Spirit of the Mist

by Janeen O'Kerry

  He frowned. “Spared us? What do you mean?”

  She took a deep breath. “You remember when he talked to us earlier this evening? Almost the last words he spoke were of Grania, of how he wished to go and remember her in his own way. We saw him walk into the mist. I thought he was going to fetch a drink of water. But he continued to walk across the campsite and across the stone border and out to the ledge…and now he has joined his queen.”

  Brendan closed his eyes. “I should have known. I should have stopped him.”

  Muriel shook her head. “None of us could have stopped him. Not for long, not forever. It was his wish.”

  “He was a great help to me, and to us all, in this place. He did not deserve to come to such an end.”

  “His life was more important than his death. And it was a very good life, wasn’t it?”

  Brendan smiled, his face clearly visible in the bright moonlight. “It was. And even now, I remember what he said to you. To both of us. You must try the mirror, Muriel. I will leave you alone if you wish, but try it you must.”

  She withdrew from him and turned away. “I did try the mirror.”

  “You did? What happened? What did you see?”

  “I saw… I saw the thing that I most feared to see. I saw nothing.”

  “Nothing…” He turned back to the mirror, reached out with one finger, and lightly touched its edge, where the clear water wavered at the brim. Brendan studied the water closely and then tasted the clear drop on his finger. “This is rainwater,” he said, “sweet and pure. Did you not tell me that your mirror required water from the sea?”

  “It was made so,” she said faintly. “But I still should have seen something. I should have felt something. The moon has never been so powerful as it is tonight.”

  Brendan touched the beautifully etched waves and leaping dolphins that covered the sides of the mirror. “This is an instrument of the sea,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” He caught up one of their small leather waterskins and raced across the campsite, allowing the precious contents to pour out as he ran, and in a moment disappeared down the path that led to the sea.

  Muriel waited in the moonlight for him to return. She tried not to think about her husband going down alone in the night to the edge of the water, to that wild and all-powerful maw that claimed Grania and Fallon and Galvin, and had tried to claim Brendan on the night she had found him—a night that now seemed so very long ago.

  She had saved him then, but could not hope to do so now. She could only sit and wait for him to return.

  The moon had moved only a little through the sky when Brendan reappeared with the leather skin of seawater over his shoulder. The instant she saw him Muriel felt a renewed stab of cold apprehension, for now she would have no choice but to try her magic yet again. She knew only too well that this time she would have no excuses if it failed.

  ’Here,” her husband said, a little breathless, and she knew he must have fairly run all the way. “This is what you need.”

  She took the leather sack from him and held it close to her heart, then stepped back a pace as Brendan lifted the bronze basin and flung the rainwater to the winds. With great care he placed the basin back on the boulders and turned to look at her. “Now. Fill it with the water from the sea.”

  There was no turning away from it now. Slowly Muriel walked to the rock, lifted the sack, and emptied the salt water into the bronze dish. Setting down the waterskin, she stood watching the mirror, waiting for its contents to still—and then, with one swift move, she closed her eyes and plunged her hands into the water.

  At first it was just cold, as had been the water before—but where the rainwater had felt smooth and clear and empty, the water from the sea roiled and swirled with the dissolved metals and salts and very life forces of the creatures that lived within it. As she stood with her fingers in the mirror, Muriel began to feel its life and power through her hands and arms and all the way to her heart.

  She opened her eyes.

  Now she looked down at the shining surface of the water; she saw the place that must have been uppermost in her thoughts—Dun Bochna. This was the fortress across the water, the place where she had thought to make a home with Brendan and rule beside him as his queen.

  In the mirror she saw a great fire blaze into life on the cliff beside the stone rings of the fortress. It was a bonfire consuming a huge stack of wood, with people leaping and dancing and celebrating beside it.

  “The Lughnasa fire,” said Brendan, and Muriel realized that he stood a few steps away gazing out across the sea. A quick upward glance showed her that there was a fire visible out on the mainland, though it was just a spot of orange light from here.

  It was the same sight that the mirror showed her. Muriel felt something like relief, something like returning confidence. This vision was not her imagination. The mirror was indeed showing her what was happening right now at Dun Bochna.

  “Your magic has returned?” Brendan asked.

  “It never left me.”

  Muriel felt the truth of the statement. Fallon had been right. It had been her own fear holding her back all this time. She looked down at the mirror again, tensing her fingers, willing all the power she possessed to reach into the water and show her all there was to see.

  “King Colum,” she whispered. “Show me the king…” and caught her breath as the images began to change.

  Now she saw the inside of the King’s Hall, filled with happy revelers at the great harvest festival of Lughnasa. The place was brightly lit with torches and lamps, and filled with music from harps and drums and with the laughter and shouting of brightly dressed men and women. All of them sat together at the feasting boards, enjoying the fresh hot breads and cakes made from the newly harvested grains.

  There was King Colum, young and smooth-faced, sitting beside an older, sharp-jawed man with long hair of iron gray and piercing, narrow eyes.

  “What is Colum thinking?” she heard Brendan whisper. He stood beside her now, gazing into the mirror just as she did. “How could he invite Odhran into our fortress walls? Would he invite a wolf into a pen with horses?”

  She caught her breath at the realization that Brendan could see the images, too. She had never heard of any such thing happening before. Only a mistress of the water mirror could see its messages—until now.

  It was no small bond that she and Brendan shared.

  Odhran reached out to clasp Colum’s wrist. They saw Colum accept a flat gold cup from the other king, who then picked up his own cup, and both men drank deeply. “Now we are allies,” Odhran said with a smile. Colum nodded and looked somewhat relieved, but there was still apprehension in his eyes. He took another drink from his goblet.

  “Allies,” said Brendan through clenched teeth. “There is no such thing as being the ally of a beast. How could Colum do this?”

  “Colum has not one attribute of a king,” Muriel said, “except his father’s face.”

  Together they stared down at the images in the mirror, enthralled by its magic, unable to look away.

  The feasting and reveling continued, but Colum remained subdued. He set down his cup and stared at the plates before him, seeming oblivious to the noise and color around him. Slowly his head lowered and his shoulders rocked forward, until he pitched facedown onto the table. Odhran slapped him on the back and then went on talking and laughing with his men.

  “He brings an enemy like Odhran into his house, and then spends the whole night drunk on wine,” said Brendan with clear contempt. “Perhaps it was the only way he could find courage.”

  “That is not wine you are seeing,” Muriel said. “Look closer.”

  Colum lay still as death on the furs. A thin line of saliva ran from one corner of his mouth. His eyes were half-open but saw nothing.

  One of his own men, the druid Loman, sat beside him, and at last the priest thought to have a second look at his king, who lay unmoving among the laughing revelers. He leaned over and peered clo
sely at him, and at first seemed to think that Colum had merely fallen asleep at the feasting boards. Most of the men in the hall would end up thus, but it was early yet, and the king was not normally the first to—

  “Poison,” whispered Brendan. “Odhran has poisoned him.”

  The druid, getting no response from Colum, at last rolled him onto his back. One look at the king’s face told him all he needed to know.

  He cried out, and the men of Dun Bochna leaped to their feet and crowded around their king. There was a short, tension-filled silence—and then the King’s Hall erupted with shouting and rage and the ringing sound of weapons being drawn. The feast was forgotten as the warriors of Colum and the warriors of Odhran brought the battle to each other within the bright confines of Dun Bochna’s hall.

  The images wavered and disappeared. Muriel lifted her fingers from the water and rested her hands on the stone on either side of the basin, hanging her head and breathing deeply of the cool night air.

  “They have killed him!” raged Brendan. “He invited them in, thinking to make friends with the wolf—and the wolf killed him! And not even in battle, not even with a chance to defend himself! The cowards fed him poison and he was dead before anyone even knew what had happened!”

  He paced across the moon-bright ledge. “How could his men have allowed it? How could they have allowed Odhran and his men to walk inside the walls and gather there like friendly cousins at the feast?”

  “Colum was the king,” Muriel said. “If he so ordered, they would support it—whether they liked it or not.”

  “I would not have let Odhran step within a day’s ride of Dun Bochna,” Brendan said. “You were right when you said Colum was no king. He was a solemn, gentle man who should have been left to his harp and his poetry.”

  He looked down, his mouth tight and his fists clenched. “This is my fault. If I had been there, this would never have happened.”

  Muriel straightened and turned to watch him as he continued to pace. “You must not blame yourself. You cannot change what has happened. You would never have left Dun Bochna had you any choice.”

  “I did have a choice. And I did leave it. And now Colum is dead and Odhran battles the men who once served Galvin, who once served me—and I can do nothing to stop him.”

  He turned away from the sight of the mainland and shut his eyes, his fists still clenching and unclenching in anger and frustration. “Once I had a king’s title, but no right to perform a king’s duties,” she heard him whisper. “Now I have no title…but I find that I cannot turn away from the duty, whether the people there ask it of me or not.”

  Muriel went to him, reaching out and trying to take him in her arms, but he did not respond. He stood rigid, trembling with rage, his breathing ragged and his face turned away from her.

  “Brendan, look at me, please,” she said. “In the morning we will return. We will offer what help we can.”

  “In the morning it will be far too late. We can only hope that the king’s men can defend their fortress and do not fall to Odhran’s evil will.”

  Taking hold of his hands, Muriel leaned her head on his shoulder, and at last he raised his arms to hold her. With a sigh of relief she took comfort simply from standing in his strong embrace once more…and then, as she looked up at him, she caught sight of the mainland.

  Her eyes went wide with horror.

  “Darragh! Killian! Wake up! We are leaving. We are leaving right now!”

  Brendan moved across the moonlit campsite with determined strides, shouting into the night in a determined effort to rouse his companions. Muriel hurried after him, trying to catch his arm, trying to get his attention.

  “You cannot hope to return tonight! The journey is all but impossible in the light of day. It is certain death to try it in darkness!”

  “A brighter night I have never seen. The sea is calm and the sky is clear. There could be no better time. Darragh!”

  The men were getting to their feet now, all of them rising slowly at the base of the rock face. “What is it?” asked Killian groggily.

  “We’re leaving. Now!”

  “Leaving…now? Why would we—”

  Brendan grabbed him by the shoulder and turned the man to face the mainland. “Look!”

  The entire group stopped and looked—and for a moment there was no sound among them, only a stunned silence. Then everyone began talking at once.

  “What’s happened?”

  “What is burning on the mainland?”

  “That’s too big to be just the Lughnasa fire.”

  “It looks like the whole of Dun Bochna is ablaze!”

  “It is,” said Brendan. “We’ve got to go now. There will be no reason to go later. Colum is dead of poison and Odhran now battles for the dun. We can only imagine what other evils Odhran and his men have done. There is no one to help them but us.”

  “I am not sure what we can do,” Darragh said, staring out at the spreading, bright orange spots of flames that were easily seen even from so far away. “We are seven men with only two swords and two daggers to our name.”

  “Seven men,” echoed Gill, looking around. “Where is King Fallon?”

  Muriel turned to him. “King Fallon has joined his queen,” she said. “They are together now in the Otherworld, and at peace.”

  The men looked at each other and nodded. “Then I am glad for them,” said Gill.

  Brendan moved to the water supply and carried two of the leather waterskins to a flat spot at the start of the path. “If you are with me, then get your cloaks and come to the boat. Gill, please stay here with Lady Muriel. I will return for you as soon as it is safe—”

  “You will not return,” said Muriel, dropping her empty bronze water mirror into a leather sack and closing it tight. “At least, not for me. I cannot speak for the others, but I have no intention of staying here and watching you travel away without me.”

  “Muriel, there will be seven people in one tiny curragh, trying to make a crossing in the dark and not knowing what might be waiting for them even if they do make it to shore. I will admit, I do not know which is worse—to have you go or have you stay—but at this moment, the crossing and the battle leave me cold with fear for you.”

  “It is long past the time when you can afford to fear for me, Brendan.”

  She looked up at the others. “You see what is happening right now at Dun Bochna. Do any of you wish to remain on this island while Brendan goes off to fight King Odhran?”

  After a short silence, she carried her leather sack to the start of the path and placed it by the waterskins. “That is what I thought you would say. Neither do I. Our time here is done, then. Get your water, your cloaks, your weapons! Get them now!”

  They all hurried to do as she commanded—but even as they worked, Darragh and Killian moved close to speak with Brendan.

  “I must ask you,” Darragh said, lifting another waterskin to his shoulder. “How can we hope to help Dun Bochna? As I said, we have two swords and two daggers between us. We have no other weapons, unless you count four oars and a cauldron. We’re certainly no army. What do you mean to do, Brendan?”

  “He is right,” argued Killian. “If you approach those gates with an army of six hungry, weary men—two of them unarmed, three of them never trained for a day in their lives in the art of battle—all of us will be taken prisoner or killed where we stand. And as for you? They know you by sight. I do not dare think of what Odhran will do to you, and laugh while he does it.”

  “You did not desert the people of Dun Bochna,” added Darragh. “They deserted you. If you lost the kingship, it was through no fault of your own. Do you truly feel you should die for those who cast you out?”

  Brendan dragged out the last of their tunics and threw it down on top of the waterskins. “The laws are clear on who may be chosen king.”

  “Laws!” Darragh walked after him. “It takes more than blood to make a king. I think we can all see that now. Colum lies dead in his ha
ll, fallen prey to treachery, while you, the outcast, plan desperately to save his people!”

  Brendan sighed and closed his eyes. “I thank you for your loyalty. But this is not something we can argue about. We must save Dun Bochna. And you were right before when you said we cannot march to the gates as if we were an army, for we are not. We will have to find another way.”

  He turned back to Muriel. “You heard what Killian said,” he told her. “Perhaps we can scale the walls without being seen. I must decide what to do before we are at the gates; Odhran is clever and has likely posted men there to warn him of reinforcements. Of course, there is so much chaos there now, nothing but fighting and flames…”

  Brendan looked out at the mainland again, at the orange spots of flame growing larger, their outlines ever more ragged.

  Muriel stood right in front of him and gripped his shoulder to get his attention. “I know you, Brendan. You want to ride in through the wide-open gates of Dun Bochna and save your people from an invader.” She paused. “Yet you know you cannot do that.”

  Brendan gave her an unhappy glance. “I know.” She saw him clench and unclench his fists again, but he waited in tense silence for her to continue.

  “So…if you cannot go as a king, Brendan, then go as what you are.”

  He frowned, staring hard at her with those strange moonlit eyes. “I am the son of slaves,” he said. “You would have me go to Dun Bochna as a slave? What good would that do?”

  “Not as a slave, Brendan. A servant,” she corrected.

  “A servant?”

  “Think of it. Any man marching boldly and openly through the gates of the dun, swinging a sword and having the manner of a king, would be cut down on sight. But who would notice one more poor servant running about in the confusion, trying to get his servant wife to safety?”

  “His wife!” Brendan stood up. “Muriel, you cannot think to come inside the fortress with me! You are right, perhaps. The best way for me to get inside, to get to Odhran, is to go as what I truly am—the lowest of servants. But how can you think I would allow you to come with me into such danger?”