The Irish Warrior Part 29

He smiled a little. "Is that what ye call them?"

"I call them hope." She dried her face on her tunic. It left a smudge, visible even through moonlight. Beckoning with curled fingers, he had her bend low so he could wipe the dirt away with the bottom of his tunic.

"They are a very certain kind of wool?" he asked.

She sat back. "Very certain."

He felt colder than the air around them should warrant. He lowered his tunic and sat back. "And why did yer particular wool matter so much?"

She looked affronted. "I created it. I spent years breeding for this strain. Its softness, its ability to absorb dyes, the way it melts apart for weaving. There is nothing like it in all the world."

"Nothing in all the world," Finian echoed. "That's just what I thought."

Rardove knew.

He forced himself to breathe slowly. Rardove could know as many truths as his cunning, corrupted mind could withstand. Without the means to create, he was as helpless as a lamb. Finian now possessed the last remaining dye manual. And...did he have a dye-witch, too?

"And you, Senna? Ye said Rardove wanted to dye yer wools." She nodded. "Did he just want the wool, or did he want yerself to do the dyeing?"

She looked away sharply. "He is mad."

"Aye. But can you make the Wishmes bleed blue?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No. I will never make them."

Interesting. "No?"

"No."

"Ye never will?"

"Never."

"But can can ye?" ye?"

She opened her mouth-to protest, likely-but to his surprise, she shut it again, then looked at him for a long time. Long enough for him to start feeling a kind of discomfort he was unused to. Usually he was the one questioning others, making them squirm under his suspicious gaze. Just now, he felt like he was being a.s.sessed, appraised.

"I doubt it," she finally said in a low voice.

"But that is why Rardove brought ye here," he pressed.

"Aye."

"And are ye? Are ye a dye-witch?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Such names can get people killed, Finian."

"I vow, I'll only kill ye if ye don't answer me. Are ye a dye-witch?"

Another long considering regard, then she said in a rush, "No but my mother was."

He nodded, holding his face in a neutral way to avoid displays of amazement, hope, or any other emotion that might make her leap up and run away, because the look on her face seemed very close to panic.

Good G.o.d, he had a dye-witch.

For hundreds of years, there had been none. Bred out by invasion and the fear of discovery, caution had won over pa.s.sion and the Celts let the knowledge of crafting the Wishmes die. Lost the secrets, splintered the lineage. Mothers no longer taught daughters, and somewhere in the dim past, four, maybe five hundred years ago, a branch of that tree had been allowed to wither.

But it had not died. And now he had the last fragile branch in his possession, his very own dye-witch.

Who didn't want the task at all.

What mattered that? he thought, surprised to notice that bitterness fueled the inner query. Who had such luxury to choose against a destiny? His parents had been weak, of course, frail, unable to prevail over overwhelming desire or strong emotion, but he had been raised by The O'Fail. Taken in by a king, lifted up. That was a rare thing. There was no cause for the taste of bitterness to be in his mouth. he thought, surprised to notice that bitterness fueled the inner query. Who had such luxury to choose against a destiny? His parents had been weak, of course, frail, unable to prevail over overwhelming desire or strong emotion, but he had been raised by The O'Fail. Taken in by a king, lifted up. That was a rare thing. There was no cause for the taste of bitterness to be in his mouth.

No, all he had to do was consider Senna. What to do with her. Return her home as promised, or tell the Irish who she was?

It would be disloyal at best, treasonous at worst, to withhold this knowledge from his king. But Senna had no interest in dyeing. And if he told The O'Fail about her, dye she would. Her circ.u.mstances would not be so bleak as with Rardove, not by a bow shot, but still...she would be held against her will. Made to dye. Forced. Captured. Impinged upon.

All conditions she did not prefer.

Then again, who had the choice of what their life held? He looked at her, face damp, eyebrows pinched together like they had not been since that first morning on the ridge, when they spoke of Rardove and her father and her ac.u.men for business.

But mayhap...

"Surely, dyeing for Rardove would be a repulsive thing," he said mildly, giving her a chance to say she'd do it for him. him.

Inwardly he shook his head at the awkward gambit. Outwardly, he peered at her expectantly.

She peered back, less expectantly. "I cannot make dyes."

"But ye can, la.s.s. Ye don't even know what ye're capable of. Rardove was right, the first time in his accursed life, Senna. Such things are in the blood."

She gave a small, dismissive shrug. "So says legend."

"No, Senna. I I say." say."

The look she gave him was derisive at best. "And how do you know such things?"

"These stories have been in my family for a thousand years."

She waved her hand. "You do but prove me true. They are legends. legends."

He squinted at her. "Aye, legends. But why do ye think that makes them untrue?"

She looked startled. "Forsooth, I a.s.sumed. Legends after all are of a legendary nature-"

"I'm telling ye, Senna, if ye want to craft the Wishmes, ye can. Nothing could stop ye."

"Not having the knowledge might stop me."

He fell silent, finally.

"I do not have it in me."

"Ye can tell yerself that until h.e.l.l freezes over, Senna, but ye're too scared to even try, to know what ye're capable of," he rejoined with a hard edge in his voice. She was to have a choice no one else did? One does not wish to do a thing, and so one doesn't? Not under this sun. Only in dreams. "Just so ye know."

Senna turned and looked at him, and he became quite sure she would not be making dyes for anyone.

"You think you can tell me something of my life, Finian? I do not need to know anything better than I do. My father made certain I was well aware what I was capable of. The same things as my mother." She paused then, and her face paled. "Oh. Do the Irish want the dyes?"

He just looked at her.

A bitter smile crossed her face. "Of course. Of course the Irish want the Wishmes."

"The question is, Senna, can ye make them?"

"No, Finian. The question is, are you going to tell them?"

Chapter 38.

Dawn had not yet crept over the battlements when William de Valery arrived at Rardove Keep.

He was led into the hall, asked to see Senna, and when she wasn't brought immediately, demanded in a loud voice to see Lord Rardove. Servants scurried in all directions as if to do his bidding, but no one entered the hall for three quarters of an hour. By then the de Valery knights' heads were bent in a tight, murmuring circle, their hands by their sword hilts.

A servant poked his nose in the baron's bedchamber, his brow already scrunched up to ward off any objects that might be sent flying from his lord's ill humor. "My lord?"

"What the h.e.l.l is it?" he snapped.

"Sir William de Valery, my lord."

Rardove's eyes snapped open. He looked up into the gray light. "What are you talking about?"

"Sir William de Valery is in the hall, my lord. A bit angry at being kept waiting."

Rardove sat up straight. "De Valery? Waiting? What is he waiting for? What is he here here for?" for?"

The servant cleared his throat. "He wants to see his sister, sir."

Rardove entered the great hall five minutes later and found a circle of six or seven knights standing in the center of it. His gaze swiftly scanned the group and settled on the one who looked most like Senna.

Gauntlets stripped off and held in one hand, the knight had also removed his helm, holding it under one crooked arm, and pushed the mail covering back from his head, revealing damp, matted blond hair. Leather boots, rising to his knees, were coated with mud. His surcoat was barely visible beneath an equally impressive layer of muck. The rest of the group looked in the same state, as if they'd ridden hard and long without stopping.

Rested or no, though, the blond-haired knight turned at the first sound of boots scuffing the rushes. His eyes were alert and infinitely wary as he crossed the hall in long strides.

"My lord?"

"Sir William?" inquired Rardove, nodding. He smiled, but the young cub did not seem inclined toward social proprieties, for he pointedly did not return the smile.

"My sister."

"Ahh." Rardove turned to wave a servant into bringing refreshments. "Senna."

"No one has brought her to me."

Rardove clasped his hands together like a monk and sighed. "There's been a slight problem."

"Problem?"

"She's...gone."

The hazel eyes shaded darker in confusion. "What?"

"She's been abducted by an Irishman."

"Abducted?" His voice was incredulous.

"Aye. This is a brutal land, and-"

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" William demanded, his hand flexing over his sword hilt, brus.h.i.+ng against the simple clasp at his left hip. Rardove dropped his gaze to the sight, then lifted it deliberately.

"Nigh on a week ago, while I was sickened in bed, an Irish prisoner I was holding in the cellars escaped. He took Senna with him."

"Took Senna with him?" de Valery echoed, his face a study in confusion and anger.

"s.n.a.t.c.hed her up and took her away."

"Why?"

Rardove spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "'Tis unfathomable."

"To where?"

"Finian O'Melaghlin is councilor to the O'Fail tribe. We a.s.sume they went there. We've men out searching, but the castle...it's una.s.sailable."

"Finian O'Melaghlin?" de Valery asked, his gaze sharp. "I've heard of the man."

"Ah, yes." Rardove exhaled in a disappointed sigh. "He's gaining quite a reputation. But the Irish are a twisted race and do not abide trust well. Upon a time, I tried to make an alliance with them, which they spurned. One cannot rely too much on alliances in these dark days."

William paused through the length of a breath. "No, my lord. One cannot."