The Last Days of Magic

by Mark Tompkins

  “Réveillez!” she commanded.

  The wide, lidless eye swiveled, then settled on Isabella.

  “Soulevez!” she said, straightening her own spine and lifting her palms.

  The lamb struggled onto its legs like a newborn, stood shakily, and gave a wag of its skinned tail.

  “Marchez!”

  With dainty clicks of cloven hoofs upon the wooden floor, the lamb almost made it around the circle before it tripped and crumpled to the floor in front of the Grande Sorcière.

  Marie and Joan clapped their hands enthusiastically. “Very good, Our little dove. You’re getting much better,” said the Grande Sorcière. “Now, gather around, We have great news about England.”

  Isabella spoke up, her voice hoarse from the effort of her incantation. “Does this mean that negotiations are complete, Mother?”

  “Yes, Our little dove. We have bribed Richard to take you as his new queen.” The witches erupted in laughter, which the Grande Sorcière could not help but join. “For one hundred thousand francs per year,” she managed to get out, “and a promise of peace.” The laughter intensified. Isabella jumped up and hugged her mother.

  . . . . .

  In November, upon receipt of payment, Richard married Isabella, making her queen of England, Wales, and Ireland, and the youngest queen in the history of the realm. It was five days before her seventh birthday.

  On the morning of Isabella’s departure from France, the Grande Sorcière had summoned her daughter to issue final instructions to her. Leading her into the secret chamber where Taddea’s candle burned, the Grande Sorcière began, “Always remember that the blood of Our coven’s founder, Taddea, runs in your veins, a coven that has been unassailable for over a hundred and twenty years.” From her pocket she removed a small red glass box that she had enchanted earlier. She carefully lifted the lid a fraction and flame streamed inside the box from Taddea’s candle threatening to douse it, but the lid clicked shut first.

  A glow flickered faintly through the opaque glass as she handed the box to Isabella. “You are to build your coven within the English court the same way Taddea did here. However, their royal bloodline is more fractured than the French was. Many families harbor claims to the throne. You must be thorough in establishing a foundation of control and power. When you have done that, make a candle from human tallow and light it with this flame. We will know and will send more of Our witches to join you at the English court. Then We will move on to Ireland.”

  “Yes, Mother,” replied Isabella, fidgeting with excitement.

  THE FOLLOWING YEAR on the outskirts of Dublin, a woman wearing a floppy bonnet and a frock and holding a basket of turnips watched a plain post-and-wattle house from the shadows across the dirt road. A three-year-old girl with wild red hair played in the October mud of the unkempt yard. Beyond her a woman’s muffled voice could be heard yelling inside. When the door opened, the yelling spilled out in full volume, and Captain John Cooper beat a hasty exit. “Make sure you spread my sheltering water or you’ll be sorry!” shouted Aisling behind him, her voice rising to a screech. “And when you get back—” John slammed the door closed without saying a word, causing Aisling’s voice to become indistinct again. Dutifully, he carried an earthenware jug and splashed its bright yellow contents around the yard. The woman in the floppy bonnet knew it was a potion consisting of Aisling’s urine, steeped with crushed hawthorn leaves for seven days, then infused with a curse—an old method used to prevent Sidhe from stealing human children.

  John shook out the last of the liquid and the used leaves, then quietly set the jug beside the door. He walked over to Deirdre and took an apple out of his pocket, cut it, and placed half into the girl’s outstretched hand, smiling at her. She beamed, and he ruffled her hair, then strode briskly toward Dublin Castle, eating the other half.

  The woman, her face hidden beneath the ample bonnet, retreated in the opposite direction. Two miles down the road, she veered toward a farm. Rounding the stable, she found Liam and Earnan sitting on a log, talking to the farmer and his wife, awaiting her. Treasa removed the borrowed bonnet and handed it to the farmer.

  “She’s getting worse,” said Treasa, pulling the baggy frock over her head and revealing her own mail vest. “We should just kill her. I know her husband would be grateful.”

  Liam handed Treasa her sword. “That decision was made long ago, right or wrong.”

  “Wrong, I think,” said Earnan, giving Treasa a quick kiss.

  Treasa grabbed Earnan’s collar and drew him in for a long kiss. “If you go crazy on me, I’ll not hesitate to slit your offending throat.”

  “And Deirdre?” asked Liam.

  “Seems happy enough. John clearly dotes on her.”

  “Good.” Liam sighed.

  Having made his periodic check on his former charge, a lingering duty Liam could not bring himself to abandon, the three mounted their horses and rode west toward home, careful to stay off the road and avoid English patrols.

  . . . . .

  Treasa had left Aisling’s house before seeing Deirdre wander over to a scrubby bush where John had splashed some of the sheltering water. Curious, the child reached toward the plant, still wet with urine. A small spark leaped out and bit her index finger. She snatched her hand back and, angry that the bush had done such a thing, frowned at it. Threads of fire blossomed, dancing among its leaves. The bush crackled, crinkled, and died before her eyes. With a satisfied smile, Deirdre returned to her mud pies, not understanding what she had just done.

  . . . . .

  Half a day’s ride through the stubbled remains of clear-cut forests brought Liam, Treasa, and Earnan within sight of Kellach’s solitary, giant oak, Gormghiolla, silhouetted on the horizon by the sunset, the stockade ringing its base. Leaves had never returned to its branches.

  “There’s a Skeaghshee who deserves to die,” said Earnan.

  “The VRS continues to toy with him,” said Liam, turning from the sight. “I’m sure he wishes for death by now.” They directed their horses north to look for a place to camp for the night.

  The next day they skirted Tara, which had been abandoned on Richard’s orders. All governing functions had been moved to Dublin, while the guild headquarters were relocated to Galway. Most of Tara’s buildings were already in ruins, the English having pulled them down and hauled off the stones to build their own castles and manor houses. The only activity on the hill was the construction of a new Christian monastery, adjoining what was once Tara’s main gate, to house the VRS League.

  Three more days brought them to the Derryveagh Mountains north of Donegal, the sparse and rugged northwest corner of Ireland, where the English rarely ventured. They rode along the shore of Lough Dunlewey, located at the foot of the glittering quartzite peak of Mount Errigal, then followed the river Owenabhainn upstream into Nimhe Glen, where Liam had built a one-room stone-and-thatch cottage. Liam drew his dagger, stuck its point into his thumb, and gave it a quarter twist to ensure a good flow of blood drops onto the ground as he approached his home, an offering to the earth spirits he had asked to conceal its existence. Treasa and Earnan did the same.

  The next morning Liam, lying on a pallet stuffed with wool set on the floor and covered with his cloak, awoke to rustling sounds coming from the bed, which he had given to Treasa and Earnan. Deciding to allow them some privacy, Liam donned his cloak and braced himself for the cold. Outside, a tinge of blue in the eastern sky hinted at the coming sunrise. He walked down to the riverbank and sat on a boulder, waiting. The sun eventually cleared the valley wall, and he turned his face to it, feeling the warmth.

  When sunlight had crawled down to the river, Liam removed his clothes, carefully folding and stacking them on the boulder, and waded out into the waist-deep center. He eased himself down until the water was up to his neck. He felt the heat of his body fight the frigid water, watched the sunlight fill the valley
, and wondered what was left for him in this life.

  The English lords, never happy with the size of their new Irish lands, were contracting with Gallowglass companies, but as a crossbreed he was less than welcome. He would not have worked for them anyway. Their petty fights seemed pointless.

  Perhaps Fearghal had been correct. Perhaps it was time to move on from this life to the After Lands, or Tír na nÓg, or whatever truly came next. For that he would need an epic battle, one worth dying in. During practice fights it had become clear that his original half-Sidhe ability to anticipate the moves of a challenger had become unreliable, like the Ardor of Ireland, leaving him vulnerable. He laughed to himself. Hopes and dreams still lingered in this defeated land, but they had decayed into such thin desires. It’s possible, he thought, that even today news of such a battle might be coming, brought to him by those he sensed moving up his valley. There were two of them, he determined as he focused on their energies, one a Sidhe. He had not encountered a Sidhe for almost a year. Deciding to wait in the river for his visitors, he rose enough to let the sun warm his chest and arms again, the water that dripped down his body shimmering in the light.

  Liam was pleased to see that it was Rhoswen who rode up the riverbank. She led a second horse on which slumped an exorcist, his complexion ashen, mouth gagged, and wrists bound. All ten of his fingers had been hacked off, the stumps black and red and swollen, crudely cauterized. Her Adhene witch’s body paint was not as crisp as when Liam had last seen her, as if it had not been refreshed recently. Rhoswen slid off her horse and waded into the river a few feet from Liam. She scooped up a handful of coarse river sand and began to scrub off her paint, revealing fair skin.

  “I was beginning to think the last of the Sidhe had finally departed,” Liam said, breaking their silence.

  “Some remain,” Rhoswen replied. “Those few of us still loyal to our vows, those who still believe the Morrígna will return fully. We hold the vigil.”

  “Not much of a vigil as long as Aisling’s alive.”

  “She will not be forever.”

  “I’m surprised that the Sidhe allowed her to live this long.”

  “If we were to take her life, I fear the Morrígna would never return to us. We must wait for the Morrígna to take Aisling herself. In the eternity of the Goddess’s eyes, one life is but a blink.”

  “Until then you hunt exorcists to pass the time,” said Liam, wading toward the hapless man.

  “He crossed my path.”

  “Your path to talk with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great Mother Danu!” Liam exclaimed upon reaching the horses. “He stinks.”

  “He fouled his robes when I removed his fingers. I could not have him tracing symbols at me.”

  “I’d better give him a bath, then.” Liam pulled the exorcist off his horse and dragged him into the river. “If the Morrígna returns, will she deliver Ireland back to the Sidhe?” he asked, thrusting the exorcist up and down in the water as if he were a piece of laundry.

  “Was Ireland ever truly ours?” replied Rhoswen. She was scrubbing her head, revealing that a stubble of hair was beginning to grow. “The Sidhe took it from the Fomorians. The Celts seized parts of it from the Sidhe. And now the English have conquered most of it. Whatever the Morrígna’s purpose is when she returns, the remaining Sidhe will be here to serve her.”

  Liam considered her words but was distracted by the sight of her freshly scoured body—naked, pale, and pink. Rhoswen returned to her horse, where she untied a large cloth bag and pulled out buckskin boots, a simple black wool tunic, heavy green leggings, and a brown cloak, clothing of three colors that would mark her as someone of indistinct middle status. As she dressed, Liam felt desire rising hot through his body for the first time since Brigid’s death. He was grateful for the cold water and the exorcist in his hands, or he might have had to hide an erection.

  “Have you come to ask me to join the vigil?” he asked. “I was hoping you brought news that a battle was brewing and a Sidhe army gathering.” He dragged the gasping exorcist up onto the bank.

  Rhoswen fastened the cloak about her shoulders with a plain iron brooch. Holding out her arms and pretending to be human, she asked, playfully, “What do you think?”

  Liam, in the process of donning his own clothing, replied, “It suits you.”

  “We Sidhe need to learn how to blend in with humans if we are going to survive.” She moved closer to Liam. “There’s no battle coming. What’s coming is much more dangerous. Even in the faded light of the remaining Ardor, the threat radiates in my visions. I’ve confirmed it with information from a faerie witch I trust in Normandy.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Dark, malevolent creatures. A coven of human witches from France, large and well organized. They’ve ferreted out bits of the ancient knowledge and corrupted what power it has brought them. Now they’re in the process of seizing control of the English throne—one has become the new queen. But their ultimate plan is to take Ireland. They lust after it, after Sidhe knowledge, the enchantments they would force us to reveal. They believe they will be able to tap into Ardor here. And into the energy residing in Sidhe bodies. They will kill us to harvest it.”

  The exorcist finally stopped gasping through his gag and propped himself into a sitting position. Rhoswen observed him for a moment. “With Orsini gone, and no new high exorcist here, we Sidhe can hide from the likes of him. But the High Coven will bring an English army to hunt us down and enslave those of us who do not flee this world. They’ll use their coarse magic to rip whatever power they can from us. Then there’ll be no Sidhe holding vigil for the Morrígna. Ardor here will truly and finally die. Ireland will become just a lump of rock in the sea.”

  Liam’s heart sank. “This isn’t my type of fight. I’m not sure how to help you.”

  “The Morrígna herself, while I was performing Taghairm, charged me and my descendants with preparing for her return, no matter what we have to risk to do it and however many years or centuries it takes. Your mother was a Sidhe. Will you not be true to the Morrígna now?”

  Liam rubbed his face in contemplation. “There’s a couple I can introduce you to who know much more about these sorts of things than I.”

  Rhoswen nodded, then placed her hand on his chest. “I felt your body warm as you watched me in the river.” She leaned in and kissed him. “I also want you to show me how to be more like a human woman.”

  28

  Nimhe Glen, Ireland

  That Afternoon

  Leaving Treasa and Earnan at the cottage, Liam, Rhoswen, and the exorcist rode out of Nimhe Glen toward the Rock. As they traveled through central Ireland, the harsh, staccato sounds of woodcutters plying their trade became common background. Skeaghshee screams, though, were absent. The trees they had been bound into, and died with, had long since been harvested. When Liam passed a group of woodcutters returning to their camp, axes resting on tired shoulders, he was surprised to hear them speaking in French. Richard’s new relatives were already exerting their rights.

  After several long days of riding, the trio saw the Rock emerge on the horizon. The size of a hill, it had been torn from a mountain twenty miles away and hurled here during a fierce battle between the original Patrick and an Archdemon, reputed to be Samael. A druid had tricked Patrick—who had newly founded his Irish Christian Church—into the fight, yet Patrick had prevailed and gained his first royal patron, the king of Munster. The king christened it the Rock of Cashel and built his principal castle on top, along with a monastery for Patrick—but everyone simply called it the Rock. A monument to what has been lost, thought Liam. A sorcerer could no longer tap into enough Ardor to defeat a demon, and there was not enough Ardor to draw demons to live here. A tragedy on both fronts, his heart told him. The days of epic magical battles were gone. Unless Rhoswen’s belief that the Morrígna would return was borne out�
��an event that she, with her long life span, might experience, but he doubted he would.

  His thoughts turned inevitably to Aisling, the last to defeat a demon. How much of Ireland’s downfall could be laid at his door for allowing her to live and not rejoin the Morrígna when Anya did? A lot, he conceded. Each decision seemed honorable at the time, but looking back he could see that he had been trapped by his oaths to protect her. Those were the thoughts that haunted his worst nights.

  Both the Rock’s castle and its monastery had been abandoned after the English invasion. As Liam rode closer, it became evident that the buildings were in ruins. “Stone scavengers?” he asked Rhoswen.

  “No. There’s more at work here. An enchantment of some kind.”

  As their horses walked up the steep path to the gate, Liam saw she was correct. It appeared that the structures had been in ruins for hundreds of years, not three, the edges of broken stones softened by weather and covered with moss. Liam asked the exorcist, “Is this the work of your kind?”

  Still gagged, the exorcist could only shake his head.

  They rode slowly between the rubble, looking for signs of occupation. Alerted by a grating sound, Liam looked up to see a stone wobble on top of a wall that must once have been part of the keep. It fell, striking the exorcist on the shoulder and knocking him off his horse. The exorcist struggled to his feet, his dislocated shoulder hanging low, and began to run. As he passed a standing corner of the monastery, another stone tumbled. This one split his head open.