“Finbar,” I whispered, my flesh crawling, but before I could say a word more, Dioman silenced me with a finger to his lips.
We watched in silence as Caisin and her retinue moved out around the rim of the great basin, where many people were already gathered. There was a group in green and another in autumn tones of russet and yellow. At one point stood a somber collection of folk clad all in black. The crowd numbered perhaps a hundred, maybe more. All of them I judged to be Fair Folk, tall, elegant in appearance and somewhat detached in expression. That seemed to me strange. If the Grand Conclave was a gathering at which a ruler of this realm might be deposed and replaced, shouldn’t every race that lived here be represented? It was my understanding that Mac Dara ruled not only his own people, but all those who dwelled in the Otherworld part of Sevenwaters. The other races were surely not so insignificant that they would be left out of the conclave. What about the mysterious Old Ones, who had helped Clodagh and Cathal escape from the Otherworld? What about those tree people, like the boy Finbar had spotted earlier? A circle of old oaks stood guard around this rocky, open place, but if there were folk up in their branches they were hidden from sight.
Our vantage point was a natural shelf on the rising ground leading from the basin to the surrounding trees. We were about six strides from the level area bordering the basin and high enough to see over the crowd. It felt odd to be here in full view, yet clearly invisible to the folk down there, for nobody gave us so much as a glance. We waited. Caisin and her party greeted various people. It seemed to me she must be a person of some status, for as she progressed around the circle, bestowing a word here, a smile there, folk bowed low to her. A large group of people in red and gold drifted in from the forest, swelling the crowd. At a certain point a broad tongue of stone jutted out over the basin. If there had been water below, it would have been a good place from which to launch oneself in a spectacular dive. Nobody stood on the projection, despite the lack of room. Caisin and Fiamain took up places not far from that point with their blue and silver entourage behind them. Several of the tallest men of their clan stood close to the sisters, their stance alert and watchful.
I wished we did not have to wait. Waiting provided too much thinking time. What happened at a conclave, anyway? I had envisaged it as part council, part tournament, though it was hard to imagine either being conducted in a place like this. I glanced at Finbar. He was composed, though still rather pale. Let this be over soon.
I met Luachan’s eye and he attempted a reassuring smile. His tense features undermined the intention. I managed a smile of my own, though I was wound tight as a bowstring. Finbar had his gaze fixed on the tongue of stone. I wondered if he had seen this place in one of his visions.
A horn sounded a piercing, eldritch note and from the black-clad group stepped forward a tall man, his garments simple but impeccably cut, his face long and pale, his hair flowing midnight black across his shoulders. His eyes were deep-set, and although I could not see their color, I imagined they were of the same dark hue. The assembled folk fell silent as one.
The man walked out onto the tongue of stone. Behind him came a pair of fey guards, brawny as fighting bulls. Their segmented armor reminded me of a beetle’s carapace. The two crossed their pale spears to block anyone from following. Who could this be but the Lord of the Oak? When I looked at him the memory of my boys stirred inside me, in the secret place close to my heart. His foul act shrieked for vengeance; it was a bloody wound. Yet I was not blind to the sorrow on Mac Dara’s face, and the weariness. I saw also that his features might be pleasing to some women’s tastes. If the tales were to be believed, he was old beyond count of years, but in appearance he was a man in his prime, thirty at most. Some women might favor that lean, dangerous look.
He stood there a few moments before speaking, waiting until every eye in the crowd was on him and every tongue still.
“Welcome one and all!” Mac Dara spread his arms wide. “It is time once again to celebrate the season with song and dance; to test the mettle of our finest combatants; to hear the report of deeds done, for good and for ill, since last we gathered here at the Stone Cauldron.” His gaze went around them all, and there was something in it that made me shiver. “This is our day of reckoning; it is our day of accounting; it is our day of challenge. Let the Grand Conclave commence!”
The horn sounded again from somewhere behind the crowd. Mac Dara’s guards lifted their spears and the prince moved to seat himself on a throne-like rock over which a venerable oak spread a canopy against both sun and rain. The graceful folk of the Tuatha De shrank away as he passed, leaving an empty space between their prince and the stone basin. Whatever was to unfold there, he would have an unimpeded view. The bodyguards stationed themselves on either side of his seat; other armed men stood close by.
Music played. I heard flutes, a harp, drums pounding a rhythm with beats grouped in threes and fours: headlong, uneven, dangerous. Onto the tongue of stone came a pair of statuesque women, each holding a staff. They wore long gowns—one green, one yellow—over which were leather breastpieces. They faced off and began a leaping, turning, ducking dance in which staves swung and parried, feet kicked and pranced, and the combatants’ long hair flew out behind them—gold, russet—like banners of war. I wondered that they could move so fast and stay so graceful. No human woman could have executed such intricate moves at such speed. Each blow seemed certain to strike; each blow was evaded by the merest whisker, as if the women had some means of knowing just where it would fall. Perhaps they did; fey folk would not fight as humankind did. This fleetness of foot, this remarkable ability to make things look so easy, was perhaps not surprising at all.
An odd shadow passed over the tongue of stone, causing one combatant to hesitate. It took only an instant, but the other was lightning swift, seizing the moment, striking low with the staff to catch her opponent across the knees and send her sprawling to the stones.
The crowd roared approval. Finbar jumped, startled by the noise, and I bent to whisper reassurance. By the time I looked back across the basin the tongue of stone was empty. I spotted the winner of the fight among the crowd, pushing her hair back from her face, receiving congratulations. The other woman, I could not see.
Two men came forward next, one dark, one fair. They were well matched in height and build, and each was possessed of the physical beauty shared by all the Fair Folk. I expected weapons, perhaps swords or knives this time, but these fighters had other tools at their disposal. On the stone tongue they faced each other at a distance of six strides, their pose as casual as if they were merely exchanging the time of day. The fair man had a ball in one hand; he was toying with it as he stared at his opponent. The dark man’s hands were empty. He gazed back. A hush came over the crowd.
The combatants held their pose, eyes locked, to the count of perhaps twenty. Then, without warning, the fair man hurled his ball, fast, toward his opponent. Before it could reach its target, the dark man’s hands moved before him, and instead of a ball, there was a little red bird that spread its wings and flew up and away into the trees. The crowd applauded.
How far away had they taken Swift? Not too far, surely—he must be ready to return here as soon as it was time for us to play our part. He must surely be able to hear all this noise, to sense the crackle of magic in the air. He must be wondering where he was and why we were not there to reassure him. Calm, Swift, I thought. Green fields. Sweet water. How could any creature be calm in such a place? My belly was tight with unease. If anything went wrong, if we could not put every single element of the geis in place, we would end up in Mac Dara’s clutches. My future and Finbar’s would be unthinkable. Mac Dara would use us to force our father’s obedience. Don’t think of what might go wrong, I ordered myself. Don’t dwell on the possibility that in your grief and anger you’ve agreed to something unutterably foolish.
Now the dark-haired man had a ball. It was fashioned of bright metal. He did not wait as the other had but released hi
s missile immediately, so his opponent was caught off guard. Almost. At the last moment, with the ball speeding straight for his face, the fair-haired man ducked. The projectile hurtled straight toward Mac Dara, who did not so much as lift an eyebrow. The fair man spun around, pointing, and with a popping sound the ball exploded in a small burst of blue and green flames, three strides from the fey prince. Shards of metal fell to the ground; it had been real enough.
Mac Dara’s slow applause was as much derision as admiration. The look on his face said, You call that magic? Wait until you see my magic. The two combatants bowed politely and moved back into the crowd; it seemed this contest was a draw.
“Cheap tricks,” murmured Dioman in my ear, making me start. “They are just for show, to set the crowd at ease. The real displays will be later. There are various positions of authority to be filled; it is customary for folk to challenge for them.”
Later. How much later? This could take all day. “Swift won’t be able to wait very long,” I whispered, “even if he has food and water. He’ll become restless. If he bolts, this is over before it’s begun.”
“No need to concern yourself.”
“But there is,” I insisted, troubled that he did not seem to understand. “You don’t know Swift; I do. If—”
“Truly,” Dioman said. “Simply wait; do not distress yourself. And stay quiet; it is possible some of those below may hear our voices.”
That surprised me. If he could cast a spell that would render us invisible to those folk down there, he could surely cast one that would stop them from hearing us.
“We should take no risks,” he murmured, as if reading my thoughts. “The stakes are high.”
The displays of prowess had ceased. The conclave had moved on to a hearing of grievances and delivery of judgments, quite similar to those held by leaders such as my father to settle disputes. There were councilors present from all the clans, and each in turn stepped up to read out a list of complaints. The folk concerned were given the chance to make a case, and then Mac Dara passed judgment. My attention wandered despite my best efforts. I kept imagining a fire in that stone basin, a great fire such as the one in Finbar’s story, the flames licking at my face and hands, the smoke filling my mouth and my chest and sending me into a witless stupor…I kept thinking of my family, of the terrible blow I would deliver them today if this crazy mission failed…They would wish, quite rightly, that I had never come home…
Down there they were talking about the duty or right of one man to exact vengeance for the humiliation of his brother. The two parties put forward their arguments, the interchange becoming more and more heated, until, as at a certain point in the preceding cases, a bell sounded a single pure note, signaling the end of the discussion. The voices fell silent, and into that silence came the judgment of Mac Dara.
“Labhraidh, you are the offended party in this quarrel. But you were not without fault; if you had acted swiftly, you could have ended this long ago and saved all of us a great deal of time. Sleibhin, your actions breached the laws of kinship, and you will pay the price. I offer you a choice. Do battle with this man and face the judgment of the Stone Cauldron or leave this place forthwith, and let me not see you or yours again.”
“But, my lord—”
“Would you challenge my decision?” Mac Dara’s voice was a blade at the throat, pressing with gentle insistence. His expression was quite calm as he sat there in his chair of stone. The two men were kneeling before him, their heads bowed. “So, Sleibhin, what’s it to be? Stand and fight, or flee like a mangy cur?”
“My lord”—Sleibhin’s voice was unsteady—“I will take my family and leave this place.”
“You disappoint me. Labhraidh, this presents us with a problem. You’re left with no opponent. We can’t have that.” Mac Dara paused for a heartbeat. “I’m sure I can find someone for you to fight. Any volunteers?”
A silence, then a great intake of breath, as of many folk both horrified and somewhat excited. It seemed this was the way the Lord of the Oak kept his people entertained. From the crowd a man stepped forward; or perhaps not so much a man as a giant, for he stood head and shoulders above the tallest fey warrior present.
“I’ll fight, my lord prince.”
“Ah, Mochta,” said Mac Dara, “I knew we could rely on you.”
I could not understand why Labhraidh should be required to fight anyone. He had not committed any offense; it was the other man who had smirched his brother’s reputation and lost him his livelihood. This made no sense.
“Drop your weapons and go, Sleibhin,” Mac Dara said. “There is no place for your kind here.”
Sleibhin put down his sword and knife, rose to his feet, then offered a bow that was a great deal more respectful than I thought was appropriate under the circumstances. He took three steps away before one of Mac Dara’s guards, swift as a striking snake, lifted a club and delivered a hideous blow to his head. Sleibhin went down like a felled tree.
I tried to block Finbar’s view, but I was too slow. We had both seen it: the head staved in, the body lying there with arms outstretched as if in prayer. The crowd roared approval.
“They killed him,” Finbar said, his tone flat with disbelief.
“Shh,” hissed Dioman.
What was this? Had we wandered into a realm where right and wrong no longer had any meaning? This was impossible. We couldn’t be here; we couldn’t do this. Home, I must get Finbar home before worse happened. “Finbar,” I whispered urgently. “Luachan. We can’t go through with this. It’s wrong; everything’s wrong. Did you hear those people cheering? We have to go home.”
“It’s too late for that.” Luachan had been very quiet, heeding Dioman’s warnings. Now he spoke in a murmur. “Outside this veil of protection we’d be clearly visible. We couldn’t get home safely with Mac Dara’s folk everywhere. The only way out is to do what Caisin has asked us to do.”
“But—”
“Maeve,” whispered Finbar, “we have to stay. You know what Mac Dara did.”
My boys. My dear, brave boys. I could not speak of that dark thing lest it bring me entirely undone.
Down at the stone basin, the hapless Labhraidh was battling Mochta. The bout seemed unlikely to last long.
“Don’t look,” I told Finbar, turning my own eyes away.
“I don’t need to look,” Finbar said. “The big man will knock the other man into the fire.”
I drew in a long breath, hearing sounds of scuffling and grunting, along with gasps and exclamations from the appreciative onlookers. “What fire?” I made myself ask. “There is no fire.”
“There is now,” said Finbar.
CHAPTER 14
F or a heartbeat I allowed myself to pretend that Finbar was wrong and that the fire was all in his imagination. Then I smelled it, the unmistakable, sharp tang of smoke. Old memories flickered, caught, roared through me. I looked down at the basin. Mochta stood alone on the stone projection. He was sheathing a knife. Below him the basin was full of flame; this was indeed the great fire of Finbar’s story. My heart performed a leaping dance of sheer terror. My breath left my body before I could form the words, I can’t do this.
“Maeve.” I felt my brother’s hand fasten around my wrist as he spoke. “Remember the story Uncle Ciarán told? If you are brave, good and wise you can face any challenge. You’re as brave as a”—he hunted for the right comparison—“as brave as a dragon.”
“You’re the bravest woman I ever met,” said Luachan, fixing me with his startling blue eyes. “You can do this. We can do it.”
And when I made no response, Finbar said, “Mac Dara had a man killed just now, for no reason. He tortured Cruinn’s warriors. You know what he did to Bear and Badger. You can’t let him get away with that.”
I drew a ragged breath. “Of course not,” I muttered, reminding myself that I had been warned there might be a ritual flame, and that I had been working on my fear of fire for ten years now and could sit reasonably c
lose to a hearth without letting anyone see how much it disturbed me. Never mind that this blaze was a hundred times bigger than any hearth fire. Bear. Badger. My lovely boys. Whatever had to be done today, I would find the courage for it.
“The challenges will begin now,” said Dioman in an undertone. “The time is drawing closer.”
I made myself breathe slowly, using a technique Bran had taught me in the time when I was learning to control my fear. My heart’s wild drumming became a steady march.
The challenges began. There was a pattern to this part of the proceedings. A dark-robed man of imposing bearing—Mac Dara’s councilor, I guessed—unfurled a scroll and read out a list of positions of responsibility that were to be filled. I would have thought Mac Dara would simply appoint his favored candidate to each post; he did not seem the kind of person who would care about due process. But perhaps it entertained him to make folk do battle for such responsibilities as Keeper of Lore or Overseer of Margins. Or perhaps even the Lord of the Oak could not disregard the ancient laws that governed the Grand Conclave.
In a human court, such as that of the High King, rivals for a position would set out their credentials, speak of their experience and, prior to the decision, maybe work on garnering support from influential nobles. This was quite different. For each position there were only two candidates, and in each case those candidates demonstrated their qualifications by means of magic.
The councilor read out the rules before the contests began. The rivals must both stand on the tongue of stone. If one of them was the current holder of the position, that person would perform second. The horn would be sounded to indicate the start of each claimant’s allotted time; it would be sounded again after a count of one hundred, at which point all magical activity must cease. The demonstration must not constitute an attack on the rival claimant, nor do unreasonable injury to any of those present. I wondered what a reasonable injury was—a cut, a bruise? Or might these folk consider anything less than a deadly wound acceptable? Ciarán had said the Fair Folk did not die, but faded and lost their power. But he’d also said they could be snuffed out by the clever use of magic. It made me think again about what we had just seen. A club to the head, a knife in the chest—there must have been more to those deaths than met the eye.
Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters Page 36
