XLVII
I BRUSH EVER-LENGTHENING HAIR FROM MY FACE, GAZing across the lake toward the rising sun. Barely past dawn, the mist not yet burned away. The air bites. Winter approaches.
I run the gold coin along my fingers, then flick it into the water. It makes the smallest of splashes before sinking from view.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you make an offering to the Dia Domhain before, Leathfhear.”
I start at Conor’s voice behind me, then glare around at him. “Make some noise when you move, man.”
“I could have been Fearghus and you wouldn’t have heard me.” He grins as he stands beside me. Similar in size and build to me, though my missing arm makes us cut conspicuously different figures. “Finally realised that it’s a good thing to have the gods pleased with you?”
“Can’t hurt.” I’m dismissive, a little embarrassed, even with my friend. “Given the news that may come today.”
“Hm.” Conor examines me, then shrugs and flicks a coin of his own to the deep. We watch the ripples. “Can’t hurt,” he repeats.
We stand like that for a while, scanning the eastern hill line for movement. Seanna joins us. Then Miach. Then Fearghus, finally no longer limping from his wound. They each toss an offering, and watch in silence.
“There.” Miach spots it first, pointing at the motion on the horizon. Barely more than a black dot shifting through the still-lifting haze, but as soon as I see it I know it’s a figure cresting the rise. Alone, as expected.
He draws closer, and his white cloak resolves against the green of the hill.
“I’ll tell Tara.” I tear my eyes from the sight and head along the causeway.
Tara, as expected, is already training with her spear. She pretends not to care that the druid’s visit is today, but I know she is as anxious as the others. Perhaps even more so. For all her claims of wanting to be here, this kingdom means more to her than anyone.
She stops as I approach. “He’s here?”
“Five minutes.”
She pauses, as if considering just resuming her exercises. Then she nods brusquely. Steam rising from her sweating body. “Alright.” We start back to the crannog. “You have your questions ready?”
“I do.”
Tara and I have continued to develop a camaraderie, since our battle together. Part of it has undoubtedly sprung from that shared experience. Part, I suspect too, has been my attitude since. I was stung by her accusations that night, without malice though they were. Mainly because I knew she was right.
So over the past two months, I have worked as hard at improving as anything I have in my life.
I rise before any of the others to practice my forms in solitude on the misty, torchlit banks of the lake. Drilling again, and again, and again in constant perfect repetition, forcing muscles to learn what the mind already knows. Every motion needs to be an instinct, in a fight. Even a breath’s delay will mean death.
And nothing has reinforced that truth more than my hours of training with Tara herself.
Dawn and dusk, we practice. Each day. At my insistence and though she was reluctant at first, she has not shied away from the task of improving me. In fact, as a teacher she is in so many ways a younger Lanistia that sometimes I find myself smirking at the similarities. Usually only to find myself hitting the dirt with fresh and painful welts moments after.
But it’s different, too. Less anger driving Tara’s brusqueness and unforgiving lessons. Maybe it’s being closer in age, or maybe it’s just her appreciation of my newfound dedication. But there’s a rapport there, now. A friendship.
“Do you think it will be war?” I ask it quietly as we head down the rolling hill, dew wetting our boots.
“If it is not, I expect we will be Called to prepare for it regardless.”
I keep my anxiety from my face, but she still senses something.
“I will tell them of your dedication, these past months,” she assures me. “Thedraoiwill not refuse you.”
“But you still would.”
She smiles. Just slightly. “We have talked and I have chosen, Leathf hear.”
We join the others—including Pádraig, now, who looks as relaxed as always despite the others’ pensive faces—at the causeway entrance to greet the druid. I immediately recognise the white-cloaked man, shaggy grey-streaked blond hairand blue eyes, face reddened by the sun. Lir uses his rowan staff as a walking stick, clearly weary from his journey.
