Irish: The Irish Princess Part 45

He tipped his head to glare at Maguire, then past him to the prisoner. "Where would he take her?"

"His castle, mayhaps. Or a farm near the edge of his lands." His look said he didn't think she was alive and Gaelan ignored it. He had to.

"The Fenians are in the middle of this."

"They have not been in Donegal for years," Fionna defended. "I would know." He jerked a look at her and she backstepped at the savagery borne there. "My brother is one of the clan."

"He's forbidden to speak to you," Ian reminded.

"Shut thy mouth, chieftain," she gritted. "Or you will be croaking instead of sitting there smug in the saddle." Only then did she look at him, her haunting blue eyes filled with bitterness and stabbing through Ian with a force that left a trail.

He opened his mouth to speak when Gaelan pointed at him. "Not a word or I gag you." He turned to Patrick, pulling him from the saddle and slamming him against the horse. "Tell me something that will appease me, traitor, for your life hangs on a slim thread."

Patrick stared, rain pelting his face. "I can show you a dozen caverns, but they will be empty as well. He awaits me in five days. He gathers at the end of the Finn river, in armor." His gaze shifted past to meet the Maguires. "Then onto Cloch Baintreach."

"Nay," Fionna gasped, her gaze tripping to Ian's. Her family was there.

"Then we know where he will be in five days," Gaelan said, as if he did not notice the horror on her lovely face. He stepped back, pulling on his leather gauntlet as he moved to his mount. "Andrew, remain here with your men and comb the forest for a trail. Fallon," he said to the Irishman. "Count our best and pair them to sc.r.a.p over every inch of this land to the sh.o.r.e. Disguise your trappings." He gestured to the clothing that marked them soldiers. "Trade them, mix them, I do not care, but I do not want to frighten the people O'Niell has already harmed. We do this peacefully."

The Irishman nodded, and Ian watched the man a.s.semble his squads with the efficiency he'd seen in PenDragon's ranks. But it was the fairness and trust bestowed that stunned him more.

"Sir Pierce, take yours to the river's end and remain out of sight. We watch only. O'Niell is mine," he said with crisp command, and Pierce nodded. "Maguire-" Ian's head came around, his jaw bearing an undignified slack. "I suggest you send word to your holdings to prepare, should this not be a lie." Gaelan's look said he would cut Patrick slice by slice if it was. "But for G.o.d's sake, be certain they are discreet. This may be our only chance."

"Where will you be?"

"Searching."

"Alone?"

Gaelan held his hand out for Fionna and she climbed to the saddle.

"Not quite," Fionna said with a cryptic look at Ian. His features went tight with understanding, and if she did not know better, she would swear he was afraid for PenDragon.

Gaelan didn't notice the exchange as he wheeled the beast about and tossed, "Keep that b.a.s.t.a.r.d alive"-he gestured to Patrick-"until we need him," before riding into the dark.

"She is not dead."

"Sweet Jesu, I pray not."

Fionna tilted her head to look at him. "In your heart, Gaelan, you know."

His features worked into misery. "I want to believe." He halted before her cottage and she slid from the mount, her back to him for a moment before she turned to face him.

The storm whipped at her long hair, dragging it across her throat.

Rain pearled on her upturned face.

"Trust what you hear and see this day, PenDragon." She laid her hand over his. "'Tis the magic of ancients. Of your family." She pressed something into his hand, closing his fist around it. "Your love for her will not fail you." She turned into the cottage and Gaelan opened his hand, staring at the small smooth stone, the color of his wife's eyes.

Clutching it tightly, he kissed his fist and turned into the woods.

In the downpour, Fionna stood in a circle of white stones, naked to nature's wrath, pointing the wand and marking the ground. The ground burst with a ring of blue fire and she laid the branch on a block of stone. She spilled water into a bowl, a sprinkle of herbs, then straightened and raised her hand, palms out, her head dropped back.

She chanted. Over and over.

A heavy blue vapor surrounded her, swept like tendrils to envelop her until she was scarcely recognizable. She faced north, south, then east and west, chanting softly in Gaelic.

"Erinn Fenain. Son of Finn MacCoul. Warrior creed. Come to me. Defend your right, your honor pure."

She repeated the words, and slowly figures joined her in the circle, the shape of tall men surrounding her like towers. Each bore a javelin like a staff, a short sword at their waists and gleaming in the blue light. Then abruptly the blue vapor dissipated, the fires smoking to naught.

The men turned, facing her, the tallest scowling like the thunder clouds clapping above them. "d.a.m.n you, witch." He looked around, shrugging into the fur mantle draping his shoulders, trying to recognize the land. "Donegal."

"Welcome home, brother." Fionna despised the eagerness in her voice, but she missed him.

He met her gaze impa.s.sively. "All are prohibited to speak-"

"I need your help."

"Your requests betray your honor."

"I was doing what I thought she wanted. What harm was in that?"

"'Twas a spell without the asking and you were forbidden!" He stepped out of the circle.

"I am still your sister!" She grabbed his arm. "Listen to me now, Quinn, or I will curse you with b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then see how you survive."

His lips trembled with a smile.

"Men masquerading as Fenian and English are slaughtering our people."

His smile fell.

"And Siobhan is missing."

"You could not call me with good news?" he raged.

Fionna gripped his thick bare arms. "Help PenDragon."

Siobhan whimpered and hated the sound. But images came to her, flashing and receding in her mind with slaps of pain. The back of her skull throbbed mercilessly, the explosion she'd abated for days now threatening to take her life. Her blood still poured.

Her skin warmed, mist rising. She stretched her arms, fighting the bonds, fighting the waves of pain lapping at her head with the beat of the sea. She forced her hands beneath her, beneath her b.u.t.tocks, her knuckles sc.r.a.ping the stone floor as she tugged and tugged. Her shoulders felt as if they'd tear from the sockets. She rocked from side to side, uncaring of the mash of fragile bones. Her hands jerked forward, tucked beneath her knees, and she worked them under her calves, huddling, stretching her arms to get them over her booted feet. The jerk of freedom drove her back into the wall, her head smacking hard, and pain exploded. She screamed, the agony ripping into the barren night, only the spray of the sea answering her.

For a moment she was still, the horrible night coming in a rush like water from a fall, hard and cold, the sweet with the ugly.

A breeze against bed drapes. A thick trembling hand. And blood. So much blood.

The blade. Oh G.o.d.

Tigheran's dagger.

He knows. He knows my lies.

Oh, Gaelan. My husband. My love.

Forgive me.

The terrain was too heavy for Grayfalk and Gaelan towed the creature through the forest. His mantle caught on a curled branch of blackthorn and he wrenched it free, readjusting the fur and feeling as if he'd come full circle. He was decidedly lost, and Gaelan knew there would be no sweet Irish la.s.s running through the thicket to enchant him again.

Sadness bludgeoned his heart, fear for her life already numbing his emotions.

He leaned back against a tree and slumped to the ground. For the first time since before DeClare returned, he closed his eyes. The grit stung, and with thumb and forefinger he rubbed his eyes. The hours waiting for Raymond to waken and dealing with Maguire, the prisoners, was precious time lost to finding her. He'd no notion if he was even headed in the right direction. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he didn't know where he was.

He was a fool to do this alone and should have taken Maguire or Paddy with him.

Horrifying images he'd kept at bay plagued him. Of her buried alive in one of the caves, of walking past her or over her without a clue. Of O'Niell taking her life when he hadn't the rocks to do it before. He will kill her once he knows I've discovered his treachery.

With frantic moves, he removed the stone from his pouch, clutching it tightly in his fist, praying she was alive. For all his brawn and wit, he was helpless. For the soldiers who followed without question, for the riches he'd collected, they held little benefit without Siobhan.

His eyes burned.

I have no heart.

I am without substance without her. I live because I love her. I am whole and truly a man because of her.

In the rain, Gaelan slid to one knee, his fist against his chest, his sword piercing the ground. He bowed his head.

I beg you. If there is magic in this land, show it to me.

Give her back to me.

Grayfalk stamped. Gaelan pressed his forehead to the hilt of his sword. His throat worked furiously to hold back his anguish, his heart ripping from his chest in pieces.

The torture was killing him, and if O'Niell thought to destroy him, he had. As surely as a blade in the heart, he was dying.

He pinched his nose, then mashed his hand over his mouth before he lumbered to his feet, reaching for the reins. He took a step, the feeling of being watched littering the air around him along with the rain. Gaelan brandished his sword, shoving his wet hair from his eyes as he searched the darkness.

Shadows moved like currents in a velvet black river, bringing a surge of warmth.

The rain lessened.

A mist rose softly, delicately.

Then he saw it, a flicker of light, a glint on silver.

A man stood in the woods, his shoulders mantled with silver gray pelts, his thighs wrapped in leather, his knees bare to fur-lined boots. His hair was long and braided, his beard thick, yet trimmed. Charms hung around his neck and as he stepped closer, he threw the cloak of skins back over his shoulder. His chest was bare and as wide as Grayfalk's.

Gaelan knew who he was without asking, without a word uttered. Gaelan bowed. The respect was returned.

He sheathed his sword. The Fenian turned, glancing back once and nodding ever so slightly, regally. Gaelan followed, then frowned as the man faded in a twist of vapor.

He continued, clutching the stone in his fist.

Siobhan woke to dawn, the gray-blue sky thick with clouds and dropping rain like stones. She tipped her face to it, lipped water in a feeble attempt to appease her thirst. Her stomach rumbled and coiled, threatening to spill when there was naught to vomit.

The gag lay beside her, large footprints in the dirt.

Then she saw the bones, stacks of them, and a human skull.

She looked away and studied her surroundings. She could see little beyond but stone, crooked and wasting. The ruins in the sea. And when the tide rose farther, she would be washed beneath the waves.

She brought her bound hands to her mouth, using her teeth to tug at the ropes, but the knots were soaked and tight. She sighed, tired, pressing the back of her hand to her throat. She bled without pain, yet could feel it pump with the beat of her heart, and tried to stem it. Her vision foggy, she tried to stand, her skirts heavy with water, her balance wobbly with the loss of blood.

Connal. She needed to get to Connal. He was unprotected. Not even Rhiannon knew he was in danger.

Braced against the wall, she closed her eyes, aching to sleep. But she could not. She had to find a way out. For the child in the keep and the one in her belly.

Suddenly across the creva.s.se, the crooked entrance crumbled, water fountaining through cracks and gaps as thick stones fell, piling to block her only path out. Rocks spilled, knocking away a portion of the ancient floor, and she scrambled to safer ground, yet more gave, falling to the abyss below.

Chapter 34.

Gaelan trudged on, deeper into Maguire territory, toward the set. The true Fenian led him here, and he cursed the wind, the rain and the ancient sect that would not offer more to save their princess. Still, battling exhaustion, he walked, rode, then walked some more, overturning loose bushes, seeking clues in the abandoned cottages burned by O'Niell's game. He called her name, then cried it out like a lonely child. No one answered.

He hacked through trees and rode over stone piles, searching. And found naught but decaying branches and a hovel of rabbits.

On the crest of a hill, he stopped, sheathing his sword in the scabbard lashed to the saddle, then suddenly pressed his forehead to the burnished leather. He slammed his eyes shut and silently chanted her name. Over and over.