In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘He said this?’ Conor asked, somewhat aghast. ‘He openly contradicted a king’s messenger?’

  ‘Nay, nay,’ Cahir replied, ‘Brecan is more canny than that. He merely laughed and said he thought the Darini had been keeping close company with the ale vat and were now seeing spies behind every tree.’

  ‘The sly old hound,’ grumbled Liam. To his father, he said, ‘He as much as called us all liars.’

  Cahir licked his lips, reached for the cup, and took another sip of the sweet honey liquor. ‘Brecan said that it had been a peaceful summer in the south with only a few minor skirmishes along his borders. There has been no raiding at all.’

  Gaen nodded. ‘It was more the way he said it—as if this somehow proved our report could not be true.’

  Ardan frowned. ‘Little wonder that he did not greet our arrival with much warmth.’

  Cahir agreed that there was more to the incident than he knew, then asked, ‘But why was he at such pains to deny it? That is what puzzles me.’

  ‘With three Scálda horses, an injured man’—Conor put out his hand to Eamon—‘and a captured Scálda, Brecan can deny it no longer.’

  ‘We shall see what we shall see.’ Cahir returned the mead cup to Ardan and climbed to his feet. ‘Find me at the feast tonight and we will drink together, eh?’

  Ardan rose, too, and took his friend by the shoulder. ‘You speak my mind as if it was your own. Until tonight, brother.’

  When the Coriondi had gone, Conor said, ‘I smell a filthy rat.’

  Liam nodded in agreement. ‘By your leave, my lord, I will take Eamon and visit some of the other camps, talk to the battlechiefs and see if anyone else thinks the same.’

  ‘What, and alert Brecan Big Breecs of our suspicions before we know what he is about?’ Conor shook his head forcefully. ‘Not the best idea, I think.’

  ‘You know better, I suppose?’ sneered Liam. ‘Then, tell us, what would you do?’

  ‘Do nothing. Say nothing. Any suspicions we may have, we will keep to ourselves—but we will also remain alert and listen to all that comes our way.’ Conor looked to his father. ‘If word gets back to Brecan that we suspect him of … of … of I don’t know what, but whatever it is, he will hide it. Worse, he might move against us somehow.’

  Ardan nodded. ‘Conor is right. Until we know more, we will pretend all is right and well.’ To Liam, he said, ‘Tell the men to say nothing of this to anyone.’

  Liam stalked off, leaving Conor and his father alone. The king glanced around at the Hill of Tara, now in shadow, a great dark expanse looming over them like a storm cloud threatening on the horizon. He suppressed a shudder and pushed his feeling of foreboding aside.

  6

  Vats of ale and tubs of mead had been set up in the centre of the council hill, near the Lia Fáil, that ancient sandstone pillar the druids held in almost rapturous esteem. For Conor, the so-called Stone of Destiny might as well have been named the Pissing Stone. ‘Destiny is what a man makes with his own two hands,’ he told Fergal as they shouldered their way through the throng to plunge their cups into the dark, frothy ale for the third time. ‘No chunk of rock has power over a man’s fate.’

  ‘Unless that chunk be hurled from a sling,’ remarked Fergal cheerfully.

  Conor gave him a sideways look. ‘Brother, I do believe you are drunk.’

  ‘No more than you. Even so, you will not catch me speaking ill of the Lia Fáil.’

  Conor laughed and shook his head. They walked on, easing through the throng where they took their places and waited for an opening at the vat. While others were preparing for the evening’s festivities, both on Tara Hill and elsewhere, they had spent the day tending the horses and guarding the Scálda prisoner. When not feeding, watering, walking, or grooming the animals until their coats gleamed, they were standing watch over their injured prisoner who, in fact, required little enough attention. ‘Is he not the most wretched creature anyone ever saw?’ was Donal’s observation.

  The captive spent most of his time inert, hunched over his wound, sometimes moaning softly and rocking back and forth. Since his capture, he had refused all food and only accepted, from time to time, a little water. ‘Is he thinking we’ll try to poison him?’ sniffed Fergal. ‘He should know better than that. Why, it would be a waste of poison.’

  Conor regarded the suffering Scálda curled like a sick animal on the ground and concluded that Donal was probably right: a more miserable being would be difficult to imagine. Even so, when his heart lurched toward pity for the fellow, Conor reminded himself of the charred Dé Danann corpses in the scorched farms and settlements where the Scálda raided and the trophy heads and hands hanging from Scálda belts and bridles, and all compassion fled.

  Thanks to Eamon’s intervention, the three had been released from their duties for the night and allowed to come up and join the feast. Donal had gone off in search of the serving maidens and dancing girls he fancied were to be found, leaving Conor and Fergal to plumb the depths of the ale vats. As they stood waiting for their turn, more warriors pressed in behind them and, owing to the crush, Conor could not fail to overhear what they were saying.

  ‘… aw now, Barae, you would not know a faéry from a foot rag,’ said one of the men.

  Conor glanced over his shoulder. There were three hulking warriors standing a little too close behind them. All were robust, meaty men with the splayed bushy moustaches, side braids, and blue slash-mark tattoos of the Eblani tribe. And all were ruddy faced from the ale.

  ‘So now, when was the last time you saw one?’ retorted the warrior called Barae. ‘Since you seem to know all about them. When did you ever meet one, eh?’

  Conor turned around. ‘Forgive a stranger, but am I hearing that you have seen one of the faéry kind?’

  ‘It seems to me you that what you’re hearing is none of your affair,’ retorted the tallest of the three.

  ‘Leave off, Duad,’ said the one called Barae. To Conor, he said, ‘Ach, aye, I saw a faéry woman and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.’ He thrust out his chin belligerently. ‘What have you to say about it?’

  Fergal put out a hand to the affronted Barae. ‘Easy now. We’re all friends here.’

  ‘And who are you to stick your oar in, eh?’ demanded the one called Duad. ‘You can kiss my rosy pink—’

  ‘Friends,’ said Conor quickly, ‘I see your cups are empty. Allow us to fill them for you and we can all sit down and enjoy a cup of ale. Why quarrel when we can drink?’ He relieved Barae of his wooden cup and nudged Fergal, who collected the others.

  ‘Why are we filling their cups?’ muttered Fergal as they pushed their way through the swarm around the vat. ‘Big-nosed Eblani—they should be filling ours.’

  ‘It never hurts to be friendly,’ chided Conor. ‘Besides, they have something I want.’

  ‘It’s all that faéry woman of yours again,’ he said, ‘Aye, it is. Don’t bother to deny it. What makes you think that lot will tell you anything worth hearing?’

  ‘I won’t know until I hear what they have to say.’

  The two jostled their way to the ale vat, dipped their cups into the dark, foamy liquid and, unable to resist, took a deep draught, and then proceeded to refill all the cups once more. With sweet dark liquid slipping over the rims of their wooden vessels, they threaded their way back to where the Eblani warriors were waiting and handed the dripping vessels around. ‘No man who drinks with another can be a stranger,’ Conor announced grandly. ‘I am Conor mac Ardan, and this is Fergal mac Caen of the Darini.’ He raised his cup. ‘We share a drink as friends and brothers!’

  They all guzzled down a deep draught, and then Duad said, ‘Darini, eh? You are the ones who caught the Scálda spy.’

  ‘Is that true?’ asked Barae, suspicion edging his tone even as the ale slurred his words.

  ‘Our lord says it is a ploy to defy King Brecan’s authority,’ declared the third warrior. He took a pull from his cup and wiped his long moustache w
ith the back of his hand. ‘A low trick to make yourselves look important.’

  ‘A curious trick, it seems to me,’ reflected Conor evenly, ‘when the truth is so easily proved.’ He fixed the tall warrior with a firm and steady look. ‘Now that we know what your lord thinks, what do you think?’

  The warrior glanced away. ‘I don’t say one way or the other. I’ll wait for the council to decide.’

  ‘Wise man,’ said Conor. ‘But I can assure you it is no ploy. It was Fergal here who caught the enemy scout.’

  ‘Aye, I did,’ confirmed Fergal. ‘There were five of them together. They attacked one of our lord’s ardféne and would have killed him, too, if we hadn’t arrived to fight them off. Killed three and captured one. The last got away.’

  ‘Ha!’ sneered Duad. ‘If we had been there none of those dung dwellers would have got away.’ He elbowed his comrade; the warrior nodded with a knowing smile.

  ‘I expect you are right,’ conceded Conor lightly. ‘But it was five of them on horseback to three of us on foot and, truth be told, we felt sorry for them that they should be so badly outmanned.’

  Fergal laughed and added, ‘Did I mention we also captured three horses? Though I expect you would have captured ten.’

  ‘Will your king bring the Scálda scum to the council tomorrow?’ asked Barae.

  ‘He said he would, and so he will,’ Conor replied. ‘Though, unless someone can be found to speak that crude tongue, I think we will learn little from our captive.’

  The Eblani warriors nodded appreciatively and then busied themselves with their cups. When those were finished, Duad offered to refill them again; his comrade and Fergal went along, leaving Conor and Barae together. With the others gone, Conor wasted no time. ‘I want to hear about the faéry woman,’ he said.

  Barae regarded him closely. ‘Why?’ he asked, his tone guarded.

  ‘Because, my friend,’ said Conor, lowering his voice and leaning close, ‘I saw one, too.’

  Barae’s dark eyes darted right and left. ‘You did? Where was it? When?’

  ‘You first,’ Conor said.

  ‘There is little enough to tell.’ He pulled on his moustache so as to compose his thoughts, then said, ‘I was out hunting—myself and four others. We came to a part of the wood—near the southern border of our lands, it was. We do not normally hunt there for all the trouble it causes, but that day we did. I made a hasty cast at a little yearling roebuck in the deep brake, missed, and went to retrieve my spear. As I was looking for it, there came to me the most delightful music any man ever heard—this man, at least.’ He glanced at Conor, as if willing him to understand. ‘How long I stood there, I cannot say. But when I finally stirred, I parted the branches and there she was with her harp cradled on her lovely knee.’ He fell silent, remembering.

  ‘What happened then?’ asked Conor.

  ‘There was a noise—not me, something else—and she turned to look. Then, quick as the blink of a bird’s eye, she’s up and away. But, just as she turns, she sees me and I see a terror there—a power of terror. The sound comes again and I look to see what has frightened her. When I look back, she is gone. It was only a pig rooting in the underbrush, mind. But the lady fled as if the Hounds of Gurgan were on her…’ His voice caught and cracked at the memory. ‘I would give my left eye to see her again.’

  ‘I know what you mean, brother,’ Conor told him. ‘It is that much the same with me.’ He explained how the Darini warband had encountered a fast-moving enemy force and attacked. ‘The battle did not last long,’ Conor concluded; ‘we cut down a few of them and the rest fled. That is when I saw her—on the back of a horse, chained to a Scálda chieftain.’

  ‘She never was!’ gasped Barae. ‘Chained like a slave, you say?’

  ‘She was indeed,’ Conor assured him. ‘And the look she gave me was full of such longing, such pleading…’ He paused as the vision of that expression on that lovely face overwhelmed him anew. ‘I never saw the like.’

  ‘And was she very beautiful?’ asked Barae.

  ‘Aye, she was,’ replied Conor. ‘More beautiful than my poor tongue can tell.’

  ‘And do your swordbrothers believe you?’

  ‘They do not,’ answered Conor sadly. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Ah!’ sighed his new Eblani friend knowingly. ‘But, hear now, since coming to the council you are the second person to speak of faéry captives to me.’

  Conor’s glance quickened. ‘Two, you say? Who was the first?’

  ‘Ach, well, I thought it just some idle talk I heard when we were making camp.’

  ‘Who? What did they say? Do you remember?’

  Barae nodded. ‘It was one of the Venceni, I think … aye.’ He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘No! It was one of the Ulaid. This one and another were talking about seeing a faéry as they were passing by. I asked them to tell me what they knew, but they said they had heard the tale from someone else.’

  ‘What was it? What did they hear?’ asked Conor impatiently.

  Barae shook his head. ‘Only that they heard the Scálda had captured a queen of the fae and were keeping her at one of their strongholds in the south.’

  ‘Who told them this?’ asked Conor.

  ‘I don’t know.’ The warrior shrugged. ‘A druid maybe.’

  Conor pursed his lips and stroked the strawberry stain on his cheek. ‘They were Ulaid, you say?’

  ‘Just so.’ Barae gazed at Conor for a moment in silence, then said, ‘Do you think there is something to the tale then?’

  ‘Possibly,’ mused Conor. ‘Who can say?’

  ‘Here now,’ called Fergal, returning with the two Eblani, ‘these cups need drinking, and I cannot do it all myself.’

  ‘You can, you know.’

  Fergal grinned. ‘Ach, aye. But I did not like to boast.’

  As they drank, the evening stole upon them and smoke from the cooking fires wafted the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread through the hilltop assembly, and warriors started drifting toward the fire pits where, owing to the generosity of King Brecan, a dozen or more cooks were busy putting the finishing touches to a feast for the three hundred or so tribesmen and their lords.

  In the largest fire pit, three young bullocks were smoking over a bed of glowing embers; in a second smaller fire pit five fat hogs were crisping to a golden brown; in a third, seven sheep sizzled away, the juicy fat sputtering on the coals. A rich-scented silver cloud spread over the entire hilltop and the cooks, stripped to the waist and armed with long forks and basting ladles, stood by to turn the spits and baste the meat.

  ‘I’ll have one of those,’ said Fergal, indicating a whole half pig. He sucked his teeth and inhaled deeply as he gazed upon the roasting meat.

  Conor nudged him and pointed across the pit to where warriors were already gathered to collect the first carvings as soon as the cooks began slicing. ‘This way, brother, they are getting ready to serve.’

  They threaded their way around the outside of the fire ring and plucked wooden trenchers from one of two large heaps. Beside these sat wicker baskets full of barley bread; they helped themselves to several small loaves, then pushed in behind the front ranks waiting for their food. After a long, slow shuffle, they reached the serving place and both received a fine slab of roast pork and a shank of mutton. They retreated with their trenchers in search of a place to eat in peace—making sure to pass by the vats one more time before settling down to sate themselves on the succulent meat and good fresh bread.

  ‘Ach, so,’ said Fergal, after the first pangs of hunger had been appeased, ‘what do you think our generous lord Brecan is about? Why hold another Oenach so soon after the last?’

  ‘Need you ask? He imagines himself high king of Eirlandia—what better way to show it than by making everybody come running at your every beck and call?’ Conor dabbed at the grease running down his chin. ‘The grand and mighty lord, throwing himself around and making big before the world.’

  ‘Well,’ r
eplied Fergal, lifting his cup, ‘I will eat his meat and drink his ale with the best of them and no complaint.’

  ‘All this’—Conor waved a hand to indicate the mass of men enjoying the feast—‘it comes at a price. Never forget that.’

  Fergal wrested meat from a bone with his teeth, chewed for a while, then said, ‘Full sorry I am your father gave him our best horse—and we got no glory for it neither.’

  ‘There was no need to mention that.’ Conor shook his head and sighed, then drained his cup. ‘I named him Balla, you know.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Fergal. ‘Maybe the next one you get will be better still.’ He wiped his now-empty dish with a scrap of bread and popped it into his mouth. ‘I think a bit of beef is wanted here.’ He stood. ‘What about you, Conor?’

  Conor held out his trencher. ‘Only if it is no burden to you, now.’

  Fergal trundled off and Conor stretched out on the grass and gazed up at the night’s first stars already kindled in the blue-black expanse above. Full of good ale and tasty meat, he closed his eyes and let his mind wander where it would. Almost at once, it wandered straight into the thicket of his deepest suspicions. If the Scálda had captured one of the fae—a queen no less—what else might they soon possess? The secrets of faéry magic? Faéry armour? Faéry weapons?

  If the enemy should gain even one of those things, there would be no stopping them—an outcome that did not bear thinking about.

  Ardan

  I do not know what made me run after him that day. And if I had known all that would flow from that rash act, would I have run anyway? It is a question I have asked myself a thousand times through all the years that have followed. In truth, I cannot say.

  Ach, now, I was younger then—with a young man’s heart and a young man’s head. Everyone knows the way the heart can so easily rule the head. Truth to tell, this is what happened on the day my people call the Day of the Druid. But, know you—I was desperate. Our tribe was suffering. Something had to be done. And when the druid chief called down his curse upon our sorry heads, I could not let it stand. I ran after him.