“It appears that I was correct,” said Lugh. “The daughter of Dagda is as gifted as the bards say.”
Arabella was not amused, “If you are quite done stalling, perhaps you can end the theatrics and throw the spear. The crowd is eager to see if the man lives up to the legend.”
The bards sang of heroic deeds, of heroes far and wide, and Lugh had made a name for himself, albeit not his true name. He was considered a phantom, or perhaps many different men. Lugh was certain many who watched this spectacle had heard the poems sung by bard and harp to honor his feats. He took notice of the size of the crowd and adjusted his performance.
The crowd turned and all eyes now rested on Lugh with spear in hand. In his own mind, he knew he could make the throw. He knew how to place his feet, where to pivot from, and just how far he needed his spear to fly. He knew this contest was his to lose if he chose. But the crowd did not, neither did the Princess. Lugh had been embarrassed by her entrance, by her insinuation he was a charlatan. He knew this was his chance to repay her and he was not about to pass it. Lugh stepped forward and looked about, acting as if he was unaware of his surroundings. He stuck his finger in his mouth and gauged the wind. The crowd laughed and chatter. Lugh displayed a goofy face. The crowd laughed as he closed one eye and craned his body backward stretching himself before the throw. He took aim glaring at the target as if he could not see it. He waited until the tension was so great that it boiled over into rage behind Arabella’s eyes. Lugh closed his eyes and turned his back to the target and lowered the spear.
Arabella fumed at the charade and without a second thought ordered her men to arrest him. With his back turned to her Lugh smiled and pivoted his body his eyes still closed and hurled the spear at the target. The spear flew by the crowd. It flew without resistance, as if the air bent to its command, and in half the time it took for the other spear to reach the target Lugh’s spear met its mark. Every single person in sight was transfixed by the spectacle they had just witnessed. Not a single person breathed as Lugh stood eyes still closed, without a single bead of sweat upon his brow.
Arabella’s sharp Fae eyes were astonished to see that not only had the spear made it the distance but that Lugh’s spear had split the arrow.. He had out-dueled her with his eyes closed and his back turned. She turned to Lugh and saw he was still standing eyes closed with a big grin on his face. The half-blood man standing before her was who he said he was. The crowd did not utter a word. Arabella was as amazed as she was furious with him.
“Will the victor then name his request?” she asked.
He bowed before her, “Noble Princess, I ask to tell a single tale of my heroic deeds. A chance to make merry the court of the Great King Dagda.”
“Escort the half-blood to the Starlight Keep at once,” she ordered. The guardsmen took Lugh by the arms and led him to the gates. As they did, the majordomo approached the Princess and bent to his knee.
“Majesty I. If I had only known, I beg of you…”
Arabella waved a hand at him silencing him, “None of us knew you fool. Take him to the tower and have him clothed and bathed. Have him prepared for his new life at court as my father’s new fool.”
“A fool your majesty? But your father he…” said the majordomo.
“Then have him clothed as my serving boy. I am sure he will perform the task with humility.”
The pair followed the guardsmen as the gates closed both Arabella and Lugh could hear the voices of the crowd in the distance.
“Trog, Trog, Trog, Trog…”
Lugh grinned.
Chapter Sixteen
Dagda, the High King of Hyperborea
Bards and minstrels,
Ale and cake,
Does a merry courtier make.
Day's last light crashed into the colossal edifice of the citadel in the heart of the ancient metropolis. Luscious hanging gardens and cascading waterfalls flowed through the architecture of Formene. Built in a time long since past, the city's origin seemed like a myth to its citizen's. Many believed it had always been there, hence the moniker of the Everlasting City. The legend persisted that it was the only city left standing after the end of the first age. The Tuatha Dé King had claimed it in battle from the tyrant Atum at the end of the first age.
Millennia had long since passed and now the city played host to many folk from across Hyperborea. Tonight his keep it would play host to the ambassadors and royalty from around the world. In the morning they would sail for Tara. The harbor brimmed with ships to carry the pilgrims to the sacred isle. Dagda watched as the world prepared.
Pixies sailed through the air towards the bell tower. Their task, to ring the bells, signifying court would be held. Hundreds of the tiny magical creatures gripped the ropes and furiously yanked. The tower bells rang high in the dusk air above the ancient city. The pixies fluttered away giggling mischievously, off to prank unsuspecting citizens. Birds fluttered away from the bell tower as crimson sunlight drenched throne room of the Tuatha Dé King.
The breeze floated through the archway, rustling the hanging linen, releasing the fresh scent of flowers. Dagda stood tall peering out upon his kingdom. As the city came to life, the air was heavy with anticipation. Millions would set forth from the city to attend the Conclave. All his subjects would find themselves enraptured in the festivities the next several weeks.
The tall elegant fairy drew in a deep breath. He closed his eyes and his head craned backward. He took care to listen to the song being sung by his sovereign domain. It was a beautiful symphony composed of each footstep, every crying babe and laughing child, the beating of wings, and the soft wind whistling through blowing leaves sent dulcid tones to his high perch. His holly bow crown rested against his head mimicking the serenity of the butterflies that flocked to him. A pair of dark oaken branches protruded from the crown ornamenting his majestic silver hair. His eyes opened revealing a pair of dark red irises. A burgundy silk robe, embroidered with golden trim hung from his regal frame. He was the epitome of regality, grace, and divine righteousness.
The balcony was as wide as the marketplace in the city below. This was Dagda's favorite place to contemplate the many burdens of ruling a kingdom. Marvelous, exotic flora decorated the entire balcony. In effect, it served as a sacred garden for the King, a poor substitute for his natural home in the grove. Still, he longed for the days when he would walk amongst the ancient groves speaking to the tree folk. No matter how many flowers or fronds he surrounded himself with he still longed for home behind the ornate bard of his gilded cage. The time before the wars of men. Perhaps one day he could return to the forests, to show his people the old ways. It would not be today or any day soon. His focus needed to be set on finishing what had begun thousands of years ago.
His feet led him to a peninsula extending from the center of the massive balcony. The sheer drop from the edge of the balcony was enough to take the breath from a man's chest. It was no matter for Dagda, for he was no man. It calmed him. Elevation was his savior. His wings had carried him to his position. They had lifted him from warrior to the esteemed and noble ruler of the Fair Folk.
For over six thousand years King Dagda held vigil over the realm of Hyperborea. His reign had been a time of peace, a golden age that shined from forth the darkness of the first age. Still forces that would see his rule end lurked in the shadows.
None of these forces persisted more than the darkening of a dorcha. It was during barrier of the hallowed veil between worlds would be thinnest. He sensed his power growing in response to the coming menace. Threats reared their ugly heads when you least expect it and his people had grown complacent, blind to the menacing darkness that beset them on all sides. He could feel it in his bones. As the twilight of his golden age of peace approached its end, he perceived something wicked lurking in the looming darkness.
A raven cawed in the distance and Dagda spotted the black winged bird flying towards the keep. It soared through the air, and the fairy King raised his arm. The raven pe
rched itself on the arm of Dagda.
“Greetings my dear Morrighan,” Dagda's voice said with a serene calm.
The raven cawed thrice more. The King sprouted beautiful wings composed of pure starlight and gracefully sailed back into the throne room from the balcony. Dagda placed the red-eyed bird atop a perch next to his throne.
He settled into his ornate, glowing oaken throne. Men covered their throne in gold, but he preferred the smell, the feel, and the strength of oak. It gleamed with the magic of sovereignty.
“What do your eyes and ears tell you?”
The raven leaped from the perch. Its wings fluttered and in the blink of an eye transformed its feathered limbs into robes as black as night. The bird transmogrified into the alluring pale skinned sheFae who knelt before the throne.
“Rise,” said Dagda.
The Morrighan lifted her head, her eyes as bright as the full moon, her hair a black as the night of a new moon. Upon her forehead was the mark of the moon itself.
“Houses Dragonbane, Stonehome, and Moontree have arrived. The caravan to Tara is on schedule my lord.” her ethereal voice kissed his ears as she spoke in the ancient tongue. “What of the Courtless?”
“The Courtless are sure to make their grand march at nightfall majesty.”
“I trust you also bring news from Fomor and the gathering of the tribes of man.”
“Balor sends his firstborn Bres to attend the Conclave, but I do not expect that they will join the court tonight.”
Dagda grimaced. “What of the other tribes, and the Fir Bolg?”
“Each dominion will send forth a tribute, no word of whether the Fir Bolg have found a champion worthy to send.”
Dagda took a moment to think. It had been many centuries since the last Conclave. Much more still since men were given the right to take part in her divine contest. Over the years of his reign as King, he had seen many leaders come and go. Some died in battle, others passed on, still, he remained. Each year when he held court new faces would arrive and soon after they would be replaced. Such was the burden of immortality.
“Has the great hall been prepared?” he asked his majordomo.
“Yes, Majesty. Lodgings have been made ready for the members of each court and every dominion.”
Dagda made use of the yearly festival to open the doors to the great hall. His court welcomed the leaders of the Fae, the lords and ladies of each dominion, to gather for the yearly festival.
“Have we the reports from the Master of Shadows?”
“Yes sire,” said the majordomo as he handed them to the King.
“Shall we proceed to the great hall my Lady?” he held out his arm for the Morrighan.
She took his arm, and the pair followed the majordomo from the throne room through the corridors to the great hall. The doors to the hall were twice the height of a Jotun, engraved with the histories of the people of Hyperborea. Dagda reminisced as his eyes fell on the stele that commemorated his victory over Atum. It brought forth feelings of pride, dread, and remorse. Two guards pressed on each door with all of their might to open the colossal stone doors. The hinges crackled and hissed under the weight. The majordomo walked ahead of the King and his consort. As they reached the steps Dagda surveyed the hall. The members of the lower court had already been gathered to cheer the entrance of the more esteemed members. Blue flame blazed in braziers as the enchanted ceiling beamed pure white starlight down upon the guests. The tables were full of every delicacy in the known world, and every wine and ale had been made available.
Trumpets sounded and drums beat as Dagda neared the steps that led down into the courtyard. Dagda and the Morrighan waved to the ample assembly who partook in the merrymaking.
Ogma Sunface bowed to Dagda and the Morrighan before bellowing. “Lords and Ladies, may I present, the Lord of House Starlight, High King of the Fae, King of Hyperborea, Father of the Tuatha De, the Bane of Man, General of the Golden Fist of the Goddess, King Dagda Nuada Starlight. May I also present to the Lords and Ladies of court, the Lady of Avalon, the Daughter of Night, General of the Golden Fist of the Goddess, our Lady Morrighan. ”
The court clapped, whistled, and cheered for their king and his fabled escort. He took a moment to look at her. She was beyond compare, no other feminine presence could match hers. He smiled at her, he knew she despised engagements like this one. Dagda felt they detracted from his true purpose, but a King must have a court. He took the stairs into the court and walked towards the table of the throne opposite the entry of the great hall. There he and the Morrighan would sit to welcome their guests. They mingled with the more notable courtiers and then proceeded to their table. They sat and awaited the announcements of the venerated guests.
“Welcome Lantir Erastar of House Moontree, Elder of the Aélfar, last of the line of Fara Moontree, Shaman of the Mistwalkers and Eveline Lavena, Mistress of Moon Grove, Lady of the Vale.”
Lantir walked with the tempered grace that his age had afforded him. His long tipped ears pierced his thin argent hair. His eyes pierced all he looked upon as the light of the moon in the darkness. Dagda had always revered the Elder. He knew Lantir would come bearing reports of the border the Aélfar shared with the cities of Fo and Penitent’s Vow. The woodland people of the Vale had long been at odds with the men who had settled to the south. Lantir had sent the King startling reports. His people had gone missing in large numbers near the Penitent border. According to the reports from the Master of Shadows the Elder's concerns were well-founded. Dagda knew there something was amiss.
The majordomo continued.
“Fekshar the Mighty of House Dragonbane, Imperator of the Jótun, third of his name, and slayer of the last High Dragon. He brings with him the huntress Skadi, champion of House Dragonbane who hails from Meltwater Pass.”
Fekshar and Skadi shook the hall as they walked upon the alabaster stone floors of the great hall. Fekshar was well over three times the height of Dagda, and a sight to behold. The Jotun were a curious breed, of all the Fae they had the smallest numbers. They were a hardy folk whose lives in the frozen passes of the north only made them harder. Dagda noticed the concern on the Morrighan’s face. The Jotun’s champion Skadi was a vision of power. Arabella though well equipped would be outmatched in shear strength by the titanic sheFae.
Dagda scanned reports from the Shimmering Peaks. The Far North was quieter than usual. Fekshar's rangers had found little quarry in recent months, and his men grew restless. To make matters worse, dragon bone was in short supply. The Jotun relied on dragon bone to keep coin in their purses and food in their bellies. If things did not improve by season’s end, the crown would have to intervene. If giants went hungry, they’d resort to a less savory means of making ends meet.
“House Stonehome sends Lady Fegna Baermond, the Prime of Bizaram, Conductor of the Underground Caravans, and Commander of the Stoneskein. She is escorted by Gork Broka, Leader of the Miners Federation, and First Sage of the Stone Singers of Kharbaraz.”
House Stonehome had long showered the crown with the wealth found beneath the Ancient Heights. Dagda believed House Stonehome did this in hopes there he would turn a blind eye to the reports their shady dealings with the eastern reaches.
The Morrighan leaned in and interjected.
“Majesty, I’ve heard whispers in the east that concern me in the east. There has been a recent influx of caravans leaving for Memphis from the western gate. Far more than we have record of in the past.”
“House Stonehome has been purchasing indentured contracts from the men of Kemet?” Dagda questioned.
“Perhaps, but I don’t have adequate evidence of a transgression. Whatever their dealings, the caravans are not returning to the Ancient Heights carrying gold or goods.”
Dagda acknowledged, “Curious. Organize a private parlay with Lady Fegna and the ambassador of Memphis. I want you to oversee the meeting.”
“Oro Brunkus, the High Tinkerer of Faleris.” The herald's voice trailed off as Dagda focuse
d his attention more on a feeling in his gut. His intuition gave him a lingering feeling of dread, like a rock in his stomach. He couldn't put his finger on what was causing this sudden, cogent apprehension. His mind raced with visions that had plagued him for years now. A chimera that sought the destruction of all he had held dear. Dagda tried shaking himself back to reality, focusing on the task at hand.
A raven flew into the throne room and rested on the shoulder of the Morrighan. Dagda noticed it whispering to the woman. His red eyes watched, his ears unable to overhear the raven.
The Morrighan leaned in and whispered to Dagda, “There has been a mutiny in the Acropolis, the Nemeton has contained the damage for now. No relics have been lost and the traitors have been dealt with. We are informed by the ArchMagus that he will bring us up to speed when we reach Tara.”
Dagda straightened up in his seat. “The ravens tell me that the Fir Bolg have sent a convoy forth. They have begun the pilgrimage to Tara.”
The King's eyes grew in amazement.
“Balor released Ubara?” said Dagda. “Another curious development. Any news on the champion the Fir Bolg will send?”
“Nothing yet.” said the Morrighan. “Whomever that wretched little man chooses will fail to impress.”
This was unexpected, for centuries Dagda had attempted to bring the Fir Bolg into the fold, but his efforts were to no avail. Dagda had not wanted to risk uniting the clans of mankind under the banner of Penitent's Vow. He feared the consequences of another rebellion. Should they rebel he would have no choice but to institute another sacred culling of man under order of the Grove. Dagda’s deepest desire was to have the Penitent Ensí Ubara Tutu at court. Even if the impish man took the seat reserved for mankind in his court, it would be advantageous. Within these walls Ubara would be powerless. Dagda would be able to divide Penitent's Vow amongst the Patriarchs and watch as they consumed themselves. Now it would seem that the Penitents had ended their isolation. Of course there was also the danger of gathering them in one place. Divide they were easy to control, unified they were stronger than any force in nature. Although he had exacted no authority over the foreigners or of men, the secrecy of the Ensí made him wary of Penitent intentions. Dagda had seen their airships with his own eyes, they were a wonder to be hold, a testament of the ingenuity of men. He admired their tenacity, men knew no defeat. Before all was said and done, the eccentric leader of the Penitent’s would have an impact. Whether for good, or for ill, he was uncertain.
Nemeton: The Trial of Calas (Hallowed Veil Book 1) Page 19