Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Deirdre didn't speak again all the way to the castle, though she wanted to. She longed to demand answers, to shout, to scream, but she couldn't make herself speak up. The shock had frozen something deep inside of her, and she couldn't break through.

She couldn't believe that the whole thing had been false. Ciaran had liked her, she was sure of it. And she, well, she had liked him. More than liked him. It had only been five days, but they had been the most wonderful five days of her life. If he had asked her to marry him when they arrived at his home, she would have agreed on the spot.

But then, the home she'd thought they were traveling to simply didn't exist. It was an imagining, a fairy-tale. Her dark fae had spirited her away with falsehoods and promises, just as in the stories. He had seduced her, and she'd fallen for his spell.

He won't hurt me. She was sure of that. She could not believe that he had any intention of letting harm come to her. After all, the way he had kissed her over and over again, the soft words he'd whispered in her ear, the longing for freedom she'd heard paralleled in his own voice—it couldn't all be fake. She couldn't believe that.

The thought roused her. "Ciaran," she finally was able to push out from between her lips. "Ciaran, please tell me what's happenin'."

She felt his muscles stiffen a little behind her, his arms growing a little more taut, but he did not otherwise give any indication that he'd heard her speak. Was he…was he ignoring her?

"Ciaran, please, I don't understand. Why didn't you just tell me the truth about yer father? Were ye afraid that I might not come if I kent who ye really were?"

Again, Ciaran didn't answer.

The landscape changed as they moved on, transforming from the endless rolling hills and towering trees to more inhabited areas. Small cottages appeared here and there, farmland sprawling around them with pigs or sheep or cows bent over their troughs. Ciaran did not stop to gawk at the scenery, but rode through with haste.

Somewhere close to forty minutes passed before she spoke again. "This isn't funny now." The pleading tone was gone from her voice, replaced with irritation to mask her slowly building disconcertedness. "Ye must tell me where ye're takin' me. Why couldn't I bring me own horse? What are we doin' here?"

No answer. Deirdre leaned into her anger, finding some comfort in it—much more reliable than fear.

"Answer me!" she snapped, louder now. "Stop ignorin' me when I ken ye can hear me or I'll throw meself off this horse, no matter the speed."

It was a bluff. She'd most likely be killed by the fall if she attempted such a thing, and they both knew it. And besides, the way that Ciaran was sitting with his arms on either side of her like barriers would prevent her from doing that very thing. Maybe that had been the point all along? Which meant…

"I'm an idiot. A true, unrepentin', idiot. And ye—ye're a sly, seductive bastard!" Her voice started quiet, but worked its way into a shriek of anger. "That's it, isn't it? I was right about Bram and yer miserable father, and ye are just a pawn in all of this! Every word out of yer stinkin', slimy mouth was a lie! And?—"

"Shut up." Ciaran did not shout, but the low growl he spoke with near her ear was enough to silence Deirdre completely. "Shut yer mouth if ye ken what's good for ye."

"Are ye threatenin' me now? After everythin'?"

He lapsed back into silence, and did not speak again, not even as she hurled questions and insults at him in a barrage that was never ending. Her language grew coarser, her voice louder, her questions more pleading, but he ignored her entirely as they rode through villages and a town until eventually, after another hour, Clan Brennan's keep rose from the horizon ahead of them.

Deirdre's throat was sore from yelling, and she took a silent moment of horror to examine the place as they approached it. It was a stone castle much like any other, though she noted it was significantly smaller than both Castle McMillan and the McFerguson Keep. It was surrounded by guards, each heavily armed, and Deirdre's stomach lurched as she realized the walls were fortified with sharp iron thorns and a deep-dug moat.

It looks like the lair of the Unseelie king, here tae steal me soul.

She shivered at the thought as the horse drew closer to the castle and stopped just outside the gate. A young stablehand came over to help, and Ciaran slipped down off the horse before turning back to help Deirdre down.

She slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me, ye horrible slime of a man," she snapped. "Ye liar, ye?—"

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her roughly from the horse, so hard that she fell forward. She would have been seriously hurt, except that Ciaran quickly caught her, displaying even more strength than she'd realized, and settled her on the ground.

"Come," he said, "Ye cannae see me father lookin' like that."

Hurt shot through Deirdre. Yes, she was dirty and tired after her long journey here, but she'd bathed several times on the way, and Ciaran had never once complained. In fact, he'd spent the whole time telling her how beautiful she was.

"Let go of me wrist," was all she said. "Let me go home."

"Ye wanted Clan Brennan, Deirdre? Well, here it is," Ciaran responded grimly.

After being dragged into the castle, Deirdre was handed over to two unnaturally large and strong women, who manhandled her into a bathing chamber and into a waiting bronze tub.

Neither of the women spoke to her through the entire horrible ordeal. Despite her protests, they scrubbed her clean, tossing away her beautiful dress to the side in a heap.

"I want me dress!" Deirdre said weakly, though she knew it was a silly thing to focus on right now—her shock was just too much to think beyond that moment. Where was Ciaran? Why had he abandoned her? Why was he putting her through this?

"Burn it. Or sell it if ye wish," one of the strong women barked at another serving girl. Deirdre watched with tears in her eyes as the girl greedily gathered up the dress and the pretty pins that Deirdre had worn in her hair.

"Leave the pin!" snapped the other large woman. The servant girl guiltily dropped them to the ground, and Deirdre spied them again just before her head was ducked under the water.

Only a lady would forget herself enough tae wear a pin of pure gold in public where anybody could see it. That was what Ciaran had said to her, and now his prophecy was paying off. By the time she resurfaced, crying and gasping for breath, the pin was gone. She was sure it would fetch a pretty penny for whoever had managed to steal it.

They pulled her out of the water and covered her in too-sweet perfumes before pulling a wool dress over her head, It was pretty, but cheaply made, and without a shift on, the wool made her skin itch. Deirdre didn't object, though. She'd already foolishly allowed them to exert power over her when she'd asked for her original dress, she would not let them see now how this one was bothering her.

Someone started dragging a hard brush through her hair, and it hurt as it pulled at her scalp. They hadn't properly washed her lovely long hair, and because of the traveling and the swimming and all of it, knots had formed near the bottom.

"Cut it off," one of the women decreed.

"What? No. No!" Decorum forgotten, Deirdre was unashamed to plead. "Please, not my hair. It's the only thing that makes me?—"

"Shut up!" one of the women growled, yanking at her hair so hard that Deirdre cried out in pain as she fell backward. A second later, there was a flash of a knife, and a good six or so inches of her pretty red locks fell away from her head to the ground below.

She felt like they'd cut out her heart. They'd taken a part of her and destroyed it—but then, she'd done the same herself when she'd been fool enough to trust Ciaran.

But despite all of this, a part of her couldn't believe it. Surely he didn't know what they were doing to her—what they were taking from her. If he did, he wouldn't let this go on. He could pretend to be cold and heartless all he wanted, pretend that none of what they'd had together had meant anything, but Deirdre knew better, even if Ciaran didn't.

I could love ye. If we had more time together. He'd said that, and Deirdre believed it.

Despite her sorrow, a wave of calmness brought her back. Yes, no matter what this was, she had to believe that Ciaran would come through for her. This had all been some huge misunderstanding. It had to have been.

The door opened, and a servant popped her head in to say, "The Laird is ready tae see her."

Was Deirdre ready to see him ? It didn't matter.

She'd go. And she'd believe in Ciaran. Because she had to.

Jocelyn was restless. She knew that she was needed back at the keep, with her children, but knowing that her love was out looking for Deirdre while she sat there doing nothing left a terrible taste in her mouth. Five days had passed and nobody had heard a word. Lachlan had traveled further afield, sending back word only that there was nothing to report. He'd gone as far as the borders of their neighboring clan, the Allans, but with nothing to show for it. Now he'd continue traveling west, further from Jocelyn, and she knew in her heart his search would be futile.

Blair spent her days split between planning and fretting. She'd always been the organized one of them, the one who made the decisions and came up with ideas. Jocelyn knew that if any sort of plan could successfully find Deirdre, it would be one that sprang from Blair's amazing mind. But Jocelyn sincerely doubted—though it hurt her heart to admit it—that any of Blair's plans would come to fruition. After all, it was impossible to find someone who might already be…

No. I can't think like that. Jocelyn gritted her teeth and urged her horse, Lightning, to speed up a little. The person she was meeting had agreed to travel to meet Jocelyn at the most private place Jocelyn knew—her own private little house at Loch Skuggi.

She hadn't told either of her remaining sisters where she was going or whom she was meeting with. Both of them would want to come, and Jocelyn knew that it was a terrible idea for them all to leave the castle at once. Blair was needed by James's side, and dear Aoife was already falling apart with all that was going on—Jocelyn could not and would not expose her to any further danger.

The only person who knew of her plan was Lachlan, whom she'd informed by letter. She knew he would tell James, as his duty instructed that he had to, but hopefully by the time his message got here, the whole matter would already be over with. Either Blair's ingenious plan to expand the search might have succeeded, or else Jocelyn would already be back at the keep with the knowledge they needed in her hand to bring her sister back alive.

It had to work. It just had to.

They escorted Deirdre to a set of imposing doors, wood decorated with intricate metal carvings, and she knew this had to be the entrance to the Great Hall of the keep. Stylized engraved birds, the symbol of Clan Brennan, watched her with their beady eyes from the doorway. Even though they were created of iron, the way the candles flickered made it look like their eyes were moving, watching her.

As soon as they left her alone, she hurried forward and pressed her ear to the door, listening as hard as she could for any indication of what might be happening inside. She could make out what she believed was Ciaran's voice, as well as the sound of another man who could only be his father, the Laird. However, only a few words made it through—her name, and a string of unconnected phrases that she could not figure into any sentence. The rest of the conversation was completely muffled, and at last she gave up, throwing herself back into her chair in frustration.

Deirdre made no move to escape. She knew that her idea of being alone was an illusion, and that armed guards were waiting at either end of the corridor. They would not hesitate to act if she made a single wrong move. If she craned her neck, she could see the deadly bright sharpness of one of their spears.

As the time stretched on and nobody spoke, her resilience from believing in Ciaran began to ebb away, and treacherous fear rushed to fill its place. Before, she'd felt only apprehension, but now…

What if she was wrong? What if Ciaran had never cared for her and would be willing to hurt her to get what he wanted?

What if he intends to hand me to Bram? What if these are my last moments?

The small fear blossomed into pure terror, and Deirdre sat frozen in her chair, watching those birds as they stared right back, their cruel gazes flickering in the firelight.

She was trapped. And there was nowhere to run.

Agatha looked much the same as she had when Jocelyn had last seen her five years before. It seemed a lifetime ago that young Jocelyn had fled her old home, Aoife and Deirdre in tow, to protect them. Lachlan had saved them then, and she'd saved him right back—and in the center of it all, there had been Agatha.

In fact, the old wise-woman had been in the center of all of their stories since the beginning. Not only when Blair was finding James, but long before that, back before Bram or war or any of it. The prophecy which had led to all this bloodshed, the words Jocelyn's own father had misunderstood to all of their peril, had fallen from this woman's lips. But Agatha had also told Blair of the children, of the wonder that awaited them.

Did Jocelyn believe in the prophecy? She still didn't know. Lachlan was firmly against such things; they went contrary to how he saw the concept of faith. But Jocelyn had seen too much, lived too much, to write it all off just yet.

"I'm sorry I made ye travel all this way," she told the old woman as they settled at the kitchen table, a steaming pot of hot tea between them. Jocelyn took it upon herself to pour them both a cup.

Agatha shook her head. "I ken ye couldnae have come all the way tae me gardens, and I sensed the importance of this," she replied. "Of course I came. But I am surprised ye called for me."

Jocelyn gave her a faint, tired smile. "Aye, I…well, it surprises me as well, tae be honest. Blair is usually the one who places more faith in such things, or even Aoife with her fairy tales. I'm the bookworm, the woman scholar."

"And yet ye've come tae me for help findin' yer lost sister. Are ye so desperate as tae place yer trust in magic?" Agatha's words were heavy, weighted, and Jocelyn understood that whatever answer she gave would be very important.

She chose her words carefully. "I've come tae realize that there's not so much of a difference as people think between bein' a scholar and a wise-woman like yerself."

"Oh aye?"

Jocelyn nodded. "It seems tae me that magic is simply knowledge we havenae discovered yet."

Agatha smiled broadly at that. "Aye. Well, I see now why ye've come tae me. Give me yer hands."

Jocelyn did, and closed her eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. And then–

Sudden dizzying images, so fast she couldn't focus?—

The cawing of some dark bird, covering her senses?—

Blood—

Pain—

The howl of a lone wolf.

Jocelyn opened her eyes again, gasping for air. Agatha's hands had clenched tight around hers, and the old woman's fingers were digging in so much that the nails left welts on Jocelyn's skin. When Jocelyn looked at Agatha's face, she saw that the wise-woman had turned stark white.

"I don't understand," Jocelyn whispered, her own voice scratchy and hoarse. She felt fear coiling in her blood, but she couldn't comprehend its exact source. "What's goin' on? What had all that to do with Deirdre?"

"The end is comin', child," Agatha whispered in a ghostly voice. "And without great care, the lone wolf will be carrion for the crow."