In the Region of the Summer Stars

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  ‘A moment, my love,’ he said, ‘come out and walk with me a little. I have that much to tell you.’

  ‘But the calf—’

  ‘The calf will wait a while yet. Come—’ He held out his good hand and took hers. They walked together into the last of the dying day’s light.

  He led her out through the small postern gate to the fields and pastures beyond the ráth’s high timber wall. The air was soft, rustling the dry stalks of grain in the gentle evening breeze; the trees at the far end of the field were alive with the clack and chatter of rooks flocking to their night roost.

  ‘What’s wrong, Conor?’ she asked.

  ‘Should anything be wrong?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘and can I not tell when something troubles this man of mine?’ When he made no reply, she asked again, ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘You know me well, Aoife,’ he said after a moment. ‘And you trust me, no?’

  He heard in his own words those of Mádoc, who had asked him the same question not so many days ago: Do you trust me? Well, that was a trust misplaced.

  ‘Trust you?’ said Aoife. ‘Only with my very life and the lives of our children yet to be born,’ she said. ‘But you know this—or should know it—without the need of asking.’

  ‘But I do ask it,’ he said, ‘for I fear you shall soon have cause to doubt me.’

  Aoife stopped walking. ‘Conor mac Ardan,’ she said gently. ‘I have pledged my life to yours for good or ill a hundred times if once, and I will honour that pledge to the grave.’ She searched his worried face as she said this. ‘I only hope you will do the same for me.’ Conor nodded, and lowered his eyes from the intensity of her gaze. ‘What has happened, my love?’

  ‘I have been exiled.’ He did not mean to be so abrupt about it, but in the moment could not find a better way to say the hateful words.

  Aoife’s smooth brow creased in a frown of concern. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ he sighed. ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Exiled…’ She reached for his hand and pressed it hard as if to make better sense of the word. ‘You mean outcast?’

  ‘Just that,’ he said, nodding, and then unwound for her the whole sorry tale—beginning with his rash challenge of the Brigantes king at the council, the beating he had endured because of it, how the druid Mádoc had tended his wounds—and then, two days later, accused him of stealing and hiding a valuable gold bracelet.

  ‘He never did!’

  ‘And this before my father and Lord Cahir and all the men. Everyone heard the accusation and, if that was not bad enough, they all saw the evidence of the crime as well.’

  ‘But there is some other explanation,’ Aoife insisted. ‘There must be.’

  ‘There is,’ Conor assured her. ‘But whatever that explanation may be, it lies beyond my reach. I know I did not take Mádoc’s gold bauble, but I could in no way prove my innocence and nothing I could say made any difference. And so I am banished from the tribe. Not to return for three years.…’

  ‘No!’ Her hands flew to her mouth.

  ‘I could not let you hear this from someone else. I had to see you and tell you myself.’

  ‘Three years…,’ she said with a gasp, holding back the tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘Even now I should be far away from here. I am forbidden from returning—on pain of death they said.’

  Suddenly aghast, her eyes went wide. ‘Conor, no—then we must leave at once! If they find you here—’ She made as if to run.

  Conor remained unmoved. ‘I do not ask you to come away with me.’

  ‘There is no asking. We will leave now—this instant,’ she said, pushing away the tears with the heel of her hand. ‘I will go and—’

  ‘Aoife, no!’

  His voice was sharp as a slap. She stared at him, dumb with shock.

  ‘I know you would gladly share my portion—whatever that portion might be,’ he said, gentle once more. ‘But the next years will be hard years. I do not know if I can find a tribe to take me in. Many will not. Likely, most will not. And I refuse to make you an outlaw with every hand raised against you.’

  ‘Together we would have a better chance,’ she insisted. ‘We would find a way. We would—’

  Conor was already shaking his head. ‘I could not protect you, Aoife,’ he said gently. ‘And I could not live if you suffered for this injustice. It is bad enough for me, but for you it would be worse. No one will look upon you with anything but scorn and contempt.’

  ‘Think you, I care about that?’ The defiance in her voice touched him and his heart lurched heavily in his chest.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he managed to say, ‘but I know I could not live with it.’

  ‘No more could I live without you here,’ she said. ‘So, if it is not to be here, then it will be somewhere else. I care not a whit what anyone might say.’

  ‘But I care,’ Conor told her. ‘I could not bear to see how men will treat you when they think you are banished with me. With everyone assuming our guilt, we will be treated like lepers—wherever we go, worse than lepers. I can face my exile if I know that you are safe and well, and keeping the hearth flame alight for me.’

  ‘What about my exile?’ Aoife said, her voice trembling, ‘I will be exile to all happiness and light. I will be exile to ease and pleasure. I will be exile to any thought or hope of peace—never knowing whether you live or lie dead in the ground.’

  ‘You must endure your exile, then, even as I endure mine,’ replied Conor, cupping her face in his hand. ‘Let us not each add to the misery by letting the other see our desolation and wretchedness.’

  Aoife lowered her head in resignation, but said nothing.

  ‘But I am not gone yet,’ he said, moving his hand down her arm to take her hand. ‘Let us spend one last night together and make a memory that will last until I return and we can marry.’

  She nodded, squeezed his hand, and allowed herself to be led back to the ráth. They had no sooner closed and barred the postern gate when they heard the frenzied, insistent clanging of the sounding iron—a strip of solid metal used to announce the arrival of a visitor or sound the alarm.

  Conor halted in midstep. ‘Someone’s coming.’

  ‘What if it is your father and his warriors?’ Aoife gasped. ‘Oh, Conor! What if they have caught up to you?’

  ‘I can’t see how,’ he said with a shake of his head. ’But maybe some of the others. Let’s see.’

  They hurried to the yard and arrived just in time to see a rider in a grey cloak and blue mantle gallop through the gate and into the yard. Conor, hiding behind a corner of the building, peered around the wall and saw the stranger rein up outside the hall. ‘Can you see who it is?’ whispered Aoife. ‘Is it Liam or one of the warriors?’

  ‘No…,’ Conor groaned and fell back against the timbered wall. ‘I almost wish it was.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  Conor did not answer; instead, he drew a deep breath, pushed away from the wall, and stepped boldly out into the open. ‘You!’ he called. ‘There will be no welcome here for you.’

  ‘Conor!’ The rider, stiff from his long ride, extricated himself somewhat awkwardly from the saddle and slid ungracefully to the ground. He stood for a moment kneading the muscles of his back. ‘I am glad to find you.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Mádoc?’ demanded Conor, advancing with slow menace toward the old man.

  Members of the clan, called by the iron, poured into the yard from all sides and warriors spilled out from the hall. They saw the druid and one of them, Iucar, an elder left in charge during the king’s absence, made to welcome the distinguished visitor. ‘Greetings in the name of King Ardan,’ he called. ‘Please, come and be—’

  Mádoc waved aside the speech with a quick gesture of his hand and said, ‘Your welcome is acknowledged and gratefully received. But the terrible urgency of my task prevents me from accepting. I cannot stay.’

  The people quailed at this. Most,
if not all, well remembered the last time a druid had appeared on horseback and had refused to stay.

  Conor pushed forward. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, his voice flat, uncompromising.

  Mádoc turned and regarded him blankly across the distance—as if the answer was too obvious to require comment.

  ‘I am waiting,’ intoned Conor. ‘And there is little now to prevent me from running my spear through your lying old guts—so answer and be quick about it. What are you doing here?’

  Conor took another step nearer, bristling with anger. ‘If you value your life, old man, speak!’

  ‘What do I want?’ The old bard blinked in confusion. ‘You, Conor mac Ardan. I have come for you.’

  Rónán

  Today, I stood at the door of Rowan House and saw dawn’s deft fingers tint the sky with red gold, and I thought, This is my true home, for I have lived in this place longer than any other I have known, and the people here are more kin to me now than any blood kin have ever been.

  Twelve years have I laboured in the groves of wisdom and tilled the fields of song. I know the March of the Seasons and the Grand Procession of the Stars; I know the Braided Way, and I know the Law of Three, the Broad Arrow, the Cleansing of the Cauldron of Being. I can sing ‘The Cycle of Lesser Tales’ and play them on the harp.

  I can read the signs of the wind and rain, and anticipate the ebb and flow of the sea; I can invoke the covering of clouds and mists; I can see three paces beyond the veil of time, hold a moment in my hand and release it according to my will. I can heal seven times nine diseases, set the broken bones of man and beast, and I know the preparation of potions for inducing sleep and wakefulness, love and aversion, for easing pain and causing death. What is known of faéry magic, I know—how to pierce their mystical deceptions and thwart their charms. I know how to identify faéry poison and the antidotes to each.

  I know the Nine Sacred Names and the worship of the Ollathir, the All Father, he of the Swift Sure Hand, Champion of the Gods, and his consort, Mor Rioghain, Goddess of Sovereignty and Queen of the Gods. I know the invocation of Dagda, the Just and Good; the placation of Badb, Queen of the Shadow World; and the appeasement of Elathan, Brigitis, and Cromm Cruach, the Bent One.

  I understand the meaning of the seven, and thrice holy nine, and the power of three and the mystical twelve. I know the eight stations of the wind and where the snow and rain resides. I know the location of the Isle of the Everliving, the Isle of Promise, and how to find Mag Mell and Emain Macha, and I know all the tribes and territories and provinces of our fair homeland in the Region of the Summer Stars.

  All this, and so much more I know. I have mastered the learning set before me, and my toil has brought a bounty of fruit in due season. Now is the harvest time and at the next equinox, I will join the Learned Brotherhood. No longer an ovate, I will be a druid.

  When I have received my robe and belt, my rod and sparán, I will be sent to the great school at Carn Dubh to continue my training in the discipline of my own choosing. A weighty matter that; it has occupied my mind these last three years. Many a night I have sat with Morien or Cabiri, my best friend. Both have advised me in their way, and I value their counsel above any other. Together we have searched the many paths open to me. ‘Your playing on the harp and pipe is second to none,’ Cabiri has told me. ‘Perhaps it is a master of song and satire you should be.’

  ‘A physician and master of elixirs is always in great demand,’ Morien said one day. ‘Not everyone is suited to it, but you are adept, Rónán. You have the healing touch.’

  Another time, they said, ‘You are unsettled. You want to help your tribe. Have you considered becoming a master at law? Maybe you should become a brehon.’

  ‘Another few years and who knows?’ Morien told me recently. ‘Uniting all your gifts and achievements you could become an ollamh.’

  And so it goes. But even as they advise, they remind me that the choice must be mine and mine alone, for it will shape the rest of my life, and perhaps the lives of many—not least my tribe.

  Until then, I continue my work here in Suídaur, teaching some of our newest residents—those of Willow House. They call me Rónán the Shrewd and think me a very head of wisdom. This is because they are very young and easily impressed. Even so, I tell them that once I was like them: anxious, frightened, knowing nothing but loss—the loss of home and kin, of all the things previously cherished.

  ‘The world is far larger than what you have seen from the threshold of your mother’s hut,’ I tell them. ‘Be patient and learn what is placed before you, and you will find that every man will be your brother and all creation will be your home.’

  This, I truly believe.

  12

  ‘What were you thinking?’ shouted Conor.

  ‘I asked you to trust me,’ Mádoc replied. ‘You said you would.’

  ‘Stupid old man! Have you any idea what your idiot meddling has cost me? Have you even the slightest notion what it means to be made a criminal and an outcast? Do you know what you’ve done?’

  ‘If I had betrayed you, why would I have gone to all the trouble of saving you?’

  ‘When was that?’ snapped Conor. ‘When did you save me? Was it when you accused me of stealing your precious bracelet? Or was it when you had me exiled? No? Maybe it was when you insisted on enforcing the punishment on pain of death? Was that you saving me? Enlighten me if you can.’

  ‘I saved you tonight from your father’s men,’ explained the former druid wearily. ‘They will arrive at Dúnaird this very night—perhaps they are riding through the gates even now.’

  ‘Not so!’ countered Conor. ‘They couldn’t possibly get there so fast.’

  The druid made no reply. Conor, in exasperation, cried, ‘Stop! I grow weary shouting at your back this whole time. I agreed to come with you and you agreed to explain. Well, here I am. Explain!’

  Mádoc reined up and allowed Conor to come along beside him. The two sat for a moment, listening to the far-off sigh of the waves on the shore carried on the sea breeze. After repeated appeals and warnings, and a hurried farewell kiss from Aoife, Conor had been persuaded to accompany Mádoc; the two had left Dúnaird just before sundown and had been riding ever since. Night was full upon them now as they worked their way south along the winding coastal path—slowly, lest the horses stumble in the dark.

  ‘Liam and Eamon and one other left the Oenach only a short while after you departed,’ said Mádoc, breaking the silence at last. ‘I thought it safest to assume they made good speed, the three of them, and will soon arrive in Dúnaird if they are not there already.’

  ‘You know this how?’

  The druid sighed. ‘I know because I was there when your father commanded them to go and not to spare the horses. It is my belief that, knowing you as he does, it was in his mind that you might try to return to see Aoife. He told Liam and Eamon that when they reached the ráth they were to bar the gates against you—that way they would not have to kill you. They could simply refuse entry to you. You father was trying to save you from yourself.’

  ‘They would not have killed me,’ Conor maintained, though with less conviction than he might have hoped.

  Mádoc shook his head. ‘If they had found you in the ráth they would have been duty bound to kill you because, friend and brother or king and lord, they would have had no other choice lest they take the punishment onto themselves—and likely Aoife as well for aiding you.’

  ‘Hmph,’ muttered Conor. ‘If my father wanted to protect me, he might have done better to defend me against your false accusation. I never stole your gold and you know it. Outcast! Where am I to go? How am I to live? I could die out here—and probably will, thanks to you!’

  ‘I did only what I had to do. I do not apologise for that.’

  ‘Too late for apologies, old man,’ Conor told him in a tone of ripest scorn. ‘I ask you again—what were you thinking?’

  Mádoc turned in the saddle and regarded him with a
wounded expression. ‘Conor mac Ardan, you amaze me. How can you not have seen instantly why I had to do what I did?’

  ‘Not seen? Perhaps it is because being condemned before my brothers and made an exile to my own people slightly clouded my discernment. Or, then again, maybe it is because your plan—whatever it might be—is so cunning as to be obscure and incomprehensible to any and all but yourself alone.’

  ‘Enough!’ roared the old man. ‘If you were not so blind-stubborn determined to nurse the full measure of your grievance you would see the danger staring you right in that stupid face of yours. Anyway, the fault is more yours than mine. You brought this on yourself.’

  ‘My fault!’ cried Conor. ‘How is this my fault?’

  ‘Your provocation of Lord Brecan gave me very little room to work. You alerted him to the possibility that his schemes might be vulnerable to discovery. The Oenach was about to end. There was no time—whatever I did had to be done swiftly and it had to be public—while the kings were still present to hear about your banishment, and spread the word. In short, you had to be removed.’

  ‘You removed me, no mistake,’ Conor snapped. ‘However can I thank you?’

  Ignoring him, Mádoc continued, ‘With you out of the way, Brecan may just be satisfied that you are no longer a threat and he need trouble himself no further on your account. And you,’ he concluded, ‘you are now free to move at will throughout Eirlandia without anyone taking any notice of you or the least interest in your affairs.’

  ‘That is a freedom I can well do without,’ Conor countered. ‘In your inscrutable wisdom, you have arranged it so that while I may be free to go where I will, I am constrained on every side. Outcasts are despised and rejected by all decent, right-thinking men. So now, though I can travel, I cannot go anywhere!’

  Conor’s voice resounded among the unseen rocks around them. The risen moon peered above the line of hills to the east, casting a thin light over the narrow trail. Conor saw the old bard awash in a silver, spectral gleam, his white hair like a fine mist floating around his head. The breeze soughed in the distant pines, and Conor shivered with a sudden chill. ‘Are you truly insane now?’ he asked quietly. ‘To have thought that this was in any way a good idea, you must surely have lost your mind. Three years, Mádoc! Three years in exile before I can even think of returning home. I was to be married at Lughnasadh. You have ruined my life.’