by S C McGrath
Déaglán’s anger evaporated and he pulled Deirdre to him. He would not speak of something she already knew. A worse fate than bloodshed and death threatened Eire’s people. More devastating was the loss of freedom and the evils of slavery. Instead, he held her close. Neither spoke for some time. Finally, Deirdre gently dislodged herself from his embrace.
“Not all of Keelin’s and my efforts with regard to Agricola were unsuccessful,” said Deirdre, brushing back a tendril of hair that had escaped the clasp. “He will land his army in the harbor whose surrounding countryside is most beneficial to Fionn’s battle plan. The wide plain also has its benefits for Agricola, though it was not his first choice. For some time he seemed reluctant to abandon his preferred harbor but Keelin was most persuasive, visiting him in his sleep and sharing thoughts of great victory should he land, instead, in the southeastern harbor.”
Déaglán had long known of Deirdre’s powers of the mind. He had experienced them the night of his escape from the Romhanach fortress. However, imagining his little niece wielding such otherworldly powers over the likes of Agricola and Domitian still left him awestruck.
“Agricola is confident of victory, again in part due to Keelin’s efforts, and will invade with only one legion,” continued Deirdre. “Of course, it seems he never seriously considered fielding more than one against our warriors—”
Deirdre stopped abruptly, her whole being alert. She turned her head toward Tara and seemed to be listening to something, though Déaglán could hear nothing.
“Hurry, we must go,” said Deirdre, turning back to Déaglán and clasping his hand in hers. “Keelin is in urgent need of us.”
“Keelin?” asked Déaglán, dumfounded. “What is she doing at Tara?”
“Keelin is everywhere of late.”
With Deirdre still holding his hand, Déaglán made a move toward his horse.
“There is no time,” said Deirdre, her voice barely above a whisper. She dropped his hand and pulled her Dagda cloak round him as best she could. In an instant the quiet roadside disappeared, and in the next they were standing in a thickly wooded forest, little of the sun’s rays filtering through to the damp ground of fallen leaves. Just ahead of them was Keelin, kneeling over the body of a man, her head almost touching his, her hands staunching the flow of blood from his neck.
Déaglán took a step toward his niece but Deirdre’s hand touched his arm and she shook her head. “No, wait,” she whispered.
At last, Keelin stood and walked slowly toward them. Her hands, which hung limply at her sides, were covered in blood.
“I could not save him,” she said haltingly. “The damage was too great.” It was then she noticed the blood dripping from her fingertips. She stopped and, bending down, used the leaves at her feet to wipe off most of the blood. She then returned to the body and retrieved her satchel. From one of its pouches she pulled out a clean linen cloth and wiped off the remaining blood as best she could. When she started back toward them she had regained her composure.
“Keelin, dearest, what happened?” asked Deirdre.
“I was in the forest searching for a particular fungus that grows here. Its medicinal qualities are quite remarkable,” said Keelin, acting more like the spirited, fairy-like lass Déaglán had always known. “I had just spotted some of the fungus when I heard the desperate cry of a man. I ran toward the sound and found him here.” Keelin gestured for Déaglán and Deirdre to follow her back to the body. “Perhaps one of you may know him?”
Deirdre shook her head. “No, and his soul does not speak to me.”
Déaglán looked at what had been a powerfully built man, though not exceedingly tall. His neck had been slashed, and only slightly more force would have severed it altogether. There were lesser wounds to his chest and arms but none as gruesome as the wound that killed him. It appeared he had put up a valiant fight.
“No, but he is surely a warrior and will be known at Tara,” said Déaglán. “What more can you tell us?”
Keelin bent down and, with great care, closed the man’s eyes. Then, straightening up, she said, “As I reached this place, I saw one man walking swiftly away and heard another, walking in the opposite direction. I did not follow either man. I could not. I was . . . compelled to aid him,” she said, nodding toward but not looking down at the fallen warrior. “As fate would have it, I should have pursued his murderers. If I had, the spy would now be captured and the traitor unmasked.”
Déaglán’s heart rate quickened. “The spy and the traitor? How do you know this?”
“When I reached him he was still alive, though barely. I was able to stop—or at least slow considerably—the bleeding. He was conscious and desperate to tell me what had happened. He had seen a man acting suspiciously and suspected him of being a spy. He followed the man here and confronted him. It was then Eire’s traitor appeared. The spy smiled and said, ‘Yes, I am a spy for Agricola and you will not live to reveal my identity.’ Our warrior battled the traitor but was no match in strength or skill. He could not name his murderer, though he knew him to be a Fian. Then, he repeated the word ‘lion’ over and over until he breathed no more.”
“He could not possibly have spoken to you with such a wound,” said Déaglán disbelieving, looking again the bloody ruin on the ground before him.
“He nonetheless conveyed to me all that I have just shared with you,” responded Keelin, her violet eyes steely. Déaglán was taken aback. For the first time, Keelin reminded him of her father, Conall.
“I should not have doubted you. Forgive me.”
Keelin nodded and her eyes softened, though only slightly.
“What did he wish to convey with the word ‘lion’?” asked Deirdre.
“I do not know,” said Déaglán. There was something, he thought, but it was buried deep in his memory and he could not grasp it.
“He meant to identify his murderer as best he could,” said Keelin, studying the ground around them. “I think, though, his battle to the death might tell us more. The traitor must have sustained some injury, however slight. There should be a blood trail leaving here.”
Sure enough, Déaglán quickly discovered small drops of blood and followed them for some distance to a more sparsely wooded area. Then the drops abruptly stopped. The cursed traitor must have bound his wound, thought Déaglán. He tried but failed to pick up the trail again. He was not surprised. The man, however loathsome, was a Fian, able to hide his tracks better than the most elusive beast. Not wanting to waste time on a fruitless search, Déaglán headed back the way he had come. He did so, however, with the knowledge his quarry would be running scared. The spy had gotten careless and had been exposed. The traitor was wounded. Déaglán could smell blood and felt certain no additional dispatches would reach Agricola.

CHAPTER twenty-five

eelin sat in Nuala’s cottage, impatiently waiting for the priestess to arrive. After Déaglán had assured her that he would return the warrior’s body to Tara, Keelin had gone back to gather the fungus. Its medicinal qualities were indeed remarkable and very much needed. Agricola’s impending invasion did not suspend the ebb and flow of everyday life and she still had her responsibilities as a healer, treating the sick and injured. In fact, she now had patients throughout Eire. The Otherworld enabled her to visit even the most distant regions of the island in a matter of seconds. Still, there was never enough time. Nor were her powers strong enough to heal most of the sick or to stop Agricola. Sometimes she wished she had remained in Eire, blissfully ignorant of what was about to befall her people. She wanted to believe Eire’s warriors were invincible, that the invaders would be easily repulsed. Instead, the likelihood of a Romhanach victory stole into her thoughts all too often and an icy, dreadful fear would sweep over her.
Initially, Roma had stirred in Keelin a strange reverence. The empire’s network of roads and bridges, aqueducts and grist mills, were beyond anything in Eire, and Domitian’s palace with its lush
gardens, sunken courtyards, and pools of sparkling water faced in marble and gold was truly awe inspiring. She could have gazed for hours upon the beautiful paintings and life-like marble statues adorning the palace and imperial buildings. Yet it was the Romhanach medical practices and innovations that most captivated her. Keelin visited the surgeries as often as she could, watching and listening with growing wonderment.
Nuala had accompanied Keelin everywhere at first, both in Roma and on the island of Sasanach. After the two had observed a particularly innovative surgery, the priestess had said rather sternly, “Never forget at what cost in human suffering these medical advancements were achieved.” Nuala hesitated, as if contemplating whether or not to say more, then continued. “If it were not for the empire’s campaigns of conquest, we would not have witnessed such a surgery today. Military physicians gained valuable experience and knowledge treating the gaping battlefield wounds of living men, the soldiers’ agony no less though they were Romhanach.”
“I can only think of the lives I will save in the future,” said Keelin. During those early days in Roma, she had refused to heed Nuala’s cautionary tales.
Keelin’s reverence for Roma soon vanished. While visiting one of the many marketplaces in the imperial city, she and Nuala had witnessed a public slave auction in which men, women, and children were treated as cattle, affording them no dignity. Keelin had seethed with impotent rage as Nuala held her arm in a vice grip, preventing her from leaving the safety of the Otherworld and attempting to halt such an abomination.
“Most of those slaves are vanquished foes, the spoils of Romhanach victories,” said Nuala, loosening—though only slightly—her hold on Keelin’s arm.
“Our warriors will triumph over Agricola’s army. Such a fate will not befall Eire’s people,” asserted Keelin.
Nuala did not reply and, for the first time since arriving in Roma, Keelin felt a vague disquiet.
When Nuala showed Keelin the Romhanach’s military garrisons, her disquiet turned to alarm. The armies were terrifying for their sheer numbers alone, and their weaponry was generally superior to that of Eire’s. Then she traveled with Nuala to Sasanach and watched Agricola’s army quell minor uprisings. The soldiers under his command were disciplined and highly trained. They were also unwaveringly loyal to their general, and, in turn, Agricola led with authority and great skill. From that moment on, Keelin had made it her purpose to stop Agricola by whatever means possible. She had failed unequivocally. Using her powers of the mind, she had only succeeded in shifting some of the advantage away from his invading army. But it was not enough.
Now, as Agricola was poised to invade Eire, Keelin had never felt so tired. There had been too many nights of little sleep, yet she could not afford to rest. Today she had allowed the spy and traitor to escape. Her instincts had told her to follow the man she had seen walking away. Instead, she had attempted to save the dying warrior. “Lion,” she whispered, convinced the warrior’s last word would ultimately expose the traitor. She whispered it again and looked up to see Nuala standing in front of her.
“I have just spoken to Déaglán. Do not find fault in your actions. You are a healer,” said Nuala, dismissing any notion of Keelin’s guilt with the wave of her long arm.
Keelin shrugged and stood, making no effort to hide her thoughts from Nuala.
“Come, we must go visit Agricola,” said Nuala, picking up Keelin’s satchel from the bench and handing it to her, solicitously. “We need only spy on the general now, a rather simple task. We have done all we can with our powers of the mind. Your nocturnal sojourns, your influence, have banished all doubt from Agricola’s mind and he envisions an easy conquest to add to his tally. He underestimates our warriors and such miscalculation may save Eire—”
“Curse influence!” spat Keelin. “I want to stop him! Slay him! Agricola and his legion must not set foot on Eire’s shores.”
Nuala stood perfectly still and studied Keelin. The priestess’s eyes then inexplicably softened and she lightly touched her ruby pendant. “You would murder Agricola now, before he has even set sail for Eire? Before he has ordered any sword to be raised against Eire’s people?”
“Call it murder if you wish. But let us not quibble over timing or Agricola’s intentions. I have imagined many ways I might kill him. You know it is true, for I am sure you have listened to my murderous thoughts.”
“Yes, I have listened. Your mind can be unsettling to visit at times. I also know you have the soul of a healer, even if your heart is that of a warrior. I have grown accustomed to your bloodthirsty thoughts. I used to despair but I do no longer. Your soul will always prevail.” Nuala clasped Keelin’s hands in hers. “Now, let us go. And do not look at me with those fierce eyes of yours. You know I speak the truth.”
“Eyes,” murmured Keelin, her memory jarred. Distracted, she pulled her hands from Nuala’s grasp and held them to her temples. Something Ruaidhrí had said. . . . Then she remembered. Keelin, numb, could only whisper, “A lion’s eyes.” She looked at Nuala. “I do not want to believe he could be . . .”
“Eire’s traitor,” said the priestess.
“We must be certain.”
“Yes, then we will act.”

The Fian entered the great hall quietly. For such a large man, he moved with easy grace. His entire presence bespoke power and an unhurried confidence. Without removing his cloak, he heaped wood in the hall’s massive fireplace and then lit several sconces along the opposite wall. Lighting a torch from one of the sconces, he returned to the fireplace and lowered the torch’s flame to the wood. Soon, warmth began to permeate the damp expanse of the room. He stood for some time in front of the roaring fire with outstretched hands, warming them. The flickering light from the flames caught the droplets of dew on his hair and cloak and his dark frame glistened iridescently. Finally, he turned from the fire and removed his cloak, hanging it atop the back of a large chair.
Hearing his name called, he turned toward the door from which he had entered but saw no one. Then he heard the loud creaking of an interior door. Nuala, accompanied by Keelin, stepped into the room, then closed the door behind them.
“Nuala, Keelin,” he said. “I thought I heard my name called, though not from your direction. What brings you here so early? Dawn has just broken.”
“I might ask you the same question,” said Nuala.
“The Fianna are to meet here this morning. I arrived early in an attempt to warm up this cavernous hall.”
“I was aware of no such a meeting,” said Nuala. She walked over to his damp cloak and laid her hand upon it. She shifted her gaze from the cloak to his wet hair, and then she stared unwaveringly into his eyes. “How is it you are nearly wet through, walking only from your quarters to the hall?”
“There is much to consider as the invasion nears. I was restless and went outside to walk and clear my mind. I realized my folly after a time and retraced my steps, coming here where at least one may get dry if not warm.” He smiled without a hint of alarm, his charm very much in evidence.
Keelin witnessed the exchange with grim fascination. Seán’s leonine eyes did not shift, even slightly, from Nuala’s gaze. He had murdered the warrior nearly a fortnight past. Two days ago Fionn had shared his battle plan with the Fianna and Eire’s chieftains. Just hours ago, Keelin and Nuala had listened as Seán betrayed his people, detailing the plan to Agricola’s spy.
“Yes, you have indeed been walking, though for a traitorous purpose.”
Seán took several steps toward Nuala, his hand instinctively grasping the handle of his dagger. Then he stopped and the hand holding the weapon relaxed and dropped to his side. But his eyes remained fixed on the priestess. He had shed all semblance of the chivalrous gallant and looked predatory, poised to attack. Keelin, alarmed, hastened to Nuala and stood alongside her. Seán regarded them sardonically. “The two of you come here alone and question my honor. Most unwise.”
“There is no longer any questi
on as to your honor,” said Nuala, the hood of her Dagda cloak casting eerie shadows on her face. Undaunted by Seán’s menacing presence, she stared back at him. Keelin could feel the force of Nuala’a mind boring into his soul. The hall fell silent except for the crackling and hissing of the fire. Finally, Nuala shifted her gaze and calmly continued. “Before dawn this day you met with Agricola’s spy and shared with him Fionn’s battle plan. I will repeat, if you wish, each traitorous word you spoke. And, no, the spy did not escape. He was no match for Brian.”
Seán said nothing, but his eyes swept over the hall and he cocked his head slightly toward the door from which he had entered. Then he smiled, some of his old charm resurfacing, and said with certainty, “All of the doors of this hall are guarded, are they not?”
“Indeed they are.”
“You are a crafty old witch.” Seán laughed and shook his head.
“Why, Seán? Why would you betray your people?” asked Keelin, appalled at his utter lack of remorse.
Seán looked at Keelin as at a simpleton. “Nuala already knows the answer, seems to hear my thoughts. But for you, fair lass, I will oblige.” His lips curled with bitterness. “My father, who stubbornly refuses to die of his strange malady, has chosen my brother to succeed him. My brother, who has neither my intellect nor prowess.” He sighed and chuckled to himself. “Though, perhaps my father chose wisely. I would never have been content as a mere clan chieftain. I have always had loftier ambitions. I would have been ruler of all Eire after a Romhanach victory. I believe such power would have been worthy of me. Now, it seems, I shall never know.” He turned to Nuala and, without trepidation, asked, “So tell me, what is to be my fate?”
“Better than perhaps you deserve. Single combat.”