37. Chapter Thirty-Five #2
The smallest, a redhead nearly bouncing on her toes, blurted, “Fionnuala. Is it true you’ve trained with the Forest God? Did he really bring you here? Have you seen Scáthae up close? Did she—”
“Aíne’s tits, let her breathe, Nuala,” Eilis cut in, elbowing her. “You’ll scare her off.”
Their chatter spilled over one another, laughter bubbling bright. They spoke of the ball to come, what gowns they hoped to wear, which warriors from Goibniu’s house they might dance with, how dreadful it was that they had to practice dancing at all.
I opened my mouth to reply when the oak doors creaked open and silence swept the room in a single wave.
The woman who entered didn’t look like an instructor. She looked like a grandmother one might expect hunched by a fire, except she wasn’t. Her back was straight. Her skin was dark and smooth. Her hair gleamed silver, catching the light like wire.
The thread around her hummed with what I now recognized as Aine’s mark—the moon goddess, like my ladies-in-waiting.
Aine and Scáthae…close? The legends around them never suggested as much, but of course, why would they?
I was beginning to learn that legends were only stories that had been exaggerated in some way.
“Well! The lot of you look like sulking soldiers, not dancers,” she declared, eyes bright.
“Don’t scowl at me, Rufus.” She smacked one of the men across from us upside his head with a fierce glare before continuing forward.
“I’ve seen fiercer faces turn to milk when the music starts.
Warriors, bah! You trip over your boots the moment someone plays a lyre. ”
Uneasy laughter rippled through the room.
The half-born she called Rufus rubbed the back of his head, scowl even deadlier than it was before.
He turned to the man next to him. “The crazy old bat has eyes in the back of her skull, I swear to the gods she wasn’t even looking in my direction,” he muttered under his breath.
The other half-born hid his laugh behind a large hand, but I couldn’t help but smirk at the mirth in his eyes.
I studied the fierce woman. She was old, though age touched half-born differently. Centuries lived sat in her bearing, in the silver crown of her hair. Revered, not frail. A shiver rain through me. She reminded me so much of Saorla that it hurt.
Her gaze snapped to mine, amused. “Ah. The Seer. Aurenya, is it? Mairenn filled me in,” she winked at me, mischief in her eyes. “I’ve been waiting to see if you’d stumble fewer times than the rest. I am Aoife, and tonight, I am your torment.”
The half-born groaned in chorus—affection disguised as complaint. Clearly, they adored her antics even though they pretended not to.
She clapped again, loudly. “Enough chatter. Pairs. Now. If you can brandish a sword, you can damn well take a hand.”
Groans rose louder. Some warriors shuffled toward the women like condemned men. Eilis and Sorcha grinned, already scanning the room.
And then one stepped toward me.
He was tall with storm-colored eyes, dark hair cropped short, and a scar on his cheek that somehow didn’t harden his easy expression.
I recognized him, he was one of the guards at the front gate when Tairngire and I had first arrived.
I’d also seen him in the courtyard, training with another half-born male—a tall, blond warrior who I also noticed scowling beside him.
He bowed with a surprising amount of grace and held out his hand.
“Name’s Ciaran,” he said, voice warm, almost amused. “Don’t worry. I’m not half as terrifying as the others. I’ll try not to trample your feet.”
The blonde one next to him scoffed. I blinked, caught between suspicion and surprise before setting my hand in his hesitantly. His palm was calloused and his grip was steady. Mairenn took the hand of the perpetually angry-looking blond next to us and winked at me.
“Better than being trampled by a wolf I suppose,” I muttered, turning my attention back to Ciaran. His grin deepened.
Aoife swooped past, clapping sharply. “Backs straight, eyes forward! Ladies have no use for cowards who can’t look their partners in the eye. And for the love of all that's divine and holy move—don’t drag them around like sacks of potatoes.”
Ciaran’s mouth twitched as he angled me into place. “Don’t mind her. She says the same thing every year, and half the men still dance like they’re marching to war.”
The music hummed through the air, coming from an unknown source. It was soon drowned out by Aoife’s clapping. Ciaran’s hand was steady at my waist, his other anchored mine.
“I’ve seen you training,” he said after a moment, eyes assessing. “Your footwork shows it, even here. But your form…” His grin tugged sideways. “Needs work. You’re too rigid, like you’re bracing for a strike.”
Heat glared in my cheeks. “That’s because I usually am.”
“True,” he conceded with a shrug, spinning me so I didn’t collide with Mairenn and her angry eyed partner.
I couldn’t imagine either of them would have reacted kindly to my clumsiness.
“But this isn’t sparring. You have to let the movement carry you.
Flow. Battle is much like a waltz. It requires the same discipline and focus. ”
I tried to loosen my shoulders. His laugh was soft. "Hey, that's a start anyway."
We kept the pace as Aoife barked at half-born left and right. Ciaran made light conversation, making side comments about some others in his family and revealed that Mairenn’s partner’s name was Aidan, another of Scáthae’s direct descendants.
Ciaran was genuinely easy to talk to, funny, charming…everything I wouldn’t expect from a godsdamned warrior-born.
“Why have you been so…kind?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Other half-born men I’ve met…well, let’s just say they weren’t like you.”
Ciaran’s brows lifted, curiosity sparking in his gray eyes. He knew what that question implied. I’d have only met them in one place. Half-born were not permitted in the temple unless they were priests.
“The Seer…in Anamcroí villages and pubs? Well, I’ll be damned.”
My lips twitched as I leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Under disguise, with Branwyn, the Crone of Caer Anam.”
His laugh was startled but genuine. He had an adorable set of dimples that didn’t cease to make me smile. “Saints save us. The Seer sneaking into taverns with witches?”
I tried to stifle my satisfied smile and failed. “I have to give it to you, that was an effective way of dodging my question.”
His smile dimmed, and the charming dimples disappeared. “No…not all half-born men are kind. Some look upon mortals with distaste, even treat our own women poorly. That isn’t allowed in King Caedmon’s house.” His grip at my waist firmed. “Here, respect is demanded. By him, and by Scáthae herself.”
For a moment, I forgot the steps. His words lodged deep, certain as law.
Aoife’s bark cut across the hall. “Closer, you oafs! If you hold females like they’ll shatter, they most certainly will!”
Ciaran rolled his eyes. “See? Most of them will never get it.”
I caught his eye as we circled another pair. “Then what about Goibniu’s house? The ones we’ll meet at the ball?”
He cleared his throat in what seemed to be an anxious diversion. “Ah, yes. Them.” He spun me neatly, voice dropping low, like a secret. “There are half-born there who are not so kind. Hard men, forged in steel like their god. Caedmon trusts them, yes, but trust does not mean warmth.”
“And the women?”
He gave a mock shiver, chuckling. “Worse. Hardened. Brutal. I’d rather spar with three of our brothers than cross one of them.”
A laugh escaped me. “Now Ciaran, you wouldn’t be afraid of them, would you?”
“Not afraid,” he protested, though his crooked smile betrayed him. “Just…respectful. Very respectful. They’ve been raised with hammers in hand. Some say they can crush a man’s pride as easily as easily as a peanut.”
I shook my head, still laughing under my breath. For once, everything eased. Ciaran winked, tugging me closer. “So, if one of them asks you to dance, I’d advise you not to laugh unless you enjoy being flattened.”
Aoife’s clap cracked like thunder. “Well, another year, another disaster! I’ve seen drunks in a tavern keep better rhythm. Half-born of Scáthae, dancing like broken-footed donkeys! And you—” She jabbed a bony finger at poor Rufus. “You’d be safer in battle than a ballroom.”
Laughter rippled across the line as the boy’s cheeks burned crimson.
“Enough!” Aoife planted her hands on her hips. “Go. Wash the sweat and shame. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll look less like stags on ice.” She shook her head and muttered another curse under her breath. “Though I doubt it.”
The group scattered like guilty children, and I snickered. Aíne’s daughters might not have been warriors, but Aoife was a force to be reckoned with nonetheless.
Ciaran, still holding my hand, dipped into an exaggerated bow. His dark eyes gleamed with humor. “A pleasure, Seer. Try not to trip anyone important at the ball.”
Before I could roll my eyes, the girls descended—Sorcha, Eilis, and tiny Fionnuala, their voices buzzing like sparrows.
“Ciaran’s doomed,” Sorcha whispered loudly, tilting her chin at his retreating back. “He’s under the king’s watch. They’ll pair him with one of Goibniu’s daughters, no doubt.”
Eilis shivered in mock horror. “Those women will eat him alive. Can you imagine?”
The image of hardened warrior women rose in my mind—crushing nuts and pride alike. I almost pitied Ciaran. “That sounds...merciless,” I murmured.
Fionnuala gasped like I’d just cursed, while Mairenn burst into a full-throated laugh, doubling over. “Gods above, Aurenya, you need to erase that word from your vocabulary. How many times am I going to have to tell you that mercy is wasted here?”
Her laughter followed as she looped her arm through mine. “Come. Time to get some rest before we have to suffer this nightmare again tomorrow.”