Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
FINN
Something had gone wrong.
Finn paced along the edge of the sheer stone cliff of Cnoc Alúine, the ancestral home of the legendary war-band, the Fianna, his hands clasped behind his back.
Rory should have been here by now – should have breathed flesh and fire into the ghosts of the great heroes of yore that he had called forth from the depths of the earth and annihilated their enemies; should have taken the éraic owed to them both in a maelstrom of blood and ruin.
But they had remained ethereal, those ghosts, insubstantial and shadowy.
He could sense their feebleness wavering through the thread of song-magic he had cast between them.
He should have been able to feel the reverberations of their blows, should have been able to smell the blood of their victims as they fel, should have been able to capture the sound of the sobs and pleas for mercy in his song – but there had been none of that, only the barely-there sensation of their ghosts reignited, however briefly, to prowl about the hilltop and once more be returned to their motherland.
And now Rory was nowhere to be found.
He stopped his pacing back and forth to clasp his hands behind his head, closing his eyes and breathing through his nose.
If Rory was lost –
No. She couldn’t bet. He needed her still, needed that magic of hers, to be precise. He would never be able to accomplish what he had set out to do, never be able to oust the invaders and avenge his motherland, to protect her as he had sworn to do when he was but a boy, all those years ago.
Not without her.
He would still try, of course, but without her, he would fail, and he would die. He would cross the star-studded sea with his debt unpaid, and he did not much relish the thought of revisiting those shores in such a state – especially knowing full well who would be waiting for him there.
A very irritated someone, no doubt.
Finn let his arms drop to his sides, staring into the midnight blackness of the surrounding trees, as though he could make Rory appear before him by the sheer force of his will.
The sound of hoofbeats behind him, swift and soft against the dew-sodden grass, but he didn’t turn, continuing to gaze into the darkness and the shadows, hoping against hope to see her materialize from their depths, the wisps of that unnatural fog clinging to the loose strands of her hair, the faint gleam of ice along her fingers and her bare arms, the unsettling, preternatural signs of an éraic well paid.
“Finn.” Two pairs of boots thumped to the earth behind him, hurrying towards him. “Finn, what happened? Did it work?”
“Never mind that,” Dil snapped at Gareth, her voice sharp with worry. “Where’s Rory?”
“To answer both your questions,” Finn said without turning around. “No, Gareth, it did not, and I haven’t the faintest idea where Rory might be.”
They clustered around him, two anxious chicks huddling close to a grumpy mother-hen. “So they aren’t dead?” Gareth rubbed his hands together. “The general, or the witch?”
Finn shook his head, still scanning the horizon for any sign of her. “I don’t believe so.” He hesitated. “I conjured them alone, the ghosts. Rory’s power never joined mine.”
Dil grabbed his arm urgently. “Finn, we have to go back, we have to find Rory and make sure she’s all right –”
“If Rory is dead,” said Gareth, freckled face ash-white. “Then we’re all doomed, and éire is lost.”
Dil shoved his shoulder, “Rory is our friend, Gareth, and if she is dead, then we’ll hunt down whomever is responsible for it and kill them, or die trying, the rest of éire be damned.”
“Listen to you.” Gareth jerked away from her. “Do you even care, Dil, that our motherland has been raped and pillaged for seven long years now – seven years! – by these animals? Don’t you want to see justice done?”
Dil snorted. “My motherland has not done much for me, Gareth O’Ceallaigh, nor for you neither, save exile us, cast us out, for wrongs we committed when we were but children ourselves.
Rory is the family that we forged from the wreckage, not those who might share our blood.
I am only here because she asked it of me. ”
Finn closed his eyes and moved away from them, their bickering growing dim in his ears as he focused, humming under his breath as he reached out with the still-feeble tendrils of his song-magic, searching for any sign of Rory, any trace of that bitter, earthy scent of her on the wind.
They had never gotten along, these two ragtag thespian friends of Rory’s, not since he had first met them almost ten years ago now.
Finn had never harbored anything more than a mildly disdainful tolerance for any of them, except for Dil.
He’d always liked her – her fire and her fury and her way of speaking, so blunt yet so sharp, a warrior with her words as well as her weapons.
She reminded him of himself, when he was young, and still had hope for a better, kinder life than the one into which he had been born.
But it had been Rory to whom he had been drawn, wandering about yet another foreign land, friendless and without purpose. Rory, to whom he was bound by a vow so ancient and careworn he could barely remember making it.
His jaw flexed. “Focus,” he said to the two squabblers behind him. “Rory can take care of herself. I need to know how successful each of your missions has been.”
“It went well,” said Dil after a resentful pause.
“Mac Duinn still has hope for a free éire, despite the disaster of the last great battle. He sends word that he is ready whenever the word is given – provided he is given proof that he is not sending himself and his clans into another massacre like last time.”
“The king of Munster also pledges his support,” said Gareth. “Dermot ó Briain burns to see his father avenged, and his people chafe against the harshness of Albion rule. They are ready for rebellion, no matter how futile of a hope it may be.”
“Good.” Finn turned to face them – Dil’s glower and Gareth’s strained expression.
“Surely after your conversations with these kings, after witnessing the suffering brought upon their peoples whilst they stood by, helpless to protect them – surely you must both understand what our priority here is, and it is not the good of the individual.”
Dil’s fists clenched at her sides. “But without Rory –”
“Without Rory,” Finn interrupted, “it will be difficult indeed, our task of freeing our motherland – and it is still our motherland, no matter what wrongs or slights we feel we have suffered at the hands of our kin and countrymen, as all three of us have – but that is immaterial. It is immaterial,” he continued, voice deepening, “if we even succeed. What matters is that we try – that history knows that when the end of éire arrived on her shores with crossbows and sharp-edged swords, our enemies legion in number, their might only paralleled by their malice, we stood firm, and spilled our blood rather than bend our necks.” Gareth nodded shakily, and even Dil’s resentful dark eyes shimmered with something like begrudging emotion.
“I am far older than both of you,” Finn said, gentler than before.
“With my years comes the knowing that there are far worse fates to suffer than a good death. To live a life of shame is no life at all – only a drawn-out dying, bereft of rest or peace or joy.”
For a moment, there was only silence, save for the soft chirping of the larks in the trees – and then the early morning quiet was shattered by a curt laugh from behind them.
Finn whirled, hand on his sword, to see Locke MacMurchada – that insolent, impertinent whelp of a man – emerging from the tree line, Rory stumbling in front of him, his sword pressed tight against her throat.
“A goodly speech,” he said. “I’ve heard it before, though, and I know it for what it is – pretty words that have done nothing but lead starry-eyed boys and girls to a very ugly demise.”
“Rory,” said Finn, ignoring Locke, his gaze fixed on her expressionless face. Their eyes met, and his stomach tightened at what he saw in their depths – or rather, what he did not see.
No ancient presence lurking underneath a silver swirl, only a clear, cloudless gray, as gentle and calm as a late spring morn. A glimpse of the woman she might have been, had not the hand of some terrible and unknowable fate reached out and touched her in her cradle.
There was no trace of the Mórrígan in her eyes, no sign of that power that was meant to save them all – to save him.
He was dimly aware of Dil and Gareth shouting in the background, daggers drawn, yelling threats at the lord who continued to keep his blade pressed to Rory’s throat. Finn inhaled, slow and deep, then stepped forward. “Lord MacMurchada,” he said. “What a surprise to see you.”
“Oh, now it’s ‘Lord MacMurchada,’ is it? Funny how much more respectful you are now, Colin or whatever the hell your name is.”
“Finn will suffice for now.”
“Well, Finn,” said Locke, hazel eyes dark with contempt. “Perhaps you’d like to explain to these young pups of yours why you are counseling them to an early grave? Because to go up against the armies of Albion with nothing more than a couple of prayers to lost gods is nothing less than asinine.”
“Better,” said Finn, his gaze fixed steadily on Rory’s, “than to live long as a hollow shell of a man, and forever be denied the joys of Magh Meall.”
Locke smiled. “Do you know,” he said, “against all odds, we seem to find ourselves in agreement on that front.” Finn at last looked away from Rory, frowning at Locke, whose grin widened.
“Weren’t expecting that, were you now? But that is, believe it or not, why I am here.
” He nudged Rory another step forward, blade to her throat, other hand gripping her elbow.
“I have an offer for you,” he said. “But unfortunately, we don’t quite trust each other, do we?
So while we chat, the three of you and your very sharp blades will stay nice and still over there, on that side of the glen, and my lovely wife and I will stay here, with my sword to her throat, and that way none of us shall be tempted to do something stupid. ”
“I do not bargain with traitors.”
“You’ll bargain with this one,” said Locke, “or I’ll cut your shadow-queen’s throat right here, right now. She’s not quite as formidable as she usually is, don’t you know – not quite feeling herself as a moment. It would be very easy for me to do.”
“Go on then.” Finn folded his arms across his chest, ignoring Dil’s furious yelp of protest. “Do it. If she’s without her magic as you say, she’s useless to me and my cause.”
Locke hummed with appreciation even as Finn forced himself not to flinch at the way Rory’s face whitened.
“A good bluff,” he said. “But you and I both know that the rightful queen of Connacht, magicless or no, is still a formidable piece in your arsenal.” His brow arched.
“Besides, you can pretend all you like, but you care for her. I know you do.”
“He does,” said Rory, the pitch of her voice unnaturally low, so that, Finn knew, it was meant for him and him alone, the full weight of what she was about to say. “Care for me – but not as much as he cares for éire.”
Finn hesitated, his eyes gauging the distance between himself and Locke, the glinting edge of the knife hovering so close to Rory’s throat. Perhaps he could lunge, swift as the hare in the grass, silent as the salmon gliding through the currents –
“Don’t,” said Locke, and Finn flinched. “You might get me, but not before I slit her open like a doe in the forest.”
“Finn,” said Rory, and reluctantly, his gaze came back to meet hers, clearer than it had ever been before. “It’s all right.”
His heart shuddered in his chest, a cavernous crack of grief in his chest, a remembering of that weary-eyed woman he found in that dark cell, listless and sad – diminished, somehow, from the fiercely glowing ember of a girl he had first met all those years ago,.
“I’m no good to you,” she said softly, “without the nightmare.”
It was, he knew, as much of a request as it was permission.
Let me die, she had said, all those weeks ago, in the dank and foul-smelling gloom of an Albion prison cell. She had meant it too, had believed that it was a fitting and just end for her, the girl who had broken her vows and left her brother to die.
Perhaps it was, he thought – but not yet.
It went against every one of his finely-honed fighter’s instincts, a lifetime of warmongering and bloodletting, but Finn lowered his sword. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s parley.”