Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Cnoc na Teamhrach, éire
LOCKE
It was the worst kind of torture, Locke thought, to stand here and survey the long, long line of pitched tents and bright multi-colored banners fluttering in the warm summer breeze.
It should be a hopeful sight – the armies of éire gathered together, united against a common enemy, their rivalries and grievances and in-fighting set aside in favor of living and dying as one, the fate of all to be decided in a few days’ time.
But all he could do was remember an identical scene, seven years ago on this very spot, and the horror and the blood and the despair that followed – that even now played out, again and again, in both his dreaming and waking hours.
It would be different this time though, he assured himself, his gaze wandering to where Rory moved about the tents, Finn at her side, Dil and Gareth and the hellhound trotting along behind her, and her brother’s sword strapped across her back for all to see.
He saw the way that they looked at her, every last one of them – kings and peasants, farmers and soldiers alike – the wonder, the respect, and yes, the disquiet and the dread.
Not that he begrudged them their fear. Quite the opposite.
He felt much better, knowing that the mere sight of his wife was enough to bring the most stalwart of warriors to their knees – not for the sake of his own safety, but for her own.
Locke knew well enough that Rory could see to her own care far more effectively than he ever could.
She was the true threat, walking amongst the men and women of éire who eyed her with such uneasiness, and yet still – it gave him some peace, seeing how they kept a respectful, apprehensive distance from her, despite her welcoming, albeit a bit cool, smile and outstretched hands.
Although there was one battalion with whom she had not yet met – the most recent additions to their force, and it was not much of a stretch to see why she was delaying that meeting.
Eóin ó Flannagáin looked nothing like his half-brother, yet remarkably like, at the same time.
Dark hair and gray eyes, tall and well-muscled – in that he certainly differed from his doomed predecessor, Locke thought to himself as he watched him stride amongst his men, clad all in black-and-bronze, two twin blades crisscrossing his back.
Every inch of him a king, despite his bastard-born lineage.
Not like poor Niall, as Locke remembered him at least – a straw-haired, scrawny scrap of a lad, despite his relatively mature years of five-and-twenty, especially considering Eóin was no more than a boy of nineteen himself.
So physically, no, there were little likenesses to be found – but nevertheless it was there, in the way that Eóin walked and spoke with all the indefatigable optimism and faith that only the young can know, the quality that bound them together, these two boy-kings of Connacht.
Rory would see it too, no doubt, and it would pain her, knowing that the hope that blazed so bright in this lad once burned in her brother too, and was now lost.
Not for the first time, Locke closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to whatever deities still lingered in their world and who might have a care enough to listen, that this boy-king would know a different fate than the last, that they all might – that Rory would indeed do what she had been born to do, become the inextinguishable light that the goddess of fate, her ancestor, must have always intended her to be.
His musing was cut short when he saw Rory approaching with her hellhound at her side, while Finn trailed a few steps behind her.
It warmed him a bit, seeing how the bárd had unexpectedly stepped aside in deference to his and Rory’s newfound bond.
Six months, Locke realized with a start.
That was all that remained of their hand-fasting, all the time that was left to them – assuming they survived the next few days.
He wondered if she ever thought about it, what the future might hold for them. Had she ever probed and pawed through her shadows to see what fate might await them, if they so chose?
He dismissed the thought as Rory drew near, her expression grim, Failinis flopping down onto the sun-warmed grass at their feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Ironstring has asked for a parley,” she said without preamble. “In two hours’ time, at sunset, at Dumha na nGiall.”
Locke’s answering laugh was short and bitter. “He wants a meeting at the Mound of Hostages – a mass grave? This bodes well.”
“Locke,” she said quietly, and the sudden tightness in his chest eased somewhat at the understanding, the compassion he saw glimmering in her dark silver eyes.
“We will not be going inside – far too dangerous, Finn says, to risk entrapping ourselves underground like that, and I agree – but I will not judge you should you choose not to accompany me to that place.”
To escape the memories it would evoke, her expression seemed to say. To spare yourself pain.
He blew out a breath, suddenly very aware of the pounding of his heart, the sweat trickling down the back of his neck. “It’s true that I never wish to know the darkness of a tomb ever again.”
“You will not,” she said, a hint of fierceness creeping into her otherwise emotionless voice.
“I swear it, Locke.” Her fingers found their way into his, the unnatural coolness of them strangely soothing.
“Finn will be with me, as well as Failinis –” the hound pricked an ear at the sound of his name “– and the other kings. You need not come. It’s all right. ”
“And yet,” he said, “I am all that is left of the Leinster-kings. It is my duty to go, to wear the Leinster green proud and unbroken to the end. Besides,” he continued, as she opened her mouth to object, “what kind of sorry husband would I be, my lady, to let you go alone to face down our foes?”
“I would not be alone,” she reminded him with a tight smile. “And neither would you.” She squeezed his hand once before pulling hers free. “Have you not yet seen the most recent arrivals to our camp, Lord Locke – our newest allies?” She beckoned, urging him to turn.
Locke pivoted to the left – and let out a cry of disbelief, of pure delight.
There in the distance, against the cloud-heavy sky, the emerald green banner of Leinster flew, followed by a long, curving line of gray and black and roan-colored horses, each carrying a soldier, spears and shields in hand, and there at the front, two familiar figures.
He was running, sprinting to meet them, and at the sight of them, they spurred their horses forward, galloping full speed, waving wildly.
Locke shuddered to a halt as Tadhg reached him first, reining his steed in so fiercely that it reared back on its hindlegs, hooves pawing at the air as he flung himself from the saddle.
“My lord,” Tadhg began, and then grunted as Locke threw his arms around him in a tight, breath-stealing hug.
“Thank the gods,” Locke said, eyes burning with tears of relief, of joy. “I was so afraid –”
“We thought you were dead –” Tadhg said at the same moment, and they both laughed, shaky with emotion, before breaking apart to greet Eamon, who leaped from his mare far more gracefully than Tadhg had.
“Do you have any idea,’ Eamon said, pointing a furious finger in Locke’s direction, “how many years you shaved off my life, disappearing into the night like that, without a word of farewell, then or since? I have half a mind to give you a thrashing the likes of which éire has never before seen.”
Locke grinned, then threw an arm around Eamon’s broad shoulders, pulling him in close. “I have half a mind to let you,” he said, “if only because I’m so relieved to see your ugly face still breathing.”
“As if could stop me,” Eamon grumbled, then clapped Locke on the back. “It’s good to see you, my lord.”
“Oh, shut it.” Locke placed a hand on each of their shoulders, grinning back and forth between them. “Look at the two of you – a sight for sore eyes, if there ever was one.”
“I think the sight of the five hundred cavalry behind us is a far more welcome one.” Tadhg jerked his chin towards the line of horsemen making their way towards the encampment. “At least, that’s what we heard from your wife and her bárd over there.”
Locke glanced back to where Rory still stood behind them, Finn at her side. “Rory wrote to you?”
“Sent that kestrel of hers,” Tadhg said with a wave in her direction.
To Locke’s everlasting shock, Rory lifted a hand and waved back.
“Said that you were in need of us.” He shrugged.
“Wasn’t much else to say but that. We slipped away under cover of night from Ironstring’s camp with as many men as we could trust to keep it quiet, and then picked up the rest along the way – whatever village or clan we passed, we begged for soldiers to join us, to come to the aid of their rightful king and of éire, and – well. You see how many of them remain loyal.”
Underneath Eamon’s thick beard, a broad smile emerged. “We’re with you, Locke,” he said. “We always have been, until the end.”
He nodded, his heart light despite the lump in his throat.
“There’s a parley requested,” he managed to say.
“With Ironstring, and Aoife no doubt. They’ve asked for all the kings of the provinces to attend along with Rory, and I –” He drew in a deep breath.
“I intend to go, as the representative of Leinster.”
“As you should.” Tadhg’s dark eyes blazed. “As you are – mo rí.”
“Should we kneel?” Eamon asked. “Feels like we should kneel.”
“If he had a ring,” Tadhg said, “we could kiss it. But alas, he does not.”
“You can kiss my arse instead,” said Locke. “We all know that Rory’s father deposed mine. To claim the kingship of Leinster now could imperil any negotiated truce between the provinces.”