She was asleep before she finished her next breath.
* * *
A woodpecker was tapping on the trunk of the oak tree under which she was reclining. She could hear the spines of the leaves rustling in the wind, could smell the scent of the heather on which she lay as she watched clouds scudding across the sky. A black squirrel was sitting on the branch above her, clutching an acorn between its paws.
“Ceanndraoi?” it said. The woodpecker was knocking again, but the oak tree was now a currach with the Onglse Strait gray and foaming around it. She could feel the hull rocking under her, but there were no oars with which to row or steer, and she could not sit up. Something was pressing heavily against her body, not allowing her legs to move. Her anamacha sat in the prow, looking back at her.
“Ceanndraoi?” their voices said.
Orla’s eyes opened, then closed against the assault of sunlight. She was in Greum’s bed—no, her bed now—in his—no, her bedchamber, and the knock came again from the entrance door in the adjoining room. She shook her head, trying to clear it of confusion. “Just a moment,” she called out. She flipped the thick quilt away from her legs and feet, swinging them down. She gathered the nightdress around herself and ran fingers through what remained of her damaged, straw-like hair. “I’m coming.”
Leaving the bedchamber, she went to the entrance room, slid the iron bolt from its holder, and opened the door.
“Sorcha!”
Sorcha grinned. “And look who I’ve brought with me,” she said, stepping slightly aside so that Orla could see the woman behind her. “Magaidh. May we come in . . .” She paused, grinning. “. . . Ceanndraoi?” she finished.
Orla opened the door wide, taking Sorcha into her arms as she entered and kissing her. Magaidh came in behind Sorcha, and Orla released Sorcha to embrace her as well. “When—?” Orla began.
“We came over early this morning,” Magaidh said. “It’s midday now, in case you wondered. The bulk of the army’s still being ferried across. The Mundoa saw us and sent their ships north through the Strait to intercept us, but I had the draoi send a storm their way. We’ve managed to keep them bottled in the south and even wrecked one of their ships on Innis Holm. We’ll get everyone over safely by nightfall, I hope.” Magaidh stepped back from Orla, though Sorcha still clung to her. She tilted her head, gazing at Orla’s neck. “Things have changed since we last saw each other.”
Orla’s free hand went involuntarily to her torc. “Perhaps too much,” she said.
“The Red-Hand’s dead?”
Orla shook her head and shrugged simultaneously. “I don’t know. When I last saw him, he was still alive but not responding to anyone around him. Ceiteag’s with him; you’d have to ask her.”
Magaidh crossed her arms under her breasts. “Was that wise, leaving him alive? It means we’ve lost a powerful anamacha for now.”
“Wise or not, I couldn’t let the Moonshadow kill him.” Orla put her arm around Sorcha’s waist, pulling the woman to her for the comfort it would bring; she noticed that Magaidh gave a brief smile at the sight. “I didn’t want to challenge him, Magaidh, but he gave me no choice. Ceiteag and the archiaters are nursing him in my . . . in other quarters here.”
Magaidh and Sorcha glanced at each other. “And you?” Sorcha asked. “How are you after all this? Everyone is saying we won a great battle because of you.”
The soldiers screaming, the bodies strewn across the ground . . . The memories assailed her, and Orla found herself trembling in Sorcha’s arms. “We’ve turned them back for the moment,” she said simply. “How was your journey?”
Neither of the women pointed out her clumsy attempt to deflect talk of the battle. “Mostly uneventful,” Sorcha told her. “We stayed on the north side of the Meadham, so we were in Cateni territory the entire time. We kept hearing how many of the àrds and draoi had already passed through on the way to Onglse, so we knew you’d come through safely as well—at least as far as the coast. We saw the remnants of the pyre as we came here.”
With the words, the smell of the burning oil, wood, and dead bodies seemed to rise around Orla again. The faces in the Moonshadow’s anamacha laughed at her discomfiture. “Have the two of you eaten?” Orla asked. “I don’t know when I last ate, and I should talk to Eideard. Magaidh, would Comhnall join us?”
“I’ll ask him,” Magaidh said.
“Good. Come back here in a stripe, and we can break our fast here. I’ll have the kitchen staff send a meal to us and set a table.”
“So the new ceanndraoi is already getting used to her position,” Magaidh commented.
Orla’s head lifted, uncertain of what Magaidh’s tone might mean. “I’m sorry,” she began, but Magaidh raised her hand to stop the apology.
“Don’t. Take a lesson from your predecessors, Greum and Voada: no one expects the ceanndraoi to apologize. We expect the ceanndraoi to lead and to act.”
“You make it sound simple.”
Magaidh smiled at that. “It is. But simple has never meant easy.”
* * *
The meal had been finished, the dishes pushed aside, a few slices of bread and meat still on the serving tray. Flagons of dark ale sat before each of them, a pitcher on the side table. Eideard took a long pull from his flagon, gave a satisfied sigh, and wiped his beard and mouth with his sleeve. “I’m glad to see you back, Àrd and Draoi Mac Tsagairt. We desperately need the warriors and additional draoi that you’ve brought. You give us hope, as does our new ceanndraoi. I tell you, you should have seen Orla during the battle yesterday. She was simply magnificent—she set the Mundoa running for their lives.”
Eideard was sitting to Orla’s right, and he reached over to touch her shoulder as he finished his compliment. Orla saw Sorcha watching the gesture from across the table, though the woman said nothing. Orla smiled, but she also leaned away from Eideard. “The Mundoa retreated, but they’ll return,” she said. “They didn’t realize that we had as many draoi and warriors as we did and didn’t understand how we’d prepared for them. Savas won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Eideard scoffed at that. “It doesn’t matter. Now we have the rest of our army here. We’ll not only hold here, but we’ll push them back and off Onglse entirely.”
Orla heard the voices of her anamacha, which had approached her unnoticed. Her mam’s voice was predominate.
“That’s brave talk, Ceannàrd,” Orla interjected, “and a thought we certainly all applaud.” She took a breath as if she were about to say more, then stopped.
Eideard drew his head back. “Ceanndraoi?” he asked.
“As I’ve already told you, Savas won’t make the same mistake twice. When he comes next time, he’ll be better prepared and ready. We know he saw the boats ferrying our troops across the Strait, so he knows that we’ve been reinforced. He also still holds the bulk of the outer wall—what if he chooses to attack at an entirely different and more susceptible point on the second wall this time, or if he attacks in more than one location at once? He may well consider taking this tower too costly to attempt attacking it again.”
Orla could see the annoyance on Eideard’s face at her comments, but before he could answer, Comhnall spoke up. His left arm was still bound tightly to his chest, still useless.
“Ceanndraoi Orla’s right, Ceannàrd,” he said. “You’ve done well strengthening this post with the resources you had, but what about the other towers and the rest of the wall? You shouldn’t underestimate either Savas or the Mundoa. That’s what happened to us at Muras—a mist
ake that both Ceanndraoi Greum and I made, and it’s a mistake we can’t repeat.”
To Eideard’s credit, Orla saw him considering their objections seriously, though she thought it was mostly due to Comhnall’s comments, not her opinion. “You’re entirely right, Àrd, Ceanndraoi,” he said, a finger circling the lip of his pewter drinking vessel. “Àrd Mac Tsagairt, you were First Àrd under my uncle Maol Iosa. I wonder . . . would you be willing to be my First Àrd as well?” He lifted a hand against the objection that Comhnall began to speak. “No, I know what you’re going to say. You can’t fight as you once did, but I could use—no, I need—your knowledge, your experience, and your counsel. I think I would benefit greatly from that. That’s more important than your ability to fight from your chariot.”
“Then we should all drink to that,” Eideard answered. He lifted his own mug. Around the table the others followed suit. After the mugs clattered back down onto the table, Eideard nodded to Comhnall. “First Àrd,” he said, “you will take charge of distributing our new resources along this wall. If, as you suggested, Savas changes his point of attack, we can’t have our forces concentrated here.”
“In that case, Ceannàrd, I need to send faicinn fada volunteers—those with the long sight—to approach the Mundoan line as closely as they dare, so we can see where they are and what they’re doing,” Comhnall said. “We don’t know enough yet; I need more information before I deploy the warriors.”
“And if I can make a suggestion, Ceanndraoi?” Magaidh added. (
“Then we’ll do that as well,” Orla said loudly. “Will you oversee that, Magaidh, as my First Draoi?” Magaidh nodded her acceptance, and Orla rose. “Then we’re done here for now. We all have work to attend to, and we have very little time to prepare. Let’s begin.”
“Ceanndraoi,” Eideard began, but Magaidh and Comhnall were already standing.
“Eideard, Magaidh, Comhnall: we’ll meet here again at dusk and discuss where we are with our plans,” Orla said. “Until then . . .”
Eideard picked up his flagon, drank down the ale left in it, then slammed it back onto the table. “As the ceanndraoi wishes,” he said, and pushed his chair back from the table. He bowed somewhat drunkenly and was the first to the door, staggering a bit as he did so. Magaidh and Comhnall also made their obeisance and followed Eideard out. Sorcha went to the door and shut it behind them.
Leaning against the wooden planks, her hands fisted tight at her sides, she turned to Orla. “And what am I to do, Ceanndraoi?” She looked pointedly at the table and the remnants of the meal. “Ceannàrd Iosa, First Àrd Comhnall, Draoi Magaidh: they all have skills you need, and you’ve set them tasks. How do I serve the ceanndraoi? What is it that I’m to do? Clean up after our meal?”
The rebuke in Sorcha’s voice stung Orla. She could see tears shimmering in Sorcha’s eyes. When Sorcha blinked, twin tracks of moisture slid down her cheeks, though she kept her hands at her sides and lifted her head defiantly.
“Sorcha . . .”
“No,” Sorcha broke in, shaking her head and sending more tears flowing. “I’m not a draoi, a menach, or a warrior. I was taken from my family as soon as I began my moon-times and given to Alim as a wife—a man who despised Cateni women like me and used me whenever he wanted. I was mother to his children, and I loved them despite Alim, but I’ve had to leave them behind. I have nothing . . .” Her voice broke in a sob. “. . . to offer . . . you . . .”
Orla went to her, gathering the woman into her arms and pressing her head to her shoulder. She stroked her hair, kissed her neck. “Nothing to offer?” she whispered. “Sorcha, you are my heart. Without my heart, I can’t survive.”
“Eideard, he—”
“Eideard only wants my power. He doesn’t want me. If I weren’t Orla Moonshadow, I’d be someone he’d entirely ignore, disfigured and ugly and not worthy of his attention. He’ll never have me—not in that way. I promise.”
Sorcha sniffed, wiping at the tears. “Still,” she said, “I can’t help you like the others.”
“You can,” Orla told her. “You will. Greum Red-Hand had people like Ceiteag to control who he talked to and set his schedule. I need you to be my voice and my face when people come saying they need to talk to me or when I need something done and can’t do it myself. And most of all, I need you to just be with me. Be my friend. Be my lover. Tell me what no one else would dare tell me—because I know I can trust you to be honest. Would that be enough?”
Orla felt Sorcha’s nod against her shoulder. “Good,” she said. “Then we won’t talk about this anymore. After all, we still haven’t had time yet to properly say hello to each other again.”
* * *
“I sent forward a double hand of faicinn fada who volunteered; a hand and one returned,” Comhnall said after they ate their late dinner. From the open shutters of the balcony, they were touched by the last of the sun’s red and failing light, but it lent no warmth. Orla’s hands and face felt cold despite the roaring peat-and-wood fire in the apartment’s large hearth. To the south, they could see low storm clouds cloaking the coastal wall where Savas’ troops huddled. A map of Onglse was spread out in the middle of the table.
Orla’s anamacha stood near her; she ignored it as best she could, not wanting the dead draoi to hear her thoughts. The prospect of facing a long war with the Mundoa made her stomach roil and complain. She wondered how warriors like Eideard, Comhnall, and—yes—Savas could take such pleasure in battle and death.
She wondered if that was what had driven her mam mad. She wondered if it did the same to all warriors.
“From what our long-sighted ones could see,” Comhnall continued, “Savas is intending an attack on a wider front this time. There are cohorts of Mundoan soldiers massing at three of the towers along the southern wall—here, here, and here.” He pointed to three locations along the coastal wall directly opposite their own tower on the inner wall. “The largest number of cohorts is still posted at the middle tower, to which they retreated and which Savas seems to have made his headquarters. Ceannàrd, I’ve placed the warriors from Clans MacGowan, Kilmahew, and Chrom here at the tower to our left”—he pointed again, this time to the inner wall—“and the warriors from Clans Ayrshire, Dubhghlais, and Cuinneag to the right. The remainder I’d advise keeping here.”
Eideard nodded at that. “I’d agree, given what you’ve told us. Is there more?”
Magaidh answered him. “Since we have most of the clan draoi here with us now, we don’t have to worry about exhausting the most effective war draoi. At the ceanndraoi’s suggestion, I’ve set those with skill at weather spells to making the Mundoa miserable, rotating them in and out as they become tired. The Mundoa won’t be seeing the sun at all, and the rain should mire them down even more. While the minor draoi can’t actually direct the lightning from the clouds, Savas will still lose a few men to the bolts, and that will keep them jumpy and nervous.”
Magaidh was looking at her, and Orla realized that they were all waiting for her to respond. “Good,” Orla told her. “Thank you, Magaidh. That will help a great deal. Is there more we
need to know?” she asked those around the table.
Comhnall nodded. “The faicinn fada tell me that there’s a fair amount of engineering work going on. I don’t think we have long to wait: another day, maybe two. But I worry we still don’t know enough. The Mundoa used to have Cateni conscripts in their ranks, and we could often learn things from them, but that practice has been stopped. They still use Cateni servants in their cities, and”—with an apologetic glance at Orla and Sorcha— “their soldiers still take Cateni women as wives. But neither the Cateni wives, servants, or conscripts are here on Onglse.”
Orla saw Sorcha withdraw at the comment, staring out toward the empty courtyard and the dark storms over the coastal wall, hugging herself as if she were remembering her time with Alim and her lost sons. “This former wife might be able to learn more,” Orla told them. “I’ll go to Savas myself tonight as I did at Muras, and we’ll see what I can learn.”
“Is that wise?” Eideard asked.
Orla shrugged. “It’s just a spell. I can’t touch him; he can’t touch me. But I can see his room and his surroundings, and we can speak to each other. Maybe I’ll see something, or he’ll say something . . .” She shrugged. Sorcha had turned around to look at her. “It’s worth the effort. I’ll try tonight, and I’ll let you know if I find out anything worthwhile,” Orla told them, and the others nodded.
She wondered if they’d be so agreeable if they knew what she intended to ask Savas.
24
Preparing to Kill
SAVAS WAS SLEEPING NEXT to the same younger man she’d seen before, and now she recognized him as Savas’ chariot driver. Orla saw Savas nudge him with an elbow, though the younger man didn’t stir. The voices in the Moonshadow’s anamacha all laughed mockingly at Savas’ attempt, but Orla was the only one who could hear them. “My spell keeps him asleep, Commander,” Orla told Savas. “You should remember that you can’t wake him.”
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