The nyx muttered together. ‘We had thought that there were no other nyx left living,’ the faery said. ‘It is glad news that you bring us, even though you come with flame in your hands.’
‘Please forgive us,’ Dillon said. ‘We mean ye no harm. We would never have brought light into your caves if we had kent ye were here. We do no’ wish to destroy ye.’
Again there was a murmuring like dry leaves blown in the wind. The nyx were slowly circling around them, like the smoke of candle flames, wavering and flowing all about them. The men shifted uneasily and some closed their grip tighter upon the hilts of their weapons.
‘Are ye no’ of human blood?’ the nyx asked bitterly. ‘Those of your kind hate and fear those of our kind. For centuries we the nyx have been hunted, tormented, subjected to the light so that we dissolve. You come with flame in your hands and fear and hate in your hearts, we can feel it. And one among you carries an evil thing, a thing woven of the hair of dead nyx, woven in terror and loathing.’
The muttering rose, the drifting, circling motion quickened, the queer slanted eyes of the nyx all shining malevolently. Finn suddenly swallowed, sliding her hand within her pocket to feel the cold silk of the magical cloak within her pocket. The eyes of the nyx followed her movement.
‘Aye, you stroke that dead thing, that evil thing, you stroke it with longing,’ he hissed. ‘Do you think to slide it about you and disappear? You shall not disappear from our eyes, I warn you, black-hearted human.’
Dide and Dillon were frowning in puzzlement, looking about them at the others and shrugging in confusion. Finn stepped back and felt Jay’s eyes fly to her face.
‘I did no’ ken it was made o’ nyx hair.’ Her voice came out in a childish squeak. ‘I promise ye, I did no’ ken.’
The nyx laughed, a strange dry sound. They drifted closer, their great black wings extended, their long, spindly arms stretching out as if to strangle them all. The men huddled even closer together, daggers falling from nerveless fingers.
‘Finn?’ Dide asked.
‘I swear I did no’ ken,’ Finn repeated. She took the cloak out of her pocket, clutching it to her breast. Folded up, it was no larger than a handkerchief.
‘The cloak o’ invisibility!’ Jay cried.
‘So that is how ye hid the prisoners!’ Dide cried. Finn lifted her chin defiantly. ‘But how? It went missing after the Samhain rebellion. Did ye take it?’ Dide searched her face. ‘Did ye no’ ken the Keybearer was anxious indeed about it? They searched for it everywhere …’ He paused momentarily then said with a slight hardening of his voice. ‘Ye must’ve kent. They asked your dai-dein to locate it. He said he could feel it nearby.’
‘And nearby it was,’ Finn replied cheekily. The colour rose in her cheeks.
Dide was white with anger. ‘Why did ye no’ tell us? So that was why ye insisted on going into the Black Tower alone. And we were sick with worry over ye! Ye could have told us.’
Her eyes fell again. ‘I be sorry,’ she said contritely. ‘I do no’ ken why I did no’. Somehow I could no’ talk about it with anyone.’
‘It is an evil thing,’ the nyx said hoarsely. ‘It is made of dead hair, murdered hair. It was woven with dread and hatred. It wraps the wearer in darkness, coldness. It makes them care for naught.’
‘Aye,’ Finn said thoughtfully. ‘That is true. It makes ye cold.’ She gave a little shudder and suddenly held the little bundle of silk away from her.
‘You must unravel it,’ the nyx said.
Involuntarily she clutched it to her again. ‘I canna.’
‘You must.’
‘I willna!’
‘You must, else we shall unravel it for you. But I warn you, with its unravelling so too shall you unravel.’
The nyx were now so close their dry papery skin and leathery wings were brushing against them all, causing everyone to shrink closer together. The dark-winged faeries were never still for a moment, lifting, drifting, hovering, encircling, rustling, muttering. Finn stared at them defiantly, the cloak clutched to her heart.
‘If you do not unravel it yourself,’ the nyx whispered hoarsely, ‘you shall die. For it is now your shadow.’
‘Your shadow, your shadow,’ the others whispered, their wings rustling.
‘Destroy it, Finn!’ Jay cried.
‘Ye must destroy it,’ Dide echoed.
‘Finn, ye must do as the nyx says!’ Dillon ordered sharply.
She stared round at them with greatly dilated eyes, her breast rising and falling rapidly. Mutely she shook her head.
Then the tiny black elven cat reached down from Finn’s shoulder and caught a corner of the bundle in her sharp claws. She leapt away, the material shredding with a loud tearing noise. Finn cried aloud as if she had been hurt herself. She fell to her knees, cradling the cloak against her. It had billowed out like a living shadow, and where it brushed against her, all her skin twitched and stung. The nyx bent over her, cutting her off from the others, their great wings surrounding her with darkness.
‘Your shadow, your shadow,’ they whispered.
Finn closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and felt delicately all over the cloak with the tips of her fingers. She found the gash where Goblin’s claws had caught. With a sharp cry, she inserted her fingers into the break and tore the material apart. It felt like something inside her was tearing apart, but she did not stop, tearing and tearing until the cloak was mere scraps of black silk. The nyx stepped back. As the blue witch-light fell upon the scraps, the threads began to dissolve until nothing was left but a fine black dust that swirled up in the wind of the nyx’s wings and was gone.
Finn covered her face with her hands and wept.
Although she could hear the others talking above her head and the low, hoarse voices of the nyx replying, Finn could make no sense of what anyone said. She was cold, cold and lost, wandering in a strange cold land of shadows and phantoms. Suddenly she felt something warm and silky touch her hand. She recoiled. The warm soft silk brushed her hand again, as the little elven cat crept into her lap, rubbing her head and back against Finn’s wet face, licking her with a tongue as rough as sandpaper, purring lovingly. Finn gathered her warm, body close, drying her tears on Goblin’s soft fur.
After a moment she stood up, finding it hard to meet anyone’s gaze. The others bent close, however, peering into her face, asking after her anxiously.
‘I be grand,’ she said abruptly.
‘Grand as a goat’s turd stuck with buttercups?’ Jay asked with a grin and she tried to smile back, though she felt as thin and empty as a bellfruit seed.
‘It takes much strength to unravel one’s own shadow,’ the nyx said, bending over her and staring into her eyes with his own great, dark, slanted eyes. Finn stared back and felt something of the coldness within her ease. ‘The souls of those murdered nyx are now free, part of the night once more. We of the nyx thank you.’
Finn nodded, cuddling Goblin close under her chin.
‘We wish to thank you and return the act of kindness,’ the nyx said, while his companions murmured and rustled all about. ‘What is it that we can do for you?’
Finn raised her head. ‘We need to get out o’ here,’ she said pleadingly. ‘I canna stand the dark any more. We need to get out.’
‘We can carry you out,’ the nyx answered. ‘That is a task of no hardship. We often fly out the sky-crack to walk the night and fly the wind.’
‘We are in desperate need o’ reaching our friends. They are somewhere to the south-west o’ here, several weeks’ walking,’ Finn said. ‘Can ye possibly carry us so far?’
The nyx murmured together, bending close together and swaying away.
‘We will carry you, unraveller of the cloak of darkness,’ he replied after a long time. ‘We are filled with joy to know that another of our kind lives and filled with joy that the souls of the murdered nyx are at last part of the night once more. We will fly the night to rejoice and you shall fly with us, unraveller.’
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That evening, when the sun had set and Hell’s Gate was once again twinkling with stars, the nyx carried Finn up and out of the caves in an explosion of midnight-black wings, shining eyes and wild, streaming hair. The others were left staring in awe and envy, before turning to crawl back through the caves on their own mundane elbows and knees.
Below Finn the rolling hills and forests were all dark, only the occasional burn or loch reflecting back the silvery radiance of the moons. The sky, however, shone darkly, burning with a thousand far-distant suns. The wind was in her eyes, in her mouth, in her hair. All about was the susurration of the nyx’s wings, dark and angular against the round moons, and the sound of their joyous singing. Finn flung wide her arms, unafraid, letting the night and the song pour through her, erasing the last of her grief and regret and rage. All night they flew and when the first silvery gleam of the dawn began to show above the curving line of the horizon, they circled down and down until Finn could see below them a thousand red gleams, like the scattered coals of a fire. Down, down, they flew until Finn could see it was not one scattered fire, but a thousand fires, burning amidst orderly circles and rows of tents and wagons and pickets of sleeping horses. Further down they flew, until the great burning arch of sky was no longer all their world, but a mere curve above them. Finn could hear the sounds of the sleeping camp, muffled snores and snorts and the occasional clink of metal.
‘We can fly no lower,’ the nyx whispered in her ear. ‘Else we shall dissolve in the light o’ those red flames. I shall weave ye a rope o’ my hair and lower you down. Do you trust me?’
‘With my life,’ Finn answered, her voice thrilling with emotion. The nyx hovered there in the darkness, his hands playing with his hair. Slowly, slowly, it spun itself into an impossibly long rope that dangled down, its end too far away to see.
‘I thank ye,’ Finn whispered.
‘We, the nyx, thank you,’ he answered and gave the rope into her hand. Swiftly Finn slid down it, her eyes straining up through the darkness for a last glimpse of the faeries of the night. All she saw was darting, swirling shadows, too swift for the eye to follow. Then her foot touched the ground. The rope suddenly went limp and tumbled down about her. Finn stared up into the starry sky and suddenly saw the shape of many serrated wings against the moon, darkening its light. Then Gladrielle shone brightly once more.
The soldier standing guard outside the royal pavilion suddenly tensed, bringing his spear forward defensively. Out of the shadows stepped a thin, exceedingly dirty boy, dressed in rough, tattered clothes. He stepped into the smoky light of the torches with great confidence, saying, ‘I need to see the Rìgh!’
‘Where the hell did ye spring from, haggerty-taggerty? What do ye do here?’
‘I’m here to see the Rìgh,’ the boy repeated impatiently. ‘It’s important. Take me to see him right now!’
‘Ye mun be joking! As if I’m going to take a beggar lad to see His Highness! How did ye get here? What do ye want?’
‘I do no’ see that is any concern o’ yours, frog-face! Take me to the Rìgh now, else ye’ll be exceedingly sorry.’
‘Is that so? It’s the sergeant on duty I’ll be taking ye to see and I’ll wager a week’s grog he’ll flay the skin from your backside afore he boots ye out o’ camp.’
‘Porridge-head,’ the boy replied scornfully.
The guard made a lunge for the beggar lad who avoided his grasp nimbly, leaping over the tent-rope and disappearing again into the darkness. The guard broke into a run but tripped over the rope, falling hard on his face. When he at last untangled himself and got to his feet, there was no sign of the dirty little beggar lad. Angrily the sentry shouted the alarm.
In the royal pavilion, Lachlan and Iseult were looking over the maps with Duncan Ironfist and Leonard the Canny, a Tìrsoilleirean soldier who had surrendered to Lachlan during the Bright Wars. He had since been appointed seanalair to Elfrida NicHilde’s small army, due to his undeniable fighting prowess and tactical brilliance. Lachlan and Iseult both hoped that his knowledge of the terrain and the Bright Soldiers’ fighting methods would help swing the war their way.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped man with grizzled brown hair cut very close to the scalp, an aquiline nose and a clean-shaven chin. His silver armour was polished to a high gleam, and he wore a long red cloak with a black gauntleted hand holding aloft a golden sword. Above the sword unrolled a ribbon with the MacHilde’s motto upon it, Bo Neart Gu Neart, which meant ‘From Strength to Strength’.
There could have been no greater contrast to Leonard the Canny than Lachlan’s seanalair, Duncan Ironfist. Dressed in a faded blue kilt under a battered leather breastplate, Duncan’s bushy black beard flowed down over his enormous barrel chest. His square face was much weathered, with a shapeless nose, a thick knotted scar that showed white against his tan, and rather battered-looking ears. On his back he carried an enormous black claymore.
After an initial distrust and coolness, the two seanalairs had grown to respect each other, though Duncan would always think the Tìrsoilleirean a cold fish and Leonard would always think of Duncan as a very rough sort of fellow.
At the growing commotion outside, Duncan raised one thick black eyebrow and put his head outside the tent flap. ‘What be all the ruckus?’ he demanded.
‘Saw a beggar lad sneaking around, sir; tried to catch him but he ’twas slippery as an eel and got away,’ the soldier reported breathlessly. ‘The sergeant wants to make sure he’s caught and put under lock and key, sir.’
‘Och, well try and keep it down, lad,’ Duncan replied and drew his head back through the tent flap to report to Lachlan.
Lachlan was not interested in beggar boys. He was tired and stiff after a hard day’s riding and wanted to have the next day’s progress plotted out before he went to bed. At Duncan’s explanation he merely nodded and then repeated his last question to Leonard, who did his best to answer.
At last all the logistics were fully worked out and the seanalairs could pass on their orders to their officers and seek their own beds. They wished the Rìgh and Banrìgh goodnight and went out into the night, securing the tent flaps behind them. Iseult sat down on the pallet bed, undoing her boots thankfully.
‘We’ve made quick progress so far,’ she said. ‘Only a few minor skirmishes, naught at all to bother us. Happen we’ve managed to take the Fealde by surprise at last.’
‘Och, I doubt it,’ Lachlan answered. ‘I’d wager the Fealde is preparing an ambush o’ sorts. We must ride up through a narrow pass a week hence. That would be a good place for it. Or happen she’s moving her army round behind us by ship, planning to attack us from the rear. My scouts say there’s been a grand fleet o’ galleons sailing offshore the past week or so.’
He sat beside Iseult on the bed, so she could unlace the back of his breastplate. All of Lachlan’s clothes and armour had to be made to accommodate his magnificent black wings, making it rather difficult for him to dress or undress without assistance. He had long ago got used to it and no longer found it humiliating to ask for help. Normally his squire would have assisted him, but Lachlan had sent the boy to bed long ago and so the task fell to Iseult.
Suddenly she glanced up, her hands stilling.
‘What is it?’ Lachlan asked.
‘I heard … nay, it must have been naught. A leaf scratching against the side o’ the tent.’ She helped him take off his armour and hung it on a stand against the wall, then Lachlan unbuckled the belt from his kilt so the great length of plaid could be folded and laid ready for the morning. He yawned and stretched and lay down on the pallet, saying sleepily, ‘Come to bed, leannan.’
Iseult was turning down the flame in the lantern when she suddenly heard a slight scuffle to one side. She turned swiftly, the eight-sided reil flying to her hand from her weapons belt which hung over a chair. Then she strode forward, reaching down one hand and dragging out a small figure from the shadows. Fiercely she held a glittering blade to the int
ruder’s throat.
‘What do ye do here?’ she cried. ‘How dare ye sneak into the royal tent?’ She shook the figure roughly.
‘There’s no need to be so rough,’ the beggar lad said plaintively. At the sound of the voice, Iseult let the reil drop and dragged the figure closer to the lantern. ‘Finn!’ she cried. ‘By the gods! What do ye here?’
‘I’ve come to make my report,’ Finn replied, still in that plaintive tone of voice. ‘I would’ve been here sooner but your block-headed guard wouldna let me in.’
‘How did ye get in here?’ Iseult demanded.
Finn grinned. ‘Slit the side o’ the tent.’
‘With none seeing ye or hearing ye?’ Lachlan was incredulous.
‘Och, I am the Cat,’ Finn replied with a touch of hauteur. ‘They couldna hear me if I dinna wish them to.’
‘And ye made your way here to the very centre o’ the camp with none o’ the sentries sighting ye?’ Incredulity was giving way to anger.
‘Well, I am the best,’ Finn replied complacently.
‘Someone will hang for this,’ Lachlan said ominously. ‘What if ye had been an assassin in the pay o’ the Fealde?’
Finn was looking anxious. ‘Och, do no’ be angry, Lachlan, I mean, Your Highness. Indeed, they couldna have seen me. I was dropped right in the very centre o’ camp and unless they’d been looking up, they couldna have seen me. Do no’ be hanging anyone for it!’
‘My sentries should be looking up, down and all around,’ Lachlan snapped.
‘What do ye mean, ye were dropped?’ Iseult asked.
‘The nyx carried me here.’ Finn was enjoying herself. ‘I flew through the night with them. I wager no-one’s done that afore!’
‘The nyx!’ Lachlan exclaimed. ‘What do ye mean? The nyx are all gone, all except that auld one that lives in the caves under Lucescere.’
‘Nay, they are no’,’ Finn replied. ‘There are more, hundreds o’ them. We found them when we were trying to escape the caves.’