Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [38]
“The fires of Bealtaine burn brightly,” Larine had replied. The Christian, he judged, was a victim of wishful thinking.
Yet something, he could not say what, had troubled him about the conversation. A vague apprehension. Absurd though it was, he had even glanced about once or twice to see if any of the Christian priests had decided to come to make a nuisance of themselves. But of course they had not. The fires of Bealtaine were burning brightly. As he scanned the horizon, he saw nothing to disturb the sacred ceremonies of the day.
If a feeling of unease continued to afflict him, he decided that it must be on account of the second and more serious of his concerns.
Conall. The prince had just appeared in the crowd that lined the other side of the pathway along which the cattle were led after passing between the fires. He was standing behind the front row, but his height gave him a good view of the fires at which, like the rest of the crowd, he was staring. He did not see Larine. It seemed to the young druid that, while everyone else was obviously enjoying the festivities, Conall’s face looked tense.
Several of the beasts being led through the fires were especially fine. Instead of bringing whole herds, farmers who had come a long distance might only bring their best animal, usually a bull, to serve as proxy for the rest. And just now a splendid brown bull was being led through by a tall figure and a girl. The man was a minor chieftain of some sort, Larine guessed, a handsome old fellow with long moustaches. But the girl, with her golden hair, was striking. The druid looked at her with appreciation. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the fire; so were her bare arms. He had the impression that her whole body was glowing. Conall seemed to have noticed the pair as well, for he was staring at them. What a contrast his taut, white face made, the druid thought, with the girl’s ruddy glow: like a pale sword before a smithy’s furnace. The girl, if she saw Conall, walked straight past without looking at him. She probably did not know who he was. Then another beast came through the fire, and the druid turned his eyes to that. But a few moments later he observed that Conall was still staring straight ahead and looking more like a ghost than ever.
He turned to the older druid beside him.
“What is your opinion of Conall?”
“Why is it you ask?”
“I am concerned about him.”
“Ah.” The druid glanced at him sharply. “And what is it, Larine,” she asked, “that you wish to know?”
Though most druids were men, there had always been female druids, too. Such women, often gifted with second sight and admitted to the mysteries of druidism, could be fearsome. If kings feared the rebuke of the druid men, the scorn of the female druid could be even more dangerous. And this old woman was formidable.
Larine looked down at her thin face. It was wrinkled now. Her hair, which fell almost to her waist, was grey, but her eyes, which were of the palest blue, might have belonged to a young woman and were strangely translucent, as if you could walk through them. As briefly as he could, he tried to answer her. Would his friend find happiness? Would he become a druid? But as he asked, she only shrugged impatiently.
“Foolish questions.”
“Why?”
“The fate of Conall is already foretold. It is in his geissi.”
Larine frowned. Whatever else you might say, Conall had always been a careful man.
“You know he never wears red because the colour is unlucky in his family. I cannot think he will break any of the geissi.”
“Yet he must break them, Larine, since he cannot die until he has.”
“That is true,” Larine agreed, “but that is far in the future; and it’s the present I’m worried about.”
“How do you know? Is it for you to decide such things, Larine? As a druid you should know better.” She paused and gave him a sharp look. “This I will tell you, and no more. Your friend Conall will break the first of the geissi very soon.”
As he stared at the old woman’s eyes and then at his