Celtic Nights

Reunion

Her legs gave way when they landed. She collapsed to her knees and would have sprawled across the thick carpet had it not been for the hand of the wizard restraining her. Derryth heard people speaking in fomori, the words garbled and ugly. The conversation continued for some time but her understanding of the language was not enough to follow what was said. Eventually, someone pulled the sack from her head.

It was Malwas, King of Fomor, high priest of the Spider goddess and Lann’s father. He wore a heavy velvet mantle the colour of night with the danaan crown on his brow. The usurper had lent much of his colouring to their daughter. When Derryth saw him, she saw her child. Tears rolled down her face, choking her until she was gasping for air around the gag. At his nod, the wizard removed the sodden cloth.

“It is good to see you, Derryth, especially as you will go to the altar and Akria immediately.” Malwas spoke calmly, quite accustomed to his guests arriving sobbing and bloodstained. He was slightly surprised at her in tears. His worst threats had not curbed her opposition before but five decades had passed since she had escaped him. The danaan had been driven from their homeland, a bitter loss for any druid.

“Death would be a mercy.” Derryth said dully. She had laughed at Dafydd when he sang of people dying of grief. Tragic poetry had always struck her as overblown. Now she wished the ballads were true and that she could flee from the crushing pain. Only fortnight ago she had held her infant daughter in her arms. A week ago she had carried her son through the forest and helped him name the trees.

Malwas stared down at the stricken danaan. He knew the druid was incapable of melodrama. Everything was down to the earth with her; not necessary simple for she was no fool but pared to the essentials. The priest studied his prisoner. She looked exactly as she had when he had last seen her, he realised. Fifty years was not long for either of their peoples but there should have been some change.

The fine vines that served her as hair had not grown in length. Time and danaan blood might have spared her lines on her face. Despite decades of war, she could have avoided scarring injury though she would have had to be lucky. Malwas could believe both of those possibilities. That Derryth, so unconcerned with her appearance, would keep her hair at shoulder length all this time he could not credit.

“Where have you been hiding?” The priest demanded, his eyes hard. He would know if she spoke false. She had no tongue for lies either. According to Lann, who had thought the bard an amusing toy, the talent rested in double-measure in her brother Dafydd. Derryth sank onto her heels so weary she could barely form the words to answer his question.

“Avalon, where the old kings slumber.” She had thought the legends of the Isle of Mists were just bardic embroidery. They had entered sidhe doons before without ill effects. Seemingly of their own accord, tears slid down her face. She hardly noticed. Derryth did not even flinch when Malwas smoothed his fingers down her cheek. The high priest took careful heed of that however.

He knew she hated him. The druid had done all in her power to deny him what he wanted. She and her dross of companions had sacked every fomori encampment they found, turned loyal soldiers into traitors and helped the upstart Prince Ilithan escape his execution. Yet when faced with a threat to her infant from her own kin, she had left Lann in his care. A slow, cruel smile grew on his face.

He gestured to two of the acolytes standing at the door leading out of his private quarters. Malwas gave them their orders and they led the unresponsive druid from the chamber. Still smiling, he returned his attention to the wizard. There was much more to discuss and much to do. Lann waited for him in the mortuary chapel. She would not rest there long.