The Tree of Swords and Jewels

TEN Caer Donn

The morning came quietly in Caer Donn, a hush so deep and wide Domhnull waked slowly, eyes searching the place a moment, finding wooden walls and not the stone of his own room in Caer Wiell about him nor the swaying of a horse under him, but the steadiness of a bed softer than his at home, the breaking of full sun through the slitted window.

Daylight, he thought, ashamed, recalling that he had finally, far, far toward the dawning settled into sleep; and waked at first light and found his limbs still heavy, the place so quiet he was sure he had waked even before the servants were stirring. A moment more, he had thought then and shut his eyes, cherishing the warm spot he had made on the feather mattress, beneath the covers, and he had slept again, after all his restlessness, his night of listening to sounds where no sounds were, of nightmares of riding endlessly through the nar row passes so that the bed seemed to move under him, or again, his imaginings that there was no safety, that he had become lost in the windings of this place and that it had closed its gates on him to swallow him down.

If they wished, he had thought in the loneliness of the night, I might vanish from the earth, I and all those with me.

What men did you send? lord Donnchadh might say to his lord. None ever reached me.

Or Donnchadh might say nothing at all, since Donnchadh had said nothing in lo these many years. Silence could drink them up, and walls entomb them.

These are fancies, he had thought at last, with the light come to the window. Now they will know by my eyes I have not slept, and what a figure I shall cut with them this morning. So his eyes had closed. So they wanted to close now as if all the due of days before had fallen on him.

But a certain disquiet began to grow in him. The halls were still quiet. There ought to have been some stirring about by now. He might have been mistaken in the hour the first time he had wakened.

See, my lord, the Servants might be saying, he is still abed for all these hours. And Donnchadh wondering to himself at his guest's discourtesy.

His wits had come back to him; his limbs must follow. He flung the covers off, met the hill highlands air and braved it, more and more awake. He looked out the narrow window, with its view of daylit mountains, for here the keep met the wall and the window faced the land round about, the Brown Hills, stony and harsh and forever untilled.

It was far unlike Caer Wiell, with its girdle of fields and forest, of pasture where yellow flowers bloomed. The Brown Hills were well named, desolate and fit for sheep. Even the air was different, having no perfume of growing things from this windward side. The little stream in the cleft at the foot of the cliffs sent no sound up the walls; there was no rush of water and wind that was always with Caer Wiell. The hills were full of stones and harsh with brush and no flowers seemed to bloom here in this season.

He shivered, turned from the window and sought his clothes, the finer ones he had brought in hope of gentle welcome.

And so prepared, leaving the armor and all but his dagger that was fit for meat, he went to the door and opened it.

A page slept on a bench nearby, a thin lad, pinch-faced, who lifted his head at the noise and leapt up. "Lord," he said.

"I have slept too long said Domhnull. "And not a lord, no. But where is your lord this morning, and will he see me?"

Oh, he be hunting. A wolf have got some sheep hereabouts, and my lord and the men be gone to find him."

"Ah," he said, chagrined. "Well, may I go to hall and wait there?"

"It will be long waiting."

"And breakfast."

"Oh, aye, breakfast, surely, breakfast."

"The men with me where are they this morning?"

"O, my lord he breakfasted them in hall and took them with him. They thought they should not wake you. Stay here, my lord says to me, and see to his comforts."

Domhnull frowned, and the least niggling fear came on him, that Boc should have gone off without his leave. Perhaps they hoped thus to win Donn's favor and make amends for his shameful lateness, or perhaps Donnchadh had insisted, or a thousand other tumbling thoughts, not least of which was the suspicion that men who had known the war like Boc and Caith and Dubhlaoch might go then-own way. "Well," he said, "well, I shall have the breakfast down in hall."

"This way, lord."

The boy led; he followed, down halls that thumped and echoed, with wooden floors, wooden stairs and walls, the antlers of deer hung here and there and whimsically adorned with candles unlit now that the sun came in the windowslits.

It was not the way they had come last night, in this warren. He remembered other stairs, no such decoration; but they came into a small warm hall where a cheerful fire burned in the hearth.

"This is not the hall," Domhnull said.

"Oh, it be the lesser hall, this," said the page, "and here my lord will come when he will come. It be far more comfortable than the other with its drafts and echoes. Sit here, lord, and I will see to breakfast."

"I am no lord," Domhnull said again, distracted in looking at the place. A table waited. There was a single chair and benches about it. No lady. Donnchadh has never married. The thought struck him strange, that he had heard somewhat of Donnchadh all his life, but never that he married, nor got children. He was rich and high in the King's favor—and for certain seasons of the year Donnchadh went down from his hills to the plain across the passes, and to the King's seat at Dun na h-Eoin, with entourage and banners and all such things, while lord Ciaran sat in Caer Wiell and never made the jour ney, save once or twice and that years gone, with bitter issue.

He had expected, somehow, more wealth and less of the rustic about Donnchadh. It is very like some steading, he thought, looking about him as he sat down at table. Or some shepherd's cottage, if monstrous large. It might have been a warm place, a cheerful hold. But here were no children, no running feet, no games nor childish laughter—no children of the lord or any of his folk. Perhaps they had kept them out of the way of untrusted guests; perhaps there were such besides the harried pages.

And women—surely women lived here. But there was no lady such as Branwyn, to have been in hall last night: that was the reason the hold had so strange an aspect, such a grimness, that no children disturbed the lord's dignity with games or broke the silences; a man could become like that surrounded entirely by men—I should marry, he thought distractedly, get children, half a dozen at the least, have a wife to my comfort— for until yesterday he had hoped only for some brave word that others might say of him, a little glory in his life. He had seen only Caer Wiell, and had ambition to see Dun na h-Eoin and the King, to ride to some war or other; and now that he had come into this place so different from his own, his longing was all toward home again, recalling how beautiful the fields were, how green the forest, how fine these things had always been and he had never seen them; how rich his lord was, and he had never known it— not in gold, not in such ways as Donn, but in many others.

Perhaps tonight, he thought, will be harping, and folk will begin to laugh, deciding us no enemy.

What will he ask? What shall I say to him? Gods, Boc, and why have you done this? It was not well done, to leave me sleeping.

His breakfast came—no maid came to serve him, but only the servants, a succession of dour men bearing bread and cheese and meat in greater quantity than any breakfast he had had in Caer Wiell.

Perhaps, he thought, their guests were gluttons, or accustomed to choose and have their whims satisfied.

"I shall ride out," he said, "and see whether I can overtake your lord. Have my horse saddled."

There was silence for a moment. "Lord," said one, "we will tell the seneschal and he will come to you."

So he waited, and so the seneschal came, that man who had met them at the gates, he with the gold chain, a graying beard, eyes very dark and narrow.

"I did not have your name last night," said Domhnull. "Forgive me."

"It is Breandan."

"I would ride out," Domhnull said, "and join this hunt."

"So the servants told me."

"I shall need a guide."

"Our lord gave no such order."

"So," he said, and all at once his heart was beating harder, his wits racing this way and that.

"For your safety."

He gave a laugh, easy and merry. "Well, but I rode that way by night, and worse."

"I could not permit it."

The laugh died. He stared at this Breandan. "Then I take it on myself. Must I find the stable?"

"I could not permit it."

Do I then break with this pretense? Ask them where be Boc and Caith and the others? He walked a pace or two away, disliking the gray level stare upon him. O gods. "And how long will this be, before your lord comes home? How long must I wait here? I didn't plan to stay overlong, sir Breandan. That was not my order."

"Not so very long," said Breandan.

"I shall go back to my room, then."

"As to that I have no instructions. I pray you wait here."

"Is it so?" He walked to the fireplace and looked back at Brean dan. And my weapons may not now be there. No, I can be sure they are not. "Where are my men, sir Breandan?"

"I will inquire," said Breandan and walked toward the door.

"I had heard—" Domhnull raised his voice, "—that they were hunting with your lord."

"Why, that may be. I will inquire, sir Domhnull."

Somewhere below a door shut, hollow in the wooden halls. "That may be my lord."

"I did not hear the gates."

"Why, this is a rambling place, hall upon hall. All sorts of sounds come and go, playing tricks with the ears. Come now. I am certain that is he. Bide patient."

"And my men, sir?" He stood quite calmly for all that his heart was racing. "Do you think they might be with him?"

There were footfalls on the nearby stairs, a great number of men by the sound of them; and Breandan stood there smiling with perfect falsity.

So Donnchadh came, cloakless, in light boots, not a thing one would wear in hunting; and men came with him, all armed, all ar mored, and filled the back of the hall.

"Where are my men?" Domhnull asked, following with his eyes this brother of his lord, this thin unsmiling man who went and took the chair at the head of the table, and drew it aside, and sat down in it at the front of the hall, as a lord sat who disposed of cases.

"What?" Donnchadh asked him. "What talk of men? I thought we were to speak of trust. Of peace. Of forgiveness."

"How was the hunting, lord? Did you take the wolf?"

"Ah. The wolf. It did not fare well, sir Domhnull."

"Where are my men, lord?"

"You have one refrain, it seems."

"Until I have an answer."

"Young fool. You will give the answers, alone here as you are."

"Alone. Is that my answer?"

"Fey you are. I have felt it since you came. There was a night, Domhnull mac Gaelbhan, that doors where shut in Caer Wiell; and strange things passed there, the sound of harping, all in private— they say that bargains were struck there."

"What, they? Have you made them say such things, to agree with all your fancy?"

"Bargains such as my brother struck before. Such as on the field at Caer Wiell. We know what that portended, and mark you, he was born least and youngest of all our house, and now has hold and lands and a name far and wide as defying the King. Evald of Caer Wiell took him in, and that was his undoing."

"That is all fantastical."

"Oh, but truth, all the same, sir Domhnull. Evald was a strong man, to die still hale and with a good many years before him."

"My lord loved this man. Evald was more kin to him than any of his house."

"But Evald died untimely, did he not?"

"All men die, lord. And none of us know the time of it."

"And there was this meeting, this gathering behind doors; and bargains struck and plans laid, how there should others die, oppor tunely. No lord has richer lands, more wealth of cattle and horses— the King's own cousin for his wife. Oh, aye, all men die, lad. Luck, for one, may leave them. He has bargained with the Sidhe to gain all that he has gained. I know it. There is nothing natural in his lands. And now he aims higher—oh, I don't doubt he looks to win me now. The King is failing ... I doubt will last the summer. And now behind these doors in Caer Wiell, bargains are struck. You were in that room. You know what words were passed, and with what, and with what issue."

"The Sidhe warned him of hazards."

"I do not doubt, warned him of me. Come to me, he says now, come and be my brother, help me overthrow the King—"

"He has served his King better than the King has served him. Were even two of the lords of my lord's mind, then Laochailan King would be better served than he is. The Sidhe warned of danger; of some shadow hanging over us; and so my lord sent to you—"

"That I should take him to my heart."

"He has loved you. Twice he sent to your father. Now to you."

"This hall was lighter once, filled with my kin. Their bones are at Caer Wiell."

"They chose to be there, following the King. As you did. As Evald. As my lord. And without him—"

"And his allies of the Sidhe."

"He won your battle for you; and if cousins of his died, do you think he didn't mourn them? So did others die there. So did cousins of mine, and my uncle. So no one of Caer Wiell but lost someone on that field. You are not unique, lord of Donn."

"And so he prospered. He and his allies. And now he sends to me, hoping to gain even more than he has. I will know what was said there that night."

"Nothing of concern in this hall. Much of reason. Of friendship."

"With the Sidhe."

"Lord, if what they say is so, there is Sidhe blood in him—on your father's side, lord. I do not know why you hate him."

A vein beat in Donnchadh's temple. His nostrils were white about the edges. "One of us knows another. I have the Sight, yes. What bargain has he made?"

"There was no bargain."

"And what is this thing he carries?—Oh, I do know, lad. I know many things."

"But the truth. Did you get that from your watchers? He sent us here honestly. He purposed nothing but your good."

"This meeting—this—visitation—"

"This meeting. You are too fearful, lord. There was no—bargain." Back again to this, he thought. So we are out of words. He half turned, to measure those between him and the door; and one face caught his eye among the five that guarded the way out, a small and scowling man who seeing him, smiled his ugly best.

"So," Domhnull said, feeling the sands slipping farther beneath him, "Coille. We wondered where you had gotten to." And louder, not taking his eyes from Coille: "Lord, did you know you shelter thieves? Or do you breed them?"

Hands went to swords, steel rising to the light. "Alive," came the word from behind him. "Take him alive."

"Coille!" he shouted and flung himself, dagger coming so deftly into his hand—Rhys had taught him: and into Coille's belly. He never stopped to account of it, ducked low, snatching Coille's fallen sword and ran, staggered by the blow that struck his back, by hands that tore at him. He spun against the hallway wall, swung a two-handed sweep across bodies oncoming from the door. He ran. He felt a wound, his back, his side—some edge had struck him. The whole keep thundered to running steps, to shouts of rage: pursuit was close behind him, below him, coming up the stairs he wanted.

He went for light instead—for the slitted window that gave day into the dingy hallway: he was high in the keep, he knew it, but that death was quick and better. He leapt for it as they rushed about him. Hands grappled at his clothes. The hills, the daylight blinded him to the height. He thrust off from the sill and took it, a long, twisting fall with the clean wind rushing past him.

Branches took him, snapped, speared at him in rapid course like weapons.

He caught at them, tried to hold; and after, another space of air, another hurtling, past rock where there had been branches, one im pact and another before his sight was darkened.

Dogs were in his hearing, that fell sound echoing among the rocks, with the sound of voices. "T'was on the cliffside; he never got to bottom."

"Go round," someone shouted, "go round, up on the hillside. If he is not below he has fallen to that brushy shelf."

"T'is a long climb, that."

"Go, get the dogs to it, fool, and quickly."

His limbs drew up like a child's, hike a child's kept moving rest lessly, and that movement relieved one pain and brought another torment of sharp gouges at his body, brush beneath his hands, then smooth and heated stone, and the taste of blood, and ache so deep it had shaken to the roots of his teeth and the center of his bowels. Bones are broken, he thought, hearing the dogs, and scrambled all the same, having his sight back, a jumbled view of bristly foliage, of light on stone, of leaf-patterned shadow. He felt no pain clearly. It was all one ache, and he got his knee up, the one that was not battered and strengthless, and staggered to his feet on the cliffside. Depths swayed into his vision, sunbright and deadly as he stood holding to the gnarled limb: they beckoned, sunlit jagged stones, without dread in them, but he veered away, took a step, another, for the hills and sky were in his sight, and he went to them.

Dogs are there, he thought. He could not remember how he had come there, or where he was; then did remember that there were two sets of voices, that men hunted him, that somehow he had come to die here. He recalled wooden hallways which had suddenly become this nightmare, and he had hit his head, and fallen. There had been branches: still he felt the sting of them, and those that had rammed into his body; he bled, wiped his face and brought his hand away liberally reddened.

Donn, he thought then, a sudden settling of vision; these strange hills which had made no sense to him were the hills of Donn. He felt the mass of the keep looming over him, himself toiling along a ledge full in their vision. The edge was there, another hurtling fall await ing: his courage failed him. There were the trees, there was hope, if only for the moment, and that moment was all of life now. There was a man who meant to come up that hillslope, round its shoulder, so up to the cliffside; and that was one man, only one man of all those who served Donnchadh to hunt him through the hills.

He reached the hillside, the grass and brush, where old stones thrust up black fingers, doom among the wildflowers, the first small touch of color in this brown, dead land. He was naked on that hill, beyond the concealment of the trees, limping now with great stabs of pain up his battered leg and sides. Dogs barked and yelped. They were coming, his enemy; and now his sight was failing. The sky was dimmed to night, the place seemed stark and horrid, and small things chittered among the stones, wry and twisted shadows.

"This way," someone said. "O Man, keep coming. Hold out your hand to me."

He saw now a glimmering like a star amid the dark, and it grew as he went to it, a light, a warmth, a hope he went to for haven. His wounds ached with cold. His hand reached across the gulf and fin gers touched his, took his, held them as he began to sink. A grayness wrapped him about, a cloak and enfolding arms. He was on his knees, rested his head against a shoulder, felt a hand upon his head as if he were a child come home. "There, be still, I have you."

There was the scent of leaves, of greenness, of rose and lilac, re minding him of Branwyn. For a moment he was content, but thunder muttered, and wind swirled about with voices. He lifted his face, met hers. The wind was in her hair, her eyes—her eyes were Sidhe and dreadful.

"O Man, what do you here among these stones? This is no place for you."

"Donnchadh, the lord of Donn—my lord sent me, Duine Sidhe, to make peace, and Donnchadh has done murder on us. I fell, I cast myself—o Sidhe!" He heard a thing crying down the winds, and struggled to his feet on the sudden, staring blind into the dark where stones rose like pillars lit by fitful lightning. "Sidhe, they must not take me."

"Hush, they will not." Arafel stood beside him.

"There is something out there," he cried, for something lurched and bobbed among the pillars, lost in dark.

"That will not harm you. O Man, you should never have come here. Did I not say there was no hope in the west? Did I not warn you? Go back, tell your lord—tell your lord—that there is neither hope nor help in others. Here least of all. Donnchadh deserves his pity."

"Pity? A man who has done murder on guests?"

She was a whiteness in his sight, as if some inner light shone through her; and then dimmer, the whiteness blotched with black about the breast and hands; dimmer still, and it was his blood upon her. "For Donnchadh. For Caer Damh, An Beag and Bradhaeth. Pity, yes. They are only Men, and snared in evil they tried to master. It lies beneath, about them. I gave you a gift to see such dangers, but you could not heed it: this place is overpowering, and it drew you here, here—" The thunder broke, and the wind battered at them in a circling, so that her cloak flew and her hair streamed on the winds, a scattering of light as if she bled; and the cold knifed into him, prob ing the depth of all his wounds. "That is from an older Eald," she cried against the whirlwind. "It blows from Dun Gol, from age and ill and malice—You fade, Man; you must not! Take my hand!"

He sought with his. Her cloak whipped about him, and she found his hand and led him. He struggled on his aching leg, felt the wind even so, that shook them.

"Arafel!" a voice wailed, high and thin. "Arafel! Yield him up!"

"It is coming. O cling to me, Man. There is no iron about you, and you can hold here if you will. Do not let it shake you."

They came among trees, strange gray trees that groaned and gave hoarse voices to the storm. There was another light before them, nigh to the ground, like the fitful gleam of lightnings, and beside them as they went a small wizened thing scampered, hopping and leaping, using hands as much as feet.

"O," it wailed in a faint, piping voice, "o Duine Sidhe, ride, ride, ride. It is too great here, far too great. You must not contest it."

"Get him to horse," she said. "Gruagach, I bid you."

She was one from him. He stumbled, full of agony, and arms took him up, arms warm and strong, bearing him like a child, as if his weight were nothing, with a scent of straw, of sun, of earth, a leaping that confused his sight and drove pain through all his wounds.

It hurled him up then, at the side of a startled pony, and he tried to hold to its mane, tried to drag his knees across: the wizened creature scrambled up before him, held his arm and pulled him.

"Come, come, come," it chided, "dark it bides, dark and lonely; o Man, o Man, the Gruagach must help her, the Duine Sidhe. O hurry, Man! This pony will not lose you."

"Help her," he wished it, but it was gone. The pony began to move, the trees flowing past: it ran, and he could not feel the run ning, as if it were not ground it crossed but air, a stocky, shaggy pony.

It came. The winds howled. Arafel held her ground and as it came she drew her sword, slender and silver, star-bright against the night. "Fionnghuala," she called, and behind her in the wind came the sound of thunder.

The winds fell, and the night grew very still, there among the ancient stones, which made an aisle: a barrow-walk, to the hill's dark heart.

And darkness stood there, which became a slim tall elf.

"Arafel," he said.

"Duilliath."

He smiled. Cloaked in black he was, and light that came to his garments died there. She held the sword before her and even its silver dimmed: this was his place, his power.

"Free," he said, "and of this place the master. Master of all this land. I have brought back—"

"Ghosts. Naught but ghosts, Duilliath. And sorrow. Let be. Go back. Sleep again."

He dimmed, and then became something more of substance. A sword like hers was in his hand, but blue stained all down its length —a thing of venom and tarnish. "O Arafel," he said, and settled on a stone, sword-hand on his knee, and gave her a gentle smile. "The bonds on me are broken, quite—and shall I tamely sink back to sleep? Oh no." The sword lifted, pointed at her heart, and the wind stirred among the grasses, a breath of cold. "We are too old in mal ice."

"Drow," she said. "I find pity for you."

"Pity. I have no such. I lost it."

"Is it a heart you want? There are many left; I keep them. Name the one you wish, and I will give it."

"Even yours?"

She laid her hand on that stone at her breast, feeling cold within it. "Is it what you ask? Yes. I will yield it."

"How clever." His lips smiled. His eyes did not. "And were I to take it, then you might bind me with it—so you hope. So you have bound that Man—oh, yes, I know, you've lent such a stone, but all useless to your minion. My workings overpower it. Soon they will overpower him. You are too liberal with such gifts."

"I had hoped you had more courage. What, doubtful which of us is stronger?"

"I am not a fool, to hand you such advantage." He rose, and held the sword before him. "The land is mine, Arafel. Its King is mine; its lords are mine—even that one yonder. Donnchadh. He hates us. And seeks powers of me to match his brother's—is that not human ity? He is in my hand. As Caer Wiell is in yours, but not forever. Ah, cousin, how well you kept things—Eald shrunk to so pathetic few trees, and no Sidhe stirring from it. Where are the rest, Aoibheil? Liosliath our cousin—gone too? You cast the world away. You might have ruled it. Fools!"

"You made one Dun Gol. Will you heap more dead there? More elvish bones? Duilliath, I remember what you were. I mourn what you cast away."

"Is that Man's blood on you?" The sword lifted. "Mortality. It makes breaches in your armor. But I shall let you go. Retreat, Arafel." The point advanced. "Or yield. Surrender I shall allow you.

That would pay for my long waiting. We are many—oh, very many, we are thousands upon thousands. And yielding would be wiser."

"No," she said, lifting her sword, for he came nearer. "Take coun sel from you, Duilliath? It never served you well. Why should I trust it?"

The wind hit, bitter cold. He leapt and thrust at her, and narrowly she parried. His face shone before her, pale beyond the lacery of blades, the leap and dazzle of light and elvish quickness. The winds fought for him. The numbness grew within her. Lightnings lit the hill and leapt among the stones, making his face a dark-eyed mask, his blade a blue-edged flicker. His armor turned the point; hers, human-tainted, must fail her; and constantly she gave back and back, her fingers gone numb, her defenses waning in the bitter wind. The blue-stained blade crossed her guard, its poisoned edge kissed her hand in passing.

She thrust at him in that approach, slashed his face and marred him. He shrieked and vanished from sight among the stones. The pit of the ancient mound yawned before her, whither he had gone. From it came the wind and the murmuring of many voices, malice beckon ing. "Come," they said, "come down to us."

"Duine Sidhe," a small voice wailed behind her. "O Duine Sidhe, don't listen. The Gruagach cannot reach you down in the dark with him. Do not follow."

Thunder grew around her, and the light that was Fionnghuala. A small dark shape sat astride the elf horse that had come to her. It clung to the mane. It reached out a hand.

She took it, sprang with her fading strength for safety, and Fionnghuala bore them both away, the thunder of her hooves echo ing off the valley; but that sound was dimming.

"Do not fall, Duine Sidhe," the small voice begged her, and strong arms wrapped about her. "O do not fall. They would all be on us."

"Get me away," she whispered past the thunder. "O cousin, I am poisoned. Get me home, to Eald, my Eald across the river. It wakes, it wakes, and now I cannot stop it."

The shadows deepened in the hall, and servants moved soft-footed. Lost, the men reported. Lord, we cannot find him.

"Then search," Donnchadh had said, so lights winked back and forth like fireflies through the brush and the dogs coursed this way and that, but then the rain had started.

Now he kept close within his hall, and drank red wine to calm the fears that gnawed him. Lost, lost, lost. The boy had had something about him, something of the Sidhe, and his men swore that he had fallen, that they had seen him hit the rocks. But he had vanished.

Man, the whisper came, just at twilight, with the rain adrip from the eaves, apatter on the wooden roof; and the Dark Man was there, in the shadows of the corner as he was wont to come, so that Donnchadh reckoned him a part of dreams, or some manifestation of the age of Caer Donn, from the ancient stones. His brother had the Sidhe; but he had ghosts, dark ones that flitted, that knew nothing of the perilous green shade, that whispered to him at night and brought cold where they passed like honest hauntings.

Man, he has slipped you, quite.

The presence came closer. It seemed to bleed, and the blood to steam upon the air, in thin streams down its pale cheek, like warm water on snow and ice.

What shall I do? he asked his counselor. What advice have you to give? Who marred you?

The Dark man leaned near, two hands on the arms of his chair, confronting him so that his icy breath struck him in the face and the wine dregs spilled from his tilted cup. Arafel is her name, the name of this power that aids your brother. She has taken this your brother's minion to safety, and now what tales do you suppose that one will bear to him? Fool, Donnchadh, fool ever to have breached your gates. You would not heed me.

Donnchadh glowered, shifting in his chair. The eyes were close to his and dark and dire. He tried to face them.

My brother. I know my brother's allies, what they are. This power you promised me—where is it? Where is this Sidhe-touched boy? Man, the apparition said, leaning close and smiled, beautiful and dire at once, Man, what do you imagine me to be?

Donnchadh thought of this, and it was hard to think of, the way it was hard to hold this face in his mind, even when it was looking into his own. Ciaran, he thought, recalling a fairness in his past, and sunlight on the hills, his mind shifting the way the face before him shifted, before there were the Sidhe, before he had known what his brother was, or what it was to rule. They had laughed in those days.

I am Sidhe, said the ghost, very softly, in a voice so indistinct it might have been any voice, but fair and shifting like light on dark water. Does this fright you, Donnchadh?

Ciaran! he appealed to that safe past, that time far away from this. But the sunlit hills slipped from him, bringing back the mist. O Ciaran, was it this way with you?

Does it fright you, Donnchadh?

The pale, the beautiful face filled his sight. There was the scent of damp aged stone, of old wood, of wind in the night. There was a touch at his heart, more subtle than these, and it was fear and desire of power. "Begone," he whispered—a whisper was all he could mus ter—and the mist was all about him. "Leave me, ghost."

Would you command me? You would need my name.

Ghost, that is what you are.

My name is Duilliath. Banish me if you will. But do you think your brother will do as much with the Sidhe ally he has taken? Oh, you have always known what I am. I have whispered it in your dreams. I have said it over and over and tonight you have to hear it Banish me, Donnchadh. And be alone. You have killed your brother's men. Come, speak my name; banish me if you like, now you have done murder. Why, I might side with him—or with some other lord of the land of Men, to make him King. Laochailan is fading. Your brother has his own ambitions. So does every lordling in the land. Will you banish me, Man, and wait for the armies to come against your wooden walls?

The sweat was cold on his face, in the morbid wind. There was such an ill ease in him, such a gnawing uncertainty creeping through him as he had grown all too familiar. He feared. There was fear in the very stones underfoot. He felt stirrings all about him. The Sidhe owned Caer Donn; he had always known as much. The Sidhe like Men knew malice, knew connivance, made plots among themselves. This one sided with Donn, belonging here.

Will you bid me go? it asked. The beautiful eyes were windows into the mist, the touch at his heart quite deft and sure. There was no resisting it.

No, he admitted. He did not want to admit this, but it was so, that he had no counselor but his ghost, whose advice had always been true. He knew the world; he had fought a bitter war; he had fought a different sort of war after, his house disgraced, his parents failing in health, his kinsmen all dead in the war or turning on one another. His counselor's advice had won the King, after all; gained him power while the lords of the land conspired and connived with a King who knew only plots and murderings.

Listen now, said the ghostly Sidhe, his Dark Man, the voice which had whispered through his thoughts for years so subtly he thought the thoughts his own. You must gather your forces, quickly, before your brother can prevent you. You must not stand siege here. Caer Donn was never made for it; and if you are pent within these hills he will reach to Dun na h-Eoin and cut you off from the King. Move now, this night, while you have the chance.

And do what?

Murder came to his mind, so soft and deadly a whisper it was not a word, but a vision, the King lying lifeless on his bier, the armies with their lances shining in the sun, advancing on the Dale.

Prevent him, said the voice. Prevent him.