“Why can’t we do this in your yard?” Donal asked.

“We need more room than that to work,” Niall said.

He pointed a thumb backwards.

“And we don’t need an audience.”

Donal followed Niall’s thumb back toward his house. Through a window he could see the shapes of Siobhan’s and Maeve’s heads. Their faces weren’t pressed against the window but Donal now was thankful for the extra space. He leaned the wooden pole in his right hand over his shoulder as a wooden practice shield swung in his left.

The pair left Niall’s property, walked through a thin grove and stopped in a clearing on the other side.

“The practice poles I get,” Donal said. “But what’s with these glorified pot lids?”

“Two reasons. If you’re training to use spears with one hand, these shields keep you from slipping in a second hand while practicing advanced moves. Also, I find it best to use a shield. You can’t control the conditions of a battle, and you can’t rely solely on your armor. Shields protect you from archers you’re not focused on, and they protect you from your opponent throwing his spear or axe at you.”

Once Niall said “battle” his words were muffled in Donal’s mind. Opponents, archers, martial fighting—these were tangible things, not an imprecise concept like “stop the evil man and save your land” or a secondary role such as “sneak in after I distract the monster.”

Donal’s shield bounced off his torso. He shook his head and found Niall’s practice spear at his throat.

“Oi! Did I lose you already, boyo? I thought you were ready for this.”

“Sorry,” Donal said.

“With a shield, there are two ways to hold a spear: low and high,” Niall said. “Holding your spear low allows you quick, controlled stabs. Try it.”

Niall held his shield forward for a target. Donal poked at it several times.

“Most times you’ll have your spear up high, over your shield. It’s better for close quarters and if you need to throw your spear it’s ready to go. Give it a lash.”

Donal hit Niall’s shield five more times, his arm growing weary with each strike.

“Let’s try some light sparring,” Niall said. “Shield up and keep the point of your spear between your face and your opponent.”

The two circled each other with deliberate steps, trading jabs and blocks.

“That throw I heard so much about,” Niall said, “ever do anything like that before?”

“Don’t think so.”

“What specifics do you remember?”

Donal explained the initial plan and what happened after it failed.

“It was gaining on her,” he said. “She didn’t have time to set up.”

“And you thought, ‘I’ll just throw this thing at him from 400 feet away.’”

“It was 500 feet, I think.”

An ache crept into Donal’s shoulders.

“My mistake. Why did you think it would work?”

Donal’s shield grazed Niall’s practice spear, deflecting it just wide of his chest. He was struggling to keep his balance.

“I didn’t think it would. I just knew that I had to do something. Sounds like she did all the work by enchanting it, anyway.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Niall. “How did you feel right before you threw it?”

“I don’t know. Hot, maybe? Like my skin was heating the air around me. Are you saying that she didn’t enchant that knife?”

“I’m sure she did,” Niall said. “But I think that throw had more to do with you than she realizes.”

Niall’s response caught Donal off guard. He lowered his shield and spear as he considered it.

“You’re saying—”

Niall brought his training spear back over his shoulder, placed the flat of his right palm behind it, and pushed it downward creating a chopping motion. Donal raised his shield only for it to be knocked backwards into his chest, pushing him to the ground. His spear landed behind him, the shield slid from his hand.

“Oi!”

“Did I do something wrong?” Niall asked.

“You distracted me.”

“If a mere opinion was enough to distract you, perhaps we should stop.”

“Hang on,” Donal said.

He reached back for his spear and scrambled to his feet. He looked down at his shield and assessed the growing ache in his left shoulder. He didn’t want training to end like this; he wanted a chance to even things with Niall.

“Can we try it without the shields?”

Niall’s eyes narrowed as he looked Donal over.

“Sure, but follow my moves to start. The movement in two-handed fighting is different than it is for one-handed.”

“Grand. Let’s go.”

Donal knocked his spear against Niall’s to begin the new session.

“What makes you think I’m capable of power like that?” Donal asked.

“Focus, please,” Niall said.

Niall continued his slow, exaggerated movements and held his final position until Donal’s training spear met his with a clack.

“Some people are blessed with quiet souls,” Niall said. “Your brother is often elsewhere in his mind but he, like most, shows a stillness deep inside him.”

Donal struck his spear to complete another motion.

“Finn does his best to understand, but you rumble inside at a depth he can never reach. Few people would. Fewer would care enough to try. As for myself, I’ve seen it when you visit. I still don’t understand why it happens, but I see it.”

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Donal wrinkled his nose at Niall, keeping his focus on the movements as directed. His strike gained speed and certainty as the movements became familiar.

“Some will see you rumble and keep their distance. Some will point and laugh from the side, they might even call you ‘touched.’ That can’t help things, can it?”

Donal struggled to keep up with the increased pace of their movement. The sound of the spears colliding began to echo.

“Some will call you a bogger. When you walk through town, they’ll whisper between themselves, guessing at all the reasons Finn keeps you hidden. They’ll laugh in your face.”

“I thought we were friends,” Donal said. “What are you on about?”

The spears moved with such speed that they appeared to bounce from one collision directly to another. Donal’s retreat continued until his back collided with a nearby tree. He grabbed the other end of his spear close to the tip, shoved Niall away and regained his footing. Niall did not respond to his question, instead he resumed the sparring at a slower speed. When he did speak, Niall’s volume and tone had softened.

“Eventually, the people in town will dismiss you,” Niall said. “They’ll see that ‘needless’ fire in your eye, they’ll feel that rumble coming from your heart. They’ll say you’ve got little to offer without your brother. Without Finn, you’ll amount to nothing.”

Donal struck Niall’s spear with enough force to knock it from his opponent’s hand. He raised his spear parallel to his ear and pointed it at his elder. His skin burned. The air that touched him cooked.

Niall didn’t flinch. His eyes didn’t widen with fear or anger; they softened but did not relent. If Donal was in any other state he would have crushed Niall with a hug. In this state, however, he was only capable of one thing.

Donal reached back and fired the pole over Niall’s shoulder. The sound of wood popping and cracking echoed across the clearing. Niall turned and walked toward the source of the sound. Donal cast his eyes to the ground, fighting through a wave of shame to slow his breathing and cool himself.

Niall’s footsteps approached, his hand lifted Donal’s chin to meet his face.

“You wanted to put that straight through me,” Niall said.

He propped up Donal’s face and pointed a thumb over his shoulder.

“You may not see it my way, but given how coldly I picked at you I consider this to be progress.”

Niall stepped to the side to allow Donal to see the result. The trunk of a larch tree was split down the middle at eye level with one-third of Donal’s practice spear protruding from its back.

Donal’s mouth opened as the realization crept in. He ran to the tree, unsure of how to retrieve his practice weapon.

“Leave it, lad,” Niall said. “Let’s head in and make dinner before the ladies get to it. I’m not sure your stomach is ready for whatever Maeve will cook up.”

****

Donal had never stepped inside the refectory of a monastery, but he was sure dinners there were louder than the one he shared tonight at the MacRannell house. Next to him, Murrough sat at the foot of the table, his eyes bouncing between the windows that faced him. Finn sat across from Donal, appearing as exhausted as he was. Siobhan’s eyes didn’t stray from the bottom of her bowl as she picked at her food. Niall’s spoon circled like a water wheel between his plate and his mouth. Maeve had finished her meal and was twirling her spoon against the bottom of her bowl.

Niall said little else to Donal on the way back from their training ground. The only conversation between them since their return was the directions he gave to Donal as they prepared the meal. Not much needed to be said, in truth, because Niall’s words during training still replayed in his mind on a loop. With every retelling, they stung anew. If Shadow ever decided to go on holiday, Niall would prove a worthy substitute.

Donal decided he’d stewed in his own head for long enough and it was time to stir someone else’s pot. Whatever the repercussions, it beat what he had been doing.

“Sure look, Maeve,” he said, “what is wrong with your cooking, anyway?”

The sound of spoons scraping bowls stopped as four other people turned their heads toward Donal and froze.

“What makes you say that, you little melter?” Maeve asked.

A look of realization crossed her face and she glared at the head of the table. Niall responded with a shrug.

“Niall said we needed to return before you made dinner,” Donal said.

She pulled the spoon out of her bowl and pointed it at Donal.

“We don’t know each other well enough for that kind of banter.”

She bobbed her head in Niall’s direction but never broke eye contact with Donal.

“As for himself over there, not everyone can hole up in their fancy house and live off their friend’s cooking. There’s not a lot of room for large feasts when sleeping in trees or hiding from the rain in lean-tos.”

“You do that?” Donal asked.

His esteem for Maeve climbed with every new detail he learned. His slack-jawed grin caught the archer off-guard.

“Not as much as she’d have you believe,” Niall said. “But she can walk into the woods and disappear for three weeks and return none the worse for it.”

Donal wondered what a nap in the bough of a tree would require. A kick from his brother under the table informed him he had stared too long. Maeve’s eyes returned to her bowl. Siobhan, however, scanned the group with a twinkle in her eye and a smirk on her face.

“So what did you think of Gavin?” she asked.

Maeve shifted in her seat.

“He’s grand and all—”

Maeve looked up from the table to find Siobhan looking with intent at the brothers. Her smirk had widened into a smile, the twinkle in her eye now a gleam. Niall and Murrough smiled at their food, their shoulders moving in tiny bounces. Maeve cleared her throat.

“—more importantly, what did you think, Finn?” Maeve asked. “Was he worthy enough for you?”

Judging by his face, Finn was the only person at the table happy to take the conversation thus far at face value. He did not react to the tone of her question.

“Did you see those drawings on his table?” Finn asked. “The etching and detail on his weapons? Yer man is sound.”

Maeve’s shoulders dropped as she shook her head. After another look at Finn she resumed the study of her bowl. Donal, however, bristled at his brother’s earnest endorsement of Gavin.

“Can he fight?” Finn asked.

“He can hold his own against some,” Niall said. “Not all.”

“So why isn’t he coming with us?”

Murrough cleared his throat.

“It’s not our choice to make, lad,” Murrough said. “Gavin’s got his own mind, his own past. He’s giving us what he can. We can’t ask for more.”

“What if we go back tomorrow and explain it all?” Finn asked. “You turned me when I didn’t want it.”

“Even if that would work—and it would not—there’s no more time for that,” Niall said. “The four of you are joining me on a trip to the foot of Gartan Mountain at first light tomorrow.”

“For what?” said Siobhan. “You told Maeve and I that the cauldron was fine. I assumed we’d search elsewhere.”

“It’s still in Colmcille’s abbey, but not for the lack of trying by the Fomori,” Niall said. “Several months ago they caught two people sneaking around, but they escaped capture. There are others in the same garb and manner walking around that area, paying special interest in the abbey.”

“And what of Murrough?” Donal asked.

“If it has to do with the Fomori, Tory Island will play a role at some point,” Murrough said. “I didn’t need an ever-expanding cloud of muck to tell me that. Someone needs to stay up north.”

“Which begs the following,” Niall said. “Finn, this is your last chance to stay here with Murrough. There’s no shame in doing so, of course, but know if you come south with us that you’re committing fully. What say you?”

"What happened to coming along for our own protection?" Finn asked.

"That part hasn't changed," Niall said. "Perhaps you can be of more help than assumed."

Finn smiled and gave Siobhan a slight nod.

"A little bit more," Niall said. "A very tiny bit."

“Either way, I’m in,” Finn said. “It’s time.”

“Good lad,” Niall said.

“Boys, we’re sleeping here tonight. A floor in Niall’s house is better than a bed in mine,” Murrough said. “Alright, let’s clean up and finish making ready for tomorrow.”

The other five people rose from their seats and headed to various areas of the house.

“Finn, I’ll need to clean up that wound some more,” said Siobhan. “We missed it yesterday.”

“I bet you did,” Maeve muttered.

She shared a grin with Murrough.

“What’s that?” Siobhan said. “Nevermind, actually. Keep it to yourself.”

Donal opened his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“Oi! Is it only Finn that gets a choice in this?” Donal asked. “Why didn’t you ask me as well?”

Siobhan patted Donal’s shoulder from behind as she passed his chair.

“They already knew your answer,” she said.