Connla doesn’t see it that way. He roars at the boy and swings a fist. Bran ducks, still holding up the hairs. Connla lunges after him. Bran laughs and flees, shouting, “Run fast! Run fast!” Connla chases, cursing foully, drawing his sword.
The rest of us fall about with laughter. We know Connla won’t catch Bran—if he was too fast for demons, a human stands no chance. Connla eventually realises this and stops chasing the boy. After hurling a few final curses at him and some more at us, he storms back to the bucket, regards his ruined moustache with a miserable expression, then scrapes the rest of the hairs away, shaving his lip bare.
Bran edges up to me, timidly holding out the hairs. “Giblets,” he says, handing them over. I give the boy a delighted hug. Goll claps him hard on the back—the old warrior is crying with laughter.
“I’d keep him out of Connla’s way for a few hours,” Fiachna chuckles. “He’ll calm down later but he’ll be in a foul mood for a while.”
“Don’t worry,” I grin, squeezing Bran tight. “I’ll look after him.”
“Giblets,” Bran repeats, stroking the hairs fondly, as if they were petals, making us all laugh again.
Shortly after the sun rises, Drust stops praying and we depart. Bran trots along beside us, unaware of the scowling Connla’s dark looks. I keep the boy close, in case the surly warrior tries to hurt him. I doubt he would, but I’m never sure about Connla. He’s a hard one to read. Impossible to know how he’ll react to a joke or how deeply to heart he’ll take a light insult.
I study Bran as he jogs, smiling at the countryside, squinting up at the sky and birds, perfectly content. I assume he had family and friends in the crannog, all of whom are dead now, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the loss. At first I pity him but the more I think about it, pity turns to envy. It must be nice to live like Bran, immune to the pains which the rest of us suffer. Knowing what I know—that unless Drust succeeds, this land will be overrun by unstoppable demons—I wish I could be as empty-headed as the fleet-footed boy.
Heading due west, we make good time. After a while Drust drops back and walks beside me, nudging Bran out of the way. The druid asks lots of questions about my past, Banba, my training. He wants to know what I can do, how powerful I am. He sneers when I tell him about my remarkable memory—that doesn’t interest him. When he asks about my family, I tell him I’m an orphan of unknown origin.
“You’ve no idea who your people were?” he presses.
“No.” I pause. “Do you?”
He frowns. “Why should I?”
I shrug, not wishing to tell him about my vision and the possibility that my mother might have been sending me out to find my original clan.
Drust continues asking about my magic, what spells I know, where my strengths lie. His enquiries fill me with unease. They shouldn’t. It’s natural for a magician to be interested in the abilities of another. But this doesn’t feel like simple curiosity. He seems to be testing me, probing for weaknesses. I recall what he said back in the hut—“You’ll do”—and worry burns in my stomach like a fire.
At midday we take a short rest. Drust sits slightly apart from the rest of us. Instead of eating, he pulls a board out of the bag which he carries on his back. A strange board, the surface divided into an equal number of black and white squares. It’s the thickness of the length of my thumb, made of crystal. He sets it down on the ground, then spills small, carved shapes out on to the grass. When he starts to position the pieces on the board, I realise it’s some sort of game.
“Chess,” Orna says as Drust moves the first piece.
Drust looks up eagerly. “You play?”
“No. One of the slaves in our tuath had a set but it was only played by men. I picked up some of the rules by watching but I don’t know them all.”
“A pity,” Drust sighs. “It’s been a long time since I had anyone to test my wits against.”
He concentrates. Moves a white piece shaped like a horse’s head, then one of the many simply shaped black pieces. Everyone’s interested in this new game. We’ve never seen it in our tuath. Orna explains about the game while Drust plays but it’s hard to follow the rules, especially as Orna is unsure of them herself.
“The main aim is to keep your king from being taken?” Lorcan asks.
“Aye,” Orna says.
“Why can’t he fight?” Ronan frowns. “A king should be a fine warrior, yet the kings in this game seem scared. They hide at the back.”
“It hails from a different land,” Orna explains. “In some places kings don’t fight. They send others to battle in their place.”
Angry mutters from the men—
“It’s not right!”
“Barbarians!”
“The likes of those wouldn’t last long against demons!”
I ignore them and focus on Drust and the way his hands linger over the pieces. Long, slender, unmarked fingers. They move the pieces swiftly, smoothly, from one spot to the other. I get the sense that he could move us just as easily. And maybe already has.
After lunch, Drust marches beside me again. But now, instead of asking questions, he says, “I can teach you if you’re willing to learn.”
“Chess?” I reply eagerly.
“No. Magic.”
I come to a halt and stare at him as if he’d slapped me. Fiachna and Connla stop behind us, hands sliding to their weapons. I start walking again before they ask what’s wrong. Drust keeps pace beside me, waiting for me to speak. Bran’s on the other side, following a butterfly. My head’s buzzing with conflicting thoughts. I’d love to learn magic from a druid—they can do so much more than priestesses. But men teach boys. Women teach girls. That’s the way it’s always been.
“I wouldn’t teach you all the spells I’d teach a male student,” Drust says, reading my thoughts. “There are secrets not fitting for one of your gender, just as you know secrets not suitable for a man. But we could work on your technique. I could show you where you’re weak, help you improve and teach you some new spells, those which you deem acceptable.”
“But men… girls… it isn’t done,” I mutter, red-faced at the thought of sharing my spirit with a man, as I must if I allow him to become my tutor.
“Just because something hasn’t been done doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be,” Drust says. “I’d prefer a boy to work with, just as you’d rather learn from a priestess. The fact is we have only each other. We can be bold and make the most of this opportunity or we can be prim and let it pass. Bec?”
He waits for my answer. After a long, dry-mouthed moment, I nod clumsily. “I would be… glad to learn… from you.
“Good,” he says, then rests his left fingers against my forehead. “Close your eyes and think of the moon. Before we begin, I want to teach you how to clear your head of all the rubbish you’ve let it fill with lately. Your mind is too much that of a human, not a priestess.”
A rush. A buzz. Tingling all over. My head… my body… my spirit… full of…
Four days marching. Four nights spent in the open. We lie down each dusk, singly or in pairs, sheltering beneath trees. Drust comes to each of us in turn, touches us and mutters spells. We have orders not to move during the night, even if we need to empty our insides.
“Go where you lie if you have to,” Drust says. “Just don’t leave the spot where you settle. The spell will break if you do.”
The first night—nothing. No undead or demons. I sleep fitfully, tucked up next to Goll, aware of Drust’s magic—the air flickering around me—wondering if it will hold.
The second night, a beast pieced together from several humans stumbles by. It’s moaning and scratching at the earth with bone-exposed fingers. Starving, hungry for any kind of flesh, even that of insects. It passes within four or five strides of where I’m resting with Orna. We hold our breath. I feel Orna’s fingers slide slowly to her sword. I want to whisper, “No!” but I’m afraid to make any noise.
The undead creature stops. I think it’s seen us. Orna hisses. Her hand finds the hilt of her sword. Her fingers tighten.
