Flame of Sevenwaters (48 page)

“Drop your weapons and go, Sleibhin,” Mac Dara said. “There is no place for your kind here.”

Sleibhin put down his sword and knife, rose to his feet, then offered a bow that was a great deal more respectful than I thought was appropriate under the circumstances. He took three steps away before one of Mac Dara’s guards, swift as a striking snake, lifted a club and delivered a hideous blow to his head. Sleibhin went down like a felled tree.

I tried to block Finbar’s view, but I was too slow. We had both seen it: the head staved in, the body lying there with arms outstretched as if in prayer. The crowd roared approval.

“They killed him,” Finbar said, his tone flat with disbelief.

“Shh,” hissed Dioman.

What was this? Had we wandered into a realm where right and wrong no longer had any meaning? This was impossible. We couldn’t be here; we couldn’t do this. Home, I must get Finbar home before worse happened. “Finbar,” I whispered urgently. “Luachan. We can’t go through with this. It’s wrong; everything’s wrong. Did you hear those people cheering? We have to go home.”

“It’s too late for that.” Luachan had been very quiet, heeding Dioman’s warnings. Now he spoke in a murmur. “Outside this veil of protection we’d be clearly visible. We couldn’t get home safely with Mac Dara’s folk everywhere. The only way out is to do what Caisin has asked us to do.”

“But—”

“Maeve,” whispered Finbar, “we have to stay. You know what Mac Dara did.”

My boys. My dear, brave boys. I could not speak of that dark thing lest it bring me entirely undone.

Down at the stone basin, the hapless Labhraidh was battling Mochta. The bout seemed unlikely to last long.

“Don’t look,” I told Finbar, turning my own eyes away.

“I don’t need to look,” Finbar said. “The big man will knock the other man into the fire.”

I drew in a long breath, hearing sounds of scuffling and grunting, along with gasps and exclamations from the appreciative onlookers. “What fire?” I made myself ask. “There is no fire.”

“There is now,” said Finbar.

CHAPTER 14

F or a heartbeat I allowed myself to pretend that Finbar was wrong and that the fire was all in his imagination. Then I smelled it, the unmistakable, sharp tang of smoke. Old memories flickered, caught, roared through me. I looked down at the basin. Mochta stood alone on the stone projection. He was sheathing a knife. Below him the basin was full of flame; this was indeed the great fire of Finbar’s story. My heart performed a leaping dance of sheer terror. My breath left my body before I could form the words,
I can’t do this.

“Maeve.” I felt my brother’s hand fasten around my wrist as he spoke. “Remember the story Uncle Ciarán told?
If you are brave, good and wise you can face any challenge.
You’re as brave as a”—he hunted for the right comparison—“as brave as a dragon.”

“You’re the bravest woman I ever met,” said Luachan, fixing me with his startling blue eyes. “You can do this.
We
can do it.”

And when I made no response, Finbar said, “Mac Dara had a man killed just now, for no reason. He tortured Cruinn’s warriors. You know what he did to Bear and Badger. You can’t let him get away with that.”

I drew a ragged breath. “Of course not,” I muttered, reminding myself that I had been warned there might be a ritual flame, and that I had been working on my fear of fire for ten years now and could sit reasonably close to a hearth without letting anyone see how much it disturbed me. Never mind that this blaze was a hundred times bigger than any hearth fire. Bear. Badger. My lovely boys. Whatever had to be done today, I would find the courage for it.

“The challenges will begin now,” said Dioman in an undertone. “The time is drawing closer.”

I made myself breathe slowly, using a technique Bran had taught me in the time when I was learning to control my fear. My heart’s wild drumming became a steady march.

The challenges began. There was a pattern to this part of the proceedings. A dark-robed man of imposing bearing—Mac Dara’s councilor, I guessed—unfurled a scroll and read out a list of positions of responsibility that were to be filled. I would have thought Mac Dara would simply appoint his favored candidate to each post; he did not seem the kind of person who would care about due process. But perhaps it entertained him to make folk do battle for such responsibilities as Keeper of Lore or Overseer of Margins. Or perhaps even the Lord of the Oak could not disregard the ancient laws that governed the Grand Conclave.

In a human court, such as that of the High King, rivals for a position would set out their credentials, speak of their experience and, prior to the decision, maybe work on garnering support from influential nobles. This was quite different. For each position there were only two candidates, and in each case those candidates demonstrated their qualifications by means of magic.

The councilor read out the rules before the contests began. The rivals must both stand on the tongue of stone. If one of them was the current holder of the position, that person would perform second. The horn would be sounded to indicate the start of each claimant’s allotted time; it would be sounded again after a count of one hundred, at which point all magical activity must cease. The demonstration must not constitute an attack on the rival claimant, nor do unreasonable injury to any of those present. I
wondered what a reasonable injury was—a cut, a bruise? Or might these folk consider anything less than a deadly wound acceptable? Ciarán had said the Fair Folk did not die, but faded and lost their power. But he’d also said they could be snuffed out by the clever use of magic. It made me think again about what we had just seen. A club to the head, a knife in the chest—there must have been more to those deaths than met the eye.

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.