This morning was brilliant. Conual stood taller than most. His hair burned above the hubbub. Folk stared, made way for him and his troop, but did not venture to address a lord unknown to them—until abruptly a voice cried his name. He stopped, looked, and knew Nemain maqq Aedo.
The druid had aged in the years since Conual went abroad. Stooped and skeletal, he leaned heavily on his staff and walked with the care of those who do not see well. Yet he made haste—a path opened immediately in the throng, and a hush fell—until he and Conual embraced.
“Welcome, welcome, a thousand welcomes, dear heart!” he cried. “How I have waited for this glad day!”
Conual stepped back. An eeriness cooled his spirit. “Did you, then, foreknow my coming?” he asked.
“Ah, there have been signs, not all of them good, but you strode into my dreams and… waking, I looked into the Well of the Dagdae.” Nemain plucked at Conual’s sleeve. “Come, let us go aside where we can talk.”
“Forgive me, but I should not hang back from greeting the King. That would be an insult.”
“It will not, if I enter with you, for I whispered in his ear that I must be off on mystic business. Himself is bidding farewell to his highborn guests who stayed here during the fair. It will take a while.”
The sense of trouble grew colder within Conual Corcc. He gave the druid his arm and beckoned his men to keep their distance. A way downslope was a grove of rowan, with a bench for those who might wish to linger among the sacred trees and breathe of their magic. Overlooking the turmoil of leavetaking along the river, it was a haven of peace.
The two sat down. “Know that you have come at a time when grief is upon Niall maqq Echach,” Nemain began. “The news has reached him that a son of his was slain at Mag Slecht by tuaths restive after he wrung their allegiance from them. Niall could barely keep showing the world a good face and carry on his duties. Now that the fair is ending, he is free to kill. Already he has sent for his hostages from those three tuaths. Tomorrow he will hang them. His vengeance will not stop at that.”
“It’s sorry I am to hear this,” Conual said. “Who is he that fell?”
“Domnuald—Domnuald the fair, we called him, child of Queen Aethbe.”
Conual sighed. “Domnuald, indeed? Ochón! I remember him well. He was only a little lad then, but always bright and merry. May he reach Mag Mell and abide in joy.”
“That is too strong a wish to utter at once,” Nemain cautioned. “Well, Niall mourns the sorer because Domnuald, of all his sons, reminded him most of Breccan, his firstborn, who died at Ys. You have heard about that?”
“Somewhat. I have been busy, you know, faring, warring, and… dealing… in Britannia.”
“You return to claim a dream you have cherished, do you not?”
“I do. It is nothing that threatens Niall. Else why would I seek him first? Rather, he should help me, speed me on my way, for the sake of our common fosterage and the shield I can raise at his back.” Conual frowned. “This redoubles the misfortune that has befallen him. As for myself—” He drew breath. “Nemain, dear, could I meet with those hostages?”
“I knew you would ask that,” said the druid. “Come.”
The prisoners were confined in a shed, tightly bound. Their guards durst not refuse admittance to Nemain, who led Conual in. The three men met his gaze proudly and spoke curtly. “You are ready to die, then?” Conual inquired.
“We are that,” replied one, “thinking on what our deaths must cost Niall later.”
“Hm, now,” said Conual, “your three tuaths can scarcely stand against his might, nor can they look for much aid out of Ulati country. Would it not be better that he seek revenge on the killers instead of laying waste your homeland?”
He spoke with them a bit more. Thereupon he and Nemain went back out and talked at length.
The sun stood past noon when Niall’s last guest had left. He slumped on his high seat, drinking horn after horn of ale. Uneasy stillness filled the hall. The rustle of movement and low voices seemed only to deepen it. Abruptly a shout broke through. The chief of the guard announced Conual maqq Lugthaci, who came in, resplendently clad, at the head of his warriors, at his right hand the druid Nemain maqq Aedo.
Niall roared. He bounded from his seat and plunged down the length of the hall to seize his fosterbrother to him. His folk howled, stamped the floor, beat fists against benches and shields, in their joy at seeing darkness lifted from the King.
Conual’s followers carried gifts worthy of him, weapons, fine garments, Roman glassware of lovely shape and swirled colors, Roman silver which included a tray whereon were reliefs of heroes, maidens, and curious creatures. Niall made lavish return. Chief among the treasures he ordered fetched from his hoard and gave to Conual were a golden torc and a bronze trumpet whose workmanship drew cries of admiration from everybody who beheld.
Though the feast that day was hastily prepared, it was grand. After Laidchenn had hailed the newcomer in a poem and received a fibula in the form of a charging boar, he said, “Fine this is, but before I know what the deeds of our guest have been, I cannot properly praise them.”
The building became still as heed turned toward Conual. He smiled. “That story will take long,” he answered. Scowling: “Much of it is sorrowful.” Loftily: “But I shall go to wrest out a new fate for myself.”
As he related or stopped to answer questions, he never conceded defeat. Yet clear it was that woe had betided the Scoti in Britannia. Under Stilicho’s leadership, Romans and Cunedag’s Britons had pressed in ever harder. This year, the last Scotic settlers in Ordovician and Silurian lands had perforce abandoned their homes and gone back across the water.
“But mine was not a sad leavetaking,” Conual avowed. “I had gathered picked fighting men from among them. Others have I brought with me too. They wait in my ships, for they would be strangers and awkward in this company; but they shall soon be working wonders.”
“What is your intent?” Niall demanded bluntly.
Conual laughed. “Why, what else but to claim my heritage in Mumu? I am of the Eóganachta; I will be as great a King as any of them, and afterward greater!”
Niall stroked his beard. “That would please me well, darling,” he said. “I fear I cannot offer you help. There is too much on my hands. However, abide here until Nath Í returns from the fair he was attending. Do you remember him? He is my nephew, and now my tanist. He has travelled widely in those parts and should be able to give you sage counsel.”
“You are very kind, darling,” Conual replied. “So sweet are you that I make bold to ask a further boon.”
“You need but ask.”
Conual sat straight, looked the King in the eyes, and spoke weightily: “You will recall the command laid upon me, that I am to redeem any captives I meet whenever I can. This day I have met with those hostages whom you have condemned to die tomorrow. What I ask is that you let me ransom them.”
A gasp went around the hall. Fists clenched, glances flickered between the two men and the hanging shields and the doorway.
Niall stiffened. The blood came and went in his face. At last he said, word by slow word: “Do I hear aright? My guest and fosterbrother would not mock me, I am sure. Perhaps you have misunderstood. Know, the tuaths for which they stand surety have murdered my son Domnuald. Shall his blood cry in vain for revenge?”
Nemain lifted a thin hand. “Not so,” he agreed. “But they who slew Domnuald, Fland Dub and his fellows, have fled beyond the Walls of the Ulati. What honor lies in burning poor little shielings, driving off poor little herds, butchering innocent tenants? The Gods will raise the just man up, and They will cast the unjust down.”
“I will pay, in gold, the éricc, and add thereto my own honor price,” Conual declared. “Deny me not, if you love me. I may no more refuse to seek the freedom of men in bonds than you may traverse Mag Callani after sunset or let sunrise find you abed at Temir.”
Niall hunched his shoulders. “Shall those me
n go home free, to boast that I dared not avenge my son?” he growled like a wolf at bay.
“They shall not,” Conual answered quickly. “I will take them south to Mumu. I think they will serve me well. And we are allies, you and I.”
“As for vengeance,” Laidchenn reminded, “it awaits you at Emain Macha.”
Said the druid: “The ransom that Conual pays will provide Domnuald a burial such as few kings have gotten, ana endow honors for him as long as Temir abides.”
Niall gusted a sigh. “I yield you this, Conual. But it was not well done of you to trick me into making the promise.”
With his pride thus bulwarked, he was presently at his ease, still somber but readier to talk than he had been of late. In the course of the time that followed, Conual remarked, “I was surprised to hear your nephew Nath Í is your tanist. Would you not liefer have a son of yours succeed you?”
“Nath Í is worthy of his father, my brother Féchra, whose ghost ought to be pleased,” Niall explained. “Of course, I would have preferred a son of mine. But they all hope to win sword-land, kingdoms of their own.” His gaze pierced the darkness gathering around firelight as the sun went down outside. It came to rest on one of the skulls fastened to the wall, a head he had taken in war upon the Ulati. “They shall have that,” he said low.
3
Again the year swung toward equinox. Summer died in a last passionate outpouring of warmth, light, green, quick thunderstorms, high stars at night. Life pulsed strong in Ys, trade, shipping, foreigners from inland and overseas, readymaking for festival.
On such a day Dahut went from temple school to the home of Bodilis, whose turn it was to care for her. The time had been long, because first the Queen had had an illness that did not readily yield to medicine or even the Touch, then the princess had been a while at the Nymphaeum. That was customary with royal children, to get them used to the sacred site and its environs before they reached the age of full vestalhood. None had started these visits as young as Dahut, but the Nine had their reasons. Today the King had come back from business in Darioritum. He would not spend the night with Bodilis, he never did anymore, but he would call on her.
Thus Dahut burst into the atrium crying jubilantly, “Mother Bodilis, Mother Bodilis, is father here yet? He is coming, isn’t he? He always wants to see me very soon.”
She stopped, looked, and breathed, “Why are you sad?”
The woman smiled. It made crinkles around her lips and eyes, radiating into the cheeks as they had never done in Dahut’s first memories of her. “Oh, I am not, dear,” she answered softly. “I am happy, in a solemn way. Something wonderful is to bless us.”
Dahut’s eyes, the same blue as hers, widened. “What? I know father will bring me a present. What is it going to be?”
“I fear you must wait. You should have been told erenow, but—”
Footfalls sounded at Dahut’s back. Turning, she saw Tambilis enter from the street. The daughter of Bodilis was finely dressed in a gown of white silk embroidered with doves, on her feet gold-inlaid shoes, on her head a garland of roses from which her light-brown hair flowed free past the delicate features. She looked quite different all at once. It was as if overnight she had grown taller, her body filled out and her bosom swelled. Another strangeness was in her as well: she seemed frightened and resolute and lost in a dream.
Bodilis hastened to her. They embraced. “Darling, darling,” the mother said. “Are you truly ready and willing?”
Tambilis nodded. “Aye.”
“Be not afraid. You are now big enough, and this is Belisama’s will, and, and be sure he will deal kindly with you. Be sure of that.”
“I know.”
Bodilis sobbed forth a laugh. “Come, then. Let me show you what I’ve had prepared, and tell you what I think will be best, and—” Hand in hand, they left the room and Dahut.
The girl stood where she was. Her face clouded, less with hurt than anger. A servant woman appeared from the inner part of the house. Bodilis must have told her to absent herself. She was an Osismian, blond, plump, one of many who sought to Ys and worked a few years to earn a dowry, unless they could catch a husband here. “Breifa,” Dahut snapped, “what is happening?”
The maid was taken aback. “You know not, Princess? Why, tonight the King makes Tambilis really his Queen.” She blushed, giggled, squirmed. “Well, he knows not either, I hear. “Tis to be an unawaited welcome-home gift for him. She is beautiful, the lady Tambilis, nay?”
“Oh,” said Dahut tonelessly.
“I could not but overhear,” chattered Breifa. “’Twas Queen Bodilis who thought it should be done thus. Messages and such, arrangements, those would be too slow and stiff, they’d take the joy out of this. And Tambilis would be—passive, only a thing, is that what Queen Bodilis said? I remember not. Anyway, better Tambilis sweep him off his feet when he arrives, thinking he has just been invited for a cup of wine and a chat. Then he’ll sweep her off hers soon enough, ha, ha!”
Dahut said nothing.
Breifa covered her mouth. “I talk too much, I do. What a bustle ’tis been, making everything right. Rejoice, lady Dahut. Someday you may be a Queen too.”
“The Queen… of the man… who kills my father?”
“Oh, dear, I’m sorry. Well, such is the law of the Gods.”
Dahut stalked off. She went into the street and stood arms folded, staring from this height out across the city to the sea.
Bodilis emerged, leading Una, her child by Gratillonius, a few months younger than Dahut but smaller and much more quiet. “There you are,” the woman said. “I looked and looked for you.” She paused. “What is wrong?”
“Naught,” said Dahut, gaze held afar.
Bodilis laid a hand on her shoulder. “Tis disappointment for you, I know, not to see your father this eventide. Be brave. You will soon meet him, I pledge to you. You and Una and I shall stay in Tambilis’s house tonight. Won’t you like that? And I will tell you why, and you will be happy for him and your friend, I’m sure.”
Dahut shrugged and trudged along.
4
At sixteen years of age, Tambilis had completed the education required of her. Each Queen served the Gods and Ys not only in set duties, but according to whatever special abilities she possessed. Tambilis had begun teaching elementary Latin in the temple school of Belisama, where Bodilis instructed advanced students of that language.
The young Queen was strolling about the flowerful intricacy of Elven Gardens during the noontide rest period. She smiled drowsily and crooned to herself. Rounding a hedge, she came upon Dahut. The child sat tracing pictures in the graveled path. What they were was hard to guess, because the stones rattled back together behind her finger.
“Why, why, good day,” Tambilis said, astonished.
Dahut looked up like a blind person.
“But you’re miserable!” Tambilis exclaimed. She hunkered down to hug her playmate. “What’s wrong?”
“Naught,” said the dry little voice.
“That’s untrue,” Tambilis chided. “Hark, you can tell me.”
Dahut shook her head.
Tambilis considered. “Tis the King, nay?” she asked after a moment. “You feel your father slighted you. Well, he did not. ’Twas but that he—he and I—well, the will of the Goddess was upon us. Is. Have no fear. Soon he’ll greet you, and he does have the prettiest cloak for you, that he found among the Veneti, and, oh, all sorts of adventures to tell about.”
Still there was no response. “Indeed,” Tambilis persisted, “you must visit us. We’re staying at the palace now while we… get to know each other better. We shall for several days yet.” Resignation laid a sudden burden on her voice. “After that, all will be much as it was before.”
“I will see him somewhere else,” Dahut said.
“But why? My dear, I’ve not turned my back on you. I love you always.” Tambilis searched for words. “Tis only that time goes, things change. Later you’ll understand.” Impu
lsively: “This was not my wish at first. ’Twas Guilvilis who caused it, stupid, clumsy, loving Guilvilis. She mustered courage at last to tell me I did wrong withholding myself when I could gladden him, lighten his cares, and—And, Dahut,” glowed from her, “the Goddess gives me joy too, as She will you someday.”
Dahut screamed. She scrambled to her feet and fled.
When she was not at her next class, the teacher sent an acolyte to inquire at the dwellings of the Gallicenae. Had she perchance been taken sick? It took hours to establish that she had disappeared, and then to organize search parties. They did not find her until sundown, after she had re-entered the city at Aurochs Gate and was stubbornly walking up Amber Street toward the home of Fennalis. Her clothes were wet, with smells of kelp and fish.
XIV
1
As autumn yellowed leaves, Conual Corcc bade Niall maqq Echach farewell. Since this must at first be a reconnoitering expedition, he left behind most of his men. Just thirty followed him south, among them the three hostages he had saved. His Cruthinach wife came too, for there is magic as well as comfort in women.
Shut off as Mumu was from the rest of Ériu, Niall heard nothing more until spring. When finally a messenger arrived to bid the remaining warriors now seek their lord, it was a strange story that he brought.
A day’s travel northwest from the Mountain of Fair Women was the Plain of Femen, where Fedelmm the witch had troubled King Lugthach. It was fertile and well settled, save at one place where forest stood ancient. Few ventured in, for at the middle of the woods reared the Síd Drommen. This limestone outcrop, whose three hundred feet overtopped the trees around, was believed to be the haunt of elves, ghosts, every creature of the Other World. However, swineherds took their animals there in season for the rich mast. Though their trade be humble, it gave them ties to Those Beyond.
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