The King of Sleep (25 page)

Goll understood now that no matter what happened in the future this raid had changed his life forever. In a sense his brother's prophetic dream had already come true. The warrior threw his knife to the ground and looked around the silent gathering of the Fian.

“Burn it,” he ordered.

“What?” Mughain stammered.

“Burn the whole bloody place down. Burn the houses. Burn the grain store. Set fire to the curraghs. Gather all the cattle, and the goats and sheep. But
don't harm a single one of these Fir-Bolg. I want them to live to tell the tale of Goll mac Morna.”

The Fian enthusiastically set about their task while the war-leader stood silently over the body of the Fir-Bolg veteran, the sound of the old woman's keening hollow in his ears. After a long while he glanced down at the bloody corpse and noticed a piece of bright yellow woolen cloth poking out of the pack.

Goll knelt down and pulled it out to take a closer look. It was a finely woven breacan cloak, golden yellow in color with a pattern of red, black and green checks. Though lightweight, the garment was obviously sturdy and warm.

With the breacan in his hand the war-leader stood up. He knew this must be the gift the King of the Fir-Bolg had sent to Eber Finn. With a smile he wiped the blood off his hands with it. He was about to throw it aside when another thought came to him. This breacan would be the symbol of his kingship. As much as it was a sign of Eber Finn's treachery, it would also be the badge of his own worthiness.

“I have come to save my people from betrayal,” he whispered to himself, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders.

Then the war-leader saw the flames already leaping from the thatch roofs of the low houses. He picked up his sword, helped Conan to his feet and dragged him toward the gate of the rath.

“So much for the premonitions of your dreams,”
Goll scoffed as he laid his brother down in the grass outside the walls.

“It would have been better if Fergus had killed you outright,” Conan replied grimly. “Now there's a Geis laid on you and you cannot avoid your destiny.”

“I make my own fate,” the war-leader replied. “I always have done. That's how your prophecy was proved wrong. I never believed I would die this day.”

“You'll make a great king,” Conan told him. “But you're a bloody fool.”

A
OIFE SAT IN THE SHADE OF AN OAK TREE
, M
AHON DOZ
ing in her lap. Not far away Iobhar the Gaedhal was also sleeping peacefully, propped up against the gnarled brown trunk. Lom was stretched out on his back in the grass. By the gentle heave of his chest and the occasional snort it was apparent he too was resting deeply.

The young woman stroked her lover's hair as her thoughts drifted off. She was envious of these three lads who were born to the life of a warrior. They were free to follow their chosen vocation without hindrance.

She was not so fortunate. She had committed a terrible crime when she was younger. Her mischievous nature had led Mahon's younger brother to his death. She touched the Danaan's brow tenderly and silently thanked him for his forgiving nature.

If only, she told herself, Dalan could have been so understanding. In judgment for being a party to a young man's death the Brehon had imposed a harsh penalty on her. She was condemned to follow the Druid path.

It was a road she had never wanted to walk. Tedious learning of ancient tales. Endless lessons at the harp. Countless little rituals and observances that drove her to distraction. And all those warm summer days wasted indoors discussing the precedents of law.

She had tolerated the restrictions of this life for three cycles of the seasons because she had really believed she should be punished for her foolishness. But now she was beginning to understand what kind of life lay ahead of her if she continued to honor Dalan's judgment.

And she knew the Druid path was not for her.

Warriors were free to travel the country as they wished and take a spouse whenever they were ready. A Druid might not attain initiation until all their tests and tasks were completed. And as long as she remained a student of Dalan, Aoife knew she would not be allowed to marry Mahon.

The young woman took a strand of her lover's hair and twisted it into a knot. Mahon winced and slapped her hand as the strand tangled.

“Be careful!” he laughed. “That hurts.”

Aoife let the hair slip through her fingers. “I'm sorry.” Then she leaned forward to get his attention. “Have you ever traveled to the north?” she asked in a low voice so the others wouldn't hear.

“Never.”

“It's quite a different country from the west and south,” she told him.

The young Danaan hummed sleepily in acknowledgment.

“I've been there twice with Dalan,” she went on. “Éremon, the King of the Northern Gaedhals, has built a fort he calls Teamhair. It's a beautiful place. There's a fine house for every chieftain and a great hall where wondrous feasts are held. There are many more Gaedhals in the north than here in the west.”

Mahon opened his eyes to look at her. “Perhaps Dalan will let me come along the next time you visit the northern king.”

“I'd be very surprised,” the young woman replied, shaking her head. “He doesn't approve of us spending so much time together. He seems to think I'd be better off with a man of Druid training.”

Mahon closed his eyes again. “He'll change his mind one day.”

“I'm tired of waiting for him to change his mind!” she growled.

Mahon looked up at her in surprise at the change in her voice. “We've discussed this many times, Aoife,” he reminded her. “The only way you'd ever escape your vows and the penalty imposed on you would be to abscond. And where would you run to?”

“Teamhair,” she answered, full of excitement now. “I'd go to the court of King Éremon.”

“You'd be banished by your own folk!” the young Danaan exclaimed.

“I don't care. I'd be allowed to follow my own destiny. I'd be able to train as a warrior and forget the tedious learning of poems and music.”

“You're a fine musician.”

“I want to live the life of a warrior. It's my true path in life.”

Mahon sat up a little on his elbows, twisted his body around and stared into her eyes. “We've taken the Quicken Brew,” he reminded her. “There is no death for us nor sickness. And I'm beginning to believe there's no sense in fighting either. There's no use for warriors in a world without death.”

“The Gaedhals are still a threat to our people.”

“Not as long as you've got one strong knee,” Iobhar quipped bitterly, and betrayed the fact he had been listening in on their conversation all along.

“But you're talking about going to live among them!” Mahon retorted, ignoring the Gaedhal's little joke.

“I'm just saying I don't wish to live any longer under the constraints that have been placed on me.”

“You don't want to be banished,” Mahon told her. “You can't even imagine what that would mean.”

He lay back down in her lap, closed his eyes and took her hand in his.

“I don't understand why you're not happy,” he continued. “You're the daughter of a king. You've a respected Brehon for your teacher. You don't have
many duties to perform. You have guaranteed good health and a long life ahead of you. You and I are happy together. What more could you want?”

“I'm away with Dalan on his cursed journeys for most of the summer,” she spat. “I don't really spend that much time with you.”

“I think you'd quickly grow tired of me if you had to put up with me every day,” Mahon sighed. Then he rolled onto his side and put his arm over his head as if to filter out her words.

“Perhaps I'm tired of you already,” she whispered, but he didn't hear her. She was only half glad he hadn't.

She'd always imagined that he'd stay by her side if ever she were banished. Banishment was reserved for the worst of all criminals—oath-breakers and murderers. It was a severe penalty, placing the offender beyond the help and hearth of all kindred and friends. Anyone who assisted a person placed under banishment was themselves banished.

The banished simply ceased to exist. And because they no longer had a place in society, any crime committed against them was ignored by the Brehon judges. They had no claim for recompense nor any hope of appeal against their sentence.

Aoife understood that if she deserted her teacher and went off to Teamhair she would be condemned as an oath-breaker. Banishment would be the immediate result. But she was becoming so desperate it no longer held any fears for her. Her father had promised
to speak to Dalan on her behalf but she was growing daily impatient, and there was no guarantee the Druid would free her from her vows.

As she looked down at the handsome Danaan warrior who lay with his head in her lap she realized something for the first time. She
was
growing tired of Mahon. He was content to waste his days with fishing, mock fights and sleeping. But Aoife knew she needed more excitement. She craved new influences, new ideas, new adventures. Mahon only ever thought about his next meal.

In that instant Aoife realized she was very much like her mother. Riona had tired of King Brocan when they were both still young, but she had remained loyal to him out of a sense of duty. As the seasons had passed, however, Riona had grown more and more bitter at the life she had been given. At last, when she had been unable to bear old Brocan's ways any longer, she had left him for Cecht, the King of the Danaans, who was also Mahon's father. Now, according to all reports, she had found her happiness in the realm of the Otherworld with the Danaan folk.

Aoife briefly wondered whether she could dwell content in the Otherworld. It had been her teacher's decision to remain behind when the Danaans departed, but she had been relieved. There was still too much left to explore in this world and where was the thrill in living in a place that was too perfect, without danger?

Her mind was made up. She had to escape her commitment to the Druid path, even if that meant becoming an outlaw. In the same moment she knew she would have to leave her beloved Mahon who had been her companion, friend and lover for three winters. She felt a twinge of regret for all the laughter they had shared. She frowned when she tried to imagine life without him. He was a good man in his own way, caring, gentle and simple in his tastes.

But the wider world was beckoning to her and Aoife knew she must answer the call. She pushed Mahon's head from her lap, jolting him from his slumber.

“What—?” the Danaan grumbled. But Aoife ignored him.

“Iobhar!” she cried. “It's time to teach me something of the bow.”

“Not now, Aoife. I'm tired.”

“Get up off your arse, you lazy Gaedhal, or I'll take to you with my blade.”

“All right, all right,” he groaned. “Give me a moment to find my arrows.”

Soon they were standing side by side as Iobhar explained the fine points of bowmanship to his new pupil. Aoife took the bow and one arrow which she slotted into the bowstring as she'd been shown. Iobhar stepped closer to her, placing an arm around her shoulder as he pressed his body close to hers.

“Treat the bow like a lover,” he explained. “Take your time. Let the tension build on the string. Caress
the tip of the arrow, and then when you've selected your target, close your eyes for a second and savor the moment. Imagine the arrow flying off to do its work.”

Iobhar felt Aoife's body against his and his one thought was of stealing her away from Mahon for himself. He leaned in closer to whisper directly into her ear. “I'll take you to the court of the King of the Northern Gaedhals.”

“What?”

“Come with me. We'll run away together.”

Aoife opened her eyes wide and let the arrow fly from the bow. It sailed high into the air in a graceful arc as she shoved her elbow hard into Iobhar's ribs. He stepped back to avoid being winded, but he was certain there was none of the usual violence in her gesture. She hadn't meant to hurt him. She was just being playful.

She turned to look him directly in the eye and they both forgot the lesson in bowmanship for the time being. The arrow sailed off into the distance and was lost. Neither saw it fall.

“Show me again,” Aoife purred. “I don't quite understand what you mean by treating the bow like a lover.”

Iobhar smiled with half-closed eyes and handed her another arrow. She lined up the notch of the missile with the bowstring and drew back on the bow a little. The Gaedhal moved nearer again and she yielded her body to him, leaning back so they were in close contact.

“The trick is in the way you hold the shaft,” he began, and Aoife let out a deep giggle of delight.

She forgot Mahon was watching everything. In fact she hardly cared. If he didn't want her enough to run away with her, then she'd go north with a man who did.

Then, across the pasture in the line of her bowshot, Aoife caught sight of a thin black-haired young man dressed in the Druid brown of a healer's apprentice. There was no doubt about the identity of the young man. By the loping gait and haughty carriage it could be none other than her brother Sárán.

“A black cloud has just blown in,” she whispered to Iobhar.

“We'll get some rain then?” the young Gaedhal asked, turning to survey the skies.

While he was distracted Aoife let the arrow fly. It sailed off toward Sárán as if rushing to meet him at some predetermined place in the middle of the field. Iobhar grabbed the bow and flung it down when he realized what she'd done.

“Are you mad?” he gasped. “You'll kill him!”

“I hope it strikes him through the heart,” she hissed. “I know he hates me for what happened to him. I swear I despise him for leading me to the Druid path.”