“What’s wrong?” Blair asked, kneeling before me with one arm raised.
I gestured at my body. “I do not wear dresses,” I hissed. “That’s what’s wrong.”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Ceara—”
“That’s not me name!” I shrieked, turning away from the raw need, the vulnerability, in the woman’s face. “And what the hell are ye three doin’?” I yelled, pointing at the brothers, all of whom had dropped to a knee with their heads bowed.
Cathal swiveled his head back and forth, then yipped once. “These are the Crows, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Lady Aife replied. She’d taken a seat by the fire, far from the piece of wood she’d been playing with earlier, clutching her legs to her chest like a lost child. The bard had joined her, though he remained standing. “Her power must have called to them.”
“Wait, what nonsense are ye on about, now?” I asked.
“We used to be your mother’s soldiers, my Queen,” Bran replied.
“Her bodyguards,” Cathal corrected. “And occasional lovers, from what I recall.”
Bran shrugged. “We served.”
“Well, I’m officially grossed out. Anyone else?” I threw up my hands, letting my frustration show, trying my best not to think about the fact that my mother had traipsed about with three men-at-arms who doubled as bedtime snacks.
“Why is she here?” the bard asked Cathal, ignoring my outburst.
“I’m escorting her to the Hall of Lives,” Cathal replied. “Her mother…needs her. And now it seems she needs her mother.”
“What d’ye mean?” I asked.
“He means you’ve been hurt,” Lady Aife replied. “Wounded.” She pointed at my waist, and as soon as I turned my attention to it, I knew exactly what she meant. I remembered, the pain hitting me like a phantom blow.
“Someone stabbed me…”
“Do you know who?” Tristan asked. I turned back to find him holding Blair up, letting her lean into his chest as she sobbed, quietly.
I frowned, trying to think, but it was hard; it felt like the last few hours—the last few months—were part dream, part reality. Hazy and hard to define, like childhood memories that may or may not have been real. “‘The Queen sends her regards,’” I repeated, at last.
Lady Aife’s head shot up. “Queen Niamh? But…that doesn’t make any sense.”
“The reason doesn’t matter,” Cathal insisted. “She’ll survive, but only if I take her to her mother.”
“Then we shall accompany you,” Bran said.
Cathal growled, hackles rising, the ashy grey markings decorating his fur emitting a gentle glow. “No, you won’t. If you want to chase after your goddess, be my guest. But I only agreed to escort one human. One.”
“We won’t be a burden,” Llew interjected, speaking for the first time since I’d come to.
“All humans are burdens,” Cathal spat.
“Oy, Cathy!” I yelled, drawing the hound’s attention. “How long do we have?” I left the rest of the question unspoken. Not how long did I have, but how long did we—my mother’s ghost and I—have. After all, I’d been lost for months inside this realm. If time had been running short before, I could only imagine how little of it we had now.
“Days, at most.”
I hung my head, cursing. “Then we’d better get goin’, before it’s too late.”
The hound met my eyes and nodded imperceptibly, his druidic marks fading once more. “I’ll keep a closer eye on you this time.”
“Aye, I’m sorry about that,” I replied.
“My Queen,” Bran said, rising to his feet, “will you allow us to join you?”
I glanced at each of the brothers in turn, studying the resolve on their faces. “No,” I said, at last. They hung their heads. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know ye. This woman, Ceara, her memories…” I drifted off. “I can’t trust me own judgment. Cathal is me guide, and I’ve decided to let him call the shots from now on. If he says we go alone, we go alone.”
“And me?”
I felt my shoulders tense involuntarily at the desperation in Blair’s voice. I didn’t turn; I didn’t want to see the crushing disappointment in the woman’s face. I honestly still wasn’t sure how I felt about my memories of her, of our time together. Besides, if I couldn’t trust my perception of the brothers, how was I supposed to trust my feelings for Blair?
“Look at me…Quinn.”
I winced but did as she asked. It was worse than I imagined; she no longer looked sad but determined. It was the face of an overzealous worshipper hoping to convert a non-believer—she was fixated on bringing back her lover, even if it meant following me to the ends of this—and perhaps another—world.
“No,” I said.
Her eyes tightened. “I know she’s in there.”
I sighed, exhaustion setting in, the pain in my lower back cresting. “And so what if she is?”
“I forbid you to leave,” Blair replied, matter-of-factly, as if that were the logical response.
I laughed, but it was a sad, tired laugh. “I don’t t’ink ye have a choice.”
“Oh, but I do.”
Before I could reply to that, Blair lashed out, jabbing the butt of her spear into my stomach. I bent over, out of breath, and finally dropped to my knees. When I looked up, I found the brothers shielding me, facing off against the Curaitl.
“Don’t make me hurt you again, spear wielder,” Finann threatened, sword leveled at Tristan.
“Stop!” I yelled, though it was a struggle to breath. I dry heaved for a moment, then got back to my feet, cradling my injured gut.
I shoved past the brothers to find Blair crying in the sand, her spear lying discarded beside her. “Now you have to do what you swore you’d do,” she said, her voice soft and broken.
“What’s she talking about?” Cathal asked. He and the bard stood away from the others, though he’d risen menacingly onto all fours.
This time both voices in my head spoke at once, and the memory they shared was a joint thing—Ceara’s vow, spoken out of anger. A promise that made Ceara feel so guilty she’d sought out the woman she’d threatened often, hoping to make up for her breach of etiquette.
So often they’d fallen for each other.
“If you remember,” Blair insisted, “that means she’s still in there. Which means, if you leave me behind, you know what will happen.”
She’ll never forgive us.
I gritted my teeth, shaking my head, anger rising. “What have ye done, Blair?”
Blair rubbed an arm across her eyes, smearing her cheeks with sand in the process. “I told you I didn’t know what I’d do if you left. Well, now you know,” she replied, bitterly.
“Quinn…” Cathal growled.
“She wants me to blind her,” I said, glaring at the woman. “I swore, if she ever hurt me on purpose, ever again, I’d take her eyes.” As one, the others looked at me, their faces equally horrified—even the bard seemed appalled.
Only Cathal looked away.
“Then take her eyes. But hurry up, we have places to be.”
“Cathal!” I swung around to square off with the mangy bastard, but the second I saw his face I knew what he meant; his lips twitched, teeth bared. He didn’t like this anymore than I did, but then he had a job to do—a human to escort, regardless of how long it took, or who had to be blinded along the way.
“Do it,” Blair said, rising to her feet. “In a world without Ceara, I may as well be blind.”
“Blair—” Lady Aife began.
“No!” Blair whirled to face the warmaiden. “You don’t get to lecture me about this. Not you.”
Lady Aife’s face flushed uncharacteristically red, looking even more like her daughter’s in that instant than I’d ever thought possible. And, for some reason, that triggered something else inside me. Inside us. I turned to Blair, studying her as Ceara would have, noting her beauty, yes, but also her flaws. Her eagerness to follow
orders, to fight, to believe the best in people even when they didn’t deserve it.
“I won’t do it,” I said, softly.
“You must!” Blair screamed, kicking up sand. “Do it!”
“No, Blair,” I said, the expression on my face stilling her. “No, I have another choice.”
“Ceara?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s still me.” But the truth was more complicated than that; I’d experienced the emotions of that strange, loving woman—just for an instant—long enough to know I could never hurt Blair like that. Not her. “And I have another choice.”
Cathal whipped his head around. “You can’t be serious.”
“Can I reach the Hall of Lives from there?” I asked.
Cathal’s markings lit up, steam spewing from his body. “Cross the Blighted Lands in a few days?! Are you insane?”
“Can it be done?”
Cathal howled, a sound so brutal it made all of us cringe, the patterns splashed along his body going from red to blue, like the inner core of a candle flame. By the time he was done, we were surrounded by a light fog. “I hate humans,” he said, finally, chest heaving.
“I didn’t say ye had to—”
“Of course I’m coming, you idiot! I’m your guide. As if there’s a guarantee you’ll even survive the Blighted Lands in the shape you’re in!” He stalked towards me, eyes glowing through the mist. “If I have to drag you by the throat with my teeth, I’ll deliver you. Do you understand me?”
“I…I didn’t mean…” Blair stammered, only this time it was Lady Aife who took her into her arms, brushing her head soothingly.
“Go,” she said, glaring at me. “Go, and do not return. You are a stranger among the Curaitl, and no longer welcome among my people.”
I winced; for some reason, that had hurt a hell of a lot more than I thought it would. “Come on, Cathy,” I said, trying to keep the regret out of my voice. “We’ve clearly overstayed our welcome.”
“Don’t call me Cathy, brat.”
I didn’t bother responding. But then, I wasn’t sure I had anything else I could say; I was too close to tears to force anything witty, and too damn tired to complain. At this point, I was willing to chalk it up to experience—yet another failed relationship to contemplate. The only difference this time around was that the hyperbolic “I wish I could just die” mentality that usually follows a breakup would likely end up being more literal.
Here Lies Quinn MacKenna.
She Never Could Get It Right.
29
The bard, Amergin, left the Curaitl and the Crows to talk amongst themselves, trailing instead after Cathal and me. I briefly considered telling the guy to back off but wasn’t in the mood to bark at anyone; I’d had my fill of being the bad girl for a little while. Instead, I drifted behind until I was even with the bard. I realized I recognized him, though it took me longer to place him than I would have liked. Ceara’s memories—the tall man strumming and plucking his lyre as he wove a tragedy, the fervent gleam in his eyes as he urged his people to war—flashing behind my eyelids like snippets of a film.
To say it was jarring would be an understatement.
Would it continue like this, I wondered? Ceara’s memories, her emotions, overwhelming me at the most inopportune moments? It occurred to me that, aside from these flashes, I knew very little about the woman I’d become over the last few months, a woman who’d taken a lover and found a home among a village of primitive strangers. To be honest, I still wasn’t sure how I felt about any of this, let alone about who I’d evolved into among the Otherworlders—the “Blessed People” who dwelt here.
“Are they all heroes, then?” I asked the bard, absentmindedly.
“Excuse me?”
“The Blessed People. Lady Aife. Bran. Tristan.” I waffled a hand in his direction. “Even Amergin has a familiar ring to it,” I admitted, recalling tales of the last race to conquer Ireland and the warrior poet who’d led them against the Tuatha de Danann.
But the bard was shaking his head. “Some are, as you say, heroes. Legends. Figures from myths. Figures from the past. Kings and warriors. Bards and artists.” Amergin shrugged. “But most lose track of these things, their memories, much as you did. They become something other than whom they once were, even if parts remain.”
“But not all do,” I challenged, quizzically.
“Not all, no. The individuals you might call rulers, typically, are the rare few who never forgot their old lives. Those who recognize themselves in the old stories. And, in a few cases, those who tell those stories to begin with.”
I shook my head, trying to process that. A world full of champions, of larger-than-life personalities, of…well, immortals. “So, what? This is like, heaven? Their reward?”
“Heaven…” the bard drifted off, considering the notion. He frowned. “Perhaps.”
I cocked an eyebrow at his sudden caginess. “Perhaps?”
“This place is a prison,” Cathal muttered, far enough ahead of us that I could barely make out his comment.
“A what?” I called.
Amergin shot the hound a dirty look. “It is not a prison.”
Cathal kept padding forward, though it seemed almost as if he shrugged mid-stride, shoulder blade bunching for just a moment. “Have it your way.”
“What did he mean?” I asked, looking to the bard for clarification.
“I meant,” Cathal said, before the bard could reply, “that everyone here is living under false pretenses. But maybe the bard’s right. Maybe prison isn’t the right word.” He swung that massive muzzle around towards me, rage simmering just beneath the surface as he spoke. “This place is a garrison.”
“A what?”
“That’s enough, Hound,” Amergin interjected.
Cathal halted, turning in a lumbering circle until he stood facing the bard, the edges of the surf lapping against the shore like a death knell, a bell tolling away Amergin’s last moments. “Are you telling me what to do, bard?”
Amergin blanched, but bravely—or perhaps stupidly—held his ground. “No. I merely wish you wouldn’t say such things.” He glanced back the way we’d come, scrutinizing that distant campfire and the shadowy figures crouched before it.
Cathal tracked the bard’s stare and snarled. “You prefer to maintain the lie, is that it? That this is paradise, and not a staging ground for the war to come?”
“There is no such thing as paradise,” Amergin replied, sounding tired. He turned his attention to the hound. “Not one without a purpose, at any rate.”
I frowned at that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means no version of the afterlife exists outside of time,” Amergin explained. “Even Heaven is attuned to a ticking clock. Judgment Day. Ragnarok. The Sermon of the Seven Suns.” The bard ran a thin-fingered hand through his hair, mussing it up in the process, clearly agitated. “Paradise cannot be infinite, or you’d call it Hell.”
Cathal swiveled and resumed walking, his markings flaring red for just an instant. The two of us trailed after him while I considered everything Amergin was telling me. I had to admit, the bard had a point. Even in scripture, the End of Days coincided with a huge battle between good and evil. Or perhaps not good and evil itself, but the forces of good and evil. The troops had to come from somewhere, after all.
“Wait, you’re sayin’ the Blessed People really are livin’ here until their gods call on ‘em to fight?” I asked, everything finally falling into place at once. “Isn’t that a bit…manipulative?” I struggled to think of a better word. “Or, well, wrong?”
Amergin chuckled. “Since when are gods exclusively benevolent?”
I thought about that and had to admit the bard was right; just about every myth or parable I’d come across in every religion featured capricious, self-serving gods. Sure, they helped mortals from time to time, but their assistance always came with an expectation, or at the culmination of some awful trial. Even Abraham’s God had demanded s
acrifice, and Noah’s Ark hadn’t exactly been built in a day. “I don’t like it,” I admitted.
Cathal grunted his agreement.
“That’s why I wanted to speak with you, before you left,” Amergin replied, adamantly.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” The bard halted, looking away towards the sea, expression unreadable. “What the Tuatha de Danann have created here…this world…it cannot go on as it is.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
“You have seen for yourself why not. Or your Other self has, at least.”
“Me Other self?”
“The woman you became. Ceara. She is your Other self. The woman you might have been, had you been raised among us.” He waved that away before I could ask the dozen or so questions his explanation raised. “But that’s not important. Simply think back to the tournament, to your time in the Southern Isles.”
I grimaced but did as he asked. “What about it?”
“Didn’t the whole event strike you as odd? Forced, even?”
I nodded, murky memories resurfacing under Amergin’s gaze. “I remember thinkin’ there was little point, if that’s what ye mean?”
“Exactly.” The bard’s chin bobbed up and down enthusiastically. “The leaders, those of us who know the truth, who know this realm’s intended purpose, continue to bring together our best warriors to test each other’s mettle. We even recruit our most skilled artists to glorify their accomplishments. But we have been at peace too long. Too few are compelled to wage war. And why should they? Not when—”
“When love is already in our grasp,” I interrupted, reminded of Ceara’s final thoughts before being stabbed, of her eagerness to explore this great, wide world—to spend her days and nights by Blair’s side for an eternity.
A pang of regret accompanied the thought.
“Exactly!” Amergin exclaimed.
“What would you have her do about it?” Cathal asked, glancing over his shoulder at the bard with one ear cocked, the other drooping.
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