The Red Winter Page 18
There were other spirits about, of course. They glided to and fro across the shadowed landscape. David ignored them, his spirit carrying over the trees to follow the rivers until they fed into the Irish Sea.
David had never shadow walked to the Isle of Man or managed to view it through his observatory dome at Rowan. The Fomorian’s isle was hidden from prying eyes. As David approached, he saw the reason why.
The island was veiled with a twinkling, dewy mist. It would not have been visible in the living world, but in Nether the curtain shimmered and undulated, encircling the isle like an earthbound aurora. Even if Max or Scathach tried to send a message, David doubted it would get through. The Fomorian’s magic was exceedingly strong—far stronger than David’s, much less scraps of Florentine spypaper. The giant tolerated no intruders, no spies, no magic but his own.
Passing within the glimmering veil, David walked along the isle’s coastline. He witnessed firsthand the ruin of Prusias’s ships and the bodies scattered along the foamy shoreline. He found the pillar and the demons hanging like grisly ornaments. The devastation wrought by the Fomorian was simply incredible.
Of the Fomorian himself, there was no sign. Gliding inland, David’s spirit swept over the snowy hills, silver rivers, and broad black forests. The isle was as shadowed and quiet as a tomb.
What was that?
Below, he spied a glimmer. It winked in and out of sight, flashing like moonlight on a spiderweb. It ran like a slender seam across the face of a hill crowned with cairn stones. A faerie mound, if ever there was one. If Max and Scathach had been on this island, the faeries would know. David descended, his eyes fixed on the dark hillside and its elusive shimmer.
He proceeded cautiously, for one could never guess how faerie folk might behave. Most, such as dewdrop faeries, were harmless beings wholly concerned with their own quiet ways. But other faeries were fiercely proud, hostile to humans and any others who might encroach upon their territory. Individually, only the greatest faeries posed a real threat to trained Mystics, but with sufficient numbers even the least could work powerful enchantments. David did not know if faerie magic could extend into Nether; he only knew that his did not.
Mortals—even those who were shadow walking—could not enter a faerie mound unless they were welcomed. While shadow walking, he could not even knock. There was music coming from within the hill, faint but unmistakable. David gazed about, hopeful that other faeries might be approaching. There were none, only a night bird skimming low in search of supper.
David was on it in an instant. His spirit entered the animal, commandeered its simple brain, and wheeled back in a swift arc to the faerie mound. Flying along the seam, he found a small opening, no larger than an egg. Taking a pebble in his beak, he thrust it through the narrow opening. It fell and clinked against something far below. David took up another, pushing it through with his sharp beak and churring in the bird’s voice. More pebbles, more clinks below until finally David heard something break. The music stopped.
A face appeared at the narrow slit, narrow and tapered. It spoke in the language of Fey, the words tumbling one after the other in a melodic burr.
“A nightjar wishes to warm himself,” the faerie called.
“He broke my dish,” cried another. “Send him off!”
“You’ve angered my host,” said the faerie from the corner of her mouth. “You must be off, but I will leave a cake among the cairns.”
“Invite me in,” said the nightjar. “I must speak with you.”
The faerie gasped, stared, and flitted out of sight. Seconds later, a great gash of white light appeared in the hillside. David hopped back as faeries emerged like angry hornets from a hive.
Some were, in fact, no larger than hornets or baby mice, but others were tall and regal, their silver hair crowned with holly and thistle. David was startled by their diversity. Judging by their many kinds of dress, some hailed from Eastern Europe or even Asia. David had never heard of faeries from distant lands convening with one another. Those that lived in Rowan’s Sanctuary generally stuck with their own kind. One jabbed at the nightjar with a slender spear.
“What is this bird that speaks?”
David’s spirit stepped forth from the nightjar to stand upon the hillside. Free once more, the bird gave a cry and skimmed off into the night. Several of the smaller faeries backed away or dived down into the hill. But the larger ones held firm, eyeing David’s ghostlike spirit with cold apprehension. The tallest stepped forward.
“What do you want, demon?”
The word stung like a blow. David sighed inwardly. He had forgotten his true aura was visible. If he was going to live openly, he would have to get used to such reactions.
He bowed. “Only half a demon, lady.”
“Demons are not welcome here,” she said. “Or perhaps you did you not see our lord’s message on the beach?”
“Is your lord the Fomorian?” asked David. “I am seeking him.”
“Are you here to surrender?” she sneered. “He does not want your lands, demon. Fly back to Prusias.”
“I don’t serve Prusias,” said David coldly. “I am here to find my friends. They were seeking the Fomorian. One is his kinsman and is rumored to be hurt. Have you seen them?”
An undercurrent of whispers swept across the faeries, but the lady frowned. “Our lord has no kinsmen and your kind has no friends. You are a liar, demon. Be off before we sing you into a stone.”
David scowled and raised a finger in warning. “The next time you call me a liar, you may regret it, Phaëllia. For now that I have seen you and heard your speech, I know who you are. And I know the words to bend, bind, or break you. Do not test me.”
The faerie backed away. “Who are you?”
“David Menlo.”
Several faeries gasped. A tiny dewdrop faerie, just a little winged bulb, darted forward to loop about David.
“He’s her teacher!” she cried to the others. “I’ve heard her say his name!”
“Whose teacher?” said Phaëllia, frowning.
“The Faeregine!” sputtered the tiny faerie.
Phaëllia stiffened and looked David up and down. “That’s impossible. He is daemona. The Faeregine would never …”
“Who is the Faeregine?” David interrupted testily.
“You call her Mina,” sang the excitable dewdrop. “Mina Faeregine she shall be called, sister, daughter, mother to all!”
Faeregine, thought David. Well, that’s something new and interesting. I wonder if Jakob has ever heard the term. He glanced at Phaëllia. “Mina—the Faeregine as you call her—is indeed my student when I’m at Rowan. But Rowan is at war and we have no time for lessons. And I have no time or wish to argue with you. Did a young man and woman visit this isle? They are dear to Rowan and all who fight against Prusias. He is the Fomorian’s kinsman.”
Phaëllia looked increasingly nervous. The faerie masked her emotions well, but David had a gift for reading faces. You know exactly where they are. You’ve hidden them from the Fomorian and now you’re terrified you made a mistake. Let’s heap on a little more fear …
“He is not merely the Fomorian’s kinsman,” David continued. “He is the son of Lugh Lamfhada, the Hound of Rowan, and the Faeregine’s savior when she faced danger in Blys. If you have made an error, now is your chance to fix it.”
“Tell him, Phaëllia!” hissed a doe-eyed sprite.
“Is he alive?” asked David, mustering all the calm he could.
“He is,” sniffed Phaëllia. “Barely. The lad is accursed. He will die soon.”
“What of his companion?” asked David.
Phaëllia gave an indifferent shrug. “She sleeps. They both sleep, down under the hill. She had the audacity to camp by the cairns—”
David silenced her with a glance. “Does the Fomorian know they’re here?”
Phaëllia drew herself up. “My lord charged me with defending his isle while he recovers, not to bother him with trespassers.”
David turned to the dewdrop faerie. “What is your name, beautiful lady?”
“Valla,” she squeaked, bowing low in a hum of tiny wings.
“Valla,” said David gently. “Please find your lord and tell him the Little Sorcerer begs an audience with the son of Elathan. Tell him that his kinsman is gravely wounded and that Phaëllia is holding him captive on this isle.”
“But Phaëllia will punish me!”
David shook his head. “Phaëllia is about to have far graver concerns. Please hurry, Valla. Time is short.”
As Valla flitted toward the open hillside, Phaëllia held up a hand. “Stop! I will fetch our lord myself. Bring this Nether wight underhill and take him to his friends.”
At the faeries’ invitation, David slipped within the hill, traveling down, down into the shimmering caverns beneath. It was a shame, he reflected, to visit such a place while in the Nether. Ivy twined along the walls and floor, running along tables where the faeries dined on milk and saffron from iridescent seashells. Following Valla, he glided into a grotto where the incoming sea tumbled and sprawled over limestone falls to fill dark pools where faeries bathed and admired their reflections.
Above the pools, set into alcoves, lay Max and Scathach. Their arms were crossed atop their chests, clutching their weapons. They might have been marble statues of a young king and queen from another age. Gliding closer, David saw that Nox was there, too, clinging to Max’s side in an enchanted sleep. David wanted to touch them, to feel their warmth, and assure himself that they were still alive. But he could not. David’s eyes fell upon the blood trickling down the alcove’s side to pool upon the floor. Max was dying before his eyes.
Boom!
The cavern shook. Within Nether, the sound was deafening—a hollow, concussive jolt. It must have been much the same in the living world, for the bathing faeries looked up in alarm.
Boom!
The second jolt sent them fleeing from the pools. Flicking water from their wings, they zoomed off in glowing sorties, disappearing into little side tunnels or up into hollowed roots that poked here and there from the cavern ceiling. Instinctively, David backed away from the sound, his eyes watching the largest tunnel—a monstrous opening some thirty or forty feet in diameter.
Boom!
An entire wall gave way, crashing into the glittering cavern in a rush of sound and seawater. Something gargantuan forced its way in, crumbling stalactites as it crouched beneath a crumbling arch. A great horned head loomed into view, animal and human, wild and wonderful, its beard dripping brine upon the stone.
Max knew he was in the Fomorian’s caverns before he opened his eyes. There were the sounds, of course, the acoustics of vast spaces and dripping water, and the hypnotic drumming of surf. One could almost hear the lichen growing, sense tree roots twining through soil, and feel the air brushing one’s cheek as a pixie or faerie went skimming past. And there were the smells: sea and stone, wet moss, burning beeswax, and an animal smell like a flock of sheep that’s been led out of the rain. These details told Max quite a bit, but all he really needed was the giant himself.
The Fomorian had his own peculiar gravity, an aura that seemed to warp the air about him. He was like a mountain on a prairie—he didn’t have to move or make a sound, but his presence diverted the waters, parted the sky, and quietly shaped the lives of those within its shadow. The Fomorian did not merely dominate a landscape; he defined it.
A voice spoke, deep as a canyon. The words it spoke were Old Irish, their syllables a pleasing tumble of sound.
“He wakes. We must decide, for she is close and longs to take him. Can you look at me, Hound?”
Max opened his eyes to find that he was on a slab of stone in the midst of a huge cavern the color of old sea glass. Its walls danced with light reflected from hundreds of candles and the faeries that flitted here and there from little alcoves and perches. Above loomed the giant.
The Fomorian had changed since Max had seen him. He looked tired and worn. Streaks of gray shot through his plaited hair and beard while dried blood flecked his ramlike muzzle. Many wounds laced his broad face and throat. Where there had once been five eyes, there were now four. The fifth was just a scorched and empty crater.
“You’re hurt,” Max croaked, his voice barely audible.
“Aye,” the Fomorian said. “I’m hurt. You’re hurt. The world’s grown perilous. You’re near to crossing over, kinsman. Do you want to live?”
The giant posed the question with no drama or urgency. He might have been asking if Max preferred sugar in his tea.
“Yes.”
“Think before you answer,” the Fomorian urged. “I see a hard road should you stay. Death might be kinder. You can slip away now, surrounded by friends. There is no shame in dying from this wound. The blade that made it has slain a god before.”
Max strained to sit up, but was far too weak. “I want to live,” he breathed. “Help me. I know you can.”
The Fomorian sat quietly, as though weighing options and their consequences. “Blood magic is strongest,” he said. “But it has its price. You saw this when the lymrill gave its life to reforge your blade. Other sacrifices must be made.”
“Then we will make them,” said a voice.
Max turned his head to see Scathach rise from a stone bench nearby. She stood before the Fomorian, frightened but defiant. The giant gazed at her gravely.
“Will you, now?” he asked. “You are mortal, lady. Are you willing to share the little life you have? You will never get it back.”
“I won’t hoard my years just to bury those I love.”
“Scathach,” said Max quietly. “I don’t want your life.”
“It’s mine to give. Rowan will never win this war without you.”
“Rowan needs you too,” Max reminded her.
“And it shall have me,” she said proudly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The giant’s largest eye, a yellow orb with a goat’s square pupil, flicked back to Max. “Even if sacrifices are made, that wound will never heal. Together, we may close it, but it will always yearn to bleed. We are cheating Death of her prize.”
Scathach pressed her hand upon the stone slab near Max’s side. Her palm came up red. “We’re wasting time.”
Max’s arm was numb, but he managed to reach out and curl his fingers around hers. His flesh was so pale he hardly recognized his body as his own.
“I can’t take your life,” he said quietly.
Scathach pressed his hand to her lips. “You’re not,” she insisted. “Just a few years of old age and you’re welcome to them.” She gazed at Max a moment, her eyes brimming with tears, before turning to the giant. “What do you need from me?”
The Fomorian beckoned to a squat, long-fingered faerie with a birdlike face. It brought a stone bowl, a silver knife, and some soft leather pouches. Setting the bowl upon the slab, the Giant abruptly seized Scathach by the wrist. She barely flinched as the knife opened her forearm and a river of red ran streaming into the bowl. As the giant squeezed, faeries began to gather close, drawn to mortal blood—a maiden’s blood—and the magic it could make.
The Fomorian chanted, the words coming with a slow, deliberate rhythm. Max listened, his mind slipping back into a fog.
A draught of years
Of love and life
To stem a tide of woe
Iron, water, storm, and strife
Blood spilled by a hallowed knife
We cheat the Hunt, the Hound it seeks
His wounds we knit, his flesh we keep …
As he chanted, the Fomorian’s speech became less distinct, his words condensing into a low hum that made the stone vibrate. More faeries arrived from the tunnels and pools. Their glow filled the cavern, but all Max could focus on was the Fomorian, who was slipping into a trance. He stared through Max, huge and wild, a weathered monument to some forgotten god. When the Fomorian drew the knife across his palm, he gave a primal howl that shook the caverns.
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Max was vaguely aware that faeries were now coming forward, yielding their slender hands to the knife’s sharp bite. Their blood mingled with Scathach’s, red and silver, mortal and Fey.
At last, Max fell asleep. His consciousness settled like a grain of sand within an oyster, destined to produce something strange and perhaps even wonderful. His ensuing dreams were extraordinarily vivid.
The first involved David. Max saw his friend walking beneath a gray twilight, making for a forest whose trees bobbed and rocked like ship masts. Beyond them, Max could see Blys, Prusias’s capital rising in gleaming tiers within its armored mountains. The city was smoking, its halls ablaze with light as mechanical creatures squatted and shuffled on the battlements. The city’s walls were overflowing, its citizens and soldiers streaming over bridges to settle in sprawling camps upon the snowy fields.
Snow. It was everywhere. Max saw it in Blys. He’d seen it whipping through David’s floating forest. He saw it as far south as Zenuvia, driving gales of ice that bombarded Lilith’s palaces. Far below, a goblin cog cracked on in a desperate race to reach a harbor. Tiny figures scrambled about on deck, taking down sails as a gargantuan wave—a true widow maker—broadsided the vessel. The ship was driven under the water in a cresting mountain of foam.
The winter’s reach extended to Rowan. Max saw the school clearly, Túr an Ghrian rising like a shining white obelisk beneath a bloodred sky. It towered above the cliffs and Old College, its summit lost in a swirl of dark clouds and snow. In his dream, Max heard Old Tom’s chimes ringing across the campus. There were still students at Rowan, young apprentices that would be matched to charges, configure bedrooms, and begin their studies of Mystics. Against a backdrop of war and snow, Max found this comforting.
He had never seen Old College so empty. Only a few apprentices hurried along beneath the streetlamps, clutching books or scrolls. To Max’s eyes they were babies, round little puddings too young to join the war effort. I must have looked the same.