But who will sing about those who died today?

A hand touched her gently on the shoulder. “Morry, it’s time to leave now; the service is over.”

Morrígan reluctantly returned to reality. Daithí the Blessed had finished his sermon, and the other mourners slowly filed out of the chapel. Only her uncle, Yarlaith the White, remained.

A lump formed in Morrígan’s throat as she caught sight of her mother’s coffin, left alone on the altar. She wanted to ask about what would happen next—whether there’d be a wake or a burial ceremony—but those questions brought grief, and Morrígan was desperate to talk about something else. Anything else.

“How’s the Pyromancer holding up?”

“Ah,” said Yarlaith, his brow furrowed as if caught off-guard. He fidgeted with the collar of his healer’s robes; its white cloth was grey, like the few wisps of hair left on his head. “The mage is doing... well. It’s a miracle he survived, but there’s nothing divine about the pain he’s in right now. He’s lost a lot of blood, and I doubt I’ll be able to save his arm ... but he’ll live. More importantly, Morry, how are you doing?”

“Fine,” she mumbled, hoping Yarlaith wouldn’t pry any further. They made their way out into the chapel gardens in silence.

The flowers were slowly dying with winter on the way, but their colour still shone along the path. The road from the chapel twisted and turned downhill towards Roseán’s town centre, lined by tall trees with leaves of autumn gold and brown. The Harvest Moon would be in just a few more weeks, but the thought was bittersweet.

Mother always loved the festivities more than anyone ...

No, she would not dwell on it. She needed to be brave. She needed to be strong. At fourteen years she was almost a woman grown, and only widows and children cried. Not mages, or knights, or adventurers.

“I must return to my patient,” said Yarlaith as they turned towards the High Road. “You should go to The Bear, Morry. You aren’t the only one in grief today. Put on your brave face and inspire the others to be strong.”

Morrígan forced a smile and looked up at Yarlaith. She didn’t think it was very convincing, but the old healer nodded in response.

“That’s it,” he said, clasping his hands together. “In the meantime, I’ll prepare the spare room for you.” For half a second, the smile that perpetually shone from his face faded. “Just, don’t enter the clinic while the door is closed. Some of these medical procedures are incredibly delicate, and Fionn is in a lot of pain.”

He smiled again. “That’s the Pyromancer’s name, by the way. Fionn.”

***

The sun threw scarlet rays over the sea as Morrígan made her way to The Bear and the Beadhbh: a crooked, two-story building at the centre of Roseán’s town square, and the only business that remained open after dark. The two Reardon brothers from the forge sang out of key at the entrance of the tavern, flagons of cider in hand.

Morrígan scowled as the memory of her father resurfaced. He was one to start drinking as soon as the sun set, regardless of the season. She pushed past the two drunkards, their song finishing with a tuneless crescendo.

Morrígan was immediately met with the thick aroma of bacum smoke as she stepped into The Bear. Roars of laughter and slurred toasts clashed with the sound of a bard strumming a lute. Passing him, Morrígan caught a quick glance of Taigdh, the innkeeper’s son, shuffling through the crowd to deliver drinks to their patrons.

Peadair has him working too hard. Taigdh should have been at the chapel with the rest of them.

Spirits were high, despite the funeral service less than an hour before. That was the way it always was in Roseán. Funeral festivities were something that Morrígan had grown used to long ago. If an elderly villager died of natural causes, it was typical for the men to get together, raise their glasses, and make a toast to the inevitable cycle of life. “That’s just the way things are!” they’d say.

But there was nothing natural about Mother’s death.

A man dressed in black mumbled as Morrígan took a seat at the bar. She didn’t bother with a response.

Probably more empty condolences anyway.

All morning, the villagers of Roseán had been saying the same thing: “She’s with the Lord now.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “It’s all part of the Lady’s plan.” Sometimes it seemed as if everyone just repeated what they heard from other funerals.

Morrígan fought against the tears that filled her eyes. Mr. Cathain, the undertaker, sat across the bar. The old man nodded solemnly towards her; he seemed to be the only one who realised there had been a funeral today.

The bard laughed and plucked a light, uplifting chord that caused Morrígan’s fingers to curl into fists. He broke into an energetic, jolly reel, and villagers clapped along to its bouncing rhythm.

Sir Warts, Sir Warts, a hero of sorts,

And so, our story began,

When a hog of the North, donned a shield and a sword,

And ev’ryone thought him a man.

Sir Warts, of course, was called to the courts,

Where the noblemen made him a knight,

But a jesterin’ fool, stood high on a stool,

And sought to make ev’rything right.

“Sir Warts! Sir Warts! I fear I must thwart,

Your plan to live amongst men,

But my eyes they are wise, and see through your disguise,

Vile mountainous hog of the Glenn!”

Sir Warts, of course, thought none of the sort,

And sat there in silence instead,

But hearing the slander, the Earl stood in anger,

And lobbed off the jester’s head!

The crowd cheered, but Morrígan saw a hint of remorse in the bard’s eye.

He’s only playing what they want him to play, she realised, her anger fading. She scanned the room, taking note of those who were singing, and those who remained silent. They sing and dance to celebrate Mother’s memory, but they drink to forget their own grief.

Peadair appeared from behind the bar and placed a glass in front of Morrígan.