‘Chief Aodhán, of Clan Seabhac Eirga.’
The Silver Falcon Clan, Harlin thought to himself. A distinctive name, one that suggested wealth and prominence. He tried to remember if he had heard of them as a child, but the years away had stripped his memory of many things. To his right Ceatha sighed loudly and wiped at something on her face.
‘He died in the fighting at the Sisters,’ she said with a shrug. ‘He was always such a strong man while he lived. And a great warrior. He believed that strength could solve anything.’
Tears shone upon her cheeks. ‘The clans were destined for great things once,’ Ceatha said, sniffing, ‘I was destined for great things. We still could be – all of us, if we weren’t so directionless and weak. My father was right, we need strength, Harlin, now more than ever – we need strength.’
Harlin snorted derisively. ‘And why tell me this, Ceatha? You trap me here and humiliate me before your people, when I have done nothing but show you kindness you do not deserve. I have no time for your stories, Weaver, you will find no sympathy for these fools in me, or for yourself.’
He rose then, making to leave, only to have Ceatha spring to her feet and step in his path. ‘Don’t go,’ she said quietly, laying a hand upon his chest, tears still flowing freely. ‘Stay, talk with me a while?’
‘Of what, Ceatha,’ Harlin sighed between his teeth, knuckling his eyes. She shrugged, wiping her face.
‘Anything,’ she said, a smile playing on her lips. ‘We don’t get the chance to talk with each other much. Apart from when you try to leave.’ She laughed gently at that, stepping closer to him. ‘I would get to know you somewhat, if it please you.’
‘It is because I do not want to talk with you, Weaver. You are a spider that spins its web with words.’
He hadn’t realised that she had come so close to him until he felt her head rest upon his shoulder, her other hand slipping around his waist. He had never noticed how tall she was before now – she reached past his chin, and Harlin cleared six feet by quite a distance.
‘Why did you save me from the Marchers in Haverlon?’ Ceatha muttered into his shoulder, sniffing softly.
He paused, not sure what to say, afraid of exposing weakness, giving her something to latch onto and use against him. Some things Harlin could not watch, not so openly, not so flagrantly, no matter the hypocrisy he felt at it.
‘No woman deserves to meet her end like that.’ He looked away from her. ‘Not even one such as you.’
‘Oh,’ she said, a little too stiffly, as though she’d hoped for something more meaningful or emotional. A moment’s tenseness in her form passed, and her hand began to delicately trace the shape of the muscles in his back, finding the old scars there beneath his shirt and following them with gentle fingertips as she pressed into him. Harlin felt his loins stir at the feel of her body against his, her lips brushing against his neck, breath warm upon his skin.
And suddenly he was angry, though it was not just his temper that rose at her lover’s embrace.
‘What is this, Ceatha,’ Harlin snapped at her, pushing her away. ‘Do not think to toy with me, Weaver, I have no interest in you and your games.’ The moonlight made her eyes shine bright, glow almost, her emerald irises clear even through the dark, as though they gave off more light than they should. Anger was writ plain upon her face at his refusal, her bottom lip trembling.
‘Why do you think I brought you here, Harlin?’ she said bluntly, her voice now hard and harsh in a way he had never heard from her before. It took him completely by surprise, caught him off guard. Harlin suddenly felt very small before her, as though something about her had grown, huge and powerful and dreadful to behold, no matter he still stood taller than she. He felt as though she could eclipse him, engulf his form and leave no trace of him behind, should she so wish. His hand went to his side instinctively, seeking the hilt of a sword no longer there.
‘I see the gods as I slumber,’ Ceatha uttered, a whisper, no more, but her words resonated through him like a rumbling in the earth itself. ‘Almost every night, I see them. I see how they are dying, how they grow weak and crumble away, how their despair for what our people have become turns to resigned apathy and bleak sorrow. I despair, Harlin, when I look upon our kin. And if you were not so sullied with your own selfish miseries you would despair for them as well, for the end waits for us all if we do not act soon.’
She turned her face to the night sky then, and Harlin thought he could see the pattern of the stars above swirl in the green haze of her eyes, as her hair streamed out behind her like a dark flame on the breeze.
‘You are broken, Harlin,’ her voice echoed, ‘but even you cannot be so blind to the world that you cannot see our paths together were woven together by something greater than ourselves, that these are our last days, and this the last gamble of a dying dream.’
‘The gods have no hand in my path, Weaver,’ Harlin growled at her, fists clenching, ‘and nor do you. The only hands that guide me are my own, and those alone are the ones I will follow, until they are but dead, yellow bones.’
He had to wonder if that was true, though, the moment it left his mouth. What choice did he truly have on a path of vengeance? The decisions vital to it had not been his to make. Not once. Not ever.
Ceatha turned those smouldering eyes on him then, and Harlin found the claws of fear raked themselves across his stomach, making his bowels feel weak and shivery.
‘There is a darkness in you Harlin. An open wound, blighted and filled with disease, that should see you crippled, yet it pulses with some foulness that gives you strength of a kind rarely seen – one our people have lost.’
Something clicked then in his mind, frayed strands of suspicion meeting and joining as one. And he found himself furious.
‘You would use me to fix these wretched fools,’ he accused. The light in Ceatha’s eyes seemed to dim, her hair a windswept mess about her shoulders. She became smaller again, though she did not visibly shrink, becoming less imposing, less… monstrous. A smug smile creased the corners of her mouth, like a child caught misbehaving by a parent too soft to raise a hand to them.
‘Not alone,’ she breathed, her voice soft once more, ‘I would guide you, help you, raise you higher than any chief had ever dreamed of, higher than any man could aspire to be.’ She came to him again then, laying her hands gently on his chest, and he found himself unable to refuse her or move away, unable to stop his own hands drawing her closer by the pleasant curve of her hips. ‘And I would be your Weaver.’
Her body was suddenly against his again, her hands sliding up his chest and shoulders until they wound themselves in his loose hair. Her face was before him as she raised herself up on the balls of her feet, mouth an inch away, breath sweet to taste.
They kissed silently beneath the moon. A tingle started where her lips met his, spreading down through his body, slithering with intent and purpose. And deep in him that cold thing stirred, provoked, threatened by some new presence. It rumbled in anger, a deep, sour note tinged with fear-laced hate.
Harlin broke away. ‘No,’ he snarled, and pushed her from him suddenly with a great force of will, his body unwilling to cooperate.
Ceatha stepped back from him, wide-eyed, mouth taut, wan and beautiful, her expression fixed but unable to hide the shock of his refusal that underlined it. He stared at her darkly, unblinking. He felt a fool for refusing a girl of such bewitching looks, his body aching for her touch even as he tasted his hatred for her bubbling on his lips. But he knew her for the devil she was, a temptress with teeth between her legs and honeyed words upon her forked tongue.
Ceatha’s mouth twitched. ‘You would see our people fade away?’
‘These are not my people, Ceatha,’ retorted Harlin, ‘they have made that much clear to me already, and I am not your puppet.’
‘I offer you nothing but greatness and happiness… and you refuse?’ She shook her head slowly in disbelief. ‘I would make a hero of you. No – more – a
legend, greater than any of our kinsmen’s sagas. Your tale would be passed down from father to son for all time, unite our people and inspire them. I would make you immortal, and you spurn me, Harlin?’
‘Only gods may live forever more, Ceatha,’ Harlin said, turning away, ‘of men there is nothing that remains of us once our days are spent. And mine will be spent walking my own path, not yours.’
Harlin walked away, and suddenly she was before him again, her face drawn in anger. ‘I could force you, Harlin, you do not know who you refuse.’ Her eyes seemed to give off that green light again, two chips of emerald glittering beneath the moon. ‘I will not sit idle and watch my people pass into shadow and fable beneath the boots of Marcher kings.’
‘Then you would know what it is to face a cornered wolf, Weaver.’
He saw her mouth tremble as she bit something back, her eyes reading his face up and down rapidly, searching for some weakness she could turn upon him. He felt her Weaving tremble at his temples, and he threw up stone walls in his mind that it pushed and shoved against futilely. Ceatha’s eyes became pale discs of surprise in the dark as her Weaving failed and withdrew, her form trembling with frustration.
‘You are a selfish little boy,’ she snarled at him, ‘who would turn his back on those who need him most.’
‘And you are a mad bitch and an old maid,’ Harlin retorted, ‘a whore, who would use me to fulfil her own ambitions and keep me from my own.’
Ceatha bared her teeth at him, face wild. For a moment he thought she was going to hit him, and he felt himself brace to stop a blow, but it never came.
‘I will not let you leave here,’ she hissed between perfect white teeth. ‘Not while my people die such a slow death. I will not let you leave – do you hear me? If you won’t help them, then you can suffer the same as they.’
‘Do what you will, Weaver. My fate lies on the shores of Luah Fáil, not here. Set your puppet’s strings upon me, woman, and I will snap them.’
‘Do you think any of our people will grant you passage to the island?’ She laughed loudly, her voice shrill, almost manic in pitch. ‘Do you even think you are the first who has thought to return there? Do you have any idea what happened to those who did? You will find no aid for your fool’s quest. Your fate lies here Harlin, whether you realise it or not – Tásúil is where your road will take you, no matter what way you may turn.’
‘I put no stock in prophecy, Weaver,’ Harlin proclaimed, ‘save for that which I make with my own two hands.’
‘Your strife will solve nothing,’ she called after him as he walked away, ‘nothing, Harlin!’
He walked on, not looking back, though he felt her eyes burning into him until he rounded a corner out of sight. He slept easy before the dawn came.
Late in the morning, having awoken alone and hungry, Harlin found a sizeable crowd formed in the town centre, yelling, whooping and cheering as the sound of steel clashing rang out in their midst. Exchanging a copper coin for a heel of bread and strip of salted fish from one of the stalls lining the square, he shouldered his way through a sea of broad shoulders, broader backs and gold-ringed braids, his interest piqued.
Amidst a circle of cheering and shouting clansmen and women Anselm stood bare-chested, breathing heavy and sweating profusely, a blunted training sword gripped in his right hand, its design distinctly that of the clans’ smiths with its pommel and cross guard like two pairs of horns. In his left was his company shield, the white dog’s head showing some fresh scars from blows taken upon it. Across from him stood a clansman, bare-chested too, his long auburn braids sticking to his sweating back as his thick chest heaved as he fought for breath. He clutched a blunted training sword of similar craft to Anselm’s, though his shield was smaller, and bore the image of a red boar flanked by arrows against a green field, most likely his clan’s namesake.
Harlin had seen the clansman around Tásúil before, he thought, watching him wipe sweat from his dripping beard and nod at Anselm, stepping forward with shield and sword both readied. Anselm nodded too, hefting his shield and dropping his chin to look ahead through his heavy eyebrows.
The crowd roared as Anselm charged the clansman, barging into him with his shield and knocking him back a couple of steps, his sword arcing round for a blow to the body, only to be parried and countered with an overhand slash that rang shrilly from the rim of Anselm’s shield. Harlin watched them fight, munching his food idly at the front of the crowd, their spirits too high at the action taking place for them to insult or jeer at him. It had been a while since he had watched Anselm spar, and it was good to see that their time on the road and his injuries taken in the shield wall had not slowed his arm too much, though the clansman was starting to wear him down. He landed blow after blow upon Anselm’s shield, much to the crowd’s bellowing pleasure, beating him backwards until he was stood wincing behind his shield.
‘He’s open on his right, Anselm,’ Harlin called to him, seeing the clansman’s eagerness to deliver an overhand chop that left his ribs exposed. But a kick to the shield stumbled his friend. His legs were swept from beneath him with another to the back of the lead knee, and Anselm lay sprawled, defenceless, with a blunted sword placed at his throat.
Harlin stepped forward, food forgotten, ready to pounce on the clansman, when he saw the sweating islander laugh heartily, drop his sword and help Anselm to his feet. He watched, astonished, as the two gripped each other by the forearm and clouted each other around their sweaty shoulders like brothers, laughing, Anselm congratulating his opponent on such a win, the clansman praising Anselm’s skill with a sword in his thick accent.
The crowd roared their approval and Anselm sketched a bow, bald head dripping sweat into the sun-dried mud beneath his feet. ‘Harlin!’ he called over cheerfully, returning his training sword to the clansman, who took it with a comradely smile and departed. Anselm came trotting over as the crowd dispersed, some of the men shouldering past Harlin roughly, despite how he towered over them.
‘Tough bastard, that Dian is,’ Anselm puffed, wiping his filthy, sweaty forehead with an equally filthy, sweaty forearm, ‘just my luck for him to offer me my first spar in weeks!’
‘You looked good.’ Harlin stuffed the last of his bread in his mouth.
‘My thanks!’ Anselm said almost gleefully, grimy face overjoyed. ‘Been too long since I last trained properly though, I need my old sharpness back if I’m to be of any use. Dian even fetched me my shield from where they’re keeping our stuff – you should see if he could get your gear for you, we’ll train like we used to – better even! Excellent sparring partners here!’
It was an appealing idea, it had been too long since he’d last trained, but Harlin shook his head, swallowing. ‘They will not give me my war gear.’ He saw Anselm purse his lips thoughtfully. ‘They do not think I have the right to bear arms, that I am less than a man. Nor do they trust me around weapons.’ Anselm looked awkward.
‘Things will change,’ he said with a smile, and clapped a hand to Harlin’s shoulder, ‘but I have a thirst after that bout! Let’s have us a drink somewhere!’
Harlin let Anselm’s sweaty hand steer him away from the town centre, trying to ignore the jealousy nibbling at the back of his mind that his kinfolk had let Anselm train with them, while they still showed him nothing but spite.
Not far from the town centre, one of the clanswomen of Tásúil ran a small tavern of kinds that served its own brews of ale and beer from the small crops of hops and barley grown around the town where the land would permit such things to take root. It was a popular place, a favourite spot for clansmen after their day’s toil was over, and it was here that Anselm took Harlin, the two of them sitting upon barrels that served as both seats and makeshift tables outside the jaunty wooden building. A few men of advancing years sat nearby, blowing smoke rings after puffing long-stemmed pipes and sipping ale. They eyed Harlin and Anselm suspiciously over wooden tankards
A squat woman of middle years and grey hair cam
e to them after peering out of an open shutter, giving Harlin a stern look as she approached, eyes dancing over his loose locks. Ruri the Alewife, they called her, and Anselm surprised both Harlin and she by ordering two pints of her best beer in the clan tongue with a pleasant smile.
‘Ceatha’s been teaching me,’ he explained, as Harlin sat dumbstruck. ‘And I’ve been learning! Speaking of whom, where was she this morning? She never misses a meal with us.’
‘Can’t say I noticed,’ Harlin shrugged, unwilling to speak of what had taken place in the night.
‘A shame,’ Anselm said with a smile, licking his lips as Ruri emerged holding two fat wooden tankards. ‘You should speak with her more, I think.’ Anselm drank deeply and then smiled slyly at him after emitting a satisfied gasp.
‘I find I have spoken with her quite enough… why?’
‘No reason.’ Anselm gave him an odd look, like he thought he knew something Harlin did not – one of those looks that Harlin found intensely annoying. ‘She’s a good woman, is all. I see the way she looks at you, too. Almost made me jealous, the amount of hours I spent trying to sweet talk her.’
Harlin grimaced, ignoring Anselm’s laughter. ‘She is a deceitful bitch who keeps us here against our will. Have her if you want.’ He could see Anselm’s frown. The subject swiftly changed.
‘I hear that her brother, Bradan, is something of a legend – a champion of your people.’
‘He protects the borders of the forest well enough with his men.’ Harlin shrugged, the memory of their fight still fresh, his hair seeming to tickle more as the breeze cast it about his neck. ‘Or so they say. I find my hatred of him grows the more I see of him. And he still has my rings,’ he said bitterly. He took a swig of his ale to wash the memory’s taste from his mouth.
It was true, Bradan was something approaching a hero amongst the clansmen. He had kept Tásúil safe and hidden since they had arrived – his men were renowned for their skill with the bow, an unusual thing in itself – it was regarded as a hunter’s tool, not a warrior’s, clansmen preferred the throwing spear to kill at range. Both were something Harlin himself had never had much practice in with his enslavement, but some clansmen, he knew, excelled with them.
The Shadow of the High King Page 42