Liam dismounted and nudged a boulder with his foot. “Was that really necessary?”
The boulder uncurled into the Grogoch Eldan, who replied, “Orders of the Lord of the Rock. No English, and particularly no exorcists.”
“The Lord of the Rock?” said Rhoswen.
“Is that what Jordan’s calling himself?” said Liam. “You had better take us to him. And we were saving that exorcist to ransom back to the Church.”
“They may pay for him still,” replied Eldan, his gravelly voice flat. He led them through the empty doorway of the ruined keep. “Best not to call Jordan ‘Lord of the Rock’ to his face. He hates that nickname.”
“Are you responsible for all this?” asked Rhoswen, indicating their decayed surroundings.
“Keeps the English and the Christians from trying to use it.” Eldan more mumbled than sang a brief enchantment, and two large floor stones slid back, revealing a stairway. Warm light glowed from below.
“How did you come to serve Jordan?” asked Liam, following Eldan down the stairs.
“It is my penance, serving a human, and one that is not even a Celt.”
“Penance for what?”
Eldan glanced back over his shoulder. “I will keep that to myself and thereby keep my head.”
The procession reached the bottom of the stairs, which led directly into a well-appointed chamber carved out of the solid rock. Liam recognized the tapestries, carpets, and furniture as having once graced the castle above. Faerie lights hovered near the ceiling, illuminating several passages leading farther into the rock. Eldan guided them to the right, past a chamber still being molded from the rock by two singing Grogoch, and into a room whose walls were lined with shelves. Crates of books and scrolls and piles of vellum manuscripts occupied the middle of the floor. Dryads scurried about, sorting the documents and carrying them up onto the shelves. Through a far door was the final chamber, also lined with shelves, these already filled. At a table in the center, Jordan and Najia were hunched over a papyrus scroll.
“Liam, it’s so good to see you again,” Najia said, rising and extending her hands. “Last time was such a . . . a tragedy.”
A vision of Brigid’s body being consumed by flames evoked a familiar ache in his chest, but it also reminded him of all that Najia had done for her at the end. “Greetings, Najia,” he replied, taking her hands. “I would like you to meet Rhoswen. You’ve much in common.”
Najia bowed. “I could never hope to have much in common with the skill of an Adhene, much less an Adhene witch.”
“Thank you. I’ve heard of the respect you show the Ardor of my homeland,” said Rhoswen, returning the bow. “It’s those human witches that seek to control Ardor and corrupt it for their own ends that we’ve come to ask for your help with.”
Liam placed his hand on the small of Rhoswen’s back. “If you’re going to pass as human, you’ll have to learn the art of social conversation before asking favors.”
“Rhoswen and I have too much to discuss to worry about such conventions,” Najia said.
Jordan hurriedly finished transcribing a line and finally looked up, greeting Liam with a nod. “Please excuse me. It’s imperative that I finish this section,” he said, his index finger still marking his spot on the text. “If you’ll stay for lunch, I’ll join you shortly.”
Najia led them back to the great chamber, where two Dryads stacked the lunch table with Sicilian wine, fresh roast pork, fine white bread, honey, and sweet salted butter. Two hours slipped by, the conversation flowing with the wine, mostly talk of the ills that had befallen Ireland, before Jordan joined them, the scroll rolled up in his hand, as if he could not bear to part with it. He kissed Najia on the cheek. “I’m sorry for being late. Became absorbed in translating.”
“I take it that means you received my message about Brigid’s library at Druim Criaidh?” asked Liam.
Jordan dropped into a chair and poured himself a goblet of wine. “Yes. With the help of our Grogoch friends, Najia and I were able to rescue all the grimoires before the VRS League found the place. We also liberated Patrick’s library at Armagh. You should have seen the exorcist’s face when he opened the chamber door to find that Patrick’s complete library had disappeared in the night.” Jordan pulled off the end of a bread loaf and smeared it with butter. “There’s much research to be done if we’re to find a way to preserve the remains of Ardor. I could spend a lifetime down there and not get through it all.”
“I’m not going to spend a lifetime in this hole,” said Najia.
“Of course, my love. I’m sure we’ll be able to find a safe place aboveground, eventually. Liam, you should see these diagrams.” Jordan partially unrolled the scroll on the table. “I believe this document is originally from the Library of Alexandria. It must have been taken, perhaps stolen, before that great library’s destruction a millennium ago. Najia and I are still working to decipher the accompanying text, but it appears that the Egyptians were also concerned about the loss of Ardor when the Romans wiped out their Nephilim.”
“Anything we can use there?” said Liam, catching Jordan’s enthusiasm.
“They had some theories that may help,” replied Jordan. “I’ll try to find records of the actions they took and what, if any, success they had. It’ll take a lot more study. Let me read this bit to you—”
Najia placed her hand over the papyrus. “Rhoswen and Liam have come with a more immediate problem. They’re asking for our help against a group of French witches who’re planning to attack the Sidhe.”
“That must be the High Coven,” said Jordan, rolling the scroll back up.
“Are you still corresponding with your contacts in Europe?” asked Liam.
“Of course,” replied Jordan, starting in on the roast pork.
“Then you know the High Coven has infiltrated the English court already.”
“That’s what I hear. Isabella is the new child queen. It’s causing quite a stir. But remember, as formidable as the High Coven is, they’re still just human witches. Witches don’t concern me,” said Jordan between chews. “Except, of course, you,” he hastily added to Najia. And then, under Rhoswen’s glare, he added, “And certainly you, but you’re not human.”
“The High Coven has become more powerful than you realize,” said Rhoswen. “Once they control England, they’ll bring the English army and capture the remaining Sidhe. There aren’t enough of us left to fight them, not with Richard’s archers at their side. Those they don’t enslave or kill will finally leave this world. Then no free Sidhe will remain in Ireland, and what do you think will happen to the Ardor you hope to preserve?”
Jordan took a long drink of wine.
Liam asked, “Could we get to Richard and assassinate him?”
“Probably,” replied Jordan. “But Richard has recently designated a new successor, who’s already been enraptured by Isabella. As this successor is but five years old, Richard’s death would only serve to strengthen the High Coven’s grip on the throne. Killing Richard may even be part of the High Coven’s plan.”
Najia stroked the back of Jordan’s neck and leaned closer. “If you did decide to help stop these witches, what would your plan look like?”
“Well, any strategy would be risky, but it would have to involve getting the English nobility to do what they do best: fight among themselves and change the line of royal succession. The throne would have to be taken from Richard’s line, controlled as it is by the High Coven, and given to a family not under their control. Perhaps to a family that doesn’t even support the occupation of Ireland.” Jordan leaned back in his chair. “There’re those within the English nobility who believe their military resources would be better served subduing Scotland.” He stared up at the rock ceiling, lost in thought.
The others watched Jordan think in silence for a few moments, and then Najia and Rhoswen drifted back into c
onversation. Liam became occupied with thoughts of his own, not thoughts of protecting Ireland from the High Coven but thoughts of revenge. Revenge for Brigid. Revenge for Aisling. Revenge for all that had been taken from his land. A renewed feeling of purpose swelled in his chest.
. . . . .
Late that night Jordan walked through the cold and darkened ruins atop the Rock. Sitting on a fallen stone, he pulled off his boots and placed his bare feet on the ground, curling his toes into the thin layer of dirt. He felt thin tendrils of Ardor course up through his body. The moon was not yet out. The countryside spread out below him was a sea of black under a dome of bright stars, connecting in a ragged horizon. He felt the earth of his new homeland and watched the sky. A radiance of deepest purple emerged in the east, a hint of color distinguishable only in contrast to the black around it. The purple brightened to a deep blue. Eventually a trace of silver emerged and grew to reveal a waxing moon rising. Najia, wrapped in a heavy cloak, approached silently and sat beside him. The moon cleared the horizon, sweeping away stars before it.
“I once lived to join fights like the one Liam has proposed,” said Jordan. “To sail off to another land to subvert, manipulate, and kill. Now I just want to stay here, immersed in what’s left of the Ardor of Ireland.” Najia took his hand. Jordan asked, “How dangerous do you think the High Coven has really become?”
“It sounds as if their magic is crude and often poorly controlled, but strong in a brute-force kind of way,” said Najia. “They wield it without mercy, seeking only to expand their power. I believe it’ll be very hard on the Sidhe, and on us, if they move on Ireland.”
“Are there any enchantments we can work from here to stop them?” asked Jordan, looking up at the moon.
“I doubt it,” said Najia. “The Ardor has faded too much, and the High Coven is too strong. They’ll deflect any spell that comes straight at them. Any attempt would also alert them that we’re trying to thwart their plans, and they’ll become more vigilant.”
“That’s how it seems to me as well,” said Jordan. He pushed dirt around with his toes. “Then I have no choice. If there’s any chance I can stop the High Coven from destroying what I love most about this land, I must go and try.”
“It’s dangerous for you in England and Europe. The Vatican will pay handsomely for your capture, then they’ll burn you as a traitor and a sorcerer.”
“That’s why you must remain here.”
“Do you remember when you ordered me to remain in Wales? You seemed happy when I didn’t follow your instructions. Am I still your slave, or did you truly free me?”
“You know you’re free.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
Jordan looked into Najia’s eyes, barely visible in the moonlight, and knew it was useless to argue. “You do have certain unique powers that could prove useful.” He put his arm around her and kissed her neck. “Tell me the truth—did you cast a spell on me that day you were loaded onto my ship?”
“Perhaps I’ve a spell on you still,” said Najia, and she returned his kiss. “No. I sensed immediately that you’d be able to tell if I attempted any enchantment, and I didn’t want to provoke Ty to crush me into jam. I came to you as myself. Everything between us is true.” She pulled back from him a few inches. “Unless you cast some sort of spell on me.”
Before he could reply, Liam and Rhoswen emerged from the darkness and joined them. “Any ideas?” asked Liam. “Or do I just round up warriors and attack whatever witches the High Coven sends?”
“That won’t work,” replied Jordan. “If we wait for them to arrive, it’ll be too late. Do you think you two could cause so much trouble that Richard himself will be forced to return with an army?”
Liam looked at Rhoswen, who nodded. “It’ll certainly be fun to try,” he said. “What then?”
“The Lancasters have been sniffing around the throne for two generations. Lately their patriarch, Henry of Bolingbroke, has been stirring up discontent, asserting that Richard has grossly mismanaged the realm. If you can draw Richard out of England, I may be able to convince Henry that the king’s absence is an opportunity to seize the Crown.”
“Surely it’ll be difficult to get to him, with both the Vatican and the English after your head?”
“There’s one Lancaster who owes me a favor,” said Jordan. “Thomas of Arundel. He was archbishop of Canterbury until being exiled to Florence and is no ally of Richard or the pope.”
“A friend you can trust with your life?” asked Rhoswen.
“I trust his fear. I caught him practicing witchcraft, and he knows I can prove it. I have kept his secret, preferring to have him in my debt than watch him burn. You see, Thomas had a habit of falling in love—that’s how he put it—with newly married women who came to him for confession. But the poor man was and remains strikingly unattractive—repulsive, really. He learned two spells: one to make him irresistible and the other, for afterward, to make the women forget their transgressions. He’ll get me a meeting with Henry.”
“So we thwart the High Coven’s plans by igniting a rebellion in England? Long odds at best,” said Liam. “But even if it’s successful, won’t the new king turn his greedy eyes back on Ireland?”
“It’ll at least buy us some more time,” replied Jordan.
“And perhaps we can help some of the Lancasters’ enemies while we’re at it, and distract the new king further,” added Najia.
“All right,” said Liam. “I’ll do my part. It’s certainly a noble enough cause to die for.”
Rhoswen placed her hand on Liam’s cheek. “A noble enough cause to live for.”
“Yes. To live for if we’re successful. Or to die for if we’re not.”
. . . . .
Three days later, through a rainy dawn, four riders left the Rock. Jordan and Najia rode southeast toward the small harbor village of Ardmore to secure passage to Europe.
Liam and Rhoswen rode northeast to the barony of Norragh. When they approached the former high king’s manor house south of Kildare, Liam said, “Last time I saw Art, he was in no state to help anyone. This may be a waste of time.”
“If we raise an army to fight the English,” said Rhoswen, “we’ll just be bandits and criminals. If the high king does it, we’ll be rebels and patriots.”
“Art is a baron, no longer a high king.”
“If he were still king, we would not need to be rebels.”
Liam smiled at Rhoswen. “You are learning human ways.”
Rhoswen urged her horse into a gallop toward the manor house. They found their own way into the great hall without fanfare. There were few servants about, and those ignored them. The hall was filthy. Cheap tallow candles smoked in their holders, adding to the reek of spoiled food and urine, some of it from the dogs that chewed bones under the table and some of it, Liam suspected, from Art himself.
Art, even fatter than the last time Liam had seen him, was fumbling about on the table, apparently scrounging to find something still edible among the scraps. When he noticed them, he seemed to shrink into his chair. “Liam, what are you doing here?”
“We come with a proposal, if the spirit of a king still lives in you. Though that appears unlikely.”
Art slapped his hands on the table and tried to rise but fell back into his chair. He grabbed a pitcher of wine and, forgoing any of the dirty goblets scattered around, gulped down some while spilling most. Fortified, he tried again and this time successfully got to his feet and walked unsteadily around the table to greet them.
“You are welcome, but I don’t need your insults.” Art looked about as if registering the state of his hall for the first time. “My apologies for the mess. I had to let most of the servants go.”
“What of all the English money?” asked Liam.
“Damn English. Taxes and administration fees, they say. Money for protection. Little end
s up in my purse.” Art wobbled a bit. “Doesn’t matter, as long as I’ve enough left for wine, cheap wine.” Art gagged, retched, then fell to his hands and knees as the contents of his ample stomach spewed onto the stone floor, a foul-smelling lake.
Stepping into the vomit, Rhoswen placed her hand on the nape of Art’s neck. His retching became more violent, his spine arching from the effort. A thin stream of clear liquid, smelling of alcohol, flowed from his mouth, making a pool within the pool on the floor. When no more could come out, Art crawled backward away from the mess and sat on the floor panting with exhaustion. “What was that you did to me?” he gasped.
“Granted you a moment of clarity,” Rhoswen said, retreating as well. “Don’t worry, you can undo it and drown yourself in wine again.”
“This is no way to live,” said Liam.
Art wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re right about that,” his voice stronger, his eyes clear, “but there’s little to live for.”
Rhoswen retrieved a dirty goblet from the table, cleaned it with the hem of her tunic, and filled it with wine. Looping back, staying to dry stones, she held it out to him.
“Do you want to die in here?” asked Liam. “Or out there, fighting for your country? If protection money is to be paid, it needs to be paid to you.”
Art did not reach for the goblet. “You know, they said my little brother died of dysentery on the journey back to London. Liars. Richard probably buggered him to death. Do you have a plan?”
Liam could hear the desire in his voice. “Much of Richard’s army returned to England with him and his lords. Let’s strike where the remaining English forces are thinnest, then disappear before they can send reinforcements. We’ll wear them down. You will reassert your right as high king.”
“And what’s to stop Richard from returning with his army and killing us all?” Art rose to his feet, almost steady this time.
“That’s our goal: Richard’s return,” said Liam. “It’s essential to our plans.”
Art gazed at the squalor around him. “Just promise me there will be no surrender this time. We fight to the end.”
The Last Days of Magic Page 36