The liquid notes dropped into his sleeping mind like raindrops into a pool. He pushed aside the noise, trying to ignore it and stay asleep, but the music trilled on, and he started to rise from the depths of his slumber.
Finally opening his eyes, he saw a spirit in the shape of a mistle-thrush sitting on his chest, trilling a wordless ripple of music at him.
"All right, my friend! Enough! I’m awake. How long has it been?" The thrush sang a few more notes.
"Seven years, is it? Och, it feels like only three!" He sat up with difficulty, for spiders had laid their webs all over him, fixing him to the bed. "I’m sorry, little mothers," he said to them, "I’ll help you build new ones on the morrow." He swung his feet over the side of the bed, joints creaking and cracking painfully. "Och, I feel old," he commented to no-one in particular; still, the wind rustled a quick denial in the dry autumn leaves that had collected in the cave.
Stretching his withered arms, he ran his fingers through his tangled white hair and beard, then stood cautiously and shuffled painfully down the short passageway to the entrance of his cave.
Guiseppe del Mato glared balefully at the short expanse of Scottish moorland before him from his vantage point in the copse. This flat heathland, less than three hundred yards wide, was all that separated his raiding party from the walls of Doire Druidhan. However, that three hundred yards was thick, springy heather, the sort of terrain that clung to the feet and weapons, restricting movement whilst enemies rained arrows down on your head. There was also the added problem that the heather was covered by two feet of snow. Between the two of them, the plants and the snow, a perfect barrier had been formed around the covenant. There was no way that he and the half-dozen men with him would be able to cross this killing-field to the covenant quickly without drawing the attention of the archers that patrolled the ramparts of the wooden curtain surrounding the donjon of the covenant.
The grogs looked at him expectantly. They knew as well as he did that they could not delay much longer. They knew that the magi of Doire Druidhan had taken their annual trip to the Firth of Forth, but they would be back before sunset. They had to be away by then.
He stood up straight, stretching his cramped muscles, careful to ensure that the trees hid his shape against the horizon. As he stood, so did the mastiff that had crouched by his side. The two were strikingly similar, both stocky and dark, both caprisoned for war – Guiseppe in a light chain shirt; the hound, called Mors Mordax, dressed in a leather harness. Even their colours matched. The dog was mainly black, with coppery markings, and Guiseppe wore a black tunic and cloak with a crimson trim. The Sicilian magus scratched his chin, brushing the snow out of the short beard that ran along the line of his jaw. His familiar, at the same time, lifted a forepaw to scratch his jowls.
He turned to the men behind him. "Right. This is what we are going to do..."
The battle was over surprisingly quickly. The conjured fog mimicked a sea mist, and the covenant’s grogs were green enough to not be suspicious until the Saxons were at their gate. Guiseppe’s flames made short work of the gate, and in no time the men from Horsingas Covenant were swarming into the bailey. The Magus of House Flambeau could taste blood in his mouth from where his familiar had torn out the throat of a soldier. The mastiff was still feeding on the man, and noisily at that. Calling him off, the magus ordered his men to empty the food stores. Guiseppe surveyed the plunder – a profitable day’s work. Doire Druidhan, its Norman magi more used to the luxury of the continent, kept well-stocked stores of cured venison, fine bread-flour, honey and other luxury foods. He took a jug from the pile, broke the wax seal, and took a swig of the contents. Doire Druidhan keeps well-stocked cellars as well, he thought to himself, recognising the wine from his Italian homeland.
Wiping his mouth, the magus crossed to the burnt remains of the main gate. From within his tunic he pulled a crude flute, carved from the shin-bone of a horse. Putting it to his lips he let blast a dozen long notes, then carefully stowed the whistle away again. It had been a gift from their friends at the Covenant of Seven Sisters, and he had no wish to see it lost. Within a few minutes, six ponies trotted into the yard. They were typical Border ponies, stocky but long-legged, and covered with shaggy hair. By now, items from the armoury and general stores had been added to the growing collection in the yard, including several excellent swords, some large bars of good quality wax and a sheath of very fine vellum. Guiseppe ordered the men to stop their pillaging and to start loading the horses. Within the hour, the raiding party was on their way back south, a quarter-day ahead of the return of the owners of the ravaged covenant.
The loch was mirror-still in the winter landscape. Standing before it made it seem as if one stood in the centre of the universe, walled into the valley with the dome of the sky above and its reflection in the still waters below. The perfection was broken by the rising of the salmon, its snout piercing the surface and sending ripples radiating out to the shores.
"Yes, my friend. As soon as the snows melt and the pass clears, they’ll be here."
The fish gaped at him, blowing wordless bubbles.
"You mustn’t say that! They come because I’m here, and I wait to serve them. Nothing more need be said."
The ancient man turned and walked away from the lake, the salmon submerged and continued its business. The spirits had helped him clean the rooms, for seven years worth of dust and grime was too much for a man of his years to cope with. He’d had to rehouse several families of field mice, though they had taken exception to this. After all, the cottages had been the mouses’ ancestral homes, as rodents measure time.
All was ready, all he needed was his guests.
The dozen or so men crouched around the fire in the low-roofed hut. It was the middle of winter in the highlands of Scotland, and from without the hut seemed a mere bump in the snow, which would smother a tall man, even one such as Calum Mac Lachlan. The gnarled old wizard was contorted by both the low ceiling and his deformed body into a grotesque position that made him seem to be more monster than man. Even though he was closest to the fire, no man sat close to him. The stench was too great even for the strong stomach of a Highlander.
"Tha’ way brings the doom o’ the clan!" he fumed, spittle escaping from his scabeous lips.
"With respect, Calum, you’re wrong." The man who disagreed with him sat to his right. Domnhull Beg was a distant relative of Calum, but the two couldn’t have been more different. Both men had black hair, but Domnhull’s was restrained to his head and face, not growing rampant over his body in a shaggy pelt like that of his kinsman. Domnhull’s face was aquiline, with a hooked nose and piercing eyes, not scabbed and warty, dominated by heavy brows and bloodshot eyes.
"Compliance with the wishes o’ the Order," Domnhull continued, "is the only way that this covenant can protect itself; and if the covenant is strong, so is the clan."
"But we have four covenants to our side," argued Calum.
"And the Clan Ross are in wi’ us, along with the Murrays and the Ferin sept of the Donalds," supplied Raibert, one of the gathered clansmen.
"You don’t ken yet!" cried Domnhull, exasperated, "I’m nae saying that the Clan Mac Gruagach could nae do this. We could crush Eilean Beg wi’ nae a thought. I’m saying that if we do tha’, the Order will orphan us magi. We would be hunted down and killed. All of us. They know our weaknesses. We would nae ha’ a chance."
All of the gathered men turned to the ceann cath, the clan chief of Clan Mac Gruagach. Donncadh had not participated in the debate, but he had listened, and ensured everyone had made their opinions clear. It now fell upon him to make the decision.
"Domnhull, I ken little of this Order of Hermes, which was why I had ye fostered to Clan Bonisagus, to learn their ways. I trust ye an’ yer judgement.
"Calum," The Mac Gruagach turned to face the hideous gruagach, "I love ye and honour ye as my father, but in this, Domnhull knows best. Clan Mac Gruagach will no’ break the Pact of Crun Clach."
It was another month before they began to arrive at Loch Leglean. The snows had been late this year, and the route through the Grampians took longer than expected to clear. The first to arrive were the party from Crun Clach. Four magi came with seven warriors, all brightly gambesoned in shining mail, and mounted on prancing horses. As they closed in on the collection of buildings on the shores of the loch, it could be seen by the spirits that watched that these warriors were no mortal men. Their hair was the bright yellow of ripe corn, their eyes were as violet as amethysts. They were tall and lithe, and their ears were curled into points like exotic sea-shells. Amidst them, at the fore of the group of five figures, rode Iain Mac Gabhan, like many of Crun Clach, a member of the Noble House of Merinita. A dignified magus, nearing his first century; Iain, like the rest of his party, was arraigned in his best finery. Russet and olive was the themes of his attire, and he held his greying head up proudly. He was in charge of this group – for one season each seven years he could take his place as the leader of the Covenant of Crun Clach.
Behind him were two more horses, bearing two cloaked magi, following on foot was a fourth figure, a lithe, bare-footed woman of perhaps thirty. Her face was plain, her hair tousled by the winter wind. In her left hand was the reins to her horse, a bay sumpter; in her right was the hand of a little girl, perhaps three, no older. The girl wore nothing more than a flimsy white shift, despite the cold, and of all the assembled notables, was the only one to notice the honour guard of hedgehogs that had turned out to greet the guests. Squealing with delight, she let go of her mother’s hand and ran towards them, kneeling in the frost-coated grass to stroke their spiny backs and tickle their soft bellies. Her mother came up behind her, crouched down and placed an arm around her shoulder.
"Look, Mam! Hodge-pigs!"
"Hedgehogs, Aine, they’re called hedgehogs."
"Mam, I want one! Can I have one, mam? Can I?"
"Aine, they’re not mine to give you. Perhaps when you’re older, if you ask one real nice, then he’ll be your friend for ever. Like me and Gliocas."
At his name, the thin hound who had been running with the horses trotted over to his mistress’ side. He was an unusual colour, a dark green, with large black spots, though he was thoroughly grey around the muzzle and eyebrows. The dog sniffed at one of the hedgehogs, but withdrew when he got his nose pricked.
"Come now Aine. We don’t want to keep the others waiting."
Obediently, the little girl brushed off her shift and took her mother’s hand, though she turned and waved goodbye to the bemused hedgehogs. Aine’s mother smiled to herself. Deciding to have the child was perhaps the best decision of her life. Although she appeared to be only thirty, in reality she was well over ten times that. Her name was Caitlin Suil Uaine, and she was the most powerful magus in the British Isles, perhaps in the whole Order of Hermes.
Waiting by the shores of the loch was the old man who took care of the village. No one could remember his name – perhaps Caitlin knew it, but she had never said. All called him Conservus, that is, Caretaker. He bowed deeply to Iain Mac Gabhan, dislodging the displaced field mouse family who had insisted upon taking up residence in his tunic instead of the chimney breast.
"Welcome to Loch Leglean, Crun Clach."
"Thank you, Conservus." Iain enjoyed this short time as head of the covenant. Had he stayed with his clan, he’d be ceann cath by now. Had he joined any Covenant but Crun Clach, he’d be its leader without a doubt at his age. But no, he’d joined the covenant run by the ever-youthful Caitlin, the all-powerful Caitlin, the control-freak Caitlin. Deep in his heart, he resented her, and sometimes wished she would do the decent thing and just die, like a mortal woman. At least during a Tribunal she was here as praeco, and not as a member of Crun Clach. He had his moment in the seat of power.
"Please, let me show you to your lodgings." The old man shuffled off towards one of the buildings, and the delegation fell into line behind him.
"This one," he said, pausing and gesturing to his right, "is for the honoured praeco iudicii provincinus Caledoniae and her...ummm...charming daughter." Caitlin disentangled her daughter’s fingers from the old man’s beard, smiled apologetically, and dragged her into the cottage.
"Over here, we have quarters for the rest of you." The houses were quite large, with plenty of room for all. They were all meticulously tidy, and were a rare luxury for both the magi and their men. The roofs were covered in turfs to keep the heat in, a fact which delighted of Iain’s familiar, an irascible old billy goat who wasted no time in getting up on the roof and starting to feed.
The rest of the magi arrived over the next week, with Clan Mac Gruagach arriving next and the Covenant of Turmaris coming last. In all, over four dozen magi had arrived. Each of the thirteen covenants of the Tribunal were allowed to bring up to three voting members, and no more than seven others. Finally, when all were assembled, the forty-sixth meeting of the Tribunal of Loch Leglean, the largest Tribunal in the Order of Hermes, was ready to begin.
"This is preposterous!" Bricis of Devontia was both confused and enflamed, and his anger was directed at the quaesitor.
"You cannot be seriously suggesting that that...thug sitting there," with a wave of his hand he indicated the smirking Guiseppe de Mato, "acted wholly within the bounds of the Code of Hermes?"
Whitburh Frithowebba, the Quaesitor of the Loch Leglean Tribunal, smiled condescendingly at the young Tremere. She was seated on a grandly carved chair on a dais, opposite her, across the debating floor, was the Praeco Caitlin, raised on a similar dais. She was old – though none knew exactly how old, for her hair was as yet only lightly touched by the grey of age, and still unbound, as befits an unmarried woman. She dressed austerely, in a plain peasant brown, though she deported herself like a noblewoman.
"I was under the impression that you had acquainted yourself with the traditions of the Loch Leglean Tribunal, before coming here today, Bricis. Surely you read about the Pact of Crun Clach?"
"The Pact of Crun Clach? I read of a barbarous ruling that some Twilight-riddled and senile praeco allowed to slip through several centuries ago. It gave tacit agreement – nay permission – for covenants to make war upon each other," he scoffed, "Surely you are not telling me that this Pact is still valid?" Bricis’ voice dripped with disbelief and scorn.
The Praeco’s calm voice slid into the debate like a dirk.
"The Pact of Crun Clach was authored but six tribunals ago by this Twilight-ridden and senile praeco." Her grey eyes glinted dangerously.
"Hoh-hoh!" someone from the dark hall called, "That was a good one lad! Get the praeco on your side, why don’t ye?" Titters of laughter ran around the hall. Most of the gathered magi sat in relative darkness – only the centre of the debating floor was well lit, and Bricis couldn’t see the speaker.
"It is part of the Peripheral Code," supplied Whitburh, "That applies specifically and exclusively to the Loch Leglean Tribunal. It is as binding as the rest of the Code of Hermes. I see no breach of the Pact here."
"But Del Mato invaded our covenant, slew half of our turb, and walked off with all of our winter supplies! You are telling me that that does not violate the Code?"
"Show me the part of the Code that Guiseppe del Mato of Flambeau has contravened, and I will gladly punish him."
"Ah, well you would speak up in defence of your sodalis! Tell me, do all of the thieves of Horsingas dine on the meat and mead of Doire Druidhan?"
The quaesitor’s lips tightened, and Bricis knew he had made a mistake.
"My God, man!" the heckler cried, "Insult Our Lord in Heaven and be done with it! Then ye’ll have offend all three powers in this Tribunal!"
Whitburh turned to her apprentice at her side who had been furiously transcribing the arguement. "Let the Records show that the charges brought against the Covenant of Horsingas by Bricis of the Covenant of Doire Druidhan were not upheld. Let the record also show that in view of his insolence to the honoured praeco and the chosen quaesitor, Bricis was handed a summary fine of three pawns of vis."
"You have no right to do that! The Code doesn’t allow you to fine me for insolence! And I have a legitimate complaint!"
Whitburh leaned over to inspect her apprentice’s work. "No, my dear," she corrected, "you’ve written ‘three’. The correct Latin for ‘five’ is quinque."
Bricis just stood slack-jawed at this blatant misuse of quaesitorial authority. He looked around the assembled magi. No-one but his own sodalis were expressing any surprise.
"I’d close ye mouth if I were ye, or were you planning on changing feet?" the heckler called, and the hall burst into laughter. Even Whitburh couldn’t control the twitch of a smile that came to her face, while Caitlin was roaring with laughter with the rest of them.
Bricis had had enough. His rising anger broke over him like a red tide.
"Who is it that skulks in the shadows and insults his betters? Come forth and face me in certámen, thou who insults the honour of the Tremere! Or are you Scots too cowardly for such an honourable institution?"
The gathered magi held their breath as one. Doire Druidhan, unlike the rest of the gathered magi, had not been to a meeting of the Loch Leglean Tribunal before, and so unlike everybody else in the hall, had not recognised the voice. With much shuffling and cursing, a figure made its way to the debating floor, pushing himself through the crowd of magi. The hooded man stood before Bricis in the well-lit centre of the hall.
"I am not afeared to face ye, Bricis," he said, pulling back his hood. The ancient visage of Iain Mac Gabhan revealed itself. "I accept your challenge of certámen. We will fight tomorrow."
Conservus was taking a well-deserved rest. Supper had been gathered and prepared – birds had bought him early berries, squirrels had dug up stores of nuts laid down in preparation for the Tribunal. A tribute from the Bee folk satisfied the sweet tooth of the magi. Foxes and wild cats had spent the night catching hares, which the fire-spirits had thoughtfully cooked, all overseen by the ancient keeper of Loch Leglean. A tree-stump provided a seat for him while butterfly-spirits soothed his flushed face with their feather-light kisses. When the two magi walked around to near where he was sitting, obviously looking for a place to talk privately, they totally failed to notice him sitting there – an all-too common occurrence where the caretaker was concerned.
"Bricis, I teased ye, I riled ye, but I have no wish to humiliate ye."
"I will not withdraw my challenge! That would damage my reputation more than losing to you!"
"Look lad, this is the thirteenth Tribunal I’ve attended. Y’ve been to, what two?" The younger magus nodded. "Even in challenging me, you’ve exceeded yerself, and t’House Tremere is hardly ginnae honour ye for that." Iain paused, as if in thought. "There is one way, however, that ye might be able to hold on to yer honour. What if I conceded the certámen to ye? Retracted my insults and paid ye geld? That would salvage yer honour, no?"
"But why would you do such a thing?"
Mac Gabhan chuckled. "Laddie, ye have a lot to learn about the Loch Leglean Tribunal! Ye must be aware o’ the split between the Gaidhael covenants in the Highlands and us o’ the Lowlands? Well, if you do a little thing for us, I’m sure we can come to an agreement..."
Iain put a friendly arm around Bricis’ shoulder, and the two walked off, heads close together to stop anyone overhearing. Conservus had heard the lot, but had no wish to learn more. Let the magi play at politics, he thought to himself, it matters not one whit to me. As long as they will work together when danger threatens.
"And that day will come," he remarked out loud to a passing linnet, who considered his words carefully before going about her business.
The last ones had left now. They had lingered after theTribunal had finished, unwilling to leave the tranquil surroundings of Loch Leglean, but now the encroaching summer had called them back to their smelly laboratories and their dusty libraries. With a weary sigh, the ancient man allowed himself a moment of rest. A patch of moss thoughtfully offered itself as a cushion for his tired old bones, and he thanked it for its kindness. Within moments, a hare appeared dragging a piece of cheese behind it. The ancient one absently scratched the hare-spirit behind its long ears as he nibbled at the cheese, but he had no taste for it really. He gave some of it instead to the hungry hare, and the rest went to a passing blackbird who had nestlings to feed.
The magi had argued and fought. The Lowland covenants, now including the new covenant of Doire Druidhan, had opposed the Highland covenants at every turn. Horingas had stood alone, opposed by both camps. No one could say who had won. If indeed anyone had won.
"It was all a lot simpler back in Arthur’s day," the ancient magician remarked to his friends. He sat for a while, remembering the days of his youth. The snuffling question of the hare broke his reverie.
"What? Oh, Arthur’s long gone, sleeping beneath the mountain. Which is exactly where I should be." With that, he hauled himself back onto his withered legs and hobbled down the hill back towards his warm cave, longing once more for the peaceful cloak of slumber. Later, lying there listening to the gentle cooing of a pair of doves who had come to lull him back to sleep, he hoped that the next seven years would go a little slower than the last.