Taliesin looked directly into the other wizard’s eyes and, unapologetically replied, “Pádraig, son of Finbar the farrier and the late Aislin.”
Coinneach shook his head and sighed. “Are you growing daft in your old age, my brother? To go down this road?”
“He has his mother’s gift. But it is much stronger in him than it ever was in her.” Taliesin proceeded to tell his brother-wizard about Pádraig’s encounter with the phooka.
When he had finished, Coinneach said, “Breaking a phooka’s spell with no training whatsoever? Are you certain, my brother?”
“I observed it myself through my familiar’s eyes,” Taliesin answered. “I am certain.”
“But you have not yet approached Finbar.” It was delivered as a statement, not a question.
“I’ve sent for Lairgnen.”
“And which of you does Finbar blame the most for his wife’s death, my brother? You, who sent her on her final mission, or Lairgnen, who was supposed to protect her?”
After a slight pause, Taliesin replied softly, “Himself, for allowing her to go.”
“But surely, he must hold both you and Lairgnen a close second for culpability.”
“Without a doubt.”
“And yet you are going to have Lairgnen talk to him about letting his son attend the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted?”
“I feel it in my being. The lad is the one.”
After a moment or two, Coinneach asked. “Whom else have you shared this with?”
“No one, my brother. Only you.”
“Surely with the Arch-Wizard?”
“Surely not. There are only two master wizards I trust, my brother—you and me. And sometimes I’m not so certain about you.”
Both men shared a chuckle, then Taliesin continued. “Somehow, information on Aislin’s meeting those many years ago was leaked. Even though it could never be proven, you know it and I know it. It was not mere coincidence that both she and Taliesin rode into separate ambushes that night. Fortunately, he escaped with only wounds. We need to keep our own counsel on this, until Finbar can be convinced and Pádraig’s appointment is formally announced at the coming year’s Roghnú. Once the lad is on Blessed Island, you will be able to afford him a measure of protection.”
“If there is anything I can do to facilitate things, my brother, let me know.”
“Thank you, Coinneach, but the contact with Finbar must come directly from Lairgnen and myself. It is the only honorable way. Any other entreaty he would reject out of hand and curse us both.”
“And has he not already been doing that for the past eleven years?…Keep me informed, my brother. And good luck.”
“Thank you, my brother. I will need all the luck and blessings that An Fearglas can provide.”
As both wizards performed the ritual act of submission by touching of their foreheads, chests, and mouths, Coinneach’s image faded, and the glow of the black orb grew fainter and fainter until Taliesin was left sitting at his desk in the moonlight.
Although he longed to return to his bed, the old wizard put the sphere back into its box and grasped his staff. A white flame sprung from the staff’s tip, and he started for the ladders that would take him to the main floor of his tower. It was time to ride to Fortress Tulach and light the New Year’s Eve bone-fire.
Oakday - Falcon 64th
Tulach Shire
Cathair Tulach
When Pádraig entered Fortress Tulach, he found the entire place abuzz with news, half-truths, and rumors about the Northman who had washed up on the beach below the cliffs. Crossing directly to the forge, he encountered a man of medium height, with brown hair, and skin weathered from having spent so much of his time outside. Well-muscled from years of hammer-and-anvil work, he was in the process of packing up the last of the farrier’s gear that they would take with them to Fort Cairbre at Southwest Head the next morning.
“Da, what’s with all this talk about a Northman?” Pádraig asked.
In answer, Finbar pointed to the end of a wooden box opposite him; and, as Pádraig helped him carry it out to their wagon, his father told him what he knew about the situation.
“His boat had to have been pushed way off course by these high seas,” Pádraig said in response, securing the box in place. “After being driven off the island by the Confederation of the Three Kingdoms, with the assistance of the dwarfs and elves, I’d think that the Northmen certainly would have learned their lesson.”
“He was armed with the weapons of an assassin,” Finbar said. “This was not some unlucky fisherman, Paddy. This was a man on a mission.”
“To kill the High King?”
“Apparently.”
“To what end? And how could he hope to get away with it?”
Finbar shrugged. “To make mischief? To show us that we’re not as safe as we think we are? Who knows? And as to how he hoped to get away with it, some Cruachanians are not all that happy with how the war turned out.”
“Unhappy enough to assassinate the High King?” Pádraig asked, incredulity dripping from his voice. “Who are these people, Da? And why aren’t they in dungeons somewhere?”
Finbar sat on the tailgate of the wagon and motioned his son to a spot beside him. “Unhappy?” He gave a cynical grunt, looked around to make sure that their conversation would not be overheard, then lowered his voice. “There are different kinds of unhappiness, Paddy. Many folks who fought and lost loved ones in the struggle to oust the Northmen in the War for Independence were led to believe that Cruachan would become a republic. That they would gain the right to elect their own leaders. Especially when, to bring them into the conflict on our side, Seamus granted the elves a semi-autonomous region in the Tangled Woods of the Eastern Shires and the dwarfs similar status in the Sawtooth Mountains of the Northern Shires. In fact, Seamus himself talked about a republic, going so far, so the story goes, as to draft a proclamation guaranteeing it.”
“A proclamation?” Pádraig said, eyebrow raised. “I’ve never heard of a proclamation before. What happened to it?”
“Death, Paddy. Death happened. To both Seamus and to his proclamation, which, to this day, no one admits to ever having actually seen, mind you. Within a month after the final victory at North Head, the High King succumbed to his wounds received in that battle and passed over to An Saol Eile. His son Diarmuid, who became Chieftain of Tulach Shire and, as deputy king, acceded to the throne as King of the Western Shires was promptly elected by the Dáil as the new High King. While Diarmuid made some vague mention of working toward the day when Cruachan would, indeed, become a republic, he spoke very clearly that the time was not yet right. That first and foremost Cruachan needed stability, and that the then-present system of hereditary shire chieftains and provincial kings provided for that stability.”
Finbar continued. “Diarmuid and his wife had no children, only two nephews—Eógan, Chieftain of Árainn Shire in the North, and Déaglán, Chieftain of Ceanannas Shire in the East. Surprising everyone, the High King named the younger of the two, Déaglán, as deputy king. After Diarmuid passed, Déaglán gave up his title of Chieftain of Ceanannas Shire, to become Chieftain of Tulach Shire, and acceded to the throne of the Kingdom of the Western Shires. His election by the Dáil as High King was a bit divisive. The five chieftains in the Northern Shires voted for their King, Cabhan. The remaining chieftains, nine in the West and eight in the East, voted for Déaglán.”
“If Eógan was Chieftain of Árainn Shire in the North, how did he get to be Earl of the Western Shires?” Pádraig asked.
“By elevating Eógan from a shire chieftain to an earl, a member of royalty,” Finbar replied, “Déaglán hoped to smooth over some of that discord within the Dáil and gain the loyalty of the chieftains in the Northern Shires.”
“And Seamus’ proclamation?”
“To this day, Déaglán has never once made mention of a republic.”
“That’s it?” Pádraig said. “No more Seamus; no more Diarmuid; no mor
e proclamation; no more republic?”
Finbar simply nodded, absently rubbing a burn scar on the inside of his right forearm.
The boy detected a measure of sadness in his father’s eyes, and asked, “But, Da, these…these…republicans certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with the Northmen whom they fought so hard to overthrow.”
“You wouldn’t think so. But there was another group of Cruachanians who did very well under the oppressors. Mainly merchants. And they were not all that happy to see the occupiers leave. You asked about dungeons, Paddy. Those collaborators whom everyone knew about ended up with nooses around their necks, not in a prison. But those who kept their dealings with the enemy secret? They’re still among us; and, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they continue to have contact with their old overlords and dream of prosperous yesteryears. Whether former collaborators who yearn for the old order or zealot republicans, willing to start a new war to achieve their aims, I’m unsure as to whom I’d single out in fixing blame.”
Pádraig looked at his father and said, “You fought in that war, Da. Did you do it in the hopes of establishing a republic?”
Although Finbar laughed, there was no mirth in it. “I was fifteen, Paddy, the same age as you are now. Going to war seemed like a grand adventure. It was only after seeing the cost of that conflict, the destruction, the lives lost, and the lives devastated, that I began to think of a republic.” He looked around once more to assure that what he was about to say would remain private, then continued, again absentmindedly rubbing his scar. “Speak of this to no one, lad. Even idle talk of a republic can be construed by some as an act of treason. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Da. Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to anyone.”
“Not anyone Paddy. Particularly your noble friends Liam and Máiréad.”
“I understand.”
* * *
Thinking all the while of the waterfall at the phooka-pool, Pádraig settled for a wash with bucket and rag, after which, he and Finbar headed over to the garrison’s mess hall for supper.
Conversation at the table centered around the Northman would-be assassin. The soldiers ate their meals quickly, since watches had been doubled and many of them were assigned to the beach below the cliffs to search in the light of the two full moons for any sign of the assassin’s companions.
“I’m going to join the lads over at the tavern,” Finbar said to his son. “You’re welcome to come along.”
Pádraig hesitated briefly, then said, “Thanks, Da, but I’m…I’m supposed to meet someone at the overlook.”
“Someone with red hair, perhaps?”
Receiving a non-committal shoulder shrug for a reply, Finbar continued. “It’s nice that you have friends, Paddy. I really mean it. Especially with the way we keep moving around the kingdom. Enjoy it while you can, but don’t make the mistake of thinking that anything more can come of it. The Lady Máiréad will marry another noble. That’s for certain.”
Emitting a small sigh, Pádraig said, “Yeah. I know.”
“Don’t be too late,” Finbar told him, reaching across the table and tousling the boy’s hair. “We leave for Ráth Cairbre at first light tomorrow.”
* * *
From atop Fortress Tulach’s seaward tower, eight bells sounded in four groups of two peals each, signaling the end of the evening watch and the beginning of the first watch.
The crowds that had been milling around the ward and on the fortress’ ramparts since the arrival of Taliesin, Court Wizard of the Kingdom of the Western Shires, a half hour before, now began to coalesce into small groups, all of them with their attention focused on the large pile of wood in the center of the quadrangle.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Máiréad said, standing abruptly and pulling her loden-green ruana tightly around her. “I have to join my da and ma for the lighting ceremony.”
She bent down, gave Pádraig a quick peck on the lips, then, covering her flame-red hair with the wolf-fur-trimmed hood of the cloak, hurried off.
“I’ll be here,” he called after her, as he stood and crossed to the edge of the rampart, waiting for the beginning of the ceremony that would be acted out in every shire in the country that night with every shire chieftain and his senior journeyman wizard.
Being the last day of the Autumn Season, the evening had cooled substantially. Pádraig drew his gray wool cloak tightly around himself as well, but didn’t bother with the hood.
Within minutes, a foursome crossed from the fortress’ keep to the center of the ward by the pile of firewood—Eógan, Earl of the Western Shires, Countess Kyna, and the Lady Máiréad, accompanied by Master Wizard Taliesin.
Although the earl and countess seemed oblivious to the frailness of the elderly wizard, their daughter was not, offering her arm to the old man and deliberately slowing her pace, so much so that on two occasions Eógan and his wife had to wait a moment or two for the others to catch up.
Máiréad, even though genuinely concerned about Taliesin, didn’t pass up on the opportunity to lobby the old man about her desire to enter the Academy for the Spiritually Gifted.
“So,” Taliesin said, as they made their way to the center of the ward, “you want to become a wizard?”
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Venerable Sir. For as long as I can remember. From the first time I realized that An Fearglas had blessed me with this gift.”
Both wizard and girl performed the ritual act of submission.
“As I have had a very tiring day,” Taliesin whispered to her, “perhaps you could expend some of your youthful essence and do the honors of lighting the bone-fire tonight, hmm?”
Máiréad’s eyes widened as she replied, “Oh, Venerable Sir, it would be an honor to assist you.” And a pleasure to be able to showcase my talent to someone who is empowered to sponsor a candidate to the Academy, she thought.
Taliesin patted her arm. “So be it. I will go through the motions of pointing my staff at the kindling. You use your power to send a flame from the tip of the staff into the woodpile, setting it alight.”
“Thank you, Master Taliesin,” Máiréad replied. “Thank you so much.”
The foursome had arrived in the center of the quadrangle.
“Another year has passed without war,” Eógan intoned. “This shire, the kingdom, and our country have prospered. This evening, as we reflect on our lives, the lives of our loved ones, and the lives of those who have gone on before us to An Saol Eile, let us remember to offer our abiding gratitude to An Fearglas for his past blessings and pray that he will continue to bless us and all our endeavors in this coming new year.”
Bowing his head slightly and touching his forehead, chest, and mouth with the first two fingers of his right hand, the Earl of the Western Shires completed the ritual act of submission, saying, “May His tenets be always in our minds, in our hearts, and on our lips.”
The entire assemblage performed the rite with him.
“Now,” the earl continued, “Master Taliesin, will you please ignite the bone-fire that will welcome in the new year?” He looked up at the people on the ramparts and shouted, “A happy and prosperous New Year to you all!”
“Hang on to my arm, little one,” the old wizard whispered to Máiréad, as he pointed his staff at the pile of wood. “Now! Light the fire!”
For a few moments, nothing happened. Then a small spurt of flame jumped from the tip of the wizard’s staff toward the woodpile, but quickly fizzled out.
Máiréad tried once more, concentrating as hard as she could on the figure of the old man carved into the cypress wood of the staff. Once again, a spurt and fizzle.
The girl began to falter and her eyes teared up as the crowd started to murmur.
Pádraig, quickly sensing what was happening, concentrated his mind on the girl, those tears now running down her cheeks, as she tried for a third time to light the bone-fire. He knew his timing had to be perfect. As Máiréad closed her eyes, Pádraig did likewise.
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A tremendous bolt of lightning shot forth from the old wizard’s staff, setting the entire pile of wood ablaze at once.
The crowd shouted, whistled, and applauded.
Máiréad jumped up and down, laughing and wiping her cheeks, so proud of herself.
Taliesin said, “Thank you, my dear. That was some demonstration.” As he grasped forearms with Eógan and returned a perfunctory hug from Kyna, his eyes looked up at the rampart by the overlook, and he thought, Some demonstration, indeed, Pádraig, son of Aislin. Some demonstration of power, indeed. Gazing back into the blazing inferno, he sighed as his thoughts continued with, Surely he’s the one.
* * *
The Cruachanian calendar depicted the yearly cycles of nature as a wheel, kept forever turning by the Deity. The five-hundred-twenty-eight-day year consisted of four seasons, starting with Winter and followed by Spring, Summer, and Autumn.
Each of the seasons was further broken down into two months. Beginning with Winter, they were named after animals common throughout the island: Wolf, Bear, Fox, Cougar, Hawk, Eagle, Raven, and Falcon.
These eight months were comprised of eight weeks of eight days, each day named after a tree: Yew, Birch, Willow, Alder, Hazel, Ash, Holly, and Oak; the latter two days being holidays.
In addition to Hollyday and Oakday, the calendar provided for eight additional holidays—four Mid-Season Days between the two months within each season that corresponded to the solstices and equinoxes, and four Between-Season Days at the beginning of each season.
With the approach of Winter, the herdsmen had all brought their flocks in from the now-fallow fields. Those animals in excess of the number that could be kept in barns and fed fodder over the two months of the Winter Season, as well as the Month of the Fox (the first month of the Spring Season) had all been slaughtered and the meat preserved for personal use or sale.
From high on the ramparts, Pádraig watched as wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of the bones from butchered animals were added to the fire in the ward as offerings to the Deity.
A Spark is Struck in Cruachan Page 5