The Tree of Swords and Jewels

SEVENTEEN Nathair Sgiathach

The earth trembled beneath a darkened sky in this edge where magic met desolation. The chill air shook to the peal of a distant horn, and in that moment Arafel's heart leapt in startlement, in joy turned swiftly bittersweet—for this hope came at cost, and she knew that cost. It came at direst risk, wide and wild and shaking the world in its path. Liosliath! A friend had reached the sea and brought hope with the leaving of his life. That was Camhanach sounding, to the peril of the earth.

Eald waked from slumber. Every pact and vow the Sidhe had shaped in their parting from the world unsealed itself, for that was the undoing of it, that horn, sounding Daybreak after dark. An elf had crossed all the barriers with Camhanach in his hand and now the ships themselves might come, the great silver ships, and the herds from behind the wind. She might have wept for terror; she shouted instead for joy, at the threatening hills. "Ceud Failte!" she cried as the elf horse danced beneath her. "O Welcome! Welcome home!"

The green magic surged. Fionnghuala leapt forward as the echoes of that horn still rang among the hills. The dark Sidhe fled in panic from the hooves, the small ones scuttled under stones and into any shadow they could find. Harpsong sounded. It was memory and magic, echoing across the land in every place that had ever held Harp and harper . . . from Dun na h-Eoin and the ruins of Caer Wiell to the heart of Eald itself, bound in elvish jewels and the wind that stirred the trees.

But Dun Gol lay before her now, the way to Lioslinn. She saw the drow massing like shadow on the hills and that shadow grew, turn ing all her power. "Turn," she urged Fionnghuala, "turn now! No farther. We have delayed it all we can."

The elf horse obeyed at once, whirling back in the direction they had come, flying now, striking thunders from the air, shaking light ning from her mane. There was hope now: they went to find it. They sped along the path they themselves had made, through land she had shaped and healed.

But: Ruin, the dragon whispered, away to the east, in the depths of Lioslinn. Ruin, o Arafel—for all bindings are undone now—and it was Cinniuint bound me. The tree is dying, do you not feel it? Camhanach has slain it, and I am free! Your magic fails. Stay and meet me, Arafel.

She put a hand to the stone, even while she rode; but in nothing could she tell whether the dragon lied. Her magic, Cinniuint's, they were both the same, woven deep into land and air and running rivers.

Despair, the dragon said. Your magic is failing, failing, Arafel.

Then a darkness swept before her in this land she had reclaimed. Drow flooded the way before her to cut her off, between her and Airgiod. They streamed down from the hills, a host with banners, the standard of the King.

It is your cousin, the dragon said. Duilliath has found you. And Cinniuint is dead.

Fionnghuala checked her pace, turned westward—but on those hills too were shadows; and from north and eastward—from the north came drow from Dun Gol; from eastward the dragon began his slow advance, shaping the land in his turn, binding what he had made until his path was sure.

"Stay, stay," said Arafel, patting Fionnghuala's neck, seeking some way among the hills. The elf horse turned this way, that way, striking thunder from her hooves, shaking herself and throwing her head. Nothing yet had dismayed Fionnghuala: but now they were well ensnared, now the circle narrowed, and to the east they must not go. Arafel took her sword in hand. There was mist about them. The air grew chill and hushed.

"O Arafel," the sweet Voice said, far nearer now, "Arafel, now do you believe? In this little valley neither of us may win—all that we would wish. But is that not the way of things in this wicked world? Turn from them and come to me. I will treat you well, with honor. I will give you place with me, among my servants. Only Duilliath will be greater."

It did not deserve an answer. Fionnghuala turned as she looked about her. The east lay open, blank with mist, inviting her to try it: Nathair Sgiathach hoped for that, in his ambush in the hills. On other sides the draw advanced, riders on fuaths and black beasts, with smaller evils trailing.

"These Men of yours," the silken Voice went on, deep as thunder, soft as summer rain. "O Arafel, did you truly think yourself Men's warden? Bindings you laid on me, but I was not asleep. There was the lord of Damh, my neighbor—it took so little, a whisper in his dreams; then was massacre at Aescbourne Ford, an end of one King of Men, the makings of another."

She looked south, gazing on the hate that spoiled the land, on Duilliath and those beside him, who rode on horned beasts beneath their glowing banners.

"Murder and murder," the dragon mocked her, still chuckling at her back. "Evald served me well. Yours the Cearbhallain, the harper, perhaps; surely Ciaran Cuilean; but mine were Laochailan, Donnchadh—and Evald's tainted line. The children, the fine fair children—of Evald's blood, of murderer and thief and king—O Arafel, what might I yet make of them?"

"Duilliath," she shouted, ignoring that silken voice. "I weary of you!"

"Put away your sword, cousin," the cry came back. "There is no use in this."

"Something must keep the magic," the dragon whispered. "Duil liath knows well that we have gained a prize in you. Any small Sidhe might we have bound—for our Cinniuint; but you will serve far better, willing or unwilling. Tell me, what would the Daoine Sidhe not venture—knowing you within our hands?"

It was truth: of her a great binding could be made, as great as that which had flourished about the elvish tree, herself and the stone that was her heart, to bind the realms together and govern all their magic. She had made herself like the tree himself, rooted in all realms, gathered too much of power here within her hands, and she stood within their reach.

"Come," said Nathair Sgiathach, "cast down your weapons. Do you still hope for Liosliath—and the Daoine Sidhe? I have called him for you. And he has come this way—alone. If one of you will serve us, well, what might we make of two? Then let the others come. Dun Gol will be avenged."

Still the circle narrowed. She saw the green land die, saw leaves blacken. Fionnghuala laid back her ears and paced and fretted, leapt forward as they came—but there was here no shifting, no escaping from realm to realm: they were deep in Eald already and there was nowhere left to run.

It was the harping that had guided him, the song within the stone. And now it was stilled. "Arafel!" he cried, and Aodhan ran the harder, ran with all his heart for him, taking risks, finding ways even when trees sprang out of mist, when roots impeded and branches raked and clung. The elf horse was wise: his rider knew this—when magic failed and every trial of it let some green thing die. It was Arafel all efforts bled, Arafel whose strength now held Eald, as much of it survived.

He rode with nothing, nothing but Camhanach and the stone; the Man had worn no armor, carried even less; and the Man haunted him. He remembered the lady's careworn face at Aescbourne, the bright eyes of the children—so rich this Man had been. He could never now forget them, this kind he had despised, though he had fought them once, no less than Duilliath; had slain them, had warred against their iron and their changing of the land.

He had fought for them at the end, when he had no other choice. He had made Dun Gol of Airgiodach, after which no elf found joy in remembering. One by one the others had hung the stones on Cinniuint’s boughs and passed from Eald, when they could no longer love the world that Men would make or the thing that they had done.

He had been last but Arafel, an age of the world ago: for pride he stayed, for duty—that Cinniuint should hold.

But what care we? he had asked her. What matter, if Cinniuint should perish, if this world should pass away? There is no restoring, Arafel, only waiting— We have shut that door and sealed it. What gain is left?

But a Man had shown him that, shown him in brief bright fire, a life so bunding swift in days and nights he had hardly understood it, who had never yet grown old. An elf had learned something in this land of seasons: an elf sped now with a Man's knowledge, and faithfulness and fear; he should never be free of these things, would never wish to be.

"Arafel!" he cried. He went as wildly as Ciaran would have done, hearing the dragon-whisper threatening all that he had loved.

Aodhan leapt the lesser darknesses, dodged the greater, evaded roots and branches in the flicker of an eye. Drow loomed before him on beasts of glowing fire, of watery shifting shapes and every sort of horror. They wished to hold him, but he would not be held: the elf horse overrode them as they caught and clawed at him, outraced them in wind and moon-green light.

Life struggled all about him. Now there was grass beneath, now barrenness and dead trees about them, now clear air, now mist, and the rushing shapes of riders on black beasts that constantly shifted aspect. Fear was the venom of their swords, poisoning the Man with the dread of death, the Elf with doubt and hate at the kiss of their tarnished blades; but the Man was dead already and the elf had no doubts to use. "Go!" he urged Aodhan, and the elf horse flew be neath him, finding ways through ambushes, through mist and shad ows. He felt battle through the stone, felt danger and desperation. "O Arafel, holdfast!"

A mass of shadows gave way before him. He saw a clearing, a snarling horde that circled Arafel. She was afoot and bleeding, her brightness dimmed with dark; Fionnghuala struggled to rise again from falling, dark-streaked with blood, sent a horror flying, light ning-struck, while Arafel used her sword.

Aodhan never stopped: the dark Sidhe scattered from his hooves, scattered from his lightningbolts, and the elf horses circled, herding all the shadows, striking and harrying them in retreat until there was space within the grove.

Then Arafel sank down on one knee, her hand upon the ground, her head drooping, for her hurts were many and deep. There was pain within the stone, great pain and weariness; he took it such as he could, sliding down from Aodhan between her and the dark.

"Liosliath," said a voice from among the shadows. It touched Ciaran's self, deep within the stone.

Donnchadh, that memory said. But his own: Duilliath.

The wind streamed past, but there was no chance of falling: that was the nature of what they rode, with neither rein nor saddle: There was no need of clinging as the fuaths ran, matching strides with the Sidhe host's elvish mounts, black amid their light.

They had left the shore behind, and Meadhbh wept for her mother, for Beorc and Domhnull, Rhys and all the others—"Stop!" she had cried; and Ceallach: "Help us!"

But nothing would stop the rush that swept them on, and nothing stopped the fuaths.

Now they came up beside the first, the elvish captain. Unarmored he was, like the rest a bowman, his arrows fletched with light. His white horse ran because it would, reinless as the fuaths. He seemed young: there was none of the Sidhe but looked both young and fair: there was no age among them. They were all cold light and dreadful and there was terror about them as they came.

"Turn back," Ceallach pleaded still. "At least leave someone be hind to help them!"

"It is not our people," said the elf, "not our war."

'Then let us go!" Meadhbh cried.

"It is what you bear that draws you," said the elf, "not what bears you."

Meadhbh touched the gift that she wore. A virtue of finding, she remembered.

They have no hearts, a whisper came to her. They hung them all on trees, to forget this land, to forget all that they have done here.

"That is the dragon speaking," said the captain staring straight ahead. "Do not heed it; shut your ears—"

That one's name is Nearachd. He has no love of Men. He covets what you bear—would have it if he could. Beware him.

"Be still, old Worm!" Nearachd cried into the air.

What are you to them? What was your father? They killed him. Your mother left to die—

They rode suddenly into mist and trees, shifting and turning now; branches came between. "Keep with us!" Nearachd called. "Keep with us, young Sidhe! Do not listen to that voice!"

"King without a kingdom, queen born of thieves and murderers—o hear me, young ones: see what virtue brings—what it brought your father."

Be still, be still, Meadhbh told it. She clenched the elf-gift in her hand and thought of Ceallach beside her, only, only Ceallach, made a wall with him, to shield them from the dragon.

She grew calm and still inside: perhaps it was her doing; perhaps Caolaidhe's cold heart. Beside them the pooka ran, at home in this shadow. She saw her brother's face, that it had shed its grief, that it grew very like the Sidhe. Dark things took shape before them: elvish arrows flew with light no less dreadful than the shadow.

It is not a place for us, she thought, despairing, and then cast despair away, remembering Liosliath, and the kindness in his eyes. She felt a strength within her hand, imagining a tree—young it was and few its leaves and yet it lived, lent something of warmth and life.

Find them, came a voice within her heart, bubbling like waters. O hold, hold, hold, the precious thing I bear upon my back. Dark water, dark paths, no fuath fears them.

She feared, feared for all the world, for what was left worth loving, for the least light and the last beauty and the small band standing against the dark somewhere behind them. Home, she kept thinking, remembering the faces. Home, home, home.

Her brother rode beside her. There was a light about him, about her, and the elf-gifts were that brightness.

The drow's sword was in his hand, tarnished silver, poisoned. His comrades made now a ring about the grove, a darkness cold with hate.

"I would not fight you," said Duilliath, "either one. There is noth ing more to gain but wounds—on either side. Give up, cousins."

Liosliath stood watching, every shift of eye; and at their backs the two horses moved, circling, small mutters of thunder, pacing the ring that was all that remained of Eald on the earth, protecting Arafel.

Arafel gained her feet, such as she could. But the circle diminished more, grass curling black. "Liosliath," she said. A sword-hilt touched his hand. He took it, lifted it; the blade shone bright against the dark.

"We have done this before," Duilliath reminded him.

"Not well enough," he said.

More grass perished. A flower died. The drow came nearer, and there was about him the gleam of sullen fires. The blades lifted, crossed, flickered with subtle passes, feigning ease, feigning move ments that led to this side and that.

Faster, then and faster. The line of green drew inward, held. They battled back and forth on that line which he could cross and drow could not; and the wind was blowing, with chill that grew and grew. He heard his name called, heard the dragon-voice.

"Ware!" cried Arafel.

The border yielded all at once, a falling inward. Grass blackened, a flower died and went to dust: Duilliath thrust forward on the instant and Liosliath flung up a hand, took the point, unarmored as he was. The blade slid through, venomed, cold and keen. His own moonbright point touched armor, found a hold, went deep, and snapped within the wound.

"Brother!" wailed what had been Donnchadh.

It perished. The drow lingered longer, fading even so, a fair cold face, a wail, a passing chill. Horns were sounding, riders were com ing; the drow sped in retreat, racing for Dun Gol.

The trees faded; the mist remained. The riders came in sudden pallor, and two that rode on fuaths, hair red as sunrise; two steeds black and sleek. Thunder muttered; elf horses neighed and stamped. There was light within the grove.

"Arafel!" cried Nearachd, leaping to the ground. "Liosliath!"

Then he felt his wound, the cold within his arm, felt the strength ebbing from him with a flow of blood dark as the night about them. He wavered on his feet, and there were friends about him; there was Arafel before him, after so many ages—face to face.

"Stay," came a Voice through the earth itself, soothing and seduc ing. "O stay, Daoine Sidhe. Do not think to go."

"Do not listen," said Nearachd. "The ships are waiting, Aoibheil. And it will never take us. Come. There is nothing more to gain."

"Nothing more," said Liosliath. He looked at her with ages stored up of hope, of waiting, but something came into the stone that dimmed it all at once. She looked sadly faded, streaked with dark ness that was blood; there was sorrow in her eyes and heartbreak in the stone.

"You understand," she said. "You would understand."

"Haste!" cried Nearachd.

"No," said Arafel.

"Hold to this?" Liosliath asked. "O Aoibheil, no more."

"But there are Men," she said. "If we quit this world to safety— we leave them to the Worm. We have weapons. We are not done. —O cousins, have we learned nothing? What happens here matters."

"If we should fall to it," said Gliadrachan, "o Arafel, the risk—"

"It matters," Liosliath said. He still held the broken sword, heard the dragon coming, felt cold steal up his arm. He touched the stone he wore, that all the others lacked. "I remember. I remember Caer Righ before it was Dun Gol. We made both. Myself— I stand with Arafel."

"Not alone," said Gliadrachan, leaping from her horse.

"Not alone," said Nearachd, and others leaped down, setting ar rows to their bows.

So they set themselves and waited, and now they heard its tread, felt the shiver in the air. Arafel stood with them, nocked the last arrow that she had. "Stay back from it," Liosliath said, standing by her. "It aim's most at you."

She said nothing.

Foolish, said the Worm. Why struggle? You have seen the world changed from all it was. Would you have it back again? We can re make it. It can be anything we will

Then was cold and a time that passed measureless, when nothing stirred at all. It was with them, how they had not seen, came glit tering like bronze and gold, moving slowly as in some dream, and it seemed the sun had come into that darksome place, glowing on its scales. Its wings blew away the mist and fire coursed the veins that webbed them. Most of all its eyes—its eyes were no color at all. They drew the eye that tried to see what in truth that color was, and nothing was there at all.

No need of weapons, said Nathair Sgiathach. No need of struggle. The leaves will grow again, the lakes be pure, all things that you desire.

Bows unbent, strings eased. The Sidhe stood mazed and lost.

The last green perished.

Meadhbh held her gift within her hand; it burned, it had warmth when all had failed, when the each-uisge's trembling stilled, as spell bound as the elves. It loomed, this dreadful thing—it wanted them; and the thing she had, that Ceallach had, it spied this now and drew them.

"No," she said, and louder yet: "Not" cried Ceallach.

One Sidhe moved. It was Arafel, who fell to one knee, who bent her bow; it shook and faltered.

The dragon lunged, the arrow sped, into its numbing eye. It wailed, it reared, its wings beat in storm and whirlwind as it rose into the air.

It rose and rose, a shadow now, like a plume of smoke above them; it hovered, plunged—somewhere beyond the hills. The earth shud dered. There was silence.

Then the world began dissolving, blown on winds that blew it all in shreds of light and dark.

There was quiet on Aescbourne's banks, on the sandy hill, quiet in the midst of battle—the enemy fell back, yet another time.

Death was there again. Branwyn had seen him. Rhys had told her who he was, the dark ally who was sometimes here and sometimes not—she saw ghosts; and horrors. There were things horned like stags, clawed like bears, with wolvish eyes, worse even than the en emy. She huddled there behind a wall of shields, of men she loved, of all the world left to her. Weapons flew; arrows struck shields—

And then the silence, as if the world had held its breath. She rose, gazing outward past a sudden gap, for shields had dropped. The air felt strange and cold, the very earth seemed wavering in shadow and in light like light through thickest cloud.

"Where are they?" someone asked. "Where have they gone?"

There were hoofbeats, drawing near. The dark rider had come among them; and suddenly there was nothing else—the hill, their little band, the rider who beckoned.

"Come," Death said. "Your battle now is ended. You must leave this place, and quickly. Trust me now and come."

Branwyn was held then. Her breaths seemed slowed or her life went quicker: she saw—everything, as if the day had come, when yet there was no color. The rider beckoned yet again.

"Traitor," said Beorc. Shields moved slowly; Domhnull brought his up: she saw this, saw Rhys on his feet again, the Boglach shaft still in his side; but he held his sword, left-handed. "There were bargains, and you failed."

"All the world is failing. You have no part in what will be. Lady Branwyn: come to me. Come now. Come first and bring the others."

"No," she said, said it softly, with all her heart; and cried out, for it seemed he tried to reach them. "No!" The world quaked. "Go away! Let my people be!"

"You are mine. These folk belong to me." He came closer; his sword was drawn. It shone with baleful fires. "Rhys, Beorc, and Domhnull—"

"Let be!" Branwyn cried. She was cold coming down the hill. Men moved slowly about her, in the colorless, dreadful light. They wished to stop her, held out their hands, fading like the world. "Let them go, let them all go and I will come."

"Gods, no!" said Beorc. He thrust up his sword, met Death's. The iron parted, left him weaponless. The world swirled about them all.

And color came, pale at first, like mist on meadows, a touch of green and coolness. The mist gave way to sun, to trees about them, silver-leaved, hills folding about them.

"Beorc!" Domhnull cried. But of all of them, only Beorc was not there, and all the ghosts had gone. They stood few and tattered, bewildered in this place. There was silence, but for the wind.

"Welcome," piped a voice. "O welcome, gold lady! O come, come, come!"

It was the Gruagach, perched upon a stone. Three ponies waited near him, and a tall piebald mare.

"Gruagach," said Branwyn, "o Gruagach—Come where?"

"You are there already. Follow, follow now. Some ride, some walk, not far, not far, o my Men, my gold lady, follow as you can."

Rhys thought to walk; he could not. His men caught him in their arms and set him on the horse. So they did for others that were hurt too much to walk, and the ponies bore them gently.

The Gruagach went before them, dancing as he went, up, up the vale while the hills unfolded. They went with all their strength, with hope in what they should find.

The steading lay before them, just as it had been before—if any thing, more rambling.

They came as quickly as they could, some even running at the last, for Caer Wiell folk were streaming down the hill to meet them, and foremost, two red-haired children.

"Meadhbh! Ceallach!" Branwyn cried, and ran to catch them in her arms. Muirne came, and Cein, Cook and Seamaire, Cobhan and Smith and Domhnull's kin—there was no lack of tears; and laughter mingled with them, for all that they had saved.

"The elves brought us," Meadhbh said. "They're here."

Last the steaders came, with the tall, red-haired master and his gold-braided wife.

"Come," said this Beorc, who was very like their own. "Welcome here, three times welcome. Here is a place better than the last, for as long as you want to stay."