She shook her head and said, “I want to kill some English first.”
Art nodded and said to Jordan, “If I can get all the Sidhe to think like that, we’ll butcher the invaders.” Then he jumped into the hole.
Jordan followed him, expecting to be instantly jumping out of a hole somewhere, but instead he found himself standing in an ordinary dirt hollow with a tunnel leading off. Total darkness engulfed him as the stone was pivoted closed. He felt his way forward, trailing the sounds of the other two.
. . . . .
Nottingham burst through the door of the cottage, followed by three mail-clad men.
“Welcome to Ireland!” shouted the Sidhe as she hurled a sparking ball of light at him. Nottingham ducked, and it struck the man behind him, who fell to the ground screaming, snakes of golden light eating away his flesh. There was a flash, and a second man fell. Nottingham dived back outside. Another flash and more screams followed.
The Sidhe woman risked a glance around the doorframe. Nottingham shouted to a pair of Grogoch that were just trundling up, “Seal her in there! She must not escape!” A faint song began to rise from deep in the throats of the Grogoch. The door slammed shut. The Sidhe heard Nottingham shout again: “Burn it down!”
She bent down and heaved on the stone covering the tunnel. It did not move. Through the window she could see fire arrows flying toward the thatched roof. She closed her eyes and held her hands out over the stone. Strands of light dripped from her fingers and crawled along the edges of the stone. She tried to lift it again but failed. She screeched in frustration as flame started to lick down through the thatch above her.
. . . . .
Sunrise was streaming through the trees when Jordan climbed out from the tunnel. Art was standing next to a horse. A quarter mile off to the right, the cottage was engulfed in flames.
“What’s your name?” asked Art, his hand ready on the hilt of his sword.
“Jordan d’Anglano, marshal of the Vatican.”
“Does this mean the Vatican wants to join our side?”
“No. This means that I’m not yet ready to see you captured or killed.”
“Why?”
“This land isn’t as I expected. There’s much I’m struggling to understand, and I need more time. Now you had better go. We’ll meet again, then we’ll either fight, or . . . well . . . only time will reveal what is to come.”
“Until then,” said Art, untying his horse from a tree. “But don’t expect any leniency if we cross swords.” He swung up, followed by his lover, and rode quietly off.
Jordan turned and looked at the burning cottage in the distance, hoping the Sidhe had made it out. Then he crept around to the tree on the mound and climbed into and out of the witch path to where Najia was waiting.
. . . . .
The sun had risen high in the sky when a small Irish company including Conor, Liam, and Rhoswen rode over the crest of Linsigh Hill, ten miles south of Tara, and down its gentle slope, where they found Fearghal squatting at a spring beside the road. He had stripped to the waist to wash, the icy water leaving his pale skin pink, his new wounds bright red, though none appeared deep. The stump of his right wrist had already sealed over with fresh skin.
“Where is the high king?” asked Fearghal.
“Art will meet us at Tara,” replied Liam.
“Tell him that King Murchada is captured and his entire force slaughtered.”
“Even the Gallowglass?”
“The English sent death on black winds of iron. Kellach was too strong, his followers too fanatical, for loyal Sidhe to stop them. Many of my Sidhe fought to the death alongside the Celts. In the end no quarter was given.”
Fearghal addressed Conor. “I would be dead myself if I did not need to deliver this message. Our only hope is the Morrígna. Has Aisling reconnected with enough of the Goddess’s power?”
“Aisling will be enough,” said Conor. “She defeated the demon Semjâzâ. She can handle Kellach.”
“When her powers return, now that the twins are born,” added Liam.
“Let us hope her powers return before Richard reaches Tara,” said Fearghal. “Let us hope the new twins do not keep the powers for themselves. I will return to the Middle Kingdom and gather what forces are still loyal to Ireland, still true to their vows. We will join you at Tara when it is time.”
Rhoswen dismounted and handed the reins of her horse to Liam. “I will see you again on the battlefield.” She held his gaze for a long moment.
“Count on it,” said Liam. In her eyes he saw a look that reminded him of the one his Sidhe mother gave his father. Under different circumstances he would be drawn to Rhoswen, he thought, as he watched her and Fearghal disappear into a nearby Sidhe mound.
Turning to Conor, Liam said, “You might as well split off here to Dunsany. Tell Aisling that I need you back as soon as possible.”
. . . . .
Richard had established his quarters in Reginald’s Tower, named after the Viking who had founded the fortified port of Waterford in 914. In the great hall, Oren sat propped up at the end of the lunch table. A purple robe draped over his shoulders fell all the way to the floor, a fool’s hat cockeyed on his head, as Richard had taken to dressing up the Tylwyth Teg for meals.
Richard abruptly stood, causing his chair to tumble behind him, and shouted at Nottingham, “Art was not there? How could he not be there?”
De Vere put down his wine goblet.
Nottingham shifted uncomfortably in his armor. “The only occupant of the cottage was a female Sidhe, whom we burned.”
“We do not give a damn about burning another faerie.” Richard leaned forward with his fists on the table, glowering at Kellach, who sat without plate or goblet in front of him. “You said the high king would be there.”
“He was there. He must have slipped out when Nottingham arrived,” said Kellach.
Nottingham stiffened. “We had the cottage surrounded. And you assured me all the passages in the area to the Middle Kingdom were sealed.”
“They were sealed,” said Kellach. “However, if he was escorted, he might have used a witch path.”
“Witch path! Witch path!” shouted Richard, now pacing around the table. “There are witches as well as faeries in this country?”
“Among the Sidhe, powers vary,” said Kellach. “Sidhe who dedicate themselves to the study of the old ways can become very powerful witches, able to travel between worlds and within worlds in ways others cannot.”
“Well, it does not matter, a minor irritation,” said Richard, his pace increasing, with arms swinging and hands clenching, releasing. He looked toward Oren. “Do We still need that faerie?” he asked to no one in particular. Striding over to Oren, he asked, “Do We still need you?”
Oren turned his blind face up toward Richard, causing the fool’s hat to slide off. “No,” he replied. “You no longer need me.”
“Good,” replied Richard. He pulled Nottingham’s sword from its scabbard and took a wild swing at Oren, catching him in the shoulder. Oren gave no cry, a look of peace on his face. Richard changed to a two-handed grip on the hilt. With three more swings, Richard had Oren’s head off.
“There, let no one say We do not keep Our promises. Now, put it on a spike somewhere.”
23
Trim Castle, Ireland
October 31, 1394
Next to a giant bonfire on the bank of the river Boyne outside Trim Castle stood Turlough, king of Meath. It was the eve of Samhain festival, marking the beginning of winter, halfway between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice. Tonight the veil between this world and the After Lands would thin, and feasts and sacrifices would need to be dedicated to ancestors to avoid suffering a visit from their annoyed ghosts.
Turlough remembered the Samhain eves of his youth, when he would throw the bones of livestock, slaughtered to fill the winter larder, into their bonfire as an offering. The bonfire beside him required no more bones: the pyre was stacked with burni
ng Fomorian bodies, more than a hundred.
Turlough ordered his captain of the guard to line the bridge with torches and secure it with fifty warriors each night. “It must be kept open, Captain,” said Turlough. “Let the creatures have the ford after dark. We can take it back with ease each morning if we have to.”
“Yes, sire,” replied the captain, immediately making his way toward the new stone bridge, finished less than a year earlier just upriver of the ford. A steady stream of refugees flowed north across it. After the English invasion, Turlough had suspended the toll of one-half a silver penny.
Liam and Conor rode around the corner of the castle, following the outer edge of the moat, leading a company of frayed and tired Gallowglass. On seeing Turlough and the pile of burning bodies, they reined in their horses.
“King Turlough,” Liam said. “Looks like you had a difficult fight.”
“Indeed,” confirmed Turlough. “The Fomorians overran the ford and the bridge. We counterattacked. It was a long and bloody night. When the sun rose, my archers on the castle walls were able to drive them off with impunity. Now that we know, they’ll not catch us by surprise again. We’ll keep the bridge open.”
“Were many of your people killed?” asked Liam, his brow furrowed.
“Twenty-three warriors died fighting. Most of the wounded will be ready to fight again soon,” said Turlough. “What word of the English?”
Advancing north from Waterford, Richard was copying the slash-and-burn policy of chevauchée that his father, the Black Prince, had employed so successfully in France. Turlough last heard that Richard had skirted the Wicklow Mountains, leaving them to his Sidhe collaborators, and that he had captured and fortified Jerpoint and Kilkenny while burning all other villages to the ground along the way.
“We just withdrew from Leighlin,” said Liam. “It’s Richard’s now.”
Turlough nodded, watching the refugees plod across the bridge.
Art was not making a stand in the south. Instead he was harrying the English in an attempt to slow the enemy’s advance while the Irish armies mustered at Tara and to give Aisling time to recover her powers. Art maintained that Aisling was their only hope to defeat Kellach and the English. Meanwhile Irish casualties were mounting, mostly the result of the English longbow’s lethal reach.
“The land will be thick with ghosts tonight,” said Turlough, inclining his head toward the line of refugees. “Few have time for a feast or even offerings.”
“Too many new ghosts,” said Liam.
“Do you know how long it will be until I have to move my forces to Tara?” asked Turlough.
“The English will need to take the bridge at Carlow next. We can slow them down there for a while. And Art won’t attack before Richard moves north of Dublin, so as not to become trapped between him and his Viking allies. You still have a few weeks to finish preparations.”
“We’ll be ready,” said Turlough. “Will Aisling be ready?” he asked Conor.
“Yes.”
“Tell her . . .” Turlough paused. “Tell her how much we’re counting on her.”
“She knows,” replied Conor as he spurred his horse and splashed across the ford, followed by Liam and the Gallowglass.
A wagon lightly loaded with supplies lumbered toward the castle gate. Tonight’s feast will be meager, Turlough thought. Still, a king owes hospitality to his subjects, and the gate would be open to all who wished to attend. A shallow smile crept onto Turlough’s face as he thought of his required, ritual intercourse with the symbolic Earth Mother—a welcome distraction, particularly with the beautiful priestess who had agreed to conduct the ceremony. His smile vanished as Mamos walked through the smoke toward him.
As a young boy, Turlough had been afraid of the gruff druid of Trim, old and weathered even then. Time had not improved Mamos’s disposition, and Turlough hoped Mamos would not insist on being one of the witnesses at the Earth Mother ceremony. That would take all the fun from it and even risk its success.
Without greeting, Mamos declared, “Aisling no longer brings enough of the Morrígna into this world to save Ireland from Kellach or the English.”
Turlough clenched his fist, dried Fomorian blood flaking off his glove, and wished he could hit Mamos for the insult to Aisling. But it was unwise for anyone, even a regional king, to strike a druid as powerful as Mamos, second only to Brigid. Instead he said, “Aisling is all we have.”
“We have her new twins. They’ve drawn the power from Aisling, and it’s said they’re slow to return it. What if these twins are the next incarnation of the Morrígna arriving, as it’s called for, in our greatest time of need? Perhaps Aisling is the only thing stopping the twins from bringing the Morrígna back fully into this world.”
“Brigid has said that the Morrígna can’t return as long as Aisling is alive. It’s unknown if the Morrígna can ever return after what happened to Anya,” Turlough said.
“The Morrígna can do anything the Morrígna wishes. Remember when the Goddess first appeared to us, in that time of dire need. She manifested into human form from nothing but her own desire. Are we in less need now?”
Turlough stared into Mamos’s eyes. “What are you suggesting?” Turlough thought he knew. The faction calling for Aisling to retire to the Otherworld—so there could be at least a chance that the Morrígna would return to this world—was rapidly growing and had become more vocal. As one of the most respected monarchs, he had been approached several times already to see if he would join their ranks. He hoped he did not have to.
“There are Sidhe other than the Devas and Adhene that don’t wish to see Kellach rise to power, some even within the ranks that Kellach considers allies.” Mamos lowered his voice. “I’ve received word that they wish for a meeting. What I’m suggesting is that you come with me, and we shall learn what they propose.”
. . . . .
Ignoring the chill of the first winter night, Aisling walked barefoot in her thin night shift along the tree line behind Dunsany Castle. She watched ghosts drift between the trees, so many seeming lost. Thinking of her sister, Anya, awoke that familiar pain in Aisling’s heart, as if the arrow had never been pulled out. A tear slid down her cheek, cooling as it went. She thought of how, when Anya and she were young, they would sneak out in the dark of Samhain and chase the ghosts. She remembered how she had learned an enchantment to reveal their features and how Anya could make them talk, always tales of loss, regret, and loneliness. Tales that the girls, in their innocence, so confident that such misfortune would never happen to them, would giggle at as the ghosts drifted off.
Now she ached to talk to Anya’s ghost, but all her attempts had failed. Anya should have returned to the Morrígna in the Otherworld, to wait for her there. But could she, with her heart destroyed? Was Anya just gone, never to return to the Morrígna, or pass to the After Lands, or even to haunt this world? Just gone?
Aisling stopped at the trailhead that had once led to her Woodwose camp. The Woodwose believed that after death they would be reborn as animals, echoing how they had lived—wolves, bears, or foxes, they hoped. Aisling saw nothing down the dark path. When she died, where would she go? she wondered. Would she, too, just be gone? Turned to nothing, without Anya’s heart to call her home to the Morrígna? The pain in her chest doubled, causing her to catch her breath. She did not want to hear any stories from the dead tonight—or any night. She circled back toward the castle and increased her pace, trying to keep her fears at bay.
Since the English landed, thoughts of Anya’s loss had been returning too often, bringing with them the old dark visions and making it impossible to ignore the emptiness inside herself. The invasion was a bitter reminder of what she was meant to be and what had been taken from her. With all of Ireland counting on her, the ground under her feet felt less solid. Her sleep was plagued by nightmares of Conor being killed in battle, of herself falling back into her internal blackness. She fell and fell, and in the dream she could not tell if it was a nightmare o
r if she was trapped once again in that hellish place. She would awake screaming and flailing for something to grasp on to. When Conor was home and she felt the nightmare waiting at the edge of her exhaustion, she would force herself to stay awake all night to keep it at bay. She did not want him distracted by her fears while he was fighting the English.
As Aisling approached her home, the rear door swung open and cast a warm light out toward her. Conor, still grubby from the ride back and cradling a daughter in each arm, smiled warmly at her. Her pain eased as she ran to him. His absences were particularly hard, given that she could not work enchantments to watch over him. Reaching the stairs, she longed to ask him to stay with her, to not return to the war, but she knew she could not. She was born to her duty to Ireland, but she had thrust position and duty upon him. It would be too much of a betrayal to ask him to abandon those responsibilities now.
IT TOOK FIVE WEEKS before Turlough was ready to accept the dissident Sidhe’s invitation to meet. He had urged Art to storm Dublin and take it from the Vikings before Richard reached it, but Art continued to wait for Aisling. Now Richard had arrived at Dublin and had added Carlow, Castledermot, and Connell to his chain of fortified villages, linking it to Waterford, burning the twenty-three villages in between that he did not consider strategic enough to hold. If something was not done to stop Richard soon, he would roll over Tara and be at the gates of Trim Castle in a month. Not even Trim could stand long against an army as large as his.
Tonight the road northeast was a ribbon of black rain wandering through a darker black forest. Turlough had been following the hint of gray that was Mamos’s horse, which had now stopped. Turlough dismounted, tied his horse to a tree next to Mamos’s, and pulled a torch from behind his saddle. He struck a flint a few times, but the sparks were doused instantly in the rain. Mamos spoke a few words, and his own torch flared up. Abandoning his efforts with the flint, Turlough lit his torch from Mamos’s, then followed the old druid down a narrow path into the thick forest. He could hear Mamos muttering an enchantment of concealment, keeping other druids and Sidhe witches from sensing their location or intent.
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 29
