“Charms could have been employed to hold him,” she said. “I ordered that they not be used for now. I thought it possible you would pass this way with your brother, going home, and I know this horse belongs at your father’s hall.”
Swift was sidling across the far end of the enclosure and back again, as creatures do when they feel trapped. He swished his tail and tossed his head.
“He’s disturbed by what has happened. This is no ordinary horse; he’s highly strung at the best of times. My lady, he needs attention, and quickly. If I can hold him still, perhaps with Luachan’s help, can your people provide warm water to wash those wounds, and a healing salve?” I was by no means confident I could get Swift to stay still, let alone hold him in place long enough for Luachan to do what was required. But I must try, at least.
“I can help,” said Finbar. “He knows me.”
It was true, though at present Swift was refusing to recognize any of us. Still, we must try something.
“We can provide all you need,” said Dioman. “But none of us can get near the creature; we stopped trying when it seemed he would injure not only us, but himself.”
There was an obvious question: how, then, had Caisin’s folk managed to catch Swift in the first place? But with Finbar weary and Swift starting to pace, I did not ask it.
“Very well,” I said, assuming control. “Please bring the water, the salve, and a couple of clean cloths. And a halter, the softest you have. Luachan, Finbar, I’ll try to talk Swift into calm, the way I usually do when he’s upset. The two of you need to do Emrys’s job between you. Luachan to get the halter on and then hold Swift. Finbar to tend to the cuts and bruises. When we’ve got him standing still, I’ll try to assess whether there are any deeper injuries. If I need the two of you to help with that, I’ll ask you. Once we’re in there, speak softly. I’ll tell you when to move.” When Caisin went to open the gate to the enclosure, I said, “Not yet, my lady. Not until he’s calmer.”
She stepped back without a word.
“Swift, lovely boy,” I murmured, using the special voice he was used to. “Green field. Sweet water. Kind hands and quiet…”
I suppose the whole process took quite some time; while I was working I did not think of such things, but judged when to move forward by the animal’s demeanor, his stance, the look in his eye. There were steps in it, all of which happened after I had been soothing Swift for some time with my voice, and the others had stood silent to let me work. Open the gate, go through, stand by the wall. Move forward three paces. Finbar and Luachan coming in behind me and going to either side, taking each step with slow care. Move forward another three paces. A halt while a bird flew across above us, making a high trilling sound that sent Swift plunging forward. Our audience of Fair Folk gasped; Finbar and Luachan retreated to the withy wall; I stood exactly where I was, my steady tone never changing. It was something I had taught myself to do. I was not sure if Swift would ever intentionally harm me—I thought not—but he might hurt me by accident. Another fright a little later, when a burst of strange laughter came from somewhere in the house, and Swift tossed his head and whinnied in response. “Steady, my boy. Quiet now. All’s well.” Were my lips telling him reassuring lies, with Mac Dara’s eldritch darkness lying over the forest and keeping us from home? With Bear and Badger still out there somewhere, captive, perhaps hurt? “Soft grass. Blessed sunlight. Smiles and sweet touches.”
When Swift was calm again and had halted somewhat closer to me, I took three more steps forward, and I was near enough to touch him. I raised my hand slowly to his neck; laid the back of it to his damp skin; stroked gently. “My fine boy, Swift. My dear good horse.” Now there were tears running down my cheeks. Not part of the plan. I was not even weeping for Swift himself. But touching him undid me. For a moment I was back in the nemetons, working in the field with him, and by the wall lay my boys, so quiet and good, waiting for me to be finished so I would come and scratch their bellies and praise them. “Calm boy, Swift. Kind hands and quiet.”
Swift started when Luachan slipped on the halter, but I kept
touching him gently and humming under my breath, and he quieted.
“I have him secure, Maeve.” Luachan kept his voice to a murmur.
“Good. Finbar, you can start washing those scratches. You need to be firm but gentle. And careful. I can’t be certain he won’t try to kick you.” Without looking, I sensed my brother’s presence on my right, stepping quietly close, setting his pail of water down, readying his cloth. “If you see any bigger injuries, dark patches, cuts that look too open to be left, tell me.” I prayed there would be nothing needing a poultice or a stitch; back at the stables, with Emrys at hand, that might be achievable, but I did not think we could manage it here.
“Good boy, Swift,” Finbar said in a creditable imitation of my tone. “Calm boy.”
There wasn’t a sound from back at the barrier; indeed, I wondered if Caisin and her companions had tired of the lengthy process and left. With all my concentration on keeping Swift calm, I did not look over to see if they were still watching us. The yearling twitched and pulled against the rope when Finbar dabbed at the deepest cuts, but between Luachan’s steady hand on the halter and my presence by Swift’s head, eventually the job was done.
“I can’t see any bad cuts or big bruises, Maeve.” My brother’s voice was remarkably steady. He must be exhausted. “And he has his weight on all four legs.”
“Thank you, Finbar.” I gestured to Luachan to hold Swift steady while I performed a quick examination of flanks, quarters, legs and hooves. “You’re right; he seems sound. But he’s tired and confused. A pity there’s no enclosed stall where we can shut him in for the night. Never mind; perhaps now that we’ve tended to him, he’ll eat and rest here, even though it’s unfamiliar.” I considered offering to sleep in the straw-floored shelter, but I could not do that; I must be close to my brother.
“Finbar, you go out now,” I said quietly, “and close the gate behind you.”
He obliged without question, tidily taking his bucket and cloth
with him. Not only were Caisin’s group still watching, but several other fey folk had joined them. What did they think this was, an entertainment put on for their amusement?
“What now, Maeve?” Luachan still held Swift’s halter; the leading rope was in his other hand.
“Lead him over to the gate, take off the halter and go out.”
“But—” Luachan met my eye and fell silent. “Very well. I accept that in matters equine, you are my superior.”
“It’s nothing to do with being superior. I know what to do, that’s all.”
“As you say.” He had found a smile somewhere; I heard it in his voice.
Often enough in the past, I had trusted that Swift would not hurt me, and my trust had been justified. So it was again now. When Luachan took the halter off him, Swift stood calm by my side, obedient to the touch of my hand and the soft soothing of my voice as I kept up my litany of all things good and quiet. Luachan went out the gate and closed it behind him. Under the gaze of the small crowd of Fair Folk, I turned and walked the yearling back over to his food and water, keeping the back of my left hand against his neck, talking him gently across the open space. I halted by the water barrel.
“Drink, sweet boy. Eat. You’re hungry and tired. Sleep awhile. Tomorrow we’re going home.”
I stood there a little, until he dropped his head to drink. Then I took my hand away and walked slowly back to the gate. Dioman opened it for me and I stepped through.
The expressions on their faces—Dioman’s, Caisin’s, those of all their kind—told me that they still did not realize how important it was to be quiet, even now I was beyond reach of Swift’s hooves and teeth. Quite plainly they were about to burst into a chorus of amazed congratulation. I opened my mouth to warn them, but Finbar forestalled me.
“Don’t speak,” he said, his voice clear enough to reach all ears, yet soft enough not to trouble Swift, who was still thirstily drinking. “You have to be quiet until we’re well away from here or Swift
will be upset and Maeve will have to do it all again.” After a moment he added, “My lords. My ladies.”
Caisin Silverhair made a gesture and the fey folk who had gathered to watch dispersed in an instant, leaving only her inner circle. Then Caisin put her arm around my shoulders, and Luachan took Finbar’s hand, and we made our way back through the leafy passageways. I heard no sound from Swift as we left him, which was a good sign. When we had rounded a corner and were out of the horse’s sight, Luachan said quietly, “He’ll be fine until daylight, Maeve.”
I nodded, but found myself incapable of speech. I was so tired. I wished I had decided to sleep in the straw with Swift, as Emrys might have done. But the day was not yet over. Caisin wanted to speak with me; I must seize the opportunity to get some answers from her. Did
privately
mean without Luachan? Glancing across at him, remembering how reassuring his presence had been earlier, I was not sure I wanted that.
“My lady,” I said as we entered the chamber where we’d eaten earlier, “you mentioned that you wanted to talk to me. But Finbar’s badly in need of sleep, and…” It was too awkward to say aloud.
And I must be sure he’ll be safe.
“And your druidic protector cannot be in two places at once?” Caisin was several steps ahead of me. “A dilemma, certainly, but easily solved. Sleeping quarters are close at hand for all of you. The druid with your brother; yourself in the next chamber. Take time now to settle Finbar, and when you are ready to talk, return here. You may bring the druid; my brother will watch over the child.” She glanced at Dioman, who nodded assent.
I found myself unable to summon any argument against such a reasonable arrangement. Indeed, I wondered that I still harbored any doubts about these folk, who had gone out of their way to help us. “Thank you,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
Dioman was already moving to a doorway, indicating that we should follow. The owl on his shoulder lifted a wing and moved its feet as if to mimic his gesture. Dioman led us to a chamber furnished with a pair of leafy hammocks on which soft blankets waited, an invitation to rest.
“Good night, Maeve,” my brother murmured. Early as it must still be, he looked exhausted. He climbed into one of the hammocks and snuggled down. “Good night, Luachan. Good night, my lord.” This last was addressed to Dioman, who appeared mildly amused.
“Your quarters are there.” The fey man pointed to a low archway through which I could see another cozy sleeping place. “You’ll be close to your brother. I will watch over him until you are finished your business with Caisin.”
Business: that sounded serious. I hoped I was sufficiently awake to ask the right questions and give the best answers. “Thank you,” I said. “Please do stay here; I don’t want Finbar left alone.” There was no need for songs or stories. My brother was already fast asleep, heavy lids closed over weary eyes, blanket up to his chin.
“He needed rest,” I murmured to Luachan as we made our way back. “Some very odd things happened to him when he was on his own. But he’s always reluctant to explain. Always ready to cut discussion off with
I’m not supposed to tell
, as if there is a restriction over him that I can’t possibly understand.”
“His gift makes things difficult. It has developed early, and it’s strong.”
“You think he still has trouble distinguishing between vision and reality? Future and possible future?”
“That is common in young seers learning their craft.” He hesitated. “I have on some occasions suggested he keep what he sees to himself. Speaking out when he does not fully understand the nature of his visions could do untold harm.”
“Does he talk of these things to you?”
“That is different. I am his teacher.”
Luachan folded his arms; he was not meeting my eye. He seemed to have lost his usual composure, though I did not think my questioning had been unduly blunt.
“I believe he’s scared,” I said. “Scared and unhappy. Something is troubling him badly, and he feels bound not to talk about it. I don’t like that, Luachan. He is too young to have to hold such secrets.”
“He’s exhausted. He’s walked a long way, much of it alone. And here in the Otherworld everything is new and strange to him. No wonder he is out of sorts. But children recover quickly. Once we reach home all will be well.”
He must have seen on my face how inadequate I thought this was, for he added, “You are tired, too. In the morning this will seem less troubling.”
“Don’t patronize me, Luachan. I’m not so tired that I can’t recognize a real threat where it exists. It’s not just the mention of a geis. Finbar seems to know more about the Otherworld than he should. Almost as if he’s been here before.”
“He has, of course.”
“As a newborn baby.” I hesitated. “He has a very strong idea about what we should be doing here, and when. As if this has all been…foretold. He was certain I should find the dogs before we went home. When I refused he was quite distressed. I know he believes that if we don’t go about things the right way some kind of disaster will ensue. But how can I do anything but take him straight back—”
“Maeve?” Caisin Silverhair had appeared at the entry to the chamber ahead. Warm light spilled out around her graceful form, setting a glow on the soft fabric of her gown and turning her hair to a shimmering cloak. “Are you ready?”
No sign of her sister or the councilor this time. We followed her in and seated ourselves at the table.
“The child is safely asleep?”
“Yes, my lady. He’s had a long journey and is weary.”
“As you must be.” Caisin’s gaze was fixed on me, as if weighing me up. “But you’ll have questions, I imagine. I have heard you are not shy of asking them.”
She had? From whom? “How is it you know so much about me?” Too late, I wished I had watched my words, for this was quite the wrong note on which to start.
“You think we who share your forest have no interest in the human folk of Sevenwaters? Wrong. We owe you a debt; all of us know that, save perhaps for one. That one is powerful, and those
who follow him adopt his ways for their own protection. We are not all made in his mold. If that were so, you would indeed have cause to despair of the future.”