LIV
I WAS THIRTEEN WHEN, MY PARENTS AWAY ON THE MAINland, I decided I was ready to sit in on my first diplomatic meeting with the Catenan Republic. I had indicated my interest to my father some time previously, and he had approved. So I went to the men leading the negotiations and swore that I would be silent, and attentive, and not interfere in any way.
They did not believe me.
“I don’t understand,” I told my father with embarrassed fury when he returned. “Why wouldn’t they let me be in there? I only wanted towatch!”
“I know,” he said softly. “I know because I am your father, and I know you as well as anyone. But you have always been quick to anger, Diago, and just because what you told them was true does not erase your past. Words sound the same coming from the honest and the deceiving, the informed and the deceived. They matter—never think otherwise—but most of the time, people need to be shown a truth before they will truly believe it.”
I never got another chance to be part of one of those meetings. Six months later, the Hierarchy invaded.
The bonfires along the shore of Loch Traenala crackle as the last of the sky’s light dies, bringing even more of the encroaching chill that heralds the coming winter. The crannog lies empty across the rippling, slurping waters of the lake. Lir performed the solemn rites of the evening as the sun slipped below the horizon, and now everyone is gathered to observe this final one. A test in name only; Tara and Pádraig have been discussing the outcome of the day for months. But an important moment. A moment where we show that we are not just our words.
“Leathf hear.” Pádraig calls out my name. Starting at the last, the least, the weakest. It’s not meant as a slight but rather as a build-up, to show that not all can be successful before the true warriors are Called.
I step forward. Surrounded by a loose circle, Pádraig and Lir watching side by side. For a heartbeat, I remember the Amotus fight against Ianix at the Academy. This is a smaller space but has none of the enclosed menace of that day.
“Who will you prove yourself against?” Pádraig asks it loudly and firmly, no sense that this is really all for show.
Everyone expects me to call Conor, maybe Miach. To give a fair showing before I lose and then bow out gracefully. There would be no shame in doing so.
But that won’t be nearly enough. Even beating them wouldn’t be enough. Not for Tara, not for Pádraig. They think I should be going with Lir. Pursuing answers. Doing what King Rónán wants of me.
And maybe they are right, but it’s not what I want. I am not whole as I once was, but they are better with me than without me—I have proven that much. And I will not let them go off to risk their lives so that I can be a piece on someone else’s board.
I grip my spear. “I will fight Tara.”
I see Conor look at Miach, the other boy shrugging. Conor shrugs back and catches my eye. Raises an eyebrow. I shrug as well. He grins.
“Very well.” Pádraig betrays no surprise. Tara is watching me quizzically as she moves into the circle. Trying to figure out what I’m doing. She knows I can’t beat her. And she knows that a loss to her will convince neither her nor Pádraig that I should be chosen.
But it’s as she said. My skill isn’t what she’s worried about.
We take our positions. My spear feels warm, pulses faintly in my head as it often does. Imbued, I’ve increasingly suspected, though I still don’t understand how. The others surround us, not tightly, but enough to form a clear edge to our contest. Not that there are any strict boundaries.
Tara may not understand my plan, here, but in many ways it doesn’t matter to her. She attacks. Hard and fast. Spear whirling and jabbing, meeting mine with clack after sharp clack, the sound echoing away across the water and rolling green hills beyond. I defend. Competently. Well, even. I’m outmatched, but that doesn’t mean I’m helpless anymore. Tara will have to earn this victory.
The red-haired girl with the torc glinting around her neck isn’t fazed by her lack of progress as we break briefly. Patient and methodical as she stalks around me. She knows she’s better. She knows she will win eventually.
I match her stride, circle with her, content to simply defend at this point. I know what she knows. If I attack, I will only open myself up to a quicker defeat.
Another blur as she darts forward; I mark her feint but not the second. Her spear sweeps beneath me. Catches the back of my left foot. I go down.
She steps back, disappointed as she waits for me to concede.
I roll to my feet, and set myself again.
She frowns at me. “You lost, Leathfhear.”
“You have determined this from one fall?” I spin my spear. Pointlessly showy.
Her brow furrows, but she motions indifferently and comes at me again. As calm and smooth and quick as she was before. The frenetic clack of our clashing spears echoes again into the dark. I backpedal, forcing the surrounding wall of people to give way. Countless hours of practice means my balance is rock-solid, my instincts honed and body well adapted to my lack of an arm. But she’s just too quick. Too skilled. Too good.
Thirty seconds later, my spear is falling from numb fingers after an impossibly precise hit. I roll back, unarmed, as Tara comes to a stop with my spear at her feet. “You are defeated.”
“I am disarmed,” I correct her pointedly. Still on the balls of my feet. I’ve tried making a joke about that before, but the translation doesn’t really work.
Her spear whips out, whistling by my head; I jerked back but I’m fairly sure she could have hit me if she’d wanted to. “Concede.”
