A cloud occluded the moonlight again.
He needed to relieve himself, and his throat felt parched. He might cry out for help but hated the thought of being helpless. Had someone taken him prisoner? Memories of Bodach’s cruel smile made him catch his breath, and the Fae’s laughter haunted his mind. What did he remember? It was summer; he remembered the sweet smell of wildflowers. And blood. He remembered blood.
Images flooded his mind. Lainn, lying on the grass with her life’s blood flowing from the spear injury in her side. Her eyes staring up into the blue sky as bees buzzed around them in ordered spirals. The song Gemmán and his friend sang as they all passed into a deep, deep sleep.
He woke again to the morning sun shining warmly on his face. When he opened his eyes this time, two bright green eyes blinked and startled back.
A pleasant tenor voice said, “Oho! Our young man is awake, Gemmán!”
In answer, the druid came into sight. “So I see! Conall, can you speak? Do you know where you are?”
His throat rasped raw as if he’d slept with it open to the night air. He coughed a few times before Gemmán offered a waterskin. He tried to sit up to drink, but the restraints kept him in place.
The stranger apologized and untied his hands, helping him sit and drink. After a few swallows of cool, clear water, Conall found his voice. “I d-d-don’t know where I am.”
With a patronizing smile, the stranger said, “You’re in my chapel! Well, the chapel I help run. At the moment, it’s more of a hospice.” He frowned and glanced around at several other cots. The walls showed spots of crumbling ruin and a few patches of thatch needed repair, but the cots themselves looked strong and comfortable.
Conall spied Lainn’s limp form in one cot, and he struggled to be by her side. “Lainn!”
Gemmán grabbed his arm. “Crimthann! Get his other arm. Conall, hold still. You’re not fit to move yet. Lainn is fine, she’s just sleeping.”
Conall still fought against his healers, needing to be next to Lainn. “Let me go!” He reached for his brooch’s magic to help him, but even straining to the limits of his connection, the line remained faint and tenuous. He must be far from the brooch.
He stopped his efforts and glared at Gemmán. “You swear she’s just sleeping? She’ll be f-fine?”
The druid nodded, sage comfort in his eyes. Conall frowned. “Where are we, though? Who is this?”
Gemmán glanced at the other man. “Crimthann is one of my students. He’s Christian, but he’s studying with me for a few seasons to gain musical wisdom. He came from the north to study with Finnian, the priest in the next glade.”
Conall studied the Christian. Crimthann meant ‘fox’, and Conall didn’t trust someone named for the crafty animal to care for his dear sister. His mid-brown curls were cut much shorter than most warriors, not even reaching his shoulders, with his forehead shaved in a half-circle. The odd hairstyle and his simple brown robes made him look foreign to Conall, a stranger in his land.
With narrowed eyes, he addressed the man. “From the north? How north?”
Crimthann blinked a few times before answering. “My family is in Dunaghmore, near the shores of Lough Neagh, some thirty leagues to the north of here. My great-grandfather was Niall of the Nine Hostages, and I’ve been a deacon in Laighean for these past two winters. I assure you, I’ve cared for many invalids and seekers in my time, young man. You and your sister have gotten my best care these last weeks.”
Panic gripped Conall at the deacon’s words. “Weeks? We’ve been here weeks? My mother! I left her alone in her roundhouse!”
Gemmán placed a strong hand on his chest, holding him in place. “Sh. The old hermit is caring for her. Adhna? Is that his name? He came by here the day of the attack.”
Conall took a deep breath, calming his nerves and his fright. Adhna lived. His mother lived. Lainn lived, but she wouldn’t wake. He didn’t quite relax, but at least the frenzy dissipated.
Crimthann brought him a bowl. “Here, eat your broth. You need to build up your strength to walk again.”
Conall accepted it with grudging grace but didn’t take the spoon. He relished the warmth of the broth through the bowl, though. “You said I’ve b-b-been here weeks. How long?”
With a glance to Gemmán, the younger man pressed his lips into a thin line before answering. “Almost two moons now. We worried about your chances of waking, but you stirred in your sleep, at least.”
Conall glanced at Lainn, and the deacon surmised his worry. “Yes, she’s also stirring. She should wake soon.”
“What happened? My memory is jumbled.”
Crimthann sat on a stool beside Conall’s cot and folded his arms, his expression determined. “I’ll tell you after you finish your broth.”
Conall scowled at the obvious manipulation but found no sensible argument against it. He took a hesitant spoonful, and then another. The hot, salty broth tasted delicious, trickling down his parched throat. His stomach chose this moment to growl so loudly, Gemmán glanced over from the other end of the room with a censorious frown.
With a sheepish grin, Conall took another spoonful, grateful for the warmth. Crimthann took his acquiescence as a signal to speak. “When Lainn ran into our glade, Gemmán had been in the middle of a lesson. As soon as she burst into the clearing, the two ruffians appeared as well. The blond man, once Gemmán’s student, held the spear as a threat and commanded her to be still.
“She froze while Gemmán tried to talk reason to him.” Crimthann shook his head. “The man wouldn’t listen to his words. Later, Gemmán told me how Lainn had succeeded in something he’d failed at years before, and he must have harbored the pain ever since. Gemmán could do nothing to soothe his pain.”
Conall clenched his fist hard around the spoon until he realized Crimthann had stopped his tale, staring pointedly at the broth. Conall took another sip so the deacon would continue.
“When you arrived, Gemmán had just about given up on the lad, and spoke to his companion, urging him to be the voice of reason. I urged him to at least use his staff to good purpose, but Gemmán said he wasn’t a violent man, and talk would be a far better solution.” Crimthann frowned. “What do you remember of the rest?”
Conall’s head ached as he tried to capture the details. “I remember the spear hitting Lainn, and Gemmán and you singing. Then I remember nothing.”
“You collapsed, as did Lainn and both of her assailants.”
Conall examined the other cots for the first time, looking for Ernán and Tomas. None of the other three men looked familiar.
“No, they didn’t survive the song. The magic, you see, pulls the evil from a person’s soul. It pulled on you both a little, as you have, I’m sure, some small evils in your past you’ve committed. However, the other men had a much greater store of evil acts in their history. The song pulled too much of their soul.”
Conall swallowed. “They both died?”
Crimthann nodded, his expression grim. “Gemmán regretted their deaths but counted them as unavoidable. He is not a man of violence.”
“And you are?”
Crimthann pressed his lips together in a grim line. “When necessary.”
“What song d-d-did you sing?”
Crimthann’s frown returned. “It’s druidic magic. Not something I can speak of to a layman.”
Conall narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were a deacon? Isn’t that a Christian t-title? Why are you learning druidic magic?”
The other man sighed and glanced at Gemmán with a wistful expression. “The song. It’s all about the song. I’m drawn to the music, in ways my heart cannot explain to my own God. In truth, I’m not supposed to be here. I should be in Finnian’s school, learning from him. He teaches students from all over the land. And yet, when I came to his school, I became drawn to the music of the bee-glade.”
“Lainn has sung songs to the bees; the test Ernán failed, the one that made him seethe for twenty winters in jealousy.”
“Cost? How did it cost you to sing?”
Crimthann shook his head. “Unless you have the magic, you’d never understand. Suffice to say, all magic comes at a price, no matter what type of magic it is. Druidic or Christian, nothing comes free.”
Conall swallowed and looked at Lainn. “How long did you say we’d been here?”
With a half-smile, Crimthann nodded. “Yes, even the healing comes at a price. But we can talk of that later when you and Lainn are both stronger.”
Conall took the last few spoonfuls of his broth and wished for more. After staring at the bottom of the bowl for several moments, he looked into Crimthann’s green eyes. “If I can do some work to fix your cottage, would that pay for my and Lainn’s healing? Might it also p-p-pay for healing for my mother?”
Chapter 21
Between Crimthann’s care and medicine, Conall’s bumbling help, and Gemmán’s singing, Lainn healed well and more quickly than Conall imagined. Granted, they’d both slept for two moons, but he almost had to learn how to walk again after sleeping for so long, so he thought she would have to as well. Of course, she defied all expectations. She ran and laughed amongst the rolling hills within days, while Conall still occasionally tripped or stumbled, despite having woken a full three days earlier than she had.
His mother, however, remained very ill. As the weeks passed, Crimthann brought his tinctures and prayers. Gemmán brought his songs, but she raved and struck out at friend and foe alike. Some days she simply slept, sullenly pouting over their strictures. Other days she tried to pull any man she saw into the cot with her, no matter if they were young or old, related or stranger. The days she raved like a bean sidhe were the worst. Her screeching wails cut across the woods and chilled the heart of all who heard. The scratches she inflicted on them both tended to fester.
Some days, he’d simply cry over her sleeping form, his father’s brooch in his hand, begging whatever magic infused the brooch to help him heal his mother. It never worked, but he kept the brooch close to him at all times, regardless. He didn’t want to risk being too far from it to use the power when he needed it.
When Crimthann came with his latest noxious potion, the odor impregnated the room with disgusting fumes. Conall almost gagged, and tried to imagine trying to get his mother to swallow it. She’d barely eat the stew he made for her, and he knew darn well the stew tasted better than anything she’d ever made.
He appraised Crimthann’s hopeful look at his latest offering. “If you expect her to d-drink that, you’d better administer it. She’ll just bite my hand if I try.”
The priest nodded, his mouth pressed into a grim line. He knelt by her cot, but she ignored him. First, he prayed, his hands folded near his stomach, praising his God and asking for patience, luck, and healing for this good woman.
Next, he poured some of his potion into a mug. The action permeated the room even more thickly. Conall breathed through his mouth to avoid vomiting.
Next, he spoke in a soft voice. “Ligach, I’ve brought something to make you feel better. Will you do me great honor as your guest and drink some? I would be most grateful for your help.”
For a moment, Conall thought his clever words might work. His mother sat up and took notice of the mug he offered and blinked several times as if trying to focus.
With a snarl and a hiss, her hand snaked out and knocked the mug from Crimthann’s hands, crashing against the wall support. This only increased the stench, and Conall rushed outside. Crimthann followed upon his heels.
Conall rounded on the priest. “It won’t work! None of your healing works with her. I’ve done all the repairs on your cottage and built a well besides, and still, your healing is useless!”
The deacon backed up a few steps, his brow furrowing. “But I’m bringing the best medicines I know of, Conall! I can’t think of anything else to do!”
Conall growled and started pacing. He wished Lainn were here, but she had resumed her lessons with Gemmán and spent most of her time at the oak grove, leaving Conall to the house. He resented the fact she left him to care for their mother almost exclusively, as she never hurried back home after lessons. “It’s not helping. If anything, she’s getting worse.”
“I wish I could offer more. Truly, I do, Conall. You must believe me.”
“I don’t. I don’t believe anything any more. Christian potions, Druidic magic, it’s all nonsense. N-n-n-n-none of it works!”
A sound behind him made Conall glance up to find Adhna. The old man hadn’t changed much in the twenty winters since Conall and Lainn had spent in Faerie. He’d survived the Faerie Queen’s wrath that night, but refused to speak of the details to Conall. He had been tirelessly working to help Conall’s mother to recovery, along with both Gemmán and Crimthann. Everyone but Lainn, really. Still, none of it had worked.
Conall scowled at Adhna. “And what do you want, old man?”
The visitor blinked several times, glanced at Crimthann and his empty bottle, and offered Conall a reassuring smile. “I’m simply here to offer what comfort I can, Conall. To you or to your mother, whoever needs it most.”
“Comfort! What use is c-comfort? I need healing. You promised you’d heal her with help from Faerie, and that obviously didn’t work. Crimthann here t-t-tries potions and tinctures and prayers, and none made a bit of difference. They only make the place stink like pig shit. Gemmán tried to sing to her, and his songs fell flat.”
Gemmán and Lainn appeared at the other end of the yard, shock plain on both their faces.
“All of you, just get out! I don’t want help from Faerie, or from the old gods, or from your d-dead God. None of the help is worth a thing! Go away and don’t come back.”
Gemmán held out a hand as he approached, but Crimthann stopped him with some murmured words. The druid frowned and said something back, but Crimthann shook his head. Conall glared at Lainn, daring her to say something, anything.
Suddenly, Gemmán’s words rose. “Why would you try that? No one’s ever reported that to work, Crimthann.”
Trying to keep his voice low still, Crimthann mumbled some defense of his actions, but Gemmán furrowed his brow. “That makes no sense! Come, I think you need some more lessons in herblore before you attempt more healing. People are not for experimentation with every wild notion that comes to your head.”
“We need to do something, Gemmán! That woman in there is dying, and we might be able to save her!”
The older man crossed his arms, frowning. “So you want to give her every concoction you think might help? You might kill her before you cure her!”
Crimthann threw his potion bottle on the ground, and it bounced on the soft grass. “At least I’m trying something other than chanting nonsense songs to dead gods over her every day!”
Gemmán gripped his staff with both hands. “Oho! The truth comes out! Why did you seek my teaching, then, if you disdain the old gods so much? Go pray to your hanged God for salvation, and see how far that gets you!”
Conall shouted a primal scream, the echoes of his voice reverberating through the woods. “Pox and boils! Enough, b-b-both of you! My mother is not a b-battlefield for your religion!”
Lainn placed her hand on Gemmán’s shoulder, but he shrugged it away. “Sorry, lad. This needs to be settled, and I want an answer now. Crimthann, did you come to me in good faith to learn my path, or are you simply trying to find your enemies’ weaknesses to further your own God?”
Crimthann smiled, his teeth gleaming white. “What would you give to know the truth, old man?”
The thunder which clouded Gemmán’s eyes would put any storm to shame. He held his staff horizontally across his body, gripped firmly with both hands, sparks flying between his hands. They crackled and danced as he sang, and the swirling, carved symbols on his staff glowed, bathing his opponent in blue light
.
The first time Conall had heard the old druid sing was with Lainn before they’d gone to Faerie. Then, his voice had been light and sweet, a soft caress on a warm, summer day. Today, he didn’t sing a pleasant, bucolic song of bees and butterflies. Today’s tune sounded like a martial song of strident phrases and strong refrain. His voice boomed across the clearing and soared into the air, to rustle the green, summer leaves. The sun grew dim as the storm in his eyes formed in the sky, with swirling clouds and darkening thunderheads, creating a maelstrom. The suddenly chilly wind ripped through the woods surrounding them, whipping the leaves from their branches, creating eddies full of dancing green. Conall rubbed his eyes as the dust flew with the leaves.
Conall tried to understand the words of his song, but the language felt ancient and primal. Some names poked through the mélange of syllables, such as the Dagda and Cerridwen, but the rest swirled in a dangerous soup of anger and retribution.
Thunder rumbled from the clouds, down through the trees and into the very earth, making Conall’s feet tremble as the ground moved.
Crimthann glanced up in apprehension, but determination flashed across his face as he chanted in Latin, the language of the Christian priests. Conall had no idea what he said, but it sounded ponderous and momentous, filled with compelling rhythm and robust language.
With an anxious glance at the sky, the Christian priest switched to their own language, his booming voice now resounding across the glade.
Christ has our host surrounded
With clouds of martyrs bright,
Who wave their palms in triumph
And fire us for the fight.
This Christ the cross ascended
To save a world undone,
And, suff'ring for the sinful,
Age of Saints: Druid's Brooch Series: #7 Page 23