3 
3 “DID SOME HERO wear it once?” Corum asked. It was the only explanation for the reverence with which King Fiachadh handled the tattered robe.
“Aye, a hero has worn it, according to our legends, during the first fights with the Fhoi Myore.” King Fiachadh seemed puzzled by Corum’s question. “It is often called just The Mantle, but sometimes it is called Arianrod’s Cloak—so that strictly speaking it is a heroine’s mantle, for Arianrod was a female Sidhi, of great fame and much loved by the Mabden.
“And so you treasure it,” said Corum. “And well you might…”
Medhbh was laughing, for she knew what he thought.
“You come close to condescending to us, Sir Silverhand,” she said. “Do you think King Fiachadh a fool?”
“Far from it, but…”
“If you knew our legends you would understand the power of that much-worn mantle. Arianrod used it for many great feats before she, herself, was slain by some Fhoi Myore during the last great battle between the Sidhi and the Cold Folk. Some say she slew a whole army of Fhoi Myore single-handed while wearing that cloak.”
“It makes the wearer invulnerable?”
“Not exactly,” said King Fiachadh, still proffering the mantle to Corum. “Will you accept it, Prince Corum?”
“Gladly I will accept a gift from your hand, King Fiachadh,” said Corum, remembering his manners, and he reached out and took the cloak gently, in his fleshly hand and his hand of gleaming silver.
And both hands vanished at the wrists so that it seemed he was again crippled, though this time worse. Yet he could feel his fleshly hand and feel the texture of the cloth with his fingers, for all that the mantle had gone.
“It does work, then,” said King Fiachadh in tones of great satisfaction. “I am glad you accepted it with hesitation, Sir Sidhi.”
Corum began to understand. He drew his fleshly hand away from under the cloak and there was his hand again!
“A mantle of invisibility?”
“Aye,” said Medhbh in awe. “The same mantle used by Gyfech to enter the bedchamber of Bén while her father slept across the door. That mantle was much prized, even amongst the Sidhi.”
Corum said: “I believe I know how it must work. It comes from another plane. Just as Hy-Breasail is part of another world, so is this mantle. It shifts the wearer into another plane, just as the Vadhagh could once move from plane to plane and remain aware of activities on different planes…”
They knew not of what he spoke, but they were too delighted to question him.
He laughed. “Brought from the Sidhi plane, it has no true existence here. Yet why will it not work for Mabden?”
“It will not always work for Sidhi,” said King Fiachadh. “There are some—Mabden or others—possessed of a sixth sense which makes them aware of you even when you are invisible to all others. Very few possess this sixth sense so that you may wear the mantle without detection most of the time. However, someone whose sixth sense is well-developed will see you just as I see you now.”
“And this is the disguise I must use to go to the Tower of the High King?” Corum said, handling the cloak with care and equally as much reverence as had King Fiachadh, marveling as its folds hid first one portion and then another of his anatomy. “Yes, it is a good disguise.” He smiled. “There is none better.” He handed the mantle back to the king. “Best keep it safely in its chest until it is needed.”
And when the chest was locked with all five keys, Corum sank back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “Now,” he said, “there is much to be planned.”
* * *
So it was late before Corum and Medhbh lay together in their wide, low bed, looking out through the windows at the summer moon.
“It was prophesied,” said Medhbh sleepily, “that Cremm Croich should go upon three quests, face three great dangers, make three strong friendships…”
“Prophesied where?”
“In the old legends.”
“You have not mentioned this before.”
“There seemed no point. Legends are vague. You are not what the legends led us to expect, after all.” She smiled quietly.
He returned her smile. “Well, then, I begin the second quest tomorrow.”
“And you will be gone long from my side,” said Medhbh.
“That is my fate, I fear. I came for duty, not for love, sweet Medhbh. The love must be enjoyed while it does not interfere with duty.”
“You could be killed, could you not? For all you are an elfin lord?”
“Aye, killed by sword, or poison. I could even fall from my horse and break my neck!”
“Do not mock my fears, Corum.”
“I am sorry.” He rose on one elbow and looked into her lovely eyes. He bent and kissed her lips. “I am sorry, Medhbh.”
* * *
He rode a red horse, such as he had ridden when he first came to Cremmsmound. Its coat shone in the early-morning sunshine. From beyond the walls of Caer Mahlod came the sound of birdsong.
He wore all his ceremonial fighting gear, the ancient gear of the Vadhagh. He wore a shirt of blue samite and his breeks were doeskin. He wore a peaked, conical silver helm with his runic name set into it (the runes were indecipherable to the Mabden) and he wore his byrnie, a layer of silver upon a layer of brass. He wore all save his scarlet robe, his Name-robe, for that he had traded to the wizard Calatin at the place he knew as Moidel’s Mount. Upon the horse was a mantle of yellow velvet, and harness and saddle were of crimson leather with designs picked out in white.
For weapons Corum took a lance, an axe, a sword and a dirk. The lance was tall, its shaft strengthened with gleaming brass, its head of polished iron. The axe was double-headed, plain and long-hafted, also bound with bands of brass. The sword hung in a scabbard matching the horse’s harness and its hilt was dressed in leather, bound with fine gold and silver wire, with a heavy round pommel of bronze. The dirk had been made by the same craftsman and matched the sword.
“Who could mistake you for anything but a demigod?” said King Fiachadh approvingly.
Prince Corum made a small smile and clutched his reins in his silver hand. He reached with his other hand to adjust the plain war-board which hung behind his saddle over one of the panniers containing as well as his provisions a tightly rolled fur cape which he would need as he advanced into Fhoi Myore lands. The other cape, the Sidhi cloak, Arianrod’s Cloak, he had rolled and wrapped about his waist. Tucked into this were the gauntlets he would wear later, to protect one hand from the cold and to disguise the other so that he would not be easily recognized by any enemy.
Medhbh tossed back her long red hair and came forward to kiss his fleshly hand, looking up at him with eyes that were both proud and troubled.
“Have care with your life, Corum,” she murmured. “Preserve it if you can, for all of us will need you even when this quest is over.”
“I shall not throw my life away,” he promised. “Life has become good for me, Medhbh. But neither do I fear death at this moment.”
He wiped the sweat from his forehead. All his gear made him hot beneath the sun which was already blazing down, but he knew he would not be hot for long. He adjusted the embroidered eye-patch over the blind socket. He touched her gently upon her brown arm. “I shall come back to you,” he promised.
King Mannach folded his arms across his chest and cleared his throat. “Bring Amergin to us, Prince Corum. Bring our High King with you.”
“Only if Amergin is with me will I come back to Caer Mahlod. And if I cannot bring him, then I will make every effort to send him to you, King Mannach.”
“This is a great quest, this quest,” said King Mannach. “Farewell, Corum.”
“Farewell, Corum,” said Fiachadh the red-bearded, putting a large, strong hand upon the Vadhagh’s knee. “Good luck in this.”
“Farewell, Corum,” said Medhbh, and her voice was now as steady as her gaze.
Then Corum kicked at the flanks of his red horse and he went from them.
It was with a calm mind that Corum rode from Caer Mahlod, across the gentle hills, into the deep, cool forest, going east to Caer Llud, listening to the birds, the rush of the little shining streams over old rocks, the whisper of the oaks and the elms.
Not once did Corum look back, not once did he feel a pang of regret, not once did he grieve or know fear or reluctance concerning his quest, for he knew that he fulfilled his destiny and that he represented a great ideal and he was, at that moment, content.
Such contentment was rare, thought Corum, for one destined to take part in the eternal struggle. Perhaps because he did not fight against his destiny this time, because he accepted his duty, he was rewarded with this peculiar peace of mind. He began to wonder if he would find peace only by accepting his fate. It would be a strange paradox—tranquility attained in strife.
By the evening the sky had begun to grow grey, and heavy clouds could be seen in the horizon towards the east.