The Exile Page 6

  "Sleep, my beautiful boy," she whispered.

  And he did.

  For two days the young men went about their duties, desperate for their forged wisdom to be discovered, but either the diggers passed over their finds without taking a blind bit of notice or they were digging in the wrong place.

  On the second morning, Tall Iesin left Murias, taking Fionn with him. He promised to be back for Beltain with new stories gathered from the furthest corners of the Tir-Nan-Og especially for the boys. They gathered at dawn to wave Fionn off. He looked so small as he shouldered his pack and set off with Iesin, but then the balladeer made dwarfs of giants with his lanky frame. Fionn was almost running as he hustled to keep up with his master. It was an odd feeling watching their friend leave. They had never been apart before. Sláine found himself wondering if they would actually recognise their friend when - if - he ever returned. Things, he knew, would never be the same between them again. Where there had always been seven, now there were six. It felt as if a part of his life had been torn away and that he was never going to see it again.

  He didn't know how to cope with what he was feeling, so like any man he threw himself into his work and simply ignored it.

  Fionn's departure was the first sign that they really were men now - or if not men, at least they were no longer children.

  On the third day the cry went up for Cathbad to come, quickly. The town was abuzz with rumours in a matter of minutes. Something had been found at the new site but no one knew exactly what. The old druid grumbled as he emerged from the nemeton, his face set like thunder. Dian followed a step behind him doing well to keep the smile from his face when they passed Sláine and Cullen standing on the corner by Rioch's inn. Wide Mouth pulled a face. Sláine turned his back on the pair of them, he was laughing so hard. Cathbad's sour humour soon changed as he saw the clay tablets the workmen had unearthed. Three were crude, nothing more than scratchings of something not dissimilar to Ogham script, but the fourth was a work of art. He licked his lips appreciatively and demanded it be carried with haste and reverence to the nemeton where he might peruse it in peace. Cathbad turned his attention to the cruder tablets. He clucked and tutted, and hemmed and hawed over the possible meanings of the letters. Grudnew came, followed by Gorian. Sláine and Cullen of the Wide Mouth followed five paces behind the warlord.

  "What is it, man?" the king demanded, hunching over the tablets.

  "The voices of the damned, sire," Cathbad breathed. "From the past, come to share their secrets with us."

  It was almost too perfect.

  "Are you sure?" Grudnew asked sceptically.

  "I do not question you on matters of kingship, sire. I do not expect to be questioned in matters of the spirit. When my fingers brushed the tablet I caught a trace of the author's anguished cry. His words, recorded here, are of great import, recorded in haste as all around him crumbled to dust."

  "Fascinating," Gorian said, "and you can actually read his words?"

  The druid twisted his birdlike body and craned his neck around to look up at the warlord, thinly veiled hostility in his ancient eyes. "I can, warrior. Can you?"

  "Perhaps you will share their wisdom then?"

  "No," Cathbad said sharply. "The knowledge is for the king's ears only." He tapped a grimy fingernail at one of the spidery symbols. "See this mark here? It is a portent, and this one beside it bears the king's name. Now do not question me again, warrior. There is more to this world than your philosophy allows for. Steel is no match for stone, and stone is of the earth, of the body of fair Danu herself."

  "You talk a lot of rot, old man," Gorian said, shaking his head.

  "Hold your tongue, warrior!" the Druid spat, lurching up from his crouch.

  Grudnew laid a restraining hand on his friend's shoulder. "I would hear these words, my friend."

  "Then you are a bigger fool than I took you for," Gorian muttered in disgust.

  "Do not overstep yourself, Gorian. Now, druid, perhaps we should find somewhere more private?"

  Rubbing his hands with undisguised glee, the druid nodded. "Yes, yes, yes, my king. To the nemeton, there I have another treasure from Danu's belly to show you. Together with these tablets it sheds much light upon the trials our tribe will face over the coming years. It is truly a gift from the Goddess, sire."

  Grudnew raised an eyebrow curiously. "Then the sooner we see these wonders, the better."

  "Yes, yes, yes, sire. The sooner we see them the better."

  "No," Grudnew said, "not we as in you and I, druid; we as in the warlord and I."

  "But-"

  "Mark me well, druid. Any observation on a threat to the wellbeing of the Sessair is for Gorian's ears. He, every bit as much as I, stands as protector of our people."

  "But these words are from your wife, the Goddess herself. They are not for his ears any more than a midnight promise between lovers is for a stranger's."

  "I'll brook no argument from you, druid. Now, lead the way. Time is wasting and I am eager to hear your words."

  "Perhaps you aren't such a fool after all," Gorian said as they followed the crook-backed druid to his holy house. "Sláine, Cullen, stay here."

  "But we-" Wide Mouth stopped mid-objection as Sláine elbowed him in the side. "Yes, master. Right here."

  "You're learning, lad," Gorian said, disappearing into the nemeton behind Grudnew and the Druid.

  "Not fair," Cullen grumbled sourly as the door closed, shutting them out. "Dian's in there. He gets to see it all."

  "And he gets to tell us all about it," Sláine said.

  "Well there is that." Wide Mouth sat down with his back against the wall of the nemeton and began plucking stems of grass from the dirt and rolling them between his fingers. When Cullen found a blade he liked he gripped it in both hands between thumb and forefinger, and blew, transforming the simple grass into a high-pitched whistle. He grinned up at Sláine.

  A few minutes later they heard uproarious laughter followed by a foul-mouthed rant and then more laughter.

  The door slammed open and Dian came charging through it, laughing uncontrollably even as he hurdled the low fence surrounding the nemeton.

  "Do you reckon they found Dian's signature on the picture?" Cullen asked, getting up and dusting his hands off on his breeches.

  They watched Dian disappear down the lane.

  "Looks like it, doesn't it?" Sláine's grin was infectious. He slapped Wide Mouth on the back. "Come on, best make ourselves scarce. I bet old Cathbad's none too happy."

  "I can't wait to hear what future he predicted for the king."

  "Then we better catch up with Dian."

  Word of the druid's humiliation spread quickly through the town. Cathbad was feared but he wasn't liked. Anything that brought him down a peg or two was welcomed by most of the inhabitants of Murias. Their stunt hadn't just undermined the pompous old druid, it had seriously humiliated him.

  Cathbad wasn't the only one to be on the receiving end of one of their pranks. A few nights later it was Rioch's turn. Núada made sure the side door was open so that when the other boys drove one of Piaras's cows down from the pasture they were able to lure it inside the inn and coax it up onto the second floor. They set a small plate of honey on the landing and crept out.

  Come morning Rioch's howls of frustration rattled the inn's windows.

  No matter what he tried the animal wouldn't go down the stairs. He tried sweet smells, driving it with a board, pushing it, kicking it and screaming in its face. The cow just settled down on the landing and looked up at the innkeeper with a baleful stare.

  It took eight Red Branch warriors to get the frightened cow back down the stairs, along with Piaras muttering about how the dumb animals will go up stairs but they won't come down again, because of their weight and how they might fall.

  Piaras himself was the butt of another joke less than a week later, when he woke to find that his entire herd had been dyed blue with woad.

  Breaking into Grudnew's ro
undhouse was Dian's revenge for the trouble the others had gotten him into with Cathbad.

  "Fair's fair," he said, grinning as he held up a sprig of poison oak. "In and out. All you have to do is rub the poison oak inside the king's loincloth and he'll be scratching like a pox-ridden doxie for weeks. So, who's game? Cullen?"

  Wide Mouth shook his head. "Uh hunh, no bleedin' way. I may be ugly but I'm not stupid."

  "Ugly and a coward," Sláine said. "Give me the poison oak. I'll be back before sundown."

  "You're mad!" Núada said, more than a hint of envy in his voice. There was an edge of recklessness about Sláine that the others admired even though, more often than not, it was that recklessness that landed him in the most trouble.

  He wrapped the poison oak up in a small oilskin and stuffed it inside breeches, careful that none of the flowers were loose. The last thing he wanted was to be itching for a week.

  The trick was to make it look as if he belonged there. If he acted suspiciously Grudnew's guards would become suspicious. He walked along the banks of the River Dôn looking for a good place to ford it. There was only one place that was safe to cross. That was where he had crossed the river in the first place. His plan had been to swim to the far side, skirt along the treeline and come into Grudnew's roundhouse from the back, out of sight of the guards. It was a simple enough plan but simple or not he had already found one rather considerable flaw in its logic.

  The River Dôn was fast flowing and deep enough to be difficult to negotiate, even for a strong swimmer. And it wasn't just a river - it was an entire landscape of stagnant pools, shingle and rocks waiting to break the flesh of those stupid enough to try and cross, pebbles that massed to from beaches, and sand that banked up against the meanders. The Dôn itself snaked down through the dark heart of this water world, a white water rush.

  The only good fording place was too far away to allow him to sneak up unseen by Grudnew's guards and on this side of the river he had no cover. So he had no choice, he would have to risk the deep water and that required precautions if he didn't want to be swept away and broken on those angry rocks that jutted out of the Dôn like the teeth of some vast sea monster.

  Sláine moved deeper into the trees, out of sight of prying eyes while he foraged for things that might somehow help him cross to the other side. For the first few hundred paces he moved along parallel to the water's edge but he couldn't find what he was looking for so he was forced to move deeper into the woods, away from the trail. Branches hung down low, snagging at his clothes and hair as he pushed through them. He pushed on. The white water rush of the river faded as he moved further into the forest. Then he found it: a huge tree trunk smothered in moss and wrapped in thick creepers.

  He silently thanked Danu and unravelled the thick vine from where it clung to the tree trunk. He coiled it up, slung it over his shoulder and headed back towards the water.

  It took him another ten minutes to find a boulder big enough to anchor him without weighing him down as he battled the current of the Dôn. He made a cradle out of the vine and fastened it around the boulder, tying the loose end around his waist.

  The shallows along the riverbank were low enough for him to splash along in without risking being caught unawares and swept away. It widened as he followed its curve, but the curve itself served to slow the current. He found the perfect spot, masked by the far bank and the roundhouse itself, and plunged away from the shingle into the swirling water. The shock of cold was fierce. He gritted his teeth and sank lower, until the icy water washed up around his shoulders.

  Five paces in, he was glad of the boulder.

  For all his preparation, Sláine had underestimated the river's power - it lifted him bodily and carried him twenty floundering paces sideways. Without the boulder's weight to drag him down he would have been carried away. As it was Sláine scrambled around, splashing up great plumes of water until he got his feet under him. An entire tree had been uprooted, stripped clean and washed downstream during a flood. The branches broke up the water, forming rapids.

  Sláine plunged forwards again, the white water cuffing him around the ears. The surge and splash were deafening. For a full five seconds he was completely under. He surged up to the surface, sucking down huge mouthfuls of air. He forced himself deeper into the river until he felt the shelf beneath his feet begin to creep upwards again. He risked fighting to get his head well up above the waterline just long enough to be sure he was passed the middle. The sooner he was out of the river the happier he would be.

  He pushed on.

  In six paces the water was around his waist and he was coming out on the other side. His feet sank into the shingle as he struggled out of the water.

  He clambered up onto the bank and collapsed onto his back, gasping as the sun dried him off. He didn't move as a mosquito landed on his arm and began to feed greedily, sucking the blood out of him. He let the insect have its fill and watched it fly off drunkenly.

  Sláine dragged himself onto his stomach and forced himself to stand.

  The river had pummelled him. Every muscle ached. Every ache was driven in bone deep, but he was on the other side.

  He fumbled with the knot of vine around his waist, picking it loose. He let it fall and crept up behind the roundhouse until his face was pressed up against the daubing on the wattle wall.

  He couldn't risk going in around the front so he was going to have to pry open the shutter and squeeze through. Sláine pulled the long-handled hunting knife from the sheath in his boot and worked it into the crack where the shutter joined the frame until he found - and cut through - the catch securing it.

  Grinning, he popped the shutter open and squirmed through, dropping awkwardly into the king's roundhouse.

  He was in the bedroom.

  It wasn't dark, as he had expected it to be. Candles burned. A tapestry was half-woven on a loom. The shuttle was dangling on the thread, still spinning.

  Grudnew's huge cot was piled high with animal skins and pillows of down. It was big enough to sleep a family of six. A curtain at the far side of the room was drawn over the king's changing room. Sláine pushed back the curtain and slipped inside. It took him a few minutes to find the chest containing Grudnew's various loincloths, and a few moments more to smear the poison oak inside the materialcups. The poison oak disintegrated in his fingers. He closed the chest and slipped out of the changing room.

  He walked over to the loom. The shuttle had stopped spinning. That was the first thing that he noticed. He didn't move. He breathed deeply. His nostrils flared as he caught the faintest musk of perfume.

  Sláine let his fingers linger on the loom and turned slowly. That was when he saw her, cowering in the corner. At first he thought she was one of the Sidhe, a fey spirit slipped through from the Otherworld. Her skin was pale; white where it should have been tanned from the wind and sun. Her hair was dark, black where the shadows of the candlelight failed to lighten it.

  He stared, dumbstruck and slack-jawed.

  She was a thing of beauty.

  No, beyond beauty - she was a thing of heaven, proof of the Goddess's hand in the perfection of creation.

  She looked at him with wide frightened eyes.

  Sláine stared. It wasn't often you met divinity without dying first - although he had come mighty close to that in the river.

  He held out his hand to her.

  She shook her head and pushed back against the wall as if hoping to disappear into it.

  She was a new day rising. She was a perfect clear blue summer sky. She was the pinpoint silver of the stars at night. She was the first flower of spring. She was the last leaf of autumn. She was the savage sea and the towering cliff. She was raw heart-stopping beauty.

  "My name is Sláine Mac Roth," he said, hoping that it might coax beauty into talking. She shook her head again, her hair falling in front of her face. He stared at her lips as they parted slightly with her frightened breath. He wanted to kiss those lips. He wanted to kneel down at her
feet and worship. He wanted to offer her all the devotions her body deserved.

  He knelt and tried to take her hand, but she opened her mouth to scream and he backed off with his hands raised, palms out, trying to show her he meant no harm.

  "I'll go," he promised. "Just please, don't breathe a word. Don't tell a soul I was in here. They could hang me for this." As soon as he said it he regretted giving beauty his name for surely she would betray him to the king. "Sorry. Sorry. I just-" but he didn't know what he wanted to say. He couldn't find the words to express the confused mess of feelings surging around inside him.

  He edged back to the wall, hands in front of him all the way, turned and scrambled back out through the window. He landed with a thump, rolled and came back up to his feet. Without thinking about it, he pushed open the shutter and leaned back through. She was standing by the loom, the shuttle in her hand. Her azure eyes met his and he fancied he saw the ache in them even from here. "You have placed a claim on my heart, beauty," he said, flashing her a dangerous grin.

  "No," she said, coming over to the window. "It cannot be."

  With that she closed the shutter, barring it behind him.

  There was no point calling out to her - any noise would only attract Grudnew's bodyguards. Sláine gazed at the shuttered window and smiled. She had talked to him. He kissed his hand and pressed it to the wooden shutter. "I'll be back," he promised, his voice barely a whisper. It didn't matter that beauty wouldn't hear his words; she could surely hear his heart.

  He crept cautiously up to the curve of the roundhouse and peered around it. There were two guards but their attention was turned towards Murias. All he had to do was skirt the compound and come out a little further down the road and no one would be any the wiser. With one last backwards glance he dropped down into the gulley that ran alongside the river and shuffled forwards in an awkward crouch until he was far enough away to be safe.

  He didn't return to the others. With night coming he went in search of Brighid, almost banging her door down. The fear was bright on her face as she opened the door. In a single breath the Daughter of Danu relaxed and opened her arms to him. "Oh my beautiful boy, what's wrong?" She kissed him tenderly as he fell into her embrace.