The King of Sleep Read Online Free Page A

easily, but still a shudder quivered down his spine.
    Ever since he was a boy he’d heard tales of the Sen Erainn, the mysterious folk who were cousins of the Fir-Bolg but who’d disavowed war for a peaceful existence in the quiet places—the forests, valleys and caves. They were reputedly very protective of their secret homes, and some stories portrayed them as extremely hostile toward any outsider who trespassed on their ground.
    Brocan’s grandfather had told a tale of a chance meeting with these strange folk. The old man had been but a lad himself when a stranger, a woman, came to Dun Burren seeking shelter from a wild storm. She was as small as any child of nine years though her body was perfectly proportioned and covered in spiral designs pricked into her skin with blue dye. Her complexion had been dark and her eyes like black pools of still water. Brocan’s grandfather said she was a Druid who had strayed away from her people. Out of kindness the woman was given a place to sleep by the fire and food to fill her belly.
    The next morning when the storm cleared two fierce-looking warriors came and stood at the walls of the fortress waiting until she joined them, leaving without a word of thanks. Brocan’s grandfather had called them savages though he never explained why he’d come to that conclusion.
    In ancient times the Sen Erainn were kinfolk toBrocan’s own people. But a bitter war broke out between the two brothers of King Ómor of the Fir-Bolg. To silence their quarrel the king gave one brother sovereignty over the islands of Arainn and to the other he granted kingship over the western coast of Innisfail.
    Those folk who went to Arainn called themselves the Sen Erainn. In time their language and customs diverged from their cousins on the mainland. And after many generations they had become a story told to frighten children. Though they had been confined to Arainn the tales told how they returned to inhabit the forests and caves of the Burren. It was said they were waiting for the day when their king would seize the lands of the west for his own people again.
    Believing his grandfather’s story proof enough that the Sen Erainn had not stayed on the isles of Arainn, Brocan shuddered to think he may have stumbled upon one of their dwelling places. The king stopped breathing to listen more intently to the sounds within the cave. He heard nothing but the thudding of his own heart though he sensed he had no need to fear the Sen Erainn. Nevertheless, he knew it was time to leave.
    So Brocan made his way back to the mouth of the cave, glancing over his shoulder every once in a while to make sure he wasn’t being followed. The rest of the time his eyes darted between the floor, where his pebbles marked the route, and the ceiling, where he searched for further paintings.
    He found no more evidence of the underground artisans so he decided only to mention the paintings to a few trusted advisers. After all, he was trying to encourage a deeper exploration of the caves. He didn’t want to give his warriors an excuse not to venture into the depths.
    At length King Brocan emerged from the dark cavern to find Fineen the Healer waiting patiently inside the cave mouth. He was seated on a stone with his forest-green breacan cloak wrapped about his shoulders. When he heard the king’s footsteps the Druid rose to greet him, bowing his head in reverence.
    The king acknowledged Fineen with a sharp nod as he pushed the end of his torch into the ground to extinguish it. Then the two of them walked out together from the chill of the cave into the afternoon sunshine.
    â€œIt seems you didn’t encounter any dangers in the depths,” the healer commented.
    â€œWhat did you expect? A bear? Or the ghost of a bear? There haven’t been any bears in that place since my great-grandsire’s time.”
    â€œYour warriors seem convinced there is some danger lurking down