In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows--Eirlandia, Book Three Page 15

  Queen Sceana—shaken, and shamed to silence—stared in forlorn disbelief at the two warriors. After a long painful moment, Conor, his voice gentling, said, ‘Good men lost their lives that day and Vainche’s treachery will be exposed. He is to be summoned before the brehons of Eirlandia.’

  The stable master and two of his grooms entered the yard just then, leading five horses on halters. The queen’s companion, humiliated, her voice quivering, took charge and commanded the stabler to deliver the animals into Conor’s keeping, and then said, ‘Accept these horses in payment of the debt you are owed. Take them and go.’

  Conor motioned Fergal and Médon to take the animals and thanked the queen. ‘But I would not like to leave here without—’ he began.

  Sceana raised a hand to prevent him saying any more. ‘You have what you came for,’ she said, her voice almost breaking. ‘Just go now and never come back.’

  Conor nodded and, taking hold of one of the halters, followed Fergal and Médon to the fortress gate, where the three paused to collect their own mounts. The Brigantes watched them depart. The three had almost reached the road at the bottom of the hill when they heard a shout behind them. Conor glanced over his shoulder to see the two warriors, Mongan and Comgall, dart out from the crowd and run after them. ‘Wait!’ shouted Mongan. ‘We want to come with you.’

  ‘We want to join your fianna,’ said Comgall.

  ‘You would choose the fianna over your kinsmen and king?’ said Fergal.

  ‘Nay, rather say we choose not to live in dishonour anymore,’ Mongan replied. He raised hopeful eyes to Conor and said, ‘Will you be having us at all?’

  ‘I will,’ replied Conor. Putting a hand to the warrior’s shoulder, he handed him the halter and said, ‘You can start by taking care of our new horses.’

  Conor cast a last look at the Brigantes fortress, then took up the reins, swung himself onto Búrach’s back, and rode away.

  16

  As soon as the Aintrén fortress was out of sight, Conor halted and called to Médon. ‘You and Mongan and Comgall take the horses and ride for Tara and don’t stop until you’re out of Brigantes territory. Fergal and I will hold back a little while to see we’re not followed.’

  ‘In case Vainche comes back and wonders where his horses have gone?’ Médon said with a smirk.

  ‘Just go,’ Conor ordered. ‘We’ll linger behind awhile just to make sure, and join you later.’

  Médon and the two newest fianna recruits rode on, leaving Conor and Fergal to resume at a slower pace, pausing every now and then to watch the road behind for any sign of pursuit. Easy in one another’s company, they fell to discussing the various ways to order Tara’s ever-growing warband, and the day slowly faded around them.

  By the time the sun began to lower in the west, Conor pulled up at the edge of a stream in a wood near the western border of the Brigantes lands. ‘We should be thinking of a place to camp for the night,’ said Conor, looking around. ‘I say this place is as good as any.’

  ‘We’ve a fair bit of daylight left,’ observed Fergal. ‘We might still be able to catch Médon and the two new fellas. Maybe make camp with them. They’ve got most of the food anyway.’

  Conor nodded. ‘After we rest and water the horses. We’ll let them graze awhile and then move on.’

  Dismounting at the streamside, they let the animals drink their fill and then tethered them so they could nuzzle the greenery; after replenishing their own water skins, they settled back under the wide-flung boughs of a large old elm to rest. As they waited, they ate a little dried beef bósaill and hazelnuts from their sparáns, and the sun dipped below the treeline on the horizon and an early twilight fell across the wood.

  ‘So then, you must be feeling very pleased with yourself just now,’ said Fergal. ‘But what will Rónán say when he finds out you went to Aintrén? I cannot think this little frolic was really about collecting a debt.’

  ‘It was that and nothing more.’

  ‘I know you, Conor mac Ardan. You could not resist a chance to poke Vainche in the eye.’

  ‘It was only ever about collecting that debt,’ maintained Conor.

  ‘Ach, aye, because not even you could be so feckless as to go against a druid’s strong advice. My mistake, I see that you are not the brash hothead that you once were.’

  ‘And I know it,’ replied Conor. His voice took on a wistful note as he watched the shadows deepen through the wood. ‘I suppose I must seem a different man. Becoming a lord … becoming a father…’

  ‘Aye, that might have something to do with it,’ agreed Fergal. ‘What with all the feasting and drinking and cavorting of a night.’

  ‘Too true—for life is all one endless celebration for the Lord of Tara—as you well know.’

  ‘Not to mention having to set the sun alight and hang it aloft every morning and receiving the endless praise and adoration of your people.’ He made a wry face. ‘I would not be wishing it on anyone!’

  Conor laughed. ‘But tell me now,’ he said. ‘Am I really that much changed?’

  ‘We are all of us changed, brother,’ said Fergal. ‘How not? Even take away our banishment, the constant reavings and wearings of the Scálda, being spirited away to the faéry realms—what man is not changed by the years? Aye, you are changed—but not so much that I would not know you by heart and deeds.’

  Conor considered this. ‘Thank you, good friend. In truth, I sometimes think this lordship will be my undoing.’

  ‘Heavy burden, is it?’ scoffed Fergal. ‘The way I see it is if ever I’m in need of a light in a dark place all I have to do is ask you to bend over and crack open your cheeks a little.’

  They laughed raucously at this, and when they rose to resume their journey, they noticed that a thin mist had risen and was coursing along the stream, drifting through the trees, and sifting along the wooded pathways like ghostly fingers, building and deepening until it formed a wall obscuring everything but the sky above, which still held the violet glow of the setting sun. And then that, too, disappeared.

  ‘I’m thinking it’s fixing to be a damp night,’ observed Fergal. ‘We’ll have to make a bit of speed if we’re to find the others before dark.’ He glanced around at the silvery white mist deepening around them. ‘Didn’t this fog come up fast, though?’

  ‘Conor mac Ardan!’ The call, muffled by the mist wrack, seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

  ‘Who was that?’ Fergal. ‘Vainche?’

  When Conor did not answer, Fergal turned to look at him and saw Conor’s face and hands lit by a strange, green-white glow and his eyes agleam with a spectral light—as if he might be staring at the beam of a distant star.

  The voice came again. ‘Conor mac Ardan…’

  ‘I am here!’ he replied, his voice hushed by the deadening fog.

  ‘There!’ whispered Fergal. ‘In the trees.’ Spear in hand, he pointed into the mist.

  Conor followed Fergal’s gaze and saw shapes emerging: three tall, thin figures that seemed to be forming out of the glowing mist itself. They were wrapped almost head to foot in long cloaks, so he could not make out their features or faces, yet there was something curiously familiar about them. They drew closer and Conor saw that the tallest of the three carried a long rod with a curled knob on the end of it and it was from this shell-shaped knob that the eerie green-white light emanated. In the gleam of that light the face of the stranger took on an aspect Conor remembered only too well.

  ‘Lenos!’ said Conor.

  Fergal exhaled, releasing the tension in his body. ‘Faéries!’ he muttered. ‘And not the pleasant kind.’

  ‘Shh! They’ll hear you,’ Conor whispered. ‘Try to be agreeable—at least until we find out what they want.’

  Fergal gave a grunt of acceptance to the idea, but said no more. Conor moved to the edge of the stream and Fergal moved quickly to Conor’s side, spear in one hand and the other on the hilt of his sword. They waited until the three faéry came to stand bef
ore them on the trail. The tallest wore a long, belted siarc and breecs and cloak the colours of shadows and night, his long flame-tinged hair knotted and braided at the side of his head. He stretched out his long-fingered hand, then slowly raised it and touched the back of his hand to his forehead. ‘Greetings, Lord Conor. I hope we find you well and recovered from your wounds.’

  ‘Lord Lenos, greetings. You must forgive us if we stare. Bearing in mind how we last parted, we did not expect our paths to cross again.’ Conor gave a nod to his companion. ‘You will remember Fergal, I think. He it was who came with Lord Gwydion to our aid that day we faced the Scálda on the strand.’

  ‘Greetings to you, Fergal mac Caen,’ replied Lenos graciously. ‘You may remember my chief advisors—’ He turned to the two beside him, one with fine, straight, silvery hair in a long braid upon his shoulder, and the other with short black curls like those of a fleecy ram. ‘This is Armadal.’ He indicated the silver-haired one, then turned to the dark-haired one and said, ‘And this is Sealbach. They are my principal advisors and confidants, and worthy to be trusted through all things. You may speak freely before them.’ The two gaunt beings gave low bows, but said nothing.

  Conor cast his mind back to his singular encounter with Lenos and his people: prisoners bound in iron chains in a crude hut on the border of the deadlands. Like Rhiannon and her maiden before them, the Kerionid faéry had been captured by the Scálda to be killed one by one until they agreed to divulge the secret of faéry magic. Lord Lenos was the king of the Kerionid branch of the faéry race, but though the two with him seemed vaguely familiar Conor could not recall if they had been among those he had rescued. Then again, that night had been fraught with other, more pressing concerns—such as the murder of Brecan, to name just one.

  ‘And you are right to remind me that we parted on less than cordial terms,’ the king continued. ‘The fault is mine and I own it. I want you to know that this lapse of gratitude has caused me pain whenever I reflect upon my behaviour toward you both—mortals who put your own lives at risk for ours. It was unworthy of me and a poor example to my people. For that I am truly sorry and beg your pardon.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Conor told him. ‘I’m thinking we were all less than our better selves on that difficult day.’

  Lenos spread his long hands in acceptance of Conor’s generous assessment. ‘Be that as it may,’ continued the faéry king, ‘I owe a debt of honour, and that weighs most heavily. It is my wish to repay it now.’

  ‘Now?’ wondered Conor. He glanced at Fergal. ‘This seems to be a day of balancing accounts.’ To Lenos he said, ‘There is nothing to repay.’

  But Fergal put out his hand to stay Conor’s refusal, and said, ‘Forgive my curiosity, Lord Lenos—but how do you propose to pay this honour debt?’

  ‘What if I told you I possessed something of great value that would aid you in your fight against the Scálda?’

  Conor and Fergal exchanged a glance. ‘And are you offering to give me this thing?’ asked Conor.

  At this the stern-faced faéry king brightened and his pale lips formed a smile that, for all its rarity, did much to alter the solemn being’s aspect for the better. ‘What I propose to give you is the answer to a riddle.’

  Conor and Fergal shared a baffled glance. Conor said, ‘Did I understand you to say you are offering an answer to a riddle?’

  Again, Lenos flashed his rare smile. ‘You heard correctly, my friend. But far better, perhaps, to ask what is the riddle.’

  ‘What, then, is the riddle?’ asked Fergal, suspicion edging his tone.

  ‘It is this,’ replied the faéry lord. ‘What is swifter than a spear in its flight, and sharper than a sword in the fight?’

  ‘And the answer?’ asked Conor.

  ‘For that,’ announced Lenos, enjoying his game, ‘I must ask you to come with me.’ He half turned as if to lead them away then and there.

  ‘Go with you?’ said Conor. ‘Where?’

  ‘To Eilean Ceó.’ Looking back over his shoulder, the tall faéry king added, ‘The answer lies in Albion.’

  17

  ‘We need a better reason than a tricksy faéry riddle to go sailing away to Albion with them. It is a mad scheme and I don’t trust it,’ protested Fergal. He cast a dark glance at Lenos and his companions, who stood looking on from across the stream, their elongated forms aglow in the shining mist. ‘And I don’t trust Lenos, either. Him and his sly faéry ways. This thing smells of lies and deception. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Then you don’t have to go.’

  ‘And you think this a good idea, do you? What about your lordly duties? You cannot go swanning off to some faéry island. Think of your people … think of your family! What about Aoife and your dear sweet infant child? And what will I be telling them when I turn up and you’re not with me?’ Fergal shook his head. ‘We can’t be going off with the faéry folk, brother. And there’s the end of it.’

  Conor contemplated this for a moment. ‘You make a good argument. You are right to remind me of my duties.’

  ‘Does that mean we’ll not be going?’

  ‘It means that we must obtain an assurance or two from friend Lenos before we agree to anything.’

  The faéry lord, still waiting patiently on the other side of the stream, spoke up. ‘Well, then? Shall we go?’

  ‘A word first,’ said Conor. He quickly explained his reservations and the faéry king listened patiently.

  ‘I understand your hesitation, my friends,’ Lenos said when Conor finished. ‘You would be better inclined if this journey I propose could be accomplished in such a way to ensure your absence would be little noticed by anyone here. Is that right? As it happens, we have anticipated this very concern.’ The king of the Kerionid nodded to the one called Armadal, who pressed his hands together in a curiously self-satisfied gesture and said, ‘I can give you every assurance that no one in Eirlandia will think you absent from these shores more than a single night—if that. The space between sleeping and rising, shall we say?’

  ‘And do you also promise that what you have to show us will be to our benefit in the war against the Scálda?’

  ‘On that you have my solemn word,’ said Lenos. ‘What I shall propose will be of tremendous benefit to both of us. Otherwise we would not have come to you at all. Will you come?’

  Clearly still resistant to the idea, Fergal stood gripping his spear as if throttling a foe. Conor put a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘If there is a chance that we can gain an advantage against Balor Evil Eye, then we have to try. Come with me, brother. I won’t be going without you.’

  ‘You will, you know.’

  ‘I won’t,’ insisted Conor. ‘True, it might be chasing after wild geese as you say. But what if it comes good?’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, no one will even know we’re gone. What have we got to lose?’

  ‘With the faéry, who can say?’ Fergal gave one last glare at the king and his cheerless companions, then sighed and surrendered. ‘Aoife would have the head clean off me if I let you go off with them alone. Aye, I’ll be going with you—if only to keep them honest.’

  ‘We’ll come with you, Lenos,’ Conor called across the stream.

  ‘Bring the horses,’ commanded Lenos, and Sealbach departed on the run.

  From that moment, the night took on that eerie, dreamlike quality for Conor and Fergal—similar to the one they had experienced before with Rhiannon and the Tylwyth Teg when they had outraced the enemy riders to make their escape from deep in Scálda territory. Afterward, they would remember little but the blurred woods and fields, high rain-lashed hills, darksome dells and valleys, and an endless succession of shadows melding into one another. They would recall pausing by a lough to water the horses and then, later, riding along the high bluffs with the moon glinting off the sea far below and the waves booming as they smashed against the stony feet of the towering seagirt rock stacks. They would imagine they were led along the frenzied paths by the moon, or by starlight, or ag
ain, in rain and shadow-crowded darkness.

  At last the travelling party arrived at a secluded bay somewhere on the northeast coast and improbably far from where they had begun. The night was far spent and the tide already running. Lenos’s ship was waiting for them by the strand. A curious craft, the faéry vessel had a wide, low-sided hull topped by a carved rail, and a tall mast rising from a tentlike enclosure that took up most of the space in the centre of the flat deck. The pilot stood at the stern in command of a long, curved tiller oar. Lenos hailed the craft, and two crewmen appeared; they put out a wooden ramp and scrambled ashore to take the horses while the riders climbed aboard the ship. Conor and Fergal, bone-weary, sank down on benches that ran along the rails; bleary-eyed, they watched as the horses were blindfolded, led up the narrow walkway, and secured for the voyage. This was all accomplished with extraordinary speed and soon the faéry craft began to move out into the bay.

  Riding on the waves lightly as a leaf driven by the wind, the ship reached deep water. The green sail billowed and the sharp, blade-shaped hull knifed through the waves, carving a wake of white foam on the blue-black sea. Conor and Fergal, exhausted by the night’s ride, slumped on the bench and delivered themselves to the dip and roll of the vessel.

  Conor woke sometime later to the keening cry of gulls sailing above the faéry ship’s mast. The sun was a pale blot in a white sky, with low clouds scudding in from the north, and Fergal stood at the rail staring out at a flat grey sea. Conor rolled upright on the bench and yawned. ‘Can’t sleep, brother?’

  Fergal, still staring out at the empty wave-rippled expanse, replied, ‘Say what you will, I say there is more here than meets your little beady eye.’

  Conor swung his legs off the bench, rubbed his face with both hands, and leaned his elbows on his knees. ‘I know,’ he yawned. ‘So you’ve been telling me since we boarded this ship.’