The Last Days of Magic

by Mark Tompkins

  His family clan were Bwbachod, master smiths of the Welsh faeries known as the Tylwyth Teg. They, along with most of the Tylwyth Teg clans, had formed an alliance with the last of the Britannia druids, whom the Roman invaders had driven from the mainland. For the next two decades, Rome seemed content to leave the alliance bottled up on their island. That was, until Queen Boudica had stirred up a revolt among the Britannia tribes, burning the twenty-year-old commercial settlement of London to the ground and waking the wolf. Rome sent reinforcements, who crushed Boudica’s army in retaliation. The Roman commander, Suetonius, had decided to invade Anglesey while he had the men readily available and eliminate the pesky druids and their philosophy of independence from any central authority.

  Standing by his father in the mist of the Tylwyth Teg army that morning, Oren felt his excitement catch in his throat at the sight of two full Roman legions, the XIV and the XX, marching toward the opposite bank in tight formations. Under cover of arrow volleys, wizards from Europe, sorcerers from Egypt, and a handful of druid traitors countered the enchantments being hurled by the Tylwyth Teg. The legionaries bridged the narrow strip of water by roping together shallow barges they had carried overland. They surged across, crashing into the combined Tylwyth Teg and druid forces.

  A pilum, a Roman heavy javelin, had caught Oren in the leg just above the knee, shattering the bone. Oren’s father turned from the mayhem to help him, only to be struck down by two arrows in his back.

  Grabbing a stout oak branch from the ground, Oren hauled himself up and limped toward the Celli Ddu faerie mound lying a mile to the northwest, intent on escaping into the Middle Kingdom. The legionaries beat him to it. They had built a fire in the entrance and were swarming over the mound with shovels and picks, digging up the enchanted stones it covered. As he watched, the first standing stone was unearthed and pulled over. With it, all hope that the Tylwyth Teg would hold Anglesey died in his heart.

  He hobbled across the island, and every faerie mound he came to was suffering the same fate. His new plan to hide in the woods vanished as the legionaries began to burn the sacred groves. With his opportunities for cover going up in flames, he had to continue lugging his shattered leg west. There was nowhere else to go.

  Standing at the base of a low ridge, he gazed back across his beloved island. Physically he had passed exhaustion long ago. He gathered what was left of his mental strength. Over the ridge was his Bwbachod-clan faerie mound, situated on the end of a point extending out the westerly edge of Anglesey Island. He had seen no surviving mounds, nor had he seen Roman soldiers headed this way. The sun was setting on the longest day of his life as he started up the rise, dragging his injured leg along behind him as he could no longer raise it at all. The next hour would decide his fate.

  He managed to clear the ridge and advance out the point, its edges sheer cliffs to the sea below. Fear rose in his chest when he saw Roman ships in the bay. That’s how they reached the mounds so quickly, he thought. With no legionaries in sight, he hobbled on.

  I’m going to make it, Oren thought as he approached his still-intact mound. He could see the edge of its doorway. He gathered the last of his strength and pushed his body to move faster. A legionary crept around the mound and rushed at him. Oren locked eyes with him for a moment. Suddenly the man noticed the emerald green grass, stopped, squatted down, and began to examine it closer. Being a Bwbachod, Oren carried his power in his eyes.

  A second legionary emerged and charged at Oren, but then that man noticed the beauty of the blue sky spotted with small clouds and stopped to admire it. Oren lurched around the distracted soldier.

  “Don’t look him in the eye,” ordered the decanus as he led his remaining five legionaries around the other side of the mound. They knocked Oren to the ground and slipped a linen bag over his head. The decanus felt for Oren’s eyes through the linen and, ignoring his screams, thrust his dagger through the bag into one eye, gave it a quick twist, then the other eye, taking away his ability to work enchantments.

  Bound, Oren was carried to the ship and dropped into the hold on top of two dozen other captive Tylwyth Teg, each maimed or painted with runes as needed to prevent any use of magic. At the Roman fort of Isca Dumnoniorum in southwest Britannia, the surgeon who hacked off Oren’s shattered leg decided that he would be easier to handle if the other leg were removed as well.

  From there the captives were shipped to pagan Rome, valuable chattel for the information they could provide, as Rome continued to struggle with tribes of Nephilim across its empire. The centuries passed, and they were needed less and less. Some died under torture, some found ways to take their own lives, and some were traded away.

  OREN DID NOT know how many of his fellow captives were still alive. He had not heard the voice of another Tylwyth Teg since Count Philip of Savoy had shipped him to England in 1283 as a gift to King Edward Longshanks, who was having trouble with the remains of the Tylwyth Teg during his Welsh campaigns. Oren’s resistance to questioning had been broken long ago, so he knew that to be bribed meant that something important was at stake.

  Gripping the plate of sugar fruits, he repeated his question: “What do you want?”

  Squatting down beside Oren, de Vere took one of the sweets, put it in his mouth, and crunched on it. Oren placed the dish on his lap and covered it with both hands.

  “How can Richard invade Ireland?” de Vere asked.

  “He cannot,” said Oren. “The Romans failed. The Normans failed. Richard would fail as well.” Oren slipped a sugar fruit into his mouth. A moan emerged from his throat as the confection melted.

  “Why would Richard not succeed, specifically?” de Vere asked.

  “Because the Sidhe have what the Tylwyth Teg did not, a Goddess to watch over them. Evidently we were not important enough to any of the divine beings in the Otherworld.”

  “The Morrígna.”

  “Yes, the mighty protector of Ireland, but not Wales,” said Oren, the old bitterness returning. “She merges and commands the power of the Sidhe and the Celts when her twin physical aspects are present in this world, and if Richard is planning an invasion, they will be present. Even the Fomorians dare not oppose the will of the Morrígna twins.”

  “What if one of the twins was killed? Her heart destroyed, while the other twin remained alive? And what if the Skeaghshee aligned with us? Then could we succeed in an invasion?”

  “This is what you have arranged?” asked Oren.

  De Vere remained silent.

  Oren placed another sugar fruit in his mouth and let it dissolve, momentarily lost in the warmth of the liquefying sweetness. “Perhaps it could work. So long as the Sidhe do not kill the remaining twin so that the Morrígna can be reborn whole.” A plan was forming in Oren’s mind. “And you are not being led to slaughter just for their amusement.”

  Oren paused, hoping to appear to be thinking. “You will need more than the Skeaghshee,” he continued. “You will need an alliance with the Fomorians to land your ships safely.”

  De Vere nodded. “How will we know if all this can be arranged, know if we’re not being led astray?”

  Oren felt something he had not felt since his capture—he felt hope. Hope and rising strength. “I would know if I were to meet with the Skeaghshee and the Fomorians.” He handed the dish, still almost full, back to de Vere. “But it will take more than a dish of sugar for me to do it.”

  De Vere knocked the dish from Oren’s hand, scattering the confections across the cell floor. “I’ll force you to do it.” He stood up as if to leave.

  “You can. But you risk that I have learned to lie like a human during my centuries with your kind and that I will take this opportunity for my vengeance, no matter how painful you make it for me. Instead I offer you a pact that guarantees you can trust me: if I deceive you in any way, or am simply wrong in my advice, you can take my arms.”

  “I can take your a
rms anytime I wish,” sneered de Vere.

  “However, if my guidance proves to be correct,” continued Oren, “you will take my life.”

  De Vere was silent.

  “Quickly,” added Oren. “You will agree to take my life quickly by beheading me, so I can leave this wretched world for the After Lands.”

  De Vere considered the proposition. Taking the torch from the bracket, he bent down to Oren, “Agreed, with one addition: if you don’t serve us faithfully, I’ll spare your life but take your arms and rip out your tongue so that you will never taste sugar again.”

  . . . . .

  The day after his meeting with Richard, the legate sat at the abbot’s table in the hall of the recently finished priory of Westminster Abbey, picking at his salmon. With the stench of the Thames rivaling that of the canals of Venice, why risk eating a fish from there? thought the legate.

  The provost was droning through the day’s Scriptures, his words jammed together and barely audible over the clatter of eighty monks eating in silence. A lay concierge entered the hall, the bang of the heavy door closing behind him echoing through the noise as he scurried around the tables, coming to a stop behind the legate’s chair and whispering urgently in his ear. The legate allowed a smile to flicker across his face. Now the negotiations begin in earnest, he thought. I must not seem to be anxious. Leaning to his left, he whispered to the abbot, “The king’s representatives demand an immediate audience. Please send my salmon along with the other leftovers to the charity hall.”

  Trailed by the concierge, the legate left. Once in the passage, he spoke over his shoulder, “Where are they?”

  “In the abbot’s new office, Your Eminence,” replied the man, trotting a bit to keep up. “I thought the receiving room too . . . too . . . too plain for the likes of them.”

  “Come on, then, hurry and show me the way.”

  Picking up his pace, the concierge edged past the legate and directed him down a side passage. On entering the abbott’s plush office, the legate was not surprised to see seventeen-year-old Roger Mortimer, fourth Earl of March, standing with de Vere, who unceremoniously tossed a small wooden chest onto the desk. It landed with a hollow thud and slid a few inches, leaving several scratches. So the decision has been made, thought the legate, and we need only talk of money.

  At ten years of age, Roger Mortimer had been named presumptive heir by Richard, should he sire no boys of his own, as most expected would be the case. At fifteen, Mortimer had been married to the daughter of the Earl of Kent, immediately after the earl purchased the right to choose Mortimer’s bride.

  That he faced the two most powerful men in England, other than Richard himself, was not lost on the legate. He made a point of walking slowly around the abbott’s writing desk and sitting down before motioning for Mortimer and de Vere to do the same, reinforcing the fact that on Church property he outranked them both.

  Silence lingered. Inherent conflict between status and authority prevented any pleasantries between them.

  “I believe I can persuade the Vatican to fund a force of ten thousand men, which will be more than adequate,” the legate finally offered.

  “You believe?” shot back Mortimer. “You will have the Vatican fund a force of fifteen thousand men.”

  “Of the ten thousand we will fund,” the legate replied coolly, “I know you’ll take only eight and pocket the difference. If you need more men, take all ten.”

  Mortimer smiled. “The Vatican will fund fifteen thousand, and we’ll take ten. The Vatican cannot afford repeating the mistake of Strongbow. He took too small a force, as well as too weak a druid.”

  “And Richard cannot afford to repeat the mistakes he made in Scotland,” replied the legate.

  “Exactly,” said de Vere.

  Perhaps that was not my best argument, thought the legate. But they were correct; none of them could afford to fail this time. And there was probably no way to avoid the tax of paying for more men than actually went, a practice that dated back to the days of the Roman legions. The overage would be split, some of it flowing all the way down to lieutenants who would receive pay for one phantom soldier for every forty they commanded. It was impossible to recruit experienced commanders without such incentives.

  “And we will need funds for new ships, of course,” noted Mortimer. “All new ships. The crossing may be short, but it’s treacherous, even with the help of your Sidhe allies.”

  “Or is it that Richard wants to regain the support of the trade guilds?” replied the legate. An astute move, he thought. While the earls would back the invasion to feed their lust for land, the new ships would gain Richard, and Mortimer, the favor of the merchant class. Shipbuilding employed more skilled tradesmen than any other industry in England.

  The legate casually pushed the empty chest to the edge of the writing table, ignoring the new scratches he was causing. “Payment must not be seen to come from the Vatican,” he said in tacit agreement. “The Jews within the Papal States will provide Richard with loans. These loans will then be traded to the Church in exchange for the return of some of their confiscated land and property. Once the invasion has succeeded, the Church will return the loans to Richard in exchange for the Irish Church’s monasteries. All of them, in England and Wales, as well as Ireland.”

  “Set up any pretext you like,” said Mortimer, “but understand this: Richard will not put his seal to these loans until the invasion has succeeded, until your Sidhe allies have made it succeed. If they fail, the Church will be left with worthless parchment.”

  The legate shrugged. “If that happens, the Church will not return any land to the Jews.”

  De Vere pointed at the chest. “Fill it with one hundred fifty pounds’ worth of gold and return it to me by midday tomorrow to bond our arrangement. If not, there’ll be no agreement, and I advise you not to appear in Richard’s court again.”

  The legate rose and twisted a knob in the wall by the door. A few moments later, there was a knock and he opened the door to admit a steward. “Is the provost finished in the hall?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” replied the steward.

  “Good. Take that to him and tell him I’ll join him shortly to explain.”

  The steward bowed, took the chest from the table, and left. The legate stood by the open door until it became obvious that Mortimer and de Vere had no intention of leaving. “There’s more?” he asked with a sigh.

  De Vere nodded. “Richard has acquired a faerie ally of his own. You will arrange a conclave with your Sidhe and our delegation. When and if we’re all convinced that the plan will succeed, then we’ll proceed.”

  “And what happens to the Vatican’s gold if you don’t proceed?”

  “You mean if you’ve been wasting our time?” replied Mortimer. “Then it will be retained to cover our expenses.”

  “Is that all?”

  “One more thing,” said de Vere. “Your Sidhe must bring the Fomorians to the conclave, where they’ll also need to provide assurances of their allegiance.”

  11

  Outside Tara, Ireland

  April 1392

  Aisling collapsed onto Conor’s chest. She tried to kiss his neck but had no breath left, so she rested her cheek on his shoulder and panted, her breathing in time with his. When her chest stopped heaving, she eased off her knees, shuddering as he slipped out of her. She stretched her legs so she could lie atop the length of his naked body, the warmth of his skin contrasting with the crisp forest air. Her cloak lay in the heather beside them. She felt him fumbling to pull it over their bodies without dislodging her. “Leave it,” Aisling whispered. “I want to be just like this.”

  Safe. The word floated up in her consciousness. Conor allowed her to feel . . . safe. She slid her hands under his shoulders and pressed herself tight against his body. He provided a firm connection to her human self. A secure place from
which to explore what remained of her Goddess nature and work to reconnect with the lingering power there. The fissure where Anya used to be was a constant presence, and it would always be so, she thought, letting out a long sigh. But no longer will I tumble into that chasm whenever I try any but the most basic of enchantments, she vowed to herself. No longer will I let myself be smothered in the darkness waiting there.

  Lord Maolan’s rough visits to her bedchamber had become infrequent as his efforts to torment her increasingly failed. Her sessions with Brigid’s priestesses were also dwindling. While the orgasms they coaxed from her were intense, it was her passion with Conor that fulfilled her. Soon, she thought, she would show him how to please her as the novice priestesses did. Perhaps she would bring one along to demonstrate. Mary, probably.

  Dappled sunlight drifted through the trees to create spots of warmth and coolness along her body. She lay with her eyes closed, not quite sleeping, savoring the rise and fall of his chest. She could feel the land breathe with them. The energy of the land and the forest merged with Conor’s and flowed into her. She felt connected again, a potent feeling that was returning more often, reminding her of who she used to be. Her mind drifted to memories of training with Anya.

  SHE AND ANYA were ten, back before Kellach had been imprisoned and was still building his group of radical followers. The girls rode together toward the coast, galloping a horse length behind Liam and Haidrean.

  “They’re not old enough,” insisted Haidrean.

  “Age has nothing to do with it. They can handle this,” replied Liam.

  “Kellach, no doubt, stirred up this trouble. The Fomorians wouldn’t have dared had he not convinced them it could work. He keeps spouting on about how, without the missing heart segment, the twins are not really the Morrígna.”