Glancing up at him from under her gold eyelashes, the Deargdue said scornfully, ‘You didn’t think anything of the sort – she ran away from you with that pretty boy.’
‘Ah! You are cruel!’ Leaning down, Dorocha struck her lightly on the cheek with the remaining stalks. ‘That humiliation was my punishment for trying – as always – to force the hand of fate. Ask the druids – there’s probably a prophecy in it somewhere. Failure gave me time to reflect on my position.’
She mocked him: ‘You’ve abandoned war?’
He laughed and shook his head. ‘No, my love! But it is you I need by my side, to strengthen me – you, with your power to crush the hearts of the young, even while they fall in love with you.’ He fell extravagantly to his knees beside her. ‘Come with me, my poor, abused, beautiful, barefoot peasant. We are the king and queen of death.’
The Deargdue seemed interested now, finally laying aside the comb. ‘But the changelings – will they follow you without her?’
He caught her hand and kissed it. ‘They will follow anyone. They are mere children, teenagers – they’ll swallow any nonsense in their lust for glory. The druids have taught them that a human priest murdered the queen. I will train them to thirst for human blood – just as I have the zookeeper training the beasts of the wilderness, feeding them on living flesh.’
‘But the children and the beasts won’t be enough—’
‘We have our own cavalry, my love! The dullahans, the sluagh. All the dark creatures will follow us to the surface of Connacht when they realize what is to be gained in spoils. I will promise the druids a thousand girls for sacrifice. The banshees will have as many human babies as they can carry. The beautiful lenanshees will have as many human loves as they desire.’
Her head still lying against Shay’s unmoving knee, Aoife felt her heart swell with unbearable grief. She had thought she could make a difference – but she had been a pawn, a disposable nothing. Carla’s sweet, dear voice trickled through her mind: I’m not trying to be mean, but you’re really impulsive and you don’t always think properly about what about you’re at. Her darling best friend, who understood so much.
All Aoife had thought about was Shay. Following her own impulsive heart, and in the end failing everyone, including him.
Oh, Shay. What am I going to do?
She pressed her cheek against his knee, trying to draw some strength from him through her skin. She had to escape. She had to warn her parents and Carla of the war that was coming – she had to get back to them; she had to protect them. She tried to judge the distance to the tall narrow door, leading away into the dark. If she could even summon the energy to crawl, while Dorocha was absorbed . . . Yet how could she leave Shay behind? Above, the sluagh shuffled and peered, keeping their own watch, rattling their wings, opening and closing their beaked mouths, their small, mean eyes observing her: pinpoints of reflected firelight in the shadowy roof. Behind her, the confident murmur of Dorocha’s voice pleaded his case for love and war.
Beyond was the tall stone doorway, slightly ajar into the darkness.
And beyond the doorway, sounds.
Soft, soft . . .
She lifted her head . . . It was the distant padding she had heard before, when she was standing outside that same door in the utter dark.
Soft, soft . . .
The shush of naked feet?
A paleness shimmered in the darkness.
The leathery wings of the sluagh were fluttering; their deformed beaks and pinpoint eyes also turning towards the doorway, puzzled . . . A single, smaller sluagh tumbled from the rafters and circled awkwardly, its leathery wings tipping the walls, its eyes vivid green in the firelight.
Behind, the Deargdue gave a small, ecstatic sigh. ‘I do.’
And Dorocha murmured, ‘Let me hold you—’
And the heavy stone door swung inwards, pushed open by many hands, and pouring into the fire-lit chapel came the hundreds of cold, dead boys.
They came on across the wide clay floor towards the bed – soft in their bare feet, more and more pressing in from behind, out of the dark, out of the endless curtained rooms. The Deargdue was crying with agitated pride: ‘I was right! They still love me!’ And Dorocha, incensed, was shouting, ‘Who woke these vermin?’
‘They love me, even though I killed them! They still love me!’
‘They’re nothing to you! Get rid of them! Send them back to their graves!’
But still they came on – those at the front now crawling up onto the stone bed; pushing aside, with their slow tide, the silks and cushions, the lamps and flowers.
Hidden in the centre of the flood, Aoife knelt, holding Shay’s own cold hands. ‘Shay? Can you see me?’ But his dark green eyes gazed over her shoulder, as if he longed to join the press of silent boys now pulling at the demon’s hands, her feet, her dress. The Deargdue was shrieking – a thin, high mixture of ecstasy and fear – as they tugged her this way and that. Dorocha, snarling with rage, was kicking and slapping them aside: ‘Get back! She’s mine!’ They rose, and came again.
‘Shay?’ The sharp stub of straw protruded from his chest; she drew it gently out. He sat forward and cried out, clasping his hand to his heart. She pulled down his head and kissed him.
Even this far beneath the earth, Aoife could taste the flowery scent of the Mayo air on his lips, and the salt of its sea. And as her mouth pressed against his, she felt a pull, a draining away of herself – but not in the way Dorocha sucked the strength from her. This was a giving, not a taking away. I am a lenanshee, giving life. She kissed him again, and again came that subtle pull. On the third kiss, his curved lips moved beneath hers. Gasping, she staggered to her feet, dragging him up beside her, supporting him towards the door. He stumbled beside her, not looking back. Among the tall sea of dead boys, none paid the two of them any heed. Slipping out into the steep, sloping passageway, leaving behind the frenzied cries of the demon and Dorocha’s incoherent rage: ‘Get down, I command you! Obey me! You are the dead!’
Shay slowed to barely a walk, his head lowered, his shoulder pressed to the wall – he seemed barely conscious. ‘Shay, come on!’ If they could make the surface, somehow she would get them home. She kissed him again. He recovered a little, and staggered on, leaning against her. They were passing open archways now, the curtains ripped down, blankets tossed aside, candles kicked over. Room after room. The cold wind blew at their backs, hurrying them on.
Rustling the curtains.
Fluttering . . .
Not curtains – wings. Hundreds of wings, coming up fast behind them.
With a groan of horror, Aoife tried to force Shay on. ‘Run! Run!’ He stumbled with her through the dark; she with her arm around him, supporting his weight.
Wings, louder . . . Louder . . .
He staggered again, and this time she stopped and pushed him against the wall. ‘Kiss me! We have to fly!’ Pulling his mouth down on hers, her arms around him . . . If there was any grá left in him for her at all, any faint ghost of his old desire . . . She sought it with a kiss, seeking that flood of lightness, the joyous power of flight . . .
Hooked hands and feet seized Aoife round the waist, wrenching her off her feet. She fought and kicked and screamed in her despair. Her captor swept on, hard, thin, wizened arms wrapped tight around both her and Shay. The dark shadows of the passageway flashed past; other wings were beating against the walls behind her; other beaks slashed at her feet, hands clawed at her bare legs. Starlight ahead . . .
Out.
The sluagh continued to climb towards the dark whirlpool at the centre of the stars. Pouring out of the barrow behind them came a long black stream in clamorous pursuit, wings slicing the air. But the sluagh who was carrying them spat and howled, as if to say ‘Mine!’ until slowly, one by one, the others gave up the chase and peeled away, drifting in circles like flakes of soot, back down to the poppy fields, now so far beneath.
Aoife no longer dared struggle, because if the sluagh releas
ed them, the fall to the ground would be too great. Below, the immense stone barrow was shrinking to a dot. The dark poppy fields stretched out for all eternity under the swirling stars. Shay’s cheek was against hers; he was crushed into her arms by the grip of the sluagh. Breathing. Alive. And lost.
She had saved him – and saved herself – for this:
To end it together, in the most horrible, painful way possible – dumped into the stinking nest of a sluagh, there to be eaten alive, torn limb from limb.
She wondered, in her desolation: would they be reborn as sluagh – and would they know each other? As the queen of rebirth, she was supposed to understand these things. She knew nothing. Far below, the dark world turned as the sluagh continued its steep ascent. Its arms were gripping her so strongly she could hardly breathe; but with what breath she had she began to cry – painfully, childishly – stupid, pointless, despairing sobs. And still with its foul arms clasped around them, the solitary sluagh continued to fly upwards, with great sweeps of its leathery wings – whoop, whoop, whoop . . . Up into the swirling vortex of the stars.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
And still the sound of wings: whoop, whoop, whoop . . .
With a shuddering cry, Aoife awoke, thrashing about in the . . . Not a foul, blood-spattered, bone-filled nest, but a soft white bed of linen and lamb’s wool. A large, strong hand was shaking her gently by the shoulder. She struggled into a sitting position, then hastily pulled the blankets to her chin. Someone had taken her clothes, and she was naked – clean, perfumed and washed, with her hair softly curled and combed around her shoulders. ‘Caitlin?’
As if in a very odd sort of dream, an extremely elegant version of the changeling girl was standing beside Aoife’s bed, wearing a lace dress that fitted perfectly; there were bluebells threaded through her bright red hair, which was loose around her shoulders, and she was holding a plate of honeycomb, sloe berries and tiny dark biscuits. ‘Eimhear sent me to wake you.’ Caitlin’s usually harsh, piercing voice was surprisingly muted and gentle.
‘Who’s Eimhear? Where’s Shay?’
‘Shay’s mother – and Shay’s not woken up yet, but he’s grand. There’s a whole load of the girls watching over him, the bold things.’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Aoife made a joyful move to get out of bed, then remembered she was naked. ‘Where are my clothes?’
‘Eimhear’s on her way with something for you to wear.’
‘Caitlin, where are we?’ Overhead swayed bright copper birdcages, tinkling together, shaken by caged nightingales singing. An arched doorway led to the sunny outside world, made misty by azure translucent drapes; a distant flute was playing. The crystal floor was scattered thickly with bluebell flowers. The heavy scent of the flowers; the singing of the birds; the pale azure light shed by lamps of bluebell oil; even the fact that Caitlin was acting in such a restrained fashion – everything seemed more hazy and dreamlike than real . . .
‘We’re in the lenanshee quarters. Do you like my dress? The girls insisted on me wearing it, although I don’t think it’s as nice as the feather one you gave me. I have to warn you, they’re extremely fussy here about every single little thing – what you wear, hold loud you talk, the way you move . . . It’s a lot of fuss to make about not actually doing anything at all . . .’
Whoop, whoop, whoop.
Aoife glanced around fearfully, her heart contracting – the noise of wings seemed so loud, and coming rapidly closer. And yet Caitlin appeared utterly unconcerned. It must be the stress of everything that had happened imprinting that dreadful sound on her mind . . .
Whoop, whoop, whoop.
Setting down the plate of honeycomb and biscuits, Caitlin was saying, ‘Here’s your breakfast – the berries are a bit sour, so dip them in the honey—’
‘Caitlin, get down!’
A vast black form had hurled itself against the gauze drapes from outside, slashing and tearing with its claws, screeching at the top of its hideous, grating, old-man’s voice to get in. Shrinking back against her pillows, Aoife raised her hands, icy power pouring into her fingers . . .
Rushing towards the archway, Caitlin cried, ‘No, stop, don’t hurt him!’
‘It’s a sluagh!’
‘He’s our friend!’ The ugly creature had got itself into a terrible tangle of gauze, battering frantically with its leather wings. ‘He brought you and Shay back here from the House of the Dead – apparently ye blasted up through the sacrificial altar like a mad moon-rocket thing . . .’
‘Be careful of it!’
‘It’s not an “it”, it’s a “him”. Come here to me, you silly thing.’ Caitlin began gently extricating the creature from the drapes – and, despite Aoife’s horror, it didn’t attack her but, once freed, clung to her like a child with its wizened legs and arms, wings folded around her like a giant leather cloak, its head on her shoulder, beaky mouth opening and closing, crooning now instead of squawking. An old man’s head, although its eyes were vivid green. Caitlin carried the creature across the room towards an inner door, staggering slightly under the weight of it. ‘Come on now, Donal, I’ll get you something to eat.’
Dazed, Aoife said, ‘Donal?’ She pulled the soft lambswool covers back up to her bare shoulders.
‘It’s the eyes remind me of him!’ Caitlin paused to beam at her, heaving the sluagh higher in her arms. ‘Fact, I’m pretty sure this is him. After he dropped you off, he came to fetch me, obviously because you needed me to look after you. Gave me a terrible fright when he crashed in through the window and grabbed me – before I realized who he really was. You’re cute, aren’t you?’ She dropped a kiss on the wrinkled dark forehead. ‘I know it seems a bit fast for him to get this far on the rebirth front, but I checked in the book, and because Shay is a lenanshee and kissed Donal before he died, the book says everything would go unusually fast, and if a sluagh ate something which had eaten something else which – et cetera—’
Aoife cried out in amazement as everything fell into place. ‘You’re right, Caitlin – you’re completely right!’
‘I know I am, I read it in the book – which I really can read, by the way.’
She remembered – she owed Caitlin an apology. ‘I’m sorry for upsetting you the last time. I never meant to say you couldn’t read it – I’m sorry—’
‘No, you’re grand, because actually’ – Caitlin turned slightly pink – ‘I wasn’t very good at reading it, believe it or not. But it’s all right now, because I got hold of one of the human children that the banshees stole from the festival – there’s been a huge row between the banshees and the druids, by the way; I’m not sure exactly what happened – anyway, I got this kid to wish I could read the book—’
‘Oh, genius!’
‘Thanks . . . And I must say, the English edition is completely different. Between you and me, it wasn’t a human priest who murdered your mother at all, but Dorocha himself. So my new advice to you is, you’d be better off not marrying him after all. I’ll go and tell Eimhear you’re awake.’
‘Caitlin, wait—’
‘What? Donal is really hungry – I need to go get him some food.’
‘What about Carla?’
The changeling girl looked surprised. ‘Sure, didn’t you make her wish herself back to the human world because she was no use to you in this one, not like me? I was just coming outside to see what the racket was when she shouted her wish, and poof!’
Aoife laughed with relief. So the wish had been granted. ‘And Ultan?’
Caitlin’s face darkened. ‘Went with her.’
‘Oh God . . .’ Aoife stopped laughing. So that was how she’d granted the wish ‘quair’: she had sent ‘both’ of them home. Just not herself and Carla. She’d sent Carla and Ultan. ‘I’m so sorry, that was my fault. I hope he didn’t mind . . .’
Hugging the sluagh version of Donal against her as if for comfort, Caitlin said bitterly, ‘Don’t be sorry – he always did have a thing about humans, and I dare say he’ll be m
uch happier with that fancy friend of yours, with her stupid fancy hair.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon. I’m sure he’ll miss you.’
Caitlin looked grudgingly pleased. ‘Maybe he can get some other dumb human to wish him back.’
‘Maybe he can!’
‘Although according to the English edition—’
Behind Caitlin, an inner door opened – a honeyed slab of amber, full of shadowy flowers. A lenanshee with long black curling hair and turquoise eyes appeared, wearing a dress of rich ivory lace that came to just below her knees, and carrying in her arms another similar garment. She said in a soft, musical voice, ‘Aoibheal?’
It was strange – it was the first time someone had called Aoife by that name without it seeming entirely wrong. She sat up straight under the blanket. ‘That’s me.’
‘I am Eimhear.’ Shay’s mother drifted into the room – then drew aside with a dismayed shudder as Caitlin rushed out past her with the sluagh: the changeling girl with her big shoulders hunched up to her ears and her hand shielding the creature’s ugly face, as if that way the two of them could avoid the disapproval of fastidious beauty. Still shivering delicately, Shay’s mother sat down beside Aoife on the bed, and gazed smiling into her face, laying the dress she’d been carrying across Aoife’s feet. ‘Do you remember me at all, Aoibheal?’
‘I saw you in my mother’s tower, and in the temple.’
‘I mean, from when you were a little girl. Your mother was my dearest friend, Aoibheal – and you look so like her! You have her eyes, and her hair – the exact same colour, like the winter sun.’
Tears roughened Aoife’s throat. It was unexpectedly lovely to hear someone other than Dorocha – or even poor Wee Peter – speaking so intimately of the queen. She said, ‘I really look like her? What was she like?’
The Dark Beloved Page 29