Mac Brádaigh grinned into his mustache at this jibe against the competence of the druid. The old man’s extraordinary influence was, in his opinion, ill-deserved, for he held office by puppeting the fear in men’s hearts, not by means of hard thews, military discipline, the courage to fight on in the face of agony, and red-blooded prowess with sword and mace. He could have knocked the papery old sage to the floor with a blow from his little finger if given the chance, like brushing off a gadfly, and relished the accomplishment.
“I have no reason to suspect they would mislead us,” the druid replied to his king. “Jhallavad Sanctorum is as eager as you and I to see Narngalis and Grïmnørsland brought to their knees. The northerners’ slide from proper humility is beyond endurance; with every passing day they lose more respect for the brotherhood. As for the fishmongers in the west, they are so barbaric they have never appropriately honored the Sanctorum. United under one ruler, they will soon answer correctly to the Tongue of the Fates.”
“Ah yes, the fishmongers,” said Uabhar. “When I, as High King, place a loyal son on every throne in Tir, the Grïmnørslanders will hardly be able to argue, for their new ruler will be wedded to Thorgild’s daughter. Besides, if they do rise against me, the wench will become my hostage.”
“Your most royal sons, my Liege—have they yet been informed of the great plan?” asked Mac Brádaigh.
“Of course not. They know naught of any of this. I do not judge them ready, thus far. When all is assuredly under way and there can be no turning back, then I will apprise them of it; perhaps young Fergus will be first to know. They will all obey me, oh yes, but sometimes their qualms can provoke me to impatience. Gearnach, too—he shall not be told until the last moment, lest he become confused, to the detriment of his prowess on the battlefield.”
Triumphant at this reminder of his special status in the king’s eyes, Mac Brádaigh inclined his head reverentially and murmured, “I am honored my lord condescends to admit his humble servant into his confidence.” Deeming this to be an opportune moment to broach an equally complicated matter of politics, he said, “Your Majesty, it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your subjects continue to vent their dissatisfaction about the increased frequency of Marauder attacks.”
Uabhar’s brows shot up. “But how appalling!” he barked. Then he broke into guffaws, saying, “You have done well, my man, you and that stealthy lieutenant of yours. The bandits eat out of our hands like tame dogs, striking where and when we tell them. Let the peasants be afraid! We shall be forced to raise taxes again, if they beg for armed protectors.”
“Taxes to pay the costs of future war,” the primoris commented dryly, “and worth many times more than it cost in lives and trouble to strike deals with the monsters. Let no man say King Uabhar does not plan with foresight.”
Mac Brádaigh said, “My lords, some of the villagers are saying they would rather arm themselves and protect their own domiciles than be subject to higher taxes.”
“Discover their names.” The king smiled again. Under his breath, so softly that his words were barely audible to his advisors, he murmured, “There will be no complaints when I am High King of Tir.” Louder he said, “Virosus, do your druids continue to search for interesting simples? I remain favorably struck by the galenical mixture you call shapemind. It seems to be having the desired effect on our guest.”
“Ah, yes, a blend of powdered seed of thorn-apple, mawseed and dwale,” the old man said, as if reciting a favorite poem, “lythcorn and hennebelle, feltwyrt and pipeneale. A pinch of wolfsbane, the same of hemlock and hellebore; two measures of sowthistle and dried celandine . . .”
Mac Brádaigh said chattily, “Thorn-apple, eh my lord Virosus? I have heard that robbers spike the beer of their intended victims with thorn-apple, reducing them to witless idiots, unable to defend themselves.”
“Well, well,” was the druid’s only response. He turned his shoulder to the High Commander and addressed his king. “The search for useful medicines proceeds apace. Of late the Sanctorum has interviewed a young apothecary from the Lake District. He has discovered a certain plant, the leaves of which produce a particularly potent effect when smoked or otherwise inhaled.”
“A lethal effect perhaps?” Uabhar asked.
“Nay, not lethal. The fumes cause irresistible drowsiness. This herb might be used to numb the pain of soldiers hurt in battle and facilitate the healing of their injuries, so that wounded fighting-men might sooner be returned to the fray.”
“If such substances fell into the wrong hands they might be used against us,” said the king, fidgeting. “We must ensure all newfound wisdom is kept secret!”
“You may be sure of that,” replied the druid, lacing his hands in front of his thin chest. A chill draught moaned at the windows and sent currents to flutter the tapestries. The aged man pulled his robes closer about his coat-hanger shoulders. “Curse the north wind!” he muttered in septic tones.
“I do not curse it,” said Uabhar, jumping up and striding across the room to stare out of the window. “I care so little about it that when I rule Tir I shall take King’s Winterbourne as my abode. Though the bitter north wind blows through its streets, the capital of Narngalis is well constructed. I like it better than this red city. From Warwick’s castle I shall found a dynasty.”
“Many will oppose you for a long while after the war is won,” the druid said.
“Those who stand against me,” Uabhar replied, turning to face him, “shall be cruelly punished. Oh, depend upon it, I can be quite inventive.”
Even the pitiless and unimaginative druid winced at the recollection of some of Uabhar’s punitive inventions. “Speaking of wind and weather,” he said, changing the subject, “never forget that Ellenhall stands in the way of your annexing Narngalis. The weathermasters are a power to be reckoned with, and loyal to their sovereign. When war begins they will stand against us, alongside Warwick. Their weapons are formidable indeed—we cannot match their bolts and gales and fires. You know you could never win in outright battle against them.”
“Fortunately the air-blowers are sworn never to wield the brí directly against their fellow mortals,” said the soldier.
“Unless in defense of lives,” the druid appended smoothly. “In any event, doubtless they would soon be forsworn, like many a man before them.”
“Of course they will break their oath, or claim it is in defense of lives that they throw storms at us,” Uabhar said with irritation, “for they are duplicitous scoundrels.” Toying with a silver candle-snuffer he had picked up from a sideboard, he went on, “The puddlemakers, with their independence and considerable influence, have always posed a threat to the stability of government. Some fools amongst the common populace view them as challengers to the Sanctorum; indeed, even as rivals to the Crown. We are all agreed that they block our path to success. Virosus, your secundi are having success with their new assignment, I presume? They are swiftly learning to predict and control the weather so that we may take over when we have put the puddlers out of the picture?”
“It is no small task as of course Your Magniloquence knows,” the druid said, pursing his lips primly, “but they and their subordinates are directing all effort towards developing the necessary solutions.”
Mac Brádaigh, who was once again standing to attention beside his chair, said, “My Lord Primoris, the fog-gatherers have been thorns in the side of the Sanctorum for years, have they not? You would fain see their power diminished in Tir, would you not?”
“They undermine the teachings of the Fates,” replied the old druid, “with their worship of the elements.”
“Worship?” echoed Mac Brádaigh. “I had not heard that they actually venerate water and the other constituents of weather.”
“Near enough.”
“But their appreciation of water is not a creed.”
The Tongue of the Fates fastened his heavy-lidded stare upon the soldier. “Of course not, Mac Brádaigh. Even they know that
there is only one true creed.”
The druid and the soldier eyed one another with mutual dislike. Both smiled politely, and the latter dipped his head in a perfunctory bow, ostensibly of respect to the supreme hierophant of the Sanctorum.
“My Liege, if I may venture to say so,” Mac Brádaigh said to the king, “they ought to be rendered powerless before we make our first move.”
“Yet to do so without public approval would turn the populace against our cause,” said Uabhar, “which risks insurrection, or even some attempt at a military coup. The status of the weathermasters must first be abrogated, their authority invalidated! I have already sowed the first seeds of a venture to topple the weathermasters from their pedestal of public esteem. My assistants Gobetween and the Scandalmaster have been busy. No doubt you have both been audience to the first whispered fruitings of the crop.”
“Indeed, my Liege!” Mac Brádaigh answered briskly, saluting his king.
The druid imperius lengthened his mouth like a well-fed cat, and inclined his tonsured head. “Indeed.”
“And after the mighty have fallen,” said Uabhar, “they shall be swept away like dung before a rake.”
Shortly thereafter, the three men vacated the conference chamber. Uabhar strode along one of the lofty galleries of his palace, flanked by Virosus to his right and Mac Brádaigh to his left, the sage matching the pace of his younger companions with surprising ease. This trio swung around a corner and continued down a second arcade, at right angles to the first. Courtiers scurried in their wake, keeping at a respectful distance so that they would not be accused of eavesdropping, the penalty for which was execution.
From beyond the walls of the palace, the breeze brought the high, thin jangle of a bell, and a far-off voice: one of the town criers shouting the latest news. Uabhar cocked his head to one side and skidded to a halt, as if listening. Stopping in their tracks, the druid and the soldier observed the king. A kind of radiance, as of revealed knowledge, appeared to dawn on their lord’s broad brow.
“You have been inspired, perhaps?” the primoris said sourly, his bald pate shining in the illumination from the arched window by which the three dignitaries stood.
“I believe so,” the king said smugly. “I believe so! Never fear, Virosus, there will be no need for outright battle against the weathermasters. There is more than one way to vanquish an enemy. Soon the wheels will be set in motion!”
“Perhaps you will enlighten me as we walk on.”
“And perhaps not. You have enough of your own business to mind, Primoris, without minding mine.” When the druid scowled, Uabhar bridled, adding, “I am only being considerate for your comfort.”
The three continued on their way, their plotting temporarily abated.
At the conclusion of his three-week sojourn at Cathair Rua, King Chohrab Shechem II departed for his palace in the south, accompanied by Queen Parvaneh and their six daughters. High Commander Mac Brádaigh and several other high-ranking officers made the journey with the royal family, to provide assistance—as a token of friendship and alliance between the two realms—in readying the army of Ashqalêth for future conflict. An emissary from the druid primoris would follow the same route within seven days, bearing lavish gifts and even more lavish words of advice, selective truth and exaggerations to the Sanctorum of Jhallavad.
The evening after the departure of the primoris’s emissary, Queen Saibh was seated in the royal family’s dining room. She was embroidering a cambric pillowcase for her husband while waiting for him to arrive so that dinner might be served. The room was gorgeously decorated; rosewood paneling lined the walls, glistening with dark polish. So delicate were the queen’s features that they resembled a shell cameo sculpted against the background of carved furniture, tapestry hangings and heavy draperies of red velvet.
A nightingale huddled in a gilded cage suspended from a hook, perhaps dreaming of freedom in leafy woodlands he had never known. Upon a long couch near the fireplace lay the old queen, the mother of Uabhar, clothed all in black. At the age of seventy-five she was completely insane, and stared vacantly at the flames bouncing in the hearth.
Recently Uabhar had ordered new weapons and a shield struck for his personal use, and these were displayed prominently on the end wall, in pride of place. No expense or effort had been spared in the forging of the arms. “Behold the symbols of the power of Slievmordhu,” Uabhar had told his sons upon exhibiting them for the first time. “They are the best in Tir, the finest ever made. You shall learn their names.” Holding them up one by one, he pronounced, “My shield, Ocean; my knife, Victorious; my spear Slaughter, and my sword Gorm Glas, the blue-green.” His sons had hearkened respectfully to their father’s words, as they had been taught all their lives.
The four princes of Slievmordhu, having recently returned from their travels, gathered for the evening meal. First came Kieran, the eldest, crown prince. His thicket of dark brown hair, unkempt and straggling past his shoulders, was worn loose; only the tresses at the front had been caught up and tied in a knot at the back of his head to keep them out of the way. Ronin—second in birth order—was also the second to appear. After Ronin, Cormac entered, and after Cormac the youngest, Fergus. After entering the dining room they greeted their mother, kneeling before her and kissing her hand. They went next to their wizened, bejeweled grandmother and made their obeisance to her, although she had no idea who they were or what they were doing.
In the dining room, the family waiting for King Uabhar conversed in subdued tones. Kieran, Ronin and Cormac stood apart from their mother and younger brother. Their discussion centered around their country’s penal system and taxation laws. To question these policies at all implied criticism of their father, so the princes kept an eye on young Fergus, for if he overhead such a conference he would trumpet the news to Uabhar without a qualm, and it was their ardent wish to avoid their father’s disapproval.
“Increased levies and harsh penalties are essential if this realm is ever to be free of raiders and felons,” Cormac argued in support of his father’s government. “Mercenaries must be hired to guard the villages. Would-be seditionists must be discouraged. You know this.”
“Yet the common people are hard put to feed their children,” murmured Ronin, “without added tax burdens. And as for our harsh sentences—for convicted men to be flayed alive, why, only the most baneful of unseelie wights would mete out such a punishment!”
“I comprehend your arguments, Ronin,” said Kieran said, “for I too have wrestled with uncertainty.”
“Fie upon your doubts!” Cormac admonished. “Think on the Day of Heroes speech. There you will find strength!” Their father had made them learn the speech by rote.
“It is the exhortations of that speech that have troubled me most,” answered Kieran, “for I have always struggled with the idea that ‘obedience is an expression of heroic character when following the order leads to personal disadvantage or seems even to contradict one’s personal convictions.’ ”
“Sometimes I, too, find it hard to accept,” said Ronin.
“Our father would not make these edicts, were it not fitting and appropriate,” Cormac said reproachfully. “I, for one, cannot wonder at them. No loyal son could.”
“I wish I still owned the faith that was mine as a lad,” Ronin said, “for it is a sore trial to me, this new sense of uncertainty.”
Kieran nodded. “For one’s head and one’s heart to be at war—it is like some sickness. I shall strive to be more worthy.”
Cormac chided, “He is our sovereign and sire. It is our duty to support him without question.”
“You are right,” said Ronin, shaking his head as if trying to rid his mind of the detritus of folly. “Of course you are right. Our father is king among kings; his leadership is an example to us all. And yet—”
When her husband suddenly strode through the open door Saibh jumped, unintentionally pricking her finger with her sewing needle. She suppressed a gasp, and was soon seen
to be smiling as she welcomed Uabhar. Seating themselves around the table, the royal family took their meal; venison soup, roast kid, baked heron with ginger mustard sauce, capons dressed with a green garlic seasoning, veal in pepper gravy, rabbit in wine with almond milk sauce, and currant custard tarts. The old queen’s personal handmaidens served their mistress with a variety of dishes as she reclined on her couch, but as usual she took only a pinch here, a peck there.
“I trust, sir,” Kieran said courteously to his father, “that the meetings with King Chohrab proved to be both pleasant and fruitful?”
“Chohrab is a sly fellow,” said Uabhar, heaving a sigh. “Sadly, I am beginning to suspect him of belligerence. Lord Ádh knows, I am fond of my fellow monarchs despite the games they play, for I overlook faults in others, being as I am of a generous nature.”
“King Thorgild, at least, seems honest and upright,” said Ronin. “He is loud in his praise of you, sir.”
“Indeed and I think highly of Grïmnørsland in return,” said Uabhar, “as demonstrated by my promotion of your brother’s connection with Thorgild’s daughter. Nevertheless, Ronin, recall that you are yet youthful and have much to learn. When you are older, you will come to penetrate the subtle arts of deception practiced by most men who wield power. Rare indeed is the man of royal blood who adheres to high principles. My own family is among the virtuous exceptions.”
“Halvdan Torkilsalven is a man of high principles,” stated Ronin, almost, but not quite, challenging his father’s words.
“Of course!” the king replied lightly. A sunny smile played around his lips. “By all accounts Halvdan is a good son who honors his sire, and that is most commendable of him indeed. A man shall be judged on his loyalty to his country and to his father. Yet I daresay there is no family in Tir as fair and upright as my own. I have taught the principles of filial duty to all of you. You have been raised to be as straightforward as I am myself.”
“Always we strive to be our best for you, sir,” said Kieran, sincerely.
Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 16