Dreamseeker's Road

by Tom Deitz

  Unfortunately, the nearest Track was at Whitehall Forest. Equally inconvenient was the fact that David’s car was stranded beside Aikin’s at the latter’s cabin, as was Liz’s. Alec’s was back at Casa McLean y Sullivan in Jackson County. Bumming a ride from a friend would have required finding someone, then awkward explanations they had no time for, and finally, a capacious vehicle, since there were now six of them, none of whom seemed inclined to remain behind.

  In the end, Aikin produced some cash and called a cab.

  The taxi dropped them off at the cabin.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” growled the Morrigu, who still wore the substance of Faerie. “I could have borne the heat of Iron but little longer.”

  David lifted an eyebrow. “So why didn’t you change?”

  “Because it is unpleasant,” she snapped. “Because it consumes Power in profligate amounts—and because…I am tired.”

  “I didn’t know you folks got tired.”

  “Different things weary us than you,” Rigantana supplied, “but we tire.”

  At which point the cab’s taillights vanished around a curve, leaving them alone in Aikin’s yard.

  Five minutes later they stood beside the Track.

  And a moment after that, six white riderless horses came galloping down its golden surface, only to halt at the last possible instant beside the blasted oak and the bifurcated maple.

  David’s legs still hadn’t forgiven him for their last go-round with horses when he once again found himself riding bareback down a Straight Track.

  *

  Time moved curiously. Mostly they rode through a tunnel of arm-thick whorling briars colored luminous blue and gold like a Maxfield Parrish painting. For a long time—or perhaps no time at all—no one spoke. Reality seemed to merge with dream. Possibly it was a healing dream, too, for stress and strain melted from mortal faces, and the two Faery ladies withdrew into their own ponderings. At some point Alec noticed that his clothes were clean, Aikin that his were dry, David that his raw-rubbed thighs no longer pained him, and Liz that her jeans bore the softness and sheen of silk.

  “So,” David began abruptly—and Alec half expected to hear the tinkling of the silence as it was broken. “So,” he ventured again, addressing the Morrigu, who, as befitted her rank, rode at the head of the file, “’scuse me for bein’ nosy, but…what in the world were you doin’ in the 40 Watt last night?”

  Alec grinned, having been wondering the very same thing—what part of him wasn’t avoiding wondering about certain things.

  The Morrigu continued on at the quick yet stately pace she’d established, nor did she look back when, after a thoughtful pause, she spoke.

  “I have been in Erenn since Beltaine,” she said. “I spent the bright season with Finvarra, the High King there, seeking to repair what rifts remain after the war he waged against Lugh for the youth, Fionchadd. That accomplished, I set sail for Tir-Nan-Og, intent on meeting Lugh’s host at the coast, when their Samhain Riding takes them there. But the Tracks and the Seas between the Realms have been calmer this season than is their wont, and so we arrived a day early—yesterday, by your reckoning. Not having had occasion to roam freely in Tir-Nan-Og—or the Lands of Men beneath it—for some time, I chose to take the slow path back to Lugh’s stronghold. As I made my way north, it occurred to me that my route took me past that part of the Lands of Men in which certain troublesome young mortals of my acquaintance dwell, on whom I ought to spy; and with that in mind, I left the Track near this odd, magical, mortal city, of which I had heard so much. Once in your World, it was simple to seek you out, so strong has the taint of Faerie lodged upon you. But what I did not realize is how much revelry your kind engage in on Samhain. And the closer to the madness I ventured—it was not unlike a battle frenzy—the more I began to hear music.”

  She paused, as if listening to unheard singing.

  “Music…ah, music! Many are the things mortal men have writ about the Sidhe, and many are the errors they have stated, but one item about which they have not lied is the fondness we hold for music—even your sort of music: loud, raw, discordant, but full of emotion and energy and drive. And naturally, like all in Faerie, I love to dance, so I dared the place you saw me.”

  “But why the disguise?” David wondered.

  “I did not want you to recognize me. I feared it would alarm you. Thus, I changed substance and englamoured myself as well, though perhaps I should have appeared as fully human. Yet I knew that your Sight would warn you anyway, and perhaps by appearing in Faery form, I could add wonder to your World, at a time it seems to need it.”

  “But why did Rigantana leave when she saw you?”

  “Perhaps you should ask her.”

  Rigantana shrugged. “I wanted to experience that place and time as mortals do—and when I saw another Faery there, it destroyed any chance of that. Perhaps, too, I feared the Morrigu would acknowledge me—and I did not want to be accosted by anyone as blatantly exotic as she. I feared it would—what is the term?—blow my cover.”

  “The college student/damage control thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would seem, though,” the Morrigu mused after a thoughtful pause, “that we have not been the only ones visiting.”

  Another shrug from Rigantana. “Was that a question?”

  “If you so choose.”

  “Would you rather I spoke to you or all this company?”

  “Ignorance among them does more harm than knowledge.”

  “What do you know?”

  “About what?”

  “Politics—to start with.”

  The Morrigu’s brow furrowed. “That Rhiannon’s land was awash with lesser fey fleeing the encroachment of the Mortal World on Tir-Nan-Og. That she had come here to petition Lugh for aid and to stem that flow. But I had no notion of that queen’s desperation, for we have met but seldom, and none of us save Arawn know her well.”

  Rigantana nodded grimly. “Desperate indeed, and more so than I had thought, if her bedding of this mortal lad be proof.”

  The Morrigu nodded in turn. “Are there other things I should know? I lingered but briefly at the haven, and the folk there fear me too much to speak freely—as these young folk do not.”

  “We don’t know any better,” Aikin broke in, sounding a little giddy.

  Rigantana silenced him with a glare. “As to news…most of it would bore our companions past enduring, and it is rude to be boring on a Rade. Except”—she paused thoughtfully, poised once again between Faery lady and mortal grad student—“except that perhaps there is something new that would interest both you and Master McLean.”

  Alec’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name. Usually it was David who was the focus of activities involving Faerie. It had never occurred to him that the lords and ladies of that place might actually be aware of his existence.

  “It involves the traitoress Aife,” Rigantana went on. “She whose shape my mother stole in order to rob Alec of the ulunsuti.”

  “What about her?” Alec demanded, surprising himself with the harshness of his tone. That wasn’t her in the tower, he kept telling himself. There’s still a chance something might come of her and me…

  “It may not be pleasant to hear, but the truth seldom is, whether in the Lands of Men or Faerie. And the truth is that there has been a shift in Lugh’s policy toward Aife—more precisely, toward what punishment would befit her most. What is the last you knew?” she continued, to the Morrigu.

  “That she had resumed her living shape soon after her death, submitted herself for justice, and been confined in a World near the Lands of Fire. I believe there was a tower.”

  “So it was when you departed,” Rigantana acknowledged, “but the tower now stands empty—my mother had her own business there not a day gone by. Aife has been given another punishment, but Lugh will not reveal what it is, though it seems to please him, by which I assume it bears an ironic cast.”

  “But—” Alec began
, frustrated, since real news of Aife seemed as remote as ever.

  “Hold!” the Morrigu interrupted sharply. “We approach a crossroads. Those we seek will soon be arriving there.”

  Alec held his peace—had no choice. And then it didn’t matter because the Morrigu’s steed was suddenly galloping, and the others behind it, and though he’d ridden but seldom before, and rode without saddle or bridle now, somehow he kept his seat; neither jolted nor otherwise shaken. It totally unnerved him, too, and the closest description he could contrive was that it was like watching one of the chases in the Star Wars films: eyes saw movement, body felt none—but balance compensated anyway.

  Abruptly the horse slowed—and the briars diminished to reveal what looked a great deal like a pine forest such as infested mundane Georgia. Or perhaps they were in mundane Georgia, though the air smelled suspiciously fresh and clean.

  And then Alec heard a distant jingling-tinkle as of a thousand crystal bells, and saw a file of gold-toned lights winking among the trunks and branches to his right. In spite of himself, he strained forward. He’d seen the Sidhe riding before, of course, but never at night, and never on one of their “official” Rades. Only David had seen that. “Wow!” Aikin breathed beside him, which was as good a response as any.

  “I agree,” David said, glancing back, his face full of joyful anticipation Alec had seen far too rarely of late. And then the first rider cleared the trees and entered the open place before them.

  Alec didn’t recognize the man—no reason he should; he knew maybe ten people from Tir-Nan-Og well enough to have any sense of them as individuals. This guy, however, was impressive. For a start, his horse was blinding white—almost transparent yet almost silver—and he also wore white, though not the armor Nuada favored (and this fellow had two good arms, bare to the shoulders save for a pair of silver bracelets); rather, he sported a simple tabard belted at the waist and hanging fore and aft, to expose his bare legs and feet to the hip. He was young, too, and beardless (but most Sidhe looked young, and few affected whiskers), and his hair was as white as his garment. Albino, Alec assumed, until the Faery glanced toward them and Alec glimpsed his emerald eyes.

  The youth frowned, but paced his horse into the precise center of what Alec now saw was the intersection of the golden Track they’d been following with another, which the host of the High King of Tir-Nan-Og trod. “Hear me, all who ride the Tracks,” the Faery cried. “Hear me, and know that for this time I bear no name but Light, and Light it is that leaves the World for six-moons’ span this night. This do I proclaim from this crossroads, and all crossings we meet on our journey. This do I proclaim in the name of Lugh Samildinach, High King of Tir-Nan-Og, of whom only Night, Death, and Eternity are greater Kings.”

  “And this do we hear and acknowledge,” the Morrigu called back.

  The youth—Light—stared at her fixedly, then shrugged and seemed to relax a tad, as the rest of the host crowded up behind.

  First came a phalanx of Lugh’s knights, silver-armored under white velvet surcoats blazoned with his device: a golden sun-in-splendor. Behind them showed faces Alec knew. Oisin was the first he recognized: the ancient mortal granted immortality too late to save him from old age and the blindness that turned his eyes to silver. He it was who was Lugh’s seer. Next he noted Nuada: blond, gilt-haired, and handsomely grim in his silver scale armor that contrasted deliberately with the silver hand that was part of him.

  And Lugh: dressed in white like the others, but—for the first time Alec had ever seen him so—bare-chested, the sweeps of his black mustache almost fouling his arching collarbones; black hair unbound and flowing past his shoulders. In fact, when Alec got a better look, he wore only a loincloth. Doubtless there was some obscure symbology there, but before he could puzzle one out, he saw the woman who rode beside Lugh—and did a double take; for, eschewing her elaborate white gown and gold-lined cloak, she was the image of Rigantana, who flanked the Morrigu at the head of their own party. Sisters they looked, even twins, though this lady, by her crown, was surely the troublesome Rhiannon.

  Which meant—

  Alec swallowed hard, as rage awoke within him. That woman sitting there so placidly had sent him false visions, led him into another World, lied to him, deceived him, stolen from him—and bedded him in disguise! He owed her a thousand insults, a thousand demands for justice.

  David evidently sensed his anger, too, and divined his thoughts. “Easy, man,” he murmured. “This isn’t our game; go with the flow.”

  Light turned to face them, slender and straight on his white horse. “Who is it that meets Lugh’s riding? Know you not that two hosts alone may travel the Tracks tonight; and the more Seelie of them is here?”

  “Yet we are here,” the Morrigu countered steadily, pacing her horse a step nearer her challenger. “We ride not by choice nor in defiance, but from necessity—and as for that other of whom you spoke: he should not trouble us.”

  Lugh’s eyes narrowed as he urged his mount to the fore. He looked, Alec thought, exceedingly pissed.

  Rhiannon (if that’s who she was) simply looked mondo uneasy—save when her gaze fell on Rigantana, when she looked as though she could spit swords.

  Lugh had reached the head of the line by then, and eased his mount between two of his vanguard. His gaze swept the Morrigu and her company imperiously, yet his words were mild:

  “We were wondering where you were, Lady,” he said. “You also seem to have acquired a retinue I do not recall you possessing—of which I am not certain I approve, given that I ordered the Borders closed ’twixt my realm and the Lands of Men.”

  “Sometimes one must disregard one’s lord,” the Morrigu replied stiffly. “If there is punishment due, I will bear it, but first you should hear my errand.”

  “Ride with us then,” Lugh invited. “Such is your right, and for tonight, I extend that grace to your companions—though of course the Lady Rigantana does not need it.”

  Rigantana inclined her head solemnly.

  “So,” Lugh persisted, “will you join us?”

  “No,” the Morrigu told him flatly, with not so much as a single shake of her head. “Tonight I have other business, myself and these mortals here.”

  “And what might that business be?” Nuada wondered.

  “The most important is to ask the High King if he knows of a traitor in his midst.”

  Lugh’s black brows lifted as one. “And who might this traitor be?”

  “Her name is Rhiannon, and she is queen, for this time, in Ys.”

  Rhiannon’s response was to stare coldly at the Morrigu—though once, Alec was certain, her gaze flicked back to him, and a secret, spiteful smile curved her lips.

  “These are hard charges for one queen to make of another,” Lugh observed. “Yet you are one I trust; and it seems we may not proceed unless I hear you out.”

  “The way of my statement is this,” the Morrigu began, and set out a brief, detailed account of Alec’s aborted rescue of the false Aife. Alec wondered how she’d learned so much, given that she’d been absent when he’d told his tale. Probably directly from Rigantana’s mind, he decided. Hopefully.

  Lugh heard her quietly, but his face grew darker by the moment. “Lady Rhiannon,” he snapped when she had finished, “would you join me?”

  Rhiannon scowled, but did as commanded. Alec noticed that the guards suddenly looked much more vigilant and intense. A pair rode past Light and turned, effectively blocking further progress down the Track. Two others moved to close off the Track Alec’s company rode, where it continued beyond the crossroads, while yet another set flanked Rigantana and the Morrigu. Clearly they were taking no chances in what might well be an explosive situation.

  “Well, Lady,” Lugh said, when Rhiannon sat beside him, gazing not at him, but at some unseen vista beyond any of their heads, “you have heard these accusations, and while the courtesy due a guest and fellow monarch forbids wresting the truth from your thoughts, courtesy likewise for
bids you to lie to one who this last quarter has been your host.”

  Rhiannon did not reply.

  “Silence is no answer,” Rigantana called. “I know you mean well, but you have dishonored our House without seeking the honorable solution which was available to you.”

  “And what might that be?” Rhiannon sneered. “Assuming that I chose any solution at all.”

  “You could have asked!” Rigantana shot back. “Instead, you sent false dreams to this mortal and tortured him as surely as if you have set hot knives against his flesh.”

  “Do you have this object?” Lugh demanded, dark eyes flashing. “Did you commit this treachery of which you are accused?”

  “Did you ever have this object,” Nuada added pointedly.

  “She did,” another voice broke in: high and wavery like that of an old man. Alec had to strain to make out the words, but knew that they came from the old blind man, Oisin, who was Lugh’s seer. “The past is free for all to gaze upon who have the art,” Oisin went on, “and though I cannot always see what I would when I choose to turn my inner eye there, yet it has shown me this lad asleep in a certain tower, and a woman beside him, who one moment wears the face of Aife and the next that of the Queen of Ys. I have seen her rise in the latter shape and steal the oracular stone. And in spite of her concern for the World Walls, I have seen her rip them asunder and leave the lad in his own World, naked on a cold hillside.”

  “Oisin never lies,” Nuada said. “All in Faerie know that.”

  “He is a mortal,” Rhiannon challenged promptly. “Mortals do naught but lie.”

  “So do Faeries,” Alec spat, unable to control himself. “You sure as hell lied to me, you bitch!”

  Lugh cocked a brow as though in amusement, then frowned again—at Rhiannon. “We may not search your mind, Lady, but there are those here who could certainly search your body, and my knights can search your mount and retinue and possessions. Therefore, I ask again: do you have this thing?”