. . . . .
Richard’s cell stank of rotting straw, the waste bucket in the corner, and Richard’s unwashed body. His robes were mildewed and shabby, and a long chain led from one bloody ankle to a bracket in the wall against which he sat.
As he watched Najia, his thoughts turned to the last time he had seen her, seven months earlier, when Thomas of Arundel had misled him. “Tricky Thomas,” he quipped to himself, and his laughter sputtered out again. He had known he would be able to defend Conwy Castle for months, even with his small force of archers, but Thomas had sent a letter: “I only wish to negotiate your abdication,” Thomas had written. “You know I hold no love for you, but you also know of my unwavering love of Christ, and I swear on the True Cross that no man shall harm you or lay hands on you if you come out for a conclave.”
So he had gone out, dressed in his most regal robes, and this woman—his valentyne—had approached him. He was enraptured by her deep eyes and gorgeous swarthy body, a feeling he was not accustomed to with women. She reached out and stroked his neck, sending tingles of excitement down his spine, unexpected and delicious. The tingles grew almost to the point of pain. He had wondered what was happening, until he fell to the ground, conscious but immobile. This woman then bound him and dragged him into an open wagon.
Richard’s laughter turned to sobs. Tears carved tracks down his grimy cheeks.
. . . . .
Najia watched Richard cry. She did not hate him. He was a king and did what kings do—invade and destroy. But he had not invaded Damascus or enslaved her; others had done that. He just needed to disappear in order to protect her new adopted land, the land that had freed her and freed her lover from a slavery he had not even known he was bound by.
Najia squatted down, opened the box, and removed the seven candles it contained, standing them on the stone floor in front of Richard. They were not quite clear, just so pale that the torchlight glowed through them. Richard stopped crying and watched her.
“You were once brilliant and brave,” said Najia. “You once inspired loyalty in many of your lords and fear in the rest. I cannot free your body, but I can free your spirit to fight once more.”
“I will not fight for Henry,” Richard croaked.
“Good. I offer you the chance to fight against the usurper. But you must want that with all your heart. You must be willing to leave your body behind. I cannot work this enchantment without your desire for it.”
Richard regarded her, considering her proposition. “There is nothing I desire more than revenge against Henry, even if I have to get it as a ghost.”
Feeling the truth of his wish, Najia touched her left index finger to the wick of the first candle and said, “Battle.” A stream of light flowed from Richard’s chest into the candle, filling it with red. He looked down at the light and smiled. She touched the second candle and said, “Cunning.” Light streamed from one of his eyes, filling the candle with black. Najia touched each candle down the line in turn. Light flowed from Richard’s other eye, his mouth, stomach, genitals, and finally, his forehead. He did not struggle; he just withered.
Najia placed the candles carefully back in the box. Three were deep red, three were the dusty black of shadows, and one was solid white. She removed the torch from the wall bracket and paused, looking down into Richard’s eyes, which stared back with the peace of indifference, dead eyes in an emaciated corpse.
Jordan was waiting for Najia outside with their horses, still weary from his long, secret journey from Scotland. Najia pressed the box into his hands and leaned in for a kiss, relieved that they had made it this far and that, finally, the end was in sight. They rode back north toward the home of Robert Stewart, illegitimate brother of Robert II, king of Scots. Stewart was known to experiment with enchantments in his duties as Protector of the Kingdom.
. . . . .
After a withered, unidentifiable corpse was discovered in Richard’s cell, speculation became rumor, and soon a story circulated that Richard was alive and well and allied with Scotland. Newly crowned King Henry was determined to subdue Scotland before diverting resources to put down Art’s Irish rebellion, a strategy developed by his trusted adviser Thomas of Arundel—who had quietly received it from Jordan back when they were plotting to usurp Richard’s throne. However, each time Henry’s army seemed about to defeat the Scots, a young knight would ride forth and turn the tide, a knight who seemed to glow with an inner fire, a knight whose fighting skills and innovative battle tactics were reminiscent of a young Richard, when he was whole in body and mind. The knight would not stay long—only so long as a candle might burn—but faith in him kept the Scottish forces energized. The myth that Richard lived would plague Henry throughout his reign, and he would never lead an army back to Ireland.
TWO MONTHS AFTER Najia and Jordan transported candles possessed by the spirit of Richard to Scotland, they departed the port of Stranraer in a chartered boat for the short crossing to the north of Ireland. It was a bright April afternoon; Najia put her arms around Jordan’s waist and kissed his neck, which was salty and wet with spray. Just ahead lay the Irish fishing village of Larne and, beyond that, home.
“Was this our last war, do you think?” she asked. “I’ve missed Ireland, though not our underground cave. It’s time for us to find a true home.”
“So long as it can hold all my books. Do you think my library missed me?”
A brown hawk circled the mast, calling down to them, and then flew toward shore.
Reaching the wharf, they disembarked to find Liam and Rhoswen waiting. Jordan was surprised to find Rhoswen holding an infant. “Yours?” he asked Liam, as Rhoswen let Najia hold the baby.
“Ours,” replied Liam, smiling at Rhoswen.
“He’s beautiful,” said Najia, looking tenderly at the baby now cradled in her arms. “More Sidhe than human, I think.”
“A splash of human blood will surely help him in this increasingly Christian world,” said Rhoswen.
“His name is Lasair. We named him after Brigid; her birth name was Lisir,” added Liam. But the women were not listening. They had wandered off the wharf, cooing and playing with the baby. Jordan stared after Najia, enchanted by the sight of her with a child.
“You don’t have to say it,” said Jordan.
“It’s time you had one of your own.” Liam said it anyway.
“You’re right,” said Jordan. “I’m just waiting on Najia to agree. Perhaps she will now that we don’t need to hide belowground.”
They followed Rhoswen and Najia, Jordan savoring wisps of Irish Ardor. Liam, understanding, walked silently beside him.
“What news of Aisling?” Jordan finally asked. “Are you still checking on her?”
“She hasn’t been seen since Richard’s aborted return.”
. . . . .
In the light of the next full moon, John Cooper was awakened by a pounding on his door. On his doorstep was a dark-skinned woman, who said her name was Najia, claiming to have news of his missing wife. She urged him to grab his ax and follow. Deep in a wood, they joined a Gallowglass and a Sicilian who were already hacking at the tough, dense knot of branches on a strange, dead tree. There was another woman helping who he suspected was a Sidhe. After an hour of intense effort, they were able to pull Aisling’s mangled body out. John gave them the privacy they requested to say their pagan rites over her, but then they avoided his questions, leaving him to bear his wife home alone. Her body was so broken that he did not notice the fresh cut where her heart had been removed.
The priest prohibited John from burying Aisling in consecrated ground before he could even ask, but John knew she would not have found rest there anyway, and he found a beautiful meadow for her grave. He did not delude himself, thinking he had loved her, but he wished her peace in her afterlife, a peace he had never known her to have in this life. It was Deirdre he loved, deliberately forgetting she was not his own daughter.
When his company had been dissolved, the men ordered back to
England, he had planned to take her with him. At that time Aisling had long since disappeared, and he thought her dead. However, when the time came to go, he could not bear the thought of parting Deirdre from her homeland, so he had stayed and bought an inn.
Now John stood in the meadow watching a plain coffin being lowered into a hole, while five-year-old Deirdre clutched his pant leg from behind. The gravediggers began shoveling dirt onto Aisling’s coffin, and the mourners—all hired, as Aisling had no friends—tapped a cask and filled their cups. As the ritual toasts to commemorate the dead commenced, a brown hawk landed in the grass behind the group. It stood watching Deirdre until she turned, meeting its eyes. Unnoticed by John, she let go and took a few cautious steps toward the bird. It hopped away. She took quicker steps. It stayed out of reach. Soon they were in the trees.
Deirdre watched as the hawk stretched into a woman. Rhoswen picked up her cloak, which she had left folded on the ground with her other clothes, and wrapped it around herself.
“Were you a real bird?” exclaimed Deirdre.
“Don’t be scared. I am an old acquaintance of your mother.”
“I’m not scared. I know you won’t hurt me.”
“And how do you know that?”
Deirdre drew her shoulders up in an exaggerated shrug. “How’d you become a bird?”
“Did it look like fun?”
Deirdre nodded vigorously. “Show me how to do it.”
“Well, that’s my special skill. It may not be yours,” replied Rhoswen. “Didn’t your mother teach you about such things?”
Deirdre shook her head.
“Would you like to learn what your special skill is?”
“Oh, yes, please. Does everyone have a special skill?”
“No, but you’re not like most girls.”
John’s concerned voice came, calling for Deirdre.
“Whenever a hawk swoops down and brushes against your hair like this . . . follow it. It will be me, and I will teach you. Now, go back to your father.”
Deirdre hesitated.
“Go on.”
Deirdre bounded through the trees toward the funeral and was quickly out of sight.
“Was that really wise?” asked Liam, emerging from the shadows to join Rhoswen as she dressed. “I thought we were meeting here only to pay our respects.”
“Deirdre is carrying great power and has no one to teach her. She’ll need to learn to control it, or it may become a problem for her. Most of Ireland is safe enough again for a witch. Besides, I am sure the Morrígna wants me to watch over her. She conveys the bloodline of the Goddess into the future.”
They waited in the trees until the mourners dispersed, followed by John and Deirdre. Then Rhoswen and Liam approached Aisling’s grave, marked with a stone, not a cross.
“I’m glad we sought her body out,” said Rhoswen. “Not just to retrieve the heart but for her husband and Deirdre. They deserved the chance to say good-bye.”
Liam sighed. “In truth, I don’t know what to say or what to feel.”
“When we found her body, I sensed that her part in our rebellion had been fulfilled. Aisling must have done something for us that we will never know about,” said Rhoswen. “Whatever it was, I am grateful to her.”
“Then I will try to be grateful as well,” said Liam. “I should have brought an offering, to leave in the grave.”
Rhoswen took his hand. “I have a better idea. Help me protect her daughter.”
. . . . .
On Samhain, the last day of autumn of the following year, Eldan trundled into a half-built library and handed Rhoswen a stone box. She slid the lid open and placed Aisling’s dried heart inside.
“You are supposed to divide that between fourteen custodians,” rumbled the Grogoch.
“And which fourteen would you pick?” said Rhoswen. “That’s too risky.”
“Shall I sing to seal the box closed?”
Rhoswen shot him a look out the corner of her eye.
“How long until I have your trust?” protested Eldan.
“A millennium, maybe.” Rhoswen sealed the box with an enchantment of her own. “Is the slab ready?”
“Of course, but you should have let me make it bigger and mold a design in it.”
Rhoswen ignored his grumbling and headed out into the twilight. She and Liam had decided to make their new warrior school much smaller than his previous one, so they could focus on raising a large family. They needed to build the school away from Dublin, where petty lords continued to fight over the small area controlled by the English, and away from the loughs of Galway, where the occasional pack of Fomorians still caused trouble. This island, Innisfallen in giant Lough Leane, southwest Ireland, fit their needs perfectly. As it did for Jordan and Najia, who were constructing the library. They intended to continue studying and experimenting, seeking ways to preserve the Ardor of Ireland and encouraging the last of the Sidhe to remain.
Eldan lumbered after Rhoswen. “Have you heard the latest Aisling myth?”
“I want to hear,” said Najia, joining them on a path toward the center of the island.
“It maintains that her ghost still travels Ireland. Appearing solid, it seduces a new man every night, only to kill him in the morning. Christian wives in Dublin are telling it to their husbands to stop them from bedding Irish girls,” rumbled Eldan.
Najia laughed. “How do you hear these stories?”
“From the stones of their inns. Some still talk to me,” replied Eldan.
“Any ghosts about for Samhain?” asked Najia.
“Only one,” replied Rhoswen.
The last of the sunlight had disappeared when they arrived at an opening in the trees, too small to be called a clearing, where Liam and Jordan awaited them with lit torches. On the ground was a small, rough stone slab with a square hole. Rhoswen knelt down, slid the box she’d been carrying into the slab, and bound it there by tracing a symbol on the stone. The slab then appeared solid.
“The heart will be safe here until it is needed,” she avowed to her friends, to herself, and to the Morrígna.
An apparition in the shape of a swan circled overhead, shining in the torchlight.
Epilogue
And I, the Sage, declare the grandeur of his radiance in order to frighten and terrify all the spirits of the ravaging angels and the bastard spirits [Nephilim], demons, Lilith, owls and jackals, and those who strike unexpectedly to lead astray the spirit of knowledge.
—Dead Sea Scroll 4Q510–511, Fragment 1 (circa 300 BCE)
A Ferry on the Irish Sea
2016, The Night Before Sara Hill’s Body Was Found
Exhausted from the prior sleepless night hunched over her grandmother’s secret cache of photographs and translations of the Qumran Scrolls, Sara Hill had splurged and taken a single cabin on the ferry to Ireland. But it was no use; she was too anxious to sleep. Worries for her grandmother’s safety, coupled with images of Nephilim, swirled through her restless mind. Still fully dressed, she rose from the bunk. Through her porthole she saw that the lights of Liverpool had receded, and now only the yellow lights of the ferry danced upon the dark waves. The ship began to roll as a wind blew in. Sara decided to go topside for some fresh air.
She pulled on her coat and tucked her leather satchel, laden with her grandmother’s illicit materials, under her arm and left the cabin. A short distance down the passageway, she climbed up the steep, narrow stairs to the enclosed main deck. Here travelers without cabins had staked out territory, their sleeping bags rolled out on benches or clustered on the floor. Those still awake, mostly young, played cards or read. Sara wove through the crowd and pushed open the heavy bulkhead door to the outside walkway. The cold, salt wind mussed her hair and cut through her wool coat, but it felt good all the same. It cleared her mind. Alone on the walkway, she leaned against the rail and looked out into the dark.
She had thought she was alone. Sara felt someone passing by brush against her shoulder and take a spot at t
he rail beside her. Sara glanced over. A woman turned and smiled at her. Grandmother? No, it was someone who looked like old photographs of her grandmother.
“Hello, my dear,” the woman said, as if they knew each other.
Sara took a step back. “What do you want?”
“You’re walking into a trap, my dear. A group of Sidhe are lying in wait for you in Belfast. They’re after what you’re carrying. And they won’t be pleased to find you’ve read through it.”
“Sidhe?” gasped Sara, clutching her satchel against her chest.
“A small gang of militants who will do anything to keep their secrets—Brownies and Leprechauns, mostly. Violent and unpleasant as they are, it’s understandable considering all they’ve been through. My sister never should have brought you into this.”
Sara took another step back. “Your sister?”
Something over Sara’s shoulder caught the woman’s attention, and Sara spun around. Behind her stood the most beautiful man Sara had ever seen. Terror commingled with instant physical attraction and rendered her breathless. He was a Sidhe; she did not know how she knew, but she knew. “What are you going to do to me?” she managed to whisper.
“We’re not going to hurt you, my dear,” came the woman’s reassuring voice from behind her. “Don’t be scared. I’m your grandmother’s twin, Claire. I know I look strange to your eyes, too young, but aging progresses a little differently where I have been.”
“What happened to you? Does Grandmother even know you’re alive?”
The Last Days of Magic: A Novel Page 38