Son of the Shadows (25 page)

When I got to my feet again, my legs felt like jelly and the stars were wheeling across the sky.

Bran moved swiftly to grab my arms before I fell.

"You must rest. Go back inside. Take the lantern. I'll watch over him. Time enough in the morning for what needs to be done."

I shook my head. "No. I'm not going in there. Not by myself." My voice sounded odd, distant.

"Lie down here." A firm hand guided me to the far side of the fire. Then I was lying on a blanket and the coat settled over me.

"I don't—you must wake me when—"

"Ssh. Get some sleep. I'll wake you in time."

Too tired to weep, too tired to think, I did as I was told and slept.

I did not want to cry anymore. Instead I felt hollow, empty, as if all the meaning had been sucked out of me and I was drifting, light as a skeleton leaf, at the mercy of the four winds. I was drained of tears. My brief sleep had been visited by dreams of strange intensity, which I could not have recounted clearly. I

remembered standing on the edge of a cliff so high that all you could see below was a swirling mist, and a voice saying to me, Jump. You know you can change things. Do it; jump

. I was relieved to wake, soon after dawn, and occupy myself with washing the smith's body with clean water in which I had floated a few leaves of the creeping pennyroyal that grew abundantly by the stream. The scent was fresh and sweet. I worked quickly but with respect. Soon the body would begin to stiffen. We should move him before then. Bran was down the hill, busy with a shovel. I did not ask him where he had found it or what he was doing. I was discovering, now that my task was almost over and I had time to look around me, that things outside were not quite as I had imagined. For a horse had startled me by stepping quietly out from between the bushes and whickering gently at me as I knelt there. She was a stocky, long-maned creature, her coat a delicate gray. She wore a rudimentary bridle, but was untethered. I assumed she was Bran's and well disciplined not to wander. It might, therefore, be possible to leave here.

The sun rose, but there was a sharp breeze and an increasing heaviness of clouds. I could smell the sea. I

thought it would rain before nightfall. Maybe I would be gone by then. I finished the job and tidied up, and then I called Bran.

"We should do it now." It would have been better to wait, to be quite sure. Three days after the last breath, it could take, for the spirit to depart. Another man might have lain in peace in some dim chamber, with candles around him, while friends and kinsfolk made their farewells. But this man must be buried now while we still could do it; and his grave would be unmarked. The Painted Man would leave no tracks behind him.

We laid Evan down with his head to the north. The grave had been efficiently prepared, the pile of soil ready to be replaced, the length and depth perfectly calculated. I glanced at my companion. His features were quite calm, if rather pale. I supposed this meant little to him. He was good at it because he had

done it so many times before. What was the loss of one more man when your life was one long
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dice with death?

The sun touched Evan's worn features with gold. Around us the bushes stirred and rustled.

"If you don't object, I would like to do this properly. If you don't mind."

Bran nodded, tight-lipped. I circled around the grave, walking slowly, then stopping to face the east, feeling the touch of the breeze on my skin.

"Beings of air, we honor your presence. This man's spirit flies forth from his body and journeys through your realm on his way to the Otherworld. Bear him aloft with your wings; shelter him and speed him on his flight, straight and true as an arrow."

I moved to the other side, to face the west. Dappled shadow spread across the ground. A solitary drop of rain fell, making a dark circle on the earth.

"Creatures of the deep, Manannan's folk, you who abide in the dark, mysterious waters, be with us now.

Bear this man on his journey like a strong, sound vessel of oak, which breasts the waves with pride and strength. For such a one he was in life."

Now I moved again, to look northward, back up the hill toward the huge, turf-covered barrow.

"You who dwell in the earth, whose secret songs vibrate deep in her memory, you who are close to the beating heart of our great mother, hear me now. Take the broken shell of a good man and use it well. In death, may he nourish life. May he be part of the old and the new that twine together in this place of deep mystery."

Almost done. I walked to the head of the grave, so I was standing next to Bran, facing the south.

"Last I call upon you, bright salamanders, spirits of fire! Arise and shine forth, and take back one of your own. For this man was a great smith, the best this side of Gaul and beyond, so they said.

His trade was with fire and he used it skillfully, respecting its power. With heat he forged weapon and tool, he labored and sweated and bent the iron to his will. Spark to spark, flame to flame, let his spirit soar to the sky as the heat rises from a great conflagration."

Up the hill, our own little fire still burned. You could smell it now, the smoke borne by gusting, contrary breezes. You could catch the scent of the powder I had strewn on the coals, a very small amount, but pungent and pure. The roots of wolfbane and chervil, ground fine as dust, stored in the depths of my bag for just such a use. I had never had to do this before, and I hoped fervently I would never have the need again.

We stood silent for a moment, and then I scooped up a handful of soil and dropped it into the grave. I

found, after all, that I did have more tears to shed, but I held them back and made myself wait there while

Bran used the shovel to finish the job. It was quick and neat. Level the soil. Spread the leaf litter on top, a fallen branch or two. It was as if nobody had been there, no creature save a scampering squirrel or foraging woodmouse. The body would go back to clay. The spirit was flown. I had done what I could to speed its journey.

Now it was over, and I could no longer avoid asking the question. I could no longer go on living today and pretending tomorrow did not matter. I would have to talk to him. I would have to ask him what came next for the two of us?

But neither of us was talking. We returned to the fire, and I tidied up my things, and he prepared some

sort of meal, I cannot remember what it was; and we sat there and ate it in complete silence.

Then he took the silver flask out of his pocket, uncorked it, and drank. He passed it to me, and I took a mouthful.

It was strong stuff. I felt slightly better. The fire was down to coals, but the sharp scent of wolfbane still lingered. I passed the flask back. We did not look at one another. Neither of us spoke. Maybe each of us was waiting for the other to begin. Time passed; the sun moved across
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to the west, and the clouds built. The air was heavy with moisture. Home, I thought vaguely. I must go home. I have to ask him. But I

did not ask. There was a sadness on me, a feeling of being cut adrift, of being set suddenly on an unknown path in an unmapped land. So instead of thinking it through, I sat there quietly, accepting the flask when it was offered, handing it back so he could share. And after a while it was empty, and still we had said nothing at all. My head was hazy; my thoughts drifted. How could you live without human touch? Wasn't that the first thing you knew when you came into the world and they laid you on your mother's belly? Her hand would come across and stroke your back, and cup your head, and she would smile through tears of exhaustion and wonderment. That touch of love would be the very first thing for you. Later she would hold you in her arms and sing to you. Something simple, something very old, like—how did it go? There was a lullaby, a tiny fragment of song in a language so old that nobody remembered what the words meant. I hummed it softly under my breath. My mother had sung this song to me and Sean so often it was lodged deep inside us. Here in this place of ancient spirits, the song felt right. As I sang, the rising wind passed over the great mound with its hidden opening, and I heard that faint, deep tone again, coming and going as if it were part of my song, as if my words came from the depths of the earth itself.

Jump

, said the voice.

Jump now

. A tear rolled down my cheek, or was it a drop of rain? If I was weeping, I did not understand why. The song ended, but the deep voice of the wind cried on and the clouds gathered. I glanced at Bran, ready to suggest a move in search of shelter.

The strange, gray horse had already retreated under the trees.

Bran was asleep. Not surprising, for he had not had the benefit of the brief rest I had enjoyed before dawn. He was an incongruous sight, the fiercely marked skin, the studded leather belt, and the weapon at his side at odds with his posture, knees drawn up, head resting on one arm, the other fist against his mouth. Sleeping thus, he seemed as vulnerable as a small child. There were deep shadows under his eyes. Even such a man as he could not go without sleep for so long and not be marked by it. I got up quietly and fetched the coat, and I laid it carefully over him. I did not want to risk waking him, for I knew he would not appreciate being seen like this, with all his safeguards down. The best thing would be to leave him alone. The best thing, in fact, would be to take the horse and a sharp knife and leave him altogether. Go home. Head south and make for Sevenwaters. I could reach the road before dusk if I

rode quickly.

But I did not go. At least, I went only far enough to give him his privacy. I wrapped a blanket around myself, against the likelihood of rain, and I took the lantern for later, and I went up to the other end of the mound, by the pool, and settled myself on the smooth rocks as the sky darkened and changed to the violet of early dusk. Still the clouds passed overhead, metal-dark, edged with rose. In the distance thunder rolled. Coward, I said to myself. Why didn't you go while you could? You want to go home, don't you? Then why not grab the opportunity? Fool.

But under these words, there was a strange sort of calm, the feeling that comes when you step into the unknown, when everything has changed and you are waiting to make sense of it.

I sat there a long time. It grew dark, save for the small circle of lantern light mirrored in the black water.

A few fat drops of rain splashed on the rocks. Time to move inside, I thought. But I could not do it.

Something held me, something called me to stay where I was, among the strange, carved stones that lifted their heads above the ferns and bracken, here where the voice of the earth called to me on the wind. Perhaps I would wait here all night. Perhaps I would stay here in the dark, and in the morning there would be one more curious, patterned stone, and Liadan would be gone. . . .

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It was cold. The storm was close. At home, my mother would be resting, and Father would be sitting by the bed, maybe working on his farm records by candlelight, dipping his quill carefully in the ink pot, glancing at Sorcha as she lay there like a little shadow, her hands small and fragile, whiter than the linen coverlet. My father would not weep, not so that you could see. He buried his pain deep inside him. Only those closest to him knew how it shredded his heart. I stood up, wrapping my arms around myself.

Home. I had to go home. They needed me. I needed them. There was nothing for me here; I was stupid even to think that—that—

"Liadan." Bran's voice was quite soft. I turned around slowly. He was very close, not two paces away. It was the first time I had heard him use my name. "I thought you were gone," he said.

I shook my head, sniffing.

"You're crying," he said. "You did your best. Nobody can do more than that."

"I—I should not have ... I ..."

"It was a good death. You made it so. Now you can—now you can go home."

I stood there looking at him, unable to speak.

He took a deep breath. "I wish—I wish I could dry these tears," he said awkwardly. "I wish I could make this better for you. But I don't know how."

I cannot say what it was that made me take that one step forward. Maybe it was the hesitation in his voice. I knew what it cost him to let himself speak thus. Maybe it was the memory of how he had looked as he slept. I just knew, overwhelmingly, that if I did not touch him I would shatter in pieces.

Jump

, cried the wind.

Jump over

. I shut my eyes and moved toward him, and my arms went around his waist, and I rested my head against his chest and let my tears flow.

There

, said the voice deep inside me.

See how easy it was

? Bran went very still; and then his arms came around me quite cautiously, as if he had never done this before and was not at all sure how one went about it. We stood there awhile, and the feeling was good, so good, like a homecoming after long troubles. Until I felt this touch, I did not know how much I had longed for it. Until I held him, I did not realize he was just the right height to put his arms comfortably around my shoulders, for me to rest my brow in the hollow of his neck, where the blood pulsed under the skin—a perfect fit.

I could not say at what point this embrace, which began as one of simple comfort, turned into something quite different. I could not say what came first, his lips moving to touch my eyelid, my temple, the tip of my nose, the corner of my mouth; my hands twining up around his neck, my fingers slipping inside his shirt to move against the smooth skin. Both of us recognized the moment of danger. Once his lips brushed across mine, it was not possible to keep our mouths apart; and this kiss was no chaste symbol of friendship, but a desperate, hungry meeting of lips and teeth and tongues that left us shaking and breathless.

"We can't do this," muttered Bran, as his hand moved over the swell of my breast through the old shirt.

"Indeed not," I whispered as my fingers traced the spirals and swirls that covered the right side of his smoothly shaven head. "We should ... we should forget this ever happened . . . and . . ."