Silver's Lure

by Anne Kelleher

  “They’re coming.” Sabrys scampered back into the tent, leaped into her place among the cushions and picked up her needle. “Remember what I told you—show no defiance.”

  Morla turned to see the two men who’d confronted her before, followed by a woman cloaked all in black from head to toe, and three other soldiers. She swallowed hard and felt a finger of fear run down her spine.

  “Remove the clothing.” The one Sabrys called “Master” repeated the command in his own tongue, and she knew the first time had been for her benefit, to kindle her fear, and to provoke, perhaps, her defiance.

  But before she could even consider what she might do, one soldier simply untied her hands and the other her legs. They placed her spread-eagled in the center of the tent, and the third used his dagger to cut the clothes off her body. As the blade flashed over her breasts, dangerously near her nipples, heedlessly between her thighs, she went rigid.

  The captain, the one who seemed to be the military commander, said something, and the third pulled the shreds of her tunic off the top of her body. For a long moment, they simply stared at her. Then the captain said something else, and the third soldier yanked her mouth open. The woman bent down, ran one cold finger around Morla’s teeth and gums, then yanked out her tongue. She tried to twist her head away instinctively, but the soldier held her head between his two enormous hands as if it were a nut he was about to crack.

  The examination continued, coldly, dispassionately. The woman prodded at Morla’s breasts, examined the silvery lines of the stretch-marks. The captain said something to which the woman shrugged and nodded.

  Morla closed her eyes. Their eyes were on her, worse than the woman’s pinching, probing fingers that dug into her navel, pulled on the sparse hairs in her armpits, twisted into her ears. Morla balled her hands into fists and went rigid as she felt her legs lifted and spread, and the woman’s merciless examination begin.

  “Open your eyes.” Her head was slammed back against the hard-packed earth. She opened her eyes to see Sabrys’s master inches from her face. His narrow, high-cheeked face reminded her of the druid descriptions of the sidhe, but the stench he blasted with each breath made her gag. His black eyes shone beady in the dusty light. “This is just the beginning.”

  “Of what?” she managed, even as she tried to squirm desperately away from the old woman’s probing fingers. She tried to close her eyes and turn away, to spare herself at least the indignity of all those cold hard eyes, but he slapped her until she turned her face up once again.

  “Look at me, or I let them rape you.”

  At that her eyes flew open and he smiled as he stuffed a leather gag into her mouth. It tasted bitter, of old salt and sweat and something coppery and metallic—the taste of dried blood. “That’s better.” With a word, he signaled the soldiers to tie her arms and legs together. They did so with such brutal efficiency, she yelped around the gag as her limbs were yanked and twisted, held and bound. They dropped her into a heap, as if she were a piece of rotting meat.

  Morla saw Sabrys sitting back, watching impassively, but her eyes shouted, I told you so.

  “Dasa, compiedreos.” Even Morla understood the dismissal in the tone, and braced herself for whatever was to come next. The breeze stirred by the tent flap raised gooseflesh on her naked skin, and Morla wondered if they meant to leave her naked. The soldiers and the old woman marched out, but the other men bent over her, turning her on her knees and her elbows, prodding at her rump. Abruptly they let her fall as shouts rang through the camp. The captain’s head jerked up, but silence fell. He pointed down, said something, and Sabrys’s master replied.

  Without a look at either of the women, the two men left the tent.

  “They’re talking about where to put the brand,” Sabrys said. Morla gasped around the gag and her eyes widened, but Sabrys continued, “All slaves are branded several times. There’s the first one they stick on you as soon as they get you. And then each House, each Family, has its own…Some masters like to decorate their slaves, too. But you, they think its important to get you marked as a slave as soon as possible. They mean to shave your head and your body hair, and get a brand on you. They know you’ll run. But I don’t think they plan to do anything worse than that. They want to present you, unmarked, to the Senex, so that the people of the City may decide what should be done with you. Virgin—unmarked—sacrifice is considered particularly pleasing to the gods.”

  Morla went cold as ice as she rolled on her side, curling up protectively into a ball of quivering flesh. What Sabrys hinted at made suicide seem like a viable option—far better to choose the Summerlands than a life ended in torment. They’d left the tent flap open and the smell of something burning wafted in. She tried not to imagine what it would feel like to have a red-hot iron seared into her flesh.

  “It’s not too bad,” Sabrys was saying. “The first one’s the hardest, of course. But afterwards, at least you know what to expect.”

  Morla stared at the other girl. She’s trying to frighten me, Morla thought. She’s trying to frighten me so she won’t be so afraid. Say what you want. Morla turned away, feverishly pushing against her bonds. The leather cords were strong, but leather could stretch. I’m going to find some way to escape. And I will not give them what they want.

  But all her resolve was for nothing. The old woman came back carrying a small brazier, followed by the captain and the master. The captain carried a long black iron with a small flat V at its base. Morla’s resolve disappeared, her palms began to sweat. The captain pushed her over on her stomach and held her down with one knee placed squarely on the small of her back, his booted leg along her spine. He picked up her feet. Morla struggled and squirmed, but the two men held her easily. He meant to brand her on the sole of her foot, she realized, horrified. She’d be crippled; it would be so much harder to run, so much harder to escape.

  The master held her torso down, but ripped the gag off her face. He smiled down at her, gently smoothing her tangled hair off her face. “Go on,” he whispered in his eerily perfect Brynnish. “Go right ahead and scream.”

  “Is that someone screaming?” Lochlan reined his horse up short, cocked his head and held up his hand. “Do you hear that?” Like a high thin thread, the sound twisted through the air above the sounds of the company halting. It sounded like a woman, he thought as his pulse began to race.

  “Sounds like someone being eaten alive. Maybe it really is goblins, chief.” One of Fengus’s knight nudged his master’s elbow.

  “Goblins don’t come out in the day,” said a second.

  “Fengus-Da!” The voice of Fengus’s youngest squire, Donn, his voice high and eager cut through the rising speculation. “Fengus-Da, I’ve an old woman here. An old woman who says she’s seen the riders.”

  Lochlan turned in his saddle. From the shadows, the boy led out an old crone, her head wrapped in a linen coif, her torso in a plaid so blackened by soot, its pattern was indiscernible. She marched up to Fengus. “Boy says you’re the king.” She squinted up at him, one clawlike hand across her furrowed brow, the other munching the reddest apple Lochlan had ever seen. The juice of it ran down her chin, and it occurred to him that the apple was completely out of season. She glanced up at him and winked.

  Fengus harrumphed. “Not the king, old mother, not the High King.” He glanced at Lochlan, who thought he could hear the echo of Fengus’s thoughts. Not yet.

  It reminded Lochlan that while it suited Fengus, he would be Meeve’s loyal ally, united against a common enemy. But only while it suited him. A bitter wind swept out of the trees and ran down Lochlan’s back and he shifted in the saddle. There was something about this old woman that made his skin crawl.

  “You saw the riders go past here, old mother?” Fengus was saying.

  “We didn’t see nothing, mind you—Father and me was hidden in the hayracks with the pigs. But they came inside and I heard them talking about their prisoner, the Princess, they called her.” She crunched another bi
te out of the apple and Lochlan felt his mouth water and his knees go weak. The fragrance was under his nose now, twining up and into his belly. It smelled familiar, somehow, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  “Which way and how many?” asked another knight.

  “That way,” she pointed. “And maybe a hundred or more—could’ve been thousands. That’s what it sounded like.”

  Surely not thousands, thought Lochlan. But the old woman met his gaze again and this time he was sure she winked.

  Fengus flapped his reins and pointed off, across the rolling green hills that opened up into the Vale of Ardagh.

  “Is there a place,” asked Lochlan, staring down at the apple. “A place where an army of any size could hide?”

  “Oh, aye,” the old woman nodded, licking at the juice that ran down her fingers. “Right over the ridge, there, you’ll see a hill with a rock called the Hag’s Head perched on the top. Just over that hill, is a valley not many dare enter. But foreigners they’d not care.”

  “Why, old woman?” demanded Fengus. “What’s in the valley?”

  “Just an old well they call the Hag’s Well.” She limped off, muttering.

  Lochlan exchanged glances with the other knights. If the Lacquileans could go there, so could they.

  Fengus beckoned to Donn. “See she gets something for her trouble. All right,” he cried, raising his arm. “Let’s go.”

  Morla lay in the center of the tent where they’d dragged her after the branding, staring up in a delirium of pain. They’d shaved her head and her body hair, too, afterward, but that part was nothing but a blur of the agony that rolled in constant waves from the soles of her feet to the top of her spine. Such pain could not be borne, should not be borne, she thought. Even the goblin pain was not so awful as this. But the goblin had thought of her as prey. This branded her a slave and barred her now forever from reigning in Meeve’s place at Ardagh. Only the unmarked could be a High King or Queen.

  “Roll over.” Sabrys’s tone was as unyielding as her expression, but she held a basin, a roll of bandages and what looked like a pot of salve. “It’s not that bad. Really. By next week you won’t even remember. The first is always the worst ’cause it makes you a slave. We all go through it. I understand. Now roll over.” She toed Morla’s shoulder.

  With a groan, Morla rolled over. She was still naked, her pubis and her head scraped raw, but at least on her belly she could bite into the leather gag and let the tears run freely down her face as Sabrys daubed at her throbbing feet. White-hot pain lanced through her as Sabrys slapped on the salve. She went rigid, her eyes flew open and she almost swallowed the gag. Another scream escaped her ragged throat.

  “You be quiet or I don’t put a bandage on them. I don’t even want to think what Master’s going to do to you for that.”

  I shall not live as a slave, Morla thought. I simply shall not live. A bolt of pain stabbed up the other leg as Sabrys finished tying on the second bandage. “They are deep, I give you that.” Her eyes met Morla’s. “I told you Master would make you pay.”

  Master will not own me, Morla wanted to scream, but she turned her face away and shut her eyes. The night air was damp and oppressively humid. It was going to rain soon. She could smell the parched top layer of earth crying out for it, but here, beneath her cheek, wasn’t going to get any of it. They were under the tent. She turned her cheek into the dry earth and let it feel her tears, let the wetness on her face fall into it. Gracious goddess of the living land, she thought. Send me Herne to either free me or take me to the Summerlands. Whichever is your will, great goddess. Only let me not live a slave. Send me Herne.

  The thought was not even out of her head when there was a crashing and a whinnying very close by, and with a rip of fabric, the tent flap was yanked aside. “Princess Morla, are you here?” roared the enormous bearded figure. It could be Herne, Morla thought as she raised her head and blinked. Sabrys was getting up, shooing him away, grabbing a poker from the charcoal brazier. But Morla flailed her legs, kicked up the sand. The big man saw her, peered down at her and his expression turned from battle-lust to horror to pity. A single push square in her chest, and Sabrys went flying back into the brazier. As she rolled and screamed and smoked, the warrior bent down, wrapped Morla in his own plaid, and picked her up as if she were a child. He pulled the blanket down over her face, then ran with her out into the night.

  She felt herself handed from one set of strong arms into another, and then hoisted up into yet a third. She flinched and tried not to cry as the side of a saddle bumped her heel. An enormous crack of thunder rumbled across the sky, and without warning, a blanket of rain began to fall. One arm held her tight, while with the other, she felt reins and a big body moving behind her. The horse leaped into the night, even as all around them, curtains of water fell. Morla pushed the blanket off her face and ripped the gag out of her mouth, spitting it into the dark night. Her rescuer was a man big in the chest and arms, his face covered by a lustrous black beard shot with strands of gray.

  “Who’re you?” she demanded, even as the horse galloped down the lightning-lit road.

  “I’m Fengus,” he answered with a flash of crooked teeth. Behind them, she could hear fighting. He held her firmly, gently, the way one might a nervous animal. He looked down at her, tucking the plaid gently around her cheek. “Don’t fret now—the lads will see we get away. So you sleep now, and when you wake up, with any luck at all, this’ll all be just a bad dream with a happy ending.”

  “Where’re we going?” she asked suspiciously.

  “To the White Birch Grove, where my daughter is. Just relax now. You’ll be fine.”

  “To the druids?”

  “Aye, the druids. Just rest.”

  “But there was another. Lochlan—”

  “How do you think we found you?”

  “He’s alive?”

  “He was,” replied Fengus with a look over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, lass. A warrior like that knows how to take care of himself.” He pulled her against him, and his big arm around her made her feel safe. The rain sluicing down her feet had a numbing effect on the brand. The rhythm of the horse’s steady gallop lulled her so that even as another question occurred to her, her head nodded and she fell back onto Fengus’s shoulder and into a deep sleep. She didn’t see his look of triumph as he bore her through the night.

  17

  Ishould go back. The trees need me. I can heal them. I have to heal the trees, Bran thought as he stumbled after Loriana. I should go home. What was it Lochlan had said? It’s easy enough to get to TirNa’lugh—what’s hard is finding your way home. It seemed as if it had been a very long time since he’d been carried off by the raven and he wondered if that had been a dream and what had happened to the raven. He rubbed his head and realized that Loriana had come to a stop in the middle of the path. She was staring straight ahead at probably the last thing Bran expected to see in Faerie—the central tower of a keep.

  It was made of pure white marble and shone in the sun. Arched windows set high above the tree line sparkled like diamonds, reflecting red and blue and green. It was the most beautiful tower Bran had ever seen. But when had the sun risen, he wondered? How had it come to be day? He remembered no dawn.

  “What is this place?” Loriana breathed.

  The strange sidhe leaned heavily on his stick and a crease appeared in the furrow between his brows. He looked as if he were in the most horrible pain, and Bran wondered what ailed him. “In my time in Shadow, Loriana,” he said softly, “I learned many things.”

  “You did this? You made this place? H-how?” She didn’t take her eyes off the structure.

  Bran blinked. Was the tower growing taller, even as they watched? Larger? Had the crenelated tops of a wall appeared, just above the row of oak trees just ahead?

  “Magic,” Timias answered, watching her face.

  “What kind of magic is this?”

  The tower was growing, Bran decided, and another tower ha
d appeared behind it.

  Timias hung on his staff, breathing heavily, even as sweat pearled across his forehead. Blood still trickled down the inside of his leg. He was wounded in some way, Bran realized.

  “A better kind of magic than has been worked in either World, Loriana. And all for you.” He reached out, tentatively, his hand hovered in the air just above her shoulder, but she was riveted by the towers, now three, sprouting up above the trees.

  “The Forest House was vulnerable. The Queen of Faerie should have a house—a palace—that can stand against all threats, while becoming a beacon to all who dwell within her Court. And so I made you this, my queen, when I realized the Forest House was dying. I wanted to make you a place you’d be safe, Loriana—a house of light and stone.” Timias was looking at Loriana with such naked need, Bran felt his own throat thicken, and he had to blink back tears.

  “But…but how did you do this, Timias? How is such a thing possible?”

  “It’s the gremlins, Loriana,” he replied. “The very creatures your father—and his Council—would spurn. See what they can do? This house can be even more magnificent than your father’s ever was. Just tell them what you want, and they can make it so. Don’t be frightened. Just come. And see.”

  I have to go home, Bran thought, but Timias’s words were twining around him like ribbons, drawing him deeper and farther in TirNa’lugh, weighing on his flesh.

  “You, too, Bran,” Timias said. “We need that coin.”

  “Why do we need the silver, Timias?” asked Loriana.

  “With just the amount of silver in this coin, my queen, we’re going to create the barrier that will protect Faerie forever. You’ll see.”

  “It’ll have to be a very thin barrier,” Bran blurted. “It’s just a little coin.”