Ae’fir absorbed Tara Lau’s words. He felt the fate of the Aes Sidhe on his shoulders. He looked at Tara Lau and the Maidens.
“Why have you chosen me for this task, my lady? Why not another?”
Tara Lau came toward him and pressed her cheek to his. “You carry divinity in your blood Ae’fir,” she whispered. “You are a true descendant of the Seraphim. Their blood runs purest in you―this task was always yours. Go now, prepare, ready your spirit―make your peace with Danu. Then meet with the dreamcaster―join your thoughts with his, become one. As one, you are complete, invincible. This will happen, now is the time . . . ”
Ae’fir nodded and turned to leave.
“Ae’fir?” Tara Lau called out.
He turned.
“Don’t let the Nephilim remember. They are few and weak, yes, but do not let them remember their old ways. If they do, they could renew the Banishment and keep us here. They must not remember their magic. Walk softly around them, do not let them see you.”
“I will not disappoint you, my lady. The Aes Sidhe will walk the Erthe again―it is our time. Dal Riata will be retaken.”
Ae’fir’s thoughts returned to the present. He tore his eyes away from Danu’s statue and felt a sense of familiarity and strangeness in its presence. He murmured a final prayer and left the sacred place. He went in search of the dreamcaster, Eriu.
He knew of Eriu but had never met him. Dreamcasters and warlocks . . . cut from the same cloth, but there were differences. Dreamcasters were masters of illusion: they could conjure whole armies out of the air, they could reanimate the dead . . . they could even mimic a pregnancy. Still, he’d much rather have a warlock on his side.
He walked along the Banishment’s blighted landscape, the half-in, half-out world the Aes Sidhe had been condemned to a thousand years ago. It was all he had ever known: the dusk-gray landscape devoid of light and life. He could only imagine what the real Erthe looked like . . . green grass, blue skies, and sun.
How he had dreamed of the sun as a child―the thought of it filled him with wonder. A ball of never-ending light in the sky in an eternal dance with the silver of the moon. The Nephilim had a lot to answer for―Ae’fir wanted to rip their hearts out for what they had done to his people. He knew that King Loarn and his cruel dynasty would never surrender; they would have to be defeated.
He arrived at Eriu’s home, a small, squat dwelling on the edge of the settlement. It was darkest here. Some said that the dreamcasters needed the dark to weave their illusions. Dreamcasters were few and far between now and the young ones were shunning the old ways, but he knew there was still enough knowledge left for this final push. The old ways ran deep; the Aes Sidhe’s memory was vivid, not like the Nephilim’s. They had weakened themselves when they’d embraced the savage ways of the fleshbones.
Ae’fir stood outside Eriu’s home for a few minutes. He didn’t knock, instead he closed his eyes and waited, his thoughts on the magical weapon, Scalibur. Where was it? How was he going to find it?
“We will find it in the broken mind of an old crone. She’ll reveal the path to Scalibur―she is of magic, and so it is with magic that we will unlock her mind.” Ae’fir opened his eyes. The dreamcaster stood in the doorway.
Eriu looked pleased with himself. “The Maidens knew I’d be up to the task. My whole life has been leading to this point, much as yours has. We are about to embark on a great adventure, my lord. What do you think? Are you ready to join minds?”
Ae’fir looked at the diminutive figure. This was to be his companion in the land of Dal Riata?
Eriu looked an unlikely ally: his limbs were thin as sticks. He was clearly no warrior. His skin was covered in the silver paint the dreamcasters used and his long hair was plastered into a fine upward horsetail caked in white chalk. Ae’fir wondered how Eriu could sleep with such hair, but then remembered . . . dreamcasters never slept.
He reminded himself that appearances could be deceptive and that sometimes the most unassuming foes were the worst. He told himself to relax and nodded.
“Yes, Dreamcaster Eriu. I am ready.”
“Then come in. Let’s begin.”
Ae’fir had to stoop to get through the door. The place reeked of magic. Once over the threshold, he blinked, not believing his eyes―before him stretched a vast room, even bigger than Eynhallow. He stopped in his tracks, stunned.
Eriu turned and looked at Ae’fir. “Deceptive, isn’t it? Difficult to tell the difference between reality and dreams.”
“But on the outside, this place looks no more than a hut . . . this is a palace.” Ae’fir gestured toward the far wall.
Eriu paused, looking thoughtful. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but I’ve changed my mind. I have good news, Ae’fir. I’ve been able to contact someone in Dal Riata, a throwback―she she has true Aes Sidhe blood. I’ve only just contacted her so she’s unproven. She’s to meet us on Inis Cealtra. She’ll help us open the ground there from the other side. This’ll make our work easier.”
Ae’fir considered Eriu’s words. “What’s her name?” he asked.
“Sive,” Eriu replied.
“Sive . . .” Ae’fir repeated. “A good name . . . not an Aes Sidhe name, but a good name. She’ll need to be renamed when she rejoins us, her true people. If she survives . . .”
“Goddess Danu will see to it. She will guide the girl’s steps, as she will ours. Now follow me.”
Eriu led Ae’fir through the vast hall to a small room on the other side. They entered the chamber, which was bare except for a scrying bowl and two chairs.
“Sit Ae’fir. This is where we make your double to distract King Loarn, and it’s here we’ll join minds for the adventure ahead.”
Ae’fir sat and watched as Eriu turned to the scrying bowl.
“Place both your hands on the bowl and close your eyes. Open your spirit to Goddess Danu and I will do the rest. Do not take your hands off the bowl until I tell you,” Eriu directed.
Eriu closed his eyes. Ae’fir did the same and began reciting the opening prayer. As always, he saw Danu’s blue light behind his eyelids as he became aware of her presence. He felt warm. A blue flicker danced on the water in the scrying bowl. Ripples came from its center, followed by an orange light around the rim. The blue light took shape, becoming a miniature dragon dominating the center of the bowl. The orange light coalesced, forming an orange dragon nearby. The flickering dragons turned to face each other, hovering above the water.
The dragons’ eyes were closed. Sweat beaded on Eriu’s forehead and the muscles at the back of his neck stiffened. His lips moved as a whisper left his throat.
Vassa vassa Nisha, vassa vassa Nisha, vassa icbre corisha Nisha.
Eriu repeated the words over and over. The orange dragon’s eyes snapped open and it threw itself at the blue dragon. Orange bit into blue’s neck and twisted. Blue let out a silent scream and fell, its quivering form sinking to the pool’s bottom, its light dimming and flickering weakly. The water sizzled and steam rose from the surface. Orange released blue’s neck and turned, drifting back to the rim. It remained for a few seconds before becoming indistinct. It burst suddenly into flames before disappearing.
The blue dragon’s light failed and the water became still. The two men sat opposite each other for a long time. Ae’fir still felt Goddess Danu’s warmth and light. He held on to the scrying bowl with both hands. Puncture wounds had appeared at the base of his neck, and blood trickled from the wounds.
With a harsh crack, the water in the bowl erupted in a plume and two bright blue dragons hovered above the water’s surface, both identical.
Eriu slumped forward, breathing heavily. “My work is done Ae’fir. Open your eyes.”
Ae’fir saw Danu’s light recede. It was always painful to leave her presence, and he felt the familiar sense of loss and sorrow. Then the readjustment: gradually, reality returned. He opened his eyes and stared at Eriu.
The dreamcaster’s hair was drenched, his face
lined. Sweat pooled on his chest. Eriu looked up at Ae’fir and nodded. “It is done.” His eyes darted away from Ae’fir, focusing on the space behind him.
Eriu’s words exploded in Ae’fir’s head. The dreamcaster had not moved his lips.
So, this was what it meant . . . joined as one. A noise came from behind. Ae’fir turned.
Ae’fir gasped, almost falling backward off his chair.
Ae’fir, meet your double. This manifestation of you will be our diversion. He will distract the king and his men and will buy us time to get through Dal Riata to the north, to Inis Cealtra. Meet your double, Ae’fir, meet . . . Lamorak.
Ae’fir smiled. The name didn’t have to match, but everything else did . . . it was perfect. Lamorak wore chainmail and a sword was sheathed at his side. Ae’fir raised an eyebrow.
Not Scalibur, merely an imagined approximation, Eriu explained. He will not remember this meeting. All memory of us, of here, will be wiped from his mind.
Ae’fir nodded.
And Ae’fir, our minds are now joined. We are as one, my magic is now yours. We will tread carefully these next few days―the join can take time to adjust to. I will send Lamorak ahead of us. He is but an illusion, but will be very real to those he will encounter in Dal Riata.
Ae’fir looked at Lamorak for a long moment. Was there no end to Eriu’s power? He stood suddenly, his fists clenched.
Eriu looked up at him. “Patience, patience,” the dreamcaster said, a twinkle in his eye. “We’ll be up to our necks in it soon enough . . .”
Chapter 4: Crowe
Crowe cursed.
The news was bad. An outlaw killing the king’s men on the southern border of Dal Riata. A man called Lamorak.
Word had it he wielded a terrifying sword and was backed by a strange new god. The sword carried a name difficult on the tongue: Scalibur.Lamorak’s reputation was growing. He was using the lochs and rivers to travel north. The Wild Forest had always protected the southern borders of Dal Riata, its mountainous terrain and densely packed trees unwelcoming and full of danger. The wolves and chimera kept most threats from Loarn’s kingdom.
Until now.
The reports claimed that Lamorak had felled two chimeras with Scalibur. The terrible ones had definitely fallen to this blade; there were eyewitnesses. A ripple of fear was running through Dal Riata, but also something else . . . admiration. King Loarn wasn’t happy.
Crowe was sweating in his furs outside the king’s hall. Winter was close, the geese had arrived, and where was he? Recalled from the hunting grounds to discuss this new threat. Crowe scratched his beard, considering his position. He was getting old, with already twenty-seven summers under his belt, but he was still the king’s champion. One or two more jobs for the king might see him able to retire in the next year or two.
There was an opportunity here.
Let’s just see what the gods put my way . . .
“Enter,” the Nephilim said.
Crowe nodded at the giant. Why did the king have to use the fallen ones as his bodyguards? Yes, they had the strength of ten men, and yes, they were big, but the bigger the opponent the bigger the target. They were powerful but slow―anyone with a shred of skill could run rings around them. Well, unless they’d been endowed with the speed of the wind by the warlocks. Then they were a force to be feared.
Loarn was sitting by the open fire with all twelve of his dogs. Crowe approached the king, stepping carefully over four of the dogs.
He coughed to announce his presence. Loarn stood and turned, his rheumy eyes fixing on Crowe. The old king still had iron in his soul―Crowe had not forgotten the countless men, women, and children Loarn had killed in his time. There were strength and power in this dynasty; the king’s three sons would see his kingdom into the next generation and would no doubt push the borders out further against the Pictish savages. The Picts were still locked in the age of stone, but they had the forest and its wild magics on their side. Their druids were to be feared―some even said they were in communion with the Trows. Crowe shook the thoughts from his head and bowed to Loarn.
For a long time, Loarn simply stared at Crowe. Finally, he gestured at a seat beside the fire. Crowe sat down. The king remained standing, turning his attention to the dogs.
“Hounds are loyal, don’t you agree Farren?” the king said, his voice was subdued. Loarn was the only one who called Crowe by his first name.
“Aye, Lord. They’ll fight for their master until death. They’re givers.”
The king continued stroking the nearest dog. “Are you a giver, Farren? Do you still carry fire in your belly? Do you still carry death in your blade?”
It was coming―this was the same old game they played each time. Usually, it was good-natured, but this time he detected a cold edge to the king’s tone. He needed to be careful.
“For you, my Lord, and for Dal Riata, my life and blade are yours. Command me and I’ll take your word and will see it delivered. Who do you want me to kill my Lord?”
The king turned and gazed at Farren. “I think you know what I want, Farren Crowe. I want you to find the outlaw, the one they call Lamorak. Take him alive, with his sword, this Scalibur. I want his magic. It’s the key to unlock the rest.”
Crowe felt the dual tingle: excitement and dread. “The rest, my Lord?”
Loarn coughed and spat into the fire. “Yes, the rest. They say this new magic holds the secret of youth, that its bearer can live forever. What do you think of that, Farren?”
Crowe blinked. “These are great claims, my lord. How do we know them to be true?”
The king sat down. “Farren, there’s someone I want you to meet. She has seen Lamorak, she has lain with him. She carries his child.”
The king stood up and walked toward the back of the hall. “Bring the girl,” he shouted.
Movement in the shadows followed his words. An old woman appeared holding a young girl’s hand. Crowe guessed the girl’s age to be maybe eighteen or nineteen summers.
“This is Rysa. She has something to share with us, don’t you Rysa?” Loarn said.
Rysa strode up to the two men and looked them in the eye.
She’s not intimidated, Crowe observed. She carries herself like a warrior.
Rysa spoke in a clear voice. “Lamorak bears the mark of the Aes Sidhe. He has come to reclaim his kingdom and I carry his heir.” Her hand went to her belly. “Nothing will stop him―not you, not your sons, not this man, not your mages or holy men. Lamorak carries Aes Sidhe fire in his spirit and blade. You’ll not defeat him. It is best to surrender to him.”
“You see, Farren, we have something this Lamorak wants and he has something I want. It’s quite simple really,” Loarn said.
“What do your sons say, my Lord?” Crowe asked.
Loarn nodded at the old woman, who turned and led Rysa away. When the two men were alone, the king turned to Crowe.
“I’ve sent them west, away from here, to deal with a dispute with the Pictish. Who knows what they’d do if they knew I was to become immortal? Besides, they’ll be my insurance policy if anything goes wrong. But nothing will go wrong, will it Farren? Because you’re a giver, and you’ll bring Lamorak to me and I will find out how his magic works. Do this for me and your reward will be great.”
There it was. Farren’s heart leaped. This was the one―this would see him comfortable for the rest of his days. He’d take this opportunity, kick this door open, and walk through to the good life on the other side.
“Yes, my king, I will do this for you. I’ll leave today and track him down. I can move fast alone, and I know the waterways he’ll be using.”
Loarn took Crowe’s arm. “You’ll not go alone. You’ll take the girl; use her to bait Lamorak. She’ll be his gallows. Bring him to me, and soon.”
“My king, surely the girl’s more secure here within your walls?”
“He’ll expect that. We need to be unpredictable for this one, Farren. He’s cunning. Take your best men, work
it out, bring him to me with his sword.”
Crowe nodded. “Yes, my king.”
And that was it. Rysa was going with him. This would complicate things.
Chapter 5: Inis Cealtra
The haar had thickened.
The skiff was being pulled toward the seabirds, and Sive was battling the current. She was still in deep water. A swell propelled her toward the cliffs looming out of the haar a short distance ahead. She took it in: hundreds of sea birds calling out, the sheer cliffs puncturing the ocean.
Is this Inis Cealtra?
She looked at the cliffs, remembering Orphir’s words. She felt that if she took her eyes from the enchanted island she would lose it. The haar crept in around her. Sive paddled furiously, looking for a break in the cliffs. Her skiff was ideal for these waters, its shallow draft keeping her off the rocks just beneath the surface.
She saw a breach in the cliffs, an inlet leading to a rocky gully, narrowing as it went. It rose almost to the cliff top. She struck out toward the inlet but as she neared it, a swell drenched the skiff. Sive struggled against the tide but lost her balance. She was thrown into the icy water.
Cold gripped Sive. Her muscles cramped, shutting down as she tried to move. The skiff was pulled out by the current. The inlet lay just ahead, and in desperation, Sive swam for it. The current dragged her away, her limbs flailing uselessly. Her head went under. Sive thought of Orphir and what she would say when she learned of her drowning.
She knew her parents wouldn’t miss her―they’d secretly rejoice. Her clan wouldn’t miss her either; she was a throwback, after all, an outcast with deformed ears. She had never belonged to those people. Maybe she’d reach the Aes Sidhe after all . . . through death.
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