He came, but not alone, and that surprised her—in plain
good clothes, and with Branwyn tramping along with him through the
brambles, her golden hair tangled with twigs. He wore the sword and
carried the bow and a pack which clearly burdened him. She watched
them, and would have reached out to help them, but she sensed the
fear in Branwyn, and could not have helped, no more than he could:
Branwyn was doomed to the thorns.
They reached the dancing-ring. He called her in his mind, and
she came, smiling sadly at the pain in his eyes, and looked then at
Branwyn, who managed to look back at her.
“I have brought Aodhan back,” Ciaran said.
“Swiftest to have ridden,” said Arafel.
“Branwyn tried.”
“Ah,” she said in pity, and again met
Branwyn’s blue eyes, “You might have.”
Fear looked back at her, but something like the child struggled
behind it. “I wanted to.”
“That is much,” said Arafel.
A wind had risen. She sensed Aodhan near, but it was Ciaran who
had the summoning of him. Ciaran held out a hand, and the horse
stepped into mortal sunlight, aglow with the elvish moon. Small
thunders rumbled in the glade, and lightnings flickered. Ciaran
stroked Aodhan’s neck, and whispered his name and bade him
go. The thunder clapped and the horse was gone, that swiftly, and
perhaps something of Ciaran’s heart went with him; he had
that look.
Then Ciaran knelt down and unbound the pack which he had
brought, and took the sword and bow and laid them atop it all the
shining armor at her feet.
“Thank you,” Arafel said, and the gifts faded.
“I thank you,” Ciaran said. “I must thank you.
But—do you understand?—I have carried them as far as I
can. I have seen things—I shall always see them. They are
enough.”
“I know,” she said.
He rose, and reached last for the chain about his neck.
“No,”’she said. “That, you must
keep.”
“I cannot,” he said. He drew it off, and offered it
to her hands, his own hands trembling.
“It is your protection.”
“Take it.”
“And Branwyn’s too. Do you even hope to get from out
this forest without it? Would you see her hunted too?”
That struck deep. Ciaran’s hands fell; but Branwyn took
his arm.
“I knew that too,” said Branwyn, and there was more
of sense in her blue eyes than there had ever been. “But I am
here. And we will walk out again.”
“Please,” Ciaran said, offering the stone yet again.
“I am a Man, and when he comes, that is the way of Men, is it
not? But if I keep this, there is no hope for me.”
Arafel took it then, unwilling, and her lips parted in shock at
the strength that had come to it, and the presence in it which was
indeed almost beyond bearing.
“Ah,” she said, folding it to her heart. She looked
on him with tears. “You have given me a gift, o Man. And now
there is nothing you have left me to give you.”
“A blessing,” he said, “for us. That I will
take.”
“Few Men have ever asked it of the Daoine
Sidhe.”
“I ask.”
She kissed him then, and kissed Branwyn. “Go,” she
said.
They went, hand in hand, and she walked behind them, the
shadow-ways, unseen. They had trouble in the going, took scratches
of the thorns, and climbed high places and limped on unexpected
stones; shadows hissed at them, but fled quickly when she bade them
gone.
And at last it was New Forest, and Arafel stood upon the flat
rock and watched them down the slope, toward the Caerbourne, and
Caer Wiell.
A blackness settled near her. She frowned at it.
“Give them a little,” she asked. “Only a
little time.”
“We were allies,” Death said. “Should I have
so short a memory? I shall wait. As for Branwyn—she was
always mine.”
Again she frowned.
“I have another face,” he said.
She drew herself up and laid a hand on her sword. “Beware
of me, Lord Death; I know your name; and the day I see you as you
are, you are yourself in peril. Do not tempt me.”
“You have asked a favor,” he said.
“Aye,” she said more softly, anger fallen.
“That I have.”
“He may come here if he wills; and she may. He will die
abed, years hence. That, I give to him.”
“Then I forgive you,” she said, “other
things.”
She left him then, and walked her own way, from Airgiod’s
quiet rim, to the moonlit grove.
Fionnghuala was there, and Aodhan. “Go,” she bade
them. “You are free.”
They did not go; and they were free to choose that too. They
stayed near, and the grove breathed with wind and memories.
“Liosliath,” she said, holding the stone near her
heart.
He was aware. There was another place but this. She
held it close and walked amid the silver trees.
Eald was smaller.
But it had held. She found that place at the edge of Eald, hers and
not quite hers, and the Gruagach scampered into hiding, remembering
ancient quarrels—but he fared well, and so did all he cared
for. The fields were safe. She preferred the earth no iron had
delved, the lands shadowed with her trees—but she took care
now of lands far wider than Eald, so that the lands of Men had
rarely seen such a year, in which no planting failed. It cost her.
She did all she could to mend what war had done, and stretched her
care as far as it could go. Long ago she had chosen this woods and
kept it—but now it had neighbors she valued, with special
poignancy, that they were brief and brave and given to doing as
they would. She had never known why she watched, except for pride,
not to yield forever what once the Sidhe had been; but now it was
for love.
Yet one day, one day she almost despaired, so much of Eald she
had given away. She came for comfort to that heart of her wood and
walked there listening to the stones, her head bowed in a weariness
almost too much to bear.
So she found it, a tiny thing unlooked for at her feet. A
branch, she thought, had fallen from the silver trees, which had
never happened in any wind that blew—so, she thought as she
bent down by it, Eald had at last begun to die, from the heart
outward.
Then she cast herself to her knees in wonder—for the sprig
was rooted in the ground, thrusting up from the earth with silver
leaves all delicately veined, the first new life in Eald since the
dimming of the world.
He came, but not alone, and that surprised her—in plain
good clothes, and with Branwyn tramping along with him through the
brambles, her golden hair tangled with twigs. He wore the sword and
carried the bow and a pack which clearly burdened him. She watched
them, and would have reached out to help them, but she sensed the
fear in Branwyn, and could not have helped, no more than he could:
Branwyn was doomed to the thorns.
They reached the dancing-ring. He called her in his mind, and
she came, smiling sadly at the pain in his eyes, and looked then at
Branwyn, who managed to look back at her.
“I have brought Aodhan back,” Ciaran said.
“Swiftest to have ridden,” said Arafel.
“Branwyn tried.”
“Ah,” she said in pity, and again met
Branwyn’s blue eyes, “You might have.”
Fear looked back at her, but something like the child struggled
behind it. “I wanted to.”
“That is much,” said Arafel.
A wind had risen. She sensed Aodhan near, but it was Ciaran who
had the summoning of him. Ciaran held out a hand, and the horse
stepped into mortal sunlight, aglow with the elvish moon. Small
thunders rumbled in the glade, and lightnings flickered. Ciaran
stroked Aodhan’s neck, and whispered his name and bade him
go. The thunder clapped and the horse was gone, that swiftly, and
perhaps something of Ciaran’s heart went with him; he had
that look.
Then Ciaran knelt down and unbound the pack which he had
brought, and took the sword and bow and laid them atop it all the
shining armor at her feet.
“Thank you,” Arafel said, and the gifts faded.
“I thank you,” Ciaran said. “I must thank you.
But—do you understand?—I have carried them as far as I
can. I have seen things—I shall always see them. They are
enough.”
“I know,” she said.
He rose, and reached last for the chain about his neck.
“No,”’she said. “That, you must
keep.”
“I cannot,” he said. He drew it off, and offered it
to her hands, his own hands trembling.
“It is your protection.”
“Take it.”
“And Branwyn’s too. Do you even hope to get from out
this forest without it? Would you see her hunted too?”
That struck deep. Ciaran’s hands fell; but Branwyn took
his arm.
“I knew that too,” said Branwyn, and there was more
of sense in her blue eyes than there had ever been. “But I am
here. And we will walk out again.”
“Please,” Ciaran said, offering the stone yet again.
“I am a Man, and when he comes, that is the way of Men, is it
not? But if I keep this, there is no hope for me.”
Arafel took it then, unwilling, and her lips parted in shock at
the strength that had come to it, and the presence in it which was
indeed almost beyond bearing.
“Ah,” she said, folding it to her heart. She looked
on him with tears. “You have given me a gift, o Man. And now
there is nothing you have left me to give you.”
“A blessing,” he said, “for us. That I will
take.”
“Few Men have ever asked it of the Daoine
Sidhe.”
“I ask.”
She kissed him then, and kissed Branwyn. “Go,” she
said.
They went, hand in hand, and she walked behind them, the
shadow-ways, unseen. They had trouble in the going, took scratches
of the thorns, and climbed high places and limped on unexpected
stones; shadows hissed at them, but fled quickly when she bade them
gone.
And at last it was New Forest, and Arafel stood upon the flat
rock and watched them down the slope, toward the Caerbourne, and
Caer Wiell.
A blackness settled near her. She frowned at it.
“Give them a little,” she asked. “Only a
little time.”
“We were allies,” Death said. “Should I have
so short a memory? I shall wait. As for Branwyn—she was
always mine.”
Again she frowned.
“I have another face,” he said.
She drew herself up and laid a hand on her sword. “Beware
of me, Lord Death; I know your name; and the day I see you as you
are, you are yourself in peril. Do not tempt me.”
“You have asked a favor,” he said.
“Aye,” she said more softly, anger fallen.
“That I have.”
“He may come here if he wills; and she may. He will die
abed, years hence. That, I give to him.”
“Then I forgive you,” she said, “other
things.”
She left him then, and walked her own way, from Airgiod’s
quiet rim, to the moonlit grove.
Fionnghuala was there, and Aodhan. “Go,” she bade
them. “You are free.”
They did not go; and they were free to choose that too. They
stayed near, and the grove breathed with wind and memories.
“Liosliath,” she said, holding the stone near her
heart.
He was aware. There was another place but this. She
held it close and walked amid the silver trees.
Eald was smaller.
But it had held. She found that place at the edge of Eald, hers and
not quite hers, and the Gruagach scampered into hiding, remembering
ancient quarrels—but he fared well, and so did all he cared
for. The fields were safe. She preferred the earth no iron had
delved, the lands shadowed with her trees—but she took care
now of lands far wider than Eald, so that the lands of Men had
rarely seen such a year, in which no planting failed. It cost her.
She did all she could to mend what war had done, and stretched her
care as far as it could go. Long ago she had chosen this woods and
kept it—but now it had neighbors she valued, with special
poignancy, that they were brief and brave and given to doing as
they would. She had never known why she watched, except for pride,
not to yield forever what once the Sidhe had been; but now it was
for love.
Yet one day, one day she almost despaired, so much of Eald she
had given away. She came for comfort to that heart of her wood and
walked there listening to the stones, her head bowed in a weariness
almost too much to bear.
So she found it, a tiny thing unlooked for at her feet. A
branch, she thought, had fallen from the silver trees, which had
never happened in any wind that blew—so, she thought as she
bent down by it, Eald had at last begun to die, from the heart
outward.
Then she cast herself to her knees in wonder—for the sprig
was rooted in the ground, thrusting up from the earth with silver
leaves all delicately veined, the first new life in Eald since the
dimming of the world.