Little of the day had entered the house of Queen Vindilis, unless it be a certain bleak freshness. When Fennalis arrived, she gave her brief greeting and led her straight through the austerely ornamented atrium to the private room. Refreshments did wait on its table, nothing more than wine, bread, cheese, and, to be sure, oysters in their opened shells.
Having closed the door, the women made reverence before the image that occupied a niche, Belisama in Her aspect of the Wild Huntress. “Be seated,” said Vindilis then. “Avail yourself. How fare you?”
“Oh, you know my rheumatism plagues me in changeable weather, and we get so many bad colds among people at this season that I’ve scarce had time to think.” Fennalis was much in demand as a healer, second only to Innilis. She lacked the Touch that sometimes came to the latter, but she had the sympathy, together with more practical skill. She lowered her dumpy form to the couch, reached for a bite and a sip, chuckled. “I know you’ve not asked me here to put polite questions.”
Humor died away as she looked up at the one who stood over her. As usual, Vindilis was plainly clad for a person of rank in Ys: today a gown of pearl-hued wool bordered with a procession in blue of the Goddess’s cats and doves, a massive garnet brooch at her throat. Hair drawn back in tight, coiled braids made doubly vivid the white streak through its blackness and emphasized the aquilinity of her features. In the greenish light from the window, her eyes seemed enormous, full of night.
“I thank you for coming,” she said, with no softening of her tone. “I believe you’ll agree ’tis on a matter of moment.”
Fennalis’s pugnosed countenance registered puzzlement. She ran fingers through the snowy mane that bristled out of the pins and comb wherewith she sought to control it. “Why me? I’m not wise or strong or, or anything. Oh, if I can help you, dear, of course I’ll try.”
“I am with child,” Vindilis told her.
Fennalis half rose, slopping wine from cup. “What? Why, wonderful!”
“That remains to be seen. Yesterday Innilis examined me and confirmed what the signs had said. The birth should come about winter solstice.”
Fennalis sank back and was quiet a while before replying low, “Why are you troubled? ’Twas your choice to leave off using the Herb. Aye, you’re not youthful, but you’ve kept yourself as fit as a lynx. Fear not.”
Vindilis snapped forth a laugh. “Does the smith who is forging a sword fear it will cut him down? Nay, what frets him is that it may prove weak in the wielder’s hand.”
“What mean you?” Fennalis asked, not quite steadily.
Vindilis began pacing, to and fro before the couch. Her skirts whispered. She stared before her as she said:
“I confide in you because you are the only one I can. And you are neither weak nor foolish, Fennalis, underneath those flustery ways of yours. Six children have you borne to three different Kings, and all are still alive. Under Colconor, you could have drawn yourself into the background—he had little yen for you—but instead you stood up to him, again and again, took his abuse, fended the worst of his cruelties off Dahilis as well as your own daughters. And in the end, if you were not the first, neither were you the last who dared call on us to curse him. Since then—”
Fennalis waved her hands. “I am not hostile to King Grallon.”
Vindilis laughed anew. “Nor intimate of his, either. You made no secret of your displeasure when he would not truly take you for his wife, and in Council you’ve opposed more than one proposal of his.”
Fennalis sighed. “That’s past. He’s true to his faith, and so meant me no insult. Whatever dreams had stirred in me have quietly gone away. I am content.”
“Are you?” Vindilis swung about and stood confronting her. “The rest are, more or less, aye. Think them over. Bodilis is his favorite, his… his friend. Lanarvilis has her disagreements with him, but not very often anymore. To her, he is Rome, the Roman virtue and the Roman peace she imagines once existed. Quinipilis surely has her doubts, but she enjoys his company and is, anyhow, too old and weary for dispute. To Maldunilis, he has a big cock and is kindly. Guilvilis is his adoring brood mare. Forsquilis—who can ever tell what Forsquilis thinks? I dare not yet be frank with her. That leaves you.”
“And Innilis.”
“Innilis… will follow my lead.” Suddenly the voice of Vindilis had a lullaby sound. “But what shall it be? She also looks on him as a good man, and… sometimes his attentions give her pleasure. The Lady forbid that I ever put Innilis in danger or distress.” She signed herself.
“If you are embittered, why are you bearing his child?” Fennalis asked as softly.
Vindilis smiled slightly. “I am not aggrieved. He slew horrible Colconor. He does his best for Ys and for his Queens, and his best is generally excellent.” She drew breath. “’Tis not his fault that Innilis and I can snatch only stolen, secret moments. ’Tis not his fault, even, that that aborted get of his almost killed her. Nay, we could be far worse off. I doubt we could be better off.”
“But still you oppose him.”
“Because he is what he is!” Vindilis cried. “I’ve not come lightly to this. I’ve watched, questioned, listened, pondered. I’ve prayed to the Mother of Stars for guidance. No clear answer came to me, but—what dreams I had, what signs I read in the sea-foam and heard in the sea-wind, all seemed to call me forward.”
Fennalis occupied herself as prosaically as might be with slicing the cheese. “At last you decided to have his child,” she said.
Vindilis nodded. “What other hold on him can be mine?”
She went to the window and stood staring into it, as if able to see clearly through the small, leaded panes, out beyond the city and across Ocean. “’Twas no easy decision,” she said to the woman at her back. “A wish for this was never vouchsafed me. In my vestalhood I meant to renew my vows and become a minor, virgin priestess. What hopes I cherished ran toward things like founding a gymnasium for girls. Understand, Fennalis, I do not hate the minds or the deeds of men. ’Tis their sweaty, hairy bodies that repel me—that, and their supposition that because of what’s between my legs, I should forever stay within walls.”
Fennalis forbore to mention the freedom that most Ysan women enjoyed. “I remember,” she said. “The Sign came upon you and—You were lucky that Hoel was King then. He too was decent.”
“Just the same—did you know?—’twas Quinipilis, my mother, who forced me to open my womb to him. Forced me, I say, by endless arguments and browbeatings and—” Vindilis shrugged, grinned. “She was a formidable character in her day, she was. At last I gave in and produced the grandchild she wanted. One. You know well I never paid Runa more heed than I absolutely must. Poor little brat. I hope I’m shrewder these days, more in control of myself.”
There was a silence, apart from a whoo-oo of springtime wind under the eaves.
“Why do you tell me this?” Fennalis asked at length.
Vindilis turned about. “Is it not clear? I want your counsel, your help. For Ys and its Gods.”
The older woman put aside the food with which she had toyed and took up her wine instead. It was more fitting. “You want influence on Grallon beyond your mere persuasions.”
“Aye. I need it. We all do.”
Vindilis resumed her caged pacing. “Think,” she said. “Because he has done so well, authority flows more and more to him. Now he’s put the final seal on his Kingship, his halidom, by slaying a challenger in the Wood. That wipes out, from the minds of the people, any last fear that he may not yet have settled his account with the Gods. And he’s young, strong, skilled. Surely he’ll make short work of any future contestants.
“But he is a Roman!
“What about this new Emperor Maximus, who sent him to us?”
“Grallon explained he won’t let Maximus in,” Fennalis ventured.
“So he says. Belike he means it. But can he, can Ys hold off the Romans without the help of our Gods? And in spite of the outcome of that fight, I do not
believe he is friends with Them. Why, he intends building a temple to his Bullslayer. What will Taranis feel when His priest and avatar bows down to Mithras?”
“That may—I know not—”
Vindilis pressed on, like a hunter toward wounded quarry: “Also, what may happen, what will he do, when next the Sign descends? Have you never lain awake wondering, you whom he refused because Lanarvilis is your daughter? Quinipilis has few years left her—mayhap only hours. Which of the vestals will the Gods then choose?”
“It could be any.”
“Are you so hopeful?” Vindilis compressed her lips. “Myself, I doubt They will make the matter easy for him. I think They will give him a daughter of one of us. And not your Amair. Not when They have Lanar-vilis’s Miraine and Boia. Or… soon Innilis’s sad, weak-witted Audris will be of marriageable age; and not long after that, Bodilis’s Semuramat or my Runa. The Gods have Their sport with us, don’t They, Fennalis? You’re old too, after all. Or any of us could die unexpectedly. What then?
“I say to you, whatever peace is between Grallon and the Gods is as uneasy as peace between Rome and Ys; and it will erelong be put to the test. We Gallicenae must make ready for that, as best we are able. Therefore I am bearing the King a child. A lure, a hostage, a talisman? I know not. Help me, my Sister.”
The energy seemed to go from Vindilis. She lowered herself to a chair opposite the couch, lifted a wine cup, drank, and stared into emptiness.
“I see,” Fennalis breathed. “Yours is a noble soul.”
“Nay,” Vindilis mumbled. “Only one that would fain stay free.”
“Belike that’s the same thing…. Well, you’re right. We must seek to steer the King away from what he might otherwise do. I mean all the Nine, once you and I have found the ways to explain this to them. And, yea, motherhood does confer power, if used wisely.”
Vindilis nodded. “As small a touch as proposing a name.”
“What?” Fennalis asked. She considered, and nodded in her turn. “Aye. Though ’twas he who wanted the three Roman tags we have.”
“Our Sisters were clever enough not to speak against it.”
What they thought of were not Maldunilis’s Zisa, Guilvilis’s Sasai, or Forsquilis’s Nemeta. The custom was that the firstborn of a Queen should carry her mother’s vestal name onward. But Guilvilis now had Antonia, called after a sister of Gratillonius afar in Britannia; and Lanarvilis had borne Julia, honoring his mother; and Bodilis had Una, though whom that commemorated had not been declared.
“I expect he’ll like my suggestion,” Vindilis said.
“What is it?”
“Augustina. From that legion that was his.”
2
In the two years following his disaster at Ys, Niall maqq Echach waged war over and over in his own land of Mide. Tuaths that thought him weakened, or in disfavor with the Gods, would refuse him his due, and take arms when he fared to demand it. The first several such battles were desperate, for he had indeed suffered heavy loss, the finest of his warriors. Yet he blazed his way through, won victory, made stern terms of peace, brought heads and hostages back to Temir. As word got around, rebelliousness slacked off, while a new crop of young men began dreaming of glory and booty to be gained in the host of this lord.
It was Éndae Qennsalach, King over the Lagini, who had egged on much of this revolt. Bad blood was ancient between his folk and Niall’s. Some three hundred years before, Tóthual the Desired had founded Mide, carving the largest part of it out of Laginach territory. Nevertheless, the King of the latter wedded a daughter of Tóthual—but, wearying of her, confined her in a secret place, gave out that she was dead, and got her sister’s hand. When the second wife chanced to discover the first, both died of the shame this incest had put on them. Tóthual thereupon raged through Qoiqet Lagini, slaying, plundering, burning, till he got abject surrender. His price was the paying, every second year, of that tribute which came to be called the Bóruma.
So vast was this sum of cows, pigs, cloaks, bronzeware, and silver that it would have beggared the Lagini. Hence the time was not long until they refused. Since then, those Condachtach and Mide Kings who had the claim seldom got it satisfied, and only by collecting it at sword’s point after a bitter war. Thus did hatred build up over many lifetimes.
Éndae, always a maker of trouble for Temir, took what he thought was a chance to bring ruin on his enemy. In the third summer, Niall came looking for revenge.
The armies met south of the River Ruirthech. That was a day when clouds blew like smoke, low above the valley, underneath a sky the hue of lead. Rainshowers rushed out of them, drenched men, washed their wounds and their dead, passed away on the keening wind. All colors were dulled except those of blood and gold. Shouts, horn calls, hoofbeats, footfalls, clamorous wheels, clash and rattle of weapons, were somehow muffled. But blows fell as heavy and sharp as always.
Niall’s chariot boomed ahead. Grass was thick but slippery beneath its iron-shod fellies; it took all the skill Cathual the driver owned to keep onward full tilt. Behind him the King stood cat-balanced against the rocking and jouncing. Niall roared, stabbed with his spear, smote with his blade, lifted their reddened points on high for a sign to his followers. He himself was a banner, a guiding comet. Above the height of him, hair and beard fell primrose-yellow from the helmet, seven-colored cloak fluttered back from the wide shoulders, gold and amber shone upon the saffron tunic. The handsomeness of his face was twisted into battle fury, wherein eyes glinted lightning-blue, teeth bone-white. Hounds ran alongside, to leap, bay, slash, tear, howl. He seemed as much beast as they, as much war-god as Lug come to earth. Many a brave man saw what approached and fled, casting his arms from him, wailing the same blind panic into his comrades.
Withal, Niall remained a leader, a part of him watchful and aware. He kept track of the other chariots in his van, right and left. Nearest was that of Domnuald, son by the second of his Queens. This was the lad’s first combat, he no more than fifteen summers of age. Hard practice rewarded itself; Domnuald poised easily and struck keenly. Hair like his father’s hung wet down cheeks still girlish. O Brigit, Mother of Love, how he recalled Breccan, who died in Niall’s arms outside the wall of Ys!
Older sons drove in the wings, themselves already blooded men, restless as stallions, toplofty as eagles. Several nobles had chariots too. More chose to come behind afoot, leading their tenants, with swords, spears, axes, bills, slings, while bows twanged and arrows hissed. The din cut through wind and rain, on up to the hasty clouds. There cruised scaldcrows and ravens, birds of the Morrigu, gathering at Her feast.
Before Niall, and soon around him, the Lagini fought back. They were equipped and marshalled like his men, and maybe numbered the same. Most of them battled wolfishly well. But they could not make headway. They could not even hold fast. Day had not much dwindled when they were all fled, or captive, or sprawled and emptily staring corpses.
3
Éndae sent a herald to ask for truce. Niall received him as was fitting for one whose person was sacred, and sent him back with word of agreement.
The meeting place they set was near the battleground, a house of the king of the tuath that lived thereabouts. While they waited, Niall and his chieftains took it over and made merry. Dark as the afternoon was, they burned lamps and links without stint. Breaths smoked white athwart shadows crouching, dancing, changing shape, filling every corner and the smoky spaces under the roof. Highlights gleamed, an eye, a smile, a lifted beaker. This was no mead hall, with benches along the walls and a flock of servants. The highest ranking men sat on stools, the rest on the clay floor, and drink passed from hand to hand. Nonetheless, merriment rang.
“Have you a song for us, Laidchenn, dear?” Niall called.
“I have that,” answered the poet. As was the custom, he had accompanied the army to watch what happened and afterward put it in words. That was as honorable as to fight, or more so; for what was the use of mighty deeds, did they not live in memory and th
e fame of them travel afar? “But I ask leave to wait a while.”
“How is this?” wondered Niall. The buzz of talk died away until rain sounded loud on the thatch overhead.
Laidchenn gestured. He was a burly man with fiery, bushy hair and beard, carelessly dressed, but a man to command awe—chief singer to the King, former pupil of Torna Eces in Mumu. “You know that I, like you, have brought a young son of mine along for the experiencing of his first war, though Domnuald is to become a valiant fighter whereas Tigernach is studying my art under myself. Would you be so kind as to hear the lad’s piece? A maiden effort, but burning within him it is, and I think not unworthy of you.”
“He is very welcome,” said Niall graciously.
Tigernach stood up. He was about the same age as Domnuald, and growing toward his father’s body form. Brown-haired, his countenance was plain, somewhat marred by skin eruptions beneath a fuzz of whiskers. He did not shake a chiming rod, for he was, after all, a novice in the craft. Yet melody rippled clear and true from his harp, and boldness—brashness, almost—rose in his tones.
“Lord who harried Lagini,
Star-brilliant in the battle—”
His verse lacked subtlety, the tropes were sparse, and older men winced a bit at its fulsomeness. However, it was properly composed and showed high promise, as spirited as it was. Niall thanked him and gave him a silver brooch. Tigernach blushed so it could be seen in the dimness, mumbled his own thanks, and sat down. Laidchenn glowed with pride.
Of course, there was no comparison to the father’s words. They soared, they cried, they sent ghosts shivering up and down backbones. Tears rolled over leathery visages, fists clenched, eyes stared outward beyond the world, as Laidchenn wove his magic.
Meanwhile King Éndae drove up with a dozen well-born attendants. Guards made them wait until the chant was finished and the reward given. A youth at Éndae’s side protested. “Hush,” said the King. “This is meet and right. Never show disrespect to a druid or an ollam poet. That is a gess upon all men,”
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