I acknowledge her and start at a run through the fog, down a gentle slope and following the stream. Tara, Miach, Fearghus, and the bodies quickly vanish into the white. I focus on the pulse. Just like before, there’s a physicality to it, something I can mark in space despite it not correlating to any particular sense. I move like that for another two minutes before angling to the right. Crest a short rise at a crouch.
Tara was right; the fog has started to clear here and now only a thin layer coats the hilltops. There’s a valley below still shrouded in drifting cloud, but my eyes are drawn across it, to the far incline perhaps three hundred feet away. The halo of a dying campfire, and a lone man with a horse, cutting a tall shadow through the white next to it.
He pauses, scans in my direction but doesn’t see me. Mounts and gallops off, white cloak flaring behind him, over the far rise and into the tendrils of the night.
I straighten. Stare after him. Heart thundering as my sense of the pulse recedes and rapidly fades, too fast to chase.
The distance was too great to be certain, far too great to properly make out his features in the hazy dim. But there was something. His dark hair and dark skin and tall, strong build. The familiar figure he cut as he looked around, as he leapt astride the horse. A recognition painfully faint, now. A memory’s ghost.
And yet impossible to mistake. Even as I stand there, breath short and disbelieving, I cannot help but know it.
He reminded me exactly of my father.
XLV
TARA LOOKS UP EXPECTANTLY AS I EMERGE FROM THEmists. Frowns when she sees my expression.
“There was someone.” I answer her unasked question. “White cloak. He rode off on a horse before I could get close enough to see much.”
She can see there’s more to it, but she’s nothing if not practical. Miach is binding Fearghus’s wound. Fearghus is forcing soft laughter through clenched teeth. It’s a bad injury, if not life-threatening, but he’s not the type to show it. None of this group are.
Tara considers, then nods sharply. “If he is with Ruarc, he will not have had the chance to speak with those we fought,” she decides swiftly, taking in the state of our band. Even excluding Fearghus, we are battered from our attack. “But he may come back with others to look for them. We cannot stay here, nor can we make it to Loch Traenala before dawn. We must camp nearby. Rest and return to the crannog tomorrow.” She turns to Miach. “How bad are your injuries?”
He shrugs. “I can make it back tonight,” he says, seeing where she’s going.
“Let Pádraig know what has happened, and that we are alright.”
Miach gives us a parting nod of encouragement, and lopes into the mists.
The rest of us travel slowly and silently for an hour, half supporting and half carrying a grumbling Fearghus, making sure to cover any traces of our passage where possible. We keep to stony ground. Wade through streams. Avoid soft ground at all costs.
“This will do.” Tara makes the decision. We’re in a small hollow; between the dip in the ground and the mists, any fire we make should be thoroughly concealed to all but the closest enemy.
Conor makes to protest, but sees the greyish tinge to Fearghus’s face and says nothing. Soon enough a small fire crackles, its warmth a welcome respite. We arrange ourselves around it. It’s not long before Fearghus is asleep.
There’s soft, idle conversation for a while, and then Tara stirs. “What did you really see out there, Leathf hear?”
I’ve been expecting the question, known it was coming since I first got back.Much of the past hour has been spent deciding how to respond. I don’t want to talk about it. But they know something spooked me, and a lie feels unnecessary. “My father. Or, a man who reminded me very strongly of him.” I release the second part to the air, an admission as much to myself as to them. “I was a long way away. I couldn’t see his face properly. It was a man in a druid’s cloak. Just a man who triggered a memory.” A trick of the dim and the fog. The more I think about it, the more it is the only explanation. “He’s the one I could sense, though. Him being nearby is what warned me, at Loch Traenala.”
“The … feeling. It is gone now?” Seanna examines me curiously. Intrigued, I think, more than doubtful.
“Yes. It disappeared when he rode off.”
Tara considers. “Not likely with Ruarc, then.”
“At least not with the scouting party,” I agree. It wouldn’t make sense for the druid to travel so close but not with them, otherwise. “He must have been watching them.”
There’s a pause as Tara, Conor, and Seanna take it in. They all look at me. Curiosity in their eyes more than disbelief.
“You are certain it was not your father.” It’s Seanna. A statement with another question behind it.
I hesitate, considering whether or not to answer.
“He was executed five years ago.”
Silence again. A long one. Then Tara leans forward. “Justly?” It’s not her usual brusque tone. I think she already knows the answer.
“No.” The word catches in my throat. “No. His name was Cristoval, King of Suus. He was murdered by his enemies. While I fled.” I watch the fire. The way its small flames lick yellow and orange along the wood. It’s all I can see. I open my mouth, then shut it again. Brow furrowing. Throat closing, a pressure behind my eyes.
