Dogs are there, he thought. He could not remember how he had come there, or where he was; then did remember that there were two sets of voices, that men hunted him, that somehow he had come to die here. He recalled wooden hallways which had suddenly become this nightmare, and he had hit his head, and fallen. There had been branches: still he felt the sting of them, and those that had rammed into his body; he bled, wiped his face and brought his hand away liberally reddened.
Donn, he thought then, a sudden settling of vision; these strange hills which had made no sense to him were the hills of Donn. He felt the mass of the keep looming over him, himself toiling along a ledge full in their vision. The edge was there, another hurtling fall await ing: his courage failed him. There were the trees, there was hope, if only for the moment, and that moment was all of life now. There was a man who meant to come up that hillslope, round its shoulder, so up to the cliffside; and that was one man, only one man of all those who served Donnchadh to hunt him through the hills.
He reached the hillside, the grass and brush, where old stones thrust up black fingers, doom among the wildflowers, the first small touch of color in this brown, dead land. He was naked on that hill, beyond the concealment of the trees, limping now with great stabs of pain up his battered leg and sides. Dogs barked and yelped. They were coming, his enemy; and now his sight was failing. The sky was dimmed to night, the place seemed stark and horrid, and small things chittered among the stones, wry and twisted shadows.
"This way," someone said. "O Man, keep coming. Hold out your hand to me."
He saw now a glimmering like a star amid the dark, and it grew as he went to it, a light, a warmth, a hope he went to for haven. His wounds ached with cold. His hand reached across the gulf and fin gers touched his, took his, held them as he began to sink. A grayness wrapped him about, a cloak and enfolding arms. He was on his knees, rested his head against a shoulder, felt a hand upon his head as if he were a child come home. "There, be still, I have you."
There was the scent of leaves, of greenness, of rose and lilac, re minding him of Branwyn. For a moment he was content, but thunder muttered, and wind swirled about with voices. He lifted his face, met hers. The wind was in her hair, her eyes—her eyes were Sidhe and dreadful.
"O Man, what do you here among these stones? This is no place for you."
"Donnchadh, the lord of Donn—my lord sent me, Duine Sidhe, to make peace, and Donnchadh has done murder on us. I fell, I cast myself—o Sidhe!" He heard a thing crying down the winds, and struggled to his feet on the sudden, staring blind into the dark where stones rose like pillars lit by fitful lightning. "Sidhe, they must not take me."
"Hush, they will not." Arafel stood beside him.
"There is something out there," he cried, for something lurched and bobbed among the pillars, lost in dark.
"That will not harm you. O Man, you should never have come here. Did I not say there was no hope in the west? Did I not warn you? Go back, tell your lord—tell your lord—that there is neither hope nor help in others. Here least of all. Donnchadh deserves his pity."
"Pity? A man who has done murder on guests?"
She was a whiteness in his sight, as if some inner light shone through her; and then dimmer, the whiteness blotched with black about the breast and hands; dimmer still, and it was his blood upon her. "For Donnchadh. For Caer Damh, An Beag and Bradhaeth. Pity, yes. They are only Men, and snared in evil they tried to master. It lies beneath, about them. I gave you a gift to see such dangers, but you could not heed it: this place is overpowering, and it drew you here, here—" The thunder broke, and the wind battered at them in a circling, so that her cloak flew and her hair streamed on the winds, a scattering of light as if she bled; and the cold knifed into him, prob ing the depth of all his wounds. "That is from an older Eald," she cried against the whirlwind. "It blows from Dun Gol, from age and ill and malice—You fade, Man; you must not! Take my hand!"
He sought with his. Her cloak whipped about him, and she found his hand and led him. He struggled on his aching leg, felt the wind even so, that shook them.
"Arafel!" a voice wailed, high and thin. "Arafel! Yield him up!"
"It is coming. O cling to me, Man. There is no iron about you, and you can hold here if you will. Do not let it shake you."
They came among trees, strange gray trees that groaned and gave hoarse voices to the storm. There was another light before them, nigh to the ground, like the fitful gleam of lightnings, and beside them as they went a small wizened thing scampered, hopping and leaping, using hands as much as feet.
"O," it wailed in a faint, piping voice, "o Duine Sidhe, ride, ride, ride. It is too great here, far too great. You must not contest it."
"Get him to horse," she said. "Gruagach, I bid you."
She was one from him. He stumbled, full of agony, and arms took him up, arms warm and strong, bearing him like a child, as if his weight were nothing, with a scent of straw, of sun, of earth, a leaping that confused his sight and drove pain through all his wounds.
It hurled him up then, at the side of a startled pony, and he tried to hold to its mane, tried to drag his knees across: the wizened creature scrambled up before him, held his arm and pulled him.
"Come, come, come," it chided, "dark it bides, dark and lonely; o Man, o Man, the Gruagach must help her, the Duine Sidhe. O hurry, Man! This pony will not lose you."
"Help her," he wished it, but it was gone. The pony began to move, the trees flowing past: it ran, and he could not feel the run ning, as if it were not ground it crossed but air, a stocky, shaggy pony.
It came. The winds howled. Arafel held her ground and as it came she drew her sword, slender and silver, star-bright against the night. "Fionnghuala," she called, and behind her in the wind came the sound of thunder.
The winds fell, and the night grew very still, there among the ancient stones, which made an aisle: a barrow-walk, to the hill's dark heart.
And darkness stood there, which became a slim tall elf.
"Arafel," he said.
"Duilliath."
He smiled. Cloaked in black he was, and light that came to his garments died there. She held the sword before her and even its silver dimmed: this was his place, his power.
"Free," he said, "and of this place the master. Master of all this land. I have brought back—"
"Ghosts. Naught but ghosts, Duilliath. And sorrow. Let be. Go back. Sleep again."
He dimmed, and then became something more of substance. A sword like hers was in his hand, but blue stained all down its length —a thing of venom and tarnish. "O Arafel," he said, and settled on a stone, sword-hand on his knee, and gave her a gentle smile. "The bonds on me are broken, quite—and shall I tamely sink back to sleep? Oh no." The sword lifted, pointed at her heart, and the wind stirred among the grasses, a breath of cold. "We are too old in mal ice."
"Drow," she said. "I find pity for you."
"Pity. I have no such. I lost it."
"Is it a heart you want? There are many left; I keep them. Name the one you wish, and I will give it."
"Even yours?"
She laid her hand on that stone at her breast, feeling cold within it. "Is it what you ask? Yes. I will yield it."
"How clever." His lips smiled. His eyes did not. "And were I to take it, then you might bind me with it—so you hope. So you have bound that Man—oh, yes, I know, you've lent such a stone, but all useless to your minion. My workings overpower it. Soon they will overpower him. You are too liberal with such gifts."