“Morry,” said Taigdh. “You know that’s not possible.”

“I don’t know!” she snapped. “And you don’t either!”

Sorcha took a slow step forwards, then raised a gentle hand,

“Morrígan,” she said, lips pursed in caution. “Back when your uncle told me that my father died, I didn’t believe him at first. Even when I saw Dad lying dead in the clinic, I still thought he was alive. Yarlaith explained what would happen next, the measures he would take to ensure nobody else in Roseán would contract the pox that killed him, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care because my father was already dead.”

And I don’t care about your life story.

“What I’m saying, Morrígan, is that you’ve been through a lot. Sometimes your mind will lie to you. Sometimes you’ll start thinking thoughts that don’t make sense, or thoughts that’ll do nothing but bring harm to yourself and those around you. These next few days will be the hardest, but we’ll be there for you.”

“That’s right,” Darragh chimed in. “We’ll be here, no matter what.”

“You can talk to us about anything,” said Taigdh. “Even if you don’t think it’s important, even if you don’t think anyone else cares, you can always talk to us.”

“Thank you,” said Morrígan, forcing a smile. “I just want to be alone, though, for a little while longer.”

They bade her farewell, and Morrígan was left staring at the grave.

But I know what I saw.

The remaining villagers each shared their condolences as they left. Morrígan thanked Mr. Cathain and his son for helping with the funeral, and Mrs. Mhurichú for the beadhbh cloak; the dressmaker seemed happy to see Morrígan enjoying her gift. Ciarán from the mill, Peadair from the inn, and Fearghal the butcher all bestowed their sympathy, and she thanked them graciously. The Reardon brothers from the forge each shook her hand, leaving her fingers with a dull ache.

Is this it? Am I supposed to go back to a normal life now?

She paced slowly after the villagers, unconcerned of where they were headed. Maybe they’d return to The Bear for another night of festivities. Or perhaps Fionn the Pyromancer had made a full recovery and was ready to tell her why he and his companions chose that damned morning to lead a mountain troll to Roseán.

Either way, it was difficult to care what happened next. All she wanted to do was fall into her mother’s arms again and cry. To hear the sound of her voice. To feel the warmth of her embrace.

Peadair walked slightly ahead, deep in hushed conversation with Ciarán and Fearghal. Morrígan knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help but listen.

“—the railway. That’s why they did him in. Those tracks under the ground were supposed to unite Penance and Cruachan. Man and Simian, brought together with something even tighter than the Iron Concordant.”

The butcher shook his head vigorously. Fearghal was a loud man, almost incapable of whispering. His voice grabbed the attention of more than those who were listening.

“Bah, it doesn’t make any sense. None of it does. Why would the Silverback assassinate one of his own?”

“Because it was Santos,” insisted Ciarán. “His trains were getting in the way of the separatist movement.”

“Separatist?” roared Fearghal, “Is that what they’re calling themselves now? The only thing the Silverback wants separated is King Diarmuid’s head from his shoulders!”

Peadair placed a hand on Fearghal’s arm and shushed him, nodding back towards Morrígan. The butcher lowered his gaze and mumbled apologetically.

Some people broke away from the crowd as they made their way down the High Road.

Going to get drunk again. But she didn’t care; she wanted to hear more about this Silverback.

“The Simians claim they’ve changed their ways since the Fall of Sin,” said Peadair. “They say that they’ve learned, that they’ve left the days of dissent behind. But all this with the Silverback and the railroad—”

Peadair cut himself off as the town square came into view. Immediately, Morrígan saw why.

Four groups of men dressed in solid, bright colours had gathered in the centre of the village. Reds, blues, greens, and greys, they stood still as statues in a strict, military manner.

“Soldiers!” gasped Peadair. Morrígan followed as they hurried down the High Road, walking almost at the pace of a jog towards the Square. Excitement rose like a balloon in her chest.

Maybe the king found out about the troll! Maybe he sent them here so nobody else would have to die like Mother did!

As she got closer, she noticed one soldier in solid green armour adorned with bright medals, standing before the rest. He wore a cloak, fastened with a brass brooch that glimmered in the sun. His stern face surveyed the crowd.

By the time Morrígan entered the Square, a crowd of villagers had already gathered before the stranger.

“—and I assure you, the Crown has brought in these measures to ensure your safety during such dangerous times.”

Peadair and Fearghal stood at the edge of the crowd, where Morrígan joined them.

“They’ve announced the king’s new taxes,” whispered Peadair. “The Crown now claims an eighth of our profits, in place of a tithe.”

“Curse their eyes!” swore Fearghal. “What right do they have to march in here and take our earnings like this?”

“The king’s divine right,” muttered Peadair, throwing a smile towards Morrígan. She smiled too, then noticed her uncle weaving through the crowd just over the innkeeper’s shoulder. Yarlaith the White seemed far more exhausted than usual.

“What’s going on?” Yarlaith asked in a breathless rasp.

“Taxes,” said Peadair with a knowing nod. He had been the one who warned Morrígan’s parents about the impending increase the day before the troll attacked.

A strange thought occurred to her. We never would have been working that early, alone on the farm, if it wasn’t for these new taxes. If it wasn’t for them, would Mother still be alive?

“That one has the look of a Geomancer,” noted Yarlaith. Behind the speaker, a crowd of hooded soldiers stood grouped together by their colour. Morrígan counted twelve of each. Yarlaith leaned closer to Peadair, keeping his voice low.

“And they’re not carrying any weapons.”

Peadair raised his eyebrows. “Battlemages! But why bring half an army to spread the Crown’s news?”

“It may not be as simple as that,” said Yarlaith, nodding towards the speaker. “From that one’s insignias, I’d guess that he’s a colonel, and the number of mages behind him equal that of a full battalion: forty-eight.”

“I don’t like where you’re going with this, Yarlaith.”

The colonel pulled out a roll of parchment from under his cloak. “There is another measure that His Grace has taken to guarantee your safety in these tremulous times. Point Grey is not far from here, and the Crown has seen that it has been fortified with his royal forces. His Grace recognises that there are many who are not protected by stone walls. For your safety, he has garrisoned battalions in every major and minor settlement along the Clifflands.”

He gestured to the men behind him, each standing tall and proud in attention. “These are men I have trained for the field myself. They are honourable and brave warriors, and they will put the safety of this village first. You have my word.” He paused and searched through the parchment in his hand. “Now, could the landlord of The Bear and the Beadhbh please make himself known?”

All eyes turned to Peadair.

“Aye, that’d be me. What do you need?”

“A word, please.”

The crowd parted once the colonel stopped speaking, but Morrígan and Yarlaith made no move to leave.