"Come," said this Beorc, who was very like their own. "Welcome here, three times welcome. Here is a place better than the last, for as long as you want to stay."
EIGHTEEN
Farewells
Autumn came and winter, and the Sidhe who had passed near the Steading in their riding appeared less frequently and not so near, appearing sometimes in the distance and sometimes passing by night in wind and rush of thunder like some wintry storm.
But with snow deep on Steading fields, there still was warmth and crowded comfort, for somehow they had found a place and nook for everyone. The storage on the west of the house was warm and snug; and barnloft held some: they nested everywhere, did Caer Wiell folk, like sheltering birds, and began to laugh again now that dread was past and griefs were healing. Children began to play with Steading children and make snowball ambushes, while farmers talked of spring.
And spring came. The snow melted straightway under a pale fair sun, the nights seemed warmer with gentle winds and a strangely greenish moon.
"Planting time," the farmers said; and the plows turned up sharp ened and the tools set on the porch.
"Who did that?" Caer Wiell folk asked.
And the Gruagach looked wise.
There was an evening the fuaths came, down by the little stream that wandered by the steading; they were two black horses grazing on the margin; and on another evening a black horse bounded the fences just for sport and raced across the fields.
"That would be Seaghda," said Ceallach, and felt a longing in his heart that was cramped by fences.
So Meadhbh felt a longing too, a restlessness beneath this open sky; at night she heard the forest singing, and she thought of the Daoine Sidhe—for they had never left her heart. Indeed a thing had happened with the elf-gifts, and they were never still, so she was never much distressed at the absence of the Sidhe. Not yet, not yet, they said within their hearts.
And there was much to do here, with Caer Wiell folk, with their mother, with Muirne and Domhnull, and Rhys as he healed. There was all the Steading to find out about, and riding to be done, with Flann and Floinn to carry them again. The Gruagach kept them company on the piebald mare, or on the brown pony, and was some times there and sometimes not, according to his whims. They learned the heron's name from him, and what the owls were like, who hunted in the barn; they learned all the horses' true names, and where the brook came from, high up in the hills, and where the brook went, which was down to the sea if one followed it.
We shall go there someday, Meadhbh thought, as she planned other things. And always in her heart she knew the world alive and all about them: she knew when Sidhe were near that no one saw; and that there were two most near them who would come when hearts were healed.
Rhys for his part began to fret about, now that he was healed; one found him sitting on the steading porch and staring forestward. And one evening:
"I shall ride south," he said. "The Sidhe said all was well there, but my folk and I—we've been too long from home. The road at least should be safer."
"I shall ride with you," said Domhnull. "To see these mountains of yours." So Muirne looked up from her spinning by the fire, saying nothing, but with anxiousness.
And Branwyn said nothing, thinking only that such partings were inevitable. That was what she had learned in life. She saw Meadhbh and Ceallach, that silence that came on them in winter and lingered into spring. She marked how grave they could become, how wise their eyes had grown. Ceallach the folk called her son, quite simply, for he was still a boy; but the young King Beorc named him when he spoke of him. King he was, but of what she did not know; and what her daughter was she hardly dared to guess—Meadhbh Beorc called her, just Meadhbh and nothing more, but with that tone he used on King. Meadhbh rode where she liked and nothing harmed her; the ponies came when she wanted and the owls answered when she called to them.
Branwyn did not hope to keep them, or anything else. But she cherished what she had, which was the warmth of friends about her, a hearth to sit by, fences that kept things generally where they be longed . . . but they could keep nothing in nor out that tried. And this was the way of things. Spring came. Her children strayed; Leannan went walking in the hills and sometimes they heard his harping where he played alone, harpsong drifting like magic down the hills, sweeter than the songs he played for them.
And most of all the Sidhe came back with the greening of the land. They would pass on their white horses, usually in the morning, rid ing from the south.
So Branwyn sat on the porch this morning, while Rhys and Domhnull were about whatever preparations they made, and Smith was hammering away down beside the barn. She counted all her memories and wished—so many things.
"They are coming," said the Gruagach, sitting on the step where he had not been before, and then he was gone again.
So Branwyn stood up, glancing to the south; and her heart lifted with the sight of elvish riders by the stream.
And the whole Steading stopped its business when the riders turned up toward the yard.
"Bring food," Beorc called, "and drink! Visitors have come!"
Meadhbh and Ceallach arrived from wherever they had been; Domhnull came, all out of breath, and Rhys; and Muirne from the house. But Branwyn stood still, her heart beating hard, her hands clenched together, for it was Arafel, with Liosliath.
The riders came up by the fence. All clad in green they were, with gray cloaks, and a light seemed to go about them, like the sun upon far hills. They carried bows and swords, rode reinless, and when they slid down by the gate the white horses vanished in that way those horses had.
Folk gathered, making a ring about them—it was always like that, that folk wanted to see, and somehow felt a silence on them and a dread.
"Rhys," said Liosliath, offering his hand. "Domhnull." It was a familiar gesture, like one they had known and lost. He embraced the children, touched their faces; and on his left hand was a mark like a pale smooth star. They kissed him on the cheek and he touched his lips to each brow.
Branwyn clenched her hands. But then he looked at her, and came to the porch step where she stood. His eyes were gray, not like Ciaran's; nothing about him recalled the Man that she had loved— except a gentleness as he took her hand and touched it to his lips, the look within his eyes: I was his friend, it said. He loved you; loves you still. "Branwyn," he said. So it was duty that he paid, this prince of the Daoine Sidhe, who was older than the hills about them and younger than the dawn. She was earth and knew it. But he had to love them. It was Ciaran's heart he had, buried deep within his own.
"Come," said Beorc, "come, sit and drink. Leannan, where is your harp? Be welcome, all who come."
So they went to the great table in the yard. The Gruagach had snatched a cake; he had a pot of ale and perched on the fence to watch. A fox rested near, his long eyes dark and wise. There was milk and honey, cakes and ale and cider and mounds of butter yel low as the flowers that bloomed down by the stream. Her children were there, her friends about her, all that mattered in the world; and she felt fortunate again.
"Is it well with you?" asked Liosliath.
"Well enough," she said, "lord elf."
"The fuaths are back," said Meadhbh at once.
"Oh, well," said Arafel, "that was certain." She sipped at the ciderand a smile touched her face. "Tame trees," she said.
"We like them," said Beorc. "And tend them."
"Fences," said Arafel.