According to him, we’re in Tensia. A part of the massive southern country near the Lycerian border that I never visited, admittedly, and from what I know of the area, the weather and landscapes certainly seem right. But Tensia was conquered by the Republic more than fifteen years ago. It’s hard to imagine anyone here could be unaware of Caten’sexistence.
I’ve been tempted on several occasions to say more—Cian was bringing me to King Rónán’s lands for a reason, after all. But he also said that thedraoiwere divided. And I went to great pains to ensure my pursuers believed I was dead. No need to jeopardise the safety of that falsehood.
In some ways it’s not so different to Caten, I suppose.
It’s late, properly dusk by the time we reach the fortified town. We approach the gates along the road, which is little more than deep, puddle-ridden ruts left by carts. The earth surrounding the walls has been dug away even more sharply than the natural incline of the hill, forming a steep ditch everywhere except for the road. Defensible against raids, I suppose, which Gráinne indicated is usually the worst trouble between neighbours here.
There are shouts from the torchlit, open gate as we approach, which quickly turn cheerful as Lir is recognised and his name called in joyful tones. The conversation moves too quickly for me to catch much, but it seems Lir hasn’t been here for a while. He’s clearly welcome, though; we’re ushered through, and I’m barely given a glance.
Lir doesn’t hesitate once we’re inside, heading along the main dirt road up the hill. The smell is of cooking and animal dung; alongside several huts I can see the dark shapes of farm animals shifting, the occasional bleat or bray echoing into the night. Aodh and Kegan are all smiles—clearly home, now—and yet they also walk a step closer to me. Hold their spears tighter. Keep one eye fixed on me as they call out greetings to friends.
For my part, I take note of everything I can as we walk the muddy roads. Do my best to memorise the layout, pay attention to potential hiding places inamongst the shadows. I’m not intending to escape—the fact is, I haven’t deliberately done anything wrong, and I still don’t know enough of the language to blend in anyway. I have to believe I can talk my way out of this. But it doesn’t hurt to have the information.
Eventually, we stop at a hut that looks little different from any of the others, and Aodh and Kegan take up positions by the door as Lir leads me inside. It’s a one-room affair: dirt floor, and completely empty bar the animal-skin bedding in the corner, a table, and two roughly made stools. Lir shakes the water from his cloak and sits on one, gesturing to the other as the door closes behind us.
“Deaglán.” His demeanour seems different as I sit. Not friendly, still, but somehow less distant than it has been the entire time we’ve been on the road. “King Rónán and his warband will return in a couple of hours. Tonight will be acuirm. A … big meal,” he clarifies, seeing I don’t know the word. “I will present you for judgement then.”
“And they will … punish me, for possessing Cian’s staff,” I confirm, even now having to keep the frustrated cynicism from my voice. Lir has assured me many times that the mere touching of a druid’s staff is a serious offense, though he refuses to say why.
“Most likely. There will be much disputing of your tale. Some will call for your execution.” Not new information, but the words still twist my stomach.
“You?”
Lir considers me. “No,” he says eventually. “But my voice is one among many, here. And though King Rónán is a good man and will listen to reason, the Old Ways demand that he not interfere in adraoiaffair that does not involve one bound to him.” He locks gazes with me. Silently emphasising the importance of what he’s saying.
The “Old Ways,” from what I’ve gathered, is these people’s collective name for the forms and traditions that the druids teach were handed down by the gods themselves. Not laws, exactly, but they seem to be taken very seriously. Permeate every aspect of life, too. “Alright,” I say slowly. So the king is not the man I need to convince. Good to know.
Lir taps the table absently, deep in thought. Then he comes to a decision. His eyes go to the door, then flick back to me.
“I did not press on the road because not all ears can be trusted,” he says in a suddenly low voice. “Things are complicated here. I know Cian was investigating Ruarc’s influence over the Grove, and many of us agree that their decisionsof late have been … concerning. I believe he left you his staff so that I would find you. He saved you for a purpose.” He leans forward. Intent. “Last I heard, he was researching tales of the Otherworld. Of Dia Oiche, the dark god who came from there thousands of years ago and supposedly still hides among us. A strange topic for a man like Cian, I thought. So tell me the truth. What can you tell me of all this? How did you come to know him?”
“I have already told you the truth.” I meet his gaze steadily, expression a careful mix of honesty and mild confusion. There’s a chance that admitting everything will help, but there’s also one that doing so will remove any motivation for Lir to keep me alive.
And perhaps even more tellingly, my curiosity does not come close to eclipsing my determination to not get involved. I have seen what life can be now, without the fears and complications that come with these entanglements. I have been running for too long. Fighting for too long. If there is any chance for me to hold on to what I found with Gráinne and Onchú and the children, to make my way back to it somehow, then I have to stay apart from all this.
I do like Lir, from what I’ve seen of him. He seems a good man. But there’s simply no benefit to me revealing anything right now.
He stares into my eyes, then grunts and looks away. “I do not believe you. I will still speak in your favour tonight, but if you do not tell me everything, Deaglán, you will have to save yourself.” Something more to the statement, I think. A strange emphasis. But the language and the situation conspire for me to be unsure.
He stares at me a moment longer. Examining me in the same intent, vaguely frustrated way I’ve caught him doing many times on the road.
Then he stands, and with an irritated flick of his cloak, leaves me to my thoughts.
THE SOUNDS OF THE TOWN OUTSIDE MY WINDOWLESShut ebb and flow. Shouts and chatter, familiar and cheerful in tone even if I don’t know all the words. The grunts and snorts and braying of livestock. A larger crowd passing nearby, though not directly outside, at one point. Some cheering accompanying them.
I use the time to examine every inch of my prison. The walls are solid daub,the door sturdy. It’s possible there could be an escape through the thatch in the roof, but my missing arm colludes to make it a near-impossible task. Not that I plan to escape; if that had been my intent, I would have tried it weeks ago. These are the enemies of my enemy, the place Cian was taking me for refuge. As risky as it is to stay and plead my case, I need their support, not have them hunting me too.
The door swings open without warning after an hour or so, and past Aodh and Kegan’s frames I can see that afternoon has almost turned to dusk. Torches on poles crackle at regular intervals along muddy paths. A few people wander past. None do more than glance with vague curiosity in our direction.
Lir appears behind the two warriors. “Time, Deaglán,” he says quietly.
I am led into the darkening streets, again untouched but again left in no doubt that I am under guard. We angle up the slope, heading in grim silence for the large wooden hall I noted on the way in. Music drifts from it, faint at first but louder as we approach, rowdy and off-key voices raised in ebullient song. From the outside at least, it reminds me of nothing more than a particularly bustling tavern.
Until, that is, we trudge into its light, and I realise not all the poles encircling the hall are topped with torches.
I falter.
At least a dozen severed heads are piked around the large double doors, forming a macabre guard of honour for our approach. Men and women alike, pallid skin glistening, hair matted and dripping. They leer in the flickering orange as we pass. The puddled water beneath them is stained a dirty red. No decay, no sign of scavenging. They can’t be more than a day or two old.
