“Quite right,” put in Luachan.
I slipped out from the blanket’s meager protection and stood in the downpour, feeling more than a little foolish.
“Caisin Silverhair!” I yelled. “We need your help! In the name of Sevenwaters and of all that is good, please come to our aid now!” A puny voice, soon lost in the darkness. I would not call again. I crouched down and crept back in with the others.
“You’re all wet,” observed Finbar, edging away from me.
“Come on this side, Maeve.” Luachan reached out a hand and guided me over. Now he was in the middle, with me on his right and Finbar on his left. He put his arm around my shoulders. It was not quite appropriate, but it felt remarkably good. The warmth of his body soaked into mine. Such a simple thing could not dispel the endless dark, but it gave me new courage. We waited.
It was a long time. It was so long that I became quite sure Caisin Silverhair had not heard my summons. Or if she had, she had chosen to disregard it. I could not think of a single time, in the old tales, when the Tuatha De had done the bidding of humankind.
“She’ll come,” Finbar murmured, as if saying it might make it happen.
“I don’t mind if she doesn’t,” I said, “as long as we get home one way or another.”
“One way or another,” said Luachan, “I’m sure we will. If not by fey assistance, then by our own efforts. It must be day sometime. Once it’s light, we can go on even in this rain.” A shudder ran through him as if, in keeping us warm, he had grown colder.
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
“I’m fine, Maeve.” There was a note in his reply that forbade further inquiries; perhaps he did not like to seem weak. “I’ve been out here a far shorter time than you or Finbar.”
I thought of him riding in search of us. I remembered the river that must be crossed and the precarious bridge over which Bear had followed me, forcing back his terror to be with the one he loved. The river would be swollen with rain now, coursing wildly, breaking its banks. “What bridge did you use, Luachan? How did you get Blaze across?”
“I only know of one bridge.” He sounded surprised. “It’s—”
And then he was silent, for the rain was abating, and the darkness
was relieved, at last, by a faint light. Luachan lifted up the blanket and I saw what looked like a row of small lanterns, approaching us from deep in the forest. As they drew closer, and as the rain eased from a steady fall to a pattering shower, the lights were revealed to be suspended on poles, each held by a cloaked figure.
The gray-cloak people
, I thought, my stomach churning with unease.
“I told you she would come.” Finbar spoke with utter conviction.
“But what if—”
“Maeve of Sevenwaters!”
There was no doubting it now, for the melodious voice that rang out was that of Caisin Silverhair herself. Her greeting was alarmingly formal this time. I reminded myself that I was a chieftain’s daughter and must respond in an appropriate manner. I struggled out of the shelter, rose to my feet and straightened my shoulders. I tried to forget that I was soaked to the skin, filthy and unkempt. She stood perhaps six paces from me. On each side of her was a woman bearing a little round lantern hanging from a kind of crook. The glow from these lights gave Caisin’s perfect features a rosy tint. Her companions wore their hoods up; what I could see of their faces told me they were like the Fair Folk who had ridden past my refuge by night. Each was as lovely as a wildflower. Behind them stood others of their kind. Their cloaks were not gray but green, brown, deepest blue.
Should I wait for Caisin to speak, since she was my senior, and this was her world? No. I did not want to hear
poor child
, or
oh dear
, or any of those remarks folk tended to toss my way without thinking.
“I regret that I needed to call for your help, my lady,” I said. “I would not have done so had our circumstances been less difficult. I found my brother, and I was on my way home with him and…a friend. We were caught by the storm and a sudden darkness came down. If you are able to shelter us until it grows light again, we will be most grateful.” I hoped the tone of my speech was appropriate: neither too obsequious nor too confident. “And shelter for the horse, if that’s possible,” I added.
“Let me see your brother and this friend you speak of.”
They were already emerging. Finbar paused to fold up the blanket before he turned to look at her. Luachan gave her a graceful bow.
“My lady.”
“Ah.” Caisin’s brows rose. “A druid. A young, comely, well-mannered druid, right here on my doorstep. Now, that is unusual.”
“Luachan is Finbar’s tutor. He was searching for us. As are many others. I need to get my brother safely home. But we can’t go by night.”
“You must come home with me, of course, daughter of Sevenwaters. It is not far. We will guide you. Food, drink, warm water for bathing, a soft bed, a hearth fire—these things can be provided for you. And in the morning we will talk.”
Warm water. Every inch of my wretched, grubby, itching body yearned for it. But there were some things I needed made clear first. “In the morning, we will go home,” I said firmly. “And if any kind of payment is required for your help, I’d like to know now what it is. I’m sorry if that seems discourteous—I am most thankful to you, especially for your help in finding my brother. But I will not enter into any bargains I cannot keep.”
Caisin’s laughter was a peal of silver bells. I noticed that her cloak was quite dry, though she must have walked here in the rain. “No bargain, Maeve,” she said. “It would be churlish indeed if I expected anything of you in return for a single night’s shelter. Your company, perhaps, and that of your druidic friend here. No more than that.”
Even that, I thought, could mean more than it seemed to. And I wanted to ask,
My company for how long? Tonight? A hundred years? Forever?
But I did not say it, for Finbar was looking like a pinch-faced ghost and Luachan was visibly shivering as he coaxed the cramped Blaze up onto her feet. I must make the choice to trust Caisin. Thus far she had been a friend.
“Thank you,” I said. “We accept with gratitude.”
“Just one thing.”
I might have known it. “And what is that?” I asked, working on calm.
“Your companion must put down his weapons. A druid should know better than to carry iron across the bridge. The child, too, must give up his knife.”
Before I could say a word, Finbar had slipped his little knife out of its sheath and laid it on the ground. “I am very sorry, my lady,” he said, in a manner that would have given our mother great pride. “There was nobody else to protect my sister.”
Caisin smiled. “You are possessed of a courage that well outweighs your size, Finbar,” she said. “Your weapon will be kept safe for you, and returned to you when you need it.” The smile faded. “And you, druid.”
Luachan looked displeased, as well he might; he had already failed once, as my father had seen it, in his role as Finbar’s bodyguard.
“You’d better do it, Luachan,” I murmured.
He set down his short sword, a dagger, a little knife that had been hidden in his boot.
Caisin lifted her brows. “There is more,” she said evenly. Her lovely eyes were fixed on him; she might have been admiring his chiseled features and well-made body or judging him as an enemy to be watched. I could not read her expression.
Luachan reached into the folds of his druidic robe and brought out a small spiky object that glinted in the lantern light. He threw it down. I could not see exactly what it was. He straightened, looking Caisin in the eye. “You require me to remove my horse’s harness as well, my lady?” His tone was not a druid’s, measured and calm, but the assured, challenging voice of the nobly born warrior he had been. “Had I known we would be needing to rely on your hospitality, I would have ridden out on my rescue mission with only a rope bridle.”
Caisin regarded him, unsmiling. “Leave the harness; my grooms will deal with it.” And, as he made to interrupt, perhaps with a query about tomorrow: “All your belongings will be returned when you require them. Now let us walk. You are wet and cold, and the forest is in darkness.”
Not,
and it’s nighttime
, I thought. Because she knew, as I did,
that this sudden night was an uncanny thing. Once we reached shelter, once I was clean and warm again, I would ask her outright if she believed Mac Dara had done it. I would ask whether she thought Swift had been led or coaxed into the Otherworld with the express purpose of drawing Finbar and me in after him. And I would ask if she knew why.
I was curious to know what sort of house a fey noblewoman might inhabit. In the old tales, they dwelled in hollow hills, in caverns rich with glowing insects and floored with animal skins, or in airy dwellings under the trees. In that realm there was an endless summer. Yet here we were, in company with Caisin and her attendants, making our way along a pathway strewn with the debris of today’s storm: piles of sodden leaves; scatterings of stones; the sad, small corpse of something that had been dislodged from a nest far above or washed from a snug burrow by the driving rain. Perhaps the endless summer was an invention, along with many other wondrous details of the fey realm. Perhaps Caisin Silverhair and her kind lived in quite modest dwellings. Or maybe they floated around with no need of food, drink or shelter for themselves, their needs constantly met by means of enchantments.
Two of Caisin’s attendants led the way, holding their lanterns high. Next, at her invitation, went our little party, first Finbar and me with Caisin herself walking beside us, then Luachan leading a nervous Blaze. At the rear came the remainder of Caisin’s companions.
Her house or hall, when we reached it, seemed woven of trees. One of the attendant women gave a high, melodious call, and our procession came to a halt. Around us, in the circle illuminated by the lanterns, I saw only foliage glinting with damp, and dark saturated trunks stretching skyward. Then a voice called back, a man’s this time, in words I did not understand, though I guessed they might have meant,
Come forward!
We moved on, and the forest seemed to open and lighten, and we were in a grand chamber roofed with living green, walled with what might have been the
silvery trunks of willows and floored in perfect summer grass. The air was warm; it was like the best of sunny days. A shuddering sigh went through me, part relief, part exhaustion, part shock at the utter strangeness of it.
I felt Luachan’s hand at the small of my back, just for a moment. “Are you all right, Maeve?” he murmured.
Only a touch, yet it filled me with warmth. I nodded, astonished.
Caisin gave a little wave of her hand, and a young man—human, I guessed from his appearance—came forward. “As you see, we have visitors,” she said. “This horse needs food and shelter; see she is well tended to.”
Luachan seemed about to protest, but checked himself and passed the reins over without argument. Blaze was led away. I wondered what might bring one of our own kind into this place to work as a groom; had he strayed here by accident or come by choice?
“Follow me,” said Caisin, leading us across the enclosed space quite in the manner my mother might do with newly arrived guests.
We followed. The brightness hurt my eyes; I struggled to take in the details. Lamps hung above us, as though floating in the air. Folk stood about in elegant groups or sat on chairs and benches made, not of hewn branches but of living wood, for all sprouted leaves or flowers or berries, and some were cushioned with soft mosses. The people were dressed as those folk had been last night, richly, as if they were at a celebration. Their hair was dressed in elaborate confections, and the women wore slippers that resembled flowers or fruit or, in one case, a pair of hedgehogs whose bright eyes seemed to follow my progress across the floor. Finbar tugged at my arm; I had fallen behind the others, staring.
Caisin led us out of the hall, down a leafy passageway and into a smaller chamber. “I have summoned a woman to help you bathe and dress, Maeve,” she said, giving me a thorough look up and down. “After that, I hope you will join me for some refreshment before you sleep. Young man, take Finbar that way”—she pointed
through an arched doorway—“and you will find bathing quarters for men. An attendant will bring you back to us when you are ready. We will, of course, provide all of you with clean clothing.”
“I don’t know—” I began, finding myself reluctant to let Finbar out of my sight even for a moment.
“I will keep him safe.” Luachan gave me a reassuring smile.
“Very well.” I could hardly insist my brother bathe with me.
The two of them went off, and a girl came. Not one of Caisin’s kind, but human like the groom, or almost human. She was young, rosy-cheeked, smiling. I thought of Rhian, and I felt a pang of guilt that my handmaid and friend was back at Sevenwaters not knowing what had befallen me, while I was here warm and safe. But this girl had none of Rhian’s vivid, bright-eyed energy. Indeed, although her features were pleasing and her eyes lovely, she seemed somehow…distant. As if she were in a waking dream.
“You will help Lady Maeve bathe and dress,” Caisin told her. Then, to me, “Enjoy your bath, my dear. Take your time.”
The girl beckoned; I followed. Down another hallway was a chamber with a wooden bathtub. Folded cloths, brushes, jars and bottles stood on a long, narrow table. I could not escape the impression that the knots in its wood were eyes, gazing at me as, with the girl’s help, I took off my borrowed cloak and then my sodden garments, right down to the filthy, waterlogged shoes. My hair was a hideous greasy tangle. I felt ashamed in front of my companion, though she seemed quite unperturbed.
“Thank you,” I said as she helped me into the bath. The sides were high; it was the sort of everyday task that was especially awkward for me, since I could not hold on. I sat down with care. The water was warm and the bath was deep. Gods, it felt good!
The girl let me soak undisturbed awhile, then, when perhaps she saw that I was in danger of falling asleep, came over to help me wash myself. She was not quite as adept as Rhian, or as gentle, but she did a good job with my hair, though she could not comb the tangles out without bringing tears to my eyes. When I was out of the bath and dry, she sat me down on a strange stool resembling a mushroom, then got the splinter out of my arm, probing with a
bone needle and using her fingernails to extract the jagged piece of bark. She dabbed the broken skin with a green salve; immediately the pain began to fade.