Tales from the Gateway

by E. E. Holmes

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “Well? Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?” I asked.

  “I don’t need to. I saw Jeffrey already, and he’s very happy to have his room back.”

  “Oh. Well, don’t you want to hear the details? It’s a pretty thrilling story. And the best part is, Coffee-breath is totally terrified of me now.”

  “It’s nice to have them scared of someone else for a change,” Hannah said, smiling. “Okay, tell me all about it.”

  She pulled out the chair beside her and I sat down in it. And it felt right, sitting beside her.

  Beside her, I decided, was my new place to be.

  6

  Finn's Story

  THE WARM FLORAL SCENT of her still lingered on my clothes—hints of it brushed my face like impromptu kisses when I turned my head just the right way. It was like carrying a secret around in plain sight—a joke I told to no one and yet laughed about to myself all day.

  It was mine. She was mine. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe it.

  Perhaps that edge of incredulity would allow me to bear what would happen next. Because if it seemed too good to be true, perhaps I could convince myself it never had been true at all.

  “Carey. Get up.”

  I rolled over and squinted into the darkness. Seamus was standing over my bunk, arms crossed over his chest. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was three o’clock in the morning.

  “Seamus? What’s happening?”

  “Get up and get dressed.”

  My heart began to race. “What’s happening? Has something happened? Are we under attack, or—”

  “No one’s in any danger. Just get dressed and come to my office.”

  Baffled but relieved, at least, that I wasn’t preparing for some kind of immediate battle, I scrambled into my uniform, laced up my boots, and shuffled into Seamus’ office, slapping at my cheeks and rubbing vigorously at my eyes to rouse myself to full consciousness. Bloody hell, I was sore. Lack of sleep in that blasted Traveler caravan had done a job on my muscles.

  I found Seamus sitting behind his desk signing a stack of papers. He barely glanced at me as I cleared my throat to announce myself, and pointed to the empty chair opposite him with his pen. Without further ado, I dropped into it and waited. He was clearly in no hurry to explain what this was all about, and I wasn’t going to rush him.

  At last, he put his pen down, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his forehead as though he had a devil of a headache. Then he looked at me, shaking his head.

  “I warned you. All those years ago, I warned you, and you just couldn’t listen to me, could you?”

  This pulled me up short. “Pardon?”

  “Do you take me for an idiot, Carey?”

  “I… never have before, sir,” I said slowly, trying to catch up, to figure out what in blazes he was on about.

  “I told you that girl was trouble. I told you to keep well away from her, to distance yourself.”

  Where my insides had been writhing with confusion a moment before, I suddenly seemed to have no insides at all—just the hollow, echoing space that dread carves out in you when it takes hold. I licked my lips, which had gone horribly dry.

  “I wondered, once the two of you were back here again. I admit there were moments I wondered. I thought you’d come to your senses. I thought you had discipline. I can see now that I gave you entirely too much credit,” Seamus said, giving me a look of pure disgust.

  In that moment, I felt absolutely no impulse to lie—that much I remember clearly. Whatever else might happen, the time for lying—if there ever had been a time for such a thing—was past. Whatever Seamus knew and however he knew it, no falsehoods on my part, however well-spun or convincingly delivered, would change that. I was also a shit liar.

  I said nothing, choosing instead to meet Seamus’ gaze steadily and let him prove his case, as it were.

  When it became clear that I had no intention of either confirming, nor denying his accusations, Seamus reached into his pocket and flung something across the table at me. I caught it by sheer reflex and looked down at it, bewildered. It was one of my poetry books—the one, I realized with a sinking feeling, that Jess had illustrated for me. But how had Seamus gotten his hands on it?

  “We’ve just had a visit, from the High Priestess of the Traveler Durupinen, no less,” Seamus said. “You ought to take better care not to leave your love tokens lying around, Carey. One of the Traveler Guardians found this in the caravan after you left.”

  I swore internally. What a bloody fool I was. What a bloody, careless fool. Though I knew the poetry in the book did not mention Jess by name, there were verses of an intimate nature, and of course, her artwork filled the pages in between. Seamus could add two and two.

  “There was also a sketch,” Seamus added, when I still didn’t speak. “It seems Miss Ballard left it behind.”

  I didn’t need Seamus to elaborate. I knew which sketch he meant, and I remembered vividly what it portrayed.

  “What happens now?” I asked quietly.

  “You ought to be raked over the coals in a public hearing before the Council,” Seamus spat. “Both of you should.”

  “Should. Are you saying that’s not what’s going to happen?” I asked, meeting his eye.

  “Much to my chagrin, no,” Seamus admitted rather grudgingly. “The High Priestess does not want anything to overshadow the Coronation, nor does she want to spend the first days of her Priestesshood entrenched in an embarrassing spectacle over the Code of Conduct. It is, of course, her choice how to handle it.”

  “But you would have preferred the public spectacle,” I replied.

  “I would have preferred not to waste the opportunity to demonstrate to our ranks just how unacceptable your conduct has been,” Seamus returned. “Making an example of you would serve as a warning to others, a warning I think it would do them good to hear.” He sighed. “Nonetheless, the High Priestess has decided to sweep it all under the rug to spare everyone the humiliation. Your clan holds tremendous power and you have shown great service to Fairhaven and the Northern Clans in the past. The High Priestess believes these to be sufficient reasons to deal with this situation surreptitiously. Therefore, you are to be transferred.”

  As though from miles away, I heard my own voice ask, “Transferred where?”

  “Skye Príosún,” came the answer.

  It took several seconds for the words to penetrate my brain, and when they did, I found I could barely breathe. Skye Príosún was our most remote outpost, the very furthest reaches of Northern Clan power. It was also a barren, isolated place, and a post there was as much a sentence for the Guardian as it was for the prisoner. No Caomhnóir chose a post at Skye—it was understood that a position there was a metaphorical slap in the face, a judgment on your worth and abilities as a Caomhnóir. It would not be missed by anyone who learned of my assignment there that I had been demoted and disowned by the Fairhaven leadership in the very starkest of terms.

  Seamus was watching my face carefully as I absorbed this news. “There’s no point in asking your clan to intercede on your behalf,” he said, misreading my expression.

  I snorted with disgust at the notion. “Oh, come off it, Seamus. I would never ask them to, nor would they agree to do so, as you know full well.” The thought was absurd. Clan Gonachd had only ever concerned itself with consolidating its power and influence. The salvation of a wayward son of the clan would not be worth sustaining damage to the clan’s reputation. They would be more than grateful to bury me deep in the bowels of Skye Príosún rather than take ownership of my misdeeds. The same, of course, would not be true if I were my sister Olivia or my cousin, Peyton. But I was not.

  “When?” was all I could think to ask.

  “Effective immediately. You are to pack your things at once. We leave in thirty minutes for the helipad.”

  “And I’m to have no opportunity to fight this? No course of appeal wh
atsoever?”

  “Oh, you can make a fuss, certainly,” Seamus said, with something remarkably like a sneer. “You can shout from the rooftops if you like—demand a hearing, call witnesses, do your worst. But you know the outcome will be the same, so why not save both yourself and Miss Ballard the public flogging you’ll receive if you reject the High Priestess’s frankly merciful offer to deal with all this privately?”

  I wanted to argue, but even in my shock I knew he was right. Absolutely no good would come of fighting this transfer. All I would do was humiliate Jess and possibly endanger the Council seat that Hannah had fought so hard to win. Clan Sassanaigh had already faced years of ridicule and rejection. How could I heap more on their heads, selfishly, just to delay the inevitable?

  I couldn’t. That was the hard truth of it.

  “Then I suppose there’s nothing left to say,” I replied. “I’ll gather my things, then.” I stood to go.

  “Nothing to say, is there?” Seamus asked, shaking his head at me. “Not a word of apology to your brethren for your weakness?” He made a sound of disgust through his nose. “I had you pegged as better, Carey.”

  My hand was on the doorknob when I turned back to him.

  “Love is not weakness, Seamus. If I’m better in any way, it’s because that woman helped me find the best that was in me, and it will be a frostbitten day in the hottest reaches of hell before you’ll ever hear me apologize for loving her, to you or to anyone.”

  Back in the bunk room, I pulled my duffel bag out from under my bed and began to fill it as quietly as I could. Everything felt numb—my fingertips, my brain, my heart. There was not a blessed part of me that was able or willing to absorb what was happening—that I was leaving her. That I would not even have the chance to say goodbye. It was unthinkable—unbearable.

  My thoughts turned to Ileana. Surely, she had not broken the boundaries of Durupinen jurisdiction simply because she suspected Jess and I had a relationship? What business was it of hers if a couple of Northerners broke the Code of Conduct? No, she had to have discovered—or at the very least, suspected—how Irina had escaped the boundaries of the Traveler camp and, by extension, its intended punishment for her. This was revenge—revenge against Jess for interfering in Traveler law. Ileana knew that Traveler justice could never be exacted on Jess, so she made sure that Northern Clan law would be brought to bear instead.

  “Finn? What are you doing?”

  Startled, I turned to see Bertie sitting up in his bunk, squinting through the darkness as he tried repeatedly to mash his glasses onto his face.

  “Bertie. No worries, mate. Go back to sleep,” I said, attempting a casual smile, hoping he would simply roll over. No such luck.

  “Why are you packing? Are you going somewhere?”

  I hesitated, but what was the point in lying to the poor bloke? He’d hear the truth soon enough, and I’d rather he heard it from me. After all, he might be the only person who had the chance.

  “I am, as a matter of fact. The truth is, I’m being transferred. Tonight,” I said, sitting back on my heels and sighing.

  Bertie’s round face crumpled with confusion. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. “Transferred? But I don’t understand. Are Jess and Hannah going somewhere? They’ve only just won the Council seat, where could they—”

  I shook my head. “I’m no longer assigned to Clan Sassanaigh. I’ve been reassigned to Skye Príosún.”

  Bertie’s eyes widened and I watched the realization play across his face. It was so awful to watch, I found myself half-glad that he was likely the only person I’d have to tell face-to-face.

  “But, I don’t understand. Why would they transfer you? You’re… you’re one of the best Caomhnóir they’ve got! Jess and Hannah need you!”

  “I appreciate that assessment, mate, but it seems Seamus disagrees with you. Jess and Hannah will be fine. There are plenty of competent Guardians here who can take over for me.” Even as I said it, a golf-ball sized lump lodged itself in my throat, and I could barely choke out the words.

  “No, they can’t transfer you!” Bertie said, standing up now and looking half-panicked, half-indignant. “I’ll vouch for you! They’re making a mistake! Who should I…?”

  I jumped to my feet and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, shushing him at the same time. “I appreciate that, mate, but there’s nothing you can do. It’s been decided. There’s no point arguing with Seamus, you may as well bang your head against a brick wall.”

  “But why? Why is he doing this to you? I… I need you here.”

  He uttered this last bit so quietly that it took me a moment to decipher what he had said, and in those few seconds his face turned beet red with embarrassment. I struggled for the right thing to say.

  “You don’t need me here,” I said, as dismissively as I could, as if the idea were absurd. “You’ve worked hard and you’ve become a brilliant Caomhnóir for Savvy.”

  “I’m not brilliant. I—I’m barely competent,” Bertie muttered.

  “You’re devoted,” I corrected him. “And loyal. And hard-working, which is more than I can say for some of the lazy, selfish sods around here. They resent their charges, but you don’t. And that makes you a better protector than they can ever hope to be.”

  Some of it was true, and the rest was only half a lie, which I forgave myself for telling as I watched the words fill Bertie up, buoying him in what I knew would be a rough sea ahead for him. Half the lads only left him alone because they knew I’d pummel them if they gave him a hard time.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I promised, knowing full well I may have to break it. “I want you to do something special for me, though.”

  Bertie threw out his chest and set his jaw. “Name it, Finn. Name it and it’s done.”

  “I need you to keep an eye on Jess and Hannah for me, and their new Caomhnóir as well. Make sure he’s up to scratch, yeah? And write to me—keep me up to date on what’s happening here. I’ll… this is only temporary. I’ll be working on getting myself back to Fairhaven as quickly as I can.”

  Bertie nodded once, sharply. “I won’t let you down, Finn,” he said.

  “I know you won’t. And I asked you, mind, none of the rest of these tossers, so let that be a reminder of what kind of Caomhnóir I think you are.”

  He grinned, which was all I needed to be able to leave the poor bloke behind. I zipped up my bag, clapped him on the back, and strode from the room before I could change my mind.

  §

  I remember very little of the journey to Skye. Whether my mind was attempting to protect itself from the reality of what was happening, I’m not sure, but when I look back on the trip—first the car, then the helicopter—I can tease out only a few blurry images, all of them silent. The only truly clear memory I have is stepping out of the chopper and onto the lawn, staring up at the place where—for lack of a better analogy—I would be serving out my sentence for my perceived crime. It loomed before me, looking every bit the impenetrable fortress it was touted to be. I had seen it before only once, when I was assisting with a prisoner transfer, and then had not even entered the place.

  I doubted that the prisoners currently locked away in its bowels felt more dread upon their first glimpse of the place than I did in that very moment. Fairhaven had never felt further away.

  Seamus had insisted on accompanying me—though whether to gloat or because he thought me a possible flight risk, I couldn’t be sure, and it was his purposeful strides I followed through the imposing front entrance and into the outer courtyard.

  The space seemed to be in use as a training area for the Caomhnóir. Scattered all around within the perimeter of the high stone walls, there were groups of men sparring, marching, and mending weaponry. Every one of them looked up upon my arrival, and there was not a friendly nod or a wave amongst them. Charming.

  Seamus motioned me forward to stand beside him as he was approached by an older Caomhnóir who limped forward, eyeing me
like a hawk with the one eye that did not wear a grubby leather patch. This man, I knew, had to be Eamon Laird, the Commander over all Caomhnóir at Fairhaven and a man with a reputation for almost thuggish cruelty. The heavy scarring that badly disfigured one side of his face pulled one corner of his mouth into a permanent sneer.

  “This is him, then?” Eamon barked without greeting or preamble. The look he gave me was nothing short of repulsed. I felt my fists clenching at my sides and quickly shook them out. I wouldn’t do myself any favors losing my temper with the leadership before I’d even put my bag down.

  “Yes. Finn Carey of the Clan Gonachd. Here’s his file,” Seamus said, handing it over to Eamon, who opened it at once and began perusing the contents. I wondered what was in the file—test scores and write-ups, surely, but what else? What sorts of records did the leadership keep on the rest of us? I realized I had absolutely no idea.

  “What a waste,” Eamon replied, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Such promise. Another bright prospect derailed by temptation.”

  Here, again the insinuation that my relationship with Jess had been nothing more than a pathetic loss of will power in the face of lust. Did these men truly not grasp the idea that a relationship between a Durupinen and a Caomhnóir could be anything other than a product of female machination, the siren song and its hapless victim? I expected no less in the newly indoctrinated Novitiates, but surely experience had taught these men that real life was rarely so simple, so easily dismissed? How sad to realize their thinking had never evolved past such infantile notions about human interaction.

  “Little chance of falling victim to that here, unless you fancy filthy inmates in chains, Carey,” Eamon said with a dry chuckle, which Seamus echoed.