The King of Sleep (48 page)

As soon as he was feeling better he pushed away from the tree, ready to go on. It was then the Brehon caught a glimpse of a huge black shape among the branches. The figure was so dark that it seemed to swallow all light around it. Startled, Dalan took two steps back.

And then for the first time since he'd entered this garden a sensation akin to fear came over him. The black shape shook itself, spreading its wings to reveal its true nature.

It was a Raven.

There are some folk who believe all these birds look the same. Indeed it's difficult for one not born of the Raven kind to tell each creature apart. But Dalan recognized the bird immediately. It had the same menacing presence as the Raven that had perched in the roof timbers of Sorcha's house.

In unspoken acknowledgment the bird turned her head to one side so she could get a better look at the Brehon. Then she shook her feathers again, clicked her beak three times and, to Dalan's initial relief, flew off.

But she wasn't yet out of sight before he regretted her departure. She was the only creature he'd recognized in the illuminated garden. And she had spoken to him once in a dream. The thought struck him that the Raven might be able to answer the innumerable questions that had bubbled up in his brain.

Without another thought he forgot the sweet scent of lavender and took to his heels to try and catch up with the black bird. But the faster he ran the further on the Raven flew, until the Brehon almost lost sight of her among the higher branches of a great yew tree.

By now he had very foolishly strayed from the path and he became entangled in a huge, sprawling blackberry bush. Little thorns tore at his skin and cloak and the more he struggled the worse his situation became.

At last, with the Raven sitting in the yew tree watching him, he gave up the fight and let the blackberry bush hold him up. Dalan's chest heaved from exertion, his head was spinning again and his throat was parched.

Before his eyes were half a dozen berries, sparkling dark buds of moisture. It didn't cross his mind that it was the wrong season for these fruit or that he should be more careful. For the second time that day the Druid, who should have known better, reached out, plucked a fruit and stuffed it into his mouth.

The juice quenched his thirst immediately but a disturbing change occurred. The glow that had surrounded everything abruptly took second place in the Brehon's senses because his ears were alive with sounds such as he'd never heard before.

He was suddenly aware that all the beetles sang a similar song. The butterflies, too, had their own particular
chant, and every ant was merrily engaged in a common chorus as it worked. The flowers had the sweetest voices, high-pitched and delicate. The bees serenaded them but their humming was not what Dalan was accustomed to. To his utter surprise the honey-makers seemed to be composing poems in their own language. He could almost pick out the words, though he couldn't understand them.

It was then the Brehon noticed a thrumming melody that underpinned all these various choirs. As he looked about him he realized this was emanating from the trees. And all the different clans, from the oak to the birch and elm, had their own intricate part to play in this symphony of the garden.

The blackberry bush had its own melody too, a sweet lilting refrain that lifted the Brehon's heart so that he couldn't help but hum along. He joined in with the bush and they chanted their tune together. As he became more confident Dalan put a few words to the air and he sensed the blackberry bush wasn't holding him any longer.

It was hugging him close.

As this realization struck him he tried to stand up by himself and found he wasn't restrained at all. High above in the mighty yew tree the Raven gave a joyous if slightly mocking laugh.

In less time than it takes to draw twenty breaths the Brehon was making his way forward again. His mind was reeling from the intensity of light and sound that bombarded him. Like a drunkard who has lost his way
he stumbled over a low stone wall and fell onto a close-clipped lawn bed, the softest bed ever known. The grass was fragrant, moist and refreshing, so much so that Dalan was overcome by the urge to slip into a powerful sleep.

He stood up and noticed the yew tree just ahead of him on the other side of the lawn. He was about to step out toward it when he realized how well tended this garden was. The grass was cut short and there were no weeds anywhere to be seen.

“There must be a gardener!” Dalan exclaimed.

The words were barely out of his mouth when two things happened. First, the Raven spread her wings wide and dived out of the tree directly toward him, and second, the Brehon felt unseen hands tugging at his cloak.

The garment fell to the ground behind him but he was too concerned by the unexpected attack to see to it. In the next breath he was cowering on the grass expecting to feel a biting beak at the back of his neck.

But nothing happened. There was no flurry of wings or screech of anger. Nevertheless, it was a long while before the Brehon dared look up to find out what had happened.

There was no sign of the bird high in the yew branches, just the ever-present symphony of creation and the illumination which bathed the spirits of all he saw. Dalan breathed more easily and lay back on Sorcha's cloak to take stock of all that had happened.

He closed his eyes to rest them and wished he could have shut his ears in the same manner. It was then he noticed the warmth of the sunlight on his skin and remembered that he was deep within the secret places of the cave. Surely, he told himself, there could be no sunshine in this place.

He opened his eyes again and stared skyward into a deep blue void that was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. The sun was there in the western sky but the stars were also visible as tiny points of light.

The Brehon sat up to admire this new spectacle and as he did so he noticed a movement underneath the yew tree at the far side of the lawn. Intrigued, he got to his knees ready to stand, but before he could get up the figure moved from the shadows into view.

And Dalan gasped in amazement when he recognized the woman's face.

B
ROCAN STAYED BY THE FUNERAL PYRE UNTIL THE LAST
embers were glowing orange and there was nothing left of the old Druid's corpse. Fineen went to where the river flowed into the lake to fetch some fresh water.

When he returned Lochie was waiting, head bowed, behind the king. The Watcher looked up as Brocan stirred and got to his feet.

“You've done your duty to him,” Lochie declared. “We should envy him. He has set out on his voyage back into the light. May we all be granted passage for that journey one day.”

The king didn't reply. He had spent the long while in contemplation of Lochie's offer of sleep.

“My soul is tired,” Brocan whispered finally. “I haven't the stomach for living among my own kin. I am the only immortal among them except for my children. Perhaps after I've had some rest I'll have the strength to go on again.”

Lochie hummed a little under his breath to indicate he understood what the king was saying.

“I'm just not sure whether I should trust you. You're a Watcher, a sworn enemy of my people and a Fomorian.”

“I may have lived among the Fomor,” Lochie protested, “but I was born a Fir-Bolg. I was banished because I disagreed with my king and the High-Druid. All of us were Danaans or Fir-Bolg.”

Brocan raised his eyebrows. “Dalan told me you were servants of Balor, the warrior king of the Fomor.”

“We were never servants,” the Watcher snapped. “We were misled.” Lochie moved closer. “That's all long ago,” he told Brocan smoothly. “What happened a hundred generations or more ago has no bearing on you.”

He placed himself directly in front of the king to press home his next point. “What you must understand is that my companion and I are very powerful. We're determined to find a way to break the enchantment that binds us to this world. Whether you decide to accept my offer of rest or not is up to you. But you can't prevent us from carrying out our plan.”

Lochie opened up his palms to indicate he had nothing to hide.

“I'll be honest with you, we've created the perfect conditions for a war. And we've made it obvious that we are to blame for the coming conflict. In this way
Dalan will work harder to rid the land of our presence forever.”

“Why would you work for your own destruction?” Brocan asked.

“You'll understand when a hundred generations have passed you by and your yearning for peace has become an agony of regret. I'm offering you some respite from that pain. In return you'll be doing me a great service.”

“What service?”

“If you're out of the way and your son is left to rule, it will be easier to manipulate the situation to my advantage.”

“I don't want my kinfolk to suffer.”

“The world is full of suffering,” Lochie scoffed. “Even the Quicken Brew has not put an end to that. Even though you may never know ill health or death, there are other kinds of discomfort. Folk will suffer whether I have a hand in it or not. And some will greatly benefit.”

“How?”

“Your children will learn some valuable lessons,” the Watcher replied. “And from what I've seen of them, a few hard experiences won't do them any harm. But most important of all, the end result will be that the land is rid of my kind. That can't be a bad conclusion.”

“I will have to think more carefully and discuss this with Fineen.”

“He's already made up his mind,” the Watcher said,
and Fineen nodded gravely in acknowledgment.

“But don't just take his advice,” Lochie added. “There are others who decided to take the long sleep.”

As he spoke a woman appeared from out of the shadows behind him. She was dressed in a long green gown of shimmering velvet and about her shoulders was a cloak of fine crimson. Her hair was copper red and it cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of fire.

Brocan recognized her immediately.

“Riona?” he gasped, only half believing what he saw.

“Greetings, husband,” she answered and there was such emotion in her voice as he'd never heard before. “I've come to beg you to come with me to the land of sleep.”

“This is a trick!” the king raged as all the bitterness of separation rose in him and none of the sense of loss he genuinely felt. “My wife would never return to me.” Brocan shut his eyes so she wouldn't see his rising pain or the tears that threatened to blur his vision. Despite the pain Riona had caused him, he knew he still loved her. And his heart ached to be with her again. But he knew her to be a defiant woman, too stubborn and proud to come begging for anything from him.

“I am your queen,” she retorted. “I've lived with Cecht these last three winters in the realm of the Otherworld. But for all the gifts I found there, for all the joy I experienced, my life was empty without you. Despite your faults, despite your arrogance and stubbornness, I miss you.”

“Lochie, you've gone too far!” Brocan shouted as he turned on the Watcher. “I might have considered your offer if you hadn't tried this foolish deception. Riona would never speak like that to me. This is another of your illusions meant to convince me to make a favorable decision.”

He glared at the queen. Then he frowned as the bitterness passed away to be replaced by hope. His unspeakable sorrow at her loss began to well up once more. Brocan was a stubborn man, however. And through all else that he was experiencing it was his only armor against possible disappointment.

He wanted to see Riona but he feared the wounding that would result if this proved to be an illusion.

“Well it won't work. I wouldn't have that woman back if she were the last living soul in my kingdom. She betrayed me and her children. And she deserted her people in their hour of need. She's a cruel, heartless, selfish creature who thinks of nothing but her own pleasure. She can rot in the Otherworld for all I care.”

With these words he turned to storm off up the sandy beach. But he hadn't gone ten paces when he heard a bitter wail that gripped his heart and froze his feet to the spot.

It was Riona.

A great tearing of his spirit threatened to bring Brocan to his knees. He steeled himself and swung around to face the woman he had once called his queen. For a moment he didn't care if this was
nothing more than an illusion. An image of her might be the closest he'd ever come to being with her again.

“It's too late for that,” he stated coldly. “Go back to Cecht. You made your decision and I've made my peace with it.”

Riona spun around and ran off into the darkness. The king lowered his eyes and stared fixedly at the rocky floor of the cave as tears began to well in the corners of his eyes.

At last he lifted his face to Lochie and spoke. “I've made up my mind.”

The Watcher waited to hear what he had to say.

“Sixty summers have passed by since my mother bore me. I've already lived longer than any of my clan has ever managed before. I've seen war, death, famine, betrayal and the murder of my dearest friend. It's unnatural to go on indefinitely without rest. My soul yearns for peace.”

“And you shall have it.”

“Will I dream?”

“You will dwell in the land of dreams until such time as you are ready to take up a life in the outside world again. And whenever you wish you may return to the realm of slumber. All you need do is return to these caves and he down to sleep.”

“Can you guarantee my son will reign as King of the Fir-Bolg in my place?”

“Lom will rule your people. You have my solemn promise on it.”

Brocan smiled grimly, his expression one of relief rather than happiness.

“I will be monarch in the country of rest.”

Lochie nodded. Brocan shrugged at the title which now described his state of being. But he claimed it with pride.