The birds finally began their morning battle. A war of song instead of lance and sword. Lee was snoring, attempting to drown out the twittering. Fedelm walked to the door, threw open the cowhide cover, and drew deep breaths. She could smell the spring flowers mingled with the smells of a busy settlement: smoke from cooking fires, an edgy scent from the midden trench because the wind was in the wrong direction and the smell of fish being smoked in the smoking shed.
The settlement was tranquil. Finally. After a night of disturbances, such as Dornoll demanding to see the body, guards riding out in search of spoor, and crowds gathering to ask for news. Whoever had done it left no trace. The arrow was examined. All agreed it was from Nechtan’s warband. His prowess with his bow was well known. None condoned using such a cowardly weapon, but all recognized his skill. Messengers were sent forth. Nechtan’s was now a head with a price attached to it.
Genonn was still sitting beside his father’s body. She noticed his strong jaw, broad shoulders, and the weight of emotion they held at bay.
His strength will see him through, she thought, as she said, “I think you should give your father the rites.”
“What?” Genonn asked, his face clouding.
Fedelm could see by his confusion that he hadn’t heard her. She supposed she understood. Imrinn was no different, standing beside the table, one hand holding the back of the other, eyes staring through the open door at nothing, the grey light of dawn tingeing the nothing.
The brothers were in shock. Understandably.
“I think it would be fitting for you to give your father the funeral rites. It would be…”
She trailed off, unsure what she was saying. It was not the words making her uncertain, but how to convince Genonn it was his place to see his father at rest in Tír na nÓg. He should send Kathvar on his last ever journey.
“That is the task of a druid.”
“Yes, I know. I am not a druid.”
But you are a druid, she wanted to scream at him. He had completed his training. Falling out with his father over a misunderstanding did not change that fact. Genonn was a druid. Ten years on the island of Ynys Môn studying the druidic arts was proof of that.
She could not say the words. She wanted to beat Genonn’s chest and tell him to grow up and accept his responsibility. If not for the man lying on the table beside them demanding respect, she might have done it. Only a few hours had passed since Genonn staggered into her roundhouse with his gruesome burden. Only hours since he pulled the arrow from his father’s eye, tearing the socket to pieces in his haste to try and save a man who was beyond saving.
She would not berate him so soon. “It was just a thought. Nothing more.”
“We need to ask Dornoll to perform the rites. It is her station.”
“I shall go and inform her. I think she’ll want to hold the ceremony in the feast hall. I’ll prepare your father for his passage. Why don’t you go and wait in the hall?” Genonn nodded without replying or moving. “Lee. Get up.”
“What’s happened?” the boy asked as he fell from the cot, all sleepy-eyed and tousled.
“Will you not need help?” Imrinn asked.
“No. Thank you,” she said, confident in her druidic training. “Lee. Go with the brothers to the hall, will you.”
“Yes, of course.”
Fedelm waited until they were gone before she went to Kathvar’s roundhouse and collected clean clothes. She piled them at the bottom of her cot before preparing the body: undressing him, washing him from head to toe, doing as well as she could with the damage to his face. After the ritual cleansing, she stood with her arms folded, staring at the staff and the sword. She had never prepared a druid for burial. Did he need the symbol of his office or his weapon? Eventually, she decided on the blade. Kathvar’s successor would need the staff. She placed it at the end of her cot before putting the sword on his chest and folding his arms over it.
***
Fedelm gazed over the people crowding the feast hall. Solemn faces were turned up at the dais, eyes fixed on either Genonn or Imrinn, one at each end of the funeral bier: Genonn beside the head, Imrinn by the feet. Fedelm stood beside Dornoll, kneeling on the dais, whispering into Kathvar’s ear, invisible to those below. Dornoll was giving the druid instructions for his final journey. Those in the hall heard them as a hiss, rising and falling in cadence.
Fedelm gazed down on Dornoll and wondered at the point. Surely, as a druid, Kathvar knew the way to Tír na nÓg. It was a thought that came to her while she was washing gore from the druid’s face, preparing him to meet Áedh.
It was a thought that stuck.
It stuck despite her knowing his sons needed the solace found in ritual. She watched the brothers as the ceremony progressed. They both seemed stalwart, although Imrinn appeared distracted, not breaking down but not concentrating. He kept craning his neck to better view Dornoll as though he thought she would sneak out while his eyes were elsewhere. Fedelm had heard of young men with a fixation on older women. A need to return to the womb, she’d heard it called. She would be surprised if Imrinn was one of them. She’d always thought it a trait of plain boys, boys who had no hope of creating the two-headed monster with women their own age. Imrinn, like his brother, was a good-looking man: tall, square-jawed, broad-shouldered. Still, it would do him no harm to have the comfort of a woman’s breast where he could lay his head. If any of the women in the feast hall could offer Imrinn strength in his time of need, it was Dornoll. Fedelm had never met a stronger woman, except maybe Queen Medb. No one would accuse the Cailleach of weakness. She did run from the battle, but that was not an act of cowardice. She ran because she saw which direction the crows were flying.
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Fedelm could not help but gauge her work. Kathvar’s hands were crossed over his chest, appearing to hold the sword in place, which was achieved using carefully concealed copper wire. One eye stared at the thatch above him. The druid would be serene in death, except his face was ripped. Who did this to you? She knew it had been Nechtan, but he was the weapon. Someone paid for him to kill the druid.
She recalled Kathvar’s good mood from Dún Ailinne until the news of Cú’s murder when, after the anger, he became pensive. On the day of his murder, she noticed he was fidgeting, constantly staring at his feet. She would have called it fear if she hadn’t known the old man better.
He had feared nothing.
“It is done,” Dornoll said as she pulled herself to her feet, waving the retainers towards the body. They positioned themselves around the bier and lifted Kathvar aloft. Genonn walked in the vanguard, Imrinn brought up the rear, and the other mourners followed in their wake. Kathvar had always loved the forest, so they would raise a cairn for him near the sacred circle. He would be on a hill overlooking the plain where Caer Leb stood. He gave his life to the druidic order and the safety of the Five Kingdoms. Offering him a resting place where he could see the center of druidism was only fitting.
Raising the cairn took most of the day. The sun was already falling below the treeline when the mourners began returning to the dún. Fedelm searched the crowd for Genonn, but she could not see him.
“Has anyone seen Genonn?” she called.
“He left for the settlement even before the cairn was complete,” someone shouted. Fedelm did not know who it was but waved in thanks before turning and running for Caer Leb.
***
Fedelm could see Genonn striding towards the gatehouse, no doubt heading for the forest. He seemed to be running from something. With his long stride and his head down, she did not think she would catch him. She tried, and she failed.
Finally, with burning calves and lungs, she stopped and called, “Genonn, wait.”
He turned and walked back. As he came near, Fedelm could see deep creases on his forehead. He wanted to be alone. She understood the need. He would be feeling a mix of emotions: pain, guilt, anger. He was honor-bound to avenge his father, but Fedelm thought it would be the last thing on his mind. Although trained as a warrior, Genonn was not of the required mindset. He had intellect and compassion, traits not good in someone who earned their meat by killing people in the most efficient manner possible. And when warriors were not killing efficiently, they rode each other or drank themselves into temporary oblivion.
“I am not going to be here long. Whatever you need, make sure to ask it of me now.”
Fedelm shook her head at the words. There was something cold in them. A side to Genonn she’d not seen before. She thought he would have waited a little while before leaving. Not to get over his loss but to give himself time to come to terms with it. She gazed into his eyes, trying to read them, remembering them as a light grey. Now she could see a hint of darkness, like iron fresh from the forge, an ash grey covering the blackness beneath.
“Where will you go?”
“I must avenge my father. I shall search for Conall and ask for his help. Two people might have paid for his murder. Both are behind tall palisades with armies.”
“And you think Conall will improve your chances of breaking down those walls?”
“No. Conall’s a good tracker and could find a dormouse in a wheat field.”
“I assume the two are Longas and Medb?”
“Who else would they be? Kathvar knew their secret. He had to die.”
“But why do you need a tracker?”
“To lay siege to Crúachain or Emain Macha, I will need the sanction of the Elders.” Fedelm could see how hard it was to admit, even to himself. “They will require proof. I must talk to this Nechtan before a bounty seeker finds him and takes his head.”
“You think they’ll just kill him?”
“They do not need to worry about whether his head remains attached to his body. He will resist, and they will kill him. It is the code.”
Tuatha take the code, her mind screamed at her. She thought the rules the warriors lived by were nonsense: a way for kings and chieftains to keep them in thrall. What it did was breed violence: a life for a life. Honor demanded it, warriors died by it, and kings and chieftains became rich.
Sighing, she said, “I’ll come with you.”
“I will not allow it. It will be far too dangerous.”
Fedelm laughed a short, sharp bark. She knew it was inappropriate but could not prevent it.
“I am not married to you, Genonn, nor are you my chieftain or king. You’ve no say in where I go. If I choose to follow you around, then that’s what I’ll do. Besides, you need help caring for the boy.”
“Which boy?”
“Lee, of course.”
“Why would I take Lee? It is going to be a hard business. He does not have the strength, and it would likely be the death of him.”
“You must. I heard what was said in the feast hall. I understand the implications, Genonn.”
Genonn’s face moved through different emotions as he realized he had no choice. “You are right. As you are determined to follow, I will get Lee and meet you by the gatehouse before the hour is up.”
“I need to go and see Biróg. I’ll also get some horses. Let’s meet at the gatehouse at sunset.”
“Alright.”
“What about Imrinn? Will you not ask him to join us?”
“I asked, but he has sworn fealty to Dornoll. He’s bound to this place.”
Fedelm was about to question the idea of a warrior swearing fealty to a druidess when she realized it would be hypocritical. She had a pet warrior, so why shouldn’t Dornoll? That aside, she could see Imrinn was in thrall to the druidess in other, more binding ways.