The Lost Years (24 page)

I half grinned and took a bite of the crusty bread. It felt hard, almost like wood, until some vigorous chewing softened it up a bit. Then, to my surprise, it swiftly dissolved into liquid, filling my mouth with a tangy, minty flavor. Almost as soon as I swallowed, a wave of nourishment flowed through me. I straightened my back. Even the usual pain between my shoulder blades eased a little. I took another bite.

“You like ambrosia bread, I can see,” said Cairpré through a mouthful. “One of the Slantos’ finest achievements, without doubt. Still, it is said that no one from other parts of Fincayra has ever tasted any of the Slantos’ most special breads, and that they guard those precious recipes with their lives.”

I scanned the walls and floor of the room, so densely jammed with volumes. Being here felt like being in the hold of a ship whose cargo consisted of nothing but books. I remembered Branwen’s wistful look when she had spoken about being in a room full of books—this very one, no doubt. Even with the spreading Blight, it must have been difficult for her to leave this room, this land, forever.

I turned back to Cairpré. “Bran—I mean, my mother—must have loved being here, with all your books.”

“Indeed she did. She wanted to read the teachings of the Fincayrans, the Druids, the Celts, the Jews, the Christians, the Greeks. She called herself my student, but it was really more the other way around. I learned so much from her.”

He glanced at a mound of books at the base of the ladder. On the leather cover of the book on top, a gold-leaf portrait, showing a figure driving a blazing chariot, gleamed in the light of the hearth fire.

“I remember once,” he said in a distant voice, “when we talked the whole night through about those remarkable places where beings of mortal flesh and beings of immortal spirit live side by side. Where time flows both in a line and in a circle. Where sacred time and historical time exist together.
In between places,
she called them.”

“Like Mount Olympus.”

The poet nodded. “Or like Fincayra.”

“Was it all the mounting troubles that made her want to leave Fincayra? Or was there something more?”

He eyed me strangely. “Your suspicion is correct. There was something more.”

“What?”

“You, my boy.”

My brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me explain. Do you know about the Greek Isle of Delos?”

“Apollo’s birthplace. But what does that have to do with me?”

“It was another
in between place,
both sacred and historical at once. That is why the Greeks never allowed anyone to give birth on Delos. They didn’t want any mere mortal to be able to claim a birthright to soil that belonged first to the gods. And they killed or banished anyone foolish enough to disobey.”

“I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

At this moment, Shim released an immense belch, far bigger than one would expect from a person so small. Yet the little giant did not seem aware of it, just as he seemed to have forgotten about Cairpré and myself. He merely patted his belly and returned to the serious matter of fresh clover honey.

Cairpré’s shaggy eyebrows lifted in amusement, then his expression darkened. “In the same manner as Delos, it is strictly forbidden that anyone with human blood should ever be born on the island of Fincayra. This is a land not of the Earth, nor of the Otherworld, though it is a bridge between them both. Visitors come here from either world, and they sometimes stay for years. Yet they cannot call this place home.”

I leaned closer. “I have been searching for my own home. So help me understand this. If my mother had to leave Fincayra to give birth to me, where did she go? Do you know where I was born?”

“I know,” replied the poet, his tone grave. “It was not where you should have been born.”

I caught my breath. “Are you saying that I was born on Fincayra, even though I have human blood?”

His face told me everything.

“Does that mean I am in danger?”

“More danger than you know.”

“How did that happen? You said it is forbidden.”

“I can explain what, but not why.” Cairpré scratched the top of his head. “It happened this way. Your parents, aware of Fincayra’s ancient law, knew that Elen must sail to another land to give birth. But they also knew that no one can be sure, when setting sail from Fincayra, whether or not he or she will ever return. The passage here is a strange one, as you are well aware. Sometimes the door is open; sometimes it is not. Many who have left this island, hoping desperately to return, have found only a shred of mist upon the waters. Others have met their deaths in the stormy seas.
Nothing is known but we sail alone
.”

He shook his head. “Your mother and father loved each other deeply, and did not want to part. If Tuatha had not commanded your father to stay, I believe he would have sailed with her. Moreover, I suspect that Elen could sense trouble brewing, and did not want to leave him. So they lingered long before parting. Too long. Your mother was already in her ninth month when at last she set sail.”

Feeling something warm against my chest, I looked down at my tunic. Beneath the folds, the Galator was glowing faintly, making a circle of green light over my heart. Swiftly, I covered the place with my hand, hoping that Cairpré would not notice and interrupt his tale.

“Soon after the ship had launched, a terrible storm arose on the waves. It was the kind of storm that few sailors since Odysseus have survived. The ship was battered, nearly drowned, and forced back to shore. That very night, huddled in the wreckage of the ship, your mother gave birth.” He paused, thinking. “And she named the boy Emrys, a Celtic name from her homeland.”

“So that is my true name?”

“Not necessarily! Your true name may not be your given name.”

I gave a nod of understanding. “Emrys has never felt right to me. But how do I find my true name?”

The deep-set eyes pondered me. “Life will find it for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“With luck, you will in time.”

“Well, my true name is a mystery, but at least now I know I belong in Fincayra.”

Cairpré shook his gray head. “You do, and you do not.”

“But you said I was born here!”

“Your place of birth may not be where you belong.”

Feeling a surge of frustration, I pulled the Galator out of my tunic. Its jeweled center, still glowing faintly, flared in the light of the fire. “She gave me this! Does this not prove I belong here?”

A new depth of sadness filled the pools beneath Cairpré’s brows. “The Galator belongs here, yes. Whether or not you belong here, I do not know.”

Exasperated, I demanded, “Must I destroy the castle and the king and all his army, before you will tell me I belong here?”

“I may tell you that one day,” answered the poet calmly. “If you tell me the same.”

His demeanor, if not his words, soothed me somewhat. I replaced the pendant under my tunic. Feeling again the pain between my shoulder blades, I stretched my arms out wide.

Cairpré observed me knowingly. “So you too feel the pain. In that way you are certainly a son of Fincayra.”

“This pain in my shoulders? How should that make any difference?”

“It has made all the difference in the world.” Seeing the confusion in my face, he once again leaned back on his stool, clasped his knee, and began to tell a story.

“In the far, far reaches of time, the people of Fincayra walked upon the land, as they do now. Yet they also could do something else. They also could fly.”

My eyes widened.

“The gift of flight was theirs. They had lovely white wings, the old legends say, sprouting from between their shoulder blades. So they could soar with the eagles and sail with the clouds.
Wings of white to endless height.
They could venture high above the lands of Fincayra, or even to lands beyond.”

For an instant, I could almost feel the flutter of the feisty hawk who would swoop through the air before landing on my shoulder. Trouble had so enjoyed the gift of flight! I missed him, almost as much as I missed Rhia.

I smiled sadly at Cairpré. “So the Fincayrans had both the ears of demons and the wings of angels.”

He looked amused. “That’s a poetic way to put it.”

“What happened to their wings?”

“They lost them, though it’s not clear how. That is one story that has not survived, though I would gladly give away half of my books just to hear it. Whatever happened, it took place so long ago that many Fincayrans have never even heard that their ancestors could fly. Or if they have, they simply dismiss it as untrue.”

I watched the poet. “But you believe it’s true.”

“I do.”

“I know someone else who would believe it. My friend Rhia. She would love to be able to fly.” I bit my lip. “First, though, I must save her! If she still lives.”

“What happened to her?”

“Carried off by goblins! She tricked them into taking her instead of me, though what they really wanted was the Galator. She is probably at the Shrouded Castle by now.”

Cairpré tilted his head, frowning. From that angle his face looked like a stern statue, made of stone rather than flesh. At last he spoke, his resonant voice filling the room so crowded with books.

“Do you know the prophecy of the giants’ dance?”

I tried to recall it. “
Only when giants make dance in the hall, Shall every
. . .”

“Barrier.”

“
Shall every barrier crumble and fall.
But I don’t have any hope of destroying the castle! All I can hope to do is save my friend.”

“And what if that requires destroying the Shrouded Castle?”

“Then all is lost.”

“No doubt you are correct. Destroying the castle would destroy Rhita Gawr’s presence in Fincayra. And neither he nor Stangmar is about to let that happen! A warrior as great as Hercules would find it impossible. Even if he carried some weapon of enormous power.”

Suddenly an idea struck me. “Perhaps the Galator is the key! It is, after all, the last Treasure, the one that Stangmar has been searching for.”

Cairpré’s shaggy mane wagged from side to side. “We know very little about the Galator.”

“Can you at least tell me what its powers are?”

“No. Except that they are described in the ancient texts as
vast beyond knowing
.”

“You’re no help at all.”

“Too true.” Cairpré’s sad face brightened only a little. “I can, however, give you my own theory about the Galator.”

“Tell me!”

“I believe that its powers, whatever they are, respond to love.”

“Love?”

“Yes.” The poet’s gaze rambled over his shelves of books. “You shouldn’t be so surprised! Stories about the power of love abound.” He stroked his chin. “As a start, I believe the Galator glows in the presence of love. Do you recall what we were talking about when it started shining under your tunic?”

I hesitated. “Was it . . . my mother?”

“Yes. Elen of the Sapphire Eyes. The woman who loved you enough to give up everything in her life in order to save yours! That, if you really want to know the truth, is why she left Fincayra.”

For a long while, I could find no words to speak. Finally, I said regretfully, “What an ass I was! Never calling her my mother, never putting her pain ahead of my own. I wish I could tell her how sorry I am.”

Cairpré lowered his eyes. “As long as you stay in Fincayra, you will never have that chance. When she left, she swore she would never come back.”

“She should never have given me the Galator. I know absolutely nothing about how it works or what it can do.”

“I just told you my theory.”

“Your theory is mad! You say it glows in the presence of love. Well, you should know that I’ve seen it glow once before since I came back to Fincayra. In the presence of a bloodthirsty spider!”

Cairpré froze. “Not . . . the Grand Elusa?”

“Yes.”

He almost smiled. “That strengthens my theory all the more! Do not be fooled by the Grand Elusa’s alarming appearance. The truth is, her love is as great as her appetite.”

I shrugged. “Even if your theory is correct, what good does it do? It doesn’t help me save Rhia.”

“Are you determined to go after her?”

“I am.”

He scowled. “Do you know what the odds are against you?”

“I have some idea.”

“But you don’t!”

Cairpré stood up and started pacing down the narrow path between the stacks of books. His thigh brushed against one large, illuminated volume, and it fell to the floor in an explosion of dust. As he bent to retrieve it, stuffing loose pages back between the covers, he looked my way. “You remind me of Prometheus, so certain he could steal the fire of the gods.”

“I’m not that certain. I just know I must try. Besides, Prometheus finally succeeded, didn’t he?”

“Yes!” exclaimed the poet. “At the price of eternal torture, being chained to a rock where an eagle would gnaw forever upon his liver.”

“Until Hercules rescued him.”

Cairpré’s face reddened. “I can see that I taught your mother too well! You are right that Prometheus found freedom in the end. But you are wrong if you think for a minute that you will be so fortunate. Out there, in the lands controlled by Stangmar, people are at risk just by showing themselves! You must understand me. All your mother’s sacrifices will have been wasted if you go to the Shrouded Castle.”

I folded my arms. While I certainly did not feel courageous, I did feel resolved. “I must try to save Rhia.”

He stopped pacing. “You are no less stubborn than your mother!”

“That sounds to me like a compliment.”

He shook his head in defeat. “All right, then. You ignore my warnings.
Thou withered breath, approaching Death.
I suppose then I should at least give you some advice that might conceivably help.”

I slid off my stool. “What is it?”

“More likely, though, it will only hasten your death.”

“Please tell me.”

“There is one person in all of Fincayra who might have the power to help you enter the castle, though I doubt that even she can help you beyond that point. Her powers are old, very old, springing from the same ancient sources that brought the very first giants into being. That is why Stangmar fears to crush her. Even Rhita Gawr himself prefers to leave her alone.”