The King of Sleep (6 page)

“Except in the cold reflection of a still pool,” Sárán noted dryly.

“What are you doing here?” Aoife begged as she ran to her brother's side. “We thought you were away in the east with your teacher, Fineen.”

“We returned this morning,” Sárán replied as he bowed politely to Mahon.

It was then he noticed the unconscious form of Iobhar sprawled out upon the grass. He raised his eye-brows at the scene before he went on. “Father ordered I be sent out to search for you. He had a notion you might come up here to the ruins of Dun Burren to waste time play-fighting.”

“Brocan was informed that we intend to spend the night here,” Mahon cut in. “We'll return tomorrow.”

“You are to come back to the caves with me before sunset,” Sárán announced sharply. “You all have duties to fulfil and Fineen has brought news which concerns all the people of the Fir-Bolg.”

“Surely it can wait till first light,” Aoife protested. “Even if we left straightaway it would be dark before we arrived home.”

“Your king, your father, has commanded it,” Sárán asserted.

“We'll come then,” Lom conceded, taking his brother by the arm to shake him affectionately. “It does my heart good to see you again.”

“I'm glad,” SŜrán answered in a restrained tone, and for the first time Aoife realized that a great distance had come between the twins since they had taken up their separate vocations. They so resembled each other physically it would be hard for most folk to tell them apart. But Sárán had developed an air of seriousness, while Lom had retained the carefree demeanour of a warrior youth.

“Let's go then,” she reluctantly agreed. “I'm disappointed we couldn't spend a night under the stars in
our old home. Iobhar was going to instruct me in the bow.”

“What about the Gaedhal?” Lom laughed, pointing at the unconscious youth.

“I suppose I'd better carry him home,” Mahon sighed. “We can't leave the emissary of King Eber out on the hills at night. He might imagine we don't think highly of him.”

“Where would he have got that impression?” Lom asked in mock horror. “Would it be the manner in which our sister has welcomed the poor lad to her bosom?”

“Be quiet, the both of you,” Aoife snapped, “or you'll feel the back of my hand!”

“It's the knob of your kneecap I'm fearful of,” Mahon grunted as he carefully lifted the limp body over his shoulder.

“You did this?” Sárán sneered at his sister. “You brought this warrior down?”

Aoife shrugged and did her best to look as if it had all been a mishap. “We had a wager. He reckoned he could run me down before noon. I knew it would take a better man than he.”

“You're a Druid!” her brother gasped, stepping closer to look her in the eye. “You're forbidden to engage in such sport. Does your teacher know of this?”

Aoife gritted her teeth, picked up her sword and sheathed it. “I've already had this discussion once today,” she hissed, tired of being rebuked. “It's time we were heading back to Aillwee.”

Her brother watched the way she handled her blade with confidence and familiarity. He could hardly believe his eyes.

“You have no right to bear such a weapon!” Sárán whispered in stunned shock. “What has become of you? Have you strayed from the path?”

“My teacher holds no objection to me bearing arms,” she told him. “He understands that I was born to the blade, not the Bard craft. I've never made a secret of the fact that I would be happier following the ways of the Warrior Circle.”

“Your life has been chosen for you! There's no turning back. We must pay the price for our misdeeds. Devotion to the Druid Circle will annul our sins. It is the only hope we have of washing our souls clean.”

Mahon and Lom both looked away, embarrassed by Sárán's outburst.

“Hush! That's enough,” Aoife appealed. “I'll not talk of this with you now. This isn't the time for such things.” The young woman glanced nervously at Mahon, who had propped Iobhar beside the ruined wall that overlooked the bay.

“Have you forgiven us?” Sárán asked the blond warrior.

“I know what happened to my brother Fearna on that night long ago,” the warrior replied without turning to face Sárán. “I'm aware that you and Aoife led him into the winter's night and abandoned him to his death. But I believe the judgment that was brought down on the pair of you was just. So I can't
bear a grudge against either you or your sister.”

Sárán screwed his face up into a sneer of contempt. “You are blinded by your love for Aoife in the same way young Fearna was.”

“That was long ago,” Aoife protested. “I'm older and wiser. I have learned from my misdeeds.”

“My brother passed away a long time ago,” Mahon cut in. “I miss him and I mourn for him. But nothing will bring him back to me.”

“You must have hay between your ears to follow her around the way you do,” Sárán scoffed.

“Then you'd have a barnful yourself,” Mahon replied. “How many times has she led you into trouble?”

“How dare you speak to me like that? I'm a member of the Druid Circle! And so is my sister. If you had any respect for our standing you'd dare not utter a sound in our presence. That's the trouble with you warriors. You lack any real discipline in your lives. Anyone can learn to throw a blade about. But let's hear you speak on tradition and tales of old.”

“The Druid Circle is a fine vocation for one who enjoys a life of the mind,” Aoife interrupted. “I'm not such a one. Endless chanting, learning songs I'll never have the chance to sing before an appreciative audience. It drives me to despair. And what do I care for all those law-tracts from days gone by?”

“You are a gifted harper,” Sárán reminded her. “Would you abandon your talent for the way of the sword?”

“A warrior is not forbidden to take up the harp for
their own entertainment,” she pointed out. “And I don't want to just sing songs about the valorous deeds of others. I want to live to hear songs sung about me.”

“No one has ever been permitted to leave the Druid Circle to take up the blade,” her brother told her flatly. “You are wasting your time wishing for such a thing.”

“Many a seasoned fighter has left the Warrior Circle for the Draoi path,” she countered.

“That is a natural progression,” Sárán explained loftily. “It's a sign of maturity and wisdom for a warrior to move into the Druid Circle and abandon the foolishness of fighting.”

“Let's go,” Mahon interceded, tired of their bickering. “It'll be dark by the time we reach the caves. We can talk about this on the way.”

Sárán turned to the Danaan and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Be silent!” he stormed. “You are not worthy of this discussion. You are neither a Druid nor of the Fir-Bolg blood. You will not interrupt the conversation of your betters.”

“Don't rebuke Mahon!” Aoife protested angrily. “He's done nothing to offend you!”

“He's the one who's led you to this foolish behavior,” Sárán shot back. “If you hadn't lost your silly heart to him you would not have fallen under his influence. I can see now your teacher has been too lenient with you. I will speak to Dalan when we return to the settlement. I'm sure he'll willingly remedy that situation.”

“Dalan's away in the east looking for some Draoi master,” Aoife jeered. “Why don't you go off after him?”

Sárán didn't dignify this with a reply. He turned up his lip in a sneer then turned his back on his sister to climb over the wall.

“Brother,” Lom called, touching his twin on the shoulder, “will you not wait and journey with us?”

Sárán spun around and looked his twin coldly in the eye. “You should have been taking more care of her. She is not a child any longer who can roam the hills to her heart's desire. It may be fine for you lads to spend your days playing at mock fights, but she is a Druid in training. Druid song-makers keep the traditions of our people alive. She should be at home tending to her duties and studying the law-tracts.”

He turned his face to Aoife to make sure his words touched her.

“We are the guardians of our people's memory. We make the songs that praise or ridicule those of the Warrior Circle. It is clear which is the nobler profession.”

He turned back to his twin brother and began climbing over the wall, all the while speaking. “You will not interfere with her education any more. Do you understand?”

Lom nodded, even though he did not understand his brother's anger. In the next instant Sárán had leaped the wall and was gone, leaving behind him an uncomfortable silence.

Mahon, Aoife and Lom stood for a while watching
him make his steady way down the hill. At length his green cloak passed out of sight behind the bushes near the spring.

“We'd best be going,” Lom suggested.

“My head hurts,” Iobhar moaned as he began to regain his wits.

“Then we'd better get you home,” Mahon laughed. He hauled Iobhar to his feet and threw him over his shoulder. Then he patted the Gaedhal on the backside, swung his feet over the wall and was off down the hill.

On that same warm summer morning upon another hill top just two days journey away, a man stood with his arms raised to the heavens in praise. His clothes were of a simple dark brown cloth with a checked pattern in a lighter color highlighting the weft and weave. His sun-bleached breeches were tightly bound with leather about the calf, and on his feet were short boots of soft doeskin.

His saffron-colored tunic was clean and fresh. And his breacan, a long cloak that could be worn in a variety of styles depending on the weather, looked as if it had leaped off the loom onto his shoulders. The brown of the dye was fresh and bright and of the same reddish hue as a chestnut.

About his waist the dark-haired man wore a wide belt holding in place a large leather pouch under his breacan. He bore no sword nor weapon of any kind, though he had the strong body and broad shoulders of a warrior.

But this fellow had an unearthly air about him. His swiftly darting eyes were just a little too intense, his long fingernails too strong and well maintained to belong to any mortal man. Perhaps if you had met him on a midnight stroll his presence might have raised your hair on end.

When his meditations were done he cast a critical eye over the treetops of the forest that surrounded the hill. He leaned against the ruined wall of the once mighty fortress, his fingers lovingly caressing the stones.

Suddenly the wind picked up, tossing his hair about his face and lifting the edge of his breacan cloak so that it tangled against his body. In an effort to straighten it out he turned around to face the breeze, but the wind grabbed his cloak again and whipped it up over his forehead.

In frustration the man snatched the breacan away from his eyes and at that moment the breeze dropped. A cloud passed briefly away from the sun, momentarily blinding him. He held a hand up to shade his eyes.

And then he saw her. At first she was just a dark outline in the glare. But in a few breaths the sunlight was swallowed up by a cloud again and he could make out the features of her face. The man lowered his hand and bowed politely.

“You've late,” he informed her.

“I had business to attend to,” she replied curtly.

“King Eber of the Gaedhals is his name, I've
heard. And it's said he's quite taken with you.”

“Charming as ever, my dear Lochie,” the woman replied in a sarcastic tone. Then, to show she was thoroughly displeased by his remark, she abruptly changed the subject. “Those are fine clothes you're wearing. I don't believe I've ever seen you dressed so well. Is this an attempt to impress me?”

“Isleen, my darling, I'm wearing the latest fashion. These colors are much admired among the young warriors of the Gaedhal. Surely you must have recognized the style.” A mischievous smile played across his face, then he added, “Or perhaps you only have eyes for the king.”

“I'm not tempted to take the bait from your hook,” she shrugged. “Now, let me have a look at you.”

Lochie held his arms out as if he were about to embrace her. Then he slowly turned around on the spot.

“Very nice,” she conceded. “But how vain of you to take the appearance of a young warrior.”

“A younger man's body has many advantages, not the least of which is the attention it draws from lovely young women. But you know what I'm talking about. After all, you've taken a rather exquisite form yourself.” His bright green eyes sparkled with admiration.

“This is the guise of my Seer,” she reminded him. “You know her well enough.”

“But I haven't looked on her lovely red hair and her milk-white skin since just after the Battle of Sliabh
Mis …. That was nearly three winters ago. Have you spent all your time since then with Eber of the Southern Gaedhals?”

“I am his trusted adviser,” Isleen answered proudly. “The king makes no move or decision without consulting me.”

“There's no better place from which to rule a kingdom than the bedchamber,” Lochie laughed, “or so IVe heard tell.”

Isleen frowned deeply but she could never remain upset with Lochie for long. Her mouth curled into a little smile and her face relaxed as she echoed her old companion's laughter. Her eyes twinkled with merriment as she admitted, “I've missed you.”

“You didn't miss me enough to seek me out and speak with me.”

“I've told you I was distracted.”

“He must be quite a man, this king of yours.”

“Do I detect a hint of jealousy in your voice?” Isleen smiled.

“No.” He turned away and gazed out over the treetops again.

“What have you been doing these last three winters?” she inquired. “You could have sought me out. Has Lochie found himself a distracting woman?”