Early 1103 - Armengar
"I suppose it was Midir. I just never thought of it that way"
The voices drifted through the still air in the hall, and even behind the wooden walls Deor could hear them clearly. A brief smile crossed his lips. This was the second time now that Cosaint had brought someone here to the Hall, but unless he had misread the situation, this time would not be as dramatic as the first incident. But no less important. Deor had been expecting this one for quite a long time now.
The sound of the door opening seemed to catch the two younger men somewhat by surprise. Striding across the hall floor, Deor took the few moments to study the Armengarians before him. Cosaint stood as he always did in this Hall; tall and at peace, as if the weight of the world had been removed from his shoulders, and yet with an almost apologetic look on his face.
Is it still so hard for you Cosaint? Can you not understand that we accepted your choice?
The Ard-Slaineaghair looked more subdued. The hat that he had been wearing since his first foray into the outside world held down by one side, he had the look of someone who didn't know whether he was going to be welcomed or thrown out.
"Well, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"
The smile that split across Cosaint's face conveyed volumes to his teacher.
"Midir, may I introduce to you my teacher Deor...usail"
Deor shot the young man a withering glance, not missing the grin that accompanied the addition of that honorific to his name. Looking back at the Healer he extended his hand in greeting and studied his face. There was a flicker of recognition there, and Deor supressed a smile.
Ah, so unlike your teacher, you understand that secrets are often a matter or courtesy. Yes, very unlike your teacher.
Summer 1097 - Armengar
"There is your problem Ciaron. The handle is a little bit too narrow and it's causing your hand to clench too tight on the blade. That's why you are getting those pains in your wrist and up the back of your arm. You'll need to adjust it slightly."
The petulant look on the young man's face was no surprise to Deor. He'd seen it a hundred times on the face of young warriors who didn't want to accept that their years in the training school hadn't thought them it all.
"But Corthar said this blade was right for me, and Malachy said that my sword work is very good. I've never had this problem before."
Keeping his facial expression neutral, Deor looked the young man in the face. It would be nice if just for once his advice must be taken at face value. Still, he couldn't blame the child for feeling a bit proud. Malachy had a reputation for being sparing with his praise, and for him to say the child was very good must mean that he was nothing short of a prodigy. Still, it wouldn't be the first time a skilled swordsman was let down by not maintaining his weapon properly.
"And they are both right." Deor let a slight smile play over his lips. "The sword is impecably weighted to take account for your speed and your foot-work is very well on balance. I am not disputing that for one moment."
Deor watched the smile spread across Ciaron's face in spite of himself. All the same these youngsters. What was the line from that legend Cosaint was so fond of? Ah yes "he did truly love to hear of his own virtue". And what would this cock-sure young lad think if he knew that the supposed old man talking to him could pluck the sword from his hands with something less than conscious effort? Best not to dwell on such prideful thoughts, Deor.
"Here now, have you not been experiencing this pain and the Healers have told you there is nothing wrong with your arm? But sure, if you don't believe me, go talk to Midir at the Tree. He'll tell you that it's nothing but a bit of sprain. Ah, but then you've been told that already haven't you? That's why you were sent here."
The youngster bowed his head slightly, and Deor was careful not to let any scorn colour his voice as he spoke further. Certainly this child needed to reign in his pride, but that was for Malachy to take care of and it would credit them nothing if Ciaron became bitter.
"Take the sword down to Fintan at the tannery. Ask him for some strips of leather to bind the hilt and adjust it until you can just touch your thumb off your index finger. And keep doing the arm exercises Malachy doubtless thought you when you first started training under him. The pain should clear up in no time."
Meekly taking the sword, Ciaron placed in its sheath and walked towards the door, before turning as his hand reached the handle.
"Thank you."
Deor graced him with a smile and made an "off with you" motion with his head before going back to work on the haft of the spear in front of him. He'd seen many like Ciaron before and it tore at him to know he would see many more as the years progressed. Maybe Malachy would be able to break this one of his stubborn pride before it was too late. Maybe.
He didn't even look up from his work as a smell of herbs intruded on his consciousness and a shadow from the sunlight streaming in the window fell across him.
"Beannachtaí an chéad cosainteóir leat, Setanta."
"I neither asked for, nor do I want, your blessings Deor. I came here to talk."
Deor fought down a ripple of irritation, and looked up into the Healer's face; his own face a mask of of placid calm.
"Most people would have the courtesy not to call me that here Setanta, assuming they knew the name in the first place."
"Don't speak to me of courtesy you foul little man. Not when you have sent that filth into my hosptital to spread your seditious lies and propaganda. You deserve no more courtesy than a dying Caleb."
Prepared as he was for Deor's ascerbic manner, the hatred in his voice still caught Deor somewhat off guard. There was something more going on here.
"I didn't send him anywhere Setanta; he chose his own path. In fact, the only person who sent him anywhere was you, when you sent him from your side the first time he tried to defend you. Why is that Setanta? Still think you are immortal?"
"I need no scum to stand by my side." The words gushed forth from Setanta's mouth like a stream of bile. "Now I want you to tell me why you are polluting my halls with the foul run off of your little enclave, or so help me I'll tell the entire city everything."
Not a flicker of emotion passed over Deor's face.
"No," he said. "You won't."
Setanta's face was mottled with rage at this point, his carefully maintained poise abandoned in the privacy of Deor's workshop.
"I know your secrets Deor."
"Maybe," Deor responded, seemingly unruffled and looking up to smile straight into Setanta's eyes. "But if you told they wouldn't be secrets. Then what would the great Setanta have that nobody else did? What would you preen over then?"
Setanta's restraint snapped and he launched himself at the smaller man. Surging smoothly out of his chair, Deor ducked under the Healer's swing and took the feet out from under him with a sweep of his foot. Angrily, Setanta scrambled to his feet only to find Deor calmly working on the spear shaft again. Seething, he couldn't think of anything to say as Deor clamly spoke again.
"Predictable Setanta, just as always. I told Cosaint you wouldn't accept him, but then it is the way of the young not to listen, no? But hey, maybe things haved worked out better this way? I hear himself and young Midir work well together."
Lifting his eyes to meet Setanta's gaze, Deor could see the hatred burning there. He had handled this badly, and there would be no smoothing things over with the Ard-Slaneaghair.
"You say you know my secrets Setanta? Well maybe you can tell me them sometime, because I'm damned if I know everything that's going on. Guess we can't all be Setanta, hey? But I'll tell you a secret for free; you would have been well served to keep Cosaint as your guard, and one day that refusal will be the death of you."
Dabbing a cloth in one of the oils on his table, Deor calmly started polishing the spear shaft waiting for the retort which would come once Setanta composed himself.
"You don't scare me Deor. I won't let you and your kind harm us with your weak ideals. Stay out of my business or I'll see you and your students marching to your death under Caleb swords."
Calmly Deor placed the spear shaft against the wall and stood up. Affecting not to notice the half step backwards Setanta took, he crossed over to a hand basin and started to wipe the oil from his finger.
"I think you should go now Setanta, but straighten your clothes up first. It wouldn't do for anyone to know that the Ard-Slaineaghair has been brawling like a child."
Studiously washing his hands, Deor waited until the sound of a door being closed told him the Healer was gone before letting his breath out in a ragged sigh of relief.
Spring 1098 - Armengar
"Midir?"
Down by the cliffs the funeral pyre of Setanta was still smoldering and a few stragglers knelt by the ashes mourning, the sounds being lost long before they reached the office of the Protector.
"Aye. They haven't reached a decision yet and won't until the proper term of mourning is ended, but it will be him they choose to replace him. Don't act so surprised Chareos. I'd stake my life that you knew this was going to be the way a long time ago."
Leaning back in his chair, Chareos focused his one good eye on the man who sat perched on the window of his office, gazing at the embers of the High Healer's pyre. Of all the things he had inherited with his office, this had to be one of the strangest. Calm and implacable, the middle aged seeming man had come to him with the old lawkeeper on the day after Chareos had been elected to lead Armengar against their foes and explained to him many of the things which had only been hinted at before. It was a bizarre look at a culture he was still coming to grips with and spoke volumes about the Armengarian mindset. Since then they'd spoken on occassion, and each time the Protector was left with the feeling that some sort of strange game of cat and mouse was being played.
"Just what exactly are you implying Deor?" his tone was light despite the potential gravity of what was being discussed. Of late, he had learned that getting irritated earned him nothing, and was even starting to enjoy the interplay with the little man.
"What am I implying?" Deor mused, a slight smile splaying on the left side of his face.
"I don't know. Maybe I'm implying that the man in front of me understands that mere survival is death. Or have I got the wrong end of it?"
A long silence developed in the office as the two men regarded each other closely.
"But," Chareos began tentatively, "without mere survival, there is no life."
Deor's face lit up in a smile that didn't quite seem to touch his eyes.
"Agreed! So I'd be right then?"
Chareos didn't know whether to laugh at the man or throw something at him. Conversation invariably got to this point with him, where a spectator would swear that it would be a blow to either man's pride to say something straight out. With a slight sigh, he took the plunge.
"Will it make you happy if I admit that maybe I pushed in certain directions when it came to who your charge would eventually end up bodyguarding?"
Deor's eyes sparkled now, and yet his face seemed somehow less animated than before.
"But," Chareos continued, his voice growing sterner, "I have a duty to keep these people alive against the Calebii and have to face the possibility that we may still be doing that come the end of my days. I won't compromise on the security of this citadel and if I didn't think they would be effective I'd never have let that student of yours near the battlefield. Would that make you happy?"
"It would, and I'm glad to hear it. If not one way, then another - things are working out and duties will be discharged. And for yourself, a man should always know the difficulty of the choices he makes and face into them in the full knowledge that he may be wrong. Thank you for your time Protector."
He was halfway across the floor before Chareos finished processing the clauses and thought to stop him.
"Hold on just a moment Deor". His voice carried an authoritative snap to it and Deor turned to face him with an appraising look on his face.
"Now I'm a patient man and I've put up with quite a lot. There are times though when all I want is a little bit of information and I get the feeling that you just aren't providing. Yes, I know what you told me, but there is more isn't there?"
His face losing all traces of a smile, Deor crossed over to the window again and gazed down on to the streets below. Motioning to Chareos to join them, he waited until the taller man had a chance to look down onto the people moving through the city in shock over the unseasonable death.
"What do you see down there Chareos? And do not try to fob me off with trivialities. Answer the question you know I am asking."
Chareos felt a brief surge of irritation at this man who never seemed to acknowldge that he had been elected to lead the Volk, and bit it down quickly. Duty, not privilige he thought to himself. From his conversations with Deor, he knew that his attitude was all about duty and not the insult some might consider it to be.
"I see the people I have sworn to protect. I see a confused race who have been caught in this trap so long that they don't see it's illogic. I see people who may make it to next Spring if I do my job right and if they listen to me."
Looking into Deor's face, he framed a question. "Does that satisfy you?"
"Yes, thought it's not the whole truth. But then I didn't ask you for that. It's quite similar to what I see, only very different."
Chareos waited for him to continue.
"I've told you much of what I know, Chareos. Certainly, I've told you more than I told your predecessor. There is more of course. And then there is the speculation and the musings I've put together over time. You could have all of that Chareos. No-one would really blame you for forcing it from me. No-one would know of agreements otherwise and the Lawkeeper would rightly be more interested in keeping Armengar unified than anything else."
Impassively, Deor met the bigger man's gaze straight on waiting. Eventually he found the answer he was looking for.
"So it stands then?"
Chareos' slight nod was all the answer he got.
"I had hoped so. You're a good man Chareos. I knew you'd do what you thought was right."
For the life of him, Deor couldn't work out why that seemed to shake Chareos so much.