by Brom
The tunnel led into a large cavern that opened to the sky. Jagged cliffs leaned in on all sides. Thick, glowing bands of gold veined the white stone, bathing the cavern in a soft golden light. Before him, a magnificent Eden spread out from ledge to ledge, at least the width and length of a soccer field.
The Devils, barghest, even the elves, all stared in wide-eyed wonder.
“The Haven,” Tanngnost said.
“I see bunnies,” said one of the witch’s daughters.
“My, my. Lots of bunnies,” said the second.
“Yummy for your tummy,” added the third.
NICK’S BREATH ESCAPED him. Before him lay a circular pond, delicate ripples crisscrossing its mirrorlike surface as tiny sprites, barely larger than bees, danced along its banks. An apple tree with white bark and leaves stood upon a tiny island in the middle of the pond, the centerpiece of the whole garden. Vibrant red apples hung from its delicate limbs and its leaves shimmered.
“Avallach’s Tree,” Peter whispered.
“Yes,” Tanngnost said, and even his voice was awed. “The very heart of Avalon.”
A birdcall drew Nick’s attention away from the Tree and he took in the rest of the garden. Dozens of brooks fed into the pond, their sparkling waters bubbling over smooth, crystal-clear stones. Grass and clover of deep greens and blues, as rich as though it were painted, rolled across the glade, while lush ivy and muscadine vines dripped down from the delicate trellises and along the ledges and cliffs that walled the sanctuary. Wildflowers spilled across the grounds like waves in an ocean, splashing along the edge of every stone and tree. Massive, moss-covered standing stones leaned heavily, their ancient pitted surfaces covered in runes and carvings of brooding faces. Brightly painted birds flew above, along with all manner of sprites, pixies, and tiny faeries. Wee folk of every sort peeked out from behind stones and giant toadstools. And on and on, there were so many sights, smells, and strange creatures about that Nick found it impossible to focus on any one thing for more than a second.
“My Lady,” Peter called softly, his voice reverent.
Nick followed Peter’s eyes to a tapestry of brilliant white vines, flowers, and leaves nestled together upon a throne of leaning stones on the far side of the pond. The overall effect was that of an elegant woman in a long gown. Nick realized that many of the leaves were actually white butterflies, some slowly opening and closing their wings, while others fluttered to and fro, giving the illusion that the tapestry was moving.
“She’s in the pond,” Dash said, and all the Devils pressed forward, trying to see her.
“I see her,” said Redbone.
“Where—oh!” said Cricket.
Nick searched the murky water, he didn’t see her, but he did see small winged fish with the upper torsos of boys and girls darting back and forth, chasing one another just beneath the surface. Then he understood, and he saw her, saw her well. In the reflection, all the white flowers, leaves, and butterflies came together to form the Lady. And, just like any illusion, once he saw her, it was impossible to not see her.
He glanced back up and there she sat on the throne, unmoving like a marble statue, staring with heavy, unblinking eyes at the Tree. Her head nestled among the flowers, the vines and leaves spilled around her, cradling her. Her skin was so white as almost to glow, her neck long and graceful, her lips full but pale, her cheekbones high, her eyes set wide apart, almost too wide, giving her a slight animal countenance. And when Nick looked at those eyes, those dull, glassy eyes, he could see just how fragile, how very vulnerable she really was. And as the heat bloomed in his gut, as it turned to fire, as his blood turned black and pumped through his veins like venom, he thought, It will do me such good to kill her.
“LADY MODRON.” THE name escaped Peter’s lips in a weak breath. She’s too thin, he thought and couldn’t push away the fear that she might be dead. He looked into her eyes, those ceaselessly staring eyes, and found no sign of life, nothing.
He walked softly up to her and laid Sekeu down upon the spongy moss at her feet. He cleared his throat. “My Lady,” he said gently.
She continued to stare past him, through him—not so much as a blink.
Peter followed her gaze to the Tree, still amazed to be in its presence. He noticed that many of the leaves were wilted, that some of the limbs were bare and looked to be dying. He wondered how much longer Avalon had.
He fell to one knee, reached out, and laid his hand on the Lady’s, gently, as though his touch might break her. Her hand felt cold. “My Lady,” he whispered. “Lady Modron. It’s me. Peter.”
Her face never changed.
“Lady,” he said again, then again.
Peter felt a hand on his shoulder, heard Tanngnost’s deep sigh. “I’m sorry, Peter. I was afraid of this. She still lives, but is gone from us, withdrawn deep within. Keeping the Mist alive, but little more.”
“I cannot remember the last time she spoke,” Drael said. “Maybe to Ulfger. I don’t know. For he forbade any of us to come near.”
“Peter,” Tanngnost said softly. “I fear she’s beyond us.”
Peter continued to hold the Lady’s hand, to stare into her eyes—to hope. He felt a warmth against his chest—the eight-point star. He pulled the necklace over his head and examined it. The faintest glow pulsed from the star’s center. “No, she’s still with us.” He reached for the Lady’s hand, carefully turning it upward, and laid the star in her palm. The star brightened.
“Lady,” he called. “My Lady.”
The Lady’s eyes closed, then slowly reopened. She looked at the star. Her lips moved; no sound came out, but Peter had no problem reading her lips. “Mabon,” she’d tried to say. Her hand closed around the star. “Mabon,” she repeated, her words little more than air. Her eyes became distant again, then slowly closed, and she was still.
Peter waited, but the Lady showed no more signs of life.
“My Lady. It’s Peter.”
Still, there came no response.
Peter stood, cleared his throat, and began to hum softly, then sing, slowly building up the song as his voice cleared. He found the old tune, the song of the Sunbird. And as he sung, as his rich voice echoed off the tall cliffs, the birds and the faeries lent him their voice and soon the tune drifted throughout the garden.
Peter watched a lone tear roll down the Lady’s face. She opened her eyes. This time she saw him. “Peter,” she whispered and reached out, touching his cheek. “My little Peterbird? You flew back to me.”
He nodded up and down as tears blurred his vision. Her caress touched so much more than his skin. He felt it to his very core, felt a warmth swell up inside him. As though they were still in that pond, so long ago.
“Flew all the way here from Otherworld just to sing me a song,” she said.
Peter nodded absently.
Her eyes found Drael, then Tanngnost. She frowned, her face confused. “You’ve come back too. Or have I finally passed beyond? Ulfger told me you were all dead.”
“No, my Lady,” Tanngnost said. “We’re not dead. Nor are you.”
Peter barely heard them, their voices muffled by the beating of his own heart. He put his hand to his cheek; it still tingled from her touch. It was all too much; after a thousand million wishes, he was finally back by her side. He felt his heart might burst, felt his own will had been stolen and he was now incapable of anything more than just staring at her, wishing only to bask in her presence forever.
She looked about the garden at the Devils and the barghest. Her eyes fell on Sekeu lying motionless at her feet. “Peter, who is this?”
Peter tore his eyes away from the Lady, saw the injured girl on the grass, and wondered who she was.
“My Lady,” Tanngnost said. “A lot has happened since the battle at Merrow Cove. Avalon still holds. Peter has rallied the clans. Today he led—”
Sekeu, Peter thought. Sekeu’s dying. And the world all came back into focus. “She needs your touch,” Peter interrupted. “Sh
e was wounded protecting Whisperwood.”
“One of your Devils? She fights for Avalon?”
“Yes,” Peter said. “She fights for you. She bleeds for you.”
“Help me to the pond,” the Lady said, pushing to her feet.
Peter and Drael rushed up, taking the Lady’s arm around each shoulder. Gently, they eased her down a set of stone steps into the pond. She drifted away from the shore and slowly sank beneath the water.
A light mist spread across the surface and the water began to clear, slowly revealing the stony bed below. The Lady resurfaced and now there was a vibrancy to her eyes, sparkling brilliant cerulean.
“Bring me the girl,” she said, her voice clear and strong.
Peter picked Sekeu up. She felt lifeless in his arms, but she let out a slight moan and he dared to believe that maybe, maybe, there was still hope. He carried her down the steps and floated her into the arms of the Lady.
The Lady pulled Sekeu below, swimming away toward the Tree. The mist thickened, swirled about, blocking the view below. The golden veins along the cliffs dulled, the cavern darkened, then the mist began to glow, casting an eerie green underlight onto the faces of the elves and Devils.
They waited, the Devils shuffling nervously from foot to foot, scanning the mist.
Peter searched for movement, a splash, a ripple, any sign that Sekeu was okay. It’s taking too long, he thought. Maybe the Lady’s too weak? And he had a terrible thought. Could this be too much for her? Could it kill her? He wondered if he should dive in, try and find them before it was too late.
The Lady broke the surface and Peter was terrified by what he saw. The Lady’s flesh had become gray, almost translucent, he could see every vein.
“Take her,” the Lady gasped, struggling to keep Sekeu’s head above the surface. Peter splashed forward and pulled Sekeu to him just as the Lady sank below the water. Peter hesitated, unsure what to do.
“It’s all right, Peter,” Tanngnost said. “Water’s her element. The pond’s the best place for her now.” But the old troll looked anxious.
The mist lost its glow, the water became murky. Peter would probably have continued to stand there had Sekeu not let out a gasp. He rushed her to the bank. Redbone and Drael gave a hand and they laid her in the grass. The dressing was gone from her leg. The wound was still there, a long, deep cut, but there was no bleeding, no redness. It looked on the mend. There was color in Sekeu’s face.
Sekeu spat out a mouthful of water, coughed, then her eyes fluttered open and she smiled weakly. “I saw Mother Moon and the stars. They were beautiful.”
NICK STOOD IN the shadow and watched the Lady. She sat slumped on her throne, letting the flowers and vines cradle her as she listened to Tanngnost go on and on. Peter stood at her side. Fawning, Nick thought, like a little boy. The color had returned to her skin, but she looked weak, worn out, except her eyes, they were alive, piercing—the eyes of a goddess. They scared Nick and he made sure to stay well clear of her gaze.
A laugh stole his attention. The Devils were exploring the garden, picking nuts and fruit. The Lady had insisted they eat their fill and gather what they could for their stocks. While the Devils stuffed their berry-smeared faces, the barghest rooted beneath logs and stones for fungus and grubs, hooting and barking at each other. A small white rabbit dashed by, followed quickly by the three sisters, giggling as they chased it into the bush. Sekeu sat on the bank. She still looked weak but was sitting up on her own now and eating away at the clump of muscadines Redbone had brought her.
The faeries zipped about, gathering armloads of flower petals and dropping them atop the barghest, chirping and giggling as the beasts growled and grumbled. Nick saw smiles, heard laughter, and it made the heat in his gut turn to fire. Oh, how fucking charming. How fucking magical. Nick’s heart drummed, the hot black blood pulsed in his head, the pain overwhelming, like a nail being driven into his brain. It was her, the Lady. She was doing it. Kill her, the Other wailed in his head. And Nick no longer argued, no longer protested. Him, the Other, his deeper self, they both shared the same burning black blood, they both wanted the pain to stop.
Nick slipped the knife from his belt and edged toward the Lady, careful to stay in the shadows. But no one was watching him. Stupid fucks, he thought. All too busy stuffing their faces and having a merry gay old time. He clasped the back of the throne to steady himself, trying not to swoon as the pain grew so bad that the edges of his vision blurred. He could see her profile, the elegant curve of her neck.
He clutched the weapon, thought how good it would feel sinking into her soft flesh. Yes, he thought, make the pain go away. The Mist too. Make all of this horrible nightmare disappear. He raised the knife, preparing to drive it into her neck.
She turned, such a simple, graceful movement, and locked her eyes on him—her hard, icy eyes. They held him, looked into him, deep into his very core. Nick heard the Other inside him wail. He couldn’t move, couldn’t so much as blink as the tears began to roll down his face.
She grabbed his wrist, and though she was thin and frail to look upon, her grip was like a vise, her touch cold, penetrating. Nick let out a small cry and the knife fell from his hand.
Peter and the troll exchanged a quick look and Peter was there at her side. “My Lady, what?” he asked, glaring at Nick, looking ready to slit him open.
She didn’t answer, just pulled Nick toward the pond, and Nick found it impossible to resist her will. Before he even had a chance to draw a breath, she dragged him beneath the dark water, pulled him down along the bottom. He knew she intended to drown him. The Other in him screamed, and this time Nick screamed too. His lungs filled with water and he had a moment of confusion, expecting pain, expecting to choke, to drown, but instead the water was sweet. It filled his lungs like a breath of spring air, dousing the heat in his stomach and the throbbing in his head.
Nick felt a pulse, but it wasn’t his. It came from all around him. He made out several large twisting shapes spiraling downward, disappearing into the depths. He realized he was beneath the apple tree and that these must be its roots. He laid his hand on one, could feel the pulse, warmth sloshing as it pumped through the thick root like a great artery.
She held his hand as they drifted downward. A soft glow came toward them, enveloped them, and everything came into focus. There were stars, the moon. He saw Avalon, not as it was now, but how it used to be. He was swimming above the forest like a fish, through the valleys and glades. He saw the sparkling lights of a million faeries, nymphs dancing around tall standing stones, centaurs galloping across pastures of wildflowers, and trees of every color glistening in the silvery moonlight. He saw the magic running beneath all things, a glittering aura, a fragile element that needed protecting. He reached for the magic and it reached for him, blooming in his chest like love. He heard her voice, like a song, faint and faraway. I am your forest, your earth, your eternity. I am life. I am your death. I am all things forever and always. Love me. Love me. Forever love me.
Yes, he answered. Forever.
She pulled him upward, toward the moon; it grew and grew, then, all at once, he broke the surface. He gasped, coughed, and took in a deep lungful of air.
Peter and the troll were at the steps, anxious and worried.
The Lady left Nick clinging to the bank, drifted away, disappearing beneath the dark water. Don’t go, Nick thought and reached for her; the garden blurred, wavered. He felt dizzy, could want, wish, think of nothing but the Lady. Forever.
Chapter Eighteen
Caliburn
Ulfger passed beneath an arch with massive elk horns set into its peak, climbed the winding steps as they curved around the sheer face of the granite ledge. His thighs and his lungs burned, yet he didn’t stop until he came face to face with the Hall of Kings, high above the valley.
A domed chamber loomed before him, beckoning him, daring him to visit with the dead. He stumbled forward, catching himself in the arched doorway, the sweat pouring down
his face in rivulets as he gasped to regain his breath. The stained-glass ceiling bathed the chamber in a soft emerald glow while the large oval windows provided the dead with a view of the valley below.
The bones of seven elven kings moldered within the seven stone sarcophaguses spread out in a ring before him. In their center sat a longboat. Ulfger glared at the dead kings, then slowly brought his eyes up until they were level with the boat’s deck. The boat stretched nearly twenty feet lengthwise; at the bow reared a ferocious dragon figurehead, its red ruby eyes staring out the largest window, looking ready to sail away into the low-lying clouds.
The boat had been built to be put to sea and set aflame, to take the Horned One to the Otherworld, to Avallach. But Ulfger had forbidden it. He’d made the elves bring the boat and the Horned One here. He’d not allow the Horned One to leave him, not while there were still Flesh-eaters on Avalon.
“I’m still here, Father,” Ulfger said, his voice shaky, appeasing. He inched forward. “They’ve betrayed you. Every one of them. But not me. I remembered my oath. I alone am worthy of your blessings.” He leaned heavily against one of the tombs, studied the face of the elven king carved in relief on its lid. He traced a shaky hand down the noble features. “Traitor,” he hissed. “All of you…traitors!” He sneered, raking his fingers across the eyes, scratching furiously at them, but his fingers had no effect on the cold marble gaze. Hefting his ax, Ulfger brought the blunt side down with a tremendous blow, smiting the face and cracking open the sarcophagus lid. He shoved the lid to the floor and stared into the hollow sockets of the dead king. “You dare to look at me that way?” Ulfger’s face twisted into a knot of rage. He snatched the skull from its cradle and dashed it to the stones, grinding the bones beneath his heel until there was nothing left but dust and teeth.