Aes Sidhe

by Fergal F. Nally

  “You’ve done this before?” Sive asked.

  “Once, but that’s another story.” Shanir’s voice was tense. He held the helm, the skin tight over his knuckles, strain etched on his face.

  It was not the time to talk.

  Sive looked at the others on the deck, each busy with their assigned tasks. The ship cut through the water with a grace and speed that Sive couldn’t help thinking was not solely due to the wind in her sails.

  Sive stood behind Shanir, ready to help. He had warned her that kelpies might seize the helm from him if they got too close to the center of the strait. She’d not been able to tell if he was joking.

  She stayed close, watching his every move. The Sapphire raced toward the whirlpool. She wondered how much faster it would be on the Devil’s Tide.

  The ship’s timbers creaked and groaned. The Sapphire shivered with energy as it shot through the maelstrom. Shanir’s hands gripped the helm, his back bent, battling the wheel. Muscles stood out on his neck as high waves erupted around them, sea spray filling the air. Sive clung to the rearmost mast for dear life, her eyes wide. Only moments before, the sea had been calm; now it was a swirling madness. She wondered how the others were faring.

  Shanir’s voice rang out above the wind and spray. “Cailleach Bheur, goddess of winter! I am Myrddin the Wild come to enter the Devil’s Tide. I ask that you allow my ship passage. We are on a quest of utmost importance to the Erthe and the land of Dal Riata. Your allies of old, the Aes Sidhe, are trying to take back what was once theirs, and my ship carries their chosen, Ae’fir and the spirit sword, Scalibur. We honor thee and ask you to let us pass. We ask in the name of all that is sacred.”

  The Sapphire rose in the water as if pushed from below. A huge wave broke against her, crashing across the deck. The icy water struck Sive, drenching her. She blinked, spitting out saltwater, and turned to the waterfall. Emerging from the swirling cauldron, two shapes took form. The waters tore and spun upward, forming two giant horses’ heads.

  The Corryvreckan Kelpies.

  Sive watched, awestruck. The horses turned toward the ship, pulling away from each other. An opening was created in the whirlpool. The Sapphire was sucked into the heart of the cauldron, and Sive was flung across the deck, her stomach heaving. The kelpies towered over the ship, their mouths open, spewing spray and fury.

  Sea water stung Sive’s eyes as she scrambled from the wet boards, clutching the central mast. She could see Shanir. Battling the helm, a greenish glow flickering around him. The Sapphire entered the epicenter of the whirlpool and, for a scant moment, the tempest dropped away. Sive would later swear that she saw a woman with white hair and robes hovering above Shanir, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back, a silent scream frozen in her throat.

  The Sapphire plunged into the cauldron, into darkness. Sive lost her grip on the mast and was flung toward Shanir and the spinning helm. She collided with him, grabbing his waist and becoming engulfed in the green light.

  A surge of strength rushed through her. Her head cleared, her feet steadied, and her breath returned. She looked at Shanir’s back and saw through him, saw his heart beating, his blood pulsing. Sive saw the goddess of winter, Cailleach Bheur, through his eyes. It was she that held Shanir, reading his face and heart. Cailleach Bheur had her tendrils deep within Shanir’s flesh, in Sive’s flesh, reading their thoughts, tasting their true natures. All the while the kelpies stood guard, stark and terrifying.

  It was a test.

  Shanir was rigid, his body stretched to breaking point by this elemental force. As if from afar, Sive wondered whether she'd breathed her last. Time seemed to stretch, and slowly, Shanir’s green mantle began to fade. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. Sive felt a gut-wrenching impact. Cailleach Bheur and her kelpies were gone.

  Corryvreckan had vanished.

  She was on her back on the deck, an azure sky above. Seagulls flew overhead. Sive lay there for some time before pulling herself to her feet. She looked over the side and saw the Sapphire’s bow racing through the sea at an impossible speed, white foam running along her length.

  She heard steps behind. “Welcome to the Devil’s Tide,” Shanir said.

  She turned to face him. Her eyes met his and she nodded. “Aye, Shanir. Or should I call you Myrddin the Wild?”

  Shanir’s eyes flashed a warning.

  He spoke. “Orphir is alive and waits for you. The trick, however, is for you to stay alive. Keep my name a secret awhile longer and I’ll make sure you’ll see her again.”

  How do you know about Orphir? Whose side are you on?

  Finally, Sive nodded. Myrddin raised his head. An understanding passed between them. It would be their secret.

  The journey took three days.

  They took turns running the Sapphire; Ae’fir and Mevia took the morning and evening, and Cal and Sive took the afternoon and night. Sive and Cal had a better knowledge of the stars, although it was hardly necessary as the tide was pulling them relentlessly northward.

  “Why are you here Cal?” Sive asked on their second night together.

  Cal looked at her. “Where else would I be?” he answered. “My family are dead, my clan too. Shanir’s my only living relative. This ship, Port Ross, the plague . . . where else would I be?” he repeated.

  “You think Shanir will take you on?” Cal looked away. “Maybe, I don’t know.”

  Spray stung Sive’s eyes. “I think you should see how this pans out. You’re young and you’ll come across many doors, make many choices in the days and weeks ahead. Any door you open means another door closed. There are doors I could’ve opened if I’d had the foresight . . .”

  “You have regrets?” Cal asked.

  Sive hesitated. Some things were better left unsaid. “Everyone has regrets, Cal,” she offered.

  He sensed her reticence. “Aye.” The ship’s timbers creaked loudly. “What do you make of Mevia? She has a story, no doubt. Imraldi? Never been there. Never been anywhere, me.”

  “Mevia’s strong―I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her. Imraldi is a tough city, violent. Full of wealthy merchants, full of people. Wherever there’s people, there’s trouble . . .”

  “She was telling me she’s got a sister with lung rot. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” Cal said.

  Sive made no comment.

  “We do have a plan, right? When we get there―to Inis Cealtra, I mean,” Cal asked.

  Sive looked at the stars. The Devil’s Tide was running true, and they’d be there by morning. “Aye, Ae’fir has a plan. Let’s hope it works.”

  Cal nodded and lapsed into silence. Sometime later, he disappeared to check the sails before returning to keep watch at the bow. Sive stood alone at the helm, alone with her thoughts.

  The plan must work, there is no second option.

  Sive watched the horizon where the stars met the sea. Her eyes were tired. Hearing movement behind her, she turned. Myrddin nodded a greeting. They stood in silence. The first rays of light broke over the edge of the sea.

  An outline lay ahead, silhouetted in the east.

  “Inis Cealtra,” Sive whispered. “We’ve arrived. May the gods help us.”

  Chapter 34: Truth’s Shadow

  Lamorak pulled the currach onto the shore.

  He had made it. The island’s voice rang in his heart, filling him with certainty.

  He climbed the shattered cliffs, emerging on the windswept green roof of the island. Cresting the hilltop, he was greeted by a half-eaten corpse hanging forlornly from a gallows, its skin painted gold.

  He stopped. Dread ran its nails down his neck. The ancient war was alive here―it had never stopped. He could feel the presence of violence just beneath the skin of the wind. The grass whispered at his feet, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement: a blurring of the air, a thickening of the light. Something was coming toward him. Nephilim? Seraphim? It didn’t matter; they’d crush him, feed on him, tear him apart.

&
nbsp; He ran.

  Whoever his pursuers were, they were slow, degraded by time. He headed inland toward the high ground of the interior. There was no going back. He had no life to return to. He had to find out why. He needed to know.

  A Harsh wind blew against him, driving stinging rain into his eyes. The earth was soft, and water seeped up through the bog, trying to drag him down. He bent his will to muscle and bone, commanding his body to fight and overcome. His legs struggled, recovered, and propelled him across the unforgiving terrain. He ran as if his life depended on it.

  Far behind, he heard groaning and shouts of frustration. He kept his eyes focused ahead and plowed forward over the wet ground. In the distance, a hill loomed. As he grew near, he spotted something new. The hill was surrounded by a ring of moss-covered stones, twisted and massive. He slowed his pace as he approached.

  A bony hand burst from the bog at his feet, its fingers wrapping around his ankle. He swore, almost falling, and reached down to prise the fingers from his ankle. The bony digits were strong, held together by leathery flesh and tough sinew. He snapped three of the fingers with savage jerks. The hand lost its grip and he pulled away. All around him, other limbs burst from the marshy ground, some holding blades. Skulls and bony shoulders emerged from the earth.

  The shouting and moaning behind grew louder.

  He cursed and threw himself forward through the field of hands, heads, and blades. He moved through long grass and bullrushes, kicking and stamping on the nearest limbs. The bog stank of rotten flesh and lost hope, and dread seemed to rise through his feet, reaching for his soul. He was vaguely aware of the line of stones growing nearer.

  Lamorak fell.

  He hadn’t seen the hand hidden behind the long grass. His chest struck the ground, knocking the wind from him. His vision blurred and the earth, a blade’s width from his face, rose toward him.

  His brain tried to comprehend.

  The skin of mud fell away from the skull, its empty sockets staring. Its teeth were sharp, still possessing their ritualistic metalwork. The skull came close, pushed by an elongated spine, its jaws reaching for his neck. Lamorak threw his head forward in a desperate head butt, catching the leering skull in the temple. An explosion of pain seared his forehead. He heard a dull crunch and wondered whether his own skull had splintered or the skeleton’s.

  A shadow passed over him. He passed out.

  ~

  “Aye, he’s out there. The biggest island. The locals call it Inis Cealtra,” the Black Fox said to the Gray Knight.

  He didn’t like the Gray Knight, but then no one liked the king’s eldest son. His reputation as a cruel, ambitious tyrant was second only to his father’s.

  The Gray Knight nodded. “We’ve got him cornered then. All the other rats will come to him. Their plan is sinking. This should be short and sweet―we’ll get this Ae’fir and rout his band of rebels.” He turned and gave orders to his men.

  Short and bloody more like, Black Fox thought. It’d be interesting to watch this chapter of history unfold. Songs would be written, men would be buried. The same old story . . . he scratched his stubble and spat on the damp earth.

  The Gray Knight had commandeered the village’s fishing boats, and his men were boarding the stout craft, armed to the teeth. The Black Fox would sit this one out on the mainland. He’d done his research and had spoken to the locals; there was a reason why no one went to that island. There was always a reason to respect strength.

  For behind strength lay death.

  ~

  Sive stepped onto the shore.

  It didn’t feel right to be back in this place. What could they hope to find? She turned and saw Ae’fir looking at her.

  “Take us to this crone, maybe she can get us out of this mess. Maybe she can open the way to the Banishment. The Aes Sidhe are waiting, and Dal Riata needs deliverance. Now is the time. Eriu’s death won’t be in vain.” Ae’fir’s voice was tense.

  Myrddin had kept quiet during the journey, but he was sure Eriu’s magic would be present in the doppelganger he had created. It might just be enough to reawaken the thread, the link to the Banishment. Every truth had a dark side, a shadow. All truth was built on darkness. Myrddin looked on as the others stepped into place behind Sive as she led the way off the noisy shingle beach up toward the dunes. She’d advised him to sail the Sapphire to the north side of the island, away from the south-facing cliffs.

  Sive wound her way through the sandy hillocks. She forced herself to occupy the moment, to breathe the present. The island felt familiar, both threatening and welcoming. The dunes were pristine, their long grasses swishing in the wind, stinging her legs through her breeks.

  There was something different.

  She looked at the others following her. Didn’t they smell it? None of them responded to her gaze, so she turned to look ahead. The smell that had permeated her brain when she had met the crone, the smell of putrefying flesh held together by magic, hung heavy in the air. Magic could achieve much, Sive had learned―it could cover up visual decay, it could deceive the eyes, even the ears, sometimes the taste. But no magic could deceive the sense of smell, the most primitive sense. She could smell a difference―something was wrong. Why didn’t the others detect it? Was the crone trying to tell her something? What were they walking into?

  Gradually, the dunes gave way to poor soil and low bushes. The sun beat down on her back, its warmth penetrating her tunic. She heard the others behind her.

  Ahead, she was deaf, as if her senses were asleep. Or was someone playing with her?

  Come on girl, pull yourself together. This isn’t like you―focus.

  She pushed forward into the interior of the island. “What are those . . . things?” Ae’fir’s voice broke through her reverie.

  Sive turned, following his gaze to the left. How had she not seen them? Extending in a line to the left and again on her right were the same sentinel stones she’d seen on the other side of the island.

  They were getting warmer.

  “Something left over from the ancients? A defensive ring? A warning? Magic? I don’t know.” She paused, she’d almost said— they protected me last time, but something had held her back.

  “Aye, magic litters the places left by the ancients. Tread carefully girl, magic sometimes doesn’t differentiate between friend or foe,” Ae’fir said.

  She nodded, turning her attention back to the route ahead, but not before she’d noticed Shanir’s smile. There was something about him she did not trust. They passed the ring of stones, the land steeply inclining. Sive peered up the hill before setting off. She knew every step brought her closer to the end of this madness or, she thought suddenly, the beginning of some new madness. Her heart was pounding. This hill hadn’t been this steep the last time she’d been here. She soon found herself on a narrow ridge looking down into a crater filled with water. At its center lay a huge tree. Its roots and branches thrust out, winding up and down at stark angles. The tree looked almost possessed, not like a tree at all.

  The crone had not mentioned this. The others arrived, panting. They joined her on the ridge and looked into the crater.

  Myrddin couldn’t help himself. “So, it’s true: the Fortairchill Yew exists! It’s magnificent. Its roots extend into the very bones of the Erthe. I never thought I’d see it . . .”

  “What is it? What does it mean?” Cal asked.

  Myrddin couldn’t take his eyes from the tree. “The Fortairchill Yew is ancient, thousands of years old, the oldest living thing in Dal Riata. She is beautiful and powerful, the door of doors, the entrance to all men’s hearts, full of madness and magic. There lies before you one of the wonders of the Erthe.”

  “So . . . what has it got to do with our plan?” Cal replied.

  Ae’fir made a sound. Sive turned to him, an eyebrow raised. He had his hand on Scalibur. Its steel glimmered yellow around its exposed edges. He withdrew the sword from its scabbard, the yellow light dazzling them.

  “
Put it away Ae’fir, it’s hurting my eyes,” Mevia said, a strange tone to her voice.

  Ae’fir sheathed Scalibur and looked at Myrddin. “You said door of doors . . . is this the door we seek?”

  Myrddin nodded. “I can think of no other. This is surely the door to your Banishment and your people. It would be a suitable place for the Aes Sidhe to protect. Their―your―ancestors’ ancient magic would thrive, would understand a place such as this.” His voice fell silent.

  “Is that a boat there, on the far shore?” Cal asked.

  They’d been so busy looking at the tree, they’d not noticed the small craft moored on the other side of the crater.

  “Aye, it is. Let’s explore, this is likely our way to the tree itself.” Sive stepped over the ridge and into the crater.

  ~

  A searing yellow light ripped through Lamorak’s skull. So bright, so intense―it reminded him of something . . . home.

  He blinked and it was gone. He blinked again, his vision blurry. He was on the ground, his head on his forearms. He looked up at the sky and saw a scattering of clouds interspersed with blue. Birds swirled above: black birds, crows―never a good sign. They thought he was dead. Well, he would show them. He pushed himself up and stood.

  His eyes widened as he looked down into the crater below. A twisted tree, surrounded by water as black as the birds above. A crazy demon of a tree. “Gods, protect me. What is this place? Why am I here?” he hissed.

  He stepped over the edge and descended into the crater.

  ~

  Nuzum Mir felt magic under his feet. The soil of this place was full of it and the air reeked of it―it filled his lungs, burning him from the inside out. This place was protected by the ancients’ magic.

  He would overcome. He had slipped through the protective ring of stones surrounding the ancient Aes Sidhe pocket. He’d been clever and had hid among the others, the one called Ae’fir and his band of followers.

  The one that held Scalibur.

  Nuzum Mir, descended from the one true Nephilim bloodline, was in. He had breached the Aes Sidhe defenses. He stood, invisible, where no Nephilim had stood before: at the heart of the Aes Sidhe’s last hope.