But in the one she did not trust, and in the other she could not hope, no matter how she tried.
Then came the sound of a running horse, lonely in the thick-walled silences, up against the walls. From the watch there was no hail or challenge. The hoofbeats continued.
Ciaran, she thought. She dared not breathe, for fear the hope would perish.
No, one of the horses was loose, that was all; some horse strayed before the walls.
Or Arafel had come.
She rose, shedding her laprobe; she walked barefoot to the door, then heard the door open down below, a soft padding on the stairs— but nothing mortal could have come inside so quickly, ignoring gates and watchers. She held back, her heart hammering with dread.
"Domhnull," she said, never taking her eyes from the door. "Domhnull, wake—"
There was no stirring from behind her. The door opened. A head thrust through at knee level, of a small hairy thing whose eyes glit tered in the torchlight. "Domhnull!" she cried.
It came inside, hugged itself and leaned against the door. "They sleep, sleep, o the fair children; the Gruagach knows them, knows this Man, comes for them—for you."
"Keep away!" There was no weapon here, not so much as a dag ger; they had moved out every piece of iron for Ciaran's sake, for her children's, who could not bear it. She edged toward the wall, think ing of the torch.
"Never fear," the small creature said, "o no, no, no, friend am I; such nice, kind children—so polite the people, saucers of milk they leave me, fine cakes, brown ale—but the Gruagach has his home, and he cannot linger. Come with me, come with me, fine cakes, brown ale, where sun is kind forever."
Her hand fell. She saw the green shadow, the jogging pony, the blonde girl in search of faery. Come with me, take my hand, never hear them calling— Her eyes blurred. "Is there still time?" she asked. "Is there place—for all of us?"
"All," the small wight said, and bounced up to his full height. "All the good, kind people; no iron must they carry. Haste, haste, haste."
He was gone, out the door and the door shut so quickly that the eye could not believe anything had stood there. Branwyn shivered and looked back at the hearthside where her children stirred, and Muirne; Domhnull wakened then, and Leannan in his corner.
"Get up," she said, "all of you. Get your warmest cloaks; Domhnull, go rouse the yard, everyone."
"Lady," Domhnull said, his face bewildered; but he gathered him self up.
"No iron," she said. "Not even in the bridles, no cooking-pans, no knives, nor brooches, no least thing."
"Lady—"
She drew herself up, wrapping the shreds of her pride about her— perilous, she thought; might pride shut the gates of faery? So she was afraid to claim what she had claimed before, that she was privy to faery's secrets. "I think now we have help," she said quietly, "and o, I fear we'll lose it." Beyond Domhnull her children gazed at her with solemn eyes. "Get your cloaks. We'll go down to the gate. Hurry, Domhnull; Leannan—help him."
Leannan took his harp; Domhnull paused for nothing but his cloak, and the door closed behind them.
"Wash, dress," she said to Meadhbh and Ceallach. "And then we go down."
For once she held secrets and Meadhbh and Ceallach did not. But they hurried.
She went to the empty bedroom, washed, dressed, while Muirne tended the children. She took Ciaran's next-best cloak oiled wool, warmer than her heaviest, if may be cold, he had said once, setting out on such a journey.
Now she thought of Beorc and Rhys and Ruadhan, of the men up at the border, and for a moment the glamor faltered. O gods, what will become of them when they find Caer Wiell deserted? What if our enemies should take it against them? O gods, where are we going? Where am I taking these folk?
But then she thought of Ciaran, of the way he had gone, and what they faced from the west, and no chance seemed too desperate. The vision recast itself, the small girl on the pony, the desire she had had once. She had seen the green silence; this beckoned differently, made her think of sun and meadows, not moon and sun together, not the dreadfulness of that guest who had come to their hall. This was warmth and laughter. And wherever it would go, he might have gone before them.
She hastened; she gathered up Meadhbh and Ceallach in the hall each by a hand and they went down the stairs together with Muirne close behind them bringing a bundle of clothes— "In the case," she said, "someone should need warm cloaks. 'Tis a waste to leave them."
The dawn broke as best it could over Hlowebourne, a dim redness before the clouds should take back the sun. The reeds were black, like so many spears; the bank loomed, and Beorc was glad when they put that rise behind them. All the land seemed full of ambushes now.
Of Ruadhan they had seen no sign; of the Bradhaeth folk nothing; the road was mire and even Hlowebourne denied its name and fought them.
But now something came toward them in the murk, a band of riders: they heard them in the distance. They were already carrying their shields uncased on their arms: now they took their swords from sheath and those with lances spurred their horses forward to meet whatever came.
The riders poured over the hillcrest into their midst, shadows in grim red light with neither face nor feature; but the foremost horse had a broad crooked blaze and two white feet—"Hold, hold!" Beorc cried when he saw it, and spears went up and horses shied under the rein as friend met friend in the feeble dawn. "Where's Ruadhan?" he asked Swallow's rider. "Blian, where are you going?"
The young man's face was haggard; he bled from the temple; his armor was battered and it seemed his wits were too. "Beorc—" He held his frantic horse. "They bid us go, fall back—Ruadhan, he held them, run all the way, he told us, and he stayed, him and ten of the bowmen—Lead them back, he told me; the old men and Ruadhan, they bid us go—"
"Let us get up there," Rhys said.
"There be all the Bradhaeth behind us," Blian said. Tears made tracks through blood and grime. "Lord Rhys, there was no holding that—" He twisted about in his saddle, casting a look backward, looked toward them yet again. "We be the first—break the way, Ruadhan said, if need be; the farmer-lads come after, them as could double up on horses; and Tuathal and his lot to put a shield behind them; and since yesterday we've been battered at—they've broken through, the Bradhaeth has, and four, five times we've had to fight them since yestereve."
There was silence, only the blowing of exhausted horses.
"Go," Beorc said heavily. "Get behind us. Move easier. From now the road is safer."
"Aye," Blian said. He drew his horse's head up. He rode through their midst, he and the men with him, slowly now; but then he stopped, and came back, and all his men with him. "We are not cowards," Blian said.
"No," said Beorc. "You are not."
"My cousin was right," Rhys said, riding near, with Owein and Madawc beside him. "Go back, all you Caer Wiell folk. Part of us will scatter through these hills, part of us go west and south; we can at least delay them."
"And what after?" Beorc said. "No. There is no hope in that. We gather those we can save. Then we go home—and quickly."
A cry sounded through the hills, a singing they had heard before at Caerbourne. Horses shied. Men swore.
"Wail all you like!" Rhys shouted at it, lifting his sword. "Here's iron for you!"
The wailing died away; the grass whispered.
"A horse," Blian said, looking to the right of them.
There was no horse there. The hoofbeats came and vanished into distance, both unnaturally swiftly.
They gathered at the gate and outside it, a great confusion of horses and people with bundles; but Meadhbh had none, like her mother, like her brother, like all of them who had had most and now were leaving it. She had lost too much to care for any part of it; only she had brought her tiny box of treasures in her pocket, the bright bird's feather, the river-smoothed stones, the things that she had gathered in her walks and rides with her father. Having lost him she had little longing even for these things, but thought she might want them and regret them too late, these small strange objects; the rest she left uncaring, though she had silver pins and gold, and fine clothes and a silver ring. She went empty handed down the stairs, and so did Ceallach, with their mother, with Muirne, with her bun dle of clothes; but they had their Sidhe gifts about their necks, and the stones of Caer Wiell under their feet, and the memory of the tower hall and all its days and nights in their minds: that was what they took away that mattered.