Chapter 4
She was finally asleep. The shuddering of her breath as she fought to hide her tears had quieted. The fingers that had clenched on the edge of his cloak unfurled. The knowledge that the woman was resting at last should have afforded Niall some relief. But it seemed his conscience would not.
What had Conn been thinking, sending Niall on this quest? If the chieftain had searched for a hundred years, he could not have found a task Niall of the Seven Betrayals was less suited to perform.
Conn should have sent an entourage to fetch Caitlin from the abbey, a retinue manned by courtly guards skilled in easing the fears of a sheltered young woman. Perhaps Declan. Niall closed his eyes, picturing the burly flame-haired warrior who was the closest thing Niall had ever had to a friend.
Declan, the vicious scar on his face scarce visible once he uttered his hearty laugh, his merry eyes tempting anyone nearby to see life as a grand adventure.
Declan would have known exactly what to say to the woman.
He would not have spilled out the news that her family was dead.
He would not have let her weep silent tears alone.
He would have found a way to comfort her.
Yet even if Conn had sent Declan, Caitlin needed a woman nearby, some female to wait upon her, soothe her during the first distressing hours after she was torn from the only home she had ever known. Prepare her as only another woman could for her entry into court.
Even the most dull-witted man in Ireland should have guessed what a woman like Caitlin would need on this journey, and Conn, with his near-legendary wisdom, should certainly have known it would be disaster with no one except Niall to see to the girl.
Niall's gaze was unwillingly drawn yet again to Caitlin's profile, pale and perfect against the dark backdrop of cloak.
One hand was tucked beneath her cheek like a child's, black ringlets and fingers of shadow tracing her fair skin in patterns like the mystic writings on stone.
Silky lashes curled upon the crest of her cheek, her lips slightly parted.
She might have been a fairy maid asleep in her woodland bower were it not for the dried tears on her cheek and the way she curled her lithe body, tight, as if to guard against another blow.
A blow like the one he had dealt her when he had told her that her parents were dead. Niall winced. Why had he opened his accursed mouth in the first place? He was supposed to guard her, not talk to her, by the blood of Cuchulain!
But no, he had not kept quiet. He had not let her babble on about mothers and fathers she had never seen until she tired of the subject.
He had charged into catastrophe carelessly as a moonstruck lad into an enemy's ambushing sword, and he had thrashed about until Caitlin had emerged, bloodied, not in the flesh but in a deeper place, where emotions dwelled.
He had hurt her, and yet... how could he have let her ride into Conn's fortress with dreams in her face for everyone to see?
How could he have let her learn the truth with countless strangers looking on?
The mean-spirited among them eager to see the daughter of mighty Fintan fall?
It would have given any enemies she might make a terrible weapon to use against her in the days to come.
And with her beauty, her grace, her lineage, exalted as the stars, there would be plenty of people at Glenfluirse ready to hate her.
Not that they would ever be honest enough to let her see—no, they would use their wit to flay her so subtly, she would not even know they had struck until she glanced down to see she was bleeding.
Why did that image even now have the power to stir something hot and poisonous in his veins, a kind of anger he had never allowed himself to feel?
He shoved it back. He had no time for such emotions.
They stole a man's concentration, could distract him from his goal.
And there was no way Niall could afford that.
He stared into the flames, hard, remembering every insult that had been heaped upon him. Even with Conn's kindnesses, the gaping hole within Niall had remained year after year, filled with the shame and horror of his father's betrayals.
In Niall's place, most men would have ridden far away from Ireland, taken a new name to escape such a poisonous lineage.
Niall had stood his ground. Fought. Dedicated his life to winning back honor. Until he did, the world could hold nothing else for him. No matter how remarkable, how vulnerable, or how brave Caitlin of the Lilies was, he could not be her champion. He had not even won his own battle.
His only choice was to trust in Conn. Conn, whose army had triumphed time and again because Fintan led the men into battle, and they believed the sea god himself could not defeat them.
Conn, who had ruled wisely, justly, for thirty-five years.
Conn, who had pressed two missives into Niall's hands, eyes burning, intense, as he gave out his orders.
I trust you when I would trust no other, the chieftain had said, grasping Niall by the arm.
Since your father died by my hand, I have claimed you as my son.
Now you shall prove your loyalty to me. Tell me, Niall—are your enemies right or wrong?
Did I trust you in vain? And as the chieftain had pressed the sealed sheets of vellum into Niall's hand, Niall had vowed with his last drop of blood not to fail Conn.
One message to read once he was outside the fortress, outlining this mission, where to find the girl. The second...
Niall silently cursed himself. Conn had charged him to open the second this night, as soon as Caitlin lay asleep.
Heat flooded Niall's cheeks, shame that he had been so distracted by tear-bright eyes and a pretty face that he had forgotten his duty to Conn for even a moment.
Thank the gods no one else would ever know.
He unfastened the leather bag that hung at his waist and carefully tugged the roll of vellum from within. The seal upon it glistened in the firelight like a fresh wound.
Niall glanced at Caitlin, remembering her innocent inquiries earlier—wondering if Conn intended Niall to be her husband.
Absurd, such a thought. And yet, now that Niall considered it, the idea made alarming sense.
Conn, renowned for his subtlety and his wit, knowing Niall would pay no attention to a woman unless forced to.
Conn, using this last quest to chain Niall to this girl for three long days, perhaps hoping to tie the girl to his family through his foster son and finest warrior.
It was a marriage that would show all at Glenfluirse the enchanted Fintan's blood still flowed among them, bringing to the kingdom his special brand of magic. For just an instant, an ember sparked in Niall’s chest—temptation?
He clutched the missive so tight he crushed it, astonished to find he was fearful of what it might hold. He had learned as a boy that words could be a more devastating weapon than any sword. Had learned to mistrust them. Trust in actions instead.
Nay. He brought himself up sharply. Conn would not fail him.
Conn was the one person in the world who looked upon him with affection.
Conn knew of Niall's vow. Understood his resolve better than any other man.
The chieftain would not play such a grim trick on Niall.
And yet what besides a proposal of marriage could be contained in Conn's carefully penned lines?
Mustering his courage, Niall cracked the seal with his thumbnail, then unrolled the vellum and held it nearer the glow of the fire. His heart slammed to his stomach, disbelief and revulsion boiling up inside him as he scanned the chieftain's words:
The destruction of my kingdom is written in the destiny of this woman, a doom foretold by the most powerful druid priest ever to breathe.
She possesses dark power so great even her parents feared it and sent her to be locked away.
The death of countless warriors, the ravages of war—such are the curses Caitlin of the Lilies will bring upon all who dwell in Glenfluirse unless you have the courage to fulfill this final quest I ask of you, my son.
Warrior that you are, you have learned the grim necessity of death.
Kill this girl as she sleeps, so that others might live.
No one will know what you have done except your grateful chieftain.
Kill her? Bile rose in Niall's throat. Conn could not mean for him to cut her down in cold blood!
Everyone in Glenfluirse knew that Conn had vowed to Fintan that he would keep Caitlin safe!
Grant Caitlin life as long as the spear caster entrusted his daughter to Conn's care.
And Fintan had followed his part of the bargain though it must have torn at his heart and at the heart of the wife he loved!
You are the only warrior I can trust... The chieftain's words echoed in Niall's memory, and he could almost see the troubled darkness that had contorted the chieftain's features in the moments before he sent Niall on this mission.
What visions of future horror would drive a just man like Conn to level such a grim decree? Break a vow of honor?
The night was deafeningly still, only the hollow hammering of Niall's heartbeat and that of the oblivious girl seeming to fill the star-scattered sky.
Niall had dealt death in the way of a soldier, in battle, matching strength against strength, skill against skill, courage against courage. But to do this thing Conn asked of him—murder.
Sweat broke out upon Niall's brow, and he could almost hear the low purr of the chieftain's voice as he had drilled Niall in logic, in the ways of a warrior, during long winter nights at his hearth.
Who is wiser, braver, my boy? The man who marches to his death in a hopeless cause? Or the man who finds a way to stop the carnage before it begins?