“There’s a Skeaghshee who deserves to die,” said Earnan.
“The VRS continues to toy with him,” said Liam, turning from the sight. “I’m sure he wishes for death by now.” They directed their horses north to look for a place to camp for the night.
The next day they skirted Tara, which had been abandoned on Richard’s orders. All governing functions had been moved to Dublin, while the guild headquarters were relocated to Galway. Most of Tara’s buildings were already in ruins, the English having pulled them down and hauled off the stones to build their own castles and manor houses. The only activity on the hill was the construction of a new Christian monastery, adjoining what was once Tara’s main gate, to house the VRS League.
Three more days brought them to the Derryveagh Mountains north of Donegal, the sparse and rugged northwest corner of Ireland, where the English rarely ventured. They rode along the shore of Lough Dunlewey, located at the foot of the glittering quartzite peak of Mount Errigal, then followed the river Owenabhainn upstream into Nimhe Glen, where Liam had built a one-room stone-and-thatch cottage. Liam drew his dagger, stuck its point into his thumb, and gave it a quarter twist to ensure a good flow of blood drops onto the ground as he approached his home, an offering to the earth spirits he had asked to conceal its existence. Treasa and Earnan did the same.
The next morning Liam, lying on a pallet stuffed with wool set on the floor and covered with his cloak, awoke to rustling sounds coming from the bed, which he had given to Treasa and Earnan. Deciding to allow them some privacy, Liam donned his cloak and braced himself for the cold. Outside, a tinge of blue in the eastern sky hinted at the coming sunrise. He walked down to the riverbank and sat on a boulder, waiting. The sun eventually cleared the valley wall, and he turned his face to it, feeling the warmth.
When sunlight had crawled down to the river, Liam removed his clothes, carefully folding and stacking them on the boulder, and waded out into the waist-deep center. He eased himself down until the water was up to his neck. He felt the heat of his body fight the frigid water, watched the sunlight fill the valley, and wondered what was left for him in this life.
The English lords, never happy with the size of their new Irish lands, were contracting with Gallowglass companies, but as a crossbreed he was less than welcome. He would not have worked for them anyway. Their petty fights seemed pointless.
Perhaps Fearghal had been correct. Perhaps it was time to move on from this life to the After Lands, or Tír na nÓg, or whatever truly came next. For that he would need an epic battle, one worth dying in. During practice fights it had become clear that his original half-Sidhe ability to anticipate the moves of a challenger had become unreliable, like the Ardor of Ireland, leaving him vulnerable. He laughed to himself. Hopes and dreams still lingered in this defeated land, but they had decayed into such thin desires. It’s possible, he thought, that even today news of such a battle might be coming, brought to him by those he sensed moving up his valley. There were two of them, he determined as he focused on their energies, one a Sidhe. He had not encountered a Sidhe for almost a year. Deciding to wait in the river for his visitors, he rose enough to let the sun warm his chest and arms again, the water that dripped down his body shimmering in the light.
Liam was pleased to see that it was Rhoswen who rode up the riverbank. She led a second horse on which slumped an exorcist, his complexion ashen, mouth gagged, and wrists bound. All ten of his fingers had been hacked off, the stumps black and red and swollen, crudely cauterized. Her Adhene witch’s body paint was not as crisp as when Liam had last seen her, as if it had not been refreshed recently. Rhoswen slid off her horse and waded into the river a few feet from Liam. She scooped up a handful of coarse river sand and began to scrub off her paint, revealing fair skin.
“I was beginning to think the last of the Sidhe had finally departed,” Liam said, breaking their silence.
“Some remain,” Rhoswen replied. “Those few of us still loyal to our vows, those who still believe the Morrígna will return fully. We hold the vigil.”
“Not much of a vigil as long as Aisling’s alive.”
“She will not be forever.”
“I’m surprised that the Sidhe allowed her to live this long.”
“If we were to take her life, I fear the Morrígna would never return to us. We must wait for the Morrígna to take Aisling herself. In the eternity of the Goddess’s eyes, one life is but a blink.”
“Until then you hunt exorcists to pass the time,” said Liam, wading toward the hapless man.
“He crossed my path.”
“Your path to talk with me?”
“Yes.”
“Great Mother Danu!” Liam exclaimed upon reaching the horses. “He stinks.”
“He fouled his robes when I removed his fingers. I could not have him tracing symbols at me.”
“I’d better give him a bath, then.” Liam pulled the exorcist off his horse and dragged him into the river. “If the Morrígna returns, will she deliver Ireland back to the Sidhe?” he asked, thrusting the exorcist up and down in the water as if he were a piece of laundry.
“Was Ireland ever truly ours?” replied Rhoswen. She was scrubbing her head, revealing that a stubble of hair was beginning to grow. “The Sidhe took it from the Fomorians. The Celts seized parts of it from the Sidhe. And now the English have conquered most of it. Whatever the Morrígna’s purpose is when she returns, the remaining Sidhe will be here to serve her.”
Liam considered her words but was distracted by the sight of her freshly scoured body—naked, pale, and pink. Rhoswen returned to her horse, where she untied a large cloth bag and pulled out buckskin boots, a simple black wool tunic, heavy green leggings, and a brown cloak, clothing of three colors that would mark her as someone of indistinct middle status. As she dressed, Liam felt desire rising hot through his body for the first time since Brigid’s death. He was grateful for the cold water and the exorcist in his hands, or he might have had to hide an erection.
“Have you come to ask me to join the vigil?” he asked. “I was hoping you brought news that a battle was brewing and a Sidhe army gathering.” He dragged the gasping exorcist up onto the bank.
Rhoswen fastened the cloak about her shoulders with a plain iron brooch. Holding out her arms and pretending to be human, she asked, playfully, “What do you think?”
Liam, in the process of donning his own clothing, replied, “It suits you.”
“We Sidhe need to learn how to blend in with humans if we are going to survive.” She moved closer to Liam. “There’s no battle coming. What’s coming is much more dangerous. Even in the faded light of the remaining Ardor, the threat radiates in my visions. I’ve confirmed it with information from a faerie witch I trust in Normandy.”
“So what is it?”
“Dark, malevolent creatures. A coven of human witches from France, large and well organized. They’ve ferreted out bits of the ancient knowledge and corrupted what power it has brought them. Now they’re in the process of seizing control of the English throne—one has become the new queen. But their ultimate plan is to take Ireland. They lust after it, after Sidhe knowledge, the enchantments they would force us to reveal. They believe they will be able to tap into Ardor here. And into the energy residing in Sidhe bodies. They will kill us to harvest it.”
The exorcist finally stopped gasping through his gag and propped himself into a sitting position. Rhoswen observed him for a moment. “With Orsini gone, and no new high exorcist here, we Sidhe can hide from the likes of him. But the High Coven will bring an English army to hunt us down and enslave those of us who do not flee this world. They’ll use their coarse magic to rip whatever power they can from us. Then there’ll be no Sidhe holding vigil for the Morrígna. Ardor here will truly and finally die. Ireland will become just a lump of rock in the sea.”
Liam’s heart sank. “This isn’t my type of fight. I’m not sure how to help you.”
“The Morrígna herself, while I was performing
Taghairm, charged me and my descendants with preparing for her return, no matter what we have to risk to do it and however many years or centuries it takes. Your mother was a Sidhe. Will you not be true to the Morrígna now?”
Liam rubbed his face in contemplation. “There’s a couple I can introduce you to who know much more about these sorts of things than I.”
Rhoswen nodded, then placed her hand on his chest. “I felt your body warm as you watched me in the river.” She leaned in and kissed him. “I also want you to show me how to be more like a human woman.”
28
Nimhe Glen, Ireland
That Afternoon
Leaving Treasa and Earnan at the cottage, Liam, Rhoswen, and the exorcist rode out of Nimhe Glen toward the Rock. As they traveled through central Ireland, the harsh, staccato sounds of woodcutters plying their trade became common background. Skeaghshee screams, though, were absent. The trees they had been bound into, and died with, had long since been harvested. When Liam passed a group of woodcutters returning to their camp, axes resting on tired shoulders, he was surprised to hear them speaking in French. Richard’s new relatives were already exerting their rights.
After several long days of riding, the trio saw the Rock emerge on the horizon. The size of a hill, it had been torn from a mountain twenty miles away and hurled here during a fierce battle between the original Patrick and an Archdemon, reputed to be Samael. A druid had tricked Patrick—who had newly founded his Irish Christian Church—into the fight, yet Patrick had prevailed and gained his first royal patron, the king of Munster. The king christened it the Rock of Cashel and built his principal castle on top, along with a monastery for Patrick—but everyone simply called it the Rock. A monument to what has been lost, thought Liam. A sorcerer could no longer tap into enough Ardor to defeat a demon, and there was not enough Ardor to draw demons to live here. A tragedy on both fronts, his heart told him. The days of epic magical battles were gone. Unless Rhoswen’s belief that the Morrígna would return was borne out—an event that she, with her long life span, might experience, but he doubted he would.
His thoughts turned inevitably to Aisling, the last to defeat a demon. How much of Ireland’s downfall could be laid at his door for allowing her to live and not rejoin the Morrígna when Anya did? A lot, he conceded. Each decision seemed honorable at the time, but looking back he could see that he had been trapped by his oaths to protect her. Those were the thoughts that haunted his worst nights.
Both the Rock’s castle and its monastery had been abandoned after the English invasion. As Liam rode closer, it became evident that the buildings were in ruins. “Stone scavengers?” he asked Rhoswen.
“No. There’s more at work here. An enchantment of some kind.”
As their horses walked up the steep path to the gate, Liam saw she was correct. It appeared that the structures had been in ruins for hundreds of years, not three, the edges of broken stones softened by weather and covered with moss. Liam asked the exorcist, “Is this the work of your kind?”
Still gagged, the exorcist could only shake his head.
They rode slowly between the rubble, looking for signs of occupation. Alerted by a grating sound, Liam looked up to see a stone wobble on top of a wall that must once have been part of the keep. It fell, striking the exorcist on the shoulder and knocking him off his horse. The exorcist struggled to his feet, his dislocated shoulder hanging low, and began to run. As he passed a standing corner of the monastery, another stone tumbled. This one split his head open.
Liam dismounted and nudged a boulder with his foot. “Was that really necessary?”
The boulder uncurled into the Grogoch Eldan, who replied, “Orders of the Lord of the Rock. No English, and particularly no exorcists.”
“The Lord of the Rock?” said Rhoswen.
“Is that what Jordan’s calling himself?” said Liam. “You had better take us to him. And we were saving that exorcist to ransom back to the Church.”
“They may pay for him still,” replied Eldan, his gravelly voice flat. He led them through the empty doorway of the ruined keep. “Best not to call Jordan ‘Lord of the Rock’ to his face. He hates that nickname.”
“Are you responsible for all this?” asked Rhoswen, indicating their decayed surroundings.
“Keeps the English and the Christians from trying to use it.” Eldan more mumbled than sang a brief enchantment, and two large floor stones slid back, revealing a stairway. Warm light glowed from below.
“How did you come to serve Jordan?” asked Liam, following Eldan down the stairs.
“It is my penance, serving a human, and one that is not even a Celt.”
“Penance for what?”
Eldan glanced back over his shoulder. “I will keep that to myself and thereby keep my head.”
The procession reached the bottom of the stairs, which led directly into a well-appointed chamber carved out of the solid rock. Liam recognized the tapestries, carpets, and furniture as having once graced the castle above. Faerie lights hovered near the ceiling, illuminating several passages leading farther into the rock. Eldan guided them to the right, past a chamber still being molded from the rock by two singing Grogoch, and into a room whose walls were lined with shelves. Crates of books and scrolls and piles of vellum manuscripts occupied the middle of the floor. Dryads scurried about, sorting the documents and carrying them up onto the shelves. Through a far door was the final chamber, also lined with shelves, these already filled. At a table in the center, Jordan and Najia were hunched over a papyrus scroll.
“Liam, it’s so good to see you again,” Najia said, rising and extending her hands. “Last time was such a . . . a tragedy.”
A vision of Brigid’s body being consumed by flames evoked a familiar ache in his chest, but it also reminded him of all that Najia had done for her at the end. “Greetings, Najia,” he replied, taking her hands. “I would like you to meet Rhoswen. You’ve much in common.”
Najia bowed. “I could never hope to have much in common with the skill of an Adhene, much less an Adhene witch.”
“Thank you. I’ve heard of the respect you show the Ardor of my homeland,” said Rhoswen, returning the bow. “It’s those human witches that seek to control Ardor and corrupt it for their own ends that we’ve come to ask for your help with.”
Liam placed his hand on the small of Rhoswen’s back. “If you’re going to pass as human, you’ll have to learn the art of social conversation before asking favors.”
“Rhoswen and I have too much to discuss to worry about such conventions,” Najia said.
Jordan hurriedly finished transcribing a line and finally looked up, greeting Liam with a nod. “Please excuse me. It’s imperative that I finish this section,” he said, his index finger still marking his spot on the text. “If you’ll stay for lunch, I’ll join you shortly.”
Najia led them back to the great chamber, where two Dryads stacked the lunch table with Sicilian wine, fresh roast pork, fine white bread, honey, and sweet salted butter. Two hours slipped by, the conversation flowing with the wine, mostly talk of the ills that had befallen Ireland, before Jordan joined them, the scroll rolled up in his hand, as if he could not bear to part with it. He kissed Najia on the cheek. “I’m sorry for being late. Became absorbed in translating.”
“I take it that means you received my message about Brigid’s library at Druim Criaidh?” asked Liam.
Jordan dropped into a chair and poured himself a goblet of wine. “Yes. With the help of our Grogoch friends, Najia and I were able to rescue all the grimoires before the VRS League found the place. We also liberated Patrick’s library at Armagh. You should have seen the exorcist’s face when he opened the chamber door to find that Patrick’s complete library had disappeared in the night.” Jordan pulled off the end of a bread loaf and smeared it with butter. “There’s much research to be done if we’re to find a way to preserve the remains of Ardor. I could spend a lifetime down there and not get through it all.”
�
�I’m not going to spend a lifetime in this hole,” said Najia.
“Of course, my love. I’m sure we’ll be able to find a safe place aboveground, eventually. Liam, you should see these diagrams.” Jordan partially unrolled the scroll on the table. “I believe this document is originally from the Library of Alexandria. It must have been taken, perhaps stolen, before that great library’s destruction a millennium ago. Najia and I are still working to decipher the accompanying text, but it appears that the Egyptians were also concerned about the loss of Ardor when the Romans wiped out their Nephilim.”
“Anything we can use there?” said Liam, catching Jordan’s enthusiasm.
“They had some theories that may help,” replied Jordan. “I’ll try to find records of the actions they took and what, if any, success they had. It’ll take a lot more study. Let me read this bit to you—”
Najia placed her hand over the papyrus. “Rhoswen and Liam have come with a more immediate problem. They’re asking for our help against a group of French witches who’re planning to attack the Sidhe.”
“That must be the High Coven,” said Jordan, rolling the scroll back up.
“Are you still corresponding with your contacts in Europe?” asked Liam.
“Of course,” replied Jordan, starting in on the roast pork.
“Then you know the High Coven has infiltrated the English court already.”
“That’s what I hear. Isabella is the new child queen. It’s causing quite a stir. But remember, as formidable as the High Coven is, they’re still just human witches. Witches don’t concern me,” said Jordan between chews. “Except, of course, you,” he hastily added to Najia. And then, under Rhoswen’s glare, he added, “And certainly you, but you’re not human.”
“The High Coven has become more powerful than you realize,” said Rhoswen. “Once they control England, they’ll bring the English army and capture the remaining Sidhe. There aren’t enough of us left to fight them, not with Richard’s archers at their side. Those they don’t enslave or kill will finally leave this world. Then no free Sidhe will remain in Ireland, and what do you think will happen to the Ardor you hope to preserve?”
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 35
