Andrew Offutt: The Undying Wizard

“Cormac,” the orange-haired warrior said, “is’t true what that man of Baile Atha Cliath said, that once he sailed with you?”

“Aye. Tiobraide lost his arm with me, Samaire, in a battle with the men of Norge up north of Britain.”

“He called you Wolf.”

“So did they all. It was Cormac an-cliuin I was then; Captain Wolf.”

“How came you by that name?”

“Men are fanciful, Samaire.”

“And ye be evasive, dairlin’ boy. Come-how came you by that fierce name?”

Cormac continued to look ahead, on the sea. “I earned it.”

Samaire daughter of Ulad Ceannselaigh heard, and heard more than his spare words. She queried no further into that matter.

“He said too that it was your wont ever to counsel that one should kill only when necessary.”

Staring ahead, the one-time wolf of the sea said nothing.

“Cormac?”

“Aye.”

“Be it true?”

“Aye. Often I said it,” he said, with a catch in his voice that was not quite a sigh.

“And… but… was it meaning that, ye were?”

He nodded, without turning his face toward hers. He was aware of her bright green eyes-and of nine other men.

“Aye. I meant it. Ye’ll be asking further, and I’ll make answer first. It’s true, Samaire: I believe that one should kill only when necessary. Unfortunately it is more often necessary than not.”

The daughter of Leinster’s murdered king was silent for a space, whilst Cormac stared ahead and the sea furrowed past Quester’s prow to ripple all along her length.

“I know not whether to laugh or sigh,” she said at last.

“Nor do I, Samaire. It’s a world of killing we habit, and it’s good at it I am.” His tone and mien were matter-of-fact, and without pride.

“I want to hug you.”

A crease deepened at the edge of his mouth, in the slightest of smiles. “I hear you, dairlin girl. And it’s the hug I’d like to be feeling… but I salute you for the saying of it, rather than the doing.”

“Had I known there’d be so much discomfort for all, I might not have come.”

“’Twas you insisted, Samaire,” he said, noting that she’d said “might” not. A princess asea, among weapon men!

“I remember, dairlin boy.”

“None dare call me boy, save you, woman.”

“Think you I’d suffer being called ‘dairlin girl’ by any other than yourself, man?”

Cormac chuckled. “Likely not. And discomfort is the word. It’s why I insisted that ye dress as ye have, and keep on that mailcoat ungirt. No man asea should have a woman’s form flaunted to his eyes.”

Samaire heaved a sigh and tucked back her nether lip. “It’s not that I meant by discomfort, though I understand it, too.”

“Oh. Well… methinks it hardly inconveniences these men to look away now and again, whiles you do that which is necessary. It’s knowing they all are, too, that on yester day you were a warrior among warriors.”

“It inconveniences them to worry about whether I be looking away!” Samaire assured him, and they chuckled together. “I try, Cormac. And… I miss your touch, your arm around me, and mine about you.”

“Not aboard this ship.”

“I know,” she said, with a hint of exasperation; she need not, Samaire of Leinster was saying, be told that again.

“I have a question of my own,” he told her, turning his face at last toward hers.

The lift of her brows was invitation enough to the asking of it.

“Our… benefactor,” Cormac said. “He who provided money for this boat and crew, your cousin Aine’s husb-”

Samaire was laughing, though not in amusement. “ Benefactor! Dealing with Cumal Uais was worse than bargaining in the marketplace of Tara! The tenth portion of what we bring back we must give him, for financing our quest-and that after bargaining him down from the third he demanded! And him the husband of my own cousin… and his coffers full already with the price of five hundreds of cattle won by his wagers on you in the championship games! Benefactor! ”

Cormac was smiling. “Well, he did a bit of losing that day, too… sith he also placed wagers on Bress.”

Samaire looked at him in shock, her green eyes huge and indignant. “No!”

“Aye. He did risk more on my prowess, though-fortunately for him. Besides, it were a better return: the odds were against me.”

She shook her head. “Oh gods defend us, why is it thus? Cumal was born wealthy, Cormac! And all his life he’s spent adding to that wealth.”’

“And counting it,” Cormac said. “And eating ,” he added, for Cumal’s girth was nigh as fulsome as his tally sheets. “At any rate… it’s his name I wanted to question, Samaire. How could parents nobly born and with wealth, and them residents of royal Tara as well, name a son Cumal Uais… ‘Slavegirl the Noble’?”

For a moment Samaire stared at him. Then she was laughing.

His cool stare stopped her. “Oh, Cormac! It’s not his name … he’s but called that. His name is Tuathal, though he likes not being called after a High-king of four centuries agone, a king whom Cumal considers to have been no good man. He welcomes being called Cumal, ye see, though in truth it began as but a bit of waggery, poking fun at him for his love of gains!”

Cormac understood now. And to think he’d not asked before out of… manners. Until a few months agone it was long and long he was out of Eirrin, an exile for the old “crime” of which he was now absolved by Council, High-king, and druids alike, after his testing. He’d forgot. “Cumal” meant slavegirl, aye. It also meant a unit of exchange, as the Romans used their coins stamped with the faces of rulers with bird-of-prey beaks. A cumal was a unit of exchange worth the value of three cattle; it was by cows, boru , that those of Eirrin had long measured value and wealth.

Not often was Cormac mac Art embarrassed.

Samaire was still a-chuckle. “Hush,” she was bade, and she gave him a look that invited him to force her, even as she ceased.

Cormac was rescued; sensing movement, he turned to see that Bas the Druid had come to join them.

“It’s a god’s blessing ye have on ye, Druid,” the Gael said, “for of all aboard I see no drop of blood on ye.” Then, lest the man think he was being denigrated for having had no part in the battle with the Picts, Cormac added more. “It’s glad I am to have ye aboard, beloved of the gods.”

Bas nodded acknowledgment. “There be two of us, Champion of Eirrin, for as ye proved when ye underwent the Trials of the Fian and had sorcery done upon ye as well, all saw that Behl and Crom do love their staunch defender, Cormac mac Art.”

“I hope it’s right we both are, Druid, and that we live to count many grey hairs. Being a staunch defender, as ye put it, be easier now, and all a true man can do, with the priests of the Dead God upon our land like a plague.”

Art’s son of Connacht was ever wont to call the god of Rome and the bishops “the Dead God,” since all knew he’d been executed on a Roman cross by some forgotten procurator enforcing the sedition laws.

Bas sighed. “Say not ‘No true man,’ mac Art, with so many in high places converted from the ways of Eirrin to the new faith.”

“Perverted,” Samaire corrected.

“There’ll come a time for the dealing with that problem, Lord Bas, and none will find my blade averse to being wetted through black robes!”

“They are holy men, Cormac mac Art-or think themselves so. But I came to ask ye of our destination. How much farther?”

Cormac looked upon the priest of Behl and the ancient god of the Gaels of older Eirrin, Crom Cruach. He did not smile as he said, “I cannot tell you, Druid.”