In the Land of the Everliving Page 2

  After the seventh throw, Conor regarded his friend sharply, and was about to comment on this uncanny run of predictive luck when the expression on his friend’s face stopped the words in his mouth.

  Donal stood with eyes squeezed shut, his features clenched tight. After a moment, Donal’s features relaxed, and Conor said, ‘Is it your injury? Are you in pain?’

  ‘Ach, nay,’ he said, averting his eyes and lowering his head. ‘Well, maybe—maybe we’ve both been a little too brisk just now.’ He gave Conor a fishy, hesitant smile—which did nothing to allay Conor’s concern.

  ‘We should go before they come to drag us back.’ Conor turned and started back up the strand toward the path leading to their house at the little lake the faéry called Llyn Rhaedr. Donal, however, remained gazing out to sea. ‘Coming?’ called Conor and, with a shake of his shoulders, as if he had been doused with cold water, Donal turned and quickly followed.

  The two walked easy in one another’s company as they crossed the strand; they had just reached the greensward when there came a shout from the linden-lined path directly ahead. ‘Conor! Donal!’

  Both men glanced up to see Fergal standing in the middle of the trail, hands on hips, waiting for them. Conor raised a hand in greeting. ‘Fergal!’ he called. ‘How goes the battle?’

  Fergal hurried to meet them. ‘Does it never occur to either of you to tell anyone where you’re going? What were you doing out here?’ This last was directed at Conor.

  ‘Well, you know me and the sea,’ Conor replied. ‘Try as I might, I cannot stay away from it. I have the ocean in my veins now.’

  ‘Seawater for brains, more like.’ The tall fair-haired man arranged his long face in an unsuccessful frown of disapproval.

  Like the other two, his sojourn among the faéry-kind had made a new man of him. He seemed both taller and broader, Conor thought, his hair longer, and neatly braided into a thick hank that, like his own, hung at the side of his head, making his face and bearing seem more regal. In his splendid new rust-coloured siarc and breecs he looked every inch a lord of wealth and stature. Adjusting the flawless cloak of yellow and green checks across his well-muscled shoulders, Fergal rested his hand on the pommel of the gold-hilted knife the faéry king had given him and shook his head. ‘You should be in bed resting, you know. You look terrible, Conor.’

  ‘Ach, well, that is a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Nay,’ said Donal. ‘It is a plain fact. You do look terrible.’

  ‘But better than before.’

  ‘That is a matter of opinion,’ replied Fergal, falling into step beside Conor. ‘Lord Gwydion is asking for you. He says he has news.’

  ‘Has he now?’ said Conor. ‘As it happens, I would like to speak to him, too.’

  Donal raised a questioning brow.

  ‘Brothers, it is time to go home. I mean to ask our gracious host to take us back to Eirlandia.’

  ‘Soon, aye,’ agreed Fergal, ‘but you are nowise ready to travel. For all you’re only just up from your sickbed—and you probably shouldn’t even be out here at all.’

  ‘Ach, Eurig says I have exhausted his art. I am full ready to travel.’

  Fergal gave him a long, scornful look to show what he thought of that idea and pulled on the corner of his moustache. ‘Exhausted his patience, more like.’

  ‘As pleasant as it would be to stay on this most favoured isle and while away our days among the faéry folk,’ said Conor, ‘we are needed elsewhere. King Brecan’s death is bound to create problems for everyone. We are needed at home.’

  ‘To do what?’ demanded Fergal testily. ‘What do you think we can do that would make any difference to anyone at all?’

  ‘For a start, we can tell them what we know.’

  ‘Who will listen?’ said Fergal. ‘I will tell you, shall I? No one. No one is going to listen to us—three exiles, cast out of our tribe for our crimes. Will anyone even deign to receive us? I think not. And if they do, it will be only to hold us to blame for Huw and Mádoc’s deaths—maybe that swine Brecan’s, too, for all I know.’

  Donal saw the dangerous look in Conor’s eye, and said, ‘Enough, Fergal. You’ve said enough.’

  ‘Too much,’ muttered Conor.

  Fergal sighed. ‘I am sorry, brother. I meant no disrespect to Mádoc or Huw, or anyone else. But we must try to see how things stand now. You are injured and Donal is still recovering, and whatever you imagine is happening across the water in Eirlandia has most likely happened already and without us.’

  ‘For once, Fergal is right,’ offered Donal. ‘You should rest and fully recover the strength of that arm of yours. Let Eurig and his helpers take care of you so that when we do go back, you will be fighting fit again.’

  ‘I am fighting fit already,’ Conor insisted. He looked at his two friends and a slow smile spread across his pale features. ‘Thank you for your wise counsel. I know you intend it for my good.’

  Fergal threw a cautious glance at Donal. ‘Does that mean you will abide?’ he asked.

  ‘Nay,’ replied Conor. ‘I am still going to ask Gwydion to take me back to Eirlandia as soon as possible.’

  2

  Lord Gwydion sat with his long hands beneath his chin, his large dark eyes glinting in the bright golden flame burning silently in the expansive hearth of the great hall of Caer Raedr, his palace carved from the living stone of their island home. The enchanted fire splashed dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls of the great cavern. In a far corner, sunlight from a fissure in the ceiling showered down upon a silver cage; tiny birds of yellow, blue, and green twittered pleasantly, mingling their song with the tinkling sound of water burbling up from a perpetual fountain in the centre of the enormous room. Few of the faéry remained in the hall; the day was bright and with the season on the change, most wanted to enjoy the last of the sun before winter wrapped their island in blankets of mist and snow for months on end.

  Conor stood before the king and though he itched for an answer to his question, he held his tongue and waited for his reluctant patron to make up his mind without further urging or argument from him. Finally the faéry king raised his head and, offering a kindly smile, replied, ‘I can well understand your eagerness to return home. I myself was in a similar position not so very long ago—and it is thanks to your skill and courage as a warrior that I was able to make my return at all. For that, I am grateful and forever in your debt.’

  Conor accepted the praise, but said, ‘There can be no debt between friends.’

  Gwydion spread his hands as if to indicate that Conor’s response only confirmed his own high opinion. ‘Be that as it may, I have a charge to lay upon you and I hope you will honour it.’

  ‘Ask what you will, lord king, and if it is in my power to fulfil, then trust it will be done.’

  ‘It is, I think, well within your command,’ the king replied. ‘For I ask only that you remain in Ynys Afallon a little longer. Allow your healing to be completed so that you will be well equipped to meet the demands of your return. I have no doubt those demands will be many.’ Gwydion saw or sensed the objection rising within Conor and quickly added, ‘I am confidently informed by Eurig that you are well on the path to full recovery of both strength and health, but that destination is still some way distant. It is my understanding that taking on too much too soon will undo all his good work—and that, you will agree, is not the best outcome either of us would care to see.’ Gwydion smiled again, rose, and came to stand before Conor. He put his hand on Conor’s shoulder and said, ‘Abide but a small while, my friend. The world will wait a little longer.’

  At this, Conor’s heart sank; nevertheless, he had to admit that the king made a fair point and that it would be ill mannered to refuse. ‘You are most gracious, lord king. I will allow your wisdom and that of your physician to be my guide. But please know that I will welcome his release as soon as possible.’

  Gwydion raised an eyebrow. ‘You are that anxious to return to battle?’

&nb
sp; ‘So long as my people suffer the cruel ravages of a wicked and relentless enemy, my duty is clear. I have no other choice.’

  The faéry king released his hold, signalling the end of the audience, but said, gently, ‘Spoken not like a warrior,’ he said, ‘but like a king.’

  Conor left the cavern and returned to the lake house he and Fergal and Donal had made their home, and where the next days were spent much as the days before. Conor dutifully followed the care and direction of Eurig, the chief physician: he rested, slept, and ate well; he took walks along the strand, or in the surrounding woodland, or swam in the lake and bathed in the sweet-water stream below the waterfall. Taken this way, each day was a simple delight. Yet, each day also brought its own torment because, beguiling as the Isle of the Everliving was, there was someplace else he wanted to be. And, as enchanting as the faéry could be in all their grandeur, there was someone else he wanted to see.

  He missed Aoife, ached for her. She was his first thought every morning and his last thought every night. Through the day he would find himself wondering what she might be doing at that moment, or wondering whether she thought of him. Did she miss him as much as he missed her? In his most abject moments he wondered if she even knew he was still alive.

  The thought that Aoife might think him dead tortured him. He yearned to send word to her, to reassure her, to let her know he was alive and thought of her daily, that he had not forgotten her, that one day they would be together, that their long betrothal would be over and they would be married and never parted again. All this, and more, he burned to tell her. But each day ended the same: Aoife away in Eirlandia over the sea, and he in the Region of the Summer Stars.

  Fergal and Donal also missed their homeland, but Conor sensed that longing diminishing, weakening as time went by. Like him, they enjoyed the easy splendour and luxury of Gwydion’s court, and the fine company of the elegant and graceful inhabitants of the House of Llŷr; unlike him, they enjoyed it a little too much—or so it seemed to Conor. Together with their guide, Nodons, they explored the length and breadth of Tír nan Óg and returned, sometimes days later, with reports of the various wonders they had seen in the faéry strongholds and dwellings they visited: a magical vat that served up mead, or ale, or wine, or sweet water according to the desire of whoever dipped a cup … or a harp that played of its own accord whenever music was requested … or a cauldron that would quickly boil the meat of a champion, but would cast out the meat of a coward … a tree that produced both blossoms and ripe fruit at any time of the year … of a grain hamper that could not be emptied so that whatever grain was placed in it, however much was taken out, that much more remained … of a knife with a blade that could never be dulled … a small green plant, the leaves of which, when applied to any cut or bruise, instantly healed the injury … of a sparán made from the feathers of three hundred larks that multiplied by three any gem or coin placed in it … and many other weird and wondrous objects and artefacts besides.

  They visited dúns located inside mounds and caverns, and strongholds on crannogs in the middle of lakes, and ráths so high up on the hilltops they seemed to float in the clouds; and in each of these settlements they were received like noble kinsmen and royalty. They visited Caer Ban where Cynan Eiddin, a kinsman of Gwydion, kept a palace to rival the king’s: an enormous dwelling that contained sixty rooms and seven halls—rooms for sleeping, for working, for storing food and drink; and halls for eating, for dancing, for gathering in solemn assembly. Twenty pillars held up its walls, each one cut from an elder oak of the Great Forest of Orobris that once covered all of Albion. The walls themselves were covered in tiles that shone like polished gems. The roof was high-pitched, and covered with slates of seven different colours. There were nine doors, each wide enough and tall enough to admit a warrior on a horse, and each carved with runes of enchantment so that no one who entered could disturb the peace of anyone dwelling within.

  The two mortals spent their nights in chambers sleeping on beds lined with cushions and pallets stuffed with goose down and soft feathers, and woke to music that drifted in from open wind holes set high up in the wall. Wherever they looked, they saw the intricate, sweeping lines of faéry design that adorned the brooches and torcs, buckles, bracelets, and rings. And it was everywhere: woven into clothing and engraved on cups of silver and platters of gold; enticing patterns were carved into doorposts and lintels, on beams and rooftrees, chiselled on pediments and columns and arches; it adorned the walls of their halls and was set into the paving stones on the floors of homes and courtyards. The cunning interwoven lines, at once so lithe and flowing, dazzled the eye and lifted the heart of the beholder, lending an air of grace and refinement to all of faéry life.

  Everywhere they cast their eyes, they glimpsed something of the beauty that was part of the nature and character of the faéry race—so much so that travelling through the Region of the Summer Stars became a continual delight. The sights they saw and later described were the objects of stories and songs long familiar to druid bards, tales told and sung at festivals and gatherings of every kind in Eirlandia; the very things the Dé Danann marvelled at as children and dreamt about at night were commonplace to the faéry. Even the humblest items of everyday use—a chair, a bowl, a lampstand, a spoon, a stool, a cooking pot—would be treasures anywhere in the world of mortals; but here, in this otherworldly realm, the objects of daily life were not the stuff of dreams or the fancies of singers and storytellers. Here, in Tír nan Óg, in the Region of the Summer Stars, those dreamt-of things were real.

  Conor listened to his friends recount their travels and marvelled—just as he had when he was a boy sitting with his brothers at the Lughnasadh fire. He admitted it would be a fine thing to remain in a place where such wonders of splendour and magnificence were not only possible, but common occurrences. Even so, the greater part of him knew that could not be; they could not remain in Tír nan Óg while the evil Scálda infested his homeland. He was needed elsewhere.

  When the day finally came that Eurig declared himself satisfied that Conor’s healing was complete, Conor embraced his physician and thanked him for his unstinting care, and then ran off to find Fergal and Donal to tell them the good news: they were going home!

  3

  Three large stone-and-timber houses overlooked Llyn Rhaedr, the small, fern-lined lake fed by the waterfall concealing the entrance to the faéry caverns. The houses were used by visitors during gatherings and celebrations—which, like everything else, the faéry seemed to enjoy in abundance—as well as for the very rare visitors who were not allowed beyond the guarding waterfall into the stony heart of the faéry realm.

  The caves, on the other hand, were the sole domain of the faéry themselves, and those few deemed worthy of the honour. For instance, the Aes-sídhe faéry that Conor had rescued from the Scálda and who had been transported to the island along with Conor had not been admitted to the caverns. In fact, Lord Lenos and his Kerionid had not cared to remain the guests of the Tylwyth Teg any longer than they could suffer the humiliation of having been saved by their sworn enemies. Thus, the day after their arrival King Lenos had demanded to be taken home to Eilean Ceó, an island in the northern seas within sight of the shores of Albion—a wish granted without hesitation. When Conor asked about their swift departure, he was told only that too much had happened in the past to believe the two tribes could be reconciled in a day.

  Neither Lord Gwydion, nor anyone else Conor asked, cared to make any further comment on their troubled history; not even would Princess Rhiannon speak of it. As for Conor, Fergal, and Donal—the Dé Danann warriors were welcomed as champions and given the best private chambers and principal places at elaborate celebratory meals. Extravagantly decorated and appointed with every luxury the faéry could command—rich wall hangings and colourful-woven coverings for the floor, high wooden beds, candle trees of burnished bronze and silver with candles that never burned out, enormous washbasins in the shape of giant seashells and silver ew
ers shaped like seahorses—the cave chambers, like the great hall and other magnificent rooms, did require a certain temperament to fully appreciate. That is to say, splendid though they were, the caves were not to everyone’s taste because of the subterranean nature of the place. So it was for the three Dé Danann: after a few days residence inside the mountain, Conor, Fergal, and Donal had moved down to more familiar dwellings at the lake where they felt at home.

  And it was here that Conor found Fergal, sitting in a chair on the gallery platform of their lake house, eyes closed, his feet propped on the rail and his face turned toward the sun. He opened his eyes when he heard Conor’s footsteps on the wooden stairs leading up to the gallery. Seeing Conor’s expression, he said, ‘You look like the bear that found the honey tree.’

  ‘Eurig says I am healed.’ Conor dropped into the empty chair beside his friend.

  ‘Good news that.’

  Fergal closed his eyes again, and Conor sat for a while gazing at the placid waters below them and the swans gliding serenely over the glassy green surface of the sun-bright water. ‘It is so very peaceful here.’

  ‘Aye, so it is,’ agreed the lanky warrior. ‘I expect that means you’re working up to leaving.’

  ‘I like it here as much as anyone, but we are needed at home.’

  Fergal nodded and sighed. ‘Have you spoken to Gwydion yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to tell you and Donal first.’

  ‘I mean,’ corrected Fergal, ‘have you asked him to join us in fighting the Scálda?’

  ‘That is still to do,’ Conor told him. ‘I’m waiting for the right time.’

  ‘And if he refuses?’

  ‘Ach, well,’ sighed Conor, ‘then I reckon we are no worse off than before.’