The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 79

I WAKE ON A BED of furs. Sunlight streams in through a window. I am in a hut, not dissimilar to the one I was first kept in when I arrived at Caer Áras, but more spacious. I am alone.

I groan. Slowly, cautiously, prod at my body. Bruised but not broken. Wounds still there, but bandaged. I am in fresh clothes, and wrapped in a pure white cloak that suggests my claims during the battle have not been disputed, though I see no sign of Lir’s staff. Whoever treated me left the scarab medallion around my neck, tucked against my chest. Fortunate. I cannot imagine I would have survived any other way; I can still barely believe that I am breathing. I even, briefly, check my own heartbeat, admitting some relief when I feel its steady thumping against my palm.

And then I bring my silver arm up in front of my face.

It is still attached. Still works. I close the hand into a fist and open it again, waggling the fingers, marvelling at how it feels just like the real thing. Partly as if I was using the nasceann , my sense of it intimate, a true extension of myself. Partly as I was taught it should work in Res, with complete mental command over it and its moving parts.

I still don’t understand how it’s possible. How and why I was able to unconsciously imbue it as I did.

But it seems that I may, at least, still have the opportunity to try and find out one day.

I lie there for a while, then summon the energy to move. Slowly, stiffly rise to my feet, grasping the nearby table to prevent myself from simply falling straight back down. I hear voices from outside. Light and laughing, relaxed, and perhaps some children farther in the distance.

I open the door. A couple of warriors are lounging against the wall of the hut opposite, but the one facing me cuts short his conversation as soon as he spots me. His eyes go wide and he mutters something to the woman with him before hurrying off.

I stand there as the woman, and several others on the street, stare at me. Saying nothing. I sway a little, and bring up my silver hand to grasp the doorframe. Their eyes all go to it. It shines in the light of the winter sun.

“Deaglán!”

I turn, a hopeful, joyous smile creeping across my face. Tara is striding down the street. Smiling too, a broad, genuine thing that lights up her face in a way I haven’t seen before. The warmth is so foreign on her that I almost laugh.

There’s movement past her and I can see Conor charging behind, grinning fiercely. Fearghus and Seanna flank him. Miach just after them. They are all whooping and hollering like madmen. All of them.

I do laugh, this time. Loud and joyous.

“Tara, I—” I cut off with a grunt as I’m enveloped in an entirely too rough embrace, first by Tara and then immediately followed by the others, the group turning into a happy, bruising, laughing, jumping clump of excitement that I am powerless to escape. Eventually my pained protests make it through to them and they stop, albeit with a series of jibes at how weak I must be to not even withstand a gentle hug.

“The siege?” I ask it first, though I think I know the answer from their presence, not to mention the light feeling in the air here.

“Broken, four days ago. Fiachra’s men fled. Terrified of you. The great draoi nasceann .” Tara’s eyes shine as she looks at me. “And the Grove has been forced to distance themselves from Fiachra as a result. Draoi Uallach, from King Nuadha’s lands, was here during the attack and has gone to speak with them on behalf of Caer Áras. He departed yesterday with your staff”—I open my mouth to indicate dismay—“but gave his oath it would be returned. He was a friend of Lir’s, and according to some of my father’s men, another critic of the Grove’s deal with Fiachra. He left your cloak as an assurance that your status is not to be challenged.”

“Except by Ruarc, I imagine,” I observe with a weary grin. Tara seems confident this Draoi Uallach is to be trusted. I am content to trust her.

“That will not matter anymore. Ruarc has surrendered.”

“What?”

“This morning.” It’s Conor jumping in, clapping me on the back far too firmly before realising what he’s doing and giving an apologetic wince. “Came to the gates and gave himself up.”

“Why?”

“He hasn’t said, but we’re assuming the Grove has turned on him.” Miach, quiet as usual.

“But he did have one stipulation.” Tara again, some of her initial excitement fading to seriousness. “He said he had to talk to you before anything was done to him.”

I frown. “Did he know I was like this?” I gesture broadly to the swathes of bandage.

“He knew. He just believed you would survive.” Tara eyes me, her smile returning. “I was with him on that much.”

“We all were,” says Seanna quickly. The others immediately roar their dissent at her, and she holds up her hands, blushing even as she laughs. “I have never been more happy to be wrong, Deaglán. Truly.”

I laugh with them, painful though the motion is, their infectious enthusiasm impossible to not be swept up in. I am glad, too, I realise. Everyone else on the street is gathering, peering, straining for a glimpse of my silver hand. Of me. Some part of me was already worried my friends would see me differently too.

I am ushered back inside, made to sit.

“I assume you want to know about the arm?” I ask, once we’re all comfortable.

“No,” says Conor immediately, shaking his head.

Fearghus sighs. “Why would we want to know that?”

“Dull,” adds Tara.

I look around at them, not saying anything for a second, then, “Alright, well what about—”

Their shouts drown out my words, insisting I tell them all about the gods-cursed arm immediately or they would finish the job Gallchobhar was too incompetent to do.

So I tell them. Everything that happened since we parted, the whole truth, with the exception of my time in Fornax, which Tara carefully steers me away from. I wasn’t going to go into that part, anyway. I know Lir wouldn’t have wanted me to.

I fall silent after I explain about my father. He must have overheard that Gallchobhar intended to sacrifice me to the lake, and so hid himself underwater. Probably waited there for hours. Knowing what would happen to him. Knowing that if I was thrown in, it would be because I had ignored his warnings.

“We found his body, I think,” Tara interjects gently into the quiet. When I look at her, she nods. “He floated ashore downriver. White robes.”

I swallow. “Has he been given the rites?”

“Not yet.” She fidgets. “Most of the funeral arrangements have been centred around my father, these past few days.”

I nod. Sympathy and pain and understanding in the look I give her, though I know she will not want words to accompany them.

“Tonight, though. You should farewell him tonight.” She moves on brusquely, and I nod again. A lump suddenly in my throat, but she’s right. It has been four days. It cannot wait longer.

“I need to see him.” My heart suddenly cannot take it anymore and I stand, ignoring the dizziness that sweeps through me.

Conor grips my arm. Steadies me.

“We will take you,” he says.

As we walk at a staggeringly slow pace, me leaning on Tara and Conor in turn, they tell me how Gallchobhar had decimated so many of the surrounding villages that it had made King Rónán’s attempts to find support near impossible. About their own mad dash for the caer to arrive barely ahead of Fiachra’s siege, a desperate final fight just to reach the gate with a dozen other surviving warriors they had managed to collect along the way. Conor and Seanna do most of the describing of the latter, making it sound a grand, glorious epic full of near misses and impossible bravery. I believe every word of it.

As we walk through the caer, conversation fades as we pass. Twice, I move to conceal my silver arm beneath my cloak. Both times, Tara gently pushes it back into view. Whispers follow us, and I hear the name “Silverhand” more than once.

My father’s body is interred in a cool, dark cave. The torchlight enough for me to see his features and know it is him in the stillness of the tomb.

I press the medallion against his cheek. Five seconds. Ten.

He never stirs.

I swallow tears, and lean down and kiss him on his cold forehead.

When we return to the caer, a small crowd is waiting. At first I pay them no mind, knowing that most of them have come only to see the curiosity of my arm. But then there is motion, waving from their midst, and I catch sight of the blonde-haired form pushing her way forward.

“ Gráinne? ” My heart leaps as I run forward to greet the woman who saved me all those months ago. Her smile is wide as she reaches the front of the mob. An instant later, Róisín and Tadhg are there too. Bigger in size, older around their eyes. But still with a childlike joy as they rush at me with smiles that split their young faces, gazes inevitably and unabashedly fixed upon the oddity of my arm.

I smile back, even as it’s tinged with the sadness of realisation as I take them in.

“Deaglán Silverhand. The great hero.” Gráinne comes to a hesitant halt in front of me, brow furrowing as she sees my expression. “What is wrong?” Still speaking in that same careful way she did six months ago, though I no longer need it.

“Onchú,” I say gently.

She frowns at me, confused.

“What about Onchú?” comes a gruff voice from my side.

I turn. Onchú stands a few feet away. Hale and whole. Arms crossed as he assesses me.

“Onchú!” My smile broadens into pure delight, and I wrap the man in a fierce, jubilant hug, lifting him off the ground. He groans and struggles, taken aback, as the others laugh; a moment later I’m embracing them too, laughing as well. Dazed. Delighted.

“I was at Didean,” I explain. “I saw the cairn outside your hut, and I thought…”

Gráinne’s eyes widen, and Onchú, still recovering from the force of my embrace, stifles a chortle.

“What?”

They look at each other.

“It was a sheep,” Gráinne says.

I stare at her as she’s unable to restrain a smirk.

“It happened weeks before the attack. It got sick. Tadhg tended it for almost a month, by himself. He became very attached and when it died…”

“A sheep ,” I repeat darkly.

“A sheep,” Onchú confirms.

I close my eyes, and after a long, disbelieving breath, laugh again. Relief and joy and released grief and a hundred other emotions I can’t even identify in it.

“It is not funny,” says Tadhg indignantly from the side.

I turn to him and embrace him around the head, struggle to get away though he does. “I am very sorry about the sheep, Tadhg. But I am also so very glad to see you.”

He continues to fight my grip for another second, then gives up and hugs me back.

“We wanted to see you, before we go. We are leaving in a few hours,” says Gráinne, a little apologetically. She shrugs at my look. “The farm has to be rebuilt. And now that Fiachra’s forces are broken, there is no danger.” She pauses. “You could come back with us, if you want.”

“You could do all of our work now that you have two hands,” adds Róisín.

I stick out my tongue at her grin. Hesitate as I glance across at Tara, who has seen I’m otherwise engaged and is chatting idly with a couple of older warriors nearby. There is merit, and some temptation, to the offer. The promise of a simpler life. A happier life.

And yet I can’t help but remember that last conversation with my father. Poor luck is being aware of these currents, but able only to drown in them .

“I need to be here,” I tell Gráinne. Sadness to it, but certainty as well.

She gives a small smile, and nods. She already knew the answer.

“But we are all here now, today,” I add. “And there is nothing stopping us from sharing a meal together before you go.”

Gráinne’s smile widens into something warm, and Onchú slaps me on the back. “I would like that,” he says gruffly. The children nod their eager agreement as well.

And we walk back into the caer together.

MY FATHER’S FUNERAL IS SOLEMN, and large, and beautiful.

The people of Caer Áras did not know him, but Tara told them that he was a king and so he is treated as such. We march at dusk. He is wrapped in white cloth. A single, intricate gold torc around his neck. I help carry him slowly down the street from the centre of the Caer, cradling him on my shoulder, steadying him with my real arm. Tara is opposite, Conor and Miach and Fearghus and Seanna behind us. I feel his body through the fabric, and though it is cold and stiff, I cradle it lovingly anyway. I know he is gone, that he cannot feel it. I still act as if he can.

As we walk, the people line the way and they sing. The dirge is low and mournful and achingly beautiful. There are no tears, no wailing, but those would have been false given that they did not know the man. This display is for the living. This display is for me. It means more than I can say. It brings tears to my eyes again and again as we make our steady way down the hill and out the gate.

The torches are lit, lining the way down toward the lake. The sky is sprayed gold and purple, wisps of cloud catching the colour and reflected in the still water. The pyre is by the shore. We place my father’s body on it. I am handed a torch. I stand there. Knowing everyone is watching but not wanting to do it. Not wanting to let go.

I reach out, lean over and grip his shoulder. Just as he did to me, at the end.

I touch the torch to the kindling, and step back to join Tara and the others.

The singing has continued and as the flames rise higher it crescendos, a sorrowful, strong melody that echoes away over the darkening water.

I weep. I did not want to. I wanted to be strong in front of everyone. I wanted to show these people their stoic draoi nasceann . But I cannot help it. My head bows, and I choke, and tears fall as the music swells.

A hand in mine. Tara’s. I squeeze it, hold it tight amidst the pain.

And then my friends are around me. Forming a protective circle. Heads bowed, close to mine. Arms around me. And I let go. I cry. I cry for the father I thought I lost years ago but now have in truth. I cry in a way I never did after Suus, because I was never afforded a chance to say goodbye. And saying goodbye like this hurts. It hurts .

My friends hold me up. Patient. Just being there.

When I am finally done, the singing has stopped and the fire has died down and most have departed. I wipe my eyes and laugh in mildly embarrassed fashion and smile around at my friends, trying to show how much they mean to me. Tara still holds my hand. I embrace her for a long moment, then reluctantly disentangle our fingers.

We clear away the ashes and gather my father’s bones, burned clean and white. Then the six of us walk in silence along the shore. Off the paths, through the trees, only our torches to show the way now.

We walk for twenty minutes. The grove is a surprise to me when we enter it. Large and tranquil and picturesque, completely detached from the outside world despite being so close to Caer Áras. Cairns rise at intervals. Beautifully decorated stonework over their entrances.

Tara leads me to one a short distance in. Above its archway is carved a symbol, done with care and artistry. Three whorls, joined in the centre.

I lay his bones with care into their final resting place. We close the cairn and seal it tight. The others retreat but Tara and I stand there, just looking at it.

“I have seen this before,” I say softly, touching the whorls with my silver hand. “What does it mean?”

“The triskeles? Many things, depending.” Tara stares at the symbol. “Here? That he was not of this world, but belonged in it. I chose it as a symbol of honour and respect. I may never have spoken to your father, but I know him through his actions and through you. That is more than enough.”

Another lump. I give her a small smile, though she does not see it, her own gaze fixed on a cairn not far away.

“Your father?” I ask.

She just nods.

We walk over. Tara puts her hand on the stone of the entrance, as if caressing it. “He sacrificed himself for me.”

“He was your father.”

She nods slowly. “He was my father,” she repeats softly. “He would have liked you. Gods. He would have loved you for what you did.”

I chuckle. “If he was anything like my father, he would have loved anyone willing to fight for his people.”

“Our people,” corrects Tara absently.

I glance across at her. Nod.

“Our people,” I agree quietly.

RUARC IS BEING HELD IN the same hut as i was, that first visit to Caer Áras. Secure but clean, not terribly uncomfortable. I am not sure whether to be surprised. He has caused these people so much pain. His orders have killed hundreds of their family and friends, ravaged the countryside.

I know they have not forgiven him. Will pour scorn and contempt upon him when the time comes for his sentencing. But they are not petty. They are better than that, and I am unaccountably proud to be welcome among them.

I am admitted not long before dawn by two guards who give deep, respectful nods to me before they lock the door behind me. I am alone, as Ruarc requested, though Tara was displeased by my acquiescing. I will be cautious, but cannot imagine there is any danger to me.

“Silverhand.” The druid is in a corner, features shrouded in shadow. It is early, but my arrival clearly hasn’t woken him. His voice is calm. Almost amused, though not mocking in any way.

“How did you guess?”

A low chuckle. “You jest, but it’s hard not to recognise a fellow traveller.” He steps forward, into the light. Ruarc is older than me, but not by as much as I expected—ten years at most, and I only estimate that much from the miles in his eyes. Clean-shaven, dark and lean, muscles toned beneath his tattoos. A single iron torc at his neck, the terminals intricate triskeles, like on my father’s cairn and in Fornax. The symbols glow faintly to my sight. Imbued. His handsomeness is marred by scars stretching along the left side of his face, from cheek to where his ear should be. He touches the mass. “ ‘The passage to Luceum requires a toll to ensure validity.’ Did you know that’s why the Old Ways state that only the unblemished can rule? Even after all this time.” He shakes his head absently. Conversational rather than bitter.

I stare. Recognising the words before I even register the language. Ancient Vetusian, written above those symbols beyond the Labyrinth. The ones I placed my hands into to try and escape. The ones that cost me my arm.

“Who are you?” I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this wasn’t it.

“My name was Caeror.” He says it in Common, harsh to my ears after so long. “I arrived here almost eight years ago, the same way you did.”

It takes me a moment to process it. To translate the words into the language I think in, now.

Then, a chill. I can see the resemblance. “You are Ulciscor’s brother,” I breathe, in Common as well.

Ruarc freezes. Genuinely startled. “You knew him?” The first time he has appeared anything but in control.

“He is the one who…” I trail off, gesturing helplessly at the enormity of trying to explain all the events that led to my coming here. “He sent me to the Academy to investigate your murder.”

A flicker of sadness. Ruarc swallows. Nods as he composes himself. “Yes. Well. I assumed the other versions of me never made it. I was never able to do anything like that.” He gestures to my glinting arm. “I am fortunate, in many ways. If they had survived, I may never have learned the truth. I would have been hunted. As I had to do with you.”

He lets the last part hang.

“Why?” I don’t bother to hide my frustrated confusion at the confession. “And why just give yourself up, now, after all of this?”

“I surrendered because everything has changed. One of your counterparts has made a terrible mistake, Silverhand, and it became imperative that we speak. No matter the cost to me.” He puts his hands to his throat and removes his torc. Holds it out to me. “As for the rest? Answers, if you would have them. The truth behind the war we are fighting, and the reasons for what I had to do. For what must yet be done.”

I look at him. I have been calm thus far, but this man has wrought so much destruction, so much death, upon a world not even his own. I think of all the bodies that lay alongside my father’s, still awaiting their rites. The hundreds of men and women I now know were slaughtered in the surrounding villages. He has come into Luceum, this place I have come to love, and he has tried to tear it apart .

I reach down and take the torc from him. Hold it up to inspect it in my silver hand. Closer to my eyes, there’s no mistaking the gentle glow of imbuing.

With a single squeeze, I crush it.

“NO!” The shout rips from Ruarc’s throat and he leaps forward, prevented from reaching me by his bonds. The light of imbuing vanishes from the crumpled metal in my hand, the triskeles barely recognisable anymore. “ Why? ”

“I don’t know what this was, Ruarc. A trap, or something that genuinely would have informed me. Either way, I was never going to put it on.” My hands shake with anger, but my voice is cold and calm. “I may listen to your story, in time. From you . But not tonight. Not yet.”

Ruarc scowls. “Why not?”

I hold up the crumpled iron torc. Pause, let the sight of it sink in. “Because tonight, I cannot guarantee that I will not do this to you as well.”

I spin and head for the door.

“The draoi . Do not tell them what you are, Silverhand. Do not tell anyone who you truly are or you may find yourself responsible for far worse than a few hundred dead.” He calls it after me. Pleading. “Say nothing, do nothing, until I have explained everything to you. Promise me.”

I shiver at both the certainty of his words, and their import. Nod slowly. “Not until I have heard you, Ruarc.”

I shut the door behind me, and stride toward the breaking dawn.