"Clever indeed," Senan agreed. "And one that I try tae instill in them whenever I have a person one tae one, but they never listen tae me. I guess this old man doesnae ken what he's talkin' about with these young ones."
"That's nae true," Cailean responded automatically.
Both councilmen turned to look at him, both wearing identical knowing looks on their faces. Senan said, "All I see in front of me is a group of men and women trainin' in a way I couldnae make them when I tried, without any direct instruction. Tell me, how do ye think such a thing happened?"
"They're good fighters. They'd have worked it out eventually," Cailean replied with a shrug. "They're just takin' the initiative, the way that any good fighter would."
"Aye, from an ideayegave them," Kier responded. "Dinnae try tae evade it. We heard what young Fergus was sayin' tae ye while we were makin' our way over here. This was yer initiative, aye?"
Cailean shrugged. "Aye, I suppose it was."
Kier smiled a little knowingly. "Aye," he said. "Aye. And look at them now. Nae bad for someone who's 'naebody special at all', eh?"
Feeling his own words from a while back thrown back at him, Cailean tried to hide the shock he felt in his heart. He wasn't sure he was ready to confront exactly why the men were following him so closely, or why his simple words seemed to have commanded such respect. Very few of them knew who he was, so why was it that they were now all sparring in a way that must cause him some discomfort? Was it just on his say-so?
For just a moment, Cailean saw through his own denial of leadership that he'd held so tightly for so long. He never wanted to be in charge, never wanted to embrace his bloodright or his destiny. He never wanted to believe that it was true. But… what if it was? What if he really was gifted, not by some divine right of kings but by something in his heritage that made him a leader?
No. He didn't want that. He shied away from the very idea, even as he was forced to acknowledge that he had already taken a leadership role, whether he wanted it or not. After all, was he not the person who ran the training every day? Was he not the one who issued commands and made sure that the warriors were on track?
He felt suddenly confused, unable to understand the conflicting emotions inside of him. Pushing them away, he simply said, "Ye're overreachin'. I'm just doin' me job, just as we all are. Each of us has a role tae play."
"Hm," Senan put in. "But what role is yers?"
* * *
Maeve sat on a stool outside the stable, her heart pounding with anticipation as she stared out over the horizon. The sun was starting to set — she had figured out that Cailean would want to meet her after afternoon training was done — and it was growing a little chilly. She wore a long, thick cloak and she pulled it tighter around herself, glad for the cold as it gave her a reason to keep her identity to herself should they leave the safety of the camp.
What could Cailean want with her? She'd been playing it over and over in her mind since the morning, but she'd been unable to come up with any good answer that made her feel satisfied. If he'd wanted to offer her one-on-one training, then surely he would have asked her to meet him at the training field, not the stables. If he wanted to scold her for some reason, then it was more likely that he'd have done so earlier, or simply avoided her. No matter what answer she came up with about why he might have called her there, she found another reason that this didn't make any sense.
At last, the large figure that was Cailean appeared over the slight hill, wearing a long, nondescript cloak that was very similar to her own. With a start, she realized that it was a traveling cloak. Were they going somewhere, then? The thought made her almost as excited as she was nervous; she hadn't left the camp since she arrived two weeks ago, and after a lifetime of being trapped in one place or another, her curiosity was on high alert. However, she was fully aware that she needed to lay low and keep herself anonymous. The Darachs would still be looking for her, so wherever Cailean took her, she'd need to be careful.
"Ye came," Cailean said as he reached her. "Good."'
He went inside the stable without saying anything else to her, and a few minutes later, he exited leading a dark horse by the reins. One of the stableboys followed, leading the white horse that Maeve had arrived upon.
Without a word, Maeve climbed into the saddle, and then with only a quiet thank you to the stableboy, they were off.
The two of them rode without talking for a while side-by-side, Maeve keeping pace with Cailean without understanding where they were going, just as she had when she'd ridden alongside Senan all those weeks. However, it soon became clear that they were traveling along the road that circled outside of Broken Windmill, and Maeve wondered if there was something on the other side of the village that awaited them.
"Are ye nae gonnae tell me where we're goin'?" she asked eventually.
Cailean glanced over at her. "Ye'll see soon enough. We just need tae go down the hills behind the village."
They kept going, and Maeve suddenly found herself feeling awkward. She had grown to like Cailean, or at least respect him, but she felt oddly tongue-tied now that she was alone with him. Despite their nice conversation the first day of training, and a few ever since, it felt odd to be outside of camp alone with him. It wasn't that she had nothing to say, it was more that when she said the words, she wanted them to be the right ones. The problem was that she had no idea what the right words could be.
After about ten minutes, Cailean indicated a large building with smoke rising from a chimney at the foot of a small hill. The two of them dismounted and, tying their horses to a waiting post, headed inside.
Maeve was immediately hit with a blast of heat. Around her, she saw weapons and horseshoes hanging from the wall, and she could smell the burning of a furnace nearby. This must be the village blacksmith, she realized; one of the few places in the village that was still making money, as the smithy supplied both the rebellion and any traveling merchants who sought to shoe their horses or peddle metalware.
The blacksmith himself was a burly man in his late fifties who reminded Maeve strongly of Senan, though unlike the warrior, the blacksmith was completely bald. The man approached from the back room as soon as they entered, and it was clear that he had seen Cailean here many times before.
"McManus," he greeted. "What can I do for ye? Who's the lass?"
"This is Mary, one of me fighters," Cailean introduced. Maeve felt a thrill at being referred to as such, even if she wasn't sure that she deserved the title yet. "Mary, this is Arthur McKenna, the blacksmith here in Broken Windmill. He's single-handedly keepin' both the village and the rebellion afloat."
"I'm doin' me best," Arthur replied with a shrug.
Maeve glanced around her. She didn't know much about metalwork, but she'd spent most of her life in castles, and glancing around at these weapons was enough for her to know that the blacksmith had exceptional skill. What was he doing out here in a village that was so poor it had almost fallen apart, rather than traveling down south to take his chances?
