Chapter 3
“Stay here,” Aoife told them.
Eoin followed her. “But we want to know—”
“No,” she said firmly. “Stay.”
They grumbled but obeyed. Aoife closed the door behind her.
Out in the square, villagers were congregating around one man. As Aoife and Cormac approached, a woman was led away, crying. Farmer Gowra was at the back of the group, and Aoife tapped him on the shoulder.
“What’s going on?”
Farmer Gowra turned to her, eyes damp. “It’s Dromdara. It’s… Gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” Cormac asked.
Farmer Gowra shook his head. “The farmers down there refused to send any more food. The empire… well, they…” he was struggling to say it.
“They burnt it to the ground,” another man said. “The entire village.”
“Are you sure?” Cormac asked. “The empire might be spreading rumours. Trying to frighten us.”
“I saw it with my own eyes.” Aoife looked for the source of the voice; it was Ronan, looking downcast, his boots covered in dirt from the long walk.
Aoife clutched Cormac’s arm. “The banshee wails, that’s what they meant.” Her throat tightened.
Bonnie Mineor ran up to the group, her cry cutting through. “Is it true? Did anyone make it out?”
Ronan shook his head. “I didn’t see any survivors.”
Bonnie Mineor screamed, her hands flying to her face.
“But… I was…” Aoife’s hands shook. Cormac put an arm around her. “They can’t… they can’t be gone. I saw… They were fine.”
Cormac pulled her closer, wrapping her in both arms. Angry voices mixed with the sounds of people crying. Time stretched as they stood there, processing what this meant.
“Why would they do this?” she asked into Cormac’s shoulder.
The anger seeped through his embrace. He set his jaw, voice hard. “They want to make sure the rest of us are too afraid to defy them.”
She watched him as he spoke, the muscle in his cheek flickering, the rage he tried to hold in check. It wasn’t only rage, but helplessness. For all his fire, he couldn’t protect anyone.
“I saw an Athraith today,” she said after a moment, stepping out of Cormac’s arms. “I didn’t know what it meant, but maybe it was a warning about Dromdara.”
A look passed over Cormac’s face she couldn’t name. His expression changed, guarded now. “Tell me everything.”
She told him in halting words, her voice catching as she recalled the pitch-black shape of it between the trees, the way it had looked at her. He listened without interrupting, his entire attention fixed on her. When she faltered, he prompted her. “Go on.”
When she finished, he nodded. “Doesn’t sound so terrible,” he said. “If it meant harm, it wouldn’t have let you walk away.”
“I don’t think it meant harm to me,” she said. “It seemed as startled to see me as I was to see it.”
“But you think it was a bad omen?”
Aoife made a gesture encompassing their entire lives. “It wasn’t a good one.”
“I suppose.” His voice dropped. He looked away, kicking a loose stone.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He hesitated, then gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just because two things happen at the same time, it doesn’t mean one caused the other.”
“So you think something worse is coming.”
Cormac shook his head. “No. I don’t know. That’s not…”
Aoife waited. Cormac kicked at the dust. After a moment, he sighed and looked at her. “Athraith aren’t just omens.”
“They’re not?”
“Sometimes they come to find a mate. Maybe it was here to carry you off to the Otherworld.”
Aoife considered this for a while. “Doesn’t sound too bad. The Otherworld might have food.”
Cormac smiled, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “Bring some back for me?”
“I don’t think they allow you to leave.”
“In that case, let’s hope you’re right and it was here to warn you about Dromdara.”
Aoife’s mood sobered again at the mention of Dromdara.
It seemed an awful thing to hope, but she couldn’t bear to think something worse might be on the horizon.
Around them people stood in knots, talking in low voices, grieving together.
Then the clatter of boots cut through the murmur, sharp against the stone.
A group of soldiers marched into the square, steel glinting at their belts. One barked in clipped Eldrossi. “Clear the square!”
He wasn’t dressed like the others. His coat was heavier, trimmed with braiding at the shoulders, a red sash drawn tight across his chest. A curved sabre hung at his side, where the others carried rifles or plain swords.
If his dress was not enough, the way the soldiers rushed to obey made it clear he was their captain.
The villagers startled. Many bolted at once. Others, like Cormac, stood defiant.
A soldier shoved a man hard enough that he stumbled and fell. Aoife tensed, taking half a step forward to help before Cormac caught her arm and pulled her behind him.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, nostrils flaring as he drew in a sharp breath.
The captain strode towards him, towering a head over Cormac and carrying a good deal more weight. “You’re not allowed to assemble,” he snapped.
“We’re not assembling,” Cormac shot back. “We’re grieving.”
“Then grieve elsewhere.” The captain’s voice was icy. He jerked his chin at his men.
The soldiers surged forward, shoving and dragging people away.
Martan, the village’s oldest inhabitant, straightened as best he could and fixed the captain with milky eyes.
“The Sheedar saw what you did in Dromdara,” he said. “And they’ll see this too.”
A soldier shoved Martan, and he went down hard. “Your spirits will have to get past my boots first.” A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the gathered soldiers.
“Save your fairy-stories, old man,” the captain shouted.
Aoife knelt to help him as the soldier stepped away. “Martan, please. They don’t fear the Sheedar. They don’t even believe in them. You’ll only draw their anger.”
He gave her a thin, bitter smile. “Someone has to speak the truth, child.”
As she helped Martan to his feet, the soldiers surrounding them moved to clear the square. One dragged a woman by the arm. Another reached for the children huddled beside the well, pulling at their hair when they refused to move.
Before Aoife could react, Cormac was already there. He caught the soldier’s wrist, shoving him away with more courage than sense. “Leave them!” he barked. The movement earned him a rifle-butt to the ribs. He doubled over.
Aoife darted in, hauling the two children clear. “Go!” she urged, pushing them towards the lane. When she turned, the soldier was raising his weapon to strike again.
“Don’t,” she shouted, and to her surprise, the soldier stopped.
He turned his attention to her. “You want to take the beating in his place? Your customs allow for that, right?”
He looked from her to Cormac. The soldier was right. The law of surety meant anyone could volunteer to receive punishment on some else’s behalf. But it was intended for judgement handed down by the magistrate, not indiscriminate beatings. She didn’t answer. Cormac glared daggers at him.
“We can have fun thinking of other ways for you to take the punishment.” The soldier looked her up and down.
“Don’t you touch her,” Cormac yelled, leaping at him.
The soldier struck him with the rifle again, this time in the side of the head.
Cormac hit the ground hard. The soldier drew back his weapon, but before the blow could fall, one of the younger soldiers stepped in, his broad shoulders blocking the way.
His hand shot out and caught his comrade’s arm.
They stared at each other a moment, then the younger soldier, his dark hair tied back, turned to Cormac.
“Go home.” His voice was low but firm, the Morran lilt plain in his words.
Cormac straightened, breath ragged, one arm pressed to his ribs. Aoife darted to his side.
“Cormac—”
“I’m fine.” He grimaced, but forced a grin.
She slipped an arm around his waist as they backed away from the soldiers.
As they left the square, they passed a soldier standing apart from the others, dark-haired and watchful.
Braiding at his shoulder, simpler than the captain’s, marked him as an officer.
His eyes were the washed-out grey distinct to Inis Morra, and they were fixed on the crowd, too steady for a man feigning indifference.
He didn’t join in, but he didn’t stop what was happening either.
When they were far enough away, Aoife removed her arm from his waist.
“You should sit,” she said.
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine by morning.”
“Stop being stubborn and let me look.”
He eased himself down onto the bench and let her examine his head. There was a line of blood running down his cheek and a bump forming already. Aoife shook her head as she pulled out the bandage and paste left over from Jory’s.
“Good thing you have a hard head.”
He didn’t move as she dabbed the paste onto the wound.
“You should be more careful.”
“Why bother when I have the best healer in all of Briartha looking out for me?”
“Don’t antagonise them.”
“I don’t try to antagonise them.” He was right. He’d stepped in to stop the soldier hurting the children. She’d been about to do the same. Yet it was Cormac who got hurt.
“Shirt.”
Cormac lifted his shirt without complaint.
“Do you ever think…” Cormac stopped, searching for the right word. “Maybe we ought to be antagonising them?”
Aoife looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Don’t let anyone hear you talking like that.”
“I mean it.” Cormac dropped his voice low. “They steal our food, murder our people, and we just stand here and take it.”
“What do you suggest we do? They have swords and rifles.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. But we have to do something.”
Aoife tested the first rib with gentle pressure. Nothing shifted, a good sign.
“And end up like the people in Dromdara and Dún Maebh? I can’t heal you if you’re dead.”
As she pressed the next rib, he winced.
“Sorry.” She paused, afraid of hurting him again. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
“All right. But only cause it’s you asking.”
He looked up at her with a smile, his eyes soft, and Aoife skipped a breath. She pulled her hands away. “You’ll live.”