Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (4 page)

A thrill of terror raced through Alistair's body. The
tower was a dark and brooding place not made for mortal man. Yet he knew he had
to go inside.

Then he
was
inside, a corridor stretching
endlessly before him, blank smooth walls on either side. He walked down its
length, his footsteps echoing in murky gloom, tapping out a doleful rhythm.
Lost
,
it said.
Lost for good and ever. You'll never get out again.

Shadows dove and gibbered, and when Alistair turned a
corner twisted gargoyles on the walls bared their fangs and hissed. He walked
through the passageway, on an on, a place with no end and no beginning.

"Ian?" he called, his voice muffled in the
darkness.

A shrieking howl was his only answer and he ducked,
instinctively raising one arm to shield himself as invisible wings brushed his
face. Ian wasn't here. He couldn't be. Please God, let Ian not be here in this
desolate place.

But if Ian was not here, Alistair feared that he
himself would never find his way out again.

D
eirdre leaned closer to the pool, hardly daring to
breathe, as a waiting stillness descended on the clearing. It was about to
happen, she could feel it...the entire world seemed to stop in hushed
expectancy.

And there was nothing. The surface of the pond was
blank. Tears started to her eyes and she clenched her fists, summoning every
bit of energy she had.

"Show me," she cried aloud, half-plea and
half-command. "Show me my true love."

T
here—a faint glimmer of light at the end of the
passageway. Alistair made for it, stumbling with weariness, driven on by the
certainty that it would vanish any moment. As he drew closer he perceived the
dim outline of a doorway. The door was closing, closing—he flung himself
outside. Cool wind fanned his face and he gulped in air fragrant with damp
earth, the scent of life itself. He did not see the two shadows that slipped
from the passageway as the door slammed shut behind him.

As his breathing steadied he looked about. Moonlight
streamed through twisted branches to light a path ahead. With a little shrug he
followed it, expecting to come out at the waterfall. Instead he stepped into a
small bright clearing.

A woman sat on the edge of a dark pool. She was
sobbing, hands covering her face, midnight hair streaming like a shining cloak
across her shoulders.

"Why do ye weep, lady?" Alistair asked.

She lifted her head and he drew a sharp breath,
staring dumbly into the sapphire depths of her eyes, bright with tears and
framed by thick dark lashes. Ah, but she was radiant, too beautiful for any
mortal. Surely she was a faerie sent to guide him.

"What—" she began, and then stopped, her eyes
wide. "How did you come here?"

"I hardly know. There was a waterfall—and a
passageway—I couldna find my way. I thought ye must have called me forth,"
he finished in confusion. "Are ye no' one of the Sidhe?"

She laughed softly and the sound was tinged with
bitterness. "No, I am but a mortal woman."

Her voice was low and musical, carrying the lilt of
Ireland, its rhythm falling softly on his ear. He would have been content to
listen to her talk forever.

He sat down beside her and looked into the pool, where
her reflection shone dimly in the moonlit depths. But though Alistair leaned
close to the water, he could not see his own image. Of course, he thought with
a ripple of amusement, my body is back behind the waterfall. And this is
nothing but a dream.

Deirdre glanced at the man beside her, wondering that
she felt no fear. The moment he walked out of the darkness of the forest her
heart had leaped in joyful welcome, though she was certain they had never met
before. This was a man she could never have forgotten.

He was powerfully built, with the arms and shoulders
of a warrior, and yet for all his size, he moved with a dancer's silent grace. Though
the clearing was dim, she could see him quite clearly, down to the twisted
pattern of the brooch at one broad shoulder and the small green gems winking in
the dagger at his belt. A lock of fine fair hair fell over his brow as he
stared into the pool. When he turned to her his smile was bright as quicksilver
and hot as living flame. She looked away, dazzled and a little frightened by
the strength of her response.

"Why were you crying?" he asked again.

She weighed her instinct for concealment against the impulse
to confide in him. Why should she trust him with her secrets? But then, why had
she trusted him at all? Why had she not run screaming at the first sight of
him? 

Then she understood. Of course, it all made sense! The
way he walked out of the forest without a rustle of leaf or crack of twig to
herald his approach, the unearthly glow of him, even her own calm acceptance of
his presence was nothing to be wondered at. Worn out with longing and worry,
she must have fallen into sleep. And for all her failure to summon an image,
Deirdre knew enough of magic to understand that a dream so vivid was bound to
have some deeper meaning.

"I came looking for my own true love
tonight," she said, gesturing toward the pool. "But he isn't
here."

"Is he a silkie then, that ye seek him in the
water?" The question was asked without a trace of laughter, confirming her
belief. Why not a silkie?  Anything was possible in a dream.

"Nay, I sought his image, not himself."

"Why?  Is he in Ireland?" he asked, giving
her a bright, shrewd glance.

She shrugged. "Perhaps. But it does not matter,
for I am here in Scotland, wed these four years past."

"Four years wed and still ye pine for a man ye
left behind in Ireland?  Why, then, is your own husband such a fool that he
canna make ye love him?"

"Ours was not a love match," she answered
sadly. "Or, at least—sure, I don't know what it was on his part, desire
maybe. But even that—" she made a pretty, helpless gesture with her hands.
"Whatever it was he wanted, I did not give it to him. Nor have I given him
a son. I think he hates me now."

"A fool indeed," he said, his voice deep and
soft.

A long slow shiver wound down Deirdre's spine as she
looked into the stranger's cool gray eyes. But of course he was no stranger. It
was he, the one she had waited for, the one she had despaired of ever finding. Hadn't
she always been certain she would know him? 

Too late, she thought bitterly. Where were you four
years ago when I accepted Brodie? But of course he was not real at all. Such
things only happened in dreams. Still, she thought with a sigh, it was a lovely
dream, the finest she had ever known. If only it could go on forever...

Then, without quite knowing how she knew, Deirdre was
certain it was about to end—or in the manner of dreams, to change into
something very different.

"What is it you came to say to me?" she
asked, standing and looking warily about the clearing. "Why have you
disturbed my dream?"

"Nay, lady." He smiled with a flash of even
teeth. "This is my dream, not yours. And a verra pleasant one it's turning
out to be." 

He rose in a single graceful movement to stand before
her. He is perfect, she thought, tall and strong but not so ungainly large as
Brodie. She imagined how snugly she would fit against his shoulder, then smiled
wryly. Of course he would be perfect! He was her invention, after all! 

She was a bit surprised that her imagination had
fashioned such a man, when she had always thought dark slenderness the very
model of male beauty. But now she saw how wrong she had been. The man before
her seemed spun from moonlight, with his silver-gilt hair and cool gray eyes,
yet he was strong and solid as the earth. Exactly as she had dreamed of him so
long ago, when she was still a child.

But, she realized suddenly, she was no child now. She
was a woman grown. What would it be like to walk into his embrace, feel those
strong arms close around her?  For all his strength, his touch would be gentle,
Deirdre thought, and a tingle started somewhere in the region of her heart,
moving slowly downward. It was a strange feeling, not unpleasant, but
unfamiliar and a little frightening.

Four years of marriage had taught Deirdre many
lessons, but none of them prepared her for the dizziness she felt when she
looked into his eyes. And he knew—he understood without a word between them—for
the same dazed wonder was etched upon his face.

This is a dream, she thought, staring wide-eyed as he
extended his hand to her. I can do anything tonight and it won't matter.

Yet even as she moved forward, she stopped, knowing
she had been wrong. This
did
matter. It mattered very much. Dream or no
dream, he was more real to her than anyone she had ever known. And whatever was
to happen between them now would change her for all time. She hesitated for the
space of a single breath, so short a time that he could not have noticed it. But
still, it was too long. She watched in horror as his outline shimmered and
began to fade.

"Wait," she said desperately. "Oh,
don't go—please—"

She reached to grasp his outstretched hand, then cried
aloud in wordless disappointment as her fingers met only air.

But Alistair felt the warmth of her touch. It streaked
through him like a burning brand. Quickly, before she could vanish altogether,
he leaned close and kissed her full soft lips. At that moment a flame leaped
between them, searing to his soul, so sharp and sudden that he could not tell
if what he felt was pain or pleasure.

She drew a quick breath and stared up at him, one hand
pressed against her mouth. She had felt it too, then, had been burned by the
same fire that had marked him for all time. Oh, he did not want to wake. Whatever
she was, wherever she had come from, he would stay with her and gladly, even if
he could never have more of her than this.

Her sapphire eyes were large and wondering, shimmering
with sudden tears. He moved to draw her into his arms, knowing from the start
that it was hopeless, yet powerless to stop his instinctive gesture of comfort.
She swayed toward him, then froze with a small gasp of fear, her gaze moving
over his shoulder. Turning, he saw nothing but the forest and heard naught but
a bird's harsh cry.

"Two ravens," she whispered. "There,
just behind you. What does it mean?"

"Ravens?" he repeated. She began to waver
before him, as though he viewed her through a veil of water. "Ah, corbies.
Twa corbies," he said and was seized with an unreasoning terror, as though
he had pronounced his own doom.

"Ah, no—farewell!"  Her voice was small and
distant, and as his sight faded, he tried once more to reach her.

"Wait!" he cried. "Who are you? What is
your name?"

Whatever answer she might have made was lost in the rushing
of the waterfall. Alistair pulled the stiffened hide around him and stared into
its depths as dawn slowly lit the sky beyond.

F
ergus stepped out of his cave and leaned upon his
staff. It was a golden day, bright with summer, but with a fresh breeze blowing
from the mountains. Time for harvest, time for hunting...time for the restless
yearning to grip a young man's heart. Alistair stood at the edge of the
clearing, one arm leaning on an overhanging branch as he stared into the valley
below. He had put on flesh in these past months, Fergus noted with
satisfaction. Through constant exercise he had regained his strength and his
eyes were clear and focused.

"You'll be leavin' soon," Fergus said.

Alistair turned with a start. "How d'ye do that?"
he demanded crossly. "I never hear ye come or go."

"I canna tell ye
all
my secrets. Ye must
leave me some mystery and magic."  He brought out the last word with a
twist of his lips.

"Oh, you've plenty of that to spare,"
Alistair said. "How did you know I was thinking of leaving?"

Fergus shrugged. "I could say I divined it by my
arts, but the truth is, 'tis writ upon your face. And you're right. 'Tis time
ye were away. And if you're worried for me, don't be. I've weathered many a
winter here before."

He lowered himself carefully to the flat rock, sighing
as the sunlight warmed his bones. "This is not the place for you," he
said with some regret. "I'd hoped—but there's no arguing with what's meant
to be."

"But where can I go?" Alistair asked. "Have
ye forgotten I'm a banished man?"

"Kirallen doesna own the world, just one small
piece within his borders. Ride north or west or east..."

"East of the sun and west of the moon?"
Alistair asked with a scornful curl to his lip. "Is that where I shall
find her?"

There was no need to ask whom he meant. Since Beltane
Eve, Alistair had spoken only once of the woman of his vision, giving Fergus
only the barest outline of their meeting by the forest pool. When Fergus
wondered if she might be real, Alistair laughed and changed the subject. And
when Fergus suggested that Alistair go forth and look for her, the younger man had
grown quickly angry and refused to hear another word on the subject. Yet his
very silence was more eloquent than words. Whatever had happened that night,
Fergus had no doubt it had shaken Alistair to the depths of his soul.

"There's no knowing which way your path will take
ye," he said at last, choosing his words carefully. "But whatever ye
need, ye will not find it here."

Alistair sat down beside the old
taibhsear
and
brushed the white-gold hair back from his face. "I don't know what to
say," he began hesitantly. "What thanks can I give for all you've
done for me—"

"Well, since ye ask, I'll tell ye."  Fergus
put his hand on Alistair's and looked into the crystal-gray eyes. "Live,"
he said quietly. "That's what ye can do." 

Alistair had come a long way from the sick and broken
man who had come to him four months ago. He no longer spoke of suicide, though
Fergus suspected he still thought of it at times. But the times were becoming
far less frequent. For that, Fergus gave silent thanks to Alistair's woman of
the forest. Whoever—or whatever—she might be, she had shaken him out of his
preoccupation with Ian's Kirallen's death.

Yet Alistair's vision at the waterfall had left Fergus
deeply puzzled. He had run through the business with the bullock more for
Alistair's peace of mind than from any expectation of a vision. It wasn't
magic, it was just plain common sense, as any hedgepriest would agree. Get the
man to tell him what the trouble was, give him every reason to forgive himself.
Then send him through a ritual designed to bring on clarity of thought.

But they had both gotten more than Fergus bargained
for. Alistair had been granted an
immrama
, a true vision, one that
Fergus did not fully understand. There was no denying Alistair had brought
something back with him from the waterfall, the shadows that followed him on
dusky wings. There was more than guilt and grief at work here.

Something
had happened to Alistair on that January morning when he had lost not only his
closest friend, but eight men under his command. If part of Alistair's soul had
indeed gone with them to the grave, it was a situation fraught with danger. He
alone could find the missing part of himself, and he would not find it here. Perhaps
the woman was the key—if she truly lived. But there was no telling if she
existed on this plane at all or was as insubstantial as the dark tower Alistair
had seen.

Sighing, Fergus recalled himself to the present. "If
there is one thing I have learned, lad, 'tis that wherever ye go, your fate is
sure to find you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Alistair said,
and though the words were spoken lightly, Fergus saw the sudden tension in the
younger man's form.

A cloud passed across the sun and the wind turned
chill. From the distance came the harsh cawing of a bird.

"The corbies," Fergus said. "Aye, I
hear them, too. But ye canna hide from them forever."

Alistair picked up a bit of dried heather at his feet
and tossed it high into the air. Fergus watched the breeze catch it and bear it
toward the valley.

"West it is," Alistair said, then laughed. "If
Ian could only see me now! He used to say I couldn't put on my boots without
first setting out the options and drawing up a plan. How he would enjoy
this!"

His laughter died and he turned away quickly, blinking
hard. It was a good sign, Fergus thought, that Alistair could speak of Ian like
this, let out his grief for his friend.

"Perhaps ye had to plan so carefully because he
never did," Fergus suggested gently. "And now ye have your own path
to follow."

"Aye, but... Fergus, I am sorry. I ken ye
hoped..."

"The fault was mine, not yours, for trying to
twist ye into something ye were never meant to be. And I have not quite given
up hoping yet."

Fergus tried to speak cheerfully, but this morning he
felt very old and weary. If the one he waited for did not come soon, it would
be too late. He would die without passing on the knowledge that had come down
to him in a line unbroken for a thousand years.

"The world changes, lad, whether we will it or
no'," he said softly. "Perhaps 'tis meant that it should end with
me."

"Can I do aught for you before I go?"

"Nay." He smiled and laid a hand on
Alistair's brow in blessing. "
Go néirí do thuras leat
," he
said. "May the one who watches over all speed your journey. And wherever
ye go, Alistair, remember ye are always in my prayers."