Chapter 22
Niall's footfalls echoed on the stone floor, torches casting weird patterns on the walls, as he made his way toward his chamber. The instant his body struck the bed, he knew he would sleep, as deadened to all around him as a corpse in it’s grave.
The prospect should have been a relief after eight strained nights, lying awake until dawn, aching for Caitlin cuddled close beside him, fearing for his valiant lady despite the welcome he had received in the fortress.
Dreading that he would make a mistake and lose the future more precious to him than any bard song ever composed.
Aye, he should have been grateful for the waves of exhaustion weighing him down more insistently with each step he took.
He would have been, if not for warrior's instincts that could not be set aside even within his own chieftain's fortress.
Sleep rendered one completely vulnerable, as grimly evidenced in the memory that tormented him—Caitlin, the night he had taken her from the abbey, her throat just a heartbeat from the cut of his blade.
Niall's stomach lurched at the vivid memory.
He cursed under his breath, pausing for a moment to brace one hand against the cold wall, his feet unsteady.
Would he ever be able to banish that terrible, frozen moment from his mind?
Why did he still feel as if he were trying to wrest that blade away from his lady's throat when all at the fortress seemed well?
Even his last, lingering fear should have eased when Conn acceded to his wishes, withdrawing his command that the lady join them at Glenfluirse.
His head throbbed, as if someone had heaved a battle-axe at his brow.
He ground his fingertips against the ache.
It was good that Conn had excused him from the banquet, he thought grimly.
It would be best to sleep this pain away.
Besides, each night that passed brought him closer to the day he and Caitlin could be reunited.
A draft of cool air wafted over his sweat-sheened face, and he turned to see an arrow slit an arm's length from where he stood. Squinting his eyes in an effort to focus them, he caught the glimmer of a lone star in the slice of night sky.
Stars... Caitlin's stars. He smiled weakly despite the mist swirling in his head.
Had she not claimed they were a mystic link between those who loved?
Surely, if the heavens could bind Caitlin to the abbess who had raised her, the stars would carry a love as strong as his back to Castle Daire, where his lady waited.
Yearning crushed his chest. Instead of stumbling up the stairs as he had intended, Niall turned around, retracing his steps to the doorway. Fumbling to open it, he slipped out into the night, the sword at his waist clattering against the stones rimming the doorway's edge.
Blessedly cool, the wind bathed his face, the chill driving back the strange swirling in his head a bit. He raked the tangle of hair back from his sweating brow.
Even here, alone in the castle yard, he could hear the sounds of celebration, feel the press of people who filled the fortress.
The sounds and commotion of Glenfluirse had always marked his life.
Why was it that suddenly he could scarce endure them?
He would give anything to be standing under the solitary oak at Castle Daire, listening to the stillness with Caitlin in his arms.
Away from the intrigues of Conn's fortress, away from men who condemned innocent boys for their fathers' crimes, who mocked and scorned them, then groveled when that boy grew to be a fierce warrior.
And now, since that outcast boy had been named Conn's heir, both their mocking flattery and their very real hatred would run deeper still.
By the ancient stones, he wished he could stride out through the fortress gates and never return, but it was obvious Conn was not willing to let Niall escape the ruling he had handed down. Niall was condemned to be tainist.
If only Conn's sons could know how he hated the very word! But they would never believe a man so fiercely determined to bring honor to his name, would refuse the highest honor in the land. He would not have thought it possible himself until Caitlin shook the very foundations of all he believed in.
He had spent a lifetime craving another name, so he could pretend he was no longer the son of Ronan of Daire.
He had never guessed it was possible to shed all that hatred, doubt and loathing and become another man.
One who could remember his father with some tenderness.
One who could love a woman more than honor or power.
In the end, it did not matter if Magnus and the others believed—Niall knew the truth.
His lady had changed him utterly. He would spend the rest of his life thanking her for that gift.
Another wave of dizziness engulfed him, and he almost lost his balance.
He crossed to where a leather otter skin hung against a wall, surprised at how long it took him to reach it.
He poured water from it into his hands, splashed the chill moisture onto his face.
He hoped it would clear his head, but it seemed to drive him madder still.
The night seemed alive with echoes of Caitlin. He could feel her pulling against his heart, as if she were gathering in a mystic thread that linked them together. He could sense her as if that special magic she had told him of could carry her to him across a shimmering bridge of starshine.
Could a man make love to starshine? He felt an unreasonable urge to reach out his arms in an attempt to gather her close.
Impossible.
He smiled. Yet was anything impossible in the light of the love Caitlin bore him?
Had any other man ever felt this craving?
This sweet madness that made the most resolute warrior in Glenfluirse want to reach out to fairy-spun dreams?
Believe he could conjure his lover from silvery light and longing?
He turned toward the fortress gate, knowing she would not be there. Knowing with his mind she needed to stay far away in Daire, safe, regardless of the rebellion taking hold in his heart.
Yet it seemed even the fairies were amused by the fact that stone-hearted Niall of the Seven Betrayals writhed with love pangs, the mischievous Tuatha de Danaan conjuring up mystical visions before him.
Something pale glided toward him, wavering like living mist from the castle gates—a figure so like a woman's it made his heart stop.
Yet what woman would be out at this time? Every woman in Glenfluirse celebrated in the great hall, and no living, breathing female would dare cross the wild lands to reach Glenfluirse in the darkness. No reasoning man would believe it possible for a moment.
Still, if this was madness, Niall knew he never wanted to be sane again.
His gaze devoured the ethereal figure, white linen rippling about her, the soft oval of her face a bright smudge on the darkness.
A shape-shifter, gliding toward him, a dream lover reaching for him from the conjuring of his own mind.
Caitlin...
"Behind you!"
Her warning split the night, her voice impossibly real. He swung around just as something hurtled from the shadows. Pain seared his ribs as blade bit flesh. He flung himself to one side, barely in time to keep his attacker from burying a gleaming dagger in his heart.
But he had escaped for only a moment, he realized dimly. The swirling haze sucked him deeper, pulling him under thick, dark waves.
What was wrong with him? Niall wondered with panic. His body had turned traitor! Arms trained for years in battle grew awkward, all but useless, his instincts terrifyingly dulled.
He staggered toward his attacker, a hulking figure woven of torchlight and nightmare charging him, savage as the boar that had tried to rip his body open on the cliff.
Torchlight gleamed on Magnus's bared teeth, filled the bowls of Magnus's hate-filled eyes with flame. His clothing reeked, the stain from where he had spilled the cup still wet and stinking of ale.
Magnus, the man who had been waiting all his life to kill Niall.
Realization shattered into fear as he glimpsed the figure from the gate running toward him, the vision taking on shape and substance, her face filled with terror, her hair a black tangle in the wind.
Caitlin!
Nay! She could not be real! Or had he summoned her somehow from the sky? He wondered in the whirling confusion of his addled senses. Had he brought her here through some mystic link beyond time, beyond magic? Carried her into danger? His gut froze, cold with terror.
Desperate, Niall shoved back his sick dizziness, summoned his last strength to meet his attacker.
Praying to a God he half believed in, Niall dove for Magnus.
A roar of fury erupted from Magnus as the burly warrior tried to slash the blade down to cleave Niall's flesh.
Somehow, Niall twisted from its path as Magnus tried to slam the dagger home.
Grabbing the warrior's wrist, Niall drove the weapon down, felt the sickening sensation of the blade piercing Magnus's belly. Magnus's hellish scream split the night, but Niall barely heard it or the sounds of people spilling from the castle's door.
He crashed to the ground, his gaze fastening on Magnus's face. The dying warrior's hand clamped on his arm.
"Cannot... end this way," Magnus groaned, writhing. "You... defeating me again. Glenfluirse... was mine by right."
Niall fought off the dizziness, clamping his arm tight against his own side, wet and hot with fresh blood. "Conn give Glenfluirse to a coward? To a man who would stab another in the back? Did you really believe..."
"Should have been so easy." Magnus's eyes rolled wildly. "Saw you staggering out of the hall. Stumbling from drink just like... said you would."
Awareness pierced Niall despite the waves of dizziness that assailed him. "The drink? The cup you offered me..."
"Poison." Magnus's lips twisted in a grotesque smile.