The Shadowmagic Trilogy

‘My father says that Castle Muhn does not have enough magic to solve all your problems – just enough to allow you to leave them outside the front door.’

I turned and almost fell in love. She was casually rolling one of those glowing juggling balls over her fingers and from hand to hand, making the light waltz around her face and sparkle in young, dark eyes. She wore a purple velvet dress and her curly black hair cascaded onto her bare shoulders. I know I should be ashamed of myself, but at that second, my parents, Sally, my life – all shot straight out of my head. I was filled with the vision before me.

‘It seems by your face,’ she said, ‘that you have smuggled your problems in with you.’

‘Not any more,’ I said. ‘They’re gone, out-a-here.’

She smiled and my heart pounded.

‘I couldn’t help noticing the strange runes on your tunic.’

I looked down and laughed. I was amazed that no one had mentioned it before. I was wearing my New York Yankees sweatshirt.

‘These are special runes where I come from, they mean I’m cool.’

She reached out and touched them. ‘They don’t feel cool.’

‘My name is Conor.’

‘I am pleased to meet you, Conor. I am Essa.’

We bowed to each other without losing eye contact.

‘I am sure we have never met, Conor. What house are you from?’

‘I came with Araf,’ I said, sidestepping the question.

‘Araf!’ she screamed and jumped up and down. ‘Is he here? Where?’

‘I don’t know, I’ve lost him.’

‘Well, we must find him.’

She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the party. She was moving fast and I was being thrown into fellow guests and upsetting mugs, but there was no way I was going to let go of that hand. We found Fergal and Araf with a bunch of others sitting on a horizontal black pawn. Essa released my hand and launched herself at Araf, who caught her and returned the hug. It was the first time in my life I wished I was an Imp.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ she said.

Araf shrugged.

‘And you must be Fergal. Araf has told me so much about you.’

I couldn’t help wondering when Araf did all this talking. A servant brought us fresh mugs of wine. Fergal looked as if he’d had plenty already. Essa whispered into the servant’s ear.

‘Your father throws a hell of a party,’ Fergal slurred.

‘He does, doesn’t he? Here’s to Dad!’ Essa said, raising her mug in a toast.

‘Your father is Gerard?’ I asked.

‘The one and only.’

‘Well, I’ll drink to that.’

The waiter returned, carrying two banta sticks that he handed to Essa. She took both sticks and threw one to Araf. The assembled crowd oohed at the challenge. Araf caught the stick but didn’t look interested. Another servant arrived with headgear and protective clothing. Essa put on leather gloves, a heavy leather jacket that almost came down to her knees and a protective headpiece – a white helmet with a thin gold wire mesh covering the face.

Despite the heckling of the crowd, Araf refused to stand up. Fergal came up behind him and put a helmet on his head – but still he sat there.

‘I, Essa of Muhn, challenge you, Araf of Ur, to single banta combat.’

She struck a stance similar to an en garde position in fencing – right foot forward with knees bent. She looked magnificent. In her right hand she held the banta in the middle. The weapon had a knot of wood at one end which she pointed directly at Araf. If this was a proper and formal challenge, Araf showed no sign of partaking. He just sat there.

A smile crossed Essa’s face. She spun the banta in her hand like a baton twirler and in a flash covered the distance between her and Araf. She brought the smaller end of her stick down on his head and then bounced backwards, retaking her defensive stance – her stick across her chest with the left hand stretched forward for balance. I had never seen anything so graceful. She obviously knew what she was doing.

The audience loved it. The group erupted when the thud came from Araf’s helmet. Someone shouted, ‘One to Essa.’

Essa waited in her defensive pose but it was unnecessary. Araf wasn’t playing. He sat there like an old dog ignoring a rambunctious puppy. This didn’t seem to bother her. She launched herself into a spinning, swirling attack that hit Araf on the right shoulder. If it hurt, and it sure looked like it did, Araf didn’t show it. The crowd, that was getting larger by the minute, howled with delight.

‘Two to nought for Essa!’ Fergal shouted.

‘How high does the score go?’

‘Essa challenged him to a formal match,’ Fergal said. ‘Each landed blow is one point and a knock-down is five. The first to eleven is the winner.’

Essa attacked again. This attack was a mirror image of the previous one. This time she landed her stick on Araf’s left shoulder.

‘Well, it looks like Araf is going to lose this one,’ I said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Fergal said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because he never has.’

‘Never has what?’

‘He has never lost. Araf is the undefeated banta fighting champion of all of The Land.’

‘Well, at the moment,’ I said, ‘Essa looks pretty good.’

Fergal smiled. ‘Keep watching.’

Essa backed away and then launched into a new and bolder attack. She came at Araf and then leaped over his head! I once saw a deer on a country road jump over a tall fence – Essa had the same majestic poise. In mid-air she connected with two blows on the side of Araf’s helmet and landed behind him with two more points under her belt. The crowd applauded. Araf didn’t even turn around.

Essa walked around Araf and stood directly in front of him. She crouched down and looked into his eyes and smiled. There might have been a flicker of a smile from Araf in reply. With the big end of her stick she tapped Araf’s faceplate. The wire mesh glowed for a second. There was obviously some magic protecting the face. The entire audience shouted, ‘FIVE.’ She tapped again. ‘SIX,’ again, ‘SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE.’

On the blow that should have been ‘TEN’, Araf moved his head quickly to the left, Essa was thrown off balance and Araf poked his stick between her feet and tripped her. She went down fast. The audience booed but in good humour. Essa had been cocky – she had that coming. She rolled quickly to her feet. Araf slowly stood.

Now things were getting interesting. The crowd was buzzing. Essa backed away and the partygoers gave them room. A giant people-edged arena formed, with everyone watching. Essa backed into the middle of the room and retook her defensive posture. Araf walked towards her and stopped two stick-lengths away and bowed. Even though the score was nine-to-five, he was indicating that now, the duel had truly begun. Essa nodded in reply.

Araf took a stance. Not the graceful Tai Chi-like posture of Essa, but a flat-footed straight-on stance. He held his banta across his chest with both hands, like the staff fights in old Robin Hood movies. This was a battle between style and brawn.

Essa mounted a twirling attack to the head. Araf parried it and brought the bottom end of his stick up for a counter-attack. Essa spun and dodged it – just. The two of them were feeling each other out. Essa tried a lower attack but this failed. Araf’s parry was so strong that she momentarily lost her balance, allowing Araf to get her with a counterblow to her side that made me wince.

‘SIX,’ came a cry from the crowd.

The combatants stared at each other for a minute and then Araf initiated his first offensive attack. For a big guy, he moved fast. There was no twirling or pirouettes, just a direct attack – wide, quick, sweeping blows from alternating sides. Essa had no difficulty with the speed but she didn’t have the strength to block the blows without a step backwards. She gave ground with every parry and was running out of room. I expected her to start swinging around in a circle but she continued straight back, each block pushing her closer into a corner. Just when I thought it was all over for her, she bent her knees and dived, head first over Araf’s head! With the poise of an Olympic high diver, she jumped Araf’s banta stick and then planted her own stick on top of Araf’s shoulder, pole-vaulting and somersaulting behind him.

The crowd went wild. ‘TEN,’ they screamed in unison.

Six to ten – if Essa could land one more blow, she would win. I heard someone yell, ‘Who is the student and who is the master now?’

So that was it, Essa had studied under Araf. This was a student–teacher grudge match. The light-heartedness that marked the beginning of the duel was gone. Araf clumped into his stance – Essa flowed into hers. We waited to see who would initiate the next attack. The only sound was Essa’s breathing.

Araf broke the calm. With an unexpected twirl of his banta stick he came at Essa with a series of angled-down swings that blurred into a continuous figure of eight. It looked as if Essa had just stepped in front of a taxiing airplane. I could see in her eyes that the master had not taught the student everything. Initially she didn’t even try to parry. She backed away, attempting to decipher the rhythm of the attack. Before she ran out of space, she experimented with parries that succeeded in slowing down the attack – but only a bit. For a second time she tried her flipping pole-vaulting manoeuvre – she should never have attempted it twice. Araf dodged her stick, turned and made contact with her calf in mid-air. She landed on one foot, not enough to keep her balance. She hit the floor skidding. The only thing hurt was her pride. A five-point knockdown – she had lost.

Araf helped her to her feet, then stood in front of her and formally bowed – Essa hit him over the head with her stick. The crowd erupted in laughter. The fighters took off their masks and Essa planted a huge kiss on Araf’s cheek. For the second time today I wished I was an Imp.

Essa hung on Araf’s arm as they returned. Fergal added his slap to all of the others that Araf had received on his back as he travelled through the crowd.

‘Thank you for upholding the honour of the House of Ur,’ Fergal slurred. He was past tipsy and well nigh on to very drunk.

‘That was very impressive,’ I said to Essa.

‘I would have been more impressive if I had won.’

‘I was rooting for you.’

She smiled. It was very nice.

‘You should have a fight, Conor,’ Fergal said as he stumbled into me. ‘You would kick ass around here with that snap spell you are wearing.’

‘You are wearing a snap spell?’ someone said behind me.

I turned to answer when out of the corner of my eye I saw Fergal grab Essa’s banta stick.

‘It’s an amazing spell – watch this!’ he said as he swung. I remember the look of surprise on everyone’s faces as the stick hit my skull. Then everything went black.

The first thing I remember thinking as I came to was, Is this my third concussion this week or my fourth? In my whole life, I had never even been dizzy – now it seemed I couldn’t go a day without being knocked cold. I was disappointed that you don’t actually see stars and tweeting birds, like in cartoons, but I can assure you that you get great big bumps.

I felt a cold compress being applied to my forehead, and when I opened my eyes I saw that my nurse was Essa.

‘I’ve died, haven’t I?’ I said.

‘I don’t think so.’ She looked worried.

‘No, I must be dead because you’re an angel.’ OK, it was a bit corny but I was quite proud of coming up with a line that good so soon after multiple concussions.

‘I think you must be feeling better,’ she said, and took the cold compress off my forehead.

I sat up. I had a pain in my head that I hadn’t experienced since my last blow to the head – earlier that day I think. I winced.

‘You wouldn’t have any of that willow tea around, would you?’

‘Here, drink this.’ She handed me a tiny glass with no more than two thimblefuls of brown liquid.

‘Is that all I get?’

‘Believe me, that is all you need. It’s my father’s special tonic. It will make you feel better.’

I downed it in one. Had I been facing a mirror, I would have seen steam shooting out of my ears. I sat bolt upright in bed and croaked, ‘WOW!’

Essa laughed. ‘You’ll be better now,’ and stood to go.

I was instantly better but I didn’t want to let her go. I grabbed the wet cloth and put it in her hand. ‘Don’t go, I think I’m going to faint,’ I said, trying to look as ill as I could and lying back down on the bed.

‘What makes me think that you are not being sincere?’ She smiled.

‘Oh, the pain!’ I said and I pulled her hand, to make her place the cloth on my forehead. She lost her balance and pretty much fell on top of me. She laughed a little bit and didn’t immediately get up. Her face was only inches away, her lips were so close I could feel her breath. I stared straight into her eyes, those magnificent dark eyes and then … her father came in.

Essa sat bolt upright. I think she moved even faster than she did during her banta fight with Araf. ‘I think he is feeling better, Father.’

I sat up.

‘That, I can see. Leave us, daughter, will you.’

Essa gave me a glance. She looked worried, and to be honest I didn’t like Gerard’s tone either.

Before she left Gerard said, ‘May I borrow your pendant for a little while?’

This seemed to shock her. She removed a finger-sized crystal that was hanging from a plain gold chain around her neck and handed it to her father. She gave me one last apprehensive look and left.

Gerard took a step closer to the bed, drew a sword and pointed it an inch from my throat.

‘Honest, sir,’ I said, ‘I didn’t even kiss her.’

TEN

GERARD

‘Do you recognise the sword at your throat?’ Gerard asked. With extreme effort I released my attention from the point and glanced down the mirror-like blade to the pommel.

‘It’s mine.’

Gerard held Essa’s necklace in his left hand. The crystal that hung from it was embedded with flecks of gold. ‘This is an Owith glass,’ he said, ‘it will darken if you lie. If I were you, I would tell the truth. Did you steal this sword?’

Now that was a tricky question. I sort of stole it from Cialtie, but Dad said it was his. ‘My father gave it to me.’

The crystal flickered but remained clear.

‘Is Conor your real name?’

‘No,’ I said, just to see what would happen.

Essa’s necklace instantly went dark. This truth crystal was the real thing. I felt the point of my blade at my throat.

‘I suggest you try that again. Is Conor your real name?’

‘Yes.’

‘And who is your father?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you will kill me if I do.’

‘Well then, Conor, you have a dilemma, because I’m going to kill you if you don’t.’

‘What do you have against me?’

‘This blade, that you casually checked in at my door, is the Sword of Duir. Did you know that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. The crystal remained clear.

‘The only way you could possess this blade, is if you stole it. I am a very tolerant man, but I cannot abide a thief.’

‘I told you, my father gave it to me.’

‘The crystal bears you out – so the thief must be your father.’

I felt my anger rise. ‘My father is no thief – the sword was his to give.’

‘Are you claiming to be the son of Cialtie?’

‘Cialtie?’ I spat, and before I could stop myself, ‘I am the son of Oisin of Duir.’

Gerard looked at the crystal and stepped back. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered.

I did as I was told. I wasn’t as shaky on my feet as I should have been. That little drink had really done its stuff.

Gerard kept the sword pointed to my chest and looked at me as if anew. How could I have been so stupid? I just blurted out who I was and now he was going to do his duty and kill me.

‘My gods! You are of Duir,’ he roared. ‘I don’t know how I missed it before. Oisin’s son – you are Oisin’s son!’ He raised the sword and came at me, fast.

There was nowhere to run, I was finished. I placed my hands in front of my chest and closed my eyes.

He wrapped his huge arms around me and gave me a hug that would have put an anaconda to shame. ‘Oisin has a son!’ He laughed – a hearty laugh that shook the room. He put both hands on my shoulders and looked at me from arm’s length.

I opened one eye. ‘Don’t you want to kill me?’

‘Why in The Land would I want to do that?’

‘Everyone else around here does – the son of the one-handed prince thing.’

‘Oh my, that is an old prophecy – one of Ona’s, is it not?’

I nodded.

Gerard laughed. ‘I can’t tell you how many times some sorceress told me that my next harvest would fail or be the finest vintage – bah! I don’t have much faith in soothsayers. The good ones (like Ona, may she rest in piece) don’t lie – but that doesn’t mean that what they say is the truth. Anyway, it takes an awful lot for me to kill someone, and I’m certainly not going to kill a young man as fine as you because of something an old witch said thousands of years ago. Oisin’s son!’ He hugged me again, this time lifting me off the ground.

‘Tell me, Conor, where have you been hiding all of these years?’

I wondered for a second if I should make something up, but I just couldn’t help trusting this man. I sat down on the bed and told Gerard the whole tale – it just poured out. Gerard pulled up a chair and I went through it all: my life in the Real World, the death threats, the revelations, the emotions, the journeys, the fights, the meetings – the concussions. I wasn’t only telling Gerard, I was telling myself too. I had been living moment to moment, just trying to stay alive. Now that I had put it all together I realised it was a hell of a story. I ended by saying, ‘So I have to find my mother. I think she is in a place called the Fililands, but Fergal says they don’t exist. Can you help me?’

‘Oisin and Deirdre have a son,’ Gerard mused. ‘This,’ he said, breaking out of his reverie, ‘is the finest news I have heard in a long, long time. Are you thirsty, Conor?’

‘You wouldn’t have a beer, would you?’

Gerard roared with laughter at this. ‘In all of The Land I am the only man who could answer that question with a “yes”.’ He put his arm around me and waltzed me out of the room. We walked down a corridor that overlooked the courtyard. Through imperfect glass windows I could see another banta fight in progress. The party was still in full swing. At the top of an immense staircase Gerard bellowed, and several servants appeared.

‘Bring ale and food to the library,’ he ordered. ‘After that, we are not to be disturbed.’

We continued and then turned down a corridor with numerous small alcoves cut into the walls. In each was a carved wooden statue. Some were model castles, some were miniature thrones, most were busts of men and women. All were of different wood. Gerard stopped at a bust of a handsome man with a full beard carved in red wood.

‘This is your grandfather.’

‘Finn?’ I asked.

‘No. This is your other grandfather, on your mother’s side, Liam – the last lord of the House of Cull. He was a good man.’ Sadness invaded Gerard’s face and for a moment he looked old. ‘He was my friend.’

We arrived at the library at the same time as our food and drink. I was expecting an impressive chamber with bookshelves towering to the sky, but instead I found a smallish, comfortable room with just a few books, a wine rack, a desk, some overstuffed chairs and a deerskin sofa.

‘I’m not much of a reader,’ Gerard said, guessing my thoughts. ‘If you wanted to see a great library you should have seen your grandfather’s. It was a huge affair with a courtyard in the centre where he grew the Tree of Knowledge.’

‘The Tree of Knowledge?’ I asked.

‘Yes – I told you. He held the Rune of Cull.’

I must have looked confused.

‘Oh gods, I forget you don’t know about all of this. Right, Liam, your grandfather, was Lord of the Cull – the Hazellands. He sat in the Hazelwood Throne and was the custodian of the Hall of Knowledge. The best and the brightest from all The Land were welcome to study in his library, and before they left, they were allowed a hazelnut from the Tree of Knowledge. The fruit of the Tree of Knowledge ensured they would remember all that they had learned. It was a wonderful place.’

‘You talk like it’s no longer there.’

‘It’s not,’ he said, the heaviness returning to his face, ‘it’s all ruin. The Land lost the Hall, and I lost a friend – and my only son.’

‘Your son?’

‘My son was studying at the Hall, in fact he was one of your mother’s tutors.’

‘What happened?’

‘No one knows. Something, an army or a force, attacked Cull, and there was little defence. It was unthinkable that anyone would want to attack the Hall of Knowledge. Why would you defend against the unthinkable? Your mother and your Aunt Nieve were on some sort of sorceress’ quest. They were the ones who found the Hall and the Tree destroyed, and all of the students and tutors dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘As am I, but I have learned not to dwell on it. Although I will always remember, my mourning days are done. I do not want it to consume me like it almost consumed your mother.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes, until I spoke to you today I had not heard of her since her banishment. You see, it is believed that the need for vengeance drove her to learn Shadowmagic. I think she thought it would allow her to discover who, or what, destroyed Cull. From what you say, it would seem she still does not know. Maybe like me, she has put the matter to rest. I hope so.’

I took a sip of my beer. It was dark, a bit sudsy and too warm but it was drinkable. ‘Not bad,’ I said.

‘Thank you. I learned how to make ale in Ireland but I have never gotten it to catch on over here.’

‘Ireland? You mean like the Ireland from my world?’

‘Yes, long ago. I made a trip to the Real World the year before my Choosing. I travelled with my cousin, Cullen.’

‘Cullen? Cu-cullen,’ I said, using the Celtic prefix that literally means hound but is used to mean hero or king, ‘the Irish warrior?’

Gerard laughed so hard at that he spat out his beer. ‘A warrior!’ he howled. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Irish mythology is full of stories of the great warrior King Cucullen, his great battles and how he slew entire armies single-handedly – but this was thousands of years ago.’

Gerard was still chuckling. ‘Yes, I guess that would be about right. I went to the Real World with Cullen but I didn’t return with him. He just loved those Irish women and they loved him. You see, Cullen was a wonderful storyteller and like all good storytellers, he never let the truth get in the way of a good tale. Those Irish folks back then just couldn’t get enough of his stories and his music. Gods, when he played the flute it was like a spell, he could make you dance one moment and weep the next. I can imagine him telling a few tall tales about himself.’

‘Did he never return?’

‘Oh, he did, but he was never happy here. He was a fool, always wanting more than he had – a good man but a fool nonetheless. He used to take little holidays to the Real World on horseback – he never returned from the last one.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Probably the same thing that happened to the poor guard that came to your home with Nieve.’