I revise my earlier assessment. Perhaps I have no bonds because they are simply not needed.
“How did you get me past the Seawall? Where are you taking me?” I mutter it hazily and point forward this time, my gaze roving across the water. The swells sparkle blue. Lush green coastline rises to our right; we’re skirting the shore, though nothing’s familiar over there.
“Bhailcnoc,” says the man closest to me, guessing the query and gesturing in the same direction.
“Bhailcnoc,” I repeat. The name of our destination, perhaps. Or the word for “village,” maybe. Or “city.” Or “home.” Or gods-damned “where we’re going to kill you.” No way to tell.
My gaze drifts to the sleeping man and I consider yelling to stir him, but my initial spurt of energy upon waking has already dissipated. I’m suddenly, unbearably tired. The rocking motion of the boat is too sharp for the waves.
I lie down, to the evident satisfaction of the men watching me, and search again for the comfort of Emissa’s imagined company.
“ÉIRIGH SUAS.”
I groan at insistent prodding, and open my eyes. A perfect starlit sky sways above. Water still slaps wood. I do not know if only the one day has passed, or several.
I haul myself awkwardly into a seated position, almost slipping as I instinctively go to use my left arm. The man in the white cloak stares down at me, his staff retreating from where it was about to jab me once again. He’s approaching forty, slender where the other two are burly, his long red hair curling well past his shoulders rather than spiked up. A thick beard covers his chin. Blue eyes study me.
I recognise him.
“You … remember me? You … speak this language?” I address him hopefully, my ancient Vetusian more than a little rough, but surely good enough to recognise.
His brow furrows. “Cén teanga í sin?”
Vek. “There was a … white … place,” I say slowly, enunciating each word. “In the mountains. Snow. Two others. You … spoke?”
The man just frowns, glancing around at the other two as if to ask whether they understand any better. When he gets only shrugs, he sighs.
“Cian,” the white-clad stranger addresses me again, pointing to himself.
“Vis.” I poke myself feebly in the chest, swaying unsteadily with the motion of a larger wave. Still weak, and worse, without any natural sense of balance.
Cian sees it too and mutters something, digging behind him and producing what appears to be some salted fish along with a waterskin. My stomach growls. I accept both eagerly.
Cian chatters away blithely at me as I scoff down food and water, some semblance of strength returning with the sustenance. From the way the sound of his speech occasionally changes, he’s trying different languages on me. The other two men remain at the far end of the boat and seem to lose interest after a few minutes.
“Do not make words,” Cian says suddenly, so cheerfully and absentmindedly that I almost don’t register that I can understand him this time. “Danger.”
It takes all my self-control not to react. It’s that same awkward dialect of Vetusian. I keep chewing and continue to scan the coastline, not looking at him. The swells are tipped with faint silver. Lush hills rise ahead and to both sides; we’re in a bay, I realise, headed for what appears to be a collection of simplehouses surrounded by a spiked wooden barricade. Wisps of cooking smoke drift above it into the faint promise of dawn. A rough jetty protrudes.
“Bhailcnoc,” I presume.
“We were to kill you at the island. I have delayed it. But not much.” A stream of some other tongue, delivered equally cheerfully, me still gazing ahead at our destination. From the corner of my eye, I see no sign of the other two men showing interest in us. “Tonight. Be ready. Cause no trouble before. Touch head if understand.”
I scratch my head absently, still looking out over the starlit water.
Cian throws up his hands in exasperation and calls something across to his companions, who chuckle. He wanders back across to them and engages in what sounds like casual conversation, disregarding me completely.
My mind races, pain and exhaustion and confusion all secondary now. I keep my expression curious, my stance relaxed, as the shore slides closer. I have no idea where I am or even how long we’ve been travelling, but I have an ally. First step is to get away. Worry about everything else later.
We dock, a lone sentry dressed in muted green hauling us in as we drift into the torchlight of the jetty. Cian alights first. His white cloak, I notice for the first time, has intricate green embroidery, interlocking whorls not dissimilar to those painted on the two warriors’ torsos. He offers me a hand as I rise unsteadily, and I accept the help onto solid ground. Balance is going to be an issue for a while, I think.
When I recover enough to set my feet, I have a spear levelled unwaveringly at my chest.
There’s some brief, animated discussion, the woman on guard evidently surprised by my presence, before she steps back and I’m being marched off the dock and past the spiny wooden barricades. The structures beyond are simple affairs, round with thatched straw roofs, the walls made from wattle and daub. The empty paths between them are little more than torchlit, muddy tracks. Wherearewe? I can’t place the style, and I can’t think of anywhere in the Republic that would be allowed to have kept their town’s defences, however rudimentary.
I stumble several times, a combination of imbalance and exhaustion, until I’m being guided into a windowless hut with a slot for a locking wooden beam across the door. The structure is supported by a single pole in its centre; a smouldering fire in a clay pot, set into the floor, illuminates benches covered with animal skins, but nothing else. I sit without invitation. My breath is short, vision swimming. Even this small exertion has been too much.
Cian watches my struggling, then says something to the two warriors. They eye me and leave, shutting the door behind them.
