The ride to Dún Ailinne was uneventful. There were no more ambushes. No more deaths. The bad air in the group remained. Mainly, it manifested as surly silences and two distinct parties. Genonn’s refusal to give the boy passage rites had irritated Fedelm to rage. Conall’s refusing to see how it might be wrong pushed her well beyond that point.
She rode with Bradán, which she preferred. At least Bradán understood her. He was the least violent and most even of the men, and she respected him more and more. She caught the surreptitious glances Genonn gave them but didn’t care. He could go and boil his head for all it mattered to her.
Men and their stupid principles.
The more Fedelm thought about it, the more she seethed. The more she seethed, the more distant she became. Bradán occasionally tried to negotiate peace between them, but he wasted effort and time. She would not yield her position on the side of right, and the men were too pig-headed to admit they were wrong.
The sun was close to its zenith when they joined Slíghe Dala on the east side of Dún Ailinne. They rode up the road in silence, each subdued by their thoughts. Fedelm would never tire of gazing at the vastness of the fort at the top of the gently sloping hill. If not for the forest, the ramparts with their wooden palisade would be seen for leagues.
Conall and Genonn were known, and they were waved through by guards with little interest, even though it was more than the last time she arrived at the gates. These guards were warriors, for one, not aging, toothless veterans. The Leinster company had returned. That said, they were not in any better humor than the would-be guard who allowed them to enter the last time. There appeared to be a feeling of despondency hanging over the Five Kingdoms. It was a feeling Fedelm thought they would be advised to lose. The Romans would welcome nothing so much as a nation of low morale and internecine squabbling.
We are just making it easy for them.
“We’ll take the horses; you go and get us a room at the hostel,” Conall said to Fedelm, breaking into her thoughts.
Fedelm walked away without a word. She heard them whispering to each other as she walked. So what? Let them be petty and adolescent; she would keep her dignity and her composure, holding her head high. Unlike them, she would act with maturity. Immaturity seemed to be the most vital trait of warriors: they wore it like a badge of honor. Even the women acted the maggot when they weren’t at war, acting the maggot with extreme violence. So, they could smack each other with swords and hammers and stick each other with lances and arrows.
But where’s the skill in that? Diplomacy. Forgiveness. These skills give a person what they need in life. The soft touch, not the heavy hammer.
After entering the hostel, Fedelm stopped at the door and held her breath. The place was empty except for the hosteller bustling about cleaning benches and a warrior sitting at the bench furthest from the door. She recognized him as the captain who entered the common room with Nechtan the night before Kathvar’s death. The night of the storm, when they waited above Indber Colptha for the druid to arrive. The night she learned not all warriors were bloodthirsty idiots.
She walked over and stood before him with her hands on her hips. Bréannin looked up and smiled. “Ah, the seeress. Fedelm, is it?”
“It is. How do you know me?”
“I was on the gatehouse when you told the Cailleach what was about to befall her army. Fool of a Tuatha damned queen ignored the warnings. Cost her an army as well as her reputation. You have a gift, Fedelm. Very impressive. I also saw you in Indber Colptha with the young Bradán. How’s he doing?”
“As well as the rest of us, I suppose. We’ve been together for a while now,” she said before cursing at her frankness in front of a stranger. “How do you know Bradán?”
“He was always close to the queen in the build-up to the battle,” he said. “Now, there’s a lucky man. Always close to one beauty or another.”
Fedelm shook her head, unsure how to take the news that Bradán had been close to the queen. He’d denied it fervently. She thought this man Bréannin was either mistaken or causing trouble.
“Can I sit?”
“Be my guest. A cup of ale?”
She nodded and waited for the hosteller to return to cleaning after he’d delivered a cup before saying, “I’ve heard you broker deals?”
He poured some ale, watching her over the jug as he said, “I’ve been known to broker the odd deal when the price is right. What do you need?”
“What if I were to say I needed someone killed? How would you react to that?”
Bréannin smiled at her, showing a row of well-formed white teeth, “Like I said if the price is right.”
No one should have such perfect teeth, Fedelm thought, realizing Bréannin was a calculating and dangerous man. Anyone who took such care over something as unimportant as teeth would be capable of the care and precision needed to broker a murder. As such, he would probably not hesitate to murder her if he considered her a threat. She took a sip of ale and wondered what to do. She could talk to him about this imaginary assassination until the others arrived and then hand him over or try her charms to get this man to admit he’d arranged the deal and who for.
“Who do you want dead, Lady?” he asked, his white teeth disappearing under a tight-lipped glower.
“We had an encounter with Nechtan.”
“You want Nechtan dead?”
“No, no.” She shook her head and laughed. “I just thought I would mention it. You’ve had–”
“We being?” he interrupted.
“Conall Cernach, Genonn the druid…”
“He’s a druid? I thought he was a spy.”
“Warrior, druid, spy, peoples’ justice, savior of the people – I’m no longer sure what he is. Nor do I care.”
“And Bradán, of course.”
“Yes, Bradán, too. There was also a young boy, Lee,” she said, not knowing why. Maybe it would feel somehow dirty not to mention him as a member of their little band, as though she would be betraying his memory. The captain didn’t react at the mention of the name. She surmised he was either unaware of Lee or should change his profession to one of the filídh and travel the Five Kingdoms, convincing audiences of the unbelievable.
“When you say encounter, what do you mean?” Bréannin asked, once again watching her over the lip of his cup.
Fedelm could see his curiosity had changed to wariness. She felt suddenly vulnerable, as though he could see into her mind and read her thoughts. A sweat bead crept down between the valley of her breasts. It had been foolish of her to approach this warrior on her own. Fedelm turned towards the door, but there was no sign of the others. She decided not to mention that Nechtan was dead.
Stolen story; please report.
“We met him in a hostel in the deep south. He told us you brokered a deal for him. Did you?” Bréannin grunted a non-committal response. Fedelm sipped the bitter ale, saying, “We need to know who the deal was for.”
“So, no assassins needed?” Fedelm shook her head and felt sweat in her closed palms. “Did Nechtan not tell you I cannot divulge that information. It would ruin my reputation. How could I live if no longer able to broker deals?”
“Was it the Cailleach?”
“I cannot tell you, Fedelm. I’m sorry. Truly.”
“Not to worry. I’m sure you’ll tell Bradán and Conall when they get here, which will be anytime now,” she said, immediately regretting it.
“What, they are here in Dún Ailinne?”
“They’re stabling the horses. Should be along shortly. I’m surprised it has taken so long.”
Bréannin gulped back his cup of ale and stood to leave. “All I will tell you is it was not the Cailleach but another woman who ordered the druid’s death. It was a very lucrative deal, which the patron has since reneged on, leaving Nechtan and his warband with nothing. Now, it has been nice talking to you. Tell Bradán he is a lucky man.”
She stamped her foot as he walked towards the back of the hostel, where she assumed there was a rear door. She had no idea what to do. Heading for the stables wouldn’t work. Dún Ailinne was a large settlement, and the men might cross her path on parallels and never know. No. It would be better to stay and wait, hoping they would not be too long. Cursing herself as a fool, she willed the others to hurry.
***
“I have no wish to stay here,” Genonn said.
They were sitting around the bench in the hostel. Fedelm had just finished telling them what Bréannin told her about his brokering the deal. The sense Conall got from those around the table was one of despondency. They were thinking, as was he, that something stood in front of them, blocking their attempts to gather the proof they needed.
“Now you mention it, neither have I,” he said. He understood the need to leave the truth behind. Running from it would not resolve any issues but would give a sense of change and freedom. Genonn needed some release from the pressure building. Otherwise, he was likely to burst like an overfilled pig’s bladder ball.
Gazing at his feet, Conall felt a surge of pity for Genonn. First, his father and then the boy, now Bréannin’s news, all punctuated by his having to see snatched glances between Bradán and Fedelm. To say nothing of the apparent loathing she felt for Genonn.
All of which was written on his friend’s face. He appeared to be on the verge of sinking into the mire surrounding him, a bog not of muddy slush but of death and unrequited love. The deaths were hard enough to stomach. Adding a side of jealousy was a cruel twist of the Three Sisters. And Conall felt he was to blame, if only partially. Again! He told Genonn to concentrate on the girl and everything else would take care of itself. His usual unsound advice. There was something between the youngsters. They were much younger, and some form of connection was only to be expected, but that wouldn’t help Genonn, who was clearly smitten.
“Are we not going to get after Bréannin?” Bradán asked.
“I see little point. I don’t think he’ll just head north like the last bundún. Bréannin’s a practiced warrior. No, we’d never find him,” Conall said, shaking his head.
“Let’s make camp in the forest. We can plan our return there,” Genonn said, his despondency evident in the slump of his shoulders.
“Which return would that be?” Conall asked, unsure how to lift the spirits of the group.
“It’s over; I’ve failed and must return to Caer Leb to oversee Dornoll’s selection of a successor for my father. I cannot allow her a free rein. Kathvar would return and hold me to account at the point of his bloody sword.”
“Will you be able to influence her?” Fedelm asked, unable to look at him, her lips pursed.
“Yes.”
“Or you could take on your father’s mantle, as you were trained to do,” she snapped.
“I will not, and neither do I want to discuss it,” Genonn snapped back.
“No. You’d much rather pull on an ear and do nothing.”
Conall saw Genonn move his hand from his ear to his throat and frowned, hating that he could not make any of it more manageable. “Let’s get out of here. We can talk about this when we’re camped.”
The stablemaster muttered under his breath and banged about the stables as he returned their mounts. His lousy mood evaporated when he was paid for three nights of stabling as agreed.
Conall rasped his chin as they rode north. If the mood had been tense riding to Dún Ailinne, it was now like the clashing of sword on wood before a battle.
“There’s a place to camp,” he pointed at a well-used site where he’d stayed before. Better to get them settled. Maybe he could get them talking again if they were sitting around a campsite.
He gave it little thought while he busied himself laying and lighting a fire. He thought the flames would help to melt the ice between them. Eventually, the fire crackled, and he glowered at the orange light dancing on their faces; one on the east, pouting south, the other on the west, pouting north, both acting like children.
He was unsure if it was the light, but Genonn seemed so old. He remembered the youth who arrived outside Scáthach’s dún all those years before with a blunt sword he stole from the trickster Cullen. He’d been easy prey, a temptation Conall had been incapable of ignoring. There followed a year of bullying before Genonn saved his life. That was the first time he made Conall feel like a bundún, but not the last. The enormous warrior of the opposing shield wall had knocked Conall down and was about to split him like a log for the wood store when Genonn stabbed him in the back and then felt remorse about it for years, another proof Genonn was no warrior.
Why did he train to be a warrior? For what reason? Conall wondered. Despite what he said and thought, Genonn had never been a warrior. He went about with the ornate sword, Fíoch, strapped to his waist, but his conscience meant he was no fighter. Genonn’s best weapon was his intellect, which let him down now.
“Cheer up. It’s nothing but a small setback. We’re not beaten yet.”
“Not beaten? I am not sure what can be done,” Genonn said, staring to the left and slightly above Conall’s shoulder, twiddling a twig and pouting. “Bréannin said it was not Medb, which leaves Longas. He’s a fox when it comes to getting his way, but I cannot imagine him dressing up as a woman.”
“I always thought you three hands higher than the rest of us when it came to brains. You’re not showing it this night, Genonn,” Conall said with a sigh.
His old friend looked at him for the first time since they made camp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Bréannin said it was a woman, but not Medb. He didn’t say whether the woman was acting for the queen.”
“How many of Ireland’s women would act on behalf of Medb? How many would she even allow to act for her?”
“When I was searching for Cú’s head, I heard rumors she has the Cailidín sisters working for her. Apparently, they wanted revenge because Cú killed their brothers. Emer said a woman came and lured Cú out into the storm. My guess, she was one of the sisters. It might have been one of them Bréannin met with, too. Medb would be willing to send an evil witch like one of the Cailidín.”
Genonn’s face assumed a slight glimmer of hope. “Why did you not mention this before?” he asked.
“It only just came to me.”
Conall was glad to see the glimmer take on a stronger glow as Genonn thought how they might use the information before turning to the others to see if the hope was spreading, only to catch a brief glance Bradán gave Fedelm. He wished the pair of them would openly declare their feelings. At least then, Genonn could accept it and get on with getting over it.
“I am not sure how that helps us, though,” Genonn said, pulling him back into the conversation. “Medb is shut up behind her palisade.”
“Aye, she is. Time we pried her out,” Conall said, jutting his chin in determination.
Genonn appeared skeptical as he asked, “But how?”
“We’ll head to Emain Macha, where I’ll take control of the Red Branch. There is a blood debt to claim as well. That done, we’ll march on Crúachain.”
“We need permission from the Elder Council. Without proof, they will not give it. It’s why we’ve been up and down the Five Kingdoms?” Genonn said with a shake of his head.
“I never needed permission from that shower of bodaláin. If you feel strongly about it, you and Fedelm can head for Caer Leb while I take my warband where it’s needed.”
“No. I will come with you. I want to see Longas’ face when you ask him about Fergus.”
“I’ll go to Caer Leb,” Fedelm said. “I’m obviously not needed here.”
Aye, course you will, Conall thought. And I’ve no doubt Bradán will go with you.
“I think we should stay together for now, at least until after Emain Macha. Then we can decide,” Bradán said, causing Conall to arch his eyebrows.