A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3) (30 page)

Terrified, she could see it in her mind’s eye – her carcass laid in the dark outside and the Strigoi fighting over a sup of her juices as if she were some d
elicate wine they must sample.
And when she was drained of life, she would sit up, pale and bloodless and feel the consummate need to sip blood for herself and she would search and feed.

But miracle of miracles, those awful eyes turned
away toward the window.
Whatever freeze the monster
had mesmered her with passed.
Desperation led force
to her limbs despite her injury
and she kicked and pushed, her nails dragging down the ghoul’s face, seeking to t
hrow the creature off balance.
He headed toward the shattered aperture and as he moved his hands to grasp her more firmly, a silvered sound sucked on the midnight a
ir and Finnian bellowed below.
The dracule arched his back and shrieked, his hold on Lalita loosening as he arched again and she wriggl
ed herself free of the talons.
She began to fall, the Strigoi tumbling lifeless behind her.

She had heard the legendary
stories of that singing sound.
Finnian had sent a mesmer int
o the air – invisible, lethal.
The metallic shiver sang a song of death as it hurtled straight to the marauding dracule, smiting him in the back, crunching through the spine, into the innards and emerging out the chest.

Finnian caught her as if she were swansdown, the remaining Strigoi flying in circles, howling as they watched their br
other hunch and empty of life.
Fleeing through the window, they bayed with unsatisfied bloodlust as he began to dissolve into filthy dust.

The foul particles settled on the floor, shrieks disappearing into the hilly distance as an unea
sy quiet filled the library.
Lalita shivered and gasped and she knew this time there was mo
re damage than a sundered rib. Her breath whistled.
Short, uneven puffs as
broken bones pierced her lung.
She looked at Finnian, his face creased with such conce
rn that she was surprised.
As she tried to figure out that compassion, to sort it in her mind, the edges of her vision faded, narrowing h
er world almost to a pinpoint.
She sucked greedily on what little air she could garner but the dark mist spread, frightening her, making her feel as if death held onto her heels, and try as she might, she couldn’t utter a word.

***

‘Lalita, I have you. I’ll get help, listen to me.’
He picked her up as if she were treasure most rare, hea
ding to the stable with speed.
He hoped the geldi
ng would still be in the building
and not dashed against the walls in a paroxysm of anxiety, that it had stayed in the protective dark, regaining its breath, cooling down, maybe even finding water in one of the stalls that were strewn with
thick straw.
In his pocket the two paperweights rubbed together with another glass sphere and a piece of paper, a noise li
ke a satisfied little snicker. Not that he cared.
The thing he valued most in the world lay in his arms and hovered on the edge of
life.

Such an awakening of long bur
ied emotion felt like being…
drawn and quartered
.

He skirted the ebon
y pleated edges of the forest.
In the dark of the never-ending night, Lalita lay slung in his arms as he headed to the Ymp Tree Orchard, to where he be
lieved the Færan healer lived.
The gelding walked with purpose, perhaps sensing the direction of the home yard, at the same time intuiting the need for a measured but steady p
ace for his injured passenger.
Finnian wanted to gallop, to fly; every second of delay weakening the fragile link between he and Lalita, the chain that he knew was almost sundered.  But he must progress at this damned snail’s pace for her sake, for her life, because speed would break the last link with life utterly.

Her breath rasped in the top of her chest – short, shallow gasps as if bould
ers squashed the life from her.
Her eyes remained closed in a bleached face, her lips
with the faintest blue tinge.
All Finnian could think was what benighted star had he and his brother been born under, that their lives should be
so filled with wreaking pain. He gave a hollow
laugh and called out to the empty night,

‘Moonlady, you’
ve won, I’ve discovered value. Is that what you wanted?
That I only learn value when I risk losing t
hat which I might value most?’
He continued more poignantly, whispering as the gelding
’s ears flicked back and forth.
‘Help her.’

Neveren
ding night rolled on overhead.
Creatures of the evening hours had quietened, confused, th
eir habitual rhythm distorted. The moon had lost its battle.
The sky stretched as dense as the Andromeda Darks, no intimation of stars, or of milky galaxies, a nap as flat as black velvet.

The horse’s
steady walk ate up the ground b
ut Lalita’s breath became fainter and at
one point stopped altogether.
Finnian jolted her gently and there was the faintest gasp.
That’s it, hold on, we have far yet
to go and I would not lose you.
‘Moonlady,’
he cried out in desperation as
his hors
e stumbled, Lalita whimpering.
But ducking its head, the gelding picked up its feet more carefully and continued on.

Whereas the track through the forest to Killymoon had wended and woven amongst the leafy bulwarks, the route now trodden led Finnian to mortal paths lightly edged with the delicate
shelter of silver-birch trees.
And in a gesture of acknowledgement to the dracule-infested forest not far away, the path was guarded with altars – sturdy little constructions of rowan wood with icons of the Lady Aine and silver coinage, carvings, cloves of garlic and bouquets of r
ue to protect against glamour.
Their guardianship sent out waves to repulse even Finnian but he would not be diverted.

Lalita’s breathing continued to gr
ate with faint barking groans.
Finnian smoothed her hair and thought how unfair it would be for such a woman who was as clever and fearless as she to end he
r life so young.
‘I have them, Lali
ta – they rattle in my pocket.
It is what you so bravely set out to do and which I wished you t
o cease for fear of your life.
But all I did w
as push you harder, didn’t I?’
As thoughts of untimely doom shouted loudly, he changed the subject to ease their mutual distrait, believing such mellow talk might yet keep
her in the land of the living.
‘I should like to have seen Killymoon
in the light, don’t you think? Such a
n elegant house
. Do you know the story? No?
I’ll tell you then for I think you’ll like it.’

The horse moved on and Finnian trusted to its homing instincts, feeling the pull of the muscles as the animal began to climb the smooth un
dulations of the Barrow Hills.
He estimated Trevallyn had been in the dark now for a day and he wondered how long a mortal could survive the reduction of air into the body, how long before fluid filled the chest cavity and she developed fevers
.
How long, how
long?
How long is a piece of string
?
He dredged up a story from his age of books and began, believing that a calm manner in the face of adversity may help Lalita hold on in the agonizingly slow journey to healing hands.

‘Killymoon they say, is the home of a beautiful ariso
crat, a woman of intelligence.
Rumour has it that she is of fine, pale skin, with
silver hair the colour of…
well, th
ey say the moon of all things. Isn’t that ironic?’ He gave a pitiful laugh.
‘Folktale would have you believe she only ever inhabits the house at the time of a full moon, and that at night the house is lit from within as
if by a thousand chandeliers.
During the day, the doors and windows are open to the sun and the garden blossoms with nothing but white flowered plants and white peacocks wander the grounds displaying tails of
alabaster and ivory.
Music drifts out at night, lilting tunes on harpsichord, or viola and harp and they remind the listener o
f a moonriver or a moonbridge.
Folk never see the lady
and yet all know she is there.
She is an enigma and yet every story desc
ribes her similarly.
It is said the house is filled with beauteous things pertaining to the stars and galaxies and that she has an urisk called Nolius for a friend, a wise creature
as old as the earth and older.
When she is not there, the house has no one to care for it and yet it is always immaculate, as polishe
d as a milky opal set in gold.
And none ever gets into the grounds before a d
elicious sleep overcomes them.
After a time, they wake refreshed and all idea of adventuring to Killymoon is gone.’

He looked down at Lalita but all he could see were blue lips; the tint of death Isolde would say, and all he could hear was th
e dreadful rasp of her breath.
The horse had reached the low crown of a hill and continued along a ridge of tussock.

He felt as if he teetered on the edge of an abyss, a chasm of loss as he continued, ‘Shall I tell you what I think th
e lady of Killymoon looks like? Oh, she is superb! Ageless.
As old as the
first mother, as young as you.
Her face is oval and her eyes are dark pools like the most b
eautiful ponds in the forests.
Her hair is long and like spun sugar-floss, a silver colour, and when a welkin wind blow
s, it’s like filigree, Lalita.
And she wears gowns of midnight blue – layers and layers
of weave
that have a life of their own and that are studded with stars and moons, or maybe diamonds and ivory,’ Finnian’s face changed, a sense of wonder creeping across the chiselled expression,’ and I felt as if I fe
ll into the heavens,’ he said.
‘Tumbling along a veil of stars and when she spoke to me it was a celestial voice and do you k
now what I called her, Lalita? I called her Moonlady.
What my dearest one, would you call her?’

The horse turned into a tree-edged aisle
without Finnian noticing until he glanced down at the black equine shoulder where a white flake landed and then on his own arm where there were more and then at Lalita’s silky hair where a crown of
blossoms surrounded her head.

They had entered the furthest extent of the Ymp Tree Orchard and the anxiety that had dogged Finnian relaxed its hold as he thought of the healer close by.

At the end of the row,
in the night shadow,
he saw a dark silhouette of a person walking toward him; aged but upright
, moving with decided purpose.
He thought it was Isolde as he caught a glimpse of a white head in the night-light and the snapping
black folds of a riding coat.
Defeat began to settle upon him and he cursed that he could not rise above the ingra
ined fear he had of the woman.
He pulled the horse to a stop, frozen, staring into the night and wondering what he should do, how he should play this next.

But the figure drew c
loser and he saw it was a man.
Ever unsure of his grandmothe
r’s games, he held his breath.
She was an unarguable master of the shape-change.

‘It took you long enough.
Brin
g her and quickly.
By the way,’ the man said in a rich voice as he turned down the hill, ‘I am Jasper.’

‘You?’ Finnian’s voice croaked.
As he looked briefly at Lalita, he knew he must trust the man who led the way because this rare creature who lay in his arms was far beyond his own help.

‘Yes.
I am Jasper of the Færan, the healer that yo
u rode by a day or more since.
I’ve been watching you and you
have
had
some adventures, haven’t you?
Come on, come
on, we haven’t time to dally.
If I’m guessing right, I would say the woman has only an hour or two left of her mortal life.’

Finnian pressed his heels against the gelding’s side and as if the animal recognized Jasper was to be trusted it moved after him, Finnian letting the reins collapse onto the horse’s neck so that he could brush a loose strand o
f hair from Lalita’s forehead.
‘It’s going
to be alright,’ he whispered. ‘We’ve found him.’ He refused to countenance a thought that ran in tandem.
Yes, but
she
still follows me
.