Windmaster's Bane (30 page)

“As for the power of iron: Iron is a curious thing, and almost as difficult to explain, for I have no simple words for the ideas. Iron does not exist in Faerie, and that is a fortunate thing, for in iron the fires of the World’s first making never completely cool, though it may seem otherwise to mortal men. Yet the mere presence of the Power that is in the Sidhe can call forth that flame again. To the Sidhe, iron is eternally red-hot. And to make it worse, that heat may sometimes pass to that which iron touches, if left long enough. It is like the ash I told you of: Enough iron in your world in one place can sometimes burn through the barriers between your World and ours. And once it breaks through, it begins to consume the substance of Faerie. Those steel rails that once lay on your father’s land broke into Tir-Nan-Og like a veil of flame, and the land there still lies hot long after they have gone. So hot, in fact, that even the Power of the Straight Track is disrupted, and that is another kind of Power entirely. Fortunately the Tracks are strong, and the burning slow, else your World might not long survive.”

“So it’s heat that keeps the Sidhe from touching iron?”

Oisin nodded. “Though they may touch it briefly, even as you might pass your hand through a candle flame and not be burned, if you do it quickly enough.”

“Can it kill? Is its touch fatal?”

Oisin sighed restlessly. “That, too, is a hard thing to answer. For one must ask, what is fatal? Life and death are not precisely the same with your kind and with the Sidhe. In your world the body controls the spirit to a great degree. The opposite is true in Faerie: There the spirit controls the body; there one who has the skill may alter the form he wears. It is all related to that difference in proportion I told you of. And there is another thing: The spirits of mortal men are usually bound to the substance of their world alone. The Sidhe may wrap their spirits in the substance of either world
in either place.
But when wearing the substance of the world of men, the Sidhe are bound to its laws and thus may be as easily slain by iron as any ordinary mortal. That body, at least, dies; the spirit is forced to flee, but without the strength of its mortal substance to draw upon, it must find its way through the Walls between the Worlds before it can wrap itself in its original substance.

“On the other hand, if, while wearing the substance of Faerie, one should be wounded by iron, the fire of that wound would gradually consume that body. He who wore it would flee the pain of that consumption, and be forced to build another body, which can be a long and painful process, but even then the wound would never truly heal; it would be as if the spirit itself were scarred. One must then spend eternity in torment, or follow the Tracks to
other…
places, where the laws that govern such things are different. If anyone ever understands all the laws that govern all the Worlds, he will be a learned man indeed. Someday you may get a chance to walk those other Roads and find that out for yourself. The Sidhe do not own them.”

David looked puzzled.

Oisin smiled sympathetically. “It is confusing, I know. But there is no time to say more now, and Lugh watches me closely. I have told you little that would be of real use to you, though much on which you may reflect. As to aiding your kinsmen, the only thing I can tell you to do is hope.”

Oisin straightened and stretched. “I am sorry, David, that I could be of no more help to you. But remember that there must be a solution; every use of Power has a counter. If your kinsmen are no better for this meeting, at least they are no worse, for both may live indefinitely as they are. And you have Power of your own to see you through, and a greater power than that, even, in your two young friends. Do not underestimate them.”

David released the breath he had been unconsciously holding. “How is it you know these things?”

Oisin smiled. “Magic, of course, or Power. Power calls to Power, and spirit may cast shadows the same as matter. With us such things are as obvious as the falling of leaves in autumn. Now Begone! Take the Straight Track home; it crosses the road uphill from here. Step on it and enjoy what you find. I do not think you need to fear the Sidhe tonight, for the things of this world are often echoed in that, and while I sense Ailill’s hand in this storm, it is not entirely of his making. The Sidhe cannot entirely close off their World from yours, and this storm will be felt even in Faerie as a scattering of raindrops among the flowers. Now go!”

And Oisin was gone, simply not there. Once again David stood in darkness and in rain.

*

Funny, David thought a short while later, he had rarely been higher up the mountain than the turnoff to Lookout Rock—though the road went upward a fair way further. But the Straight Track did run lower down, so it must cross up here somewhere. He trudged on up the mountain as rain bit at him again, yet somehow its force was diminished. The road made a fairly sharp turn to the east, and ahead he could barely make out something glimmering faintly golden among the raindrops. As he drew nearer, he saw that it was indeed the Straight Track, a slash of summer day painted across the wet Georgia night with a brush of magic. Had the Sight not wakened his eyes, he would have crossed it unaware.

He stepped into that narrow belt, and it
was
day, though he could see the rain splashing on either side. The air smelled good, and the trees were dry where they overhung the Track. The way was narrow, only five or six feet wide, but David did not care; the grass was soft, the air sweet and warm, and the sun! The sun was shining. Or something was—maybe not the sun, for the light was too rich, like the light of early morning or of twilight, or of the two mixed.

David set off down the mountainside, sliding sometimes at steep places, but without concern or injury. He ripped off his muddy poncho and threw it aside as an almost irrational joy welled up inside him. He had no more answers than before, but now he thought he could face his problems. It was as though the forced stagnation of his inaction had been broken. The air elemental had won free again, only he now knew it was really Fire.

And so David rode daylight to the bottom of the mountain, to the place where the Straight Track crossed the highway. From there it was only a short walk home. The rains returned, but they had lost their force and their cold. A new gentleness permeated the drops, and overhead glimpses of sky
—real
sky—showed among the clouds. David met his father in the backyard, dressed in his heaviest raincoat. Unexpectedly he found himself enfolded by Big Billy’s thick arms in a bear hug so strong he almost had to gasp for breath.

“I was just goin’ out to hunt for you, boy,” Big Billy said. “I tried to call home and couldn’t get nobody, and got to worryin’, so I just come on home—roads wasn’t as bad as they said they was. An’ when I found you gone I got scared, let me tell you. Where you
been
?”
There was no trace of anger in his words.

“Just out walking in the rain, Pa. I just couldn’t stand staying in the house.”

Big Billy laughed. “You’re a bigger fool than I am, then, to do that, but right now I don’t care.”

“You’re nobody’s fool, Pa. If there’s a fool in the family, it’s me.”

Big Billy looked curiously at his son, grinned and shrugged. “Let’s not argue over that, boy. I promised I’d get back to your ma before the night’s over.” He glanced at the sky. “Looks like the storm might be breaking.” He laid a heavy arm across David’s shoulders and turned toward the house. “How’re you at makin’ coffee, boy? I sure could use a cup.”

“I reckon I could learn pretty fast,” David grinned. He had won a victory of sorts against the Sidhe, and against his own fear and doubt as well, and those were both things to be proud of. If he could only figure out how to cure Uncle Dale, and rescue Little Billy, and protect his family and friends,
and…
No!
David told himself firmly.
Not now, not tonight.

But as he stepped onto the porch, he thought he heard the rumble of thunder and the flapping of distant wings.

PART IV

Prologue IV: In Tir-Nan-Og

(high summer)

If there is a thing I would rather do than fly,
thought Ailill,
it is to run. And if there is a thing I would rather do than run in my own shape, it is to do so in the shape of a stag. And if there is a thing I would rather do than
that,
it is to set myself in a contest of speed with another of a different kind.

Thus it happened that Ailill in the form of a fine black stag had for some time been racing alongside a young white stallion he had lately acquired. They had begun their contest in a secluded, close-grown forest of lacy, tree-high ferns, where sureness of foot had been as important as speed. But now they burst out into the stark copper sunlight of a narrow meadow full of high orange grass from which spiky clusters of wine-red flowers rose on knobby stalks. Somewhere among that grass a griffin trumpeted. Lightning flashed from Ailill’s antlers at that, startling the white. And then they truly began to run.

At first neither showed any clear advantage, but at last the horse began to draw slightly ahead. Ailill redoubled his efforts, masking the stag’s fear of the open with his own desire for victory, and thus was almost upon the opposite edge before he knew it. The white slowed abruptly and swung away to the right to reenter the sunlight, but Ailill did not change course and suddenly found himself beneath the low, sprawling limbs and spraddle-fingered leaves at the shadowy fringe of an oak wood.

As he paused there gasping, the muffled clomping of hooves reached his ears.
Better not to be seen so,
he thought, as he called the horse to him and abandoned his antlers in favor of his own form, clothing his brief nakedness in a sleeveless hunting tunic and baggy breeches, both of tawny velvet quickly spun from a handful of grass.

And so it was that when that unknown rider urged his gold-coated stallion through one final layer of mold-webbed leaves and entered the meadow, what met that rider’s eyes was a black-haired man sitting bareback on a very white horse, both of which were breathing heavily, and one of which was looking somewhat guilty as well.

“I
am…
surprised to see you here, Silverhand,” said Ailill with uncharacteristic hesitation when he saw who that other rider was.

“I am surprised to see you in your own shape anywhere at all these days,” Nuada replied quickly. “But I would rather see it than certain others you sometimes affect—to no good purpose, or success either, I might add.”

Ailill ignored him. “Are you not afraid, Nuada, that something might happen to your pet mortal while you are wandering about here in the woods?”

“The thing most likely to happen to him is
you
,”
said Nuada. “And
you
I am watching very closely right now; in fact I watch you very closely almost all the time, as doubtless you noticed when you sought to answer a summons not meant for you?”

“You cannot always protect the mortal boy,” Ailill shot back. “And when I have the ring, it will not matter.”

Nuada frowned. “You realize, of course, that Lugh knows about the changeling. He is not happy.”

“That does not disturb me,” Ailill replied complacently.

“Does it disturb you, then, that such activities are not, perhaps, entirely appropriate for an ambassador? I would remind you once again that you are a
guest
in this land—and a guest who makes himself unwelcome in Tir-Nan-Og is a fool indeed. Be warned, Ailill: If you stay in Lugh’s land you are bound by Lugh’s laws, for you are here by his grace, not by your right. This is not Annwyn, or even Erenn. You may not pick and choose among the inhabitants of the Lands of Men as pleases you.”

“I think I have heard enough from you today,” Ailill said suddenly. “In fact, I think I have heard enough from you for a very long time indeed.”

“You will hear as much as it pleases me to tell you,” Nuada flared, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“Then I shall have to see to it that you tell me nothing more!” Ailill cried angrily. He snapped both fists closed before him—and with his right hand drew forth a sword from his left: a sword born of Power alone. A fire sword that blazed in the forest like the burning blood of rubies.

Ailill laughed and jabbed his spurs ruthlessly into the white flanks so that blood burst forth as the stallion leapt toward where Nuada sat his own horse, unarmed.

Nuada jerked his mount aside as he saw Ailill raise the sword. The blade sizzled past his head, but left the smell of burning hair in his nostrils. The grass between them began to smoulder.

Ailill spun about in his saddle, his eyes narrowed into evil slits. He raised the sword again. Lightning flashed down to greet it, wrapped it in a nimbus of Power. Ailill smiled.

In that instant Nuada set his own fists together, and likewise called forth a blade new-forged of Faery magic: a blade of cold blue ice. And in the thick, still air of Tir-Nan-Og the two met: An arc of red flame intersected one of frosty blue.

Once. Twice.

Then, with a crackling hiss, Nuada’s sword shattered into fragments.

But as Ailill continued the downward stroke, something swished past his ear and clanged loudly on the fiery hilt of his blade: a dagger cast from among the dark trees behind them. It landed clean upon the pommel so that Ailill’s blade flew hissing through empty air even as Nuada swung his horse another step to the side.

Both Nuada and Ailill whirled about to see a dark woman richly clad in black and gray urging a steel-gray horse between the needlelike leaves of a thick stand of giant club moss that banked the narrow opening from which she rode. A black crow sat on the high pommel before her, an empty dagger sheath hung from her side. A moment later a second, larger figure joined her, dressed in a dark green robe, a glittering golden circlet on his black hair.