The Irish Warrior

“‘King’s highway’ has a rather overstated magnificence,” Senna murmured.

“So does most of what the English say and do.” He pushed forward on his elbows. “The way is clear. We’re off.”

They hurried across, staying low. The highway might only be wide enough for two wagons to pass, but it ran straight as an arrow-shot in either direction. It would be easy for them to see anyone coming. And easy for anyone to see them. There was also a ridge a few yards back that lined the far side. Anyone could be up there waiting with arrows. But apparently they had no choice. They had to cross the highway.

“Why is that?” she asked when they were safely across and striding up a steep, narrow, almost imperceptible path that Finian had found on the hill beyond. “Why did we have to cross the highway? Could we not have kept to the east side and headed south for Dublin? This is the way to Dublin, is it not?” she added after a long moment of silence ensued.

He still didn’t reply. The hill was long and steep, and as climbing was beginning to take all Senna’s strength, she was just as glad to have the conversation halt momentarily.

They climbed swiftly, ducking under sloping tree branches that dripped with moss maybe a hundred years old. Silvery light slanted through their feathery veined fingers, making the world glow with greenish gray light. It smelled fresh.

They finally crested the ridge. The path, while still only wide enough for one at a time, at least leveled out. Senna stopped and bent over, breathing hard. Behind her, Finian was breathing slightly heavier than usual. Very slightly.

She looked back. He was mostly a silhouette of power, standing upright, looking down to the road below. With the moonlight washing over him, his body was cut clear, like something hewn from rock. Dark hair spilled down to his shoulders. Impatiently, he raked it behind his ear, revealing the dark outline of a square, stubbly jaw and chin. She could see the thick hilt of his sword rising up above his left shoulder.

“Ready, Senna?”

She straightened and nodded, although another hour of rest would not have been misplaced. Keeping account ledgers at a copyist’s desk did not tend one toward physical exertion. Still, she rode and fished at times, and of course had to practice every day with—

“Senna?”

But being a merchant did not quite prepare one for rabid barons, or raging rivers, or nighttime flights across a foreign frontier.

It was not often she was faced with a situation she did not have a ready reply for, an answer that could be written in ink, tallied in rows, stamped and scrolled and signed by

witnesses who could prove and ensure no one could ever take away—

Warm fingers crooked under her chin. “Senna?” He angled her face to his, his eyes searching. “Are ye with us?”

The feel of his fingers, strong and thick, solid and real, funneled some measure of calm back into her. She nodded. He nodded along with her and dropped his hand. Her chin felt cold where his fingers had been.

“Forward, then, angel. We’ve a far way to go.”

She started walking. “To Dublin? A long way to go to Dublin? I may be off in my reckoning, Finian, but we seem to be headed west, not east and south.”

“Baile Átha Cliath.”

She paused. “West.”

“Baile Átha Cliath. Keep walking.”

“Is that intended to mean something?” she asked after a moment of trying to ascertain his meaning. Which she could never do, because firstly, she was being baited—growing up with a brother provided sufficient experience to know when she was being toyed with—and secondly, Finian was speaking Irish. The low-spoken syllables were strange and evocative, as if he were chanting an incantation, murmuring spells.

“It means Dublin,” he said shortly.

“Bally cle, cle—” She sailed an irritated glance over her shoulder, even though she knew better than to expose a weakness such as irritation—again, the experience born of being a sister, even if she was the elder. “Why not just call it by its name?”

“’Tis its name. Dublin is what the Northmen used to call it. And now the Saxons gall call it that as well. But her name is Baile Átha Cliath.”

Not Vikings, not English foreigners. Irish.

She glanced over her shoulder again. He didn’t appear angry, or any less imperturbable than he had thus far. He was walking as steadily as ever, obviously adjusting himself to her pace, because again, he barely appeared to be exerting effort. His eyes caught hers.

She faced forward. “Oh.”

The trees to their left opened slightly. She could see the road below them, winding its silvery outline under treetops, hugging the hillside. From out of the silence came his rough-edged murmur, “And, nay.”

The trail had narrowed to a rather alarming degree, so Senna didn’t bother to look around this time. “Nay, what?” she asked, as calmly as possible.