CHAPTER 97: LETTERS IN WINTER

Hermes kept to the shadows, slipping along the torchlit corridor as the High King led Glasán away from the hall.

The sound of music and drunken laughter faded behind them, replaced by the muted slap of leather boots on stone. At the end of the passage, the High King pushed open a heavy oak door and ushered Glasán inside.

Hermes lingered at the edge, pressing his back to the wall, careful not to let his shadow fall across the threshold.

The room beyond was nothing like the roaring great hall. It was small, close, the air heavy with the smell of old parchment and smoke.

Around a broad table sat half a dozen men in fine cloaks, their faces set and sober. A cluster of oil lamps bathed the table in gold, illuminating maps inked with winding rivers, sketched coastlines, and tiny marks where settlements dotted the land. Notes lay scattered among them, written in a sharp, hurried hand.

"...so it is," the High King was saying, leaning over the table.

His voice was quieter than in the hall, though it still carried the same booming undercurrent.

"The Norse are bold with the winter coming. Every year they strike harder before the cold sets in, when the seas are not yet teeth to bite their hulls. They think to leave our folk without enough grain to last the frost. Clever devils."

One of the older chieftains nodded grimly. "And by the time the snows come, they are back in their longhouses, feasting on what they took."

Glasán stood with his arms behind his back, shoulders squared. "What would you have of me, High King?"

The King’s smile was sharp. "The raids grow too many for my men to answer. But now I have a man who can turn a Northman’s blade to the ground with a word. Ériu will know her Ridire na Mara."

Hermes recalled that Ériu was the goddess this land was named for at this time. In the years ahead, the name would bend to Éire, then to Ireland.

But the Romans had called it Hibernia, meaning "wintry". Though Hermes knew the climate here was mild compared to the lands north. It was strange to think of the names stacked atop each other like layers of soil.

"You would have me travel the island," Glasán said slowly, "to answer these raids where they rise."

"Aye." The King slapped the table, scattering a few loose notes.

"Strike them hard and drive them back to their icy holes. Let them tell tales of the Irishman who fells whole crews with a single word. Once that word spreads, the ones nesting on our shores will take their ships and flee."

The others murmured approval, some already tracing routes on the map with callused fingers.

Hermes stayed long enough to hear which coastal settlements Glasán would visit first, then slipped away before anyone thought to glance at the door.

***

"They want him to spend the winter chasing Norsemen from one end of Ériu to the other?"

Somner muttered later, when Hermes told them. The four of them sat in their chamber, a single candle flickering between them.

"That is the shape of it," Hermes said. "The King’s depending on him."

Somner leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You remember the records. Muirenn’s death is in 873. That’s three years from now. We have to stay here until then."

Aphrodite glanced between them. "That’s a long time."

"It gives us more time to find this cave," Hermes said. "And figure out why she died. And why only firstborn men can hold Sirentone."

Somner exhaled slowly. "Then I’ll be in the field with Glasán. I can ask questions without making him suspicious. If I can get him talking, maybe we’ll know where the cave is."

"I can give you parchments," Aphrodite offered. "For letters. Keep us all in contact."

Hermes nodded. "Good. With what you learn, Apple and I can narrow down the search."

Apple tilted his head. "We’ll also need details of Glasán’s family. Where they live. Who they are."

"We can manage that," Somner said.

***

Winter came hard, with winds from the sea that rattled the shutters and laid frost across the grass before dawn. Snow rarely stayed long, melting in the milder air, but the cold was sharp enough to bite.

The weeks blurred into a cycle of letters, maps, and long nights over parchment. Somner wrote from towns and villages along the coasts, each missive carried by messengers in the King’s service.

Glasán sent Hermes letters of his own, less frequent but richer, the words warm enough to chase the chill from his bones.

[Heimon,

The sea here is black as iron, but the gulls still wheel above it as though it were summer. I’ve driven the Northmen from three coves now. They leave their shields behind, half-buried in the sand. I keep one for you. I find myself thinking of the night we spend by the coast when the wind rises.]

Hermes read that one so many times the edges went soft. He sent back words of his own, folded neat in the same careful script he used for all his work.

[Glasán,

I’ve not seen the coast since you left, but I remember it clear. The water breaking against the rocks, the salt on the air. I hope you still dream of home when you close your eyes. I dream of you.]

The letters were not always so tender. Sometimes Glasán wrote only to complain about the cold, or the King’s endless attempts to pair him with one of his daughters.

[Heimon,

The High King’s second lassie sent me a scarf. The third sent me dried apples. They mean well, I think, but I told the messenger my heart is already spoken for. He laughed and asked if it was the sea. I did not answer.]

Hermes grinned over that one for days. Somner’s letters were less poetic, but no less valuable.

[Master,

Glasán is holding up, but the pressure is clear on him. The chieftains expect him to win without losing a single man. He’s good at making them think he’s certain, but it wears on him. He misses you. That’s not me guessing. He told me so.]

Over the months, Somner’s tone toward his ancestor softened. The bratty edge Hermes knew so well gave way to something like respect.

In his letters he wrote of Glasán’s patience with the men under his command, of his habit of speaking to the youngest first at council meetings so they wouldn’t be overlooked. He wrote of the way Glasán listened, really listened, even when the advice was poor.

Hermes found himself rereading those details almost as often as Glasán’s own words.

Apple and Aphrodite grew into an uneasy rhythm. They still bickered.

Apple thought Aphrodite’s way of speaking was too slow, Aphrodite accused Apple of being deliberately vague. But they worked well together. Both were sharp, methodical, and driven by the same need to make sense of the unknown.

They combed through every scrap of information Somner sent, marking possible locations for the cave.

If Glasán had been able to reach it before being called to the King’s service, it couldn’t be too far from his home territory. They argued over old maps and drew lines across coastlines, crossing off places where the terrain didn’t match Somner’s descriptions.

Sometimes Hermes caught them bent over the same parchment, shoulders nearly touching, so intent on their work they didn’t notice him.

He was glad for it. Whatever else came of this winter, at least Aphrodite and Apple had found a way to work together.

By the end of the season, the name Ridire na Mara carried across Ériu like wind over the hills. Stories of him spread from hearth to hearth, the details shifting with each telling...

Some said he could turn a sword to ash, others that he could command the waves themselves. But Hermes knew these were mere exaggerations.

And then, at last, the order came. Glasán was permitted to return to the coast.

Hermes received the news in a short letter.

[Heimon,

The King calls me home to Ailech. I will see the sea again. And you.]

Hermes folded it carefully and set it beside the others, his chest lighter than it had been in months.

Winter was over. Glasán was coming back.