The Legend of Lady Ilena (11 page)

A great oak tree stands in the center; its branches cast twisted shadows on the ground. Toole and Cormec step behind me as a tall figure separates itself from the tree trunk and advances toward us.

His face is hidden by the front of a deer skull. Antlers rise from the bony plate on top. The figure sways and seems almost to float. My head swims, and I turn cold.

The stagman speaks. “Who are you?” The voice is Ogern’s. “What spirit comes from the Sidth?”

I try to speak, but words won’t come.

“Speak!” Ogern comes closer.

I try again. My dry throat feels as it does sometimes in a dream when I want to call out but cannot. Finally I force a few words. “I am not a spirit. I am Ilena. I come from the West Country. Moren is my father. Grenna … Grenna is my mother!”

“They have been dead for years. Who are you?”

“I have told you.”

“Put her in the pen.”

Cormec and Toole move forward and grasp my arms. I struggle to break free but cannot. There is a large wicker cage across the clearing, and they drag me to it. Toole holds me while Cormec takes my dirk out of its sheath and unties my tinderbag. He tugs at the sling and bag of slingstones but leaves them when they don’t come loose. Toole’s face is grim in the torchlight, but Cormec keeps his face down and does not meet my eyes.

Ogern stands close by while they push me through the door and bar it with heavy poles through the outside latches. Toole moves away with the Druid, but Cormec stands beside my prison for a moment.

“This is all I can do,” he mumbles. He raises a pole and pulls the door open far enough to shove something through onto the floor. He replaces the pole, and then he too is gone.

I sweep my hand over the wicker floor and find a waterskin. It holds only a few mouthfuls. I tell myself to save some, but it is gone before my thirst is slaked.

I start by the door and go over every part of the cage. It is woven most tightly around the door, but nowhere is there a space wide enough for my hand. Nothing feels loose; I slam my body into the side walls but cannot even bend them.

Sacrifices take place at night. It is too late for a gathering tonight, so I will have tomorrow to try to think of a plan. I pull my heavy vest off and lie down on it in a corner of the pen.

I try to think about the day. Who is the man with the black mustache, and why does he want me killed? What does Ogern fear about me? And why does he say Grenna could not be my mother? What was the look in Chief Belert’s eyes? And do the chanting and shouts in the Great Hall mean everyone thinks I’m a shape-shifter? It all jumbles together and blurs until I can’t hold one thought long enough to consider it. Perhaps things will be clearer in daylight.

I’ve no idea how long I’ve slept nor, at first, what has awakened me. A sharp feral scent fills my nostrils and chokes me. There is something warm pressing through the wicker against my arm. It feels like Cryner. Something sharp jabs my shoulder, and I force my eyes open. There is enough moonlight to see shadows moving around the cage.

Wolves circle the wicker walls. Their breath steams in the cold air. There are seven of them. The largest has chewed a hole in the woven wall where I was sleeping. It stares at me with steady yellow eyes while its teeth shred the branches. Another has tunneled under the floor. The rest pace around the cage, watching me.

I scramble into the center of the pen. I have no weapon save my sling, and that is useless here. There is no room to swing the leather thong.

The animal digging beneath the floor snuffles loudly and begins chewing on the wicker above its nose. Its body rolls and scrapes in the dirt as it turns its head to reach the plaited branches. The big one gnawing on the corner has enlarged the opening and leans its heavy body against the weakened wall. Two of those circling stop to whine and scratch the cage. All seem to sense that they are closing in.

I choke and cough from the stench. I imagine the smell overwhelming me, those strong white teeth gnawing at me. Durant was right; it was unwise to
come alone. He swore to help me, but I have put myself in a place where he can’t come to my aid.

I wonder if Fiona and Jon will ever learn what happened to me.

The wolf beneath the floor breaks and gnaws enough of the branches to thrust its nose up through the wicker. It twists and pushes until its whole head is in the cage. I freeze in panic for a moment and then move. As its body pushes through the opening, I scramble behind it and grasp the creature’s ear with one hand. I clamp my other arm around its neck and hang on with all my strength. The animal gasps and turns frantically, but I manage to let go of the ear and wrap that arm too around the coarse neck fur.

Moren told me once that wielding the long sword would build muscles equal to any need. I pray that he was right as I thrash around the pen floor trying to keep my grip on the wolf’s throat. The stench and flying hairs are choking me, but I hang on as the animal struggles.

The wolves outside the pen howl and lunge against the walls. I can feel the one in my grasp weaken, but the hole at the corner is widening under the weight of two wolves leaping and clawing against it.

The howling rises to a wild shriek. A new note rides above the wolves’ voices, a wild keening that sounds like words. The moonlight brightens. A smell of burning pitch mixes with the animal stink.

The corner of the pen breaks, and a wolf falls headlong into the cage. The animal in my arms twists and jerks one last time and is still. When its body goes limp, I drop the lifeless head and push the beast away from me.

The animal in the corner keeps its eyes fixed on my face while it lurches to its feet. I move backward as fast as I can.

“Back up farther.” The voice is behind me.

The wolf in the pen with me freezes, then shrinks against the wall.

“The door. It’s open. Get out.”

The pitch smell and the bright light come from a torch behind me. Afraid to take my eyes off the wolf in the cage, I back slowly toward the voice. An arm circles my waist and swings me through the door. I land sprawled on the ground. A woman steps over me and swings a torch back and forth inside the cage so fast that sparks fly off and shower onto the wolf that cowers there. It stands its ground for a few seconds, then leaps through the opening it made.

There is a glitter of eyes at the side of the clearing. Shapes move in the shadows, and I am alone with the woman.

She stands looking down at me, breathing hard. “Eh, Ilena. Well met—at last.” She stretches out her free hand to help me; the torch she holds sputters and smokes above us.

I manage to climb to my feet unaided but grab for
her hand when my knees start to buckle. “I’m … I cannot …” I stammer in confusion and exhaustion.

She looks at the dead wolf in the enclosure. “You spent your strength well.” Gray hair has escaped from the plait at her back and bristles around her face. Soot from the torch streaks the sweat on her forehead. She wears a bronze pendant over her brown dress, and a gray cloak fastened at the shoulder falls behind her. A waterskin and a cloth pouch hang from her belt.

“How do you know me? Who are you?”

“Time enough later for talk. Lean your head here.” She tugs until she holds a few hairs.

I flinch from the pain and start to protest.

“Here, where your tunic is torn.” She hooks two fingers into the rip at my shoulder and tears out a piece of the cloth.

She hurries around to the hole at the back corner of the cage and hangs the hairs and cloth on sharp pieces of wicker. “Now. Your belt.”

I see her plan and pull it off. My scabbard, sling, and bag of stones slide onto the ground. I touch the gold medallion that covers the belt’s fastener. Moren gave it to me years ago.

“Hurry. You can get another.” She takes it from me and twists the leather into the torn wicker. The medallion glows warmly in reflected torchlight. She reaches inside the pen and fishes out my vest.

I pick up the sling and slide an end through the loop
on the bag of stones, then knot the ends around my waist. I pull on my vest and am grateful for its warmth.

She waves the torch toward a path that leads into the woods. “Come on. Can you hurry?”

I nod and follow her out of the clearing onto a narrow trail through the trees. There is little strength in my body, and each step is an effort. After what seems a great distance, she stops at a stream.

“Drink. You must be thirsty.”

I am grateful, both for the water and for a chance to lie flat on the grassy bank for a few minutes. While I drink, she fills her waterskin and returns it to her belt.

Then she whispers, “Stay close to me. Don’t talk.”

We continue through dark trees on a rough path that comes out onto a meadow. The fortress ramparts loom dark on the hill above us. The woman holds the torch low at her side to hide the light. I wonder why she doesn’t douse it in the damp grass, since dawn is upon us.

We pass near a farm enclosure, and a dog barks sharply, startling me. It quiets at a voice from inside the house. We keep up a steady pace down a path that dwindles until I can’t tell it from the grassy stretch around it.

When she stops at last, it is at a cromlech that marks a burial mound of the old ones. Three tall stones stand with a flat capstone resting on top of them. Other stones back against the face of an earthen mound. There are no dwellings for as far as I can see.
She leads me in under the capstone and through a narrow doorway between two of the standing stones. Rough-cut steps descend into darkness beneath the mound of earth.

The musty smell of dirt and decay turns my stomach queasy. A narrow stone-floored passage leads down and back into a large room. The flickering torchlight shows skulls on ledges around the walls. Bones are piled in stacks on the rough floor. There is a wide ledge at seat height against one wall.

She holds the torch high to survey the room. “Not very cheerful, this.”

I try to answer but have to gulp and get a deep breath before I can force words out. “No. I’ve never been in a barrow before, but it’s better than that cage.”

“Aye. Belert and Cara stopped the sacrifices in the Oak Grove years ago. With Cara…” She stops and stares at me with a strange, sorrowful expression. She takes a deep breath and begins again. “With Cara gone and Belert’s authority weakened, Ogern has begun them again.”

“I’ve heard stories about the groves,” I say, “and I didn’t want to find out if they were true.”

“You hold the new faith, don’t you? Moren and Grenna would have seen to that. You know these bones won’t hurt you?”

The skulls leer and grimace at me in the dancing shadows. I shudder but say, “I know they have no power. I’ll be … fine.”

“There is a strong taboo against being here for any who hold the old ways. They come only with the Druid for the ceremony each year. No one will look for you in this place.”

I nod and try to sound brave. “You called me by name at the grove. How do you know me, and who are you?”

She smiles, and her eyes soften. “I know your name, lass, because I held you when it was given. I am Ryamen.”

“Were you with Grenna when I was born, then?” As soon as I see the look on her face, I know that I don’t want to hear her answer.

She shakes her head. “Grenna was my dear friend, but… What did Moren tell you, Ilena?”

“Nothing. He tried to tell me something, but he was too ill. Just before he died he told me to come east and find you.”

She is silent for a few minutes, and there is a faraway look in her eyes. At last she speaks slowly. “Is Moren gone too, then?”

“Yes. Right after he returned. Was he here?”

She nods. “As always, I met him in secret on the second full moon after Lughnasa.” She wipes tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

That explains the urgency about the journeys. At the prearranged time Ryamen would be waiting— looking, I suppose—night after night until he came.

“I was afraid for him this last trip.” Her voice is firmer now, but with a new note of sadness. “On the morning he left, one who wishes us harm rode out of the fortress a few hours behind him.”

“Who was that?”

She is surprised at my quick question. “Resad, Ogern’s friend and ally. They have been busy since Cara’s death. Ogern has brought back the worst of the ceremonies in the Oak Grove, and Resad has been away on some mischief.”

“Does Resad have a heavy mustache and a tall black horse?”

“Yes. Where have you seen him?”

“He rode into the Vale of Enfert the morning after Moren died. He stared at me strangely, then left. I saw him again when I stopped at Dun Dreug, and he was with those who attacked me yesterday. He led the calls against me in the hall last night.”

She nods. “That is why Ogern was so quick to condemn you to the grove, then. The friend who told me of your presence in the hall said that you had no chance to explain and that Belert himself was shouted down. Ogern knew you were coming. Resad must have gathered a war band from outside Dun Alyn to attack you. When that failed he would have hurried to Ogern to let him know you were on your way into the Great Hall.”

“But why? Who am I? If Grenna is not my
mother…” I am too bewildered to even finish the questions.