Aes Sidhe

by Fergal F. Nally

  Sive stared at the statue. The long grass surrounding her legs rustled in the wind. She looked at the land beyond the statue where the grass was still. Feeling the movement grow more forceful, she looked down and was alarmed to see the grass clinging to her, writhing around her legs. Without thinking, she broke free and ran to the other side of the statue.

  The rustling quietened, and the grass that had tried to hold her stopped moving. She took a few steps backward. She swallowed hard.

  She was in Aes Sidhe territory now. The voice that had spoken through Orphir had claimed she was Aes Sidhe. She should feel at home, but she didn’t believe. The whole island felt strange, forbidding . . . hostile.

  Keep going forward, there is nothing for you behind.

  She looked out over the mountainside and was surprised to see that the outcrops she had seen before were, from this angle, statues facing out to the sea. All across the coastal strip were more statues at regular intervals, some large, some small.

  They are keeping the servants of the Nephilim at bay. Sive was glad she didn’t have to face them at sunset. She silently thanked the voice beyond the gallows. She turned to face the interior. Inis Cealtra’s dark secret lay ahead.

  The interior looked different this side of the statues. The land rose to form a raised plateau a mile or two ahead. The island had looked flat from the other side of the statues. Don’t trust anything you see . . .

  No wind, no breeze, no birdsong. Silence pervaded the interior, as if the island held its breath, waiting for something. She strode on toward the plateau, the ground firm underfoot. By the time she made it to the first steep incline, a fine sweat beaded her forehead. The land was grassy and rose steeply from the foot of the hill.

  No time to waste, nothing to hide. Keep going as you are.

  At the top of the plateau, Sive rested on her hands and knees. The ground swayed and she felt lightheaded, but the feeling passed as her heart slowed. Up ahead stood an earthen rampart, fresh soil still piled at its base. Sive blinked, once, twice. Slowly, she felt her strength return.

  Sive reached the rampart and continued on. The soil was firm. Below her was a large circular depression filled with water. Light danced across the water, dazzling her. The sun was overhead―noon. Sive felt close―the end of her search was near. The sky reflected in the lake’s glassy surface. Her eyes were drawn to a small island at its center.

  An island within an island . . . this had to be it.

  Sive stared at the island and saw a small rowan tree growing from the center. She nodded―this made sense. Rowan tree roots were linked to the underworld. They were planted over the dead to protect them from evil spirits.

  Sive shivered. She hoped she didn’t have to deal with the dead or evil spirits. Forcing herself onward, Sive descended to the lakeside and, without hesitating, stepped into the water. She was surprised to find it was only a few inches deep. The reflection was a perfect representation of the sky, and Sive felt as if she was walking in the sky among the clouds.

  Before long, Sive had reached the island and its rowan tree. The rowan was old and larger than any she had ever seen. She kept to the shore and walked around the circumference of the small island, her eyes glued to the tree.

  On the far side, she found it: an opening in the ground at the base of the tree with steps leading down below the roots of the tree. Sive stood for a moment, peering into the darkness below. Anticipation swept through her; she wanted to rush down the steps and find the answers to her questions. Instead, she went slowly, her heart hammering.

  She disappeared below ground, her descent lit well enough by daylight from the opening. The walls of the shaft were made of thick roots that looked strong despite the tree’s obvious age. Sive ran her hand over one of them, feeling its gnarled surface.

  Before her, shadow extended beyond the reach of daylight. Sive held her hands out and walked into the unknown. Once she was immersed in darkness, she stopped, allowing her eyes to adjust.

  As she stood there, she became aware of a flickering ahead. Slowly, she walked forward. The flickering grew. She reached the light source, her mind trying to make sense of what she saw. Suspended in the air, entombed in a pillar of amber, was a small flame.

  Sive reached out to touch the amber, her fingers brushing its surface, and a cold tingle shot through her hand.

  “It’s been so long since anyone’s visited. You are of the Aes Sidhe. What do you command?”

  Sive jumped, pulling her hand away from the amber. The voice was female and old, sounding as if the words had been formed in a throat made from parchment. Sive reached out again for the amber and made contact with its surface, the small flame within brightening at her touch.

  The voice filled the room again. “Have you come to lift the curse from Inis Cealtra? Have you brought steel?”

  Sive remembered the voice that had spoken through Orphir. She broke her silence.

  “Yes, I am of Aes Sidhe. Yes, I have brought steel. Yes, I’ve come to lift the curse from this island.”

  The flame flared, casting light across the chamber. On its far side, a crone stepped from the shadows. Her frame was, skeletal and she was dressed in rags, her hands restrained by iron bands on top of amber pillars. Sive looked at the crone’s face. She had no eyes, just empty sockets.

  The crone spoke. “Good, I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment. I am the Keeper of the Flame. Come here, child . . . I need your eyes.”

  Chapter 10: Madness Descends

  Mevia stared at the Seraphim.

  Moments before it had been half woman, half reptile.

  This is insane . . .

  You have no choice. The Seraphim’s words tore into her mind.

  The Seraphim lifted a winged claw, moving it until it became a blur. Mevia blinked, not understanding. When the creature stopped, a door stood where there had been empty air before. Go, human, enter. I will follow. Put the keychain back on your neck.

  Mevia did as she was bid and stepped through the shimmering door.

  Her feet found purchase on solid ground, though she couldn’t see it. She heard the Seraphim behind and felt a vicious push, sending her sprawling. The Seraphim closed the door.

  Complete darkness.

  Mevia’s heart was racing. Her mouth was dry and beads of sweat ran down her back. She held out her arms, pawing at the darkness. Something grabbed her from behind coiling round her arms, restraining her. A wet hiss caressed her left ear.

  Snakes.

  Mevia recoiled, her body stiffening.

  Allow my friends to escort you through the void. It won’t take long human―do not resist, or I’ll bring back the pain you so dislike.

  The word dislike twisted, burning in Mevia’s skull. Mevia slammed shut her eyes and allowed herself to be led through the blackness.

  She kept her eyes closed and withdrew to a safe place within. Gradually, she detected light through her eyelids and allowed herself a glimpse. The blackness was subsiding―shapes and forms were appearing up ahead. She caught sight of what was holding her and almost froze midstride. She closed her eyes again, nausea swelling in her stomach.

  The light grew and Mevia felt the pressure on her arms loosen. She waited, frozen to the spot. Nothing happened. She waited. Still nothing―no voices, no barbed words, no hissing. She opened her eyes and found herself in a high, vaulted room full of windows.

  A feasting table and chairs lay at the center of the room. The table was empty, and the windows were made of stained glass and depicted various scenes. Some she did not understand, while others depicted winged Seraphim in battle.

  She reached the table, running her hand over its dark, polished wood. Richwood―she had seen it once before in a staff held by a visiting cleric in Imraldi. Richwood was reputed to have remarkable healing powers and was very rare and expensive. Mevia had heard it could only be found in the heart of Monkwood far to the north of Dal Riata.

  An oily stain marred the wood. The mark looked fresh and glis
tened in the light.

  “So, you’ve made it? I trust the journey was not too onerous, child?”

  Mevia swung around to face the voice.

  She was surprised to see a young man of similar age to herself standing a few feet away. How had he crept up like that? He had long hair, pale skin, and piercing eyes. She peered into his eyes, and froze―they were a startling green . . . then red, then blue.

  “Ah, I see you prefer blue―blue it is then.” His voice seemed to pepper the air, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

  “My name is Danu. Some of your kind―Loarn’s kind―may know of me―clerics, historians and the like. They call me a goddess. Gender is not important. But I doubt you know of me, which is probably an advantage for you.”

  Mevia was gazing, slack-jawed, at the boy.

  Danu smirked. “This is just an illusion. I cannot show you my true form―it would destroy your mind. We can’t have that, can we?”

  Mevia didn’t know what to say. She shook her head.

  “The Aes Sidhe who fell to your Erthe an age ago belong to me. I want them back―they are my children. They’ve been kept in Banishment by the Nephilim all this time. But now they have a chance to return to your land, your Erthe, and I have a chance to bring them back into the fold. We can then finish the work we started all that time ago―we can crush the Nephilim and your leader, King Loarn.”

  Mevia stared, her eyes betraying her confusion.

  “But I see this is beyond you. You will bear the key you found on the wreck to the Screaming Mountains. There, you will unlock the mad crone’s mind. The Aes Sidhe have sent an emissary to Dal Riata, a warrior named Ae’fir. The unhinged crone is useless to him as she is, but this key will release her. It can only be wielded by one of your kind.”

  Words rushed from Mevia’s mouth. “Why can’t you take the key? Your Seraphim servant wasn’t able to touch it.” She regretted speaking as soon as the words were out.

  Anger flashed across Danu’s eyes. The goddess turned away, remaining silent. Mevia tried to take a step but she couldn’t move. She tried to speak but her throat would not respond.

  Danu turned. “What’s the matter? Lost your tongue? Well, seeing as you’re the one who’s going to bear the key, maybe I should tell you why only you should handle it.”

  Mevia stared, wide-eyed, at Danu. Gone were the boyish looks, replaced with an angry face of swirling, tormented flesh. Danu’s eyes dug into Mevia’s soul, delving, looking for any hint of betrayal.

  “The key you found was stolen by a grave robber, not unlike you. It is old . . . very old. Over the years, it has been traded and sold for its beauty alone. It ended up on that ship, in that chest. I’ve been searching for it for a long time. The three crones need to be found and released from their prisons for the Aes Sidhe to be free. I know the location of two of the crones, but the third still eludes me. Once you have unlocked the mind of one of them with the key, the location of the third will be revealed. Then, when the Aes Sidhe walk Dal Riata’s soil once again, I will be stronger. I will return and heal the Erthe and make peace with the creator.”

  Mevia felt her mouth move. “You’ve not answered my question. Why do I need to carry the key?”

  “You think you found the key, well the key found you, it chose you. The key is a conduit. The crones are spiritless, empty husks. Their memories are, however, intact. They key you carry transfers your spirit into the crone, becoming its new spirit. You’ll gain the crone’s knowledge . . . Scalibur’s whereabouts. You can tell Ae’fir the location. That is your purpose.”

  Mevia stared into Danu’s empty eyes. “You mean my spirit will be trapped in another’s body? I’ll be a dead woman?” Her voice shook. “Why should I do this for you?”

  Danu tilted his head. “You mean you’ve forgotten the pain already?” He stretched the word into a long drawl. It cut like a knife. Mevia fell to her knees in agony.

  “I . . . I remember now.” She managed to croak.

  Danu nodded. “Then there is the small matter of your sister and her lung rot. Aril?”

  Mevia glanced up. “What of Aril? What do you mean?”

  Danu sighed. “I can either cure her or can ensure she has a long, slow, death. The choice is yours. You can craft her salvation or her doom.”

  Mevia slumped to the floor.

  “I will do as you say. Don’t hurt my sister.”

  Danu smiled. For a fleeting moment, the reality beneath its conjuration was unmasked. A flash of reptilian scales glinted in the light. It was gone in a flash. Danu stood whole, intact, looking down on Mevia, impassive.

  “Of course you will,” he said, cold iron running through his voice. He turned and left the room.

  It was all Mevia could do to keep breathing.

  Chapter 11: Arrowstorm

  It was too easy. Crowe didn’t like it.

  Avarice Loch had not been given its name by chance. Tales of loch serpents and dream mist were known to all. But this was winter, and the loch was frozen in its icy armor, its secrets locked away in the depths.

  And then there was Nuzum Mir.

  Who knew what the Nephilim warlock was doing beneath the water? Crowe wondered at the Nephilim’s magic. The Nephilim race had been diminished by time and sickness, much of their lore lost in the ruins of their homes. He tried to imagine how they had looked back in the early days of the Erthe. He recalled childhood stories of the Fallen Ones, those that had angered the creator and had been cast down to the Erthe for their betrayal.

  The giants, the Nephilim.

  The Seraphim, the winged ones.

  Bitter rivals, bitter enemies.

  Cold mountain air cascaded from the mountaintops onto Avarice Loch. It was a lost, inhospitable place―Crowe would be glad to leave it behind. He looked up at the Devil’s Teeth, their peaks glittering. He shivered at the ship’s prow, the hull’s magical flame burning white-hot below.

  Curse these magicians―there’s no truth, no honesty in magic. Give me steel any day: steel and an honest death.

  Jande approached. “Lord, the night watch is set. The crew will rest as you ordered, just for a few hours. I’ve signaled the other ships. They’ll draw in and keep us in the center. The girl Rysa is safe below . . . she hasn’t said a word since leaving Loarn’s halls.”

  “I don’t blame her. I’ve heard of his ways.”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “That’s not stopped him before . . .”

  Jande’s lip curled. He kept silent.

  The ship drew to a stop. Crowe peered out over the side. The ice had immediately begun to freeze around them.

  “The flames, will they keep going?” Jande asked, joining Crowe at the edge.

  “We’re about to find out,” Crowe answered.

  He’d seen the men earlier―they were tired. A few hours couldn’t hurt. They had another day of hard rowing until they’d reach Wyndrush. They’d be in no fit state to defend themselves if they didn’t rest. Nuzum Mir wasn’t stupid―he must have known they’d need to stop. He’d see to it that their mission wouldn’t fail.

  The flames on the ships’ hulls dimmed as the ships stopped. Their hulls glowed in the chill air.

  “The warlock’s enchantment has not deserted us completely. First light will tell if it’s still with us.” Crowe looked at the stars. “Wrap up, it’s going to be cold.”

  “Aye lord, I feel like a stranger under these stars. They are too close, too bright―it’s as if the gods are watching us.” Jande shifted on his feet.

  Crowe looked at his second in command. They had avoided the subject. Finally, he spoke. “Are we ready for the chimera?”

  Jande turned and looked his commander in the eyes.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be.”

  “Have you ever seen one?” Crowe asked.

  “No, I’ve heard the tales, though.”

  “We are in their territory. This journey is safe in summer when the ice has melted. The loch can be traversed in a day,
but in winter, at night, stuck out here . . . are we mad?”

  Jande laughed. “Aye, of course we are. It’s the only way to live.”

  Crowe looked at Jande for a long moment. He was a good soldier; solid, trustworthy. “Get some rest. I’ll take first watch with the guard. I won’t sleep, not until we get to Wyndrush.”

  “Yes, lord.” Jande turned and walked away. Crowe returned his gaze to the stars and the outline of the Devil’s Teeth either side of the ships. Locked in the grip of the ice at the heart of Avarice Loch. He didn’t like it one bit.

  Across the ice, he could see the candles burning dully on the ghostly hulks of the other ships. A strange mission; Crowe had never thought he’d be sent to find a young pretender with an enchanted sword . . . to take a life, to give eternal life to an old king. It would make sense to someone―they’d probably write songs about it one day. He wondered what Loarn’s sons would think if they knew their father’s plan.

  Well, it wasn’t his problem. Sometimes it was simpler to be a soldier; you trusted your own men, and everyone else was a potential enemy. Out here, stuck in this frozen lake, he’d need those men―he felt like prey. His eyes grew heavy and he sat on the deck, his back against the gunwale. He drew his furs around him.

  His breathing steadied, his head nodded.

  Crowe awoke with a start. The sky had clouded over. Men snored below deck. His breath frosted the air and his legs were numb with cold. He leaned forward and massaged his calves. He saw the guards walking slowly along the deck, wrapped in their furs. The ice was creaking and groaning.

  He paused.

  Creaking and groaning . . . and . . .

  Dragging?

  He looked at the sky and saw nothing. Movement below registered in his peripheral vision. He looked down at the four vessels surrounding his ship.