"Come," said the guard by Caith's side.

  Caith was very meek going up the steps. He made no protest as they began to prevent Dubhain from going up with him. In truth, he had no great desire of the company, trusting more to his sword. But he heard a commotion behind him, and the phooka joined him at the mid of the stairs, eluding the guards below. Caith heard the grate of drawn steel above and below them at once as Dubhain clutched his arm.

  "Master," Dubhain said, "I'll not leave ye here."

  "Fall to heel," Caith said in humor the match of the phooka's own. "Mind your manners, lad." He looked up at the guard above them. "My servant is frightened of you," he said, holding out his hand in appeal till the guard, satisfied of his own dreadful-ness and well-pleased with it, made a show of threat and waved them both on with his sword drawn.

  It might have been a boy outright terrified, this old and evil thing that clutched Caith's arm, that went with him miming terror and staring round-eyed as they passed the guard and his naked blade. But the phooka's fingers numbed Caith's hand, reminding him as they went. You cannot shake me, never be rid of me. The touch felt like ice, as if something had set its talons into his heart as well as into the flesh of his arm, so that Caith recovered his good sense, remembering that he was going deeper into this mesh of his own will, and that he still understood less of it than he ought. Doors closed somewhere below, echoing in the depths under the stairs. There were a man's shouts from that direction, sharp and short.

  "What's that?" Caith asked, delaying at the door of the corridor, and looking back down the stairs.

  It was not his business to know, only the anxious-ness of a man entering where there was no retreat hearing things amiss behind him. The faces of the guards below stared up at himdistant kin of his perhaps; or Sliabhin's hirelings: they were nothing he wanted for family: wolf-sharp, both of them, cruel as weasels. "Never you mind," one of them called up, and that one was uglier than all the rest. "There's those will care for that. Keep going."

  "Lord," Dubhain said, a shiver in his voice, "lord"

  "Be still," Caith said. There was humor in it all, a fine Sidhe joke in this frightened phooka by his side grand comedy. Caith played it too, with his life, with the phooka's grip numbing him, owning him and making mock of all Dun Mhor. Caith turned toward the door as they wished him to and came into the hall where they wished him to go, into warmth and firelight and a gathering of men the likeness of the rest, as likely a den of bandits as he had seen anywhere along the road he had traveled to come here.

  And one sat among them, on a carven chair over by the fire; the light was on his face, and it was a face without the roughness of the others, a mouth much like Caith's own if bitter years had touched it; and this man's hair and beard were his own pale red, faded with years; and the tartan was Dun Mhor.

  This man looked at him, thinking, measuring, so that Caith felt himself stripped naked. The resemblancein this hallwould surely not elude Sliabhin mac Brian. Or riders from Dun na nGall might have outpaced him down the coast, on a longer road but a swifter. Quite likely his murder was in preparation even now; and his only chance was to move before the man believed he would. But he had got inside. He still had his sword. This much of his plan he had worked, feigning simplicity within deviousness: this was all his plan, to stand this close.

  Sliabhin will kill you, he suddenly heard the Sidhe promise him. But never that he might kill Sliabhin.

  Sliabhin will kill you. It will take seven days for you to die.

  "King Sliabhin?" Caith asked, all still and quiet. He weighed all his life in this moment, reckoning how long he had, whether the nearest man would draw and cut at him with steel or simply fall on him barehanded to overpower him: worse for him, if they got him alive. Before that happened he must spring and kill Sliabhin at once, face the others down with their king dead and give these bandits time to think how things had changed. There was Dubhain to reckon with, at his backif they turned swords on him If I come alone That was how he had made his question to the Sidhe. If I come alone to Dun Mhor. It was as if his hearing and his memory had been dulled in that hour as his eyes had been, glamored and spellbound. He was not alone. He had brought Dubhain. The question was altered; at least one thing in his futures would have changed.

  But this man, this man who looked at him with a kinsman's face, in this bandit hall "Who are you?" Sliabhin asked.

  "Hagan sends," Caith said, "for Caith's sake: he wants the other boy."

  Sliabhin got to his feet and stared at him. Caith's heart was pounding in his chest, the cloak about him weighing like a great burden, covering the red tartan that would kill him and the sword that would kill Sliabhin, both beneath its gray roughness. There was no way out. Not from the moment he had passed the door. He felt the phooka's presence against his arm, biding like a curse.

  Dubhain. Darkness.

  He is one of the Fair Folk. I am the other kind.

  "So," said Sliabhin, and walked aside, a halfstep out of reach; looked back at CaithMy father, Caith thought, seeing that resemblance to himself at every angle; and his throat felt tighter, the sweat gathering on his palms. This is what I am heir to, this bandit den, these companions. Beside him the phooka. There would be no gleam in Dubhain's eyes at this moment, nothing to betray what he was.

  Sliabhin moved farther to his side. Caith turned to keep him in view as he stood before the door, and an object came into his sight, nailed there above the doorway, dried sprigs of herb; elfshot on a thong; a horseshoe, all wards against the Sidhe.

  To make them powerless.

  "Hagan wants the boy sent?" Sliabhin said, and Caith set his gaze on Sliabhin and tried to gather his wits back. "I find that passing strange."

  "Will you hear the rest," Caith asked, with a motion of his eyes about the room, toward the guards "here?"

  "Speak on."

  "It's the elder son, lord; Caith. So Hagan said to me. Caith has heard rumors" He let his voice trail off in intimidated silence, playing the messenger of ill news. "Lordthey've had to lock him away for fear he'll break for the south, or do himself some harm. He mourns his brother. He's set some strange idea into his head that he has to see the boy or die. I'm to bring the lad, by your leave, lord, to bring his brother out of his fey mood and set reason in him."

  A long time Sliabhin stood staring at him, this elder image of himself, gazing at the truth.

  He knows me, he knows me, he knows me, now what will he do? Can he kill his own son?

  And if he will nothave I all the truth I think I have?

  There was a silence in the room so great the crash of a log in the fireplace was like the crumbling of some wall. Sparks showered and snapped. Caith stood still.

  "How does he fare?" Sliabhin asked, in a tone Caith had not expected could come from a mouth so hard and bitter. A soft question. Tender. As if it mattered; and it became like some evil dreamthis man, this his true father asking the question he had wanted for all his days to hear a father ask. "Who?" Caith returned, "Hagan?" Missing the point deliberately.

  "Caith."

  "Sorrowing. I hear." There was a knot in Caith's throat; he fought it. He went on in this oblique argument.

  "If Caith could see the lad, lord, that he's wellI think it would mend much. It might bring him around to a better way of thinking."

  "Would it?" Sliabhin walked away from him. Caith let him go, his wits sorting this way and that between hope and grief. Then he felt the phooka's hand clench on his arm through the cloak, reminding him of oaths, and he was blinder than he had been when the Sidhe-light dazed him.

  This place, this hall, this villainous crewWas I lied to? Was it Gaelan the villain from the beginning and this my fatherinnocent? Confession hovered on his lips, not to strike, to betray the Sidhe beside him for very spite and see what Dubhain would do. Butfather "It's a long journey," said Sliabhin, "and dangerous, to send a young lad off in the dark with a man I don't know. You'll pardon me" Sliabhin walked farther still, safe again among his men. "Tell memessenger. What color Hagan's beard?"

  "Bright red, lord. A scar grays it."

  Sliabhin nodded slowly. "And how fares my neighbor?"

  "Lord?"

  "Cinnfhail." Sliabhin's brow darkened. His voice roughened. "You'll have passed through Gleann Gleatharan. How fares Cinnfliail?"

  "Well, enough, lord."

  Sliabhin snapped his fingers. "Fetch the other," Sliabhin said.

  Men left, but not all. Caith and Sliabhin waited there, frozen in their places, and Dubhain waited. Other otherCaith's mind raced on that refrain. The meshes drew about him and he saw the cords moving, but he did not know the truth yet, not the most basic truth of himself, and his hand would not move to the sword.

  There was noise of the guards going down the steps outside; there was shouting that echoed up from the depths; and then the noise began to come louder and nearerSomeone cursed from the echoing lower hall, kept cursing as that someone was brought with loud resistance up the stairs. Caith slid his eyes to a point between Sliabhin and that doorway, most to Sliabhin, to the men that stood with him, all confessions stayed upon his lips, his heart beating hard. Dubhain was at his back, laughing inwardly, he thought, at mortal men; at father and son so meshed in must and would not.

  Resistance carried into the room, a fair-haired man in a tartan green and blue, a red-blond youth who flung back his head and stared madly at Sliabhin, all bloody that he was.

  It was Raghallach in their hands.

  "If." Said Sliabhin, "you had denied being with Cinnfhail I would have take it ill. You know this boydo you not?"

  "Yes," said Caith. The warmth had left his hands, the blood had surely left his face. Raghallach strove to look his way and twisted helplessly in the grip of two well-grown and armored men. "Cinnfhail's son. I guested there last night. They sent me on my way in the rain, but they gave me provisions and a horse.

  He broke his leg in the forest. Lord, let this man go-"

  "He rode right up to our doors, messenger. He tells a pretty taledo you not, boy?"

  They had hurt Raghallach already. They hurt him more, the wrench of a wounded arm; Raghallach fought, such as he could, and cried out, half-fainting then, for the sweat broke out and runneled down his waxen face; and Caith thrust himself half a pace forward, Dubhain catching at his arm. "No, lord,"

  Dubhain said, "no, be not rash."

  "How you guested there with Cinnfhail, how you were received, what tale you told," said Sliabhin, "all of this he's sung for us."

  Raghallach lifted his head. His weeping eyes spoke worlds, denying what Sliabhin said with a desperate move. No. Only that. No.

  "There was nothing to tell," said Caith, "but I see that I was followed. Lord, this man"

  "offends me. What do you say to that?"

  The air seemed close. He felt pinned between will and dare notSliabhin out of reach behind a hedge of swords. He needed caution, wit, something of answers in this place, and the Sidhe was still holding his arm. Be not rash, be not rash, he heard Dubhain's wicked voice in his mind. And Raghallach bleeding and tortured before himHe will die, Cinnfhail had prophesied of his son; so the Sidhe had said also that Raghallach would die if he came with him to Dun Mhor. 0 Gods. Raghallachwho spoke for me to Cinnfliail "Why did you come?" Caith asked in a thin, hoarse voice. "Why did you follow me, Raghallach?"

  "Revenge," said Raghallach, and gave another heave in the hands of those that held him. Tears ran down his face and mingled with the sweat and the streaks of blood and dirt. "For my sister, man"

  Caith's heart turned over in him. Well played, O gods, manbrave and well played.

  Caith turned his shoulder as a man accused of villainy might do, walked a space frowning as the phooka let him go. He looked back at wider vantage, Dubhain in the tail of his eye as he glared at Raghallach mac Cinnfhail.

  "He's mad."

  "He calls you thief as well," Sliabhin said. "He says you stole a horse."

  "So, well." Caith turned away, disdaining all accusation.

  "Caith he calls you."

  Caith drew his sword, flinging back his cloak; and all about him men movedbut Sliabhin stopped everything with a move of his hand.

  "You never learned that from him," Caith said. "You've known me from the moment I walked in here."

  "I've waited for you." Sliabhin's voice was soft. "I was sure you would come. Someday, somehow."

  "I came to kill youfor Gaelan's sake. But I heard another tale, there in Dun Gorm. And which is true father? Who sent me to that whoreson Hagan? Was it Gaelanor yourself?"

  "Who is your companion?" Sliabhin asked, turning his shoulder from the menace of his sword. There were guards; they never moved. "Some other of Gleatharan's fine young lads?"

  "Oh, that." Caith kept the blade point between them at their distance, but he took a lighter tone, an easier stance. "Dubhain is his name. One of Hagan's whores' sons. I've gotten used to such comradesI get on well with them, father. Any sort of cutthroat. That's a skill they taught me wellyour cousin Hagan and his crew. Why not? We breed such merry sorts father." He gained a step on Sliabhin, but sideways, as a man moved to block him; it all stopped again. "Pirates. Brigands. Are these my brothers? How many did you begetand on what, when you tired of my mother?"

  "Enough!" Sliabhin's face congested. He lifted a shaking hand, empty. "It was GaelanGaelan tormented her. She and I loved, boylovedyou'd not know that. Oh, yes, whelp, I saved your life. I rodemyselfand bestowed you where I could or Gaelan'd have given you up for wolfbait that night.

  He gave out you were stillborn. He beat herhear me?"

  Caith faltered. More of truths and half-truths shuttled back and forth in this tapestry of lies. His mind chased after them, sorting one and the other, and he darted a glance from Sliabhin to Raghallach, to Sliabhin again. Raghallach lied for him, risked his own sister's name in his defense and tried nothing for himself. But Sliabhin's voice had the ring of true outrage. And the Sidhe was there beside him, doubtless laughing at his plight.

  The sword sank in Caith's hand, extended again to Raghallach. "What of him?"

  "What of him?"

  "I don't know. Someone's lied. I don't know who. Where's Brian? Where's my brother?"

  "You'll not be taking your brother anywhere tonight, my lad," Sliabhin said.

  "I want to see him."

  "What's he to you?"

  "A whim. Father. Like you."

  "Put up the sword. Put it up."

  Caith laughed, a faint, strained laugh, and his own fey mind surprised him. The look in Sliabhin's eyes surprised him, that they were lost together in this sea and clinging desperately one to the other still un- murdered.

  "Put it up."

  Caith thought on it a long moment, with another look at Raghallach, at Dubhain; then there were only Sliabhin's eyes, bewitching as the Sidhe's, to cast a glamor on things. There was Sliabhin's voice promising nothing at all. There was death here; the room was full of it.

  I am the curse, Caith thought. The Sidhe send their curse back to Dun Mhorin me. And I cannot be rid of it. He slid the sword back into its sheath, a neat quick move, never quite taking his eyes from the guards, who kept their swords drawn. But if it is in me I can delay it, I can take it away againif I will. If Sliabhin wills it.

  And what if I am wrong?

  "You'll rest here," said Sliabhin, "as my guest."

  "And this one?" He meant Raghallach. He gestured that way, where Raghallach hung in the guard's cruel grip. 0 Gods, he accused mehow can I defend him, how save him, what can I do to save his life but win my father and turn his mind from killing him "He'll tell us tales. By morninghe'll have a many of them. You'll hear them all."

  "My brotherwhere is he?"

  "Oh, the boy's well. Quite well enough. Go. They'll take you to chambers, these men of mine. Leave this other to me."

  Shame burned Caith's face, betraying shame; he looked at Raghallach, and for a moment then his heart stopped, for Raghallach smiled unexpectedly in a way only he could see, a cat's smile, that chilled him through.

  Dubhain tugged at him. "Come, lord, comedo what he says."

  Caith cast a wild glance at Dubhain and covered it. The phooka took his arm in a grip fit to break it as Sliabhin's men closed in about them.

  "Trust," said Sliabhin, "or have no safety here." Caith looked back at him. Not yet had Sliabhin's men tried to disarm himand this omission and their likeness, their crying likeness to each other, together with that which hung in the hands of the guards robbed him of volition, of any last hope of understanding what happened around him.

  It was not Raghallach they had taken, but the Sidhe NuallanNuallan they dragged struggling away in the other direction, past the door with its wards, its diminishments of Sidhe power.

  They passed the door with Nuallan-Raghallach. Directly a shout rang out, a blow, a cry of pain that jarred his nerves as it echoed in the hall.

  Then one man took Caith by the arm and drew him aside to another door. A guard opened it on more stairs, a dark and musty ascent higher into the hold.

  "Sliabhin!" Caith jerked about to turn back again, halfway, but no one was prepared to listen. Dubhain came perforce, at sword-point. Caith tried to break from them; and there in the doorway they held a sword to his throat and disarmed him of sword and dagger both.

  "Sliabhin! Damn you!" He fought once they took the sword away from his throat, and he hoped for the phooka's help, but three men got Caith's arms behind him and began to force him up the stairs. He braced his feet against the steps and struggled. "Sliabhin!" His voice echoed in the halls, in the heights and depths of the place. "Sliabhin!" And despairing: "Brian!"

  One struck him, bringing him stunned to his knees on the stone steps.

  And no one listened.

  There was a hall beyond the stairs, a room at the side of it; a dank darkness, masonry built into Dun Mhor's very hill, dirt floored in stone. Rough hands hurled them both in, and quickly slammed the door.

  The phooka's eyes glowed, company in the dark, and a light grew about them both, until Caith could see Dubhain plainly. The phooka sat on the floor of this stonewalled chamberhe was the country lad again all dusty. And Dubhain brushed himself off as if he had taken some easy spill, as merry as before, and got to his feet.

 

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