"How long do we need to stay here?" Maeve asked. Jenna looked at the deep green shadows under the trees. She let the pack she carried fall to the ground. Contrary to what One Hand Bailey had said, she saw life enough: black squirrels bounding through the tangled limbs above them, starlings and finches flitting from branch to branch. The trees here were ancient: they had seen the first movement of humankind through this land, and Jenna sensed that they remembered and were not pleased. Mac Ard’s boots crunched on a thick carpet of old leaves and acorn caps.
"Two days, maybe a few more," he said. "The Connachtans can’t stay longer without risking open war, and I don’t think they want that. Two days, and we can chance the High Road again."
"Two days," Jenna repeated. "Here in Doire Coill."
"It’s a forest, that’s all," Mac Ard told her. "Don’t worry yourself over silly tales. I’ve been out here before, at the edge of the Doire, and slept under its
branches. I had strange dreams that night, but that’s all."
"We’ll need a fire," Maeve said. "So we don’t freeze during the night."
"There’s a tinderbox in one of the packs. A fire will be safe enough after the sun goes down and they can’t see the smoke, I suppose," Mac Ard said. "We’re far enough off the High Road. If we go a bit farther in, the trees will shield the light…" Maeve looked at Jenna as Mac Ard started to rummage in the packs.
"He knows what he’s doing, Mam. And if he hadn’t come to help us, we might be dead."
Maeve nodded. She went to Mac Ard and began helping him. An hour later, they were huddled in a tiny clearing with a small fire of dead wood that they’d gathered. The warmth of the fire was welcome, but to Jenna, the flickering light only seemed to intensify the darkness around them, encasing them in a globe of bright air while blackness pressed in around them. They’d eaten a loaf of hard bread and a few slivers of cheese from the pack, with water that still tasted of the bog from a nearby stream. Maeve and Mac Ard sat close to each other, closer than Jenna had ever seen her mam sit to another man. She was pleased at that, huddled in her cloak across the fire. She watched them through the flame, talking softly together, with a brief smile once touching her mam’s lips. Jenna smiled herself at that. Maeve had rebuffed the advances of every man in Ballin-tubber, from what Jenna had heard and seen, but this Mac Ard was differ-ent. Jenna wondered, for a moment, how her own da might have reacted to what happened, and that brought back to her the events of the day, and she wanted to cry, wanted to weep for Kesh and the soldiers she’d killed and the lives that she’d left destroyed behind her, but there were no tears inside her.
She was dry, cold, and simply exhausted.
Wings fluttered somewhere above and behind her, startling Jenna. The rustling came again, loud and closer, and a huge black crow swooped low across the fire and lifted to land in a branch near Mac Ard. It cawed once, a grotesque, hoarse cough of a sound. Its bright eyes regarded them, the glossy head turning in quick, abrupt moves. "Nasty thing," Maeve said, glaring at the bird. "They’re thieves,
those birds, and scavengers. Look at it staring at us, like it's waiting for us to die."
Mac Ard picked up the bow and nocked an arrow. "It won't stare long," he said. He drew the bowstring back, the braided leather creaking under the strain.
"Hold!"
The voice came from the darkness, and a form stepped from the night shadows into the light of the fire: a man, old and hunched over, attired in ragged leather and fur and supporting himself with a gnarled oaken staff. The crow cawed again, flapped its wings, and flew to the man, perching itself on his left shoulder. "Who are you?" Mac Ard asked, the bow still drawn and the arrow now pointed at the chest of the stranger.
"No one worth killing," the man answered. His words were under-standable, but thick with an odd accent. He seemed to be staring some-where slightly to the side and above Mac Ard, and in the gleam of the firelight, Jenna saw the man's eyes: unbroken, milky white pupils.
"He's blind, Tiarna," she said.
The man laughed at that, and at the same time the crow lifted its head and cackled with him, the two sounds eerily similar. "This body's blind, aye," he said, "but I can see." The man lifted his right hand and stroked the crow's belly. "Denmark here is my eyes. What he sees, I see. And what I see now is two village folk and a tiarna, who know so little they would light fires under these trees."
"This is not your land," Mac Ard answered. "This forest is within Tuath Gabair, and belongs to the Rl. And you've still not given us your name."
The old man's amusement was loud, echoed by the crow. "My name? Call me Seancoim," he answered. "And Rl Gabair can claim whatever he likes: his cities and villages, his bogs and fields. But the old places like this forest belong to themselves, and even Rl Gabair knows that." He grinned at them, gap-toothed, and gestured. "Now, follow me. I'll take you where you'll be safe."
"We're safe enough here," Mac Ard said.
"Are you?" Seancoim asked. "Do you think your young woman's sky-magic can protect you here?"
He glanced up with his dead eyes. A strong wind stirred the tops of the trees, and Jenna could hear their limbs groaning and stirring. At the edges of the firelight, branches writhed and stretched like wooden, grasping arms, and the sound of the wind through the trees was like a sobbing voice, mournful. The hair raised on Jenna’s forearms and the light of the fire shuddered, making the shadows move all around them. "Mam?" Jenna called out.
"Stop!" Mac Ard commanded Seancoim, and he brought his bow back to full draw. The crow stirred, wings fluttering, and at the same moment the arrow snapped in half like a twig even as Mac Ard released the bow-string. The crow settled again on Seancoim’s shoulder; the wind in the trees died to a breeze, the leaves rustling. "Put out your fire and follow me," Seancoim repeated. "The tiarna can keep his sword in his hand, if it makes him feel better. But it won’t do him any good here, and the trees hate the smell of iron."
With that, the old man turned, shuffling slowly into the darkness, his staff tapping the ground before him.
Chapter 7: Seancoim's Cavern
JENNA wrinkled her nose at the smell: musty earth, and a strange, spicy odor that could only be Seancoim himself. A draft wafted from the entrance of the cavern, the mouth of which was a narrow slit in a rocky, bare rise another stripe's walk deeper into the forest. Yellow light beck-oned beyond, outlining the stone arch, and she smelled burning peat as the wind changed.
"It's warm inside," Seancoim said, gesturing to them as he ducked into the passage. Denmark cawed and leaped from his shoulder, disappearing into the cave. "And light. There's food as well, enough for all. Come." He vanished inside, and Jenna saw her mam glance at Mac Ard. "We've fol-lowed him this far," she said.
"I'll go first," Mac Ard answered. He drew his sword and, turning side-ways, followed the old man. Maeve waited a moment, then went into the opening with Jenna close behind.
Beyond the narrow passage, the cavern widened significantly, the roof rising to follow the slope of the hill, the sides opening up quickly left and right. The passage led slightly downward a dozen strides, and Jenna found herself in a large room. A central fireplace ringed with stones sent smoke curling upward toward the roof, lost in darkness above. The low flames from the peat sent wan light to the stone walls, and Jenna could dimly see another passageway leading deeper into the hill. Along the wall were sev-eral querns, small stone mills used for grinding corn and other grains. Hung everywhere around the cavern were racks with drying herbs and various plants laid over the wooden rods. Some of them Jenna recognized: parsley, thyme, lemon grass, mint; others were entirely unfamiliar. The smell of the herbs was almost overpowering, a barrage of odors.
Denmark had roosted on a rocky shelf nearby. Beyond the drying racks and querns, there was almost no furniture in the room. If it was a home, it was a bare one. Jenna could see a straw pallet laid out near the fire, a bucket of water, and a long wooden box that Seancoim eased him-self down on. He leaned his staff against the bo
x, but it fell to the
stones and the sound echoed harshly.
"It’s not pretty," he said. He leaned down and placed the staff within reach. "But it’s dry, and warm enough, and not susceptible to enemies burning it down." He glanced at Maeve as he said that, and Jenna heard her mam’s intake of breath. Mac Ard scowled, walking around the perime-ter of the cavern, his sword sheathed now but his hand on the hilt.
"This is where you live?" Jenna asked, and Seancoim laughed.
"Here, and other places," he answered. "I have a dozen homes in the forest, and a dozen more I’ve forgotten about over the decades."
Jenna nodded. "You live alone?"
Seancoim shook his head. "No. There are others like me here, a few, and I see them from time to time. And there are more of my people, though not many, in the old forests that are left, or in the high mountains, or the deepest bogs. We were the first ones to find Talamh an Ghlas."
"You’re Bunus Muintir," Jenna said. The word was like breathing a legend. The oldest poems and songs spoke of the Bunus Muintir, of the battles that had raged between the Bunus and Jenna’s people, the Daoine. In the poems, the Bunus were always evil and horrific, fierce and cruel warriors who had allied with spirits, wights, and demonic creatures.
"Aye, I am the blood of Bunus Muintir, and I know your Daoine songs." Seancoim said. "I’ve heard them, and like all history, they’re half true. We were here when your ancestors came into this place, and we fought them and sometimes even bred with them, but Daoine blood and Daoine swords proved stronger, until finally those of the pure lineage sought the hidden places. There were no final battles, no decisive victory or defeat, despite what the songs tell you. True endings come slowly. Sometimes they come not at all, or just fade into the new tales." Groaning, Seancoim stood again.
"There’s bread there, on the ledge near Denmark, baked two days ago now, I’m afraid. There’s still some of the last blackberries of the season, and smoked meat. That’s all I have to offer and it’s not fancy, but it will fill your bellies. Go on and help yourselves."
The bread was hard, the berries mushy with age and the meat tough, but Jenna thought it strangely delicious after the day's exertions. She fin-ished her portion quickly, then broke off a hunk of bread and went outside. The clouds had parted, and a crescent moon turned the clouds to silver white. She was above the trees, looking down on their swaying crowns. She could see Knobtop, rising up against the stars to the north, farther away than she'd ever seen it before.
The wind lifted her hair and brushed the forest with an invisible hand. She thought she could hear voices, singing not far away: a low, susurrant chant that rose and fell, the long notes holding words that lingered just on the edge of understanding. Jenna leaned into the night, listening, caught in the chant, wanting to get closer and hear what they were singing. .
. . aye, to get closer. .
. . to hear them, to touch their gnarled trunks. .
. . to be with them. .
Beating wings boomed in her ears: Denmark touched her shoulder with his clawed feet and flew off again, startling her. Jenna blinked, realiz-ing that she stood under the gloom of the trees at the bottom of the slope, a hundred strides or more from the cavern, and she had no idea how she'd come to be there. She whirled around, suddenly frightened at the realization that she hadn't even realized that she was walking away. The last few minutes, now that she tried to recall them, were hazy and indis-tinct in her mind.
Small with distance, Seancoim beckoned at the cavern entrance, and Jenna ran back up the hill toward him, as if a hell hound were at her heels.
"So you do hear them," he called to her, as the crow swept around her again before settling back on the old man's shoulder. "Some don't, or think it's only the wind moving the trees. But they sing, the oldest trees, the ones that were planted by the Seed-Daughter after the Mother-Creator breathed life into the bones of the land. They remember, and they still call to the old gods. It's dangerous for those who hear: the enchantment in their old voices can hypnotize, and you'll find yourself lost in the deepest, most dangerous parts of the wood. Most who go to listen don't return."
Jenna looked over the forest, listening to the eerie, breathy sound. "Should we leave?" she asked.
The old man shrugged. "The unwary should be careful, or those whose will isn’t strong enough.
That last, at least, doesn’t describe you, now that I’ve told you the danger."
"You don’t know me."
"Oh, I know you well enough," he chuckled.
Jenna shook her head. The wind shifted and the tree-song came to them louder than before, the chant rising in pitch. "What is it they’re singing? It sounds so sad and lonely."
Seancoim leaned heavily on his staff, as if he were peering into the dark. "Who knows? I certainly don’t. They speak a language older than any of ours, and their concerns aren’t those of humans." He turned, and his blind eyes stared at her. "There are other magics than the sky-magic you can capture in a cloch na thintri," he told her. He extended his hand toward Jenna. "Let me hold it," he said to her.
Jenna took a step back, clutching at the stone hidden in her skirt. "I know you have the stone," Seancoim said. "I saw the lights over the hill there, through Dunmharu’s eyes." Seancoim pointed at Knobtop. "I could feel the power crackling in the sky, as it has not in many lifetimes, and I feel it now close to me. You can’t hide a cloch na thintri from me, or from any of the Bunus Muintir. I can feel the stone. All I ask is to hold it, not to keep it. I promise that."
Jenna hesitated, then brought the stone out and laid it on Seancoim’s lined palm. He closed his fingers around it with a sigh. He clasped it to his breast, holding it there for several long breaths, then holding out his hand again, his fingers unfolding. "Take it," he said. "Such a small stone…"
"I’m sure it’s not powerful, like the ones the cloudmages in the songs had," Jenna said, and Seancoim laughed.
"Is that how you imagined them, with stones the size of their fists hung on chains around their necks, the way the songs and tales tell it?" The crow cackled with him. "Is that the source of your knowledge?"
Jenna nodded. "You must know how to use the
cloch," she said. "You have magic, too: using the crow for your eyes, the way you broke the tiarna's arrow or how you knew I had the stone…"
"I gave you the answer just a moment ago, but evidently I need to repeat it: there are other magics than that of the sky." He stared upward, as if looking at a scene only his blind eyes could glimpse. "Once my people knew them all: the slow, unyielding power of earth; the shimmer-ing, soft gifts of water. Some of them we know still. Others aren't for us humans at all, but belong to others, like the oldest of the oaks here in Doire Coill, or other creatures who are sleeping for the moment." His chin tilted down once more, and he seemed to laugh at himself. "But you asked if I know how to use your cloch na thintri, didn't you? The answer to that is 'No.' Each stone teaches its owner in its own way; yours has already begun to teach you."
"You talk as if the stone were alive."
"Do you know that it's not?" Seancoim answered. He smiled, a darkness where teeth once had been, the few teeth left him leaning like yellow gravestones in his gums. The wind died, and the tree-song faded to a hush, a whisper, then was gone. "There, they've finished. We should go inside-it's late, and there are things walking out here that you don't want to meet. Your tiarna will want to leave with the morning, and you need sleep after this day."
Jenna could feel exhaustion rise within her with Seancoim's words. She yawned and nodded, following the man through the cavern's entrance. Seancoim continued on into the darkness past the fire, but Jenna stopped. Her mam and Mac Ard were asleep, next to each other even though on different pallets. Her mam's hand had trailed out from underneath her blanket, and it rested near Mac Ard's hand, as if she were reaching for him. She could sense Seancoim's attention on her as she stared, her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to smile, happy that her mam wasn
't ignoring Mac Ard as she had the others, and yet afraid at the same time, wondering what it might mean for her.
"She is a woman and he a man, and both of them handsome and strong," Seancoim whispered, his voice echoing hoarsely from the stones. "I can tell that your mam is attracted to the tiarna, even if she resists the feeling. That's natural enough. It's been a long time for her, hasn't it, to feel that way about a
Jenna swallowed hard. "Aye," she said. "A long time. I just wonder. . Does he feel the same? After all, he’s Riocha, and we’re. . nothing."
Seancoim took a step forward. Bending close, he seemed to peer at the sleeping Mac Ard with his blind eyes before rising with a groan. "I think he does, as much as he can. He’s a hidden man, this tiarna, but there’s room in him for love, and if he’s Riocha, he’s perhaps less prejudiced than many with his lineage. But-" he stopped.
"But?"
Seancoim shrugged. "He’s also a man with his own ambitions."
"How can you know all that? You can’t see… I mean, is that magic, too?"
"Perhaps." Seancoim grinned at her. "Isn’t it what you want to hear?"
"I want my mam to be happy. That’s all."
"What about yourself?" he asked.
Jenna could feel heat rising from her neck to her throat, her cheeks burning. Her mam stirred on the pallet, turning, her hand sliding away from Mac Ard. Jenna let go of the breath she was holding. Twin tears tracked down her face.
"Too much has changed for you today," Seancoim said. Somehow, he was standing next to her again. "Too much changed in the space of one sun." His hand went around her shoulder. She started to pull back, then allowed herself to sink against him, the tears spilling out. His chest smelled of herbs and leather and sweat. She clung to Seancoim, weeping; still holding her, he went to the box next to his pallet. "Wait a moment," he said, and lifted the lid. A sweet, spice-filled aroma filled the air with the movement. Inside were several small leather bags, and Seancoim shuffled through them, muttering, before snatching one up with a cry and handing it to Jenna.
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