Silver's Bane

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“Then where will you go?” asked Kestrel.

“North, of course,” Kian answered. “The scout said Cadwyr’s army was still at least a day and a half out. Sheer size is slowing him down, thank the Marrihugh for some luck.”

“And what about the rest of us?” demanded Mag. “Cadwyr’s coming, and who knows what he’s leading. To go or stay—’tis a choice that must be put to one and all.”

But the druid was shaking his head. “Bah, woman, what’re you suggesting? There’re no guarantees that your magic will work. Her Grace, the knights, they at least have fast horses—they may have a chance of outriding the goblins. But to take wounded women and children on some mad dash ’twould be the death of most of them.” He looked at Kian and pushed his hood off his face, so that it fell back over his shoulders in graceful, fluid folds. He was shorter than Kian, but he drew himself up. “You go, Sir Knight. I’ll stay—we’ll all stay, my brother druids and I. We’ll do what we can to protect the people here. By every means we can contrive.”

Cecily glanced around, assessing the progress of the repairs. Whole sections of the outer wall were missing. The second wall appeared sound, but it had not been built to withstand the brunt of an attack, especially not such a one as last night’s, and she remembered her idea. “What about fire?” asked Cecily. “A ring of fire around the castle?”

“That’s a thought,” said Kian. “Hard to maintain, perhaps. I’m not sure we’ve that much fuel—but still, it might be a way to block those holes. I’ll go and speak to the captain of the watch. We leave—” He broke off and looked up. The sun was still high above the tor. “Can you be ready to leave at dusk?”

“Dusk?” echoed Mag and Cecily as one. Cecily nodded at Mag and she went on, “Begging your pardon, my lord knight, but we need Her Grace.”

“Me?” Cecily blinked.

“For what?” asked Kian.

“She—she should be there. We’re going to need her—her—her presence,” Mag answered. “For the ritual. She’ll bring a certain…energy…that the granny will need. Oh, I’m quite sure she should be there.”

“And for how long?”

“Most of the night.” Mag ducked her head apologetically. “You do want us to try all we can, right?”

Kian ran a hand over his eyes, and Cecily felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over her. And how much worse could it be for him? He’d fought most of the night, snatching only a few hours’ rest between sunrise and midmorning. “We’ll go at dawn, then. We should reach the Daraghduin by midnight tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”

If we’re lucky. The little phrase echoed over and over in Cecily’s mind like a death knell. But Kian was continuing. “You’re the ArchDruid of Gar, my lord, is that not so?” asked Kian. When Kestrel nodded, he went on, “And as such, it’s your role to hold disputed property until such time as an heir can be determined?”

“Yes…” answered Kestrel slowly, as an odd expression crossed his face. “But only with good reason. And Cadwyr is the son of Donnor’s oldest sister. Only a child of his own loins, or a child of that child, has a stronger claim.” He turned to Cecily with an incredulous look. “Is it your intention to also dispute Cadwyr for the duchy of Gar, my lady?”

“Donnor came to me the night before he left,” Cecily said. She could pretend to be pregnant if she had to.

“I see,” the druid said. There was an aloofness in his tone that made Cecily look more closely at him. Was it only the druid’s surprise that there might be yet another claimant for the duchy of Gar? she wondered. Suddenly the walls didn’t feel so much safe as suffocating. But it was Kian’s next words that took her off guard.

“And a child of a child has an equal claim, as well?”

“Well, not as equal as a child—” Kestrel broke off. “What are you saying, Sir Kian? Donnor had a grandchild?”

Shocked, Cecily’s mouth dropped open and she exchanged a wide-eyed look with Mag as Kian answered, “Aye. Donnor had a daughter, got off one of his father’s women when he was very young. She was fostered out on the Isles, and when it came time to marry her off, she refused the man he’d chosen. So he disavowed her—”

“In a court? Before an ArchDruid?” Kestrel was frowning now, twisting his linked hands together beneath the wide sleeves of his robes.

“I don’t know the particulars of all the circumstances, my lord,” began Kian.

“Well, you’d better be quite sure of them if you mean to raise—”

“Lord Kestrel,” interrupted Kian gently. “It’s not me.”

“Then, who—” put in Cecily. This was totally unexpected. She wondered why Kian hadn’t mentioned it to her before.

“It’s not for me to say. He’ll reveal himself when he’s ready. If he were here, he’d have come to you himself,” Kian said as he turned back to Kestrel. “So you’ll do what must be done, to call the Assembly? That’s your duty, no?”

“But—”

Her thoughts drifted as Kestrel continued to sputter questions, all to which she wanted answers as well. “I trust you to keep this information to yourselves, Your Grace, still-wife,” Kian continued. “I only bring this up now because—well, because I suppose there’s a possibility he’s no longer even alive. But he should be given the chance to make his claim, don’t you agree?”

So this was someone they all knew? Someone who lived here? Donnor had an heir he’d known nothing of? She had a feeling that Kian would tell her no more than he was telling Kestrel. “If that’s what it comes to, my lord, yes,” Kian was saying, and she realized the conversation had taken another turn. “It’s not my wish to fight Cadwyr, but what choice has he given us? I’ll be happy to meet Cadwyr in lawful Assembly, as will Her Grace, but we’d rather have an army of our own kin at our backs and know what exactly we’re to face.”

“Come, my lady, there’re things to be done before the ritual,” said Mag. “A bath and such. I’ll explain it to you as we go.”

“Make it up as you go, don’t you mean?” put in Kestrel. “Don’t forget to pack, Your Grace.”

For some reason, that struck her as an odd thing for him to say, odd enough that she paused, even as Mag tugged at her arm. It was like a false note in an otherwise well-tuned harp. She opened her mouth, then shut it, and Mag looked at Kestrel. “What about the lad? Will you let him join us?”

“Absolutely not,” Kestrel said with a dismissive wave.

An image of Kestrel’s red boots of Lacquilean leather jumped into Cecily’s mind, and she glanced down, to see one tip peeking out from beneath the hem of Kestrel’s robe. There was something about those boots that pricked her like a pin lost in a seam. Maybe it was just the way he treated the wicce-women that bothered her. Everyone knows the druids like their comforts. But so does Cadwyr. She remembered the rose he’d brought her the night before he and Donnor had left on that ill-fated journey, the way it had reeked of the OtherWorld. She wondered if Kestrel’s boots were really made of Lacquilean leather, and then the rest of the messenger’s news echoed in her mind. Ten thousand Lacquilean mercenaries are marching this way, as well—he well may think them easily replaced. Could it be he knew they were coming?

“What do you need, still-wife?” asked Kian. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

At that, Cecily’s brow shot up, but before she could speak, Mag answered as she nodded slowly with a speculative look. “You’re not as young as you might be, Sir Kian, but come with me to Granny Lyss. We’ll ask her if she thinks you’ll do.”

Cecily noticed that Kestrel went in the direction of the summer kitchens. He’s going to speak to the scout himself, she thought. Donnor was not quite as universally loved as he had liked to believe. His own heir hated him, and there was another now, another who had not even made himself known while Donnor lived. “Kian,” she asked, speaking softly under her breath as he guided her and Mag around the rubble. “Is it possible that Kestrel and Cadwyr—” She broke off, and their eyes met. He didn’t answer, but she saw him watch Kestrel until he rounded a corner and they could see him no more.

Nessa did not even look up when the long shadow fell across the forge. Once the Sheriff noticed her, and remembered her, he’d summoned the four scullions assigned to help her yesterday, and put them all back to work, this time repairing the endless mound of weapons and other implements the goblins had nearly destroyed. Thus, Uwen startled her as she was hanging the heavy leather apron on a hook. “I need a word with you, lass.”

There was something distinctly different about him, Nessa thought as she stifled a gasp, then bundled her tumbled hair off her face. He looked as if a great weight had suddenly fallen on top of him, and stern, as if he had set himself to do a great task. He leaned against the wall and glanced around the forge. “You’ve been busy today.” His watery eyes were bloodshot and he looked tired. They were all tired, she thought. Up all night, a few hours of wretched sleep snatched at dawn. Now it was late, the scullions long since gone to answer the dinner bell’s summons.

“What’s wrong?” Her wound itched, her shoulders ached, but Uwen looked worse than she felt.

“I need to get to Gar. We’ve been dithering about it all day, but I need to find out what’s going on there—if Donnor’s really dead, what’s happened to Kian and the Duchess and the rest of the Company. I need to speak to the ArchDruid.” He hesitated, as if considering what to say next. “I want you to come with me. You’re the only one who saw Cadwyr with the sidhe, you’re the witness to at least part of the bargain. I don’t know what Cadwyr’s planning, or how things stand, but I don’t want to wait for the upland chiefs to decide who should go and who should come. This is what he’s counting on. There’re more arriving every hour now, and that’s only going to create more confusion. So I’m planning to slip away before first light tomorrow, lass, and I’d like you to come with me. Which is another reason we’ll have to slip away. You’re the last person the Sheriff will want to let leave. He may be as soft in the head as he is in the belly, but he knows enough to know he needs a smith.” He paused once more, then said, “I’m sorry that I caused trouble between you and the sidhe lord.”

“You weren’t to know,” she replied with a shrug. She had for the most part successfully avoided thinking about Artimour for most of the day, but Uwen’s apology brought it all back. “I did make the dagger.”

“You did, but you had no choice. I spent all day with him—he’s not an unreasonable sort. Decent, really, for a sidhe. Or a half-sidhe, which is what Molly says he is. Go talk to him. But go soon—he says he’s leaving tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Her head snapped up. She wanted to talk to Artimour, to make sure that all was right between them before she mentioned her mother. She’d dared to hope that perhaps he’d take her with him. But she knew what her father would expect her to do and she knew he’d be angry if he thought she was moping after a sidhe. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like the one thing guaranteed to make him the angriest. But she had made the dagger. Dismayed, she stared at Uwen as she automatically bent to retrieve a hammer bumped off the wall, set upright an overturned basket of nails.

“There’s been talk, mutters, rumors. The sidhe are being blamed for the goblins’ attack—”

“But that’s not fair,” she cried. “Artimour had nothing to do with it—”

“Of course you and I know that. But not all these dunderheads do. And he has questions, too, the answers for which are only in the OtherWorld, not here. Nessa, will you come? The longer we wait, the more who will insist on riding with us, and we can only go as fast as the slowest horse. By the time a whole troop gets there, who knows what Cadwyr will have done next? I can carry you on Buttercup if need be. We can be there by noon of the day after tomorrow.”

His voice had a flat desperate edge that she’d never heard before, even on Samhain when he faced the goblin horde. What’s changed? she wanted to ask. But she knew how her father would expect her to answer his question. She glanced around the forge, fingering the amulet. There was plenty of work to be done here. But all she said was, “All right. All right, I’ll come. I guess I better go talk to Artimour.”

“Molly said to suggest bringing him dinner. You’ll find her in the kitchens.”

She heard him sigh as he stood aside to let her pass and she was tempted once more to turn and ask him what was wrong, even as she wondered exactly how much about her Molly had discussed with him. In the doorway she remembered something, and turned to see him looking at something that appeared to be a flat disk that hung around his neck on a metal chain that glinted gold. She was about to ask him what it was, when he thrust it into his shirt, out of sight. “Your sword’s over there—I banged out the rust that had started to eat the blade, and sharpened up the edge.”

She heard him call a startled thanks but did not pause as she trudged on. She had faced the goblins. She had faced Great Herne. Surely she could face Artimour. In the kitchens, she found Molly, looking distracted, but sharp-eyed as ever. She beckoned Nessa and thrust a tray of food into her hands, then pointed upward. She leaned over and spoke directly into Nessa’s ear. “I’ve borrowed your birch staff, lass, but don’t you worry—I’ll see that Uwen has it for you on the ’morrow.”

Surprised, Nessa drew back and opened her mouth to ask why Molly needed the staff, and how would it be that Uwen of all people might have occasion to return it to her. But Molly forestalled her questions with a smile and a firm turn of her shoulders in the direction of the narrow staircase that led to the cramped chambers that normally served as the Sheriff of Killcarrick’s private quarters. “There’ll be time for explanations later, child.”

Nessa glanced down at Molly as she trudged up the stone steps crowded with children and dogs. She was carrying a basketful of bright red cord, cord similar to that which Nessa had been unable to pry out of Granny Wren’s rigid hands back in Killcairn. Whatever magic the granny had worked had held, as she’d said, til Samhain. Were the grannies here about to attempt another such ritual tonight? Was that why Molly wanted the staff? A burning wish to know stabbed briefly through Nessa, then disappeared in a flood of panic as she reached the top of the steps. Suddenly she wished she’d done more than taken the time to wash her hands and rake back her hair. Her shoulders ached, her legs felt like lumps, and she almost stumbled more than once over hounds or children.

The tray of food Molly had given her to carry up felt like lead in her arms, but at least it gave her an excuse to knock on Artimour’s door. From the other side of the door, she heard him call, “Enter.”

She pushed it open, and stepped into what felt like a cool bath of still water, after the heat of the forge and the chaos of the kitchen and the keep. He looked tired. She stepped over the threshold, and saw that his eyes were like smudges of ash in a face as gray and drawn as her father’s after a long day or sleepless night. Only the luster of his hair and the slightly pointed tips of his ears betrayed his mixed blood. In the dull light filtering through the horn pane, even his skin had lost that velvety sheen. It was difficult to restrain her apology. “I brought your dinner.”

He was standing by the open casement, one foot on the window seat, watching the activity below. He glanced over his shoulder, then straightened, obviously surprised to see her. “Put it there.” He shifted from foot to foot. “You don’t have to wait on me—I told Granny Molly that I was well enough to come down.”

“They think it’s better you stay out of sight. They say there’s talk against the sidhe.” She’d seen for herself that grief and shock were giving way to rage. She’d seen two brothers come to blows today over who had retrieved a third brother’s sword, but rumors she’d overheard were so ridiculous she’d dismissed them out of hand until Uwen had mentioned them: the sidhe were coming to save them; the sidhe themselves had been overrun by the goblins at last. The Duke of Gar was at fault for rebelling against the King; the King’s madness was to blame. The Duke of Gar had struck a secret alliance with the sidhe, the Humbrians had struck an alliance with the goblins. The Duke of Gar was dead. The Mad King Hoell was dead. But it was the muttered curses, the furtive looks cast upward as she carried the tray up the stairs that convinced Nessa that Uwen was right. “The people are looking for someone to blame.”

She placed the tray on the low table beside the hearth, then turned, her hands clasped before her, eyes fastened fixedly on the leaping flames. The aroma of toasted bread and warm cheese tickled her nostrils, and she wondered what the food smelled like to him. She flipped aside the napkin to reveal crusty brown bread with a light smear of pale cheese on top, then took a deep breath. The words burst out of her like tumbling stones plunging pell-mell down a hill. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, truly I didn’t. I’m sorry—I just never thought—there was nothing that made me think—and Uwen says we’re to leave tomorrow—and that you’re going back to Faerie—” Her eyes filled with tears and she blinked them back.

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Nessa, it’s all right. I understand. I understand you had no choice.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I was wrong to speak to you so. If you’ll accept my apology, we need speak of it no more.”

Surprised, she stared at him, and then realized that whatever troubled him was so much greater that any wrong she’d done him was insignificant in comparison. What would happen to him if the world to which he intended to return did not expect to welcome him back? What was he walking into? She eyed his straight back, his broad shoulders that looked broader than she’d expected beneath his borrowed clothes. The skin on his hands was paler and finer than most men’s, without any of the coarse curling hair that covered the backs of Dougal’s. But they were large, the palms broad, the fingers square.

Blacksmith’s hands. She shoved the absurdity of that thought away. Artimour was a prince of the sidhe, not a simple mortal smith. But she couldn’t help wondering what he’d look like, stripped to the waist like her father, only a leather apron and vambraces to protect his chest and forearms, and a sudden flush suffused her whole body that had nothing to do with the warmth of the flames. “Can you tell me where you found this?” She fumbled at her neck and pulled out Dougal’s amulet.

“Ah, there it is. I thought it’d been lost in the water. Do you recognize it?”

“I made it for my father when I was thirteen. I’d know it anywhere. Where’d you find it?”

“In the river, on a rock. It looked as if someone had tossed it into the water to try to negate its poison. Running water does, to some extent.”

“But you saw no one about?”

Artimour shook his head. “No one until I met Finuviel. And he was alone, as he should not have been.” He drew a deep breath. “There are many great houses along the river. Your father may have found his way to one, but any sidhe would’ve expected him to remove the amulet before they took him in. I found the amulet a league or two from where you and I parted company, but it may have drifted downriver somewhat.” He hesitated. “I don’t think there’s any way to be sure of anything—”

“But that he’s there,” finished Nessa. She took a single step forward with a raised chin. “Don’t you see? Everyone said I was wrong to be so sure he’d fallen into the OtherWorld. But now you found his amulet. Surely that shows he’s there.” She took another step, her heart beginning to pound. “And last night—last night I realized my mother must be in Faerie, too.”

A shadow crossed his face, and he indicated one of the wooden chairs in front of the fire. “Please sit. I must talk to you.”

He still moved like a sidhe, she thought as she perched on the chair’s hard edge, but she noticed that a furrow had appeared between his brows.

“Nessa,” he said gently. “I’m not sure what’s happening right now in Faerie, but nothing I can imagine is good. Finuviel—the one who stabbed me, who came to your forge with Cadwyr—Finuviel is Vinaver’s son, my own sister’s son. It wouldn’t surprise me if the two of them have been planning this for a very long time, and saw Alemandine’s pregnancy as an opportunity to strike while the Queen was at her weakest. I don’t think he only intended the dagger for me. I think it’s clear he made a bargain with this Cadwyr that Sir Uwen speaks of with such dislike—the dagger, in exchange for the host that Finuviel was supposed to lead to the border. After I found that amulet, before I met Finuviel, I came to a place beside the river where it appeared a great army had ridden across. It didn’t occur to me then they might have ridden into the water and come out in the same way you did, here in Shadow. So the questions have become, where’s Finuviel, where’s the host, and where’s the Caul, for Finuviel must’ve taken it in order to bring the silver dagger into Faerie. For all I know, Alemandine may be dead, and Finuviel already King. And as you say, it’s better that I leave. I’ll go at dawn. It’s at dusk the goblins hunt.” For a split second, he smiled, but then his face darkened, and he looked old, careworn and tired. He paused, drew a deep breath, then continued. “I’ll do what I can to find your parents, Nessa, but you must understand that I don’t know what’s waiting for me. Those goblins that came last night, Nessa, I’ve never seen anything like them. Oh yes, I saw them. I went to the top of the tower. There were so many. I’m not sure there’s magic enough in Faerie to stand against them.”

But silver still works, she thought, fingering Dougal’s amulet as an idea occurred to her. There wasn’t much time, and she was tired, but if she used a sword that only needed repair—she’d have to see what she could find. She leaped to her feet and headed for the door. “Do you know where to find the forge?” She’d have to satisfy her curiosity about the corn grannies and their rituals another night.

He looked startled. “The forge? Where the blacksmiths work?”

“Stop there before you leave? Please?” She only waited long enough to ensure that he nodded, and then she skipped down the steps, curiously more lighthearted than she had felt in days.

3

The afternoon was fading into twilight, when Merle paused on the threshold of the tower room overlooking the western sea. A storm was brewing, and the sound of the surf as it pounded against the rocks that formed the foundation of the house her father had so graciously provided was louder up here for some reason than in her own solar on the floor below. Then a wet breeze licked her cheek and she turned to see her husband’s outline, black against the garish lines of red and violet light flooding through the gray-streaked clouds. “Hoell? My love?” She spoke tentatively, for ever since their perilous escape from the horrible things that had driven them from Brynhyvar, she could not quite believe that not only had they both escaped the fiends, but that Hoell, her one true love and anointed King of Brynhyvar, had come back to himself. He was no longer the meek and gentle creature he’d become as a result of their child’s death. Their first child’s death, she thought, placing her hand on her swelling abdomen. It could happen to anyone, she thought. Lots of people lost children. She felt a feeble flutter against the thick silk of her new chemista and she smiled. Swim, little fish, swim.

But it worried her more than she wanted to admit to find him sitting alone in the dark, leaning so far out the open casement that his hair was damp with spray. But his expression reassured her, as did his words of sweetly accented Humbrian, “Ah, here you are, Merle. Come sit a moment. The sunset’s splendid, don’t you think?”

“My love, aren’t you cold?” But she edged closer, curling her cold fingers around his surprisingly hot hand.

“Come, I’ll warm you.” He folded her against his chest, snuggling her against him so that she felt the beating of his heart against her shoulder. The sea looked angry as it lashed against the rocks and the sky was streaked with red. It reminded her of the blood dripping down the gray stone walls of Ardagh. She still heard the screaming of the dying and the screeching of the sidhe in her dreams. It was one of the reasons her father had given them this house. Only the insistent rhythm of the waves washing over the rocks soothed her. She closed her eyes and turned her face away, willing herself to relax into the circle of his embrace.

“I don’t know what you like to look at up here,” she said. “There’s nothing to see but the water and the sky.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She could feel his breath through the linen of her veil, hot against her scalp. It reminded her of all the nights they’d lain in her bed during his madness, when he’d clutched her to his chest like a little boy. “But when I sit here, and the light is right, I think I see Brynhyvar, sitting out there like a purple jewel, right across—” he extended their arms, folding his hand over hers, pointing with his index finger “—there.”