The King of Sleep (50 page)

“They will do so soon enough,” she promised. “I've seen to it that Eber understands the value of such a match.”

“Have you indeed? And is he a man ruled entirely by duty or obligation to his position?”

“He will do as I advise.”

“And what of his heart?”

“Men like Eber Finn have no heart,” Isleen asserted. “Their ambitions are solely focused on kingdoms, wealth and prestige. No woman could ever give him that.”

“So there's no chance he might fall in love if the right woman came along?”

Isleen looked at her companion with suspicion.

“What are you up to?” she asked.

“Nothing! I was just asking a question. Surely he's as vulnerable to a beautiful female form as any other man.”

Isleen picked up the High-King to take her turn with the white pieces.

“The wager isn't settled until Eber marries Aoife,” Lochie added. “So I wouldn't be so confident of victory if I were you.”

“The war will start before winter. On the feast of Samhain Eve they'll be wed with great ceremony and celebration.”

“The war!” her companion exclaimed. “I'd almost forgotten about the coming conflict. We've done well, haven't we?”

“Let's wait and see.”

“What of the Brehon?” Lochie asked.

“He's enlisted the help of a young woman Druid who knows something of the song-maker craft. With her Draoi skill at the Frith and his determination I'm certain we'll be free before midwinter's day. That is, if the war doesn't distract them.”

“It will stir them to more diligent researches,” Lochie assured her. “Have faith.”

“What, in mortals?” Isleen scoffed, making the first move of the new game.

“But the Brehon has partaken of the Quicken Brew,” he reminded her. “He's no longer mortal. He'll live forever if he so chooses.”

“Will you tell him there is a way to avoid that fate?”

Lochie shook his head. “No one ever helped us,” he reasoned. “Why shouldn't the Danaans and the FirBolg find their own solution? It's enough that there is a way to end the imprisonment of the Quicken. In time they'll discover it.”

Isleen raised he eyebrows sceptically, then said, “It's your move.”

Lochie picked up a piece seemingly at random and moved it across the board to a position where it was vulnerable to attack. Then he confidently sat back with his hands behind his head.

Isleen took a long while to make her next move. When she did Lochie's piece was still on the board.

“You're too suspicious,” he told her.

With an exaggerated sweep of his hand he moved another dark Raven into line with his first one. A single white playing piece was wedged between them. This he lifted up and placed down at his feet.

“You open yourself up to capture,” he dismissed. “You should try to see the world for what it is.”

“Aoife is in love with Eber Finn,” Isleen grunted,
put out by the capture of her piece. “No force on Earth could stop her wedding him.”

“She'll bed him, that's certain,” Lochie quipped. “But a wedding takes much more finesse, forethought and foolishness. And she lacks the first two.”

“What becomes of our wager if it isn't settled by Samhain Eve? Or if we are freed of our enchantment before Aoife makes up her mind?” Isleen asked.

“I hadn't considered that possibility,” Lochie admitted. Then an idea struck him. “If she hasn't married Eber by Samhain, you should concede the wager to me.”

Isleen laughed. “But if her mind isn't set on Mahon either,” she hummed, “then I have won.”

“Very well!” Lochie agreed. “You may consider the challenge laid down afresh.”

Dalan lay on his back for a long while, staring at the ceiling and trying to recall how he came to be in Sorcha's house in the middle of the woods. The fire was burning brightly in the central hearth and the Raven which usually perched in the rafters was nowhere to be seen.

He was still drowsy and rather confused. His last memory was of entering the strange underworld garden through a gap in the cave wall. The Brehon found himself wondering what had become of Brocan. He prayed silently that the king had found his way out of the Aillwee without being captured by the Fomor.

Suddenly he began to question his whole experience
among the Fomorians. He was certain none of that race lived anywhere within the borders of Innisfail. He asked himself if it could have been the legendary people known as the Sen Erainn who'd accosted them. But his mind was too weary for such thoughts and he soon drifted into a hazy observation of the rafters where many varieties of herbs hung slowly curing in the smoky atmosphere.

At length he realized his throat was parched dry. He lifted himself up a little in the bed and to his surprise discovered that he was completely naked under the furs. He blushed at the thought of Sorcha undressing him while he was still unconscious.

At his side on the floor he found a jug of water which he snatched up and put to his mouth. When he'd had enough he placed the vessel down again and brought up a belch of air.

Suddenly there was a movement beside him and the furs were thrown back. Dalan nearly jumped out of the bed in fright.

“Can you pass me the jug?” Sorcha asked as she rolled over.

Underneath the furs she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. The Brehon's jaw dropped open in surprise but he made no move to lift the water jug.

“What's the matter?” she laughed. “Haven't you ever woken to find a naked woman beside you in bed before?”

“I usually recall getting into bed with her,” Dalan stuttered.

“You were in no state to remember anything. It was all I could do to bring you back from the garden in the Land of Promise.”

“The Land of Promise?”

She sat up and ran a hand through his hair to soothe him. “You really don't remember anything do you, you poor dear?”

Dalan was speechless, embarrassed that he had no recollection whatsoever of what must have been a remarkable experience.

“Water?” Sorcha sang.

The Brehon sprang into action, handing her the water jug and watching in wonder as she drank her fill.

When she'd finished she leaned over him to place the empty vessel back on the floor. Dalan shuddered to feel her warm flesh pressed hard against his own.

“You really don't remember anything of our little adventure, do you?” she laughed softly.

“I can't say that I do.”

“Can you bring to mind the tree? The carpet of rowan berries?”

Dalan shook his head.

“Then let me refresh your memory,” she whispered.

With that she snuggled in close to the Brehon, took his hand in hers and kissed his fingers one by one.

The long column of Fir-Bolg warriors and chieftains came to a halt at the edge of Lough Gur the day
before the midsummer feast. A hundred folk gathered from across the Burren gazed in stunned silence at the view presented to them. Such a spectacle had not been witnessed since before the days of their grandsires.

The shimmering waters had retreated. The once mighty lake had withdrawn. And the waters that remained lapped against muddy banks. Dun Gur was no longer an island. A causeway, laid with stones to form a road, now linked the fortress to the shore.

Dalan, Sorcha and Lom stood together on the grassy slope that led down to the stone path. No words passed between them but their eyes spoke of their dismay. The Brehon recalled his promise to the Raven that he would protect the lough. Clearly he would have to bring all his influence to bear on Eber if he was to keep his vow.

Sárán pushed forward through the crowd, dragging his sister Aoife behind him until they were shoulder to shoulder with their brother.

“What are you waiting for, Lom?” he asked. “We should be getting on. There's much to be done before sunset.”

His brother woke from his half-dream and stared into Sárán's eyes with deep concern. “What has happened to the waters?”

“The Goddess Danu is angry with the Gaedhals,” Sárán explained.

“Don't be ridiculous!” Dalan laughed. “The Lady of the Flowing Waters doesn't punish her own children.
She is our Mother. The lough is drying up because there has been no rain for three moons.”

Sárán tightened his lips. He knew there was no point in arguing with the Brehon, whose opinions were highly regarded by Lom. But Dalan would not always be around to advise his brother, the new king of the Fir-Bolg. So Sárán kept quiet. For now.

“The waters will return when the skies open up again,” the Brehon assured everyone. “There is no omen in this.”

“Dalan is right,” Sárán agreed cannily. “Today we enter into an alliance with the Gaedhals which will ensure the survival of our people and our lands. Lough Gur is welcoming us. See, the road before us is passable. We'll be the first warrior band ever to march up to the gates of this fortress. This is a clear sign that the future is bright for our kindred.”

Dalan grunted indignantly and rolled his eyes at the opportunism of this young fellow. But Sorcha grabbed the Brehon by the elbow and squeezed it tightly to indicate he should not be so open with his criticism.

Sárán went down to the mud bank with Aoife still in tow. He dipped his hand into the dwindled lough and tasted the waters.

“Lough Gur is as sweet as ever,” he declared.

Dalan clenched a fist and turned away, ready to address the crowd. But he didn't get the chance.

“Let him be,” Sorcha whispered. “We have more important matters to be concerned about. Don't be
worrying about what that lad has to say. He's quite capable of making a fool of himself without any help from you.”

“He hasn't even been properly welcomed into the Druid orders yet,” Dalan hissed under his breath. “Who does he think he is?”

“Lom chose him as his adviser,” Sorcha reminded him. “And Brocan endorsed Lom's leadership of the Fir-Bolg. The chieftains will soon choose a better king and a worthier Druid to the task. In the meantime they can do no real harm.”

“Bring forward the weapons!” Lom commanded.

His voice cracked with nervous tension but no one seemed to notice. Soon everyone in his retinue had a sword or spear and a great bronze shield. Only the Druids refrained from taking up the weapons.

When Lom saw that all was ready he called out to his brother. “Are you ready, Sárán?”

“I am.”

“Then lead us into the fortress.”

Aoife and Sárán climbed back up the bank, their feet caked in mud to the ankles. They quickly cleaned their boots on the grass then made their way to the head of the column. After a few whispered words between them they set off over the stone causeway toward the waiting watchmen on the other side.

The Gaedhals had gathered on the bank to watch the spectacle of the approaching force and sentries ran this way and that sounding the alarm. Before
Sárán and his sister were halfway over, a hundred warriors of the Fian were waiting in three close-knit ranks to block their way.

The Gaedhals lowered their spear points as the two came closer and halted. Sárán turned to his brother and waved. Then Lom set out across the causeway followed by all his warriors in their battle array. Only Dalan and Sorcha stayed put.

As the Fir-Bolg marched in four broadly spaced lines they hummed a stirring chant that was proud and threatening. The Fian closed their ranks, lifted their shields and gave an answering call that sounded like a pack of hounds howling in unison.

“This is foolishness!” Dalan sneered, but Sorcha hushed him.

“They're warriors. They have their way and we should respect it.”

“I wish I knew what those two lads had in mind. To come to this fortress armed for a fight is worse than stupid. Even with the causeway laid down the Gaedhals would easily hold the gates. They haven't got a chance of defeating them.”

The gathered Fir-Bolg halted half a dozen paces from where Aoife and her brother were standing in front of the spears of the Fianna. The song abruptly ceased as they lowered their weapons ready to make a charge.

“Who comes here to Dun Gur, armed for war?” a voice challenged from behind the ranks of battle-ready Gaedhals.

A warrior stepped out through the forest of spears. His sword swung in his hand and his shield was at his shoulder. On his head he wore a helm fashioned from bright gold and across his body he wore a yellow breacan cloak.

Every Fir-Bolg warrior recognized Eber Finn, but tradition demanded that he identify himself. Sárán bowed and threw open his cloak so the Fian could see he was a Druid and unarmed.

“Who would stand in the way of the kindred of Lom mac Brocan, King of the Fir-Bolg of the Burren?”

“I am Eber Finn. I rule the people of the Kingdom of the Southern Gaedhals.”

He took his time to observe the grim warriors who faced him down.

“There is peace between our peoples. A naked blade is not a sign of friendship.”

At those words Lom stepped up past Sárán and Aoife with his sword pointed to the ground.

“I am the king of these folk,” he declared. “I've come to bless the hand of my sister who has chosen to wed with Eber Finn of the Gaedhals.”

“It's unwise to whip a willing horse,” Eber quipped.

“I'm not here to fight you,” Lom smiled.

As he spoke he lifted his weapon high in the air. Then he swung it around his head and tossed it as far as he could into that part of the lough where a deep pool remained. The bronze sword skipped across the water with a mighty splash and then it was gone.

Before Eber understood what was happening, all
the Fir-Bolg followed their king's lead. Swords, spears, shields and harness fittings all flew into the water on each side. So astonishing was this sight that the Fian let their spear points drop to the ground and looked at each other in confusion.

“As you see,” Lom declared, “we are unarmed.”