The bailey was a bustle of activity as I made my way through to the kitchens. Brother Mac Máel and Father Briain hurried to the chapel for Lauds; the smith’s hammer beat out a steady rhythm, replacing blades broken the day before; and many of the servants were enjoying the rare sunshine, repairing torn cloaks, dresses, or even the leggings Branna had cut from me the night before—though they’d be repurposed into something else now.
As I passed the smithy, a low, welcoming horn sounded. I froze and jerked my head toward the stockade bridge. Just as it had the day before, everything ground to a halt, only this time, everyone wore looks of anticipation.
I ran to the center of the bailey, in full view of the bridge. The warriors who had left with my father were returning, their faces weary, yet triumphant. Their horses perked up noticeably as they trotted over the bridge, no doubt anticipating a rest in the stables. My clansmen broke out into grins as they caught sight of loved ones, their green-and-gold cloaks billowing out behind them. The clan crest, a fierce griffin embroidered in gold and surrounded by a Celtic knot, was emblazoned on the long cloak of each man. Behind them came a wagon heavily laden with wooden chests—from the monastery? I held my breath as I watched each man pass, counting as they went. Thirty men. Everyone was accounted for. Everyone but my father.
The horn blew low again, and everyone bowed.
My breath let out in a sigh as I caught sight of the next rider. My father rode in on his dapple-gray charger, his cloak of green and gold flowing behind him like a sail. A small circlet of gold sat atop his light hair, nearly the same color save for the gray streaks that had recently taken over the blond. His face bore the determined expression it always did, with no sign of wear.
Relief weakened my knees. He was alive.
I ran to my father’s side, and he smiled from atop his tall horse. “Ciara, we came as soon as we received word. I’m glad to hear you did your duty and protected your mother and sisters.”
“Yes, áthair. The raid took us by surprise, but we were able to defeat the leader.” Though, of course, I had broken every rule by taking the leader prisoner, but I wasn’t about to volunteer such information. “Had the monastery been raided? Are the monks safe?”
“It was nearly raided, but not by Northmen—this was King Sigtrygg’s doing,” áthair said with a look of disgust he reserved for the king of Dubhlinn. “We fought them off and brought the monastery’s gold and silver and relics back here for safekeeping.”
It wasn’t unusual for Sigtrygg to go on raids; with the whole of éirinn divided into five different overkingdoms—including Mide—and countless smaller clan territories and kingdoms, there were frequent raids from within the country by other kingdoms seeking to gain more resources. Sigtrygg, though, had recently aligned himself with the High King by marrying his daughter, but this addition to his power clearly hadn’t stopped him raiding other kingdoms for more land, more gold, more power. As a half Northman, however, Sigtrygg was one of the most hated kings, and he had never raided so close to our castle before. I didn’t need the Morrigan’s crow to sense that a battle was brewing between our kingdoms. “I’m glad you were able to stop them.”
He nodded. “Now where are your mother and sisters? I missed them terribly while I was away.”
I kept a smile on my face though his words pained me. My father never concerned himself with me, seeing me more as a fellow clansman than as his daughter. “They must have already left for the market.” I could almost see Branna and Deirdre’s crestfallen faces when they realized they’d missed áthair’s homecoming. They loved watching the clansmen parade through the bailey, áthair striking such a proud figure on his big dapple gray.
“How disappointing.” His horse stamped its hoof as though impatient to move on. “Well, come speak to me in the throne room. I would hear a full report on all that transpired.”
I hesitated for a moment, struggling to think of an excuse, but there was nothing so important that would allow me to ignore my father’s command. I dipped my head in acquiescence, and he rode away, giving orders to the clansmen to rest.
Before I could follow, I watched Conall move to meet my father as he dismounted from his horse. áthair bent his head toward Conall, and the two of them continued walking toward the castle keep.
It was Conall’s duty as much as it was mine to tell the king what had passed in the battle, but would Conall tell him of the Northman prisoner?
A sense of urgency nipped at my heels as I followed. If—no, when—my father discovered I kept the Northman prisoner in the cave, he would order him beheaded without question. In my mind, I saw the young prisoner and his younger brother, and a sort of desperation built within me. I winced as images of my sisters’ murders assaulted my mind. Forcefully, I pushed the terrorizing thoughts away. If the Northman knew something—anything—that could help me stop the crow’s vision, then I could not let him be killed.
Even if it meant facing áthair’s wrath.
I strode into the keep’s great hall, my soft leather boots barely making a sound upon the stone floor. The cavernous room was quiet, the rows upon rows of wooden benches empty. Ahead of me, my father made his way toward his wide wooden throne, elevated on a stone dais. He would expect me to stand before him and make my report on the battle like any other clansman. For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to have him express concern for me, to inquire about the battle with his face twisted in anxiety instead of calculation. Even as I thought these things, I shook my head. My parents had always kept me at a distance; imagining anything different would only cause me pain.
The first time I’d stood before his disappointed gaze in this very room, I’d been thirteen. It was after our first battle against Northman raiders, and my leg had been cut so badly I could barely walk. As I limped the length of the room, my father watched my slow progress dispassionately.
“You have the blood of a warrior, Ciara,” my father had said, his eyes intense on mine. “It’s been a year since you first discovered your extraordinary powers, and still you have not mastered them.” He glanced down at my leg. “That injury you bear will be the least of what you—and others—may suffer if you cannot gain control of them. But we cannot rely on chance battles and raids to train you.” He waved forward one of our clansmen, a superior fighter as strong as an ox. “You will have to learn to take over the minds of our allies so that you may be able to do so against our enemies in battle.”
I wish I could say I hadn’t wanted to. That I’d refused my father and learned to hone my skills some other way. But the truth was, while my abilities disgusted and even shamed me, in the midst of using them, I reveled in them. I felt invincible, all-powerful, and most of all, I felt useful. So while part of me shriveled in horror at what I did to men and boys I’d grown up with, the other rejoiced at the power I displayed.
But such things came at a price.
My steps slowed, echoing in the great hall, as I tried unsuccessfully to fight off a yawning feeling of loneliness. As a child, I could never have been described as affable, but I did have a handful of friends. Now, it was only my sisters who sought my company—and Fergus, on occasion. As a princess, my clansmen couldn’t shun me outright, but they avoided me, until some days I felt like I’d go mad from the isolation. A writhing remorse deep in my abdomen surfaced—for men, much older than I, who watched me with suspicion and flinched when I entered the room. Of Séamus, who had once been my closest friend, a boy I’d thought I loved, but who now despised me.