The Changeling (30 page)

After studying him closely, Dorocha nodded. ‘I see. Too young, perhaps. When you are older, you will feel it.’ He turned his eyes suddenly towards the nearest archway, one finger raised, head on one side, listening intently. ‘I think . . . Why not? They live very close to the summit of Falias, close to the ceiling of this world. I think . . . Yes, I hear them. They are coming. It is your human blood that calls to them.’

Shay’s eyes widened with shock, and Aoife cried in fear, ‘What are you talking about?’

Caitlin and Ultan leaped to their feet, scattering chicken and sugar pieces, yelping, ‘Pooka?’

Dorocha laughed at them. ‘Not a pooka – lenanshees! And there’s no need to be afraid. It is only human blood that is of interest to them. Whenever the queen had company . . .’ His voice broke slightly. ‘Whenever a human man . . .’ He paused, recovered himself, then murmured to Shay, ‘They will try to steal your heart. Resist them,’ and walked out through the sea-blue curtains onto the balcony.

The air was filling with young girlish voices, and for a moment Aoife thought they must be coming up the stairs from the stables, but then it was as if the song they were singing was drifting in from the night beyond the balcony. She drew close to Shay, who had remained motionless where he was; she touched his arm but he quivered as if every sinew in his body were too tight, and shook her off. His hazel eyes were wet with tears.

‘Shay? Are you all right?’

He glanced at her briefly, but not as if he really saw her, then called to Dorocha: ‘What is that song?’

The man was leaning on the stone parapet, gazing down. Without turning his head, he said, ‘You don’t recognize it?’

‘No.’ Yet at the same time Shay touched his chest, as if unconsciously, as if his heart were saying something different – that it knew the song, and was stirred. ‘Unless . . .’ His eyes, fixed on the balcony, flashed wide in amazement. ‘Ah!’

Aoife spun to look – ‘What is it?’ – and a moment later saw what had so astonished him: two slim white clusters of fingers grasping the base of the stone columns of the parapet. Then a pale figure came swarming hand over hand up the outside of the balustrade; a beautiful face with turquoise eyes rising into view over the railing, like a mermaid peering over the side of a drifting boat.

Shay took a step forward, saying, ‘Who is she?
Who is she?
’ Again Aoife put her hand on his arm, and again he shook her off – not as if he were annoyed with her but as if she were utterly unimportant to him. He added, in a kind of desperate agony, ‘She’s so
beautiful
!’

The girl clinging to the balcony glanced down behind her, then threw her leg over the railing. As she climbed in, another pair of hands grasped the balustrade. Two pairs . . . three . . . five or six slender girls in dresses of rich ivory lace, climbing quickly over the railing out of the night, as agile as squirrels.

‘Ah God . . .’ Shay was staring from one to the other, intensely, but ever his eyes returned to the first one he had seen. ‘She’s like a picture come to life . . .’

The lenanshees gathered in the curtained archway, peering with great interest into the candlelit room. Their gorgeous dresses clung to their bodies, falling a little below the knee. Then the first of them sauntered further in, with a sway of the hips and toss of her long black curls. The others followed, looking around, all with the same intense turquoise eyes; they seemed fascinated by their surroundings, running their fingers down the blue silk drapes; touching the crystal walls, licking their fingers to taste crumbs of sugar from the table. One paused by Ultan to run her hand over his round cheek – he flushed a dark, rusty red, and she laughed and prodded his plump flesh with her forefinger, as if to mock him for even thinking of her. A second took hold of Caitlin’s heavy jaw and studied her plain face and missing tooth with a shudder. Another tugged lightly at Aoife’s tangled hair and glanced at her torn, muddy clothes with amused disgust. But the first of them went up to Shay and took his arm.

When Aoife had done the same thing only moments before, he had twice pulled away. This time he did not, but stared down into the lenanshee’s pale, heart-shaped face as if transfixed by the very look of her. He said in a low, trembling voice, ‘Do you know me?’

‘Come with me, Shay Foley,’ the lenanshee murmured, and touched her finger briefly to his curved mouth.

‘How do you know me?’

‘Not here. Come with me and I will tell you everything.’

He said on a deep breath: ‘Ah . . . I must be dreaming.’

Aoife’s heart filled with fear. She said, ‘Shay . . .’

But he didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, he spoke to the lenanshee, his tone a terrible haunting fusion of sadness and longing: ‘As soon as I saw your face . . .’

‘Yes . . .’ breathed the lenanshee.

‘I think every night of my life I have dreamed of you.’

Aoife’s heart sickened and turned cold.

The others were crowding around Shay now, taking hold of his torn shirt, his brown strong hands. His hazel eyes met Aoife’s over the girl’s head, anxious but happy. ‘I have to go with her. Will you be all right?’ As if he were pleading with her to release him from some promise that she had never asked him to make.

With every nerve in her body she wanted to cling to him; to drag him from the lenanshee’s clutches. She kept her hands by her sides and, trying hard not to cry and aware that she sounded utterly childish, said, ‘Just do whatever you want.’

‘I have to talk with her, Aoife. There’s a reason—’

‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘I’ll come back, I promise. I’ll just be a short while . . . Don’t go anywhere till I get back. A few minutes. Ten minutes – half an hour at the most.’

They were urging him now towards the narrow crystal staircase that spiralled down into the stables. The first of them had her arm around his waist. He moved with them, unresisting, his eyes again on the girl’s face.

His father’s love for a lenanshee had killed him. ‘
Shay, no, wait!
’ But Dorocha’s hand caught Aoife’s arm, holding her back.

He said in her ear: ‘Let him go. He has chosen her. He has human blood, but he is also a lenanshee. He will be as safe as anyone can ever be who has fallen in love. This is not your fight.’

Shay called over his shoulder as he moved on towards the archway, ‘Wait for me, Aoife.’

‘Please be careful . . .’

‘Wait for me.’

And he was gone with them down the twisting stairs.

After a long moment Caitlin said, ‘Ultan, shut your mouth.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

She had curled up on the bench to wait, and she must have fallen asleep, because the night had passed – the faint breath of dawn drifted in from the balcony, and the crystal walls pulsed with a pale pink light. Ultan had crashed out senseless on the floor, the front of his shell suit sparkly with crumbs of sugar. Caitlin was slumped with her head sideways on the table, using her kitbag for a pillow. Eva sprawled across Ultan’s chest, also asleep. And Shay . . .

There was no Shay. He had not come back. After all his determination to go home – for both of them to go home – he had chosen to spend the whole night in paradise. Even though a day here meant three months had slipped by above. Summer, gone. The turf for his brother’s farm brought in already, without his help.

Out on the balcony was Dorocha, a tall dark figure against the pinkish dawn, gazing down over the city like a soldier on watch. Aoife joined him, shivering, folding her arms on the stone balustrade. ‘Have you been standing here all night?’

He shot her a smile. ‘I told you, I never sleep.’

‘You must do some time.’ The morning air was soft on her face, and there was a strong sweet scent of spring flowers. On every side, the yew forests crept to the summits of the circling cliffs. Eagles circled far above, golden wings blazing in the sun which had not yet risen over the side of the valley. Small birds sang from every stone carving; the minaret, like all the city walls, was decorated in vines and gargoyle faces – Aoife could see now how easy it must have been for the nimble, light-footed lenanshees to climb up to the balcony. She leaned out further over the stone rail. Far below, at the foot of the city, the lights still burned a strong ruddy colour – fires in changeling homes and courtyards. But under the minaret were tiers of dwellings where the light pouring from the windows and doors was a soft bluish colour. Over the dawn chorus of the birds she could hear the distant cool clear notes of a single flute.

Stepping closer to her, Dorocha said, ‘The lenanshee quarter is a shrine to the beautiful. See the colour of the light? They burn oil of bluebell. Beautiful.’

The stone of the parapet chilled Aoife’s arms through her hoodie. ‘Very.’

‘And the lenanshees themselves – also very beautiful, don’t you think?’

‘Very.’

‘Their eyes, their hair . . . No wonder men adore them. Are you cold?’

She pressed herself against the railing, to stop herself shivering. ‘No.’

‘Maybe it’s because the floor is wet?’

‘Oh . . . I see what you mean . . .’ Lost in her misery, Aoife hadn’t noticed that she was standing in a shallow skim of water that was running across the tiles of balcony and out through the balustrade – she glanced up to see where it was coming from. Everywhere down the pale pink walls of the minaret, golden droplets fell. Three floors above, the peak of the minaret was a circle of white blossoming hawthorns, spread out above them like lace parasols; dew fell from the branches, and trickled down from between the roots. For some reason, the sight of the hawthorns seeming to weep brought tears to Aoife’s own eyes. She scrubbed the dampness away with the back of her hand.

With a look of surprised concern, Dorocha said, ‘Are you sad again?’

‘I’m fine . . .’

‘Is it because you wanted that boy to stay here with you?’

‘No! No, of course not. It’s not like that. We’re just friends, that’s all.’

‘The love of a lenanshee is a very dangerous thing.’

‘That’s why I’m so worried about him.’

‘I didn’t mean dangerous for your friend. He is a lenanshee, despite his human blood. He will enjoy their company.’

‘Oh . . . That’s good, then.’

‘Yet you’re still sad?’

Tears rising again, she burst out: ‘I can’t help it. I miss everyone so much.’ And it was true, so true. She had never felt more lonely, more deserted, now that Shay had abandoned her and no longer cared about going home. She needed Carla, desperately. ‘I miss my friend. I could so do with talking to her right now.’

‘What is this girl’s name?’

‘Carla. Carla Heffernan. She’s been my best friend for ever.’ And suddenly the tears spilled out and ran down her face. ‘Oh God – sorry, this is stupid . . . But Carla’s just like a sister to me. I so want to see her. I
need
to see her. Can I go home now?’

Dorocha said coolly, ‘No.’

Aoife sobbed. She had known it would be his answer. ‘But
why
?’

‘Every changeling must break their human ties.’

‘I can’t just stop loving the people who I’ve known all my life—’

‘Aoife? There’s someone here you might want to see.’ A sleepy-looking Ultan was beckoning to her through the archway.

‘Oh, thank God.’

But it wasn’t Shay.

It was a woman with long black hair, who was sitting at the table with Eva perched rather awkwardly on her lap. As soon as Aoife entered, the little girl slipped down and ran to meet her, throwing her arms around her knees.

The woman rose gracefully to her feet; her tall body was enfolded in a scarlet cloak which fluttered in the warm breeze from the balcony. She was tall – much taller than the lenanshees; just as beautiful, although in a different, ageless fashion: skin white as milk, and eyes so black they were like the space between the stars. An early memory stirred in the centre of Aoife’s mind – the sound of lambs in a field; a garden path. Being afraid, and lonely, and not wanting to be abandoned. Another girl’s mother, asleep in the chair by the fire wearing a new green cardigan. Another girl, her own age, lying in the bed, in a clean pink dressing gown. A child in the grip of her own mortality. The banshee had taken out a bronze knife. Fay blood would cure the human child of death.

The banshee held out her arms, and Aoife flinched back, clenching her hand, remembering the exquisite pain of the knife slicing across her palm. But it was Eva who the woman was gazing at, with ravenous love in her black eyes. In a low, intense voice, the woman said, ‘Come here to me, little girl.’

Eva clung harder to Aoife’s legs and whimpered.

Aoife said firmly, ‘She’s with me.’

‘The child is mine.’

‘Not any more. She’s my sheóg – I found her, and I’ll do what I want with her.’

The woman turned her beautiful face very slowly to Dorocha. ‘Who is this?’

Dorocha shrugged, and threw himself down in his high-backed chair. ‘A changeling newly returned.’

‘Did you call me here to be insulted by her?’

‘No, it was because I have an errand for you.’

The banshee said in a deep, cold voice: ‘I do not run
errands.
’

‘Then think of it as a deal.’ The man nodded at Caitlin’s leather kitbag, from which the changeling girl had just raised her head, with a sleepy but startled look. ‘There is a book in that thing which Morfesa will pay you for.’

Again, the banshee slowly turned her head, this time to study the bag. ‘The book that was stolen?’

‘Not stolen – borrowed. That girl has returned it.’ Dorocha jerked his chin at Caitlin, who hunched low on her stool in a failed attempt to look small and inconspicuous.

‘Why does she not bring it to Morfesa herself?’

‘She is afraid of the druid.’

‘
Hey! I just don’t like—
’

‘She is afraid he will make a sacrifice of her.’

Caitlin made a slightly strangled noise in her throat, but said no more.

‘Very well. I will take this.’ The banshee snatched up the kitbag from the table in one hand, then walked straight across to Aoife and seized Eva by her arm. ‘You come with me, sheóg.’