I cough, throat rasping, and mime an entreating drinking motion. She scurries off. I use her absence to collect myself, better assess.
There’s motion at one of the nearby windows, and I see a rain-damp curly mop of hair peeking over the rim, followed by a small, rotund face. The boy’s eyes are wide as he takes me in. I grin at him.
He lets out a little gasp, and vanishes.
The woman returns a minute later with a wooden cup. I take a swig without thinking, then almost cough the concoction back up again as it burns down my throat. The woman hides a laugh as I sputter.
I chuckle ruefully with her. “Not water,” I observe, forcing more of it down.
After a minute, I’m awake enough to brave pushing aside the blankets to look at my injury. I have only underclothes on. My stomach is thoroughly bound, but even through the layers I can see black stains edging through. There’s some sort of greyish poultice flecked with green leaves seeping past the cloth, and buried in it I can see what looks like a small charm, the symbol of an intricate, interlaced knot carved on a wooden disk.
The smell makes my nose wrinkle. Whatever ingredients were used, I don’t recognise them.
The woman watches my inspection silently, then suddenly leans forward and indicates herself. “Gráinne. Gráinne.” Then she points at me, eyebrows raised.
My lips form to speak.
I hesitate.
I still have no idea where I am or exactly how I got here, but it’s clear I’m beyond the bounds of Caten’s reach. Callidus, Eidhin. Emissa. I’m not sure exactly how long it’s been since the Iudicium, but they must assume I’m dead, by now. Vanished in the wilderness of Solivagus, just as Callidus warned.
I ache at the thought, but there’s a hope in it too. A fresh start. No Hierarchy. No ceding. No lies.
“Diago,” I eventually rasp, pointing to myself weakly. “Diago.”
I DRIFT IN AND OUT OF CONSCIOUSNESS, THAT FIRST DAY.Every time I open my eyes, I fear what I will see. But it is always quiet. I am either alone, or Gráinne is there. She gives me water, and once a meal that consistsof mushrooms and berries along with a sloppy porridge that I slurp down greedily straight from the bowl, spilling some over my chest in the process. I’m not sure how long I’ve been like this, how long it’s been since I ate. But I’m gods-damned hungry.
In the background, a couple of times, I see the boy and girl I helped escape. They peer at me with wide eyes around the doorway, or through the windows. Uncaring if they’re seen, just fascinated by my presence. Whenever Gráinne notices them, she shoos them away sternly. The only other sounds are the occasional bleating of animals in the distance.
It’s dark outside when I wake again to find Gráinne and her two children eating at the table, a fast-burning candle made of some kind of rush the only interior light. It does little to banish the encroaching chill of night. An older man is with them, large, perhaps in his fifties, with a ruddy complexion and a mass of golden hair that reaches to his shoulders. From the way they chatter and are sharing a meal—not to mention the striking resemblance between him and Gráinne—I’m guessing it’s her father, or maybe an uncle. He sees me stir, looks over at me with a glower and grunts. I’m too weary to worry about him. The next morning, he’s gone again.
The following few days after that pass in a haze. I learn the words for water, and food, and thank-you, and yes, and no, and rest. I learn the names of Gráinne’s blond-headed children—Róisín and Tadhg—and her father, Onchú. They all call me Deaglán, and though I weakly try to correct them at first, I eventually infer that they think it’s better for me to have a name familiar to the locals, and so I accept it. Through awkward, painful miming, I gather that we’re on Onchú’s farm and were here for almost a week before I woke; Gráinne rescued a cart and hauled me here herself. She also insists that the warriors chasing me left after discovering the body with the missing arm. I don’t know how she knows, but the third time after I anxiously get her to confirm it, she growls something with such force that it’s clear she’s sure. Given the consequences for all of us of her being wrong, I have no choice but to trust to the truth of it.
Gráinne changes my bandages daily, tending my wound with a gentle hand. Despite the severity of it, it seems to be healing rapidly, and at first I think it must be whatever poultice Gráinne is putting on it. But each day, she exclaims excitedly, and as I take note of how the skin is stretching and knitting together, I can see why. This injury was at least as bad as the blade I took in the side whenthe Transvect was attacked last year. That took me weeks to recover from. It’s only been half that time, and I already feel little more than a mild ache.
I only get stronger as I rest. Even my missing arm bothers me less each day, at least physically, though I know I will never stop mourning its loss. I recuperate enough to venture outside, now and then, the sunlight burning my eyes the first time I do so. We’re on a farm, just as Gráinne had conveyed. Rolling hills carved into paddocks by low stone walls for as far as the eye can see. No other houses nearby. That’s good. Presumed dead as I may be, word of a one-armed man convalescing anywhere near the destroyed village isn’t something I want getting around.
On the fifth morning, I wake before dawn and register that the rest of the family are curled up together on the makeshift bed of reeds in the corner. The bed I’m lying on, such as it is, must be Onchú’s. And when I watch the family eat together that evening, I notice how much less Onchú and Gráinne are eating than the children, and how much less the children are eating than me.
On the sixth day, sun shining outside, I rise.
“Rest.” Gráinne hurries over as soon as she sees what I’m trying to do, the word a rebuke. She follows it with a string of something equally stern, though I don’t recognise any of it.
“No.” I push away her attempt to usher me back onto the sheepskin again. Not unkindly, but firmly. I point at the bed. “Onchú. Gráinne. Róisín. Tadhg.” I point at the reeds in the corner. “Deaglán.”
She cocks her head. Nods slowly. “Rest,” she repeats, this time shoving me gently toward the reeds.
I shake my head. My wound is itchy but in no danger of breaking open. I’m a little tired, unused to standing, but once I fetch Cian’s rowan staff—which has lain untouched in the corner since I woke—I’m steady enough on my feet. Gráinne eyes the staff uneasily, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Work.” I say it in Common. I point to the sickle in the corner and mime using it with Cian’s staff. “I want to work for you. To repay you.”
“Obair?” She looks at me dubiously. At my missing arm.
“Obair.” I make the motion again. My enthusiasm is undone slightly by the fact I have to quickly bring the staff down again to keep my balance, almost cracking her in the face in the process.
She squints, then suddenly calls out through the window; I miss most of it, but her children’s names are clear enough. A few moments later the two of themappear. She issues them a stream of what appear to be instructions, then turns back to me and points to her eyes, then her children. Then me.
“Really?” It’s not exactly what I had in mind.
