The Last Days of Magic (42 page)

“Do not worry,” said Eldan. “Kellach cannot afford to draw attention to this place by having it watched. He killed the Grogoch who created this chamber for him. Her name was Raisie, and I was the one who taught her our songs when she was young. . . .” Eldan’s voice trailed off.

“She told you of this?” asked Turlough.

“She became concerned about betraying the Morrígna and planned to tell Aisling. She was a solid girl,” replied Eldan. “Kellach thinks he owns us. We are one with the stone, and you do not own stone, you do not own something that outlives you, you just get to use it for a while. It is time for Kellach’s life to end, for the allegiance of the Grogoch and the Dryads to return to the Morrígna.”

Turlough reached toward the chamber’s opening, but Mamos grabbed his wrist. “No. It’s protected.” It was then that Turlough noticed the faint blue sheen across the mouth of the enclosure.

“I can break the enchantment,” said Mamos, “but doing so will alert Kellach. We must wait until we’re ready to act.”

“Ready? Ready for what?” asked Turlough, hoping he was not about to hear what he suspected was coming.

“Ready to perform the Ceremony of Hearts with the new twins,” replied Mamos gravely.

“For which we will also need Aisling’s heart,” added Eldan.

“In her death,” said Mamos, “Aisling will perform her greatest service to the Celts and the Sidhe. Her spirit will join with the Morrígna only to immediately return in the twins. It will be more of a birth than a death for her.”

“What if you’re wrong?” argued Turlough. “Then we lose all hope for the Morrígna’s help in defeating the English.”

“The Morrígna will provide an irrefutable sign.”

“And how will this sign come to you? In a dream? Or are you going to meditate by a waterfall?” Skepticism rose in Turlough’s voice.

“The sign will come to you, not me,” said Mamos, “when we submit Aisling’s twins to the Test.”

“And will you bond the Test with your life?”

“In this war what matters the life of one old man or one infant?”

“Yes, they are but infants, too young for the prescribed Ceremony of Hearts. That is, if they survive the Test. Even if they bring the Morrígna fully back into this world, what good can infants do us now?”

“Knowledge of the Morrígna’s return, even in infant form, will call the Sidhe away from Kellach and bind them to their old oaths. It will draw many back from their new worlds, binding them to this world again. The Morrígna will empower the Celts and the Sidhe to keep fighting the English until the twins are old enough to drive them out completely.”

“Mamos speaks with truth,” said Eldan, smoothing closed the stone chamber, leaving no trace of its existence.

. . . . .

Aisling awoke shivering. She slipped from under the covers of their bed and stood in the darkness. She concentrated. A glow rose in the hearth, surrounding the stacked wood. She concentrated harder. There
was a spark, a sudden whoosh of air, and the wood burst into flame, bringing a smile to her face.

“Your power is returning,” mumbled Conor from the bed.

“That’s not all that’s returning.” A candle on the bedside table sputtered, then lit. Aisling pulled her night shift off over her head and crawled back into their bed.

Two hours later she untangled herself from Conor and padded across their bedchamber to the crib.

“Ah, the joys of making up for lost time,” said Conor, propping himself up. Aisling picked up one of her daughters, Deirdre, whom she had heard moving, but not crying. Both Deirdre and her sister, Uaine, rarely cried, which worried Aisling. Climbing back into bed, she held the hungry infant to her breast.

Conor rubbed her shoulders as the baby suckled. “The whole country has been waiting for you.”

“I’m not sure I am ready to fight yet.”

“The English will soon sweep through and destroy our tiny castle,” said Conor softly. “There’s little time left. I will be by your side to protect you, and I will make sure Liam and Art provide a large guard.”

“I’m not afraid of dying. It was not long ago that I yearned for it,” Aisling reminded him, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her daughter’s head. “I’m afraid of losing you. The Skeaghshee were right—when I fight, people around me die. People I love.”

Conor stroked Deirdre’s dash of red hair until the baby unlatched from her mother, having fallen into a deep sleep. “We will just have to protect each other.” Conor took Deirdre from Aisling and replaced her with Uaine, whose arms were outstretched.

“This land brought me only misery,” said Aisling, directing a nipple into Uaine’s eager mouth. “Until I found you. You mustn’t die, for our girls’ sake as much as for mine. If you leave me for the After Lands, I’ll plummet back into my dark half. I know I will. I can feel its edge even now, and then what kind of life will our daughters have? Better I die than you.”

“We can’t hide from Richard in any castle, and we can’t hide from Kellach in any forest. They’re coming for you, and they will have to go through me.” Conor knelt in front of Aisling and kissed her palm. Taking the candle, he gently blew against the flame, which streamed over and swirled into a small ball in her hand. Conor stopped blowing, yet the yellow sphere of flame continued to grow. “We have to fight them. Defeat them. You and I together.”

Aisling closed her hand, and the flame disappeared. “I know.” She sighed. She stroked Conor’s cheek, her hand still warm. “I go to battle to protect you. I’ll not let you leave me, and I’ll not let our daughters lose their father.” She kept her voice steady with deliberate effort.

When Uaine was finished, Conor returned her to the crib, gently placing her alongside her sister, where their tiny chests rose and fell in unison. Aisling stood to follow but was overcome with the sudden vision of a fate worse than losing Conor—losing her daughters. She grasped the bedpost and took several deep breaths, but she quickly realized that the vision did not have the feeling of true foresight, and she dismissed it as the normal anxiety of a new mother.

24

Tara, Ireland

December 26, 1394

L
iam walked down the Hill of Tara in the frosty morning and into the Gallowglass encampment. All of the warrior schools had brought their students with at least five years of training to join the established Gallowglass companies—although one look at the faces gathered around the campfires told Liam that more than a few younger than thirteen years old had slipped in as well.
They will not be students after tomorrow,
he thought.

Reaching the center of the camp, he strode into the giant common tent searching for his niece, Treasa, to whom he had given his Sgathaich Scoil warrior school. Liam found her with Earnan and a scrivener, signing a one-year-and-a-day marriage-contract renewal.

“Another year? I thought the previous one was the last for sure,” declared Liam.

Earnan pulled open his tunic, revealing a fresh wound among the scars. “We fought for it, and she won again.” Leaning into Liam, he whispered, “It’s how I keep her renewing.”

Treasa glanced up from the document. “No use signing a longer contract, as you’re probably going to get yourself killed in this war.”

“I left all my property to Liam. I don’t want you motivated to let me get killed.”

“You don’t have anything I want.”

“We’ll have to feast to your happiness later,” Liam interjected. “All Irish forces are moving south to Ratoath village today. The English have finished their God’s-birth celebration and are advancing up Slige Cualann.” Slige Cualaan was the kings road south, from Tara past Dublin.

“What kind of people worship a God that has only been born once?” asked Treasa.

“Have your students ready to leave in an hour,” said Liam. “Your school will ride with my companies.”

Treasa gave Earnan a long, hard kiss. “About time we got the chance to kill English.” She bounded out of the tent with Earnan following. Cries could be heard rising through the camp as similar orders were received.

. . . . .

At the Meath embassy in the Tara royal enclosure, Art stood beside the druid Mamos and looked down at Turlough, whose bedcovers were soaked in sweat. Turlough mumbled incoherently as Mamos placed a wet rag on his feverish forehead.

“He may not survive the day, even with my treatment,” said Mamos.

Art frowned. “Do what you can, but meet us at Ratoath by dawn tomorrow. We will need you. More is at stake than one life, even a king’s life.”

“Trust me, that’s something I understand,” replied Mamos.

. . . . .

Aisling, dressed in riding attire and a warm cloak, stood holding both Deirdre and Uaine in her Dunsany Castle bedchamber. She gently rocked them while softly singing an Irish lullaby. Brigid, wearing her white robes, walked in followed by a wet nurse. Through the window the afternoon light darkened as sleet began to fall, carried on the east wind.

“We need to go,” said Brigid, putting her arm around Aisling’s shoulders. “Richard has started up the kings road and will be here in two days, at Tara in three, if we don’t stop him.”

Aisling hugged her daughters tighter. “I keep having this feeling that it’s wrong to leave them, that I should be doing something different to protect them.”

Brigid rested a hand on each tiny head and closed her eyes. “I have no foresight of any danger to them. They’ll be safe here.”

Reassured by Brigid’s words, Aisling felt her anxiety ebb. She kissed each of her daughters and handed them to the wet nurse just as Conor entered carrying her sword. “The horses are ready.”

“Remember, no unnecessary risks,” Aisling commanded her husband. “We both must survive this.” She accepted her sword and cast a final longing look back at her twins.

. . . . .

Night had fallen when Turlough forced down the foul-smelling drink that Mamos held to his lips. Half an hour later, he was standing, shaky but able to dress. “Did you have to make my illness that bad?” he said, more an accusation than a question.

“It had to be convincing to Art and any druids he brought,” replied Mamos.

“He did not bring any druids.”

Mamos shrugged.

“Get me some ale and bread.” Turlough’s order was stern enough that Mamos bowed and hurriedly left for the kitchen.

By four in the morning, Turlough and Mamos were once again slogging toward the earthen ring, this time in sleet rather than rain. A glow rose from within it, illuminating the ice forming on the trees surrounding the field. Hesitating at the entrance and eyeing the small group of Grogoch and Dryads waiting inside, Turlough asked Mamos, “Are you sure this is the only way? You are staking our lives on it.”

“We are staking more than our lives on it,” replied the old druid. “The time is upon us. We must act.”

“What do you think Kellach will do when he feels you break his enchantment protecting the heart segment?”

. . . . .

Dawn was more a rumor than true light when Jordan pushed open his tent flap and stepped out. The wind had died, and sleet had given way to heavy snow. His squire was working to get a fire going. His small camp was set off by itself north of Clonee, a village on the kings road that had been so overwhelmed by the English encampment that
it was no longer possible to tell village from camp. Citing the role of the Vatican as an observer, Jordan had taken to keeping his distance from the English army. Najia emerged from his tent and bent to help with the fire. Miraculously, it roared to life. The real reason Jordan kept his camp well away from the others: there was growing talk among the English that Najia was a witch.

Feeling restless, Jordan pulled his cloak tighter and headed north. His boots crunched upon the frosted grass. The fate of Ireland was about to be decided, and, to his surprise, he was no longer conflicted. It was not just his distaste for Orsini’s blackmail, trying to force him to join the VRS League when he returned to Europe, nullifying the legate’s promise of land and title. No, it was Ireland itself. Every day he sensed Ardor evaporating, like a river in a drought, but there was still more here than anywhere else. It made Ireland feel like home. And there was Najia to consider. Europe was becoming an increasingly dangerous place for women like her. He was not sure she could ever return safely. The light in the eastern sky grew, along with his certainty: he wanted the Irish to win. Now, what to do about it?

He passed through a gate in a low, gray stone wall and started across a large field with a hawthorn tree in the center. Spying a figure standing under the barren tree, he diverted toward it. Kellach, staring uneasily to the northwest, did not acknowledge Jordan’s approach. It was the first time Jordan had seen him concerned.

“Worried about the battle today?” asked Jordan.

“Which side are you hoping will win, in truth?” asked Kellach.

The man and the Sidhe stood under the tree in silence as snow fell down around them. Jordan slowly edged his hand toward his dagger. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kellach’s hand move to rest on the hilt of his sword. That was unfortunate. Jordan wished he had thought to bring his sword on his morning walk. He considered making a move anyway, but knew it would be foolhardy, he had seen how deadly a fighter Kellach was. Jordan, then Kellach, allowed their hands to drift back down to their sides.