The Seven Songs (29 page)

Turning endlessly on itself, the spiral stairway led me downward. It struck me that there might be no difference between day and night in this world. Without the sunrise or sunset, or the moon sailing overhead, it would be difficult to tell time. There might not even
be
any time, or what I would call time. I vaguely remembered Elen saying something about two kinds of time: historical time, which runs in a line, where mortal beings march out their lives, and sacred time, which flows in a circle. Could the Otherworld be a place of sacred time? And if so, did that mean that time there turned in on itself, turning in circles like this spiraling stairway?

I stopped, tapping my boot on one of the steps. If there was a different kind of time in this world, I could return to the surface—if I ever did return—too late to save Elen! I might easily spend my two remaining days, and months besides, without even knowing it. I arched my back, lifting Rhia higher on my arms. Her weight, like the weight of my quest, felt heavier than ever.

All I could do was try to find Dagda as soon as possible. Let nothing delay me or throw me off course. I started again down the stairs.

As I followed the Well deeper, something about the mist began to change. Instead of hovering close to the stairs, as it had near the entrance, the mist pulled farther away, opening into pockets of ever changing shapes. Before long the pockets expanded into chambers, and the chambers widened into hollows. With each step downward the misty vistas broadened, until I found myself in the middle of an immensely varied, constantly shifting landscape.

A landscape of mist.

In wispy traces and billowing hills, wide expanses and sharp pinnacles, the mist swirled about me. At some points I encountered canyons, cutting into the cloudlike terrain, running farther and deeper than I could guess. At other points I glimpsed mountains, towering in the distance, moving higher or lower or both ways at once. I found misty valleys, slopes, cliffs, and caverns. Scattered throughout, though I couldn’t be sure, moved shapes, or half shapes, crawling or striding or floating. And through it all, the mist curled and billowed, always changing, always the same.

In time I discovered that the stairs themselves had changed. No longer stiff and solid like stone, they rippled and flowed with everything around me. Although they remained firm enough to stand on, they were made from the same elusive fiber as the landscape.

An uneasy feeling swelled in me. That what surrounded me was not really mist at all. That it was not even something physical, made from air or water, but something . . . else. Made from light, or ideas, or feelings. This mist revealed more than it obscured. It would take many lifetimes to comprehend even a little of its true nature.

So this was what the Otherworld was like! Layers upon layers of shifting, wandering worlds. I could plunge endlessly deeper on the stairs, move endlessly outward among the billows, or travel endlessly inward in the mist itself. Timeless. Limitless. Endless.

Then, out of the flowing landscape, a shape appeared.

32:
A
G
OLDEN
B
OUGH

Small and gray, the shape rose aloft from a burgeoning hill. As I watched, it spread two misty wings. It sailed toward me, floating on a current, then suddenly changed direction, climbing so steeply that I almost lost sight of it. Abruptly, it veered and plunged straight downward, until it spun into a series of loops and turns that seemed to have no other purpose than the sheer joy of flight.

Trouble!

My heart leaped to watch the hawk fly again. Although my arms were wrapped around Rhia, I could still feel the leather satchel against my hip. Within it, along with my mother’s herbs, rested a banded brown feather from one of Trouble’s wings. Nothing more had remained of him after his battle with Rhita Gawr. Nothing, that is, save his spirit.

Out of the billowing mists he came soaring to me. I heard his screech, as full of spunk and vigor as ever. I watched his final flying swoop as he approached. Then, with a rush of warm air, I felt his talons grab hold of my left shoulder. He folded his wings upon his back, prancing up and down my shoulder. Though his misty feathers had changed from brown to silver gray, streaked with white, a touch of yellow still rimmed his eyes. He cocked his head toward me and gave a satisfied chirp.

“Yes, Trouble! I’m happy to see you, too.” Then my moment of gladness vanished as I hefted the limp, bloodstained body in my arms. “If only Rhia could, as well.”

The hawk fluttered down to the leaf-draped girl’s knee. He studied her for a moment, then piped a low, somber whistle. With a shake of his head, he leaped back up to my shoulder.

“I carry her spirit within me, Trouble. I’m hoping that Dagda might still be able to save her.” I swallowed. “And also my mother.”

Suddenly, Trouble gave a loud shriek. His talons squeezed my shoulder, even as the mist before me billowed strangely.

“Ahhh,” said a slow, almost lazy voice from somewhere in the mist. “How nice, how terribly nice, of you to come.”

Trouble whistled anxiously.

“Who are you?” I called into the clouds. “Show yourself.”

“I intend to do just that, young man, in a moment’s time.” The mist before me swirled like soup in a gently stirred bowl. “And I also have a gift for you, a terribly precious gift. Ahhh, yes.”

Something about the voice’s slow, relaxed tones made me feel a bit more at ease. Yet a vague sensation, from someplace within me, made me feel more cautious than ever. Better, I decided, to err on the side of caution.

I adjusted Rhia’s weight in my arms. “I haven’t time for manners right now. If you have something to give me, then show yourself.”

“Ahhh, young man. So impatient, so terribly impatient.” The mist churned. “But you needn’t worry. I shall heed your request, in just a moment’s time. You see, I’d like to be your friend.”

At that, Trouble gave a shrill whistle. With a powerful flap of his wings, he lifted off from his perch. He whistled again, circled me once, and flew off, disappearing in a cloud of mist.

“You have no need to fear me,” murmured the voice. “Even though your hawk friend certainly seems to.”

“Trouble doesn’t fear anything.”

“Ahhh, then I must be mistaken. Why do you think he flew away?”

I swallowed, peering into the flowing mist. “I don’t know. He must have had a good reason.” I turned back to the spot from which the voice seemed to come. “If you’d like to be my friend, then show me who you are. Quickly. I need to keep going.”

The mist bubbled slowly. “Ahhh, so you have an important meeting, have you?”

“Very.”

“Well then, that is what you must do. Ahhh, yes.” The voice sounded so relaxed as to be sleepy. “I’m sure you know how to get wherever you’re going.”

Instead of answering, I searched the billowing mist for Trouble. Where had he gone? We had only just met again! And I’d hoped that he might be able to lead me to Dagda.

“Because if you don’t,” continued the soothing voice, “my gift may be useful to you. Terribly useful. Ahhh, I offer you the gift of serving as your guide.”

That feeling of caution, from whatever source, rose in me again. Yet . . . perhaps this person, when he finally revealed himself, could really show me the way through the swirling clouds. It could save precious time.

I shifted my weight on the misty step. “Before I can accept your offer, I need to know who you are.”

“In a moment’s time, young man. In a moment’s time.” The voice yawned, then spoke as gently as the wisps of mist that brushed against my cheek. “Young people are in such a hurry, such a great hurry.”

Despite my doubts, something about the voice made me feel increasingly relaxed. Almost . . . comfortable. Or maybe I was just feeling tired. My back ached. I wished I could set Rhia down somewhere. Just for a moment.

“Ahhh, you bear a heavy burden, young man.” Another agonizingly slow yawn. “Would you allow me to lighten your load just a little?”

Against my will, I too yawned. “I’m fine, thank you. But if you’d like to guide me to Dagda, I will let you.” I caught myself. “First, though, show me who you are.”

“To Dagda, is it? Ahhh, the great and glorious Dagda. Warrior of warriors. He lives far, terribly far, from here. Still, I would be pleased to guide you.”

I straightened my stiff back. “Can we go now? I’m running out of time.”

“Ahhh, in a moment’s time.” Curling arms of mist swayed before my face. “It’s a pity, though, you can’t take a little rest. You look as if you could use one.”

Still holding Rhia, I crouched down, resting her on my thighs. “I wish I could. But I must get going.”

“Whatever you say. Ahhh, yes.” The voice gave the longest, sleepiest yawn yet. “We shall leave directly. In a moment’s time.”

I shook my head, which felt strangely clouded. “Good. Now . . . you were going to do something first. What was it? Oh, yes. Show yourself. Before I follow you.”

“Why, of course, young man. I am almost ready.” The voice heaved a slow, relaxed sigh. “It will be pleasing, terribly pleasing, to help you.”

The feeling of caution nudged me again, but I ignored it. I moved the arm that had supported Rhia’s thighs, resting my hand on a damp step. I wondered how it might feel to sit down, if only briefly. Surely a little rest couldn’t hurt.

“That’s right, young man,” purred the voice in its most soothing tone. “Just let yourself relax.”

Relax,
I thought dreamily.
Just let myself relax.

“Ahhh, yes.” The voice sighed sleepily. “You are a wise young man. So much wiser than your father.”

I nodded, feeling half dazed.
My father. Wiser than
. . .

The feeling of caution surged through me. How did he know my father?

I yawned again. Why worry about my father now? He wasn’t anywhere near the Otherworld. My head felt foggy, as if the mist surrounding me had somehow flowed into my ears. What was I in such a hurry about, anyway? A little rest would help me remember. Crouching on the stairs, I lowered my head against my chest.

Once again, so weakly that I could barely detect it, the feeling of caution pricked me.
Wake up, Merlin! He’s not your friend. Wake up.
I tried to ignore it, but couldn’t quite do so.
Trust in your instincts, Merlin.

I stirred, raising my head slightly. There was something familiar about that feeling, that voice inside me. As if I had heard it somewhere before.

Trust in your instincts. Merlin. Trust in the berries.

With a sudden jolt, I awoke. It was Rhia’s voice! Rhia’s wisdom! Her spirit was sensing what I was not. I shook the fog from my head. Taking my hand from the step, I wrapped it tightly around Rhia’s legs. With a grunt, I slowly stood up again.

“Ahhh, young man.” An edge of concern had crept into the sleepy voice. “I thought you might rest a little while.”

Clutching Rhia firmly in my arms, the leaves drying but still soft against my hands, I drew a deep breath. “I am not going to rest. I am not going to let you lull me into enchanted sleep. For I know who you are.”

“Ahhh, you do?”

“Yes I do, Rhita Gawr!”

The mist started to froth like a boiling pot. It bubbled and whirled before me. Out of the swirling vapors stepped a man, as tall and broad as Balor, wearing a flowing white tunic and a thin necklace of gleaming red stones. His hair, as black as my own, lay perfectly combed on his head. Even his eyebrows looked exquisitely groomed. It was his eyes, though, that caught my attention. They seemed utterly hollow, as vacant as the void. As much as the memory of Balor’s deadly eye made me shudder, these eyes frightened me more.

Rhita Gawr lifted one hand to his lips and licked the tips of his fingers. “I could have taken any number of forms.” His voice, harsh and snapping, held none of the lazy tones I had heard before. “The wild boar is one of my favorites, complete with the scarred foreleg. We all carry scars, you know.”

He stroked one eyebrow with his wet fingers. “But you have seen the wild boar before, haven’t you? Once on the shore of that rock pile you call Gwynedd. And once again, in a dream.”

“How . . . “ Perspiration formed on my brow as I recalled the dream, and the feeling of daggerlike tusks growing into my very eyes. “How do you know about that?”

“Oh, come now. Surely a would-be sorcerer has learned at least a little about Leaping.” He licked his fingertips, as his lips curled in a smirk. “Sending dreams to people is one of my few amusements, a brief distraction from my many labors.” The smirk expanded. “Though there is something I enjoy even more. Sending the death shadow.”

I tensed, squeezing Rhia’s lifeless form. “What gave you the right to strike down my mother?”

Rhita Gawr’s vacant eyes fixed on me. “What gave you the right to bring her to Fincayra?”

“I didn’t mean . . . “

“A little touch of hubris.” He ran his hand over his scalp, patting the hairs into place. “That was your father’s fatal flaw, and your grandfather’s as well. Did you really expect to be any different?”

I straightened up. “I am different.”

“Hubris again! I thought you would have learned by now.” The white tunic fluttered as he took a step toward me. “Hubris will bring your death, that is certain. It has already brought your mother’s.”

I reeled, staggering on the misty step. “That’s why you delayed me all this time!”

“But of course.” He licked his fingertips with care, one at a time. “And now that you know you have failed to prevent her death—the death that you yourself brought on—I shall relieve you of any further misery. I shall kill you, here and now.”

I backed up one step, trying not to stumble.

Rhita Gawr laughed, while he stroked his other eyebrow. “Your hero, Dagda, isn’t here to save you this time, as he did on Gwynedd. Nor is that fool bird, whose rashness prevented me from finishing you off at the Shrouded Castle. This time, I have you.”

He took another step through the mist toward me. His enormous hands flexed, as if they were preparing to crush my skull. “Just so you know the extent of your folly, your hubris, let me explain something to you. If only you hadn’t tried to avoid your lessons, you might know that if only you had worn a mantle of mistletoe, that cursed golden bough, you could have traveled straight to Dagda’s lair. I could not have waylaid you as I have.”