The Tree of Swords and Jewels

EIGHTEEN Farewells

Autumn came and winter, and the Sidhe who had passed near the Steading in their riding appeared less frequently and not so near, appearing sometimes in the distance and sometimes passing by night in wind and rush of thunder like some wintry storm.

But with snow deep on Steading fields, there still was warmth and crowded comfort, for somehow they had found a place and nook for everyone. The storage on the west of the house was warm and snug; and barnloft held some: they nested everywhere, did Caer Wiell folk, like sheltering birds, and began to laugh again now that dread was past and griefs were healing. Children began to play with Steading children and make snowball ambushes, while farmers talked of spring.

And spring came. The snow melted straightway under a pale fair sun, the nights seemed warmer with gentle winds and a strangely greenish moon.

"Planting time," the farmers said; and the plows turned up sharp ened and the tools set on the porch.

"Who did that?" Caer Wiell folk asked.

And the Gruagach looked wise.

There was an evening the fuaths came, down by the little stream that wandered by the steading; they were two black horses grazing on the margin; and on another evening a black horse bounded the fences just for sport and raced across the fields.

"That would be Seaghda," said Ceallach, and felt a longing in his heart that was cramped by fences.

So Meadhbh felt a longing too, a restlessness beneath this open sky; at night she heard the forest singing, and she thought of the Daoine Sidhe—for they had never left her heart. Indeed a thing had happened with the elf-gifts, and they were never still, so she was never much distressed at the absence of the Sidhe. Not yet, not yet, they said within their hearts.

And there was much to do here, with Caer Wiell folk, with their mother, with Muirne and Domhnull, and Rhys as he healed. There was all the Steading to find out about, and riding to be done, with Flann and Floinn to carry them again. The Gruagach kept them company on the piebald mare, or on the brown pony, and was some times there and sometimes not, according to his whims. They learned the heron's name from him, and what the owls were like, who hunted in the barn; they learned all the horses' true names, and where the brook came from, high up in the hills, and where the brook went, which was down to the sea if one followed it.

We shall go there someday, Meadhbh thought, as she planned other things. And always in her heart she knew the world alive and all about them: she knew when Sidhe were near that no one saw; and that there were two most near them who would come when hearts were healed.

Rhys for his part began to fret about, now that he was healed; one found him sitting on the steading porch and staring forestward. And one evening:

"I shall ride south," he said. "The Sidhe said all was well there, but my folk and I—we've been too long from home. The road at least should be safer."

"I shall ride with you," said Domhnull. "To see these mountains of yours." So Muirne looked up from her spinning by the fire, saying nothing, but with anxiousness.

And Branwyn said nothing, thinking only that such partings were inevitable. That was what she had learned in life. She saw Meadhbh and Ceallach, that silence that came on them in winter and lingered into spring. She marked how grave they could become, how wise their eyes had grown. Ceallach the folk called her son, quite simply, for he was still a boy; but the young King Beorc named him when he spoke of him. King he was, but of what she did not know; and what her daughter was she hardly dared to guess—Meadhbh Beorc called her, just Meadhbh and nothing more, but with that tone he used on King. Meadhbh rode where she liked and nothing harmed her; the ponies came when she wanted and the owls answered when she called to them.

Branwyn did not hope to keep them, or anything else. But she cherished what she had, which was the warmth of friends about her, a hearth to sit by, fences that kept things generally where they be longed . . . but they could keep nothing in nor out that tried. And this was the way of things. Spring came. Her children strayed; Leannan went walking in the hills and sometimes they heard his harping where he played alone, harpsong drifting like magic down the hills, sweeter than the songs he played for them.

And most of all the Sidhe came back with the greening of the land. They would pass on their white horses, usually in the morning, rid ing from the south.

So Branwyn sat on the porch this morning, while Rhys and Domhnull were about whatever preparations they made, and Smith was hammering away down beside the barn. She counted all her memories and wished—so many things.

"They are coming," said the Gruagach, sitting on the step where he had not been before, and then he was gone again.

So Branwyn stood up, glancing to the south; and her heart lifted with the sight of elvish riders by the stream.

And the whole Steading stopped its business when the riders turned up toward the yard.

"Bring food," Beorc called, "and drink! Visitors have come!"

Meadhbh and Ceallach arrived from wherever they had been; Domhnull came, all out of breath, and Rhys; and Muirne from the house. But Branwyn stood still, her heart beating hard, her hands clenched together, for it was Arafel, with Liosliath.

The riders came up by the fence. All clad in green they were, with gray cloaks, and a light seemed to go about them, like the sun upon far hills. They carried bows and swords, rode reinless, and when they slid down by the gate the white horses vanished in that way those horses had.

Folk gathered, making a ring about them—it was always like that, that folk wanted to see, and somehow felt a silence on them and a dread.

"Rhys," said Liosliath, offering his hand. "Domhnull." It was a familiar gesture, like one they had known and lost. He embraced the children, touched their faces; and on his left hand was a mark like a pale smooth star. They kissed him on the cheek and he touched his lips to each brow.

Branwyn clenched her hands. But then he looked at her, and came to the porch step where she stood. His eyes were gray, not like Ciaran's; nothing about him recalled the Man that she had loved— except a gentleness as he took her hand and touched it to his lips, the look within his eyes: I was his friend, it said. He loved you; loves you still. "Branwyn," he said. So it was duty that he paid, this prince of the Daoine Sidhe, who was older than the hills about them and younger than the dawn. She was earth and knew it. But he had to love them. It was Ciaran's heart he had, buried deep within his own.

"Come," said Beorc, "come, sit and drink. Leannan, where is your harp? Be welcome, all who come."

So they went to the great table in the yard. The Gruagach had snatched a cake; he had a pot of ale and perched on the fence to watch. A fox rested near, his long eyes dark and wise. There was milk and honey, cakes and ale and cider and mounds of butter yel low as the flowers that bloomed down by the stream. Her children were there, her friends about her, all that mattered in the world; and she felt fortunate again.

"Is it well with you?" asked Liosliath.

"Well enough," she said, "lord elf."

"The fuaths are back," said Meadhbh at once.

"Oh, well," said Arafel, "that was certain." She sipped at the ciderand a smile touched her face. "Tame trees," she said.

"We like them," said Beorc. "And tend them."

"Fences," said Arafel.

"They have stood you in good stead, elf."

"That they have." A light was in her eye and dancing in the stone that hung upon her breast. "I shall bring you wild honey when next we come. The Gruagach likes his saucer and his cup of ale, but most of all he likes the fields, o Man. For that he labors. And still your fences stand; and shall. But there will be singing in your brook come moonrise. And that will take no saucers and respect no fences." She set the cup aside. "May your tame trees flourish, neighbor. And those who care for them. The luck is on this place and rests on all who find it."

"On our friends," said Liosliath, whose way was to say little. "When you go south, I shall go, and show you wonders."

"Might we?" asked Meadhbh at once.

"Not yet," said Arafel. "But someday soon—The gifts I gave you: how do they fare?"

Meadhbh looked distressed then, looked at Branwyn, and Ceallach did, in a way that boded something, that foretold secrets and Sidhe things long kept from her. Her heart ached without knowing why at the look in her daughter's eyes. I love you, she thought at her children: she was doomed to love the Sidhe, at last, the green magic, the things that would not be held. "I love you," she shaped with her lips, and thought: even if I lose you now.

They brought out the gifts, but no longer leaves—they were stones, filled with light. "They changed," said Ceallach to the Sidhe. "They changed that day."

"So did Miadhail," said Arafel. "He was the only tree born within Man's age. They were his life you bore; no one else could have borne it but Sidhe born within this age. Your burden was more precious than even your father knew. Now they hold your hearts; be careful of them, to keep them what they are."

She looked at Branwyn, a long, gray glance in which the wind forgot to breathe and nothing stirred. "This place will hold you while you will. Forever if you like. But take my counsel—go."

"Go where?" asked Branwyn. "Where should we go? Our enemies have Caer Wiell—do they not?"

"Do you not know by now," asked Beorc beside her, "that you are beyond the sea—that the land has left the world?"

"Then my father—" said Rhys. "My home—"

"Oh, your mountains are here," said Liosliath. "The forest, the plain—all, wherever Camhanach sounded in Men's hearts. The world goes on much as it was. It will not miss this little corner of it. Your mountains, Caer Wiell and Donn—Dun na h-Eoin of the Kings —Men might till the fields, heal old scars, live in peace with Eald— Have you not seen gulls fly here? They come from behind the wind."

"The realms are divided now," said Arafel. "The dark things and the brighter—we could not take the bright and leave the dark to Men. Caer Wiell might be; many things might be, Branwyn of Caer Wiell."

"Go there," said Liosliath.

Tears burned in Branwyn's eyes so that the Sidhe's brightness wavered. "If he were here, lord elf—"

"Do what pleases you. He would say that if he were here."

She thought on it, on fields golden in the sun, on steadings far and wide, and something widened in her heart, forever.

They rode out into the morning and Arafel looked back as the Gruagach capered along the fence rail a little distance, as earthborn horses paced them and whinnied salutation to their own.

"Care for them!" Liosliath called. "Take care for them all!"

"The Gruagach is with them," the Brown Man called. "Fair, o fair the morning, Daoine Sidhe, and the spring will be long, o long—fare well, fare back, light shine on you, Daoine Sidhe!"

The Steading fields lay brown beneath the plow; the hills were turning green and Men had their work before them. Liosliath loved these human folk; there was no helping that.

And if Arafel searched her heart she found a certain joy in seeing the works of Men, neat fields, well cared for, folk keeping their boundaries and observing such swift change within them. They were scattered far, from Dryw in the south to these folk of the Steading. At Dun Gol the drow slept fast. In Lioslinn, in those dark waters— no one knew what slept. But Men would wonder. They would be faring here and there through Eald, and dreaming dreams of things not yet done; but that was the way of Men.

They were chance, and risk and change.

And sometimes there was greatness about them. Liosliath could say so.

If one thing was certain, thought Arafel on this morning of the world, it was that change might happen; and the Daoine Sidhe rode through the land in hope of things unfound.