Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  “I know.” She turned and put one hand on his bare shoulder. His skin was soft, smooth, the muscles firm beneath. “I know what you believe. I know what you’re afraid of.” She pulled her tunic over her head, then sat back down. “I know your people on Far Nearing need a druid, Cwynn….” Her voice trailed off as more visions exploded before her eyes, revealing more connections, more pieces of the pattern she felt unfolding all around her. “Connla of Mochmorna, the Ard-Cailleach, the ArchDruid of all Brynhyvar, called all the druids to Ardagh.” Tiermuid…Timias…Tetzu…mortal…goblin…sidhe…He was all of them, and none of them. And he had the crystals. She felt as if the air had been punched from her lungs. He had the crystals. He had the source of druid power, and he had a reason to hate them all. Not only had he been banished and lost Deirdre, he probably blamed them for the monstrous child—in fact, she was sure of it. The glimpse of his face as he’d rushed at Cwynn convinced her. She had to warn the druids—she had to warn them all. An attack could come at any time, in any way.

  “What is it?” he was asking. “Catrione, are you all right?”

  She pressed her hands against her head, trying to wrap her mind around every possibility at once. What was he planning? Where had he gone?

  “Cailleach Catrione?” A tap on the door brought Catrione to her feet. She opened the door enough to see Bride in the corridor, holding a candle. “Cailleach Catrione, are you there? Please come. You’re wanted—needed—in the hall.”

  Catrione glanced over her shoulder at Cwynn. “Don’t tell me it’s more messages from my father?”

  “Oh, no, my dear.” Bride coughed, then handed her the candle and a basket containing a jug of hot water and clean towels. “Take a moment—refresh yourself. This time it’s your father himself.”

  “Fengus-Da?” Catrione blurted. “He’s here?” Father’s coming. A chill went down her back as she remembered that whisper in the wind.

  “On his way to Ardagh. He made a special trip.”

  Catrione turned back to Cwynn. “I’ll leave you now. I have to go and see—”

  “Your father. The chief of Allovale…He’s very powerful, isn’t he? Almost as great as Meeve?”

  “Greater, to hear him tell it,” she said with a shake of her head as she finished dressing and left the room.

  In the hall, Catrione peered into the shadows where the shapes of armed men clustered around the long tables, eating and drinking in the wavering rush light. “Fengus-Da? Is that really you?”

  The barrel-chested warrior in black leather and a solid homespun cloak turned as Catrione entered the long dining area.

  He squared his shoulders and hooked his thumbs in his sword belt. The sour look he regarded her with told her he was as glad to see her as spoiled cheese. “Can I ask what it is you’re still doing here, when I sent a dozen men to bring you home?” was his only greeting.

  In shock and disbelief, Catrione stared up into her father’s dark face. A rough beard covered his jaw; he looked as if he’d been in the field a week and smelled as if he’d been there a month. “Can I ask what you’re doing here at all, in the middle of the night?”

  “I came to make sure my daughter was safe.” His black eyes glittered, and he stank of old sweat and blood and something even more foul. She looked down and saw he had goblin spore on his boots and was tracking it all over the dining hall.

  “You came to establish a position.” Catrione was shaking inside, but she held herself steady. “Do you see what’s on your boots? It’s not safe to be riding the country at night—have you any idea what’s happening—”

  “Aye,” he cut her off. “Do you? Meeve’s been poisoned. Did you know that?”

  Stunned, almost as if she’d been slapped or dumped with cold water, Catrione felt one more piece of the pattern click into place. She looked up at her father as if seeing him for the first time. Deep pockets of fatigue hung beneath his shadowed eyes, and for the first time she realized there was a difference in their expression. Like Niona, like the other druids, like all the other people around her, he was afraid. Her father, Fengus-Da, was afraid.

  “She was betrayed,” Fengus continued. “Her own cowherd—Briecru. Ever meet him? He killed my bull.”

  “But why?” Of all the news her father might’ve brought, this was the least expected. And yet…Catrione gazed out across the tops of the trees, to the fire still flickering on the Tor. It made sense. The queen was poisoned…no wonder the Land itself seemed sick.

  “He made a bargain with those foreigners Meeve’s so fond of. She thought she was making them dance to her tune—seems they were pulling the strings all along.” He took a deep breath. “The poison was in her perfume, in some kind of oil. She knew she was sick…she just thought she was dying of whatever it was killed her mother.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “You listen to me, girl, and you listen hard.” His eyes pinned her as if she were a little girl caught disobeying. “There’s something stirring in the land, Catrione. These past months, the Lacquileans have been sneaking in, over our borders, through the mountains, a few at a time, waiting for a signal to rise when we’re all looking the other way. And now—” He looked out over the land. “And now one of her own’s betrayed her. I’m married to the land as much as Meeve is, at least in Allovale, and I don’t like what I feel.”

  Neither do I. Catrione stared up at her father, trying to decide how much to tell him, trying to decide how much he could understand. As above, so below. As within, so without. Tiermuid’s plot would affect everything, in the way the ripples of a stone thrown into the center of a pond affects the weeds along its edge. “Everything’s affected, Fengus-Da. Everything—goblins getting loose—”

  “Catrione, I’ll wager anything those attacks aren’t really caused by goblins. But now I know you’re safe, and Tully has matters in hand here, I’ll be leaving in the morning. I’d rather meet Meeve on my own terms, in my own way, than have to parade through her druids at Ardagh.”

  “So you do mean to intercept her.”

  “But not to make war. To make peace.”

  “Marrying me to Meeve’s son isn’t to be part of it, Fengus-Da. You can keep me out of any peace you mean to make.”

  “So you found out about that, did you?” He had the grace to look sheepish.

  “I got it out of one of Tully’s knights. What’re you thinking? Was there ever a doubt in your mind I’m druid and mean to stay one?”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “It wasn’t?” She blinked.

  “No, of course not. It was Meeve’s—seems she’s got a son everyone forgot about, in some goddess-forsaken place—”

  “Out on Far Nearing.”

  “Oh, you found out about that, too, did you?”

  Catrione shook her head. “If you should meet ArchDruid Connla on the way to Ardagh, please tell her—” Catrione broke off. “I’ll give you a message in the morning, all right? You take it, and if you see the ArchDruid or any druid, in fact, warn them—”

  “Catrione.” He touched her cheek, patting it as he used to do, when she was small and demanding. “Times are changing. Are you sure—”

  In disbelief she stared at him. “Of course, I am, Fengus-Da. This is my life. I’ve never doubted it.” Maybe not never, she amended to herself.

  “Would you understand me, Catrione, if I told you I found that troubling?” He shook his head. “I didn’t come to upset you. Of course I’ll take your message.”

  “She left Mochmorna nearly a sennight ago but according to the ravens we had from Ardagh, she’s not there yet. It’s likely you’ll meet her—what’s wrong?”

  Fengus’s brow was puckered, his mouth grim. “You say she set out from Mochmorna?”

  “Aye?”

  “When we were tracking my bull across the country, we came upon a group of travelers. They’d been slaughtered to look like goblins had been at them, but we could tell it wasn’t goblins. What we could also tell is that they came
from Eaven Morna.”

  “Are you telling me you think Connla’s dead?” She felt cold all over. The child who can’t be killed by hand of woman, hand of man, sows seeds of chaos through the land….

  “A poison is eating it’s way across the land, Catrione. Meeve’s not the only one married to the land, you know. I may not be druid in the way you are, but I can feel things, too.”

  “Garrison your men in the dining hall.” She drew a deep breath, then put a hand on his arm. She was too tired to argue with him further. If he wanted to traipse across the country, it was his business. “Maybe you don’t believe in goblins, but I do.” And worse things, even, she thought, but you wouldn’t believe me if I tried to tell you.

  “I’ll leave some men behind to garrison the house. You can’t stop me—they’ll camp outside the walls. I’m an old man—grant me the privilege of knowing my daughter is safe.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek awkwardly.

  She watched him join his men. He limped a little and he looked old. Her encounter with Cwynn, her journey into TirNa’lugh had invigorated her and she knew she would not sleep. There’s no use waiting, she thought. You know what Timias is, and you know what he’s likely to do. But how to stop this child who couldn’t be slain? How to stop this thing that wasn’t like anything else?

  A low wind sighed in the trees as she crossed the crowded courtyard, threading her way through clustered camps of refugees. The trees, she thought. Maybe there’s something I missed. Maybe there’s something I can understand now.

  She did not go to her dormitory. Instead she went to the still-house, where the rushlights still burned fitfully in iron sockets beside the door. She slipped inside and headed for the small chamber behind the still-room where the Mem’brances were kept.

  There was fire and there was motion and they came together in a bolt of agony every time the wooden cart jounced over the rutted road. Morla clenched her jaw and twined her fists in the itchy wool blankets on which she lay and tried to remember a time before the pain.

  “Drink this.”

  Lochlan’s voice was ragged as the road, and the haggard look on his face made her want to weep. “Where are we?”

  He gently eased a hand behind her head as he held a small flask to her lips. “Here. You have to have drink. Remember what the still wife said? Drink.”

  “What is it?”

  “The still wife sent it—said it would help.”

  He coaxed two or three sips into her. Then she turned her head away, for the stuff was roiling in her stomach and the nausea only made the pain in her leg worse somehow. “I can’t. I’m not thirsty and it’s making me sick.”

  “She said it was important that you drink.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to try, Morla.” His eyes bore into hers.

  “I’ll try. Just—just let it settle, all right?”

  A fleeting frown darkened his face, but he put the flask down beside her and eased out of the wagon. “I thought we’d stop the night here. It’s the last druid-house before we enter the high country.”

  “Where’re the druids?” She pushed herself up on her elbows and managed to peer out over the side of the wagon.

  Lochlan shook his head. “I guess they all went to Ardagh. Connla was angry when she left Eaven Morna—who knows what she’s got brewing? Every house we passed was empty.”

  “And you think Connla called them all to Ardagh? Every last one?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Any more sign of blight?”

  Lochlan paused. “It must not’ve spread this far. Maybe that’s a good sign. Aren’t things supposed to be healthier around Ardagh? The ground more fertile, the cows give richer milk, all that?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she replied, then tried another sip. She fell back against the pillow as the liquid fought its way down. “I can’t remember the last time I went to Ardagh.”

  “Good girl, have some more. I’m going to have a look around. See if I can find the still-house.” He hesitated, his hands hovering over her, then turned and stalked away.

  A soft breeze rustled the branches above her head and she realized the pain had diminished another notch or two. Nuala’s brew was working. With a sigh, she pushed herself up and managed to swallow another two sips before he was back.

  “There’s a pool here.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “A healing pool. We should see if it helps you.”

  “All right.” She took a deep breath, then forced herself to gulp a whole mouthful of the brew. Nausea rose in her gorge, and she pressed her lips together and clenched her fists so hard her nails bit into her flesh.

  He unlocked the side and stood next to her. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said as he slipped his arms beneath her.

  A white hot brand blazed up her spine as he lifted her, and she bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

  “It’s not far,” he murmured. “Easy now. Hold on tight.”

  But the pain and the motion and the brew was more than she could bear and she found herself vomiting watery white mucus streaked with brownish bile down his back. She made a choking noise and burst into tears, but he only shook his head and murmured, “Enough, now, it’s all right—we’re almost there.”

  Her vision condensed to a pinprick and she felt her head loll back against his shoulder and she thought she felt him shift her weight ever so slightly, so that she nestled in the hollow of his chest. A memory of warm sun and the scent of mountain thyme flashed through her mind. Images, so long suppressed she’d thought them forgotten, swirled through her mind like lengths of rainbow-colored ribbons against a black velvet sky.

  The full moon coincided with Beltane that year—the grandmothers all predicted a bumper crop of babies. “Who will you choose?” he asked her as they sat, chewing on willow stalks, watching the brook bubble over the stones.

  She shrugged, looking at him sideways. She liked him in a different way than she liked anyone else and she had always hesitated to join the ranks of all the other girls in the keep, who threw themselves at the young men, spurred on by Meeve’s abandon. She didn’t necessarily want him to know she admired the breadth of his shoulders, the color of his eyes, the cleft in his chin.

  “How ’bout Liam? Will you choose him?”

  Liam had distinct buckteeth. She laughed.

  “Dougal. He’s a good lad—how ’bout him?”

  Dougal was ten. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head as he named one after the other, each one more ridiculous until at last he said, “Well, then, I suppose you’ll have to choose me.”

  That took her by surprise. “You?”

  “I’ve named every unmated man in ten sheepfolds. There’s no one left.”

  “You’ve named every cripple and child and old man, yes. There’re plenty you haven’t named—how about Colm? Or Niall? They’re both unmated.”

  “Colm’s a bit thick—he’ll never keep up with you.”

  “I hear he’s plenty thick.” Morla snickered, then poked Lochlan in the ribs. “You want me to pick you?”

  He met her eyes. “It’d be an honor.”

  “You never pick me—not even for bat-ball or pickle-stick.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d see that as an honor. You always get the maids to teasing me. It’s hard to talk to girls when they’re all laughing at me over something you’ve said.”

  She splashed him then, with a hard little kick. “That’s not the reason at all, you liar. You know I’m better than you are. You just don’t like being stood up.”

  “I like being stood up just fine under the right circumstances,” he had replied, and before she knew what was happening, she was on her back, and he was kissing her.

  Morla opened her eyes to the loud trickle of water and billowing clouds of steam. She was lying on her back on a reed mat beside a smooth stone pool. “Lochlan?”

  “I’m here.” He waded up out of the pool, his naked arms and chest breaking the water, his hair wet and streaming o
ff his face. His chest was covered with subtle red and green and blue tattoos, all worked in intricate patterns around scars, forming a living record of his deeds. “Come, I think this might help. It’s already taking my aches away.” Involuntarily she cringed as he reached for her. “I don’t mean to hurt you. I’ll be careful.”

  He eased her into the water on the reed mat, and gently pushed aside the tunic. The pool was very quiet, the steam very warm. She floated, her head supported on his shoulder, sensing the weight of his body beneath the surface of the water. “Are you all right?” he breathed against her ear. Despite the pain, desire rippled through her.

  She nodded, feeling the pain in a detached kind of way. The steam relaxed her, seeped into her pores, easing the relentless burning.

  “I’m just going to put some water on the wound, all right? Just a few drops—”

  He might as well have driven nails into her eyes. She bolted up and off the mat, flailing into the pool, the pain stretching her and contorting her. She plunged into the water, swallowing gulp after choking gulp as Lochlan dragged her up and out. Lifting her, he carried her out of the pool, sheets of water streaming off them both. “Great Mother, I’m sorry, Morla—”

  “N-no,” she choked out, coughing and spitting. “It helped. It hurt, but it helped.” She looked around as he helped her sit, suddenly acutely conscious of the way the wet linen clung to her breasts. “Is there—is there a ledge…usually there’s a ledge in these places where you sit—”

  “Of course,” he said. “Over there.”

  This time when he picked her up, she managed not to flinch. “It feels better as long as I keep it in the water,” she said.

  He turned around and quickly strode across the pool, and she noticed he was careful to keep his back to her. “Then I’ll leave you here, for a few minutes. I want to get dry clothes—food—” He was still talking as he turned the corner and she saw the bulge in his trews and realized he’d noticed the way the wet linen clung to her breasts, as well.

  The water was easing the ache all over, she noticed, as long as she kept the wound submerged and didn’t move it much. It was helping, but it wasn’t a cure. She needs a druid for that. Nuala’s insistence had struck her as disinterest, but maybe it had more to do with the wound’s severity. She slipped into a drowse again. The heat was reminding her of the hall that crowded Beltane evening, as the sun set and the fires rose ever higher. The mead and the whiskey had flowed like rivers. And her mother had drawn Lochlan out of the hall.