‘Lord Gwydion heard my plea to join forces, aye, so he did,’ Conor replied. ‘But I was left in no doubt that the king believed a war with the Scálda could not be won and it was a cause he no longer chose to pursue. He said the faéry would leave the mortals to their own demise.’ He shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
‘You are too harsh, I think,’ Rhiannon countered gently. ‘But you are right in thinking him opposed to any further involvement in the endless war with the Scálda.’
‘Even so, the king changed his mind?’ said Donal. ‘He has agreed to help us?’
‘He gave us weapons, after all,’ Fergal pointed out.
Before Rhiannon could reply, the taciturn, wary Morfran spoke up. ‘You misunderstand,’ he said sharply. ‘Our king has not agreed to any such thing. He has merely determined to put aside ancient enmities and seek peace with the Aes-sídhe.’
‘What so?’ wondered Fergal. ‘Admirable as that may be, it does little to help us against the Scálda.’
‘That was but the first step on the way,’ Rhiannon said quickly, casting a disapproving glance at her uncle. ‘It was my father’s fervent hope to convince King Lenos and the Aes-sídhe to join us in an alliance with the aim of aiding the Dé Danann in the fight with the Scálda.’
‘Was he on the way to see King Lenos?’ asked Donal. ‘Or on his way home from having seen him?’
‘I am sorry to say, it was the former,’ replied Rhiannon. ‘Messages had been sent, and envoys received. The Aes-sídhe had agreed to meet at Eilean Ceó in Albion and my father was keen to make the first effort without delay. He summoned his advisors and several lords of our tribes to accompany him, and we all set out together.’
Morfran took up the tale, saying, ‘We were hardly out of sight of Ynys Afallon when our ships were attacked. One vessel was sunk, one captured, and ours was badly damaged.’
‘We were able to make landfall here in the south,’ said Rhiannon. ‘And we came to find you as soon as we reached the shore.’
‘You knew where we were to be found?’ said Fergal.
‘Aye, Fergal,’ she replied, a wistful note in her voice, ‘I will always know where to find you.’
Conor nodded thoughtfully, recalling the charm she had used on him and her words at their first parting … I have only to speak your name to know where you can be found—and you have only to whisper mine and I will be there.
‘You said you also know where to find Gwydion,’ said Donal.
‘We do,’ answered Morfran curtly. ‘He is here in the south, no doubt a captive in one of the Scálda fortresses.’
Fergal glanced at Conor. ‘There are all too many of those,’ he muttered.
‘We may not know the name of the ráth,’ Rhiannon added quickly, ‘but so long as my father remains alive, we can lead you to the place where he is being held. I can tell you that we are closer now than we were last night. I can feel it.’
‘Tomorrow we will be closer still,’ Conor told her. ‘And once we’ve found him, we will do our best to free him.’
Later, after they had eaten and the faéry were asleep, Fergal, spear in hand, pulled Conor aside to say, ‘Brother, I am thinking you have been somewhat overhasty today.’
‘Have I?’ Conor regarded him curiously. ‘In what have I been overhasty?’
‘We are only six warriors to be attacking a Scálda fortress,’ he said.
‘Six? As many as that?’ replied Conor, refusing to take Fergal’s point.
‘That is six blades against … how many? Sixty? A hundred? Two hundred and sixty?’
‘Six Dé Danann blades are worth a dozen Scálda as we know,’ remarked Conor.
‘No argument there,’ Fergal conceded, ‘but that is still not enough. You know I do not shrink from a fight—’
‘Nor do I.’
‘It is not your courage I doubt. But I would be a poor advisor if I did not advise you to turn around and ride north where we can gather a proper warband to help free Gwydion.’
‘Ach, that would be a fine thing indeed. If only we enjoyed the particular luxury of time,’ Conor told him. ‘Raising such a warband as you describe would take weeks—months, more like—and that is if we could even get anyone to listen to us. We are outcasts still, remember? And there are few who would credit a single thing we said, much less join us.’
‘They would, you know.’
‘My point is it would take time, and the faéry cannot wait. Look at them, man! They are wasting away before our eyes. Can it be you are forgetting how we rescued Rhiannon? Just us three. Nobody else. What we did once, we can do again. We’ll find a way.’
Fergal’s frown deepened.
‘Fergal, hear me, the Lord Gwydion is suffering. How much longer he will endure we cannot know. Even if we left now and our horses sprouted wings, I fear the king would be dead before we reached the borderlands.’
‘We do not know that,’ Fergal pointed out. ‘But I do know that getting ourselves killed will not help them draw one breath more. I think you are forgetting why we came here in the first place!’
‘I have not,’ replied Conor. He regarded his friend for a long moment, then put his hand on Fergal’s shoulder and said, ‘But isn’t it just possible that where King Gwydion is, there Balor Evil Eye will be? Sooner or later, Balor will come to see his prize.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ demanded Fergal. ‘No? Then why waste time thinking about it? If we are to succeed, we must have more men.’
Conor sighed. ‘I thank you for your wise counsel, brother. You have done me good service.’
‘Does that mean you will consider what I’ve said?’
‘Aye,’ Conor told him. ‘I will think long and hard.’
‘And then?’ Fergal regarded him narrowly. ‘Will you tell me yet?’
‘Not yet.’ Conor patted him on the back. ‘But soon.’
Fergal, knowing he had pressed Conor as far as he could for the moment, contented himself with this answer, and watched as Conor returned to the fire ring where he wrapped himself in his cloak and stretched out to sleep. Fergal walked down the pebbled strand to stand at the water’s edge where he stood for awhile, listening to the waves splash against the boulders out in the bay. The night was growing chill on a steady breeze out of the west, shredding the low clouds to allow a little starlight to peep through now and then. There was no moon to be seen. At least, he considered, that would make it more difficult for the Scálda to track them.
Thinking this, he went in search of Aedd, who was sitting up on the bluff above the bay, keeping watch on the trail. ‘All quiet up here, brother?’ he asked.
Aedd yawned and climbed to his feet. ‘Nothing stirring tonight. There may be rain by morning.’
Fergal drew a long breath down into his lungs and tasted the fresh wetness on the wind. ‘Most likely, aye,’ he agreed. ‘You best go down and warm yourself by the fire. I’ll take the next watch.’
After the younger man had gone, Fergal sat down on the rock Aedd had just left. The lumpy perch was still warm. Fergal put the shaft of his spear across his lap and sat listening to the wind in the heights above and the waves on the shingle below. The fitful wind moaning through the night sky seemed to echo his disquiet. Why uneasy, old lad?
He had, on reflection, no reason for anxiety … other than the fact that here they were, a tiny band of outcasts with few friends and fewer resources, alone and wandering around in hostile lands with ailing faéry the enemy would stop at nothing to capture. The hopelessness of the thought made him smile. ‘Not a reason in the world to be worried,’ he murmured to himself.
He was still smiling a moment later when he heard footsteps behind him. He rose and spun around, sweeping the blade into fighting position in one swift motion. ‘Be easy, brother,’ came the voice out of the darkness.
‘Donal, man, what are you doing up here now? I thought you were asleep.’
‘Ach, I could not sleep for thinking,’ replied Donal.
‘Thinking was i
t?’ Fergal wondered, taking up his place on the rock once more. ‘And what was it you were thinking that kept you from your peaceful slumbers?’
Donal joined him on the rock. ‘I was thinking that Conor needs our help.’
Fergal reared back and half turned to face Donal beside him. ‘Is that what you were thinking now?’
‘Aye, so it was.’
‘And why would you be thinking a daft thing like that?’ Before Donal could reply, he continued. ‘All the world knows our Conor needs every last scrap and crumb of help he can get—all that and more besides!’ He blew air threw his nostrils in a hearty snort. ‘And here I was thinking you were going to say that we are in heavy mud and the waters are rising … or that we have bit off a chunk of gristle too big to swallow … or that our hut is on fire and the door is barred.’
‘This is what you were thinking?’ asked Donal, regarding him askance.
‘Ach, aye. That is our very present predicament.’ Fergal looked away. ‘And is it that you imagine I am not helping Conor that you say something like this to me?’
‘The thought occurred to me,’ Donal confessed.
They were quiet for a time, listening to the wind and waves, content in one another’s company. After a time, Fergal sighed, ‘So, now, about this Second Sight of yours. What do you see coming down the path toward us?’
‘Nothing good.’
Fergal accepted this dire pronouncement calmly. ‘Well, it is no more than I know already. Can anything be done to prevent it?’
‘That is beyond my poor ability,’ replied Donal. ‘I see only blood and confusion ahead.’
‘Whose blood? Mine? You can tell me if that is what you see.’
‘I would, brother, but I cannot. Even so, I have been in enough battles to know that when blood flows and chaos reigns, there is also opportunity to achieve greatness.’ His voice took on an ominous tone. ‘Brother, I think we are about to enjoy a rare opportunity.’
Fergal considered this. ‘That is why you come up here telling me that we must help Conor as much as we can?’
‘So it is,’ replied Donal evenly. ‘It is through Conor that our portion of greatness will be won.’
‘Or lost?’
‘Aye,’ he agreed softly, ‘or lost.’
Rónán
Many a word spoken in passion’s heat is regretted by reason’s cool regard. Thus, I held my tongue lest I say something I would later regret. Ach, I was that angry that I might have spit flames and daggers had Liam appeared before me then.
Druid bards are well schooled in the ways that excitements of any kind can cloud the keenest judgement. I may not be the wisest brehon to ever shake a staff, but having spoken at length to Aoife, I knew well enough to let my temper burn itself to cold ashes before confronting Liam with his foul behaviour toward that dear girl.
Accordingly, I sought out Tuán and spent the day roaming the rocky hills of Dúnaird’s northern fastness. We watched the flocking birds and sought to discern from the patterns of their flight a meaning for our time. We gathered a few plants bearing roots or leaves beneficial for healing, and observed one of the Darini shepherds with his goats. Tuán knew my mood and did not press me to explain, but let me come to it in my own time. When I finally told him what designs Liam had on Aoife and how he was treating her he rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Does he loathe your brother that much that he would abuse the lady so?’ he said.
‘He is that jealous,’ I replied.
‘What will you say to him?’
‘That is what I have been asking myself all day.’ I shook my head and sighed. ‘I will tell him what Aoife has told me and ask him to explain himself.’
‘Poke the bear in his den.’
‘A swift, sharp poke with a sharp stick is needed here, I think.’
‘When?’
‘We are to be leaving tomorrow, so it must be tonight.’
‘In the hall?’ he asked. ‘With the warriors and serving men in attendance?’
‘I will try to get him alone.’ I shrugged. ‘If not, then it will be in the presence of his men. So be it.’
Thus, I was resolved. I would speak and Liam would hear that this spite and unreasoning jealousy could have no place in a man who one day aspired to the kingship. But, as so often happens in the affairs of all who walk the world by day, intentions are overtaken by events. When I finally found my brother alone, I made bold to raise the subject of his unrighteous behaviour toward Conor, saying, ‘A moment, Liam, I have something to say.’
‘Well then? Say it, but be quick about it—the warriors are returned from the borders and the cups are waiting to be poured.’
‘As you know, Tuán and I are leaving tomorrow. And I—’
‘Tomorrow! So soon?’
‘Samhain approaches, and we will be needed at—’
‘Let Tuán go on without you,’ Liam told me. ‘I would have you sing at my wedding celebration.’
This simple declaration brought me up short. Who was to be the bride? For surely he could not mean Aoife. So long as she was convinced that Conor was alive she would never agree to marry anyone else—as anyone who knew her could have told him. I did not say as much to Liam, mind. I glanced around at the silent Tuán, who merely gazed ahead thoughtfully. ‘I would be honoured, of course,’ I told him, ‘but I—’
‘Good. It is settled.’ He strode to the door of the hall and called for a serving maid, and when he told her to fetch Aoife to him so we could discuss the ceremony and celebration he planned I realised the full extent of his delusion and the stormy waters we had entered.
The maid hurried away, and Liam returned to his chair while I tried to think how best to disabuse him of his plan. But even before the argument could form in my mind, the maid had returned with the report that Aoife had disappeared. Indeed, word of her disappearance was already flitting through the ráth. The explanation was shortly delivered by one of the tribe’s elders: Inna, a stooped little woman of advanced age. She had been chosen, I suspect, because no one else dared risk their volatile prince’s fearsome wrath. I watched Liam’s face as he took in this news and saw the fire-born beast of rage flare up and seize him in its slavering maw.
Liam stared with hard eyes at the old woman for a moment, then curtly dismissed her to go about her chores and stormed back into the hall and hurled himself into his chair once more and slammed his fists upon the board so hard the cups jumped. A group of warriors who entered just then instantly discovered they had other things to do; Tuán gave me an encouraging nod and departed for the guesthouse. The hall was quiet, dark and cold.
I took a seat on the bench at the board and sat thinking what to say. I had just about decided when the door opened and Eamon appeared. He had heard that Aoife had gone and, good man, hurried to his prince’s side. Thus, of all the tribe, only Eamon and I were left to attend Liam and quench his anger if we could.
‘I will track her down and break her like the wild and wilful creature that she is,’ Liam vowed. He wiped his hand across his face as if to rub away the insult. ‘I will not rest until she is here beside me where she belongs. She will be my queen.’
These were not the sentiments of a lover for his beloved, but of a peevish and petulant child who had been refused the shiny ornament he desired and had persuaded himself belonged to him.
‘Permit me to speak, lord,’ said Eamon with a guarded glance at me. ‘Perhaps she has only gone to—’
‘Only what?’ snarled Liam. ‘Gone to pick flowers on the hills? Gone to collect walnuts in the grove? Gone to gather in the wayward calf?’ He fixed his battlechief with a look of angry defiance. ‘Since you seem to know so much, tell me—where, do you suppose she has gone, Eamon?’
Eamon had no answer to this, and looked to me for help.
‘Nothing to say?’ growled Liam. ‘Ha! I thought not. You always take her part. Get out of my sight, stinking coward!’
‘Hear me, Liam,’ I said, entering the fray, ‘Eamon is not t
o blame here. You speak out of anger like a thankless brat denied, and you wrong him to mistreat one who has been loyal through all things.’
‘Wrong him? I am the one who is wronged here. No one considers the wrong done to me!’ Half rising from his throne chair, he clenched his fist and thumped himself on the chest. ‘I am a nobleman and warleader of our people! It is my right to choose my bride.’ He flung the words in my face as a challenge. ‘By my sword, I have chosen Aoife as is my right!’
I regarded him coolly, marshaling my thoughts. ‘Do not presume to school me on the rights of nobility. No true sovereign builds his kingship on rights, but on the privilege of being elevated to lead his people. As prince and warleader of the Darini, you have no rights—only such honours granted you by your people. And, brother, you enjoy those honours only so long as your rule is true and just.’
Liam glared at me. ‘How dare you speak to me like this!’ he growled, spittle flying, his voice all but strangled with rage. ‘False bard! How dare you!’
‘I am your blood kin,’ I replied. ‘Moreover, I am a brehon in Eirlandia—and I speak to anyone I like in any way I choose. And as brother and bard, I tell you now that you are behaving in a manner most unbecoming a nobleman and leader.’
In some less fevered part of him, Liam knew I spoke the truth. He could not sustain his irrational argument and so looked away, his features a twisted rictus of frustrated fury. He longed for nothing more than to punish someone for the humiliation he felt at being openly spurned by Aoife. But there was no one to blame or punish. ‘Leave me,’ he moaned—as much a plea as a command.
‘When you have regained your better judgement, we will speak again,’ I told him. ‘In the meantime, I will ride out in search of Aoife.’
‘And bring her back?’ asked Eamon softly.
‘If possible,’ I allowed.
‘Then go,’ said Liam, seizing on the opportunity to have the last word in this at least. ‘Go now.’
Eamon walked to the entrance and stepped outside with me. ‘When will you leave?’ he asked, falling into step beside me.
In the Land of the Everliving Page 21
