The Shadowmagic Trilogy. John Lenahan

gifted oracle.’

      ‘Who,’ my father said, ‘you murdered.’

      ‘Water under the bridge, Oisin. You really must learn to let bygones be bygones. You see, your daddy here carelessly lost his hand – which I still have upstairs, you know, it’s one of my favourite possessions – so that meant that having a baby was a no-no, but as always Oisin thought he knew best and it looks like it’s going to take his big brother to sort things out.’

      ‘You are using my hand,’ Dad hissed, ‘to keep the throne.’

      ‘Oh yes,’ replied Cialtie, ‘I find it works just as well in the Chamber of Runes without the rest of you. Better, in fact – because your mouth isn’t attached to it. That Shadowwitch you used to run around with did a really good job of preserving it.’

      I could see the blood vessels in Dad’s temple stand out as he strained against his chains. My temples must have been throbbing too. I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Some oracle predicted that I had to die? Cialtie was using Dad’s hand? And what throne?

      ‘I would love to stand here and reminisce all day,’ said Cialtie, ‘but I have a nephew to kill. Now, your father’s runehand has come in so useful these last few years, I thought I might as well have yours too. The start of a collection, maybe?’ He reached into his cloak and took out an ornate golden box. Inside was an imprint of a hand.

      ‘I’m going to cut off your hand,’ Cialtie continued, ‘preserve it with proper magic, not that Shadowmagic stuff she used on your dad’s mitt, and then you bleed to death and die. Your dad gets to watch and everybody is happy.’

      I used to think that anger was a bad thing, but now I realise that in times of extreme stress and fear, anger can be the emotion that focuses your mind and gets you through. Did I hate my uncle? You bet. And the idea of killing him was the only thing that kept me from whimpering like a damp puppy. I held on to that thought as he came at me.

      Cialtie paused. ‘You know, I just had a thought. Is it not ironic that the day you become an immortal is the day you die?’

      ‘If I’m an immortal, how are you going to kill me?’

      Cialtie laughed, a sickening laugh that deliberately went on too long. ‘Oh my. I never thought I would see the day when I would meet a son of Duir who was so thick. Immortality, my boy, may save you from illness and getting old, but it won’t save you from this.’ He drew his sword and swung at my wrist.

      Then it happened again. The world seemed to slow down and a golden – no – an amber glow encircled Cialtie’s sword and me. I felt the pressure of the blade on my wrist but it didn’t hurt, and more importantly, it didn’t cut. Cialtie flew into a rage – he began hacking and stabbing at me. I didn’t even try to dodge it – the amber glow seemed to protect me. Finally he threw the sword across the room in a rage.

      ‘This is Shadowmagic,’ he hissed. ‘That witch’s doing, I’ll wager. Well, I have a sorceress of my own.’ He turned to leave – then looked back. ‘You have a reprieve, nephew. I suggest that you and Daddy say your goodbyes. Just don’t take too long,’ and then he was gone, leaving me shaking, half from fear and half from anger.

      ‘I’m sorry, Conor,’ Dad finally said.

      ‘How come you never told me?’

      Dad laughed. ‘What was I supposed to say? “Son, you are old enough now for me to tell you that I am the heir to the throne of a magical kingdom …” You think I’m loony enough as it is. I can imagine what you would have said to that.’

      ‘So, you’re the heir to a throne?’

      Dad thought for a second, and took a deep breath that looked like it hurt. ‘My father – your grandfather – was the lord of this castle. His name was Finn and he held Duir – the Oak Rune. He was the king, if you like, of Tir na Nog.’

      I was struggling to make sense of all of this. My head was spinning. ‘You’re a prince?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘The one-handed prince?’

      He nodded.

      ‘So why did Cialtie say I was dangerous?’

      ‘Ona,’ Dad said, ‘made a prediction.’

      ‘Who is this Ona?’

      ‘She was my father’s Runecaster.’ When I looked puzzled he said, ‘Like a fortune teller.’

      ‘And what did she say exactly?’ I could tell that the question pained him but I was angry. Some old bat throwing stones around was causing me a lot of trouble.

      ‘She said, “The son of the one-handed prince must die, lest he be the ruin of Tir na Nog.”’

      ‘That’s ridiculous! You don’t believe this crap, do you?’

      Dad lowered his head, and when he spoke I could hardly hear him. ‘Ona was never wrong.’

      ‘So let me get this straight. You lose your hand in a gardening accident and then everybody wants me dead!’ As soon as I said it I realised how ridiculous it sounded. ‘You didn’t lose your hand in a lawnmower, did you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

      ‘That is a long story,’ I heard a woman’s voice say. It sounded as if it was coming from inside the wall to my right. ‘And if you want to get out of here,’ she said as she appeared right before my eyes, ‘we will have to save it for later.’

      You could have knocked me down with a feather. If I thought my aunt was stunning, this was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Dark, tall, with a straight black ponytail plaited to her waist and wearing – check this out – animal skins. She seemed to just step through the wall.

      She worked fast. She placed what looked like honey in the locks that shackled our wrists and Dad’s neck. Then she dropped to one knee, lowered her head, mumbled something and the irons fell away. I can’t tell you how good it felt. If you have ever taken off a thirty-pound backpack after a twenty-mile hike, you have the beginnings of an idea. Dad and I stood up.

      ‘Quickly!’ she said, and walked straight through the wall.

      Before Dad could follow I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Who’s the babe in the skins?’

      ‘That’s no way to talk about your mother,’ he said, and followed her through the wall.

THREE

      MOM

      I stood there as if rooted to the spot. I don’t have a mother. My mother is dead. My father told me so. Emotions swirled around me like a leafy breeze. I was five years old. I remembered the pain in my chest, the taste of my tears. I remembered the look on my father’s face as I stared up to him from my bed.

      ‘Is Mom in heaven?’ I sobbed.

      ‘I’m not sure I believe in heaven,’ a younger version of Dad replied. ‘The ancient Celts believed in a place called Tir na Nog, where people never grow old. I think that’s where your mother is.’ He held me until the tears slowed and my sobs were replaced by sleep. Was this the only time my father had ever told me the truth?

      ‘Conor?’

      I looked up and saw her standing there. ‘Are you my mother?’ I said in a voice I hadn’t used in fifteen years.

      ‘Yes,’ she said, and I knew it was true. I looked into that feminine mirror of my own face, complete with the tears, and I could hardly stand it.