"It's now or never, Deirdre," Rohan said, looking up toward Pyre's lair. "Your dragoness awaits."
Deirdre furrowed her brow as she studied the caves on the high steppe.
"Rohan, are you sure? I mean, I'm sure I should wait a while longer before trying to tame her. Right?"
Rohan shook his curls.
"No. I had to tame Pyre as soon as we got our armor, remember? And all Angus had to do was answer a few riddles. I'm sure yours won't be any more difficult than that."
The princess nodded, sighing deeply as she approached the dragons' lair.
Deirdre stuck her head neck-deep into the caves of Dare, her blue-green eyes searching endlessly for Pyre; or Terran. And especially for Khamsin.
"Hello? Is anybody home?"
Her voice echoed off the rocky walls. The princess shrugged and turned around.
"Well; I guess there's nobody here."
She felt a long, hard...something...grasping her tunic, pulling her away from the door. She swiveled her head...to come face to claw with Terran.
"Ah-ah-ah," the silver dragon said. He cocked his head back over one scaly shoulder. "She's back there. Won't say an intelligible word to either me or Pyre. She can draw ogham, though. Runes, in the dirt. So at least I know how you're supposed to tame her."
"How," Deirdre asked in exasperation. Terran grinned his toothy grin at her, and the princess shuddered at the thought of being his next meal.
"'Beware the truth within the lie; the good beneath the bad: beware the one you can't defie; begin with what you had.'"
Deirdre sighed, blowing away a piece of hair that had strayed across her face.
"Great. A riddle. You know, Terran, sometimes you can be worse than Fin Varra."
The dragon bowed.
"Thank you, princess. Now go. Figure out your clue and return to tame your...dragoness."
Deirdre shook her head and made a hasty retreat from the dark and somehow forbidding cavern.
"Well," Rohan said. "What did you find out?"
"Another riddle from that great beast of Angus'. 'Beware the truth within the lie; the good beneath the bad: Beware the one you can't defie; begin with what you had.' What can it mean?"
"I don't know. Let's go see Fin Varra; maybe he can help us."
"No, Rohan," Deirdre said. She placed her hand on his arm. "I want to do this on my own; without any help from Fin Varra. He's done enough for us already; surely he deserves a rest."
Rohan nodded.
"Still, maybe I'll go see how my...brother...is treating my father. You know, it's still hard for me to comprehend this whole family business. As if it weren't bad enough learning that Maeve is my mother..."
The princess leaned up and kissed him softly, chastely, on his dry, wind-parched lips.
"Everything will work out fine, Rohan," she said gently, squeezing his arm. "Hurry back to the castle as soon as you've seen to your...family."
Fin Varra nodded as his son told him of Deirdre's riddle.
"She must come to terms with something in her distant past. Something she may have almost forgotten."
"But what is that? Can I help her find it?" Rohan asked. His father shook his head slowly.
"No Rohan; she must discover it for herself. That's the only way for her riddle to solve itself and for her dragon to be tamed."
"Thank you, King Fin Varra."
Rohan turned and readied himself to leave. But he had just reached the third stone in the fairy ring when Mider appeared on the fourth.
"Rohan," he said, holding out his hand, "take this to Princess Deirdre. Cathbad will need to use it to unlock the secrets of her past."
Rohan edged closer to his brother, eyeing the tiny red stone in his hand.
"What does it do?" He asked.
"It will open a portal through which Deirdre can see her past. And so can you and your friends. Together, maybe you will be able to solve the riddle."
Rohan held out his hand, and the stone was dropped into it. The young man felt a slight burning sensation, and dropped the stone into his pouch.
"Thank you, Mider," he said uncertainly. "We will put it to good use, I swear."
"Yes, this is just what I need," Cathbad said as he took the stone from Rohan. "Thanks be to Mider for giving it to us."
Deirdre studied the druid. "Why, Cathbad?" She asked. "What will it do?"
"This will enable me to go inside your thoughts, into your memories, child," he said. "Lie down on the table."
The princess did as he asked, and he set the stone upon her forehead, speaking the words to the riddle as he did so. She closed her eyes, and felt herself moving back through time.
In moments, she saw a small child, could have been herself, barely even a month old, yet she heard and understood everything the adults around her were saying.
"Branwen, sit down. You are not yet strong enough to be up and about," a very young Conchobar said to a small woman with flaming red hair as he helped her back into the rocking chair. "Just stay there and feed our daughter, alright? I must go see my father; he requires help defeating King Ailill of Connacht."
Branwen looked up at her husband as she rocked the baby at her breast. "Isn't that Maeve's father?" She asked in a hushed, bell-like voice. Conchobar nodded.
"Yes, it is. When last we met with Ailill, he brought her along. She seems as stubborn as her father; she followed me all day, even up to the battlements, asking questions about our castle, our soldiers; she wanted to know everything about our kingdoms defenses."
Branwen smiled.
"Someday such brashness will give her great sorrow," she said, watching the baby suckle. Conchobar nodded again as he opened the door.
"But she is only a child, Bran," he said lovingly. "Barely fourteen last summer solstice."
"And only a year younger than yourself for all that," replied his wife. "Now you'd best be off before your father sends your cousin after you again."
"Ah, Torq. He's just a bully. I could whip him with both hands tied behind me."
"And get your nose bloodied by his brother Uaan for all your trouble at playing hero."
"One day I'll be Ard Ri, Bran," the young prince promised, raising his fist high in the air. His dusty blond curls bounced against his shoulders, his brown eyes flashed with such fire Branwen had to admire him. "Just like my father. And I'll be the best king there ever was, ever will be!"
"We'll see, Con," she said softly. "We'll see."
He winked at her and disappeared down the hall.
Young Princess Maeve watched from behind her father's chair, one hand on his shoulder, as he argued with King Murrough over land settlements; something Maeve didn't understand at the time.
"I realize that our lands must be divided between our nobles and our villagers," said Ailill, pounding his fist on the table, "but I want to build a fine palace for my wife and children. And to do that I need more land!"
Murrough shook his head, his graying curls lying flaccid against his strong shoulders. As Conchobar entered the room, he seemed to remember a time when his father's hair was brilliant, a shining brown mass of heavy locks. How had King Murrough gotten so old so fast?
The young prince went to stand beside his aging father, placing a hand upon the king's arm as he gazed across the way at the young, beautiful princess of Connacht. Maeve's eyes raised to meet his own, and they stared at each other thoughtfully for a few moments as though trying to gauge each other's thoughts.
"I cannot allow you to take more land from the people," Murrough was saying. Conchobar forced himself to focus on the situation at hand instead of on Maeve. "As Ard Ri, my duty lies with the common folk; with Ireland herself, not with its nobles. Not with the people who think they can take and take, but never give anything back."
"If you deny me this one small thing that I ask, King Murrough," said Ailill, rising to his feet to tower over the king of all Eire, "then I shall make war upon you and yours." Ailill made a point of meeting Conchobar's stern eyes, and the prince shrank away despite his apparent bravery. The king of Connacht lifted a finger and pointed it in the prince's face. "And you will have your chance to face me, my little prince," he said softly, smiling. Maeve smiled too as she looked up at her bear of a father and then back at the small-boned princeling. Ailill nodded and grinned wider as he left the castle of Kells, his youngest daughter in tow.
Murrough turned to his son, resting a heavy hand upon the boy's shoulder.
"I fear I must ask you to do something that has not been done for many years," the king said. Conchobar looked into his father's eyes and nodded.
"Anything, father," he said, emotion clouding his judgement, for he knew somehow that his father was not long for this world.
"I want you to join in marriage with Maeve," Murrough said, his breath coming in short, painful gasps. "Through your union, perhaps there will come a reason for lasting peace between us and Connacht. King Ailill is the only one who still spars against me; I have no wish to continue our feud. I'm too old, Con..."
Conchobar shook his head.
"No, father, you are NOT too old! You can't be; if you are, that means I shall soon be king; and I'm not ready!"
Murrough smiled.
"You have to be. You are my only child, Conchobar, and that means you are my one and only heir...be proud of that, son. Besides," Murrough said, lifting himself painfully from his throne, "Torq and Uaan will be here to help you..."
Conchobar wrinkled his nose.
"I don't like Torq, father," he said. "He smells funny...and besides, he's a bully."
Murrough laughed.
"Yes; Torq does, rather, doesn't he? I always wondered about that myself...well, what of Uaan?"
Conchobar shrugged.
"He's alright, I guess," he said softly. His brows furrowed together. "I don't suppose it could hurt, marrying Maeve to ally our kingdoms...after all, she is quite lovely..."
"Yes...I've always thought so," Murrough said. "And she's very learned for her age; she can write in ogham, which is a sacred language among the druids..."
Conchobar looked around.
"Speaking of druids; where's Cathbad?"
"I'm not really sure. He was supposed to be here for the meeting between myself and Ailill, but he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps you should go look for him...he is prone to wandering off, you know..."
"Yes..." Conchobar agreed. He held his hand to his sword, keeping it from bouncing all over as he raced off to find his friend; who was probably in the woods somewhere...maybe even with his friend Cullaine, the thief...
"Look," said Cullaine, pointing off into a pixie field. Cathbad glanced off in that direction, reaching out to grab hold of Cullaine's jacket as the young man tried to go off toward a pile of gold that had caught his eye.
"No, Cullaine, that's a pixie field," said the young druid. He shook his head at his careless friend. "I know you want the gold, but there'll be other, better times for that. You don't want to end up getting frozen again, do you?"
Cullaine shook his head.
"Huh-uh," he said, "no thank you. Besides...that King Fin Varra doesn't like me much..."
Cathbad grinned, shaking his reddish-gold curls.
"I know," he said, stooping to pick up some purple loosestrife.
"Cathbad! Cullaine!"Said a voice from theother side of a gooseberry patch. The druid reached over and plucked out a young, brown-headed rogue of a boy with a silver crown atop his curls.
"Look what I've found, Cullaine," said Cathbad, "another petty thief!"
"I'm no thief, Cathbad!" Cried Conchobar, thrashing his small fists through the air as he hung from Cathbad's strong grip high above ground. "Now put me down before I have you both sent to the castle jail!"
"Eeeww," said Cullaine, grimacing. "Now there's an unpleasant thought."
"Very well," Cathbad agreed. He dropped the lad to the ground, where Conchobar stood and meekly dusted himself off. "Well, tell us what you're doing so far away from the castle, Prince Conchobar."
"I came looking for the two of you, actually," Conchobar said. "You, Cathbad, were supposed to be with my father today when he met with King Ailill. But you weren't. Why?"
"Blast it all! I forgot about the meeting? Is your father mad?"
"No," Conchobar said. He grinned. "He said I have to marry Maeve. Her father just declared war upon my father, quite foolishly, and so now I am to make a sort of peace by having the princess of Connacht bear me a child."
"But you already have a daughter by Branwen, haven't you?"
"Yes. But my daughter is only half-royal. If Maeve does not bear me a child, then my first must be my heir. Otherwise..."
Cathbad shook his head.
"I think this is madness, my lord," he said. "You should tell your father that you love Branwen, as everybody knows you do! If you marry Maeve, you will do your kingdom more harm than good."
Conchobar seemed suddenly to get an idea.
"Perhaps Torq will one day marry Maeve," he said. "Now that'd be good, wouldn't it."
"Sure and they deserve one another," Cullaine said. The three young men; two past twenty-three and one at only fifteen; joined together in jollity as they returned to the castle.
"Well, if that's what you've decided then so be it," Murrough said, sighing as he set down his tumbler. "I know how deeply you care for Branwen," he told his son, "and I should not have asked you to marry another woman without first considering that."
"It's alright, father," Conchobar said. He placed his daughter in the arms of her grandfather, and the girl cooed happily, reaching out to smack the king's nose. Murrough smiled, as did Conchobar. "You see; Deirdre agrees with me; in her own way, of course."
"Of course," agreed the king. He handed the child back to Conchobar. "She'll be a little hellion, that one will. A real fighter. You'll have to keep a tight rein on her, Con, in her later years..."
"No, father...I warrant she'll fall in love with a commoner; just like her father and grandfather before her..."
"Now, Con, you know that's not generally permitted with females..."
"Father, I'll not force Deirdre to marry someone she hates simply because it was promised in some scroll...not ever."
Murrough snapped his fingers. "Speaking of scrolls," he said, reaching beneath his chair and pulling one out, "Cathbad gave this to me. He said it was a gift for you..."
Conchobar took the wound up paper carefully, opening it up and reading the ogham inside.
"Water around me," he said. He scrunched up his eyebrows and glanced at his father. "There's one here for Branwen as well," he said, "Air above me. What does it mean?"
"I don't know. Mayhaps you'd best go ask Cathbad and his friend Cullaine."
Conchobar nodded.
"Maybe I will," he replied, and he turned and left the room.
"Fire within me!" Cried Cathbad, holding up his ashen staff. Cullaine held up his long leather whip.
"Earth beneath me!"
Beside the two men, Branwen and Conchobar shrugged and held up their 'weapons'; Bran had a shield and small crossbow that she'd 'stolen' from a soldier, and Conchobar had his broadsword.
"Air above me!"
"Water around me!"
Although nothing happened; the mystic armor promised in the scrolls Cathbad had shown the friends long ago not appearing on them, the four friends raced around, battling monsters that weren't there, while in her crib baby Deirdre snored softly, her pink lips poking out with each baby breath she took.
For nearly a year their play went on; they practiced at being the mystic knights that were foretold in the ancient scrolls; the people who would find the warrior Draganta and one day bring peace to the whole island. Each day, King Murrough grew more and more ill; King Ailill defeated Murrough in battle over Temra, and added that land to his own, building the great fortress there for his daughter Maeve; his wife had long isnce passed on, and his eldest daughter Numaine had taken her own castle, a dilapidated monument to Irish history on a nearby island, where she could hide away Maeve's demon-son Lugad, as well as practice her growing powers. And Cathbad and Cullaine found a drageen in the forests and brought him back to the castle, naming him Pyre and raising him until he was strong enough to return to the rookery.
Finally, one night two years after the birth of Deirdre, King Murrough called his son to him.
"Con," he said, "you must take the crown from my head and place it upon your own when they build my funeral pyre; for I am not long in this world..."
"I understand, father," he said, wiping a tear from his eye.
"I want you to do all you can to bring peace to our land," Murrough said. "Try to make Ailill and Maeve see the error of their ways; and try to bring Temra back to us. It does not belong in the hands of Connacht..."
That night, as Conchobar sat with him, King Murrough died. As promised, at the funeral the following day, before they lit the fires beneath the dead king, Conchobar took the golden crown from his head and placed it upon his own. The people cheered for their new king even as they mourned the passing of the old.
It would be only a short time; three years; before Conchobar would lose another close to him.
Branwen died trying to deliver their second child; a boy, who did not survive. Conchobar never told his daughter about her brother; and was more delighted than upset when Cathbad brought home an unruly lad to be his apprentice. Rohan was the spitting image of Cathbad at that age; and the roguish Angus, the lad's friend, was so like the missing Cullaine that even Conchobar had to look twice.
So it seemed time did flow in a circle, after all...
Deirdre slowly opened her eyes upon her friends' worried faces, and took Rohan's arm to lift herself up.
"What did you see?" Cathbad asked urgently.
"I saw everything from when I was born until I was two," she said. "Well, not everything, but enough, I think..."
She jumped down from the table and went into the village, looking for something special...actually for four particular something specials...
There they were. Four children, three boys and one girl, playing at being mystic knights. She motioned to her friends and they all stood still for a moment, watching. After a few moments Deirdre approached the children and said something to them, and the children nodded, following the princess to the caves of Dare while the knights watched in stunned silence...
"So you understood," Terran said while Khamsin smiled down at the children. "You looked into your past; you had to 'find the truth within the lie'; you learned several truths, about yourself, your parents, and Maeve; for Kells was never her birthright...'the good within the bad'. Maeve didn't begin by being evil, it was a trait she picked up from her father; 'beware the one you can't defie'; yourself, Deirdre, you could not defie yourself, even if you tried to; 'begin with what you had', and you did. It all begins with children, when your father and his friends were children they played at being mystic knights, and so do these children. And so did you and your two friends, when you were small."
"I've done it," Deirdre said, laughter in her voice. "I figured it out!"
Khamsin nodded briefly, snorting a soft ring of purplish smoke at Terran and batting her eyes at him. Deirdre laughed, glancing at Rohan.
"It would appear our dragons don't share the same feelings toward each other as we humans do, eh, Rohan?" She asked, and the knight blushed fiercely, not meeting her warm gaze but glancing down at the ground.
"Well, I guess that answers your question," Angus said, and everybody cracked a grin at the warrior and the princess.
