“This is a report made by the Crown upon intercepting a Simian weapons cache that arrived into Cruachan recently. Captain Padraig Tuathil here describes, in his own words, that he had expected to find armour, or crystals enchanted with magic, in the smuggler’s ship. However, they found weapons. Not axes and swords, or knives and daggers, but unnatural, Simian contraptions. There were three in total, made from wood and brass, fashioned to be carried over the shoulder. Using a mechanism similar to the flit-rings of a Pyromancer combined with Simian firepowder, these devices are capable of launching lead projectiles in the same manner as a crossbow but can tear through armour like parchment.”
More worried murmurs rippled through the crowd as Morrígan tried to imagine what those weapons could look like.
The Simians were not blessed with magic, so they’ve begun forging their own. In their work, Yarlaith was constantly telling her about the limits of magic and the laws of Nature. What if the Simians aren’t bound by those rules? What if their power could exceed ours?
The crowd began to disperse when the colonel stepped down. Morrígan tried to catch Berrían’s eye as he followed his superior, but he turned away and marched back to the inn with the rest.
“What point is there in keeping us so informed like this?” whispered Taigdh. “Why even bother telling us about the Simian weapons?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, careful to keep her voice low, although they were now alone in the Square. “Do you think Fearghal is right, about the war not being real and all?”
Taigdh shook his head. “Not like that but…. But they’re manipulating us, Morrígan. They’re controlling our lives, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Rather than stay standing in the centre of the empty Square, both Morrígan and Taigdh began walking up towards the High Road.
“Have you ever just felt… powerless?” asked Taigdh. “I mean, when it comes to matters like these?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to explain….” he said, pausing as his gaze drifted off into the distance. “Remember when the harvest season started, and you told me that your father wanted to have you work earlier than usual on the farm, ’cause of the taxes that were coming in?”
She nodded.
“So, all of a sudden,” said Taigdh, “you had to start working earlier than usual, to help pay for taxes you don’t understand, all because a few Simians from across the mountains were causing trouble with the king. Now, because of them, I might have to leave Roseán for good once the new inn in Point Grey opens up, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
It was a strange thought, that the dissident Simians of Penance could start a chain of events that led to her mother’s death.
Then who is to blame?The troll who killed my mother, my father who forced us to work that morning, or the Simians who attacked the king?
“It’s not the first time I’ve thought about it,” continued Taigdh. “When I was younger, we had a really hot summer here. The grass outside the inn was all stiff and dry, and you could use your foot to pull the sides of the lawn up, like a big grassy blanket. Underneath would be all these insects; ants and lice that probably hadn’t even seen the sky before.
“Anyway, my cousin was over from Point Grey, and I showed him the ants. Of course, we were fascinated with them. We used bottles to catch some, and then we started having races.
“Now, if you put an ant on the ground, it just starts running all over the place. So, we made tracks, using bits of twigs and branches and stones lying about. When we put the ants in, all they could do is follow the paths we made. A few tried to climb out, but we’d just push them back in again. We’d have these races, Fiachra and me, and then in the end we’d squish the loser and put the winner to another race. I don’t even know why we did it. It just seemed like something boys do. Just because they can.
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that the ants only have small minds. There’s no way they could have imagined that two little boys were making these trails for them, setting them adventures under glass bottles and over streams of water.
“Sometimes I wonder if it’s the same with us. What if the king, or even the Gods, are like that? Just putting us through our lives, knowing exactly how we’d react. You saw how the colonel treated us when the battalion first arrived. It was like he knew that Father would give his family business away for a little gold.”
He sighed deeply and turned to face her. He gestured back towards the town square. “So, all of this is happening around us, but there’s not a single thing we can do about it. Even if we knew about it before, could we have really made a difference? They say the Lady Meadhbh has weaved our fate, but sometimes, it feels like she’s ensnared us with it. It’s like we’re just tiny little ants to the Gods, and destiny is just the name of the stick they prod us with.”
Morrígan considered Taigdh’s words in silence as they made their way up to Yarlaith’s clinic.
I’m not like the others, she wanted to tell him. I’m taking control of my destiny, and someday nobody else will have to die like Mother did.
“I don’t know,” said Taigdh. “It’s just been bothering me more and more lately. Maybe it’s just because Mrs. Mhurichú’s sick now, and there’s so little I can do to help.”
With that, he took a step to leave. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to help Sorcha close up the shop. We might go over to visit her mother later on, if that’s alright with your uncle. Will you be there?”
She placed a hand on the dead bird in her breast pocket. “No, not tonight. There’s something I need to do.”
***
In the darkness, Morrígan worked alone, long after the candles had died out. She used her hands and her magic to direct her efforts, not daring to break her concentration by leaving her workspace to fetch another light. There was blood all over her new needle, but she kept on sewing, her eyes strained and focused.
When she was done, she stood, took a step back, and admired her creation.
Now… now we are truly on par with the Gods.
She was about to call her uncle, but light footsteps on the stone floor told her he was already near.
“Morrígan? Are you still awake?”
“Yes! Yarlaith! Come look! We’ve made another breakthrough!”
“Wonderful!”
Light washed over the table as the old man approached, candle in hand, revealing the finer details of Morrígan’s art. She expected him to cheer, or congratulate her, but instead he gasped with terror.
“Morrígan! What have you done?”
The rat screeched in agony as it rolled over on its broken spine. Two twisted, black wings hung from its back, sewn jaggedly into its shoulders.
Morrígan raised her voice. “I’ve done exactly what you did with Fionn, but better!”
The old man’s face was pale, the whites of his eyes standing out in the darkness. “No… no Morrígan, this is wrong. This is unnatural….”
“Exactly!” She picked up the bloody needle and carefully pushed it into the rat’s belly. The poor creature began flapping its wings furiously, trying to get away.