able to make out another vessel, near twin to this, but directly across the center of the bubbling lake and thereby masked by the eerie glare of the Pillar between.
Yet even as he watched, the vessel moved, its strange, limp sails filling with the force of some impossible wind as it glided slowly around the Pillar toward them.
“What?” LaWanda spat, then rounded on Fionchadd. “This ain’t what you expected, is it, Faery boy?”
Fionchadd shook his head, and David caught a wash of confusion and anger aimed at once at the approaching vessel and at LaWanda—the latter clearly accompanying a warning that she had to appear submissive and that he and Aife would try to cloak all their thoughts, but it would be difficult if those thoughts were also spoken, fueled as they were by strong emotion.
“No,” Nuada countered—aloud. “Perhaps tongue speech is best now, for the Sons dislike that mode—the province of mortals, they say—and so may not be attuned to it. In any event, this is not what we expected. Do you have any ideas, Fionchadd?”
“Only that this place is not precisely in Tir-Nan-Og. Indeed, I believe that may be a function of Lugh’s imprisonment. He was the Land, and the Land cleaved to him. If he is cut off from the Land, his Power will not hold it—not those parts already tending to rebellion, such as this place, or that in which we found you.”
“So the Sons may have—”
“Unleashed the whirlwind,” Big Billy concluded. David wondered what his pa was thinking—he’d certainly said little enough since the shooting lesson. Then again, he wasn’t one to talk when there was work to be done, and definitely not one to admit ignorance or fear in the face of a foe.
Nuada eyed Big Billy askance. “Aye…perhaps. Perhaps, indeed, when the time comes for them to set up their new king there will be nothing left for him to rule, whether we free Lugh or not.”
“Who is their new king, anyway?” David asked abruptly.
“His name is Turinne,” Nuada muttered. “He is young and rash, but very, very canny, or I would know more of him than I do, which is almost nothing.”
David’s hands were starting to sweat on the stock of his shotgun. “Would bullets do anything at all against that?” he murmured to anyone who would listen.
Iron will wreak little harm against Powersmith vessels, came the quick flash of Fionchadd’s thought. Save your strength for living foes.
How many? David thought back at him, desperately hoping their conversation was masked.
Enough for this place—and more than we command.
And then David felt a dull, alien buzzing in his mind that was surely the approaching vessel bespeaking the Faeries that crewed their own. Other consciousnesses brushed his too, and he cringed, so full of contempt were they. “Don’t think,” he rasped to his mortal friends. “They’re tryin’ to read our minds.”
At least Aife’s ploy was working—maybe. But David’s fingers were sweating more, and the cursed, pervasive heat was a constant distraction, given how liquid was starting to pool on his forehead, run into his eyes, and make tickling forays the length of his body. He prayed nobody had an itchy trigger finger.
And then the steam cleared enough for David to glimpse the insignia emblazoned upon that approaching sail. Lugh’s device was argent, a sun-in-splendor, Or; or sometimes that sun on a field murry, sable, or gules. This was a parody of that: a golden field; a white sun impaled on a sword, the sun releasing a rain of scarlet drops across the lower half of the field —goutee de sang, in the jargon of heraldry.
Only then did he pause to wonder what device their own vessel bore. Earlier—last week—the sail had been crimson, displaying a silver American chameleon or anole, in reference to Fionchadd’s Cherokee name, Dagantu. If that still billowed above them, they were in trouble.
Unable to resist, David looked around, but the sail was mercifully furled, a bound cigar
Yet even as he watched, the vessel moved, its strange, limp sails filling with the force of some impossible wind as it glided slowly around the Pillar toward them.
“What?” LaWanda spat, then rounded on Fionchadd. “This ain’t what you expected, is it, Faery boy?”
Fionchadd shook his head, and David caught a wash of confusion and anger aimed at once at the approaching vessel and at LaWanda—the latter clearly accompanying a warning that she had to appear submissive and that he and Aife would try to cloak all their thoughts, but it would be difficult if those thoughts were also spoken, fueled as they were by strong emotion.
“No,” Nuada countered—aloud. “Perhaps tongue speech is best now, for the Sons dislike that mode—the province of mortals, they say—and so may not be attuned to it. In any event, this is not what we expected. Do you have any ideas, Fionchadd?”
“Only that this place is not precisely in Tir-Nan-Og. Indeed, I believe that may be a function of Lugh’s imprisonment. He was the Land, and the Land cleaved to him. If he is cut off from the Land, his Power will not hold it—not those parts already tending to rebellion, such as this place, or that in which we found you.”
“So the Sons may have—”
“Unleashed the whirlwind,” Big Billy concluded. David wondered what his pa was thinking—he’d certainly said little enough since the shooting lesson. Then again, he wasn’t one to talk when there was work to be done, and definitely not one to admit ignorance or fear in the face of a foe.
Nuada eyed Big Billy askance. “Aye…perhaps. Perhaps, indeed, when the time comes for them to set up their new king there will be nothing left for him to rule, whether we free Lugh or not.”
“Who is their new king, anyway?” David asked abruptly.
“His name is Turinne,” Nuada muttered. “He is young and rash, but very, very canny, or I would know more of him than I do, which is almost nothing.”
David’s hands were starting to sweat on the stock of his shotgun. “Would bullets do anything at all against that?” he murmured to anyone who would listen.
Iron will wreak little harm against Powersmith vessels, came the quick flash of Fionchadd’s thought. Save your strength for living foes.
How many? David thought back at him, desperately hoping their conversation was masked.
Enough for this place—and more than we command.
And then David felt a dull, alien buzzing in his mind that was surely the approaching vessel bespeaking the Faeries that crewed their own. Other consciousnesses brushed his too, and he cringed, so full of contempt were they. “Don’t think,” he rasped to his mortal friends. “They’re tryin’ to read our minds.”
At least Aife’s ploy was working—maybe. But David’s fingers were sweating more, and the cursed, pervasive heat was a constant distraction, given how liquid was starting to pool on his forehead, run into his eyes, and make tickling forays the length of his body. He prayed nobody had an itchy trigger finger.
And then the steam cleared enough for David to glimpse the insignia emblazoned upon that approaching sail. Lugh’s device was argent, a sun-in-splendor, Or; or sometimes that sun on a field murry, sable, or gules. This was a parody of that: a golden field; a white sun impaled on a sword, the sun releasing a rain of scarlet drops across the lower half of the field —goutee de sang, in the jargon of heraldry.
Only then did he pause to wonder what device their own vessel bore. Earlier—last week—the sail had been crimson, displaying a silver American chameleon or anole, in reference to Fionchadd’s Cherokee name, Dagantu. If that still billowed above them, they were in trouble.
Unable to resist, David looked around, but the sail was mercifully furled, a bound cigar
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