Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
RORY
The morning of Imbolc dawned far colder and grayer than she remembered it being in the years of her girlhood, as though the land itself had grown mournful with the passing of time, weighed down by her sorrows and her sufferings, too weary to reach for the warming touch of the sun.
Or perhaps, Rory thought as she stood in the doorway of her tent, she was misremembering, her memory shaky and unreliable after too long away from the motherland.
Perhaps it had always been this cold, this dark, but she had been used to it then, as natural to her as her own breathings, this rain-shrouded isle of mist and fog.
Perhaps she was the thing that had changed, not the land – and not for the better.
She lifted the warm brown mug of tea to her lips and blew on the thin tendril of steam that wafted over the brim, teasing her senses.
It had been ten long years since she had watched the dawning of Imbolc here in the land of her birth.
No matter what befell her tonight, she was glad that she had come back to see the sun rise on another spring in éire.
Behind her, she heard Locke stirring on his pallet of furs in the opposite corner from her own bed. She turned to watch him, lying sprawled on his back, his arm thrown across his eyes, and sipped thoughtfully at her tea.
They had not spoken more than a dozen words to one another since they had arrived here at the encampment of Dún Ailinne.
As soon as they had arrived, he had escorted her to her tent, already surrounded by two dozen heavily-armored soldiers clad in bright blue-and-gold liveries, and ordered her in a low voice to stay there until he returned.
A quick glance towards Finn, who had nodded once, swift and imperceptible, and she had obliged, waiting within the thick canvas walls of the tent, her only interruption during the long tedious hours of waiting the perfunctory delivery of a meager supper by a stone-faced soldier.
She had fallen asleep waiting for him to return, and had awakened in the middle of the night to find her new husband slumbering in the far corner of the tent, on a rather uncomfortable-looking bed made of his own cloak and a horse-blanket of dubious cleanliness.
And even though he most likely had refrained from letting himself into her bed uninvited out of fear of what she might do to him when she awoke and found him there, it touched her, nonetheless.
It really was too bad, that she would have to kill him tonight.
She sipped again at her tea, a little regretfully, and almost as though she had spoken it aloud, her murderous intention, his eyes flew open, jolting upwards. “My lady,” he slurred. “I –”
“Good morning, Lord Locke.” She nodded towards the kettle in the middle of the tent. “Our host sent a serving-girl this morning with biscuits and tea. Would you like some?”
“Yes, I –” He shifted on the blanket, wincing. “I am too old to be sleeping without a proper mattress, I fear.”
“Hmm,” she said, crossing towards him. “For what it’s worth, my bed was quite comfortable.”
“The price I pay, I suppose, for trying to be respectful of my lady’s wishes.”
“Respectful? Is that what you were? I thought you were chicken-livered.”
He laughed hoarsely, scrubbing his hands across his sleep-crusted eyes. “I won’t deny,” he said, “that it did give me pause, imagining if you awoke in a foul mood to find me there with my hand on your –”
“Spare me your vulgar imaginings, Lord Locke.” She settled down next to him and handed him a cup of tea. “Here,” she said. “You look like you need this.”
“I do – it was quite a long night.” She watched as he gulped it down, admiring the line of his throat, the caramel-colored scruff along his jawline, the curve of his clever fingers as they gripped the mug.
Perhaps it would be a mercy, to give him one last pleasure before she sent him on his way across the star-studded sea.
Perhaps she was owed this much as well – a reprieve, however brief, from the horrors that haunted her waking and sleeping hours alike, from the dread in her heart of what new and terrible nightmares she would call forth from the belly of the earth in a few short hours.
“There’s a reason I asked you to kill my father, you know,” Locke continued, oblivious to her silent ponderings. “The man’s an insufferable scut, and –”
She leaned forward and kissed him, long and deep, her lips exploring his, their tongues entwining, and after a brief moment of shock, the empty mug fell to the ground with a dull thud and his hands came up to cradle her cheeks between his palms. “My lady,” he whispered against her mouth. “Are you sure?”
“Be quiet,” she said, “and kiss me.”
“Well,” said Locke, eyes fluttering shut as her hands drifted lower, sliding over his abdomen, teasing and gentle yet still urgent with need. “Never let it be said that I ever disobeyed a lady.”
Against all odds, despite all the guilt and grief churning within her, the boundless rage burning in her heart, an all-consuming wrath that knew no beginning nor end, Rory felt a strange sort of calm settle over her tense shoulders as she slipped her hand into her husband’s, pulling him towards the soft and warm pile of furs on the far side of the tent.
It had been a very long time since she had known peace.
As fleeting and false as it might be.
It was almost midday before she emerged from the tent, leaving Locke sleeping the sleep of the just within. He had certainly earned it, several times over, she thought with a tug of something unnervingly akin to fondness.
“Don’t think about it,” she whispered to herself, wrapping her arms around herself as she tipped her face back against the pale sunlight peeking through the clouds above. “It must be done.”
The encampment was strangely quiet and still – perhaps, she thought, because of the very obvious noises coming from their tent over the past few hours.
Or, she realized instead as a bustle of movement caught her eye from the top of the tall green hill at the heart of the encampment, because there was a very important feast to be given that night, and everyone, soldiers and servants alike, had been conscripted and put to work to prepare.
She could smell it now, the familiar aroma of the Imbolc feast – the faint scent of lamb roasting, seasoned with juniper berries and honey and coriander.
Somewhere nearby, no doubt, a makeshift cistin had been established, brown bread baking and custard thickening and honey cakes cooling in the still-wintry air.
Soon, the celebration of spring, the honoring of new life would begin.
Soon, she would slaughter them all, one by one, slow and painful and remorseless as the frost at Samhain, killing everything in its path.
A rustling above her, and Murph swooped down through the trees, a low greeting rippling from his feathered throat. He settled on her shoulder, nuzzling her cheek, and she smiled, reaching up to stroke his beak. “Hello, old friend,” she whispered. “I’ve missed you as well.”
Her fingers slid down his back, slow, soothing strokes, slipping underneath to scratch at his belly.
She paused though, a hitch in her throat, when the tips of her fingers absently grazed against the rubbery skin of his leg, the emptiness there still sending a shock of pain, of grief through her heart.
Ten years, she thought, eyes burning. Ten years since last she had tied a scrap of parchment to that leg. How could it have happened, that distance between them? How could they, who were once so close, have fallen so far apart, to the ruination of them both?
She swallowed hard, fighting back the swell of tears. No time for weakness, for regret – not now, not today, of all days. “Almost over now, Murph,” she said. “Only a few more hours, and we can both finally rest.”
The falcon chuffed once, mournful and low, and Rory closed her eyes for a moment, remembering other Imbolc mornings, nearly twenty years’ worth of birthdays she'd spent with Niall, shared with Niall – some sad, a few furious, and some that were by and large happy ones, simply because he had made them so.
And then, she thought of the Imbolc seven years ago – the one that had doomed them both.
She reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out a roll of parchment, rumpled and slightly yellow with age, the seal still unbroken. For a moment, she merely stared at it, the bitter tang of regret and grief burning against the back of her throat.
It was time, she told herself. Now, on the day that she would at long last become the queen her brother had begged her to be, when she would take the retribution, the éraic so long owed to her – now the time had come to open the last letter her brother would ever send to her, his final farewell, left unacknowledged now for so many dark and lonely years.
Rory took a deep breath, and broke the seal, and read.