The Last Days of Magic

by Mark Tompkins

  “During the coronation ceremony, you will take the next step,” said Haidrean. “You will no longer feel Aisling inside you, because you will not sense yourself as separate from her. You will finish becoming one being. You might not even remember there was a time when you were two.

  “Now open your eyes and return to your lesson on the Roman Church.” Haidrean leaned across the table and slid a book toward her. “For centuries they plotted against Ireland, and they plot still. You need to understand them.”

  Anya pushed the book a few inches back toward him. “The Vatican wouldn’t dare attack us, not after we routed Strongbow the last time they tried. And my Irish Christian Church is as much an enemy to the Roman Church as we are. It grows ever stronger and has as many monasteries across Britain and Europe as the Vatican does.” Anya grinned as she added, “Is it true what they say about Strongbow, about how he acquired that moniker, that he was gifted below the waist?”

  “Remember,” said Haidrean, ignoring her question, “the Irish Church will not fall under your rule, so you cannot count on them to fight for you. The Morrígna commands the armies of the Celts and the Sidhe only.”

  “And the Fomorians. No ships will get past them without my permission,” added Anya.

  Haidrean loathed Fomorians, the fierce race of amphibious Nephilim who stalked the seas around Ireland, always reeking of rotten fish. They were troublesome creatures, but between Celts and Christians, Haidrean knew they preferred to eat Christians, any Christians. “They were of great assistance stopping Strongbow,” he conceded, “so I suspect you can count on them with proper gifts and firm threats. But even with those forces at your command, you’ll need to be vigilant and prepared. In the two hundred years since the Vatican sent Strongbow to invade Ireland, the Roman Church has fallen and risen anew, stronger and more deceptive than ever. I believe that you’ll have to fight them once more, very soon.”

  “Surely the Skeaghshee are a more pressing problem,” insisted Anya.

  “You can worry about negotiations with them after your birthday, young lady. They’ll submit to your authority once you’re enthroned.”

  Even as Haidrean said this, he worried that it might not be true. The law called for the twins to ascend to the throne at the age of fourteen, in four days, and Haidrean felt in his bones that they would be tested early and severely. Anya and Aisling were born the Morrígna—the Test had proved that; however, the reincarnated Morrígna arrived trapped in their human shells. From that day they had to be taught to connect to their Goddess selves and to strip away their human frailties fortified by fear and insecurity. They had to learn to act as one, in order to bring the Morrígna to the forefront of their being, and be trained to control the supernatural power that would be fully unleashed upon their coronation.

  To prepare for his role, Haidrean had studied the journals of the earlier tutors and discovered that preceding sets of Morrígna twins had found it increasingly difficult to transcend their human limitations. The last set never fully merged. It had looked as if this world was becoming less willing to accept the Goddess. Then, when the current Anya and Aisling were born, suddenly every druid in Ireland began foretelling that they would become the strongest twins in an age. That prediction was the source of his worries as he watched Anya creating another ball of wax. If the Morrígna needed to manifest such strong physical aspects, these twins must be destined to face some monumental challenge.

  Haidrean wondered anew if the Skeaghshee—tree-worshipping Sidhe who were in increasing conflict with the Celts—were truly going to submit to the twins’ authority or if they were the threat that had called the Morrígna back to this world. The Skeaghshee’s insolent King Kellach had not returned the Morrígna heart segment left in trust with his clan as required by law. When that segment went missing seven years back, druids stopped predicting how powerful the current twins would be and instead began trying to foresee how much their strength would be impaired.

  No, he thought, the Roman Church would be the main threat. He just hoped he had been a worthy teacher.

  “The Vatican doesn’t worry me, no matter how strong they have become,” said Anya, as if reading his mind.

  “They should worry you,” replied Haidrean. “The condottieri army of indentured prisoners, mercenaries, spies, and assassins assembled by Cardinal Albornoz reunited the Papal States and returned the pope to Rome from his Babylonian captivity in Avignon.”

  “The bishop of Rome is back in Rome. How convenient.” Anya laughed.

  “Few in Europe found it funny. The Vatican’s new army killed everyone in their path who’d opposed the restoration of a Roman pope. Since then the Vatican has been consolidating independent Christian factions at the point of a sword. Now the new pope eyes the remaining church holdouts, and the Irish Church is the largest by far. Their home in our land vexes him as much as does our alliance with the Middle Kingdom.”

  “My forces will keep them out of my lands,” Anya said.

  “As the power of the Morrígna has kept the Vatican’s forces at bay, so have Rome’s forces kept us confined to these islands. The Skeaghshee may be your first challenge once you assume your throne, but I’m sure the Roman Church will be your greatest,” replied Haidrean.

  Anya leaned her chair back to balance on two legs. “You promised to tell me how you became a druid, but you haven’t yet. Tell me now.”

  Haidrean knew she was trying to distract him to avoid further history lessons; he also knew that underneath her playfulness she was anxious about her pending enthronement. The wind rattled a window screen free, and it fell. He caught it with a spell and sealed it back in place. Corporeal magic had once been an embarrassing weakness of his, but to his wonderment even these enchantments had worked well for him since the twins arrived.

  Anya was waiting expectantly. Unable to resist her request, Haidrean began, “I was called, without knowing I was being called, as all true druids are.

  “I’d borrowed my father’s silver knife and before dawn went out to gather purple betony for a healing potion. As I rested at a well and watched the sunrise, I became aware of a sound. My father was the bard of our village, so even at seven years old I knew enough not to be Pixie-led. Still, there was something”—his eyes stared into a distant past—“something like song, a song that bore the scent of an unknown flower, that drew me. I followed it through a doorway in a Sidhe mound, traveling with new purpose. There was a Middle Kingdom sunset and a moonrise and voices in a dark that seemed to extend forever, until I felt the touch of a woman, the woman who had sung to me. She took my hand, and we danced and laughed and lay together.”

  “At seven?”

  “I was no longer seven. What seemed like only a day and a night had changed me physically. When I awoke to another sunrise, I was alone, back at the well in our land, and my body had passed into manhood. I could still feel her lips against my ear, whispering secrets that I struggle to understand even today. I wrapped my too-small cloak around my now-adult waist, gathered the betony, and returned to my father’s house to learn that I’d been gone seven years and a day.

  “Soon I began to realize that I saw, felt, heard everything differently. There was new knowledge open to my thoughts, new skills coached by memories of those voices in the dark. A week after my return, the previous high druid arrived bearing a druid’s brooch for me. He’d witnessed my change in a dream and offered to teach me to understand what I’d been told in the Middle Kingdom. I left with him for Tara that day.”

  “And the woman, the Sidhe of your passion?” asked Anya.

  “We need to return to your studies.”

  “Tell me, please. I fear growing old alone in my bed in the Middle Kingdom, while the Sidhe around me remain young. Your story keeps hope alive for my own passions.”

  “She continued to come to me, some nights, in my dreams. Nights full of the taste of her skin and the smell of her hair .
. .” Haidrean’s words drifted off.

  “Not just in dreams, if your son is any evidence.”

  “With those from the Middle Kingdom, it’s often difficult to tell the difference between dreaming and being awake. I’m not sure it matters to them. My son appeared in a dream one night, a fresh wiggling baby, and was still there when I awoke.”

  “Does she come to you still?”

  “Occasionally, though not to my bed. Now she only stands in the forest, as young as ever, watching our son gather wild rose by moonlight. I often wonder if one day he, too, will go on a long walk and if he’ll return at all. You know, I hope to go back to the Middle Kingdom someday—I think possibly when I’ve learned enough to understand all her whispered words, after you’re enthroned and I’m no longer needed.”

  Anya did not hear him.

  Haidrean saw that her eyes had turned vivid green. Behind him he heard the sound of small stones falling to the floor, followed by a sharp crack. He turned to see a fresh, rough opening no more than a foot tall in the stone wall. From it a Skeaghshee emerged and straightened up to his full seven-foot height. Haidrean recognized him as Cinaed, brother to Kellach the Skeaghshee king. Without a word Cinaed strode toward Haidrean, drawing a long, slender sword from the scabbard strapped to his back.

  No, this can’t be, thought Haidrean. She hasn’t been given the chance to negotiate their grievances. He turned back to Anya and could see that she was with her twin, her eye color and the pain moving across her face telling him everything he needed to know. Aisling had also been attacked. All was about to be lost. Leaning across the table, he spoke urgently into her ear, “Send Aisling all your strength. Now. It’s the only hope.”

  AS LIAM AND Aisling were riding out of Trim Castle, Kellach stood on a low rise not far away in the midst of dozens of fresh tree stumps. The gathering storm whipped his long hair, the brown of oak bark, about his thin face that was contorted with fury, for he was king of the Skeaghshee, Sidhe of the open and wild forests, and before him was a scene of murder. Running his hand over the rough wood he tried to comfort the dying base and roots. He could feel the presence of the tree’s ghost, as an amputee feels a missing arm and the sudden, sharp sting of the ax it had suffered.

  Skeaghshee were the Sidhe clan most in contact with the Celtic world, as they lived out in the woodland that covered Ireland rather than within the Middle Kingdom. While many Sidhe ate as humans ate, Skeaghshee drew all their sustenance, pleasure, and joy from the trees they loved.

  The time has come to stop this slaughter, Kellach thought. After today the Celts will have no say over my trees, there will be no Morrígna in this world to subjugate our clan, and the truce between the Sidhe and the Celts will be broken.

  Sensing his younger brother Cinaed approach, Kellach said, “I summoned you to make sure you saw this before your sortie. Behold another assault on our clan.”

  Cinaed bowed and said, “A tragedy, my king. My heart weeps with yours.”

  “Celts are creatures who think only of their own pathetic needs: wood for their carts and their furniture and their fires and their buildings,” Kellach continued. “Some say the truce is adequate, with prayers and offerings each time a tree is taken, but now they have gone too far, allowing the Vikings to cut trees for their ships and even to export wood to the French to make barrels for their wine. More and more often, our clan is left grieving over offenses such as this.”

  “I understand the stakes, my king. I will not fail you.”

  “My brother.” Kellach grasped Cinaed’s shoulders. “Others worship the earth or the sun or even water, but trees, trees are all three brought alive, living, breathing, talking to our people. No offering is adequate for the death of even one of our trees. Celts and their allies will never allow our woods to remain sacred, never truly respect our kind. If the Skeaghshee are ever going to be free, we must act now. You are my champion. Remember what I have taught you and you will prevail.”

  “My sword is hungry, my king.”

  Watching him stride away, Kellach felt confident that his moment of victory was at hand.

  . . . . .

  The rain had started in earnest, pounding the land above as Cinaed stood impatiently in a tight earthen tunnel facing the foundation stones of Trim Castle. He longed to be through with his task. Sidhe do not concern themselves with the height of the passages through which they travel; that is not what troubled him. He was troubled by a faint, nagging voice inside his head. Different from Kellach’s ravings and his own obedient responses, this voice told him that he was about to break a sacred oath and that he had been led astray.

  On each side of him stood a Grogoch, a shorter—relatively speaking in this confined space—much stockier Sidhe clan, reciting to the stones. For a millennium and longer, the Skeaghshee had intimidated the Grogoch into leaving a warren of secret faerie passages in the stones that they provided to the Celts for their castles, invaluable for spying. Once the existence of these passages becomes known to their druids—humans pretending to be Sidhe witches—they will be found and destroyed, thought Cinaed. It will be a great loss, but worthwhile under the circumstances. Glancing at one of the creatures now singing to the wall, Cinaed willed it to hurry. Grogoch think as slowly as the rock they love.

  The song of the Grogoch faded, taking with it the enchantment that had been hiding the passage he needed, this was the first time this one had been used. In front of him, a small door appeared, set in the face of a single foundation stone, two feet high by four feet wide. Opening it with a word, he bent and entered.

  Cinaed stepped into Haidrean’s library at last and straightened up to his full height. He had been delayed, not long, but maybe too long. He flung a silent curse back down the passage at the waiting Grogoch, ignored their muffled cry of pain. Some clumsiness or laziness or double-dealing by their kind centuries earlier had left this passage without an exit door in the last stone. He’d been forced to break through into the chamber. In doing so he had triggered an enchantment designed to protect the room and, more problematically, alerted the druid Haidrean to his approach.

  He pushed briefly against the enchantment with his consciousness and realized that he was not going to survive. It had closed too late to keep him out—the druid who cast it must not have considered an attack through the wall—so now it was going to keep him in. Reaching for his sword, Cinaed strode toward the pair at the table, but the old druid was already whispering to Anya, “Send Aisling all your strength. Now. It’s the only hope.”

  Cinaed’s sword swept down, severing Haidrean’s head. He leaped over the table and thrust at the unmoving Anya. As he carved through breast and bone, he could feel that the Morrígna was already leaving. There was little more than this shell left. Gods, don’t let me be too late, he thought. Kellach had stressed that the attacks on the twins had to be simultaneous in order to kill them both. Cinaed reached into the cleft he had made in her chest and pulled out a heart that began to shrivel in his hand.

  Still, he hesitated. In the fifteen hundred years since the Battle of Tailltiu, which led to the truce between the Sidhe and the Celts, three attempts had been made to assassinate a physical aspect of the Morrígna, yet no assassin had ever held half the Morrígna heart in his hand, as he now did. What will the two worlds become without the Goddess to connect them? he worried. She was the ruler of their high kings, the one being to whom all Sidhe and Celts alike owed allegiance, bound by ancient oaths.

  Looking down at the heart folding in on itself, he could feel the enchantment fading at the chamber door. Soon the guards who had been shouting for Anya would be able to enter. He thought of the words of Kellach. Raising the heart to his mouth, he bit off a large chunk and began to chew. The dagger of the first guard reached him as he swallowed the last piece.

  AISLING COULD FEEL Anya’s energy flowing into her body, keeping her alive, when suddenly a wound she did not know could be inflic
ted opened up in her, bringing pain that eclipsed that of the arrow and its poison. In that instant her bond with her sister was ripped away, and with it her connection to the Otherworld. Screaming, she collapsed into Liam’s arms, knowing for the first time since conception what it was to be alone, to be less than whole.

  . . . . .

  Kellach watched Liam carry a limp and sobbing Aisling to his horse. Having made himself indistinguishable from the surrounding trees, the Skeaghshee king stood in the rain at the edge of the clearing. A brief shudder passed through him, like a faint gust through leaves, as he felt the death of his brother, Cinaed. Knowing that Liam could sense the presence of a powerful Sidhe, Kellach was careful to remain concealed. Although he detested all crossbreeds, Liam was one whom he would prefer not to fight by himself. So he waited until the guards regrouped, collected Aisling’s horse, and galloped back the way they had come.

  Expelling the Morrígna with concurrent attacks had been too much to hope for, he thought. Kellach had preached to his followers that if each of the twins’ hearts could be destroyed before its share of the Morrígna could retreat to the Otherworld, the Treaty of Tailltiu would be broken and all the Sidhe clans would at last unite and rise against the Celts and the Christians and reclaim the land they had lost. He, Kellach, would lead them to victory.

  As his concealment enchantment faded, Kellach retreated into the woods. He should not have had to sacrifice his brother. He should not have had to deal with the twins at all, he thought, his anger rising. They were not truly entitled to rule and should not have participated in the Ceremony of Hearts seven years ago, even if they had survived the Test. He alone of all the kings of the Middle Kingdom had stood up to the Morrígna’s tyranny. He alone had refused to return the pitifully small segment of heart that had been granted to the Skeaghshee clan for safeguarding, after the passing of the previous Morrígna twins. Without it the Ceremony of Hearts had been a sham, he told himself.