The King of Sleep (14 page)

“Only because they are afraid of it,” Sorcha countered. “Yet in truth there are many who keep this ritual.”

“Many?”

“Oh yes, but those among us who have the knowledge prefer to keep it to ourselves,” the young woman confided. “We all fear the same fate as those twelve Druids of old.”

“You seem to know a lot of tales I've never heard,” the Brehon observed. “What became of those dissenting Fir-Bolg?”

Sorcha raised her eyebrows, surprised at the question. “I thought you would have understood that by now,” she told him. “I was under the impression you had researched this story thoroughly.”

Dalan frowned deeply and searched her eyes for an answer. It was clear he had no idea what she meant. So Sorcha explained it to him.

“The twelve who deserted their kindred were adopted by the Fomor at the insistence of Balor. They lived among those people, married and passed on
their knowledge, and when Balor asked their help they gave it willingly. He had become like a father to them. So when he needed nine skilled Druids for a task that would bring down a terrible fate on the Fir-Bolg and the Danaans, he knew he could rely on their support.”

“Who were these traitors?” Dalan whispered, for he had begun to draw a terrible conclusion and he was half afraid Sorcha would confirm it.

“The three who remained were initiates of the Ritual of the Sun. They helped heal the Fomor of the many maladies which afflicted their race. Until this time they were a misshapen people who hated every beautiful thing on Earth. Their ability to manipulate the realm of the material world ensured their acceptance among the Fomorians. These three were also given stewardship over the Evil Eye.”

“And what of the nine whom Balor had chosen?” the Brehon pressed, though he had already guessed the terrible truth.

“The names they were given at birth are lost and long forgotten,” she informed him. “No one can guess to which clans they all belonged. But nine of the twelve became known to all, at length, as the Watchers.”

“The Watchers were of the Fir-Bolg?” the Brehon asked, stunned that such a thing might be possible. “What else do you know about them?”

“I know the tale of their enchantment and the method. I know about the seven sleepers in stone.
And when I was a Druid in training I was told the manner in which they might be released from that bond, but I only ever heard that Draoi song once in my whole life.”

“You must try to remember it!” the Brehon cried. “If you set the Watchers free from their enchantment, many others will be saved from further suffering.”

“I was very young and I had many more important matters on my mind when I heard that song.”

“You must recall it!” Dalan insisted. “The future of all the peoples of Innisfail is in your hands.”

Sorcha put up her hands to calm him. “I have tried many times to recall the song—it slips from my memory each time.” She paused a moment, then said, “I am but a humble student of the Draoi craft, yet I think I may be able to compose a song myself. I have already collected three melodies which I hope will embody the required elements.”

“You'll make a song yourself?” Dalan asked in amazement.

“I know of no other way. Balor guarded the secret of his enchantment jealously to the last and only one Danaan Druid in each lifetime since has known the true nature of it. Besides, I'm fairly certain the actual song itself wasn't passed down through the generations, merely echoes of it.”

“If you intend to compose a new melody, how long will that task take?”

Sorcha shrugged her shoulders. “It will take as long
as it must. The more I concentrate on the problem the more likely I am to find a solution to it.”

“Will you come back with me to the new settlement at Aillwee?” Dalan asked.

Sorcha raised her eyebrows. “Is the situation really that desperate? Do the Watchers pose such an immediate threat?”

“I've spoken with them,” the Brehon told her grimly. “They warned me they would bring all their talents to bear against the peoples of this land unless I find a way to free them.”

The words had no sooner left his mouth than Sorcha leaped over the ring of mushrooms and grabbed his sleeve. As she pulled him close she whispered urgently in his ear.

“Say nothing more of this till we're safe within my house. The night may carry your words a distance on the evening breeze. I had no idea that events had come this far. There are other bitter wandering spirits who would be cheered no end if they knew the Watchers were intending to spread havoc.”

“Others?”

“This is a discussion for around the fire. We'll be safe there. None come to my hearth but those I've invited.”

Dalan nodded and Sorcha let go of his sleeve. Then she quickly doused her fire, swept the hearthstone and gathered her gear.

The shadows were already deep by the time they climbed down the face of the rock to the pool.

“Follow me,” Sorcha told Dalan, and then, without waiting for him to shoulder his pack, she marched purposefully off into the shadows, the darkness retreating before her rush light.

The Brehon watched the evening shadows swell around her body as she passed through them like a seal swimming through a calm sea. Then he ran to catch up with the Druid woman as she made her way out of the little valley into the night.

E
BER FINN RODE HIS CHARIOT AROUND THE FIELD UNTIL
he was sure old Máel Máedóc had gone and would not return. Then he pulled his warhorse to a halt at a respectable distance from the ancient ritual ground not far from the fortress of Dun Gur.

He quickly dismounted the war-cart and walked a few paces to stretch his legs. He knew his mare would not stray with the heavy chariot while there was green grass to be nibbled at.

When he'd loosened up the muscles in his legs he worked on his arms and hands as he would do before a battle, preparing himself to move quickly without straining. Once he was satisfied that he was ready to begin blade practice the king unsheathed his sword and briefly drew his thumb along the edge. Satisfied the weapon was not too dull he swung it around a few times in the air. Then in a sudden burst of battle fury he slashed at three invisible opponents one by one, reveling in the exalting rush of blood that resulted from these exercises.

Eber was a disciplined man who knew the value of slow steady practice. So he abandoned the pointless slashing and prepared himself for the ritual. He spent a few moments resting his sword in his hand, weighing it up before launching into the rehearsed moves of a swordsman.

Every warrior in training had to learn the weapon dance before they were allowed to so much as touch a blade or challenge another to a test of skill. Some fighters were so dedicated to their craft that they played the whole sequence out a dozen times a day in order to remain at the peak of their strength, flexibility and readiness for battle.

Eber Finn, on the other hand, did not consider the exercises that important. He knew them off by heart and though he started the dance each morning before breakfast he rarely ever made his way through all the motions. To him, true discipline was the ability to call on his battle instincts whenever the need arose.

The dance, however, was an important way of focusing his mind, but once he gained a heightened state of consciousness he abandoned it.

And the more experience the king gained, the more convinced he became that luck had as much to do with survival on the battlefield as any oft-repeated skill. He'd already performed the dance that morning so he had no other intention but to distract himself from Máel Máedóc's interference.

He raised the blade above his head and pointed it parallel with the ground, raising the tip above his left shoulder. With knees slightly bent and feet apart, he slowly moved the blade in a wide low arc, balancing his body in a countermovement with his left arm, finishing the sword cycle with the tip pointed at the ground. Eber breathed out forcefully with a loud grunt. This move was immediately followed by a step to the rear which incorporated a parry.

But Eber Finn was already bored. He came to the end of a short sequence of parries and attacks by letting the blade drop to his side with the impetus of its own weight. He gently exhaled a breath, let his body relax and his mind drift on to other matters.

In the perfect stillness the king swallowed hard and cast a careful eye over the scene before him. He was searching for enemies or any sign of danger among the scattered stones and venerable trees which guarded the circle.

This archaic holy place had fascinated him ever since he'd taken possession of Dun Gur. All around these fields the ancient awe-inspiring Danaan folk had built their sacred sanctuaries of old. But this was the largest stone circle of all and it was to this place he was always drawn.

The people Eber had supplanted when he'd gained the field at Sliabh Mis were gone from Dun Gur now. The Danaans had submitted to him, retreated beyond the veil into the Otherworld and given their island
fortress in the middle of the lough into his keeping as a pledge of their treaty.

But the king had never been convinced of the victory. All those Danaans wounded, maimed or killed at Sliabh Mis had by some miracle walked away unscathed. Not even the wisest of Gaedhal Druids could tell him how this had come to be. Máel Máedóc's only explanation was that the Danaans were descended from a race of enchanters who had mastered the healing arts. The old man further claimed that these folk could choose the hour and place of their death if they so desired. But if they ever grew sick or suffered any wound, even though it seemed they were in fact dead, they could be brought back to health again.

The Danaan Druids had defeated death, which made their people the ideal warrior race. For any folk who conquer mortality fear no one. They go to the fight cheerfully, knowing they will live no matter what.

The king knew these mystical folk could have easily defeated his people if they'd wished to do so, simply by employing their healing craft to their advantage. Why then, he wondered, had the Danaans submitted to him and called for a treaty which was so generous to the Gaedhals?

At first he had suspected treachery. The Danaans had tried to trick him once before, so it wasn't impossible they would try again. But as the moons had passed on to the third winter after Sliabh Mis, Eber
Finn had come to a different conclusion. The Danaan Druids had done all they could to help his people settle into their new home.

Their Brehon judges had been placed at his disposal in order to quell any disputes between his victorious chieftains. The Danaans had opened up their storehouses during the first hard winter and shared whatever they had with the newcomers. King Cecht, their overlord, often sent gifts of gold and grain to Eber. And Brocan, ruler of the Fir-Bolg, had sent hostages to live at Eber's court to learn the ways of his people.

Eber Finn now believed the Danaan plan was to gradually bring the two peoples closer together through mutual dependence. This tactic, played out over generations, would probably culminate in total reliance on the Danaans for everything, from music to medicine.

The king glanced around uneasily. His eyes told him he was alone but all his other instincts were on tense alert.

I've been living like a hunted fox for so long I've forgotten how to really rest, he upbraided himself. Still he could not shake off his nervousness. There was something about this place, about the sacred enclosure, that both frightened and attracted him.

The stone circle was encompassed by tall and ancient trees of every clan. The oak was there, low and heavy with summer foliage. The birch, yew, hazel and rowan were all nearby as if one representative of
each tree kindred had been assigned the task of standing sentry.

At one point in the circle there was a gap in the trees which led to a large gray boulder. The king was determined to overcome his fear but still he had no desire to pass under the branches of any of these trees, so he approached the low ring of standing stones through this gap.

He was soon facing the most impressive part of the Danaan stone circle—what seemed to be an entrance between the large gray boulder and a smaller stone. On either side the rocks were piled up like steps.

Even in the bright summer sunshine this place had a disturbing aura of mystery about it. His head ached with the pounding in his ears. Every sense felt on edge. Eber raised his sword and moved a little closer to the ring. A strange unearthly silence engulfed him. His heart began to beat hard against his rib cage and the sweat poured down his chin. His mouth was dry, his breath strained.

White-knuckled fingers gripped the hilt of his sword as he struggled to move his trembling legs. The air was thick with an invisible threat for which Eber could find no name. His feet seemed to move reluctantly until he stood but one step away from the ring of solid stone.

In that instant a small cloud passed over the sun. Eber looked up to the sky. In a flash it had moved on and the king found himself squinting into the orb, the origin of all daylight.

As he exhaled his next breath he felt the tension in his body float away.

Defenses relaxed. Fears dissolved. Eber Finn was overcome by an urge to drop his sword in the grass and simply leave it. The weapon slipped from his fingers and landed with a thud upon the ground. He heard it fall and the sound was strangely reassuring.

“There is no danger here,” Eber whispered, feeling completely safe for the first time since he had come to this strange land. “I should have visited this holy place long ago.”

The words had barely passed his lips when he laid a foot firmly on one low stepping stone and, leaning against the large gray boulder, entered the circle.

No sooner had his foot touched the earth on the other side than Eber Finn found himself drawn directly to the center of the smooth open grassy patch within. He had no idea of the ceremonies that had been practiced here in times gone by. But now he had experienced this mysterious place he was certain the stone circle was the source of some powerful enchantment.