Day 18 of Midwinter, Sunrise

Mag Mór, Tir Tairngire

Annwn

I had never spoken personally to the king of the Tuatha. This meeting at the center of the battlefield would be the first time we would cross words. I was larger than he would remember, but I knew that would not intimidate the man.

Bren, Lir, Ruadan, and Goibhniu joined me for the parlay. Nuada had brought with him Nemain and The Dagda. I wondered what he was hoping to get out of this parlay. Perhaps he believed he could sway his brothers to join his side, or The Dagda to persuade Ruadan to do the same.

As it was, the Fomorians were unlikely to prevail in a battle against the combined forces of Falias and the other cities, even with the addition of the fianna and fae. If we lost the support of the elder Tuatha and possibly even the fianna, it would be a massacre.

Each of the opposing sides held one relic. I would need to be mindful of Nuada’s sword when we met. That blade could permanently kill any of us…as could my spear. Nuada hadn’t invited his healer brother to the parlay, and I gave myself a moment to wonder if an early offensive move against Nuada might be an option.

“I don’t like that look,” Bren said, shaking me out of my thoughts. “Maybe don’t stare Nuada down like you want to stab him in the throat with your big pointy stick when we’re trying to negotiate.” I gave my brother a wan smile. It would have never worked, I knew, not with Nuada holding the sword.

We arrived at the meeting point, the five of us halting our warhorses, who snorted and pranced in place, clearly eager to participate in the battle to come. Across from us, well within spear range, I noticed, sat Nuada, Nemain, and The Dagda on their own mounts.

Before anyone could speak, The Dagda dismounted and crossed the imaginary line separating us from our foes. He carried no weapon and made no hostile motions, so we allowed his passage. Arriving at Ruadan’s mount first, he placed a hand on his grandson’s foot and whispered something that brought a laugh to both men. He promptly moved to stand next to Bren and Gaoth.

“I’m sorry to have to meet you again like this,” the god of magic said. He rummaged in his cloak, eventually producing a black shirt made of some sort of tiny rings that he handed up to Bren. A dagger slipped out of the bottom, and Bren caught it deftly. “But Gorias owes you a debt that cannot be repaid simply by us returning your equipment.”

He nodded to Lir and Goibhniu, returning to his waiting horse. Before he could make it, Nuada had started speaking. This was the moment we all had waited for.

“Greetings, brothers,” he proclaimed, his voice booming. “Close relations and…” he paused, looking at Bren and me and seeming to parse out the relationship, then continued, “half-brothers.”

Bren and I caught eyes, both of us processing his words and their meaning at different paces. I recalled the fragments of memory of our time in Hy-Brasil and what we had managed to piece together, trying to reconcile that against what I knew of the history of the realm.

I knew that the first generation of Tuatha were sired by Danu, the goddess of life, and Donn, the god of death. It was a story known by all in Annwn. Bren and I also knew that our mother’s name was Briomhaith, daughter of Prince Elatha of the Fomorian. That was a fairly recent discovery, but until now, I hadn’t truly considered the identity of our father. Was he saying the father of the Tuatha, the god of death, was our father? And if so, what had the god of death been doing in Hy-Brasil?

Taken from NovelBin, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“I see by the look on your faces that you didn’t know.” The self-proclaimed Overking looked tired. “But it’s true.”

I studied the expressions on the faces of the first-generation Tuatha. Though all of them seemed to be hearing this information for the first time, Lir and Goibhniu seemed unsurprised, and The Dagda actively nodded his head.

“Did Mother Danu tell you this?” Lir asked his brother. “I have not heard her voice in a very, very long while. Why would she speak only to you now?”

“It is of no matter,” Nuada said dismissively. “That is not what concerns us here today. I have no desire to kill my family in this fray.”

“Nor do we,” the smith god said, sitting tall in his saddle as he appeared to shake off his fatigue. “But something is amiss here, brother, and you know it.”

“What is amiss is why a supposed king would want to kill his people,” I blurted.

“Or his nephew-slash-half-brother,” Bren added, trailing off in confusion as I suspected he tried to imagine Bres’ family tree.

“Or imprison his niece in a tower?” Ruadan added. The Dagda’s gaze darted between his brother and his grandson. Nuada didn’t flinch, but sat with a cold expression. He stared back at his accusers, making no apology for his actions.

“Tell me she is alive,” The Dagda said, his words stern as he stared down his brother.

“She is alive,” a weak voice called. I turned my gaze from Nuada to regard the sickly woman slumping in her saddle. Nemain glared defiantly at Nuada. “That was the bargain, after all, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Bren asked.

Nemain coughed fitfully, speckles of dark blood staining her lips a deeper crimson. When her spasms stopped, she drew a gasping breath. “I refused to bring Findrias to war if he harmed Brigid. She is his captive.” She coughed again, the sound wet and hacking.

“I don’t think you need to worry about Mother dear,” Ruadan said with his usual smirk. How I had missed having him around! Despite his sharp humor, he had unseeable depths and always seemed to be one step ahead of the rest of us.

“You are always so sure of yourself, Ruadan,” the Overking finally said. “Yet despite all your certainty, you were unable to rid me of the Sword of Light. Remind me how that attempt worked out for you?”

“As anticipated…” Ruadan quipped, his tone light and mocking. I suspected there was a story there, and the outcome had been dire. Fortunately for Roo, he always seemed to have yet another copy of himself somewhere else in Annwn. The one here was likely the version he’d had stationed with the fianna of the Midlands.

Nuada raised his chin. “I do not expect any of you to understand what I am doing, but know that I serve a higher power.”

“Said every zealot pretty much ever,” Bren muttered.

“You serve only yourself,” I growled.

Nuada leveled his glare directly at me. “You are still young and unable to understand true responsibility. A man is nothing if he does not serve a power higher than himself. This is doubly true for a king.”

“Who is this higher power,” The Dagda asked, not taking his eyes off Nuada, “that would ask of you such horrible deeds? To hold the fiery queen captive? To force Nemain and me to stand at your side?” He shook his head, seeming to have come to a decision. “You are my brother, but Gorias cannot abide by these evil acts. We withdraw from this war.”

My heart beat faster. Was it possible we could avoid unnecessary bloodshed?

Nuada sighed as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders and waved a hand to the armies gathered behind him. “I wish, with all of my heart, that things could be different.”

Behind him, the four armies began advancing: Murias behind Ogma, Gorias and Findrias behind Macha, and Falias behind Dian Cecht.

“Stop, Uncle!” Nemain yelled, her voice faint. She was no longer the fierce warrior I had met in the hills of Emain Ablach with Bren. “The gambit is over. You have lost.”

Nuada gave her a sorrowful look and shook his head. He reached out to place his hand on Nemain’s bony shoulder. “It’s too late, my dear. We have come too far, and she will not allow failure.”

Before any of us could figure out the riddle in his words, the battlefield came alive with activity. The Fomorians, the fae, and the fianna erupted into a war chant, banging their shields so that the sound rumbled the very ground. Both sides charged, with us caught in the middle.

On a nearby promontory, a great flash of light erupted, flaring with such suddenness and brightness that the charging armies on Mag Mór froze to see its source. When the brilliance faded, two figures stood silhouetted above the battlefield.

“Brigid,” The Dagda said into the eerie silence.

Ruadan laughed, long and loud, pausing long enough to say, “Tadg kept his word.”