It was only what any warrior would have done—that was not true.

It took several years for Rian to learn this; not until he was assigned command of an entire twelve-knight troop. By this point, Fionn mac Cumhaill’s fianna—his band of warriors—was known the length and breadth of Ireland, so every single man under Rian's was intelligent, brave, and highly trained. 

Apparently, that was different from being able to do what needs to be done. Looking back, Rian feels badly that he yelled at his men so much that first year. The follies of the young! 

But he had so much to do. Rian’s armlet yanked him through time into disasters which he had to solve. When done, it dropped him back into his fianna, where he also was confronted with disasters. These ones, he had to delegate in order to solve. That was even more difficult, and he wished that more warriors were trained in initiative and common sense. Or sometimes, he tried to yell some common sense into them.

Therefore, Rian resolved to teach his son common sense.

The summer that River was five was a bountiful one, and after a flurry of spring raids, everyone settled down to tend their own crops. So Fionn could spare Rian from his military work, and River’s foster mothers suggested that Rian take his son for a month. They headed into the hills with a packhorse and each other, and it was the most wonderful month of Rian’s life.

River was one of those children with enthusiasm for everything, including the things that would be better left alone (like badgers). He had fair hair but a sort of medium-dusky complexion that made it not entirely impossible that Rian might be his father in the way that everyone thought fatherhood meant. The people of third-century Ireland did not understand about genetics (unless they had a magical library that pulled books out of other times, which Rian did) but they did understand that a man with dark skin and black hair does not produce an entirely Celtic child, but River looked mixed in the way many people of the day were mixed. He was altogether too pretty and charming for his own good, and with a month together, Rian set out to show River that he was deeply loved—and also that he couldn’t get away with whatever he liked.

They camped by babbling streams when it was sunny, and in shallow caves when it rained. Rian taught his son to barter graciously with farmers (which River loved) and to wait patiently to watch the birds (which River found challenging, to say the least). They walked hand in hand, and Rian told lessons that were hidden in adventure stories, and asked questions when River bumbled through his own stories.

“And then there was—there was—a bear! Rawr!” River had to spin, paddling his claw-hands in the air.

“What did the hero do when he saw the bear?” Rian prompted, hiding his smile.

“He got—he got the sw—sword!” River had a way of pulling in air when he was trying to speak.

“I thought he gave the sword to the maiden. Look!” Rian put his own finger on his lips, taking a slow breath.

Instinctively, River copied him. Rian pointed to the arc of a flying dove, and River copied that too. When the bird was gone, he tugged his father’s hand.

“He had another sword hidden in his boot,” River said. “It was a big sword. It was a black one!”

“It sounds like a fine sword indeed,” Rian replied. Naturally, the child’s story made no sense, but he was proud how River had calmed himself enough to say three sentences in a row.

All through their journey, Rian tried to find problems for River to solve, so he would grow up wiser than his own troops. At River’s age, he himself had had four younger siblings. When he pulled back the memories, there was fear that if his little sister got hurt or sick it was his own fault, so he decided to err on the side of not giving his own lad too much responsibility. It was a hard balance, and Rian was constantly sure he was getting it wrong, because he wasn’t a woman and therefore didn’t understand the way comes naturally to a good mother.

So when they arrived in a new camping place, Rian did not pretend to be too tired to set up camp, which might frighten his son. But he did sit in the shade and busy himself with fixing the horse’s gear, and wait for River to make a decision on his own. 

River threw pinecones into the trees, and climbed a log and jumped off of it at least a hundred times, and made crow noises back at some crows. Rian’s skin crawled with frustration, swinging into the heat of anger. He was tempted to snap at River and tell him not to be silly; he thought of an entire lecture to give his foster mother to train him better; but most of all he was terribly ashamed of himself. His own child had no more sense than a pile of beans.

He made himself wait out his rage. “He’s only five,” he muttered over and over. “He’s just a wee thing. There are years left to train him.”

But Rian was a warrior, and he never knew how many years he would have left. He assumed he would die in battle, and if it was the next one then this was his last chance to teach his son anything. Fear flared after the anger, so Rian gritted his teeth and kept mending.

He was still trying to master his own emotions when River came bounding up. 

“What are we going to eat tonight, Daddy? I’m—am hungry!”

Rian took a slow breath, which was always his own advice. “Let’s think, River. What needs to be done before we can eat?”

“A fire!” River jumped up and down. “Some fish!”

Now Rian’s smile came naturally. “Let’s think what comes before that. What’s the very first task, River?”

So he did not make River do things all by himself, but he learned to ask over and over again. What is the first step? How do we begin? You’re right, this looks difficult, but what is one thing we can do? Maybe it was all wrong and not what a mother would do, but Rian watched his own men and he watched his child, and he thought about all the books he had ever read, from all the different times. He figured, if this is the last summer and there is one thing he remembers, this might serve him well.

It was not their last summer. 

Only afterwords, Rian realized that the armlet might have pulled him away at any time, and River would have been truly abandoned. He was horrified to realize how irresponsible he had been. He knew by now that the armlet created a door through the Veil when someone needed help, and when Rian was done it would make another door and Rian would end up back home—but left to its own devices, Rian might arrive a mile away from the person in need, and he might come back on the same day or a week later. He could notice some differences in how the armlet behaved, but he couldn’t make sense of it. But because he needed to take care of River, he swallowed his pride and consulted the druids.

So Rian learned about using tools to persuade the magic. Like calls to like, so if he carried barely-bulbing onions, then the magic wanted to bring him back to the moment when the onions were barely making their bulbs. He learned more, too; how to recognize the feeling when his armlet (or whatever controlled it) was preparing a change, and now he had time enough to gather supplies, and ensure that the magic didn’t catch him, say, walking out of the bath. (That happened once, and he was highly motivated to never repeat the experience.) There were druids who had traveled the Veil themselves, and Rian learned that the Veil shuffles between time but stays relatively close in location, and there were Fae worlds but he never went into them, himself, just other human times. (“Very peculiar,” his teacher told him, which didn’t make Rian feel any better.) He learned that the different feeling in his mouth when he arrived was because the language changed, and going through the Veil gives you the language you need. He learned that he always arrived wearing appropriate clothes (yes, even the time when he ducked under water as naked as a jay-bird, and came out on the crest of a hill above an enclave of monks trying to hide some very important books), but the first set of clothes might be mostly an illusion. Some people can see through it and it doesn’t keep you warm, so it’s better to go change into new clothes as soon as you can.

He learned that there was often a chest with clothes, or a bedroom where he belonged, or a bed in the barracks, because when you slip through time you become the person you always would have been in that time, which is also why everyone else assumes you belong. That was fascinating. Rian liked to contemplate the possibilities, on long marches or by his fireplace in the winter, because Rian found people fascinating—why they do what they do and love and hate each other. It was why he never tired of reading books. However, it also made his assignments easier, because he could figure out what people were thinking and manipulate them into what he needed them to do next. For the good of the rescue mission, of course. 

So by the time he took River camping the summer that River was six, Rian was confident that even if his armlet pulled him away, he would be able to come back. Meanwhile, he brought along one of Fionn’s best hounds, who was strong and clever enough to defend their camp for a little while. Dogs, unlike people, are good at just doing what they are supposed to do.

Rian snipped a bit of the boy’s blond hair, some of the pack-horse’s mane and the dog’s fur, and a bit of canvas from their tent, and sewed them all up in a pouch made out of a pillowcase from his own magical library. River was learning to carve, and only too delighted to gift his father a wooden blob that was suffused with a great deal of love and even a few drops of blood.

Rian knew his armlet responded to desperation, so he reminded it daily of how vital it was to be close to his child, who was so innocent and helpless. Then, for the Veil, he secured the pouch and the carving on his person at all times, and now was confident that his magic would bring him back within an hour or two of the same time, and in the exact same place. So when he felt his armlet tugging, he made sure the camp was secure, the dog was on guard, and River had something to do that did not involve carving knives. He said he was going to catch a partridge for dinner, River went back to the fort he was building, and the dog stayed on guard. Rian loosened his mental hold on the world, let his vision go unfocused, and walked into the trees.

He didn’t expect that to be the mission that killed him.

To be continued…

Buy The Knight and His Magical Armlet

Why am I receiving this?

You're signed up for the Sheltie Gazette, and this is a special book launch series. You will get several interconnected stories this week, and then back to your regular Sheltie-centered content. Search your in-box for "The first time was a burnt-out village" if you missed the first installment.

What is this story?

All the stories this week take place between when Rian is a youth in "The Squire & His Magical Library," and when he is in approximately his mid-30's in "The Knight & His Magical Armlet." They are carefully designed to not have spoilers for either book.

The Squire & His Magical Library

Did you start with "The Horned Women" and not sure who Rian is? Make sure to pick up the second book in the series, when Maura lands in 3rd-century Ireland:

The White Deer of Kildare