He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s like looking in a lit window. Sometimes we can’t help it.’
‘Doesn’t anybody believe in privacy?’ I almost shrieked.
‘I said I’m sorry. But aren’t you curious about your father? I know I am.’
‘Yeah? I thought I was a mongrel runt?’
He hooted a laugh, and then his voice dropped so low only I could have heard it. ‘We won’t hurt you.’ The ‘we’ was stressed, just enough; then his voice was normal again, volume, tone and all. ‘Oh, and he wants you to stay the summer.’ Seth jerked a thumb at his son.
‘He does?’ I gave Rory a shocked sidelong glance. He’d brightened so much he almost seemed taller. His face was all hopeful innocence as he raised his eyebrows at me.
Seth had known exactly what to say. That disturbed me a lot more than it encouraged me. The wild prospect of finding my father wasn’t one I could just ignore. He knew that. Bastard.
The thing was that I considered the rival attractions. Vodka hidden in Sprite bottles in the park; drinking it with girls I barely liked and boys I loathed. Shoplifting for fun, taking bets on who’d get the next visit from the community support officer. Trying, without looking too uncool, to avoid the drugs that managed to make me simultaneously hyper and bored. Endless sniping from Sheena; gladiatorial bitching contests with my cousins; Marty’s leering eyes and pawing fingers. Oh, and a whole summer’s taunting from Lauren, just because I so desperately wanted my father, I’d been stupid enough to put it in writing.
Would they even report me missing? Even if they did, nobody would look that hard.
I took a surreptitious look round the stone courtyard. Those were stables on the south side, and I’d been passed by at least six perfectly normal horses that hadn’t tried to eat me. I liked riding; I’d been not bad at it when I was eight, brilliant when I was nine.
To the right was a large sand arena where a woman in a black t-shirt, her long blonde hair woven into a thick braid, was galloping a horse past a line of butts and firing arrows with scary consistency. Out on the machair the anarchic football match was back in progress, and I felt like I could belt right down there and join in, and would be perfectly welcome if I did. The sun was high and warm, and there were two beaches close by, white sands laced around clear turquoise water. I didn’t want to go back the The Paddocks. Ever.
And Rory was the hottest thing I’d seen all year.
‘Here’s the deal.’ Seth grinned at me. ‘You, Ginger, can keep your hands to yourself. And I’ll smooth things over with your aunt.’
‘It’s strawberry blonde,’ I said. ‘Yes please.’
RORY
I knew the dream wasn’t real. Never was, not these days. I was aware even in sleep that I wasn’t a small child any more, but not being real isn’t the same as not being true. Watching my father crawl on the stone floor of our shared room, moonlight dancing on his twisted back muscles, I was quizzical; and even my unformed baby brain was needled with pity as well as fear. But there was nothing I could do. Never was.
Seth hadn’t seen me, didn’t know I was awake. He curled on the rug like a wounded animal, clawing at his shoulder blades. When each spasm passed, he hugged his legs, sobbing soundlessly. Everything was done silently. I think it wasn’t just pride; I think he didn’t want to wake me. He didn’t know I was always awake.
Towards the end of the dream – because I always dreamed of that one particular night – he raised his head and blinked and he saw me. The pain ebbed and he drew breath; he uncoiled and clambered onto all fours; and his eyes met mine.
His ribs still heaving, he couldn’t speak. He must’ve thought it was my first time seeing it, and the horror in his eyes was worse than all the grim agony that went before.
‘Rory,’ he gasped. ‘Gods, boy, I’m only fooling.’ The rictus smile belied it all. ‘Rory. It’s a game.’
I was three years old. Three.
‘Ah, Rory. Oh, lad.’ The smile grew more real, and more regretful, as he regained his sanity and the world. ‘You’re going to need a room of your own.’
I could never sleep after that dream, or rather that recalled memory. I hadn’t for a second assumed the torment had stopped once he’d banished me from my small cot in his room. I’d taken it for granted that it went on happening; just without me there to see it. And often I thought that it wasn’t a dream at all, but Seth himself, in real time, out of control and bleeding into me.
I tried not to feel guilty, because they told me often enough it hadn’t been my fault. Seth was shot in the back because he’d betrayed his own brother, and if he’d had to rescue me, it was because he’d handed me over to the enemy queen in the first place. He had no-one to blame but himself; and the clann had had every right to flog him for what he did; and perhaps there was a reason he’d never been competently healed of his wounds.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t rage at them all, safe in the privacy of my own head. I loved my clann; that didn’t mean I thought they could do no wrong. All I could do, on the nights when the dream visited me, was stumble out of bed and walk the stone passageways till I felt tiredness creep up the nape of my neck again. I didn’t – couldn’t – resent Seth for the disturbed nights, and there was no point being permanently furious with the clann; and anyway, the dun was so still and so peaceful in the small hours. No running feet, no raucous laughter or angry shouts or clipped commands. So late, there wasn’t even music. It was always a good time to think.
Tonight I wondered if I should knock on Hannah’s door. Maybe she was lying awake herself, wondering what she’d got herself into. I knew she believed the evidence of her senses – she was smart enough for that – but she was willing to use only five of them.
I uncurled my fist just as it touched the smooth oak of her door, and placed my palm softly against it. No. Asleep or awake, it was no time to disturb her. My father, entirely free of scruples where full-mortals were concerned, had taken Eili with him across the Veil and paid a visit to Hannah’s aunt and uncle. In minutes the couple who were in loco parentis understood that Hannah should spend her summer not at The Paddocks, in the off-license and in the Sheriff Court, but with distant relatives in an unknown place doing God-knew-what with her time.
I believe he forgot to mention the war.
Hannah had agreed to it all, of course, and with some enthusiasm, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking it over. About the fact they’d let her go so easily, that they really couldn’t have cared less.
Tactlessly, Eili had laughed when she and Seth returned and told their story. There were none so malleable, she told me waspishly, as those who wished to believe. And Sheena, at least, had wished very much to be rid of Hannah. Why, it took barely a tweak of the brainwaves. The reassuring presence of a scrubbed-up and responsible-looking female had been wholly unnecessary, she muttered as she strode back to her forge, ostentatiously messing up her hair with her fingers. She’d clearly resented Seth robbing her precious time just to provide me with a companion.
It was the kind of thing that gave our race an evil name, Sionnach reminded us all: seducing full-mortals across the Veil and keeping them there for our pleasure and distraction. It wasn’t ever quite like that but it did give us a bad reputation.
Except that Hannah wasn’t a full-mortal. And there was no-one my age in the dun. And growing up a half-breed runt in a clann proud of its bloodlines, you sometimes want to meet someone of your own kind.
I wasn’t a runt any more. You can’t afford to be a runt when you’re allegedly the mythical Bloodstone and the saviour of your race. Or even when you aren’t – because there’s no such thing according to your rationalist father – but you still have to live up to a legend you never earned or believed. Because it isn’t only your own clann who believe it; it’s the enemy clanns, too, and their powerful queen, and they’d do anything or kill anyone to get their hands on you. As a reason for one’s existence it’s a lot to live up to, particularly when your own father dismiss
es it as the superstitious ravings of an ancient madwoman.
It was also why the mother I never knew had died at the hands of a Lammyr, and my uncle Conal had been murdered defending me, and my whole clann spent their years fighting and dying and killing for me. And that was why I’d grown up a virtual prisoner in what would one day – faery queens permitting – be my own dun.
I could hardly be blamed for wanting some fun. I’d have to wait, though, for their memories of my latest escape to dull. When I slipped down the stairs and out through the main door, Sorcha stepped lightly in front of me.
‘No, you don’t, Rory Bhan.’ Her sheathed dagger tickled my chest playfully. ‘Seth–’
‘Says I’m not allowed out of the dun.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘That’s why I’m not going, then.’
‘I’ve heard that one before,’ drawled Sorcha’s fellow-guard, a sturdy sod called Eorna who’d once taught my own father to fight.
‘Yeah, well. This time I mean it.’
Sorcha narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to me, the leather-and-silver scabbard digging painfully into my ribs. I pushed it crossly aside.
‘So help me, you wee bastard. You take one step past the courtyard boundary, and I’ll be thrashing your arse before you can take a second one.’
I knew she meant it. As far as Sorcha was concerned, I might still be three years old. I grinned. ‘I won’t, Sorcha. Promise.’
She grinned back and withdrew the sheathed dagger, slapping my backside with it by way of farewell. ‘In that case, bugger off and let us gossip in peace.’
I didn’t dare head even vaguely towards the eastern courtyard and the gate beyond, and besides, I’d told Sorcha the truth: the sole point of my small-hours expedition was to visit the stables. I wouldn’t be daring to hijack Seth’s horse again – well, not for a few weeks – but I felt that if I could only look into its eyes, study the winding course of its unfathomable mind, I might find some keystone clue to its whole species. If I could once tame that kelpie at the little loch in the pass between the hills, my father might finally call me an adult. He might begin to respect me. He might even trust me to leave the dun walls for longer than five minutes at a time, I thought bitterly. If I could only tame the kelpie; and to do that, maybe I needed to understand Seth’s.
Unfortunately, on this occasion, he’d beaten me to it. It must have been another sleepless night. I didn’t speak to let Seth know I was there; instead I blocked my mind and edged silently back into the shadows.
If there was a creature he could trust with his lonely nights and his racked conscience, it should have been me. Instead he slumped lazily against the partition of the blue roan’s stall, barefoot and bare-chested, his eyes shadowed with insomnia but glittering deep down with the moment’s happiness. Branndair stood above him, licking his face and neck like a mother wolf quieting a pup, and Seth laughed hoarsely, grabbing the wolf’s black-maned shoulders and hauling him down for a hug.
Branndair gave a huge sigh and rolled over in my father’s arms. The one arm Seth could still move went round the wolf to rub his belly, and Branndair squirmed with delight. All the while the blue roan shifted lazily above them both, a great protecting beast. Seth closed his eyes as Branndair whimpered happily and wriggled more comfortably against him.
I ached to go and sit beside them, to snuggle beneath my father’s free arm and feel it go round me instead of the wolf, but it was out of the question. He’d wake, and the grey eyes would freeze, and that guarded shutter would come down across his face and his mind. I’d disappoint myself, and I’d ruin his easy happiness, and this was such a contrast to the Seth of the daytime I found it was enough just to watch him.
Just as well I gave myself time to watch in peace. The next day when I got to the arena, fuzzy and yawning from my disturbed night, he and Eili were already hard at duelling practice, silent and intense. His face, when he caught sight of me and raised a hand to stop her, was its normal friendly self. Friendly and stern and proud and paternal and affectionate and entirely a mask; joy and agony were smoothed from his features and absorbed into daytime efficiency. The man, in other words, was obliterated by my father and my Captain.
He leaned on the fence and grinned at me, making a broad gesture of invitation. ‘Come and get a thrashing. You deserve one.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Let me wake up first.’
Eili snorted with amused disdain. Which was all very well for a woman who could probably kill in her sleep. ‘I’ll train him today if you like, Murlainn.’
My father shot me a knowing look. ‘How awake are you planning to be, Rory?’
My heart sank, not so much at the thought of Eili’s pitiless discipline as the prospect of two fun-free hours. The woman did not believe in either breaks or banter. ‘Couldn’t Sionnach–’
‘Ask him yourself,’ said Eili.
She always knew where her twin was, and right now he was jumping down from the fence behind her. He nodded to me; had no need to greet Eili; and drew my father quietly aside. Their conversation was conducted entirely in their heads, and I didn’t recognise the combination of emotions that crossed Seth’s face. You ask me, he didn’t know himself if it was grief, relief or happiness.
‘What is it?’ I asked, unbearably curious.
Seth still didn’t know what he should be feeling, and it showed. He turned with a small helpless shrug, glanced at Eili and then at me.
‘Stella’s dead,’ he said.
I knew the name. My aunt, Uncle Conal’s sister. She and my father had never got along; and I’d never met the woman. It was Eili who tensed, suddenly the focus of attention though she never moved or spoke. Something emanated out of her, that was all, and only her brother could have identified it, and he said nothing either.
‘Reultan,’ she said at last. ‘Her name was Reultan.’
And then Eili slung her sword into the sand, and walked away.
SETH
This is how it is, I tell him, when he’ll listen.
The world nothing but mist and monochrome, because the day hasn’t had time to give it any colour. Rain that’s barely enough to wet your skin, yet you feel it down to your bones. A lonely wind off the sea, cold and grey as its mother sky. The smell of – what? The beginning of morning?
It’s life in your nostrils, is all: the tang of cold life, mournful and lovely because it might be your last scent of it. It’s lying there between earth and sky, knowing that when you raise your head and spring that you’re independent of either, mortal and fragile and visible. It’s fear and it’s hate and it’s love, and you can barely tell which is which. But the one thing you can identify is the longing to live through it, and that’s the one thing you can’t dwell on, because that way lie cowardice and betrayal, and I should know, I should recognise those.
It’s the moment before it starts, when the wind sings in off the sea, and there isn’t a third dimension to the world, and all the air smells of is indistinguishable life, and you can’t afford to be scared to lose it.
And to go there, and not run away, you’ve got to believe you’re right, you’ve got to believe in something and someone, even if it’s only the wolf on your right or the friend pissing himself on your left, even if it’s only a memory or a thought or a ghost. I can’t really explain it. There’s no explaining it till you’re there.
That’s what I tell my son.
But he doesn’t listen.
The friend on my left on this occasion was Orach, and she’d never been known to piss herself. Other people had, when they saw her coming down on them with a bared blade.
~ How’s the back, Murlainn?
~ Fine.
~ Uh-huh. It’s always fine in a fight.
~ Focus, I snapped. I knew she wasn’t accusing me of malingering at other times, but this was hardly the moment for the argument.
~ Yes, Captain. She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her thoughts, and I shot her an evil look.
Dunster was a shabby but compact village on t
he very rim of the world; at least that was how it felt, and I thought that was probably what had attracted the Lammyr. They’d enjoy the bleakness, and the desolation of the marsh, and I imagined they’d thoroughly approve of the achingly cold wind that swept in with the tide. They liked their home comforts, it was true, but they also had a fondness for a nice bit of atmosphere.
They’d installed themselves in a cluster of old fishermen’s huts and set about their business, which doubled as entertainment. I hadn’t heard about the killings for months after they began; that was a typical trick. Sowing arguments, feeding resentments, freshening old hostilities until the villagers did their work for them.
From where I crouched below the edge of the sandbank, I could make out the lolling figure at the drowning-stake. The tide was out now, and the sea was reduced to thin salty runnels that made a glistening jigsaw of the marsh, but it was all too easy to imagine those trickles swelling and rising around you with agonising slowness, and the struggle to keep your face raised above the encroaching water, and the inevitable horrible inundation. The man at the stake shouldn’t have slit his captain’s throat, of course, but then the captain should never have inflicted the drowning fate on the man’s sister, and all on the heels of a savage woman-to-woman argument and a miscarried baby. That was Lammyr-influence for you.
One day, if I could be bothered, I’d trace it back to the original deed: a silent strangling in an alleyway, maybe, or an unexplained poisoning on the back of a too-obvious grudge. It hardly mattered now. It was one of the younger villagers who’d rounded up a delegation to come to me, though Dunster lay just outwith the dun lands and was not officially under my protection. I was angry with their elders for letting it get so far, for sitting on their fat pride and their dignity too long, but that was how it worked. They wouldn’t have known the Lammyr were even around, not to start with. Never try to sort out a Lammyr nest yourself; not without a good detachment of fighters and a better assortment of blades.
Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) Page 6