Chapter 20
Glenfluirse.
Niall squinted his eyes against the sun's glare and stared at Conn's magnificent fortress crowning a towering hill. Even as a boy, Niall believed it had seemed to shimmer with power as old as the Irish hills.
A place where legends could be born, soaring in fiery arcs to immortality.
Fintan MacShane with his enchanted spear, his tale had been sung by the bards from the time Niall was a boy, the glorious story of the blind spear caster urging an outcast lad to strive harder, fight more fiercely...
dream of great deeds he would do one day.
Glenfluirse—the bloodless battlefield upon which Niall of the Seven Betrayals would win redemption.
Yet now, as he rode toward those familiar gates, the magic seemed to fade, Glenfluirse reverting to plain stone and wood, like any other fortress Niall had seen. It was little wonder, he thought, his lips curving in a grin.
These walls did not enclose the laughter and passion of his Caitlin. Fiona's fiery valor did not warm these stones, and his mother's gentle, undeserved love did not brighten the shadowy corners.
Before his eyes, the fortress shape-shifted to Daire's familiar stone face, etched with ancient wisdom, whispering of a future yet to come. Castle Daire. Wonder welled up in his heart, a pure, sweet spring, watering the barren reaches of his soul. Home.
Niall lifted his gaze to the sweep of blue sky, wishing he could be transformed into a hawk, sail waves of wind to Caitlin's welcoming arms. Nay, Niall thought, he would not trade Castle Daire for a hundred fortresses like Glenfluirse.
Yet, if what Declan claimed were true, Glenfluirse would be his one day.
Niall's smile sobered, the thought dulling his joy of moments before.
The man named tainist would be duty bound to rule his vast lands from this place, the center of trade, the seat of justice, the people's bastion in time of war.
How could he tell Conn, tell the people of this fortress, the truth?
That Niall of the Seven Betrayals, the champion of Glenfluirse, the warrior who had battled so long in an effort to find honor in their eyes, no longer cared about being captured in bard song, no longer dreamed of his sword one day gleaming in a place of reverence beside Fintan's spear upon the great hall's stone wall.
Niall of the Seven Betrayals did not want to rule over anything save the heart of his Lily Fair.
His fingers trailed to the hilt of the magnificent sword, his father's weapon, bound to his waist where his own fine weapon had hung for so long.
Strange, in the days since he and Declan had ridden away from Castle Daire, the sword seemed to possess its own brew of magic—a silent clamoring that had raked at his nerves until he surrendered this very morning, strapping the sword about his lean waist. Like a talisman, a charm, a thing enchanted.
Nonsense, of course. If the blade held any magic, it was this: its weight reminded him of his father's mistakes.
What madness had his mother been prattling about? His mother's desperate, vulnerable face swam before his eyes. His brow furrowed. Aye, she had claimed that Ronan of Daire told her to give the sword to him, said it would make a fine weapon for a chieftain.
Strange last words for a man to speak to his wife when he was riding off to die.
What had his father been thinking at that dire moment?
A son who would rise up to avenge him? Yet what good could come of drawing blood over an execution Ronan had earned by deeds so black they still tortured Niall's dreams?
Declan gave a shout, yanking Niall roughly from his musings.
Niall's whole body jerked, so startled he nearly fell off his horse.
He swore under his breath as he tried to right himself.
A fine beginning this would make for even the most reluctant of tainists—plunging face first into the muck and botching his grand entrance into the fortress!
Cheeks firing hot, Niall struggled to regain some semblance of dignity as several people on the outskirts of the fortress paused in their labors, shielding their eyes to peer at the riders approaching. Suddenly, a roar of cries erupted.
"It is our champion!" a plump old man bellowed. "Niall of the Seven Betrayals has returned!"
The boy beside him capered in a wild little dance. He dashed into the fortress, his wiry body bursting with delight at being the one to carry such momentous news.
The child's cries brought a trickle of figures beyond the castle walls, the trickle swelling to a sea of people cascading from the gates, cries of welcome, of celebration, welling up around Niall.
Joy.
He could see its glow in so many of the faces as they clustered about him.
Boys reaching up to touch the travel-stained edges of his garments as if some of the champion's courage might rub off upon their fingers.
How many times had Niall done so himself?
Straining to reach Fintan MacShane's elbow or the smooth wood length of the fairy-kissed spear?
But Niall felt hardly worthy of such adulation. He was still the betrayer's son. No honor, no title, not even a new name he won, would ever change the fact that Ronan of Daire's blood flowed in his veins.
But as Declan's wife and children swarmed in delight about the scarred warrior, Niall suddenly realized that he would no longer change the fact that he was Ronan's son even if it were in his power.
For to relinquish the blood of the betrayer who died, he would also have to lose the bold, laughing father who had given him the wooden sword, the father who had played at monster in the chamber that captured the sea Niall's mother loved, the father Fiona still defended with all the passion in her loyal heart.
Even for a name that was clean and new, irreproachable in other men's eyes, he would not surrender those treasures, tarnished as they might be in the eyes of the world.
A ripple of awareness seemed to go through the crowd, a sudden hush falling over them as they drew aside, forming a path down their center. Only one inhabitant of Glenfluirse could command such a tribute.
Niall's heart lurched at his first glimpse of the man striding toward him, resplendent in robes that glowed with green and red, gold and silver, his hair and mustache burnished bright as copper.
Conn the Ever Truthful, the man Niall had called father for so long, the chieftain whose armies he had led into battle, the one ally Niall trusted.
How many times had Niall dreamed of entering Glenfluirse in such honor, the people's acclaim and his chieftain's pleasure washing away the taint of shame? How many nights, alone in his bed, had Niall imagined this moment?
Yet now it was as if strange music played a warning within him, dulling his pleasure, drawing him back from all that he had once desired. Had Fiona awakened this sense of caution inside him? Or was it the wind flowing past his father's sword that sang in such unsettling tones?
More likely it was the cluster of surly-faced men in Conn's wake, the red-haired, haughty sons the chieftain had sired. Sons who had no choice but to bow to their father's will and watch one they hated from childhood seize their place at his side.
Niall reined in his mount, then swung down from his horse, ignoring the jarring pain of his feet striking the ground after three days of riding. Raking wind-tousled hair back from his travel-grimed face, he paced toward Conn.
He knew he should sink to one knee in tribute, had done so often enough. Why did his body suddenly turn rebel?
Niall caught the questioning flicker in Conn's shrewd eyes at his omission, heard the rumble of outrage from his sons. But after a moment, the chieftain's mouth stretched in a grin. Conn opened his arms wide.
"I command you to welcome my son all you who dwell in Glenfluirse!" Conn shouted. "This is the man upon whom I shall bestow all my lands, my wealth, as well as the champion's portion of a father's pride."
A roar rose from the crowd, joyful cries mingling with grumbles of disapproval, the faces of Conn's sons strained with suppressed rage.
Knowing what was expected of him, Niall stepped into his foster father's embrace. It was not the first time Niall had been so honored with this gesture that none of the chieftain's sons had ever won from their father. A gruff show of affection Niall had always cherished.
Yet as Conn's hands pounded hearty greeting against Niall's back, all he could think was that these were the hands that had signed the missive condemning Caitlin to death.
This was the man who had ordered his father's execution.
This was the chieftain Fiona swore had given the command to reduce Daire to rubble.
A sense of loss shot through Niall, sobering him with the knowledge that whatever happened in the time to come, he would never again be able to come into his foster father's embrace without this darkening of suspicion inside him, the maddening scratch of uncertainty against his nerves.
His whole body stiffened, awkward, and he drew away before Conn made a move to release him. The chieftain's eyes narrowed just a whisper, but his smile remained fixed on his face. He peered past Niall's shoulder, as if seeking something.
"I can see Declan has won the prize I offered for returning you to me, but tell me, where is this woman you risked so much for?" Conn inquired. "I have waited half my life to give proper greeting to the daughter of Fintan MacShane."
Niall stiffened, uncertain why Conn's words unsettled him so. "Caitlin of the Lilies has endured much in the past weeks. I would not ask her to endure the hardship of yet another journey."
How could Conn fail to miss the edge of accusation in Niall's voice? The chieftain's eyes widened.