The King of Sleep (27 page)

“I've heard that the young warriors are restless,” the king stated as he sipped his mead.

Goll sat up straight on the bench and cleared his throat nervously.

“Máel Máedóc mentioned it to me,” Eber went on.

“The Fian have had no real warrior work for three summers.”

“I thought I sent you out to perform the duties of a warrior.”

The champion turned his head away, obviously unhappy with Eber's definition of what sort of work was suitable for a fighter.

“I wish to confide in you, Goll mac Morna,” Eber Finn whispered. “There are few folk I can trust these days.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

Eber smiled, seeing he had the champion's full attention. “I have a special commission for you, one which must be carried out to the letter. The future of the kingdom may depend on you.”

“I will do whatever is in my power to carry out your instructions,” Goll replied, sensing something exciting and challenging at last.

“First of all you should know that I am willing to overlook your indiscretion with the Fir-Bolg. I forgive you for failing to obey my instructions on your last errand. But I warn you, you cannot afford to be too free with your interpretation on this occasion. There'll be blood on your conscience if you do, and it will be the blood of your own Fian.”

The king paused to make sure his message was being communicated clearly.

“What I am about to tell you is for your ears only. If the Council of Chieftains got wind of my plans they'd be outraged. If Máel Máedóc found out he might try to have me replaced. You will say nothing to even your most trusted Fian until the last possible moment. Do you understand me?”

“I do.”

“Very well,” Eber sighed, sitting back and reaching for the mead jug again. “This is your commission.”

As soon as his cup was filled he offered the jug to Goll, who eagerly held out his drinking vessel.

“We are going to make war on Éremon.”

“Your brother?”

“We'll stand against my brother,” Eber Finn confirmed. “And the whole kingdom of the north. I have information that indicates he is preparing to bring his warriors south to invade our territories with the aim of enforcing his kingship over the whole island.”

“We are too few,” Goll shuddered. “We can't hope to beat them.”

“If I can mend the damage you've done with your senseless unsanctioned raid,” the king shot back, “we may be able to count on the support of the Fir-Bolg. If they join us we might have a hope of matching my brother's for ces. Then we have some chance of victory.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take your band north. Raid the outlying settlements of my brother's people. But mind you don't cross swords with any Danaan or Fir-Bolg. I want you to bring terror to the north. I want you to damage the resolve of Éremon's people before they have the opportunity to attack our folk.”

“This action will harden them against us,” Goll noted.

“Not if you kill as many of their warriors as possible. With every northern fighter who falls to your sword we increase our chance of victory.”

“And so it's your intention to march to Teamhair and take the kingship of this land for yourself?”

“When the time is right.”

The champion fell silent, staring at the fire as a thousand doubts flew through his mind. He considered the dangers of such a venture, though they didn't sway him against the idea. Danger was the trade of all warriors. He guessed Eber was merely trying to rid himself of a threat to his own kingship, but then it struck him that this might present a great opportunity. The commission would be an excellent chance
to earn for himself a name more valuable than all the king's titles.

He would fight for Eber Finn until the north was won. Then he would have the leisure to consider whether his loyalty would remain with the king. He still cherished the dream that the Fian bands would one day toast King Goll.

“When would you have me leave to perform this duty?” the champion asked.

“You and your warriors may rest one night in the stronghold of Dun Gur,” Eber answered solemnly. “Then I forbid you to remain more than three nights in any place until you return to report that victory is within our grasp.”

“Three nights?” Goll repeated in shock

“Are you going deaf?” the king sneered. “When you come back I'll appoint you to lead the Fianna against the northern Gaedhals. You'll have the hero's portion of a boar, the finest mead I can find and the gratitude of all the folk of Dun Gur.”

“And what will you give me in thanks?” mac Morna inquired. “A man who delivers a kingdom should be rewarded by the king.”

“You shall have anything it is within my power to grant,” Eber Finn answered without a thought.

“If I were not a trustworthy man or a loyal servant you might live to regret such a broad promise,” Goll laughed. “But have no fear, I won't ask for anything beyond my worth.”

With that the king's champion drained his cup,
stood up and bowed low. “If you'll excuse me, I wish to see to my Fian. They've traveled far and need to rest well tonight if we are to leave so soon.”

“Have the stablemen prepare three chariots for me in the morning,” Eber ordered. “T'll be leaving for Aillwee before the sun is two fingers over the horizon. And report to me before I depart. I've asked Máel Máedóc to prepare a code for the Fian to live by. You will implement those rulings.”

Goll bowed once more and bit his tongue. He told himself his time would come. If only he could be patient, the kingship would surely be his.

“I bid you a good night,” the king nodded. “And a fair journey. May a sweet breeze carry you to victory.”

In moments the warrior was at the door collecting his gear and then he was gone.

Eber Finn sat staring into the fire for a long time after the champion had left. He wrung his hands, drank cup after cup of honey wine and agonized over the wisdom of his decision. In the end he knew he'd had little choice but to send Goll mac Morna and his miscreant warriors as far from Dun Gur as possible. With luck, the champion would be killed in battle or at least wounded badly enough that he ceased to be a threat.

As these thoughts were coursing through his mind a familiar voice broke his concentration. It was Máel Máedóc the Druid.

“My lord, I must speak with you at once.”

“If it's about that fool Goll mac Morna,” the king
groaned without raising his eyes from the fire, “I've already dealt with him. I'm sending him away where he can't stir up any further trouble.”

The old Druid frowned. Tm heartened to hear that news. But he is just one of the challenges to beset your reign.”

Eber looked up and as he did so he noticed a movement in the shadows on the other side of the hall. A form materialized before him in a breathtaking display of shimmering color. And from this misty rainbow stepped Isleen.

She put a finger to her lips to silence the king, winked, then smiled. In the next second Máel Máedóc was taking a seat beside him. Isleen squatted down on the opposite side of the fire, her green eyes sparkling like two jade pebbles in the orange light. The old Druid didn't seem to have noticed her sudden appearance, so Eber Finn decided it was best not to express any surprise in front of him.

“The lough is retreating more and more each day,” Máel Máedóc began, leaning forward to press the urgency of the situation. “I must seek some advice from the Danaans and the Fir-Bolg.”

“I've considered this problem,” the king announced, glancing across at Isleen who'd earlier suggested a course of action. “If we can find the source of the spring and block it up we'll have fertile grazing ground for our livestock where there is now only water.”

“Under the treaty we must preserve the lough!”
Máel Máedóc protested. “It would be extremely unwise to take such action without the sanction of the Danaan king who once owned this stronghold.”

“Very well,” Eber sighed. “Tomorrow you'll accompany me to the stronghold of Brocan, King of the FirBoIg. I'm sure his advisers will be able to give us some guidance.”

“You're going in person to make amends?”

Eber Finn nodded.

“Is that wise?”

“A great wrong has been done.”

“And we'll need the goodwill of the Fir-Bolg,” Isleen added, though the Druid didn't seem to hear her.

“It's to be war then?” Máel Máedóc inquired with resignation, understanding his king's motives.

“I've already committed myself to that action,” Eber confirmed.

Máel Máedóc stood up slowly and the king noticed his shoulders were hunched over. Old age, Eber realized, was finally showing its effects on the counselor.

But it wasn't the weight of the seasons that had bent Máel Máedóc's back. It was the burden of his responsibilities. The old Druid knew it was best he accompany the king to Aillwee. The satire would have to wait until their return. But not a moment longer.

“Good night, my lord,” Máel Máedóc offered with a feeble bow.

“Rest well,” Eber replied.

With that the Druid shuffled off to the door and was gone.

“I don't trust him,” the king confided as soon as he had left.

“Nor should you,” Isleen advised. “He's planning to satirize you and have you removed before the conquest of the north can be undertaken.”

Eber Finn frowned. “How could you know such a thing? Have you spoken with him?”

“I have not.”

“For that matter, how did you manage to conceal yourself from him?”

Isleen stood up and sauntered over to where the king was seated. She placed a hand softly on the back of his neck. “My talents will help install you as HighKing of this island,” she whispered. “All I ask in return is that you ask no questions. It's impolite.”

“What about Goll mac Morna? I fear he's plotting to take the kingship from me.”

“All you need to do is throw a dog a few scraps and he'll gladly follow you afterward.”

Eber laughed and grasped her hand as she stroked the fine hairs at the back of his neck. “Sometimes I'm not sure what sort of creature you are,” he told her.

“I'm a woman,” she laughed. “A woman with grand ambitions for her lover.”

With that she put her lips to his and his doubts were immediately banished.

*   *   *

At the cave fortress of Dun Aillil Dalan and Sorcha were being led into the king's hall. Runners had been sent to all the chieftains with news of what had happened to Fergus. And the word that went with the messengers was a call to gather the council, or at least as many as could make the journey.

By sunset several elders of the Fir-Bolg had arrived to take up their seats at King Brocan's side. Two chieftains were seated opposite the king as was the tradition. It was the duty of this pair of elders to face the king down on behalf of their brethren should there be a dispute.

On either side of these two chieftains was a place each for Fineen and Dalan. As the senior members of their order, they were charged with giving advice throughout the meeting and settling minor points of contention as quickly as possible so all important business could be concluded without too much fuss.

When Aoife and her companions arrived, the evening shadows were already deepening. She and Lorn went straight to the seats allotted to them. Mahon dragged Iobhar into the hall against his will to sit along the east wall. This was where the hostages were placed when they weren't invited to sit in honor by the king.

Sárán observed their entry with a secret smile. As he took up his position beside Aoife, their father, Brocan, entered the hall. Everyone present stood to bow their heads for his grief. It was well known that Fergus had been like a brother to him.

When the king had stood at his seat for a short while Dalan stepped forward and rapped his ceremonial staff on the floor. Three loud knocks he gave, followed by another three and then another.

Warriors were seldom honored by the Druid kind other than in poetry and song, so for Dalan to call the assembly to silence with the same ritual knocking that was accorded to the highest Druid in the land was unusual and very moving for those present.

Fergus had been universally respected for his wisdom, fighting skill and, most of all, his good heart. Brocan closed his eyes as they brimmed with salty tears. Even Sárán, who had often differed with the old warrior, bowed his head and sobbed a little.

The hall was still shuddering from the knocks when Dalan began to declaim a poem in his best judge's voice.

“Who watches ii the night lest the raiders should come? Which of you stands sentry on the cattle in their pasture? How many of you will take up the weapons of killing and yet be called honorable by all who speak your name?”

The Brehon looked about the hall to catch the eyes of his audience.

“There will be weeping in this fortress tonight. And there will be sorrow for some days yet. But in the Halls of Waiting there will be rejoicing. For this evening there will arrive a warrior who spent his life watching in the night lest the raiders should come. A man who would gladly stand sentry over the cattle
and the goats and think it no dishonor that he had been asked to do so.”

He paused for breath and to gather his thoughts. This poem had not been planned. It was flowing out of him fresh and free.

“The ancestors will welcome one of our kindred this night. They will praise him for spending his life with a sword in his hand but no joy in the wielding of it. Together they will sit until the dawn listening to the wisdom of Fergus mac Roth who was a champion, a chancellor and a sturdy soul. Now we salute his spirit as we send his body to the grave and his soul to the Halls of Waiting.”

Dalan went to stand before his seat again. The king waited until the Brehon was beside him once more, then he raised a hand in the air and motioned for everyone present to sit. As one the entire gathering did as he commanded without so much as a whisper among them. Their silence was an expression of respect for Fergus.