The anxious onlookers trotted back to their cottages. Aileen gave her brother another hug and ran to her mother. Lonan’s mother turned and left without looking her son in the eye. Other than Mother Ogma, only Branwen Quarry remained, clutching her sleeping baby to her chest. The young woman was staring right at Lonan, lip trembling.
“Branwen?” Lonan questioned.
She turned and trotted back home to her husband, wiping her face with her free hand as she walked.
Mother Ogma took Lonan’s arm. “I think someone has done you a great wrong there, dearie.”
“Huh,” he replied. For the majority of Lonan’s life, Branwen’s ruined face had been a reminder of how hated he was in the village. It had been a long time since she had looked on him with anything other than disgust. For the second time in as many days, the thought of Branwen threatened to bring a smile to Lonan’s face.
“Have you slept yet?” the old lady queried.
Lonan laughed. “Artemis’ beard, no. I don’t think anyone could have.”
“Let’s head back, dearie. I can tell you’ve got a story that I need to hear.”
Lonan allowed himself to be led back to the healer’s cottage, now feeling safe enough to let his exhaustion show. He mumbled his story to the old lady, certain that half of it did not make sense. Harlow was waiting for them in his sitting chair, staring glass-eyed at the cottage wall. Mother Ogma led Lonan down the cellar steps and tucked him into bed.
She stroked his forehead. “Dream of happier times, of a young girl running with you through the woods.”
As Lonan slipped off into unconsciousness, his last thought was: I hope not - there’s someone else I want to dream about.
The wind blew cold across the young prince’s cheeks. Adahy was crouching in the bushes in front of the shrine. The building looked completely different in the midday greyness, the once-foreboding tall doors now pathetic as they hung from their hinges. Congealed pools and wet collections of tattered fabrics and bones signified where guardsmen had fallen and had been eaten. Adahy stared at those piles soullessly.
What do my father’s remains look like now?
A figure emerged from the temple and waved. Adahy stood up, wrapped himself in his grey cloak and trotted forward.
“No sign of them, sire,” Maedoc addressed him in a low tone.
“Don’t call me that,” Adahy replied as he walked past the whipping boy. “The king is dead.”
Adahy had found Maedoc the morning after his father’s murder. The prince had remained curled in a ball on the roof for the rest of the night, and it had been a miracle no other Wolves had ventured up there. At daybreak, he had spent the morning making his own way down the castle walls, unheeded by the invaders who avoided the daylight. Maedoc had spotted him during his descent. The whipping boy had been just outside of the castle, wandering in the forest, lamenting the loss of his face. As soon as the sound of battle had reached his ears, he had made for the nearby river, using it to hide his scent and hid far from the combat. Adahy should have chided him for abandoning the rest of the palace, but instead had hugged the boy and sobbed his heart out to him. The pair had fled upstream and had spent all of last night huddled in a cave, fully expecting to be found and gutted. It was Adahy who had had the idea of returning to the temple the next day. Action needed to be taken - they would not remain undiscovered forever.
“I still think we should be heading to one of the villages,” Maedoc repeated for the third time that day. “They have defences built for this kind of thing, don’t they?”
“The palace had defences too, and look how that helped us,” Adahy countered. “We would only prolong the inevitable by heading there.” He marched through the ruined hall, turning over wooden plaques that littered the room. “They won’t survive long without protection. They need the Magpie King.”
“Well, we’re buggered then, aren’t we?” Maedoc replied. “Do you think we could reach the Mice by nightfall? Or the Owls?”
Adahy ignored the slave. He was busy studying the wooden wall ornament that he had turned over.
“My father told me I already know everything I need to become the Magpie King,” Adahy mused. “How was he so sure I had all the information that I needed?”
He looked over to his whipping boy who just shrugged his shoulders, absentmindedly rubbing the bandages that covered his mauled face.
The young prince eyed the plaque in front of him. It had been so damaged, he was unable to tell which story it was depicting. “When we were cowering in that cave last night, all I could think of was the story of Artemis hiding in a cave from the Web Mother.”
“Yeah, I loved that one. How she hunted for him all night, and was so exhausted in the morning, he was able to nip out and open her egg sacs without her being able to lift any of her eight legs.”
“Wasn’t that strange? My father had been killed, we were almost certainly going to die, but all I could think of was a stupid story.”
Maedoc shrugged again. “We do weird things under pressure, I guess? I was mostly worried about how bad I needed to piss, and if the Wolves would be able to smell it if I did.”
“My father told me that story, you see. Since I began to speak, every night until my thirteenth birthday he would come to me before bed, tell me a story of The Magpie Kings, sometimes even about Artemis, and would make me repeat it before I could go to bed.”
“My father told me stories too, I think. Pretty sure I didn’t have to repeat them though.”
“No. Looking back on it now, I don’t think it was some sort of fatherly ritual he was taking part in. What if there was something important in those stories he wanted me to remember?”
“Riiiight,” Maedoc replied, stalling. “Okay, how about this - why was he telling you about Artemis? I thought they were villager stories. We were always told that noble children had Magpie King fairy tales, and we had Artemis fairy tales.”
“They aren’t fairy tales, Maedoc. Artemis was a real person.”
Maedoc looked sceptical at this, but let his master continue.
“The nobles, the original Corvae, are not fond of him, for obvious reasons, but he’s still an important part of our history, and a key link between the nobles and the villagers.” Adahy stopped over the wood carving of Artemis stealing the Magpie King’s treasure. “Still,” he continued, “you are correct. Most of us were not told tales of Artemis for entertainment. So, why did my father want me to know about him?”
“Do you know the stone soup one? That was always one of my favourites. Berty told it that one of the key ingredients was a virgin’s first blood and Artemis convinced the carpenter’s daughter to give it up to him over the pot, in front of the whole village. ‘Course, that could just have been because Bert was a horny bugger.”
Adahy smiled, despite himself. “No, my father did not tell that one.” He nudged the carving again. “This one came often, though. Why was that?” His eyes narrowed. “Maedoc, when you were told this tale, what was the treasure that Artemis stole?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got the picture of a gold chalice in my head, but I can’t remember if that was what my pappy said or I added it myself. What about you?”
“My father always just used the word ‘treasure’. He was very strict about that bit, actually. I said it was a crown when I first repeated it to him and he made me say the whole thing again, using the correct word.” He indicated for his servant to have a closer look at the carving in front of them. “What do you think the treasure is here?”
The carving was very detailed. Set against a backdrop of tall oaks below the Eyrie, clearly identified by their thick trunks and the shape of their leaves, Artemis was shown running from the Magpie King. The Magpie King was flying in the treetops, wings spread wide and an angry look carved on his bird-face. Artemis was depicted with his traditional travelling cloak, sack on his back, and a sly grin on his face. His right arm was held forward as he ran, and in his open palm was a pile of…
; “Coins? I guess, yeah. Must be, but they’re a weird shape, squashed even. Bit of a shame really, because the rest of the carving is so good.”
“If you did not know the story, what would you think he might have been holding?”
“Oh, well, leaves probably. Maybe petals, depending on the flower.”
Adahy nodded slowly, pleased to have someone else confirm his suspicions. “Maedoc, I think Artemis stole the source of the Magpie King’s power. I also think that these carvings might be able to lead us to it.”
Maedoc cast him a disbelieving look. “Sorry, where the hell did that come from? Do you know something I don’t?”
Adahy nodded. “It is something I cannot share. I am sorry, my friend.”
Maedoc exhaled, looking back at the carving. “Fair enough. Don’t see how it helps us, though. There’s nothing else on this that could tell us where to go.”
Adahy nodded, the whipping boy voicing his own frustration. “You are right. Perhaps one of the others?”
“Artemis’ beard, we’re not in a position to mess around right now. It’ll be getting dark outside and we are right beside where those monsters are sleeping. Sorry, Adahy, but I think your idea is rubbish. The Artemis stories don’t have any distinguishing features for their settings. It’s always ‘a village’ he visits, or ‘a noble’ he tricks. That’s one of the reasons villagers like them so much - they get to imagine it was their own village in the story, or one of their rivals that gets screwed over.”
Adahy nodded in agreement, but then stopped. “Gallowglass.” Maedoc looked up in puzzlement. “Artemis visited Gallowglass.”
A grin spread over Maedoc’s face. “The one with the pigs and the farmer’s daughters? My pappy said it was Gallowglass too - I always just thought it was because he had a grudge against someone living there.”
“No, my father was very clear about the village’s name. The only time any of our settlements appeared, other than the Eyrie. Quick, find the carving.”
They spent precious minutes scavenging through the rubble and broken wood. The carving for this story had been broken in two by the invaders, but luckily the pieces had landed close to one another. The boys pieced it together again and studied it in depth. The centrepiece of the carving focussed on the blind farmer kissing three pigs goodnight inside his farmhouse while Artemis enjoyed the daughters in the sty outside. Adahy had blushed madly when his father had told this unusually bawdy tale, and was even worse when made to repeat it himself. The backdrop of the carving was a strip of thin birch trees that ran in a line across the artwork. Except for a single oak that stood at the left hand border of the carving.
“Look.” Maedoc exclaimed. “It joins with the first one.” Sure enough, when placed beside the carving of The Theft it seemed as if the two belonged side by side. “And check it out, the coins.” Maedoc pointed, and sure enough there was a pile of familiar items beside Artemis’ belongings in the artwork.
“Petals,” Adahy corrected, sharing a grin as well as his trust with his friend.
“Well, that’s it then, Gallowglass.” Maedoc stood up. “That’s where the source of power must be kept, right? What are we waiting for?”
Adahy stood also, but pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he mused. “That seems too easy. I can’t imagine a village would be a good choice for hiding something like this.”
As he spoke, his eyes continued to study the carving and the line of birch trees. The tree to the far right of the background tree line was bare, and the branches on it were considerably more gnarled than those of its neighbour. Adahy’s heart sank.
“Find those trees,” he commanded, pointing at the twisted growth.
The prince started making his way through the rubble, but Maedoc stared at the tree in brief confusion. After moments his features contorted to horror. “Oh gods, no...”
“Yes,” Adahy replied, returning already with the exact carving that he knew to look for. Sure enough, the backdrop on this one consisted of a line of twisted, naked trees. There were no people on this carving, just a single wooden cottage with a crescent moon painted onto the doorway. The hairs on the back of Adahy’s neck stood up when he realised that what he thought was a shapeless blob in the cottage’s window was actually a female silhouette.
“The Lonely Cottage. The Pale Lady.”
“No...” was Maedoc’s repeated response.
Adahy put a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder and shot him a reassuring grin. “Fear not, my friend, this is not a quest for you. It was made very clear to me that when the time came to claim my birthright, I would have to do it by myself.”
Maedoc’s face was a mixture of relief and loss. “But… what am I to do then?”
“Survive,” came the simple reply. “It could be that fleeing to one of our neighbours might be the best idea. Certainly, somebody needs to tell the Mice of their ambassador’s fate.”
Maedoc’s face creased. “You can’t seriously think you can do this all by yourself? A couple of days ago you peed yourself because your daddy didn’t come quick enough.”
Adahy’s nose wrinkled at this insult, but it hit upon a nerve that he was desperately trying to avoid. If father could not survive against the Wolves, what hope do I have?
Sensing his prince’s conflict, the whipping boy pressed his advantage. “I don’t have to go all the way. Artemis knows I have no urge to go anywhere near the Lonely Cottage. Maybe just as far as Gallowglass? That’s on the way to the Leone lands, isn’t it?”
Perhaps this would be for the best. Abandoning a wounded subject would not be the best way for a king to begin his reign, and he could not argue with the fact that the company would be welcome.
“To Gallowglass, then. We move now, though. Darkness is almost here.”
With that, the two boys exited the temple, heading towards the setting sun.
A tale from the fireplaces of the Low Corvae.
It was a time of famine. A great heat had battered the land for many months and the people were suffering for it. Lakes and streams that had been reliable sources for lifetimes no longer existed. Fruit and berries were small and hard, if they grew at all. Grass was dry, brittle and often brown. During these times, people became desperate. One bad day could be the difference between living and dying.
Three months into the drought, two kings met on the borders of their kingdom. One was the King of the Grasslands, leader of the mouse folk. The other was King of the Forest, the Magpie King. These two men met by chance where the forest gave way to the waving plains, and both were immediately drawn to the body.
He had been an old man, this corpse. Despite the obvious age of the deceased, his head was still fully covered in hair, and was shot through with confident streaks of black among the predominant grey. It was not the man’s hair colour that interested the two kings, however. In one hand, the dead man was holding a coin purse. The other lay close to a half-full water skin.
The King of the Forest licked his lips at the sight of the damp earth surrounding the water container. He had used the last of his supplies up on the previous day, and had ventured this close to the forest border in order to seek more of that precious liquid. He noticed that the King of the Grasslands had a similar air of desperation about him. Despite the king of the mouse folk’s fine clothing - a silken black suit wrapped in a fine moleskin cloak, the royal crest clear on his breast and a golden crown on his head - the Mouse’s eyes were wide and roving.
Only one of these men would walk away from the encounter satisfied, and the other may not live to see another sunrise. Luckily for the Magpie King, he walked into this situation with two secrets up his sleeve. The first was that, despite appearances, one of the two kings present at this scene was not a king at all. You see, the Magpie King had heard many tales of Francesco of the Muridae, and all accounts described him as an overweight, spoilt noble used to having servants fawning over him. There was no chance this was the same man. Also, as the King of the Grasslands had first stepped
into the open, the Magpie King had spied a long, hairless tail curl up from behind the man and hide itself under the moleskin cloak. The people of the Grasslands may worship the mouse, but only one of them had a tail like their totem - that was Alfrond. Alfrond the trickster, Alfrond the liar, Alfrond the exiled.
The other secret the Magpie King entered this situation with was that the remaining king involved in this encounter was also not a king at all. You see, although it certainly seemed that the Magpie King had appeared on his own borders - after all, he was currently dressed in a fine black outfit, protected by a mantle of thick, black and white feathers, and had a crown of finely weaved bramble circling his head - the man who was currently posing as the Magpie King knew that all of these items had been stolen from the Eyrie only days ago. That was because it was Artemis who was currently representing the forest in this dispute, not the Magpie King at all. Artemis the trickster, Artemis the liar, Artemis the exiled.
“Well met,” Alfrond greeted the Magpie King, bowing with all the trappings of nobility one would expect from someone of royal blood.
“And you, brother,” Artemis replied to the King of the Grasslands, matching his rival’s fine graces.
“It appears,” Alfrond began, “we have a situation here before us. This poor soul has passed on, and I wish to have his remains returned to his suffering family. The black through this creature’s hair is a trait of the Muridae. Your common folk have bushy brown hair that turns white and falls out when they are older, unlike this wretched man. That solves this mystery before it has even begun. Let me claim this body and its belongings and be on my way.”
“Ah, brother,” Artemis replied, “I do not believe we can solve this conundrum so quickly. It is true, as you say, that many of the Corvae have thick brown hair, but we also celebrate a great variety of peoples in our kingdom. It would be unwise of me to not allow this man to make his final rest in my kingdom simply based on the colour of his hair. Also, you fail to take notice of the garments this man wore,” he continued, indicating the simple woollen tunic on the corpse. “This is the traditional clothing of my people, and does not match the fine silks that the mouse folk clothe themselves in. I shall take this man and his effects back to the forest, and shall not rest until his family have been reunited with him.”
The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset Page 8