Authors: Teresa Medeiros
She opened her eyes to find Sean’s hand extended to her. She smiled weakly. “Well, I did not juggle.”
That was only the beginning. She spent night after night in the great hall, seeking the stubborn cheer of Conn’s people. Although still more comfortable in Sean’s pants, she folded them aside and wore the skirts Moira fashioned for her. But she persisted in wearing an oversized man’s jerkin to bed, a garment she had pilfered from Conn’s chambers with her own hand.
Nimbus became increasingly hard to corner for any sort of sport, and she found herself spending less and less time in his company. Despite her newfound popularity, her loneliness deepened as the months without Conn wore on.
The light winter snows came just as the poets had predicted. Eight months had passed since Conn’s departure. A fleeting glimmer of doubt was seen in the eyes of the men and women of his court, although they strove to cover it with a joke or a song.
On a cold winter night Gelina pushed open the door of the chess room, leaving the laughter and music behind. The ashes in the fireplace lay cold and forgotten. The dusty chessboard sat untouched on the table. The room was awash with the gentle glow of a new moon. Sighing, she went to the window.
She threw open the wooden shutter and leaned into the chill night. The snow had begun to fall again. Soft flakes brushed like feathers against her face. The scant dusting lay like a thin blanket on the earth, bathing the land in a luminous glow reflected in the moon’s face. A tear slid down her cheek and into her mouth, where its saltiness tasted somehow both foreign and comforting. She stood there for a long time, unaware of the hungry eyes that watched her from the darkness of the night.
The ship moved slowly down the coast of Erin, cleaving the blanket of mist. The steady breaking of the waves against the ship’s bow cut through the dense fog. A solitary figure stood at the rail, marveling at the silent world before him. The bearded, caped man watched the rocky coastline grow clearer through narrowed, hungry eyes, his mouth set in a tense line. He did not feel the splintered wood that sought to embed itself in his fingertips as he grasped the rail with both hands. He was going home.
Gelina stared at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand, her whole body shaking. She did not need to read the message again to remember the words—
Help to dethrone the bastard king.
She had opened the artfully sealed parchment lying on her bed without a second thought. She searched the scrawled message for clues but found nothing. The heavy bonded parchment could be found anywhere in the fortress. She paced the room in long strides, a habit she still clung to when distressed.
“Behl and thunder!” Running a nervous hand through her hair, she tousled it into the very style she fought so hard to tame.
Who could she tell of this missive? She could not tell Sean for he had no inkling of her background. Not knowing what Nimbus did or did not know, she did not dare reveal more. Mer-Nod was her only possible confidant, and he was a very busy man. He had dispatched envoys to Britain two months ago. They had returned with discouraging news. Neither Conn nor his men had ever been sighted in Britain. Two ships, over three hundred men, and the high king of Erin had vanished without a trace over ten months ago.
With the frequent comings and goings within the fortress, anyone could have left the missive. Clans were coming from leagues away to offer last respects for the missing king and advice on the future of Erin. The great hall broke into a new altercation every night. Even Sean had breathed thanks that the weaponry room was kept locked according to ancient tradition.
The men of the Fianna held lengthy conferences marked by disagreement. Who would be king? Were the men sent with Conn also dead? Was Mer-Nod capable of making the decisions at hand? Was Conn truly dead?
All of these questions circled Gelina’s mind as more and more dark evidence was presented. In the past few months the only peace of mind she had came from her rides on Silent Thunder, Conn’s own steed. With Sean locked in meetings, she would steal away to the stables with an old cap covering her hair and Sean’s clothes covering her body. All of her concentration and frustration would be spent in controlling the headstrong stallion. She would have sought the horse’s solace now in her confusion had it not been for the fog.
It had rolled in from the coast in huge billowing clouds, covering the land in an impenetrable mass. The dampness had penetrated the castle until she sought the haven of the fire in her bedchamber. She went to that fire now, holding the note in the flames until a corner of it flared into destruction.
She would bide her time. Whoever had left the message could not be far away. She went to the corner and opened her chest. Buried beneath the folds of linen dresses was a short scabbard and a small, sharp dagger.
Lifting her skirt, she strapped the weapon to her thigh and felt an immeasurable sense of reassurance. Pausing in front of the mirror, she ran an ivory comb through her luxurious hair, eyes thoughtful. She would go downstairs and scout for Conn’s enemy, who was unknowingly her enemy, too.
Nimbus sat on the steps, chin in hands, observing the scene below. Gesturing hands and moving lips filled the great hall. Every man and woman crowding Tara seemed to be voicing an opinion of earth-trembling importance. He sighed in disgust, unable to avoid hearing some of the thoughts uttered.
“Some say a sea monster et the whole lot of them.”
“He was a good king.” A drunk farmer slid down the wall, each word bringing him closer to the floor. “He was a very good king.”
“I think our next king should have to stay home and not go gallivanting off, sticking his nose in others’ affairs.”
The Fianna joined in the boisterous row, their voices carrying over the crowd in deepened tones. “Goll MacMorna should be king. He is the largest.”
“How idiotic. He is as gentle as a puppy.”
“Not when he’s ripping a man’s head off—and I’ve seen him do it, too!”
Nimbus longed to clap his hands over his ears and scream until he could hear no more of the nonsense that had settled over the fortress like some dim-witted plague. Anarchy was swiftly replacing the ordered system of government Conn had established. Even the most practical of his subjects seemed to be falling under its spell.
“Perhaps I should present meself as king. I’m sure they would agree,” Nimbus muttered to himself, shaking his head at his own whimsy.
He bowed his head in shame as he thought of the charge Conn had left him with on the day he sailed for Britain. The saddest thing of all was that Nimbus himself had stopped believing that Conn would return. No amount of joking or juggling could stop the spread of darkness through his heart as he saw hope flicker and extinguish itself.
Hearing footsteps on the stairs behind him, he turned to see Gelina. Her once-galloping gait had been replaced by slow, ladylike steps, the effort of which occasionally flickered across her face. He smiled as she sat beside him on the steps, arranging her skirt around her feet. The green of her skirt matched perfectly the green of her eyes but he could not help noticing the trepidation he saw there. A new air of maturity graced her bearing but it seemed to be an air born of sadness.
“Milady.” He swept off his feathered cap.
“Spare me the theatrics, Nimbus. ‘Tis Gelina, not Sheela.”
He started to tease her but stopped, noting a tenseness in her voice like a harp string stretched to the snapping point.
“Sorry.” He reached out his small hand and placed it over hers in an unfamiliar gesture.
Smiling at him gratefully, she took his hand, and they sat watching the hall. Gelina did not know what she searched for but hoped she would know it if she saw it. Twin fires burned in the fireplaces, seeking to dispel the dampness of the foggy night. To Gelina the fire gave light but no warmth. The hall was devoid of warmth. Cold faces made unintelligible noises. Chill music was ground out of the instruments like chaff in the wind. The notes hung in the air as if on the verge of falling into a thousand brittle pieces. The Fianna seemed reduced to a mob of quarrelsome boys. She saw Sean himself gesturing to a group of men in the corner, some of whom were shaking their heads violently. She and Nimbus exchanged glances, each reading despair in the other’s eyes.
They both saw Mer-Nod stride into the hall and climb onto the dais where Conn’s empty throne sat. The feathered mantle rested heavily on his shoulders. The year had not been kind to him; it had etched new lines around his eyes and mouth. He lifted his arms for attention, waiting for a feeble trumpet blast to stop the babble.
Lowering his arms, he stood for a moment in the silence, as if hesitant to proceed. Gelina felt a serpent slowly uncoil itself in the pit of her stomach, and she fought an urge to retreat up the steps. Nimbus grasped her hand and she found herself surprised to see Sean standing just below her as if to shield her from an invisible threat.
Mer-Nod’s voice shot through the crowd. “A member of the expedition has returned.”
A murmur rose to a roar, and Nimbus hardly felt the nails that stabbed him as Gelina clutched his hand, not allowing herself to hope.
Mer-Nod continued, refusing to be daunted by the uproar. “I will let the returning soldier tell his story.”
He stepped aside to let a bearded man with straggly blond hair take the stage. Gelina closed her eyes and fought the bile rising in her gorge as she recognized him. Barron Ó Caflin stood on the dais, body emaciated and skeletal, hair mangy and lank.
He raised one hand, its tremble effectively silencing the hall. “Both ships were lost in a storm on the night we left Erin.” He punctuated his sentence with a feeble cough. “I awoke the morning after the storm clinging to the broken side of the ship that Conn was captaining. I floated to an island where I was marooned until rescued yesterday by a fishing boat. To my knowledge there were no other survivors.”
A voice cried, “Then the king is dead?”
Barron nodded slowly as if the knowledge were breaking his own heart. Gelina rose to her feet in a trance, never feeling Sean’s hand on her shoulder.
“You cannot know he is dead. Not for certain. We thought you were dead and you’re not.” Her voice shot high and clear across the room like a slap that passed as a flicker of annoyance across Ó Caflin’s face.
“You cannot know what it was like. We thought the skies were cracking open. The thunder was deafening. Lightning surrounded us like a web. Waves three times the size of the ships crashed over the bows. The ships were crushed like driftwood.” He spread his hands in a silent plea, ignoring the tall girl who refused to sit down.
“But there is still a chance that Conn lives. If one man sent on that voyage is alive, then another man could be.”
“Silence! I shall tell you then. I sought to protect the ladies from the grisly truth, but if I am forced to reveal it, then I shall!” Barron’s voice was ugly and shrill. “I saw the king. I saw his bloated body float past me after the storm.” He shot a vicious glance at Gelina.
The strong, clipped brogue echoed through the hall. “What storm? There was no storm.”
The tall, caped figure stood just inside the doors. Barron’s face went three shades paler as he recognized the mocking voice. Sheela slid to the floor in a swoon in front of the dais. A huge cheer rose from the crowd as a beautiful auburn-haired creature flew down the steps and threw herself into the arms of the man who stood there. He swung her around and around, letting her tears wet both of their faces. Conn of the Hundred Battles had come home.
“I was only away for a year, lass. Whatever did they do to you?”
Conn and Gelina stood alone in his chambers. He held her at arm’s length, his hands warm on her shoulders. She could not erase the grin from her face.
“With a few suggestions from Moira, Nimbus took it into his head to turn me into a girl. Are you pleased with the results?” She stepped back and turned slowly, arms spread wide.
The warmth in his blue eyes gave her the answer she sought. He stared at her as if believing she would vanish from his sight.
“I am lucky the Fianna did not desert their posts for the pleasure of squiring you around.”
She searched his face for any shadow when he mentioned the Fianna, but found only unabashed happiness. “I see a few changes in you, too, milord.” She patted the silver wings that graced his temples, highlighting the unruly dark hair. “Perhaps the question should be, ”What did they do to
you?
”
His smile faded and he looked away. “ ‘Tis over. I do not wish to discuss it. The dog responsible for the tragedy will be executed, and his name will be stricken from all records of history.”
“You’re proceeding with your plans?” She walked slowly to the shuttered window.
“You do not approve?”
“On the contrary. Eoghan Mogh chose his own fate. I would gladly wield the ax myself to punish him for what he did to you.” The fierce light in her eyes dimmed. “But I cannot forget that it was not so long ago that I faced a similar fate. It was only your mercy that spared me.”
“Not mercy,” he reminded her. “Justice.” He pulled her down to sit beside him on a cloth-covered bench. “If I banished Barron, he would find his way back to Mogh’s camp before the morrow. To imprison him would be crueler than condemning him to death. Once a man has tasted the sweet spring waters of Erin and slept beneath a thousand stars, life in a dismal cell would be no life at all.” He sighed. “I watched Barron Ó Caflin grow from a scrawny, charming boy into a valiant warrior. But I never saw his heart grow black as midnight. If what happened to me were his only crime, perhaps I could be more lenient. But three hundred of Erin’s finest men perished because of Ó Caflin’s betrayal. I am sworn to avenge their deaths.”