Among the Unseen (3 page)

“Hello, beautiful. I don’t suppose you’d let me ride you?” he whispered sardonically. To his surprise, the mare sank down on her front knees and prodded him with her muzzle. Irial stared at her for a moment, and then grabbed a fistful of mane and hauled himself up onto her back.

“Need to get to the Merrow,” he murmured, not sure if she could understand him. He knew they needed to go east to cross the island, but she was taking him north. He tugged on her mane to try and direct her, but she just snorted and continued on her chosen path. He gave up. At least he wasn’t walking anymore. He held on tighter as she started to canter, jumping the low rock walls that were meant to contain her. Then they started to climb, and he realized she was heading for the ancient stone fort that stood in a semicircle on the edge of the island’s westernmost cliff. He shuddered. Was she going to throw him off? The mare carefully maneuvered the rough steps that led to the prehistoric fort, keeping to the well-trod human path. The fields surrounding the ancient stronghold were littered with razor-sharp chunks of limestone that had been embedded in the ground like a sea of spears with the express purpose of discouraging any attack made by horse.

When they reached the top, she stopped, and he slid from her back into a heap on the ground. They were surrounded by a great curved wall on three sides, the fourth open to the chill air and a three-hundred-foot drop to the ocean waves that crashed below. The wind ripped through him like a thousand knives, and he curled into a ball. The mare prodded him again with her muzzle, and he stood reluctantly, trying to use her body to block the wind. “Why are we here?” he asked. And then he saw it.

“A púka,” he breathed. The púka was in his horse form, a majestic black stallion, with a gleaming coat and eyes of red fire. But the fire in them had dimmed, and the púka lay on his side, his breathing heavy and labored. His flanks were covered in patches of white foam; his mouth was lined with dried blood. Irial looked back at the gray mare, who was nervously pawing the ground.

“I’m a friend,” he said to the púka. “Can you speak? Can you take another form, perhaps?” The púka just looked at him out of dim red eyes filled with fear and panic. “This isn’t right,” Irial muttered as he ran his hands over the creature’s body, looking for some sign of injury. “You should be able to speak to me.” He had only ridden a púka once, but he’d never forget the experience. At one time the púka had been legendary in this land for offering wild late-night rides to weary travelers. If you were lucky, you stayed on the púka’s back until the end. If not…well, you never knew where you might end up. He hadn’t thought there were any more of them, and he wondered if this was the last. A chill ran up his spine. Maybe the púka was suffering from the same mysterious illness that was plaguing him and the selkies.

“Can’t you speak to me?” he moaned. “The selkies are sick too; I’m trying to find out why. I need to get to the mainland.”

At this, the púka raised his head a little. His body spasmed, and Irial could tell he was trying to stand. “No, stay down,” he urged. But the stallion would not obey. He lifted himself up on his front legs, and then, with a monumental effort, he got to all fours. He let out a snort through his nostrils, and a plume of smoke drifted from them. Irial approached him hesitantly, slowly reaching out a hand to grasp the wild black mane. His grip tightened automatically, and he flung himself onto the púka’s back. Then, before he could register what was happening, they were moving in a blur of sound and color, the wind rushing in his ears like the roar of the ocean. Irial could not make out where they were or where they were headed. He closed his eyes and hung on for dear life, wishing the journey would end quickly.

And then it did.

He landed roughly on the ground, rolling several times before coming to a stop. For a few moments he just lay there and tried to catch his breath, every bone in his body feeling as if it had been shattered. He gathered his wits and looked around, trying to figure out where the púka had left him. The black horse was nowhere in sight, which worried him. If he couldn’t find it, he couldn’t help it—even if he somehow managed to help himself.

As he circled around in the moonlight, he started to recognize his surroundings. He had been here before. He was in a small circular meadow, just enough space to hold maybe a dozen humans…or a hundred pixies. The trees were unnaturally thick around the meadow. It was perfectly quiet, but Irial knew it was not always this way. “Faelon?” he called out into the surrounding trees. He paced around the meadow. “It’s Irial. I need your help! Faelon? Is anyone there?”

He did not even know if Faelon was still the leader of the pixies, as he had been when Irial last visited this place. But surely one of the sentries or night-dancers would hear him. The last time he had shown up unexpected, a whole troop of pixies had surrounded him and brought him to their king for questioning. Ultimately, they had allowed him to stay, at least until that unfortunate encounter with the woman hiker. The pixies could easily hide themselves from human eyes, but Irial was like a homing beacon for human women. He shook off the unwelcome memories, but his eyes kept straying to the barely discernable mound at the edge of the meadow where they’d buried her.

It was no use. He could not venture into the forest now; he was beyond exhausted and would only get lost in the pitch darkness beneath the trees. He would have to wait until morning…if he survived that long. He fell down onto the soft grass and was asleep within seconds.

When he awoke, his clothes and hair were damp with dew, and for a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to the Otherworld. The dewdrops sparkled in the early morning sunlight like a generous dusting of pixie magic. But then he felt the aching in his body, the same sensation that had plagued him for the past two weeks. He sat up gingerly, and headed toward the pixies’ hidden home in the forest. But as he approached their hideout, he started to feel uneasy. They should have seen and heard him by now. It hadn’t been so long since his last visit that they would have forgotten him, so it was unlikely they’d mistake him for a mere human. “Faelon?” he called again. He stopped and looked around. Had he gone the wrong way? No, he was sure this was it. The tall oak to his right was where Faelon held court, and the bushes that came up to his knees were the ones the pixies often decked out with glowing lights for evening soirees. But the place was empty and void of any sign of life. “Hello? Is anyone here? Faelon! Caldes! Dathel!”

Just then he heard a rustling in the leaves, and his body relaxed. But instead of the flutter of wings and the sound of high-pitched voices, the sounds that emerged were distinctly human. An old woman with long white hair that fell to her waist walked out of the forest. She was bent over, carrying a basket filled with herbs and plants and chunks of bark. Her hands were dirty, and one nail was bleeding.

“They’re all gone,” she said.

The woman was obviously human, and Irial’s instinct was to turn and run. But she spoke as though she had answers.

She let out a dry laugh. “Don’t you worry about me, boy. I’m far too old to be attracted to the likes of you, though I’ll still keep my distance, if you don’t mind. As long as you don’t lay your hands on me I think I can resist.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Maggie,” she answered. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked closer at him. “You don’t look too good.” She scowled. “Another one. I was afraid of this.”

“Another one?” he repeated. “Who else?”

She waved a hand at the forest around them. “The pixies. They left the day before yesterday. Thought it was maybe a curse on the land. I don’t know where they were heading or how far they’ll get—some of them could barely fly anymore.”

“How do you know? You’re a human…Did they let you see them?”

“I am human, yes, but I am also one of the fili,” she answered. “So some of your kind—the magical kind, that is—show themselves to me from time to time. You might as well come with me. I’ve been collecting more herbs for Martin; perhaps they’ll help you.”

“Martin?” Irial didn’t move.

“You’d know him as Logheryman, if you know him at all.”

“The leprechaun. He’s sick as well?”

Maggie nodded tersely, and then headed back through the woods. At another time he would have been able to race ahead of her, but now he struggled to keep up. The forest was dense, and he moved slowly, leaning on tree trunks for support and climbing awkwardly over fallen logs. Every once in a while Maggie would veer from her path and stoop down to collect a handful of some type of plant or flower—they all looked the same to him, but she examined each leaf, petal, and stem closely before adding it to her basket. Finally, when he thought he could go no farther, they emerged into another clearing, this one with a small house at its center.

“Is this where you live?” he asked, leaning heavily against the closest tree trunk.

“No,” she answered.
“
’Tis Martin’s house. Come inside and I’ll do what I can for you.”

He made his way through the front door and collapsed on the sofa in the front room, unable to keep a moan from escaping his lips. Maggie clicked her tongue in concern and tossed him a blanket from across the room. He knew she didn’t want to get too close, and he was glad for it. He needed her help, and she wouldn’t be able to give it to him if she were driven mad with desire, which could very well happen even though she was old enough to be a grandmother.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m going to check on Martin.” Then she disappeared into the back of the house.

Irial stared at the white ceiling of the simple cottage. They were all sick—the selkies, the púka, the pixies, and now the leprechauns—or at least
a
leprechaun. Even if he did make it to the Merrow, he suspected that they, too, would be suffering from this mysterious illness. But Maggie seemed fine, even though she had obviously been caring for the leprechaun. Were humans somehow immune? But what kind of sickness would affect only those from the Unseen world? And how had it spread so quickly? He was shivering under the heavy wool blanket. Could
he
have caused this? As far as he knew, he was the only one who’d spent time with all the various afflicted species of the Unseen. But no—he hadn’t seen a púka in years, let alone the one who’d given him a ride the previous day, and though he had heard of Logheryman, he had never before met him or any of his kind. He struggled to piece it all together. Then a sharp voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Martin! You get back in that bed this instant!”

Irial turned his head in the direction of Maggie’s voice. A thin, grizzled man who he could only assume was Logheryman was limping his way toward him. Dressed in a threadbare robe, he was leaning on a carved wooden cane. His face was gaunt and unnaturally gray, and his hair looked as if it had been falling out in chunks. He wavered and almost fell, but Maggie pulled his arm around her shoulders, muttering about “fool ideas” and “stubborn leprechauns.”

“The time for looking after me will soon be over, my dear,” Logheryman said as he allowed her to lead him to the large armchair across from Irial, and then arrange blankets over his lap. He laid his head against the back of the chair, as though holding his neck up required too much effort. But his eyes were clear and cogent when they settled on Irial.

“A gancanagh, she tells me,” he said. Irial nodded. Logheryman regarded him silently for a moment before continuing. “Where did you come from?”

“The selkie colony on Inis Mór,” Irial said. “It’s the same there—they’re all sick. I came to find help. I was trying to get to the Merrow, but the púka brought me here…well, to the pixies.”

Logheryman raised a gnarled eyebrow. “The selkies as well? And the púka? Is it ill?”

“Yes,” Irial answered. “I don’t know where it went, but it must have expended a great effort to bring me this far.”

“Dead, probably,” Logheryman said in a hollow voice. He and Maggie exchanged a long glance. “How the tables have turned. Twice in recent days they have come to us for help, and now we must go to them.”

“Who?” Irial asked.

Logheryman ignored him. “Maggie, my dear, would you mind fetching my boots?”

She scowled at him. “I will do no such thing! You’re in no shape to go anywhere, magic boots or not!
”

The leprechaun rolled his eyes. “I won’t argue with you there,” he said. “But this lad is much younger than I am, and he seems to be in slightly better shape. He must be, to have survived the journey from Inis Mór. A few thousand miles more won’t kill him.”

“And where will you be sending him, then?”

“They always knew how to contact me; they never told me how
I
could contact
them
if I were ever in need,” he said, his words tinged with bitterness. “But I once sent them to a building in Halifax, care of my thousand-league boots. Her friend, the one who was burned, lives there now. Her name is Jane. She’ll know how to find her.”

“Find who?” Irial asked, thoroughly confused.

“Queen Cedar of the Tuatha Dé Danann,” Logheryman answered. “I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but if anyone can help us, it’s her. She seems to have made a habit of beating the odds.”

CHAPTER 3

C
edar asked Nevan to convey the message that something urgent had come up and she wouldn’t be at the Council meeting today. Then she and Rohan headed home, followed by her contingent of guards, so that Cedar could change into what she called “her civvies.” Rohan told one of the guards to round up Murdoch.

“It will be too conspicuous for you to show up in Dublin surrounded by guards,” Rohan explained. “But I’ll feel better if at least two of us are with you.”

Cedar didn’t object, as long as it didn’t delay their trip. But by the time she had slipped into her faded blue jeans and Rolling Stones T-shirt, Murdoch had arrived, looking rather grumpy in slacks and a sport jacket.

“For the record, I’d like it known that I object to the idea of bringing the druids—any druids—to our world in the first place,” Murdoch said.

“They don’t know where they are,” Cedar said. “For all they know, they’re still on Earth. This one won’t be any different. Besides, you’ve assured me that our druid prisoners are well guarded.”

Murdoch fell silent, and Cedar turned back to Rohan. “Ready?”

“Have you been to Trinity College before?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve seen pictures,” she said, closing her eyes and concentrating on the photographs of the old brick buildings that she’d seen online. She opened the sidh in the air in front of them, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

“This way,” Rohan said, immediately closing the sidh behind them. They were in a large cobblestone square surrounded by gray brick buildings. Tall, leafy trees tinted red and gold lined the pathways that crisscrossed the square. College students armed with iPhones and heavy backpacks pushed by them. Murdoch moved closer to Cedar as they hurried after Rohan. They rounded a corner, and entered a building through a side door. Cedar didn’t have a clue where they were, but she was sure Rohan had done his research.

“Have
you
been here before?” she asked as she followed him up a narrow flight of stone stairs that had been smoothed by hundreds of years of footsteps.

“Yes,” he answered, offering no other explanation. Finally, at the end of a long, unremarkable hallway, they stopped in front of a closed door labeled with a sign reading, “Helen Sullivan, PhD. Interim Keeper of Manuscripts.”

“Will she know who—
what
—we are?” Cedar whispered.

“If she’s a druid worth her salt, she will,” Murdoch muttered in reply. Without knocking, he pushed open the door, entering first and giving the room a swift once-over.

Behind a tidy, polished desk in the center of the room sat a woman Cedar guessed to be in her sixties. She had short-cropped gray hair and rather severe features, with angled eyebrows that gave her a permanent look of disapproval. She was dressed in a simple black pantsuit, and a single pearl dangled from a fine gold chain around her neck. She stood up as soon as they entered.

“Excuse me, this is a private—” She stopped suddenly, her steely blue eyes growing wide. Cedar stepped forward.

“Helen Sullivan?”

The woman met her gaze, unflinching, her eyes still wide. “So it’s true. The Tuatha Dé Danann have come to Earth. I heard the rumors…”

“We need you to come with us. We have some questions for you,” Cedar interrupted.

At this, Helen frowned, her arched eyebrows becoming more pronounced. “Does this have something to do with Liam? Do you know where he is?”

“He’s dead,” Cedar said bluntly. “But we can’t talk about it here.” She watched closely for Helen’s reaction, but the woman had become still as stone.

“And where would you like me to go?” Helen asked after a long silence.

“Somewhere we can ask you some questions,” Cedar answered.

“You can ask me your questions here,” she said, sitting down in her chair and folding her hands on the desk in front of her.

“I must insist,” Cedar said, a new edge to her voice. “There is too much risk of interruption here.” She glanced at Rohan and Murdoch, who both nodded.

Cedar opened a sidh back to Tír na nÓg, to the compound beneath the Hall where they were keeping the other druids. Helen jumped to her feet at the sight of the sidh. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” Cedar answered.

Helen’s lips were tight. “I will answer your questions, whatever they are, since you give me no choice,” she said. “But you must understand, I cannot be away from my work for long.”

Cedar raised her eyebrows. Three Tuatha Dé Danann had just walked into her office, and this woman was worried about her work? Someone had priority issues—or was hiding something. She jerked her head toward the sidh. “Let’s go.”

Walking through it, Cedar let the other two Danann follow with Helen. As Rohan closed the sidh behind them, Cedar watched Helen assess her surroundings. While it did not appear that they were underground, they were in fact in the dungeons under the Hall. This place reminded Cedar of an old abandoned train station, cavernous and empty, with a gray, arched ceiling soaring above them. A series of archways lined each side of the chamber, and at first glance they appeared to be tunnels leading off in various directions underground. Two uniformed guards stood at each end of the chamber. Murdoch took the lead and they followed him down one of the tunnels, stopping at a solid wooden door set several feet within the wall. He took a large brass key from his pocket and shoved it into the lock. The door swung open to admit them.

Helen had remained silent up until now, but with one sweeping glance she took in the small room, which was outfitted plainly with a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. “What is this?” she asked.

“It’s where you’ll stay until you tell us everything we need to know,” Cedar said. Murdoch closed the door with an audible slam, and he and Rohan stood on either side of it.

“It looks like a cell to me,” Helen said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “I had heard the gods were arrogant. You have some nerve.”

Cedar bristled. “What do you know about Liam’s plans?” she asked, not wanting to waste any more time.

“Liam’s plans for what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re telling me that you and Liam worked together every day, and he never once tried to recruit your help for his plan to steal the Lia Fáil and put Nuala on the throne?”

Helen’s eyes narrowed. “Steal the Lia Fáil? The Stone of Destiny? No, he did not. And I find it hard to believe that he would be capable of such a thing. Liam was an excellent man and a fine scholar.”

Cedar looked at Rohan, exasperated. He pulled a small silver goblet out of one of his inner pockets and handed it to her.

“You’ve heard of the goblet of Manannan mac Lir?” Cedar asked as she passed the goblet to Helen.

The druid nodded. “Heard of it, yes. But I did not know it actually existed.”

“I’ll ask you again,” Cedar said. “Were you helping Liam and Nuala?”

Helen hesitated, staring at the goblet, which she was now turning over in her hands, examining it from every angle. Then she gripped it tightly and looked Cedar in the eye. “No.”

The goblet remained intact, and Cedar frowned. Perhaps she had asked the wrong question.

“Did Liam tell you about his plan to prevent me from becoming queen?”

“No.”

“Did he mention the Lia Fáil?”

“No.”

“Did he talk about the druids returning to Tír na nÓg?”

“No.”

“Do you know who Nuala is?”

At this Helen hesitated. “I had heard that some of the Danann were in our world. One of them, a woman, apparently contacted some of the druids. If that was Nuala, she didn’t contact me, and it wouldn’t have made a difference if she’d tried. I do not wish to be involved in the internal quarrels of the Tuatha Dé Danann.” She gave Cedar a pointed look. “How did Liam die?”

“He was killed.”

“By you?”

“Not entirely.”

Helen raised an eyebrow at her. “I have answered your questions. I was not involved in any plot against you. I demand that you release me at once.”

Cedar glared at her. “Both Nuala and Liam are dead. We know they weren’t working alone. You were Liam’s assistant—you worked with him every day. Do you honestly think I’m just going to let you walk out of here?”
I was fooled once
, Cedar told herself.
I trusted Liam so quickly, even when the others didn’t, and he nearly killed Eden and Finn. I won’t make the same mistake twice. She didn’t even blink when I told her Liam was dead. She knows something she’s not telling me.

“I was his assistant
at the library
, not in some plot to take over the Otherworld. I wasn’t even sure this realm existed until I was forced here…That’s where I’m assuming we are, anyway. Look, your goblet is still whole. I have told you no lies.”

She was telling the truth; the goblet was smooth and solid in her hands. Helen tried to give it back to her, but Cedar refused to take it. “I’m not done,” she said. “Why were two druids working at the library of Trinity College Dublin? There aren’t many druids left, so it’s pretty odd that two would be working at the same place. Was he your mentor?”

“No, he was not.” Helen sniffed. “Druids have an interest in ancient things. If you did your research, you’d realize that many druids are scholars of the ancient world. Our library possesses some of the most ancient and rare manuscripts in existence. It’s not unusual that such treasures would draw more than one druid. Now, you must return me to the college at once.”

“You seem unusually attached to your work,” Cedar said.

“I am responsible for a priceless collection of artifacts. There is no one else there to keep them safe, so I
must
return!”

Cedar frowned at Helen’s strangely worded comment. “I find it hard to believe that there is no one else in the entire library who can keep these things safe. Do you mean that there are no other
druids
? Why would that be important?”

Helen’s jaw was clenched as she answered. “My work is very sensitive. Only I can properly oversee it. You do not understand the consequences.”

Cedar kept an eye on the goblet, which was still in one piece in Helen’s hand. The druid was far more flustered now than she’d been all day. Cedar knew she was on to something.

“Tell me about these consequences.”

There was a long pause. “I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“It does not concern you. It is a sacred trust, given to the druids and no one else!” “What kind of sacred trust?”

“It is nothing. Nothing of importance.”

At this, the goblet shattered, and Helen jumped back as the shards fell from her hand to the floor.

Cedar raised an eyebrow. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” She bent down and scooped up the shards. “I am queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann,” she whispered to it, feeling a chill as it reformed in her hand. Then she handed it back to Helen.

“I told you I was not involved with any plot against you or anyone else. That is the truth,” Helen said emphatically. “I didn’t know what Liam and this Nuala woman were planning. And I
certainly
didn’t help them. I have done nothing to harm you or your people.”

“Did Liam know about this ‘sacred trust’?” Cedar asked.

She saw Helen’s eyes flicker toward the goblet before answering. “Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No.”

“Hiding things from me is not going to get you sent home sooner.”

“Is it ‘hiding things’ to not tell you every detail about my life and work? You might be queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann, but you are not
my
queen.”

Cedar took a step forward, so that they were standing eye to eye. “Liam was very kind to me. He offered to help us in our quest for the Lia Fáil. He told me stories about my adoptive mother, a druid who raised me—until Nuala killed her. He helped me understand her. He asked me to trust him, and I did. And then he betrayed us all in the worst possible way. He tortured my daughter and the man I love. He tried to burn us all alive. He would have allowed Nuala to start a new world war on Earth. I’ve learned how skilled druids are at keeping secrets—secrets that end up hurting innocent people. So forgive me if I don’t exactly trust you…particularly not when I know you’re hiding something from me.”

She left the room, feeling a grim satisfaction at the sound of the heavy door clanging shut behind her.