Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  The white dog was now perched on the headland above the beach. The dog gave three sharp, short barks, trotted off, looked over its shoulder and trotted back, wagging its tail. It repeated the same sequence. Cwynn glanced over his shoulder. The tide was rushing in now, the sandbars all swallowed by the gray rushing water. Maybe he’d less time than he thought. The dog barked again with more urgency. Follow me, it seemed to be saying. Follow me.

  “What do you say, Eoch?” Cwynn murmured as the dog bounded off into the treeline. The horse trotted in the dog’s direction, catching Cwynn off guard so that he dropped the bridle. “Wait,” he cried, stumbling on the sand. “Just wait.” The horse paused long enough to let him grab the reins and swing back into the saddle. He glanced at the water once more, thinking of the pale creature beneath the waves. Eoch cantered after the dog, who seemed to have vanished once again into thin air. A mermaid and a fey dog, he thought. What next?

  Around the bend, at the nearest village—or what was left of it—he had his answer.

  The small collection of cottages clustered on either side of the dusty road leading down from the cliffs was still some distance away when Eoch whinnied and balked. Cwynn slid out of the saddle, peering up ahead. Although the sun was above the trees, there were no signs of activity. No smoke rose from squat chimneys, no chickens scratched, no children played. Then the breeze shifted and a wave of stench, almost as tangible as the waves crashing on the beach, engulfed him. A stench so nauseating it brought tears to his eyes and his breakfast up his gullet. He fell to his knees and vomited. When he was spent, he wiped his face with the back of his arm and rinsed the foul taste from his mouth with a swig from his water-skin.

  Eoch tossed her head, whickering displeasure. She planted her hooves squarely on the ground, refusing to move.

  “It’s not my choice, either, Eoch, but there’s no way around it.” He pulled out his fishing knife, the one with the serrated blade, and grabbed the reins, wrapping them tightly around his fist. “Let’s go.”

  But there wasn’t much to see, only splashes of blood, a few feet, still shod. Eoch tossed her head from side to side. The stench was so thick it was palpable. Doors were pulled off their hinges, shutters torn from window frames. Fishing spears lay scattered, ends coated in thick purplish blood and clumps of offal. Cwynn swallowed hard, clutching his dagger. It was hard to imagine who could’ve attacked with such savagery. And why, he wondered, looking around. Fishing nets hung undisturbed, barrels full of yesterday’s catch still lined up and full.

  “Who could’ve done this?” he said aloud.

  A goblin staggered out of the cottage, tall as a man, flesh mottled white and gray, the handle of a pitchfork wavering out of its back. Eoch reared up, front legs flailing, and a second goblin tottered out from behind the cottage.

  Cwynn struggled to get the horse under control, but she bucked and reared. A hoof caught Cwynn in the chest and he was knocked backwards, landing flat on his back. The world turned black momentarily and when his vision cleared, the goblin with the pitchfork was bending over him. Cwynn rolled out of the way just in time to avoid a swipe of clumsy claws, but the goblin lunged after him, arms extended, yellowish slime spooling down its maw.

  From out of nowhere, the white dog leaped at the goblin with enough force to push it well away from Cwynn. He tried to draw his dagger while the dog went straight for the goblin’s throat. The dog’s gleaming teeth sank into goblin flesh and, for the blink of an eye, Cwynn was sure he saw the goblin’s claws pass directly through the dog. But that wasn’t possible, he thought. A vicious swipe that took the skin off his arm made him forget the dog. The goblin raised his arms and launched itself at him; Cwynn raised his hook and buried it in the goblin’s chest. The goblin turned its head, and nearly bit Cwynn’s neck. He fell on top of the goblin and for a moment they rolled. And then the dog was there, snarling and snapping.

  Cwynn extricated his hook in the same moment the dog crunched down on the goblin’s throat, severing it to the bone. Cwynn backed away, chest heaving, sweat rolling down his face in great drops. A stinking gobbet of goblin flesh hung on his hook and he flung it away. The dog trotted over, wagging its tail, nudging him with its nose. It bounded a few lengths down the road, turned, and barked. Eoch whickered and pawed the ground and Cwynn got to his feet, dusting himself off. “All right,” he breathed. “All right. You know how to get to Meeve, dog?”

  The animal sat down on the road, threw back its head and howled.

  As the hair rose on the back of Cwynn’s arms, he swung up into the saddle. “All right, boy. You’re that sure? Lead on.”

  “She tricked us,” grumbled Otherself to Khouri. “She tricked us, we know she did, she did, she did.”

  “We know she tricked us,” Khouri replied, hissing under his breath. Otherself had been complaining all the way down the Tor, across the field and under the postern gate to the kitchen gardens. But Otherself had better stop, because beneath the exquisitely sensitive soles of his feet, Khouri could feel the ground starting to resonate with the dull thump of human footsteps. They had not settled down till very, very late, and now, very, very early, they were all beginning to stir. “But we mustn’t be caught, mustn’t be seen.”

  “Tricked us,” Otherself said again. Khouri elbowed him in the belly as a yawning druid came around the corner, heading in the direction of the laundries, then pulled Otherself beneath a stone bench. “Tricked us.”

  “Be quiet,” Khouri said through clenched teeth as he peered around the bench leg. It was always that way with the druids. They had ways of explaining that made it easy to believe they were always right and a khouri-kan usually wrong. But this time, if they were caught, they would truly be in trouble. The cailleach had not been in a good mood yesterday, and he doubted enough time had passed for her mood to have changed much.

  Khouri had misgivings the moment the Otherselves dragged him out of his den, bent on locating the source of that glorious fragrance that pervaded the depths of the Tor. It was completely impossible to deny the lure of that smell, wet as new-turned earth, green as spring grass, captivating as sunlight through crystal. It gave him shivers just to remember the feeling of it on his head, and he put his hand on top of his head, between his ears and rubbed the spot. He sniffed his hand as another druid swished by. As the tap of her sandals faded, he stuck his head out from beneath the stone bench, and pulled Otherself out from under it. “Come,” he mouthed, pointing toward the door. “That way.”

  Glancing in both directions, and then over the bench, they darted into the long vestibule that led to the kitchen. He could hear the scullions stirring, could hear the splash of water from the pump on the other side of the wall. Along one wall, sacks of meal and strings of onions hung, along with baskets of mayberries and barrels of potatoes from the cellars. They scurried behind a barrel and made their way behind the supplies into the main room of the kitchen. A yawning scullion nearly stepped on his tail, and they darted under a table just in time. “Apples,” Khouri whispered.

  “Apples and oat-cakes,” echoed Otherself.

  No butter—the dairy’s too far. He glanced at Otherself as the unbidden thought ran through his mind. Otherself hadn’t spoken. Otherself wasn’t thinking about butter. Otherself was probably thinking the corridor smelled like old ashes and cold oats, and about how Khouri and all the Otherselves were blamed whenever anything went wrong. But even as a wave of resentment rippled through him, doubling his resolve not to be caught, Khouri recognized the dim presence of Something Else—something that wasn’t Other. The delicate hair on the tips of his ears stiffened, his skin shriveled as if with cold.

  Otherself shivered visibly as he edged along the wall, sniffing delicately. He reached a barrel in the corner. His eyes lit up and he jumped for the rim, missed and tried again. “Found apples! Found apples! Apples in here!”

  Just then, a door in the far wall opposite the hearth swung open without warning. Otherself tumbled to the floor and scrambled behind the
apple barrel. Khouri motioned for him to be quiet. A woman with a linen coif wrapped around her hair accompanied by two yawning boys walked in, all carrying buckets. They put the buckets on the table, and at least a dozen more humans, all men, ranging in age from young to old, all carrying long walking sticks, entered the kitchen. One plopped down on the bench beside the apple barrel, another scraped his muddy boots on the stone nearest Khouri. They’d missed their opportunity, he thought miserably. From now till midnight, or maybe even later, the kitchen wouldn’t be deserted. Otherself peered around the barrel and Khouri gestured frantically for him to stay hidden. He wriggled as best as he could into the crack in the stone, listening intently to the conversation.

  “Maybe that handsome athair who was here, Tiermuid, came back and took her away,” one young boy piped up.

  An uncomfortable silence fell at once, and someone else said, “Don’t mention that name, boy. Even in jest. What happened wasn’t funny.”

  “Maybe she got taken into TirNa’lugh,” another said with an awkward laugh.

  “Aye, that’s it,” someone else chimed. “She’s not lost out on the moors—she got taken into TirNa’lugh.”

  She? Khouri froze. Across the space between them, he met Otherself’s eyes, and they shared the same thought. The men with the funny smell they didn’t recognize were talking about the pale white druid with the bloated belly who hid beneath the Tor. She had not only tricked them, she’d lied to them.

  What are we to do? We’re not even supposed to be outside the Tor. Maybe we should run. We’ll be in terrible trouble.

  Only if you’re caught. Hard as a hammer, the alien awareness smashed through his mind, accompanied by a razor edge of stinging pain. It felt like something had…attached itself, almost, and Khouri swept his hand across the back of his head. His knees buckled from the pain and he watched Otherself do the same, simultaneously. Whatever he felt, Otherself felt it, too.

  The kitchen door opened again, and the cailleach who’d sent them all to their dens stepped over the threshold, looking gray as her robe in the bright morning light. But despite the droop in her shoulders, and the dark circles beneath her eyes, she strode up to the table, rapped her knuckles on the surface, and began to pepper the men with questions.

  From behind the apple barrel, Otherself waved, and Khouri clamped both hands over his mouth, ears twitching frantically. Now that a druid was here, they had to be doubly careful to not be detected. Already, he could hear the cailleach sniffing. He dared to take a peek, and saw her holding up her hand. Everyone was sniffing now, turning this way and that, snorting and peering under tables and in corners.

  Khouri motioned to Otherself, trying to make him understand he should slip into a crevice, a crack, anything in the wall. The cailleach was moving now, eyes closed, face raised.

  “Look, I see it—there it is—” A young druid boy’s high voice rang out and to Khouri’s absolute horror, Otherself bolted out from behind the barrel, heading directly toward Khouri’s hiding spot. With a sinking heart, Khouri knew Otherself would never make it. He covered his eyes and curled as small as he could make himself, even as the triumphant cry rang out. Before he could wriggle any farther, a heavy hand smashed down on his arm, and grimy fingers closed around his neck.

  “Got him!” The boy turned, triumphant, the limp khouri trapped beneath his hand.

  “Be careful with him,” Catrione cried. The khouri-keen, tough and wiry in some ways, were easily bruised.

  The boy had landed on the khouri-kan’s arm. The khouri kicked and spit and hissed and tried to bite and claw. She grabbed the linen towel one of the cooks handed her and gingerly wrapped the creature in it, swaddling it securely. “There’s never only one. Keep looking. I’m sure there’s at least three or four more. Now,” she said, turning her attention to the captive on her lap. “Who called you out of your den, little friend?”

  The others clustered close around her, oohing and aahing at the creature most of them only ever glimpsed out of the corner of an eye. The khouri-kan shut his eyes and turned his face away from the bright shafts of sunlight now streaming into the kitchen from the windows on either side of the chimney. “It burns, it burns…” He spat and struggled.

  Carefully Catrione sank down on a bench, blocking the bright light with her own body. “There, is that better? I told you not to come out until you were summoned. Did someone call for you? Why’d you leave? Where’re Otherselves?” But nothing she said seemed to get through to him. He twisted and struggled and seemed to be in such pain, she frowned. “Relax,” she murmured. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know what brought you out.”

  “It burns, it burns!” He screeched like a cat in heat. His face contorted and his limbs stiffened, his back straight as the pokers that suddenly clattered to the floor beside the hearth.

  “What’s wrong?” Catrione frowned, wary of being tricked into letting the creature go. “Nothing’s burning you—”

  “Arrrrgh!” screeched the creature, and from under the bench, a second trixie rolled into view, writhing and twisting. Everyone jumped. “What’s wrong with them, Callie?” asked one of the scullions, dodging out of the khouri’s way.

  “Get another towel,” said Catrione, wondering if every khouri under the Tor was similarly affected.

  “They seem to be in some kind of terrible pain—you think that’s why they’re out?” asked one of the cooks, broad hands on broad hips, round face creased.

  “If this is what drove them out, where’re the rest of them?” Catrione replied. She rubbed the little creature’s back and both khouri-keen only howled louder. “It could be one of their tricks.”

  “That’s why they call ’em trixies, right?” put in another boy.

  A shadow fell across Catrione’s shoulders. “Cailleach, we’ve checked the chapter-house. The khouri-crystals are missing.”

  Catrione looked up into Niona’s icy gaze but ignored her. She reached out with the Sight, seeking the invisible essence in the core of the creature, and slammed into a wall of pain so ferocious it sent her reeling back. That pain was no trick. As she gasped audibly, the creature’s face worked, his tongue twisting out of his mouth, but the only noise that escaped his tortured throat was a ghastly rasp.

  “Can you let me past it, Khouri?” she whispered. “Khouri, please, let me help. Let me past it.” But this time, the pain like a wall of flame completely encompassed the creature’s essence. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead and the khouri-keen writhed and wailed in obvious agony. Driven back once more, into the safety of her own self, Catrione could only stare with the other onlookers as both creatures gasped once more, and then crumbled into fine powder.

  Catrione gasped as the towel went limp and a shower of dust poured onto the floor. “Someone—someone crushed a crystal.”

  “Two,” said Niona.

  For a long, long moment there was silence while everyone—druid or not—stared helplessly at each other. Catrione raised her head. “We never checked the Tor, did we?” She stared up at Niona. “We all assumed she couldn’t climb the hill.” Catrione stood up. “Don’t you see? That’s where she’s gone. Somehow she got in and out of the chapter-house without anyone seeing her.”

  “She could never fit in the trixie dens,” said one of the cooks. “How could she—”

  “She’s at the top,” Catrione replied. “In the chamber under the Tor.” She gestured to the men. “Where else could she be? No wonder we haven’t been able to find her—she’s not needed food or drink or anything else. With the crystals, she has the khouri-keen to do her bidding.” She looked from face to face. In the unforgiving light, the men looked tired and drawn, their clothing stained with sweat and grass, their boots caked with mud.

  The door suddenly slammed and she looked up to see Athair Emnoch striding toward her, a young boy in tow. “Cailleach?” he called. “Ard-Cailleach?”

  Now what? Catrione wondered as the searchers parted to let them through. The boy was
wearing the plaid of one of the neighboring clans. There was blood across his forehead and his plaid was slashed to shreds along one side. “What is it?” What else could possibly go wrong? she wondered.

  “This lad—you have to hear him out. He brings terrible bad news.”

  “What is it, boy?” asked Niona, and for once, Catrione didn’t bother to step in.

  “Cailleach, goblins,” he stuttered, looking wide-eyed around the white-washed walls, the vaulted ceiling. “Goblins—goblins came last night—they came crawling right out of the burn.”

  “Oh, come now, lad, goblins?” cut in one of the searchers.

  “What makes you think it was goblins?” asked another. “We were crawling all over the heath last night. We saw no goblins.”

  “Well, we saw their big bug eyes, their white, leathery hides and long tails,” the boy said, chin raised. “We held them off with fire through the night, and toward dawn they left. I’m the quickest runner and my da sent me to tell you.”

  Goblins. Then Tully’s heavy hand fell on the boy’s shoulder and spun him around. The warrior squatted down in front of him. “Now, see here, boy, are you sure it wasn’t men pretending to be goblins? How’re you sure?”

  “They left their scat on my shoe,” the boy replied in his high treble and pointed down, sticking his boot up practically in the knight’s nose.

  A chuckle went around the kitchen. The knight scowled. “Easy enough to get that stuff in any charnel pit, lad. What’s your name?”

  “Tamkin, they call me. My da’s Big Tom the Miller. And he don’t make mistakes.”

  “All right, child.” Catrione cut off Tully’s next question. “Sir Tully, you and your knights believe you’re such experts, why not take this boy home after he’s breakfasted and bring us back your considered opinion? And as for the rest of us—” she paused as a sigh went around the room “—we’ll go up to the Tor.” She remembered Baeve’s words. The most unnatural thing I’ve seen in over forty years. Over forty years. “Cailleach Niona, would you please make sure everyone has equipment?”