“She’s nervous,” I said to Colmon. “Perhaps I should wait for her?”

  “No,” he said. “You can’t do her test for her, and she must learn to stand on her own feet.” He swung me around, facing me toward the great hall, and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “And you must learn to make friends.”

  I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks. “I have Fódla. Father. You. Gobnat, too. I don’t need anyone else.”

  Colmon shook his head, and even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he rolled his eyes.

  “Speaking to new people is not so bad, Rónnat. You just have to make an effort.” He pointed over at a group of people inside the hall. “Look, there is Gobnat. You haven’t seen her in a while, have you? Why not go over? She will introduce you.”

  It was the obvious move, and yet his insistence grated on me. He wasn’t usually this opinionated. “Why do you care who I speak to?”

  Colmon leaned against the door. “There is talk of the council ordering all Descendants to come and live here.”

  “Father says that it’s not decided. It hasn’t even gone to a vote.”

  “Not decided… but I think it likely to be passed sooner rather than later. I just think… I think you’d find it easier if you had friends here, that is all.”

  “Live here? All the time? No. That’s not for me. Surely the council cannot make me.”

  Colmon shrugged. “Many have said the same as you and then changed their mind.” He glanced at Gobnat. “This place has become a refuge as well as a fortress. I must say, it is pleasant to be away from the mortal wars at times. Your father has kept you sheltered from those. Perhaps that is why you do not understand.”

  I glanced around the hall, watching as everyone spoke, smiling and relaxed. It was a world away from the simple life we lived in the crannog. My gaze moved to Gobnat, who had only last year lived close to us, until her parents decided to move to the fortress. She had said she didn’t want to leave… but she looked so happy now, her eyes bright and clear as she laughed. Indeed, several of the younger Descendants around her were giggling, enraptured by whatever it was a male Descendant was saying. A druid from the look of him.

  “Who is that?”

  “His name is Tomas. Anaile’s son.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “He doesn’t usually come to the Gatherings. He prefers solitude. It is said he has read more of our texts than any of the druids, bar his father of course.”

  He preferred solitude? It didn’t look like it from the way he had those around him hanging on his every word.

  “He is very clever,” Colmon added. “I think you’d like him.”

  “I doubt that very much, cousin. He looks very satisfied with the little harem he has gathered. I don’t wish to add to his ego by joining it.”

  Colmon sighed. “Rónnat, this is not the crannog. Your father let you run wild in the north. You grew up swimming, climbing mountains, hunting, and getting into fights with mortal boys who called you names. Here things are different. People try to get along. They are polite. You told me once you did not like it here because you felt the other Descendants judged you, yet you are the one doing all the judging.”

  Knowing there was truth in his words and that it was what Father would want, I stepped inside the great hall and walked toward the grouping of Descendants. I did not like change. I did not like being away from the crannog… but I could make this work… for Father and Fódla.

  The hall was packed tonight, and I held myself tight as Colmon pulled me along. Tapestries, spun and woven by our ancestors, covered the walls. Lavender-scented candles gave the room a sweet smell. Not as many were lit as the last time I had attended the Gathering, when the scent had been overpowering and sickly, for which I was grateful. The tables, however, were filled with more than just candles. The Gathering was always a spectacle, with endless food and wine. Meats, fruits, buttered breads and honey cakes. Music, too. It was impressive, even though I was not a fan of ostentation. The beauty of woodland meadows and the grandeur of the mountains were much more to my taste. Nonetheless, I took a cup of wine as we walked through the room.

  It didn’t take long to reach Gobnat and her group of friends. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but then Tomas laughed at a young harpist who had just spoken. Up close, he was handsome, there was no denying that, though I wasn’t prone to making those sorts of observations. Tall, with short, blond hair and piercing green eyes, and the gaggle of young women surrounding him showed I wasn’t the only one to think this.

  “Rónnat!” Gobnat grinned once she spotted me. “How are you!”

  “Evening, Gobnat. I am well.”

  “I’m so happy you are here.” She leaned forward to give me a light kiss on the cheek.

  “How have your parents settled in?”

  “Oh, it’s been wonderful for them,” she replied. “They’ve decided to stay. It’s been good for them to be among friends and away from all the chaos of the mainland.”

  She saw my smile, false as it was, falter. She stepped closer. “I like it too. We go out to the mainland when the tide is out. I think you’d like it here if you gave it a chance.”

  “You are not coming back to your home in Ulaid?”

  “Sorry, Rónnat.” She shook her head. “I thought I would return, but now I am here, I do not see it.”

  I gave an uncertain nod and bit away my arguments to persuade her to return. Wasn’t this what Colmon was talking about? To get along, to not always say what was on my mind? Gobnat, satisfied by my muted reply, pulled me forward.

  “Tomas,” she said, “this is my friend, Rónnat.”

  Tomas turned his head toward me, his eyes narrowing as he took me in. I didn’t like this stare. There was nothing friendly about it. When I hunted in the mountains, I’d watched the winter wolves hunt their prey. His eyes reminded me of theirs. Hungry. I found myself wanting to look away, but then decided that would only show I was afraid.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, shaking himself back into a smile. “You are Ciarán’s daughter. I’ve never met your father. People say he cannot bear to leave his crannog. Is he so very stubborn, or can you persuade him to live here?”

  “Yes, I am Ciarán’s daughter. You are Anaile’s son. I’ve only met your father once. People say you read scrolls all day long. Are you so very dull? And I have no intention of persuading my father to live here.”

  Gobnat stared at me, her mouth falling open at the bluntness of my reply. Colmon tensed beside me.

  “Sorry. I’m teasing.” I pressed my lips into a smile. I had just promised to myself to try, after all. “I hope you don’t hold it against me, Tomas.”

  “Of course not. No offence was taken.” He gave a small incline of the head. Apology accepted, it appeared to say, though when he looked at me, he still wore the same expression as when he first saw me. A concentrated stare that felt at odds with the warmth in his voice and sent a chill up my spine. “I should not have been so familiar when I spoke of your father. It is I who should apologise.”

  Although this was not the same as an actual apology, I found myself nodding. Colmon relaxed then and introduced me to the rest of the group. They continued their conversation which seemed to be about the Viking invasions in Munster. I joined in now and then, until finally Colmon took my arm. “Come, cousin, let’s say hello to Fiachre.”

  I went with him gratefully.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad,” he whispered. “You can be friendly if you try. It just takes practice.”

  How long have you practised, cousin? But I couldn’t make myself say this aloud. The truth was, Colmon was like me in many ways. I knew that the Gatherings, the politics, and the arguments between his father and other Descendants wore him down, though he would never admit it. He had somehow found a way to survive them. I supposed I should try to follow his example if only for Father’s sake.

  “Tomas has become a friend of mine,” Colmon added, as we wove through the crowd. “Do give him a chance.”

  “Has he? He gave me the strangest look. Did you notice?”

  “He can be very serious and intense at times, yes, but he’s a good person. You will see that when you get to know him.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Fiachre,” Colmon said, ignoring my last comment, and waving over one of my father’s friends. “You remember my cousin, Rónnat.”

  Fiachre, who had visited our crannog many times, was ruddy-cheeked and good-humoured this evening. “I do indeed. Morning, fair Rónnat. How were your travels?”

  “Wonderful,” I said, returning Fiachre’s infectious grin.

  “Your father tells me you are quite the explorer. A great shame you are a witch and not a warrior.”

  “No, not a warrior, though I’m sure I could outrun many over the mountains.” I nodded at his stomach, which protruded over his belt. “Maybe even you.”

  Fiachre erupted with laughter and tilted his cup in my direction. “Ah, so you will be against us all moving to the fortress too. Sensible.”

  “Yes, I am. At least… I am glad for people who wish to be together, but I don’t think I could stay here all the time. I’d miss the land too much.”

  Fiachre poured himself another cup of wine and offered me one.

  “Where is your father?” Colmon asked him.

  Fiachre’s voice hardened. “Old man Tassach? He goes to the same place as your father, I imagine.”

  Colmon rolled his eyes. “I hope they’ve calmed the tensions between their mortal families. They should be here.”

  “I hope so too.” Fiachre raised his cup, and Colmon mirrored the gesture. A vague memory of Father telling me that Tassach’s giftless granddaughter and a giftless great-grandson of Colmon’s father, Darius, had married into warring tribes came back to me. Father had tried to speak to his brother-in-law, Darius, about pulling away from these conflicts, for giftless Descendants were mortals in truth, but so far, he had not succeeded. He could not make Darius understand that our involvement only led to more death and devastation, and that it was better to let the mortals fight out their arguments alone.

  “Oh, look,” Colmon said. “They are bringing in the new Descendants. The testing didn’t take long.”

  Spinning around, I searched for Fódla. Only four Descendants were to be presented this year. So few. The whispers started, hissing into the air.

  Fifty were presented my year.

  Who is she?

  What is he wearing?

  No warriors or weapon-makers? Again?

  Fódla, however, didn’t seem to notice. She beamed as she walked into the hall and toward the top table, waving at those who shouted out words of welcome. I clapped my hands along with everyone else, not allowing the noise to ruin my good mood. Fódla had passed her test. She would be happy.

  I watched as she passed by. Her green dress, cut from the same cloth as Father’s tunic, set off the red of her hair, which was still decorated with the cowslip and clover headdress. She made her way to the front of the hall where the gift-leaders stood, waiting to welcome their newest members.

  “I’d better go. Even though none of them are mine,” Fiachre said, setting his cup of wine aside. He strode to the top of the room where he clasped the shoulder of my father, who stood there as leader of the warriors. There were no new Descendants with Father’s gift either. Neither for Laeg, leader of the cupbearers – nor Gráinne, though she never had any. She was the last prophet now. Father said a new one would soon come, but none had been born in the last three hundred years, and so she stood by herself, still muttering to the air.

  The four new members walked up to stand in front of the gift-leaders. One healer, one witch, one harpist and one druid.

  Affraic, leader of the healers, took my sister’s hands in hers. Deirdre, Anaile and Shae, leaders of the witches, druids and harpists, took the hands of their members too, and the hall silenced.

  “Descendants of the Tuatha Dé Danann,” Anaile said. “We welcome you to our hall. When Lugh, son of Cian, came to the great hall at Teamhair, at first, the Tuatha Dé Danann did not let him inside. We have our own harpist, our own warrior, our own weapon-maker, our ancestors told him. It was only when he showed them that he had all the gifts, the only one of the Tuatha Dé Danann ever to be granted such power that the ancestors granted him entry. Entry to the hall at Teamhair was a great privilege, but as the years passed, our ancestors noticed that the children they had with their mortal lovers had inherited their gifts, and passed a law which allowed those children to feast with them in their halls. Cú Chulainn and Fionn MacCumhaill are the most famous of them, but indeed there are many of our kind who have deserved praise and honour. Since this new law, any Descendant, with any of the gifts, has been welcomed to celebrate within the fortress. And you” – he stared at each new member in turn – “are most welcome.”

  The hall erupted into loud cheers and applause. Fódla turned, face lowered, blushing at the sudden attention. Father walked over to her and wrapped his arms about her, as he had done with me on the day I was presented. He took her hand in his and brought her into the crowd, where his friends lined up to give their congratulations.

  I sat at the back of the hall, waiting. When I had been presented five years ago, I had found these well-wishes and introductions mortifying. So many people, so many words all at once. I found it hard to keep hold of all the names and faces, and constantly worried that I had replied incorrectly or not acted as I should. Fódla had no such problems. Shy as she was, she endeared herself to those around her, rather than pushed them away like me.

  At length, Father and Fódla made their way over to where I stood. Colmon laughed and gave Fódla a hug. “Well done. Welcome.”

  “Colmon,” Tomas said, pushing his way through the crowd, leaving behind Gobnat and the others who he had been talking with. “Is this another cousin?”

  “Aye,” Colmon said. “Fódla, this is my friend Tomas, son of Anaile.”

  “Oh,” Fódla said, smiling at him. “Nice to meet you. You’re a druid, yes?”

  “Yes, I am,” Tomas replied. “How do you like the fortress?”

  “It’s very grand,” she said brightly, “though I haven’t seen it all yet.”

  Her eyes lingered on his for a moment. A faint blush ran to her cheeks, and she pulled her hair forward to hide it. “Rónnat,” she said, catching my gaze. “I missed you.”

  I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close. “Well done, sister. How was the test?”

  “Easy. Just as you told me it would be.”

  She breathed out and moved her head so that her cheek rested on my shoulder. Smiling, I looked about me. Father and Colmon were talking with Tomas – only, Tomas wasn’t looking at Father or Colmon.

  He was staring at my sister with that same hungry look he had earlier given me.

  FENNIT ISLAND, 912

  Rónnat

  “The Gathering must start!” Shae shouted.

  A sudden rush to find a seat commenced. Those who were too slow to find one made do with standing along the aisle and walls, shuffling to find a space with a view.

  I tugged my sister’s hand and pulled her after me to the left wall, close to the front. “Here is best. Hurry.”

  Glad we had made it before any others, I grinned at Fódla. The voices of the gift-leaders would echo around the back of the hall, making it impossible to hear when standing at the far wall, and the whispers here wouldn’t be too loud either. From my previous Gathering, I had found those at the front were not so vocal in expressing their disagreements with the gift-leaders as those at the back.

  Fódla gripped my arm, and we stood in silence while the gift-leaders took their seats. Father watched us as he made his way to his chair. A look swept over his face that I had not seen before. Regret? Remorse? Fear? I couldn’t place it, and I found myself wanting to hold him.

  “Rónnat,” Fódla whispered. Her fingers tugged at my dress, pulling me tighter to the wall. “It’s about to start.”

  “Yes.” I shifted back into line, reached for her hand and held it tight.

  Anaile stood as the crowd silenced. “Now that we have greeted our new members, the Gathering must commence.” He pointed at the back wall where the ancient tapestries hung – the ones said to have been made by Danu herself. Coloured thread woven into golden cloth; the legends of our ancestors played out before us, the last of them depicting the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Fomorians at the great battle at Moytura. Balor of the Evil Eye stood at the front of his army, and Lugh ran to fight him. Throwing his spear, he pierced Balor’s eye, and as the spear flew through the back of Balor’s skull, it unleashed the Fomorian king’s fire-magic on his own army, which stood behind him. Fomorians did not burn, it was said, but Balor’s fire burned so hot, and so great was his rage, that it melted his own tribe’s flesh and turned their bones to ash.

  “The Fomorians attacked and burned our last fortress at Inis Mór ninety years ago,” Anaile said, pointing up at the image of Balor of the Evil Eye. “They came to fight us. Our warriors, witches and cupbearers endured many losses, but our numbers were greater then, and we fought them off. It was, however, too late to save many of our works. We are lucky that this tapestry was salvaged, but other pieces were not so fortunate. So many of our histories, books, and the possessions of our ancestors were lost, which is why we moved here.” He knocked the long oak table the gift-leaders sat behind, the sound dull and low and reassuring. “We have cast many protective spells over the island, and we keep the surviving manuscripts in the high tower where fire cannot penetrate the stone. However, while I am confident that our possessions are now secure, it occurs to me that we, the Descendants, are not as safe as I would like. Should all the Descendants come to this fortress and call it home? That is the question we must ponder today.”

  “We are as safe as we need to be,” Fiachre said bluntly, jaw clenched. His cheeks had grown redder since we spoke, the cup of wine in his hand now empty.

  “Good for you, Fiachre,” Shae said. “You are a weapon-maker. What of us that do not have gifts in war? Healers, druids, harpists – we cannot fend off a Fomorian, nor even the mortal warriors who grow ever more bold.”

 

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