“To some. Like Tara. When they are ready,” says Conor eventually.
“We think,” adds Fearghus.
“They don’t exactly discuss it with us,” adds Seanna.
“But you do not need thenasceannto be a warrior.” Conor’s mistaken my pensiveness for brooding as he slaps me on the back. “The rest of us have been here for many years, and each have had broken arms many times. We have all been through practice one-handed, which is why we know the techniques so well.”
“Some better than others.” Fearghus chuckles. “I swear Conor has had more experience fighting one-handed than two. Remember that year when the frost killed all the berries, and he kept ruining the hunt because he couldn’t throw straight?”
Seanna and Miach nod solemnly as Conor leans over to slap Fearghus on the side of the head, but the bigger boy leans away, grinning.
“What about you, Leathf hear? It is clear you have already had some training,” says Conor eventually, giving up his half-hearted attack with a disgusted wave.
“Some. Not as much as all of you. And having two arms helped,” I say, drawing smiles at the light jest at my own expense.
“What was your homeland like?” asks Seanna.
I hesitate. “It is a place best forgotten.”
I say it simply, conveying the truth of the statement to them. All four watch me, and then nod. Accepting my reluctance to talk about it, my desire to leave that past behind.
I cannot describe how grateful I am to them for that simple understanding.
Water laps and timber creaks beneath us as the conversation moves on; we chat and eat and laugh, companionable in the last of the day’s meagre warmth. I’m surprised again by the ease at which this group has accepted my presence, welcomed me into their conversations and jokes with such natural, guileless effortlessness. Getting to know Conor on the way here undoubtedly helped; he was returning to Loch Traenala from a family visit and though idle moments were few during the journey, we struck up enough of a rapport for him to enthusiastically introduce me to the others when we arrived. Even if I did still receive plenty of openly dubious looks at my arm, my days at the Academy had me braced for an entirely different reception.
That’s not to say that there aren’t instances of isolation or conflict, here and there. Fearghus is brash and full of himself, Seanna is snippy and easily offended, Tara is standoffish, and Miach is quiet. They are an extraordinarily tight-knit group, closer to a family than friends, and I am still a newcomer. They have inside jokes and a way of talking among themselves that is sometimes closer to code than conversation.
And yet there is camaraderie more than competition; victories are applauded, the vanquished exhorted to improve rather than mocked or disdained. When there is discord it is always of a simple kind, resolved by shouts or occasionally fists, but then followed by laughter and mead at the end of the day. It’s not that everyone likes one another. But they do care for one another.
I like it. I like it a lot more than I expected to.
Which is a shame.
The trip here, and my burgeoning understanding of the language, allowed Neasa to explain Loch Traenala properly. My initial understanding of it being a school wasn’t far off, even if the education here is almost entirely focused on warfare. Its purpose, though, is for the students to become warbands. Elite warriors that mesh perfectly with one another on the battlefield.
And I have no desire to fight in a war I don’t understand, or for a king I do not know.
I have seen what a life without fear can be like, now.
The meal is almost over and the light almost gone, the purples and reds above the silhouetted hills echoed in the water, when there are footsteps along the causeway and I look up to see Tara lighting the torches along the way. She usually eats with us as well, though rarely says a word. The conversation’s felt easier, much more free, for her absence tonight.
Still, I direct a smile at her. Undeniably curious to find out more about thisnasceann, which seems to be what they call Will, here. “You were very impressive today, Tara.”
She continues her task, not glancing in my direction. “You are meant to be patrolling with Rian, Leathfhear. He has been waiting for at least fifteen minutes.”
“Ah.” I scramble to my feet. I hadn’t forgotten. There’s no question of my asking to leave Loch Traenala; aside from ostensibly slapping away the honour done to me by King Rónán, the school’s current position is a closely guarded secret, and I would be forced to stay anyway. But I am done with fighting. If the only way to find my way back to Gráinne, Onchú, and the children is to disappoint—to be seen as lazy and unreliable, as well as crippled—then I will do it. I have done worse. I have suffered far greater indignities.
Still, I can’t help but feel a genuine flush of embarrassment as I fetch my spear and hurry down the causeway. Most of the students here have been training since they were twelve. And they are not the privileged—they are thebest. The trials to attend are held in Caer Áras once every two years, and only the most gifted get to come. And then when they are here, theywork.
It’s a strange shadow of the Academy: so much more narrow in its focus, but so much more true to its spirit. Which is why, while I do not enjoy being beaten in sparring—even when I try—I activelyhatediminishing their excellence with deliberate apathy like this.
Rian is sitting on a tree stump by the shore; when he sees me he snatches up a torch from the nearby fire and gestures brusquely for me to follow. He’s fourteen, large for his age, not old enough to patrol alone but just old enough to think himself capable. The fact I’m late won’t have helped his chafing at needing a cripple’s presence.
We set out mostly without talking, only the occasional murmured observation between us. That suits me fine, already finding myself weary despite the faint light holding on to the western sky. My sleep patterns are still adjusting from the voyage over, where I was often assigned night watch and slept well into the morning’s travels, finally breaking the rigid habit I once cultivated under Lanistia’s regiment. Returning to it after so many weeks has been harder than I expected.
“They say you fought Gallchobhar,” Rian says suddenly. “That you revealed his treachery. Is that why you’re here?”
I blink at the abrupt question, brought on by nothing in particular that I can see. “‘Fought’ is an exaggeration. But yes. That is what I was told.” Still no idea what to make of that strange outburst. Some nights I wake to echoes of rage in my head.Traitor.Murderer. I would be lying to say it sits comfortably.
