Faerie Fate Page 17

  “Ciaran MacDermot,” the messenger called out.

  “Aye,” Ciaran acknowledged.

  “An Rí Conchobhar O’Conor, King of Connaught commands your presence at the seat of his Court in Tuam. You are to attend him there before Lughnasadh.”

  “And why does the O’Conor command the MacDermot in such a way?” Riordan snapped, reminding the messenger that O’Conor got his power from the clanns.

  “To answer the charges made by Garbhan O’Flinn, an Taoiseac of sept O’Flinn regarding the taking of his daughter,” the man answered.

  “His daughter?” Ciaran snarled. “I dinnit take her. I refused the child over ten years ago.”

  The messenger shrugged. “Taoiseac MacDermot, the king commands your presence to answer the O’Flinn’s charges. Do you come of free will?”

  “Oh, aye, I come of free will to get to the bottom of O’Flinn’s deceit.”

  At that moment, Taidhg flung open the keep doors and marched in. Travel-worn, dirty, and weary, he’d all but killed his horse getting there. Seeing the king’s messenger, he knew he was too late. At least he could pass on his information. Ciaran would not be going to Tuam blind. He nodded his head in his clann chief’s direction. “A word, Taoiseac, when you have finished,” he said quietly as he passed the messenger.

  Ciaran tossed his head, pointing with his chin toward the room under the base of the stairs. Taidhg retired to it without a backward glance. With a wave of Niall’s hand, a serving girl scurried to heap food on a trencher, grab a full mug and follow the soldier.

  “I give you host this night,” Ciaran said, his voice coldly formal, “so your horse may rest. On the morn, you will return to Tuam.” With that, he dismissed both the king and his messenger by turning on his heel and striding across the hall to his den. Niall and Riordan followed closely, neither of them completely turning their backs on the messenger nor removing their fists from their sword hilts. The messenger got their unspoken message loud and clear.

  ****

  Becca knew the confines of her cell intimately and could now pace the room even in total darkness. The room held the rickety cot, a small wooden chest with a few threadbare gowns of the plainest material, the small bench by the hearth, and the bucket in the corner. Since the first night, her father had not reappeared. One or the other of her brothers came once a day with a bowl of thin gruel and a cup of water. She choked it down while whichever brother waited impatiently.

  Ciaran remained topmost in her thoughts. He’d be worried sick about her. She knew she was relatively safe, as long as the other Becca’s father didn’t reappear, but Ciaran had no clue to her whereabouts or condition.

  On the third day of her imprisonment at Ballinfaire, Darroch appeared early in the morning with a knife in his hand. If he meant to kill her, she wouldn’t go down without a fight. Becca wondered if the long-ago self-defense class would do any good now. The big lout grabbed her in a headlock. She fought, kicking, biting, and scratching, but the oaf just laughed at her feeble attempts. He cut a jagged hunk out of her hair, tossed her across the room like a sack of rags, and slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Now what the hell was that all about?” Becca rubbed the sort spot on her head.

  Ransom, a shadowy voice whispered in her head.

  “That would make sense.” She’d reverted to talking aloud to herself. “These slimeballs will try to get Ciaran to buy me back. Problem is, with that male ego of his, he’ll be just as likely to storm the castle walls and take me back by force.”

  That thought warmed her all over. That a man cared enough to wage a war over her was a heady sensation. Then her twenty-first century sensibilities kicked in. Men would die—maybe even Taidhg, or Riordan, or Niall, or God forbid, Ciaran himself.

  “If yee’d but let me love yee, cailín,” Ciaran’s voice whispered in her memory.

  Becca realized she’d loved him from the first time she’d opened her eyes in this strange time, and her heart had recognized his, just as his had sought hers.

  “Someday,” she promised them both. “We will be together to love each other.”

  ****

  Ciaran, Niall, and Riordan all stared at Taidhg, aghast at what he’d just related to them.

  “How could a man want to kill his own child?” Niall asked, stunned by the revelation.

  “But how did she get from Ballinfaire to Ailfenn?” Riordan added, ever the logistician. “And why Ailfenn?”

  “I refused O’Flinn ten years ago,” Ciaran said with a heavy heart. “The child was just that—a child. Scrawny, frightened. Blue eyes too big for her face, with all that scraggly hair she hid behind. She was completely cowed by her father and brothers.” He shook his head sadly. “If I’d only known,” he whispered. “I could have fostered the cailín until she grew up to be my Becca.”

  Niall cleared his throat. “’Twouldn’t have happened, Ciaran,” he interrupted. Ciaran’s eyes were almost black with suppressed rage, but Niall stayed his retort with a gesture. “Your Becca and his Becca are not the same.”

  Mistaking Niall’s meaning, Riordan spat out, “What game does O’Flinn play? Thinks he to substitute one for the other?”

  Niall shook his head. “He plays his own most likely, but he dances with a devil far more vengeful than even the MacDermots.” A shudder ran through him as the other three men stared. “Your Becca once ’twas his,” Niall began to explain. “Many lives ago.”

  “What mean you by this?” Ciaran demanded in a quiet voice sheathed in steel.

  “You yourself once thought she might be fae,” Niall reminded him. “And have told me so on more than one occasion. Siobhan and the Druid claim the fae returned her to this life.”

  Ciaran’s eyes narrowed. “Explain!” He growled, anger swirling like bright sparks in the sapphire depths of his eyes.

  Niall shrugged, remaining silent for a long time as he searched for the right words. He finally took a deep breath and said, “She is not from this when, Ciaran. She’s from a time far distant in the future. She is your true mate, as promised by Finvarra to the first MacDermot, and the faerie returned her to you.”

  Ciaran was speechless, caught between thinking his captain of the guard had gone insane and wondering if he had the right of it after all. He glanced at Taidhg, who nodded at him. Riordan remained unconvinced and shook his head in disagreement.

  “The words she spoke, Ciaran,” Niall prompted the younger man. “And the ones that still roll off her tongue upon occasion. The way she rides, the way she fights.” Niall grinned, remembering the sight of her. “Even the way she wears her trews. ’Tis all strange, Ciaran. What cailín would behave as she has? Even her pain, Ciaran,” he reminded them all. “Odhran said it was from the two parts of her soul joining together.”

  “How did this come to be?” Ciaran whispered so softly the others had to lean forward to hear him.

  “Because the O’Flinn killed his own daughter, Taoiseac,” Siobhan replied from the shadows near the door, her voice just as sure as it was soft. “Becca’s soul was too young when you first met, so she didn’t recognize you, nor did you recognize her. When her life ended without the binding from you, all was lost. Both your souls were doomed to wander. In all your lives to come, you would not be findin’ each other ever again.

  “The Faerie made a covenant with the first MacDermot back in the dawning of time. Once each generation, a warrior ’twould be born. A man to follow in the ways of the legendary Fenian Warriors themselves. ’Twasn’t necessarily father to son, but within Clann MacDermot, a Fenian would come. And then Queen Onagh made her own pact with the MacDermot Knot.

  “The warrior was promised a bride, to have and to hold for his lifetime and the next and each thereafter, until the end of time. With the Knot and the binding oath their hearts would be made one. A love beginning, a love without an end, until the end of time.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three days. Three days before someone besides one of her brothers came to t
he door. Three days before Becca got her chance to escape. Three days closer to Lughnasadh. That word, that date, burned in her mind. But for her life, Becca didn’t know why it was important. She just knew she had to reach Ciaran before midnight on the first day of August, and the worst part was she wasn’t sure what today’s date was.

  Becca tensed as the crossbar grated across the door. She had the bucket ready. When a burly guard stuck his head in, she flung the contents on him. He gasped in shock, and she bashed him over the head with the empty bucket with all the energy she had. Short rations had left her weak. Even so, the man sank to his knees as if he’d been pole-axed.

  “Sorry. Nothing personal.” Becca checked his pulse to make sure she hadn’t killed him. She snatched his dirk from his belt.

  She slipped out of the room and peered down the hallway. Midday, but no one stirred. Even the great hall was silent. Becca ran on tiptoes toward the stairway. Just before she reached it, a door suddenly opened on her right, and she came face-to-face with a little maid.

  “Oh,” the girl squealed softly.

  Becca held a warning finger up to lips. “Shhh,” she whispered. The girl nodded. “Will you help me?” The girl nodded again. “Go back in that room and shut the door. You’ve seen nothing, heard nothing. They won’t hurt you that way.” The girl gulped, but did what Becca asked.

  On silent feet, Becca fled down the stairs. The gods, it seemed, were with her. No one was about the great hall, almost as if a spell had been cast keeping humans out of her way. It took all of her waning strength to open one of the massive doors at the end of the hall. No guards waited outside. Spying what she thought would be the stables, Becca took off at a stop-and-go scurry, keeping close to the wall and whatever cover she could find. At the door to the stables, she heard Arien squeal in pain. Her eyes narrowed to slits, and her mouth twisted into a grim line.

  Luthais clinched a rope tightly in his ham-hock sized hands. Arien, on the other end of the rope, fought the big man. Without thought or plan, Becca slipped up behind her so-called brother.

  “If you touch him again, I will kill you,” she snarled.

  Luthais whirled, dropping the rope in surprise. “How? Where? How did yee get free?” he stammered. He raised a fist to strike her. The next thing he knew, a very sharp dirk poked him in the groin.

  “Hit me again, dear brother, and you’ll be eating a different kind of sausage for dinner.” She sneered at him, her smile belying the cold promise in her eyes.

  Luthais shook his head, bewildered. “What happened to you, Becca? You used to be such a biddable little thing.”

  “I used to be such a victim, you mean,” she spat at him. “I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes since you last saw me, brother. A hundred lifetimes filled with pain the likes you couldn’t imagine. I am biddable no more, brother mine. You will return me to the MacDermot, and you will do it now.”

  Luthais shook his head. “Da would kill me,” he whispered.

  “Maybe,” Becca replied, “but know this, the MacDermot will kill you for sure if you don’t.” She pressed the dirk further into his fat belly, pleased when the big oaf groaned. “Where is our dear Da?” she asked, saccharine dripping from her voice.

  “He and Darroch rode for Tuam,” Luthais answered quickly as she prodded him with the dirk again. “He goes to King Conchobhar to deal with the MacDermot for you.”

  “I will not be bartered over like a horse,” Becca spat at him. She backed away, the dirk still at the ready, and snagged the rope holding Arien with her free hand. “Where’s my saddle?” she asked without taking her eyes off her brother.

  “Da uses it now,” he murmured.

  Becca led Arien out of the shed by the rope around his neck. She’d ride bareback style if she had to. Becca took just long enough to fashion a halter out of the rope before grabbing a fistful of mane and swinging up on the powerful horse. “I ride for Tuam,” she told him. “If you value your life, you will not follow.”

  Luthais swallowed around the lump of fear in his throat. “Nay, I’ll not follow, Becca.” He spat on the floor. “You and your MacDermot be damned.”

  “Been there, done that.” Becca grinned at him coldly. “And got the T-shirt,” she added under her breath.

  She wheeled Arien and headed for the courtyard. As they came around the corner, she almost ran down the little maid she’d seen in the castle. Reining Arien, Becca looked surprised to see the girl. The little maid quickly handed her a cloth bundle and a waterskin.

  “You’ll be needin’ food an’ water.”

  Becca smiled her thanks. “If nothing keeps you here, child, run. Run hard and fast for Ailfenn. When you get there, ask for Siobhan at the castle. Tell her I sent you. She will find a place for you.” The little maid nodded. Becca reined Arien’s head toward the gate. She hesitated, and then turned back to the maid. “The date,” she called. “What day is it?”

  The girl looked confused for a minute. “Why, ’tis almost Lughnassdh,” the girl answered. “The festival starts in two days time.”

  Becca groaned. She had two days and two nights to get to Tuam. Becca put her heels to Arien and headed for the gate at a dead run. She didn’t slow him until they were well beyond the village and headed south on the road to Tuam. With no sign of pursuit, she finally pulled him to a walk.

  Throughout the night, Becca pushed Arien hard, alternating between a fast walk and a gallop. If she didn’t get to Ciaran before midnight on the first of August, something really bad was going to happen. She couldn’t fathom what, but she knew she didn’t want to find out. Just before dawn, she found a grove of trees back off the roadway. The sound of gurgling water bade welcome to both she and her weary horse. Becca slid off him and led him to the stream. As Arien drank his fill, Becca tried to ease sore muscles. Every inch of her body ached. She felt older than she ever had in this lifetime.

  Becca turned Arien loose to graze, and she opened the bundle the maid gave her. She found a loaf of crusty bread and half a round of cheese inside. She ate sparingly and sipped from the water skin. After checking on Arien, she wrapped up in the thin blanket she’d brought from her cell at Ballinfaire and tried to sleep.

  “I’m coming, Ciaran,” she promised to the night.

  ****

  “The change begins,” the female said sadly.

  “She’ll get there in time,” the male replied, supremely confident.

  “Midnight tomorrow,” the second male threatened darkly.

  The first male and his mate stared at each other. They had done what they could, but their hands were tied now. The Child of the Mortals would have to find her own way to the Fenian Warrior.

  ****

  Becca awoke stiff and sore. She glanced up to gauge the time by the sun’s position. It was just past midmorning. Her body protested as she stood up, and a shooting star of pain danced from her hip to her ankle. “No,” she whispered. Becca stumbled over to the stream and looked in. Her face was older, lines etching her forehead and around her mouth. “NO!” she screamed to the heavens.

  She had to find a fallen log to climb up on so she could mount Arien. Back on the road, she urged him into a canter. Each step the horse took pounded her spine and head. “I will get there,” she vowed.

  ****

  Ciaran, flanked by Niall and Riordan, and followed by Taidhg and a company of horse, thundered through the streets of Tuam headed to Caisel Tuam. Their horses were covered in lather, and the face of every man showed grim determination. They would get Becca back or there would be hell to pay. In the courtyard before the doors to the great hall, the group reined in their horses. With swords already drawn, they took the unwary O’Conor guards by surprise. Ciaran, Niall, Riordan, and a handful of men, pushed their way through the doors and faced the Chair of Tuam, the throne of Conchobhar O’Conor.

  “Where is she?” he spat at Garbhan O’Flinn, completely ignoring the king.

  “What right have you to ask?” Garbhan sneered back. “You took her, and turne
d her against me.”

  “Nay,” Ciaran denied. “I found her beaten and left to die, by whose hand I can surmise,” he growled back. “She is mine, and I will have her.”

  Conchobhar stared from one man to the other. That the fierce young woman he’d seen in the MacDermot camp a scarce month ago had come from the loins of Garbhan O’Flinn was highly unlikely. He remembered the O’Flinn’s daughter as a browbeaten, shy little thing, not at all like the Celtic banríon who’d stared him down the day of the battle against the O’Briens. He’d had no doubt she was a MacDonagh, as Niall’s line had produced many fine soldiers. The king glanced from O’Flinn to Ciaran. There was more here than first met the eye. He knew instinctively Ciaran’s feeling for this woman ran so deep he would risk clann war for her.

  “Where is the cailín?” Conchobhar asked O’Flinn.

  “Safe within my keep,” O’Flinn barked.

  “Safe?” Ciaran growled. “How do I know you have her?”

  O’Flinn gestured to his son. Darroch approached, pulling something from the pouch on his belt—a long, silken strand of gold hair laced with silver. Ciaran flinched.

  “She’ll not be safe from you until she is by my side once again,” he snarled, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

  O’Flinn reached for his sword, but before his hand even touch the hilt, Ciaran had him by the front of his shirt, a dirk pressed to his throat.

  “If there is a mark anywhere on her fair skin, if there be so much as another hair out of place on her precious head,” Ciaran vowed in a voice as cold and as relentless as death, “you will die a long, slow death, Garbhan O’Flinn. I promise you this on the souls of all my ancestors and all my progeny to come.”

  No man dared draw a breath inside the hall. Ciaran’s blue eyes were as dark as a moonless midnight. His handsome face could have been carved from granite, and as the fire in the hearth flickered across his countenance, none there believed the devil himself could have bested the warrior.