Sending for Coran and his acolytes, Hundred Battles ordered them to return to the site of the bonfire and perform whatever rituals were necessary to throw up a screen that no foreign magic could penetrate.
At dawn Coran went to the site, accompanied by six younger members of the priesthood. They wore heavy robes of woven fabric, with great hoods pulled well over their faces so that no one could catch their eyes and seize their wills. In their hands they carried the most potent symbols—of hazel and ash and mistletoe—and as they walked they chanted spells in the archaic, forgotten tongue only druids knew.
The sky darkened with every step they took and every word they said.
The hillside with its burned branches and cold ashes was a lonely place. Coran and his troop circled it seven times, walking in the sunwise direction. From a little jug that he carried, Coran sprinkled water on the dead ashes of the fire. The water had been taken from a spring sacred to the water goddess, and used with the appropriate charms it was very powerful. Sprinkling it upon the ashes should keep any other druids from using Hundred Battles’ fire as a target for their own magical workings.
Lastly, Coran stood at the crest of the hill and raised his arms. Throwing back his head with its wild mane, he shrieked aloud in a voice that could melt stone. “Whatever you are, you are not welcome here!” he cried, “and if you return, the sun will burn you, the sea will drown you, the earth will open and swallow you up!”
Satisfied that he had done all that was necessary, Coran beckoned to his acolytes and they went back to their chieftain’s stronghold for thanks and a feast.
And in due time, young Connla’s fever abated and he seemed himself again. He was still not eager for battle, but his abilities were as outstanding as ever and the men followed him to new victories. But sometimes, when evening turned the air blue and a hush settled over the land, he did appear to be listening.
And one day his vigil was rewarded.
Returning from a skirmish at a ford on the perimeter of his father’s territory, Connla and his men were making their way home through an orchard. For several years this particular stand of trees had borne no fruit, being old and gnarled and weary. When Connla entered this grove he stopped suddenly and cocked his head, holding out one hand to halt the men behind him. “Hush!” he ordered. “Do you hear her calling me?”
“Hear who? What?”
“Be quiet!” he commanded. Then he smiled, for Blathine came toward him through the green leaves, shimmering like light on wet grass.
“You are hungry,” she said to Connla alone. No one else heard her; no one else saw her.
“I am,” he agreed. “We have come a long way without eating. But when I see you I forget about food.”
“Ah, you must eat,” she laughed, and with a wave of her wrist she suddenly held out an apple to him, an apple so round and plump it surely never came from the ancient trees nearby. Yet when he looked they were all heavy with apples. “This is for you,” Blathine said. “Eat nothing else until I come to you again.”
The wind sighed, the trees shivered, and she was gone. The orchard was as bare as before. But in his hand Connla held one solitary, perfect apple.
His men looked uneasily at one another. “Who was he talking to?” they asked. “And where did he get that fruit?” “Is there none for us?”
He was uncomfortable eating the apple in front of them, so he dropped it into the top of his tunic, and the belt around his waist kept it in place. But from time to time his stomach cried out for just one bite, and he withdrew the apple surreptitiously and bit a chunk out of it.
No fruit had ever tasted so sweet, so juicy. Yet each time he took out the apple for another bite he found it whole again, the preceding bite healed. He ate again, and again, and there was never any less apple than before.
When they reached his father’s stronghold the other warriors hurried to the feasting hall to celebrate their latest victory, but Connla went off by himself and feasted on his apple.
In time, of course, his father noticed that Connla Fiery Hair was not sitting in his customary place at the banquet table. He sent for his son and demanded his presence. Connla came, but refused both food and drink.
“He’s getting sick again,” Hundred Battles muttered to himself. “You over there ... fetch my physician at once!”
Declan the Healer came at the run. He felt Connla’s forehead and looked at his tongue, he put his head against the boy’s chest and listened to the solid, reliable thump of his heart. He even bit off a lock of the fiery hair and chewed it. But he could find no sign of illness.
“This young man is immensely strong and very well-nourished,” he reported to the chieftain.
“He eats nothing, how can he be well-nourished? I am afraid he will waste away, and if he does, hard times will come back to this land.”
Declan shrugged. “He does not look as if he is in much danger of wasting away. And he does eat; I saw him take a bite out of a magnificent apple.”
“Hunh!” snorted Conn. “Apples are not sufficient fare for warriors. I want to see that boy eating beef and wild boar.”
So he ordered his cooks to prepare their best dishes to tempt Connla’s appetite, yet the young man refused all of them, even venison simmered in wine and smothered with cream. But from time to time he was seen to take an apple from his tunic and eat a bite.
“That’s it!” Hundred Battles realized. “One of my enemies has sneaked a bewitched fruit to him and means to steal his strength that way. Send Coran to me at once!”
The druid listened attentively to Conn’s words, and frowned. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Whoever is assaulting your son with magic is a very dangerous enemy. A new enemy, because I cannot believe it is the same one that I defeated at the bonfire site.”
“Are you certain?” Conn of the Hundred Battles narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, absolutely. I cast such a powerful spell that nothing could overcome it. So this magic must come from a different source, and will require a different spell. But the fact that your enemies keep trying to get at your son is alarming.”
“It is indeed,” Hundred Battles agreed. “I want him thoroughly protected, do you understand me? I mean thoroughly protected!”
This time Coran took twelve acolytes with him, and they marched all the way around the borders of the territory. At every crossroads they chanted a spell; at every spring they left an offering; at every sunrise and sunset they offered sacrifices.
Coran at last returned, looking very pleased. “Your son is quite safe now,” he told his chieftain. “I am exhausted, of course, having worn myself thin in your service. But no magic, no matter how powerful, can cross your borders and attack young Fiery Hair again.”
“I hope you’re right,” Conn told him, though privately he was beginning to have a jaundiced view of magic, no matter who practiced it. He much preferred the straightforward world of sword and spear.
The next day the old chieftain observed his son closely. In the morning the boy ate nothing. At highsun he ate nothing. In the evening he went off by himself for a little while, and when he came back into the hall for the night’s feasting he ate nothing.
Hundred Battles was certain the boy had eaten, however. He had eaten that apple.
The only thing to do was get it away from him somehow, and the chieftain would not allow anyone but himself to lay hands on his son. So the next day he announced they would go to the Plain of Arcomin to observe a chariot race being held there, the two of them together. A pleasant outing for father and son it would be, in an atmosphere of high good humor.
Surely, old Hundred Battles told himself, there would come some moment when he could hug Connla and, under cover of the embrace, get his hands on that apple.
A great circular racecourse was maintained on the Plain of Arcomin, exclusively for chariot racing. The people loved this sport above all others, and even tribes at war with one another would come together peacefully on race day to contest their best te
ams and drivers. So a great crowd had gathered around the racecourse to enjoy the event, and there was much laughter and wagering, much embracing and backslapping and rough good humor.
Conn of the Hundred Battles scanned each face he saw, wondering which of them was trying to enchant and weaken his son.
Fiery Hair looked at faces, too, thinking to himself that none of them was the right face. This one was too plump, that too thin, the other too ruddy. One woman’s hair was too pale and another’s too thin. Blathine was not anywhere in the crowd. Yet he could not stop looking for her. He would never stop looking for her.
He patted his tunic and felt her apple safe inside, snug against his heart.
Conn of the Hundred Battles took his place among the other chieftains of major tribes, assembled to enjoy the racing. A high wooden platform had been built for them, and each man had stationed his personal guard near the steps, just in case. But they came together with smiles for one another and a great air of jollity—plus much boasting about the horses each chieftain had brought to race.
Conn insisted that his oldest and favorite son join him on the chieftains’ platform, and the others made room for Fiery Hair. They knew who he was; his band of soldiers had been making a name for themselves in battles against their own warriors. He was the new young weapon of Hundred Battles and must be treated with respect until his measure was taken.
Sitting among them on carved wooden benches, Connla was quietly observing them too. He saw men who were far from carefree, as this occasion was not a carefree occasion. No lighthearted festival, this race, but another way of competing and defeating. Someone would win but many would lose. There was a low, nasty roar from the crowd, which indicated the people were eager to see someone go down in defeat.
The race, when it began, was savage. The chariots were lined up wheel to wheel, and at a given signal the air crackled with whips snapping. Horses plunged forward with a mighty creaking of cart and axle. Charioteers slammed their vehicles against each other as they fought for the best positions.
“There is my team, the driver wears a blue tunic!” Hundred Battles exulted. “And look at that, he has already driven one chariot clear off the racecourse and into the shrubbery.”
The chariots thundered over the earth, creating a vivid spectacle. Made of wickerwork, they were decorated with painted shields and dyed plumes in brilliant colors, and their iron wheels had been polished to a blue gleam. The hubs of the wheels were set with curved blades, like scythes, and when one chariot got close enough to another, those blades could sever wheel spokes. As Connla watched, several chariots were destroyed this way in the early part of the race, spilling men out onto the earth. But the horses ran on and the yelling grew louder.
The chariots swept around the circular track in a cloud of yellow dust. Arms upraised to whip the horses emerged from the cloud and disappeared again. A cart suddenly shot out of the clattering herd, one wheel broken, and lurched drunkenly onto the grassy verge. When it tipped over, its horses panicked and kicked the wickerwork to pieces as the charioteer tried desperately to crawl clear before some other racer ran over him.
Hundred Battles and his fellow chieftains were screaming at their drivers, shouting instructions that no one could hear in the general tumult. The overall sound had become one great, bloodthirsty roar, with no single syllable distinguishable from any other.
Then, above it all, Connla heard a silvery tinkle of laughter.
He sat up very straight. His father had not noticed; no one seemed to hear it but himself.
“Blathine! Is that you?” He looked around eagerly, but he did not see her. There was nothing to be seen but the hysterical crowd and the horses sweeping around the last curve to the finish line, white foam streaked with blood on their satiny hides, eyes rolling and wild, drivers out of control with their desire to win at whatever cost. The air was thick with curses as men lashed their whips at each other, and the deadly scythes cut through first one wheel and then another, causing dreadful wrecks.
“This is a monstrous spectacle,” said a soft voice in Connla’s ear. “Come away with me and I will show you better games, kinder games. Games where neither man nor animal dies.”
Connla whirled on his bench and there she stood behind him, smiling down at him. In that violent, screaming crowd she was very small and fragile, yet no one shoved her. No one seemed aware of her at all but Connla.
She held out her hands to him. “Come now,” she urged. “They will never miss you.”
He felt a sudden warmth within his tunic where her apple lay against his heart. The fruit began to pulse as if it had a life of its own. A groan of pleasure escaped Connla’s lips and somehow his father heard it.
The old chieftain turned to look at his son. “What’s the matter, you’re not watching the race!”
Connla did not answer. Indeed, he was not aware of his father or the race or anything but Blathine. The two red spots were burning on his cheeks again and his eyes were unnaturally bright.
Hundred Battles felt a stab of alarm. “Boy? Boy!” He grabbed his son’s arm just as Blathine put one of her tiny white hands on that same arm ... and, for a moment, Conn of the Hundred Battles could see her very clearly. He looked straight into a face that froze him with terror.
Three
THE OLD CHIEFTAIN reeled backward, flailing his hands in the air as if to fight off some unseen enemy. The men around him caught him instinctively and kept him on his feet, else he would have fallen. Even Connla’s attention was captured and he reached out, trying to steady his father.
Hundred Battles was helped onto his bench, where he sat muttering to himself and wiping his brow. His son, concerned, bent over him. “What is it, what happened?”
“I saw her ... that thing that wants to take you from me. That sorceress, that witch...” He was very pale and his eyes bulged from his head. Cold beads of sweat ran down his face. Even after his most savage battle Conn had never looked that way. “Take me home,” he said in a hoarse voice to his son. “Take me away from here at once.”
“But the race, don’t you want to see the end of it?”
“I care not how it ends. Take me home.”
“Your home is with me,” said a voice in Connla’s ear. “Leave him here where he belongs and come to your true place in the Isles of the Blest.”
The young man was mightily torn. Her voice was tender and irresistible, and the kingdom she described was perfectly shaped to his heart’s requirement. Yet he loved his father, and the old man was all but helpless with shock. Connla struggled with himself for a long moment, then put his arm around the sagging shoulders of Hundred Battles. “I will help you, Father. Can you stand?”
“You are a good son and a kind man,” Blathine whispered in his ear. “I love you all the more for your virtues. Go, then, and care for the old man. I will wait for you. I will come for you again, fear not, my beautiful hero with the fiery hair.” Her laughter tinkled and rippled and faded away.
Father and son returned to their stronghold together, leaving the joyous carnage of the racecourse behind them. Indeed, old Conn’s chariot had finished second, but they did not know it. The youth’s thoughts were too much with Blathine, and the old man was weak and sick.
When they reached the hall, Hundred Battles had to be helped to his own bedchamber, where he collapsed with one forearm thrown across his eyes. “Stay by me, Connla,” he ordered his son. “Stay close by me.”
The physician was summoned, and hard on his heels came the chief druid, Coran. By that time Hundred Battles had begun to regain his strength and was sitting up again, issuing commands. As soon as he saw his druid, the chieftain told his son to leave the two of them alone for a moment.
“I have seen the enchantment meant for my boy and it is a powerful one,” Conn said. “If I were younger I could not resist her myself, yet she terrifies me.”
“Why? Is she so hideous?”
“Not at all; she is exquisitely beautiful. Too beautiful. She
is not mortal, and if my son gives himself over to her, he will not be mortal either. That is her attraction, I think; she wants to turn him into something like herself, not a warrior but one of the Undying Ones. The magic people, the fairy folk. They steal human babies and leave changelings in their place as everyone knows, Coran. And now this creature means to steal my own son from me as well, and leave me with nothing. He is the hope of the tribe and she wants to take him from me.”
“She cannot take him against his will,” Coran assured the old chieftain.
“Have you seen his face? He wants to go with her more than he ever wanted to be with me. Do something, do something!”
Coran the Druid had just about exhausted his assortment of things to do in such a situation, but the look on the face of Hundred Battles warned him he had better think of one more. And it had better work.
“We must call upon all the gods of war to stand by us, if we are to hold onto this young warrior of yours,” Coran said. “And the gods do not give their aid cheaply.”
“Whatever they demand I will pay. I cannot lose my son.”
Coran nodded. “Very well, then. I will order wicker baskets built and we will offer sacrifices, but they cannot be just any sort of sacrifice. No criminals you would burn anyway, nothing like that. A sacrifice sufficient to get the attention of the gods and command their respect must be something—someone—of value.”
“And that will do it?” Conn asked eagerly. “If I give you someone of sufficient value for the sacrifice, will the gods aid us in overcoming the magic that threatens to enslave my son?”
Coran nodded again, very slowly and solemnly. “I would stake my reputation on it,” he said.
“You have just done so,” Hundred Battles told him. “Now, name the sacrifice.”
“It is for you to choose.”
“A slave, then. A strong, healthy one with a lot of work in him?”
The Isles of the Blest Page 3