The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 2)

by Bill Stackhouse

  “For us both, my brother,” Coinneach agreed, somewhat dejectedly. “For us both.”

  In truth, the two master wizards were well advanced in years.

  “How is young Pádraig progressing with his training?” Coinneach asked.

  “Better than either of us could ever have imagined or hoped for. When he finishes his instruction with our brother Odhran, up north, I’ll have no qualms whatsoever about granting him the blue mantle. And what of your star pupil, Scoithniamh?”

  “She is coming along nicely. Not nearly as rapidly as Pádraig and Máiréad did while here at the Academy, but very nicely, indeed. By next Mid-Winter Day, I’m almost certain that I’ll be ready to turn her over to your care to begin her apprenticeship.”

  Taliesin let out a tired sigh. “Excellent, excellent. For the good of the Confederation of the Three Kingdoms, we both need to hold on as long as we can to make sure there’s an acceptable line of succession to the Sodality.”

  “I know brother Fergal is with us,” Coinneach said, referring to the Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Eastern Shires, and that brother Odhran most certainly is not. But I still do not have a good feel for where Arch-Wizard Faolan stands.”

  “Nor do I, my brother. Until we do, we must keep our own counsel, just the three of us.”

  “Agreed. And, speaking of counsel, Section Leader Irial just left here. Even though it’s short notice, he wants to set up a meet for tonight with you in Lorg Shire. He said you’d know where.”

  “I’ll put out the word. And thank you, my brother. By the way, have you heard anything at all of Máiréad?”

  “Not a peep from her nor from our brother Odhran about her,” Coinneach replied. “Just rumors that she has spent the entire seventeen months, since her graduation from the Academy, with Odhran as her only teacher. If true, that worries me, Taliesin.”

  “As it should. I, too, have heard the reports, and I share your concerns. However, unless or until we have solid evidence that our brother has crossed the line with her tutoring, we cannot and must not interfere. We can only wait and watch and hope for the best. Until next we speak, my brother, Seirbhís a Tír.”

  “Stay well, my brother. Agus Rí.”

  With the ritual recitation of the first tenet of wizardry completed—‘Service to Country and King’—the psychic connection was broken and the glow of the two orbs dissipated.

  Crossing to one of the four windows in the top-floor room, the Venerable Taliesin threw back the shutters and let out a piercing whistle. Quickly retreating to the stool at his desk, he sat and picked up a quill pen and two small pieces of parchment.

  Within minutes, a brown-and-white fish hawk propelled itself into the room. Once clear of the window opening, it again spread its giant wings, quickly braking its flight and gliding to a T-shaped perch next to the desk. Closing its wings and shaking its feathers back into place, the bird cocked its head and looked quizzically at the elderly wizard.

  * * *

  “They’re definitely expanding the beachhead,” Irial said, stretching out his arms to warm his hands by the fire. “But for what purpose? That escapes me, so far.”

  * * *

  The section leader had moored his sea-currach at the docks belonging to the Kingdom of the Western Shires and had given his men shore-leave. Borrowing a horse from a soldier from the Cruachanian Defense Forces, he had ridden up into Iorras Shire and across to Lorg Shire.

  As he rode from Saltwater Bay, he repeatedly stopped for a few minutes, shielding his eyes from the falling snow and checking to assure that he wasn’t being followed. Reining in his horse near a grove of pines, Irial mimicked the quiet hoot of a long-eared owl.

  Within moments, Cadwgawn exited the tree line. Although they exchanged winks, no words were spoken. The section leader quickly dismounted, hurrying through the pines, while the elf, after obscuring both their foot prints, mounted the horse and continued on in the direction Irial had been heading, leaving a trail of hoof prints for anyone to follow, if indeed, someone were following.

  * * *

  “Nothing on Lairgnen?” Finbar asked.

  Irial shook his head. “We have not been able to find anyone to contradict the official report of accidental death due to his falling over the cliff.”

  “And just how far does this new beachhead reach?” Taliesin asked.

  “Farther than it did a week ago when we last spoke, Venerable Sir.” He screwed up his face, as if calculating a measurement, then said, “Probably a total of twice what it had been originally.”

  “A landing area?” Brynmor offered. “Possibly to handle more than one skeið-class longship at a time?”

  Again, Irial shook his head. “A fleet of Northman longships would first have to get by unnoticed by our sea and land patrols. And even if they did somehow manage that, the beachhead expansion is right near the garrison at North Head. Don’t you think somebody’s bound to spot a fleet of Northman longships debarking warriors? How many are there? Seventy to a skeið? And, then what? They’d be sitting ducks down there. There’s still only a small winding trail up to the top of the cliffs, and the warriors would have to come up single file.”

  Taliesin took it all in, then asked, “Have you been on the ground yourself, Irial? Or anyone who actually knows what to look for?”

  “No, Venerable Sir. Just reports from informants.”

  The old wizard looked over at Finbar, shrugged his shoulders, and raised a palm, fingers splayed.

  Responding to Taliesin’s ‘What do you think?’ gesture, the farrier said, “I’m not so much worried about Paddy’s safety as I am about blowing his cover so soon, when we have so very little information to go on.”

  “That is the point, though, Finn,” Brynmor interjected. “Unless we get eyes down there, eyes that are unimpeachable, we may never have any more to go on…until it is too late to do anything about it.”

  Finbar looked at each person in turn. All three nodded, although reluctantly.

  The farrier waved the back of his hand; he, too, halfhearted. “I received a message from Paddy yesterday. Apparently he’s been assigned to the Esteemed Sléibhín who lives in a hut on the eastern slope of Stob Bàn, just below Droim Fiaclach.”

  “A level-two wizard?!” Taliesin said, his voice laced with incredulity. “Murchú’s assigned him to a level-two wizard for his training?!”

  “Apparently so,” Finbar replied, taking the note from the pocket of his shirt and passing it over to the elderly wizard.

  “That does not make any sense, at all,” Brynmor said. “If anything, Paddy should be training this Sléibhín person.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Taliesin said. “Pádraig’s in the Northern Shires, where we believe this Northern Alliance is still headquartered, although ever so secretly for the past ten years. What better way to assure that he doesn’t see or hear anything he’s not supposed to than banish him to the solitude of the mountains.” Gesturing with the note, the wizard continued. “And what’s this about an ambush?”

  “A squad of defense forces was attacked a few days ago on the Coastal Road between Callainn Shire and Árainn Shire. The section leader and two of his bowman were killed. Both Paddy and the reeve up in Árainn Shire believe that it was the work of rebels.”

  “To what end?” Irial asked. “Why draw attention to themselves?”

  Finbar shrugged. “Don’t know. A precursor to something else?”

  “Perhaps,” Taliesin said. “But all the more reason we need to nail down what’s happening up at North Head.”

  Will your feathered friend be able to find Paddy up there in the mountains?” Brynmor asked the master wizard.

  “Stob Bàn, just below Droim Fiaclach? Don’t worry. He’ll find him.” After a moment’s pause, Taliesin offered up this qualification to Finbar. “But I will make it clear in the message that the time and method are at Pádraig’s sole discretion. He’s not to take any unnecessary chances. He’s to go only if he can do so covertly.”<
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  Ashday - Bear 14th

  Béarra Shire - Cathair Béarra

  Having arrived from Fort Cairbrigh on the evening of Yewday, this had been Máiréad’s fifth full day at Fortress Béarra, the first since her mother, Kyna, had left with the carriage and military escort to return to Fort Árainn.

  As the bell in the northwest tower pealed a total of seven times (three sets of two, followed by a single toll), signaling the end of the three-and-a-half-hour mark of the four-hour evening watch, the apprentice wizard leaned her back up against the wall of the corridor, exhausted.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” the Venerable Odhran told her. “The lads are finding hiding places up on the next floor of the keep.”

  “But, Venerable Sir, I need to recharge my essence,” Máiréad whined. “The floors are all made of solid stone. I need to go outside where I can tap into the elemental forces in the earth. Besides, we’ve been at this all evening, and I’ve located them every single time.”

  “We’ll have one more go at it tonight, then you can rest. It’s important that you build up your stamina. Danger, when it strikes, waits for no one to restore their essence. You need to continue expanding your endurance. The lads should be finished by now. Let’s go up and find them.” With that, Odhran, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, turned and headed for the staircase.

  The young apprentice wizard pushed herself off the wall and wearily followed her mentor, thinking, What danger? I appreciate his tutelage; but, he’s obsessed with danger, as if it lurks around every corner.

  Once up on the third floor, Máiréad stood on the landing and calmed herself. Closing her eyes, she mentally probed down the hallway. Again with open eyes, she walked slowly a few yards down the corridor, stopping and extending her mental power outward, as deeply as she could manage, into the connecting rooms.

  Pointing to the room behind the closed door to her left, the young wizard said, tiredly, “In the wardrobe.” Indicating the room on her right, “In the chest beneath the window.”

  Moving along once more, she repeated the process four more times, until she reached the end of the hallway and the other staircase. Only then did she turn and point to a room where she had just identified a man hiding beneath the bed, and say, “Actually, there are two of them under the bed.”

  “See? You are building up your stamina,” Odhran told her. “A week ago, you would not have been able to distinguish two men from one.”

  “Thank you, Venerable Sir,” she replied, blushing slightly at the compliment.

  “Now, go and rest. Revitalize your essence. I’ll have a new task for you in the morning.”

  * * *

  “This is madness!” Ríoghán screamed at his father. “Total madness! You must see that yourself!”

  In the great hall of the keep at Fortress Béarra, Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, sat at the head of the long table, hands folded, waiting, while his son stalked around behind him, fuming.

  Having married late in life, the king’s age showed upon his line-creased, sallow face. His shoulder-length hair had gone completely white. And when he became exited, his hands trembled a bit with palsy.

  “Things are already in place,” Cabhan said, trying to remain calm.

  The prince came around to his father’s side, placed both hands on the table, and leaned in toward him. “Things can be stopped!”

  “Not these things. They’re too far along.”

  Ríoghán raised up and stomped away toward the mammoth stone fireplace, where a large log burned brightly, popping and crackling. Turning back to his father he said, “For the love of An Fearglas, Da, you are the king, not Eógan, not Odhran. You!” Even though he had invoked the name of the Deity, both men failed to make the ritual act of submission.

  “Enough!” Cabhan yelled, pounding a fist on the table. Once again attempting to calm himself, he said, “By right, I should be High King. If Diarmuid had selected Eógan instead of Déaglán to succeed him as King of the Western Shires, I would be.”

  Ríoghán came up behind his father. “What’s done is long done. You and High King Déaglán and King Glendon of the Eastern Shires are all veterans of the War for Independence. You three fought together to oust the Northmen from this island. You’re now going to turn around and invite them back in? For what, Da? For what? To settle a long-standing grudge?” He placed his hands on the old man’s shoulders. “Déaglán is not an overlord. You govern this kingdom as you see fit, without any interference from the federal authorities. Even if this rebellion is successful, what will you really win? Beware, Da! I have a very bad feeling about this endeavor. The Northmen claim that all they want in return for their assistance is a trade deal, which both Diarmuid and, now, Déaglán have prohibited—wisely, I believe. But once the Northmen have re-established a presence on our island, what comes next?”

  “They return home, trade deal in hand, able to feed their people, and leaving our farmers richer for being able to sell them grain and meat.”

  “Oh, really? The last time they visited us, they stayed for over five generations. This time, they’ll simply thank you for the trade deal, pack up, and go home? Let me finish,” he said, stifling a protest he felt coming from his father. “I understand the precautions that you feel you’ve taken by limiting their numbers, Da, so that if they should harbor any desire to remain, our own forces can easily deal with any threat. But are you sure? Who’s been negotiating this deal with the Northmen? Not you. It’s been Odhran. Odhran, with a whole lot of input from Eógan.”

  “The Venerable Odhran has been negotiating on my behalf.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s on your behalf, and not his own?”

  The king shook off his son’s hands and turned, glaring up at him. “Because he owes me, that’s why. I selected him from all the journeyman wizards in the Northern Shires to be my court wizard. He owes his black mantle and his place in the Sodality of Master Wizards to me.”

  “And what of Eógan?” the prince asked. “What’s in this for him? What does he owe you?” Matching his father’s glare, he waited for a few moments before answering his own question. “He owes you nothing, Da. Nothing at all. If Eógan is willing to double-cross the High King, his own blood, he will not hesitate to betray you as well, if it suits his purpose. And what exactly is his purpose? Does anyone know? Do you?”

  “Independence. Like the rest of us. After all, he was and still is Chieftain of Árainn Shire. He is one of us.”

  Ríoghán let out a snort of contempt.

  “So your heart is not in this fight?” Cabhan asked.

  The prince smiled lovingly at his father and said, “You have my heart, Your Majesty. You are my da and my king. I will die for you, and I will die with you, if this is the path you’re determined to take. But, please reconsider while there is still time to stop this madness. I implore you.”

  Cabhan’s countenance softened. “It is not madness, my son. And neither of us will be dying. Once the economy of the rest of the island is in tatters, the Kingdoms of the Eastern and Western Shires will have no choice but to sue for peace. Peace on our terms. Independence for the Northern Shires.”

  * * *

  In the corridor outside the great hall of the keep, Ríoghán leaned up against the stone blocks of the wall, eyes closed, deep in troubled thought.

  He felt the cold steel of a knife blade against his neck and heard a young woman’s voice whisper, “You let your guard down like this too often, and you just might regret it.”

  The prince opened his eyes and smiled at his youngest sister, Fionnuala. “You heard?”

  “Had my ear pressed up against the door.”

  “What are your thoughts, Fee?” he asked, reaching up and moving the hand with the knife away from his neck.

  Although only fourteen years old, the princess was tall and slender. She wore breeches, a knee-length tunic, and boots, all of deerskin, dyed pitch-black. A black leather belt, about a span in width, held five d
ouble-edged throwing knives like the one she still held in her hand. Her waist-length, jet-black hair had been pulled back and captured in a horsetail, secured by a silver slide of unending knotwork. A roundlet of fine silver filigree circled her head. Its front-center contained a single polished black moonstone. Although with a normally-serious countenance, she exhibited an enigmatic smile.

  “You’ll never convince him,” she replied. “You know that, don’t you? Logic won’t work. He’s thoroughly committed.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “He’s our da and our king,” she said, sheathing the dagger. “You said it quite well yourself. As ill-advised as is this undertaking of his, we stand by him.”

  After a sigh, Ríoghán kissed her on the forehead, and said, “Yes, little sister. We stand by him and with him.”

  As the twosome walked down the corridor, side-by-side, Fionnuala said, “I was intrigued by your question about how we assure that the Northmen do not once again become our overlords. You don’t really believe that all they want in return for their assistance is a trade deal to ease their food shortage?”

  “I don’t believe anything a Northman says,” her brother answered. “However, I’ve already discussed the matter with Field Marshal Gormán. Although he shares our concerns, he’s assured me of the strict limit on the number of Northman troops who will be assisting us. Also, that when the time comes for us to launch our insurrection, we’ll have enough troops of our own to preclude a Northman takeover.”

  “But, like Da, Gormán isn’t the one who’s been doing the negotiating with the Northmen. Odhran is,” Fionnuala persisted.

  Ríoghán winked at his sister. “But Gormán controls the deployment of our security forces.” They continued down the corridor, and he added, “Fee, it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. There’s no reason to share any of these concerns with Sis or Ma.”

  “Agreed. Besides, Teagan, like Ma, has no interest in politics. She’s the perfect little princess.”