Andrew Offutt: The Sign of the Moonbow

Balan turned; his men, so long frozen, came alive. The man in the tunic of primrose hue betrayed himself by falling to his knees and swearing that Tarmur Roag had forced him. The priest Cormac had singled out glanced about and, as if evading some dread plague, stepped away from his cohorts. They glared their malignance at him and at the Gael.

“He in the yellow tunic, and those four,” Cormac said, “I noted well, earlier. No shock or surprise seemed upon them at news of the treachery done here, or of the queen’s imprisonment.”

Balan nodded. “Many will want questioning,” he said.

“Many will DIE!” Riora cried, rising, quivering.

Cormac looked at her, and his face was inscrutable-unless it was sadness it showed, and perhaps a trace of pity.

“Odin’s beauteous red beard, it’s days I’ve been prisoner, and not enough food given me to nourish a titmouse! Be there food in Moytura?-and ale?”

Cormac smiled slightly at Wulfhere, and he nodded. “We will remain, and eat and sleep and share ale with ye of Moytura… our brothers beneath the earth.” And on the morrow , he mused, we will hie ourselves from this place of an unworthy ruler.

The queen turned bright eyes on him, but Cormac’s expression when he looked upon her was unreadable. Then he turned from her to stride half the temple’s length and to pick up that which Tarmur Roag had slung to the, floor; the Chain of Danu that had so long held Thulsa Doom.

The little band of people who made their way from temple to royal palace learned that they’d hardly be going hungry; a celebratory feast had been ordered long hours before and was in preparation. No matter that it had been for traitors who, expected to celebrate their victory in usurping rule in Moytura; there was victual and ale aplenty for the truly victorious. And the menace of Thulsa Doom was ended.

Eighty guardsmen were found locked in an old barracks. Balan made an assumption about their loyalty, based on the fact that the plotters had mured them up. Of none others save the six who’d fought at his side in the temple-and the three wounded others now attended by the queen’s own physician-could he be sure. Hence the eighty became at once the Palace Guard, and officers were set to arranging their shifts. None knew how many others might have been privy to the plot of Cairluh and Tarmur Roag-and in sympathy with it. Peoples had been so stupid before as to throw over one distasteful ruler only to install the equally bad, or worse, and of a surety would do so again.

As for Cairluh, Balan insisted that the queen’s cousin-who was also Balan’s, Cormac learned-Cairluh receive either medical treatment or instant execution as a mercy; the queen was for sending her plotting cousin at once to the dungeon she’d so recently quitted, and him with wounds untreated. Cormac heard her shout at her Commander of Guardsmen, the Lord Balan. Balan never raised his voice. Dithorba and Torna joined their entreaties to his, speaking much of what was seemly. They prevailed.

Cormac and Wulfhere were given sumptuous quarters, a room for each, and with every inch of stone covered and disguised; the Moyturans saw enough of bare rock. The Gael soon learned that his room abutted and adjoined the royal apartment. Onto an overly soft bed he tossed the Chain of Danu that Thulsa Doom had worn. He stood gazing at it, fingering his own Moonbow.

While Wulfhere was served by ale-bearing young women, Cormac went seeking Balan. He obtained privacy with the commander, despite the fact that the latter was passing busy. His queen was bathing and seeing to herself; her advisers and aides saw to the business of the queendom.

“It’s a brace of questions I’d ask of ye, Lord Balan.”

“We are weapon-men together; call me Balan. You who saved us all-ask.”

“Ye love the queen? No-I mean: Ye love Riora?” Balan’s face went rigid. “I would kill you for her, brother weapon-man.”

“There’ll be no need. It’s among our own Wulfhere and I will be returning, on the morrow, however ye reckon day and night in this kingdom of twilight. And Balan: It’s no love I have on me for Riora.”

“Nor do you understand my loving her.”

Cormac shrugged. “It is no business of mine to say, Balan. Have-have ye been lovers?”

“Nor is that for you to ask, Cormac mac Art.”

“True. I have asked. I have some… semblance of a plan, Balan. Her feeling for me is infatuation, no more. I would know of yourself.”

“We have been lovers. We have spoken love. We have even spoken of marriage. She is… a difficult woman.”

“Umm. Moytura could-your pardon, Balan-Moytura could be the worse for her in uncontrolled rule, and far better with you as her lover, or more. Ah. Your face has turned to stone. I’ll be saying no more.”

Nor did he. But the Gael held much inner converse with himself, and was still at his thoughts when Wulfhere had downed six huge cups and was disporting himself in his chamber with a maid more than willing. And still the sombre mac Art turned thoughts in his mind; he was still pondering when a door opened behind him. He turned.

She was beautiful. The gown and jewels and chaplet crown on her were beautiful, and her face with its reddened lips and darkened brows and lashes and eyelids to break the Danan pallor and set it off to her advantage; Riora the Fair and Righteous knew how to enhance the natural sensuous loveliness that was hers.

“I would have the Champion of Moytura escort me to the feast, Cormac.”

He considered. Aye, he would do that, and he did. He was aware of many eyes on him, more than a few of which held troubled gazes. And the queen and courtiers and their two guests banqueted, and quaffed ale. The Gael and the Dane were plied with questions about the outer world, so that they were able to ask but few of their own. Cormac did learn why his head had bothered him since he’d set foot here, and why too the goddess-flame Dithorba had raised, just as Cathbadh on the isle, had burned blue rather than brightly. The air of Moytura was not good, and fire was a great danger in this world without plants, though underground rivers found the sea and air from the sea found all parts of Moytura. It was thus simple for Cormac to prevail upon Dithorba for a strong sleeping potion, though the mage counseled more ale.

Considerably later, Cormac mac Art opened a door from his chamber into a sumptuous and sprawling one that was darkened by the drawing of heavy drapes against the perpetual light of Danu. There awaited a sensuous woman for her champion, and he joined her. Once he had done what he intended with Dithorba’s potion, stupor replaced desire in the eyes of Riora and her quickened breathing relaxed more and more. Then the queen was asleep.

Cormac returned to his own room, dressed, and went along the hall to the chamber given over to his Danish friend. Abed with no less than two Moyturans, Wulfhere protested violently-and grumbling, rose and dressed himself. Aye, the smiling young women with him knew where they might find the lord Balan.

Balan stared at the two men in much surprise; both were dressed, and armoured, and with their weapons by them.

“She sleeps,” Cormac said, without preamble. “And no, we did not, she and I. Wulfhere and I leave tonight, Balan-now. Nor do I wish to leave behind in Moytura an enemy, and for naught, and him a weapon-man with high skill and bravery on him.”

“I am not so petty, Cormac mac Art.”

Aye , the Gael thought, it is why yourself should be king of Moytura-and not Riora.

“For saving us all from torture and the slow death-and the de Danann from misrule by Tarmur Roag through Cairluh, Cormac mac Art of the Gaels, we and even Danu herself owe you debt.”

“Balan: you are better than a good man. You have a queen now whom you are too good a man to serve. It’s no thanks I deserve for setting Riora again on the throne.”