She released Orla, still holding her by the shoulders. “Take good care of your draoi,” Magaidh said, glancing at Sorcha. “Without her, the battle today would have been entirely lost. She saved us. She saved all of us.”
Orla shook her head, though her cheeks reddened at Magaidh’s praise. The exhaustion still hadn’t left her, even after several stripes of the candle, and now that the battle was over, the images and sounds of what she’d done were returning to her, making her feel sick. If Savas and his army attacked the camp now, she wasn’t certain she could trust herself to cast even a single spell. The very thought made her shiver. Orla hugged herself, as if she were cold. “I did nothing you wouldn’t have done for me,” she said. “And what of the ceanndraoi?”
Magaidh grimaced. “The archiater who attended him thinks he’ll recover from his wounds.” She glanced around, lowering her voice. “At least the physical ones. As I’m sure you understand.”
Orla nodded. Eideard had been vocal about his feelings even as they abandoned the battlefield. “The man sounded the retreat unnecessarily. We had the advantage of the field and would still have taken them, but the Red-Hand was only concerned with saving himself.” She’d heard many of the other àrds muttering in agreement on their return to the encampment.
Orla had seen Commander Savas’ banner and his chariot; she still remembered that he’d stared at her as if he knew who she was and whose anamacha she held. She was certain he would have come after her if they’d not retreated, and she didn’t know what would have happened then. Eideard would have welcomed that chance, but . . .
“What’s going to happen?” Orla asked Magaidh. “The ceannàrd injured, the ceanndraoi . . .” She paused.
“That will depend on the draoi,” Magaidh answered. “Those of Onglse who are close to the ceanndraoi might stay with him: Ceiteag, Moire, several of the others in his inner circle. But the other draoi, those of us who live out with the clans . . . well, I don’t know if they will still look at him and see someone they want to follow or who deserves their respect. Not after taking us from a battle we might have won.”
“And you, Magaidh? Does the Red-Hand deserve your respect?” Orla asked.
Magaidh didn’t answer beyond a tightening of her lips.
“They respect you, Draoi Magaidh,” Sorcha interjected. When Magaidh and Orla looked toward the woman, she continued. “I hear the other draoi talking when they think no one is listening. They think that the person Voada chose as her First Draoi would make a better ceanndraoi than the Red-Hand, who refused to follow where Voada led, who was never part of her victories, and whose inaction may have caused her defeat in the end.”
Magaidh gave a quick shake of her head. “The ceanndraoi should be the best of us, the most powerful, and that’s not me. It was once Greum Red-Hand, but that changed when Voada left Onglse and took the title for herself. And now . . .”
Magaidh didn’t finish the thought. Orla felt the touch of winter as the Moonshadow’s anamacha pressed close to her.
“No,” Orla said: to Magaidh, to Sorcha, to her anamacha. “You’re implying that it should be me, but that’s not what I want. I’m not ready.”
“Sometimes you’re not given a choice,” Magaidh said. “Sometimes the title chooses the person, not the other way around. But I agree with you; you’re not yet ready. The àrds and draoi have called for a formal conclave as soon as possible, and they’ve told the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd to be there. I was sent to make sure you attend as well.”
“A conclave?”
“Aye,” Magaidh said, then added more gently, “I don’t know what’s going to happen. None of us do. There will be a lot of shouting and arguing, that much is certain, but as to how it will end . . . ?”
She lifted a shoulder and let it fall again.
* * *
“Commander, you requested that the Voice of Muras and the chief shipwright meet with you . . .”
Altan looked up from his field desk and nodded to Tolga, standing at the entrance to his tent. Tolga had already set two chairs in front of the desk. “Fine. Send them in,” he said.
Tolga saluted and stepped back. Two men entered the tent; Tolga let the flap close behind them and remained in the tent himself. The chief shipwright was gray-haired with a face that showed hands upon hands of years in the sun and a body that displayed the scars of hard work with saws and chisels. He was short and muscular and at least half Cateni, Altan suspected, despite his Mundoan name of Sabri.
The Voice of Muras was Demir, a nephew of Great-Voice Utka. He was dressed in royal purple, his black hair oiled and perfumed, his heavy-lidded eyes adding an air of languid disregard to his presence, as if the man were habitually bored. The resemblance between Demir and his uncle was enough to give Altan an immediate dislike for the man.
The Voice’s eyebrows lifted slightly as he stared at Altan, still seated behind his desk. With a barely concealed sigh, Altan rose (his knee protesting), saluted, and bowed his head to the man. “Voice Demir, thank you for coming. If you’d like wine . . .” He nodded toward Tolga, who approached holding a tray with three wooden mugs; he handed one to each of the men and set Altan’s down on the desk. “Please sit,” Altan told the two, gesturing to the chairs facing his desk. Sabri hesitated, obviously uncomfortable being in this company, but Voice Demir gathered up his robes and sat as if placing himself on a throne, arranging the folds around him. He sniffed at the wine, frowned as if the offering were beneath his station, and set his mug on the nearest corner of Altan’s desk.
“Commander Savas,” Demir said, as if it had been he who had called for the meeting. “Congratulations on your victory this day. All of Muras is grateful. I’ll send my uncle my report once I’ve had the chance to compose it, but I have to wonder why the cohorts the Great-Voice gave you aren’t out pursuing the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd and their army and destroying them entirely.”
Altan glanced at the Voice’s hands, as soft as a child’s. He’s never held a weapon, never fought, never had to do manual labor. He’d piss himself if he were ever in a battle. He swallowed his irritation at the Voice’s barely hidden scorn. “I follow the emperor’s and Great-Voice Utka’s orders,” he said. “I was told to take Onglse and the north. I can’t accomplish that by chasing the army of the clans into the mountains—that would only waste the good troops the emperor sent me. Fighting the clans on ground that they choose and I don’t know is a hopeless task, as I’m sure Voice Demir can understand. And I already have too many good soldiers to send to the flames and many more who need to heal, including my sub-commander Ilkur, who was very nearly killed. I appreciate your congratulations, Voice Demir, but to me this wasn’t a victory. It was at best a draw, and came close to being a terrible defeat.” And I still don’t know why the ceanndraoi called for the retreat. Worse, I felt the Moonshadow’s presence again, and that terrifies me more than anything.
Demir seemed to shake himself, as if he’d only half heard Altan’s answer. “Of course,” he said, waving a hand. “Certainly. But yet, to remain here . . .”
Altan could hear the unspoken words. If the army stays here, Muras will have to feed and supply it. Altan could see the man totting up expenses in his mind.
“I don’t intend to remain here a moment longer than I must, Voice Demir,” Altan said, and Demir could not hide the relief on his face. “But to complete my task for the Great-Voice and the emperor and conquer the north, I need to take Onglse, which is the heart of the draoi. Both the emperor and the Great-Voice realize that. And to invade Onglse, I need ships that can reach it, which is why I asked the shipwright to come here. Shipwright, how soon can you replace the ships that the draoi burned?”
Sabri, the shipwright, gaped fo
r a moment, obviously startled at being addressed. “Commander,” he managed to say, stuttering a bit, “most of the ships we’d built were burned down to the waterline. The others were smashed by the terrible wave one of the draoi sent. I might be able to salvage the keels, but little else. Replacing them . . . that would take several moons, and I only have a hand and two of good craftsmen—”
“I don’t have moons,” Altan interjected. “But I do have men: good engineers and experienced builders who know woodworking and the like. Men who have sailed. I can send you as many hands as you require. If you need more than I can supply, I’ll have them sent to you from the yards at Gediz. How soon, Shipwright, if you had as many workers as you could handle?”
The man sputtered wordlessly, looking from Altan to the Voice. “Well . . . I don’t know . . . A hand and four of ships . . .” Sabri tapped at his forehead with a forefinger, his eyes shut tight. “With enough skilled men, a large crew for each ship, people to cut down and bring in lumber, several good foremen to direct them . . . Two moons, maybe—”
Altan didn’t let him continue. “Good! You’ll start immediately, then, and work as quickly as you can,” he said loudly, clapping his hand down on the desk. “Send me your requirements by this evening, Shipwright, and you’ll have your crews ready to start work tomorrow. In the meantime, Voice Demir, my army will remain camped here on the northern side of the river to protect Muras and keep the draoi from burning down these ships.”
Demir managed a wan smile; Sabri seemed lost in thoughts and calculations. Altan rose, gesturing to Tolga. “Thank you both for your cooperation,” he said. “You should return to the town and your families; I’m sure they’re waiting for you. Good evening, Voice Demir, Shipwright Sabri.”
Altan watched Tolga usher them from the tent. When he could no longer hear their footsteps outside, he turned to Tolga. “I need three messengers. I have a letter to send to Great-Voice Utka in Savur, another to send to the Voice of Gediz, and the third messenger will ride north under a flag of truce.”
“Gediz? North?” Tolga asked. “But—”
Altan lifted his finger to stop the protest. “You and the last two messengers are the only ones who are to know about their missions. Send me the messenger for the Great-Voice first, wait for half a turn, then bring the messenger who’ll be riding to Gediz, then finally a trustworthy volunteer willing to ride north. Go now.” Altan patted Tolga’s cheek affectionately. “And remember, say nothing. In the meantime I have those messages to prepare.”
* * *
Magaidh had said there’d be shouting and arguments. In the end, there would be more of both than Orla had thought possible.
For two full hands of days, little happened at all. The Cateni remained in the hills; the Mundoan army remained on the northern floodplain of the Meadham. Anyone attempting to enter Muras on foot from the north was stopped and turned back. The River Meadham was blocked with chains well east of the town; no boats were permitted to pass that weren’t flying the flag of Mundoa, and even those were searched. There were occasional skirmishes between the two armies, but for the most part, an uneasy peace reigned.
The unease extended to the feelings between the àrds and the draoi. Orla overheard tense and angry arguments, which occasionally—especially between the warriors—turned into physical altercations that the àrds quickly broke up.
It was four days later that Ceanndraoi Greum finally bowed to the demands for a conclave.
The meeting took place in a hollow nestled between the ridges and the foothills, a clearing ringed by ancient oaks half a stripe’s walk from the encampment. The air was cool and sweetly scented, and the green canopy overhead dappled the mossy earth with sunlight. The branches of some of the oaks held clusters of mistletoe, and Orla brushed the glossy, stiff green leaves as she passed. She felt that she was entering an ancient, sacred temple, and she heard the whispers of the Moonshadow’s voices in her head.
Orla pushed away the Moonshadow’s voices as she, Sorcha, and Magaidh entered the natural amphitheater, which was already crowded with the various clan àrds and draoi. Anamacha shimmered in the shadows like wisps of softly glowing fog near their chosen draoi. Both the ceannàrd and ceanndraoi were already there, seated on stumps in the center of the ring and evidently in the midst of a private argument. Orla could hear their raised voices amid the general hubbub, if not the actual words they were exchanging, and the two men were gesticulating violently, both one-handed and obviously in discomfort.
The leaders were hardly the only ones in the clearing caught up in discussion—Orla could see Eideard not far from them, his dark eyes glimmering underneath a furrowed brow as he and a trio of other àrds spoke, their heads together. He caught sight of Orla and nodded to her. Orla wondered how anyone would be able to bring everyone together when she saw Ceiteag step from underneath the shadows of a tree. Her long and unbound white hair was bright in the sunlight; she was dressed in a simple undyed linen bog dress, her only ornamentation the torc of the draoi around her thin neck and bracelets of horn around her wrists. She looked around the clearing as she entered, holding a large polished brass bowl in her hands. Her gaze seemed to pause momentarily as she found Orla’s eyes; she might have nodded toward her, though Orla thought that might have been her own imagination. Ceiteag moved to where the ceannàrd and ceanndraoi were seated and set the bowl on a boulder thrusting up from the grass between them. From her belt she took a small leather-wrapped wooden beater and struck it against the bowl: once, then two more times. Three clear, high, ringing notes sang out, riding easily over the noise of the conversations. By the time the notes slowly faded, everyone had gone silent.
“This conclave of the àrds and draoi has begun,” she intoned in her high, quavering voice. “Who will ask the first question?”
“I’ll ask what all of us want to know,” Eideard called out without hesitation. Orla could see the storm cloud rage in his face, the same expression she’d seen on the battlefield. “Why did Ceanndraoi Greum call for retreat too early? The battle wasn’t yet lost, not nearly so, and I was about to engage Commander Savas himself. Draoi Orla had just removed his sub-commander from the fight, and the ceanndraoi must have seen that—certainly the ceannàrd did. Draoi Orla and I would have done the same with Savas and ended it. I say that the battle would have been ours had the ceanndraoi not pulled back our warriors and draoi and left us without support.”
Shouts of agreement and dissent erupted all around the clearing until Ceiteag struck the bowl again. “Quiet!” she barked. “Allow the ceanndraoi to speak and answer Àrd Iosa’s question, unless you are afraid to hear what he has to say.”
Greum Red-Hand had risen stiffly from his seat, glowering at the people arrayed before him and especially toward Eideard. He waited until the shouting had subsided once more, leaning more heavily than usual on his walking stick. Orla could see pain mingling with his expression, and the bandages around his shoulder and chest were bloodstained. Greum lifted his chin.
“I wasn’t the one who called for us to withdraw,” he said. His voice was slower and less forceful than usual, but it still carried throughout the ring of oaks. “Yes, you all saw the light I sent into the sky, but that wasn’t intended to signal a retreat. It was only a failed spell I was unable to properly cast. I was sorely
wounded at the time, but I saw that Draoi Orla had chosen to protect the ceannàrd and Draoi Magaidh rather than her ceanndraoi.” Orla drew in her breath at that; Magaidh shook her head as if warning Orla to stay silent. “I was laying half senseless in the chariot, and I thought I could muster one more spell to send toward Commander Savas, but my hands couldn’t complete the spell cage, and the power escaped me. My driver thought me dead or dying, and so he turned the chariot away. That, along with the carnyx-players on the hill seeing the spell-light in the sky, caused the retreat to be sounded and our army to turn. Nothing more. The retreat wasn’t deliberate; it was purely Elia’s will.”
There was more grumbling around the clearing, but everyone went silent as Ceiteag lifted her beater again in warning. “Is your question answered, Àrd Iosa?” she asked.
Eideard gave a mocking cough of a laugh. “It’s answered, though I find it interesting that the ceanndraoi seems to spread the blame like a pat of butter on stale bread, even to Elia Herself. But I have another—”
Before Eideard could speak, Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt also rose. “I know the question,” he said, “and I have your answer. I failed, and I should no longer be ceannàrd.” The grove went entirely quiet with that pronouncement; only the rustling of oak leaves in the breeze could be heard. Orla turned her head to look at Magaidh, who was watching her husband with eyes that shimmered with unshed tears. She knew he was going to say this . . .
Mac Tsagairt touched his left arm, bound tightly to his chest. “I’ve seen more years than most here, and I have fought too many battles. At my age, this arm will take seasons to heal, if it ever does completely. The army of the clans deserves a younger and more vital ceannàrd. My time is done.”
With that, Comhnall nodded to his son Hùisdean, who stepped forward, took hold of the ends of the silver torc of the ceannàrd around his father’s neck, and bent it enough to remove it. He gave the torc to Comhnall, who, with his good hand, placed the torc on the stump on which he’d been sitting.
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