A Spark is Struck in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  Entering the grove, they were met by Lairgnen, hand-and-a-half sword drawn. Taliesin, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Western Shires, sat in front of the fire.

  “Come, warm yourselves,” the old wizard said, using a cloth to remove a small iron pot from the embers. “I have tea.”

  The two farriers and the elf secured their horses, then approached the elderly man, all three with outstretched hands anticipating the warmth of the cups.

  Once everyone had settled around the fire, Taliesin lifted his cup and said, “Sláinte!”

  The toast was repeated by the others; then, after a few sips of the hot liquid, Finbar raised an eyebrow and said, “From the old man at the marketplace?”

  “One of my many vices,” the wizard replied. “Lairgnen keeps me supplied.” Getting down to business, he said, “And he’s also told me of the events up in Cairbrigh Shire. They are troubling, indeed, Paddy. What can you add?”

  Pádraig looked over at the elderly troubadour and asked, “You relayed the information I shared with you on the way home as well?”

  Lairgnen nodded.

  “Then that about covers it, the young farrier said to Taliesin. “All I can add is what transpired today over in Callainn Shire.”

  He went on to tell the wizard, elf, and troubadour about the sting operation that he, Liam, and Parnell had pulled off on Lorcan, and how Odhran had accidentally killed the reeve while Lorcan was making his escape.

  The old wizard almost choked on his tea. Still attempting to catch his breath he glanced around, then waved a bony finger in the direction of the trees. “See those two pine cones on the ground over there?” he asked, sputtering. “The big ones?”

  Everyone looked where Taliesin pointed.

  Suddenly a horseshoe-nail-thin burst of energy emanated from the wizard’s finger, and the left-most pine cone was knocked backward two yards. Without any warning, he redirected his hand and a beam of about a span in diameter shot out at the other pine cone. That one didn’t move at all. It simply flamed and turned to ash where it sat.

  “Accident, indeed,” Taliesin scoffed. “He’s a master wizard. A member of the Sodality. We don’t let outrage control our emotions! We don’t dare! Otherwise this whole land would be nothing but ashes. You said that the kidnappers’ compound was encircled by both a concealment spell and a containment spell, Paddy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pádraig said.

  “Three guesses on who cast those spells. And it wasn’t some rogue journeyman wizard. With Lorcan dead, I fear my brother Odhran eliminated the one chance we had at obtaining hard evidence against this Northern Alliance and their hierarchy.”

  “What now?” Brynmor asked.

  The old wizard rubbed his eyes with the thumb and second finger of his left hand. To Pádraig, he asked, “How much does Prince Liam know?”

  “Only what he’s observed directly. Nothing from me that he didn’t see for himself.”

  “So he knows that magic was used to protect the encampment?”

  “Yes, sir,” Finbar answered. “As does the Lady Máiréad.”

  “Have you confided anything to her that she didn’t witness with her own eyes?” Taliesin asked Pádraig.

  “No, Venerable Sir. Nothing at all. Neither to her nor to Liam.”

  “Did either of them see the Northman, or was the Northman discussed in their presence?”

  “No sir,” Pádraig replied.

  “What about this Northern Alliance?”

  “Again, no, sir. I made up a story about bandits kidnapping us for ransom and rustling horses.”

  Taliesin appeared skeptical. “Bandits and horse thieves? And the prince believed it?”

  Pádraig shrugged and said, “He had no evidence to the contrary.” Gesturing to the other three, he continued. “Since we had only suspicions, we agreed not to tell him about the Northern Alliance or about our thoughts as to the real reason he was kidnapped, or that we suspected the involvement of Eógan.”

  The wizard glanced at each of the others in turn and received nods from them all.

  “Good!” he said. “Let’s keep it that way. Now, how were you able to evade the kidnappers once you escaped? Did you use your gift?”

  “Just once, for only a few seconds. When I felt the concealment spell lift, I used just enough power to slide back the bolt on my prison door.”

  “Once you were out, how did you elude the kidnappers?”

  Pádraig hesitated. He had not even told his father about Yseult and Siobhán.

  “Paddy?” Finbar prompted him.

  “I had help,” the young farrier said, softly. “A keeper of the trees, a little wood-nymph by the name of Yseult, rescued me from the icy waters of the pond where I hid out. She nursed me back to health.” He looked over at his father. “She saved my life, Da.”

  Taliesin raised a shaking palm. “A member of the Daoine Dofheicthe came to your aid? Interfered in the affairs of men and saved you from being recaptured?”

  “Yes, sir. She was very nice to me.…I…I think she was lonely.”

  “And it was she who got you the black horse you escaped on when the containment spell lifted for the archers?” Brynmor asked.

  “No. That…that was Siobhán. She had come—”

  Lairgnen interrupted. “Another wood-nymph?”

  “No, sir. The horse. She’s actually a phooka. Her name’s Siobhán. When I was freezing in that pond, I tried to think of warm thoughts. Last New Year’s Eve when Siobhán brought me back to Cathair Tulach, after I had broken her spell as she tried to dunk me in her poulaphouca, she kissed me.” He blushed and lowered his eyes. “That kiss was…was one of those warm thoughts. Somehow she sensed that I was in trouble and came to my aid. Oh, and I did use my gift once more as we rode through the concealment spell—to block three of the flaming arrows that were shot toward the wagons. But I don’t think Odhran, or whomever the spell-wielder was, sensed it. By that time, Yseult had set fire to the longhouse where he kept himself. She did it as a diversion so that Siobhán could help me escape.”

  “This phooka rode halfway across the country in the dead of winter to rescue you?” the old wizard asked, incredulous at the thought of it. “Why?”

  “I…I removed a stone from her hoof. She was extremely grateful.”

  In the silence that followed, Pádraig glanced up. No one was looking at him. Taliesin, Brynmor, and Lairgnen were all focused on Finbar. Finbar, himself, looked at the tops of his boots.

  After a few more moments of silence, he, too, raised his eyes so that they met Taliesin’s. Nodding, he said, very softly, “You were right.” Glancing over at the troubadour and elf, he continued with, “You all were.” He patted his son’s leg. “Go get the horses ready, lad. I’ll be with you momentarily.”

  “I…I know I should have told you before about Yseult and Siobhán, Da,” Pádraig said as he stood, brushing snow from the shoulders of his tan cloak. “I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  Finbar gave him a wink. “It’s okay, lad. We’ll talk more when we get home.”

  Hazelday - Wolf 53rd

  Central Federal Region

  Dúnfort Cruachan

  Having parted company with Brynmor at the marketplace, Finbar and Pádraig arrived back at the citadel’s forge early into the middle watch of the next day. After seeing to the horses, both readied themselves for bed.

  “You, know, Da,” Pádraig said, sitting on the edge of his bunk, “since I’ve been back, I haven’t had a chance to practice on the elbow pipes.”

  Finbar blew out the candle that was sitting atop the anvil and said, simply, “Good.”

  After a few moments of silence, both of them began chuckling in the dark.

  When their laughter had diminished, Finbar complimented his son on how maturely he’d handled himself throughout the entire kidnapping and rescue ordeal, as well as the Lorcan sting operation.

  “I’m proud of you, lad,” Finbar told him. “This past year, you’ve grown up right before my
eyes. And your judgment’s been well thought out and sound at every turn. Your ma would be right proud of you as well.”

  “Thanks, Da,” Pádraig responded, smiling up into the darkness, pleased with the praise.

  “In light of that, and with all that we now know about the possibility of a rebellion breeding up in the north,” Finbar continued, “and from the way you were able to penetrate that concealment spell with your gift, I’ve had a change of heart about what I said to Lairgnen that night at Ráth Ceatharlach. I now think that perhaps the wisest thing for you to do, Paddy, is to attend the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted and hone that gift of yours. I fear that we’ll need to rely on it in the times that lie ahead. That’s what I told Master Taliesin when you were getting the horses back there in the pine grove.”

  Pádraig took a few seconds to digest what his father had just told him, then asked, “What about Meig? She was counting on Master Taliesin sponsoring her to the Academy. I don’t want to take her slot.”

  “The slot is neither for you to take nor for her to claim, Paddy. It is for Taliesin to grant. Don’t trouble yourself over it, but trust in his judgment.”

  “But what do I tell, Meig?”

  “You don’t speak of it to anyone—not the Lady Máiréad, Prince Liam, or anyone. Understood?”

  After another second or two, Pádraig sighed and said, “Yes, sir. Understood.”

  Mid-Winter Day

  Central Federal Region

  Dúnfort Cruachan

  The day of the Mid-Winter Selection had arrived.

  At each of the fortresses in the three Kingdoms of Cruachan—Tulach in the west, Sruthail, in the east, Béarra in the north, as well as at the Citadel of Cruachan itself, people gathered around hillocks outside the main entrances, waiting in the cold and darkness of the early mid-winter morning to observe identical rituals play out.

  In the three kingdoms, there were representatives from every shire in their respective kingdoms, as well as tradesmen looking for apprentices and children who had, or would, come of age during the year, looking for entry into a trade.

  At the citadel itself, the onlookers were comprised mostly of those who worked there and throughout the Central Federal Region. However, four of the five master wizards were also present. This day, they would each sponsor one young man or woman to the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted. The only member of the Sodality of Master Wizards who was not there was Coinneach, Guardian of the Purple Stone, and Master of the Academy. As a precaution, in case of a disaster, either natural or man-made, all five master wizards never appeared together in the same place. This security measure insured that, should the worst happen, at least one master wizard would live on to teach others the craft. On this Mid-Winter Day, it was Coinneach’s turn to absent himself from the Sodality as the designated survivor. He would make his selection known by scry from his round tower on Blessed Island.

  Atop each of the four hillocks stood cromlechs, consisting of three megalith stones arranged in a partial circle—one facing northeast, another east, with the third stone facing the southeast. Each stone had a hole drilled through it that pointed toward the exact center of the partial circle. In that center, a hole had been dug in the ground and lined with rocks. An oak log, decorated with holly and ivy branches had been placed upright in each rock-lined hole, and it had been soaked in lamp oil.

  Next to the log stood the king for that kingdom, or, in Fortress Tulach’s case, Eógan, Earl of the Western Shires, and at the citadel, Déaglán, High King of all Cruachan. An aide with each noble held a brazier so that he might keep his royal majesty or highness warm.

  Although the air was cold, and snow blanketed the ground, the wind had died down at the citadel’s cromlech. Pádraig stood next to Finbar. Lairgnen the troubadour, and the elves, Brynmor and Cadwgawn, mingled nearby. Máiréad along with her mother Kyna were over with Queen Ginebra, Prince Liam, and the rest of the royal household.

  Máiréad, spotting Pádraig across the field, hopped up and down, waving to him and laughing. He had all he could do to smile and return the wave. As the red-haired girl blew him a kiss, his knees almost buckled.

  I’m sorry, my anam cara, he thought. I hope that someday you’ll be able to understand and forgive me.

  Most of the observers were hunkered down in their cloaks, shuffling in place in an attempt to keep warm while they waited. Then, like a school of fish, all turned to face the southeast, watching for the first hint of sunrise on this the shortest day of the year.

  The wait turned out not to be long. Various voices shouted out and people began to point as the eastern sky turned from black to purple to violet, then from violet to light orange. As the sun broke over the horizon and began its rise, the observers became more vocal and switched their gazes toward the southeast-most megalith. Finally, as sunlight crept up the side of the massive stone, cheers began to break out when the rays reached the hole and a single beam of sunlight fell upon the center of the oak log.

  At that point, Déaglán took the brazier from his aide with his left hand and raised it high. A sudden hush came over the crowd. Pointing with his right hand to the beam of light on the log, he called out in a loud voice, “Behold the light of An Fearglas! Blessed be His holy name!”

  The entire company repeated the exhortation and performed the ritual act of submission.

  Then the High King touched the burning coals from the brazier to the side of the log. The lamp oil caught fire. And flames rose up the entire height of the log.

  The crowd cheered. Many hugged. Some even kissed. Pádraig watched as Máiréad embraced Liam, then turned and blew another kiss in his direction. Reflexively, he reached out a hand, pretending to catch it and stick it in his pocket, wondering if this would be the last time he would ever have the opportunity to do so.

  Returning the brazier to the aide, Déaglán once again raised his hand for quiet. When the din had subsided, he said, “This Mid-Winter Day is a time for rejoicing. As the days now grow longer, we await the renewal that will come as spring approaches. But it is also a time of self-reflection and planning for the future—our individual futures, the future of each kingdom, and the future of Cruachan. As our das have done and their das and granddas before them, we conduct the Roghnú. In the cathairs of each of the three kingdoms, our young men and women will have their life’s work determined by today’s selection process. Some will be tinkers. Some will be tailors. Some will be tanners. Some will become apprentices in other trades. Some will develop into soldiers and sailors. Today at our Roghnú, here at Dúnfort Cruachan, we will witness the selection of possible future wizards as well as a future king.”

  A semicircular table had been set up facing the southeast, looking directly at the burning oak log. Each of the four master wizards took their places, standing behind the table—Arch-Wizard Faolan, Guardian of the Green Stone, in the center.

  Fergal, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Eastern Shires and Guardian of the Blue Stone, stood to the right of Faolan; and Odhran, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires and Guardian of the Red Stone, was positioned on the end, to the right of Fergal.

  To Faolan’s left was Taliesin, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Western Shires and Guardian of the Black Stone. Next to Taliesin was an empty space. However, that space would soon be filled.

  The four members of the Sodality of Master Wizards removed their seeing-stones from their belt-bags and placed them in indentations on the table in front of them. Emptying their minds of any distractions, they gazed deeply into their orbs.

  Within seconds the four spheres began to glow, and within ten seconds more, an apparition of Coinneach, Master of the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted and Guardian of the Purple Stone, appeared in the empty spot next to Taliesin, the image so palpable it was as if the wizard were actually standing there in person.

  “Seirbhís a Tír, my brothers,” Arch-Wizard Faolan said, in the language of the ancients.

  “Agus Rí,” the other four
replied.

  High King Déaglán looked over to the members of the Sodality and said, “Your service is much appreciated. Now, to the selection process for the five gifted ones who will be sponsored to this year’s class at the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted. Master Coinneach, whom do you choose?”

  The wizard’s apparition replied, simply, “I choose Scoithniamh of the Eastern Shires—daughter of Lachtnán and Marga.”

  A burst of applause went up from the crowd as a girl with short brown hair, dressed in a brown cloak, came out of the assembly and took up a position on the other side of the table, facing the burning oak log directly opposite Coinneach’s apparition.

  “Master Taliesin?” Déaglán asked.

  Máiréad and Kyna, both smiling, were holding hands tightly when Taliesin pointed across the hillock and said, “I choose Pádraig of the Western Shires—son of Finbar and the late Aislin.”

  As the assembly gave another ovation, Pádraig took his place in front of Taliesin.

  Máiréad stood there in tears. Her mother’s face registered pure enmity. As Liam took the girl into his arms to comfort her, Odhran turned his head slightly so that he could see Kyna. Still, with hatred in her eyes, she gave the wizard a single nod.

  Although the contact went unnoticed by almost everyone, it did not go unobserved by Finbar, Lairgnen, and the two elves.

  “Oh, my!” Brynmor whispered. “Are we, if fact, keeping watch on the wrong member of the family?”

  “The power behind the throne, so to speak?” the elderly troubadour whispered back.

  Déaglán asked his question to the third master wizard. “Master Odhran?”

  The Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires hesitated briefly, then replied, “I choose Máiréad of the Western Shires—daughter of Earl Eógan and Countess Kyna.”

  A smile crept over Kyna’s face while the applause was taking place. Máiréad, shocked at what she had heard, pulled away from Liam, quickly glanced at her mother, over at Odhran, back to Liam, then back at her mother again.