Chapter 41
Chapter forty-one
RORY
The armies of Ulaid, draped in scarlet-red with their sharp-hewn spears, arrived first, nearly a month to the day that Rory reunited with Finn at the tower of Ceanannas.
Rory was waiting to greet them, Locke on her left and Finn and Failinis on her right, dressed in the finest gown that Dil had been able to create with her needle and thread.
Dil had fussed over her for far too long for Rory’s liking, arranging the folds of the cream-colored gown just so, teasing her crimson hair into a braided coronet around her head.
“They’ll not be caring if I’m a pretty queen,” she’d said as Dil fussed with the bodice of her gown. “Only if I’m a powerful one.”
“And there’s not a reason living why you can’t be both, don’t you know,” said Dil. She wrapped her arms tight around Rory’s shoulders, a fierce embrace. “You look lovely,” Dil whispered. “Lovely as a dream.”
“A nightmare,” corrected Rory. “I’m the tale they tell their truant children, the howling in the wind on stormy winter nights.”
Dil pulled back, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Rory’s ear. “You’re our salvation,” she said. “Our hope.”
She’d given Rory a quick kiss on the cheek and then disappeared, leaving Rory standing alone, staring at her blurred reflection in the rain-kissed window, her features distorted and dark, an unnerving contrast to the soft cream linen and bright gold thread of the gown.
The rain had subsided to a gentle mist by the time the first crest of Mac Duinn broke through the trees.
His soldiers arrived, marching in long, well-ordered lines, and in the midst of them, the king himself, clad in scarlet and black, the deep battle-scars rippling across his eye, his cheeks, ominous souvenirs of what he had endured – and would soon again.
He did not waste time in reminding her of that as soon as he dismounted, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, landing on the ground with a thud as he looked her over from head to toe. “Now that hound of yours looks like a killer,” he said without preamble. “But you don’t.”
“I could give you a demonstration,” Rory said calmly. “If you like, point to which of your men you least love, and I shall be more than happy to oblige you.” She smiled, thin and ruthless. “Failinis would no doubt happily take care of whatever remains I leave behind.”
His scarred lips twitched. “No need for that,” Mac Duinn said, stretching out his battle-scarred hand. “I have often found that the most fearful things in life appear innocent enough – at least at first.”
Rory placed her hand in his, watching as he registered the unnatural iciness of her skin as he raised her knuckles to his lips. “You are wise, mo rí.”
“Och, you flatter me. I know well enough that I am no king of yours, Rory ó Conchúir.” He surveyed her one last time, then met her gaze with unmistakable satisfaction. “You have the look of him,” he said. “Your brother.”
“Hardly,” she said as steadily as she could. “We could not be less like.”
“Perhaps not on the surface,” Mac Duinn, swiveling to reach over the side of his gray-dappled stallion. “But it’s there, that same spirit, if one looks close enough.” He faced her again, and Rory’s heart seized hard in her chest at the sight of the sword in his hands.
She knew that sword.
“It was found after the battle,” said Mac Duinn, holding the silver blade aloft, the sunlight winking off its sharp lines.
“I was wounded near to death, and would surely have died had not my cousin stumbled upon me as I lay bleeding. We escaped with nothing but our lives, me strapped to the back of him like a ragdoll as he rode as though hell itself chased at his heels. But he still had sense enough to bring with him the sword that the king of Connacht wielded until his last breath.” He paused, carefully avoiding Rory’s gaze, and through the whirling storm of emotions churning through her, she felt a throb of gratitude, for surely her anguish was etched on her every feature.
“He was a great man,” said Mac Duinn, “a great king. He died as he lived – with honor.” He held out the sword to Rory, who stared down at it, unable to take it in her hands.
“My men whisper of it even now, how he still clutched his blade tight in his hand, long after he had fallen, as the heroes of old – like Cuchulainn himself, the most god-blessed of warriors. Even in death,” said Mac Duinn, “he has given us hope.” He bent his head low. “Long may his memory live.”
Dimly, she felt the reassuring pressure of Locke’s hand against the small of her back, and she inhaled a shallow breath. “Long may it live,” she whispered, and wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her brother’s sword.
It fit, she thought, as she raised it in the air, the silver of its blade an almost-twin to the fragmented flash of her own gray eyes she saw reflected in its polished sheen, as well as her gloves of ice fitted over her fingers.
As two eyases born from the same egg – as his hand once had, clasped tight in her own.
“It suits you,” Locke murmured in her ear, a mirror to her own thoughts, and one of the fissures in the hollow, broken place where her heart once had been, somehow – impossibly, improbably – healed.
It wasn’t until later that evening that, thanks to that very same sword, Rory had her epiphany.
Mac Duinn and his armies had settled in for the time being while they awaited the arrival of the rest of their reinforcements – Gareth had sent word that Munster’s forces were a few days’ march away, with the few clans of Bréifne and Meath and Osraige who had agreed to join them to follow soon after.
No word, yet, from any clans of Leinster, and Rory knew that it rankled with Locke, the silence from the realm he’d once thought to rule.
“We’ll be outnumbered,” said Finn, leaning over the vast array of parchments and maps strewn across the table in the council room of the tower. “Which is hardly a revelation –”
“I would like to point out that I warned you of that fact,” Locke interjected, taking a sip of wine as he sat sprawled in the chair. “Several times, I believe, and was promptly told to – and I quote – ‘shut it’.”
Finn ignored him. “But we will have the advantage,” he continued, pointing to the map of Tara. “If we position Munster and Bréifne, and possibly Meath here, to stem the tide from the northwest, then we might –”
“The ó Briain boy will never agree to it.” Locke sat forward, his goblet dangling between his fingers as a vacant expression crept into his eyes.
Remembering, Rory realized. He was remembering that first battle, so long ago – the carnage, the devastation.
She shivered as he continued, hazel eyes dark and vague.
“A young king he may be, but he will not have forgotten – he will not have been allowed to forget – that Munster bore the brunt of Albion’s army in the battle that claimed his father’s life.
He will not agree to allow his men to be placed in such a dangerous position. ”
“He won’t have a choice,” Finn said. “Munster has the superior cavalry, the finest horsemen in all of éire.”
“Not all of éire.” Locke’s smile was sharp and lethal as a knife in the dark. “Or have you forgotten that Leinster is known for its breeding of the most magnificent horses ever to grace our shores?”
“Leinster,” said Rory as gently as she could, “is not here.”
Locke shot her a wry look. “Still,” he said. “I stand by my claim. Nothing beats a Leinster-born on the back of a horse.”
“Except perhaps a Connachta warrior with a sword in his hand,” Rory said. “Or her hand,” as her gaze drifted over to the shining silver sword that lay across her makeshift bed of furs and linens in the far corner of the room.
Finn made a wordless noise of approval. “It’s a fine blade,” he said. “You’ll be as one of the warrior-queens of Connacht of old, wielding that – as fierce as Medb herself.”
Rory smiled, but only for a moment before it faded away, an uneasy realization settling over her. “Connacht,” she said quietly, and Locke straightened, brow furrowing at her tone.
“What’s wrong?”
She rubbed her palms together fretfully. “I’m remembering what Aoife said – that she wished to feed my heart to Meiche. She said it was the only way to awaken him, by feeding my heart to him. If it happens, then all will be lost.”
“This is hardly a revelation,” said Locke dryly. “I, personally, have always ranked ‘do not let anyone eat Rory’s heart’ fairly high on my mental list of survival tactics.”
“Shut it,” said Rory. “Because I’ve realized something – I’m not her sole option.” She twisted her fingers together. “The young king of Connacht – he’s also an ó Flannangáin, is he not? Bastard-born, just like me.”
“Eóin.” Locke frowned. “Oisín’s – damn it, Finn, you’ve ruined my favorite curse, why couldn’t you have had a beard–”
“I don’t like the feel of hair on my face. I’m a man, not a beast.”
“So you say.” Locke leaned forward, fingers tapping against his knee.
“Rory is, as always, correct. If Aoife gets ahold of the Connachta king,” Locke continued, fingers tapping against his wine goblet, “then that would do it for her as well. He’s your half-brother, my lady, your father’s child – and that’s all she needs. He would share Niall’s bloodline.”
“And we’ll have brought him right to her.
” Rory began to pace restlessly, back and forth.
“Ironstring has not been successful in his attempts to invade Connacht, but I suppose she was willing to wait – she knew I would one day return, no doubt, and it makes sense that she would prefer it to be me. She hates me so, but now –” Rory shivered.
“Now that I have eluded her so many times, now that I have this strength that she knows she cannot withstand, she will not be foolish enough to keep trying for me all for the sake of her pride. She will hunt Eóin – hunt him, kill him, and take his heart.”