‘Zireael, let me introduce to you this man – Eredin Bréacc Glas.’
‘Nice to meet you.’ The elf bowed. Ciri replied with a clumsy bow.
‘How did you know,’ asked Avallac’h, ‘that something threatened us?’
‘I didn’t know,’ the elf looked at Ciri intently. ‘I patrol the plains, because news has spread that the unicorns have grown restless and aggressive. No one knows why. Now I know the reason. It’s because of her.’
Avallac’h did not confirm or deny. Ciri’s haughty eyes meet the black-haired elf’s. For a moment, they both looked at each other, and no one wanted to be the first to look away.
‘She has to be of the Elder Blood? The elf shook his head. ‘Aen Hen Ichaer. Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal’s legacy? This is hard to believe. She looks like an ordinary small Dh’oine, human female.’
Avallac’h remained silent. His face was impassive and indifferent.
‘I assume,’ Eredin continued, ‘that you have made a mistake. Bah, rumor has it that you never make mistakes. In this creation, deeply hidden, lies Lara’s gene. When you look closely you can see some of the characteristics. Indeed, in her eyes I find something that awakens in me the memory of Lara Dorren. Am I right, Avallac’h? Who else, if not you, should know?’
Again Avallac’h remained silent. But Ciri noticed a shadow of a blush on his pale face. She was very surprised and that gave her pause.
‘Generally speaking,’ sneered the dark-haired elf, ‘I can see something in the little Dh’oine. I can see it and appreciate it. Like I’ve found a nugget of gold on a pile of manure.’
Ciri’s eyes flashed angrily. Avallac’h slowly raised his head.
‘You talk,’ he said slowly, ‘just like a human, Eredin.’
Eredin Bréacc Glas smiled showing his teeth. Ciri had seen such teeth – very white, very small, inhuman, all identical and with no canines. She had seen teeth like that in the elves lying dead, lined up in the courtyard of the guardhouse in Kaedwen. She had also seen such teeth in Sparks. But when Sparks smiled it looked nice, when Eredin did it, it looked ghastly.
‘I wonder if this girl, who is trying to pierce my eyes, knows the reason why she is here?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And is she ready to cooperate?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Not quite,’ he repeated. ‘This is bad. The nature of the task requires cooperation for it to completely work. Unconditional. Otherwise it will not work. And because Tir Na Lia is barely half a day’s journey away, it is worth it to know where we stand.’
‘You’re too impatient,’ Avallac’h curled his lips. ‘What can we gain in such a hurry?’
‘Eternity,’ Eredin said soberly, but his strange green eyes flashed. ‘But this is your specialty, Avallac’h. Your specialty and your responsibility.’
‘So you’ve said.’
‘Yes, so I’ve said. And now if you’ll excuse me, duty calls. I’ll leave some of my men to escort you to safety. I’d advise spending the night here on this hill, if you leave at dawn, you will be in Tir Na Lia at the right time. Va Faill. Oh, one more thing…’ he leaned down and plucked a blossoming twig of myrtle. He sniffed it and the handed it to Ciri with a bow. ‘Reconciliation,’ he said shortly. ‘An apology for careless words. Va Faill, luned.’
He quickly left and soon the ground shook as the majority of his band left.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Ciri snarled,’ that I would have to have… to have, with him… If it is, then never ever…’
‘No,’ Avallac’h said unhurried. ‘It will not be him. Calm down.’
Ciri moved the myrtle closer to her face, so that Avallac’h would not noticed the excitement and fascination that enveloped her.’
‘I am calm.’
The dry heather was replaced with lush grass, green ferns and yellow buttercups. Soon they saw a lazily flowing river lined with poplars. The water in the river, although clean, had a brownish color. It smelled of peat.
Avallac’h played on his flute a variety of lively tunes. Ciri rode frowning and thinking hard.
‘Who,’ she asked, ‘is to be the father of the child, for whom you care so much? Or maybe it does not matter?’
‘It is important. Am I to understand that you have made a decision?’
‘No, you do not understand. Just explain some things.’
‘I’m at your service. What do you want to know?’
‘You know what.’
For a time they rode in silence. Ciri saw some swans floating down the river.
‘The father.’ Avallac’h said calmly and factually, ‘will be Auberon Muircetach. Auberon Muircetach is our… How do you say… Supreme leader?’
‘King? King of the Aen Seidhe?’
‘The Aen Seidhe, the People of the Hills, are the elves of your world. We are the Aen Elle, the People of the Alders. And Auberon Muircetach is, of course, our king.’
‘King of the Alders?’
‘You can call him that.’
They rode in silence. It was very warm.
‘Avallac’h.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘If I decide, then… later… I’ll be free?’
‘You will be free and you can go where you want. If you decide to stay. With the child.’
‘She snorted dismissively, but said nothing.
‘So you have decided?’ he asked.
‘I’ll decide when we get there.’
‘We are on the spot.’
Through the branches of the weeping willows that hung down over the river, flowing like green curtains, Ciri saw a palace. She had never seen anything like it. As if it were not made of marble and alabaster, but of white lace – so delicate and light that it seemed ethereal, as if they were not buildings, but the ghosts of buildings. Ciri expected that at any moment the wind would blow and the palaces would disappear along with the rising river mist. But when the wind blew, the mist disappeared and moved the willow branches and wrinkled the river, but the palaces remained. Just more beautiful.
Ciri looked raptly at the wispy hanging terraces and balconies, the bridges over the river which were hung with festoons of ivy, the stairs, balustrades, the arcades and cloisters, the columns, the domes, and the slender asparagus-like towers.
‘Tir Na Lia,’ Avallac’h said quietly.
The closer they move, the more fascinating the charm of the place became. Ciri’s heart pounded and her throat was tight as she a passed fountains, mosaics and sculptures. Even the openwork structures whose use she did not understand. And so she was sure that they did not serve anything, they were just an addition to the aesthetics and harmony.
‘Tir Na Lia,’ Avallac’h repeated. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’
‘Yes,’ she said through her tight throat. ‘I saw the remains of such a thing. In Shaerrawedd.’
This time the elf was silent for a long while.
They crossed the river by a bridge, the arch looked so frail that Kelpie rebelled and snorted when she tried to cross.
Ciri was tense and restless, but carefully looked around, not wanting to miss anything, none of the views, that the city of Tir Na Lia had to offer. Firstly, from a burning curiosity. Secondly, she had not stopped thinking about the possibility of escape and diligently kept watch for such an occasion.
On bridges and terraces, in malls and colonnades, balconies and porches, she saw elves moving, with long hair, wearing tight jerkins and short layers, with fancy embroidery. Or in sheer flowing dresses or in tight clothes that emphasized the curves of their bodies.
Before the porch of one of the palaces, they were met by Eredin Bréacc Glas. On his instruction small grey-clad elves ran quickly and quietly to handle their horses. Ciri watched him in some surprise. Avallac’h, Eredin and all the elves that she had met so far were extremely tall, so that to look them in the eye she had to bend back her head. These grey elves were smaller than her. Some other race, she thought, a race of servants. Even in this fairy-tale
word, someone has to work for the lazy.
They entered the palace. Ciri sighed. She was a princess of royal blood and had been raised in a palace. But such marble, stucco, mosaics, stained glass, mirrors and chandeliers she had never seen. She felt in all that dazzling splendor, wrong, awkward, out of place., dusty, sweaty and tired from the trip.
Avallac’h by contrast, did not care at all. He dusted his pants with his gloves, ignoring the fact that dust was settling on the mirrors. Then with a stately gesture he gave the gloves to a young elf who bowed before him.
‘Auberon,’ he said briefly, ‘is expecting us?’
Eredin smiled.
‘Yes, you are expected. He is anxious. He has demanded that the Swallow come to him immediately, without a moment’s delay. I have dissuaded him.’
Avallac’h frowned.
‘Zireael,’ Eredin explained, ‘should appear before the king, unhurried, without pressure, relaxed, calm and in good spirits. To ensure a good mood, a bath, new clothes, a new hairstyle and makeup. Auberon can probably endure that long.’
Ciri sighed deeply and looked carefully at the dark-haired elf. She was surprised at his sudden sympathy. Eredin flashed her a smile with his straight white teeth without canines.
‘The only thing that concerns me,’ he said, ‘our Swallow’s eyes – twinkling like a hawk, have not stopped glancing left and right, like a ferret looking for a hole in her cage. From what I can see, Swallow is far from an unconditional surrender.’
Avallac’h did not say anything. Ciri, of course, said nothing as well.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Eredin continued. ‘She could not be otherwise, since she is the blood of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal. Listen to me very carefully, Zireael. There is no escape. You cannot break a Geas Garadh, a barrier of Magic.’
The look Ciri throw his way clearly said that would have to be proven to be believed.
‘Even if by some miracle, you collapse the barrier,’ Eredin was not distracted by her look, ‘you know that it would mean your doom. This world seems very beautiful. But it can also bring death, especially to strangers. A wound from the horn of a unicorn has no cure, not even magic. Know too, that you will get no help from your innate talents. Do not make any attempt to try and jump. If you did, know that my Dearg Ruadhri – my Red Horsemen, are able to cross the chasms of time and space.’
She did not really understand what he was saying. But it puzzled her that Avallac’h suddenly scowled and frowned, clearly unhappy with Eredin’s speech. As if Eredin had said too much.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘With your permission, Zireael. I am going to leave you in the hands of the women. You’ll have to prepare quickly. First impressions are everything.’
Her heart pounded in her chest, her temples throbbed with blood and her hands trembled. She mastered it by clenching her hands into fists. And calmed herself by breathing deeply. She relaxed her shoulders and tried to move her stiff neck.
Once more she glanced into the big mirror. The sight was quite satisfactory. Her eyes and lips had been painted, after her bath her damp hair had been trimmed and combed, so that it at least partially obscured the scar on her face. She wore a silver shirt, open to mid-thigh, a red vest and a silk blouse. The neck scarf she had been given touched it off nicely.
She adjusted the scarf and then reached under her skirt to check with amazement the underwear she wore. Briefs as thin as gossamer and stockings, which inexplicably stayed on her thighs without suspenders.
She reached for the door handle. She hesitated, as if it was not a door handle, but a sleeping cobra.
The plague, she automatically thought in Elvish, I’ve dealt with armed men. I can deal with…
She closed her eyes and sighed. And entered the room.
No one was inside. On the table lay a book and an old malachite carafe. On the walls were strange bas reliefs, draped curtains and floral tapestries. In one corner stood a statue. And in the other corner, a bed with a canopy. Her heart started pounding again. She swallowed.
From the corner of her eye she saw movement. Not in the chamber. Out on the terrace.
He sat there, his back to her in a half profile.
Although she had learned that among the elves nobody looked like how she used to believe, Ciri was shocked. Every time they had spoken of a king, she had imagined someone like Ervyll of Verden, who she had been very close to becoming his daughter on one occasion. When thinking of the king she remembered him smelling of onions and beer, a smelly fat man with swollen eyes and a red nose stick out from over his beard and wielding a sceptre in his hand covered in brown spots and bitten nails.
On the terrace sat quite a different king.
He was very thin and apparently very tall. He wore a black Jacket and traditional high elven boots with buckles across the length of the leg. His long, grey hair, fell down over sloping shoulders and down his back. His hands were white and narrow, with long fingers.
He was busy blowing bubble. He held a bowl with soap and water and a straw, into which he blew again and again, as iridescent rainbow bubbles floated down to the river.
Ciri coughed softly.
The King of the Alders turned. Ciri could not help but sigh. His eyes were extraordinary. Clear as molten lead and huge. And full of indescribable sadness.
‘Zireael,’ he said. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’
Ciri stood silently not knowing what to say. Auberon Muircetach blew into the straw again, and launched another bubble into the air.
To control her trembling hands, she clasped them together and cracked her fingers, then nervously smoothed her hair. The elf didn’t notice as all his attention was focused on the bubbles.
‘Are you nervous?’
‘No,’ she blatantly lied. ‘I’m not.’
‘Are you in a hurry?’
‘Of course.’
She probably put too much defiance in her voice, she felt that she was teetering on the edge of civility. The elf gave no sign that he noticed, instead he inflated a huge bubble at the end of his straw. He admired his work for a long time.
‘Would I be unduly curious, if I asked where you are in such a hurry to go?’
‘Home,’ she said, but then added in a gentler tone. ‘To my world.’
‘To where?’
‘To my world!’
‘Ah. Sorry. I could have sworn you said – “My mule.” It made me flustered. You speak our language perfectly, but you should pay more attention to intonation and pronunciation.’
‘Is it important to intonate? It would not if you had not brought me here to talk.’
‘Nothing hurts when aspiring to perfection.’
From the end of the straw emerged a new bubble which detached and began to float through the air, before exploding on impact with a willow branch. Ciri sighed again
‘So you are in a hurry to return to your world,’ said King Auberon Muircetach. ‘Your world! You people really do not suffer from excessive modesty. Your hairy ancestors appeared with sword in hand latter than the chickens. And yet I have never heard a hen claim that it was “their world”. Why are you fidgeting like a monkey? What I’m saying should interest you. After all, it is your history. Oh, let me guess – you do not care about this story and you’re bored.’
The breeze carried another bubble away down the river. Ciri remained silent, biting her lip.
‘Your hairy ancestors,’ the elf continued, shaking the straw in the bowl, ‘quickly learned to use their opposable thumb and rudimentary intelligence. With their help they did different things, usually as ridiculous as terrible. What I mean to say is that, if anything that your ancestors created was not terrible, then it was ridiculous.’
Another bubble followed the first then another.
‘We, Aen Elle, we cared very little about the deeds of your ancestors, we unlike the Aen Seidhe, our cousins, we left that world a long time ago. We chose another universe, more interesting. In that time, it will surprise you, it was possible to
move freely from one world to another quite easily. With some talent and practice, that is. I have no doubt that you understand what I mean.’
Ciri was intrigues, but remained silent, aware that the elf was teasing. She did not want to facilitate the task.
Auberon Muircetach smiled. He turned around. On his neck was a golden torc – a symbol of the ruler, known in the elder speech as a torc’h.
‘Mire, luned.’
Again he blew lightly into the straw while gently swaying. A fan of smaller bubbles soared into the air.
‘The worlds were like these bubbles,’ he hummed. ‘So, it was, so it was… We told ourselves, what’s the difference, we will stay here a little while, then there a little while, so what if the stupid Dh’oine insist on destroying themselves and the world? We’ll go somewhere else, to another bubble…’
Under his burning gaze, Ciri nodded and licked her lips. The elf smiled again, and blew his bubbles again, this time so that the straw formed a large cluster of smaller bubbles and joined to each other.
‘Then came the Conjunction,’ the elf raised his straw laden with bubbles. ‘The number of worlds increased. But the door closed. It was closed to all but a handful of elected people. And the clock was ticking. We needed to open the door. Urgently. It was imperative. Do you understand that word?’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he turned his head again. ‘You cannot be. You are Aen Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood. Come.’
He extended his hand and Ciri inadvertently clenched her teeth. But Auberon only touched her forearm and then her hands. She felt a pleasant tingling. She dared to look into his incredible eyes.
‘When I was told, I did not believe it,’ he whispered. ‘But it is true. Your eyes are Shiadhal. Lara’s eyes.’
Ciri looked down. She felt stupid and insecure. The King of the Alders rested his elbows on the railing and his chin in his hands.
For a long time it seemed like her was only interesting in the swans swimming in the river.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said finally, without turning his head. ‘Now go away and leave me alone.’
She found Avallac’h on a terrace by the river, just about to board a boat in the company of a beautiful elf with hair the color of straw. The elf’s lips were painted a pistachio color and her eyelids and temples were painted with gold.
The Lady of the Lake Page 17