Chapter LIV
LIV
I WAS THIRTEEN WHEN, MY PARENTS AWAY ON THE MAIN land, I decided I was ready to sit in on my first diplomatic meeting with the Catenan Republic.
I had indicated my interest to my father some time previously, and he had approved.
So I went to the men leading the negotiations and swore that I would be silent, and attentive, and not interfere in any way.
They did not believe me.
“I don’t understand,” I told my father with embarrassed fury when he returned. “Why wouldn’t they let me be in there? I only wanted to watch!”
“I know,” he said softly. “I know because I am your father, and I know you as well as anyone. But you have always been quick to anger, Diago, and just because what you told them was true does not erase your past. Words sound the same coming from the honest and the deceiving, the informed and the deceived. They matter—never think otherwise—but most of the time, people need to be shown a truth before they will truly believe it.”
I never got another chance to be part of one of those meetings. Six months later, the Hierarchy invaded.
The bonfires along the shore of Loch Traenala crackle as the last of the sky’s light dies, bringing even more of the encroaching chill that heralds the coming winter.
The crannog lies empty across the rippling, slurping waters of the lake.
Lir performed the solemn rites of the evening as the sun slipped below the horizon, and now everyone is gathered to observe this final one.
A test in name only; Tara and Pádraig have been discussing the outcome of the day for months.
But an important moment. A moment where we show that we are not just our words.
“Leathf hear.” Pádraig calls out my name. Starting at the last, the least, the weakest. It’s not meant as a slight but rather as a build-up, to show that not all can be successful before the true warriors are Called.
I step forward. Surrounded by a loose circle, Pádraig and Lir watching side by side. For a heartbeat, I remember the Amotus fight against Ianix at the Academy. This is a smaller space but has none of the enclosed menace of that day.
“Who will you prove yourself against?” Pádraig asks it loudly and firmly, no sense that this is really all for show.
Everyone expects me to call Conor, maybe Miach. To give a fair showing before I lose and then bow out gracefully. There would be no shame in doing so.
But that won’t be nearly enough. Even beating them wouldn’t be enough. Not for Tara, not for Pádraig. They think I should be going with Lir. Pursuing answers. Doing what King Rónán wants of me.
And maybe they are right, but it’s not what I want. I am not whole as I once was, but they are better with me than without me—I have proven that much. And I will not let them go off to risk their lives so that I can be a piece on someone else’s board.
I grip my spear. “I will fight Tara.”
I see Conor look at Miach, the other boy shrugging. Conor shrugs back and catches my eye. Raises an eyebrow. I shrug as well. He grins.
“Very well.” Pádraig betrays no surprise. Tara is watching me quizzically as she moves into the circle. Trying to figure out what I’m doing. She knows I can’t beat her. And she knows that a loss to her will convince neither her nor Pádraig that I should be chosen.
But it’s as she said. My skill isn’t what she’s worried about.
We take our positions. My spear feels warm, pulses faintly in my head as it often does. Imbued, I’ve increasingly suspected, though I still don’t understand how. The others surround us, not tightly, but enough to form a clear edge to our contest. Not that there are any strict boundaries.
Tara may not understand my plan, here, but in many ways it doesn’t matter to her.
She attacks. Hard and fast. Spear whirling and jabbing, meeting mine with clack after sharp clack, the sound echoing away across the water and rolling green hills beyond.
I defend. Competently. Well, even. I’m outmatched, but that doesn’t mean I’m helpless anymore. Tara will have to earn this victory.
The red-haired girl with the torc glinting around her neck isn’t fazed by her lack of progress as we break briefly. Patient and methodical as she stalks around me. She knows she’s better. She knows she will win eventually.
I match her stride, circle with her, content to simply defend at this point. I know what she knows. If I attack, I will only open myself up to a quicker defeat.
Another blur as she darts forward; I mark her feint but not the second. Her spear sweeps beneath me. Catches the back of my left foot. I go down.
She steps back, disappointed as she waits for me to concede.
I roll to my feet, and set myself again.
She frowns at me. “You lost, Leathfhear.”
“You have determined this from one fall?” I spin my spear. Pointlessly showy.
Her brow furrows, but she motions indifferently and comes at me again.
As calm and smooth and quick as she was before.
The frenetic clack of our clashing spears echoes again into the dark.
I backpedal, forcing the surrounding wall of people to give way.
Countless hours of practice means my balance is rock-solid, my instincts honed and body well adapted to my lack of an arm.
But she’s just too quick. Too skilled. Too good.
Thirty seconds later, my spear is falling from numb fingers after an impossibly precise hit. I roll back, unarmed, as Tara comes to a stop with my spear at her feet. “You are defeated.”
“I am disarmed,” I correct her pointedly. Still on the balls of my feet. I’ve tried making a joke about that before, but the translation doesn’t really work.
Her spear whips out, whistling by my head; I jerked back but I’m fairly sure she could have hit me if she’d wanted to. “Concede.”
I charge forward, dive at my spear only to get kicked hard in the stomach.
I roll and grab at it through the pain, but suddenly Tara has me.
Sole arm twisted behind my back. “I will break your finger.” The pressure of her grip increases to a near unbearable level.
Her face is close to mine. I feel her breath.
I meet her blue eyes. She is beautiful. Fierce and passionate in the orange, flickering bonfire’s light. It’s not that I’ve never noticed. But for whatever reason, it strikes me now. Really registers. “Then break it.”
She does.
My mind doesn’t process it properly for a second, and then I bellow my pain. My finger bent at an unnatural angle. She’s released her grip on me, standing back as I fall to my knees.
“Concede.”
My arm is shaking. It doesn’t matter. It is six weeks back to Caer áras. Broken bones will heal.
I grit my teeth, and pull the digit back into place with a roar.
Crawl over to my spear and pick it up. Try not to cry out as my finger refuses to join the rest of them in wrapping around its haft.
I know what I want. I could spend the rest of my life chasing the ghosts of my past. The mysteries of what has happened to me.
But I have a real life, here. Now. With these people.
I am not going to let go of that.
“No.”
And something changes.
It slithers through my body. A sense of connection to my spear, of being completely in tune with it for the first time. I calm. Everything becomes clear, and bright, and sharp.
The pain fades.
Get up.
It’s a sense rather than words. An echoing, heartbeat impression of what I need to do. I obey.
Straighten. Set feet.
I do it.
She is coming. Overhead strike.
The realisation is in my head before I recognise what Tara is doing. Tara’s spear comes down in an arc and my own twirls in my hand. Light, almost moving on its own, my broken finger an irrelevance. Not an extension of my body. Part of me. Truly part of me.
I meet her blow one-handed, and my spear does not waver, and I do not feel the shock of the impact shiver as I should.
Good.
I look up into her eyes, and see her disbelief.
Take advantage.
I flick her haft away, unfurl the spear from my defensive stance, and strike.
It all seems so easy, now. So simple. Having one arm is no real disadvantage. The weapon does what I command it to. Light enough to move where I want it, when I want it. Strong enough to absorb any attack without effort. The impressions in my head flicker, and I heed them. Tara backs away.
She snarls, and her eyes bleed to black. I know her. I know why. She is afraid, now. Afraid that here, on this very last stage, she will falter.
And then the fight truly begins.
Our movements are an impossible dance. Too quick and graceful for any normal warrior, no matter how many years of training they have had.
Left sweep counter. My skills alone, advanced though they have, would never have been enough to hold her off for more than a few seconds without the impressions in my head.
But they are there, and I do. Duck push step back.
She is faster than me by a fraction, but I survive for five seconds.
Ten. Twenty. Block left block right block low.
She attacks and attacks and attacks. Doesn’t stop.
Flows on from one strike to the next to the next without ever pausing for breath.
I cannot say what the others around us are doing or thinking.
Our spears are a blur. There is only the fight.
Then her haft finds my wrist. Barely more than a brush but it is enough to throw my next movement off a hair. She sees it, somehow. Changes her stance and reacts with inhuman speed.
The air rushes from my lungs and I am tumbling, the force of the impact blasting me backward. I turn the fall into a roll, skidding on my knees along the grass and preparing myself to spring back again.
She will listen now.
My muscles are bunched, my vision edged with red, my breathing too fast. I don’t want to risk it. But I’m sure. It takes all I can to relax. To breathe. To drop the spear.
“I concede.”