“Let’s try it,” said Anya.
“This isn’t practice,” declared Liam. “The king of their clan is still in the water. Call to him and compel him to immediately return the villagers he took.”
And so they did.
MEMORIES OF WHAT she and Anya were once capable of made Aisling restless. The sun had turned and was sinking toward twilight. She ran a finger down Conor’s chest, leaving a trail of heat and gold light. Conor opened his eyes. She said, “You called me back, you know.”
“Back?” he asked.
“Back to who I’m meant to be. Brigid tells me that my powers may soon be as strong as they were before Anya died.”
“Strong enough to leave Maolan for good?”
“Yes. Now that you’ve asked.” Aisling propped herself up, her elbows pressing into Conor’s chest, and smiled down at him. “No, wait. You can’t afford to pay my honor price if you petition for my marriage contract to be broken.”
“You can’t afford mine either.” Conor rose up to kiss her.
She dodged the kiss. “That’s not how the law works. Besides, you don’t have one.”
“I have more honor than Maolan has, so I must have a high price. You just don’t know what it is.” He wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his side, easing her onto the ground.
Aisling wiggled free from his embrace. “I challenge you to a contest. Whoever wins pays the other’s honor price to Maolan for breaking my contract.” Crawling over to their pile of clothing, she fumbled around until she withdrew her dagger. She stood and pointed it at Conor. “Tadg told me that you used to be able to creep up on a stag and slay it with just a knife. Is that true?”
“You doubt it?”
“Well, I’ve never seen you do it.”
“The bow is much quicker,” he said. “I have to save all my time to lie with you.”
“I wager that I can bring down a stag before you,” she declared.
Jumping to his feet, dagger already in his hand, having been left within reach, Conor said, “Agreed. Though I doubt there’s any game left within two miles with all the noise you were making.”
Without a word Aisling slipped away between the trees. Her bare feet made no sound on the moss-covered ground. Locating a deer trail among the deepening shadows, she stopped, reached out with her consciousness, and felt the woods around her as Brigid had taught her. A stag had recently passed, heading north. She turned and raced up the trail. She could not see or hear Conor but sensed his presence moving to her right.
Coming to a clearing, she spotted the stag grazing unconcerned. She could tell that Conor was on the trail just behind her, and she smiled. She had a step on him and was going to win. She tensed for her final rush. She felt Conor reaching toward her. He caught the end of her hair and whispered, “Stop. Something’s wrong.”
She froze.
Conor did not move or speak.
One of the shadows across the clearing was too dark. She closed her eyes for a moment, reaching out again with her consciousness, connecting with the natural world around her. It was as if there were an empty space in the shadow. She opened her eyes and concentrated on seeing what could not be seen. Using her mind to push away all that was meant to be there, she saw a softly outlined face emerge, then a disjointed body. She reached up to where a ray from the setting sun was striking a tree trunk, scooped up a handful of light, and tossed it into the shadow.
“Woodwose,” Conor hissed.
The wild man was all sinew, bone, and tight skin painted with triangles of green between troughs of black tattoos, his head an explosion of hair and beard. A heavy club hung in his hand. A roar came from his mouth. The stag leaped out of the clearing. The Woodwose charged forward, raising his weapon.
Aisling instinctively threw her dagger, piercing his eye. Suddenly silenced, he fell face-first onto the grass. Around the clearing, shadows detached from the trees and rushed toward them. Aisling immediately regretted leaving herself unarmed.
Conor spun her by the shoulder. “Run!” he shouted. She fled behind him down the deer track. The forest around them became alive with pounding feet and crashing brush. A figure in a loincloth stepped in front of Conor. Conor ducked under the swinging club, came up, and plunged his dagger into the assailant’s stomach, dragging the blade up several inches before jerking it out and thrusting the screaming Woodwose aside. Only then did Aisling realize it was a woman.
Conor grabbed Aisling’s hand and led her off the trail. They ran for a minute, then stopped to listen to the movement in the forest around them. “Stay close,” he breathed as they moved on. Stopped. Listened. Moved again.
“Can you tell how many and where they are?” whispered Conor.
Aisling closed her eyes and tried again, shook her head. “Something’s hiding them from me. I only sense flutters of . . . of absence, moving in the forest.”
“Can you conceal us from them?”
“I’ve been trying, but that same something keeps clawing away at my enchantment. We have to keep moving.”
“Our best chance is to get back to the horses.”
“The horses are dead,” Aisling replied, knowing it as soon as he had said the words.
“Can we get to our swords?”
She concentrated. “We may be able to. There’s movement everywhere. It’s very hard to pin down.”
“Let’s try.”
They slid forward. Fifteen minutes later Conor paused, crouched, pointed. As she hunched beside him, she could barely make out the pile of their clothing up ahead in the deepening gloom.
“What do you sense?” Conor whispered.
“Traces of movement headed this way. A lot of them. They know we’re here.”
“I need to know if you’re ready for this fight, if you’re willing to work enchantments strong enough to kill anyone who attacks you.”
“I killed one already.”
“Yes, but that was with a knife. I’ve no doubt about your willingness with iron.”
“Just get our swords.”
Conor sprang forward. There was a bellow as figures moved to their left. Aisling stood, reached both arms into the air, and pulled a fog down on the charging Woodwose. She closed her eyes, and every tree in the surrounding forest seemed to shift a few feet. There were cries and the dull thuds of bodies hitting trunks and branches.
Conor reached their clothing and jumped over the pile, grabbing the hilt of his sword and letting his momentum unsheathe it. Planting both feet, he turned to retrieve Aisling’s sword but had to stop and slash the throat of a Woodwose charging out of the fog. A second man rushed him, and he spun, sweeping his sword down to cut open the attacker’s chest.
A woman emerged from the fog, saw Aisling, and charged. Aisling stopped thinking and just acted. The woman dropped the sharpened antler she had been wielding as if it had become red-hot. Aisling pivoted to avoid the charge, brushing her hand across the woman’s exposed breast. The woman crumpled to the ground, her heart no longer beating. Aisling sprinted toward Conor.
Being careful to slash, not stab and risk having his sword become stuck, Conor had felled a third and a fourth Woodwose before a fifth surprised him by charging directly onto his sword all the way up to the hilt. Before Conor could free it, three jumped him, knocking him to the ground.
Aisling reached the heap of men and shattered the spine of one with a touch. A sudden impact from behind forced her down hard. She felt bodies piling on her, pinning her arms and legs, pressing her face into the dirt. She could not breathe. A shadow crept across her consciousness. She formed it into the shape of a rook, felt the gust of its wings. With no more air, a wave of shadows swept in and engulfed her.
“ART THINKS that the Roman Church will attempt an invasion, and I agree with him,” said Liam as he and Tadg rode their horses along the north road from Tara.
Art MacMurrough, the new Celtic high king–elect, was a bear of a man known for his love of wine and rich food as much as for his skill with a broadsword. The regiona
l kings, queens, high nobles, and heads of the first-order guilds had gathered at Tara two days earlier to express their concerns to the previous high king about unrest among the Sidhe and what the freed Kellach might be plotting. Art had taken the opportunity to orchestrate a vote for the high-kingship and handily beat the throne holder and the only other person on the ballot, Lord Maolan. Art had worried about the possibility of losing to Turlough, the respected king of Meath, but the latter had not run.
Before he could be enthroned, though, Art had to pass the three ancient tests required of all high kings. Preparations were under way for the ceremony, which was to take place during tomorrow’s Festival of Bealtaine, marking the midpoint in the sun’s progress between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Liam and Tadg were on their way to meet Brigid’s delegation and escort to Tara the King’s Cup, which was kept in trust by the Order of Macha and was required for the coronation ritual.
“I’ve sensed a stirring, a discontent in the trees and in the land. We may be fighting some of the Sidhe clans as well,” Tadg said. “Do you think Art can be the wartime king we’ll need?”
“He’s a good choice, if his drinking doesn’t get the better of him,” Liam replied. “He’s shrewd and has inspired much loyalty among Celtic warriors, and he can be ruthless.”
“Still, this will be a fight unlike any we’ve seen before. I believe that within the Middle Kingdom sides are being chosen. There are strange, unfamiliar forces at work,” said Tadg.
“And some Sidhe are leaving.”
“Leaving?” asked Tadg.
“There are pathways in the Middle Kingdom that lead to worlds other than this one. They are little known, and I don’t recall a time when I’ve heard talk of so many taking them.” Liam sighed. “Even some of my mother’s family are leaving, rather than risk war, risk their long lives.”
“And what of the English? Do you believe that they were also involved in Kellach’s escape?”
“I don’t know. But I fear no outside force. I fear only what Ireland may do to itself,” said Liam.
“I fear that Ireland may tear herself apart without the Morrígna to bind her,” said Tadg.
“Aisling will do all she can,” snapped Liam automatically, weary of this argument. He disdained the implication that Ireland was now vulnerable with only one aspect of the Morrígna on earth, which prevented the full manifestation of the Goddess’s power. A growing number of nobles openly suggested that Aisling should return—voluntarily or not—to the spirit realm and allow the Morrígna to be reborn whole.
“Don’t get me wrong, you know I love Aisling like a daughter and will protect her with my life. I was just pointing out that we must prepare for war without the Goddess’s power,” said Tadg.
“Aisling has power she hasn’t yet discovered,” said Liam. “She’ll be enough to ensure that Ireland is protected.”
At that moment they rounded a curve in the road and the hostel came into view. Outside stood Brigid in a circle of her priestesses, offering prayers to the setting sun. Liam and Tadg sat up straighter on their horses and urged them into a trot.
“There’s one thing I’m looking forward to, and that’s fighting alongside you, my friend,” said Tadg.
“If you’re going to try to keep up with me, you’d better bring extra arrows,” Liam said with a laugh. “Lots of them.”
Brigid joined them when they reached the hostel. “I wasn’t expecting you until the dark of tomorrow morning,” she said.
Liam dismounted and gave her a firm embrace. “Tonight’s not a good time to have my best horse in the royal stables. Besides, I’d be a fool to pass up an evening of your hospitality.”
Brigid smiled and placed a hand on Liam’s chest. “I’ve several novice priestesses who will extend their hospitality to you and Tadg.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Liam, “but it’s most welcome.”
A novice priestess in the Order of Mancha cannot become a full priestess, and thus chaste with men and women, until Brigid determines that she has sufficient knowledge of both. As he looked over at the circle of priestesses, Liam was reminded that no lover had ever rivaled his experiences with Brigid when she was a novice and gaining much of her knowledge of men from him.
A rook fluttered toward them. At first Liam thought it must be injured, but as it flew closer, he saw the last traces of twilight through it. The rook gave a faint cry, then vaporized.
“Aisling!” shouted Liam. He swung onto his horse and galloped off, with Tadg following close behind.
Brigid rushed through the enchantment to transform into her swan form. It did not work; something powerful was countering it. She ran for the stables.
AT TARA the main gate of the royal enclosure was being pushed closed for the night when it paused to let Lord Maolan ride out. He could not recall when he had felt quite this happy. A God must be smiling on me from the Otherworld, he reasoned as he rode through the town toward the woods. He was not sure which God, only that it must be one who was jealous of the Morrígna. I will make an offering when I return, he silently vowed, in gratitude for everything coming together better than I could have imagined, with the old high king voted out and Art not yet crowned.
Maolan thought of the smug way Art had looked at him when he won the election and smiled to himself. Well, Art, enjoy your night, because there will be no coronation tomorrow, only my knife at your throat. And once I make myself high king, I will do away with the election altogether.
12
Christians and their Jewish forefathers are much addicted to the sorcery taught them by Moses.
—The True Word, by Celsus (circa CE 177)
Conwy Castle, Wales
The Same Day
On the north coast of Wales, the ship that Jordan used to rescue Kellach lay at anchor in the mouth of the river Conwy. Stone walls of a fortified port town, punctuated with guard towers, stretched toward the foothills of the nearby Snowdonia Mountains. Perched on a rocky outcrop, compact and formidable, Conwy Castle brooded over the river and the town it protected. Stone stairs wound up from a small dock at the end of the outcrop and through a sea gate into the castle garden, brimming with hundred-year-old oaks, where Kellach waited to meet with English and Fomorian delegations.
Upper chambers of the castle towers that faced the garden had full-size windows rather than the arrow slits used elsewhere. In one of those chambers, on the third level, Jordan sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, across from him sat Najia, and between them the stubs of seven wax candles burned. He had slipped on a pair of trousers for the ceremony but remained barefoot and bare-chested. Najia wore a modest frock of white linen, which highlighted her dark skin.
Najia’s siblings had been shipped off to Jordan’s ancestral home in Sicily. He had drawn up papers changing their status from slaves to bound servants, a designation that meant they could not be beaten with impunity by anyone along the way.
Jordan and Najia focused on the light radiating from the candles between them. As they concentrated, the light gathered into a floating sphere that hung suspended, an orb of glowing gold. Areas of blue began to materialize on the surface; then an island of green and brown started to push through the azure. Cracks stretched across the sphere and a tremor set in. Flakes of blue fell off, evaporating before reaching the floor. Jordan frowned, furrows appearing on his forehead and around his eyes. Najia’s expression remained calm, impassive. The orb stabilized, and the island started to take definitive shape. Suddenly the sphere disappeared in a puff of candle smoke.
Najia leaned back, supported her body with her hands on the floor, and stretched. Jordan gave a heavy sigh. “What else we can try?” he asked.
Najia shook her head, her dark hair caressing her face. “Apparently it’s impossible to manifest an accurate map of Ireland.”
“Who blinds our sight?” he asked. “The Sidhe? The Celtic druids?”
“Both have set up barriers,” said Najia. “But there’s a greater problem
with attempting an enchantment this strong from here: too much Ardor has already been stripped from Britain.”
“Ardor?”
“The energy that originally animated all life and what makes natural magic possible. There’s less and less for those with the knowledge, people like you and me, to draw upon. All magic requires some form of energy. With less Ardor our ability to cast enchantments weakens. You should know that—you’re involved with driving it from the world.”
“If we can’t even create a map of the Irish coastline”—Jordan paused in frustration—“we’ll be entirely at Kellach’s mercy when we send an armada.”
He rose and moved to the window, where he observed the strange gathering forming in the walled garden below. He had sailed here directly from Great Skellig, a journey of a few days, while it had taken the legate nine months to return to Rome from London and squeeze enough money from the Jews of the Papal States to fund the English invasion, then another month to convene this conclave. Yet in that brief time, tended by Kellach, the trees had grown twice as tall and had become fuller and more animated; each morning they twisted themselves into slightly different shapes.
The English lords Mortimer and de Vere had arrived and sat next to Kellach at the round table, quizzing him on the invasion plans. Propped up in a chair beside them was their Tylwyth Teg, Oren, who the English believed could tell if another faerie tried to deceive them. To Kellach’s right, the legate was approaching, which meant that Jordan was late. Across from Kellach, between the Vatican and the English seats, a gap remained for the Fomorian delegation. With the sun dipping into the sea, they were expected to pad up the stone steps from the water at any moment.
“The legate believes that when the Nephilim are gone, natural magic will disappear,” said Jordan.
“God may have infused the world with Ardor when he created it, or it may have come in the blood of the angels, blood the Nephilim still carry—no one knows,” said Najia. “But what I know for sure is that when Nephilim leave a land, Ardor leaves with them. That’s what caused the Ardor in Europe to fade almost as much as it has here.”
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 16
