On his back in the glade, gazing at the stars through the canopy, Genonn could hear the boy pottering about and the woman muttering to herself. The warmth of the fire and the scent of resinous wood smoke made him feel sleepy. It was not long after nightfall, but it had been a long day or rather several days.
He clenched his teeth as the woman hissed, “More wood on that fire, boy.” He wished they would settle, finding it increasingly difficult not to snap at them. Closing his eyes, he pretended to sleep, cursing his need to offer shelter to all who came within hailing distance of his camp. Sitting around a fire engaged in friendly chit-chat was not conducive to serious thinking.
“More wood, more wood. Do you never stop with your demands, hag? Ow.”
Their constant bickering had been quaint when they arrived in the glade. Now it was only irritating, the thunk-thunk-thunk of metal on wood as warriors fought it out in a shield wall. A distraction from his need to think. A distraction he could do without.
He wanted to think through Longas’s motives.
He had his suspicions. Mac Nessa ran from the Battle of Gáirech, forfeiting his right to the crown of Ulster. The code was specific. No one could be a coward and a king. His likely successor would have been Fergus, the king before Mac Nessa and a proven hero of Ulster. Longas’s motives, though despicable, were plain. Genonn shook his head, balking at the idea of killing a friend to take a crown.
He would not make a good king, but that has never stopped anyone.
The more he thought about it, the more Genonn expected to hear Longas was sitting in his father’s seat and a pact with Medb announced. Longas would be king, and Medb would have subjugated Ulster, which is what she had intended with the invasion of Cooley. If his suppositions were correct, and he could not see them being incorrect, neither Medb nor Longas could afford their plans to be made public. The people would rip them into pieces.
Staring up through the canopy at the stars intermittently twinkling through the cloud cover, Genonn wondered if his father had used him to reach Dún Dealgan unharmed, where the warrior Bradán was waiting.
Am I being unfair? When we met, he said he needed me to accompany him to the funeral. He wondered if helping his father during the cattle raid had been a mistake, reigniting a desire to get him back under the auspices of the Elder Council.
Spying for his father during the raid did not mean Genonn had forgotten Ráth Droma. After Gáirech, he agreed to accompany Kathvar to show Fergus the proper respect. The warrior’s death, in dubious circumstances, did not matter. Fergus had always been a warrior who followed the wrong sword. Sticking it into Medb led to his death. But that did not mean Genonn respected him less. Preventing Queen Medb from gaining control of the throne in Temuir was something to believe in and strive for. Keeping the kingdoms suppressed with an outdated hierarchy was not. He had vowed never to return to Ynys Môn or assume the name Kathvar when his father passed on. Telling the old woman to take the boy there and believing it to be the right choice did not mean he had to go with them. Unlike his father, Genonn would never break his vows.
He turned and looked across the fire.
He could see the chest of the youth rising and falling, the steady breath of one deep asleep. Did he believe Lee was the High King’s son? The tale was equal to the nonsense regurgitated around fire-pits throughout the Five Kingdoms. The idea of Macc Cecht leaving the heir apparent with an unknown woman was fantastical at best. That the High King’s bodyguard had taken Lee through the culvert was true; Conall was there, branding Macc Cecht a coward as his arse cheeks vanished through the hole. Despite the tales of Macc searching the Five Kingdoms for water, everyone thought he died on the rise on his way out of the hostel, and the boy was taken and sold into slavery or worse. But if this Lee was telling the truth, the High King’s champion died on his way back in. Conall would be pleased to learn his friend had returned to face the raiders.
I must remember to tell him, Genonn thought, yawning and rolling over, feeling a sudden heaviness in his eyelids.
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***
“He is a fraud!” Genonn screamed, but no sound came. He glared at the people mindlessly and soundlessly mouthing the rites, seemingly unaware of him. Gulping back his anger, he turned to Fergus and frowned at the vain attempts to fool Donn. Fergus’s left hand was resting on his chest; golden coire ansic, an ineffective ward against evil, draped over dead fingers; his right hand gripped his treasured longsword, Caladbolg.
Genonn’s heart raced as the grey face turned and the eyes opened.
“I died without my sword, triús round my ankles!”
“It is not my fault you were between the queen’s legs, your sword forgotten by the fire-pit. You should never have believed her. I warned you not to believe her.”
“And what of Donn?” the corpse asked.
“He will let you in. He will,” Genonn promised, not believing the words even as they left his suddenly loosened tongue.
Donn undoubtedly enjoyed a good time but would put honor and loyalty above everything. Lying with the queen during a ceremonial sacrifice was neither loyal nor honorable. According to the warrior code, Fergus did not deserve a place at His table.
“I will be left to wander in the Void, one of the undead. You must save me, Genonn.”
“It is not my fault.”
“It is your fault. Had you prevented the battle, I would not have died.”
“I could not. Fedelm was tasked…”
But Fergus turned away and closed his eyes again, no longer listening.
“…join your brethren at Donn’s table,” came the hiss of Kathvar’s invocations rising as he neared the crescendo. “Well, Genonn, was it a worthy rite? Do you think Donn will accept him in his mound?” Kathvar asked, rising to his feet.
Genonn could not answer. He opened his mouth, but, once again, no words would come. He was staring at Fergus with his grey eyelids, hiding the milkiness of dead orbs.
“Genonn? Genonn? Genonn?”
Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes to the blond head of Lee grinning down at him. “You said we were to go to Ynys Môn. I’ve never been at sea. I can’t wait to board a ship.”
“I said you were to go. I said nothing about me going with you.” I cannot go to the island. It would betray all I believe in.
“But you must. I’ve no idea how to get there.”
Genonn thought something about the statement was out of place. He was too drowsy to worry about it and would return to the question when there was less mist behind his eyes. “Where’s Niamh?”
“Oh, she’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“She couldn’t face sailing. Scared rigid of the sea. Left as soon as you were asleep. Told me to stay and become High King, as is my right. When do we leave?”
“But she needs to take you to the Elders.”
“Why can’t you take me?” the boy asked shyly. His forthright demeanor of the previous evening had been replaced by immaturity, as if the crone’s leaving had somehow released him.
“Nothing’s ever so simple,” Genonn said as he stood and brushed down his triús. Lee turned away and gazed into the forest, causing Genonn’s brow to pucker. I am not responsible for this boy, he said to himself.
With thoughts of the funeral, the dream, or the mare of ill omen pressing, Genonn shook his head and walked into the trees for some privacy. Lee watched him go, but he pretended not to notice. He walked until he was sure he was not visible, squatted, and pondered his dilemma. It was true. There was no reason why he could not take the youth other than an oath he made to himself. He promised he would never return to Ynys Môn. Seeing how they treated the lower castes, he wanted nothing to do with the Elders or his father. He did, however, owe a debt to the commoners. They called him the justice of the people. How could he turn his back on them?
When Genonn returned to the glade, Lee ran over, eagerness written on his unblemished face, and asked, “Are we going?”.
He meets the perfection required of a High King, Genonn thought, giving his earlobe a tug, the furrows in his forehead deepening. He knew he had no choice but to accept the task thrust upon him by fate. Even if the old woman were still there, he would have needed to go with them. The boy claimed to be the son of the late High King. The importance of the news was forcing him to accept the part the Three Sisters plotted for him. If he were indeed for the people, as he claimed, finding a new High King would be in their interest, so long as it was a ruler like High King Connery and not a ruler like the usurper, Nuada Necht. He would never have been able to trust Niamh to present the boy correctly. The Sisters had him as soon as Lee criticized his fire-starting skills from the shadows.
“Come, then,” he said. “We have a long trek ahead. And we must be fast.” After the argument at the funeral, he had no desire to meet his father. His only hope was that Kathvar would be in the South for a long time. I will go to Caer Leb, present the boy, and then leave. Hopefully, I will be gone before he returns.
“Are we going to Indber Colptha? I’ve always wanted to see Indber Colptha.”
“No, Lee. We will head further north.” If we go far enough north, we might avoid meeting Kathvar. Perhaps as far as Beál Feirste. Yes, Beál Feirste will work.
As he decamped, Genonn felt a need for counsel, and not of the type offered by the Elders. Conall gave good advice despite his claims to the contrary. Where is the Old Bull when you need him? he wondered as he packed his bag and scowled at the early morning mist.