‘No, Harlin,’ whispered Duana, ‘the earth’s blood saw fit to make you one with the Bond, to grant you the power of the Sight the High Kings of old wielded so skilfully against us. They will take it as a sign that their time has come again, when you return with the crown and the Sight, and they will follow you.’
She untied the strap of his helm, lifted it gently from his head and placed it on the edge of the sarcophagus.
‘Aenwald’s kingdom collapses around him as the Land Children slaughter one another in the name of a lie. While they fight, and grow weak, you will grow strong. You will grow, and lead, and the king you become –’ she took the crown from him, and lowered it lightly onto his head ‘– shall be a king whose every step shakes the bones of the earth beneath his feet.’
She stepped back from him, eyes shadowed so they seemed black once more. ‘When Aenwald is dead there will be nothing but chaos left for them all, and they will never know the end of war, or of strife, and they will scurry like rats and hide in their holes as their world tears itself apart. Then they will know what it is to suffer beneath our hand as we did theirs.’
Harlin frowned at her. ‘This will give Ceatha too much power,’ he protested, ‘she is a dangerous woman. Tradition demands that she will be my Weaver, if the clans are to follow me. My consort.’
‘Then make sure you fuck her properly and keep her happy,’ Duana said, smirking. ‘A spider is less dangerous when its belly is full.’
Harlin blinked. ‘And I almost believed myself to be your man,’ he said wryly. All humour fell from Duana’s face in an instant.
‘You are mine,’ she said flatly, dangerously, her eyes darker still, black pits in her grey face. ‘You will always be mine, from now, until whatever end waits for us in fate’s cold palm. No matter which little cunt you might lay with, you belong to me, Harlin.’
Harlin’s teeth clenched. He felt the height of a fool, stood there in a dusty old crown, being spoken down to in such a way, and by a woman. He pulled it from his head, glared down at it in his hands, jaw aching, teeth grinding.
‘If I do this – if I do as you say,’ he snarled, glaring into her eyes, almost as dead-looking as Túthal’s, ‘know that neither collar, nor crown, will chain me, Duana. I lived most of my life a slave, I survived so I could bathe in Aenwald’s blood. Do not think I will be bridled so easily by you, or any other. I belong to no one.’
Duana strode slowly up to him, face expressionless, stopping when their noses were a hair’s breadth away. He could feel her breath on him. Her eyes, mottled black and grey around their amethyst irises, bored into his unblinkingly. The intensity of that stare betrayed the iron in her, the harsh, unyielding edge she masked with her mischievous giggles and girlish playfulness. In those eyes was a depth beyond reckoning, an agelessness that made her youthful form seem an abstract thing, a shell, a vessel for something greater, a thin skin wrapped about something without form, yet more dreadful for it. Violet flames awoke in them suddenly, and Harlin strangled the impulse to back away.
‘We shall see,’ Duana spoke in a frightful tone he had not heard before, huge and crushing. ‘And do you think that simple murder will fill the gaping hollow inside you, Harlin? That empty, cavernous thing within you that calls for blood, my little wolf?’
‘I will fill it with Aenwald’s blood until it drowns me,’ said Harlin, fighting to match Duana’s stare. Her mouth became a thin, furious line. Harlin let his hand inch toward his sword.
The flames of her eyes died, and suddenly she was but a lean-faced girl again. She turned away from him, looking almost penitent, fussing with one of her long braids. ‘We should not argue,’ she said sheepishly, laying a hand on his breastplate. ‘Not when our time together grows short. Forgive me. Let us enjoy each other while we can, little wolf.’ She strode past him quickly, snatching a torch from a bracket as she went and striding up the stairway opposite. Harlin watched her go, hesitating. He slipped his helm back onto his head, the crown tucked beneath his arm, and drew the strap tight.
I will never suffer chains again, Duana, he thought, and followed after her.
The few days that came after they returned to Morbha Harlin spent provisioning himself for the journey back to Caermark. In the cold nights, Duana mounted and rode him almost desperately, her nails carving channels down his chest and stomach that bled freely, as though marking him as hers.
Two weeks had passed since they had left the tomb beneath the Hall of Kings when Harlin found himself standing amongst the ruins of Bráodhaír once more, staring southeast across the steel-grey waters of the Muil Márda. Duana was beside him, the day was early, and bitter-cold with winter’s kiss. She stayed close to him, the fingers of her hand tracing playful shapes upon his palm discretely beneath their cloaks.
Down at the old, collapsed pier, a beached ship waited for Harlin. The two of them watched in silence while its sparse crew of Dhaine Sidhe milled about it, preparing it for the voyage back to Caermark. It was a ghostly craft, similar at first to the longships the clans’ shipwrights had once built, but sharper-looking, like a sword blade made of elegant lengths of some pale, bone-coloured wood. A broad grey sail was furled tightly atop the central mast, and sixteen oars – half as many as it should have carried – were drawn up, jutting from their holds like long slivers of bone.
‘I will be with you, my little wolf,’ Duana said, watching the shrouded crew seat themselves at their oars. ‘May Cu Náith grant you his strength, and Ancu spare you his gaze.’ Harlin hefted his pack onto his shoulder, uncertain of how to answer. A few Dhaine Sidhe dropped down to the dismal shore and looked at him pointedly with softly glowing eyes, eager to shove off.
‘Farewell, Duana,’ he said simply, making to leave. He’d barely gone a step when she grabbed his wrist sharply and stopped him. He looked at her questioningly over his shoulder.
‘Come back to me,’ she said breathlessly, her face tense, troubled, even. ‘Promise me you will.’ She guided his hand to her warm stomach beneath the folds of her cloak before he could speak. ‘A father must meet his child.’
Harlin gaped at her, at first in disbelief, then in utter shock, as a faint, tiny pulse of life touched against his Weaving, separate and yet one with her. She watched him carefully, almost tentatively, for her.
‘I will,’ Harlin said at last, mouth working numbly.
Duana smiled – warmly, rather than her usual cruel smirk – and kissed him gently, fondly, before pushing him away from her with all her usual hardness. ‘Good,’ she snapped at him, ‘now go, fight well, and carry our fury with you, little wolf.’
With a silent nod, Harlin turned and climbed up into the ship, the Dhaine Sidhe shoving off the moment he was aboard. The oars bit water as one, the crew heaved, and their wraith-ship headed out into Muil Márda. Harlin found himself staring back towards Duana, her form becoming distant, the grey haze that hung over Hathad Camoraigh beginning to shroud her as the distance between them grew. There were others around her now, other Dhaine Sidhe, emerged from shadows and hiding places, come to watch his departure. Dozens of them, their darkening forms stretching out along the shoreline, dotting the landscape, silhouettes against the silver skyline. Their masked faces followed his passing, faint, flickering lights marking their burning eyes.
Harlin turned away as the island became a murky smear behind him, the dark shapes circling its skies screeching and shrieked bestially. He touched his heavy pack, its bulk and weight reassuring. Inside was his armour and helm, and atop them was Túthal’s crown. He looked out to east across the sea, where Caermark waited beyond the horizon, wrapped in the ice of winter and fires of war both, unaware of his coming.
Chapter 22
Ascendency
The Dhaine Sidhe crew proved sullen company on the return journey across the Muil Márda. When not at the oar, or some other task, they simply sat, cross-legged, and unwilling to converse, staring back towards where Hathad Camoraigh lurked beyond sight, their eyes burning as they Weaved i
n silence. They sang no songs to pass the time, nor told any tales, preferring to listen to the roar and sigh of the open sea as it carried them into the east.
Harlin was more than happy to emulate them. His skill with the Weaving required sharpening for what was to come. There were things he needed to know, things he needed to see, before he reached Tásúil. For that, he needed the Sight. He cast it far from where he sat cross-legged at the ship’s prow, across the rolling carpet of iron water, and with it he roamed through the night-darkened streets that waited for him, searching, watching and learning. There would be difficult days to suffer before this was through, and knowledge would be the key to overcoming them. And so Harlin Weaved, through grey day and rain-slicked night, the rhythm of the swelling sea and lurching, plunging craft beneath him focussing his mind towards a single point as he sat in concentration. A smile touched his lips now and then, as he delved deeper, ever more imperceptibly, into the secrets and designs hidden in the hearts of others, and the Weaving’s Sight became ever clearer.
The ship approached land to the north of Tásúil, where an edge of barren forest overlooked the sea, not long after dawn of the third day. They drew oar in the shadows of two old, rotting trunks, mooring the ship to one of their crooked, exposed roots that snaked from beneath the eroded shoreline. They had made good time, despite their lack of oars, the wind had been kind and the Dhaine Sidhe had seemed almost tireless in their work. They watched in a quiet line along the port bow as Harlin splashed ashore, faces hidden in the depths of hoods and their strange cloaks swimming with shadows that seemed to match those of the nearby trees.
Dropping his pack atop a bed of fallen leaves, Harlin turned to look at them one last time aboard their spectral ship. ‘May all luck go with you, Black Wolf,’ one of them suddenly called. The helmsman, Harlin thought, though all were so shrouded and had been so quiet on the journey he could not be sure. They were like ghosts. Their cloaks made them hazy, wavering outlines at this distance.
Harlin said nothing and turned away as they cast off. Time was of the essence, winter’s fist had fallen, and plans needed to be set in motion before they were beyond his reach.
He took in his surroundings as he set off. The land sloped steadily upward a hundred paces to his left, further on they would become the rocky shelves that formed the foundations of Radha’s hall overlooking the town. He was a few hours’ walk from Tásúil, he judged, heading south and following the coast. A frightful wind came roaring down from the north, a frozen hand ushering him on. Dead and brown leaves billowed and scattered from the forest floor before it, crunching underfoot and scuppering any thought of stealth. It mattered not. A public return would suit his purpose better.
It was close to noon when Harlin first saw Tásúil’s palisade wall through the forest’s bleak trees. The rough-hewn stakes almost merged with the forest’s trees from a distance. He caught movement and saw a few clansmen atop the gatehouse, huddled in their cloaks and pacing briskly to stay warm on their watch.
Cries of alarm broke the stillness of the winter’s day before Harlin had even cleared the forest boundary. The gate thudded open, and a line of painted shields came rushing to greet him as he approached, fanning out to surround him. A spear smacked into the ground by Harlin’s feet, thrown in warning. He stopped, dropped his pack, raised his hands placidly. The guardsmen came towards him hesitantly, breath steaming from within their grim helms. Ten clansmen ringed Harlin, shields raised, swords levelled. Some carried spears, poised over the shoulder, ready to be hurled straight through him if he moved. A small crowd was forming just beyond the gate along the road into town, drawn by the commotion.
‘You either have balls or lack wits, strolling up here so arrogantly,’ the clansman in front of Harlin said, flaxen braids showing beneath a heavy cloak of dark stripes. The clansman paused, head moving slightly as he took in Harlin’s braids and rings. ‘Who are you, what do you want here?’
‘Is he the one who killed Bradan?’ someone behind Harlin whispered. Hushed voices muttered agreement. The clansman before Harlin shifted uncomfortably.
‘I am Harlin of Clan Faolán.’ Heads turned to each other, disbelieving, dumbfounded. ‘Killer of Bradan of Clan Seabhac Eirga, returned from Hathad Camoraigh, our lost homeland.’
The whispering behind him grew, becoming an excited bubbling. Clanfolk began to wander through the gate in small groups, looking, staring and pointing none too discretely towards Harlin. Dirty-faced children peered from between the legs of parents, or from under their mothers’ protecting arms, scared and fascinated, some of the young boys amongst them clearly hoping for violence to erupt.
‘He has to be a ghost,’ a voice carried from amongst the whispering array.
‘It isn’t possible!’ said another.
‘He slew Bradan with his bare hands, no doubt he conquered the island with them, too.’
‘Nonsense, a sluadh has stolen his skin, none can survive that place.’
The clansmen surrounding Harlin lowered their shields and weapons, muttering amongst themselves in similar tones to the growing crowd. They moved away, joining the one before Harlin, who spoke, raising his voice to be heard over the growing wave of disquiet.
‘What do you want, Harlin of Clan Faolán? If that is who you truly are.’ The clansman looked Harlin up and down uneasily. ‘It seems… unlikely one man alone would survive Hathad Camoraigh, even if that man did slay Bradan.’
Harlin smiled wolfishly all around him, at the leering crowd bustling by the town gates, seeing faces turn away and glances avert as he looked into their eyes. Fear still ruled these people. To see them snivelling like this it was hard to imagine how they had ever conquered the Dhaine Sidhe. How pathetically far they had fallen in so few years.
‘The unlikely seems to happen often these days,’ Harlin said, turning his attention back to the flaxen-haired clansman. ‘More than often. I am here to speak with High Weaver Radha, take me to her.’
The clansman looked at him long and hard, dark eyeholes of his helm trailing steam as he breathed. The others beside and behind him stirred tensely, ready for a confrontation. ‘Very well, kinsman,’ the answer came, eventually. ‘Take the gates,’ he said to another clansman on his right, gesturing for Harlin to follow him.
They were trailed through the gates by the growing crowd of clansmen and women. The word of Harlin’s return spread through the town, men, women and children appearing in doorways, from street corners, windows and alleyways to peer and wonder at his survival. Curious handfuls of them joined up with the flowing stream of bodies, and before they were halfway to Radha’s hall, Harlin had a noisy procession of hundreds following him through Tásúil’s filthy streets. Children darted ahead of him, splashing through mud and muck, turning back along the road to ogle him. The girls quickly ran off to the side back into the crowd as Harlin neared them, squeaking in terror or giggling excitedly. The boys puffed out their chests and tried to glare at him as though they wanted to fight, but they, too, ran as he drew close, vanishing back amidst the screen of adults lining the roadsides.
‘How did you find the island?’ the escorting clansman asked, as they rounded the corner of Ruri the Alewife’s small tavern. The older clansmen who frequented the place were sat outside, smoking and drinking and muttering, as though they had never moved. Harlin saw one stop midsentence as he passed by, lowering his pipe from his gaping mouth, head turning and eyes bulging as though he had seen a ghost.
‘Bleak,’ Harlin answered his escort with a small smile, ‘and enlightening.’ The clansman stared for a moment before looking away, walking ahead of Harlin slightly as they pressed on down the long road towards Radha’s hall.
Radha herself waited for him at the end of the road, the stone stairs leading up to her hall behind her. Her eyes stared out at him like flaming emeralds from beneath her white hood. Her grip on her carved staff tightened considerably as he approached. Halting, Harlin’s escort kneeled before her. Harlin stood, and met her stare wi
th his own.
‘Back, I see,’ Radha sneered, ignoring the kneeling clansman. There was tinge of uncertainty in her voice, barely perceptible, she had not expected him to return, that much was clear enough. Her face was a mask of rage, and she planted her staff before her as if to reaffirm her station, perhaps ward off his presence.
‘I am,’ Harlin answered, smiling pleasantly. ‘I trust I was not missed in my absence.’
Radha’s lip curled foully. She looked him up and down. His ragged, stained clothing, his pale skin, his silver rings and lengthening beard. ‘You look… rough,’ she intoned, a smile teasing the corner of her sharp mouth. ‘I am surprised you remain alive and whole, though, after so long in that accursed place. What is it you want from me then, murderer? Praise? Reward? I recall our pact was simply to ferry you to the island, nothing more, I don’t see that there is anything left for us to discuss.’
‘There is a fair bit, actually,’ Harlin said, ‘I will speak to you and your daughter in private. Now.’
Radha’s brow creased. ‘You do not make demands of me, silver-ring, I should have you killed for setting foot here, if only honour would allow it. Do not think my daughter will bear you for a second, Harlin, after what you put us through. She has done her best to forget what you took from us these last few months, as have I. You do not belong here, monster, you are not wanted.’
‘Unfortunately, Radha,’ Harlin said with a sly smile, ‘I think she will be most interested to hear what I have to say.’
Radha’s face contorted with rage, her eyes smouldering green embers, her Weaving prickling tangibly in the air about her. The crowd fearfully stepped back as one, murmurs rising on all sides as the tension built, voices uttering of an unended blood feud. More clanfolk were coming as word continued to spread, trickling in from between houses and from down the adjacent roads, hundreds upon hundreds pushing and shoving to see what transpired. Children climbed up onto the thatch of houses, jostling each other for the best view. Harlin let his smile linger at the sight of it all.
The Shadow of the High King Page 60