“The how is pretty apparent,” Rhys said. “The why is a mystery.”
I looked away from what hung in the tree, out into the twilight of the gardens. I wasn’t looking away from Aisling, but rather looking for the others. I tried to ignore the tightness of my throat, the speeding of my pulse. I tried not to finish the thought that had made me turn and search the dimness. Were there other men dead, or dying, in the dimness? Who else was pierced through by some magical tree?
There was nothing to see but the dead branches stretching naked toward the clouds — none of the other trees held a gruesome trophy. The tightness in my chest eased when I was sure that all the trees were empty except this one.
I barely knew Aisling. He had never been my lover, and had only been one of my guards for a day. I was sorry for the loss of him, but there were others among my guards that I cared about more, and they were still missing. I was happy they weren’t decorating the trees, but that left me wondering what else might have become of them. Where were they?
Doyle spoke so close to me that I jumped. “I do not see any of the others in the trees.”
I shook my head. “No, no.” I looked for Frost. He stood close, but not close enough to hold me. I wanted to be comforted by one of them, but it was a child’s wish. A child’s wish for lies in the dark, that the monster isn’t under the bed. I had grown up in a world where the monsters were very real.
“You were holding Galen, and Nicca was with you,” I said. “What happened to them?”
Frost brushed his sodden hair from his face, the silver looking as grey as Mistral’s in the dim light. “Galen was swallowed up by the ground.” His eyes showed pain. “I could not hold on to him. It was as if some great force wrenched him away.”
I was suddenly cold, and the warm rain wasn’t enough to keep it at bay. I said, “When Amatheon did the same thing in my vision, he went willingly. He just sank into the mud. There was no wrenching force.”
“I can only report what happened, Princess.” His voice had gone sullen. If he thought I’d criticized him, then so be it; I didn’t have time to hold his hand.
“That was vision,” Mistral said. “Sometimes on this side of the veil, it’s not so gentle.”
“What’s not so gentle?” I asked.
“Being consumed by your power,” he said.
I shook my head, wiping impatiently at the rain on my face. I was beginning to be irritated. The miracle of it raining in the dead gardens wasn’t enough to calm the cold fear. “I wish this rain would let up,” I said without thinking. Angry and afraid, and the rain was something I could be angry at without hurting its feelings.
The rain slackened. It went from a downpour to a light drizzle. My pulse was in my throat again, but not for the same reason. It was a miracle that there was rain here, and I hadn’t meant to make it go away.
Doyle touched my mouth with a callused fingertip. “Hush, Meredith — do not destroy the blessing of this rain.”
I nodded to let him know I understood. He took his finger away, slowly. “I forgot that the sithen listens to everything I say.” I swallowed hard enough that it hurt. “I don’t want the rain to stop.”
We stood there, everyone tense, waiting. Yes, Aisling was dead, and many more missing, but the dead gardens had been the heart of our faerie mound once, and were more important than any one life. They had been the heart of our power. When this place had died, our power had begun to die.
I saw with relief that the warm spring drizzle kept falling. Slowly, we all let out a breath. “Be careful what you say, Princess,” Mistral whispered.
I just nodded.
“Nicca stood up, staring at his hands,” Frost said, as if I’d asked. “He reached out to me, but before I could touch him he vanished.”
“Vanished how?” Abe asked.
“Just vanished, as if he became air.”
“He was taken by his sphere of influence,” Mistral said.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Air, earth.”
I shook my hands at him, as if waving away smoke between us. “I don’t understand.”
“Hawthorne was engulfed by the trunk of that tree over there,” Rhys said. He pointed to a large greyish-barked tree. “He didn’t fight it. He went smiling. I’d bet almost anything that if we could identity it, it would be a hawthorn tree.”
“Galen and Nicca did not go smiling,” Frost said.
“They have never been worshipped as deities,” Doyle said, “so they do not know to relax into the power. If you fight it, it will fight back. If you let it take you, then it is more gentle.”
“I know that once upon a time, some of the sidhe could travel through ground, trees, the air. But forgive me, guys, that was a thousand years before I was born. A thousand years before Galen was born. Nicca is older, but he was always too weak to be a god.”
“That may have changed,” Abe said.
“Just as Abe’s power returned,” Doyle said.
Abe nodded. “Once, so long ago that I don’t want to remember, I didn’t just make queens. I made goddesses.”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
He brought the horn cup in front of him. “The Greeks believed in it, too, Princess. That the drink of the gods could make you immortal; could make you a god.”
“But they didn’t drink from it.”
“The drinking is — ” He seemed to search for a word. “ — more metaphorical, at times. It was my power, and Medb’s, that gave the gods and goddesses of our pantheon their marks of power. The colored lines, Princess, they paint the skin.”
Rhys looked down at his arm, where there had been that one faint fish. Now there were two, one swimming down, another swimming upward. It formed a circle, like a fish version of yin and yang. The blue lines weren’t faint now — they were bright, clear blue, deeper than a summer sky. Rhys’s curls had been plastered flat by the rain, so the face he turned to us seemed startled and unfinished.
“You bear both marks now,” Doyle said. With his hair in a tight braid, he looked as he always looked. He stood in the middle of all the disarray like some dark rock I might cling to.
Rhys looked up at him. “It can’t be that easy.”
“Try,” he said.
“Try what?” I asked.
The men were all exchanging some knowledge from look to look. I didn’t understand.
“Rhys was a deity of death,” Frost said.
“I know that; he was Cromm Cruach.”
“Don’t you remember the story he told you?” Doyle asked.
In that moment I couldn’t remember. All I could think was that Galen and Nicca might be dead, or hurting, and it was somehow my fault.
“Once I brought more than just death, Merry,” Rhys said, still gazing down at his arm with its new mark.
My mind started working finally. “Celtic death deities are also healing deities, according to legend,” I said.
“According to legend,” Rhys said. He gazed up at Aisling.
“Try,” Doyle said to Rhys, again.
I looked at Rhys. “Are you saying you can bring him back from the dead?”
“The last time I had both symbols on my arm, I could.” He looked at me, and there was such pain on his face. I remembered what he had told me now. Once his followers had worshipped him by cutting and hurting themselves, sacrificing their blood and pain, but he had been able to heal them. Then he lost the ability to heal, and his followers thought he was displeased. They decided he wanted the deaths of others, and they began the sacrifices. He had slaughtered them all to stop the atrocities. Slain his own people to save the rest.
He had never lost the ability to kill small creatures with a touch. In Los Angeles he’d recovered the ability to kill other faerie creatures with a touch and a word. He’d killed a goblin that way, at least.
Rhys gazed up at Aisling’s still form. “I’ll try.” He handed his weapons to Doyle and Frost, then touched the tree. He seemed to wait a moment, to see what the tree would do. For the first time I realized that he was wondering if the tree would kill him, too — that hadn’t occurred to me.