“Scary,” murmurs Aequa.
“Scary,” I concur grimly.
Another silence. Awkward. We both know what needs to be discussed. She wants me to ask. I don’t know how.
“They spotted me. At the Iudicium.” I can barely hear Aequa as she eventually says the words. She sounds ashamed. “I was heading for Callidus, and one of the Anguis teams saw me crossing a valley. Surprised me, even though I was being careful. I barely got away.” She touches her forearm, drawing my eyes to a long, wicked scar.
“I ran. For … an hour, at least. And they chased me,” she continues, even as my gaze is still fixed on her injury. “When I was finally sure I’d lost them, I’d … I’d lost the tracker. Callidus’s tracker.” She hangs her head. “So I went back to the Academy. I’m so sorry, Vis.”
There’s a lump in my throat as I process it. Grief again, but something else, too.
Relief.
Relief that I don’t have to be angry. Relief that my friend didn’t simply leave Callidus to die through fear. I know Aequa, and I believe her. I think I always believed it had to be something like this, something simple and miserably unfortunate. But knowing, finally knowing, hits me like a wave.
“Gods’ graves, Aequa.” I cough in a vain attempt not to choke out my eventual, firm response. “You have nothing to be sorry for.Nothing. Hear me?”
“I know. I’m sorry anyway.” She smiles across at me, and I can see the release in her teary eyes too. “I’d hug you, but we’re both kind of sweaty.”
I sling my good arm forcefully around her shoulders, squeezing her close against my drenched tunic. She laughs as she feigns struggling before embracing me back. “Disgusting.”
“Catenicus!” It’s Tullius, beckoning me back onto the sand.
Aequa releases her grip and I stand. “You’ve already finished, I take it?”
“I have. But I’ll happily stay and watch you almost beat me.”
I narrow my eyes at her as she grins, then jog to catch up to Tullius out on the track.
XXIV
THE SUMMER DOWNPOUR HAS TURNED MY CLOAK SODden, leaden skies barely revealing an afternoon turning to dusk, when the wooden palisade of Caer Áras finally appears on the horizon.
As Lir, Kegan, Aodh, and I shield ourselves from the deluge and continue to skirt the lake across our path, its water dimpling and dancing in the rain, I rub again at the persistent aching of my chest and study the region’s largest community—and the residence of King Rónán—from beneath the shadow of my hood. The hill fort looks large, at least compared to the several villages we’ve paused at during our meandering travels of the past few weeks. Guards man the torch-dotted walls and gate. From this distance, I can see the tops of huts farther in, and at the very crest of the hill a grander structure, which is surely the king’s hall. The thin plumes of cookfires are faintly visible through the rain.
It’s still no larger than most mid-sized towns in Caten and its provinces. The wooden barricades look sturdy but would be susceptible to fire. The residences beyond, too.
“Almost there.” Lir calls the observation to me. The hem of his white cloak is brown with splashed mud, but he doesn’t appear to mind.
Kegan—the younger, muscled warrior who seems to be enjoying this weather far more than the sunshine we had yesterday—laughs and says something he clearly thinks is funny to Aodh, though I don’t catch enough of the words to know anything more than that it’s clearly about me. The grizzled older man with the scarred shoulder grunts dismissively, his standard response, as he scans the way ahead. He always looks as if he expects an ambush. Perhaps he does.
“Will it be long before I am …” I search for the word; Lir has used it before several times. “Judged?”
“No.” Not unkindly, but with customary bluntness.
I nod a silent acknowledgement and press on into the deluge, unsure whether I’m glad or anxious to finally be in sight of our destination. Our path here has been a circuitous one as the druid fulfilled his various obligations in the surrounding countryside; it’s been hard to properly assess but if we’d comedirectly, I suspect this journey would have taken mere days. I’ve been treated well throughout, at least, even if my status as a prisoner has never been anything but clear. Always watched by at least one of the two warriors and never allowed to wander off alone, even to relieve myself. Not that I could make it far, or blend in if I did, with my missing arm. But my companions haven’t taken any chances.
When Lir has not been bestowing blessings or hearing disputes, the days have passed in travel. Rolling hills and mist-shrouded moors and deep, still lakes. We’ve rarely seen others on the road. Wet though it often has been for what is supposed to be summer, the landscapes here have a tranquil beauty to them, one that lends itself to long periods where it feels almost sacrilegious to speak into the calm. There is a serenity in them that I have never seen elsewhere. Not joyful like the natural wonders of Suus, but a true, imperturbable peace.
“Have you thought of any more to add to your story, Deaglán, before we arrive?” Lir draws closer through the rain, walking in almost companionable fashion side by side with me. “Once we walk through those gates, our chances to speak will be few.”
I glance at him. A warning, no doubt, but what seems like genuine care in the question as well. I’m not surprised. While Aodh and Kegan have all but ignored me, Lir engaged in conversation more than I expected as we travelled. My understanding of the language has continued to improve, and for all he’s been trying to squeeze information from me, he has been patient in correcting my mistakes and teaching me new words and phrases. Evidently still angry over my keeping of Cian’s staff, and mistrusting of me generally, but he’s nevertheless been nothing but considerate.
“I have told you everything,” I promise, affecting my usual earnestness when it comes to the question. I’ve been careful to follow the tale Gráinne and I originally gave him, presenting myself simply as a foreigner who met Cian by chance not long before his death. When Lir asked about my homeland, I told him that I fled it and did not wish to speak on it further. Whether through respect or the idea of having to battle a language barrier on top of my reluctance, he did not press.
I’ve not mentioned the strange pulse that warned me of his arrival, either. If I’m being honest, I’m no longer even certain it wasn’t just my imagination. Aside from the occasional flicker of something similar from the staffs Lir carries, I haven’t felt it again.
The druid brushes droplets from his forehead and accepts the statement,even if his eyes suggest the affirmation still lacks conviction. An intelligent, learned man, and yet I’ve discovered through careful questioning over the past month that just like Gráinne, he has never heard of anything resembling the Catenan Republic. It continues to make no sense. I haven’t described Solivagus to him—that feels too risky, given it’s where King Fiachra’s men found me—but I did, at one point, get him to sketch me a rough map of the surrounding lands.
