Some pain, now, as the workings became more intricate.
Third layer: blood and nerves and brain. More pain.
Fourth layer: consciousness. Fionna felt her own thought drown in the thoughts of the other shape, as she sensed her brother’s Power waken. She fought this final spell, kept it thin and diffuse, assimilating it an aspect at a time, careful to leave a gap through which her essence could withdraw when she had finished.
Fionna was a horse—a black stallion, and wasn’t that interesting, she noted—and before her was a naked man. White-bodied, long-limbed, black-haired. Good to look upon. Good enough for her bed, had they not been such close relation. He raised his head toward her, eyes glazed, confused.
Brother, go now. Wait. I will return.
Ailill nodded and began to wobble uneasily toward the place his sister had shown him with her sending. A moment later he was gone.
She extended her thought toward the boy.
—And found another Power coiling there, prowling about her spell like a scavenger around a carcass.
No!
Fionna’s outrage shook the Overworld. The horse snorted; flames sparked from its nostrils.
The intruder gained a mind-voice.
Yes! Ailill mac Bobh is mine! You will not stay me from my vengeance!
Who are you?
Do you not recognize me?
An image flickered across Fionna’s memory: a fair woman of Annwyn. Ailill had made much of her, had gotten a child on her once.
Morwyn: the Annwyn bitch.
Well, there is some truth in that, I suppose. For though I am but partly of Annwyn, yet it is for hounds that I have come here.
The Horn!
You know of it?
All who know of Power at all know of the Horn of Annwyn. Lugh is as careless as Arawn is cowardly. But you will not have it.
How so?
“This way, and this way,” Fionna cried aloud, and began to fling the horse shape
from
her, setting it wavering about the sleeping boy. Her own form blurred and twisted. She struggled to stand erect, even as she felt Power lancing toward her.
“Power I will meet with Power!”
The ghost-thought that was Morwyn laughed.
Fionna hesitated. “What amuses you?”
It is common to laugh at a child at its playing.
“You call me a child?”
In the ways of Power? Of a certain!
“A child may yet withstand a woman!”
Ha!
Fionna froze, wrapped in anger. At last the spell slipped free enough for her to fully command her Power. She drew into herself then, focused it, began to send it forth.
Fire!
She was burning up. Flames licked about her in Tir-Nan-Og and in the Overworld as well. Everywhere she went there was fire. It chased her, devoured her.
Morwyn smiled, sent a thought coursing behind her
. I have no quarrel with you, Fionna nic Bobh. But your brother I am sworn to destroy, and you will not prevent me. Feel my wrath: feel the Power of a Fireshaper’s daughter!
So,
Fionna thought in her terror
, that is why I cannot reach her. One cannot touch a flame, one can only…
…quench it,
Morwyn’s thought laughed
. And that you cannot do, if I do this…
The fires lapped hotter, and Fionna felt herself dwindling. There was only one refuge and that was deep within her. She went there: inward, ever inward, drawing away from the walls of flame that followed close behind her.
And found, there in the center, a spot of coolness.
Morwyn’s spell locked tight.
Fionna felt her body spinning, stretching. Flames writhed about her, tortured her. She fell to the ground and rose again a horse—glanced about— She was trapped. There was only one way out.
She stretched her thought in that direction. Failed, and tried again.
—And was through. But it was no good, she had not strength enough to stave off Morwyn’s stifling enchantment. Only one option remained.
She drew back into herself, focused her Power, then sent it arrowing forth—not at Morwyn, but at Ailill.
Brother!
she cried as she felt the spell enwrap him.
Please forgive me, but this one would have your death! Now, run!
I
will join you if I can.
Somewhere in the forest Ailill started, felt pain come upon him as he lay dazed upon the ground. He arched forward.
“No!” he cried.
No! No! No!
Antlers sprouted from his head; his body fell once more onto four legs. Man’s awareness left him.
Something sparkled on the ground before him, something familiar, something beautiful. He stepped upon it. Power welcomed him. And he ran, his mind awash in madness.
You have not won yet, Morwyn!
his sister’s challenge echoed in the empty air behind him.
I will
—
The thought broke off like a slammed door.
You will do nothing!
Morwyn stepped out of the woods and looked at the fine black horse before her—and at the sleeping Froech. “Well, Fionna, I will grant you a good eye for boys,” she observed. “Perhaps the one true talent in your keeping. It is a shame I have no leisure to sample this one, so I will simply send him on his way—on your back. But know, oh Fionna nic Bobh, that where four spells bound that shape before, now there are five upon it, and the fifth you may not sunder. You may think you have beaten me, Fionna, but I
will
find your brother. And I
will
have my vengeance.”
No!
a ghost-thought whimpered softly.
Morwyn smiled and began to plan her hunting. First she would have to search the Straight Tracks…
Chapter VI: The Crazy Deer
(White County, Georgia—Saturday, August 3)
“Watusi Rodeo” ended, and the cassette popped from the Panasonic player hung below the red Mustang’s dashboard. David snagged it neatly and flipped it sideways to Alec for refiling. “Well, so what’ll it be, McLean? That was my choice; it’s your go again. Amazing the amount of music you can eat up in seven hours.”
Alec fumbled through the assortment of tapes in the cardboard box on the console. “Is that all it’s been? Seems like years since we left Valdosta. But let’s see, we’ve had Mr. Petty, Big Country, all the R.E.M…. Just finished Guadalcanal Diary.
Cat People
won’t play. Aha! What about this?” He stuck a clear plastic box in front of David’s nose.
David squinted at the hand-lettered label, then refocused on the road, pausing to downshift for a curve before accelerating again. “Blackwater! All right! I could get into a little Irish folk, just now.” Alec inserted the cassette and set it on rewind. “Not just Irish, strictly speaking. Too bad it’s only a copy.”
David nodded. “Third generation, but I’m lucky to have it at all. They never made a record, and now I hear they’ve broken up, so this is all there’s ever gonna be.”
Alec sighed. “Real bummer.”
A moment later the sound of Uillean pipes filled the car with the rollicking opening bars of “Finnegan’s Wake.” David cranked the volume up, leaned back in his seat, and stuck his arm out the window. The hot August wind set his blond hair to thrashing wildly above his red bandana. Gentler breezes wafted across the bare arms and legs exposed by cutoff jeans and Governor’s Honors jerseys. MAD DAVE, David’s proclaimed: black, for communicative arts, which had been his area of study over the summer. Alec’s shirt, the brilliant green of science, simply read
MACLEAN.
As the second verse came around David began to sing along—off-key, as usual.
Alec rolled his eyes, but he too kept time with his fingers as he took in the landscape streaking by outside.
Great to be back in the mountains,
he thought. Nearly the mountains, anyway; just then they were cruising down the eastern side of one of the narrow valleys that slashed the upper part of White County from north to south. A small stream paced them to the left, matching the wide, undulating highway curve for curve. Beyond the tinkling water, the Blue Ridge rose in tier on tier of oak and pine and maple. To the right, where the road had been gouged from the mountains, a vertical wall of jagged, iron-colored rocks loomed close above the pavement.
A few miles farther on, the road would bend sharply upward and begin to wrap itself around the sides of Nichols Mountain. There would be a series of switchbacks and steep straightaways leading to Franks Gap at the top (site of a restaurant, now), and beyond that, home: Enotah County—David’s part first, the southern end; then Enotah, the county seat; and finally truly home: MacTyrie.
Actually, Alec considered with a sigh, there was one thing he was
not
looking forward to: he would have to cross Nichols Mountain with David at the wheel.
But that was a ways ahead yet; there was still time to relax, to enjoy the lush green of the trees, the subtle tans and grays of the forest floor, even the harsh patterns of the rocks flashing by six feet away to the right.
As if sensing his mood, the music turned softer, became Nelson Morgan’s mandolin showpiece, “Ghost Waltz.” Alec allowed his eyes to close blissfully.
David too was content. It was late afternoon and almost tourist season, but the road was blessedly empty. He set the Mustang into a sort of rhythmic back-and-forth glide along the crests and curves. This was what driving was all about.
The instrumental ended, replaced by a livelier tune just as David braked hard, downshifted, and tugged the wheel hard left into the first switchback of the mountain proper. Beside him Alec uttered a groan of resignation, checked his seat belt one final time, and snaked a surreptitious hand down to grip the side of the console.
The first few curves were fairly gentle, but then the music changed to a yet faster tempo. David smiled gleefully, mashed the gas, and bore down on a sharp right. Tires squealed as the Mustang skittered around the bend.
“Damn, Sullivan,
slow down
!”
David flashed a fiendish grin. “But if I slow down, it’ll just last longer. And if it lasts longer, you’ll just be scared longer. So why not cram all your fear into a few brief moments of eldritch terror?”
“Mr. Lovecraft can have eldritch terror, Davy” came Alec’s shaky gasp. “I’d just like to stay alive, thank you. Next time
I’m
gonna drive.”
“Ha!” David snorted. “Not
my
car.”
“No, mine,” Alec shot back, “assuming I inherit Dad’s Volvo.”
“Humph!”
“What
are
you in such a hurry for, anyway? I mean we’ve already been gone six weeks. What’s another couple of minutes?”
David shrugged. “No reason. No hurry. Just feel like going fast.”
“Ha!” Alec’s eyes narrowed. “Ever since you heard Liz finally made it back to the mountains you’ve been acting like a horny old tomcat.”
“Will you get
off
it, McLean?” David snapped. “That’s all I heard all summer.”
“Well, all
I
heard all summer was you gasping and groaning across the hall when you thought nobody was listening. Think of it as a concession to the peace of the universe.”
David found himself at a momentary loss for words, though he could feel his cheeks burning. He chose to thwart Alec’s attack by increasing his speed, cutting curves deep and close, tires shrieking louder at every turning.
Alec hung on tenaciously, both to his seat belt and his topic: “So—you gonna try it?”
David chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. “I donno… Maybe. I’d like to…I mean I’m normal, and all. And she is mighty nice-looking.”
“Good! We’ve established the intention, that’s step one. Now to step two, the execution: When?”
“What
is
this, McLean?”
Alec’s face was smug. “Scientific method: establish the problem, then proceed step by step to the solution. No task too big if you break it down into logical steps. We’ve established step one, now comes step two:
When you gonna do it?
”
“Better you should concern yourself with your problems.”
“Such as?”
David’s lips curled wickedly. “Such as what you’re gonna tell yo’ pappa when he sees that bodacious earbob.”
Alec’s fingers sought automatically for the small silver cross that depended on a chain from his left earlobe. It was the only sign of flamboyance in his usually restrained appearance—that, and the thin ghost of mustache that had lately begun to grime his upper lip.
“You gonna answer me, McLean?
You’re
on the spot now.”
“Well, I guess I’ll take it off before I get there. Comb my hair over it, if it’ll go that far. Wear Clearasil on it or something till it grows over. ’Sides, my dad probably won’t notice. All
he
ever notices are my English grades.”
David reached over to tweak the dangling bauble. “Dr. M. may not notice, but I bet Mama McLean does. What’s she gonna say when she finds out her foolish son’s started sporting an earring? If I were her I’d—
Damn!
There’s another one!”