Morrigan isn’t just a goddess of war, fertility and prophecy. She’s a woman with doubts, fears, passion and hormones ― as well as a kick-ass ability to turn into a bird. Awesome.
‘The Plain of Pillars’ is a war story. It’s about greedy kings and larger-than-life heroes. It’s about honor and betrayal. But mostly, it’s just about a woman doing anything she can to protect the things she loves.
****
Biography
L.J. Hayward lives in southeast Queensland. Well, she works there and sometimes makes an attempt at this thing called ‘life’. She’s had stories published with Eneit Press, Aurealis and Morrigan Books and is still working toward that editor-eye-catching novel. Like Robert A. Heinlein, she feels that writing isn’t something to be ashamed of, but she does do it in private and washes her hands thoroughly afterward. You can read her idle prattle at Plot Happens:
http://l-j-hayward.livejournal.com.
Linda Donahue
The Silver Branch
The hound bayed mournfully, refusing to approach the river. Aodhan petted it, wondering what had gotten into the beast. Then he saw the washerwoman.
A wretched crone hunched across the ford, frothy water rushing around a lump of stone beside her. Furiously, she washed a goblet ― Aodhan’s goblet, the amber pattern embedded in the silver a unique design. His daughter Bav had made the cup.
Aodhan waded halfway across, shouting, “Who dares steal my cup? Do you not know of me?”
The hag raised her head. “You are Aodhan, chieftain of your tuath.”
He moved closer. Her tattered robes fell about her bended knees and stretched long on the ground. Nearer now, he saw that the stone wasn’t stone but a man’s body dressed in dark leather, half on the shore, half in the stream. The corpse had worn his beard trimmed short and neat. What showed of his flesh bore a sickly pallor.
Recognizing his own clothing on the corpse, Aodhan staggered backwards, nearly slipping in the stream. Though he knew the answer, he asked, “Who are you?”
“I am she who sleeps on Mount Knocknarea deep in the Cairn of Maeve.”
“The Phantom Queen,” Aodhan whispered. The Morrigan. His steps faltering, he retreated to where his hound waited. “How do I die?”
“By poison.”
“Who would do me such harm?” he asked.
“Your death comes at the hand of one you trust.”
A poor death for a warrior chieftain. Death at a coward’s hands. Aodhan returned home, his heart burdened ― not so much by the knowledge of his death, but that someone would want to murder him.
He crossed the narrow bridge to the crannog, a fortress built upon an island of rocks. For the night he ensconced himself in his chambers, seeing no one, not even his wife or daughter. When he greeted the sun the next day, he wondered if he had bested the Morrigan, if fate had been averted.
Nonetheless, for a fortnight he refused to drink from his goblet and refused any food or beverage he did not prepare himself. Thus he survived until summer’s end.
****
On the first night of Samhain, his tuath always feasted, celebrating the harvest and a wealth of trade. Among Ireland’s many clans, none were as skilled at working with silver as Aodhan’s people.
“You do not seem to enjoy the music,” Dagda said, seated beside him. “And you haven’t touched your mutton.”
Aodhan took his wife’s hand. “I feel too thankful to be alive to eat.” He smiled, his words a half-truth. The image of his poisoned corpse still haunted his dreams.
“If you won’t eat, shall we dance?” she asked.
Aodhan escorted his wife amidst happy revelers. Not a one cast him an evil eye. No one appeared devious. But that was how a murderer must be, if he wasn’t to be caught.
So while he danced, he kept an eye on the table, remembering all who paused near his plate.
“I believe our daughter fancies that young man,” Dagda said. “She’s danced with him three times now.”
Aodhan nodded in the young man’s direction. “He’d make a fine alliance.”
Then his gaze fell upon a woman, tall and slender, not of this tuath or of neighboring clans. Long blonde hair fell to her hips. She glided like mist between the revelers. Her red gown clung to her, seeming to drip down her body and puddle over her feet.
As the woman moved towards the door, Aodhan kissed his wife and promised to return...hoping he could keep that promise.
He followed the Morrigan. Seeing her head for the river, he paused. A gift might appease her.
Aodhan ran to his chambers and took his best creation, a silver branch with filigree leaves and flowers. He ran after the Morrigan’s shadow, hearing the throaty caw of crows and wolf howls rising on the misty air. Her animals called to her.
Yet the Morrigan wasn’t by the ford as expected.
A lone white heifer plodded towards a sidhe, a passage grave, this one an ancient mound as old as the land. Atop the rise stood a dolmen, a portal tomb. The moon shone upon the dolmen’s massive capstone, making it brighter than the silver in Aodhan’s hand.
Singing, like none Aodhan had ever heard, came from the portal.
“I know you’re here,” he shouted.
The heifer reared onto its hind legs. As it straightened, it became the Morrigan wearing a white cloak. The hem of her gown trailed across the land like a bloody streak. She strolled beneath the capstone, neither shunning nor acknowledging Aodhan’s presence.
Aodhan quickened his pace. He paused but a breath at the portal entrance before entering the Otherworld.
There, the sun shone at midday.
The Morrigan, her hair as golden as honey, strolled towards a stout keep surrounded by a gleaming brass fence. A moat, shimmering like glass, surrounded her fortress. And a brass net hung from a frame.
“Have you another prophesy for my death?” Aodhan shouted.
The Morrigan turned her head, her neck long, pale and graceful. She swept out her arms, spreading her white mantle, its beauty so great it would shame a swan. A silver brooch, decorated with twisted gold knotwork, held her cloak.
Aodhan offered her the silver branch. “A gift,” he said, his voice softer, his tone less abrupt. “I have not yet died of poison. Might this old warrior have a better death waiting?”
“You die by poison,” she said. “But not today.”
Joy lifted his heart, temporarily. Would he live only as long as he was careful? That, too, was undignified for a tuath chieftain.
The Morrigan took the branch. “The craftsmanship is superb. Come inside. I have enjoyed the hospitality of your celebration. Allow me now to return the gesture.”
She lifted her hem. Silver sandals graced her feet.
Aodhan followed her across the narrow bridge to her keep. Inside the Great Hall, she placed the silver branch in a vase.
When she served him food and wine, Aodhan harbored the fear that perhaps hers would be the hand that murdered him. Yet no food had tasted better and no wine sweeter.
Sitting before a hearty fire, Aodhan said, “I do not wish to die of poison.”
“I do not write the fates of men.”
“But you can change them.”
The Morrigan remained silent, neither confirming nor refuting Aodhan’s words.
“Who would murder me?” Aodhan asked. “I have no enemies.”
The Morrigan extended a hand. “Serve me for a day and I shall reward you.”
Grateful, Aodhan agreed.
For the remainder of this day, into the night and until midday again, Aodhan served the Morrigan. He fetched water. He polished the brass fence and mended the brass net. He repaired the clasp on her cloak-brooch. He did all that the Morrigan bid.
At midday, she approached with the same silver branch he had given her. As she waved the branch, he heard a musical tinkling. Now, instead of three silver flowers, the branch contained eighteen crystal blooms.
“You have seventeen true enemies, Warrior Chieftain Aodhan,” sh
e said. “Whenever you wish the death of an enemy, speak his name and crush a bloom. Sometime before night descends on the day, your enemy shall fall.”
Aodhan dropped to his knees, clutching the precious gift. “May I ask why there are eighteen blooms if I only have seventeen enemies?”
“One of those blooms holds power over your own life. When you crush that bloom, your life is forfeit.”
“Which one is mine?”
“Only I shall know that.”
Then I must choose carefully, lest I crush my own bloom by mistake. Naturally, the Morrigan wouldn’t give him such a powerful gift without any risk involved.
The branch in hand, Aodhan returned the way he’d come.
When he strode into the village, everyone stared as if at a ghost. Some fell to their knees weeping. A young man who looked much like a boy named Keir ran across the bridge to Aodhan’s crannog. Dagda returned with the youth, weeping.
Dagda flung her arms around Aodhan’s neck, tears streaming down her face.
“What is the matter?” Aodhan asked, wondering if perhaps he had died during the feast, only to be resurrected.
She stroked Aodhan’s face. “You haven’t aged a day.”
Before Aodhan could laugh at that, he looked into Dagda’s beautiful blue eyes and saw the lines time had carved into her face. And standing behind her, he noted the boy Keir had indeed grown into a man.
“How long?” Aodhan asked.
“Nigh on three years, my husband.”
“Come, Aodhan. You must meet your son-in-law and grandson.”
“My what?”
“Our Bav is married. In your absence, her husband Fiallan has led the tuath. Now that you are back, he will ― must ― step aside.”
Aodhan nodded, knowing he was in no condition to challenge a young man. But if he must, he would; he would rather die fighting to reclaim what was his than die by poison.
Yet Bav had married well, the young man she’d been so enamored of at the harvest festivity...which seemed to have happened only yesterday. Fiallan welcomed Aodhan with a respectful bow, his words and manner showing eagerness to relinquish his power to the elder Aodhan. And Aodhan’s grandson was a handsome baby with Bav’s red locks.
That evening Aodhan sat alone with the silver branch. He hoped to never meet one of his enemies, to never crush a bloom and risk killing himself. But he would do so to protect his family.
****
The tuath celebrated Aodhan’s return with a feast.
Aodhan sat at the table’s head. Once the sun set and the invisible fée could stop their tasks to listen, the tuath gathered for Aodhan to tell of his journey, his immram into the Otherworld. So all could gather close to hear, Aodhan sat on the floor near the fire.
“She lives on a green island, her home the Crystal Keep. On a brass net hangs musical blades that, when shaken, produce such sweet notes as to lull a man instantly to sleep. From the moat, whose water is as clear as glass, she refills the Cauldron of Creation.” During Aodhan’s stay, he had fetched many a pail to refill the cauldron as the world continually drew from it life waters to feed the world’s trees.
“In the cauldron’s depths, the Morrigan sees the world, its past, present and future.”
In it, she had the power to add ingredients or dish out the soup, thereby altering the way in which she collected on a man’s fate.
“Is the island beautiful?” the arch-druid asked.
“There is only beauty,” said Aodhan.
At Aodhan’s answer, the druids nodded sagely, as if they, too, had visited the Otherworld, their nods supposedly confirming the truth of Aodhan’s tale.
“No death or decay,” Aodhan continued. “Every tree grows perfectly, without a misshapen bough. On leaving her service, I gazed deep into the forest outside her keep. As the light penetrated that lush canopy of crisscrossing limbs, I knew what beauty had inspired our own artisans, for the tree limbs made perfect patterns of knotwork.”
Throughout the night, logs were added to the fire so Aodhan could continue his tale. The mead bowl passed from lip to lip, oftentimes with a toast. When Aodhan’s throat tired, he waved for musicians to strike up a merry tune.
As Aodhan returned to his chair, he spied Pert near the table. The man, a grower of herbs, turned abruptly. He stood before Aodhan’s goblet, the one the washerwoman had been cleaning in the river.
A cold chill traced Aodhan’s neck. His hairs prickled as they had only ever done on the battlefield. Then, as now, they warned of an enemy nearby.
“Pert. Why so distant? Did you not enjoy my tale?” Aodhan laughed as if joking with an old friend...with someone who had been an old friend.
Old friends made the most devious enemies. That Pert would kill Aodhan by poison stung deeply and was more bitter than bad mead.
Pert laughed back, his timbre strained. “I needed to stretch my legs.”
“And now I need to cool my throat.” Aodhan grabbed the goblet and pretended to drink.
Wily Pert didn’t watch to see if Aodhan drew a mouthful.
For the remainder of the night, Aodhan watched Pert nurse his korma. Often Pert watched back. Then, as most of the tuath departed for their own beds, Aodhan slipped away to his chambers.
He removed the bundled silver branch, its blooms protected by a wool blanket. Staring at the eighteen flowers, wondering which was his, and thinking only that his odds were good, Aodhan wrapped a hand around one. Break a bloom and an enemy dies.
He felt the crystal against his palm. It didn’t feel like he held his own life. But how would that feel?
Gently, he squeezed the bloom, tighter and tighter, yet not quite with enough force to shatter it. Softly, he said, “Pert,” then crushed the flower.
Tiny crystal shards speckled Aodhan’s palm like snowflakes.
He felt no different. Did Pert?
Aodhan wandered back to the gathering. Only a few lingered, conversing. He spied Pert, staggering towards a tree, no doubt to relieve himself.
A wolf’s eerie howl threaded the night. A shadow passed before the moon, though not a cloud darkened the starry sky. All conversations ceased. Even Aodhan held his breath, noting the crackle of power in the air. As he thought on it, he realized he’d felt that same faint sensation thrice before ― by the ford, at the Samhain feast and on the Morrigan’s isle.
A shade swelled over the treetops and engulfed Pert. A flash of canine fangs, a snarled growl, and a single scream punctured the silence. When the shadow retreated, Pert was gone, nothing but scuff marks left to show he had ever been there.
Someone cried, “A wolf took him!”
Aodhan didn’t move. The Morrigan had come for Pert, not him. And her promise had been swiftly carried out.
Another familiar sensation thrummed through Aodhan, one he hadn’t felt since his last battle. That sense of victory and great power flowed through his veins, making his heart beat stronger. He had survived and an enemy had fallen in defeat.
Several men gathered with clubs and axes, ready to hunt the wolf. Aodhan led them, knowing they would never catch it.
They did, however, find Pert, his body shredded and gnawed.
****
In spring, spears usually fall as plentiful as rain.
Aodhan’s chariot carried him to the battlefield’s edge. Fiallan stood by his side. The Tuath de Turi had never been good neighbors or bad, only self-serving. Fiallan knew them better, his former clan having been troubled often by Turi and his men. Among Turi’s ranks were many who would rather steal than barter, rather kill than harvest. Turi’s kinsmen had left Aodhan and his people alone because the Tuath de Aodhan was strong.
Now Fiallan’s enemies were Aodhan’s, which, no doubt, accounted for many of the seventeen blooms...sixteen now that Pert was gone.
Turi stood among his men, as big as a bear for which he was named. He ran downhill, his battle cry like a growl.
The ground unfit for a chariot, Aodhan led the charge on foot. They would fig
ht in the vale between hills.
Turi’s sword met Aodhan’s. On all sides, men battled with sword, spear or wood axe.
Turi, younger and stronger, fought hard.
Aodhan’s muscles strained. Sweat ran into his face. If he was to die, at least it would be a hero’s death ― a fit ending for a warrior.
“When you die,” Turi grunted between swings, “I’ll have your land, Aodhan, and your woman.”
“No thief,” Aodhan wheezed, “will steal...what my kinsmen...have built.”
Turi’s sword slipped along Aodhan’s blade, striking the hilt. The blow vibrated through Aodhan’s hand, making the bones ache as they did when frost covered the ground. Aodhan’s grip weakened. He struggled to shove Turi’s blade, and Turi, backward.
Turi threw his weight into another blow and his sword cut deep into Aodhan’s arm.
Aodhan’s sword fell from his grip. Pain drove him onto one knee. With his other hand, he grabbed his dagger.
As Turi drew back, Aodhan stabbed him. Aodhan’s aim not as true as it had once been, the dagger cut deep into Turi’s side. Though grievous, the wound wasn’t fatal.
Turi staggered, his hand pressing against the gush of blood. Bloodlust flared in his eyes as he raised his sword, his arm quivering.
Keir stepped into the swing, blocking it with his spear. He was no match for Turi, even in Turi’s weakened state, and would die learning that lesson. Yet Aodhan’s fingers felt too cold to grab a sword. He retreated from the field, climbing uphill to his chariot. Carefully, he unwrapped the silver branch.
“I’d hoped not to need you,” he said, stroking a silver filigree leaf. He looked hard at the crystal flowers before selecting one. With his good hand wrapped around a bloom, he said, “Turi.”
The Phantom Queen Awakes Page 18