“King Loarn,” Crowe corrected. “Aye, this is true, but when men’s loyalties are divided and passions run high, truth has a habit of rising to the surface. We may learn something here: we may find a clue to Lamorak’s whereabouts.”
“King Loarn’s spies place the pretender south of the Serpent’s Tail, deep in the Southlands.”
“That knowledge is weeks old. He may be anywhere now,” Crowe replied.
“The thing I don’t get is . . . well, if he knows the king has captured his woman, why doesn’t he come after her?”
Crowe spat overboard and watched his spittle vanish in the bow wave. “Because he knew we’d bring her to him, use her as leverage, use his unborn child as a way to bend him.”
“Which is exactly what we are doing . . .”
“Predictable, isn’t it? Predictable but irresistible to him, I’m sure. Men are predictable when it comes to certain things. When there is honor, emotion, or family at stake, men lose their reason and do stupid things. They become weak.”
“Is that why you have no family, my lord?” Jande asked.
Crowe looked at his friend and laughed. “Family is weakness, my friend, not strength. Our time is short enough in this world without being weighed down by the concerns and futility of family. We all die in the end―my wish is to die surrounded by warmth and comfort, having lived without rules.”
Jande contemplated the nearing shore and the buildings of Wyndrush. He remained silent.
Crowe sensed his reticence. “I know you disagree Jande. Martha is a fine woman and your children are a credit to you. Mine is just a different path.”
Jande grunted. He narrowed his eyes and pointed. “Looks like a welcoming party, lord.”
A small crowd was gathering on the shore: men, women, and children. Perhaps they thought the four longships from the north brought goods and news. News of the king and his decrees was always greeted with a mixture of suspicion and resistance by those in the south. The size of Avarice Loch diluted the king’s influence.
Crowe stared at the gathering crowd, trying to gauge the mood. He’d be hard, he decided. He’d meet with the jarl, they’d rest, and resupply at the jarl’s expense. Normally they’d stay a week or longer on a trip such as this, but two days would do this time.
Crowe’s ship reached the shore first. Here, the ice was thinner, and the magic flame surrounding the hull dimmed as it bit the shingle. The crowd looked on in wonder as the ships moved through the ice. An expectant silence filled the throng.
There was no sign of the jarl in the crowd. Crowe raised an eyebrow at Jande.
Crowe stood tall at the ship’s prow and spoke to the crowd.
“I am Farren Crowe, King Loarn’s right arm. I’m here on the king’s business. Take me to the jarl’s hall.”
Silence greeted his words. Something was wrong. Something unsaid hung in the air like a bad stench.
“What is it? What’s happened here?” he demanded.
A young man took a step forward. “The jarl . . . he was taken, lord. Last night. His guards were killed and he was taken.”
Crowe looked at the man’s face and saw genuine fear.
“Taken by who?” Crowe demanded.
The man looked down at his feet and remained silent. The crowd murmured uneasily.
A voice rang out from the back of the throng. “The one called Lamorak took him, to send a message to the king.”
Late morning sun broke through the cloud, bathing the scene in brittle light.
Crowe cursed. So much for rest―he’d have to stay sober.
Bastard.
It was going to be a long day.
Chapter 16: Doppelganger
Eriu cursed.
Ae’fir had never heard the dreamcaster curse. This wasn’t good.
Eriu grabbed Ae’fir’s arm, a finger on his lips. He gestured frantically, waving Ae’fir back. Ae’fir nodded and followed the dreamcaster away from the rowan.
Once they were at safe distance, Ae’fir spoke. “Why didn’t you just speak inside my mind? Why use sign language?”
Eriu shook his head. “There’s something wrong. Those Nephilim shouldn’t be here―we aren’t prepared for this. Something’s alerted them. I didn’t communicate in case they could sense us. The Nephilim are like us―they have the same gifts.”
“You mean they could hear us? That’s why one of them moved?”
“I’m not sure,” Eriu replied.
“Great. How are we going to reach the crone without waking the rest of those giants?”
Eriu frowned.
“What is it Eriu?”
Eriu looked at Ae’fir and hesitated.
“Go on, spit it out.”
“The Maidens, Tara Lau . . . back in the Banishment, in Eynhollow. We didn’t tell you everything.”
Ae’fir’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Eriu?”
Eriu sighed. “Remember Lamorak, your doppelganger? He’s been here for some time, preparing the ground. The Maidens sent him through the Banishment before us, but time in the Banishment is different to time here. Lamorak’s already been here for a few months.”
Ae’fir looked blankly at Eriu. “A few months?” he repeated. “Anything could have happened to him in that time.”
Eriu looked uncomfortable. “And in order for him to be convincing and untraceable to me, to us . . . what I’m saying is that I have no control over him, no communication with him. I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead . . . or if they’ve seen through our plan.”
Ae’fir stared at the dreamcaster. “What were you thinking Eriu? Secrecy was our plan, stealth and secrecy . . . you mean they might have caught on to Lamorak’s true purpose and we don’t even know?” Understanding dawned on Ae’fir. “Those Nephilim back there could be a trap set to stop me before I’ve even had a chance to reach the crone!”
Eriu shook his head. “I don’t think so. These Nephilim are old, ancient even. They’re wearing First War raiment. They’ve been here a thousand years, frozen, probably by the crone.” “But one of them moved . . .”
“Yes, that troubles me. Either the crone knows we are near and is weakening her defenses to let us through, or the Nephilim sentinels are able to detect us. I don’t know which.”
“Or the crone is weak or distracted for some other reason,” Ae’fir added. He looked around, scratching his beard.
Eriu grunted.
“Is there anything else I should know?” Ae’fir asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Eriu shrugged.
“Not that you’re aware of?” Ae’fir repeated. “You mean, there could be more?”
“There could always be more . . .”
“That really makes me feel better.” Ae’fir groaned. “Well, our immediate problem is how to get past these sentinels. Time is critical, and the sooner I get to the crone and find Scalibur the sooner we’ll be out of this mess. Do you have any ideas?”
Eriu was pensive. “Yes. Timing and distraction are key. The Nephilim are intelligent, so we’ll need to be careful.”
“Go on, what do you have in mind?”
“It’ll be light in a few hours. I can skirt up the mountain and drop down further up the valley. I can project an image of you there. It may fool them for a while, long enough for you to reach the crone. She’s keeping them at bay so you need to be careful, but you are Aes Sidhe so you should be able to pass through her defenses.”
Ae’fir looked at the sky. “Right, that’s the plan. You go, create a diversion, and I’ll reach the crone. I was hoping you were going to be with me but I’ll work it out somehow.”
Eriu nodded, turning to leave.
“Eriu,” Ae’fir whispered as his friend departed, “be careful.” Ae’fir wasn’t sure if his friend had heard―certainly, he did not respond―but he would hear Ae’fir’s thoughts.
Ae’fir settled down to wait for Eriu’s diversion. It would take the dreamcaster at least an hour to get into position. Ae’fir shivered in the co
ld air―he wasn’t used to these extremes of temperature. It wasn’t cold or warm in the Banishment―it was nothing. But he did not begrudge Dal Riata’s climate. He was privileged to be here, breathing the air, feeling the cold.
Ae’fir looked across the open expanse of the valley below. Snow lay everywhere. The sky was lightening and the Nephilim were becoming hazy, almost translucent in the encroaching light. He thanked Danu that they had found this place in darkness.
The sun breached the horizon, its rays touching the mountain tops and spilling into the frigid valley. The land was reborn in light. Ae’fir tensed―Eriu should be in position. He would have one chance to reach the crone’s barrow.
He did not know what to expect. Expect everything. He glanced up the valley to Eriu’s position and waited.
After a few moments, he heard a deep rumble and watched, amazed, as a large section of snow broke away from the mountain. A huge avalanche exploded down into the valley, engulfing it in snow, rock, and debris.
Ae’fir heard muffled cries from the valley floor. The avalanche had caught some of the Nephilim. The others might rush to the aid of their fallen brethren. Eriu had done well.
Now was his turn: Ae’fir stood to run, but the way ahead was obscured by a white haze. As the growl of the avalanche subsided, Ae’fir heard the hiss of settling snow. He broke into a run. Ae’fir plowed over the broken ground, his feet finding purchase on the fresh snow. He could hear his heart beating and feel blood rushing through his veins. He felt alive, tasting danger in the air, starting as a roar came out of the mist on his right. Something large was moving toward him. Giant footfalls . . . it was one of them. They knew. He braced himself and changed direction.
A whoosh swept by his head, just to the right of his body. He heard movement and a grunt as his enemy lunged at him. The ground nearby erupted in an explosion of snow and ice.
He changed direction again, trying to throw off his attacker. By now, he didn’t know which way he was running. Another whoosh, another dull thud and an explosion of snow, this time behind and to his left. He changed tack again. He heard the crash of footfalls close behind.
Gods . . . this thing was fast!
He darted right, then left. The Nephilim followed with an ear-splitting roar.
A face appeared out of the mist in front of him. A face so terrible it stopped him in his tracks. Ae’fir stood, panting, his eyes glued to the apparition. It was a face of anger and hatred sewn together by snow, ice, and rock. A spirit of the Screaming Mountains, one of the crone’s guardians.
The face tore toward him.
Ae’fir dropped to his knees, bowing his head. If it was over, it would at least be quick.
Cold surged over and across his back. His bones chilled, his lungs froze, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
But his heart kept beating.
A tremendous crash came from behind, followed by a blood-curdling scream and the sound of clashing steel. Finally, silence returned and the valley listened.
Ae’fir opened his eyes. He was still alive. He looked up and saw the snow cloud dissipating. A little to his right lay the barrow and its sacred rowan tree.
He’d made it.
Slowly, he got to his feet and started walking. His footsteps crunched loudly in the snow. The barrow’s entrance was symmetrical and stood out as something unnatural in the wilderness. Snow lay in thick layers across it. Ae’fir started walking around its base, finding steps running to the top. The rowan tree stood off to one side of the barrow’s crest, surrounded by a circle of grass and flowers. He sensed magic beneath his feet.
Ae’fir peered round into the valley from his new vantage point. A thick snow cloud still hung on the hillsides―he was not sure if Eriu was prolonging the effect for his benefit or if the snow cloud was still settling. He sighed and turned his attention to the ground at his feet.
A depression was outlined in the snow on his right. He went over and kicked it with his feet, finding the snow loose at the top and easy to dislodge. The deeper he went, the harder the snow became, until hard ice stymied his efforts. He needed different tactics. He drew his short swords and, being careful not to nick the blades, started hacking at the solid layer.
His blades made a difference and soon he had chipped away a large portion of the ice. When his blade struck stone, Ae’fir stopped to examine his handiwork. He could see the outline of a carving in the stone beneath his feet. He squinted in the milky light and made out the face of a bald woman with an open mouth.
Finally, he had the whole area clear. He sat back on his heels and surveyed the scene. A woman’s face―regal, eyes raised to the sky, her mouth open―stared back. He plunged his blade into the woman’s mouth but didn’t encounter resistance. He’d need to put his hand in to search.
Doubt filled him. What if it was a trap designed to snare grave robbers? He searched the rest of the cover stone for traps but found none. He looked around. The world was white, impassive.
Grimacing, he plunged his left hand into the woman’s mouth. At least it wasn’t his sword arm.
Nothing happened.
He felt around. The hole was deep and extended beyond his grasp. There―a chain, slick with grease. He waited a moment, then pulled. A deep growling came from the mouth, followed by the rumbling of a distant mechanism.
He pulled his hand out and watched the cover stone. The stone image vibrated and the woman’s face split into four sections before withdrawing into the surrounding rock.
He stared at steps leading down into darkness.
This was it. The turning point.
Chapter 17: Phantom Black
The thunderstorm woke Sive.
Torrential rain pelted her face and body. She was still breathing.
Trees all around her. Trunks so thick it would take twenty men with hands clasped to encircle one of them. Monster trees.
Monster trees. Could it be? But those were only stories, surely?
Childhood memories rushed back to her.
Monkwood.
In the stories, Monkwood was protected by Phantom Black, a secret magic pocket that hid the forest from men, for men would tear down and destroy these trees for their wars and ships. The Erthe had created the sacred forest millennia ago because it pleased her, because it was good. No one, no man, would be allowed to taint Monkwood.
So why was she here? Why had the crone sent her?
To find the third crone. The missing one . . . the Blessed One.
The words spilled into her head. Leaves rustled high above her head and rain hissed down, sluicing from the canopy. The forest was alive―Sive could feel its awareness. She was the intruder, the unknown. She closed her eyes and let the rain run down her hair and back. Things were different here; her senses were heightened.
She would do this thing, she could do this thing. Something told her it was right. Sive stood and began to wander through the forest. Green light filtered down from above―the fresh green of sunlight through a million leaves. Where was the third crone?
The rain raised a loamy scent from the rich soil, the smell of living and dead things. Her mind returned to Orphir. Would she reach out to her in this place? Usually, she could feel Orphir deep within her heart, could connect with her memory, could see her face, but not here. Sive came to a sudden halt. She could not remember what Orphir looked like. Could not even remember what her voice sounded like or what her laughter felt like.
You must be open to finding the Blessed One. Open.
Be open, let the forest in. Let her speak to you, feel her message―she will guide you.
Sive took a deep breath, inhaling the forest deep into her lungs. Its musk filled her, making her lightheaded. She listened and heard distant beating―five, no, six heartbeats. She closed her eyes and tasted the air.
Salt, sweat . . . sackcloth.
Men.
Close, straining, exertion. And something else.
Prayer. The low murmur of their voices locked in a chant. Words flew
to her through the forest, through leaves and branches, through the soil.
Blessed One, we carry you forever, to the final sunset.
We labor long and hard to keep you safe.
We are your servants, we live to die for you, again and again,
to keep the enemy from the door, to keep them guessing.
To hide the mystery,
to hide the power, that it may return and bring life to the land.
Rain and prayer will bring this day once more,
once more we will stand in your glory.
Sive nodded to herself. She followed the chant, felt its passion, its fevered obsession. They were close.
Sive kept her eyes closed and let her feet carry her. She walked for most of the day, her feet stepping over root and rock.
Eventually, she reached a clearing and stopped. Light hung low in the forest. Sive peered up through the canopy, but could not find the sun in the sky. Men’s voices approached through the undergrowth. Sive heard their footsteps on the forest floor and opened her eyes. A misshapen clot of darkness moved toward her. As it grew near, she could make out shapes, individuals.
Monks. A coffin on their shoulders.
They entered the clearing and stopped a short distance from her.
The two lead monks looked up, staring at her from within their hoods. Their chant stopped. The rain continued as it had done all day.
“We knew you would come,” the front-left monk spoke.
“It is time, brothers,” his companion said.
A voice came from behind: “Lay the Blessed One down.”
“Rejoice, our work is nearly done,” another said.
The monks bent, setting the coffin down reverentially then stepped back from it. The rain fell on the simple wooden container. The forest seemed to hold its breath as the day’s light faded.
Sive stepped toward the coffin. She paid the monks no heed, and they did not flinch as she knelt beside the coffin and placed her hands on the lid. She closed her eyes, feeling the moment, tasting the anticipation. She pulled on the lid and felt resistance as its rotten nails gave way. Inside was the crone, the Blessed One, stretched out in rags, her body shrunken and withered.
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