Fireshaper's Doom

by Tom Deitz

  Katie looked at it sadly, but set her mouth. She reached out for David’s arm, took it, nicked his wrist with her blade, then did the same with Liz. Gary was next, and then the reluctant JoAnne. Dale was last, except for herself. She set her teeth and finished it. And with each sure stroke, each careful narrow slit, twelve drops of blood welled forth: twelve only.

  “Turn your arms over.”

  One by one those drops fell into the cauldron, veiling that still surface with a glaze of deepening pink.

  “You can all go,” Katie said. “I reckon it’s up to Fionchadd now.”

  The five nodded solemnly and backed away.

  “Was that it?” Gary whispered.

  “Guess so,” David told him, “at least for us.”

  “Seemed like a lot of hassle over nothing.”

  “Silence,” Nuada hissed.

  Morwyn stepped forward with the lizard in the palm of her hand. She said nothing as she placed it upon the edge of the cauldron, but her eyes were clouded with dread.

  Katie let it sit there a moment, emerald upon the black, its tiny sides billowing in and out as it drank in air. Its tongue flicked, and its eyes shone bright with fear. So pretty. She hated what she had to do. Holy Mary, Mother of God . . .

  With one quick, sure stroke, she impaled it with the knife.

  The lizard chirped once and fell into the cauldron, its mouth already spurting blood. Liz shrieked and buried her face in David’s shoulder.

  “It is better that the mortals do not watch,” Regan said.

  “I don’t think I want to,” JoAnne muttered.

  “Nor I,” came Katie’s quiet echo.

  “I do!” cried Little Billy. “Let me watch ’em rebuild ol’ Fin’kid.”

  “No!” David said forcefully, and turned his back on the cauldron. The others did likewise—even Lugh and the Morrigu.

  Silence fell upon them. As they waited, the clouds slowly faded, letting the sun blaze through. The ships of Tir-Nan-Og creaked and rattled in the morning air, but a ghostliness had settled about them, as the shapes of mountains and lakes and the scarwork of men’s highways began to leak through their substance.

  David wondered what they were waiting for. He half expected some sort of pyrotechnics—heat, or light, or at least the sound of bubbling water.

  But there was nothing but the hush of expectant breathing. And eventually the sound of a harp plucked in delicate lament somewhere on one of the ships.

  Someone else picked up a set of pipes and blew a counterpoint, the bass notes rumbling softly through the rocks of the mountain.

  Nothing happened.

  “It’s not working,” Gary muttered at last. “Something’s gone wrong.”

  “Plain foolishness, if you ask me,” JoAnne grumbled her disgust.

  “Hush, woman,” Katie whispered back. “After all you’ve seen this morning, that’s a word you’d best be careful usin’.”

  The Morrigu sighed.

  “It has not succeeded,” she said with conviction. “Fionchadd was not strong enough.”

  Tears welled forth from Morwyn’s eyes. “But we must have been. I could feel his Power. He cannot have failed.”

  Lugh turned and likewise stared into the cauldron. “There was simply not enough Power present. Earth and Water we added, Air we had in plenty from the blood of these fine folks. But of Power, which Fionchadd had to provide of himself, there was not enough.”

  “I should have used my blood,” said Morwyn. “The blood of mortals is never strong enough.”

  “That makes no difference,” Lugh replied sternly. “It is of Power we speak, not blood.”

  “Power?” Liz asked hesitantly. “What sort of Power?”

  “Anything of Power around which Fionchadd could focus his strength, anything on which he could draw to work his rising!”

  Liz set her mouth. “I know just the thing!”

  David stared at her. “You what? You don’t know anything about this kind of stuff, Liz.”

  “Want to bet, David Sullivan?” Liz replied with more than a trace of smugness.

  And very quietly, very quickly she removed the Ring of Oisin from her finger and dropped it into the cauldron.

  Nothing happened for a moment . . .

  And then the cauldron began to glow, to take on an eerie translucence, as if it were in neither the Lands of Men nor Tir-Nan-Og, but a realm apart.

  The brightness increased, then ebbed, as quickly as it had begun.

  “I thank you, Liz Hughes” came a voice from within it.

  The entire company turned as one to see, standing stark naked thigh-deep in the cauldron, the shape of a slender Faery boy whose bright hair and capricious looks and complete lack of apparent modesty were blessedly familiar.

  Morwyn was the first to embrace him. “Fionchadd, my son,” she cried.

  David helped him from the cauldron. One of Lugh’s soldiers handed him a cloak in which he wrapped himself.

  He looked happy but dazed, as he sank onto a rock.

  Something glinted above his knuckle, and he looked up at Liz, at David, whose fingers were twined with hers, even as older hands were twining shyly behind them. He smiled, though weariness shadowed his face.

  “I can speak but little,” he said, “for though I have returned to a body that seems to be my own, I am yet weak nigh unto dying. But for one thing I would not be here at all, and that is this ring.” He withdrew it from his finger and handed it to David, who shook his head and passed it on to Liz.

  “It has no Power now, I am afraid,” Fionchadd added. “For I drank deep of it while I was a-borning. But thank you.”

  “Thank you all,” Morwyn said, then paused. “I believe that is only the second time I ever said that to anyone of mortal lineage.”

  “See that it is not the last,” Nuada noted wryly.

  David went looking for Lugh and found him facing the lookout. The last of the clouds had vanished, and the High King was staring directly into the sunrise with unshielded eyes.

  “I, uh, kinda need to ask you something,” David said.

  Lugh glanced askance at him. “Indeed?”

  “Uh, yeah. I was kinda wondering about my escape and all. I mean, it really was too easy. You had the whole thing figured out and all, didn’t you? You knew I was coming, and you didn’t really have anything against Morwyn, so you just used me to be sure you gave Fionna enough rope to hang herself.”

  “Did I, now?” Lugh replied, not looking at him.

  “Well, I would have. I figure you sent the first fake Horn to Nuada, knowing that there was a good chance Fionna would wind up with it, and then try to use it, only it would backfire on her, and rid you of at least one threat without you being blamed for it. But just to be sure, just in case she didn’t wind up with it, you sent a second version with me, because you knew Morwyn would want to use it on Ailill face-to-face. And wherever Ailill was, Fionna wouldn’t be far behind, and together the two of them could overpower Morwyn and get the Horn, and once again do themselves in. You didn’t want me to fail, so you had to make it fairly easy to rob you—but you didn’t want me to get too suspicious either, so you staged a halfhearted attack and pursuit.” David folded his arms and looked very pleased with himself.

  “I will let you wonder about those things for a while,” Lugh told him. “Except to tell you that you are far more wrong than right. I never desired the death of Fionna or Ailill, for instance, if for no other reason than because their demise may well precipitate war between Tir-Nan-Og and Erenn.”

  David looked puzzled. “Hmmm, yeah . . . and suppose Morwyn had blown the Horn herself—that’d cause a war with the Powersmiths.”

  “I think you must do some more thinking.”

  “You’re not gonna tell me, huh? Well, crap.”

  “Talk to your friends, learn their stories. Maybe you will have more answers then.”

  David shook his head. “And I bet we won’t be able to talk to anybody else about this, either—rig
ht?”

  Lugh laughed softly. “In that you are correct.”

  “And I’ll just bet you’ll play with the time, or people’s memories or something, too, won’t you? There’d be too many questions to answer otherwise.”

  “It is possible.”

  “And—”

  “This is a fair land,” Lugh interrupted absently, as he continued to scan the vista before him. “A land worth dying for, I think. I wonder on whose side you good folk will fight when the battle comes.”

  David shrugged, but did not reply.

  Lugh sighed. “No answer? Well, I gave you none either, did I? Still, there will be other mornings in the Mortal World, though few as glorious as this.” He turned, faced the group gathered around Fionchadd. “Let us away,” he cried. “Morwyn, are you coming with us?”

  The Fireshaper smiled sadly. “If you will have me, Lord; I would visit a while with my son.”

  She looked around, saw David looking at her. “Well, David Sullivan,” she said. “It seems our quest has reached an ending quite unlooked for. You have brought me a gift beyond price, yet I have nothing with which to reward you . . . unless”—she glanced beyond the precipice—“you still have my ring, do you not?”

  David glanced down at his finger. “Yep, sure do. I don’t think I can work it very well. I had some trouble with it in Tir-Nan-Og.”

  Morwyn frowned. “Perhaps you did at that; its Power comes from the Land of the Powersmiths, and behind Lugh’s barrier that might have been disrupted.”

  David flashed her an embarrassed grin. “Actually, I’m afraid most of the trouble was with me. I kinda got confused—scratched the wrong head the wrong number of times, I think.”

  “Gifts,” Fionchadd interrupted. “You were talking about gifts.”

  “Gifts,” Morwyn repeated. “Very well. How would you like a boat?”

  David’s eyes widened. “That boat? You’d give me that?”

  Morwyn nodded. “And the ring that goes with it. I’m afraid, though, that it may cause you some problems.”

  “Well, I don’t have anywhere to put it, and it is kind of big.”

  “The ring will take care of that,” Fionchadd said.

  David shrugged helplessly. “I really can’t.”

  “You must, I insist. You do not want to make me angry. You know what I can do.”

  David backed away a step, but then he noticed the mischievous sparkle in her eye. “If you’ll reduce it, I’ll take it. It’ll make a nice decoration, I guess.” He handed her the ring, and she walked off in the direction of the Ship of Flames.

  Fionchadd grinned, and extended a tentative hand toward David. “Thank you again, my friend. Or should I perhaps say ‘my father’? I already like you better than Ailill.”

  “Not unless you say that to me and Uncle Dale as well,” Gary laughed.

  “Ahem,” Liz interjected. “Some of us don’t qualify—for fatherhood, anyway.”

  Fionchadd grinned again—and sweeping her into his arms, he kissed her firmly on the mouth.

  Liz colored, glanced toward David, who burst out laughing.

  “My first mortal woman,” Fionchadd said.

  “But not your last, I imagine,” David cried.

  “Fionchadd, we are going!”

  “I come, oh hasty one, I come!”

  Morwyn returned, handed David the toy ship and the serpent ring.

  “Thank you once more,” she said, and stepped upon the arc of light that led to Lugh’s flagship.

  There was a brightness in the air then, a rustle of feet and fabric, a clanking of metal, mixed with a glory of sunlight. And when it was gone, eight people remained on Lookout Rock: eight mortals who had seen the Sidhe.

  JoAnne Sullivan was the first to speak. “I wonder what Bill’d think about a houseful of company.”

  Uncle Dale grinned and pinched her arm. “Well, it bein’ Sunday and all, and without you there to wake him, I bet he’s still a-sleepin’.”

  “Then we’ll get him up,” Little Billy squealed.

  “Probably have to.” JoAnne sighed wearily. “That man could sleep through the Second Coming. Why I bet—” She paused, looking suddenly very shocked at herself. “Lord, lord, better not be sayin’ things like that now, had I? Considerin’ what I just seen. Maybe I better just think about other stuff for a while. I got a bunch of phone calls to make, for one thing. I expect the sheriff’d like to go to bed hisself. And then I gotta do me some serious thinkin’.”

  “Thinkin’ goes a whole lot better on a full stomach, though,” Uncle Dale said. “I tell you what, I’ll fix us breakfast at my house. And you, Katie girl, can help me.”

  Chapter XLIX: Musing

  (Tir-Nan-Og)

  Starlight sparkled in the cup of wine Lugh Samildinach rested comfortably in his lap. So still was the night air, so fluid the High King’s movements that one could read the constellations on its surface—or the future, if one had that dubious art. He wished someone had read his future some days ago. It would have spared him a great deal of trouble. He would have to summon Oisin back more often. Oisin was good at reading the signs.

  He sighed and propped his feet on the low marble railing of the balcony outside his rooms. Beyond the sweep of white stone Lugh could gaze out over nearly half his kingdom—all the way to its limits, if he chose to strain his Power so. If he chose, he could pierce his own glamour and gaze into the Lands of Men. But he did not choose to do that. He had seen enough of the Lands of Men to last him quite a while.

  He rubbed his left hand absently, feeling for a scar that was not there. He found himself wishing there were one, some blemish upon his perfect body to remind him of what had happened, of what it had felt like to be one with the land, to know, for a brief while, everything that passed within his realm. He had seen with more than eyes the walls of perilous flame he had raised about his borders, had known the weight of Morwyn’s strange boat upon his waters. He had sensed with the land the tread of a mortal boy’s feet on ground they should never have walked.

  The Morrigu had been right, he decided, though he would never tell her that. He had acted hastily in sealing the borders, but Ailill’s escape had touched him in his one point of vanity: his devotion to law and justice and the sanctity of his realm. Once he had set affairs in motion, though, he had had no choice but to follow through, knowing that eventually madness would claim his enemies if they did not give themselves up. He had feared the mischief they might perform outside, however, and that was why he had sent the sword to Nuada, because he needed eyes in the lands beyond and had himself cut off his usual sources.

  But when Nuada had lost the sword, that had not been good at all, until Fionna had claimed it. He wondered what she would have thought had she known Lugh himself had followed her every move, had known her every thought from the time she had gained the sword. It was from her he had learned about Morwyn and her designs upon the Horn, which dovetailed rather nicely with his discovery of the newly awakened Fionchadd. And then things had unfolded rapidly: the Ship of Flames, the theft of the Horn itself—harmless that, in its various pieces, unless one winded it, and then, why, thieves got what they deserved. He wished Fionna had been less rash, though. Ailill he could perhaps explain. Fionna would be much harder.

  He took a sip of wine. Ah well, there was one good thing at least; the mortal boy was shaping up nicely. He was brave, and resourceful, and lucky. Just the sort of person Lugh very much feared he would need, especially now that war loomed nearer. David Sullivan had passed his latest round of tests very nicely—not precisely as Lugh would have planned them, but they had nevertheless worked out well.

  And Morwyn’s son was coming along, too. Now that was a piece of luck. Had Lugh not become one with the land, he would never have sensed the ghost of Power that lay within a certain lizard, never would have been able to awaken it. That was another reason he had allowed David Sullivan to escape—that, and the weaponwork the mortal boy had engaged in as he fled Tir-Nan-Og, which had
been contrived to keep Fionchadd’s will awake and active. No, without his merger with the land, he would never have been able to orchestrate the one set of circumstances that would bring the boy back. And Lugh had plans for that one, too.

  But would it be in time? he wondered.

  He looked up at the sky again. Gods, mortals called us once, he thought. Gods no longer. I play mortal against immortal like chessmen, but sometimes I feel someone else moving me. Perhaps I should summon Oisin—or Katie. Perhaps there is something to mortality.

  Chapter L: Coffee and ’Shine and Syrup

  (Sullivan Cove, Georgia)

  “Next?” David said, as he slipped out of the bathroom at Uncle Dale’s house.

  “Me, me!” Alec cried from where he lay sprawled across the bed in the old man’s bedroom.

  “Go easy on the hot water, huh?” Gary sighed. “I still need a go.”

  David flipped him with the towel he’d been using to dry his hair. “There’s plenty.”

  “Better be,” Alec muttered. “We’ve got the dust of half a dozen worlds to wash off.” He glanced at his fingernails, frowning at the crescents of dried blood there.

  “Would I lie to you?” David laughed, as he pushed through the door that led into the kitchen.

  Liz was waiting at the breakfast table, hair wrapped turban-style in a snowy towel, wearing one of dead Aunt Hattie’s bathrobes the old man had never had the heart to discard. Her face brightened when she saw him, and he felt his own grin spread across his face so quick and wide that it practically hurt.

  “You look real silly,” Little Billy giggled from behind a pile of pancakes as tall as he was.

  “Not as silly as he did,” JoAnne muttered beside him. “Leastwise he’s got on normal clothes now.”

  Uncle Dale turned from where he was browning sausage in an iron skillet. “Don’t give the boy a hard time, JoAnne, he’s been through a right smart bit.”

  David blushed as he glanced down at the oversized khaki pants and shirt he’d borrowed from Uncle Dale, rolled up at both wrists and ankles.

  “I think he looks just great,” Liz said, as David snagged a cup of coffee from the huge pot and sat down beside her. Katie set a plate in front of him, and twin pans of bacon and sausage, and pancakes in front of that. David loaded his plate, applied a generous portion of maple syrup (the real kind), and cut a handsome wedge from the edge of the pile. It smelled heavenly. He took a sip of coffee—and raised his eyebrows in surprise. A second odor hid in the steam, an odor that warmed him and made him feel giddy at the same time. He glanced over his shoulder. “Is this . . . ?”