Gráinne's eyes widen, and Onchú, still recovering from the force of my embrace, stifles a chortle.
"What?"
They look at each other.
"It was a sheep," Gráinne says.
I stare at her as she's unable to restrain a smirk.
"It happened weeks before the attack. It got sick. Tadhg tended it for almost a month, by himself. He became very attached and when it died …"
"A sheep," I repeat darkly.
"A sheep," Onchú confirms.
I close my eyes, and after a long, disbelieving breath, laugh again. Relief and joy and released grief and a hundred other emotions I can't even identify in it.
"It is not funny," says Tadhg indignantly from the side.
I turn to him and embrace him around the head, struggle to get away though he does. "I am very sorry about the sheep, Tadhg. But I am also so very glad to see you."
He continues to fight my grip for another second, then gives up and hugs me back.
"We wanted to see you, before we go. We are leaving in a few hours," says Gráinne, a little apologetically. She shrugs at my look. "The farm has to be rebuilt. And now that Fiachra's forces are broken, there is no danger." She pauses. "You could come back with us, if you want."
"You could do all of our work now that you have two hands," adds Róisín.
I stick out my tongue at her grin. Hesitate as I glance across at Tara, who has seen I'm otherwise engaged and is chatting idly with a couple of older warriors nearby. There is merit, and some temptation, to the offer. The promise of a simpler life. A happier life.
And yet I can't help but remember that last conversation with my father. Poor luck is being aware of these currents, but able only to drown in them.
"I need to be here," I tell Gráinne. Sadness to it, but certainty as well.
She gives a small smile, and nods. She already knew the answer.
"But we are all here now, today," I add. "And there is nothing stopping us from sharing a meal together before you go."
Gráinne's smile widens into something warm, and Onchú slaps me on the back. "I would like that," he says gruffly. The children nod their eager agreement as well.
And we walk back into the caer together.
MY FATHER'S FUNERAL IS SOLEMN, AND LARGE, AND BEAUtiful.
The people of Caer áras did not know him, but Tara told them that he was a king and so he is treated as such.
We march at dusk. He is wrapped in white cloth.
A single, intricate gold torc around his neck.
I help carry him slowly down the street from the centre of the Caer, cradling him on my shoulder, steadying him with my real arm.
Tara is opposite, Conor and Miach and Fearghus and Seanna behind us.
I feel his body through the fabric, and though it is cold and stiff, I cradle it lovingly anyway.
I know he is gone, that he cannot feel it. I still act as if he can.
As we walk, the people line the way and they sing.
The dirge is low and mournful and achingly beautiful.
There are no tears, no wailing, but those would have been false given that they did not know the man.
This display is for the living. This display is for me.
It means more than I can say. It brings tears to my eyes again and again as we make our steady way down the hill and out the gate.
The torches are lit, lining the way down toward the lake.
The sky is sprayed gold and purple, wisps of cloud catching the colour and reflected in the still water.
The pyre is by the shore. We place my father's body on it.
I am handed a torch. I stand there. Knowing everyone is watching but not wanting to do it. Not wanting to let go.
I reach out, lean over and grip his shoulder. Just as he did to me, at the end.
I touch the torch to the kindling, and step back to join Tara and the others.
The singing has continued and as the flames rise higher it crescendos, a sorrowful, strong melody that echoes away over the darkening water.
I weep. I did not want to. I wanted to be strong in front of everyone. I wanted to show these people their stoic draoi nasceann. But I cannot help it. My head bows, and I choke, and tears fall as the music swells.
A hand in mine. Tara's. I squeeze it, hold it tight amidst the pain.
And then my friends are around me. Forming a protective circle.
Heads bowed, close to mine. Arms around me.
And I let go. I cry. I cry for the father I thought I lost years ago but now have in truth.
I cry in a way I never did after Suus, because I was never afforded a chance to say goodbye.
And saying goodbye like this hurts. It hurts.
My friends hold me up. Patient. Just being there.
When I am finally done, the singing has stopped and the fire has died down and most have departed.
I wipe my eyes and laugh in mildly embarrassed fashion and smile around at my friends, trying to show how much they mean to me.
Tara still holds my hand. I embrace her for a long moment, then reluctantly disentangle our fingers.
We clear away the ashes and gather my father's bones, burned clean and white. Then the six of us walk in silence along the shore. Off the paths, through the trees, only our torches to show the way now.
We walk for twenty minutes. The grove is a surprise to me when we enter it. Large and tranquil and picturesque, completely detached from the outside world despite being so close to Caer áras. Cairns rise at intervals. Beautifully decorated stonework over their entrances.
Tara leads me to one a short distance in. Above its archway is carved a symbol, done with care and artistry. Three whorls, joined in the centre.
I lay his bones with care into their final resting place. We close the cairn and seal it tight. The others retreat but Tara and I stand there, just looking at it.
"I have seen this before," I say softly, touching the whorls with my silver hand. "What does it mean?"
"The triskeles? Many things, depending." Tara stares at the symbol. "Here? That he was not of this world, but belonged in it. I chose it as a symbol of honour and respect. I may never have spoken to your father, but I know him through his actions and through you. That is more than enough."
Another lump. I give her a small smile, though she does not see it, her own gaze fixed on a cairn not far away.
"Your father?" I ask.
She just nods.
We walk over. Tara puts her hand on the stone of the entrance, as if caressing it. "He sacrificed himself for me."
"He was your father."
She nods slowly. "He was my father," she repeats softly. "He would have liked you. Gods. He would have loved you for what you did."
I chuckle. "If he was anything like my father, he would have loved anyone willing to fight for his people."
"Our people," corrects Tara absently.
I glance across at her. Nod.
"Our people," I agree quietly.
RUARC IS BEING HELD IN THE SAME HUT AS I WAS, THAT first visit to Caer áras. Secure but clean, not terribly uncomfortable. I am not sure whether to be surprised. He has caused these people so much pain. His orders have killed hundreds of their family and friends, ravaged the countryside.
I know they have not forgiven him. Will pour scorn and contempt upon him when the time comes for his sentencing. But they are not petty. They are better than that, and I am unaccountably proud to be welcome among them.
I am admitted not long before dawn by two guards who give deep, respectful nods to me before they lock the door behind me. I am alone, as Ruarc requested, though Tara was displeased by my acquiescing. I will be cautious, but cannot imagine there is any danger to me.
"Silverhand." The druid is in a corner, features shrouded in shadow. It is early, but my arrival clearly hasn't woken him. His voice is calm. Almost amused, though not mocking in any way.
"How did you guess?"
A low chuckle. "You jest, but it's hard not to recognise a fellow traveller.
" He steps forward, into the light. Ruarc is older than me, but not by as much as I expected—ten years at most, and I only estimate that much from the miles in his eyes.
Clean-shaven, dark and lean, muscles toned beneath his tattoos.
A single iron torc at his neck, the terminals intricate triskeles, like on my father's cairn and in Fornax.
The symbols glow faintly to my sight. Imbued.
His handsomeness is marred by scars stretching along the left side of his face, from cheek to where his ear should be.
He touches the mass. "The passage to Luceum requires a toll to ensure validity.' Did you know that's why the Old Ways state that only the unblemished can rule?
Even after all this time." He shakes his head absently. Conversational rather than bitter.
I stare. Recognising the words before I even register the language. Ancient Vetusian, written above those symbols beyond the Labyrinth. The ones I placed my hands into to try and escape. The ones that cost me my arm.
"Who are you?" I wasn't sure what to expect, but this wasn't it.
"My name was Caeror." He says it in Common, harsh to my ears after so long. "I arrived here almost eight years ago, the same way you did."
It takes me a moment to process it. To translate the words into the language I think in, now.
Then, a chill. I can see the resemblance. "You are Ulciscor's brother," I breathe, in Common as well.
Ruarc freezes. Genuinely startled. "You knew him?" The first time he has appeared anything but in control.
"He is the one who …" I trail off, gesturing helplessly at the enormity of trying to explain all the events that led to my coming here. "He sent me to the Academy to investigate your murder."
A flicker of sadness. Ruarc swallows. Nods as he composes himself.
"Yes. Well. I assumed the other versions of me never made it. I was never able to do anything like that." He gestures to my glinting arm.
"I am fortunate, in many ways. If they had survived, I may never have learned the truth. I would have been hunted. As I had to do with you."
He lets the last part hang.
"Why?" I don't bother to hide my frustrated confusion at the confession. "And why just give yourself up, now, after all of this?"
"I surrendered because everything has changed. One of your counterparts has made a terrible mistake, Silverhand, and it became imperative that we speak. No matter the cost to me." He puts his hands to his throat and removes his torc.
Holds it out to me. "As for the rest? Answers, if you would have them. The truth behind the war we are fighting, and the reasons for what I had to do. For what must yet be done."
I look at him. I have been calm thus far, but this man has wrought so much destruction, so much death, upon a world not even his own.
I think of all the bodies that lay alongside my father's, still awaiting their rites.
The hundreds of men and women I now know were slaughtered in the surrounding villages.
He has come into Luceum, this place I have come to love, and he has tried to tear it apart.
I reach down and take the torc from him. Hold it up to inspect it in my silver hand. Closer to my eyes, there's no mistaking the gentle glow of imbuing.
With a single squeeze, I crush it.
"NO!" The shout rips from Ruarc's throat and he leaps forward, prevented from reaching me by his bonds. The light of imbuing vanishes from the crumpled metal in my hand, the triskeles barely recognisable anymore. "Why?"
"I don't know what this was, Ruarc. A trap, or something that genuinely would have informed me. Either way, I was never going to put it on." My hands shake with anger, but my voice is cold and calm. "I may listen to your story, in time. From you. But not tonight. Not yet."
Ruarc scowls. "Why not?"
I hold up the crumpled iron torc. Pause, let the sight of it sink in. "Because tonight, I cannot guarantee that I will not do this to you as well."
I spin and head for the door.
"The draoi. Do not tell them what you are, Silverhand. Do not tell anyone who you truly are or you may find yourself responsible for far worse than a few hundred dead." He calls it after me. Pleading. "Say nothing, do nothing, until I have explained everything to you. Promise me."
I shiver at both the certainty of his words, and their import. Nod slowly. "Not until I have heard you, Ruarc."
I shut the door behind me, and stride toward the breaking dawn.