by Caiseal Mor
“The evening meal is about to be preapred!” the Druid exclaimed. “I may already be too late if the blood has become poisoned. Is the flesh torn?”
He gently lifted Aoife's wounded arm, carefully cut away the sleeve of her tunic with his knife and inspected the break.
“She is lucky,” Fineen sighed. “The king's only daughter may one day be able to swing her sword arm again.”
“Bless your wisdom,” Fergus offered.
“You will have to hold her down while I reset the break,” Fineen told the old veteran. “When I move the bone she will go wild with agony.” The physician took a large leather pouch from the belt hook at his waist and emptied the contents onto a low table.
The girl looked up at Fineen and blinked to clear the haziness from her vision. He smiled back, his white straight teeth gleaming against the tanned skin of his face. It was his fair locks that set him apart from those bred of Fir-Bolg stock. Few of Brocan's folk had hair as honey golden or eyes as blue as the tribes of the Tuatha De Danaan.
“You are lucky, Aoife,” the healer told her. “I have a good supply of herbs and extracts to calm the pain. And I have an expertise in setting bone. I would expect you to be using that arm again by the next waxing moon after this one.”
“I won't lose my fingers?” she asked with worry.
“Your fingers?”
“I can't feel anything in my fingers,” she sobbed.
“I'll see to that,” Fineen soothed. As he prepared his remedies the physician kept up a conversation with the young woman to calm her.
“How did you come to be out this morning?” the healer asked. “I thought we left you with your brothers at home.”
“We were commanded to remain at Dun Burren,” Aoife admitted. “But Sárán and I passed by the watchman before dawn and followed the warriors out here. In the early morning fog we became lost and strayed onto the battleground.”
“Fergus tells me you started a fight with a Danaan scout party. That would have been truce-breaking. It could have turned out to be very nasty, you know. Did you see any of my people?”
“Two of them. One fell over Sárán and knocked himself senseless. The other warrior appeared out of nowhere brandishing a bright blade.”
“Warriors of the Danaan are dangerous folk to cross. They are highly skilled and their tempers run hot,” Fineen told her solemnly.
Aoife tried to raise herself up on her good elbow as she replied. “I have—”
“Stay where you are!” Fineen barked. And Aoife was shocked at the change in his voice, which had gone from soothing and gentle to commanding in an instant. Hurt that he would talk to her in this manner, she sank back down among the furs without a sound.
“If you want to have the use of those fingers and that wrist in old age, I suggest you keep perfectly still until I am ready to set the bone,” he advised her more gently.
Fineen went over to the fire in the center of the house and returned with a bronze jug of hot water. He poured some into the king's gold cup and crushed some bark into the steaming liquid. Then he stirred the water with his finger until he was satisfied with the infusion.
“Drink this,” he told Aoife and, handing the cup to Fergus, added, “Make sure she swallows every drop.”
A short while later the healer had finished preparing his splints and bandages and was ready to perform the bonesetting. He went to the furs and knelt down at Aoife's side.
“Are you feeling sleepy?” he asked her.
She nodded drowsily.
“Good.” He wiped the strands of copper hair from her face. “Sleep then. Sleep heals bodily ills and cures the soul of all afflictions. When you awake it will be the morrow and the troubles of today will already be no more than a fading memory.”
The healer watched the young woman for a few moments as the infusion took effect and she slipped into a deep, sound rest. When he was certain she had drifted off he turned to the veteran.
“Fergus, I want you to hold her down. If she starts kicking, you will have to throw your weight on her. If she becomes too violent she'll strain the break and I'll not be able to guarantee the recovery of her sword arm.”
The warrior nodded as he sat down beside Aoife, waiting anxiously for the physician to do his work. He need not have concerned himself. Fineen's infusion put the girl beyond pain and the healer's skill at bonesetting was such that she did not stir at all.
As the splints were placed around the bone to protect the arm from further injury Fergus stood up to take his leave.
“I've never seen a healer work like you, Fineen,” he said in awe. “The girl was hardly aware you were touching her. You are rare among the Danaans.”
“The break was not too bad,” Fineen answered humbly, ignoring the implied insult to his kinfolk. “And the tea I gave her was probably a little too strong. I'm not very good with guessing the right dosages for each patient.”
“I'll check on her this evening before the king returns,” Fergus said.
“They'll be back after sunset then?”
“Today was supposed to have been spent scouting out the best positions and discussing strategy,” the veteran explained. “But we were distracted. I don't expect to see them here before dark.”
“If she is asleep when you return, don't wake her,” Fineen advised as he gathered up his herbs and packed them back inside his leather pouch. “She may want to sleep until tomorrow night.”
“Would you have time to come and see to her too?” Fergus asked respectfully. “I would feel easier if you could. I would like to report to the king that all is well with her.”
“I will make time before sunset,” Fineen sighed after a few moments' thought. “I'll come after I've visited some folk from the nearby hillfort,” he added as he turned to face Fergus. But the veteran had already left to go about his other duties.
Chapter 5
TWO SHADOWS PASSED BETWEEN THE TREES AT TWILIGHT. No more than a pair of blue-gray wisps caught in the draught of a spring breeze. But they were not the last remnants of an early morning fog retreating into the woods.
And they were not ropes of smoke spreading out fingers from the campfires.
These shades were a favorite form of the Sidhe-Dubh, the fabled and once-feared spirits of the dark. A sharp eye might glimpse their human form behind the veil of enchantment, but most folk would never even notice them.
That was the nature of the Watchers, a gift given them by their lord and master, Balor of the Evil Eye. This talent for remaining unseen coupled with a prolonged lifespan made them perfect tools in the ancient war between the Fomor and the other peoples of Innisfail.
None of the Watchers had been a warrior. They had all been Druids tutored in the arts of law, music, poetry, history, healing and storytelling. Their weapons had been words. That is how they had spread discord between the Tuatha De Danaan and the Fir-Bolg to destroy their alliance against Balor.
Old habits die hard. The Watchers had been defeated so long ago their treacherous ways had become nothing more than fable, only half believed by most folk. And yet these two Sidhe-Dubh still plotted to get the better of their ancestral enemies.
“This morning,” Lochie explained to his companion as they moved silently through the forest, “King Brocan's three children were discovered trespassing on the Danaan part of the field. An undeniable breach of truce, that is. It will be interesting to see what comes of it.”
“How did these two peoples come to be at war this time?” Isleen asked suspiciously. She knew her companion could not resist interfering in the affairs of others.
“That's a very long story,” Lochie replied evasively, drifting away from her a little.
“Long stories make the best tales in my experience,” Isleen replied quickly.
“We don't have time for the whole thing.”
“Lochie, we have more time than we know what to do with. Tell me the story.”
“Very well then,” he answered as he turned to glare at her. �
�I'll tell you on the way to the king's tent. It's only a short walk.”
“Walk?” Isleen frowned.
But before he could answer he had begun his transformation. Isleen watched as a body took solid shape around the spirit form of Lochie.
“Walk with me,” she heard him beckon in her thoughts. “It's a beautiful night for a stroll.”
She smiled to herself and had to admit he was right. A few hours in the company of King Brocan and his court might be an enjoyable way to spend a warm spring evening. She began to weave a solid appearance about herself, and in a remarkably short while had taken on a new shape.
Isleen stretched her arms up to the sky and breathed deep draughts of air to fill her lungs. She hummed lowly, enjoying the vibrations spreading across her new body. But she dared not look at the world just yet. First she wanted to listen, breathe and hear her own voice crooning. Eventually she noticed a strange dull ache in her stomach and realized with surprise that she was hungry. She opened her new human eyes and before her was a dark-haired stranger.
The man smiled broadly. “Isleen, is that you?” a familiar voice asked.
“Lochie?” she whispered.
“Indeed, it is I,” he declared. He held his arms wide as his green eyes twinkled with gentle mischief. “Do you like it?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Won't this be fun?” Lochie teased.
“I think it might,” Isleen replied, mimicking his tone. She took a few strands of her own locks in her fingers to examine the color. “I am very fond of red hair,” she sighed.
“I am so glad you chose it. It's very becoming. And it reflects your true nature, don't you think?”
“You've met my Seer many times,” she scolded him, “and you've never commented before.”
“Your Seer has never been quite this gorgeous before,” he shot back. “So, this is the traveling Druid who spends so much time playing Brandubh with King Cecht? Little wonder he doesn't mind being defeated continually and then willingly gives a fine gaming set as a prize.”
“It is marvelous to breathe out in the open fields again, isn't it?” Isleen luxuriated, deliberately changing the subject.
“It is so good to laugh again too,” Lochie added, “and to feel your whole body shake with mirth.”
“The colors seem so much more vibrant when I have this form,” Isleen marveled. “And I'm hungry!”
“Let's go to the king's tent.”
“And along the way you can tell me the long story.”
“The long story?” Lochie countered as he wiped a piece of dust from his eye and held it up on the tip of his finger to marvel at it. “What long story?”
Isleen came close to him and put her arm through his. Then she pushed him forward gently and they started walking. “The long story about how these two peoples came to be at war.” She smiled.
“Why do you want to know that?” he asked her in mock innocence.
“Because I have a notion you might be involved somehow.”
“Myself?” Lochie gasped. “I merely took advantage of circumstances as they arose. In truth I have had no part but as an occasional observer of this little tale.”
“Just tell me how it happened.” Isleen groaned.
“How what happened?”
“The war.”
“I'll give you the quick version,” he conceded, lowering his voice to a whisper. “When Cecht submitted to Brocan five seasons ago, the Brehon judges decreed that the Danaan king's youngest son Fearna would go into fosterage at Brocan's court.”
“Why did Cecht give in so easily to the Fir-Bolg?”
“He was tired of the war. The conflict has dragged on for generations, ever since the days of Balor. The Danaans have never trusted the Fir-Bolg since they entered alliance with our folk the Fomor in the ancient days.”
“They soon enough changed sides again when the mood took them,” Isleen noted with bitterness.
“The Fir-Bolg have inhabited Innisfail longer than any other folk. Brocan and his people are proud. They have never accepted conquest. And they continue to resist the Danaan domination of the Druid Assembly. But that is another story.”
“What part has Fearna to play in the tale?”
“Fearna was given over to Brocan as a hostage in the hope that his presence in the Fir-Bolg court would help smooth relations with the Danaans. The ploy worked. Fearna was not a strong lad but he had a good heart and a determination which the Fir-Bolg king appreciated.”
Lochie squeezed her hand to emphasize his next point and Isleen savored the sensation of being touched by another living being.
“Brocan is renowned for his stubbornness,” Lochie continued, “not to mention his bitter temper and his insufferable pride, but gradually he began to soften. After two winters the King of the Fir-Bolg was treating the young Danaan like his own son. Better, some said. And by that time Fearna had no desire to return to Cecht's court and the peace was sealed. So it seemed the Brehons had been very wise in their judgment.”
“Why would Fearna have been content to live among the stone huts of the Fir-Bolg?” Isleen scoffed. “Cecht is a good father and his halls are warm and dry. The Danaans want for nothing, whereas Brocan's folk scratch out an existence on a barren tract of land where even the grasses struggle to survive. Their houses are beehive hovels without even mortar to hold the walls together.”
“Fearna was content to stay because he had lost his heart to red-haired Aoife, the daughter of King Brocan,” Lochie explained. “Poor lad, there was never a more hopeless match. For you see Fearna was—how shall I say it?—an untried lad. Aoife is somewhat wiser in the ways of the world and she was very cruel to him. She manipulated him into several embarrassing situations. She goaded him to take foolish risks. And all for her own entertainment.”
“Did Brocan let her get away with this?”
“The king became harsher with his own children as the moon cycled through two seasons. The royal off-spring soon became quite jealous of all the attention Fearna was receiving. Riona, Brocan's queen, stood by her children but their father was unswayed by any entreaties for forgiveness. That was the beginning of the trouble between husband and wife. Before long Aoife's brother Sárán gladly joined her in her tormenting ways. And the little tricks they played upon Fearna soon became more dangerous and elaborate.”
“And you inspired them to their mischief, I suppose?” Isleen interjected.
“As a matter of fact I did not,” Lochie replied. “Sárán encouraged his sister to continue her ways and she took strength from his support. I'm going to be watching that lad very carefully over the coming seasons. He has a bright future, that one.”
“Go on,” Isleen gently urged.
“So one night in the middle of winter, when the snow was thick on the ground and sensible folk were seated by their firesides, Sárán and Aoife took Fearna to the forest with a horse and a jug of mead.”
“What for?”
“To get him drunk.”
“The horse?”
“No. Fearna, the son of the Danaan king,” Lochie answered, exasperated. “Please listen carefully. Have you not heard what happened? I thought you and King Cecht often played Brandubh together.”
“I have not been to see him for a few months,” Isleen told him crossly. The jibes about King Cecht were beginning to irritate her. “I am enchanting the Danaan ruler with short visits timed well apart. What were Aoife and Sárán going to do with the lad when he was drunk?”
“They intended to coax him into riding the horse through the snow.”
“I don't understand.” Isleen frowned.
“They wanted to watch him fall off.”
“That's all?”
“All they wanted was to see him tumble off the horse's back into the snow,” Lochie confirmed. “For a laugh.”
“A laugh?” Isleen asked in disbelief. “And how does this tale end in a war?”
“They got him very drunk. So befuddled he could barely stand. How he
got up on that poor frightened creature I'll never know. In any case, Fearna climbed on the horse's back, fell off before he realized he was in the saddle, and cleanly broke his neck when he landed.”
“Dead?”
“Sleep without breath in the frozen forest. Young heart unfettered now by the grief of the world. Strife will follow hard after you,” Lochie recited.
“A pretty verse.”
“That is how the Bard spoke the eulogy at the parting feast,” he explained. “It's quite good, isn't it?”
“One of yours?”
“Yes it is, actually.”
“Naturally the Danaan king was devastated by the loss of his son,” Isleen guessed, refusing to be distracted by Lochie's high opinion of his own poetry.
“Indeed so.” He smiled. “Apparently Fearna charmed most folk. He was a favorite child of Cecht. And the Danaan demanded reparations. He demanded the lad's honor price in full from the Fir-Bolg as recompense for the negligent loss of his dear boy.”
“But King Brocan was too proud to pay the fine, and so the two peoples came to be at war?”
“You are right. Except to be fair to Brocan he has no idea of the part his children had to play in Fearna's death. When the two mischievous siblings realized the lad was dead, they decided to say nothing about the incident. Fearna was missed the next morning and his body was soon discovered. They had made no attempt to conceal his corpse.”
“And so it was assumed Fearna met his death while riding alone in the forest, completely drunk on a jug of mead?”
“That's it, Isleen.” Lochie snapped his fingers. “That is precisely what happened. Sárán and Aoife kept quiet, and if they both came down with the winter chills, no one thought to ask them how they had caught them seated safe by the fire.”
Lochie sighed.
“When the matter came before the Brehon judges they decided the dispute should be resolved in a trial by contest. So here we are on the battleground of Mag Slécht.”
“And what part have you had to play in all this?” Isleen pressed.
“None,” Lochie responded. “I swear to you I have not interfered in any way. But that is about to change.”