"That's the white horse outside," said Meadhbh, her eyes wide, her hand upon the talisman at her throat. A chill ran over Domhnull's skin, and comfort at once, that there was still something of the Sidhe near them.
"Perhaps," he said, "its owner is not far."
"It is lost," said Ceallach in that same distant tone, as if he were listening to something else at the same time. "It grieves for someone. O Domhnull—something is wrong down by the river."
"Hush," he said, "hush. Be still. Come back and drink your ale. Get them more, Muirne. I think they could well stand it."
"No," said Meadhbh.
A strange sound was growing on the air, so that Domhnull stirred, thinking of thunder, of the clouds, of the creature that he had seen— but it was a different, earthy sound, of hooves, of echoes off the wall that had nothing to do with thunder.
"There are riders coming," Muirne whispered. "Domhnull, do you hear?"
"Aye," he said, and thrust himself to his feet in haste, in dread, for they were coming hard and they were almost at the gates. "Where is the watch, that we get no word? Gods help us." He started down the stairs. He had followers, Muirne, Meadhbh and Ceallach, but he did not delay to stop them.
So they came out onto the walls where others had gathered, as the gates groaned open and the riders thundered into the yard on lathered horses, riders whose colors and whose metal brightness had been obscured with dust until even their faces were masks. They were Caer Wiell folk; and no dust could hide the foremost, for his size and fiery hair and beard.
"Beorc," Domhnull breathed, and headed down the last stairs to meet his cousin.
There was yet another visitor in the room, perched on his bedside. Ciaran saw him without opening his eyes, saw him best that way, a lump of darkness sitting there staring at him, but Branwyn had not seen him: her golden head was bowed, the light coming to her so that it picked out the silver amid her braids, dancing on the stones of the wall, but never, never touching the darkness. The pain was deep in him, a gnawing pain of iron where the poison had spread. He felt an ache as if he had gotten a hailstone for a heart, pain of wounds, of loss, of seeing Branwyn sitting there so lost and helpless. He could not move. The world seemed too still for that, or too fragile. I shall slip away, he thought; I shall never see her again, and the children, and my fields and all the rest, the table set for dinner, Meadhbh laughing, Branwyn in the sunlight, none of these things. It will tear like spiderweb, this world.
"Take off the stone," Lord Death said. "You have that much strength."
"Is that what you have come for?"
Death stirred, came closer, leaning over him while Branwyn drowsed. "For you—yes, my friend. Give up the stone. Turn it loose and give me your hand—o Man, there is little hope enough; but at least you will be spared the worse things." There seemed others beyond him, mother, cousins, friends; a tall brooding figure hung back from the rest, and that was his father, still frowning.
"Ciaran," his father said, "I was wrong."
"I have seen your son and daughter," his mother said. "They are very fair. Will you not bring them? And Branwyn too?"
"My daughter," said another, shadow-wrapped, with a golden-haired woman by his side.
There were others, shadows, crowned with gold. One face was brighter. It was Laochailan's, and tears ran on his gaunt face. "Ciaran, Ciaran of Donn," his King said. "They have murdered me."
"Lord," said others, a shadow-host, folk of his hold. Blood and dust marked them. Arrows pierced them, men he had left at the border, farmer-folk who had rallied there. "They never cease to come. What shall we do?"
"There is no luck in Donn," his father said. "Nor hope now."
"Murdered," said his King.
"No!" He opened his eyes then, caught a breath that pained him. Branwyn caught his hand.
"Beorc is here. Beorc has come back safe from the border."
He said nothing to this. He was not surprised at this passage of familiar faces, not then nor later when Beorc came with Domhnull to stand beside his bed.
"He is sleeping again," Branwyn said. "Domhnull says that he will mend. He will."
He smiled to hear that, wishing to believe that and not the dreams.
"Come back," said Lord Death, but the sound of waves was in his ears, and a white horse came running toward him in the dark.
Man, said another voice, cling to the stone. There is no other hope. There is none in all the world. You must help me.
"It hurts," he said.
Ciaran, that voice cried, at the margin of the world, for the world's sake, hold on!
The white horse waited. Thunder rumbled from its hooves.
A black one waited too. Death was there, with other riders. "There is battle coming," said Lord Death, "in which you cannot share. How long will you lie there suffering? They suffer too, who love you. Free them. There is no more hope. But you at least might be safe in my hands. I shall gather as many of them as I can. Old friends, kinsmen, family. Be free of this world. There will be other heroes. Make way. Make room. Call one you trust and pass on the stone. Domhnull might bear it."
He felt after the stone and held it clenched tightly in his hand, ignoring the voice. The pain came in little waves, like the rocking of the sea, and greater ones, like the blowing of the wind. He held fast, feeling at times the coolness of sweat on his face when the world's wind would stir through the window. Now and again someone touched him and wiped his brow, now and again raised his head to give him drink; at times he looked and Branwyn was there, and he slipped his other hand in hers.
Thunder cracked.
"Is it raining?" he asked.
"No," she said, "not yet."
He drifted back again, having gathered up the scattered threads. "Liosliath," he said, "Liosliath, Liosliath." It was a misty way, out among the trees. The white horse ghosted among them, and lifted his head toward the sea. "Hear me," he said, "Liosliath. I have lost her. She has gone somewhere into the wood, and something has gotten loose in the world. I dare not call its name, but I think you would know it."
There was no clear answer, but a touch at the stone, a flooding of strength into it.
"Come," a voice said then, a whisper hollow as the sea. "Hear the gulls?"
"Beware," said another voice, "to hear only true voices. Some will doom you. A mistake will doom the world . . . and some seem very fair."
"I hear something singing," he said, and fair it seemed, wailing on the wind.
He was asleep again, his face so drawn and thin: Branwyn never let the candles die, seldom quit his side, though Muirne came and gave her drink and others came, like Beorc, big man that he was, so soft-footed in his tread, to look in and then depart again.
Now Beorc knelt, bending to one knee, to take her hand in his huge one, to press her fingers.
"Lady," he whispered, "go to hall awhile, go to bed, and let me watch—Do you think some harm could come to him with me beside him? Nothing in this world or the other would I let pass. You have children, lady. They need you. They need you to sleep a bit and eat a bit, and wash your face and smile."
She understood. She gazed at him from that distance of long pa tience, having wept all she meant to weep while her lord was living, but Beorc's loyalty touched her to the quick. "They're not my chil dren," she said, "but his. Do you think I dare have them near him, Sighted as they are? They saw him fall; they saw him coming home. What more should they see, Beorc? I'm blind to such things. I can only watch him, not—not suffer the other things. And my children know. They know where I have to be."