The Prince of Two Tribes

by Sean Cullen

  Brendan was almost at the rock when Finbar reached out and took his arm. The old man pulled him close in a rough embrace. Brendan was surprised at this show of emotion. The Exile barely spoke to anyone. A hug was quite out of character.

  “Good luck, lad,” the old Exile whispered in his ear. Finbar let him go and melted back into the crowd before Brendan could react.

  Brendan’s eyes turned to Pûkh. The Lord of Tír na nÓg stood beside the rock, smiling enigmatically. Brendan didn’t return the smile, keeping his face as straight and determined as he could. This only seemed to tickle Pûkh more, broadening his grin. Brendan started forward again, covering the last few metres to the rock and stepping up beside Ariel. Ariel nodded, acknowledging his arrival.

  “Brendan Morn.” Ariel spoke loud enough for all in the Faerground to hear. “You have been called forth to be Proven.” He turned to Pûkh, Kitsune, and Deirdre. “Who will judge Brendan Morn?”

  Pûkh stepped forward and smiled his irritating cocky smile. “I will. Lord Pûkh of Tír na nÓg.”

  Deirdre stepped up beside Pûkh and said, “I will judge him. Deirdre D’Anaan: Weaver and head of the Clan of D’Anaan.”

  Kitsune Kai waved a hand dismissively, blowing a pink bubble and popping it loudly as she studied her nails. “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Very well,” Ariel said gravely. “Let the Proving begin.”

  Ariel stepped down from the rock, leaving Brendan feeling horribly exposed and alone. He looked out at the sea of faces and felt faint. They all had the same eager look in their eyes. Brendan imagined that this was what convicted criminals felt like when they stepped out onto the gallows. His eye was drawn to a flicker of movement at the edge of the crowd. He saw Kim returning. She met his gaze and shook her head, shrugging. Kim hadn’t managed to catch Delia and the others. Brendan supposed that was a good sign. Perhaps they were gone, out of reach of any reprisal. He had to hope that was true.

  His aunt Deirdre handed her harp to one of the attendants and mounted the stone, graceful and sure despite the long gown she wore. Brendan mentally crossed his fingers that she might go easy on him. Then he remembered how she’d terrorized his dreams when he first found out about his true heritage. Brendan glumly braced himself for the worst.

  Before she turned to face the throng awaiting her Challenge, her eyes met Brendan’s. His aunt always made him a little uncomfortable. She was a powerful personality, and he sensed that she had to work to keep hidden a strong current of emotion that flowed close to the surface. It made her hard to be around. Brendan had often interpreted this as disapproval or anger. Today, in her eyes, he saw that emotion clearly as deep, irrevocable sadness and loss. He longed to reach out to her, here in front of everyone.

  She turned away and addressed the crowd in her clear, powerful voice.

  “This Proving was never necessary in my mind. I know this is my sister’s son. He has her eyes, her smile, and most importantly, her kind spirit. Bir-Gidha lives in him. He is my only link to her. I merely wish to show you how I know.”

  With that, she began to sing.62

  Her song was light and plaintive, a lonely little melody that twisted around Brendan’s heart and tugged at it, trying to unravel it.

  He couldn’t understand the words, if they were words at all. They were sounds, merely, nonsense but fraught with meaning. He found himself joining in.

  Any fear of embarrassment was absent. He matched her note for note, instinctively following her lead and then soaring away on his own into harmonies that came as naturally as breathing.

  At some point in their duet, Brendan reached over and grasped her hand. The connection crumbled his final reserve of self-consciousness. He sang with abandon now, lost in the ecstasy of the sound they were creating together. He had never felt so free. He closed his eyes and revelled in the glorious feeling of being alive and completely involved in this single moment.

  He had no idea how long their song went on, but finally the melody wound down and dwindled into silence.

  Brendan opened his eyes. The entire Faerie throng stared in wonder. There were tears on some faces. Kim had moved through the crowd and stood directly below him, her face shining.

  Brendan turned to his aunt. She was smiling at him.

  “This is my nephew, Brendan. He sings with his mother’s voice. I am satisfied.”

  The crowd erupted into applause and wild cheering as she wrapped him in her arms. Brendan hugged her back, breathing in the lavender of her golden hair.

  “I’m proud of you,” Deirdre whispered in his ear. “And she would be, too.”

  Brendan felt an ache in his throat as he let Deirdre go. He’d never understood how painful it must have been for Deirdre to see him, the image of her lost sister, knowing that Brendan’s birth had taken her away. This was a proving for them both. He smiled at her and she returned the smile. With a final squeeze of Brendan’s hand, Aunt Deirdre stepped down.

  And Kitsune Kai stepped forward.

  Brendan had no idea how she managed to stay upright on her stylish shoes. Without the shoes, she would have stood well under five feet. Even with them, she had to crane her neck to look up at Brendan perched on the rock.

  “Okay,” Kitsune said, planting her hands on her hips. “You want to prove to me that you are one of us? It won’t be easy!” She glared up at him, her dark eyes tinted pink by the lenses of her sunglasses. She seemed to be expecting an answer.

  Brendan shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Yeah, you’re right it’s okay! I say so. I am Kitsune Kai, the Number One Fox Spirit. I am going to test you. Are you ready, Brendan?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Kai narrowed her eyes. She snapped her elegant fingers. “Kappa! Fetch the tea!”

  One of her bodyguards jogged forward carefully carrying a porcelain cup in his hands. The liquid inside steamed. The cup was filled almost to the brim. She accepted the tea and the Kappa bowed, retreating to join his fellow. She turned, holding the cup, and with a flick of her tiny feet that was almost too fast to see, she removed her shoes. They tumbled through the air into the hands of her Kappa servants.

  “Tea?” she asked Brendan, holding the cup out to him.

  Brendan shrugged. “I guess?”

  “Do not guess!” she snapped. “Do you like tea or not?”

  Puzzled, Brendan nodded his head. He took the cup. She bowed to him. He returned the bow.

  “Okay,” she said. “Your test, Brendan, son of Briach and Bir-Gidha, is to hold the teacup and not spill a drop. Do you understand?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  She locked his eyes with her steady black gaze. For an instant, he could see how ancient this creature before him was. In her eyes was a feral flicker of hunger, a cold animal stare.

  “Sounds easy, no?”

  “If I’ve learned anything from becoming a Faerie, I’ve learned this: if it sounds easy, it will probably be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

  She smiled, revealing sharp, white teeth. “Ha! That’s good! You’re not as stupid as you look. Don’t spill a drop.” With that, she leapt at him with a wild scream. He clumsily ducked her attack and staggered backwards. He looked down at the cup and was relieved to see that it hadn’t spilled. Then he looked up in time to dodge a punch aimed at his nose.

  Uh-oh! Brendan cried in his mind, ducking as fast as he could. The punch went high and he felt the familiar sizzle in his blood as he forced his body into warp mode.

  He held the cup in both hands and did his best to keep ahead of the wild Fox Spirit who was trying to smack him.

  After half a minute, she hadn’t managed to land a blow.

  Brendan was quite pleased with himself until he saw Kitsune Kai stop, stretch, and smile. “Okay. The warm-up

  is over. Let’s begin in earnest.” She coiled her whole body like a panther about to spring.

  “Crap.” Brendan gulped.

  With a snarl, she launched herself at him again.


  Fists and feet came at him with blinding speed. It was all he could do to avoid her flurry of blows. She held nothing back. Brendan had to warp faster than he ever had before or he was finished.

  Come on! Come on! he screamed in his mind. You can do this!

  Then he remembered what Charlie had suggested. He started to sing.

  “Who taught you to live like that?” he sang suddenly. “Who taught you to live like that? Who taught you to live like that?” It was a song by Sloan, one of his favourite bands.

  “What are you doing?” Kitsune Kai frowned.

  Brendan ignored her and concentrated on the lyrics, singing them in his head.

  She came through inspections

  Towards me in sections

  The life disappeared from the room.

  She asked me politely

  May I put this lightly

  The death that you thought was exhumed

  It’s buried beneath us

  Since I wrote the thesis

  I think I know better than you.

  He felt the fizz of the warp begin in his blood.

  Kitsune Kai seemed to sense the onset of Brendan’s warp powers. She hissed and redoubled her efforts. The song was in his hands and his feet now, driving him on, kicking him into high gear. He sang only in his mind now, the lyrics and the melody second nature as he balanced the cup and avoided Kitsune Kai’s blows.

  He leaned backwards and avoided a roundhouse kick. He was astonished that a woman so tiny could reach his face with her equally tiny foot. He backflipped away from her while desperately trying to keep the tea from spilling. He managed to land safely on the very edge of the rock, teetering on the verge of losing his balance.

  “Faster!” cried Kitsune Kai. “Faster!”

  Oh no! He cradled the teacup in his hand even as the mad little woman leapt at him again, her tail whipping back and forth ferociously.

  He dodged as best he could, twisting his torso to miss the kicks and punches she hurled at him. He was vaguely aware that the crowd around him was hooting and cheering. As soon as he let that outside sound distract him, Kitsune Kai swept his feet out from under him. He went head over heels.

  Suddenly, his warp powers kicked in full force. He was frozen in the moment. Time stretched out like taffy. He could see the expressions on the faces of the Faeries closest to him shifting from eager excitement to shock. Kitsune Kai’s eyes bored into his as the world rotated one hundred and eighty degrees.

  Strangely, Brendan felt no alarm. Everything was slow and beautiful. He had time to savour his flight. With ease, he rotated his wrist so that the teacup was upright. Even so, a drop spilled out of the bowl. The droplet hung in the air, a glittering globule rotating with him. He felt weightless, like an astronaut in orbit. He smiled at the sensation. Slowly, he started to descend toward the rock beneath his head. He strained his neck forward and opened his mouth, catching the droplet of tea easily. Realizing he’d crack his skull if he didn’t take appropriate action, he stuck out his hand, palm down, and landed on it, balancing himself upside down while cradling the teacup in his other upturned hand. His legs were splayed out for balance.

  The warp state dissipated and he was left poised on the rock. Throughout the Faerground, silence reigned supreme. Kitsune Kai stood with her hand cocked on her hip and a look of cool appraisal on her delicate face. Her tail twitched once. Twice. Then she nodded, a single dip of her pointy chin.

  “Yeah, okay. I am satisfied.”

  The crowd roared approval. Kitsune Kai plucked the teacup from Brendan’s hand and hopped down from the stone. Brendan gratefully lowered himself to the stone and got back on his feet. He was starting to feel that he might get through these tests after all. His elation died when he saw Pûkh step up onto the rock.

  The Lord of Tír na nÓg took a moment to gaze out over the crowd. Pûkh had a sense of the theatrical, letting the tension build and the crowd slowly cease its chatter. Finally, when he had absolute silence, he raised his hands. “I have thought long and hard about this Proving. It is said that you are descended from the line of Morn. I was a close compatriot of Briach Morn. I was his comrade-inarms in darker times.” A whisper stirred the crowd before he continued. “But it is contested that the great Briach Morn was your father.” He paused here for effect, looking out over the crowd solemnly. “True, I can see his face in yours, Brendan, but I must be sure. Thus, my test!” He waved a hand and two Faeries moved forward carrying a long, narrow wooden box between them. The box was simple and rough-hewn with two rope handles at either end. From their staggering approach, it was clear that the box was quite heavy. They set the box on the grass with a dull thud.

  “As you may or may not know, Brendan,” Pûkh said, pausing to arch an eyebrow at the audience, emphasizing Brendan’s ignorance, “Faerie weapons and armour are keyed to the energy of their owners. By lucky chance, I happen to have an item that once belonged to my dear friend Briach.” Pûkh flicked a wrist at the bearers and they bent to flip open the lid of the box. Lying inside was a long object wrapped in black silk. Pûkh lifted the bundle easily in one hand and joined Brendan on the rock.

  Brendan was torn between dread at being so close to the Lord of Tír na nÓg and curiosity about the object.

  Pûkh continued to speak as he gently unwrapped the bundle with his long, elegant fingers. “When Faeries die, their armour and weapons lose their power and quickly dissolve. Your Father, however, is not dead. He merely chose, in his grief over his wife’s death, to go to the Other Side. Therefore, his weapons and armour remain intact. He left them in my safe-keeping until the …” Pûkh stopped suddenly, then affected sorrow. “Alas! So sad. So much potential lost. He was an old friend and I miss his counsel.” He pulled the cloth from the object, revealing a beautifully wrought sword. He was careful to keep the hilt wrapped in silk as he held it. “This was his favourite blade. I’m sure you wouldn’t be able to pronounce the name in the Old Tongue, Brendan. In English, it would be called Dawn Cleaver.”

  Brendan held his breath. The weapon was exquisitely crafted. The blade was a metre long with a single cutting edge. Sunlight danced along the razor-sharp edge, dazzling Brendan’s eyes. The hilt was a simple cross. The entire weapon seemed to be formed from one continuous piece of smoky, translucent crystal. It was a beautiful, deadly object.

  More fascinating to Brendan was the sound. He could feel rather than hear a deep, rich humming as though the sword were vibrating to music only he could hear. It was like a tuning fork struck by a celestial finger.

  “The sword is tuned to Briach, but if Brendan is really his son, he should be able to hold the weapon without undue harm,” Pûkh explained.

  “NO!” Deirdre cried. “It’s too dangerous!” Ariel placed a hand on her arm to restrain her.

  “Deirdre,” Ariel said. “Pûkh has chosen the test. He is a judge. You cannot interfere.”

  “But he is young in his powers,” Deirdre insisted. “Even though he is Briach’s son and Morn blood flows in his veins, the imprinting of the blade upon his mind may drive him mad. Or worse. If the blade rejects him, it could be fatal!”

  Ariel’s face was hard. He glared at Brendan. “He must be Proven. I, for one, would have Brendan Prove beyond a doubt that he is of the line of Morn and that his initiation was valid.” Ariel’s authority was at stake as well. He had accepted Brendan’s initiation and must have found it humiliating to have his judgment questioned by the Proving ceremony.

  “What’s the point if he doesn’t make it through the Proving?” Deirdre insisted.

  Brendan laid a hand on his aunt’s arm. “It’s okay, Aunt Deirdre. I have to do it. Otherwise people like Pûkh will never stop finding new reasons to doubt me. If I do this, it’s over.”

  He could see the concern in Deirdre’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it without a word, nodded, and stepped back. Brendan smiled with a reassurance he didn’t quite feel himself and turned to face Pûkh.

  “What is the harm?”
Pûkh smiled. “If he is truly the son of Briach and Bir-Gidha, he should be none the worse. But if he isn’t … ” Pûkh’s smile darkened. “Well, then, I’ve done my job.” Pûkh held the sword out to Brendan in both hands, being careful to handle only the black silken cloth.

  Brendan hesitated. The hum emanating from the sword was a siren song to him. His hands itched to grasp the weapon so that he could hear its voice more clearly. He forced himself to pause and consider the consequences. Touching the sword might end this ordeal once and for all, but it might also be the last thing he ever did.

  He looked up into Pûkh’s face. The handsome features were fixed in a state of friendly detachment, giving nothing away. Brendan had a flash of insight then. He suddenly realized who had protested Ariel’s acceptance of his initiation. Pûkh had forced this Proving, made him jump through hoops and live through this terrifying ordeal. He looked into that blandly smiling face and felt a rush of anger. Brendan understood that he’d been manoeuvred into a corner for some purpose that only the Lord of the Everlasting Lands knew. He had a sudden desire to show the smirking Faerie that he wasn’t afraid of him. Without another thought, he reached out and grasped the sword.

  The hum sang bright and clear, filling his head as soon as his hands touched the smooth, cool surface of the blade. Brendan closed his eyes and listened to the sweet tone. Is this all? he thought. He’d never heard such a beautiful sound. The note was pure and clear, resonating in every fibre of his body, every bone and blood vessel, every hair on his head. Ecstasy! He had heard the word before and thought he understood it, but this was ecstasy distilled into sound and poured into his soul through his palms.

  Suddenly, his entire body ignited in agony. Lightning jagged along his nerves, and the hum escalated into a shriek that threatened to tear his head apart. Together, the pain and the sound grew to fill Brendan’s entire universe. Blinding white light flared, though he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut. For that matter, he couldn’t tell if he was up or down, in or out. Brendan didn’t care. He just wanted it to stop.

  He realized then that the shriek was coming from the blade itself. The sword wasn’t dead like some Human creation. No, it was a living thing with a mind and a soul of its own. The sword felt Brendan’s foreign touch and was attacking him. The sword wanted to destroy him.