“You should hurry, if you wish to accept,” adds Gallchobhar, with a disdainful glance at my friend bleeding on the ground. “She does not have long, if she does not get a healer.”
It’s a bad deal, and everyone here knows it. A king for his daughter—one who has been disinherited, who he sent away and didn’t see for years. Who may die anyway, and even if she does not, will be trapped behind the lines of a siege that does not look like being broken.
And yet I knew Rónán’s answer as soon as he didn’t immediately refuse. I can see it in his eyes, even at this distance. Can see Tara’s pain reflected in them.
“You will let Deaglán ap Cristoval go as well.”
I look up. Surprised to hear my name on Rónán’s lips. Heartbeat quickening with impossible hope.
Gallchobhar just shakes his head. “Your daughter is running out of time.”
Rónán half faces away and I can see him speaking to someone in the shadows, though I cannot hear what is being said. Eventually he turns back. “Get her to us in time, and I accept.”
There’s a groan from around the walls, and despite what it means for Tara, I’m not sure I can blame them. Tara tries to say more but her injuries are taking a toll. Gallchobhar wasn’t exaggerating. In a few minutes, she’ll be beyond saving.
I watch in dazed horror as soldiers lift Tara—carefully and respectfully, I am glad to see, at least—and carry her to the gate. After they have left her there and retreated, the gate opens briefly, just enough for warriors to hurry through and steal her from sight. There is low murmuring from the camp, but otherwise silence. Time passes. I am bound again; after that, nobody pays me much attention.
And then the gate is opening again, and King Rónán is walking through.
My heart sinks. Part of me knew he wouldn’t betray the deal he made with Gallchobhar; from everything Tara and the others have said of him, his honour simply wouldn’t allow it. And I had not hoped that he would betray it. Just like Tara, he stands for something I had long thought lost.
But I do not wish to see him die.
Everyone stops. Watches. He is truly regal as he strides down the torchlit road. Cloaked as a king. The bearing of a warrior. No fear in any part of him.
I cannot say the same for me as I realise dawn is colouring the sky behind him.
He comes to stand before Gallchobhar. Not as tall as the other man, but no doubting who is the superior between them. “I surrender myself to King Fiachra.”
“You surrender tome.” Gallchobhar, smug up until this point, is suddenly angry. “That is the deal.”
“A lion cannot surrender to a dog, Gallchobhar. I place myself under your king’s protection.”
Gallchobhar’s eyes glitter, just briefly, in the torchlight. Then he turns his face to the oncoming dawn.
“Bind him,” is all he says.
Rónán’s hands are soon secured behind his back, though the men treat himwith a care that they most certainly did not show me. A good sign. Then I’m being hauled unceremoniously to my feet and we are being led—shoved in my case, guided in Rónán’s—toward Lake Áras.
My dread increases. I have faced the prospect of dying many times, over the past few years. But always, I have had some level of agency. I have never been led, bound, toward my execution.
“Head up, Deaglán.”
Rónán’s murmured exhortation echoes my father so strongly that for a second, I feel as though he is here with me. I still cannot sense Will, but I wonder again if he is near, if he knows what is about to happen. Some small part of me, the part that is still a child, continues to believe he will save me. Somehow sweep in and defeat this army. But I know, deep down, that he has already tried. He begged me not to make this decision. He told me exactly how it would end.
We’re pushed out along the causeway, onto the wide wooden platform I know is made for offerings to the depths. Still within sight of the walls. We pass Lir’s severed head and staff lying on the wood near the shore, presumably in preparation for another showy sacrifice after we are done. The lake stretches out before us. Barely a ripple in the windless ethereal light, a mirror for the trees and rolling hills of the countryside amidst the portend of dawn. Stillness and beauty. Hard to believe what I would see if I turned around.
From the corner of my eye, I can see the crowd gathering along the shoreline. I can see them on the walls beyond, too. Watching anxiously. They were planning to attack at dawn—a desperate move anyway—but with their king here, in Gallchobhar’s grasp, I cannot imagine they will keep to that plan.
“Tell me, Rónán,” says Gallchobhar as another man jogs up and hands him something. The silver arm from Fornax. Gallchobhar clearly expecting it. “Do you regret letting the half man take my honour?”
“There was never any to take, Gallchobhar. And the gods have proclaimed him whole, no matter what you say. Certainly more whole than you will ever be.” He says it loud, so that all may hear in the deathly hush. The surrounding warriors. Those up on the wall, morning’s first light now illuminating their faces.
Gallchobhar’s face is dark. Something wrong in his eyes.
“Well,” he grinds eventually, holding back whatever just threatened to break free in him. “We should not dishonour Dia Domhain with only half an offering, then, should we?” He gestures to one of the men behind me. I am suddenlybeing kicked to my knees, and as I thrash futilely, hands hold me in place. Begin fitting me with a rough harness.
Then the cold of the silver is being forced over my stump. Cinched painfully tight, its weight almost causing me to topple, Gallchobhar now smiling as if at some grand joke. It doesn’t take me long to realise why.
