The Phantom Queen Awakes (30 page)

We all waited and watched her as she flew
twice around the battlefield and then disappeared into the wood.
None of us needed to ask who she was, especially not me.

Dar Elias turned to regard me with an such an
intensity that I had to look away, unable to loosen my tongue from
the bone dry roof of my mouth to answer his accusation, to say that
going blind into the next life was a just and fitting punishment
for rapists and murderers. Dar Elias had promised me my dead
comrades would be treated with all due honor when the only honor
they deserved was to be tossed into a communal pit, me laid atop
them still breathing, and all of us covered over in
lime.

As Cu Cumundi rode slowly away into the trees
I saw two of his men heft Corbelathan over his horse, tying his
wrists and ankles together beneath him. Then one of them led the
horse up the hill and put its halter into my free hand before
turning without a word to rejoin his brothers in their funerary
preparations. Eventually I found my voice, or it found
me.

“I am sorry,” I told Dar Elias. What else
could I say? Even an ambassador understands that when all else
fails, he can always speak the truth. I was sorry. I was sorry for
my failure. I was sorry that there was bad blood between his king
and mine that had not existed before my failure. I was sorry that
men had died because of my failure. That they were warriors and had
expected ― even wanted ― to die in the service of their lord, did
not make the waste of their lives any the less. I was sorry for the
death of his wife and her brother. The only death for which I felt
no sorrow was of the man whose selfishness had caused all the
others.

“She was a whore,” he said, flatly, and
shrugged. “I had put her aside. Why else do you think she lived in
such squalor?” There was a silence between us before he shook his
head. He reached up for my hand, and I gave it to him. Dignity
commands dignity in a man. We both knew that if we ever saw each
other again, only one of us would walk away, but if that day was
ever going to dawn, only the Morrigan knew, and she was not about
to tell us mere men until it was too late for us to avoid our fate,
however mightily we tried.

Rowan walked through the night and into the
next day, not that I could have dismounted even if I had desired
it. We arrived in the mid-morning. Men ran out of the compound to
greet us, slowing to an uncertain halt when they saw who lay over
the other horse. Only when they saw I, too, was tied to Rowan did
someone take the initiative, and we were both cut down. I was given
a drink of water but not the opportunity to wash the dust of my
journey from me before I was taken through Tuathan’s hall and into
his private orchard. They put me down on a stool beside Tuathan and
left me there.

“Tell me everything, old friend,” he
commanded. Tuathan’s gaze could convince a man he knew exactly what
was inside his head, that lying was futile. In the tree above him,
a gray headed crow glared at me. My hand moved immediately to ward
off evil, but the crow only squawked and settled down, still gazing
at me. Eventually, I looked away and began to speak...

“...and that is the truth of it,” I said,
looking him in the eye, searching there for some response to the
news I had brought, although I knew it was a futile search. Tuathan
would tell the gods what he felt when he was good and ready, and
then only if he believed his feelings were any business of
theirs.

“So, my eldest son is dead,” he said,
eventually, as he might have observed that a cattle pen had been
broken down during the night.

I found myself only able to nod, dreading the
conflagration of his temper.

He got to his feet, came to me and lifted me
to mine, slipping his right arm around me. Despite his age, he was
still a strong man.

“Am I not a fortunate man, my old friend, in
having another son?” he asked as he walked me towards the door that
led into the hall, the one that opened as we approached and from
which Denathain stepped through. Denathain was the king’s younger
son, as tall and vigorous as his brother, but a man who considered
his words before he spoke, a man who believed his rank conferred
upon him duties more than privileges, a man who had chosen his
woman with care and for love.

“I was at the southern crossing,” he said,
hurrying towards us. “I came as soon as I heard!” Sweat dripped
from his face, as it should from a man who had just ridden hard. He
stopped still when he saw me. “You have been hurt!” he cried,
rushing to take some of my weight.

We had been close, Denathain and I, when he
was young, closer than I was to my own sons. I knew him well, and
the look he exchanged with his father was far more eloquent than
any words. It all but stopped my heart. I had thought myself a man
of experience, of the world, versed in the wiles and hard choices
of kings, but this understanding froze the blood inside
me.

Tuathan had plotted Corbelathan’s death.
Denathain had been party to his scheme.

“See to the arrangements,” Tuathan commanded
his son as they helped me through the doorway, handing me on to two
of his household, commanding them to see me taken care of, fed and
refreshed.

“Do you have any advice for me, my trusted
counselor?” Tuathan called after me. My bearers stopped, and I
looked over my shoulder towards my king.

“Do not invite Cu Cumundi to the funeral,” I
told him.

His gaze held mine for a long while until he
laughed. The man laughed, laughed when he should have wept! Then he
was gone, striding away from me, giving orders to anyone and
everyone he passed. As I was helped past the fire I coughed, then
coughed again and again until I hawked up a mouthful of phlegm that
sizzled and skittered on the hot stones until it was
gone.

I turned to my helpers. “My mouth was suddenly
full of dust and ashes,” I told them, “nothing but dust and
ashes.”

Now, I was empty even of them.

****

Afterword

I discovered
The Phantom Queen Awakes
anthology through a mutual friend, had a look at the mythology and
was presented with a character and a story that would allow me to
say something I wanted to say ― just to let you know, I am not a
royalist ― while allowing me to explore and play with the theme of
the anthology.

Unlike Professor Tolkien, I think that these
islands have a wealth of mythology, mythology that reflects our
damp, cold and dangerous lands, and the obdurate, pragmatic people
who live(d) here. The Morrigan and her associated mythologies have
been hidden beneath later accretions, thanks in no small part to
the professor, and they deserve some respectful
archeology.

****

Biography

Martyn has been writing SF/F stories with
varying success for a long time now. He has been published, but
mostly in magazines long since buried. He was published in games,
when they had words. He has struggled up the foothills of Auntie
Beeb with radio plays, only to be knocked back down because Auntie
isn’t really interested in SF/F. He has been paid for writing TV
drama documentaries, although they were never made.

After the Worldcon in Glasgow, he decided to
get serious, and has several shorts going through the publication
process, as well as the novels that his long suffering agent is
presenting. His abiding interest is in what happens just beyond our
peripheral vision, the fantasy that he chooses to regard as
left-handed realism.

****

T.A. Moore

The White Heifer of Fearchair

Ulick mac Fearchair was well-known to his
neighbors as a prideful man, though to a stranger he seemed to
possess little that might make a man arrogant. His coffers were
rarely full and his daughter languished unwed for lack of a dowry;
he was no great warrior, being lame and weak of chest since
childhood, and his daughter was a plain woman of no especial talent
or bloodline. Nor was his hospitality storied. Ulick resented every
copper that went to feed his family and a stranger at his table
would dine on the moldy heels of bread that would have otherwise
gone to the pigs.

No, Ulick mac Fearchair prided himself on only
two things in this world.

The first was Fynnerois, his fine white cow;
not only was she white from ear to tail, she was gentle as a new
lamb and never calved a single bull-calf when she could calve two.
Ulick doted on her as another man might his own child. Nor did he
grant the gods a word of praise for his good fortune, either.
Instead, he claimed all the credit for the tender care he gave his
Fynnerois: the fine hay he fed in winter and the high, rich fields
he led her to in summer.

The second thing that Ulick prided himself on
was that he was no man’s fool. In his cups, he would boast that no
man had ever taken advantage of him or walked away from a bargain
the richer for it. He weighted the bottom of his oat bags with
stones to make them seem fuller than they were and he made beggars
pay for a glass of water.

His nephew, Ennan, an orphaned lad who lived
on Ulick’s scant generosity, was a different sort altogether. He
was a tall, fair youth with bright hair and a shining brow who
accepted his uncle’s abuse and the hard labor that was his lot with
a willing heart. Everyone liked Ennan, all but his uncle.
Petty-minded and sour-natured, Ulick judged others by his own ways,
and saw slyness were others saw charm and cunning where others saw
a generous spirit.

There was rarely a kind word in his mouth for
Ennan, certainly not on the morning of the cattle market. A cuff
from the back of Ulick’s hand roused Ennan from his bed of hay in
the barn and the day began.

“Work harder,” Ulick chided him as they led
the stare-coated cows down to the lake.

“Work faster,” Ulick ordered him as they
rubbed grease into dry coats and cracked hooves.

Fynnerois watched it all from her byre of
sweet hay with big, dark eyes, occasionally twitching a white ear.
She would never be so rudely treated.

Once the cows were ready Bebin, Ulick’s
daughter, came from the house with their lunches bound in cloth.
Ulick snatched both, Ennan would be lucky to see a crumb, and
slapped a switch against a cow’s greasy flank to get them
moving.

The Altnawannog cattle market was held outside
of town, by the river. A fenced off field was crowded with cows,
sheep and pigs, steam rising from their backs into the cold air.
Crates of chickens and ducks were stacked by the fence, packed in
so tightly they couldn’t move. One corner of the field was set
aside for slaughter ― cows and sheep going quietly to their deaths
while pigs squealed and fought the knife, and the blood added to
the knee-deep mire of shit and piss that fouled the field. Drovers
yelled and whistled, snapping their switches, and dogs barked as
they darted between the stamping legs of the cows. Farmers stood
back, out of the mire, and haggled with each other
enthusiastically.

Ulick went to join them, uncaring, even proud
of the cool welcome he saw as a tribute to his trading skills, and
Ennan drove the cows to their spot. He was greeted warmly by all,
but few came to look at the animals. After a lifetime of Ulick’s
trickery, all knew the beasts were not worth driving home for
slaughter. The lack of interest would go hard on Ennan when they
got home.

The sun was high and Ennan’s mouth was parched
when the woman walked into the market. All heads turned to watch
her pass.

It was not that she was beautiful; her face
was too bony and her body too lean to be called that, but her hair
was a mass of wiry copper and her brows were two licks of flame
over her quick, black eyes. She wore a glossy green silk tunic that
was stiff with gold and red embroidery. A warrior’s heavy wool
cloak was folded over her broad shoulders and pinned at the breast
with a twisted golden feather.

She stole Ennan’s breath, but he did not
desire to possess her. No one but a hero or a king would have the
temerity to lay claim to this woman. She was surely one of the fair
folk, though what interest one of her kin had here was a mystery.
Best it remain so, too. No good had ever come from the likes of
them interfering in the deeds of mortal men.

One pale hand gathered up her cloak, looping
it twice over her arm, and she strode across the filthy market. The
mud that clotted on her shoes and clung to the hem of her tunic
gave her no pause; she did not seem to notice it. Cows moved aside
to let her pass and mac Connal’s bull, although it had gored one
dog already this day, bowed his head to her. On occasion she would
pause and touch one of the beasts with a long-fingered hand but she
didn’t linger long.

Not ‘til she reached Ulick’s cows. Something
hard flickered over her face when her eyes fell on the sweating,
miserable beasts. She made her way through them, touching a nose
here and a protruding hip-bone there. It made Ennan feel ashamed
and he bent his head, staring at his muddy feet.

“You are mac Fearchair? Who boasts he owns the
fairest cow in all Ireland?”