The Enchanted Quest (8 page)

Tania gazed at the man in astonishment. He was a little shorter than her, stocky, with long black hair hanging loose to his shoulders. He had compelling dark eyes under thick brows and a wide-flaring beaky nose. His smile stretched broadly, creasing his olive cheeks. He was dressed in a loose white shirt that shimmered like silk, and black trousers that ended with slightly grubby bare feet.

He stood watching them with his bright, deep eyes, hands resting on his hips.

“Do you know us?” Tania asked at last while Rathina looked on with suspicious eyes.

“I do not,” said the man, speaking in a soft, lilting Irish accent. “But I was expecting you.”

“What do you mean?” Tania asked.

“My name is Michael,” the man replied. “I do not know you fine ladies, but I had a feeling, an inkling, that if I came to this place on this night, I would meet someone who would benefit from my help.” He bowed slightly. “And if you’ll follow me now, I’ll take you somewhere to dry yourselves off and maybe get a bite to eat.” He raised an eyebrow. “Now, does that sound promising, or shall I be on my way and leave you fine ladies to drip and to shiver?”

Rathina frowned at him. “Do you
not
know us, sirrah?” she demanded. “Are you in the pay of Lord Balor? Have you followed us between the worlds? If you mean to lead us to our doom, beware, for you’ll not live to profit from it, I swear that to you on the sacred stars of Faerie!”

Michael seemed startled by Rathina’s ferocity. “I don’t know any Lord Balors—there’s none living in Dalkey village that I’ve ever heard of, and if there were, they’d want nothing to do with a peripatetic poet like myself.”

Rathina turned to Tania. “Is the fellow moonstruck or does he dissemble, do you think?”

Tania shook her head. “I don’t know.” She turned to him. He had not shown any surprise at the mention of Faerie nor at Rathina’s mode of speech, which should have been puzzling in itself. But she sensed that he was not an enemy—that he meant them no harm. “Who are you?” she asked him again.

“Michael Corr Mahone, or Mikey the Heron, as some would have it,” he replied. “And I’m telling you no lies; on my mother’s grave I’m not.”

“You are then
Mortal
?” asked Rathina.

“Very Mortal,” said Michael in obvious surprise. “All I’m offering is a warm place to rest and maybe a song or two.”

“You’re a singer?” Tania asked. “A musician?”

Michael rested the flat of his hand against his heart. “For my sins I am,” he said. “Currently resident at the Iron Stone Tavern, Coliemore Road, Dalkey.” He pointed away. “Will you be coming or not?”

Tania looked at Rathina. “Do you sense the Dark Arts about him?”

“Not a jot,” Rathina said.

“Then I think we will go with you,” Tania said to him. The strange man had her perplexed, but every instinct in her said that she could trust him—that he was truly here to help them.

“Would you tell me your names?” he asked, his eyes twinkling now. “And the story of how you came to be here, all alone and soaked through to the skin like mermaids caught up in a trawl net?”

“My name is Tania—and this is my sister Rathina.” Tania chewed her lip. “Although as to how we got here . . . that’s a bit of a long story, and I don’t think you’d believe us anyway.”

“Oh, don’t be so sure,” said Michael, walking away and gesturing for them to follow. “I’m as gullible as an oyster on the halfshell. But you’d best talk fast; it’s only a short walk to the Iron Stone and I’ve a friend waiting there I should have met up with half an hour ago.”

Rathina looked hard at Tania. She shrugged and the pair of them fell into step behind Michael as he strode across the road and headed into the town.

Michael led them at a fast pace past the white building and along a road lined with tall trees. There were houses among the trees—set back from the road, fronted by high brick walls with wrought-iron gates.

Tania felt an unpleasant tingling in her body as they passed these gates—a reminder that she was now in a world where she was surrounded by the poison of metal: the deadly bane of Isenmort. She would need to be wary. The simple action of closing her hand around a metal doorknob would be enough to send a whiplash of pain up her arm.

Of all the people of Faerie only Rathina was immune to the bite of Isenmort—that was her gift, her royal birthright, as unique to her as were Tania’s ability to walk between the worlds and Hopie’s healing powers and Cordelia’s rapport with animals.

The road curved and split in two. Michael took the left-hand fork, guiding them along a road of Victorian redbrick shops with ornate stonework and brightly colored frontages lit by old-fashioned cast-iron streetlamps. The shops were closed, but curtained windows glowed in many upper floors. A few cars were parked at the roadside, and a couple strolled arm in arm down the sidewalk, probably coming from the nearby restaurant.

Tania got the impression that this was one of those drowsy seaside towns that was rudely awoken in the summer months by day-trippers and tourists. But she also got the powerful feeling that under the surface an ancient, knowing heart beat strong and slow. Perhaps this was one of those rare places where the boundary between Faerie and the Mortal World was only tissue-paper thin. That might go some way to explaining why a Mortal man was given the insight to approach two Faerie princesses sodden from the sea.

They crossed the road behind Michael, and Tania saw a large double-fronted pub painted white with black piping along the cornices and decorative stone-work panels. Golden light flooded from its wide windows.

“The Iron Stone Tavern,” Michael announced, turning to look at Tania. “The locals say it fell from the moon, if you can believe that. But there’s nothing to fear here, ladies. And on a night like this there’ll not be a tourist in sight!”

That’s weird, the tourist thing. Like he read my mind!

He opened the door. Warmth and light spilled into the street, carrying with them the hubbub of cheerful voices and laughter and the savory smell of cooking.

They came into a long dark room full of people sitting on upholstered benches around the walls or perched on wooden stools at stone-topped wrought-iron tables and at the long dark-wood bar. The walls were paneled in polished mahogany that glowed in the golden light. The shelves behind the long bar were filled with bottles and gleaming glasses. Voices rang out to greet their entrance:

“Michael, my boy, where have you been?”

“Sure, and hasn’t Rose been waiting for you near on an hour? You’ll get your eye in a sling and that’s a fact!”

“Where’s your fiddle, Michael? We’re gagging for a tune!”

No one seemed bothered by the fact that Michael was accompanied by two sopping-wet girls.

An elderly man sat at the bar, with long swept-back white hair and a grizzled beard. He scrutinized Tania and Rathina with brilliant blue eyes.

“And who are your companions, Michael?” he asked in a voice like ancient music. His crinkled eyes looked knowingly at Tania, as if he already understood who she was.

“Two waifs and strays,” Michael replied. “In need of warmth and food.” He called across the bar. “Ivan, do you have two mutton pies and two hot drinks for the young ladies?”

“That I do!” called the barkeeper. “Go and sit yourselves by the fire to dry. I’ll be along shortly.”

“I need a phone,” Tania said. “I have to make a call.”

“There’s a pay phone at the end of the bar,” Michael told her.

“Oh. I’ve no money.”

“No problem.” Michael smiled and pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. “I’ll spring for a call to your mother.”

Rathina scooped the coins out of his hand. Tania was glad of her sister’s quick thinking—tipped into her own hand, the metal coins would have burned her like hot coals.

As Michael led them off to the end of the bar, the old man spoke up. “We’ll meet again, perhaps. One fine day . . . Stay safe till then.”

“Yes, okay,” Tania said. She turned to Michael. “How did you know I wanted to phone my mother?” she asked as she followed Rathina.

“Who else would a young lady need to phone but her ma?” Michael replied. “You’ll be wanting to let her know you’re all right.”

“Yes,” said Tania. “That’s exactly it.”

Curious but friendly eyes glanced at them as they passed. Tania felt neither self-conscious nor uncomfortable under their scrutiny, though she knew that she and Rathina must have made a strange sight, squelching as they walked along, seawater dripping from their gowns and wet hair glued to their skulls.

“I’ll wait over there,” Michael said, pointing to a huge stone fireplace that dominated the far wall.

The phone was fixed to the wall alongside the bar. Tania lifted the plastic receiver while Rathina fed coins into the slot and then pressed out the numbers as Tania recited them.

A short wait and then her mother’s voice. “This is Mary Palmer’s phone. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave your number and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

For a moment Tania had no idea what to say. She choked with emotion at the sound of her mother’s voice, then: “Mum, it’s me. I’m just phoning to say I’m okay. I can’t get home right now, but I’m fine. I’ll call again when I have a chance. And . . . and . . . you and Dad had nothing to do with the illness. You know what I’m talking about. It was something else. Not you.” She began to speak more rapidly now, afraid that the message time would run out before she finished. “I love you. I hope Dad is okay. Tell him I love him so much.” She finished breathlessly, “I’ll call again when I can.”

Rathina was watching her. “Did she not wish to speak with you?”

“She was out. I left a message.”

“How? With whom?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She put the phone down, careful not to touch the metal cradle. “I’ll try again later.”

At least she had been able to make
some
kind of contact with her parents. Perhaps her mother was at the hospital with her father. Perhaps that was why the cell phone was turned off.

They made their way to the fireplace. Stone seats jutted out on either side. Red and yellow flames danced over logs of sweet-smelling wood. To one side of the fireplace lay a wooden platform like a small stage, upon which rested a violin, a bent-necked stringed instrument that Tania recognized as a lute, and a shallow, wooden-framed hand drum.

Michael and a young woman sat together by the fire. The woman was dressed in a long dark skirt and a blouse of white silk and had long black hair plaited and tied with small cornflower blue ribbons. She turned as they approached, gazing at them with deep, thoughtful eyes.

“Hello there,” she said, smiling darkly. “He found you, then.”

“I did, that,” said Michael. “Rose, this is Tania and Rathina. Tania and Rathina, this is my beloved gypsy runaway, Rose Maguire.”

Room was made for Tania and Rathina up close to the fire. Tania soon saw the steam rising from her damp dress, and the heat of the leaping fire began to seep into her limbs.

No questions were asked, and Tania was glad of that. The landlord brought trays laden with fresh buttered bread and plates heaped high with slices of crusty pie from which the aroma of mutton and rich gravy arose. And there were tall frothing cups, too, brimming with hot chocolate laced with whipped cream.

Tania had not realized how famished she was until she tasted the tender mutton in her mouth. The cheerful sounds of the pub formed a backdrop to their meal. She thought of Connor, wondering fearfully where he was, hoping he was not being harmed. Rose and Michael sat hand-in-hand, gazing into the fire. Tania felt a pang as she remembered similar times with Edric.

“And now for song,” said Michael once Tania and Rathina had finished. He stepped onto the stage. Eyes turned toward him as he picked up the fiddle and plucked the strings to check the tuning.

Rose stood at his side, the bodhran drum like a shield on her arm, the double-headed beater in her other hand.

“Good evening to you, lovers of good evenings,” Michael announced. He gestured toward Tania. “Will you give a warm welcome, please, on the lyrical lute— my new friend Tania.”

Tania stared at him in surprise and consternation.

“No, I can’t . . .” she said.

“Yes, you
can.
” Rose smiled.

Rathina leaned across the fire. “Play with them, in memory of Zara,” she said. “The lute was ever your finest instrument.”

“But I hardly remember,” Tania whispered.

“You will,” Rathina reassured her. “Play!”

Uneasily Tania turned and picked up the lute, settling its round belly in her lap.

Keep it simple. Give it a few bars to work out the key— then see how it goes. And be ready to make a dash for the toilets if you screw up.

Michael began to bow the fiddle, spinning out a slow, mournful melody, accompanied by the deep rhythmic beat of Rose’s drum.

Tania’s heart caught in her throat—was he really singing about her mother? How extraordinary! She held down the strings of the lute and plucked tentatively. The mellow notes sang out. She felt for the melody, finding it quickly, her fingers moving almost of their own accord. A stream of notes hung in the air, dancing among the sonorous lyric, cascading into the gaps between lines, chiming like silver bells. Rose’s high, clear voice joined in harmony to the song.