"Y'all should've just answered me," Kiah gasped. "It ain't like I don't know you and your pussy brother been up that mountain, fuckin' the Mackintosh's little whore. Jealousy makes a girl talk, and you got plenty of chatty bitches under your belt."
"I ain't been fuckin' no one," Jacob argued honestly, teeth clenched against the pain of simple speech; his eyeballs, both, felt squeezed in a slowly tightening vice. "Especially not her."
"Oh, yeah, she's still heartbroken; right," sneered Kiah, a malefic gleam in his wolfish eyes.
Jacob shuddered, a sensation of icy fingers slithering up his spine. How the man could know that, he'd no idea. Ailill had not even said as much to them.
"Y'all know she's here for you, dont'cha? No? Oh, well of course none of 'em are gonna say it so plain," the beast went on more to himself, ignoring the look of disbelief on the younger man's bloodied face. "One thing, Jacob. You could always count on me to give it to ya straight. And, the straight of it is this: you'll get the little whore, all the beddin' you could wish for; you'll be given all that your poor heart ever desired. Hell, more! As long as you pledge your allegiance to that necromantic enchantress; just as long as y'all make her belly swell with the get of their own, of ageless demons, made to grow into human form by your own pure seed. But you better do it, boy, I warn ya. Otherwise, that manly cock you're so proud of will be gone before you can spit, your balls along with it."
Silence was surely the right thing to maintain; it had to be. Kiah peered into eyes already swelled to slits, expecting Jacob to deny all he said, to spit insults and fight for the girl whom he'd known only a few months. The man wanted Jacob to fight back, to make it worth his while; wanted to torture him with painful jabs, small wounds, each one bigger than the next; Kiah wanted to watch him die slowly, to hear him beg for mercy; mercy for he andhis twin. He'd done it before, but not as often as Micah, who took the punishment that his twin had rightfully deserved so many times that Jacob had lost count. Adopting his brother's stoic demeanor, Jacob squared his shoulders, ignoring the pain of ribs cracked under the brutal blows of steel-toed boots as he straightened, stood, blue eyes level with the eyes of the man that he'd always called father.
"You, Sir," he stated formally, as clearly as he was able, "are a lying bastard. You may as well kill me now, get it over with once and for all." Pausing momentarily, seemingly deep in thought to look at him, Jacob opened a door only he knew of, a mental link. A look of ferocity, of absolute triumph showed so clearly through the blood, through the purple swellings of his face that Kiah took an involuntary step back.
"And while you are killing me, as you've always wanted but never quite accomplished, my brother will be making love to the beautiful girl you call an ageless demon. Because of that alone, we shall both die happy men."
It took but an instant for the words to sink in, to drive the blackheart mad with long buried rage.
Through a mouthful of bloody saliva, Jacob smiled beatifically. He did not fight back.
"Well, I had been to battle," Ailill explained, eyes closed briefly as she remembered the warriors she had mourned. The man had a knack for posing the most uncomfortable questions. Why were you blue as a corpse, he'd said. And what an odd description, too, mused.
"And you paint yourselves before a fight?" Micah's look said he thought she was pulling his leg. He moved, fidgeting restlessly yet again. He seemed ill at ease, but controlled the troubles of his mind extremely well.
"Aye, Micah. That is how it has been done for millennia," she answered, completely serious. "Naked as a new bairn, we tint our bodies with woad, paint symbols upon it in blackest ash."
"The way you were for the bonfire, ain't that right?" At her pensive nod, Micah asked, "what do the symbols mean?"
"Och... different things, really. Who we are- from what tribe our blood flows, which clan or clans we're born into, our rank in each and as a warrior. 'Tis a way to identify the dead, if the need arises. You've heard o' dogtags, aye? Well it is very much the same."
"Dogtags, huh?" It was hard not to smile at Ailill's remark. "But, if y'all grow up together, train together, then y'all likely know each other so well as you knew the nine men who died that day, so why the extra effort for identification?" In surprise, she stared at him. His point was more than just valid, it was absolutely correct.
"More than half our clan-members are brought up to be braw warriors, Micah, trained until they are nearly perfect in the art of war. Such training takes time, and aye, much effort from a great many skilled people. It would be an insult to all if a lad or lass couldn't be identified after the battle." She'd not meant to sound so harsh, but her feelings had come through with the clarity of an ice crystal; Micah eyed her with perplexity.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be cold. You couldn't know our ways, no matter what." Taking his hand in hers, Ailill grimaced at the disquiet she could feel as a tremor running hard and fast beneath the surface of his work-worn palm. "All I meant," she said softly, "is that our own are trained notto be killed; it is fair devastating when they happen to be taken. A warrior of our making cannot just die of simple wounds, Micah. They must be decapitated, or their bodies sliced in two with a sharp blade, drawn and quartered with a broadsword. The symbols make it easier, to identify the... mphmm, the remains." She looked away, jaw clenched into a tight square below her high viking cheekbones.
"Draw them for me," Micah suddenly ordered, his gaze sweeping over the room for pen and paper. Her room was as spare as a jail cell; she obviously did not plan to stay long.
"Draw what? A few symbols?"
"Only yours. Got a piece of paper?"
"No. I don't need paper." Reaching in a drawer near the bed, she pulled out a pot of what looked like gunpowder, and a small leather-bound book. "Which did you want to see, then?"
Uncertain, he shrugged. "Your clan?" Her bittersweet smile made him feel awkward, too exposed though they'd both dressed awhile ago, after another shower together. The hottest shower he'd ever endured; only her kisses had been hotter.
"Which clan?"
"Which... uh, I dunno. How many do you have?"
"So many... you'd be shocked, Micah." At his openly curious gaze, she sighed, almost heavily. "I hail from all the clans of Scotland and Ireland combined," Ailill stated with sobering gravity. "I am made of a bit of them all, and more. I will draw you the symbol o' my own clan, the First Tribe. The Everlasting branch have given it to me."
With deft fingers, quick strokes, Ailill painted in a small notepad, eyes narrowed as she ran a fine tipped brush over the creamy paper. Micah watched her hand move with the ease of a true artist, wished he could quell the gnawing sense that something was terribly wrong. He assumed the feelings were caused by relating many particulars of his unhappy childhood to the woman; they had started about that time. He had held nothing back, except the more humiliating circumstances. Half of him wished to just bare all and be done with it, but he did not want Ailill to pity him; he wanted her to simply love him.
"There. 'Tis my very own blazonry."
It was beautiful; perfect; whoever had come up with Ailill's personal crest had known her very well. A shape that could have been a blossoming rose, or a blazing fire, depending on how one looked at it, set the background in vivid detail. An exquisitely detailed sword cut through the very heart of the fiery bloom, the blade etched in a whisper of loops and whorls; fingerprints. Inside the flames, a hint of handsome beasts. Lions, rampant, one on each side of the blade; another just behind, facing forward with fangs bared; all three perpetually consumed by the flames. There seemed to be a shape to the whole thing, almost a circle, almost an hourglass tipped horizontal; a neverending thing, timeless. It took a long while to notice the finely drawn details, so many yet so few. The flames seemed to speak, to draw shapes, images. One moment it looked as innocent as a rose, the next it flared up, and even still, there was a sense of mountains, of rolling hills; of space eternal, unforgiving, a ship in the distance.
Smiling with g
reat pleasure, with admiration for the beauty of the crest, as well for the woman's seemingly endless abilities, Micah looked up, met her eyes with all that and more showing in his own.
"Nay, not all are as detailed as this," she answered before he'd even formed the words in his mind. "Some are very plain, even. You like it then?"
"Yes. It's beautiful, as unique as you, Abby. And you're an incredible artist."
"Thank you. As are you." She smiled at his expression, mild embarrassment tinged with pride before fading to a querulous look.
"How do you know?" he asked, sure she had taken a guess and been right. He'd studied her picture intently, probably for longer than it seemed.
"I just do. What troubles you, Micah?" Her head shook slowly, as fiery as her emblem, as detailed.
"I don't really know. I can't get a sense of Jacob, for one thing. And talking about living in Texas sure ain't helping to ease my mind." He flashed a sheepish smile, teeth as straight and shiny as her own. "I feel like I should apologize. This is a... a good day; happy. I should be happy, but I feel tired. Spent." When his smile turned to a more natural grin, Ailill laughed softly. "Well, enough about me, tell me why you, of all people, fight in a neverending battle. And why do y'all do it nekked?"
"Och, well, to psyche out the enemy, of course. Nothing is more disarming than an army o' blue folk stormin' naked across a moor, appearing on the highest peaks, all screamin' like a Banshee in the Gaelic, aye?" She grinned at the thought, at the pure adrenaline rush of such battles fought beneath cool skies, army and enemy alike cloaked in a blanket of mist, bare feet pounding, hard and strong on grassy moorland, on the solid strength of granite, the pipes' wail heard in the distance, calling all to take up arms and fight for justice in an unjust world.
"An ageless thing, that. Stunningly real, though only our own fight that way now. And, as for the never ending battle, well, that's a given. The Eldest Son, known better as the Black Druid, for his heart is empty of all but darkness," she paused, covertly eyed the man for any sign of recognition, sighed inwardly at the complete lack of anything other than curiosity in those dark eyes before going on.
"Well... the Black believes he's a right to what I alone acquired upon my birth. He gathers men, sons of survivors of the big war, sends them to fight his own fight, and retreats with all the regularity of the tide. He wishes the power I shall gain, and kills mercilessly in effort to take it from me. And so, we fight back. He knows how close it is, the time when I will gain my grandmother's throne. It is why he came back to fight after learning I'd left the battle, aye? And why my friends, men who have pledged everlasting fealty to me, are now in Tir na N'Og, awaiting orders to yet one more battle. My ancestors shall rise up and join me, Micah; shall rid the earth o' the darkness. And I will bear a new tribe, the mightiest tribe to ever walk this earth."
"You? Alone?" His eyes widened at the notion, at the image of Ailill, her beautiful body ruined by giving birth to a veritable army. "That ain't possible!"
"Aye, it is; it shall be so."
"You're talking what... dozens of kids, Abby. Even more than a few can be dangerous for you. You could die in childbirth! I could have already started a baby in you." Micah's cheeks flushed at the words, the truth, but Ailill shook her head, the slight motion dashing the tiny ember of hope that sprang instantly into his eyes.
"Nay. I will not be bearing any until I am supposed to, Micah. No for yet another year nor more. And I will not die in childbed, though I can, very likely will, suffer the pain. To be quite honest, I would have to be murdered, severed limb from limb, to die. Oh," she suddenly hissed in irritation. "I knew I should have just left it be. And here, I didn't even explain it quite so well." Turning a sapphire gaze on the man that took in every detail, his distress, his uncertainty, his apparent fear for her very life, Ailill frowned.
"It isn't only me who will bear the little ones. Others, no more than weans yet, will grow to do the same. The Gentry are far reaching, farther spread, thanks to my grandsire, the radjy bastard; stretched across nearly every land, their shared fate is similar to my own, but I was firstborn, the first and only one to inherit the Kingdom. My children will grow, will learn and travel; they will couple with the children of this line of the Gentry, and from there will come the Silver Branch, the new Timeless Age. History repeats itself, a never ending loop; infinity. This has been written in the stars for millennia, Micah. It has all happened before. No argument one might think of will change things. Naught, unless I die before I give birth to the heirs, the first sons of the tierce."
"The tierce? You mean me, uh, us. Us?" Micah looked confounded, his fingers drummed rapidly on his knee. It was too much; too much information, too much everything. And where the hell was Jacob? He should be here, hearing all of this!
"Aye, Micah. You know the truth. I see it in your eyes."
"I can't... no, Abby. I don't want to hear anymore," he hissed, his mind overloaded, heart thumping. Something was horribly wrong. His chest ached as if from countless blows, his face felt suddenly full of liquid fire, skin tight enough to split, and his ears were ringing with the most awful racket. "Jacob!" Ailill was on her feet in an instant, throwing his moccasins within reach even as she laced up her own with quick, jerky motions.
"Oh... oh, Jesus, he's killing us!" he suddenly cried. Ignoring the footwear on the bed, Micah turned, grasped the doorknob with numb hands, his fingers throbbing; broken; whole; shattered beneath the flesh and blood he shared with his twin. His face was a rictus of agony as Ailill shoved him forcefully out of the room, nearly bowled him over as she pushed him down the stairs with increasing speed.
She'd felt it; the sudden opening of a door, the painful knowledge of just what had been wrong with her lover for the past two hours; Jacob's weak cry for help...
Horses were ready, waiting, dismounted mere moments before by her parents, her grandmother, each of whom turned with looks of curious expectation at the sudden entrance of a silently howling Micah and a furious Ailill.
"Do ye ready yon firepit, Father," she warned, helping Micah mount Annie's mare, her movements quick, seemingly unfeeling. "I shall be killing yon blackhearted fiend today!" In a single athletic leap, she was atop her own mount, hair flying out behind her in a blaze as she flew toward the forest beside Micah. James quickly remounted his beast and followed, leaving a stunned Annie in his wake.
He had been naked, lying on his back in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood; of vomit and other liquefied matter best forgotten. His wrists, still fettered, the skin torn, slick with warm crimson, the shattered remains of a wooden chair, his royal throne? lay scattered about the room; one jagged shard embedded through each hand had all but stopped the flow of blood; twin corks, intentionally left in place to keep him alive, tortured with pain unimaginable. Others lying nearby had been used to puncture his battered flesh over and over, carelessly discarded in his own filth; his perfect, beautiful bronze flesh, blackened by countless blows, bled freely, the ribcage beneath broken, so broken. His face was unrecognizable, beaten to a bloody mass of tissue and bone that made Ailill cringe, gulp down the insistent burn of tears. It was not the blood that overwhelmed her years of training... it was the sight of Jacob; a prince borne, stolen son of a king; one of her betrothed. It was that, alone, that set her moving, all feeling pushed far out of reach before it consumed her.
And he'd been awake, aware, watched through one swollen, slitted eye as the door buckled, burst in on itself until it hung on a single half-melted hinge; saw Ailill standing in the afternoon sunlight, fury darkening her features, her eyes black with a rage unlike any he'd ever seen before. She'd seen the spark of recognition, the utter humiliation run through him for one very brief instant. And then he closed his eyes, fell away into blessed deliquium, too hurt to care, too broken to face his twin, knowing that Micah would be with him again soon enough; too soon. He'd wanted one last look at his twin, wanted to see the happiness of a man lucky enough to lie with Ailill. It made up for the morti
fication of his own soul, one dying gift for another.
She had given him more; as much of herself as she was able, altruistically taking of her enchanted self so that he would live; so that he would once again be whole beside his twin, beside himself in triplicate. It had been too much; the effort to heal the man stole her strength, every last ounce of it. For what seemed like days and days she heard the whispering, the heartfelt pleas, felt the assuring serenity of dogged vigilance and, though she wondered at it, she'd not the strength to fully awake, to open her tired eyes and see who it was there, at her side, talking, always talking, of nothing, of everything, until the mellow tones lessened into an ever huskier drawl, sometimes the soft burr of her own Gaelic, whispered with clarity into her ears, a reminder of herself.
Muttering fitfully in her dream state, Ailill slipped once again into Jacob's living nightmare, unaware that in the darkness of sleep, in the deep sleep of healing, she wept openly for the lad who had taken up permanent residence in her wounded heart.
Without hesitation, nor thought of what anyone might think, Jacob moved from the chair, so tired he could hardly stand after so many days. Moving the bedclothes aside, he eased down beside the sleeping woman, as he had a dozen times already; the eerie whispers, the breathy sound of crying in the depths of sleep no less painful now than they had been the first time; feelings tangible enough that he felt certain he could reach out, grasp them in the palm of his hand. She was cloaked in a colorful cloud, an amorphous blanket blending shade to shade, color to color with no sense of order. The emotions of her dreams shifted, the colors of the mist shifted. Purple, red, black, deepest pink. Other shades of other colors, when small bits of reality set in, remnants of the life she had known; halcyon images, memories euphoric. Each time one of those seeped into this nightmarish existence it had been preceded by a most glorious shade of silver; as it had just moments ago. He slipped easily beneath the mist, a deepening shade of gray, a black that should have been smothering in its depth; it was none so frightening with her warmth in his arms and he held on, his unblemished cheek resting above her steadily beating heart; an irregular rhythm, unique only to Ailill. When it began to speed up, to thump a rapid, resounding beat, he held tighter, afraid she might be swallowed in the darkness, forever lost in the void of his own tortuous punishment at the hands of Kiah Morna, Eldest Son of the Eldest Son.
Hidden Jewel (Heartfire Series) Page 18