Aes Sidhe

by Fergal F. Nally

  As these thoughts swept through Sive’s mind, another swell rushed at the inlet, propelling her landward. Her head narrowly missed the seaweed-covered rocks, and she was thrown up the channel into shallower water. Her feet brushed ground beneath the water, and without thinking she threw herself forward, her feet gaining traction on stones.

  The swell broke behind her and a large wave ejected her onto a shingle bank overlooked by broken cliffs on either side. She took a deep breath, coughed, and spat seawater onto the beach. She fell forward, shuddering with cold. The pounding of surf echoed in the confined space. The noise was overwhelming.

  She was alive.

  She was alive.

  The fact dawned on her: she could breathe once more. The sound of screaming gulls filled the air. They seemed to be shrieking at her.

  Keep going, you’ve landed, you’re here.

  She willed herself to move and began crawling up the shingle bank. Her fingers were stiff but she kept going. The inlet was sheltered from the wind. She looked up, and a wave of nausea swept through her. Her stomach cramped and she retched onto the stones.

  Shivering, she reached the high tide mark. She lay there panting, her heart pounding, stars swimming before her eyes. Darkness gathered around her, and the sounds of the sea and birds receded. Sive felt a tugging at her feet. A familiar voice erupted in her dream.

  Wake up Sive, wake up. You must wake up.

  Sive reluctantly allowed the words in. It was warm here and she didn’t want to leave―she didn’t want to do anything. The tugging came at her legs again. Her eyelids flickered, then opened. A soft, silvery light bathed the scene before her. Her mind struggled, trying to recall . . . and then she remembered. She looked at the cliffs, the inlet, the sea pulling at her.

  Sive rolled onto her side and looked up at the clear and starlit sky stretched above her, the thousands of stars twinkling. How many ancestors were up there, looking down on her?

  From somewhere within a need grew: thirst, hunger, and cold. She checked herself and found no injuries. Her dirk was still strapped to her leg and her clothes were almost dry. She sat up and looked at the narrow gully leading up at a sheer angle to the top of the cliff. That was her way out. She needed to start climbing―it would warm her and maybe she would find shelter above.

  She willed her body to move. The steepness of the gradient forced her to climb on hands and knees. She made slow but steady progress and soon she was about a quarter of the way up. Part of the gully lay in shadow. Sive glanced up, spying a small cave a short distance away. Exhaustion filled her and her muscles stiffened. She focused on the cave and threw her last reserves into reaching it.

  Her feet slipped on the rough scree as she approached. Finally, she tumbled into the cave and lay panting on the ground, her hair tangled around her face. At least she had warmed up. She looked into the dark, remembering the cave she had stumbled into as a child. That cave had concealed a bear . . . fortunately, it had been slow and sluggish in its winter fugue.

  “Hello? Anyone there? Hello?” Sive called.

  Hearing no response, she stood, stooping slightly, and felt her way in along the wall. It went back some way and was mostly dry and sheltered, but after a short while, her feet splashed in water. She felt a drop on her head and looked up.

  Fresh water.

  She stood there for some time, allowing the dripping water to fill her mouth. Finally, fatigue overwhelmed her. Her woolen clothes were damp but warm, and so she felt around and, finding a low shelf of rock, lay down. She was asleep in seconds.

  Sive slept the sleep of the dead. Her body was drained, her mind empty. Her dreams were cold, dark places, flitting uncomfortably, like enemies, across her consciousness. She was alone with the ghosts of the past, the ghosts in her head, and the ghost of who she was.

  Of who she should be.

  When Sive awoke, weak morning light was seeping into the cave. She was stiff and could hardly move, her muscles cold. She sat up and rubbed warmth into her legs.

  Alone.

  She was unwanted, an outcast.

  So be it. I won’t allow this to take me down. I’ll use it to find out who I am and why I’m here.

  She cleared her throat and spat on the ground, clearing the rancid taste from her mouth.

  “I will find you and find the answers you owe me,” she said aloud.

  Her words were met with silence.

  Pain gripped her stomach. She rose and walked to the spot where the water dripped. She filled her mouth and swallowed, choking back the icy water. Slowly, her head began to clear, and she noticed her clothes steaming in the clammy cold of the cave. She groaned inwardly―her skin would be covered in sea salt.

  She went to the cave entrance and looked out on the narrow defile. Far below, the ocean lapped against the distant cliffs. The haar had cleared―another fifty feet of scree and she would be at the top. She stretched her arms and rubbed her legs one last time.

  Get it done.

  The way was treacherous, the rocks covered in moss and guano. She slowed her ascent, testing the ground before placing her hands and feet.

  Three points of contact, move when you’re ready. She pushed herself through gritted teeth, her legs jerking with the exertion.

  “It’s all right, you’re going to make it, keep looking up, don’t look down,” she spoke aloud, her voice echoing in the narrow gully. She looked left and right, the noise from the gulls at a crescendo. She kept her head down as several gulls swooped at her. A large skua squawked, its talons tearing at her hair. Sive screamed, nearly losing her footing, slipping from the rock face. She arrested her fall by pressing down in a star shape, coming suddenly to a stop. She was breathless, her heart pounding.

  Fury welled up within her. This was her last chance; she dug her nails into the dirt and clawed her way up the slope. She focused on the ground beneath her fingers and feet.

  I won’t give in―not to them, not to anyone.

  Years of repressed anger exploded within her―the cold indifference of her parents, the outright hostility of the clan, her own self-hatred and loathing, the self-harming . . . it all burst through into her arms and legs. In a blur of tears, pain, and exertion, she threw herself up the last stretch of slope and hauled herself up over the top of the cliff.

  She lay there, her face in the dirt, her lungs burning, the sound of seabirds below her. She had passed their nests and the birds left her alone, returning to the ledges and their young. A breeze cooled Sive’s forehead. Her heart steadied and her breathing returned to normal. She lifted her head and looked around. The ground was covered in rough grass and wildflowers. But it was not the grass or flowers that took her attention. It was the stone dais a short distance away.

  More specifically, it was the huge frame arising from the dais and the corpse suspended from it.

  The body was missing a leg and had been partially preserved by the salty air.

  Sive pushed herself into a kneeling position and stared at the gently swinging body. It was clearly a warning.

  She shivered. The dead man’s skin was painted gold.

  Chapter 6: Seraphim Trail

  Mevia stared at the open chest.

  Something was wrong. She focused on the room before examining her hands and feet.

  She listened. There it was, the gap . . . the missing detail.

  The gulls had fallen silent. Mevia tensed. She looked around the remains of the room and went to the chest. It was obvious: the chest had been under the water before being dragged up here. The lock was missing, leaving only scratch marks where the lock had been.

  The key she had found―was it the key to this chest? Her eyes searched the dark corners of the room, finding a door leading to a room beyond. A noise came from the deck above. The ship shuddered.

  She wasn’t alone.

  She returned to the room’s broken edge and stared into the pit. The water in the flooded section was dark and restless. She looked up and froze.

  A Seraph
im sat perched on the edge of the deck, facing away from her, examining her rope. It knew she was here. Mevia’s mind raced.

  A Seraphim?

  Fear flooded through her. She withdrew into the shadows. She had never seen a Seraphim before, but their form and image had been burned into her consciousness as a child. Winged demons of ancient tales, tormentors that tore men’s hearts from their chests. The tormentors that served the Diamir and their dark arts . . . where the Seraphim walked, the Diamir would be close behind.

  What on Erthe could be of interest to the Diamir in this wreck?

  Mevia watched the Seraphim from the shadows, her heart hammering. Surely it would hear her, would smell her fear? The beast turned its attention to the opening in the ship’s deck. It stretched its wings and began to climb through the hole, pulling itself along using its long arms and talons.

  She had to get away from that thing. If it caught her . . .

  She shuddered.

  Mevia turned and made her way to the doorway she had seen earlier. She glanced back and saw a clawed foot appear from above. Breathing hard, she fled through the door into a sea of darkness. The floor was slick and she almost lost her footing.

  A hiss and thump from behind announced the arrival of the Seraphim. She pushed blindly through the darkness. The floor lay at an angle, and she reached out, feeling her way through the room. She pulled herself through another door and collided with something hanging from the ceiling. It took her a moment to realize that she was in the sleeping quarters. She had snagged a hammock. She slowly exhaled.

  Trying to gather herself, Mevia heard scraping on the timbers behind. The Seraphim was onto her. She swore under her breath and scrabbled through the room on her hands and knees. Her sword, riding high in its back scabbard, caught on a hammock and stuck.

  A slithering sound followed her―the thing was searching. A silent scream rose in Mevia’s throat. She should have listened to Aril, should have stayed in the city, kept to grave robbing. What had she been thinking, coming out here?

  Mevia pulled at her scabbard, searching for the buckle. If she could release it, she might wriggle free. Rancid breath spilled from above and she was thrown violently to the floor by an unseen limb. Pain exploded in her left shoulder and scalp. A scream left her throat. It didn’t sound like her, she thought, it sounded like an animal. How was she even capable of such a scream? The Seraphim had her in its claws. It brought its head to hers, breathing in her ear.

  Where do you think you’re going?

  Its words exploded in her mind like acid, burning her soul, clawing at her very being. The words carried such pain. She lay paralyzed, unable to respond.

  Why do you run from me . . . thief? Do you have something to hide? What have you got for me?

  Mevia went limp and felt her mind shut down. She tried to pray to Amaren, but her mind was empty.

  Why do you prattle to your useless god? Amaren has no dominion over the Seraphim, over Diamir. Did we not teach that to your kind before, human? How useless is your memory? But you are from Loarn’s city―he has ruined Dal Riata and he is killing the Erthe. Perhaps we should revisit your people, remind them of our power?

  The Seraphim shifted its weight on her spine. It released Mevia, flipping her onto her back, then rested its claw on her chest, over her heart.

  But I grow tired of this game. You have come here searching for riches like those other men. They’ve taken the useless things you humans regard as valuable. But what have you found?

  The Seraphim’s weight increased on her chest. Its talons pierced her leather armor, breaking the skin underneath. It would have her heart in a moment. She closed her eyes and thought of her mother, but her mother’s face did not come, and neither did her father’s. It was Aril’s face that came to her, a silver moon in the darkness.

  Don’t leave me, sister, don’t leave me to face this life alone. Aril’s words brought a different kind of pain.

  The Seraphim laughed. Ah, I see it has feelings. I can see the one it cares for most in this world. That one will die in less than a moon’s cycle without help. Lung rot is to be admired―it keeps its victim alive until the last possible moment, eating all other flesh relentlessly . . . a joy of pain. Well, I’ll just take what you have . . . so die, Mevia of Imraldi.

  “Wait!” Mevia gasped.

  It speaks . . . the Seraphim hissed.

  “Wait. I have a key, I found it in the captain’s cabin, in a secret place.”

  A new voice reached out of the darkness. This voice was not in her head but spoken. The Seraphim shifted its weight, allowing Mevia to breathe.

  “A key you say? I have been searching for a key . . .” the pressure lessened.

  “Yes, I’ll give it to you. Just let me go . . . please. I need to . . . get back to my sister . . . in the city.”

  “Know this, you cannot escape from me, for I am both Seraphim and Diamir. You can choose to live and die by what you say and do in the next few moments.”

  Mevia tensed at the tone of the voice before going limp. “I won’t try anything―let me live and I’ll give you the key.”

  “Show me,” the voice said. The room lit up with bright light. Mevia slammed her eyes shut. She blinked, her eyes adjusting.

  Gone was the Seraphim, and in its place, surrounded by flickering flame, was a hooded woman. Mevia focused on the figure standing above her. She could just make out the woman’s face.

  Mevia gasped.

  Half the woman’s face was covered in scales, while the other half was unblemished skin. Her left hand, just visible from the sleeve, was a scaled claw. Her right hand was untouched, showing clear skin and slender fingers.

  “Show me,” the woman repeated.

  “Aye, it’s here.” Mevia fumbled at the chain around her neck, pulling it free. The key dangled in the space between them.

  To Mevia’s surprise, the woman took a step back, her face a mixture of relief and fear.

  Mevia sat up and held the key out. “Here, take it, it’s yours. It’s what you wanted. Now let me free.”

  The woman’s eyes flicked from the key to Mevia.

  “I cannot touch it. You’re to come with me. You will carry the key.”

  Mevia stared at the woman in disbelief. She closed her eyes, a sinking feeling coursing through her. When she looked again, the woman was gone, and in her place stood a flaming Seraphim.

  The Seraphim smiled, but its eyes were cold.

  Chapter 7: Deep Past

  “Tell me about the deep past. I need to know what I’m facing in this Lamorak,” Crowe said.

  The blind cleric turned toward the fire. His old bones throbbed with pain. It would not be long; the grave was calling.

  “They call us fleshbones. The Aes Sidhe used to rule Dal Riata. The fallen ones―the Nephilim―used their magic and strength to banish the Aes Sidhe nearly a thousand years ago. The Erthe was loyal to the Aes Sidhe, but now she has forgotten them, except maybe in a few places. Their old northern stronghold, Inis Cealtra, was never captured because it was never found. The sea mist protects it . . .”

  Crowe shook his head and stared into the flames. “I know some of these things―they were taught to us as children. What of the Aes Sidhe? Their magic, their gods, their weapons?”

  The cleric pulled at his beard, shaking his head. “Much is forgotten. Their gods inhabit the deep past, and even the few Nephilim left have forgotten much of their own past. We have the here and now, but the past has never reached out like this before, or at least not in a thousand years. The Aes Sidhe worshiped a Seraphim goddess, a star-fallen deity, Danu of the Diamir. She was their one true connection to their divine side. She was one of them and yet was of their divine maker too. She carried Aes Sidhe magic in her form and spirit. It was said she could level mountains and turn rivers and even draw white steel out of the Erthe itself to be crafted into weapons.”

  Crowe’s ears pricked up. “Tell me about the white steel, cleric. What do you know of it?”

/>   The cleric leaned toward the fire, snorted, and spat. His phlegmy spittle hissed in the flames. “The white steel was taken from the Erthe’s veins. Back then, the mountains were young and they bled like sores. Young rock moved in rivers of fire. Danu spoke to the flaming mountains and used her magic, and the rivers of fire brought rivers of white steel to the Aes Sidhe.”

  Crowe’s heart sank―truth had turned to myth, and myths were useless to him. The Aes Sidhe were unknown; they had not walked Dal Riata for a thousand years. This Lamorak was a spy or an emissary―he too was an unknown. Was he here to negotiate? Or to attack?

  King Loarn was not one to negotiate.

  Crowe turned to leave the room. As he reached the door, the cleric’s thin voice pierced the gloom.

  “And of course, the Aes Sidhe had dreamcasters . . .”

  Crowe barely heard the words. “What was that, old man?”

  The cleric looked in Crowe’s direction, his milky eyes rolling, lost in their sockets.

  “Dreamcasters. Mages who could entrap men in dreams, weave untruths around them, make them believe black was white, the sun was the moon, day was night . . .”

  Crowe sighed. He turned and left. His war party was ready, his men chosen. The king had insisted he take the pregnant girl as well as a full war party. Orders were orders.

  Then there was the Nephilim warlock, Nuzum Mir.

  Crowe spat on the ground and contemplated the king’s move. He knew that Loarn didn’t trust anyone, and this time there was immortality at stake. Why anyone would want to stay on this Erthe a moment longer than nature intended was beyond Crowe―he couldn’t wait to join his ancestors in Falinor’s halls.

  But then, he wasn’t being paid to think, he was being paid to act.

  Crowe entered the courtyard and found his second-in-command. “Jande, are the men ready?”

  Jande saluted. “Aye lord, we’re awaiting your orders.”

  “Then let’s leave and find this Lamorak and his blade. What’s one man against forty?” Crowe turned toward his horse.

  Jande hesitated. “Lord, may I . . . ?”