by Kris Kennedy
“He spoke of ye, Senna. The last thing he said was about ye. Told me to keep ye safe. Protect ye above all else.”
She bit her lower lip. And what was she to do with that? It was probably sooth. Why would he want her hurt? He had loved her in his own way, she was certain. But what her parents had had, she now realized, encompassed only them.
After her mother’s death, that devotion had gripped her father like an eagle on a fish, with great, curving talons, piercing any attention that wished to wander from this one screaming fact: his wife had been killed.
Of course, she’d been more than wife. Or more than solely a wife. She’d been compatriot, inspiration, spy-lover. How could a child compete with that?
And the one left behind could, she supposed dully, spend the next decades of his life pretending to be something else, letting vengeance and intrigue hold sway, while small children fell off the edge of his particular map, nothing more than sea monsters, while his dead wife, his Jerusalem, was inked at the center of it all.
And how did the sea monsters then decide to care?
“Finian?” she said thickly.
He was still crouched before her, watching her face and waiting. His forearms leaned against the edge of the bench, his palms lightly grasping her hips. One thumb stroked slowly, probably without him even realizing.
“Thank you for not letting my father die alone.”
“Ye’re welcome, lass.”
And that released the tears. She leaned forward until her forehead touched his, trying to make the hard bones of him steady her spinning head. Dimly, she heard the door open, then a set of footsteps draw to a halt, but Finian did not move away. His touch helped, but it didn’t shut down the waterfall of emotions. And with the cascade of tears came images from her mother’s book. They flashed and tumbled through her mind.
As the fragments spun through her thoughts, rotating into position and sinking into her memory, she realized something wasn’t right. Or rather, wasn’t complete.
She pushed back from Finian. “Let me see that manual.”
He handed it over. She flipped through it, to the end. Then back a few pages, then slowly again, forward to the end.
“What is it?” Finian asked, a note of urgency in his voice tamped down but still audible. “What is wrong?”
She looked up. “This is missing pages.”
“How do ye know?”
She held it out. “See, here. ’Tis torn.”
He ran his thick thumb over the faint, worn edge of a softly torn page.
“How much would that matter?” the king asked from the doorway.
She got to her feet and walked over. She flipped to the end and held the manual open between them. “See these numbers? And this grouping of words and symbols? They are ingredients.”
The king looked at her, then Finian. “I thought you said you knew nothing of dyeing.”
She heard Finian get to his feet. She gave a small shrug. “’Tis true. I’ve no notion how I know such a thing. I simply…know.”
“’Tis in the blood, legend says.”
Senna sighed deeply. “I am terribly tired of legends and things of the past. I do not know how I know these things. I simply do. And I can assure you the instructions on this page end too abruptly. There are more pages, and they are missing. And the computare for this”—she pointed to the shimmering tunic on the bench—“are on those missing pages.”
Finian drew a sharp breath. The king looked at him, then the fur on the sleeves of the king’s robe brushed against her arm as he turned to Finian.
“Anyone could have them,” the king said. He started out the door, although Finian did not move. “But it must be someone Red knew well. Assemble a small group of experienced men, Finian, men who know how to keep their heads down and their ears open. We have another contact who might have heard—”
“I know where they are,” Senna said in a clear voice. She felt like a bell ringing Prime. “I know where the missing pages are.”
The king turned back in shock.
“Where?” Finian asked in a terrible, hollow voice.
“Rardove Keep.”
Finian closed his eyes. Senna stared at the wall.
The king said simply, “We have to get them back.”
Chapter 50
It was quiet in the chamber for a long time. Then, as if invisible words had formed in the air and drifted into Finian’s ears alone, he turned and pinned the king in his sights.
“Nay.”
The O’Fáil didn’t shift his gaze away from Senna. Finian stepped directly into his line of sight. “No.”
The king looked at him then.
“She’s not going back there,” Finian said curtly.
“She will buy us time.”
“She has been used by too many people to buy off too many things.”
“You don’t see it, do you?” The O’Fáil said, the level tone of his words underscoring their seriousness. “First Scotland, then Ireland will fall to Edward, deeper and further, until they will never get out, not for a thousand years. If the Saxon king can get his men into any castle he wishes, unseen? If he can create small explosions in the bedchambers of any nobleman who opposes him?” The king’s words slowed. “Edward cannot be given such power as the Wishmés, Finian. He must be stopped.”
“So be it. I’ll kill him.”
The O’Fáil gave a bark of laughter. “If they have the recipe, you’d have to kill every king to come after as well, son. And in any event, you couldn’t get within a league of Longshanks, not with you being the one who stole his dye-witch. You’ll be killed on sight.”
Senna lifted her head and the king glanced over. She looked away, picked up a piece of straw, and began knotting it, little knots up its length. The moon was rising higher. The rounded edge of it slid into view through the narrow window.
“Ye will not be sending her back,” Finian repeated flatly.
The king studied Senna’s profile. “No,” he agreed slowly, looking back to Finian. “’Tisn’t the sort of thing you do to a soul. They’ve to choose it themselves.”
“Good.” Finian stared at the king hard, his words slowing to the pace of the dripping water in the cistern. “We are in agreement. She stays.”
The king lifted his eyebrows. “I’ll not send her anywhere.”
Finian nodded and turned. “Ye’re not to worry, lass. Ye’re not going back.”
“Of course I’m not,” she said agreeably.
He paused. “’Tis too dangerous.”
“Of course it is.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What could the lass do, anyhow?” the king interjected. His words were flat, his question was flat, his face was flat. Expressionless.
He wanted her to explain to Finian exactly what she could do.
“Just so, my lord,” she said brightly. “There’s little I can do. Except for the middling matter that I know where the missing pages were left. I could retrieve them.”
“Or, we could burn his castle down,” Finian suggested amiably. “As we were going to do anyhow. And that will take care of the missing pages.”
“Very true. Unless, of course, Rardove has found them, and perhaps hid them away, in which case, I would have the best chance of finding them.” Finian stared at her. “Alternately, I could stall for time, let him believe I will make the dyes for him. He would give me the missing pages to do so, and then I could destroy them or bring them to you.”
“Destroy them,” the king said curtly.
“That is not yer duty,” Finian said tightly.
She gave him a sad smile. “No, ’tisn’t. Not a matter of duty.”
He took a step toward her. She was certain it was intended to intimidate, to quash opposition. “We were going to fight this war before ye came, Senna. It has nothing to do with ye.”
She nodded. “Just so. You are right.”
He took another step closer. She put her palm on his chest and said in a highly aggr
ieved tone, “Becalm yourself, Finian. I say you are right.”
They stared at each other until she coughed a little. Then a little more. She held her fingertips to her throat and coughed again, apologetically. “Might I have a drink?” Cough, cough. “In fact, I think perhaps a bit of that whisky now?”
He stared at her a moment longer, then turned on his heel, looking at the king briefly but significantly on his way by. “I’ll be back.”
He strode out, calling for a servant. She and The O’Fáil waited a minute, then the king turned to her.
“Do you know how kings are made in Ireland, lass?”
“Stop.” She got to her feet. “I shall go. But not to make him a king.”
The king rose, too, and they walked swiftly out of the office chamber. “You think you can locate the pages?”
“Aye.” Her words sounded dusty and dull, but her heart, buffeted by terror, felt bright. Fear had come hunting, and she was not running. That had to be worth something.
The king gave swift instructions for a few of his personal guards. He sent someone to delay Finian. All the while, they walked swiftly toward the stables. “Are you certain on this, lass?”
“Can you win the war if I don’t?”
He gave a grim smile. “It will not matter, if you don’t.”
“And then Finian will be killed.” Was that her voice, that thick, throaty sound?
The O’Fáil shrugged as they hurried into the bailey. “People die in battle, lass. One cannot predict such things. But if Rardove and Longshanks get their hands on that recipe, I can predict everything down to how they’ll tie the ropes around Finian’s wrists and ankles.”
“Then I am certain.”
Stars glittered sharp and bright above as they hurried to the stables. Yellow light spilled out of the windows, and the door was thrown wide, so the mud in the bailey glistened in the golden glow.
“I’ll have my men take you as far as the barrows,” the king said as they entered the stables, “and keep you in sight until you draw near the river, to make sure you’re safe.”
It was decidedly not funny, but the urge to burst into laughter almost overtook her. “Aye,” she agreed solemnly, “until I’m safe.”
Swiftly, the king had robes brought for her, as the night was chilled. Three Irish warriors saddled horses. They mounted and one extended a hand to Senna. She reached for it and he swung her up behind. The horse’s rump was warm. The back of the soldier’s armor was cold.
“Put yer arms around me, beautiful,” he murmured in his Irish lilt. “And I’ll not let ye fall.”
Oh, God, she was so frightened, it was possible she might dissolve from it.
The king reached up and took her hand, gave it a squeeze. “Balffe has been spotted on the riverbank not half an hour ago. If we leave you there, he’ll be on you in minutes.”
She nodded, since terror had snaked around her throat and made speech impossible. She shook free of it. “What will you tell Finian?” The world was spinning. Nothing that was happening seemed possible. How had she gone from tending sheep to saving Scotland and Ireland?
The king nodded to the riders. The horses started out of the stables. Clop, clop, over the packed dirt earth, into the glittering night.
“I will tell him,” the king’s words came drifting to her back, “that you are much like your mother.”
“No.” They were outside the stable. She didn’t turn back, just raised her voice, expecting it to be wobbling and broken. It wasn’t. It came out strong. “Tell him he is wrought of stronger steel than other people’s errors. Tell him he will make a masterful king. And tell him I realize we were both in error. I did not need him a’tall. I simply chose him.”
The Irish warriors dropped her, as arranged, at the base of a fat hillock. Less than half a mile off, the dark thread of a river could be seen, trees scattered around its shores like ashes.
The Irishmen waited as she slunk away into the darkness. She glanced back once to see them sitting motionless on their horses, dark silhouettes, watching her go. Clouds were piling up on the horizon.
The scouts had said Balffe was barely half a mile away, but Senna could feel him already, his enmity weaving like warp and woof through the dark night air.
Chapter 51
Finian came back into the chamber with a mug of ale and stopped short. The two servants in his wake, bearing trays of food and more drink, almost ran up his heels. The king was sitting exactly where he’d been before, but Senna was gone.
Finian set the mug down carefully. “Where is she?”
The king shook his head.
He turned on his heel, went to his bedchamber and started throwing on his armor.
The O’Fáil came in behind him a few minutes later without speaking. The news spread, and soon more and more men crowded into the chamber, to protest Finian’s headlong pursuit of the Englishwoman.
“Ye should just let her go,” ventured Brian, his sleepy eyes grown sharp with anger when, alerted by the shouting voices, he, too, had stumbled into the room. Already ten or so men were standing around the small space, bumping knees and arguing.
“And ye should watch yer tongue,” Finian suggested, his words muffled by the hauberk he was tugging over his head.
Brian shook his head, rubbed at his eyes, and took the mug of ale a sleepy servant was passing around the impromptu council meeting. “We’ll be better off without her troublesome meddling. I don’t know why ye’re going after her.”
“And I don’t know why I don’t kill ye,” Finian retorted amiably, bending to tug on his riding boots. Alane elbowed his way into the room, already dressed in armor and a grim smile when he saw the men crowded in the room.
Brian scowled and sat down on a small bench by the wall. “So ye’re to start sniffing at bent grass blades, while the rest of us march to war?”
Finian ignored him, his hands taking unconscious inventory of the arsenal of blades strapped across his body as he strode toward the door.
Brian snorted before tipping the mug into the air. “I say good riddance.”
Alane kicked the leg out from Brian’s bench as he passed by. The bench overturned and the ale spilled. Brian sprawled on the ground a moment, then got to his feet, scowling.
Alane dropped onto another bench and swung his heels up on the small table, his gaze trained on the shadowy young warrior. Finian snatched up his gauntlets and headed to the door. “I’m off.”
Ten heads dropped into twenty cupped palms.
“And the men?” someone shouted after. “The muster?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Ye cannot go without the king’s leave,” complained Felim. He was dressed in a long tunic whose hem was lifted by errant drafts surging through the darkened tower room.
“Who said ’tis without his leave?” retorted Finian. But he didn’t look at the king. “And,” he added as he elbowed through the men, pausing as he passed Alane, who, for all Finian knew, thought him as mad as everyone else did, “ye’ll have Alane’s gracious good company until then, so I don’t know what ye’re all complaining about.”
“Och, they’ll not have me,” Alane demurred, still sitting with his boots up on the table.
“And why not?” Finian asked, glancing down at his lounging friend. “Ye’re going to be real busy, are ye, these next few days?”
“I am.”
“With what?”
“Guarding your sorry arse. Again.” He started getting to his feet. Finian clasped his forearm and dragged him the rest of the way up, relief and gratitude rushing into all the cold hollow places that had formed when he realized Senna was out there alone, on her way to Rardove.
“My thanks, friend,” he said in a low voice.
“You’ve saved my sorry arse a few times, friend, for much less noble reasons than rescuing an innocent. And anyhow,” he said, nodding to the king, “The O’Fáil will no’ let me leave you.”
The king watched them but didn’t say a word.
Amid the cries of their countrymen, they strode out of the room.
The O’Fáil tracked him and Alane down the stairs, past the flickering circles of torchlight and down into the darkness. When they reached the doorway to the bailey, he put a hand on Finian’s arm. Alane ducked out the door.
“She said to say you would make a fine king.”
Finian was running his hand over the various hilts and blades one last time, checking. He glanced up. “Ye told her?”
“Listen to me, Finian, ere you risk your life and the outcome of this war over a woman. You’ve been waiting for this moment for years.”
Finian lifted his gaze from the hand wrapped tightly around his forearm. Long hair hung over the king’s shoulders, but there were strands of gray shot throughout. Careworn wrinkles lined his face, and there was a light tinge of bluish haze in the eyes regarding him. In the dim, wayward light, his foster father looked old for the first time.
“You cannot go after her.”
“I can, and I am.”
The O’Fáil’s voice dropped to a baritone whisper. “Finian, I’m asking you as a father.”
The whetted edge of despair sliced a thin sliver off the surface of Finian’s heart. Throwing up his chin he clamped a palm on the king’s shoulder.
“Don’t, then,” he said thickly. “She’s my debt.”
“You haven’t a bigger one than her?”
Finian’s fingers tightened on the king’s shoulder. “Would ye have me dead?”
“I’d have you recall your loyalties, Finian. She chose this. Let it be.”
“And I choose this.” He said it loudly, hearing the belligerence in his words. It blanketed the anguish.
“Finian,” The O’Fáil said sadly. “You could be a king.”
Silence boomed through the small antechamber.
“So we’re losing you for a woman,” he said bitterly, when it was clear Finian had already given his answer. “Who did I raise you to be?”
“Ye didn’t raise me to abandon women, sir.”
Darkness turned The O’Fáil’s shaking head into a purpling transition of shadows, but there was no mistaking the warning in his next words: “I could stop you. Call up the guard, cut you down where you stand.”