triumphant smile. Lugh might have warded her helmet so that she could not know of what they had spoken, but Ailill had foreseen such things. The spiral in her hands made every word very clear, and now they were locked away in her memory. A second spiral she left, so that no one could read her thoughts and thus betray her.
And what thoughts!
A Mortal boy, was it? She certainly knew who that was. And a particular vessel? She had a notion about that as well. Already a plan was forming.
Chapter III: He-Goes - About
(a Place Between—no time)
“Fionchadd, you fiend, let me go!” David gritted, as he twisted beneath the painful wrestling hold that had somehow pinned both hands hard up between his shoulder blades before he had known what was happening. Had there been anything but edged metal (not steel, he knew) at his throat, his assailant would now be sitting on his butt somewhere in front of him, courtesy of a soldier-uncle’s training. The grip was poor, really; easy to escape—if only there hadn’t been the dagger.
Abruptly the pressure vanished, the weapon swept away. David spun around to face a boy apparently his own age—except that Fionchadd mac Ailill of the Daoine Sidhe was centuries older.
Eye to eye they met each other: both slim and muscular and a little shorter than was normal for their races; both still gaining depth in chests and width in shoulders, fullness in arms and legs. Even their blond hair was similar, save that the Faery’s was curly, slightly more golden, and somewhat longer than David’s bandannaed mass. Their eyes were different, though: David’s blue and level; Fionchadd’s green and aslant. And the Faery’s face was thin, his cheekbones high above a pointed chin—a prettily handsome face, but somehow disconcerting. By contrast, David’s features showed a typical adolescent synthesis of a man’s clean angles and a boy’s softer curves. At the moment, the Faery was dressed nearly as lightly as his human counterpart: in a sleeveless, hip-length tunic of green-and-white checked wool, and baggy gray breeches drawn snug around his waist and ankles. He wore no shoes, but his narrow feet looked hard and competent.
“A fiend, am I?” Fionchadd laughed, his voice low but clear—his real voice, not the half-heard talk the Sidhe used among themselves, that rang more in the mind than the ear. He clamped his arms around David and gave him a swift, brotherly hug that took him completely by surprise.
“Some folks would say you are,” David acknowledged solemnly when he had caught his breath.
A flash of wicked grin. “Would you?”
David scratched his nose. “I’m not sure. I haven’t got that far in my bull sessions with Silverhand yet. ’Course, some say you were angels who wouldn’t take sides when Satan rebelled.”
To which a deeper voice—bronze rather than brass—appended, “And some say we’re the souls of the mortal dead!”
David started at that, and whirled around to see two more figures enter the stone arena.
One was an old man, white-haired; his thin body bent and stiff and clad in a plain robe the color of a full moon’s corona; and with sightless eyes that shone dark silver. He carried a long wooden staff clinched in dark, gnarled fingers, each of which bore at least one ring of gold or silver.
“Oisin!” David cried, and the man inclined his head. He looked, David thought, either preoccupied or worried, to judge from his furrowed brow.
The man who stood beside him was much taller, fairhaired, and wearing a short white tunic above matching hose and thigh boots. His right arm appeared to be cased in articulated metal armor of fabulous workmanship, though in fact it was part of his body. He it was who had spoken.
“I know that’s not true, Nuada,” David said quickly. “About the souls of the dead, I mean.”
“ Do you?” the Faery lord gave him back. A lifted eyebrow showed humor the rest of his face denied—apparently something was bothering him
And what thoughts!
A Mortal boy, was it? She certainly knew who that was. And a particular vessel? She had a notion about that as well. Already a plan was forming.
Chapter III: He-Goes - About
(a Place Between—no time)
“Fionchadd, you fiend, let me go!” David gritted, as he twisted beneath the painful wrestling hold that had somehow pinned both hands hard up between his shoulder blades before he had known what was happening. Had there been anything but edged metal (not steel, he knew) at his throat, his assailant would now be sitting on his butt somewhere in front of him, courtesy of a soldier-uncle’s training. The grip was poor, really; easy to escape—if only there hadn’t been the dagger.
Abruptly the pressure vanished, the weapon swept away. David spun around to face a boy apparently his own age—except that Fionchadd mac Ailill of the Daoine Sidhe was centuries older.
Eye to eye they met each other: both slim and muscular and a little shorter than was normal for their races; both still gaining depth in chests and width in shoulders, fullness in arms and legs. Even their blond hair was similar, save that the Faery’s was curly, slightly more golden, and somewhat longer than David’s bandannaed mass. Their eyes were different, though: David’s blue and level; Fionchadd’s green and aslant. And the Faery’s face was thin, his cheekbones high above a pointed chin—a prettily handsome face, but somehow disconcerting. By contrast, David’s features showed a typical adolescent synthesis of a man’s clean angles and a boy’s softer curves. At the moment, the Faery was dressed nearly as lightly as his human counterpart: in a sleeveless, hip-length tunic of green-and-white checked wool, and baggy gray breeches drawn snug around his waist and ankles. He wore no shoes, but his narrow feet looked hard and competent.
“A fiend, am I?” Fionchadd laughed, his voice low but clear—his real voice, not the half-heard talk the Sidhe used among themselves, that rang more in the mind than the ear. He clamped his arms around David and gave him a swift, brotherly hug that took him completely by surprise.
“Some folks would say you are,” David acknowledged solemnly when he had caught his breath.
A flash of wicked grin. “Would you?”
David scratched his nose. “I’m not sure. I haven’t got that far in my bull sessions with Silverhand yet. ’Course, some say you were angels who wouldn’t take sides when Satan rebelled.”
To which a deeper voice—bronze rather than brass—appended, “And some say we’re the souls of the mortal dead!”
David started at that, and whirled around to see two more figures enter the stone arena.
One was an old man, white-haired; his thin body bent and stiff and clad in a plain robe the color of a full moon’s corona; and with sightless eyes that shone dark silver. He carried a long wooden staff clinched in dark, gnarled fingers, each of which bore at least one ring of gold or silver.
“Oisin!” David cried, and the man inclined his head. He looked, David thought, either preoccupied or worried, to judge from his furrowed brow.
The man who stood beside him was much taller, fairhaired, and wearing a short white tunic above matching hose and thigh boots. His right arm appeared to be cased in articulated metal armor of fabulous workmanship, though in fact it was part of his body. He it was who had spoken.
“I know that’s not true, Nuada,” David said quickly. “About the souls of the dead, I mean.”
“ Do you?” the Faery lord gave him back. A lifted eyebrow showed humor the rest of his face denied—apparently something was bothering him
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