Son of the Shadows Page 16

  At last, when I had grown so weary I was in danger of falling from the saddle, and Evan was slumped gray-faced and motionless in his bindings, we halted. We were under tall trees, at the entrance to some sort of structure, and it seemed we had reached our destination, for lanterns were lit and quiet instructions given. Dog had dismounted, and they were lying Evan’s limp form on a blanket. I wanted to get down, they needed me, but my cramped limbs would not obey me. The horse stood patiently.

  “Here.” I felt firm hands on my waist and was lifted to the ground as easily as if I had been a small child. He let go immediately, and my legs buckled under me. I grabbed at the horse’s harness for support, gasping at the pain.

  “You weep for others, but not for yourself,” said Bran. “Why is that, I wonder? Someone has taught you self-discipline.”

  I took a deep breath and another. “Not much point, is there?” I whispered, dry mouthed. “Could you show me where they’re taking the smith? I’ll be needed.”

  “Can you walk?”

  I tried a step, still grasping the harness in one hand. The horse shuffled sideways.

  “Not very convincing,” said Bran. “Second rule of combat. Don’t bluff if you can’t go through with it. Your enemy sees your weakness a mile off. If you haven’t the strength to fight, admit it and retreat. Regroup, or use your wits instead. If you must, accept help. Here.”

  He put out a hand, and I found myself supported and steered in the direction of a low doorway, whose lintel and supports were massive stone slabs, and an old passage that appeared to go straight into a grassy hill. The night was growing stranger by the instant. An owl hooted, and I looked up. Above us, through the web of branches, a fledgling moon hung delicate in the black sky. I could feel the weight of Bran’s gaze on me as he helped me along, but I said not a word. We reached the entry through which the others had disappeared and something halted me abruptly.

  “I don’t think we should be here,” I said, as a cold chill settled about me, and a dark mist seemed to envelop the two of us standing there outside the door. “This place is—this is very old, it is a place of the Old Ones. We should not be here.”

  Bran was frowning. “This mound has sheltered us well many times before,” he said, resting a hand casually on the ancient lintel, where tiny inscrutable faces gazed at us between the whorled and spiraled patterns carved deep in the stone. If anyone’s hand belonged there, it was his. “Whoever once used the place is long gone; now it is ideal for us, secret, secure, easy to guard, with concealed exits for a quick departure. It is quite safe.”

  But I was filled with dread, a freezing sense of foreboding that I could ill explain, least of all to him. “There’s death here,” I said. “I see it. I feel it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Then I looked up at him and for a moment, instead of the face of a hard, vital young man, half patterned, half plain, I saw a hideous mask, ashen hued, the mouth stretched in a ghastly rictus of death, the clear, gray eyes now staring and lifeless. Somewhere I heard a child screaming. You let me go … you let go … A small hand stretching out, clutching in desperation, but I couldn’t reach, they were taking me away, I couldn’t reach him … .

  “What is it? What do you see?” His hands were on my shoulders; the strength of his grip wrenched me back into the present.

  “I … I …”

  “Tell me. What did you see?”

  I fought to make my breathing steady. There was work to do, I must not let this overwhelm me.

  “N-Nothing. It’s nothing.”

  “You don’t lie well. Tell me. What is it that troubles you so greatly? You look at me, and you see—something that terrifies you. Tell me.”

  “Death,” I whispered. “Terror. Hurt. Sadness and loss. I cannot tell if it is the past or the future I see, or both.”

  “Whose past? Whose future?”

  “Yours. Mine. This shadow encompasses the two of us. I share your nightmare. I see a path that is shattered and broken. I see a way leading into darkness.”

  We stood there in silence, with the night behind us and the open door in front.

  “This is our only shelter here,” he said after a while. “There is no choice but to go in.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Do not be sorry,” said Bran. “This visits you unbidden, I see that. You will be safe enough with us. But that’s not what frightens you, is it?”

  “Safe,” I echoed. “I am not concerned for my own safety.”

  “Whose then? You cannot mean mine? Why should you trouble yourself over that?”

  I could not reply.

  “You see my death? This concerns you? It should not. I do not fear it. There are times when I would welcome it.”

  “You should fear it,” I said very softly. “To die before you know your true self, that is a terrible thing.”

  I had never felt the burden of my strange gift more strongly than on that night, and as we passed through the doorway into the subterranean chamber I made a sign in the air before me, one I had seen Conor use, and I sent a silent call to whatever ancient spirits inhabited the chill realm below. We honor this space, and the shades therein. We mean no harm. We mean no disrespect in using this place for shelter. And I heard, deep inside me, my mother’s voice. You are outside the pattern, Liadan. It could give you great power. It could allow you to change things.

  We went in through a short passageway and into the central chamber, around which the huge structure of balanced stones and wooden supports had been built. It had been empty. Now there were bedrolls and packs stacked neatly around the walls. The place was full of orderly, quiet activity as Bran’s men readied themselves for the next departure. Rations of hard bread, dried meat, water and ale were distributed, unusual weapons given a last check, a map was consulted, quiet words exchanged. They were well-seasoned men; while I was exhausted to the point of dropping in my tracks, they seemed none the worse for wear after the long ride. Then I heard the smith groaning as he returned to consciousness, and I was suddenly too busy to think of anything but my task.

  It was a long time before Evan slept fitfully, dosed with the strongest infusion I could safely give him. I sat cross-legged on the earthen floor by him, keeping a close watch, sponging his pallid, sweaty face from time to time with cool water. The flesh around shoulder and chest was an angry red. Some of the men lay resting, others had been dispatched to stand guard at entry or exit. There was a strong smell of horse, for they had brought the creatures in; they stood loosely tethered at the far end of the chamber. Otter passed among them, a bucket of water in his hands.

  Dog sat close to me. His small eyes were very serious and his mouth unusually grim. Across the dimly lit chamber, Gull and Snake stood with their leader, apparently arguing a point. Gull’s dark hands moved in quick, expressive gestures, but the meaning was not clear, and they all kept their voices down. Snake glanced in my direction and then said something else to Bran, frowning. Bran’s features were stern, as always. I saw him shrug as if to say, if you don’t like it, that’s your problem.

  “We’ll be off early in the morning,” said Dog quietly. “Might not see you again for a while. You’ll stay here, of course. Do you think he’s going to make it?”

  For a moment we listened to the rasping, rattling sound of Evan’s breath.

  “I’ll do my best to keep him alive. But I must tell you straight. It isn’t looking good.”

  Dog sighed heavily. “My fault. Look at the mess I’ve got you into. And for nothing.”

  “Ssh,” I said, patting his large hand. “We’re all responsible. But him most of all.” I glanced across the chamber.

  “You can’t blame the chief,” said Dog under his breath. “He didn’t want to leave. Got a message someone was onto us. When that happens you get out quick, no matter what. We’d have been finished, all of us, if we hadn’t moved on.”

  “I might have been safe,” I said dryly. “Perhaps those who pursued you wer
e looking for me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We could hardly have left you, not knowing.”

  My small lantern was now the only one burning in the dark, subterranean space. Under the arch of the roof, where stone lapped carefully shaped stone in a miracle of balance, a network of shadowy webs housed countless small creatures. The floor was smooth, hard earth. At one end of the chamber lay a single monumental slab of dark stone, its surface glossy as if polished from long use. What its purpose was, one could only guess. Above this, at a slight angle, there was a single narrow opening in the roof, cut right through the overlying turf. There would be one day of the year when the sun struck down through this opening straight onto the stone below; one day when the old powers of the place might waken. They were not fled, not yet. I could feel them in the still air around me, in the rough-hewn walls, where here and there a small, subtle sign was carved. I thought suddenly of the young druid, Ciarán, striding out of Sevenwaters in his hurt and fury. Maybe it was better not to feel too much. Not to want too much. No past, no future. Only today. Much safer. As long as the past didn’t come back uninvited.

  “You’re weary,” Dog said. “Still, we’ll be gone tomorrow. Was going to ask—no, maybe better not.”

  “What? You can ask.”

  “You’re tired. Long ride for you. We’d dearly like another tale, one last tale before we—too much to ask. Forget I said it.”

  “It’s all right.” I smiled, stifling a yawn. “I can sleep tomorrow, I expect. One more tale I can surely manage.”

  Strangely, although we had been speaking quietly, all of them seemed to know. I was soon surrounded by silent men, leaning against the wall or squatting on their haunches. Some sat cross-legged, sharpening knives or spearheads in the lantern light. Spider reached a long arm over and put a tankard of ale in my hands. Behind the others, Bran and Gull stood together. In the darkness Gull was near invisible, save when his grin revealed a flash of gleaming teeth. Bran watched me with folded arms, expressionless. No sign of weariness there. And he’d been longer without proper sleep than any of us, as I had good cause to know.

  “I had thought,” I began, “that on the eve of your mission, I should inspire you with another heroic tale, perhaps of sacrifice and courage on the field of battle. But I have not the heart for this. For all I know, the men you go out to attack may be my own kind. Besides, I have heard you are the best at what you do. I expect you need no encouragement to excel. So I will seek instead to divert you, and I will tell you a tale of love. It tells how a woman kept faith against all odds.”

  I took a mouthful of the ale. It tasted very good, but I set the cup down. If I had any more I would risk falling asleep right here where I sat. I looked up around the circle of grim, hard-bitten faces. How many of them would I see again? How many of them would still be alive this time tomorrow?

  “She was an ordinary girl, a farmer’s daughter, and her name was Janet. But her sweetheart called her Jenny; it was his special name for her that nobody else used. When he called her that, she felt she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her Tom certainly thought so. Tom was her sweetheart, and he was a smith, like Evan here, a strong young man, broad shouldered and skillful at his trade. He was not too tall and not too short. He had curling, brown hair and a merry face. But the thing Jenny liked best about him was his deep, gray eyes; trustworthy eyes, she called them. She knew that whatever happened, Tom would never let her down.

  “Jenny was a quiet girl. A good girl. Obedient to her father, helpful to her mother, skilled at all the things a good wife should know. She could sew and make preserves and brew ale. She could pluck a chicken and spin wool and tend to a sick lamb. Tom was proud of her, and he was hard put to it to wait until their wedding day, which was set for midsummer. He loved her yellow hair down to her waist, which she took out of its braid sometimes, so he could see it ripple like a field of wheat in sunlight. He loved the way she was just the right height for his arm to go neatly around her shoulders as they walked along. She made his heart beat quicker and his body stir, and he sang at his forge as he hammered the hot iron into pitchfork or plow share and smiled to himself, waiting till Midsummer Day.

  “Quiet and sweet as Jenny was, there was one thing that made her lose her temper and that was the other girls looking sidelong at her Tom or trying to flirt with him as he passed them on the pathways. ‘Keep your eyes to yourself,’ she’d say, furious, ‘or you’ll be sorry. He’s mine.’ Tom used to laugh at her, and say she was like a little fierce terrier protecting a bone. Didn’t she know he’d never dream of looking at another? Wasn’t she the woman of his heart?

  “Ah, but they reckoned without the folk under the hill. Meddlesome they are and love nothing better than to snatch away a likely lad or lass on a whim and use the poor mortal for their own pleasure. Some they keep for a year and a day, and some forever. Some they spit out again when they’ve had their fill, and these poor lost ones are never quite the same again. One night Tom had been working late down at the forge, and he took a short cut through the woods to the farm where his Jenny lived, thinking to steal a kiss or two before he went home. Foolish Tom. What did he do but put a foot in a mushroom circle, and quick as a heartbeat there were the fairy folk all dressed in their finest, and at their head the fairy queen on her white horse. One look into her eyes and he was lost. The queen took him up behind her and off they galloped, far, far away, beyond the reach of mortal being. Jenny waited and waited that night, with a candle burning in the window. But her Tom never came.”

  I had wondered if they might find this story too childish or whimsical; not a fit tale for grown men. But there was the utter silence of rapt attention. I took another sip of ale.

  “Go on,” said Snake. “I thought you said he was trustworthy. Sounds pretty stupid to me. Should’ve gone by the road and carried a lantern.”

  “Once the fairy folk decide they want you, you can’t do much about it,” I replied. “Well, Jenny was no fool. Next morning, early, she went down through the woods toward the forge, and she saw the grass all trampled with hoof-marks and the mushroom circle, what was left of it; and she saw the red scarf Tom had been wearing, the scarf she had spun and dyed and knitted for him with her own hands. She knew who’d taken him all right, and she was determined to get him back. So off she went to the oldest woman of the village, a crone so old she’d bare gums instead of teeth, and gnarled, curling fingernails, and as many wrinkles on her as the last of winter’s dried apples. Jenny sat down with this ancient one and fed her a little bowl of gruel she’d made specially, and then she asked her what to do.

  “The old woman was reluctant to speak. Such things are best kept quiet. But she’d had many little kindnesses from Jenny, treats and help around the house, and so she told her. On the next full moon, she said, the fairy folk would ride out along the wide, white path that led through the heart of the woods and on to the crossroads on the moor. Jenny must wait at the crossroads, silent, until midnight. When they came by, she must grab hold of her Tom by his hand, and she must hold on till dawn. Then the spell would be broken, and he would be hers again. ‘That sounds easy,’ said Jenny. ‘I can do that.’ The old one cackled with laughter. ‘Easy!’ she choked. ‘That’s a good one! This will be the hardest thing you ever did, chicken. You’ll need to want him bad to keep hold. Be prepared for a few surprises. Sure you can do it?’ And Jenny said fiercely, ‘He’s mine. Of course I can do it.’”

  Snake reached over with a pitcher and refilled my cup. The forked tongue inscribed on his nose seemed to flicker in the lamplight, as if preparing to strike.

  “Well, Jenny did as she’d been bidden. At midnight on the full moon, she waited alone at the crossroads in her homespun gown and sensible boots, with a dark, hooded cloak concealing her bright hair. Like a little shadow in the moonlight she waited. Around her neck she had wrapped the red scarf that had been his. And they came; a long glittering cavalcade of riders, the horses all white, the gowns and tunics beaded and jewele
d, the hair dressed long and wild with sparkling gems and strange leaves braided into its silvery flow. The fairy queen rode in the middle, tall, regal, her skin pale as milk, her hair a glorious glossy auburn, her dress cut low to show the elegant curves of her figure. Behind her rode Tom the smith, his gray eyes distant, his once merry face an expressionless mask. He wore a strange tunic and leggings of silver and boots of softest kidskin. Jenny was filled with fury, but she stood still and silent until the queen reached the very center of the crossroads, until her Tom was just before her within easy reach. Then, quick as a flash, she darted out and seized his hand, and she pulled as hard as she could, and he tumbled down from his horse and sprawled at her feet on the white path.

  “There was a hiss of outrage from the fairy folk, and in a trice they had circled their horses around her and poor Tom, and there was no getting away. The fairy queen’s voice was terrible to hear, both sweet and deadly in its fury. ‘You!’ she spat. ‘What are you playing at? Who put you up to this? This man is mine! Take your filthy mortal hands off him! No woman challenges me!’ But Jenny held on, while Tom sat at her feet in a daze, and she stared at the beautiful creature on the white horse and spoke defiance with her eyes. Then the fairy laughed a dreadful laugh, and she said, ‘We shall at least have some sport from this. Let us see how long you can hold on, farm girl! You think yourself strong? How little mortals comprehend.’