“Their mothers will be pleased to hear you don’t think perfecting their embroidery is useful.”
Aine wrinkled her nose and shooed him off to his manly duties.
On the day of the Cáisc feast, musicians, mummers, and jugglers roamed Lisdara and its environs. Servants provided a steady supply of delicacies from the kitchens, and wine, ale, and mead flowed freely, though on this day the men seemed more conscious than usual of their consumption. Aine escorted crowds of excited children around the various games set up in the meadow below. She joined them in tossing painted rings onto stakes and found herself laughing just as merrily as her charges.
At sundown, the celebration moved indoors. Once the children had been tucked safely into their beds, the adults settled into their seats with honeyed mead and cakes while Meallachán brought out his harp. Aine’s heart beat faster as the bard tuned the instrument. Conor had been the last to play in the hall. She pretended not to notice the sympathetic glance Gainor sent her way.
Before Meallachán could sound the first note, the doors to the hall burst open, and the captain of Calhoun’s guard strode in, his expression grim. The warrior knelt at the king’s side and murmured something in his ear. Aine watched Calhoun’s expression shift, and her heart plummeted.
Calhoun stood. “My lords and ladies, I’m afraid I need a word with the council.”
Aine and Niamh exchanged an alarmed glance, but they rose with the wives, daughters, and minor lords who would not be privy to the discussion. Speculation rustled through the hall as it slowly drained of all but Calhoun’s council members. The two girls reluctantly retreated to their chamber, but not before Aine caught a glimpse of a nervous-looking, travel-stained man.
“Do you think this has something to do with Conor?” Niamh asked when they reached their chamber, worry cracking her usual shell of disdain.
“He didn’t look like an official messenger.” Still, Aine hadn’t liked the look on Calhoun’s face.
The king summoned Aine and Niamh to his chamber early the next morning. Gainor sat with him, but their breakfast spread was conspicuously absent.
“What I’m about to tell you must not leave this room,” Calhoun said. “We have learned that on Cáisc morning, King Fergus ordered the execution of over one hundred Balian villagers and their families, presumably for conspiring with Labhrás Ó Maonagh against the crown. He has made it clear he will enforce the ban on the Balian faith by any means necessary.”
The blood drained from Aine’s face. “Blessed Father,” she whispered. Conor had been right in fearing for his life should he return to Glenmallaig.
Calhoun looked between the girls. Weariness had deepened the lines of his face, making him look far older than his years. “Our alliance puts us in a difficult position. We will attempt to address this matter with diplomacy. Should that fail . . .” He shook his head. “I cannot countenance the murder of Balian brethren.”
“You would go to war over this?” Aine asked.
Calhoun looked at Gainor. “I cannot discount the new king may not react favorably to our meddling in what he considers internal matters. Until this is resolved, I want you girls to go to Dún Eavan.”
“The fortress?” Aine knew only that Dún Eavan was one of several Faolanaigh strongholds.
“I want you safe before we dispatch our messengers,” Calhoun said. “That gives you the rest of the day to prepare. In the meantime, I must remind you to say nothing. And prepare for a long stay.”
Aine and Niamh took their leave, too stunned to speak, and walked back to their chamber. Aine drew Ruarc aside in the hallway. “Are we going to war?”
“I don’t know. We should consider returning to Aron, though. There’s no reason to put yourself in danger.”
There was nothing for her in Aron. Still, she nodded. “I’ll consider it.”
Inside, Niamh paced the chamber, chewing on her thumbnail. “Calhoun promised me I would never have to go back to Dún Eavan. It’s cursed.”
“Cursed? How exactly?”
Niamh shuddered and refused to elaborate.
“We’ll bring lots of things to do. You play the cruit passably well. Perhaps you can teach me.” She stopped when she realized Niamh wasn’t listening. Her sister could be dramatic, but the fact Niamh had abandoned her hostility so abruptly spoke of a bigger threat. Aine lifted up a silent, wordless prayer and tried not to acknowledge the chill that had crept into her heart.
While Niamh packed her necessities—embroidery, game pieces, and an extensive wardrobe—Mistress Bearrach helped Aine fill a trunk with herbs, tinctures, and salves. They would be traveling with a company of fifty men, half of whom would stay behind at the fortress. They would likely need the remedies at some point, especially if they stayed for an extended period.
Even knowing they’d be traveling with a large party did not prepare Aine for the gathering that met them the next morning. The majority were clansmen of Cuillinn and its septs, professional fighters the chiefs employed for such occasions. Calhoun must truly fear for their safety if he’d arranged this kind of escort.
Niamh looked pale when she arrived in the courtyard, dark shadows smudging the skin beneath her eyes. She had just climbed into the carriage when the curtains slid back.
“I don’t suppose there’s room for one more?” Meallachán asked.
Aine’s heart lifted. She gestured to the enormous leather case on Meallachán’s back. “For you or your harp?”
The bard smiled. “My harp and I are never separated. I’ll just have to ride then.”
“I’m surprised Calhoun was willing to give you up.”
“I’m free to go where I please. It simply pleased me to stay at Lisdara for the last ten years. Trust me, Dún Eavan is gloomy enough with music. You don’t want to experience it without.”
“You’ve been there?”
Meallachán’s expression sobered. “Aye. And if you had, you’d realize the king would not send you there without good cause.”
Aine wanted to ask more about the fortress, but Niamh looked on the verge of hysterics. She would have plenty of time to question him once they arrived, though. Meallachán wouldn’t be coming if it were to be a mere fortnight’s stay.
A stable hand brought the bard’s horse around, and Aine noted he elected to carry the heavy instrument rather than entrust it to the servants. Not that there was any room in the carts. Niamh had packed three trunks for every one of Aine’s.
Shouts rose outside, and immediately, the carriage lurched forward amidst a symphony of squeaks and rattles. No one spoke, only the creak of wood and the thud of horses’ hooves breaking the stillness. Niamh fidgeted in her seat. Then she rose and settled beside Aine. Silently, she twined their fingers together. Aine shoved down her shock and squeezed Niamh’s hand.
When they had been on the road for some time, the curtain on Niamh’s side of the carriage drew back to reveal a homely, pock-marked man on horseback. “How are you ladies faring?”
“We’re fine, Donnan, thank you,” Niamh said.
He nodded and let the curtain fall.
“Donnan?” Aine inquired innocently.
“My guard. Calhoun assigned him.”
Aine struggled to keep the smile from her face. “He seems pleasant.”
“Well, Calhoun apparently felt it was inequitable for one sister to have a guard and not the other.”
“You had a guard before, I understand.”
“Who told you? Gainor?”
A grin surfaced on Aine’s lips. “What was his name? Brogan? I hear you could have gotten him hanged the way you were carrying on after him.”
“I was twelve!” Niamh protested, coloring. “They should have known better than to assign me a young, handsome guard!”
“Well, it seems Calhoun has learned from his mistakes.”
Niamh tried to look annoyed, but a smile stretched her face, and they dissolved into helpless giggles. The anxiety lifted from Aine’s chest. Perhaps some good might
come from the situation if it began to repair her relationship with her sister.
They stopped briefly for refreshments under strict watch at midday, then were hurried back into the carriage. Just as the sun began to sink into the horizon, they rattled to a stop. The door on Aine’s side sprang open, and Donnan helped Aine, then Niamh, to the ground. “Ladies, welcome to Dún Eavan.”
Aine stared, dumbstruck by her first glimpse of Loch Eirich, an expanse of water so large she could barely see the far shores. The setting sun shone beneath the canopy of clouds, reflecting brilliant shades of red, orange, and amber onto the lake’s glimmering surface. In the center, the crannog and its fortress sprang from the water, its silhouette craggy and uneven against the backdrop of sky. Aine felt a stir of recognition, an acknowledgment of something ancient.
“Calhoun promised I would never have to come back here,” Niamh whispered tremulously.
“It’ll be all right,” Aine murmured. “You’ll see.”
“Ladies.” Ruarc ushered them to a waiting bark boat attached to a thick rope that stretched between the shore and the crannog. Aine, Niamh, and Meallachán were selected to cross first with the girls’ guards. A man on the shore cranked the wheel that drove the pulley, and the boat lurched free of the sandy bank.
“The staff is expecting us,” Ruarc said as the boat glided across the lake. “The king sent a rider ahead this morning.”
“Does he keep staff permanently on the island?” Aine asked.
“A few. Anytime the clan comes for any length, they bring their own servants. Right now, it’s just the cook, the housekeeper, and Dún Eavan’s steward.”
Niamh trembled. Aine grasped her sister’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly, despite her own twinge of apprehension.
As the boat drew near the crannog, Aine could make out the details of the fortress, an uneven oval constructed from a haphazard jumble of stone, earth, and timber with arrow slits for windows. Smoke drifted from an outbuilding, which Aine guessed to be the kitchen.
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 t
he 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.
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