Brigid rushed over to where Liam’s body had now collapsed onto the ground. She kissed his lifeless lips, then breathed long into his mouth. He gasped, coughed, and gasped some more. “It’s not time for you to leave me yet,” she said, and kissed each of his eyes. He opened them, struggled onto his hands and knees, and began to vomit a black stream that vaporized into a mist and was sucked into the cave mouth.
Aisling ran over, climbed up on the sacrificial slab, and embraced Conor, who had torn away the newly inanimate vines. “Oh, my love!” she cried, and kissed him, almost laughing with joy, her eyes gray again. Leaving Liam to struggle to his feet on his own, Brigid removed her cloak and draped it over Aisling’s shoulders. When she turned to thank Brigid, Aisling’s eyes fell on Tadg’s torn body, and her joy died in her heart. Conor gently pulled her arms from around him, climbed off the slab, and knelt at the side of the only father he had ever known.
There was movement in the trees. Fearghal, the Sidhe high king, and his witch daughter Rhoswen rode into the clearing followed by ten Sidhe with swords drawn.
. . . . .
A pair of faerie lights added their glow to the clearing. Conor, wrapped in a borrowed cloak, and Aisling, assisted by several Sidhe, gently secured Tadg’s body to a horse.
“How did you know?” Brigid asked Rhoswen.
“Aisling must have distracted Semjâzâ from his concealment enchantment. An awareness of the fight bloomed in my mind,” replied Rhoswen.
“It was magnificent to watch. She brought forth the Morrígna,” said Brigid.
“Not fully,” said Rhoswen. “All of the Middle Kingdom would have sensed the return. If she could become whole, the demon would not have even tried to fight her.” Rhoswen watched as Conor embraced Aisling, her eyes glassy with tears. “Did she have the eye change?”
“Slightly,” said Brigid.
“Incredible. She is . . . gestating into a being of her own design.”
14
Tara, Ireland
The Next Day
Outside a village close to Tara, farmers, shepherds, tradespeople, and their families gathered for the Bealtaine fire ritual. As they milled around, they made pronouncements about the relative importance of fertility versus safety, how the fires were larger than last year’s, and how surely the gap between the two bonfires was smaller. The piles of wood had stood twice as tall as a man and were separated by a distance of four feet, but that was before they were burning. Now even that gap was obscured by dense gray smoke lit with seemingly impenetrable arms of orange flame that licked across the divide.
A druid standing behind the group reached into his pouch, withdrew a handful of gray powder, and tossed it among their feet, where it flashed into brief flame. “Let’s just go!” shouted a six-year-old boy who was attending his first Bealtaine festival. The smoke swallowed him as he disappeared between the towering fires.
With a surge the rest followed, dashing through the flames and emerging on the far side laughing uncontrollably. Gripped by momentum, the group circled to the right and ran through the gap again. Two widowers who no longer felt the need for a fertility rite carefully watched the circulating stream of laughing, coughing, squealing, running, tripping, and skipping villagers for any emerging with their clothing alight, unnoticed until they were tackled and rolled along the grass.
From Tara, high on its hill, columns of smoke could be seen dotting the countryside as the fire ritual was held in every village. Inside Tara’s walls a different ritual was unfolding: Art MacMurrough might have won the election; however, he still had to pass three ancient tests before becoming the new high king of Ireland.
The night before in the royal stables—which were not nearly as full as normal—the finest horse was selected, its throat cut, and its blood drained into a jug. The carcass was spitted over a giant roasting pit to make ready for today’s feast. While platters of horsemeat would be on the tables as required by ancient custom—horse was once thought to make the eater strong—most would end the day going to the dogs.
In addition to Fearghal and Rhoswen and the Celtic regional kings and queens, many Sidhe nobles were in attendance, though fewer than expected. Tales had been shared, songs sung, and the assembled guests had eaten more than their fill when Brigid brought in the King’s Cup for a round of toasting and presented it to Art. Tradition called for the cup to be filled with the blood of the sacrificed horse, a tradition that had faded, as so many had, and for the last two hundred years the cup had been filled with red wine, fortified with only three drops of blood.
With the toasting complete and with much cheering and banging of fists on tables, the first test began. The Brehon laws required that a high king be whole of body, interpreted to mean he must possess his four limbs, both eyes, and all other major body parts. A large bronze tub was brought in, placed in front of the high table, and filled with hot water. Art stood beside the tub, stripped off his clothing, raised his arms to encourage the assembled dignitaries into even louder cheers, and then jumped into the water, splashing the closest of the nobles. Several women, having clearly enjoyed much wine, tried to climb into the tub with him but were pulled away by the stewards.
While the bath itself was not strictly required to prove the first test, it had for many centuries been required by the purveyors of the second test. To become high king, a man must not only be able to achieve his own climax but must also be able to fully satisfy the high priestess of Tara. Currently Aisling.
Two young priestesses dressed in white draped a robe of seven colors—blue, red, purple, brown, green, yellow, and black—embroidered with solid-gold thread, over Art’s shoulders as he stepped from the tub. Brigid bowed as they led him from the great hall.
. . . . .
Aisling stood in her receiving chamber with twelve of her priestesses, issuing final instructions. Three turned to one another, whispering conspiratorially. A bed had been placed in the center of the room. The fireplace was at full roar. There was a knock on the door, causing the priestesses, their white robes swirling, to quickly position themselves around the room as required witnesses. Aisling stood by the bed. One priestess glided to the door and slowly opened it.
Art entered alone. He strode straight to Aisling, proud, confident. Confidence that was reinforced as two priestesses removed his robe, revealing the ready state of his erection. One priestess gave a sly but obvious gesture at his phallus, eliciting giggles from several of the others as Aisling had instructed them to do.
“Be quiet,” Aisling said lightly, spinning around. “Quiet. He is . . . adequate.” In light of his rapidly diminishing state, she added to Art, “Please ignore them. Let me help you, see if I can coax out a bit more size.” Aisling reached down and stroked him, but rather than restoring him, she felt the last of his erection fade in her hand.
“Ahhh,” flowed around the circle of priestesses. Art glared at them.
“Don’t worry,” said Aisling. “We have a little time for that to reawaken before the assembly starts to wonder. Here, sit with me and let’s talk awhile.” She sat on the edge of the bed.
Art scowled at Aisling, whose crooked smile was sending a clear message. Sitting beside her, he asked, “What do you want?”
“Conor needs an honor price,” Aisling said.
“Done,” said Art. “He can start with twenty cows—make it twenty-five—and I’ll include one of my bulls. Then we’ll see how good he is at trade.”
“No,” said Aisling, sliding a few inches away from Art. “He must have an honor price that gives him a seat at your high table. An honor price suitable for the high priestess of Tara’s husband, my future husband. Give him the deceased traitor Maolan’s land, houses, livestock, and title.”
Art laughed. “Maolan’s clan would never permit that.”
“Maolan tried to betray the Celts to the demon Semjâzâ. Conor stopped him. Maolan’s clan should consider themselves lucky you don’t take the rest of their lands.”
“It was you who sto
pped Maolan.”
“I couldn’t have done it without Conor. He’s awakening my power. You’ve become too much of a politician.”
“And you ask for too much,” replied Art, anger creeping into his voice.
Aisling stood. “I will not lie with a politician. I will only lie with a high king.”
“If I don’t grant Conor an honor price, even one cow, you won’t be able to marry him,” Art shot back.
“As you wish,” said Aisling. “I’ll make my request to tomorrow’s candidate for high king.”
“What makes you think anyone will agree to this extortion?”
“I defeated a demon!” Aisling shouted, trying to overcome the image of Tadg’s torn body that flooded into her mind. “The Morrígna’s power is returning in me. Me. Alone. Without my dead sister.” A hit of green flashed in her eyes.
“Are you saying that you have the Goddess’s full powers?”
“Enough. With time more will emerge,” she said, forcing her tone back to calm. “The new high king will need me, given the war you say is coming. The only question is which candidate will be wise enough to see that?”
“And you truly believe the Sidhe will follow you without Anya?”
“There’s more chance they will fight for me than you.”
Art studied Aisling. A minute crept slowly past.
“Maolan’s lands and property shall be forfeit to the high king’s estate. I’ll grant Conor one half of all this, less one acre and one bull. If he demonstrates good stewardship of these lands and is married to you, he’ll be made earl in one year. In exchange he’ll swear allegiance to me personally and pay tribute to me of twenty percent of all the estate’s income, whether I remain high king or not. Finally, you’ll foster your firstborn at my house from his seventh year through his fourteenth.”
Aisling moved to stand directly in front of the seated Art. “Our firstborn son, not any daughters,” she replied.
“Yes, the firstborn son.”
Aisling slipped off her robe. “We have an agreement, then, Your Highness.”
. . . . .
Outside the entrance to Tara Tower, a long, grassy courtyard gently sloped down to the royal stables, its edges lined by two-story stone buildings with shops below, residences above. Today the courtyard was flooded with people. Only a small area, halfway down to the stables, remained unoccupied, a circle ringing the Lia Fáil, where the third and final test of the high king took place.
Lia Fáil was a five-foot-tall standing stone, round and phallic, its origin as lost to history as the wells of Tara. From time before memory, the English, Scottish, and Irish kings required a sacred stone for their coronation ceremonies. It provided the king a connection to the earth and its old Gods. Even though the new God, Christ, had usurped much of the old Gods’ power in England and Scotland, those two countries still required a stone, though a monarch now sat on it to be crowned. Ireland’s stone remained standing, dominant. Tara’s French visitors called it le petit obélisque.
A few yards from the Lia Fáil, Liam was leaning on Conor’s shoulder. “Damn, you’re heavy,” said Conor, holding the bandage around his injured ribs.
“Sorry,” said Liam, shifting his weight. “I still don’t have my legs back.”
“Go lean on the stone.”
Liam shook his head. “You’re in a strange mood.”
Conor’s heart was in a knot, his throat tight. He had never been jealous before, if that was what this was, not when Aisling had lain with Maolan nor with any number of priestesses. But he felt so much closer to her now—bonded to her—and could not stand the thought, the fact, of her lying with someone else, even a high king. And there had been no opportunity to grieve for Tadg, a man who loved him like a natural son and who had died horribly trying to save him. Conor had been too concerned with assuring Aisling that Tadg’s death was not her fault, that she could not possibly have defeated Semjâzâ in time to save him. Now, here without her, Conor felt angry and confused.
Shadows grew long. Art and Aisling finally appeared at the tower door. Conor’s chest tightened more. Air became scarce. Aisling smiled to the crowd, nodded, and kissed Art. The crowd cheered.
The cheers subsided and the crowd parted, opening a path to the Lia Fáil and the final test. The previous election had been twelve years earlier, and Conor had avoided it, but he had heard. Ireland itself must acknowledge Art for him to become high king. When he places his hand on the Lia Fáil, the land must roar. Well, he, Conor, was not going to add his voice.
Art reached for the head of the standing stone, placed his hand on it. Conor’s throat spasmed. He tried to stop it, but could not. He lifted his head to release the cry, which rose uncontrollably within him, as it did within every other person in the yard. The sound radiated out through the city, down the hill, and across the land, as every man, woman, and child, every bird, stag, cow, and sheep, every animal that had a voice, took up the cry and passed it along.
Conor felt a sense of relief and, surprisingly, joy as the spasm left him. He felt Aisling’s arms around him. She nuzzled her face against his neck. “My love,” she said. “I have a surprise for you.” She slid her hand to cover his heart. “My lord.”
. . . . .
Busy days followed for Aisling and Conor. Maolan’s body was recovered, and with little of his head remaining, his hands and feet were ceremoniously hacked off and burned. The corpse was pressed into a bog.
The pride of Maolan’s estates had been a pair of castles, Killeen and Dunsany, which controlled the principal road between Tara and the two southernmost kingdoms, Leinster and Munster, much to the irritation of their nobility. Therefore, upon the announcement that the Maolan clan would forfeit both—Killeen Castle going to the estate set aside for support of the high-kingship, and Dunsany Castle, which was really more of a fortified manor house, going to Conor—the southern nobles lavished even stronger allegiance on their new high king. Art, in turn, let it be known that this move had been in his plans all along.
Queen Gormflaith, ruler of Munster, commissioned both a last name for Conor and a coat of arms for his new, if provisional, lordship, to be recorded in the Tara annals. Conor chose mac Tadg, in honor of the man whom he considered his father and to ensure that Tadg’s widow would be recognized as part of his new clan. The chief bard was summoned and produced a coat of arms featuring a green tree and a red arrow on a sky blue shield.
At their wedding in the great hall, Aisling wore a long green dress, elegant in its simplicity, matching the color of the tree on Ireland’s newest coat of arms. Conor’s white surcoat partially covered his new chain mail, which sparkled in the candlelight as Art performed the ceremony. Aisling and Conor laughed at the absurdity of signing a contract for five years and a day. As soon as the seal was applied to the document, Art embraced the pair of them, and his deep voice resonated through the hall, “Now we celebrate! Bring in the food and wine, lots of wine!”
“One thing we can count on with Art, there’ll be a feast at every opportunity,” said Liam. He and Patrick waited by the door, away from the thick crowd, which jostled with squires and pages carrying tables, benches, and food.
“I wager ten silver pennies that he leads a drinking song by the third course,” said Patrick, snagging a cup from a passing basket and scanning the crowd for a page to fill it.
Rhoswen wedged herself between Patrick and Liam. She addressed Liam without a greeting. “Do you understand that Aisling will still need your protection?”
“She beat a demon!” exclaimed Patrick.
“She is in flux. She must feel secure to continue to develop her powers,” said Rhoswen.
“I am grateful for your insight, but don’t worry, I don’t plan to abandon her,” said Liam.
“Conor also. You will stress this to him?” Rhoswen insisted.
“Not tonight, tomorrow. Tell me—”
Rhoswen interrupted, “I will not let that priest talk at me,” and slipped away.
Colmc
ille, leader of the smaller of the two factions of the Irish Christian Church, was pushing his way through the crowd toward the door. Reaching Patrick, he declared, “This should be a Christian wedding.”
“Christian weddings are for Christians,” replied Patrick. “Besides, pagan weddings are more fun.”
“That is all it is to you, isn’t it? How much fun you can have?”
“Jesus was always up for a good feast.”
“There will be no feast for you in hell,” warned Colmcille. “Or for anyone else here.”
“I hear that hell features prominently in your sermons of late,” said Patrick. “No wonder your congregation is shrinking while mine is growing. You’re becoming quite Roman, aren’t you?”
“The new Church of Rome will cover the world soon. There’s no standing against the true word of God. Look to your own rotting soul, your church is too accommodating—educating women, sanctioning divorce. Your sermons do more harm than good.”
“Let’s let the Bell decide whose words are true,” said Patrick, drawing the Blood Bell from its holster.
“I wasn’t going to grace this heathen gathering with my presence anyway,” hissed Colmcille as he left.
Patrick noticed that Liam, along with everyone else nearby, was backing away from him. “Don’t worry,” he said laughingly. “I’m not going to ring it. Let’s go find the wine.”
. . . . .
A week later Conor’s coat of arms fluttered on a flag above a mounted column of twenty-four Gallowglass. The small force was a gift from King Murchada of Leinster. To this, Murchada added his sealed pledge to support, with his own forces if need be, Conor mac Tadg’s right to Dunsany Castle—there was no better way to ensure that the Maolan clan actually turned over the property.
Two wagons of supplies followed, with Tadg’s widow driving the first. At the head of the column rode Liam, behind him Aisling and Conor, side by side. Since departing Tara to the cries of a herald, Conor had been wearing the awkwardly furtive smile of a young boy who has been caught eating a stolen pastry, only to learn it was intended for him all along.
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 18
