A quarter mile from Great Skellig, the ship turned into the wind and dropped its sail. The setting sun disappeared behind cloud cover, creating an early dusk.
Jordan returned to his cabin to prepare to meet the Fomorian king. Certain protocols must be followed, even for the king of another race. He pulled off his plain wool tunic and put on one of red silk. His sword and dagger he moved to a silver belt. A black wool cloak trimmed with mink completed the outfit, nothing of which displayed the symbol of the Vatican.
Throughout the process Najia sat in the center of the floor, eyes closed, chanting quietly.
“Praying to your God?” Jordan finally asked, adjusting his cloak.
Najia opened her eyes. “I’m casting an enchantment of protection over my sister and little brother.”
“No enchantment will protect them if I fail to keep them from the Fomorians.”
“Then I’ll cast you an enchantment of good fortune.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t do anything. If Ruarc senses any enchantments, he’ll know I’m up to something.” Jordan stroked her hair. “Just stay here and trust that I’ll do all I can.” He picked up his hat and went out on deck.
Jordan walked up to Dary and asked, “How’s your wife?”
“How do you think she is?” Anger flared in his voice.
“Why don’t you bring her out? The sea air will do her good.”
Dary glanced at Ruarc, who was standing at the starboard railing looking out at Great Skellig, then moved toward Ruarc’s cabin.
The crew led the nineteen remaining slaves up on deck. They had been stripped and their hands bound. Jordan walked among them; they shivered with cold and fear. He pointed out the two women he thought Ruarc would find most pleasing, and four others, including Najia’s sister and brother. He was careful to choose casually and not to look back at his cabin door, which he knew was open just enough for Najia to peer out.
“Take these six back down,” Jordan ordered two deckhands. “Allow them to dress, then secure them.”
“Marshal Jordan,” demanded Ruarc, rushing toward him. “What are you doing?”
“It’s not wise to show all we have to offer at the outset. We may need additional trade goods later. Thirteen is a good offer to start.”
“That is not the Sidhe way.”
“You said Fomorians aren’t Sidhe.”
“They are closer to Sidhe than human.”
“Besides, soon you’ll need a new companion.” Jordan’s eyes moved to the emaciated figure of Eithne cradled in Dary’s lap. Ruarc’s eyes followed.
Ruarc gave Jordan a nod. “It is good for me to learn the ways of your kind. We will try your plan, but keep the other slaves ready.” He glanced over the terrified huddle of naked Ottomans: women, men, and children. “Perhaps you should have left one of the more attractive women.”
“Who knows what a Fomorian finds attractive?” replied Jordan.
“We are about to find out,” said Ruarc.
A pair of wet, scaly, green hands with clawlike fingernails wrapped themselves around the starboard railing, a slight web apparent between the bases of the fingers. The creature flung itself on deck, followed by another, then more until they crowded the starboard side. Their bare skin dried unnaturally quickly to a nearly human taupe hue, the scales tightening down and almost vanishing. Dark hair hung lank about their shoulders, the occasional crab or bit of seaweed plucked out and tossed overboard.
A large male stepped forward and barked orders to the horde, exhibiting small, sharklike teeth. The Fomorians parted and bowed, revealing an even larger male climbing over the rail. He had one eye, swollen to twice normal size; the second socket was shriveled and empty.
“The king of the clan that rules these waters,” Ruarc whispered to Jordan. “As a sign of his strength and commitment to lead, a new king is required to pluck out his own left eye in front of the assembled clan. Over time the other eye swells and gains in power. The longer a king defends his throne, the larger his eye gets.”
The engorged eye swiveled toward Ruarc, who bowed and spoke a greeting in the guttural tongue of the Fomorians. At a signal the captain brought forward a sable cloak and presented it to the king. Two obviously female attendants accepted the gift and wrapped it around the king’s bare shoulders. The king grunted to one of his men, who then presented Ruarc with a large mother-of-pearl brooch. Ruarc made a show of removing his own silver brooch, tossing it overboard, and refastening his cloak with the gift.
Ruarc and the Fomorian king began to inspect and converse about the slaves. Jordan could not understand their words, but Ruarc was clearly expounding on the virtues of the offering. The king approached the woman with the darkest brown skin. As she cowered, crying, he slowly ran his hand down her arm, then turned to Ruarc and the two of them shared a laugh.
The king cast his large eye across the huddled knot of humans, seized the dark woman by her throat, and passed her to one of his attendants. At his grunted order, the rest of the screaming, crying, and pleading slaves were dragged over the side. The two female attendants removed the sable cloak, folded it, and placed it in an oilskin pouch. The king and Ruarc exchanged a few words, then shallow bows. The king leaped over the side, followed by the last of his attendants carrying the dark woman.
“What will they do with them?” whispered the captain.
“Stash some of them in their cavern as mates and slaves, eat the rest,” replied Jordan, looking down at the horde moving through the water.
. . . . .
The last dim light was fading rapidly from the overcast sky. “Captain, mark the position of the pier and make sail,” commanded Ruarc.
“All is agreed with the Fomorians, then?” asked Jordan.
“Yes, we have safe passage until sunset tomorrow. And they have guaranteed our landing. Apparently the king liked the cloak most of all, saying it will be helpful in his quest for the Fomorian high-kingship.”
“In that position he could be a valuable ally.”
“He has a great desire to lead his people back onto the land. I mentioned that if the Celts are driven from Ireland, there would be room for the Fomorians to return. He suggested discussing it further, over another batch of slaves.”
Jordan smiled at Ruarc. “I couldn’t have directed the conversation better myself.”
“Yes, but I was honest with him,” replied Ruarc, not returning the smile.
Torches flared and moved rapidly on Great Skellig.
“They know we’re coming,” said the captain.
“They were not expecting us to get by the Fomorians,” said Ruarc. “They have little time to prepare. How long until we land, Captain?”
“Ten minutes. But it’s too dark to dock.”
“Just follow my directions and stop fretting.”
A shadowy shape moved in the gloom of the stern superstructure. Jordan joined Najia. “We have a long way to travel yet, and I may still find a reason to trade away your sister and brother, or Ruarc may decide to feed from them,” he said softly, keeping his face turned toward the activity amidships. He felt her hand slide onto the back of his neck, her lips brush against his ear.
“Ruarc will not survive this night. I have foreseen this.”
“Go check on your siblings,” said Jordan, and walked off toward Ty.
As the ship sailed through the gray water toward the black that was Great Skellig, Ruarc joined Jordan and Ty. Clearly excited, he had not wiped all the fresh blood from his chin. “I must be the one to free my father,” he proclaimed.
“Do as you wish,” said Jordan, thinking of Najia’s words. Given the size of the splash that Jordan had heard a moment earlier, he guessed that Ruarc had been too enthusiastic in his feeding and that Eithne’s drained body had been dumped over the side.
Jordan said to Ty, “Lead Ruarc to King Kellach, then make sure the
y get safely back to the ship. Kill any who oppose you or try to follow you.”
“Ty will do as Jordan says.”
Jordan patted Ty’s back. “And be on guard. Don’t let them hurt you too much.”
On a quick order from Ruarc, the sail dropped, leaving the ship to glide. Jordan could feel the island close at hand.
Ruarc called out to the night, “Solas san aer breithe,” and a dozen faerie lights appeared above the stone pier not more than twenty feet ahead, revealing a small company of armed Celts. A flash of green moved behind them, and a wave of Fomorians swept the Celts into the water.
The ship groaned up against the pier, entering the halo of light. Arrows swept in from the blackness. Ty batted away one headed toward Jordan’s chest, but the first mate and two sailors fell.
“Less light please, Ruarc!” called Jordan. All but one light, floating above the base of the pier at the point where a path led up the rock face, went out, returning the ship to semidarkness.
Ty plucked an arrow from his shoulder, stepped onto the pier, and disappeared up the path, followed closely by Ruarc. Jets of orange flame shot out from the darkness, revealing the pair. Ty stepped between the flames and Ruarc. The fire danced along Ty’s skin and faded without burning him, but pain could be heard in Ty’s roar. Darkness swallowed them again.
“Fire Sprites,” Jordan explained to the captain. “Wood Sidhe have no defense against their one enchantment, but it won’t kill Ty.”
Blue lightning flashed and green orbs flew, lighting up much of the rock face. Ty continued to roar as the enchantments splashed against him. “Devas and Leprechauns,” said Jordan, watching with a mix of fascination and concern. Ruarc’s left hand moved in a dance of complex shapes, repelling enchantments. Silhouetted Celtic warriors could be seen rushing forward, brandishing swords, only to fall victim to Ty’s giant hands. Ruarc’s sword, held in a high guard with his right hand, remained unneeded.
Darkness returned, punctuated by a few cries and the occasional rock rolling down the steep face and splashing into the sea. Jordan sensed Najia approach before he felt her body press against his back as if to shield herself. They stood together studying the night. “I’ve given my sister to the captain for his cabin for the journey back,” said Najia. “I told him it was your gift.”
“He believed that? From you?”
“Of course. I washed her, combed out her hair, and led her to him wearing nothing but a skirt. He seemed in a rush to stash her in his cabin and she in a hurry to hide in it.”
“Good. And your little brother?”
“Washed, dressed, and peeling apples in the galley as if his life depended on it.”
“It may.”
Najia leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “Do you feel it?”
“What?” Jordan whispered back.
“Ireland. I’ve read so much about it. There’s no other land left like it.”
“I feel something here that’s different.” They were interrupted by the sudden flare of more floating faerie lights, revealing Ruarc walking down the path. “Ruarc’s still alive,” said Jordan. Najia did not respond.
Ruarc stopped at the base of the pier. Ty and Kellach emerged into the light and joined him. No Sidhe or Celts followed. Other than cuts on Ty’s hands and arms—each cut ringed by small black blisters—and the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from his back, they appeared unscathed.
“My son, give me your sword,” said Kellach.
Ruarc bowed. “My father. My king,” he said, handing Kellach his sword. “I brought it for you.”
Kellach balanced the sword in his hand, then studied its length. “It is a fine blade. Gnome-forged?”
“Yes, Father. Forged by Paracelsus himself.”
“Excellent,” replied Kellach, and nodded to Ty, who seized Ruarc’s head with one giant hand. A look of terror sprang onto Ruarc’s face. “You have corrupted yourself with human blood,” said Kellach. “Already you obsess on it, and soon you will think of nothing else. You are no longer of use to your people, or to me.” Ty’s hand closed in an explosion of pink. Ruarc’s body crumpled. With a nudge from Ty’s foot, it slid into the water.
Ty glanced at Jordan, then knelt before Kellach. “Fulfill promise to Ty,” his rough voice full of melancholy.
Jordan gripped his sword, placed the other hand on the railing. Najia gasped and wrapped her arms around his waist. Kellach raised the sword and swept it down, severing Ty’s head, which rolled down the pier. The giant headless body knelt there. A splash sounded as the head tumbled into the sea. Blackness bubbled out of the neck, overflowing the body, consuming it. Kellach threw down the sword, seeing that it was also being devoured by blackness.
“No!” shouted Jordan, as he broke free of Najia’s arms and leaped onto the pier, his sword unsheathed. Seizing the collar of Kellach’s cloak, Jordan pushed his sword up against the king’s throat.
“He was in constant pain, Marshal Jordan,” said Kellach calmly, a trickle of blood running down his neck. “Even more so now that you ordered him to kill his own kind. He was half Sidhe. Did you not know? He begged me to ease his suffering. It was a kindness.”
“A kindness!” Jordan shouted into his face. “A kindness? Or was it that you could not have a creature on board that could kill you at my whim?”
“You heard him. He did not wish to return to you. Now, Marshal, it is time for us to go. Others on the mainland will be launching ships to catch us.” A full moon broke from the clouds, illuminating the island and the sea in silver light. Jordan lowered his sword. Kellach climbed aboard their ship.
Jordan watched the last of Ty’s flesh dissolve, the pool of blackness vaporizing, shrinking, leaving behind etched stones. Memories unbidden and unwanted flooded in, memories of the plague taking everyone he loved. The familiar sense of loss returned, like a dull knife carving away another piece of his soul, bearable only by setting his anger free.
Najia waited in the shadows until Kellach passed, then joined Jordan, who had not moved. She bent and scooped up a last handful of the blackness, letting it run through her fingers, her hand uninjured.
“I could’ve helped him,” she said. “If only I had known he was so full of pain.”
“Then you should have,” Jordan snapped.
“It wasn’t possible to read Ty, to foresee this. He was a blank.”
“Not much of a witch, are you?” Jordan strode back and forth along the pier, wishing there were someone to fight. He took a couple of swipes at the air with his sword, fantasizing he was beheading Kellach. It did nothing to alleviate the fire in his head. How dare Kellach take Ty from me!
Najia touched his arm and said, “Let’s go back to your cabin.”
He balled up his fist, forced himself not to strike her. “Just because your siblings survived today, that doesn’t mean I won’t still kill them, or you,” he hissed. “I am finished with you.” He sheathed his sword and shoved her roughly toward the ship. She stumbled but regained her footing and climbed aboard. Jordan followed her into his cabin.
“Let me—” Najia started.
“Mix a pot of paint,” Jordan interrupted. “I’m going to suppress your powers before you go into the hold.”
“Our lives are intertwined now,” said Najia.
“Don’t pretend you can read me or foresee anything about me. You’re just trying to save yourself.”
“It started that way, yes, but during these weeks together I have seen that we are meant to face the future with each other, whatever perils are coming.” Najia drew Jordan’s sword, and he did not try to stop her. She pressed the hilt into his hand. “It would be merciful to kill me, rather than put me into the hold. But you know that either way you would lose part of yourself.”
Somewhere deep inside, a thin voice penetrated his rage; he knew that she spoke the truth. He flung his sword onto the b
unk. “Look inside me, then, and see the type of man you are asking to stay with.” He dropped his defense to enchantments.
Najia gazed into his eyes, and he felt her enter. His innermost self was unfolded, opened to a rush of light, simultaneously warm and terrifyingly exposed, unprotected. He struggled not to drive her out for what seemed like an age, yet he knew it was just a moment. She said, “Your whole life you have journeyed to the border that separates light and dark forces, and you are destined to continue doing so for the rest of your days. It is impossible for me to foresee which side you will end up on. Possibilities compound into a fog.” She withdrew from inside him, leaving Jordan with a sudden sense of loneliness.
Najia continued, “I can’t predict when you might descend into darkness. I can only see that I will be of help to you.” She put her arms around him. “You are like no man I have ever known. I am drawn to you and desire nothing more than to journey with you and let the fates take us from this world together, whenever that may be.”
A tremor ran through his body as his remaining anger faded. She was right: he did want her in his life beyond this voyage—her thoughts, her touch, all of her. He could feel his body soften little by little as they held each other, gently swaying with the motion of the ship as its sails caught the wind.
9
London, England
June 1391
While the legate endured a plodding, jolting carriage ride through the crowded, muddy streets of London, he worried about the critical meeting ahead. Jordan had succeeded, but now the legate had to convince a demented king to attempt an invasion of an island that had repulsed every caesar, pope, and monarch who had tried over the last millennium and a half. Gazing out the window, he wondered what would happen to him if he returned to Rome without Richard’s support. He might not only lose his position as legate, he might find himself on the wrong end of the Inquisition’s many instruments of penance.
The legate turned his attention to Chaucer, who sat across the carriage, uncharacteristically quiet. “Have you mentioned anything to Richard about the Vatican’s plans?”
The Last Days of Magic Page 13