The Embers are Fanned in Cruachan (The Chronicles of Pádraig Book 2)

by Bill Stackhouse

  Giving her horsetail a tug, he said, “Unlike you.”

  Smiling at him, as she again drew one of her daggers, Fionnuala replied, “Just think of me as the younger brother you never had.”

  * * *

  Even with the snow falling, Máiréad sat on the ground with her back up against a pine tree, her loden-green ruana with wolf-fur trim pulled tightly around her and the hood covering her head. As she sat there replaying the mind-expanding exercise over and over, the crevices in her wattle-and-daub memory-block opened a bit more, allowing her thoughts to drift once again to when she had been out with the search party from Ráth Árainn those many years ago, trying to find some sign of the kidnapped Pádraig and Prince Liam:

  Periodically during the morning, Máiréad had asked Cian, Reeve of Árainn Shire, to halt the search party and have the members of the security forces and defense forces quiet their steeds so that she could concentrate, probing that area of the forest with her mind. Unfortunately, the results had been negative each time.

  The night before, her father, Eógan, Earl of the Western Shires, had revealed to Ruari, Steward of Árainn Shire, that she was a gifted one; and, had told him that she had a special connection to Prince Liam. Máiréad maintained that deception not only for her father’s benefit, but for the search party’s as well. In truth, she probed not for the prince, but for her soul friend, Pádraig.

  No! the young wizard chastised herself, slamming her balled-up fists into the sides of her head, and causing the accumulated snow from her hood to go flying outward. No! No! No! Why do I keep thinking about him?! Stay out of my mind! she commanded. I will never forgive you for what you did to me!

  But, try as she might, she couldn’t block the memory, and just sat there alone in the snow, the tears running down her cheeks and dripping onto her lap, where they froze into tiny balls of ice.

  Ashday - Bear 14th

  Árainn Shire

  Wonderful! Pádraig thought, huddled in his cloak, hood up, as he and Killian traversed the winding path up the eastern slope of Stob Bàn. I can barely see the trail through this blizzard. I sure hope Killian has a better view of it than I do. He reached out and brushed the accumulated snow from the mule’s head and neck.

  Killian stopped, shook himself, and let out a whinny-bray.

  “Yeah, I know,” the young wizard told him. “I feel the same way. Time to have a magical look ahead.”

  Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath and calmed himself. Once he had cleared his mind of all superfluous thoughts and feelings, he sent a mental probe snaking into the snowy darkness in front of him. Remembering what the Venerable Taliesin had said back in the Gabhrán Shire clearing ten days earlier, he expanded his far-seeing ability outward ever so slowly:

  “Go about your duties. Keep your eyes and ears open. But don’t draw attention to yourself. And, under no circumstances are you to use any of your powers that you don’t absolutely have to. No practicing spells where you can be observed. Right now, my guess is that your powers exceed Murchú’s. There’s no need for him nor Odhran to be made aware of that.”

  There, no more than a furlong ahead, and six rods off to the north on a smaller side trail, the young wizard detected a hearth-fire, a person, and a horse. Not only did he see those objects in his mind, but because of his enhanced olfactory sense, he caught the whiff of the horse and the smoke from the chimney, as well.

  “I’ve got him,” Pádraig told Killian, quickly terminating the spell. “It won’t be long now. Fifteen minutes, tops, and you’ll be out of this mess and in a nice stall.”

  Whether or not the animal understood, the mule snorted in reply and resumed trudging up the path, this time with a bit more determination.

  * * *

  “Ahh, thanks be to An Fearglas that you’ve arrived safely, Sléibhín said, as he opened the door to his hut. After both wizards had made the ritual act of submission, he continued with, “I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to find the place in this weather. Come in!” He stepped back out of the entrance and motioned Pádraig inside. “Do come in and warm yourself by the fire.”

  Sléibhín, too, turned out to be younger than Pádraig had expected, even younger than Pádraig himself. The oblate wizard stood about six inches shorter than the apprentice wizard, with a much lighter build and shoulders that were slightly stooped. His reddish brown hair was unkempt, and he had a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. Although effusive in his greeting, there was a hint of sadness in his brown eyes.

  Pádraig thought Sléibhín looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t place him. “Thank you, Esteemed Sir,” he replied, “but only after I’ve seen to my mule. After all, he’s the one who’s done most of the work getting us here.”

  “Of course. Of course,” the other man said, rubbing his hands together. “How could I not see that. ‘Senseless Sléibhín.’ That’s what they used to call me at the Academy, you know. ‘Senseless Sléibhín.’” With one hand, he grabbed a tan, wool cloak from a wooden peg by the door, and with the other, pointed to the south side of the hut. “Just bring your mule right around to the side of my humble abode, and we’ll get him all tucked in for the night.”

  Although the attached shed contained only one stall, already occupied by a small, tan mare with a shaggy coat and a dorsal stripe of black running down the center of its back, it was large enough to accommodate two animals quite comfortably.

  “This is Hilma,” Sléibhín said, opening the gate to the stall and patting the horse on the muzzle.

  “I’ve worked around horses most of my life,” Pádraig replied, stroking the mare’s neck, “but I’ve never come across this breed before.”

  “Not many of them around, and then only here in the Northern Shires. Hilma is a descendant of the remnants of the horses left behind by the Northmen after the War for Independence. My grandda captured as many as he could and brought them to his farm in Béarra Shire. He, and then my da, have been breeding them. They’re solid, sure-footed, little animals, and their double coat provides them with superb protection from the harsh winters up here. Hilma will enjoy having the company, I’m sure. As will I, Honored Sir. As will I.”

  Pádraig led Killian into the stall and began to unsaddle the mule, saying, “This, here, is Killian. And, how would it be if we forget about the honorifics, okay? I’m Pádraig. My friends call me ‘Paddy.’” He stuck out his arm.

  “Oh, that sounds nice,” the other wizard replied, grabbing the proffered forearm and pumping it. “Let’s not stand on ceremony up here in the deprivation posting. So nice to meet you, Paddy. I’m Sléibhín. But, I guess, I already told you that, didn’t I?”

  “‘Deprivation posting’?”

  “I…I didn’t want to seem rude by asking,” Sléibhín said, “but clearly you didn’t request this assignment. I mean, no one does. Why would anyone? He spread his arms and twirled around. “Like me, Senseless Sléibhín, you’re probably here because somehow, some way, you got on the Venerable Odhran’s list of wayward wizards and are being punished for it. I’ll tell you, Paddy,” he continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “it’s not hard to do. No. Not that hard at all. Take my word for it.”

  As Pádraig rubbed the mule down and brushed him, he said, “You may have something, there, Sléibhín. Many years ago, I pulled a bit of a trick on the Venerable Sir.”

  The apprentice wizard let a small smile play across his lips as he thought back to how he, Prince Liam, and Parnell, Reeve of Callainn Shire, had gotten the unsuspecting master wizard to assist them in unmasking the killer of Tadhg the farrier—Lorcan, Reeve of Gabhrán Shire, and secretly an ally with Odhran in the Northern Alliance.

  Coming out of his reverie, Pádraig asked, “And why were you banished here, Sléibhín? What was your offense.”

  The oblate wizard shrugged. “I guess I just didn’t live up to expectations. All I ever wanted to be was an oblate wizard—an herbalist and healer. Once I had been granted the purple mantle, I
left the Academy.”

  “Now I remember you, Sléibhín. You started at the Academy the year after me. The Venerable Odhran was your sponsor.”

  “I didn’t know if you’d remember, Paddy. You and the Lady Máiréad were living legends there. The way you two moved along in your education. The rest of us were all in awe of you. Me? It didn’t come easy for me at all. In fact, had the Lady Máiréad not tutored me, I might never have progressed to level one. I had such a difficult time mastering the oral tradition and history. But she worked with me, and I finally received my green mantle.”

  “That was really generous of her,” Pádraig said, “giving you that time. I didn’t know about it. I’m happy for both you and her.”

  “Truth be told, Paddy, I’m not sure it was as much about generosity as guilt. You see, I was supposed to be selected by the Venerable Odhran at the same Roghnú as when you were chosen by the Venerable Taliesin. But, somehow, Master Odhran took Máiréad instead of me.”

  Pádraig went sort of rigid as he remembered that year’s Selection. Máiréad was so sure that the Venerable Taliesin would choose her:

  High King Déaglán nodded to the members of the Sodality and said, “Now, to the selection process for the five gifted ones who will be sponsored to this year’s class at the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted. Master Coinneach, whom do you choose?”

  The wizard’s apparition replied, simply, “I choose Scoithniamh of the Eastern Shires—daughter of Lachtnán and Marga.”

  A burst of applause went up from the crowd as a girl with short brown hair, dressed in a brown, wool cloak, came out of the assembly and took up a position on the other side of the table, facing the burning oak log directly opposite Coinneach’s apparition.

  “Master Taliesin?” Déaglán asked.

  Máiréad and Kyna, both smiling, were holding hands tightly when Taliesin pointed across the hillock and said, “I choose Pádraig of the Western Shires—son of Finbar and the late Aislin.”

  As the assembly gave another ovation, Pádraig took his place in front of Taliesin.

  Máiréad stood there in tears. Her mother’s face registered pure enmity. As Liam took the girl into his arms to comfort her, Odhran turned his head slightly so that he could see Kyna. Still, with hatred in her eyes, she gave the wizard a single nod.

  Déaglán asked his question to the third master wizard. “Master Odhran?”

  The Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Northern Shires hesitated briefly, then replied, “I choose Máiréad of the Western Shires—daughter of Earl Eógan and Countess Kyna.”

  A smile crept over Kyna’s face while the applause was taking place. Máiréad, shocked at what she had heard, pulled away from Liam, quickly glanced at her mother, over at Odhran, back to Liam, then back at her mother again.

  Wiping the tears from her daughter’s face with her hand, Kyna said, “Go! And go proudly!”

  Máiréad almost ran to take up her position in front of Odhran, dabbing at any remaining tears as she went.

  Pádraig turned his head and glanced at the girl; however, she refused to look in his direction. Instead, she stared straight ahead at the flaming oak log.

  Then it dawned on Pádraig. Of course. Isla was right. I am such a dunderhead. I never even considered the ramifications that my selection to the Academy would have on others. Everyone assumed that Master Taliesin would choose Meig. Master Odhran already had a candidate picked out. It was Sléibhín. And when Odhran was forced to take Meig, Sléibhín was passed over. Guiltily, he managed to utter, “Well, at least you made it. Even a year late is better than not getting in at all.”

  The oblate wizard tried for a smile, but couldn’t seem to manage one. “I suppose you’re right,” he said with a sigh.

  “And you did get your level-two purple mantle. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “Thank you, Paddy. I guess it is. That’s all I ever really wanted, you know. To become an oblate wizard and heal people.”

  “An admirable calling, Sléibhín. But, the Venerable Odhran didn’t see it that way?”

  “‘Senseless Sléibhín’ is what he called me. Just like some of the students at the Academy. He said I was wasting the gift with which An Fearglas had blessed me.”

  Again, both wizards made the ritual act of submission.

  “And here I’ve been ever since. And here I am. And here, I imagine, I’ll stay. Deprivation posting.”

  During his conversation with his fellow wizard, Pádraig had finished taking care of Killian. Opening up another couple bales of straw and strewing the dry stalks onto the ground for a bed, he said, “Now, how about that warm fire in your hearth, Sléibhín.”

  “Oh, yes, Paddy. I have some goat stew that I’ll heat up, and I’ll make some tea; then, you can tell me what you want to do while you’re here.”

  Hollyday - Bear 15th

  Árainn Shire

  First thing in the morning, Pádraig helped Sléibhín muck out the stall in the attached shed and lay in fresh bedding straw, fresh hay, and fresh water for the animals. He also checked out Hilma’s hooves, cleaning the debris from them with his hawk-billed farrier’s hoof-pick.

  “You’re going to want to get her reshod sooner rather than later,” he said, drawing Sléibhín’s attention to the wear pattern on the horse’s left front shoe. “I don’t know how often you get over to Ráth Árainn, but next time you go, stop in and see the farrier, or the head groom if the farrier’s not there. I’d reshoe her myself, but I don’t have any shoe-blanks or my equipment with me.”

  The oblate wizard bowed his head. “I guess I’m remiss in doing that, Paddy. Another Senseless Sléibhín mistake.” He sighed, then continued. “I am scheduled to head over there in about four weeks, though, to deliver a supply of medicinal herbs to the infirmary. Do you think Hilma’s shoes will hold out until then?”

  “Any other long trips planned?”

  “No. Just around here, gathering winter herbs where I can.”

  Pádraig patted the other man on the shoulder. “They should be fine until then. And, speaking of herbs, I was looking over the supply that you have drying here in the shed. There’re a few of them that I’m not familiar with.”

  “I’m not surprised, Paddy. Probably the mountain plants. They grow only up here in the higher elevations. Come, I’ll show you.”

  Pádraig was glad that he had asked about the herbs. His host cheered right up, now that he had been brought back into his mental comfort zone, explaining where each plant grew and the medicinal use for it.

  “What got you so interested in becoming an herbalist in the first place?” Pádraig asked. “Was there anything in particular?”

  “It was my ma, Paddy. Her heart. She had an irregular heartbeat. Way too fast.”

  “Didn’t they treat it with foxglove?”

  Sléibhín shook his head. “They tried, but she couldn’t tolerate it. Nausea, vomiting, tremors. Even convulsions, once. We thought we were going to lose her, for sure, that time. She finally had to get off of it and just pray to An Fearglas that the irregular heartbeat wouldn’t get any worse, if left untreated.”

  Both wizards performed the ritual act of submission.

  Sléibhín went on with, “That’s when I decided to become a healer. My primary goal was to find an alternative to foxglove that would correct Ma’s heartbeat without the awful side effects.”

  “And did you?” Pádraig asked. “Because I’m not familiar with any.”

  Tears formed in the corner of Sléibhín’s eyes, as he grew very quiet and pointed to a gathering of woody plants hanging from one of the shed’s rafters. “Fingerthorn,” he said, touching the cuttings reverently. “It’s milder than foxglove, but performs the same function. Grows high in the mountains just below the tree line. A dwarf healer introduced me to it.”

  “And your ma? Did it work for her?”

  “We’ll never know, Paddy. She passed over five months before I became aware of fingerthorn.…Five months.” He wiped his
eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. Recomposing himself, he asked, “Now, what would you like to do today?”

  Pádraig could hardly answer, the guilt was so heavy within him. He finally managed to say, “What would you normally do?”

  “Forage for herbs and plants.”

  “Sounds good. Do we walk or ride?”

  “Where I usually go is a bit of a hike. Let’s saddle up. Are you sure you want to do this? I’m not sure what I can teach you, Paddy. I mean, you already passed your level-two requirements a while ago. In record time, from what I understand.”

  “I definitely want to do this, Sléibhín. You’ve already enriched my education by showing me four plants that I knew absolutely nothing about. I was sent here to learn. Let’s get to it with the next lesson.” As he threw a saddle blanket over Killian’s back, he said, “Oh, I do have to be back before midday, though. I have an appointment with Isla, a dwarf whom I met on the way up here yesterday.”

  A troubled look came across Sléibhín’s countenance. “Isla? The warrior? She’s sort of…unpleasant, to say the very least.”

  “That’s a mild way of putting it,” Pádraig agreed. “But she’s promised to teach me how to use the hand-and-a-half sword.”

  “To what end?”

  “I used my magic to save her from a cougar. She thinks she owes me a debt and won’t rest until it’s paid off. I asked her for her cloak brooch, but she balked at that. I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted. I certainly wasn’t going to take money from her. So I asked for sword-fighting lessons, instead.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t live to regret that, Paddy.”

  “Actually, Sléibhín, hearing her brag about how good she is with a sword, I hope I do live to regret it.”

  * * *

  With the sun high overhead, Pádraig rode Killian to the appointed spot for his first lesson on how to use a hand-and-a-half sword. There was Isla, arms folded across her substantial bosoms, frown on her face, and tapping her foot next to a staff stuck in the ground.