Chapter 18: Messages from Beyond

Despite the cooling breeze, Bee’s anger bubbled on the edge of explosion, and she found herself concentrating on keeping it suppressed. Having the packhorse on a rope meant she was riding at the rear staring at their backs. Ruirech and Fis’s easy comradeship was not the only thing stoking her anger—the soreness in her arse cheeks was another candidate. Am I doomed to spend me life in a saddle?

It was more than the discomfort of long rides and the easy fellowship of the bodaláin in front. Sure the God was leading her through an energetic reel, Bee knew she would not get any answers while he was acting like her shadow. His insistence on coming had forced her to change her rudimentary plans. Although telling them she was going to Breshlech, she’d meant to go searching for her brother. It might have seemed an impossible task, but her wayward brother and his accomplice didn’t have much of a head start, and there were few places where they might go. Besides, to flush out the thief, they needed to leave clues; clues that Bee could follow.

She suspected Fis guessed her intentions and outwitted her.

What is he afraid of? she asked herself for the umpteenth time. It could only be something that her brother, or perhaps his brother, would reveal. Something they knew was too volatile to be revealed. But what?

“We’ll need to make camp soon,” Ruirech said over his shoulder. “There’s only about an hour of light left.”

Bee bit back an angry retort. He was not wrong, as the sun had already vanished behind the shadow that marked the Western Wall. No, it was his need to voice the obvious that got to her. Shaking her head, she realized that in her current mood, she would be annoyed at everything. From what little she knew, the rebel was an innocent in what was happening. This was a game of the Gods, and mortals were not invited.

And tomorrow I’ll have the Whitehead to contend with.

Riding all day, they’d left the forest a couple of hours before. With an early start, they would reach Breshlech shortly after the sun reached its zenith. She thought the Maidens would already have the fortress bottled like a vintage mead.

What will I do then? she wondered.

Of all the things Bee had come to hate about this quest, not knowing what to do was right at the top of the pile. Fighting with the Maidens to defeat the demon horde was always straightforward. There would be a big battle, and then they would herd the demons back into their prison. The outcome was always pre-ordained, and there was never any question about what the next step should be.

It’s not the next step that’s yer problem, Bee. It’s getting it done.

But more than not knowing how to proceed, a feeling was gnawing at her. The outcome of the scourge was pre-ordained, but what would happen if the horde escaped outside the normal cycle? Would that also be a pre-ordination or something else?

These are thoughts for an éigeas, she admitted.

Something Bee knew that didn’t require debate of the greatest minds was that she needed to lose her escort. Unfortunately, she had no idea how.

And there is no one to help me work through it.

Bee drew rein when she spotted a small dingle back from the road. “You light the fire and I’ll hobble the horses,” she called over her shoulder as she swung down.

“No fires,” Fis said.

“Why not?” Ruirech asked. “Balor’s patrols never come this far south, and there’s an army of Neit’s Maidens somewhere between us and Breshlech.”

“There is no telling what dangers await us in the night,” Fis hissed with a scowl. “Ask Bee. She has firsthand experience.”Bee shrugged and said nothing. She didn’t think there was any danger, but couldn’t summon the energy necessary to argue the point. Let this petty, arrogant God have his little victories.

***

Eating dried meat and hard biscuits did nothing to help the subdued atmosphere. Cold and, if not hungry, not exactly satisfied either, Bee was regretting succumbing to Fis’s demands regarding a fire. Judging by his expression, Ruirech was also rueing his lack of backbone by not confronting Fis. When she sat in the cold air considering possibilities, Bee suspected the God’s insisting on a cold camp was nothing but petulance. Using Bee’s predicament on the plains to remind them of his superiority just strengthened her belief in his arrogance. In truth, it was more than that, though. The reality was that she didn’t like him. She hadn’t liked him from the outset.

“Why did Goibniu disguise himself as the ring fighter?” she suddenly wondered, and cursed herself when Fis regarded her over his steepled fingers with a look of undisguised disdain. She hadn’t meant to voice the question, but it came to her suddenly, catching her off guard.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“We agreed that we would use the same disguise.”

“Why?” Ruirech asked, the now habitual look of confusion crowding his features. Fis just shrugged and continued chewing. Watching the rebel, she saw he was becoming more disenchanted as time progressed.

Can I use it?

After they’d eaten, Ruirech offered to sit the first watch, and Bee nodded her thanks before rolling herself in her blanket. Using her saddle as a pillow, she stared at the gentle slope of the dingle and tried to think of some way to rid herself of the bothersome God. But now, it was not only the God but also the rebel. Not that they were inseparable allies. There was something shaky in their relationship. Bee suspected that when Ruirech learned that the ring fighter didn’t exist, he didn’t take it too well. There’d been something of a fleeting look when he answered her question, something he quickly masked.

Problems for tomorrow, she thought as she closed her eyes.

***

A fire was blazing, creating an orange bowl of the dingle. Fis and Ruirech were both sleeping, wrapped in their blankets, happy in their dreams. One of them snored loudly, but she couldn’t tell which one. Bee suspected it might be Fis, because his snores in the tunnels under the Fiery Mountain could have woken the dead. A horse whickered, stamping a hoof, and bats were chittering.

“Sleeping on watch,” she said, shaking her head. “So much for the dangerous plains.”

“They are dangerous, I reckon,” came as a garbled sentence from her left. Bee sat up and turned her head, knowing what she would see. She was not disappointed.

Finn sat warming his mummifying hands, turning them this way and that to ensure the heat got everywhere, or perhaps not believing their brown, leathery appearance. The dead tracker garbled his words because his head was lopsided, crushed by Fis’s hammer.

I’m dreaming again.

“Don’t mean it ain’t real,” the apparition mumbled through his misshapen mouth. Bee had difficulty understanding the words, and Finn had to repeat them several times before she nodded.

“So, real or not, why are ye here?”

“I’ve a message.”

“Who from?” Instead of answering, Finn gazed into the fire between his near skeletal fingers. The skin was stretched so taut that the bones were visible. He seemed to be fascinated by the effects of his decay. Looking at the hat, tilted precariously on the side of his head, Bee realized there was no smell and then supposed that detail was not considered necessary. That Finn was mummifying was essential information, but the stench being immaterial made little sense to Bee.

But why? A sure indicator it’s a dream. I don’t care what Finn says.

Even as the thought came to her, Bee knew it wasn’t true. During his last dream visit, he told her Dornalai wasn’t The Smith, and that turned out to be true. But then, that information hadn’t been of any use. That he wasn’t The Smith had, at least so far, had little or no bearing on her mission.

He’d started to say something else when Fis woke me, she suddenly remembered.

“He told you I was working for the enemy, I reckon,” Finn finally said, tilting his head, causing his feathered cap to fall off. Bee noticed the words seemed less garbled. Either she was better at deciphering them, or Finn was getting used to using his mangled tongue. The last time he came, his eyes were white. Now they were gone. There was nothing except cavernous holes in his face.

“Working for the enemy, I reckon,” he repeated.

“Ye’re saying ye weren’t, are ye?”

“I can’t say much, Bee—”

“Now, there’s a shock,” she interrupted, not trying to hide the disdain she was feeling. The anger that had been there earlier was beginning to seethe once more. The game was such that the players expected her to resolve the conundrum, despite them feeding her scraps, like a hound under the head table. But then she realized her mission was already complete. An Dagda told her to prevent Bren from reaching Myrddin. She’d failed. If she were The Whitehead, following orders to the letter, she would now return to the Fae Realm and report her failure. But she wasn’t Bairrfind, and she couldn’t tolerate failure, not in her, nor in others.

Failure’s for fools.

“It’s a complex situation, Bee,” Finn continued. Bee nodded, but said nothing. “Very complex. My message is be ready. You’ll get a chance to escape, and should be ready… Be ready…”

Bheara hooted, bringing Bee awake instantly. Once again, where dreams would usually be gone from her mind before she was fully awake, the residue of this one lingered. Fis was indeed snoring loudly on the opposite side of the dingle. Bats were chittering, and one of the horses was restless. All the little details that had been in her dream. Everything to say that it had been nothing more than a dream.

My mind telling me to be ready, nothing more.

She could see Ruirech’s silhouetted form sitting on the edge of the dingle. Rising, she moved to sit beside him. The grasses of the plain were different shades of gray, a silvery world created by Rhiannon’s presence. Ruirech had his legs drawn up, his elbows resting on his knees.

“What hour is it?” she asked as she sat beside him and started fingering her scar.

“Witching hour is just gone,” the rebel said, without looking at her.

“Why didn’t ye wake me?”

Ruirech shrugged before seeming to change his mind, “I lost the passage of time while thinking.”

“What has ye so thoughtful ye sit through three watches?” Bee asked, grinning.

“I was thinking about my father, Tadg mac Cein. He was killed by one of the usurper’s patrols.”

“Balor?”

“No. It was still his father then, King Indech, named after the original invader Ochall sent three centuries ago. Anyway, my father’s death exposed Fis, the ring fighter. Tadg’s death sent the God into a rage, and he forgot himself. He was so intent on massacring the Fomorii left and right, he dropped his disguise…” Ruirech trailed off.

And yer wondering if he would still be hiding the truth, she intuited.

Bee gazed down into the dingle. Something had changed. It took her a few moments to realize that Fis’s gentle snores had ceased.

Is he listening?

“Ye get some sleep, Rebel. I’ll watch for the rest of the night, so I will.”