We chat as we work, companionable spurts of idle conversation between bouts of physical effort on my behalf. She hints again at curiosity about my origins; I once again tell her that I ran from somewhere far away, but that it is still too difficult—emotionally and literally—to fully explain.
It doesn’t sate her, but she doesn’t press. I’m glad. I’m not going to lie to her, I trust her, and I will tell her everything one day. But my life here has become precious, and my story will sound … far-fetched, to say the least. I’ve confirmed plenty of times that the name Caten means nothing to her, that Will is unknown and the Republic not even a whisper here. Wherever this is, the mere concept of the Hierarchy would seem beyond fanciful, and certainly is beyond my currently limited capability to explain properly.
Besides, I am wary of speaking of Caten too freely. Based on what Cian told me, there’s a chance Ruarc does know about the Republic; if he were to somehow catch wind of my enquiries, it would surely expose my survival. And even if word instead reached whoever Cian and I were originally on our way to meet—whatever my lingering curiosity, whatever answers I might get from them, it’s not close to worth risking what I now have here.
Our conversation today slips toward the surrounding country; though it’s a discussion we’ve had before, I’m finding that I glean more from the same topics as my grasp of the language grows. This land—Tiroedd Rhydd, she calls it, and it seems to span everything she knows—I gather is divided into numeroussmall fiefdoms, and has been for living memory. These clans raid and clash at the borders and have blood feuds that run deep, but rarely actually go to war. In fact, it seems there are regional kings who act to settle major disputes between the chieftains, and then a High King for disputes between the regional ones. Though rumour also has it that High King Úrthuile has been ailing these past months. And is without a direct successor.
Gráinne talks at length about King Rónán, the regional king here. I get her to explain words like “just” and “noble” and “powerful.” It’s fairly clear that he would be her choice to replace Úrthuile.
“King Rónán,” I say as we start ambling back toward the hut for a brief midday meal, Onchú joining us. “He lives in a …” I don’t know the word for city. “Place with many people?”
She nods. “Caer Áras. I have been once.”
“How many live there?”
She licks her lips. “Many. Many.” I’ve only learned up to about the number fifty in her language, and she knows this. Her brow furrows. She says a word I don’t know and then clarifies, “Forty groups of twenty. More.”
Eight hundred. The way she emphasises the “many,” the way she spreads her hands wide to try and encompass the concept, it’s clear that so many people gathered together is astonishing to her.
I think of the Catenan Arena. A hundred thousand people in its stands. Thirty thousand dead in front of me in minutes. I wonder if she would ever believe such a thing was possible. Can I? It feels a lifetime ago, a world away.
Onchú, walking just ahead and half listening to our conversation, stops so abruptly I almost walk into his back.
“What is it?” Gráinne asks.
Onchú has stiffened; he points grimly to the copse of trees on the far hill. My gaze follows his finger, roaming before finally spotting the three dark shapes hovering at the edge of the shadows.
Wolves. Very, very large wolves.
They’re alupi.
“Mactirmor,” murmurs Gráinne, sounding disturbed.
I gaze at them, heart pounding. They’re five hundred feet away, but I know just how fast they can be. “Are they hunting?” Onchú has mentioned the need to protect the flocks from predators. I wish desperately for Cian’s staff; it’s not much of a weapon, but it’s an improvement on the hoe I’m holding.
“Mactirmordo not hunt.” Onchú is shaken. “They are amanadh. A sign,” he adds, for my benefit.
“A sign,” I repeat, trying not to make it sound disbelieving.
Onchú looks at me, and any humour I may have found in his superstition is lost as I see the genuine fear in his eyes. “This evening, we mustiobairtto thedéithe.” He hurries on toward the house.
I turn to Gráinne, whose gaze hasn’t left the motionless alupi. “He says we must give to the …” She hesitates, then gestures all around. “The ones in control.”
And so, as we start trailing after Onchú, I learn the words for sacrifice, and gods.
The alupi never move.
AT DUSK WE GATHER WHERE THE RIVER FLOWS INTO THElake to the east, and as the last of the sun fades from the sky, Onchú solemnly utters what appears to be a ritual incantation to someone called Dia Fómhar and tosses a beautiful, intricately marked bowl into the deep water. I watch with interest as it sinks from sight, and wonder how much it cost him. How many treasures have been wasted here.
But I say nothing and observe in respectful silence. For all my doubts, the alupi unsettled me, too. Gráinne assures me that they are not common, and true to Onchú’s observation, none of the livestock appear to be missing.
I cannot help but think of the one I named after myself, back on Solivagus. I was under the impression that the creatures were found only on the island.
After the simple ceremony, both Onchú and Gráinne seem more at ease, and we return to the hut for dinner. The meal passes comfortably enough, though more than once I catch Gráinne or Onchú glancing through the window into the gathering gloom, gazes searching.
The rushlight burns down. We sleep.
I do not know what time I wake, but cold silver still filters through the window.
