The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan

by Bill Stackhouse

  Déaglán looked around the table. “Okay. We have Prince Liam’s report and his suggestion that we ready the troops. What say you both?”

  Gearóid was the first to reply. “I agree, Your Majesty. But while it’s prudent to ready our forces, we do not want to appear to be provoking a confrontation. We should hold them in reserve and not assemble them right on our border with the Northern Shires.”

  Faolan added, “If need be, we can be at the border in less than a half hour, should our scouts alert us to any troop movements coming out of Ráth Gabhrán.”

  High King Déaglán looked over at his son. “When do you expect to hear from Finbar?”

  The prince raised his arms and shrugged. “It’s open-ended, Sire. Only when and if he learns anything up at North Head. But even then, it could be days until that word reaches us.”

  “Since there doesn’t seem to be any way to get in touch with him,” Faolan started, but then the blood drained from the Arch-Wizard’s face and he stood up. “Your Majesty, please excuse me. Something dreadful has happened. I sense a disturbance somewhere in the combined essence of the Sodality. I must go.” He turned and rushed toward the door.

  “What kind of disturbance?” Déaglán called out after him. “And go where?”

  “I’m not sure what it is, but I must contact the other members of the Sodality. Immediately!”

  * * *

  Blessed Island - Academy for the Spiritually Gifted

  Coinneach, Master of the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted, scanned the faces of the five new students in his orientation class. “Today let us start off with a rudimentary discussion about spells,” he said. “Even though you won’t actually start learning any spells until you receive your purple mantles and begin third-level studies, I know it’s a topic of interest to all of you. Now, where shall we begin, hmm?”

  The master wizard’s eyes twinkled. After so many years of teaching new students, he knew exactly where he would start.

  A girl from the Eastern Shires, sponsored by the Venerable Fergal, didn’t disappoint him. She asked the same first question that had been asked in virtually all of the previous orientation classes which he had ever conducted.

  “I’m confused about the threefold rule, Master,” she said.

  “Threefold rule?” Coinneach asked, eyebrow raised, as if it were the first time he had ever heard the term.

  “Yes, Venerable Sir. As I understand it, the threefold rule states that whatever spell or energy that a person puts out into the world, whether for good or ill, it will be returned to him or her threefold. Is that true?”

  The other four members of the class bobbed their heads. It was a question to which they all wanted an answer.

  The master wizard screwed up his face and tugged at his long white beard. “Yes…and no,” he replied.

  The students seemed confused by his answer, as did those in every previous class.

  Coinneach chuckled. “Absolutely no…except in one very particular situation.”

  He had their undivided attention.

  Spreading his arms wide, he asked, “Is no one going to say, ‘And what would that be, Master?’”

  A boy from the Western Shires, sponsored by the Venerable Taliesin, took the bait and dutifully repeated the question.

  “The one particular circumstance where I guarantee a spell will be returned to you threefold,” the elderly man told them, “is if you cast a spell for harm on a wizard who is three times more powerful than you. Other than that, no, this so-called threefold rule is nothing more than folklore.”

  Smiles appeared on the five young faces.

  “But that doesn’t mean,” Coinneach continued, “that we can go around casting spells haphazardly, without regard to their consequences.” He raised a cautioning finger. “All actions have consequences. We’ve spent a goodly amount of time discussing the first tenet of wizardry—Seirbhís a Tír agus Rí.” Again, the eyebrow went up and he pointed to a boy from Tulach shire whom he himself had sponsored.

  “Service to Country and King,” the boy replied.

  “Indeed. Now, let us talk a little bit about the second tenet, because it is directly applicable to spell casting. Déan díobháil do aon duine.” He looked around the room. “Anyone?”

  His students were all inspecting their boot tops.

  “That’s all right,” Coinneach said. “You aren’t expected to be able to readily translate from the language of the ancients. Not now, anyway. But by the time you start level-three studies, you will be able to do it without thinking.”

  “But, Master,” a girl whom the Venerable Odhran had sponsored from the Northern Shires asked, “What if we can’t?”

  “By the time you start level-three studies, you will be able to do it without thinking, or you will not begin those studies until you are able. Many spells require an incantation, and these incantations are in the ancient language. We can’t have you attempting a spell to make it rain and have you call down a hail storm or make it shower hedgehogs. Now, the second tenet of wizardry—Déan díobháil do aon duine—translates simply as ‘Harm no one.’ Seems plain enough, hmm?” He pointed at the final student, a boy from the Eastern Shires, sponsored by the Most Venerable Faolan.

  “Yes, Master,” the boy replied. “It means that we can never cast a spell which harms anyone.”

  “Ahh, does it now?” the master wizard asked. “Not ever?”

  More footwear inspection.

  “Think about this for a moment. Suppose you’re out on the road and you come upon a highwayman in the process of robbing his victim. The thief is not content with just stealing, but is getting ready to stab his prey, as well. You’re too far off to physically intervene, so what do you do? Do you merely shrug your shoulders and say, ‘Hmm. I can’t harm anyone, so too bad, fellow traveler,’? Or do you cast a spell that will save the victim, even though it may harm—”

  Coinneach’s face went ashen, and he seemed to falter for a few seconds. Recovering quickly, though, he said, “Think about that situation. We will discuss it at some length right after the midday meal.” With a swiftness that belied his age, he rushed from the room, his white robes fluttering behind him.

  * * *

  Sruthail Shire

  In a forest clearing, a league and a half northwest of Cathair Sruthail, the Venerable Fergal, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Eastern Shires, had just come from the stable attached to his five-story round tower after mucking out his horse’s stall. He carried a wooden pail and crossed to a small stream that flowed from the sacred well in the adjoining oak grove. A short, rotund man in his middle years, the wizard had more golden blond hair in his beard and mustache than on his rapidly-balding head.

  Fergal had just stooped down and dipped the bucket into the stream when something unseen rocked him back on his heels.

  “Whoa!” he said aloud, frowning, as he looked up at the clear sky. Abandoning the pail, he jumped to his feet, gathered his black, wool cloak halfway up his thick legs, and lumbered toward the entrance to the round tower as speedily as he could manage.

  * * *

  Tulach Shire

  The Venerable Taliesin, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Western Shires, had slept late that morning. He had been doing it routinely in recent weeks, and that bothered him. He knew his essence was on the wane, dissipating more rapidly when he utilized his powers and taking a much longer time to recharge with each use.

  It would not be long until he stood at the entrance to An Saol Eile, and the elderly man knew it.

  My time in this mortal world is fleeting, he would periodically remind himself. But I have to hold out as best I can. He has more to learn. He is not yet ready.

  Most mornings, the elderly wizard’s waking was a gradual process. Today, though, on the top floor of his round tower, he sat up in his bed with a jolt, as if a cold, damp hand had taken hold of him and yanked him to a sitting position. A feeling of dread shrouded him, and he struggled to the desk some four feet away
, shivering, as he donned his black cloak.

  Lowering himself onto one of the stools, the master wizard paused for a moment, both hands on the desktop, head bowed, and emptied his mind of all concerns and distractions before lifting the lid on an ancient wooden box that sat there. From that box, Taliesin removed a round, polished, black orb, about a hand in diameter, closed the container, and set the sphere in a small indentation on the box’s top.

  He gazed directly into the sphere, concentrating his thoughts solely on his fellow members of the Sodality of Master Wizards.

  The stone began to glow; and, as it glimmered, apparitions of three of the four other members of the Sodality became visible around the desk—Arch-Wizard Faolan, and the master wizards Fergal and Coinneach.

  Due to the urgency of their scry, none of the them had bothered with the usual greeting of ‘Seirbhís a Tír’ and the reply of ‘Agus Rí.’

  Coinneach was the first to speak, and his countenance itself, changing from anxiety to relief, spoke volumes in itself. “Ahh, then it is brother Odhran,” he said, comforted, since he had thought it to be his old friend who had passed over.

  “So it would seem,” Taliesin replied, matter-of-factly.

  The Arch-Wizard, sitting at his desk on the top floor of his round tower in Dúnfort Cruachan, looked at the three apparitions across from him, bowed his head, and said, “May An Fearglas forgive him his transgressions and bring him to life everlasting.”

  When the four master wizards had made the ritual act of submission, Faolan continued. “We have problems in the Northern Shires. I believe that our brother Taliesin is aware of the situation, but let me bring brothers Fergal and Coinneach up to speed, as well as providing all three of you with the latest information which Prince Liam has just brought back with him from the North.”

  He went on to review the prince’s report with them. He also revealed the fact to Fergal and Coinneach, confirmed by Taliesin, that Eógan and Kyna had left Fortress Tulach for the Northern Shires. When he had finished, he asked, “Any thoughts? Brother Taliesin?”

  “Your information is much more up to date than mine, my brother,” the elderly wizard answered. “I have nothing to add, except that with Earl Eógan now in the North, some sort of turmoil seems imminent. I fear the rebellion we’ve anticipated is about to begin.”

  Fergal then addressed Taliesin. “The disturbance I sensed in the combined essence of the Sodality was quite severe, indicating, at least to me, that brother Odhran’s death was not due to natural causes. If he was a traitor, as you and brother Faolan suspect, and responsible for Pádraig’s disappearance, is it somehow possible that he was killed by your apprentice?” A note of skepticism could be perceived in his voice.

  Coinneach answered before the other wizard had the opportunity. “Apprentice in name only, my brother. In all my years as Master of the Academy, I have never come across anyone, yourself included, I might add, who had the latent power that Pádraig has revealed. And the same could be said for Máiréad.”

  “How do we contact him?” Faolan asked.

  Taliesin shook his head of snow-white hair. “We don’t. If he is able, Pádraig will contact us.”

  “We discussed that in our meeting with the High King. Even if he or Finbar tried today, it would take days for that word to reach us—days that we might not have.”

  “Brother Taliesin,” Coinneach spoke up again, “With the earl away, who’s in charge at Cathair Tulach?”

  “No one, really. Like the other cathairs and ráths the place pretty much runs itself. Both the captains of the security forces and defense forces know their jobs, as do the cathair functionaries. And Tuama, the shire reeve, continues to enforce the civil laws within the shire, as he always has.”

  “Until we know more or hear from Pádraig, Brother Taliesin,” the Arch-Wizard said, “you need to have both the captains of the security forces and defense forces get troops headed toward Saltwater Bay. Also, alert the powers that be in Iorras and Orrery Shires, so they can assist. Brother Fergal, same thing in Sruthail Shire. Inform King Glendon and the captain of the defense forces at Cathair Sruthail about the revolt we suspect is impending. Get the defense forces moving to reinforce Dúnfort Cruachan, picking up troops in Seanaid and Luíne Shires on their way. And, if anyone hears anything, any news or rumors at all, let us reconvene without delay.”

  After solemn nods from the other three wizards, the Arch-Wizard broke the scry.

  Hollyday - Bear 63rd

  Béarra Shire - Cathair Béarra

  Pádraig collapsed back onto the stool by the long table in the great hall of the keep, the corpse of the late Venerable Odhran, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires, on the floor at his feet, the empty, blackened eye sockets staring up at him. Leaning an arm on the table for support, the young apprentice wizard breathed heavily, his essence nearly spent.

  He looked around the room, taking in the entire scene. But instead of relishing his victory, Pádraig’s solitary feeling was one of anguish. Cabhan, King of the Northern Shires, lie dead on the floor, having hit his head on the table’s edge after Odhran had shoved him. Countess Kyna stood upright next to the door, her dead body impaled by the antlers on the elk-head cloak rack, with the journeyman wizards, Neasán and Labhrás, unconscious on the floor next to her. And across the room, his soul friend, Máiréad, lie sprawled out, unmoving.

  “Meig?!” Pádraig called out to her, hoarsely.

  No response.

  Once again he tried, this time louder. “Meig?!”

  The young woman’s arm twitched slightly and a leg moved.

  Pádraig forced himself off the stool and made his way to Máiréad’s side. Kneeling, he cradled her head in the crook of one arm and stoked her flame-red hair with the other hand. “Meig? Tell me where it hurts. I think I still have enough essence remaining to ease the pain.”

  She turned toward him, grimacing, her eyes barely slits. “Head,” she murmured.

  Gently pushing the hair away from her face, Pádraig saw the contusion on her forehead, scraped and bleeding from having slid across the stone block floor, after being hit with the energy pulse that Odhran had deflected back at her.

  “Keep still,” he said, soothingly. “Let me see what I can do.”

  Lightly covering the wound with his hand, the young apprentice wizard closed his eyes and called up what little power he had left within him. As he had done as an apprentice farrier with the horses under his care, Pádraig conjured up thoughts of the injury healing itself.

  Máiréad experienced both a warmth from his hand and a marked decrease in the pain. She reached up, removed his hand from her head, and kissed it. “Much better, my anam cara,” she whispered, lovingly. “Much better.”

  Pádraig opened his eyes and saw that the wound had all but disappeared. He sat down and said, “I’m sorry, Meig,” as he saw her eyes lock in on her mother and her expression change to one of agony. “I’m so sorry.”

  Struggling to her feet, Máiréad crossed to Kyna, stumbling most of the way, and threw her arms around the woman’s body, tears spilling down her alabaster cheeks. Turning back toward Pádraig, her green eyes hardened and she hissed a solitary word—“Who?”

  Pádraig motioned toward the master wizard’s corpse.

  Máiréad crossed halfway to it. “You did this to him, Paddy?”

  He merely nodded.

  A noise from the doorway caused both of them to look in that direction. Neasán and Labhrás had come to and, while each held the back of his head with one hand, they labored to make it to their knees.

  Máiréad quickly conjured up a ball of energy in each hand, but Pádraig’s raspy voice cried out, “No, Meig! No! Don’t! It wasn’t them!”

  The journeyman wizards, fear in their eyes, slumped back down. After Máiréad had extinguished the energy balls, they both focused in on the bodies.

  “For the love of An Fearglas,” Neasán said, straining to get to his feet. “What happened?”

>   He and his fellow journeyman quickly made the ritual act of submission. As Labhrás finally managed to get up, Neasán pointed at Odhran and said, “My Lady? Y…you d…did this?”

  Crossing back to her mother, Máiréad pointed toward Pádraig, but said nothing.

  “Pádraig?” Neasán asked, wide-eyed and thoroughly mystified that an apprentice wizard had been able to vanquish a master.

  Instead of answering the question, Pádraig said, “Help her take the countess’ body over to the table. Gently,” he added. “Then do the same with Cabhan.”

  While the young wizard gathered himself, the two journeymen, still more or less in shock, moved both bodies, laying them on the tabletop, arranging their clothes neatly, and folding the hands of each of the deceased atop them, as if the recently-murdered duo were merely sleeping.

  “What about the Venerable Odhran?” Labhrás asked. “Should we—”

  But before he could finish his question, Máiréad let go with such a powerful energy blast that it incinerated the master wizard’s body directly in front of Labhrás. All that remained was a pile of charcoal ashes.

  Again, fear returned to the journeyman wizards’ eyes, and Labhrás took two quick steps backward.

  “What…what do you intend to do with us?” Neasán asked, finding it difficult to swallow.

  As Máiréad retreated to her mother’s body, Pádraig fixed his gaze on the two, thinking, I believe my assessment of him was right. He may have done what he was told, but his heart wasn’t in it. And Labhrás is a follower. He’ll take his cue from Neasán. “There are a few possibilities,” he told the tall, thin man. Pointing at Odhran’s ashes, he said, “That, of course, is option number one. Number two is we lock you both up. But then, someone would have to watch you like a hawk, so that you didn’t manage to escape.”