“Ah,” the woman said lightly. “You are proud, then. And wary. What of this hound? His eyes are hungry. You may choose to go without, but surely you will not deny your faithful friend his supper?”
“And see him trapped in the Otherworld forever? I love him too much for that. He will not die of hunger in a single night, my lady, and nor will I. We are made of sterner stuff.”
Her brows rose. “I see,” she said, and her tone suggested she was genuinely surprised. “Then it may help if I tell you we are not in the Otherworld—not yet—but still within your father’s forest. When dawn breaks you can walk home, if you choose, without crossing any margins save those of humankind. As for these provisions, they are of your own world, obtained with the assistance of a local cottager. You and your friend can eat and drink without fear of falling under a spell. I speak only the truth, Maeve. There is no need to be afraid of me.”
I bit back my first response, which was to tell her I was not in the least frightened. That might be a display of courage, but it would also be a lie. “Please tell me who you are,” I said, “and how to find Finbar. He’ll be lonely and scared. He’s the one who needs a warm cloak.”
“Take this blanket,” the woman said. I did not see her lift anything, but now there was a folded blanket across her outstretched hands. It looked as soft as swansdown, and in the lantern light its color was dove gray. I took it from her awkwardly; it weighed almost nothing. “Carry the basket over your arm. I see you will not eat in my presence, and that I understand. You have your reasons to want privacy. But maybe you will quench your thirst and satisfy your hunger when you are alone with your staunch companion there.” She glanced at Bear, who stood half-shrouded by the cloak, his hair on end as he stared back at her. The forest was full of shifting shadows; beyond the circle of light cast by the lantern, the darkness seemed alive with presences unseen. Birds. Bats. Insects. Stranger things. When I did not move, she said, “You are indeed slow to trust. Is it the hurt that was done you in childhood that makes you like a hedgehog before hunting dogs, a creature all prickles?”
“Tell me your name,” I said, squaring my shoulders under the cloak. I would have liked to shrug it off, but my shivering body would not allow me that gesture of defiance. There is not much point in pride when you are freezing to death. “And tell me how to find Finbar. Then I might consider trusting you.”
“They call me Caisin Silverhair,” the woman said, slipping back her hood. A waterfall of long tresses flowed down her back, gleaming moon-pale in the lantern light. “I am a friend, Maeve. I am kin to those who showed your little sister the ways of the seer; I am kin to those who guided your grandmother through the long, cruel task the sorceress’s curse laid on her. I will help you find what you have lost. For you seek not only your brother, I think, but two others that are precious to you.”
Badger. Swift. “Where are they?” My voice shook.
“Find the child and he will lead you to the others. When dawn comes, go down the valley of the stones and over the bridge of withies. Your brother sleeps as the squirrel sleeps; if you follow the signs, you will find him safe and well. Ask him what he dreamed of, slumbering in the heart of the oak.” She stood quiet a moment, watching me. I said nothing, for I had heard enough old stories to know that every detail must be remembered, every instruction acted upon. I did not like the sound of sleeps as the squirrel sleeps; it put me uncomfortably in mind of Cruinn’s lost men.
“You’re sure Finbar is safe?”
“For now.”
Oh gods, what did that mean—that I should rush off in the dark lest he perish before I find this bridge and this oak? But then, if I’d been told to go at dawn, then leaving too early might mean I walked on and on all day, with never a bridge or an oak to be seen. My head spun. Within the folds of the warm cloak, my heart was cold.
“Put down the blanket, Maeve,” the woman said, and her tone was all compassion. “Eat and drink from the basket. Lie down and sleep until the sunrise. All will be well.” The air stirred, a shadow passed, and she was gone. On the stone, the lantern burned on.
I put down the blanket, and Bear lowered himself onto it with a sigh, as if he had only been waiting for me to show some common sense. Then, feeling like a traitor, I lifted down the basket and settled beside him. I took a mouthful from the flask, and then another. It was some kind of cordial, its flavor that of every berry of the forest mixed together. Its effect was immediate and startling, for those two sips were enough to put new heart in me. I shared the food with Bear. When we were finished he licked my fingers clean. Then we lay down, the two of us, and I drew the cloak awkwardly over us, and we slept until morning.
I never considered running back to the keep. Caisin Silverhair had given the kind of instructions people get in stories, and I knew well enough what happened in the old tales when folk disobeyed. It seemed to me that when dealing with the Fair Folk, stories might be a more reliable guide than plain common sense, though I hoped to apply the latter as well.
“Down the valley of the stones,” I muttered as Bear and I moved on. I had the blanket under my arm and the flask in the pouch at my belt; I’d managed to get the stopper back in with my teeth. Caisin Silverhair had left us sufficient food for that one meal only, which meant the cordial was all I had for Finbar. I hoped he would find the strength to walk home today. “Over the bridge of withies.” I would not think of the time when Bear and Badger had refused to cross another bridge. Would it break Caisin’s rules if Bear decided to wade or swim instead? Might so small a departure from the instructions spell my brother’s doom? “And look for a big oak tree.” Let this not be one of Mac Dara’s tricks. Let me not find Finbar curled up like a squirrel, cold and dead.
“That’s an odd name,” I murmured, putting out my free hand to stop myself from slipping over on the uneven, pebbly ground. “Caisin Silverhair. Maybe I should call myself Maeve Dog-Friend. Or Maeve Claw-Hands. Not an everyday name, a story name.” Gods, let this not be a terrible mistake, and the two of us heading straight into a trap set by Mac Dara. Let us not be walking boldly forward into one of those tales where human folk get trapped in the Otherworld for a hundred years and come home to find their families long dead and buried.
“Bear the Brave,” I said as he headed downhill, leading the way. “Bear the Beautiful. Faithful Bear.” And although I liked the last one best, it troubled me. It was all too easy to imagine a tale in which those to whom Bear was so loyal came to grief, and he sat vigil beside their bodies, fading day by day from a fine healthy dog to a bony, sad wraith. “We’re going to find them,” I said, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. “Today we’ll find them all and bring them home.”
At the foot of the little valley we found a path. It snaked forward into a dense, dark area of forest where the low sunlight barely penetrated. Pale nets of spiderweb festooned every tree. These were not oaks, but gray, spiky things of no kind I recognized, their branches thrusting out like hostile arms to block our way. If we kept to the very center of the narrow path we could avoid being scratched. When I forgot to duck I got cobwebs in my hair. There was a faint rustling all around us, as of countless small creatures busy with mysterious work. Above us, from time to time, I caught a snatch of words spoken in a whisper, though the language was unknown to me. Bear padded on bravely; I followed in his footsteps, trying not to think about situations from which I would have trouble extricating myself. I had only to trip and sprain an ankle or get my gown irretrievably snarled on one of those thorny branches and I would be in real difficulty. I must stay alert. I must not stumble. I must make no errors of judgment.
Before we found the bridge, we heard the river. I did not remember a river from the Sevenwaters of my childhood, but the rushing sound told me a sizeable one lay not far ahead. We came up over a rise and there it was. I drew in a shocked breath. The river was broad, perhaps fifty paces across, and it looked deep. Shreds of mist drifted above the water. On the other side stretched a great tract of oak f
orest: strong dark limbs, tattered remnants of autumn robes, sun gold, blood red, butter yellow. Hundreds and hundreds of oaks.
And there, not far along the riverbank, was the bridge: a fragile structure of woven withies, broad enough to walk upon, but without rope, chain or rail to keep a person from falling. It sagged in the center, dipping perilously close to the swirling water. The basket-weave surfaces looked sodden, slippery and uneven. For me, it would be an exercise in courage and balance. For Bear it would be impossible.
My gut twisted. “Bear,” I said, “I’ll have to go on without you. She said oaks, and the oaks are over there.” As I spoke I made my way to the spot where the flimsy bridge met the bank. It seemed to be only resting there, without any anchors. A gust of wind might snatch the entire structure up and rip it into fragments. If I didn’t do this quickly, I would be too scared to do it at all. Caisin Silverhair had made it clear: cross the bridge, find the oak, save Finbar. There was no choice about it.
I would have taken off my shoes if I’d been confident I could get them back on again. Bare feet would give me a firmer purchase on the treacherous woven surface. Never mind that. I managed to sling the blanket over my shoulder so I’d have both arms free for balancing. I stepped onto the bridge.
“Bear,” I said, turning my head to look back at him. “Stay.”
He gazed at me with his heart in his eyes.
“Stay,” I repeated, making it a command. I stretched out my arms and took a step along the bridge, away from him. Bear could not swim this river; if he tried it he would be swept downstream in a moment and drowned. Best that he wait for me where it was safe, and when I brought Finbar back, Bear could find the way home for us.
I fixed my gaze on the far bank. I would be brave. I would ignore the rushing water, the chill spray, the slippery surface underfoot. I would set aside the strangeness of this place and the fact that I had told nobody where I was going. I would forget it all…But I could not shut my ears to Bear’s voice. His anguished howl rang out behind me, tightening my throat and filling my eyes with tears. I did not look back.
The withies were uneven and slick with moisture, and even with arms outstretched I teetered and wobbled as I moved gradually forward. I made myself breathe slowly. When the bridge seemed to bounce and shake beneath me, as if in protest at my crossing, I told myself sharply to stop being silly. I set one foot in front of the other. Now I was in the middle. Now I was more than halfway over. Now I was nearly there…I reached the far side and stepped off the bridge to collapse in a trembling heap on a shore carpeted with perfectly round white pebbles. Gods! Let me not have to do such a thing again, at least until I was heading home with Finbar. Bear’s howling had ceased. Had he settled to wait for me or decided to run for home? I looked back across the river.
Bear was halfway across the bridge. He stood frozen, staring down between the loosely woven withies at the raging water below. Faithful Bear.
I was up again before I had time to think, walking out onto the bridge, standing to face him. “Bear, come!” I called, stretching out my arms in the sign he knew and making my tone calm and confident.
Bear looked up. His amber eyes were full of trust, though he was shivering so violently I feared he might fall.
“Good boy, come on!”
Step by slow step I talked him across. I held his gaze; I pushed down my fear and filled my voice with warmth and welcome. “My best boy. Come on, now. Good Bear. Brave boy.” As he advanced toward me I backed slowly to the end of the bridge.
He ran the last few paces, sending my heart into my throat, but he reached me safely and almost knocked me over with his exuberant greeting. For a few moments, as I threw my arms around him and felt the rough caress of his tongue on my face, I was filled with sheer delight. Then I stepped off the bridge, and Bear came down beside me, and we faced the oaks. I was reminded of the moment when I had looked up from dealing with my disobedient hounds to see Cruinn’s mounted warriors staring back at me, a hostile wall of men.
There were so many trees: a great army of oaks. A person might wander here all season long, checking one trunk after another and finding nothing but last season’s nests and the leavings of mice or beetles. I took a deep breath and made myself let it out slowly, counting up to five.
“Very well, Bear,” I said. “We’re here, and we’re going on. Let’s not think about what we can’t do, but what we can do.” The chance that Finbar had been brought over this very same bridge seemed most unlikely, but Caisin Silverhair had said I would find him among these oaks, so that was where I must look. The task was daunting. But I did have Bear, and Bear had found a trail before.
I hitched up my skirt, then crouched to feel inside the pouch with my mouth. I lifted my head, the little straw creature held in my teeth.
“Find Finbar,” I said, kneeling to drop the thing on the ground in front of Bear. “Find him.”
It seemed he understood, for he sniffed at the little creature and pawed it, then took a few steps toward the trees before looking back over his shoulder at me, as if to say, Are you coming?
I got the straw animal back up and into the pouch. I would not leave this token of my brother behind. I rose to my feet. As I did so, the sun edged over the treetops, turning the river to a stream of silver and the oaks to a dazzling curtain of red-gold. To a person who believed in omens, this would have been a good one. “All right, Bear,” I said. “Let’s go.”
We walked for a long time. Once, I stopped to take a drink from Caisin’s flask, which by daylight showed itself to be of a metal I did not recognize, bright as moonlight and chased with strange figures that were neither men nor creatures, but something between. The vessel was of an ideal size and shape for me to manage between my wrists, and the stopper could be put in and out with my teeth. Luck or good preparation? The fey woman’s knowledge of me had been unsettling. Could the Fair Folk read our minds? Were they privy to our most secret thoughts? I did not like that idea at all. Indeed, the more I thought about our encounter, the more it troubled me.
“Why wouldn’t she bring Finbar to us, if she knew where he was?” I addressed this question to Bear, who took no notice but continued moving on. “Why did she wait until we were half-frozen to come and rescue us, since it seems she knew exactly what was going on? And if she is kin to the Lady of the Forest and her kind, the benign type of Fair Folk, where was she when Mac Dara was establishing his hold in these parts?”
Bear had nothing to say. We were deep in the oak forest now; the rushing sound of the river had long since died away. Fallen leaves lay ankle-deep on the path, slowing our progress. If anyone was about, they would hear us approaching by the crunch of our footsteps. Should I be calling Finbar’s name as I walked? The forest was vast; he might be anywhere.
No sign of Swift today. No evidence that a horse had passed this way, or a dog for that matter. More likely they had been separated soon after they left the nemetons, for unless Swift had been led away from his field—unlikely given how soon he had vanished—he would have quickly outpaced both boy and dog.
We came to a rise, and Bear helped me climb up. The moment we reached the top he ran on.
“Bear, wait!” I bent over, my sides aching. I felt sick. “Bear!” A pox on it, I would have to sit down and catch my breath before I could go any farther. “Come back!”
He obeyed, padding back to lie down beside me. He was panting; even he could not go on forever. I would not give him the cordial, for despite the fey woman’s assurances that it was quite safe for us, I had some misgivings about it. I could not think of any drink available to humankind that produced such an immediate sense of well-being, and it seemed to me that so powerful a gift would not come without a cost. I would take that risk for myself, if it meant getting Finbar back safely. I would take it for my brother if it was the only way he’d have the strength for the walk home. There was no need to subject Bear to the same peril.
“I think I must be hungry,” I muttered, stroking his back. ?
??It feels like a long time since breakfast, if that was what it was.” I had abandoned Caisin’s little basket on the far side of the withy bridge. If there was a special reason why she had bid me carry it over my arm, that was too bad. Getting across the bridge without falling into the river had seemed more important. “We must find him soon, Bear,” I whispered. “The sun’s quite high already. I wonder if folk are out looking for us.”
They would be, of course. I pictured Father, silent and grim-faced; Luachan, horrified that his charge had gone missing, even if it was not on his watch. Folk from the keep, diverted from the search for Cruinn’s lost men. Perhaps even Cruinn himself, for he would understand Father’s anguish all too well. I imagined how my family would feel if Finbar never came back, or if he was discovered dead as Cruinn’s men had been. “Tiernan, Artagan and Daigh,” I murmured. “I hope they survive where the others could not.” Bear licked my face. “They have the strength of grown men, at least. But Finbar isn’t very strong, Bear, and we must find him quickly.”
Bear got to his feet, understanding the meaning if not the words. I rose more slowly. I prayed that we would find Finbar soon. And I prayed that when we found him we would find Badger and Swift as well. Because if we did not, I would have to take Finbar home and leave them behind.
“Bear, come.” It no longer felt right to command him thus; in this hunt, he was the leader and I the follower. “Show me the way, good friend.”
We walked on. The sun reached its peak and began to sink again; the sky clouded over and rain began to fall. The half-clad trees provided some shelter, but soon enough both Bear and I were damp and cold. He still seemed to be following a trail, and it seemed more and more likely it was not Finbar’s scent but Badger’s. My brother could not possibly have come so far. Not on his own. Yet Caisin’s words had not suggested Finbar was a captive. He sleeps as the squirrel sleeps.