Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
RORY
She could remember it as though it were yesterday, that long ago Imbolc, the morning of her fifth-and-twenty birthday.
The day her brother died.
It had happened in the midst of a late, leisurely breakfast, sprawled out along the banks of Afon Hafren, munching on bacon and laverbread and hard-boiled eggs.
She was stretched out with her cheek pillowed in the palm of her hand as she nibbled at her food, idly listening to the chatter of the rest of the troupe from where they lounged about the low-burning campfire.
For a moment, she thought she might have drifted back into dreaming, lulled into sleep by the hum of the river and the smoke from the fire, because it was impossible that she should hear it – her brother’s voice, heartbreakingly frail, calling out to her.
Rory.
Come home.
She sat up swiftly, her drowsiness vanishing, as she spun around, searching the trees, the morning mist still hovering heavy along the riverbank. “Niall?”
There was no answer save the all-but-inaudible echo of her own voice, calling back to her like a mother’s lament lost to the wind.
A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.
She clambered to her feet, her breakfast forgotten, half-running back to her tent. Find Murph, she thought, heart thumping erratically. Find Murph, and put aside her pride and her hurt, and write to Niall, make sure he’s all right –
She froze mid-stride, because there was Murph, a forlorn heap of gray-and-black, huddled on the ground, feathers molting, his body shivering from the force of his low wail.
The mourning song.
She knew – without shadows, without ice, without fog, she knew, as terrible and bright as any unearthly knowing that had ever come to her on frost-bitten wings – she knew.
Her brother was dead.
It arrived, three days later – the letter.
Not from Molly, but from one of Gareth’s family who still lived in Leinster. It came as no surprise to Rory, the absence of Molly.
Molly would never come to her again.
She had existed in a strange kind of stupor ever since that morning when she had heard the ghost of her brother’s voice, calling out to her from across the sea, across time and space and the boundaries of belief.
She had not even dared to tell herself that she had imagined it, because it would have been the worst kind of lie – a lie of self-deceit, of false hopes that could never come true.
The troupe had canceled performances, fretting about her, checking for fevers and speculating over illnesses of the mind, but Rory ignored them, curled in her tent on her side, refusing to eat or drink save what little they managed to force between her unmoving lips.
Only Finn remained silent, studying her from outside her tent, his face blank and unreadable.
Until the letter arrived, a lengthy, hastily-scrawled account of how, three days earlier, on the feast of Imbolc, it came to pass that éire, the wild, free isle of white-sand beaches and stony, salt-soaked cliffs and lush, green hills, had fallen to the invasion of Albion troops at Cnoc na Teamhrach.
Rory stumbled out of her tent at the sound of the shouts of horror, blinded by the first glimpse of the sun in three long days. “What happened,” she asked, hollow and flat.
They all turned as one, her troupe, the family that she had made when her world had fallen apart – Gareth and Dil, Emrys and Beca.
Only Finn did not look towards her, the parchment gripped tight in both hands, his face as gray as a rain-weathered tomb.
“Rory,” said Beca, hurrying forward. “How are you fee –”
Rory shoved aside Beca’s outstretched hands. “What happened,” she said again, gaze locked on Finn.
Still, he did not look away from the letter. “Rory,” said Dil, wringing her hands in front of her. “Perhaps we should talk about this later, not now, not while you’ve been so ill –”
She stopped short as Rory turned her gaze on her, and whatever Dil saw simmering there in their depths caused her to step back, shoulders hunched.
“It’s news from éire,” she whispered. “From Gareth’s family. There’s been – there’s been a battle – the Albions have invaded.”
“How.” Rory’s voice was still hollow, even as she sank down onto her knees. “How did they do it?”
“I didn’t get to read the whole letter, Finn snatched it away from me almost immediately.” Gareth turned. “Finn – what news? What does it say?”
Finn said nothing, merely handed the letter back to Gareth and turned, striding away to stand at the edge of their encampment, arms folded across his chest, staring up at the cloudless sky above.
Gareth licked at his lips, exchanging quick, worried glances with the others, before examining the letter.
“The king of Connacht,” he read. “Niall ó Flannagáin. He’s dead.”
High in the branches all around them, the birds continued to sing, light and lyrical and full of cheer, the river still rumbled, soothing and low, the sun still burned, merry and bright.
Rory didn’t move, staring at the earth below her, the land that was not her home.
“Rory?” Dil’s voice was tentative and soft, and Rory flinched when she felt her hand rub at her shoulder gently. “Are you all right?”
Rory looked up, up, up into the face of her friend. “He was…he was my brother.”
Beca gasped and Emrys swore, while Gareth took a quick step forward. “Rory,” he said with a sudden burst of understanding. “The princess who vanished, the one who they said –” He stopped, his face growing pale as he stared at her, a terrible understanding dawning on his face.
It doesn’t matter, Rory thought wearily. Let them fear me, let them despise me. Let it all end.
“Oh Rory,” said Dil, and Rory looked back at her friend to see her dark eyes swimming with tears. “Oh Rory, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry –”
There was a terrible, tense pause, but Rory merely blinked once before hanging her head, staring again at the dirt beneath her, while Gareth scanned the rest of the letter, the parchment shaking as his hands trembled.
“The battle happened at Cnoc na Teamhrach, it seems there was a fight over a rock of some kind? The king, he tried to claim it, but it didn’t work –”
Niall, thought Rory. Niall, you utter donkey, why? Why would you do that?
“A rock?” Emrys was saying. “I don’t understand, why fight over a rock?”
“The Lia Fáil,” she heard Dil explain. “Made by the gone gods a millennia ago, it supposedly bellows out an earthshaking roar for the one true ruler of éire, allows them to unite the provinces and defend her shores.”
Gareth shook his head. “Well, it didn’t work,” he said.
“That started the fighting, it seems. It was expected to roar, and when it didn’t, the soldiers…
and the king…they panicked, and the Albion general – Ironstring, he’s called – signaled the charge against the troops of Connacht.
They were outnumbered and disorganized, and then –” He sucked in a breath.
“Outflanked,” he whispered. “The armies of Leinster, led by the deposed king, MacMurchada, attacked from behind and – and slaughtered them all.”
Low, frightened murmurs, an incoherent buzz in her ears, as she remained kneeling in the dirt, staring vacantly at the rippling waters of the stream.
Panicked. He had panicked, sure he had. He was always panicking, when things didn’t go his way. Never one for thinking on his feet, Niall was not.
“There are reports too,” she heard, Gareth’s voice breaking through the haze of her thoughts, “of a witch who was thought to be in the service of the king, but who also betrayed him.”
“There’s no such thing as witches,” Dil protested.
“I’m only telling you what’s in the letter,” Gareth snapped. “A witch with golden hair, it says.”
The Bright One.
Aoife.
Her vision, years and years ago, Niall on his knees, her finger under his chin, her feral smile of triumph as she drove her knife into his chest –
“That’s absurd,” cried Emrys. “It can’t be true. Maybe – perhaps this whole thing is a lie then, if this is the kind of nonsense that’s being reported.”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Gareth said. “So maybe –”
“She killed him.”
As one, they all turned to stare at her, but Rory kept her gaze focused on the murmuring water. “What do you mean?” Dil asked after a moment.
“She killed him,” said Rory dully. “She forced him to his knees – to look into her eyes as she cut his heart from his chest.”
A long, horrified silence. “How – how do you know?”
“I saw it. Years ago.”
Shock rippled through the air, emanating off them all – all except Finn, who slowly turned and moved towards her, deliberate, careful steps, an alpha wolf still reeling from the loss of his mate, consumed by thoughts of vengeance and rage.
Because, she thought dully, he knew, after all, what she was – had somehow always known, had begged her, time and again, to return home with him to the land where they both belonged.
“Rory.” Finn squatted in front of her, lips tight, moss-green eyes shattered with pain, with grief, with slow-simmering anger. His land too, she thought. His home – subjected to rape and ruin. Destroyed, because of her. “Why would Niall go to her, to the cailleach?”
He had to, she thought. I was not there.
She had not been there to protect him, as she had sworn, all those years ago.
Had she done this, Rory wondered distantly.
Had she caused her brother, in his desperation and fear, to seek out the witch who had once tried to kill him, to bargain with a being far more cunning and cruel than he?
Was this her fault, that this knowing of hers had come to fruition, his death at the hands of the cailleach, as she had seen that fateful morning in the barn?
“Rory.” Finn’s sharp tone cut through her distraction, and she shook her head, to clear the cobwebs from her brain. “Answer me now. Why would Niall ever seek out such a creature?”