As Connal battles Orthen’s champions in faraway Gallodel, a conspiracy is brewing back in Cregeirann.

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Chapter Six

A Well-Laid Snare

THE ELDER RUARCH’S house was simple, unadorned by the foreign fineries of Tassach’s own home, save for a high-backed wooden chair that looked distinctly Brevin in make. The old man slumped into the plush cushion, his wrinkled hands folded, his grey beard drooping to his knees. He smiled weakly as Tassach entered.

“Ah, Tassach, my boy. Good to see you. Please, come in. Take a seat.”

Tassach bowed, taking the hard stool that sat before the elder’s chair. The use of “boy” rankled him, but he did not correct Ruarc. He could not afford to rile the old man.

“Are you hungry?” Ruarc asked.

“No, thank you,” Tassach said.

“Ale then.” The old man clapped his feeble hands before Tassach could desist. Then, raising his wobbly voice, he croaked, “Terin! Bring ale.”

Terin rushed into the room, bearing a tankard and two eOrthen goblets. She was young and pretty, plump in the way Ruarc seemed to prefer. From Tassach’s earliest memories of the man, he had employed only girls — young, unmarried, plump. That he was now ancient as a rock did not bring this practice to a halt.

“Is that all, lord?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear.” Ruarc leered at her. “Go on.”

She bowed awkwardly to the two men and scurried from the room. As the swish of her skirts died away, Ruarc chuckled quietly, bringing the cup to his lips.

Tassach fought back his revulsion and sipped his ale. It was typical Ellani swill — strong, hoppy, the favourite of every loud-mouthed, half-witted warrior in Cregeirann. Nothing like the rich red wines of Auronia for which he had acquired a particular taste.

“So,” Ruarc said at last. “You asked to speak with me?”

“I did. And Brona too. Is she coming?” He had hoped to bring them together for this talk. Though the two almost always butted heads, they were far and away the most influential leaders on the Suid.

“Agh, you know Brona,” Ruarc said, pawing the air with his hand. “Always busy. Always put out by the least little thing.”

Tassach paused, waiting for the old man to go on. He didn’t.

“So is she coming?” he asked at last, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

“Brona?” Ruarc sounded surprised, as if he had forgotten what they were just talking about. “Oh, yes. But who knows when?”

A mischievous twinkle glimmered in the elder’s eye. “But why don’t you tell me what this is all about first. We can fill her in later. Whenever she deigns to show up.”

Tassach sighed. This wasn’t at all how he had planned it. How it played out in his imagination, night after night as he lay upon his bed, contemplating the unthinkable.

“Well, my lord,” he said hesitantly. “You see, I am concerned.”

“Concerned? What ever for, my boy?”

“Our people. I fear we are adrift in a sea of troubles, like a beleaguered vessel — mastless, rudderless, at the mercy of every peril.”

“What? Is it truly as bad as all that?”

“We have no leader. It’s been nearly two months since Craedon’s death. And still we are without direction.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. There’s still the Suid, of course.”

“Of course,” Tassach said, taking a sip of the bitter ale, trying not to grimace. “But with so many voices, so many wise heads, it is hard to make a decision quickly. We are unable to respond swiftly to crises.”

“True,” Ruarc admitted.

“That’s why we need a king. Why we’ve always needed one. A man who heeds the Suid’s counsel yet strikes fast and true as only a single man can.”

“Hmm, I see what you mean,” Ruarc stroked the tangled hairs of his grey beard. “We do need a king. Connal I suppose?”

“I’m not so sure. Connal is a good man and a brave warrior. But he left against our counsel, against our orders. As his friend, it grieves me to say this, but he put his own needs over the kingdom’s. We can’t wait for when he decides to return. If he ever does.”

Ruarc opened his mouth to respond when a knock came at the door.

“Terin!” he called. “The door. Hurry, girl!”

Terin scuttled back into the room and opened the latch, revealing Brona at the threshold. The gaunt woman said nothing as she entered, fixing Terin with a steely, disapproving gaze. The young girl shrank from her, retreating into the adjoining room.

“Brona,” Ruarc said. “You’re here. We wondered if you’d ever come.”

“As I told you. I would be here by the fifth hour. And it is the fifth hour now.” Her voice was quiet and brittle. It seemed the two elders were destined always to quarrel.

Ruarc shrugged. “Well you didn’t miss much. Young Tassach here was just talking about choosing the next king.”

“Was he?” she arched her brow, then sat on one of Ruarc’s stools, forming a nearly equidistant triangle with the two men.

“I was expressing,” Tassach said, feeling annoyed at the old man’s hasty summary, “my concern about the lack of leadership in Cregeirann. The people are uneasy. Only recently, our allies were raided by the brothers Halgar and Nalgrim. If we should be attacked again, we’ll need a leader to respond.”

Brona nodded. She sat still, her face expressionless. Tassach noted Ruarc had not provided her a drink and wished the elder had offered him the same insult.

“And whose name did you put forward?” she asked, eying Tassach. He felt a knot forming in his stomach.

“We did not get that far,” Ruarc said. “But we were just discussing the Lord Connal when you arrived.”

“Ah, and what of him?”

“Tassach here thinks the poor lad’s unfit to be king.”

“Hardly my choice of words, Lord Ruarc,” Tassach said, raising his hands. “Connal is a dear friend. And none can deny what immense service he’s rendered our people.”

“Of course,” Brona said.

“However,” he continued, “in the past while, he has shown a worrying lack of good sense. Insulting the Suid, openly denouncing us to the people, sailing away on his quest for revenge — these all demonstrate a concerning lack of maturity. Perhaps, had Craedon lived into old age, young Connal would have had time to come into his own. But we can’t afford to wait for that.”

“No, we can’t,” Brona agreed. “Besides, he abandoned us before the election. If he were here, perhaps, but we can hardly elect an absent man.” It was exactly what he had hoped she’d say. He knew Brona had little love for the brash, arrogant young warrior who, time and again, defied the wisdom and authority of the Suid.

“A shame,” Tassach said, shaking his head, feigning sorrow.

“What of Kierran?” Ruarc asked. “I’ve always thought that fellow had a good head on his shoulders.”

“Kierran is an excellent choice,” Tassach said. “Strong, cunning, a favorite of Craedon. And yet…”

“And yet he went with Connal on that preposterous mission,” Brona said, finishing his thought. “A bunch of blood-crazed fools, risking the peace and security of Cregeirann to prove their manhood. It’s reprehensible!”

“Quite,” Tassach said. He was immensely pleased by how well this was going.

“But if not Connal or Kierran, then who?” Ruarc asked. “What other noble warrior is there who did not fall with Craedon or leave with Connal?”

“Perhaps it need not be a warrior,” Tassach said, as if the thought were only now occurring to him. “A diplomat may be just what these islands need.”

“Who do you have in mind?” Brona asked, eying him again with what he thought was wariness.

“I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his short beard. “What about you, Ruarc?”

“Ruarc?” Brona snorted. “He is far too old.”

The old man glared at her. “You’re no young lamb yourself, Brona. But no, my boy. I feel these days I lack the energy for such a role.”

Tassach pretended to look disappointed. “What about Esca?” He could barely contain his laughter. The man was such an enormous fool, he could not imagine him as an elder, let alone a king.

“I think not,” Brona said simply. Not even Ruarc questioned her appraisal.

“Who then?” Tassach threw up his hands in mock frustration. “We need a man to lead us in these dark, unstable times.”

“Or a woman,” Brona said. She cast a defiant look at them both.

“Or a woman,” Tassach allowed. The knot in his stomach tightened. He had not counted on this. Did Brona, too, harbor ambitions for the crown?

“Ha!” Ruarc spat. “There’s never been a woman on Cregeirann’s throne!”

“Maybe that should change,” she said.

“Sure,” Ruarc said, chuckling into his scraggly beard. “A woman on the throne. Just what we need with the enemy at our door. Suggest that to the Suid and you’ll be laughed from the hall.”

Brona glared at him, obviously readying a tirade of anger. Then she sighed, relaxed her jaw, and slumped a little.

Tassach breathed an inward sigh of relief. That was that.

At last, Brona turned to Tassach. “What about you?”

“Me?” He was beginning to worry they’d never get there.

“Yes,” Brona said. “You are young still and wise, and you have the respect of the Suid. And you’re a man.”

“Yes,” Ruarc said, sitting up a little. “By Drog, why didn’t I think of that? You’d make a great king!”

Finally. This was the moment he’d dreamt of.

“I don’t know,” Tassach said. “I’ve never thought of myself as a leader. I wish only to serve my people.”

“Ah, you see, my boy, that’s exactly what a good king should say,” Ruarc said. He nodded knowingly at Tassach. “To lead well, one must serve well. Already you sound like a monarch!”

Of course he did. For weeks, he’d rehearsed this speech, laboring over it, sculpting it like a block of marble.

“On this, I agree with Ruarc,” Brona said. “I can’t think of a finer choice to lead us. You’d have my vote.”

“And mine, of course,” Ruarc said. “I’ll talk with some of the others on the Suid. See if I can’t persuade them to get behind your candidacy.”

“As will I,” Brona said, clearly unwilling to let Ruarc gain more influence with the future king. “By the time we call the Suid together, you’ll find many eager to crown you.”

♚ ♚ ♚

The seer Gnora lived on the island of Olcheól, a half-hour’s boat ride from Cregeirann. The very existence of this island was one of the many hypocrisies that had marked Craedon’s reign. Technically, all manner of divination outside of Aonel’s church was strictly prohibited, punishable by death. But Craedon had compromised, landing on a solution to half-please both priest and pagan: the seers and devotees to the old gods were banned from the main island, limited to the many smaller tributaries that surrounded the Iron Rock. Yet everyone knew where to find the seers, located in the same dingy alleys where harlots plied their trade and disreputable merchants sold stolen goods.

It was not strange then that Tassach should go to her, yet he felt the need for concealment all the same, taking his private boat under cover of darkness, covering his head with a long black hood. Only a deaf and dumb boatman accompanied him. In his own mind, he seemed unable to separate this minor sin from his conspiracy to take the throne.

He left the boat with his servant, picking his way through the moonless dark, following the now familiar path to Gnora’s door. It was silent, too late even for Cregeirann’s whoremongers and black-market patrons, and the hundred or so people who lived on this wave-beaten rock would be inside, asleep. All but Gnora, sleepless as the gods whose oracles she revealed.

Tassach knocked lightly at her squat hovel’s door and waited a few moments for her to open. She was old, ancient as time itself. No one could tell of when she was born or to what parents, nor what land had first seen her draw breath. He could imagine no time when she was not thus: ancient, wrinkled, wise.

She bid him enter the night-black room, lit sparsely by the low-burning embers of a hearth. She crossed her legs and sat by the coals, and he came and did the same, sitting across from her as he always did. For a while they sat, silent as stones.

Then she held out her open hand. He reached into his cloak, producing a purse of clinking silver, which he placed into her palm. She gave a toothless old smile and tucked the purse into the billows of her robes. She reached for a small clay pot that sat beside her, pinching the heady dust with a withered hand.

The seer cast the dust into the coals, and the flames leapt in a sudden blaze. Tinged with green they were, and from them wafted an intoxicating scent. Tassach watched the fire and felt his vision daze as she began her cryptic heathen chant.

Then she spoke in the Ellani tongue. “Behold, the spirits attend. Griannan opens the portal to knowledge. Luanag readies her song of wisdom. What would you know?”

Her words broke his trance. He looked up from the dancing flames to her wrinkled face, saw her eyes closed and her body swaying. He swallowed and asked for what seemed the hundredth time, “Will I be king of Cregeirann?”

He waited for her answer with bated breath. Each time he had asked, and each time the answer had been vague: promising yet uncertain. He needed more.

“I see a high-backed throne,” she said, “and you upon it. I see a golden circlet on your brow, and men of honor bowing to you.”

His heart pounded wildly. These words were new, terrifyingly hopeful. He chose his next question with caution, fearing her answer.

“And this throne: it is Cregeirann’s?”

“It is.”

His spirit soared. He could hardly believe what she said. He feared to wear out his fortune, but could not refrain from one more question:

“And the Lady Ada.” His voice wavered, nearly cracked. “Will she be mine?”

Gnora paused, looked him in the eye. “Like the plundered goods of a conquered people she will be to you, a fierce mare bound and bridled. Your hand shall grasp the reins.”

For a moment, he puzzled over her wording. But it was only a moment. This was the seer’s way, always indirect. But surely this was affirmation. Ada would be his. It was beyond belief. Ada and the throne. What more than this could a man desire?

Then a dark thought crossed his mind, threatening to mar his joy.

“And what of Connal?” he asked.

“What of him?”

“Will he die?”

She snickered. “All men die. But you needn’t have paid silver to learn that.”

“I mean, what will happen to him? Will he return? Will he take the crown?”

“Ah, young lord, such clarity is not given to me this side of death. The gods are stingy, revealing our destiny in bits and pieces. Otherwise, what fun would be left them?”

“So they reveal nothing of Connal?”

“No, there is always something. But that was not your question.”

He sighed. It was always thus. He had to word his questions with precision or else learn nothing of use.

“What do you see of Connal then?” Sometimes the open-ended question worked better.

“I see the life-path fork before him. And at either end the dragon waits.”

“Dragon? What dragon? There are no dragons left in all of Moralann.”

She laughed again, a sickly, ancient cackle. “A foolish man pays for knowledge, then claims he already knows better.”

He grimaced. “Apologies.” Often her words came as riddles, layers of symbolism difficult to untangle. Perhaps the dragon was a symbol of peril? Of death? “You said both paths lead to a dragon?”

“Fierce battle awaits him, but the end of it I cannot foresee. But either way, fall or triumph, his destiny is linked to yours.”

A pang of fear shot through him. He wanted to argue with her again but thought better of it. What did she mean their destinies were linked? In what way? If Connal lived, did that mean the warrior would destroy him? And if Connal fell, surely that must mean Tassach would triumph.

She had fallen silent, and he knew from experience this meant the consultation was over, the portal to the spirits closed. He would learn no more from her tonight.

He rose slowly and pulled his cloak around him, heading for the door. But as his hand was on the latch, she muttered to him, so quietly he almost missed it, her words like ice in his veins.

“Your cunning makes and unmakes you, Tassach, son of Brion. A well-laid snare may catch its framer. Tread with caution.”

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