The King of Sleep (31 page)

“You'll hold your tongue!” Eber hissed. “You have no right to address me with such insults.”

“You're a master of insult,” Dalan spat. “There is no greater slur you could have cast upon my folk than to bring the severed head of such a respected man before us, dressed as you are in your feasting finery. I've heard tell you lack discretion but this provocative act could hardly be considered anything less than a grave affront. If you don't want to find
your own head on the point of a Fir-Bolg spear I suggest you conceal your trophy from the eyes of his loved ones.”

“Brocan wouldn't dare touch me.”

“I am the highest-ranking Druid in the western lands,” Dalan informed him coldly. “I know well enough that the law does not permit the taking of a life for a life. But at this moment I wouldn't dream of stepping in to prevent my king from venting his anger with you in whatever manner he saw fit.”

“I can see I'm wasting my time here,” Eber dismissed, and in the next breath he had turned around to head toward his chariot. But before he had walked more than a few steps Máel Máedóc reached out and grabbed the king by the sleeve.

“What sort of a man are you?” the old Druid demanded. “Have you no thought of peace? Is war your only concern? What of the good of your people? Do you think they covet the fight as much as you do?”

“Stand out of my way, old man,” the king bellowed. “You've so dim you've lost sight of the reasons our people came to this land in the first place.”

“We needed land,” Máel Máedóc agreed. “But our people also sought a place where they could live in peace.”

“There'll be no peace as long as my brother rules the north and covets the country I've conquered. I have no choice but to attack the strongholds of Éremon and remove him from his position. If I fail to do so my own subjects will be usurped from the hard-won
fields they till. They'll be replaced by folk who are loyal to my brother.”

“What foolishness it is to foster war in order to nurture peace,” Máel Máedóc scoffed. “Truly you are but a boy.”

“We'll see what you say when the northerners come knocking at your door, take away your wife, your daughters and your cattle and burn the house of poetry at Dun Gur.”

“And will you serve us any better?” the old Druid asked.

The king did not reply. He dragged himself away from Máel Máedóc's grip, went to his chariot and dislodged the spear. Once he had the weapon in his hand he grabbed a handful of hair and dragged the head from the barbed point. Then he handed the ghastly object to his charioteer.

“Wrap the head in this,” he ordered as he removed his bright breacan cloak.

Then he turned to face Dalan once more.

“It was my intention to show your warrior great honor,” he explained. “I didn't wish to cause any offense. Renegades murdered him and they have been assigned their punishment as a result. I've brought two chariots as gifts to help pay the man's honor price and smooth the temper of King Brocan.”

“You're not bringing war?”

“I wish to strengthen my alliance with the Fir-Bolg.”

Dalan coughed in disbelief. “Truly you are a strange people.”

“Do you think Brocan will be willing to join with me in my fight against the northern Gaedhals?”

“I can't answer for King Brocan,” the Brehon answered. “But I'm sure he'll expect more than a couple of war-carts for his trouble.”

“I'll pay him whatever price he asks.”

“You should be more careful with your offers,” Dalan advised. “There are some folk who might seek to take advantage of such promises.”

“If Brocan doesn't join with me his own people will fall to my brother's warriors,” Eber stated.

“You could pledge all your cattle, gold, weapons and fine cloth but I doubt it would convince my king,” the Brehon sighed. “You can expect him to ask for something quite different. And I warn you now that to accompany me to Aillwee will be to as good as agree to whatever price he demands.”

“Then let us go.”

“My lord!” Máel Máedóc protested.

“I have no choice,” Eber told his adviser. “If I don't seek this alliance I may as well fall on my own sword.”

“I hope you don't live to regret this decision,” Dalan added.

And then without another word he strode off toward the waiting Fir-Bolg warriors who stood expectantly behind the walls of their stronghold.

T
HERE WAS NO FEASTING THAT EVENING AT THE FIR
-Bolg fortress. Eber Finn and his entourage were treated with polite respect but the barest minimum of hospitality and none of the customary ritual.

The two kings and their advisers lodged at opposite sides of the fortress that night. With the dawning sun they broke their fast together on the eastern battlements, the only part of the fortification to have been completed.

Few words were spoken between the war-leaders, though Dalan, Sorcha and Máel Máedóc launched into a long discussion about the worryingly low level of the waters in Lough Gur. It was Sorcha's opinion that the spring which fed the lough had begun to silt up and that in time the source of that spring would be revealed. Once that happened, she reasoned, it would be relatively easy to clean away the collected debris. Then the lough could fill again.

Dalan was certain that rain would be the savior of the lough. The west had suffered the longest dry spell in living memory. The fields were turned to golden yellow where usually every shade of green was seen.

Lochie, arrayed in the clothes and appearance of Fineen the Healer, also attended the formal breakfast, though he didn't offer his thoughts on the level of the lough. Indeed he hardly spoke a word to anyone until the Brehon called on Fineen to recount, for the benefit of Máel Máedóc, the history of Dun Gur. Fineen's people had dwelled in that place since the Danaans first arrived in Innisfail, and the healer's knowledge of its history was unsurpassed.

Of course Lochie didn't flinch for a moment. What stories he knew of Dun Gur hadn't been passed down to him in whispers from any teacher. He'd witnessed for himself all the great events of a hundred generations, so it was an easy task for him to speak about them.

He told the gathering about the first of the Tuatha-De-Danaan who had arrived in that part of the country and how they'd fought a terrible battle with the Fir-Bolg on the shores of the lough. Even in those ancient days there were Druids among the Danaan folk who practiced the Draoi craft, and it was said that they called a great storm down upon the surface of the lough, which swept waves over the gathered Fir-Bolg force. Then one of the Druids named Dagda stepped into the midst of the fight and sang a beautiful haunting song as he strummed his harp strings.

None among the Fir-Bolg dared lay a hand on the Danaan Druid. A practitioner of the Draoi arts was protected by ancient laws common to both peoples. According to the legends there arose from the lough two enormous worms that churned the waters and put a terror upon the Fir-Bolg.

The defenders threw down their arms and sued for peace; Dagda ceased his song and the creatures from the deep sank beneath the agitated lough again. The victorious Danaans claimed the island in the middle of the lough as their own and set about building a stone fortress there to keep any threat at bay.

As for the Fir-Bolg who were defeated by the use of the Draoi craft, they never forgot the way Dagda had misused his talents. He must have known that no Fir-Bolg would dishonor their name by striking down a Druid. Yet he had drawn on the Draoi to aid the Danaan warriors and so had broken his own vows never to engage in battle. Dagda went on to become the first Danaan to preside over the Druid Assembly and it was after him the office of High-Druid was named.

The Fir-Bolg agreed to throw their swords and war-gear into the lough in pledge of peace. It took two generations for them to rearm and by that time the Danaans were well established in their new home. As for the two worms, no one knew from whence they came nor where they went afterward. Some folk said they lived on under the waters, appearing now and then to steal a cow or drown a careless boatman. Others claimed they had been merely demons of the
mind without substance, conjured up by Dagda's craft. But Dagda always reckoned the worms dwelled in a deep cave in the darkest parts of the lough at the place where the waters emerged from within the Earth.

When Lochie finished this part of the tale Máel Máedóc thanked him. And he inquired whether the two worms he'd referred to were likely to be stirred by the falling level of the waters. The Watcher simply shrugged to indicate that he didn't know.

“Fineen is a trusted adviser,” Brocan assured the old Gaedhal. “As soon as we have settled matters Ã11 send him back to Dun Gur to assess the situation.”

Máel Máedóc bowed to show his thanks, but before he could speak another word Eber Finn cut in.

“Let us resolve our differences then,” he offered. “I'm willing to pay an honor price befitting the rank and status of the warrior who was killed by renegades. And I'll also double the bride price I originally offered you, just to show that I am sympathetic to your loss.”

The king raised an eyebrow. Now he was even more angry. To use this situation to further negotiations on a marriage arrangement was dishonorable. He steered the Gaedhal back to the point.

“You could treble it and it wouldn't dampen my grief,” Brocan replied tersely. “Fergus was more than a champion. He was my friend. And he was a messenger sent to you with a gift of good faith, a breacan cloak worthy of a king.”

Eber flinched visibly as he recalled the bright yellow garment Goll mac Morna had been wearing.

“What more can I do to prove my worth to you as an ally and friend?” the Gaedhal asked.

“I challenge you to a test of your valor.”

Máel Máedóc sat forward, the concern clearly visible on his face, but his king didn't hesitate.

“What is to be the nature of this test?”

“I have prepared a journey for you,” Lochie spoke up. “Accompanied by a Druid of your choosing, you will enter the Aillwee caves, explore the depths and hopefully return unscathed.”

Eber Finn frowned and glanced over at the Fir-Bolg king. He was smiling broadly.

“This would hardly appear to be much of a challenge,” Eber scoffed.

“There is more,” Lochie went on. “You will take a Druid brew to open your inner eye to the world which exists beneath the Earth. Believe me, there are terrors in that place which will measure the worthiness of your friendship and your hand in battle.”

“How do I know this isn't a trap? How can I trust that your warriors won't be lying in wait for me? Disabled by poison I would never be able to stand against a determined sword.”

“I will undergo the same test,” Brocan replied, hardly able to contain his satisfaction. Here was an opportunity to lay to rest the fears his warriors held for the caves and challenge the Gaedhal at the same time. “As an act of good faith I will drink the same
brew and set off with a Druid in whom I have great trust.”

“I choose Máel Máedóc,” Eber shot back.

“I select Dalan the Brehon,” the Fir-Bolg king smiled.

“Then you shall each take the adviser the other man chose,” the Watcher smiled. “Dalan will go with Eber Finn and Máel Máedóc will accompany Brocan. If you should encounter one another in the depths of the caves, there is to be no fighting between you. I'll wager there will be enough other challenges placed before you that if you do chance to meet, you'll likely be glad of a face you recognize.”

“How will we find our way out again?” Dalan asked, disturbed by the thought of becoming lost in that underworld.

“I understand that tradition speaks of a river which flows through the Aillwee and emerges closer to the sea. Find that river and you will have discovered a way out of the caves.”

“When is the testing to be?” Eber asked.

“Tomorrow at dawn.”

With that the King of the Southern Gaedhals rose from his seat. “I shall be ready.”

Then he strode off toward the road, seeking to be by himself for a while. He had no desire to show just how dismayed he was by this turn of events. But he was beginning to wonder if an alliance with the Fir-Bolg was really worth all this trouble.

*   *   *

That evening Lochie took Sárán out on the battlements to view the stars and teach his pupil something of their relationships. The young man had noticed a great change come over his master in the last few days and he liked what he saw. Where Fineen had once been shy about speaking his mind, he now seemed extremely confident. In place of his reticence to praise he now openly talked of his student's potential to become a greatly respected Druid.

When the lesson was concluded Sárán excused himself to go and prepare his master's fire for the night. But Lochie asked the lad to remain a while.

“I am convinced,” the Watcher told him, “that you are ready to take your first initiation as a Druid-Healer. I'm very proud of you, my boy.”

“Thank you, master,” Sárán replied, taken aback by such generosity. “I strive to take your lessons to heart.”

“I believe you do,” Lochie nodded. “And you will always need to be disciplined if you're to meet the challenges placed before you in the future.”

“Challenges?”

“Within a few days your knowledge and skills are going to be put to the test. I am going to recommend that you continue your training as a counselor. One day you will advise your brother Lom when he's elected King of the Fir-Bolg.”

“You've spoken of this before,” Sárán ventured. “But surely I'm too young for such responsibility.”

“Some would say your brother is too young for the
kingship. Yet he will be king before long. And your sister Aoife will be a queen.”

“How is that possible?”