‘Your word isn't enough,’ Ruan pointed out. ‘It balances Mara's, so neither will count. But you do train here, together, as she said, without her knowledge.’
‘Because of her!’ Eefay exclaimed.
‘That can't be proved either,’ he said. ‘But let me finish. Mara claims you conspire to overthrow her. She asks the druid elders for approval to enter Alba and bring you both to justice.’
The two sisters exchanged a look. ‘Both of us,’ Eefay said.
‘Will they give it?’ Skaaha asked.
‘They might,’ Ruan said. ‘It will be a druid court, not warrior justice. They would expect to discover truth. The innocent have nothing to fear.’
‘Except Mara,’ Eefay corrected.
‘The only fact is that Skaaha's here, training, as Mara claims,’ Ruan repeated. ‘She can't prove why. Nor can you. Donal's dead. Jiya and Ard are hardly witnesses, and they're kin. Mara's version of why she visited Bride's cavern and what she meant by half those men will be different from yours.’
‘But she'll be believed.’ Skaaha despaired. The queen's word carried weight. Mara out-thought her at every turn.
‘Secrets do more harm than good,’ Ruan chided. ‘Keeping yours has strengthened her hand. She can claim you invent now. If you'd told me at the time –’
‘She doesn't know I didn't,’ Skaaha interrupted. ‘She can't know if or who I told, or when.’ Understanding followed in a flood of revelation. ‘The court is a ruse. She'll never let us reach it.’
‘Don't you trust me to protect you?’ Ruan asked. Annoyance coloured his voice. ‘It wouldn't have come to this if you'd confided in me.’
‘I protected you,’ Skaaha snapped. ‘A dead druid makes no better witness than a dead warrior!’
‘And will make a better one,’ Eefay said, ‘with the bog waiting, if she blamed the death on us. Look how she blames my father for his.’
Skaaha stood. ‘If you want to protect me,’ she told Ruan, ‘train me to fight. Train both of us.’
Shocked, he also rose. ‘You know I can't do that.’
Skaaha smiled. It was a warning sign. ‘Not even for your beloved Danu?’
‘That's unfair.’
‘No, what's unfair is that you called her name in the ring of fire, even while my body received you, even when you professed to honour me. What's unfair is Mara might want my death because of the legend you played out then, that I am Danu.’ Her words became a torrent, rage feeding rage. ‘And what's truly unfair is that I go where you lead me, and when I challenge her, will become Danu just as you priests conjured me to be, fighting a threat to our people but wholly ill equipped to do so because you invoke the warrior goddess then play at peace!’
She stormed out of the lodge, banging the door behind her. Pots rattled on the shelves, the fire flared in the sudden draught, dust descended from the thatch. The door, unlatched, creaked open again.
‘Good thing she's not upset,’ Eefay said, getting to her feet to leave.
Ruan turned to stare at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. ‘She means to challenge Mara?’ he asked.
‘That's the plan. Not the best, but all we've got, and it's lawful.’ She gazed up at him, contemptuously. ‘Warrior justice,’ she said. ‘Mara sent the outsiders for her head. Revenge is Skaaha's right. It's mine now too. My father's blood demands it. Tell that to your druid council.’
Fion was carried by chariot from the boat to Tokavaig sanctuary. His wound had been dressed by the druids at Torrin. Now, a fever gripped him. Although he had been brought for healing, his chance of survival looked slender. Weak from blood loss, his skin had the grey pallor of the dead. Delivered into the careful hands of priests, his strong body, strangely shrunken, trembled. The druids shooed the warriors away.
‘I will stay,’ Jiya announced, ‘and make penance for him.’ She squatted, cross-legged, outside the lodge they put him in and began to chant the song of healing.
Vass went to find Suli. The high priest was seated in the grove among naked, lichen-whitened branches. Mara's druid, Kirt, sat near by. Suli's head rose as if she listened. Before Vass reached her, or spoke, she answered him.
‘Fion will not return to your chapter,’ she said. ‘Take your warriors home. This is no place for men of war.’
‘And Jiya?’
‘She will be robed while she's here. The guilt is not hers, though she feels it.’
Suli, in her own way, was as difficult to talk with as Mara. Vass fretted. Fion was close as a brother, yet Suli brushed his life off like chaff. ‘Can we talk alone?’
‘We are alone. Kirt is druid. I am he, he is me. Say what you must.’
‘What of Donal, and Kerrigen's daughters?’
She seemed surprised, and stood, turning her milky eyes towards him. ‘They are not your concern. We will address Mara's petition at Low Sun.’ She raised her staff. ‘If I strike you with this, Vass, you would see as I do. But that is not for you.’
‘I would see stars,’ he joked.
‘Then maybe you do see, the shadow of change, at least. Go home. Do your work with the same good heart as always.’
It was a heavy heart, but she would share no more with him. All he could do was trust. The old woman chuckled.
‘You arrive at a good place, my son,’ she said. It was the only indication she gave of being his birth mother, the distance between them always great. ‘I see a future for Fion,’ she added, more gently, ‘in this world. Now will you go?’
He bent down, kissed her soft, wrinkled cheek. She was so fragile, so frail, yet the toughest warrior he knew. ‘Blessings on you, Mother,’ he said, before walking away. When his footsteps faded beyond earshot, Suli seated herself again.
‘There are changes coming, Kirt,’ she said. ‘And I'm blessed with little sight to see them all. But I see the way forward for you. Go you to Alba, to Ynys Mon. Tell Tosk what happens here.’
‘And he will see further?’ Mara's druid asked.
The old woman chuckled again. ‘He will appreciate your news, more than Mara might if you returned to her.’
Breakfast, by flickering lamplight in Doon Telve, was sombre. That morning's routine, conducted clothed now the cold began to bite, took place on an empty field. The sisters ate in a broch unbearably quiet after the joy of returning students and their sad but equally raucous leave-taking following the noisy, boisterous wake. Skaaha had never liked Donal. Now she felt guilty. Eefay sat opposite, head bowed, picking at her food.
‘I've ruined your school and endangered your life,’ Skaaha said.
‘This is true.’ Eefay barely looked up. She couldn't teach women, and Mara would ensure she didn't tutor men. ‘You never were a liar, except about the Shee.’
‘They might come for you yet.’
‘Good. I'll take them on for training. Without students, food will stop arriving and the workers will disappear.’
‘Don't.’ Silence lengthened between them. ‘Terra said we could go south, join the Iceni and train there for a time.’
Now Eefay did look up. ‘Do you know why she came here? Same reason they all came. No warriors fight as well as those from the Islands of Bride.’
Skaaha hunkered up from reclining to a squat. ‘So we're beaten!’ She banged her fist on the table. ‘Is that what you say – the daughters of Kerrigen, beaten by a jealous, spiteful bitch whose only talent is for telling lies?’
‘She has a talent for murder.’
Skaaha threw herself backwards on to the goatskins and lay staring up at the gloomy, cavernous thatch, its skylights shut against the cold. ‘Och, Eefay, we have nowhere to go from here.’ She wondered what the friendless did – found a place away from folk; fished, farmed or hunted? It would be hard, having to do everything from making tools to cutting peat, but it was possible. Staying at Glenelg was not, not after Low Sun, not if Mara won her order from the druids. But if she did, they couldn't stay anywhere. It wasn't possible to run from druid justice. There were priests everywhere. Within a fortnight, ev
ery cell in Alba would be watching for them. They'd be brought home in chains, all the guiltier for having run away.
‘I'm not guilty,’ she told the roof. It didn't care. It was a roof. ‘Not guilty,’ she yelled. The thatch remained unperturbed. ‘Fire!’ There was no response, not even to the one thing that could cause its destruction.
The pot-boy scurried in. ‘Where?’ he asked. ‘Where's the fire?’
‘In the hearth,’ Eefay said. She had finished eating, and was braiding her hair.
Skaaha jumped up and hugged the boy. ‘You came running,’ she crowed, ‘because you are a person and know what to fear.’ He began to back away. ‘But the roof’ – she pointed – ‘did nothing. Do you know why?’
The boy's mouth gaped like a gutted fish. He shook his head.
‘Because it can't feel fear!’ Skaaha announced triumphantly.
Eefay clapped her hands, slowly. The boy ran for the door.
‘I know what it is,’ Skaaha said, excited.
‘A roof?’ Eefay resumed braiding.
‘I'm the roof.’ She paced back and forth. ‘At least, I'm not afraid of death. Not since Beltane. Life holds more fear.’ Dropping to her knees beside the table, she leant forward on her elbows. ‘Something changed, Eefay, and I know what.’
‘So do I,’ her sister commented dryly. ‘You were a woman before breakfast. Now you're thatch.’ She tossed back her braids. ‘Good plan. No one can touch you if you're crazed.’
Skaaha snorted with laughter. ‘It's not me.’ She chuckled. ‘It's Mara.’
Eefay's face crinkled. ‘She's thatch?’ She hooted, yelping.
‘No.’ Skaaha clutched her sides, giggling. ‘That's the point.’ Laughter choked her. ‘Mara changed. She's afraid.’ She banged the table, gulping air. ‘That's why she wants us dead.’ Tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘All we need to know is why she changed.’
Eefay was helpless, howling. ‘Could be,’ she gasped, wiping her eyes with a sheepskin rug, ‘you turning into a roof that scares her.’
It had been a long time since they giggled hysterically like children, and it was some time before it faded. Still in danger of further eruption, they walked down the stone steps to start the training session.
‘You're not guilty,’ Eefay said. ‘Mara is, and she'll know it, whatever she tells anyone else.’
Skaaha halted. They were at the foot of the steps, just about to cross the stockroom, where the dung from the beasts was being cleared to the midden-heap outside. The sour-sweet stench hung warm in the cloying air.
‘That's it!’ she exclaimed.
‘Don't start again,’ Eefay begged. ‘I'm still sore.’
‘No, she is guilty,’ Skaaha said, the thought rising with perfect clarity. ‘That's why she's afraid. She's done something she thinks we know, or will guess.’
‘She ordered your head.’
‘Before that, before she came to the cavern. Jiya said that was jealousy, but I wasn't a rival, even as Danu. She came out of fear, to warn me off.’
‘And you don't know why?’
‘No.’ They walked on, skirting shadowy piles of muck. ‘If we could remember when she changed.’
‘All I remember from Doon Beck is being scared of her.’
‘Me too,’ Skaaha agreed. ‘But she changed, Eefay.’ Something teased her memory, lurking in the shadows.
‘Don't think about it,’ Eefay said as they collected practice swords from the door-keeper. ‘If we've asked the right question, the answer will come.’
Outside, Ruan sat on a rock, meditating among wind-tumbled fallen leaves. He stood when they came through the doorway.
‘This isn't a time to let your standards slip,’ he remonstrated. At his feet lay three oak staves.
Skaaha stared in disbelief. ‘You're going to teach us?’
‘I can't train you to fight,’ he reiterated. ‘That's forbidden.’ He smiled as if he split a hair. ‘But I can teach you how to defend yourselves.’
‘With sticks?’ Eefay queried in disbelief.
‘It's better than nothing,’ Skaaha said, taking one up.
The grip, in thirds, was similar to that of a thrusting spear, with hands opposing. Ruan was thorough in his teaching, making them stand still for the whole session, copying hand and arm movements until the staves felt like extensions of their limbs. They learned fast, experience already telling. Control, even of such a basic weapon, was pleasurable. Both were eager to continue after the mid-day meal, but he refused.
‘Blistered hands won't help,’ he said. ‘Discipline will, and you have other lessons.’ Skaaha's afternoon was spent with the oldest druid, continuing to learn the thirteen books of poetry. Eefay, who knew them all, worked with her chariot. The evening meal brought everyone together in Doon Telve: the two sisters, three druids and four charioteers.
‘Nine,’ Lana, the priest, counted when they sat down. ‘There is no greater number.’ She told a story of the sacred trinity, which had three parts and taught three truths. Skaaha tried to show no interest, but it was a fine story well told, and she applauded with the others the wit and wisdom of it. One of the charioteers took over, telling of a race with nine horses. The meal was less boisterous without students. Talk shifted from the learned to the practical. But it raised Skaaha's spirits. Life could continue at Glenelg, at least for the next two moons.
34
Next morning, staves in hand, Ruan walked them through the warrior steps. The familiar arm and hand movements became a system of thrusts, blocks, sweeps and strikes with the weapon.
‘I never realized,’ Skaaha yelled with delight, feeling confident and competent already with the new skill. A spear used in similar fashion would kill with ease.
‘And now we do it this way,’ Ruan said, turning them to face each other. Instantly, the sisters were rehearsing a battle where every strike stopped short of contact.
‘It's magic,’ Eefay crowed. ‘How did we not know?’ They had both performed the warrior steps, weaponless, since childhood. All warriors did.
Ruan had brought a hand drum, slung behind him. Now he pulled it round, took the beater from his pouch and began to drum. ‘To the beat,’ he said, marking time. When mealtime came, they were up to double time and not missing a stroke. By the end of the third morning, they moved so fast he gave up drumming. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘do the steps three times in your routine, first as normal, second with staves at double time, third opposing each other at this speed. The session after breakfast will be free-style.’ He walked away across the field, heading for his lodge.
‘Does he ever say well done?’ Eefay asked, chest heaving from exertion.
‘Yes,’ Skaaha said, drawing deep for breath. ‘I guess we haven't yet.’
For greater space, the free-style session took place on the chariot-training field behind the broch. It brought another revelation. First, Ruan taught them to keep striking short so that training injuries would be avoided. Then he set them against each other, calling out instructions and advice. With their handling skills equalized by the new weapon, Skaaha's greater strength and speed meant she made two strikes to every one of Eefay's. For the first time, she was in advance of her sister.
The final third of the session was a demonstration.
‘Attack me,’ Ruan said, ‘both of you, as you please.’
‘Have you been cuffed by a bear?’ Eefay asked. ‘You'll get hurt.’
‘Let's hope so,’ Ruan smiled. ‘We'll stop when either of you makes a hit.’
They began tentatively, but the druid blocked everything they tried. Before long, they ceased to care that he might be struck and threw every move they knew at him. None connected. Ruan moved like lightning, anticipating, blocking and returning every strike. They, on the other hand, often felt the light prod or thump of his staff, and would have been black and blue with broken bones if he'd intended injury.
‘Did you know he could fight like this?’ Eefay grunted as yet another strike was parried.
> ‘He told me druids don't.’ Skaaha ducked and swung.
‘There's a lesson there,’ Eefay hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Don't doesn't mean can't.’ Eventually, she threw her stave down in disgust. ‘You couldn't do that if I had a sword,’ she snapped, frustrated. ‘I'd cut your staff to pieces!’
‘Fetch one,’ Ruan offered.
Skaaha wouldn't have bet either way, and watched intently. The priest simply avoided contact between his stave and the cutting edge of the sword, batting it away on the flat then tumbling or spinning out of reach to strike from a greater distance. Her sister was rapidly proved wrong. Fortunately, Eefay bore no grudges over battle skills. The bout ended with her in awe, determined to learn till she could equal the priest.
‘What about you?’ Ruan offered Skaaha the chance to try the sword against him. She declined. But, that evening, as the others told stories after eating, she returned to the field to practise with her staff in the dark. Two days later, when Ruan called them to attack, she was ready. Choosing her moment with care, while he was retreating to avoid a strike and Eefay moved in, she ran up behind him, vaulting on the stave. Turning in the air above Ruan's head, she swung the weapon round and down, hard. Briefly preoccupied with Eefay, the druid realized what was happening a moment too late. As he leapt aside, the blow caught his shoulder.
‘Well done,’ he groaned, wincing, as she landed. ‘You put it all together.’
‘Aye-yie-yaa.’ Eefay danced, cock-a-hoop. ‘We won, we won, we won!’
‘I'm sorry,’ Skaaha said, massaging the druid's injury. ‘I realized the aerials you taught me were the same discipline, but I couldn't manage no contact as well.’
Tluck-tluck-tluck-tluck. Tapping sounded behind them from the stable.
‘Don't apologize,’ Ruan said. ‘You did it here’ – he touched the centre of his forehead – ‘as you should, and took me by surprise. Don't expect to do it twice.’
‘Twice,’ Skaaha remembered. ‘The outsiders came to Kylerhea twice.’
‘So Mara sent them before?’ Eefay asked.
‘Unlikely,’ Ruan said. ‘They came to steal, took things from every house, and my lodge.’ He frowned, remembering. ‘Not clothes or food though.’ Outsiders usually raided larders or stock, and stole clothing, especially as winter approached.
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