Into the Shadows (Islands in the Mist Book 4)

by J. M. Hofer

  Gawyr gave a single nod. “I do.”

  Taliesin felt his respect for Gawyr deepen.

  Ragna furrowed her brow. “Who is this Cu Chulainn? Is he as big as you?”

  Gawyr raised his brows. “You’ve never heard of Cu Chulainn?”

  Ragna shook her head. “No. Tell me of him.”

  Gawyr glanced over at Taliesin. “It’s a long story, and I’m no storyteller, but I’ll try.” He held out his horn with a sheepish grin. “I am a bit thirsty, though.”

  Ragna reached for a pitcher of ale and filled his horn. He drained it, held it out for her to refill, and then leaned forward, settling his elbows on his knees. “Like most good stories, this one starts and ends with a woman.” He looked around the hall in acknowledgment of his female audience, who gathered around to listen, and began his story. “As a young warrior, Cu Chulainn, or the Hound of Ulster, as we like to call him, had earned the respect and envy of every man in his clan. They say he was so good-looking, that all the men in Ulster feared him bedding their wives and daughters. So, before he could shame them all, they insisted he take a wife. Like most young men, the Hound did not have a mind for marriage at so young an age, but he did as his clansmen asked.” Gawyr took another gulp of ale and wiped his mouth on his tunic sleeve. “After searching the country for a bride, he chose the beautiful Emer, daughter of Forgall Monach. Problem was, her older sister was not yet wed, and old Forgall wouldn’t have it. He offered the hand of his older daughter to the Hound, but he refused, saying he must have Emer. That didn’t sit well with Forgall—or his older daughter, who felt insulted. A wiser man would have left things to rest a bit, then perhaps come back with an offer that would have allowed Forgall and his elder daughter a chance to regain their dignity, but wisdom is not something young men have much of. Or some of us older ones, either,” he added. “Now that the Hound had his heart set on Emer, he would have no woman but her—and, of course, being denied his desire only stoked it all the more. So, like a dog with his teeth clenched on a bone, he refused to leave until Forgall granted him Emer for his bride. Forgall grew tired of him, but knew if he killed him he would bring a war upon his clan. At last, to get rid of him, he agreed to the marriage—” Gawyr held up a finger. “—but on one condition—that the Hound go north and train with Scáthach to prove his worthiness. Of course, Forgall assumed he would never see the young Hound again, but that’s not what happened.”

  Every eye in the hall was locked on Gawyr, waiting to find out what happened to the Hound, for they were all Saxon and did not know the story of Cu Chulainn.

  “He survived the training,” Ragna concluded.

  “He did.”

  “And he returned for Emer.”

  “He did.”

  “And Forgall would not grant her to him?”

  “He would not.” Gawyr sat back and folded his arms, giving Ragna a cross look. “My lady, are you sure you don’t know this story?”

  Ragna ignored his flirting. “What happened then?”

  Gawyr leaned in again. “Cu Chulainn, the Hound of Ulster, the fiercest warrior my people have ever known, stormed Forgall’s fortress alone, pillaged his treasure, took Emer, and then threw the old goat from the ramparts to his death. And yet, it was Forgall who had made it all possible—the training from Scáthach that was supposed to kill him had made the Hound nearly invincible—Forgall had forged his own death.”

  Ragna nodded as if Gawyr had just told her water was wet. “What else do you know of Scáthach? Where did she come from?”

  Gawyr shrugged. “No one knows. Some think she’s a goddess, come down to train only the very bravest of us all; others think she’s a witch. Problem is, not very many have ever seen her, and even fewer have trained with her and lived to tell of it. Her training kills most of her apprentices, that’s well-known—only Cu Chulainn could hold his own against her. Though he couldn’t defeat her, she couldn’t defeat him either—they battled for days, but neither gave way. At last, they agreed to call one another equals.”

  “So, if he was invincible, how did he die, your Hound of Ulster?

  Gawyr sighed through a disappointed frown. “In the battle against Medb, daughter of the High King of Eire—our Pendragon, if you will. He married her off to Conchobar mac Nessa, King of Ulster, to make amends for killing Conchobar’s father, but it was a bad marriage, as you can imagine—Conchobar treated her so terribly she left him and sought revenge. She set her sights on his prize bull, knowing it was the most valuable thing he owned, and sent the warriors of Connacht on a raid into Ulster for it.”

  Taliesin’s stomach leapt at the mention of Connacht. Finbheara and Oonagh’s kingdom.

  Gawyr shook his head. “Her sorry lust for revenge turned the raid into a nasty war. It was she and hers who wiped out my people, along with our beloved Hound of Ulster—for though he defeated Medb in that war, he didn’t live long enough to celebrate Ulster’s victory. He bled to death on the battlefield that day.”

  Ragna nodded. “So he died a noble death on the battlefield, against a worthy enemy. Not a sad story at all.”

  Another woman asked, “And what happened to Medb?”

  “Her father took the throne from the king of Connacht, Tinni mac Conri, and gave it to her. Luckily for Tinni, she liked him and took him for her husband, allowing him to keep some of his former power. Conchobar was so furious, he raped Medb at a high council meeting. As you can imagine, Connacht declared war on Ulster. To settle the dispute, Tinni challenged Conchobar to single combat, but the poor bastard lost.”

  “So Medb ruled her kingdom alone, then,” Ragna concluded.

  Gawyr shook his head. “She liked having a man by her side. She took a third husband—Eochaid Dála, a brave warrior who protected the Connacht army as it retreated, got the honor—for awhile.” He winked. “While married to Eochaid, she took a fancy to Ailill mac Máta, chief of her bodyguard. Her husband discovered the affair, for it’s said she did nothing to hide it, and challenged Ailill to single combat. He lost. So, Ailill became her fourth husband.”

  Ragna raised up her hands and rolled her eyes. “Enough.”

  Gawyr chuckled. “Some called her the Kingmaker. But she couldn’t help it, really—after all, she was born of the Sídhe. Poor fellows never stood a chance at satisfying her.”

  Taliesin’s throat tightened. “When did she die?”

  “That’s another story. And not a good one. The songs say she had a lust for both sex and violence unequaled among women. She killed her sister, which would be horrible enough, but the poor woman was with child. Somehow the babe lived—they cut the wee lad out of her just in time. He grew up and stabbed Medb in his mother’s name, and none faulted him for it. Some say she’s buried in the Sídhe of Knockma—but others believe she yet lives.”

  Taliesin’s mind reeled with questions. He thought of Nimue, and her twin existence. Could Oonagh be Medb, gone underground, living with yet one more king she has made?

  “Bard—”

  Gawyr’s voice shocked Taliesin from his thoughts. “Yes?”

  “You know the songs. Sing for these women. My throat’s parched.”

  Ragna filled his outstretched drinking horn for the fifth or sixth time that night.

  Taliesin took up his harp to sing of the Táin Bó Cúailnge, the cattle raid of Cooley, while questions and worries gathered in his mind like heavy storm clouds.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A Fork in the Road

  “These were hers.” Ragna handed Taliesin a comb and a dirty shift. “She left nothing else.”

  Taliesin felt glad to see a few hairs tangled in the comb. “Thank you.” He put the hairs in his crane bag and the shift in his pack.

  Ragna regarded him with sallow, bloodshot eyes. “Use your magic. Bring her back. Dun Scáthach is no place for a child—I know. I’ve been there.” Her eyes watered. “Please—I must see my grandson. Bring her back.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll do all I can.” He glanc
ed over at the village gates. Gawyr stood ready with Chrysgod, saddled and loaded for the journey. “We’ll be back before winter, either with her or with news of how she fares.” He took her hand and squeezed it in farewell. He joined Gawyr and whistled for the hounds, who came running to his side.

  Once outside the village, Taliesin asked all the questions he had been waiting to ask. “What do you think’s become of Arhianna?”

  Gawyr shook his head. “Not sure. Why Scáthach would agree to train a pregnant woman is beyond me. Most men die attempting to finish her training—and that be trained warriors, no strangers to blood and war. Truth be told, many die just trying to reach her fortress.”

  “Perhaps she has other plans for her.”

  Gawyr shrugged. “Servant’s all she’s fit for, likely. And if that’s her fate, neither you nor I can do anything about it. Even with my size I’m not fool enough to think I’m a match for Scáthach.”

  “Well, I must help her if I can. I owe it to her. And to Ragna.”

  Gawyr stopped in his tracks and glared at him. “Doesn’t matter who you owe what to, Bard. First thing you need to know is, we’ll never find Scáthach’s fortress unless she chooses to reveal it to us. So best be putting your clever head to use thinking of ways to make that happen. Then, even if she does let us find it, we still have to get inside, or convince her to come down and speak to us. Either way, like I said, if she has plans for your woman, there’s nothing you or I can do about it. In the end, best you can hope for is knowledge of your woman’s fate. So, if you think that’s worth risking our lives for, by all means, let’s keep on.”

  Taliesin did not hesitate. “It is. And, as I’ve said before, you don’t have to come. You’ve fulfilled your obligation to Urien.” He knew Gawyr was bluffing. He wants to find Scáthach as much as I do. He dismissed the giant’s warnings and mused about how he might woo Scáthach. “We must find something to offer her. Ragna said she secured her help with a fine sword she stole from Ingvar.”

  Gawyr glanced down at his harp. “You don’t have much to offer her except that, which I imagine you don’t fancy parting with.”

  Taliesin’s heart sank at the idea. “True. I’d prefer to avoid it. Let’s hope she loves songs and stories. Those are my jewels and coins.”

  “Well, you’d best polish up a nice bloody mess of them for her then. Preferably about her, or heroes she’s trained.”

  Taliesin needed no prompting. Songs and phrases were already stirring within him like restless vines, but they needed branches to wind about and anchor to. “You’ll tell me all you know of her tonight. Every story, every sorrow, every victory—from those I’ll weave her a mantle of tribute.”

  “Mantle of tribute,” Gawyr scoffed, back to his grumpy self. He led the way down the road, which eventually forked. He pointed to the left. “Here’s your last chance, Bard. That way leads back to Urien, where you can earn yourself a bit of money and forget this woman.” Then, he pointed to the right. “And that way leads north, and likely a miserable death. What’ll it be?”

  Taliesin turned Chrysgod to the right and gave him a resigned smile.

  Gawyr chuckled. “I admire your spirit. And, lucky for you, playing it safe has never agreed with me.” He hitched his pack up higher on his shoulder and fixed his eyes northward.

  ***

  Night fell. Taliesin built a fire, and he and Gawyr resigned themselves to its warmth for the night. They had covered a great distance that day, by any standard, traveling along rocky roads that grew noticeably less worn as they went.

  Taliesin studied his companion in the firelight. He had not forgotten how he had disappeared the night he had played the song that reminded him of his wife. The pockets beneath Gawyr’s eyes were heavy and fleshy, as if they held years of unshed tears. What sort of beasts feed upon you in the night, my dour friend? A wave of compassion inspired him to take up his harp and play what those denied tears might say if they could speak. This time, Gawyr did not get up and leave, as he had before. Encouraged, Taliesin asked, “Tell me more of your people and the Lady Scáthach.”

  Gawyr sat silent for some time, arms folded over his huge torso like crossbeams. “Lady Scáthach and I share a measure of blood with the mighty Tuatha de Danaan—the gods who came from the skies and settled the great kingdom of Eire.” He motioned toward the stars with his huge hand in a gesture Taliesin found surprisingly graceful. “She, more than I, of course. Long ago, when the world was new, they lived among our people, ruling as kings and queens, roaming the land they created. They lay with mortals and begat my people, and the Sídhefolk, as they’re now called, and a good many other races that have now all but disappeared. But—” he paused and looked skyward. “—things are changing. Now, we’re being hunted or reviled by these new Christ-worshippers, or renamed into something we’re not. The Sídhefolk are so called because they live within the hills. And my people now live within the caves and mountains in the north. What it amounts to is that we’re all hiding.”

  Taliesin looked over at Gawyr and gave him a nod. “And so, the children of the Tuatha de Danaan dwell in the shadows, now—between the worlds.”

  “That we do.”

  Taliesin had not yet mentioned the predicament he and Arhianna were in with Oonagh and Finbheara, and, in light of this new information, felt glad he had not. He suspected Gawyr’s allegiance might be to them. “Once we reach Scáthach, I want you to return home. You’ve spent far more time with me than you bargained for. Leave me to my fate once we reach the fortress.”

  Gawyr scowled. “No. I swore I’d see you to your lady, then safely back to Urien.”

  Taliesin felt at a loss. He had to think of a way to free himself of Gawyr’s company before he found out about his entanglement with the Sídhe. “We’re quite far north, now, and moving further all the time. We must be getting close to where your people settled. Seems a shame to come this far and not pay them a visit.”

  Gawyr did not answer right away, leading Taliesin to take heart. He’s considering it. Encouraged, he added, “Once we’ve found Arhianna, perhaps you see how they fare. Then, if you still feel you must, return and escort us back to Rheged.” Taliesin felt a twinge of guilt, for he had no intention of waiting for him to return.

  Gawyr shifted, blocking the moon from Taliesin’s sight with his enormous head. He looked as if he were wearing a crown of light. “I’ll never go back there.”

  His tone was so definitive, Taliesin hesitated a moment before prying. “Why not?”

  “Don’t want to.” Gawyr settled himself against a tree and pulled his cloak around him. “No more talking, Bard. I’m tired.”

  Taliesin nodded, resigned to coming up with a new plan. “Til morning, then.”

  Gawyr did not answer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mabon in Gwythno

  Lucia’s heart beat faster at the sight of Gwythno’s banners winking through the haze on the horizon. Beyond them stretched the blue-green expanse of the sea. She smiled.“There it is. We’ll be there within the hour.”

  Bran squinted and shook his head. “Your eyes are better than mine, woman.”

  Lucia sighed. “My eyes always have been better than yours.” She gazed out toward the sea. “I hope we see the porpoises again.”

  Bran shrugged. “I don’t see why not. We’ve seen them every year around this time. I don’t expect this year should be any different.”

  Seeing porpoises always gladdened her heart. Their playful nature and smiling faces imparted a sense of well-being that put her mind at ease. And I could certainly use some peace of mind.

  Bran had done well on the journey. Though he never complained, she had learned to read the folds in his face for a true account of how severe his pain was. They seemed to have smoothed out and relaxed, and she took heart. The water’s working. Perhaps the pain won’t come back, and we won’t need that damn druid any more. Whenever she thought of Bran’s pain and what he had said to her about his weariness, she felt as if
she were treading across a frozen lake, terrified they might both fall in at any moment. Please heal him, Great Mother. Please.

  As she had predicted, they were soon at Gwythno’s gates. Elffin came out to greet them. As always, he looked handsome and well-groomed, the years taking little toll on his fine features. If anything, he merely looked wiser. He wore a belted linen tunic and a cloak of bluish-green wool fastened with a gold brooch in the shape of a crane.

  “At last!” He grinned. “It’s been too many moons.” He shuffled them inside where he sent his servants into action, directing them in their duties like a seasoned ship captain. Soon, the entire party was eating, drinking and laughing in the Great Hall. Lucia caught herself giggling at something Maur said, but a pang of guilt caused her to choke on her laughter. Don’t forget why you’re truly here. It’s not to drink and laugh at jokes. In a wave of remorse, she set her wine down and made her way toward Elffin. I must tell him about Taliesin, and the sooner the better—what if someone else mentions his visit? Great Mother! What would he think of us? She knew Elffin would be overjoyed to learn his son was safe, but the fact that he had gone to Mynyth Aur instead of Gwythno would be hard for him to hear. Harder still would be to deny telling him where Taliesin had gone, but she resolved to keep her promise. And tomorrow, I’ll call on Maybn.

  ***

  The sun lit the sea up in a pink flush as Lucia made her way down to Mabyn’s cottage the following morning. She shot a wishful glance out over the water, hoping she might catch sight of the porpoises, but nothing caught her eye.

  Gwythno had grown over the years. Inside its walls, streets had formed between the ever-increasing number of stone cottages. Mabyn had insisted no one close in on her space, however, and there was a perfect circle of untouched earth about her cottage, as if she had dug a moat around it. Lucia smiled at the sight of smoke rising from her chimney and rapped on her door.