Chapter 18 #5
Castle Daire stood waiting, its wise stone face almost alive, its arrow-slit eyes beaming welcome, as if it had known from the beginning of time that Niall would return a third time.
Destiny, that irresistible force that had stolen Caitlin from her mother's arms, then brought her, like a miracle, into Niall's heart—Niall could hear it, whispering to him upon the wind.
He listened as he built a roaring fire in the hearth. He strained to understand as he settled his small family before the blaze to dry their rain-drenched clothes. But the wind's voice was as indecipherable as the writings on the standing stone beside his father's cairn.
I cannot fail them, Niall thought fiercely, embracing each beloved one in turn as he prepared to leave them. Fintan, father of this woman I love, help them understand. My own father, protect them in death as you could not in life.
He kissed his mother's cheek. Fiona's brow. He tasted Caitlin's lips, memorizing the flavor of them, the sweet miracle of her love.
Niall's own eyes burned as he left them, going out to where Declan waited with the brace of horses.
Once a lance had grazed Niall's chest, leaving a searing gash in its wake.
This pain was deeper. Niall of the Seven Betrayals, the warrior men whispered had no heart, now knew that he did.
He was leaving it here, at Castle Daire, in the keeping of the three women who had dared to love him whether he deserved it or not.
"The storm is growing worse," Declan called out, handing Niall his reins.
"It does not matter," Niall answered. Thunder rumbled a warning, dark clouds racing along the horizon.
Niall's eyes narrowed as he tracked their flight.
Some men claimed the wind and the storms were messengers from Tir naN Og.
If only he could understand what they were telling him.
He had been open to the voice of the standing stone, but he could not decipher the wind's song now.
Or had he closed his ears to the voices on purpose, knowing even enchanted warnings could not shake him from this course?
He had to learn the truth from Conn himself.
Had to take this risk if Fiona and his mother were to have a home, if Caitlin and he were to win love forever after, without fear, without hiding from the sun.
"We will not stop until we reach the gates of Glenfluirse, no matter how harsh the storm blows," Niall called to his friend.
"See who reaches those gates first!" Declan challenged, spurring his mount to a gallop.
Resolute, Niall swung up onto his own mount, spun it in a circle as he settled himself upon its back.
But before he could urge the beast into a run, he heard the patter of running footsteps from the castle.
He winced. Had he not begged Caitlin and Fiona to stay by the fire?
The last thing he wanted was to carry with him the memory of them standing forlorn in the rain.
As he turned to face the figure who was approaching, his eyes widened in surprise. His mother, her hair tangled about her desperate face. His horse shied, and Niall battled to rein the beast in. His mother raced toward him, heedless of the danger.
"This is yours," she cried breathlessly, extending the long rag-wrapped bundle she held in her arms. "He said you would need it."
"Who said?" Niall’s brow furrowed in confusion, his gaze flicking to where his friend's back was quick disappearing. "Declan?"
"Nay! Your father."
"Go back inside, and warm yourself by the fire," Niall said gently. "The wind bites deeper and deeper."
"Niall, you must listen to me!" she cried so fiercely her voice broke, her eyes afire with pleading. "Do not dismiss me as if I am mad."
Was that not what he had labeled her so many times these past weeks? First in guilt and frustration, later with quiet grief, that he could not reach beyond the mists that separated her from all around her.
Stunned at the desperate sanity in her words, Niall swung off the horse. He reached out, taking what his mother offered. Niall's hands trembled as he unwrapped the most exquisite sword he had ever seen.
He stared in awe at the gleaming weapon, remembered clutching the sword as a boy, scarce able to get his grubby fingers around the hilt. He could hear his father laughing as Niall struggled to lift the heavy weapon from the floor.
You will grow to fit it soon enough, my little son, Ronan's deep voice echoed in his ears. And then no man in all Ireland will ever defeat you!
Grief washed over Niall in suffocating waves, mourning for all the years that reckless boy and his invincible father had lost.
He started at the feel of his mother's hand curving upon his wrist. He looked into her face, stared at her, his breath snagging in his throat. Her eyes! They shone piercingly clear, filled with love and faith and grief.
"It is a sword fit for a chieftain,” she murmured, stroking the hilt as if it were her lost love's face. "It was the last thing your father said before they took him away from me."