Three Wells of the Sea- The Complete Trilogy

by Terry Madden

  He drew a weary breath and exhaled. “Aye,” he said at last, “that I will.”

  The light of day beckoned from the narrow opening behind them.

  Nechtan lifted Lyleth to the rocky ledge as if he were tossing her on a horse’s back. She caught the edge of the opening with her fingertips and pulled herself up, then reached down for his hand.

  “Lyleth!” Gwylym called from across the water. “Come with me now and I’ll see that no harm comes to ye.”

  “The harm’s done, Gwylym,” she called back to him. “This she-king you serve killed your king. She’ll let me live? I think not.”

  Nechtan scrambled onto the ledge beside her. Below, a rope slapped the surface of the water and squealed as it drew taut. They were crossing the water.

  “Speak to him,” she told Nechtan.

  He hesitated. “You serve me, Gwylym, as you served my father before me.” Nechtan’s voice echoed through the cavern and the sound of ropes and splashing ceased.

  “Nechtan? It can’t be—”

  “If you truly are my man, Gwylym, you’ll turn round and go back the way you came.”

  “My lord?”

  Gwylym hushed his whispering men.

  “But your lady wife,” Gwylym went on, “she’s been chosen by the green gods—”

  “The same green gods saw fit to breathe life into me. Whom do you serve, Gwylym?”

  A long silence followed, then the splashing resumed. “They’re coming.” She took Nechtan’s hand and started through the narrow fissure leading to a twilit sky.

  “So be it,” Nechtan called. “If you stick your head out this hole, Gwylym, I swear by stars and stones, I’ll cut it off.”

  “Follow Brixia,” Nechtan told her. He worked his shoulders through the cleft in the rock and took Lyleth’s offered hand. She pulled and he spilled out beside her onto a grassy clearing. “I’ll be right behind you,” he said. “Go.”

  She knew better than to argue, but he had nothing but a dirk to defend himself. She started down a deer track toward a stand of trees where Brixia foraged among dead bracken at the base of an old beech. Lyleth cursed the weakness in her arms but managed to scale the branches high enough to gain a view of the cave entrance.

  She slipped the bow from her back and nocked an arrow.

  “What is he about?” She could see Nechtan clambering up the granite cliff that rose above the cave. A large boulder began to teeter, and finally tumbled down the cliff. It rolled past the entrance and came to rest in a cloud of dust. “Ah.” She smiled.

  A second boulder followed, forming the crude footing of a dam of sorts at the base of the cliff. Smaller rocks came down in a loud rumble.

  An arm appeared from the narrow opening, then the other arm, then a man’s head and shoulders. Lyleth drew and sighted down the shaft to the man’s eye. Her arm quaked with weakness, but she let the arrow fly. It skipped over the rocks beside him. She drew again and this time found her mark. Before the man could get to his feet, he fell still. Then a great fall of stone bowled down on top of him. A boulder as big as Brixia finally came to rest, lodged across the entrance and the fallen man.

  When Lyleth reached Nechtan, he was inspecting his work, pulling at some loose stones to reveal an arm and the young skin covering it. She read the relief in his eyes when they both saw it wasn’t Gwylym.

  “Welcome to the land of the dead, lad,” he said.

  She knew the bitterness in his voice was meant for her. So be it. She was not his friend any longer, but his solás.

  A crevice two fingers wide was all that was left of the entrance to the cavern. Lyleth could hear curses, the rattle of weapons and the churning of scree on the other side.

  Nechtan planted his hands on the rock face and she saw he was trembling.

  “You’re men of my own clan guard,” he called into the cavern. “You know me as well as your own mum. I am no demon, no wraith. Gwylym, you carried me on your shoulders when I was a lad, you watched my father die and you sewed my life back into me. You know me.”

  He slapped the rock and put his eye up close to the crevice.

  “Look at me!”

  “My lord,” Gwylym said at last. “Let us out so we might join you.”

  Nechtan looked at Lyleth as if for permission. There was a sad confusion in his eyes. She had brought him back to a different world, and she saw that unkind truth settling over him. She shook her head. There could be no trust. Not yet. To do so would risk everything. Certainly, he knew that as well as she.

  Nechtan wiped at his mouth with the back of his quaking hand and looked back into the crevice. The torchlight from inside cast a bright slash across his face.

  “Gwylym,” he said. “If you serve me, then do as I ask. Tell my lady wife that my heart beats as strong as her own. She’s to take ship with her soulstalker, Irjan, and sail back to that frozen hell that spawned her. If she fails in this—I come for her life this time.”

  Silence, then a few hushed whispers. Lyleth thought she heard the charm against the Crooked One.

  “Tell her, Gwylym.”

  Nechtan strode away and had started down the trail when he stopped and returned to the pile of stones. There, half-buried with the dead man, a sword blade caught the setting sun.

  He kicked off the rocks and picked it up, testing the weight in his fist.

  “This will do,” he said.

  They walked for the remainder of the day, north into Elfael. The sun went down quickly and in spite of Lyleth’s protests, Nechtan built a fire. The trees were thick here, so the light wouldn’t travel far. There was only a sliver of a moon and it would set soon. If Gwylym decided to pursue them, it would take him a day to retreat through the cavern and another day to make his way north toward the River Rampant.

  Even though the fire was snapping hot, Lyleth shivered with fever. She sent Nechtan in search of deer moss to pack her wounds, and he came back with his cloak full.

  “I found cobweb, too,” he said. “Now, let me see.”

  When he unwrapped the soaked linen, the cold air stung the three deep gashes left by Wren’s talons. She was sliced from collarbone to armpit.

  “These need stitching,” he said.

  “The moss and cobweb will stop the bleeding until we reach the inn.”

  “Does Wren’s skin come with the gift of flight, Lyl?” He gave her a resentful glance and ripped a fresh strip of linen with his teeth. “My time here would be so much easier—”

  “I intended to bring you back to stay.”

  He looked up from wadding the moss and cobweb. “What about my intentions?” he asked. “You think you know what I want. But you’re wrong, Lyl.”

  “If I’m wrong… then I’ve squandered my life in the service of a selfish, average man and a land that’s not worth the spilling of my blood.”

  He froze, his eyes locked on hers and she resolved not to let go.

  “You never were much of a liar,” she said at last.

  He went back to wrapping the dry linen under her arm and avoiding her eyes. It was an old game he played, and she couldn’t blame him. He always told her he deserved to keep some thoughts to himself, and now, she knew he was right.

  “The boy in the water came for you,” she said flatly. “What do you remember of this lad?”

  He looked up from his bandaging. “Pain.” He started to add more, but pursed his lips. Finally, he ran the back of his hand across his mouth and looked away into the darkness.

  “The boy is hurt,” Nechtan said to the night.

  “Why is he coming for you?” she asked. “How is he crossing?”

  “First you want me to remember this world,” he said, “and now you want me to remember the other. There’s no pleasing you, Lyl.” He lifted her shoulder and pulled the linen roughly around her.

  This lad had the ability to cross a life well. What if he could call Nechtan back to the Fair Lands just as Lyleth had called him to the real world?

  She had once vowed she would
never let Nechtan see the faintest flicker of what she felt for him. To do so would destroy everything they had built. And now their kingdom lay in ruins, and her secret lay like a stone at the bottom of a river, too deep to be retrieved. He needn’t know about this fear either. For if this boy intended to take Nechtan back, and if he succeeded, the boy with the copper eyes would end this battle before it even started.

  As Nechtan tied the last knot in the bandage, his knuckles brushed her neck. His eyes met hers, and in a voice that was barely a whisper, he said, “I can’t even remember his name.”

  Chapter 13

  Ava stood with arms out stiffly while Irjan worked a pin through the sleeve of her gown, an imported barracan surcoat of the palest blue, embroidered with leafy vines blooming with tufts of freshwater pearls. She looked like the earth mother herself.

  Her chieftains had been waiting since midday in the council chamber. What was it her father once said? Let underlings wait too long and they’ll know you distrust them, not long enough and they won’t respect you.

  Ava wondered if Fiach had shared with the other lordlings the message brought to him by the mad bee woman, that Lyleth had called Nechtan back from the dead. But even more importantly, did Fiach believe it?

  “Has there been word from Gwylym?” she asked Irjan.

  “None, my Iron Lamb. But the meadmonger has been seized.”

  Ava turned on Irjan, pulling her sleeve free of the clasp. “When did you intend to tell me this?”

  “Forgive me, I meant no deception.” Irjan looked at the floor and showed her hands. “You have the chieftains to attend to, the woman will wait.”

  “Where did they find her?” Ava asked.

  “Boarding a ship for Cadurques.”

  “You’ve questioned her?”

  “The jailer persuades her now.”

  “She’ll still be able to speak to me when his persuading is done, I trust.” Ava thrust out her open sleeve while Irjan stooped to pick up the clasp. “You’ll bring her to my chamber and wait for me here. Is that understood?”

  Irjan pinned the clasp, then showed the leather of her sallow palms, saying, “As you command, my Iron Lamb.”

  Jeven was waiting at the council chamber door, staff of the solás in hand—three hammered-silver branches sprouted from the gnarled limb of a hazel tree, each with three silver acorn bells ringing a discordant chime.

  He leaned close to her ear. “Arvon sends no one.”

  “So be it. Open the door.”

  Jeven lifted the latch and followed her into the barrel of the chamber. Each arching roof timber terminated in the head of a different beast carved so long ago that they had soaked up the hearth smoke of a thousand winters. How many kings had they watched rise and fall?

  Seated on one side of the long table was Fiach of Emlyn and Lloyd, the aging chieftain of IsAeron. Some said Lloyd had lost his wits on a battlefield long ago, and merely followed Nechtan’s, and now Fiach’s, lead in all things. Ava hoped this was so. On the other side of the table sat a doughy old greenman, his torc all but buried in the folds of his fat neck. Beside him sat the empty seat of the chieftain of Arvon, a predictable dissident for he had been a friend to Nechtan as well as an underling.

  They all found their feet when she approached and showed their palms in unison. Ava’s chair was too tall and her feet dangled like a child’s; she would order a footstool made before returning to council.

  “The lands of Emlyn and IsAeron,” she said, “have my constant protection and the open hand of trade. And you, sir,” she said to the soft old druí, “you come as trumpet for which of my absent lords?”

  “I am Finlys, counsel to Marchlew of Cedewain, my lady.” His chin rippled when he spoke. It appeared Finlys enjoyed the pleasures of this world as much as his lord.

  “Please sit,” she said to them. “Finlys, tell me, what has occupied Marchlew so that he cannot join the council table of his king?”

  She could feel Jeven standing behind her right shoulder like a guard dog.

  Finlys laced his fingers over the bulge of his belly. “Marchlew sends his respect and his hopes to reconcile what he sees as a… a misunderstanding, my lady.”

  “Misunderstanding?” She tested a practiced, politic smile. “Would you be referring to the get of Marchlew and Nechtan’s sister?”

  “Talan is the boy’s name, my lady.”

  “And Marchlew believes this boy should be sitting where I sit now?”

  “The boy, Talan, is of age and is the nearest living blood to Nechtan and the sleeping kings of the Ildana.”

  Ava felt her heart pound behind her eyes and her skin flush.

  “You sit before me, sir, and ask that I hand over my throne to Nechtan’s nephew because of the blood he bears? Has this boy slain a guardian? Has he proven to the people of the Five Quarters that his blood has anything to do with his destiny?”

  “To seek such would be foolish indeed, my lady.” Finlys daubed at perspiration with a kerchief. “No, what Marchlew seeks is a union between you and his son.”

  A chortle escaped her. Leaning back in her big chair, her eyes met Jeven’s and she tried to read them. Did she see acquiescence written there? Surely not.

  “Handfast Nechtan’s nephew?” she said at last. “And why, good druí, would I be inclined to accept such a proposal?”

  She glanced at Fiach, looking for some support.

  “This is an unusual request,” Fiach said. “My lady is not in a position that requires bargaining.”

  “Quite right,” Finlys answered. “My lady is in a position to demand, certainly so. But to demand would require the spilling of blood. Ildana blood.”

  Ava let her gaze linger on the empty seat of the chieftain from Arvon. Finlys’ gaze followed hers, and he certainly caught her meaning. Even if she were to agree to this outrage, fully one fifth of the kingdom would still be in rebellion. Arvon took no part in this scheme.

  “Am I right to judge that Marchlew withholds his allegiance until I agree to take this boy to my bed?”

  “My lady might consider—”

  “This reeks of blackmail, my lords.” She met Fiach’s eyes, then Lloyd’s.

  “I must agree,” Lloyd muttered, as if he’d awakened from a dullard’s reverie. “Marchlew seeks to force your hand.”

  “I will have my answer for your lord in the morning, Finlys. Until then, avail yourself of my hospitality.”

  She left the table and Jeven followed. When the door had closed behind them, she said, “Place guards at his door and below his window. If he sends a bird, bring it down. If he receives any message, any at all, I want it. If Nechtan lives, then Marchlew will not be leading the northern quarters to battle; Nechtan will.”

  “If Lyleth has succeeded,” Jeven said, “would it not be wise to agree to Marchlew’s proposal rather than meet Nechtan in battle?”

  They had reached her chamber door. “Leave me.”

  Inside, Ava found Irjan and a guard standing over a broken old woman. She reeled about on her knees, blood staining her dirty gown.

  “What have you found, Irjan?”

  “Her name is Dunla and she speaks in riddles, lady, but I found this.” Irjan held out a small dagger, saying, “It was hidden in her bodice.”

  The bone grip was crudely carved into a skull with eyes of rough-cut red gems. But the blade… the blade was knapped from a single shard of a clear green stone. Ava held it up to the firelight, which exposed spidery traces of fractures that looked like runes, unreadable, at least to Ava. The edge was no thicker than a hair’s breadth, like ice that forms on a grass blade in a freezing wind.

  “Leave us,” Ava told the guard. He withdrew and closed the door, leaving Ava and Irjan to the prisoner.

  “What is this?” Ava asked Irjan.

  “A soothblade of the Old Blood, those who came before.”

  The Old Blood. Keepers of some lost magic that Lyleth thought to wield.

  “Where did you get this blade?” Ava dr
ew it in a mock slice before the old woman’s throat. “From Lyleth?”

  Ava tested the sharpness of the stone blade on her thumb and drew blood. She let a fat drop fall on the hag’s forehead.

  Dunla cackled. “There is no truth in your blood, lady.”

  “It’s you who have truth to spill old woman. And spill you shall if your guts spill with it,” Ava said. “I’ve been told that Lyleth seeks to call her dead love to take back his throne. Is this so?”

  “Lyleth’s love is the land,” the hag spat through broken teeth.

  “The land? What kind of fool do you think me?”

  The witch looked up at last, the words whistling through her shattered teeth, “The most despised of all fools, lady, them what kills her own lord.”

  Ava’s palm stung with the slap she delivered, but the hag didn’t flinch. “Nechtan’s gods took him from me.”

  “Did they now?” Dunla tsk-tsked.

  Ava followed her gaze to Irjan.

  “’Twas but a slight wound my lord received,” Dunla said, “treated with black hellebore by your soulstalker—”

  “Hush now.” Irjan stepped close, reached out and stroked the old woman’s sparse hair as she would a rebellious child. “Show me this soulstalker,” Irjan cooed, “and we’ll seek out he who would murder a king.”

  The old woman looked up, seemingly lost in Irjan’s eyes, transfixed.

  Ava stepped between them, saying, “Where is Lyleth?”

  The hag pursed her lips and stared into the embers of the fire while Ava circled her. “You think Lyleth acts with a noble heart, do you not?”

  “Lyleth wears the armor of star and stone.”

  “If you wish to live, you’ll not speak to me in riddles.”

  “A wish is but a passing fancy. Ye might wish with all your might the land be yours, but it’s not choosed ye, nay, for the king lives.” The old witch’s wild eyes danced in the firelight.

  Ava slapped her harder this time, enough to make her hand throb, but the hag just smirked.

  “Tell me where to find them, and I shall send you back to your bees.”

  “She takes him to a place where only they two can go, to forge the bond far stronger than that what binds ‘em now. Break it? Nay. Take them? Nay. Ye shan’t, lady.”