The Phantom Queen Awakes (26 page)

When he strode into the village, everyone
stared as if at a ghost. Some fell to their knees weeping. A young
man who looked much like a boy named Keir ran across the bridge to
Aodhan’s crannog. Dagda returned with the youth,
weeping.

Dagda flung her arms around Aodhan’s neck,
tears streaming down her face.

“What is the matter?” Aodhan asked, wondering
if perhaps he had died during the feast, only to be
resurrected.

She stroked Aodhan’s face. “You haven’t aged a
day.”

Before Aodhan could laugh at that, he looked
into Dagda’s beautiful blue eyes and saw the lines time had carved
into her face. And standing behind her, he noted the boy Keir had
indeed grown into a man.

“How long?” Aodhan asked.

“Nigh on three years, my husband.”

“Come, Aodhan. You must meet your son-in-law
and grandson.”

“My what?”

“Our Bav is married. In your absence, her
husband Fiallan has led the tuath. Now that you are back, he will ―
must ― step aside.”

Aodhan nodded, knowing he was in no condition
to challenge a young man. But if he must, he would; he would rather
die fighting to reclaim what was his than die by poison.

Yet Bav had married well, the young man she’d
been so enamored of at the harvest festivity...which seemed to have
happened only yesterday. Fiallan welcomed Aodhan with a respectful
bow, his words and manner showing eagerness to relinquish his power
to the elder Aodhan. And Aodhan’s grandson was a handsome baby with
Bav’s red locks.

That evening Aodhan sat alone with the silver
branch. He hoped to never meet one of his enemies, to never crush a
bloom and risk killing himself. But he would do so to protect his
family.

****

The tuath celebrated Aodhan’s return with a
feast.

Aodhan sat at the table’s head. Once the sun
set and the invisible fée could stop their tasks to listen, the
tuath gathered for Aodhan to tell of his journey, his immram into
the Otherworld. So all could gather close to hear, Aodhan sat on
the floor near the fire.

“She lives on a green island, her home the
Crystal Keep. On a brass net hangs musical blades that, when
shaken, produce such sweet notes as to lull a man instantly to
sleep. From the moat, whose water is as clear as glass, she refills
the Cauldron of Creation.” During Aodhan’s stay, he had fetched
many a pail to refill the cauldron as the world continually drew
from it life waters to feed the world’s trees.

“In the cauldron’s depths, the Morrigan sees
the world, its past, present and future.”

In it, she had the power to add ingredients or
dish out the soup, thereby altering the way in which she collected
on a man’s fate.

“Is the island beautiful?” the arch-druid
asked.

“There is only beauty,” said
Aodhan.

At Aodhan’s answer, the druids nodded sagely,
as if they, too, had visited the Otherworld, their nods supposedly
confirming the truth of Aodhan’s tale.

“No death or decay,” Aodhan continued. “Every
tree grows perfectly, without a misshapen bough. On leaving her
service, I gazed deep into the forest outside her keep. As the
light penetrated that lush canopy of crisscrossing limbs, I knew
what beauty had inspired our own artisans, for the tree limbs made
perfect patterns of knotwork.”

Throughout the night, logs were added to the
fire so Aodhan could continue his tale. The mead bowl passed from
lip to lip, oftentimes with a toast. When Aodhan’s throat tired, he
waved for musicians to strike up a merry tune.

As Aodhan returned to his chair, he spied Pert
near the table. The man, a grower of herbs, turned abruptly. He
stood before Aodhan’s goblet, the one the washerwoman had been
cleaning in the river.

A cold chill traced Aodhan’s neck. His hairs
prickled as they had only ever done on the battlefield. Then, as
now, they warned of an enemy nearby.

“Pert. Why so distant? Did you not enjoy my
tale?” Aodhan laughed as if joking with an old friend...with
someone who had been an old friend.

Old friends made the most devious enemies.
That Pert would kill Aodhan by poison stung deeply and was more
bitter than bad mead.

Pert laughed back, his timbre strained. “I
needed to stretch my legs.”

“And now I need to cool my throat.” Aodhan
grabbed the goblet and pretended to drink.

Wily Pert didn’t watch to see if Aodhan drew a
mouthful.

For the remainder of the night, Aodhan watched
Pert nurse his korma. Often Pert watched back. Then, as most of the
tuath departed for their own beds, Aodhan slipped away to his
chambers.

He removed the bundled silver branch, its
blooms protected by a wool blanket. Staring at the eighteen
flowers, wondering which was his, and thinking only that his odds
were good, Aodhan wrapped a hand around one. Break a bloom and an
enemy dies.

He felt the crystal against his palm. It
didn’t feel like he held his own life. But how would that
feel?

Gently, he squeezed the bloom, tighter and
tighter, yet not quite with enough force to shatter it. Softly, he
said, “Pert,” then crushed the flower.

Tiny crystal shards speckled Aodhan’s palm
like snowflakes.

He felt no different. Did Pert?

Aodhan wandered back to the gathering. Only a
few lingered, conversing. He spied Pert, staggering towards a tree,
no doubt to relieve himself.

A wolf’s eerie howl threaded the night. A
shadow passed before the moon, though not a cloud darkened the
starry sky. All conversations ceased. Even Aodhan held his breath,
noting the crackle of power in the air. As he thought on it, he
realized he’d felt that same faint sensation thrice before ― by the
ford, at the Samhain feast and on the Morrigan’s isle.

A shade swelled over the treetops and engulfed
Pert. A flash of canine fangs, a snarled growl, and a single scream
punctured the silence. When the shadow retreated, Pert was gone,
nothing but scuff marks left to show he had ever been
there.

Someone cried, “A wolf took him!”

Aodhan didn’t move. The Morrigan had come for
Pert, not him. And her promise had been swiftly carried
out.

Another familiar sensation thrummed through
Aodhan, one he hadn’t felt since his last battle. That sense of
victory and great power flowed through his veins, making his heart
beat stronger. He had survived and an enemy had fallen in
defeat.

Several men gathered with clubs and axes,
ready to hunt the wolf. Aodhan led them, knowing they would never
catch it.

They did, however, find Pert, his body
shredded and gnawed.

****

In spring, spears usually fall as plentiful as
rain.

Aodhan’s chariot carried him to the
battlefield’s edge. Fiallan stood by his side. The Tuath de Turi
had never been good neighbors or bad, only self-serving. Fiallan
knew them better, his former clan having been troubled often by
Turi and his men. Among Turi’s ranks were many who would rather
steal than barter, rather kill than harvest. Turi’s kinsmen had
left Aodhan and his people alone because the Tuath de Aodhan was
strong.

Now Fiallan’s enemies were Aodhan’s, which, no
doubt, accounted for many of the seventeen blooms...sixteen now
that Pert was gone.

Turi stood among his men, as big as a bear for
which he was named. He ran downhill, his battle cry like a
growl.

The ground unfit for a chariot, Aodhan led the
charge on foot. They would fight in the vale between
hills.

Turi’s sword met Aodhan’s. On all sides, men
battled with sword, spear or wood axe.

Turi, younger and stronger, fought
hard.

Aodhan’s muscles strained. Sweat ran into his
face. If he was to die, at least it would be a hero’s death ― a fit
ending for a warrior.

“When you die,” Turi grunted between swings,
“I’ll have your land, Aodhan, and your woman.”

“No thief,” Aodhan wheezed, “will steal...what
my kinsmen...have built.”

Turi’s sword slipped along Aodhan’s blade,
striking the hilt. The blow vibrated through Aodhan’s hand, making
the bones ache as they did when frost covered the ground. Aodhan’s
grip weakened. He struggled to shove Turi’s blade, and Turi,
backward.

Turi threw his weight into another blow and
his sword cut deep into Aodhan’s arm.

Aodhan’s sword fell from his grip. Pain drove
him onto one knee. With his other hand, he grabbed his
dagger.

As Turi drew back, Aodhan stabbed him.
Aodhan’s aim not as true as it had once been, the dagger cut deep
into Turi’s side. Though grievous, the wound wasn’t
fatal.

Turi staggered, his hand pressing against the
gush of blood. Bloodlust flared in his eyes as he raised his sword,
his arm quivering.

Keir stepped into the swing, blocking it with
his spear. He was no match for Turi, even in Turi’s weakened state,
and would die learning that lesson. Yet Aodhan’s fingers felt too
cold to grab a sword. He retreated from the field, climbing uphill
to his chariot. Carefully, he unwrapped the silver
branch.

“I’d hoped not to need you,” he said, stroking
a silver filigree leaf. He looked hard at the crystal flowers
before selecting one. With his good hand wrapped around a bloom, he
said, “Turi.”

He crushed the flower then collapsed to his
knees, feeling his strength drain. He breathed in ragged breaths
while gently probing his wound. The flesh was badly torn, the
muscle too, but time would mend him. If not, he would die a better
death than by poison.

Below, metal clanged and good men died
honorably.

And with each passing breath, Aodhan felt
surer of his survival. He wrapped the silver branch securely in
wool then grabbed the chariot and pulled himself to his feet. Just
as he wished the Morrigan would appear and drag Turi from the
field, a flock of crows circled overhead.

One crow, larger than the rest, cawed, its cry
as loud as the clash of metal on the battlefield.

The Morrigan swooped downward with a hundred
crows streaming behind her like a black veil. With her mighty beak,
the Morrigan struck Turi’s head, the force splitting his
skull.

Turi keeled over. Beside him lay the mortally
wounded Keir.

The Morrigan landed on Turi’s chest. Perhaps
he still breathed...Aodhan couldn’t tell from atop the rise. Again
the Morrigan struck Turi with her beak, this time stabbing his
chest. When her bloody beak withdrew, it held Turi’s heart. She
threw it in the air, caught it and gobbled it down.

The flock of crows, a mass of flapping black
wings and mournful caws, swarmed Turi’s corpse.

Turi’s kinsmen fled, the battle
over.

Aodhan gave the crows a grateful nod to
acknowledge their power before passing out.

When he came to, he lay in his chambers, Dagda
bandaging his wounds. Bav and Fiallan stood at the foot of the bed.
Not even a scratch marred Fiallan’s freckled skin.

Aodhan smiled at his daughter; she’d married a
good warrior.

“We should hunt them down,” Fiallan said.
“They will choose a new ruler, a new champion. They will seek
revenge.”

“They will fear us,” said Aodhan. “The crows
will convince them our druids have greater power than theirs, that
we have the gods’ protection.”

Fiallan bowed his head. “With respect, I
disagree. I believe they will seek to garner the gods’ favor, then
test it. We must prove our strength has no mercy, for they will
show us none.”

“I’ll not entertain thoughts of a lengthy
war...not just now.”

“Will you when they attack our
village?”

“If and when, yes.” Aodhan raised his hand
then winced. “You will see I am right. Our village hasn’t so many
enemies.” Only fifteen left. Not nearly enough to be an
army.

Lying in bed recovering gave Aodhan time to
consider many things. Often he held the silver branch and ran his
fingers lightly over the fragile crystals.

Twice he’d used the Morrigan’s gift and twice
been lucky. Or perhaps charmed.

****

Through the coming year, Aodhan crushed four
more blooms. Four more times, enemies fell.

A dishonest trader drowned when crossing the
ford. A foreigner from across the sea who sought to steal Aodhan’s
secrets of silver smithing fell overboard. Horrific reports claimed
an eel, another of the Morrigan’s form, had slithered around the
man, choking him, dragging him under the briny waves. A horned cow
gorged a thief. A raven plucked out a jealous man’s eyes so that he
stumbled off a cliff.

Over the year that followed that, Aodhan
crushed ten more blooms, ten more enemies gone, as he led his
people to power through conquest.

Only two blooms remained. One last enemy and
himself.