An aging man with curling gray hair met them at the dock and gave a low bow as Ruarc and Donnan helped the girls from the boat. “My ladies, good master, welcome to Dún Eavan. I’m Tarlach, the steward here. Your rooms have been prepared, if you’ll follow me.”
Niamh frowned, but Aine smiled back and followed the man up the gravel path toward the entrance.
Torches lit the small hall, their sharp smell mingling with the dusty scent of the unfinished earthen floors. The room was set for a gathering with several long trestle tables and benches. Aine mistook the throne for a simple chair until she saw its worn, ancient carvings.
A plump woman Tarlach’s age bustled forward to meet them. “My ladies, good master. I’m Eimer, the housekeeper. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
Niamh opened her mouth, but Aine poked her sharply in the ribs before she could put words to her sour thoughts. Eimer continued, “Master Meallachán, we have a small, private room prepared for you. My ladies, Tarlach will show you to your chamber.”
The steward led the girls to one of three doorways off the hall, which Aine had assumed to be corridors. Instead, they found themselves in a tiny, windowless room no more than two spans across. Two narrow bedsteads covered with faded wool blankets took up most of the space, and a small stool held an ewer of water between them.
“Why don’t you rest a while? Eimer will wake you for supper.” Tarlach bowed his way out of the room and shut the door firmly behind him.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Niamh moaned the second they were alone. “It’s awful.”
“It’s rustic,” Aine admitted. “At least we have a candle, not a torch. And we’re certainly safe here in the middle of the lake.”
“That depends on what you consider safe.” Niamh flopped down on the rush mattress and plumped the pillow under her head. Stray feathers floated from the case, caught by the breeze from the arrow slit. “I’m going to take a nap. It’s better than staring at these walls.”
Aine stretched out on her own bed, though she didn’t feel sleepy. Their belongings hadn’t arrived from the shore, so she didn’t even have her books to distract her. Instead, she stared at the timber roof and wondered why Dún Eavan so unsettled her sister.
A knock startled Aine from her doze. Niamh groaned and buried her face in the pillow. “Go away.”
Aine rubbed her eyes. “Niamh, it’s supper time.”
The girl pushed herself up with a groan. “I was hoping this place was just a nightmare.”
Without the fading light through windows to mark the passage of time, Aine felt as if she had slept a year. She straightened her clothing, though Niamh assured her there was no need to make an effort here. Who was there to take notice?
Out in the hall, guardsmen packed into the long trestles while Eimer set out platters of bread and bowls of stew every few feet down the board. Aine and Niamh halted, taken aback. They had never dined with so many men before.
“Ladies.” Donnan appeared at their side and led them to a section of the table that had been sequestered by Ruarc and Meallachán. Gratefully, they followed him to their seats just as Eimer placed wooden trenchers before them.
Aine stole a look around the room. Compared to Aron, Seare already seemed primitive. Isolated on the crannog amidst dozens of warriors, she felt as if she was in another world entirely. No wonder Niamh hated it.
She had hoped Meallachán might play, but he too seemed affected by the fortress’s gloomy atmosphere, and he returned to his chamber after the meal. When she and Niamh escaped to their own space, they found their chests had been delivered, along with a straw pallet on their floor for Oonagh. Niamh undressed for bed wordlessly and climbed beneath the covers.
“Niamh?” Aine whispered. “It will be fine. I’m sure of it.”
Niamh turned over and pulled the blanket higher so only the top of her head showed on the pillow. Aine sighed. Then she blew out the candle and climbed into her own bed.
She awoke later, disoriented, her heart thrumming. The still, dark chamber gave no clue to what had awakened her.
Then she heard a low, keening wail: faint at first and then growing louder, as if it approached the fortress. Gooseflesh prickled her arms and neck.
“Niamh,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
Niamh’s voice came back, shaky and thin. “I’m awake.”
“What is that?”
Straw rustled on the floor. Oonagh whispered, “It’s the bean-sidhe, my lady.”
A cousin of the fey folk, the bean-sidhe supposedly appeared when someone was about to die. But those were just superstitions, weren’t they? “It’s probably the wind or an owl.”
“Owls don’t nest on the crannog,” Niamh said as another wail pierced the silence.
“In the trees on the shore then.” A kernel of cold formed in Aine’s middle. This place was ancient, predating the Great Kingdom and the coming of Balianism to the island. It was not as innocuous as she had first supposed.
Automatically, Aine began to murmur an old blessing. “Comdiu protect us. Comdiu watch over us. Comdiu be at the left and the right and smooth the way before us. Comdiu stand between us and the harm of this world, and banish the darkness with the light of Your Son, Balus.”
As she began again, the faint sounds of a harp took up the refrain, a soft melody that seemed meant to accompany the words, even though Meallachán couldn’t possibly hear her from across the fortress. Niamh and Oonagh joined the prayer in hushed voices, repeating the words with quiet fervency. When their words faded along with the sound of the harp, they heard only silence. A weight lifted from Aine’s chest.
Sleep did not return easily, though. Something greater and more sinister dwelled here, like the evil in the forest outside Lisdara, but this place did not have the keep’s old, strong wards to hold it back.
Bed coverings rustled, and Aine lifted her blanket to admit Niamh into the cocoon of warmth. Lying nose to nose, her sister said, “That wasn’t the wind or an owl, was it?”
Aine searched for answers that would not frighten Niamh more, but they were all lies. “No, I don’t think it was.”
“Comdiu protect us,” Niamh murmured with a shiver.
Aine linked arms with her sister. He already had.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I wish something would happen one way or another. This waiting is unbearable!”
Aine didn’t look up at Niamh, absorbed in the tonic she was mixing in the decrepit shed she had commandeered as her work space. According to the messengers that came and went in the small boats, Fergus had neither responded to the king’s diplomatic overtures nor taken further action against the Balians in Tigh. Aine dared hope Calhoun’s sternly worded missive had given his Timhaigh counterpart pause, but her instincts said that was just wishful thinking.
“I know,” Aine answered finally. “I’d like to believe the threat of losing the alliance was enough. Maybe we’ll be able to go home soon.”
“I hope so.” Niamh made a frustrated sound and bent her head over her sewing again. She rarely left Aine’s side, even though she never seemed particularly interested in doing more than complaining. Apparently, Aine’s company was a slight step up from being alone.
Three more times the bean-sidhe had returned, the wails louder and more threatening, and each time they had banished it with prayer and music. Since then, Meallachán had taken to playing his harp each night after supper. Aine wondered if she was the only one who sensed the protective cocoon created by the melody. It only strengthened her conviction about the magic she felt so strongly entwined in both Meallachán’s and Conor’s playing, but the bard rebuffed her attempts to discuss the matter.
Tarlach and Eimer had proved more helpful. They told her the bean-sidhe appeared only when a member of the clan arrived, as if it were drawn to Calhoun and his family. Aine didn’t want to believe its influence was being felt, but the guards had suffered a string of bad luck since arriving. Chunks of rock fell from the top
of the crumbling fortress walls and struck several men, and two had nearly drowned in the shallows of the lake. None of the incidents challenged Aine’s healing, but at times she thought she sensed a residue of magic.
The mood at the fortress grew considerably more somber after darkness fell, and Meallachán’s playing dispelled their anxiety for only so long. No one had objected when Aine had begun reading aloud from a partial copy of the Second Canon each night. The bard had watched her closely, but he hadn’t commented.
“Maybe if Calhoun knew what was happening here, he’d let us come back to Lisdara,” Niamh said, oblivious to the direction of Aine’s musings.
Aine decanted her mixture into a small glass bottle and corked it snugly. “I’m sure he knows. They send messages twice a day.”
Niamh shook her head. “They’ve said nothing. Captain Ó Hearn is afraid Calhoun will dismiss him. You know how our brother is when it comes to the supernatural.”
“Who told you that?”
“Donnan.” Niamh made a face when Aine grinned. “Fine, I’ll admit it. He’s pleasant, and he answers my questions, unlike all the others.”
“What does he say about all this?”
Niamh pulled a string around her neck and dangled a wheel charm from her fingers. “He carved me this. I know it doesn’t have any real power, but it makes me feel better.”
Aine couldn’t blame her, not while she wore Conor’s pendant around her own neck. Her charm might contain some protective magic, but so far, it had done nothing but serve as a comforting reminder of Conor.
“I have to give this to one of the guards,” Aine said, holding up the vial. “He’s nearly recovered, and the captain wants him back to work.”
Immediately, Niamh shoved her sewing into her basket and stood. “I’ll go with you.”
“Why? I’ll be just a minute. I’ll come right back.”
“I don’t want to be alone here,” Niamh said. “Besides, you’re the one that banished the bean-sidhe. It hasn’t returned since the first night you read from the Canon. Everyone’s saying so.”
“That’s ridiculous. It could have just as easily been Meallachán’s playing.”
“It hasn’t come back since you began the readings.”
“Come if you’d like, but enough of this nonsense about me. I haven’t done anything.”
Aine left the shack and crossed the earthen courtyard with Niamh at her heels. Lord, I don’t want their admiration. I don’t deserve their reverence. What do I do?
That afternoon, she joined Meallachán as he walked around the crannog. He said nothing, though he slowed his pace to accommodate her shorter stride. After a few minutes of companionable silence, he asked gently, “What’s on your mind, my lady?”
Aine searched for an explanation that didn’t sound embarrassingly arrogant. “The men’s regard disturbs me,” she said finally.
“They are reassured by your presence, my lady. They see the hand of Comdiu upon you.”
“But I didn’t do anything! We both know your playing is responsible for holding back the bean-sidhe.”
“I know you did nothing to purposely draw their admiration. But the coming of Balus aside, Seareanns are very superstitious people, and you’re their ‘lady healer of Lisdara.’ Is it so bad to be an example of what Comdiu can do through a willing servant?”
So much of what Meallachán said sounded right. That alone worried her. “If they look to me and not to Comdiu, then aye, it’s a bad thing.”
Meallachán did not reply, though he clearly disagreed. She nodded her thanks and returned to the shed, though she was too preoccupied to do more than straighten up her work space. Lord, please show me how to act. There is so much evil in this place, and I want to be a bridge, not a barrier. They should look to You, not me.
Aine dozed for hours that night, too unsettled to sleep soundly, until a light knock snapped her back to wakefulness.
“Aine,” came a whisper. “Aine, wake up. You’re needed outside.”
“Ruarc?” She caught the note of urgency in his voice and squinted into the darkness. Niamh and Oonagh still slept. She thrust her feet into her shoes and quietly took her heavy cloak from its peg on the wall. The maid stirred at the creak of the door, but no one awoke.
Outside in the hall, torches guttered in their brackets, casting flickering light on the sleeping guards. The front door stood open a crack. Ruarc must have gone back outside. Was someone hurt? She crept out of the hall and into the misty night.
The yard lay still and empty, with no sign of Ruarc or the perimeter guards. Should she go back inside or should she wait?
Her breath puffed in the chilly air, and a sense of wrongness tickled her senses. Then the fog cleared, revealing the dark, prone shape of a man on the edge of the shore. She pulled her cloak around herself and hurried toward him.
“Ruarc?” Aine’s heart leapt into her throat, and she fell to her knees beside him to check for life signs.
A rustle behind her alerted her to the presence of another. She assumed her calmest, most competent voice as she turned. “Get help, and bring back a light . . .”
Her voice trailed away. The ghostly shape of a woman hovered behind her, piercing black eyes staring from a skeletal face.
Aine froze, her throat almost too tight to speak. “What do you want from me?”
Malevolence poured from the specter, sending a thrill of terror through her. Aine scrambled to her feet and stumbled over Ruarc’s body. Before she could regain her balance, the bean-sidhe flew at her with a horrifying screech. Aine pitched backward and tumbled down the bank into the water.
The lake seized her, her heavy cloak driving her into its murky depths. Frantically, she struggled toward the surface as her lungs screamed for air. Don’t breathe! But the need for air overwhelmed every rational thought. Water rushed into her lungs like the touch of cold fire, searing her, crushing her from the inside.
Then, after a lifetime of agony, it no longer hurt so much. The creeping numbness was taking over, dimming her fear.
It’s not so bad to die, she thought hazily.
She stretched out and succumbed to the cold embrace of Loch Eirich.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Conor struggled in the dark, gasping for air. The cold lake water enveloped him, stealing into his lungs, draining the life from his body. He sat up in bed and clutched his burning chest, blinking away disorientation.
A few of his céad mates stirred. From the bunk beside him, Merritt lifted his head long enough to scowl at him. “Shut it, will you? I just got to sleep.” He rolled to his other side and dragged his blanket over his head.
Conor clutched his pounding skull while he caught his breath. It had to have been a dream. But no, it was too vivid to be a dream. This had the startling clarity of a vision. He leapt to his feet and fled up the steps into the cool, dark night.
Footsteps followed him. “Conor, what’s wrong?”
He turned. Eoghan stood in the doorway, half-dressed, his expression alarmed.
“Aine’s dying.” Conor’s voice broke, and he gathered his thoughts with difficulty. “I have to go to her. I have to help—”
Eoghan gripped both his arms. “Tell me what happened.”
Conor poured out the details of the vision, his voice shaking nearly as badly as his hands. “I have to go. If there’s a chance—”
“You can’t. You’re a novice. You’re not allowed to leave.”
Conor stopped. Eoghan’s statement quelled the impulse like water on a fire. “What do I do then?”
Eoghan lifted a shoulder helplessly. “Pray.”
So Conor prayed while Eoghan held silent vigil. He paced a restless path around the clochan for hours until he finally collapsed helplessly against the exterior wall. When the horns woke the rest of the village, Conor blearily opened his eyes.
“You love this girl,” Eoghan said softly.
Conor had never admitted it aloud—he had barely admitted it to himself—but now he
said, “With everything in me. If she’s gone, I have to know.”
There was only one person who might be able to tell him if she was alive or dead.
Conor didn’t bother to straighten his clothes or comb his hair before he started up Carraigmór’s slick steps. Heedless of the danger, he took them two at a time and arrived panting and sweating at the top.
“I have to see Master Liam,” he told the guard, bracing his palms on his knees while he caught his breath.
The brother looked him over doubtfully, but he allowed him inside. Another brother appeared and promised to deliver his request of an audience to the Ceannaire. Conor paced the polished stone floor for the better part of an hour before the man returned. “Master Liam will see you now. Come with me.”
Conor followed him from the hall and up a flight of steep stairs that ended at a single door. The brother knocked lightly and pushed the door open. “Go ahead. He’s expecting you.”
Conor stepped into the tiny chamber, his heart thumping again. Stacks of books cluttered tables and the shelf-lined walls, and Master Liam sat at a large desk in the center of the room.
“Brother Conor, come in. You have a matter of urgency?”
Conor hadn’t given much thought to what he would say to the Ceannaire. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir—”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Your sister, Aine.” He struggled to keep his voice even. “I’m afraid she’s in danger. It may already be too late—”
“Slow down. How do you know Aine’s in danger?”
“I dreamed it.”
Liam’s eyebrows arched. “Does this happen often?”
“Never. At least not this type of dream. But I felt her drown. I’m certain of it.”
Liam tented his fingers against his lips. “You have a connection with her, then.”
Conor flushed and looked at the floor. It seemed presumptuous to say he loved her, that they were in love. He wouldn’t have even come here had he not thought Liam might be able to do something about it.
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