‘We will never see those beasts again,’ sighed Fergal.
‘Maybe the king will give them back to us in the dálin,’ suggested Donal. Depending on his mood, the king sometimes honoured the exceptional effort of particular warriors by returning the more valuable items in the division of spoils known as the dálin.
‘More likely the king’s hounds will grow hooves and we can ride them instead,’ grumped Fergal, kicking at the turf.
‘Take heart,’ said Conor, clapping hand to his friend’s shoulder, ‘that is three fewer mouths you will have to feed. Besides, with animals like that, you’d soon be up to your chin in muck. Consider yourself lucky.’
‘Aye, it is lucky I am,’ Fergal agreed sourly. ‘Lucky like the toothless dog at the feast.’
With grudging reluctance, they turned to their work, helping to collect the plunder. Conor moved slowly among the corpses, recoiling now and then at the sour stench of blood and bile rising from the freshly dead. The enemy’s weapons were of only limited use: Scálda shields were heavy and round, whereas Dé Danann shields were lighter and rectangular, affording more versatility and protection; and Scálda blades were likewise inferior in many ways. Still, they all contained useful metal that could be melted down and recast into better blades and tools. The other valuables—bits of gold or silver or jewelled ornaments—were likely stolen from their many and various victims. These would be added to the prizes to be meted out in the dálin and, as the king saw fit, for the benefit of the rest of the tribe.
Any wounded enemy found still clinging to life were swiftly sent on their way to wherever the Scálda went in death; injured Dé Danann, and there were blessedly few of these, had their wounds carefully tended by Muirac, a druid from Carn Dubh who sometimes accompanied Ardan’s extended sorties, along with two attendant ovates.
While Conor went about his gruesome chores, he thought about the entrancing captive on the back of the retreating horse. What was it about her that touched him so deeply in that heart-clenching moment? Was it the surprise of discovery? The look of desperate pleading on her exquisite face? Her erect and haughty demeanour in sharp defiance of her captive state?
Or was there something more? Something with a hint of enchantment about it? He had heard of the spells women could sometimes cast on men—perhaps this was such a case. Then again, the sight of a beautiful face most always made him feel a little strange—perhaps because of his own birth-born imperfection. A fair and flawless skin always seemed a magical thing to him.
As he combed the battlefield, gathering weapons as he went, Conor asked his comrades if anyone else had seen the woman chained to the Scálda chieftain. No one else had noticed such a thing, it seemed. The very suggestion was considered improbable, if not ridiculed outright. Conor might have begun to doubt himself if not for the image of her pleading eyes now deeply etched in his memory.
He eventually reached the mound with an armful of blades and two heavy shields slung on his back. Quickly dumping the gear onto the heap of gleanings, he hurried over to where Liam and the king were in consultation with the ardféne and a few of the other warriors. The horses were lined up before the king for his appraisal and despite the smiles and nods of approval, there were frowns, too. ‘What goes?’ asked Conor, sidling up to Fergal.
‘Just listen,’ hissed his friend.
‘My king,’ said Liam, raising his voice so all could hear, ‘in celebration of your victory today, I am pleased to deliver these horses as a gift. Look on them with pride, and remember the prowess that won them and the generosity of your warriors and battlechief.’
‘I knew it!’ muttered Fergal. ‘He gave away our horses.’
‘And claimed the gift as his own,’ observed Donal sourly, adding, ‘That is low, so it is.’
‘Easy, brothers,’ advised Conor. ‘The king may yet add them to the dálin.’
The king was speaking. ‘Was any king better served by his chief of battle?’ Ardan asked to the murmured approval of his attendants. ‘I thank you, Liam; your gift is well considered. Indeed, these horses will win us great favour when I bring them to the Oenach.’
‘What!’ whispered Fergal. ‘He means to give them away at the council!’
The Oenach—a formal gathering of the lords and chieftains—had been called by King Brecan of the Brigantes and would take place at the time of the next full moon—a little over a week away. As Brecan mac Lergath was ruler of the largest and most powerful of Eirlandia’s many tribes, Ardan and his warleader were expected to obey the summons, of course, and the ardféne would accompany their lord to serve as retinue and bodyguard. Few, if any, of the greater warband would be either asked or expected to attend the council. In fact, the assembled lords now prohibited anyone arriving with large retinues as it was seen—and very often proved—a dangerously provocative display. Since the coming of the Scálda, no fewer than three royals had lost lives and lands to devious rivals during such gatherings of their fellows. Thus, the councils were welcomed only with caution and wariness; and this one aroused more suspicion than most, following as it did so hard on the heels of the last one. Normally, a ruler liked to have a season or two to mend fences and shore up alliances after one of these contentious assemblies.
Conor was happy enough not to have to attend yet another tedious council; the boasting, self-aggrandizing exhibitions gave him a sour belly. But the thought of his brother, Liam the generous battlechief, being lauded for his largess as his father the king gave away the horses won by Conor’s blade and those of his swordbrothers fairly made the blood boil. If gifts were to be given then, at the very least, the true benefactors should be recognised in some small way. That was only right and fair.
Conor watched as his father turned to begin organising the collected plunder. ‘My king,’ said Conor, speaking up quickly, ‘with animals as valuable as these, you may require an escort to the council. I place myself at your service.’
Lord Ardan paused and turned to regard his son, a quizzical expression on his face.
‘I also pledge myself to aid you in this chore,’ volunteered Fergal, and Donal was not slow to echo the offer.
Before the king could reply, Liam turned on them. ‘Would you impugn the abilities of the matchless ardféne to serve and protect our king?’
‘As we were the ones that—’ began Fergal.
Conor cut him off. ‘Full sorry I am if you feel yourself impugned by such a mild suggestion,’ he said, putting a restraining hand on the seething Fergal. ‘I merely thought to spare our worthy brothers the feeding and care of these beasts while on the way to the council.’ He smiled and inclined his head. ‘Yet, if hauling water and handling loads of dung is the very work you crave, then far be it from me to stand in your way. I humbly withdraw my offer of service.’
More of the warband had gathered by now and most heard the exchange; some laughed behind their hands, but others waited to see how Liam would respond before committing themselves to either side of what appeared to be shaping up as a sibling squabble.
Liam’s face darkened. His mouth squirmed with displeasure, but before he could counter his brother’s sly insult, the king said, ‘Your offer is well considered, Conor. You three shall attend the Oenach and the responsibility for the care of the animals shall be yours.’
‘But they have no place at the council,’ objected Liam. ‘Their presence will be seen as—’
King Ardan raised his hand. ‘The decision is made. They go with us to tend the horses.’
Liam again tried to voice his objection. ‘Fine warriors they surely are, but they can have no place at—’
The king silenced him with a warning flick of his hand. ‘I have spoken. That is the end of it.’ He turned and gestured to the heap of Scálda weapons and valuables. ‘It grows late. It will be dark before we reach the ráth. Bring the spoils. I will make the dálin tomorrow.’
With that, the king and his hearth companions moved off, leaving Liam fuming with indignation.
‘He
had that coming to him,’ surmised Fergal as soon as Liam’s back was turned.
‘That is what happens when you overreach yourself.’ Donal pronounced this as a judgement.
Liam appeared to overhear, or at least sense that the three were talking about him. He swung around and glared at them, making his anger known to one and all.
‘Say no more,’ Conor advised, keeping his voice low. ‘I challenged him before the warriors and won. How would you feel, eh?’ He turned and started off. ‘Let us be about our business, lest we give our battlechief cause to punish us for his humiliation.’ Having won the skirmish, Conor quit the field.
‘What are we to do when we get to the council?’ Fergal asked, falling into step beside him. ‘What then?’
‘I cannot say,’ Conor confessed. ‘We are going—that is enough for now. We’ll think of something when we get there.’
Rónán
I cried last night … again. There are five of us in this house. The two older boys mock, but the two younger ones know how it is with me. I have been here seven moons. Cabiri, the filidh of Willow House, tells me that the time for mourning is now past and that I must look to the future. ‘If you can see the shape of things to come,’ he says, ‘and then put yourself into what you see, you will find yourself there.’
I don’t know what that means. All I know is that I miss my home; I miss my da, and Liam. Mostly, I miss Conor. Though he is my brother, and four years older, he is my best friend.
‘This is now your home,’ the druid chief told me on that first day. ‘We are now your family.’ He lifted me down from his fine horse and set me on my feet. He put his heavy hand on me and said, ‘Look around, son. The houses you see are your ráth, and this grove is your fortress. The boys and girls you see going about their tasks are your brothers and sisters. Be good to them. Treat them as you would your blood kin and they will do likewise.’
He pinched my chin and made me look at his eyes. ‘I am Morien, and I am your father now. I am your teacher, your master. You are my son, my pupil, my slave. Heed me in all things and you will gain wisdom and knowledge and power.’
He stooped down to look in my face. ‘Do you understand?’
I nodded—but he cuffed me on the ear. ‘Do you understand me?’
‘I understand, my lord,’ I told him, my voice shaking, for I was that much afraid of him. He says he is my father, but he is not.
‘See that little clot of dirt?’ He pointed to the ground at our feet. ‘Pick it up.’
There were many such little lumps of earth lying about and I did not know which one he meant, but I bent down and picked one up and gave it to him.
‘Hold out your hand,’ he said. And so I did.
He put the dirt in my hand said, ‘This bit of raw earth is you, my son—not much to look upon, useful in its own way, but worthless otherwise. Not so?’
I nodded.
‘Close your hand,’ he instructed, and I did.
The druid reached out and wrapped his two hands around mine. He held them for a moment and I felt my hand grow warm.
‘Hear now,’ he said, looking into my eyes. ‘If you fold your life into the life you see around you, marvels are possible.’
He released me and said, ‘Open your hand.’
I did as he said and the lump of dirt was gone. Instead, there was a little silver ring. I almost dropped it, but Morien snatched up the ring and held it before my eyes. ‘In this place, under my care, this is what you will become.’
Shaped like a serpent with its tail in its mouth, the ring looked like a tiny circle of light. I had never owned anything so grand. I could not take my eyes from it. Morien put it on my thumb and smiled. ‘Go now,’ he told me, ‘and discover your new home.’
We came a long way from my ráth to this small steading in the middle of a great forest I don’t know where. There are nine houses here—most are only huts of stick and mud, but two are large as a king’s hall and made of good cut stone and shaped timber; all of them are roofed with river reed and none have doors that close. Instead, they have only deer hide to keep out the wind and rain. The houses have names, too. Willow House is where I sleep. The biggest house belongs to Morien, for he is our chieftain. He is called the head of wisdom, for he is a very prince among druids everywhere.
The houses are made in a circle and there is a big fire ring in the middle. We have a grain store and two cattle pens. One pen is for the pigs, and one for the two horses our chieftain owns. We do not have any cows just now. Outside the circle of houses is the Sacred Grove, and there is the Watching Pool. On the other side is a field. But we only grow herbs and vegetables. Everywhere else is only forest. There is a cookhouse with a well beside it, and we also have a workshop. One house is made of stone and it is the treasure house where is kept the gold and silver used to make torcs and bracelets for kings and warriors. But we do not make them ourselves.
Our ráth is called Suídaur. There are maybe thirty of us here. Men and women both. There are some who are called ovates and filidh—the lowest ones, I think. We have an ollamh also, but he is very old. Morien is called a brehon—and that is the best of all. Sometimes we have more here, and sometimes not so many. Cabiri says, ‘The Learned Brotherhood hold no fixed abode and roam at will through the world. We are welcome everywhere.’ He says we can even go visit druid schools and ráths in other lands across the sea—in Cymru and Alba and Gallia. I don’t know where those places are, but he tells me I will go there one day maybe. ‘We go where the wind goes,’ Cabiri says. ‘Our welcome is assured in any hall we choose to enter, but we suffer no authority above us save Lady Sovereignty herself.’
I think he means the druid kind have a queen, but I think she lives somewhere else. At least, there is no queen here.
Most days, I do chores. We go about two-and-two. I help feed the pigs and horses. I carry water from the well or sometimes the pool. When the sun is out we pull weeds in the field, or gather in firewood from the forest. The older boys have razors to shave the special druid sign in their hair, but I am not old enough yet. Oh, and part of each day we sit at the feet of Cabiri, or one of the ovates, and try to learn what they teach us. Mostly they only teach us the names of things—trees, rocks, animals, plants—and the orders of belonging for these things, because, as Cabiri says, ‘Everything under heaven is alive and everything alive belongs, and everything that belongs is united in belonging to its kind.’
Our filidh goes on like this. Sometimes I understand him. Mostly I do not.
But it is more the way he speaks—not like ordinary men—his words flow like water, or drip like slow honey. Sometimes he sings.
There is much singing!
All of us are singing all the time. We sing songs about plants when we are in the field; we sing songs about water when at the well or pool, and songs about animals when we feed them. Everything we do has a song, or likely many songs, to go with it.
‘In this way,’ Cabiri says, ‘we take our rightful place in the Oran Môr, the Great Music.’ The world, he says, is built on a strong foundation of song.
So we sing whatever we do.
Morien calls us Children of Song. And this is not all. On many nights, the banfaíth plays the harp and tells us one of the stories we must all learn one day. We have a banfaíth. She is a druid princess. She plays with such skill it seems like magic. Her name is Credhe and she is Morien’s wife and a very great druid herself. She tells us that she is our mother. When she says this, I want to believe her.
My own mother died when I was small. I do not remember her face, only her eyes. They were blue. It was fever, I think, that took her. That is what Conor told me once. After that, other women came—my father’s sisters, mostly. My father was part of our king’s warband then, and he lived with the other warriors. Only sometimes he came to us at his kinswoman’s house.
Then he would tell us of great battles and great victories, and I liked the way he told them. That was before the Scálda came. But they are here now
and we must fight them, for they are our great and terrible enemy. They are big as giants and they eat dogs—and children, too, sometimes. If they can catch them out at night. I asked Cabiri about the Scálda and he said, ‘Do not say that name in this place. They are a very plague and a pestilence, and they seek to take Eirlandia for themselves. They wish to destroy us and all our people and all our works. But we will never surrender.’
This is why there are so many young ones here now. And not only here in Suídar, but other bard ráths, too. I think this is why Morien came to our ráth that day—to find someone who could come to the druid school. He chose me. This is my fate.
Banfaíth Credhe says we have been chosen to help our people by making more druids. This is a good thing.
Still, I miss my da … and Conor.
3
The Hill of Tara was almost within sight when the storm finally broke. Conor had been expecting another confrontation with Liam, but had hoped it would wait until they had reached their destination. Earlier that morning, the royal retinue of the Laigini had passed by on its way to the Oenach, and now, as the ardféne set about making camp for the night, they could see the fires of three other encampments across the valley. Liam seized the opportunity to once again press his argument.
‘My lord,’ he announced as the warriors gathered for their evening meal, ‘tomorrow we will enter Mag Rí. Already we are seeing the retinues of your brother kings and it will not have escaped your notice that your escort is larger than any we have seen so far.’
King Ardan nodded. ‘This concerns you does it, Liam?’
‘My sole concern is for your prestige, Father. I would not like to see you held in lower esteem because it was thought you were attempting to exalt yourself with an unwarranted display.’
Conor was quick to guess what was coming. Before Ardan could answer, he said, ‘Who do you imagine would think such a thing?’
In the Region of the Summer Stars Page 3
