There would be a guide, their mother had said: if it had been their father come home, their mother would have said that first, so they went without real interest in questions. Their thoughts were all to what was behind them, to feathers and stones and the thought of their father sitting in his corner. Now that they were out of the rooms it seemed to Meadhbh he might indeed come home, a memory sitting in hall, the Cearbhallain's great sword on his knees, his hands tending it, the light golden and flickering on his face. The hall was his now, lost like him, once the door was shut behind them.
They came down the last steps, where already the air seemed to tingle with perhaps and might be. The Sidhe-gifts burned. They looked up: they knew the small brown creature that turned up in their way without being there the moment before. "It's the Gruagach," Ceallach exclaimed; but it seemed their mother knew this: nothing today seemed to daunt their mother, not even a Sidhe before them.
"Gruagach," Meadhbh said; all at once the Sidhe-gift at her throat ached the more, or her heart did. She thought of her father and it was as if the world had started moving again, or she had; as if she had come alive again—her heart hurt, but she lifted her head and knew that she had not truly lived between that night and this, though the world had gone on. Suddenly she felt surrounded by secrets, finding her mother—her mother!—meshed with the Sidhe.
Her father had a hand in this. He must have. The world was bending round them like water round a rock, disasters flowing past them, and somehow he was in it.
"Come," the Gruagach said, motioning with long, lank hands. "O hurry, hasten. The ponies will come, the fine horses, all, all."
"Gruagach," their mother said, sharp as she spoke in hall. "Grua gach, there are more of us—up on the road by Hlowebourne."
It stopped. It hugged itself and rocked, its dark eyes wrinkled up in pain. "O gold lady, the Gruagach cannot reach them. They come as they can. The big red Man, the small dark one: the Gruagach has known them, the Sidhe has touched them, no more, no more can help them. Come! Come! Come! The people, the fine, polite people— no, no delay, come, hurry. It comes, it comes, dark up the dale; I cannot say its name, but the river cannot stop it." It turned, hopped a few paces away, clambered long-armed up the side of a shaggy brown pony. "Haste. O haste!"
They heard Domhnull's voice above the others, shouting at folk to move; he came with Leannan and Cein and Cobhan, a whole troop of the boys leading their father's horse and their ponies and horses for themselves through the press. They stopped suddenly; all about them silence fell, and then cries, as if only then folk had seen the Brown Man and his pony.
"Come," the Gruagach said, beckoning, "o Man, the Gruagach knows you, far we rode together—come, come, come, the horses too, o hurry! From north and west they come, the dark things, the shadow. Ride, ride, all who can: the Gruagach will lead you!"
Some magic fell on them alclass="underline" the air was full of it. Folk scrambled for unsaddled horses that did not shy, handed children up that stared wide-eyed, bewildered. Meadhbh took Floinn's mane, trying to get up, and Floinn never flinched when she clambered belly-down and awkward. Her brother was up on Flann. Domhnull helped their mother and Muirne up to a white nosed mare and gave her mother the halter-rope.
"My husband," a woman said; "my son," said another. "How will they find us? Where are we going?"
"To safety!" their mother said, all sharp. "Where they would want you."
"Give me leave," said Domhnull, delaying, holding Iolaire's hal ter. "I will find the rest of us."
"You have a duty," their mother said sharply. "You have a lord— still; come with us."
"Now!" the Gruagach cried—like some part of the brown pony itself he was, atop its back with knees drawn up. It waved shaggy arms. The air wavered about them; the murky dawn became gray mist, and the gates were naught but shadow.
A forest lay before them. The Gruagach rode out with his pony and all at once they were moving: Domhnull walked, caught all unwilling and desperate, leading Iolaire beside them. Then he seized Iolaire's mane and swung up, settling himself. He rode a distance in front and then rode back past them, his face showing no sign of the grief that ached in the Sidhe-gift when he was near. "Keep together," they heard him call. "Come, come on, my lady gave her orders. The luck is on us; it always was. Keep sight of one another, call out if anyone should falter."
We have left Beorc, Meadhbh thought. And Rhys and all the men. I might go to him. She clutched the Sidhe-gift at her throat, and won dered if she could go so far as a border she had never seen. But no, she thought, oddly sure of something with so much pain in it; the way streamed ahead of them, and she was bound with Ceallach: it was no less dire a way, no less perilous than that their men took. It was their way, and she must not leave it.
Beyond the trees soon other creatures followed. Deer moved, ghostly through the mist and darkness; a fox trotted; there were other creatures, as if even Caer Wiell's wild things were going, as if all life were leaving the land. Meadhbh turned and looked back at the column they made, the end of it lost in mist, horses, riders, a few of the men walking, carrying children on their backs. The great oxen and even the cattle were with them, loose, moving with patient care; a flock of sheep walked along beside, quite un-sheeplike sure where they were going. There was the old spotted hound that was almost blind; there were foals and yearlings following after the mares. Domhnull rode back out of the mist, shepherding the line; he had taken a child up in front of him.
The Sidhe-gift burned. Meadhbh held it in her hand, and felt Ceal lach near, knee to knee with her as she looked again to the forest ahead. The way grew dark. Trees towered up, and the mist threat ened them; but always just in front of them rode her mother with Muirne, and the swishing tail of the Gruagach's brown pony. She shrugged her cloak about her, feeling cold and glad that her mother had thought of warmer clothing.
Father, she thought. The thought kept growing in her, not a hope, but a certainty. She looked back again: she saw Leannan. The harper rode by Domhnull, and a doe and fawn walked soberly beside him. A pony carried Ruadhan's Seamaire, who had someone's baby in her arms and a little girl behind her. There was Cook afoot, still in her apron, with two of the scullery maids and a cluster of the pages. The mist gave them up and took them back again, and they were there and not there, all of Caer Wiell. She looked about in fright, relieved to find her mother still in front of her, with Muirne, the mare pad ding along with soundless steps, tame like all the others. The Gruagach sat backwards on his pony, watching them all with dark and sober eyes.
The grove had suffered. More leaves had fallen; dark things had crept close but there was still power here: Cinniuint still lived, though his leaves were dimmed; so did Miadhail, and the others. So Arafel came to it afoot from Airgiod, where Fionnghuala waited. She gathered what she wanted, took up the armor that was hers, her weapons. She looked about her, touched Miadhail's leaves. She wove protection then, a patient spell of different sort, with all her strength, for she was leaving, not to see this place again: she whispered names, and drew on all they held; she set the stones to singing, a bright clashing in the breeze. It was exchange, strength pouring into the earth, the air, consuming itself at last: its duration would be brief, after so long ages, a brightness soon to fade. Flowers bloomed again. Cinniuint budded, blossomed; Miadhail put forth new leaves; Ciataich greened again, and the air was fresh and good. The grove became what it had been. She gazed on it, fit to break her heart, and turned then and walked away. One backward look: her kind had ever been flawed, and so elves had fallen to fair voices whispering of what had been, what might have been. But it was time to go.