Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  The sound he made could’ve been a sob as he lifted her and crushed her to his chest, heedless of her injury. As his mouth came down on hers, he answered her with the ritual reply, “I have a bower waiting that I built just for you.”

  Morla was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming, because she was walking along the shore with Bran, hand in hand, the way they used to do when he was very small. He seemed to waver, too, depending on the angle at which she looked at him—sometimes he seemed very young, and sometimes he seemed older, old as he’d look at her age, or even older. He was holding her hand and explaining something to her, very earnestly, stopping now and again to pick up a rock, or a shell or point out something along the far horizon. There was an odd intensity to the light, and no matter how far they walked, they didn’t seem to reach the end of the beach. Finally she stopped. “What is this place, Bran? Why are we here and where are we going?”

  “We’re both going back now,” he said. His eyes were very brown and very sad, and he fumbled at his neck where he wore a leather cord. “I wanted to tell you I was sorry I lost it.”

  “Lost what?”

  “My shell. The one we found the day you went away. I wanted you to know how sorry I was to lose it. I always kept it close. Whenever I smelled it, it brought me back here. I was happiest here with you, Morla. I just wanted you to know.” A wave washed over their feet and white gulls wheeled above the water. Bran’s face had taken on a translucency—she could see the horizon through it.

  “Bran?” she cried, reaching for his hand. But all she grabbed was insubstantial mist. He was fading away in front of her, dissolving like the foam that ran over her feet and between her toes.

  Birdsong pierced Morla’s dream, not the harsh screams of the gulls, but the trills and warbles and cheeps of the forest at MidSummer. She opened her eyes to see a gray mist seeping between the cracks of the rough lean-to, and the sound of birds twittering very close. It was very early morning and Lochlan was beside her. She fumbled for his hand, and for a long moment, lay beside him, breathing in the mingled scent of pine and sex and man. For the first time in many years, maybe since they’d placed her son in her arms, she was happy. She shut her eyes and drifted back into her dream.

  The next time she opened her eyes she was looking up at the edge of a glinting blade, held to her throat by a soldier dressed in a cloak of Lacquilean indigo. She tried to sit up, fell back at the sting of the sword and heard Lochlan bellow, “No!”

  As she was grabbed by at least half a dozen men, her arms were forced behind her and bound together with a leather cord. She tried to struggle, kicking, biting, but her efforts were in vain. Pain exploded across the back of her skull, and twinkling lights exploded in front of her before everything went black.

  15

  With the moonstone tight against his chest, Timias charged over the rocks, his tail propelling him down the tunnel. Beyond him, he heard the Hag shrieking. The roof and walls shook, and debris rained down on him as he scrambled through the falling rubble. One thought pounded through his mind, one thought ran over and over. To Faerie. To Faerie and Above.

  Far away and far above, he saw a pinpoint of greenish light. I can do this, he told himself, even though the way appeared to be straight up. I can do this. He held up the pouch and stuffed the globe into it. The globe pushed against the crystals, and the pouch itself shifted and before his eyes grew larger. He smiled, grimly, gripped the pouch in his jaws, and began to climb up the sheer rock walls, aided by goblin instinct and his prehensile tail.

  Initially it was painful and slow. His claws bled as he grasped for purchase, his shins and elbows and knees all scraped against the jagged walls. And then the crystals and the globe and his intention began to work their magic. The higher he climbed, the easier it was. The sheer walls began to angle, the rocks began to smooth. He got to his feet and straightened and found, to his delight, he was Timias again, and the green grass of Faerie was spilling over the lip.

  He knotted the bag around his waist and stifled his impulse to laugh. Not yet, he told himself. Not yet. There was still Loriana to convince. There was still silver, of which Faerie must be rid. And there were still goblins that had to be controlled.

  “CAW! CAW! CAW!” The most enormous raven he’d ever seen landed on the lowest limb of the tree, turned and looked at him as he came up over the rise of the land. “CAW! CAW! CAW!”

  “Finnavar,” Timias said. He spread his hands to show he was unarmed, except, he thought, except for the magic in the crystals and the globe.

  “CAW! CAW! CAW!” Hatred burned in the bird’s eyes, and her feathers gleamed blue-black.

  He took a single step and she swooped at him, diving straight for his eyes. He threw up his arms and she flew in again, tearing at his flesh with talons and beak. The sudden ferocity of her attack took him by surprise and she battered away at him, forcing him to the ground, alternating plunging and feinting, avoiding his frantic kicks, his futile blows. Blood ran from his wounds. He flailed his arms and rolled around and around, trying to escape the battering beak.

  The pouch on his waist loosened and he curled up in a ball around it, trying to protect it while she gouged at him with beak and talon. For a long moment, he lay, enduring the agony, soaking in the pain, waiting for the right moment to strike. In the one moment she paused to catch her breath, he was ready. In a single mighty move, Timias exploded, knocking Finnavar sideways into a tree. Stunned, she fell to the ground, shaking her head.

  He seized her around the neck as she squawked and twisted, kicking at him with her taloned feet, trying to tilt her head enough to gouge him with her beak. She gouged at him with beak and talon, tearing at his flesh. He tightened his grip and she increased her efforts, all in vain. With a smile, he snapped her neck between his fingers and felt her body go limp.

  An idea came to him. He snapped off one of her feet, and with her own talons, gutted her carcass. He flung the bloody carcass into the hole, and picked up the black-feathered skin. He stuffed the pouch, which was soaked in his own blood, into it. Now, he thought. Now to find out.

  By battle, blood and sacrifice, only then can the World be saved. The lines from the Mem’brances of Trees ran through his mind unbidden, and he sank down onto the green grass of Faerie, breathing hard, too weak to set off, trying to decide what to do next. He had the globe, he had the crystals. So what would bind the two together…What would link the one to the other, while at the same time creating a boundary that would hold the druids out? What did he need to work a druid spell in Faerie, a spell that would forever hold against the druids, against the goblins, against silver. And against you, ugly Hag, he thought, seething with outrage. She’d wanted to kill him all along—no wonder she tried to make him believe she understood him, cared about him, loved him. It was all a trick to get him into her cauldron.

  He picked up the carcass, slung it over his shoulder, still musing. Druid magic was elemental magic, primarily, based on a combination of the four essential elements, and one each of three different things: medium, intent and outcome. His intent was clear. The crystals would add the element of Earth, just as the druids used them. He took a deep breath, pondering what else he needed and smelled the smoke.

  Could the Forest House, surrounded as it was by hedges of thorns and walls of woven oak and ash, really be burning? Faintly on the wind, he heard the shrill, high screams, and knew if it were not the Forest House, some other part of the wood was indeed burning. Loriana, he thought with a pang. Loriana. Galvanized by fear, he took off through the trees, forgetting entirely he still had his tail.

  “Catrione, we thought you should see this.” Baeve’s soft voice penetrated Catrione’s reverie as she stared at the barks on the table spread out before her.

  She turned to see the older woman hesitating in the doorway, carrying something dark and indistinct in the gloom. “What is it?”

  “We found it under Deirdre—when they moved her remains, this was there. Sora saw it and gave it to me.” Sh
e held out what appeared to be a thick piece of black fabric, folded in quarters, and Catrione noticed she was careful not to let the fabric touch her skin.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Feel it.”

  Perplexed, Catrione reached for the fabric and recoiled. “What is that thing? It feels like a slug.”

  “Yes, it scarcely bears touching. But that’s not all.” Baeve shook it out. “Watch what happens when I put it around myself.”

  With a swish, Baeve snapped the fabric open and pulled it over her shoulders. Instantly, she disappeared.

  “Great Goddess,” whispered Catrione. “What is that thing?”

  Baeve spread it out on the table, and in the uncertain light, Catrione saw that it flowed like water across the surface, rippling out in long waves. “It’s a blanket, or a cloak. There’s a jagged edge—someone ripped a piece off.”

  “Or ripped it in half,” murmured Catrione, fingering the frayed ends. She picked up the threaded edge and realized that amazingly, the fibers didn’t so much end as blend into the shadows around the room. “Great Mother,” she muttered. “Do you know what I think this thing is made of, Baeve?”

  “Whatever it is, it’s slippery as an eel. I don’t like touching it. I can’t imagine who could make such a thing.”

  “Deirdre made it,” Catrione said. With the barest tips of her fingers, she smoothed the silky fabric. “I can read her signature all over it. She made it out of shadows…. Somehow she managed to find a way to give shadows weight and form and substance. But she didn’t make it alone.” It slipped off the table and disappeared into the puddle of darkness beneath the table. “Tiermuid helped her. They made it togeth—” She broke off and looked up at Baeve. “That’s how the child was conceived. They weren’t lovers. They weren’t—What they were doing wasn’t about love…” Catrione’s voice trailed off. By battle, blood and sacrifice…Where’d she just seen that? That was how the Mem’brances said the changeling child was to be killed—by battle, blood and sacrifice. Deirdre had given up her life and Catrione hoped that counted for something.

  She scrabbled through the barks. “I think I understand a little more, Baeve—”

  “Excuse me.” Cwynn stood in the doorway, wearing the tunic and trews they’d left for him. “I don’t mean to be a bother, and it’s obviously quite late, but—”

  “What is it, son?” asked Baeve, kindly. “Is it your arm paining you? Can I bring you something to help you sleep?”

  “Well, I just woke up, I feel. I’m not really tired. I was wondering if I could trouble you for something to eat?” He rolled his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet and Catrione had the distinct impression he’d far rather be on the deck of a boat.

  “Of course you can,” Baeve replied at once. “You wait here. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

  Catrione sighed, and beckoned to Cwynn. “Come sit. You look like a cat trying to walk across hot coals.”

  “It’s obviously late….”

  “I’m not sleepy, either,” she admitted. Their eyes met and as he glanced away, she felt herself flush. What was wrong with her? she asked herself. She was no doe-eyed virgin—she’d lain with lots of men and women, too, to heal them. But there was something about this man that made her nervous. Because he’s the man you are to marry, whispered the wicked voice in her head. “Please come sit.”

  He slid awkwardly onto the bench beside the wall, opposite Catrione, hugging the corner as if he might need to make a speedy exit. “I—uh, I suppose I should thank you, for what you did. Before, when we first come to, like, I was—well, I wasn’t quite sure what to think.”

  “What do you think now?” she asked.

  “I guess I’m starting to understand why my grandfather thought that druids cause a lot of trouble. At least I think I do.”

  “What do you mean?” Catrione wrinkled her brow.

  “My grandfather would have no truck with them out on Far Nearing. Never said why, exactly. Before I left the midwife told me there’s talk of banning the Beltane rites.”

  “Why?” Catrione sat upright. “Beltane’s one of our most sacred nights. To stop the rites would—”

  “End a lot of problems.” Cwynn shrugged. “I sound like I’m not grateful. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound that way. I just—”

  “Didn’t know what to expect.”

  “Right.” He clasped his hand over his stump and in the rushlight, he looked young enough to be a child, face flushed, eyes sheepish. “So…you say your father’s here.”

  “He was,” Catrione nodded. “I’ve seen him. He’s on his way to Meeve.” She sighed and shook her head. “I hope this time he means what he says. This land has enough problems—we don’t need Fengus-Da stirring up a war.”

  “He’ll go to war if I don’t marry you?”

  “Of course not,” laughed Catrione at the alarm on Cwynn’s face. “Believe me, I don’t want to marry you.” It was her turn to realize that what she’d said sounded more hurtful than she meant it.

  He moved his bandaged stump restlessly. “Listen, I knew right off—I don’t want you to think I expected—”

  “Cwynn.” Catrione put her hand on his forearm, right above the bandage. “It’s nothing to do with your hand, or lack of it. I’m druid. We don’t marry, not in the way of ordinary people.”

  “You do…what we did?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “With mortals. Mostly with the sidhe. Occasionally with each other.”

  “So nights like Beltane and MidSummer and Lammas are all just nights for everyone to have a chance to play like a druid, eh?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Well, not exactly.”

  “I’m sorry. I may be Meeve’s son, but until day before yesterday, I didn’t know it. There weren’t many women in my grandfather’s hall.”

  “I understand,” she said gently, and she did, because as she sat here with him, in the soft orange dark, listening to the crickets chirp in the herb garden just outside, she remembered more of what he’d shown her—of violence and anger and envy. “So what did you think, when you found out?”

  “Last thing I was expecting, really.” He squirmed ever so slightly and she understood he didn’t much like talking about himself.

  “You realize Meeve has other children?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, Gran-da told me that right off. I was supposed to wait for them—two of them were coming to fetch me to Ardagh. But Gran-da didn’t want me to wait.”

  “He was afraid your uncle would try to kill you.” Catrione’s visions had been detailed.

  “Yes.”

  A silence fell between them and Catrione hesitated. “The woman in the Tor—well, that poor thing that was a woman—” She broke off as memories of Deirdre as she used to be, before the shadow of Tiermuid had fallen between them, cascaded through her mind. “She was a good friend of mine—a true sister, in many ways. Her name was Deirdre. She was your sister, Cwynn. She and Morla were twins.”

  He stared at her. “That was my sister?”

  “I’m afraid it was.”

  Again, there was another silence. “How did…such a thing happen?” he asked at last. “Was that druid magic? Is there a possibility—” He nodded at Catrione.

  “That we—? Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Not at all. And no, that wasn’t druid magic, not true druid magic. The father of the child wasn’t a true druid—” He’s not a true anything, she thought, remembering the images that had flooded her. “He’s the person who tried to kill you.” She nodded at the marks Tiermuid’s fingers had left on Cwynn’s throat.

  Cwynn heaved a deep breath, just as Baeve appeared in the door. “The larder’s looking very sparse, Cailleach. But I brought what I could get my hands on.” She placed a napkin-covered tray between them. “You should eat, too, Catrione. You’ve not had much more than milk.” With a flourish, she removed the napkin revealing two bowls of porridge heaped with cream and honey. “And there’s that apple in your bag
, son. I can cut it up for you, but in truth it was so pretty, I—I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

  “No,” said Catrione. “No, don’t dare cut up that apple.”

  “Why not?”

  “That apple is from Summerlands. You see, Cwynn—” She paused and took a deep breath as Baeve gasped.

  “For real, Catrione? For real?”

  Catrione looked at Cwynn. “An old woman gave it to you, you said. You met her on the road? With the dog who guided us here?”

  He nodded. “I did.”

  “Well, that explains it. The leaves on the apple are still fresh as though just picked.” Baeve patted Catrione’s shoulder. “You two eat. I’m going to my bed. These old bones are tired. Good night, dear.” She bent and kissed Catrione’s cheek, patted Cwynn on the forehead. “Sleep sweet, lad. You earned it.”

  As the old woman shuffled off, Catrione took a deep breath, wondering how much information Cwynn could possibly absorb.

  Cwynn put his spoon down and raised his hand to his face. For a long moment, he sat, silent and staring into the palm of his hand. Then he ran his hand over his chin. He looked at her and his eyes were bleak. “I make my living from the sea. We have goats and pigs and chickens and such and I’ve seen my share of things not meant to live, things made by mistake. But I’ve never seen anything like that. What was that? What did that?”

  Catrione sighed. So much to explain, so little time. “Have you ever heard the story of Seamus and Seanta of the Silver Hand?”

  He stared at her blankly. “No.”

  “It’s a song, a story, about a pair of twins, royal twins, who happen to save the world from the child who can’t be slain by hand of woman, hand of man.”

  “Is that what that thing was? And I was able to kill it because of my hook?”