The Golden Queen (5 page)

The sidhe took Gallen’s chin, and Gallen looked into the creature’s eyes. The thing looked human in nearly every way—Gallen could make out the fiery yellow hairs of its eyebrows. It was very much a human face, if not for the fact that it glowed like molten metal. “Remember, Gallen,” the creature said with great heaviness, “I will hold you accountable for any oaths you make this day.”

Gallen had only a moment to wonder at this portentous threat when the sidhe whistled and slapped the mare’s rear. She leapt downhill, heading for An Cochan. Gallen dug his heels into her flank and gave her her head.

The night that Gallen O’Day fought off the nine robbers, Orick had been thinking about leaving Gallen forever. A dozen conflicting urges were moving Orick in ways that he did not wish to go.

His love of mankind and his desire to serve God by ministering to others was leading Orick toward the priesthood. Yet Orick knew that he and Gallen were not of the same heart on such matters. While Orick revered the Tome and its companion book the Bible, hungering for the wisdom of the ancient Christ and his disciples, Gallen’s attitude toward the books was disappointing. The young man vacillated between grudging admiration for some of the Bible’s teachings and open contempt for the Tome. Obviously, Gallen did not have faith in the holy books. Although Orick genuinely liked Gallen, their sharply divergent views on religion were troubling, and Orick believed that soon he would have to leave Gallen, if only to retain some peace of mind.

Furthermore, Orick found other urges beckoning him. He had been spending a great deal of time in the company of humans lately. But such a state of affairs could not long continue. He needed a female bear’s company.

So, that night as the two said their good-byes at the back of the inn and Orick watched as Gallen led Seamus away on the mare, Orick’s own words rang in his ears, “God be with you then, for I shall not.”

The young female bear next to him, named Dara, pawed demurely through the garbage. “Have you decided then? Will you be coming to the Salmon Fest next week?”

Orick imagined the hundreds of bears that would be gathered at the fest, fishing in the day, sitting around campfires and singing all night on the rocky beach on the banks of the cold river. He imagined the smell of wet fur, the pine trees, whole salmon skewered on stakes as they leaned against the fire pits to broil. Though Orick didn’t particularly relish the idea of wading in the icy waters of Obhiann Fiain all day trying to catch fish in his teeth, he was nearly four, and certain primal urges were getting hard to ignore. Orick saw that becoming a father would confer upon him a type of immortality, for he would live on through his progeny, and he hungered for that particular blessing.

Yet if he entered the priesthood, he would have to take a vow of chastity, and so he considered that this year he would need to go to the Salmon Fest. At the Salmon Fest many a fair young female bear would be hunting for more than a slimy morsel of fish for dinner, and frankly, as the bears say, “A she-bear in heat is the best kind to meet.”

Sure, there would be games at the festival—competitions where the males would go at it tooth and claw, tree-climbing races, the log pull, the pig toss. Orick would have to win the right to breed, but he was becoming rather large, and he’d learned a few wrestling tricks by watching Gallen.

Who knows, he mused, perhaps I’ll unseat old Mangan as the Primal Bear. He imagined how envious the other bears would be as he chose the best and brightest females to breed with, then Orick gobbled some cold cabbage and deep-fried clams from the garbage.

“I’m not sure if I’ll come or not,” Orick growled in response to Dara’s question. “I’ll think about it.” It was possible to find a mate without going to the Salmon Fest, but a saying rang through Orick’s mind: “While the common bear shivers in his wet fur, the superior bear builds a fire.” So, Orick knew that if he really wanted a quality mate, he would need to make the journey to the Salmon Fest, leaving Gallen O’Day behind.

“I saw some deer up the hill in Covey’s apple orchard,” Dara said coyly. “I really like venison. How about if we go up there and see if we can kill us a deer?”

Orick grumbled, looked at her askance. He didn’t like hunting for deer. The bucks had antlers, and even the females had sharp little hooves to kick with. Orick didn’t like undertaking unnecessary dangers. Besides, he was hungry, and being hungry made him grumpy.

“Nah, I never developed a taste for venison,” Orick lied. “I know where some squirrels have a midden. Do you like acorns?”

“Well,” Dara said, “I’ll go catch one myself.” She left the garbage to Orick and headed up the north road. Orick watched her longingly. He knew that she expected him to follow. The chances were slim that she’d be able to sneak up on a deer herself. But deer usually ran uphill when frightened, so if Orick were to go uphill and wait for Dara to scare the deer up to him, the chances were pretty good that he could catch one.

Orick imagined a huge six-point buck charging uphill, antlers lowered like pikes, hooves slashing, and decided not to risk it.

He crept beneath the shadows of the pine boughs that sprouted from the inn, then lay down. The clouds were quickly blowing away and stars dusted the sky in a fiery powder while the moons sank lower, staring down like the eyes of God. For awhile Orick watched for falling stars and thought about Dara. She was a flirtatious young thing. Orick suspected that she had no idea how strongly her charms affected him, and he felt as he laid there that he was making a momentous decision: should I follow her to the Salmon Fest and see if I could win the right to mate with her, or should I stay with Gallen for one more season?

Above Orick’s head, someone blew out a candle in one window of the inn. Orick suddenly noticed how dark it was. Nearly all the lights in town were out, and only the pale fires of heaven shone in the streets. The shushing whisper of waves breaking on the beach a quarter of a mile away lulled the bear.

Orick closed his eyes and rested his muzzle on the ground. He slept lightly for some time, but a dog’s yelp interrupted his dreams. It was an odd bark, the noise a startled dog makes, but it was cut short, as if someone had kicked the dog in the ribs. Orick would have gone back to sleep if he had not noticed a faint, peculiar scent barely distinguishable above the salt tang of the sea air—blood. He blinked and looked down the road south of town, and for a moment thought he was dreaming.

Something was walking up the road. It resembled a human creeping on all fours, but its spindly legs could have been no less than eight feet long, as were its arms, while its torso was very short, perhaps only two feet. It moved jerkily, wary as a mantis, its tiny round head pivoting as it tried to gaze in all directions at once.

It carried something in one hand—the mangled body of a whippet. The creature got to a crossroad and hesitated in the shadows, then dropped the dead dog and bent its elbows so that its forehead nearly touched ground. Orick could hear the creature sniffing. It crept toward Mahoney’s stables, keeping its nose to the ground, then suddenly seemed to catch a scent. It swerved back toward the inn.

The monster sneaked to the darkened windows of the inn, not twelve feet from Orick. It stopped, sniffed at Orick and regarded him a moment. The monster had large eyes that showed orange in the moonlight, and Orick saw that its marvelously long hands looked very powerful. Orick didn’t move, and the creature must have decided that Orick was asleep and therefore didn’t matter. Let sleeping bears lie.

It began inhaling near the small round windows of the inn, tasting the scents. The head was indeed human in shape, but the monster really did not move at all like a human. Its jaunty twitches reminded Orick more and more of an insect.

The thing reached up sixteen feet to a small window, grabbed the sill in one hand, and pulled itself up to sniff at the crack under the window. In performing this maneuver, it seemed to defy gravity, as if it were a mosquito clinging to its victim.

It reached one long arm sideways eight feet to the next small window, swung over to it, tasted the scent there.

Mahoney’s Inn, like most structures in town, had grown from a house-pine seed. As with many such homes, the owners were of course obliged to put in windows and doors only where openings for such grew naturally, and new windows and doors had to be fitted every few years as the openings grew larger. So it happened that sometimes the window didn’t fit snugly.

The creature must have known this, for it stuck its long fingers into the lintel, scrabbling with heavy claws to pull the window free. Orick heard wood splinter under the force of its assault, and though Orick had never before seen anything like this monster, he knew that this thing was intent on mayhem.

The monster pulled the window free and tossed it away with a flick of the wrist. Its hand shot into the dark cubbyhole of the room. Orick roared in warning, then lurched from his hiding place, jaws snapping. Though the monster was incredibly long of limb, it looked to be rather flimsy. Orick grabbed a leg and shook his head, pulling the creature down, ripping its sinews.

For its part, the creature slashed at Orick with its long fingers, raking open wounds across the bear’s face. In the heat of battle, Orick hardly noticed. He bit into an arm and found it to be much tougher than he’d imagined—indeed, Orick had once bitten into the haunches of a running horse, and the horse was not nearly as tough as this monster. Orick growled in his fury, clamped his jaws down and rolled, then finally managed to snap a bone.

The monster struggled up on three limbs to run. Orick heard shouts of dismay and screaming from the inn, and he worried that if he let the beast escape, it would return to town with murder on its mind.

Orick seized a foot in his teeth, pulled the monster to the ground, then dragged it backward like a sack of onions. Orick’s teeth gouged through the thing’s flesh, ripping its leg wide open, yet Orick felt as if his own teeth might be yanked out.

The beast raised its head, and Orick saw in the starlight that it had fierce-looking fangs. It blinked its orange eyes and screamed, an odd howling that rang through the city and out over the surrounding mountains like a war horn.

There were words in that cry, and Orick sat in astonishment as he recognized them—”I have found her! Come, fellow vanquishers!” Orick lunged for the creature’s throat, trying to silence that call for aid, and with a vicious wrench he tore the beast’s windpipes out.

Bloodlust hit Orick then, some primal instinct. He roared and tore at the dying creature, swatting it with his claws, ripping it with his teeth, dancing around it in a red fury until he became aware that a dozen people had poured from the inn.

John Mahoney rushed out with a lantern, and he shone it on the beast, a look of stricken horror on his face. For the first time, Orick saw that the thing had green skin, like that of a toad. “Get the priest! Get the priest!” John Mahoney began shouting. “Och, God, it’s a monster!”

And most of the others from town were running around, shouting in dismay and disbelief. But among those who issued from the inn were a beautiful young woman and a hooded man who wielded a sword. They stood for a moment, gazing at the dead monster, and though fear shone in their eyes, there was not the look of total incomprehension and shock that Orick saw in the faces of his townsmen. Instinctively, Orick knew that these two had battled such monsters before.

Indeed, the man leaned close to the woman, and Orick caught his words. “It called for other vanquishers. We must hurry into the woods. We can’t stay.”

“What of our horses?” she asked.

“They will do us no good in the forest, in the dark. Better to leave them.”

The woman nodded. Her companion rushed back into the inn, came out with two packs. He gave the woman a pack and she immediately headed north up the road.

But for one moment, the warrior stood, pulled out his naked sword gleaming in the starlight. He looked right at Orick, as if to thank him, and raised the sword in a silent salute. Then he spun and rushed into the night.

A crowd gathered around Orick, congratulating him, and men brought out their torches. Orick warned that other such monsters might be about, and soon the men formed up into a militia and set to guarding the edges of town. A boy ran to the parsonage to wake Father Heany, who took one look at the creature and pronounced that it must be some unrepentant sinner, transmogrified by God in retaliation for its unholy deeds.

Many of the townspeople stood by, congratulating Orick, yet Orick himself wondered at what he had done. Who had he helped? What evil plans had the monster harbored? Orick knew so little about the creature—only that the beast’s flesh was made of tougher stuff than anything he had ever sunk his teeth into. As townspeople brought their lanterns close to look at the beast, Orick smelled its torn flesh. It had an oily scent, not like any land beast, but more like a fish, yet without the putrid fishy flavor.

When he looked at the ropey coils of torn muscle, he saw that each fiber was like a tiny thread of white. Yet when he looked into the creature’s face, aside from the heavy jaws and sharp teeth, it looked to be human, a young boy perhaps.

Orick did not know what the monster was, but others knew. Orick stared up the north road that led to the deep forest of Coille Sidhe, the direction that the two strangers had run. The vanquishers would be there, hunting the strangers, and Orick knew they would need help. He decided to leave as soon as Gallen returned.

Orick looked up at the moonlit sky, wondering what had taken Gallen so long.

Chapter 3

An hour before dawn, Gallen urged the mare under the canopy of Seamus O’Connor’s house. His home had grown from a great oak, and at this time of the year the dead leaves in the canopy rustled in the wind under the starlight. Other oak houses, planted generations ago, grew near in a cluster, so the O’Connor farm—inhabited by several families of O’Connors—was more like a grove of houses. Here in the wilds, such groves gave one a sense of security, with people all around—though they were really little more than firetraps. Eventually, if the family didn’t leave, they’d get burned out.

As Gallen neared the house, a watch owl swooped near his head, shouting “Who are you?” Gallen gave his name, fearing that the raptor might rake him with its talons. A candle burning in the O’Connor window bore testimony that Seamus’s wife Biddy had waited up for him.

Seamus was in a bad way. He kept crying out at visions and couldn’t answer a simple question.

Gallen slid from the saddle and shouted for help, then lugged Seamus to the house. Biddy unbolted the front door, and soon Gallen had him laid out on the sturdy kitchen table and all seven of Seamus’s children got up. Brothers and aunts and cousins poured in from the other houses in the grove. Soon the house bustled with crying children. They gathered around Seamus and hugged his hand, wiping their snotty noses on his sleeve.

Biddy sent her oldest daughter Claire for the priest while her son Patrick fetched the doctor. Gallen watched Patrick make ready to leave. The boy didn’t hurry—instead he just skulked away, lazy to go out. Patrick had a likeness to his father, but was still just a gangrel of a boy with long arms and a slouching posture. Word around the county said he was a rowdy and a drunkard that his mother wouldn’t be sorry after once he left home.

Seamus woke and called for Biddy but didn’t know her when she answered him. The doctor arrived and checked Seamus’s wounds—a shallow cut to the ribs and a cracked head that was swollen and feverish.

The priest, a Father Brian who was a second cousin of Gallen’s on his mother’s side, gave Seamus the last rites even as the doctor drew cold well water to bathe Seamus’s head.

Gallen told them the story of the attack, saying only that a stranger had intervened, frightening off the robbers. He was afraid to admit that the stranger was a sidhe. How could he explain that one of Satan’s minions had rescued him?

Afterward, Gallen sat on a stool, holding his head in his hands, afraid Seamus would die. He kept replaying the whole fight in his mind, wondering if somehow he couldn’t have made it come out better. He recalled one moment, when one of the blackguards had first jumped up from the roadside, waving the white slip to spook the horse, when he had thought to pull his knife. Yet he’d held still, wanting first to gauge his enemies, estimate his chances of winning.

But if he’d only pulled his knives from the start, attacked before the robbers consolidated their forces, Gallen would have stood a better chance. Gallen relived the incident over and over, and within an hour he was sure he could have won. He could have killed all nine bandits and gotten Seamus home safely.

And Gallen wondered about the sidhe. There, in the mountains at night with a spinning head, Gallen had been sure of what he’d seen, but now that he was back in a warm home, with people bustling around, those swirling images of the glowing lavender face seemed astonishing, impossible. He could not have seen such a thing.

Just before dawn, Seamus lapsed into a deep, uneasy sleep, the kind of sleep that men seldom wake from. Gallen’s eyes became gritty and his eyelids heavy. He was in that state where his skin felt as if it slept, as if he were losing the sensations of touch and heat and cold.

Biddy brewed some rose hip tea, sweetening it with honey, and the doctor forced it down Seamus’s throat. Gallen watched from a distance, yawning.

Father Brian turned, his black robes swaying grandly, saw Gallen’s face, and appeared startled. Brian crossed the room and in a hushed voice said, “You look like hell, my son. What’s the matter, did you get all of the heart knocked out of you?” Gallen didn’t answer. “Why don’t you come outside with me for a walk? The stretch will do your muscles good.”

“No,” Gallen said, shaking his head. He felt as if leaving Seamus’s bedside would be some form of betrayal. He needed to see this through, be there if Seamus died.

“You’ll do no one any good here,” Father Brian said. “Whether Seamus lives or dies or wakes up an idiot, there’s nothing you can do for him.”

Father Brian pulled at Gallen’s hand, and led him out into the dawn. The sun was rising pink over the green grass of the drumlins. Morning fog burning off the downs crawled up the hillsides in some places like pale spiders of smoke. The raucous calls of crows echoed over the fields. Father Brian took Gallen out behind the O’Connors’ barn, to a reedy pond. At their approach, several snipe got up and flew about Gallen’s head, uttering sharp cries. A pair of mallards rose from the glassy water, and Father Brian sat with Gallen on a sun-bleached log.

“All right,” Father Brian said, folding his hands. “Out with it. Give me your confession.”

Gallen felt odd giving his confession to a cousin. Father Brian was only twenty-five, and the man was so fresh that he couldn’t grow a beard to save his soul. Still, he was a priest.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Gallen said.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” Father Brian asked, folding his hands like a steeple.

“A year.”

Father Brian raised his eyebrows, looked at Gallen askance. “So long? How many men have you killed in that time?”

Gallen thought a moment, added his three kills from last night. “Thirteen.”

“Business sounds a bit slow,” Father Brian mused. “Killing is a grievous thing—a mortal sin under some conditions. I assume that all of them were highwaymen and scoundrels?”

“Yes.”

Father Brian folded his hands again. “Hmmm. And how much booty did you find on the corpses?”

Gallen had to think. He hadn’t kept a running tally. “Well, if you consider the boots and clothes and weapons I sold, not more than a hundred pounds.”

Father Brian whistled in surprise. “That much, eh? A good haul.” After a bit of thought, he said, “Say a Hail Mary for each man you killed. That ought to suffice. And of course, I’d thank you to pay a tithe to the church.”

“Ten pounds?” Gallen asked, his heart beating hard. He’d spent the money long ago. Sure, he made a lot of money as an escort, but he had to buy his food at the inn, pay lodging—his expenses were equally high.

“Well, you wouldn’t want to risk dying with any kind of stain on your soul,” Father Brian said. “God delivered these evil-doers into your hand. It’s only fair that you offer something to show your gratitude.”

“But ten pounds—”

“Och,” Father Brian interrupted, “think nothing of it. You’ll take more than that off your next couple of jobs.”

Gallen nodded reluctantly, wondering how much Paddy and the other thieves might have had in their pockets. Father Brian stared hard at him. “So, what else have you got to confess?”

“About last night. I keep thinking, and I’m pretty sure I could have saved Seamus that knock on the head.”

“Ohhh,” Father Brian said thoughtfully. “So that’s why you look so wrung out. I figured as much. You’ve never lost a client before. So what makes you think you could have saved him? You said there were, what, nine robbers? You’re sure you could have taken so many?”

“I stood fast when they first came at us,” Gallen said. “I knew what they wanted, but I advised Seamus to throw them his purse. But—”

“And why did you do that?” Father Brian interrupted. “You’re not a coward, are you? I’ve never heard such talk about you. Think close, and give me the truth.”

Gallen considered closely, remembered the men circling him in the dark, big men sporting beards, men who looked soft and flabby from lack of work, men armed with kitchen knives and a relic of a sword that had showed a faint patina of rust even in the dark. “I didn’t want to have to fight them,” Gallen said at last. “They looked like farmers, soft, down on their luck—not killers. A couple of them were just boys.”

Gallen thought back, remembered the two strangers that had hired him last night at Mahoney’s Inn. Now, the man who had worn two swords on the outside of his cloak—that man had been a trained warrior. Gallen had seen it in his stride, in the clean way the man had maneuvered through the common room without letting his weapons knock against the stools. His cautious demeanor showed that he’d been a man who lived with battle. Gallen had fought such men before—trained swordsmen out of Darnot who turned to butchery after the war. Gallen didn’t mind fighting such men, though they could be more dangerous than a wounded boar.

“So, you took a little pity on some robbers,” Brian said. “Christ advocated the same, that we have mercy on our brothers—but only if they are penitent. The men who were robbing you last night didn’t merit mercy. They gave you no quarter and asked none in return. Now, if the survivors repent and turn to Christ and ask your forgiveness, then it would be appropriate for you to forgive them, welcome them back as brothers in Christ. In such circumstances, your feelings would do you merit.”

“I know,” Gallen said. Father Brian sounded as if he were trying his best not to chastise Gallen, make him see things in their proper light. In truth, Gallen was too tired to argue or think on his own. He only wanted to sleep.

“So, perhaps your hesitation did cause Seamus some hurt, and perhaps not. You can’t know anything for certain,” Father Brian said. “So I’ll tell you what. I want you to take a vow before me now. I want you to promise God that when your heart is hot to come to the aid of another, you will never again hesitate.”

Gallen glanced over at Father Brian, and in his mind the words of the sidhe echoed: “I will hold you accountable for any oaths you make this day.” The morning sun seemed to go cold, and Gallen stood up and looked out over the drumlins at the white spiders of fog climbing the hills. Sheep were bawling in the distance, but otherwise the world seemed quiet, desolate. Gallen felt almost as if the sidhe stood nearby, with his hand cupped to his ear to hear the enunciation of the oath. Somehow, Gallen felt sure, the sidhe had known that Gallen would be asked to take this oath, so the sidhe had warned him that this was a solemn business. But would Gallen be speaking the oath to God, or to the sidhe? To speak an oath to a magical creature would be a sin. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” the Bible said, so how much more wicked was a sidhe, a creature of pure magic? Gallen could not make a vow to the sidhe.

“Well,” Father Brian asked innocently, unaware of Gallen’s dilemma. “Will you speak the oath?”

“I will,” Gallen said. “I’ll speak it to God: If ever again my heart is hot to come to the aid of another, I will not hesitate.” Gallen said the words, and out over the fields a crow began cawing and flew up into the hills as if to carry the message. Gallen wondered if the sidhe had taken animal form.

“Now,” Father Brian said, “before the sun gets any farther up the sky, how about if you and I hike up the road and search those robbers? Maybe we could get a handle on some of that tithe you owe the church.”

Gallen agreed reluctantly. He didn’t expect much from these bodies, and it seemed rather ghoulish to be searching them in the company of a priest. Still, if they didn’t hurry, some early traveler would get there first.

They headed up the road, over the mountain. When they got to the site of the ambush, Seamus’s son Patrick was there. He already had the bodies laid out side by side like partridges. He hunched over them, hurrying to get their purses and anything else of value. When he saw Gallen and the priest, he hurried even faster, as if he would take the loot and run.

Gallen stood back and surveyed the scene. He knew he had killed three last night, but there were four corpses. One of the wounded men had bled to death on the spot. All four men looked small and harmless when displayed here on the ground. Their clothes were rough-sewn wool, worn through.

Patrick and Father Brian retrieved the purses and other valuables while Gallen scouted around the ambush site, checking the prints in the soft mud. Eight of the attackers had been from County Obhiann. Gallen could tell by the rounded toes of the boots, a northern style, but the ninth robber was probably a local, for his boots were pointed and soft of sole. Both outer soles on the boots had holes worn through, so that they left distinctive prints. Gallen found where the local had come down out of the brush beside the road, and Gallen tried to recall a face. The prints showed that this local robber had never really come into the fray. He’d hung back.

As for the sidhe, Gallen found his prints, too. The sidhe had worn a boot with heavy heels that cut the shapes of crescent moons into the soft mud.

Gallen went back to Father Brian and Patrick. They were just finishing up, checking to make sure that the thieves didn’t have any silver coins in their boots. Gallen watched the priest grunt, struggling to pull a worn leather boot off of Paddy. Patrick—who was economical with effort but not with other people’s property—took out his knife and tried to slice open the other boot. Father Brian scolded the boy, saying that the boots still had plenty of wear and could be given to the poor.

As he watched, Gallen saw that Patrick’s boots were pointed, with distinctive holes worn in the outer soles. He had a drop of blood spattered on one toe. Now, in the light of day, Gallen could see that Patrick’s sparse red beard had a streak of chimney soot on it, smeared down below the right ear.

As Father Brian wrestled Paddy’s boot off, two silver coins fell out.

“Well, you old crows.” Gallen smiled. “How much did you find on the pitiable corpses? Any meat on them bones?”

“Three pounds, two shillings,” Father Brian answered. “Not much of a haul.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Gallen answered. “It sounds like plenty to me. Three pounds? Why, for that much money, I’d sit out all night in the cold with a gang of robbers so that I could point out my own father when he came down the road. Three pounds would be enough to betray my own kin for. Don’t you think so, Patrick?”