The Tree of Swords and Jewels

SEVEN Bainbourne

Their father rode ahead with Beorc and Domhnull and the other men of the escort, on great tall horses; and they rode next to last, ahead of the men who led the five remounts. They jogged along on their two ponies next their cousin Rhys, who seemed justifiably downcast about it all, in the troop of their house guard, all of whom they knew. They felt very important, did Meadhbh and Ceallach, in this faring out across the country. Meadhbh felt a freedom and fear at once, a fear which had settled into her like habit in recent days, since no one was going to tell her any of the secrets that drifted about Caer Wiell's halls, like the things her mother and her father said when they talked in private; or what her mother meant in those warnings she had heard in hall; but her father who often did things her mother's way (she is the wisest of us all, he had said of her one day to his men, when Meadhbh was there to hear; no snare will ever take my lady)—her father had left the hall that night with that look in his eye which meant he was not going to listen to anyone and their mother went about the next morning at breakfast finding fault with Muirne and with everything. Meadhbh accepted this sharpness in hushed patience, and Ceallach gave her a look which said he thought much the same, that it was their father their mother was worried about, that he was doing something dangerous even in sending to Donnchadh, and so it was easier to blame the breakfast.

It was that fear again, that no one talked about, whether it was fear of their cousin the King, or their uncle the lord of Donn, or faery, or something no one meant to name; it was always there now, like some great fish, Meadhbh thought, gliding here and there under black waters, and the surface gave back only the glance of light or branches, so that there was no way of knowing when the fish was somewhere upstream, or right under the surface staring back at them. No one wanted to talk about it, especially not to them; or to think about it, if there was a choice.

There was, for a while, the sunlight and the ride: she loved riding, with the creak Floinn's saddle made, and the motion, and the smell of horse and leather, and the earth and the land and even the sharp scent of oil and metal and leather and sweat and smoke that the men had, which reminded her—which would remind her every time she thought of it—of her father on winter evenings, when he brought himself and all his doings with his gear inside the hall with him, when the armory was too cold, and his corner vied with their mother's which smelled of herbs and the simples she made for folk who needed them in winter, hers all leaves and such and bowls, and his chair with all manner of oddments of horse gear and leather and oil-smelling rags. There was the slow scrape of the whetstone when he honed that great sword of his, the muddled scent of heat and oil and the fine riverstone going just so down the edge which had to be done just right, or spoil it. The blade had lines graven down the center of it which wove back and forth and turned into a running horse. It was precious and very fine and old, a sword which the Cearbhallain himself had cared for, and then Evald their grandfather and now their father had it in keeping; but he had seen them watch ing one evening and let first Ceallach and then herself ply the stone, steadying their fingers, being patient when their strokes went amiss and finally finishing it all himself—redoing what they had marred, Meadhbh had suspected; and her hands smelled of oil after, like his, which delighted her—O Meadhbh, her mother had said, who always smelled of herbs and roses, and scowled at her for the black marks on her clothes. But she always loved the smell, because it was his; and loved what he gave her, which was his cleverness of hand, his knowledge how to ride, and where foxes denned and hares might hide, and what were the names of trees and hills and lands beyond horizons.

But now their father rode armorless among men who were ar mored head to foot, carrying shields upon their backs and many of them carrying the long spears which they never used for hunting. He had left the great sword at home, had banished it from hall with the things of the warding room as if it were nothing. They did not ask why. But they had marked that he had put off even his dagger in hall. He had only the stone with him, always that. They did not speak of it, she and Ceallach, even to each other. She was in sum uncertain whether this gift was at the heart of the trouble or whether the trouble had come and the stone upheld him in it; it was far, far different from their own small gifts, she knew.

And tucked away in her mind was the suspicion of her own guilt and Ceallach's, that if they had not disobeyed and run off to the river in the first place, none of this would have happened, the Sidhe would not have come and their house would not have changed, and that was a weight of guilt too heavy even to think about, let alone to speak of. No punishment would mend this. No one would so much as accuse her. It was like when the Sidhe had looked into her soul and asked her what she would do with another living creature.

So at best she tried not to do another such rash thing as she had done, or even to let herself be a child any longer. She felt robbed by this: she wanted to grow her own way; but suddenly all she wanted seemed very small, and all this war she had begun to fight of being herself and disobeying when she wanted something, seemed some thing mean and selfish, because no one in the world was getting what he wanted, not even their father, who was lord of Caer Wiell. They had seen him lean his head into his hands when he thought that he was alone, as if he had had all that he could bear, and that brought back that awful sight of him on the dark stairway, when he had fallen, fainting in their mother's arms, which figured in their night mares. They wanted it not ever to have happened; they wanted things as they had been, but they could not be. Even their father could fall, and they had seen it, and so separately they understood that growing up was not as they had thought, always having their own way. Meadhbh suspected suddenly that it was something like what the Sidhe has asked, that meant not having it—or at least not being tricked by thinking one was owed it, even if it was the thing one wanted most in all the world—like home and parents.

People should always be with him now, Meadhbh would have said to her mother if she had had the courage, because her mother would have been there in a trice if ever their mother thought their father needed her help, and gods defend anything that stood between. And her mother might have lost most of this particular struggle, but not all of it, because it was Domhnull who was going to Donn at the end of this ride, and not their father himself; because Beorc had stood firmly with their mother on this, and Beorc and their father had gotten to words fiercer than usual between them.

"We will set him on his way," her father had decided then, of Domhnull; and so that was how it was; and: "You promised we should go when you rode the west road," Meadhbh had reminded him at breakfast, with devious and loving motives.

"No," their mother had said, at once and sternly.

But. "As far as the crossroads," their father answered. "Yes, I did promise. It's a small ride. They'll turn back there, and Rhys will be with them."

"This is no ride for Meadhbh," her mother had tried then. But her father had only looked at her in that way he had had, half sad and half determined. So her mother yielded them both up with nothing more said on either side and the ponies were saddled along with the horses.

Their mother had not come down to the gate as she sometimes would, but to Domhnull she sent a special gift, food all done up in a napkin that Muirne brought down to him, meat and bread and not the common fare that the men took. Domhnull was frankly embar rassed by it, the more that no one else was so favored, not even their father, who went out just with common stores; so Domhnull had tried to give a share to others, but their father laughed and would none of it, nor would any of the rest of them.

So they were on their way; and Meadhbh let her heart rise then, what with the jingling of armor and the horses jogging along at a fine fair gait. After all the fear and the arguing, they rode out into the morning with sharp weapons and high spirits and the men joking and making light of all that ailed them. These were the best men Caer Wiell had, the best in all the land, and every enemy was afraid of them. If their father should ever somehow need someone's help, Beorc seemed likeliest, the strongest man they knew; and Rhys, the fiercest and hardest and in many things the cleverest; and Domhnull who had taken all the danger on himself, and the men who would go with him, Boc and Caith and the others.

She touched the tiny pouch she wore at her neck, the same as Ceallach wore, that Muirne had shown her how to make for them, for the leaves of the elvish tree never left them now. They did not die, those leaves, nor fade, nor lose their fragrance. And they kept them close, since that morning, as their father had said, waking or sleeping having the gifts with them. Whether they were luck or not they were not sure, but they wore them as their father wore the stone, as faith fully, not understanding why, and hoping for luck from them, like safe homecomings and not losing things they loved.

If she could be like Beorc, or Rhys or Domhnull, she thought, and strong and brave to stand beside their father. (To her father's stature she did not aspire—he was too complex—but if she could be like Beorc. . . .)

Meadhbh watched him, the tall red-haired man who rode at a slouch and looked in many points disreputable beside their father and Domhnull; but men jumped when Beorc ordered. She practiced that slouch herself a moment, deciding then it wanted broader shoul ders. She hated what she saw for herself, being slight and keeping to hall, smelling of lilac and of herbs like her mother and waiting, always waiting to learn what the world had done—or what it wanted —or telling her daughter hush, whenever someone mentioned faery, because her daughter would run away if she did not, doing foolish things and thinking hopeless thoughts of Sidhe and losing herself in the woods and bringing trouble, the way she had already brought it. If she could do something to make it good, if she could slip away and ride with Domhnull to An Beag—I am Meadhbh, she would say to her uncle, in his hall, with Domhnull in his armor standing by her, and my father sent me to talk with you. It would have been sensible, she thought, that she should go, being young and having no quarrel with her uncle, but of course no one had thought of that and even her father would have laughed at such an offer. She imagined bandits from An Beag descending on them out of the trees beside the road, and herself and Ceallach proving themselves—but they had no weap ons, not even a dagger. The wish collapsed. Her brother's Flann and her fat Floinn shuffled along at pony-pace while the tall horses took longer strides, not working half so hard. They were childish figures, that was all; and the plump bay ponies were all their measure. And soon they would reach the safe limits of their riding, and their father would send them back, children who had had their outing.

Domhnull would go on: they all would, but themselves and Rhys, as far as the north road, and their father would ride back again later, having seen Domhnull well set upon his way. And perhaps, she thought, their father felt the same as they, wishing he was going on, but no one would let him—"Because," Beorc had said when they quarreled, "You bear that about your neck, and if your brother has no liking for the Sidhe, what when you come bearing that with you? You think that would win his love? And what when you drift off, as you do with me?"

"I should not," their father had said. "With you, it's trust, that I do it."

"So, well." Beorc had looked embarrassed, his ruddy face flushing twice its ordinary red. "But all the same it's madness. You know it is. And if you will not part from that thing, and you say you will not, then don't go to Donnchadh."

"What you say is sense," their father had said then; so whoever it was who had won with him, whether their mother or Beorc, he would not go, and perhaps he would have thought of these reasons himself at last, but it was Beorc brought it home to him.

Our uncle would not like us either, Meadhbh thought. How can a man haw the Sidhe in him and hate them? Perhaps if the Sidhe could only come to Donnchadh—she could win our uncle.

And again: I could call her name, she thought. But something turned in her heart, forbidding it. I am no small matter, the Sidhe had said of herself compared to the fuath, no, not like that one. Their father could surely call the Sidhe if anyone could, and did not, for his own reasons.

So at length they came to the crest of that hill below which the road divided, one branch going toward the dark wooded side of the Caerbourne; and that way was unkept and unridden, because it led west to An Beag. The other branch, well-traveled, went northerly, through their own lands, the way farmers took, and their own pa trols.

Here their father stopped them all, so that it was clear this was the parting-place. He beckoned to them; they rode forward, not jogging, but with that deliberation taller riders on greater horses used. "Well," he said to them, "this is as far as you go."

"Yes, sir," said Ceallach very quietly.

"Yes," said Meadhbh as soberly, looking up at him.

"Come, come." He drew his tall horse close to Ceallach and leaned from the saddle to hug him, passed close by Meadhbh as well and leaned down to kiss her brow. For a moment he lingered, frown ing. "Be good," he said.

"Yes, sir," Ceallach said. Meadhbh only stared. They had broken off the trail here before when their father went on his journeys, and always complained when they had to do it, and had more to say to each other. This had an ill-omened feel, this brevity. Of a sudden she kicked Floinn up close to her father's horse and offered a two-armed hug. He hugged her back, leaning down. Then: "Back by tomorrow eve," he said, and gathered up the rest of them and rode away, leaving them with Rhys to guard them. There was a knot in her throat. Her pony tried to follow the horses and she reined back.

"Come on," said Rhys after a moment. "Come on." She looked at Ceallach, who also looked afraid, and turned Floinn's head for home.

The familiar fields unfolded, brown and green. The once-traveled road lay dusty and safe, ever so safe, and Rhys had never ceased to frown. He was dark, their cousin once removed, with brooding, heavy-lidded eyes, and frowns came natural to him, natural as the weapons about him. He was smallest of the men about their father, and hardly seemed likely for a lord's son, but he was. And patiently impatient of them, of which they were acutely aware in his long silence, his sullen carriage, his gaze which wandered everywhere—to the riverside, to the fields, anywhere but to two children who had become his unwanted burden.

It only added to her misery. Tears threatened Meadhbh, an irritat ing swelling in her throat. She kept her eyes open and let the wind dry them. She did not say anything. She did not feel equal to Rhys' wit, not weary as she was; neither, it seemed, did Ceallach.

"Uncommon quiet," Rhys muttered at last.

"Yes, sir," Meadhbh said in half a voice, and they went a further several hills in silence.

"Gods," Rhys said suddenly, "quit moping. The hazard is Domhnull's, no other's. Your father will turn back, long before the border. He has said."

"Yes, sir," Ceallach said.

It was a while more in silence. Rhys scowled for a while, and looked only worried then. "Aye," Rhys said, "aye, I know."

"You could leave us here," Ceallach said, more brightly, "and we could get back home ourselves. We would. Then you could catch up with father and be with him."

"Your father's orders," said Rhys.

"Yes, sir."

After a while longer riding they had come to the ford again at the Bainbourne, which ran down to meet the river, a shallow spot sur rounded in reeds, well trampled mud on either side where they had crossed not so long ago. Rhys drew rein and let his horse drink before they crossed, at a spot less mired, and the ponies had their fill too, then behind Rhys' tall disdainful horse, plodded across the stream, up to their fat bellies before they had come out again, all muddy-hoofed and sorry-looking. "It's hot," Rhys complained, look ing at the sun. He had stopped on the level bank where there was grass, and there stepped down from the saddle. "Rest a few mo ments," he said with a look at the ponies.

They had not brought food for themselves, and Rhys was not the sort who would think of stopping to eat the way their father might. But he looked to his girths and theirs and then wandered off his silent way to the grassy margin of the brook, where he squatted down and drank upstream from the crossing, dousing his face and neck with both his hands, for it must be warm in all that padded leather and metal.

Since Rhys took his ease Meadhbh and Ceallach slid down off their ponies and let them crop the grass, bits and all, since Rhys let his gelding do it. Rhys still crouched there, his hands upon his knees, staring off across the stream as if he were lost in his own thoughts and paying them no mind, so Meadhbh went down to the stream a little up from him where a tree hung over the water and the shade was cool, and Ceallach followed her. It was a place they knew, from the first time their father let them ride out with him; and they had played at being on campaign like the heroes Leannan sang of, and had mock battles among the reeds, with sticks for swords, which made their father laugh, he and his escort; or they had shared food from a basket on the streamside. They had taken cover under this old tree once when a shower caught them, their father and they and Beorc all snugged up under a tent of cloaks listening to Beorc telling them how it had been to live in tents, the years of the King's cam paign. Reeds grew on the sandy shallows opposite, which had been mysterious hedges of hostile fields; and tiny flying things still swarmed there and made patterns on the dark and gentle currents.

"I think Rhys is going to rest a while," Ceallach said, squatting down on the bank and gesturing with a glance, where Rhys had lain down in the sunlight, letting the horse and ponies graze.

It was not like Rhys, to be so easy: he was all scowls and moods by habit, and while they liked him well enough they did not expect patience of him, or easiness, or anything but business. When Rhys laughed it had a hard sound, and his laughter was at hidden things and things men laughed at with each other. But perhaps he was weary after being up too late; or perhaps in his silent way he was meaning to be kind, not knowing much of what they wanted, but reckoning not to push them hard on their return. Meadhbh heaved a sigh and sat down on the bank herself, liking the coolness of the shade, the water, the nodding reeds and humming bees. Ceallach took leaves and launched them one by one, faery barks asail on the smooth miniature flood, as they had done before at this place, the first time their father had let them ride with him, when Flann and Floinn had seemed as tall as mountains. Ceallach was not playing now, but thinking. So was she. She plucked a leaf and launched it beside one of his, not playing either, watched it race Ceallach's down the dark swirls, past towering forests of reeds. They had grown too old. There was only memory in it. Her eyes followed the boat, but her mind was on her father, on Domhnull, wishing her uncle in Donn might prove better than they suspected.

"Rhys is in the sun," Ceallach said finally with a second look that way. "I think he's gone to sleep."

It disturbed her too, that Rhys had been sweating so, and lay down in the sun in all his armor, which was not the kind of sense she expected of Rhys ap Dryw. She wrinkled her nose, reckoning indeed Rhys might have been at too much ale last night, but it simply was not like him, and he had not seemed so tired on the way, simply out of sorts and wishing, she thought, that he were going on with the rest of the men and were not left to guard his two young cousins.

The strangeness of it worried at her. She got up and went toward him very quietly, with the sun beating down on her back. "Meadhbh," Ceallach objected, a faint whisper; he had gotten up to follow her, leaving his faery-boats, but she paid no heed to that. Often if Beorc were sleeping he would wake at the least sound and come out of it suddenly: never play pranks, her father had said once sternly—a man who had slept where Beorc had slept was dangerous waked that way, like many who had spent years at war. She remem bered Beorc and others of the men, dozing with sometime slitted eyes, looking up foxlike from time to time and napping in the sun, never quite abandoned. Her father napped like that. But Rhys was sleeping with his limbs loose, face-up to the sun and with his eyes shut, his lips parted like a child's. "Rhys," she said aloud, from a safe distance. "Rhys?" She went closer then and squatted down by him ready to spring away if he should wake angry. "Rhys." Her heart was beating hard. She put her hand on his ribs and shook at him. "Rhys, wake up."

Ceallach had come up on his other side. He dropped to his haunches and shook at Rhys hard. Rhys' body was loose, like some thing broken.

"Is he dying?" Ceallach asked. "Meadhbh, can people die like this?"

She did not know. Rhys' breath still came. There was no other sign. He was a capable man, was Rhys ap Dryw. He lay there with his weapons and his armor, more defenseless than they were. Of a sudden she felt a creeping sickness of her own, a deep malaise which lay at the pit of her throat, where the leaf rested. Ceallach lifted his hand in the same moment to his own throat. His eyes were fright ened and wide.

"Caolaidhe," he breathed.

But it was quite, quite another thing which stood there beside the water, in the shadow of the tree where they had sat. That was deep shadow to them, who were in brilliant sunlight; it was hard to see because of that, but it had no proper shape, and when it moved gave out a rustling like grass. It shuffled forward into the light and squat ted there, small and brown and shaggy.

"Rhys," Meadhbh cried, shaking at him, and Ceallach snatched Rhys' dagger.

"Brave," the shaggy creature said. "But iron bites, bites you."

"Stay away," said Ceallach.

It came no closer. It sat with its arms about its knees and regarded them with old and shadowed eyes from under its fringe of hair. "Bites."

Ceallach's hand was shaking. He braced it with his other clenched about his wrist, and sweat stood on his face. The dagger tumbled. Meadhbh caught it up and the cold of it burned her fingers. Neither could she hold it. The pain ran through her bones. Run, she thought; and thought of Rhys helpless with this creature; thought also of the elf who had stepped through thickets effortlessly to pursue them.

"Thistle," she called to the empty air. "Thistle—"

"No, no," the brown man said holding up his hands. "She would not be pleased. She sent me. You must not call. I came to see the children, the children I would like."

She had stopped, falling half under the spell of the small piping voice. She heard the hum of bees, the sighing of the rushes, and struggled to disbelieve.

"Rhys," said Ceallach. "What have you done to Rhys?"

"Sleep," the brown man said. "No harm, never harm from the Gruagach. See, I give my name."

"We will not give ours," said Meadhbh.

"Ah. But I know a name that you own: children of the Cearbhallain. I feel it in your hearts." The brown man hopped up very quickly and somehow (it deceived the eye) hopped to the rump of Floinn, who lifted her head from her grazing.

"She's my pony," Meadhbh said with all the fierceness she could muster. "Let her be."

"Nice pony." The Gruagach scampered into the saddle, crouching like some ungainly bird, and leaned close to whisper something in Floinn's back-turned ear. Meadhbh sprang up and snatched a stone from the bank. She held it in threat, and Ceallach took another.

"Let my pony be. And wake Rhys up."

"Rhys. Rhys." It hugged itself, savoring the name they had given it. "Be more careful where you give names. You might give away his heart, but the Gruagach has no need of it."

Shame flooded her cheeks for the mistake they had made. "Then let us all go," Meadhbh said. "Let him wake up again."

"I have seen you," it said. It hopped down again. "Fine sensible ponies, brave and good. They like you, but mostly they like their comforts, which is what ponies love best. And they are clever. Many ponies are. But your way is darker than theirs, o darker. I know now why she sent me."

"Thistle?"

"You have bright eyes. They see—o, they do see. The Gruagach knows you. He sees why. Be wise, o be wise, good children. Trust no iron. Be kind but be not foolish. The Gruagach sees, o yes, the green shadow on you. You are old, old as stones and your roots are deep: new growth on a hewn tree."

"You make no sense," said Ceallach. "Let him wake up. Let Rhys be. He never did you harm."

The Gruagach hugged itself and spun on one foot. "Go home, he must go home; the south must come to aid. Go home, go home, walk wisely through the shade. The four-footed friends will serve you while they can. The wind is coming and on it something rides—o I see, the Gruagach sees. Go away! Go away! The Gruagach has these children and the Man you cannot have!"

It was gone, it was straightforwardly gone, with only the sunlight in its place, and the ponies and Rhys' tall horse never starting from it. The bees kept up their humming, undaunted. The wind was gentle in the rushes.

And Rhys stirred in his sleep and waked with Ceallach and Meadhbh beside him. His eyes were peaceful at the first and then took alarm and shame at once.

"We were worried," Meadhbh explained as Rhys sat up on his hands. "You would not wake up."

Rhys had a desperate look, and ran a hand through his black hair. He looked at them, at the sky, at the streamside and the hills, seem ing profoundly embarrassed.

"I have never done such a thing," Rhys said. He started to his feet, missed his dagger and found it on the ground. Again he looked about him and at them. "Did you sleep too?"

"No," said Meadhbh, sure that it had not been a dream, and that it was not for telling, though she wished to. She felt sorry for the man, who was almost a lord of sorts and very proud, and truly never one to be so careless in a charge. He would confess it to their father, she was sure. And their father would see through it all and worry for what had happened.

"You frightened us," Ceallach said.

Rhys said nothing to that, but walked to where the horse and ponies grazed, and they followed, not without looks at each other— not conspirators' glances, but troubled ones. They joined hands as they walked after Rhys. Meadhbh understood nothing of what the brown man had said; she doubted it made more sense to Ceallach— except that it was to them the brown man had come, and to them he had spoken, and said he came from Thistle, whatever her real name was.

Dark on their path: that he had promised. And something on the wind. But the sky was clear and blue and there was no hint of it. She did not take comfort of that: blue skies were quickly changed, and this one seemed very fragile, and the sunlight hike reflection, even at noon. There had been something about roots and leaves; she made no sense of that, either. But it spoke of some kind of change in them, of iron—and neither she nor Ceallach could hold the dagger. Her hand still ached from trying.

Things of Eald and iron would not agree together. That was why their father had ridden out armorless and weaponless; and even now the pain went shivering through her mind, the iron pain, when the stone their father carried had such force or such danger in it he shielded it from her fingers, when he had fallen on the stairs after taking it and she had seen him in pain.

She had felt something like. She knew. And he went on carrying that stone, which was far more than any slender silver leaf. Her mother made him possets to drink so that he could rest. And at times there was still pain. Now she knew where it came from.

She hugged Floinn's shaggy neck and took up the reins and climbed into the saddle as Rhys mounted his tall black horse. Ceallach climbed up on Flann. The ponies started home without any touch of reins or heels, and the black horse went with them as if it were still a dream.