"It can sing all it likes," said Muirne. "It's not coming in, that thing."
"It's Sidhe," said Meadhbh, a small voice. She sat by her brother, by the fire. "It wants our father."
"Be still," said Muirne, "hush, Meadhbh, don't speak of it."
There was silence then. There were a great many things not fit for speaking tonight. Domhnull's heart went out to the children. He moved close by them and sat down on the hearthside, his arms about them both.
"You'll want your beds," said Beorc to Rhys and the others. "I'll have bedding brought."
Rhys looked about him, at the hall where bedding was scattered in corners, pillows tucked in chairs, that told its own tale of how they rested. "I'll wash," he said. "I'll watch here."
Beorc nodded, gazing steadily at him. " 'Tis hard to think of rid ing, Rhys, but those men of yours would be a welcome sight north ward: Ruadhan is hard pressed on the border. Gods know I should be up there, but—"
"We will take the beds," said Madawc in a voice like Rhys', quiet. "Owein and I will take our men north. That is why we came. Or west. Or where you like."
Beorc clamped his lips together, still staring, moist-eyed. "Gods reward it, Madawc."
"Gods send us enemies," said Owein darkly. "Our folk have need of them after such a ride, with things no arrow troubles. We have arrows saved for the Bradhaeth, or Damh, and gladly for An Beag."
"We are Dryw's sons," said Rhys. "And there is blood between us and these northrons. Much of it."
Beorc rose up and led them down the stairs. Domhnull sat watch ing, but his heart was not eased. He held Meadhbh and Ceallach against him, frail-seeming, watching much, they were. He felt them shiver. Oftentimes they gazed off into nothing at all, or watched the fire, or drowsed and picked at the food Muirne kept offering them. They are in danger, he thought, perceiving war of a different kind than spears. He held them tightly.
Be kinsman to them, Ciaran had said. He thought of his own mother, busy among her neighbors down below with this and that matter, the baking of bread, the ordering of shelters, meddling even in Caer Wiell's kitchens on the strength of her connections—nothing daunted her. She always had an answer; and these waifs, the children of a lord and a lady too wrapped in grief, he wished he could bring them to her; but he could not. They would not be comforted. Go to bed, Muirne had told them, had sternly ordered; but Meadhbh had sat down, plump upon the hearth three nights ago, and Ceallach had folded his arms and lifted his chin with a look that was Ciaran's own, which few had seen but his men when things were at their worst; and Meadhbh had one of his looks too, that quieter one, which measured distances and battlefields. So there had been pallets laid down, and both of them like weeds did as they liked, when they liked, where they liked; only sometimes they turned anguished looks toward the stairs when there was some sound, not often asking with more than silence; or their shoulders would droop or their heads fall, when, as now, they were willing to be held, to lay their heads against him, being not all grown. In his mind he railed on Branwyn, to desert them; and in his heart he knew why, as Ciaran had known—that they were strangers to Branwyn and grew more so. He bent his head, overburdened with knowings, brushed Meadhbh's brow with a kiss for comfort, as if she were his sister. She never stirred, nor did Ceallach. A stone of the fireplace bore into his back, but he did not move.
Rhys came back upstairs quietly and settled to sleep, the quick hard sleep of a man long without, in the dimmed hall; others settled; the fire burned down to embers and Muirne drowsed in her chair, her head on pillows.
And still the voice wailed, outside.
Go away, he wished it fiercely. Bain Sidhe, go away: he cannot die, our lord. Give up and go away.
Meadhbh lifted her head suddenly, violent and lost; Ceallach stirred. "Hush," Domhnull said, "it's just the same noise."
"My father!" Ceallach cried, thrusting him away.
And from the halclass="underline" "Beorc!" Branwyn cried. "Beorc—o help me!"
"He's abed again," Beorc said, closing the door at his back, facing them in the hall; stood for a moment as if he were set to keep that door, but then his shoulders fell and he looked more shaken than Domhnull had ever seen him. "He is weaker," Beorc said. "He is growing weaker now."
The children stood there. Muirne set her hands on Meadhbh's shoulders. Domhnull locked his arms about Ceallach's as if that could protect them.
"Curse that thing," Rhys said suddenly. "Curse it. It's that howl ing, it's no luck to the house, that thing."
"It is Sidhe," said Siodhachan from his corner by the fire. The old man's lips trembled. "And there is no fighting it. Speak no curses. Speak no curses, ap Dryw."
"Bain Sidhe," said Leannan. "It wants a life. It could have mine. Gods know it could. I would give it." And the harper wept, wiping at his eyes. "O gods."
"Or mine," said Ceallach. "It could have mine instead."
"By the gods, no!" Beorc cried. His face twisted. "Talk of appeasing that thing—by the gods, no giving that cursed thing any life of ours. It'll have to take me first, by the gods it will." His eyes were wild as battle. It was contagion. Rhys was on his feet, his dark face flushed, his hands clenched.
"We won past it once," Rhys said. "It's at the river. Do you dare, Scaga's-son?"
"For the gods' sake," Muirne cried. "No."
"And you, mac Gaelbhan?"
Domhnull shivered. It was mad. To attack a Sidhe—it was a thing hopeless from the start. But its price for leaving was a life. He dropped his hands from Ceallach's shoulders. "Tracking a Sidhe— aye, let's be at it. At that I have some advantage."
"No," Muirne whispered, "no, o gods, no."
Beorc headed for the door to the downstairs; Rhys went; Domhnull did, mortally afraid. But Beorc got his cloak from beside the stairs and Rhys borrowed one, and they headed down the stairs. "Wait," Domhnull said snatching his, less agile. The madness grew in him, after so long waiting, so much fear. He hastened on the stairs, using his hand to steady him, gathered his sword where they left such things nowadays, at the bottom on their pegs, far from their lord and his hall. They did not run; they went with purpose, opened the door outward to the wall and went out where lightning flickered and wind battered at them.
They bore iron. It was sure at least the Sidhe had no love for it. Domhnull belted on his sword and came after Beorc and Rhys. "Open the lesser gate," Beorc bade the watch as they went down the steps, and such was his voice that the man did it, and let out the three of them afoot, hunters of the Sidhe who wailed death into the winds—afoot, for it could not now be far and no horses could be trusted.
"By the river," Domhnull said. A sense had settled into him for days now, that he knew where it laired. He shivered in the wind, in the dark; and drew his sword, keeping up with the others with diffi culty. He remembered the stones about Caer Donn, and wind and mist. It seemed he could hear the hoofbeats of a horse, racing this way and that in distress, like something pent and desperate.
The shore was far, far, and there were dangers on the way, a maze, barriers forbidding and dark. "I am still here," said Death. "Still here if you want me."
"My friend," said Ciaran. His heart ached. "Give me up."
Death settled on the windowledge. His sword was in his hands, and the hands were darkness, but bone was in them too. His hooded head was bowed. His face was still concealed. Outside, the wailing grew shrill, and hoof beats circled, circled, wilder and wilder, like the beating of a heart.