The King of Sleep

“You're too hasty,” Lochie told Isleen. “You don't look at all the possibilities.”

As he spoke he shuffled his High-King out from its sanctuary and moved it to the edge of the cloth. “Sometimes it's better to concede a little ground in order to achieve a long-term ambition.”

Isleen brushed the wild red hair from her eyes and stared him down. “You're just upset because I won our little wager,” she countered. “Aoife will marry Eber Finn. I knew it from the start. Mahon was never right for her.”

Lochie gathered the pieces together and began setting them out for another round. “I wasn't aware our wager was settled,” he remarked casually. “Eber and Aoife haven't wed yet.”

“They will do so soon enough,” she promised. “Eber understands the value of the match. I've seen to it.”

“And what of his heart?”

“Men like Eber Finn have no heart,” Isleen asserted. “Their ambitions are solely focused on kingdoms, wealth and prestige. No woman could ever give him that.”

“So there's no chance he might fall in love if the right woman came along?”

Isleen looked up at her companion with suspicion. “What are you up to?” she asked.

“Nothing! I was just asking a question. Surely he's as vulnerable to a beautiful female form as any other man.”

Isleen picked up the High-King to take her turn with the white pieces. “The war will start before winter. On the feast of Samhain Eve they will be wed—and with great ceremony and celebration.”

“The wager isn't settled they do marry,” Lochie said. “So I wouldn't be so confident of victory if I were you.”

 

Also by Caiseal Mór

The Meeting of the Waters

The Raven Game
*

*
forthcoming

 

 

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2001 by Caiseal Mór

Published by arrangement with Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

Originally published in Australia in 2001 by Simon & Schuster Australia

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

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Printed in the U.S.A.

I
am extremely grateful to several people who gave such encouragement to me to write this novel. Selwa Anthony, my literary agent, has always been a believer in these novels and the tales I write. Without her support and friendship I would never have put a word down on paper in the first place. Thank you, Selwa, for changing my life.

Julia Stiles has edited all my novels, beginning with
The Circle and the Cross
. I thank you, Julia, for your magnificent patience in dealing with my often wild rambles.

I would like to thank all at Simon & Schuster Australia, but especially Angelo Loukakis, who recognized the potential of the Watchers series and set about getting them published.

Finally I must thank all the readers who continue to write to me through e-mail and snail mail. These many letters convinced me to continue with this cycle of stories and reminded me constantly what a joy it is to share a tale with others. If you would like to write to me to share your opinions on my novels, I may be contacted through my publisher or by e-mail at
[email protected]
or by following the links from my web page. The URL is:
www.caiseal.net
.

Caiseal Mór

In the gentle glow of firelight an old man, his hands hard from a lifetime of tilling the soil, warmed himself against the winter. His eyes brightened as I opened a bottle and found a seat opposite him. He told me no one listened to his stories these days.

By the time the whiskey was gone I had heard one or two of his tales, though I'm certain he kept the best stories to himself.

Music and storytelling have been a part of my life since childhood. My grandmother was a talented tale-weaver who had a gift for meshing different stories together. Her style was to overlap her tales into one long legend that explained the origins of the Irish people.

In the early 1980s I traveled to Ireland and was privileged to meet some very fine storytellers there. The legends and anecdotes I heard inspired me to record as much as possible. In my enthusiasm, I filled notebooks with wise and humorous sayings I picked up, as well as the general gist of some fascinating tales.

When I returned to Australia I put the notes away and got on with earning a degree in the arts. It was ten years before I looked at those scribblings again. By that time I had a much better knowledge of folklore and the storyteller's craft and a fascination with all the characters who appear as the supporting cast of the great dramatic sagas.

It crossed my mind that I might like to write a novel. Then by a remarkable chance, almost as if it had happened in one of those old stories, I met a mentor who would become my literary agent, Selwa Anthony. She suggested I write a story based on some of the tales I had collected.

That was how the Watchers began.

September 2001

Caiseal Mór

A
SWORD, A SPADE AND A GOOD STORY ARE THREE
things that should never be allowed to rust. So hush your foolish chatter and let me have the floor so I can get my tale done with, eat some of your fine smoked meats and go home before the sun rises.

There's no sense in shuddering. I'm no ghost. I'm no dark spirit of the night. I'm made of flesh and blood just as you are. So don't get it into your head that you're any better than me or you'll taste my talons on your soft pink skin.

I may not be able to lift a pen with these claws but you'll never read a tale such as the one I'll tell. Ravens have no need for pens and ink. Our folk are blessed with clear memories, though I admit my kindred are too often selective in their recollections. I don't entirely blame them.

Your breed is untrustworthy, dishonorable and greedy. Your kind have brought woe to this world too many times in your selfish quest for wealth and power. Even the best among you are always rushing about in a frenzy of confusion.

Stupid creatures, the whole lot of you. And of all the tribes born of the sons and daughters of man, you Gaedhals are more foolish than most.

And I should know. I was yet young when your folk first made their landfall on this shore. Who would've thought the coming of your forebears would signal such terrible changes? Who could have dreamed, even in their darkest nightmare, that the Gaedhals were capable of so much evil?

They cut down the forests and turned the bogs into wastelands. They turned up the turf to fuel fireside and forge without a thought for the future. Wherever they settled, lough and stream were fished out. Wherever they wandered they left their mark on the sacred stones, the hillsides and every stretch of coast.