But his usually ruddy and bloated face was pale and gaunt, his shoulders rounded. He’d plainly fallen ill in the weeks she’d been away.
“You’re a beauty,” he whispered hoarsely, lifting her closer to his face. “Once you are trained I foresee a place for you atop my shoulder.”
There was no time for training. She settled her wings and cocked her head to one side, stealing the morsel of raw meat from his hand, though it stuck in her throat.
“Clever bird,” he crooned. “You’re nearly tame already.”
She stared into his eyes and sent a silent message. Let loose the jesses.
He studied her plumage for a few moments, then stroked her feathered breast with the back of his finger. She shivered with revulsion, but breathed again when he opened his hand to let the jesses dangle free.
“Something tells me you won’t fly away,” he chuckled, raising his arm.
The urge to flee back to the safety of Sibrán’s embrace was almost overwhelming, but her prince would never be king unless they defeated Moqorr.
The High King’s laugh startled her, but she dug her talons deeper into the leather and hung on.
“Well done,” he declared to the gaping falconer who had likely never heard such words of praise. “You have indeed brought me a worthy prize. She doesn’t want to fly away.”
But Aislinn has flown.
Moqorr frowned. Her silent taunt had evidently penetrated his thoughts.
He summoned a guard who knelt and touched his forehead to the floor. “What news of the flood?”
“Receding, my lord.”
“And the invaders?”
“We found only the wreckage of Aislinn’s litter.”
She needs your help.
Aislinn kept her eyes fixed on his scowling lips when he stroked her head, but was taken by surprise when he raised his arm across his chest to his shoulder. She hopped onto her new perch, close to his ear.
Distant shouts jolted Sibrán from his reverie. He wasn’t certain how much time had passed since they’d entered the chamber of light.
“Our comrades are concerned for us, my prince,” Ebric ventured.
The lad was right. It seemed no more pronouncements were forthcoming from the monolith and twilight would soon descend on the slopes. Sibrán was disappointed there’d been no outright confirmation he would be king, but supposed the directive to kill Moqorr meant as much. He didn’t feel especially regal clad only in his chiton.
He got off his knees, waving away Amergin’s proffered hand. “You heard the voices?” he asked cautiously.
Ebric nodded as his twin led the way to the exit. “But I still don’t understand how Moqorr can die three times.”
Sibrán wished he had the answer. “Mayhap it will become clear.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I am more concerned with getting back through the narrow gap.”
“No need,” Amergin murmured. “I may be imagining things, but it seems wider.”
Sibrán gasped when he got to the pillars and exited easily. “I don’t understand,” he muttered.
Ebric handed him his clothing. “It seems you were meant to enter the chamber unarmed, my lord.”
“And undressed,” he replied with a smile, though perhaps the lad’s perception was correct. It was a suitable reminder—humility befitted a king.
He dressed quickly and buckled on his sword as they began the trek back through the first chamber and up the path. When they emerged, dusk was settling over the mountain, but a full moon made it easier to see outside the cave. Iago strode forward with Sibrán’s cloak and furled it around him. “We feared for you.”
The genuine concern in the old warrior’s voice was humbling. Iago loved him. “There is much to tell,” he said, putting a hand on his navigator’s shoulder, “but we must hasten back to camp. Aislinn is alone, with only Lop and a guard to protect her. She will be worried.”
“Nay,” Glas declared, pointing to the shadows. “The hound is here. One of her men has him in hand else he would have bounded into the cave in pursuit.”
Sibrán’s blood ran cold when Lop broke free of the guard, leapt out of the heather, reared up on hind legs and planted huge front paws on his chest. He staggered backwards under the dog’s weight, but then the frenzied hound was gone, racing back up the hill to the camp.
Barely Human
Moqorr lurched around the throne room, seemingly off balance. “I would feel it in my bones if Aislinn had drowned,” he muttered to the stone walls.
Perched on his shoulder, Aislinn taunted him. What does it matter if she’s dead?
The High King grunted, but revealed no more.
You sent her away.
Moqorr stopped pacing. “An error. How was I supposed to foresee a flood?”
When he suddenly looked at her curiously she made a show of preening the feathers of her breast. It was imperative he didn’t suspect she was influencing his thoughts. She was now certain he hadn’t conjured the tremor or the flood. Nor had he anticipated the man he’d sent her to kill would free her from his yoke. He had overestimated the power of his control.
He resumed his pacing, hands clasped behind his back. “If she is alive, she will return. She belongs to me.”
His voice was hoarse with emotion and it struck her like a lightning bolt that he didn’t only want to make use of her powers. He craved her. Yet he didn’t sense she sat on his shoulder. His desire centered on himself and she pitied him. He was incapable of the generous love she and Sibrán shared. Not only was he not immortal, he was barely human.
She pressed home her advantage. She belongs to another.
When he unexpectedly slumped into his throne, she fled to the back of the wooden seat. He looked to the ceiling, fingertips pressed to his scalp. “She must return to me,” he wailed to the rafters.
She will only come if you fetch her.
“But I don’t know where she is,” he shouted.
She deemed it wise to keep quiet. Surely it would dawn on him that if she hadn’t drowned in the valley, she must be…
“Guard,” he yelled, leaping from the throne so abruptly she was forced to open her wings. “Muster the army. We march to Cualu at first light.”
Sibrán might have made better progress up the steep slope in the gathering darkness had his heart not been beating too fast. Worry weighted his limbs, but when he reached the camp, the sight of Lop sitting calmly brought a measure of relief. Panting, he swallowed what little saliva remained in his dry throat and gave voice to the question gnawing at him. “Did she go willingly?”
Lop got to his feet, wagged his tail and barked softly.
Sibrán took that as a good omen, but had she left to further their cause, or did her fealty lay with Moqorr? The dread he might never share his vision from the cave lay in his belly like a lead weight. The prospect of ruling a kingdom without Aislinn as his queen held no appeal.
One of the Tuathan guards came forward and mumbled something he didn’t understand.
To his surprise Iago staggered into camp and dropped to all fours, barely able to breathe. “He says she was on the summit,” he gasped. “Then suddenly she disappeared and he saw a hawk flying away.”
“A hawk?” Sibrán echoed.
“Red,” Iago confirmed.
His gut clenched, as it did every time he considered the incredible reality. The woman he loved could shift into animal form. But why a bird?
The Tuathan spoke again.
Struggling to his feet with Ebric’s help, Iago explained. “Moqorr prizes his collection of hunting birds, but he doesn’t have a red hawk with a forked tail.”
Inhaling deeply, Sibrán looked to the stars spangling the heavens. Perhaps Aislinn had foreseen the ancient kings’ edict there be no more bloodshed in Tara. Had she gone to lure Moqorr to Cualu? The notion that love for him had led her to expose herself to such extreme peril had him sweating and shivering at the same time.
Unfathomable forces were at work, but he had to trust Aisl
inn’s heart was true. The voices in the cave had given no indication she might betray him. “May the gods watch over you, little bird,” he whispered to the wind.
Aislinn feared exhaustion might result in her falling from the perch next to Moqorr’s bed, but she was determined to deprive him of a restful sleep.
He’d covered her eyes when he’d carried her to his private chamber, a place she’d never entered before. Compared to the cramped communal living quarters the inhabitants of Tara occupied, the High King’s chambers were palatial. This was where he and his women consorted on the sleekest furs, though he slept alone this night. Woven fabrics softened the stone walls. A peat fire glowed in a central hearth, the smoke making its lazy way into a chimney hole in the roof.
She thought of the countless nights she had spent shivering with cold, but at least he’d allowed her a sleeping space curtained off from others.
His selfish greed breathed new life into the urge to hammer at his face with her beak and tear at his flesh with her talons. However, it was an inescapable truth that while she might inflict damage, she wouldn’t be strong enough to kill him.
She had foreseen he would suffer a strange fate. The manner of his demise eluded her, but she was certain he wouldn’t die at her hand.
She puffed out her feathers as loneliness and dread crept into her heart. She wished Sibrán was with her, but such thoughts might betray her identity to the dozing king.
She stared at him. You murdered Nith.
“I punished him for treachery,” Moqorr mumbled, turning over restlessly in his opulent bed.
You coveted the Gaelician ships.
“For the good of the kingdom. For trading,” he insisted.
Nith sailed from Iberia to trade with us.
Shock rippled up her spine when he kicked off the furs. The fire cast its meagre light on a skeletal body clad only in a thin chiton. The once-corpulent Moqorr was naught but skin and bone. Padding and armor had hidden the reality.
Scant weeks before, a well-muscled Moqorr had sent her on the mission to destroy his enemies. Had some rampant wasting disease eaten away at his flesh? Sibrán might not be required to kill him. The gods already had the task in hand.
You are dying.
“Nay, I am immortal,” he rasped, but there was no conviction in his trembling voice.
It was as if the sun came out in the middle of the night. He had drawn on her power to keep himself alive, but had misused gifts bestowed on her for the good of the Tuathan people. Her tormented heart calmed. Her duty was clear. She must make sure he set off for the mountains soon.
Aislinn will give herself to the invader this night.
She felt no pity when he curled his knees to his chest and sobbed.
Little Bird
Aislinn flexed her talons repeatedly, fearing Moqorr’s wretched sobbing would never cease, but then an eerie silence reigned and all was quiet. She blinked, afraid she may have dozed. The fire had burned down, leaving the chamber in utter darkness. Her spirits lifted when muffled sounds indicated he had taken the bait and was preparing to leave.
When he carried her outside she would soar to the sky and fly to the safety of Sibrán’s arms—and his bed. Their spirits were already united. Joining their bodies would forge the last link needed for the defeat of Moqorr and rob the High King of any vestiges of power he might think to cling to. Her people would be released from his oppression. Together, she and Sibrán would be invincible.
She cringed when Moqorr stroked her breast. “You must stay here, my lovely.”
She squawked and flapped her wings in protest, her heart beating wildly.
“Be calm, Aislinn.”
Moqorr’s hoarsely whispered words froze her blood. Somehow she had given herself away.
“Do you consider me so weak and foolish I don’t see it’s you beneath those feathers? Who else but Aislinn could know as much about the invader? Thank you for telling me where to find him. You have always been mine and will be again once I have dispatched your Gaelician prince to the Otherworld. He will never possess you.”
A thousand conflicting emotions seized her when the door slammed shut behind him, and the bar clunked into place. She puffed out her feathers, almost thankful for her confusion. If she couldn’t give voice to the terror swamping her, Moqorr surely wouldn’t be able to read her thoughts. Despite the dreadful prospect of being imprisoned in Tara, one hope flickered. He hadn’t realized her heart already belonged to Sibrán.
She scanned the large chamber and came to an inevitable conclusion. If she somehow got through the door, there would be guards. The narrow chimney offered the only means of escape.
She hopped down to the stone floor beside the hearth. The fire no longer blazed, but the ashes still smoldered. She peered up into the blackness, praying to the gods the roughly-hewn opening to the outside was short. If she became trapped, there would be no opportunity to get back to Sibrán. She had never foreseen the manner of her own death and fervently hoped smothering in a sooty smoke-hole wouldn’t be her fate.
Close to panic, she tried in vain to conjure an image of an animal that might scurry up the chimney. The red hawk’s wide wings would render the ascent difficult but she would need them to cover the distance to Cualu.
She lifted her beak and flew at the ceiling, relieved when she found herself in the chimney. She tried to flap her wings with sufficient speed to propel her to the moonlit sky she glimpsed above, but there wasn’t enough space and she tumbled down into the warm ashes.
Frustrated, she hopped back to the perch and preened her plumage to get rid of the thick coating of ash that would impede her flight. She was perturbed to discover she had lost several long feathers.
She considered turning into the griffin. The guards would surely flee at the sight of such a creature, although if only one brave Tuathan thrust his lance into the mythical beast’s breast…
And there remained the problem of persuading them to open the door.
Satisfied she had cleansed most of the ash, she swallowed the grit in her dry throat, stared at the hole above her and flew at it once more.
She wasn’t sure which was louder, the frantic scraping of talons on stone or the thud, thud of her heart.
When she tumbled back into the grate, she shifted into human form, crawled out of the dust and wept.
The tears helped to wash the ash from her eyes, but the weeping made her cough and eventually she lay exhausted.
She hoped Sibrán understood the reason she had left Cualu. Mayhap conjuring a vision of him would bring renewed strength and determination. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and soon perceived a blurry image of him atop the mountain bidding her farewell.
May the gods watch over you, little bird.
Little bird!
Fear had rendered her witless. The solution was obvious. Heedless of the bruises and scrapes, she hurriedly dusted off the ash and transformed into a skylark.
Sibrán kept vigil all night, hope fading when there was no sign of Aislinn’s return. He’d used his wakefulness to ponder the notion of Moqorr dying three times, but had found no solution to the riddle.
As the first grey streaks of dawn crept into the sky, he looked down on the valley from the summit of Cualu. He narrowed his eyes, not believing what he saw and heard. He nudged Iago, grateful his faithful comrade had watched with him and the dog. “Tell me what you see.”
Iago stood and peered down. “The water has receded,” he exclaimed. “Gone completely.”
“But something has taken its place. Listen.”
Lop barked, but quieted when Sibrán hushed him.
Iago scratched his head. “Crows. Hundreds of them by the look of it. Scavenging what the sea has left behind.” He shrugged. “They’ll disperse when we proceed to Tara.”
The feasting birds blanketed the fields like a beating black heart, but Sibrán perceived movement beyond as he watched. “No need. Moqorr is coming to us.”
Iago growled when he
caught sight of his enemy’s army and made a move to descend to the camp. “I’ll muster our troops to confront him in the valley.”
Sibrán caught him by the arm. He supposed he shouldn’t blame a navigator for a lack of military savvy. “No. We hold the advantage here on the high ground. Climbing the slopes will sap their strength.”
Iago shook his head. “Of course. Nevertheless I’ll prepare the men.”
Sibrán nodded then turned to watch the High King’s approach. His vision in the cave assured him of victory, but he feared for Aislinn. He swore to kill Moqorr three times thrice if any harm had befallen her.
Lop howled, and Sibrán’s heart lifted when high above he heard the joyous song of a skylark greeting the dawn.
Aislinn!
Soon, however, raucous cries drowned out everything else. The murder of crows rose from the ground as one in the face of Moqorr’s advance and headed for the mountain. The hound became agitated, barking furiously at the oncoming horde. The sky turned black. Sibrán clenched his fists, helpless to save the songbird hovering in the path of the crows.
Lop howled when the lark was knocked out of the sky and spiralled to earth. Sibrán stopped breathing when the hound ran off down the slope to where the bird had plunged to the ground. There was only one reason the dog would do such a thing. He set off in pursuit, chanting Aislinn’s name over and over as an entreaty to the gods that her life had been spared.
He found Lop fending off a handful of crows who sought to peck at the lark lying in a crevice not far down the rocky slope. His heart in his throat, he ran towards them waving his arms, relieved when they flew off.
The dog whimpered as Sibrán carefully picked up the stricken bird and cradled her in his hand. It didn’t appear her neck was broken, but there were no signs of life. “Aislinn,” he whispered, holding her to his chest, filled with dread that she might never shift to human form unless she regained her wits, “come back to me.”
The hound growled, alerting Sibrán to Amergin standing nervously close by, watching. The lad probably thought he’d lost his wits, grieving over a stricken bird.
“We must take my Lady Aislinn to the cave,” the youth said softly.
Lords of Ireland II Page 70