The Legend of Lady Ilena

by Patricia Malone

  A strange question. In answer I reach out for the bread and break it in two. I hand him back one of the pieces and take a bite from the other. It is stale and tastes of leather from his pack, but I hope eating will cure the strange weakness I feel. I force myself to sit up. My head swims, but the pain is lessening. I think for a moment of Durant and wonder if he is recovering. At least I can see out of both eyes.

  Two other men sit against trees nearby. One wraps a point onto a war spear. The other, a youth little older than I, stares at me with wide eyes. I can hear more voices and the sound of horses a short distance away.

  The man beside me removes the compress. “Does it hurt, lady?”

  “Some.” Words jar against the pain.

  “Cormec, you’re a braver man than I.” The young man stands. “You and Toole stay here if you like. I’ll be out with the others.”

  “Tell them we’ll move on shortly.” He turns to me. “Will you be able to ride?”

  “Yes. I think so.” Am I their prisoner? Who are these men? The two shields I see are large and round, with scrolls worked around a band of animals. They are much like mine. I swallow the last of the little piece of bread and reach out for the waterskin.

  He hands it to me and asks, “And should we send word on to the chief?”

  I consider this. I must not be a prisoner if my advice is sought. “As you wish,” I say. Cormec and Toole exchange glances. I should have said something else.

  Cormec speaks. “Get our horses, Toole. We’ll try to make Dun Alyn by dark.”

  These, then, are Dun Alyn’s people. That explains the battle cry. The call I learned from Moren is the war cry of Dun Alyn.

  It seems strange that no one has asked my name or lineage.

  Toole eyes the spear he’s refitted and tucks a sinew end into the binding. Only then does he unfold himself to stand above us. “And shall I have the horns blow?”

  “Aye, of course,” Cormec says. “My mind is elsewhere.”

  Toole nods and disappears into the trees. In a few minutes I hear war horns sound a quick rhythm, and there is a general bustle. Toole returns leading three horses.

  I take a deep breath and lift myself to my feet.

  Rol has been rubbed down. A scratch on his croup is freshly salved, and my sword rests in its scabbard on the saddle.

  I turn to pick up my helmet and shield, but Cormec is ahead of me. “Let me, lady.” He hands them to me.

  I hang them both on harness fittings and clamber into the saddle. The rest of the troop waits at the fork. Talking stops when we appear, and all eyes are on me. Two young men nod to Cormec and swing onto the trail toward Dun Alyn. The three of us follow them. The rest of the band falls in behind us.

  It is dark when we approach Dun Alyn. The moon has yet to rise, and I cannot see to guide Rol. He matches pace with the mounts on either side of me.

  Light from torches and evening fires glows above the walls. A stiff sea breeze brings smoke and the scent of food along with its salt tang. We move out of tree cover and climb a steady ascent to the first gateway. The watch has seen us, and torches flare.

  “Well met, Cormec,” someone calls. “We’ve been expecting you for hours.”

  “Who is that with you?” Another voice speaks.

  A torch pushes close. I can see the man who holds it. He stares at me, then speaks in a hushed voice. “By the gods, Cormec. How can it…?”

  The sentries step back to let us pass. Their eyes never leave me.

  The entrance to the inner wall is wide enough for six horsemen or two chariots side by side. I think of the story of Cara and Miquain; this is where they rode to their deaths. Huge stockade gates secure the opening. When we halt with the first horses’ noses almost touching the pales, a voice sounds from the other side.

  “Yo! And shall we open?”

  The others look to Cormec. He answers with words I do not recognize. It must be a password. The gates open. These sentries stare as intently as those at the outer entrance.

  “Is the chief at meat?” Cormec asks.

  “Of course. Though it’s said he eats almost nothing now.”

  “We must see him at once.”

  One of the sentries hurries away ahead of us.

  The compound grounds stretch a long way into the darkness. There are fires here and there on the ground. Small homes cluster near the walls, and light from their inside fires glows out of windows and doors. Larger buildings take shape in the distance, and we head for the largest.

  I had hoped for time to compose myself, to wash, and to replait my hair. I need to think of what I will say to explain myself.

  There is to be no opportunity. We ride directly across the grounds and dismount at the entrance to the Great Hall. I find that my knees are weak, and I cannot walk without stumbling. No one reaches out to assist me.

  The doorkeeper blocks our entrance for a short time while he considers me. Finally he shakes his head in what looks to be bewilderment and motions us through the door. I gulp deep breaths in an effort to steady myself.

  This hall is larger than the one at Dun Dreug. Dining has finished; a bard is playing as we step inside. The warm scent of cooked meats still hangs in the smoky air. Fires blaze in hearths throughout the room, though shutters are open to the night breezes.

  Those nearest the door see us first. There is silence, then a wave of comments.

  “By the gods!”

  “It can’t be!”

  “Where …?”

  And from someone off to the right: “The torc! The Great Torc of Dun Alyn.”

  I call on strength I didn’t know I had and begin the long walk to the dais at the far end of the room. My head spins from the wound, and my knees tremble from fear at this strange reception. I force my head high; whatever may happen, no one can say I look the coward. Cormec stays beside me but offers no hand of support. When my arm accidentally touches Toole’s, he flinches and drops behind us.

  By the time Cormec and I reach the platform, I cannot hear any more talking. The music has stopped, and the room is silent save for the snap of branches in the hearth fire and a rustle as people turn to follow our progress.

  The man at the center of the table raises himself slowly from an elaborately carved chair. He must be Chief Belert. I am conscious of the bloody wound on my forehead, the strands of hair that fall loose around my face, and the mud caked on my trousers. I square my shoulders and return his gaze with as much dignity as I can muster.

  “Who … who are you?” The words seem to come with difficulty. He holds on to his chair back for support, and I can see that his knuckles are white against the dark wood. The beard and curly hair that frame his face are gray with traces of brown. His eyes look blue, though it is difficult to see clearly in the torchlight.

  He looks to the man beside me. “Explain this, Cormec!”

  I am relieved to have the attention shift. I have dreaded questions, have pondered how to answer them. I still have no idea. My head hurts, and dizziness makes thinking difficult.

  Cormec is speaking. “We were coming from the north toward the fork. We heard the battle cry. We looked at each other, and no one could say who might be calling. The voice sounded like one we knew. The words were clear.”

  “You could not have been mistaken?”

  “No, Belert. It was our call.”

  “When you heard the call what did you do?”

  “We raised the cry ourselves and urged our mounts toward the battle. What else would we do?”

  The chief sighs. “Cormec, I do not criticize. I am trying to understand this.”

  There are only two other people at the table. One is a girl some years younger than I. Her wiry black hair, much like mine, and something about her face remind me of Moren. She twists a strand of hair with one finger and stares at me with wide eyes.

  The tall man beside her has piercing gray eyes and the high shaved forehead of a Druid. His long gray hair falls forward in tangles around his face. He rises and
points a long finger at me. “There is nothing to understand, Belert. This shapeshifter has come among us for no good. We must send her back to her unnatural companions.”

  “Hold on, Ogern.” The chief’s voice is sharp. “I will hear the rest of Cormec’s story. And then I will hear from the lass herself.”

  Ogern raises his voice to a shout. “It is not a lass. It is an evil one from the other world. We dare not give her opportunity to weave her spells.”

  “Sit down, Ogern. I will hear Cormec out.”

  There are murmurs behind me. Ogern has stirred the fears of some in the hall. He sits but keeps his eyes on me.

  The room quiets as Cormec’s steady voice continues. “We reached the clearing at the fork. Five from beyond Red Mountain had attacked this one. I saw her charging and wielding her sword like a true warrior. Just as we reached the battle, she was hit in the head with a slingstone.”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  Cormec hesitates. “I don’t know about the others. I saw the horse—certainly one from our lines—and the torc. I have not seen that torc for years, but I knew it at once. The lady wore a low helmet, and her hair was hidden. In truth she could have been a lad. Yet there was much about her that spoke to me even so.”

  “And you engaged her attackers?”

  “Of course. There was no question in any of our minds. It happened fast, but our allegiance was clear. We formed the fighting ring around her and dispatched the others.”

  “There were five of them?”

  Cormec is silent for a moment. Then he speaks slowly. “Toole was ahead of me into the clearing. He thought he saw someone vanish down the path toward Dun Alyn.”

  Belert looks back into the gloom at the back of the hall. “Toole?”

  Toole comes forward to stand beside Cormec. He casts a worried glance at me. “Yes, my chief.”

  “You saw someone?”

  “Yes. I could not make out the man—or woman— but I saw a black horse disappear into the trees. The lady could tell us.”

  “We cannot listen to her. She speaks evil from the land of spirits.” Ogern has risen again. His voice thunders across the hall.

  “Ogern, you forget yourself. I am chief here.” Belert’s voice is firm.

  Ogern sits down. His eyes, through the wild gray tangles that frame his face, burn with a frightening intensity when he looks at me.

  Belert speaks then to Cormec and Toole. “What happened after the battle?”

  Cormec looks to Toole, who shakes his head. Cormec sighs and says, “The lady was hurt. She’d dropped her sword.”

  “What sword?” Belert’s voice is sharp. “Was it…?” he stops.

  Cormec seems to know what he means. “No. Her sword is like that one. A fine blade from Trelawn’s forge, but I had not seen it before.”

  “But she was hurt? As a mortal is hurt?” He glares at Ogern as he speaks.

  “Yes. We—I—removed her helmet. No one else would come near.”

  “And wise they were,” Ogern says.

  “And you, Cormec, are a courageous man,” Belert says.

  “I could not leave her to suffer. The helmet was pressing on the swelling.”

  “Did she drink? Or eat?”

  “Aye. Both.”

  “And I tell you spirits can eat and drink and feign wounds and whatever else suits their evil purpose,” Ogern says.

  Belert ignores him and looks at me. I feel weak and sad, somehow, when I encounter his eyes. “And now, lass, tell us who you are and why you have come to Dun Alyn.”

  I have no story ready, no way to explain who I am, and no understanding of what is going on around me. I can speak only the truth. I take a deep breath and try to ignore the pounding in my head. “Sir, I am Ilena, of the Vale of Enfert in the West.”

  He waits for me to say more, then speaks when I do not. “And what is your lineage, Ilena? Who is your mother, and who is your father?”

  “Grenna is my mother, and Moren is my father,” I say. I see shock on Belert’s face. The rest of the hall seems even quieter than it has been. Their names have meaning here.

  Ogern shouts, “That tells us well enough where she comes from. Moren and Grenna have been dead for years.”

  Belert starts to speak but stops and reaches over the carved chair back for his flagon. He drinks deeply, then wipes his mouth. He stares at me in silence for another minute before he asks, “Where are Moren and Grenna now?”

  Tears flood my eyes. It is too much. The wound, the animosity I find here, and now the pain of remembering. I force my voice to stay steady. “Grenna died two summers past. Moren died a few days ago. They lie side by side above the Vale of Enfert.”

  Ogern springs to his feet before Belert can speak. “Lies! Spells from the other world. Moren and Grenna died years ago. Do you remember, Belert?”

  “Remember!” The chief’s voice is loud enough now for all to hear, but he speaks only to Ogern. “Remember? How could I forget? I returned from a hunting trip to find the baby born before its time and Moren, my war leader and most trusted friend, gone without explanation. I remember, Ogern. I remember.”

  He turns to the hall. “Moren and Grenna vanished without a trace. Cara told me that Grenna went mad with grief over the loss of her own baby, and the sight of our beautiful Miquain sent her shrieking from the room. Moren took her away to recover. When we heard nothing through the summer, we looked for them.”

  Ogern steps forward to stand beside the chief. His voice is sharp, and he throws the words out as if they were slingstones. “We sent searchers everywhere. A messenger went south to Grenna’s people. No one there had heard from them. Moren and Grenna are long dead, and this shapeshifter comes to do us harm.”

  “And if Moren and Grenna lived? She could be their child.”

  “No,” Ogern shouts. “Grenna could have no more children. That was why her grief was so deep. The midwife was certain; she would never carry another babe. This one could not be hers.”

  The words strike me like a blow. Grenna not my mother!

  Chief Belert is watching me. His eyes hold sympathy, I think. All there is in this hall, anyway. There is mumbling behind me. Ogern’s words find willing ears.

  A woman’s voice close behind me hisses, “A shapeshifter!”

  A man’s voice carries above the others. “Bad luck, that. And Samhain Eve in thirteen days.”

  The chief hears the voices too. He pulls himself straighter and starts to speak. “Good people of Dun Alyn …” His voice falters and trails off. He sways and steadies himself by gripping the chair back.

  Ogern shoulders him aside and says, “We must act quickly. This spirit that has come among us must not be allowed to bring us harm. It is well known that evil ones take the form of those who have died. It is near Samhain Eve, and the spirits always try to return at this time. If this one stays among us, she can open the doors to a host of her kind who even now roam the world seeking entry into human realms.”

  Chief Belert steps around him. His voice is weaker now, less certain. “Ogern speaks…”

  It is no use. Someone nearby calls in a loud voice, “Death! Death! Death to the evil one!” It is a man’s voice, deep and familiar.

  The chant is taken up throughout the hall. Belert’s face is grim, but he does not try to speak again. He slumps down into his chair and stares at the tabletop.

  I shout above the din, “I am not a shapeshifter!” but my voice is lost in the roar.

  Ogern’s face is triumphant as he looks at me. He lets the noise roll through the hall for several minutes, then holds up his hand for silence. “She will be no danger to us in the Oak Grove.”

  The chief attempts to stand, but he loses his grip on the chair arms and falls back. He says something, but Ogern drowns him out.

  “Cormec, Toole, take her to the sacred grove!”

  Toole has stepped back into the shadows. Now he comes forward slowly. Cormec turns to me but makes no attempt to touch me.

  I lo
ok to Chief Belert. “Sir,” I begin, “I am not—”

  Ogern cuts me off. His voice rises to a shriek. “We must not let a spirit speak in this hall.”

  The deep voice begins again behind me. “To the Oak Grove. The sacred grove will keep her.”

  Others take up the cry until the entire hall is pulsing with the shout. Belert meets my eyes for a moment, then shakes his head as if to clear it and tries to pull himself up again. When he fails, he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.

  Cormec motions to the back of the hall and waits for me to precede him.

  Before I can turn around, Ogern speaks again. “Wait. The Great Torc. Get the torc.”

  Cormec eyes my neck. Toole stands an arm’s length from me. Neither makes any move toward the torc.

  Ogern walks around the table and steps down from the dais. His long, bony fingers are rough, and one of his nails scratches my throat as he rips the torc from my neck. He carries it back to the table and lays it in front of the girl.

  Cormec turns again toward the back of the hall. I turn also, but before I take a step toward the door, I scan the tables near the front of the hall.

  He is at a table near the center aisle, just below Ogern’s place on the dais. I recognize him without the helmet, without the checked cloak, without the tall black horse. His dark eyes stare at me, and a slight smile plays under the black mustache.

  I meet his eyes with defiance, then lift my chin, square my shoulders, and march behind Cormec. Once I am outside the door, my false courage crumbles. I left Rol here only a short time ago, but it seems a lifetime. There are no horses in sight in the courtyard now.

  I turn to Cormec. “My horse?”

  “In the stables. You won’t need him.”

  I know that those who go to the Oak Groves as prisoners rarely return, but his words shock me all the same. I think of Rol and long to rest my head against his warm neck. Toole has started around the hall toward the back wall. Cormec motions me to follow him.

  “Wait, Cormec.”

  Something in my voice seems to soften him. He looks at me for a moment with sadness.

  “Please grant me one request,” I say.

  “If I can, lady.”