Just looking at Lucy should’ve told Patrick she wasn’t the
veleda.
She was too vain and silly. He wondered why those stories had been in his family at all.
Simon hovered over the ogham stick, pushing at it quickly with his fingers, as if it were burning hot, moving it into place beside the rowan wand.
“Are you sure we want to do this?” Jonathan asked quietly. “It’s not too late to stop.”
Patrick glanced up, frowning.
Rory Nolan said, “The rebellion failed. There’s no money coming in. We need something to convince people a new rebellion will succeed.”
“Perhaps we should wait a little longer,” Jonathan insisted. “It’s only been a few days. Perhaps the Fianna will still come.”
“It’s been three weeks,” Patrick said. “How long should we wait? People are dying over there. Families starving. You saw it too. Will you be the one to explain to them that we were waiting for a spell we already knew didn’t work?”
Jonathan looked wary. “But the Fomori . . . surely there’s someone else—”
“Who else? These things fell into our hands for a reason. We need an army that won’t fail. We were meant to use them.”
“And we can’t delay further,” said Rory. “It could take years to stumble upon another spell.”
“The Fomori enslaved the Irish once before,” Jonathan noted. “Our ancestors went to war
against
them. Then we had the old gods on our side. That’s who we need: the Tuatha de Dannan.”
“If you can find a spell to summon them, by all means do so,” Rory said. “Thus far there doesn’t appear to be such a thing. But there
is
a spell to summon the Fomori.”
“The world has changed, Jon,” Patrick said as reassuringly as he could. “Do you really think we can’t control the Fomori now? We’re civilized men—”
“We’ve weapons, money, and politicians in our pocket,” added Rory. “We’ll make them do as we bid instead of the other way around.”
“And there’s no other way. We need them,” said Patrick.
He believed it too. His disappointment over the Fianna failure tormented him. Then Simon had found the rowan wand, half of the Fomori spell—they only needed the oghamstick—and Patrick had remembered the relic his father had brought from Ireland ten years before, which was in a display case in his study. That it had been
the
ogham stick they needed seemed a sign. The Fomori, the Children of the goddess Domnu, who had fought the old gods, the Tuatha de Dannan, and their allies, the Fianna, for the rule of Ireland—battles that had been fought over and over again throughout history. The stories said that the Fomori were the gods of chaos, but history was written by the victors. It was in the interest of the Fianna and the old gods to depict the Fomori as evil. Enemies were always so.
Thus are legends made,
thought Patrick.
Simon glanced up. “Well? Shall we continue?”
There was a murmur of ayes, Patrick’s among them. Jonathan hesitated, but then nodded.
Simon bent over the items again. He began murmuring, and then his voice grew louder, words in Gaelic that Patrick translated in his head: “Darkness and thunder, blood and fire. The eye of one who slays. As one is bid, so come the rest. The rowan wand and virtue gone. A blood price paid. Now come the Children of Domnu.”
Simon said them once, and then again. The third time, he picked up the rowan wand, grasping it high above his head, and strode counterclockwise around the table.
Patrick watched, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, the magic in the room growing and pulsing. The wand brightened as if the lamp shone on it, and then he realized that no, it wasn’t the lamplight at all—the wand was
glowing
. Glowing ever brighter, brighter and brighter until its light pierced theroom, and he had to close his eyes and look away because it was like staring at the sun. Simon’s voice rose into a high and keening wail, a near scream, as he said in Gaelic, “And now the Erne
veleda.
She was too vain and silly. He wondered why those stories had been in his family at all.
Simon hovered over the ogham stick, pushing at it quickly with his fingers, as if it were burning hot, moving it into place beside the rowan wand.
“Are you sure we want to do this?” Jonathan asked quietly. “It’s not too late to stop.”
Patrick glanced up, frowning.
Rory Nolan said, “The rebellion failed. There’s no money coming in. We need something to convince people a new rebellion will succeed.”
“Perhaps we should wait a little longer,” Jonathan insisted. “It’s only been a few days. Perhaps the Fianna will still come.”
“It’s been three weeks,” Patrick said. “How long should we wait? People are dying over there. Families starving. You saw it too. Will you be the one to explain to them that we were waiting for a spell we already knew didn’t work?”
Jonathan looked wary. “But the Fomori . . . surely there’s someone else—”
“Who else? These things fell into our hands for a reason. We need an army that won’t fail. We were meant to use them.”
“And we can’t delay further,” said Rory. “It could take years to stumble upon another spell.”
“The Fomori enslaved the Irish once before,” Jonathan noted. “Our ancestors went to war
against
them. Then we had the old gods on our side. That’s who we need: the Tuatha de Dannan.”
“If you can find a spell to summon them, by all means do so,” Rory said. “Thus far there doesn’t appear to be such a thing. But there
is
a spell to summon the Fomori.”
“The world has changed, Jon,” Patrick said as reassuringly as he could. “Do you really think we can’t control the Fomori now? We’re civilized men—”
“We’ve weapons, money, and politicians in our pocket,” added Rory. “We’ll make them do as we bid instead of the other way around.”
“And there’s no other way. We need them,” said Patrick.
He believed it too. His disappointment over the Fianna failure tormented him. Then Simon had found the rowan wand, half of the Fomori spell—they only needed the oghamstick—and Patrick had remembered the relic his father had brought from Ireland ten years before, which was in a display case in his study. That it had been
the
ogham stick they needed seemed a sign. The Fomori, the Children of the goddess Domnu, who had fought the old gods, the Tuatha de Dannan, and their allies, the Fianna, for the rule of Ireland—battles that had been fought over and over again throughout history. The stories said that the Fomori were the gods of chaos, but history was written by the victors. It was in the interest of the Fianna and the old gods to depict the Fomori as evil. Enemies were always so.
Thus are legends made,
thought Patrick.
Simon glanced up. “Well? Shall we continue?”
There was a murmur of ayes, Patrick’s among them. Jonathan hesitated, but then nodded.
Simon bent over the items again. He began murmuring, and then his voice grew louder, words in Gaelic that Patrick translated in his head: “Darkness and thunder, blood and fire. The eye of one who slays. As one is bid, so come the rest. The rowan wand and virtue gone. A blood price paid. Now come the Children of Domnu.”
Simon said them once, and then again. The third time, he picked up the rowan wand, grasping it high above his head, and strode counterclockwise around the table.
Patrick watched, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, the magic in the room growing and pulsing. The wand brightened as if the lamp shone on it, and then he realized that no, it wasn’t the lamplight at all—the wand was
glowing
. Glowing ever brighter, brighter and brighter until its light pierced theroom, and he had to close his eyes and look away because it was like staring at the sun. Simon’s voice rose into a high and keening wail, a near scream, as he said in Gaelic, “And now the Erne
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