Ahead of me, Aodh pats one on the scalp as he passes, not pausing. “Chailleadh sé meáchan faoi dheireadh.” The comment even gets a chuckle from Kegan, though Lir doesn’t react.
There’s a blast of boisterous noise as we enter the hall. It’s warm and stale, smells of smoke and alcohol and roasting meat and the press of at least fifty sweaty bodies. Mostly warriors. Two long, low, crowded tables stretch almost to the back, where they’re joined by a third to form an angular horseshoe. A fire crackles in the centre, and a small group of youths is lined up beside it, talking nervously among themselves.
“Lir!” The name escapes the lips of a woman nearby and is instantly echoed down the hall, a cheer of greeting for my captor along with a muddle of livelycalls I cannot translate. Aodh prods me along at spearpoint behind him. Eyes slide over my entrance, curious, but nobody greets me. No doubting my status here. In front of me Lir grins around in acknowledgement, looking happier and more relaxed than I’ve seen him since we met.
I scan the room. It seems clear that the golden-cloaked man at the far table is the leader here. King Rónán, I assume. To his immediate right sits a mountain of a man, lantern-jawed and clean-shaven, thick muscle cording arms which shine with multiple armbands and a neck around which sits a silver torc. Even amongst warriors, even sitting, he dwarfs everyone in the room. He looks at ease in his clearly favoured position.
To Rónán’s left is a blonde woman with a pointed nose and delicate features, and farther along, an older man with a distinguished grey beard. He’s wearing a white cloak, same as Lir’s. He studies our entrance with a sharp, intelligent gaze.
I study him back, if surreptitiously. If my fate is out of Rónán’s hands, then this may be the man who holds it instead. The druid doesn’t appear to notice my return look, instead finishing his inspection and then rising, holding up his hands.
As the loudest voices in the hall quickly subside, Lir nods me over to the side. “It is the Time Between Times. Donnán is about to begin the allegiance ceremony. Take good note,” he adds in a lower voice as Aodh’s spear guides me in the direction Lir indicated.
The mutter of voices continues around the hall, but it’s quiet enough now to hear what’s going on in the centre. The druid has moved and stands slightly to the side. He beckons the first waiting young man forward, who comes to kneel in front of the king’s table, head bowed. He’s maybe sixteen, only a couple of painted symbols visible along his bare arms.
“Great King Rónán. I am Patraic ap Ris. My arm is your arm. Itiomnaighmyself to you. If I break mygealltanas, by gods andanammay the earth swallow me. The sea drown me. The sky burn me.” He finishes with three more words I do not know, and I’m guessing some of the others through context, but it’s clear enough that he’s pledging himself to the king.
Rónán nods solemnly, and Donnán dips a sprig of hawthorn into the bowl and then flicks it with a practiced motion at the young man’s face. Flecks of dark crimson appear on his cheeks, forehead and nose, dribbling slowly downward.
“Rise, Patraic ap Ris. Before gods andanam, yourgealltanas”—oath?—“is received. My hearth is your hearth. Go, and protect it well.” King Rónán’s voice is strong and confident and easy as it rings out, cutting comfortably through the low chatter. He’s a large man, broad-shouldered and as weathered as any of the men here. Probably not older than fifty. He doesn’t have to raise his voice to command the room, I note as everyone’s gaze is drawn to him.
He is respected by these men. Admired.
Patraic stands, face flushed in the firelight, rivulets of blood wending their way down his skin. He stamps his spear thrice onto the stone, and steps aside.
Five more times the ritual repeats itself, three boys and two girls no older than the first: they kneel, utter the words, and finish with pride on bloodstained faces. There’s a general murmur of approval after each one, though no cheers or particular acknowledgements. They pair off and spar briefly in the ample space around the fire after that, quick if furious bouts that draw blood but no worse. The combatants embrace afterward, joyful regardless of whether they are victor or vanquished.
When the last steps away, Donnán raises his head and looks over at us. Beckons to Lir, who nods graciously.
Though quiet conversation had continued throughout, silence—true silence—now falls across the room as Lir joins the other druid. I watch, curiosity even briefly overcoming my anxiety. The smoke-filled air is heavy with anticipation.
Both men’s eyes turn black.
I saw Lir use Will twice on our journey. Unclear what he was using it for each time, and I decided early on that I don’t want to know. I am free of the Hierarchy, here. Free of the need to have anything to do with Will. Best by far to leave that all behind me.
Still, I tense at the sight. Aodh’s attention is on the two men, but he must sense something because I feel the slight prodding of a spear butt at my side. A small reminder that he’s there.
Donnán and Lir begin to sing.
Within a minute, I entirely forget my situation.
Donnán takes the lead, his voice deep and rich and solemn. His song is not like those of Caten, with their symbols and drums and tibias chanting to steady beats. Nor is it the music of my childhood, all drama and heat and passion in the stringed notes that demanded dancing of those who listened. This is a story.Solemn. Melancholy. Aching. A man called Gofannon, a smith who brews an ale of immortality. I do not understand all of it. It does not matter. There is a mesmeric beauty to the way the notes fill the spaces between us. Lir often steps back, but when he joins the song it is in perfect counterpart, threading a higher but no less yearning series of notes that allows the poignancy of the telling to shine brightest and hit hardest. In those moments, I feel their voices deep in my chest and even in this room of battle-scarred warriors, I am not alone in brushing tears from my eyes.
Other than that, the room never moves. Never breathes. We are enraptured in a way that few performers can ever hope to make their audience be.
The two men sing on, and even their midnight eyes don’t distract me. They soar and whisper, harmonize and break. Five minutes. Ten. No mistakes, no wavering. It is as remarkable, as beautiful a thing as I have ever witnessed.
And then with a sigh and slumping of the shoulders, their eyes clear and they are done.
As the last notes fade there is a lull and then the hall stirs, slowly, as if emerging from a dream. I am with them. Dazed. I remember my plight and yet it feels strangely distant, less important than it was when they began.
Finally, gradually, low conversation returns to the room. There is no applause, which I think I can understand; clapping would feel garish, diminish the performance somehow. But it is clear that the song was designed to cap the ceremony. Those who just pledged begin mingling with everyone else, trails of blood drying on their cheeks as they receive thumps on the back from everyone within reach.
For a few minutes, I just sit and try to listen to the chatter around me. Hard to make out, especially given my uneven grasp of the language, but there is much boasting of a recent successful battle. I hear the word “war” more than once.
And then Lir is signalling, and Aodh is prodding, and I am moving to the centre of the room.
We approach Lir and Donnán, who are speaking cordially, though from a distance Lir’s demeanour comes across as more formal than outright friendly. The thrust of their conversation quickly becomes apparent as we approach.
