The Tree of Swords and Jewels

FIFTEEN Of Fire and Sword

The rain had stopped. Branwyn sat listening to the silence in the hall. About her, her children slept, and Muirne, Leannan, Domhnull —all, all finding a moment's peace at the end of night. She sat staring at nothing, feeling tears dammed up in her throat. She had laid all her plans; and now they lay in ruins, the roads a quagmire, Caerbourne rushing high for days, an obstacle for her poor folk, less for a determined army, none at all when An Beag should rise to cut them off from the ford. She had had dreams in the night, and they were all of ruin. She imagined other desperate things, of sending Domhnull and Cein and Cobhan with Meadhbh and Ceallach, to cross the flood alone near Caer Wiell somehow, and to go afoot through the heart of Eald, seeking Dryw, seeking—whatever refuge there was for a King the world rejected.

Perhaps her life had been all a mad hope. She had believed too little in luck at the beginning and believed in it too much at the end —but she had hoped all the same, not even understanding Eald, with the last hope in all her world.

"Arafel," she whispered to the silence. "Arafel. Arafel. Do you hear me—Feochadan, Thistle, whatever name you use nowadays? Ciaran, do you hear, can you hear?"

But in the one she did not trust, and in the other she could not hope, no matter how she tried.

Then came the sound of a running horse, lonely in the thick-walled silences, up against the walls. From the watch there was no hail or challenge. The hoofbeats continued.

Ciaran, she thought. She dared not breathe, for fear the hope would perish.

No, one of the horses was loose, that was all; some horse strayed before the walls.

Or Arafel had come.

She rose, shedding her laprobe; she walked barefoot to the door, then heard the door open down below, a soft padding on the stairs— but nothing mortal could have come inside so quickly, ignoring gates and watchers. She held back, her heart hammering with dread.

"Domhnull," she said, never taking her eyes from the door. "Domhnull, wake—"

There was no stirring from behind her. The door opened. A head thrust through at knee level, of a small hairy thing whose eyes glit tered in the torchlight. "Domhnull!" she cried.

It came inside, hugged itself and leaned against the door. "They sleep, sleep, o the fair children; the Gruagach knows them, knows this Man, comes for them—for you."

"Keep away!" There was no weapon here, not so much as a dag ger; they had moved out every piece of iron for Ciaran's sake, for her children's, who could not bear it. She edged toward the wall, think ing of the torch.

"Never fear," the small creature said, "o no, no, no, friend am I; such nice, kind children—so polite the people, saucers of milk they leave me, fine cakes, brown ale—but the Gruagach has his home, and he cannot linger. Come with me, come with me, fine cakes, brown ale, where sun is kind forever."

Her hand fell. She saw the green shadow, the jogging pony, the blonde girl in search of faery. Come with me, take my hand, never hear them calling— Her eyes blurred. "Is there still time?" she asked. "Is there place—for all of us?"

"All," the small wight said, and bounced up to his full height. "All the good, kind people; no iron must they carry. Haste, haste, haste."

He was gone, out the door and the door shut so quickly that the eye could not believe anything had stood there. Branwyn shivered and looked back at the hearthside where her children stirred, and Muirne; Domhnull wakened then, and Leannan in his corner.

"Get up," she said, "all of you. Get your warmest cloaks; Domhnull, go rouse the yard, everyone."

"Lady," Domhnull said, his face bewildered; but he gathered him self up.

"No iron," she said. "Not even in the bridles, no cooking-pans, no knives, nor brooches, no least thing."

"Lady—"

She drew herself up, wrapping the shreds of her pride about her— perilous, she thought; might pride shut the gates of faery? So she was afraid to claim what she had claimed before, that she was privy to faery's secrets. "I think now we have help," she said quietly, "and o, I fear we'll lose it." Beyond Domhnull her children gazed at her with solemn eyes. "Get your cloaks. We'll go down to the gate. Hurry, Domhnull; Leannan—help him."

Leannan took his harp; Domhnull paused for nothing but his cloak, and the door closed behind them.

"Wash, dress," she said to Meadhbh and Ceallach. "And then we go down."

For once she held secrets and Meadhbh and Ceallach did not. But they hurried.

She went to the empty bedroom, washed, dressed, while Muirne tended the children. She took Ciaran's next-best cloak oiled wool, warmer than her heaviest, if may be cold, he had said once, setting out on such a journey.

Now she thought of Beorc and Rhys and Ruadhan, of the men up at the border, and for a moment the glamor faltered. O gods, what will become of them when they find Caer Wiell deserted? What if our enemies should take it against them? O gods, where are we going? Where am I taking these folk?

But then she thought of Ciaran, of the way he had gone, and what they faced from the west, and no chance seemed too desperate. The vision recast itself, the small girl on the pony, the desire she had had once. She had seen the green silence; this beckoned differently, made her think of sun and meadows, not moon and sun together, not the dreadfulness of that guest who had come to their hall. This was warmth and laughter. And wherever it would go, he might have gone before them.

She hastened; she gathered up Meadhbh and Ceallach in the hall each by a hand and they went down the stairs together with Muirne close behind them bringing a bundle of clothes— "In the case," she said, "someone should need warm cloaks. 'Tis a waste to leave them."

The dawn broke as best it could over Hlowebourne, a dim redness before the clouds should take back the sun. The reeds were black, like so many spears; the bank loomed, and Beorc was glad when they put that rise behind them. All the land seemed full of ambushes now.

Of Ruadhan they had seen no sign; of the Bradhaeth folk nothing; the road was mire and even Hlowebourne denied its name and fought them.

But now something came toward them in the murk, a band of riders: they heard them in the distance. They were already carrying their shields uncased on their arms: now they took their swords from sheath and those with lances spurred their horses forward to meet whatever came.

The riders poured over the hillcrest into their midst, shadows in grim red light with neither face nor feature; but the foremost horse had a broad crooked blaze and two white feet—"Hold, hold!" Beorc cried when he saw it, and spears went up and horses shied under the rein as friend met friend in the feeble dawn. "Where's Ruadhan?" he asked Swallow's rider. "Blian, where are you going?"

The young man's face was haggard; he bled from the temple; his armor was battered and it seemed his wits were too. "Beorc—" He held his frantic horse. "They bid us go, fall back—Ruadhan, he held them, run all the way, he told us, and he stayed, him and ten of the bowmen—Lead them back, he told me; the old men and Ruadhan, they bid us go—"

"Let us get up there," Rhys said.

"There be all the Bradhaeth behind us," Blian said. Tears made tracks through blood and grime. "Lord Rhys, there was no holding that—" He twisted about in his saddle, casting a look backward, looked toward them yet again. "We be the first—break the way, Ruadhan said, if need be; the farmer-lads come after, them as could double up on horses; and Tuathal and his lot to put a shield behind them; and since yesterday we've been battered at—they've broken through, the Bradhaeth has, and four, five times we've had to fight them since yestereve."

There was silence, only the blowing of exhausted horses.

"Go," Beorc said heavily. "Get behind us. Move easier. From now the road is safer."

"Aye," Blian said. He drew his horse's head up. He rode through their midst, he and the men with him, slowly now; but then he stopped, and came back, and all his men with him. "We are not cowards," Blian said.

"No," said Beorc. "You are not."

"My cousin was right," Rhys said, riding near, with Owein and Madawc beside him. "Go back, all you Caer Wiell folk. Part of us will scatter through these hills, part of us go west and south; we can at least delay them."

"And what after?" Beorc said. "No. There is no hope in that. We gather those we can save. Then we go home—and quickly."

A cry sounded through the hills, a singing they had heard before at Caerbourne. Horses shied. Men swore.

"Wail all you like!" Rhys shouted at it, lifting his sword. "Here's iron for you!"

The wailing died away; the grass whispered.

"A horse," Blian said, looking to the right of them.

There was no horse there. The hoofbeats came and vanished into distance, both unnaturally swiftly.

They gathered at the gate and outside it, a great confusion of horses and people with bundles; but Meadhbh had none, like her mother, like her brother, like all of them who had had most and now were leaving it. She had lost too much to care for any part of it; only she had brought her tiny box of treasures in her pocket, the bright bird's feather, the river-smoothed stones, the things that she had gathered in her walks and rides with her father. Having lost him she had little longing even for these things, but thought she might want them and regret them too late, these small strange objects; the rest she left uncaring, though she had silver pins and gold, and fine clothes and a silver ring. She went empty handed down the stairs, and so did Ceallach, with their mother, with Muirne, with her bun dle of clothes; but they had their Sidhe gifts about their necks, and the stones of Caer Wiell under their feet, and the memory of the tower hall and all its days and nights in their minds: that was what they took away that mattered.

There would be a guide, their mother had said: if it had been their father come home, their mother would have said that first, so they went without real interest in questions. Their thoughts were all to what was behind them, to feathers and stones and the thought of their father sitting in his corner. Now that they were out of the rooms it seemed to Meadhbh he might indeed come home, a memory sitting in hall, the Cearbhallain's great sword on his knees, his hands tending it, the light golden and flickering on his face. The hall was his now, lost like him, once the door was shut behind them.

They came down the last steps, where already the air seemed to tingle with perhaps and might be. The Sidhe-gifts burned. They looked up: they knew the small brown creature that turned up in their way without being there the moment before. "It's the Gruagach," Ceallach exclaimed; but it seemed their mother knew this: nothing today seemed to daunt their mother, not even a Sidhe before them.

"Gruagach," Meadhbh said; all at once the Sidhe-gift at her throat ached the more, or her heart did. She thought of her father and it was as if the world had started moving again, or she had; as if she had come alive again—her heart hurt, but she lifted her head and knew that she had not truly lived between that night and this, though the world had gone on. Suddenly she felt surrounded by secrets, finding her mother—her mother!—meshed with the Sidhe.

Her father had a hand in this. He must have. The world was bending round them like water round a rock, disasters flowing past them, and somehow he was in it.

"Come," the Gruagach said, motioning with long, lank hands. "O hurry, hasten. The ponies will come, the fine horses, all, all."

"Gruagach," their mother said, sharp as she spoke in hall. "Grua gach, there are more of us—up on the road by Hlowebourne."

It stopped. It hugged itself and rocked, its dark eyes wrinkled up in pain. "O gold lady, the Gruagach cannot reach them. They come as they can. The big red Man, the small dark one: the Gruagach has known them, the Sidhe has touched them, no more, no more can help them. Come! Come! Come! The people, the fine, polite people— no, no delay, come, hurry. It comes, it comes, dark up the dale; I cannot say its name, but the river cannot stop it." It turned, hopped a few paces away, clambered long-armed up the side of a shaggy brown pony. "Haste. O haste!"

They heard Domhnull's voice above the others, shouting at folk to move; he came with Leannan and Cein and Cobhan, a whole troop of the boys leading their father's horse and their ponies and horses for themselves through the press. They stopped suddenly; all about them silence fell, and then cries, as if only then folk had seen the Brown Man and his pony.

"Come," the Gruagach said, beckoning, "o Man, the Gruagach knows you, far we rode together—come, come, come, the horses too, o hurry! From north and west they come, the dark things, the shadow. Ride, ride, all who can: the Gruagach will lead you!"

Some magic fell on them all: the air was full of it. Folk scrambled for unsaddled horses that did not shy, handed children up that stared wide-eyed, bewildered. Meadhbh took Floinn's mane, trying to get up, and Floinn never flinched when she clambered belly-down and awkward. Her brother was up on Flann. Domhnull helped their mother and Muirne up to a white nosed mare and gave her mother the halter-rope.

"My husband," a woman said; "my son," said another. "How will they find us? Where are we going?"

"To safety!" their mother said, all sharp. "Where they would want you."

"Give me leave," said Domhnull, delaying, holding Iolaire's hal ter. "I will find the rest of us."

"You have a duty," their mother said sharply. "You have a lord— still; come with us."

"Now!" the Gruagach cried—like some part of the brown pony itself he was, atop its back with knees drawn up. It waved shaggy arms. The air wavered about them; the murky dawn became gray mist, and the gates were naught but shadow.

A forest lay before them. The Gruagach rode out with his pony and all at once they were moving: Domhnull walked, caught all unwilling and desperate, leading Iolaire beside them. Then he seized Iolaire's mane and swung up, settling himself. He rode a distance in front and then rode back past them, his face showing no sign of the grief that ached in the Sidhe-gift when he was near. "Keep together," they heard him call. "Come, come on, my lady gave her orders. The luck is on us; it always was. Keep sight of one another, call out if anyone should falter."

We have left Beorc, Meadhbh thought. And Rhys and all the men. I might go to him. She clutched the Sidhe-gift at her throat, and won dered if she could go so far as a border she had never seen. But no, she thought, oddly sure of something with so much pain in it; the way streamed ahead of them, and she was bound with Ceallach: it was no less dire a way, no less perilous than that their men took. It was their way, and she must not leave it.

Beyond the trees soon other creatures followed. Deer moved, ghostly through the mist and darkness; a fox trotted; there were other creatures, as if even Caer Wiell's wild things were going, as if all life were leaving the land. Meadhbh turned and looked back at the column they made, the end of it lost in mist, horses, riders, a few of the men walking, carrying children on their backs. The great oxen and even the cattle were with them, loose, moving with patient care; a flock of sheep walked along beside, quite un-sheeplike sure where they were going. There was the old spotted hound that was almost blind; there were foals and yearlings following after the mares. Domhnull rode back out of the mist, shepherding the line; he had taken a child up in front of him.

The Sidhe-gift burned. Meadhbh held it in her hand, and felt Ceal lach near, knee to knee with her as she looked again to the forest ahead. The way grew dark. Trees towered up, and the mist threat ened them; but always just in front of them rode her mother with Muirne, and the swishing tail of the Gruagach's brown pony. She shrugged her cloak about her, feeling cold and glad that her mother had thought of warmer clothing.

Father, she thought. The thought kept growing in her, not a hope, but a certainty. She looked back again: she saw Leannan. The harper rode by Domhnull, and a doe and fawn walked soberly beside him. A pony carried Ruadhan's Seamaire, who had someone's baby in her arms and a little girl behind her. There was Cook afoot, still in her apron, with two of the scullery maids and a cluster of the pages. The mist gave them up and took them back again, and they were there and not there, all of Caer Wiell. She looked about in fright, relieved to find her mother still in front of her, with Muirne, the mare pad ding along with soundless steps, tame like all the others. The Gruagach sat backwards on his pony, watching them all with dark and sober eyes.

The grove had suffered. More leaves had fallen; dark things had crept close but there was still power here: Cinniuint still lived, though his leaves were dimmed; so did Miadhail, and the others. So Arafel came to it afoot from Airgiod, where Fionnghuala waited. She gathered what she wanted, took up the armor that was hers, her weapons. She looked about her, touched Miadhail's leaves. She wove protection then, a patient spell of different sort, with all her strength, for she was leaving, not to see this place again: she whispered names, and drew on all they held; she set the stones to singing, a bright clashing in the breeze. It was exchange, strength pouring into the earth, the air, consuming itself at last: its duration would be brief, after so long ages, a brightness soon to fade. Flowers bloomed again. Cinniuint budded, blossomed; Miadhail put forth new leaves; Ciataich greened again, and the air was fresh and good. The grove became what it had been. She gazed on it, fit to break her heart, and turned then and walked away. One backward look: her kind had ever been flawed, and so elves had fallen to fair voices whispering of what had been, what might have been. But it was time to go.

She turned her face to Airgiod, to shadows Fionnghuala held at bay. "Begone," she said, powerful in this place, a voice so still the breeze might have drowned it and so sure it could be heard through thunder. Light shone about her; it reflected in the waters, moon-cold and having the sun about it: elvish armor, elvish weapons.

Duilliath advanced, and summoned other allies. From Dun Gol they came, streamed through the hills on horses fleet as nightmares. But there was worse than Duilliath; there was the Voice that moved them all, and that was what she sought, to keep its attention on herself, to threaten with what fading might she had, so long as it should last.

She swung up to Fionnghuala's back. The elf horse trembled, threw her head.

Now the whisper reached her, as it reached the drow, coming softly through ghostly trees. It sang battle-joy and madness, tempted to glory and abandon—but that too was temptation, calling her forward as the grove called her to return, to wrap herself in safety, to fall asleep with it when the end should come.

So they had erred once, to turn to the dragons in their wars, the ancient, the long-remembering; and this one was oldest, most persua sive, having spells within his voice.

This one they had never tamed. This one had seduced them. Fol low me, it had said, drive out Men, yield nothing. Remember pride. Take what is yours. I am power, more than all my kind; listen to me. Listen.

"Not I, old Worm," she answered it. "Come find me if you can ... if you can break my binding."

The dark rider was there again before them, as he had been since Hlowebourne, in this day that was no day, with the sun wrapped in cloud. They had gathered what of their folk they could, and now they came southward, daring no pause now, for the Bradhaeth came behind them; Damh's horsemen scoured the land and columns of smoke went up from steadings all about the hills.

But that rider was no man of Damn, no Man at all: Beorc knew him for what he was; and doubtless Rhys did. As for Owein and Madawc, they lay dead beyond Hlowebourne ford, and Blian had fallen with them, with no few others in that hail of Bradhaeth ar rows. So it was not surprising that this rider had joined them, went with them, behind, before them.

My lady foreknew this, Beorc thought, not for the first time; and now he dreaded worse, that all else she had foreseen might have fallen on Caer Wiell, Donnchadh moving up the dale with fire and slaughter.

Rhys said no word. The small man's lips were set and hard; he had no curse for the enemy, no threat but his look, which was black and baneful. From wildness he had gone to a fey dark rage, and never spoke, not since Owein fell beside him.

But now the rider paced close beside them, a shadow on the day, darker than the southron banners.

"You!" Beorc cried, having had enough and caring nothing whether others thought him mad. "Be off with you! We have no more to give you!"

He could not see the face; but he saw others looking, saw haggard southrons half-draw swords, letting them fall back in uncertainty; but Rhys reined aside, his blade full-drawn; and then he stopped cold, for other riders waited in the shadow of the trees beside the road. His face went gray. The sword-point wavered.

"No," Beorc said. "Rhys, stay back."

"It's Madawc."

"Caer Wiell," Beorc said, "Rhys, Caer Wiell. Remember."

The southron backed his horse. Its ears were flattened; its eyes were white-edged, its nostrils wild: it fought the rein and shied, stum bling in exhaustion. The column broke in rout; the day dimmed; the rain broke on them in heavy spatters as they ran.

Still Death stayed with them; and their horses that had leapt for ward in panic ran now with strange slowness. Hounds coursed beside them, loping dark shapes; in the hills the Bain Sidhe wailed. Death rode next to them, the black horse showing bone dimly through its shadow flesh: the rider turned his cowled head, almost, almost facing them.

"Death," Beorc shouted at it, rash in desperation, "do you make bargains?"

"Sometimes."

"Then give my lord back to us!"

"Would you find him?" The pace quickened, and somehow their horses kept it. The way darkened still, into night and terror. "Then follow: my way, iron can pass. You should remember that, Skaga's-son."

"Beorc!" It was Rhys' voice behind him. "Beorc—gods—"

"Do not falter," the dark rider said beside him, and sped then before them like some eclipse of light and life. "Caer Wiell stands empty; your lady has gone before you to find your lord—Would you have battle? I shall give you that: blood and vengeance!"

Beorc followed; he kept the shadow before him, heard the baying hounds, and Blaze never faltered, dodging along a track of dead trees and desolation, under a moon red and leprous. No stars shone in this night. No wind blew but carried despair with it.

"Beorc—"Riders overtook him, his own folk, Rhys, riders shining with pale banners which were the black banners of the sons of Dry w, the darkest hue of the world above made pale by this night.

White things fluttered; something deerlike raced beside them, pur sued by the likeness of hounds.

"Stay," voices whispered from the trees, the thickets. "Ahead is pain and wounds. This forest is less dire than the way ahead."

"Your lady will join you here," whispered others. "Your lord has thrown away his chance of worlds to come. Turn aside, follow no more. There is peace in darkness."

"No!" Beorc cried, a voice that had carried across battlefields, but here it seemed wan and weak. "Pay no heed to the voices!"

Then other riders joined them, pale-faced, on horses that moved with soundless stride.

"Madawc!" Rhys cried. "Owein!" A third came close.

"You see I did not leave," Blian Cein's-son said, riding by them.

And others were there, a shadowy band of riders; a plain-faced man rode at their head.

"Ruadhan," Beorc named him.

"You cannot pace us now," Ruadhan said. "We go ahead of you. Look for us at Aescford."

The riders passed them then, pouring ahead of them like shadows in the dark.

Lord Death stayed before them. From Caer Wiell folk rose a shout that shook the shadows. "Follow!" Beorc cried; "Follow!" Rhys shouted. They knew their way now; a madness had fallen on them, that they raced side by side, given a second chance, a hope, a tryst there was no failing.

Before them in the night were fences, sheds, a rambling house with its windows still alight, under a huge old tree. A heron watched them ride by, solemn sentinel along a streambank, water glinting in the starlight—for here were only scattered clouds. Ahead of them the Gruagach slid off his pony and the two ran side by side, the pony jogging, the small Sidhe capering and dancing as if walking were too ordinary for him.

The deer scampered off, with the moonlight on their backs; the fox left them; the sheep went straying, the great oxen too. Only the horses and the ponies kept on their steady pace, and folk began to murmur and to call out to one another as the spell unraveled.

Meadhbh and Ceallach rode up by their mother and Muirne; Leannan joined them with a drowsing rider at his back, one of the youngest pages. Domhnull came up beside them, on Iolaire, and the stallion snuffed the wind and called a greeting to the valley and the barns.

A greeting came back to them. And the doors of the steading opened, pouring out light and people.

"Where can we be?" asked Muirne. "Are they Caer Wiell folk?"

"No," Meadhbh said. There was a shiver in this place, like air before a rain. "It is Sidhe. O mother—"

"We are safe," their mother said, in a faint, faded voice. "I heard once of such a place—Skaga told me of it, when I was young—We are safe here. We must be."

All the people poured after them, up the hill between the fences; and folk met them there at the fence. The foremost of them was a huge man with hair and beard glowing ruddy as the torch he carried.

"I am Beorc," that one said. "And you are welcome."