XXIV

THE SUMMER DOWNPOUR HAS TURNED my cloak sodden, leaden skies barely revealing an afternoon turning to dusk, when the wooden palisade of Caer Áras finally appears on the horizon.

As Lir, Kegan, Aodh, and I shield ourselves from the deluge and continue to skirt the lake across our path, its water dimpling and dancing in the rain, I rub again at the persistent aching of my chest and study the region’s largest community—and the residence of King Rónán—from beneath the shadow of my hood. The hill fort looks large, at least compared to the several villages we’ve paused at during our meandering travels of the past few weeks. Guards man the torch-dotted walls and gate. From this distance, I can see the tops of huts farther in, and at the very crest of the hill a grander structure, which is surely the king’s hall. The thin plumes of cookfires are faintly visible through the rain.

It’s still no larger than most mid-sized towns in Caten and its provinces. The wooden barricades look sturdy but would be susceptible to fire. The residences beyond, too.

“Almost there.” Lir calls the observation to me. The hem of his white cloak is brown with splashed mud, but he doesn’t appear to mind.

Kegan—the younger, muscled warrior who seems to be enjoying this weather far more than the sunshine we had yesterday—laughs and says something he clearly thinks is funny to Aodh, though I don’t catch enough of the words to know anything more than that it’s clearly about me. The grizzled older man with the scarred shoulder grunts dismissively, his standard response, as he scans the way ahead. He always looks as if he expects an ambush. Perhaps he does.

“Will it be long before I am…” I search for the word; Lir has used it before several times. “Judged?”

“No.” Not unkindly, but with customary bluntness.

I nod a silent acknowledgement and press on into the deluge, unsure whether I’m glad or anxious to finally be in sight of our destination. Our path here has been a circuitous one as the druid fulfilled his various obligations in the surrounding countryside; it’s been hard to properly assess but if we’d come directly, I suspect this journey would have taken mere days. I’ve been treated well throughout, at least, even if my status as a prisoner has never been anything but clear. Always watched by at least one of the two warriors and never allowed to wander off alone, even to relieve myself. Not that I could make it far, or blend in if I did, with my missing arm. But my companions haven’t taken any chances.

When Lir has not been bestowing blessings or hearing disputes, the days have passed in travel. Rolling hills and mist-shrouded moors and deep, still lakes. We’ve rarely seen others on the road. Wet though it often has been for what is supposed to be summer, the landscapes here have a tranquil beauty to them, one that lends itself to long periods where it feels almost sacrilegious to speak into the calm. There is a serenity in them that I have never seen elsewhere. Not joyful like the natural wonders of Suus, but a true, imperturbable peace.

“Have you thought of any more to add to your story, Deaglán, before we arrive?” Lir draws closer through the rain, walking in almost companionable fashion side by side with me. “Once we walk through those gates, our chances to speak will be few.”

I glance at him. A warning, no doubt, but what seems like genuine care in the question as well. I’m not surprised. While Aodh and Kegan have all but ignored me, Lir engaged in conversation more than I expected as we travelled. My understanding of the language has continued to improve, and for all he’s been trying to squeeze information from me, he has been patient in correcting my mistakes and teaching me new words and phrases. Evidently still angry over my keeping of Cian’s staff, and mistrusting of me generally, but he’s nevertheless been nothing but considerate.

“I have told you everything,” I promise, affecting my usual earnestness when it comes to the question. I’ve been careful to follow the tale Gráinne and I originally gave him, presenting myself simply as a foreigner who met Cian by chance not long before his death. When Lir asked about my homeland, I told him that I fled it and did not wish to speak on it further. Whether through respect or the idea of having to battle a language barrier on top of my reluctance, he did not press.

I’ve not mentioned the strange pulse that warned me of his arrival, either. If I’m being honest, I’m no longer even certain it wasn’t just my imagination. Aside from the occasional flicker of something similar from the staffs Lir carries, I haven’t felt it again.

The druid brushes droplets from his forehead and accepts the statement, even if his eyes suggest the affirmation still lacks conviction. An intelligent, learned man, and yet I’ve discovered through careful questioning over the past month that just like Gráinne, he has never heard of anything resembling the Catenan Republic. It continues to make no sense. I haven’t described Solivagus to him—that feels too risky, given it’s where King Fiachra’s men found me—but I did, at one point, get him to sketch me a rough map of the surrounding lands.

According to him, we’re in Tensia. A part of the massive southern country near the Lycerian border that I never visited, admittedly, and from what I know of the area, the weather and landscapes certainly seem right. But Tensia was conquered by the Republic more than fifteen years ago. It’s hard to imagine anyone here could be unaware of Caten’s existence.

I’ve been tempted on several occasions to say more—Cian was bringing me to King Rónán’s lands for a reason, after all. But he also said that the draoi were divided. And I went to great pains to ensure my pursuers believed I was dead. No need to jeopardise the safety of that falsehood.

In some ways it’s not so different to Caten, I suppose.

It’s late, properly dusk by the time we reach the fortified town. We approach the gates along the road, which is little more than deep, puddle-ridden ruts left by carts. The earth surrounding the walls has been dug away even more sharply than the natural incline of the hill, forming a steep ditch everywhere except for the road. Defensible against raids, I suppose, which Gráinne indicated is usually the worst trouble between neighbours here.

There are shouts from the torchlit, open gate as we approach, which quickly turn cheerful as Lir is recognised and his name called in joyful tones. The conversation moves too quickly for me to catch much, but it seems Lir hasn’t been here for a while. He’s clearly welcome, though; we’re ushered through, and I’m barely given a glance.

Lir doesn’t hesitate once we’re inside, heading along the main dirt road up the hill. The smell is of cooking and animal dung; alongside several huts I can see the dark shapes of farm animals shifting, the occasional bleat or bray echoing into the night. Aodh and Kegan are all smiles—clearly home, now—and yet they also walk a step closer to me. Hold their spears tighter. Keep one eye fixed on me as they call out greetings to friends.

For my part, I take note of everything I can as we walk the muddy roads. Do my best to memorise the layout, pay attention to potential hiding places in amongst the shadows. I’m not intending to escape—the fact is, I haven’t deliberately done anything wrong, and I still don’t know enough of the language to blend in anyway. I have to believe I can talk my way out of this. But it doesn’t hurt to have the information.

Eventually, we stop at a hut that looks little different from any of the others, and Aodh and Kegan take up positions by the door as Lir leads me inside. It’s a one-room affair: dirt floor, and completely empty bar the animal-skin bedding in the corner, a table, and two roughly made stools. Lir shakes the water from his cloak and sits on one, gesturing to the other as the door closes behind us.

“Deaglán.” His demeanour seems different as I sit. Not friendly, still, but somehow less distant than it has been the entire time we’ve been on the road. “King Rónán and his warband will return in a couple of hours. Tonight will be a cuirm. A… big meal,” he clarifies, seeing I don’t know the word. “I will present you for judgement then.”

“And they will… punish me, for possessing Cian’s staff,” I confirm, even now having to keep the frustrated cynicism from my voice. Lir has assured me many times that the mere touching of a druid’s staff is a serious offense, though he refuses to say why.

“Most likely. There will be much disputing of your tale. Some will call for your execution.” Not new information, but the words still twist my stomach.

“You?”

Lir considers me. “No,” he says eventually. “But my voice is one among many, here. And though King Rónán is a good man and will listen to reason, the Old Ways demand that he not interfere in a draoi affair that does not involve one bound to him.” He locks gazes with me. Silently emphasising the importance of what he’s saying.

The “Old Ways,” from what I’ve gathered, is these people’s collective name for the forms and traditions that the druids teach were handed down by the gods themselves. Not laws, exactly, but they seem to be taken very seriously. Permeate every aspect of life, too. “Alright,” I say slowly. So the king is not the man I need to convince. Good to know.

Lir taps the table absently, deep in thought. Then he comes to a decision. His eyes go to the door, then flick back to me.

“I did not press on the road because not all ears can be trusted,” he says in a suddenly low voice. “Things are complicated here. I know Cian was investigating Ruarc’s influence over the Grove, and many of us agree that their decisions of late have been… concerning. I believe he left you his staff so that I would find you. He saved you for a purpose.” He leans forward. Intent. “Last I heard, he was researching tales of the Otherworld. Of Dia Oiche, the dark god who came from there thousands of years ago and supposedly still hides among us. A strange topic for a man like Cian, I thought. So tell me the truth. What can you tell me of all this? How did you come to know him?”

“I have already told you the truth.” I meet his gaze steadily, expression a careful mix of honesty and mild confusion. There’s a chance that admitting everything will help, but there’s also one that doing so will remove any motivation for Lir to keep me alive.

And perhaps even more tellingly, my curiosity does not come close to eclipsing my determination to not get involved. I have seen what life can be now, without the fears and complications that come with these entanglements. I have been running for too long. Fighting for too long. If there is any chance for me to hold on to what I found with Gráinne and Onchú and the children, to make my way back to it somehow, then I have to stay apart from all this.

I do like Lir, from what I’ve seen of him. He seems a good man. But there’s simply no benefit to me revealing anything right now.

He stares into my eyes, then grunts and looks away. “I do not believe you. I will still speak in your favour tonight, but if you do not tell me everything, Deaglán, you will have to save yourself.” Something more to the statement, I think. A strange emphasis. But the language and the situation conspire for me to be unsure.

He stares at me a moment longer. Examining me in the same intent, vaguely frustrated way I’ve caught him doing many times on the road.

Then he stands, and with an irritated flick of his cloak, leaves me to my thoughts.

THE SOUNDS OF THE TOWN outside my windowless hut ebb and flow. Shouts and chatter, familiar and cheerful in tone even if I don’t know all the words. The grunts and snorts and braying of livestock. A larger crowd passing nearby, though not directly outside, at one point. Some cheering accompanying them.

I use the time to examine every inch of my prison. The walls are solid daub, the door sturdy. It’s possible there could be an escape through the thatch in the roof, but my missing arm colludes to make it a near-impossible task. Not that I plan to escape; if that had been my intent, I would have tried it weeks ago. These are the enemies of my enemy, the place Cian was taking me for refuge. As risky as it is to stay and plead my case, I need their support, not have them hunting me too.

The door swings open without warning after an hour or so, and past Aodh and Kegan’s frames I can see that afternoon has almost turned to dusk. Torches on poles crackle at regular intervals along muddy paths. A few people wander past. None do more than glance with vague curiosity in our direction.

Lir appears behind the two warriors. “Time, Deaglán,” he says quietly.

I am led into the darkening streets, again untouched but again left in no doubt that I am under guard. We angle up the slope, heading in grim silence for the large wooden hall I noted on the way in. Music drifts from it, faint at first but louder as we approach, rowdy and off-key voices raised in ebullient song. From the outside at least, it reminds me of nothing more than a particularly bustling tavern.

Until, that is, we trudge into its light, and I realise not all the poles encircling the hall are topped with torches.

I falter.

At least a dozen severed heads are piked around the large double doors, forming a macabre guard of honour for our approach. Men and women alike, pallid skin glistening, hair matted and dripping. They leer in the flickering orange as we pass. The puddled water beneath them is stained a dirty red. No decay, no sign of scavenging. They can’t be more than a day or two old.

Ahead of me, Aodh pats one on the scalp as he passes, not pausing. “Chailleadh sé meáchan faoi dheireadh.” The comment even gets a chuckle from Kegan, though Lir doesn’t react.

There’s a blast of boisterous noise as we enter the hall. It’s warm and stale, smells of smoke and alcohol and roasting meat and the press of at least fifty sweaty bodies. Mostly warriors. Two long, low, crowded tables stretch almost to the back, where they’re joined by a third to form an angular horseshoe. A fire crackles in the centre, and a small group of youths is lined up beside it, talking nervously among themselves.

“Lir!” The name escapes the lips of a woman nearby and is instantly echoed down the hall, a cheer of greeting for my captor along with a muddle of lively calls I cannot translate. Aodh prods me along at spearpoint behind him. Eyes slide over my entrance, curious, but nobody greets me. No doubting my status here. In front of me Lir grins around in acknowledgement, looking happier and more relaxed than I’ve seen him since we met.

I scan the room. It seems clear that the golden-cloaked man at the far table is the leader here. King Rónán, I assume. To his immediate right sits a mountain of a man, lantern-jawed and clean-shaven, thick muscle cording arms which shine with multiple armbands and a neck around which sits a silver torc. Even amongst warriors, even sitting, he dwarfs everyone in the room. He looks at ease in his clearly favoured position.

To Rónán’s left is a blonde woman with a pointed nose and delicate features, and farther along, an older man with a distinguished grey beard. He’s wearing a white cloak, same as Lir’s. He studies our entrance with a sharp, intelligent gaze.

I study him back, if surreptitiously. If my fate is out of Rónán’s hands, then this may be the man who holds it instead. The druid doesn’t appear to notice my return look, instead finishing his inspection and then rising, holding up his hands.

As the loudest voices in the hall quickly subside, Lir nods me over to the side. “It is the Time Between Times. Donnán is about to begin the allegiance ceremony. Take good note,” he adds in a lower voice as Aodh’s spear guides me in the direction Lir indicated.

The mutter of voices continues around the hall, but it’s quiet enough now to hear what’s going on in the centre. The druid has moved and stands slightly to the side. He beckons the first waiting young man forward, who comes to kneel in front of the king’s table, head bowed. He’s maybe sixteen, only a couple of painted symbols visible along his bare arms.

“Great King Rónán. I am Patraic ap Ris. My arm is your arm. I tiomnaigh myself to you. If I break my gealltanas, by gods and anam may the earth swallow me. The sea drown me. The sky burn me.” He finishes with three more words I do not know, and I’m guessing some of the others through context, but it’s clear enough that he’s pledging himself to the king.

Rónán nods solemnly, and Donnán dips a sprig of hawthorn into the bowl and then flicks it with a practiced motion at the young man’s face. Flecks of dark crimson appear on his cheeks, forehead and nose, dribbling slowly downward.

“Rise, Patraic ap Ris. Before gods and anam, your gealltanas”—oath?—“is received. My hearth is your hearth. Go, and protect it well.” King Rónán’s voice is strong and confident and easy as it rings out, cutting comfortably through the low chatter. He’s a large man, broad-shouldered and as weathered as any of the men here. Probably not older than fifty. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to command the room, I note as everyone’s gaze is drawn to him.

He is respected by these men. Admired.

Patraic stands, face flushed in the firelight, rivulets of blood wending their way down his skin. He stamps his spear thrice onto the stone, and steps aside.

Five more times the ritual repeats itself, three boys and two girls no older than the first: they kneel, utter the words, and finish with pride on blood-stained faces. There’s a general murmur of approval after each one, though no cheers or particular acknowledgements. They pair off and spar briefly in the ample space around the fire after that, quick if furious bouts that draw blood but no worse. The combatants embrace afterward, joyful regardless of whether they are victor or vanquished.

When the last steps away, Donnán raises his head and looks over at us. Beckons to Lir, who nods graciously.

Though quiet conversation had continued throughout, silence—true silence—now falls across the room as Lir joins the other druid. I watch, curiosity even briefly overcoming my anxiety. The smoke-filled air is heavy with anticipation.

Both men’s eyes turn black.

I saw Lir use Will twice on our journey. Unclear what he was using it for each time, and I decided early on that I don’t want to know. I am free of the Hierarchy, here. Free of the need to have anything to do with Will. Best by far to leave that all behind me.

Still, I tense at the sight. Aodh’s attention is on the two men, but he must sense something because I feel the slight prodding of a spear butt at my side. A small reminder that he’s there.

Donnán and Lir begin to sing.

Within a minute, I entirely forget my situation.

Donnán takes the lead, his voice deep and rich and solemn. His song is not like those of Caten, with their symbols and drums and tibias chanting to steady beats. Nor is it the music of my childhood, all drama and heat and passion in the stringed notes that demanded dancing of those who listened. This is a story. Solemn. Melancholy. Aching. A man called Gofannon, a smith who brews an ale of immortality. I do not understand all of it. It does not matter. There is a mesmeric beauty to the way the notes fill the spaces between us. Lir often steps back, but when he joins the song it is in perfect counterpart, threading a higher but no less yearning series of notes that allows the poignancy of the telling to shine brightest and hit hardest. In those moments, I feel their voices deep in my chest and even in this room of battle-scarred warriors, I am not alone in brushing tears from my eyes.

Other than that, the room never moves. Never breathes. We are enraptured in a way that few performers can ever hope to make their audience be.

The two men sing on, and even their midnight eyes don’t distract me. They soar and whisper, harmonize and break. Five minutes. Ten. No mistakes, no wavering. It is as remarkable, as beautiful a thing as I have ever witnessed.

And then with a sigh and slumping of the shoulders, their eyes clear and they are done.

As the last notes fade there is a lull and then the hall stirs, slowly, as if emerging from a dream. I am with them. Dazed. I remember my plight and yet it feels strangely distant, less important than it was when they began.

Finally, gradually, low conversation returns to the room. There is no applause, which I think I can understand; clapping would feel garish, diminish the performance somehow. But it is clear that the song was designed to cap the ceremony. Those who just pledged begin mingling with everyone else, trails of blood drying on their cheeks as they receive thumps on the back from everyone within reach.

For a few minutes, I just sit and try to listen to the chatter around me. Hard to make out, especially given my uneven grasp of the language, but there is much boasting of a recent successful battle. I hear the word “war” more than once.

And then Lir is signalling, and Aodh is prodding, and I am moving to the centre of the room.

We approach Lir and Donnán, who are speaking cordially, though from a distance Lir’s demeanour comes across as more formal than outright friendly. The thrust of their conversation quickly becomes apparent as we approach.

“So you were right.” Donnán has taken Cian’s staff from Lir, examining it with a sadness that feels strangely stilted in the wake of the emotion he’s just put on display. “Was it with Cian’s body?”

“No.” Lir hesitates, and I can tell he doesn’t want to elaborate as Aodh marches me up. A few people have begun paying attention now, though most have resumed their meals and own conversations. “Deaglán here had it.”

Puzzlement, then wide-eyed anger from Donnán. He looks at me as if I had killed someone. “Why does he live?”

“He says it was given to him. There was a witness. And he is ábálta,” adds Lir, in a lower voice. I don’t know the word, but he makes it sound significant.

“That does not matter,” snarls Donnán. His hand, I notice, has gone to the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

The conversation is too complicated and fast for me to follow after that, but one thing is clear enough: Donnán believes I should be executed, and he doesn’t want to wait around for it to happen. Lir protests, but I can see his uncertainty, his desperation to make his case. I get the impression that Donnán is his superior.

Aodh’s spear is still pointed at me but in a vaguely disinterested way, his focus more on the argument between the druids. Chatter nearby has eased, too, as others at the tables listen in curiously.

Heart pounding, I dart forward.

Aodh shouts and the druids both stop in surprise, but I’m not headed for the exit; even if Kegan and several others weren’t in between, I’d never make it more than a few steps outside the door.

Instead I slip past the fire, toward King Rónán.

The massive man next to him, the one adorned in the armbands and silver torc, has his spear in hand so fast I can barely countenance it. It doesn’t matter. I skid to my knees in front of the king’s table. Conversation around the hall has all but stuttered to a surprised stop.

“Great King Rónán. I am Deaglán ap Cristoval.” My father’s name tightens my throat as I say it, but I press on hurriedly as someone shouts behind me. “My arm is your arm. I tiomnaigh myself to you. If I break my oath, by gods and anam may the earth swallow me. The sea drown me. The sky burn me.” I finish with the same three words as the others before, barely gasping out the last one before there’s a hand tangling in my hair and jerking me violently, angrily backward. I can’t help but cry out as Aodh slaps me on the side of the head with his free hand.

“What is this?” The behemoth next to the king still grips his spear, eyes angry.

“King Rónán. He is marked for death. He carried the comhlánam,” says Donnán, hurrying forward. I’ve heard the word before—it doesn’t mean staff, but I know that’s what it refers to.

There’s a murmur around the hall. Not a pleased one.

“And it was witnessed that he was given it freely.” Lir steps forward. There’s a gleam in his eye. “As it was witnessed that he sacrificed his arm in defending a family from a raid. This family have sworn a life-debt to him. So if he is to be executed, then they must be executed also.”

“What?” I try to twist, unsuccessfully thanks to Aodh’s grip on my hair. “No. Lir. Please. No.” This is the first I’ve heard of such an arrangement.

“The law is clear.” Donnán’s surprised by the revelation, but grimly determined.

For the first time, King Rónán speaks.

“You would deny his oath?” His deep, authoritative voice cuts easily through the hubbub.

Donnán hesitates. “Druidic law is clear—”

“Druidic law does not supersede an oath. It is my judgement to make, now.” Rónán says it calmly, but the power in his voice silences Donnán. He turns to me. “Did you do this thing?”

I lick my lips. “Cian gave me his comhlánam. Just before he died. I did not know it was… wrong, great king,” I say, reaching for the right words. “I am sorry for my speech. I am not of this land.”

Rónán nods slowly. “Not knowing is not always an excuse for acts. But if you are owed a life-debt by one of my people, then you are owed it by me. A life for a life, Deaglán. The life-debt is paid.” He glances at Lir. Something passes between them, unnoticed by most, though I think Donnán picks up on it. “Rise, Deaglán ap Cristoval. Before gods and anam, your oath is received. My hearth is your hearth.”

A murmur accompanies the words. Surprised, but not outraged. Donnán frowns but seems to accept the king’s decision; he walks over to the bowl on the table and takes the hawthorn branch. Dips it again and flicks it at me with ritual, practiced motion.

The blood is warm. Some gets in my mouth, salty and viscous. I feel like I am going to throw up.

I think that will be the end of it, but to my surprise, King Rónán speaks again. Loud. Addressing the entire room.

“To sacrifice in order to protect is the highest duty. Deaglán ap Cristoval, by witness, has done this, and in these times we are in need of good men. He is to be sent to Loch Traenala.”

This time the murmur that goes around the hall is shocked. Donnán looks stunned. The expression of the mountainous man next to the king is one of utter outrage.

Lir, in fact, is the only one whose surprise strikes me as feigned.

Vek.

I’ve been manipulated. Lir and the king planned for this, wanted me to do this. There’s something going on here between all these different parties, and I have no idea what it is.

“He is not worthy of Loch Traenala.” The large man by the king’s side snarls the words, not keeping his voice down as the muttering around the hall grows more indignant, more in agreeance. “He is leathfhear.” A chuckle at that, clearly something at my expense.

“And yet he protected those he should have, Gallchobhar.” King Rónán’s comment cuts through the room.

An intake of breath from many. The big man’s eyes bulge.

“If he is to travel to Loch Traenala, sire, then he should also first be tested here before your warriors,” observes Donnán suddenly, his voice pitched to carry.

“Yes.” Gallchobhar stands as if the opportunity might physically elude him. “Sire, I would show this man the honour he is due.”

From King Rónán’s frown, his refusing would not go well. “A high honour indeed, Gallchobhar,” he says slowly. A touch too smoothly, though. Unsurprised. He pauses, every eye in the room on him, then turns to me. “Deaglán ap Cristoval. You will need a spear, and as you do not have one of your own, and for your sacrifice in protecting my people, it falls to me to provide.” He motions behind him, to a section of the hall more dimly lit. “The choice is yours.”

My gaze follows his gesture as another susurrus goes around the room and somehow, Gallchobhar’s look turns even more angry.

“Take your time,” Lir murmurs as I take in the jumble of spears, swords, daggers and shields. “This weapon will be yours not just now, but throughout your journey to becoming a warrior.”

“A warrior?” I hiss the words. Waggle my stump at him.

“King Rónán has decided,” says Lir calmly.

“Can I pick a sword instead, at least?”

“No.” The druid keeps his voice so that only I can hear. “And choose carefully.” No doubting the emphasis, this time. He’s conveying something important.

Every eye is on me as I make my way to the torchlit armoury, a low, excited buzz following. The smell of clove oil and smoke sharp as I examine the hundreds of options at my disposal. The weapons are piled against the wall, often tossed haphazardly atop one another. Many are crude, unmarked and poorly shaped; along with those, any which have only a fire-hardened tip I dismiss immediately. Others are too long, more suited to horseback or defence, and I ignore them as well. Wielding any spear is going to be a nightmare for me, but I at the very least need something nimble.

I move slowly among the weapons, pushing some aside to look at those beneath, or hefting a few to test their balance. Using the time to think, and—hopefully—allow whatever anger Gallchobhar has, to ebb. The fact is, he appears to be the strongest of King Rónán’s men, whatever rift exists between them. And I suspect any of the warriors in this hall could beat me.

Judging from the previous bouts, this is meant to be a display more than a real fight. But an angry, advantaged man with a very real weapon isn’t an ideal opponent.

The farther toward the back of the hall I move, the better made the weapons appear to be. Many spears now have symbols carved into their hafts, and most are made of ash, with a few oak or birch. The heads, too, become more prominent. Bone or flint has made way to bronze and iron blades that gleam in the flickering illumination.

I stop. Feel the pressure of the room’s impatience on my back. Lir and the king have set me up for this—to go to this place, this Loch Traenala. Why? It could be for my safety, I suppose. Or I could be a meaningless, sacrificial piece on their Foundation board, and they’re doing it just to aggravate their enemies. Or both. Vek. No way for me to know.

I take a spear that holds pride of place in a rack on the wall, covered with the intricate whorls and symbols I have seen on the warriors’ weapons in the hall. Its oiled iron tip gleams. I heft it. A good weight, a good balance.

I’m about to take it when the faintest pulse catches my eye. Not a light, exactly, but a sense of… something. Like I occasionally get from Lir and Cian’s staffs. Like whatever warned me of Lir’s approach, a few weeks ago. It’s barely a flicker beneath a pile of what I had initially dismissed as discarded, lesser-quality weapons. Certainly the ones I can see look dented, cracks in hafts and dulled blades.

I take a breath. Ignore the waiting eyes and theatrical groans of the room and put the spear I’m holding back. Choose carefully.

I crouch by the pile, pushing aside the broken and the clearly inferior. Toward the bottom of the jumble is the source of the strange pulsing. Another spear. Divided into nine sections, just like the druids’ staffs. The symbols on it are more crudely etched, but the ash haft is clean and straight and strong. An obsidian tip, the only one I have seen, lies rough but razor-sharp at its end.

I hold it, puzzling at the way it draws my eye. Visually, it’s relatively unremarkable. But its balance feels perfect. Certainly not the flashiest weapon here, but undoubtedly well made.

When I straighten and turn and start walking back with it, the murmurs turn shocked. Then mutters become louder, threaded with heat and confusion.

And then, as I falteringly resume my place in the centre of the hall beside a waiting Lir, shouts. Angry and stunned. Protesting.

“Did I misunderstand what I was meant to do?” I say it to Lir urgently, confused, doing all I can to ignore the sudden feeling of violence in the room. Gallchobhar is pleading furiously with the king, who alone seems calm as he responds with a shake of the head. “I did not mean to offend.”

“You did not misunderstand.” Lir keeps one eye on the room, his caution suggesting that the severity of the hostility is not my imagination. His gaze flicks to the spear in my hand, and for a moment, I think I see sadness in it. “Your choice was just unpopular.”

“Why?”

“It once belonged to another. He died.”

I grimace. “I did not know. I can put it back. Get another.”

“No. Your taking it is being seen as presumption, but your discarding it would be an insult that few here would abide. It is done.” Lir hesitates, watching Gallchobhar’s face grow redder and redder, then squeezes me encouragingly on the shoulder. “Keep your mind clear and you will fight well, Deaglán. I have no doubt.”

“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath as he steps away and Gallchobhar stalks around the table to stand in front of me. The man is even bigger, up close. Six and a half feet of barely bounded muscle. Bearded and scarred and angry. His long, beautifully carved spear a toy in his massive grasp.

My heart pounds. I was never skilled with a spear, even with two hands. And though I have faced men bigger than me many times, Gallchobhar is no Octavii. This isn’t meant to be a fight to the death, but these are real weapons and the way the giant in front of me is glowering leaves little doubt as to his intent.

He takes his stance. I take mine, awkward though it is.

“Begin,” commands Rónán, the single word slicing through the ongoing angst of the crowd.

The whites of Gallchobhar’s eyes flood to black.

Vek.