Chapter 34 #2
“I can. Only some of them have returned. Others have not – have chosen instead to ignore my summons and found ways to escape the hold I have on them, to transfer their allegiance to other beings, also with ancient and formidable power.” She met Rory’s gaze unwaveringly.
“The Bright One is a fearsome creature, wicked and powerful beyond belief, and the grip I keep on the confinement spells of the gods is tenuous at best, taxing to my strength. They are beyond my reach.”
“How many?” Rory asked, licking at her suddenly quaking lips. “I know about the amadán dubh. How many others?”
“Too many, I fear. But,” she said, once more forestalling Rory’s furious storm of questions, “that is not my greatest concern at the moment. The boy cannot linger here, in the realm of the Mórrígan. It is too dangerous, for all of us. He must leave at once.”
Rory shook her head. “I can’t take him back to the witch. She intends to use him as a weapon, to destroy all of éire and beyond – you have seen it for yourself, how she uses him to gain access to the power of the sídhe. He has to stay. It is the only place he will be safe.”
“Safe from the witch – but not from his mother.” The lady of death’s lips pursed as she considered. “There is one realm where she cannot go, where he can be hidden from her grasp, and that of the witch.”
Rory’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Excellent,” she said. “You’ll take him there, then – at once.”
The lady of death threw back her head and laughed, delighted peals of silver-toned amusement.
“Oh my child,” she said. “To stand here and look into the face of death and give it commands – you are my grandmother’s kin indeed.
” She shook her head, still smiling. “No – the realm in which the boy must be hidden is a land into which I may never go. Its delights were lost to me as soon as I accepted this duty, to remain forever in the shadow-realm of Tech Duinn and guide the souls of mortals across the star-studded sea.”
Understanding stole her breath, weakened her knees. Rory reached out to brace her hand against the ice-laden trunk of a yew tree as she exhaled, slow and deep. “You want me to take him to Magh Meall.”
“It is the only option,” said the lady of death, “that does not involve his ruin, one way or the other.” Rory swallowed thickly, heart twisting in pain, in fear, within her chest, and the lady of death continued.
“However, Niamh will not grant him sanctuary long, I fear. Within his chest sleeps despair incarnate, and she will not rest easy with such a being wandering her shores.”
“So I take him to Magh Meall,” Rory said, as steadily as she could. “I take him there, and leave him, and then go back – go home – and then –”
“And then,” said the lady of death, cool and merciless as the ice and snow blanketing the ground all around them, “you do what must be done.”
Rory inhaled, slow and shaky. She could do this, surely – cross the bridge and the star-studded sea, look upon the shores of eternity and the endless plains of delight, to ensure the safety of her brother’s child – to protect him, as she had not protected his father.
She would deliver him into the care of the fairy-queen herself, she thought through the earful pounding in her temples, and then be gone.
She would visit no ghosts, would hear no recriminations or reprimands, however deserved, nor false forgiveness or hollow benedictions.
She would save the boy, and flee – and that would be that.
“Child,” said the lady of death, interrupting her dread-filled thoughts. “To linger too long in this realm is to face a fate worse than death. We must be gone.”
Rory shivered and nodded once, before crouching down next to the still-sleeping child, running her fingers through his sandy-blonde head to awaken him as gently as she could. “Very well,” she said. “Lead the way.”
They walked for a long time, the boy’s cold hand wrapped tight in Rory’s own, the silence between the two women light and cool as a late autumn twilight, not unpleasant yet not comforting either, until at last the twisted black trunks and icy branches of the yew forest thinned somewhat, a few glimmers of what looked like pale watery sunlight flickering between them.
Rory dropped the boy’s hand and quickened her steps, heart thudding as the snow vanished, speckles of white sand suddenly prickling her calves, and in the distance, she could hear it – the low crash and thrum of waves rolling into unseen shores.
She broke into a run and pushed through the last remaining trees, blinking against the sudden sting of salt and wind and seawater lashing across her face.
There it was. The star-studded sea.
Despite its name, there were no stars that she could see in the pale gray sky, none other than a single solitary sun, burning faint and wan far above the dark waters that thundered along the stony shore, leaving white trails of fast-fading foam in their wake.
Gently, she raised her hands to cup her eyes, squinting towards the distant horizon, searching for any sign of what she knew must lie beyond those waves, but could not make out anything other than the silver haze of fog in the distance.
She felt rather than saw the lady of death, followed closely by the boy, appear at her elbow. “Where is the bridge?” Rory asked even as she strove to see what the rise and fall of those crashing waves hid from her. “The bridge across the star-studded sea, the one that leads to Magh Meall?”
“Ah,” said the lady of death. “I did not understand it either myself, once. But soon you will.” She pressed her palm into the surf, lips moving soundlessly, and Rory bit back a gasp as something huge and shimmery formed right before her eyes from the waves – a horse, a silver-blue stallion, with wild, white eyes and a wet glossy mane that fell to its knees.
“The énbarr shall be your escort. Now,” said the lady of death, rising to her feet as she wiped her sand-caked hands against the silk of her skirt. “Go, before you doom us all.”
Rory frowned. “What is it that you are afraid that I might do?”
She turned her golden-fire gaze on Rory, bright and burning and implacable.
“Far too much,” she said, “if you thought it would grant you what you most desire, regardless of the price you would pay for it. We are alike in that regard, I think.” Without waiting for an answer, she gestured towards the waiting horse, pacing in the surf.
“Go,” she said again. “He will carry you both there and bring you back again.”
Rory nodded, and then without another word to the lady of death, she lifted the boy and set him astride the broad, silver-blue back of the énbarr, then vaulted neatly behind him, entwining her fingers in his silky-smooth mane.
“I shall wait for you,” said the golden-eyed queen of the sídhe. “Be swift,” and the énbarr reared, a wordless acknowledgment, then whirled around, drenching them both in a shower of white-foamed surf, and galloped into the sea.