Hidden Jewel (Heartfire Series) (29 page)

As the sun crept closer to the horizon, the room ever darkening with the dusky-blue sky, Ailill eased the restraining arms from her warmth one at a time. She did not want to wake anyone, particularly Jacob and Micah; both slept the sleep of exhaustion, the deep, steady breaths clue enough that neither had taken much rest in many days; she knew Micah spent the better part of his days in a fruitless search for the fiend, so long-gone by now that even she would have a hard time of picking up his foul scent; and Jacob... well, she'd made the effort, given her all, but he was still healing. An emotional recovery; the days of sitting still and, mostly, quiet were exactly what she would have prescribed after his ordeal, but it would take yet more time, no matter that he
looked
perfectly healthy on the outside. Slipping carefully down the length of the bed, inch by excruciating inch, her bare feet at last touched the cool wood of the foot board, the softness of the emerald green carpeting; how she longed for the rugs at Heartfire, the silken pelts of hundreds of rabbits sewn together with precision, laid out over soft padding which gave a wondrous impression that her small feet were floating on a cloud. Momentarily knock-kneed, her fingers clamped hard on the bedpost, her gaze sweeping the length of her body, taking in the small ruffle of the linen nightdress across her bosom, about her thighs, before settling for a very long moment on the men in her bed. In sleep they faced one another, hands touching across the residual warmth from her own body. Features relaxed in sleep, the hard, crisp planes softened, both looked very young; very beautiful. It pleased her to see nothing marring Jacob's chiseled face, his sculpted body; no sign that days ago,
I think
, he'd been a bloody mass of broken bones, torn flesh, the pink gleam of exposed muscle too vivid beneath that bronzed form.
Nay, ye've done fine by him
, she mentally congratulated herself. Her cheeks felt too fagged to support a smile, but that was alright. Best to wait until he smiled first; perhaps he had wanted to die, to take Micah away with him. To unwittingly tear her heart asunder, destroy all that she had worked toward in a single last breath... A sobering thought; she turned away, slowly made her way to the door, and left without a backward glance.

It took but moments to brew a restorative drink, to quaff half and pour the rest in a small bottle, just in case; sunlight dropped below the Western ridge just as she stepped outside, and she hurried through the exercises, the ritual to greet the great fiery orb, though it was evening, her timing backwards, feeling breathless and weary before she was through. No walking this time, no hour-long trek down the mount to the Dead Wood at the bottom of the north face. She'd never make it without someone noticing her absence, picking up her trail, no matter that her parents seemed suspiciously absent this eve. Her mare was an intelligent beastie; letting out a rather flat sounding whistle, Ailill waited. Her hearing was as perfect as always, her ears, tuned toward the stable, easily caught the sound of her mount letting herself out of the stall, the clink of metal seconds later as strong horse teeth drew the latch that kept the outer doors secure.

"Well... and what's amiss then, Epona?" she countered softly when the mare only stared at her from around the open door. "Aye, I've been ignorin' ye for days, I ken it... Ye think I'm a grotty master; a minging, worthless wee lump o' hairless flesh, aye? Alright, I'll give ye that, just this once." The mare continued to watch her, obviously expecting more. She blew softly, snorted and pawed the ground when Ailill took one, then two steps closer, reaching out to pat the velveteen snout. "Och, wheesht
mo cridhe
. Ye'll draw attention, and we dinna want that. Nay, ye're a cromulent wee cuddy, are ye no? Och, aye, now ye'll see me. Ye've missed yer master, I think. Weel, I'm back frae the darkness now. Pleased wi' that? Weel, no as pleased as I." Nudging her for another tart green apple, the mare stood still, chewing loudly, unconcerned as Ailill patted her, looked her over with a trained eye. After checking each shoe carefully, the woman mounted with only a bit less grace than usual, turned the gentle beast toward the tree line and set off at a trot. Sensing where they were headed as well the weakness in her master, Epona quickened the pace on her own, cantering gracefully along trails hidden from the human eye until the granite formation loomed ahead, the dark pines concealing from view the darker entrance into the bowels of the earth. As if she knew it was not yet time to return home, the horse lowered her head and whickered, hurrying Ailill into the darkness so that she would hurry back.

It was almost too easy to find out at least a bit of what she'd missed; all she had to do was concentrate on a single image, a memory, and everything fell into place. Disharmony had remained in the Highlands; small disruptions, more along the lines of a clan feud, she guessed, seeing much plaid upon the makeshift battlefield, the lack of completely bare flesh clear even in darkness, a sure sign that would be seen in any major offensive. Her own kind usually shed their raiments, their beautiful bodies painted with woad as their ancestors had done so very long before; the tartans of the clans involved were clearly visible to her mind's eye,
Imbas Forasni
, the second sight, a worthwhile gift on few occasions, usually a bane, the dreams she had at times enough to terrify even her, and Ailill had been raised a dauntless warrior. Too much liquor seemed to make the dreams worse if she overindulged or drank too quickly for her body to keep up; she never drank the wine of grapes for the nightmares filled her waking hours for days after. She peered through the misty darkness, seeing a cousin off to the side, making his way through a gathered crowd; she could see the easy play of muscles beneath tanned, sweaty flesh. The scents of heather and blood mingled in her head, called her home; her cheek rested on the cold stone of the doorway, one foot poised to step out into the fray, the other set firmly on the stone floor of the dun on Jewel Mountain. She had been diligent on the trek here, made certain that no one followed, and yet she felt as if the twin brothers knew where she was, that she was torn between leaving or staying; she could leave now, if she wished, though a bit of explanation would be necessary as she had yet to lie with Jacob after lying her first time with Micah. Sighing heavily, Ailill set her mind to the task at hand, calling up the image of her former teacher, her foster father, Fergus MacDuff. His form larger than life, her gaze zeroed in on the exact spot where he was, right in the thick of it as always, the handsomely etched face spattered with sparkling droplets of blood, the velvet-black eyes gleaming with ferocious pride as they swept over the firelit field to where an almost exact mirror image of himself stood, swinging a claymoor as if it were a baseball bat, knocking three brawny men to their knees with one fell blow.

Her breath caught.

Tiernan MacDuff
.

As lovely as a man can be, particularly a man who is not exactly human. The sight of him, hale and hearty where she had expected him to be frail after a bout with a mortal disease, nearly made her step over the threshold; and then he turned, a sadness in his eyes as they moved quickly from his father's smiling face, seeking, a question on the breeze; meeting her own eyes across a vast distance, holding them with an ease that had always been his own. Sidestepping to miss the flailing limbs of a body flying through the air, the man's dark eyes remained, the connection made. Seeing what his son had stopped fighting to do, MacDuff moved to take his place, protecting his back with the beauty and strength of a true Highland warrior.

Have ye done what ye left to do?
Tiernan queried, the link strong enough that his rich, melodious voice sounded as if he was directly beside her, and not best pleased about it.

"Nay. Half. I am only one. It takes time. There's been a bit o'... difficulty." Ailill's eyes held open appeal, underlaid with a touch of still raw anger that she could not completely conceal. Dark brows twisted, a well known expression of inquiry softening the sharp features..

Tis no but lovin'. A natural thing, no? What is difficult about that?

"Not a thing," she crisply replied. "Tis not the lovin' I speak of, now is it?" She frowned, face darkening with fury. "Is that all that yer concerned with after all this time, Tiernan MacDuff? How I've used my body to better faerie-kind? For shame, laddie, and I say so myself."

Dodging a spray of crimson, a head swiftly removed from its body, the man carefully sidestepped the mess, moved away from the small but still raging feud, his gaze never leaving her icy stare.
That was no what I meant, and ye ken it, Ailill. What's amiss?
himself from the fray forced a stronger sense of the man upon Ailill, his feelings open to her. A whole moil of feelings, all rolling about within his strong frame, weakening him. Her scowl faded, replaced by a well practiced mask; a veritable poker face.

"Naught is amiss, except that the Eldest Son beat one o' yon twin lads near to death whilst I was
lovin'
t'other, and now the fiend has gone missing. Naught is amiss, except that in healing the poor lad I lost a handful o' days nor more to the utter disenchantment o' this land. I awoke but an hour ago and your's was the first face I saw 'tween worlds." Miffed, Ailill allowed her feelings to show for one brief instant, a glimpse of just how disheartening recent events had been. Tiernan frowned, discouraged by the news.

Are ye weel? Are my brothers weel?

"Aye, well enough. I've done what I could, o' course. And you? Ye look hale enough, if a wee bit thin."

I dinna eat much, is all
, Tiernan answered, his dark eyes leaving her face long enough for a quick downward sweep.
In truth, I've no appetite. And ye might eat a bit more, as weel. Ye look weak... and pale.

"Aye, sleepin' for days will do that, no?" she retorted flatly. "I wish to come home and I cannot. There is still much to be done here, and more to be revealed. I shall not see ye again 'til then." It seemed more of a question; her unspoken words hung in the air, colored with sadness.   

Then hie back, lass,
he ordered angrily, his own feelings suddenly masked, the questions he was so desperate to ask buried beneath a scurrilous tone.
And, by Brigit's eternal fires, finish fulfilling your geise! I have waited lang enough to call ye my own, dammit. We dinna need ye here, 'tis no but a wee stramash, o'er soon, and ye shouldna be here when ye've more important things tae be doin'. Go now, Ailill. I do not want you. Not until ye can come to me freely to fulfill the last requirements of the Elders.
eyes closed to her, severing the connection at once, but not before Ailill saw a depth of feeling that matched her own regardless of his scornful demand; not before she noted the shadow of doubts, of secrets kept, in the fathomless pools. Shoulders slumped with dejection, Ailill stepped back, her feet coming together on the stone floor, still on Jewel Mountain, still in the the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. The stones slid smoothly back into place, the archway showing no sign of anything except finely carved flowers in the mystical monolith. Turning away, she stripped, the nightgown that someone had put on her days ago falling soundlessly to the stone floor; the water was hot, almost oily with the excess of minerals in the dark, healing depths. Submerging herself until her feet touched the smooth bottom, rising up like a bobbin over and over, Ailill sensed with a knowing ease that her absence had been discovered, that the two men she'd left back at her parent's house were coming, drawn to her like bees to honey. With a mild case of regret, the heat of the healing pool felt like the balm she'd needed for a week, she made her way back, through the shadows of the Dead Wood, turning her mare's lead at a juncture, toward her parent's home.

Awaking to the face of himself, Micah watched his twin's eyelids flutter, blink as if in disbelief, and spring wide with the realization that he'd missed Ailill's own awakening. A frown crossed his winged brow, mouth tightening into a thin line, an expression mirrored by Micah with delicate precision. Why they should feel irritated that she was gone, neither knew; but the place she'd lain between them was cold, starkly empty. Ailill had slipped away so easily; both felt the divide growing even now, the emptiness that lay ahead if she chose to take that final step, if she left the mountain. Her feelings were a tangible thing; the twin men could actually feel the emotional turmoil of the strange woman as if it were their own; a sadness just below the surface of a cool regard, as if Ailill were searching herself, fighting what was there. And anger. Such a pure, raw anger; the anger of someone hurt beyond all ability to think. It rose up, deep crimson, the exacting shade of the blood spattered across a Highland moor, spattered across the bare chest of a man who looked... exactly like them. A quick, searching glance; there were dozens of them, men of all ages, so closely resembling the brothers that each and every one could have been clones if not for one obvious difference. Eyes of every shade, the full spectrum, peered out of carved faces, wary on a battlefield, watchful of an enemy brought swiftly to its knees upon the emerald earth. Yes, there was that one difference, and yet others more noticeable on second glance. Only two of the entire battalion truly resembled Jacob and Micah, and there the resemblance was startling; it quite took their shared breath away, made them stare, wide-eyed, at each other, until the movement of one man, the younger of the two, pulled their attention back to Ailill's otherworldly vision.