Under the Green Hill (23 page)

Rowan's life depends on it, eh?
Of course Finn took this metaphorically. And Bran? How did he fit in? Well, anything he could do to hurt Bran was all to the good. He hadn't been in the dining hall that morning.

“I don't think I know anything about
those
eggs,” he said.

“I'll do anything!” Meg said desperately. “I'll give you anything—anything at all! I need to find those eggs!”

Finn was exactly where he liked to be—in a position of power. Now, what could he get in exchange for some rotten old eggs? The Morgans didn't have any possessions he coveted, nor could he at the moment think of any suitably humiliating task for Meg to perform. Then something marvelous occurred to him. He'd found a hundred times more fairies than all the Morgans put together, for, as far as he knew, they'd never seen any after that first night. But they'd bested him in one way—they'd viewed the Green Hill. That was what he longed for—no man can get the barest glimpse of the Seelie queen and not burn for another sight of her. The weeks of searching, though they might have brought him geographically near the Green Hill, had afforded Finn no view of it. But the Morgans must know where it is.

“Take me to the Green Hill,” Finn said.

Meg was momentarily shocked out of her worry about the eggs. “What do you know about the Green Hill?” she asked him.

He chuckled. “Oh, plenty. I know plenty about all the fairies. I've seen hundreds of 'em!” Gloatingly, he told her about the seeing ointment and all it had revealed. “And you thought you could keep it all from me. Ha! No one keeps a secret from Finn Fachan—not for long. And maybe, just maybe, I'll let you use some of the ointment. But I won't tell you how to make it. That's my secret.”

If he was expecting her amazement to last, Finn was doomed to disappointment. Once she was over the initial surprise that he knew anything about the fairies, she was not particularly impressed. After all, she had, in the past night, seen far more fairies than she cared to, and would be just as happy never to see another as long as she lived. Finn felt momentarily crushed. Though he'd never admit it, the primary goal of his existence had become impressing the Morgans.

“If you ever want to see those eggs again, you better take me to the Green Hill.”

Meg, though she was desperate, equivocated. “I don't think that's a good idea, Finn. The fairies don't like spies. They might do something nasty to you if you see the hill without their permission.”

“None of the other fairies cared. They didn't even know I could see them. Come on, do you want the eggs or not? If you don't take me I'll break 'em.”

Meg looked panic-stricken, and Finn knew he'd won. “I'll take you,” she said slowly. “But don't blame me if something happens.” The maternal instinct that arises in some girls years before they ever become mothers told her not to take him to the Green Hill. But those instincts were more strongly telling her to protect Rowan and save Bran, and she decided that if Finn wanted to play the fool he must chance the consequences.

“All right, then, where are the eggs?” Meg said. Finn laughed at her.

“Oh no, Meggie—not as easy as that. D'you think I'm stupid?” She didn't deny it.

“You take me to the Green Hill first, and when we get there, I'll tell you where the eggs are.”

“You really will? You promise?”

He shrugged. “You'll find out when we get to the Green Hill.” Somehow, this reassured her. She would have been uneasy if he'd tried to swear his honesty. When people insist too vigorously that they'll be honorable, it generally means they're plotting treachery.

“Just tell me—are the eggs safe?”

“Safe and sound. Why are they so important to you?”

She couldn't tell him the truth, and stammered a story that sounded plausible.

“Rowan stole them, and there'll be trouble if he doesn't give them back.” If not for the sore temptation of the Green Hill, Finn would have left Rowan to his troubles. But alas, he thought, some sacrifices have to be made for the greater reward.

They slipped out of the Rookery, and Meg led him through Gladysmere Woods to the Green Hill. It stood bare before his eyes, and didn't look very impressive. A wren darting low above the slope was the only sign of life. But in his pocket was a little jar of seeing ointment, and soon, he thought, the fairy court in all its finery would appear to him. He imagined himself being welcomed by fairy ladies, praised for his courage and ingenuity in finding their lair, rewarded with secrets and treasures….

“Where are the eggs?”

“In a mousehole in a little room on the fourth floor.”

“Which one?”

“Which mousehole?”

“Which room!”

“I don't know. It's a nasty, dusty little place. Oh, I remember—the pear tree is right below it. You know, the one that climbs against the wall—”

That was all Meg needed. She took off back to the Rookery at a run.

Twenty minutes later, Meg held the two eggs in her cupped palms—Rowan's speckled and Bran's blue. There in her hands lay the lives of two men.

As she rose from the dusty floor before the garret mousehole, she was seized by an unreasoning fear:
What if I drop them? What if some stupid accident crushes their life-eggs?
The stairs she'd run up so heedlessly were suddenly a deathtrap, a hundred edges and corners to trip her and send the eggs flying. Now that the eggs were in her hands, she was paralyzed with the fear of her own failings. She looked down at her feet, knowing they could stumble; she looked at her hands, rough and scratched, with broken nails, and thought they were not delicate enough, not sure enough, to carry such a precious cargo. What if some tragedy should befall them on the short journey to Phyllida? Was the world really so arbitrary? She feared it was.

“Get ahold of yourself, Meg!” she said aloud. She'd done the impossible—found the eggs. Now all that remained was to walk down the stairs and tell Phyllida. Her knees were shaking with the first steps, but her body had a bit more confidence than her mind and had no trouble walking slowly down three flights.

“We'll do Rowan first,” Phyllida said when Meg, sticking her tongue out for balance, found her beside Bran's body. “Life is more important to the living.” Silly, springing around the corner and seeing her sister's success, rushed to hug her, but Meg cringed away with a look of horror and a little scream. “The eggs!” she cried, just as Dickie pulled Silly back.

“Here, give them to me,” Phyllida said, and it was a relief for Meg to turn over the responsibility to those strong, certain hands. They climbed back up to Rowan's room.

Rowan lay as the old knights lay in their crypts, decked in the armor that had shielded them in life, each with his sword, his constant companion, folded in his arms in place of a lily. Rowan's face was very pale and his breathing shallow, but even in that limbo between life and death, he dreamed of his imagined victory, and a faint smile touched his lips. As they entered his room, Lemman appeared at his bedside and bent over him, touching his brow.

“He is strong,” she said. “There is no question he will live. But word has spread among my people that the eggs have been found, and they send a delegation to see that the custom is followed, that the old ways are heeded.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that they come to take Bran's life-egg from you, by force if necessary, and dash it to the ground, as should have been done at the first light of dawn. The Midsummer War calls for a death.” She frowned, fierce and lovely. “I cannot say what will come to pass in this world if there is no sacrifice. Blood has been spilled on the Green Hill, and that may be enough. As long as one has killed, and one has died, who can say if it matters that he is restored to life the next day? Perhaps that will cast a spell even greater than death would bring. If I knew my duty, I'd take that egg from you myself.”

Phyllida, holding both eggs, took a step back, and Meg placed herself between Phyllida and Lemman.

“Maybe I've lived as a human too long,” Lemman said. “I should not like to see Bran pass forever from this world. Take Bran's egg, Meg Morgan, before my people come to stop you. Restore his life before they can make the sacrifice complete. We will see to your brother.”

Trembling again, Meg took the little blue egg. “What do I do?”

“Simply break the egg above him. His life will know him, and seek him out.”

“But I thought breaking the egg would kill him.”

“Only if his life flies free apart from his body. It cannot live long out of its shell. It will search for him, but if he's not near, it will disintegrate. Now, go!” Lemman's eyes were unfocused, as though she was watching some distant scene. “They come closer. They will be here shortly. If you would save Bran, go. Let nothing they say stop you!”

Meg rushed away, pausing only for one last lingering look at her brother. What if it didn't work—what if the egg didn't restore Rowan to life? What if her interference in the Midsummer War, intended to save a life, only meant two were taken in the place of one?

Bran lay alone, with none standing vigil over his corpse. The dining hall's many curtains had been drawn tight, for a house of death closes its eyes, but a candelabrum was lit at his head, and one at his feet, casting a shifting, uncertain illumination over his body. The light gave some flush to his pallid flesh, and it almost seemed to Meg as if his chest rose and fell. When she touched him, however, his skin was deathly cold, with none of life's yielding quickness. His eyes were closed, and his lips parted slightly. His forehead, which had been clenched in a perpetual scowl, with indrawn brows, whatever other expression might have played on the rest of his face, was now smooth and unlined. He looked more content than he had ever seemed while alive, and as she held the precious egg above him, she had a moment of misgiving. Once before, he'd entered a state of happiness, one that seemed to the outside world like a prison, and had been ripped violently from it, unwilling. The loss had been so painful it seemed to him death would be better. Now he was peaceful, beyond earthly woe, and she proposed to fetch him back to a world that held little but suffering. He'd made his choice. Did she dare countermand him?

But it was only the hesitation of a moment, for Meg could not philosophize that deeply. The matter was simple. Two people had been, to all appearances, irrevocably changed—Bran in leaving this life, she in having taken that life (and, despite what you might think, the change to Meg was more severe). And here was the chance to remedy it. She had the power to resurrect Bran. There really wasn't any choice.

Before she could act, she heard a commotion outside. It was the sound of horns such as the Seelie Court blows, and the tramping of many feet. She heard cries of “Inside!” and “Get the egg!” and then the massive front doors groaned as they were forced open. “Quick, before it's too late!” a fairy voice called, which was Meg's thought exactly. She tapped the egg against Bran's belt buckle and broke it near his head.

There is the color of a raw egg yolk, and there is the color of a cooked egg yolk, and then, somewhere in between the two (when you have simmered the egg precisely four minutes), is the glorious orange-gold of the yolk that is gelled but not fully set. It is the most magnificent color known to man, grander than a sunset, richer than any precious metal, the color of light and life and happiness. From Bran's cracked blue egg came a little bird, sharp-winged and darting like a swallow, but as ephemeral as morning mist. Its entire body was that vivid yellow-orange, and it seemed to burn with an internal smolder. It sang one clear, sweet note, tucked its wings, and flew between Bran's parted lips. For a terrible moment, there was nothing; then Bran took a shuddering breath, and his lashes parted.

“Oh, Bran!” Meg cried, and threw herself over his chest, utterly unmindful of the deadly wound that pierced him. As she pressed herself against him in an ecstasy of relief, he gave a little groan and fell unconscious. He had been dealt a mortal wound the night before, and though his returned life force strengthened him, he was still in grave danger.

“Help me! Oh, help me, someone!” They couldn't hear her upstairs, but Lysander came running. Behind him came the Seelie prince.

“By the powers! He lives!” Lysander breathed as he drew nearer and saw the shallow rise and fall of Bran's broad chest.

“He is as the last flower before the frost,” the Seelie prince said solemnly.

“However the gardener may shield the blossom, he cannot stop the coming winter.”

“Stay away from him!” Meg hissed across Bran's body, baring her teeth like a little wildcat. “I won't let you kill him!”

“It is not for me to give him life or death, little one,” he said, not unkindly. “Nor is it for you. Do not try to cheat him of his fate. His path lies in the unknown lands. Let him go there.”

“He will live!” she insisted. But Bran's breath was already growing weaker, and the beat of his heart beneath her hands was faint. Despairingly, she looked to Lysander.

“There is only one chance,” Lysander said. “His ash must be split. If it lives, maybe Bran will live, too.” He felt Bran's pulse and held his knuckles to those cold lips to feel his breath. “He doesn't have much time. Perhaps it would be better just to let him…” But when he met Meg's liquid, imploring eyes, he said, “I'll get the ax. You bring the others down to the grove again.”

Meg cast a suspicious look at the Seelie prince. “I won't leave him alone with Bran. He wants him dead. I don't trust him.”

“We don't have time, child—go!” Lysander said.

Meg didn't move, and glared at the prince. “Swear that you won't hurt him,” she said.

“I swear by the Green Hill, and all that lies beneath it, that I will do Bran no harm.”