The Last Days of Magic (35 page)

“What’s wrong?” asked Conor gently.

“I don’t know,” snapped Aisling, throwing off the covers. “You’re welcome to my handmaid if you must quench your desires.”

She climbed out of their bed and lumbered over to the fireplace, feeling Conor’s eyes follow her. Placing wood on the grate, she spoke a short fire incantation. A single spark fell from the wood and died on the fireplace floor. Aisling gave a deep sigh. “They’re sucking all the power from me.”

“They?”

“Yes.” Aisling turned to face Conor, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. “I’m carrying twin girls. I know I am.”

Conor rose, walked over, and embraced her. “That’s wonderful.”

“Is it? I keep thinking about what happened to me, what happened to Anya!” cried Aisling, relieved to finally unburden herself. “It’s making me crazy. I don’t want my daughters to go through what I went through. I don’t want to lose them to the Sidhe. Or to Tara, where their whole lives will be dictated to them. I have to keep them safe and free somehow.”

“Hush,” said Conor. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you or our daughters.”

“I keep dreading Brigid’s knock on our door.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Conor. He kissed Aisling’s eyes and stroked her hair. “You know Brigid never knocks.”

“You’re right about that,” said Aisling, wiping a tear from her cheek.

“And why should I knock?” asked Brigid, entering their bedchamber. “Think of all the fun I’d miss.”

Aisling took cover behind Conor. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of our house! I don’t want your news!”

“It’s all right, everything will be all right,” said Brigid. “I’m not here to tell you your twins are the returned Morrígna. I’m just here to help you deliver. It’ll be any day now.”

Still hiding behind Conor, Aisling cast a suspicious look at her.

“I keep telling you that the Morrígna can’t return to this world as long as you occupy one aspect,” said Brigid in a soothing tone.

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Have you ever known me to be wrong?” Brigid smiled. “Now, get dressed and let’s have breakfast.”

Liam stuck his head in the doorway. “Breakfast sounds good. Come on, Brigid.”

. . . . .

“What’s the latest word on the English?” asked Conor, pulling out a chair for Aisling as they joined Liam and Brigid at the table in the warm kitchen of Dunsany Castle.

“The Fomorians are keeping a sea-level eye on their preparations,” replied Brigid. “It looks like they’re still planning for an invasion attempt late next spring.”

“Makes sense,” said Conor. “Who would want to start a war with winter approaching, even if Kellach can get part of their fleet ashore?”

“Can he really do that?” asked Aisling, piling her platter with cold ham, duck breast, bread, honey, and butter.

“He can get them safely through the waves,” said Brigid, pouring herself a mug of dark ale. “But I doubt many ships will get past the Fomorians.”

“And the Irish Vikings are always itching for an excuse to attack English ships,” added Conor. “As for those who make it to shore alive, we’ll handle them easily. After the solstice High King Art is planning to—”

“I’m nervous,” interrupted Aisling.

“About?” asked Brigid.

“Our strategy, the timing, everything. I can’t foresee what will happen, but that may just be my pregnancy getting in the way.”

“Between Kellach and the VRS, there’s an impenetrable veil covering the English preparations,” said Brigid, trying to reassure her. “And there’s too much turmoil in the Middle Kingdom. I can’t get any help from the Sidhe right now. I’m afraid we have no choice but to rely on spying by the Fomorians.”

“I also have a bad feeling,” Liam said, putting down his half-drained mug of ale. “Something just seems wrong. Two nights ago I dreamed of clear-cut woods and boiling lakes. So yesterday I convinced one of my Sidhe half brothers to go snooping. There are still a few passages to Wales open in the Middle Kingdom.”

“Good thought,” said Brigid, carving off another piece of cold ham. Nudging Conor with her elbow, she asked, “How comes your new army, Lord McTadg?”

“He’s making some progress in organizing them,” replied Aisling.

“The Woodwose may lack discipline, but they excel in enthusiasm. They make great fighters,” said Conor. “Though I still haven’t heard back from Art on my petition for iron weapons. I think he’s nervous about these wild people having sworn allegiance to Aisling and me and not to him. There are over three hundred in the camp now, plus an ever-increasing flock of children.”

“Speaking of my Woodwose,” Aisling said, leaning in close to Brigid. “How would you like to be treated like a Goddess for the day?”

“I’d like to be treated as a Goddess every day.”

“Well, then, eat up and follow me.”

. . . . .

Aisling and Brigid walked west through the gardens behind the castle toward the tree line. It was nine days past the autumn equinox, a brisk October morning. Brigid followed Aisling into the trees, their leaves drifting down to the forest floor, creating a carpet of brown decorated with swaths of gold and red.

Half a mile along the path, just past the staked head of the previous shaman preserved with pine oil, they entered a large clearing, the site of the Woodwose camp. It was rapidly becoming a true village with new, crudely constructed huts. A swarm of boys and girls gathered around them, laughing and practicing their bowing and curtsying, though it was still a bit random as to who did what. Aisling did not bother correcting them today.

When the Woodwose camp had been established, just one day after Aisling and Conor arrived at Dunsany Castle, Aisling had told them that they had new Gods now, ones who did not desire live offerings of their people, a practice that Aisling had been disturbed to find in progress when she entered the camp that day. Instead their new Gods required devotion to her and obedience to her consort to atone for the death of Tadg.

Aisling’s appointed attendants, whose fresh white robes contrasted with the animal skins worn by the rest of the tribe, shooed the children away. They escorted Aisling and Brigid a short distance to a second, smaller clearing. On the way Aisling could hear a group of the bolder children sneaking along behind them. As with all things, the Woodwose devoted themselves to Aisling with unbridled fervor, creating this open-air temple for her.

When she and Brigid entered, two men used forked branches to roll large rocks out of a bonfire and into a pool that had been dug at the edge of the clearing, generating loud splashes and brief hisses. Aisling’s attendants helped her undress. Using the Woodwose’s rough, limited language, Aisling ordered them to attend to Brigid
next as she hugged herself to ward off the chill. Another attendant brought over a large pot of honey, clarified to remove the comb, which had been warming at the fire’s edge. The attendants giggled as they smeared the warm, sticky honey onto Aisling and Brigid. Infected with their laughter, Brigid and Aisling joined in.

“Gods, this feels good,” said Brigid, “but how am I ever going to get my clothes back on?”

“Just wait,” said Aisling. “There’s more to come.”

Brigid leaned over and licked a glaze of honey off Aisling’s shoulder, which the attendants found hilarious. “You should teach them to take it off with their tongues.”

“After the babies are born,” replied Aisling, moving toward the pool. “Follow me.” She gently lowered herself into the water, feeling her heavy body become weightless. The hot rocks had barely taken the chill off the pool, but she found that when she rested her feet on their still-warm surface, the heat rose into her body.

The two men who had been attending the fire had become aroused watching the ceremony and took the opportunity to dash over to the attendants, who admonished them to wait. The men threw their animal-skin cloaks and loincloths to the ground and squatted on their haunches, swaying gently. The attendants carefully hung their white gowns on tree limbs and then, with cries of delight, dove onto the expectant men.

Aisling floated beside Brigid, watching the revelry. “Poor Conor,” she said. “My babies are sapping all my energy, all my desire. He’s had no sex for more than a month.”

“I’ll bring over one of my novices to keep him contented until the twins are born,” said Brigid.

“No. He won’t take anyone else. I’ve tried.” Aisling felt around with her toes until she found a warmer rock. “So how long have you known that I’m carrying twin girls?”

“As long as you have, of course.”

“And what do you think of me losing my abilities?” asked Aisling. “Is this normal?”

“Normal? No, but I’ve read of other occurrences,” reassured Brigid.

“I can’t seem to work even the simplest of enchantments,” said Aisling. She rubbed her belly and smiled briefly when she felt a kick. She placed one of Brigid’s hands on the spot, but the baby didn’t move again.

“I worked so hard to forge a new connection to the Morrígna’s power,” said Aisling. “Losing it again has been . . . troubling. What do I do if it doesn’t come back?”

“Don’t worry, your abilities will return, and your girls will become powerful druids. In fact, one may become the next Brigid—hopefully while I’m still young enough to win back Liam.” Brigid gave Aisling a sly smile.

“That might not be a good thing.”

“Liam and me? Why?”

“No, not that.” Aisling hesitated. “I’m not sure I want my girls to be druids. The world’s becoming difficult and dangerous for them.”

They were interrupted by a group of young naked children sprinting from the woods and diving into the pool.

When Aisling tried to get the children to practice their Gaelic, they ran off. The pool had become too cold and the attendants had once again donned their robes. Aisling and Brigid climbed out of the water and stretched out on the grass in the sun. A warm pot of melted butterfat was brought over, and the attendants oiled their skin.

“Are we coming back tomorrow? I could get used to this,” said Brigid, staring up at the sky, where a small flock of rooks circled. As she studied them, her face became concerned. The rooks flew west, then disappeared, apparently dropping into the forest. “We should return to Liam and Conor,” she said, gathering her clothes. “Tell your Woodwose to be alert and keep their children close.”

Aisling and Brigid walked out of the tree line behind Dunsany
Castle only to see Liam, Conor, and six Gallowglass sprinting toward them.

“Liam’s half brother has returned from Wales with word that the English fleet left Milford Haven this morning. We must ride for Waterford,” declared Conor as they reached Aisling.

“And the fleet is twice as large as the Fomorians told us,” added Liam.

“Which means they must be in league with Kellach,” said Brigid.

“I’ve sent word to Art and the Vikings at Waterford,” said Liam. “Can you fight in your condition?” he asked Aisling.

“I can’t even get a candle to light,” said Aisling. “I will be of no use.”

“That’s why they’re coming now. I should’ve anticipated this,” said Liam.

“How did they find out?” asked Conor.

A dozen rooks passed overhead from the west. One wheeled back and landed on a branch. A drop of blood fell from its beak.

“My Woodwose!” cried Aisling.

Liam and his warriors ran down the path, while Conor and Brigid followed with the slower Aisling. When they caught up, Liam and his men were hacking at branches that had woven themselves into a solid wall around the Woodwose camp. Aisling called the names of her attendants. There was no response.

Liam broke through the barrier, and the group spilled into the hushed clearing, where they found piles of corpses: men, women, and children. Aisling knelt by the small stack of her attendants’ bodies.

“Aisling.” A voice drifted from across the barrier on the other side of the clearing.

Conor stepped between Aisling and the voice. Two Gallowglass drew their bows.

“Skeaghshee,” Liam said to his men. “Save your arrows. They won’t make it through the wall.”

“Aisling, this is your fault,” the voice said. “Had you just let them
be, left them scattered in the woods worshipping their old Gods, they would still be alive. You need to learn that you are not strong enough to protect those around you. You failed Anya and Tadg, and now them.” Flames erupted from the piles of bodies.

Thrown backward by the force of the combustion, Aisling landed hard. A snap echoed through her bones, and amniotic fluid flowed out onto the ground, followed by a single, powerful contraction. She grimaced. “The babies are coming.”

20

On the Path to Waterford, Ireland

That Night

C
onor clenched his jaw.
What do I want?
he questioned.
Who am I, and what have I become?

High in the midnight sky, a half-moon cast a slash of silver light down into the forest trail, punctuated with deep black moon shadows. A dark arm swept toward him. He ducked under the branch without slowing his horse—or his thoughts.

Are my daughters born yet? Are they healthy?
Questions kept looping through his mind, and his heart ached for Aisling, whom he had left in labor eight hours earlier. He swung his horse around a boulder. There were no calls from rooks in the night. No message from Brigid. For the first time, he really knew what it meant to be an earl: to have an honor price, to owe duty to Ireland, to leave his wife in labor and ride to war. The feeling sat like a stone in his throat.