In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Raising his head, he looked around. Fergal lay nearby, also covered with a cloak, and still fast asleep. There was no one else around. The shout, then, had been his own. At this realisation, memory came flooding back … the sea chase … the wreck … the druid glade … the druids … everything. The stone bothy stood nearby and the surrounding wood was alive with the calls of rooks flocking to their night roosts. He dragged his shattered strength together and stood, then staggered a few paces to a nearby tree. While he tended to his business, he caught the scent of smoke and with it the sweet, oily smell of roasting meat. Water instantly filled his mouth.

  Greatly relieved, he stepped from the wood and walked around the bothy to find Eádoin and Dáithi sitting on stools beside the fire ring while a young, brown-robed ovate with a ladle and basting bowl was tending three spits on which fine fat hares were now sizzling, and something in the cauldron was beginning to bubble. Across from them, Tuán sat cross-legged on the ground, feeding broken branches into the fire.

  ‘Ah! Here is our man now,’ announced Dáithi, his voice loud in the quiet of the clearing.

  ‘Sit with us, please, Conor mac Ardan,’ invited the druid chieftain. ‘We have been discussing your audacious escape. You and your friends are to be commended for your skill and fortitude.’

  ‘Or, was it simple luck only?’ wondered Tuán, breaking another stick. ‘What do you think, Conor mac Ardan?’

  ‘I think we make our own luck.’

  ‘Yes, fashioned from fear and desperation, no doubt,’ said the small druid, drawing smiles from his Learned Brothers. ‘It is a marvel what fear can do.’

  ‘Whether from fear and desperation, luck, or skill—or some admixture of all,’ offered the high druid pointedly, ‘the fact remains that destiny favours these men.’

  ‘We are all children of destiny,’ replied Tuán. ‘But destiny is not the same as triumph.’

  ‘Sit,’ invited Eádoin again. ‘Talk with us a while. We would hear more of your escape.’

  ‘Unless you think me too audacious, desperate, and fearful for your exalted company,’ replied Conor dryly.

  ‘Take no notice of Tuán,’ said Dáithi. Conor watched the savoury juices sluice over the meat, and swallowed heavily. ‘He is always contrary. It is his way, but he means no disrespect.’

  ‘Take no notice of me,’ muttered Tuán. ‘It is my contentious nature.’

  ‘How do you know about the wreck?’ asked Conor to no one in particular. ‘How did you know to come looking for us?’

  ‘We saw the ships,’ replied Dáithi. ‘Ever since the coming of the Scálda we have placed watchers on the coast. One of them witnessed the chase and the wreck of your vessel and ran back to Carn Dubh with a report. When we heard there were survivors, we came to lend our aid and learn what we could of this affair.’

  ‘You followed us?’

  ‘The path from the sea leads here. We guessed you would come this way,’ said Eádoin. Indicating the glade and bothy, he added, ‘This is our clóin—our fish camp and smokehouse. We use it for ceremonies, too, sometimes.’

  ‘I want to see Donal,’ said Conor, moving to the bothy. He stooped and entered the little stone hut. Two bronze lamps and a number of beeswax candles illuminated the dark room with a soft warm light. On a bed of bracken, Donal lay covered by a yellow cloak; Gráinne knelt at his side, her hand resting lightly on his chest. Rhiannon sat beside her, hands folded in her lap. The sight was so peaceful, so still, Conor thought Donal must have succumbed at last to his injuries and died.

  Gráinne looked up as Conor stepped into the room; she smiled and beckoned him to join her. ‘I am glad you have come, Conor.’ She reached out and took his hand, pulling him down beside her. ‘Do not be troubled,’ she said, having glimpsed Conor’s face as he took in the sight of the pale, motionless body before her. ‘Your friend lives still.’

  At the sound of their voices, Donal roused somewhat; he opened his eyes and tried to raise his head. Gráinne brought out a small bowl of brown liquid and, supporting his head with one hand and holding the bowl with the other, she gave him to drink. ‘It is beef liquor,’ she said. ‘For strength.’

  Donal swallowed down a few sips, then closed his eyes again and sank back on his bed. Putting aside the bowl, Gráinne pulled back the cloak covering the injured man. They had removed his siarc and applied a sticky green poultice to the wound in his side; bits of moss and other leaves had been mashed up and bound in a paste with camomile, garlic, and honey. With Rhiannon’s help, Gráinne now gently rolled Donal onto his side and proceeded to pick off and discard the spent medicine, revealing a nasty red gash with spidery blue-black fingers stretching out from it. The wound was raw and open, and running with a yellowish fluid. Gráinne wiped this away with a soft cloth rinsed in something that smelled of vinegar, and then cleaned the wound and renewed the green poultice.

  As she worked, Conor regarded the banfaíth—not young, nor yet old. Full of figure and face, she seemed to exude an air of the wisdom as old and deep as the forest around her, of peace and deep calm; and yet there was something of the night about her: of deeds done in darkness, of secret places, and strange oaths pledged in the light of the moon.

  The banfaíth finished dressing the wound, and they rolled Donal onto his back and replaced the cloak. Conor realised he had been holding his breath and exhaled in relief. ‘He is very strong—the strongest among us.’

  ‘He is strong, yes, and that is in his favour.’ The banfaíth nodded thoughtfully. ‘He is also a true warrior, and now he fights for his life.’

  Conor stared at the inert body of his friend beneath the cloak. ‘Can he be healed?’

  ‘We believe,’ said Rhiannon with a nod to the banfaíth, ‘that he has been poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned…,’ repeated Conor.

  ‘The Scálda spear was poisoned…,’ the faéry explained.

  ‘The blade thrust alone was not enough to harm this much,’ Gráinne explained. ‘The Learned have had word that the enemy has begun using poison on their weapons. Truly, nothing is beneath them.’

  ‘Can he recover?’ Conor asked again.

  ‘We are trying to draw the poison from the wound,’ the banfaíth replied, ‘but there is only so much we can do without an antidote.’

  Conor gazed into her kindly eyes, but felt a chill on his heart. ‘If there is anything I can do for him—anything at all, only tell me and I will do it.’

  ‘We will remain with him through the night and see what the morning brings. It is all we can do now.’ She gave his arm a squeeze and said, ‘You would do well to eat something and rest. Restore your strength while you can.’

  A gabble of voices sounded from outside, and Conor heard Fergal among them. He thanked the women for their care and, as he rose to leave, he noticed that the place where Mádoc’s body lay was empty now. Gráinne saw his glance, and said, ‘Eádoin has ordered the body of Mádoc mac Laoire removed to Carn Dubh so his brothers might prepare it for the funeral rite.’

  ‘When?’ asked Conor.

  ‘Tomorrow evening at sunset,’ replied the banfaíth.

  Conor left them to their vigil. Outside, he saw that Fergal had joined the druids and was telling them about the escape from the Scálda stronghold and the sea chase. At Conor’s approach, Fergal said, ‘It was all Conor’s idea, mind. None of us would have survived if not for Conor.’

  Shaking his head, Conor took a seat at the fire ring, saying, ‘None of this would have happened if not for me.’

  ‘You saved us, brother. Never doubt it.’

  ‘Huw and Mádoc would take a different view,’ Conor replied. ‘And Donal would likely agree with them.’

  ‘Why speak of things that are beyond knowing?’ said Dáithi. ‘What has happened has happened.’

  ‘Fergal was telling us about your recent sojourn among the Scálda,’ said Eádoin. ‘It was a daring plan. I can only wonder at the reasoning behind it.’

  ‘Ach, now, that was Mádoc’s idea,�
� Conor replied. ‘It was in his mind that Lord Brecan of the Brigantes has formed an alliance with the Scálda in order to seize the high kingship of Eirlandia for himself.’

  ‘And if that was true,’ said Tuán, ‘and such an alliance existed, then you might find evidence of it with the Scálda?’

  ‘That is what Mádoc thought.’

  ‘A grave accusation to place against the name of so great a king,’ allowed Dáithi.

  ‘This is why we needed proof,’ put in Fergal.

  ‘Rarely has such treachery been known in Eirlandia,’ mused Eádoin.

  ‘If there was any treachery at all,’ Tuán said. ‘It might merely have been an old man’s delusion, or a misapprehension. Is that not true?’

  ‘We discovered nothing to lay at Brecan’s feet, true,’ Conor answered. ‘But my cracked ribs and bruises convinced me that it was no delusion.’

  ‘Three armed Brigantes against one unarmed Darini,’ Fergal spat. ‘That such should happen at an Oenach…’ He shook his head gravely. ‘Shameful.’

  ‘This attack took place at an Oenach, you say?’ wondered Eádoin.

  ‘For a fact it did,’ Fergal declared. ‘Donal and I were there to put a stop to it, or they might have killed Conor.’

  The druids turned wondering eyes on Conor, who explained how he and Donal and Fergal had caught Scálda spies prowling around the Oenach, and his attempt to bring the matter to the attention of the gathering—only to be rudely dismissed by Lord Brecan when he tried to insist on further investigation. ‘I don’t think they meant to kill me—only to punish me for speaking out against Brecan and discourage me from meddling any further in the king’s affairs.’

  ‘And it is your understanding that this beating came about as a result of your challenge to Brecan before the assembly?’ queried Dáithi.

  ‘I, at least, received that understanding,’ Conor replied. ‘It is remarkable how persuasive fists and feet can be.’

  ‘It proves nothing,’ concluded Tuán. ‘Maybe Lord Brecan did not favour the shape of Conor’s head—or perhaps the king disliked the scarlet stain on his manly cheek.’

  At mention of his ill-favoured birthmark, Conor felt the heat of anger flush through him. ‘You are right, of course,’ he replied coldly. ‘I forget that my disfigurement does often provoke. You are kind to remind me.’

  ‘We are what we are,’ said Tuán with a smug little bow. ‘The question is, how long will you allow it to hobble you?’

  Conor stared at the little toad of a man for a long moment, then turned his face away.

  ‘Now then,’ said Eádoin, ‘you say that Mádoc’s suspicions led you to search behind the wasted land in Scálda territories?’

  ‘Truly,’ replied Fergal. ‘As Conor said, it was Mádoc’s idea. And I believe we were very close to succeeding, but we were exposed and forced to flee.’

  ‘So, in the end, you discovered nothing for your efforts,’ said Tuán. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Rankled at the insinuation that they had indulged in a fool’s errand, Fergal said, ‘We found two captive faéry women—one of them Rhiannon. We also found wheels—hundreds of them.’

  At the baffled glances from the druids, he went on to describe the massive forge fortress and the mine where the Scálda were digging ore out of the hills to construct iron rims for wheels by the score.

  ‘Are you certain that is what they were doing?’ inquired Dáithi.

  ‘As sure as I have eyes in my head,’ replied Fergal. ‘Conor, Donal, and myself—we watched dog-eaters at the forge, and at the mine, and we saw the finished wheels borne away by the wagonload.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the druid. ‘Why so many?’

  ‘They are making war carts,’ Conor told them, and described the small horse-drawn wagon they had seen being driven by the Scálda chieftain in the fortress yard.

  ‘War carts…’ Tuán shook his head. ‘Has anyone heard of such a thing?’

  ‘I believe I have,’ said Dáithi, tapping his chin with his fingertips. ‘The Vindelici of old called them chariots.’

  Conor had never heard of any tribe called the Vindelici, but Dáithi was quick to elaborate. ‘In the last age, this noble people flourished across the Great Sea on the plains and hills of Gallia. They were feared by many, and respected by all. Their sages provided a solid foundation that exists to this day in the teaching of the Learned among the Gaels. Even now, there are some who revere them as gods. I do not hold them so high, but only say that they were a mighty race, reigning over all other tribes by the power of trade and their skill at arms. It is said that these Vindelici, under a ruler called Cissonius, brought the chariots—these war carts, as you say—to Gallia.’

  ‘Where did Cissonius get them?’ wondered Tuán.

  ‘No one knows,’ answered Dáithi. ‘Some say they learned of chariots from their trade partners across the southern seas in lands where many such vehicles were known.’

  ‘Ach, I have it now,’ agreed Eádoin, nodding his head slowly. ‘The Gaels … I believe you are right.’ He turned his eyes to Conor, his brow creased in thought. ‘Hundreds of these wheels, you say?’

  ‘That many if not more. As Fergal said, we saw heavy wagons loaded with rims and at least one storeroom filled with finished wheels—enough for dozens of chariots.’

  ‘Could it be that this is the reason the Scálda have been quiet these last summers?’ suggested Dáithi.

  ‘Quiet?’ scoffed Fergal. ‘You speak as a man who has never held a spear in battle with the dog-eaters.’

  ‘Ach,’ nodded Dáithi, ‘yes, to be sure.’

  ‘Still, compared to summers past, the swart invaders have been content to harass and harry, but have mounted no sustained assaults,’ Tuán pointed out, drawing nods from the other druids around the fire. ‘It would seem the enemy have been building their strength and constructing a fleet of these chariots to aid in the completion of the conquest begun these many years ago. That would make sense.’

  All were silent for a long moment, and while they sat contemplating the implications of that thought, the ovate rose from his place and announced that the meal was ready. A stew of greens and turnips with onions was ladled from the cauldron into bowls along with portions of roast hare; these were passed around with chunks of dried bread for sopping up the liquid. They ate gratefully, and eventually returned to the discussion at hand.

  ‘It seems to me,’ suggested Tuán, ‘that this insinuation of treason on Brecan’s part is groundless. Apart from gross ambition—as repugnant as that may be—I cannot detect any greater stench to lay at his door.’

  Fergal’s lip curled in derision. ‘I would have thought making war carts was worrying enough to warrant more than a sniff of interest,’ he grumbled. ‘If Mádoc were here, he would tell you soon enough. It was his distrust and suspicion that drove us into the wasted lands.’

  ‘Do not mistake caution for indifference,’ chided Eádoin. ‘If we probe a wound, is it not for the purpose of gaining a more accurate assessment of the injury and what may be done to heal it?’

  ‘The nub of it is that you have brought back nothing to link Brecan to the chariot-building activity of the Scálda,’ insisted Tuán.

  ‘That may be,’ argued Dáithi, ‘but I think you are forgetting the enemy spies our friends here caught at the Oenach—a gathering summoned by Brecan himself.’

  ‘What so?’ demanded Tuán. ‘That tells us nothing.’

  Conor sighed inwardly. Left to themselves, these Learned Brothers could chase a thing from dawn to dusk without ever coming near a capture. He ate his meal, hardly tasting what he swallowed, for his heart was that heavy. When he finished, he thanked the druids for the food and their sustaining aid, then returned to his place beneath the oak, where he rolled himself in his cloak and closed his eyes. Sleep was a long time coming and when it did arrive, it was filled with curious dreams of windswept hills where women danced within a stone circle by the light of a blood-red moon.

  27

&n
bsp; Conor awoke the next morning ill rested and aching in body and mind. His first thought was to go and see how Donal had fared during the night. He threw off the cloak and climbed stiffly to his feet. Morning sunlight fingered through the mist clinging to the upper branches, and the air smelled of leaves and moist earth. Fergal was still asleep nearby and, at the fire ring in the centre of the clearing, Tuán sat alone beside a cold pot, feeding twigs into the fire to get the water boiling for the porridge. Conor raised a hand in a halfhearted greeting, and went into the bothy.

  Rhiannon sat beside Donal, much in the attitude in which he had left her the night before, but her head was bowed upon her breast and her eyes were closed. Banfaíth Gráinne lay in her cloak nearby, also asleep. Not caring to wake them, Conor stood for a moment, taking in the limp hair, bloodless lips, and hollow, ashen cheeks of his swordbrother, and fresh feelings of guilt and futility washed over him. How could he have let this happen?

  He turned to go, and as he stepped to the door, the banfaíth awoke and said, ‘Against all our fears, Donal remains in the Land of the Living.’

  ‘But no improvement?’

  ‘Alas, there is no improvement.’ Gráinne rose and returned to her place beside the stricken warrior. She drew aside his cloak and put her fingertip lightly to the wound; the surrounding area was still very red, the inflamed area threaded with blue-black tendrils, but seemed not to have grown any larger. She dipped a scrap of cloth into a bowl of water, wet it, and laid the damp cloth on the fevered skin, then replaced the covering and sat back with a sigh. ‘No better—but no worse, either. We’ll try to get him to eat something when he wakes.’

  ‘Can anything be done?’

  The druidess shook her head. ‘Not by me.’

  ‘Then who?’ said Conor, striking a fist against his leg. ‘Eádoin said you were a healer of great renown.’