldn’t say, lord,” Jande replied.

  “She’s important to the king, just as Nuzum Mir is, and he’s proved his worth. Well, I suppose I should listen to what she has to say. Lead on.”

  Jande turned and led Crowe below deck to the the door of the woman’s quarters. Crowe had almost forgotten about her over the last few days―after all, it was bad luck to have a woman on board. He whispered a few words to the gods to forgive him this blasphemy.

  He knocked on the door frame and, not waiting for an answer, entered the room. It was dark and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust.

  “Captain . . . or Crowe? What should call you?” Rysa’s voice broke the silence.

  “Crowe,” he answered. Why did she make him feel she was not to be trusted?

  “Please Crowe, sit . . . we should talk. I work for the king now―my king, your king. We have the same interests at heart.”

  “I will stand, girl. Say your words. I’m listening.”

  “Very well. What are your plans to capture the outlaw?”

  “Go on, say his name, I want to hear you say his name. You are carrying his child, after all,” Crowe said.

  “Aye, through water and fire it seems. I speak of Lamorak of the south. Why are you so interested in speaking with him? He hasn’t harmed any of your men. He h
asn’t broken any law―he has killed some of the southerners, yes, but in self-defense. There are those who would take what belongs to him.”

  Crowe sighed. “You’re the bait, you and that child growing in your belly. You will draw Lamorak into our trap. He’ll come and we will take what is his.”

  Rysa swallowed. “Just like all the others. Why is it you men always fight over the same things? You’ve not even met Lamorak, the king hasn’t met him. Can’t you leave him in peace? Why stir up trouble?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions, girl. We are on the king’s mission. He has the right to chase any man to the four corners of his realm. Who are you to question the king?”

  “I hold the key to your life, Farren Crowe,” Rysa answered. “Remember that. The time to choose sides will come. Right now, you don’t have a choice, but the time will come. Remember my words. If you choose right and stand by me, you will keep your life. We are not enemies, you and I. We are allies.”

  Crowe spat on the floor. “Is that it? Is that what you wanted to say?”

  “Aye lord, it is. We may not get the chance to speak again. Take my words with you, consider them wisely.”

  “Enough girl. You speak in riddles, just like all southerners.” Crowe turned and left her to the darkness. It wouldn’t surprise him if she turned out to be a witch―she had a witch’s way with words. Crowe suspected that she could turn a man’s will with the power of her speech. Still, it was important to the king that she be here, so he’d be patient. He would use her.

  “Wyndrush ho!” A cry went up above.

  At last . . . almost there. Crowe climbed the steps to the deck. A light drizzle fell, and his spirits lifted. They’d made it to Wyndrush and the king’s bounty was one step closer. He would catch this youth, take his sword, and return it to the king. Only then could he retire to his hearth in the north. Life would be good.

  Jande stepped forward. “Lord, the men are sworn to secrecy. But there’ll be questions when we pull into Wyndrush. We are on king’s business, but there are those here who do not support Loarn . . .”