Chapter 24 | Welcome. 

                            Aire barely recognised the other Wielders as they headed down to the celebrations. There was a flush of colour on their faces that Aire had not seen before – faces scrubbed clean of dirt and weary bodies clad in soft, warm clothes that had not been dragged through hundreds of miles of suffering, chains and mud. Brice was glowing as she fell into step beside Ferdia, their guide for the evening. Her hair was unbound, tumbling down her back in a mass of withering, ashen red flaming curls. Nyeth was a step beside her, taking in everything around her as Siseal wove his arm around hers.

Only Anluan looked as reserved as Aire felt, drawing back to walk by her side. Aire kept silent for a minute, casting him quick and furtive glances before she could remain silent no longer. "Are you well, Anluan?"

The young lad blinked at her. "Yes."

Aire wasn't convinced. Anluan wasn't a great liar – his gaze shifted too quickly and red flooded his cheeks as he felt the weight of Aire's stare. His silence rankled her, as she knew it would. Throughout her life, Aire had gotten herself into trouble for being unable to let a secret lie. As a child, she had found secret servant corridors, spots to slip into to listen in on meetings that even Ríona had been forbidden to attend. She had soaked in information that she relayed back to Ríona; she had figured that if she had no magic to help her future Queen, then she would find any other way to be useful to Ríona.

Most she hadn't truly understood – talks of rationing, of skirmishes in far off places. She did hang on every word of coming celebrations and festivals that would bring visitors to the capitol and flood the streets with music, foreign food and performers who danced with fire and pulled coins from behind her ear. During Bealtaine, knowing who was visiting meant knowing what honoured guest would be granted the gift of lighting the Bealtaine bonfire to chase away the last dregs of dark winter. She would know of what visitor to watch, of whose alliances her father sought to solidify. Because despite Sloane's words at the fountain, Aire had known her father to be a wary, careful man.

She had tried and failed to listen to the complaints of fisherman and of the wild stories of ships brazen enough to try and cross the Sea of Stars between Kaelara and Cearna – an infamous stretch of water dotted with treacherous islands, switching currents that could suck the ships under and dark waters that hide great monsters who could swallow the isles whole. 'Let them,' Aire had thought. Her Siren friends who swam those waters would be guaranteed an easy meal.

It was those hiding spots, those hidden corridors that had helped her escape the massacre in the castle. That penchance and skill for rooting out secrets had been useful in Irial and was only strengthened by her spirits.

Aire's pace faltered. How lonely they must be, with no way to communicate with the living world?

Did Daria stand on the busy streets, following her sister who could never hear her voice again? Did the orphans slain on dark streets have anyone to sing to them in the dark, or to listen to their fears. Did Royden sit on the banks of the Polliver underneath the city, staring at his bones picked clean by rats? Or had he found where his pinkie bone had been discarded, wondering where I was now. Or if I was even alive? She had tried sending some of them to their afterlife during Samhain when she could feel the veil of the world pulling thin. On that night, the North Star burned so bright that it could have rivelled the sun; mocking them, mocking her as their souls lingered. They had never blamed her. Often, they were just glad that there was someone left to care.

The music grew louder as they walked along the glass street. There were great torches burning as they passed, then tiny flickering lights that beckoned them further and further into Valherin. Aire drew her brat tighter around her shoulders, feeling the bitter chill of Sibran air.

They turned the corner at a closed apothecary and the street seemed to open up, spreading out into a great clearing. A great construction of wood was set on the harsh stone ground. A bonfire. At the edges of the expanse of dark stone, were tables set low to the ground, accompanied by rows of straw and rock. People were already gathering, laughing and talking loudly. Children ran wildly, shrieking and playing.

Beside her, Anluan winced and drew close to Aire's side. Ahead of them, Brice slowed. She turned slightly, eyeing Anluan and then, Aire felt the warmth of Brice's Wield as her fingers danced. Anluan straightened, cautiously tapping his ears. "It's quieter."

Aire squeezed his shoulder. "You should go and play."

The two boys were already being drawn to the playing children. There was a sweet longing on their face as they watched the others chase each other around the unlit bonfire, weaving through the crowds on nimble legs. Aire was glad to see it; glad to see the desire to run and play, to know that whatever had happened to them wasn't enough to crush any childhood spirit that still lingered within them.

One boy stopped, a little older and beckoned the twins closer.

Siseal stepped forward. Then stopped and glanced at his brother. They shared a long, wary look. Nyeth poked Siseal between the shoulders. "Go and play."

Anluan cast Aire a look. She nudged him forward with a smile. "Go and enjoy yourselves boys. If you get in trouble, we will find you."

That was enough for them. The people of Valherin smiled when they saw the boys enveloped by the children and Aire found herself being watched, being smiled at as she approached the unlit bonfire. Ferdia caught her expression, a twinkle in his eyes. "The people here have lived their childhoods, their adulthood amongst Wielders. They lost a lot too when the Wielders were slain."

"I feel like there is a lot of responsibility on our shoulders," Nyeth commented. "We are not here to make up for what they have lost."

"We know that" Ferdia said. "We know that, but we still rejoice that you are here and that you are alive. It means that Lady Ríona is not the only one here and there are those who understand her struggle."

Aire's smile hardened. They were approaching the Pretender, who had woven ribbons and glimmering jewels in her long, wheat-gold hair. Her smile was beautiful as she approached, guided by Ferdia. Her eyes crinkled with warmth as she regarded them. "You look well, friends."

"Thank you for your kindness," Brice dipped her chin. "It has been too long since we have been afforded such comforts."

"The word comfort means that we may only receive them once in the turn of the moon." The Pretender said, clasping Brice's hands. As she shifted, Aire could see ink marking her arm. A common Cearnain design – a line of notches in Cearna's long second script of Oghama. Bravery. Perseverance. The linear script had caught a lot of young Wielders as the Crimson army swept through Cearna – young Wielders, once they revealed a Wield, would be marked with ink as a celebration. It had made it easy for Crimsons and then Bloodbounds to hunt down Cearnain Wielders.

Aire hadn't been honoured with such a mark.

Whoever this Pretender was, she was a survivor of something. Not that Aire cared – no honourable Cearnain would pretend to be their dead princess. They wouldn't debase the Aryshalin name like that, they would disregard the moon's mercy. They wouldn't disregard their own honour to steal another's.

The Pretender continued, "We deserve to hold onto every simple joy, every comfort for as often as we can. The world is dreary enough without denying ourselves those simple drops of happiness."

Her words were so soft, delivered like the gentle touch of a warm spring breeze. Aire found herself nodding along. They did deserve comfort. They deserved warm baths, comfortable beds and safety at night. To listen to the crackling fire as night fell, the low voice of a story being told lulling their minds to rest.

That would be nice.

Aire's nails cut into her palms. She bit down hard on her tongue, trying to shake the heaviness from seeping into her head. The Pretender turned to Aire, smiling. She took Aire's hands in her own, her palms marked by welts and years of heavy labour. Aire would have expected that from Ríona and staring at the Pretender now only tore at her heart, reminding her of faces, of memories that she had shoved down deep.

"Lady Ríona," Aire murmured.

Her Ríona had been the bravest, the boldest of them all. The one who wanted the wildest horse in the tables, the one who scaled trees and swung from the highest branches. She had stayed with Aire in the training yard, patient in the face of Aire's frustrations as she worked on her form. She had braided Aire's hair, had sung to the youngest two. She had been the one who had found Aire when her Wield would not show. Aire had expected a scolding when she saw Ríona approaching but she had simply lay down beside her in the field of wildflowers, listening to the sea and watching the gleaming stars above. Ríona had held her hand, her palm rough and cut from her last training with the Aether.

"I am useless to you," Aire had whispered, finally bringing herself to speak after many hours. "I have no magic."

Ríona had squeezed her hand tight. "You are here for a reason. A Wield or not, you are meant to be here with me."

Aire could remember turning to look at her sister, the grass tickling her cheek. It had comforted her to be surrounded by the smell of flowers, by the feel of the earth. The Sirens had begun singing as silver moonlight sliced across the calming sea. Her sister had turned her head to meet Aire's gaze and Aire had been overcome with such emotion, such gladness for Ríona that she knew that she would follow Ríona to the end. That she would serve Cearna, serve Ríona, to the best of her ability when the time came.

"And you ran," an insidious voice hissed.

She had loved all of her brothers and sisters deeply, but the others could be safely stored away. Their laughter, their faces. Ríona couldn't – not when her pretender stood here so boldly. Memories, grief, everything just rattled around inside her head as the Pretender shook her hands. It took everything inside of Aire to smile back, slipping into the role of the relieved Cearnain. 'Another type of pretending,' Aire mused.

"Three Cearnains reunited with their own kin." The Pretender sighed, drawing her hands away from Aire. Her attention was drawn to where the twins ran. Siseal was laughing, his grin wild and wide as he avoided the group closing in on him. "Are they your brothers?"

Aire shook her head. "No."

"And where are your kin?"

There was no need to pretend as her voice hollowed. "They were killed many years ago."

"Oh, I apologize for my callousness." The Pretender looked perfectly contrite. Which didn't make sense to Aire – what did she expect Aire to say? That she had found her way into the hands of a Bloodbound by simply walking out of her family home? It was well known that most Wielders had been outed, or cast away by their non-Wielding family. Some Wielders were lucky to be hidden by their family but it was not common.

"There is no need," Aire soothed, "I am an orphan of the Kaelarain greed, just like a thousand other Cearnain children."

The Pretender squeezed her arm, "Take comfort in the fact that now, you are home again."

She moved on, drawn by the crowd. Aire watched her as she was swallowed by a group of Valherin inhabitants. She had no fear of addressing them and spoke to them with an air of haughty elegance. Her chin never dipped, her gaze never dropped and her perfectly placed smile did not falter. 'I will find your secrets,' Aire vowed. 'If only to stop you disgracing my sister's memory.'

Sloane stepped up beside Aire. "I thought a Cearnain girl would be more overjoyed upon seeing her regent?"

"You are watching me. I am certain that is a boring task."

The Cearnain warrior shrugged a strong shoulder. She had washed the dirt of the road away and had freshly braided her hair. The scent of lavender and rosemary clung to her. Aire cast her a glance, eyeing the long lines of linear script on her arm. Names. Promises. Sloane caught her. "I do not trust you."

Aire arched a brow. "That is very honest of you."

"Which must be shocking for a criminal such as yourself." Sloane pressed. "You may have survived all these years by lying and stealing to get what you wanted, but that is not how things work here in Valherin. Watch your back Aire. A single misstep and I will be there." Sloane's gaze dropped to Aire's hands, where a lacework of old silver scars exposed her Eoban use.

"Do not worry Sloane," Aire nudged her shoulder, just to rankle her. "I am adaptable. And certainly, far too clever to do something silly. Like threaten one of the honoured guests at their welcoming party."

Sloane's lip curled, but she retreated. Aire too, watched her go. Discontent was weaving down her spine, even as she tried to dismiss it. Sloane could be as suspicious as she wanted until the bloody moon turned silver once more. Aire did not care – she should not care. She had a plan and someone like Sloane was not going to get in her way. Aire would have to watch her, but she considered her no different to the gangs who bayed for her blood in Irial.

If Royden was with her, Aire could almost imagine his snort. 'All these people thirsting for your blood Aire, and you do not think you are the problem?'

He always did have a way of humbling her.

A beat started and Aire jolted, drawn to a man sitting on a low, wooden stool. He held a bodhrán drum in one hand, hitting the starting notes. Setting the rhythm. Soft, aching music began that seemed so snake around her rib bones like vines and hold her tight. She was drawn forward, absently taking the roughly carved wooden cup pressed into her hand. She sniffed the wine, but it smelled just sweet like honeyed wine.

She tasted it – the taste was the same but by the moon, all she could think about was the last time she had drank some. The party at Lord Wynn's house. The twinkle of mischief in Aevran's eyes. The strength in the Bloodbound's hands as he guided her around the dancefloor. She had been clueless then.

"Oh Aevran," She clutched the wine to her chest. "I hope the money was worth it. I hope it is worth your death."

He had asked once, what the world looked like when someone died. She hadn't known – it was the one thing the spirits wouldn't tell her and she never pressed. When she hunted him down, she would make his spirit tell her.

Dinner began as the Pretender approached the head table. Aire let Ferdia guide her up as people began to sit. There were rows of long, low tables for people to sit before, cross-legged on beds of hay and slabs of stone. The head of the table was set in a half semi-circle with the Pretender in the middle and Laochra and Ferdia on either side of her. As guests and those being celebrated, the five Wielders were sat at that table.

Ferdia sat to Aire's side, his palms resting on his knees. He leaned close as she sat. "I would advise eating slow and steady. Otherwise, your food will not stay long."

"I will keep that in mind," Aire hummed.

He smiled at her, and the smile seemed to crinkle his entire face, his eyes slitting into half-moons. It was the kind of smile that she had to fight not to return. All she managed was a tight press of her lips as the Pretender rose. Her cup was not a roughly carved wooden one, but a goblet of silver and jewels.

The Pretender spoke in a soft whisper, like the first plucked strings of a harp. Everyone stopped speaking, straining to hear her. "My friends, we have had a good day. A blessed day. The gold gods of Danann have finally looked down upon us. We have waited and we have worshipped for them to answer us. I suspected we will have to wait a little longer. Yet, our sign of hope, our sign that our gods have not abandoned us sit amongst us. Five Wielders that have found their way together in a world that thirsts for their blood. Five Wielders who despite all their trials and terrors, have found their way to us."

There was nothing but exuberant hope on their faces. She was good. Aire shifted, concerned. Very good. The Cearnain people were assured to hold onto an ideal, to hold out hope until the bitter end and this Pretender knew exactly what to say to hook them.

"Magic lives, even as the Empire, in all their self-appointed power and glory, tries to crush it. Magic, which formed in our homeland, will return. I made that vow many years ago, kneeling in my father's shadow. He would be proud of us and of how we fought to preserve the Cearnain memory." The Pretender's chest swelled, her smile swift and short. "And with these Wielders, we have a Bloodhound."

All exuberance shuttered.

The Pretender pointed and only then, did Aire see it. As two figures lit the torches, illuminating the cage that had been set to the side. Bloodbound Roark sat in the centre of the cage, stripped of his heavy cóta. His shirt was soaked in fresh blood. They had let him keep his pants, but it clung to his powerful thighs, also soaked in blood.

As she pointed to him, his mouth curled into a sardonic smile.

Yet, there was cold fury in his eyes as he stared at her.

"A servant of the Empire, a moral man moulded into something foul and abhorrent. A creature that shall be killed, in due time, but lays trapped with a head full of Empire secrets. We are patient." The Pretender's voice drew the peoples' attention back to her. "Tonight, let him witness our unbroken spirits. Let him see that we are not cowed by his Emperor. Now, let us light the bonfire. Let the fire chase away the shadows that haunt our visitors. Let us warm their bones and feel the embrace of our home here in Valherin."

They all watched as the bonfire was lit.

No Aryshalin would allow the bonfire to be lit by someone other than themself or an honoured guest.

The speech left a foul taste in Aire's mouth. Torture and humiliation weren't the ways of the Aether. Execution was accepted, but this...even an enemy of Cearna would be afforded some honour. In the short few hours where she bathed and cleaned herself, someone had taken a blade to the Bloodbound. Or a whip. It didn't feel right, especially when the Bloodbound's role was still shrouded in secrecy. He had followed her, spoke to her as if he had known her. Why?

The food came. Two great spit roasted hogs and wicker plates laden with little bowls of steamed hazelnuts. Deep jars of pottages – a mixture of meat, grains, leaves, roots and herbs. As a child, she had stolen pieces of soda-bread and dipped it in the pottage pot before the cook had caught her, slapping her hand hard with the wooden ladle. It had never deterred her.

There were even blocks of smelly cheese- a definite delicacy in Irial. There were pies with golden crusts, laden with potatoes, leeks, onion, and butter. All of it shouldn't have been possible to get so far out in the bitter wild of Sibran and yet, Aire found that didn't care as her stomach snarled and cramped.

The Pretender got the finest slice of meat and then the rest was dolled out. People are with their fingers, using only the knives at their waist to slice off trickier pieces of meat. They washed their hands before moving onto their next fancy. The five Wielders at the head table at slowly with Ferdia's warning passed along the row.

She ate slow, but she tried everything until her stomach ached. When she thought no one was looking, she wrapped some butter biscuits in cloth and slipped them into the pockets of her bríste. Just in case. She couldn't rely on a meal like this every-day. Nyeth was sitting at Aire's other side, a hand resting on her stomach. Siseal was still eating, picking at a bowl of hazelnuts that Laochra had passed over to them. Brice was talking lowly with Sloane, smiling as she bit down into a gooseberry.

Anluan was silent, staring down at his finished plate. Trouble darkened his brow.

Aire tried and failed to catch his eye. Poor boy. She would find out what was bothering him.

She drank a mug of ale as the music began again. This time, it was livelier. She watched as people left their tables to dance, pulling friends as they passed. She didn't think she could dance – not when so much food weighed her down. A man played the bodhrán, his hand flying as he led the others. His head was dipped, his eyes closed but his mouth moved to form soundless words. He guided the fiddler and the flute.

The music warmed Aire's mood. It always had.

Ferdia nudged Aire's shoulder. "Your mood is bright."

"How could it not be with such music?"

He gestured behind her, and she followed him. A bed of soil lay metres behind them, with a bunch of freshly sprung daffodils swaying gently side to side. "We have only freshly lain that soil. There is not even a seed in it."

"Well, my Wield is here to ensure that we have something pretty to look at."

Ferdia's mouth curled into a slight smile, but the look in his eyes was too sharp, too calculating for her. "You must remember that the Cearnain people, unlike the other regions, worship their god of the land more than those who master the skies. In Knechru, they have gods for wind and thunder who they believe to be almighty. In Cearna, we have always worshipped the powerful god Dagda who mastered agriculture and fertility, who wielded control over life and death, over the weather, the seasons. Wielders who had ties to the earth were celebrated for their connection to Dagda. Even if you only grow flowers, Aire Thielan, know that you have been honoured."

"I do not take much stock in worshipping the gods, Ferdia. I cannot forgive them for abandoning Cearna." No more than I can forgive myself. "But I will make my Wield something useful."

"Ferdia!" Laochra boomed, standing before them. "I hope you are not rotting Aire's ear off with all your chatter!"

Ferdia frowned at him. "I would never."

Laochra's face softened and he beckoned Ferdia to stand. "Come and dance with me."

"I am not one of your soldiers to be ordered around, Laochra." Ferdia grumbled, but he rose. "I am only getting up because I want to dance."

Laochra's eyes twinkled. "Ah yes, of course my dear."

As Ferdia rounded the table, Laochra gave them a word of warning. "I would join the dancing soon. Otherwise, you will draw their ire and you will find yourself having to dance for far longer than you would have originally."

"A kind warning," Nyeth unfolded her legs and stood. "It is a shame to hear such music and not dance."

"Enjoy yourself," Aire sipped her ale.

Scowling down at her, Nyeth nudged Aire's side with her shoe. "Do not sit and be miserable up here. I will come for you if you are not dancing soon."

"Oh, I am shaking with fear."

Nyeth rolled her eyes and followed the two men to the dancing. As she walked away, Aire found her gaze straying to the Bloodbound. He looked unbothered in the cage, chained to the ground and his blood leaking down his soaking shirt. His gaze followed the Pretender, full of dark loathing.

She could agree with him on that.

As if the simple brush of her gaze called to him, that look of dark loathing cut to her. It lingered for a moment, before fading. Before he seemed to realize who, he was looking at. A dark eyebrow arched, and he looked completely unbothered by where he was.

"Come and dance, dear." An older woman appeared before Aire, breaking her line of sight to the Bloodbound.

"I am resting."

The woman clucked her tongue. "You can rest when you are dead. Come and dance."

Having a funny feeling that her refusal would be rebutted at every attempt, Aire unwillingly rose to her feet.

The older woman waited for Aire to round the table before latching onto her arm with surprising strength. Her face was marked with years of joy and hardship, with deep grooving lines that folded into her face. Her hair, grey as a winter's sky, was braided back from her face and bound in a knot at the nape of her neck. Tattoos marked the column of her throat, then vanishing into the collar of her pale yellow léine. She moved nimbly, pulling Aire into a long row and standing opposite in a similar long row.

The old lady faced her. "You may call me Danla. It is only right that you know the name of your dancing partner."

Aire inclined her chin. "Well met Danla. I am Aire."

Danla only smiled.

Even after all these years, Aire fell into the steps. Not easily – she was sure there would be a few bruised toes because of her in the morning. She had danced this particular reel every Bealtaine, her hair unbound and dressed only in the new spring flowers. It was a fast song of celebration, one for stomping feet and growing dizzy.

She spun and kicked and laughed as the music continued to spill out into the bitter air. Nyeth had been pulled in somewhere through the dance and the two of them danced with their arms interlocked, spinning in tight circles.

It was as the dancing slowed and the musicians readied for the next dance, that Aire spotted her. A tall, drab lady standing at the entrance to the clearing of black glass stone. She was ignored by those who passed there, staring at the great bonfire with wide eyes. Wispy hair clung to her scalp.

Her mouth was laced tight with black tread.

Under Aire's skin, awareness prickled.

A spirit.

| Welcome back to Aire's world. 

Tell me your thoughts, theories and conspiracies if you so wish.  This is a long chapter, but choked full of small tidbits, of memories and even a glimpse of the dreaded Bloodbound. 

What do you think of Anluan's silence? What do you think is bothering him? 

Would you keep quiet if you knew that the Pretender wasn't who she said she was? 

Who do you think this strange new lady is? 

Until next time - Saoimarie. |