Two stakes. They mean to burn me too.
“Darkness has fallen over this community!” boomed the colonel, venom and fury in his voice. “But it is not from a foreign enemy. The Simians, who spit at our Gods and our faith, are not the ones who have brought us to arms tonight, but a man! What say you, who have lived amongst a heathen: should he be punished in the sight of Gods and men?”
The crowd roared. Some men clutching farm implements in their hands, raising them as they cried.
“He’s a sinner! Let the Gods punish the sins of Man!”
“Burn the heretic!”
Why won’t anyone defend him? Morrígan spotted Fearghal and Mr. Cathain chanting with the rest. The Reardon brothers stood at the back of the crowd, their fists held high in the air. Morrígan tried to find other familiar faces amongst the villagers, but many of their features were warped and twisted with anger, distorted beyond recognition. There were some children amongst the rabble, too, clutching their parents’ hands as they added their voices to the chorus.
From the opposite side of the Square, Morrígan saw the mob march down from the High Road past the chapel, with the tiny figure of Yarlaith the White shuffling in front of them.
Two stakes. The thought of attempting to free her uncle flared in her mind again. She could do some damage, perhaps, but Morrígan knew that the rest of the battalion, and indeed the villagers, could overwhelm her in seconds.
He wanted me to run. He wanted me to leave him.
As soon as she turned her back on the crowd and slipped down the Sandy Road, she accepted that she was a coward.
It won’t end here. I’ll recover the notes; I’ll hide deeper in the cave, away from the prying eyes of the Gods.
She climbed over the wall and sprinted across the fields, tears beginning to fill her eyes. The mountains of the Glenn loomed overhead as she ran, her chest burning with every breath. She paused and looked back. From here, she saw the Square, the gathered crowd, and the now burning stake.
But clearer than anything else, she heard the triumphant cheers of the villagers.
“No!” Morrígan shrieked. She dropped to her knees, unable to hold her own weight. With a barrage of sobs, she buried her face in her hands, and her world went dark.
“He dedicated his life to saving yours!” Her voice was hoarse, and only a thin column of rising smoke responded. “He mended your bones… cured your ailments… he healed your wounds!” She thought of all the people he had treated: Mr. Cathain’s leprosy, Ciarán’s buboes, Mr. Mhurichú’s smallpox and his wife’s consumption….
He never asked for anything in return, not once. He gave them a life of health and happiness, and this is how they repay him.
Her fists tightened. Rage and despair ripped through her soul, and the pendulum hanging from her heart grew heavier than ever. Morrígan paused, recalling a memory from earlier that night, when she had succeeded at something a group of fully trained Geomancers could not even attempt.
There might still be time.
She squinted, reaching for her power, and felt the cold, coarse touch of Geomancy upon her fingertips.
Her eyes concentrated on the flaming stake. So far away. She reached out her arms and flexed her wrists, forcing her emotions into her hands.
It won’t be as heavy as the troll. Further, yes, but not as heavy.
She stood in silence, reaching, touching, feeling through the air and across the field. Her power groped along what felt like the cold stone of the Square, punctuated with tiny shrubs and plants that had forced their way up through the cracks… and there.
She found it, hot and heavy, the wood from the flaming stake burning between her fingers. She pictured herself grabbing it with giant, iron fists, and pulled.
The force of the stake’s weight refused to give way. Gritting her teeth and planting her heels firmly into the ground, she started to feel the base of the stake shift. She heard shrieks and gasps from the village as the burning wood began to tilt.
Morrígan held her breath and forced all of her might into one last heave, and like a burning harpoon, the stake shot towards the hills with an explosion of fire and splinters.
Morrígan opened her eyes. The stake was jammed into the ground next to her, the old man still tied to it.
“Yarlaith!”
His waist and legs were black and burned, bubbling with bloody blisters and charred bone.
He groaned. “Strong… please… take… take me down to her.”
Morrígan crouched to lift the old man over one shoulder. Still attached to the stake, Yarlaith moaned in pain as Morrígan rose to her feet. She gritted her teeth as she stood, then turned her gaze back towards the village.
They’ll regroup soon and come for us. There’s nowhere else to hide.
Without knowing where else to go, Morrígan ducked into the cave and carried her uncle into the Lost Catacombs of Móráin’s Conquest.
She waded through the darkness, ignoring the tears that burned in the corner of her eyes.
“We’re almost there, Yarlaith,” she whispered. “Stay awake. We’re almost there. Please.”
There were potions and salves in the workshop, but she had no idea how to apply them to a man half burned alive.
Is this what life we have left? With no hope, and not even the Gods to turn to?
Eventually, she reached her uncle’s workshop. It had been raided; books and notes lay scattered across the floor. The corpses, however, had not been touched.
They have less respect for the living than the dead.
Morrígan placed her uncle on the stone slab where her mother used to lie. Yarlaith’s eyes were closed, but he still breathed in quick, wheezing breaths. He reached out a hand and pointed down at Morrígan’s mother on the ground.
“She’s… here… thank you.”
