Читать книгу Silver's Bane - Anne Kelleher - Страница 10

You didn’t think to ask? You didn’t think to ask? Artimour’s accusation slammed like a hammer through her head as Nessa fled down the stairs, out of the keep and into the inner courtyard, blindly heading toward the first sanctuary that occurred to her. She stopped up short before she reached the gates. Molly’s lean-to by the river was most likely destroyed, or so befouled by the shredded goblin carcasses the screaming spirits of the naked dead had left in their wake, it would have to be shoveled away.

As it was, once outside, the stench was so overwhelming she felt nausea rise at the back of her throat, and she stumbled into the forge, where the fire had been left to die. Broken swords and spears, shields, and even bows lay in haphazard piles, hastily dumped by the teams of just about every able-bodied person in the keep as part of the cleanup the harried Sheriff was directing even now. Through the open door, Nessa caught a glimpse of him striding, fat and red-faced, through the courtyard in the direction of the gates, bawling orders right and left, surrounded by harried-looking guards, grooms and a motley assortment of refugees young and old, male and female, who hastened to do his bidding. She peered inside the huge iron cauldron they’d used to melt the silver in. Dull and black and coated with ash on the outside, the inside shimmered, pearly and opalescent in the shifting streams of light that poured in through the shutters. Nessa wiped the tears off her cheeks and sniffed. She had made the dagger.

But she’d no choice. When the Duke of Allovale and the sidhe had appeared at her door, they expected a dagger. Once the Duke decided she was capable of making one, he hadn’t offered her a choice. How was she to know the sidhe intended to use it against Artimour, as part of the plot against his half-sister, the Queen of the OtherWorld?

More tears filled her eyes and she tried to blink them away. Artimour had promised to help her find her father, and after last night’s realization that her mother must be somewhere in the OtherWorld, too, held captive, perhaps, she had intended to ask him if he’d help find her mother, as well. But now, it seemed unlikely he’d even continue to look for her father, angry as he was. Not that she blamed him. It was by her hand, if indirectly, he’d been injured. She should find a way to make it right with him. Wasn’t that what her father would tell her to do? With a sigh, she wiped away the tears with the back of her grimy sleeve, got to her feet, tied a leather apron around her neck and waist and began to sort the piled weapons into some semblance of order. Work was always her father’s refuge, too.

She shut her eyes at a wave of loss and grief, remembering with bitter clarity that unseasonably hot autumn night just after the harvest was celebrated, when those two cloaked and hooded figures had come knocking on the door of Dougal’s forge. He’d have been better off if he’d just sent the unlikely pair on their way. That’s what put this whole thing in motion, she thought. The moment he opened the door, it all changed. And that’s exactly how he’d vanished. One moment, Dougal was there, the rock at the center of her world. And the next, he was gone. It was worse than if he’d died and gone to the Summerlands, for at least then she could take comfort in the thought he walked among his ancestors. She could come to terms with his death.

But she would never come to terms with her father lost, like her mother, forever in thrall to the sidhe. And so, armed only with determination and that first goblin’s head, she had gone to look for Dougal in the land beyond the mists that the old stories called TirNa’lugh. The sidhe soldiers who’d found her stumbling over the border had taken her to Artimour, who was different enough from all the other sidhe that she had been able to recognize his mortal blood at once. Different enough to agree to help her.

It was more than that, she knew, for Artimour affected her in a way no one—not even Griffin—ever had. All the village girls older than twelve twittered over this shepherd’s boy or that farmer’s son like a gaggle of broody hens, but she’d never understood what the fuss was all about. She thought of Griffin, of his clumsy kiss goodbye, the way he’d taken her amulet and left his for her to wear, even as her father’s voice echoed out of her memory. This is what they do to you with their OtherWorldly charms. It’s why you stay away from them. Always. And never take off your silver. Never. It was what he’d say if he were here.

But Artimour wasn’t quite like the other sidhe, she was sure of it. His half-mortal blood made him different, much as he might want to deny it, and it was his half-mortal blood that had saved him from the silver’s deadly poison—that and her own work boot.

Nessa fumbled beneath the apron and withdrew Dougal’s amulet. Maybe it only proved Dougal was dead. And maybe I am just a “lovesick, moon-mazed maiden” like all the songs say, she told herself as she dragged three battered shields to the scrap pile she was building on the other side of the forge.

“Nessa?” Molly’s soft voice broke through the smoky gloom, and Nessa looked up to see the corn granny from Killcrag hesitating at the door. “Is that you? Are you in here?”

“It’s me.” She was surprised it had taken Molly this long to find her. She dropped the shields and they fell with a clatter onto the pile. “I don’t want to go to Gar, Molly. Let Uwen tell the Duke what happened with Cadwyr, let Artimour explain how—how he came to be stabbed. Why do I need to be there? Can’t I stay here with you? I can help—”

She heard Molly’s long indrawn breath, heard her soft sigh. “Ah, Nessa.”

Before Nessa could speak, Molly crossed the space between them and drew Nessa into the strong circle of her arms. She felt her throat thicken and her mouth work, and the tears she’d been swallowing spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say to him, Molly. I did make the dagger. It was my fault he was stabbed—”

Molly gently tucked one errant curl behind Nessa’s ear. “You could tell him you’re sorry.”

“I don’t think he wants an apology.”

“Well, there’s not much more he’s likely to get. What’s done is done, child. It’s the past, it’s over. Yes, perhaps you should’ve asked a few more questions, but Cadwyr is a Duke, a noble Duke. You’d no choice, really. He’ll come around to seeing that.”

“Shouldn’t I do something—something to make it right?”

“Make it right? If he were a mortal, perhaps the druid court would set a penalty, but, Nessa, don’t forget. They would also take into account that you are still a child, in the eyes of the law, still beneath your father’s roof, and Cadwyr of such high rank. What choice did you have? No court would judge you half so harsh.” Molly drew back, holding Nessa at arm’s length. “You listen to me, girl. Your father would be proud—”

“That’s exactly it,” Nessa said, her face crumpling. “Artimour promised to help me—but I had this horrible thought last night when I thought about what my—my grandmother’s ghost said to me. What happens if my parents die in the OtherWorld?”

“But no one dies in TirNa’lugh, child. Should you ever find her, your mother will be as young and as fair as the day she was lost to it. That’s what your grammies meant—”

“Molly, I remember one of Granny Wren’s stories, about Vain Thomas who goes to TirNa’lugh and loses his head and his soul is swept up by Herne into the Wild Hunt. Don’t you see, Molly? And Granny Wren said that’s where most of the souls in the Wild Hunt come from, the ones who’re truly lost forever. That’s what I’m afraid of, Molly. I don’t want them lost forever—”

“Well,” said Molly, “you can’t worry about that right now. The lord’s still healing. But I do think if you apologize, Lord Artimour will come around. And besides…” She paused and nodded at the bulky bandage Nessa wore around her left hand to conceal the ring Artimour had given her in token of his promise to look for Dougal in the OtherWorld. “Won’t he want that back?”

“My father always said that honor meant nothing to the sidhe.” Nessa fingered the awkward bump. The central stone was round and hard and felt big as a robin’s egg beneath the linen wrapping.

A stir outside interrupted Molly, and Nessa looked over her shoulder. She heard men calling for the Sheriff, and then Sir Uwen. She glanced at Molly. “Someone’s come.”

Molly nodded. “Nessa,” she said slowly. “Am I wrong to think you’ve never been to the greenwood, as they say, with any man, even the ’prentice lad? Griffin?”

Mortified, Nessa shook her head, wondering how to explain to this kind-eyed woman how Dougal had communicated without words that he both desired and condoned distance between himself and Nessa, and the rest of the village. From memory’s dark well, she heard Dougal’s voice, deep and halting. Your mother was the sort of girl the lads all liked. As long as Nessa could remember, it seemed that there was something about this aspect of her mother that was irrevocably tied to her susceptibility to the sidhe. Which was why the goodwives all watched her. “My—my mother—my father said my mother was the girl the lads all liked.”

“And he warned you away from the lads altogether?”

“Well, no. Not really.” She hesitated. “He said that the reason the goodwives watched me so hard was to see if I was going to be like my mother that way. Because that’s what drew the sidhe, they all thought. That she was…like that.” And the easiest way to avoid their eyes and their whispers and their questions was to avoid all the men as much as possible, as well, thus earning for herself a reputation for being more taciturn than even Dougal.

Molly was silent for a moment, and then spoke slowly. “Well, then. I suppose that explains that.” Again she hesitated. “But tomorrow you’re about to go off—” And again she broke off, and Nessa wondered what the wicce-woman wanted to say.

“What are you worried about?”

Molly’s brows shot up and she laughed. “Worried isn’t exactly the word I’d use. Your father wanted to protect you, but there are things a woman must know, things only a woman can know, and only a woman can teach. You’re far too innocent and unaware of the effect you have on the young men around you.” Once more she paused, and in the gloom, her eyes twinkled. “There’s an old saying that’s proven true more often than not in my experience. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Flustered, Nessa stared at the weapons lying in half-sorted heaps. “What do you mean?”

Molly smiled gently. “Griffin’s in love with you, did you know that?”

“Griffin?” echoed Nessa. She did not like thinking about Griffin, she realized, especially with Artimour so close. She’d known intuitively, from the moment she had first contemplated Artimour’s arrival in Killcairn, that it would upset Griffin to know how Artimour made her feel. Griffin’s clumsy farewell kiss, the amulet he’d left behind for her, even the pack of food he’d hastily thrust into her hands before she’d crossed over into the OtherWorld—each memory sent a guilty pang through her, even as they bore silent testimony to the truth of Molly’s assertion.

Molly looked at her with one raised brow.

“He took my amulet,” Nessa said, knowing that Molly had already talked to Griffin himself. “And left his for me. Is that why? You really think he loves me?”

Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight filtering through a loose shingle on the roof, and Molly’s brown eyes twinkled. “What do you think?”

In colored fragments of sight and sound, images of suddenly remembered snippets twisted themselves around Molly’s sentences, weaving a coherence and a meaning into the fabric of her memories that she only now understood: Griffin watching from the other side of the yard as she shoveled coal; blushing suddenly as she reached for a pitcher and the neck of her summer tunic dipped low; splashing water on her late last summer, then backing away, with a face reddened by what she’d assumed was exertion when the entire bucket upended over her breasts, flattening the thin summer linen against the round curves so that her dark nipples were as perfectly visible as if she were naked, even as Dougal immediately barked, “Cover yourself, girl,” and tossed her a cloak. How long had Griffin’s feelings been growing, while she, all the while, was unaware? “You think I should marry Griffin?”

Molly looked completely taken aback. “Goodness, girl, what gave you thought of that?” She reached out and touched Nessa’s cheek, then her hair. “Your father was right in a way. You’re not like the others—to be honest, I suspect you’re Beltane-made, much as he denies it for some reason. But like your mother, the lads like you, too. Though unlike her, I don’t think you know what you do to the lads. So you trust your heart and mind that birch staff of yourn. That tree has a powerful, protecting spirit to it, and she’s sent a piece of herself out into the world with you. I think if your father’d had his way, he’d’ve built a wall higher than hedgerow and thicker than an oak around the forge, to keep you safe within.” She touched Nessa’s hair again, smoothing it back from her burning face. “But now you’re about to go off with two men—two men, either one of which would set any maid’s heart aflutter.”

“Even Uwen?” Nessa wrinkled her nose. She thought of Uwen’s crooked grin and offset jaw and bony frame. He might be one of the Duke of Gar’s own Company, but she could not imagine anyone finding Uwen the least bit attractive.

But Molly smiled. “Ah, child. I’ve seen a few make it very obvious that they’d happily join Sir Uwen on a trip to the greenwood, and one or two who have. You’ve not been paying attention. Sooner or later, whether it’s Griffin or Uwen, or this sidhe-lord himself, don’t be afraid to lie with any man you truly desire, for what happens between a man and a woman is the root of every kind of magic worked in this world, and the Other, too, I imagine.”

Nessa closed her eyes as she remembered riding through the forest of the OtherWorld, sharing Artimour’s saddle. She remembered the pungent resin rising from the dark green pines, the slow flutter of gold leaves, the feeling of his velvety hose against the backs of her legs as they dangled awkwardly off the horse, the solidity of his chest against her back, the smooth satiny feeling of the saddle between her thighs. A part of her understood that Molly had imparted knowledge of much importance—that had something to do with why the wicce-women were said to be had for a silver coin and what they did to make the fields fertile and the corn grow—but all that really seemed to matter right now was that she somehow make peace with Artimour.

“Granny Molly? Nessa?” Uwen’s voice sounded so different, that for a moment, Nessa wasn’t sure who stood starkly silhouetted at the threshold. It was Uwen’s familiar bony form, but it was hardly Uwen’s voice, for it fell hollow and flat, totally devoid of his usual light, teasing lilt. “There may be a change in plans. A band of Cecily’s clansmen from Mochmorna came in just now. They took refuge last night in an abandoned dovecote somewhere in the hills. But they’d a druid with them who’d an idea of what to do and he summoned up the dead. Seems Donnor’s ghost was seen among them.”

The Duke of Gar was dead, the castle was in shambles, and Cecily, his widow, did not feel at all the way she imagined a widow was supposed to feel. If Donnor was dead, it was his own fault. She’d tried to warn him not to trust Cadwyr, his nephew and his heir, begged him to wait until at least half his Company could be assembled. But no, he insisted on riding out on some trumped-up excuse a blind mule could see through. She had thought, at first, that only she and Kian had seen Donnor’s gray ghost as it picked its way across the carcass-littered field, fading into the blessed Samhain dawn. But everyone on the walls had seen it, and rumor ran rampant as a ram in rut through every level of the castle, leaving even the most hardened of the warriors looking stricken as an orphaned lamb.

Now she picked her way across what yesterday had been the outermost ward, flanked on one side by Kestrel, the ArchDruid of Gar, and at least six of his highest-ranking fellows, and on the other by Mag, the chief still-wife, and as many wicce-women as could be coaxed away from the nursing and the grieving. They would never survive another night if the goblins came back. But if there was a way to prevent them, both druids and corn grannies were conspicuously silent. Her thoughts chased each other like a dog its tail.

A silence as leaden as the lowering sky hung heavy over all, deadening the slap of her boots, muffling the sobs of those few strong-stomached souls who came forward to press a kiss on her hand as they searched amidst the rubble for possessions abandoned and befouled. On the walls, the engineers and stonemasons directed teams in the critical repairs of the curtain wall. On command, the men bent and with a mighty heave, lifted the great stone block on a huge wooden lever as another team swung it into position. The dull thud of stone, punctuated by the creak of timber and the shouted directions of the men echoed flatly across the yard, as if the sounds were swallowed by the huge holes the goblins had torn in the walls, soaked up by the deep gashes of bloodied earth. She pressed the linen square soaked in peppermint oil more tightly to her nostrils and swallowed hard as she realized she had nearly stepped on a foot. “Be careful.”

She held out an arm to prevent anyone else from stepping on the remains, and signaled to a team of stable hands who, with linen kerchiefs wrapped across the lower half of their faces, armed with a shovel, a pick and a wheelbarrow, gathered up remains as carefully as they could.

Smoke from the midden-fires stung her eyes, and on the high tor behind the castle, a slow procession wound up the steps carved into the hill, carrying the bodies to the funeral pyre the druids of lower degree were building. Swarming on the standing stones, others set up the iron frames to hold the plates of glass that, when properly positioned, would focus the rays of the setting sun so as to bring about the spontaneous combustion of the bodies. At least, it was supposed to bring about the spontaneous combustion of the bodies. Kestrel and the other druids had emerged from their hiding place in the wine cellars and announced that all who’d died on Samhain would be given nothing less than a full druid funeral. As if that would bring the dead back. As if that would protect the living when the goblins returned.

A couple of the corn grannies paused and spat thick greenish wads of cud-wort on the ground, aiming expertly between two stones. Cecily hoped her lip hadn’t curled automatically. Cud-wort was considered a low habit, but many of the corn grannies were addicted to it. It was said to give one clearer dreams.

She looked around the ruined ward. All her dreams were nightmares. Now they stood vulnerable, not just to goblins, but to Cadwyr. Cadwyr, who’d murdered Donnor. Cadwyr, who was in league with the sidhe. Before Samhain, she and Kian had told Kestrel their suspicions, but the druid had listened skeptically, clearly unconvinced that either goblins or sidhe existed, except in the mind of a moon-mazed girl. She hoped that last night had made believers of everyone.

But she was even more afraid of Cadwyr, if that were possible, than the goblins, for Cadwyr had made it clear before he left with Donnor that he considered Cecily part of Donnor’s bequest. And for all she knew, she thought with weary realization, maybe she had been. Maybe that’s how Donnor had rationalized taking her for himself, if he had in fact done as Cadwyr charged, and offered himself to her parents rather than Cadwyr as a suitor for her hand. Maybe he considered her as much a part of the holdings of Gar as Cadwyr did. What would they all say if they knew she was too angry at Donnor to care that he was dead?

She caught sight of Kian, Donnor’s First Knight, working with the other men on the walls, stripped down to his shirt despite the cold wind. The strip of linen bound around his face could not disguise his flaxen braids, nor the familiar lines of his body beneath the sweaty, dirty clothes. As she watched, Kian squatted down and gripped one end of the long wooden pole, and, at a signal, pressed down on it with all his weight. His arms and back bulged with the knotted cords of his muscles. At the other end of the lever, a team grabbed the ropes around the block and wrestled it into place. Kian set the lever down, stripped his mask off and used it to mop his face. As exhausted and as frightened as she was, her own body stirred in response.

For Kian was the man she loved. She loved his strength, she loved his smile, she loved the way the other knights loved him. He had the gift of making people like him, for he led with smiles and faultless courtesy. Donnor had loved him, too, until last Beltane, when the goddess had led her to choose Kian to take her to his Beltane bower. From that day, Donnor had been deaf to all but the angry mutterings of his thwarted heart. But Donnor was dead.

“We’ll measure the angles from the top of the tor itself—take them at sunset and dawn, as well,” Kestrel was saying. The ornately embroidered lining of his wide sleeve flashed a startling green against the outer white as he pointed first at the sun, then at the tor, the vivid color at stark odds to the stained gray drab and homespun everyone else, even Cecily, wore.

“We’ll need measurements from the towers, too, won’t we?” put in another.

“But what about the goblins?” Cecily asked. All the druids wanted to talk about were the funeral plans, which would have been understandable, even expected, perhaps, under any other sort of circumstances. “Can any of you tell me if they’ll come back tonight? Or if there’s a way to stop them? If the dead will rise and fight?”

The wicce-women exchanged surreptitious glances with each other and looked pointedly at the druids. Kestrel cleared his throat and the others flapped their robes and shifted from foot to foot. They’d all failed miserably last night, and they knew it. Shouts from above momentarily distracted her, and she peered through one of the huge holes in the outer curtain wall to see a speck of dust emerge from the eastern road leading out of the forest. A rider, she thought, coming fast. Someone else had survived Samhain. She saw that Kian noticed as well, but he went on with the task at hand. There were not many hours of daylight left. So she too turned back to Kestrel. “Well?”

Kestrel linked his hands together beneath his capacious white sleeves and cleared his throat again before he answered. “The bards are studying the druidic verses, my lady, and the elder brethren have been in the groves since early this morning, interpreting the trees. To be sure, however, these are arcane matters, the learning encoded so as not to be easily understood by the uninitiated.”

“I’m not asking to understand, Master Druid. I just want to know how to protect us. Can we count on the dead?” But the only answer was the flap of the mourning banners from the towers. Someone—probably Mag, or maybe even Kian—had seen to that.

“They came because it was Samhain and they could,” whispered a corn granny. “We can’t count on them again, til next Samhain.”

Cecily immediately looked at the women, but it was impossible to know who had spoken. “Will they come back?”

The painful silence was broken by Kestrel’s snort. “They don’t know any more than anyone else.”

“What about the goblins?” Cecily asked again. “Will they come back tonight?”

“At Imbolc,” blurted Mag this time.

“The blood of the new lambs will bring them. Our magic can hold them back til then, but come Imbolc, ’tis druid magic that’s needed.” Another granny spoke up, from somewhere behind Mag. The words were followed by a hawking cough, and a green gob shot through the air, landing with a loud smack right in front of Kestrel. He startled back, and Cecily caught the flash of red Lacquilean leather under his heavy woolen robes. Serves him right, she thought. What sort of fool would wear such finery in a mess like this? An answer ran through her mind unbidden: One who thought it easily replaced. But they’re not likely to be readily replaced, thought Cecily, even as she dismissed all thoughts of Kestrel and his boots.

Kestrel’s lips quirked down as his eyebrows arched up. “There you are, ask the wicce-women,” Kestrel sniffed. “They seem to know all about it.” He turned away, waving a hand back and forth in front of his face, as if the very smell of them offended him. Cecily looked down at the bubbled green slime glistening in the sunlight and felt nauseous herself.

But she couldn’t let that deter her. “Please tell me what you can. Anyone. Please.”

It was the women’s turn to exchange glances, to shuffle restlessly beneath shawls and skirts, like a motley flock of roosting broody hens. They ranged in age from women who looked no older than the oldest of her foster sisters, to the most wizened of crones.

“Please,” Cecily said again. “Whatever you think might help.”

Kestrel coughed.

It was the druids, Cecily knew. The druids looked down on the wicce-women, and their magic was considered something less, because, as the grannies said, they carried their magic in their hearts and not their heads, and certainly not in arcane verses in half-forgotten languages, or obscure symbols slashed on the limbs of trees.

“They’re laughing at us, Your Grace,” Mag sniffed back and folded her arms across her ample bosom. Kestrel claimed that she had sabotaged a Mid-Winter ritual one year by deliberately adding dream-bane to the required mix of herbs. Unable to achieve the necessary trance, the druids had stormed off in a huff, and the rite itself disintegrated into a riotous festival, which culminated in a fight in which several of Donnor’s knights had nearly died. This alone was not so unusual, but the druids were expected to help keep the order, and so Donnor had blamed the druids. And thus the druids, never among the most favored of the inhabitants of Gar, for even the lowest considered himself the equal of the Duke, fell a few more points in Donnor’s grace.

But Donnor was dead. “I don’t think there’s much to laugh about,” replied Cecily.

The speck on the horizon had resolved itself into a rider, who entered the ruined gates with a look of glazed exhaustion. He barely cleared the wrecked gatehouse when he slid to the ground, even as his horse collapsed. Cecily saw guards and two women scavenging amidst the rubble run to his side, even as Kian leaped off the walls and hurried over, calling for water. Let it be from Donnor himself, she thought. Let that shade have been nothing but a trick of the light. Let us all have been wrong.

But she knew in her heart such hope was only futile. She saw Kian glance at her over his shoulder as he swung the rider up into his arms, and understood he’d seek her out as soon as he could. Followed by the women, he took off in the direction of the summer kitchens.

“Please,” she said again.

There was a long silence and another gust of wind brought a blast of reek. “They come three times a year,” said a low, hoarse voice. “Three times…three times…three times, the gates between the worlds swing wide.” The voice quivered, as if some tremendous amount of energy was being repressed. The women parted, and a small, pudgy granny with hair like dandelion wisps stood rocking on her feet, as her hands twitched up and down before her. “Three nights…three times…three nights…our magic cannot hold. Three times our magic cannot hold.”

“Three times? And when—what three times are those?” Cecily prodded. She glanced at Kestrel and the other druids, hoping they had the sense to hold their tongues. They appeared to be paying close attention. The druids were all trained to remember. Many of them could repeat, word for word, conversations that had taken place before them decades past.

But the granny shook her head with closed eyes.

“At Samhain, Imbolc and Lughnasa.” It was another voice, softer this time. A woman with the face of a turtledove and a shawl the color of a robin’s breast eased around Mag. She was chewing a wad of cud-wort that she shifted from cheek to cheek as she spoke. “At Beltane, the sun’s too strong and the light holds them back. But at the other three—only druid magic can hold them back.”

Cecily glanced at the druids. That was the problem. The druids didn’t seem to know what exactly their magic was. “What about the other times? The rest of the year?” The granny visibly quailed, and even Mag wouldn’t meet Cecily’s eyes. “Mag, please.”

Mag huffed. “Do you have any idea what they say about us?”

Cecily drew a deep breath. She looked at the women’s worn, guarded faces, their shoulders broadened and bent, their hands rough and callused. She knew what was said about the wicce-women—that they wanted men for only one thing, that at the dark of the moon, they did unspeakable things to make the corn grow. “You don’t have to reveal anything. Just tell me if you think there’s something you can do.”

Mag nodded shortly. “We think there is.”

“Can you be sure?”

“Our hearts tell us to be sure.” She met Cecily’s eyes steadily.

“Do you really think it will work?”

“We believe that it will.”

“They don’t have any idea it will work at all,” interrupted Kestrel. “Whatever ‘it’ is. That’s the whole point, my lady, and that’s what makes corn magic such a lot of nonsense. They don’t know—they base their knowing, such as it is, on no authority. No verse or rune guides them, no teacher even teaches. It all just comes to them in a flight of fancy. Or in a puddle of that weed they chew.” He sniffed, and immediately pressed his own oil-soaked wad of linen to his nostrils. “The corn grows. The sun shines, and the rain falls. There’s nothing to say their rituals work.”

Cecily drew a deep breath. This was an old, old argument and one that she had largely been able to ignore her entire life, for what the druids, the masters of ancient wisdom, poetry and law, thought of the wicce-women, the healers, the corn grannies who worked the corn magic in the fields, and vice versa, had never affected her in any meaningful way. As the daughter of two of the greatest Houses in Brynhyvar, with a potential role to play in the governing of the land, it was a forgone conclusion that she would study with the druids. And as a woman, her duties required her to have a knowledge of herbs and simples, and that brought her in close contact with Mag, a corn granny longer than Cecily had been at Gar. Both necessary, both separate. But now…

She rubbed her forehead, as if to clear away the flinty edge of desperation and exhaustion that threatened to cloud her mind completely. “There’s nothing to say that it doesn’t. We have to try anything. We can’t waste time arguing who has the greater magic and the truer understanding, for the goblins surely won’t wait for us to decide.”

“Grannies’ll have us all tuppin’ in the fields tonight, you wait,” said a druid from the depths of his hood. A snicker went through the druids like wind through wheat. The women exchanged glances.

Cecily raised her chin. “I’d rather tup out there than die in here.” She met their eyes and tossed her hair back in a gesture she was quite sure was the last one a widow was expected to make, and winked. She turned back to the women, and met the eyes of each in turn. “Say what you will.”

“We’ve no wish to be laughed at.”

“No one will laugh,” said Cecily. She held up her hand. “And if anyone thinks he might,” she paused and looked over the druids. “Think on this first. In five hundred years, since these walls were built, no enemy’s stood where we’re standing now. The walls have never been breached. But the goblins tore these walls apart like they were made of sticks.” She looked Kestrel square in the eyes. “I’ll tup in the fields myself if that’s what it takes.” And expect you there alongside me, she nearly said, but that thought was nearly as horrifying as another goblin attack.

The hint of a smile lifted Mag’s mouth, but she still sounded hesitant. “We must…we’ll begin at sunset, isn’t that right, Granny Lyss? When the sun slips below the trees, below the tor, beside the river, the oldest granny, Granny Lyss, here—” she stepped back and indicated a tiny, wizened, birdlike woman, who was working on such an enormous piece of cud-wort, it slipped in and out between her lips with the motion of her jaw “—will work the rite. We need a volunteer, of course. A man. In his prime, or near approaching it.”

“Nah, the younger the better—fourteen, fifteen.” The old woman spoke in a quavering voice and tapped Mag’s arm with a curved finger that ended in a thick yellowed nail.

“That’s disgusting,” muttered Kestrel. “Completely and totally disgusting.”

“Can you think of anything else?” asked Cecily. The greasy smoke made her eyes burn. Fire, she thought. Perhaps a ring of fire would deter them. She made a mental note to suggest that to Kian.

“Would be better magic if one of them would do it,” said the old woman, and Cecily saw she had no teeth and her lips were drawn into her mouth, like those of the corpses who’d gone with Herne. What lad would volunteer? she wondered. And she wondered if even Kian could be induced to lie with such a woman.

“I’ll do it.” The voice resonated like a born bard’s, but the tall boy who pushed through the druids was slight of build, his skin pimpled patchy red.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Kestrel. “I thought you were gathering up the dead—”

“I was,” he answered. “I overheard.” He gestured to his stained white robes. “What do you need me to do?”

“What’s your name, young druid?” asked Cecily, bemused.

“He’s not a druid.” Kestrel rolled his eyes. “He’s naught but a third-degree bard and he’s always where he’s not needed and never where he is.”

“Well, then, young third-degree bard, what’s your name?” Cecily motioned to Granny Lyss to stop cackling.

“I’m Jammor, Your Grace. Jammor of the Rill, they call me.” He bowed and handed Kestrel his shovel with such a flourish, she nearly laughed aloud despite the situation.

“Oh, indeed, he’ll do right fine,” cackled Granny Lyss. “Come over here, boy, and let me feel your arm.”

“Tell him, first, what he’s in for, and see if he’s still interested.” Kestrel stepped forward and pushed the shovel back into Jammor’s hands. “Get back to work.”

“Now, just you wait, young man,” cried Granny Lyss. “I want a look at you—”

The boy hesitated, even as Kestrel opened his mouth to protest, and the impasse was broken by Kian, who came striding over the rubble, picking his way with the grace of a mountain cat, despite his size. But his expression was grim. At once Cecily asked, “What word, Sir Kian?”

“A sad word, that we expected,” answered Kian. He paused on the periphery of the group and sought her eyes with his. “It’s just as we feared, my lady. Great Gar is dead.” He glanced at Kestrel, then at Mag. “If you’d be so kind as to step aside a moment with me, my lord druid? Still-wife? Your Grace?”

“Shall we talk about the funeral?” Kestrel asked as Kian shepherded the three of them behind a pile of rubble. Blood stained the stones, and goblin gore clung here and there to the ruined wall, but at least the worst had been removed, thought Cecily as she carefully stepped over a suspicious pile of cloth.

“Funeral?” said Kian. He had removed his mask, and his face was furrowed with worry and exhaustion, and grime and sweat streaked his skin. “There’s no time to talk of funerals, my lord. Donnor’s death isn’t the only news the scout brought. Cadwyr of Allovale has raised his colors over Ardagh, and ten thousand mercenaries from Lacquilea are marching up from the south, led by one of Cadwyr’s foster brothers.”

They all gasped. Kestrel glanced around, white robes bluish in the shadows, so that his garments seemed to blend in with the stone. “Surely the messenger’s mistaken? What about the King? What about the Court?”

Kian shook his head, grim-faced. “He never got that close. He was sent back ahead of the rest. He did flank Cadwyr’s army. There’s at least two thousand horse, four thousand foot. Between them and the mercenaries, Cadwyr’s got nearly three times what we could muster ourselves.”

“Where did he get all those men?”

Kian shook his head slowly. “The lad didn’t get close enough to see if they were men, my lady. And if they are—” He broke off and put his hands on his hips. “Who knows what promises Cadwyr has made to others?”

“Do you really think Cadwyr is leading an army of the sidhe?” Cecily asked.

“You can’t seriously believe—” began Kestrel.

“How can you have seen those monsters last night, and Great Herne, too, and not believe what we tell you?” interrupted Cecily. “None of us want to believe it, my lord. None of us wanted to believe it before.” Kestrel had refused from the first to believe Kian’s tale of the blacksmith’s daughter and the sidhe.

“But this was what Donnor meant when he told me an opportunity had arisen suddenly, one that wouldn’t wait. Donnor knew about Cadwyr’s plan to use the sidhe.”

“And now he’s marching on Gar,” said Kian.

“Well, did this scout see any sign of any—any Other?” asked Kestrel. “What other evidence is there, really?”

“Other than Cadwyr’s colors over a castle that’s built on a rock over a whirlpool? What other evidence do you need, you old goat?” asked Mag with such derision that Cecily raised her brow. Mag was, after all, but the still-wife.

“They came upon a squadron or so of archers, who looked to be butchered where they stood,” answered Kian. “Most of them didn’t even have time to draw their sidearms.”

“So no one’s actually seen any—” said Kestrel.

“We’ve a witness,” said Kian. “The blacksmith’s daughter from Killcairn. Don’t you recall?”

“Have you any better explanation, Lord Druid?” asked Mag.

“I don’t want to believe it, either, my lord,” Cecily repeated. “But for all we know, Cadwyr may have a bargain with the goblins as well. I don’t think we can discount any possibility.”

“Cadwyr would not dare—” exploded Kestrel.

“He’s already dared to make himself master of Ardagh. I think we may well believe Cadwyr’s capable of anything,” said Cecily. “How soon will he be here?”

“We must call for an Assembly at once, obviously,” said Kestrel. “Donnor’s funeral will give us our perfect—”

“Oh, will you stop blathering about funerals?” interrupted Mag. “Cadwyr’s loosed both sidhe and goblin on us—how soon will he be here?”

“But I’m the one he wants,” said Cecily, thinking fast. “With Donnor dead, he considers Gar already his. I doubt he’ll attack the castle. Especially if I’m not here.” She looked at Kian, and was grateful to see him nod.

“Not here? Your Grace, you can’t leave—” began Kestrel. “Think of your duty—think of the people—Where would you go?” The color drained from his face and suddenly he looked sick. “And besides, what makes you think Duke Cadwyr would harm you? It has ever been my observation that the Duke cherishes you—” He broke off and glanced away, refusing to meet Cecily’s eyes.

“Cecily has a better claim to the throne.” Despite the situation, Cecily looked up, for it was the first time Kian had used her name in public. Donnor’s dead, and I am free. “She has to leave, my lord,” Kian continued. “We don’t know what Cadwyr’s bringing with him. Obviously he must’ve used the sidhe against Ardagh. There was no damage to the castle, do you understand? Whatever he brought against Hoell was awful enough that they opened the doors and let him walk in. I’ve but a quarter of the men I had yesterday. And I had less than half a full garrison to begin with.”

He used my name, Cecily thought again, and a part of her that was so long buried she had nearly forgotten it ever existed within her stirred to new life. Her heart skipped a beat. Donnor is dead, she thought with a little burst of the most unseemly happiness. Donnor’s dead and I’m free. We are free.

“But you’ve no reason to think—”

“I have every reason to think that Cadwyr intends to force himself upon me, my lord druid,” Cecily snapped. He’d been like this before Samhain, too, insisting on questioning everything.

The druid shut his mouth with an audible pop as a shadow crossed his face, and bitter shrieks made Cecily turn her head to see a flock of ravens rise and wheel off the roof of the Great Hall. The ravens are the Marrihugh’s birds, she thought, and she is marching across this land in her crow-feathered boots. She must’ve been well pleased last night.

“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.