The Enchanted Quest (21 page)

It must be! It must!

Weak still but now full of hope, she rode with her companions down the steep terraces that led to the bay. The way the land folded on itself meant that after a while they could no longer see the rocky coastline— but there was a path of beaten earth that led down through the ridges and furrows of the falling hills. They rounded a shoulder of grassy land and saw the pebbly beach once more, shelving down to the rippling water.

A new wave of pain and weakness swept over Tania, making the sky go dark, filling her head with thunder. She heard Rathina cry out in pain.

And then, with the whole world growing dim around her, Tania saw several dark figures step from cover. One of them held an iron chain in his fist, and the chain led to a great white salamander.

A voice came into her mind like a black storm cloud. “Well met, Master Estabrook,” it called. “You have served me well—and great shall be your reward!”

The pain overwhelmed her and the world fell away.

Voices were talking in the darkness.

Connor’s voice was one . . . and the other?

The other was the deep, cruel voice that she had heard booming up from the torture chamber of Dorcha Tur. Lord Balor’s voice.

“You promised you wouldn’t hurt them.” Connor sounded angry and afraid. “You gave me your word!”

“Silence, fool!”

“No! I won’t be silent. We had a deal.” Connor sounded desperate now, his voice cracking. “When I agreed to take the iron mirror so you could use it to find us, it was on the condition that no harm would come to them.”

The iron mirror? Tania’s senses were beginning to return now. This wasn’t a dream; this conversation was happening in the world outside her aching head. But what was the iron mirror? Oh! The disk Connor had? It didn’t come from the Hall of Archives at all—it belonged to Lord Balor! It must be a magical device, some kind of tracker—like Edric’s black onyx pendant.
Let me go and I’ll find them for you. I promise. I’ll bring them to you.
Oh, dear lord, what had Connor done to them?

“You knew my desire,” growled Lord Balor. “Very well, you knew it, boy! Did you think that I would shrink from doing whatever was necessary to secure from those women the secret of Immortality?” He gave a grating laugh. “No, boy, I will have it from them if I have to tear their bodies to quivering shreds to find it! And when I hold it in my palm, then will you get your reward—then will I share the knowledge with you as you wished. And then will I aid you to return to the world from which you came, to use the secret for whatever ends may please you!”

Tania opened her eyes. She was lying on her back in half-darkness, bound tight at the wrist and ankle. She turned her head. Rathina and Edric lay close by, both of them unconscious, it seemed. They were in a low cave, and beyond the mouth she could see a sunlit shore. Connor and Balor were nowhere to be seen; their voices carried to her from somewhere outside the cave.

“Listen! Please listen to me,” said Connor. “They don’t know the secret. I’m absolutely certain of that. If there
is
a secret to how they can live forever, they don’t know what it is. No matter what you do to them, they won’t be able to tell you!”

“
Tell me
, boy?” There was a trace of vicious humor in Lord Balor’s voice. “I don’t expect them to
tell
me the secret. I have better ways. I shall bind them to the Wheel of Sortilege and I will rend their bodies with such sorceries as they have never known! I will rip them apart and dip my fingers into their hearts’ blood. Let them then keep their secret from me!”

“No! I won’t let you do this!”

Tania heard the sounds of a scuffle followed by a heavy blow and a cry cut short. Then there was a low, rumbling growl.

“No, Salamander, leave him be!” said Balor. “He may yet be of use to us.” His voice rose in triumph. “Immortality is within my grasp at last. When my men return from the
Reaper
with the Wheel of Sortilege, we shall begin! Well it was that I chose to track them by sea, Salamander! It would have been hard work, indeed, to seek to bear that heavy engine of sorcery over land.”

The
Reaper
must be the galleon Tania had seen at anchor in the bay shortly before she passed out. It was not a vessel sent to take them to Tirnanog—it was Lord Balor’s ship.

They had come so far, so close to journey’s end, and all for nothing.

No!

She turned her head from the light. “Rathina?” She projected a hoarse whisper. “Rathina?” There was no response. “Edric? Please—Edric—wake up!”

But his eyes remained closed, and Tania saw that there were bruises and cuts on his face. He must have fought hard to try and protect them from Lord Balor. But perhaps even with the Dark Arts he had been overwhelmed.

Then Tania saw something that gave her hope. Rathina’s iron sword had been thrown into the cave with them. It was lying about a yard away from Tania. She began to writhe, digging into the floor with her heels, arching her back, using her shoulders to edge closer to the sword.

As she came closer, she could feel the poison of Isenmort like an itch under her skin. She knew how much worse that sensation would become once she made contact with the iron blade. She tipped herself onto her side and lifted her bound wrists toward the sword. Gritting her teeth, she began to saw her arms to and fro, pressing the ropes against the sharp edge.

The sword kept shifting, and every now and then her skin would come in contact with the metal and she’d feel a pain like lightning go crackling up her arms and into her body. She clamped her lips together to stifle her cries of agony.

But at last the ropes began to fray, coming away strand by strand. Tensing her shoulders, she tried to force her wrists apart. The rope snapped. Gasping and sweating, she sat up and worked at the knots on the rope that was wound around her ankles.

She would free Edric and Rathina next, and when Balor’s men came for them, they would find them ready and waiting. Only one sword between them, for sure, but the men would enter the cave unawares and surprise would provide Tania and Edric weapons of their own. Then they would make such a fight of it!

She heard the crunching of boots in the beach outside.

“Good! That is good!” Balor’s voice, a little way off. “Set the device there with its back to the cliff. You, Kirhan, and you, Leannan—go into the cave and bring out one of the women. I care not which. I will have ample sport with either. Make sure the man has not awoken. He has powers I do not trust. I’d kill him now for safety’s sake, but he is one of the Immortals, I deem, and he may serve us yet.”

No time to cut the others free! Tania had to act quickly.

Bracing herself against the pain she knew would come, she got to her feet. She reached out and closed shrinking fingers around the hilt of Rathina’s Isenmort sword.

The pain was blinding. The sword was like fire in her hand, and the anguish of it sent razors slicing through her veins. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to let the sword drop.

But in the torture of her mind a clear point of reason and purpose managed to survive. Panting and dizzy, she carried the sword to the cave mouth and stepped out into the open.

With a howl of anger and pain she stood there, the sword raised.

She saw everything in a flash. The two men who had been approaching the cave fell back at the sight of the sword, shouting and cursing. Connor was lying facedown on the beach. A huge wheel of heavy timbers two yards across, spoked and fitted with iron manacles, was leaning against the cliff face: the Wheel of Sortilege. There was no sign of the horses of the Deena Shee. Fled, Tania guessed—back into the mountains.

Half blind with pain and her movements jerky and uncoordinated, she stumbled toward where Lord Balor stood with the Great Salamander at his side. She saw surprise and rage on his face. She saw the Salamander’s jaws open wide as it surged forward on its iron leash.

In full sunlight the creature was even more terrible and awe-inspiring than Tania remembered. White as snow, its lithe body shone like oiled marble as it glided low toward her over the beach, scimitar claws chiming on the stones. Its eyes flared golden, its tongue flicking between serrated teeth.

“You’ll not escape me a second time!” roared Balor, groping for his sword.

Tania lifted the Isenmort blade high, closing her other hand around the hilt. She lurched up to him, and screaming wildly, she brought the iron sword down with all her might. His arm lifted to ward off the blow, the iron hand balled into a fist.

She felt a moment of resistance, then her sword sliced clean through his arm, severing the iron fist from his flesh. He roared in agony, staggering back, clutching the bleeding stump of his arm. The iron fist came crashing into the beach like a thunderbolt, the long chain rattling.

There were shouts of fear and alarm from the nearby men.

While Tania was still reeling, the Great Salamander let out a piercing roar. Its claw lifted, scratching at the iron collar, breaking it open. Then it turned, and with one leap it drove Lord Balor onto his back. The jaws snapped. Blood sprayed high. Lord Balor’s legs twitched for a moment and then became still.

“That, for all those years of imprisonment, tyrant!” howled the Salamander, and his voice was like a fire, crackling and spitting.

Tania fell to her knees, the Isenmort blade tumbling out of her deadened hands, her palms and fingers red and raw and stripped of skin.

The Salamander whipped around, its eyes on the men who stood confounded close by. “Depart or perish!” hissed the Salamander, its fangs dripping gore. “Your lord is dead—you have no reason to stay and die with him.”

The men fled, kicking up the beach as they ran for the boats.

“And you, engine of evil, you shall not survive your lord!” hissed the Great Salamander, rising and smashing its claws down on the Wheel of Sortilege, breaking the timbers, sending splinters flying.

Tania was in a daze, so consumed with suffering that she hardly knew where she was. She held her hands to her chest, trembling.

The Great Salamander turned to her, its protruding yellow eyes sharp as gemstones. Slowly it advanced on her, white as ghost light, sinuous and deadly. She was mesmerized by its gaze. She couldn’t look away.

It is said that a day will come when a champion will arise to sever Balor’s iron hand from his arm—and on that day the Great Salamander will reveal a fantastical secret that will shake the skies!

The Salamander stood in front of her, its tongue flicking in and out between bloodied jaws, its eyes shining with inhuman wisdom.

Tania tried to speak, but her mouth was parched. She swallowed and attempted again to form words. “What . . . is . . . your . . . secret . . . ?”

The yellow eyes glittered. “Would you know the way to Tirnanog?” said the Salamander, hissing.

“Yes . . .”

“Then turn your eyes to the sky, child, and see wonders beyond the world.”

Tania looked up. The sky was suffused with gold, shining like a glorious summer sunset—although she was certain that only a few moments ago the sun had been at her back and the day only a few hours old.

The sky-fields stretched away from her like an endless beach of golden sand studded with cloud-rocks banded with amber and saffron. And far away, high in the distance, she saw a cloud that looked exactly like a long, white rock. And at the end of the rock stood a small stool and a harp, as though waiting for a celestial musician to come and play.

“How . . . do I get . . . there . . . ?”

“Through pain and transformation,” hissed the Salamander.

“I don’t understand. . . .”

“Oh, but you shall,” hissed the Salamander. “You
shall
!” It rose and lifted a claw, its jaws widening, its mouth red and deep. It roared and the breath was like a furnace on her skin.

Tirnanog is heaven! The only way to get there is by dying!

Crying out, she threw her arms up to shield her face. She felt a blow on the side of her head as the Salamander’s claw struck hard. She fell onto her side, knowing that the Salamander was towering over her.

The claw came down on her shoulder, pushing her onto her face on the beach. As she sprawled helplessly, she felt the great claws come raking down her back. As dreadful as the pain of the Isenmort sword had been, this was worse still. Far worse.

This was a pain that would kill her.

Tania huddled on the beach waiting for the deathblow. She could hear the Salamander’s rasping breath; she could feel it hot on her wounded back.

And then she felt a new and terrifying sensation that grew from deep within the long wounds of her back. Her whole body contracted in a spasm of agony. She drew her knees to her chest, her fists beating the pebbly beach as she let out a scream of fear and anguish.

Things were growing from the slashes on her back—things that stretched and reached upward and slowly unfurled. They burgeoned and expanded, filling with potency, surging up until she was weeping with the intensity of it.

Wings!

She crouched, panting, hardly able to breathe. She felt strange new sinews and muscles working. She twisted her head and saw the gossamer wings spreading out from her bent back, the golden light sparkling and glittering on filigrees of silvery filaments as the wings slowly flapped.

The Salamander’s sizzling voice broke into her astonishment. “Fly to Tirnanog, Princess of Faerie!” it hissed. “Fly!”

Tania gathered herself. The pain in her back was gone. She got carefully to her feet. Her hands still hurt—they were raw and bloody. She stumbled, a little dizzy. The wings flapped, helping her to keep balance.

She began to gasp out laughter as tears ran down her flushed cheeks. Of all the ends she had considered to her quest—this had never been one of them. That she should grow wings—not in a dream, not in an illusion, but in the real world. Wings!

“I have to free Edric and Rathina,” she said, gasping, wiping the backs of her bleeding hands over her face.

“There is no time,” growled the Salamander. “Fly!”

She frowned. “No. I’ll release them first.”

“The path to Tirnanog is fleeting, Princess of Faerie,” hissed the Salamander. “Hesitate at your peril. Go now or the way will be closed. I will free your companions.” The long, wedge-shaped white head turned to Connor. “And I will slay the traitor!”

Tania looked to where Connor lay unconscious from Lord Balor’s blow. What had Coriceil said? That he bore a secret too dark to speak. He had convinced her that his dark secret was that he was in love with her.
Liar!
And ever since they had rescued him from the dungeons of Dorcha Tur, he had rejected every suggestion that he should return home. Now it made sense. His reasons for staying were also lies! Lies to cover up the fact that he had gone over to Lord Balor’s side—that he had sold them out in the hope of learning the secret of Immortality. He was weak and he was selfish . . . but if not for her, he would never have been put in this position—he would never have set foot in this world. If anyone was to blame, she was. Why should he die for her mistake?

“No! You can’t do that,” she said firmly. “You mustn’t touch him.”

“He betrayed you, Princess of Faerie,” said the Salamander. “For the promise of wealth and fame he gave you up to Lord Balor. He deserves death.”

“No! It wasn’t just for those things. He wanted to prove himself—he wanted to be a hero. He thought that was the way. He never meant us to be hurt, I’m sure of it.”

“So be it,” hissed the Salamander. “He shall not die at my hand. But go, Princess of Faerie, before the pathway fades. Fly into the golden void!”

Tania paused, staring back at the cave mouth— desperate for a final word with Edric, a final touch.

“Fly!” roared the Salamander. “Already the way grows faint.”

The creature was right—the golden light was diffusing, the strewn stones melting back into cloud, the harp and the stool already no more than a blur.

“Edric!” she shouted, hoping he could hear. “I’ll love you forever!” She sprang up and her wings caught the air and lifted her high into the golden sky.

But oh, the joy of it! The air rushing in her ears, the long beach falling away beneath her. The golden light enveloping her. The power and the glory and the sheer freedom of climbing the endless sky, of swooping and gliding, of shedding the burden of gravity, the sublime and heartrending perfection of it!

I was born for this!

She laughed, her eyes brimming with golden tears.

She looked down. The Great Salamander was a sinuous white streak on the coral beach. The ocean was a dark green cloak trimmed with white lace.

Then she turned her face into the impossible golden sunset. Her wings flapped and she surged even higher into the heavens, surrendering herself to the honeyed light.

She came down feather light to land on an endless beach of golden sand that stretched away forever. A great blue ocean lapped the shore. There were white cliffs and distant green hills. There was birdsong. There was peace and contentment.

And there was a long, high white stone that jutted out into the sea. Upon its furthermost end there was a wooden stool and a waiting harp.

Two figures were walking toward her across the sand. They approached hand-in-hand, Michael Corr Mahone and the dark-eyed gypsy woman named Rose.

Tania felt a rush of affection to see them again.

Michael smiled widely. “You made it, then!” he called. “I’m glad to see you, Tania. For a while I doubted you, but Rose said you had the strength to reach journey’s end.”

Rose broke hands with him and ran toward Tania. “I am never wrong!” she said, her face shining with joy. “Ah, but your wings are a wonderful sight! How I envy you them.” A cloud crossed her face as she came to a halt in front of Tania. “But your poor hands! You are injured. Come, give them to me. I’ll see if I have a panacea for your discomfort.”

Dazed still, Tania offered up her hands. Rose took them, bowing over them and breathing on them.

“Ow!” It was an odd sensation, almost like pins and needles—sharp and astringent—but then Rose released Tania’s hands, and the injuries inflicted by the Isenmort sword were healed and her palms and fingers were whole again.

“Thank you,” Tania said. Michael was with them now, still smiling, his dark eyes filled with humor. “Who are you?” she asked, looking from one to the other. “Can you tell me now?”

“We are messengers,” said Michael. “Our master sends us forth when our help is needed for some momentous event that threatens the balance of creation.”

“Oh. I see. . . .”

“We didn’t deliberately keep our true selves from you, Tania,” Rose continued. “Only here on the Golden Shore are we whole and complete.”

“Is this Tirnanog?”

“Some name it that,” said Michael. “It is a place that has many names, but for you it is Tirnanog.”

“You are at journey’s end!” said Rose. “Come, walk awhile with us.”

They each linked arms with Tania, leading her over the soft sand toward the white rock.

Tania looked at Rose. “Can you tell me now,” she asked, “are you the Dream Weaver?”

Rose smiled. “No, that was never me.” She squeezed Tania’s arm. “But you will meet her again.” Her eyes glowed with mystery. “And I think you will be surprised!”

Steps had been carved in the landward end of the white rock, and Rose and Michael led Tania up and onto the high summit.

“Am I to meet your master?” Tania asked as they approached the stool and the harp.

“Let us hope so,” said Rose.

“Your master—he’s the Divine Harper, right?”

“He is that,” said Michael.

Tania frowned. “I’m sorry if this is a stupid question, but
what
is he?” she asked.

Michael chuckled. “My, but there’s a halfway remarkable question,” he said. “What is he? Rose—do you have the words for it?”

“He is balance,” said Rose. “He is harmony and symmetry and proportion. He keeps all of creation in tune with itself. He oversees the melody of nature.”

“So . . . so he’s
good
, right?”

“He’s neither good nor bad,” said Rose. “The virtue of balance is constancy.”

“He plays his tunes for all of creation with equal devotion,” added Michael. “For him there is no conflict, there is just
life
, in all its diversity.”

They had come now to the harp.

“Sit,” offered Rose. “Play.”

“Play what? I don’t know how to play a harp.”

“Oh, but you do, Tania,” said Michael, taking her arm and guiding her to sit on the stool. “Play the song that has no ending. . . .”

“Play the song you know so well,” said Rose.

“Okay, I’ll give it a try,” said Tania.

They stepped back from her. She wavered a few moments, her hands poised over the strings.

What song? What should I play?

She touched a string and a pure note rang out. She smiled, touching another. It sounded sweet and clear. A simple melody came into her head. She tried the strings, fumbling, getting it wrong, seeking out the correct run of notes.

And then, quite suddenly, she was playing the melody that was in her head.

A deep, rich voice began to sing at her back.

Tania turned to look at the singer. Her fingers faltered on the harp strings and the song came to an abrupt end.

It was the man she had briefly met seated at the bar in the Iron Stone Tavern—the round-faced old man with the gray beard and swept-back gray hair, the man with the impossibly blue eyes set deep in brown-skinned laugh lines.

He stood close behind her although she had not heard him approach, and now he was wearing robes that shimmered with an iridescent light.

He smiled. “Well met, Princess of Faerie,” he said, his voice melodic even in ordinary speech. “Did I not say we would maybe meet again . . . one fine day?”

“You . . . ?”

“I indeed.”

A tangle of thoughts and questions and conflicting emotions went crashing across Tania’s mind.

In the end she blurted out a few incoherent words. “You could have saved me . . . saved us . . . so much . . . so . . .
much
—” She came to a choking halt, unable to articulate the chaos in her mind. “Why?” she cried. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? Why did you make us do all those things . . . all those impossible things?”

“The journey is as important as the arrival, Tania of Faerie,” said the Divine Harper. “You had your path set before you. I could not deprive you of all that you needed to suffer and to learn. And your journey has touched not you alone. Have you not been the downfall of Balor, the tyrant of Alba? Have you not released Erin from baleful enchantment?”

Tania stared at him. It had never occurred to her that her quest might have purposes beyond the needs of Faerie. “But . . . but if you weren’t there in the tavern to help me—what was the point of being there at all?”

“Curiosity, perhaps,” said the Harper. “I wished to see this seventh daughter of Oberon Aurealis—this half-Mortal child who would risk all, who would go beyond the ends of the world to save the people of Faerie.” His warm hand rested on her shoulder. “And I helped as I was able, Tania of Faerie. I sent my minstrels to light your path when I could.”

Tania gazed beyond him to where Michael and Rose stood at his back.

“May I play now awhile, Tania of Faerie?” asked the Harper.

She rose awkwardly from the stool and moved aside so that he could sit. His hands came up unerringly to the strings, and a melody flowed from his fingers, intoxicating, passionate, strong, and subtle. A song that was like all of creation.

“So?” he said, his eyes on the strings. “Tania of Faerie, what would you have of me? And before you ask, understand this: Balance is all, my child; for everything given, something must be taken. For each question answered there must be a forfeit.” His sky blue eyes turned to her, and there was compassion in them, but a cold resolution, too. “And for the great question,” he said, his voice almost a song against the music of the harp, “for the great thing you would ask of me, the forfeit must be the uttermost wish of your heart.” He paused for a moment, his head bowed, as though thinking. “So?” he said, looking at her again. “Do you still wish to ask your question of me?”

What is the uttermost wish of my heart? My very dearest wish . . . ?

To be with Edric for always.

Yes, when all else was discarded, the thing that remained was her love for Edric. To get the answers she came here for, she would have to give up Edric’s love.

She had always known her sacrifice would need to be immense, but a whole Realm full of people was depending on her. She could not let them down, no matter how much it hurt her. And it did hurt—it wounded her to the very core—the thought of losing Edric hurt so deeply that she was sure she would die of it. To be forever without the one she loved. It would be
worse
than death—far worse.

Edric . . . oh . . . my love . . . my love . . .

She trembled as she spoke, riven to the very soul, hardly able to believe the words she heard herself saying. “Yes, I do want to ask,” she said, “and I will give up the uttermost wish of my heart.”

“Then ask your question.”

“My father, King Oberon . . .” she began hesitantly. “He came here a long time ago. He came to save the people of Faerie from a plague . . . an illness that was killing them. He made a covenant with you. He traded their wings for Immortality. And the plague went away.” She licked parched lips. “The plague was sent by someone called Nargostrond, but I don’t know who he was . . . who he
is
. . . .”