‘Ach, well, I don’t know about—’
‘No matter, lad. You just hie up and tell the king that we’ve come home—Conor, Fergal, and Donal—all three of us, and we want to come in.’
The young warrior gazed at him and, with a backward glance over his shoulder as if fearing he might be overheard, he said, ‘I would tell him right readily, so I would—but the king is not here.’
‘No? Then where is he? Be quick! We’ve come a long way.’
‘Lord Liam has gone to the entombment ceremony,’ answered Cermod. ‘Him along with near everyone else. There are only six of us here just now.’
‘Where is everyone—’ began Fergal. ‘Wait! Did I hear you say entombment?’
‘Aye, so I did.’
‘Who has died?’ demanded Conor. He swung down from his mount and hurried to join Fergal with Donal right behind.
Cermod stared at him in disbelief, then answered, ‘Ach, Conor, it is you! Your father, King Ardan fell at Tara. Seven days ago. Did you not know this?’
Conor let out a groan and sank to his knees before the gate.
‘Lord Ardan was at the Oenach with the ardféne and the Scálda attacked—at night it was, and they—’
‘We were there!’ snapped Fergal. ‘Just shut your fool mouth and give us a moment. This is Conor’s father we’re talking about!’
‘Conor, I am sorry, brother,’ said Donal, squatting down beside his friend and putting an arm around him.
‘Full sorry I am, too,’ said Fergal. He rested a hand on Conor’s shoulder for a moment, gave it a squeeze, then turned back to Cermod on the walkway. ‘How long ago did they leave the ráth?’
‘This morning just. If you hurry you may still see some of the ceremony.’
‘Did you hear that?’ said Fergal. ‘We can still—’
Conor was already on his feet. ‘Go and summon the fianna,’ he said, striding quickly to Búrach. ‘Meet us at the cairn. Come with me, Donal. I don’t want to arrive alone.’
Vaulting onto their mounts, Conor and Donal galloped on to the Darini burial cairn: a low chambered tomb sunk into the cradling earth. Only the top three tiers of stone slabs and the massive domed covering showed above ground; all the rest remained below. The multiple chambers and niches contained the bones of Darini nobility: kings and queens, princes and champions, the great and the honoured. On a mound nearby stood a dolmen of vast antiquity. Together the two venerable structures formed the tribe’s funereal precinct.
Wrapped in his best cloak, Ardan’s body had been placed on a low wooden bier outside the entrance to the dolmen. At the culmination of the rite, the corpse would be consigned to the little hollow beneath the massive stone slabs of the dolmen where it would lie until the birds and beasts had consumed his flesh, and the passing seasons made decomposition complete. Then, at some auspicious time, there would be another ceremony and the necessary bones would be gathered up, the great chambered tomb would be unsealed, and Ardan’s remains would be tucked into one of the many niches to mingle with those of previous generations of tribal rulers and worthies.
Conor and Donal reached the burial site on its high cliff overlooking the sea to find the tribe gathered around the dolmen listening to a funeral song for a fallen hero; sung by a druid, the song was one of the last parts of the funeral rite performed just before the first entombment. In this case, the druid was Rónán, and Conor could hear his brother’s clear, strong voice before he could see him. Donal and Conor stopped a short distance away, dismounted, and hurried up the rise to the dolmen. Their sudden arrival did not go unnoticed; word of the newcomers spread quickly through the throng so that by the time Donal and Conor reached the dolmen, a strained silence had fallen over the proceedings. As the two approached, the crowd parted to let them through.
Rónán, his hands and voice raised in declamation, saw his exiled brother and ceased abruptly. Those closest to him turned and stared as Conor and Donal—freshly shaved, their hair combed and braided, arrayed like kings in their splendid faéry finery—strode to the low wooden bier on which the corpse of Lord Ardan mac Orsi lay wrapped in a long brown and yellow checked cloak—gathered over his face now and fastened by the large silver stag’s-head brooch he wore at celebrations and when performing kingly duties.
Conor stood for a moment; head down, his hands limp at his side, he groaned. Then, with every eye on him, he knelt beside the bier and, stretching out his arms, rested his head and chest on his father’s body; a moment later, his shoulders began to shake gently as the hidden tears fell. Donal, mindful of his friend’s grief, took his place beside and a little behind Conor, affording him a portion of privacy and protection from intrusion.
‘How dare you!’
The challenge came sooner than expected.
‘How dare you show your face, traitor!’ Liam charged up to the bier, pushing people out of the way as he came.
Donal put out a hand to stop him. ‘Peace, Liam. We want no trouble here.’
‘Then you should not have come!’ shouted Liam, his face red and contorted with rage.
‘Can you not allow your brother a moment for his final farewell?’
‘I have borne his arrogance, his defiance, his treachery until now, but I will bear it no longer.’ He whirled around and shouted, ‘Eamon! Do your duty and take him!’ Turning, he pointed at Conor. ‘If he resists … kill him.’
Donal squared off, placing his hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Touch him and you will forfeit that hand.’
Rónán stepped forward then and, in a tone of absolute authority, cried, ‘Silence!’ He moved to the head of the bier and, holding his rowan staff sideways as if to place a barrier between the two opposing parties, declared, ‘I will not have this sacred rite defiled by petty contention. There will be no blood shed on this day.’ To Liam, he said, ‘Step away!’
‘And if I refuse?’ he challenged, throwing back his head and thrusting out his chin in defiance.
‘Refuse and I will denounce you to the four winds and satirise you before the Oenach. Your days as king will be finished before they have begun.’
At this Conor raised his face, the twin tracks of tears glistening on his cheeks. ‘King Liam, is it?’ he said and, with a last embrace of his father’s body, stood to face his brother. ‘It seems you gained the kingship that was ever your desire. Whether you deserve that honour or not, we shall see.’
‘So! You come to challenge me for our father’s throne—is that your plan?’
Conor shook his head. ‘Nay, brother mine. I did not come to take your throne. I came to say farewell to my father and—’ Stepping away from the bier, he turned and scanned the crowd.
Liam moved around the bier to put himself in Conor’s path. ‘Now you have done what you came to do, you think to ride off without paying the price for breaking the ban of exile? There is a price to pay, brother mine.’
Rónán rushed forward to occupy the space between them, putting a hand out to either side. ‘That is enough! I have given you stern warning, Liam. I will not warn you again.’ To Conor, he said, ‘Step back. Go on—move aside and stay there.’
‘He has broken the ban!’ insisted Liam. ‘He must pay the price—the honour of the tribe demands it.’
‘That ill-conceived ban was nothing but a lame ruse and well you know it,’ said Donal, taking his place beside Conor.
‘I know of no such thing,’ declared Liam. Livid with anger, he turned and gestured for Eamon to join him. ‘Obey your king and seize them. Seize them both.’
Eamon, frowning mightily, remained rooted to his place.
Conor shook his head slowly. ‘I did not come here to fight with you. I came to say farewell—’
‘Liar,’ Liam snarled. ‘You came to claim the throne. But I say you shall not have it!’
‘It is not your throne I mean to claim,’ Conor told him again. Turning away, he passed his gaze around the crowd now pressed close about them. ‘I have come to claim my betrothed.’ He put out a hand.
‘Aoife!’ he called. ‘Aoife, where are you?’
‘Here, Conor,’ came the reply. ‘I am here.’ With that, she stepped out from behind Eamon and flew to Conor’s outstretched arms. He gathered her in and held her to him.
‘I have returned for you, beloved. Will you come away with me?’
She put her hands on his face and kissed him, saying, ‘After I have waited all this time, you ask me that now?’ She kissed him again. ‘Have I not already gone to you a thousand times a day in my heart?’
Liam, smouldering with rage and humiliation, could only stand aside and watch as his brother kissed the woman he wanted for his own. Holding her as if afraid of losing her if he released his grip even for a moment, Conor turned to Liam and said, ‘I am leaving now, and will never trouble Dúnaird again. Do not so much as think to prevent me, or come after me.’
Liam heard a challenge in that and drew himself up, saying, ‘Who is there to stop me?’ Indicating Donal, he said, ‘Him? Is he all you could find to stand with you?’
‘I stand with Conor, aye, but I am not alone,’ Donal replied. Raising a hand, he pointed through the crowd to the hillside beyond. ‘I can assure you that Conor’s warband will stand with him, too.’
At these words, the crowd turned as one to see Fergal with thirty-six mounted warriors riding slowly down the hill toward the burial site.
Liam stared, the colour draining from his face. When he finally found his voice again, he shouted, ‘Eamon! Assemble the warriors! Get the people away—’
Rónán stepped close and took him by the shoulders. ‘No! I told you there will be no blood spilled on this sacred ground. Tell your men to stand aside and let them go.’ To Conor, he said, ‘I will see the ban extinguished and let you go free if you promise not to attack Dúnaird.’
‘Do you imagine I would attack the only home I have ever known? How little you know me, brother. Still, lest there be any who doubt it, I will do as you ask.’ He lifted his head and called out to all those who stood looking on. ‘I came in peace and leave in peace. Never will I attack Dúnaird, nor suffer any harm to come to anyone here so long as I have power to protect you. On that you have my promise.’
Stepping close, Rónán embraced his brother and took the opportunity to whisper, ‘Take Aoife and go now, brother. I will come to you in a few days.’
‘You will find me at Tara,’ Conor told him.
‘Tara of the Kings, is it?’ said Rónán, stepping back in surprise. ‘If that is so, then we have much to talk about, I think.’
With a last glance at the body of his father on the bier, Conor took Aoife’s hand and led her from the burial site. He climbed onto Búrach’s back and Donal helped Aoife to a place in front of him. Rónán came running up with a large leather bag. ‘Your harp, Aoife. You’ll not be wanting music where you’re going.’ Aoife smiled and thanked him, and cradled the instrument in her arms. When she was settled, Conor raised his hand to give the signal to ride out, but Fergal said, ‘A moment, brother—the fianna would like to pay their proper respects.’ He turned his eyes to the bier and the body of the king he had served since he had taken a warrior’s vow. ‘And I would make my farewell, too.’
Conor nodded and then watched as his fianna dismounted and formed a long line at the bier behind Fergal and, one by one, each warrior stepped forward, paused, then touched the back of his hand to his forehead in a final acknowledgement of nobility. Conor marvelled to see it. ‘They didn’t even know him,’ he murmured, ‘how is it that they should honour him so?’
Aoife, looking on, tightened her grip around Conor’s waist. ‘It is not for him, my love. It is you they honour. They want to show you what manner of king they want you to be.’
‘Like my father,’ Conor said.
‘If you are half the ruler he was, you will be a king worthy to be remembered.’
Taking her hand from around his waist, Conor raised it to his lips, kissed it, and pulled her close. ‘I care nothing for being remembered,’ he whispered. ‘But with you beside me as my queen, we will build a kingdom this worlds-realm will never forget.’
Eamon
Ach, well, skin me for a lizard if I told you I saw that coming. Truth, no one was more surprised and amazed than I was to see Conor and Donal appear in the midst of Lord Ardan’s frithchor. There we were in solemn observance of the funeral rite when here comes the two outcasts—looking like very kings in regal finery, so they did. Bold as bronze, they went striding right up to the body and Conor claiming a son’s right to a last embrace of his father … and Liam! Ach, our spiteful king beside himself with envy and angry as a wasp in an ale jar.
It is no secret to anyone now that our new lord is jealous of his brother and forever afraid that Conor will yet come to take away the throne he has worked so hard to gain. Be that as it may, I believe Conor when he said he had no interest in the Darini throne. Liam did not hear that—could not hear that, maybe. Yet, the arrival of Fergal with this large warband that Conor has gathered should have told, I think. It was plain to me, and plain enough to anyone who had wit to see it that our Conor has a greater plan in mind.
It never serves anyone well to get between two brothers when they fight. So, I stood aside and let them wrestle with it. When Liam called for me to step in, I ignored the command—a failing, I know, and I own it. But I would sooner cut off my own hand than lay a naked blade to Conor. Also, there was sweet Aoife to think about and the first thought in my head was to shield her lest she get pulled into an unseemly tussle. But, as I say, I do believe Conor had a greater plan in mind. He had come to honour his father, aye, but he had also come to claim his bride, and it did a heart good to see the two of them together at last. I ask you now, who would laud the name of Eamon mac Áine if he stood in the way of something like that?
Ach, but Liam let me know what he thought.
‘You snivelling cur,’ he snarled in my ear as we watched Conor and his bold fianna ride away on their fast horses. Where they got those horses, I cannot say. But, mark me, that is a warband yet to be reckoned.
‘Why angry, lord?’ I asked, knowing full well why he raged. ‘Conor has taken nothing from you and has not impugned your dignity in any way. Nor has he challenged your authority. You were king before he came and you are king still now he’s gone.’
‘He is outcast and banned from returning on pain of death!’ Liam growled, his face dark with the awful grudge that was in him. ‘He has defied the law!’
‘You know that exile was unjust,’ I told him. ‘Aye, and I think Mádoc, that addled old druid, had your help to get Conor cast out of the tribe in the first place.’ Liam drew breath to shout me down, but I stayed the course. ‘If that weren’t enough of a mark against you, I knelt beside my king and heard him beg you with his dying breath to welcome Conor back into the hearth home of his people. No! I will not hear you deny it.’ Liam glared raw hate at me. ‘I heard the king demand your promise, Liam, and you gave it.’
Rónán, who had been watching Conor and his fianna ride away, joined us then and heard this last part. ‘Is this so, brother? You gave your word to the king?’
‘He was dying,’ muttered Liam. ‘He did not know what he was saying.’
‘He knew right well, so he did,’ I declared. ‘And so did I.’
I might have said more, but Rónán realised that others were looking on and this argument on sacred ground was unbecoming. ‘We will speak about this again later. Of that you may be certain,’ he concluded. ‘The funeral rite is begun and must be completed before the sun sets on this day. We will continue with the ceremony.’
And that is what we did. We concluded the frithchor for our king and then returned to the ráth to talk—and how we talked! Ach, aye, for days and days to come it was the only thought in anyone’s head and the first word on the tongue: Conor—and him a king with a warband of a size not seen since High King Nuada Arteglamh ruled Eirlandia. Some of the younger warriors are even talking about going to join him and, aye, I will go myself i
f Liam will not change his ways, so I will.
But Liam, now … Liam is making noises like a man who will no longer be satisfied with his portion at the feast. It is in his mind, I’m thinking, to find another who will join with him and form a rival faction to oppose whatever it may be that Conor has planned.
Nothing good will come of this, I can tell you. As I said before, it serves no one well to stand between two brothers in a fight.
TOR BOOKS BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
In the Region of the Summer Stars
In the Land of the Everliving
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD is the internationally renowned author of the bestselling Pendragon Cycle, which received critical acclaim for its creative retelling of the Arthur legend and its historical credibility. In addition to that series, he is the author of more than twenty-eight novels and numerous children’s books of fantasy and imaginative fiction, including the award-winning Song of Albion trilogy. Lawhead makes his home in Oxford, England, with his wife, Alice.
Visit him online at www.stephenlawhead.com, or sign up for email updates here.
www.facebook.com/StephenRLawhead
Twitter: @StephenLawhead
Thank you for buying this
Tom Doherty Associates ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map
Eamon
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
In the Land of the Everliving Page 35
