<< Go Back

The Medallion

By Mark E. Fisher

Order Now!

Part I ~ Anno Domini 486, Ériu
Chapter 1 ~ The Decision


If Ty mac Taran didn’t focus soon, he would lose the game. He lowered his oaken bow, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and dried his hands on his tunic.
Behind him, the Ulster spectators muttered and shuffled their feet. A flute’s lilting mel-ody floated across the field. Sunlight sparkled from nearby trees laden with morning dew.
He narrowed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the target. How long had he stared at that wooden plank and its painted bear?
But he couldn’t stop thinking about tonight, on plans that, if carried out, would change his life forever. And the consequences—to himself, his clan, and his father—would ripple like waves from a rock heaved into a quiet pool.
Could he still abandon his plans, return to Inis Creig with his father, and call it off? Who ever heard of leaving clan and family for—what? A feeling? An obsession?
“Afraid the beast’s going to come off the wood and chase you, laddie?” Beside him, Ciaran mac Gregor smiled broadly, his fists planted on his hips. Ty’s rival turned to the throng. “Sure, and our painted Ulster bears are fierce, indeed.”
The crowd laughed and slapped hands on thighs.
“You can do it, Ty.” Prince Cairell’s voice rose above the laughter. “You’re better than him, by far.”
Ty shot a frown toward his stocky, red-haired friend and examined Ciaran’s three ar-rows. One in the bear’s head, one below its heart, and the last on a paw. One of Ty’s arrows had landed near the heart. The second had merely grazed the tail. Now anything but a shot in the circle painted around the heart would lose him the third round. And the game.
With both feet planted wide, he raised his bow, stretched taut the string.
His arm muscles bulged. His shoulder muscles strained. Sweat ran down his forehead, dripped off his eyebrows.
He lowered the arrow and wiped his brow. A bear. Why did it have to be a bear? One of the beasts that had killed his uncle. He shuddered at the memory and tried to clear his head.
He drew the arrow again and sighted along it toward the target, raising it an inch to al-low for the breeze.
A cough from someone in the crowd. His concentration—shattered.
Again he pulled back on the string, holding his breath. Then he released the missile. It cut the air with a hiss and slammed into the wood.
The crowd sighed in disappointment. Cairell caught Ty’s glance and shook his head. Men started toward Ciaran to congratulate him, but Ciaran was already walking toward Ty.
“You’ve merely castrated the beast. He’s still alive.” Ciaran laughed, and a heavy blow slapped Ty on the back, nearly knocking him off his feet. “They said you were better. But I’m na complaining, mind you.”
“’Twas your day, Ciaran.”
“Aye. But ’twas good of you to play, and I honors your attempt, you being the son of Taran mac Teague and all.” Ciaran examined the ground and shifted his weight. “Now, laddie, if I remember—’tis tomorrow you’re leaving with your father?”
The words plunged a dagger of guilt into him. Tomorrow, if he carried out his plans, he wouldn’t be going anywhere with his father.
Ciaran squinted at him. “And there might be the wee matter of a wager?”
Ty reached into his tunic’s single, inner pocket and pulled out ten silver rings. He held them in his open palm, lingering, the sunlight glinting off the metal. Why had he bet so much? If he and Cairell carried out their plan, in a few days he might need these rings.
He shrugged and handed over the silver. Ciaran’s fist closed on his winnings, and he grinned. He gave Ty another slap on the shoulder, and Ty winced.
“I likes a man who pays his debts prompt and regular. That I does.”
Ty nodded, backing away from another potential blow.
The crowd began to break up and drift toward the flutist, now joined by men playing a bodhrán and a harp. The music was fetching. Already, the Ulster men were dancing, kicking up their feet, while others swigged ale from clay cups, swaying and stomping in time to the rhythm. Ciaran raised a hand in salute to his opponent and headed toward the music.
Ty made no move to follow. On any other day, he would have shot all his arrows dead center in the beast’s heart.
The trail into the forest beckoned, the quiet whispers of the trees inviting solitude.
Without any particular goal, he wandered toward the entrance. Already, he could smell the fragrance of heavy pine, hear the chattering of squirrels and the snapping of twigs beneath soft leather. He rarely liked to be alone, but this morning he needed to think. To come to a deci-sion.
Behind him, footsteps broke a branch, and he whirled.
“Why did you lose, Ty?” Sorca, Cairell’s mysterious, red-haired sister, stepped up be-side him. For the games, she’d abandoned her usual leather vest for a shimmering light-blue tunic of finest cloth. Tied at the waist with white yarn, it accented her shapely form. She’d nev-er appeared so fetching. Did she do this because he was about to leave?
His heart beat faster. Why did she do that to him when they were alone?
“You followed me.”
“You look troubled. You rarely lose at archery.”
“There’s a first for everything.” He turned back to the trail and entered the forest at an ambling pace. So much for his reverie.
“So why did you lose?” She slipped beside him, smiling sweetly.
When she wanted something, she could turn on the charm and give a smile to melt all resistance. Yet most of the time she seemed distant, cold as ice. He’d never understand her.
“We’re going home tomorrow. At least that’s what Father wants.”
“I know. I’ll be sorry to see you leave. But is that why you lost?” Her hand touched his shoulder. His heart fluttered.
“If you say so.” What did she want?
“Are you na going with him?”
He shot her a sideways glance. “I . . . I don’t know.”
She let her fingers slip off his arm and faced the path ahead. “If you go on to Gaul,” her voice was soft, “what will your father do?”
He stopped walking. “Did I say I was going to Gaul?”
“And sure, you didna say anything of the sort. But I ken you are.”
He cocked his head. Trying to conceal his surprise, he faced the way ahead.
“’Tis as I thought. You’re torn between going to Gaul—on a quest—and returning home with your father.”
Ty groped for words, found none. Was his mouth hanging open?
Her smile had fled. “’Tis the truth, and you canna deny it.”
“How do you know?” he asked. Somehow, she’d discovered his and Cairell’s secret.
Her gaze fell on the winding dirt track ahead.
How many times had he wanted to ask someone’s advice? And here she was, almost begging him to. But he had to be careful. “I’m not saying it is,” he said. “And I’m not saying it isn’t.”
“If it were me,” she cocked her head toward him, “if it were me, I’d leave this place, even if it meant leaving home—especially if it meant leaving home.” Her high cheekbones al-ready gave an impression of regal sobriety. Now her dark-brown, liquid eyes narrowed, and her forehead creased ever so slightly.
“Are you a sorceress?” he asked.
“I am na such thing.” Her voice rose, and she waved both arms before her. “I follow the Christ!”
A rabbit burst across the path and bounded off into the trees. He jerked his glance side-ways at her. He could almost believe the creature’s flight was her doing. “You talk like one who knows things she shouldn’t.”
“I’m a good guesser.”
He stared at her a moment then said, “You’re right. I’m standing on a bridge between two different lands and don’t know which way to turn. An agony of the soul has gripped me, and I don’t know what to do. And lately, the medallion—” Without thinking, he clutched the round object beneath his tunic.
“The medallion?”
He looked past her fiery red hair, falling in locks to her shoulders. He wanted to tell her everything, but nay. He dropped his hand. She didn’t need to know about that day right now.
And he must not tell her about his and Cairell’s plans. They’d pledged themselves to se-crecy, and now Cairell was waiting for him to decide. The prince was eager and ready to go. If not on this trip, then with the first peddler who came along. Anything to get away from his brother, Eochaid.
“I ken who can help you.” The rare smile was back, the one that melted all resistance. “You should talk to Donnan.”
“He who lives in the monks’ enclave? But I heard he killed a man in Connacht for no reason. The monks are only letting him live there to . . . to purge himself of his sin. And if you say the wrong word or accidentally insult him, he . . . he’ll rip your heart out. And eat it.”
“Only rumors. I’m sure he wouldn’t eat it. But I’ve also heard the Spirit lies heavy on him, that he’s close to God, himself.”
Ty cocked his head. “How is that possible? Which rumor is true?”
She shrugged.
Ty’s glance wandered to the trail ahead. “Sorca, I’m torn between duty to my father and my clan, and something that’s been calling me—compelling me—to dangerous lands. And I don’t know what to do.”
She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. “They say he’s helped many.”
“I’ve heard that too.” Ty swallowed. “So, aye. This afternoon, I’ll see this monk whose advice comes either straight from God . . . or the devil himself.”
 

Order Now!

<< Go Back