With his friends placed into the sleep of the ages, by Fintan Mac Gabhann, a minion of the mischievous Goban Saor, Gwri is forced to serve them in their plot to strike back at Brarn the Reaver. Set before him was six tasks to gather six items. This is the tale of the last of those tasks.

arely did they bother him. Although at times, when he thought about the dragon’s tears, his long lashes would flutter, though not in the manner of a flirt, instead it seemed he tried to stave off a nervous tick. However, Gwri’s initial thoughts when he learned what he was to do with the tears had been unease. something that had taken the rest of the day to overcome. Even then, he needed Fin’s help. The smith’s gentle strength overcoming Gwri’s squeamishness, as the two tears fell into place like drops of rain. He felt no discomfort, no sudden burst of unnatural sight, the only impact was to turn his eyes a brilliant green and to fill his mind with the knowledge of their presence.

Actually the unease proved less than the distaste he felt at wearing a dead woman’s dress. A feeling that caused him to search through the packs of his sleeping friends, finding a tunic and trousers within Con’s that somewhat fit. Once clothed, it seemed wrong to continue his delay. And so a four nights after Fin had told his tale, Gwri said, “I think it’s time. Tomorrow morning I will head out.”

“What’s your plan?” Fin asked.

“I really don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m getting into, nor how to find the proper eggs even if I have the chance. I guess, like áengus and the storms, I have just grown used to riding out the waves. Knowing my luck, this is the one that will drown me.”

“Well I have confidence in you.”

“It`s good that someone does.”

“In fact...ahh, never mind.”

“What is it?”

“Well I don’t really have the right to ask. Not after what I’ve helped do to you.”

Gwri had no need to be told what was on the smith’s mind and since he no longer blamed the man, he said, “If I can, Fin, I’ll try to return with your dead as well as mine. But I cannot promise.”

The smith looked downwards at the offer, hiding his face. But he gave a quick nod and in a hushed tone said, “Thank you, Gwri”

The two did not speak of the matter again, neither that evening nor over breakfast in the morning. Nor did they discuss the seeming hopelessness of the verse’s task. In fact they spoke little, though Gwri did leave with a deeply felt, “Good luck.”

Where his journey to the dragon’s den had been filled with dark humour, this one was quite different. Maybe it was because the end, be it good or bad, seemed attainable. Possibly it was the sorrow of the smith’s and the phoenix’s tale, which caused his own to pale in comparison. Or more likely the hope each felt despite those sorrows. Very likely it had nothing to do with anything other than it being a beautiful summer day, the type he had always enjoyed. Not the type of day one associated with going to Tech Duinn. Yet it was a day to enjoy and Gwri took the opportunity to do so. Only when he smelled the sea did he begin to wonder how the Goban Saor planned to get him to the Island of the Dead.

Before that answer became needed, the path led him to and along side a river, which also descended from the mountain. Over a stone’s throw wide, it held not the eagerness of winter’s melt, but still flowed with a speed that made it dangerous. Guessing the river emptied into the sea, Gwri followed until its murmur turned into a roar as it cascaded over the edge of high cliff into the sea below. For a time, he stared at the majestic sight, wondering how to continue.

No option existed but to stay upon the Goban Saor’s path, trusting in it. A trust sorely tested when the path dropped over the edge of the cliff face, down onto a ledge that circled behind the curtain of water. Carefully Gwri lowered himself to the stone, fearing that errant splatter from the falls made it slippery, before he moved behind the waterfall and spotted narrow steps cut into the stone wall. Weaving back and forth, he slowly made his way to the bottom where waited a cave, the sun’s rays passing through the water to bathe it in a gentle blue glow.

Exploration found the trail led into a tunnel at the back of the cave. Knowing the Goban Saor’s penchant for tunnels Gwri suspected he had found his route to Tech Duinn. However, he decided not yet to proceed. Instead, with the descent soaking him to the skin, his attention was drawn to a stack of wood. Seeing the opportunity to dry his clothing, Gwri started a fire and waited for the morrow.

Later, while wrapped in his blanket as his clothes lay beside the fire, he tracked the sun’s descent upon the curtain of water and the moon’s rise. The hypnotic sound of its noise, less of a roar when behind and below than it had been above and beside, lulling him into sleep.

Night still reigned when he awoke, only embers from the fire providing a sullen red highlight against the dark. Embers he stirred into awareness with a log that soon offered itself up in flame for light and warmth, allowing him to drop the blanket and pull on his still damp clothing. Dressed, he broke his fast and prepared three torches, thrusting the first into the fire and setting it ablaze.

With the torch held above his head, Gwri moved into the tunnel. Remembering the danger at the end of the tunnels in which he had gathered honey for the comb and captured a dragon’s tears, he was surprised at his lack of nervousness.

Switching to his second torch, he wondered if three would be enough, but soon after Gwri reached his destination. A stone wall with metal rungs embedded into leading to a wooden trapdoor in the roof overhead. Now fear made itself felt, as he realized he planned to steal from the Dark One, the thing that had led to the phoenix’s horrific punishment. If caught, he doubted fate would show him the same kindness shown to áengus.

At the same moment, Gwri realized that the fear would not stop him from climbing those rungs and opening the trapdoor. So placing his torch in a bracket mounted on the wall, he climbed until he could press his ear against the wooden door. However, he heard nothing through the thick planks. He raised a hand above his head, pushing up on a corner of the door and perched on his toes to peek through the crack. From what he could see, little more than flagstones and what appeared to be barrels, he guessed the trapdoor opened into a storeroom. Additional furtive looks did nothing to change his initial suspicion.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly lifted the trapdoor and slid it onto the floor, careful to make as little sound as possible. When the opening was exposed, Gwri reached with both hands to grab ahold of the its sides and heave himself through, twisting to sit on the floor while his legs still dangled below.

His actions were met by someone clapping behind him.

Spinning towards the sound, Gwri spotted a man sitting upon one of the barrel, watching with an amused expression on his face. A large man dressed in brown clothing of exceptional quality, his brown hair and beard were perfectly trimmed. And though the watcher appeared in the prime of his live, he had an ageless quality about him. Gwri knew he looked upon Donn, the Dark One. Guilt at such early discovery made him flush in embarrassment and stammer out an apology.

“Worry not or at least worry less. I know you are no more to blame for being here than would be a puppet. The Goban Saor would not have spent years digging the tunnel if he had not expected it to be used. No reason capture would alter his plans.”

“Lord Donn?” Gwri asked in confusion.

“Your puppet-master had no better luck in arriving undetected than did you, for I guard my home more carefully than I did in the past. And when I met him here, just as I met you, he did not hesitate to tell me his plans.”

“You knew I was coming?”

“Better to say I suspected someone would come, though not specifically who, Gwri of Mullinglas. Still I had little doubt that the Goban Saor, after the troubles he experienced in preparation for this escapade, would coerce someone into helping him against Brarn. Particularly after he realized I hold my own grievance with the reaver and the Morrigu’s geis, under which he lives. It has allowed Brarn to escape from my domain, no matter how often he should have been died.”

Gwri felt a moment of hope at this pronouncement, but just as quickly it dampened with doubt things could be so easy. However, Donn must have noticed the hope flare.

“So I took that into consideration when negotiating a fitting punishment for his trespass. He agreed to serve me from the time of his capture until Samhain until Bealtaine and then to Samhain again. But since I have already admitted your crime is less than his, to you I present a lesser punishment, to serve me from now until Samhain and then until Bealtaine.”

“What would you have me do?” Gwri asked, almost forgetting what little choice he had in the matter.

“I doubt you have the skills of your patron, who built me a great hall during his captivity.” Donn said, not waiting for an answer. “Before seeing you, I suspected it was his masterpiece. He truly is skilled beyond all other craftsmen, for even in those rags you are quite magnificent to look upon. Frown not, I know the truth behind your guise, lovely though it may be. And so, for you, I have a different task.”

ike uncounted times since his arrival upon Tech Duinn, Gwri awoke in the simple chamber he called his own. Uncounted because time moved strangely on the Island of the Dead, having a rhythm to which he had slowly grown accustomed. So he sensed, but did not know, he had plenty of time to get ready. Which was proven by the wait for a knock on the door. An escort was the one thing to mark those who were prisoners, amongst all who moved throughout the halls of Donn’s cavernous fortress.

The people surprised Gwri the most. From stories heard, the Dark One’s home always matched this appellation, barren and dark, empty and gloomy. However, while Donn held dominion over the dead, his demesne also consisted of the entire island and a mighty fortress, which he kept sparsely populated through deals. Similar to those he had with the Goban Saor or Gwri, though normally an agreement initiated by the other party, those at death’s door.

When meeting one of Donn`s subjects, he found it possible to speculate why he answered their plea. Invariably each was a great warrior, a skilled craftsman, a brilliant bard, or any such person who enriched Tech Duinn. But the deals each had struck were unknown, never to be spoken.

Despite his status as a prisoner, the knock upon his door was courteous, as was the warrior who waited on the other side to guide him to his destination. A walk he could have made on his own, for it always led to the same place, the great hall that Donn had spoken of during first meeting, the hall built by the Goban Saor during his imprisonment.

Every time Gwri walked through its doors he found himself stopping to stare. As Donn had said, it was a masterpiece, besides which the great hall in Lisdarrow appeared seemed fit only for hogs. Shaped into a circle, a large man took one hundred and sixty two steps to cross from one side to the other, stepping between twelve concentric rings of marble, from purest white through darker shades until he reached a circle of red and then back across those same colours in reverse. The walls, the same stone as the outer ring, rose beyond sight and held nine windows, each as tall as the highest tree, inviting in light while keeping out rain with giant sheets of glass. And in the second ring were nine round pillars of stone to match, carved vines of ivy twisting around each and topped by another ring reached via metal stairs spiralling about the tower between wall and pillar. If one climbed to the top of those stairs, they would find two marble rings, which mimicked those upon the floor below, with nine pillars thrusting higher, stairs circling about to take someone to the next level. Seven more times this would be repeated, until the entire structure ended with a red platform, where the phoenix roosted.

Few of those who populated the hall, be they deep in conversation, eating from a table flowing with the Dark One’s bounty, or dancing to music played by a harpist whose skill Gwri could only imagine owning, would ever climb to the top. Instead they happily celebrated the moment, ignoring both the future and the past in a way possible only to those who seen their own end. In the Hall of Death, the prevailing emotion was joy.

However, scattered about the hall were figures dressed in red gowns, they had been to the top of the tower, had seen the phoenix. Every one of them was beautiful and the celebration of the now swirled about them, in their laughter and on the dance floor where they gracefully twirled about. For them, a single blemish in their appearance was allowed, a blemish that enhanced rather than diminished. A strip of red lace, tied end to end underneath their long hair, covered each pair of eyes. Sometimes, it signified they accepted the risk of looking upon ultimate sorrow. Other times, the wearer had already looked upon it, their masks hid not vibrant colour, but sightless eyes of milky white. They were the Maidens of the Phoenix, who climbed the stairs and gathered the dead spilled by Donn’s vessel when it burst into renewal.

Only a moment was Gwri allowed to look before he noticed Donn approach and offer an arm. Short was the pause before Gwri reached out to take it with both of his hands, allowing the man to escort him, the skirts of his red gown gracefully swaying as they moved to the fifth ring to join the rest of the dancers.

In time, Gwri`s smile became less wooden, swept up by the enthusiasm of those around him. It always happened, alone he could brood upon his existence as pretty maiden who danced with men, but within Donn`s great hall, surrounded by those who celebrated the moment, he could not help but be caught within its thrall. Noticing the thaw, Donn’s own smile grew larger, as he spun Gwri into the next dance. Three more songs played before the end of the last found them at the foot of stairs, leading into the tower.

Letting go of Gwri’s waist, Donn stepped backwards, offered a bow, and said, “Careful, war is afoot.”

Watching the Dark One walk into the crowd, choosing his next maiden, Gwri placed a foot upon the first stair to begin his ascent. As he climbed, he thought on the offered warning. It, along with the similar one concerning sickness and plague, always made a maiden nervous. Both meant death came more frequently, which increased the chance she would be caught by the phoenix`s demise. During his time in Tech Duinn, one maiden had experienced that fate and sometimes, when alone in his chamber, he found himself reliving the sounds of her shrieks, as she had been helped from the tower. Her return to the fold, somehow as able as before, offered little comfort.

The climb was long and boring. Gwri always tried to count the steps, but as always lost count. He studied the pillars on each level, many carved by a whimsical mind, but he had studied them before. He wondered why he never grew tired on the long climb, but felt glad it was true.

On the final ring, just before the phoenix’s platform, he found an attendant waiting. Who weaved baskets from reeds and filled them with straw, preparing for eggs to be gathered and carried away. Taking one of the baskets, Gwri’s unease grew as he recognized the maiden who had been blinded during his stay. Not unusual, since the blind always acted as attendants, both to give them a task and to serve as reminder about what waited on the next level. Still...

With basket in hand, Gwri mounted the last flight of stairs. His pace no different than during the entire climb until he reached eye-level with the platform. Like all the Maidens of the Phoenix, his sight was immediately drawn to the bird.

Never had he seen it in such dire straits. It seemed smaller, with plumage was a dull as dirt and its eyes, which usually followed him like a watching hawk, drooped shut. Gwri knew he had little time to collect the eggs scattered about the platform and place them in his basket. Yet he could not rush, for despite their surprising firmness, he wished not to break one of the smoky eggs and earn a punishment unknown. Turning to look at the phoenix, whenever he placed egg into basket, his anxiety grew greater. Believing himself finished he hurried towards the stairs, turning to look one more time.

What he saw dismayed him.

On the other side of the platform, near its edge, rested a single egg. One he had missed. Tempted to ignore it, he wondered if it were a test. Deciding he could not chance it, Gwri scurried across to pick up the lone egg and place it with the others. He turned and saw the phoenix looked towards him, a look that almost begged forgiveness in its eyes.

Gwri wondered why he did not burn? Was the flame too hot to feel? He braced for the pain, but it did not come.

Then reason reminded him that the other maiden, the one who waited below, had not suffered burns from her exposure to the phoenix’s flame, only the loss of sight. He opened his eyes, but they were already open, seeing nothing. Almost it seemed as if the spots that appeared whenever he looked towards the sun had claimed his entire vision. Feeling objects, doubtless newly created eggs, bouncing off of him, he realized the dragon’s tears had failed. And with their failure, he thought all had failed. All that he had experienced in this crazy adventure was for naught.

“Sister? Sister? Are you okay?”

Turning towards the sound, he at first saw nothing. But slowly a shape appeared, causing him to close and reopen his eyes. Now he saw the red of his colleague’s dress, but not until after more blinks did he see her, an expression of concern on her lovely face.

“I can see? I can see.”

“But how?”

Unsure how to answer the question, asked in tone both of wonder and anger, Gwri focussed upon a glowing egg, unlike all the others. Anticipation grew as cracks appeared and then in a burst.

The phoenix had returned.

Gorgeous in a way unimagined. In that moment, even before it burst into wondrous song, Gwri accepted all indignities he had endured. To live that moment, he would willingly experience anything.

“It is beautiful.” The blind maiden said, though only able only to hear the song.

“Yes, sister, it is.”

But the spark already dimmed. Wishing to keep the image and song in his mind, Gwri decided to let someone else could collect the new bounty of souls. So he linked a red sleeved arm with his own and together the two maidens descended to the first landing where they shared a moment of awed silence.

Finally the other maiden said, “You should go.”

Nodding his head, though she could not see, Gwri let go of her arm and started his descent. One slower than his climb, for he still felt caught in the wonder of renewed sight. Frequent were his pauses whenever he discovered something previously unseen in the Goban Saor’s carvings. And when he reached the bottom, he was almost overwhelmed by the appearance of the revelers. They were beautiful, both the women and the men, and they were so alive. He could not help but smile his joy. A smile answered by each person he passed in his walk to the door, where the warrior waited to escort him as he delivered his basket.

This led them to another door, through which Gwri entered to be met by another waiting attendant. After he handed her the basket, he found himself following as she moved into the giant storage room, walking between rows of shelving. Every so often the maiden would stop to stand one of the eggs from the basket, the fat end down, upon a hole drilled into the shelves. Almost he asked how she knew where each egg belonged, but stopped when he realized it was knowledge he did not wish to own. Instead he silently followed, sensing she lead him somewhere.

The basket was nearly empty when the maiden reached a section far from the door. However, when she continued onward, Gwri did go with her. He felt drawn towards the section of shelving upon which he had last seen her place an last egg.

“So it is time to claim your dead.” Donn asked, appearing from the dark with a basket in his hand.

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly. You have served me well, but we struck a bargain, one you ably fulfilled. Now it is my turn.”

With unerring judgment, the Dark One moved along the shelf, choosing individual eggs from amongst the many, including the last one placed. Finished, he handed the full basket to Gwri and said, “Without their bodies, they will be yours only for a short time before returning to me. But that time should be enough. And this, take it for your friend, the smith.”

This was a pouch, in which Gwri felt a single egg. Placing Fin’s dead in the basket with his own, he said, “Thank you, Lord Donn.”

The Dark One smiled his smile and said, “I look forward to when we next meet.”