The King of Sleep

by Caiseal Mor

  “Then let us go.”

  “My lord!” Máel Máedóc protested.

  “I have no choice,” Eber told his adviser. “If I don’t seek this alliance I may as well fall on my own sword.”

  “I hope you don’t live to regret this decision,” Dalan added.

  And then without another word he strode off toward the waiting Fir-Bolg warriors who stood expectantly behind the walls of their stronghold.

  Chapter 12

  THERE WAS NO FEASTING THAT EVENING AT THE FIR-Bolg fortress. Eber Finn and his entourage were treated with polite respect but the barest minimum of hospitality and none of the customary ritual.

  The two kings and their advisers lodged at opposite sides of the fortress that night. With the dawning sun they broke their fast together on the eastern battlements, the only part of the fortification to have been completed.

  Few words were spoken between the war-leaders, though Dalan, Sorcha and Máel Máedóc launched into a long discussion about the worryingly low level of the waters in Lough Gur. It was Sorcha’s opinion that the spring which fed the lough had begun to silt up and that in time the source of that spring would be revealed. Once that happened, she reasoned, it would be relatively easy to clean away the collected debris. Then the lough could fill again.

  Dalan was certain that rain would be the savior of the lough. The west had suffered the longest dry spell in living memory. The fields were turned to golden yellow where usually every shade of green was seen.

  Lochie, arrayed in the clothes and appearance of Fineen the Healer, also attended the formal breakfast, though he didn’t offer his thoughts on the level of the lough. Indeed he hardly spoke a word to anyone until the Brehon called on Fineen to recount, for the benefit of Máel Máedóc, the history of Dun Gur. Fineen’s people had dwelled in that place since the Danaans first arrived in Innisfail, and the healer’s knowledge of its history was unsurpassed.

  Of course Lochie didn’t flinch for a moment. What stories he knew of Dun Gur hadn’t been passed down to him in whispers from any teacher. He’d witnessed for himself all the great events of a hundred generations, so it was an easy task for him to speak about them.

  He told the gathering about the first of the Tuatha-De-Danaan who had arrived in that part of the country and how they’d fought a terrible battle with the Fir-Bolg on the shores of the lough. Even in those ancient days there were Druids among the Danaan folk who practiced the Draoi craft, and it was said that they called a great storm down upon the surface of the lough, which swept waves over the gathered Fir-Bolg force. Then one of the Druids named Dagda stepped into the midst of the fight and sang a beautiful haunting song as he strummed his harp strings.

  None among the Fir-Bolg dared lay a hand on the Danaan Druid. A practitioner of the Draoi arts was protected by ancient laws common to both peoples. According to the legends there arose from the lough two enormous worms that churned the waters and put a terror upon the Fir-Bolg.

  The defenders threw down their arms and sued for peace; Dagda ceased his song and the creatures from the deep sank beneath the agitated lough again. The victorious Danaans claimed the island in the middle of the lough as their own and set about building a stone fortress there to keep any threat at bay.

  As for the Fir-Bolg who were defeated by the use of the Draoi craft, they never forgot the way Dagda had misused his talents. He must have known that no Fir-Bolg would dishonor their name by striking down a Druid. Yet he had drawn on the Draoi to aid the Danaan warriors and so had broken his own vows never to engage in battle. Dagda went on to become the first Danaan to preside over the Druid Assembly and it was after him the office of High-Druid was named.

  The Fir-Bolg agreed to throw their swords and war-gear into the lough in pledge of peace. It took two generations for them to rearm and by that time the Danaans were well established in their new home. As for the two worms, no one knew from whence they came nor where they went afterward. Some folk said they lived on under the waters, appearing now and then to steal a cow or drown a careless boatman. Others claimed they had been merely demons of the mind without substance, conjured up by Dagda’s craft. But Dagda always reckoned the worms dwelled in a deep cave in the darkest parts of the lough at the place where the waters emerged from within the Earth.

  When Lochie finished this part of the tale Máel Máedóc thanked him. And he inquired whether the two worms he’d referred to were likely to be stirred by the falling level of the waters. The Watcher simply shrugged to indicate that he didn’t know.

  “Fineen is a trusted adviser,” Brocan assured the old Gaedhal. “As soon as we have settled matters Ã11 send him back to Dun Gur to assess the situation.”

  Máel Máedóc bowed to show his thanks, but before he could speak another word Eber Finn cut in.

  “Let us resolve our differences then,” he offered. “I’m willing to pay an honor price befitting the rank and status of the warrior who was killed by renegades. And I’ll also double the bride price I originally offered you, just to show that I am sympathetic to your loss.”

  The king raised an eyebrow. Now he was even more angry. To use this situation to further negotiations on a marriage arrangement was dishonorable. He steered the Gaedhal back to the point.

  “You could treble it and it wouldn’t dampen my grief,” Brocan replied tersely. “Fergus was more than a champion. He was my friend. And he was a messenger sent to you with a gift of good faith, a breacan cloak worthy of a king.”

  Eber flinched visibly as he recalled the bright yellow garment Goll mac Morna had been wearing.

  “What more can I do to prove my worth to you as an ally and friend?” the Gaedhal asked.

  “I challenge you to a test of your valor.”

  Máel Máedóc sat forward, the concern clearly visible on his face, but his king didn’t hesitate.

  “What is to be the nature of this test?”

  “I have prepared a journey for you,” Lochie spoke up. “Accompanied by a Druid of your choosing, you will enter the Aillwee caves, explore the depths and hopefully return unscathed.”

  Eber Finn frowned and glanced over at the Fir-Bolg king. He was smiling broadly.

  “This would hardly appear to be much of a challenge,” Eber scoffed.

  “There is more,” Lochie went on. “You will take a Druid brew to open your inner eye to the world which exists beneath the Earth. Believe me, there are terrors in that place which will measure the worthiness of your friendship and your hand in battle.”

  “How do I know this isn’t a trap? How can I trust that your warriors won’t be lying in wait for me? Disabled by poison I would never be able to stand against a determined sword.”

  “I will undergo the same test,” Brocan replied, hardly able to contain his satisfaction. Here was an opportunity to lay to rest the fears his warriors held for the caves and challenge the Gaedhal at the same time. “As an act of good faith I will drink the same brew and set off with a Druid in whom I have great trust.”

  “I choose Máel Máedóc,” Eber shot back.

  “I select Dalan the Brehon,” the Fir-Bolg king smiled.

  “Then you shall each take the adviser the other man chose,” the Watcher smiled. “Dalan will go with Eber Finn and Máel Máedóc will accompany Brocan. If you should encounter one another in the depths of the caves, there is to be no fighting between you. I’ll wager there will be enough other challenges placed before you that if you do chance to meet, you’ll likely be glad of a face you recognize.”

  “How will we find our way out again?” Dalan asked, disturbed by the thought of becoming lost in that underworld.

  “I understand that tradition speaks of a river which flows through the Aillwee and emerges closer to the sea. Find that river and you will have discovered a way out of the caves.”

  “When is the testing to be?” Eber asked.

  “Tomorrow at dawn.”

  With that the King of the Southern Gaedhals rose from his seat. “I shall be ready.”
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  Then he strode off toward the road, seeking to be by himself for a while. He had no desire to show just how dismayed he was by this turn of events. But he was beginning to wonder if an alliance with the Fir-Bolg was really worth all this trouble.

  * * *

  That evening Lochie took Sárán out on the battlements to view the stars and teach his pupil something of their relationships. The young man had noticed a great change come over his master in the last few days and he liked what he saw. Where Fineen had once been shy about speaking his mind, he now seemed extremely confident. In place of his reticence to praise he now openly talked of his student’s potential to become a greatly respected Druid.

  When the lesson was concluded Sárán excused himself to go and prepare his master’s fire for the night. But Lochie asked the lad to remain a while.

  “I am convinced,” the Watcher told him, “that you are ready to take your first initiation as a Druid-Healer. I’m very proud of you, my boy.”

  “Thank you, master,” Sárán replied, taken aback by such generosity. “I strive to take your lessons to heart.”

  “I believe you do,” Lochie nodded. “And you will always need to be disciplined if you’re to meet the challenges placed before you in the future.”

  “Challenges?”

  “Within a few days your knowledge and skills are going to be put to the test. I am going to recommend that you continue your training as a counselor. One day you will advise your brother Lom when he’s elected King of the Fir-Bolg.”

  “You’ve spoken of this before,” Sárán ventured. “But surely I’m too young for such responsibility.”

  “Some would say your brother is too young for the kingship. Yet he will be king before long. And your sister Aoife will be a queen.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “She will wed with Eber Finn,” Lochie told him.

  “A Gaedhal?” Lochie nodded somberly. “I won’t allow it. The Gaedhals are not worthy of wedding into our Fir-Bolg blood.”

  “You haven’t really considered your words so I’ll forgive your hasty disrespectful manner.”

  The lad cast his eyes to the ground in remorse and put a hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry, master,” he mumbled. “I meant no insult to you.”

  Lochie waved a hand in the air to dismiss the incident. “In time you’ll learn that anger, hatred and prejudice are the pastimes of fools. Such thoughts lead to wasteful conflicts. For now you must trust me when I tell you that the Gaedhals will be the saviors of your people.”

  “They have invaded our island and brought nothing but war. They murdered Fergus.”

  “As I recall,” Lochie smiled, “you were not all that fond of Fergus. What matter to you if he was killed in a fight with renegades?”

  “We only have Eber’s word that it was outlaws who attacked Rath Carriaghe,” Sárán pointed out.

  “And why shouldn’t we believe him?”

  The lad looked up to the stars to avoid his master’s eyes. It occurred to him that he was merely being stubborn in his distrust of the Gaedhals and their king. And if he was to be a worthy adviser to Lorn when he attained to the kingship, he would have to remain unbiased. That was one of the greatest lessons Fineen the Healer had imparted to him.

  “You have always said that forgiveness is the most effective healing salve,” Sárán recalled. “You taught me that it is often difficult to pardon those who have caused offense. I will always be grateful for the way you took me in after the crime I committed against you.”

  He turned his attention back to his teacher and noticed an unusual glint in the healer’s eye. The lad smiled at his master before he continued.

  “I’ve often thought that if I hadn’t lost my temper at the battleground and if my blade hadn’t cut open your flesh I would never have been led along this path. I’ve never been happier than when I’ve been listening to you speak of all the things you’ve learned.”

  “One day you will speak to your student in the same manner,” Lochie observed. “And perhaps you’ll remember me then. For the moment you must try to understand that Eber Finn will protect your people from destruction.”

  Sárán frowned, not comprehending what he was being told.

  “I’m speaking of his brother in the north, Éremon,” Lochie went on. “He is a ruthless cruel man who has continually broken his treaty with the Danaans. He will not baulk at bringing battle to the south or the west if he believes it will benefit his people.”

  “But Eber is his brother.”

  “And so it is with many brothers,” the Watcher nodded gravely. “One covets whatever the other holds dear. áremon cannot be trusted. Eber is your only hope. A strong alliance with him and a swift attack against the north is the only way to secure the future of your people. A marriage with your sister will seal the pact.”

  “But Aoife will never consent to such a match.”

  “Would you rather see her marry young Mahon?”

  Sárán shook his head. “I’ve never liked him. He’s lazy and he’s led her away from the Druid path.”

  “She isn’t suited to our way,” Lochie replied, placing a consoling hand on his student’s shoulder. “She has no self-discipline or aptitude for the sacred journey. Her path leads elsewhere. And you must set her on that course.”

  “Me?”

  “If you’re to be counselor to your king you’d best begin to practice now. I’ve asked your sister to come here to meet with me this evening to discuss her future. But you will speak with her in my place.”

  “I can’t,” Sárán objected. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Think of your people. Consider that without you the Fir-Bolg could pass into legend and one day may be no more than a frightening tale told to children to keep them indoors after sunset. Is that what you would have happen?”

  The lad shook his head. “I can bring myself to forgive the Gaedhals if that is what you wish,” he told his master. “I would do anything you asked of me out of the gratitude and respect I have for you. And if you really believe it is best that Aoife be wed to Eber Finn, then I will accept what you say even if I don’t fully understand the reasoning.”

  “You’ll make a fine counselor,” Lochie smiled, turning away from the ramparts to walk back to the house of poetry. “I will speak with you before you sleep,” he said as he disappeared into the darkness. “I expect a full report of your conversation.”

  In the next breath he was gone. Sárán was left to wait the arrival of his sister and to consider carefully all that had been said to him. He understood the need for an alliance and that a marriage was the best way to strengthen such a pact. He could see that if Lorn was to be king the chieftains would not accept Fineen, his master, as chief adviser to the war-leader. The healer was a Danaan after all and not of Fir-Bolg lineage. But he couldn’t quite understand what events could possibly lead to his father relinquishing the throne. He put that out of his mind for the moment—he had more important matters to resolve.

  He considered Aoife and her foolish infatuation with Mahon. Since the treaty and the taking of the Quicken Brew three winters earlier she had all but abandoned her studies to follow her lover like an eager puppy. Dalan was constantly imposing penalties on her to discipline her behavior. She had become an embarrassment to her family and her vocation. She was just like her mother. Riona left Brocan because of Mahon’s father, Cecht. She had since disappeared with him and his folk into the Otherworld. She hadn’t visited her children, nor had she expressed any desire to see her kinfolk again.

  Their mother was blinded by her lust, Sárán told himself. And in the same way Aoife had so foolishly devoted herself to her beloved, an uncouth, ill-mannered layabout who was content to spend his days hunting for sport or drinking for pleasure.

  Eber Finn, on the other hand, was a king in his own right. And if he was victorious against the northern Gaedhals he might be elected king over the entire island. Such a powerful ruler was always in need of advisers. An
d if his sister were Queen of the Gaedhals it would be natural she’d want her brother to act as counselor to her husband. There could be no more rewarding, challenging and comfortable position for any Druid.

  There was just one problem with this dream, one beesting in the honeycomb. A terrible hostility had developed between himself and Aoife. She had no respect for him and he found her impossible to get along with.

  If he was to have any chance of influencing her he would have to win her over. They were both as stubborn as each other, he could concede that. But if compromise would get him what he wanted, that’s just what he’d do.

  As it happened he didn’t have another moment more to think about this problem. Just then he heard soft footsteps on the battlements behind him. Sárán turned around, took a deep breath to ready himself and peered into the night.

  “My dear sister,” he began the very second he saw Aoife materializing out of the darkness. “A very good evening to you.”

  “Sárán?”

  “It is.”

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “I’ve come to meet with Fineen. We have a private matter to discuss.”

  “My master is occupied with preparations for the testing at dawn,” Sárán lied. “He asked me to meet with you in his place and to pass on your concerns to him.”

  The young woman muttered an obscenity under her breath before she spoke again. “I’ve nothing to say to you.” Then she turned around to head back to her lodgings.

  “Whatever you would say to the healer,” he called after her, “you may say to me. I am your brother, after all.”

  “You’ve been no brother to me these three winters past,” Aoife shot back. “You’ve turned into an arrogant, self-serving fool who has nothing but criticism for me.”

  “I’ve been very harsh, I know,” he offered. “And I’m truly sorry. It has been just as difficult an adjustment for me as it has for you. I also had ambitions of becoming a warrior.”

  His sister turned around and even in the darkness he could plainly see the light of fury in her bright green eyes.