by Alex Faure
Bedwyr glanced at Fionn, lying in the forest shadow, and then up at the moon, which was nearly full. He said something that had an air of finality, and Sedd shrugged. Ellish had more fight in her—she followed Bedwyr as he walked away, still arguing, but he put her off with a sharp word. No orders were given to leave. Sentries were posted, and supplies were packed so as to be ready to depart at first light. Darius followed Bedwyr with his eyes, his thoughts whirring.
Did Bedwyr know about Fionn’s transformations?
It had been Bedwyr who had insisted they camp among the trees, shielding them from the moonlight. And clearly, Bedwyr and Sedd were two of Fionn’s most trusted lieutenants. It was just as clear that they were also his friends. Fionn had once told Darius that only his sister and a friend knew about his condition, and it made sense that he would take at least one of them along on a journey like this.
Knowing what Fionn became when the moon struck him didn’t seem to trouble Bedwyr. He sat at Fionn’s side and took his hand, watching the man as he slept with a look of drawn concern. Darius felt his respect for Bedwyr grow. He wondered how long the man had known, or if he had always known.
Kealan returned from his business with the sentries. Darius suspected the man had been avoiding him. It was infuriating. Darius felt suffocated by his inability to communicate with these strange Celts.
“Is the king well?” Darius demanded. Kealan jumped, as if he hadn’t heard Darius approach him.
“He’s unconscious,” Kealan said. “What do you think?”
His tone was as sharp as it always was, but now there was a wariness there, too. Darius couldn’t fathom the reason for it. Perhaps the Celts were impressed by Darius’s victory over the giant—he supposed they may not have perceived how easy it had been.
“What happened?” Darius said. “I thought you and the Robogdi had an understanding.”
Kealan let out a mirthless laugh. “The Robogdi are lying dogs. The king trusts them, and they lure him into a trap. Well, once the king is better, he will not let this insult go unanswered.”
Kealan seemed to be speaking half to himself, and Darius realized he was witnessing a man at least partly in shock. He guessed that Kealan had little experience in battle. After all, he wasn’t much older than Fionn, and seemed valued among his people for his intellectual rather than physical gifts.
“But why?” Darius pressed. “Why would they attack you now?”
“Why does a dog bite when it bites? Often the dog does not even know. Maybe they always plan to attack us when the Romans leave,” Kealan said. “They see no need for an alliance now.”
Darius didn’t reply. His head was spinning. I have a plan, Fionn had said. He had seemed so unsurprised by the Robogdi attack. Had he known it was coming? If so, why had he led his people into such a dangerous position? What did it have to do with Darius?
Who had the giant been?
“Why do you help him?” Kealan was watching Darius closely. “You save his life.”
Darius paused. I’m no friend of the Robogdi, he could have said. Or, Your king has dealt with me fairly, and I respect the laws of hospitality. In the end, though, he just shook his head and turned away.
He managed to insert himself at Fionn’s side. He mimed something to Bedwyr about examining Fionn’s injuries, hoping the man would assume he had some knowledge of healing as a representative of a more advanced civilization. Bedwyr said nothing in response, but he didn’t try to stop Darius. His cool gaze was unreadable.
Fionn was breathing evenly. The wounds on his head and leg had been cleaned and dressed, and his forehead was cool. He wasn’t in the grips of fever, at least. Darius stifled the urge to brush his hair back from his forehead.
Sedd came up behind Darius and exchanged words with Bedwyr. Darius rose reluctantly to let Sedd take his place, but the big man placed a hand on his shoulder. He gestured to his own bedroll, which was at Fionn’s side.
Darius gazed at him, confused. Sedd was allowing him to sleep next to Fionn—why? He tried to refuse, but the man only squeezed his shoulder and gestured again. There was something in his gaze as it met Darius’s that was uncomfortably close to awe.
Darius told himself that he should be accustomed to feeling baffled by these strange Celts by now. He made no further argument, and as the others moved to their own bedrolls, he settled himself next to Fionn. He was close enough that he could reach out and touch him, though given that Bedwyr was on Fionn’s other side, Darius wasn’t particularly tempted to try it. He rolled onto his side, watching Fionn’s chest rise and fall, his pale hair the only bright thing in the darkness.
Chapter Eight
Darius was shaken awake the next morning by Kealan. “Up,” the man said, a now-familiar command delivered in the tone one might use with a dog. Ellish said something in a sharp voice, and Kealan stopped shaking him.
“When you’re ready,” he added in a sour tone. But there wasn’t any heat behind it, and Darius wondered what Ellish had said to him. He doubted any of the Volundi had much objection to Kealan ordering Darius about.
Fionn’s bedroll was empty.
Darius surged to his feet, his weary muscles protesting. Where was Fionn? He was just starting after Kealan, his mouth open to demand Fionn’s whereabouts, when Fionn stepped into the clearing.
His hair was damp, and he carried his boots under one arm. Bedwyr was at his side, murmuring something. They had clearly just visited the creek to wash. Fionn’s gaze fell on Darius, and for the briefest of moments, a smile lit his face. He broke eye contact hurriedly and said something to Bedwyr.
Darius had had enough of roundabout conversations and secret glances he could barely read. He had saved Fionn’s life in front of all the other Volundi; there was little point now in pretending that he didn’t care about his well-being. He went right up to Fionn. “Are you well? Is it good for you to be walking around already?”
Kealan, brushing his horse nearby, translated. “I’m well,” was Fionn’s reply. “Thankfully, the Robogdi are as inept at treachery as they are at trade negotiations.”
This earned a chuckle from the others. Fionn swept past, moving with only the slightest of limps. Darius felt a surge of frustration. He wanted to tell Fionn to sit down, to rest. He had been knocked unconscious and almost killed. Surely he could let the others see to his horse. Fionn stopped and turned to Darius with a strange look on his face.
“You will ride with him on the journey home,” Kealan translated.
Darius blinked. He opened his mouth, but Fionn was already gone, waving his servant to his side. He watched dumbly as one of the Volundi fetched his horse, which had already been watered and saddled. Another man brought him a loaf of bread and some hard Celtic cheese.
After a few moments of bustling activity, the Volundi mounted, and their cavalcade set off. Darius expected Fionn to ignore him as he usually did, his bizarre command forgotten, but he waited until Darius pulled his horse alongside his. Sedd rode on his left, where there was room for two horses, and Ellish was out in front again, picking out the easiest path.
Darius had been half-right; Fionn ignored him during the ride. But then, when they stopped for their midday meal, one of the women disappeared into the brush. She emerged with a handful of purple berries, plump and ripe. She offered them to Fionn, who shook his head and motioned to Darius.
The woman went to him, hesitation on her face. She held out the berries, and Darius took them with a murmur of thanks in the Hibernian language. She bowed her head.
Darius stared at Fionn. The other man was watching the woman with a faintly calculating look on his face. He didn’t meet Darius’s gaze, merely turned back to his conversation with Ellish.
What on earth was going on? Darius would have expected his performance during the battle to have earned him some respect among the Volundi, and even gratitude. But riding at Fionn’s side? Watching the Volundi bow to him? He could find no explanation for it. He shot several sideways glances at Fionn that
afternoon, but he merely gazed straight ahead, his expression cool despite everything, even despite the mark Darius’s lips had left on his neck last night.
They made good time over the poor terrain, and eventually found their way back onto the track. One of the warriors had been sent ahead on an unladen horse, and she returned in the afternoon with additional mounted warriors, who formed a protective guard around their king. Fionn appeared calm. Either he expected no further attack from the Robogdi, or the prospect didn’t trouble him.
When they rode into Glenvaneach, it seemed as if the whole village was there to greet them. It was early evening, though still light, and there was a crispness to the air that heralded the approaching autumn. The villagers broke into cheers at the sight of their king alive and relatively unhurt at the head of the cavalcade—clearly the news of what had happened in the forest had spread. Fionn dismounted and tossed his reins to a servant. His sister was waiting for him, lovely and regal in a cloak of white wolfskin like Fionn’s. She embraced him, then stepped back and examined him with a critical eye, brushing the hair off his forehead as Darius had so recently contemplated doing. Fionn motioned to Bedwyr, and the three of them headed towards the palace.
Sedd came to Darius’s side, Kealan in tow. “Sedd wishes to know if you would like to wash before the feast,” Kealan said.
“The feast?” Darius repeated.
“It is customary after a battle for the villagers to honour their warriors,” Kealan explained. “Once the news spreads that the king has found his lanachai, they will wish to honour you also.”
“What?” Darius was sure he had misheard, but Sedd just swung one big arm around his shoulders and began leading him away. Darius expected him to take him to some sort of primitive bath house, but they were heading in the direction of the lake, along with several other warriors from their party. There they stripped off their sandals and tunics—including the female warriors, who displayed a casual lack of concern towards their own partial nudity—and waded out, splashing themselves with icy lake water.
Darius followed after a moment’s hesitation. He washed the blood and sweat and grime he had accumulated from his body, liking the bracing chill of the lake. When he was finished, he was surprised to find a servant waiting for him with a clean tunic and a cup.
Darius took the cup and drank. It was some sort of liqueur, painfully sweet, that burned as it went down his throat. He downed the rest for politeness’s sake, but made a note to avoid the drink for the rest of the evening. He had no intention of becoming inebriated among his captors, no matter how kindly they treated him.
Some of the other warriors were coughing and sputtering on their own drinks, but Darius was used to alcohol—he was a soldier, after all. Sedd chuckled and said something in an jovial tone, gesturing to Darius’s empty cup. It was one of those rare, simple moments that did not require a translator. Darius, to his surprise, felt himself smiling back.
Sedd escorted him along the lakeshore, following a winding path through the grasses and daisies. Everyone in the village seemed to be heading in the same direction. As they rounded a little forested peninsula, the destination became clear.
There on the shore of the lake, which mirrored the twilight sky and its sprinkling of stars, was a large, open structure with a roof supported by pillars carved in fantastical shapes. It seemed to be a primitive form of banquet hall. As Darius drew closer, he realized that the pillars were the trunks of ancient trees, smoothed and polished to a shine. Each one seemed to have been shaped into the form of an elongated cat.
Kealan approached, scowling, and translated Sedd’s explanation. The wildcat was the symbol of Fionn’s line, and most kings and queens of the Volundi had it tattooed onto their bodies. Darius felt an odd urge to smile, thinking of the feathered creature Fionn became when the moon touched him. It seemed his natural form was at odds with the chosen emblem of his forefathers.
Within the banquet hall was a square of tables with a throne at its head. Celts milled about, peasant and servant and advisor alike, sampling various dishes arrayed upon the tables. On the shore of the lake, nearly standing in the water, a trio of musicians warmed up their instruments. One resembled a lute; another seemed to be a double-sided drum, worn round the neck. The third was an oddly-shaped flute, much larger than those played in Rome, but also simpler, with fewer notes. As Darius watched, a Celtic child of perhaps ten wandered up to the musicians and gave the drums a wallop. She squealed and ran off, rejoining a gathering of children, while the drummer shouted good-natured abuse at her.
The gathering was at once the most refined Celtic spectacle Darius had witnessed and exceptionally casual. The cups and platters were of thin ceramic painted in intricate patterns of flowers and leaves, and every man, woman, and child seemed to have donned their finest apparel, the women lifting their dyed skirts carefully as they strode across the lake pebbles. And yet, people lounged wherever they wished, whether on chairs within the open-air banquet hall, upon the hillside behind it, or along the lakeshore. One woman, her hair elaborately bound with bone beads, seated herself upon a boulder, bouncing her child in her lap, while her husband left to fetch their food. Darius had never seen the like of it.
Sedd must have noticed his confusion, for he said, through Kealan: “This is our nochtefeast—it means a victory celebration. It is not only for war victories that we hold the nochtefeast, but also for abundant harvests and fortuitous omens in the stars. Tonight we celebrate our king’s return, that he should triumph against such odds.”
Darius wondered at the nature of a tribe that took such a pragmatically optimistic view of their situation—they had been betrayed by their ally, and faced the possibility of war. And yet they chose to celebrate that the worst had not befallen them.
Sedd put his hand on Darius’s shoulder. “We also celebrate you. The entire village now knows of the coming of the lanachai. We wish to honour your presence, Darius Lucilius.”
Darius bit back his questions. It was clear that the word lanachai had a peculiar significance to these Celts, and that their belief that it applied to him inclined them to view him favourably. It was possible that, by betraying his ignorance regarding this lanachai, Darius might somehow break the spell and would lose whatever advantages this barbarian whimsy had won him. Darius was thus ill-inclined to question Kealan. He would demand an explanation of Fionn the next time they were alone.
But where was Fionn? The evening wore on, and the stars uncovered their faces, but Fionn was nowhere to be found among the merry gathering. Darius helped himself to a platter of food, roast meats and buttery potatoes and some sort of green soup that looked revolting but was astonishingly good, salty and rich with melted cheese.
He took the food down to the lakeshore and perched on a rock, marvelling at the glassy purity of the water. It reflected the mountains with their glittering mantle of stars like a mirror, broken only by the occasional ripple of a fish leaping for insects. The musicians began a slow, haunting tune, and as it wove its invisible threads through the spectacle of stars and peaks and crystalline water, Darius saw for perhaps the first time how beautiful the place was, this strange world he had stumbled into.
The realization saddened him, though he couldn’t have said why. He looked over his shoulder, hoping to catch sight of Fionn, but he still hadn’t made an appearance. Was this party not for him? Darius remembered Fionn’s injury, and felt a stab of worry. Surely Fionn wasn’t hurt worse than he’d appeared?
Kealan hovered at his side like an irritable hound, but Darius was otherwise unchaperoned, which puzzled and intrigued him. He could not have fled with so many eyes on him, and he had no weapon, but why weren’t the Celts marking him out as an enemy by placing a guard at his side? Was it because of this lanachai business? If so, Darius was even less inclined to question the Celts’ belief. He wondered what effect it might have on Fionn’s hostage negotiations with Agricola, if any.
Darius watched the gathering unfold from the lakeshore.
Back in Rome, he enjoyed banquets; it was his particular delight to move among a crowd, striking up conversations with friends and strangers alike, flirting with whoever took his fancy. He liked making people laugh when they had not expected to, liked watching women and men grow flushed and dark-eyed at some comment of his, precisely phrased. That he couldn’t do so at a merry gathering like this, even if it was filled with enemies of Rome, put him in a melancholy mood. However, over the course of the evening, several Volundi approached him, offering words of welcome. Kealan translated, and after a while, Darius found that he was able to recognize a few phrases. He had been recording Hibernian words as he learned them with a bit of charcoal and a scrap piece of leather, to ensure he wouldn’t forget, and he filed the new vocabulary away. He tried out a few broken phrases with the Volundi, and was mostly understood.
A dark-eyed woman approached, bowing. At her side was an elderly man with an amused sparkle in his eyes. Darius recognized them—it was their house he had helped build. The elderly man slapped Darius on the shoulder with a laugh. Darius asked how their work went, and the man responded that it would go better if they had Darius there to order around again. Darius laughed, diplomatically promising to return as soon as he was able.
The woman held something out to him. It was a pendant, a small circle of gold attached to a primitive leather cord. The gold had been worked into a whorled pattern that was beautiful in its symmetry. Darius couldn’t imagine how a peasant family could afford such a thing. It must be an heirloom.
He tried to hand it back to the woman, but she shook her head.
“Irinorr,” Darius said.
She bowed to him again. “You’re welcome.” Then she and the old man moved away.
There came a murmur of excitement among the gathering. Something was moving towards them along the lakeshore—a man born upon a platform, which was supported by four stout Volundi warriors. The man’s hair blazed like starlight, and upon his head was a golden circlet. He sat cross-legged and easy, his thick wolfskin cloak fanned out behind him. Two women marched in front of the platform, bearing torches. One was Brigit; the other was a grey-haired woman Darius hadn’t met.
