I nod silently. Breathe in and shiver, the wind whipping off the sea sharp in my lungs. The weather has turned increasingly hostile over the past month, and today’s bleak chill is no reprieve.
I glance across at Tara, Conor, and Fearghus, who are all within earshot. They are watching me. They’ve known this is coming, though we haven’t been able to speak in private since the crannog; the druid announced what was to happen the moment it was decided, and has not left me unattended since. It hasn’t stopped each one taking their turn in attempting to convince Lir to let me travel with them. None of them succeeded, of course. I still appreciate the trying.
“Don’t take too long.” It’s Conor. Cheerful even in this, and I cannot say whether it is forced or simply who he is. “It would be embarrassing to turn up so late that you can only hear of my feats.” He grins a wide grin and embraces me.
I return it as best I can. “Gods spare me from such dull tales.”
He chuckles and pushes me off good-naturedly, replaced by Fearghus, and then Seanna, and then Miach. All murmuring variations of what Conor said, gruff and heartfelt. I reflect the sentiment back at them, not showing the fear I feel as I wrap my arm around each in turn. I have faith in their abilities, would entrust my life to their hands in a heartbeat. But that does not make them invulnerable. And though my presence wouldn’t either, it breaks my heart to think its absence might matter.
Finally comes Tara. Her auburn braided hair shines even against the dark grey of the sullen sky. Her blue eyes upon me. Arresting. They don’t sparkle the way Emissa’s used to, but there is a depth to them. And despite her usualstalking approach, there’s a hint of warmth to it that I think is impossible to see without knowing her.
“Dia Saol with you, Deaglán.” Her hug draws me close, to my surprise. More so when the embrace lingers. At first I think it’s for another reason, but as her mouth sits close to my ear, her face away from Lir, she whispers so that the druid cannot hear. “You have nothing to fear from Fornax; you have already been judged worthy. I will see you soon.”
Before I can ask her what she means she’s pulling away again, and her expression is closed off, brooking no response. I take her lead and simply nod. She smiles tightly. Wheels and walks back to the others without a backward glance.
“Ready?” If Lir noticed the extra exchange between Tara and myself, he says nothing.
“Ready.” I’m eager to have this done with. In the weeks since Loch Traenala, knowing what’s coming, I’ve finally accepted that I need to try and make sense of thenasceannand how Will is used here. Not that I have a lot to go off, still. I know when I used it that I wasn’t being ceded to, so there was no chance I was imbuing the spear somehow. And my strange sense of it, and of Tara’s, and the druids’ staffs—it all suggests that it’s something to do with the objects themselves.
Which means they must be pre-Cataclysm artifacts. I can’t think of any other explanation, and though it seems unlikely at first—it means thattheymust be providing the Will for thenasceann—it is ultimately no more mysterious than something like the Vitaeria back home, which do something similar and yet still baffle Caten after a hundred years of analysis.
After coming to the conclusion, I’ve run through countless theories of how they might need to be activated: some mental process, clearly, as touch alone doesn’t seem to do anything. And I think Pádraig’s constant refrains, which I initially assumed were merely exhortations to focus, may actually be my best clue. They’re simple, but also reminiscent of Harmonics precepts in a lot of ways. Hardly conclusive—still more of a gut feeling than anything academic—but it’s my best guess.
And guesses are all I have, for now. I’ve been itching to experiment, but given Lir’s ongoing reticence and refusal to allow me my spear, conjecture has been my only path to preparation for this mysterious test.
I cast a longing look at my confiscated weapon, give a final nod to my friends, and follow the druid away from them toward the faint glowering of the rising sun.
THE NEXT FEW DAYS FEEL FRUSTRATINGLY TORPID, LIRsaying little of substance as we plod through chill air and often driving rain. Knowing he will reveal nothing of the test ahead I probe instead about the druids, about Ruarc and the schism within thedraoi, why the Grove are so clearly helping Fiachra—and get only the vaguest of responses, when I get any at all. “Sooner mead from mist than secrets from druids,” the others once told me. Lir has no compunction about proving the saying’s truth.
Despite that, I do glean a better sense of some things, even if it’s more from Lir’s actions than words. His terseness, a far cry from the mostly genial man I remember from my first journey to Caer Áras. The way he unconsciously rolls his shoulders every time I mention Ruarc, now. How his tone so poorly hides enmity when he speaks of King Fiachra, despite his continuing insistence of the impartiality of the truedraoi.
He is angry, and frustrated, and worried. None of it is a good sign.
Our longest and most interesting conversation comes toward the end of the third day. The cloud-obscured sun is going down and the air rapidly increasing its bite again as the light retreats from the sky. We’ll make camp soon and I’ve been lost in thought, as is often the case, trying to estimate how far my friends might be from Caer Áras.
“Do you know them well?” The absent question is out before I can remember it’s probably not worth voicing. But Lir looks at me, so I keep going. “The druids in the Grove, I mean. The ones who have followed Ruarc.”
I expect his usual dissembling, but to my surprise Lir just nods. “Some. Donnán, of course. And others.”
“That must be hard,” I say cautiously.
A long pause as he considers what and how much to say. Then another nod. Slow and deep. “More than you can imagine. Asdraoi, we are meant to act without bias. We are meant to be above wars, called upon only to oversee judgement or reconciliation. In our thousands of years, the times we have been in true opposition to one another can be counted on one hand.” He exhales. “Adraoimust uphold so much more than one man’s rule. We are a store of knowledge and wisdom. We are law, and justice, and history, and the conduit to the gods. Only by remaining separate do we avoid risking the loss of these things. Only by remaining apart are we effective. They riskeverythingby supporting Fiachralike this, and so when I try to imagine how Ruarc has managed to convince the Grove …”
My brow furrows at his quiet despair. “But you’re still King Rónán’s druid,” I point out. “Surely your loyalty is to him?”
“I am druid to King Rónán,” corrects Lir firmly. “As Donnán was meant to be. Our mandate was to advise, and pass judgement on matters within our purview. Not to command. Not to take sides. I refused the Grove’s petition for the location of Loch Traenala not because of any authority Rónán has over me, but because they do not have the authority to demand his secrets. Our function is to complement the kings, exist in careful balance with them. Not act as their rulers or their subjects.”
I process this in silence. “Then if your loyalty is not to King Rónán, or the Grove …”
“My loyalty is to a Grove untainted by whatever Ruarc has used to poison them.” I think my question unintentionally hits a nerve because it’s a short, sharp answer. One that clearly closes the subject.
There is little more conversation that night, and in the morning, I see him once again with black eyes for a few minutes before we break camp. When we set off it is at a slightly different angle to the previous day, more northward. I don’t bother to ask why. I won’t get an answer.
It is almost midday when I recognise the lake we’re passing.
“We are near Didean.” I hear the quickening of my voice as the excitement of the realisation rushes through me. The rippling waters glitter in a rare patch of sun. “Where you found me. Where I was living. The hut is only a quarter hour that way.” I point vaguely west, and make it half a question.
Lir nods an accession. “Briefly. And carefully,” he cautions. “King Fiachra’s men control this territory.”
