Chapter Fifty-Four
Fifty-four
Faolan
There is no dock on the Unnamed Isle to greet us. It’s too small to warrant it, and too self-secluded to want to welcome any visitors anyway.
We lay anchor as close as we can get to the shoreline without rocks scraping the bottom, sling our bags over our shoulders, and climb down into the water to wade to shore.
The sea is freezing here, I remember that now, salt watered down with runoff from the icy mountains cold enough to steal a man’s breath.
It’s fine by me. I was already done with breathing, anyhow.
I told the wolves and Aisling my story long into the night—from a childhood denied true playthings to the punishments as I grew long in the leg. They got in their jests, to be sure, but…none of them sneered at me. They didn’t mock me or belittle the name my mother gave.
The most that happened was Brona rolling her swollen eyes, a crackling laugh escaping her as she said it explained everything, and then turned with her smile already slipping to toss a joke Nessa’s way.
Saoirse holds my hand as we clamber onshore just as twilight settles in, our breath coming out in pale white puffs.
Her legs are unsteady, eyes half-shut even in the dark.
After she tried to summon the Knowing Sea, all she found was a void: no stars to speak of, no rippling waves.
Not until the end, when she saw it again—the gold sands, blue waters, the whirlpool—just before the scene shattered in her mind.
“There’s a tavern nearby.” I nod toward a copse of thin trees, the leaves already lain on the ground. “And a village. We’ll get a few rooms and—”
“We should go on to the Gan Ainm tonight.”
I stop to look at Brona, a protest sliding between my teeth, but I grind it down. “Why?”
“Because they’re less likely to throw us out.”
I snort. “You don’t know them.”
“I know we look proper pitiful right now.” Brona pulls a face, though even her fire’s starting to fade.
After a second, her expression drops altogether.
“Look, Saoirse’s headaches haven’t gone away since you woke us up last night with screaming, her fever’s coming back, and if they started out as a sect of Clodagh’s, there’s a good chance they’ve got something to heal them both. Right?”
My shoulders start to bunch around my neck. I force them to drop down.
“Aye, there’s a chance. But still—”
Saoirse squeezes my hand. “Delaying it will only make it worse.”
“And,” Lorcan says, his deep voice still thick with grief, “we could all use a bath. You said they swore by them, right?”
I can’t keep the groan trapped in my chest as I hoist my bag higher over my shoulder and pivot directions, to a different path through the trees. “They were bloody militant about it. Morning and night, and always checking behind your ears.”
“Why were your ears so filthy?” Brona asks.
“Never you mind.”
We walk through the woods as gracefully as we can, pure exhaustion nipping at our ankles.
Blood still seeps from some of our wounds.
Saoirse almost takes a spill halfway through, catching herself on a tree with a hard gasp—not from a vision but from the pain in her head.
At last, just as the purples and silver hues of the sky go as dark as squid ink, I spot the torches ahead.
Still, I hesitate, weight on my back leg, one aching arm wrapped around Saoirse’s waist. Her teeth are chattering, but seeing me hesitate, she bites down until they stop.
“You can do this.”
I swear one more time while I still reasonably can, then lead my crew toward the pale fence line, made of downy birch sanded smooth and strung together with leather cords and dried vines.
The ghostly trees make up most of the forest surrounding the Gan Ainm, black and white bark striped in odd patterns, leaves going as red as blood before falling when autumn comes.
Most of them litter the ground now, creating a gruesome-looking path toward those torches and the open gates.
Because of course they don’t have guards. Why would they?
There’s nothing worth stealing here.
Saoirse stays close to my side as we walk past the first buildings: low huts woven of spindly branches, packed tight with clay and mud.
The thatched roofs are wide and tall, meant to keep the heat trapped and the snow from caving them in.
Clothes dry on the line between two of them, woodsmoke and fish scenting the air.
A couple of dogs raise their heads, lips pulled back, but we’re prepared for it.
I throw them a handful of dried meat from the crate of supplies Tavin had stowed on the ship, and carry on.
“They take their meals communally,” I mutter as we get deeper into the village, chatter and the sounds of knives hitting wooden bowls filling the air. “Sunrise, midday, nightfall.”
“I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten our ways, lost one.”
Every bone in my body snaps to attention at the sound of his voice.
I bolt up straighter, automatically stepping in front of Saoirse, as the eldest Gan Ainm comes into the torchlight—but I’m shocked at how…
small the man is. How withered his features, skin flimsy like it might break if he stood under the sun for too long.
The gray tunic he wears is more patches than fabric, a silver chain of prayer charms wound around his waist: just like the ones Saoirse was wearing the night we first met.
I remember him as a wicked creature. An ugly bastard with beady eyes and sharp teeth.
But his smile is easy, if a bit tight, as he takes my measure and slowly shakes his head. “You look as though you’ve climbed through the forge of Mount Iolair.”
“Wildfire,” I spit out. “In the fields of Ashen Flame.”
“Ah.” He lays a hand over his rounded belly, full from whatever they’ve roasted for the night. “Bandia Maira’s anger burns bright even still. What a wonder it must be to witness, two hundred years after she was slain.”
It’s all I can do to choke down my response.
“Right.”
He watches me for a long moment—studying me, really. Likely taking in the rings on my fingers, the gold hoops at my ear. Braids in my hair that have nothing to do with ritual, colors in my coat.
“I see you’ve fully abandoned our ways, lost one.”
“Like you abandoned my mam and da?”
He doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Why are you here?”
I have no fecking idea how to answer that.
Reasons sift through my mind like water: the song about soulstones I only half remember, the imploding Ring of Stars, men attempting to become gods by the power of the Knowing Sea. Before I can pick one of them, try to shape it into something whole, Saoirse steps forward and offers up her palm.
The one stained with a soul bargainer’s mark.
“My name is Saoirse. I am the descendant of Muireal, goddess of the Isle of Lost Souls. I am a—a soulgazer.” She stumbles over the title, but still his eyes go wide. Maybe it’s her words, or maybe it’s the heat rolling off her skin. “And I need your help.”
The eldest Gan Ainm stares at her for a long, silent stretch and then beckons with one hand.
“Come into the light, child.”
She does, letting me go—only stumbling slightly. He takes her hand once she’s near enough, guiding her closer to the torches until he can look into her eyes. What he sees there makes his jaw unhinge slightly, bony fingers closing over hers.
“Gods be praised.”
Seeing that look on his face makes me want to burn this whole place down.
But he lets Saoirse go after that confirmation, pressing his hands together—looking around the forest floor.
“We spoke of the Isle of Lost Souls often but were dismissed. Still, it’s a wonder.
Even our records were expunged of the goddess’s name.
But now you.” His eyes find mine. Narrow. “Lost one, was it you who—”
“I’m the one who found her.”
He smiles. “Using our histories. Our songs.”
“One I picked up in a tavern by the water, actually,” I can’t help but snap, and Saoirse casts me a warning glance. Grimacing, I lower my head. “But…some of the knowledge I did gain here.”
“Then perhaps you aren’t so lost after all.”
I am not yours.
He claps his hands together and starts toward the path. “Come. You must eat with us. Bathe, sleep—whatever you require, Bandia Saoirse.”
Behind my back, Brona snorts. “She gets to have a name?”
“Divine privilege,” I mutter back, but I fall into step, watching Saoirse carefully. Her pace is timid and halting, arm held gingerly at her side. She’s used to disguising her pain—to the point where I want to howl for her, just to make sure she lets it out.
But I let her take the lead even as the muscles of my back ball up—and as I count the huts, one after another, only stopping when I see ours.
But it never was ours, was it?
We didn’t own it. Couldn’t keep it.
Bitterness explodes on my tongue as I turn my back and lead the wolves and Aisling to the fires and the feast.
The Gan Ainm have never been a large number: two thousand at their peak more than a century ago has dwindled to about three hundred members now, give or take.
Silence falls swiftly at our approach, as if someone’s tossed a shadow crane’s feather into one of those fires, but I remember what it was to be in awe of outsiders once.
To see traders pass through before winter for the first time.
“Gan Ainm,” the eldest announces, spreading his arms wide. “A goddess walks among us!”
Saoirse sways where she stands, not quite able to smile, dirty and bloody and pale.
So feckin’ pale.
“For generations, we’ve prayed for their return. Sacrificed daily, kept their stories, held their hearts, and at long last one has returned to us: the goddess of the Isle of Lost Souls.”
Bowls drop to the ground, knives and forks clattering as a couple of screams erupt.
It’s sickening. But so is that beast lurking inside me that slowly lifts its head.
“Bring them food. Water. See to her companions’ needs.” The eldest Gan Ainm glances at me. “Except for you.”
I jerk out of my reverie, glaring. “Why?”
“You know why, lost one.”
“No, I damn well don’t.”
“You abandoned our ways. Cast your parents into despair. You don’t worship the gods.”
“I worship her.”
I tilt my head to Saoirse and watch the eldest Gan Ainm’s face clear. After a long moment, he turns to a woman sitting open-mouthed nearby.
“Summon a healer,” he says, “to tend to their wounds.”
“Her wound. She’s—”
Saoirse falters where she stands, leaning into my side heavily as she shuts her eyes tight. I don’t bother with a thank-you—don’t want to think about what he said. I just take Saoirse into my arms, gritting my teeth past the pain of it, and bolt.
It takes all of five minutes to lay her on the table in a nearby cottage as the healer—an old woman I vaguely recognize—turns Saoirse’s face toward her, then slowly away.
“How long have you had these headaches?”
“Since…” Saoirse falters, then glances at me.
“Feck’s sake, I don’t know how to explain this.” I drive a fist into my hair, then turn on the healer. “Since Maccus, rí of Unbound Earth, painted Eamon’s hammer with her blood and used it to crack a soulstone. He forced her to drink it.”
The healer stares at me with something between concern and bewilderment. “The Omen of the Slaughter? I see.”
I blink hard, my hackles slowly lowering. I forget how normal it is here, with the chanting, the rituals, to accept the other. The harder to believe in this world.
My shoulders sag as I look over at Saoirse, smoothing a pile of sweaty hair from her face. “If all you can do is manage her pain—”
“We’ll do our best. Rest, now, lost one.”
Not bloody likely.