Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
RORY
“Idon’t know,” said Locke, “how I feel about a midnight rendezvous with an extremely powerful bárd who loathes my very being – not to mention your hellhound.”
Rory leaned over from her horse and jabbed him in the shoulder with her finger. “I told you,” she said. “Failinis is a good boy. Don’t talk about him that way.”
At the sound of his name, the sídhe-dog paused from where he trotted a few paces in front of them, glancing back over his shoulder, ears pricked, ice-blue eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Rory tried not to smile at the sight of Locke’s answering scowl.
It was…odd, this playfulness in their interactions.
It had been a long time since she had been able to laugh and to tease with someone like that.
Not since Niall.
Rory shook away the thought, focusing on Locke instead as he nudged his horse closer to hers. “To be honest,” he said, “it’s not only the hound that gives me unease. Surely you know the legend behind our rendezvous site – the tower of Ceannas?”
“I must confess that I do not.”
Locke tsked, and Rory’s smile slipped out in spite of herself. “It so happens that my own ancestor, Flainn MacMurchada, is rumored to have been murdered within its walls – murdered by your own ancestor, centuries ago, when they both tried to lay claim to the title of High King of éire.”
“Interesting.” Rory slid a sly glance in his direction. “They do say that history often repeats itself, you know.”
“If you intend to murder me after all, my lady,” he said, “you might at least allow me my marital rights one final time before I go. Send me off proper, so to speak.”
“You are shameless.”
“Protest all you like, but I saw you eying me down by the riverbank this morning in naught but my braies.”
“I was eying you,” she said, “because I could well nigh count each of your ribs through your skin. You’re still too skinny.”
He smirked, and she didn’t know what she wanted more – to slap the look from his face or to stroke those lips with the tips of her fingers until his expression turned into something far less smug and far more agreeable.
“Perhaps if my lovely wife deigned to feed me more than forest berries and stale bread, I might fatten up a bit.”
“Do you prefer the diet you were given at the hands of the Albions? Because that could be arranged.”
He grinned at that, hazel eyes alight with all their former keenness. “It’s a wife’s duty to satisfy her husband, you know.”
“Why do I feel that we are no longer talking about my culinary skills?” She cut off what would surely be a cleverly off-color remark by pointing towards the distant loom of the great stone tower. “Look,” she said. “That must be Finn.”
Towards the base of a tower, a lone torch burned, and Locke snorted. “Not very good at being inconspicuous, is he now, this bárd of yours?”
“That depends,” said a low, river-smooth voice from the shadows beside them, and Locke jolted upright in his saddle as a blade appeared from the darkness, pressed tight against his throat. “Were you surprised just now?”
“Really, Finn.” Rory let out an exasperated sigh. “Is this necessary?”
Finn’s face emerged from the shadows, dark green eyes gleaming as he stared at Locke, who sat still as stone with a sword to his throat even as he glowered at the bárd. “He held a blade to your throat. I thought it fair to repay him in kind.”
“It was one time, and she had just killed my father and also tried to kill me, I might remind you, so I think it was warranted.”
“Might I remind you both,” Rory said, before Finn could snarl back a response, “that we are now allies?”
Finn grumbled but lowered his sword. “Come,” he said, stalking away to lead them towards the tower. “I have supplies waiting. You both look as though you could use a hot meal.”
“You could have led with that instead of the sword to my throat,” Locke muttered, and Rory shot him an amused glance before nudging her horse forward to fall into step behind Finn.
“It’s good to see you,” she said. “Good to see you alive,” and she could have sworn she saw his stern mouth twist upwards in a smile.
“And you as well,” he said. “And not only for the sake of those shadows of yours that have been returned to you.”
She shot a swift glance in his direction. “You know?”
“I have always known,” Finn said quietly. “It is in your eyes.”
Leave it to Finn, Rory thought with a twinge of fondness, to blandly announce that he had ‘supplies,’ and then instead to present a full-on feast.
She thought Locke might actually be drooling as he rushed up to the spread laid out on a plain wooden table inside the dimly-lit tower. “Roast hare,” she heard him say reverentially, each word as awe-filled as the most solemn of prayers. “Venison, braised cabbage, soda bread, oat cakes–”
Rory almost rolled her eyes, but then saw it – a cast-iron kettle set to the side of a platter of fresh-cooked tripe – and let out a whimper. “Finn,” she half-whispered. “Is that drisín?”
“And barmbrack,” he said, amusement rumbling through his deep voice. “I thought you might like your favorites, a bhréone.”
Locke’s head jerked up, swift as a wolf catching the scent of a wounded hind. “Barmbrack? Where?”
Rory snatched the still-warm loaf in her arms, cradling it to her chest like a newborn infant. “Mine.”
“Now my lady, don’t you know, a good and loving wife would –”
Finn interrupted with a wave of his hand. “Eat,” he said. “We have much to discuss, and little time to do it.”
At the sudden gravity flooding through Finn’s tone, Rory’s euphoria over the food faded. She thought Locke’s did as well, as he lowered his slab of venison without taking a single bite. “The other provinces march to Cnoc na Teamhrach?”
“They do.” Finn rolled his shoulders – his only tell, Rory knew, of his concern.
“Dil brought the son of Mac Duinn himself as a pledge of Ulaid’s good will, the loyalty of his and his clans’ alliance, but he will not, he says, give the order to move into battle until we give him proof – proof of our strength, that he will not be walking his people into another slaughtering.
” Rory nodded slowly, and Finn continued.
“Munster, too, is similarly sworn and prepares to march at full strength, but Gareth is concerned.”
“The king is young,” said Locke, in between bites of venison and cabbage. “And hungry for vengeance. Dermot was but a boy when his father was slain seven years ago. He will swear – and fight – recklessly.”
“That was Gareth’s concern as well.” Finn’s fingers drummed on his forearms as he leaned against the wall.
“Bréifne sends soldiers, but not many – the same of Meath, and Osraige even less. We might have their full loyalty if, like Mac Duinn, we could give them proof of our full strength, the true power which we can wield.” He nodded once at Rory.
“As for Connacht –” Finn blew out a long breath.
“Eóin is young, as well, but far from reckless. He is a clever boy, very practical and level-headed, despite his youth.”
Rory swallowed the bite of barmbrack turned to lead in her throat. “He must be,” she managed to say, “to have withstood Ironstring’s attempts to take Connacht all these years.” She hesitated. “And the vale? How has it fared under his rule?”
Finn’s expression softened. “It endures, as it always has. I doubt you would find it much changed, a bhréone.”
She knew better – knew that she would find it changed, irrevocably so, should she survive long enough to return, to see the smoke rise from that small, gray-stoned castle, the ivy ambling over its walls and windows, nestled deep within the heart of the Beanna Beola and Mhám Toirc.
Her home, the only beloved left to her in this world, but she knew that should she ever lay eyes on it again, it would never be the same as it once was.
She felt Locke watching her, and she cleared her throat. “When will the Connachta march to join us?”
“A day or so,” said Finn. “They send a large force, and it will take time to ready them for the march and subsequent battle. But it will not be long before Ironstring recalls his armies, the full force, and marches them north to meet us here – again, as he has done before, and successfully.” He paused, lips tightening into a severe line, even as Rory’s heart shuddered t at the thought of that terrible, doomed battle, so long ago now.
“This time, he will want to end it, once and for all.”
Locke nodded, tossing back a long swig from a flagon on the table – whiskey, no doubt, Rory thought, based on the wince he gave as he swallowed. “Then let’s give him one hell of an ending.”
“Indeed. We will meet him in battle, and have Rory claim the Lia Fáil as her own, to give the provinces the proof they require, and –”
“Not to be an arse,” said Locke, licking heartily at his lips as he studied the two of them, standing side by side – against him, Rory realized with a jolt, as though they were the ones united, and he was the outsider.
“But am I the only one who think it’s folly to wait?
” Rory glanced at Finn, who raised his dark brows in Locke’s direction, a wordless invitation to continue.
“In a few weeks’ time,” Locke went on, “this place will be teeming with Albions, including Ironstring and his vicious witch of a wife. Why are we waiting for that?” He nodded towards the horses grazing a stone’s throw away.
“I can get you to the rock of destiny before the dawn, with no cailleachs or waiting calvary to stop you from putting your foot right on the damn thing and letting it roar. So why are we waiting?”
“We need them to hear it for themselves,” said Finn, surprisingly patient, Rory couldn’t help but think. “Otherwise it’s nothing more than a legend, yet another myth surrounding the infamous princess of Connacht.”
“There’s also that.” Rory twisted her fingers together in her lap, stomach churning.
“I am infamous – and not in a good way. Everyone has heard the rumors about me, the horrors bring with me. The Lia Fáil is the only way to counteract those rumors, so that they see me for something other than a monster.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t,” said Locke. “Maybe we need a few more monsters and a few less heroes in éire. Heroes haven’t done us much good these past few years, have they?”
At her elbow, Finn tensed, and Rory reached out to lay a placating hand on his forearm.
Locke’s attention latched onto it immediately, and Rory snatched it away, rubbing her palms against her thighs.
“Monsters have also done a great deal of harm,” she said, throat dry as Locke raised his suddenly cool gaze to hers.
“The cailleach, for example, as you well know.”
“Yes, another possible wrinkle in this plan of ours that we need to address.” Locke stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “You said the boy – Meiche – is safely disposed of?”
“Don’t say disposed,” Rory said sourly. “It makes it sound as though I’ve killed him and loaded his body down with rocks and tossed it in the sea.”
“Which would not be the worst thing to happen, don’t you know.” Locke waved his hand at her glared response. “But he’s out of Aoife’s reach, yes? So there’s that, at least.”
“For now, but we have no way of knowing how long that will last.” Finn shook his head. “Niamh will not grant him harbor in Magh Meall for long. She knows what he truly is, and she has no desire to see the destroyer let loose upon the plains of delight. He must return to the mortal realm, and soon.”
“On a first name basis with the fairy-queen of Magh Meall, are we, Finn my boy?” Locke whistled, a mocking sound. “I didn’t know I kept such fancy company.”
“There are so many things that you do not know, Locke MacMurchada,” said the bárd, green eyes glinting. “You cannot even begin to fathom the true depths of your ignorance.”
Locke scoffed. “Such as?”
“For one,” said Finn, lips curling into a smug smirk. “I do not, nor have I ever, worn a beard.”
Locke blinked nonce, then Rory watched with grim amusement as his mouth dropped open in shock, as the full weight of Finn’s words registered within him.
Oisín’s beard, indeed.