Aes Sidhe

by Fergal F. Nally

  Ae’fir eyed Shanir.

  “Well, I’d better come clean. We have sought sanctuary on your ship and have come to you for help.”

  Shanir raised an eyebrow.

  “We need passage to the north, to an island called Inis Cealtra. Our―my―business is there. I’m to meet others on the island, and we are going to bring change to this godforsaken land. We will correct history, the mistakes of the past.” Ae’fir’s words filled the room.

  Silence.

  The secret was out, the bones of the plan laid bare.

  Shanir’s face was impassive, his eyes hooded, inscrutable. Ae’fir sensed the question in the air. “We need your help Shanir. Will you help us?”

  Shanir stared at Ae’fir and pursed his lips. “I know nothing about you . . . you come to my ship, my home, eat my food, and ask for help. I don’t know your plan. I have heard of this island, yes, but I don’t see why I should help you.”

  Ae’fir looked at the floor. “You shouldn’t want to help us, you need to help us. Hasn’t life been onerous enough under this king and his corrupt sheriffs? A businessman like you should know this better than anyone: taxes are crippling, and only the slavers are exempt. And I’m not sure exactly what you do, but an educated guess places you in the rare categories trade . . . your market narrow, your margins good, but your expenses high. But it’s not the business argument that should persuade you, it’s the right of this land, of its people, to freedom from this tyrant and his dynasty. If you support me in this, we can rid Dal Riata of King Loarn and win back freedom.”

  Shanir looked unimpressed. “A fine speech, but I’ve heard others spout fine words before, and nothing ever changes. Have you anything tangible to persuade me?”

  Ae’fir considered Shanir’s words. Nobody spoke. With a sigh, Ae’fir pulled his cloak back to reveal Scalibur. He withdrew the sword from its scabbard and placed the blade on the table. Its steel shone with an unnatural light. Even the others, who had seen it before, were taken in by its beauty, its presence.

  Shanir’s eyes were glued to the blade. This he could understand, this he could believe. This held currency. His eyes flicked around the table to the others, then finally settled on Ae’fir. He licked his lips.

  “This is a magical item from the ancient wars. Are there other magical items in this place you want to go to?”

  Ae’fir nodded. “If my plan is successful and my people are freed from the Banishment, and if you help me return the Aes Sidhe to Dal Riata, then yes, there are more magical items like this.”

  There it was, the words had been said. They could not be unsaid.

  Return the Aes Sidhe to Dal Riata.

  “You had me with the sword. I feel the magic at its heart. I’ll help you get to Inis Cealtra,” Shanir said, his eyes excited. “But you’ll need to help me sail the Sapphire. I’ve been marooned here without my crew, so you see, your arrival has been . . . fortuitous.”

  Ae’fir looked at the others, who nodded. He turned to Shanir. “It is agreed.”

  Sive leaned forward. “How long will it take to reach Inis Cealtra?”

  Shanir smiled. “If we time things right and catch the Devil’s Tide, we can be there in three days.”

  “Three days!” Sive exclaimed, incredulous. “But that’s . . .”

  “Impossible?” Shanir finished for her. “I understand your disbelief, yes I learned seamanship from the slavers as a boy but as your friend speculated, I’m now involved in the rare categories trade. Seeing as we are laying our cards on the table, I’ll lay mine out. I have an interest in necromancy and the magic of the ancients.”

  Mevia stirred uncomfortably. “You’re a druid?” she said, her voice barely audible.

  Shanir frowned. “No, not a druid. I prefer to think of myself as a servant of the Erthe. I sail the seas yes, but I also sail the magic that lies around us, unharnessed. Magic in life―”

  “And death,” Mevia said.

  Shanir detected fear in her voice. He tilted his head slightly in acquiescence. “Yes, in death too. Magic abounds around us. It can be captured, channeled, used to create or destroy.”

  Cal’s voice broke the spell. “This Devil’s Tide? What’s that?”

  Shanir looked at his cousin. “It is a deep current that twists the surface of the sea, pulling at six times the speed of a normal tide. If you’re in the right place at the right time, it can sweep you north in mere days.”

  “And if you’re in the wrong place?” Cal countered.

  Shanir shrugged. “It can tear you apart.”

  Ae’fir stood up. “We’ll need to be in the right place then.” He held his hand out to Shanir. “Tell us what to do. Consider us your crew for this journey.”

  “So be it. The Sapphire will be like an arrow. We’ll catch the Devil’s Tide and reach Inis Cealtra in three days,” Shanir declared.

  “Three days . . .” Cal repeated.

  Ae’fir looked at Shanir and wondered whether they could trust him. A necromancer, an alchemist, an ex-slaver―how had he ended up owning the Sapphire? What had gone before? How many men had he killed? In this world, life was hard, and those with means were ruthless. Well, when the Aes Sidhe returned, the world would change. They’d bring law, order, and joy. Art, music, prosperity. They would unleash the old craft upon the land, their land, Dal Riata. The soil would deliver golden corn, and people would thrive and prosper. Peace, not hatred, would pervade the land.

  “Sleep well my friends, tomorrow it’ll be work. Work and the Devil’s Tide will bring us to your island,” Shanir said. He took them to the crew’s quarters, where they each selected a bunk and readied themselves for the night.

  “I’ll wake you at first light,” Shanir said. “We’ll seize the day. Good night everyone.”

  The food, the ale, the bunks, and the gentle rocking of the ship combined and, within minutes, they were asleep. Even the Aes Sidhe slept, the previous days’ exertions having crept up on him.

  Shanir nodded in satisfaction. Yes, they’d sleep, all of them. He needed them rested―the next few days would be a trial, for him and the Sapphire. To negotiate the Devil’s Tide at this time of year was dangerous. He had done it only once before, during the spring beneath a full moon. Its light had allowed navigation through the Dragon’s Fangs, the rocks guarding the northwest passage. Back then, he’d been a ship’s boy on a slaver vessel. He had watched and learned. Nothing passed him by. Not then, not now.

  Back then, he hadn’t had the second sight. He knew that Ae’fir had not told him everything, but when did anyone ever reveal everything? It would work out―he would get them there, and when he did, he’d be witness to history, would be on the winning side . . . or would at least get to choose a side. And there would be magic; anyone who had Scalibur would lead him to magic.

  Maybe he’d even find the Book of The Night? He smiled. No, he needed to reign in his imagination. He shouldn’t get ahead of himself.

  ~

  The next day dawned dull and wet. A thick mist enveloped the Sapphire, cloying and dense.

  A longboat carrying seven men appeared out of the mist, drawing alongside the Sapphire’s anchor chain.

  A thin, wiry man turned to the sour-faced sailor at the tiller. “Clem, you sure this is a good idea?”

  “Aye, brother. The fisherman told me this was where the bastard was holed up. He ain’t got no crew, does he? All dead with the sickness. Now’s our chance to get my money back, with interest . . .”

  The younger man nodded, putting a dagger between his teeth, and reached out for the chain. The others kept the longboat steady while he pulled himself up. He clung to the cold iron links and began to heave himself up. Clem was right: this would be a breeze. Once he was aboard, he’d find a rope and throw it down to the others. Then they’d have themselves a fine time and would leave this cursed port rich men.

  They’d take the Sapphire south to some safe, warm harbor―maybe Port Sunder. Aye, Port Sunder. He could retire there with his share of t
he loot.

  The chain beneath his hands was strangely warm. He relaxed, enjoying the heat until, all at once, the intensity flared. He let out a yelp, his bare feet burning. He threw himself up the last section, clenching his teeth against the pain. As he neared the top, the chain cooled. Except it wasn’t a chain anymore. A writhing serpent turned to him, its teeth bared. He heard screaming from the long boat below.

  He should’ve listened to Snark. Snark had said a necromancer lived aboard this ship . . . but there were no such things as necromancers, were there?

  His head flopped down as the bones in his neck crunched beneath the snake’s coils.

  ~

  Nuzum Mir watched.

  He was impressed, he had to admit it. He’d been concerned that the sword-bearer would be defeated by the plague in Port Ross. But no, the boy Cal had been a piece of luck―even he had not foreseen that. He was relieved he’d not had to step in.

  He wasn’t sure of the one who captained the ship, the one called Shanir. He reached out with his mind and searched the vessel. He had to be careful; the ship was protected by magic―magic he could overcome, but magic nonetheless, and his probing would leave footsteps, ripples. He felt his way, moving slowly, carefully. He was near, he could feel it.

  A name came to him, coy at first, but there it was, laid bare in the light of his mind.

  Myrddin.

  Shanir’s magical name. And this Sapphire . . . it was no ordinary ship.

  Nuzum Mir detected warmth on his scalp. He pulled back, away from the ship, raising his defenses as he went. He slammed his mind shut just in time. Something had sensed his presence.

  Had it been his imagination?

  Or had it been Myrddin?

  Chapter 32: Black Ribbon

  He’d found it.

  The river stretched out below, a black ribbon running to the sea. A scattering of islands littered the horizon.

  The pull was irresistible. Something on that horizon reminded him of . . . home?

  The last seven days had been hard. He’d kept to the high ground, had stalked the ridges and high passes. The storm had raged for three days and nights before finally burning itself out. He’d lived like an animal, finding it strangely satisfying. His body felt different, stronger. But he felt . . . lighter.

  His eyes played tricks on him. He saw the land and sky clearly but when he looked at his hands or arms they were indistinct, blurred. He didn’t know what it meant, so he pushed it aside. He had purpose, intent.

  A raging thirst possessed him. He stopped at streams and drank his fill again and again. He hadn’t eaten in days, but did not miss food. Another puzzle he had no answer for.

  His skin was itchy; he wanted to claw it, shed it, leave it behind. His fingernails throbbed and bled. He retreated from the facts and held onto the pull north.

  Lamorak stood, looking down the final stretch of the mountain. He’d reach the coast by nightfall. He searched the horizon as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. There, in the distance, was a thin trail of smoke. A settlement. They’d surely have a boat he could take. He set off, bounding down the mountainside, anticipation coursing through his veins.

  ~

  The Black Fox was impressed. His quarry was quick and did not seem to tire. He’d resorted to tracking Lamorak after losing visual contact on more than one occasion. He had been this far north before but had always kept to the lowlands, the forests, where food was easy to find. He was glad he’d brought ch’arki to eat. They were near the sea now. Lamorak must be near the end of his journey, surely?

  Where was the bastard headed? He’d better send another bird to the king. He looked at the sky. This would be his fifth message in seven days. He imagined the king’s men marching north behind him, catching up, waiting for his next update from the edge of the world. He smiled. He hated to admit it, but he was enjoying this. It’d been a long time since an enemy of the king had proven so challenging. Mostly, they lasted a day or two in the wilds, but this one kept going.

  This one was driven.

  There . . . the Black Fox spotted the crow as it crested a patch of spruce. He brought his fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle. The bird changed course midflight, banking toward him. He waited while it circled above, eyeing him. It swooped and landed on the heather a few paces away, tilting its head.

  “Right my friend, you’re to carry this south to the king’s men. Hurry, there’s no time to lose.” He wondered why he bothered to talk to the birds―he knew damn well they understand a word he said. It was all in the fingers and tone . . . and the lore his father had passed to him. He wrapped the message in the ring, attaching it to the crow’s leg. The bird flapped its wings and hopped away, the wind ruffling its black feathers.

  “Away with you. Bring them, bring the king’s wrath north, to the end of the world. It is here we’ll end this game.”

  The Black Fox watched the crow as it grew smaller before finally vanishing on the horizon. Sometimes he wished he was a bird; things would be simpler. Animals had a clarity men lacked. There was beauty in clarity, a strength in simplicity.

  He turned and looked north. He had Lamorak’s trail and would catch up with him in the afternoon. Visibility was excellent, the weather having finally settled. It was going to be a successful day, he could feel it in his bones.

  A good day to catch an enemy.

  ~

  Lamorak ran.

  He was almost at the village. The sea was crashing against the rocks a short distance away. His compulsion to find the island was like a hunger: unbearable, all-consuming. His arms and legs were almost weightless and his head was clear.

  He had to think of a plan. He couldn’t just walk up to the first person he met and ask them for a boat. He had to steal one, and that required cunning, preparation. He’d spy on the village in the dying light of day.

  Voices, smoke, and laughter drifted from the cottages clustered round the harbor. The sun neared the horizon and darkness gathered, a chill gripping the air. The voices quieted as people left the streets, retreating indoors to their hearths and beds. Still he waited. Finally, when the sun had fully set, he moved.

  Lamorak rose from his vantage point, his face expressionless, his joints stiff. He strode across the fields adjoining the village toward the harbor. A dog barked from behind a cluster of cottages. He kept going. Beyond the cobbled pier, Lamorak saw a cluster of boats tethered to the harbor wall. The sky was a riot of stars and the air held the brutal cold that can only come from the sea.

  He found a skiff tethered beside the pier and climbed in. He glanced up at the jetty.

  Was that movement?

  He waited, watching. Nothing . . . he pushed the skiff away from the wall and rowed into the harbor, heading toward the furthest boat, a currach, a solid seafaring rower designed for six men. It would suit his purpose. He untied the rope and set the craft free, easing it away from the others using the oars. A light breeze rippled the water as he approached the harbor entrance. He stared back at the village and leaned forward, bringing the oars back.

  A hooded figure stood on the pier watching him, his form silhouetted against the sky.

  So, he had been followed.

  Why had the villagers not raised the alarm?

  Unless . . .

  It wasn’t a villager. Well, it certainly wasn’t a friend―Lamorak had no friends. No matter; let them come, whoever they were. He was leaving his old life behind. Lamorak leaned back, bringing the oars through the water. The currach shot forward into the open sea, leaving the village and his observer behind.

  He turned to get his bearings and saw the islands, dark shapes looming in the distance. Excitement coursed through him, lending him energy. The currach sliced through the water.

  Soon, he’d know what it was all about, what he was here for.

  ~

  The Black Fox had broken his own rule. He had revealed himself.

  Out of vanity . . . graceless, he reflected afterward, unprofessional. But he
’d been affected by this pursuit more than any other. Besides, there was nowhere else for Lamorak to hide. There was only one island Lamorak would bother heading to. Inis Cealtra.

  The belly of the beast.

  The old redoubt of the fabled Aes Sidhe. Difficult to find, but the king’s mages would track it down. The other islands had never been inhabited―their soil too poor for cultivation, they’d been left to sea birds and sea demons. But Inis Cealtra . . . even the name was tainted by the ghosts of that long-forgotten race. What could this man hope to find in that godforsaken place?

  He watched the currach disappear into the dark waves beyond the harbor. When he could see it no longer, he turned toward the village. He reached into his tunic, pulling out pipe and tobacco. He would stay here and await the king’s men. They would arrive the next day and it would be over to them, his job done.

  It would be interesting to see this one play out. It would make a good story one day.

  Chapter 33: Devil’s Tide

  “That’s the Devil’s Tide?” Sive was horrified.

  They had sailed the following morning. Despite the mist and poor visibility, the Sapphire had made good time. Pulling together under Shanir’s guidance, their meager crew had managed to sail from Port Ross out into the western sea. It was late morning; they had plenty of daylight left.

  Sive allowed a glimmer of hope into her heart. Maybe they’d make it north after all. Maybe she would return to her village and see Orphir again. She bit her lip, pushing the thoughts to one side. Hope always brought disappointment. No, she would not hope―hope was for fools.

  “No, that’s not the Devil’s Tide,” Shanir replied. “It’s the gateway to it. This is the Strait of Corryvreckan.”

  “Coire Bhreacain?” Sive repeated in the old tongue, wonder in her voice. “The sea’s cauldron . . . is it true autumn gives way to winter here?” she asked.

  Shanir smiled. “Some like to think so. It certainly makes for a good story, and people like a good story. For our purposes, it’ll launch us into the Devil’s Tide beyond the strait, so long as we sail true.”