Turning to her companions, Ayradyss began to ask where they should go from here, but their appearance chased the query from her mind. Although she had seen all of Castle Donnerjack’s spectral inhabitants manifest in more or less solid forms, there was always something of the insubstantial about them. Even about the caoineag, who would seat herself in a parlor chair and visit with Ayradyss for all the world like a more usual caller, something of the ethereal always clung. Now, however, they could not be distinguished from ordinary folk.
The crusader ghost still wore his rags and ankle chain, but now Ayradyss could see that his skin was oily, his beard more patchy than she had realized. A thin white line crossed the bridge of his nose, but she did not believe it was his death wound. Seen more clearly, the blindfolded ghost’s long robe resolved into a priest’s cassock and the indistinct emblem at his waist a carved wooden cross.
The caoineag’s beauty became more human here—her lips gaining in fullness, her eyes in brightness, her hair darkening to wheaten gold. The loss of her silvery glimmer could have robbed her of some of her loveliness, but instead she flowered out—a white rose rather than a perfect, enfolded bud.
“You… you are all changed.”
“We exist in Verite as legends; this is a place where legends are alive.”
“‘Ware the stones,” said the blindfolded ghost, reaching up and untying the strip of cloth from around his eyes. “They move and crush those who walk among them. So I met my end.”
“But,” Ayradyss said, finding it strange to see dark brown eyes where she had grown accustomed to white fabric, “you are dressed as a Christian cleric. I realize that my understanding of these things may be imperfect, but these eldritch lands seem to be far older than Christianity. How did you find yourself here?”
“My father followed the custom of the times, and having more sons than he knew how to employ, he sent me—for I had shown some talent for reading and ciphering—into the clergy. I did well in my education and after being ordained arranged to be sent home again. There I could have done well but for my pride…”
“Och, pride again,” muttered the crusader.
“I lorded my collar and my education over my less formally educated brethren. In time, they grew tired of me and one full moon near the spring equinox they brought me to this place. There they wrapped my eyes and challenged me to use my great knowledge to find my way home again. Needless to say, I failed, and when the great stones lumbered down to the water to drink—as they do twice a year—I was crushed beneath them.”
Ayradyss looked at the monoliths with doubting respect. “What a horrid fate. And then you found yourself haunting the castle?”
“That is correct. Something still binds me here—though I believe I have been well-enough punished for my arrogance.”
“Och, pride…” The crusader’s words were softer this time, but the cleric heard and glared at him.
“I hear bagpipes; I wasn’t certain before, but they’re louder now,” Ayradyss said, more to stop the incipient quarrel than because she felt comment was needed. “But I can’t place where the sound is coming from. Every time I think I know, the location of the music shifts.”
“Shall we go down to the shore?” the cleric asked. “We know that piper is not out on the water. Pinpointing where he is on the land should be simpler from there.”
All agreed and they walked down to the shore, the crusader in front with a loop of his chain in his hand, the ladies between, and the cleric striding behind.
Now that he had removed his blindfold, Ayradyss realized that he was a handsome man—hawk-nosed and arrogant despite his collar. His gaze restlessly scanned the horizon and his right hand rested as if it expected to find a sword at his waist. No doubt he had resented being shuffled off into the clergy when his blood and early training was that of a warlike clansman. Reaching the shore, they had no better luck locating the piper.
“The skirl makes my heart sing,” the crusader cried, his blue eyes snapping and his bearing no longer stooped. ” ‘Tis a fine and martial noise.”
“But where is the piper?” Ayradyss said. “For his sound to carry so, he should be standing on some promontory, but all I see are empty rocks.”
“Let us go and take a wee gander,” the crusader suggested, “this lad and I. The banshee can keep you company and ‘tis far safer than your clambering on the rocks.”
“Can you climb with that ankle chain?” the cleric asked. “I don’t fancy the loftier reaches among the monoliths. No one ever called me a coward, but those rocks may have memories.”
“Dinna think it will be a problem,” the crusader said. “I’ll take the high road and you take the low…”
He looped his chain about his hand and trotted off into the rocks, his laughter mingling with the shrilling of the pipes. A few steps after, the cleric followed. Left behind, Ayradyss and the wailing woman continued their survey of the heights from the shore. The waves rolling up the beach teasingly licked at the soles of their shoes and tossed bits of foam before them.
“Is that a cottage down the way?” Ayradyss asked after a while. “I believe it is, only that clump of boulders blocked it from sight before.”
“Odd,” the caoineag responded. “It is indeed a cottage, but I do not recall one the last time I visited here.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Perhaps a hundred and fifty years.”
“Time enough for change.”
“True.”
“Shall we pay a call? Perhaps the piper lives there.”
“If you wish to do so. The portal to your world should remain open for the next several days.”
“I do hope to be home for dinner.”
“We will try to make certain you are. It is difficult to judge time for us.”
“My watch is still running—at least, as far as I can tell. If it’s right, dinner won’t be for hours yet.”
“Then let us pay a call, by all means. Let me advise you not to eat or drink while you are here. The old legends say that this can bind a mortal to the fairy realms.”
“I seem to recall something of that. I will heed your advice.”
Even before they were within hailing distance of the cottage, Ayradyss could see that it was a pleasant place. Rambling and somehow fat, it was thatched with bright yellow reeds. Its paint—white for the main, green for the shutters and trim—must have been freshly renewed, for it was unchipped despite the proximity of the ocean. Red geraniums spilled out of window boxes and daisies lined the oyster shell paths. A few chickens scratched in the sunlight. A lazy calico cat asleep on the roof opened one eye as they drew closer.
“Hello, the cottage!” Ayradyss called when they were on the fringes of where the beach gave way to unfenced yard. “Visitors!”
Almost immediately, the front door swung open and a startlingly beautiful young woman stepped out. She was no more than seventeen, with jungle-green eyes and shoulder-length blond hair. Her smooth pink complexion might never have felt a sea wind and her teeth when she smiled were perfect and dazzlingly white. Although overall she was well made, she was also clearly pregnant, perhaps a bit further along than Ayradyss.
“Hi!” she said, her accent American. “I’m Lydia. What brings you to this isolated place?”
Ayradyss was at a loss for words. She had entertained many possibilities of what they might find, but this creature drawn from an American fantasy (despite the incongruous pregnancy) had not even come close. Her mouth opened, but no sound came forth. The caoineag recovered more quickly.