Andrew Offutt: The Sign of the Moonbow

“Aye, Cormac Trenfher, but-”

“It’s there, in marvelous privacy, I’ll be sleeping, Red Rory. And violence may be done on that person who wakens me out of time!”

Within the hour a physician arrived; both Tathill and his young woman had been smuggled out to secret and private lodgings-and Red Rory had dared lie to his queen about the whereabouts of her trenfher; her champion. In truth that one had stretched his bruised length-and what a length it was!-on the floor of the brewing room back of the inn’s kitchen. He was snoring.

The physician, as he was departing, was led there by Rory.

While he was seeing to the supine man’s wounds, the snoring was interrupted, lids rose, and eyes like sword-steel stared into Danan glims.

“Durlugh the physician,” Rory said quickly, and a bit fearfully.

Cormac said nothing; his eyes closed; he was snoring again ere Durlugh had finished his work. In several places was the champion’s body smeared and poulticed, and Durlugh and Rory departed. Nor was there brewing the next day, for in the world above that was his own, the sun came and went and was just coming again when Cormac mac Art awoke.

It was then he discovered that he’d been found by the Queen of Moytura, and she had a wakening surprise for him. It was herself.

Chapter Fourteen:

Tarmur Roag

“What kind of ceremony?”

“All are there,” Dithorba said. “Cairluh, Tarmur Roag, the simulacrum of Riora, the priests of Danu, and the people have been bade to come into the great Square of the Moon before the temple. Too, the filays and seanachies are present.”

Cormac straightened. He was clothed only in his breechclout which he wore tight. He had been exercising, he told Dithorba, testing legs and arms, flexibility and reflexes, after yesterday’s exertions and the hurts put upon him. His left forearm had been wrapped again and again with the lightweight Moyturan cloth, that his buckler would not chafe the two wounds left there by the fanged tip of Elatha’s whip. Elsewhere his skin was colourful with bruises.

He repeated the other man’s last two words, his eyes narrowing until they were invisible. “Poets and chroniclers?”

“Aye. You know their function here?”

“The same as among my people; they keep alive the time-that-was for the Now and the time-to-come. They are our… our history. And Moytura’s too?”

“Aye,” Dithorba said with a nod. “The same, Cormac. Tarmur and Cairluh plan something of moment, then. An announcement, methinks. The false Riora is going to make a speech to the people, assembled before the temple, that her words may have Danu’s blessing.”

Cormac considered, started to scratch his left forearm, realized what he was about, and left off. “They know of my presence here, and that you and Riora are free. They have Wulfhere and Thulsa Doom-oh, saw ye them, Dithorba?”

“No, Cormac.”

“So, Tarmur Roag and Cairluh have decided to take some swift action. Prompted by my presence and yours and the queen’s freedom? Aye… mayhap the false Riora is about to announce marriage with Cairluh, or abdicate, in favour of her dear cousin?”

“It is as Torna and I believe.”

“Balan?”

Dithorba shook his nigh-hairless head. “Commander Balan was for the barracks of the Queen’s Guard. There I dare not go-nor have we seen or heard from him.”

Cormac nodded, thinking. He rubbed the bruise on his right upper arm, staring reflectively at nothing. “Dithorba… ye know where your queen is.”

Dithorba put on an innocent face as he looked around. “Why nay, Cormac. I see her not.”

Smiling, the Gael said, “It were better thus. Now-do you bring Torna here whilst I get clothes on me, be ye so kind.”

With a nod, Dithorba departed the brewing room; he used his feet.

A brewing room , Cormac thought. The planning place for the restoration of a queen-by a foreigner! Danu, Danu, it’s a whimsical lady ye be, moon-goddess! A brewing room, behind an inn… and what a queen!

He turned to the heavy framework that supported ale vats and mugs; it was of a size to speak well for Red Rory’s business. Cormac walked around it, to where his clothing lay entangled with a blue gown. He looked down at Riora. She blinked lazily up at him.

“Ye heard?”

“Nay. I… think I was unconscious for a time,” she said. “Oh, Cormac! You are absolutely-”

“Later, little girl. There’s business afoot. Best ye rise and come see to the business of your kingdom.”

“You call the Queen of Moytura ‘little girl’?”

Cormac smiled; she’d but jested, and he’d missed her point and now called her by name-the queen! She levered herself into a sitting position, reached for him; he backed away.

“Dithorba was just here,” he told her. “Give listen.”

And as he dressed and then grunted into forty pounds of linked-steel coat that had so long been a daily part of his attire, he told her what Dithorba had just reported, and their surmise. Swiftly he sketched a plan; a concept-a hope. She considered that with an expression both stricken and yet hopeful. Rising, she drew her soiled blue robe over her head and smoothed it as best she could.

They had just emerged from behind the vats when Dithorba returned with the senior adviser, Torna. Cormac began speaking at once.

“It’s the queen’s advisers ye two be, and it’s her champion I seem to be, now. Now methinks the swiftest action is called for.”

Torna nodded. “If we be right, Cormac mac Art, in but minutes Cairluh will have been proclaimed king by the false queen.”

Cormac looked at Riora. “We have a bargain, lady Queen?”

“We have, Cormac. Once you have accomplished my reinstatement, I shall perform the strange task you have requested.”

“Your pardon, lady Queen… but will ye just be speaking it aloud for the ears of these your ministers?”

She blinked in surprise, arched an eyebrow-and repeated their bargain, and her strange and grisly promise to mac Art.

“Dithorba,” Cormac said, “take me to the temple, to the very side of the creature calling herself Riora.”

“It’s on the Crescent Balcony she is, Cormac. There too are guards.”

Cormac signified that he understood and was ready, and they joined hands, and were gone. The moment they were there, on the outer balcony of the Temple of Danu, Cormac was speaking.

“Dithorba, time races and we catch it now or miss it forever. Fetch the queen here man, and instantly! Then it’s to the barracks ye must go, and-”

But Dithorba had winked out amid a little sound like the clap of hands.

A far louder one succeeded it; a resounding cry form many, many Danan throats. The Gael looked out on the strange city that was subterranean Moytura, and down on thronging thousands of the People of Danu. Their light-eyed faces were turned up at him, and many uplifted hands were pointing.

His knees in the partial crouch of a weapon-man’s readiness, he turned his head to his left. There, others stared at him; two. A handsome young man in a robe white as foam of the wave, with a large collar of silver on him, a carcanet from throat to mid-chest. It flashed with jewels. His robe was girt with a doubled cord of woven cloth-of-silver, and his fair hair was lustrous, clean and long-combed. At his side, bejeweled, in an ornately ornamented, and purfled robe of the same marmoreal white, on her pale locks a chaplet of silver and coral chased with gold, stood… Riora.

Nay. Not Riora. Some Thing called from an unnatural elsewhere by Tarmur Roag! A lamia, mayhap. And mayhap Dithorba was more than right, in giving me this new dagger!

Ready to act, he becautioned himself to look behind him; along the white-colonnaded balcony.