Fire Arrow (22 page)

As she drew closer, through the drifting fog, Brie could make out the figure of the man standing at the edge of the lake. Just as in her dream, he moved slowly toward her.

Her eyes were fixed on the man's face. But even as other aspects of him became clear—his black tunic and soft gray trousers, the golden sword buckled at his side, even his gold hair—his face remained obscured. At first Brie thought it was the fog, but then she thought something must be wrong with her vision. The harder she tried to focus on his face, the less she could see it, as if spiderwebs were stretched over her eyes. She rubbed them, but the filmy blur remained.

"Welcome." The voice was deep and rich and warm, promising unbounded hospitality: a haven of comfort, ease, and refreshment after a long journey. But there was an undercurrent of something else.... What was it? she wondered. Satisfaction, as though something planned for a long time had come off as expected.

The man's warm, caressing voice wrapped around Brie, drawing her closer. But still his face was blurred, shifting.

"I have waited long," he said, and Brie's hand was enveloped in his. She was being propelled toward the lake. Somehow the man with no face had taken control of her limbs, the effect reminding her of the paralysis caused by a morg's touch, except that this was not a cold, spreading numbness but a hot prickle, as if the blood inside her veins were being heated by a flame. Terror caught at her somewhere deep inside, but she could not stop herself from moving forward.

The benevolent voice said, "Here, let us cross to the bell tower."

Even with the stunned, burning feeling in her limbs, Brie faltered. Perhaps the man with no face could walk on the water, but she could not.

He gave an indulgent laugh. "There is a pathway made of stone just under the water. An underwater wall, if you like, an amusing contrivance wrought by the original owner. I will not let you fall."

And indeed, like a master puppeteer, he guided Brie's feet across the stone pathway. The water came up almost to her knees and was so opaque she could not see her boots. The path had been constructed with a devilish ingenuity, twisting and turning in such a way that, on her own, it would have taken half the day for Brie to navigate it.

Finally they stepped up onto the islet, and the man led her to the tower's door. There were carvings above the arch, faces with protruding eyes and tongues thrusting out, and the surface of the door was covered with runes.

The door was slightly ajar, and the man pushed it open, leading her into a round, dim room lit by flickering lanterns. The man pulled the large door shut behind them, then went around Brie to a spiral stairway. Unaccountably, Brie's legs bore her up the stairs behind him. It was a narrow, claustrophobic, unlit space, barely as wide as her shoulders. Once they were out of sight of the entryway, they moved upward in complete darkness.

They climbed silently, the only sounds their breathing and their feet on the gray stone steps. On and on they climbed. Surely we will soon reach the top, Brie thought. But they did not. Instead they came to a landing, which was lit by lanterns that revealed three closed doors. Even here they did not pause, continuing their ascent of the circular stairway. They passed many such landings and many closed doors. It did not seem possible to Brie that the tower could contain so many.

At last the man stopped, on a landing that had only one door. Unlike the others, this door bore a mosaic inlay of gleaming white and gold tiles. Withdrawing a large golden key from a leather pouch at his waist, the man opened the door.

Inside was a sumptuous, beautiful room, gleaming everywhere with gold: gold brocade curtains, elegant enormous tapestries worked with golden thread, luxurious gold velvet rugs, tables and chairs with ornate gilt legs. A soft warm light glowed from dozens of intricately wrought, gold lanterns. A golden table was spread with plates of biscuits and cakes, and carafes of honey-colored wine. ;

"Please," the man with the blurred face said, pulling out a chair, "you must be weary after your long journey."

Brie wanted to protest, but even as she tried to form the words, her legs were moving, bearing her across the room to a gold velvet chair with golden legs.

Before she sat, the man took her bow and quiver. "You will not need these." He placed them on a gilt table near the door.

Again she tried to protest and again she could not.

Returning to the table, the man filled two plates with food, poured two golden goblets of the honey-colored wine, and said with a smiling voice, "Do eat. You will find you can move your arms now." The hot prickly feeling suddenly left Brie's arms, though remained elsewhere. But she did not eat.

"Who are you?" Brie asked.

"First we eat, then we will talk." He drank from his goblet and then began to eat. Brie still could not see his face. "I assure you," he said between bites, "none of the food or drink has been tampered with. The wine is an excellent vintage, from the first pressing of Oldyn grapes, sweetened with the purest clover honey in Dungal. You must try it, Brie."

He had used her name.

"Show me your face," she said.

The man let out a sigh, then replied, "Very well." He took a last bite, set down his golden cutlery, and wiped his mouth with a golden napkin. Then he pushed himself a short distance from the table.

Mesmerized, Brie watched the man's face. The features began to resolve into a definite pattern; it was a well-favored face with a strong chin, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and eyes as blue as the core of a lasan flame. It was the face of a young god. Memory stirred in Brie. She knew him, but she could not recall...

He smiled. "It is such a pleasure to see you again, Breo-Saight. Breo-Saight—it was a name I gave you, do you remember? I little guessed then I was a prophet, as well as a sorcerer."

***

"
Loolk, Brie. Your arrow flew higher than an eagle. It almost set those clouds aflame.
"

"
Was it a good shot?
"

"
The best yet. I know, I shall give you a new name. To match your prowess. Breo-Saight. Fire arrow.
"

"
Fire arrow...
"

"
Yes. And one day it shall be known throughout the land. Breo-Saight." A dazzling grin. Her own eager smile in response.

***

"Balor," she said. Her cousin.

He smiled at her. "I enjoyed the year I spent at Dun Slieve. Your father was an adequate teacher for what I required at the time. Of course I was only just discovering the potential in me for other things."

"We never heard from you after you left," Brie heard herself say, her voice childlike.

"Ah, it could not be helped. I came here first, to Dungal. I knew I was ready for instruction of a different kind, to kindle the draoicht in me. I had always heard that Dungal was rich in such people, but as it turned out, none was powerful enough, except the mad ones like Yldir. And they would not help me. So I went to Scath."

"Medb," Brie said softly.

"Indeed. A tactical choice, and a fruitful one as it turned out. But enough. Shall we return to our meal? You haven't yet tried the wine."

Brie's mind whirled.

This man Balor, her cousin, acted as if he had brought her here. And yet she thought the arrow, and Sago, had guided her path. Without thinking, she glanced at the quiver.

His eyes followed her glance. "Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten." Brie's stomach tightened. Again Balor laid down his golden fork. He crossed to Brie's quiver and peered inside. Wrinkling his forehead, he put his hand inside, riffling through the arrows.

Balor made a sound of annoyance. "Where is the arrow?"

Brie kept her voice level. "Arrow?"

"The fire arrow. That I sent the incompetent fool Bricriu to retrieve. I understood you bore it with you."

Brie was silent.

Balor turned the quiver over, dumping its contents onto a gold brocade couch. Brie stared at the dozen or so arrows. They all looked alike. None bore the markings of story bands nor the fletching of goldenhawk feathers.

Balor frowned, then shook his head. He gazed at Brie. She kept her face still, expressionless.

"I wonder what you could have done with it," Balor intoned softly. "Left it with your traveling companion, perhaps. Or hidden it. Ah well, it is immaterial. You do not have it here. And you will not be departing this tower, not at least without me.

"Now, since it is clear you do not intend to break bread with me, we must move on. I have an invasion to prepare and there is more I would have you know of me." He spoke the word
invasion
as another would have said "evening banquet," Brie thought.

"My eyes," his voice commanded. And, though afraid, Brie gazed straight into those blue-flame eyes, and as she watched, one of them, the right one, drained of all color. The blue-flame dissolved and was gone. The eyeball was completely white.

Casually Balor drew out a dark green eye-patch and affixed it over his right, colorless eye.

An eye-patch
... Brie's mind twitched. But Balor's voice called her back.

"You see me now as I am. The gabha call me Gealacan, or White-eye. It was an unfortunate legacy of my apprenticeship with Medb. I was tending a concoction, an experimental brew Medb had prepared using a flake from the cailceadon. She left the room for several moments and I, believing it would accelerate my education—correctly as it turned out—scooped up a fingerful and put it in my mouth. Unfortunately a drop splashed into my eye, with the result you see now. I also lost a part of my finger." He held up his index finger to illustrate his words; it was indeed cut off at the first joint. "And my tongue was damaged as well, though Medb was kind enough to repair that. My eye she left as it was. Partly as punishment, and partly, I believe, to make us more alike. Or perhaps you are unaware of the paleness of Medb's eyes? She thinks them exceedingly handsome and was quite pleased with my matching eye.

"At any rate Medb's brew did wonders for my draoicht, much more than she knows even now. After all, she lost the cailceadon, but I shall always have a part of it inside me. And to lose a bit of color from one's eye, well, that's hardly an intolerable price to pay."

Brie stared at the eye-patch. The dark green was wrong somehow. It should have been black.

"Ah, you have guessed. I promise this, shall be the last of my revelations. I apologize for the melodrama. Had there been time, I would have parceled them out more slowly."

Brie knew before he had finished. Like clay pressed into place by artful human hands, his blurred features resolved into a new face—a coarse, brutish Scathian face wearing a black eye-patch.

"Not my own, of course," Balor said. "But useful for the occasion."

Brie let out a thin cry, pain coiling in her chest like a serpent. It was the face of the third murderer, the last of the three men she had sought.

It had been Balor who, from his horse, had directed the others as they murdered her father.

In an instant she was back in the Ramhar Forest. She could smell her father's blood, could almost feel it wet on her skin, though she watched him die from a distance.

The man with the eye-patch, the face she had memorized and sought for so long—it had been a false face after all.

Rage filmed her vision. She strained against the invisible bonds on her limbs.

"You are angry. I understand," Balor said. "It will pass, in time. And would you indeed kill your own cousin, Breo-Saight? I think not. Killing is not in your nature, though I have been impressed with your skill of late,"

Brie flinched. It was as if he sought to own her by their shared darkness. "Why did you kill him?" she whispered.

"It was Medb's directive, to kill off Eirren's heroes, the prime of its manhood. It was a sound plan as far as it went; indeed I have done much the same here in Dungal—sending the moths for Yldir, a stonefish for your Sago—but I like to think I have improved on the design. Sow fear and hunger through a land with killing fish and dry winds and the strength to resist will be removed."

"Did you kill Cuillean, too?"

Balor laughed. It was a delighted, amused laugh, as though the idea was a lovely one and he wished he had thought of it. "No indeed. It is not my place to spread gossip, but it is said that, in my absence, someone answering Cuillean's description is a frequent and much-favored visitor at Medb's fortress in Scath.

"I see it does not surprise you. Of course, you saw him there in the forest, watching. Just as you yourself watched."

He had known she was there. Hatred coursed through Brie's veins like a swollen river overflowing its banks. She wanted to kill Balor, wanted to see him lying dead on his gold velvet rug, blood flowing down his face, like her father....

"Now"—Balor's rich voice broke into her thoughts—"time grows short. And I have a rendezvous with a sea serpent." He smiled to himself, a silken, golden smile.

Brie stared ahead, unseeing.

"Sadly, I cannot take you north with me to marshal my forces. But though I may be gone long, rest assured you shall not lack for food and drink. And when I am done, I shall return for you." He rose, coming up behind her.

Balor put his hand on Brie's neck. She fought back the nausea rising in her throat. Deftly he unclasped the bioran holding her braids in place, then he deliberately, slowly, ran his fingers up her scalp and through her hair, unweaving the plaits. His fingers were like talons.

"My pretty cousin," he said softly. "We shall rule it all, together." His words caressed, beckoned. "This little land, Eirren, and, one day, Scath..."

Abruptly he released her and moved to the door. Picking up her bow and quiver, Balor smiled at Brie. "I shall find a safe place for these before I depart."

Then he was gone. She could hear him lock the door from the outside.

Brie's body snapped and sagged. The hot prickling palsy that had trapped her limbs was gone. Rising from the velvet-and-gold chair, she ran to the door. She twisted the handle, pulling hard. The door didn't move. She strained and tugged, kicked the unrelenting surface, even tried forcing her fingers into the infinitesimal space between door and wall.