Of course, the councilor went on, almost as if he knew my train of thought, if both parties agreed to a magical combat in place of the usual display of skill, that was also acceptable. In that case the rule about reasonable injury did not apply. There must be no intervention in any challenge by any member of the conclave. Winners of each challenge would be chosen by popular acclaim.
It could be a fight to the death, then, all for the right to spend the next three years as Master of Portals, which sounded like a glorified name for a household steward. I knew the Fair Folk did not see things the same way we did; I was beginning to understand just how vast that gap was. There was a feeling like a cold stone in my chest. If this was so hard now, how could I walk out in the open and confront Mac Dara? My mind refused to show me that scene; I simply could not imagine it.
“Maeve,” Luachan murmured, “are you all right?”
I said nothing, but when he met my eye I managed a smile. There had been times when Luachan had irritated me; times, such as that wet, cold sojourn in the woods, when he had disappointed me. But he had a strong arm and a good heart, and I was deeply grateful that he was here with us.
A spectacular series of magical displays followed. Overseer of Margins evidently required the ability to change the natural shape of things, or at least to give the illusion of doing so. The first contender conjured a bridge across the stone basin, along which he moved with confidence above what had become a bowl of glowing embers ten strides across. The red-gold light played on the faces of the crowd. Mac Dara on his throne was a creature of flame and shadow, watching as the man on the bridge stirred up an eerie wind that whipped the fire into swirling circles around him. The smell of smoke filled my nostrils. Under it was another odor, like charring meat.
A thought was in my mind, a hideous thought, but I would not draw my brother’s attention to it. Besides, this was a festival; perhaps they had killed a sheep or a pig and were making use of this fire to roast it for later. Perhaps…No, I would not let my mind go down that path.
The horn sounded. As the man returned to the tongue of stone, the bridge he had made vanished behind him. An illusion. Yet I had seen him standing on it, surrounded by flame. His opponent stepped out a few paces, turned to face Mac Dara’s throne, and gave a courtly bow. He straightened, turned back toward the basin, then made a rippling movement with his hands.
There was an explosive hissing sound, as of a large quantity of water suddenly released. A vast cloud of steam arose from the stone basin, sending those close to the rim reeling back. Reasonable injury.
A sudden breeze passed across the open area, dispersing the steam. Now the stone basin was full of water. Objects floated here and there on the surface.
“The giant knocked that man into the fire,” Finbar said. “And that woman fell in, too, the one who was first to fight. You shouldn’t look, Maeve.”
But I had looked already and had seen what was left of her in the water.
Luachan put an arm around each of us.
“If this disturbs you,” Dioman murmured, “look away.”
But I could not look away. Soon we would be out there, in front of that crowd, in full sight of Mac Dara. Soon we must perform as these folk were doing. We must stand a step away from death. Let this be a bad dream, I prayed. Let me wake up now.
The Lord of the Oak had risen to his feet. His voice was crystal clear. Based on the crowd’s applause, he said, the position went to the fellow who had created the bridge and conjured with fire. Both claimants had done well, but the display with water had been…Mac Dara searched for the right word…untidy. And with a snap of the fingers, he rendered the scene more acceptable. The water drained out, to where I did not know. The floating corpses descended and were lost from view. And a little later, a fiery glow once more arose from the stone cauldron. This prince, it seemed, had no problem at all in making wet wood burn.
Stay calm, Maeve, I ordered myself. Since you must do this, make sure you do it well. It didn’t help much. We were about to play a game that could end up with all of us—me, my brother, Luachan—tossed into the flames as carelessly as one might discard a dead twig. Yes, the geis said only that Finbar must watch the proceedings; it said only that I must calm the horse without using my hands. That sounded reasonable; it sounded straightforward. But Mac Dara did not think the way a human leader would. His games were cruel and heartless. A life meant nothing to him. That woman who had fought earlier in a breathtaking display of skill and grace had not even been contending for a position; she and her opponent had merely been entertaining the crowd. Why had she been consigned to the pit?
The challenges continued their pattern: the sounding of the horn, the two contenders showing what they could do, the horn again and the decision. Keeper of Lore: a pattern of fiery runes blazoned in the air; a magic garment fashioned of tiny bright images, showing the tale of Cú Chulainn in all its grandeur and pathos. Dream-worker: a flock of butterflies, wings so bright they seemed like flying flames; a crystal sphere hanging in space, with a music ringing from it that set a look of utter wonder on every face there, save one. I had not thought to see the folk of the Tuatha De so enraptured that they forgot everything around them. That was truly a feat.
Master of Portals: a stunning display in which a woman in red simply spread her arms wide and turned her gaze toward a dark area of forest. Before the eyes of the assembled folk, an opening appeared, a rent in the fabric of things. On this side were oaks, shadowy depths, mossy stones and the cool air of autumn. On the other side, a harsh dry land, spiky plants, bright sunlight. Then, through the gap came a monstrous creature, a great, scaly, staring thing, and many of the Fair Folk put up their hands in signs of ward, perhaps thinking it might attack them. But the woman spoke and pointed, and the animal gazed at her, then turned and lumbered away, back to the strange place through the portal. Another world? Another time? A place of story, or only an illusion?
“Morrigan’s britches,” muttered Luachan, giving voice perfectly to my own feelings.
The fey woman moved her hands with elegant flair, and where the strange portal had been, the forest lay dark and quiet. The horn sounded. Her opponent stepped forward, an oak staff in one hand. He offered a wry smile. “I doubt I can improve on that,” he said with good humor. He raised the staff up over his head and whirled around, and in an instant his adversary was gone. Not vanished in a puff of smoke, the way folk do in wonder tales. Not knocked from her feet by the swinging staff, for I could swear it had not touched her. The stone had swallowed her. A pit had opened beneath her feet, just wide enough; I could still see it. Before I had time to suck in a shocked breath the stone healed itself and the opening was no more.
The crowd gasped, muttered, craned their necks to see. Mac Dara lifted his dark brows, eyeing the man who stood quiet before him. “I hope you have not broken any rules,” the Lord of the Oak said calmly. “The penalty hardly bears thinking about.”
The contender, a green-clad man with gleaming corn-gold hair, smiled again. He laid the staff across his outstretched hands, made a twisting movement, spoke words I did not understand. There was a disturbance behind him and there, suddenly, was the woman who had opposed him, her eyes dark holes of shock in a face the color of fresh cheese, her crimson gown ripped and scorched. She gathered herself visibly, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, then took three steps away from the edge before she buckled at the knees and collapsed on the ground.
“There’s no lasting damage, my lord,” said the contender, not sparing her a look. “Save maybe to her pride.”
The crowd erupted in applause. There was no doubting that this unpleasant piece of showmanship had won the man his position. It was clear Master of Portals meant something quite different from what I had imagined, and I wondered how many portals existed that humankind knew nothing of. Portals between our world and Mac Dara’s, for instance. Now that I thought of it, Clodagh’s story had contained a trip through a mysterious tunnel, accompanied b
y the Old Ones; that was how she had managed to return to the Otherworld to rescue Cathal. So there was indeed more than one way across. I wondered which Swift would find more unsettling, a narrow bridge of withies or a dark underground passage. Poor Swift…I hoped he was not too unsettled. It would be cruel to lead him out there and subject him to the crowd, the fire, the noise. Let this be over soon, and let me get him home to his quiet field and the simple companionship of Pearl.
More appointments were decided: Overseer of Border Magic, Guardian of the Prince’s Treasure, Controller of Others.
“What are Others?” I whispered to Dioman.
“Lesser races. Those that dwell here and those that wander in.”
“Oh.” I exchanged a glance with Finbar. Dioman meant the Old Ones; he meant the tree people Finbar had seen earlier. Lesser covered, most likely, anyone who was not of the Fair Folk, including us.
“It can’t be much longer.” Something in Luachan’s voice caught my attention, and when I turned to look at him, it was to see his lips pressed into a tight line. He was so pale he looked ill. “They are almost at the end of their list.”
Perhaps I, too, looked as if fear was gnawing at my vitals. “Dioman—” I began, wanting to ask how long we must wait.
“Caisin Silverhair!” Mac Dara’s voice came clearly from down at the basin, and I fell silent. Without rising, he turned his head to gaze at Caisin where she stood with her sister on one side and Breasal the councilor on the other. “Your clan has shown a remarkable lack of ambition today. Not one of your kinsfolk contesting a position? Not a single member of your family dazzling us with displays of brilliance? What’s come over you? In all the conclaves I’ve had the dubious privilege to preside over, this is the first at which none of your people has stepped up to the challenges.”
Caisin bent her knee in a courtly gesture that was not quite a curtsy. “True, my lord.” Her tone was sweet and confident; she spoke in apparent amity.
“What have we left, Fraochan?” Mac Dara made show of turning to his councilor, who still had the scroll in his hands. “Surely we can find something to offer Caisin’s folk.” Fraochan opened his mouth to answer, but Mac Dara spoke over him. “I see your sister here today, Caisin, but not your brother. Surely Dioman would not absent himself from a Grand Conclave. The rules are quite plain. For a nobleman of your brother’s status, the penalty for nonattendance is—”
“Severe, yes, we are aware of that, my lord, as is our brother.” Caisin spoke courteously, as before. “He is not far off and will be with us soon. As for positions of office, we—”
“Ah,” said the Lord of the Oak as his councilor showed him something on the scroll. “Keeper of the Hounds. How about that? Vacant, since the previous keeper suffered an unfortunate accident yesterday; someone could step right in. Isn’t your brother supposed to have a way with animals?”
My flesh crawled, remembering. How dared he? How dared a man like that keep hounds of his own? How could he even dream of it?
“Fey hounds,” whispered Finbar. “Not…” His voice faltered.
Now Mac Dara was saying something about it needing to be a test, not a challenge, and calling for Dioman to step forward or pay the penalty for disobedience. In the moment before Dioman himself spoke, I noticed something interesting: the members of Caisin’s household were no longer standing together in a group, but had spread themselves out amongst the crowd. The blue and silver could be seen all around the stone basin.
“I must leave you.” Dioman did not sound troubled by his prince’s summons. He looked perfectly calm, as if there were nothing to fear.
“Tell us first,” I said, “how much longer must we wait? Will it be time soon?”
“Oh, very soon,” said Dioman, his gaze moving to Luachan and then to me.
“If you are not here, how will we—”
“Prepare yourselves. When it is time, you will know.” He turned on his heel and was gone.
A sudden babble of voices soon after told me that Dioman had come into view of the crowd. He walked around the basin’s edge—folk made way as he passed—and halted before Mac Dara’s throne, where he delivered a sketchy bow.
“We should get ready,” Finbar said. “It’s nearly time.”
Cold fingers clawed at my belly. Mac Dara was saying he would release his hounds against a quarry, and Dioman must show his skill by calling them off at the height of the pursuit. It should be an easy quarry, since the whole performance must take place within sight of the assembled folk. The Lord of the Oak pondered awhile; he looked around the crowd, making play of searching. I wondered why he did not conjure a fat partridge or long-limbed hare for his dogs to chase. After the displays of magic we had seen, that should be simple stuff.
“Ah,” he said eventually. “Ideal. Coblaith, pass down that ridiculous creature of yours.”
It was the little dog I had seen on the night the Fair Folk rode past our place of hiding; the night I was shown a perfect Maeve dancing with her beloved. The tiny creature had scant hope of escaping a pack of hunting hounds in full cry, and surely none at all if those hounds were fey.
Get down there right now, whispered Wild Maeve in my ear. Snatch up the dog and hold him safe. Tell those sycophantic courtiers it’s time someone stopped Mac Dara’s acts of casual cruelty. But Sensible Maeve had a stronger voice. There was a bigger battle to fight, a battle in which this sacrifice weighed little. I bit my lip; my eyes stung with tears.
Coblaith stood holding her pet, waiting for the signal to set it down. At least this would be over quickly. My whole body was tight.
“Bring forth my hounds!” Mac Dara ordered.
In moments there was a hubbub of barking and yipping and the pack burst through the crowd to mill about before Mac Dara, awaiting the command. I heard the excitement of the impending chase in their voices. Was Mac Dara’s hall just over the next hill, that they had come so quickly, or had the Lord of the Oak summoned them by magic?
“Release the—No, wait.” A pause, then Mac Dara said, “I don’t want you claiming your brother did not get a fair chance, Caisin. Perhaps a count of ten between the release of the quarry and the command to follow?”
A count of ten, with the creature in panic and not knowing which way to turn—it was ludicrous. The hounds would rip the little dog apart before Dioman could say a word.
“Perhaps you might clarify, my lord prince.” Dioman might have been asking Mac Dara to pass the salt. “The quarry is to be released; then I’m to count to ten, give the word for the hounds to course, then recall them before they reach the prey?”
Run, little one! Run for your very life!
“Well done, Dioman.” The tone oozed contempt. “Your understanding is perfectly correct. But I see a flaw in this. We must allow the hounds a little time to run, at least, or the recall is too easy. Another ten, I think. Everyone can count. Begin, will you? I’m getting bored; these games are so tedious.”
Coblaith released the dog, which stood stock-still a moment, then bolted. I closed my eyes; I could not watch this. The crowd counted to ten. Dioman spoke a command and the hounds gave voice, rushing in pursuit.
“Here!” Finbar spoke in an urgent undertone, and my eyes sprang open just in time to see the little dog hurtling straight toward us, so fast it almost seemed to fly. My brother squatted and caught it as one might a ball. The impact almost toppled him, but he regained his balance, then rose to draw his cloak over the creature and hold it firmly against his chest.
In the next moment the hounds were all around us on the rise, a confused flow of brown and gray, sniffing here and there, at a loss to find the scent. I held myself still and silent, hoping that if the Fair Folk could not see us, we would also be invisible to the hounds. Finbar stood strong. His jaw was tight, his eyes fierce, his feet planted square. I feared for him. Surely the hounds must detect the little dog’s presence, if not by sight, then by smell. No veil of invisibility had been thrown over the creature or the hunting pack.
> “They can’t see him,” Finbar mouthed.
It seemed he was right. As the dogs circled and sniffed and pawed at the earth, it became obvious that they did not know where their quarry had gone. Under Finbar’s cloak the little dog was no more visible to them than we were.
“Ay-oop!” Dioman’s call came on a rising cadence. “To me! To me!”
The hounds turned as one, heading back down to the stone basin. Sounds of acclaim rang out; this was a triumph for Dioman. I could hear the panicky rasp of the little dog’s breathing. A count of twice ten. It had felt endless.
“Is it hurt?” I whispered to my brother.
Finbar shook his head. There was something new in his eyes; something I did not want to banish with the words that must come next. Luachan spoke for me.
“It’s almost time, Finbar. We must go. Put the dog down.”
Finbar wrapped his arms more firmly around the creature. He pressed his lips together. My brother had the wisdom of a seer and the courage of a chieftain. He had endured his strange and testing journey with remarkable composure. Right now he was a child.
“Luachan’s right,” I said quietly. “The dog will be safer up here. The hunting hounds won’t come back. Dioman called them off.”
“No.” Finbar was adamant. “Everyone would see him. And even if he escaped, how could he look after himself in the woods?”
“He’s not yours to keep,” said Luachan flatly. “Let him go and he’ll return to whoever had him before. Mac Dara has no interest in the dog; the whole thing was a challenge to Caisin.”
Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters Page 37