Customarily, only two types of free people were without an honor price. There were the wild, savage tribes, called Woodwose, living in remote forests and worshipping dark spirits. The others were bandits, often fugitive slaves—though with the possibility of earning true freedom there was little incentive for slaves to run away and few measures taken to prevent them from doing so.
Aisling did not think Conor was a bandit even though he had killed her horse, and he did not have the crazed look of a Woodwose. She had been dressed as a knight. Challenging a knight to a fight, with his horse as a prize, was legal if the challenger was of a lower honor price, though it also put the challenger at high risk of a legal slaying.
. . . . .
Liam and Aisling approached Tara from the southwest. The Celtic capital city sprawled across a hill slowly rising five hundred feet from the plains of Meath. The lower structures were simple one-room cottages of post-and-wattle construction, with thatched roofs and walls smoothed with plaster mortar made from mud, lime, and a bit of blood. The buildings became larger and more elaborate the higher up the hill they were positioned. At the summit sat the royal enclosure, wrapped in a meandering stone wall. Within the enclosure were stone buildings with timber roofs containing embassies from the five kingdoms and a great meeting hall built in the traditional Nordic fashion housing a Viking delegation. Surrounding these, filling the royal enclosure except for the courtyard, were inns, shops, and residential buildings for the royal retinue, official visitors, influential lords, ladies, and traders. Gallowglass maintained no delegation, preferring to avoid politics and keep their agreements strictly contractual.
Rising from among the royal buildings and dominating the entire hill were three interconnected towers. The meeting chambers for the elected high king, the treasury, the military, and other high officials were located in the northeast tower. As high priestess of Tara, Aisling occupied the top floor of the southeast tower. The four lower floors housed representatives of the higher-order guilds: harpists, bards, physicians, smiths, brewers, masons, scriveners, and genealogists. Five hundred years earlier, two guild chambers on the lowest floor had been granted to the Irish Christian Church in gratitude for the Latin writing they taught to all—separate chambers because the followers of Patrick and the followers of Colmcille did not get along. Only Aisling and the high king were allowed residence chambers within the towers.
The chambers and even the number of floors inside the west tower varied depending on the needs and moods of its occupants, Sidhe ambassadors. They were mostly Brownies, whose love of debate and basic understanding of polities distinguished them from other Sidhe. Aisling remembered that the previous winter, when the Sidhe high king arranged for the Celtic high king to meet with the leader of a group of visiting Goblins to negotiate their return to Scotland, the west tower had seemed to contain only one large chamber.
Looking up at the towers, Aisling thought again of Haidrean, her druid tutor killed during the attack on Anya. When she was younger, Aisling looked forward to the time she was no longer required to listen to the old curmudgeon. Now she missed him.
HAIDREAN HAD BROUGHT Aisling and Anya to visit Tara when they were seven, following their Ceremony of Hearts.
“The Grogoch constructed it out of a single row of stones,” he told them as they walked around the base of Tara Tower. The stones, seven feet on edge, emerged from the ground and looped around in a cloverleaf shape, crisscrossing in the center, until they spiraled up over a hundred feet to form the three towers, each thirty feet in diameter. “When it was up, the Grogoch molded openings for doors and windows. So it looks like three towers, but it is really one solid structure.”
“Like the Morrígna. Like us,” said Anya.
“Exactly,” said Haidrean.
“So I’m this tower, and Anann’s the far one, and you’re that one,” said Anya to her sister.
“It was just an analogy,” replied Aisling.
“Why does the Morrígna always return in completely human bodies?” asked Anya, her enthusiasm unswayed.
“No one knows,” said Haidrean. “However, I believe it is because of our short life span. She prefers to leave us to our own will as much as possible.”
“And only our bloodline. Looks like you’re going to have to take a human husband,” said Anya to her sister.
“It doesn’t have to be me.”
“It does. I’ll be in the Middle Kingdom, so—”
“Both of you can take human husbands,” Haidrean broke in. “Anya, you’ll be visiting this land often enough.”
“See,” said Aisling. “You can have one-day marriage contracts.”
Anya took Aisling’s hand. “Come on, let’s go to the bakery.” They headed toward a nearby building emitting the inviting odors of fresh bread and honey cakes. “Haidrean, why can’t I feel Anann inside me? I’m feeling Aisling more and more.”
“You’ll never feel Anann as you do Aisling. Anann is evident when the power of the Morrígna moves through you as you exercise your magic. You’ll have increasing access to that power now that you’ve had your Ceremony of Hearts. Do you want to try it?” asked Haidrean.
“Yes, please,” replied Anya.
“Aisling, close your eyes. Anya, count silently to yourself the number of loaves on the cooling rack.” Anya rose up on her tiptoes and scanned the bread. “Now, Aisling, without opening your eyes, tell us how many loaves there are.”
Aisling scrunched up her face. “I’m trying, but I can’t see out of her eyes.”
“Don’t see, remember,” Haidrean ordered. “Know what she knows, as if you had seen it a moment ago.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Do it anyway.”
Aisling screwed up her face even more. Anya grabbed one of the small loaves, tore off a chunk, and began to eat it.
“Twenty . . . one,” Aisling said. “No. Twenty and a half.”
“Yes!” Anya and Haidrean exclaimed together as Aisling opened her eyes to check, their green traces fading to gray.
“You want to see another piece of magic now open to you?” whispered Haidrean.
They both nodded.
Haidrean pinched the back of Anya’s arm.
“Ouch!” Aisling and Anya cried simultaneously, and then they dissolved into uncontrolled laughter.
LIAM AND AISLING rode his horse through the stable gate at the south side of the Tara royal enclosure. Here the wall bulged out to accommodate an equestrian complex that surrounded one of the six royal wells. Predating all other structures, their origin lost to history, the wells never ceased to gently overflow their stone rings, even though they opened at an elevation higher than any land for miles around.
Back in my cage, Aisling thought. Trapped as surely as I am trapped in my marriage. As if on cue, Aisling saw that Lord Maolan, her husband for the last two years, was waiting, alerted to their return. Liam led his horse into a stall as Maolan approached Aisling.
“Where’s my horse?” Maolan asked.
“What’s another horse to you?” replied Aisling.
“He’s not just another horse, he’s Sciobtha, my fastest, and he was promised for a race today. Do you know how humiliating it was for me when he didn’t run? I told you to leave my horses alone.”
“Well, he wasn’t fast enough. He’d have lost you money. You should thank me.” Aisling turned to leave.
Maolan grabbed her by the shoulder and swung her around. “Tell me where my horse is. Now.”
“Your horse is nothing except meat now. A man named Conor is probably roasting it as we speak.”
“Conor? Tadg’s slave? Conor killed my horse?” asked Maolan. Spitting onto the floor, he added, “That cac ar oineach!”—using the phrase meaning “shit on honor”—an insult that could legally be replied to with a lethal blow, if it were said about someone who had an honor price.
“Conor’s not a slave, and I lost your horse to him in a fair fight.”
“You’re getting expensiv
e.” Maolan was leaning into Aisling, shouting and sending small drops of spittle into her face. He looked up at Liam, who had stepped out of the stall to stand behind Aisling. Jabbing his finger into her chest, Maolan hissed, “Make sure you don’t become too expensive.” He stormed out of the stable.
“Perhaps a five-year marriage contract will turn out to be a bit long,” offered Liam.
AT ANYA’S FUNERAL Aisling had stood numb, unseeing, on the royal stand in the Tara courtyard. The touch of the torches to the pyre seemed to jar her awake. She could not recall how she got there. She remembered that it was her fourteenth birthday when she saw Anya—it was the first time since she had ridden away from her twin at Trim Castle, four days prior. Anya was dressed in one of the embroidered white robes that had been made for their inauguration, the day they were to have come of age to rule. A futile, empty gesture, Aisling thought. When the flames had climbed high enough up the carefully constructed wooden structure to begin caressing Anya’s body, Aisling turned away and left.
Entering the tower and climbing the spiral stairs, she reached out to the curved stone wall, seeking the feel of something solid, but nothing had felt truly solid since Anya’s death and she stumbled. She sat on the stair with her eyes closed as a fresh wave of nausea washed over her. Anya and I were going to rule this land today, she thought. Instead I am just trying to get through the day without retching.
Her equilibrium finally stabilized, and she resumed her climb. When she reached the roof, Aisling turned away from the light radiating up from the pyre and walked to the opposite side. A double line of faerie lights led off to the northeast, floating above the ten-mile path from Brú na Bóinne to Tara. Along it moved a river of Sidhe. As with all Sidhe funeral processions, it was led by Sluaghs, who are skilled in helping the dead find their way to the After Lands. They were followed by Devas and Adhenes, the two ruling clans, then a mix of Gnomes, Fire Sprites, Brownies, Leprechauns, Pixies, Grogoch, and Wichtlein. No Skeaghshee were allowed to attend. For the eight hours it would take for the flames to consume her sister’s body, the Sidhe would stream along this path, loop around the pyre, and then return to their domain.
She leaned out through the battlements and looked down at the pools of torchlight that speckled the ground. Would the ground feel solid if I fell from this height? she wondered. She sensed someone walk up behind her, felt Brigid take her hand. I want no more useless words of comfort, she thought. She said, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Brigid squeezed Aisling’s hand. “You’re still the Morrígna.”
“No I’m not. Not even half. Not anymore. The Skeaghshee not only took my sister, they took the most important part of me.”
“I can teach you to connect with your Goddess self again, to be whole, to bring Morrígna’s power out.”
Aisling shook her head. “If I had any power left, I would crawl up on my sister’s pyre and let the flames carry me home. But I don’t. Every day I awake standing on a ledge on a cliff face, only the ledge is made of wax and no matter how hard I cling, I keep sliding off and plummeting into a rolling black fog.”
“Please trust me, you will recover from this,” Brigid pleaded.
Aisling continued as if she had not heard, “There seem to be shapes in the dark, and I try to grab them to save myself.” She reached over the edge of the tower into the night. “I grasp nothing, and I keep tumbling, and I am lost. Until I again awake, desperately clinging to the cliff face, only to slide off.”
Brigid gathered Aisling into her arms. “Ireland needs you. The high kings have already agreed to a conclave. They’ll decide on an important role for you,” said Brigid.
“They’ll decide. What about what I want?”
“What do you want?”
Aisling closed her eyes and searched for the Goddess she was meant to become on this day, or even for the girl she was a few days before. She could find neither. The first stench of burning flesh reached her from the pyre. She longed to scream: Tell them to kill me, too! Let me rejoin the Morrígna with Anya in the Otherworld! But that’s another thing I am not strong enough to do, she thought, berating herself for not throwing herself on the fire, or off this tower. To Brigid she whispered only, “I don’t know.”
Aisling opened her eyes, stared out at the Sidhe funeral procession, and hated them. Hated all of them.
. . . . .
The next week Fearghal, the Sidhe high king, sat at the center of a long table, flanked by the rulers of each of the Middle Kingdom clans. Behind them stood an array of scriveners and attendants. A thin strip of water meandered through the grass in front of the table, barely large enough to be called a stream. Across it stood a mirror-image table occupied by the Celtic high king, flanked by the rulers of the Irish kingdoms—three kings and two queens—and the members of the Druidic Council, of which Brigid was the newly elected head due to the murder of Haidrean. Flat light sank through the turbulent mist that draped over the conclave, giving the impression of a large gray tent in a silent windstorm. They were in the Sidhe’s third of the royal towers of Tara.
Fearghal rose from his seat and walked to the middle of the two congregations. “We are agreed, the Treaty of Tailltiu stands.” He looked old, for a Sidhe, with a hint of silver in his black hair and thin lines radiating from his eyes, the gold brooch of his office prominent on a brilliant green cloak over his gray tunic.
He was joined by the Celtic high king, who confirmed, “We are agreed.”
Together they crouched down, and, cupping their right hands, each drew one drink of water from the stream. When they returned to their seats, the tiny stream no longer flowed, no longer divided the tables.
“And what of the Morrígna?” asked Brigid as she stood.
A wave of soft voices rolled along the Sidhe table. An Adhene stood, whom Brigid knew to be Fearghal’s daughter, Rhoswen. Her sharply angled, hairless, nude body was covered with a thick paint in shades of green and brown, signifying her status as a Bhean Draoi, a Sidhe witch. Black tears were painted down her hollow cheeks. “The Morrígna lived between the twins,” Rhoswen said. “She was to rule the Celts through Aisling, the Sidhe through Anya. Anya is dead. To us the Morrígna once again sleeps in the Otherworld. We have resumed our vigil, calling to her and awaiting her return.”
“Aisling is alive. She carries part of the Morrígna still,” urged Brigid. “She can speak for both the Celts and the Sidhe.”
Rhoswen shook her head, studying the ground. “Aisling is half dead herself. She no longer brings the Morrígna into this world.” Raising her head and locking eyes with Brigid, she continued, “As long as Aisling lives at all, the Morrígna cannot return. You know—”
“Nothing is to happen to Aisling,” interrupted the Celtic high king.
“We are not suggesting that,” replied Fearghal. “Aisling’s life will not be taken by any of my subjects. The Morrígna will return in her own time.”
At a whispered plea from Mamos, an elderly druid, Brigid turned to confer with him. Soon she was surrounded by the entire council. Rhoswen waited silently, still except for the painted black tears flowing down her face.
The council members returned to their seats. “My true name is Lasirfhionamhnán,” Brigid said to Rhoswen, binding herself to tell the complete truth. A white swan spread its great wings and rose from the space occupied by Brigid’s collapsing robe. With one large flap and a short glide, it became a woman, naked, pale, and freckled; Brigid stood in the grass between the tables. Murmurs came from the Druid Council. While all had heard that Brigid had learned this intricate enchantment from the Sidhe—the first druid to master it in five centuries—few had actually seen it.
“Lasirfhionamhnán,” repeated Rhoswen. She looked over to Fearghal, who nodded. “My true name is——” Rhoswen made a sound like a boulder rolling in a swollen stream and burst into a brown hawk. She flew to stand in front of Brigid and resumed her painted witch form.
Brigid echoed the sound of the witch’s true nam
e, then said, “My entire order, all of our orders”—she indicated the council with a sweep of her arm—“have been performing Taghairm and Coelbreni, but still we cannot see.” Taghairm was a powerful divination ritual during which a druid slays and skins a wild bull, wraps the bloody hide around himself, and meditates by a waterfall. Coelbreni is a simpler, and much less messy, ritual of casting hazel rods inscribed with runes. Brigid continued, “We do not know if the Morrígna can return now that one of the hearts has been destroyed.” She again called Rhoswen by her true name. “——, what do your people see?”
“Lasirfhionamhnán, we also cannot tell if the Morrígna can ever return,” said Rhoswen softly. “Anya’s heart was missing a piece, the small segment that King Kellach inherited and hid. That segment survives, which gives us hope in our sadness. A future Ceremony of Hearts may be possible.” Rhoswen dropped her head to the side and closed her eyes. Reaching out, Brigid caressed her green-and-brown cheek. Black-painted tears flowed across Brigid’s ivory hand and dripped onto the grass.
Fearghal spoke up. “Our nobles are unanimous in their belief that Kellach was behind the attack.” There were nods of approval along the Sidhe table, the Pixie queen offering that this sort of atrocity could be perpetrated only by a Skeaghshee.
“The Sidhe are prepared to assist the Celtic forces in his capture,” continued Fearghal, “so long as he is not executed. I propose lifetime imprisonment on Great Skellig. Its being a treeless island, that will be appropriate punishment.”
. . . . .
Kellach tried to resist the mounting pain as flames roared through the grove of sacred woods. He dropped his sword, clasped his head with both hands, and fell to his knees. Through the flames he could see warriors circling the grove—Celts, Gallowglass, and Sidhe—preventing any escape by his own forces.
“How could you do this?” he shouted, without knowing if his voice would carry to those Middle Kingdom dwellers who had betrayed him. “We could have taken all of Ireland back! The Morrígna is half dead! I made victory possible for you!”
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 10