Ruarc reached out to Eithne, who immediately stepped to his side. Her skin was chalk white, stretched over a gaunt frame. She took Ruarc’s hand, and he slid back her sleeve to reveal an emaciated arm and a bandaged wrist, the patch of blood that soaked through not yet having dried brown.
“Eithne graciously sustains me with her own lifeblood, for the sake of all Sidhe.”
Jordan glanced at Dary, whose furrowed face had sagged. To Ruarc, Jordan said, “You know what that will do to you?”
“Marshal d’Anglano, we have only just met, yet you express concern over my well-being. Put your mind to rest, I will ensure that I do not become dependent upon it.”
Jordan wondered if Ruarc was strong enough to give up feeding on fresh human blood once he no longer needed it to counter the enchantments permeating Venice. He had read in Marija’s grimoires that once started, it was a practice impossible to stop.
The reason Albornoz had located the Church’s clandestine office in Venice, Jordan suspected, was the protection the city offered against infiltration by all Nephilim, even the Sidhe. More so than the Adriatic Sea that it was connected to, Venice’s shallow marshy lagoon had once been a playground of the Elioud: sea nymphs called Nereids and their male counterparts the Vodyanoy, bird-headed Sirens, animalistic Nuggle, and shape-shifting Nix. At the founding of Venice in the second century, these beings provided protection to a group of humans who had made peace with them, allowing the humans to build a city on wooden piles out in the marsh. Then the humans betrayed them.
Vade retro Satana—“Go back Satan”—was the beginning chant in the Christian sorcery known as exorcism. The power of exorcism to drive Nephilim from land and sea was first recognized by Pope Fabian in 238 when he created the order of exorcists. Exorcism then became part of the official canon of the Roman Church at the Fourth Council of Carthage in 398. With this the Church had new roles for the educated but psychopathic sons of wealthy families, who would ship off their darlings into the priesthood, along with large endowments. The most capable and fanatical of these exorcists formed an alliance and wore a medal of protection around their necks inscribed with the abbreviation of their opening chant, VRS, and thus they became know as the VRS League.
Venice, a city rapidly growing in wealth and power, hired the VRS League in the fifth century to drive out the very beings that had originally protected it from waves of Germanic and Hun invasions. After years of cleansing, the Nephilim were kept out with a constantly maintained weave of blessings, graces, and, clandestinely, enchantments.
By the ninth century, though, some Nephilim had learned that they could survive in protected cities such as Venice by drinking blood from a living human, but doing so carried extreme risk. Human blood was so addictive that after a short while the creature became obsessed only with getting more of it, forgetting their original purpose.
“I could ask the same question of your companion, Marshal,” said Ruarc, walking over to Ty and staring up at his face. “Do you let him feed on you somehow?”
“Absolutely not. Ty is an aberration. Enchantments don’t affect him in the same way as other Nephilim.” Deciding that Ruarc’s blood consumption did not concern him—not yet—Jordan continued, “You can land an armada safely in Ireland?”
Stepping back but continuing to study Ty with a look of concern, Ruarc replied, “I can get a small group into Ireland. Only my father has the power to land an armada.”
“Ruarc’s father, King Kellach, has been imprisoned on the Irish island of Great Skellig,” said the legate.
“Trees are sacred to my clan,” said Ruarc. “My king was simply trying to protect them from the Celts, as you would protect your own holy places. But how could he, while the Morrígna was siding with the Celts and preventing other Sidhe clans from helping us?”
The legate added, “Kellach is being unjustly punished for his efforts to free the Sidhe from the oppression of the Goddess Morrígna, by attempting to expel her from this world.”
“The treaty between the Celts and the Middle Kingdom threatens the very existence of my kind, who live in the woods,” said Ruarc.
“I have stressed to the prince our outrage over the desecration of his people’s trees,” said the legate. “Marshal d’Anglano, you’ll go to Great Skellig with Prince Ruarc, free King Kellach, and convey him to England. Your ship will be ready as soon as the spring storms abate. You and Prince Ruarc are to craft and deliver a plan, along with a requisition for supplies and men, to my secretary within a month, and then—”
“No, we must leave this city right away,” Dary broke in. At a hiss from Ruarc, Dary looked down and added softly, “For the sake of my wife.”
Ignoring Dary’s outburst, the legate said, “I look forward to seeing your plan.” His secretary opened the office door and led Ruarc’s party out.
Jordan waited until they were gone. “What of Patrick’s Bell?” he asked the legate. “The Blood Bell?”
“Your knowledge is impressive. Orsini assured me that the Bell will not be in Ireland when the English armada arrives. It’s not your concern.”
Jordan bowed and left. He was confident he could handle his role, and it would give him the chance to sail to Ireland, which was something he never thought he would get to do. He wondered if a country still steeped in magic would look or feel any different.
Making no more sound than a breeze, Ty bent, twisted, and followed Jordan out the small door. The legate, watching this impossible move, blinked twice.
Outside, on the small dock, Ty rumbled, “Ty not like legate.”
“He has granted me a valuable position,” said Jordan. As he climbed into the boat, it rocked, and he had to grab the side to steady himself.
“Legate wishes to murder Ty’s world,” said Ty. He unfastened the rope and stepped in behind Jordan. Other than being pressed down into the rancid water, the boat did not stir until Ty began working the oar.
“That’s one way to look at it,” replied Jordan. “I didn’t know you were paying attention.”
“Ty has ears. How does Jordan look at it?”
That question had already been troubling Jordan. This was not only a great opportunity for him, it was a chance to redeem his family’s name, perhaps his only chance. But the Church did not just want to conquer Ireland, they wanted to end everyone’s access to magic, except for that of their own exorcists. And magic was becoming as interesting to Jordan as status. Back when he was struggling to survive plague and famine, he never thought he would face a conflict between wealth and desire.
“What would you have me do?” he asked.
Ty took so long to answer that Jordan thought he had not heard the question. Then, in a faint, gravelly voice, Ty replied, “Ty not care what Jordan does. Ty not belong in either world.”
“You belong with me,” replied Jordan.
. . . . .
In the legate’s office, Geoffrey Chaucer emerged from a side door.
“Were you able hear everything?” asked the legate. “Thoughts?”
“He’s exactly the kind of man you need, if you’re going to go through with this gambit,” said Chaucer, helping himself to the leftover wine. “Just don’t underestimate how hard it will be to convince Richard to join.” In the court of England’s King Richard II, Chaucer held the posts of Poet to the King, Clerk of the King’s Works, and envoy to the Vatican. Richard was the second king Chaucer had worked for as a bureaucrat and diplomat, but his first love remained the emerging English language, and his throaty-voiced recitations of elaborate tales were popular at courtiers’ dinner parties.
“How is Richard’s mind these days?” the legate asked cautiously. He had yet to meet the inbred and notoriously eccentric king.
“Increasingly difficult to reason with,” Chaucer replied laughingly. “Is there no way to take Ireland without him?”
“I have my instructions from Orsini.
” The legate gave a deep sigh. “Our condottieri are stretched thin with our European expansion. The plague has left few men to recruit. We have no navy yet.” He ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “Without the English we can’t muster an invasion force or get it to Ireland.”
He refilled his own wine goblet. “But we have to attack now,” the legate continued, “while the Skeaghshee revolt gives us an opening. The first we have had in two centuries.”
“And we know how well it worked out last time,” said Chaucer, shaking his head. “Nevertheless, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If your dashing new marshal actually gets Kellach off that Irish rock alive, I promise to secure you an audience with Richard.” Chaucer lounged in a chair, took a sip of wine, and observed his friend thoughtfully. “The king might be crazy, but even he will be skeptical about putting all his faith in a tree-loving faerie who failed so mightily in his own plans that he’s exiled on a barren island. It will be an interesting discussion. I sail back to London on the morning tide.”
The legate pulled a heavy coin purse from his desk. “Someone dropped this on the plaza. Is it by chance yours?”
Chaucer eyed the pouch—the king paid functionaries little and poets less, which was why he was forced to fill three posts. He held up a hand. “No, but thank you. Richard would have me flayed if he found out. Besides, the story material you provide is as gold to me.” He raised his goblet in a toast to the legate. “To quote myself: ‘The life so short, the craft so long to learn.’” He drained the wine.
“How go the stories?” asked the legate as he retrieved the carafe and poured the last of its contents for Chaucer.
“Very well! Hawkwood provided all the inspiration I needed for the Knight,” replied Chaucer, referring to one of the characters in his ongoing series The Canterbury Tales. The legate and Chaucer had become close friends long ago when Richard had sent Chaucer to Rome as emissary to Hawkwood when he was helping Cardinal Albornoz wrest the papacy away from French control. Chaucer, sensing a rich vein of subject matter, had made sure he remained his king’s connection to the Vatican’s clandestine office ever since.
“And with all this talk of enchantments,” Chaucer said, looking disappointed at the empty carafe, “I hear the muse’s call. I believe I shall write a story containing that magic ring you told me about, King Solomon’s, wasn’t it?”
“Be careful with your tales, my friend. There’s getting to be too much sorcery in them. You don’t want to give the Church a reason to flay you either.”
“Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.”
6
Near Tara, Ireland
March 1391
In a spot not far from where Aisling took the poisoned arrow in her back three years earlier, a red stag grazed near the center of a large clearing. Its velvet-covered antlers had sprouted early, encouraged by the unusually warm spring, and by the time the autumn rutting season arrived he would carry a rack large enough to have his pick of the five does that grazed closer to the clearing’s edge.
The stag jerked his head up, one foreleg stomping the ground. With a bound, the five does disappeared into the surrounding woods.
“You moved too fast. He sensed you,” hissed Tadg into Conor’s ear.
“It wasn’t me he sensed,” Conor hissed back.
The two men squatted behind a cluster of elderberry bushes inside the tree line. They were human but lived outside normal Irish society, in the forests. Conor, tall and lean and the younger of the two at twenty-three, wore a buckskin tunic over black woolen trousers and calf-high leather boots. Short, dark brown hair, still showing some of the curl that had been prominent in his youth, contrasted with the blue of his eyes. Tadg, at fifty-one, was dressed in a more traditional, if tattered, woolen tunic, trousers, and cloak, in faded green, brown, and black. His long, hooked nose dominated a face weathered from living outdoors.
Conor rose and drew his bow, but it was too late. The stag was already leaping into the trees and in a blur was gone.
“Save your arrow,” said Tadg. “So much for venison tonight. You’re losing your touch. When you were young, you could creep up close enough to kill a stag like that with your dagger.”
“It wasn’t my fault. Listen. Someone’s coming.”
A horse entered the clearing, walking slowly. Its rider wore a chain-mail tunic and a full helmet with a keyhole-shaped opening for his eyes, nose, and mouth.
“Is he alone?” asked Tadg.
“I hear no one else,” responded Conor.
“A horse is worth three deer.”
“In meat, not flavor.”
“We could dry most of it, so we’d have it if we need it.”
“If you insist. I’m more interested in that knight. I haven’t had a good fight all winter.” Conor drew his bow again. The arrow caught the horse behind the shoulder, an inch from the knight’s leg. It stumbled, then fell, spilling its rider onto the grass.
“Well, that should do it,” said Tadg. “Have fun.”
Handing his bow to Tadg, Conor drew his sword and started toward the knight, who was getting up, also drawing a sword. “Sir Knight, if that’s what you are, do you wish to fight me for the right to this piece of meat you so kindly rode into my clearing? Or would you prefer to just walk away?”
The rider stared at Conor, then dropped her sword and pulled off her helmet, spilling out long red hair and revealing a seventeen-year-old Aisling. She knelt beside the horse. “He’s not a piece of meat. I don’t know his name, but I know he’s a faithful horse with a strong heart.” She began to chant an incantation of comfort while stroking the horse’s neck. Red foam bubbled from its nostrils.
Leaving his sword thrust into the earth, Conor went down on one knee and covered the horse’s eyes with his left hand. From his belt he drew a misericorde dagger. Shifting his hand, Conor thrust the long blade through the top of the eye socket and into the brain. The horse’s gasping ceased. Listening to Aisling’s chant, now a prayer of thanks for the horse’s life, he cleaned the misericorde on the thick grass, replaced it, and stepped back to retrieve his sword.
“Don’t be sad, Lady— What’s your name?” asked Conor.
Aisling did not reply.
“As you wish,” said Conor. “But know that this noble horse, as you’ve said, will make a fine feast for my friend’s family and me, bringing its strength to us. Certainly a worthy end for any animal.”
Aisling finished her prayer and turned to retrieve her own sword, one she had secretly slipped out from the armory. Her back to Conor, she took several practice strokes to measure its balance. “You haven’t won your feast yet, you arrogant, hedge-born knave,” she said calmly.
“If you insist on—” Conor did not finish. Without a sound, Aisling had turned and charged. She started her sword high, sweeping it down in a decreasing radius arc ending in an S-hook thrust. Conor recognized the move too late for a clean parry and had to spin out of the way to avoid taking the point in his shoulder.
Aisling’s momentum carried her past Conor, who added to the distance by taking three steps back. He needed to reassess his opponent.
“A little less speed on the charge and you could’ve caught his torso with a backstroke before he finished his spin,” Liam called to Aisling as he walked his horse into the clearing. “Good morning, Tadg, Conor.”
“A fine morning it is, Liam,” replied Conor. “If you’re here, then this must be the new High Priestess of Tara, our half Goddess.”
Aisling took a step toward Conor. “A bow is required.”
“I bow only to what’s left of the Morrígna,” said Conor, bending slightly while keeping his eyes on Aisling. “She was much needed. My heart cried at the news of your sister’s murder.”
Aisling returned a nod.
“I still claim this horse,” said Conor.
“Well, are you going to fight h
im for it?” asked Liam.
“No,” replied Aisling. “Let him have it. Otherwise he may have to eat that goat he’s been keeping to satisfy his manly desires.”
Liam and Tadg broke into laughter. Conor just smiled.
. . . . .
“You took your time finding me,” said Aisling to Liam as she sat behind him on his horse, riding out of the clearing.
“I was here, watching. It’ll take a lot more than a set of men’s clothing and a simple concealment enchantment for you to slip out without my noticing.”
“Basic enchantments are all I can muster anymore. But next time I’ll fool you,” said Aisling without conviction.
She lay against Liam’s broad back and turned her face toward the sun, soaking in the warmth of the spring day. “You know those two?” she asked.
“Tadg is the finest fletcher in Meath, perhaps all of Ireland. When you were younger, he made all of the arrows I brought you.”
When I was still training to be a warrior Goddess, thought Aisling. When I was whole, before Anya was torn from me and I was imprisoned in this half-life.
They rode on in silence. “They were exceptional arrows,” she finally offered. “They always seemed to know where I wanted them to go.”
“He harvests the shafts from live elm trees and dries them for two years. Sidhe smiths make arrowheads for him, of his own design. For his flights it’s said that he has a covenant with the peregrine falcons. They flock to him each morning, and he selects and gently removes only one feather from each, and in return no Tadg arrow will bring down a peregrine.”
“Where’s his home kingdom?”
“He has none. He and his wife live in the woods, constantly moving to find the next perfect tree to make his arrows.”
“And this horse-eating, goat-loving Conor?”
Liam laughed. “The story Tadg tells is that Conor’s mother was thought to be a fugitive slave who died in childbirth. No father or owner could be identified. When he was six, he ran away from the farm that fostered him. Soon after that, as Tadg was standing at the base of a tree studying the branches, Conor appeared and offered to climb up and harvest the ones he wanted. Conor has been with Tadg and his wife ever since. But he has no honor price.”
The Last Days of Magic Page 9