Faery Moon

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Mind your tongue,” the shieldman muttered.

  “He has cause,” the king said. “Mae Gaelan—” He stayed Caith with a hand against his shoulder. “Go back to Dun na nGall. I have the Sight, mac Gaelan. And there is no luck for ye. For the gods’ own sake go home.”

  “In Dun Mhor is my home. My brother is still in their hands. I will tell you something, lord of Dun Gorm. I had something of that kindness frae my foster father. I know what a whip feels like. Nay, I’ll no leave my brother to Sliabhin if he hae the will to stand up. And for my father’s murder— where on the gods’ own earth should I go, tell me that, until I have killed that man?”

  “A kinslayer has no rest in the world. Whate’er the justice of his cause.”

  “Sliabhin’s no kin o’ mine. I’ll nae own him mine. He murdered my father, lord! His own brother! If any man could have come and set matters right, it might have been my father’s friend, but I see how things sit here at Dun Gorm, how eager you are to set things right! Ye leave me nae choice. Nay. I’ll kill Sliabhin myself, an’ wi’out a qualm.”

  There was terror in the old king’s eyes and something hard at the same time. “Stay,” Cinnfhail said, stopping him a second time, this time with a biting grip of a hand still powerful. “I cannot let ye go wi’ half the tale. — Mac Gaelan! Stop and listen to me.”

  Caith turned, then, flinched from under the king’s hard hand, his own hand upon his sword. “I’ll need the horse,” Caith said.

  “Ye’ll have the horse. And whatever else ye need. Go back to Dun na nGall— or go ahead to Gleann Fiach and rue it, rue it all your life! There’s naught of good for ye there, an’ ask not to know more than I said in the hall. Listen to me! I have a selfish cause. If you take my son with you, he’ll die there. I see it. I see it in the moon. There’ll be blood, blood— no hope for ye! For the gods’ ain sake, lad, listen t’ me! Ye don’t know who ye are!”

  The cold went to Caith’s bones. Bastard, his foster father had hurled at him nightly.

  “Old man,” he said, “’T was no grand place my father sent me to be fostered. Maybe he had little choice in his relatives. Sure enough he had little luck in his brother. And maybe a lord would send his son to the likes of Hagan mac Dealbhan if he had no choice of other kin— Or is it another kind of tale? Whose bastard am I? Yours?”

  “Sliabhin’s.”

  Caith whirled and lashed out with his bare right hand, but the king’s man brought his arm in the way and seized him about the neck. The breath stifled in him, not alone from the strangling hold on him.

  “Liar,” he said. “O gods, you whoreson liar—”

  ”Stay!” the king said to his man. “Let him go.”

  “Lord,” the shieldman protested.

  “Let him go, I say.” And to Caith: “Lad, Sliabhin had his way with Gaelan’s wife, with Moralach, the queen. That, Gaelan discovered when the herder-girl came to the hall and told her tale. Moralach confessed to him Sliabhin’s other betrayal and her own shame. And that was the second cause of Sliabhin’s exile. Gaelan forgave queen Moralach. She claimed ’t was rape, and her fearing to tell him because of his blind love of Sliabhin and her hoping the child growing in her was her husband’s after all. But the guilt gnawed at her. And now that she heard the herder-girl tell her tale, she believed it might be a murderer’s child she was about to bear. So she confessed. Four days Gaelan shut her away and she lived in dread of him. But on the fifth he wept and forgave her. And this was a thing few knew, but Moralach confessed it to my queen when she rode there to help with the birthing.

  “And at the last, lad, my lady was not in the room . They said Moralach commanded it, wanting only her nurse and the midwife with her. But ’t was a living child they carried from that room that night. My lady was close by, and saw it moving in the blanket. With her own eyes she saw it.

  “Afterward when my lady came to Moralach in her chamber, Moralach wept and clung to her and raved until they gave her a potion to make her sleep. Of the babe they gave out that it was stillborn. And my queen came home and carried that secret in her heart for two days before she told it me.

  “After that I went no more to Gaelan’s hold and my queen did not. It was worse than fostering we feared, for in queen Moralach’s raving she told still another tale.” From harsh the king’s voice had become pitying, from anger had gone to shame, and still Caith stood there, shivering in the rain. Somewhere nearby a horse snorted and stamped, splashing a puddle. “Do ye understand, lad? Need I say it? It was never rape. She let Sliabhin in, this vain woman, and paid for it all her life. When her other babes miscarried, she was crazed and thought it her punishment. When she bore the last alive, that day Sliabhin rode up to the dun and took it.

  “Perhaps she let her old lover. Whispers said as much. To do her mercy, likeliest it was some other hand let Sliabhin’s men into Dun Mhor to murder her husband.

  “And it is true Moralach hanged herself within the year, so surely she repented. That is the tale they tell, of servants who were there to see and fled to the high hills when they had the chance.

  “And there is yet more to it, lad. Before she was with child the last time, that seventh year, Moralach went out riding. And she rode often that season, and always toward the hills.

  “D’ ye understand me? The younger boy— may himself be Sliabhin’s son. Hence the whispers who it was let those gates open.

  “And Gaelan being either fey or fool, he refused to credit the rumors. So they say. Perhaps Gaelan knew and counted it all one with the curse on his land, the curse on his bed. Maybe he only wanted peace in his life. He was a sick man and his heart was broken and he became a fool. So he died. And by what they whisper, the younger boy is safe in Sliabhin’s hands if anyone is.”

  Caith no more than stood there. It all fitted then, all the pieces of his life. He set them all in order, his hand upon his sword.

  “Is that the truth?” he asked, because the silence waited to be filled. “Is that finally all the truth?”

  “I will give you the best help that I can give. Only go from here, back to Dun na nGall. You are Sliabhin’s true son. The Sidhe have set a curse on him, on all his line, and I have the Sight. I tell you whose son you are. So go back. This is not a place for you. And the gods know a patricide is damned.”

  “My foster father said that I should nae come back to him, either,” Caith said in a voice that failed him. “So he believed it too. All these years. And ye’ve known. — How many others?”

  “Does ’t matter? Nothing can mend what is.”

  “You forget, Cinnhfail King. I hae a brother in Dun Mhor.”

  “A brother you’ve never seen. Sliabhin’s son.”

  Caith gave a wild, a bitter laugh. “Why, then, my full brother still, would he not be?”

  “Don’t be a fool, lad! Sliabhin’s likely son and in Sliabhin’s keeping. If he hae had a fallin’ out wi’ Sliabhin, leave him to it.Ye can do naught to him but harm!”

  “I can take him out o’ there.”

  “For the gods’ sake, lad—”

  ”Ye promised me a horse.”

  The old king considered him sadly. “O lad, and what good d’ ye bring? ‘See, brother,’ will ye say, ‘I’ve killed our father to set ye free?’ It goes on. It will not stop. It will never stop.”

  “The horse. ’t is all I want.”

  King Cinnfhail nodded toward the pen. Caith walked that way, in the dying rain, with the mist against his face. The horses, let from their stable in the dying of the storm, stared back at him with the torchlight in their eyes and shining on their coats, more wealth of fine horses than any king had in Eirran, horses to heal the heart with the looking on them and the touching of them.

  On such horses a man could ride and ride, leaving everything behind. Men would envy such horses, would fight a war over any one such horse as he saw to choose from.

  But a man who wanted to go quietly, who wanted no attention on himself when he came into Dun Mhor— “That one,
” Caith said, choosing a shaggy white horse which stood within the shadow near the stable, raw-boned and ungainly beside the rest.

  “Not that one,” said the king. “Choose another. That one is mine.”

  “It is the one I will have,” Caith said harshly. “Everything else of your hospitality hae turned false. So I will take that one or walk. No other will serve me.”

  “Be it as you will,” the old king said, and stayed his shieldman with a shake of his head. “Be kind to my horse, then. Dathuil is his name. And he will serve you.”

  Fair,the name meant. It was an ugly horse. The king leaned against the fence and held out his hands to him and Dathuil trotted over like a child’s pet. “Get his bridle,” king Cinnfhail said to his shieldman, “and his saddle.”

  And when the shieldman had gone in and come out with the stable lad and the gear, the king would none of their help, but stepped under the rail and took the bridle and saddle, and saddled the raw-boned horse himself, all with such touches that said the old man loved this beast, he who had so many stronger and finer.

  “I will nae use him ill,” Caith said sullenly when he saw that it was not all a lie, that he had chosen a horse which the old man truly loved above the others. “And I shall send him home again if I can. But truth, no other would serve me. I’ll come into Dun Mhor as I came here, a wanderer— unless ye intend to betray me, unless ye hae already sent a messenger out tonight. And then, my lord—” He looked king Cinnfhail full in the eyes. “— I’ll trust you and Sliabhin have your own compacts. I’ that case he’ll return your horse himself to you, I’m sure, and keep as much of me as pleases him.”

  “Take Dathuil,” said the king. “I will not wish you anything.”

  Caith climbed up to the horse’s back, and took the sack of provisions that the shieldman gave him. Need compelled, and need rankled in Caith’s soul. Quietly he began to ride away, then drove in his heels and sped off through the open gate, a white ghost flying into the dark and mist.

  * * *

  “Dathuil,” said Conn. “O gods, my lord—”

  ”There is a doom on him,” said Cinnfhail, staring after the retreating rider. Tears spilled down his cheeks though his face remained composed. “He chose Dathuil. ’T was his fate to choose, and not mine to stop him. I know ’t now. Gods help us. Gods save us from Dun Mhor.”

  The harper Tuathal was there, somber in the rain, holding aloft his torch. “Come inside, my lord.”

  Cinnfhail walked over the trampled yard. A horse whinnied long and forlornly. Others did, distressed.

  And a cold was in Cinnihail’s bones that not all the warmth of his hall and cheer of his friends and house could assuage.

  Four

  The ugly horse ran on, down the glen, beside the Gley, never checking his pace and never breaking stride. Smooth as the wind Dathuil ran, and the cold mist stung Caith’s cheeks, stung his eyes which pain had already stung. There was power in this horse, as in no horse he had ever ridden. Its ugliness masked both strength and unlikely speed.

  So the king had reason in his affection for this beast. Caith laid no heel to it and hardly used the reins at all, finding something in the world true-hearted at least, this brute that bore him on its back and gave him its strength, when it was beyond his own power to have traveled far this foul night.

  He reined it back at last, fearing it would break its gallant heart in this running, but it threw its head and settled easily into a tireless rack. Its power hammered at him, kept him on his way, and while he rode, while its hooves struck the wet earth in tireless rhythm he had no need to think, no need to reckon what he was or where he went.

  Bastard. Far more than that, he was. He recalled the rage in his foster-father’s face when he knew where he would go.

  Kinslayer. Patricide.

  He had a brother he had never seen. Brian was his name. He had built a fantasy around the boy, this innocence, this one kinsman he might recover who would be grateful to an elder, wiser brother, a boy who should be the staying point of his pivotless life.

  He needed someone. He had loyalty to give and none would have it. He had bettered himself by ceaseless work and striving— everything a father could respect and love, in hopes his father would come to him at Dun na nGall and claim him. And then he had heard his father was dead.

  Now he had heard that made a lie, and he was going home, world-scarred and bereft of all innocent dreams but one. He had fought at Skye, a pirate no less than the man he was fostered to.

  O father, come and get me. I am better than this man. Better than these pirates— When I am a man, I will come to you instead and you will be glad that I am your son. Do you know where I am, or what we did at Skye?

  I have had my first battle, father.

  Done my first murder....

  I have got a sword, father. I took it off this dead man.

  O father!

  * * *

  “Gone?” asked Raghallach.

  The narrow stairs flowed with shadows in the torchlight. Samhadh was waiting there as he came in from the cold, Samhadh and Deirdre in their shifts, wrapped in blankets from their chambers, and Raghallach was there, still dressed, while servants put their heads about the corner and ducked back again, sensing no welcome for their services.

  “He left,” said Cinnfhail, uneasy in his half-truths. He was cold. He was drenched from the rain. He had thought only to come upstairs and warm himself in his bed at Samhadh’s side, but sounds and steps carried in Dun Gorm, in its wooden halls, and so there was this ambush of him at the upper stairs. “We talked a time. He asked a horse and provisions. Stealth is best for what he plans. He’s going on to Dun Mhor against all my advice.”

  “Gods, they’ll butcher him!”

  “And where would you be going?” Cinnfhail cried, for Raghallach went past him, downward bound on the stairs. “No! Ye’ll not be helping him, young lad! Ye’ll be putting both your heads under Sliabhin’s bloody axe! No! I’ll not have it! Let be!”

  Raghallach stopped. There was a terrible look in his eyes as he stood on the steps below Cinnfhail and looked up at him in the torchlight. “It’s raining,” Raghallach said. “For the gods’ sake, its raining out! What sane man goes riding off on such a night with the choice of a bed— ‘talk in the morning,’ you said, father. In the morning. But he was to be gone by then, isn’t he? You sent him!”

  “Watch your tongue, boy!”

  “You’ve shamed me,” Raghallach said all quietly. “In the hall tonight. This man told the truth. We’ve let Dun Mhor alone all these years for fear of that truth. And now you’ve sent him off. You’ve sent him out of here to add another to Sliabhin’s crimes.”

  “Raghallach—”

  ”It’s been on you all the day, hasn’t it, this dread, this fear of yours? This blackguard in Dun Mhor— gods, father, how did we seem tonight? ‘Talk in the morning,’ you said. ‘Take counsel in the morning.’”

  ”Be still,” said Samhadh. Deirdre only stared, her young face struck with shock and shame.

  “I love you,” said Raghallach. There were tears on his face. “I love you too much, father, to let you do a thing like this. You have the Sight; and having it, you wrap me in wool and keep me close, and what now am I to think? We were fronted in our own hall by a man who wanted justice. Gaelan was your friend, you say, but if he was your friend, father— then where were we in those days?”

  “Sliabhin’s son!” said Cinnfhail, going down to catch him on the steps, for Raghallach turned to go. He seized Raghallach by the arm and turned him by force to face him. “Raghallach, that is Sliabhin’s own son that hae sat at our table. You know what they whisper about Moralach. ’T is all true.”

  His son’s face grew pale in the torchlight. “O gods, d’ ye say?”

  “’T is patricide will be done at Dun Mhor,” said Cinnfhail. “And by the gods, this house will not aid it!”

  Raghallach gnawed his lip. “And do we sit with our hands in our laps? All the hall heard. All
the house will know you sent this man away. And all Dun Mhor will know he guested here— and take revenge if he fails. Or this Caith may be our enemy for long years if he rules Gleann Fiach instead. No! This house is going to do something, father. I’ll be taking twenty men as far as the border. And if need or trouble falls back to threaten the Sidhe-wood, at least we will have some chance to tell Dun Mhor where our border is, and that we won’t have trespassers. If he fails— if he fails, father, we have a stake in it, do we not? Sliabhin will be sending us his threats again. He’ll be findin’ his excuse. And if so happens this Caith comes back in haste with Sliabhin’s throat uncut, and we be there the other side of the Sidhe-wood— Well, there is help we can give then and have our hands clean, is there not? ’T is no kinslaying we intend, but to protect the Sidhe-wood. And our guest, if we can.”

  Cinnfhail thought a moment. His face burned with shame and his heart widened with pride in Raghallach, for his goodheartedness and his wit. “I will go myself,” he said. “’T is a good plan.”

  “No, father,” said Raghallach. His eyes glittered damply in the light. His jaw was set in that way he had that nothing would dissuade. And suddenly, passionately, he embraced Cinnfhail and thrust him back at arm’s length, his young face earnest and keen.”No, father. I am no more a boy and ye’re no young man to be dealing with Sliabhin’s hired bandits. This fight, this time, is mine.”

  * * *

  There was a time Caith had no remembrance of, how he had gotten into the woods, for he was weary and the shaggy horse’s tireless gait had never varied. He might have slept, might have been dreaming when he first passed beneath the trees that were all about him now, whispering in the wind.

  He rode slowly now, the horse treading lightly on the leaves, and Caith rubbed at his eyes and wondered had he slept a second time, for he remembered the horse running and could not remember stopping, nor account for where he was.

  And rubbing his eyes and blinking them clear again, he saw a light before him in the dark, a fitful light like a candle-gleam, jogging with the course the shaggy horse followed on this winding track among the trees. The wind blew and scattered droplets from the leaves. It made the light wink and vanish and reappear with the shifting of branches and limbs between him and the source. The pitch of the land was generally downward, and there was a noise of moving water nearby, so he knew they were coming to a stream, perhaps the wandering Gley itself, or one of the countless other brooks that lived and died with the rains. Someone must be camped on this streamside up ahead, and Caith gathered his wits and rode with care, fully awake and searching the trees and the brush on this side and that for some way to avoid this meeting.