Instead, he said, “They are beautiful, and I wished you to have them. That is all.”
Then he turned away and went back to enduring silence.
The mead hall was warm and smelled of savory things. A pig spun on the spit and plates of roasted vegetables dressed the tables. Benches were clung with furs, and a heady smoke curled under the thatch.
The druid listened to the rain pattering the roof, the sway of oil lanterns overhead. Fat droplets trickled through the underhangs and gathered in copper kettles.
The men were rowdy, though not nearly as drunk. Still, some measure of revelry had returned as they spoke about their victories over the bandits and victories in their pasts. Someone from the village had brought their hound and it went about, licking up fallen morsels. The men called him to their laps to feed him scraps, only inciting him to beg more.
The druid sat with the Vaich near the hearth. He wasn’t hungry and only had a rasher or two. This did not go unnoticed by the Vaich, who said, “Should you eat so little? They’ve brought sweet rolls. I’ll fetch you one.”
“No,” said the druid. “I’ve had my fill.”
“Some wine, then?”
“I’d rather like to go to bed.”
But someone said, “Tell us a story, Grandfather!” and there was applause and then a hush. No one dare stir when Old Borrach spoke. He was an older Aard, who had ridden with Rask. Though he was not so fit as Rask, and the druid thought it likely he’d be dead soon. Old Borrach thought the same and so imparted wisdoms. These were little more than blatherings about how one ought to turn thrice before a doorway, or hide his thumbs during eulogy, lest the death come and take him, too. Superstitions they were. Endured—the druid supposed—out of politeness.
“A tale ye wish?” Grandfather mused, his deep eyes twinkling with nostalgia. “Then I’ll tell ye the tale of Cathal, or as he was kent best—Cárthsíarna.”
The walking flame.
“Long before our fathers’ fathers drew breath, lived a man they called the golden warrior. Not for any wreath or crown, but for the weapon he carried: an axe borne of fire. They say the ore that smelt it was mined from the heart of a devil—it burned with a flame that would not die, and only one was strong enough to claim it. When Cathal took it up, the skies shook and he became a living storm of golden fury. With a swing of that axe, he could level a field of war or any beast, and thus none dared cross him.
“But from the east came whispers of a fell creature that took roost in the ridge. It was no bear, nor ogre, but older. Some say it was born when the world was cooling and had no form—only hunger.
“The village near sent word to the kiern, and the great warrior answered. Not with armies. Not with banners. Alone, with only his axe and his wrath, he climbed into the teeth of the mountain. The people waited. Days passed, but the summit stayed silent. No sign of man nor monster.
“They say the mountain took him. They say the axe still burns there, wedged in bone or stone, waiting for a hand bold—or foolish enough to hold it. Many have tried. Heroes. Thieves. Drunkards yearning for glory. They climb… they vanish, and the mountain keeps its silence. But sometimes, when the wind is right, they say you can see a light flicker—a flame, small and stubborn, in the belly of the peak.”
The warriors of the Féin were enraptured, their minds swimming in glory. They talked. Some discredited its validity, others claimed to have seen the peak. Others, still, professed to be as mighty as Cárthsíarna himself.
“An axe that could fell any foe? That would be a treasure, indeed,” said the Vaich.
“And I’ll bet you think it ought to be yours.”
“Who else could claim it?”
The men laughed and teased. By then, the storm was well in its way, and a svelte voice danced upon the thunder. “I have a story of my own,” said Hirí, her eyes alight with mischief. “The tale of the Faerie Queen.”
“The Faerie Queen?” they asked in wonder, and the druid prickled at her words.
“They say she is Queen of land and fog. And calls the wicked and the damned. All will be at her command—the lady of the Fae. Long ago, she walked, and her voice called out across the veil. Through it came the wild and wonder that we now know as They. And on Samhín, when the world thins, we see them now and again—little lights and wisps and queer things, a-dance within the mist.”
The druid scoffed. “There’s no such thing as faeries. And those stories lead men astray.”
It was the faerie stories that had birthed false gods and gave reason to unexplainable things.A lack of knowing only breeds ghosts, is what his fíor had said.
“No?” Hirí beamed. “The Ísthmhach shall come two winters hence. Then, what will you say to that?”
“The Ísthmhach?” asked Cían.
Hirí giggled. “The day the veil shall open—and let the faeries in.”
The druid said, “The Ísthmhach is no more than the joining of the stars upon the sky. The day the Thae meet the moon—Oín, she once was called.”
Cían grinned. “The druids were knowledgeable about the stars and the seasons! Surely, the queen has many stories! Why don’t ye tell one, Majesty?”
