Chapter 12
I had already decided not to report Carys, even without the life-debt. She was a morgen, and couldn’t help being a morgen. There was no sense in punishing water for being wet—wild Fae like her were a hazard of the landscape on this side of the veil, and so long as she didn’t cross over to Earth to start trying to drown humans the way her kind had done in the old days, there was little justice served with her death. But I was still irritated at her attempt, and how close I’d come to falling for it. She could worry for however long it took me to get back from Emain Ablach, at which point I’d tell her she was safe and release her from the geas. I had no need for a servant. I’d rather she just owe me a favor.
I continued up the road, much more comfortable with my sweater rolled up in a bundle in my hand instead of on my body. I wore my coat as my mark of station, but at least I didn’t have to endure a second layer of wool. And the Enigma kept chafing from the Glock to a minimum, even without an undershirt. When I eventually arrived at Rath Mór, the home of Manannán’s eldest son and the only crossing point to the island, I appreciated the harness even more than I had after the weekend’s training.
The place was as I remembered it: a large ringfort on a hill overlooking a cove, several thatched roofs of roundhouses visible over the rim of the drystone walls. A narrow footpath led from the road up the hill to the gate, and as I approached, I made out the carving of a stylized swan in the aged hardwood.
Before I could knock, the gate swung open to reveal two burly Aes Sidhe in leather armor, one grasping a spear and the other with his hand on a sheathed shortsword.
“Well met, Sorcerer of the Arcanum.” The swordsman greeted me in a rumbling baritone, his facial expression curious. “We do not receive many of your kind in this part of Sidhe. What brings you to Rath Mór, the fortress of Mongán mac Manannán?”
“I am the Sorcerer Thomas Quinn,” I replied, “and I seek passage to the Isle of Apples for an audience with the sons of Lir.”
“What business has the Arcanum with the masters of Emain Ablach?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“They want to speak with me about a matter of mutual importance, concerning the veil,” I said with a shrug. “They invited me as a representative of the Arcane Court.”
“Very well.” The Faerie nodded. “Enter, and my lord Mongán will ascertain the truth of your claim and determine whether or not you shall be granted passage to the Isle.”
Now came the first test.
Yes, the sons of Lir had invited me. But to get to them I needed Mongán, Manannán’s eldest son, to summon the boat which would carry me across the Sea of Honey. He was the “Guardian of the Way,” and if he chose to bar my access, it would be a giant hassle. I’d have to go see Lugh personally to have him overrule Mongán’s decision, which I really didn’t want to do. Especially since it might well cost me another favor. Or lead to Lugh calling in the one I already owed.
I’d never met Mongán—my one previous visit here was on my master’s business back when I was a fresh apprentice—so all I had to guide me were the standard rules of protocol among the Tuatha Dé. I just had to hope that was enough, and that he wasn’t in a foul mood.
“Who enters the hall of Mongán mac Manannán, Lord of Rath Mor and Guardian of the Way?” a woman’s voice called out as I stepped up to the doorway to the stone building in the middle of the small ringfort. “Hall” seemed somewhat grandiose for what was essentially just a roundhouse with a thatched roof, but fine, I wasn’t here to step on toes.
“I am Thomas Quinn, Sorcerer of the First Rank of the Arcanum, Envoy of the Arcane Court,” I answered, waiting for my eyes to adjust from the brightness outside so I could see who was talking to me.
“And what is your business, Sorcerer Thomas Quinn?” the same voice asked, switching effortlessly to English.
“I seek passage to the Isle of Apples for an audience with the sons of Lir,” I replied.
“On what authority ask you for such an audience?”
“By their invitation. They have requested to speak with me as a condition of helping the Arcane Court investigate a matter of mutual importance.”
“They spoke with you directly?”
“No.” I shook my head, “their invitation came through proper channels, via Mateo Delgado, Sorcerer of the First Rank and Master of the Seal of the Arcanum, in accordance with the terms of the Treaty between our peoples.”
This was met with silence, and my eyes finally adjusted enough to see the room held three Aes Sidhe: a redheaded woman in a lavender dress who stood at the right hand of a seated man with long blonde hair and severe features, and a younger-looking man who stood several paces to my right holding a spear and eyeing me carefully. I assumed the man in the chair was Mongán. The other man was presumably a guard or attendant, and the woman was either his wife or a servant; I didn’t know which. By the rules of Sidhe protocol, it didn’t much matter; she was clearly empowered to speak for him, so I’d continue to address her until such time as he chose to acknowledge me himself.
“Very well,” she finally said. “Enter, Sorcerer.”
“I bear a gift for Lord Mongán,” I said as I stepped closer to the two of them. This was also traditional. From an inside pocket of my coat, I pulled a polished tiger’s eye rock and set it on the ground in front of the seated man’s feet. “This I give freely without expectation or obligation, as a token of the good-will between our people.”
She crouched and retrieved the gift, examined it carefully—presumably to ensure it was not enchanted or magically booby-trapped—then handed it to him. He looked at it closely, turning it over in his fingers, and I saw the faintest of smiles as he nodded to her and tucked it into his shirt. The specific gift was trivial, but the gesture was essential.
“Lord Mongán accepts your gift, and offers you salt and soil, given freely without expectation or obligation,” she said, pulling two pouches out from her wide sleeve—how she kept them up there, I had no idea—and proffering them to me. I reached out and took them.
Holding them both in my left hand, I gently pulled open their drawstrings. I reached into the bag of salt, grabbed a pinch, put it on my tongue, and swallowed. Then I repeated the procedure for the bag of fine black dirt, which tasted significantly worse than the salt. Finally I pulled the drawstrings tight once more and held the pouches out for her to take back, and she tucked them back into her sleeve.
It was a strange ritual, but it meant I was safe. He’d just offered me the most sacred sign of hospitality among the Aes Sidhe; I was under his personal protection until I left his territory.
“Welcome, Sorcerer,” he said, finally breaking his silence. “I, Mongán mac Manannán, greet you as a most-honored guest in my home. Your every need shall be met within my walls, your every desire satisfied, short though your stay may be. I have expected your arrival for some time now, and will of course honor my father’s invitation, but I am glad to see some in the Arcanum yet remember the old ways.” He turned to the young man and waved a hand; with a nod the youth—who was probably hundreds of years older than me—stepped past me and out the door. “Cian will summon the ferry to my father’s Isle; it shall be here by morning and deliver you to Emain Ablach by sundown tomorrow, assuming the voyage is not beset by the many beasts which reside in the Sea of Honey. But that is a concern for the pilot, and there are no better navigators of these waters than my father’s servants; I have no doubt you will reach my father’s shore in one piece. Will you honor me with your presence at a feast this evening?”
“Of course.” I nodded, forcing a polite smile. “The honor is mine, Lord Mongán.”
I didn’t need to worry about the usual dangers of consuming Fae food and drink or sleeping in the Otherworld so long as I remained within the ringfort. Once I left, guest-right was forfeit and I’d have to re-establish it. But for now, I could relax. To a point—I still needed to avoid offending my host. But the first major test was over, and I’d passed. No need to go see Lugh and risk him calling in that favor. I let myself relax and enjoy Mongán’s hospitality.
The feast was modest by Fae standards, a dozen retainers packing Mongán’s hall with a roast boar. Entertainment came from a trio of bards, alternating between playing music, singing songs, and reciting poetry in High Taranic. I couldn’t follow most of the intricate lyrical modes and rhyme schemes well enough to appreciate their art, but the lord and his followers seemed pleased.
“Tell me, Sorcerer,” he eventually turned to me as the entertainers took a break to eat, “what do you know of the Sea of Honey?”
“Not much.” I shrugged, taking a sip of mead. “Few sorcerers have ever crossed its waters, so there aren’t many accounts for me to study. I know there are sea monsters, but that’s about it.”
“Aye, there are sea monsters.” One of the other Faeries at the table chuckled. “Nokker and morgen to lure the unwary to their doom along the coast, and the Ceirean to devour the unlucky fisherman who catches it in his net. And further out, in the open sea betwixt our shore the Isle of Apples, swim the true beasts: the sea-reek, heather-back, the sea-dragons. Most of them are only a threat to those who know not the signs to avoid them, but the mighty sea-wyrm, he is a danger to any who dare cross his waters. Should you come across him, there is naught to do but hope his hunger has been recently sated. We who walk on land are powerless against him in his own domain. Many a Faerie has met a bloody end in his belly.”
“Do not let such tales trouble you, Sorcerer,” Mongán laughed. “Muircheartach is a mighty sailor, and tells no lie, but this evening he seeks to frighten you for his own amusement. The ollphéist shall not hinder your passing—in this season he is to be found far to the north, hunting in the waters off the port of Nóatún. And the pilot who will guide your voyage will have no trouble avoiding the sea-beasts who remain. You may sleep untroubled this night by what the morning will bring.”
“Glad to hear it.” I nodded, scowling at the Faerie called Muircheartach, who had the grace to look sheepish after his lord betrayed his little joke. “Speaking of which, it’s been a very long day. I hope I cause no offense if I beg my bed?”
“No, no offense at all, Sorcerer.” My host smiled. “You must be weary, and you have indulged my hospitality enough. I would not have you report to my father that I abused your guest-right. Gráinne will show you to your chamber.”