“Arafel,” he whispered, “help us.” But
no answer came, and Ciaran had hoped for none. It was doubt, perhaps,
which robbed him. He felt a pain in his heart, pain in all his
joints, as if the poison of the iron he had touched had gone
inward. Perhaps it had more than driven Arafel away; perhaps it had
wounded her more than he had known. There was silence, where once
her voice would have come whispering to him, and he was afraid.
The stone was power. She had promised so. To cast it off, seek a
death in battle . . . he thought of this,
foreknowing that he would see before his death what others could
not see, and know it when it came. It seemed a small-hearted thing
now, though lonely; a selfish thing, to perish to no avail, and to
take the hope of Caer Wiell with him once for all. Power was for
using in such straits as he had set them in, if he but knew
how.
And what had the stone ever done, but link him to Eald? Fare
back, Arafel had wished him.
He began, holding the stone between his hands. He rose and
slipped his mind toward the green fair world . . . saw gray brightness, and moved into
it.
There was nothing here. He tried to recall the way he had come
with Arafel’s leading. He thought that it lay before him in the
mist. A certain sense of his heart said so, and he trusted that
sense, which he had denied before. Liosliath, he thought, wishing now for the memories of
that grim elf, but nothing came to him. It was, perhaps, the taint
of iron. Panic swept on him like a flood of water. He wavered out
of the mist and blinked in dismay, for he stood on the dark slope
of the hill, outside the walls of Caer Wiell.
In panic he reached for the mist again, and ran into it, ran,
with all his strength, but very quickly he was lost indeed, and he
was not sure that he had taken the right course in the beginning.
He thought that he could see trees in the grayness, but they were
not straight and fair, but twisted shapes, and the mist
darkened.
Shadows were with him, loping along in dreamlike slowness. He
could not see them well, but he heard the crash of brush, the beat
of hooves, slow and strange. A stag coursed the mist, but it was
black, and lost itself in the grayness. A bird flew past,
baleful-eyed, and black as the stag. It called at him and flew on.
He ran the more, panting, and at times his feet seemed to lose
their purchase and to stride lower than he wished. Hounds bayed,
striking terror into his flesh, and his wound grew into an ache,
and to agony. He heard the beat of heavier hooves, and the winding
of a horn.
Something tattered swept by him, wailing. He stumbled away from
it and shuddered against another shadow, saw trees taking tortured
shape. The way was darker and darker, agreeing with mortal night,
as the elven-wood never had. He was possessed of sudden terror,
that he had fled the wrong way altogether, that he was driven and
harried where the enemy would be, toward a place where the stone
had no power to save him. A wind blew which did not scatter the
mist, but chilled him to the bone.
“Arafel!” he cried, having no hope in silence.
“Arafel!”
A shadow loomed ahead of him. He flung himself aside, but it
caught at him, and the stone warmed at his heart.
“Names are power,” she said. “But you must use
commands three times.”
He caught her hand and held it, shut his eyes, for a rush of
shadows passed, and the Huntsman was among them. He thought that
sight would scar him forever.
And the chill left him. He opened his eyes and they were walking
through the mist into brightness, into sunlight, of green forest
and meadows with pale flowers. He sank down on the grass, out of
strength, and Arafel sat by him, gravely watching until he should
have caught his breath.
“You are braver than wise,” she said.
“I need your help,” he said. “They
need you.”
“They.” She flung herself to her feet, and
indignation trembled in her voice. “Their wars are their own.
You have seen. You have seen your choices. You have come back of
your own will. Do you not know now how much we have to do with
Men?”
He found no arguments. There was a grayness upon him like the
grief of the fair folk themselves, when the world no longer suited
them, nor they the world.
Her anger stilled. He felt it die from the stone. She knelt down
by him and touched his face, touched him heart, which was still
cold with the memory of the dogs.
“This,” she said, touching the stone, “and
iron—cannot bear one another. You know that now. You are
wiser than you were. And when you are wiser still, you will know
that they—have no part or peace with you.”
“I have dreamed,” he said, “and I know what
once you were. And I ask your help.—Arafel,
Arafel—Arafel, I ask your help for Caer
Wiell.”
Her face grew cold, and still. “Too wise,” she said.
“Beware such invocations.”
“Then take back your gift,” he said. “There is
no heart in it.”
“It is our heart,” she said, and walked
away.
He rose, looked about him, at hares which sat solemnly beneath a
white tree. He despaired, and shook his head, and would have cast
off the stone, but it was all his hope of return to his own night.
He had walked it once; he began to walk it again, beyond the silver
trees, farther and farther into the mist, for he sighted the
direction true, and for whatever reason, the fear had gone.
His step never faltered, not in the direst and strangest of the
mist. Trees came clear to him, and the very way to the room showed
itself. He saw it, a black cell before him in the grayness. He
entered it, and found walls about him once more.
He sat still through the night. There were no dreams. He slept a
time and found the sun coming up, washed himself and dressed and
came out into the hall, strangely numb of terrors, even when he saw
Scaga’s man guarding the hall, having watched him. He came
down into the hall where others gathered, and silence fell.
“Is there place for me?” a voice asked softly. He
looked. It was Arafel.
Others had risen from the table, a scraping of chairs and
benches. Branwyn stared, her hands to her cheeks. Scaga laid hand
to his sword, but no one drew. Arafel stood still, in
forester’s garments much mended and much faded. A sword hung
at her side. Her pale hair was drawn back. She looked like a tall,
slim boy.
“Long since I was here,” she said in their
silence. Somewhere on the walls alarms were sounding, summoning
them to the attack. No one yet moved. “I am bidden aid
you,” she said. “I ask—do you wish that aid? Bid
me aid you; or bid me go.”
“We dare not take such help,” said Meredydd.
“It is dangerous,” said the harper.
“It is,” said Arafel.
“Arafel,” Ciaran said. “What
danger?”
She turned her pale eyes on him. “The Daoine Sidhe had
other enemies. There are things more than you see. Long and long it
is since wars have reached into Eald.”
“We die without your help,” said Meredydd. “If
help it is.”
“Aye,” said Arafel, “that might be
true.”
“Then help us,” said Meredydd.
“Ask cost,” said Scaga.
“ ’Tis late for that,” Arafel said softly.
“Hist, do you not hear the alarms?”
“What costs?” Scaga said again.
“I am not of the small folk,” Arafel said in
measured words and cold. “I am not paid in a saucer of milk
or a handful of grain. My reasons are my reasons. I speak of
balances, Man, but it is late for that. My aid has been commanded,
and I must give it.”
“Then we will take it,” said Scaga, with an
anguished motion toward the door. “Out there,
today.”
“Give me time,” said Arafel. “Hold against
them in your own strength, and wait.” She turned, looked on
Branwyn and looked last on him, without anger, without passion at
all. “Do not go out onto the walk,” she said.
“Stay within. Wait.”
Her voice dimmed, and she did, so that there was only the
stonework and a chair, and the silence after her.
“Arm!” Scaga shouted at the men, for still the alarm
was sounding, and they had not answered it. “Come and
arm!”
They ran. Ciaran stood still in the hall, feeling naked and
alone. He realized the stone was in plain sight about his neck, and
touched it, but it gave him nothing.
He looked back, into Branwyn’s eyes. There was terror
there.
“I knew her,” Branwyn said “We were
friends.”
“What happened?” he asked, disturbed to realize how
meshed this place had been, forever, in the doings of Eald.
“What happened, Branwyn?”
“I went into the forest,” she said. “And I was
afraid.”
He nodded, knowing. There were then the two of them in the
circle of fearing eyes. Lady Meredydd looked on them with a terror
greater than all the rest, as if it were a nightmare she had
shared. A daughter—who had walked in the forest, that they
had gotten back again from Eald. Scaga knew, he too—who had
seen a flinching from iron, and known clearly the name of the ill.
It was terror come among them; but it had been there always, next
their hearts.
“I am Ciaran,” he said slowly, to hear the words
himself, “Ciaran’s second son, of Caer Donn. I lost
myself in the forest, and I had her help to come here. But of the
King, of your lord—I never lied. No.”
No one spoke, not the ladies, not the harper. Ciaran went to the
bench by the fire and sat down there to warm himself.
“Branwyn,” Meredydd said sharply.
But Branwyn came and sat down by him, and when he gave his hand,
took it, not looking at him, but knowing, perhaps, what it was to
have walked the paths he took.
Arafel would come back. He trusted in this; and he remembered
what Arafel had said that the others had not been willing to hear,
except only Scaga, who might not have understood what she had
answered.
Eald had dreamed in long silence; and Men asked that silence
broken. He had done so, seeing only the power, and not the
cost. He held tightly to Branwyn’s hand, which was flesh, and
warm, and he wondered if his hand had that solidness in hers.
War was coming, not of iron and blood. They were mistaken if they expected iron and
fire of Arafel; and he had been blind.
He was not, now.
“Arafel,” he whispered, “help us.” But
no answer came, and Ciaran had hoped for none. It was doubt, perhaps,
which robbed him. He felt a pain in his heart, pain in all his
joints, as if the poison of the iron he had touched had gone
inward. Perhaps it had more than driven Arafel away; perhaps it had
wounded her more than he had known. There was silence, where once
her voice would have come whispering to him, and he was afraid.
The stone was power. She had promised so. To cast it off, seek a
death in battle . . . he thought of this,
foreknowing that he would see before his death what others could
not see, and know it when it came. It seemed a small-hearted thing
now, though lonely; a selfish thing, to perish to no avail, and to
take the hope of Caer Wiell with him once for all. Power was for
using in such straits as he had set them in, if he but knew
how.
And what had the stone ever done, but link him to Eald? Fare
back, Arafel had wished him.
He began, holding the stone between his hands. He rose and
slipped his mind toward the green fair world . . . saw gray brightness, and moved into
it.
There was nothing here. He tried to recall the way he had come
with Arafel’s leading. He thought that it lay before him in the
mist. A certain sense of his heart said so, and he trusted that
sense, which he had denied before. Liosliath, he thought, wishing now for the memories of
that grim elf, but nothing came to him. It was, perhaps, the taint
of iron. Panic swept on him like a flood of water. He wavered out
of the mist and blinked in dismay, for he stood on the dark slope
of the hill, outside the walls of Caer Wiell.
In panic he reached for the mist again, and ran into it, ran,
with all his strength, but very quickly he was lost indeed, and he
was not sure that he had taken the right course in the beginning.
He thought that he could see trees in the grayness, but they were
not straight and fair, but twisted shapes, and the mist
darkened.
Shadows were with him, loping along in dreamlike slowness. He
could not see them well, but he heard the crash of brush, the beat
of hooves, slow and strange. A stag coursed the mist, but it was
black, and lost itself in the grayness. A bird flew past,
baleful-eyed, and black as the stag. It called at him and flew on.
He ran the more, panting, and at times his feet seemed to lose
their purchase and to stride lower than he wished. Hounds bayed,
striking terror into his flesh, and his wound grew into an ache,
and to agony. He heard the beat of heavier hooves, and the winding
of a horn.
Something tattered swept by him, wailing. He stumbled away from
it and shuddered against another shadow, saw trees taking tortured
shape. The way was darker and darker, agreeing with mortal night,
as the elven-wood never had. He was possessed of sudden terror,
that he had fled the wrong way altogether, that he was driven and
harried where the enemy would be, toward a place where the stone
had no power to save him. A wind blew which did not scatter the
mist, but chilled him to the bone.
“Arafel!” he cried, having no hope in silence.
“Arafel!”
A shadow loomed ahead of him. He flung himself aside, but it
caught at him, and the stone warmed at his heart.
“Names are power,” she said. “But you must use
commands three times.”
He caught her hand and held it, shut his eyes, for a rush of
shadows passed, and the Huntsman was among them. He thought that
sight would scar him forever.
And the chill left him. He opened his eyes and they were walking
through the mist into brightness, into sunlight, of green forest
and meadows with pale flowers. He sank down on the grass, out of
strength, and Arafel sat by him, gravely watching until he should
have caught his breath.
“You are braver than wise,” she said.
“I need your help,” he said. “They
need you.”
“They.” She flung herself to her feet, and
indignation trembled in her voice. “Their wars are their own.
You have seen. You have seen your choices. You have come back of
your own will. Do you not know now how much we have to do with
Men?”
He found no arguments. There was a grayness upon him like the
grief of the fair folk themselves, when the world no longer suited
them, nor they the world.
Her anger stilled. He felt it die from the stone. She knelt down
by him and touched his face, touched him heart, which was still
cold with the memory of the dogs.
“This,” she said, touching the stone, “and
iron—cannot bear one another. You know that now. You are
wiser than you were. And when you are wiser still, you will know
that they—have no part or peace with you.”
“I have dreamed,” he said, “and I know what
once you were. And I ask your help.—Arafel,
Arafel—Arafel, I ask your help for Caer
Wiell.”
Her face grew cold, and still. “Too wise,” she said.
“Beware such invocations.”
“Then take back your gift,” he said. “There is
no heart in it.”
“It is our heart,” she said, and walked
away.
He rose, looked about him, at hares which sat solemnly beneath a
white tree. He despaired, and shook his head, and would have cast
off the stone, but it was all his hope of return to his own night.
He had walked it once; he began to walk it again, beyond the silver
trees, farther and farther into the mist, for he sighted the
direction true, and for whatever reason, the fear had gone.
His step never faltered, not in the direst and strangest of the
mist. Trees came clear to him, and the very way to the room showed
itself. He saw it, a black cell before him in the grayness. He
entered it, and found walls about him once more.
He sat still through the night. There were no dreams. He slept a
time and found the sun coming up, washed himself and dressed and
came out into the hall, strangely numb of terrors, even when he saw
Scaga’s man guarding the hall, having watched him. He came
down into the hall where others gathered, and silence fell.
“Is there place for me?” a voice asked softly. He
looked. It was Arafel.
Others had risen from the table, a scraping of chairs and
benches. Branwyn stared, her hands to her cheeks. Scaga laid hand
to his sword, but no one drew. Arafel stood still, in
forester’s garments much mended and much faded. A sword hung
at her side. Her pale hair was drawn back. She looked like a tall,
slim boy.
“Long since I was here,” she said in their
silence. Somewhere on the walls alarms were sounding, summoning
them to the attack. No one yet moved. “I am bidden aid
you,” she said. “I ask—do you wish that aid? Bid
me aid you; or bid me go.”
“We dare not take such help,” said Meredydd.
“It is dangerous,” said the harper.
“It is,” said Arafel.
“Arafel,” Ciaran said. “What
danger?”
She turned her pale eyes on him. “The Daoine Sidhe had
other enemies. There are things more than you see. Long and long it
is since wars have reached into Eald.”
“We die without your help,” said Meredydd. “If
help it is.”
“Aye,” said Arafel, “that might be
true.”
“Then help us,” said Meredydd.
“Ask cost,” said Scaga.
“ ’Tis late for that,” Arafel said softly.
“Hist, do you not hear the alarms?”
“What costs?” Scaga said again.
“I am not of the small folk,” Arafel said in
measured words and cold. “I am not paid in a saucer of milk
or a handful of grain. My reasons are my reasons. I speak of
balances, Man, but it is late for that. My aid has been commanded,
and I must give it.”
“Then we will take it,” said Scaga, with an
anguished motion toward the door. “Out there,
today.”
“Give me time,” said Arafel. “Hold against
them in your own strength, and wait.” She turned, looked on
Branwyn and looked last on him, without anger, without passion at
all. “Do not go out onto the walk,” she said.
“Stay within. Wait.”
Her voice dimmed, and she did, so that there was only the
stonework and a chair, and the silence after her.
“Arm!” Scaga shouted at the men, for still the alarm
was sounding, and they had not answered it. “Come and
arm!”
They ran. Ciaran stood still in the hall, feeling naked and
alone. He realized the stone was in plain sight about his neck, and
touched it, but it gave him nothing.
He looked back, into Branwyn’s eyes. There was terror
there.
“I knew her,” Branwyn said “We were
friends.”
“What happened?” he asked, disturbed to realize how
meshed this place had been, forever, in the doings of Eald.
“What happened, Branwyn?”
“I went into the forest,” she said. “And I was
afraid.”
He nodded, knowing. There were then the two of them in the
circle of fearing eyes. Lady Meredydd looked on them with a terror
greater than all the rest, as if it were a nightmare she had
shared. A daughter—who had walked in the forest, that they
had gotten back again from Eald. Scaga knew, he too—who had
seen a flinching from iron, and known clearly the name of the ill.
It was terror come among them; but it had been there always, next
their hearts.
“I am Ciaran,” he said slowly, to hear the words
himself, “Ciaran’s second son, of Caer Donn. I lost
myself in the forest, and I had her help to come here. But of the
King, of your lord—I never lied. No.”
No one spoke, not the ladies, not the harper. Ciaran went to the
bench by the fire and sat down there to warm himself.
“Branwyn,” Meredydd said sharply.
But Branwyn came and sat down by him, and when he gave his hand,
took it, not looking at him, but knowing, perhaps, what it was to
have walked the paths he took.
Arafel would come back. He trusted in this; and he remembered
what Arafel had said that the others had not been willing to hear,
except only Scaga, who might not have understood what she had
answered.
Eald had dreamed in long silence; and Men asked that silence
broken. He had done so, seeing only the power, and not the
cost. He held tightly to Branwyn’s hand, which was flesh, and
warm, and he wondered if his hand had that solidness in hers.
War was coming, not of iron and blood. They were mistaken if they expected iron and
fire of Arafel; and he had been blind.
He was not, now.