Rain set in after Rowan had defeated the hag, and clung to all the roundhouses and the woods around the hill. The gloomy days wore on and Rowan did not leave the house, not even when Heath tried to shame her for not attending training. She was done with him. She had seen the joy he took in lecturing her over risking Maewyn’s life to catch the hag. He revelled in her having done something so dangerous, so obviously in need of correction. Rowan’s rage had become painfully intense and the only way to deal with it was to refuse to feel it. To stop listening, stop caring. So every morning when he called for her to get out of bed, she ignored him. And, because he secretly preferred her not to be around his army, he did not try all that hard to get her up.
On the fifth day of the stand-off between them, everything changed.
Around mid-morning, as Rowan stood under the thatched overhangs behind the roundhouse, idly shooting arrows in neat lines into the frame of the chicken pen – it bristled with them in a way that ought to warn any fox away – she heard shouts and calls from the village square.
She shouldered her bow and headed through the gate, and saw that a band of people sat on the ground arguing with the four men who made up the village guard. A crowd had gathered in the rain and Rowan asked a woman what had happened.
‘I’m not sure. These poor folk struggled up the hill, all bloody and desperate.’
Rowan pushed through the crowd and could now see the ‘poor folk’ properly. With a shock, she recognised Niamma with about a dozen of her tribe. When Niamma saw Rowan, she leapt to her feet. One of the guards tried to stop her.
‘Let her be,’ Rowan said, and caught Niamma’s hands in her own.
Niamma looked up at her with a desperate gaze. Rain had plastered her red hair close to her skull, and she seemed smaller than ever. ‘I asked them to take me to Heath. They said I have to wait until he is back.’
‘I’m here now. What do you need? What has happened?’
‘Raiders found us.’ Niamma stopped, took a deep breath. ‘They went through us like a hot knife through butter. We are all that is left.’
The shock made Rowan go cold. She quickly counted the remnants of the tribe with her eyes. ‘But where is your druid?’ Then, with horror, ‘Where is your brother?’
‘Gone. All gone,’ Niamma said, her voice desolate. ‘They killed the druid first, after trying to force him to commit his soul to Maava. My brother they killed last, tore him from my arms as we fled. I had to leave his body on the road.’
The murmur started in the crowd: ‘Raiders.’ ‘They are bold.’ ‘They will come for us too.’
Rowan knew she ought to calm everyone, but how could she when she believed the same? Now Hakon and Willow had Blicstowe, they would be emboldened to extend their conquest. Why would they not intensify their attacks on the heathen kingdom, barely held together by the new treaty, poorly overseen by Renward?
Rowan gathered Niamma against her. The small woman sobbed a few moments, then stood back, steely as ever, tears and rain indistinguishable on her face. ‘We come to ask you to take us in. The Gwr-y-Aírd are no more. We require the safety of your village, even if that means we must join your tribe.’
‘That is something we should confirm with Heath,’ one of the guards said.
Rowan shook her head in irritation. ‘There is no need. I know what Heath would say. Niamma, you and your tribe are most welcome here, for as long as you need our help; and you may remain Gwr-y-Aírd.’ She beckoned the other guards. ‘Take these people to the alehouse and see that our druids are called to tend their wounds and their spirits. One of you go fetch Heath. Niamma will come with me.’
The guards exchanged glances, unsure if they should take her orders.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You think Heath would want our allies sitting in the rain, injured and desperate? We have a treaty.’
Movement and commotion. Rowan put a protective arm around Niamma and pushed her way out of the crowd, deflecting panicked questions. ‘We have no reason to believe raiders will come here,’ she lied. ‘Go about your lives.’
Rowan gratefully shut out the village and led Niamma past the watchfires and inside the warm roundhouse, out of the rain. ‘Sit,’ she said. ‘I will fetch you dry clothes.’
Niamma moved towards the hearth and Rowan dashed to her room. Dropped her bow and quiver, and pulled out a dry dress and pinafore. She returned to the fire to hand them to Niamma. ‘They will likely be too large.’
Niamma had slipped off her shoes, and her tiny feet – white and wrinkled from walking so far in the rain – made Rowan want to cry. She seemed impossibly vulnerable in that moment.
‘Thank you,’ Niamma said, sounding ever her confident and strong self. She began to peel off wet clothes, and Rowan took them from her to hang by the fire. When Niamma was dressed again she sat down and said, ‘I should be with the others.’
‘You are the leader of your tribe. It is right you are here.’
Niamma looked around her with a bitter laugh. ‘I have no druid and no heir,’ she said. ‘What is there left to lead?’
Rowan wasn’t sure what to say, so said nothing at all. She added a peat brick to the fire to warm the porridge pot, stirred the sticky oats and waited for Niamma to speak again.
Eventually she did. ‘It’s the shock, Rowan. Not the grief. I will grieve Albi behind my eyelids, away from the world. But the shock of it …’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That we could not protect ourselves. That I could not save them. Save him. I thought we were strong.’ She shook her head, clearly wrestling huge emotions. ‘We could not protect ourselves,’ she said again, and dropped her head to stare at her bare feet, resting gently on the outside of the hearthstones.
‘We have two of your boys here. The ones you sent us to learn our war strategy.’
Niamma looked up, smiling. ‘They didn’t run away?’
‘Did you expect them to?’
She shrugged. ‘They didn’t much want to come. I would like to see them at some point.’
‘That you shall. They are at training now. Niamma, why did you only send two boys? Heath said all the tribes had agreed to send eight, to learn battle formations if we needed to go to war together.’
‘We did not agree to that. Is that what he wanted?’
Rowan frowned. ‘But he said –’
‘He didn’t –’ Niamma stopped herself, pressed her lips closed again.
‘Go on,’ Rowan urged her.
‘He’s your father.’
‘Barely,’ Rowan said.
‘Entirely,’ Niamma countered.
Rowan spooned some porridge into a bowl and brought it to Niamma, sitting down next to her. ‘Please tell me the truth. Your truth. I can help you better if I know.’
‘After the assembly, when we all agreed to unify, Heath said he would send four soldiers to each tribe to train us in his ways. His Thyrslander battle formations and so on. The kind of thing you need if you have a big army. We don’t have big armies. We fight better from the treetops. But we agreed, because we understood that we might be called to fight together some time.’ As she spoke, she shovelled food into her mouth, and Rowan wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten. ‘But then he sent a messenger instead, asking for eight boys – eight! – for his army.’
‘Yes, to train them.’
‘That wasn’t part of the message. As a gesture of goodwill I sent two lads who I thought might be good soldiers one day. I could spare no others; I needed them to keep us safe. Many wondered why I was feeding soldiers to Druimach at all. They said Heath would keep them and use them to fight against us one day.’
‘Then it was a miscommunication,’ Rowan said.
‘On Heath’s side,’ Niamma countered.
Rowan wasn’t sure. ‘On both sides?’
Niamma smiled and shook her head. ‘See. Daughterly loyalty.’
‘Heath would not –’
‘You don’t know what Heath wouldn’t do. He loves you. He doesn’t love us. He thinks us unruly and stupid.’
‘No, no. He has so much affection for the people here in Druimach.’
‘Affection, yes. And for his own people, who live in town and are more civilised than the rest of us. Respect, no. He doesn’t.’
Rowan considered this and realised there was at least a sliver of truth in it.
‘All this time,’ Rowan said, ‘we might have had Ærfolc training among us, readying for battle. These are dark times. But a misunderstanding –’
‘Heath’s fault. Not ours.’
Rowan watched Niamma finish her porridge and put the bowl aside.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ Niamma said. ‘Raiders found us. No doubt they will find others.’ Then she tilted her pretty head to one side and said in a mischievous tone, ‘What would you do, Rowan Leh-an-Heath? If you were in charge?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Imagine it. What would you do?’
Anxiety bunched her guts. ‘I’d bring every tribe into Druimach, and take them all to Renward. I’d prepare a joint army.’
‘And then?’
‘March on Blicstowe with Bluebell. Take it back.’
Niamma laughed. ‘You were doing so well until the last part.’
‘You know we are all safer with Ælmesse strong.’
Niamma shrugged lightly.
At that moment, the door flew open and Heath hurried in, flanked by two soldiers. His clothes were streaked with mud. His eyes went from Niamma to Rowan, and they were colder than Rowan had ever seen them.
‘You missed training. Again,’ he said to Rowan. Then he turned and dismissed the two men with a few soft words. They left, closing the door behind them.
Heath approached. ‘Niamma. You have my most sincere sympathy. Albi was far too young to have met such an end.’
‘And far too beloved,’ Niamma said, and Rowan saw her brittle bravery fall away a little, as the corners of her mouth pulled down.
Heath sat opposite them, hands clasped between his knees. ‘How can we help?’
‘Actually, Rowan had a wonderful idea.’
Rowan glanced up sharply.
Niamma smiled at her. ‘Go on. Tell him.’
‘We should gather all the tribes here in Druimach. We are the largest town and the best fortified. We should prepare to do battle with the raiders.’
Heath stared at his clasped hands for a long time. Rowan found his face impossible to read.
‘Why would we not, Heath?’ Rowan asked. ‘They are in danger out there.’
‘They may bring danger to us,’ Heath said quietly.
‘How so? We wouldn’t invite Rathcruick, of course.’
‘But Rathcruick would hear and we know he played a part in the fall of Blicstowe. Once Hakon and Willow realise we are all in one place, you think they won’t come?’
Rowan looked at Niamma, who inclined her head slightly, as if in concession.
‘We train the joint armies and join Renward,’ Rowan said. ‘And we march to Blicstowe to help Bluebell take it back.’
Niamma sighed. ‘You are right.’
Heath spoke quickly. ‘It is not for you and Rowan to decide, Niamma.’
‘What will you do then?’ Niamma shot back.
Heath turned his eyes to Rowan. ‘I will think on it. I like to make my decisions slowly, not in a rush. Not with a hot head.’
His angry pride was too obvious. Rowan felt embarrassed for him.
Niamma rose. ‘You have been too kind to me, Rowan,’ she said. ‘But I can no longer rest here in comfort. I must see that what is left of my tribe are dry and safe and fed.’
Heath climbed to his feet too. ‘Whatever you need, Niamma. There are two guards outside the door who will accompany you and make sure you are well cared for.’
‘Very kind,’ she said.
Rowan watched as Heath led her to the door. Then he turned and considered Rowan, who still sat by the fire.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Do I have your promise that you will ask me before you make plans for the whole kingdom?’
‘I made no plans,’ Rowan said.
‘It seems you did. And convinced Niamma of them.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘I’m out there, in the mud, leading an army –’
‘Enough!’ Rowan shouted. ‘I did nothing wrong. I merely talked to Niamma.’
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Especially not her.’
‘You do not respect her?’
‘I know too well how her mind works.’
‘I don’t believe you do.’
Heath shrugged. ‘I am not arguing with a child over matters of war.’
His eyes connected with hers. They stood a moment glaring at each other. Pity stirred, she almost forgave him for being so bullheaded, but then he said, ‘Behave, Rowan. Times are difficult and it will not always be clear what to do. Let me make the decisions. Behave. Think things through.’
Behave. She had the sense that nobody ever told Niamma to behave. Or Bluebell. That nobody had ever said such a thing to Heath, or Wengest, or Rathcruick … and yet all three had demanded it of her. Rowan nodded, but not because she intended to behave or think things through. Bluebell always said that people were not their thoughts; they were their deeds.
Rowan was tired of thinking.
Rowan attended training the next day, to show Heath she was capable of behaving. The break had rested her muscles and she sprang about with heroic energy through all the exercises. Archery practice was particularly satisfying. To forget about the shadows hanging over her and loose arrow after arrow into targets was wonderful.
The days sped past. The tribes had been trickling steadily into Druimach, making camp in the village square or around the inside of the walls. Many had stories to tell of encounters with raiders, narrowly escaped. The ones who did not escape were not alive to tell their tales. Nearly every tribe had lost a druid: a systematic wiping out of the old religion and its wisdom.
On the eighth day, as the afternoon shadows grew longer on the training field, Rowan became aware of a figure watching from the hillside. She looked up and saw it was Niamma. A strange self-consciousness washed over Rowan, thinking about how she might look running about in the mud. She tried to block out the feeling and concentrate on training. Next time she looked around, Heath had joined Niamma and their heads were bent together deep in conversation. Rowan couldn’t tell from this distance the tone of the words they exchanged.
Heath rejoined the soldiers and Niamma seemed content to watch as they circled through their drills. Rowan arrived at the archery row. Each arrow smacked precisely into the centre of the target. Some of the younger soldiers clapped. Rowan glanced around again, but Niamma was gone.
That evening, after sponging herself down and wolfing some food, Rowan told Heath she was going out for a walk. ‘I am full of excess energy after training today.’
‘Don’t stay out too late.’
She forced a smile. What did it matter how late she was out? She closed the door of the roundhouse behind her and headed out of the compound and towards the village square. The fine weather after a week of rain meant that the village stalls were open late, trading by lamplight. A press of people had gathered, wrapped warm against the cold. A woman with a baby in one arm crouched in front of a toddler in a rage; an old man with two skinny dogs lingered at a lemon stall; a group of children ran about tagging each other and getting underfoot. Rowan made her way through them all, her ears catching snatches of conversation; some innocuous, some about the news that Heath had sent for all the tribes to come and shelter in Druimach.
‘– the best lemons I’ve seen all year –’
‘– came out of the woods all bloody and wet –’
‘– these rabbits are small; have you a bigger one? –’
‘– too much pity will see us overrun by ice-men –’
She wove through and out the other side, to the low-roofed inn where she believed Niamma would be staying. Once inside, she deflected the few drunken questions flung at her from the bar about Heath’s plans, and made her way towards the back rooms. Before she arrived there, however, she heard her name called.
Rowan turned. Niamma stood against the rail, drinking with three other women and a man – all surviving members of her tribe.
Rowan stopped, waved, then stood there uncertainly. Again that embarrassed, exposed feeling. Niamma beckoned but Rowan shook her head. Niamma frowned, detached herself from her companions, and approached.
‘Rowan?’
‘I would speak with you alone. Away from other eyes and ears.’
Niamma spread her hands. ‘You would?’
Rowan nodded, pulse pounding in her throat.
‘This way, then.’ Niamma turned and called something in her own language to her companions, and led Rowan to the back rooms. Here she opened a door on a tiny space where at least seven people had made camp, though none of them was there now. Niamma lit a candle and Rowan could see crumpled blankets everywhere; a mound of leather packs. The furniture had been cleared to the edges of the room. Niamma pulled out a stool and offered it to Rowan, and then sat on the edge of the tiny bed, placing the candle on the floor. Dim flickering shadows.
‘What is it?’ Niamma asked.
Dread made Rowan’s mouth dry. ‘Would you follow me into war?’
Niamma snorted a laugh. ‘Now?’
Her humour took the edge off Rowan’s fear. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Of course I would, as I would have followed Connacht to war. His death was a great loss to us all, and Heath cannot come close to inspiring the same love. You don’t understand because you weren’t here then. All the tribes grieved Connacht, and the search for his heir was something we all watched with hope. Heath came. Not a bad man; but that is the best I can say of him. Druimach loves him, but mostly because your mother brought with her great wealth from Blicstowe. The granary was rebuilt, the walls fortified. But the old seer would not stop talking about the little queen. Heath refused to speak of it. Of you. Perhaps he was protecting you, perhaps himself. Rathcruick was the first to work it out and try to use you for his own purposes.’
Here Rowan stopped her. ‘Are you using me for your own purposes?’
‘Yes,’ Niamma said, quickly and emphatically. ‘But my purposes serve all of the tribes. Unity, freedom. Survival.’ Here she cast her eyes down for a moment, then took a breath and returned her gaze to Rowan’s. ‘Your arrival was foreseen by one of the Ærfolc’s greatest prophets. Four of her sons are druids in other tribes … including mine.’ Her lips tightened. ‘The little queen is here. We only wait to see what she will do.’
Rowan turned these thoughts over. Niamma stood and came to her, crouching in front of her, one hand on either side of Rowan’s body, resting her fingertips on the outside of Rowan’s hips. The gesture was intimate, unexpectedly thrilling. Rowan held back a quarter of her breath, hoping Niamma would not notice.
‘You don’t have to do anything,’ Niamma reassured her. ‘If you are afraid or would not hurt Heath, I understand. But if you do, I will follow you.’
‘You would?’
‘Yes,’ Niamma said firmly. ‘Though you are untested, you are nonetheless the true heir of Connacht and these are dark times. I would follow you any place, Rowan Leh-an-Heath, and so would the other tribes.’
Rowan’s throat went dry. Niamma stood up and the spell was broken.
She sat on her bed again, drawing her legs up under her. ‘What are you intending to do?’
Rowan stood, her knees loose on their hinges, and made her way to the door. ‘What I must.’
‘I’m glad you came to see me, Rowan,’ Niamma said as she ducked her head under the threshold. ‘Brave girl.’
‘You will have to be yet braver,’ Niamma added.
‘I know,’ Rowan replied.
The moon was bright and round. The stars paled beside it. A silvery light fell between the trees, making strange night-time shadows. Rowan crossed rivulets of rainwater, draining away towards streams or into the boggy ground. Mud sucked at her shoes, almost as if it was trying to hold her back. Stop her from making a mistake.
This wasn’t a mistake.
At length, she arrived at the sacred grove and stood before the dolmens. ‘Connacht!’ she called, her warm breath making mist. She turned around in a slow circle. ‘Connacht!’
Then she stopped, breathing slowly. Turned her eyes to the moon and waited.
‘Granddaughter.’ Connacht’s voice boomed in the grove and Rowan turned to it. His ghostly form shivered and resolved in front of her.
Rowan drew her spine very straight. ‘I have come to ask for the horns.’
‘You have?’ He looked amused and she doubted herself.
‘Yes,’ she said with finality. ‘I know what to do.’
He gazed at her a little while, his misty shape shifting in the breeze. Then he reached up to his head and removed the antlers.
‘You’re going to give them to me?’ she asked, startled. She’d been expecting some kind of wise words, a warning, a stern questioning about how sure she was.
‘Is that not why you asked?’
‘So you think I can … do this?’
‘You will learn by doing.’
His ghostly arms lifted the antlers above her head. They were made of mist and vapour, until they made contact with her skull. Then they became real and heavy, held on with a tight leather band. She took the weight without letting her neck bend.
‘You will make mistakes,’ he said. ‘We are all fallible.’
‘I’m afraid.’
‘Be afraid. But never show it.’ He stood back. Without the mighty antlers, he looked smaller, more human. Just a man after all. ‘What do you intend to do?’ he asked.
‘Unite the tribes under Renward. Help Bluebell liberate Blicstowe.’
‘And then?’
‘I …’ She hadn’t thought beyond that.
‘Take care of my people,’ he said. ‘Your people. Our suffering stretches back generations, and into the future too. Do right in the world, Rowan, and do not be swayed by those who seek to use you.’
‘I will do right,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘I can go now.’
‘Go?’
‘Across the veil. To the green city.’
‘But it is not resolved yet,’ Rowan said. ‘What if they don’t accept me?’
‘It matters not. You wear the horns. You will find a way.’ And then, when he saw the panic on her face, he touched her tattooed cheek with a misty hand that felt as cold as icicles. ‘They will accept you.’
A breeze whipped up, and the mist could no longer hold itself together. Connacht’s shape was swept away.
Rowan waited a few minutes, balancing her head so the horns stayed erect. A sense of rightness and purpose settled over her. She turned back towards the village.
They saw her as she passed. The villagers, the refugee tribespeople. They saw her with the horns in the moonlight, and they started to follow her. Clapping, cheering. As she walked up through the town, in her muddy brown cloak and trousers, her hair in an untidy knot – not dressed at all like a queen – the gathering grew larger, louder. By the time she reached the village square the crowd was dense, excited. She saw the druids among them, their eyes averted. She saw the head family of the Fenlanders take to their knees, the eldest daughter turning her face to the moon and calling something in her own language. She saw members of the army with whom she had trained that day and their eyes went round and one of them ran for the edge of the square. To fetch Heath. She knew it.
She stopped in the centre of the square, climbing up on the low thunderstone. The moon shone behind her, making her shadow long, the antlers clearly outlined on the ground in front of her. The crowd went silent, waiting for her to speak. Rowan realised she hadn’t the faintest idea what to say.
But then hurried footsteps drew her attention, and there was Heath. What she would have given not to see his stricken expression.
‘Rowan?’ he said.
‘We will unite under Renward,’ she said, before Heath could tell her to get back to the house. To behave. She directed her gaze over his head. ‘We will join our armies and march to Anad Scir to join his army and, from there, to the battlefields of the south.’
A light hubbub, then Niamma strode forward, pushing people out of the way. With a flourish, she knelt on the ground in the shadow of the antlers. ‘Yes, my queen. We will follow you anywhere.’
The other tribal leaders began to move through the crowd, coming to kneel beside Niamma, until only Heath stood.
His face was unreadable, as he, too, knelt before his daughter.