by Mary Watson
‘You need to get to the tenants’ house right now. Guess who I just saw pulling up there? Maeve and Sibéal.’
Cill doesn’t need to say any more. I’m sprinting down the drive, mirror in hand, so fast I’m nearly flying. Even if Zara and Canty have tricked me, I won’t let Sibéal hurt her again.
Running down the drive, the mirror falls, hitting the stones hard. I stop to pick it up. A long crack runs the through the mirror but the image is clear: in the woods, wearing a white T-shirt, is Zara.
I falter.
Zara has the Eye? But she’s not wearing that T-shirt. She’s not in the woods. I don’t understand what this means.
Just inside the iron gates, I follow the wall to the place where it’s crumbled. I leap over, and run between the trees towards Zara’s house.
And come to an abrupt halt.
Maeve and Dr Salie are chatting like old friends. At the bottom of the drive is Zara. And Sibéal. Zara is animated as she talks, it doesn’t look like Sibéal is doing anything unpleasant to her at all. Her hand is on Zara’s shoulder as she leans in, like she’s kissing her cheek. Sibéal pulls back, smiling.
She turns to get into the car and it’s then that I see that Sibéal has been kissed by our rooks. Her face is marked with tiny, fading scars. She would have worn protective gear when she strung the rooks outside our house, but in their rage the birds would have pecked through until they broke skin.
She killed our birds and strung them up to taunt us.
My phone vibrates and I step back briefly as Dad barks at me: the next War Scythe round is on. We need to leave, now.
As I hang up, Maeve pulls Zara into her arms and hugs her tightly before getting into the car. Sibéal leans out of the window, smiling and waving to Zara as they drive away.
‘See you Sunday, Zara.’
I’ve been tortured and caged. My father has stolen my words, knowing how important they are to me. But none of that makes me feel as wretched as seeing Zara in the arms of my enemy.
I was wrong. Zara didn’t get the offering for Canty. She got it for Maeve. It’s all been a lie.
I glance at the broken mirror in my hand. Zara in her white T-shirt is frozen in the reflective surface.
When Zara realises I’m there, she smiles, steps towards me, but I can’t move. I’ve nothing to say. Her smile falters. The Rover is idling on the other side of the gate as Dad waits for it to open.
I take a last look at her. Then the Rover pulls up beside me and I can’t get into it fast enough.
Later, we’re at the large farm shed, where I’ve just won the penultimate War Scythe round. Dad claps a hand on my shoulder. He’s delighted that I left Ian a bloodied heap on the floor inside. He’s thrilled we’re a step closer to me becoming War Scythe.
I’m a mess. There is a darkness inside me that scrapes and pulls. My heart is a grover’s mace, spiked with nails and studs. It hurts, and I need to lash out. All my rage, all my anger towards Dad, at being lied to by Zara, fuelled my fight with Ian.
I feel no victory. I wish I hadn’t fought.
And it’s suddenly crystal clear. I don’t want this any more. I don’t want to be War Scythe. I’ll finish my Birchwood placement at HH, and when that’s done, I’ll do my duty to defend and protect when my gairdín needs it. But as a warden. I don’t want to go to war, I don’t want to lead an army. I don’t want to become First Commander one day. I’m no longer Dad’s good little soldier.
But now isn’t the time to wallow.
‘Well done.’ A warden claps me on the back and I’m such a fraud, standing there receiving congratulations. In the corner, Tarc watches. He’s also through and we’ll face each other in the last round.
‘For someone who’s just won, you don’t look very happy.’ Tarc hands me a bottle of beer.
‘I could say the same about you.’
‘How’s Cassa?’
I shake my head. Not allowed anywhere near her room.
‘You know, you’re different these days.’ Tarc examines me. ‘What’s happening?’
I shrug. I don’t know where to begin.
‘How did it feel?’ I sound raspy. ‘When you found out Wren lied to you?’ I take a glug of beer.
I’d been so disdainful of Tarc being blind to Wren’s lies, and here I am. Suckered by the augurs.
‘I was furious. Hurt. Went over every encounter to see what I’d missed. How she’d played me.’
Zara down at the lake asking about secrets. The night at the bonfire, kissing her. My hand on her skirt. Zara reading our family war cry.
Then it occurs to me: that day at the Rookery I’d been so focused on her. Stupid hormones. I’d been pleased and surprised when the devil’s coach-horse seemed to favour her. And as I go over the encounter at the house, I’m certain: I did not whistle to rooks. I didn’t even ask her in.
And yet she’d entered without making them angry.
Zara bypassed the rook protection. Which means that she could have gone into the Rookery at any time. She could have been spying on us, gathering information for months.
And the mirror says she has the Eye.
I take another deep drink. I need to figure out how to get it back.
‘Before she left, Wren asked me to give these to you.’ Tarc interrupts my thoughts. He holds out his hand. ‘Says she has no instinct for words and she wants you to have them.’
In the palm of his hand are a coin and an acorn.
‘Promise. Lucky. Use them wisely.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Patrick’s cousin
I saw Jarlath Creagh doing magic. He was in his study and I watched him through the French doors.
LAS
Zara
I’m messing with my phone while Adam and his friend Patrick play music in the sitting room. Mom left earlier this afternoon, and Dad will be back from his conference in the morning. I’ve hardly heard from David, just one abrupt message asking if we could talk tomorrow. I don’t know what’s going on with him.
Adam ends the tune, saying, ‘I’m going to Patrick’s in an hour. You OK with that?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Stay the night.’ Patrick lives two villages over.
‘Maybe.’ He looks uncertain. ‘I don’t like leaving you alone.’
‘It’s one night. Nothing happened last night or the one before or before. I’ll watch a movie, sleep. And if a burglar decides that this is the night to break into our house, I’ll lock my door and ring Garda Creagh. Between him and his scary brother Jarlath, I’m sure I won’t be kidnapped.’
‘You sure? I don’t like asking Patrick’s cousin to drive me home.’
‘Adam, ask me one more time and I’ll wallop you.’
Close to six, Maeve pulls up in the drive.
‘Hello, Maeve, all good here. Thanks for stopping.’ I hold the door close so she can’t come in. She’s carrying a dish and her smile slips.
‘Brought soup. Chicken and vegetable.’ She’s looking at me with a maternal tenderness, like she wants to squash me with a hug. I don’t want any of it.
‘You sure you don’t want to stay over at ours tonight, honey?’
‘We’re grand here, thanks, Maeve.’
‘All by yourself?’ She moves closer to the door, trying to glance down the passage. ‘No boyfriends?’
‘No boyfriends. No wild parties. I’m going to have a long soak and then watch something.’
‘I’ll check in at nine.’ Maeve thrusts the soup into my hands.
After my bath, I come downstairs to find the boys eating. The soup smells good, neither of them appear poisoned, but no way am I eating that. Instead, feeling rebellious, I pour a half-glass of Dad’s wine.
‘We’re heading,’ Adam slurps.
A car beeps in the drive.
‘There’s our ride,’ Patrick says to Adam.
I walk the boys to the door, reassuring Adam again that I don’t mind him staying the night with Patrick.
‘Seriously, Adam.’ I roll my
eyes at him as he grabs his guitar. ‘It’s not like you’re a whole lot stronger than me.’
‘Ah,’ Patrick says. He’s a beautiful, slightly nervous boy. ‘I forgot my phone in the kitchen. Back in a sec.’
Outside, the driver of the car gets out. He steps towards me.
‘Zara, how you doing?’ For a second I can’t place him. And then I remember, he’s Aisling’s boyfriend.
‘Simon, right?’ I say.
‘Yeah.’ He smiles. ‘Patrick’s my cousin. I’m bringing them down to our farm in Gortashee. You want me to drive him back later?’
‘Oh.’ This bothers me. I hadn’t realised that Patrick was connected to Simon. But if I say anything, then Adam won’t go and I know he wants to. ‘No, that’s fine.’
‘Got it.’ Patrick waves his phone at me.
‘You take care now,’ Simon says as they slam the car doors shut.
Adam leaves, and I begin to feel unsettled about my parents being away.
It’s not the first time they’ve left us overnight, but it’s the first time without Laila. The first time in such an isolated place. The first time after I’ve just discovered a weird … what, cult? … in the village. I watch rooks fly over the gates of the rookery.
I lock the doors. Downing the wine, acidic and not pleasant, I go to the small den at the back of the house and put on the TV.
I cast a glance at my phone, wishing someone would get in touch. Even Ciara. Even David. Especially David.
I’m struggling to follow what’s happening on screen. My eyes are heavy and I’m suddenly so tired.
When I wake on the couch in the den, it’s almost dark outside. The screensaver on the TV repeats the same photographs of us. Me and Laila. Laila on the village green. Me and Laila and Adam outside our old house. The walls are covered in wavy lines, the shadows cast by the cut-out lampshade. It gives the sensation of being underwater, or inside a basket woven from shadow.
I didn’t turn on the lamp.
THIRTY-SIX
Make this right
David
I know only fist and muscle. I am all body, all instinct. When Tarc smashes into me again, my skin is slick with his sweat. I hold on to him, to bring him down, to keep me up. He breaks free and we’re facing each other, chests heaving, looking for a way in.
Between flaming torches on the lake field, garraíodóirí are gathered to watch. Tonight feels different. The world seems perilous. Unsafe. The watching soldiers take little pleasure in the fight. They’re anxious, sensing that unnamed threat gathering speed.
‘Water break,’ Dad calls, and blows a whistle above the noise of the crowd.
‘Push harder, David.’ Dad’s right there in my face. I haven’t had a minute free from him.
I’m fighting to win something I no longer want. I don’t want the burden of it. I understand now why Tarc was reluctant to take it on, that he’s only doing it now because of the special bond between the War Scythe and the Bláithín.
While I’ve barely had time to recover from the last fight, Dad’s been in his war room. I’ve watched him plot and plan exactly how he will destroy augurs, kill men, women and children.
And I know it now: we are the monsters they think us.
I’m haunted by the vision of Badb at midsummer. If I win, it will consolidate Dad’s authority. That’s why he’s been pushing me so hard.
‘Focus, David.’ Dad’s face is almost contorted with the strength of his emotion. ‘We’re almost there. Aim for the back of the thigh, that’s where Gallagher is weak. You get it hard enough and he’ll go down. And then we win.’
Mamó watches beside Oisín. She’s standing there, cool and calm. Unperturbed, like there’s no question I’d do anything but what’s expected of me. No matter how dirty I have to fight.
And inside me, something screams.
Suddenly it’s clear.
I can’t do this.
A heaviness cleaves to me, like the sweat and blood on my skin. I can’t win. I can’t spend the rest of my life doing this. I don’t want to fight any more.
‘I’m going to make this right,’ I tell Dad.
Tarc is better suited to being the protector of the Bláithín. He’s a better soldier, a better person, and is connected to Wren in a way that defies reason.
But Dad only hears what he wants.
‘Good man.’ He clamps a hand on my shoulder. Dad’s not entirely bad. There is nothing more important to him than seeing judges thrive; he wants our people to flourish. The problem is his absolute certainty that only he can bring this, and that he is prepared to destroy everything to achieve his vision.
Even after everything he’s done, it breaks my heart that he will never be like this with me again. I will never again make him proud or live up to his expectations. After tonight, I will be worse than Oisín. I will be the bigger disappointment. But I will be a little more free.
When the whistle goes again, I stand up. I’m ready.
Ready to lose.
I get in a good few hits first. I don’t want it to be obvious, and nor do I want Tarc to get off too easily. If I’m to convince, he must take a beating.
And then, deliberately, I start to flag. I don’t avoid a hit I know I can. I soften a blow that I know should be harder. I do it a few more times.
Tarc looks at me quizzically, he knows I’m not doing my best. He goads me into punching harder, but still I hold back. He’s tired too and he knows that this has to come to an end soon. I’m not sure if I imagine the nod, the concession that he’ll allow me to withdraw. And then I get the punch to my sternum that knocks me to my knees.
‘Get up!’ Dad yells from the side. ‘Get up, you weak bastard.’
I get up.
‘Hit him.’ Dad is hoarse. ‘You know what you need to do.’
I’m so fatigued, I can barely think straight. But I figure, if I aim for the leg and get it wrong, then maybe that will appease Dad. So I pull back and kick, meaning to strike Tarc’s uninjured leg front on.
But we’re both worn down and I don’t anticipate the way he moves. Tarc turns unexpectedly. My boot lands right on his gunshot wound, an arrow to bullseye. Right where Elliot gouged his flesh with a knife not long ago. Tarc howls as he falls. The grass beneath his leg is red with blood. I’ve reopened the wound.
And his blood stains the ground.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The woven room
Maeve has given me a date for the most exciting night of my life.
LAS
Zara
I sense them before I hear or see them. Maeve is here, she’s like candyfloss, sweet and sticky and too much. She must have come by for the nine o’clock check-in. Except it’s beginning to darken outside, so it must be much later than nine.
Overkill, I want to say, but I’m losing the battle against sleep. She brushes up alongside the couch and I feel her touch my shoulder.
‘Close your eyes.’
Why am I this tired?
And that’s when I hear the others behind me. Not just Maeve. I feel a blast of terror. I try to move my hands, but they seem glued together.
I remember Laila and Mom talking about sleep paralysis. It often happened to Laila, where she would be on her bed trying to move but completely unable to. She’d panic, terrified that something was coming for her, but her body would be totally rigid. She’d sense things, people in the room with her, watching her. That has to be what’s happening now.
I am rigid from my feet to my neck. My mouth feels tight, like it’s been sewn together.
‘It’s easier if you relax,’ Maeve says. A strange noise goes whir whir whir like a fan. A clock ticks loudly.
We don’t have any ticking clocks in the house.
And then I know. I am not asleep. This is no dream. My mouth isn’t sewn together, but covered by a strip of thick tape.
My eyes flutter open again and it doesn’t look like the den where we watch TV. I don’t see the shelves stacked with books and games. Just the
wavy shadows on the wall that seem to slowly circle the room.
‘We don’t have much time,’ Maeve says. ‘The boy might decide to come home when he wakes. Simon says he wasn’t keen to stay over.’
There’s silence for a few moments. I’m fighting my body, forcing my hands to move, my legs to slip down the side of the couch. But I don’t budge an inch.
‘You sure about this?’ The man with the bluest eyes leans over me, looking down at my face. I recognise his voice, this is the man who came into Maeve’s house while I hid under the bed. ‘A woven room is rather extreme. Seems like we’re using a sledgehammer to crack open a nut.’
‘You know yourself, we’re out of options. The gentle wickering didn’t work. Nor did the delve combined with a mildly hostile wickering. She’s resisted us all the way. Sibéal embedded an instruction and she even refused that.’
‘Sibéal needs to be trained.’ The man reminds me of a dentist about to drill into my tooth. ‘Before she breaks someone.’
Is this how Laila died? Glued to herself and unable to scream? It’s like being buried alive, and I hope her last moments weren’t filled with this awful terror.
‘Sibéal’s talent is fairly new, right?’ a girl chips in. ‘What is it?’ It’s like they’re having a chat on a Sunday afternoon. While I lie there, immobile.
‘Sibéal had no talent right up to her sixteenth birthday,’ Maeve replies. ‘So I made a plan.’
The dark lines on the wall have grown stronger, and I feel closed inside them. Like I’m in a cage made of shadow.
‘How do you plan a talent?’ The girl again.
Maeve doesn’t answer for a moment.
‘Sibéal is a Delver.’
‘A Delver?’ the girl says. ‘I haven’t heard of that. And I did a lot of research before I got mine.’
‘No one has it any more. Not for two hundred years. Delvers read the patterns inside the mind. At their full strength, they can manipulate minds. Plant thoughts inside a head. Get people to do their bidding. But Sibéal has a ways to go. She’s awful clumsy with it.’
