by Nina Mason
“The Cup of Truth of the Lord of the Sea?” Gwyn’s fertile imagination was already spinning the fresh bale of straw into gold. “Do tell.”
The forest grew denser and the hour later, but the sun still shone brightly above the canopy of leafy green branches. In the Thitherworld, Bran had explained, the sun never set, flowers never faded, and the seasons never changed. Aside from occasional rains to quench the thirst of flora and fauna, the weather was the same day and night: a temperate seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit with cloudless skies and mild breezes.
“As the magician of the Tuatha de Danann, Manannan had many enchanted treasures,” the druid answered, keeping his horse abreast, “among them a bag full of undefeatable weapons, a cloak of invisibility, and the Cup of Truth.”
Gwyn knew about the cloak from her father’s stories. In one of them, Manannan used it to separate his wife and her lover, the hero Cuchulainn. Shaking the cloak between the pair made them forget one another.
“How does the Cup of Truth work, exactly?”
Bran shifted in his saddle. “If a lie is told over the cup, it will break into three pieces. To bring the pieces together again, the truth must be spoken in similar fashion.”
“And how did the cup come to be in Queen Morgan’s possession?”
“A long time ago, Manannan gave the Cup of Truth to Cormac mac Airt, one of the High Kings of Ireland, who used it to determine falsehood from truth during his reign. The cup disappeared after he died. We believe it was stolen by his faery lover, who, for unknown reasons, gave the object to her queen.”
As Gwyn mulled over how she might use this knowledge to her advantage, they came out of the woods into a circular clearing carpeted with a variety of grasses and wildflowers. She squinted against the sudden unfettered sunlight. There was a forest beyond, denser and more sinister looking than the one they’d just come through. Bran steered his mount toward a gap in the trees. “This is the start of the borderlands.”
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
Gwyn’s stomach tightened as she followed him across the small meadow. As they picked up the trail again, it began to climb. Leaning sideways to peer around Bran, she could see the path running through the creepy wood. It was open to the sky in some places and overshadowed in others by gnarled, vine-entwined limbs.
As they rode, she sensed the ill will of the wood pressing in on her. No birdsong could be heard, only the fall of hooves thumping on bare ground or crunching dry leaves. Every now and then, a twig snapped, giving her heart a jolt. The uncanny feeling they were being watched made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Remembering that goblins didn’t like loud singing, she belted out the first song that came into her head.
“Black is the color of my true love’s hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes and the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Of my true love’s hair…”
Bran turned around and gave her a funny look. She hoped he didn’t think she meant him. Yes, the druid was dreamy and had black hair, but Sir Leith was and always would be her one true love.
No one else can ever possess my heart—never—never.
The words resonated deeply. Not even death had weakened her love for him. As she carried on singing, her mind jumped back to that romantic afternoon they’d spent picnicking on the banks of Loch Ness.
The heaviness of longing soon crushed the joy attending the memory. Tears gathered in her eyes and strangled her song.
In the ensuing silence, the forest seemed even more oppressive and spooky. Just behind her, something crashed. Heart in throat, she turned to see what had made the noise. A tree branch had fallen across the path. Relief washed through her, but dried up when she noticed something odd.
Behind them, the trees had drawn together to block the path.
Throat thickening, she swallowed hard and turned to Bran. “The trees. Behind us. Have moved.”
As quick as light, he drew his bow and set an arrow against the taut string. As he fired and drew another, he gave her a graven look. “The trees, I’m sorry to say, are the least of our troubles.”
* * * *
Standing at the rail of the Caledonian MacBrayne ferryboat with the icy ocean wind whipping his hair around his face, Leith grimly considered the obvious flaw in his plan: if he succeeded in entering Avalon, how would he and Gwyndolen get out in one piece?
To his great frustration, no answer came.
Turning the problem over to his subconscious to solve, he lit a cigarette, set his foot on the rail, and looked out across the Minch. The view of the opposite shore’s low green hills and quaint white dwellings was striking. Under him, the sea was a bit rougher than on the journey over, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
His father had been a privateer before turning to shipbuilding. He’d been named after a port city. Despite having sailed little himself, the sea was in his blood.
Leaning over the rail, he looked down. Beneath the shimmering gray surface, dolphins swam alongside the boat. Above, seabirds screeched to be fed by the passengers who’d availed themselves of the on-board cafe.
There was a well-stocked bar on the ferry, too, which he planned to patronize as soon as he finished his cigarette. He and Tom, who’d gone inside to get out of the wind, had long since polished off the bottle he’d purchased at Callanish.
He felt buzzed enough to quell his lusts, but not his despair. Samhain was only a fortnight away, leaving little time to work out the kinks in his plan. Planting his front teeth in his lower lip, he offered a silent prayer to any deity willing to listen: Please, let me get to her in time and, should that prove impossible, please keep her safe.
No, wait.
If he was going to make an appeal to the gods, let it be for a miracle: that his darling might somehow succeed in her quest to secure the Cup of Truth and break his bedeviling curse. That way, they could be married and have the faery tale ending they both deserved.
* * * *
Gwyn watched in horror as Bran let another arrow fly. This one struck its target—a grotesque, deformed-looking creature with pocked gray skin, bulging yellow eyes, jagged-teeth, and bat-like ears. The goblin stumbled backward, releasing a shrill sound as offensive to her ears as his appearance was to her eyes.
“Come on,” Bran bellowed, kicking his horse. “Goblins never stray far from their horde.”
She dug in her heels. As the horse lurched forward, she clamped her thighs over its ribs and twisted her fingers in its mane. Falling off was not an option.
No sooner had the horses taken off at breakneck speed, then a swarm of the hideous creatures poured through the gaps between every tree.
They rode hard for what seemed like miles and miles before the goblins finally gave up the pursuit. Gwyn, sore and shaken, shook all over from fear and exertion.
“What would they have done if they caught us?”
Bran’s expression gravened. “Because I’m a druid, they would sacrifice me to their gods and use me as a vessel for divination.”
She frowned at him, half-confused, half-appalled. “How exactly would they do that?”
“Through what’s called anthropomancy, the practice of using the entrails of the dead or dying to divine the will of the gods.”
Reviled, she screwed up her face. “How in the hell can you tell what the gods want by looking at some poor dying person’s intestines?”
“There’s a wee bit more to it than just examining the viscera,” he said so matter of factly it made her shudder. “There’s also the way the person died: the death spasms, the dying screams, the way he or she fell, bled out, or burned. All of these things can be interpreted as omens.”
“Good God.” She swallowed her rising horror. “You speak as if you’ve practiced this barbarity yourself.”
“It is only barbarity if you believe death is the end,” he replied witho
ut expression, “which we do not.”
She started to say something, but Bran cut her off. “We should make camp soon, so you can rest up for what lies ahead. There is a cave not far off and we shall take shelter there.”
As they rode on, she wrestled within herself. She knew that the ancient druids practiced human sacrifice, so she should not have been shocked by Bran’s revelation. True, she hadn’t realized they divined using human entrails, but then, it wasn’t exactly a monumental leap from one practice to the other. And, as Bran astutely pointed out, she had no right to pass judgment on beliefs she didn’t understand.
The path dipped abruptly, wrenching her from her contemplations, and then began to climb, taking them up and up until they reached the foot of a solitary hill—a smooth dome protruding above the tree line like the crown of a monk’s head. Her horse followed Bran’s as the trail wound round and round until they reached the crest. There, he commanded his mount to halt and waited for her to come alongside.
As soon as she was abreast, he pointed off into the distance. “Do you see those cliffs over yon?”
Her gaze followed his finger to an island protected by a wall of deeply etched bluffs. A halo of mist hovered overhead. The island had to be at least ten miles offshore.
“Yes.”
“That is Avalon.”
Waves crashed below them, drawing her attention to a wide expanse of beach at the foot of the butte. Vivid aquamarine surf lapped at its sugary shore. She’d never seen anything so inviting—or so daunting. They’d nearly reached the end of their journey together. Soon, she’d be on her own.
“How will we get there?” she asked, searching the shore for a boat. From this vantage point, she could see for miles in either direction. There was nothing resembling a boat anywhere in sight.
“The horses will take us part of the way,” he said. “And the Lord of the Sea will take you the rest of the distance in his Wave Sweeper.”
Her mind hopped between questions like a startled cricket. She licked her lips, unsure which of them to ask first. Deciding to start with the biggest one, she found Bran’s piercing blue gaze. “Are you telling me Manannan mac Lir, the sea god of the ancient Celts, is still alive?”
“Of course he is.” The druid gave her a disarming smile. “The gods don’t die just because people stop believing in them.”
She swallowed, struggling to fathom the ramifications of what he’d just revealed. “So, Zeus and Apollo and all the rest are still hanging around the Thitherworld somewhere?”
“Of course they are,” he confirmed. “They are eternal, but in exile, you might say. Like the Children of Danu.”
She regarded him with skepticism. “Um. Okay. If you say so. And tomorrow my horse is going to just swim on out in the hopes the Lord of the Sea will swing by to pick me up in his water taxi?”
Bran laughed, a sound as musical as birdsong. “The Ocean Sweeper isn’t a water taxi, lass. It’s a magical chariot pulled by a team of horses as white as the foam on the waves. And your horse will not swim. Rather, she will gallop over the surface of the sea as if the water were solid ground. And when she grows tired, if the Son of the Sea sees fit to support your quest, he will carry you the rest of the way in his chariot.”
As a lump formed in her throat, Gwyn swallowed hard. “And if he doesn’t see fit to support my quest?”
“Worry is a senseless destroyer of inner peace.” Bran waved one hand dismissively as he used the other to rein his horse around. “The gods will do what the gods will do. So, what’s the use of fretting about things over which you have no control?”
Way to sidestep her question, she thought with a frown as she followed him back down the hill. In other words, she would drown if the god did not approve her quest. And she could not see why he would be inclined to do so, given her mission.
“What if he wants the cup back?” She dug in her heels to urge her horse to close the gap between them. “I mean, isn’t it rightfully his?” The furrow in her brow deepened. “And what the hell does Cathbad want with the cup anyway? If you ask me, he could have sent you or somebody else to Avalon a long time ago if he wanted the damn thing so badly.”
Bran said nothing for a fertile moment. Then, in a strained voice, he said, “He did send another envoy. Many moons ago. Not just to claim the cup, but also to negotiate an alliance between Brocaliande and Avalon.”
When he did not go on, she grew impatient. “And what happened?”
“Queen Morgan locked the envoy in the dungeon in chains and had her eyes put out with a hot poker.”
Fear gripped Gwyn’s heart, but she refused to give it power over her. “And what makes you think she won’t do the same to me?”
He pulled his horse to a stop and, as she came next to him, drew something small from his sporran. Holding the object out to her, he said, “This is what allows me to hope you will prevail.”
The object was a card. Taking it from him, she studied the image of a dark-haired woman in an emerald cloak holding a golden chalice as she stepped into the sea. In the sky, a glowing full moon hung directly over the brim of the cup. Golden hills like those surrounding Loch Broom stood behind the woman, as did a stone chair or throne carved with Celtic symbols. The chair brought to mind the one Cathbad had been sitting upon when they arrived in Brocaliande.
“Is this supposed to be me?”
“Aye.” He plucked the Queen of Cups from her grasp and returned the card to his sporran. “And the fact that I drew it in answer to your request to enter Brocaliande tells me the gods look with favor upon your undertaking. Be assured, Cathbad would not have sent you otherwise.”
* * * *
Had there been a bridge across the narrow channel between nearby Fort George and Chanonry Point on the Black Isle, Leith’s trip to Faery Glen would have been a mere hop, skip, and jump. But there wasn’t a bridge, nor was shifting or hiring a boat convenient, so he could only drive the circuitous thirty-mile horseshoe that took him across the Beauly Firth via the new cable-stayed bridge linking Inverness and Kessock.
Thus, a trip of just over five miles as the crow flies took close to forty-five minutes by automobile. He was now in a sleepy waterfront village called Rosemarkie, cruising down a High Street lined with huddled shops, businesses, and dwellings.
Only the merchants had changed since the last time he visited some hundred years past. Gone were the dressmaker, glover, draper, general store, tearoom, and haberdashery. The old Iron mongery had become a deli, and what had been a shoe shop last time, was now a posh apothecary.
Thank goodness the old stone mill turned public house still hugged the curve of the road to the glen. If Sir Axel refused his request, he’d be in need of a dram or two to dull his devastation.
He’d rolled the window down to let out the smoke from his cigarette. If not for the asphalt, the low sputter of the Jaguar’s engine, and some of the modern signage, he might have believed himself still back in the days of horse and buggy.
Faery Glen was just ahead on the left. When he’d first been banished, he used to ride up here on horseback from time to time to catch up with Sir Axel. Luckily, his old comrade’s sense of loyalty cut both ways.
As much as Leith hated deceiving someone he considered a friend, he could hardly be truthful. The Cup of Truth worked in the manner of a metaphysical polygraph. If the speaker believed the lie he told, the chalice would fail to pick up on the subterfuge.
Spying the entrance to the car park, Leith turned in just as a big green touring coach pulled out. Good. He’d planned to arrive near dusk apurpose—to avoid the tourists who now flocked to the picturesque glen during daylight hours.
He pulled the long-nosed Jag into a space near the trailhead, grabbed the gun out of the glove compartment, and climbed out. He felt a qualm of regret as he turned to lock the door. Would he ever come back for the car? The thought that he might not tightened his chest, and not just because of his fondness for the vintage roadster. If Queen Morgan had indeed learned
he’d tricked her with regard to Belphoebe, thereby enabling the birth of the prophesied drone, there would be no appeasing her.
She would kill him, but not before he suffered for his sins. He shuddered as the agonized screams of those who’d crossed her in the past rose from his memory. Her dungeon was designed to inflict unspeakable suffering.
Tucking the pistol under his belt, he inserted the key in the lock. As he turned it, doubt avalanched down on him, burying his courage. It also stole his breath. Setting his hands atop the car’s convertible top, he wrestled with his doubts.
He could still turn back. If he went forward, he could return to Glenarvon and let Gwyndolen fare as well as she could. She was braver than she realized and certainly able. If she succeeded, she’d return one day and all would be well.
Swallowing hard, he rubbed the back of his neck.
And if she failed, could he live with the choice he’d made? Could he live with knowing he’d abandoned her to some terrible fate? Just as he’d done the first time.
His gut tightened against the idea as the future played out in his mind. If he turned back, he would remain as he was. Shut away from the world, alone and miserable, wallowing in guilt and regret. Aye, the money from the sale of the car would alleviate his financial worries for a while, but his guilt would magnify ten-fold.
If he abandoned her again, he’d never forgive himself. It was as simple as that. He would, therefore, go forward, even if doing so accomplished little more than ending his insufferable existence.
With a bracing breath, he followed the well-tended path into the trees, where a symphony of birdsong and rushing water greeted his ears. He’d forgotten what a peaceful, mystical spot this was. All around were ghostly mists, plush mosses, colorful wildflowers, verdant groves, and tumbling waterfalls.
No wonder so many tourists flocked here.
Back in the day, the children of the village would come here to decorate one of the pools with flowers gathered in the glen—a ceremony to ensure the faeries kept the water supply clean. They needn’t have bothered. Sir Axel was a vigilant guardian of his post. Rumor had it, the big knight extracted a toll from any human who dared trespass on his territory. Virgins, legend told, were made to pay with their maidenhoods.