by Tom Deitz
But not David, because he knew her for what she was. Almost he was sorry for her, because a part of him truly wanted to like her, in spite of what she had done to him. God knew she’d had plenty of justification for her actions—his own encounter with Ailill had proven that one’s callousness. But in spite of Morwyn’s beauty, in spite of her lavish generosity, he dared not drop his guard, dared not trust her. For he was certain that, given the need, she’d suck him dry in an instant: use him for everything he was worth and then discard him, and immorality be damned. He was mortal, she was Faery; and for her—for all her kind—there was no immorality, as far as the World of Men was concerned.
He twisted around to gaze down at the river swishing by the hull, then across to the nearside bank, where the surrounding escarpments had grown lower, so that the plain itself was sometimes visible in dips and hollows.
It was cooler there in the river-rift; for that, at least, he was grateful. What did Morwyn mean, anyway, to dress him in such heavy and confining attire, when—to judge by the glare of the sun on the deck and the heat devils that now swept along the cliff tops almost at eye level—it must be well over a hundred degrees in the surrounding desert. Only the steady breeze along the river’s surface and the boxed-in sides of the canyon relieved that pervasive oppression.
He hoped it would not abandon them.
A good while longer he watched, then found himself nodding again.
The banks had lowered considerably when David roused himself once more, to discover to his dismay that the breeze was losing its battle with the sun. Sweat had sprung out on his forehead, and a trickle had begun to ooze down the hollow of his spine. He reached back to scratch it, but found his movements confined by the mail so that he finally had to stand and rub against one of the spines of the figurehead.
A dreamy lethargy fell upon him, and he gave himself up to watching the featureless white landscape passing by, grateful for any random touch of wind that might stray from the channel to brush his face. Once or twice he twisted around farther to watch the sparkle of Track streaming by, its golden motes blending with the clear water and white sand.
“Pay close attention,” Morwyn called from the stern. “You may see a thing that surprises you.”
David squinted into the blazing glare of light and water, trying to observe the Track both with his natural vision and with the Sight. He succeeded in part, saw the glow increase an order of magnitude as the Sight kicked in, then realized he was seeing two Tracks. One lay atop the other, as if the golden ribbon had split horizontally and they now sailed the upper arm of an infinitely long vee laid on its side, while the other arm fell farther and farther away below them. He looked up. The landscape to either side was as bleached and desolate as ever, except now it was not so flat. Hills stretched in the distance, and terrible golden lights speared the sky at points here and there like bolts of frozen lightning.
The banks grew narrower, and strange excrescences rose from the whiteness, becoming twisted shapes of tortured, fluted stone that here resembled bones, there crystals, and in other places the complex siliceous skeletons of ancient corals. Mostly, though, they resembled thorns, for they curved away from the wind, slanted at identical angles, with concave curves on the leeward side, sharpening to needle-points where the two sides tapered together at the top.
And then David noticed dark shapes moving among those curious, hooked pillars like shadows without substance. Once, one came almost to the edge of the bank, and he saw that its naked body wore a man’s shape, but nothing showed in its black eyes except a feral blankness that marked it either idiot or mad.
The striated stone spires became more frequent, too, growing taller and taller and ever closer together, so that their buttresses overlapped and their points sometimes touched each other. It was like the lacy calcined pierced work of a piece of human bone sliced crossways; or like a frost-chilled forest wrought of silicon strands and salt. And always there was the hot white glitter, like a sprinkling of powdered diamonds cast upon the air and burning there.
Here and there serpents slithered among the strange stone growths, and some of them were titanic. An emerald green one stretched a barrel-sized head far across the river, long black tongue flickering curiously, as though it sought to converse with the figurehead.
David drew back instinctively. Snakes, per se did not bother him—but when their heads were as big as his entire body . . . He found himself reaching for the sword, but Morwyn shouted something, and the creature drew back, hissing.
And spat: a spray of oily black liquid. And where those drops fell upon the deck, thin tendrils of smoke trickled into the air from tiny pits eaten in the woodwork.
A larger drop splashed the back of David’s left hand and he screamed as the venom seared his skin. He jerked it toward his mouth, stopping himself only just in time as he stared in curiously removed incredulity at the blistering redness that was spreading across his flesh. Already he could see the skin peeling back as the poison ate its way inward.
“Goddamn! Oh, goddamn, goddamn!” he shrieked, trying to wipe the pain away upon his surcoat, only to discover as he did, that contact with the velvet merely increased his agony.
“Morwyn! Oh God, Morwyn!” He wrenched himself awkwardly to his feet and staggered toward the stern, his injured hand smoking before him. His balance deserted him amidships and he clutched vainly at the mast as he tottered past.
Pain became the focus of his universe.
Suddenly Morwyn was beside him, a whisper of fabric, a sweetness upon the air. Words thrummed in his ears. Something touched his wrist.
The pain was gone. David stared first at his own hand, and then at the smaller, smoother one that held it tightly while its mate described careful patterns in the air above.
“Is that better?” Morwyn asked, her voice soft as he had ever heard it.
David nodded slowly. “Yeah, much better.” He hesitated. “Thanks,” he said finally, looking up.
To his surprise, she smiled. “You are healed? There is no pain?”
David flexed his fingers experimentally. “I think so. That’s a real neat trick you’ve got there.”
“It is a thing I do,” Morwyn replied quietly. “Would that I could restore my son so easily.” She rose gracefully and returned to her place by the tiller.
David watched her, and for the first time he saw the sadness that lay at the heart of her every thought and word and action.
Suddenly he was sorry for her.
Very slowly he climbed to his feet, steadying himself against the mast until he found his legs again. It was cooler here in the aft section; he wished he’d thought of that earlier. The sail cut off most of the breeze that might otherwise have reached him. But, he supposed, when he’d taken up his position in the bow his single motivation had been to get as far away from Morwyn as possible.
Somehow that didn’t matter so much now. Her single gesture of concern for him, the look of sadness on her face as she spoke ever so briefly of her fallen son, had given him a glimpse of the woman behind the image. Morwyn verch Morgan ap Gwyddion—Powersmith, Fireshaper, Sorceress of the Tylwyth-Teg, whatever she was—was far from happy.
Bracing himself against the rail with his newly healed hand, David slowly worked his way to Morwyn’s side.
Her eyes had regained that strange unfocused quality that earlier had so unnerved him. Her lips moved in the words of a slow, plaintive song. She did not look at him.
David stared at the gleaming deck, at the soft draping of Morwyn’s red velvet gown across the toe of one of her slippers, at the pointed tips of his own silvery boots. Thoughts warred in his mind.
He cleared his throat. “He was . . . my friend,” he said quietly. “Fionchadd was my friend. Or he would have been, I think, if we’d ever had the chance to get to know each other.”
“You are much like him,” Morwyn whispered, though she continued to stare into the air. “Brave and foolish, rash and thoughtful, arrogant and naive.”
David found himself grinning at the accuracy of the lady’s assessment. “Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.”
“What?” She looked at him curiously.
“It’s what little boys are made of. A . . . a nonsense rhyme of my people.”
“Not far off, either.” Morwyn smiled back.
“Maybe not,” David replied, then took a deep breath. “Do you really think it’s possible? Not the thing with Ailill—I don’t want to think about that right now—but Fionchadd. Do you think he may really be able to rise from the dead some way?”
Morwyn laid a hand on David’s, and for the first time he sensed no threat in that gesture. “Truly I do not know. I can only hope. That is where Power lies: in desire—whether for good or ill does not matter. If Fionchadd wishes life enough, if his spirit itself was not wounded, he may find a way to return. Love may fuel that desire. Love for a person, love for life itself. Or maybe its dark shadow, hatred.”
David stared at her.
Her voice went suddenly cold. “Hate and love are much alike, for when unrestrained they consume. I know it, for I have felt them both. Hate prods me to vengeance against Ailill—but do not forget that once I loved him. And that love was a wonder and a glory.”
“I think I know, or I’m beginning to,” David said. “About the last part, I mean.” An image of Liz’s face took form in his mind’s eye. He felt his throat tighten.
Morwyn smiled. “I hope for your sake it is true,” she said.
David felt his face coloring as he gently withdrew his hand from under hers.
“Yeah, right,” he mumbled. “Well, I guess I’d better be gettin’ back up front—wouldn’t want that old dragon head up there to get lonesome.”
“David?” Morwyn called, when he had reached the mast.
He turned curiously. Her voice sounded different.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Yeah, sure,” David replied, nodding, as he ducked beneath the sail and returned to his accustomed place.
The landscape had not changed, was still a lacy canopy of intersecting white and crystal like the fan-vaulted ceiling of some vast Gothic cathedral frozen in rime. Somehow, though, it did not seem so threatening. Somehow, too, it was cooler.
Eventually they passed from beneath the last of the interlaced crystals and entered clear air again. At once it was hotter, but the glare was less a torment, and the air was fresher, so that he could breathe more freely. A second wind was blowing now: a wind from the east which warred with the westward one that directed their sailing. And that wind was not merely warm—it was hot.
And getting hotter by the moment.
One final brittle formation slid away to the side, and for the first time David had a clear view of the source of that heat. A pillar of fire had appeared on the horizon: a narrow strip of light that hurt to look at, though it was still many miles away.
David closed his eyes. All at once it had become too hot to move—almost too hot to breathe. Through slitted lids he could see the crimson sail, not as certain in its purpose now, its full curve sometimes collapsing in upon itself to flap uneasily before it billowed forth again. Beyond it, Morwyn remained as distant and implacable as before.
The banks had lowered again, and the landscape had resumed its featureless flatness. And then, so abruptly that David almost gasped, a gap broke the sheer slope of the bank to the left, matched by a twin on the right. Another band of golden light lanced across the Track on which they rode: another Straight Track. Closer and closer they came to it, and then they were there, the figurehead casting red shadows upon the golden cross that lay in the water before them. Morwyn twitched her fingers in a subtle movement, and the ship slid to a dead halt at the exact point of their juncture.
Morwyn strode forward to stand beside David, giving him a hand-up as he rose unsteadily to his feet. She took a wineskin from her hip and squirted a long arc of red wine into her mouth, then smiled and handed it to him. He took it uncertainly and aimed the nozzle carefully. He missed the first time, wetting his cheek, but got it right the second, and sent a stream shooting far back on his tongue. It was sweet and cold and as refreshing as anything he had ever tasted. Energy surged into him. He felt ready to face anything.
“That was great,” he gasped. “Thanks, it was . . . it was just what I needed. So why are we stopping here?” he added, wiping his mouth. “This doesn’t look like any part of Tir-Nan-Og I’ve seen.”
“Nor is it,” Morwyn replied. “But it is as far as I may go. The rest of the journey is up to you.”
“Oh, come on!” David was horrified. “I can’t run this thing!”
“The ship will sail itself. But in order to summon Ailill I must disembark. When you return with the Horn of Annwyn I want him ready to receive what justice you will provide for him.”
“But—”
“We have no time for talk, David. Your quest is upon you. When you come to the pillar of fire, take shelter in the cabin amidships. If you are still on deck at that time, I cannot vouch for your safety.”
“What about the ship?” David protested. “It’s pretty big. Won’t people notice it? Suppose somebody finds it and I can’t get back?”
“I do not think that will be a problem. I doubt the route you will take will be watched.” She paused, gazing intently at David’s uncertain expression. “No, perhaps I should take additional precautions,” she said finally. She muttered a word, slipped something off her finger, and extended it to him.
“Can’t seem to stay away from these magic rings, can I?” David grinned as he took the sparkling band from her. Interlaced dragons coiled there, one silver, one gold; their heads lay side by side though facing opposite directions.
Morwyn’s face was serious. “Once the ship has touched land and you have disembarked, stroke the gold head three times. When you are ready to return, stroke the silver one a like number.”
David nodded solemnly.
“And now truly I must be on my way. But before I go—a kiss for luck.” She bent her head and placed her lips against his. They were soft and sweet, but not as sweet as Liz’s.
“Farewell!” And with that Morwyn stepped off the railing, to stand supported by nothing more than a ribbon of golden light that radiated upward from the Track. With her own nail she pricked her finger so that a single bead of blood welled forth, then she traced an elaborate figure in the air.
With a groaning and snapping as of some ancient timber moving in protest, the dragon head bent down so that the huge carved face hung inches away from hers. She reached up and set the bloody fingertip against the figurehead’s flaring nostrils, a drop for either side. “By this it will know the way to return,” she said, then turned to run quickly across the strip of glamour.
“Farewell, my pretty thief,” she cried from shore. “Serve me well—for, friend or foe, you know how I will serve you if you fail.”
David waved his own uncertain farewell and assumed Morwyn’s place by the tiller. A narrow bench was set there, curving along the railing. He slumped down on it and drank another long draught of the wine she had left with him.
A shoreward glance showed her still looking at him. He grinned and brandished the skin; and she, for her part, clapped her hands twice. The sail billowed again, and the ship began to slide forward once more.
A moment later David was alone. Alone on his very own personal quasi-Viking ship following a strip of golden light through a bone-white landscape, heading for a rendezvous with a pillar of fire through which he must pass to steal a jeweled horn. It made his head hurt.
All at once he was wishing desperately for company, not only because he feared for his own life, but because he didn’t want to face whatever might happen alone. Always before he’d had Alec or Liz along to keep him straight, to prevent him from doing something capricious or stupid or wrongheaded. They were the practical ones, he the dreamer. But going into Tir-Nan-Og without them almost broke his heart, not the least because he still f
eared—when he allowed himself to think on such things—that he might never see them again. The unknown was bad enough in company. Alone, it was frankly terrifying.
He surveyed the landscape. It was too flat, too dead. Too hot. It lulled one into a sense of false complacency which he feared could become fatal with little encouragement.
For the first time since he’d awakened in Morwyn’s chamber, he allowed himself to think about Liz, about the last time he had seen her. What would she have done when he turned up missing? Roused the whole county, no doubt. Enotah County was probably crawling with people looking for him; maybe they were even dragging the lake for his body.
He took a long swallow of the wine. How did he keep on getting in these situations?
The light grew brighter, and David closed his eyes against the torture of the glare, wishing he had a pair of sunglasses. He’d need to take shelter soon—before the ship reached the pillar of fire. It was still a little ways off, though; he’d just rest his eyes a couple of minutes longer . . .
The heavy sound of fabric flapping jolted him from his reverie, and he jerked his head up, saw the red sail go slack as its own wind failed. His heart leapt to his throat.
He dashed to the bow—and blanched in fear, for the pillar of fire was almost upon him. It filled three-quarters of the forward horizon, straddling the Track from side to side, a scant hundred yards in front of him—its heat scoured his face. But the pillar was drawing them on now, faster and faster, like a rising tornado of fire.
He froze, transfixed by awe.
Closer and closer it came:
Four-fifths of the sky eclipsed . . . five-sixths . . .
David felt the whole fabric of the boat shudder, so that he had to grab the railing to keep his footing.
What was he doing still standing there?
Desperately he released his hold and started toward the shallow cabin that lay amidships just behind the mast. But the boat lurched suddenly, flinging him flat on his face so that he had to half crawl, half slide the rest of the way as the deck began to tilt beneath him.