The Changeling (34 page)

Dorocha, his elbows on the altar and his chin in his hands, was watching the druid burn his leaves. Catching Aoife’s eye, he winked. She marched furiously to his side. ‘What are we waiting for? This is taking for ever. If you want to get married, it has to be
now.
’

‘Patience, my queen.’ He took her hand and pressed it. Even though he held it only gently, thin trickles of pain sparked up her nerves, and her knees threatened to give way, forcing her to lean against the altar for support. He raised her hand and pressed it to his chest. She closed her fingers into a fist. Beneath his shirt, where his heart should have been, she could feel with her knuckles the smooth outlines of the hole. Gazing at her, Dorocha murmured, ‘
My heart
 . . .’ and shoved her fist into the cavity. Instantly she was drained, sucked dry – every drop of her pouring into him. When Shay had even touched his lips to her finger, she had been filled with his energy – had flung herself from the cliff, certain she could fly. With Dorocha, it was as if all her power were pouring into the empty space behind his ribs. He slipped his other arm around her, keeping her on her feet, bringing his lips close to her ear. ‘We are one. This is how it will feel, for all eternity.’ He spun her slowly to face the crowd and raised his voice. ‘Morfesa, the queen is ready to be crowned.’

The old druid grumbled, glancing at them, ‘The ceremony is not complete.’

‘The queen is bored and tired by druid nonsense.’

‘The ancient text insists on a full—’

Dorocha released Aoife’s fist, reached behind her for the ancient leather book and hurled it straight into the middle of the changeling throng, sending Caitlin scrabbling for it among everyone’s legs. The old man screeched furiously: ‘That is a treasure of the Tuatha Dé Danann!’

‘Ah, those pretty magicians,’ said Dorocha softly, seizing Aoife’s hand again, pressing it back against his chest. ‘Dabblers and wanderers, no better than druids.’

‘
Heroes, every one of them!
’

‘What nonsense . . . You, the abandoned children of heroes!’ cried Dorocha suddenly, pulling Aoife with him to the edge of the dais. ‘Here is your new queen, to be crowned this minute by the great, the all-powerful druid Morfesa!’

The old man glared, but the female druid hurried forward with a small circlet of mistletoe and hawthorn and set it on Aoife’s hair. There was a loud ‘Hooray’ from Caitlin, who was on her feet again, with a suspicious bulge under her feathers; her cheer was echoed enthusiastically by Ultan and, rather more cynically, from the back of the crowd, by Seán Burke. The bedraggled cluster of changelings clapped and chattered to each other excitedly. Shay, pushing forward into the crowd, raised his hands over his head, also clapping – very slowly and deliberately, and holding Aoife’s eyes as he did so – not smiling at her, but expressionless. The young lenanshee followed him, still gazing up at him.

Dorocha pulled Aoife against him, and she tried to move away, but he tightened his arm around her waist. A dry sob forced its way up out of her chest. She hated being forced to lean against him, in the way the lenanshee was now again leaning lovingly against Shay. She tried at least to stand straight, but her bones were water. From the high gold roof, hawthorn had begun falling in a white mist, blurring the world like snow and sweetening the air, masking the stench of the dullahans. Dorocha was forcing her fingers apart. An intense heat scorched her – he was holding the fire-ring to her fingertip. She tried to find Shay, but she could no longer see him through the haze of pink and perfumed snow. ‘Marry me,’ Dorocha murmured, and pushed on the ring.

It would not slip over her finger.

He tried again, frowning, saying in a low voice, ‘Do not resist me, Aoibheal.’

‘I’m not resisting you.’ Her voice was shaking.

‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid.’

‘It will only burn for a moment, as it sinks into your flesh.’ Yet however hard he tried, he could not seem to force it over her finger. His grip on her was growing so intense, she feared the bones in her hand would break. The druids were drawing closer around them, a white-robed circle, arms folded, gazing with more curiosity than concern at the strange little struggle.

Pale and sweating, Dorocha glared at them. ‘What is this ridiculous spell, Morfesa?’

‘Push it on . . .’ But Aoife’s voice was an inaudible whisper. His grip had tightened beyond the endurable, and her vision was darkening. Her legs could no longer support her; she was a rag doll slumped against him.

The old man was saying rather smugly, ‘As I said, the ancient text insists on a full ceremony—’

‘Then perform it!’

‘If you hadn’t thrown away the book . . .’

She needed to scream at them all not to waste any more time, just to force on the ring, but her throat wouldn’t work and no words rose.

‘Aoife!’ Shay’s voice came loud over the sudden silence of the crowd.

Instantly Dorocha’s grip loosened; he patted the back of her crushed hand, and said in a much calmer tone: ‘Morfesa, that girl in the feathers has your book – the one heading for the door. Send one of the children after her.’

‘
Aoife!
’

‘And here comes another of my wife’s not-so-faithful retinue. Make sure to send your farmer boy away, Aoibheal, before I refer his name to the dullahans. It would be a shame to spoil our day.’

Again, Aoife tried and failed to speak. Her sight was still blurred by the receding pain, but she could hear the rustle of the parting of the crowd, and the whispers, and the sound of his bare feet striding over the stone. Running up the steps of the dais. His voice, close to her: ‘Aoife, are you all right?’ Even this near, his face seemed ghostly and unreal. She felt his hand on her arm. Hard strong fingers; his energy flowing into her veins. Giving her strength. He came suddenly into bright focus, as if a lens had been adjusted – his forest-green eyes with depths of golden brown, his strong flushed cheekbones, his rich black hair. Faded jeans, the torn red and green Mayo shirt. ‘Aoife, what’s the matter . . .?’

‘
Tell the lenanshee boy to leave us alone.
’

Aoife stepped out of Dorocha’s embrace, and stood by herself: shaky, but at least on her own feet. She said clearly, ‘Leave us alone.’

Shay’s head jerked back like she’d slapped him. ‘Aoife, I’m just here to ask what’s happening with you, and are you all right, and what’s this buck doing to you?’

‘Nothing. Go away.’

‘Is this really some sort of coronation? That’s so—’

She said coldly, ‘Shay, go away.’

‘Because that joker is telling you to make me go away? If you’re really the queen around here, you should be telling
him
what to do.’

Dorocha interrupted sharply, ‘Enough of this, lenanshee boy. I am marrying her. Now, leave us alone.’

‘
Marrying her?
’

Aoife took a step closer to him. ‘Shay, this is none of your business. Now, go—’

‘None of my business? Are you serious? You can’t go getting married!’

‘Why not?’ A spurt of warmth in her heart.

‘You’re only fifteen!’

Her heart cooled again, and at the same time, a stupid, irrelevant memory surfaced: him pulling up in the battered red Ford, and her saying, so shocked –
You’re only fifteen!
and him, faintly offended –
Nearly sixteen
. ‘If you can drive a car—’

‘For Christ’s sake, that’s hardly the same thing!’

Aoife lowered her voice. ‘Shay. Go away. I don’t have time to talk about this. Go back to your girl. That’s where you belong.’

‘Ah now, Aoife . . .’ A faint smile was rising in his green-gold eyes. ‘Ah, now, she’s not really my—’

‘
Go!
I don’t want you here!’

His eyes stopped smiling. He said, calm and cool, ‘Grand, so.’ And turned on his heel.

‘Now . . .’ said Dorocha, with a sigh. ‘Where is Miss McGreevey? Let us rescue the book, and we will perform the whole ceremony if it takes all night.’

‘Wait.’ It was the tall druid who had interrupted them – the woman who had crowned Aoife with the hawthorn. ‘There may be another matter. I wonder if the queen is desired by this lenanshee? I’ve heard no other love can overcome such desire. She would not be able to marry another until the lenanshee renounced her.’

‘Ah . . .’ Dorocha’s dark eyes lit up. ‘Of course. How simple. I forgot the
grá
.’

Aoife cried quickly, ‘No, that’s wrong – he has no
grá
for me. He’s told me that before. He has no
grá
for me
at all.
’ Shay had turned back at the top of the steps. Running over to him, pushing him roughly, she cried, ‘Go on, go away—’

Dorocha was at her side, his hand on her arm. ‘No, lenanshee, stay. Tell me, is this true?’

Aoife whipped her arm away before her energy could begin to drain. ‘No it’s not! He doesn’t love me!’

‘Let him say it himself. Is this true –
Shay Foley
?’ As he uttered Shay’s name, he raised his voice as if to project it out across the whole temple, so that ‘Shay Foley’ rang off the marble arches and gold panels and thin columns of rose quartz. All along the walls of the temple, the black-hooded dullahans took a single pace forward, sending a ripple of alarm through the changelings gathered under the altar.

‘Shay! Tell him you have no
grá
for me!’

He gazed at her despairingly. ‘Aoife—’

‘
Tell him!
’

Dorocha raised his arm, snapping his fingers. The dullahans raised their heads in their hands, and the lenanshees stopped their singing and stood poised, glancing around fearfully with turquoise eyes. The banshees were drifting towards the temple doors, pulling the flaps of their red cloaks over the human babies in their arms.

‘He doesn’t! He doesn’t feel anything for me! Give me the ring!’ Aoife seized it from Dorocha’s hand, and tried to force it onto her finger herself. It was like holding a hot coal. ‘Why won’t it . . .? Oh God, oh God . . .’ The pain was too great; she was weeping, deep gut-wrenching sobs of agony.

Shay was trying to take it from her. ‘Aoife, what are you doing . . .?’

She glared wildly at him, sweat and tears pouring from every inch of her. ‘Is it true? Do you have a stupid
grá
for me?’

‘Aoife, I’m so sorry . . .’

The dullahans were raising their heads in their hands; the rotted mouths were opening, orange light gushing out through decomposing eyes. A deep, still wordless roar was filling the temple. The lenanshees were gone, only for the girl who had arrived with Shay. The changelings themselves were hurrying away, amid sparks of fire and wisps of smoke. A few were flying, slowly, a couple of metres off the floor; a couple vanished as they ran. Caitlin was trying to get out of the door, but a white-robed little boy was hanging onto the back of her dress. Ultan was shouting at her: ‘
Just give it to him!
’

‘Oh God . . .’ The ring fell from Aoife’s hand and rolled away, a circlet of fire bouncing softly down the steps into the empty space where nobody was left – only the lenanshee girl standing there watching.

Dorocha screamed across the emptying temple, ‘
Shay Foley! Shay Foley!
’

And the black ranks of the dullahans took it up, marching in swinging lines towards them, the melting lips of their lanterns forming his name, a sonorous terrible shout arising: ‘Sha—’

She caught Shay’s face in her hands, covering his ears. ‘Don’t listen!’

He placed his own hands over hers, staring into her eyes.

The lenanshee in her white lace dress was still standing her ground, gazing at the altar. The black-hooded army was pushing past her. ‘
Shay . . . Foley . . .
’ The lenanshee grabbed the black sleeves of those nearest, and they paused mid-stride, before marching grimly on.

Aoife could hear Dorocha shouting at her as well – not in the deep, graveyard voices of the dullahans, but high and demented, screaming at her to let the boy go, dragging at her, cursing her for being like her mother, a lover of the weak – but he had no strength compared to hers. Standing pressed against Shay, she could drink the pure simple energy of him, feel the pulse in his veins, his heart thudding hard against her chest. And she knew, as she had known before, when she’d asked him to kiss her so that she could fly, that all his energy belonged to her.

‘
Shay . . . Foley . . .
’

She mouthed: ‘Kiss me.’

He hesitated. She laughed and dragged his mouth down to hers, and pressed her lips to his. And after the briefest moment of resistance, he sighed and softened and kissed her back.

She exploded into flight. The dullahans instantly lifted their heads towards her, rotten mouths snapping at her ankles; their hoods fell back and clouds of flies rose up – but she was gone through the high doors, Shay in her arms, skimming over the changelings fleeing down the street outside, Caitlin and Ultan staring, waving . . . Up, up, past layer on layer of city streets, green flowering gardens, cobbled alleyways, buildings of gold and lapis lazuli and bronze, rose quartz sparkling with the tears of the hawthorns that dripped, dripped, dripped down the city walls, then up past the lenanshee quarters – white archways from which blue light streamed, then circling the delicate crystal minaret, an upward spiral, all paradise spread out on every side, its marble mountains and abandoned pyramids, powder-blue waterfalls, silver rivers, flowering woodlands . . . The sun hot on her back, and Shay in her arms . . . Her eyes were on fire, heart pounded, skin sweated; she was possessed with a furious joy. Up, up, up, further into the rainbow sky . . . Eagles swung away from her, startled . . . Rainbows so close she could touch them . . . Solid light . . . She flipped over onto her back to glide beneath them, so that Shay was lying on top of her.

‘Hey!’ He tightened his arms around her.

‘Ow! Can’t breathe!’

‘Sorry.’ He relaxed his grip, though only slightly. He glanced over her shoulder towards the ground, and tightened his hold again, and clamped his legs around hers. ‘Aoife, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but we’re very high up.’