“I’m Max McDaniels.”
The man bowed his head in greeting.
“You stand before Lugh the Long-Handed, High King of Rodrubân. You come seeking that which was entrusted to me. You are my son.”
The man’s words echoed in Max’s ears. A flood of emotions welled up within him. Gazing upon the shining figure, Max knew he spoke the truth. Scott McDaniels was not his father; Max’s entire life and identity had been a lie. Lugh rose from his throne to tower over Max, who stood only to his chest. There was no love or warmth in the High King’s expression, merely a distant curiosity. Placing the broken spear on Max’s palm, Lugh closed his fingers about the splintered haft.
“Scathach shall judge if you are worthy,” he said.
“But I have no time for tests,” protested Max, fighting tears. “There’s so much I have to do!”
“You are not yet ready,” said Lugh. He motioned for Scathach to lead Max from the hall; the audience was finished. Before departing, Max looked back to see the great hound settling once again at Lugh’s feet. As Scathach closed the door, the High King issued one last command.
“Break him.”
The moon waxed and waned and seasons changed while Max trained and suffered under Scathach, forbidden to leave Rodrubân. Under her tutelage, Max mastered many feats, but at a terrible price. In his room now, atop the highest tower, he gazed down at the town below, a twinkling of lights among the sable fields. Somewhere out there was David. For a moment, Max could not picture his friend’s face, and it shamed him.
He walked away from the window and stared at his reflection in a mirror of polished silver. It was a handsome youth who stared back, but the eyes had grown hard. With a callused finger, Max traced a thin white scar that sliced from cheekbone to chin—one of many such souvenirs that now marked him.
There was a soft knock on the door.
Max turned as Scathach entered. She wore an embroidered robe of white linen and carried a green bundle of silk. This she lay upon the bed.
“Tomorrow, you shall depart Rodrubân,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
“And where will I go?” asked Max.
“The others know,” she said. “They will be waiting at the bridge at first light.”
Max nodded and stepped over to inspect the bundle. Unfolding it, he saw the broken spear and Señor Lorca’s shirt of nanomail. On top of the nanomail, however, was something else: a brooch of silver and ivory fashioned in the shape of a sun. Max examined it under the candlelight.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Something to remember us by,” she said softly, kissing him once on the cheek. She turned and walked swiftly from the room, pausing for a moment on the threshold. “Never forget that you are the son of a king.”
“Will I see him again?” asked Max.
“No,” replied Scathach, shutting the door behind her.
* * *
In the morning, Max waited within the courtyard while the drawbridge was lowered. He stepped over the threshold and onto a fringe of wet grass. Waiting across the bridge was David, leaning against a farmer’s cart pulled by a weathered mare, white in the muzzle. A bent, cloaked driver held the reins. In the distance, Max heard the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer. He walked across the docile bridge to meet his grinning roommate once again.
“You’re taller,” said David, shielding his eyes from the sun.
“You look exactly the same,” said Max, clapping David on the shoulder.
The driver rapped a stick impatiently against the cart.
“We must be going,” croaked an ancient voice. Max turned to see a gray-haired woman, her face seamed and shriveled, peering at him from beneath a brown hood.
“And who are you?” asked Max.
“Caillech,” muttered the woman, scowling and turning away to face the road before them.
David shrugged at the woman’s rudeness and climbed into the cart, whose floor was strewn with hay. Max looked one more time upon Rodrubân. He hoped to glimpse a slender, black-haired figure standing at a window, but saw only ravens riding on the wind.
16
DRIFT AND MASTERY
The cart rattled along the worn cobblestones, pulled by the plodding mare. As the morning mists subsided and the sun rose high, they clopped past orchards, cottages, and a tall white tower that had come to ruin. Caillech was silent, merely clucking her tongue whenever the horse slowed to nose at a flower or nibble at the roadside grass. David had many questions, however, and listened with great interest as Max told him of his training and trials at Rodrubân. Max shared many things, but he said very little of Lugh and nothing of the paternal claim that troubled him.
“What about you?” asked Max. “What did you do all this time?”
“Chores and trades,” said David, smiling. “I can fetch water, clean stables, feed animals, dye wool, and make a painful pair of shoes.”
“Sounds awful,” said Max.
“It’s the happiest I’ve ever been,” said David, uncovering a basket to offer Max an apple. “And I don’t think it’s boasting to say I’m the best one-handed cobbler in all the Sidh!”
Max smiled.
“What of Astaroth?” he asked, the Demon seeming a distant memory under the warm sun.
“Only rumors.” David shrugged. “Occasionally, a traveler will arrive with tales of a strange being waiting at crossroads, jesting with passersby. Wherever Astaroth is from, it isn’t from here. Even in the Sidh, I think they’re afraid of him.”
“And how did you . . . ?” whispered Max, inclining his head at Caillech’s bent form, clutching the reins.
“Meet our friendly driver?” said David, smiling. “Last night I was cleaning the cobbler’s shop when she knocked. Not so much as a hello. Just a ‘On the morn, we fetch your prize,’ and she pushed past me to sleep in my bed! Weird, I know, but weirdness is the way here—everyone coming and going on strange, secret errands.”
“And where is she taking us?” asked Max.
“Brugh na Boinne,” rasped Caillech, shooing away a horsefly.
Max sat up straight and turned toward their driver. Since his decision at the crossroads, that name had haunted Max’s dreams: Astaroth had said his mother would be there.
“How far is it?” asked Max urgently.
“Far,” replied the crone.
“Can’t we go any faster?” asked Max, watching the nag’s head bob in time with its plodding pace.
Caillech laughed—a low, mirthless croaking.
“There was once a man who saw Death staring at him in the marketplace,” she muttered. “Afraid, the man stole a horse and rode as fast as he could to the next town. Once there, he took a room at an inn and locked himself inside. But there was Death, already waiting by the fire. ‘How?’ cried the man. ‘How can you be here?’ Death smiled and stood. ‘I asked myself the same when I saw you at the marketplace, for it is here that I was to meet you.’ ”
Caillech laughed again and shook her head. Max said nothing, but glanced instead at David. His roommate seemed lost in thought, however, gazing quietly at the mossy remains of a wall built long ago.
For a stretch of days, they rattled along through sun and showers and wind as they followed the white road, winding through the green countryside. At times, they saw armies flying different colors, marching like glittering ants in the distance. When pressed for details, Caillech merely shrugged and said that the kingdoms of the Sidh often fought with one another. Max found the pace maddening; Caillech slept like the dead and on some days she couldn’t be roused before noon. When awake, she was miserable company—chewing her lip in silence or muttering hoarse, cryptic replies to Max’s many questions.
Early one afternoon, Max was jostled from his daydreams as the cart came to a halt. Caillech scratched her head and swiveled to gaze at the road behind them. She scowled and spat into the road.
“What is it, Caillech?” asked David cautiously.
“This is not the road to Brugh na Boin
ne,” she said at length, looking past them.
Max exploded.
“What do you mean?” he cried, smacking the side of the cart. He stood and looked behind them. Theirs was the only road in sight.
“This is not the road to Brugh na Boinne,” repeated Caillech.
“And it took you this long to realize it?” asked Max, incredulous. He buried his head in his hands. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”
Caillech stared at Max. Her dark eyes narrowed to angry creases.
“Do you?” she asked.
Max swallowed his reply; it took all his effort to smother his temper.
“Take the reins yourself or be still, you impudent child!” hissed the crone.
Max remained standing, staring at Caillech with rising anger. After a moment, David spoke.
“She didn’t mean to take the wrong way,” he said gently. “Sit back down, Max.”
Max nodded but kept his eyes on their driver, who returned his glare with a defiant scowl. Sinking back into the cart, Max knitted his fingers behind his head and stared up at the sky. The mare snorted and they began the slow, laborious process of turning the cart around.
The miles passed and it was nearing twilight, but they had yet to see a crossroads. Even David’s cheerful whistling grated on Max’s nerves. Rolling onto his side, Max flicked his finger against the cart’s rough planks and tried to smother his irritation. He sighed as the horse gave a tired whinny and the cart slowed to a snail’s pace. Glancing up at the sky, Max saw they still had a smidgeon of sun remaining.
“We’re not stopping yet,” he snapped, shutting his eyes and rubbing at his temples.
“We are here,” croaked the old woman as the cart rolled to a stop.
“And where is here?” snapped Max.
“Brugh na Boinne,” replied Caillech.
Max cracked an eye open. David was standing up in the cart, gazing at something ahead of them. Sitting up, Max turned and blinked. The road had come to an abrupt end, tunneling into the side of a great hill studded with rocks and roots. Max climbed from the cart and stared.
“But we didn’t come this way before,” he said, glancing sharply at David. “And haven’t we been on the same road this whole time?”
David nodded and shivered, rubbing his arms as the sun’s last rays began to fade at the horizon. While the landscape darkened about them, a pale light glimmered from the hill’s dark opening. Faint and veiled it began, but as the light grew stronger, its flickering luminescence spilled out from the hill like a welcoming light. A fire was burning inside.
A tingling arose in Max’s neck and fingers, the same sensation he’d experienced when he discovered the tapestry.
Caillech stepped down from her seat and hobbled toward the cave’s opening.
“What are you fools waiting for?” she hissed. Bent nearly to the ground, the old woman shuffled inside. Max took David’s pack from the smaller boy and closed his fingers around Cúchulain’s spear. Side by side, the two boys walked into the earth.
The road did not end at the hill but continued within it. Max and David’s footsteps echoed off the cobblestones as they descended slowly, following a long, slow curve. Yellow firelight flickered on the walls, broken by Caillech’s shadow, which looked misshapen and monstrous as she muttered and shuffled ahead of them.
At last, the road ended, terminating at a large cave deep within the hill. Many tapestries hung along the walls, illuminated by a massive brazier that burned at the cavern’s center. Against the far wall was an alabaster dais and upon its smooth white surface were several objects.
“Behold!” croaked Caillech. “The Four Treasures of the Tuatha dé Danann and that which you seek!”
Following Caillech around the burning brazier, Max and David approached the dais. The crone pointed a bony finger at an enormous cauldron of etched bronze from which protruded a heavy shaft of wood.
“The Dagda’s Cauldron,” she muttered. “They say it can feed an army and raise the dead. And within it, the Spear of Lugh—deadly to all save his kin and so terrible, it must sleep beneath water laced with poppies. And there is the Sword of Nuada, Claíomh Solais,” she gasped, pointing at a gleaming sword of silver. “And next to it, Lia Fáil—the stone that was kingmaker until Cúchulain himself split it in two!”
Max walked over to the stone, running his hand over its rough surface to the smooth, sharp plane where it had been halved. He glanced at the weapon he carried and wondered if it had done the deed long ago. David passed behind him, arriving at the last object on the dais.
There, suspended within a case of blown glass, was the Book of Thoth. David and Max peered closely at it. The glass distorted its appearance, but some details could be seen. It had a cover of tarnished gold, etched with hieroglyphs and the profile of an ibis-headed man—the Egyptian god himself. With a sharp intake of breath, David tried to lift the case. It did not move.
“Let me help,” said Max, taking hold of the glass and giving a heave.
The case remained fast and the two boys were left staring at the Book as though it were a pastry beneath a domed cake plate. David gasped suddenly and fished frantically inside his shirt. He brought out Bram’s talisman, holding it gingerly by its slender chain.
It was glowing a dull red, the heat within it intensifying even as they watched.
“We have to hurry,” muttered David, wrenching the chain off his neck and tossing the hot medallion aside. “The Book’s in danger.”
Max stepped back as David began to chant. Strange words rang through the cavern, powerful spells that seemed to make the very earth hush and listen. Nothing happened, however, and Max saw that David was frustrated. His words became songs, lilting chants and melodies that saturated the air until it hummed with magic. Still the glass remained. The songs became whispers—slow, terrible words that echoed off the walls and whispered back, distant and mocking. David bowed his head and the echoes subsided to silence. He raised his eyebrows and glanced wearily at Max.
“I’m so sorry,” he sighed. “I must have lost my touch.”
Max had a sudden flash of memory.
“You haven’t lost anything,” Max cried, shaking his friend in his excitement. “Remember Bram’s Riddle?” Max almost hyperventilated as he recited the poem’s second verse.
For there the book doth lie with those
Who sleep beneath both hill and tree.
But keep in mind, dear Sorcerer,
No spell will pry its secrets free.
“You’re right,” said David, blinking slowly. “Magic won’t open it at all.”
“Whatever you mean to do, you must decide soon,” muttered Caillech. “The door above is still open!”
The woman’s words smacked of menace. Max turned and stared at the medallion.
It was smoldering now, issuing steady waves of heat.
Max felt a sudden tickling at his neck—Mr. Sikes fluttered at his ear.
“The spear!” squeaked the imp. “The magic spear will free the Book, Master McDaniels! The Demon is coming! Oh, you must be quick for all our sakes!”
Max swallowed and glanced again at the cavern entrance, half expecting to see Astaroth’s smiling face peering from the darkness. Caillech shut her eyes, making a hasty sign against evil. David merely stared at the smoldering medallion.
“Now!” pleaded Mr. Sikes, his voice no louder than a tiny squeak. “With all your heart, strike swift and true!”
Max gripped the gae bolga tight and turned to eye the Book. With a sudden stride, Max raised the spearhead up and swung its razor edge straight down onto the glass. There was a sound like a thunderclap, a flash of pain, and Max was flung backward to the base of the brazier. Sitting up, Max clutched his arm, which had gone numb. He scrambled to his feet, glaring at the Book of Thoth, which remained suspended within the undamaged case. David and Caillech stared at him in silence, their eyes wide with shock. Turning to retrieve Cúchulain’s spear, Max gasped.
The gae
bolga had shattered into a hundred sharp fragments that were scattered across the cavern floor. Max stood and blinked at the glittering shards for several moments. Without a word, he walked across the room and tore a tapestry from the wall. Neither Caillech nor David dared to speak while Max crawled about on his knees, retrieving every last shard of metal and splinter of bone until they lay in a little pile on the tapestry. When all had been recovered, Max folded the cloth upon itself.
“Are you okay?” asked David.
“I’m fine,” Max lied, walking to stow the bundled tapestry within David’s pack. His voice was soft and calm. “I just wasn’t strong enough—it was a stupid mistake.”
Caillech said nothing.
“No,” David said slowly. “I don’t think it was a stupid mistake at all. You did the right thing. After all, you’re not broken—the spear is. It wasn’t strong enough.”
Max looked at the other objects on the dais and came to a sudden, sinking conclusion. There were two spears in the cavern; he had chosen the wrong one.
Frowning, Max stepped decisively over to the cauldron and reached inside for the Spear of Lugh.
“No!” David cried, waving his arm. “Don’t touch it! Use the sword—Caillech said that spear will kill you!”
Max paused a moment, remembering back to his brief audience in the throne room at Rodrubân. There was a calm, quiet truth to the words Lugh had spoken. Max now cast aside his misgivings; he was indeed the High King’s son. As the realization washed over him, he was vaguely aware that David was pleading with him to back away from the half-submerged spear.
“It can’t hurt me, David,” muttered Max, closing his eyes as he pulled the heavy weapon from the water. The cauldron began to hiss and boil. A bloodcurdling wail issued from the spear as it was lifted above the water’s surface. A slow trickle of blood bubbled from the spear’s point to course down its length and stain Max’s fingers. David shrieked and backed away from the terrifying thing as Max turned to face the Book. Once again, he brought a spearhead down against the glass. This time there was no pain.
The Second Siege Page 31