A Fading Sun

by Stephen Leigh

  Voada held his gaze. “As long as you don’t think I’m offering more than what I’ve already suggested, Ceannàrd. I’m not. I won’t ever be your lover. I won’t be your consort or your wife.”

  His smile was slow, the muscles moving under his beard and scars. He plucked more moss from the bank, dropping his gaze to look as he rolled it in his fingers. “Your anamacha—it still wants you to leave Onglse?”

  She nodded.

  “Then if we’re truly to do this, we need to move quickly, before Commander Savas decides to attack us here. We need to be gone before that happens, and we need to give ourselves several stripes of the candle before Greum notices our absence. We can’t move toward Bàn Cill and the northern coast—we’d be found and captured before we could reach it. Ideally, we need to leave Onglse altogether before we’re missed. If this is something you still want.”

  “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know that you aren’t just looking to betray me to Greum Red-Hand?”

  “You don’t know,” he answered. “You can’t know, because I’ve no way to put you inside my head and show you whether I’m lying. You have to trust yourself and me.” He dipped his fingers in the pond, cleaning them of the moss. As he stood, he wiped them on his cloak. “As for betrayal, you did that yourself when you spoke up in the meeting. Greum Red-Hand doesn’t need my testimony; he already thinks of you as arrayed against him. You need to decide now, Draoi Voada. We haven’t time to waste.”

  You either trust him, or you must go yourself. There’s no other way. It was difficult to tell if the thought came from her or her anamacha. “So do you have a way for us to leave Onglse other than swimming?”

  Iosa cocked his head. “Then you’re saying yes?”

  Voada nodded silently in reply.

  “Ceanndraoi Greum has requested that Draoi Voada and I go to the mainland to bring more warriors and draoi from the clans to the defense of Onglse. I’m sure you understand how vital our mission is.”

  The àrd of the fort nodded, but he looked unconvinced and worried. “Ceannàrd, we’ve had no such orders from the Ceanndraoi, and taking a boat across the channel in the middle of the night …”

  Voada tried to calm the fear burning in her stomach. Iosa managed to look bored and irritated all at once. “Àrd—what’s your name again? I want to make certain to remember when the ceanndraoi asks—I truly don’t have time to waste arguing. The tide is already beginning to go out, and we need to go with it. You know who I am. Do you think that Greum Red-Hand sent me here to have his plans delayed by you? Do you wish to challenge me, Àrd? Because that’s what will happen if you don’t arrange for our passage now!”

  The last word was a shout that echoed through the courtyard of the hill-fort. Voada wondered whether even Commander Savas, a day’s ride away, didn’t also hear it.

  Voada and Maol Iosa had slipped away from the fort while the last light of evening still lingered, taking two riding horses from the stable. Voada didn’t hear what Maol Iosa told the stable hands, but she heard the chuckles and laughter and saw them looking back toward her with knowing glances, so she could guess the excuse Iosa had given them. They’d ridden out quietly; the guards at the gate had already opened the smaller door, and the guards on the walls remained silent—Voada assumed that Iosa had given them similar stories. As they rode, Voada had opened herself to her anamacha and Iomhar, creating a fog that boiled and rose like a wall between them and the fort. They had slipped quickly into a valley, turning the horses to ride hard eastward, toward the outer wall but away from the hill-forts nearest those held by the Mundoan army. By the time they had approached the outer wall and hailed the guards to awaken their àrd, the moon had risen and slid halfway up the sky while the constellation of the Warrior dipped low in the west. The àrd—gap-toothed, gray-haired, and slack-muscled, long past his prime as a warrior—had obviously been sleepy and annoyed at being rousted from his bed, though his demeanor had changed somewhat when he’d recognized Ceannàrd Iosa in the torchlight.

  Now, at Maol Iosa’s mention of a challenge, he took a step back and wiped at his cloak as if brushing away stray crumbs. “There’s no need for that, Ceannàrd. Certainly I’ll help you and the lady draoi. You!” He snapped his fingers at a guard trying hard not to appear like he was listening from the shadows of the doorway. “Rouse the boatmaster and tell him to get his crew up. He’s to take two passengers across to Albann Bràghad immediately.”

  “And tell him to be quick about it,” Iosa added, “or Draoi Voada might be tempted to use her powers to curse him with something that’ll make him and his wife regret his slowness. And while he prepares the boat, we require food and wine. It’s been a long and hard ride.”

  “Go on,” the àrd told the guard. “You’ve heard the ceannàrd.” The guard hurried away, calling for the boatmaster and the kitchen staff as the àrd rubbed at his balding head. “If you and Draoi Voada will follow me, Ceannàrd. I’m sure Cook will find something for you.”

  It seemed but a stripe later that they found themselves on the rolling deck of a Cateni vessel, its single sail full-bellied with a wind conjured up by Voada to speed the ship across the water. In the moonlight, they could see the anchored ships of the Mundoa near the mouth of their harbor well to the south. If anyone saw their vessel, they made no move to pursue them, though Voada was confident that had one of them done so, she could have easily dealt with it. Her anamacha was nearly singing as they moved away from Onglse, as if they were all pleased by her decision. That pleased her as well.

  Ceannàrd Iosa stood alongside her near the prow of the ship, watching the water churn white with their passage. He seemed dour and pensive. “You’re troubled, Ceannàrd?” Voada asked him. “Are you thinking it would have been better to tell me to swim?”

  He gave a brief chuckle at that. “No.” He continued to look out over the water. A wave lifted the boat’s carved prow, spraying droplets of cold salt water over them. “Just wondering what awaits us there.”

  He pointed eastward. On the horizon, there was a line of greater darkness: the mountainous terrain of Alban Bràghad and the northern clans.

  “The honor and glory you want,” Voada told him. “And for me, the children who were stolen from me.”

  “And revenge,” Iosa added.

  She nodded. “And that. For all of us.”

  “I wonder if it will be enough,” Iosa said.

  “Are you worried that you’ve made the wrong choice, that you should have stayed back there?” Voada inclined her head toward the bluffs of Onglse.

  “You’re not?” Iosa asked her, and Voada shook her head quickly.

  “No. Now I’m certain this is the right choice for me. The only choice, if I want to see my children again. I’ve already been away so long …” The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she brushed at them almost angrily. “Do you have a wife?” she asked Iosa. “Children?”

  “A wife, once. She died giving birth to our child. A boy it was, who also died that evening.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Iosa shrugged. “Elia’s will, aye? I was destined to be a warrior and nothing more. Not a father. Not a husband.”

  “Is that enough for you, Ceannàrd Iosa?”

  Now he laughed, a full and loud sound that rang out over the water and caused the boatmaster and crew to look at them. “That, I think, is what I’ll discover in the next few moons. And you might as well call me Maol, if we’re going to be traveling together.”

  They both watched the land slowly approaching them until they could see the waves breaking white at the bottoms of the sea cliffs.

  20

  The Moonshadow’s Storm

  IN THE DIM DAWN light, they glimpsed a village to the south with small fishing vessels just setting out for the day’s work. “That’s Clan Mac Tsagairt’s land,” the captain of the ship had told them. “They’ve sent a few hands of warriors to Onglse, but that’s all. Not the friendliest of folk. Keep to themselves, they do.”
<
br />   They landed on an empty beach on the headland of Albann Bràghad not long after. Tired to the point of exhaustion, they took their supplies and horses from the ship, then watched it depart again for Onglse. They remained on the beach, lighting a fire from driftwood to keep themselves warm and dry and sleeping for a few stripes of the candle. Voada woke to find Maol—she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to calling him by his familiar name rather than title or his clan name—with the horses already in their livery and their supplies packed onto them.

  “Shall we go meet Clan Mac Tsagairt?” he asked, inclining his head in the direction of the village.

  She shrugged. “We have to start somewhere,” she answered.

  A few stripes later, they found themselves in a village smelling of peat and fish. Out in the channel, they could glimpse the islands between the mainland and Onglse as well as the faint gray hump of Onglse on the horizon, looking more like a cloud than land. Eyes stared at Voada and Maol as they rode into the village, little more than a collection of round huts. The people they passed put down their work or stepped out from their huts to watch them. “Who is your clan àrd?” Voada asked the nearest of them, a stooped, gray-haired woman who’d stopped sweeping the dirt from her home and leaned against her doorway.

  The old woman spat on the ground, showing pink gums adorned by only a few teeth. “Who is it wants to know?” She was staring at the glint of silver from the oak leaf on Voada’s chest as well as the bronze torc around her neck.

  “I’m Draoi Voada; this is Ceannàrd Maol Iosa from Onglse,” Voada told her.

  The woman’s eyes widened a bit at the second name, and she stood slightly straighter, her gaze traveling to Maol with his own torc, the glint of ringed mail under his cloak, the pommel of a sword at his side, and a spear lashed to the pack of his horse. She pointed toward a fold in the hills beyond the village. “Àrd Comhnall Mac Tsagairt lives there, in the stone house. You’ll find him there.” With that, she vanished back into her dwelling. They could see her watching them from the shadows as they rode on in the direction she’d pointed, following a well-worn path.

  The stone house wasn’t much larger than the wattle-and-daub huts of the village, but it looked as if it had been standing for generations. The sides were covered with vines, the thatched roof was green with moss and lichens, and the rocks holding down the thatching swayed in new ropes. There were workers in the fields around the house, who leaned on scythes and plows to watch their approach. Several small children were playing in front of the house; they ran inside when Voada and Maol appeared, and soon after, two young men armed with long pikes emerged from the doorway, moving to stand on either side of it. A fair-haired woman with piercing, pale eyes followed them, holding a bow with arrow nocked and ready to draw. “You’ll stop where you are,” the woman called out before they could approach. “What is it the two of you want?” To Voada, her accent was thick to the point of near-incomprehensibility.

  Voada introduced herself and Maol—who appeared more amused than worried by their reception. “We’ve come to talk to Àrd Mac Tsagairt,” she added. “We’ve come to ask for his help.”

  “For my help? What would a draoi and Ceannàrd Iosa be needing from the likes of us, I wonder?” A man had stepped out from the house: brown hair beginning to be woven with gray, a well-worn, bearded face, and hands that had seen much work. He stood next to the female archer, his hand on her shoulder. “Ceannàrd Maol Iosa, is it? Truly? The Ceannàrd of Onglse himself has come here? Why, this must be terribly important.” He pressed his lips together.

  Voada’s horse stirred restlessly under her. She watched the woman with the bow, ready to call her anamacha to her should she raise the weapon.

  “Well, Ceannàrd Iosa, if that’s who you really are, I’ve already sent along those who were willing to fight on Onglse,” the àrd continued. He gestured toward the village and the channel beyond. “And given the number of Mundoan ships out there in the strait, we’re not likely to see any of ’em again.”

  “If you don’t believe that I am who I say I am, then look at my torc and the insignia on my cloak,” Maol Iosa said. “And if you still don’t believe it, then I’ll happily accept your challenge, Àrd.”

  Àrd Mac Tsagairt stared at Maol at that, then grunted. “We’ve a proposal for you, Àrd Mac Tsagairt,” Maol continued. “One for all the àrds of the clans. Can we come inside and discuss it, or is this the best hospitality Clan Mac Tsagairt can offer the ceannàrd?”

  The àrd shook his head. “Talk is cheap enough, I suppose.” He gestured to the two young pikemen—to Voada’s eyes, they resembled the àrd far more than the woman. “Boys, take care of their horses,” he said. Then, to the woman: “Magaidh, our guests will be wanting some food after their journey.” Magaidh glared at the two of them a moment longer, then released the tension on her bowstring, turned, and went back into the dwelling. Àrd Comhnall waved a hand at the darkness beyond the door; Voada could see children’s faces staring out at them. “Come on in, then, and you can tell me about this proposal of yours,” the àrd said.

  The stone house’s common room was filled with movement as children and servants bustled about and set the table. Voada and Maol were gestured toward the seats nearest the hearth, in which a peat fire hissed and fumed. As was proper, Maol leaned his sword against the hearth, though within easy reach. Mugs of ale were set in front of them along with plates of bread, cold meats, and cheese. Àrd Comhnall settled into a high-backed chair at the table’s head; Magaidh, who Voada realized must be his wife, sat to his right. Voada wondered if the two young men were the àrd’s sons. If so, Magaidh must be his second or even third wife; she couldn’t have been more than a hand of years older than the two brothers. They came back into the house and stood, arms akimbo and with sour faces, near the door. The servants finished setting the table and went into the kitchen on the other side of the hearth, taking the children with them.

  “So,” the àrd began without preamble, “what’s this proposition of yours, Ceannàrd?”

  Maol leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Àrd Mac Tsagairt, the Mundoa have put nearly all their resources into their attack on Onglse,” he told the man. “As a result, they’ve left the south poorly defended. While they’re occupied with Onglse, we have an opportunity to strike at their head and heart: Albann Deas. We intend to call the northern clans together to march with us.”

  Comhnall looked unimpressed. “The Red-Hand named you as ceannàrd to defend Onglse. So why are you here telling us we should take our warriors from our own lands to those below the River Meadham? Is that what Ceanndraoi Greum wishes?”

  “No,” Maol admitted. “Greum Red-Hand worries only about Onglse and the fate of Bàn Cill. Draoi Voada and I see that the ceanndraoi’s concerns have blinded him to the gift Elia has given us, and it’s our duty and honor to answer Her call.”

  “Ah. You and Draoi Voada, eh?” He looked from Maol to Voada and back again. Magaidh looked at Voada as well, and Voada noticed that her gaze snagged on Voada’s anamacha, standing just behind her and—to Voada’s eyes, at least—easily visible in the dimness of the house. Magaidh stared at the anamacha, then brought her pale gaze back to Voada.

  She can see it, but she doesn’t have an anamacha herself …

  Voada realized that she’d missed some of Maol’s answer. “… join us, because now is the time for the clans to rise and stamp out the Mundoa, to reclaim the lands that were once ours, to have the southern clans rule once more instead of being made servants, slaves, and chattel.”

  “And you’re going to accomplish that, are you? Just the two of you?” Voada saw Comhnall glance at Magaidh, who was still watching Voada. That brought the àrd’s attention to her. “And is that what you’re after too, Draoi? The way you talk—you’ve come from below the river.”

  Voada nodded. “I’m from Albann Deas, aye. What the ceannàrd wants and what I want are aligned, but they’re not the same. My children were taken from me by the Mundoa, an
d I want to get them back. I want to punish the ones who took my family and my home from me.”

  Over the next turn of the glass, she told Comhnall and Magaidh her story: how she’d been the Hand-wife of Pencraig; how Leagsaidh Moonshadow’s anamacha had found her in the temple; how Meir had died, and what Voice Kadir and Voice-wife Dilara had done in the wake of his death and funeral; how they’d wrecked her home and broken or stolen everything she owned; how Orla and Hakan had been torn screaming from her side; how she’d been beaten when she’d resisted. “Elia’s done so much for me. She’s made me a draoi, and She’s given me a way to go back. I know She wants me to return. I know that it’s Elia who has set me on this path, and I will take it with Ceannàrd Maol Iosa or without him, with or without the help of the clans.”

  “Your companion has fire in her, I’ll admit,” Comhnall said to Maol Iosa. “So we have the pleasure of hosting both the Ceannàrd Iosa himself and the draoi who holds the Moonshadow’s anamacha. It’s all a fine, fine tale—if any of it’s true. Perhaps I should send one of my boys across the channel and have him ask the Red-Hand himself.”

  Maol stood at that, his chair tumbling over behind him. “You doubt my word, Àrd? You doubt who I am?” He touched the scars on his face and displayed the healing wounds on his arms. “You think these came from a plow or a fishing line? Then call your champion, and let me prove myself.” He snatched his scabbarded sword from the hearth, drawing the blade as the àrd shoved his own chair back and away, as the young men at the door started toward the table. They shouted in rage and challenge, and Voada saw everything they’d intended to accomplish falling to ashes as a result.

  Voada rose, opening her arms to call the anamacha to her. She let herself drop quickly into their world—the nausea and confusion was far less now that she knew what to expect.