The Age of Scorpio

14

Northern Britain, a Long Time Ago





Ysgawyn awoke to the smells of earth, rot, decay and horse. It was a comfort. Once you were dead then nobody could kill you. All his people were warriors and all had chosen to live in Annwn. The living were their victims.

Ysgawyn climbed off his shelf in the barrow that he shared with the bones of many generations of his family. He also shared it with his horse. His horse, like him, was covered in lime, both their eyes ringed with black. Rider and mount had disturbing unnatural-looking symbols painted on the lime.

Ysgawyn took a deep breath and then turned to look at the shelf where his father’s decayed remains lay.

‘Soon,’ he said. He would often speak to his father, his grandfather and ancestors from further back. He heard their replies in his head and often took their counsel, but tonight there was little time. Armour had to be oiled and then limed, weapons honed, his mount prepared. Then he would eat the fungus and ride.

They emerged from barrows all across the plain, white like corpses, some leading their horses, others already astride them. The Dark Man had spoken to them. They would ride for the god of death and they would not stop. It would be an end to the living.

There were no war cries, no carnyx sounded, no orders were shouted; there was just the thunder of hoof beats echoing across the flat desolate plain.

Britha felt fire crawl through her, under her skin. Felt the demon in the consumed flesh try and consume her in turn. It burned. Not like a fever but like putting your hand in a fire and holding it there. The burning was pain but the agony was still to come. Her back was arched, her hands claws as she convulsed on the ground. The smell of the river, the feeling of pebbles beneath her, all of it went away as the stars in the night sky went out one by one, leaving nothing but darkness.

She saw a tribe painted white like corpses around a hearth pit, wriggling on their stomachs, so many, so close together, like white worms crawling over each other, in supplication that made Britha sick to see. How could they even call themselves people after such a display? The fire burned cold in the hearth and there was a tall man made of darkness. It hurt to look at him; his shape did not entirely make sense and there was something behind or through him, something she could feel, seething hatred and anger made of nothing. Then the screaming. Eventually, when she felt the blood in her raw throat, Britha would realise that she was the one screaming.

A cage, for people, her people, in the sea. Something inside them, a little crystalline egg waiting to hatch. She sank under the water, still burning, the water bubbling around her. Something came at her, darting through the water, a bestial fury on an alien face.

Then the agony started. It seemed like all the agony, pain and fear. Then she recognised the voice. Her people. Others. Thousands. A sacrifice.

There was too much pain. Britha went away into darkness, her flesh still burning, a cool whisper in her mind promising respite, promising relief, promising freedom from it all. All she had to do was serve the seductive voice. Listen to the blood in her veins. It was the tiniest fragments of a god.

It was all too much. She had failed. Her people would die in agony. If she would serve, what was her could recede into darkness and the pain would end. So easy . . .

Almost.

Britha’s back arched so violently it almost threw her upright. Violent contortions racked her body, making her writhe across the pebble beach. Her bloodstained face became a rictus mask of twisted facial expressions. The warrior glanced over at his misshapen friend.

‘Do we help?’ he asked.

The warrior’s misshapen friend gave this some thought. It was clear that he wanted to move on. The pair of them had a purpose after all. ‘Do we help?’ the warrior asked again. His misshapen companion said nothing; instead he knelt next to her, his eyes narrowing as he studied her more closely.

Britha’s eyes flicked open. The crystalline skull looked down on her, smiling its rictus grin. Roots grew off the skull, blowing in an invisible and disconcerting wind and ending somewhere that Britha couldn’t see and was sure did not exist. The face of the skull that wasn’t a skull had too many angles. Somehow she knew it existed beyond what she could perceive. The many faceted crystals caught and reflected a strange red light, the source of which was also beyond her sight. Then the crystals seemed to consume the light. Each separate crystal was moving, changing shape as if crawling back into the skull and from there to some impossible place.

Britha started to scream again.

Teardrop held her as she convulsed on the pebble beach. The flesh she had just eaten made her froth bloody. She tried clawing at Teardrop’s face. He just moved his head back to avoid it.

‘I think she can see me,’ Teardrop said. Fachtna glanced over at his oddly dressed, swollen-headed compatriot, then he turned back to look past the distant crannogs at the mouth of the river under the overcast sky and out to sea.

‘We are so far behind,’ he said quietly and then inhaled deeply. ‘I don’t like where the sky is, or the sun.’

‘You’ll get used to it. She’s eaten one of the possessed’s flesh.’

Fachtna did not grimace. Such practices had long since been abandoned by his people but he knew of them. It was a primitive response to what had happened, but he could understand it.

On his back he felt the spear shake and moan. It would need to be drugged and bathed in blood soon.

‘Will she live?’ the warrior asked.

‘She should, but she could also be possessed. The strange thing is that she is fighting it. He nodded towards the body of the huge tattooed warrior. ‘It looks like she killed one of them with their own weapon. I don’t understand how she could do that.’

This made Fachtna suspicious.

‘Someone else has blessed her?’

Teardrop took an obsidian-bladed knife from inside his jerkin and made a small incision in Britha’s cheek. He brought the blade to his mouth, licked it and concentrated.

‘I can taste the demon blood but something wars with the demon blood within her.’

‘What?’

‘Something old and powerful but so faint.’ Teardrop’s eyes widened. ‘I can taste the Muileartach in her.’

Fachtna stared at his companion.

‘Where’s she from?’

Teardrop leaned in to smell her.

‘Local.’

‘Sure?’ Fachtna asked. Teardrop gave him a look that left him in no doubt as to the stupidity of his question. ‘Can you help her?’

Teardrop gave the question some thought.

‘It will diminish me.’

Fachtna said nothing. It was Teardrop’s decision. More than anything he needed his friend strong, but she might be able to help and he wasn’t comfortable leaving her like this. And she looked strong. He would respect whatever decision Teardrop made.

‘Even if she wins the war in her blood, if she gets closer to Bress and the Red Chalice their influence on her would grow stronger. She’s pretty.’

‘For a mortal. Your head is so swollen, but it’s still the other one you want to use?’ Fachtna asked, amusement in his tone. Teardrop grinned at him. He was happily married; the comment had been for Fachtna’s benefit. It was the warrior, after all, not Teardrop who had an eye for pretty ‘mortals’.

Teardrop wiped the knife on his jerkin and then brought it up to the side of his oversized head. The black blade pushed though swarthy weather-beaten skin, cutting into it. As the blade broke the skin there was no blood, only interlocking crystalline growth. Teardrop closed his eyes, his features wrinkling in concentration. Something leaked through the dry wound. Some of the crystals seemed to melt into a viscous quicksilver-like liquid and run down onto the knife blade. The drop of quicksilver stayed on the blade. Teardrop forced Britha’s mouth open as gently as he could and held the knife over it. The quicksilver hung on the blade momentarily and then dripped into her mouth. Fachtna watched expectantly but nothing happened. Britha continued writhing on the pebbles, staring fixedly. Teardrop started to sing. It sounded like a series of disparate syllables but worked into a soothing melody.

‘Will that strengthen the blood of the Muileartach, weaken the demon’s blood?’ Fachtna asked.

Teardrop looked at his warrior friend, trying to decide if he could be bothered to explain. The warrior didn’t really care about these things. He was just talking for the sake of something to say. That was fine, Teardrop thought; the older he got the more he did the same thing.

‘No, what it should do is give her more control,’ Teardrop said and then had to stifle a smile as Fachtna nodded like he knew what the other man was talking about.

Then Britha woke, still screaming. Both of them jumped.

The impossible, painful-to-view crystalline skull faded away, crawling back into the head of the most bizarre man she had ever seen. His skin was dark but looked different from the southron traders her people had dealt with. There was a reddish tint to the brown. His face looked like it had never seen a blade and yet there was no trace of a beard there. Even allowing for this and the strangely bulbous hairless head, the strangest thing about him was his clothing.

He wore a pair of absurdly large trews, with thick red and thin white stripes. These were tucked into a pair of well made high leather boots. He had a white shirt under a stiff-looking leather jerkin, which was fastened with small metal discs that Britha had never seen the like of before. Over that he wore a piece of apparel that looked to Britha to be a cross between some sort of sleeved over-robe and a cloak. The garment was made from some kind of supple hide.

Next to him on the pebbles was a long gnarled wooden staff. There was a large crystal in the centre of the staff. It looked like the staff had grown round the crystal. Another crystal tipped the staff.

It was clear to Britha that this was some kind of monster. She looked around frantically for her spear but she was not where she had been. She was sore from the battering she had given herself during the visions. It was day now. The night must have come and gone.

‘It’s okay . . .’ the strange man started. Britha kicked him in the mouth from her prone position.

‘Hey!’ Britha turned at the cry and saw another man moving towards her.

She put her hand on Teardrop’s staff and flipped over it onto her feet, coming up holding the staff, a feat she was sure that she would not have been capable of until recently.

The other man had his hand on the hilt of his sword and was bringing his shield to bear. The shield was rectangular with rounded corners, leather over oak with complex spiral knotwork patterns ending in three dragons’ heads. He at least she recognised, or at least what he was. He was clearly some kind of warrior. He looked like a Goidel, warriors reputed to come from an island beyond the land to the west.

He wore a boiled leather breastplate, and armour covered his upper arms, vambraces his forearms, and he wore thick leather greaves over fine plaid trews. Around his neck was a finely wrought torc made of thick strands of silver twisted together rather than the more chainlike designs of her own people.

Britha had a moment to appreciate how handsome the man was – well built, fine-featured, long reddish-blonde hair, his similarly coloured beard and moustache in a plait. Attractive or not, there was something about him that Britha knew she would find irritating even if they hadn’t been about to kill each other. The fact that his armour, shield and face were unscarred gave her confidence that she could beat the pretty young warrior.

‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man cried from his bloody mouth. Britha kicked him in the face again and then hit him on his head with his own staff. The man cried out and rolled away from her.

The warrior drew his sword. The blade shone even in the pale light of the overcast day. The metal looked silver. The blade seemed to hum and shimmer as if singing. Britha did not like the look of the blade. She sensed magic in it. She had encountered too many weapons that actively thirsted for blood recently. The beautifully crafted longsword looked sharp enough to cut the air. The last time she had seen a blade that fine, Bress had been holding it.

The warrior was charging her. Britha changed her stance, ready to dart to the side.

‘Fachtna, wait!’ the other man cried. Britha understood his words, though she was not sure he was speaking the same language as the Pecht, but there was clearly magic in the air. His accent was strange.

The warrior skidded to a halt, keeping his eye on Britha, clearly ready to attack. The swollen-headed man turned to the ban draoi.

‘Look we’re not here to—’ he started. Britha hit him on the head with his own staff again. She could not risk him weaving magic with his words. She hit him hard enough to break the skin, but there was no blood.

‘Ow! Stop hitting me with my staff. That’s not what it’s for!’

Through the gash in the creature’s head she could make out some kind of crystalline growth. She stared for a moment and then remembered the warrior.

Fachtna made a move towards her. Britha shifted position.

‘Wait!’ the swollen-headed man shouted. Britha made a move to hit him again, but he scrabbled away from her on the pebbles. ‘I said stop doing that!’

‘Then still your tongue. There’s magics in it.’ Britha’s voice was little more than a rasp, and she tasted blood from her throat when she spoke.

‘We just want to . . .’ Britha moved towards the monster. So far her attacks had drawn no blood. ‘Please listen . . .’

‘If you wish to talk, then let him talk,’ Britha said and gestured at Fachtna.

‘I don’t want to talk; I want to fight,’ Fachtna growled. His accent sounded like what she would imagine a Goidel would sound like.

‘Many-Edged Ones, take me now,’ Teardrop muttered.

‘Are you working magics?’ Britha demanded, moving towards him,

‘No!’

Fachtna shifted to intercept her.

‘Fachtna, stop, please,’ Teardrop implored. Fachtna stopped but did not look happy.

‘Why won’t you let me talk to you?’ Teardrop asked and then scrambled to his feet and backed away quickly as Britha tried to hit him again.

‘I saw through your glamour,’ Britha spat. ‘I saw your true face. You’re an evil spirit, a demon!’

Fachtna grinned at this, but Teardrop looked thoughtful and more than a bit worried.

‘She has you there,’ Fachtna said.

‘Shut up!’ Teardrop snapped. His warrior friend’s humour often seemed poorly timed.

‘His magics helped bring you back. They fought the demon’s blood inside you,’ Fachtna told her. ‘We only mean you harm if you mean us harm. I will swear by my blood and his if that’s what it takes.’

Britha considered this. If he was a Goidel then she had heard that they had their own honour and could be held to an oath. Teardrop was relieved that Fachtna had decided to be diplomatic and found a way to talk to the woman.

‘We’re here to—’ Teardrop started. Britha swung around to face him again. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said backing away, hands up.

‘I don’t like that sword,’ Britha told Fachtna.

Fachtna smiled. ‘You would like my spear even less.’

Britha could see that he had a spear in some kind of leather tube strapped to the back of his armour. It looked like something was struggling to get out of it. Fachtna was right: she did not like it. She felt its malevolence in her blood.

Teardrop was looking bored.

‘May I speak now? No . . .’ Britha tried to get at him again. Fachtna got in between them but sheathed his blade and dropped his shield, holding his hands up to show he meant no harm.

‘I will give my oath for my friend as well,’ he said. ‘He worked magics on you while you were asleep.’

‘Oh brilliant,’ Teardrop muttered as Britha looked furious again.

‘But they were healing magics only.’ Britha still regarded the pair suspiciously.

‘Why are you here?’

‘I have come to find and kill someone called Bress,’ Fachtna said.

Britha looked for the truth in Fachtna. He seemed the archetypal warrior: cocky, boastful, arrogant and not too bright, but with a modicum of charm. Judging by his lack of scars he was untested and therefore vastly overconfident, particularly about facing Bress, but she could see no untruth in him. She nodded towards Teardrop.

‘And that? Is it some demon you have bound into your service?’

Teardrop made a small humourless laughing noise. He was sitting on the pebbles now. He had spat on his fingers and was rubbing the spit into the dry wounds that Britha had made by repeatedly bludgeoning him with his own staff.

‘No, he is my friend and a wise and powerful dryw in his own right.’

‘Why is his head like that?’

‘Because he has a grand opinion of himself,’ Fachtna said, grinning. Teardrop silently cursed another of the warrior’s poorly timed attempts at humour.

‘It’s this shape because I sing the mindsong. It’s where my power lives,’ Teardrop said, getting to his feet. The previously conciliatory tone had gone. Britha recognised this – she used it herself – it was the tone you used when the tribe needed to listen to her in her capacity as ban draoi. ‘My name is Teardrop on Fire. Don’t hit me with my staff again. In fact, give it back to me.’

‘I’ll swap you for my spear,’ she said.

Fachtna sighed, ‘I’ll go and get it,’ and headed back towards the crannogs. Britha continued staring at Teardrop.

‘Teardrop on Fire, what sort of stupid name is that?’

‘The only one I have.’

‘Then you’re brave to let me have it.’

‘I have no fear of you. My friends call me Teardrop.’

Britha threw the strange creature his staff back to prove that she did not fear him either, and the more she talked to him the less frightening he seemed.

‘Where do you come from?’ she asked.

‘A place where the ground is the sky and the sky is the ground,’ Teardrop said as he grumpily examined his staff.

‘The Otherworld?’

Teardrop put the base of his staff on the ground and leaned on it. It looked to be a familiar pose.

‘If you like,’ he said.

‘What tribe do you come from?’

‘My friend is a Gael descended from Mael Duin himself. I am Croatan.’

The words were meaningless to Britha. Fachtna was running easily across the pebbled beach back towards them carrying Britha’s spear.

‘He is sidhe?’ Teardrop did not answer. ‘You were the two that came through the circle.’ It was more of an accusation than a question. Teardrop nodded. ‘Why do you want to kill Bress?’ There was only a small conflict in her voice. Her treacherous fledgling feelings for Bress were a paltry consideration compared to the plight of her people, but Teardrop’s eyes narrowed. I will have to watch him, she thought. He is clever.

‘Because even if this story had been long ago told, he does not belong here.’

‘That does not make any sense.’

‘He is unnatural to this place and means it ill. He is from elsewhere, and his magics were not made for this world.’

Britha gave this some consideration. He spoke in riddles but confirmed what she had thought.

‘Why are you dressed so strangely?’ she finally asked, more for the sake of something to say. Fachtna overheard as he returned and threw Britha her spear.

‘Because he likes to draw attention to himself,’ the warrior said. Teardrop gave his companion a weary look.

‘Bress has an army. Is there just the two of you, or are you scouts for a great army from the Otherworld?’

Fachtna looked at Teardrop, who just shrugged.

‘Teardrop is a powerful dryw and I am a mighty warrior.’

It was said in jest but Britha could tell he believed it as well.

‘You don’t look like a mighty warrior,’ she said. Teardrop laughed.

‘What?!’ Fachtna cried in mock outrage.

‘Even in training warriors get scars and wear them proudly,’ Britha told him.

‘Where I come from, the women train us to fight and they leave all kinds of wounds, but I have lain in the cauldron and that has made me whole again.’

Again Britha was not sure what he was talking about, but cauldrons with healing powers she could understand.

‘You will have to believe me that he is a good warrior,’ Teardrop said. ‘And very, very vain.’

‘Besides, we are three now,’ Fachtna said, grinning, sure of himself. Britha had decided that her earlier judgement of him was correct. He would annoy her.

‘Are we?’ she said scornfully.

‘Are you hungry?’ Teardrop asked with some concern.

Britha had been ignoring the sensation but she realised suddenly that Teardrop was right. She was hungry to the point of being in pain. She felt as if her skin was hanging off her bones.

They were like her, like her people, or at least Fachtna was. She studied both of them, their features bathed in red from the fire they had lit. The smell of roasting venison filled her nose and made her mouth water. Her stomach called to the meat. Fachtna had stripped off his armour and boots and gone into the wooded hills with just three casting spears. He had come back with a roe stag over his shoulders.

Britha had searched the crannogs for food and found some. She had eaten but it had not sated her hunger. The rest she had given to Teardrop, who had returned from the woods with mushrooms, some berries and herbs.

Britha had also found an iron-bladed sickle. It was pitted and rusted but she had scraped off the rust and honed the blade as best she could. When she had the time, she would do the ritual that would attune the sickle to her. Though she would not bathe this one in her blood.

They were like her people but too perfect. Meat filled out their shapes as if they had never known a harsh winter. There were few lines on their skin, though she was sure that Teardrop was older than Fachtna. Their teeth were straight and white, and they smelled like they had washed in a mountain burn just moments before. Their clothes and belongings were well made and showed little if any signs of wear. Life must be good in the Otherworld, she thought.

The deer could have fed many. Britha had thought it too much for the three of them, but they had torn into it ravenously. There would be little left for the wolves and the crows. Teardrop was cutting off the remaining meat and putting it into a leather bag. She could see that it contained salt.

‘That’s no way to salt meat,’ Britha said.

Teardrop just smiled. ‘We have a way.’

‘What did you see? When you ate of his flesh?’ Fachtna asked, spearing another piece of meat with his dirk and dipping it into the wooden bowl containing the preparation of wine and berries that Teardrop had made. Britha didn’t answer.

‘Those are dark magics,’ Teardrop said.

‘We can eat what we kill,’ Britha said haughtily, meeting Teardrop’s stare until he turned from her. Britha turned to Fachtna and stabbed her dirk point towards Teardrop. ‘I saw his real face, what he is.’

‘That is not my real face,’ Teardrop said quietly. ‘Only what I must be to serve . . .’ His voice trailed away. He sounded sad. Fachtna was watching him thoughtfully.

‘What are you then?’

This time Teardrop met her gaze unflinchingly.

‘Would you tell me all your ways, your secrets?’

This time it was Britha who looked away.

‘I felt the demon, burning in me, trying to consume me, make me a slave like all the others. I saw people who thought they were dead, who chose to be slaves and a dark man.’ Fachtna and Teardrop exchanged looks. Britha did not notice. Tears sprang to her eyes. ‘I saw my people caged, in the sea, and felt their fear and their pain as they died by fire . . .’

Fachtna was looking at her sympathetically.

Teardrop looked angry. ‘To come here . . .’ he muttered.

‘Was there anything else?’ Fachtna asked gently.

Britha’s head snapped around to look at him. She had disliked the sympathy in his voice. She was angry through her tears.

‘There was something under the water,’ she said. Fachtna and Teardrop exchanged looks. ‘What does it mean?’

‘We’re not sure,’ Teardrop said.

Britha could tell he was lying. If he was a dryw then he could lie for what he thought was the best. She ignored him and turned to stare at Fachtna. He felt like her stare was burrowing into his head. Good, Britha thought. They obviously had their own dryw and knew to obey them or face serious consequences.

‘We think that Bress has found an aspect of the sleeping goddess, the Mother to us all, and he seeks to pervert or corrupt her somehow,’ Fachtna told her.

‘And he will do this by offering those he has taken as sacrifice?’ Britha asked.

Fachtna nodded. Teardrop was not looking happy.

‘Will you swear by blood that you are here to stop this?’ she asked.

Fachtna did not answer. Instead he produced his finely wrought, silver-bladed dirk and drew a line in red across his palm with the blade.

‘Wait,’ Teardrop said, but he knew it was pointless.

Britha took her iron-bladed knife.

‘Use mine,’ Fachtna said. But it was too late. She had made a ragged gash in her hand. The leather tube that lay on top of Fachtna’s pile of armour seemed to move and make sounds as she did this.

‘Look, don’t . . .’ Teardrop started but Fachtna and Britha clasped hands.

‘This oath will bind,’ Britha warned him.

‘By my blood, I bind myself. I, Fachtna ap Duin, swear that I am here to stop Bress from corrupting the Muileartach and to kill Bress and his servant.’

Britha felt a flutter in her stomach when he said he meant to kill Bress.

‘Then I will travel with you to get my people back,’ Britha said. In the back of her head she heard a voice asking when she would learn to leave the Otherworld well enough alone. Britha looked into Fachtna’s eyes looking for falseness. All she found was desire. She let go of his bloody hand and walked down towards the small dark waves of the Black River lapping on the pebbles.

‘What is it with you?’ Teardrop asked Fachtna.

‘I meant what I said. What they are doing is an abomination.’

‘I know you thought that was what you were doing, but you always have to try and impress, don’t you?’

‘I’m an impressive person,’ Fachtna said, smiling. Teardrop felt like slapping him for never taking anything seriously.

‘In this world, yes . . .’

‘And in the Ubh Blaosc,’ Fachtna said more quietly. Teardrop sighed. He hated having to deal with prickly warrior pride.

‘I’m not doubting your prowess, but she cannot do the things we do.’

‘She has the blood of the Muileartach and the blood of the Red Chalice. That is powerful blood magic and with your help she should be able to harness it. She will keep up.’

Britha was walking back towards them again. Teardrop did not like the look on her face. She was staring at him again. ‘Besides, she’s too much woman for you,’ he said quietly.

Fachtna grinned. ‘Such a creature would be a like a dragon. They may exist, but nobody’s ever seen one.’

‘I am beginning to understand why Uathach beat you so often.’

‘She wanted me.’

‘There was something else from my dream,’ Britha said. Fachtna noticed that as she came to a rest by the fire, she pushed her foot under the haft of her spear. ‘I saw them push a seed, like the crystals that grow in the caves, into the heads of my people. These things just seemed to sink through their skin.’ Britha waited for either of them to speak. They just watched her. Teardrop could see what was coming. ‘It looked like what I saw under the skin of your head when I bashed you.’

‘It is similar magics. From the Otherworld,’ Teardrop said.

Britha could not decide if she wanted to believe him or not.

‘It’s a fungus that they grow in his head,’ Fachtna said. Teardrop looked furious. Britha had to stifle a smile. If one of her warriors had given away a secret like that to a stranger she would have cursed them until their manhood dropped off. Not that she ever allowed the warriors to learn her secrets. She could tell that Teardrop would be having words with Fachtna in private.

‘A fungus inside the head. That makes no sense,’ she told them. ‘What would this seed do?’

‘Enslave them,’ Fachtna said.

‘No, Ettin makes them drink from a cup of demon’s blood for that,’ Britha told him.

‘It’s to hear their mindsong,’ Teardrop said quietly.

Britha turned to stare at him. ‘When they are afraid, when they are suffering, when they die in torment,’ she said. Teardrop looked at her across the fire. She could see new respect in his eyes. She did not care, though she was beginning to think that she wanted his magics. Either learned or taken, they would make her tribe stronger, if she ever found them.

‘Now you know my secrets, will you tell us one of your own?’ Teardrop asked.

‘Unlikely, but you may ask,’ Britha told him.

‘You have the blood of the Muileartach in you. How?’

Fachtna turned to look at her expectantly.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Britha said. ‘The gods are cold and cruel and do not mean us well. My people forsook them when my farthest ancestors were young.’

‘Have you drunk blood?’

‘No,’ she said uneasily. She remembered the fevered dream as she lay dying on the beach. The pool in Cliodna’s cave. Teardrop was staring at her. It was the truth-finding look; she had used it herself before. He knew.

‘Eaten flesh of the Otherworld?’

‘No!’

‘Some kind of fluid must have been exchanged,’ Fachtna said with a leer.

He was too confident of his own abilities to think that Britha would attack him. The punch was a solid blow that spread his nose across his face and squirted blood over his mouth and down his chin. The blow had been quick and delivered with a surprising amount of force. Fachtna staggered back, and Britha turned and stalked off, pulling her hood up and wrapping her robe tighter around herself.

Teardrop made enough noise walking across the pebbles to give Britha warning of his approach. She turned to look briefly at the strange creature. He was carrying an earthenware jug. Britha went back to staring at the stars, wondering if she should be insulted that men thought alcohol was the solution to her problems.

‘I found this,’ Teardrop said. ‘What sort of raiders leave the good uisge beatha?’ he took a pull of the clear liquid. ‘It’s good,’ he managed.

Britha took the jug off him and took a long swig.

‘I don’t like the sky now,’ Britha finally said.

‘Your vision?’

Britha nodded. ‘It seems angry and hateful now.’

‘I think it’s like your gods, cold and uncaring.’

‘No, our gods hated us. We would give them everything just so they would leave us alone.’ Teardrop turned to look at her. ‘Or so the stories handed from mother to mother go.’ She handed the jug back and he had some more. ‘Do you have gods?’ she asked. He smiled.

‘You know enough of us for one day, I think.’ Both of them looked up into the night sky. ‘We need to know,’ he finally said.

He certainly knew all the masks, Britha thought, just the right word magic to get what he needed. When to be listened to, when to be feared, the caring mask, the one he was wearing now. Was he using this mindsong on her as well, she wondered, because she wanted to tell him. She wanted to tell someone, and he was, after all, from the Otherworld as well. He wouldn’t, couldn’t judge.

‘Fachtna is an arrogant fool,’ she said instead.

Teardrop laughed. ‘Yes, but you must have met warriors before.’

‘Her name was Cliodna,’ Britha said. ‘She was a selkie.’

‘I have heard the name.’

‘One of the seal people, skin changers.’ Though now that she thought about it, she had never seen Cliodna in her seal form.

Teardrop looked a little confused. ‘And you drank her blood?’

‘No, I told you. Though she may have used her blood to heal me, or I may have dreamed it.’

‘Then . . . you were lovers?’

Britha turned to look at him defiantly. People feared those who behaved differently to them. Britha had never been able to differentiate between the desire for men and the desire for women. She could not understand why people would cut off half the oppurtunities for beauty and pleasure. Teardrop looked momentarily surprised but there was no judgement there. Then he looked amused.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘Fachtna will be dissapointed,’ he said.

‘She turned different, angry, hateful.’ Britha hated that a tear rolled down her cheek in front of this stranger.

‘She lived in the water a lot?’

Britha nodded.

‘It sounds like she was an elder child of the Muileartach.’

‘And the gods are hateful,’ Britha said bitterly.

‘Bress is harvesting sorrow. Did she push you away?’

Britha nodded again, cursing more tears.

‘She was probably trying to protect you. She knew she was changing and there was nothing that she could do about it.’

Britha said nothing. She tried to look at the hateful sky and not the dark waters. Teardrop had learned long ago that the best thing at times like these was to let the tears run their course. He looked out over the waters to the south. He knew that that way lay Bress.

Finally Britha wiped away her tears, took the jug from Teardrop and had another long pull.

‘It was a great gift she gave you,’ Teardrop said. Britha nodded.

The following day was grey and overcast as well. The rain was light but constant, the kind that soaks through and then chills down to the bone, except today Britha wasn’t feeling it. She felt stronger, faster, more aware than she had at any time she could remember. She felt amazing except for the dull ache of loss in her chest.

‘Does the sun ever shine in this land?’ Fachtna demanded cheerfully as he dragged a log boat he had found in the treeline down the pebbles towards the Black River. Even so early, he was already annoying Britha. The uisge beatha pain in her head was not helping her tolerance either.

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ Britha asked.

‘I think I know how to work a boat,’ Fachtna said.

‘If this is anything like the Tatha, then the currents and tides will be treacherous. We need an experienced boatman who knows the waters. Besides, their god lives in there and he will be angry now his people are dead.’

Fachtna stared out at the water, seeming to concentrate, then he knelt by the side of the river and placed his hand in the water and concentrated some more.

‘Come. We will break spears and give them to the river,’ Teardrop said.

Britha looked over at him. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just trying to humour her.

‘I know this river now,’ Fachtna said, standing up. ‘We will be fine.’