Storm Maker [The Dawn of Ireland 1] Page 22

  “Magpie will instruct them to ride with my pony NimbleFoot. When we leave the high king, you will find out from the birds where our people are, and you will Walk me to them. And I will even have a fresh mount waiting for me.”

  His bright eyes danced. “Well thought out, Caylith. I believe that will work. The wretches will never believe that we will be so close behind, and they may begin to get careless.”

  “What do you mean by ‘we,’ my friend?”

  Instead of answering me, Jay threw his head back, his mouth pursed into an O, and he began to call his friends. Soon about fifty birds were perched in low tree branches, and even walking about the grounds. They were calling and chittering all talking to him at once—wrens, and titmice, and finches, even a kestrel or two, and many more I did not recognize.

  Almost on cue, all the birds ceased talking at the same time while Jay trilled and whistled and sang to them. And then in a rush of feathers, and they all flew away at the same time.

  “They will do your bidding,” he said. “It is time to leave. Please be very still, and slow your breathing. The next sight we see will be the twin hills of Tara and the great mead hall and royal brugh of the high king himself.”

  I obediently grasped Jay’s hand, for I had performed the magical Walk with him many times before, during our underground adventures through Britannia more than a year past. I let my mind fix on the journey itself, the rapturous feeling of flight, rather than on the worries that were clouding my reason.

  I had slowed my breath so much that when we actually began the enchanted Walk, I was aware only of the wind running its cold fingers though my hair, and the pearl-gray shifting of color that I knew were clouds below me. Below the parting clouds, I caught a glimpse or two of stunning green landscape changing to brown as I flew over the changing terrain. Then I saw an intersection of brilliant-blue ribbons, and I knew it was the waters of the Rivers Boyne and Blackwater. Another minute or so found me standing unsteadily, my head spinning. I was starting to fall, but Jay’s firm hold kept me on my feet.

  “Cay. We have arrived. Take a moment to sit and clear your mind.”

  And so I sat and gazed around at my surroundings. A large round-house stood two hundred or so feet from me, limed brilliant white. Not far from it was a long, rectangular building, wood shingled with the roof windows open to the sky, the entire structure constructed of timbers.

  I realized that I was looking at the twin hills of Tara from the opposite perspective of when Mama and I had stood here several months ago, waiting for King Leary to hear our suit for lands. On the opposite side of where I sat would be the imposing Throne of Judgment, and the six-foot, white monument they called the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny. I thought the stone was like a giant’s finger pointing to heaven, and I ached to see it one more time and listen to the call of the bones underneath.

  I saw that I was near a grove of ash and chestnut trees which shaded the area all around, lending a lovely, cool aspect to the low-growing clumps of green grasses. The thin, three-part leaves of the ashes danced and twisted in the wind, which had started to gust even more as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen.

  I marveled at the fact that no one was walking around, and no guards were posted near the distant buildings. Perhaps, since the main entrances faced the other direction, any sentries would not see us yet. Just as I stood to walk toward Jay, I heard a voice behind me, somewhere in the trees, that made my heart race.

  “An’ how did ye get inside me defenses?”

  The voice was Liam’s. I whirled around, and the face was Liam’s—almost. The close-cropped beard was missing, and the brown eyes were perhaps a shade lighter than my lover’s. But the rest of him clearly announced “O’Neill.” Even his hair had that characteristic auburn cluster of curls falling from the crown, darker than the light brown hair around it.

  He was dressed in a magnificent léine of heavy, luxuriant wool, and the long sleeves seemed a riot of differently colored bars and checks. It was all gathered up into a thick, ornately braided leather belt, and his soft leather leggings showed underneath. A short sword hung from his belt. I judged him to be somewhere in his midtwenties.

  I saw Jay standing stiffly, a bird on each shoulder, watching us as I stopped and coolly regarded the stranger. “I believe my eyes behold Torin O’Neill, eldest son of the High King Leary.” I had to be right—there was no other O’Neill of that age, and Ryan had already told me his name.

  Torin stood rock-still looking at me. In fact, his bold eyes traveled over me starting with my toes, lingering on my breasts, moving to my eyes, and at last to my tousled hair. “Tá tú iontach álainn,” he breathed, and in that moment I almost ran into his arms, he looked and sounded so much like Liam. He had just told me that I was altogether beautiful.

  I regained control of my emotions with an effort. “Really?” I managed to say in an offhand tone of voice. “Then surely you must have come from a land of hags and hunchbacks. For every friend I have is far prettier than I.”

  He walked closer to me, his brown eyes full of the ironic humor that was part of the nature of all the O’Neills. “Then lead me to your home, lass, for I would live in a land of such ugliness the rest of me days.”

  I backed up a step or two and held my hands out in a gesture that clearly said, “wait.” It was natural for me to tease Liam—but this was not Liam. In fact, the sudden image of him, bound and wounded, froze my heart. “Please stop a moment and hear me. For I am here bearing grave news, and I seek the ear of the Ard Rí himself.”

  He stopped then. “Grave news? Tell me. I will not wait to hear it from Father, but from your own mouth. Speak!”

  “Torin. My name is Caylith Vilton, and I am betrothed to your brother Liam. This morning he was taken captive by an enemy seeking to hold him hostage. He is now on his way to the enemy stronghold, bound hand and foot, and he is at least drugged, if not injured.”

  “What?” Torin’s voice was strangled, as though someone held him by the throat. “Liam is hurt? And who would dare attack the king’s son so brazenly?”

  “Have you never heard of Owen Sweeney?”

  “I have only just returned from over the sea, Caylith. I have heard the name, but it seems to me he was exiled and set out to die by me father’s own proclamation.”

  “Sweeney has somehow survived. And now he seeks recompense for his lost lands. He will demand his property be returned in exchange for the life of Liam.”

  Torin shook his head in disbelief. “What I am hearing is not logical. First, who would so defy the proclamation of the Ard Rí? And second—if it be true, how would ye have such knowledge, unless ye be part of the plot?”

  “Then I beg you to listen closely, and then take me to your father quickly. Every moment we stand here is another moment that may cut Liam’s life shorter.”

  “I am listening.” He stood with his arms folded in front of his chest, his chin set at a stubborn angle. His eyes were angry.

  I took a moment to slow my breathing and speak slowly. “About one year ago, I stood on this very hill, at the foot of the Throne of Judgment. I had just recently come from Limavady, where I freed my mother from slavery under the hand of Sweeney—a murderer who had killed his own wife. In payment for bringing him to justice, King Leary granted to me and my people all of Sweeney’s holdings. Liam was well acquainted with me even then, for he was the one who pleaded my suit before your father.” I decided not to tell him about saving Liam’s life, for I had long ago forgiven my lover for his moment of immaturity. No one else need know about that.

  “Why would I now hold my own husband to be for ransom when the lands belong not to him, but to me? And why would I be in collusion with the man who enslaved my mother and killed his own wife—a man reviled at his trial and accused by his very mother and children?

  “Torin, I am asking you very kindly to please take me before your father. And for the sake of your brother, whom I love more dearly than life itself, I ask you to speak on
my behalf. We must convince the king to wait for a few days, until I can rescue Liam.”

  “But as yet he knows nothing of the plot.”

  “He will hear within the next few days, for I am sure a runner is on the way. Sweeney would have waited until Liam was captured before sending word.”

  “Caylith, I want to believe ye. And yet I cannot base my decision on faith alone—faith that ye mean no harm to Liam, nor to my father.”

  I felt suddenly exasperated by his objections. “If I meant him harm, he would have been injured or dead long ago. He is the man I live with. The man I love. As far as your father goes, you may stand over him with a hundred guards as I speak. Just. Let. Me. Speak. Is that so difficult?”

  I had not meant my last words to sound so like a taunt, for his sense of combativeness flared at my words. “Mind who ye speak to, lass.”

  “And whom do I speak to? A man who will be my own kin in less than a fortnight. For unless you further delay my warning to the king, Liam and I will be married—and you will be my new brother—in the time it takes you to travel to Derry for our wedding.”

  I stood looking into his eyes, and he was so achingly like Liam that I could not help reaching my hand out to his dear face. I touched my fingertips to his smooth cheek. “Please…Brother. Take us to the king.”

  He did not step away, but his eyes were still full of disbelief. “One more matter, lass. If all this happened only this morning, how can ye be here, more than four days’ ride away?”

  I sighed. “I will let the birds explain that to you. Come.”

  Together we walked to Jay, who had stood patiently waiting for all the tale to unravel. “May I present Jay Feather? Jay, this is Torin O’Neill, brother to Liam.”

  “I see you are doubting, Torin,” said Jay. “Let me tell you a few facts that you will no doubt disbelieve, but the birds will prove it.” He told Torin of the magical Walk, and of the role the birds played.

  “I cannot believe ye, that ye talk to birds, and they do your bidding. That ye flew here with them.”

  Jay said to Torin, “Ask this bird to do whatever you like, and I will bid him do it.”

  “Very well,” said Torin. Arms akimbo, he stood and spoke to the large, dark Talon in a taunting manner. “Sit before me and attend me as the next high king of Éire—Torin, to be called Lugh Mac Lóegairi.”

  Jay spoke briefly. The crow immediately flew from Jay’s shoulder and sunk its claws into Torin’s thick leather belt. Torin tried to shoo it off, but the raven clung there steadfastly, looking up at the clansman with its bright, glittering eyes.

  “You see how well he attends you,” said Jay with a half smile. “Now Claw, my pretty, lift the skirt of this next king of Éire, and show us his royal underwear.”

  The magpie flew to the hem of Torin’s tunic and grasped it in her beak. She raised her wings and began to rise, and I thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Torin’s naked thighs and bum exposed for all the world to see, while Talon clung fiercely to his belt.

  Torin’s face was suffused with crimson as he yanked his tunic back from the magpie’s beak. Jay called Talon and Claw back to his shoulder while the clansman regained his dignity. He looked from Jay to me and then at the birds. “I am chastened for sitting on the throne too soon.”

  Raven let out a confirming squawk, and I found it almost impossible to hide my own smile.

  “I have just come from Eboracum, in Britannia,” he said slowly. “These last four years I was an auxiliary there—a Roman fortress near the great Northern Wall. We call it ‘York.’ The centurions tell a tale there of the taking of Ravenscar almost two years ago by a great swarm of swans and a tiny redheaded girl. Tell me ye two had nothing to do with that.”

  Jay’s luminous eyes danced, and he looked at me. “The redheaded girl stands next to you. She is now somewhat, ah, filled out and grown up. The Saxon forces that were defeated at Ravenscar are now her own sworn lieges. And it is called a ‘bank’ of swans, not a ‘swarm.’”

  Torin said, “Someday, the two of ye may take a while and weave a tale to tell me own grandchildren. But ye be right. Time is more important than illogical facts and elaborate lies about thirty-pound swans. Let us seek me father.”

  As we walked to the royal buildings, Torin remarked, “Ye may not know, Cate, but your aspect—all the red hair, the red pelt, the weapons bristling from your belt, the birds—your aspect is exactly that of the goddess Macha.”

  I thought right away that here was knowledge I might use in case the druids decided to make my way difficult.

  “Indeed? Tell me more, Torin, as we walk. We can take the time to walk slowly, until I have heard what I need to hear.”

  “The druids will pretend that they are too worldly to believe it, but the great Morríghan, the Triple Goddess, is one they fear most. She has three faces—the face of Neaim, of the warrior Macha, and of Badb. All three are accompanied by at least one crow or raven, and they put the fear of the Almighty into every druid soul.

  “If suddenly red-haired Macha herself were to appear before the druids—if it became necessary—I would not be loath to fall to my knees in fear and wonderment.”

  Jay and I looked at each other, and we both started to grin. Jay spoke a few low sounds to Talon and Claw, and the two birds rose to the unique, wood-shingled roof of the large, rectangular building, rousing their feathers and calling out to the clear blue sky.

  “They await my voice,” he said.

  “Then let us gain the ear of the king,” I told my companions, “and perhaps entertain Loch and Lucet, the most powerful druids in all of Éire.”

  Chapter 22:

  The Raven Goddess

  Liam’s brother seemed to be a font of knowledge about the celebrated warrior goddess Macha. As we slowly approached the great mead hall—I supposed that is where we were being taken—Torin told us a bit of her intricate history, just enough that I began to get an idea of who she was and how I could use the knowledge.

  Father Patrick had already told me the story of Emain Macha, the site of his large monastery, and how it had been named after the legendary redhead. She had been drawn, against her will, into a foot race against some Ulster king’s own chariots. Even though she was heavy with child, she won the race but collapsed at the end, giving birth to twins and cursing the men of Ulster even as the infants were born.

  Later, when Liam was teasing me unmercifully, pretending that I had asked to marry him, Liam had had given me a darling, red-maned mare that I named Macha. So I already identified strongly with her. Now, feeling splendid in my new red-fox tunic, I began to be imbued with her very spirit, and I fingered the hilt of my long knife as Torin spoke about Macha.

  The king’s oldest son led us around to the front of the rectangular structure. I saw that it was made of fine wood, from trees I had already seen near Tara. I recognized the color and grains of fir, and yew, and pine, all burnished to a soft glow. A bank of guards stood tending the door. They stepped aside as Torin swept them with a silent glare, and we crossed the portal. Torin stopped before a drape-hung doorway. Sweeping it aside with one hand, he bowed elaborately and bade us enter.

  “Your audience is hereby granted. May I present the High King Leary and the renowned Queen Máirín.”

  I stood on the portal with Jay and gazed around at the famous mead hall of the High King of Éire. It was not nearly so large as the legends had built it—probably about half the size of my grandfather’s long house—but so resplendent with obvious wealth that I stood amazed as Torin announced our names to his parents.

  The entire building was perhaps one hundred feet long and thirty feet wide. The unique roof, made of interlaced wooden squares, held several windows, their shutters open to the sky. All along the walls hung the shields of the great clans of Éire, each one hanging above an ornate bench along a huge, long table that extended the entire length of the building. Here, I knew, any one of the four provincial kings of Éire, or any chieftain with wealth and reputation, wou
ld sit at his designated place under his own clan emblem at the invitation of the High King.

  The benches that stood at the table were high backed, each made of hammered copper and bronze. Their seats were cushioned with pelts of sable, mink, and other luxuriant furs.

  The table was made of sturdy oak, so highly polished that I saw the reflections of the painted shields on its surface. The effect was a rippling and mingling of bright color that ran the entire length of the building. There were about thirty guests present, each one constrained by tradition to sit under his own clan’s shield—not an especially convivial arrangement, I thought, for it left great gaps between the diners.

  I heard my own name being repeated by the king, and I fastened my eyes on him. It had been several months since my mother and I had stood before him as he granted me and my people all the holdings of the villainous Sweeney. At that time, he was vague yet benevolent, grateful for my saving the life of his darling son Liam. I had also noticed then that his eyes and the tilt of his head betrayed his tendency to ironic humor, just like his bold and insolent son.

  Now, however, King Leary looked anything but benevolent. He wore a stunning, marten-skin robe all hung with golden chains. A large emerald pendant hung on his chest. The heavy clothing and jewels seemed to weigh him down, for he sat with one hand rubbing his forehead and eyes, as though sick, or perhaps drunk.

  There was a certain cast about his eyes that seemed familiar to me somehow. As a healer, I had trained myself to recognize unusual symptoms. Leary had the look of a man under the influence of a narcotic.

  I remembered in a flash. It was the same look I had seen in the eyes of Uthor DragonsTongue, king of Middle Britannia, whom I had met on my journey to the Great Standing Stones about two years ago. That king was being slowly poisoned and drugged by one who pretended to be a friend and mentor.

  He lifted his face to me and said my name a second time. “Caylith of Vilton.” Then Torin had to translate the rest of his remarks. “Yes. I remember you and your mother. I hope you are enjoying your endowment.” He was referring to the former holdings of Sweeney. He paused and drank from his cup, a chalice embedded with little jewels. I saw that every finger on his hand held one or more rings of gold or silver inlaid with precious gems.