“You were not a warrior five years ago,” says Conor suddenly. I finally look over at him, see the meaningfulness of the statement to him. Sense the others nodding.
“You would not have had thenasceannfive years ago, either,” adds Seanna.
The lingering burst of sorrow obfuscates her meaning for a few seconds. “I don’t know how to use thenasceann,” I say slowly. Wondering if I’ve misunderstood.
“You do. I saw it too,” says Conor quietly.
I stare around at them. Not sure what to say. I haven’t been through the Aurora Columnae. Don’t have anyone ceding to me. “Are you certain?”
Conor touches his eyes. Nods a calm, unyielding confirmation to me.
Tara is frowning, looking as disbelieving as I’m sure I do, though she doesn’t doubt her fellow warriors’ word. “You have been to Fornax?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what that is.”
The furrows in her brow deepen and her gaze again goes to my weapon. “This strange sense that warned you, earlier. Do you ever get it from anything else?”
“My spear, sometimes. And yours,” I admit.
“Then you arenasceann. Though I have never heard of anyone sensing another’s power from so far away.” She sounds nonplussed. “The tale of your accusing Gallchobhar, before his banishment. It is true, then?”
“It is.” I frown at her. “You thought it wasn’t?”
“I thought Lir must have convinced you to lie.” Unsurprising reluctance in the admission, and I can see the others shifting uncomfortably at the suggestion that a druid might deceive anyone. “Many would do far worse for the chance to be here.”
“Why would Lir do that?”
“Because he was at odds with Gallchobhar being placed at my father’s right hand. I heard him arguing against his becoming Champion, while I was recovering. But Donnán insisted that Gallchobhar had earned it by saving me.”
I look at her. “You were injured in the same attack?”
“I was the reason for the attack.” She traces the ugly scar on her cheek. “Near three years ago. They snuck in. Killed Artán before the alarm was raised, came into my room, and cut my birthright away. And then Gallchobhar killed them all.” The others are listening just as intently as I am, I realise. They’ve been with Tara for years and not heard this story. But perhaps tonight—our first battle, our first kills, blood still drying on our clothes and skin—is bringing it out of her. “They had no markings, no torcs. My father was sure it was Fiachra but there was no proof, and so thedraoidid not see it as cause for war.”
I grimace at that. My understanding of the druids’ power here is still imperfect, but I know that no one wants to go to war without their blessing. “A lot of people were angry, when I picked this spear to fight Gallchobhar,” I observe quietly.
“Anasceann’s weapon is not buried with them.” Seanna supplies the information. “So it can one day be claimed by a worthy successor.”
“Oh.” I squeeze my eyes shut against a sudden headache. “A worthy successor. To your father’s Champion.” I waggle my stump of an arm in irritation. “No gods-damned wonder everyone was so angry.”
Faint amusement, from Tara. “I imagine they were. Gallchobhar must never have claimed it for himself. Or perhaps he tried in secret, and it rejected him. Either way, once he was Champion, none in Caer Áras would have dared dishonour him by touching it.”
“Reject him?” I examine the weapon in my hand. “How could it do that?”
Tara hesitates. I can see she wants to answer, or at least knows something. But she shakes her head. “A question only thedraoican answer.”
“There are none of those around.” I still don’t really want to know, want no part in even touching Will. But if I’m somehow using it despite not being ceded to—if that strange battle sense, these pulses I’ve been feeling, are some unknown application of it—then I need to understand what’s going on.
“One will come for Samhain, in a couple of months. To tell us news of the outside world, and to let us know if we are Called.”
“Called.” The name for when warriors are needed by their king. My curiosity about thenasceannbriefly dies. “Do you think that likely?”
“You know the answer as well as I. Úrthuile is an old man. It is only a matter of time.” She rubs at some of the blood on her arm. Looks around at us, comes to a decision. “And when it is time, I will welcome it. When I was given my scar, my father did not intend to renounce my claim, but it happened not long after Ruarc and Fiachra had first made their deal, and he had voiced his disapproval of it only months earlier. He had the choice of admitting that the Old Ways no longer had to be heeded—further weakening thedraoiwho stood in opposition to Ruarc—or sending me away.” She grimaces. “In the end, I did not give him a choice. I have always been quick with a weapon. I had already visited Fornax and been taught thenasceann. I volunteered to come here, because there was never a path that did not lead to war, after that.”
There’s a hush as she finishes, and I close my eyes as I understand the implications. The others have already explained to me that according to the Old Ways, only the unblemished—the physically perfect—may rule, here. Perhaps these people’s deep sense of honour is meant to preclude such situations, but Tara’s account is exactly why I thought, and still think, it is one of their most unsound customs.
“The men who attacked. They never intended to kill you.”
“No.”
