by Frewin Jones
The claw came down on her shoulder, pushing her onto her face on the beach. As she sprawled helplessly, she felt the great claws come raking down her back. As dreadful as the pain of the Isenmort sword had been, this was worse still. Far worse.
This was a pain that would kill her.
Chapter Thirty Three
Tania huddled on the beach waiting for the deathblow. She could hear the Salamander’s rasping breath; she could feel it hot on her wounded back.
And then she felt a new and terrifying sensation that grew from deep within the long wounds of her back. Her whole body contracted in a spasm of agony. She drew her knees to her chest, her fists beating the pebbly beach as she let out a scream of fear and anguish.
Things were growing from the slashes on her back—things that stretched and reached upward and slowly unfurled. They burgeoned and expanded, filling with potency, surging up until she was weeping with the intensity of it.
Wings!
She crouched, panting, hardly able to breathe. She felt strange new sinews and muscles working. She twisted her head and saw the gossamer wings spreading out from her bent back, the golden light sparkling and glittering on filigrees of silvery filaments as the wings slowly flapped.
The Salamander’s sizzling voice broke into her astonishment. “Fly to Tirnanog, Princess of Faerie!” it hissed. “Fly!”
Tania gathered herself. The pain in her back was gone. She got carefully to her feet. Her hands still hurt—they were raw and bloody. She stumbled, a little dizzy. The wings flapped, helping her to keep balance.
She began to gasp out laughter as tears ran down her flushed cheeks. Of all the ends she had considered to her quest—this had never been one of them. That she should grow wings—not in a dream, not in an illusion, but in the real world. Wings!
“I have to free Edric and Rathina,” she said, gasping, wiping the backs of her bleeding hands over her face.
“There is no time,” growled the Salamander. “Fly!”
She frowned. “No. I’ll release them first.”
“The path to Tirnanog is fleeting, Princess of Faerie,” hissed the Salamander. “Hesitate at your peril. Go now or the way will be closed. I will free your companions.” The long, wedge-shaped white head turned to Connor. “And I will slay the traitor!”
Tania looked to where Connor lay unconscious from Lord Balor’s blow. What had Coriceil said? That he bore a secret too dark to speak. He had convinced her that his dark secret was that he was in love with her. Liar! And ever since they had rescued him from the dungeons of Dorcha Tur, he had rejected every suggestion that he should return home. Now it made sense. His reasons for staying were also lies! Lies to cover up the fact that he had gone over to Lord Balor’s side—that he had sold them out in the hope of learning the secret of Immortality. He was weak and he was selfish . . . but if not for her, he would never have been put in this position—he would never have set foot in this world. If anyone was to blame, she was. Why should he die for her mistake?
“No! You can’t do that,” she said firmly. “You mustn’t touch him.”
“He betrayed you, Princess of Faerie,” said the Salamander. “For the promise of wealth and fame he gave you up to Lord Balor. He deserves death.”
“No! It wasn’t just for those things. He wanted to prove himself—he wanted to be a hero. He thought that was the way. He never meant us to be hurt, I’m sure of it.”
“So be it,” hissed the Salamander. “He shall not die at my hand. But go, Princess of Faerie, before the pathway fades. Fly into the golden void!”
Tania paused, staring back at the cave mouth— desperate for a final word with Edric, a final touch.
“Fly!” roared the Salamander. “Already the way grows faint.”
The creature was right—the golden light was diffusing, the strewn stones melting back into cloud, the harp and the stool already no more than a blur.
“Edric!” she shouted, hoping he could hear. “I’ll love you forever!” She sprang up and her wings caught the air and lifted her high into the golden sky.
But oh, the joy of it! The air rushing in her ears, the long beach falling away beneath her. The golden light enveloping her. The power and the glory and the sheer freedom of climbing the endless sky, of swooping and gliding, of shedding the burden of gravity, the sublime and heartrending perfection of it!
I was born for this!
She laughed, her eyes brimming with golden tears.
She looked down. The Great Salamander was a sinuous white streak on the coral beach. The ocean was a dark green cloak trimmed with white lace.
Then she turned her face into the impossible golden sunset. Her wings flapped and she surged even higher into the heavens, surrendering herself to the honeyed light.
She came down feather light to land on an endless beach of golden sand that stretched away forever. A great blue ocean lapped the shore. There were white cliffs and distant green hills. There was birdsong. There was peace and contentment.
And there was a long, high white stone that jutted out into the sea. Upon its furthermost end there was a wooden stool and a waiting harp.
Two figures were walking toward her across the sand. They approached hand-in-hand, Michael Corr Mahone and the dark-eyed gypsy woman named Rose.
Tania felt a rush of affection to see them again.
Michael smiled widely. “You made it, then!” he called. “I’m glad to see you, Tania. For a while I doubted you, but Rose said you had the strength to reach journey’s end.”
Rose broke hands with him and ran toward Tania. “I am never wrong!” she said, her face shining with joy. “Ah, but your wings are a wonderful sight! How I envy you them.” A cloud crossed her face as she came to a halt in front of Tania. “But your poor hands! You are injured. Come, give them to me. I’ll see if I have a panacea for your discomfort.”
Dazed still, Tania offered up her hands. Rose took them, bowing over them and breathing on them.
“Ow!” It was an odd sensation, almost like pins and needles—sharp and astringent—but then Rose released Tania’s hands, and the injuries inflicted by the Isenmort sword were healed and her palms and fingers were whole again.
“Thank you,” Tania said. Michael was with them now, still smiling, his dark eyes filled with humor. “Who are you?” she asked, looking from one to the other. “Can you tell me now?”
“We are messengers,” said Michael. “Our master sends us forth when our help is needed for some momentous event that threatens the balance of creation.”
“Oh. I see. . . .”
“We didn’t deliberately keep our true selves from you, Tania,” Rose continued. “Only here on the Golden Shore are we whole and complete.”
“Is this Tirnanog?”
“Some name it that,” said Michael. “It is a place that has many names, but for you it is Tirnanog.”
“You are at journey’s end!” said Rose. “Come, walk awhile with us.”
They each linked arms with Tania, leading her over the soft sand toward the white rock.
Tania looked at Rose. “Can you tell me now,” she asked, “are you the Dream Weaver?”
Rose smiled. “No, that was never me.” She squeezed Tania’s arm. “But you will meet her again.” Her eyes glowed with mystery. “And I think you will be surprised!”
Steps had been carved in the landward end of the white rock, and Rose and Michael led Tania up and onto the high summit.
“Am I to meet your master?” Tania asked as they approached the stool and the harp.
“Let us hope so,” said Rose.
“Your master—he’s the Divine Harper, right?”
“He is that,” said Michael.
Tania frowned. “I’m sorry if this is a stupid question, but what is he?” she asked.
Michael chuckled. “My, but there’s a halfway remarkable question,” he said. “What is he? Rose—do you have the words for it?”
“He is balance,” said Rose. “He is harmony an
d symmetry and proportion. He keeps all of creation in tune with itself. He oversees the melody of nature.”
“So . . . so he’s good, right?”
“He’s neither good nor bad,” said Rose. “The virtue of balance is constancy.”
“He plays his tunes for all of creation with equal devotion,” added Michael. “For him there is no conflict, there is just life, in all its diversity.”
They had come now to the harp.
“Sit,” offered Rose. “Play.”
“Play what? I don’t know how to play a harp.”
“Oh, but you do, Tania,” said Michael, taking her arm and guiding her to sit on the stool. “Play the song that has no ending. . . .”
“Play the song you know so well,” said Rose.
“Okay, I’ll give it a try,” said Tania.
They stepped back from her. She wavered a few moments, her hands poised over the strings.
What song? What should I play?
She touched a string and a pure note rang out. She smiled, touching another. It sounded sweet and clear. A simple melody came into her head. She tried the strings, fumbling, getting it wrong, seeking out the correct run of notes.
And then, quite suddenly, she was playing the melody that was in her head.
A deep, rich voice began to sing at her back.
“I am the song that sings behind the eyes of poets and thieves
No music of the mind can leap lest it rises from the black blood that seethes
I am the secret of the oyster shell and the strength of the supple grass
Is it not I who colors the spearhead with blood?
No splintering of moonlight that strikes from a shield is not mine
No glaze on the eye of the dead and unborn
No sheen on the sea or ice-becloaked mountain is free
Of the music that is turning and burning within
I sing dragons in Hy Brassail and crystal lakes in Alba
I sing shining palaces in Faerie and dark towers in Lyonesse
I sing dreamers and madmen and angels and heroes
I sing lovers and cowards and ghouls
I sing killers and weepers and dancers and sleepers
I sing actors and demons and fools.”
Tania turned to look at the singer. Her fingers faltered on the harp strings and the song came to an abrupt end.
It was the man she had briefly met seated at the bar in the Iron Stone Tavern—the round-faced old man with the gray beard and swept-back gray hair, the man with the impossibly blue eyes set deep in brown-skinned laugh lines.
He stood close behind her although she had not heard him approach, and now he was wearing robes that shimmered with an iridescent light.
He smiled. “Well met, Princess of Faerie,” he said, his voice melodic even in ordinary speech. “Did I not say we would maybe meet again . . . one fine day?”
“You . . . ?”
“I indeed.”
A tangle of thoughts and questions and conflicting emotions went crashing across Tania’s mind.
In the end she blurted out a few incoherent words. “You could have saved me . . . saved us . . . so much . . . so . . . much—” She came to a choking halt, unable to articulate the chaos in her mind. “Why?” she cried. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? Why did you make us do all those things . . . all those impossible things?”
“The journey is as important as the arrival, Tania of Faerie,” said the Divine Harper. “You had your path set before you. I could not deprive you of all that you needed to suffer and to learn. And your journey has touched not you alone. Have you not been the downfall of Balor, the tyrant of Alba? Have you not released Erin from baleful enchantment?”
Tania stared at him. It had never occurred to her that her quest might have purposes beyond the needs of Faerie. “But . . . but if you weren’t there in the tavern to help me—what was the point of being there at all?”
“Curiosity, perhaps,” said the Harper. “I wished to see this seventh daughter of Oberon Aurealis—this half-Mortal child who would risk all, who would go beyond the ends of the world to save the people of Faerie.” His warm hand rested on her shoulder. “And I helped as I was able, Tania of Faerie. I sent my minstrels to light your path when I could.”
Tania gazed beyond him to where Michael and Rose stood at his back.
“May I play now awhile, Tania of Faerie?” asked the Harper.
She rose awkwardly from the stool and moved aside so that he could sit. His hands came up unerringly to the strings, and a melody flowed from his fingers, intoxicating, passionate, strong, and subtle. A song that was like all of creation.
“So?” he said, his eyes on the strings. “Tania of Faerie, what would you have of me? And before you ask, understand this: Balance is all, my child; for everything given, something must be taken. For each question answered there must be a forfeit.” His sky blue eyes turned to her, and there was compassion in them, but a cold resolution, too. “And for the great question,” he said, his voice almost a song against the music of the harp, “for the great thing you would ask of me, the forfeit must be the uttermost wish of your heart.” He paused for a moment, his head bowed, as though thinking. “So?” he said, looking at her again. “Do you still wish to ask your question of me?”
What is the uttermost wish of my heart? My very dearest wish . . . ?
To be with Edric for always.
Yes, when all else was discarded, the thing that remained was her love for Edric. To get the answers she came here for, she would have to give up Edric’s love.
She had always known her sacrifice would need to be immense, but a whole Realm full of people was depending on her. She could not let them down, no matter how much it hurt her. And it did hurt—it wounded her to the very core—the thought of losing Edric hurt so deeply that she was sure she would die of it. To be forever without the one she loved. It would be worse than death—far worse.
Edric . . . oh . . . my love . . . my love . . .
She trembled as she spoke, riven to the very soul, hardly able to believe the words she heard herself saying. “Yes, I do want to ask,” she said, “and I will give up the uttermost wish of my heart.”
“Then ask your question.”
“My father, King Oberon . . .” she began hesitantly. “He came here a long time ago. He came to save the people of Faerie from a plague . . . an illness that was killing them. He made a covenant with you. He traded their wings for Immortality. And the plague went away.” She licked parched lips. “The plague was sent by someone called Nargostrond, but I don’t know who he was . . . who he is. . . .”
A dark, dissonant tone came into the music now. “Then know this, Tania of Faerie—Anita of the Mortal World. Know this!” The Harper’s voice was like thunder, and even the sky seemed to darken as he spoke. “The creature known as Nargostrond is the older brother of Oberon Aurealis. His name was once Lear—Prince Lear Aurealis—and he was next in line to the throne upon which sat his great father, King Rafe.”
Tania let out a gasp. This was impossible! Oberon’s own brother?
“Prince Lear had cruelty and avarice stamped deep in his soul,” said the Harper, and as he spoke the sea rose and came crashing in cold foam over the white rock. “He had ambitions that went beyond the rule of Faerie. He had a mind for conquest and warfare. He wished to forge an empire—an empire that would take his armies even into the Mortal World!”
Tania shivered, suddenly terribly cold, aware that above her head the sky had clouded over. The wind bit at her skin.
“Prince Lear raised an army against his father, meaning to murder him and usurp his throne,” said the Harper. “But Oberon learned of the plot, and Lear and his forces were defeated. King Rafe could not execute his firstborn son, but he sent him into distant exile—beyond even Ynis Maw—to the bitter cold of Ynis Borealis, there to live out his life in misery and remorse. And yet the King did not know the extent of Lear’s undying malice, for his son called upon t
he Dark Arts and he brewed evil in that place, and sent the evil upon the north wind to Faerie.”
“The plague,” Tania breathed. “He sent the plague. . . .”
The Harper nodded. “And now he has returned, slipping through the rift in the covenant that was created when the Sorcerer of Lyonesse sat briefly upon the throne of Faerie. And Prince Lear’s power and his ambition have not lessened over the millennia. Indeed, they have grown ever more fearsome.”
“Oberon’s own brother is killing the people of Faerie?” said Tania. “His own brother? Does he know this?”
“No, Tania of Faerie, all memory of events before the Great Awakening was taken away at the forging of the covenant. King Oberon knows nothing of this. None in all of creation knows of it, save you and I.”
“Help me!” Tania cried. “Help me to put things right.”
“What would you have me do, child?”
“Renew the covenant!” Tania shouted, fighting against the sudden howling of the wind and the rasping crack of the gathering thunder.
“There are but two ways for this to be done,” said the Harper. “Either Oberon must come to me—or I must go to him. But I cannot enter Faerie, and the King must not leave his Realm, for if he does he will lose his throne to Lear for all time.”
“No! That can’t be right!” Lightning forked across the blackened sky, striking at the hills, swift lizards’ tongues, poisoning the air. “That’s impossible!”
“It is not impossible,” said the Harper, his voice strangely clear through the violence of the arid thunderstorm. “Nothing is impossible.” His eyes flashed as though reflecting the lightning. “Your question is answered, Tania of Faerie, Anita of the Mortal World. Now you must give me that which was offered. You must render up the dearest wish of your heart.”