In the Region of the Summer Stars

  ‘Make passage in the dark?’ Fergal shook his head at the thought. ‘That lies beyond my abilities as a seaman.’

  ‘You have no abilities as a seaman,’ Conor told him. ‘But Fergal is right. How will we navigate by night?’

  ‘Others do it,’ Mádoc replied, moving away. ‘It is therefore not beyond the wit of men—even dull warriors.’

  The day passed by slow degrees; the sea remained calm and quiet. Conor soon tired of watching the fog and succumbed instead to sleep, making up for the rest he had missed the night before. He roused himself just before sunset and rose to see that the unnatural fog had thinned in the sky directly overhead. A landward breeze was blowing, shredding the vapours, and soon the ghostly outline of a distant shore could be made out.

  ‘The fog is clearing fast,’ Fergal said, joining him at the rail. ‘We will soon be able to put up the sail again.’

  ‘Any sign of the Scálda ship?’

  Fergal shook his head. ‘Neither scrap nor scrape.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Only a few gulls.’

  ‘Let’s put up the sail and make use of the light we have left.’

  Together, they moved to the mast and, each taking hold of line, hauled the heavy red cloth and spar to the top. Then, leaving Fergal to man the ropes, Conor took up his place on the steersman’s bench and, as soon as the wind caught and the great sheet billowed, the vessel began to move once more. They had drifted very far out to sea and it was all Conor could do to steer them back toward the coast. He tried to keep the prow on a northeasterly course, but this proved more difficult than previously. Every time he managed to guide the ship to the north, they lost the wind; and when he regained the wind, the vessel headed farther away from the shore.

  Fergal, frustrated at the ropes, kept calling for him to keep a steady course. Meanwhile, twilight deepened around them and darkness swept in from the east. Soon they could not see to navigate at all. Conor called Fergal, Rhiannon, and Mádoc to him and said, ‘If any of you know how to pilot this ship in the dark, keep that knowledge to yourself no longer—else we shall have to lower the sail again and wait until morning.’

  ‘And hope the Scálda do not reappear with the dawn,’ Fergal put in.

  The others looked at one another, and when no one offered any advice, Conor said, ‘Then we haul down the sail. With any luck we may not drift out of sight of land during the night.’

  ‘What about the charm for seeing in the dark?’ asked Conor.

  ‘I have spent the charm this moon and must wait for the new moon to renew my powers.’

  ‘Moon!’ cried Mádoc as if stirring from sleep. ‘We need neither charms nor potions to see in the dark. There will be moon enough tonight.’

  ‘And if the clouds come back?’ said Fergal.

  ‘Then they come back,’ replied the druid. ‘We will take what we are given and make the most of it.’

  Mádoc

  Victory is sweet—but does often leave a bitter aftertaste. Like strong mead in the cup, its golden allure carries a sting once that cup is drained. This, I reflected, is the lot of human beings in this worlds-realm. There is no arrival without a departure, and all progress is measured by how much has fallen away.

  This is in my mind as I sit in the bottom of this wretched ship and watch helpless as the stricken Donal struggles to maintain his grip on life. He is dying because of me—not that I hurled the spear that pierced him, the enemy had seen to that. But I had sent him into the enemy camp to verify a whim I’d had.

  Ach, well, somewhat more than a whim, I’ll own, yet far less than a certainty. I was curious. There was that in the air and on the land that did not sit well with me and put my teeth on edge. Lord Brecan’s summons to the Oenach, coming when it did so quickly after the last one, concerned me, aye, and the strange mood of the gathered royals and their attendants once we reached Tara told me I was not the only one. But there was something more, a thing I could not name. I do believe this unnamed cause worked in me and worked in me until it provoked a gnawing, nagging conviction that things were not as they seemed.

  The ill feeling pricked and needled. I watched all that took place and pondered on the meaning behind what I saw as if trying to discern the substance of the tree by the shadow cast on the path in the moonlight. There are some among the Learned, I have heard, who can descry the movements of hidden shapes and events. Alas, I am not one of them.

  But the fact remains that I remained restless and twitchy from the moment I set foot on Tara’s hallowed soil until I heard that one of the Darini had been attacked by three Brigantes. Hard on the heels of this report followed the rumour that the luckless warrior had drunkenly insulted the Brigantes king and his hearth companions; or that he had gambled, lost, and refused to pay; or that he had tried to steal a gold cup from one of the camps when the nobles were at the gathering.

  Rumours all, as I say, and all of them, to my way of thinking, equally suspect. So, when my lord Cahir asked me to go and tend the wounded warrior, I was more than keen to hear what this Darini warrior had to say. That he had challenged Lord Brecan before the assembled kings, he confirmed, and believed that this was why he had been set upon—to silence and discredit him, and dissuade him from asking any more awkward questions. Conor mac Ardan—aye, he was the king’s son—told me he believed that greedy, ambitious Brecan Brigantes aimed at making himself High King and, in the moment he spoke those words, my own suspicions quickened. I glimpsed something of the substance from the shadows I had seen.

  That is why I chose Conor to help me—that was something of a whim, I admit—but my sense of his integrity did not lead me astray. However, since he was the one attacked by Brecan’s men, I needed a way to get him to myself and removed from further contention as a threat to Brecan and his plans, whatever they might be.

  For this, I took up one of the rumours already in the wind—that Conor had stolen something of value from an unattended camp. A thin tale, I know, but serviceable at least. Hiding my bit of gold was not difficult and once that was done, all the rest followed much as I expected.

  Did I feel bad for him? Did I feel a pang of remorse for disgracing that brave and noble spirit, and heaping ignominy on that blameless head? Not at all.

  Well, perhaps a portion of regret. But to serve a banquet, a bullock must die. Conor’s warrior pride was my sacrificial calf.

  I could not have found a better collaborator. Thanks to Conor and his stalwart friends, I now have evidence that something new and dangerous is stirring in Eirlandia. The presence of the Fair Folk and the toilsome making of the Scálda war carts points to something dire beyond the naked ambition of a puffed-up lord, aye, beyond anything I imagined. I cannot see its shape yet, but thanks to those three fearless Darini spearmen I have confirmation to lay before the Coinemm of Brehons.

  What we have discovered will be discussed and argued over, I have no doubt. Alas, this is the weakest part of our assault. The Learned Brotherhood possess enormous power, but they have grown miserly in their use of it, and their isolation has blinded them to the suffering of our people.

  This—this alone is what drove me from their exalted ranks. I watched the Scálda steal our land while the druids stood by and shook their shaven heads in dismay. When the incessant preening and posturing of our learned leaders grew too much to stomach, I left the grove.

  Eirlandia was in a chaos of upheaval in those days. It seemed the whole island was on the move, with many tribes and the remnants of tribes fleeing the unstoppable Scálda onslaught. I travelled from camp to camp, listening to harrowing tales of destruction and death, aye, but also great heroism. I searched among temporary camps and established strongholds alike for a lord I might serve and guide.

  In Lord Cahir I found a nobleman who valued a druid’s counsel and would listen. At the time, Cahir was still finding his feet. He had not been king but a few months before the arrival of the Black Ships. Raw, untried, and almost overwhelmed by the unforeseen challenges that
seemed daily to multiply, he needed my guidance and, I like to think, came to value it. Through this ruler, I was able to wield the better part of a druid’s power to good purpose. Through Cahir, I grew to better understand the ways of kings and lords—how they think, how they see the world, the breadth of their influence, and their limitations.

  To be sure, there are always limitations—even the greatest monarch among them is hedged about with a multitude of concerns, expectations, responsibilities, and obligations—each of which must be successfully negotiated if he is to succeed. Thus, compromise is ever the order of the day, and then having a druid as chief advisor can be a boon. The kings of old recognised this and most would not venture placing a foot upon the coronation stone without one of the druí by his side. These days, few lords can entertain such a luxury. And the Learned Brothers, even knowing this, do little enough to help.

  Shame, I fear, wears a druid’s robe and disgrace, a druid’s torc.

  Yet, there are some—like Lord Brecan, to give him his due—who yet uphold the time-honoured ways. He has ever had a druid by his side. Whatever you may think of Mog Ruith, you will never find a more loyal servant to any king. This is not to say that I approve of either one of them, mind.

  From the first, I considered Brecan mac Lergath little more than a prancing pony—tricked out in gold and richly coloured cloth, and surrounded by sycophants who doted on every word. I thought him ambitious, self-regarding, petty, jealous of his imagined stature among the tribes. I saw in Lord Brecan one of those nobles who flatter themselves that they are mighty rulers descended from the Dagda himself and whose every action is worthy of eternal celebration and every utterance the essence of poetry.

  I also considered that his occupation of the throne would be brief. The Brigantes have always been known as a moderate, sensible tribe. Surely, they would not suffer such a puffed-up pretender for long. Sooner or later, they would tire of his expensive tastes and his grasping, overweening ways. When his people saw him for what he was, they would throw him over.

  Yet, the man persisted. The years passed and, rather than losing faith and support, his esteem among his fellow lords and nobles only deepened. Brecan’s standing grew apace and his stature in the Oenach increased. In ways I could neither explain nor understand, Brecan of the Brigantes became the preeminent lord of Eirlandia, and is now well on his way to gaining the high king’s torc.

  This is not to say that Brecan is loved by one and all. There are those—Cahir and Ardan among them—who cast a worried, wary eye upon the Brigantes lord’s inexorable rise. I share their concerns, so I do, and the longer grows Brecan’s shadow, the more I distrust him.

  Thus, when I began hearing of Brecan’s restless travels, those furtive forays along the borders of his realm, I made it my business to find out more. Now, many a king likes to ride to the hunt, and every one of them makes a circuit of his lands from time to time—but not like Brecan, who seemed to ride out every few days with only a scant handful of his most trusted men to attend him.

  Who was Brecan meeting? And why?

  These questions plagued me for a season or two, and the more I brooded, the darker my suspicions became. Then Conor appeared. The eldest son of Lord Ardan, he had his father’s distrust of the Brigantes lord, and even dared to make his voice heard in the Oenach. What happened next could not have been conceived in another age and time: Lord Brecan had him beaten.

  Whether the king ordered it, or warriors of his warband took it upon themselves to enforce their lord’s will, made no difference. Incredibly, the incident passed without causing so much as a ripple, but when I learned of it I knew the time had come to discover Brecan’s intentions.

  Conor believes my method clumsy and ill advised, and perhaps, given time, the plan to remove him from suspicion could have been better. But I had no time. I had to act quickly and so I seized the first tool that came to hand. In this, at least, I am vindicated. For we have learned much in these last few days—enough, at least, to confirm my darkest suspicions that something of great and terrible consequence is about to be unleashed. There is still much to do, but we have made a start. I have every hope that soon, very soon, we will learn the secret that Brecan mac Lergath knows and has laboured long to conceal.

  22

  Manannán mac Lir, god of sea and sky, smiled on the stolen ship and the canny audacity of its pitiable sailors. The moon held sway most of the night, sinking into cloudy obscurity only a little before dawn. With the clouds came a heavy mist that rose from the surface of the water and drifted on a freshening wind. Conor, on the pilot’s bench, steered steadily north, following the coast; Fergal, working the ropes, tried to keep the sail full so the craft could maintain a fair forward speed. But it was a fight. The inexperience of the seamen made even simple tasks difficult. It had been a long, tense night and both men were tired.

  Nor were they the only ones fighting fatigue. It took all Huw’s considerable know-how to keep the horses calm and quiet, and Mádoc remained occupied with the wounded warrior below the half-deck.

  ‘How is Donal?’ asked Conor when Mádoc came to view their progress along the coast.

  ‘He is in a bad way.’

  ‘No change then.’

  ‘We must try to get him to shore as close as possible to Carn Dubh—they might be able to help him there.’

  ‘If I knew where that might be,’ Conor told him, ‘I would happily comply.’

  ‘Do you not know it? I am surprised.’ The old druid looked out across the sea at the slowly passing shoreline. ‘I fear our friend will not survive a lengthy journey over land.’

  ‘What is this Carn Dubh that makes it a good place to go?’

  Mádoc regarded him curiously. ‘Truly, you do not know?’

  ‘Truly, I do not. Nor will I, unless—’

  ‘A druid school—the oldest in Eirlandia,’ replied Mádoc. ‘It’s also the largest druid settlement, and there will be an ollamh or two who can do more for him than I can do on this cursed ship. On my oath, the very sails reek of Scálda to me.’

  ‘Show me—’ Conor made a sweep with his hand toward the long, undulating line of the coast in the near distance. ‘Show me where to steer, and I will do my best to take us there.’

  Mádoc frowned. ‘How should I be knowing where to steer? I have never approached the place from the sea.’

  Conor sighed, and with some exasperation, said, ‘If that is the way of it, I fear we must make landfall where we can—be it close to Carn Dubh or far away.’ He cast a glance around the empty sea round about. ‘And that soon, lest the Scálda find us.’

  Muttering, Mádoc moved off; he paused to speak to Huw and, patting the boy on the shoulder, continued on, making a circuit of the deck. Conor watched as the druid began to pace—three slow, deliberate steps—from one side of the ship to the other and back again. Head down, sight turned inward, back and forth he paced, pausing now and then, shaking his head, and then resuming. Once, he paused and put his thumb in his mouth and chewed for a long moment, then resumed his pacing.

  After a time, Conor lost interest and turned his attention to the coastline once more, searching for any possible haven. He was fairly certain that they had travelled far enough north to have passed out of Scálda reach. He gently nudged the vessel nearer the shore—the better to see any settlements, dwellings, or fishing camps. This, he thought, might indicate a bay or cove where they could make landfall. He called to Fergal and related this intention. Fergal, dull with fatigue, replied that he would do his best.

  The sun showed a dull ruddy glow low on the eastern horizon—like that of a hot iron trying to pierce sack cloth; and with the sunrise the wind shifted around to the south. Conor, plying the steering oar, eased the vessel onto a gently veering course that would bring them closer to the coast. Slowly, the ship adjusted to a new heading, and the wind fell away by degrees as they drew nearer to land and their progress slowed accordingly.

  Conor was scanning the rock-bound shore when he felt a
silent presence. He turned to see Rhiannon watching him—as if she had suddenly materialised from the sea.

  ‘Lady, I did not hear you,’ he said, rising from the steering bench. ‘How is Donal?’

  ‘He sleeps.’ Her deep blue eyes studied him closely. ‘How do you fare?’

  As if in answer to the question, Conor yawned. ‘I am as you find me.’

  ‘Then it is a tired man I see before me.’

  Conor shrugged. He did not feel inclined to say more.

  ‘So that is how it is.’ She offered a strange little smile, and half turned away. Conor thought she would leave him then but, swinging back quickly, she extended her hand—palm flat, fingers spread wide—and put her hand to his forehead. Instantly, Conor felt a surge of energy and the oppressive lethargy fled; his limbs became lighter, his vision keener; the mental fog dissipated; wit and perception became sharp once more.

  She removed her hand and smiled again, but it was clear to Conor that something had gone out of her—some part of her strength and stamina had entered him.

  ‘I thank you,’ Conor told her. ‘But if you had told me, I would have asked you to give the charm to Donal instead.’

  Rhiannon’s smile deepened and touched her eyes. ‘Your care and thoughtfulness is laudable. What can be done for your friend and swordbrother has been done. And it will be done for Fergal, too.’

  Conor watched as she moved to where Fergal stood at the spar ropes; there Rhiannon performed the same charm for Fergal. The effect was not only swift but, seen from a distance, amusing: the tall warrior staggered back and then jerked upright, shook his head vigorously, raised first one knee and then the other, and clapped his hands. Conor chuckled to himself. Dead on his feet one moment and dancing the next—never had he seen such a thing.

  ‘Are you well, brother?’ he called.

  Fergal grinned and waved at him.

  ‘I thought you might like some help. You were looking a little tired.’