A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3)

by Prue Batten

  Her breath rasped in the top of her chest – short, shallow gasps as if boulders squashed the life from her. Her eyes remained closed in a bleached face, her lips with the faintest blue tinge. All Finnian could think was what benighted star had he and his brother been born under, that their lives should be so filled with wreaking pain. He gave a hollow laugh and called out to the empty night,

  ‘Moonlady, you’ve won, I’ve discovered value. Is that what you wanted? That I only learn value when I risk losing that which I might value most?’ He continued more poignantly, whispering as the gelding’s ears flicked back and forth. ‘Help her.’

  Neverending night rolled on overhead. Creatures of the evening hours had quietened, confused, their habitual rhythm distorted. The moon had lost its battle. The sky stretched as dense as the Andromeda Darks, no intimation of stars, or of milky galaxies, a nap as flat as black velvet.

  The horse’s steady walk ate up the ground but Lalita’s breath became fainter and at one point stopped altogether. Finnian jolted her gently and there was the faintest gasp. That’s it, hold on, we have far yet to go and I would not lose you. ‘Moonlady,’ he cried out in desperation as his horse stumbled, Lalita whimpering. But ducking its head, the gelding picked up its feet more carefully and continued on.

  Whereas the track through the forest to Killymoon had wended and woven amongst the leafy bulwarks, the route now trodden led Finnian to mortal paths lightly edged with the delicate shelter of silver-birch trees. And in a gesture of acknowledgement to the dracule-infested forest not far away, the path was guarded with altars – sturdy little constructions of rowan wood with icons of the Lady Aine and silver coinage, carvings, cloves of garlic and bouquets of rue to protect against glamour. Their guardianship sent out waves to repulse even Finnian but he would not be diverted.

  Lalita’s breathing continued to grate with faint barking groans. Finnian smoothed her hair and thought how unfair it would be for such a woman who was as clever and fearless as she to end her life so young. ‘I have them, Lalita – they rattle in my pocket. It is what you so bravely set out to do and which I wished you to cease for fear of your life. But all I did was push you harder, didn’t I?’ As thoughts of untimely doom shouted loudly, he changed the subject to ease their mutual distrait, believing such mellow talk might yet keep her in the land of the living. ‘I should like to have seen Killymoon in the light, don’t you think? Such an elegant house. Do you know the story? No? I’ll tell you then for I think you’ll like it.’

  The horse moved on and Finnian trusted to its homing instincts, feeling the pull of the muscles as the animal began to climb the smooth undulations of the Barrow Hills. He estimated Trevallyn had been in the dark now for a day and he wondered how long a mortal could survive the reduction of air into the body, how long before fluid filled the chest cavity and she developed fevers. How long, how long? How long is a piece of string? He dredged up a story from his age of books and began, believing that a calm manner in the face of adversity may help Lalita hold on in the agonizingly slow journey to healing hands.

  ‘Killymoon they say, is the home of a beautiful arisocrat, a woman of intelligence. Rumour has it that she is of fine, pale skin, with silver hair the colour of… well, they say the moon of all things. Isn’t that ironic?’ He gave a pitiful laugh. ‘Folktale would have you believe she only ever inhabits the house at the time of a full moon, and that at night the house is lit from within as if by a thousand chandeliers. During the day, the doors and windows are open to the sun and the garden blossoms with nothing but white flowered plants and white peacocks wander the grounds displaying tails of alabaster and ivory. Music drifts out at night, lilting tunes on harpsichord, or viola and harp and they remind the listener of a moonriver or a moonbridge. Folk never see the lady and yet all know she is there. She is an enigma and yet every story describes her similarly. It is said the house is filled with beauteous things pertaining to the stars and galaxies and that she has an urisk called Nolius for a friend, a wise creature as old as the earth and older. When she is not there, the house has no one to care for it and yet it is always immaculate, as polished as a milky opal set in gold. And none ever gets into the grounds before a delicious sleep overcomes them. After a time, they wake refreshed and all idea of adventuring to Killymoon is gone.’

  He looked down at Lalita but all he could see were blue lips; the tint of death Isolde would say, and all he could hear was the dreadful rasp of her breath. The horse had reached the low crown of a hill and continued along a ridge of tussock.

  He felt as if he teetered on the edge of an abyss, a chasm of loss as he continued, ‘Shall I tell you what I think the lady of Killymoon looks like? Oh, she is superb! Ageless. As old as the first mother, as young as you. Her face is oval and her eyes are dark pools like the most beautiful ponds in the forests. Her hair is long and like spun sugar-floss, a silver colour, and when a welkin wind blows, it’s like filigree, Lalita. And she wears gowns of midnight blue – layers and layers of weave that have a life of their own and that are studded with stars and moons, or maybe diamonds and ivory,’ Finnian’s face changed, a sense of wonder creeping across the chiselled expression,’ and I felt as if I fell into the heavens,’ he said. ‘Tumbling along a veil of stars and when she spoke to me it was a celestial voice and do you know what I called her, Lalita? I called her Moonlady. What my dearest one, would you call her?’

  The horse turned into a tree-edged aisle without Finnian noticing until he glanced down at the black equine shoulder where a white flake landed and then on his own arm where there were more and then at Lalita’s silky hair where a crown of blossoms surrounded her head.

  They had entered the furthest extent of the Ymp Tree Orchard and the anxiety that had dogged Finnian relaxed its hold as he thought of the healer close by.

  At the end of the row, in the night shadow, he saw a dark silhouette of a person walking toward him; aged but upright, moving with decided purpose. He thought it was Isolde as he caught a glimpse of a white head in the night-light and the snapping black folds of a riding coat. Defeat began to settle upon him and he cursed that he could not rise above the ingrained fear he had of the woman. He pulled the horse to a stop, frozen, staring into the night and wondering what he should do, how he should play this next.

  But the figure drew closer and he saw it was a man. Ever unsure of his grandmother’s games, he held his breath. She was an unarguable master of the shape-change.

  ‘It took you long enough. Bring her and quickly. By the way,’ the man said in a rich voice as he turned down the hill, ‘I am Jasper.’

  ‘You?’ Finnian’s voice croaked. As he looked briefly at Lalita, he knew he must trust the man who led the way because this rare creature who lay in his arms was far beyond his own help.

  ‘Yes. I am Jasper of the Færan, the healer that you rode by a day or more since. I’ve been watching you and you have had some adventures, haven’t you? Come on, come on, we haven’t time to dally. If I’m guessing right, I would say the woman has only an hour or two left of her mortal life.’

  Finnian pressed his heels against the gelding’s side and as if the animal recognized Jasper was to be trusted it moved after him, Finnian letting the reins collapse onto the horse’s neck so that he could brush a loose strand of hair from Lalita’s forehead. ‘It’s going to be alright,’ he whispered. ‘We’ve found him.’ He refused to countenance a thought that ran in tandem. Yes, but she still follows me.

  ‘I daresay you’re worried about Isolde.’ The old man spoke back over his shoulder as they made steady progress down the slope of the hill. ‘She’s responsible for all this dark, isn’t she? Well you’ll find, Finnian, that my house is somewhat immune to her charms for the moment. Look.’

  Finnian glanced up from studying Lalita’s face to see mist stretching from a house at the bottom of the hill and bathing the far off surrounds in fog-like daylight.

  ‘It’s the best I can do. A fog hides things. It will serve…’

 
‘For how long?’ Speech finally returned to Finnian as short-term relief gave him hope.

  ‘For as long as it takes, but she’s powerful, perhaps the most powerful we shall know.’ Jasper turned toward Finnian briefly. ‘Traveling alright, is she? Good, good. Huh, do you know in my long life this is the first time the world of Færan has ever not had a perfect day? Enough to send shivers up my spine.’

  Up your spine, old man? ‘She mustn’t find us.’ The sound of his own voice enunciating such a thought shocked him; he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. ‘She wants…’ he pulled up short. Why should he know what I carry?

  ‘What you carry?’ Jasper looked up as Finnian’s horse drew alongside and rubbed its head against Jasper arms. ‘Steady man, steady.’ He took the loose reins in his hands. ‘Ah, there are quite a few of us who know what you carry. What you think to do. It won’t be easy you know.’

  ‘I never thought it would be.’ Finnian trod carefully around his words.

  They walked along, gravel crunching under the horse’s hooves, a house emerging through the wafting mists as Jasper spoke again. ‘Whoa, whoa. No, not easy at all. After all, they are indestructible.’

  And so is she, she thinks. But if I can just get the chance…

  ‘Pass the girl to me, Finnian. Leave the horse. Folko’ll take care of it.’

  Finnian bent with reluctance, placing his precious bundle in Jasper’s arms and the healer strode through the entry in a spry manner. Finnian leaped off the gelding and followed, his footsteps echoing on polished boards that extended through a gracious entry hall and down a passage.

  ‘Go to the library.’ Jasper halted at a chamber door. ‘In there. There is nothing you can do and you shall be in the way.’

  Finnian shook his head and began to speak but Jasper forestalled him. ‘Don’t argue. She is as close to death as one can be without being dead. I need space and I don’t need you hovering. Please. Go to the library. It won’t be for long.’

  ‘What shall you do?’ He hadn’t meant to beg but even he recognized the tone in his voice. No pride left. None.

  ‘A charm to mend the rib and puncture, mortal medics of herbs to give relief from pain and then much, much sleep. We must hope, Finnian, for she has been unable to breathe easily for too long. Even if her bones and organs mend, there is the risk of fluid and breathing problems in the longterm. You must prepare yourself. She may not live.’

  Jasper’s words carved a deep incision down Finnian’s heart and almost split it in two. Not that it should matter like it did. He had voided any right to her affections when he seduced her and then stole the paperweights. But he loved her and whether she returned the emotion was immaterial. She must not, could not die – Isabella waited if nothing else.

  He stepped into the library and was instantly struck by the familiar odour of the papery confines. The smell was comforting as he remembered the pain such another room had eased. But by the same token, it reminded him of Isolde as it was her library that had been his haven, his illusory escape. And with that memory came thoughts of revenge and what he would need to do to kill her.

  He threw himself into a winged chair and gazed unseeing at the titles along the walls, his fingers reaching into his shirt for the fragment of parchment and for Ibn’s odd stone. He smoothed the parchment on his knee, knowing exactly where each fold was, even with his eyes closed.

  Ibn, I could lose her. Let your talisman protect her from her demons of death.

  Carefully and with deliberate intent, he laid Ibn’s rock on the parchment so the scribe’s head was framed by the weathered hole. Pray for her, my friend. Pray for her life and I swear I shall do what must be done.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Death is always violent, even in the most gentle circumstances.’ The old man sat across from Finnian. ‘And what she went through, that certainly wasn’t gentle. Death’s so much what we fear, mortals and Others alike, and when there is fear there can be overpowering emotion of all kinds.’

  Finnian could barely look at the seated healer. So profound were the words that had issued from the man’s mouth that his very marrow had frozen. ‘But she isn’t dead, is she?’ He wrenched his voice from where it lay at his feet, smothered by thoughts of a passing that was wrong, so wrong. ‘You’ve mended her.’ His heartbeat pounded. Apart from that one earlier sentence, Jasper had said nothing of Lalita’a welfare since walking into the library, pouring a wine and seating himself. ‘They say you’re Jasper, one of the greatest elders…’

  ‘I can fix a rib and a pierced lung like pieces of broken porcelain.’ Jasper broke in. ‘She could be well I can assure you, as I have done all that I must. A night, a day.’ He waggled his hand this way and that. ‘It merely depends on whether she wants to be well now. If she does, if she thinks she has something to live for, she will mend.’

  Finnian breathed out, his back turned away from Jasper. Isabella, not me. That’s the something to live for. ‘She intended coming to you herself,’ he said. He wanted to turn Jasper’s thoughts from the strained emotions he could barely harness so he drew out the paperweights from his pocket, slamming them on the table followed by the strip of washi paper. ‘If these hadn’t happened, if we hadn’t searched…’

  ‘Then what? There’s nothing you can do. It’s done now and things should not be brooded over.’

  ‘You know all that has gone before?’ Damn you.

  Jasper shrugged and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m Jasper. Of the Færan. Remember?’

  Finnian walked to the window of the library and stared out. The mists swaddled the house and he should have felt safe but he had the sensation of a wall and Isolde merely on the other side. Perversely he heard happy laughter from the housekeeper and the ostler along the hall. Such a comforting ambience, one completely alien to him. He stalked back to the table, enervation rushing through him as he pushed one of the paperweights around with his fingers. ‘She had two of the four. You understand what they are?’

  Jasper laughed, a tinge of bitterness and irony drifting around. ‘Understand? Of course. For the last year, I’ve sweated a lot and slept little as I attempted to scry their whereabouts. We were all held to ransom until they were found and destroyed.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you find them yourself? Of all concerned, were you not the most likely to succeed in the search and without such bloodshed? With your scrying knowledge, your supposed legendary skills?’

  Jasper sighed. ‘My supposed legendary skills might just save that beautiful young woman in there so don’t berate me too much with your sarcasm.’ He set his goblet down with careful deliberation. ‘In respect of the Cantrips, it was not my Fate to do so. I tell you, I’ve often wondered why it is that Fate constructs life in these ridiculously convoluted patterns. What I do know is that if we defy Fate, we can cause more confusion than you or I could conceive.’

  Finnian stood by the table, a dangerous mood filling his soul. ‘Well old man, there are the things you wanted. Are they worth the price of lives do you think? And tell me, how shall you destroy them? Does Fate tell you that?’ He picked up one of the paperweights and on the glistening surface of the millefiori all he could see were the bodies of the innocent and Lalita pale and breathless as the Strigoi hauled her into the air. And Isolde, always Isolde. He flung the glass, hitting the stone fireplace and shattering the paperweight into hundreds of tiny shards. ‘Perhaps that’s all it takes.

  The old man stood, an infuriating picture of equanimity. ‘Oh that it should be so easy. My word, such a fit. Sit, sit.’ He walked over to the fire and picked up a tiny shovel and hearth broom and swept the glass into a heap before stirring it with his fingers until he found the piece he wanted. The aged fingers worked a paper scrap free of the snapped glass rod and despite himself, Finnian watched. Jasper rolled it out with his finger and lifted the strip to examine it, his mouth tightening.

  Placing it back on the table, he let it roll up on itself. ‘Of course it’s important they are destroyed. Isolde w
ants them. It is enough. But even if she were gone, dead, vanished, another malintent will take her place with as much ferocity. They always do, it’s the way of it. Terror is the way of the world.’ The healer poured another wine and handed one to Finnian before resuming his position in a large red chair.

  But before the others there is Isolde…

  Ignoring the paperweights, Jasper took a deep sip of his wine. ‘Your brothers brought their damaged ladies to me also,’ he said.

  The comment was so unexpected that Finnian almost gagged as he drank. ‘My brothers? My brothers?’ He laughed without mirth. ‘I had only one, old man. Surely you know this if you know as much as you say.’

  ‘Ah, not at all, dear boy. There was Liam, the twin of whom you know. But there is also Phelim, your older brother. Stepfather to Lalita’s niece and husband to Adelina, whose child Isabella is. Did you not know?’ He pounded the arm of his chair. ‘ Ha! Now that is Fate.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Finnian stared at him.

  Jasper sat in the odd grey dusking and told Finnian about Phelim, the story of the lost babe reared by a carlin as a mortal child, only to discover he was of the Færan. It was a tale as much of Adelina the embroiderer whom Phelim loved and of the paperweights as it was of Phelim. It was a story stitched together with intermingled threads to form an epic whole and Finnian could barely countenance the idea that he should have family. As Lalita had said – relatives worth living and dying for. He remembered his own wish when he had been a little boy… the wish for love of a family.

  Finnian tried to break the news into granular parts, sift it and then store it. But where? In my heart? My soul? My head? It was too great to comprehend. ‘Where is he,’ he managed to ask.