Challenge of the clans (37 page)

"All right, Tadg. I won't kill you. But I'll see your treachery exposed. I'll see you stripped of your position."

Tadg smiled, once again confident. "Denounce me and you denounce yourself as well. If your honor is so important to you, think how Httle would be left: to you if your part in this conspiracy were known. No man of the Fianna, no man of Ireland would trust you. "

"He is right," Conan put in dismally. "No one would believe that we didn't use the druid's help to gain the leadership."

Goll shook his head in frustration. He had only tried to fulfill the obligation he felt to the high king, and it had brought him to this.

"So, keep your precious captaincy, MacMoma," Tadg went on. "And keep your loyalty to the king as well. Challenge the Clan na Baiscne if Finn succeeds in becoming their chieftain. Let me help you destroy them as we did once before."

"Your nerve is very great, Druid," growled the Fian leader. "Now you expect me to take part in more of your treachery?"

"I expect you to do as you promised long ago and see the clan of Cumhal wiped away! They are still dangerous to the king. It is for him this must be done. Refuse and you risk breaking your bonds of loyalty."

"I am loyal," Goll shot back, "but only to the high king. I will obey orders, but only his, not yours. I know now that it's only your hatred of Cumhal and his son that moves you. YouVe used me and the king to your own ends. Well, maybe I can't stop you, but Til do nothing more to help you. Conn may call me disloyal if he wishes, and you may threaten me with dishonor, but nothing will bring me to disgrace myself or my clan again!"

"So, it is over," the high king said mournfully, slowly pacing the floor of his quarters. "MacCumhal has passed the last of the bardic tests. Goll must accept him as a man of the Fianna, and tonight I must recognize his lav^l right to the clan chieftainship." He stopped and cast a desperate look toward Tadg. "And youVe certain Goll will do nothing to help?"

The high druid shook his head. "He is useless to us now. Why, he'd likely give the leadership back to Finn's clan if he had the choice."

"Then we can try nothing more," said Conn. "Without the Moma clan to take the blame, it would be too

risky. I fear Finn MacCumhal, but I fear exposure more. It could bring the Fianna to open rebellion!"

The lines that age had etched in Conn's lean face drew into deep furrows around his mouth and between his jutting brows, making him seem suddenly very old, very worn. He dropped wearily down onto a bench, letting his head fall forward into his hands.

"Perhaps we cannot act directly," the high druid agreed. Then, in a careful way, he added, "But there may still be a way that we can bring this brash young warrior to his death and seem blameless in it."

Conn lifted his head and looked toward Tadg, his expression one of mixed hope and puzzlement.

"A way? What is it?"

"It is nearly Samhain eve. We could send him against Aillen."

The high king drew back, aghast. "The son of Midhna? No! We wouldn't dare to do that!"

"Yes we could!" Tadg earnestly replied. He moved to Conn, sat beside him, leaned in close. All his powers to cajole, to reason, to convince were brought into play now, in this effort to manipulate the high king just once more. "Think of it. I know the mind of this Finn. I know that he could be brought to accept such a challenge. We have only to offer him a prize so great he cannot refuse it."

"But such a thing would mean the destruction of Tara as well!" said Conn, still appalled by the utter ruthlessness of the suggestion.

"A few buildings, my king," Tadg reasoned smoothly, "easily rebuilt. Perhaps a few lives." He met and held the eye of Conn with an intense gaze. "But what are they against the rule of Ireland? You must choose. High King. Who will rule after you? Will it be your own son or the son of Cumhal?"

In the bright, icy gaze of the high druid, Conn could see the image that had so long filled his nightmares—himself kneeling before a laughing white-haired youth. It seared his mind. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed to shut it out.

"All right!" he cried in a torinred voice. "All right! Whatever must be done!"

"Demna, son of Cumhal, you have passed the trials and shown yourself fit to become a man of the Fians of Ireland," pronounced Goll MacMoma. "Is this what you wish?"

"I do," said Finn.

On this second night of the Samhain festival, the young warrior stood before the dais of the high king. About him in the great hall were assembled the warriors and nobility of Ireland. Above him on the dais stood the Fian captain, his expression solemn as he continued the acceptance ritual.

"If you would be approved by these assembled chieftains of the Fian clans, there are four geasa which must be laid upon you as final condition for your admission. You must be gentle with all women. You must take no man's cattle by force of arms. You must not keep to yourself that which is needed by any other man. You must not fall back before nine fighting men or less. Do you accept these vows of chivalry?"

"I do," said Finn.

Goll looked about him at the Fian chieftains. "Is there any among you who disputes the right of this warrior to enter the ranks of the Fianna?"

There was no response. Goll nodded, looking back down to Finn.

"Son of Cumhal, you have been accepted in our company. It is a life of great sacrifice and hardship you have chosen, but a life of great adventure, too, and its joys will reward your labors a hundredfold."

"My captain," Finn responded with all the gra-ciousness he could muster, "no grander honor could be given me. I pledge my life to the honor of the Fianna."

He bowed low, and a great cheer went up from the assemblage, led most enthusiastically by Finn's own comrades. When it had died away, Goll MacMorna retired to his place behind the high king, who now arose to address the young warrior.

"It IS not only a place in the Fianna you have won, son of Cumhal," he said. "It is also your right to lead a Fianna clan, that of yoiu* father. So now I, too, welcome you. Come forward."

Finn mounted the dais and strode forward to the table of the high king. He drew his sword from its sheath, reversed it, and held the hilt out toward Conn.

"As the chieftain of the Clan na Baiscne, I come before you now, my king, to get your friendship and to give you my service and my loyalty."

He met Conn's eye boldly, his face expressionless. He knew that, like it or not, he was now bound by ancient oaths of loyalty to the high king. But he wondered if Conn could sense the loathing and mistrust he felt for one who had conspired in his father's death.

The high king could sense these feelings behind the stony young face, and his stomach churned in fear. Finn might just as easily denounce him here or drive the blade of the sword into his heart as offer him its hilt. Tadg was right. There could be no comfort again in life until this boy was dead!

Still, the winner of a hundred battles, the proud leader of all Ireland could show his feehngs no more than the one he faced. With an air of total command, he gripped the weapon, taking it from Finn.

"You are son of a friend, young warrior," he said with towering sincerity, "and son of a man I trusted. Take your sword." He reversed the weapon again, passing the hilt back into Finn's hands. "And now, in honor of your acceptance here, come and sit with me tonight and give yourself to drinking and pleasure."

Finn moved around the table. Conn took his hand and led him to an open place at his right.

"Sit here," he said, "between myself and my son.**

The warrior sat down, feeling a bit uncomfortable here, by the high king, surrounded by his glittering court. He looked toward the king's son. Art, and found the young man examining him in a critical and rather haughty way.

"So, you are the one I have heard so much about,"

Art remarked. "I understand you were raised in the trees, or something."

Finn did not hke the superior air or the soft, pampered look of the son of Conn. And he most certainly did not like the insolent tone of voice. He was reminded of the first boy he had ever met, the chieftain's son whose arrogance had led him to attempt the drowning of the naive Finn. Finn was naive no longer.

"I was raised to hunt and to fight," he responded with pride. "It is such skills that make a Fian warrior the finest in Ireland."

"The Fianna are useful," Art conceded in a bored way, "so long as they know their proper place."

There was no doubt, Finn told himself, that he was not going to get along with the king s son.

The evening's ceremonies completed, the feasting had begun. Great platters of food and tankards of drink had been brought to fill the tabletop. Goll and his brother had left their official places to join the others at the high king s table, dining at one end, beyond the province chieftains. At the opposite end, among his peers, sat the high druid Tadg. Finn caught his eye once, but the man only looked quickly away. This made the new chieftain uneasy. Could his vengeful grandfather still be contemplating some move?

Finn's gaze traveled on about the room. For a moment it paused on the compartment occupied by his clansmen and fi-iends. He was pleased to see them so joyously celebrating his—^and their—success. But then his attention moved on to Goll MacMorna, and a new and grimmer process of thought began.

Now that he had achieved his chieftainship, what next? Clearly, if he must complete the restoration of his clan's honor, he must reclaim the captaincy of the Fianna. This meant that a challenge of the Morna clan must come.

His eyes went fi*om Goll back to the rejoicing warriors of the Clan na Baiscne. There were so many young faces there, flushed now in an almost childlike exuberance. How many of them had not yet been initiated into the Fianna? How many had not even fought

before? And how many would die for his challenge, willingly sacrificing themselves for the honor of the clan?

He looked again toward Goll. He believed now that the captain had acted out of a sense of loyalty to his king. And he believed that the means had been within the accepted rules governing challenge. Goll had taken the leadership fairly. Could Finn commit his warriors to a certainly bloody attempt to regain it out of some need to fulfill his personal destiny? A destiny he had not chosen himsefi? Yet, the high king had acted in a treacherous way. He had condemned Finn's father to death. To let him win without some retribution . . .

Finn's mind was whirling. It was all so complex! Back in the quiet, isolated glens of Slieve Bladhma it had seemed so simple. There had been only Bodhmall's teachings then; her unquestionable, emotionless logic. The dark and evil Moma clan was clearly his enemy. His only goals were to avenge the clan, to restore its honor, to regain its rightful place.

But then had come his journey. A stream of impressions from it rippled through his mind: a hurling game, the Little Nut, Luachra, Firbolgs, Caoilte and Cian, the Dovarchu and the three hags, Mogh Nuadat, Tadg, Finnegas, and so much more. His experiences in the world had changed him. It was not a matter of ideals anymore; it was people who were neither good nor bad, and truths that seemed often contradictory, and loyalties that were often in conflict. Where was his honor amongst all of that?

Honor. Always there was that word again. It had been with him, dominating him, all his life. Caoilte had said it was a fooHsh thing, a thing that killed men. Maybe he was right. The tangled web of honor had entrapped his father, Tadg, Goll, the high king. How many had it destroyed already?

He realized that Goll had noted his musing stare and was returning it with a frown. It seemed to Finn that the captain, this man who fate had made his adversary, was trying to fathom his thoughts, trying to guess his intent. Finn v^shed that he knew it himself.

Beside him, the high Idng arose. The eating was largely over now, and it was clear Conn meant to make some announcement. He waited until the roar of conversation in the hall faded away, and then began to speak.

"I had no mind to be casting a deep shadow on the brightness of tonight's celebrations, so I waited until now. But now my time has come. Tomorrow night is the eve of Samhain day. Tomorrow night all the powers of the worlds beyond our own knowing will be free to roam the lands. And all of us here know what power it is that will come upon us as it has these nine years past. *

The others there may have known, but Finn certainly did not. He Ustened attentively as the king went on.

"Since that first night, Tara has been in thralldom to this monster, forced to submit to this humiliation, because no champion could be found who would face his threat.

"And so, tonight, with this greatest assemblage of Ireland's warriors ever seen at Tara, I have determined to make a new oflFer. It is a final plea for someone to restore our dignity to us. If there is among you a fighting man of Ireland who can defeat this danger to Tara's existence . . . *' he paused and gazed about him at the crowd before going on with greater emphasis, "... then I will give him whatever inheritance is right for him to have, whether it is small or great!"

There it was, thought Finn, a thrill running through him. There was his chance to regain his father's place without a fight. He could win it! He could wrest it back from the hands of the very man who had ordered it taken. He had no idea what this threat was, but it didn't matter. He would face it. He leaped to his feet.

"My king!" he said.

Across the room, in the compartment of the Baiscne clan, Caoilte groaned.

"No, no!" he said, grabbing the arm of Cnu Deireoil tightly. "Tell me he's not about to do what I think he is!"

On the dais, Conn had turned to the young warrior, his wooden expression masking the elation he was feeUng.

"Yes?" he asked.

"My king," Finn announced, "I will be your champion!"

Chapter Thirty-three

A PROMISE OF HELP

"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!" Caoilte repeated, each time with greater heat. "It's many foolish acts youVe charged blindly into since iVe known you, but none so bad as this!"