‘There is little rest in this earth,’ declared Patrick. ‘This hill and its plains have been awash too much with the blood of warriors, the gore of invaders, and ichor from offerings made to the old gods of Ireland.’
‘What shall we do?’ asked his priests. ‘If prayer and psalm cannot shift these old ones, then what can be done?’
‘I’m thinking we must listen to them,’ replied Patrick in all mildness.
‘Forbid it, lord! We will never appease or honour these false deities,’ answered the priests and princes. ‘Better that all should die and vanish from this island than that we should ever slip back into that deadly ignorance and suffocating darkness.’
‘I tell you most truly, brothers, there will be no silencing these restless spirits until they have had their say,’ declared Patrick, Pillar of God. ‘Therefore, all of you bear witness to what you shall now hear from my lips, and mark that I shall make no blasphemy, nor profane the name of the True God which we and all peoples who live in light worship:
‘Whose name is Love
And whose path is Love
And whose passing on the path
‘Brings light to all in darkness,
Brings peace to all in strife,
Brings life to all who will receive it,
‘Sight to the blind,
Healing to the lame,
Hearing to the deaf, and
Speech to the dumb.
‘Amen.’
So saying, Patrick pulled his cloak over his face and lowered his head. When he spoke, he spoke with many voices not his own, voices from the past. ‘Hear first,’ he said, ‘the voice of your True Father, he who created this much-favoured land:’
OF THE TRUE GOD, THE GOD WHO IS ONE,
THE CREATOR OF IRELAND AND
ALL THE REALMS AND WORLDS WE KNOW
‘I alone formed you;
I raised you from the sea;
I spread grass upon the rocks
So that cattle and sheep may live on it,
And you on them.
You knew me in that time, as I knew you.
‘Nameless, I was, yet you called on me.
Blind, you were, yet you felt me.
Hearts wanting nothing, being filled,
We slept alongside one another,
Even as in the morning we awoke separately.
‘I loved you from that time.
While you lived I called you mine,
And when you died I brought you into
The Land of Promise where warm, sweet waters flow,
And where mead and wine are plenty.
All who dwell there are stately and beautiful,
Thought without sin, desire without lust,
Love without care, world without end.
‘And on the day that you left me,
I yearned for you as a new bride yearns for her
Husband who leaves her in the day.
You left for another, and I longed for you.
I stood waiting at Tara, Sacred Hill, watching patiently
For you to come back to me, with my eyes fixed
On the distant fields and forests, searching for you,
Preparing for that glad day of your return.’
When he had said this, Patrick came to himself once more and looked around as one awakening from sleep. As night was fast upon them, the attendants built a fire and made camp. While the servants cooked a meal, Patrick again pulled his cloak over his face and began to speak. He said, ‘Hear the voice of one beyond memory:’
OF THE FORGOTTEN GOD OF IRELAND,
THE FEARED GOD
‘Children of Noah, Cessair, and Partholón! Far-travelled! Flood exiles! You took me with you from my hilltop in the east, carried me with you to escape the rains, and then set me upon Tara.
‘You did not want a loving god, and I was not one to you. You wanted a god of security, a god of order against the chaos of the world as it was then. I commanded sacrifice and you gave it to me willingly. I said: “This man’s death will appease me, for he is my enemy and also yours.” You listened and you obeyed. You killed him and gave me his blood as a sign.
‘I said: “This land is mine, keep it pure, keep everyone away who does not speak my name. Put all foreigners to death lest they tempt you to other gods.”
‘I said: “Give me priests so that you may be more obedient to me.”
‘I said: “Let my priests rule over you.”
‘I said: “Give me blood. Give me obedience. Give me fear.”
‘And you did all these things—above all, fear. You learned to fear me so well. You feared me unto the death of your enemies, feared unto the death of your neighbours, feared unto the death of your wives. Then, you looked at your children and said to yourselves, “This one wears my face, but is not as I am. I fear and he does not. I watch my steps in public, and she is careless. I sit quietly in the hall, and they laugh with their friends. These children of ours care little for the god we brought from the east. I fear their fearlessness and their arrogance.”
‘And so you killed your children, although I did not ask it of you. Fear replaced me and you forgot my name, and now the island has all but forgotten yours, and your fear shall follow the last of you into the tomb.’
* * *
Even as this last voice finished, another began:
OF THE FIRST FAIR GOD OF CESSAIR,
THE FAIREST OF BOTH GODS
‘I lay beneath Tara Hill, a lover awaiting the beloved.
My hair is the matted peat, my eyelids are the daisies.
A pile of stones pillows my head, the grass my bedsheet.
Two crows are my eyes—with open beaks they caw loudly.
Hobgoblins dance a jig at my temple, round and around.
When young women seek me at night, I woo them.
When a lord approaches through the woods, I flee him.
Though he begs my embrace, I wag my head and turn away.
Come to seek your fortune inside me, I will not open.
Hunters ride past and I spin them around,
I send them home hungry and wanting.
But lay with me without demand or expectation, and
I shall give young dreams to the old,
And old dreams to the young.
I will lure with honey the groom from his bride,
I shall touch soft harp-strings and finger little bells.
Let any who will sleep unbroken with me,
One night or ten thousand.
Let them awake to wondrous sights,
Or not at all.’
OF THE SECOND FAIR GOD OF NEMEDIANS,
WHO IS FAIRER THAN THE FIRST
‘Switch the babies, and stop the mother’s milk.
Bewitch the rafters and harden the cheese.
Throw darts at the cows to make them kick out.
Sell young pretty maidens to rich old lords, and
Lock them up in high towers of pearl.
Visit the old men in their hills of wood,
Lay grass on their eyes, and moss at their ears.
‘Come, my children, pull my arms around you,
Let us dance a merry dance through the woods.
Lead them a goosewild chase through the forest
Let the soles of their shoes be worn right through,
And the skin of their feet cut to crimson ribbons.
We will dance in the day and in the night,
Today and all the todays of tomorrow.’
Patrick was silent a long while after this. He sat before the fire with his priests and princes around him, and just when they thought he must have fallen asleep, he said, ‘The gods of the Tuatha Dé Danann speak on Tara. Hear me, the All-Mother, I, too, have something to say:’
OF THE GODS OF THE TUATHA DÉ DANANN
DANU, THE ALL-MOTHER, SPEAKS:
‘In the evil day, I will raise up a king at Tara
A king from a line o
f kings,
An outcast, a rejected heir,
Unclean by my decree, but made righteous
By my command.
‘He will set his foot upon the stone
He will set his face to the East
And a black tide will ebb at his outstretched arm.
‘My king will be called “The Death of the Formoire,”
And he will cast my spear at the face of Balor,
Evil-Eyed One, and shatter his visage.
‘My beloved children shall walk beneath the shield
And banner of Conor mac Ardan,
And they will be called golden as the dawn
And fierce as the night-dark storm.
‘They shall robe themselves in twilight,
Taking flight on the freshening wind,
Dancing on the waves.’
BADB THE CARRION GODDESS OF WAR AND QUEEN OF THE SHADOW WORLD, SPEAKS:
‘See, the crows flock from every sky to darken the
Earth of Tara. From their eyes a fall of
Blood, like rain scattered from the gods of the crowded
Skies. But no thing will grow.
The cauldron of plenty shall be broken.
A black field will spread out to the glory of
Nothing and no one, but my own,
On Tara.
‘See, the clouds turn in the sky, the
Earth reels, clothed in the
Blood of futile hands. The empty
Skies look down upon a field of
Broken spears and shivered shields, with
Nothing left to answer,
On Tara.
‘See, the destruction of the
Earth, a price paid in
Blood. The lorn
Skies weep over the lost. Let
Nothing stand
On Tara.
‘See, the
Earth’s
Blood.
Skies
Broken for
Nothing,
On Tara.
‘See blood,
Broken Tara.
‘See, Tara.’
CROM, THE GOD WHO SITS IN DARKNESS, SPEAKS:
‘Tell me:
How long are victors victorious?
Summer will one day be without blossom.
And then cattle shall not give milk,
Nor eat at the green slopes of fair Tara.
‘Women will walk without modesty,
Men without honour will stand
Their godless feet on Tara
And, kingless, will conquer.
‘The woods will not give lumber,
The sea will not give fish,
The ground shall be used up,
And dust fill the farmer’s hands.
‘False judgements of old men will be bought,
False precedents of law-speakers will be set,
Every man will be a betrayer and speak no truth.
Every son will be a pillager.
‘In that time Ireland will be unmade,
And I shall depart, and all valour with me.
Dark, my name; darker still my destination.
We shall sleep in the hills
Until woken.’
The night drew on and many of the priests and attendants wrapped themselves in their cloaks and fell asleep. Those few stalwart companions who remained awake heard him speak again, in a voice that sounded as if it came a great distance from across the sea:
OF THE GODLESS MILESIANS WHO HOLD THEMSELVES EQUAL TO THE GODS
‘We broke the stones at Tara because we were troubled by the dark memories they held. Wandering for so long, we brought no gods with us—the unblessed peoples, we came to a land that was built by the gods for themselves.
‘Yet those who dwelt here did not honour the land they had found. Nor did they honour themselves, or prize their own worth. They had fallen far, knowing nothing of their past and not caring for their future, they remained prideful of their ignorance.
‘Beautiful of face and straight of back, they devised arts that will long outlive their time, yet the people do not prosper on the land. Dignity without heart, life without passion, breath without air, they are passing. They are as ghosts. Witness them, as they make their final parade:
‘White shields borne in light hands,
Traced with moonlit silver design;
Blue swords encrusted with stars,
And tall horns yawning overhead.
‘A glorious assembly, a night-river on the march,
Pounding soft drums and sounding low bells.
Their silver spears rise as a forest among them,
Pale-faced and fair peoples of the grey night.
‘Battalions scatter before this sight,
Like a well-honed sword they pierce the foe.
In carried starlight they march to combat,
A relentless avenging host!
‘Sons of queens and kings are one and all;
Each, of noble birth, wear golden-yellow locks
And torcs of silver and gold.
A hero’s feat has each one performed
No wonder that their renown be wide.
‘Smooth and comely of body,
Bright, blue-starred eyes,
Pure, white crystalline teeth,
High noble foreheads,
And thin, wine-red lips.
‘They are as skilled at man-slaying as singing,
Melodious in the ale-house,
They compose long ballads,
Masterly epics of their wars.
‘Each trill is a war cry,
Every plucked note is a crushing blow …
Yet their song will end,
For they have forgotten Tara.’
AGAIN, OF PATRICK, AT TARA
When Patrick had spoken all these things, he slept. Some while later, as the sun was coming up, he took his cloak from over his face, and his attendants brought him food and drink to break his fast. The priests and princes gathered around to hear what he had to say, for they were still greatly puzzled and not a little concerned by what they had heard during that long, strange night. Patrick sipped his ale and ate his barley cake until he felt his strength returning. When he finished, he stood and took up his priestly staff, and turned to gaze upon the Tomb of the Kings.
‘Witness,’ he cried, ‘that though I have spoken with tongues not my own, yet I have uttered no untrue thing. So shall we build our church in this land. And as we make those holy places, let the names of the gods be remembered hereafter as an ogham script on a stone is remembered—merely a sign that a fellow traveller passed this way before, but has long since moved on.
‘Their path is not our path and even if we have joined it for a time, it must divide again. Those who moved along that road did not know how to get to where we shall all arrive at, but we pray that one day their wandering will finally cease and they will find peace.
‘May it be that all who walk in darkness see a far-off light on a distant hill. Let them approach that gleaming city and be welcomed by those happy folk living there. And in that fair place, may those weary travellers eat and drink and find the rest and contentment that they never did find all the days they wandered.
‘And in that moment, may they know that they are home and find peace everlasting in the Kingdom of All Tomorrows.
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
‘Amen.’
TOR BOOKS BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
In the Region of the Summer Stars
In the Land of the Everliving
In the Kingdom of All Tomorrows
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD is the internationally renowned author of the bestselling Pendragon Cycle, which received critical acclaim for its creative retelling of the Arthur legend and its historical credibility. In addition to that series, he is the author of more than twenty-eight novels and numerous children’s and nonfiction books of fantasy and imaginative fiction, including the award-winning Song of
Albion trilogy. Lawhead makes his home in Oxford, England, with his wife, Alice.
Visit him online at www.stephenlawhead.com, or sign up for email updates here.
www.facebook.com/StephenRLawhead
Twitter@StephenLawhead
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map
Aoife
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Rhiannon
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Sceana
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Donal
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Morfran
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Aoife