‘But the faéry have a stake in this, too. They know that, do they not?’
‘I will tell him.’
‘See that you do.’
Conor shoved back in his chair and put his feet on the rail, too. ‘An alliance between the Tylwyth Teg and the Dé Danann could defeat Balor Evil Eye once and for all—I know it. Together we would win such a victory that the Scálda would never trouble us again.’
‘Even if we were to convince the faéry folk to join us, do you think it would be that easy?’
‘Easy? Nay, but I believe it would end the deadlock and tip the balance in our favour,’ Conor replied firmly. ‘Aye, and I’m not the only one who thinks so.’
‘Who else?’
‘Balor Berugderc.’ Conor spat the name. ‘Why do you think that vile creature has been trying to capture as many of the faéry kind as he can find? He would force them to join him. Failing that, he’s capturing as many as he can get his bloody hands on and torturing them to reveal their secrets. It is only a matter of time before he succeeds.’
Fergal was quiet for a long moment, and Conor sat gazing out over the lake and the surrounding greensward with its scattering of wildflowers. The honeyed light of a westering sun sparkled in the tranquil water and the autumn reds and yellows and chestnut browns of leaves of the trees and plants along the borders of the glade. Dragonflies flitted among the reeds, their iridescent bodies glinting like wing-borne jewels.
‘I hate the thought of leaving,’ said Fergal, his voice at once wistful and resigned. ‘I like it here. Even the air smells better, sweeter.’
Conor drew a breath and admitted that Fergal was right. Everything about the Isle of the Everliving was as perfect as the faéry could make it. Little wonder then that the Tylwyth Teg had fled Eirlandia with all its shocks and alarms, calamities and strife. Their island paradise was a haven and a refuge, a fortress protected not by timber walls and warriors, but by a multitude of charms and deft enchantments.
‘Aye, I know it,’ Conor sympathized. ‘I know it here.’ He placed a hand over his heart. ‘And it grieves me full well.’
‘Aye, but I think Donal will hate leaving most of all.’
‘Then he can stay,’ Conor decided. ‘You stay, too, if that is your desire. Leaving is my decision, I do not mean to make it yours.’ He paused and then added, ‘I never said either of you must accompany me.’
‘What? And are we to remain here without you?’ blurted out Fergal. ‘Ach, nay—not Fergal mac Caen. You should know me better than that.’
‘Listen to me, brother, and think about it,’ Conor insisted. ‘You and Donal must decide for yourselves. If you choose to remain in Tír nan Óg—if it is in your heart to abide—then so be it.’
‘Aye, and then who would save your poor, poxy hide next time you get yourself into a scrape, eh?’ Fergal hooted. ‘It is not if, mind, but when. I know you, Conor mac Ardan—trouble follows you like a faithful hound.’
‘I cannot disagree,’ Conor granted. ‘But do consider what I said. While you are considering, I will ask Gwydion to ready a ship to leave as soon as possible.’
‘There is no need to decide anything. We were with you from the beginning and we are with you still. If you go, we go with you.’
Having said what he came to say, Conor leaned back and closed his eyes. The two sat together in silence for a time, content in one another’s company, enjoying the sun and warmth—until they heard the singing: the lilting sound of a pleasant female voice. Conor opened his eyes and glanced around, spying Rhiannon on the path leading around the lake and down to the harbour. Conor’s breath caught at the sight of her and his senses quickened. Dressed in a scarlet gown with a girdle of pale yellow adorned with golden spiral disks, and a long white tunic that glistened in the sun like quicksilver, it was pure pleasure to observe her lithe form as she stepped lightly down the path toward the water. She sang as she walked, unaware that she was being observed by the two men on the platform above.
After a moment, Conor, grown uncomfortable staring, called down to her. ‘Good day to you, Lady Rhiannon. What is that song?’
She halted and glanced up, smiled, and then turned and came to join them. ‘I might have guessed you would be taking the sun,’ she said, climbing the steps to the platform. ‘In these last bright days, we must store up in our hearts light and warmth enough to last us until the spring. Winter can be so dark and cold—even in the Region of the Summer Stars.’
She greeted Fergal, smiled, then said to Conor, ‘My father says Eurig has declared your healing complete.’
‘Aye, so he has,’ replied Conor. Though he had hoped to avoid an awkward conversation, it appeared to have found him anyway. ‘I mean to ask the king for a ship to take us home—’ He glanced at Fergal, who said nothing. ‘We’ll leave as soon as the ship can take us.’
The cheerful light went out of her eyes and Conor suddenly felt moved to explain. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot wait. The winter seas will make the voyage difficult and dangerous. I think it best to go now while a good sailing is still possible.’
Rhiannon studied him with eyes the colour of the sky and, sensing as there was nothing she could do to make him change his mind, she said, ‘And will you also ask him to join you in the war against the Scálda?’
‘I intend that very thing,’ Conor replied. Then added, ‘Though I do not expect him to agree.’
‘Nor do I,’ she admitted. ‘But do not resent him for his refusal, Conor.’
‘Never say it, my lady. You and your people have been nothing but kindness itself to us.…’ He glanced at Fergal again and saw his friend was watching them, but staying out of the discussion. ‘More than kind to all of us. As for myself, I would be food for worms even now if not for you.’
Rhiannon looked away, then bowed her head and folded her hands. ‘You must understand that our race is neither as great nor as powerful as it was in the past.’ She looked up and her gaze took on a faraway aspect as if gazing into a glorious sunset now fading from view, or a grand treasure now beyond recovery. ‘Once we were masters of land and sea. We ruled over all that passed beneath our gaze, and thought we would rule always. Alas, it seems the Great Mother has decreed that our walk in this worlds-realm is drawing to an end. Though we live long, the days of our supremacy are gone. We diminish so that mortals may ascend.’
‘Must it be that way? Broad as it is, this world must surely have room for both our tribes.’
‘Room enough, perhaps, but not the nature, I think. Everything has its season—people and animals, to be sure. They are born and thrive, then fade and die. That is the way of the world—for all races and empires, too. Our kind ruled and now will pass away to allow the next to have its day in the sun. But while we still live, we will pass the time that remains in peace and plenty, in harmony and the enjoyment of the Great Mother’s wealth of gifts. My father understands this, but the memory of all we once were, all we once possessed haunts him and will until he dies.’
‘I thought the Tylwyth Teg lived forever,’ said Conor softly. A heavy sadness had settled on his heart.
She offered him a forlorn smile. ‘Nothing lasts forever, Conor.’
The wind gusted just then, rustling the dry leaves on the trees round about.
‘Winter thoughts, to be sure,’ Rhiannon said with a sad smile. She uttered a little laugh and shook her head, her black hair shimmering in the golden light. ‘We can be a morose and sullen folk—especially with the change of seasons at the ending of the year.’
Conor rose to stand before her; he lifted a hand and rested it on her shoulder, feeling the slight tingle in his fingertips. ‘I would stay if I could,’ he said. ‘Nothing would please me more than to spend all my days here in the Land of the Everliving. But I must return home. My people need me. If they do not know it now, they will realise it soon enough.’
Rhiannon, her head bent once more, nodded. ‘Will you come back one day?’
‘If you will have me,’ Conor replied.
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‘Do you have to ask?’
‘Then, nothing preventing, I will return,’ Conor replied. ‘On that you have my solemn vow.’
4
The night before they were to leave Ynys Afallon, Lord Gwydion held a feast to honour the three Dé Danann who had risked their lives to save not only his daughter and her handmaid, but Kerionid lord, King Lenos of the Aes-sídhe and more than a dozen of his people as well. For this celebration, the Gwydion had invited all the noble faéry tribes and clans to send representatives to Caer Rhaedr, that they might pay homage to the departing warriors. The palace halls and corridors fairly heaved as final preparations were made and guests began arriving from across the island and one or two provinces on the mainland as well. With the setting sun, one of the king’s servants appeared at the door of the great reception hall to summon the guests of honour. Conor, Donal, and Fergal, scrubbed and brushed and dressed in all their faéry finery, were conducted to the king’s great reception hall where they were hailed and welcomed to almost deafening acclaim. The cheers and salutations broke over them in wave upon wave like the waters of a noisy sea as they processed to the foot of King Gwydion’s throne.
The throne, like the hall itself, seemed carved out of a single stone and polished until it gleamed in the light of a thousand torches that lined the walls of the enormous room. Lord Gwydion rose as they came to stand before him; he raised his hands for silence until the cheering hushed. Then he said, ‘Tonight we honour the courage and sacrifice of true friends. In doing so, we surround ourselves with still more friends—some we know, others we have not yet chanced to meet. I trust that in the short time we have together, we will take full advantage of this occasion to heighten the resolve to achieve a new and better understanding of our Dé Danann friends, and to strengthen the ties that bind true hearts together.’
Stepping down from his circular dais, the king moved from one to the next, resting his hand on each in turn: Conor first, then Donal, then Fergal, pausing to lean close and whisper a private word. When he finished, he stepped back and summoned his chief steward to attend him; a tall, dour-looking faéry with eyes pale as ice, he took his place beside the king, head erect, body straight.
‘My people,’ said Gwydion, lifting his voice once more to carry across the crowd, ‘here stand before you three warriors without peer, the finest of their kind to be found in this worlds-realm. Yet, as skilled in their craft as they may be, a craftsman can only work with the tools he has been given. With this in mind, I have commissioned implements suitable for the warrior craft to be made by our finest artisans that our friends may have the finest tools.’
The faéry king nodded to his court steward who made a wide flourish with his hand and nine bearers came snaking through the crowd. The first three carried shields: long, narrow oblongs slightly wider at the top and bottom and half curved to fit close to the body. The colour and lustre of heavy bronze, yet light as a bird’s wing, each shield was adorned with a cunning faéry mark incised into the metal and traced in silver.
Taking up one of the shields, the king said, ‘When the battle rages around you may this serve as your refuge.’ He handed the shield to Conor and, again, leaning close whispered into his ear, ‘Your shield is called Pared, it will be a stout wall around you. No one but you is to speak its name.’
Moving on, the king repeated the gifting ceremony with Donal and then Fergal in turn. Then, while he still stood before Fergal, the steward summoned another bearer; this one held a long, slender-shafted spear with a thin, leaf-shaped blade that tapered to a lethal point. Like the shield, the spear appeared to be solid bronze with a design etched in silver at the base of the blade. The king presented the weapon to Fergal, saying, ‘When you attack the enemy may you find this a true and trustworthy companion, quick to the fight and unerring in flight.’ He placed the weapon in Fergal’s right hand, leaned close and whispered the weapon’s name. He did the same with Donal, and then presented a spear to Conor, saying, ‘Your spear is called Pelydr, for it is a staff of great value. No one but you is to speak its name.’
Conor thanked the king and took up the spear; though lighter in weight than any he had ever hefted, he sensed a lively strength, a quickness barely contained within the weapon coursing through the shaft from the butt to the head.
The chief steward summoned the last three bearers to attend the king. Each of these stepped forward carrying a sword across his palms. Taking up the first sword, the king raised it high so all could see. ‘When in the heat of battle your enemies swarm around you, may you find this blade swift to strike and swifter still to defend.’
He gave the weapon into Donal’s hand, bent low to whisper its name and provenance, then moved on to Fergal and then Conor. The moment Conor’s hand closed upon the hilt, he felt a sudden vitality; more than a blade to wield, the weapon seemed part of him, a supple extension of his arm. ‘Your sword is called Eirian,’ whispered the king, ‘for it will be a bright blaze in your enemy’s eyes. Let no one but you speak its name.’ Gwydion dismissed the bearers and the chief steward withdrew with them; Conor stole a sideways glance at his friends and saw that they were as surprised as he was and just as pleased. Like him, they recognised the worth of the gifts they had been given. The spears, swords, and shields were both like and unlike any they had ever known: light in weight, but robust; responsive and quick, but firm in the hand; keen-edged as razors. But the faéry king was not yet finished. Taking his place on the dais once more, he said, ‘Since your time among us has been well spent, you will recognise something of the quality of the gifts you have been given. But you may not so readily appreciate that each of these weapons has been bound to a particular charm.’ Reaching out, he brushed his fingertips over the intricate silver design cut into the shield on Conor’s arm. ‘The shields will withstand blows that would shatter lesser defences and will not be dented.’ Indicating the spear and sword, he said, ‘These blades will neither bend nor break; moreover, they will remain true and maintain their lethal edge in the blinding heat of the fiercest battle.’
Knowing the inestimable value the faéry placed on such items, Conor understood the significance of what he was being given, and the honour being paid them. At once thrilled and humbled by the faéry king’s largesse, he found himself at a loss and struggled to find words adequate to convey his gratitude. ‘Lord king, we are beggared by your generosity as much as by your compassion. Weapons to a warrior are life itself, and we have received both from your hand. Your servant thanks you.’
Fergal and Donal repeated similar sentiments to the noisy acclaim of the faéry looking on. Gwydion accepted the warriors’ gratitude, and said, ‘My friends, I commend these weapons to your best and highest use. They are given in the hope that you will employ them in your struggle to free Eirlandia from the Scálda curse.’
‘Trust in it, my lord,’ replied Conor. ‘Touching on the Scálda, I would speak to you further about that.’ It was a clumsy attempt and Conor knew it, but it was the only chance he had seen and he had taken it.
The king, aware of all the eyes on them, merely smiled and inclined his head, saying, ‘Of course. In the morning, perhaps, before you leave. I will send for you.’ Then, raising his hands and voice to address the throng, he commended the three Dé Danann heroes to his people and the hall rang with their chorused shouts of commendation and applause.
Next it was Rhiannon’s turn to give a gift, but this gifting took place after the conclusion of the ceremony when the guests were being led to their places at one of the seven long boards set up in the great dining hall. As Conor crossed the threshold into the enormous carved-cavern room, he felt Rhiannon’s light touch on his arm as she glided into step beside him. ‘I also have a gift for you, my friend,’ she said, her voice low so those around them would not hear.
‘You and your father have already given us so much, I do not think I can bear to accept anything else.’
She smiled, her shapely lips curving in a sweetly secretive smile. ‘I
think you will not find this gift too difficult to bear,’ she said. ‘Indeed, you have borne it admirably well for some time already.’
Conor regarded her with a quizzical look. ‘I have?’
Stepping from the long line of guests entering the banqueting hall, Rhiannon pulled him into a nook behind one of the many pillars lining the perimeter of the great room. ‘My gift to you is to renew the charm I bestowed when first we parted,’ she told him, taking his hands in hers. ‘Do you remember?’
Whether by suggestion or through her touch, into Conor’s mind sprang the memory of that moment when the two of them stood on the shore moments before the faéry ship carried Donal away to Tír nan Óg where he might find healing for his wounds. For an instant, Conor could almost hear the restless wash of the waves and the mournful cry of the seagulls as Rhiannon placed her right hand over his heart and said, ‘I have only to speak your name to know where to find you.’ Lightly touching her left hand to his forehead, she leaned close and whispered, ‘You have only to whisper my name and I will be there.’
Conor felt his throat grow tight, choking off any reply he might make. There was more than magic in that touch, and Conor felt it: there was also love. He was saved having to make a reply by the abrupt summons of Gwydion’s chief steward calling all the guests to take their places.
Conor’s name was announced and Rhiannon released him to join Donal and Fergal at the king’s right hand; Conor took his place in the chair beside the golden-haired beauty, Queen Arianrhod. While the other guests were ushered to seats at other tables, Conor and the faéry queen exchanged a few mild pleasantries. Those were soon exhausted and the queen moved to the matter that was uppermost in her mind. ‘I hope you know how much we value your friendship, my lord—’
‘I am no lord,’ Conor corrected lightly. ‘Merely a warrior whose curiosity is as boundless as his ignorance is profound.’
The Lady of the House of Llŷr favoured him with a look of mock astonishment. ‘I do not believe that,’ she said, ‘not even for an instant.’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 3
