The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (53 page)

But she wasn’t alone in the tent, and he had more important things to think on. He had come to Lugh’s camp for a reason, and his purpose had yet to be fulfil ed.

You wil betray her, he thought. He would destroy Séanat as surely as if he’d slashed her throat with the sharpest bronze, for she would lose her people and possibly her life. Exile was the best she could hope for.

That would be nothing to the loss of her honour.

Aodhan hardened his mind. He had set his course when he had survived the blade in his heart.

No mercy, no pity. Just as
they
had shown no mercy to his people.

He waited until the most of the fires around the camp had burned down to coals and the Tuatha Dé had fal en into drunken, exhausted slumber. If there were sentries, he could see none. These fine folk were arrogant in victory, even with a Fomóir in their midst.

Stil , he moved with great care, working his way little by little across the camp. Lugh’s tent rose up in the flare of guttering torches, but the warrior guards were slumped over their spears, snoring as loudly as the rest.

Silently, he entered the tent. Lugh of the Long Arm lay on his pal et, a cloak of woven gold and wolf’s fur draped over his body. Goibhniu rested on a similar pal et near the tent’s entrance. He mumbled and rol ed over as Aodhan passed, oblivious to the danger.

Because Lugh had taken Séanat at her word.

Aodhan hesitated. Séanat’s kiss burned on his lips. He shook off the memory and crossed to the spears that rested on the wal .

Goibhniu’s spears: magical weapons forged by Inis Fáil’s greatest smith, one of which Lugh had used to slay Balor. One of which had slain Ruadán, son of Bres and Brighid, when he had come to the camp and tried to kil Goibhniu to save his father’s people from destruction.

Tears came to Aodhan’s eyes. Ruadán had had no choice. Nor did he. Aodhan grasped one of the spears, weighed its perfect balance in his hand. One blow would be enough. If he kil ed Goibhniu, his foster-brother would be avenged. But to slay Lugh, the greatest of the Tuatha Dé, the golden king . . .

He raised the spear over Lugh, took aim. And stopped. Sweat slicked his palm.

“I will follow you, lady, and do your will.”
Those had been his words to Séanat before they had lain together, binding body to body and soul to soul.

The spear sank in his hand as if it were forged of the heaviest stone. He backed away from Lugh, from Goibhniu, and out of the tent.

The point of a sword pricked his back.

“Traitor,” Séanat snarled under her breath. “Faithless cur!” Aodhan raised his hands. Once he had been prepared to let her take his life because he had failed to die with his people. He had failed them again.

He had failed
her.

He dropped the spear. Séanat kicked it away. The blade rose to lie against his neck. In a moment his head would fly from his body, and at last the agony would end.

“Did you . . .” Séanat choked and caught her breath. “Did you kil them?” Al he need say was “aye”. The lie would not come to his lips. “No,” he said.

“Why?” she asked. The blade nicked his skin, and he felt the blood flow “
Why?”
He turned, careless of the pain. “Because of you,
a chroi.”
She stepped back, her face turned away, and moaned. The sleeping guards sprang up, dazed and wild. Instantly they were on Aodhan.

“Stop!” Séanat cried. “He did nothing!”

Lugh emerged from the tent. “What goes on?” he demanded.

Goibhniu came out behind him. His eyes found Aodhan’s. “You!” He brought up the spear he clenched in one fist. “Filth of a Fomóir!”

Like a stoat upon a mouse, Séanat leaped at Aodhan and dragged him away, her arm around his chest.

“You wil not touch him!” she growled. “I saw him come out of the tent with a spear in his hand.

Had he wanted you dead, you would not be breathing now!” She turned to Lugh. “My lord, has he done you harm?”

The High King’s expression was grim. “None. But you were honour-bound to keep him, and you have failed.”

“She hasn’t failed,” Aodhan said. “It was because of her that I took no vengeance for the death of my kin and my foster-brother.”

Others had come to hear Aodhan’s words, and they murmured in consternation and anger.

“What brother?” Ríona said, her sisters around her.

Aodhan met Goibhniu’s furious stare. “Ruadán,” he said, “son of Bres.” The gathering crowd grew quiet. Séanat was as rigid as one of the great standing stones that rose on the banks of the River Bóinne.

“And this is what you brought to us!” Brónach said. “Another who spits on the hospitality of the Tuatha Dé! I say they both must die!”

A swel of argument rose up, shouts of agreement and mutterings of dismay.

Lugh raised his hand. “Aodhan has come armed and unasked into a place of peace. But I have suffered no injury, nor has my uncle.” At the sounds of protest he raised his hand again, and the light from his face silenced every voice with its glory. “In this,” he said, “I cannot judge, for al Tuatha Dé must be affected. Let every warrior and chieftain meet in council to decide the fate of this man and this woman.”

Séanat released Aodhan and bowed her head. “I surrender to the wil of the People. I ask only one boon—”

A great, black host of crows appeared in the sky, deafening the camp with their guttural cries.

Around and around they flew, descending like a whirlwind, spinning closer and closer to each other until they formed a single black shape that came to earth as lightly as foam on the shore.

“There wil be no boon,” a harsh voice said. Long-nailed hands pushed the dark hood back from hair equal y dark, and a woman’s face appeared, beautiful and cold and deadly.

“There wil be no mercy for one who has betrayed her oath,” the Morrígan said. The crowd broke before her long stride, and the Daughters dropped to their knees. It was to Séanat she went, her cloak bil owing and hissing around her.

Aodhan moved to stand between her and Séanat. “I know you, Raven of Battle,” he said. “If it is blood you want, take mine.”

The Morrígan laughed. “I wil have yours, Fomóir. Never doubt it. But this woman has betrayed her oaths to me. No mercy on the field of battle. Death before surrender.” She swept up to Lugh.

“Ard Rí, you have no authority over those sworn to me. You would not have won the battle without me, and now I demand payment. Give her up and let her face the price of her betrayal.” Lugh’s gaze moved slowly to Séanat. “She has the right of it,” he said heavily. “When you gave your oath, you put your fate into the hands of your lady. I can do nothing.” Aodhan started towards Lugh. Crossed spears snapped up in his path. He turned back to face the Morrígan and fel to his knees. “Her weakness is my doing,” he said. “Let her be exiled, Slayer of Kings, but spare her.”

“Let
him
be spared,” Séanat said, pushing Aodhan aside. “The fault is in me. The weakness was always mine.”

The Morrígan’s laughter flew skyward, and shrieking crows emerged whole from her black garments. “Is it true?” she asked. “Do you care for this creature, Séanat? Are you bitch to his cur?”

“I am nothing,” Séanat said. “Rend me with the beaks of your birds and the teeth of your wolves, but let him live.”

Stil laughing, the Morrígan raised her arms. An invisible blow struck Séanat to her knees.

Aodhan lunged towards her, but Lugh’s warriors held him back.

His gaze met Séanat’s, and al the fierce rage Aodhan felt, al the hatred for his enemies, dissolved into acceptance.

And something more. He broke free, knelt beside Séanat and took her in his arms.

“Know that I love you, Séanat,” he whispered. “When our blood mingles in death, there wil be true peace at last.”

She looked into his eyes and smiled. “I am not afraid.”

“Not even of dishonour?”

Her fingers brushed his cheek. “No longer,
a chuisle.
You are my honour.” She pressed her lips to his. “I love—”

Strong arms jerked her to her feet and seized Aodhan. The Daughters dragged them after the Morrígan, Ríona’s face without expression, Niamh weeping.

“You shal end at the hands of your sisters,” the Morrígan said, “hacked to pieces and left for my crows. But first you shal watch your lover die.”

She nodded, and the Daughters hurled Aodhan to the ground. They stretched his arms and legs across the earth and crouched to bind him with their hands. The Morrígan’s cloak exploded into a flurry of wings and red eyes. The crows descended upon Aodhan, claws rending, beaks stabbing.

Séanat cried out, fighting Ríona and Niamh like a madwoman.

Aodhan raised his bloody face and met her eyes. It was enough to dul the pain. It was almost as if the beaks and claws could no longer touch him.

“Enough.”

The new voice was as soft as the Morrígan’s was harsh. Al Aodhan could see of the lady’s form was her feet, shod in cloth embroidered with leaping deer and forest flowers. Al at once the crows scattered, circled, and dived again to be enfolded within the Morrígan’s cloak.

“Brighid,” the Morrígan said, anger and surprise mingled in the word. “This is none of your affair.”

“Is it not?” The lady knelt beside Aodhan and touched his blood-smeared hair. Warmth reached into him, soothing his hurts like a balm.

“What did you do to bring the people’s wrath upon your head?” she asked him.

“It was
I
who brought it,” Séanat said, wresting free of Niamh and Ríona. “I failed to keep him as I promised.”

The lady met Séanat’s gaze. “Do you regret your vow to me?”

“She had no right to make any vows!” the Morrígan hissed. “She was sworn to me!”

“You are wrong,” Brighid said. She swept her hand over Aodhan’s back, and al his wounds were healed. “There is a bond greater than that between warriors.” Lugh came to stand over her. “Your interference is not welcome, Brighid,” he said.

“But it is necessary, Lugh mac Ethlinn . . . unless you would be a kin-slayer.” No one spoke for a terrible moment. Séanat held her breath. The Morrígan’s cloak rustled and spat. Lugh’s frown was like an eclipse of the sun.

“Speak your meaning, lady,” he said.

Brighid rose and spread her arms to embrace the assembly. “Al know the tale of Lugh Lámhfhada’s father, Cian, son of Dian Cécht, who sought Ethlinn, daughter of Balor, in the crystal tower on Oileán Thúr Rí. There he got three sons upon her. Two were said to be drowned by Balor in a whirlpool. Only Lugh survived.”

There were mutters of agreement. Al knew the story of Lugh’s birth, his fosterage with Tailtiu, daughter of the chief of the Fir Bolg, and how he came to join the Tuatha Dé when he reached manhood and won his place among his father’s people.

“But there is one thing you have not heard,” Brighid said. “One other child of Ethlinn survived, to be fostered by Ochtrial ach, son of Indech, king of the Fomóiri. His name was Aodhan.”

“Stil more our enemy!” someone shouted.

Brighid’s beautiful face turned towards the voice. “His foster-brother and companion in battle was Ruadán, my son. His father was Cian.” She looked at Lugh. “He is your brother, Ard Rí.” Séanat’s legs nearly gave out beneath her, and only Niamh and Ríona kept her on her feet.

Goibhniu thrust the tip of his spear into the ground with such force that the earth shook with the blow. The Morrígan’s eyes burned with rage. Aodhan, coming to his knees, stared at Brighid in wonder.

Lugh’s face fil ed with sorrow. “Is it so?” he asked. He offered his hand to Aodhan. “If you are my brother, it is no fault of yours that you never knew your kin.”

“I knew them,” Aodhan said, rising without touching Lugh’s hand. “As you never knew your true mother, King of the Tuatha Dé. With the Fomóir, with my foster-brother, I would gladly have died.” He looked at Séanat and smiled, driving the last despair from her heart. “Because of her, I found cause to live.” He knelt again at Brighid’s feet. “I once promised to do Séanat’s wil . I broke my oath. I wil gladly pay my debt in any way you choose, but Séanat is blameless.” Even from a distance Séanat could feel the power of Brighid’s healing love. “We are none of us without blame,” she said, “but there must come an end to feud and vengeance. In your blood, in Lugh’s, lies the hope of reconciliation.” She turned to Aodhan. “Your people are not gone so long as you live.” She held out her hand to Séanat. “Come, child.” The Morrígan stepped between them. “You wil regret your intrusion, Brighid. A time wil come when such weakness wil bring about the downfal of the Tuatha Dé. ‘Summer without blossoms, cattle without milk, every man a betrayer, every son a reaver.’” Eyes met, bright and dark. “Nothing is forever,” Brighid said. “Al things come to an end . . . al but one. As long as that one thing exists, there is hope.”

She stepped around the Morrígan, took Séanat’s hand, and offered the other to Aodhan. He rose, and Brighid placed his hand in Séanat’s. “As long as you live, may you be as one.” With a screech of fury, the Morrígan spread her arms wide. Her body flew apart in an eruption of black feathers and rasping croaks as the crows burst forth and spun into the sky.

“Wil the world end as she prophesied?” Aodhan asked.

“Not yet.” Brighid bowed to Lugh, smiled on the assembly, and walked away.

Séanat leaned her head against Aodhan’s. “Is it over?” she whispered.

“Embrace me, brother,” Lugh said, coming to join them. “Let the bloodshed end here. Let there be peace.”

And so there was. In time, Séanat gave birth to a girl-child, whom she and Aodhan named Brighid in honour of the lady who had saved them. The Tuatha Dé Dunaan ruled Éire for many years more, until the coming of the Milesians with their iron weapons and new kind of magic.

But that is another story.

Tara’s Find

Nadia Williams

She shouldn’t be here.

Tara McGinty pushed an errant strand of hair from her face. Around her, tendrils of early-morning mist rested on the damp heather coat of the field they were excavating. The light green of a copse of ash trees to the north of the archaeological dig contrasted with the backdrop of the darker slopes of the round-topped Mourne mountains in the distance. An army of dark clouds loomed on the West horizon, emphasizing the fleeting nature of the fragrance of fresh dew in the air. A lone crow’s
caw
didn’t break the silence as much as accentuate it.