The assault stops. The druid is next to me now, crouching next to the man subduing me. He wrests Cian’s staff from my feeble grasp.
“There will be justice,” he spits.
I realise, before his final punch to my temple, that his eyes have gone black.
I AM ON THE FLOOR OF THE HUT, GOLDEN-HEADEDGráinne washing blood from my face, when I wake.
Iron spear tips appear and hover inches from my chest as I stir; Gráinne bats them away irritably, snapping something up at the two bare-chested men glowering down at me. They ignore her. Onchú and the children watch on in the corner. Onchú looks worried. Róisín and Tadhg are glaring at the men as though they might try and attack them.
Unharmed, though, I’m relieved to see.
“Who are you?” I dredge up the words, head still fuzzy.
An uttered command from somewhere behind the warriors, and they step aside so that I can see the druid.
He is sitting, the only one in the hut doing so. His staff is in his right hand, Cian’s in his left. At least fifty years old, I think, based on his weathered features. Hale and strong. He leans forward in his chair, intent blue eyes solely on me.
“You recover quickly.” He’s enunciating his words and speaking simply. He’s been told I don’t know the language well.
I glance at the window. It’s still dark outside, the moonlight pouring in roughly at the same angle as it was before. It can’t have been more than a few minutes since the attack. I can’t sense anything unusual from out there now. “Who are you?” I repeat.
“My name is Lir.” He twitches his left hand, indicating Cian’s staff. “You stole this. Confess”—I know that one from Gráinne scolding her children—“so that death may be swift.”
A small cry from the corner, and Onchú holds back a furious Tadhg. Róisín looks close to tears.
There’s a sharp look from Gráinne to her children, and both subside. “It was given,” she says, continuing to dab at my forehead. It stings, but I have more pressing things to focus on.
“Cian told me to keep it safe,” I confirm, smoothing any trace of aggression from my tone. Lir seems to have calmed, seems willing to talk. And I am in no position to fight. “Just before he died.”
“Cian of thedraoigave you this. Freely.” The druid is openly doubtful. His voice is deep, dignified. He takes in my missing arm, my awkwardness with the language. “How did he die?”
“He was killed.”
“How? By who?”
I lick my lips and look helplessly at Gráinne. Any attempt I make to explain what happened will be broken at best, and I don’t know what this man wants to hear. Have no idea what is best to admit, and best to obfuscate. “My words are not good, yet,” I explain, a little desperately.
“I was there.” Gráinne picks up what I’m asking her to do easily enough.
She starts talking, relieving me of the burden.
I am not fluent enough yet to understand the nuances of what she is saying, but I get the gist. She explains about the attack. How Cian was brutally killed in front of the entire village, and then everyone was slaughtered in order to cover it up. The druid listens with narrowed eyes, as do the warriors flanking him. At the description of Cian’s death he physically stands, as if unable to grasp the horror of it before slumping back into his seat again. His knuckles are white around Cian’s rowan staff.
Gráinne, I note, does not mention my arrival with Cian. Nothing aboutfaking my death, either. In fact, she seems to be claiming that I arrived in the village days before Cian, though she’s not sure exactly when. And that I lost my arm in the defence of her and her children.
When she’s done, ending at our flight here, there’s a long, heavy pause.
“The blood price for Fiachra’s cowardly raid has already been extracted. This is known,” the druid says eventually. Slowly. “But there was never mention of adraoibeing slain. The Grove has heard no such claim. And even if your story were true. Why?” He finally stirs, brandishes the staff in his left hand. “Why would Cian give this to you?”
“I do not know.”
“Did you speak with him?”
“Only a little. I knew less words, then.”
Lir grimaces. “Where are you from?”
I gesture vaguely. Foreigners are rare, according to Gráinne, but they almost exclusively come from the north. “Iber.” It’s the name she told me to tell Onchú.
