They were silent as they rode. The forest still smelled fresh, cleaned by the recent rains. The greenery was lush; birds were twittering. Insects buzzed. Noises from the underbrush were commonplace: boars grubbing, the sound of the occasional deer leaping to get away from them.
When they breasted the rise above Dún Dealgan, the inhabitants of the dún appeared subdued. Genonn reined in and stared down into the settlement. There was little indication of life. The few retainers moved about their chores with heads down.
Of Emer, there was no sign. He guessed she was in the main house, mourning her loss. She would continue to mourn for the coming days. Maybe she would mourn for many moon cycles. He wondered whether she would stay there. The settlement had been empty before Mac Nessa awarded it to Cú Chulainn as a reward for saving his son from a boar. Maybe Emer would return to her family home in Lusk, take her son there, and live out her days in sorrow. With no idea, he realized it was futile to think about it. She would do what she did. It did not matter. How could it ever matter in the face of such loss?
“You two wait here,” Genonn told Lee and Bradán as they drew rein beside him. He thought Emer could do without a troop of well-wishers in her home. It was only a few days since the news of his death.
“Now we are here, I think you shouldn’t come either,” Fedelm said to Genonn as he prepared to urge his mount down the slope.
He pondered her words, wondering what prompted them. The ride from Caer Leb to Caer Gybi had been tense: whispered talks between Bradán and Fedelm; Lee thoughtful for the first time since Genonn met him. The boy showed none of his usual exuberance. He guessed taking the gelding, and his words with Bradán were not liked by anyone in their little band. The sailing from Caer Gybi to Indber Colptha proved even more strained. Genonn and Fedelm sat at either end of the bench, staring in different directions, Lee and Bradán in the middle as a makeshift palisade. No one spoke. It proved a long crossing, despite Owen trying to cheer them with his banter.
Watching her staring down at Dún Dealgan, he wondered if her words continued that strain. “She knows me.”
“I doubt she even knows herself, Genonn. Let me talk to her and find out her state of mind. Believe me, the last thing she needs right now is the sight of warriors with swords and mailshirts. I will talk to her. I should go alone.”
Genonn realized there was some sense in her words. Emer’s young husband died by the sword, losing his head in the bargain. A warrior riding into her dún would not help bad memories fade.
“We will make camp here.”
“There’s a hostel not far up the north road. Why not get a room there. I could use a bed tonight.”
With nothing left to say, the men turned their horses around and made for the road to Emain Macha. Approaching a bend, Genonn looked over his shoulder, but Fedelm was already below the brow of the hill and lost to sight.
***
After darkness had fallen, they were at a bench beside the fire, relaxing with a cup of mead, full of a basic but satisfying meal of oats and mutton. Genonn could not help noticing Bradán staring at the door. In that stare, he read why the young warrior followed them from Caer Leb. He could do without the shenanigans of young lovers while he searched for proof about who murdered his father. They needed concentration and commitment, not forlorn stupidity.
“You worried about her?” he asked.
“What? No. Just wondering where she’s got to. Do you think we have any chance of finding Conall?”
Genonn had no idea. The Old Bull could be anywhere. As a young warrior, Conall was renowned for his considerate approach to everything. Events and age had turned him into one who preferred muscles over brains. Not thinking things through and following a logical path made him difficult to track.
“She will be here soon. Drink your mead and relax.” Genonn had just finished speaking when the door opened, and Fedelm walked in. “Told you.”
Bradán’s face lit up as she sat beside him, opposite Genonn, who could not help a surge of ill-temper as she patted the back of Bradán’s hand.
Is she teasing me? he wondered before realizing her pain was probably too acute for games.
“I hope you left some food for me,” she said, trying a smile, which did not convince Genonn.
“Oats and mutton. That’s all. Sorry,” Bradán said before Genonn could reply.
“It will do.”
She squeezed Bradán’s hand, and Genonn had to bite his lip to prevent an outburst. Instead, he turned away, pulling on his earlobe and saying nothing.
After the food was delivered, Fedelm concentrated on the gloop. Oats and mutton. Chewy lumps of meat in over-boiled porridge. Despite being so base, she ate like it would be her last meal. Slowly chewing each mouthful. Digesting what she learned from Emer with her mutton, washing it all down with gulps of ale. By the time she had finished eating, the revelers were clamoring for a song or a story, banging their cups on their benches.
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“Let’s go to our room. We’ll be free to talk there,” Genonn said.
Their room was little more than a hovel behind the stables. It was warm and dry, large enough to fit the four of them comfortably; a little fragrant, perhaps, but no one cared. There were four cots: three against the walls and the fourth in the middle of the room. It would be cold in the night, but the cots were piled high with hides.
When Genonn asked what Emer had said, Fedelm did not respond but sank onto a cot and grabbed the slats on either side of her thighs. She seemed unable to answer, staring through Lee, who was sitting on the opposite cot. He knew she had been close to Cú Chulainn and suspected she was in as much pain as Emer. Grabbing the cot was a defense against breaking down. The slats were her only support in such a public setting. He assumed if she and Bradán had been alone, there would be an outpouring of emotion.
“Fedelm?” he nudged.
“Oh. Not much, really. During the storm, Cú and Laeg left on some foolish errand. Some woman in distress, apparently,” she said, punctuating her words with a sniff. “They never came back. Emer heard of his demise when Conall arrived with their bodies tied to the back of his horse.”
“Does she know where Conall went?”
“No. He told her he was hunting for Cú Chulainn’s head, nothing more other than to keep the body in the cold store. He promised to return the head as soon as he found it so she could…” A swallowed sob caused her to hesitate, “…bury him with dignity.”
Genonn sat staring at nothing. He did not know what to do. He had stood in Fedelm’s roundhouse staring down at his father’s ruined face and promised him vengeance. Now, he was in a hostel just north of Dún Dealgan with no idea how he would fulfill that promise. His gut reaction after the burial was to search for Conall; Conall would know how to avenge Kathvar. The warrior was seldom, if ever, lost for a course of action. Using his muscles first, Conall never dithered over what needed to be done. But how could they hope to find him?
“What do you want to do?” Bradán asked.
Genonn was tempted to bark at him, but genuine concern in the young man’s eyes stopped him.
He shrugged, looking at the hides on his cot. Seeking inspiration from the inanimate. “We could spend a lifetime running around after Conall. I will go to Emain Macha.”
***
They did not tarry the following day.
No one spoke as they rode up Slíghe Midluachra, perhaps subdued by the grey blanket stifling the sun, which the keen-edged wind could not shift. Genonn rode in the vanguard, deep in thought, trying to decide what he would do when they arrived. As he had suspected, snatches of the conversations they overheard in common rooms rumored Mac Nessa was no longer king. The Deceiver, the name he was so proud of, burned down his palisade when he ran from the battle. Genonn was trying to decide how he would treat Longas—the throne’s usurper—when standing at the base of the dais in the hall of Emain Macha. When last they met, Longas was more interested in jesting, whoring, and drinking. Now, if rumors were true, he was a self-proclaimed king.
“A copper ring for your thoughts,” Fedelm said, drawing rein beside him and making him jump.
“I was thinking about Emain Macha.”
“The clouds are coming from the north,” she said, gazing up through the canopy, obviously unsure how to say what was on her mind. Finally, she said, “I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“I’ve been a little distant. I’ve been hurting and unfair. You, too, have lost someone, so you must be in pain,” she said with her eyes fixed on the clouds.
Genonn noted the cloud shapes and knew she was probably deciding how to describe their portents if there was a perceived need. He did not need Fedelm gazing at the clouds to know the signs were not good.
“Not so much,” he said, unsure how anyone could compare his loss with hers. If the rumors were true, Fedelm lost someone she had been intimate with. There was never any intimacy between his father and him. Strained politeness was the best they had ever achieved. The shock of the arrow in the night surprised him, but he quickly recovered. He soon forgot any sense of loss, replaced by a need for revenge and deep-rooted anger. “I think you were much fonder of Cú Chulainn than I was of my father. So, I can understand.”
“You were not fond of your father?”
“Not really. He was always distant. I think Cú Chulainn was capable of more passion.”
“Aye, it’s true, so it is. He was a strange boy, headstrong and compassionate all at the same time. I never understood how he managed to move from one emotion to the opposite in a heartbeat. It was both fascinating and frightening.”
Genonn knew what she meant. He had seen Cú Chulainn go from calm to ferocious as quick as a gale rising at the autumn equinox.
“I think we can all be guilty of mood swings,” he allowed, turning to the front. He was sure Fedelm had not joined him because she wanted to apologize and discuss her love for a dead man. He wished she would come to the point.
“Why are we going to Emain Macha?”
Ah, at last. “When you petitioned the kings, did Kathvar tell you about the meeting on the rise above Indber Colptha?” Fedelm nodded but held her peace. “I think Longas is a coward, and he hired Nechtan to murder my father. I mean to confront him.”
“Medb might also have hired an assassin.”
“So, I have two suspects. Imrinn told me Medb is shut up in Crúachain, which makes me think it will be easier to get to Longas. I must try; otherwise, I will fail before even starting.”
“Should we not be hunting this man, Nechtan?”
“Without Conall, I would not know how to begin.”
“Does Longas not have the Red Branch protecting him?”
“Probably. I think we should be able to get into the dún. Get an audience with him, at least. And then I will ask him to his face.”
“What then?”
“I do not know, Fedelm. I…” Genonn hesitated, hating his inability to be decisive.
“You’ve not thought it through. It’s understandable, so it is. If you need to talk about it, I’m ready to listen. They tell me I’ve good ears.”
And the rest of you is not bad either, he thought before looking back at Bradán, joking with Lee. Not bad, but given to someone else. He did not blame her. Bradán was strong, broad-chested, warrior-like. Not to forget his youth. Genonn was nearing forty summers.
“I will bear it in mind. Thank you.”
Smiling, Fedelm reined in to wait for Bradán and Lee, leaving him alone with his thoughts. In truth, he would rather be in company listening to her talking. He heard a sudden laugh, a little forced, which he understood. She was mourning the loss of a man she loved and another she had respected. Despite the strained laughter, he felt he would like to be the one causing it, not Bradán.