Hidden Jewel (Heartfire Series) (18 page)

The truth in the ancient's eyes was too much, her kindly spoken words did no good. Ailill felt the ragged edges of her heart crumbling bit by bit even as she carefully maintained her precise militaristic poise. She, as well, had spent her eighteenth birthday sitting alone on a beach, far from the picturesque Nairn; far from anyone who gave a damn. It had been the loneliest birthday of her life. But there was no time to dwell on heartache, on a birthday weeks past that had gone uncelebrated. "Whom did we lose?" she queried softly, shoulders stiffened against the expected blow to her sorely wounded pride.

"Iain MacFayden, Keddy MacRitchie, Connor and Cullen MacCrimmon, Ewam Flannery, Angus Keir, Dalziel and Dugan Mackintosh, and Rafferty MacDougal." Fallon's tone was matter-of-fact, the names in the order they had been relayed to her; the order in which the men had died.

A wash of tears spilled over in spite of her effort to stop them. It took many moments before Ailill could speak with any attempt at clarity. "Raffy was no but a wee laddie..." she choked out. "Hardly more than a wean. And the MacCrimmons... taught me to play the 'Mackintosh's Lament' when I was six."

"Nay, lass. Ye were there for young MacDougal's first battle, nine months ago. A braw lad, a bonnie fighter, as ye taught him to be. Rory is proud that his aulder brother died a warrior's death. As should ye be. And the MacCrimmon's were seasoned warriors; they kent well the danger surrounding the Black fury."

"Nine well trained warriors... so many. And who led them into the Land o' Light?" Ailill asked uneasily, her gaze trained on the table before her.

"Twas MacDuff, Himself, as the auldest Gentry in the feud. They were taken to
Tir na N'Og
'ere their flesh turned cold."

"How many wounded?"

"Of our own, nay more than a dozen. Tiernan commanded the wounded Rogues be treated and released."

Ailill's head shot up, her tear-stung eyes blinking in disbelief at that. "Are you quite certain? That is not our way, and Tiernan is the least likely one to keep enemy forces alive for another battle. You know how he despises their constant treachery, and the Rogue commanders, being in league with so many nasty men, steal our own wee lassies and sell them to deviants for high profit. It fair sickens him."

"Aye, Ailill, but when he saw Rafferty MacDougal fall at the hands o' the Black's youngest bastard, Tiernan lost all semblance o' himself; he went fair crazy wi' grief and well... ye of all people ken what it means to be o'ertaken wi' the battle frenzy." Shaking her head at the knowledge of just how well Ailill knew that particular meaning, Fallon frowned.

"He killed an entire battalion, but it wasna just him. The MacKenzie's, and a many from Heartfire, were struck in the same fashion... 'ere they knew it, half the Rogue army gathered that day lay dead about their bloodied feet, and a good hundred more lay mortally wounded. 'Twas an all-out bloodbath. Those not too badly wounded were stitched back together, sent back at the head o' the train of their dead and dying, as a warning to all in league wi' the Black Druid."

Admiration for Tiernan's handling of the situation welled up, overflowed into Ailill's saddened features, shined in her eyes, darkened to cobalt with a rush of feeling. When she finally remembered that Micah and Jacob were still sitting there, had heard everything, she turned a wary eye in that direction. She saw absolute bewilderment on the two handsome faces; curiosity was a bright flame in the dark eyes, there was no mistaking that gleam, and still yet a look she knew was alight in her own eyes when each met her silent gaze. In spite of the fact that so much had been said, in spite of her tears shed for another, for her dead kindred, and despite the obvious fact that they knew nothing at all of whom or exactly what her grandmother had been talking about, Ailill saw a flicker of recognition in those dark blue depths, a sense that they should know full well what was going on. It heartened her to see such; and the fact that both had been highly impressed with her first love's bold warning actually brought a slight smile to her lips, however tremulous it was. She glanced briefly at her parents, silent as death throughout the small scene; they were almost as out of the loop as the twins.
And well they should be
, she thought disparagingly.
Serves them both right
. She met her grandmother's tense gaze with reluctance.

"I cannot preside o'er the ceremonies, can I? I cannot lead the Druids' fasting, nor the mourner's feast..." She sighed loudly, unhappily, almost a growl of frustration. "It isn't right, this. They were my friends, my kindred. My brothers in arms! I cannot say goodbye, nor even help to build the funeral pyres. It has already been done."

For once the ancient Queen understood exactly what her young heir was going through, how hard it had been to stay away from all that she knew and loved for so many long months; for years, when all was said and done. Sadly, there was nothing she could offer that would ease the girl. Nothing at all.

"I am sorry, Granddaughter. It was all done last night. Naught else can be done now."

"So then this is why I was awakened this morning with demands rather than the smiles and welcome I have grown accustomed to, right?" Ailill looked at her father, more than simply displeased. "I got my own battle, isn't that right? And more than merely a call to duty and honor. It isn't my people I must serve everafter, is it? No, don't answer. I ken the meanin' o' hoor. 'Tis my grandsire's legacy, after all."

She stood suddenly, turned away, head bowed. "You cannot know how such actions have wounded me," she said, barely above a whisper. "Now I truly feel I am naught but the changeling, and you are no more than surrogates, the chosen o' the Tribal Clans. I believe I must be alone for a bit, for if I continue in the presence o' any more pathetic humans, nor yet you
wickedknaves who dare to call themselves my kin!
I shall be compelled to call up all that I've learned in my years away and you would know how very much I hate and despise you."

Her back grew smaller, disappeared around the doorway; within moments the front screen door slammed with deafening force and Ailill could be seen through the open kitchen windows, her arms full with a large set of bagpipes, headed toward the meadows above the house at a dead run. For the first time in what had seemed like hours, Micah found his voice. "Where is she going?" His expression was troubled as he watched the tiny woman grow smaller through the windows behind him.

"She goes to grieve, Micah," Annie answered quietly, standing beside the sash with a frown. Sensing the eyes of the two young men boring into her back, she explained, "As is customary, Ailill will perch atop the highest tower, usually it would be one of the turrets at Heartfire; she will play melancholy notes and she will sing the
caithris
to honor each of the lads lost in battle. In the Highlands, it would be her right to lead the ceremony, but she is here now and therefore unable to grieve, or to rejoice, later, with the families of the fallen." She turned, meeting the eyes of each. For the first time since they had met her, Annie Mackintosh looked unhappy.

"Because she will lament each one with a full ceremony, and because there were nine dead, it will take her a long time. If you've other plans for the day, you're free to go; if not, well, that's up to you."

"Will she leave? She talked about going back to Scotland..." Jacob shrugged, at a loss. There had been no air travel for at least twenty-five years, nor phone service, nor regulated electricity either; he could not imagine how long it would take to get across oceans. With a jolt, he realized he had never heard Ailill say how she came to be at Jewel Mountain; not to mention the fact that these people spoke of the place as if it were a simple day trip to get there;
a completely different country, and they talk as if they are in constant communication with the people there, which would obviously be impossible
. And hadn't Micah said she looked as if she'd been in a battle when he saw her the first time, weeks ago? Jacob fought a growing sense of unreality as the delicate-looking redhead gazed at him in unfeigned sympathy.

"My daughter will not leave this place. Ailill has given her word... Herself would not go back on a vow for any reason. No, Jacob, when she comes back from the summit, she'll likely set up a bonfire, to mark the funeral pyres burning on the Highland moor, ken?" The woman's expression was grim, her eyes the same darkened shade as Ailill's when she met the lad's worried gaze; though he found it strange, hearing Annie refer to her young daughter as
Herself
, the emphasis unmistakable, he said nothing. He wanted nothing more than to follow the beautiful girl; to watch and listen; her ways seemed rather eccentric, antiquated; downright pagan, truth be told.
Funeral pyres?
And now there was a slight accent rearing its head in the Mackintosh's speech.
What next?
Jacob could not help wondering.

"Aye, and then she'll get drunk as a bee in a beer bottle, toasting the dead." James flashed them a ghost of a smile, his teeth gleaming for the barest instant as he stood. "Come on, boys. You can help. I know you don't want to leave. Curiosity killed the cat, but that rule don't apply to us wolves, now does it?"

Glancing with hooded eyes between the two women, Ailill's maternal line as far as they knew though her talk of surrogates had certainly left a marked question ringing in the air, seeing the silent grimness of them both, the strained tautness of feminine bearing, Micah and Jacob both stood and followed James out of the kitchen, out of the massive house they'd once thought was the finest they would ever set eyes on; each understood that, somehow, that first impression would ultimately be proven dead wrong.

Sad Fury

The sad notes of the pibroch's wail were carried to their sharp ears on an unseasonably warm breeze; heads cocked to one side, listening as the eerie music rang down over the hills, into the lowest valleys below from the very tip of the mountain, a sense of the fiery little woman's cutting sadness hit them both as one. Side by side, the brothers stood gazing at the minuscule form far above, dark with the sun at her back, facing the direction of her own homeland. The feeling of displacement they had struggled against for more than half their lives struck hard with the sight, with the sound that held a disconcerting familiarity; the odd knowing that this was not, had never been, their world... not fully.

Neither were aware of the silence which inevitably descended upon the ranch. The few hands, unused to the
Ceol Mor
, so natural to Ailill, had paused in their duties, slipped quietly out into the yard to stand behind the twin men, listening; tanned faces expressed a plethora of emotions, the whole range from grinning admiration to poignant sorrow; the latter was a feeling which Micah and Jacob, the stolen sons of a great man, shared in wholeheartedly, though neither yet knew the truth of their birth. It seemed right, fitting, when the single great pipes were joined by a second, and then a third, each farther down the mountain, the players hidden beneath the heavy shadows of Wilderdeep, the more welcoming shade of the Oak Wood. It was the most moving display of musical talent any of them had ever heard; even Joe MacLeod, at thirty-two the oldest of the farmhands and a superb musician himself, had been born after the downfall of the great American nation, some hundreds of years after his ancestors had fought, and died, for love of the country of his own origins; Ailill's own beloved Scotland.