‘I assure you it is true,’ Conor insisted. ‘How else can it be explained? Ask Fergal there’—he nodded in the direction of his friends who were just then sharing a cup with the king—‘or Donal; it will be his sole delight to tell you all the many ways my wayward nature has plunged us all into deep and troubled waters.’
‘And yet, here you are!’ laughed the queen. ‘Many a mortal has longed to sit where you sit now and grew old with that desire unfulfilled.’
‘Luck,’ suggested Conor. ‘Nothing more.’
‘I think there is far more to you than you allow yourself to believe.’ Growing suddenly solemn, she added, ‘Until you do so believe, you will remain that unfortunate plaything of ignorance and curiosity that you describe.’ Her deep green eyes took on a far-off look—as if viewing the world from a vast distance—as she added, ‘And your war with the Scálda will never end.’
Conor did not know what to say to that, but was saved having to reply by the arrival of a serving boy with a jar to fill their cups with mead. ‘I drink to you, Conor mac Ardan,’ said Arianrhod. ‘May good fortune find you and follow you forever.’
They drank then, and talk turned to their time in the Land of the Everliving and the memories the three mortals would take with them to Eirlandia. While they talked, the cups were filled and refreshed and soon the food was served: enormous platters with slabs of roast pork and root vegetables—most of which Conor had never seen—and whole partridges, grouse, and quail stuffed with boiled oats flavoured with sage and other herbs and spices. There were bowls containing the drippings from the roast into which chunks of stale bread were sopped, and sour compotes of red and black currant, and fifteen or twenty more dishes containing items Conor had never tasted before. While the bowls were being ladled full by the serving boys, the musicians entered to fill the great hall with music, and the feast became more lively as the guests drank and ate and talked long into the night.
As much as Conor enjoyed the food and song, and he truly did, some portion of the delight he might have felt had been leeched from the celebration by the queen’s inauspicious comment regarding Eirlandia’s never-ending war. Before he had finished eating, and long before the guests began creeping away to find other entertainments or beds for the night, Conor found himself wishing he was already at the rail of Lord Gwydion’s ship, watching the misty green hills of Eirlandia rising in the west.
5
The sun was a mere rumour in the east when Conor rose, ready for the voyage home. Thoughts of Aoife and himself wrapped in a warm, welcoming embrace had banished sleep from his bed and in his eagerness to be off and on his way, he got up and carried his clothes out onto the platform outside the front door, dressed there, and then settled himself in one of the chairs to wait for Fergal and Donal to rise. He was still there, and still waiting, some time later when one of the king’s serving boys appeared with the message that the king wished to speak with him before their departure. Donal and Fergal emerged from the house to hear Conor tell the lad he would be pleased to attend at once.
‘What’s this then?’ wondered Fergal.
‘Lord Gwydion has summoned me to an audience,’ he explained. ‘Wish me luck.’
Donal glanced at Fergal. ‘We’re going with you.’
Fergal gave a curt nod and Conor, seeing that it would be a futile waste of time to argue, said, ‘Then let’s go see the king.’
The three Dé Danann made their way up the path and joined the serving boy who was waiting for them at the waterfall that hid the entrance to the faéry king’s palatial cavern abode. The boy led them through the waterfall, into the grand entrance corridor and delivered them into the chief steward’s hands; the steward led them through the great hall to the king’s private quarters in a chamber at the far end of the hall and ushered them into the king’s presence.
Lord Gwydion, dressed in a long, loose tunic of shimmering blue that looked like sunlight on water, his long dark hair swept back and held by the thin band of a gold circlet, rose from his large, thronelike chair to welcome them and invited them to join him at the nearby board, which was laden with food to break their fast—an unnecessary nicety since they were still replete from the feast the night before. But the three took their places at the board and, at the urging of their host, picked from the platters before them while they waited for him to begin the discussion to which they had been summoned. The faéry lord took his time, warming to his purpose with expressions of friendship and hope for continued rapport in the future.
‘I would like that,’ Conor told him. ‘Indeed, it is my most fervent hope that our two peoples can become better friends than ever we have been in the past. I believe we have much to teach one another—and,’ Conor said pointedly, ‘much we can do to help one another find peace in this hostile worlds-realm.’
Gwydion’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are speaking of your present conflict with Balor Berugderc.’
Conor answered forthrightly. ‘I am.’
‘That would explain your impertinent petition last night,’ said the king. He raised an admonitory finger and tried to make light of the incident. ‘Not the time or the place, I think.’
‘No one has ever accused our Conor of being subtle,’ said Fergal.
‘But, know also,’ added Donal, ‘that he would not have risked such an affront to the dignity of the occasion if need were not so pressing.’
Gwydion accepted the apologies, and said, ‘Spoken like the good and faithful friends you are. Such loyalty shows my trifling slight for the unworthy thing it is.’ Then, arranging his elegant features in an expression of solemn sympathy, he said, ‘How long have the Dé Danann been at war with the Scálda?’
Conor did a rapid calculation. ‘Thirteen at least.’ He glanced at Fergal and Donal for confirmation. ‘Thirteen years or so. But you will know that as well as I.’
‘A long time,’ said the king. ‘So, unless I am much mistaken, I believe you have it in mind to ask me to become entangled in a war that has sputtered along in fits and starts for more than half your life without any sign of resolution and—’
‘Lord Gwydion, if you—’
‘Without any sign of resolution and which your people have no realistic hope of ever winning.’ The faéry lord placed his hands flat on the board before him as if establishing a known truth. ‘Would you call that a fair summary of your request?’
‘Fair enough, but with all respect I would merely remind you that you and your people have suffered the cruel brutality of the Scálda, too. Your daughter Rhiannon will have told you about her ordeal at the hands of Balor Evil Eye. She was not the first of your race to fall into the hands of the enemy and, unless the Scálda are stopped, she will not be the last. How many of your people has Balor caught? How many of your people has Balor killed?’ Conor let the question hang in the air a moment, before concluding. ‘Lord king, I am not lying when I say that the Scálda now endanger the faéry as much as the Dé Danann. The war has held us in its grip far longer than anyone could have foreseen, that is true—and, believe me, no one regrets or hates it more than I do. Yet, the Dé Danann still cling to every hope of victory. Would we have lasted this long if we had no hope?’
The king unfolded his long-limbed body from his chair, rose from the board, and circled it thoughtfully, before speaking again.
‘My friends, your endurance is legendary,’ allowed the faéry king with an airy wave of his hand. ‘I will grant that, unlike us, you and your people may harbour some vague hope of eventual triumph, but this fighting could easily go on for another fifteen or twenty years, and another twenty or thirty after that.’ He fixed Conor with a stern, almost fierce, expression—as if daring him to deny it.
‘Aye, it could,’ allowed Conor. ‘But it need not. This is why I ask your aid. If the Tylwyth Teg joined us in the fight, the balance of power would shift in our favour. Indeed, victory would be transformed from a faint and distant hope to a swift and present certainty.’
‘Spoken like a true warr
ior,’ the king stopped pacing, returned to the table and rested his slender hands on the back of his chair. ‘If I listened to any more of your smooth speech I might even find myself persuaded.’ Before Conor could pounce on this tiny opening, the king shook his head. ‘But no. I will not allow myself to be so persuaded. Despite what you may think, the Tylwyth Teg are not schooled in the brutal arts of combat which is the glory of your race. We learned long ago that warfare offers no lasting solutions, only despair and death. Thus, we lack both the skill and temperament for war, and I cannot with good heart pretend otherwise. Neither will I commit the lives of any more of my people to this hopeless struggle of yours.’
Conor heard the finality of Gwydion’s decision and his heart sank. ‘I understand, my lord king. But, I trust you will not think ill of me for asking,’ he said, masking the true depth of his disappointment. ‘For the sake of Eirlandia, I had to ask.’
‘I will never think anything but the best of you, my friend,’ Gwydion reassured him. ‘Of all of you.’ He gave a nod to include Donal and Fergal. ‘As you have reminded me—if I ever needed reminding—you are the men who rescued my daughter from the cold embrace of death and returned her safely to her home. There are not many who could, or would, have done what you did—in this, at least, I am persuaded.’
Conor was tempted to turn Gwydion’s gratitude to his advantage—but only for a moment. The king, and the faéry with him, had their way of walking on the earth, just as the Dé Danann had theirs. In that moment, he did not see how he could change that.
‘You are more than welcome here,’ the king continued. ‘You and your friends may come and go as you please, and it will remain my continuing pleasure to celebrate your presence. In short, Conor mac Ardan, Fergal mac Caen, and Donal mac Donogh,’ he said, letting his benevolent gaze rest on each of them in turn, ‘you have a home here on Ynys Afallon for as long as you live—and the undying friendship of people who hold you in the highest regard.’ Conor and his companions shifted uneasily under the faéry lord’s blandishments, but thanked the king for his gracious words.
The king moved around the table and came to stand behind Conor. He raised his hands and rested them on Conor’s shoulders—a fatherly gesture that Conor found slightly disconcerting. ‘It is because of this shared friendship that I would offer you three a bit of advice. May I?’
Conor allowed that few men would be bold enough, or fool enough, to gainsay a king in his own hall, and invited the king to speak his mind freely.
Gwydion accepted this with an indulgent smile. ‘My advice is this,’ he said, growing serious again. ‘Make peace with your enemy.’ Seeing the startled expressions of his guests, he continued quickly. ‘I urge this most sincerely. It seems too obvious to me that if neither side has prevailed in this struggle, despite all these years of strife, then neither side is destined for victory. Therefore, the wisest course would be to arrive at a mutually agreeable resolution and learn to live together.’
The naivety, the audacity of the suggestion stole Conor’s breath away; the red birthmark that marred his face tingled and burned. ‘Make peace with the Scálda,’ he repeated, his voice growing thick and flat. ‘Make peace with those who invaded our shores, stole our lands and slaughtered our people. Make peace with the creatures who will kill you and all those you love without a moment’s thought or hesitation. Make peace with those who destroy everything they touch, who will not be appeased until they have exterminated every last living child of Danu.’ His eyes sparked dark fire as he continued, ‘I ask you, my king, how do you make peace with an enemy who will not be satisfied with anything less than your complete and utter annihilation?’
‘You are angry,’ observed Gwydion blandly. ‘I understand that my advice is not what you expected to hear.’
‘I confess it was not.’
‘Even so,’ said the king, ‘I hope that in time you will come to accept that the course I recommend has considerable merit. The slaughter and destruction you speak of can cease. Only peace will bring an end to the war.’
‘On that we agree,’ replied Conor evenly. ‘But if the faéry will not help us, I fear it will be the peace of the grave.’
The king turned away sadly and walked to the hearth where he stood gazing into the bright flames. ‘Think about what I said—that is all I ask.’ He looked sideways at Conor, who had not moved. ‘I think we must leave our discussion there,’ continued Gwydion. ‘The ship is ready and waiting to take you back to Eirlandia. It is yours to command whenever you would like to depart.’ He smiled, trying to recover the friendly fellowship they had previously enjoyed. ‘I will meet you at the dock and make my farewells there. My servant will see you back to your lodging to gather your things.’
The three rose from the king’s board, thanked him for his care, and departed. But the royal audiences were not finished yet. On their way back through the hall, they were met by Queen Arianrhod who had, apparently, been waiting for them to finish with the king. As Conor drew near to greet her, she motioned him to step aside. He indicated to Fergal and Donal that they should go on without him, and the queen led him to an alcove just inside a passageway leading deeper into the warren of interconnecting rooms of the faéry cavern.
‘A brief word, Lord Conor, if you please,’ she said, leading him into the passage and out of sight of the hall. After a few steps, she stopped, turned and, clasping her hands before her, said, ‘I hope you will not take offense by what I am about to say.’
‘How could I possibly find offense in anything the wife of my friend and benefactor may say or do?’
Queen Arianrhod dashed aside the comment with a quick lift of her chin. ‘Do not imagine you can sway me from my self-appointed task with flattery and blandishments,’ she replied lightly, and Conor heard a note of stony resolve under her winsome tone. ‘I will not be swayed. I mean to speak to you about your benefactor, as you call him—my husband.’
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, searching her eyes for a clue to her secretive and ominous behaviour.
‘Nothing that cannot be helped by a friend who is willing,’ replied the queen.
‘Then I hope you will consider me that friend. Whatever a friend can do, trust that I will do it.’
‘Thank you, Conor. I would not ask at all, but…’ Her voice trailed off and she bowed her head.
‘My queen, you have only to speak it out and it is done,’ Conor told her after a moment.
Conor thought he saw the glint of tears, but when she raised her head again to answer, her eyes were dry and her voice steady as she replied, ‘Do not allow him to involve himself in this hopeless war with the Scálda. He will, if you ask it of him.’
‘But I—’
‘If you ask it of him he will,’ she insisted. ‘He will become entangled in a trap from which there is no escape and that will be the death of him, and likely the death of us all. The debt of honour he feels that he owes you is so very great that he will be unable to resist your request. So, again, I beg of you, please, if you have any regard for him or any of our race, do not ask us to side with you in this endless, hopeless war.’
‘But I have already asked that very thing,’ Conor blurted out, confused. ‘The deed you dread is done.’
Arianrhod stared at him, nodding slightly as if in confirmation of some inner voice. ‘I see,’ she said, her voice grown cold. ‘And he has armed you for the fight.’
‘It is true the king has given us a very great boon of charmed weapons,’ Conor told her, ‘but I can tell you in all honesty that my lord Gwydion heard my request for aid in the war and he refused.’
‘He did? Truly?’ she said, the coldness melting in an instant. She sighed with relief. ‘Ah, then it seems I must seek your forgiveness. The ceremony last night—the gifts of weapons, the feast, your meeting this morning before you leave—all this led me to believe the two of you had come to some agreement. I am sorry—’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Conor interrupted. ‘It is the duty of a wi
fe to care for her husband—all the more so when that husband is a king. I understand and I bear no hard feelings. And I hope you understand that it is a very poor warrior who would shun any useful weapon in a fight. And the struggle with the Scálda is a fight we must win—for the Dé Danann, aye, and for the Tylwyth Teg as well.’ Now Conor’s glance became stern. ‘I will take exception to one thing, if you will permit me—you call our struggle against the Scálda hopeless, aye?’
The queen bit her lip and nodded uncertainly. ‘I did.’
‘It is not hopeless to me,’ Conor replied, feeling the strawberry blotch that disfigured the left side of his face begin to burn—as it always did when anger or battle roused him. ‘To me it is a battle for survival and thus a battle in which the Dé Danann must, at any cost, win. We do not have the luxury of simply refusing the fight, or stepping aside—as the faéry have done. Now then, it may well be beyond all reasonable hope—time will judge. But while I live and breathe in this worlds-realm, I will pursue the fight and I will not rest until the evil invader has been defeated and the lands they stole made safe and returned to our tribes.’
In a heartfelt gesture of empathy, the queen reached out and took Conor’s hand. Though her touch was cool, which was normal for the faéry, Conor sensed genuine compassion in the gesture. ‘I fear I have offended you…,’ she said, gazing at him earnestly—as if willing him to believe her. ‘Truly, that was the last thing I wanted and the last thing my husband would have wanted—especially on the day of your leaving. In a little while you will depart and I will not spoil your final moments among your friends with my poor manners.’
She made to withdraw her hand, but Conor held it firmly in his. ‘You are a queen in your own palace,’ he told her. ‘What manner of world would it be if you could not speak your mind within the walls of your own stronghold?’
She offered a gracious and regal smile. ‘Then when we meet again, we will speak of more cheerful things and banish all unpleasantness from within these selfsame walls.’
In the Land of the Everliving Page 4
