I couldn't quite see the indentation from my perch in Owain's arms but the first arrow had hit close. Under other circumstances, I had no doubt that Rhiwallon would have hit her target. But the tunnel was dimly-lit and she was shooting on an extremely steep angle to a tiny target far above her head. Close would not be good enough.
Rhiwallon nocked the arrow and aimed. Once again the arrow hit very near to the indentation and silently disappeared. She immediately took out a third arrow, set it in place, and fired, all in the time it took me to draw a single breath. Again, the arrow disappeared.
Rhiwallon hissed.
"You can do it," Owain said gently.
Rhiwallon turned and shot him a glare.
Diarmuid opened his mouth and now she glared so hard that he simply closed it again.
The fourth arrow missed also. Rhiwallon's face was red now, although I didn't know whether it was with frustration or anger.
With a deep breath, Rhiwallon set the final arrow in place. The world seemed to slow around me as I watched her exhale gently, her gaze fixed on her target. She raised the bow and arrow and they were like extensions of her arms.
I followed the arrow's trajectory. I couldn't tell whether it had hit its target. If it hadn't, it was close. Very close. I held my breath and prayed.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the door in front of us rumbled open and light flooded the small tunnel. Diarmuid and Owain cheered and even Rhiwallon looked pleased. I barked in appreciation, and then we hurried through the door before it could close again.
We stepped out into sunshine scented with spring.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Diarmuid
The sun hovered low over the horizon, its light soft. Dawn perhaps? Snow still remained on the ground although patches of grass peeked through in some areas. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed out here. I breathed in deeply, rejoicing in the feel of fresh, cool air filling my lungs.
We stood outside the dragon's lair, letting the sunlight soak into our skin. Rhiwallon stood with her hands clasped over her stomach. The empty quiver hung from the belt around her waist. Owain's face was tight and his shoulders hunched. Bramble's tail and ears drooped. My fingers itched to stroke her hair but I no longer felt I had any right to touch her. Not until we figured out what manner of creature she was.
Unless I was much mistaken, we emerged from the mound in the same place we had entered it. The paths of the fey could appear to lead in one direction when in reality going another. If we went back inside, likely we wouldn't encounter the dragon and its treasures. Perhaps we would not even find the original path we took but something entirely different. I had no desire to find out.
"Why so morose?" I asked. "We did it. We rescued Rhiwallon, made our way through the tunnels, answered the dragon's riddles, and found a way out. You should be pleased."
"We barely got out," Rhiwallon said. "The dragon would have gladly eaten us."
"No it wouldn't." I didn't feel quite as confident as I sounded. "Dragons enjoy company. They love riddles. It would have kept us alive as long as we kept talking."
"She," Rhiwallon said. "The dragon was a female."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"I just know. She was sad too."
"Lonely, most like," I said. "Dragons lead solitary lives. She will probably think of us for years to come."
"Last dragon I ever want to see," Owain said.
"I'm sure it will be." I was only half-listening for already my mind had turned to Ida. Was there still time to stop her? Or had she already killed everyone in Crow's Nest and moved on? How exactly does one go about destroying such a creature? And would destroying her also kill me? I would never fall in love, never marry, never bed a woman. I would never say goodbye to Eithne or learn whether Caedmon still lived or whether Grainne was injured. I would never find out who Bramble really was.
I had no choice, though, for this was my fault. Ida came from my head, from my evil thoughts, and I had to be the one to destroy her. I hoped I was brave enough. I hoped it wouldn't be very painful when I died.
As we slowly began to make our way back to the campsite, Owain stumbled and then let out a yell.
"My axe!"
He bent over and picked up the axe he had left behind when we entered the mound. I soon found the dagger he had loaned me. His other dagger was there too and eventually we found the lamp. It had rolled down a slight slope and rested at the bottom in a snowy ditch.
Clutching our weapons and the lamp, we staggered back to where we had made camp so many days ago. My legs were shaky, my stomach growled and I was thirsty enough to drink a river. When we reached our camp, everything was just as we left it. The oxen grazed nearby, ignoring us. Maybe — just maybe — fewer days had passed out here than within the fey mound. I might still have time to stop Ida.
We filled our water flasks from the stream and eagerly gulped every last drop. Never had water tasted so sweet. My stomach was so empty it hurt but I couldn't eat with spider goo all over me. It had dried, hard and crusty, and my clothes were stiff with the stuff. I waded into the icy stream and scrubbed myself all over with a handful of sand, letting the cold waters cleanse me. By the time I was finished, my skin was raw and I was so cold I couldn't feel my toes.
While I was bathing, Owain and Rhiwallon had built up a fire. They took turns to bathe and even Bramble returned wet and shivering. Rhiwallon dried her off with a blanket. Then we ate. The bread was stale but the cheese was sharp, the dried meat smoky, the apples sweet and only a little too soft. As I ate, the fog lifted from my brain. It was a wonder I had been able to think clearly enough to answer the dragon's riddles while I was so hungry.
Our meal finished, we prepared to leave. There was no need for discussion about whether we should rest first. Without knowing how much time we had lost in the fey tunnels, the only thing we could do now was get to Crow's Nest as quickly as possible.
Owain climbed into the front of the cart and Rhiwallon and I settled ourselves on blankets in the back with Bramble's basket tucked in between us. Her hair was still damp so I tucked an extra blanket around her. She sniffed at me before tucking her nose into the blanket, but the noise didn't seem quite as haughty as usual.
As we set off with a creak, I looked back towards the mound. Far beyond it, past an expanse of snow-covered hills, stood the lonely figure of a dragon. I raised a hand in farewell and it seemed the dragon dipped her head in response. Then she rose up on enormous wings and sailed away towards the rising sun.
Nothing of note happened for the rest of the day. The oxen trudged along, tireless as always. Rhiwallon and Bramble slept. Sometimes I dozed but mostly I simply sat there. I should have used the time to plan but I found I no longer cared. In two days I would face Ida, if she was still in Crow's Nest. In two days I would try to destroy her. And in two days I would likely die. There didn't seem much point in planning. Melancholy gripped me for the first time since the start of my journey. It wrapped around my shoulders, clouding my head, as familiar as an old friend.
We halted an hour or so before night fell, and made camp beside a small stream. Rhiwallon didn't offer to hunt and we all knew she had no more arrows anyway. She built a fire and Owain cooked a meal of porridge and flat breads. I tried to help but mostly just got in the way. Bramble sat close to the fire.
The heady scent of our first warm meal in days wafted through the campsite and my stomach grumbled. The sky darkened as we ate, burning tongues and fingers in our haste. Hot porridge sank down into my stomach, warm and comforting and filling. The melancholy eased just the tiniest bit. The moon rose and it looked much the same as it had the night Rhiwallon was taken, a waxing crescent still a few days away from its darkness.
I slept soundly, waking only once. Owain sat by the fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and over Bramble, who slept on his lap. I missed her warmth against my legs.
We packed the cart the next morning with the quiet speed of folk well accustomed to tra
velling together. We would reach Crow's Nest tonight and tomorrow I would face Ida. I walked beside the cart for a while. Long walks across the length and breadth of Silver Downs always gave me room to create my tales so perhaps walking would also help me find a solution to the problem of Ida. I thought of, and discarded, a dozen possibilities. Threats, weapons, dire warnings. I doubted any such thing would work. As we drew steadily closer to Crow's Nest and I still had no plan, failure seemed increasingly certain.
We reached Crow's Nest shortly before dusk and claimed a well-worn bedchamber in an inn called The Midnight Traveller. The bedclothes were threadbare, as was the rug, and the door didn't quite close. Nevertheless, the floor and furniture were dust-free, the dresser bore both an oil lamp and an almost-new candle, and I was thankful to not be spending another night outside.
The dining room was full of the heady smells of fresh bread and good soup. My stomach grumbled in eager anticipation. The pub's dilapidated appearance belied the quality of the cook's meals for the food was just as good as the aroma promised.
"Well, Diarmuid," Owain said as he broke off a large chunk of bread and soaked it in the thick barley soup. Brown droplets splattered his shirt as he lifted it to his mouth. "What will you do?"
Wiping my bowl clean with the last of the bread, I felt their eyes on me. Even Bramble, delicately lapping at her bowl, waited for my response.
"I'll think of something," I muttered.
They waited. I was very much aware of the other patrons slurping their soup, crunching crusty bread, and asking for more ale.
"I thought you had a plan," Rhiwallon said. Her bowl was mostly untouched for she ate little enough to leave a sparrow hungry. "I thought you knew what you were doing."
I had never said I had a plan, but I suddenly found it hard to meet her eyes. "I have no idea what to do. I know how to fight a little but not against a creature like Ida. Physical strength will not be the solution; if it was, I would have no fear for Owain is surely stronger than any three men. I think this will require cunning and craft and trickery of some sort. But exactly what, I have no idea."
"Have to find her first," Owain said.
"And she may not want to be found," I said.
"Do you think she knows you are coming?" Rhiwallon asked.
"Probably. She knows how I think, how I react, as intimately as I myself do. She knows I will come after her. She probably already knows exactly what I will do. And she will know how to escape me."
"And if you fail?" Rhiwallon's voice held a challenge and she looked me right in the eyes. "What then?"
I stared down into my empty bowl and despair flooded through my body. "I don't know. I don't think anyone else can stop her. It has to be me."
They waited, three pairs of eyes fixed on me. Owain and Rhiwallon's faces were still fatigued from our time in the fey tunnels. Bramble's ears were lowered, a certain sign she was unhappy.
"She will destroy us all," I said. "One village will not be enough. Once there is nothing left there to amuse her, she will move on to the next village. Then the one after that, until she has destroyed everyone and everything."
"But why?" Rhiwallon asked. "Why would she want to destroy everything?"
I shrugged. "She is evil. I created an evil being and released it into the world. There is no reason for what she does other than that she wants to."
"If she knows you so well," she said. "Perhaps you also know her."
A small glimmer of hope rose within me. "Perhaps."
In an attempt to change the topic, I ordered another round of ale. I could not voice my most secret fear about Ida: that I had created evil because I was evil. We sat in silence for some time, sipping our drinks. I was absorbed in my thoughts when somebody slammed half a dozen mugs down onto our table.
"Hello there," said a cheery voice. "Mind if we share your table? I'm buying."
Owain tipped his mug at the two men who stood beside us. "Sit down, friends. It's a mighty thirsty night."
The men settled themselves at the other end of our table. Mugs clattered as the speaker passed them around. He had shaggy dark hair, ruddy cheeks and an air of merriness. "I'm Braden," he said. "This here is Drust."
Drust barely glanced at us. He was a skinny man with hunched shoulders and red hair. A mist of misery hung over him as he toyed with his mug.
Owain introduced us. I wanted to plan for tomorrow, and enjoy the company of my friends on what might be my last evening, not make small talk with strangers. But the inn had filled while we were eating and our party of four was using only half the table. I could hardly tell them to go away, but Owain didn't have to be quite so friendly.
"What brings you to Crow's Nest?" Braden asked
I froze. I couldn't explain my journey to strangers. Owain and Rhiwallon didn't offer any explanation either. The silence stretched a little too long and eventually Braden laughed.
"No matter, friends." He drained his mug in little more than a swallow and reached for another. "You don't want to talk about why you're here, that's fine with me. Must be a secret quest, eh. Off to save the world?"
We all chuckled and if my laughter was hollow, I doubted Braden noticed.
"Drink up, Drust," Braden encouraged. "Not much point dragging you here to drown your sorrows if you won't drink."
Drust lifted his mug and took a half-hearted sip. "Happy?"
"Drust here's mourning the loss of his brother," Braden said.
"How did he die?" Owain asked.
"He's not dead," Drust said. "Yet."
"Is he ill?" Rhiwallon asked.
Drust shook his head.
We waited, confused, and eventually Braden elbowed Drust. "Go on, you'll have to tell the whole story now. They'll hardly believe it but it makes a good tale."
Drust sighed and fiddled with his mug.
"All right, then," Braden said, clapping him on the back. "You drink and I'll tell them. Drust's brother has been charmed by a witch. What do you think of that?"
I froze.
"A witch, eh?" Owain said, his tone cautious.
"Anything she says, he does," Braden said. "He's completely enamoured."
"What makes you think she's a witch?" Rhiwallon's voice was sceptical although she shot me an uneasy look.
"She's been making a name for herself here," Braden said. "If she tells you to do something, you do it. People say it's like they forget everything other than the need to obey her. She's made folk around here do awful things. So many families ruined. And now she's got Drust's brother."
"He doesn't see her." Drust's voice was barely more than a whisper. "I mean really see her. He sees the lovely figure and the long hair and those innocent smiles. He hears the sweet whispers and tinkling laughs. But he doesn't see what she does, how she destroys everything."
"Can no one convince her to leave?" I had to know what they had tried.
"Nay. Everyone's too scared to go near her," Braden said. "Nobody wants to draw her attention. People are fleeing rather than chance be her next victim."
"Have you tried to reason with your brother?" Rhiwallon asked. "Tell him he's been charmed?"
"I've only been able to speak to him once," Drust said. "His eyes go blank and he seems to stop listening as soon as I mention her."
"I suggested we hit her over the head and drag her away somewhere," Braden said. "But Drust won't be in on that."
"We wouldn't even get near her," Drust said. "She would know before we arrived."
"We don't know that," Braden said. "Not for sure."
"I don't want to be her next target. Not even to save my brother."
"Where did she come from?" Rhiwallon asked.
Both men shrugged.
"She simply turned up one day and never left," Braden said. "We thought at first she might be one of the fey. But then things got nasty and what reason could they have for such a thing? We lead quiet lives here. Nothing of interest to them."
"My brother has never wronged anyone," Drust said. "He's
a good man."
"Drust here's given up. He's mourning his brother as if he was already dead."
"I don't see that there's anything else I can do," Drust said.
"Drink up then," Braden said. "There's a plan for you."
Braden changed the topic then and I stopped listening. Maybe they weren't talking about Ida. Maybe some other woman here was bewitching men and making them do her bidding, heedless of what chaos she caused. Somehow I doubted it.
We finished our ales and retired, leaving behind the two friends who were well on their way towards becoming exceedingly drunk.
As we left, I turned back to Drust. "What's your brother's name?" I asked.
He looked up at me blearily. "Davin," he said. "His name is Davin."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ida
Diarmuid lives. At last, I feel him moving towards me once again. I still cannot explain his disappearance, and his reappearance is just as sudden. I hardly know what to think. My hands tremble and my heart shudders within my ribcage. His companions come too but not my beast. Perhaps he has killed it. That surprises me, for the beast in Diarmuid's tale did not die.
I am under no illusions as to his purpose, however I might wish it to be otherwise. He comes to destroy me, and that, I suppose, is as it should be. That is what the hero in one of his tales would do, or try to do at any rate.
I created him, one could say. All that he is today is because of me, for I whispered his every thought to him. Without me, he probably hardly knows who he is any more. He was a boy of ten summers when I flared to life in his head. He was hardly old enough to know his own name, let alone his mind. I influenced the man he grew up to be.
We shared his head for nine summers. When Caedmon went off to war, I told Diarmuid he had no destiny of his own, not like Caedmon. When Caedmon married, I told Diarmuid he would never do the same since he couldn't even speak to a woman. He always believed me. His emotions fed me, fuelled my power. Jealousy, discontent, misery, loneliness. They bled into me and drip by drip, my power grew. So I continued to whisper and Diarmuid passed his youth in a daze of dispirited emotion, until the day I was strong enough to leave.
Muse (Tales of Silver Downs Book 1) Page 21