Flame of Sevenwaters (50 page)

“Ready, Maeve?” Luachan whispered in my ear, but I found I could not summon a single word. I rose to my feet and managed
a nod. My insides were churning; I thought I might faint. I recalled that it was rather a long time since I had eaten.

“What about Swift?” I looked about but could see no sign of him. I could not see Dioman, either, or the man who had taken Swift away.

“They’ll bring him,” Luachan said. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh, a display, my lord,” said Caisin. “In keeping with the serious nature of the challenge, perhaps your councilor should read out the rules once more before we begin. The signals, the count of one hundred, the penalty for failure. Let us be quite sure.”

She was stalling for time. While she stood there before his throne, splendid in her blue and silver, working the charm of her face and voice on the enthralled crowd, I was aware of subtle but rapid activity taking place around the circle of onlookers. While Caisin held Mac Dara’s attention and that of his nearby attendants and guards, other members of her household were moving within the crowd, carrying wooden poles, mallets, coils of rope.

Fraochan droned on: “…in instances of magical challenge the count will be to one hundred; save where the challenge is to a ruling prince or lord, in which case it is customary to extend that count to two hundred, since it is expected that the level of skill demonstrated will be superior and the display more elaborate. An agreed signal will be used to designate the start and end of each challenge. This may be the sounding of a horn or bell, or a word of command. The signal must be given by a party not allied to either claimant.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mac Dara. “A count of two hundred, how utterly tedious. But we must respect it, of course, if only so my lady here will not spend the next three years boring us with complaints of unfairness. Let’s get this over with, shall we? My good folk have waited too long already for their feasting and merriment.”

A count of two hundred! How could I keep Swift calm for so long down there in the crowd, so close to the fire? Caisin’s people had gathered in two clusters, on opposite sides of the circle. They were busy with something but their bodies blocked a clear view.

“There is one further procedural point, my lord prince.” Fraochan regarded his lord, somber as an owl. His voice sounded different;
there was a new strength in it. The folk around the basin’s rim fell quiet.

“Enlighten us, Fraochan.”

“Where the ruler is challenged and a display of magic is the chosen option, the ruler takes precedence; that is, he demonstrates his abilities first. The challenger follows.”

Morrigan’s curse! If Mac Dara went first, what was to stop him ignoring the rules and destroying Caisin outright, along with anyone else who dared challenge his authority? Was Fraochan, standing there unarmed in his dark robe, strong enough to enforce the rules? Would a councilor stand up to the Lord of the Oak? I hoped so, or Caisin would never get her opportunity to contest the leadership. Finbar would not get home safe and sound. And Mac Dara would not pay for the deaths of my boys.

The Lord of the Oak stepped forward. He bore no staff or other implement of magical power—at least, I could see none. Nor did he have a sword, a spear, a knife. Yet a shiver seemed to pass through the crowd, as if they anticipated marvels.

“Wait a moment, my lord prince.”

Mac Dara went absolutely still. His stance suggested he was within a hair’s breadth of losing his patience.

The voice was that of Breasal, Caisin’s councilor, who was standing perhaps six paces from the prince. In his hands was a scroll that looked twin to Fraochan’s. “Before you begin,” he said, “one more point that my friend here may have overlooked, easy enough to do when such a turn of events has not occurred in living—”

“What point?” Mac Dara’s tone made me shiver.

“It states here, my lord prince”—Breasal sounded perfectly calm as he made play of studying the document—“that in the event of a magical contest between ruler and challenger—”

“The ruler goes first, yes—those of us who are not deaf or stupid heard that the first time.” Mac Dara made no effort to hide his displeasure. The crowd was hanging on every word. Did they sense a moment of great change was upon them?

“With respect, my lord prince, there is more, as Fraochan here can tell you if he reads a little further through the document. In the event
of a magical contest between ruler and challenger, the ruler performs first. However, the challenger may choose the principal matter to be used for the demonstration; for example, water, fire, or a manipulation of borders such as we saw earlier, or creatures, or—”

“You’ve been studying, Breasal,” Mac Dara said. He did not ask to see the scroll or to check its authenticity. Perhaps this was something he already knew and had chosen not to mention. I doubted very much that Caisin’s challenge had come as a surprise to him. “Learned the whole thing off by heart, did you?”

Fraochan had been checking his own scroll. “Breasal is correct, my lord prince,” he said. “I had overlooked that section, and I offer a sincere apology. It is for Lady Caisin to name the principal matter to be used, then for my lord prince to proceed to the demonstration.”

“One more thing.”

Mac Dara turned his dark gaze on Breasal. If Caisin did not win today, I thought, the future would not look bright for her and her clan. Nobody would want the Lord of the Oak as an enemy.

“Each display lasts to a count of two hundred, as Fraochan indicated. A starting and ending signal must be agreed upon by both parties and, as mentioned earlier, that signal must be given by a person not allied to either.”

Mac Dara lifted his brows; I could not tell which was uppermost in him, annoyance or simple boredom. “Who here is not allied?” he asked, spreading his hands. “Clan is linked with clan, family with family. No one stands alone.”

Fraochan hesitated; I thought perhaps he had an answer but was not prepared to put it forward.

“Call out one of the Old Ones,” someone in the crowd suggested. “They’re allied to nobody, not even to one another.”

A silence. Then Mac Dara, incredulous: “
What
did you suggest?”

“The little folk, my lord prince.” It was another councilor who spoke, a woman this time, clad in a plain gray robe. “It would not be beyond their abilities to ring a bell or to whistle or to speak a designated word.”

“Counting to two hundred, now, that’s another matter,” someone commented, and there was general laughter.

“That’s immaterial,” said Fraochan, “since the Old Ones have never once attended a conclave. Whether that’s from fear or from some other cause doesn’t matter. They won’t come.”

No sooner had he spoken these words than there was a gasp from those standing near Mac Dara. Their eyes were fixed on the ground at his feet, where the solid stone was bulging and swelling and lifting. In a trice, there before the fey prince stood a small personage clad in a hooded cloak of leaf green. Under the startled eyes of the crowd, the being executed a bow, then spoke in a clear, confident voice. Its face was turned away from me; was it wearing some kind of mask?

“You require my assistance,” the small person stated. “A signal, yes? This should do the trick.” It lifted what looked like a simple wooden pipe and a single note rang out. It was a sound of rare purity. I pictured a bird soaring in a perfect summer sky, giving voice to the joy of flight and sunlight and open air.

“Caisin,” said Mac Dara, “is this your doing? Have you been spending your idle days in plotting my downfall? You are misguided, my lady. These small folk are nothing; they are of no consequence.”

Caisin looked as astonished as everyone else; either she had not expected this or she was expert at feigning. “Plotting your downfall? Is not a challenge precisely that, my lord?” She cast a disparaging glance at the figure in the green cloak. “As for our little friend here, his instrument is loud enough. Let us hope he knows his numbers.”

Fraochan took the green-cloaked being aside and engaged him in conversation, perhaps feeling the need to spell out the double signal and the count of two hundred.

Finbar tugged at my sleeve. Pale as a ghost, his eyes saucer-like, he was beaming. “He knew, didn’t he?” he whispered. “He was all ready to appear when it was time. Sibeal said the Old Ones are everywhere, only they blend in so people can’t see them.”

“Shh,” Luachan warned.

Down by the basin, the small being was standing by himself now. Despite the press of bodies, the Fair Folk maintained an empty space of an arm’s length around the interloper.

“Well, Caisin, what’s it to be?” demanded Mac Dara. “I can’t think of a single branch of the magical arts in which you have any chance at all of outshining me. Even if you’ve been practicing every day since the last conclave. Even if you’ve traveled the length and breadth of Erin and studied with every ancient sage you could find. I fear this so-called challenge will be a sad disappointment to all. But now that you’ve spoken, we’ve no choice but to go through the motions. What matter have you chosen for me to work with?”

Caisin gave him a radiant smile. “Humankind,” she said.

DRUID’S JOURNEY: CENTER

U nder a cool autumn sky, two crows alight in the branches of an ancient tree. They settle beneath a tattered cape of red-brown leaves, their bright eyes gazing over an endless sea of oaks. They have flown far. Now they perch side by side, wild brothers nearing journey’s end.

In their bird form, they cannot exchange words. There can be no questions asked, no wise answers given. But it is understood between them that this will be the briefest of respites, and that what lies ahead will test them hard.

As they rest, there comes to them on the breeze a single note: the plangent summons of a small pipe.

One bird utters a harsh call:
Kraaa!
The other makes comment in similar fashion. It may be an interchange on the likelihood of rain, or an observation that smoke is rising from a certain point within the wood. It may be a prayer, a sigh, an acknowledgment, a farewell.

For a heartbeat the two look at each other; then as one they arise, winging away to the heart of the great forest. It is time.

CHAPTER 15

M y flesh crawled. What did this mean? Fraochan had spoken of fire and water, of borders, of creatures—that had filled my mind with dark possibilities—but humankind? Using men and women as the materials of a magical display? I glanced at Luachan, but he was staring down toward the stone basin, his features as grim as I had ever seen them.

“It’s fair,” murmured Finbar. “I mean, Caisin’s going to use us, isn’t she?”

“But—” I bit back my words; Finbar was right. If Mac Dara agreed to this, and under the rules he must, it provided her with the perfect opportunity to set the pieces of the geis in place when her turn came. Oh gods, a count of two hundred and then we must step out and face the Lord of the Oak. We really were going through with it.

“The rules say nobody gets hurt,” my brother whispered. “So it should be all right.”

In the event it was far from all right. At Mac Dara’s command, they brought forward two men of humankind, both wearing black. I took that to mean they were from his own household, perhaps servants. There might be many human folk in the Otherworld;
stories abounded of men and women who wandered in by chance and never returned, or came home to find a hundred years had passed. I thought of the girl who had helped me bathe and was glad she was nowhere to be seen.

The two men were obedient, moving onto the tongue of stone and facing each other as Mac Dara bid them. If they were troubled by the flames not far below, they showed no sign of it. I wondered if Mac Dara would make them fight each other. Both were clad in simple garb, with neither weaponry nor protective garments such as leather helms, gauntlets or breastpieces.

The mood of the audience had changed again. What they expected, I did not know, but the look on their faces made my belly tight. It was not only anticipatory; it was…avid.

I tried to distract Finbar. “How is the dog?” I whispered, bending toward him and attempting to block his view.