Chapter 12
Throughout Glenfluirse, the whispering had begun. The chieftain who had spent his reign surrounded by a retinue of warriors or bedding the most beautiful women now spent his nights alone, far from the eyes and ears of those who watched his every shift of expression.
Strange? Aye, it was. The gossip spread, and yet each morning the chieftain returned to the great hall as if nothing had changed.
If his face was a bit pale, his laughter was hearty.
A secret lover? All of Glenfluirse wondered.
But no new woman came forward. Would not any lady he so honored boast about being taken to the chieftain's bed?
Others pondered whether he was ill. That was enough to strike dread into the hearts of his most loyal followers. For who had the power to heal the chieftain?
The old druid he had trusted for so many years was fading, his powers melting away as if he had angered the spirit world he served—some claimed since the very day the druid had pronounced the destiny and doom of the great Fintan's baby daughter.
Nay, that was not it, those who knew Conn best scoffed. The chieftain was merely missing his favorite, his champion, the foster son so many resented—Niall of the Seven Betrayals, absent since the full of the moon.
But in the end, all their puzzling did not matter. No one really knew what transpired during the nights Conn barred himself in the tower room, no one except the chieftain himself.
Dreams.
Dreams that had stalked him from the day Niall had left Glenfluirse. Dreams so real they left the great chieftain cold with terror.
In the isolated chamber, Conn fought the most grueling battle of his life, driving off sleep until it would not be denied and it grasped him in blood-black claws.
Conn writhed among his bed robes, biting the insides of his lips until they bled as he felt his enemy overwhelm him once again.
Someone had draped the dais in blood, sheets of red-stained linen gleaming upon the platform from which he had ruled nearly thirty years, the floor slowly fading as insubstantial as mist beneath his feet.
Conn fought for balance, struggled to pretend nothing was amiss, as his warriors stared up at him the way they had for thirty years; yet despite his efforts, a low murmur rippled through the crowd.
Sweat ran down his spine. Could they see what he saw? The spectral figure of the spear caster looming over him, his weapon clutched in one skeletal hand. And those eyes... eyes blinded in life and death spitting hatred and condemnation, flaying Conn to the bone.
My daughter... Fintan's voice pierced Conn deep as the spear in the dead man's hand. I guard her even from my grave.
Conn dared not answer the spirit, dared not say a word lest the warriors suspect...
Suspect what, Conn? That you are a coward?
A liar? The chieftain's throat closed as another ghostly figure stepped from Fintan's shadow the way it had every night before.
Ronan of Daire, forever young, vital as he had been the day he died.
A man with a warrior's body, his dark hair gleaming, his face so like his son's it turned Conn's blood to ice.
Before your sword fell on me, I warned you. The dead man sneered. The day of your reckoning will come. Your lies will be torn away, and all will see the treachery beneath.
"Nay," Conn grated under his breath, hating Ronan even in death. "It will be over soon, and your son will bury my secret with the lifeless body of Fintan's daughter."
The specter laughed. I know my son in ways a man like you never could. Fintan knows the truth about you. Soon my son will. Then all of Ireland. The blood price you owe so many will be paid at last.
"Your son! You know nothing of your son! Niall hates you. I have seen to that. Aye, and made certain of this as well. Before the midsummer feasts are over, your son will be dead, and the truth will die with him!"
Ronan should have been enraged, twisted with fear that he was helpless to aid his child. But Ronan only laughed... laughed the way he had in the cold of the dungeon, a strange triumph shining in his eyes, even when the sword blade cleaved his head.
Conn woke with a start, his body sweat-soaked and shaking, every sinew thrumming with echoes of terror.
By the blood of Lugh, when would it end?
Fintan stalking him every night since Niall had ridden away from Glenfluirse, not knowing he held the death warrant of Caitlin of the Lilies in his hand. Ronan, mocking him, triumphant...
But the victory had been his, Conn assured himself. Ronan was dead, the truth about his "betrayal" buried with him. And Niall, the traitor's son, was nothing more than a weapon in Conn's hand.
Conn rose from the tangle of bed robes to splash water from a bowl onto his face. He crossed to the arrow slit and peered out into the darkness. Let his enemies own his dreams. The world of daylight was his.
It would all be over soon. The plan he had perfected years ago. The instant he got word from Niall, the power Ronan and Fintan held over him would be broken forever. And the dangerous whisperings of those at Glenfluirse would be silenced.
Aye, Conn reasoned, pacing the chamber. Niall would not fail him. He would ride through the secret gate, his sword warm from the girl's blood, his loyalty still like a sickness in his face. And then it would begin... Niall's destruction.
The deed Niall had done would eat him alive from the inside out. After all, Conn thought with a weak smile, Niall was the honorable Ronan's son.
When he could no longer bear to live, he would strike a quick stroke with his own sword, and Niall of the Seven Betrayals would be dead by his own hand. If the betrayer's son proved too strong to do this, Conn would merely stage his death, make others believe Niall had taken his own life.
The plan was brilliant, Conn assured himself. It could not fail.
Wrapping himself in fresh clothes, Conn schooled his features into a careless expression and then left the room that still echoed with the voices of the dead. But he had barely stepped beyond its confines when Magnus, his eldest, strode into the hall.
Brawny and shrewd, ruthless and cunning, he was a son any chieftain could take pride in, Conn thought as he watched his heir approach him. Conn had fashioned a kingdom for Magnus.
Not that Magnus suspected his father's ambitions for his future.
Nay, as a boy, he had been fed on praises of Niall's battle skills, his sense of honor, until Magnus and all of Glenfluirse had seethed with the suspicion that the son of a traitor, a boy who should have been killed years ago, would someday stand as chieftain above them all.
The illusion had served its purpose well, hardening Magnus, teaching him to play political games, win allies and keep them, if not through loyally, then through fear. Lessons that would serve Magnus well in the years to come.
Of course, there had been one unforeseen difficulty, Conn had long admitted to himself.
There were those at Glenfluirse whose bitterness toward Niall had turned to respect, men now eager to have Niall as their overlord despite the stain of his past. It had taken great subtlety to remind them just how unfit he was to rule.
Fortunately he had had an ally in that quest: Niall himself, who would forever feel unworthy.
Conn kept any hint of affection carefully out of his expression as he faced his sullen son.
"Can a chieftain not be given a few moments' peace upon arising?" he growled.
Magnus stiffened. "A scrawny whelp of a boy insists upon seeing you—one Owaine come in from the wilds west of Glenfluirse."
Conn yawned. "Let me make a guess about his purpose. He wishes to become a warrior."
"Aye, though a well-aimed sneeze would likely blast him all the way to the Irish Sea."
Conn grimaced. He had little patience for the grandiose dreams of stripling boys at present.
"But that is not all the boy said." Discontent simmered in Magnus's eyes. "He claims he carries word for you from one of your warriors."
There was only one warrior Conn wished news from at present, and that man would send no messenger.
He would feel honor bound to ride in alone, deliver his news himself.
But it would be reckless to stir the curiosity of anyone in Glenfluirse.
If they suspected Conn only had one matter on his mind, they might begin to probe for answers.
He must still rule his lands whether Niall made haste back to Glenfluirse or no.
"Bring the message to me, and send the boy on his way."
Magnus glowered. "He will give the message to no one, the insolent wretch. Not even the chieftain's son! He says he promised to put it into your hand."
"And did this difficult whelp say who sent the message?" Edgy from his restless night, Conn's voice dropped to that low, dangerous tone that made even the hulking Magnus pale a trifle.
"The message is from Niall." Magnus all but spat the name.
For an instant, Conn thought he had misheard him.
Then he stared in disbelief. Relief warred with confusion and a wild eagerness he fought to hide.
Pray the gods nothing had gone awry, Conn thought.
If anyone discovered that he had planned the girl's murder, it could mean disaster.
"Send this Owaine to me."
"You would see this insolent pup who has insulted me? Why? Because he comes from Niall?"
"I would see the devil himself if Niall sent him.
Now, go. Has anyone else in the fortress seen this messenger?"
"Most were still sleeping. As for the others, do you think I would let any man in the fortress see him treating me with scorn while spouting Niall's name as if he were lord of the sea?"
"You were wise, Magnus, to guard your dignity so carefully. You have so little of it left."
Rage mingled with humiliation in the young man's eyes, but he stormed away without another word.