Kushiel 03 - [Moirin 01] - Naamah's Kiss

by Jacqueline Carey

  “You can’t know that,” I said. “Not for sure.”

  “No,” my mother said. “No one can. But if you had gone against the truth of your heart, any promise you made him would have turned to ashes.”

  We sat together in silence while the fire burned low. At length the sky began to lighten in the east, and here and there a bird twittered. My mother stirred herself and banked the fire’s embers.

  “We’ll take a few hours’ sleep,” she said. “Time enough to pack and be away by nightfall.”

  I looked dully at her. “Where?”

  “The rite’s to be held in the north. We’ll be leaving a little early, that’s all.”

  “No.” I swallowed. “I can’t. I truly can’t. Not now.”

  “You can.” My mother gazed steadily at me. “Do you imagine your grief will abate sooner staying here?”

  I looked around at our tidy campsite. Cillian had taught me my letters on this very hearth, scrawling with a soot-blacked twig. Above us was the ledge where I’d first caught him spying with a satchel full of peaches. There was the willow tree beneath which I’d taught him to catch trout, its roots drinking deep of the stream. There was the path to the meadow in which we’d spent so many hours.

  “No,” I said. “I suppose not.”

  She nodded. “We’ll be off by noon.”

  I didn’t think I could possibly sleep, but I did, worn out by grief and guilt. When I awoke, the sun was high in the sky and I was wearier than ever—but our meager belongings were packed and my mother was watching me.

  “Eat.” She handed me a cattail-flour cake. “You’ll need your strength.”

  I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to undertake this journey. I wanted to roll myself in my blankets and go back to sleep. Mayhap if I slept long enough, I would wake to find that my memories had faded. I’d no longer have the vision of Cillian’s dented skull vivid before my eyes, the touch of his cold lips lingering on mine.

  “There is a glade hidden high in the mountains to the north,” my mother said unexpectedly. “It holds a lake and a stone door. On the other side of that door, you may find the Maghuin Dhonn Herself. The door is waiting for you, Moirin. It has waited a year and more.”

  “You said yourself we’d be leaving early. Can it not wait a few days longer?” I asked plaintively.

  “Mayhap. Will you take that chance?” She gestured around. “There is nothing to hold you here. Cillian is lost to you. Mayhap it is a sign. Will you risk losing your diadh-anam, too?”

  It seemed a cruel threat, but the spark of awareness in my breast pulsed in sudden alarm. I made myself eat a portion of the cake although it was dry and crumbly in my mouth, washing it down with a great deal of water. When I was done, I felt a little bit stronger.

  “All right.” I got to my feet. “Let us go.”

  My mother pushed us hard on that first day. We passed from our own small kingdom of wilderness into deeper wilderness. It was hard going and I was already bone-weary from my long trek back from Innisclan. By the time she called a halt to make camp, my muscles were burning from the strain. I dropped my pack and fell asleep where I sat, my head bowed on my knees.

  My mother shook me awake. “Eat,” she said, pressing a roasted haunch of rabbit into my hand.

  The meat was greasy and good. I gnawed and swallowed, my belly rumbling. “When did you go hunting?”

  “While you slept.”

  “It’s good.” I wiped my lips. “Thank you.”

  She laid her hand on my brow. “Sleep.”

  I slept.

  How many days we went on that way, I could not say. Most of me was still numb inside. Left to my own devices, I’d have just as soon lay down and slept, not caring if I starved. I’d lost every trick I’d known for living in the wild. I’d grown dense and clumsy with grief. But my mother tended to me and kept me going in her stubborn, patient way.

  And bit by bit, I came back to myself.

  Cillian was dead.

  I was alive.

  It was the way of the world. I could hate it and I could rail against it, but I could not change it. I could not change the fact that I’d betrayed him in thought while he lay dying. I could not change the fact that his family, save Aislinn, despised me.

  All I could do was live.

  “You brought him joy, Moirin,” my mother said to me some nights into our journey. “That lad loved tales of magic and enchantment. You, you let him live one.”

  “He didn’t die in one,” I reminded her.

  “He did, though.” She busied herself with plucking a ptarmigan. “In the story he told himself, he did. He died without ever knowing the pain of losing you. He died with his heart unbroken, filled with hope and desire.”

  “That’s a small mercy,” I murmured.

  She looked up at me. “Aye, it is—but a mercy nonetheless. Remember the joy, Moirin mine.”

  It was in the foothills of the mountains that we saw our first bear of the journey. I scented it on the wind and felt my dulled senses quicken for the first time in many days. I breathed deep through my nose and opened my mouth to let the air play over my tongue. My mother caught my arm and smiled, pointing.

  “Oh!” I said in delight.

  I’d seen bears before, but not many—and seldom so close. This one stood on its hind legs, taller than a man, scratching its back against a tall oak tree. Bits of its wiry fur clung to the bark. When it saw us, it dropped to all fours and gave a menacing woof.

  “Peace, little brother,” my mother said in a soothing tone. Twilight flickered around her, sparkling in the corners of my eyes. “’Tis clear this territory is yours. We do but seek to pass.”

  The bear grumbled.

  “Peace,” I added. “We seek the Great Mother Herself.”

  It gave a mighty snuffle, then gave a low coughing bark and wandered away, shambling through the trees. I watched the vast wilderness swallow it with wonder. The spark of the diadh-anam within me sang, happy and glad. “That’s a good sign, is it not?”

  My mother squeezed my arm. “It is.”

  For the space of a few minutes, I forgot about Cillian’s death—and then the grief came crashing back upon me. I shouldered it and kept going.

  Foothills gave way to mountains, and the mountains grew steep. I do not think we travelled so far as we did in our pilgrimage to Clunderry, but the way was harder and our progress was slow. By the time we reached our destination, I was more fit and hardy than I’d ever been in my life.

  As for the destination itself, I lack the words to do it justice.

  It was the sound of piping that alerted us, high and fluting. At first I took it for birdsong, but no. The melody was too intricate.

  A slow smile spread across my mother’s face. “I thought we were nearly there.”

  “Where?” I saw nothing but the mountain slope.

  “You’ll see.”

  Soon, I did. A man sat cross-legged on a ledge high above us playing a little silver pipe. He lowered it from his lips and called out to us. “Welcome, little niece! Not so little, I see. Greetings, sister! Can you spot the entrance?”

  “I can,” my mother said.

  My uncle Mabon rose. “Come, then.”

  He vanished.

  I blinked. There was no telltale sparkle of the twilight and I’d been looking at him all the while. Ignoring the phenomenon, my mother made for a great pine tree jutting up from the mountainside. Following as she ducked behind it, I saw that the tree concealed a few promontories like rough steps leading to a dark, narrow crevice.

  “Is that it?” My heart raced. “The doorway?”

  “Hmm?” My mother glanced over her shoulder. “Ah, no. Only the entrance to the hollow hill.”

  One by one, we squeezed into the crevice. It was a tight enough space that it made me anxious—but somewhere ahead, I could hear the sound of my uncle’s pipe, the sound echoing oddly. I followed my mother as she edged sideways down the dark, narrow passage for longer than I cared
to recall.

  And then it opened.

  I stared, dumbstruck.

  It was a cave, but it was like no cave I’d ever seen. For one thing, it was vast. There was light coming from an opening somewhere above, illuminating it. Many of the surfaces were smooth and looked to have been sculpted of milk made solid. Shapes like icicles thrust up from the floor, hung down from the roof. My uncle Mabon stood atop what looked to be a frozen waterfall, playing. The notes of his pipe bounced and echoed from the walls. I wandered in an awed daze. To the right, I could see that there were further passages.

  “There is a legend that the mighty Donnchadh carved this place out of the mountain for our people to hide,” my mother said behind me. “Me, I suspect it is older, for the stone door stood long before his time.”

  “It’s wonderful,” I breathed.

  She smiled. “Don’t go wandering. Even one of our kind can get lost in here without the gift of stone.”

  Mabon lowered his pipe. “Any mind, folk are waiting. Come!”

  We clambered up the slippery stone waterfall. When I reached the top, my uncle helped me up, then took my shoulders in his hands and gazed at me. “Ah, Moirin child,” he murmured. “You may not have proved a great magician, but you’re a rare beauty.” His dark gaze was soft. “I’m so very sorry about the lad.”

  My throat tightened. “How did you know?”

  He smiled sadly. “We’re not all such recluses as your mother. Word of a royal death travels swiftly.”

  After greeting my mother fondly, Mabon led us farther up and farther inside the mountain. Here and there, shafts of light lit our way. In places, strange crystalline formations grew from the walls, tinted pale blue and gold. There was a gorge where a real waterfall poured into darkness. We crossed the gorge on a narrow, hanging bridge, the underground stream flowing far beneath our feet.

  It was beautiful.

  And I could not help but think two thoughts. One, that I wished Cillian could have seen it. The other, that this was a place of the Maghuin Dhonn. I didn’t need to be told it was a sacred place. I could feel it in every step I took, in the way the air breathed over my skin. And if the Maghuin Dhonn Herself chose not to acknowledge me, I feared this place would be lost to me.

  On the journey, wrapped in grief, I hadn’t given thought to it.

  Now I did, and I was scared.

  At last we climbed a smooth shaft into which hand and footholds had been carved. I could sense the presence of people above us and smell wood-smoke. At the top, other hands helped us.

  We emerged into a large cavern. It wasn’t wondrously sculpted, just ordinary rugged granite, but the scale was impressive. There was a cooking fire in the center beneath an opening to vent the smoke. At the far end, it opened onto sunlight and an expanse of blue sky.

  “Moirin.” Oengus embraced me. “Welcome.”

  I inclined my head. “Thank you, my lord Oengus.”

  A wizened old woman behind him burst into a cackling laugh. “Ahha-ha! Lord Oengus, is it? Listen to her, manners fit for a lady of the Dalriada!”

  I flushed, hurt and angry and embarrassed.

  “Peace, Nemed.” Oengus gave her a sharp look. “The lass needs no reminding of her loss.”

  “Oh, aye.” The old woman worked her shriveled lips in a chewing motion. “Forgive me, child. I’m old. I guided your mother through the rite, and her mother before her. Such a pity that one died young.”

  My mother took a deep breath. “Nemed…”

  “I mean no harm, daughter of Eithne.” She patted my mother’s arm. “I was fond of your mother. You’ll be blunt-spoken, too, come my age. Now.” She tugged my hair with surprising strength. “Bend down and let me have a look at you.”

  Given no choice, I obeyed.

  Nemed peered at me with rheumy eyes, clucking her tongue. “Look at you, caught all betwixt and between!” She sniffed at me. “You’ll drive the lads mad, that’s for sure. And mayhap a few of the lasses, too.”

  My mother made a strangled sound.

  “Peace, Fainche.” The old woman flapped one hand at her, the other still tangled in my hair. “You laid down with a D’Angeline. Are you so isolated in your hermitage that you’ve not heard what manner of mischief they get up to?”

  “No,” she said shortly.

  I cleared my throat. My neck was getting stiff.

  “Ah, right.” Nemed let go my hair with reluctance, letting the length of it run over her crabbed fingers. “But you’re here, eh? That’s something.” She shook her head. “What Herself will make of you, I’ve no idea.”

  I swallowed. “I pray She finds me worthy.”

  “It’s not a question of worthy.” The rheumy eyes were shrewd, but there was compassion in them. “It’s a question of whether or not you’re one of Her own. Do you believe so, daughter of Fainche?”

  “I do,” I said.

  Nemed patted my hand. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  Although I had supposed it would be a large gathering like the pilgrimage to Clunderry, there were only two others present—a young woman named Camlan and a young man named Breidh. They were the last two members of the Maghuin Dhonn to have passed through the rite and tradition dictated their presence. Until the moment this was made clear to me, I hadn’t realized men went through it, too.

  “Of course!” Breidh looked surprised. “How not?”

  “I don’t know.” I felt foolish. “You, ah… how is the timing of it reckoned for men?”

  Camlan giggled. “A year from the night they first spill their seed unwitting in their sleep.” She nudged Breidh. “First but not last, eh?”

  He shrugged. “Better our way than yours.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s the truth!”

  I wanted to feel at ease with them. They were of my people and my own age—and yet I was different. As easy as they were with each other, I could sense that they were uneasy with me.

  “Come.” Camlan took my arm, doing her best to overcome her discomfort. “Would you see the glade, Moirin?”

  “Aye, please.”

  She led me to the far end of the cavern, Breidh trailing after us. The wide mouth opened onto a ledge that presided over a sharp decline. We were atop the very peak of the mountain. The glade lay below, a green bowl held in the cupped hand of the earth, dotted with pine trees. There was the lake, and there was the stone doorway.

  I gazed at it.

  It was a simple thing. Two great standing stones, taller than a man’s height, with a slab laid across them. Its shadow slanted eastward toward us.

  “How…” I hesitated. “I don’t understand.”

  “There are worlds and there are worlds,” Oengus said in his deep voice. Having joined us unseen, he sat on the ledge, dangling one leg over the drop. “When we call the twilight to us, we take half a step into the spirit world that lies alongside ours, the same and yet different. When you pass through the stone door, you take the whole step.”

  The younger two nodded, their expressions reverent.

  “One day it may be that the folk of the Maghuin Dhonn will pass through it forever,” Oengus mused. “Pass into myth and become spirit rather than flesh, haunting the hollow hills and the sacred places of Alba.”

  “But not today,” I said.

  He gave himself a shake, and a sideways glinting glance at me. “Not today, no.”

  We ate well that night. How they had known to expect us, I wasn’t sure. I’d never known exactly how my mother kept contact with our people, and I didn’t learn it that night, either. But there was a venison stew that had simmered all day, savory with leeks and herbs. “Eat,” my mother said. “Tomorrow, you fast.” And there was a jug of uisghe, and after it had gone around twice, it didn’t matter to me how they had known. The warmth in my belly dispelled the memory of Cillian’s cold lips.

  When we had finished, Mabon played a haunting air on his pipe and we all listened in peaceful silence. Beyond the mouth of the cavern, darkness settled over the
glade as though summoned by the sound of his playing. It came to me that this very scene might have taken place a thousand years ago—or five thousand years ago, before mankind thought to record its history.

  I was part of a very, very ancient tradition.

  The thought made me shiver—both for the wonder of it, and for fear of losing it. I gazed around at the firelit faces of my people and felt a sudden pang of kinship. The spark of the diadh-anam inside me blazed wildly.

  “That’s the spirit.” Old Nemed patted my hand again and gave me a dubious look. “Mayhap She’ll have you after all.”

  It wasn’t terribly encouraging.

  TWELVE

  The rite itself was simple.

  On the morrow, I fasted. Old Nemed gave me my instructions. When the sun began to set, my eyes would be anointed and she would give me a bowl of mushroom tea to drink. Once I had drunk it, I was to descend alone into the glade and pass through the stone door without looking right or left. Then I was to wait beside the lake until either the Maghuin Dhonn showed Herself to me, or I fell asleep.

  Nemed gave me a sharp pinch. “So best you stay awake.”

  “Ow!” I rubbed my arm. “Is it a test, then? She’ll come if I stay awake long enough?”

  “She’ll show Herself or not as She chooses,” she said. “There’s no sure way to make it happen.” She gave my arm another vicious pinch. “But there is a sure way to fail.”

  I winced. “Your point is well taken, my lady.”

  Nemed snorted. “My lady!”

  “Nemed…” I hesitated. “If I do fail… I understand, a little, what will befall me. My gifts will fade, and I’ll no longer feel welcome among us. What of this place?” I gestured around. “Will it be forbidden to me?”

  “Ah, child,” she murmured. “No. You will forget it.”

  I swallowed. “How so?”

  The deep wrinkles around her eyes tightened. “I will pluck the memory from you myself,” she said gently. “Such is my gift.”

  I shivered. “Show me.” Nemed gave me a startled look. “I want to see. I want to know how it’s done.”

  She chewed on her lips. “That’s not wise.”