Chapter 30: Chapter 30: Spies

Daily at noon, the four sons of Lord Laoch gathered to dine with their father. Rory oft determined the mood of the meal, bringing raunchy tales from the tavern, or eagerly encouraging his reluctant family to try the latest dish he'd created in Castle Laoch's vast kitchens. At times, Padraig took the lead. His conversation topics included better farming methods and the religious practices of strange people in distance lands the other brothers didn't know existed—neither the lands nor the people nor the religious practices. Today, however, when Rory laid his newest delight on the table—something made of goat, cow tongue, and walnuts—Lord Laoch silenced his son with a lift of a finger. They began to eat, servants standing near to refill the cider in their cups.

“Bring the fruit,” Laoch commanded. When it was laid on the table, he dismissed the servants. “Close the doors.”

Not an hour earlier, a scout, having ridden through the night, had returned to the castle. Laoch put down his knife. “Word has reached me that Togair is entertaining witches.”

Clang. The loud sound of Aonair's knife hitting his pewter soup bowl echoed around the room. His heart raced. For the last three nights, he had dreamed of the dragon, and always the dream started in the same place, with the spring air cold against his cheeks, and the blossoms newly burst on the trees. His mother had taken him to his favorite spot for his tenth birthday. But these past nights the dream had been different. He had remembered it all.

“Race you!” He'd jumped from his horse.

She'd laughed. “I've got the food. You can't eat without me!”

He'd run so fast he almost went head-over-heels down the slippery path. Seeing the rock, he'd called out, “Mother! Mother!” The beast uncurled itself, remade itself, changed from rock to dragon. Aonair shook with terror.

Its breath stinking of rotten eggs, the dragon spoke. “How convenient, Aonair, that you have come to me.”

He froze.

“Aonair!” his mother cried.

Her cry jarred him into action. As she jumped toward him to push him out of the path of the flames, he turned to his left, toward the middle of the pond, and leapt. The hot breath of the dragon seared the right side of his body. He screamed. Then the impact of his mother’s body propelled him out of the path of the flames, and the freezing water took his cry. Down, down he swam, until the current seized him, shooting him through deep underground caverns.

Finally spat out, he thrashed trying to make his damaged body swim, until by some miracle he was brought to the surface and could breathe. “Mother! Mother!” He tumbled; once feeling the bottom, he tried to stand but his leg, his right leg . . . the pain.

The river rolled him, pushed him over low ledges. When the water quieted, he quieted, the pain stilling him. He floated on his back, moving only enough to keep his face above water. He came to rest in the shallows, on a large smooth stone, his body in the merciful, freezing water, his face an inch above it.

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“God, please, I want to die.” No saint ever prayed more earnestly.

Exhausted, he slept, only to wake to see the stars falling out of the night sky. When the stars touched his nose, the pain went away. They settled into his right eye, bringing back his sight. More, please more.

“Aonair!”

He called out, “Eoghan! Help!”

“You have four sons, my Lord.” Rory's voice jerked Aonair into the present.

Rory leaned back in his chair, the bold confidence of a well-trained warrior in his smile. He crossed huge arms over his chest. “I'll watch Togair. Eoghan can take Nathair's keep, and you'll still have two whelps to warm your hearth.”

Aonair sprang to his feet, shouting, “The dragon is mine! I bear its scars! Send me to scout Togair!”

From across the table, Padrag's worried eyes met Eoghan's. Eoghan's eyes shifted to Rory's. Almost imperceptibly, Rory shook his head, “No.”

Slowly Eoghan rose. His girth caught his chair, tilting it back. It teetered, then fell, banging against the stone floor. Thirteen years Aonair's senior, he was four inches shorter. The youngest brother was the tallest. The villagers oft compared Eoghan to a wild boar. Wide, flat nose, big ears, barrel chest, he tended to grunt. “My lord,” he said, “that dragon killed my mother.” With the palm of his hand, he roughly clipped Aonair's head. “I am the eldest. I claim the right to face it.”

His tone allowing for no discussion, Laoch commanded, “Aonair will go to Castle Togair. Rory, Nathair is yours. Take four men each. Two to run messages. Two for . . .,” he paused and looked directly at Aonair, “protection. Sleep out. Do not make yourself known at any village or house.”

Aonair sank back into his chair and, with quaking hands that could barely find his mouth, ate.

 

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