You were looking out from the Northern Tower, lad!
Fionn gasped. Sir Bearach! You’re back! I thought you were dead!
It doesn’t matter what I was, she’s there. The tower from your dream is here in Keep Carríga. Go, lad! Go!
Without hesitation, Fionn obeyed the dead knight. He leapt out of bed and threw a cloak on over his underclothes without fastening its strings.
He ran out into the empty hallway, stepping from cold, damp stone to a dusty carpet that ran through the centre of the floor.
Fionn realised that he had no idea where to go.
Left! roared sir Bearach. Past the study!
Doing as he was told, Fionn bolted across the hall, lighting a Pyromancer’s torch to illuminate the way. He paid little mind to the portraits and coats of arms that rushed past.
Door here, to the right!
Fionn stopped in his tracks and pushed through an old wooden door. It revealed itself to be partway up a spiral, stone staircase.
Which way should I—
Up, you fool!
Fionn tore up the stairs. With the excitement of waking up so abruptly now fading, he was becoming aware of how uncomfortably cold his bare feet were.
He reached the top of the tower. It seemed quite different than the one from his dream, as this one had a black and green tapestry hung on the far end of the large, circular room, and its windows were shuttered closed.
Apparently sensing Fionn’s apprehension, Sir Bearach yelled, Out across the battlements, lad, go!
Taking a deep breath, Fionn pushed through a reinforced wooden door, and ran out into the freezing night.
Me and Ash used to hide up here, said Bearach, as Fionn crossed the castle walls. Up ahead, two towers stood, one slightly taller than the other. Whenever we had chores that we didn’t want to do or lessons we didn’t want to learn.
Barely listening, Fionn increased the heat of his flame and held it close to his chest. Through gritted teeth, he grimaced as the cold air entered his lungs.
He welcomed the relative warmth of the Northern Tower as he entered and sprinted up its steps. As he approached the top, he recognised his surroundings, focusing on a window that opened into the darkness, over the slated roof of the smaller tower.
Even before he reached it, Fionn saw there was a figure sitting outside.
He readied a fist of fire. After all that she had done, from Penance to Dromán, from her hometown to the capital of Alabach, Morrígan would finally pay.
Fionn ran to the window, ready to launch a ball of fire at the figure, until it turned, revealing herself to be indeed Morrígan. She spread her great black wings outwards, a stark contrast to her pale, expressionless face.
“Lower your weapon,” she said, her voice cold and even. “We both know that neither of us can die, so fighting would be pointless.”
Fionn paused but did not quell his flame.
She’s lying! roared Sir Bearach. Kill her now and end it all!
“As I’m sure you know,” she said, “I can destroy this tower, and the land beneath it faster than you can click your fingers. You may also be wondering why I haven’t done so already.”
Considering this, Fionn slowly let the fire in his hands go out.
What are you doing? said Sir Bearach.
If she wants to, she could bury us, replied Fionn. Best not to give her a reason to. Not yet, at least.
“What do you want?” he said aloud.
“Many things, Fionn the Red. But for now, only to talk.”
Fionn paused for a moment, considering her strange request, given all that had happened. He was well aware of how warring generals would often parlay on the eve of a great battle. Even King Móráin the First did this with the Simians when he landed in Alabach. It was an honour to be upheld no matter how both sides hated one another. Maybe she would uphold the same here?
Don’t be daft, lad! cried Sir Bearach. She opened up the earth itself to swallow an entire army, you included! Where is the honour in that? Incinerate her where she stands!
But we have so many questions, said Fionn, attempting to convince the knight. However, the mage’s mind was already made up.
“Fine,” he said. He sat on the windowsill and let his legs dangle off the ledge, facing Morrígan, who stood on the roof of the lower tower. “What do you wish to talk about?”
Morrígan smirked. “I am seeking your help.”
Bearach guffawed loudly. Fionn almost wanted to do the same. “Why in the Holy Hell would I ever, ever, want to help you?”
“Because, Fionn the Red,” said Morrígan, shuffling and unfurling her wings, “both of us have been lied to.”
“You will need speak more plainly than that. And you keep using my old title. I’m a Firemaster now.”
“No. According to the Tapestry of Fate, you never made it to Penance, and you never killed Conleth to earn the title of Firemaster.”
