The crossing, p.11
The Crossing, page 11
He closed his eyes and gave in to his meditations. His reflections went to Arlan and his journey to the border. The lad always drew him.
No, I should contemplate another.
He picked a sprig of yew and ran his touch along the needles’ smooth lengths, their ends spiky against his fingers.
No other thoughts came, only those of Arlan, and strong now. Eifion leaned against the tree, relaxed his body further—and let go.
His spirit flew to the east, past mountains and rivers, forests and villages. Darkness hovered over a hamlet near the border.
Not darkness. Black.
The shell of a wee village smouldered and the souls of those lost rose and wept.
Eifion steadied himself with a deep inhalation and pushed across the border. He sensed the end of a storm. Not of wind, nor of rain, but of a battle. He stretched his vision.
Amongst trees—a forest camp with bodies slain. A few rode further east. Fleeing. Escaping.
None pursuing.
He set his spirit to look back at the camp. Those milling there were no strangers. Bàn cradled the empty body of the warrior, Erin. Her spirit gazed at Bàn, arms extended and fingers stroking his blond curls as she passed him and rose through the air. Arlan’s troop examined their surroundings, securing the battle-site, and Angus peered beneath his crumpled brow at hoof tracks in the dirt.
Where is Arlan?
Morrigan crouched near a fallen figure with a bloodied head. The rest of Arlan’s troop gathered to hover over the injured man. Eifion poked his sight past their shoulders.
Prince Kyle! He roused not and his eyes remained closed. A bloody trickle traced a path along his hairline.
Is he not at their clan lands by the sea? Their family’s broch, Creagrubha?
The sturdy warrior, Adele, lifted Kyle with gentleness while the others constructed a litter in haste.
But... Arlan?
Eifion searched the scene, pushing his seeing harder.
There. A shimmer, slowly diminishing. He moved his spirit closer. Through the shimmer stood a forest.
It was neither this wood, nor one of this world’s realm.
He sent through a willing. A guarding. A gifting.
The shimmering slammed shut—like a swiftly closing door.
Eifion left Arlan’s troop and returned to himself under the tree. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, his clammy hands clasped tight around the sprig of yew, and his eyes opened wide to a lavish dusk. The bird chatter of beul na h-oidhche—the dusk of evening—touched Eifion’s ears and the yew’s sweet aroma lingered.
He unclenched his hands, the sprig falling into his lap, and leaned his head on the sturdy tree, blinking against the traces of argent and pink hues streaking the clouds on the horizon.
A gasp passed between his lips.
It could not be.
He picked the sprig from his lap and thrust it into the folds of his robe, then rose in haste. His hip bone ground in its socket, and he flinched with each step through the fading shadows of dusk cast across the bailey yard.
He climbed the steps to the entrance of The Keep proper, then trod along the corridor that led to the library. He pushed open the heavy oak doors to the large room with a high ceiling and walls lined with tall shelves of parchments, scrolls, and books covered in animal skins and gem encrusted metals and ornamented wood. The dim light of early evening spilled quietly from high windows as young sages shuffled around with tapers lighting the candle trees spaced throughout this immense room. A hint of dry parchment and old leather hit Eifion’s nose, and he drew in the welcome aromas, then sighed.
Here he was always happy.
Here was silent knowledge. Here was truth. Where the thoughts of those who had gone before were free to speak without interruption from those who would argue them as archaic.
Here and now, he would dare to seek the writings long locked away and where he would find the insight and answers to what he had encountered on his spirit’s seeing.
For he must be sure. He must know.
His insides niggled, for the usual procedure was to apply for permission from the head sage. That was Sage Cénell—an officious, suspicious stickler for protocols. Blast!
“May I be of assistance to ye, Lord Sage Eifion?”
Eifion turned; a young sage stood behind him. The light of the nearby candelabra bathed the young man in a glow. Along from him, sages sat at desks, poring over unrolled scrolls and parchments. White goose quills quivered and danced across pages accompanied by the loud scratching of senior sages taking notes. One paused, mouth pinched, and flicked his gaze up to Eifion through wild salt-and-pepper brows. Sage Cénell.
Double blast!
“I wish to review a topic in your reference area.” Eifion folded his hands in his robe sleeves. This young one was his best hope. Perhaps he was not yet tainted by Cénell’s authoritarian legalism.
The young sage pivoted on his heal and Eifion followed as he headed to the far corner of the library from where three doors allowed exit from the main hall of the grand library. The young man paused and took up a lighted candlestick, looking Eifion in the eye.
“Your oldest texts,” Eifion said in a quiet voice, though in the library it was like a shout.
He led Eifion through the far exit on the right and along a narrow passage that ended with a locked door.
“I have nae opened this one ever, lord sage.” The keys jangled as he selected the correct key one-handed. “Ah, would ye mind?” He held out the candlestick to Eifion.
Eifion took it as an almost silent slap of leather sandal on the stone floor came along the corridor behind him. He turned. No one approached.
“Here ye are, Sage Eifion.” The young man nudged the door, creaking it open, and bowed slightly. “As ye would be aware, over the years, the librarians have also stored rare texts in here, which are not locked, preferring them to be kept away from general access. Would ye be looking at those, Sage Eifion?”
“Aye, but I also desire to view The Secret Sacred Writings of the Sages.”
The young sage’s eyes widened, and he stifled a gasp.
Eifion strode past him and placed the candlestick on the dusty table in the middle of the small, round room with a ceiling so tall it disappeared in the shadows. This room was one of the many external round towers of The Keep. Bookshelves lined the curved walls, filling the height of the lighted glow, and cobwebs hung from candle brackets and shelves. On the table, stubs of three candles sat in a puddle of melted wax set hard. Eifion lit them, their wicks taking well; they would have a good hour in them. Their weak light gleamed off the chains hanging through the locks on the lower shelves that, bar the doorway, encircled the room.
“The keys for the locked shelves, young man.” Eifion held out his hand.
The sage clasped the keys to his chest. “Ah, ye’ll have tae seek permission from the head sage.”
Eifion leaned close to the lad, whispering conspiratorially. “Of this I am aware, but I have not the time to wait for a committee to decide if I am a suitable reader of these texts or no’.”
The young sage’s mouth quivered as he leaned slightly away from Eifion.
“My task—” Eifion began.
“Sage Eifion.” The hard voice of Sage Cénell came from the doorway. “Do you pressure this young sage?”
Eifion braced against his shoulders stiffening then took a step away from the lad. “Nae, this helpful young man has directed me to the rare texts as I requested. May I have access to the locked books?”
“You may apply for access, though that has rarely been granted, and for certain, not in your lifetime.” Cénell’s lips thinned so much they disappeared.
Eifion raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise. But blast once more!
“Your request will be reviewed and placed on our agenda for discussion when our sages meet next month.” Cénell’s smile was smug.
The young sage’s eyes darted from him to Eifion and back again.
Eifion suppressed the grunt that would echo in the tall room and returned a tight grin. “I shall submit my request and content myself with what is available now.”
“Hmph. Very well.” Cénell hovered.
Eifion reached for a book of Dál Cruinne lore on the shelf above the locked books and scrolls. He wiped the dust off the table with a fold of his sleeve and placed the book in the light spilling from the candles. He opened the book, its pages stiff and threatening to crack beneath his fingers. Cénell grunted.
“I shall be careful.” Eifion assured him. “I know how to care for aged parchment.”
Eifion turned the pages written in ink now browned and in an older form of the tongue, such as spoken by the past’s learned people. Cénell lingered by the door.
“I assure you I am quite capable of protecting ancient texts, Cénell.”
Cénell’s face hardened. “And what would you be looking for in the Secret Sacred Writings of the Sages, Eifion Iubhar?” Accusation poked its pointing fingers through his words.
Eifion’s neck prickled. “I am a lover of history and the thoughts of the ancients. That is all, Cénell.” He kept his face as calm as he was able.
The pinched-browed sage gave a slight nod, then slowly turned, his sandaled steps ringing back into the round room as he departed. The young sage chewed his lip.
“Shall I get ye more candles, Sage Eifion? It seems ye shall be a while, aye?”
“Oh, that would be so kind. And, I wonder, as it is chilly in here for my old bones, would ye go to my rooms and fetch me my cloak and a rug?”
“Ah, aye. ’Twill take me a wee while, though.”
“That is fine, lad.” Eifion gave as fatherly a smile as he could. “Just as you can.”
The young sage’s mouth flickered in a grin, then he left.
Eifion spun and turned to the locked shelves.
Running his fingers along the bars that withheld these ancient texts from the world, he found the oldest in appearance on the third locked shelf. He closed his eyes and grasped the padlock in his hands and sensed minerals and ores from deep in Dál Cruinne’s ground. He withdrew the yew sprig hidden in his sleeve and concentrated. His spirit drew strength from the living plant, but it was not enough. He placed his hand on the wooden frame of the shelves. Aged-life lingered in the wood fibres and power trickled through.
He sought more, from close shelving, then from the table in the centre of the room, until a power gusted through him like a strong breeze and the lock sprung open.
He sped his gaze across the spines of leather-bound books and ribboned tags of scrolls. One title caught his eye.
The Book of the Fae.
“Aye, that would be one.”
Many a story of travellers to another place, the Land of the Faerie, had mentioned a door or a gateway to their world. All folk lore, or so it was said.
“Could it be that was what I saw?” he whispered. “That which slammed in my face?”
He took it to the table, shoved the already opened book aside and placed The Book of the Fae down. Its faded cover had nicks and scars in the leather, and a musty scent emanated from it. He opened it; its leaves were a smooth vellum, as soft as kid skin beneath his fingers, as if they had not aged. Written at the bottom of the title page... Year from Dragon Wars One Hundred and Twenty.
Eifion’s breath caught. Could this be so old? He turned to the middle of the book and placed his hands on the pages.
But where to start?
The vellum tingled against his palms. He jolted back.
“Nae.” He could not keep the wonder from his voice. “Ye wish to assist me?”
He placed his hands back on the pages.
Gateway. Door. Portal?
The page under his right hand grew warm. He turned the sheets of vellum forward until one released such heat it compelled him to stop, then read:
Many a traveller has returned from the Other World with stories of a journey and lessons learned. Though some have gone missing from known sites, returning not. Travellers describe various worlds, indicating perhaps there be more than one Land of the Fae. But all report they were gone for a time differing in length from their absence in Dál Cruinne.
Prickles crawled beneath the skin on Eifion’s arms.
“But how does Arlan return?” He turned the page.
Illustrations filled this section: a henge of standing stones, a forest, a circle of toadstools, and a still pond, all intricately drawn.
Hmm. Eifion’s brow tightened. “Most definitely a forest in Arlan’s case. But which world?”
Eifion read the lines written in a slanted hand beneath the drawings.
Thwarted be, and standing still
Wishing for open portal sign
Travellers be stranded ill
Until fixed times of worlds align.
“Certain places at certain times.” He gritted his teeth and spun to the shelves. “There must be a map.”
He rummaged through scrolls, uncurling one and then another. No maps. He searched some more, scuffling through thick pieces of parchment and thudding books on the shelves in his efforts.
“By all that is good!” he ground out through his teeth.
Foot tread padded down the passage, echoing toward him. He started, jolting the parchment in his hands. He spun back to the table and snapped the book shut, shoved it back in its place, threaded the lock and pushed it to some semblance of closed. Then turned to the book of Dál Cruinne lore on the table.
He ran his finger along a line of text just as the young sage entered. Eifion’s cloak and a rug hung over the lad’s arm, and he nodded, placing them on the back of the chair. Eifion lifted his face and his eyebrows to the lad who stood staring, first at Eifion, then the book and back once more.
“If ’tis not rude of me, Sage Eifion, I would ask why ye seek knowledge amongst these texts?”
Eifion narrowed his eyes. “Who wishes to know? You or your master?”
“Pardon, lord sage.” His pure voice lacked hesitation. “But I myself wish to know why ye seek knowledge from these records containing the words of a magic which we in Dál Gaedhle take no part?”
The young sage had honest eyes, and a longing rested in them.
“Let not the biases of the days in which ye live negate the experiences of those who have gone before you. Scribed not long after the Dragon Wars, the very words of the scrolls and books locked in this room ring truer than the records since of those very times, now slanted in their truths by those who penned them and the opinions and inclinations of the days in which they lived.” He stepped forward and laid his hand on the young sage’s shoulder. “Use your own judgement and be not blinded by the preconceptions of others.” He walked past the lad, picking up his cloak and rug, and walked out of the room.
Eifion’s steps rang in his ears and his research rang in his mind.
“It was a portal, then.” His whisper echoed off the narrow walls of the passage. “And some never return.”
He gasped, his heart sinking to his stomach.
“Be not lost to us, Arlan, son of my heart.”
Fifteen
Protect, warrior, for this is your noblest thought.
Buckle virtue tight about your waist.
Let your words and deeds be in honour toward those not of the
warrior way.
Stay your arm at hearth; offense is for the field of battle alone.
Defend all who take shelter beneath the warrior’s shield arm.
WARRIOR SAGE TAPAÌDH
(4009-4059 POST DRAGON WARS)
OUR WORLD, 2016
Abernethy, Scotland
The evening air settled around me, touching my face and hands with a chill. My teeth chattered with the lingering effects of an adrenalin surge. Fading daylight tinged the forest gold, hemming the track with pink. A hint of faecal odours hung in the air from the lad who’d grabbed me by the hair and held a knife to my throat.
I pinched my nostrils against the smell. He must’ve shat himself in fear.
There’d been no sign of him since the warrior guy had turned up and chased him down the steep side of the track, but that hadn’t stopped the shivers running through me.
The Celtic-looking warrior dismounted his war horse, his boots thudding on the ground.
Where had he come from?
I stepped back, not taking my eyes off him. He bent low, wiped his sword on the fallen leaves and rubbed until the metal was clean and shiny, then spoke as he re-sheathed it. The soft snick of his sword returning to its scabbard wove through his lyrical, breathy words, an odd sort of Gaelic that was difficult to decipher.
I smiled awkwardly, my arms and legs still trembling, and my mouth dry.
He stood and stared at me. Waiting.
“Um, hi. Thank you”—my gratitude came out as a stuttering squeak— “for re-sheathing your sword and not murdering me,” I added low under my breath, just in case he knew English.
He cocked his head and spoke a string of sounds. I caught maybe an ‘Adrian’ or something amongst them.
“Oh, okay... Adrian. Thank you, again. I’m going now.” I swallowed, attempting to moisten my mouth.
Time to get out of here.
I turned and walked down the hill, the handle of my attacker’s pocketknife digging into my palm and tried to steady my breathing.
The warrior’s thudding footsteps came behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. He was following me, leading that ginormous horse. It was the only way down this hill.
He strode, strength personified, as straight and strong as the double-edged sword now safely in its sheath at his back. Its handle stood above his right shoulder and his shield hung on the saddle. His horse remained jittery, tossing its head, chewing its bit, a constant jangling accompanying each snort and movement. The warrior, Adrian, spoke to it in the gentle, sing-song modulation of his language.
