The Last Days of Magic

by Mark Tompkins

  Turlough clenched his fist, dried Fomorian blood flaking off his glove, and wished he could hit Mamos for the insult to Aisling. But it was unwise for anyone, even a regional king, to strike a druid as powerful as Mamos, second only to Brigid. Instead he said, “Aisling is all we have.”

  “We have her new twins. They’ve drawn the power from Aisling, and it’s said they’re slow to return it. What if these twins are the next incarnation of the Morrígna arriving, as it’s called for, in our greatest time of need? Perhaps Aisling is the only thing stopping the twins from bringing the Morrígna back fully into this world.”

  “Brigid has said that the Morrígna can’t return as long as Aisling is alive. It’s unknown if the Morrígna can ever return after what happened to Anya,” Turlough said.

  “The Morrígna can do anything the Morrígna wishes. Remember when the Goddess first appeared to us, in that time of dire need. She manifested into human form from nothing but her own desire. Are we in less need now?”

  Turlough stared into Mamos’s eyes. “What are you suggesting?” Turlough thought he knew. The faction calling for Aisling to retire to the Otherworld—so there could be at least a chance that the Morrígna would return to this world—was rapidly growing and had become more vocal. As one of the most respected monarchs, he had been approached several times already to see if he would join their ranks. He hoped he did not have to.

  “There are Sidhe other than the Devas and Adhene that don’t wish to see Kellach rise to power, some even within the ranks that Kellach considers allies.” Mamos lowered his voice. “I’ve received word that they wish for a meeting. What I’m suggesting is that you come with me, and we shall learn what they propose.”

  . . . . .

  Ignoring the chill of the first winter night, Aisling walked barefoot in her thin night shift along the tree line behind Dunsany Castle. She watched ghosts drift between the trees, so many seeming lost. Thinking of her sister, Anya, awoke that familiar pain in Aisling’s heart, as if the arrow had never been pulled out. A tear slid down her cheek, cooling as it went. She thought of how, when Anya and she were young, they would sneak out in the dark of Samhain and chase the ghosts. She remembered how she had learned an enchantment to reveal their features and how Anya could make them talk, always tales of loss, regret, and loneliness. Tales that the girls, in their innocence, so confident that such misfortune would never happen to them, would giggle at as the ghosts drifted off.

  Now she ached to talk to Anya’s ghost, but all her attempts had failed. Anya should have returned to the Morrígna in the Otherworld, to wait for her there. But could she, with her heart destroyed? Was Anya just gone, never to return to the Morrígna, or pass to the After Lands, or even to haunt this world? Just gone?

  Aisling stopped at the trailhead that had once led to her Woodwose camp. The Woodwose believed that after death they would be reborn as animals, echoing how they had lived—wolves, bears, or foxes, they hoped. Aisling saw nothing down the dark path. When she died, where would she go? she wondered. Would she, too, just be gone? Turned to nothing, without Anya’s heart to call her home to the Morrígna? The pain in her chest doubled, causing her to catch her breath. She did not want to hear any stories from the dead tonight—or any night. She circled back toward the castle and increased her pace, trying to keep her fears at bay.

  Since the English landed, thoughts of Anya’s loss had been returning too often, bringing with them the old dark visions and making it impossible to ignore the emptiness inside herself. The invasion was a bitter reminder of what she was meant to be and what had been taken from her. With all of Ireland counting on her, the ground under her feet felt less solid. Her sleep was plagued by nightmares of Conor being killed in battle, of herself falling back into her internal blackness. She fell and fell, and in the dream she could not tell if it was a nightmare or if she was trapped once again in that hellish place. She would awake screaming and flailing for something to grasp on to. When Conor was home and she felt the nightmare waiting at the edge of her exhaustion, she would force herself to stay awake all night to keep it at bay. She did not want him distracted by her fears while he was fighting the English.

  As Aisling approached her home, the rear door swung open and cast a warm light out toward her. Conor, still grubby from the ride back and cradling a daughter in each arm, smiled warmly at her. Her pain eased as she ran to him. His absences were particularly hard, given that she could not work enchantments to watch over him. Reaching the stairs, she longed to ask him to stay with her, to not return to the war, but she knew she could not. She was born to her duty to Ireland, but she had thrust position and duty upon him. It would be too much of a betrayal to ask him to abandon those responsibilities now.

  IT TOOK FIVE WEEKS before Turlough was ready to accept the dissident Sidhe’s invitation to meet. He had urged Art to storm Dublin and take it from the Vikings before Richard reached it, but Art continued to wait for Aisling. Now Richard had arrived at Dublin and had added Carlow, Castledermot, and Connell to his chain of fortified villages, linking it to Waterford, burning the twenty-three villages in between that he did not consider strategic enough to hold. If something was not done to stop Richard soon, he would roll over Tara and be at the gates of Trim Castle in a month. Not even Trim could stand long against an army as large as his.

  Tonight the road northeast was a ribbon of black rain wandering through a darker black forest. Turlough had been following the hint of gray that was Mamos’s horse, which had now stopped. Turlough dismounted, tied his horse to a tree next to Mamos’s, and pulled a torch from behind his saddle. He struck a flint a few times, but the sparks were doused instantly in the rain. Mamos spoke a few words, and his own torch flared up. Abandoning his efforts with the flint, Turlough lit his torch from Mamos’s, then followed the old druid down a narrow path into the thick forest. He could hear Mamos muttering an enchantment of concealment, keeping other druids and Sidhe witches from sensing their location or intent.

  The path opened into a large field, where a few cows along the edge huddled together against the cold, wet night. In the center an earthen ring rose waist high. Large retaining stones set lengthwise in the earth were carved with star trails, the eighteen-year-long cycle of the moon around the earth and, some said, maps through the Middle Kingdom to new worlds known only to the Sidhe. The ring glowed, as if lit by moonlight, though the moon was well hidden behind thick clouds. It looked empty.

  Taking over the lead from Mamos, Turlough sloshed across the field and around the ring to the gap in the far side. He drew his sword, stuck it into the soft ground, and then jammed the base of his torch into the earthen ring above a retaining stone. Once through the gap, he found that it was not raining inside and saw, as he knew he would, that the faerie-lit ring was full of Sidhe.

  Eight squat Grogoch and three diminutive Dryads awaited his arrival. One Grogoch stepped forward. Turlough had the impression that he was older than the rest, though, truthfully, it was hard to tell; perhaps it was just that he was a bit wider than the others. He was called Eldan. Turlough recognized him from negotiations about the construction of the new stone bridge at Trim.

  “King Turlough, thank you for agreeing to see us,” rumbled Eldan with a bow.

  “Eldan,” replied Turlough with a nod of his head. “It doesn’t surprise me that you’re not aligned with Kellach, though I’m surprised you’re still here.”

  Eldan rolled out a deep sigh. “I thought to leave, as so many have, but who knows if a new world will have stone as loving as in this world? Or harsher masters? Ireland is my home. Best to protect this land from Kellach, for the tree does not respect the stone; rather it seeks to break it, turn it to earth, and consume it.”

  “How do you propose to stop Kellach?” asked Mamos, in a tone belying the fact that he already knew the answer.

  “The Morrígna must return fully.”

  “The Morrígna must return,” echo
ed the gravelly voices of the other Grogoch and the squeaky voices of the Dryad.

  “Aisling still lives. And even if she didn’t, Anya’s heart was destroyed,” Turlough said, repeating the old familiar argument.

  Eldan trundled over to one of the inner retaining stones and sang to it. Reaching his stubby fingers into the stone as if it had softened to clay, he tugged open a chamber, then stepped back.

  Mamos pulled a candle from his pocket, lit it with whispered words, and held it up to the opening. Turlough bent to look inside and gave an involuntary intake of breath at what had been concealed: a shriveled thing, brown like a piece of dried meat, no more than a small bite. Turlough had been at the Ceremony of Hearts when Aisling and Anya were but seven and knew that this must be the missing piece of the Morrígna heart, the piece entrusted to the Skeaghshee—thought to be from the previous Anya incarnation.

  Turlough straightened up quickly, instinctively surveying his surroundings, straining to see into the dark beyond the ring. He reached for his sword, but his hand found only the scabbard.

  “Do not worry,” said Eldan. “Kellach cannot afford to draw attention to this place by having it watched. He killed the Grogoch who created this chamber for him. Her name was Raisie, and I was the one who taught her our songs when she was young. . . .” Eldan’s voice trailed off.

  “She told you of this?” asked Turlough.

  “She became concerned about betraying the Morrígna and planned to tell Aisling. She was a solid girl,” replied Eldan. “Kellach thinks he owns us. We are one with the stone, and you do not own stone, you do not own something that outlives you, you just get to use it for a while. It is time for Kellach’s life to end, for the allegiance of the Grogoch and the Dryads to return to the Morrígna.”

  Turlough reached toward the chamber’s opening, but Mamos grabbed his wrist. “No. It’s protected.” It was then that Turlough noticed the faint blue sheen across the mouth of the enclosure.

  “I can break the enchantment,” said Mamos, “but doing so will alert Kellach. We must wait until we’re ready to act.”

  “Ready? Ready for what?” asked Turlough, hoping he was not about to hear what he suspected was coming.

  “Ready to perform the Ceremony of Hearts with the new twins,” replied Mamos gravely.

  “For which we will also need Aisling’s heart,” added Eldan.

  “In her death,” said Mamos, “Aisling will perform her greatest service to the Celts and the Sidhe. Her spirit will join with the Morrígna only to immediately return in the twins. It will be more of a birth than a death for her.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” argued Turlough. “Then we lose all hope for the Morrígna’s help in defeating the English.”

  “The Morrígna will provide an irrefutable sign.”

  “And how will this sign come to you? In a dream? Or are you going to meditate by a waterfall?” Skepticism rose in Turlough’s voice.

  “The sign will come to you, not me,” said Mamos, “when we submit Aisling’s twins to the Test.”

  “And will you bond the Test with your life?”

  “In this war what matters the life of one old man or one infant?”

  “Yes, they are but infants, too young for the prescribed Ceremony of Hearts. That is, if they survive the Test. Even if they bring the Morrígna fully back into this world, what good can infants do us now?”

  “Knowledge of the Morrígna’s return, even in infant form, will call the Sidhe away from Kellach and bind them to their old oaths. It will draw many back from their new worlds, binding them to this world again. The Morrígna will empower the Celts and the Sidhe to keep fighting the English until the twins are old enough to drive them out completely.”

  “Mamos speaks with truth,” said Eldan, smoothing closed the stone chamber, leaving no trace of its existence.

  . . . . .

  Aisling awoke shivering. She slipped from under the covers of their bed and stood in the darkness. She concentrated. A glow rose in the hearth, surrounding the stacked wood. She concentrated harder. There was a spark, a sudden whoosh of air, and the wood burst into flame, bringing a smile to her face.

  “Your power is returning,” mumbled Conor from the bed.

  “That’s not all that’s returning.” A candle on the bedside table sputtered, then lit. Aisling pulled her night shift off over her head and crawled back into their bed.

  Two hours later she untangled herself from Conor and padded across their bedchamber to the crib.

  “Ah, the joys of making up for lost time,” said Conor, propping himself up. Aisling picked up one of her daughters, Deirdre, whom she had heard moving, but not crying. Both Deirdre and her sister, Uaine, rarely cried, which worried Aisling. Climbing back into bed, she held the hungry infant to her breast.

  Conor rubbed her shoulders as the baby suckled. “The whole country has been waiting for you.”

  “I’m not sure I am ready to fight yet.”

  “The English will soon sweep through and destroy our tiny castle,” said Conor softly. “There’s little time left. I will be by your side to protect you, and I will make sure Liam and Art provide a large guard.”

  “I’m not afraid of dying. It was not long ago that I yearned for it,” Aisling reminded him, inhaling the sweet fragrance of her daughter’s head. “I’m afraid of losing you. The Skeaghshee were right—when I fight, people around me die. People I love.”

  Conor stroked Deirdre’s dash of red hair until the baby unlatched from her mother, having fallen into a deep sleep. “We will just have to protect each other.” Conor took Deirdre from Aisling and replaced her with Uaine, whose arms were outstretched.

  “This land brought me only misery,” said Aisling, directing a nipple into Uaine’s eager mouth. “Until I found you. You mustn’t die, for our girls’ sake as much as for mine. If you leave me for the After Lands, I’ll plummet back into my dark half. I know I will. I can feel its edge even now, and then what kind of life will our daughters have? Better I die than you.”

  “We can’t hide from Richard in any castle, and we can’t hide from Kellach in any forest. They’re coming for you, and they will have to go through me.” Conor knelt in front of Aisling and kissed her palm. Taking the candle, he gently blew against the flame, which streamed over and swirled into a small ball in her hand. Conor stopped blowing, yet the yellow sphere of flame continued to grow. “We have to fight them. Defeat them. You and I together.”

  Aisling closed her hand, and the flame disappeared. “I know.” She sighed. She stroked Conor’s cheek, her hand still warm. “I go to battle to protect you. I’ll not let you leave me, and I’ll not let our daughters lose their father.” She kept her voice steady with deliberate effort.

  When Uaine was finished, Conor returned her to the crib, gently placing her alongside her sister, where their tiny chests rose and fell in unison. Aisling stood to follow but was overcome with the sudden vision of a fate worse than losing Conor—losing her daughters. She grasped the bedpost and took several deep breaths, but she quickly realized that the vision did not have the feeling of true foresight, and she dismissed it as the normal anxiety of a new mother.

  24

  Tara, Ireland

  December 26, 1394

  Liam walked down the Hill of Tara in the frosty morning and into the Gallowglass encampment. All of the warrior schools had brought their students with at least five years of training to join the established Gallowglass companies—although one look at the faces gathered around the campfires told Liam that more than a few younger than thirteen years old had slipped in as well. They will not be students after tomorrow, he thought.

  Reaching the center of the camp, he strode into the giant common tent searching for his niece, Treasa, to whom he had given his Sgathaich Scoil warrior school. Liam found her with Earnan and a scrivener, signing a one-year-and-a-day marriage-contract renewa
l.

  “Another year? I thought the previous one was the last for sure,” declared Liam.

  Earnan pulled open his tunic, revealing a fresh wound among the scars. “We fought for it, and she won again.” Leaning into Liam, he whispered, “It’s how I keep her renewing.”

  Treasa glanced up from the document. “No use signing a longer contract, as you’re probably going to get yourself killed in this war.”

  “I left all my property to Liam. I don’t want you motivated to let me get killed.”

  “You don’t have anything I want.”

  “We’ll have to feast to your happiness later,” Liam interjected. “All Irish forces are moving south to Ratoath village today. The English have finished their God’s-birth celebration and are advancing up Slige Cualann.” Slige Cualaan was the kings road south, from Tara past Dublin.

  “What kind of people worship a God that has only been born once?” asked Treasa.

  “Have your students ready to leave in an hour,” said Liam. “Your school will ride with my companies.”

  Treasa gave Earnan a long, hard kiss. “About time we got the chance to kill English.” She bounded out of the tent with Earnan following. Cries could be heard rising through the camp as similar orders were received.

  . . . . .

  At the Meath embassy in the Tara royal enclosure, Art stood beside the druid Mamos and looked down at Turlough, whose bedcovers were soaked in sweat. Turlough mumbled incoherently as Mamos placed a wet rag on his feverish forehead.

  “He may not survive the day, even with my treatment,” said Mamos.

  Art frowned. “Do what you can, but meet us at Ratoath by dawn tomorrow. We will need you. More is at stake than one life, even a king’s life.”

  “Trust me, that’s something I understand,” replied Mamos.

  . . . . .

  Aisling, dressed in riding attire and a warm cloak, stood holding both Deirdre and Uaine in her Dunsany Castle bedchamber. She gently rocked them while softly singing an Irish lullaby. Brigid, wearing her white robes, walked in followed by a wet nurse. Through the window the afternoon light darkened as sleet began to fall, carried on the east wind.