Chapter 12: Tear

Bee walked into the guardhouse and shut the door gently behind her.

Gathering her thoughts, she scanned the room. A weapons rack covered the back wall with swords, spears, and bows. The weapons appeared to be new, which didn’t surprise her. There would be little point in having an army of skeletons if their arms were as decrepit as they were. The other things she would expect to find in the guardhouse, like food and water, were absent, unless a vat of scummy liquid in a niche beside the weapons counted. But then why would guards in a dungeon need supplies if they were dead? Of course, they wouldn’t, which made Bee think about the screams of the horse on the plains and realize the ravaging of beasts was to satiate their bloodlust more than anything else.

“How did ye get here?” she asked, turning to the still grinning ring fighter.

“I latched on to the end of the snatchers and followed you in through the gatehouse.”

Bee frowned at him as she asked, “And no one saw you?”

“Ah, Bee, you have seen how good I am at disguising myself.”

Aye, and it does nothing to ease my fears, she thought. There is no one I can trust, not even my brother. Which might have hurt her, except they weren’t siblings in the usual sense. They shared a mother and had been raised worlds apart, Bren in the Fae Realm and Bee in the Five Kingdoms. They were both born as witches from a witch. Bee used her skills to work with the Neit’s Maidens, protecting them from magic while they herded demons back into their prison, and Bren used his to cause mischief, wherever and whenever he could.

So, why send him here on such a vital mission? And why is The Smith involved?

Deep in thought, she bent beside the bench and took an evil-looking dagger from the scabbard of a still buckled belt. The hilt was gold, decorated with precious stones, and the blade curved up slightly. As she hefted the dagger, she wondered what use it would be against a bag of bones in mouldering armor, but decided to keep it—more as a comforter than for any other reason—threaded the scabbard to her own belt, and resheathed the dagger. Walking to the weapons rack, she took a bow and a quiver of arrows. Again, she had no idea how effective the weapon might prove, but took it more for comfort than for any practical purpose.

“Come,” Dornálaí said, grabbing Bee’s wrist. “There is no time for dallying.”

“I ain’t leaving without me brother,” she said, pulling her wrist free.

“He’s on Donn’s threshold.”

No, he isn’t, Bee thought, before saying, “What makes ye say that?”

“I was in the throne room. I heard the demon tell you.”

“I don’t care. I need him.”

“I did not think you were the sentimental type,” Dornálaí said, breaking her train of thought.

“I’m not. Without him, we won’t discover where Lia Fail is.”

“Didn’t he tell you?” the ring fighter asked. Glancing up, Bee saw something in his expression. If she had to name what it was, she’d say he was disappointed. Of all the emotions she might expect given the circumstances, disappointment was the strangest.

“No. He trusts me only a little bit more than the demon who had him burned half to death,” she said, unable to stop from cocking an eyebrow at her inability to avoid the sarcasm as much as the ring fighter’s missing it.

“That must be hard. Still, there is a need for haste, so come,” he said, striding through the door without a backward glance.

When they reached the cell, Bren had returned to his foetal position facing the back wall. Unable to stop the flare of anger at his acting, Bee grabbed him roughly by the collar of his jerkin and hauled him to his feet.

“Up,” she said. “Ye were sitting here feeling sorry for yerself only moments ago.”

“Gentle now,” Dornálaí said. “Remember what he has been through.”

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“I’m not sure he’s been through anything. Far too sprightly for one on Donn’s threshold, so he is.”

“Oh, but he has,” Dornálaí said, causing Bee to raise her eyebrow again. She was about to ask the fighter what he meant, but her brother didn’t give her the chance.

“The demon healed me each morning, so I was strong enough to face more questioning,” Bren whined. Letting go of his collar, Bee brushed off his jerkin with gentle hands, but said nothing. “What happened, and who’s this?”

“Meet Dornálaí, The Smith.” The emphasis Bee used gave no room for doubt that she was speaking of the God and not someone who made horseshoes.

“I thought The Smith’s called Goibnui.”

“Yes, yes. The Smith is Goibniu,” Dornálaí said. “For now, I’m a ring fighter and am called Dornálaí.”

Bren looked from one to the other of them, his face a picture of confusion.

“It’s a long story, Bren. Forget it for now. We’ve no time,” Bee said, before turning to the fighter. “How are we going to escape?”

“I can rip a hole through there,” Dornálaí explained, pointing at the rear wall of the corridor.

“Rip a hole through an underground wall in an ancient tower? What by all the Tuatha does that mean?” Bee asked, scratching at her scar and scowling at the stinking mists still oozing through the mortar between the wall’s stones.

“We can leave through a tear and find a portal.”

“If that’s the case, why didn’t ye do it coming in?”

“There is no portal here. I can rip an entrance into the Void but not out; it would be too great a risk.”

“How so?”

“I might tear a door into the bottom of a lake, and we would drown. No, to get out, we would need a portal. Besides, Danu has this place shrouded in wards. Breaking in would have been impossible.”

“How does the Void come into it?” Bren asked. Bee thought she could see him shaking.

“You know there are many worlds on many planes and portals connect them?” Bren nodded. Bee kept her peace, waiting to hear what he was going to say. “Well, the space between each of the planes is filled with the Void. Portals are doorways between the planes, but it is possible to rip a tear in the… well, to keep it simple… in the fabric of space and time, thereby getting access to the portals from another place.”

“If it’s that easy, why don’t we all do it?” Bee scoffed.

“You need particular skills. Not many possess them.”

Or even know about them, Bee thought.

“So, will ye have any control over where we exit the Void?”

“But of course. I have travelled there for most of my existence. I know the paths, and I will bring you to the portal at Sliabh Culinn. Come. There is not much time.”

Dornálaí moved to the wall, at first leaning against it with one of his cabbage-like ears, feeling with his sausage-like fingers. It was all Bee could do not to laugh as the food analogies kept popping into her head. Bren stood in the open cell gate, staring at the ground between his feet. Several moments passed before the stench that had been tickling her nose since they abducted her on the plains flooded into the corridor. It was the same stench, only tenfold. Bee knew that if she’d eaten recently, it would now be in the cracks between the flagstones. She gagged several times as the mist became a fog.

“You have my sympathy,” Dornálaí said, patting her on the shoulder. “My nose has been bashed so many times, I can no longer smell anything. I do recall the horror of it, though. Which I suppose is an indication in itself, as most things are forgotten with time. Stay close, and do not stray from directly behind me. The paths are narrow, and you do not want to fall off one.”

Bee covered her mouth and nose and motioned for Bren to follow immediately after Dornálaí. It was not because she feared for her brother’s safety, but rather because she feared for her own. Following Bren into the grayness of the Void, she could feel the fog creeping up her calves to just below the knee. It was the same clamminess that any fog would give, except there was more to it. Something she could not describe because words failed her. It was as if all the ills of the worlds she knew had converged into a swirling gas, using the physical aspects as probes that it spiked into the flesh of those who dared trespass into its realm. She knew it was a sensation rather than a real entity, but couldn’t prevent the revulsion she felt. In some ways, she thought it would be the same feeling if Plasgorta took hold of you.

Dornálaí kept talking as they walked. She didn’t hear the words, but it didn’t matter. He was speaking to give them something to take their mind off the horror.

Bee was starting to wonder if they would ever get out of the place, if Dornálaí had lured them here and would abandon them at an opportune moment, when he said, “Here we are.”

Looking over his shoulder, she was surprised to see that the portal was a door. Just like a door in a fortress. A wooden frame. Hinges. A handle.

Following him through the door, she stepped into a forest that was under the shadows of early evening. Where are we?she wondered.

“I thought ye said ye’d bring us to Sliabh Culinn,” Bee said, her anger once again rising.

“And so I did, dear girl.”

“I’m not a girl, Smith. I’m not much younger—”

“Think before you speak, Bee,” he hissed. “Of course you are much younger than me. I’m as old as time.” That was the first time that she’d heard anger in the God’s voice. Even when he bashed Finn’s brains in, Dornálaí hadn’t been in any way angry. He’d been doing what was necessary, or so he said. Abashed, she bowed her head and said she was sorry, blaming it on her exhaustion.

“Yes, well, as I was saying. I did bring you to the Whitehead’s fastness. The portal is not in the fortress itself, but in the forest a league away. An hour or so, and we will be hailing them at the top of the hill and demanding the lift be sent.”