Afterward the place was quieter, while the harper meddled with his strings, a bright soft rippling of notes.
“Deirdre,” said the king, taking the chance that he had planned, “be off to your own bed. Samhadh— “
”But there’s the traveler,” said Deirdre. “He has not told his tale.”
Her young voice carried. There was stillness in the hall.
And it was truth. There was something owed Dun Gorm for the meal, news to share, purposes to tell. It was the custom in any civil hall— that gates were open and hearts ought to be, to honest folk; and honest folk always returned something, be it news or a tale, for their supper.
So when the eyes of everyone in hall turned in anticipation to the traveler, their visitor lifted his head.
He was a young man, with pale red hair and beard, the hair straggling long about his shoulders and his eyes hard and bleak and colorless.
“I come from over hills and by streams,” he said in a hoarse chill voice. “And I have no harper’ s skill. I came here to ask the way ahead— how the road goes and how things stand up ahead.”
It was rudely said; a countryman’s bluntness, perhaps, lacking courtesy, but there was just enough grace to the voice to remind one it was rude.
And that discourtesy slid like ice over Cinnfhail’s skin, advisement that this man was dangerous.
“As to that,” said Cinnfhail, “ahead lies Gleann Fiach.”
“What sort of place is this Gleann Fiach?”
“Not a happy place, visitor.”
“Perhaps ye’ll tell me of ’t.”
Conn stirred in his place like a watchful dog, a dangerous one himself in his youth. His hall was a place of peace. Its own folk took merry liberties with their king; but this stranger took too much and had no grace in his taking, no courteous word, no tale, no peace.
“Dun Mhor is the name,” Cinnfhail began, “of the dun that holds Glean Fiach.” He lifted two fingers of his right hand, a motion for Conn’s sake, and others saw it who knew him well, that he was wary. “Fill my cup,” Cinnfhaill said, as if that had been the nature of the signal. A servant came and poured. Cinnfhail drank, and looked at the stranger in his hall. “And between here and Dun Mhor, traveler, lies a wood that has gotten wider through my reign. For its sake I counsel you to go some other way. Sidhe own it. But if you go that way, walk softly; bruise no leaf. Speak nothing lightly to anyone you meet.
“Beyond that wood—” Cinnfhail drew another breath and the ale and old habit and Sidhe-gift cast his voice into the rhythm of the taleteller, so that his heart grew quieter and the power of it came on him. It was the teller’s spell, and while it lasted no harm could come. It brought peace again on the hall, and calmed hearts and quieted angers, being itself one of the greatest magics. Even the anger of the teller himself fell under its spell, and he saw good sense and quiet come to the eyes of the stranger who listened. “Beyond that wood lies Gleann Fiach; and there is no luck there. Gaelan was its king. His brother set on him and killed him. Have you not heard before now of Dun Mhor?”
“Tell me,” said the stranger softly, and seeming to find his manners, for it was a ritual question, “if you would, lord king.”
“Fratricide.” Cinnfhaill drew a deeper breath. “And more general murder. Here in Gleann Gleatharan we hear the rumors that come over the hills; but there is the Sidhe-wood between us, and we will not trespass that, nor will they of Gleann Fiach venture in from their side. To spill blood in that forest has no luck in it, be you right or wrong. So we cannot mend affairs in that sorrowing land, even if we would break our own peace for it. Gleann Fiach has had no end of miseries, and today they are worse.
“My tale is two brothers.
“And the Sidhe— they are part of it.
“Two brothers, Gaelan and Sliabhin— Gaelan the elder and Sliabhin the younger.
“Gaelan was a good man, traveler, proper heir to Dun Mhor after his father Brian, and a good king. He was fair-spoken and fair in judgment. He respected the gods and the Sidhe-lands, though Brian his father had not always been so careful.
“Once upon a time, king Brian had chased a deer and killed it, and it ran into the Sidhe-wood and bled there. That was the ill luck on him.
“And Brian’s queen lay in childbed that very hour: she gave him Sliabhin, as foul a boy in his youth as Gaelan was fair, poaching to the very edge of the Sidhe-forest when he had the chance, fouling everything that was good— this was Sliabhin, a man eaten up with spite that he was not firstborn, that he would not be given Dun Mhor. There was no luck in such a man.
“And after king Brian died and Gaelan had the kingdom, Sliabhin was greatly afraid, imagining that his brother Gaelan would do with him what he would have done. So Sliabhin, in the darkness of his own imagining, rode away to the hills in fear. This is the kind of man Sliabhin was. It never occurred to him that Gaelan would not think immediately of his harm, because that is what he would have done to Gaelan himself if he had gotten the kingship. The beginning of the evil was in Sliabhin’s own heart.
“Now kindred-love can be blind and perhaps it was fey as well. Gaelan entreated his brother to come home and they fell on one another’s neck and reconciled themselves. This oath was good in Gaelan’s mouth, but never in Sliabhin’s. For a little time there was peace, but after that little time Sliabhin, judging his brother weak, began to think how he could cause mischief.
“So he found some few like himself, and he hunted the land for his amusement, taking every chance to be apart from the dun and to plan and plot with these greedy men. They took delight in hunting near the forest edge, and though they would not go into it, they mocked the Sidhe, trampling its edge and harrying the game up to it. They ranged the hills until one day they grew weary of the sport they had had and caught a poor herdboy, making him their quarry, and they made it seem wolves had torn him, and not their dogs.
“But the boy’s sister had seen the deed. Her brother had hidden her in the rocks when he saw the men come, and the poor maid ran with all her might. All through the night she ran. Drucht was her name, and she was a wise young girl, knowing her brother was beyond help and her father was apt to be killed if she should go first to him and tell him what was done. So she went to the dun and poured out her tale to king Gaelan himself.
“Then Gaelan believed what he should have believed before; and he was hot after his brother to bring down his justice on him. But one of Sliabhin’s men was at hand, who took horse and rode ahead to warn Sliabhin not to go back to the dun that day.
“That was the parting finally between the brothers, Sliabhin was banished, but late, far too late. The Sidhe set misfortune on the land for his crimes. Crops failed. The Gley flooded. And the queen, who was with child, birthed a stillborn son. She was on the edge of madness, after, and the servants feared she would do herself harm. In the land, cattle died. And there was winter after winter of famine. The queen miscarried twice in the six years after.
“The seventh year came. From the day Sliabhin was cast out, he had been laying plans, causing trouble where he could. In a land with no luck on it, there must always be discontent. So Sliabhin gained followers.
“But this spring the queen was with child again. The farmers left gifts by the forest edge, hoping to appease the Sidhe. And people said the seventh year seemed to have ended the curse, in the way of faery things.
“But the very day the queen took to childbed, the Gley breached the fields and flooded far and wide. Gaelan rode out of Dun Mhor to tend to his people, Sliabhin rode in, and there was murder done. Every servant that was loyal was killed. Every man who could not be corrupted was ambushed and killed. When Gaelan rode home again three days later with his loyal men, they were murdered in their own hall. Sliabhin is king in Dun Mhor now, over all Gleann Fiach, these last years, twice seven, now. He took Gaelan’s queen Moralach to his bed, holding her newborn babe hostage against her willingness to please him, while his brother’s corpse was not cold yet in the hall below. H
e spared the queen’s son, that one will grant. But the queen died the year after. They say she hanged herself from the rooftree.And the land is no happier. Whatever passes in Dun Mhor these days, it is no hall I would guest in. A man walking down the glen and through the Sidhe-wood should know that, and go some other way if he could.”
There was silence for a space. It was a tale everyone in Dun Gorm knew, if not all parts of it. And all of a sudden Cinnfhail was thinking of that grim hold beyond the woods, how such a wicked king as Sliabhin might well draw others of his ilk to come and live at his board. This traveler seemed apt for such a place, grim and wild. The thunder cracked and shook the very posts of the hall. The wind wailed and set the hairs to lifting at the back of Cinnfhail’s neck as he stared at the traveler.
“So ye have no love for Sliabhin,” the stranger said.
“None,” said Cinnfhail, refusing to lie.
The traveler stood up, hurled a sword clattering onto the table, to the dismay of those nearest. Conn’s sword ripped from its sheath in his startlement; benches were overset as swords came out and men and women came to their feet all around the room.
But the stranger did no more than let fall his grey mantle.
“Gods help us,” said Samhadh, pulling Deirdre to shelter behind her, and Raghallach was on his feet with a naked sword as Conn moved between the stranger and Cinnfhail— for about the stranger’s shoulders was the red tartan of Dun Mhor.
“It is a ghost,” said someone.
“No,” said Cinnfhail, and waved the swords away, feeling a weakness in his knees and a tightness in his chest, for the price of the Sight was sometimes blindness to fated things, and now that badge of Dun Mhor made him see, at the same time that Conn saw, and the rest. Others remained on their feet, but Cinnfhail sought his chair again, feeling suddenly the years of his life upon him. “Man, what is your name?”
“Caith is my name,” the traveler said, “mac Gaelan. First born. Gaelan’s true heir and Moralach’s firstborn son.”
There was silence for a space in which Cinnfhail’s heart beat very hard. Raghallach moved close to him and Conn stood between this intruder and all the family.
“My father fostered me north,” said macGaelan, never stirring from where he stood. “He sent me to Dun na nGall for safety. He knew that Sliabhin would strike at him. He wished me safe. And we had the news up there not three months gone, that I had delayed my homecoming— overlong. He has turned on my brother.”
“We have things to speak of,” said Cinnfhail. He moved aside and touched Samhadh’s hand, wishing her to be prudent and to take Deirdre away from this, out of danger of this man and the things that he could say. “Go,” he said softly, “go up, go upstairs, now, Samhadh.”
“There is no need to fear me,” said the traveler, coming forward of the table’s end, heedless of hands on swords all about him. There was a weariness about him, but he moved with grace all the same. He was a man that could walk soft-footed through a hall of enemies and bemaze them all, as he ensorcelled them. “My sword is back there. I left it, did I not? And you were my father king Gaelan’s friend. And never were you Sliabhin’s.”
“Father,” said Raghallach. “Can it be truth?”
“It might be,” Cinnfhail said heavily. “I did hear more to the story. I heard it long ago. So tell me, Caith mac Gaelan. Why have you come here?”
“To hunt out my father’s killers. To take Dun Mhor. You were his neighbor, lord. His friend. I’d think ye would be weary of Sliabhin by now.”
“We’ll speak of it.”
“Speak of it! Lord, I have a young brother in that man’s hands. I did nae come here only to speak of ’t.”
There was a stillness then, in which the stranger stood among them with the ring of anguish dying in the air.
And with justice on his side.
“What are you asking?” asked Raghallach. “That we go to war for your sake?”
“Nay,” said Caith mac Gaelan. “’t would do my brother no good. Sliabhin would kill him at the end of any siege, and do other things afore. I want my brother safe before I take Dun Mhor, whatever the cost.”
So there was honor in this young man. It touched that honor that was in Raghallach, like a fire to straw, in their valley that had had its peace. Cinnfhail felt a chill raise gooseflesh on his neck.
“We’ll talk of it,” Cinnfhail said again. “A night for sleep. A night for thinking. Then we will talk.”
“Father,” said Raghallach. “We have suffered Sliabhin far too long. This is the chance we have.”
“We will take time to think about it, I said.” The cold was about Cinnfhail’s heart, a sense of doom, of change. And he remembered the singer on the wind. “To bed, all! We’ve said all tonight that wants saying. Morning and sober heads are what’s needed, not ale-thoughts and ale-talk.”
“Lord,” Raghallach said. There was fire in his glance. He longed for honor, did Raghallach, here in this glen that Cinnfhail had made quiet and at peace with all his deeds and all his striving. Raghallach had heard Tuathal harp the ballads. Raghallach dreamed, in his innocence, of undoing it all and doing it over again. Cinnfhail knew.
“Off with you.” Cinnfhail kissed Samhadh, and Deirdre, who looked past him at the travel-worn stranger with wonder in her eyes. She had also heard the hero-songs, the sad, fair ballads; and Deirdre dreamed her own dreams of adventures.
Both Cinnfhail’s children then were snared; and Cinnfhail turned to his son smiling gently, though his heart hurt him. He clapped a hand to Raghallach’s shoulder. “In the morning, hear? Quietly, as such things should be thought out. Obey me. To bed, all, to beds! And no rumor-mongering, no speaking of this beyond the gates. I have said it. D’ ye hear?”
He rarely spoke as king. It was not his way. When he did so now, folk moved, and bowed their heads and scurried in haste.
“Leave it!” he bade the servants, to have them gone.
And to Conn, taking him by the arm, he spoke certain words which grieved and shamed him to speak.
But he had the Sight, and what he Saw now gave hint no peace.
Three
Caith gathered his sword from the table and sheathed it, having no desire in his mind now but rest, being well-fed and easier in the finding of friends than he had been in the long weeks since leaving Dun na nGall.
But: “Come with me,” the king’s harper said now, plucking at his sleeve. “The king will speak with you privately. He has more to tell to you. Ye’ll want your cloak.”
Caith considered it and weighed the risks of treachery; but he had eaten this man’s bread and judged him as he sat, that the lord of Dun Gorm was what he had heard, a king worth listening to and a man to be trusted.
So he gathered his cloak about him and went where the harper led him, nothing questioning, down the stairs and, as the harper took up a torch from the bracket there, out a lower door into the dark and the retreating thunder.
They stopped beneath the smithy shed, with the rain dripping off the wooden roof and standing in puddles in the yard beyond. Cattle lowed. Horses were restless in their pen nearby. A solitary dog barked in the dying of the storm, but it knew the harper and it fell silent at his word.
“What is this?” Caith said. “What is this skulking about?” He suddenly doubted everything in this lonely place, and his hand was on his sword in the concealment of his cloak.
“My lord will speak to you,” the harper repeated. And truth, from around the side of the yard came the king of Gleatharan with his shieldman by him, all muffled up in cloaks themselves.
Caith waited, his hand still on his sword, scowling at the two coming toward him and still uneasy. He had trusted few men in his life. Nameless, nothing, he had no teaching in things he needed to become what he was born to be. Stay here in Dun na nGall, his foster-father had said. Dinnae meddle. There’s nothing in Gleann Fiach for ye. And again: If ye gae there, then plan to keep on that road. Ye defy me, boy— ye’ll not be coming back here.
/> That was well enough. There was nothing that man who fostered him had ever given him but whip-marks on his back, and worse within his soul: Ye take what’s gi’ en you,this man had said, Hagan, his father’s cousin. And: Keep your mouth shut, boy, whose son ye are. Mind my words. So they name ye a foundlin’ bastard.’T is what ye are t’ me.
A girl-child had looked up at him, flower-fair tonight. A man he wished had been his father had smiled at him. A man he would had been his brother had offered him help. A grave-eyed queen had looked on him with amazement. It was the way he would have seen Dun Mhor at his homecoming if he could have dreamed that dun clean and fair again. In this place he had had at least one homecoming such as an exile might dream of.
But the king of Gleatharan asked him out into the rain and the dark to speak with him; and this was not part of his dream, this was not the welcome he had expected. Rather it held something of connivances and tricks— and this kind of thing he had dealt in often enough in his life.
The king came to him, squelching up in the mud, in the falling mist, till he passed beneath the roof of the shed and into the torchlight the harper held. The shieldman stood behind his king, his hands both out of sight beneath his oiled-wool cloak.
“Mac Gaelan,” said Cinnfhail King, “forgive me. I ask that first.”
“For what, then?” Caith asked. “Can we gie straight to that?”
“Go back to Dun na nGall. Tonight. There’s no gain here for you.”
Caith drew in his breath. It wanted a moment to know what to say to such a warning from a king so two-faced. “Well, lord,” he said, “gods requite you for it.”
“I’ll give you provisions,” the king said, “and a horse— the pick of all I have.”
Keep your gifts, Caith would have said then. But he was too much in need for pride. “We may be neighbors yet,” he said in his anger. “I’ll be returnin’ the horse.”
“Mac Gaelan, —”
”Ye were my father’s friend. So the worth of your friendship is a meal and a horse. ’t is well enow. A man should know his friends.”
Faery Moon Page 2
