Cian’s lip curls. “He is a powerful new voice within the Grove. That is thedraoiHigh Council,” he adds, guessing I won’t know the term. “His influence these past years has become too great, too quickly. He asks the Grove to ignore the Old Ways, and they do. It is his hand that guides their deal with King Fiachra. Do you remember thetempeall albios? The … white place?”
He’s speaking faster and using more complex words than he was—from anger at the subject matter, I think—and it takes me a moment to catch up. “Yes. There were … two others. A man and a woman. Like you.” Memory still hazy of the bloody chaos of the white rotunda, but clearer than it was.
“The Grove is intent on killing all who come to thetempeall albiosin the way you did, because Ruarc has convinced them to. And they hide this shame from the otherdraoi. He asks them tokillwithout trial or explanation, and they obey, against all sacred duty.” The disgust in his voice is thick as he urges the horse beneath us to motion. “He has made them fear where you come from, what you may mean, what you may be able to do. He has made them so fearful of the unknown, of whatmaybe, they have abandoned whatshouldbe. It is a corruption of all thedraoiare meant to be. And so, I fight.”
I try to parse what he’s saying but it’s almost too much, too quick and indignant, for my exhausted mind to properly grip. “They think I am … a threat, to them?”
“Yes. No. It is …” He grunts. “The ancients’ tongue is difficult, to tell this well. Better, easier, if the one we are to meet explains.” He scans the way ahead. “Who we will not reach if we do not keep moving.” He presses our horse to a canter.
I silently agree with the first part; he’s been using increasingly sophisticated language, and properly translating is getting harder by the second. “What will … happen to you if … Fiachra’s men catch us?” A last, breathless inquiry, already weary again from the tension of clinging on one-armed.
“To me?” Cian seems surprised by the question. “They will escort me back to Dun Bhailcnoc. Hold me until the Grove passes judgement on my actions here.”
“But they will not … harm you?”
Cian stiffens, his horror unmistakeable even from behind. “I amdraoi.” As if that settles a matter that should never have been raised.
Silence after that; though the rain has stopped, the sheer effort of staying on the horse saps my ability to think properly, let alone pose more questions. We ride for at least another two hours. The light of a false dawn brightens the east.
We stop one more time, and again Cian moves off by himself, eyes closed. When he returns, he is grim.
“No time to rest,” is all he says.
A half hour later, we’re splashing our way across a river ford; when we reach the other side, Cian glances behind him.
“That was the border. We are in King Rónán’s lands,” he says quietly.
“We are safe now?” I peer over my shoulder, across the water. There’s no sign of pursuit.
“Yes.”
He’s facing away from me, but I can hear the doubt in his voice.
He urges our horse back to a gallop.
VIII
MY WEARINESS IS BONE-DEEP. TIME PASSES IN A BLUR OFdamp discomfort and unease and fitful drowsing as I cling to Cian. His claims of safety grapple with the relentlessness of his pushing on.
Dawn is brightening the sky at our backs when the white-cloaked man spots smoke colouring the skyline. “We can rest here.”
I give a half moan of relief in response, watching eagerly as the village comes into view. It’s not much. A dozen or so huts tightly grouped together along the muddy road, the same rounded design and thatched roofs as in Dun Bhailcnoc. No defensive walls. Open fields to the horizon in every direction. A dog loudly announces our arrival.
By the time we’re drawing level with the first of the structures, two men have emerged. One holds a scythe. They regard us warily as we approach.
“Síocháin leat.” Cian calls the words in a genial tone.
“Agus tú féin,” replies the unarmed one warily, shielding his eyes against the sun behind us. He’s tall and lean, older. Perhaps in his fifties. Grey streaks his black hair and beard.
A conversation ensues, which once again I can frustratingly only follow through tone. Things at first seem destined to go poorly, both strangers clearly wanting us to move on without stopping. Then we draw close enough for them to spot Cian’s staff and cloak. The entire atmosphere changes. There are smiles, apologies and cordial greetings; the men call out and others emerge from the surrounding houses. Women wave at us, children peer up at Cian with undisguised mixtures of curiosity and awe. One man hurries off and returns with a staff of ash carved with symbols, though not divided into sections like Cian’s; he offers it to the druid, who takes it in what looks like a formal acceptance of something. Before long we’ve dismounted and are being ushered inside one of the houses, a simple but hearty breakfast placed in front of us.
“They are happy you are here,” I observe with weary cheerfulness between mouthfuls. The couple whose hospitality we’re enjoying—a weathered man of about forty, and a lean blonde-haired woman—stop beaming at us only toscold their children, who alternate between running around excitedly, staring at my missing arm, and smiling shyly at us.
“They have likely never seen one of thedraoibefore.” Cian looks more relaxed than he’s been since we met. “I will perform some rites this morning, perhaps resolve some disputes before we move on. Our presence will be a tale they tell their grandchildren.”
I eye the two staffs leaning against the bench. Cian’s is certainly more intricate, but they’re not so different from each other. “How can they be … sure you are who you say?”
Cian almost chokes. “No one would dare pretend to be adraoi.” He’s almost as offended as when I worried about him being harmed by our pursuers.
