Chapter XXIV #2
Lir taps the table absently, deep in thought. Then he comes to a decision. His eyes go to the door, then flick back to me.
“I did not press on the road because not all ears can be trusted,” he says in a suddenly low voice.
“Things are complicated here. I know Cian was investigating Ruarc’s influence over the Grove, and many of us agree that their decisions of late have been …
concerning. I believe he left you his staff so that I would find you.
He saved you for a purpose.” He leans forward.
Intent. “Last I heard, he was researching tales of the Otherworld. Of Dia Oiche, the dark god who came from there thousands of years ago and supposedly still hides among us. A strange topic for a man like Cian, I thought. So tell me the truth. What can you tell me of all this? How did you come to know him?”
“I have already told you the truth.” I meet his gaze steadily, expression a careful mix of honesty and mild confusion. There’s a chance that admitting everything will help, but there’s also one that doing so will remove any motivation for Lir to keep me alive.
And perhaps even more tellingly, my curiosity does not come close to eclipsing my determination to not get involved.
I have seen what life can be now, without the fears and complications that come with these entanglements.
I have been running for too long. Fighting for too long.
If there is any chance for me to hold on to what I found with Gráinne and Onchú and the children, to make my way back to it somehow, then I have to stay apart from all this.
I do like Lir, from what I’ve seen of him. He seems a good man. But there’s simply no benefit to me revealing anything right now.
He stares into my eyes, then grunts and looks away.
“I do not believe you. I will still speak in your favour tonight, but if you do not tell me everything, Deaglán, you will have to save yourself.” Something more to the statement, I think.
A strange emphasis. But the language and the situation conspire for me to be unsure.
He stares at me a moment longer. Examining me in the same intent, vaguely frustrated way I’ve caught him doing many times on the road.
Then he stands, and with an irritated flick of his cloak, leaves me to my thoughts.
THE SOUNDS OF THE TOWN OUTSIDE MY WINDOWLESS hut ebb and flow.
Shouts and chatter, familiar and cheerful in tone even if I don’t know all the words.
The grunts and snorts and braying of livestock.
A larger crowd passing nearby, though not directly outside, at one point. Some cheering accompanying them.
I use the time to examine every inch of my prison.
The walls are solid daub, the door sturdy.
It’s possible there could be an escape through the thatch in the roof, but my missing arm colludes to make it a near-impossible task.
Not that I plan to escape; if that had been my intent, I would have tried it weeks ago.
These are the enemies of my enemy, the place Cian was taking me for refuge.
As risky as it is to stay and plead my case, I need their support, not have them hunting me too.
The door swings open without warning after an hour or so, and past Aodh and Kegan’s frames I can see that afternoon has almost turned to dusk. Torches on poles crackle at regular intervals along muddy paths. A few people wander past. None do more than glance with vague curiosity in our direction.
Lir appears behind the two warriors. “Time, Deaglán,” he says quietly.
I am led into the darkening streets, again untouched but again left in no doubt that I am under guard.
We angle up the slope, heading in grim silence for the large wooden hall I noted on the way in.
Music drifts from it, faint at first but louder as we approach, rowdy and off-key voices raised in ebullient song.
From the outside at least, it reminds me of nothing more than a particularly bustling tavern.
Until, that is, we trudge into its light, and I realise not all the poles encircling the hall are topped with torches.
I falter.
At least a dozen severed heads are piked around the large double doors, forming a macabre guard of honour for our approach.
Men and women alike, pallid skin glistening, hair matted and dripping.
They leer in the flickering orange as we pass.
The puddled water beneath them is stained a dirty red.
No decay, no sign of scavenging. They can’t be more than a day or two old.
Ahead of me, Aodh pats one on the scalp as he passes, not pausing. “Chailleadh sé meáchan faoi dheireadh.” The comment even gets a chuckle from Kegan, though Lir doesn’t react.
There’s a blast of boisterous noise as we enter the hall.
It’s warm and stale, smells of smoke and alcohol and roasting meat and the press of at least fifty sweaty bodies.
Mostly warriors. Two long, low, crowded tables stretch almost to the back, where they’re joined by a third to form an angular horseshoe.
A fire crackles in the centre, and a small group of youths is lined up beside it, talking nervously among themselves.
“Lir!” The name escapes the lips of a woman nearby and is instantly echoed down the hall, a cheer of greeting for my captor along with a muddle of lively calls I cannot translate.
Aodh prods me along at spearpoint behind him.
Eyes slide over my entrance, curious, but nobody greets me.
No doubting my status here. In front of me Lir grins around in acknowledgement, looking happier and more relaxed than I’ve seen him since we met.
I scan the room. It seems clear that the golden-cloaked man at the far table is the leader here.
King Rónán, I assume. To his immediate right sits a mountain of a man, lantern-jawed and clean-shaven, thick muscle cording arms which shine with multiple armbands and a neck around which sits a silver torc.
Even amongst warriors, even sitting, he dwarfs everyone in the room.
He looks at ease in his clearly favoured position.
To Rónán’s left is a blonde woman with a pointed nose and delicate features, and farther along, an older man with a distinguished grey beard. He’s wearing a white cloak, same as Lir’s. He studies our entrance with a sharp, intelligent gaze.
I study him back, if surreptitiously. If my fate is out of Rónán’s hands, then this may be the man who holds it instead. The druid doesn’t appear to notice my return look, instead finishing his inspection and then rising, holding up his hands.
As the loudest voices in the hall quickly subside, Lir nods me over to the side. “It is the Time Between Times. Donnán is about to begin the allegiance ceremony. Take good note,” he adds in a lower voice as Aodh’s spear guides me in the direction Lir indicated.
The mutter of voices continues around the hall, but it’s quiet enough now to hear what’s going on in the centre.
The druid has moved and stands slightly to the side.
He beckons the first waiting young man forward, who comes to kneel in front of the king’s table, head bowed.
He’s maybe sixteen, only a couple of painted symbols visible along his bare arms.
“Great King Rónán. I am Patraic ap Ris. My arm is your arm. I tiomnaigh myself to you. If I break my gealltanas, by gods and anam may the earth swallow me. The sea drown me. The sky burn me.” He finishes with three more words I do not know, and I’m guessing some of the others through context, but it’s clear enough that he’s pledging himself to the king.
Rónán nods solemnly, and Donnán dips a sprig of hawthorn into the bowl and then flicks it with a practiced motion at the young man’s face. Flecks of dark crimson appear on his cheeks, forehead and nose, dribbling slowly downward.
“Rise, Patraic ap Ris. Before gods and anam, your gealltanas”—oath?
—“is received. My hearth is your hearth. Go, and protect it well.” King Rónán’s voice is strong and confident and easy as it rings out, cutting comfortably through the low chatter.
He’s a large man, broad-shouldered and as weathered as any of the men here.
Probably not older than fifty. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to command the room, I note as everyone’s gaze is drawn to him.
He is respected by these men. Admired.
Patraic stands, face flushed in the firelight, rivulets of blood wending their way down his skin. He stamps his spear thrice onto the stone, and steps aside.
Five more times the ritual repeats itself, three boys and two girls no older than the first: they kneel, utter the words, and finish with pride on bloodstained faces.
There’s a general murmur of approval after each one, though no cheers or particular acknowledgements.
They pair off and spar briefly in the ample space around the fire after that, quick if furious bouts that draw blood but no worse.
The combatants embrace afterward, joyful regardless of whether they are victor or vanquished.
When the last steps away, Donnán raises his head and looks over at us. Beckons to Lir, who nods graciously.
Though quiet conversation had continued throughout, silence—true silence—now falls across the room as Lir joins the other druid. I watch, curiosity even briefly overcoming my anxiety. The smoke-filled air is heavy with anticipation.
Both men’s eyes turn black.
I saw Lir use Will twice on our journey. Unclear what he was using it for each time, and I decided early on that I don’t want to know. I am free of the Hierarchy, here. Free of the need to have anything to do with Will. Best by far to leave that all behind me.
Still, I tense at the sight. Aodh’s attention is on the two men, but he must sense something because I feel the slight prodding of a spear butt at my side. A small reminder that he’s there.
Donnán and Lir begin to sing.
Within a minute, I entirely forget my situation.