Windmaster's Bane (32 page)

“Yes,” David answered simply, with a bit of a smile.

“You’re the student of folklore, though. Don’t you know what to do?”

“That’s just it, Alec. I should know—I’ve always bragged about that—but I can’t think of anything at all. Nobody ever
does
anything about banshees.”

“I wish she’d just go away,” Liz said edgily. “That wailing could send you off the deep end in short order.” She slapped her hands over her ears and paced the length of the room.

“She will,” David said almost savagely. “As soon as my uncle is dead.”

“What
are
banshees?” Alec asked slowly.

David frowned and cleared his throat. “That depends. The name is from
bean sidhe,
Gaelic for
woman fairy.
According to some people, they’re the ghosts of young women of particular families who have died under unpleasant or unconventional circumstances. Each family is supposed to have
one….
I suppose I should be flattered: Ours must have come from Ireland.”

The wailing continued, but at a lower pitch.

“Did you see her face?” Alec asked. “Was she human? I didn’t look but a second.”

David shrugged. “I couldn’t tell. At least she wasn’t the Scottish sort; they’re ugly. But listen, I’d just sit here and let nature—if you can call it that—take its
course…
except for something Oisin said. Never mind who he is; I’ll tell you later if we get out of this. Anyway, he told me that there
is
a solution, but that it lies in me, in my own
Power….
But I can’t think of a thing. None of the books I’ve looked at mention cures for elfshot. Yet I was led to believe there was something I could do.”

Liz went back to the window, flicked the curtain aside nervously, and glanced out. “That spot of moonlight has moved closer,” she observed.

“I wonder if it’ll come in the house?” Alec speculated, shivering.

“I don’t think so,” David replied. “The screen door should help keep it out.”

“I sure hope so,” Liz sighed ominously. “It
is
iron, after all.”

Alec sat straight up. “Does it have to have your
uncle’s
life?” he asked suddenly.

“What do you mean? He’s the one who’s dying.”

“I know, but has anyone ever tried to outwit a banshee by killing somebody else before the intended victim expired? Just theoretically, you understand.”

“Alec,” David cried in shock. “Nobody is going to be killed here. I’m not that crazy, and I sincerely hope you’re not.”

“I was thinking about the cat.”

David picked up the cat from its place by the stove and rubbed its head so that it purred. He looked meaningfully into its green eyes. “I don’t think banshees respond to animals. It has to be human.” David’s eyes took on a faraway look. “But Little Billy is
not
human…
but he’s not an animal
either…
and he’s—”

“What do you mean, he’s not human?” Alec interrupted. “Of course he’s human!”

“No, he’s not. He’s not my brother,” David replied quickly. “He’s a changeling, a Faery child, left in place of my brother. You’ll have to trust me, Alec. You’ve seen enough now to know I’m telling the
truth…
or would you like another look?”

Alec put up his hands, a screen before his face. “No—no, thanks! One was fine!”

“So!” David muttered. His mouth hardened in resolve. “David!” cried Alec, grabbing his friend’s arm as he passed. “You’re not going to kill your brother!”

“No, I’m not going to kill him, Alec,” David said wryly. “I finally have a
plan—if
it’ll only work.”

He forced his way into his bedroom, which he now shared with the changeling. It was sleeping peacefully, as it always did, except when it had to be fed or changed. It seemed to have given up trying to talk and didn’t even walk much anymore, as if it had abandoned hope of adapting to an alien world. David was genuinely sorry for it. Poor thing, the shock must have really been hard on it. So much for Faery morality, to condone such things.

David paused a moment, his resolve weakening, but then squared his shoulders and picked up the small sleeping form, not bothering to bring the blanket that wrapped it. The changeling moaned and stretched. David was surprised by how light it had become; it had visibly lost weight in the few days it had been in this world, and its face looked shrunken—both its real face and the ghost face it wore when David’s eyes tingled. David backed out of the room with the changeling in his arms.

“Davy!” cried Liz. “No!”

“If you don’t want to watch, Liz, then don’t. Maybe you should stay with Uncle Dale till this is over.” He nodded toward his uncle’s room. “Unless you’d like a look over my shoulder, just for proof.
This is not my brother.
Let me repeat that:
not my brother
.”

“No, thanks,” she whispered fearfully as she drew away. “But I’m not going to hide in the dark. You can do whatever you think you have to. But remember that I’m gonna be there watching. And if it looks like you’re gonna do
anything…
permanent, well, we’ll see about that.”

David did not reply, but he stared at Liz for a long moment before heading back to the kitchen.

Alec moved aside nervously when his friend strode over to one of the drawers and pulled out a long-bladed butcher knife.

“You two can watch or not,” said David. “Either way, I’ll be alone and responsible—”

“Actually, I think this makes us accessories,” Alec interrupted.

David ignored him and went on. “If anything happens, just remember: iron and ash.”

“Will I be able to see anything?” Alec ventured.

“I dunno. Try is all I can say. Maybe some ghost of Sight will linger for you.”

“I’ll try, Davy.”

David opened the back door, shouldered the screen open without looking out, and stepped onto the porch. The banshee stood a scant two strides from the bottom steps. Her mouth was open, her lips pulled back from her gums showing uncannily white teeth. A low, low moan issued from her throat. It set David’s bones to vibrating. For the first time he got a good look at her.

Although the banshee stood in the yard and he on the porch three feet higher, their eyes seemed nearly level with each other. She was tall—inhumanly tall, but then she wasn’t human—and dressed in long white robes with flowing sleeves that trailed away to vapor at the edges. Her arms were raised at her sides, and she twitched them slowly to a kind of unheard rhythm, the fingers long and pale, and very, very thin. Her hair, too, was white; unbound, it flowed free in the night air, no strand quite touching any other, and it fell to below her waist. And when David finally dared look fully upon her face, it seemed close kin to a skull, though some semblance of its former beauty clung yet about it. The skin was nearly transparent, and David could see dark shadows under the cheekbones, and dark hollows where the eyes were—eyes that burned round and red like living flame. Those eyes had nothing of beauty about them. Only of hatred: hatred of life.

David straightened his shoulders, shifted the changeling so that it was cradled awkwardly in the crook of his left arm. Slowly he eased himself down to a wary crouch, but his gaze never left the face of the banshee. He freed his right hand and took a new and firmer grip on the knife.

“Greetings, banshee,” he said tentatively, suddenly realizing he had no idea how to properly greet such a being, and feeling rather foolish the moment the words escaped him. His eyes burned so much with the Sight that he felt they might take fire in his head; he could feel tears forming in them.

The banshee remained where she was, but her gaze shifted down to meet his, the movements jerky, uncertain, like a lizard’s. For a moment it seemed to David that the flesh fell away from her face and he truly looked upon an empty skull with burning eyes.

“Greetings, Banshee of the Sullivans, I say,” he continued, swallowing hard. “Looks like you’ve had a long journey tonight—but it’ll do you no good, I’m afraid. I can’t let you have what you came for.”

The wailing of the banshee faltered. She looked—there was no other word for it—puzzled.

David coughed nervously, and carefully laid the changeling before him on the porch floor. “I have a child here, a
Faery
child. I don’t know if he has a soul or not, but I guess I’ll have to find out very shortly, unless some things change real fast. I have no doubt that this knife—this
iron
knife—will have some effect.” He raised his voice and looked up, his gaze searching the darkness beyond the banshee. “You hear me? I’m going to kill the changeling. The Sidhe took my brother; I claim this life for myself!” He raised the blade.

The banshee took a tentative step forward and extended its arms; its fingers caressed the air.

David jerked the knife toward it in a warning gesture; his eyes flashed. “Back off! I may try to kill the dead before this is over.”

He glanced down at the changeling. Its eyes were open, blue on green, but the green predominated now—and by some trick they reflected a hint of the red gleam from those other eyes.

“I’m not kidding, banshee! Go back to Ireland, and leave Dale Sullivan in peace. I don’t want to hurt
this…
whatever it is. Really I don’t. But I will if I have to, because I know my uncle is real, half alive though he is, and I know he doesn’t deserve what you people have done to him.” David suddenly realized he was not addressing the banshee so much as an unseen host he imagined in the darkness.

The banshee took another step; the hem of her robe touched the bottom step.

David raised the knife higher.

“Stop!” came a voice from the shadows by the barn.

David’s head jerked up sharply.

The banshee, too, turned; its wild hair flowed like water about its shoulders. The keening had quieted to a low, thin hiss, like the wind between skeletal teeth.

A woman stepped into the light before the door: A beautiful, pale-skinned woman clothed in deep blue-gray—a black-haired woman of the Sidhe.

“Who are you talking to?” David asked sharply. “Me, or the banshee of the Sullivans?”

“I speak to you both,” the woman said. And he could see that rage wrapped her like a cloud, but he was unsure of its focus.

She stepped closer even as the banshee stepped back to regard her. They faced each other across the backyard, ten feet apart. David picked up the changeling and walked to the top of the steps.

“Do not harm my child!” the woman cried angrily as she turned her head slightly to face the banshee. She extended a pointed finger. “Banshee, begone! I would speak privately with this one.”

The towering figure did not move.

David laughed in spite of himself. “Seems like she won’t listen to you, either,” he said. “But I’m still not satisfied. Is this your child, woman?”

The Faery woman looked David up and down contemptuously. “It is.”

“What am
I
doing with it, then?”

“Ailill stole him from me.”

“But you let him be stolen. You haven’t tried to get him back. The child is sick, woman; he’s probably going to die anyway. I’m just going to help him along, a little.”

“Not by iron! Not wielded by mortal hand!”

David shrugged deliberately. “Talk to the banshee, then.”

The woman turned her head a bare fraction. “The banshee does not concern me. All I desire is my child’s safety.”

“Well, why don’t you just take him, then?” David said carefully. “All you have to do is help me first.” He knelt and gently laid the changeling lengthwise before him—and then set the flat of the knife against its throat. It did not flinch. David was scared as hell.

The Faery woman stepped forward and stretched her hands toward the still form, brushing her fingertips across its face—then jerked them back abruptly to hold them clenched at her sides. “I may not!” she cried. “And not because of that flimsy bit of iron, either. I touched my child with Power to learn what manner of binding was laid upon him-—and bitter indeed was that learning. It is as I feared: Ailill has bound him to the substance of this World with a magic that is beyond my Power to break—probably beyond any Power but his own.”

“I don’t believe you,” David said, forcing his voice to remain calm.

The woman glared at him. “Believe it, mortal. I would not lie about such a thing as this, not with iron pricking at my little one’s throat. I have not the Power to set his proper shape again upon him, nor to restore a mind that has already been broken once by the switching of Worlds. Were I now to take him back to Faerie, ensorcelled as he is, it would quickly bring upon him a madness in which he would have to dwell through all eternity. That I dare not risk.”

David shrugged nonchalantly. “Sure you can. He may die anyway.”

“I cannot take the child,” the woman repeated coldly. “And you would be a fool to harm him, for then you would have made yet another enemy in Faerie, which I do not think you need.”

“That’s true,” David agreed. “But what about Uncle Dale? Surely you could cure him.”

The woman shook her head. “Ailill’s influence is at work there, as well. I would be foolish to try, even if it were not forbidden.”

“Forbidden?”

“Lugh has exiled Ailill
and…”