XLIV

LOSS IS HARDEST, ULCISCOR ONCE told me, when it is quiet.

I am on sentry duty tonight. A thick, damp chill lies over the land as if to underscore the end of summer, a blanket of fog that swirls and creeps over the hills and through the shadowy trees beyond the reach of the torchlight. The inky waters below the crannog shift and slurp. Starless black glowers above. All has been quiet for hours.

And for the first time in a while, as I lean on the railing and peer out into the swallowing darkness, I cannot help but think about the world I left behind.

My idle thoughts first turn to my family. Not unwillingly, strangely enough. This sort of solitude reminds me most of Suus. The weather is its counterpart, the circumstances different beyond anything I could ever have imagined. But there is a peace in it. A sense of time simply passing, no panic to my thoughts, no furious planning for how I will survive the coming days. And so instead I think of my parents and my sisters, and I wonder what they would think of where I am now.

And I know the answer. There is honour here that runs deeper than anything I ever saw in the Hierarchy. They would have loved this place. These people.

Gods, I miss them. Not just their help, or their advice, or their comfort in the way that I have these past few years. I miss them. I want them to be here. To be able to share this with me. To be living this life with me.

The minutes slide by, and inevitably I drift to my friends. Callidus, Eidhin, Aequa. Emissa. They were my friends, despite everything. A strange feeling, to know they must consider me dead. To know they will have searched and grieved and are probably now moving on with their lives in Caten. I imagine what they’re doing right now. I wish I could have been honest with them.

The gentlest of breezes stirs the murky darkness. I peer into it absently, sweeping back brown hair that is longer than it has ever been. Caten is still out there, somewhere, but it must be so far away as to not matter. There are no maps here, no books, but no one I have talked to has heard even a hint of the Hierarchy.

The world, it seems, is a far bigger place than I ever realised.

Eventually I shift, switch my guarding to the opposite side of the crannog, though it matters little in the fog. My arm is bare beneath my cloak and I rotate it absently, spinning my spear in an exercise I’ve found works the muscles there thoroughly. I’ve started to adapt to the chill here, but I can’t rub my arms to warm myself the way I once would have. Such a minor thing. Sometimes those manage to feel like the most frustrating lacks.

I’m still in motion when the pulse registers.

I stop working out my arm and slowly bring the butt of my spear back to the ground. It’s faint, but it’s there again. That sense. Not light or sound but something itching at my mind, out on the far shore, hidden by fog.

It’s been more than a month since I last felt it. Just enough time for me to begin wondering, once again, if it had been my imagination.

I focus for a minute, then pad across the bridges to the torchlit causeway and start along it, trying to appear casual, though I’m fairly certain the fog will hide me from all but the closest observers. The sensation in my head doesn’t move. Wood creaks underfoot. White shrouds everything.

I hit the shore. Still silence. I ghost to the tree line and then start edging along the shore, eyes straining ahead. It’s almost impossible to see, but I can’t risk light.

The pulse in my head is getting nearer when the tail end of a conversation, low and hurried and muffled by the encroaching haze, touches my ears.

“… cannot delay.” A male voice. Insistent.

“We do not even know how many they are.” Another man, growling a response. “We should watch a while longer.”

“It will not matter. Not to Gallchobhar.” A woman this time. She sounds exasperated. “What we have is enough. If we stay until it is clear enough to see more, we risk being discovered.”

A pause. I hold my breath.

“Fine.” The second man again, I think, though the fog warps everything in such a way that I can’t be sure. There’s the faint scuffing of footsteps. Quickly fading.

Vek. Gallchobhar. The man I was manipulated, I strongly suspect, into getting exiled. And whoever’s reporting to him, they’re trying to stay hidden. There was at least three of them, and no knowing if everyone present spoke. Even with surprise on my side, I’m in no position to stop them from leaving.

The pulse is still there. Not that much farther around the lake. But this is the reason I was set to keep watch, and that comes before anything else.

I sprint back to the crannog. Before I reach it, the odd sensation in my head fades to nothing. I press on.

“Everyone up.” I hiss the words as I enter the older students’ sleeping quarters. Even with the fog, voices carry across the water. “Someone was here.”

The others are on their feet within seconds, throwing cloaks on, snatching up their spears. Alert. “How many?” asks Tara.

“At least three.”

“At least?”

“The fog was too thick. I couldn’t see them. But from what I heard, they know we are here and they are leaving to tell Gallchobhar.”

A heartbeat of deliberation at the name of King Rónán’s disgraced Champion. “Then we must catch them,” pronounces Conor grimly.

“Fearghus, rouse Pádraig and let him know, then catch up.” Tara’s already moving to the door, clearly in agreement with Conor. “Leathfhear, show us exactly where they were. It rained yesterday, and the ground is soft. It should be easy to find their tracks.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Pádraig?”

“Pádraig will stay back to ensure the safety of the younger ones, and send us to kill them.” Tara’s confidence is unshakeable.

“Kill?” I know this is what we’ve been training for, but still. “Shouldn’t we take prisoners? Find out what’s going on?”

“If we can.” She sees my hesitation. “If it is Gallchobhar and he has men, then he is undoubtedly working with Fiachra now. They will be skilled, perhaps outnumber us and will not surrender. And if any escape, they will return with reinforcements. Many more will die. Us, them. Both. This is the path to saving lives.”

I grimace, but there’s no arguing the point; I nod and follow her and the others without protest. We flit along the causeway, silent, rushlights in everyone’s off-hands except mine, as Fearghus splits off toward where Pádraig sleeps. There’s excitement on the faces around me. Determination. But no fear.

We soon reach the spot where I heard the intruders, and it takes only thirty more seconds before Seanna is beckoning us over, pointing to indentations in the damp grass. “Three or four,” she agrees with my assessment quietly.

Tara’s gaze flicks from me to the crannog, which is little more than a lighter spot in the white draped across the lake. “What did they say? The exact words.”

“One wanted to keep watching, because they didn’t know how many of us there were. Another said it wouldn’t matter to Gallchobhar, and that they already knew enough. That their staying until the fog cleared would risk discovery.” I shrug. “Then they left.”

“Miach. Lead the way?” Tara has accepted what I told her and is moving on.

Miach, the best tracker of our group, nods. His loosely bound blond hair swings as he studies the ground in the flickering light. He sets off at a soundless run. We follow.

The night air is damp and cloying in my lungs as the five of us lope first along the lapping waters, then up the unwooded, gently sloping hillside. Miach leads us unfalteringly, bringing us to a brief halt only twice to crouch and check the ground.

“They joined up with more. At least a dozen of them now,” he says grimly after the second time.

We press on for ten minutes. Fearghus catches up to us. The others ignite new rushlights. Another ten after that. Up and down slopes, over gurgling brooks. Our pace is hard. Our quarry’s direction never changes.

The pulsing in my head returns. Faint at first, but growing stronger and very much in the direction we’re travelling. I’m about to draw Tara’s attention when she holds up a hand, slowing us. “Sound ahead,” she whispers between breaths that mist around her rushlight before she crouches, thrusting the burning tip into the damp ground.

My ears haven’t caught anything, but the others follow suit without hesitation, plunging us into near darkness. We creep forward, crest a rise. The fog has thinned a little and there’s the tiniest halo of light, slightly down from us in a short valley. Its bobbing shows it moving away from us, albeit slowly. The band we’re chasing is in no hurry.

The pulsing in my head isn’t coming from where the light is, though. It’s farther away.

“Fearghus and Conor. Seanna and Miach.” Tara points in a direction for each pair of names. They slip into the white.

Tara keeps her gaze fixed on the slow-moving glow ahead. “Will you fight?”

I’m the only one left, so no question who she’s asking. “Yes.” I’m annoyed by her doubt, but this isn’t the time.

She glances at me. My vision has adjusted enough to see that her eyes have turned completely black.

She nods, and jogs forward.

I follow.

The next minutes pass in tense silence as the light ahead grows stronger through the fog. We slow. Skulk in the wake of the group, just beyond the reach of their torches. They are talking among themselves. Their chatter is comfortable as they pick their way along the stony bed of a stream. No sense that they’re in danger. The babbling water masks our approach. The backs of our quarry resolve from the murk.

There’s no warning, no signal that I can see. Tara hefts her weapon. Darts forward.

Impales the rearmost man through the back, the gore-soaked point of her spear emerging from his chest as he gasps a last quiet, pained breath.

Even as the others in the party whirl toward us, weapons ready, shadows emerge from the white either side and death follows. Three more fold soundlessly to the soft ground and another screams in pain as she collapses, writhing, Fearghus’s spear through her stomach. Hers will not be a quick death.

Five down, and they’re only starting to understand that they’re under attack. There are nine left. Six men and three women. Startled, but armed and quick to engage. Warriors all.

Weapons flash and shields rattle as spears lick out. On the right, Fearghus is bellowing a battle cry as he bullies forward into the fray, his heavy spear more of a club as it swings down with a sickening crack, while Conor laughs manically as he engages, quick and lithe, flowing golden hair wild as it whips around him. On the left, Seanna strikes high and as a shield comes up to meet it Miach goes low, already-bloodied spear goring a knee. The unfortunate defender screams and as he twists his protection back downward, Seanna slices his throat with a flick. The two flow on. Perfectly in tandem. No pause. All smooth, grim precision.

Directly in front of me, Tara is sprinting past the man she killed, sliding away from a thrust and spinning low, gracefully hamstringing a warrior before straightening and pinning her to the ground. A short blade flashes out at her and she uses her spear, still impaled in the writhing woman, to vault the attack and kick the man’s arm aside. She twists as she lands, wrenching the spear out again and flicking its darkly glistening edge around to scythe across the next man’s face. He screams as he goes down, clutching the red gash where his eye was.

Six remaining—even numbers—but Fearghus roars and falls to one knee as a blade protrudes from his leg; Conor breaks off to come and help, barely deflecting a killing strike, holding back an onslaught on two fronts as Fearghus bares his teeth and tries to totter back to his feet. Seanna and Miach are still moving fluidly but they’re no longer advancing, their opponents wary of their synchronised movements, better weathering their attacks.

And Tara’s dervish of momentum is arrested by a tall, lean warrior with far superior reach to the shorter girl, and whose eyes have turned just as black as hers. Their dance is mesmeric. Dizzying. Frighteningly fast, impossible to follow.

It’s all horrific. A nightmare. But there’s no time to think about it. I slide in between Tara and another man coming at her left, blood pounding in my ears. Block his attack and engage.

The fiery-headed warrior whose spear thrust I just knocked aside smiles slowly as he squares off and takes in my missing arm, the expression clearly meant to intimidate. That’s good. Tara and her opponent are already clashing not more than ten feet away; my job here is simply to keep her from being flanked, and trust she can win on her own. If this man wants to waste time posturing, that’s all to the better.

He doesn’t waste it for long, unfortunately, smile turning to a sneer of effort as he hacks in at my left with a series of swift, probing strikes. Predictable, but no less dangerous because of it; I use several of the techniques I’ve been learning these past months, employing combinations of ground, body, and momentum to brace my defence where my left hand would once have sufficed. It’s not easy or natural, despite my practice. My movements feel rushed and rough. Desperate. I barely avoid having a spear tip buried in me several times.

And then something changes.

My spear feels abruptly lighter. An extension of myself. I am in control, but my movements are suddenly more sure, more nuanced. I block, and block, and find myself with a rictus smile as the flow of the fight swings. Not in my favour, exactly. But I am holding my own. Flush with a strange clarity, a razor-sharp certainty in what I am doing.

The redheaded man snarls and backs off slightly, breathing hard, frustrated at his lack of progress. The inexorable rush of our initial attack fades as these warriors—seasoned and brave—withstand the chaos and position themselves back-to-back. There is an occasional groan from the injured, but otherwise all war cries have ceased. It’s just grunts and snarls and clattering weapons as we poke and prod and deflect and blink steaming sweat from our eyes. Torches that were hurriedly tossed aside at the beginning of the ambush begin to gutter out, letting the teeming fog creep even closer, thick enough to render the others little more than flashing shadows. The air reeks of salty, hot blood, and I hold the suddenly recalled terror of the naumachia at bay.

I want desperately to know how the fighting around me is going, but I never take my eyes off my opponent, nor he off me. We circle, and in the flickering half-light I see his muscles tense. Spot his intent. Not from training. Not from logic. I just know.

I move as he does. Sway to the side, letting his lunge brush by me. Pivot and bring my spear forward.

The barest of resistance as it plunges into his stomach.

I follow, driving it farther, in and through, until we are almost face-to-face. His eyes wide with pain and shock. Spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he trembles. Drops his weapon. I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek as he bends forward, as if to embrace me.

With a final grunt I heave him away, onto his back into the shallows of a stream. He splashes and writhes, pulling vainly at the shaft jutting from him, crimson clouding the water. I just stand there for a second, breathing hard, looking at him. Hand shaking.

“Do not prolong his suffering.”

It’s Tara. She has a gash on her shoulder. The man who was using Will is a vague and motionless outline on the ground ten feet away. I finally gather myself enough to look around and distinguish the others in the fog. Fearghus limping toward us using Conor as a crutch, looking more annoyed than in pain. Seanna and Miach both crouching and stripping armbands and torcs from the dead.

The warrior I felled is the only one left alive. Swallowing my horror, I pick up one of the last torches still lit, and crouch by him.

“Where is Gallchobhar?”

He just spits weakly at me. His green eyes glitter.

“He will not speak to us, Leathfhear,” says Conor.

I glance around at the others. They are watching me expectantly.

I nod, reluctant though the motion is. They’re right. This man has no motivation to cooperate. And a stomach wound is not a good way to die.

Steeling myself, I straighten, then yank the spear out with a clean jerk—eliciting a final, rasping gasp—before thrusting it down again, through his heart.

He twitches, and lies still.

I watch him for a few more seconds, standing over him, hand still clenched around the haft of the spear buried in his chest. For all the horrors I have seen, for all the dangers I have faced, I have never taken another life before. Not truly. As much as I felt the weight of what happened with Estevan at the naumachia, and as much as I may have been responsible for his death, some part of me has always known that it was Estevan himself who made that final decision.

There’s a hand on my shoulder, and I break from my grim contemplation to find Tara there. She meets my gaze, and nods. Just once. “We should not linger.”

She’s right; there’s no telling how close we are to the party’s destination. As I pull my weapon from the dead man again, Miach crouches beside him and carefully removes the iron torc from his neck, then offers it to me.

It feels like stealing from the dead, but I know it’s not thought of that way here. It is an act meant to honour as well as boast. To show not just how many you have killed, but to ensure you remember them.

Reluctantly, I take the torc and slip it around my bicep: arm for trophy, neck for status. The metal is still warm where it was resting against its former owner. Miach slaps me on the back approvingly before he draws his short blade, grabs the dead man’s hair and begins sawing at his throat.

“Why do you remove their heads?” I ask it quietly, not wanting to watch but unable to look away as the others start similar, grisly tasks.

Tara looks at me as if it’s a strange question. “So they cannot walk again, should the boundary to the Otherworld become too thin.”

I don’t have much choice but to accept the explanation; Gráinne mentioned the Otherworld once or twice, and I know it is part of their beliefs, but I’ve never been clear on its nature. As I force a sickly nod, I realise that the presence in my head is still pulsing. Closer than before. I tense, look around at the others. Keep my voice low. “I think there is still someone out there.”

They pause in their macabre work, turning to me as one. “Why do you say that?” murmurs Conor, alert. His hands and knife drip.

I could dissemble, but I know at least Tara is already curious about how I spotted the intruders from the crannog. And perhaps more tellingly, I simply don’t wish to lie. “I can sense something. In here.” I tap my head. “It is hard to explain, and I do not know why it is happening. But it’s how I knew this party were by the lake. I am not imagining it. And I am not certain it’s coming from an enemy.” The pulse has only helped me, and seems to have been travelling near this group rather than with it.

There’s silence as they process, and then Tara nods. “Far?”

“A few minutes away, maybe.”

Her eyes flick to Fearghus, then the spear in my hand, and then back to me. She doesn’t want to split up, not with our injuries. “The fog is thinning; you will have a better chance of staying hidden alone. Leave tracks where you can. If you have not returned when we’re ready here, we will follow.”

I acknowledge her and start at a run through the fog, down a gentle slope and following the stream. Tara, Miach, Fearghus, and the bodies quickly vanish into the white. I focus on the pulse. Just like before, there’s a physicality to it, something I can mark in space despite it not correlating to any particular sense. I move like that for another two minutes before angling to the right. Crest a short rise at a crouch.

Tara was right; the fog has started to clear here and now only a thin layer coats the hilltops. There’s a valley below still shrouded in drifting cloud, but my eyes are drawn across it, to the far incline perhaps three hundred feet away. The halo of a dying campfire, and a lone man with a horse, cutting a tall shadow through the white next to it.

He pauses, scans in my direction but doesn’t see me. Mounts and gallops off, white cloak flaring behind him, over the far rise and into the tendrils of the night.

I straighten. Stare after him. Heart thundering as my sense of the pulse recedes and rapidly fades, too fast to chase.

The distance was too great to be certain, far too great to properly make out his features in the hazy dim. But there was something. His dark hair and dark skin and tall, strong build. The familiar figure he cut as he looked around, as he leapt astride the horse. A recognition painfully faint, now. A memory’s ghost.

And yet impossible to mistake. Even as I stand there, breath short and disbelieving, I cannot help but know it.

He reminded me exactly of my father.