Free Holder of Lightning by S. L. Farrell Page A

the Bunús and Jenna’s people, the Daoine. In the poems, the Bunús were always evil and horrific, fierce and cruel warriors who had allied with spirits, wights, and demonic creatures.
    “Aye, I am the blood of Bunús Muintir, and I know your Daoine songs.” Seancoim said. “I’ve heard them, and like all history, they’re half true. We were here when your ancestors came into this place, and we fought them and sometimes even bred with them, but Daoine blood and Daoine swords proved stronger, until finally those of the pure lineage sought the hidden places. There were no final battles, no decisive victory or defeat, despite what the songs tell you. True endings come slowly. Sometimes they come not at all, or just fade into the new tales.” Groaning, Seancoim stood again. “There’s bread there, on the ledge near Dún mharú, baked two days ago now, I’m afraid. There’s still some of the last blackberries of the season, and smoked meat. That’s all I have to offer and it’s not fancy, but it will fill your bellies. Go on and help yourselves.”
    The bread was hard, the berries mushy with age and the meat tough, but Jenna thought it strangely delicious after the day’s exertions. She finished her portion quickly, then broke off a hunk of bread and went outside. The clouds had parted, and a crescent moon turned the clouds to silver white. She was above the trees, looking down on their swaying crowns. She could see Knobtop, rising up against the stars to the north, farther away than she’d ever seen it before.
    The wind lifted her hair and brushed the forest with an invisible hand. She thought she could hear voices, singing not far away: a low, susurrant chant that rose and fell, the long notes holding words that lingered just on the edge of understanding. Jenna leaned into the night, listening, caught in the chant, wanting to get closer and hear what they were singing . . .
. . . aye, to get closer . . .
. . . to hear them, to touch their gnarled trunks . . .
. . . to be with them . . .
    Beating wings boomed in her ears: Dúnmharú touched her shoulder with his clawed feet and flew off again, startling her. Jenna blinked, realizing that she stood under the gloom of the trees at the bottom of the slope, a hundred strides or more from the cavern, and she had no idea how she’d come to be there. She whirled around, suddenly frightened at the realization that she hadn’t even realized that she was walking away. The last few minutes, now that she tried to recall them, were hazy and indistinct in her mind.
    Small with distance, Seancoim beckoned at the cavern entrance, and Jenna ran back up the hill toward him, as if a hell hound were at her heels.
    “So you do hear them,” he called to her, as the crow swept around her again before settling back on the old man’s shoulder. “Some don’t, or think it’s only the wind moving the trees. But they sing, the oldest trees, the ones that were planted by the Seed-Daughter after the Mother-Creator breathed life into the bones of the land. They remember, and they still call to the old gods. It’s dangerous for those who hear: the enchantment in their old voices can hypnotize, and you’ll find yourself lost in the deepest, most dangerous parts of the wood. Most who go to listen don’t return.”
    Jenna looked over the forest, listening to the eerie, breathy sound. “Should we leave?” she asked.
    The old man shrugged. “The unwary should be careful, or those whose will isn’t strong enough. That last, at least, doesn’t describe you, now that I’ve told you the danger.”
    “You don’t know me.”
    “Oh, I know you well enough,” he chuckled.
    Jenna shook her head. The wind shifted and the tree-song came to them louder than before, the chant rising in pitch. “What is it they’re singing? It sounds so sad and lonely.”
    Seancoim leaned heavily on his staff, as if he were peering into the dark. “Who knows? I certainly don’t. They speak a language older