The King of Sleep (19 page)

It was much later that the shock of all that had happened finally hit the forsaken Danaan Druid. But it was long after that he sat down upon the stool in defeat, placed his head in his hands and sobbed.

At the same moment Lochie was revealing his impersonation of the Fir-Bolg king to the healer, Brocan himself was shut away with his closest adviser. Fergus
the Veteran, friend and confidant of the king, lay down by the fire, carefully considering a strategy for the Brandubh contest.

The gaming board was a short-legged table no higher than a baby's knee on which was carved the signs which marked its purpose. Seven squares measured each of the four sides, with a central place for the white warlord High-King. The white pieces had been turned from the teeth of a walrus. And the twelve dark Ravens were gouged out of the hearts of rare black stones.

This table had been crafted in the days of long ago when the Fir-Bolg were fighting off the Danaans. In those times the white pieces on the board, the kings, represented the four tribes of their people. And the fifth piece, the warlord, symbolized their chosen king, their savior in time of mutual threat.

Now only two tribes of the Fir-Bolg remained after having gradually absorbed the other two. In the west and south of Innisfail the Cairaighe held sway. Brocan and the Burren folk were of this kindred. In the north and east the Cruitne were predominant. Many of those folk had moved on to the eastern land of Alban since the coming of the Danaans.

So this gaming board had seen the fortunes of the Fir-Bolg fall and rise throughout the generations. And now once more, as many times before, the floor of the king's house was laid with furs and the board had been set by the fire for competition.

The king lay stretched out opposite his chief counselor,
the two challenging each other with strategies while they tried to put to rest the problems of their people.

Fergus laid a large hand on one of the dark pieces and shifted it along the board. Then he sighed and rolled on his back to stare aimlessly at the ceiling. Brocan frowned, leaning his arm on the corner of the table as he sat up. He picked up his wooden cup and drained the last drops of mead. He reached over for a doeskin bag, removed its stopper, poured himself a cupful and then offered the skin to his friend.

Fergus considered the offer for a few seconds then shook his head. He didn't want to arrive at his mother's house smelling of mead. Brocan sighed with frustration. “Where are they?” he fumed. “Lorn and Aoife should have been back by now.”

The veteran didn't even bother to reply. He'd heard this question twenty times since the game began.

“Try to relax,” Fergus advised. “Even if Aoife and Lorn were here right now you would be no closer to finding a solution or making a decision.”

“I would be if you could offer some advice! But all you do is move your pieces and lie upon your back. You haven't said a word since I told you about the message from King Eber and his suggestion of alliance.”

“I've been considering all that you've said,” Fergus protested. “I want to be sure I have explored all the possibilities in my mind before I utter any word that might be interpreted as advice.”

“Do you think you'll be ready to comment before dawn tomorrow?” Brocan snapped.

“It's just passing sunset now,” the veteran assured him. “It's very generous of you to give me so much time to think about it.”

This comment stopped the king. He couldn't be sure whether Fergus was joking. And he never found out for at that moment the leather flap over the doorway lifted and a warrior poked his head through.

“My lord, your son wishes to speak with you.”

“He's arrived at last!” Brocan huffed. “Send Lom in to me immediately.”

The sentry coughed nervously. “It isn't Lom, my lord, it's Sárán.”

The king sighed as he stretched out by the Brandubh table again. “That bloody misfit! Very well, let him in. But bring Lom and Aoife to me the very instant they return.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Immediately Sárán opened the flap and entered. It was clear by the dour expression on his face he'd heard the whole exchange. Brocan made no move to greet his son so the young man came no further into the house.

Fergus lay still, staring at the ceiling, unwilling to say a word lest it be read by the king as lending support to Sárán.

“Don't bother to rise,” the young man began, seeing they weren't about to anyway. “I've come to tell you I delivered your message. Aoife, Lom and the others
were at Dun Burren playing warriors. When I arrived your daughter, ever the gentle Druid, had just rendered Iobhar of the Gaedhals unconscious with a knee applied enthusiastically to his groin.”

“What?” cried the king.

“When I departed, Mahon was preparing to carry the poor foreigner back here upon his shoulders. I expect that is why they're so far behind me.”

“She was playing at warriors again?” Brocan snarled.

“With her lover, Mahon, son of Cecht, spurring her on,” Sárán added, relishing the pain his words were causing. “She is certainly in violation of the Druid prohibition against such behavior. I will be bringing this matter up with her tutor.”

“Be quiet!” the king bellowed. “This is none of your affair. I forbid you to interfere.”

Brocan sat up and looked at Sárán for the first time. “Get out of my sight. Go back to your master Fineen. I have no further use for you.”

Sárán bowed low as he lifted the leather flap and left the house.

“You shouldn't be so hard on the lad,” Fergus advised. “One day you'll regret your sour treatment of him”

“I only regret the day he was born,” Brocan grunted. “He's never been anything but trouble.”

“He's just a lad.”

“He betrayed me by stealing the Cauldron of Plenty which was awarded to me by the Druid
Assembly. He handed my honor over to my enemies. Prior to that he affronted the Warrior Circle with an unprovoked attack under the very mantle of a truce. He is trouble and I bless the day when Fineen took him away from me once and for all.”

“You've since forgiven your enemies,” the veteran noted.

“I expect my foes to take advantage of my weaknesses. I expect betrayal at their hand. I don't expect it from my son.”

“I have a suggestion,” the veteran cut in.

“I've heard enough of Sárán for one day!” Brocan boomed.

“I was referring to your other children,” Fergus sighed, refusing to be baited into a fight. “I was talking about Aoife. Have you come to a decision about her future in the holy orders?”

“I have a mind to wed her to the King of the Gaedhals. I made the decision while I was waiting for you.” The king sighed then he took a mouthful of mead and lay down by the table once more to listen to the views of his trusted confidant. Fergus hardly flinched at the news. He was used to Brocan's abrupt manner.

“It's well known she has no love for the Druid Circle,” his friend shrugged. “If you can negotiate her withdrawal from the order she would be free to train as a warrior as she wishes. But if, as her guardian, you command her to marry Eber, she will refuse.”

“She only has eyes for that Danaan Mahon,” Brocan
shot back. “Her mother left me for his father. It must be in the blood.”

“Mahon has nothing to do with it,” the veteran retorted. “She will defy you because you have ordered her to do something she might otherwise have done with or without your approval.”

“I don't understand what you've saying.”

“Tell Aoife about the offer of alliance the King of the Gaedhals has sent. Send Lom and Aoife to Eber's court as your emissaries. And before they go, give them a stern warning about the consequences of misbehavior.”

“That will only ensure they both cause havoc,” Brocan hissed indignantly.

“That's what you want them to do.”

The king shook his head and sat up again. “Why?” he asked, confused.

“If Aoife is provoked in the right way she'll marry Eber of her own free will, no need for persuasion of any kind. And that will guarantee your treaty of alliance with the Gaedhals. I agree, there is no other way to secure such an agreement. Marriage into the nobility of the Gaedhals is the only way.”

“My only concern is that she will resent me for bargaining with her life in this manner,” Brocan admitted.

“She'll thank you, in time,” Fergus sighed. “It's clear she's not content with the life of a Druid in training. Everyone knows it, especially her teacher, Dalan. He's spoken with you about his frustration with her. Let her be what she wishes and do as she pleases with her
life. She's too headstrong to follow any other path.”

“Will Dalan agree with you?” the king asked.

“Only Dalan has the authority to reverse his verdict against her. He is the one who set her on this path in penance for her misdeeds. You must ask him.”

“I will,” Brocan decided. “And then I will ask the Council of Chieftains.”

As he spoke his eyes scanned the Brandubh board again. To his surprise he noticed a gap in his opponent's defenses. In a moment he'd moved his warlord down the table to a winning position. And for the first time in a long while Brocan smiled.

S
LUMBER SANG A SLOW LINGERING LULLABY
BEFORE spreading its drowsy veil over Dalan the Brehon. And all the while he dimly perceived the menacing presence of the Raven perched high in the rafters.

The intensity of the creature's glare was so threatening Dalan jolted in his sleep several times before exhaustion relaxed him and he rested soundly at last. And when he had been in that state for a long time a dream finally came to him.

A dream unlike any other he had ever experienced.

The Brehon was still conscious of the great black carrion bird looking down into the room. But his perspective of the situation had changed. He wasn't staring up toward the ceiling at the Raven. Rather, he was gazing directly at the bird as if she were seated beside him. This unsettled Dalan's instinctive defenses and he teetered between the waking and the sleeping worlds for just a moment. Then, when he realized the Raven
wasn't making any threatening moves, the Brehon relaxed again. He felt his shoulders drop as he stretched his neck high and took a deep breath.

Suddenly he felt a sharp pricking sensation on his chest. It soon became an urgent burning sting. It was at that moment Dalan realized he had a beak. But the revelation didn't surprise him at all. It was as if he'd always had this sturdy appendage on the front of his face. In a moment he plunged the point of his beak into the mass of feathers which now covered his chest, scraped the skin underneath and found what he was looking for. With all the deftness of any bird the Brehon plucked the parasite away and in one smooth movement tossed it to the back of his throat. He felt the tiny creature struggle momentarily, then he swallowed hard, cawed with contentment and shook his wings.

In the next instant he scanned the room for vermin with eyes that needed no firelight to spot their prey. It was this keen eyesight which first made the Brehon frown. Suddenly the dreamlike sensations he was experiencing had become vividly real.

His chest rose and fell silently and though he hardly moved at all he was aware of every muscle in this strong body. The feather tips of his wings vibrated gently as he drew in breath. His hard clawed feet gripped the beam with such force he knew the timber would be scratched and splintered where he sat.

The Raven seated on the roof beam nearby slowly cocked her head at him and Dalan stared entranced
into the black void of her eyes. The bird narrowed her eyelids, bringing all her skill at scrutiny to bear upon him.

And Dalan's feathers shivered as the bird sized him up.

“You're quite a fellow,” the Raven said in a rich throaty croak.

It was a voice that was utterly feminine. But more like the creaking ropes of a ship at sea it was than the sound any living creature might make.

“My brothers and sisters tell me you are marked for the office of Dagda.”

“I was nominated,” the Brehon replied in a hesitant crow that emanated from the back of his throat. “I intend to decline the offer,” he added, and realized it was true.

“Decline?” the Raven laughed. “You'll decline the highest office of your order? You are pushing aside an opportunity to lead your sacred sisters and brothers into the new age which lies before them?”

“I have other work to do.”

“You are so selfless,” the bird retorted bitterly and the sarcasm in her voice was clear.

“You seem to know a lot about me,” the Druid shot back, becoming bolder now.

“Who hasn't heard of the exploits of Dalan, Brehon judge of the highest standing?” the Raven mocked in a childish singsong voice. “Savior of the Fir-Bolg. Slayer of Owls. Mediator, Law-Keeper, Harper, Poet and Hunter of the Watchers. Quite a list
of responsibilities. When do you have time to sleep?”

“I thought I was sleeping at this very moment.”

“You are. In a manner of speaking at least. I suppose I could have come to you in some form more appealing to your sensibilities. I could have revealed myself as a beautiful, sensuous young woman, or even as your mother if I'd thought of it. But I have certain standards and I prefer not to lower them unless absolutely necessary. There is, after all, no form so graceful, so strong or so enticing as that of the Raven kind.”

The bird shifted her head as she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She stared at the far end of the room for a few breaths then turned back to Dalan.

“You should consider this transformation a great gift,” the creature went on. “Few of your kind have ever known the ecstatic joy of inhabiting such a body.”

“Who are you? What do you want of me?”

“I am Chief Raven of the Chorus,” she replied. “It's a very dignified position. When the queen speaks in council to her people it is my duty to lead the assembly in echoing her words. I am her lady-in-waiting, her servant, her messenger, her instrument of justice and her anointed successor. And the queen is coming near to the end of her days.”