“Humph,” growled the woman. “Surely you did not call us here to talk of trinkets!”
“Patience, Morrigu,” Lugh whispered easily, “all in good time.” With a finger he stopped the bauble’s spin and studied that which hung before him. It was a simple disk of some transparent material that did not exist in Faerie. A hoop of thin half-gold bound it, and inside was a stag’s head. Not a flat picture, but the actual, round head; for as Lugh turned the disk, the head moved about within. He turned it over and saw the head again, still from the front, once more moving.
“A
hologram,
men called them,” Nuada said. “Magic of light and mirrors.”
Lugh smiled and stuffed the object inside his red silk robe. “If you permit, I will study this a while longer, but have no doubt I will return it. It is not seemly to claim gifts made to others. Only ill-luck attends.”
“Keep it as long as you like.” Nuada smiled back. “I have made another and contrived a more useful variant which you should see in action very shortly.”
“Enough of this,” the woman snapped, starting to rise. “I have other business.”
Lugh leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a stare so fierce she slumped down in her seat again. “Your
business
,
Morrigu, is this kingdom and the preservation thereof, to which a remarkable number of things are related, including, perhaps, that toy. But you are right. I have called you here not to examine Silverhand’s curios, but to speak of grimmer matters.”
As one they watched him, waiting. Save for them—and Angharad, Lugh’s pet golden enfield—the room was empty. Only a solitary guardswoman stood beyond the brazen doors to ward them and wait their pleasure. A risk that was, but Lugh had taken precautions; the spells woven into her golden helm would mask whatever words might pierce walls and doors and trickle outward—nor could she remove it, not while she waited there.
“I suppose,” the Morrigu said finally, with ill-concealed annoyance, “that this meeting has something to do with the message from Finvarra you received this morning.”
Lugh inclined his head, stole a morsel from the plate of sauced kraken upon the table and passed it to Angharad. He watched absently as she took it: eagle talons bringing it to a fox’s head to nibble. As casually as he might have scratched her ears, he reached into his robe and laid a roll of ivory parchment on the table. “The High King of Erenn is displeased at some late occurrences here,” he said. “You may read it if you like, but I imagine you already know what it means.”
Indeed they did, though it was a complicated matter: Finvarra of Erenn’s half-brother Ailill had fathered a son on the Fireshaper Morwyn verch Morgan ap Gwyddion, a woman of the fearsome Powersmiths who lived beyond Arawn’s realm of Annwyn. The child had subsequently been fostered in Erenn, whence he had been sent with his father when Finvarra named Ailill ambassador to Tir-Nan-Og. Ailill had no love for mortals, though, and had soon begun stirring up trouble with the Lands of Men that were very close there. Eventually this had led to him to accidentally slay the boy, who had also become enmeshed in mortal affairs. For this crime, along with his treasonous acts, Lugh had imprisoned Ailill in the shape of a horse, and there matters stood until two things had happened.
One was that Ailill’s twin sister, Fionna, had deemed Lugh’s judgment too harsh and an insult to Finvarra’s crown, and had taken it upon herself to set things aright by sneaking into Tir-Nan-Og and releasing Ailill, intending to spirit him back to Erenn. And the other thing was that Fionna had not considered the feelings of a mother bereft of her child.
For Morwyn had vowed vengeance on her son’s slayer, as was her right under the ancient Laws of Dana. Thus, she too had come to Tir-Nan-Og seeking Ailill, but for quite a different reason.
A life for a life
,
the Laws proclaimed, and so she would have had it be: Ailill’s life for that of her son. She had succeeded too well, though, for not only had she slain Ailill, but in so doing had likewise caused the death of Fionna, thereby upsetting the balance of the Law. Affairs had become even more complicated when her son had turned up alive, further skewing the balance. And so it stood: two dead unlawfully, one alive who by Finvarra’s t
hi
nking should not be, and another alive who had caused it all by a too-hot desire for vengeance.
“It seems a well-reasoned case,” Nuada said, “if you look at it from Finvarra’s side—except of course that he blames Morwyn for the death of his sister when it was in fact her own doing. Morwyn merely provided the instrument.”
The Morrigu frowned thoughtfully. “Save for that, though, it is as Nuada says. Why then does he threaten war?”
Lugh slapped his hand on the table. “Because he says it was through my connivance that all this happened! He claims I allowed Morwyn to steal the Horn of Annwyn, which then brought about his sister’s death. But let me read you his words.” He picked up the scroll and began:
“‘
It was by a certain dreadful thing you had in your keeping that my sister found her doom—a thing Morwyn stole yet could not have stolen without your consent. That is ever your way, brother prince of Tir-Nan-Og, to plot and scheme, but nowise leave any mark of your passing. Mortals it was this time, aiding my kindred’s killer, one a far-son of our own shadow-land!’”
“And so he threatens war if you will not surrender the Lady Morwyn to him for judgment?” Oisin asked.
“Those are his words,” Lugh replied, passing the enfield another morsel. “Finvarra would like for me to heed them as easily as this beast heeds my hand. I imagine you know my answer.”
Nuada smiled grimly. “You have no intention of acceding to his demands—nor could you and still have right to your crown. ‘A death for a death,’ Finvarra tells us. But what of the equally ancient law of hospitality? Morwyn has done
us
no harm, at least not directly, though her actions certainly have potential to cause trouble, and not only with Erenn. Arawn too is displeased because of how you have used the Horn.”
“He is
displeased
,”
the Morrigu corrected sharply, “because the Powersmiths have at last confirmed what they
have suspected for centuries: that he does not have it, though it was their gift to him; and may I add it was the poorest kept secret in Faerie, thanks to Ailill. Still, Arawn has lost face—which I have no doubt he would like to regain. I am surprised we do not find him already at our borders with a force of Powersmiths driving him on.”
“But Morwyn is herself part Powersmith,” Oisin noted. “Her mother was of that land.”
“Yes,” Lugh said. “And her father is brother to Arawn’s queen, and together that complicates the problem, because I truly have no sovereignty over her, beyond hospitality which I offered and sanctuary which she has claimed by right of trade: sanctuary for a service.”
“And a mighty service that was indeed,” Nuada said, “for had not Ailill’s minions been fomenting dissension in this land for ages, with their talk of war with mankind, and their constant stirring up of trouble here? And did not Morwyn herself expose yet another threat in Fionna? Should you then surrender one of Arawn’s people—worse than that, one who is half a Powersmith—to a foreign monarch? I think not. It is you who are ruler, here, not Finvarra.”
Oisin took a sip of wine. “Aye, Lord. If anyone has a right to demand you give up Morwyn it is the Powersmiths—or Arawn of Annwyn, she being also his kin.”
“And if you defy Finvarra?” The Morrigu’s question hung in the air like one of her crows at hover.
“He will attack. He will have no other choice. His ships have already passed onto the Sea Road—a wise thing, considering the Roads’ condition.”
“Such would be a grievous thing,” Nuada said. “I know Finvarra is your friend.”
Lugh sighed wearily. “Do friends let spies creep into their brothers’ kingdoms and stir up trouble? Not by my thinking—nor do kings, at least not those who have any right to their crowns. A strong king would either have known Ailill for what he was before he sent him here as Ambassador—which Finvarra did not, I would stake my throne on it. Or else he would himself have encouraged
sedition, and we
know
Ailill acted of his own volition.”
“Finvarra must therefore be a weak king,” Nuada said. “By your logic.”
“Which he is not,” Oisin inserted.
“Deluded, then,” the Morrigu spat. “—or mad; it runs in the family. You have only to look at Ailill and Fionna.”
“They had different mothers,” Oisin pointed out. “Finvarra’s mother—”
“He is also arrogant,” Lugh interrupted. “Had Finvarra couched his demands in less forceful words, I might have accepted them. At least I would have considered. But they
were
demands, and stated so, and demands I will not countenance—not from anyone. Certainly not from one who cannot even master his own subjects!”
“They are still here, too,” the Morrigu noted. “We have not yet discovered everyone Ailill corrupted.”
“War he wanted,” Lugh said bitterly. “War with mankind.”
Nuada looked down at the table. “And now we face war with our brothers in Faerie—war with Erenn if we do not accept Finvarra’s demands, and war with Arawn and probably the Powersmiths if we do.”
“Alas, that is true,” Lugh replied, rising. “Whatever choice we take, I see all roads leading to slaughter.”
“Only the crows will be happy,” the Morrigu said flatly.
“Not even you, Great Queen?”
“No single person is worth a kingdom’s honor. Not when we still have the Mortal problem to consider.”
“What is your counsel, then?”
“That you get Morwyn back to her own country as soon as possible, and preferably on her own vessel. Failing that, that you make ready to take war to Finvarra. War on someone else’s soil—or seas—is always preferable to war on one’s own.”
“You think we will not win?”
“I have never lost a war,” she said. “But all things have an ending.”
“So be it, then,” Lugh sighed. “You have heard my
thinking. I go now to send my reply. One word will I tell Finvarra:
never
.”
Nuada rose to follow. “And what of a certain young human, who has the vessel Morrigu mentioned—that might prove very useful, if things reach the end we foresee.”
Lugh turned in place. “What of him?”
“Oisin and I were just on our way to meet with him, to begin what once we spoke of.”
Lugh’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he nodded. “It would serve us well, if it comes to that eventuality. In any event, he will have to be contacted, though perhaps we should wait until we see our way clearer. For myself, I go to speak with the Lady Morwyn.” And with that, he stalked from the chamber.
His counselors followed him until they, too, went their own ways: the Morrigu to inspect Lugh’s forces, Oisin and Nuada by the shortest route to a certain place that was neither in the Lands of Men nor in Faerie, but closer to the latter.
The young guardswoman also went with them, but turned down another way as soon as it became convenient. A moment later she ducked through an archway and removed her golden helmet, then reached for her ear and popped out the golden spiral she had set there. Ailill had given it to her before he was murdered. Poor Ailill—poor, loving Master. She remembered the feel of his body against hers and allowed herself a single tear—and then a triumphant smile. Lugh might have warded her helmet so that she could not know of what they had spoken, but Ailill had foreseen such things. The spiral in her hands made every word very clear, and now they were locked away in her memory. A second spiral she left, so that no one could read her thoughts and thus betray her.
And what thoughts!
A Mortal boy, was it? She certainly knew who that was. And a particular vessel? She had a notion about that as well. Already a plan was forming.
Chapter III:
He-Goes
-
About
(a Place Between—no time)
“Fionchadd, you fiend, let me go!” David gritted, as he twisted beneath the painful wrestling hold that had somehow pinned both hands hard up between his shoulder blades before he had known what was happening. Had there been anything but edged metal
(not
steel, he knew) at his throat, his assailant would now be sitting on his butt somewhere in front of him, courtesy of a soldier-uncle’s training. The grip was poor, really; easy to escape—if only there hadn’t been the dagger.
Abruptly the pressure vanished, the weapon swept away. David spun around to face a boy apparently his own age—except that Fionchadd mac Ailill of the Daoine Sidhe was centuries older.
Eye to eye they met each other: both slim and muscular and a little shorter than was normal for their races; both still gaining depth in chests and width in shoulders, fullness in arms and legs. Even their blond hair was similar, save that the Faery’s was curly, slightly more golden, and somewhat longer than David’s bandannaed mass. Their eyes were different, though: David’s blue and level; Fionchadd’s green and aslant. And the Faery’s face was thin, his cheekbones high above a pointed chin—a prettily handsome face, but somehow disconcerting. By contrast, David’s features showed a typical adolescent synthesis of a man’s clean angles and a boy’s softer curves. At the moment, the Faery was dressed nearly as lightly as his human counterpart: in a sleeveless, hip-length tunic of green-and-white checked wool, and baggy gray breeches drawn snug around his waist and ankles. He wore no shoes, but his narrow feet looked hard and competent.