The Last Days of Magic (6 page)

B
RIGID
,
HIGH
PRIESTESS
of the Order of Macha, lingered in the corridor of Trim Castle, working to still her anxious mind. Extending her senses, she felt the ancient stones of the floor, which remembered each tread they had supported. Reaching out even farther, she connected with the earth below. It welcomed her touch, and its powerful spirit rose to fill and renew her. So much of becoming a druid, she thought, was simply learning to trust: trust the forces of this magical land, trust the messages they brought.

Her childhood name had been Lisir, until she had given it up to become Brigid, the title carried by each successive head of her exclusively female order, the only celibate order in Ireland, Celtic or Christian.
Celibacy is my good curves wasted,
Brigid liked to say. But she took her vows seriously, recognizing that the sacrifice strengthened her commitment to her sisterhood.

Ahead was Una and Quinn’s chamber, and she willed herself forward. With two lives at stake in the Test—one of them her own—she
could not afford to let fear cloud her judgment. And she owed it to her dear friend Una not to infect her with doubt.

She flung open their chamber door and strode in.

“Brigid!” cried a nude and very pregnant Una from beneath her husband, Quinn.

“Oh,” said Brigid, stopping halfway across the room.

Quinn rose from the bed, and Una sat up. Neither of them moved to cover themselves.

“What are you doing here?” asked Una.

“I was called. We must speak.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.” Brigid’s eyes turned toward Quinn apologetically.

. . . . .

“Why are you here?” asked Una a few moments later as she gently lowered herself onto the bench beside Brigid, her face still flushed. They sat at a wooden table in the warm kitchen. Behind them two cooks worked at an array of pots hanging inside a fireplace much taller than either and wider than both.

“As I said, I was called. The Morrígna twins are returning.”

“Finally,” said Una. “It has been much too long.” She sat quiet for a moment and then, with a hint of unease in her voice, asked, “Who? Where?”

Brigid was busy pulling cold meat off the leg of lamb sitting on a wooden platter and stuffing it into her mouth. Stalling, she quipped, “You know, eating is a sorry replacement for sex, but at least there’s some satisfaction to be had, and seeing others engage always makes me hungry.”

“Brigid, tell me.”

Brigid wiped her hands and mouth, then reached out and laid her palm on Una’s extended belly.

“No. There’s only one heartbeat. I feel the spirit of only one life. It can’t be,” said Una.

“That’s how it always is with the twins. You are of the line.”

“There are many of the line. You must be mistaken.”

“You’re to be birth mother to the Morrígna twins, the new incarnation of Aisling and Anya. It will be so. Don’t think to escape your duty. I’m here to assist in the birth. And I’m here to make sure the twins are Tested.”

All color drained from Una’s face.

L
IAM
RODE
TOWARD
Trim Castle along the river Boyne. This grand castle, the capital of the kingdom of Meath, embodied the strategic importance of that artery linking four of Ireland’s principal cities and the wealth the trade along it brought. Described in the Viking fashion starting from the sea, the river entered Ireland mid–east coast, just north of the Irish Viking capital of Dublin. Inland, it swept in a graceful arc around Brú na Bóinne, the only Sidhe city left in this world, though the forty faerie palaces could easily be mistaken for grassy hills by an uninitiated or uninvited visitor. Then the water flowed past Tara, the capital of Ireland and home of the high king, before meandering to Trim, where the castle controlled a ford, the farthest point that trade ships from the sea could navigate.

Castles could be useful as a last resort, thought Liam as he approached the barbican gate. He preferred to meet his opponents on the battlefield, where they met a quick end. But the Celtic monarchs had to hold court somewhere. Gallowglass had no monarch or formal election proceedings, deferring instead to an organic process based solely on respect, which had thrust Liam into a de facto leadership role for the last decade. During that time he had come to know many of the Irish queens and kings, a changing assemblage as they were elected, not born to their posts.

The sun was setting, but the drawbridge was still down and the portcullis open. The gate guards recognized him and waved him through. “Liam, come join us!” one of them called, rolling a pair of dice. “I need someone new in the game to change my luck.”

“Later tonight!” Liam called back, his horse clopping across the bridge. “Unless I get a better offer.”

Over the years Liam had supervised at least one royal election in each of the five kingdoms of Ireland. The resulting current cast of rulers were: King Turlough of Meath, who wore his battle scars as badges of honor, and whose castle Liam was entering; Mael of Connacht, the young and feisty queen who had trained at Sgathaich Scoil; King Murchada of Leinster, who kept his hair long so it would stream out behind him like a black flag when he charged; Queen Gormflaith of Munster, who could outwit the rest and had the largest library in Ireland; and the recently elected King Niall of Ulster, who Liam thought was more of a politician than a fighter, part of that rising breed of leaders.

The elected queens and kings, along with high nobles and guild masters, went on to elect the Celtic high king, a position that had always gone to males, though Liam knew of no law that required it. He suspected that it was to preserve the Irish sense of balance, as both the Celtic and Sidhe high kings answered to the Morrígna twins, always female—that is, when the twins were present in this world, which they had not been for many generations.

Since hearing the call, Liam had felt his doubts about its source grow. He looked up at the keep and worried for his friends Una and Quinn and the pending Test of their newborn daughters. Only two outcomes were possible: if passed, great honor for the twins tempered by great loss for the parents; if failed, tragedy for all.

Liam made his way through the grounds crowded with the everyday bustle of a regional capital, passed the substantial stone building that housed the mint, left his horse at the stable, and entered the keep. In the vestibule he unstrapped the battle-ax from his back, unbuckled his sword, and deposited both with the officer of the watch as required. The officer informed him that petitions were being heard in the king’s private meeting hall, so Liam bypassed the grand receiving hall on the ground floor and effortlessly ascended the spiral stumble stairs leading to the top floor.

The room was alive with color. The Brehon laws that had governed Ireland since ancient times allowed a person’s station to be determined by the number of colors they wore, from slaves, who could wear only one, up to nobility, who could wear seven. While a lord out for a hunt or a lady slipping around to her lover’s house might not sport all the colors allowed, a court gathering such as this called for the full display of blues, reds, purples, browns, greens, yellows, and blacks across the tunics, jackets, leggings, and gowns of the nobility, guild heads, and military officers.

Turlough MagRodain, the long-reigning king of Meath, sat flanked by his entourage on a slightly raised platform spanning one end of the hall. The deep scar running down the side of his face, just missing his eye, spoke of his commitment to charging ahead of his troops into battle; the fact that he still lived spoke of his deftness with a blade.

Sitting beside him was his son and a woman whom Liam did not recognize but guessed to be Turlough’s new wife, as his previous marriage contract had expired without being renewed. Liam was surprised to see that the Brehon-law judge seated on the king’s platform was from Tara, while the chief judge of Meath stood respectfully behind her.
That’s fortunate,
thought Liam. Such a member of the high court would be helpful in carrying news of the coming events back to the Celtic high king.

Before King Turlough and the judges gathered a delegation of Irish Vikings including their King Myndill, who had petitioned Turlough to hear their grievances. Liam knew Myndill’s history well, as his people had been driven from their Nordic homeland in much the same way as had the Gallowglass, the last Viking faction choosing to remain true to their pagan gods rather than convert to Christianity. King Myndill, stout and bearded, ruled over Dublin, Wexford, Waterford, Cork, and Limerick—his territories connected by the sea.

As Liam eased his way through the crowd to stand in the back of the room, Myndill’s son Geir began making their case against the
Skeaghshee, who were interfering with their felling of trees. “It started with our people just getting lost in woods they knew well.”

“You have to watch those loose sods,” offered a seven-colored noble. Laughter danced around the room.

King Myndill stepped forward and pushed his son aside, as he often did. “My nephew,” he declared, his angry, booming voice pressing back the laughter, “was found dead in a wood he had traveled many times. His body withered to a skin-covered skeleton not two days after he led ten of my warriors to protect the woodcutters, woodcutters who were impaled on the branches of the very trees I sent them to harvest from lands lawfully licensed from Lord Maolan.” Myndill did not appear to notice that Geir had left the chamber.

“You know that a license is only the beginning,” replied the Tara judge. “Without the proper gifts and an agreement with the Skeaghshee, you cut down trees at your own peril.”

“There’s no negotiating with the Skeaghshee anymore,” Myndill retorted. “The tribute demanded by their new king, this Kellach, is unthinkable. In exchange for permission to harvest wood, he required an offering of our children equal in weight. I declined and sent my warriors to protect the woodcutters.” The Viking sovereign looked directly at Turlough. “It’s only our ships that provide trade with other lands. You need these new ships as much as we do. I ask you, King Turlough, are these Celtic woods or do they belong to the Skeaghshee?”

The room erupted with arguing voices.

A monk in the blue robe of his order and with a fat leather satchel slung from his shoulder wandered over and leaned against the back wall next to Liam. He had been called Patrick as long as Liam had known him, a title bestowed upon the leader of the disciples of the original Patrick, the larger of the two divisions of the Irish Christian Church, the Order of Patrick and the Order of Colmcille.

“Liam, what brings you here?”

“I heard this might be more interesting than the usual gathering.”

“A waste of time if you ask me, without any Sidhe monarch or ambassadors.”

“Where are they anyway?” Liam asked.

“The Sidhe have refused to meet with the Vikings ever since Myndill took the heads of some innocent Gnome moonlight dancers and spiked them over the Dublin gate in retribution for his nephew’s murder.”

Liam eyed the tarnished old iron bell conspicuous in a leather holster on the monk’s belt. He had heard of the Blood Bell—all had—but he had never seen Patrick wear it before. “Is it true the original Patrick bound a demon into the Bell so he could use it to collect tithes due his church? Its ring is said to be lethal.”

“That might have been his purpose, but I am more concerned about protecting my monasteries. A number of dark forces have begun to stir, and we would be one of the first targets if Sidhe or Elioud rebel. Not to mention Vikings and Celt marauders. Best to remind all that the Patricks are far from toothless.”

“Some worry more that the Roman Church has designs on Ireland again. Though if they try, I suppose you could just stand on the shore and ring the Bell at any invading ships.”

“If the high king wants me to do that,” Patrick said with a laugh, “he’d better start paying tithes, large ones. Anyhow, when I carry it, my way along the road from Armagh is never delayed by a loose sod.”

“You know, when I ride through the woods, it only takes half as long as when I take the road,” said Liam with a smile.

“I often think that you, my friend, are more Sidhe than human. It takes me twice as long, even if some playful Sidhe doesn’t cause me to become lost. No matter how much I point out to the Sidhe that the teachings of Christ are similar to their beliefs or how much of our best wine I leave outside our gates for them, they still treat me with little grace.”

“Perhaps if you spoke up for the Sidhe now, they would be friendlier to you in the future.”

“If it had been any clan other than the Skeaghshee. I can’t support them. Not since Kellach became their king. He is fomenting so much unrest, I worry that our land may soon be engulfed in another Sidhe war, without the Morrígna to preside over the races.”

“They’re great at annoyances and dangerous in small skirmishes, particularly for those who underestimate them,” Liam said, nodding toward the Vikings. “But most in the Middle Kingdom have no wish to abandon their pleasures for the rigors and risks of all-out war. They value their long lives, which aren’t hard to end with a sharpened edge of iron.”