XLV

TARA LOOKS UP EXPECTANTLY AS I emerge from the mists. Frowns when she sees my expression.

“There was someone.” I answer her unasked question. “White cloak. He rode off on a horse before I could get close enough to see much.”

She can see there’s more to it, but she’s nothing if not practical. Miach is binding Fearghus’s wound. Fearghus is forcing soft laughter through clenched teeth. It’s a bad injury, if not life-threatening, but he’s not the type to show it. None of this group are.

Tara considers, then nods sharply. “If he is with Ruarc, he will not have had the chance to speak with those we fought,” she decides swiftly, taking in the state of our band. Even excluding Fearghus, we are battered from our attack. “But he may come back with others to look for them. We cannot stay here, nor can we make it to Loch Traenala before dawn. We must camp nearby. Rest and return to the crannog tomorrow.” She turns to Miach. “How bad are your injuries?”

He shrugs. “I can make it back tonight,” he says, seeing where she’s going.

“Let Pádraig know what has happened, and that we are alright.”

Miach gives us a parting nod of encouragement, and lopes into the mists.

The rest of us travel slowly and silently for an hour, half supporting and half carrying a grumbling Fearghus, making sure to cover any traces of our passage where possible. We keep to stony ground. Wade through streams. Avoid soft ground at all costs.

“This will do.” Tara makes the decision. We’re in a small hollow; between the dip in the ground and the mists, any fire we make should be thoroughly concealed to all but the closest enemy.

Conor makes to protest, but sees the greyish tinge to Fearghus’s face and says nothing. Soon enough a small fire crackles, its warmth a welcome respite. We arrange ourselves around it. It’s not long before Fearghus is asleep.

There’s soft, idle conversation for a while, and then Tara stirs. “What did you really see out there, Leathfhear?”

I’ve been expecting the question, known it was coming since I first got back. Much of the past hour has been spent deciding how to respond. I don’t want to talk about it. But they know something spooked me, and a lie feels unnecessary. “My father. Or, a man who reminded me very strongly of him.” I release the second part to the air, an admission as much to myself as to them. “I was a long way away. I couldn’t see his face properly. It was a man in a druid’s cloak. Just a man who triggered a memory.” A trick of the dim and the fog. The more I think about it, the more it is the only explanation. “He’s the one I could sense, though. Him being nearby is what warned me, at Loch Traenala.”

“The… feeling. It is gone now?” Seanna examines me curiously. Intrigued, I think, more than doubtful.

“Yes. It disappeared when he rode off.”

Tara considers. “Not likely with Ruarc, then.”

“At least not with the scouting party,” I agree. It wouldn’t make sense for the druid to travel so close but not with them, otherwise. “He must have been watching them.”

There’s a pause as Tara, Conor, and Seanna take it in. They all look at me. Curiosity in their eyes more than disbelief.

“You are certain it was not your father.” It’s Seanna. A statement with another question behind it.

I hesitate, considering whether or not to answer.

“He was executed five years ago.”

Silence again. A long one. Then Tara leans forward. “Justly?” It’s not her usual brusque tone. I think she already knows the answer.

“No.” The word catches in my throat. “No. His name was Cristoval, King of Suus. He was murdered by his enemies. While I fled.” I watch the fire. The way its small flames lick yellow and orange along the wood. It’s all I can see. I open my mouth, then shut it again. Brow furrowing. Throat closing, a pressure behind my eyes.

“You were not a warrior five years ago,” says Conor suddenly. I finally look over at him, see the meaningfulness of the statement to him. Sense the others nodding.

“You would not have had the nasceann five years ago, either,” adds Seanna.

The lingering burst of sorrow obfuscates her meaning for a few seconds. “I don’t know how to use the nasceann,” I say slowly. Wondering if I’ve misunderstood.

“You do. I saw it too,” says Conor quietly.

I stare around at them. Not sure what to say. I haven’t been through the Aurora Columnae. Don’t have anyone ceding to me. “Are you certain?”

Conor touches his eyes. Nods a calm, unyielding confirmation to me.

Tara is frowning, looking as disbelieving as I’m sure I do, though she doesn’t doubt her fellow warriors’ word. “You have been to Fornax?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what that is.”

The furrows in her brow deepen and her gaze again goes to my weapon. “This strange sense that warned you, earlier. Do you ever get it from anything else?”

“My spear, sometimes. And yours,” I admit.

“Then you are nasceann. Though I have never heard of anyone sensing another’s power from so far away.” She sounds nonplussed. “The tale of your accusing Gallchobhar, before his banishment. It is true, then?”

“It is.” I frown at her. “You thought it wasn’t?”

“I thought Lir must have convinced you to lie.” Unsurprising reluctance in the admission, and I can see the others shifting uncomfortably at the suggestion that a druid might deceive anyone. “Many would do far worse for the chance to be here.”

“Why would Lir do that?”

“Because he was at odds with Gallchobhar being placed at my father’s right hand. I heard him arguing against his becoming Champion, while I was recovering. But Donnán insisted that Gallchobhar had earned it by saving me.”

I look at her. “You were injured in the same attack?”

“I was the reason for the attack.” She traces the ugly scar on her cheek. “Near three years ago. They snuck in. Killed Artán before the alarm was raised, came into my room, and cut my birthright away. And then Gallchobhar killed them all.” The others are listening just as intently as I am, I realise. They’ve been with Tara for years and not heard this story. But perhaps tonight—our first battle, our first kills, blood still drying on our clothes and skin—is bringing it out of her. “They had no markings, no torcs. My father was sure it was Fiachra but there was no proof, and so the draoi did not see it as cause for war.”

I grimace at that. My understanding of the druids’ power here is still imperfect, but I know that no one wants to go to war without their blessing. “A lot of people were angry, when I picked this spear to fight Gallchobhar,” I observe quietly.

“A nasceann’s weapon is not buried with them.” Seanna supplies the information. “So it can one day be claimed by a worthy successor.”

“Oh.” I squeeze my eyes shut against a sudden headache. “A worthy successor. To your father’s Champion.” I waggle my stump of an arm in irritation. “No gods-damned wonder everyone was so angry.”

Faint amusement, from Tara. “I imagine they were. Gallchobhar must never have claimed it for himself. Or perhaps he tried in secret, and it rejected him. Either way, once he was Champion, none in Caer Áras would have dared dishonour him by touching it.”

“Reject him?” I examine the weapon in my hand. “How could it do that?”

Tara hesitates. I can see she wants to answer, or at least knows something. But she shakes her head. “A question only the draoi can answer.”

“There are none of those around.” I still don’t really want to know, want no part in even touching Will. But if I’m somehow using it despite not being ceded to—if that strange battle sense, these pulses I’ve been feeling, are some unknown application of it—then I need to understand what’s going on.

“One will come for Samhain, in a couple of months. To tell us news of the outside world, and to let us know if we are Called.”

“Called.” The name for when warriors are needed by their king. My curiosity about the nasceann briefly dies. “Do you think that likely?”

“You know the answer as well as I. Úrthuile is an old man. It is only a matter of time.” She rubs at some of the blood on her arm. Looks around at us, comes to a decision. “And when it is time, I will welcome it. When I was given my scar, my father did not intend to renounce my claim, but it happened not long after Ruarc and Fiachra had first made their deal, and he had voiced his disapproval of it only months earlier. He had the choice of admitting that the Old Ways no longer had to be heeded—further weakening the draoi who stood in opposition to Ruarc—or sending me away.” She grimaces. “In the end, I did not give him a choice. I have always been quick with a weapon. I had already visited Fornax and been taught the nasceann. I volunteered to come here, because there was never a path that did not lead to war, after that.”

There’s a hush as she finishes, and I close my eyes as I understand the implications. The others have already explained to me that according to the Old Ways, only the unblemished—the physically perfect—may rule, here. Perhaps these people’s deep sense of honour is meant to preclude such situations, but Tara’s account is exactly why I thought, and still think, it is one of their most unsound customs.

“The men who attacked. They never intended to kill you.”

“No.”

“They meant only to maim?” Conor’s voice has raised an octave in outrage; he quickly glances around and lowers his voice again, but the usually ebullient young man is livid. “Fiachra sent men in secret to do that to you, to embarrass your father?”

“Fiachra, and Ruarc. With Gallchobhar’s help. So that the king would be put in an impossible position.” My half-absent murmur attracts the attention of the others, and I grimace. “It’s the kind of behaviour I would expect, where I come from.” This is why Tara was so sure Gallchobhar is serving Fiachra.

“From your homeland?” asks Tara curiously.

“From its conquerors.” My brow furrows and I look across at Tara. “You saved your father. By coming here, you ensured a good man would continue to rule.” At the expense of her own position. Her own happiness.

She would have been fourteen. Same age I was when the Hierarchy attacked.

I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to make the same decision, in her shoes.

“Well I, for one, am glad you are here, Tara ap Rónán.” Conor is still indignant but seems intent on smiling despite it. “We would be a worse warband without you.”

“You would be a dead warband without me.” A slight flush to her cheeks indicates she’s pleased, despite the retort. She looks over at me. “And my father would have made the right choice. He mourned my injury and my leaving, but he is a strong ruler.”

I nod at her mild rebuke. She doesn’t like me suggesting he would have faltered, certainly not in front of the others. I can understand that.

There’s just the crackle of our small, flickering fire burning the dark press of mist around us, for a while. No breeze or other sounds from our protected little hollow. Then Conor stirs. “My father mourns my return more than my leaving.” He shakes his head. Chuckles, but it’s muted. “Each winter, he is disappointed I am not wearing a torc. My brother was already leading his own warband when he was my age. My sister is barely two years older than me and is already serving in Caer Áras. He barely pretends interest in what I have to say, when he sees I have not yet been Called.”

“What about your mother?” asks Seanna.

“Aillean ap Marcan? She does not pretend at all.” Still with a smile, but it’s impossible not to see the pain in it.

“At least your father wanted you,” Seanna says absently. “I am here because mine was sick of not being borne a son. He thought that if he offered me up, I would either die or become strong—and either was acceptable to him.”

And so they talk. Softly, and honestly. There’s no reason to bring up any of it. They’re simply sharing. We have fought and bled and killed together, and now in the quiet of the aftermath, there is an unspoken bond. Not perhaps as meaningful as my love for Emissa, or Callidus, or Eidhin. But something special, regardless.

At some point Fearghus wakes and joins in. He is from a simple farming village to the north. Misses his family, but had a talent that he knew he couldn’t ignore. When I ask him why he chose to fight for King Rónán, I expect the answers I would get from a Catenan. The honour of serving. The glory that can alone be found in battle. Extolling his leader’s qualities, the reasons Rónán is such a strong king. But Fearghus says none of that.

“I will not fight for him,” he says, puzzled. “I will honour my oath to him, but I will fight to protect my home, and my family, and my friends. For what other reason would a man kill and die?”

A murmur of assent from the others. My respect for them, already high, grows.

And then it is my turn. An implicit obligation to open up as the new silence signals Fearghus’s finishing. I almost don’t. From instinct. From touching that pain so briefly earlier and having to recoil so hard.

But eventually, I tell them. I tell them until my voice is hoarse and there are tears running down my cheeks. I tell them about my life on Suus. The invasion. The Hierarchy and their terrible power. Why I have the scars on my back, which they have all seen but never pried about. The running, the Academy. The Labyrinth and my being brought here. I leave nothing out. Once I start, it is impossible to stop. It flows out of me. I am not sure why the dam breaks, tonight. Perhaps it is the rush of the fight. Perhaps it is the comradery I feel, that we all feel. But whatever the reason, for the first time, I keep nothing back.

And they listen. Not disbelieving, not judging. Not, I truly believe, caring that I am so different from them. When I am done, I feel naked. Not vulnerable, exactly. But exposed.

It has been almost five years since I have been honest about who I am. Five years since I wasn’t hiding something.

I am almost lost without the need to lie.

When I finish, Conor shifts. Comes to sit beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.

“You are here now,” he says softly. “We are all with you, brother.”

Seanna smiles. Tara and Fearghus nod.

And I know I am home.

“YOU MUST SPEAK TO THE draoi, when they come,” says Tara as we walk the rolling hills. “You must convince them to teach you.”

We are slightly ahead of the others. The mists have been burned away by the morning sun, and only rippling green lies around us. Fearghus is still weak, but well enough to move again. We have travelled cautiously, but there has been no sign of pursuit.

It’s given me time alone in my head to think about last night. To try and resolve that moment of utter certainty with what I know to be true. The man I saw could not have been my father, years dead and unimaginable miles away. Yet Cian, all those months ago, did say we were going to meet someone I knew. And I have seen so many things over the past couple of years that have taught me not to think anything is impossible.

But I also know how much I want it. How desperately I wish for it to be true. And the logic always intrudes. He is dead, and I am unknowably far from where he would be if he were not.

Tara’s words finally register through the haze of thought, and I glance across at her.

“I told you what Lir told me.” I say it a little anxiously. I placed a lot of trust in her and the others, last night. More than I have in anyone in a long time. I do not believe it was a mistake, but that makes me no less uncomfortable. “The draoi cannot be trusted. Ruarc or otherwise.” Still not sure I believe what the others said about my eyes turning black, but even if they were right, I have no desire to learn how to use Will.

“It will be Lir, or someone he trusts. He and my father sent you here, knowing this would be the outcome.” No doubt in her voice. “They alone can help you. You must join them. Leave with them.”

“What?” I come to a stop. Shocked at the suggestion.

“You are not a warrior, Leathfhear. You are a skilled fighter. A loyal friend and reliable partner in battle. But not destined to one of the Bródúil.” She says it kindly but firmly. No insult in tone or intent.

“You don’t think I’m good enough?” I’m dazed. I thought tonight we had made a connection, as a group.

“I think you are interested, not committed. When Pádraig showed you that you are not helpless despite your arm, you listened. But you did not hound him for more.” She gestures. “Do you know why we call you Leathfhear?”

I roll my eyes, and indicate my missing arm.

“No. It was never about that. I am smaller than most. Conor is slower, Seanna weaker. Fearghus is more prone to poor decisions and Miach is overconfident. Most are disadvantaged in some way, and yes—some more than others. But that does not make us less.” She leans over and gently taps my heart. “The half that is missing is here. You have never been fully present. Fully engaged. Fully committed. And I understand that, now. You have always fought. Here, you do not have to.”

I feel a flush make its way up my neck to my cheeks. Anger or shame, I’m not sure which. “I was never going to be good enough to compete with you, though.”

“This isn’t like your school. Your Academy. You don’t have to want to beat us, here, Leathfhear,” says Tara. “You have to want to protect us. That is what is required to succeed.” She sighs. “Do not take it personally. The name is meant to be a warning; a man is known by his failings until he is known by his actions. Just because you are not right for a place does not mean you were never meant to be there. But war is coming. And I need whoever is at my side to be someone who could be nowhere else.” She sees my expression and laughs. A surprising sound, but a genuine one. “Do not mistake me. There is no shame in this. No dishonour. Not all are meant for this life.”

I feel suddenly cut off. Adrift. Betrayed, though I know there’s no intent there. “I see.”

“I will tell Pádraig to speak to the draoi. You will show him the spear. Tell him of what has happened. And you will depart with him.” She claps me on the back. Her expression nothing but genuine. “We will miss you, Leathfhear. Truly. And we will see each other again. There is no need for sadness at the parting.”

I nod numbly. We keep walking, slowing a little so that the others can catch up. They’re laughing and making jokes. I try to join in, but my mind keeps drifting.

Tara is right. I have been here in mind but not in spirit, an observer as much as a participant.

I have to make a choice.