The King of Sleep (9 page)

Eber waited a few moments after the blacksmith and the wheelwright had gone, then turned with fire in his eyes to face his counselor.

“How dare you?” the king bellowed. Then, realizing his voice was too loud, he lowered it to a hoarse whisper before going on, but the anger in it had not diminished.
“What makes you think you can criticize me in front of two trusted servants?”

“Tuargain and Méaraigh are not servants indentured to you by debt,” Máel Máedóc reminded his lord. “They are freemen and Masters of the Crafts. They owe allegiance to their trades, not to you.”

“I am King of the Southern Gaedhals!”

“You rule at the whim of the chieftains. The council may replace you as war-leader at any time if you step beyond the bounds of your office. You are not above reproach.”

“Why are you speaking out in this manner?” the king hissed.

“I cannot see the sense in arming the young warriors any further.”

“We must make ready to defend ourselves.”

“The Danaans are not preparing for war.”

“How do you know?” Eber asked, his voice wavering.

“I have spoken with Fineen the Healer,” Máel Máedóc told him. “He is a Danaan Druid who has been instructing me in their laws.”

“You can't be certain this Fineen is telling the truth,” the king countered.

Máel Máedóc sighed. It would be a waste of breath to remind Eber that the word of a Druid could always be trusted. The king would simply reply that the word of a Danaan could never under any circumstances be relied upon. So the old counselor decided to tackle the argument from a different direction. Exercising the mental agility for which he was
renowned, he instantly changed his approach.

“The younger warriors have been behaving very badly of late,” he stated. “A Fir-Bolg fisherman went missing on the western coast of their country a week ago. There were many footprints in the sand and his boat was found burned on the beach.”

“Who's to say it was the Fian bands who were responsible?”

“Fir-Bolg folk do not need to steal fish to feed their families,” the counselor pointed out. “The Fian, on the other hand, are forced to fend for themselves. They often make do on short rations. If they were hungry enough and disgruntled enough, there's no telling what they might do. It would only take a few to influence their comrades.”

“It is a tradition among our people that the Fianna receive only token aid from their king or chieftain. Once they graduate into their inheritances and their responsibilities they are welcomed into the clan and can share the bounty of the people. How can anyone without a broad experience of the world take part in councils and the decision-making of their kinfolk?”

“That was true,” the Druid conceded. “In the days when our folk dwelled in the lands of Iber the young warriors were sent out to fend for themselves. It meant they learned self-reliance and their youthful exuberance was directed at each other, not at their kinfolk. It was appropriate that after a period among the Fian a warrior was considered trustworthy and well trained.”

“It is essential the young warriors learn for themselves,” Eber insisted. “It's a time-honored tradition. Never give a sword to a man who cannot dance, is the old saying. Never grant responsibility in the clanhold to a warrior who hasn't proved they are capable of restraint. Restraint can only be learned through discipline and hardship. The value of life can only be appreciated when one has been close to death. It teaches them to value the hard work of their ancestors so they do not squander the inheritance they receive from their family. And it encourages them to pass on a healthy, secure legacy to their own children.”

“We're in a new land,” the Druid reasoned. “They've fought a bitter war. They should be compensated for their efforts. Perhaps tradition might be relaxed to some degree in this instance.”

Eber grunted in grudging agreement. Máel Máedóc narrowed his eyes, certain his concerns were not being taken seriously. He coughed to gain the king's attention before he went on to his next piece of news.

“A band of ten Fian made a raid on a herd from a Fir-Bolg settlement some days ago. They dragged one of the poor herdsman home with them.”

“I am aware of the incident,” Eber answered sharply. “The farmer was compensated.”

“Yet no one was punished for this breach of treaty and honor,” the Druid pressed. “I understand there was little you could do about the fisherman's disappearance, but there were witnesses on this occasion.”

“I have spoken with the warriors who were responsible. I am convinced it was merely a case of youthful high spirits which got out of control, nothing more. We have all been guilty of that at some time in our lives.”

“It wasn't just the hot blood of youth that inspired this outrageous raid,” Máel Máedóc protested.

“Then what was it?” Eber snapped, clearly losing patience. “What's the point you're trying to make?”

“Unrest is spreading through the ranks of the warriors like a fire through dry thatch. They must be brought to heel before they turn their frustration on their own folk.”

“Some among their ranks are restless,” Eber admitted. “Clearly they perceive the mounting threat to our claim over this land. The warriors suspect, just as I do, that the Danaans are lulling us into a false sense of security in the hope we will relax our watchfulness. The youngest and least experienced of the Fianna can see the danger, even if the wisest of the Druids cannot.”

“The Fianna are bored,” Máel Máedóc countered flatly. “They have had nothing to do for three winters since our victory at the Battle of Sliabh Mis. Give them work. Set them to patrolling the coasts or exploring the forests. Give purpose to their lives, for without that they have nothing. Mark my words, they will resent a king who steals their dignity by letting them roam the land looting and burning for entertainment.”

Eber dropped his eyes as he considered the counselor's comments. For a long while he was silent and the Druid waited patiently by his side. At last Eber Finn nodded his head.

“You're right,” he admitted. “I will assign the warriors some labor to occupy their time. Work on the chariots will be suspended for now. There's no sense in giving them new weapons if they are going to turn them on the innocent. Twenty war-carts are more than enough for my purpose.”

“Which is?”

“The defense of Dun Gur.”

“My lord,” the Druid sighed, “I am your counselor. It is my duty to advise you on all matters. It's your obligation to share your concerns with me. Kings have relied on Druid knowledge in this manner since our people first called themselves Gaedhals. But I can't help you in your work if you don't tell me of your worries.”

For a moment Eber considered telling the old counselor all that had happened in the last few days. He would have been happy to unburden his soul and share the threats Eremon had sent with his messenger. War, his brother had warned, would be the result of Eber's failure to pay a tribute to the Kingdom of the North.

But the king could not bring himself to trust the old Druid. As wise and as respected as he was, Máel Máedóc was a compatriot of Amergin. They were contemporaries and often consulted one another.

Amergin had decided to take Éremon's part in this disagreement. So Eber dared not trust his own counselor.

“I have told everything there is to tell,” the king declared, but his tone was not convincing. “I promise I'll keep you informed of any developments with the Danaans.”

Although Máel Máedóc suspected Eber was not being entirely truthful, the old man did not want to be rushed into presenting his satire. So for the moment he was content to accept what Eber told him.

“I have another matter I wish to discuss with you, my lord,” the Druid went on, neatly changing the subject.

“What's that?” Eber frowned.

“The level of the lough around Dun Gur is falling daily. Within a single turning of the moon there may be no water left in it all.”

“How do you account for this?” the king asked with a frown.

“There has been no rain for two moon cycles,” Máel Máedóc explained. “The Danaan Druids say this has been known to happen before, though rarely.”

“Is it the result of their sorcery?”

Máel Máedóc looked deep into the king's eyes. He was a little surprised at the question. “I would simply put it down to nature running its course,” the old Druid replied. “The learned Danaans say it is a sure sign of a hard winter ahead. In any case the lough has never completely drained. The Danaan Druids say—”

“I am sick to the stomach of all this talk of the Danaan Druids!” Eber cried, interrupting the old man. “If I hear them mentioned again, I won't be held responsible for the measure of my rage.”

The king turned his whole body in open confrontation with the counselor. “Can't you do anything about the falling level of the lough?” he mocked. “I thought your kind were masters of the subtle arts.”

Máel Máedóc let no emotion show on his face; instead he carefully concealed his disgust at this blatant show of disrespect. “I have no learning in such matters,” he replied, carefully controlling his voice.

Eber laughed. “It's difficult for me to take you seriously sometimes, old man,” the king spat. “You were an adviser to my father so I have always had a certain respect for you. But perhaps it's time you considered stepping aside to allow a younger man to take up your duties. It seems you've begun to lose your good judgment. Why haven't you set about seeking a solution to this problem?”

Máel Máedóc took a deep breath, determined not to be roused by the young king's provocative manner. “Don't break a shin on a stool that's not in your way,” he advised. “I thought it my duty to inform you of the problem first.”

“Must I deal personally with every little trouble that besets our folk?” Eber countered. “If you can't cope with the responsibilities of your office, I suggest you step aside before the Council of Chieftains replaces you. I wouldn't wish to see you suffer any
such dishonor, but I fear you're not the man you once were.”

The old coxmselor closed his eyes. He now had no choice but to act quickly if he was to have a chance of halting Eber Finn's plans. “I am not quite ready for retirement,” he answered.

“You're an old man. You've served your people well in the past. But you're becoming a liability. I will speak with the council and we'll decide on your replacement as soon as possible.”

“There is none who could take my place. There are no Druids younger than myself among the people of the south.”

“Then send a message to my brother Amergin to ask his advice.” Eber waved his hand to signal the discussion was ended.

The Druid took two paces back, his eyes to the ground as a mark of respect to his king. He was relieved the audience was over and was eager to find himself a quiet corner where he could begin to compose his satire.

With a sharp turn on his heel, Máel Máedóc spun around and hurried away. But he had not gone more than five steps when the king shouted out to him.

“If you interfere with the duties of my kingship, you had better have good reason. I am the duly elected war-leader of my people. And I am carrying out legitimate and justifiable preparations to defend our homes and pastures. No Brehon judge would question my right to take this action.”

Máel Máedóc faced the king again. “Take care you don't misuse the authority granted by the Council of Chieftains.”

Eber pretended he didn't hear the warning as he strode off toward his chariot. He patted his mare on the nose, leaped into the cart and in moments was charging off over the fields, whistling and whooping as he had earlier.

The old Druid sighed heavily and the first line of his satire came clearly to his mind.

“I saw a child playing at being a warrior,” he whispered to himself. “In the field he trampled down the oat stalks, leaving a terrible trail of their dead and wounded in his wake.”

O
LLAMH
D
ALAN MAC
M
ATH
, B
REHON JUDGE AND
nominee for the office of High Druid, leaned against the oak tree and coughed. As he rested he gathered the long, finely matted locks of his dark brown hair that were falling about his face and tied them together at the back of his head.

Then he stared down toward the bubbling spring at the bottom of the little valley while he caught his breath. As he did so he again thought about whether he should accept the acclamation of his peers and take up the highest appointment a Druid could aspire to—Dagda. Many of his friends had pledged their support. More had expressed their confidence in his judgment and experience. But Dalan was not sure if he was ready for such a commitment. He had other, more pressing matters to attend to before he chose the future path of his vocation.

In the three winters since the Battle of Sliabh Mis he'd tracked down every scrap of knowledge, every whispered rumor, every tradition, song, poem and legend of the Watchers. And yet he seemed no closer to his goal.

After the battle he'd lost track of the Watchers entirely, though he'd heard they'd appeared in the north and were occasionally spotted at the court of King Eber. He hadn't made any attempts to follow them—to travel such distances just to speak with them would have availed him nothing.

The Watchers were unpredictable, dangerous, ruthless and vengeful. They wielded an ancient, powerful enchantment yet were imprisoned by that same spell. They were a force to be feared and Dalan was as determined as ever to rid the world of them, though he was still at a loss to know how this was to be done.

These three winters past he'd been trudging the countryside in search of all those Druid folk who had preserved tiny snippets of the Watchers' legend. Many knew the same stories, but once in a while he came across someone who knew more.