by Sarah Zettel
“The bridge!” Elen cried. “We must get to the bridge!”
Geraint dug his heels hard into the horse’s sides, hauling on the reins to wheel the beast around. Blood flowed freely out from under his bandage. Elen ran, pelting down the hill, the knife before her, swinging wildly, blindly, her breath coming in gasps, her vision blurring as she saw herself from above, saw the ground swoop closer and then farther, felt the raw hatred of the men who ran behind, and attacked again with talons out. Geraint on the stolen horse passed her, barrelling into the mob that tried to gather, breaking them apart, sending them tumbling and lunging to both sides.
The bridge was close but the horse balked at its steps, rearing and dancing. The hawk circled overhead, crying, uncertain. Elen charged past Geraint.
“Hold them off,” she called as she passed him. “When I call you, come fast, no matter what you see!”
“I will!”
It was insane what she meant to do. It was dangerous beyond words. It was their only escape. She heard the shouted orders, heard Geraint’s name called and cursed, heard the horse’s hooves on stone.
And she could think of none of it now. She must concentrate on the way ahead, the way she had travelled once before. She must gather that magic her mother willed to her. She must find the words to bring it forth.
She raised her hands. “By the blood of the queen, I call the western gate to open!”
Nothing happened. Steel clashed behind her. Voices roared.
Steel. Iron. She still held the knife.
“Elen!” called Geraint. The hawk screamed and Elen felt it plunge.
Elen cast the knife away and raised both her hands again. “By the life of the babe delivered into my arms, I call the twilight road! By red cow, white pig and the white mare, I call to the other side of the world! Open to my word and show me the true way!”
The wind whipped around her head. The air was hot, then cold, and then absolutely still, and in that stillness, curls of mists formed on the river. They rose up, white and cold as corpses’ fingers, wrapping her in their embrace, blotting out the sight of the world. She heard men shout to their gods. Fear sent her mind reeling, but she held her ground. The mists twisted and thickened. Hooves clattered against stone. She felt the panic of the hawk before she heard it screech.
The change of masters had broken all the old bonds. Come to me! she willed desperately holding up her wrist, and to her surprise, the bird did, but the pain of its talons digging hard into her wrist was a new shock and almost shattered her concentration. She must not lose the bridge. It was all they had. “Geraint! Throw away your sword! You cannot make the passage with the sword!”
Geraint was behind her, pulling his horse up short to keep from trampling her. She heard something splash into the river, and gave thanks that he had listened. She grabbed the horse’s bridle with her free hand, and as she did, she saw Wyx kicking his own horse up the bridge’s steps. Elen hardened her will and began walking into the whiteness. Wyx was on the bridge, he kicked his horse again. The animal reared. Wyx kept his seat, but barely, and still he urged the horse forward.
A wall of whiteness rose up between them, and he was gone.
Chapter Nine
Elen and Geraint stood alone on the narrow strip of stone in a world of writhing whiteness. The horse neighed, balked and swung its head, trying to break her hold on its bridle, but Geraint kept his seat. He patting the creature’s neck and murmured to it until it calmed. Elen swallowed, grateful for his expertise. She did not want to think what would happen were he thrown into the mists.
On her arm, the hawk creeled softly, shifting its weight back and forth, its talons digging into her unprotected flesh. Now that she held the bird, she could feel her heart pounding hard and strong, and the sensation was dizzying. She grit her teeth and held tight to the jesses. She could not falter now. She would lose them all.
When the horse was calm enough to follow her lead, Elen began walking forward. The world around them had fallen silent. There was only the noise of hoofs on stone and the sound of their own breathing. Even the rush of the water beneath the bridge had faded away.
Geraint’s breathing was harsh. The horse whickered constantly. Elen could not find the words to explain where they went. They just had to keep moving. It was so cold. If they slowed the mists would have them. There was no way back, no way out …
No. Just keep moving. Keep moving.
So slowly that she thought it was her eyes playing tricks, the way ahead began to lighten. Shadows appeared in the white mists, then shapes, then colors. Finally, she saw a grassy bank, bright with morning dew, and the stone steps leading down.
Elen’s fear loosened, although perhaps it should not have. The place had changed utterly since she last saw it. Daylight had come and the sky was a brilliant blue, but there was no sun, and there was no shadow under the straight, white-trunked trees. Only the road was the same, spreading out before them, white and unflawed. The perfume of the blossoms and the green scents of the trees and loamy earth were intoxicating. Flowers in all the colors of the rainbow winked from clusters of emerald grass and dusky fern. The sparkle of dew was on each blade and leaf. The colors and the flora said that it was high summer, and yet it was cold enough that Elen shivered.
“Where is this place?” whispered Geraint.
Elen licked her lips and chose her words carefully. “If I say it is the home of our good neighbors, will you know what I mean?”
Geraint’s face went white and absolutely still. It was only a moment later he was able to nod.
“Be alert,” she said to Geraint. “Do not question anything you are shown. Accept neither food nor drink. Be courteous as you would to a king to whomever we meet. Tell no lies, and do not under any circumstances say your name.”
Geraint nodded again. He dismounted the horse. The animal was twitching and trembling and the whites of its eyes showed. With much patting and gentle coaxing, Geraint led the animal down the steps to stand on the grassy bank.
The hawk, however, now that the fuss of their pursuit was over, clung contentedly to Elen’s wrist, its heartbeat calm and serene. It was hungry. Soon it would be ravenous but Elen did not dare let it fly in this country.
We cannot stay here. But neither could they cross the bridge to home again without help. Few truths were known of the land where they now stood, but this much her mother had told her. Human power meant little or nothing here.
Of one other thing she was sure. Those who did wield the power in this place knew they were here.
Geraint dismounted and stripped the gauntlet from his hand, offering it to her without another word. She accepted it and was able to ease it on, garnering protection from the hawk’s talons.
“How is your arm?”
He squinted down at the streaks of blood staining his tunic. “Bad enough,” he said. “But it can wait until we are on more familiar ground.”
Elen nodded. For all the beauty of the wood around them, she felt no urge to linger in this place. She was cold within and without, and her hands and mind growing sluggish. “Come,” she said, grateful her voice held steady. “We take the road.”
Their feet made no sound as they stepped onto the white road. Not even the horse’s hooves thudded against its surface. The trees grew close together, but the wood remained as bright as the grassy bank had been. Despite that, when she looked down the road, she could see nothing clearly. It was as if a shimmering curtain had been drawn across the horizon. The profound wrongness of the place tightened Elen’s throat and hands. The hawk watched all suspiciously, and Elen could not rid herself of the sensation that they were watched in return. It was as if unseen eyes peered at them from all directions. From the corner of her own eye, she thought she saw motion — in the trees overhead, beneath the leaves of the ferns and the cups of the flowers, but if she glanced directly at any one thing, it the movement stilled, leaving only the faint rustling of leaves and a faint stirring of the fragrant air. What made al
l things worse, was that she knew this was not mere fancy. In this place, these things were as real as the hawk on her wrist and the road beneath her feet.
The effect of the place on Geraint was marked. He led the horse by the halter not the reins, keeping close to its side, ready to swing himself onto its back in an instant. His free hand kept straying to his empty sheath, and he kept forcing it back down. All the while, his eyes darted left and right. The urgent need to see what surrounded them was palpable. Elen wanted to say something to calm him, but she had no reassurance to offer, and she knew in the pit of her stomach that any word, however mild would be overheard.
A distant thunder shivered the air. Geraint jerked his head up at once, grabbing at the air where his sword’s hilt should have been. Elen jumped. The hawk screeched its indignation and flapped its wings.
“Hoofbeats,” she whispered, but there was no relief in the realisation. All it meant was the masters of this place were coming for them.
They came in pomp and glamour. They appeared on the road as if they stepped from a fog. There were six of them, all riding tall white horses whose flowing manes were braided with gold. Gold trimmed their harnesses and their saddles. Gold banded the spears they carried and sparkled on the wicked black tips. Gold rings glittered on their leather corslets and gold etchings of fabulous beasts and birds adorned their silvery helms. They were each of them tall and fair and delicate beyond even the reach of dreams, their skin and hair so pale that they shimmered in the sunless light. They were each alike, and yet different, as the blossoms on a single rose tree might be, and if they were not those who had first brought Elen to this place, they were their close kindred. All around them the world filled with a whispering and a rustling, though not one breeze blew to break the still air.
The horse shied at their approach, dancing back and trying to buck, whinnying loud in its fright, forcing Geraint to grapple with it, trying to bring it back under control. The hawk cried in protest, and launched itself to the limit of its jesses, and fell, dangling ludicrously from its leathern leashes, beating its wings and screaming at its indignity.
The elven knights drew their beauteous horses up before the mortals and their terrified animals and watched with cold, pale eyes as they falteringly brought the creatures under control. Anger filled Elen, and the desperate urge for flight, but she swallowed it down, and pulled the hawk back onto the unsteady perch of her wrist. Geraint laid his hands over the horses eye’s, whispering to the trembling beast. Its nostrils twitched and flared, but it at least was still now.
“Our Lady and Our Lord would speak with you,” said the leader of the knights, his voice as hard as his eyes. “You will come with us.”
Elen bowed her head. “We will follow you to your Lady and Lord.”
The six elven soldiers wheeled and backed their mounts with impossible precision, creating a lane in their midst. It was quite clear what Elen and Geraint were to do. Geraint coaxed the horse forward, and Elen kept her grip tight on the hawk’s jesses. Awkward and encumbered they walked into the middle of the formation of knights, who closed in around them — two in front, two behind and one on either side.
When they had their charges safely surrounded, the elvish knights touched up their mounts and walked forward. Elen and Geraint had no choice but to do the same. The bright, perfumed woods passed slowly by them. The hawk beat her wings again and again trying to gain the air. The horse moved only due to Geraint’s constant coaxing and the blinders of his hands. Elen felt her heart drumming insistently, and the urge to fly became increasingly unbearable.
At last, the knights led them from the road. The trees still seemed as close together as the wildest woods on the hills of home, and yet they all passed beneath them as easily as if they were still on the open road. The grass was soft as down under Elen’s feet. The canopy of green leaves overhead filled with the rustling of unseen motion. A high piping that might have been birds, or might have been laughter drifted down.
Ahead, a broad green meadow opened. Elen had thought they would be taken to the hall where she had been before, but she was mistaken. The Lady and the Lord clad in white and gold sat on thrones of white wood beneath two towering thorn trees in full bloom. The scent of the flowers went straight to Elen’s blood, stirring and troubling it even more than the dislocated beating of her heart.
More of the cold and pale knights flanked the Lord. Ladies clad in magnificent gowns that were all shades of green surrounded the Lady. They were fair and delicate as their men, all but one. Her flesh was pink and her hair was brown, and she was short, and stolid and earthy amid the airy beauty that surrounded her. Her eyes were wide with wonder, but somehow insensible. In her arms she held a blanket wrapped bundle that could only be a swaddled infant. She dipped her head and smiled, crooning sweetly to the baby, but when she looked up again, her eyes were still vacant.
Elen swallowed. They had found another to nurse the child she had birthed. Where did that earthly woman think she was?
Elen’s knees shook as she knelt to show her respect, grateful that the hawk had stilled itself at least for the moment. Geraint did the same, more smoothly, remembering to bow his dark head.
“You return to us, Adara’s daughter,” said the Lady. Her voice was strong and heady, like the scent of the flowers. It was almost impossible to hear it and think at the same time. “You were not called.”
“No, Lady.” Elen’s throat was dry. Words came with difficulty. “I fled the man who slaughtered my family, stole my lands and drove off my people. The bridge was my only hope of escape.”
“Our lands are not a highway for your folk,” said the Lady sternly. Elen’s whole frame shuddered. “You should know that.”
“I do, Lady. I fled for life and soul. I ask your indulgence of this trespass, remembering the peace and aid that has long passed between your folk and my family.”
Silence descended. Elen tried to gain control over the tremors that shook her. At least the Lady spoke no more words of condemnation. But did they understand at all? Did they care?
“Who is this stranger?” asked the Lord abruptly.
“A knight only,” answered Geraint. “I am the younger brother, the quiet one.”
“Are you?” amusement touched the Lady’s voice. “Well, you are a pretty thing, Sir Quiet. Will you stand?”
Geraint did. Elen stayed as she was, for the invitation did not include her. She bit her lip hard to keep her silence as the Lady rose and glided forward. She was so impossibly beautiful, it was as if a star had come to earth to stand before them. “What brings you here?”
Geraint kept his gaze firmly pointed toward the meadow grass. “The word of my lady.”
“And who is your lady?” inquired the Lady archly.
“She to whom I am pledged and given,” he replied. “And who was so given to me.”
The Lord laughed, a sound as beautiful and awful as the tolling of bells. “Worthy answers, Sir Quiet.”
“Worthy indeed.” Elen thought she would melt at the warmth of the smile in the Lady’s voice. “You choose your companions well, Adara’s daughter. Now do you stand also.”
Elen got to her feet. To her shame, her knees were still shaking, but she stilled them. They had passed the first trial. If they were not welcome, they were at least not now unwelcome, and that was no small thing.
The Lady returned to her seat, settling there with the grace of a swan. “You say your lands are taken. Who has done this thing?”
Elen hardened herself, and answered. “I believe you know, Lady, Lord. It was your doing that kept me safe from them.”
“Do you fault the fulfilment of our promise?” An edge crept into the Lady’s speech. Each word seemed to draw itself across Elen’s skin.
Mother dead on the floor, lying in her own blood, the scent of smoke all around, but Elen only said, “No. You did as you promised and I must render you thanks for that.”
Silence again while those words were closely considered. Careful,
careful, Elen reminded herself. Feel what you must, but do not let it show. You know not even a tenth of what they could do to you for giving offence.
“We have watched this one who rode across your land,” said the Lord. “He has a powerful protector.”
Greatly daring, Elen said. “One who is known to you.”
“Yes.” The word was plain, showing neither regret nor enthusiasm.
“Do you hold him right to do what he has done?” Geraint’s voice rang harshly in Elen’s ears, and she winced, at the sound and the question.
It was the Lady who answered, her voice like ice. “What you do in your lands is of no concern to us in ours.”
“But he is protected by one who has your strength, and under that protection he does great wrong.”
The Lord rose to his feet. Elen saw the golden sheath that hung from his robe’s jewelled belt, and the hilt of the golden sword within. Had that been there before, or had he summoned it to him now? The tips of the black and gold spears of the knights glittered in the light.
“Take great care of what you say, Man. You know nothing of what you speak.”
Kneel, Geraint, Elen urged silently. Make your apology.
But Geraint held his ground. “I speak only of what I have seen.”
The Lord stepped forward, face to face with Geraint, his pale eyes looking into Geraint’s blue ones. No. Do not look. But Geraint did look, and he stood still and solid.
“Of what you have seen,” said the Lord. “But not of all that you have seen with those eyes.”
Geraint made no answer, but neither did his aspect change. The Lord had put no working on him then. Probably. Was there any way to know?