Chapter Eleven #2
Taryn drew nearer and spied a smaller hillside within the walls. Duma nan Giall, it was named. She had never before seen the mound of hostages, but she had heard of it. An iron gate closed off the small house made of timber, and she wondered if her father was held within it.
As she passed through the grounds, she was struck by how vast the King’s holdings were—and there were soldiers everywhere.
The men forced her towards the banqueting hall, a tall building made of timber that was heavily carved and painted in bright colors. It stood between two parallel mounds of earth, and Taryn counted six doors on each side.
“Bind her,” the captain said, “until the High King is ready to see her.”
Taryn lowered her head, her mind spinning. She would have to plead with the King for mercy and pray that he did not hold her responsible for Carice’s disappearance. Her heart was pounding when they led her inside the main door.
Inside, she smelled roasted mutton and vegetables.
Her stomach roared with hunger, for she had not broken her fast this morning.
But all hunger vanished when she heard the heavy footsteps approaching.
She did not dare to look up, but she knew the High King was drawing nearer.
She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
“Your Grace, this is the traitor’s daughter,” the captain said. “We believe she was the reason why Lady Carice disappeared.”
“Was she?” came a deep baritone voice. “Let go of her.”
The soldiers released their grip, and Taryn sank to her knees. She knew better than to attempt anything less than deference.
For a moment, the Ard-Righ stood in front of her. Taryn stared at his leather boots, her heart pounding.
“You do resemble Carice Faoilin,” he admitted. “I can understand why my men made a mistake at first. But they did not see you clearly.” He reached out a hand and touched her chin. Taryn kept her gaze averted, knowing that this man held her life in his hands. “Rise.”
She got up from her knees, and the moment she stood, he tore the veil from her hair.
The linen slipped to the floor, and she felt the fear gripping her once more.
Rory jerked her back by the hair, forcing her to look at him.
His gray eyes were the same as Killian’s, and it was like seeing an older, crueler version of the man she cared about.
His dark beard covered his face, and his mouth was a thin slash.
Dear God. Her mother had been right. The moment anyone saw Killian, they would recognize him as Rory’s son.
The High King pulled back her hair and revealed her scarred face to the men. “Think you that I would wed a woman so cursed?”
Taryn didn’t move, nor did she dare to speak. The wrong words could end her life or her father’s.
“I want to know where Carice Faoilin is,” the High King said. His voice held such caged fury she didn’t know how to answer that. “You will tell me this, if you value your life.”
She was not about to betray Killian’s sister—especially not to this man.
“I d-don’t know.” Fear gripped her roughly, and she admitted, “My mother’s men came for me, and I left Carice behind. I was traveling with her to the wedding, but then I had to leave her.”
But the captain was already shaking his head.
“On the first day we saw her, this woman claimed that she was your bride, my liege. She intended to deceive us during our journey towards Tara, and Lady Carice disappeared soon after she stayed behind. It could not have been a coincidence, for we have not seen your bride since.”
She knew these men were trying to save their own necks by blaming her. Best to tread carefully. “I lied to them on the first night out of fear,” Taryn said. “I was seeking sanctuary with the chieftain and was afraid I would not be allowed inside. It was a mistake from the first.”
“Why did Lady Carice run away? Was she trying to break our betrothal?” Rory demanded. His hand gripped the back of her neck, and Taryn froze. If this man intended to kill her, he would do so. She could do nothing at all to stop him.
“Lady Carice was dying,” she told the King. “She was hardly able to leave her bed.”
His gaze darkened, and for a moment he passed judgment over her. “But she was strong enough to flee this marriage.”
Taryn straightened, reaching for a courage she didn’t feel. “I do not think you would want a bride who is so ill, Your Grace. There are other women who would suit your needs better.”
“Not you,” he said coldly.
Though she had expected such a reaction, she could not stop the color from rising to her cheeks. “No, Your Grace. Not me.”
The High King drew back his hand and said, “I presume you came here to plead for your father’s life.”
She gave a faint nod. “Yes, Your Grace. If you would but grant him mercy, surely he—”
“I will not grant mercy to a traitor. He will die for his attempt to seize the kingship for himself.”
Taryn clenched her hands together, feeling as if all the blood had drained away from her body. Killian had been right. The High King had no intention of listening to any of her words.
But she would humble herself before him, begging for mercy. “He is my father, Your Grace. And whatever he has done, I would ask that you consider another punishment. Perhaps exile...or—”
“The only mercy I would consider is granting him a swift death,” Rory finished. His iron tone made it clear that he would not be swayed in this.
The ice rose up from Taryn’s heart, descending into her limbs. But she lowered herself to her knees, asking, “May I see him?”
“Not unless you wish to join him.” To the guards, he ordered, “Take her to the mound of hostages. She may be more willing to talk in the morning, once she has spent time with the other prisoners.”
Killian let out a curse when he saw the soldiers seize Taryn and take her away. He had hidden himself among the King’s subjects, never letting any man see his face. And though he could not know how they’d taken Taryn without alerting the other soldiers, he had to get her out.
There was only one way to do so. He had to confront the High King and reveal his identity.
Although he knew his features were similar to Rory’s, it was a rare moment when Killian ever saw his reflection. He hardly cared what he looked like, and he knew not what others would say when he claimed to be Rory’s son.
But he had to act swiftly before Taryn was harmed.
Slowly, he rose from his place where he’d been washing a wooden table.
He dried his hands upon the rough wool that he wore.
Then he walked to the place where Taryn had been standing.
He held back his shoulders, still keeping himself hooded.
It took a moment for the men to notice him, and the captain approached. “Go back to your place, fuidir.”
Killian ignored him, striding towards the High King. “I would like an audience with you, Your Grace.”
The captain reached out to seize his arm, but Killian twisted it and sent the man sprawling to the floor. His strength seemed to startle the others, and he saw men reaching for their blades.
But he had their attention now.
Rory ó Connor turned and stared at him. It was clear that the High King was lacking in patience, and the moment would soon be lost.
Killian reached up to his hood and pulled it back, revealing his face. He waited before he spoke, to see if anyone saw the resemblance. By the gods, he hoped so. This was his best hope of keeping Taryn safe.
For a moment, the High King froze. He stared hard at Killian, and the expression on his face was not at all the rage or disinterest he’d anticipated.
Instead, there was a look of stunned silence.
There was no doubting that Rory recognized him as another bastard son.
But instead of dismissing him, the High King moved closer. “Who was your mother?”
Killian straightened. “Her name was Iona.”
A strange smile spread over the High King’s face, and he shook his head. “No. Her name was not Iona. It was Liona MacPherson.”
Killian didn’t move. There was a low buzzing sound in his ears, and he didn’t know what to believe. He’d expected the High King to dismiss him, to brush him aside. But instead, Rory’s face had turned hard.
“She disappeared a very long time ago. I suppose she altered her name to remain in hiding.”
It was indeed possible, for his mother had never once traveled to visit her family. She had named him MacDubh, refusing to even grant him the knowledge of her tribe’s name. The MacPhersons lived far to the northeast, and he had never been there before.
“Describe what she looked like,” Killian demanded. He wanted to know if Rory was telling the truth.
“She had dark hair, like yours, but her eyes were green. She stood as tall as my shoulder, and she had a small freckle near the corner of her mouth. I was the King of Connacht when I first saw her.”
So it was true. The details were precise, and he was certain the High King was telling the truth. But there came an icy chill over Killian’s spine. “If you remember her so well, then why did she change her name and flee?”
The High King shrugged. “Because I forced her to wed me.”
Married. His mother had married Rory ó Connor.
The blood seemed to rush from Killian’s body, and he stared into Rory’s eyes.
There was no denying that he was this man’s son.
Their hair, their height—every feature was the same, save the beard and the slight tinge of gray at the man’s temples.
His emotions tangled up in a turmoil of fury and shock.
“What is your name?” the High King asked. “What did she call you?”
“Killian MacDubh,” he answered. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak, could hardly grasp what had happened. He wanted to demand answers, to know why Rory had refused to foster him—why he had never searched for them. In the end, he twisted off the silver ring his mother had given him long ago.