The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 13

MY EYES RELUCTANTLY OPEN TO a thatched roof and the steady patter of rain outside. Confusion for several seconds as I lie there, trying to sort through the chaos of memory and place myself at the end of it all. The village was attacked. Cian died. A searing pain in my stomach reminds me of the warrior’s spear finding its mark. The rawness of my lungs from the smoke. I crawled out the window, away from my pursuers and toward the forest, but I was so weak, losing so much blood.

Nothing, after that.

“ Tá tú beo .” The voice comes from somewhere to my side; I find the energy to twist enough to see a blonde, lean woman sitting on the ground against the wall, watching me. She twitches at my movement. Wary.

I stare at her fuzzily. “You.” She’s the mother of the children. The one who slew the attacker. I groan and shudder as the memories come flooding back. I check my good arm. Sure enough, burns scar its length. Painful, but not crippling. A small mercy. “Where are we?”

“ Ní thuigim .” She spreads her hands helplessly.

“Ah.” I look around. We’re in a hut; it’s small and crude, but undamaged. Outside, I think I can hear voices. I am on a straw mat covered with sheepskin, blankets made of soft animal pelt covering me. Cian’s symbol-covered rowan staff lies in the corner. There’s not much else to the place. “Not in the village anymore, I take it. Unless I’ve been asleep for a gods-damned long time.” I say it more to myself, to hear the sound of something I understand, than in the hopes she’ll respond. Predictably, she looks at me with confusion.

“Thank you,” I say eventually, putting as much gratitude into my tone as my pained state will allow. This, she seems to understand. She smiles uncertainly. Nods. “ Go raibh maith agat .” Earnest. Returning the sentiment, I think.

“ Go raibh maith agat ,” I repeat carefully, trying to replicate the lilting sound of the language. It really does sound like Cymrian, even if I recognise none of the words.

She brightens. “ Ceart! Ceart ,” she says encouragingly. Her curls fall around her shoulders. Aside from the gold of her locks, she reminds me vaguely of Belli.

I cough, throat rasping, and mime an entreating drinking motion. She scurries off. I use her absence to collect myself, better assess.

There’s motion at one of the nearby windows, and I see a rain-damp curly mop of hair peeking over the rim, followed by a small, rotund face. The boy’s eyes are wide as he takes me in. I grin at him.

He lets out a little gasp, and vanishes.

The woman returns a minute later with a wooden cup. I take a swig without thinking, then almost cough the concoction back up again as it burns down my throat. The woman hides a laugh as I sputter.

I chuckle ruefully with her. “Not water,” I observe, forcing more of it down.

After a minute, I’m awake enough to brave pushing aside the blankets to look at my injury. I have only underclothes on. My stomach is thoroughly bound, but even through the layers I can see black stains edging through. There’s some sort of greyish poultice flecked with green leaves seeping past the cloth, and buried in it I can see what looks like a small charm, the symbol of an intricate, interlaced knot carved on a wooden disk.

The smell makes my nose wrinkle. Whatever ingredients were used, I don’t recognise them.

The woman watches my inspection silently, then suddenly leans forward and indicates herself. “Gráinne. Gráinne.” Then she points at me, eyebrows raised.

My lips form to speak.

I hesitate.

I still have no idea where I am or exactly how I got here, but it’s clear I’m beyond the bounds of Caten’s reach. Callidus, Eidhin. Emissa. I’m not sure exactly how long it’s been since the Iudicium, but they must assume I’m dead, by now. Vanished in the wilderness of Solivagus, just as Callidus warned.

I ache at the thought, but there’s a hope in it too. A fresh start. No Hierarchy. No ceding. No lies.

“Diago,” I eventually rasp, pointing to myself weakly. “Diago.”

I DRIFT IN AND OUT of consciousness, that first day. Every time I open my eyes, I fear what I will see. But it is always quiet. I am either alone, or Gráinne is there. She gives me water, and once a meal that consists of mushrooms and berries along with a sloppy porridge that I slurp down greedily straight from the bowl, spilling some over my chest in the process. I’m not sure how long I’ve been like this, how long it’s been since I ate. But I’m gods-damned hungry.

In the background, a couple of times, I see the boy and girl I helped escape. They peer at me with wide eyes around the doorway, or through the windows. Uncaring if they’re seen, just fascinated by my presence. Whenever Gráinne notices them, she shoos them away sternly. The only other sounds are the occasional bleating of animals in the distance.

It’s dark outside when I wake again to find Gráinne and her two children eating at the table, a fast-burning candle made of some kind of rush the only interior light. It does little to banish the encroaching chill of night. An older man is with them, large, perhaps in his fifties, with a ruddy complexion and a mass of golden hair that reaches to his shoulders. From the way they chatter and are sharing a meal—not to mention the striking resemblance between him and Gráinne—I’m guessing it’s her father, or maybe an uncle. He sees me stir, looks over at me with a glower and grunts. I’m too weary to worry about him. The next morning, he’s gone again.

The following few days after that pass in a haze. I learn the words for water, and food, and thank-you, and yes, and no, and rest. I learn the names of Gráinne’s blond-headed children—Róisín and Tadhg—and her father, Onchú. They all call me Deaglán, and though I weakly try to correct them at first, I eventually infer that they think it’s better for me to have a name familiar to the locals, and so I accept it. Through awkward, painful miming, I gather that we’re on Onchú’s farm and were here for almost a week before I woke; Gráinne rescued a cart and hauled me here herself. She also insists that the warriors chasing me left after discovering the body with the missing arm. I don’t know how she knows, but the third time after I anxiously get her to confirm it, she growls something with such force that it’s clear she’s sure. Given the consequences for all of us of her being wrong, I have no choice but to trust to the truth of it.

Gráinne changes my bandages daily, tending my wound with a gentle hand. Despite the severity of it, it seems to be healing rapidly, and at first I think it must be whatever poultice Gráinne is putting on it. But each day, she exclaims excitedly, and as I take note of how the skin is stretching and knitting together, I can see why. This injury was at least as bad as the blade I took in the side when the Transvect was attacked last year. That took me weeks to recover from. It’s only been half that time, and I already feel little more than a mild ache.

I only get stronger as I rest. Even my missing arm bothers me less each day, at least physically, though I know I will never stop mourning its loss. I recuperate enough to venture outside, now and then, the sunlight burning my eyes the first time I do so. We’re on a farm, just as Gráinne had conveyed. Rolling hills carved into paddocks by low stone walls for as far as the eye can see. No other houses nearby. That’s good. Presumed dead as I may be, word of a one-armed man convalescing anywhere near the destroyed village isn’t something I want getting around.

On the fifth morning, I wake before dawn and register that the rest of the family are curled up together on the makeshift bed of reeds in the corner. The bed I’m lying on, such as it is, must be Onchú’s. And when I watch the family eat together that evening, I notice how much less Onchú and Gráinne are eating than the children, and how much less the children are eating than me.

On the sixth day, sun shining outside, I rise.

“Rest.” Gráinne hurries over as soon as she sees what I’m trying to do, the word a rebuke. She follows it with a string of something equally stern, though I don’t recognise any of it.

“No.” I push away her attempt to usher me back onto the sheepskin again. Not unkindly, but firmly. I point at the bed. “Onchú. Gráinne. Róisín. Tadhg.” I point at the reeds in the corner. “Deaglán.”

She cocks her head. Nods slowly. “Rest,” she repeats, this time shoving me gently toward the reeds.

I shake my head. My wound is itchy but in no danger of breaking open. I’m a little tired, unused to standing, but once I fetch Cian’s rowan staff—which has lain untouched in the corner since I woke—I’m steady enough on my feet. Gráinne eyes the staff uneasily, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Work.” I say it in Common. I point to the sickle in the corner and mime using it with Cian’s staff. “I want to work for you. To repay you.”

“ Obair? ” She looks at me dubiously. At my missing arm.

“ Obair .” I make the motion again. My enthusiasm is undone slightly by the fact I have to quickly bring the staff down again to keep my balance, almost cracking her in the face in the process.

She squints, then suddenly calls out through the window; I miss most of it, but her children’s names are clear enough. A few moments later the two of them appear. She issues them a stream of what appear to be instructions, then turns back to me and points to her eyes, then her children. Then me.

“Really?” It’s not exactly what I had in mind.

“ Obair ,” she says emphatically.

“I suppose.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Yes,” I add in her own language.

She smirks, as if she’s won some great victory, then adds a few words to her children and leaves.

I SPEND THE NEXT WEEKS largely with róisín and Tadhg, Gráinne disappearing early in the morning to work with her father and not returning until the sky begins to darken. Róisín is a bright girl, energetic and rosy-cheeked much of the time, constantly talking. When she laughs, I see Cari reflected somewhere in her eyes. She can’t be older than eight. Her brother is the opposite in many ways; smiles from him are rare, but when they are earned, they are infectious, regardless of whether I understand their source. He talks to me in a solemn, slow voice and acts the older of the two, but based on their sizes, I suspect he’s the younger by at least a year.

They drag me around the house and surrounding hillside for most of the daylight hours. The late spring is wet one day and bright sunshine the next, but never unbearable. I help them glean in the wake of Onchú’s scythe, and feed animals, and clean pens, and act as scarecrows, and do a hundred other menial jobs around the fields that never seem to end. Many tasks are made harder by my absent arm and still-recovering body, but I manage.

Throughout, the children chatter away at me. Explaining what we’re supposed to be doing even as they demonstrate, or patiently teaching me new words, or relating stories of which I catch only the vaguest outlines. But it’s simple, unaffected company. Simple, physical work. They call me Deaglán, and I hear it as their version of “Diago” and do not flinch and look around nervously when they do. There is no sign of danger, no sign that the men who were pursuing me are anything but convinced of my death. Whoever I was meant to meet surely thinks the same, but I find the thought troubles me less and less. The pressure that has weighed on me since Suus, and maybe even from my life before, sloughs away.

My body recovers. I adapt to my missing arm. I wake eagerly in the mornings, and cannot remember the last time I felt so light.

As the day outside fades, we all sit at the table and eat around flickering rushlight. These adult conversations help me start to get a feel for the grammar, the way words should fall on the ear. The more I hear, the more I start to recognise similarities with Cymrian: it’s not the same, not even a different dialect, and yet it still feels as though the two have sprung from a common source. I have always been good with languages. I pick this one up faster than most.

Sometimes, especially early on, the discussion gives way to glistening eyes and broken pauses, and I do not intrude, knowing they are missing the husband and father who gave his life for his children. Around those moments, though, Gráinne and Róisín and Tadhg seem to enjoy my company, and I enjoy theirs. Onchú, I can tell, still has his reservations. But he is never anything but polite.

One evening, my comfort with both the company and language grown, I spoon down some broth and wipe my face with a sleeve. Hesitate. I have left Cian’s staff within easy reach, as I often do, but when we sat, I noticed how carefully Róisín skirted it. Made sure not to come into contact with it at all. They’ve all been a little strange around the staff, but I’d assumed it was the unease of it belonging to the man they saw beheaded.

“The druid’s staff.” I point to where it sits in the corner. Divided into nine clear sections, each with a different symbol carved into it. I still use it often as a walking aid. “It is… not to be touched?”

“Yes.” Onchú replies before any of the others. Simple and blunt and emphatic.

I nod slowly. “ I should not touch it?” I put my concern into my voice. I would hate to be doing something that is offending them, even if I don’t understand why.

“The druid gave it to you. It is well.” Something in Gráinne’s tone belies the words, but she says them sincerely.

I nod again absently, trying to think of how to convey what I want to ask. “Why will you not touch it?”

“It is draoi ,” says Onchú simply.

“It is draoi ,” agrees Gráinne.

I accept the statement, though it’s far from satisfying. It certainly doesn’t explain the faint glow I sometimes feel like I see from the wood. I want to ask whether they see it too, whether they’ve noticed anything about it, but their discomfort over the topic is so obvious that I do not feel I can press.

“You will say when I must leave?” I smile at Gráinne’s confused look. “I do not want to be a… heavy,” I finish, somewhat lamely as I reach for the word for burden. “Trouble! Trouble,” I correct myself as a better alternative comes to mind.

Gráinne smiles quizzically at me. “You are not trouble, Deaglán.” She speaks slowly and clearly for my benefit.

I dip my head gratefully. “I am glad. But is there more I can do to help?”

“You already do much.” She nods across the table to the children. “You make them lazy.”

I laugh. “I only do as you ask.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I asked only that you watch them.”

I pause mid-bite. “What?”

She grins. Róisín and Tadhg grin. Even Onchú allows some amusement.

“You are a good slave,” Tadhg adds solemnly.

I mock-growl at him. He shrugs.

“Are you sure?” I press my point, loathe though I am to. These people have taken me in, cared for me, when they already have so little for themselves. I love being here, but I cannot abide the thought that I am taking advantage of them. “If there is still danger…”

To my surprise, Onchú stirs. “Stay.” He says it gruffly, as always, but there’s honesty to it. “You are welcome here.”

Gráinne smiles across at her father, who pretends not to have seen. I give him a deep nod. Show him how much I appreciate him saying so.

And the small hut and surrounding fields start to feel like a home, in a way that nowhere in the Hierarchy ever did.

The rest of them sleep not long after dark, little to light the nights. In those silent times, my thoughts often turn to what I’ve left behind. To Emissa, to Callidus and Eidhin. I’ve surely been declared dead, by this point. I wonder who won the Iudicium. What the consequences of my disappearance might have been. I grieve for the loss of my friends, and the pain my apparent demise would have caused them.

But as time passes, I dwell on them less. Not because I do not miss them—I do. But because they belong to another life, now.

I lose track of the days. My body becomes lean again: not in the same way it was at the Academy, perhaps, but strong and balanced and as whole as it can be. One evening I tell a joke, and Onchú laughs so hard that broth dribbles from his nose. He asks me to help him in the fields the day after, and I do. Hard, physical work, especially with one arm, but I feel more useful than I have in weeks. We travel into town together that night, despite some lingering reservations on my part, and he introduces me to a friendly community of mead-loving farmers. We drink together at the tavern. The night ends in a blur of rowdy songs and the promise of matching headaches in the morning.

The next day, the druid arrives.