The Last Days of Magic (48 page)

“It is done,” announced the Grande Sorcière. “We have finalized terms with Richard.” She took the seat Joanna had vacated as the eunuch gathered clothing from an armoire.

“Then we will have Ireland as well?” asked Joanna. She pulled off her shift. Thin trails of smooth pink scars snaked up her right arm, across her shoulder, and wove around half her torso; they spoke of the high cost of learning flame enchantments, paid early in her training.

“We must be clever and patient,” replied the Grande Sorcière, and she sipped from Joanna’s half-drained wine goblet. She had always found Joanna’s scar work eerily beautiful, like an elaborate tattoo. “It was a miracle that Richard prevailed in Ireland, but he has become unloved by many of his lords at home. Not only will we have to control him, we must gain control of the English royal court, and then Ireland will be open to Us.”

The eunuch helped Joanna into a floor-length yellow chemise—silver thread woven into its lace collar and sleeves long enough to cover her scars—then belted on a purple velvet robe. The High Coven’s witches forwent the restrictive fashions of the day for their private nighttime gatherings. “How many Sidhe do you believe are left there?” Joanna asked.

“Enough for Our purposes, not enough to resist Us. We could not
have hoped for better. We will enslave them, break them, and take their magic. Then We will not have to hide Our coven behind these pathetic kings. No one will be able to stand against Us, not even the Vatican.”

“The VRS will be a fight.” Having checked herself in the mirror, Joanna followed her queen out.

The Grande Sorcière waved her hand dismissively as she glided along. “Orsini has disappeared. They can do nothing to stop us.”

The eunuch, carrying a candelabrum, illuminated their path down a long hallway. He pushed open the door to the private audience room and bowed deeply as they entered.

The Grande Sorcière’s three oldest daughters and their tutor, the Witch of Ripabianca, sat around a chalk circle drawn on the floorboards in the center of the room. The tutor was showing Joan how to prepare a viscous, dark potion in a bowl made of ash wood. Five years old, Joan was promised for a summer wedding to John “the Wise” of Brittany. Marie, four years old, squirmed restlessly, unable to follow the complex procedure, unlike the oldest daughter, Isabella, six. In the center of the circle lay a lamb, its throat slit open, its blood drained, and its skin flayed. The tutor handed the bowl to Isabella, who slurped in a mouthful of the thick, green liquid. The child closed her eyes, and the Grande Sorcière knew she would be visualizing what she wanted from the lamb. Isabella snapped open her eyes, pursed her lips, and sprayed the lamb corpse with the now-red liquid.

“Réveillez!”
she commanded.

The wide, lidless eye swiveled, then settled on Isabella.

“Soulevez!”
she said, straightening her own spine and lifting her palms.

The lamb struggled onto its legs like a newborn, stood shakily, and gave a wag of its skinned tail.

“Marchez!”

With dainty clicks of cloven hoofs upon the wooden floor, the lamb almost made it around the circle before it tripped and crumpled to the floor in front of the Grande Sorcière.

Marie and Joan clapped their hands enthusiastically. “Very good, Our little dove. You’re getting much better,” said the Grande Sorcière. “Now, gather around, We have great news about England.”

Isabella spoke up, her voice hoarse from the effort of her incantation. “Does this mean that negotiations are complete, Mother?”

“Yes, Our little dove. We have bribed Richard to take you as his new queen.” The witches erupted in laughter, which the Grande Sorcière could not help but join. “For one hundred thousand francs per year,” she managed to get out, “and a promise of peace.” The laughter intensified. Isabella jumped up and hugged her mother.

. . . . .

In November, upon receipt of payment, Richard married Isabella, making her queen of England, Wales, and Ireland, and the youngest queen in the history of the realm. It was five days before her seventh birthday.

On the morning of Isabella’s departure from France, the Grande Sorcière had summoned her daughter to issue final instructions to her. Leading her into the secret chamber where Taddea’s candle burned, the Grande Sorcière began, “Always remember that the blood of Our coven’s founder, Taddea, runs in your veins, a coven that has been unassailable for over a hundred and twenty years.” From her pocket she removed a small red glass box that she had enchanted earlier. She carefully lifted the lid a fraction and flame streamed inside the box from Taddea’s candle threatening to douse it, but the lid clicked shut first.

A glow flickered faintly through the opaque glass as she handed the box to Isabella. “You are to build your coven within the English court the same way Taddea did here. However, their royal bloodline is more fractured than the French was. Many families harbor claims to the throne. You must be thorough in establishing a foundation of control and power. When you have done that, make a candle from human tallow and light it with this flame. We will know and will send more of Our witches to join you at the English court. Then We will move on to Ireland.”

“Yes, Mother,” replied Isabella, fidgeting with excitement.

T
HE
FOLLOWING
YEAR
on the outskirts of Dublin, a woman wearing a floppy bonnet and a frock and holding a basket of turnips watched a plain post-and-wattle house from the shadows across the dirt road. A three-year-old girl with wild red hair played in the October mud of the unkempt yard. Beyond her a woman’s muffled voice could be heard yelling inside. When the door opened, the yelling spilled out in full volume, and Captain John Cooper beat a hasty exit. “Make sure you spread my sheltering water or you’ll be sorry!” shouted Aisling behind him, her voice rising to a screech. “And when you get back—” John slammed the door closed without saying a word, causing Aisling’s voice to become indistinct again. Dutifully, he carried an earthenware jug and splashed its bright yellow contents around the yard. The woman in the floppy bonnet knew it was a potion consisting of Aisling’s urine, steeped with crushed hawthorn leaves for seven days, then infused with a curse—an old method used to prevent Sidhe from stealing human children.

John shook out the last of the liquid and the used leaves, then quietly set the jug beside the door. He walked over to Deirdre and took an apple out of his pocket, cut it, and placed half into the girl’s outstretched hand, smiling at her. She beamed, and he ruffled her hair, then strode briskly toward Dublin Castle, eating the other half.

The woman, her face hidden beneath the ample bonnet, retreated in the opposite direction. Two miles down the road, she veered toward a farm. Rounding the stable, she found Liam and Earnan sitting on a log, talking to the farmer and his wife, awaiting her. Treasa removed the borrowed bonnet and handed it to the farmer.

“She’s getting worse,” said Treasa, pulling the baggy frock over her head and revealing her own mail vest. “We should just kill her. I know her husband would be grateful.”

Liam handed Treasa her sword. “That decision was made long ago, right or wrong.”

“Wrong, I think,” said Earnan, giving Treasa a quick kiss.

Treasa grabbed Earnan’s collar and drew him in for a long kiss. “If you go crazy on me, I’ll not hesitate to slit your offending throat.”

“And Deirdre?” asked Liam.

“Seems happy enough. John clearly dotes on her.”

“Good.” Liam sighed.

Having made his periodic check on his former charge, a lingering duty Liam could not bring himself to abandon, the three mounted their horses and rode west toward home, careful to stay off the road and avoid English patrols.

. . . . .

Treasa had left Aisling’s house before seeing Deirdre wander over to a scrubby bush where John had splashed some of the sheltering water. Curious, the child reached toward the plant, still wet with urine. A small spark leaped out and bit her index finger. She snatched her hand back and, angry that the bush had done such a thing, frowned at it. Threads of fire blossomed, dancing among its leaves. The bush crackled, crinkled, and died before her eyes. With a satisfied smile, Deirdre returned to her mud pies, not understanding what she had just done.

. . . . .

Half a day’s ride through the stubbled remains of clear-cut forests brought Liam, Treasa, and Earnan within sight of Kellach’s solitary, giant oak, Gormghiolla, silhouetted on the horizon by the sunset, the stockade ringing its base. Leaves had never returned to its branches.

“There’s a Skeaghshee who deserves to die,” said Earnan.

“The VRS continues to toy with him,” said Liam, turning from the sight. “I’m sure he wishes for death by now.” They directed their horses north to look for a place to camp for the night.

The next day they skirted Tara, which had been abandoned on Richard’s orders. All governing functions had been moved to Dublin, while the guild headquarters were relocated to Galway. Most of Tara’s buildings were already in ruins, the English having pulled them down and hauled off the stones to build their own castles and
manor houses. The only activity on the hill was the construction of a new Christian monastery, adjoining what was once Tara’s main gate, to house the VRS League.

Three more days brought them to the Derryveagh Mountains north of Donegal, the sparse and rugged northwest corner of Ireland, where the English rarely ventured. They rode along the shore of Lough Dunlewey, located at the foot of the glittering quartzite peak of Mount Errigal, then followed the river Owenabhainn upstream into Nimhe Glen, where Liam had built a one-room stone-and-thatch cottage. Liam drew his dagger, stuck its point into his thumb, and gave it a quarter twist to ensure a good flow of blood drops onto the ground as he approached his home, an offering to the earth spirits he had asked to conceal its existence. Treasa and Earnan did the same.

The next morning Liam, lying on a pallet stuffed with wool set on the floor and covered with his cloak, awoke to rustling sounds coming from the bed, which he had given to Treasa and Earnan. Deciding to allow them some privacy, Liam donned his cloak and braced himself for the cold. Outside, a tinge of blue in the eastern sky hinted at the coming sunrise. He walked down to the riverbank and sat on a boulder, waiting. The sun eventually cleared the valley wall, and he turned his face to it, feeling the warmth.

When sunlight had crawled down to the river, Liam removed his clothes, carefully folding and stacking them on the boulder, and waded out into the waist-deep center. He eased himself down until the water was up to his neck. He felt the heat of his body fight the frigid water, watched the sunlight fill the valley, and wondered what was left for him in this life.

The English lords, never happy with the size of their new Irish lands, were contracting with Gallowglass companies, but as a crossbreed he was less than welcome. He would not have worked for them anyway. Their petty fights seemed pointless.

Perhaps Fearghal had been correct. Perhaps it was time to move on from this life to the After Lands, or Tír na nÓg, or whatever truly
came next. For that he would need an epic battle, one worth dying in. During practice fights it had become clear that his original half-Sidhe ability to anticipate the moves of a challenger had become unreliable, like the Ardor of Ireland, leaving him vulnerable. He laughed to himself. Hopes and dreams still lingered in this defeated land, but they had decayed into such thin desires. It’s possible, he thought, that even today news of such a battle might be coming, brought to him by those he sensed moving up his valley. There were two of them, he determined as he focused on their energies, one a Sidhe. He had not encountered a Sidhe for almost a year. Deciding to wait in the river for his visitors, he rose enough to let the sun warm his chest and arms again, the water that dripped down his body shimmering in the light.

Liam was pleased to see that it was Rhoswen who rode up the riverbank. She led a second horse on which slumped an exorcist, his complexion ashen, mouth gagged, and wrists bound. All ten of his fingers had been hacked off, the stumps black and red and swollen, crudely cauterized. Her Adhene witch’s body paint was not as crisp as when Liam had last seen her, as if it had not been refreshed recently. Rhoswen slid off her horse and waded into the river a few feet from Liam. She scooped up a handful of coarse river sand and began to scrub off her paint, revealing fair skin.

“I was beginning to think the last of the Sidhe had finally departed,” Liam said, breaking their silence.

“Some remain,” Rhoswen replied. “Those few of us still loyal to our vows, those who still believe the Morrígna will return fully. We hold the vigil.”

“Not much of a vigil as long as Aisling’s alive.”

“She will not be forever.”

“I’m surprised that the Sidhe allowed her to live this long.”

“If we were to take her life, I fear the Morrígna would never return to us. We must wait for the Morrígna to take Aisling herself. In the eternity of the Goddess’s eyes, one life is but a blink.”