by Edith Pattou
Each day, she grew thinner, barely leaving her bed, never speaking, her hands cold as ice. Filled with foreboding, Collun tried to cure his mother with hot broth made of healing herbs from his garden. But even as he ladled the liquid into her mouth, he knew her illness was not of the body but of the spirit. She loved Nessa deeply, Collun knew, but something else ate at her. He wondered if she blamed herself for letting Nessa leave the farmhold.
Emer had always been protective of both daughter and son. Aonarach was some distance from Inkberrow, and neither Emer nor Goban made the trip often. The blacksmith was a dour, solitary man, and Emer, too, showed no interest in mingling with the people of Inkberrow; her family was enough for her, she had always said. Emer fretted when Nessa or Collun was out of her sight for too long. Staying home did not bother Collun overmuch. He had one friend, Talisen, an aspiring bard who lived in Inkberrow, and had no desire for more. But Nessa chafed at her mother's restrictions, and it was partly these that had made her so determined to go to Temair.
***
Collun worked in the fields or in his garden each day from dawn until long past nightfall, but he found it more and more difficult to concentrate. His trine, the two-pronged tool he always carried that served him for weeding, tilling, and sowing, felt clumsy and heavy in his hand. The ground seemed harder, the weeds tougher and more plentiful.
And then the kesil had come.
All that night after his encounter with the old man, Collun remained in the garden, his thoughts full of Nessa, the kesil's burning eyes, and Emer's white face turned to the wall. When dawn's light filtered through the branches of the small hazel tree beside him, the spray of alyssum was still clutched in his fingers, the fire ant long gone.
Emer had told Collun long ago that this hazel was his birth tree, planted when he was born. Goban's tree was a large copper beech out beside the west field, and Nessa's was the whitethorn that grew at the other end of the garden. Emer's birth tree was the silver fir, but it had been planted somewhere near Temair.
Collun rose stiffly, his joints cold. He went and stood for a moment by the whitethorn tree. Collun told himself he did not believe in the superstition of the birth tree—that it reflected the health of the person for whom it was planted. Even so, it comforted him to see that the tree looked as it always did, its leaves shiny and deep green.
Collun entered the house and walked into the kitchen, where his father already sat at the worn wooden table, eating a bowl of oats and sugared maple. Father and son acknowledged each other with their eyes but did not speak. Collun heated a pan of chicory tea and poured it into a mug. Wrapping his fingers around the bowl of the cup, grateful for the warmth, he sat down at the table facing his father.
"I leave tomorrow for Temair."
There was a momentary glimmer of surprise in the older man's eyes. Collun's face flushed. He felt a hot bud of anger in his throat. He swallowed hard, and the anger was replaced by the familiar ache of knowing that, no matter what he did, his father would feel no pride in him. Then the moment passed and Goban simply nodded.
"I cannot spare Febo, you know. He is having trouble with his back leg, anyway."
"I had intended to walk."
"It is a long journey to Temair. Two weeks or more by horse," observed Goban.
"Yes," replied Collun, and he closed his eyes and drank down the chicory, savoring the hot burn as it filled his mouth.
TWO
Dagger
Collun spent the rest of the morning working in the fields. He labored hard, with a sense of urgency. The first frost was not far off, and he did not know if he would be back in time for the spring planting.
The fields done, Collun moved to the garden by the house, where he weeded and finished planting the bulbs. He cut most of the remaining late summer flowers and put them in an earthenware pitcher. He took them in to his mother. She turned her face toward him, but she did not notice the brightly colored blooms.
"Goban told me," Emer said, and she looked frightened.
"I must go. I should have gone earlier."
"You cannot. I will not lose both my son and my daughter."
"I will find Nessa and bring her back," Collun replied with a confidence that rang as false in the small room as it did inside him. "Perhaps we will even return to you by the month of Ruis, and we can all celebrate the Feast of Tuilioc together."
"No!" Emer cried out. "You must not go."
Collun stared at his mother's stretched, pale face. "Why do you not want me to go?"
Emer's eyes slid away from his. "You must not," she repeated dully.
***
Late in the afternoon, as Collun was tamping down the earth over the last of his bulbs, his father approached.
"What will you use as a weapon?" Goban asked.
"I do not know ... I hadn't thought."
"You will need a weapon. The road to Temair is not safe. Especially on foot."
He held out his hand. Collun looked at him, puzzled.
"Your trine. Give it to me."
"What?"
"I will make it useful."
Collun hesitated. He had carried the trine with him for many years. It fit his hand exactly, its handle smooth and worn.
Embedded in the handle at the top of the trine was a dull blue-gray stone. His mother had given it to him when he was a small boy.
It was on a spring morning, he remembered, and he had been out riding the then young farm horse, Febo. The animal had suddenly shied at a field mouse that darted across his path, and Collun had been thrown. He could not breathe, the wind knocked out of him. Emer had come, hearing his strangled cry. She held him, soothing the panic in him until his breath came back. Later that day she had handed Collun the stone. She smiled and told him it would bring him luck, and even if he should fall off Febo again and lose his breath, he had only to touch the lucky stone and he would know his breath would come back.
It had been Collun's own idea to set the stone into the handle of his trine. Thereafter it seemed to him that the trine with its lucky stone could till the soil like no other. The plants seemed to grow faster, the flowers bigger and brighter.
His father made a sound of impatience. "You cannot defend yourself with a trine. Give it to me."
And so Collun reluctantly handed over his trine. Later that evening, Goban returned from the smithy, his face red from the heat of the forge, and gave it back to Collun. Only it was no longer a trine but rather a shining, sharp-bladed dagger. Its handle was the same, the lucky stone still embedded at the top, but in place of the two graceful prongs which slid into hard ground like knives into warm butter, there was a thin and deadly looking blade.
The smith's eyes shone with pride.
"Test it," he said.
Collun ran his finger over the blade. A few drops of blood sprang up suddenly, and he almost dropped the knife in surprise.
"It is ... very sharp. Thank you, Father."
Goban then silently handed Collun a leather sheath for holding the dagger on his belt. Collun took it, again thanking him.
He was relieved when his father limped off, leaving him alone with his new weapon. Collun looked down blankly at the knife that had been a trine. He had a sudden overwhelming urge to throw it as far away as he could. It was as if some evil thing had come and taken away a beloved friend and left a changeling in its place.
And yet his father was right. He had made his choice, and it would be foolish to set off with the wrong tools. A gardener knew this as well as a blacksmith. There would be no use for a trine on the road that lay ahead.
Collun slept through the night for the first time since the messenger's arrival. His decision had been made, and yet when he woke in the morning he did not feel any comforting sense of certainty. He feared his choice, and he realized suddenly it had been Nessa who, unknowingly, had first shown Collun that he was a coward.
He had not been more than seven years old when it happened. He had been in the garden as usual. Nessa had just finished
her chores and was sitting on a fence watching the chickens. She was eating a peach, her short legs dangling. Suddenly he heard her give a strangled cough and a gasp. He turned and saw to his horror that her face, shiny around the mouth with peach juice, was turning a mottled shade of red, her dark eyes wide and frightened. Her hand clutched at her throat. The peach pit had lodged there. She was choking.
Collun dropped the rake he had been using and his knees suddenly turned to water. He staggered and nearly fell forward. Panic filled him. He must help Nessa. She might die. But he could not get his legs to move.
Then he felt his mother's skirts brush past him, heard her soothing words as she struck Nessa sharply on the back and the peach pit shot out of her throat. Nessa croaked painfully and gasped for breath, tears running down her face, arms wrapped tightly around Emer's neck.
Collun had crept away then, sunk deep in shame. He was sure if Emer had not come when she did, Nessa would have died and it would have been his fault. He was a coward.
He had turned more and more to his gardening. When he went into Inkberrow to sell vegetables, he kept to himself. He made no friends among the villagers. Except Talisen.
***
That morning Collun packed the few belongings he had decided to take with him into a worn leather bag with straps for carrying on his back. It smelled of earth and seed, for he used it to carry his farming gear out to the fields. He then took stock of the herbs in his leather wallet, replenished several that were running low, and strapped it over his chest.
When he went into the kitchen he saw that his father had set out a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and some salted meat. Collun thanked him and added the food to his bag.
"Father, I would ask a favor of you. If Talisen should come here, asking for me, tell him I have gone and there was not time to say good-bye."
Goban nodded, then said with a frown, "Where is the blade I forged for you?"
"In my pack."
His father snorted. "It will do you little good there." He turned and left the kitchen. Collun could hear him putting on his long boots and leather apron in preparation for the day's work.
Collun sat at the table finishing his chicory. He thought about Talisen and smiled slightly. It was ironic that he should be the one leaving Inkberrow when it was Talisen who constantly talked about leaving to seek his fortune.
He couldn't remember how they first met, but it seemed to Collun that he and Talisen had always been friends. They were an unlikely pair; Talisen was a charmer with a quick grin and a way with words, while Collun tended to keep more to himself.
Collun thought of stopping by the Whicklow farmhold where Talisen made his home to say good-bye, but it was in the opposite direction, and he felt the press of time already lost.
Leaving his pack on a kitchen chair, Collun went to his mother's room.
"Collun?" she said, pulling herself into a sitting position as he entered the room.
"I am ready to go, Mother."
Collun stood by the side of the bed and looked down into Emer's pain-darkened eyes. Even as a child Collun had been aware of a remoteness in his mother. For all that she loved her children, he had always felt there was a private sadness in Emer no one could ever touch or know.
"You are going then?" Emer asked, her voice muted.
"Yes."
"There is nothing I can say that would persuade you to stay?"
"No."
"Very well." Her tone was resigned. Then she reached out and took Collun's brown, rough hand in hers and said, "Protect yourself well, son. There may be those who would harm you, as they would harm Nessa."
Collun was startled. "Why?"
Her eyes shifted away. "I cannot explain. I made a pledge to Eira long ago, and I must not break it, even now." Collun knew Emer's feelings for the goddess Eira ran deep. Every morning at dawn and every evening at twilight, even during this illness, Emer sat by the fireplace, her eyes closed and her lips moving silently as she prayed to Eira.
"But, Collun," Emer said, "if you should hear of my death..." He let out a sound of protest, but Emer continued, "Find Crann. He will help you, if you are in need."
"Who is Crann?"
"I cannot explain," she repeated. "One thing more, son. It is important. Do not speak of me on your journey or say my name. Especially when you arrive in Temair. Will you promise?"
"Your name? Why?"
"Promise me."
Collun was puzzled, but he agreed to do as she asked.
Emer looked relieved. "Have you food for your journey?"
"Yes. Father gave me food."
She smiled sadly. "He is a good man, Goban. He has done his best."
"Mother..."
"Go now, with my love. And tell Nessa—"
"You will tell her yourself when we return." Collun made his voice loud.
"Yes."
He stood, looking down at her white face. He suddenly felt he would not see it again. Holding back the tears, he leaned over and kissed his mother's brow. Then he left the room, his heart beating painfully.
He returned to the kitchen and checked his gear once more, feeling in his jersey pocket for the book Nessa had given him. Then he hoisted his pack onto his back and went out the door.
He paused at the wooden gate at the bottom of the path and heard the clang of iron against iron coming from the smithy. He could see his father's set and sweating face as his powerful shoulders heaved the large hammer. Emer called him a good man, and perhaps he was, but for father and son there were no more words to be said.
He set off.
THREE
Talisen
It was a fine morning. The air was cool, but the sun warmed Collun's face. Had this been a short walk into Inkberrow for seed and bulbs, his spirits would have been high.
Uneasily he remembered the sword buckled at the hip of Fial's man, Quince. There was a time, he had heard, when the high road between Inkberrow and Temair had been safe. But that was before Medb had named herself queen of Scath, a country that lay to the north of Eirren.
Long ago Scath had been part of Eirren, consisting mostly of the country's sparsely populated northern reaches. It was an area with a harsh climate and rocky soil, and it stretched with many fingers into the northern sea.
Collun had learned of Scath from the coulin, the old songs of Eirren. The songs told of a dark lord named Cruachan, who, skilled at wizardry, had spread his power like a black shadow over the desolate north. He rose up against Amergin, the bard who ruled Eirren, and calling the land Scath, Cruachan named himself its ruler. To strengthen his power and ensure his claim, he allied himself with morgs, evil creatures who dwelled in the northern island kingdoms of Usna and Uneach.
When the morgs had fulfilled their bargain with the dark lord and established him in his kingdom, most returned to their own lands, preferring the perpetual night and cold temperatures of Usna and Uneach. But some stayed. And those Eirrenians who had chosen to remain in Scath, and who were loyal to Cruachan, now called themselves Scathians.
Medb, the present queen of Scath, was a descendant of Cruachan. It was rumored that morg blood also ran in her veins. She was called bhannion annam, Queen of Ghosts.
The border between Scath and Eirren had from the beginning been an uneasy one, but never more so than when Medb named herself queen. She demanded of the young king and queen of Eirren that the border be opened and that unrestricted travel be allowed between the two countries. The king and queen had agreed to Medb's demands. But the Northerners who came into Eirren roamed in bands with strange weapons and brutal faces, and they preyed on those who traveled Eirren's roads. The rulers of Eirren swiftly placed reasonable and just restrictions on those entering Eirren from the north.
Medb responded by invading Eirren.
The invasion was hastily mounted, but its savage and unexpected force wreaked devastation on northern Eirren. Forests burned, homes were laid waste, and countless Eirrenians lost their lives.
Led by young King Gwy
nn of the long shoulders and burning dark eyes and a handful of brave, fierce men, the army of Eirren set forth to meet Medb's deadly host.
The Eamh War, named for the plain on which the tide of battle finally turned, lasted for two years. Eirren ultimately triumphed, and the men who had stood at the head of her army were named heroes. Chief among them was a young man called Cuillean, whose bravery became legend in Eirren. Many songs were composed lauding his mighty deeds. It was said that on the Eamh Plain alone, Cuillean had single-handedly killed more than a hundred Scathians.
A truce was forged, and for fifteen years it was upheld. In response to overtures by a seemingly repentant Medb, the king and queen of Eirren even reopened the border, allowing restricted travel between Eirren and Scath. But in recent years the roads had gradually become unsafe again, and there were many who feared another war between Scath and Eirren. Talisen had learned this from the traveling bards, although few in Inkberrow were much concerned with the news.
Collun suddenly thought of the kesil. "Do not travel on the high road. It is not safe." Those had been his words. The small winding road that Collun now walked joined with the high road to Temair several leagues ahead.
Did the kesil speak of Scathians when he said the road was not safe? Or was there something else, something that he, Collun, had reason to fear? His mother had said as much. "Those who would harm you." But why? Who was he but a gardener and farmer, the son of a blacksmith? Who could possibly wish to harm him? Or his sister? And yet Nessa had disappeared. Collun's hand shook slightly as he wiped away the sweat on his upper lip.
It was late afternoon by the time the road from Inkberrow joined with the main road. Collun was beginning to feel hungry, so he stopped and settled himself under an ancient yew tree. So far he had seen only one group of travelers, all on horseback. They were Eirrenians and had greeted him pleasantly enough, but they looked at him curiously, as though surprised to see a lone boy on the road.
