Ibormeith was south of the Wall for the third time in her life. She gazed at her land from the higher branches of an Oak tree, waiting for night to fall. The land was green and lush; fields of wheat and oat swayed in the cool breeze and grasses stretched as far as the eye could see. Pearly clouds drifted across a cerulean sky, and the air was full of the sweet scent of recent rainfall.
Ibormeith turned her eyes to the Roman fort that crouched against the Wall; it was all hard stone and sharp corners, red tiled roofs and metal gates. There was nothing of Eachna's in that stone tomb. For that's what it was – a tomb. No earth was there, and no life.
She thought of what she was planning – going in to that very place. The thought sent a shiver through her. Eachna could not protect Ibormeith there; if she died, she died alone. But she would not die. She wanted only to see the stranger-on-the-Wall again. She could hide in shadows and watch. After all, she had spent most of her life doing those two things.
As night descended over the Wall and the fort beside it, the whole place erupted in a bright orange light. Hundreds of torches all along the Wall were lit, reflecting off the river that ran parallel to the stones, bathing the entire structure in a peachy glow.
Silently, Ibormeith climbed down from her perch and dropped stealthily onto the ground. She ran the few hundred metres to the fort and stuck herself to the wall. The gates were open and unguarded – she took a deep breath, and slipped through. The fort was quite still at the outskirts, but as Ibormeith paced the wide, dusty streets, the noise began to grow. She could hear many voices, and music. Ibormeith came to the main road that cut straight through the fort, and crossed it quickly to hide in the shadows beside a large stone building that smelled of horses. Gazing round, she located the main source of noise. Candles, torches and an open brazier brightly lit a square, its far end and sides roofed by red tile. A water-trough sunk into the floor cut the square in two. Men sat around tables and stood at a counter under one of the roofs, where amphorae of wine were stacked on wooden shelves. Almost every man wore the red cloak and metal armour of a soldier of Rome, but a few were the fort's civilian inhabitants – they wore simple jerkins and tunics.
Ibormeith allowed her gaze to wander over the square. Everybody seemed to be drinking wine, either from clay beakers or from pitchers. Two Roman soldiers were playing some sort of dice game; as Ibormeith watched, one of them won and collected a large pile of coins, grinning.
In the far corner, two men were throwing knives at a chair. One had a mass of dark blonde hair, loosely tied at the nape of his neck; the other was raven-haired, the curls falling down to his bearded chin. Behind them, three other men sat at a table. None of them wore the clothes of soldiers, but they all dressed similarly to one another – dark leather breeches and jerkins with tooled detail on the front. They were not civilian – that much was clear from the array of weapons with which they were armed, and from their ability to wield them.
The raven-haired man threw his knife at the chair – a poor shot. The others jeered and laughed at him. Then another knife came flying out of nowhere, and suddenly it had buried itself the hilt of the other blade with a loud thud. Ibormeith traced the knife's trajectory and saw a sixth man stood in shadow. He leant forwards to grin at the raven-haired man and his face was revealed. Ibormeith gasped. Golden-brown eyes flared behind a mess of dirty brown hair. It was the stranger-on-the-Wall.
Ibormeith gazed at him with a childlike wonder and, before she knew what she was doing, stepped out of the shadows towards the square. She wanted to be closer to him. As she watched, the stranger-on-the-Wall retrieved his knife and began to slice up an apple. He smiled again. But this smile was different – cruel and harsh. It was a smile that promised blood.
And then he looked at her. Their eyes met.
Ibormeith gasped again and jumped back into the darkness, then turned and fled. Flying through the streets, she scolded herself angrily. Foolish girl! What were you thinking?
The road turned suddenly. Ibormeith threw herself round the corner and stopped dead. The stranger-on-the-Wall was stood right in front of her. Before she could draw her dagger, he thrust her against the wall, his own blade at her throat.
'What do you want?' he demanded hoarsely, his voice gruff and heavily accented.
Ibormeith stared at him over his knife in disbelief – he had spoken in her language. How did he know her tongue? Her heart racing, she clenched her jaw and tightened her fist around the hilt of her own knife.
'I didn't kill you,' she said breathlessly.
The stranger-on-the-Wall hesitated, his golden eyes flashing in the light.
Ibormeith took advantage of his indecision, pushing his dagger from her neck with one hand and ramming her knee into his groin. The stranger-on-the-Wall fell backwards into the dirt, letting loose an angry curse. Ibormeith leaped over his body and shot out of the gate. She didn't stop running until she had reached the treeline, a good three hundred metres away.
Then, surrounded by the quiet rustling of the trees, she stared down at her hand. Clenched in her fist was the stranger-on-the-Wall's knife. The blade was thick and well treated, its edge clean and sharp. Ibormeith stuck the dagger through her belt and grinned. The fear was gone and adrenaline had taken over.
Whooping with laughter, Ibormeith headed back to the circle. She could feel Eachna's spirit all around her, and inside her, stronger than ever before. Her skin prickled all over and her fingers trembled with the intensity of it. And she had felt it in the stranger-on-the-Wall too – he was brimming with Eachna's gift. She had shown Ibormeith the truth. The stranger-on-the-Wall was no invader, come to take her home. He was here to rescue it.
The first thing Meilochon asked when he saw Ibormeith the following day was where she had got her new knife. She replied with indifference, avoiding his gaze, spinning a tale of a broken wagon south of the Wall. Meilochon raised his eyebrows and smirked, but let the matter drop.
Meilochon and Ibormeith were of age – their mothers had been Ema together and had birthed their children within three days of one another. Ibormeith was the elder of the two, but Meilochon often adopted airs around her that would make anyone assume that he was older.
Ibormeith knew that soon, Meilochon would ask her father to allow them to join. She had mixed feelings about this prospect. Fear was one, anxiety another; reluctance, anticipation, curiosity and uncertainty also. Ibormeith wanted to make her father proud, and knew that he would approve of Meilochon as a companion. Therefore she was happy to spend time in Meilochon's company, but the moment he started to act superior to her, she would simply leave.
Ibormeith was not one for confrontation. She enjoyed arguing on worthwhile topics; her conversations with Urúvion were always valuable and interesting. However, Meilochon always managed to find the smallest things to fault, such as her behaviour around the children of the circle, and the amount of time she spent alone in the forest. Whenever he tried to argue with her on these matters, Ibormeith would become irritated and stubborn, and either ignore him or disappear. She knew he found this trying, but she would rather displease her future companion slightly than enrage him by arguing.
'Ibormeith, may we speak?'
Ibormeith was fletching arrows with pheasant feathers when Urúvion approached her. She invited him to sit beside her and fetched him a horn of water. The Magus settled himself and folded his hands in his lap.
Ibormeith regarded him closely. He was the oldest man she had seen in her life, even when the circles in the forest came together for Magi meetings. The other circles' Magi were old too, but closer in age to Ibormeith's father. The other circles had a slightly different lifestyle to theirs – they focussed on provision for the self. In Ibormeith's circle, the inhabitants were much more intimate with each other, with the hunters providing for everyone – young and old included. Because of this, many other circles had a more limited age range. Ibormeith regarded her circle's way of life as healthier and more advanced, and felt that it was more honourable: Eachna would not want her children dying from lack of food whilst others ate before them.
'I have heard stories of your new possession,' Urúvion continued. 'May I see the blade?'
Ibormeith handed the stranger-on-the-Wall's knife to Urúvion with only a grain of reluctance. The Magus held it in his hands gently, running his fingers over the cold metal.
'A beautiful find, Ibormeith. I must congratulate you.'
'Thank you, Urúvion,' Ibormeith replied, guilt stealing into her voice.
Urúvion heard it, and turned to her. He stared into her eyes for a long while, still holding the dagger. Then he handed it back and nodded knowingly.
'You did not find this south of the Wall,' he stated. But his voice was not disapproving. Instead, curiosity and enthusiasm were hidden there.
'I did, Magus, but not in the way I told Meilochon.'
'Tell me of how you came by this blade.'
Ibormeith explained to him of the stranger-on-the-Wall, and how she had felt Eachna's spirit inside him when they had touched in the Roman fort. She assured Urúvion that she had been in no danger of dying beyond Eachna's protection, and told him of her wish to see the stranger-on-the-Wall again.
Urúvion listened to her speak, and nodded when she had finished. They sat in silence for a few moments.
'You believe this man has borne Eachna?' he asked finally.
Ibormeith nodded ardently, her eyes wide.
'If what you believe is true, the man will bear her mark.'
'Magus, may I be granted permission to find him again, and prove to you that he is one of Eachna's children?'
Urúvion raised his eyebrows, and laughed gently.
'You didn't have my permission the first time you entered that place,' he said, smiling. 'Why would you need it now?'
Ibormeith blushed, shamed by his integrity. Urúvion smiled and laid his fingers on her cheek lightly. Then he left her.
An uncontainable excitement whirled inside Ibormeith's stomach; she was to see the stranger-on-the-Wall again, and maybe even converse with him. Her hands shook slightly, and she could not stop a smile curling her lips. To be that close to Eachna again – it would be exhilarating.
Delighted, Ibormeith swept a swathe of dishevelled hair over her shoulder, picked up her arrows and turned towards her yurt. Once inside, she placed the arrows with her bow and lit a candle to dispel the shadows.
The inside of the yurt was a round space, its floor made up of woven rush matting, with a low ceiling from which hung dried flowers and herbs. At waist height all around the wall of the shelter, a wooden rail ran; blankets, clothes and animal furs were draped over it, and at the back of the yurt, two swords and Ibormeith's bow rested in niches cut into the wood.
Ibormeith was tidying hers and Bébhinn's bedrolls when a noise at the entrance made her turn around. Éibhir was stood there, framed against the doorway, his chest bare. Blue marks curved over his ribcage and chest bone: spirals, triangular and circular shapes and, in the centre of his torso, a large blue fish. Eachna's mark.
'May I come in?' Éibhir asked.
'Of course, father, make yourself comfortable.'
Éibhir sat down on the rush matting and made space for Ibormeith beside him.
'I have news, daughter,' Éibhir began, 'of Meilochon. He has requested my permission to join with you after Màire's birthing.'
Ibormeith nodded hesitantly. She had known it was coming – but so soon?
'Of course I accept, father, if that is what you wish,' she mumbled.
'I would have hoped that you make your own decision in this matter, Ibormeith,' Éibhir stated, his tone dissatisfied.
Ibormeith was shocked. Had she let her father down? She had thought he wanted her to join with Meilochon; did he have another in mind?
'Father, if I have disappointed you in my answer then I will change it at once,' she amended.
Éibhir took her hand and smiled, but his face was weary.
'Meilochon will be a good partner, daughter. But I only think of you – will you be happy with him as your companion?'
Ibormeith thought for a few moments before answering. 'I believe I could be, father. But Eachna will gift me with children, I know it.'
'Then let it be known, daughter,' Éibhir commanded proudly. 'You and Meilochon will be joined under the first full moon after Màire's birthing.'
He went, leaving Ibormeith alone in her yurt. Soon it will no longer be mine, she thought sadly. Soon it will be Meilochon's. But that was not true, and Ibormeith knew it. Joined partners shared everything; the yurt would be theirs, not his or hers. She suddenly wondered where Bébhinn would sleep on the night of her joining with Meilochon – in Éibhir's yurt? Yes, that would be appropriate.
Ibormeith lay down on her bedroll and stared at the ceiling, twisting her hair between her fingers. She remembered Màire's joining, and how the woman had plaited her hair for the ceremony. Ibormeith half-heartedly started to braid her own hair, but grew tired and lay down again. She wondered what the circle would say to her at the joining, as she had to sit and talk with those who wanted her to. Would they be glad for her? Offer her advice?
She was still lying there when Bébhinn came in to sleep.
'Is it true, sister?' the younger girl asked. 'Are you and Meilochon to be joined?'
Ibormeith sat up and allowed herself a smile. 'We are,' she assented. 'After Màire has birthed her child.'
Bébhinn grinned and threw herself down beside her sister. They embraced and Bébhinn kissed Ibormeith's cheek.
'You shall be happy!' Bébhinn announced.
'Yes,' Ibormeith replied. 'I suppose I shall be.'
It was midnight, and Tristan climbed the steps to the Wall slowly. He needed to think; he needed to clear his head. Things were beginning to get the best of him – he needed a few hours to sit and entertain the thoughts that needed to be thought.
In the light of the torch Tristan carried, his face seemed to emanate a pale orange glow. The tattoos on his cheeks stood out, stark against the peachy hue of his skin, and his eyes, barely concealed behind thick lashes, shone a golden brown. A dark beard, dusted with paler hairs, covered his jaw, and his hair came nearly to his shoulders – a messy tangle of dirty brown hair, some of it braided and secured with strips of leather.
The last time he had been on the Wall, Tristan had seen a young Woad woman break the cover of the trees and come towards him. She had disappeared in the shadow of the Wall and reappeared only a moment later. Heading back towards the forest, she had heard his hawk cry and watched it fly, am indescribable expression of happiness on her face.
And then the Woad had seen him. She had drawn her bow and aimed an arrow directly at his heart and they had looked at one another. Tristan could still remember the exact shade of her eyes – a green so dark it was nearly black in the dim light; like wet leaves or moss. And then she had lowered her bow and fled, back to the trees. Tristan hadn't waited to see if she decided to shoot him, though, and had fled himself.
This time, however, he didn't expect to see her. He hoped that their last encounter – when she had foolishly entered the fort and stolen his knife – would have scared her away, but he doubted it. After all, she had left him lying on the floor – not quite the image to inspire fear or respect in an adversary.
But was she an adversary? Of course she was – what was he thinking? She was a Woad; it was Tristan's job to kill her. But she hadn't harmed him – in fact, she could have killed him and didn't. And that was what had caused him trouble during their second encounter. She had played her only card, being the fact that she hadn't killed him when she had the chance, and he had hesitated. Of course she had taken advantage of the situation. And now she had one of his best knives.
Tristan laughed gruffly and pulled an apple from his pocket. Biting into it, he placed the torch he had been holding into a sconce on the wall beside him, and yawned widely. Sleep had been hard to come by in the last few days. The knights had just returned from a three-week absence, and Lancelot was catching up on all he had missed – primarily Vanora's tap girl Caitrín. And as Tristan's room was, unfortunately, directly opposite Lancelot's, he had to put up with the girl's cries. It was getting to the point where Tristan was willing to sleep in the stables to avoid the whoring knight's nocturnal exploits.
Chewing thoughtfully, Tristan gazed up at the stars. The pinpricks of light were scattered across the sky were bright, but always outshone by the round white moon. This island had beautiful skies, Tristan would admit to that much. Sarmatia's night sky was bleak and cold, always smothered in a layer of cloud. Soon, Tristan would see that sky again – the thought caused a fluttering of anticipation in the pit of his stomach. One year left of service, then the long ride home; a four month journey across the entire breadth of the Roman empire.
Don't get ahead of yourself, Tristan warned himself. He knew nothing of what was awaiting him in the coming months. He might not even live to see freedom again – but he put that thought from his head. Sarmatia was waiting for him. He would return.
'The sky is exquisite here,' spoke a voice from behind him. Even before he turned, he knew whom it was.
He regarded the red-haired Woad in silence. She watched him for a few moments, then climbed onto the parapet of the Wall and found a seat there. Slowly, she pulled Tristan's knife from her belt and held it in her hand.
'I won this from you; it is mine to keep. But would you like it returned?'
Tristan scowled and shook his head.
'I didn't expect it back' he stated blankly.
The Woad smiled faintly and replaced the knife. Tristan found himself itching to protect himself. He was sat alone, with only a small dagger in a sheath at his hip. He would feel better with it in his hands, but if he moved to unsheathe it, would she attack?
As if she had heard his thoughts, the Woad spoke again. 'I don't plan to hurt you, stranger-on-the-Wall.'
'That doesn't mean you won't,' Tristan told her, pulling out his knife and resting it on his knees. 'What is it that you want with me?'
The Woad shifted her gaze to the sky. She was silent for a long time.
Tristan sized her up – she was a good half-foot shorter than him, but her shoulders were wide and strong, and he guessed her arm's reach to be further than his. She was wearing clothes typical of other female Woads – a leather vest and breeches – but her feet were bare and dusted with earth. She had also disposed of the bow; two knives were stuck through her belt instead, one of them Tristan's stolen dagger.
'I need to know something of you,' the Woad said suddenly, her dark green eyes still fixed on the heavens above.
Tristan didn't reply. Instead, he ran his fingers along the edge of his knife and turned it over in his palm.
'I need to know,' she continued, 'if you bear Eachna's mark.'
She finally turned to look at him – just in time to see him frown in confusion.
'What is 'Eachna'?' he asked.
The Woad looked at him pityingly, as if his naïveté made him a lesser person, and caused him to lead an unsatisfactory and unfulfilled life. Then her expression smoothed, and was replaced by a look of longing and harmony.
'She is the Goddess, stranger-on-the-Wall. The goddess-in-earth. She brings life to all those who are deserving, and loves all in equal measure. This is Eachna's land; she created it. And she has asked me to request your help.'
'Help?'
'Yes, stranger-on-the-Wall.' The Woad stared at him with a sudden intensity. 'You are to save this land.'
Tristan laughed loudly and stood up, sheathing his dagger. He tossed his apple core over the edge of the Wall and turned to the Woad.
'You speak with riddles and games, Woad. I believe nothing you say.'
She slipped from the parapet and stood before him. Her wide eyes locked onto his, searching him. Then she nodded.
'You will come to me,' she whispered, and turned to leave. Tristan's hand flicked out and grabbed her wrist.
'Why will I?' he demanded, displeased by the woman's attitude and self-assumed omniscience.
'You thirst knowledge,' she replied simply, gazing up at him. 'And you want to know why I come to you.'
Tristan laughed again. 'I know why you come to me, Woad. Because you want to die.'
'Stranger-on-the-Wall, you cannot kill me!' the Woad said, smiling widely. 'I am Eachna's spirit, and I cannot be killed.'
She twisted her arm from his grip and strode down the Wall, until her body was enveloped in shadow and Tristan could see her no longer.
He stood on top of the Wall for a long while, not moving from the position she had left him in. And then, slowly, he descended the steps and went back to his rooms. There, Tristan fell into a dreamless sleep. The last thought he remembered was an image – a red-haired Woad, staring up at him, grinning in the face of death.