Chapter XXIV
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.