The pouka turned a level gaze upon him and answered in Gaelic, in a tone of authority.
The leader stared, then placed his hand over his heart and called back to her.
She turned to Matt. “I have told them that you are people who may be trusted, though you are foreigners. You may go with them in safety. They will not harm you so long as I am near.”
“Uh—thanks,” Matt said, “a lot.” He looked around at his companions. “Put away the weapons, folks.”
Rosamund brought her hand out from under her mantle. Matt wondered how long her dagger was. Knight and sergeant both took their hands away from the hilts of their swords.
“Okay, we’re following,” Matt said.
The pouka called out to the leader in Gaelic, a phrase that must have meant “lead on,” for the men lifted their spear points and turned to follow the eldest through the cleft. They still formed a ring around the companions, but nobody seemed to be ready to stab anymore. In fact, each one glanced at the pouka from time to time, glances filled with both admiration and awe.
Matt followed the leader, too. After all, he didn’t have any choice.
They walked a mile or so, while the sun slid below the horizon, leaving the moon to grow brighter and brighter. At last they came to a grove of huge old oak trees, heavy with mistletoe, silvered by moonlight.
Seven figures stepped forth from the trees, their white robes also glowing like silver. They stood in a “V” with the point toward Matt, a point that was a man with hair and beard as silver as his robes. He held up a palm, intoning a question in Gaelic.
Matt shrugged and shook his head.
“He asks who you are, and why you have come,” the pouka interpreted.
“That makes sense,” Matt said. “Tell him we are the Princess Rosamund and her bodyguard, seeking the body of Prince Brion of Bretanglia.”
The pouka made a brief statement in Gaelic. The lead druid stared at the group in surprise, a surprise that quickly focused on Matt. He answered in a tone that sounded considerably more respectful.
“I have told him your true nature and title,” the pouka informed Matt.
“Well, now I’ll have to make shop talk,” Matt sighed. “Ask him—”
The pouka interrupted him. “I will not. You have named the princess as leader of this quest. She must speak.”
“But he is truly the leader!” Rosamund protested.
“Not here,” the pouka told her. “Come forth, maiden, and speak with the druid!”
Rosamund obeyed, wide-eyed and uncertain. “What shall I ask him?”
Matt started to answer, but the pouka forestalled him. “Whatever is in your heart.”
Slowly, Rosamund turned to the leader and asked, “Can you tell me where Prince Brion lies?”
The druid answered in Gaelic.
“He asks why you wish to know,” the pouka interpreted.
The answer came rushing out. “Because he was the companion of my youth! Because of all the brothers, he was the only one who did not torment me or insult me! Because he protected me from them, because he is and always has been honest and fair-minded! Because he cared enough that my barbs could hurt and anger him, and oh! How I wish I had never spoken such sharp-edged words! How could I ever have done so?”
“Belike because you were in love with him, but could not admit it,” the pouka told her. “After all, you were betrothed to his brother.”
Rosamund turned to her, trembling. “How can this druid have said such a thing!”
“He did not,” said the pouka. “I did.” Then she turned to the druid and spoke a single sentence.
Gravely, the druid bowed his head and answered.
“He says that of course you have the right to know the prince’s fate,” the pouka translated.
“What did you tell him?” Rosamund demanded.
“That you are his rightful fiancee, since you were engaged to the future King of Bretanglia,” the pouka replied.
Rosamund gasped, but had no time to deny it, because the lead druid stepped aside, bowing and gesturing her toward the grove. The other six stepped aside as well, also bowing and gesturing.
“Am I to step within?” Rosamund asked “You know you are,” the pouka told her. “Have courage.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Matt assured her, and was very glad when the pouka didn’t contradict him.
Rosamund led them down the aisle of druids. Matt suddenly realized the pouka wasn’t with them, and glanced back to see her talking with the lead druid. Turning forward again, he saw Rosamund hesitate at the pointed archway of living oak branches that formed the entrance to the grove.
“Courage, lass,” Sir Orizhan said at her shoulder. “Whatever lies within is vital if you wish to save your prince.”
“He is not mine!” Rosamund said hastily.
Sir Orizhan was wise enough not to contradict her.
Trembling, she went forward into the grove, step by reluctant step, and it seemed as though they were stepping into a lightless cave.
Bait as they passed through the leafy archway, light seemed to glow into being all about them. Myriad fireflies sparkled throughout the grove, and moonbeams shone through gaps in the leaves overhead. It was enough light to show them that the interior of the grove was clear, a broad open expanse of clover and moss. At the far end the branches interlaced so heavily as to form a roof, through which a broad shaft of moonlight struck to form a pool of silver light.
In that pool stood a bier, four feet off the floor—a bier holding a coffin with no lid, and in that coffin lay a body, skin waxen and pale, paler than the light itself.
Rosamund gave a little cry, quickly stifled by her own hand.
“Yes, it is Brion,” Sir Orizhan said gravely. “But they would not leave him here if he were fully dead, my lady. Approach, and look more closely.”
Footsteps dragging, Rosamund went to the coffin, trembling as though with a fever. As they came closer, Matt saw two druids sitting by the body, watching. Silently, they rose and moved back as Rosamund came up.
She stepped to the coffin, looking down, and gasped with horror. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch the long, gaping wound that showed where a sword had sheared through the mail between helmet and breastplate, driving down.
Sir Orizhan frowned, studying, then said, very softly, “The angle is wrong—the stroke could not have pierced his heart, though it let out a great deal of blood.”
With a cry of despair, Rosamund threw herself on the pale, still form. “Oh, Brion, why didn’t I know you for the darling you were? How could I have been so blind as not to see the gentleness, the kindness you showed me? How could I ever have denied the trembling within me that came whenever I looked upon your handsome face, your speaking eyes? Now must I suffer for my folly, suffer the pangs of heartbreak all the rest of my life, and be lonely all my days no matter how many folk I gather about me!”
The tears flowed freely now, bathing his face as she lifted her head a little to demand, “Yet give me this at least, that I should have taken in life but must now seek of your corpse—this alone, that I may treasure in my heart of hearts and imagine as having the sensation of life!” Her hair swung forward to brush his face as she lowered her own, to press her lips against his mouth. She lingered, exploring the sensation thoroughly, for the memory of it would have to last her all the rest of her days. Gradually, her lips loosened, expanded, until they seemed to devour his…
The prince’s whole form stiffened. Then his head moved ever so slightly, and his lips opened to envelop hers. Rosamund went rigid with surprise, but never for an instant relinquished his mouth, then relaxed again, lips working around his with fervor as she wept anew, bathing Brion’s face with her tears. Slowly, stiffly, steadily, one iron-clad arm rose to encircle her shoulders, but did not rest there, only touched very lightly, as though Brion were afraid she might break.