After a few seconds, I sense the faintest of pulses. Unnoticeable if it were not so close. Right behind my eyes.
And I realise that I am holding my head in my hands.
Dawn’s light is burning its way down to me as I hold my left arm up in front of my face. Turn it back and forth wonderingly. Slowly, disbelievingly, flex the fingers as they glint silver in the scything rays.
I can feel my hand.
The weight of it is gone. It’s not just the water. I canfeelit, in the same way I could feel my spear when I used thenasceann. And yet, this is even deeper. Something more. I reach across and loosen the painful leather straps that bound the arm to my shoulder. It does not fall away.
I’ve imbued it. I know it’s true, can feel its certainty even as the impossibility of it staggers me. Just like in Fornax. Some distant instinct rather than knowledge, a reflex that I shouldn’t have and yet somehow do. The image of the arm locked in my mind.
Finally, through all the confusion and disbelief and continued pain, I stand. Push aside my grief and understand that whatever is going on, now is not the time to question it. For a wild moment I consider chasing the current, trying to find my father’s body and returning the amulet that gave him life. But I know that if I did, I would not survive. I know that he would not want me to.
And I know from what I heard before Gallchobhar tried to drown me, that the battle for Caer Áras is beginning up above.
I start to walk back in the direction of the shore; I may not feel the weight of the arm, but I have no idea how it will go if I try to swim with it. My surroundsbecome lighter. The water clearer as I climb. The green and murk is behind me. Flashing steel ripples up ahead through the lake’s undulating shallows.
I press forward at a steady, determined pace. My head breaks the surface. As soon as my mouth reaches air, I breathe in. Not that I need to, not with the medallion on. But it is an unsettling thing to not, and my body feels immediately stronger for the act.
Nobody notices me at first. Most of the warriors are facing toward the gate, where the fighting is heaviest; the gate itself is open and I cannot see what is happening due to the crush of people, but I imagine the conflict is significant and bloody. Gallchobhar has retreated to the shore but is still standing there with his men, watching. Sword in one massive hand and spear in the other. A pleased expression on his face.
“Gallchobhar!” I roar it, the name ripping from my throat as I wade higher. Chest emerging from the lake. The sounds of battle are loud, but we’re still far enough from the worst of it that my voice echoes over the water.
He turns. So do most of the men on the shore. They take a few breaths to spot me. Gallchobhar’s reaction is the one I am focused on, though. His eyes meet mine and he just stares for a second, blank. Not understanding.
I take another step. Another. Uneasy murmurs ripple through the ranks of his men and more and more turn away from the gate, toward me. I take another step. Another. My long hair drips as it hangs about my face. The tip of my glistening silver arm emerges from the water and there is an audible exhalation from the crowd.
I keep walking. Gaze fixed on Gallchobhar. I know how this will look to these people—me emerging from the lake at dawn, miraculously still alive—and part of me doesn’t want to take advantage of that, but I know I have to. Battles for these men are less about strategy and more about courage. About conviction. Once their fury at Gallchobhar’s treachery ran its course, those in Caer Áras would remember they were fighting for a dead man.
But now? Now it will seem as though the gods themselves have chosen them for victory.
The water reaches my waist, and I raise my silver hand high. Clench it deliberately into a fist, so that all can see.
A moan goes through the onlookers. Everything seems quieter. There is still the sound of metal on metal, but it feels more sporadic now, calls coming from both sides to the combatants. They are slowly breaking apart. Retreating.
Before anyone overcomes their surprise, I need a weapon. There is a pulse on the shore at the edge of the causeway, mere steps away. I move to it; if I’m rejected as unworthy again, I’ll simply do what I did in Fornax and take the Will from it.
I spot what’s causing the pulse. Next to Lir’s bloodied, vacantly staring head, lies his staff.
I hesitate, then stoop and pick it up.
The battle is gone.
An immense rotunda of white columns and white stone and beyond, white mountaintops. A chill wind cuts at my face, slices across the seeping wound in my stomach. I stumble, almost drop the staff in shock at the instantaneous transition. In front of me, the white-cloaked man chuckles.
“You continue to surprise, Deaglán,” says Lir.
“Lir?” I stare around, disoriented even as I recognise the place; there are other people behind him, men and women also cloaked in white. They hang back silently among the columns, watching. My gaze returns to the druid. I saw himdie.
“Be calm. I have brought you to thetempeall albios. We do not have long and I …” He trails off as he examines me. Expression turning from determined, to puzzled, to sad.
“Oh, lad. The sorrows you bear, Deaglán,” he says softly. “I am so very sorry.”
I take a staggering step. Allow him to step forward and steady me. His arm is solid as it supports me. “I don’t understand. How did I get here?” Bewilderment muting everything else that roils within me, at least for now.
“You are still at Caer Áras. This is a place of the mind. And though this conversation will take moments at the Caer, those moments matter.” He grips me by the shoulders. Calm as he considers. “Keep on as you were intending. Challenge Gallchobhar. But first, you must announce that his offering has been rejected. Tell everyone who can hear that instead, you have been anointed adraoi nasceannby Dia Domhain himself, and that they are not to fight. Tell them that those on the side of Fiachra have dishonoured the Old Ways, and will be anathema to the gods if they continue on their current path.”
I lean on him, trying to take it in. I have no idea how he knows what’s happening, but he’s right: I was about to challenge Gallchobhar. “And if Fiachra’s men do not listen?”
