“Conan was brought up by Nechtan from an early age. As chieftain he made grievous errors, certainly. Like Nechtan, he tried to make use of the host for war. He neglected his lands and his people as his father had done. But he was not Nechtan all over again. What about his wife and son? We know from Conan’s writings that Líoch was concerned about the welfare of the community in time of flood; we know that her husband did make some attempts to help them, though the people’s fear of the host made those efforts fruitless. I cannot believe that Irial grew up without love and care; he was such a loving man himself. Anluan, how and when did your grandmother die?” I prayed that he would not tell me that Líoch, too, had been slain by the host. My theory was fragile already; that would shred its last credibility.
In the dim light of the bedchamber, Anluan’s eyes did not seem blue now, but stony gray. “She fell from one of the towers,” he said. “An accident. She and Conan both lived until my father was a grown man. They died within a season of each other.”
It felt wrong to be delving into such sad memories, but I had no choice. “So they held on, Conan and Líoch, despite their difficulties.They stayed strong while Irial grew up. They cared about him. And about each other, I would guess, since Líoch did not try to run away as poor Mella did. Conan probably changed somewhat in those later years. Once it became plain that the host could not be led into battle without terrible consequences, he ceased trying to use them in that way. Perhaps the host quieted as a result.”
“There is a flaw in this theory, Caitrin.” Anluan was frowning.
“Please,” I said, “let me finish before you judge. We know that Irial, as chieftain, followed a completely different path. He had no intention of using the host as an army. He was a peaceable scholar who loved his wife and child. His household retainers worshiped him. Irial was a good man through and through. If my theory is correct, that inner goodness in your father would have meant that in his time the host would have felt no desire to kill, to maim, to perform ill deeds.”
“I wish I could believe this, but I cannot.”
“Didn’t your father fight against the family curse? Magnus told me he held a council at Whistling Tor. He let your mother take you to Whiteshore to visit her family. He sent Magnus out to talk to the other chieftains. He tried to make peace. I know how he died, Anluan, and I’m terribly sorry, not only because it is so sad for you, but also because he seems to have been such a lovely man. That’s the point. Irial was good. In his time, the host reflected his inner nature. As now they do yours.You want peace; they feel no desire for conflict.You feel burdened by your situation; they despair of ever being released from theirs. If you are able to summon hope, they, too, will see the possibility of a brighter future.”
There was a deep silence.After a long time,Anluan said,“Can the dead have a future?”
“They can still hope.What they want is rest. A sleep without dreams.”
“It is not within my power to bestow such a precious gift. I cannot even command it for myself.”
I considered this, remembering the nightmares that had plagued me so long: the visions of reaching hands and scratching claws, the images of the dank cell and a monster with Cillian’s face. “Anluan, I know there is a certain power amongst the host that is anything but good. But I believe the rest of them are just like any other group of people, good, bad, in between, with their own aspirations, their own sorrows, their own hopes and fears. Most of them want nothing more than to go back to wherever they came from. Nechtan’s spell binds them to you as chieftain.They know that only you can give them what they want. And until that happens, they follow you. That means you control their actions, keeping them in check. It also means they think and act in the way you think and act.You are a good man like your father. Under your leadership, they too can be good.”
“And if I need to fight, they will fight for me.” He was looking at me now; brows up, eyes intent. “You know, don’t you, that once I refuse de Courcy’s demands I must follow this through to the end, even if it means leading a ragtag army into battle against a force of ironclad Norman men-at-arms?”
The scene he had described painted itself instantly in my mind:Anluan falling to the ground, his clothing all over blood; Magnus fighting a last, lone battle over his chieftain’s corpse. I shuddered at the thought. If that came true, it would be partly my doing. “I don’t know anything about fighting. I don’t know what the next step should be. I just thought my theory might be helpful.”
