“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.