“Her,” Lady Aife corrected. “She’s new. One of the Moor Tribe. Now, what if I were to tell you that she’s able to use both hands, prefers a trident and net as her weapons of choice, and likes to drag out her matches?”
We all turned to stare at the warmaiden, though only I wore an incredulous expression. “Well, if I didn’t know ye, I’d say ye were makin’ shit up,” I replied, at last.
Lady Aife held up one finger. “She bowed holding her cloak with both hands, when usually you’d do so either with the right or left.” Another finger. “Her right hand is calloused on the outside as well as the inside, both of which are consistent with a net. The trident is a common pairing, and when she moved down the aisle she led with her right foot. Net first, trident second. Right hand, left hand.”
“And what about draggin’ out her matches?”
“An educated guess. Anyone who fights with a net is patient. The goal is to catch you, then stab you, not charge in blind.” Lady Aife shrugged.
I blinked at her a few times, then finally nodded. “Alright, I see your point. I need to be more observant.”
“That’s not my point at all, Ceara,” Lady Aife replied, testily. “My point is that I noticed all that about a woman wearing a cloak. Now tell me, how much do you think the others know about you, by now?” Lady Aife gestured, and I took a long look around the room, realizing as I did that more than a few tribe members were staring at us, though most eyes were specifically on me—the newcomer.
Well, shit.
24
I eyed the swarthy competitor across from me as he stretched and hopped up and down, completely unperturbed by the constant bob of the man-made island—as if it were perfectly natural to fight on a churning surface. But then, as one of the seafaring tribes, I suppose that made sense. I, meanwhile, had to make peace with the fact that—if a rogue wave hit mid-fight—my next attack would likely involve projectile vomiting all over the bastard.
Not the worst plan, but by far the most humiliating.
I frowned, shaking my head to clear it, and resolved to focus on something other than the terrain; it was just past dawn on our second day in Oileán Baile, the horizon still blushing purple, the crisp sea air making it damn near chilly despite the warm climate. I held my spear loose in one hand, letting the wind caress my palms to keep them from getting sweaty.
“Contenders! Are you ready?” the judge called.
The fisherman raised his sword, a hooked thing that reminded me more of a climbing tool than a weapon. I mimicked him, lifting my spear, its haft decorated with the crow feathers I’d worn when I fought Rhys—a memento of victory, I’d explained to Blair when she’d asked, though in truth I wasn’t sure why I’d done it; it wasn’t like me to take trophies.
Before I could dwell further on the subject, however, the fight began.
The fisherman came at me low, practically scuttling across the wooden slats of the artificial island as though it were the deck of a roiling ship, hooked sword drawn back as if planning to thrust rather than hack. And thrust he did; he extended his sword, the blade pointed directly at one of my legs. Except the strike was almost comically early; even a novice would have time to get out of the way. But this tournament wasn’t full of novices, which is why I realized he wasn’t trying to stab me at all—not with a sword like that. Instead, it seemed he planned to use his blade like a fishing hook, hoping to impale me from behind as he withdrew.
But I wasn’t about to get caught that easy—pun intended. Rather than wait for his blade to pass me by, I sidled to my left and lashed out with a kick, my foot connecting with the man’s hand, his thrust swept harmlessly wide. The kick didn’t have much power behind it, but it was enough to deflect the man’s attack, which was the only opening I needed; I lunged forward, executing a thrust of my own, and skewered the man’s thigh. He wailed and crumpled, dropping his blade in the process, which was enough for the referee.
“Winner, Ceara Light-Eater!”
I rose, prying my spear free, surprised at how quickly the bout had ended. The fisherman rolled onto his back, clutching his wounded leg, cursing as blood began seeping from the wound. I dropped to a knee beside him, fetching a strip of cloth I carried for such emergencies, and held it out. “Move your hand.”
The fisherman’s eyes widened, but he did as I asked, watching in mild fascination as I tied a tourniquet above the wound, cutting off the blood supply. “Thought I might have you if I went fast,” he admitted while I worked. “Should have known you’d see me coming.”
“That should help until you make it to the healers,” I said, dipping my bloody hands between the island’s slats, letting the sea clean them.
“Thank you, lady.”
“Least I could do after I stabbed ye,” I replied, grinning. I offered the fisherman a hand, though he clearly hadn’t expected me to; his eyes were skeptical as he gained his feet, though he limped on his one leg. “It was a good strategy,” I admitted, clapping him on the shoulder. “But ye left yourself too open for a counterattack. Next time, I’d feint with the first strike, then go for another, but aim high the second time. Hook the back of their necks while they’re busy thinkin’ about their feet.”
The man grunted, shaking his head. “To think I’d see the day when one of the Curaitl offered advice on how to win a tournament!” He laughed, gripped my arm, squeezed, and began hobbling away. “I’ll be rooting for you, Ceara Light-Eater!”
I frowned after him, wondering what he’d meant by that.
Turned out he wasn’t the only opponent I’d surprise.
Over the next several hours, I competed in two more duels, each of which ended decisively with a single blow. Both opponents, like the fisherman, seemed more than content with losing—as if it were to be expected when facing one of the Curaitl. Maybe Tristan had been right to assume Rhys and I would fight each other, I realized. Indeed, few of the tribes seemed to relish fighting for its own sake as the spear wielders did. I even witnessed two bouts decided by an immediate surrender by one of the participants.
“Artists and musicians,” Blair explained. “They send representatives, but they rarely fight. Most come to watch the warriors and find inspiration.” She shrugged. “It’s all a bit frivolous, but few complain. It’s a free match, after all. Besides, it’s always nice having someone sing a song in your honor.”
I nodded, deciding that made quite a bit of sense. I’d seen a bard at work already, obviously, and such men would need to come from somewhere. Why not a tribe of bards, as there were tribes of warriors? In fact, it seemed obvious to me now that those representing the arts would be in attendance, even if they refused to duel; unlike Blair, I found nothing frivolous in their actions at all. Sadly, it seemed not all of us were destined to enjoy the luxury of skipping a match.
Because the next announced fight was between Tristan and Finann.
25
Tristan bunched his shoulders and twisted back and forth at the waist, his spear perched against the stone wall that wound along the sea’s edge, occasionally raising either foot in a stomping motion—anything to stay limber. “Come to wish me luck?” he asked as I sidled next to him.
I didn’t answer immediately, but instead studied the three brothers lounging on an array of boxes by the docks. Like Tristan, Finann had opted to wait by the boats rather than risk showing up late and forfeiting by default. As for the other two, my guess was they were here for moral support. That, or like many siblings who end up spending too much time together, they simply had nowhere else they’d rather be. Llew, I’d learned from Blair, had already lost to one of Boru’s giants, though it had been a closer match than she’d expected. The other two had summarily dispatched their opponents, one of which included poor Anna, and already there were rumors that Tuathal’s men were targeting the Curaitl—payback for personal grievances.
“Mind your feet,” I replied.
Tristan grunted, then reached for me as I shuffled past him. “Hey, where are you going?”
I ducked beneath his outstretched arm, dipped past the dockhands and sailors, and danced around the fishermen and their nets until at last I stood before the Crows—their title among the Curaitl. When I’d asked why, Tristan had muttered something about always finding them standing over fallen bodies on the battlefield.
Not unimpressive, as titles went.
Finann noticed me drawing close first, tapping shoulders as I approached. “Ceara Light-Eater,” he said, once I was in earshot, voice laden with spite. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I thought I owed ye an explanation.” I stopped a few feet away, the weight of their combined stares enough to keep me from standing within reach.
Better to be safe than strangled.
“Oh, I think your name is explanation enough,” Finann replied. “Ceara Light-Eater. So you’re what, the Curaitl’s spear in the night?”
I couldn’t help but laugh at his translation. The brothers bristled, but I was already holding a hand out to stay them. “No, ye idgit. Ceara is the name I gave the Curaitl when ye took me. I didn’t realize the name and the word were different.” I shook my hair out in front of my face like a dog might. “Fiery, remember?”
“And Light-Eater?” Llew asked, his voice as timid, as soft, as I remembered.
“Recent development,” I replied. “Bit of a long story. But it has nothin’ to do with bein’ a spy.”
Bran grunted. “Couldn’t find you after the attack.”
“The crowd overwhelmed me,” I explained. “I saw ye take Caer Capall back, but I was stuck on the other side of the hilltop fightin’ Lady Aife and her guards. They’re the ones who took me.”
“Why would she have wanted you, unless you were her spy?” Finann asked, incredulous.
“She took it personally when I attacked her people on the battlefield before ye lot found me,” I lied, though it was close enough to the truth that it really didn’t make a difference; I still hadn’t talked to Lady Aife about what Rhys claimed. It had proven harder than I thought, considering I couldn’t mention the man’s name, but there was more to it than that. For some reason, every time I thought about what he’d said, every time I thought about what I’d done to make my skin glow, every time someone called me “Light-Eater,” I felt a twinge of…something. Guilt, maybe? That feeling you get when you have something you know you should be doing, but you can’t quite remember what it was. And so you move on, though the nagging feeling never really goes away.
“I wonder why she’d do that?” Bran said, sarcasm obvious, bringing me back to the conversation at hand.
“So you weren’t sent to spy on us?” Llew asked, hopeful.
I shook my head.
“Then why are you here?” Finann asked, skeptically.
“She was recruited,” Bran replied, answering for me. He cocked his head, studying my leathers, the spear in my hand, eyes lingering on the crow feathers. “You any good with that thing?”
“Now why would I go and tell ye somethin’ like that?” I asked, grinning. “Tell ye what, though, either of ye are welcome to find out for yourselves. Unless Finann here loses to Tristan in the next hour or so.”
Finann bared his teeth at me, but I could tell he’d returned to his usual, teasing self—his suspicion allayed, at least for now. “You think your man has what it takes to beat me?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I admitted, honestly. “The only fightin’ I’ve seen ye do is for your life against a dog.”
Finann grimaced. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Live what down?”
“No one believed us. Especially not when Finann said the hound was on fire,” Llew said, patting his brother’s back. And yet, the moment Llew spoke, I pictured—not a hound on fire—but a beast with glowing runes etched into its fur. It was as if I could feel the heat radiating off the creature’s body, like standing too close to a campfire.
Finann snorted. “Not to mention it was the size of a damn horse.”
“Why not?” I asked, blinking away what must have been my imagination, ignoring the middle brother’s comment as I rubbed my arms, my skin pebbled with goosebumps.
“They didn’t want to believe a Hound of Ulster still existed here,” Bran replied, leaning back against one of the boxes, watching waves lap against the docks. “That’s all it was.”
“Ye called it that before,” I remarked, recalling the peculiar name. “But what are they?”
“They’re pups Cú Chulainn raised before he died,” Bran explained. “A specific breed of Cu-Sith. A Faerie dog.”
I frowned, blanking entirely on both the name and the terms Bran had used. Knowledge I’d had before, maybe? Either way, I wasn’t going to make Bran break things down further. “And what’s wrong with ‘em, then?”
“It’s said they serve the gods,” he replied. “The Tuatha de Danann. A Hound sighting, no matter how rare, is far too close to a god sighting for comfort.”
“But…wouldn’t that be a good t’ing?” I asked, thinking back to the feast of Beltane and the druidic ritual, to the reverence they’d put on display as they lit their torches. All three brothers were shaking their heads, however. In fact, their expressions were so grim I almost considered retracting my question.
“It’s said that—if the gods ever return—it means the Land of Youth is going to war. That we’ll return to the lands of men to fight and die, led by Lugh Long-Arm, his father Nuada, and the greatest of the Tuatha de Danann.” Bran sighed. “And yet, many of the Blessed People have chosen to live their lives in defiance of that prophecy.”
“What he means is, maybe the gods should go fight their own damn war,” Finann said. “Dagda knows some of us have seen enough battles to last a lifetime. Besides, why would anyone want to leave this place?” He held out both arms and twisted back and forth as if to showcase the entire landscape.
I took a slow look around, admiring the glorious morning light as it drifted over the wooden slats of the dock, the briny smell of the sea wafting in the air, the soothing sound of the surf harmonizing with the cries of birds. I took a deep breath, acknowledging how right it felt here. How whole and perfect.
“No clue,” I admitted, thinking of Blair, of the budding relationship between Imogen and Tristan, of the bustling Curaitl with their easy greetings, of the stillness that pervaded the mountain pass in the heart of winter—a stillness I could feel in my bones, urging me to embrace the purity of the moment. “I love it here.”
“As do we,” Finann replied, mirroring my expression. He grunted, hopped to his feet, and brushed at his breeches. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m off to kick some spear wielding ass.” He grinned, clapping me on the shoulder. “Glad you weren’t a spy, after all, ceara.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’d say good luck, but I’m sure ye don’t need it.”
“You could give me a kiss?” Finann teased. “I’m sure that would do wonders.”
“Ceara, is this man bothering you?” Tristan asked, apparently having caught the tail end of our conversation. I whirled to find him standing only a dozen feet away, head tilted, expression wry. Glancing back and forth between the two combatants, I realized they were surprisingly similar men. Teasing, easy-going, with a hard edge that showed under pressure.
And, what’s more, I considered them both friends.
I sauntered up to Finann and kissed him on the cheek. Then—before Tristan could so much as make a startled noise—I strode over and planted one on his, as well. “Good luck, boyos. Don’t break each other, alright?”
I waved as I departed, ignoring their bewildered expressions, though I knew their eyes followed me the whole way.
26
While Finann and Tristan busied themselves by squaring off on their island, I decided to find Blair and drag her through the city. She’d been eliminated after her third bout by Lady Aife—an unfortunate pairing by anyone’s standards—which meant she’d had plenty of time on her hands since
. I’d even changed into a dress Blair had bought me at one of the city’s bazaars, a low slung number that hugged my waist while leaving my shoulders and upper back bare.
My next fight, meanwhile, hadn’t yet been announced—not that I was particularly concerned. If anything, I found the duels a little, to use Blair’s word, frivolous. An excuse to test one’s abilities, sure, but the whole thing lacked the camaraderie that usually came with sparring alongside one’s peers. That, and I was beginning to realize I simply didn’t have much interest in fighting. The bloodshed, the screams, the violence—the more I engaged in it, the more repulsed I became.
And why shouldn’t I be? I had a woman I loved in easy reach, a strenuous but fulfilling lifestyle, a growing group of friends, and—with Rhys in exile—no true enemies. With all that in mind, I angled towards the tavern Blair preferred, wondering idly whether or not Lady Aife would let me bow out of the tournament early and spend the rest of our time here touring the Southern Isles. It was probably a long shot, but I’d at least risk asking if it meant avoiding further butchery. Besides, I had everything I wanted already—who needed a travel writ or some boon?
That was the last thought I had before the blade took me in the back.
The blade—and I’d been struck by enough of them by now to know that’s what it was—pierced deep into my side, grating agonizingly along the crest of my hip bone, tearing through muscle and flesh to end lodged along my spine, and then back out again with the same savage quickness. I collapsed almost immediately after the attacker withdrew the blade, a throbbing, burning pain like I’d never felt before driving me to my knees, my legs caught in the folds of my dress, making it hard to move. Still, I tried to turn and locate my assailant, but something connected with the side of my head before I could so much as raise my eyes from the ground. A fist, maybe. Or a boot. Either way, I was too dazed, my view too blurry, to make anything out beyond a slight, cloaked figure holding an oddly-shaped knife before the blow landed and I slumped to all fours.
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