GUILLAUME IX

  Traveling to meet the Gaídel High King at the Coronation Stone was an eye-opening experience for Guillaume: both in the sights he saw and the alienation he felt during the journey. He knew that there were differences between how the Jotman and the Gaídel lived, yet was surprised by how much they diverged.

  Jotman life was well organized, neatly structured by aristocratic leadership and mercantile endeavors; the Gaídel did not appear many generations removed from a primitive existence. Petty kings vied for power and towns appeared to be a relatively new phenomenon, barely starting to replace simple wattle and daub homesteads. There were familiar animals like pigs, sheep, and oxen, as well as crops like wheat, barley, oats, flax, and hay, but what differed was the cohesion. Jotman nobles prided themselves on consolidating their power and expanding their wealth; Gaídel appeared content living centuries in the past and were less concerned with progress. This was a land unchanged until the Giantkin invaded. Guillaume was shocked to learn that none of the fortified ports dotting the coast had existed until longships from the frigid north had arrived.

  The Gaídel were a reactive instead of a proactive people. To Guillaume progress was a linear march forward and for the first time he began to question that assumption. An insatiable hunger motivated Jotman conquest and suddenly that felt like a shallow pursuit. It had driven their expansion to the western edge of the world, what would happen when there was no where else to conquer?

  As Liadan traveled, she was frequently surrounded by a protective and unwelcoming entourage of Gaídel. She had replaced her black and white habit with a rough-spun tunic covered by a dark green cloak. The artistry on the broach that clasped the cloak around her shoulders was exquisite and Guillaume began to see how within the relatively simple lifestyles of the Gaídel, there were flourishes of expression. It was a perfect metaphor for the differences between the two cultures. The towering castles that had inspired Guillaume were now starting to feel like monuments to insecurity.

  Traveling through picturesque and largely untouched swaths of wilderness also gave Guillaume some insight into Eógan’s perspective of the world: how offensive an extractive relationship to the nature world could be. That realization did not thaw their icy relationship, yet it gave Guillaume hope that he might eventually bond with his Pechtish companion.

  Much of Guillaume’s time was spent walking alongside Esker, who despite their newfound ability to communicate, had a reserved nature and seemed reluctant to express her opinion. From what little Guillaume had managed to glean from his friend, Tengu society was severely regimented, exceeding even the hierarchies of the Jotman. It dawned on Guillaume how the differences between himself and his three companions might end up being their greatest strength. Perhaps Lady Galdr’s prophesy was accurate and the four of them were uniquely suited to prevent an imminent and needless conflict.

  The site of Lord Osmond’s castle was on the south eastern portion of the island of Galálann. The route to the Coronation Stone took them inland to the northwest and closer to towards the territory that the Giantkin had wrested from the Gaídel. Fortified positions began to dot the hillsides, patrolled by Gaídel forces representing various petty kings. The cohesive training and regimented approach towards military was another striking distinction between the Jotman and Gaídel. Many of the warriors Guillaume saw along the journey to the Coronation Stone looked more like conscripted farmers than professional soldiers.

  Before the sun set on the fifth day of their travels, a small mountain loomed over the lightly rolling hills on the horizon. Its slope was made gentle by age, but as they neared, Guillaume could see a jagged point rising from the summit.

  “The Coronation Stone and the seat of the High King,” Liadan said with pride as she gestured towards the mountain.

  The strata of the rock became visible, banded by vivid stripes of blue limestone. On the eastern side, structures dotted the slope and Guillaume was shocked at how well they blended into the land. Instead of towering above and claiming the high ground, as a Jotman castle would, the High King’s fortress was united with the ridges of the mountain. With the exception of the Coronation Stone at the mountain’s peak, whose menhirs resembled a crown that gave the site its name, the Gaídel stronghold perfectly matched the profile of the slope. A quality which made the crown atop all the more distinguished.

  Guillaume could sense Esker’s interest, she seemed to be fascinated by the stonework. She shielded her large eyes with her arm as she stared upward.

  Liadan caught Guillaume’s glance and smiled sweetly at him as her pace, and that of her Gaídel entourage, quickened. Most of the party’s trip had been along a dirt road; now ancient cobblestones clopped beneath the hooves of the horses drawing their wagons and scattered encampments of Gaídel became more frequent as they approached the seat of the High King. Colorful tents and vivid banners surrounded the base of the mountain in a patchwork chaos that held true to Gaídel aesthetics.

  The festive atmosphere of groups of Gaídel warmly welcoming familiar faces was dampened by the gawking reactions directed at Guillaume. Guillaume understood that he was unwelcome and recognized how his people were impacting the Gaídel way of life, yet it stung that he was being held personally accountable. How could the Gaídel not see a difference between someone like Lord Osmond and himself? Guillaume drew the cowl of his cloak tightly over his head and started to pay more attention to the worn cobbles at his feet, instead of jubilation surrounding him.

  “Chin up lad,” Eógan said as his slapped Guillaume’s lanky frame. “They are not keen of me either.”

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  EóGAN VIII

  Eógan had assumed he was knowledgable about the Gaídel people and their culture; however, the more time he spent in their land, the more he began to question that belief. It was easy to overestimate how well you knew your neighbor, even in a village, and Eógan was discovering how little he actually knew about Gaídel life. While the Jotman still felt alien to the point of being impossible to understand, there were deep roots that the Gaídel and the Free Folk shared. According to Lady Galdr that was true with the Tengu as well. Eógan shook his head at the thought, it seemed inconceivable that an entire civilization could be forgotten, especially one with such a distinctly different appearance.

  Eógan thought back to the aftermath of the battle with the Jotman and his introduction of Esker to his people. He had felt conflicted about being reunited with other True Folk: simultaneously elated to spend time with familiar faces, yet also dreading having to admit what had happened to Cinoch and his war party. Eógan reflected upon that meeting five days prior.

  As Esker and Eógan approached the celebrating and jovial True Folk, some on the periphery of the mass of undulating bodies noticed their approach and were especially taken with Esker’s towering height. By the time they reached the outer ring, nearly a dozen True Folk were dancing and cartwheeling around Esker joyously. She soon had two younger warriors riding on her shoulders and seemed as elated as her new acquaintances.

  Eógan was greeted warmly, especially by the occasional kin or friend he encountered, but he sensed a wariness in their disposition. None voiced the question, yet Eógan knew that all were eager to know why he was not with his war party. The press of faces initially drawn in curiosity to the Tengu would sour as they saw Eógan and grew denser as Esker and Eógan made their way to the center of the celebration.

  All at once, the mass of bodies opened into a ring where a bonfire was being built, fueled by some of the fallen lumber and the remains of a shattered wagon. The leaders of this war party, Dar-Ilei and Modwenna, stopped supervising the pyre’s construction and turned to face Eógan. Modwenna’s hands rested upon a bone staff and her druidic robes hung loosely upon her bare shoulders, with long flowing white hair covering the cowl. As the mother of winter, she oversaw the annual weeklong festival that ushered in the dark and cold season that marked the beginning of the year.

  Dar-Ilei was a sister of Eógan’s mother Aife and shared her primal regality, as well as a similarly magnificent mane of red hair. Dar-Ilei’s eyes lit up and she grinned as Eógan approached, while Modewenna’s gaze never left Esker.

  “You must be blooded by now young wolf,” Dar-Ilei growled warmly as she embraced Eógan roughly. “Yet why are you here and not raiding with Cinoch?”

  Eógan lowered his eyes and knelt in supplication, presenting his neck for the deathblow owed to those who betrayed their kin in battle. “I failed them war leader, they fought the Jotman bravely and I ran like a coward.” He was resigned to his fate.

  A hand had stilled Eógan and he raised his eyes uncertainly to meet those of Dar-Ilei. “It is not my place to pass judgement on you for your deed, I leave that to our den mother Aife. If you have need, I will speak of your actions during this battle. I have seen you fight and you had the courage to tell the truth. I also remember seeing you as a young pup standing up to bullies when you did not possess the means to defend yourself,” Dar-Ilei said laughing, “You tried your hardest to keep a stoic face when I tended to your wounds.”

  His aunt’s kind words moved Eógan and he was not ashamed by the tears that had flowed down his cheeks. There was a peaceful silence between them.

  Modwenna was youthful, despite her bone white hair. She silently grasped Esker’s arm and turned it so the Tengu’s palm faced the sky. Modwenna then reached into the sleeve of her druidic robes and placed a small stone into Esker’s hand, pressing it reverently with both of hers. The shaman led Esker over to the ring of stones around the bonfire. Without a word exchanged between the two, they walked the circumference of the oblong stones.

  Esker met Modwenna’s eyes for a moment before the True Folk shaman nodded. As Esker crouched and reached out towards a head-sized stone, the festivities of the gathered True Folk hushed: all attention was drawn to the Tengu.

  For the True Folk, fire has the potential for divination and the placement of each piece of rock could reveal uncomfortable truths. Esker delicately adjusted several stones, fine tuning their positions. Modwenna grunted in satisfaction and grinned ferally. The tension from the crowd was released and the celebration resumed.

  Esker looked at Eógan and smiled brightly. He wiped a few tears from his cheek and turned his attention back to Dar-Ilei. Her eyes snapped to Eógan’s forearms and her brow furrowed. “Your snake spirits are absent child,” Dar-Ilei said with concern. “You must make yourself whole once more.”

  Eógan hung his head low. “Should I stay with you and join this war party?”

  “The Wyrd takes you elsewhere,” Modwenna interjected in a brittle voice, like the crackling of ice crystals. Eógan met the shaman’s eyes searchingly, but the sage did not elaborate further.

  When Eógan turned towards Dar-Ilei, she shrugged deferentially. “Modwenna sees paths true, even if they are blanketed with snow. Continue your journey nephew, when you are faced with indecision trust your heart.” Dar-Ilei grasped Eógan’s shoulder affectionally and pulled him into a tight hug. As their embrace released, she shoved him playfully. “Now scamper along, so we may light this bonfire. It will draw much attention from the invaders and give you ample time to distance yourselves from any pursuers.

  “Thank you war leaders,” Eógan said earnestly, “May your hunt be bountiful.”

  Dar-Ilei bared her canines in a savage smile and as Modwenna nodded, her head snapped towards the sky violently. Her eyes turned a frosty blue. “Beware the court of the blind, see what they cannot,” the shaman said cryptically. She seemed slightly dazed as her eyes thawed back into their natural olive color.

  ———

  Eógan had little interest in spending time indoors and was especially dismissive of the Jotman’s obsession with castles, yet the seat of the Gaídel High King took his breath away. He could sense that a connection to the land acted as a mortar for the stoneworks rising along the crest of a mountain.

  The tents and encampments of Gaídel were haphazardly arrayed on either side of the old stone road leading to the gates of the fortress. Sporadic groups of Gaídel jeered at Eógan and he eagerly gestured back rudely. He was a bit surprised when attention paid to him was eclipsed by palpable hatred directed at Guillaume. The lad cowered beneath his hood and slumped his shoulders. Eógan almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  As he gave the Jotling some halfhearted encouragement, they reached a gatehouse with a large iron-banded door that led into the High King’s seat. Eógan did a double take when he noticed a tiny purple skinned creature peering out of a much smaller door to the side. Its stature was slighter than even Eógan’s and it may have been mistaken for a child. However, its dress was far too refined and bushy white whiskers sprouted from its cheeks, suggesting advanced age. Eógan had heard tales of its kind, this was a mischievous creature known as a Bauchan.

  The little purple creature’s little purple eyebrow cocked at Eógan’s scrutiny and the tiny door was slammed shut by tiny hands.