The Last Days of Magic (17 page)

From the narrow bunk, Jordan watched the moonlight slide across the curves of her body. He couldn’t recall when he had spent so much time with a woman. It felt good to be here with her. All the other women he had known would be terrified by his new studies and certainly would not have been able to help with them. During their voyage toward Ireland, they had done little except study the grimoires and play—ever since that first night when she literally dragged him from the table to his bunk. He understood that she was desperately trying to attach herself to him, but it also seemed that she wanted to lose herself in passion when she could, a distraction from the questions that still hung over her.

“Tomorrow night will be the full moon,” she said, climbing back into his bunk. “Is that when we arrive?”

“Yes,” was all Jordan could say as she stroked him, restoring his erection. She straddled him, and no more was said until after she had satisfied them both.

Najia lay exhausted beside Jordan, his arm across her waist, hers on top of his. “Are you going to keep me or sell me tomorrow?” she asked.

Jordan smiled. “I believe you know the answer to that question.”

She ran her hand down the side of his face. “Perhaps my sister could join us?”

“We can’t fit anyone else in this bunk.”

“She’s a wonderful cook. You’ll need that when you return home. My young brother is good with horses. He speaks their language and would make a fine stable hand. One day he could be your horse master.”

“No,” Jordan replied. “I have plans for them.”

“I’ll let you keep me,” Najia said, her voice soft and inviting, “but only if you keep my brother and sister as well.”

“Let me?” He laughed. “I own you.”

Najia flashed Jordan a look as all softness disappeared from her body.

“You have no idea what will happen to you tomorrow if I don’t protect you,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me,” she said as she squirmed around to lie on her stomach, pushing Jordan to the edge of the bunk.

With a sigh he stood up. Opening his trunk, he rummaged through the clothes jumbled inside until he found his dagger and the bag of peaches he had stashed. Jordan sat on the bunk’s edge and examined a peach carefully. He cut away a rotten bit and dug out a small worm, flicking it at the porthole, missing. Cutting a slice of the remaining good meat, he held it out toward Najia. He knew that even with her face buried in the blanket, she could smell the rare fruit.

She turned toward him, and he slipped the piece into her mouth. “Tomorrow,” he said, “you stay in my cabin all day. I make no promises about your siblings.” After feeding her the rest of the peach, Jordan climbed under the blanket next to Najia and slept. She did not.

8

Off the Southwest Coast of Ireland

The Next Morning

A
t sunrise Jordan emerged onto the deck of the cog. Common seagoing traders, cogs emphasized functionality over comfort and were inexpensive and quick to build. The design was simple: the hull was constructed with lapstrake oak planking, caulked with tarred moss that was forced into curved grooves, then covered with wooden laths and secured by forged-iron clinch nails. The single mast carried one large square sail, which made the ship easy to handle, even in rough seas, by a crew of as few as four. On the stern sat a minimal U-shaped superstructure containing three cabins: the captain’s, Jordan’s, and Prince Ruarc’s. The rest of the crew slept in a common cabin belowdecks next to a small galley and the cargo hold containing the slaves. Ty stayed on the deck.

The ship was no longer pitching and seemed to be sailing down a channel of calm that ran through the rough waves. Ruarc stood on the bowsprit chanting. Jordan could not understand the words but knew they were a poem to the wind and water. The captain stood at the wheel.

“Good morning, Captain. How long until we arrive?” asked Jordan.

“Morning, Marshal. The prince told me that if I follow this course, we’ll be through the waves by noon and at Great Skellig before twilight.”

Dary exited Ruarc’s cabin supporting his skeletal wife. Leading Eithne slowly to the rail, he dropped a blanket on the deck and helped her sit. She leaned back in the sun and closed her eyes.

Ruarc finished his poetic incantation with a flourish of his arms.
Climbing down onto the deck, he walked over, picked up Eithne as if she weighed no more than a lamb, and carried her back into his cabin. Dary said nothing.

Jordan looked out at the calm, enchanted channel before him, framed by walls of thirty-foot waves on either side. Inevitably, his thoughts were drawn to the previous, doomed attempt by Rome to invade Ireland with the English—their armada had sailed across this same sea 221 years earlier. At that time the Earl of Pembroke, known as “Strongbow,” thought he could seize Ireland for the Norman king of England, Henry II, who had been gifted the entire island by an excessively optimistic pope through the Laudabiliter grant.

How exactly were the English so soundly defeated
, Jordan wondered,
and why had no survivors returned
? This turbulent ring of water couldn’t have been the only thing that repelled them, or certainly some damaged ships and men would have made it back to England.
What magic did the Irish use, or was it just the work of the Fomorians?
Jordan needed to ensure that the same fate did not befall the next English armada, because he planned to be on it, so long as the legate was able to convince their unstable king to sail forth.

Dary was still brooding at the rail when Jordan approached him and asked, “Your family are descendants of Strongbow’s marshal, isn’t that so? Were there many survivors?”

“A few.” Dary did not raise his head to look at Jordan. “The Irish sold them among themselves, as slaves.”

“And none tried to escape, to return to England?”

“That’s not the way of things there. The men eventually earned their freedom, but they had already become
níos Gaelaí ná na Gaeil iad féin
—‘more Irish than the Irish themselves.’”

“I need to hear the whole story, what happened to the fleet, before we lead a new armada back.”

“I don’t care about your invasion,” Dary snapped. “I care about what Ruarc is doing to my wife.” He walked away.

. . . . .

Jordan’s ship had passed through the wall of waves, and the sun had begun its descent when he spied the seething white flock of kittiwakes circulating on the horizon. Within minutes Great Skellig seemed to rise out of the sea like a giant jagged tooth.

Located eight miles off the southwest corner of Ireland, the treeless island had been uninhabited for more than two hundred years when it was decided that King Kellach of the Skeaghshee would be imprisoned there. A short stone pier and a few squat stone huts, beehive shaped, were the only structures on the island, remnants of a Christian monastery that had struggled to survive there, much to the amusement of the Celts. An effort that was finally abandoned in the twelfth century, leaving the rock to the kittiwakes, who survived by fastening their meager nests to its steep faces, using their droppings as cement.

Jordan felt vitalized, his senses unusually acute, more so than could be explained simply by four weeks of rest with Najia. His heightened awareness had started as soon as they entered Irish waters and had been building ever since, but there was no time to think about it now. He walked to the bow, where Ruarc stood. The captain joined them, leaving his first mate at the wheel.

“What’s the plan?” the captain asked.

“First we must get by the Fomorians,” said Ruarc.

“A type of sea faerie,” added Jordan.

“Not quite,” said Ruarc. “They are a type of Elioud, more demonic blood. They once occupied the surface of Ireland, until the Sidhe arrived and drove them into the sea at the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh. Now they live in great caverns, whose entrances are accessible only from the water.”

“Yet they align with the Sidhe?” asked the captain.

“Treaties between the two races have been common,” said Ruarc. “But the ruling Sidhe clans—the Devas and Adhene—have become greedy, too much like the Celts, and the tributes they pay to bind
treaties have become too small, such as the treaty to guard that rock. I have sent word to the king of the Fomorian clan who occupy these waters that in exchange for safe passage I will gift him human slaves the likes of which neither he nor any other Fomorian has seen before.”

“Did he guarantee safe passage?”

“I have not received word back,” said Ruarc calmly, “but I am hopeful.”

“If we get past the Fomorians,” Jordan said, “there’s a relatively small guard on the island itself, a few Celts and about ten Sidhe. Mostly Fire Sprites—they and the Skeaghshee hate each other. We’ll land just after nightfall.”

The captain looked up at the sky. “It’s clouding over. Without moonlight it’ll be too dark to dock at the pier.”

“Just follow my directions and you will land safely,” said Ruarc.

“Once we are docked, Ty will go ashore and retrieve the king,” added Jordan.

The captain looked over at the large figure, statuesque on the deck. “He can survive Fire Sprites?”

“Ty is a unique half-breed,” said Jordan. “Part giant, clearly, but I’ve no idea what the rest is. Whatever his parents were, the union didn’t take completely, and he was born deformed. With no magic of his own, he embodies its very opposite. He’s full of some kind of darkness that absorbs enchantments cast against him.”

A quarter mile from Great Skellig, the ship turned into the wind and dropped its sail. The setting sun disappeared behind cloud cover, creating an early dusk.

Jordan returned to his cabin to prepare to meet the Fomorian king. Certain protocols must be followed, even for the king of another race. He pulled off his plain wool tunic and put on one of red silk. His sword and dagger he moved to a silver belt. A black wool cloak trimmed with mink completed the outfit, nothing of which displayed the symbol of the Vatican.

Throughout the process Najia sat in the center of the floor, eyes closed, chanting quietly.

“Praying to your God?” Jordan finally asked, adjusting his cloak.

Najia opened her eyes. “I’m casting an enchantment of protection over my sister and little brother.”

“No enchantment will protect them if I fail to keep them from the Fomorians.”

“Then I’ll cast you an enchantment of good fortune.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do anything. If Ruarc senses any enchantments, he’ll know I’m up to something.” Jordan stroked her hair. “Just stay here and trust that I’ll do all I can.” He picked up his hat and went out on deck.

Jordan walked up to Dary and asked, “How’s your wife?”

“How do you think she is?” Anger flared in his voice.

“Why don’t you bring her out? The sea air will do her good.”

Dary glanced at Ruarc, who was standing at the starboard railing looking out at Great Skellig, then moved toward Ruarc’s cabin.

The crew led the nineteen remaining slaves up on deck. They had been stripped and their hands bound. Jordan walked among them; they shivered with cold and fear. He pointed out the two women he thought Ruarc would find most pleasing, and four others, including Najia’s sister and brother. He was careful to choose casually and not to look back at his cabin door, which he knew was open just enough for Najia to peer out.

“Take these six back down,” Jordan ordered two deckhands. “Allow them to dress, then secure them.”

“Marshal Jordan,” demanded Ruarc, rushing toward him. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not wise to show all we have to offer at the outset. We may need additional trade goods later. Thirteen is a good offer to start.”

“That is not the Sidhe way.”

“You said Fomorians aren’t Sidhe.”

“They are closer to Sidhe than human.”

“Besides, soon you’ll need a new companion.” Jordan’s eyes moved to the emaciated figure of Eithne cradled in Dary’s lap. Ruarc’s eyes followed.

Ruarc gave Jordan a nod. “It is good for me to learn the ways of your kind. We will try your plan, but keep the other slaves ready.” He glanced over the terrified huddle of naked Ottomans: women, men, and children. “Perhaps you should have left one of the more attractive women.”

“Who knows what a Fomorian finds attractive?” replied Jordan.

“We are about to find out,” said Ruarc.

A pair of wet, scaly, green hands with clawlike fingernails wrapped themselves around the starboard railing, a slight web apparent between the bases of the fingers. The creature flung itself on deck, followed by another, then more until they crowded the starboard side. Their bare skin dried unnaturally quickly to a nearly human taupe hue, the scales tightening down and almost vanishing. Dark hair hung lank about their shoulders, the occasional crab or bit of seaweed plucked out and tossed overboard.

A large male stepped forward and barked orders to the horde, exhibiting small, sharklike teeth. The Fomorians parted and bowed, revealing an even larger male climbing over the rail. He had one eye, swollen to twice normal size; the second socket was shriveled and empty.