~ Chapter XIX ~
Legends of Long Ago

"Where would you like me to start, Mórdúil?" Fíohra asked.

The great dragon cast his gaze over the carvings in front of them. He made a dissatisfied sound and turned to the right. After a moment or two he nodded. "I suppose this is a good place."

Fíohra went to the place Mórdúil indicated. It was a little way above her head, but the carvings were bold and stark in the light of the dragonfire torches, and she had no trouble making out the details. To her relief, each story was delineated by thin stone bands running along the circumference of the room, creating narrative layers as high as she could see. The story Mórdúil had pointed out began on the fifth tier above the floor, and Fíohra settled herself close to wall to study it.

The scene opened with the figure of a man seated on a throne. His face was careworn, but his robes were kingly, and Fíohra could see at once that he was a great monarch, though the carvings gave no indication over which land he ruled. She took a step closer. To the left of the king stood a woman with a crown on her head, her face hardened by pride and contempt. Four young men sat at her feet, and Fíohra marveled at the hand that had chiseled each face into the likeness of both mother and father. She knew immediately that these were the sons of the king.

But the woman remained a mystery, for standing at the right of the throne was a second woman, a young child cradled in her arms. Her face was quiet and kindly, yet there too was nobility in her expression, and her little son wore a circlet of gold on his curly-haired head. He took had the look of the king, and Fíohra could not decide if his mother or the other woman was the rightful queen.

The story continued to Fíohra's right. She looked; the scene had changed. The first woman now stood alone, her expression prouder and fiercer than before. The crownless woman was kneeling before her, dressed in rags and weeping. Her child was nowhere to be seen. Fíohra frowned, but the carvings that followed revealed the mystery.

They showed the crowned woman throwing her rival's child out of the castle, her pitiless sneer leaving Fíohra with no doubt as to her intentions. She wished the child—perhaps the only other in the kingdom with a legitimate claim on the throne—to perish in the wild. But her desire was thwarted, for an old man in the robes of a bard rescued the boy, bearing him away to the safety of his mountain village, far from the clutches of the jealous queen.

Fíohra watched as the boy grew into a man under the watchful eye of the old bard. When he was at last full-grown, his adopted father brought him back to the castle of the king, proclaiming to all that the rightful prince had returned to claim his birthright. The king was overjoyed, but his wife was greatly displeased, for she had hoped one of her sons would earn their father's favor in the absence of the true heir.

When the son of her rival reappeared, the world grew dark in the eyes of the queen. So she devised a plot to secure the crown for her eldest son, even while his half-brother was firstborn. The queen persuaded the king to set before his sons a great test. The son who succeeded would inherit the kingdom. The king agreed and the queen rejoiced, for she planned to convince her husband to confide in her the secret of the test he was to set before his sons. She would then reveal his plan to her sons, giving them an unfair advantage over their half-brother.

But here the queen was foiled, for no matter how she tried to talk the secret out of the king, he remained firm. None would know of his plan until he was ready to put it into action, and no one could move him from his silence on the matter. Fíohra laughed as the carvings depicted the various lengths to which the queen strove to obtain the secret, each more desperate from the last. But neither tears nor threats succeeded. Rather, they turned the king's heart from the queen his wife, and when the time came to put his sons to the test, she had only succeeded in losing his favor.

The day of the great trial dawned in beautifully carved detail. Fíohra could almost feel the anticipation of the young men as they stood before their father awaiting their task. The king sat on his throne, majestic and solemn, and to his left stood the disgraced queen. There was no crown on her head. But (to Fíohra's surprise and delight) the second woman had returned to her place at his right hand. She looked much older, and wrinkles as fine as spider-webs had been carved around her eyes. But her rags were gone and she held her head high as she smiled at her son. Fíohra could sense her joy, and it made her own heart glad to see.

The next scene showed the sons of the king beginning their great test. It switched abruptly from the magnificence of the castle to the humble interior of a blacksmith's shop, where the five men worked busily at something Fíohra could not see well. Then, quite suddenly, a fire broke out in the smithy, forcing the young men had to abandon their work. But they had just enough time before the shop was consumed to rescue something.

Fíohra saw at once that this was the true test the king had set before his sons, though they did not yet know it. He watched from the street as they made their choices and fled from the burning building. When all had escaped, the king had them stand before him with their offerings. One son had saved the water-trough; his brother rescued the sword he was forging. The third came away with a shield, and the last son of the queen stood before his father with only a stick of wood in his hand.

But the bard's adopted son had wisely considered his choices before running from the flames, and he presented them to his father with a bowed head and a solemn smile. At the king's feet he laid the blacksmith's hammer, anvil and bellows—the true heart of the smithy. Upon seeing his son's wisdom, the king gladly pronounced him the crown prince, and the people of the kingdom rejoiced, for he was well-loved by all.

The story concluded with a grand banquet in the castle, wherein the king and prince called the queen and her sons before them and forgave them all their treachery. The prince's mother was then returned to her former position, and she accepted the crown of the queen from her son's hand with great joy.

~o~

Fíohra blinked and frowned at the little ridge of stone that signified the end of the story. She had been utterly swept away in the carven tale, and it made her feel strange to glance away from the wall and see only the Leabharlann and Mórdúil's amused face looking down at her. Part of her expected to find the prince standing behind her, greeting his mother and embracing his father as if they had just stepped out of the stone.

Her puzzled expression made Mórdúil laugh. "They are very life-like, are they not?" he asked.

She nodded. "But who is he?" she wondered aloud.

Mórdúil gestured to the carving of the young prince. "His name was Niall, and he was a great king of this land for many long years."

Fíohra reached out a wondering hand to touch the edge of the story. "Then all this really happened?"

"It did indeed. Do you find it interesting?"

She nodded vigorously, lowering her hand. Her eyes jumped to the next carven segment. "May I continue?" she asked.

Mórdúil nodded. "Be my guest."

And so Fíohra spent next several hours devouring the stone tales of the Leabharlann, with the occasional anecdote or addendum from her dragon companion. She passed through stories of royal captives and saints who charmed snakes to impostor kings and merry brigands, each bringing with them their own adventures and complex histories. Fíohra was surprised to find the carvings so easy to understand; in only a few places she needed to pause and ask Mórdúil for clarification. The figures were indeed life-like, as he had said. After a while Fíohra even began thinking of them as players on a miniature stage, enacting their tales in stone-colored costumes. She enjoyed their performance immensely

Indeed, so much so that she did not even pause as the evening wore on to notice her hunger. Supper had been hours before, yet she was too absorbed in the stories to give heed to the protests of her empty stomach. But Mórdúil did. As it rumbled a third time, he chuckled and retreated towards the hole in middle of the Leabharlann. "You sound as if you are in need of a meal, young one," he said with wings outstretched. "Again."

Fíohra turned, the spell of the story broken for a moment. "Oh!" She took stock of her empty stomach and nodded, reddening. "Aye. I suppose I could use a little something."

"Then I will fetch it for you," he replied, drawing in his wings to dive.

Fíohra frowned. "Why can't you summon a maeleachlainn?" she wondered, remembering Maelé's unorthodox entrance to the Westward her first night in the mountain. "Can't they come through the walls?"

Mórdúil tossed his head. "Indeed they can. But I have forbidden that in the Uppermost Hall for fear that they would damage the accounts." He smiled at Fíohra. "Besides, I don't mind."

Fíohra returned his smile, grateful for his consideration. "A'right. And thank you!" she cried after him as he plunged through the opening. She ran to the edge to follow him with her eyes, marveling at the dragon's grace as he spiraled towards the ground with several lazy beats of his wings. After a few minutes, he landed, a dark speck no larger than Fíohra's fist against the pale coppery glow of the stone below.

Then, at the sudden realization of the great distance to the ground, Fíohra hastily backed away from the lip of the opening, glad she had not leaned a fraction of an inch too far forward in her eagerness. It was a long way to fall.