XXXVIII

“YOU ARE STILL SULKING.”

I look up as Conor slides to the wood of the causeway beside me, dangling his feet so that they almost touch the water. He’s trailed by Seanna, Miach, and the burly form of blunt-faced Fearghus, who are chatting cheerfully about something, fast enough that I’m having difficulty following the conversation. None of them hesitate as they join me, despite the embarrassment of training this morning.

“Not at all.” Conor grins at my denial, dimples showing, and I can’t help but reflect some of the annoyingly irrepressible expression back at him. “Perhaps a little.”

It’s dusk. The waters are silent and mirror smooth as the lake stretches away for hundreds of feet, reflecting both bruising sky and the thickly forested slope to the west. Everywhere else surrounding is rolling hills that are green and tipped gold in the last of the light. From our small, artificially created island out here, we can see every part of the shore; while the large hut farther along houses a long table as well as mats of straw and fur for our nights, most of us prefer to eat out here. Sitting out above the water like this feels right, somehow.

It’s windless this evening, still and quiet. This place has an ethereal beauty to it that’s hard to put into words. A natural calm that I can’t quite decide comes from the place itself, or just my own mind. There are no towering structures or bustling cities or conquered peoples. No outward signs of Will, no matter what I saw this morning. Suus was like that, as well, but there was always the crashing waves, always energy and light and warmth and motion. My heart remains there, of course, but this… this is appealing, too, in its own way.

I pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. Still gods-damned cold for summer, though.

“At least you were not the one used to set an example,” grumbles Miach as he slides onto the wooden slat on the other side of me. His face is swollen and bruised from Tara’s strikes. Despite the words, he seems to hold no particular grudge over it.

“You know what you are doing,” chimes in Fearghus, rubbing at his squashed nose. “But your technique needs a lot of work.”

“You have to be faster. Put your opponent on the defensive,” observes Seanna.

“And adjust your footwork to account for your arm,” adds Conor, offering me a bowl of some kind of fish stew. “Tara may be a deamhan, but Pádraig’s right—you were protecting your left too much.”

I look around at them all. They’re just being honest. No sense that I might be offended and because of that, it’s hard to be. Especially because I know they’re right.

“Thanks.” I scoop some of the stew into my mouth, pleasantly surprised at the taste. “Did you think she would beat three of you at once?”

Seanna grunts, while Fearghus rolls his eyes. Miach flips the silver coin he seems to constantly keep on his person, catching it with an absent, practiced motion and barely looking at the result.

“Tara always wins,” says Conor ruefully.

I nod, keeping my expression and voice carefully casual. “Her eyes,” I note between taking mouthfuls from my bowl. “They looked strange.”

“The nasceann.” Seanna nods.

“Nasceann?” I don’t know the word.

There’s silence as they glance at each other and then screw up their faces, trying to come up with a proper translation for me.

“It is one who has a battle-fever,” says Miach eventually, his coin glimmering as he flips it again. Expression indicating dissatisfaction at the description even as he says it.

“But not one of anger,” adds Fearghus.

“The opposite,” agrees Conor, “at least according to Pádraig. He says it is a calmness. A clarity. Communion with the fight.”

“Draoi Affraic says it is a strength given by the gods to only the greatest warriors,” says Seanna.

I focus on her. “There are druids here?” I haven’t seen any of the white-cloaked men since I arrived. Not since Caer Áras, actually. My impression is that they’re the educated class among these people, and part of me still wants to see whether someone else has heard of Caten or the Hierarchy. To understand exactly where I am. But the more cautious side of me knows that it is their apparent leader Ruarc who wants me dead, too.

“Not here. But they visit. Teach us lessons, from time to time.” From Seanna’s tone, those lessons tend to be boring.

I try to make it look as though the information is only vaguely interesting. “When will they next come?”

“Dia Saol alone knows. The draoi do not keep to normal people’s schedules,” says Conor cheerfully.

“Ah. And what are the lessons they teach?”

“They train the mind,” says Fearghus.

“Where they can,” adds Seanna lightly, with a conspicuous look at Fearghus.

“Do they teach nasceann?”

There’s another silence at that. Not quite uncomfortable, but an unspoken communication between the group as they decide what to say.

“To some. Like Tara. When they are ready,” says Conor eventually.

“We think,” adds Fearghus.

“They don’t exactly discuss it with us,” adds Seanna.

“But you do not need the nasceann to be a warrior.” Conor’s mistaken my pensiveness for brooding as he slaps me on the back. “The rest of us have been here for many years, and each have had broken arms many times. We have all been through practice one-handed, which is why we know the techniques so well.”

“Some better than others.” Fearghus chuckles. “I swear Conor has had more experience fighting one-handed than two. Remember that year when the frost killed all the berries, and he kept ruining the hunt because he couldn’t throw straight?”

Seanna and Miach nod solemnly as Conor leans over to slap Fearghus on the side of the head, but the bigger boy leans away, grinning.

“What about you, Leathfhear? It is clear you have already had some training,” says Conor eventually, giving up his half-hearted attack with a disgusted wave.

“Some. Not as much as all of you. And having two arms helped,” I say, drawing smiles at the light jest at my own expense.

“What was your homeland like?” asks Seanna.

I hesitate. “It is a place best forgotten.”

I say it simply, conveying the truth of the statement to them. All four watch me, and then nod. Accepting my reluctance to talk about it, my desire to leave that past behind.

I cannot describe how grateful I am to them for that simple understanding.

Water laps and timber creaks beneath us as the conversation moves on; we chat and eat and laugh, companionable in the last of the day’s meagre warmth. I’m surprised again by the ease at which this group has accepted my presence, welcomed me into their conversations and jokes with such natural, guileless effortlessness. Getting to know Conor on the way here undoubtedly helped; he was returning to Loch Traenala from a family visit and though idle moments were few during the journey, we struck up enough of a rapport for him to enthusiastically introduce me to the others when we arrived. Even if I did still receive plenty of openly dubious looks at my arm, my days at the Academy had me braced for an entirely different reception.

That’s not to say that there aren’t instances of isolation or conflict, here and there. Fearghus is brash and full of himself, Seanna is snippy and easily offended, Tara is standoffish, and Miach is quiet. They are an extraordinarily tight-knit group, closer to a family than friends, and I am still a newcomer. They have inside jokes and a way of talking among themselves that is sometimes closer to code than conversation.

And yet there is camaraderie more than competition; victories are applauded, the vanquished exhorted to improve rather than mocked or disdained. When there is discord it is always of a simple kind, resolved by shouts or occasionally fists, but then followed by laughter and mead at the end of the day. It’s not that everyone likes one another. But they do care for one another.

I like it. I like it a lot more than I expected to.

Which is a shame.

The trip here, and my burgeoning understanding of the language, allowed Neasa to explain Loch Traenala properly. My initial understanding of it being a school wasn’t far off, even if the education here is almost entirely focused on warfare. Its purpose, though, is for the students to become warbands. Elite warriors that mesh perfectly with one another on the battlefield.

And I have no desire to fight in a war I don’t understand, or for a king I do not know.

I have seen what a life without fear can be like, now.

The meal is almost over and the light almost gone, the purples and reds above the silhouetted hills echoed in the water, when there are footsteps along the causeway and I look up to see Tara lighting the torches along the way. She usually eats with us as well, though rarely says a word. The conversation’s felt easier, much more free, for her absence tonight.

Still, I direct a smile at her. Undeniably curious to find out more about this nasceann, which seems to be what they call Will, here. “You were very impressive today, Tara.”

She continues her task, not glancing in my direction. “You are meant to be patrolling with Rian, Leathfhear. He has been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Ah.” I scramble to my feet. I hadn’t forgotten. There’s no question of my asking to leave Loch Traenala; aside from ostensibly slapping away the honour done to me by King Rónán, the school’s current position is a closely guarded secret, and I would be forced to stay anyway. But I am done with fighting. If the only way to find my way back to Gráinne, Onchú, and the children is to disappoint—to be seen as lazy and unreliable, as well as crippled—then I will do it. I have done worse. I have suffered far greater indignities.

Still, I can’t help but feel a genuine flush of embarrassment as I fetch my spear and hurry down the causeway. Most of the students here have been training since they were twelve. And they are not the privileged—they are the best. The trials to attend are held in Caer Áras once every two years, and only the most gifted get to come. And then when they are here, they work.

It’s a strange shadow of the Academy: so much more narrow in its focus, but so much more true to its spirit. Which is why, while I do not enjoy being beaten in sparring—even when I try—I actively hate diminishing their excellence with deliberate apathy like this.

Rian is sitting on a tree stump by the shore; when he sees me he snatches up a torch from the nearby fire and gestures brusquely for me to follow. He’s fourteen, large for his age, not old enough to patrol alone but just old enough to think himself capable. The fact I’m late won’t have helped his chafing at needing a cripple’s presence.

We set out mostly without talking, only the occasional murmured observation between us. That suits me fine, already finding myself weary despite the faint light holding on to the western sky. My sleep patterns are still adjusting from the voyage over, where I was often assigned night watch and slept well into the morning’s travels, finally breaking the rigid habit I once cultivated under Lanistia’s regiment. Returning to it after so many weeks has been harder than I expected.

“They say you fought Gallchobhar,” Rian says suddenly. “That you revealed his treachery. Is that why you’re here?”

I blink at the abrupt question, brought on by nothing in particular that I can see. “ ‘Fought’ is an exaggeration. But yes. That is what I was told.” Still no idea what to make of that strange outburst. Some nights I wake to echoes of rage in my head. Traitor. Murderer. I would be lying to say it sits comfortably.

He eyes me, but even at fourteen, seems to understand I’m not interested in expounding. Silence reigns again.

“Tara was very impressive today,” the redheaded boy remarks idly minutes later, about halfway around the lake. It’s properly dark now, and the torches lining the causeway across the water reflect orange in the water.

I glance at him, mildly surprised at the second attempt. Rian isn’t usually one for making conversation. “I told her the same thing. Didn’t even get a smile.”

He grunts, eyes searching the way ahead. “Tara does not smile. You are not exceptional in that regard.”

“I got that impression. She seems very… focused.” The others are driven as well, undoubtedly. But unlike Tara, they seem able to reconcile that with enjoying their lives.

“She has to be. She aims to be her father’s Champion, one day.”

“Her father?”

“King Rónán.”

I look at him in blank startlement. “She’s a…” I don’t know the word for princess or heir. “She will take over from him, when he is gone?”

“No. Not anymore.” He traces his right cheek with a finger, mimicking the scar on Tara’s. His tone says I’m an idiot for his having to explain it. “Or she would not be here.”

I’m stunned, about to ask more when something catches my attention in the trees to our right.

I stop, and after a step Rian does as well, looking at me inquisitively. I hold up a finger. Frown, raise my torch higher, and move slowly forward to peer into the gathering black of the thickets.

To my side, Rian wordlessly readies his spear. Eyes straining in the same direction as mine. There have been no enemies sighted anywhere near here, at least certainly not since I arrived, but he’s taking my concern seriously.

It’s gone again, but I’m certain I felt it. That same, strange pulsing sensation that warned me of Lir’s approach at the farm. Distant, but presumably far stronger at the source than the one that led to me picking up my spear at Caer Áras, that I still glimpse from the weapon occasionally. So quick and faint I’m not sure how close it really was.

“What is it?” Rian eventually murmurs it, unable to spot my concern.

“I’m not sure.”

Rian peers a moment longer, then sighs. Relaxes. “You are jumpy.”

“No. There was something.” I’m certain of it.

“Leathfhear.” He says the name into the silence. Half man, I have discovered it means. Not exactly a compliment, but I’d guessed that long before the knowledge. It still seems worse, coming from someone so young. “Do we need to find Pádraig?”

He’s watching me. Genuinely asking.

“No,” I say eventually. Whatever I felt, it’s gone now. “Probably just an animal.”

He frowns, but nods.

We press on into the gathering darkness.

A MAN WHO IS CHASED may be free. A man who chases never is.

Kadmos told me that, once. Quoting it from some obscure text, probably; the Dispensator of the Telimus family was voluminous in his knowledge and had no fear of showing it while I was under his tutelage. I didn’t really think much on it, at the time. Or, perhaps, simply didn’t think it was particularly true. I was chased, and had been for years, and the constant hovering hand of the Hierarchy made for what felt like an inescapable prison.

Here, though, it is different. Here, with the benefit of hindsight, it resonates.

For all their intent to kill me, the Hierarchy were never chasing me: They never even knew I was still alive. It was always me fighting them. Always me looking for a way out from beneath their thumb.

Ruarc, on the other hand, is out there and after the stir I caused at Caer Áras, may well know I’m still alive. We talk of him, sometimes, when Tara is not around. Him, and his influencing the Grove to support King Fiachra, and the impending death of High King Úrthuile. The three other regional kings would likely have supported King Rónán to succeed, according to the others, but are loathe to cross the druids. They won’t move against Rónán, but won’t support him against Fiachra, either.

The enmity between Rónán and Fiachra runs deep, too, apparently. Generations back. War seems an inevitability.

But despite that threat it all remains distant, and I am here among people I am rapidly coming to like. Pádraig trains us each day, and though I am careful not to show too much improvement, his techniques are genuinely useful, and I find myself practicing even outside of his lessons. I still fall and fail and am covered in bruises from my defeats more often than not. But it is within an environment of encouragement and exhortation. Everyone here strives for excellence but also thrills in seeing others achieve it. Despite our purpose there is an air of positivity, a pleasure in the joy of life, that I cannot help but drink in.

And as my grasp of the language steadily improves, so do my friendships. I run the lake with Conor, or play the Foundation-like Fidchell against Miach, who curses and storms off every time I manage to beat him. Of the older group, only Tara remains terse and disinterested when I am around. Otherwise, all seems to be going well.

And then after three weeks, the strange pulse returns.