Lee stared back over the bay and asked, “Why are there so many ships? I didn’t know Ynys Môn was a popular place to visit.”
Genonn watched the steady stream of travelers jumping from longships into the wash below the settlement of Caer Gybi. Horses were being lifted in harnesses and dropped gently into the sea, their eyes covered to prevent panic, which could kill both horses and sailors.
He could not deny there were more than the usual number of folk offloading. He did not remember having seen so many visitors when he was studying to become a druid. Preparation for the summer festival, perhaps. They had always celebrated Beltaine, but never with so many off-islanders invading the tranquillity. But why not? Beltaine was an exciting time when winter was over, and summer would soon arrive in full splendor. Why not more people to celebrate it, even if they were warriors armed for war?
“I do not know, Lee. Perhaps one of the Council members will tell us when we arrive.”
“There are a lot of warriors.”
Genonn doubted anyone could fail to notice the number of fighters toiling up the beach and cliff path with their weapons and armor as though a battle was about to happen. He did not think it likely unless the feared invasion was closer than he had thought possible. Were the Romans massing across the narrow straits facing Caer Leb?
Those warriors with horses were leading them, giving them time to lose their sea legs. A redheaded giant of a man shouted something Genonn could not hear. Several warriors ran to help calm his mount, which was refusing to take the path up from the beach.
“Come, we must step out if we are to reach Caer Leb in good time,” he said to Lee, patting his shoulder. “It’s a hard trek, so prepare yourself. We would ride, except I have no money to hire horses,” he sighed.
Lee laughed and ran on. Genonn wondered again if bringing the boy to the Council was the right course. He was so young. True, Connery had also been young, but electing him to the High Kingship had proved a disastrous mistake. The people were nearly enslaved by the pirate, Ingcél. Blood and terror reigned briefly while he tried to usurp the crown. If not for the Red Branch, life in the kingdoms would be wholly different. Genonn wondered whether elevating Lee to the throne would have the same effect? He shook his head and decided it was not his worry. The Elder Council could deal with the headache of it. Kathvar would hate to hear it, but it was Dornoll’s decision.
Genonn was surprised at how quickly the hours passed and the walk ended. The road reached the forest edge over the plains leading down to Caer Leb just as the sun was setting behind them. They stopped on the edge of the forest. The settlement was a buzz of activity. He had never known the druidic center so frantic. Lee stood beside him, staring, mouth open in awe.
“Is this Caer Leb?” the youth asked.
Genonn had to fight to hold in a snapped response. He was not fond of those who spoke for the sake of it. The boy had skipped from the forest above Dún Dealgan to Caer Leb, making inane observations or asking infantile questions. Some of them caused Genonn to raise an eyebrow: what type of bird is that; how many leagues is it to Beál Feirste; how long will that take. Incessant. Grating. Lee had seen seven or eight summers when he was allegedly taken during the battle of Glencree. Much of what he found exciting should have been commonplace. Questions an infant would ask. It was as though Lee had a mind of seven summers housed in an adolescent body.
“Come. The sooner we get you in front of the Council, the better.”
Guards checked travelers at the gates, but they recognized Genonn and let them through without a fuss. As they exited the gatehouse, he saw Imrinn walking between roundhouses.
“Imrinn, what are you doing here?” he called, waving. Imrinn waved back and made his way over.
His young brother’s face split into a broad grin as he grabbed Genonn’s wrist, saying, “Big brother, I thought you vowed never to return here.”
Genonn could not help but mirror the grin.
“I did. Unfortunately, events have overtaken my oath,” he said with a laugh. “You, too, should not be here, I think.”
“I met with Father in Lúr Cinn Trá two nights ago. He convinced me to return.”
“Is he here?” Genonn asked with a frown, suspecting his plan to avoid their father had failed.
“Yes. He’s in the feast hall.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s the news. Everyone is panicking. Everyone excepting maybe Dornoll.” Something was clouding Imrinn’s face as he spoke. He was not looking Genonn in the eye. Scuffing a boot in the dirt.
Genonn felt frustration building and snapped, “News. What news?” before shrugging an apology.
“You haven’t heard. Have you been hiding in a cave, big brother?”
“I may as well have been. But that is a story for another time. What’s this news?”
“Cú Chulainn was murdered. Up in Windy Gap,” Imrinn replied, looking over the ramparts at the forest. “She stole his head, apparently.”
Genonn stared at his brother; the news was unbelievable. He had been with Cú only a few days before, willing his father to apologize for starting an argument during the funeral. Wanting the day to end. Wanting to be anywhere other than Dún Dealgan. Wanting to be away from the old turd. Far away from him. Imrinn had been chasing after shadows with Conall. Where is the Old Bull when you need him? he wondered again.
“It can’t be. I was only talking to him recently,” he said, feeling panic gripping his chest.
“Believe me, it happened. They say she ambushed him and Laeg in the Gap. Used a fían to murder them. She stole his head as a trophy. Everyone in Caer Leb is on edge.”
“I can see you’re on edge, Imrinn. Who do you mean by she?”
“The Cailleach, of course. They are trying to decide how to react, sanctions and such. A siege of Crúachain, maybe.”
Who cares? Genonn read in Imrinn’s face. “Are we sure it was Medb?” he asked, forcing his panic down.
“Who else? She threatened Cú Chulainn after losing the battle. Hired a warband to ambush him in the gap. Tricked him out of the dún with some excuse.”
“Who told you she threatened Cú?”
“Conall.” Imrinn shook his head as though he thought it should be obvious. “She threatened him after the battle when Conall and Cú caught up with her.”
“Is Conall here?”
“No. Last time I saw him, he was outside Crúachain staring over the mists,” Imrinn said. “They say he’s hunting for Cu’s head. I’d hate to be wearing the boots of the fénnid who took it if he catches up with them.”
“There’s no doubt. Conall usually gets what he hunts. I’ve not known him to fail.”
“I have,” Imrinn said, so softly Genonn barely heard.
“At what?”
“Chasing Medb’s army. We never came close. They were behind the palisade long before we reached them.”
“And what do you think would have happened if you caught them, two against an army?” Genonn asked. Imrinn shook his head at the forest. “Father’s in the feast hall?”
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“Arrived this morning. He’s with the other Council members.”
“Will you take care of Lee while I go to the hall? With my news, I must speak to The Elder Council alone,” Genonn said. I must prepare them without any shocks, he did not say.
“Of course. Come… Lee, was it?”
“Yes. Lee.”
“Come. I’ll teach you how to draw a bow.”
Genonn watched Imrinn put his arm around Lee’s shoulders, leading him away. Nerves aside, his brother was in a good mood, which Genonn welcomed. Imrinn had taken Fergus’ death hard, riding away with Conall to do whatever Conall intended. Having not expected them to survive the mad chase, Genonn was glad to see him.
***
Walking up the aisle of the feast hall, Genonn could see the druids gathered around the top table. They were talking over one another, each trying to be heard. He could feel their stress and anger, which appeared to be pushing the black smoke from the guttering flames of the braziers away from the central smoke hole as though they were creating their own wind.
“Genonn, what are you doing here?” his father hissed at him as he arrived at the dais.
Genonn felt a flush as those around the table stopped their discussion to stare at him, faces showing nothing but malice. All except his father, who had something else showing behind the eyes. He was fidgeting with his hands under the table.
“I have heard the news. Is it true?” Genonn asked.
“No. We are gathered here discussing the weather.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, Father.”
“You think not? We have lost the best candidate for High King and these fools,” he waved at the Elders, seated, tense, staring anywhere but at Kathvar. I think Abradruad is a strong replacement.”
“Who is Abradruad?” Genonn asked.
“Precisely. Who is Abradruad?” Kathvar asked, scowling at his feet.
“I have told you–” Dornoll started before Genonn held up his hand to interrupt.
“It’s why I am here. I’ve brought Lee Flaith.”
“Lee Flaith is dead,” Biróg said.
Genonn could see something was also preoccupying the druidess. She was holding her hands under her chest, chin jutting, eyes a little bloodshot, as though she had taken too much mead. The stress around the table made Genonn happy his visit was to be short. As soon as the boy was under their care, he would leave.
“We do not know if that is true, Biróg.” Dornoll smiled in response. “No one knows what happened to Lee Flaith. Where is this pretender?”
“Pretender?” Genonn asked with a frown.
“Until proven otherwise, he is a pretender. It is not meant as a judgment, boy. It is a fact.”
She thinks of me as a child, he realized. If his father and Dornoll both considered him to be a boy, the rest of them would agree. It was inevitable. Genonn looked at those around the table. They were all there, the seven. The members of the Council. Dornoll, the council leader; Biróg, the seeress; Mug, the druid of Leinster; Myrddin, the druid of Ynys Môn; Tlachtga, the druid of Munster; Taidle, the druid of Tara; the seat of the High King, who was advising King Cairbre, the king of Meath, until a successor was crowned. And, of course, his father, the druid of Ulster.
“So, where is he?” Dornoll asked.
“I left him with Imrinn. Given the circumstances, I thought it a good idea to warn you.”
“Quite right,” Taidle said, staring at Kathvar as if tired of arguing over what should have been an easy decision.
“Get him, then,” Kathvar hissed.
***
Holding Lee gently by the elbow, Genonn guided him between the smoky, guttering braziers. The smell of burnt oil caught the back of his throat, making him want to cough. The boy felt tense, quivering like a drawn bowstring waiting for release. Genonn could sympathize with Lee. Arriving in front of the Council as a claimant to the throne of the Five Kingdoms would excite a rock, never mind a capricious youth.
“Hurry on, Genonn. We do not have an age to wait for you dawdling up the aisle,” Dornoll called.
“Come, Lee, they will not bite. At least, not much.”
Genonn eased him gently forward until they stood at the base of the dais, gazing at those seated. He could feel the heat of a blush through Lee’s jerkin and saw it in his suddenly rosy cheeks. If anything, the trembling increased under the gaze of those around the table. The faces staring at him with an intensity verging on malice represented the power of the Five Kingdoms and beyond. A power that once stretched over Alba and Gaul, at least before the Romans came. A power that Genonn thought they abused.
“He looks nothing like Connery,” Biróg scoffed, breaking into his thoughts.
“No, I agree he does not. He looks like Macc Cecht. As Niamh put it, he’s the spit.”
“I can see a resemblance,” Biróg agreed. “What I do not see is why it makes the slightest difference. I do not recall Macc Cecht sitting on the throne in Tara.”
“Who he resembles is not important,” Dornoll interrupted. “He could look like me, but if he has the pedigree and can prove it, it will not matter. We are discussing whether he is the descendant of a High King, so shall we get it done?”
“Who is Niamh?” Kathvar asked.
Taidle prevented Genonn’s reply with, “You, boy, what do you remember of your father?”
“Nothing much, my Lord. Just what the hag told me, really.”
“The hag?” they all asked together.
“A woman called Niamh,” Genonn explained. “She claimed Macc Cecht brought the boy to her in the forest during the battle of Glencree. Claimed he was the father of the king.”
“Macc Cecht claimed he was the father of the king?” Mug asked.
“No, it was Niamh who made the claim. She says she knew Meas Búachalla, who told her the champion was Connery’s father.”
“Which would imply–”
“The Elder Council were duplicitous in their dealings with the people. Once again,” Genonn interrupted his father.
“If it were true,” Dornoll said with a laugh. “But it is arrant nonsense. I am surprised you fell for the wiles of this, what, Niamh? Did it not smell a little like fish on the turn, Genonn?”
He felt the customary blush begin to creep up from his neckline. It seemed to him that they did nothing but mock him whenever he came before the Council. And they wondered why he had given up on them even after years of intense study.
“There was a striking resemblance between Lee and Macc Cecht. I thought it enough to bring the boy before you. In all honesty, I do not care whether you believe him. It is none of my affair.”
“Did you see this resemblance before or after the old woman mentioned it?” Kathvar asked.
“Before, I think…” Genonn hesitated, realizing what his father was suggesting, and suddenly unsure.
“You think?” Dornoll asked, her habitual smile lessening the doubt peering out from her eyes. “Do you not feel you have wasted our time? Time we cannot afford to waste. Did you not think you were honor bound to stop this folly at source?”
“There was a need to bring him before you. Nothing else.”
“I think the boy should wait outside while we discuss it. What we say might be painful for him to hear,” Kathvar said, surprising Genonn with his show of compassion.
“Wait outside, Lee,” Genonn said. “I will come for you when we have finished.” The boy nodded and left. Genonn thought there to be relief in the way Lee pulled back his shoulders and lifted his head. “Is there anyone who could verify he is who he says?” Dornoll called him a pretender. If they decide he is, they might demand a hanging.
“Conall was at the sacking of Da Derga’s. He could verify the claims. I fear anyone else who might have known the boy is now dead,” Taidle mused.
“Were you not druid of Meath? Were you not there, helping to train the boy?” Biróg asked with a sneer.
“That was my predecessor, who lost his head to the pirate. I began my tenure training Lugaid as High King.”
“And we all know where that ended,” Biróg scoffed.
Taidle crossed his arms and pushed out his chin before hissing, “It is unfair to place that burden around my neck.”
“Is it? You trained the boy, and then he took his own life because he was too weak to withstand the murder of Dervla. Do you not–”
“Enough,” Dornoll held up her hand. “We are not here to debate old High Kings or why they died but to decide on a new one. We can agree that this boy Lee cannot prove his legitimacy.” She glowered around the table. Everyone agreed except Kathvar, who was staring at his feet, once more distracted, on another plane.
“So, we are back to this Abradruad. Do we have any other possible candidates?” Mug asked.
The druids shook their heads. Kathvar continued to stare at his feet, lost in his thoughts.
“Does anyone object?” Dornoll asked, frowning with an intensity Genonn found intriguing. It was as though her long-sought goals were finally in sight, a suppressed excitement buzzing through her.
“Why do we keep returning to Abradruad?” Taidle asked. “No one knows who he is.”
“I know who he is,” Dornoll said, banging her fist on the table. “He is a prince of Leinster and would make an excellent High King given the right guidance.”
“Guidance from you, I suppose?” Kathvar asked.
“Guidance from this Council. Shall we vote on it?” Five of those present around the table mumbled their agreement.
Genonn frowned at his father, who was once again preoccupied with his feet. What’s on your mind today? You are not here with the others.
It took a verbal nudge from Dornoll before Kathvar spoke, “I cannot support a nomination for High King when the candidate has not been presented to the Council. You know him, Dornoll, but no one else does. I propose the boy is brought here, and I will give my blessing if I find him suitable.”
“Fine.”
Dornoll appeared resigned to the wait before they could train Abradruad, but Genonn could see a flashing in her eyes. She might be resigned, but she was far from happy about it.
“And what of Lee?” Genonn asked although he did not really need confirmation. He just thought it politic to get the blessing of the Council before leaving the hall. He was not surprised by their decision but glad he had taken the time to present the boy to them. His conscience would be clean when he left the island.
“Without Conall, there is no way for the boy to prove his legitimacy,” Dornoll said while gazing around the table for confirmation. “We cannot accept a nomination from one who is not proven to be of the right heritage. Leave him with Imrinn until we decide what to do with him.”
Until we decide what to do with him? Genonn thought his head would split. The words might be innocent, but the implications were not. What to do with him. He would expect only one course of action from the duplicitous druids. The dawning realization made his head start to spin. He could not leave with a free conscience if he went alone. It was only a matter of time before someone on the Council would proclaim Lee a traitor and demand his execution.
Genonn was not so foolish as to voice his concerns. “Good. I will leave immediately if you have no further need for me.”