The Last Days of Magic (22 page)

“How many do they have now?” asked Liam.

“Three. You must get them back.” A thick cloud passed before the sun, and the elder shouted a warning to one of the villagers. One voice to the next carried the alarm around the village, Fomorians preferred to attack when it was overcast.

“Tell them to stop building the stockade. It won’t help,” said Liam. “It won’t be needed either.”

The four of them rode on through the village and dismounted at the water’s edge.

“Make them come out,” Liam said to the twins.

Anya and Aisling exchanged whispers, then began to spin.

“No!” Haidrean stopped them. “Don’t use physical magic. Merge together to access the power of the Morrígna.”

“Fine, if that’s what you want,” said Anya. She and Aisling stilled themselves and gazed out over the water, green emerging in their gray eyes. Whirlpools bloomed across the estuary, dragging up mud and debris from the bottom.

Half a dozen dizzy Fomorians stumbled out, though not the king of their clan. The largest straightened up and snarled in his guttural language, “How dare you assault us!”

Anya replied, “We dare as we please. We are the Morrígna. Return your captives immediately.”

“You two are nothing more than ordinary druids,” he growled. He raised a clawed hand and leaped for Anya.

Aisling’s sword flashed, and his arm tumbled to the grass. He wheeled on her with a roar. She ducked under his remaining claws and thrust her blade into his heart. He fell to the ground, taking the sword and Aisling with him.

“Jerk it out,” ordered Liam. “And next time let the body’s weight pull itself off your blade as it falls. Now, keep an eye on the others.”

“How was that kill?” asked Haidrean.

“It felt strangely unpleasant, as if we failed somehow,” answered Aisling.

“You did,” said Haidrean. “Had you used his true name, you would’ve bound him to obey you, and you wouldn’t have had to kill him.”

“But we didn’t know his true name,” said Anya.

“An Elioud’s true name, like a Sidhe’s, is given to them by their
God in the Otherworld before they’re born into this world. The Morrígna knows all the names. When you two merge and bring forth your combined Goddess nature, you only have to remember them.”

“Only . . .” said Aisling, wiping the dark blood off her sword.

“Let’s try it,” said Anya.

“This isn’t practice,” declared Liam. “The king of their clan is still in the water. Call to him and compel him to immediately return the villagers he took.”

And so they did.

M
EMORIES
OF
WHAT
she and Anya were once capable of made Aisling restless. The sun had turned and was sinking toward twilight. She ran a finger down Conor’s chest, leaving a trail of heat and gold light. Conor opened his eyes. She said, “You called me back, you know.”

“Back?” he asked.

“Back to who I’m meant to be. Brigid tells me that my powers may soon be as strong as they were before Anya died.”

“Strong enough to leave Maolan for good?”

“Yes. Now that you’ve asked.” Aisling propped herself up, her elbows pressing into Conor’s chest, and smiled down at him. “No, wait. You can’t afford to pay my honor price if you petition for my marriage contract to be broken.”

“You can’t afford mine either.” Conor rose up to kiss her.

She dodged the kiss. “That’s not how the law works. Besides, you don’t have one.”

“I have more honor than Maolan has, so I must have a high price. You just don’t know what it is.” He wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his side, easing her onto the ground.

Aisling wiggled free from his embrace. “I challenge you to a contest. Whoever wins pays the other’s honor price to Maolan for breaking my contract.” Crawling over to their pile of clothing, she fumbled around until she withdrew her dagger. She stood and pointed it at
Conor. “Tadg told me that you used to be able to creep up on a stag and slay it with just a knife. Is that true?”

“You doubt it?”

“Well, I’ve never seen you do it.”

“The bow is much quicker,” he said. “I have to save all my time to lie with you.”

“I wager that I can bring down a stag before you,” she declared.

Jumping to his feet, dagger already in his hand, having been left within reach, Conor said, “Agreed. Though I doubt there’s any game left within two miles with all the noise you were making.”

Without a word Aisling slipped away between the trees. Her bare feet made no sound on the moss-covered ground. Locating a deer trail among the deepening shadows, she stopped, reached out with her consciousness, and felt the woods around her as Brigid had taught her. A stag had recently passed, heading north. She turned and raced up the trail. She could not see or hear Conor but sensed his presence moving to her right.

Coming to a clearing, she spotted the stag grazing unconcerned. She could tell that Conor was on the trail just behind her, and she smiled. She had a step on him and was going to win. She tensed for her final rush. She felt Conor reaching toward her. He caught the end of her hair and whispered, “Stop. Something’s wrong.”

She froze.

Conor did not move or speak.

One of the shadows across the clearing was too dark. She closed her eyes for a moment, reaching out again with her consciousness, connecting with the natural world around her. It was as if there were an empty space in the shadow. She opened her eyes and concentrated on seeing what could not be seen. Using her mind to push away all that was meant to be there, she saw a softly outlined face emerge, then a disjointed body. She reached up to where a ray from the setting sun was striking a tree trunk, scooped up a handful of light, and tossed it into the shadow.

“Woodwose,” Conor hissed.

The wild man was all sinew, bone, and tight skin painted with triangles of green between troughs of black tattoos, his head an explosion of hair and beard. A heavy club hung in his hand. A roar came from his mouth. The stag leaped out of the clearing. The Woodwose charged forward, raising his weapon.

Aisling instinctively threw her dagger, piercing his eye. Suddenly silenced, he fell face-first onto the grass. Around the clearing, shadows detached from the trees and rushed toward them. Aisling immediately regretted leaving herself unarmed.

Conor spun her by the shoulder. “Run!” he shouted. She fled behind him down the deer track. The forest around them became alive with pounding feet and crashing brush. A figure in a loincloth stepped in front of Conor. Conor ducked under the swinging club, came up, and plunged his dagger into the assailant’s stomach, dragging the blade up several inches before jerking it out and thrusting the screaming Woodwose aside. Only then did Aisling realize it was a woman.

Conor grabbed Aisling’s hand and led her off the trail. They ran for a minute, then stopped to listen to the movement in the forest around them. “Stay close,” he breathed as they moved on. Stopped. Listened. Moved again.

“Can you tell how many and where they are?” whispered Conor.

Aisling closed her eyes and tried again, shook her head. “Something’s hiding them from me. I only sense flutters of . . . of absence, moving in the forest.”

“Can you conceal us from them?”

“I’ve been trying, but that same something keeps clawing away at my enchantment. We have to keep moving.”

“Our best chance is to get back to the horses.”

“The horses are dead,” Aisling replied, knowing it as soon as he had said the words.

“Can we get to our swords?”

She concentrated. “We may be able to. There’s movement everywhere. It’s very hard to pin down.”

“Let’s try.”

They slid forward. Fifteen minutes later Conor paused, crouched, pointed. As she hunched beside him, she could barely make out the pile of their clothing up ahead in the deepening gloom.

“What do you sense?” Conor whispered.

“Traces of movement headed this way. A lot of them. They know we’re here.”

“I need to know if you’re ready for this fight, if you’re willing to work enchantments strong enough to kill anyone who attacks you.”

“I killed one already.”

“Yes, but that was with a knife. I’ve no doubt about your willingness with iron.”

“Just get our swords.”

Conor sprang forward. There was a bellow as figures moved to their left. Aisling stood, reached both arms into the air, and pulled a fog down on the charging Woodwose. She closed her eyes, and every tree in the surrounding forest seemed to shift a few feet. There were cries and the dull thuds of bodies hitting trunks and branches.

Conor reached their clothing and jumped over the pile, grabbing the hilt of his sword and letting his momentum unsheathe it. Planting both feet, he turned to retrieve Aisling’s sword but had to stop and slash the throat of a Woodwose charging out of the fog. A second man rushed him, and he spun, sweeping his sword down to cut open the attacker’s chest.

A woman emerged from the fog, saw Aisling, and charged. Aisling stopped thinking and just acted. The woman dropped the sharpened antler she had been wielding as if it had become red-hot. Aisling pivoted to avoid the charge, brushing her hand across the woman’s exposed breast. The woman crumpled to the ground, her heart no longer beating. Aisling sprinted toward Conor.

Being careful to slash, not stab and risk having his sword become
stuck, Conor had felled a third and a fourth Woodwose before a fifth surprised him by charging directly onto his sword all the way up to the hilt. Before Conor could free it, three jumped him, knocking him to the ground.

Aisling reached the heap of men and shattered the spine of one with a touch. A sudden impact from behind forced her down hard. She felt bodies piling on her, pinning her arms and legs, pressing her face into the dirt. She could not breathe. A shadow crept across her consciousness. She formed it into the shape of a rook, felt the gust of its wings. With no more air, a wave of shadows swept in and engulfed her.

“A
RT
THINKS
that the Roman Church will attempt an invasion, and I agree with him,” said Liam as he and Tadg rode their horses along the north road from Tara.

Art MacMurrough, the new Celtic high king–elect, was a bear of a man known for his love of wine and rich food as much as for his skill with a broadsword. The regional kings, queens, high nobles, and heads of the first-order guilds had gathered at Tara two days earlier to express their concerns to the previous high king about unrest among the Sidhe and what the freed Kellach might be plotting. Art had taken the opportunity to orchestrate a vote for the high-kingship and handily beat the throne holder and the only other person on the ballot, Lord Maolan. Art had worried about the possibility of losing to Turlough, the respected king of Meath, but the latter had not run.

Before he could be enthroned, though, Art had to pass the three ancient tests required of all high kings. Preparations were under way for the ceremony, which was to take place during tomorrow’s Festival of Bealtaine, marking the midpoint in the sun’s progress between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Liam and Tadg were on their way to meet Brigid’s delegation and escort to Tara the King’s
Cup, which was kept in trust by the Order of Macha and was required for the coronation ritual.

“I’ve sensed a stirring, a discontent in the trees and in the land. We may be fighting some of the Sidhe clans as well,” Tadg said. “Do you think Art can be the wartime king we’ll need?”

“He’s a good choice, if his drinking doesn’t get the better of him,” Liam replied. “He’s shrewd and has inspired much loyalty among Celtic warriors, and he can be ruthless.”

“Still, this will be a fight unlike any we’ve seen before. I believe that within the Middle Kingdom sides are being chosen. There are strange, unfamiliar forces at work,” said Tadg.

“And some Sidhe are leaving.”

“Leaving?” asked Tadg.

“There are pathways in the Middle Kingdom that lead to worlds other than this one. They are little known, and I don’t recall a time when I’ve heard talk of so many taking them.” Liam sighed. “Even some of my mother’s family are leaving, rather than risk war, risk their long lives.”