In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  He fixed Conor with a firm and steady gaze. ‘Will you trust me, Conor mac Ardan?’

  Unable to discern what he was being asked to do, Conor hesitated. ‘I might … I suppose.’

  ‘It will mean great hardship, and even greater peril.…’

  Conor’s brow creased in thought.

  ‘And certain death if we are discovered.’

  ‘Ach, well—that is alright then. And, here, I was afraid you were going to say that it might be dangerous.’

  ‘Mock if you will,’ Mádoc grumbled. ‘But we must act swiftly.’

  ‘How swiftly?’

  ‘Even now—and hope that we are not already too late.’ Mádoc’s tone was grave and pitiless. ‘Our lives may be forfeit, but Brecan must be stripped of power or he will become invincible—and all Eirlandia will pay the price.’

  ‘Put like that,’ mused Conor, ‘a fella would have to be a fool to accept.’

  ‘Aye.’ Mádoc’s faded eyes framed a grim smile. ‘And you, my son, are the very fool for this chore.’

  Aoife

  Twice I should have died. Three times, if you count the day our ráth burned. I was among the few who escaped the flames. Alanna and Bradyn, my older sister and brother, did not. They were at work in the fields when the Scálda came. I never saw them again. We never said our farewells. My father, Deaglán, escaped with us, but was among the warriors who fought to defend our retreat. The last I saw of him was, sword in hand and shield on arm, embracing my mother and telling her to go and he would find us, but he never did.

  The Scálda took everything. They came out of the south and ran over our lands. Like hornets spilled from a hive they came—killing and burning everything in their path. I do not believe they are men at all.

  We fled north, my mother and me, along with the survivors of our tribe and those of other tribes of the south—there were Velabri, I know, also many Uterni, and maybe some others. I was but ten summers, and my view of the world was very different then. I thought our ráth the safest place in Eirlandia, and that our warriors were all mighty. I was wrong.

  We walked many days, stopping here and there, but always moving on. Along the way, the survivors were taken in by other tribes. My mother and I found our way to the Darini because she thought she had some kin among them. On account of this, we were welcomed and slowly folded our lives into theirs. Dúnaird became our home.

  Before the Scálda came, before flames and death filled all the land, I was learning to become a druid—a banfaíth, perhaps, a healer and singer for my people. I may have been only ten summers in the world, as I say, but already my fingers were skilled at the harp and pipe. My teacher was Tirnanon, who many thought the greatest ollamh in the land. Even now men say, ‘His harp could calm the angry sea, and silence the singing stars.’ And I was his best pupil, or so he said.

  Since the king in our new home had no filidh or even an ovate to fill his hall with music, I was chosen be his harpist. Young as I was, I soon rose to become Chief of Song in Lord Ardan’s ráth—but this only because there was no one else.

  Ach, but I race ahead of my tale. In those first days, before I had even met the king or anyone else, my mother and I turned our hands to whatever chores needed doing. We fetched wood and water, helped the women render fat to make soap and candles, fed the goats and geese, and milked cows.

  That was how I fell into peril the second time.

  On that day when death again hovered at my shoulder, there were no flames of warning, no shouting or fighting, no spears or swords or blood poured out on the ground. I was helping to feed the cattle and paying but little heed to the animals in the pen. The bucket was heavy. I slipped and fell in the mud and my flailing drew the attention of a young bull. Too late I saw it. The creature charged with head lowered and sharp horns displayed. Unable to move, I screamed and closed my eyes.

  When I opened them again three heartbeats later, there was Conor—standing between me and the bullock, arms outstretched, dodging from side to side and shouting rude insults at the beast in order to draw it away. The trick worked. The animal chased Conor around the pen—I laugh to think of it now—until the young bull tired and men came to throw a halter around its thick black neck and lead it away.

  Conor ran to lift me back onto my feet and we were friends from that moment, I think. We have been friends, and more, ever since. Indeed, over the next years we pledged our lives, each to the other, many times. So now, this autumn, at the Lughnasadh festival, we are to be married.

  Yes, I have loved him that long.

  9

  ‘Do you trust me, Conor mac Ardan?’ the wily old druid asked. Why the question had been posed was still not apparent to Conor; the fact that it had been asked not once, but twice over, puzzled him greatly. And the question continued to pester him over the next two days as he limped around camp waiting for the Oenach to finish so they could all go home.

  Conor himself would not go up to the council again—even if allowed. What would be the point? Showing his battered face at the gathering would only earn him another thumping—not that a beating would deter him necessarily, but what would be the point?

  ‘It was a mistake to come here,’ Fergal observed glumly as he refilled the bucket from the river that snaked along the edge of the wood and formed the boundary to Mag Coinnem, the council plain.

  ‘We came to tend the horses,’ Conor told him. ‘We’re tending them.’

  ‘But that’s all we do!’ Fergal growled. ‘You forget, we also came to see our part in the gift horses recognised and rewarded.’

  ‘And there aren’t even any dancing girls,’ muttered Donal.

  ‘Were we promised serving maids and dancers now?’ Conor said.

  Fergal set the bucket aside and began filling another. ‘Ach, well, everything has gone rancid now anyway, and we are to leave tomorrow.’

  This was news to Conor. ‘How do you know? My father told you this?’

  ‘Aye, he did. I asked him if he wanted us to bring any horses up to the council today. He just said he was not inclined to generosity.’ Fergal picked up two overflowing buckets. ‘As it is, we go home tomorrow and take our horses with us.’

  ‘All but the best one,’ said Conor, ‘the one we gave Brecan.’

  ‘Save the one we gave Brecan.’ Fergal nodded to Donal and, buckets in hand, they started back to the picket line.

  Conor limped after them. ‘But the council ends tomorrow?’

  ‘I did not say that,’ replied Fergal. ‘Ardan just said we are to be ready to leave in the morning.’

  ‘What if the Oenach is not concluded?’

  ‘How should I know?’ replied Fergal. ‘I’m just a stable boy now.’

  Later, when Ardan and Liam and the ardféne returned to camp that evening, Conor hobbled to his father’s tent and begged an audience. ‘A word, Father, if you will.’

  ‘How are you feeling, son? You seem to be moving about more freely.’

  Conor acknowledged that this might be so. ‘Mádoc tells me that I am young and will heal. I suppose we must trust to his wisdom in these things.’ He paused and then said, ‘I am hearing a rumour that we are leaving the Oenach.’

  ‘Aye—unless something prevents us,’ confirmed the king. ‘I want to be far away from here by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Whether the Oenach is concluded or not?’

  ‘This gathering has been for nothing,’ complained Ardan; he rubbed a hand across his face as if to wipe away the exasperation Conor saw there. ‘Lord Brecan proposes an issue to be discussed, and this we attempt—only to be told in the end how we are to think and what we are to do.’ He slouched into his camp chair. ‘He treats the council as his personal retinue, and the Council Ring his private audience chamber. I am not his kitchen céile to be commanded. We are leaving.’

  ‘Do you think that wise, my lord?’ asked Conor. He moved to stand before his father.

  ‘It’s better than staying here and prancing to whatever tune Brecan decides to
call next.’ He slammed his hand against his knee. ‘I will not stand by and watch that puffed-up cockerel strut about as if he owned the yard.’ He regarded his son’s anxious face. ‘This troubles you?’

  ‘What does Liam say?’ said Conor.

  ‘Liam agrees with me, to be sure. He is even now instructing the men to be ready to strike camp at daybreak. I would think you, above all men here, would approve—no? Just look at yourself, boy.’

  ‘For a fact, I am most eager to put Tara beyond my sight,’ Conor told him. ‘Yet, it seems to me that leaving before the Oenach has ended will give Brecan an excuse to raise his hand you.’

  ‘He would not dare,’ huffed Ardan. ‘I am a king within my rights.’

  ‘I think this puffed-up cockerel already dares a very great deal.’ Conor touched his bruised eye lightly. ‘And that with impunity. I think he would not hesitate to move against you. Who would stop him?’

  Ardan exhaled heavily in frustration. ‘Well, then … what? What would you advise?’

  ‘Merely to behave as all the other lords. Give Brecan no cause to suspect you or catch wind of your displeasure. See the Oenach through to the end and thereby remain blameless in the sight of your brother kings.’

  ‘I will think about this and discuss it with Liam and Eamon.’ He shook his head. ‘Two good men injured because of this. What a mistake.’

  Conor offered an awkward bow and took his leave. As he stepped to the entrance to the tent, his father looked up. ‘Was there something else?’

  ‘Only this,’ replied Conor as a thought occurred to him. ‘Fergal says we are to take the gift horses with us when we go.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied Ardan, ‘I mean to keep them—unless you have a better idea.’

  ‘Do keep them—all but one, and give that one to Cahir. A friend should be rewarded when he stands with you. And we need all the friends we can get.’

  Ardan accepted the suggestion and told Conor to go and choose one of the animals for the Coriondi lord. ‘Thank you, son,’ said the king. ‘You have given me sound advice and I will consider it—be certain of that.’

  Liam and Eamon came in to attend the king, and Conor went out to choose from among the five remaining horses which to give away. He moved along the rope line, observing them one by one. He ran his hands over their coats and stroked their fine, strong flanks, speaking soft words to them. Having spent enough time with the animals, he thought he knew them and had a good idea of their respective temperaments, strengths, and likely weaknesses. The grey stallion was quick, but headstrong; the chestnut mare was biddable and smart, but a little thin in the hindquarters; the red roan was even-tempered and unexcitable, strong, but not among the swiftest; the brown stallion was young and spirited, and needed a good deal more training; and the larger tawny bay was steady on her feet, with good long legs and a deep chest.

  After appraising each in turn, Conor decided that the larger bay would be best; a good gift, which would be gratefully received, and they would be saved having to train the beast. In any case, it was more the gift than the horse and he knew Cahir would be pleased. He explained his decision to Fergal and Donal, and asked them to make the tawny-coloured mare ready for presentation to the Coriondi lord, while he lay down to rest, exhausted by the exertions of the day.

  The council lurched on for another day, and then Brecan announced that the time for talking was ended. He thanked the lords and their advisors and warriors for their good service and then said, ‘As a token of the high value I place on the sage counsel of my brother kings, I would like to give you each a gift.’ He gestured to his druid, Mog Ruith, who stepped forward with a small leather bag, which he placed in Brecan’s outstretched palm. Then, one by one, he called the kings to him and, dipping into the bag, brought out a silver ring that he bestowed on the attending lord, saying, ‘Let this be a sign of the loyalty and friendship between us and our people.’

  When the rings had been dispensed, Brecan stood up from his chair and strode to the edge of the platform. He raised his hands above the gathered lords and said, ‘I wish you all a safe and pleasant journey home, and a bounteous harvest. Farewell, brothers, until we meet again at the Samhain Oenach.’

  The gathering broke up then, and the lords, eager to begin their homeward journeys, quickly dispersed—not all, it seemed, in the best humour. Some of the kings were heard to grumble as they departed the Hill of Summoning. ‘He thanks us for our service?’ muttered the Eridani lord. ‘Are we his céile boys now?’

  ‘He says he values our counsel?’ said another. ‘And is he making decisions now for everyone?’

  ‘If that is the way of it,’ muttered his companion, ‘why were we even summoned?’

  Conor sensed the undercurrent of rancour when his father and the ardféne returned much earlier than expected. He quickly learned the reason for everyone’s irritation and went to his father, who was deep in conversation with Liam, Eamon, and some of the other lords. ‘So now,’ said Conor when his father and the other lords had moved on, ‘did Brecan show his hand at last?’

  ‘Nay, nay, he is too canny for that,’ Ardan huffed. ‘But he let us know we stood lower than himself in his eyes.’

  ‘At least it is over,’ Liam said. ‘We won’t have to suffer his arrogance any longer.’

  ‘He gave out rings,’ groused Eamon. ‘Who is he to be dispensing silver trinkets as if he is celebrating a great conquest? He goes too far.’

  ‘Does everyone feel this way?’ asked Conor.

  ‘They do not,’ declared the king with some force. ‘And that is a problem. Brecan’s antics have won enough favour among the weaker lords to justify his grand view of himself.’ He shook his head again. ‘Silver rings … a gift for a sweetheart, or a child.’

  They talked a while longer in this way and then, having exhausted a distasteful subject, Ardan turned to his son and said, ‘Did you choose a horse for Cahir?’

  ‘I did, my lord. I think the big bay mare will please him.’

  ‘Well and good. I asked him and his ardféne to come to us tonight. We will share a cup and I will give him the horse then.’

  ‘I wait upon your word.’ Conor took his leave and went in search of Fergal and Donal to tell them how the Oenach had ended, and to prepare the young bay for giving away—they combed and braided the mane and tail, and brushed the coat until it gleamed.

  All was ready for Cahir and his men when they arrived. The sun had just doused itself in the western sea, sinking below the horizon in a blaze of crimson and gold when the doughty lord, accompanied by four warriors of his ardféne and his chief advisor, Mádoc, entered the camp. They were given good mead to drink, and Ardan did his best to create a buoyant and convivial atmosphere, but the simple celebration failed to kindle much by the way of mirth or warmth. No one, it seemed, possessed either heart or will for much merrymaking. Time and again, the talk turned back to wily Lord Brecan and his schemes. Even the presentation of the gift horse—which Ardan conducted with heartfelt sincerity—did little to lift the company’s spirits. More mead was drunk, a little food taken, a song was sung, and the Coriandi departed with promises to return the favour one day soon.

  The next morning, however, they returned. The Darini were busy striking camp and eager to be away when the Coriondi reappeared. With a woeful expression, Lord Cahir strode into the camp and brusquely asked to see Ardan, who greeted his friend and asked what was the matter—for, from the look on his face, there was clearly something wrong. ‘I will tell you soon enough,’ Cahir replied tersely. ‘Though you will wish I had said nothing—I cannot keep silent.’

  ‘Come aside with me and let us talk,’ said Ardan. ‘The difficulty, whatever it may be, will certainly yield when two unite against it.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend,’ replied Cahir, ‘but what I have to say must be said in the hearing of all your men and these of my own.’

  ‘Speak then, and have it out.’ He told Eamon to summon his ardféne to attend him. As soon as they were all gather
ed around, he said, ‘Here now, what have you to say to us?’

  Cahir drew a heavy breath and, looking around the tight circle of faces, said, ‘You all know me to be a fair and honest man—at least that is my dearest hope—and I expect those I trust to be fair and honest with me. It is because of this that I come before you today.’

  A hush settled upon the little gathering as everyone strained to hear what he would say next. Cahir allowed the silence to stretch a little longer, and then said, ‘You, my friend, have a wicked thief in your camp.’

  Ardan professed amazement at this revelation. ‘This is a serious accusation,’ he said. ‘It cannot be one of my men that you suspect?’

  ‘I wish it was someone else,’ replied Cahir unhappily. ‘With all my heart I wish it.’

  ‘What has been stolen?’

  At this, the Coriondi king looked to his chief advisor; Mádoc stepped forward and, holding up his bare arm, said, ‘Three days ago at this time, I possessed a bracelet of gold—a token of honour I have worn for many years.’

  ‘I think I know the item,’ replied Ardan.

  ‘As you can see, I wear it no more.’ He turned this way and that to show he lacked the bracelet. ‘My gold has been stolen from me.’

  ‘I am grieved to hear it.’ Ardan glanced around his retinue, and was met with blank, unswerving stares all around. ‘But I cannot see why you think the absence of this cherished ornament can have anything to do with anyone here. Is there no mistake?’

  ‘I would that it were otherwise,’ allowed Mádoc judiciously, ‘and yet, I think, there is one standing here among us who knows the answer to that.’

  The former filidh turned and, extending a bony finger, intoned, ‘Conor mac Ardan, I accuse you of theft, and call you to answer for your crime in the hearing of your brothers this day.’ He thrust out his chin. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’