Betraying Season (37 page)

“You betrayed us,” she said, still quietly. “You betrayed
me,
daughter. Or should I say, daughter-no-more? It seems I’m doomed to be betrayed by all my children.”

“I’m sorry, Lady Keating. You were wrong about me. I just couldn’t do it. I—I’ll go now.” Pen pressed her lips together to keep from sobbing aloud. The least she could do was hang on to her dignity. She clambered awkwardly to her feet, wincing. Everything, from her feet to her scalp, felt battered and sore.

“Yes, you’ll go,” Lady Keating agreed in that soft, dangerous voice.

She let go of the sword with one hand and made a gesture, and Pen felt herself freeze in place, stiff and statuelike. But unlike a statue, she could feel the point of the sword press against the hollow of her throat, just hard enough to pierce the delicate skin there. A small trickle of warmth ran down her chest.

Lady Keating watched it dispassionately. “The Goddess’s vengeance is swift. Some might call it merciful, even, but you’ll not have much time to ponder that. You brought it upon yourself, though, you stupid girl. How I wish I had been right about you. Now all I can do is mourn the waste.”

Pen’s thoughts seemed to move at both lightning speed and at a snail’s pace. She was about to die, and there was nothing she could do to save herself. All she could do was stand unmoving and be executed like a criminal. She searched frantically through her mind for some release spell, but nothing would come—only useless fragments, like shards of sparkling broken glass.

Lady Keating adjusted her stance and changed her grip on the sword, and Pen knew she was about to shove it deep into her throat. Would death come quickly, or would she have time to crumple to the ground and stare up at the moon with glazing eyes, thinking her good-byes to everyone she loved as her life’s blood spurted from her throat into the cool, wet grass? Good-bye to Mama and Papa, and Charles and Ally . . . she’d never see Ally’s baby now . . . good-bye to Lochinvar and Persy, her dearest, dearest other self . . . and to Niall—

“No!”

A sharp pain at her throat brought her back, along with another trickle of warmth, and she opened her eyes.

Doireann, her red dress dark maroon in the moonlight, was
grappling with Lady Keating, trying to wrest the sword from her. “No, Mother,” she panted. “You’re not going to kill anyone. There’s been enough of that for one night.”

Lady Keating bared her teeth as she struggled to wrest her arm from Doireann’s grasp. “Get away from me, traitor!”

Doireann laughed, a strange, high thin sound. “Traitor? Me? I don’t think so. You’re the one who went back on your promises to me. If I can’t have what I want, neither can you.” She braced herself and yanked her mother by the arm, swinging her in a half circle, then let go. The momentum carried Lady Keating sideways toward the edge of the circle before she lost her balance altogether. There was a sickening thump as her head struck one of the stones and she lay without moving.

Pen was not sure how long she and Doireann stood there, breathing hard and staring at Lady Keating’s inert form. Nor was she even sure if she could move, though she had felt Lady Keating’s immobilizing spell disperse seconds after she fell. In the end, it was Doireann who broke the silence.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Pen swallowed hard, trying not to think of what her throat might have looked like just now if Doireann hadn’t saved her. “Yes, I . . . mostly. Doireann . . .” She took a few tottering steps toward her.

But Doireann backed away from her, shaking her head. “Get away from me. I didn’t do it for you, so don’t thank me.” She walked over to her mother and bent over her. “Still alive. I suggest we both get the hell out of here before she wakes up.”

Pen stared at her and felt as if the immobilizing spell were back on her. “I . . . but . . .”

Doireann shook back her dark hair, so like Lady Keating’s, muttered something under her breath, then gave a piercing whistle. “Mother took away what I wanted. You took away what she wanted. I owed you for it.” She whistled again, then stood, head cocked, as if listening. “But mostly I did it because of Niall. He’s the only one who’s ever cared about what
I
want. You were quite ready to step into my shoes as the next
Banmhaor Bande,
and for that I should have let Mother kill you. But Niall loves you.”

A thudding sound below the hillside could now be heard, and a faint, inquiring whinny. Niall’s horse, Pen guessed.

Doireann smiled sardonically. “Well, I’ll never be
Banmhaor Bande
now, but I can still do a damned good summoning spell. Good-bye, Miss Leland. Goddess willing, we’ll never meet again.”

Pen found her voice. “Where are you going?” she rasped through a throat thickened with tears.

“I don’t know. Brian and I hadn’t decided that yet, but it seems our running-away plans will be unexpectedly moving up. Nowhere in Ireland, that’s for sure. There’s nothing here for a dispossessed daughter and a second son.” She turned away from Pen then paused, her back to her. “Say good-bye to Niall for me. Remind him I promised that everything would work out in the end. Oh, and enjoy the rest of your stay at Bandry Court.” She laughed as she ran past the stones and down the hillside. A moment later, the steady
thud-a-thud
of cantering hoofbeats retreated into the night.

Another eternity seemed to go by while Pen stood with bowed head in the center of the circle, feeling drained of everything—emotion, strength, the will to even sit down until her shaking stopped. The moon still shone overhead but it had begun its descent to the west. When the sun finally crept over the horizon, she would probably still be here, unsure of what to do next.

It was the breeze that had sprung up earlier that finally roused her from her apathy, or rather the scent it carried—that of burning pitch, like a torch. She raised her head and sniffed the air. Was someone out there?

Then she saw them. Two figures were slowly ascending the hill in a circle of golden light. The taller one wore a red dress, much like the one Doireann had worn tonight. It clung to her lush breasts and swaying hips. In one hand she held a burning torch, and with the other she was solicitously helping her smaller, black-robed companion climb the hillside.

A faint hint of something—recognition?—stirred Pen’s numbness. She watched the pair finish their climb and slip between two stones, watched as they glanced at the still form of Niall in the grass,
then bent for a moment over Lady Keating. Pen thought they did something to her, for there was a flash of white light over her that quickly faded away. But it could just as easily have been a flicker of the torch.

They finally came to a halt a few feet from her.

“Hail to you, daughter,” said the smaller figure. She put back the hood of her robe so that Pen could see her beautiful, lined face and silver hair.

“Hail, indeed,” said the tall, red-clad woman. Her mouth curved in a smile, and her face was strong and young and handsome.

Pen stared at them, and the numbness that shrouded her receded just a little bit. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to, because then she would start to feel again—guilt, and loss, and shame. “Are you who I think you are?” she finally said, and immediately wished she hadn’t. It had sounded beyond idiotic.

But the women only laughed gently. “You know who we are,” said the younger one. “And we know who you are. We’ve been watching you with considerable interest, Penelope.”

It would have been nice, about then, if the earth had kindly opened up and swallowed Pen on the spot, but to her dismay it didn’t. “I . . . I was just going,” she said. “I know I don’t belong here on your hill—”

“Not belong here?” said the Crone, looking mildly perplexed but still smiling. “What gives you that idea?”

No. She couldn’t explain it all. Not so soon. It hurt too much. “Because I . . . don’t.”

“Oh, my child, if anyone belongs on this hill with us just now, it’s you.” The Mother’s voice was warm and gentle, like a soft blanket on her shivering heart.

Pen looked at her and the numbness slipped again, enough to allow the frozen tears inside her to flow—but this time, her tears were cleansing, not bitter.

“But I failed you. I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“Listen to me, my daughter. You did not fail. Your power is very great, and Nuala Keating was tempted by it to do evil to get her own desires. She in turn tempted you—but she failed. You knew what she wanted was wrong, and you refused to use your power to bring untimely death to an innocent girl. You did not break your word to your queen, or to yourself, or to us,” said the Mother.

“Instead, by your choice you kept your word and proved yourself worthy of us.” The Crone nodded as she spoke. “Give me your hand, my child.”

Pen held out her right hand, trembling slightly, and the Crone took it in both of hers. She felt something cool and heavy slide over her ring finger.

“Nuala Keating is no longer acceptable to us as
Banmhaor Bande,”
the Mother said, and there was sorrow in her voice. “She served us long, and because of that we took her memory and her authority, but not her life. She will spend the rest of her allotted days as a child would, living in the moment and unable to harm anyone, including herself.”

“Which means someone else must take her place as
Banmhaor Bande,”
the Crone said. “We thought, perhaps, since you’re here . . .” Her eyes twinkled mischievously at Pen.

“And since you are full worthy,” the Mother added, smiling.

Pen looked down at her hand, resting in the Crone’s. Lady Keating’s green and silver ring glittered on it in the torchlight. A huge
bubble of surprised joy threatened to choke her. “You’re choosing me? To be
Banmhaor Bande
?”

“Whom better might we choose?” inquired the Crone, that mischievous twinkle brighter than ever.

“It’s just that I thought . . . are you sure? I’m not really of Lady Keating’s family, for one thing.”

“You can’t convince us out of it, child, so don’t try. She made you her heir, did she not? We are pleased to accept you as such. And you may find that you’ll soon be more closely related to her than you are now.” The Mother leaned forward and took her left hand. “Welcome, Penelope. We take you as our own.”

The Crone still held fast to her right hand. “Come, Maiden, our
Banmhaor Bande.
Join with us. Let us be complete.” She glanced at the Mother and held out her hand.

Where had the torch gone? Just a second ago, the Mother had still been holding it high to illuminate them, but now it had vanished as she reached out and took the Crone’s gnarled hand in her own. But the torch was no longer necessary. As the two joined hands, completing their circle, a brilliant light seemed to be everywhere around them.

No, it
was
them.

Pen looked at the two women who stood with her and felt the connection between them all, a circle that was ever unbroken.
As I am now, they once were. As they are now, so will I be. As I am now, so will they be again.
Changing and unchanging. Different and the same. Eternal and complete. Strength and wisdom and power flowed among them like a circular river, and Pen both laughed and ached with the perfect beauty of it. She had thought earlier that the circle
she’d raised with Doireann and Lady Keating could have illuminated all of Cork. This circle could have lit all Ireland.

How long did they stand there, the Goddess, full and complete? Afterward Pen was never sure; what was a measure of time in the face of forever? But all at once she realized that they were separate once more, the Mother and the Crone and her, for a few eternal seconds, the Maiden that completed Them.

“Oh,” she said, looking down sorrowfully at her empty hands, resting by her sides.

“Do you think you will ever be apart from us, in your heart?” The Mother smiled, again holding the torch above her head.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Pen replied slowly. “But that was . . . well . . . perfect. Complete. What magic will I know that could ever be greater than that?”

“Daughter.” The Crone’s eyes still twinkled, but her voice was gentle and serious. “We are but one part of magic, one part of life. Remember that magic is male and female, and that life is a cycle. Would you restrict yourself to be the Maiden forever and not move on to the rest of magic and life?” She took Pen’s arm and, pulling her down, kissed her. “We will always be near. Don’t forget that you serve us now. We shall expect to see you very shortly. Very shortly.”

The Mother bent and kissed Pen as well. “Fare you well, daughter, until we meet again.” She turned away and held her arm out to the Crone, who took it with a nod. Then, slowly, without looking back, they crossed the circle close to where Niall still lay. The Mother paused and held the torch while the Crone leaned over and touched his forehead, and then they slipped past the stones. Pen
watched as they descended the hill, the torch in the Mother’s hand flickering in the wind. She blinked, and they were gone.

Was it the throbbing pain in his head or the pins-and-needles ache in the arm pinned beneath him that woke him? Niall groaned and shifted off his arm, then groaned again as the blood started to flow painfully back into it. Damn it, the landlord at the Three Ladies needed to do something about the accursed mattresses in his rooms—