“‘She fights like my sister’. That’s what Lady Aife said,” Rhys continued, without waiting for either of us to respond. “Blair and I were guarding Lady Aife when we saw her fight. Lady Aife made us stop to watch. She was a savage, Tristan. She fought without honor, striking down anyone who got close, as if her only goal was to survive.”
I frowned, trying to recall the battle Rhys was talking about and my reason for being there, but couldn’t. It was, like the rest of my past, locked away in a murky, insubstantial place with no windows or doors. And yet, to remind Lady Aife of her sister—by all accounts a fierce warrior Lady Aife both clearly despised and respected—came as quite the shock.
Rhys was nodding, noting my dumbfounded expression. “You’re no spear wielder. You’re a spy, sleeping with one of our own while you plot our destruction and undermine our way of life. Ceara, I name you ghiall.”
A collective gasp went up from those sitting around us, many of whom had been listening at least surreptitiously. Tristan actually placed a restraining hand on Rhys’ chest, his other held out to stop anyone else from moving. Indeed, by this point we’d drawn the attention of the whole table, Lady Aife included.
“What’s going on down there?” she called.
When no one immediately replied, I cleared my throat. “Well, that depends,” I yelled back.
“On?” Lady Aife sounded amused.
“On what a ghiall is,” I replied, trying to match her light, good-natured tone.
Anything to diffuse the tension.
And yet, the instant I spoke the word, the few remaining conversations ceased. In seconds, Lady Aife’s guards, Blair included, seemed to materialize out of thin air alongside their warmaiden, weapons drawn. Bewildered, I studied the various faces I’d come to know over the last few months, wondering what social miscue I’d committed this time. But then it wasn’t my fault, was it? It’d been Rhys who used the word.
And yet, why did I have the sinking sensation that I was the one about to suffer?
“Where did you hear that word, Ceara?” Lady Aife asked, approaching us, her entourage in tow.
“Rhys used it,” Tristan explained, words strained as though he were speaking through clenched teeth. “To describe her.”
Blair drew everyone’s attention with a startled noise, shock and despair warring across her face, her duties as a silent-but-deadly bodyguard momentarily forgotten. “Oh, Rhys. How could you?” she asked, staring at her former lover.
“Rhys,” Lady Aife said, her voice as cold and brittle as it had been the night she came for me, “you should not have done that.”
“It is my right, warmaiden,” Rhys replied, shrugging off Tristan’s hand, though he seemed intent on ignoring Blair. “You have given her our blessing, but at what cost?” He shook his head. “I’m not the only Curaitl who does not trust her, my Lady. I am, however, the only one willing to defy you to say so. She is ghiall. She is our enemy.”
Lady Aife halted, eyes narrowed, lips a thin line. “So be it.”
I glanced back and forth between the two, but neither seemed willing to blink first, so it ended up being me who stood and stepped between them. “Can someone tell me what’s goin’ on?” I asked.
“I have challenged you in front of the Curaitl,” Rhys replied.
“Challenged me to what, exactly?”
“A fight to see who the gods favor,” Lady Aife replied. “And who they do not.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh, right.”
Wait, what?
20
Blair hurriedly explained the shit storm I’d inadvertently walked into while she escorted me back to our hut. According to her, by calling me a ghiall, Rhys had labeled me an enemy, not just of the Curaitl, but of the Blessed People. From what I gathered, the term was archaic, a curse reserved only for the most despicable, traitorous person one could imagine. Meaning it was, loosely put, the most offensive thing you could say to someone. So offensive, in fact, that it required a duel to settle whether or not it applied—another archaic practice.
“And winners get what, exactly?” I asked, plopping down on the edge of our bed so I could trade in my sandals for boots.
“They get to stay,” Blair replied.
“In the village?”
“In the Land of Youth.”
I froze, leather straps slipping from my fingers, and stared up at the woman I’d given my heart to. “Ye can’t be serious.”
Blair nodded, her face stricken, lips pressed together so tight it was as if she were holding back tears. I looked away, fumbling with my boots, momentarily numbed by the idea that the loser of this duel would be banished to the Blighted Lands—a landscape apparently so unlike the Land of Youth that it might as well have been the seeds from which our nightmares grew.
Of course, it wasn’t the Blighted Lands I cared about.
“Who are ye more afraid to see go?” I asked, shattering the sudden silence.
“What? Ceara…how could you even ask that?”
I finished tying my boots, stood, and met her eyes. I saw pain in them but didn’t look away; part of this was her fault, and we both knew it. I used to think Rhys had always despised me, that he’d taken his defeat at Caer Capall too personally, but was that really all there was to it? Somehow, I doubted it.
I shook my head. “Nevermind.” I took a long look around the room—our room. At the cloaks hanging from a set of cattle horns on the wall, the mass of fur blankets Blair insisted she needed to stay warm at night, the cradle she’d carved for our spears. I marveled at all those telltale signs of cohabitation, of sharing a life with someone, and felt it all slipping away. “I t’ink ye should go,” I said, turning to face the wall as I undid the brooch holding my dress in place at the shoulder, preparing to change.
“But—”
“Please, just go,” I said, voice tight with emotion, clutching at the material across my chest to keep it from falling off. For some reason, I really didn’t want Blair to see me naked right now; I felt vulnerable enough as it was.
Honestly, part of me wished I could turn and take her in my arms, hold her close and tell her none of this was her fault, or mine. That Rhys was to blame. That what was about to happen had been a long time coming. But I couldn’t. Because I still wasn’t sure how much of what had happened was Rhys hating me, and how much of it was Rhys still loving her—and he did still love her. Why else would he have told her what he intended to do if he won the tournament? What else had he said, I wondered, when they were alone together?
When had they been alone together?
And for how long?
I grabbed my hair and tugged with my free hand, frustration and jealousy and anguish hitting me one after the other until all I wanted to do was scream to stop from drowning. And, in the back of my head, that damn voice clamoring, repeating the same phrase over and over again.
Let it go. We have a job to do.
“I don’t know what I’d do with myself if you left,” Blair said, and I glanced back over my shoulder to find her still hovering in the doorway, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Win. Win for me. And for us.” And, with that, she left.
For us.
By the time I returned to the market square, the druids had reignited all the braziers, though the flames now spit and fizzled with that harsh, brilliant white light that still seemed discordant and wrong to me somehow, no matter what the Curaitl claimed about purification and blessings. I stalked towards the gathered masses in a black leather cuirass, dark wool pants, and boots, crow feathers tied into my hair—an outfit meant for mourning, dismissive of the bright, clashing colors of which the Blessed People were so fond. Personally, I thought it fitting; once an outsider, always an outsider, right? As such, I made a point of ignoring the crowd’s murmurs and perturbed glances, content to let the Curaitl part swiftly before me.
Distantly, the sound of drums began, beating low and deep and steady like the heart of some primordial beast. I marched to it, letting th
e percussive rhythm seep into my bones, letting it stoke that simmering rage I’d held locked away for so long—a rage that had never seemed to belong to me, until now.
I found Lady Aife and Rhys waiting for me in the center of the square. The warmaiden had changed, donning gear of her own, wrapped in the cloak of a white bear, cheeks and chin painted red, her sword and spear in either hand. She crossed them as I approached, a sign of respect. I raised my own spear in response, but my attention was all for Rhys; the man wore a pair of vibrant checkered trousers, naked from the waist up, even his feet bare, and held two javelins in either hand, rather than the more traditional, heavier spear.
“Curaitl,” Lady Aife began, “tonight we are gathered to bear witness to the whims of fate. By our laws, after tonight, only one of these two champions will remain among us. Only one can claim victory. Will it be Rhys Two Tusks?”
A small cheer went up, mostly from the men gathered behind Rhys, full of catcalls and bawdy language. Rhys raised his javelins, crowing, the veins in his neck straining. I noticed he’d smothered his hair in lime and spiked it, the result a blond mass that rose from his scalp like a corona.
“Or will it be Ceara Battle-Forged?” Lady Aife asked once the cries died down, using the name she’d given me when I’d first begun training with her—a reminder of how she’d found me as well as who I’d become since.
The cheers for me were few and far between, though—of the faces gathered around me—I realized few, if any, bore any animosity. If anything, everyone appeared as though they were already grieving, their festivities cut short by the knowledge that the loser of this fight would not only be exiled but forgotten. Ripped away from tales, their name unspoken, their legacy tarnished beyond redemption. To be banished was the Land of Youth’s ultimate punishment—a fate far worse than death.
“Is there no other way?” I asked, so softly only Lady Aife would hear.
“No,” she replied. “I’ve spoken to him, but his mind is made up.”
I sighed, leaned on my spear, and began shifting my weight from side to side, warming up my legs and hips as Lady Aife raised her sword. True to his namesake, Rhys leveled his javelins low and wide, like the twin tusks of a boar. I kept warming up, rolling my neck and shoulders.
“Are both contenders ready?” Lady Aife asked.
“Of course I am,” Rhys growled.
I nodded. “Whenever ye are.”
Lady Aife swung her sword down. “Begin!”
Rhys made the first move, closing the distance between us so fast Lady Aife barely had time to get out of the way. It was a good strategy; the element of surprise often proved the difference between a win and a loss in a fight between skilled opponents. But, unfortunately for Rhys, I wasn’t surprised in the least; I’d sparred with Rhys several times in the past, and—despite the fact he’d never taken me on with his weapons of choice—I knew his habits. I knew, for example, that the man enjoyed dominating a fight, winning so quickly and decisively that his opponents never again challenged his skill or his authority. Which meant I knew he’d come right at me.
Which is why, the instant he charged, I already had my spear in the air.
My spear took Rhys in the shoulder, just beneath his clavicle, his heart saved only because he’d dropped into a lower crouch than I’d expected. Still, the bastard staggered back in surprise, dropping one of his javelins, clutching at the haft of wood jutting from his body. The crowd, meanwhile, was similarly stunned. After all, they’d expected a fight, not an execution.
But I wasn’t here to play by their rules.
Not anymore.
Rhys fell to one knee as he endeavored to tear the spear free, watching me the entire time—aware that, if I made a move now, he’d be at a disadvantage. But I knew better; even wounded, Rhys could put up a fight. So, I let him remove the spear. I even watched impassively as he pried the spear tip free from his wound, blood pouring down his naked flesh, eyes fluttering from the pain.
“You bitch,” he muttered as he fumbled about for his discarded javelin, refusing to take his eyes off me. But even the lighter, smaller weapon proved too heavy for his wounded side to hold; it fell from his fingertips twice before he gave up on it, rising with only the single javelin in hand. “What if you’d missed?” he bellowed, casting his gaze over the crowd. “What if she’d hit one of you, by accident?”
It was a good question.
“That was a risk I was willin’ to take,” I replied. I pointedly ignored the mutters of the crowd, giving Rhys the full weight of my attention. “Ye see, I thought this place was to become me home. That I was welcome here. That I had friends. And yet, when ye called me ghiall, none of the Curaitl spoke up on me behalf.” I held up a hand at the sudden clamor. “Some of ye may have urged Rhys not to go so far, but not one of ye denied his claims. Not. One.” I let the pain of that betrayal show on my face, allowed them all to see what I’d been feeling ever since Blair left me alone in our hut: the bitterness that came with finding out how naive I’d been to put my faith in strangers. That disembodied voice that haunted me, that sense of wrongness, grew stronger by the moment, as if—by defying these people, by choosing to distance myself from them—I was behaving more and more like myself.
But was that really a good thing?
“Because they know the truth!” Rhys asserted, planting the butt end of his javelin in the dirt.
“Aye? And what truth is that?” I asked, sounding tired even to myself. “That I am an outsider? That I will never be one of ye?”
“That you’re a poison!” Rhys spat. “That you taint us all!” He stalked the edges of the crowd, angling towards me. “Everyone speaks of it. How you try to change the way we live. How you urged us to store our food differently. To breed our animals. To hunt—not as the gods would—but as cowards, with traps.” Rhys jabbed at me, still too far away for the strike to do any damage, but menacingly, nonetheless. “You would make of our people something we are not meant to be.”
I frowned, backing away, struck by the idea that what Rhys was saying might be true. As I danced away from the man, I glanced at the expressions on the faces milled around us and realized that it was. That—by trying to help and be a part of their community—I’d incidentally criticized their way of life. That I’d introduced alien concepts to their world, concepts I couldn’t even entirely grasp myself half the time. I hesitated, dropping my guard for an instant.
What if Rhys was right?
What if I didn’t belong in the Land of Youth?
“Ceara saved my son,” a woman called, the crowd peeling away to reveal a familiar face—a mother I’d met a few weeks back after a hunt. “He was trapped in one of the caves, and she showed the others how to get to him safely, though everyone said it couldn’t be done.”
“She helped us design and build a better fence,” another added, this time a gruff older man who, along with a handful of others, had been tasked with keeping the cattle secure despite the various predators that wandered the mountains.
In moments, a slew of others began to speak, each of them reminded of a time I’d either helped, or at least tried to help, them. Most were amusing tales of how I’d floundered, but some featured me as a hero, as a savior. With each passing moment, I felt that voice in the back of my mind recede, quieted like a shushed child, almost as if it, too, were listening. All the while, Rhys glared at his peers, growing angrier by the moment, until at last one voice broke above all the others.
“She makes me feel safe,” Blair said, moving to stand just outside the circle, the hubbub around her dying away. “And loved. She’s kind, and thoughtful, and clever. She is not our enemy, Rhys, she’s—”
“Enough!” Rhys roared. “Don’t you all see? This is why she must not be allowed to stay. What will the other tribes think of us when they discover how we’ve changed? What will the gods think of us?”
“The gods,” the druid with the face tattoos said, stepping forward into the circle with Lady Aife at his side, “do
not rule here as they once did. They, themselves, chose to walk a different path long ago. It would be wise, Rhys Two Tusks, to revoke your challenge. Choose a new direction, as they did.”
Rhys snarled, hefting his javelin, his shoulder wound still bleeding. But then he straightened, surveying the crowd as though gauging their reaction, face impassive. “Very well,” he replied, shoulders slumped. “I can see that you are all against me.” I felt a slight amount of tension ease out of my body as he spoke, praying this nightmare was finally over, slightly overwhelmed by the knowledge that the Curaitl had accepted me despite my foolish attempts to change them.
And that’s when he attacked.
“No!” I screamed, diving to put myself between Rhys and Blair.
His javelin took me in the stomach, piercing my gut, the pain not even registering at first. In fact, I was so shocked all I could do was stare at the thing, my hands wrapped around the shaft to keep it from going any further. Rhys, meanwhile, held the other end, putting all his weight into the thrust he’d intended for Blair. He yanked, tearing it free from both my stomach and my hands, then thrust again, taking me in the shoulder this time.
“Weak,” Rhys said, working the javelin’s point deeper into the meat of my shoulder until all I could do was scream. I heard a commotion behind me and glanced over my shoulder to see Tristan holding Blair back, the bigger man explaining that she wasn’t allowed to interfere, though his eyes danced with hate and the promise of violence as he glared at Rhys.
“She wouldn’t have been injured permanently,” Rhys said, withdrawing the javelin. He lashed out, kicking me in the chest. I fell onto my back, groaning, trying to fight through the pain to stand. “And yet, I knew you’d try to stop me,” Rhys added, studying me from above. “See? You still think like an outsider.”
“Ceara!” Blair screamed. “Get up!”
Rhys grimaced and drew back for another strike, though I expected this one to be more fatal—an end to our match, once and for all. And yet, with Blair’s voice still echoing in my ears, I realized I didn’t want to lose. That I didn’t deserve to be forsaken. Not now. Not when I’d finally found someone to care for, found a place to belong. It wasn’t fair.
Salty Dog Page 11