Brennen
Garrick and I have hardly spoken the past day and a half as we rode.
Not that we could, really. We’ve kept a breakneck speed.
It had been clear Cailleach intended our arrival at Iomallrùin to be sooner rather than later, and by the time we hopped off our horses to sleep beneath the stars, we'd both been too exhausted to carry on much of a conversation.
Though I can't help but wonder if Garrick’s lack of talking is because he's as exhausted as I am or because he doesn't want to know anything he might have to report back to the Cutter.
Dome-shaped cottages appear in the distance, their fat roofs so different from the angular ones generally found in the Cutter’s domain. The town is rather small, fourteen or so houses at most.
“A village of thirty people. How threatening.” He sighs. “At least it won't take us long to find if there are any ceatharnaich,” Garrick jokes, taking in the village.
“Do you think there are?” I ask, wondering if Garrick is thinking the same thing I am.
“I'd be surprised," he says, and I nod. Normally, we find rebel groups in larger towns where there are more voices to stoke the flames of anger against the Fates. The smaller villages are generally too busy trying to survive to focus on anything else.
I hope we're right. The last thing I want is to have to dispatch of ceatharnaich at the moment, especially when I'm fairly certain the Cutter is wondering if I'm one myself.
The horses’ hooves clop as they transition from walking on grass to stone.
A woman pops her head out the window at the noise, the color leaching from her cheeks.
My stomach drops. It’s not a good sign; though, it's not out of the ordinary for those who don't often see soldiers to be afraid of us. At least, I hope that's all it is.
“This looks like as good a place as any to start,” he says, and I nod.
“May as well.”
We hop off our horses, tying them to a post, and knock on the door. A young boy answers, no older than six. His eyes sparkle with excitement.
“Thomas!” he yells over his shoulder. “See! I wasn't lying, there really are Dìdeanair here!” An older boy, maybe ten, runs up behind him, eyes wide.
“Aye, there are,” Garrick says, ducking his head in a bow. The boy kicks his heels together, doing the same. The woman I assumed to be their mother rushes up behind them, using a hand towel to usher them away from the door.
“All right, give them space,” she says. The boys scramble away, and she lets out a huff. “Children, eh? Now, how can I help you two fine men?” she asks. “Are you hungry?”
“Well, since you mentioned it—” I interrupt Garrick’s sentence with a jab to the ribs.
The woman seems nervous, but no more so than would be reasonable when a soldier unexpectedly shows up at your door, let alone two.
“We've been sent by the Cutter," I say, skipping straight to the point. I want to get this over with and get back to my family. “It seems her sister believes there may be some who reside here who are part of ceatharnaich groups.”
The woman’s eyes open wide, and she stiffens. “Here? Why, that's absurd,” she says, placing a trembling hand over her heart. Her fear seems real, and not because she's hiding something. There’s truth to her words, and she’s afraid of being falsely accused. Or at least, I hope.
Garrick nods to me in agreement, and I let out a breath.
“Thank you for your time," I say, bowing. We continue on in the same fashion, going door to door, and the woman’s shock and worry ring true. At every house, I breathe a little easier. These people seem truly shocked by the accusation, and my intuition tells me to believe them. Maybe we’ll escape this day unscathed, without having to dispatch of any traitors.
I knock on the final door, and it opens immediately, as if the residents inside have been waiting. A man and his wife stand together, holding hands.
“How can we help you?” the man asks.
“We've been sent by the Cutter to discern if there are any rebel groups residing here,” Garrick says, meeting his eyes. “Do you know of any?” Both the man and woman shake their heads.
“No. I've not even heard of rumblings. Not a single word.” I hold my breath for a long moment, wishing I still had my dàn of truth, and Garrick smiles.
“Thank you for your time,” Garrick says, and my shoulders fall in relief.
Just as we turn, a young man steps out from the back, stiffening when he sees us.
His eyes go wide, but that’s not what catches my attention.
It's the anger that floods his face the moment he sees us.
The hatred in his eyes as he takes in our uniforms. He grits his teeth, his hands clenching into fists.
Garrick doesn't seem to miss it, either, his hand subtly shifting toward his sword, and I hold my breath. The boy is young, maybe sixteen. Likely too wee to be formally involved with any ceatharnaich, and despite my duty, I find I dinnae want to question him. Not when dread is coiling like a snake in my stomach. Have I not committed treason myself by questioning the Cutter? By not reporting Harold’s journal?
Why should this boy be punished for his thoughts, if I havenae been? My heart rate picks up.
I study my friend out of the corner of my eye, watching as he appraises the boy from head to toe, and I hold my breath.
“Right then,” Garrick says, lowering his hand. “Thank you for your time.”
His shoulders are stiff as he turns, leading us back to our horses. My head spins as I follow behind him, remaining silent. What just happened? Had he, like me, been unable to fathom questioning the young man and finding him guilty? He’s only begun to experience life.
At least for today, the boy will live. I just have to hope he’s not the match that will one day ignite a rebellion that will burn this kingdom to the ground.