The Crow of Connemara (41 page)

“No,” she answered simply and honestly. “They don't.” She felt her tears welling, a drop spilling out to track down her right cheek. She saw his eyes follow its path.

“Do you believe you can find your ‘other way' in time, Maeve?”

She paused.
The lie
, the old Morrígan and the voices of the cloch chorused.
Give him the lie.
“No,” she said. “I don't.”

She felt his head move under her hand: a nod. “That's what I thought.”

“Colin . . .”

“No,” he interrupted. “Just listen to me. Back home, everyone told me how Dad died doing something he loved, something that meant everything to him, and how he wouldn't have wanted to go any other way. And my mother . . . Mom kept saying how I was wasting my own life, that I wasn't doing anything important or vital, just drifting, and that I should be looking at my father or Tommy or Jen and being like them.” He took her hand, strong fingers pressing hers. “That made me angry, but part of me, buried way down deep, agreed with them. I
have
been drifting. I was always looking for something that I was
supposed
to do. I thought it was just music, but now . . .”

He lifted his head, stirring Keara's fog, and his gaze found her own. “Colin,” she said, placing a finger on his lips. “Some of the voices back then . . . well, I remember now that they told me blood is required, but not so much. That's the other way. I need to cut yeh, aye—that's the ritual—but it would be just a slash on yer arm to give me what's needed and no more. 'T would have to be deep and long, but it wouldn't be yer death.”
The lie . . .
The Morrígan cackled inside her, a sound like a crow's dry cough.

“That would work?” She heard Colin laugh, felt him shrug.

“'T would,” she said. “I'm certain. It has to.”

“Then there's no problem. I'll do that, Maeve. I'll be your key. I'll take the chance.”

The Morrígan shouted inside her, triumphant.
The willing victim . . .
Maeve put her other hand over Colin's, clasping it. She pulled him up to her, kissing him, not caring that he saw that she was crying.

She held him, wondering why the triumph felt empty and hollow.

The Oileánach filled the pub; Colin could hear them inside as they approached with the white noise of a dozen conversations going all at once, though this time there was no music to enliven the gathering. All those conversations went quickly silent as Colin opened the door—creaking on its rusting hinges—and stepped back to let Maeve enter first. The unnatural fog blew in around her and Colin. Colin let the door shut against the fog, standing behind Maeve as everyone's face turned to them. He saw expressions that ranged everywhere from hopeful to solemn to terrified. The room smelled of ale and desperation, of whiskey, hope, and fear.

Those same emotions crowded Colin's mind, along with his own self-doubt about the decision he'd made. The world seemed to be rushing loudly around him, and he could only watch it.
We Doyles have this sense of destiny, or a calling, of something that we're supposed to do.
Tommy's words, which had been echoing in his head since his return to the island.

“Well, Morrígan?” Niall was sitting at the end of bar next to Liam, half-empty pints in front of both and the leather bags holding their sealskins draped over their shoulders. Liam acknowledged Colin with a nod; Niall seemed to be ignoring his presence. “'Tis decided?”

“'Tis,” Maeve answered. “Liam, g'wan and run up to Keara's an' tell her she can stop now. Her task is finished, and we're all forever in her debt. With her spell ended, I can finally do me own.”

Liam nodded, drained his pint, and slid his way past Maeve and Colin. The cold fog wisped around them again as he vanished.

“An' without the fog, the leamh will be coming ashore in short order,” Niall commented. Thick fingers prowled the lip of his pint, smearing the remnants of tan foam there.

“Aye,” Maeve responded. “But the wind must clear the fog by itself, and 'twill take time for the murk to be dispersed enough that the leamh will move in. We can hope that the winds are calm today. But yer right: they'll come, and we'll need yeh all to hold them off as long as yeh can when that happens, to give me the time Colin and I need to open the gateway. Niall, if yeh can take your people out into the sea now and make certain the chain nets are up across the harbor to foul their propellers or at least slow them down . . . I want the bean-sí all awake and howling from the shore; that should give pause to any of the leamh who still have any belief in the Old Ways. Get the harpists out playing as they come ashore, again there may be a few who might think it to be Aoibhell's harp and that they're doomed to death, even though Fionnbharr believes she's in too deep a slumber to be roused. In the meantime, I'll gather what I need, and Colin and I will go to the mound; we'll tell Fionnbharr that it's come time for the aos sí to do their part. Lugh, at least, will come out with the aos sí. Then I'll start the spell to open the gateway, an' we go through.”

“
He
agrees to all that, does he?” Niall asked, with a glare toward Colin. “He's not going to make a balls of it?”

Colin startled. He'd listened to Maeve's commentary without really hearing it, and now Niall's mockery tugged at Colin's own temper, and he answered before Maeve could respond. “Yeah, Colin agrees. So shut yer feckin' gob, Niall.” He said the last sentence with a broad imitation of Niall's own thick brogue. Nervous laughter followed from the others, and Colin half-expected that Niall would lunge for him at the taunt. He fisted his hands at his sides, bracing himself for the assault, but Niall only shrugged.

“We'll see if yeh really understand, then,” he said. “If yeh do yer job and we go through, I'll pray yer soul finds
Tír na mBeo
.” He lifted his glass toward Colin and drank, then threw his glass against the wall behind the bar, narrowly missing the mirror and bottles there. Glass shattered as those closest to the wall ducked the shards and shouted. Niall laughed at the protests from the others in the pub. “We'll nah be needing the glasses here after today, one way or t'other, and if a little cut bothers yeh, there's likely worse to come this morning. Selkies, let's go; the Morrígan's given us her orders.”

A half dozen of the Oileánach rose as Niall pushed away from the bar, all with similar leather bags across their shoulders. Niall nodded to Maeve as he passed. “I hope everything goes jammy for yeh, Maeve,” Colin heard him mutter. “We'll need the luck, eh?” To Colin he said nothing at all. The others followed him out with glances toward Maeve and Colin.

“What about the rest of us?” someone asked.

“Yer job is to do whatever yeh can to delay the leamh and avoid them interrupting the spell, but don't get yerselves killed in the process. The leamh won't use deadly force if yeh don't give 'em the excuse, so leave the real fighting to them that leamh weapons won't easily touch.”

Colin looked at the uncertain faces in front of them as, one by one, they left the tavern. He wondered if they were all thinking as he was, but he said nothing, nodding to each of them as they passed until only Maeve and Colin were left. “They won't be using guns?” he asked her when they were gone. “You're certain?”

Maeve gave him what seemed a lukewarm smile. “We can hope not,” she answered. “An' what good would it do if I told those here anything else?”

“Because you don't know if it's the truth or not.”

“Truth?” Maeve gave him a smile that faded even as he saw it. “Truth is as slippery as a wet salmon,” she told him, “and as hard to hold onto.”

32

F
ROM THE TAVERN, Colin followed Maeve to Keara's cottage, which no longer poured forth the dense fog. Maeve ducked in the open door. “Aiden? Keara?” she called.

Aiden answered from the bedroom: “In here.”

Maeve followed the call, with Colin behind her. A wan and pale Keara lay in her bed, her hair matted with sweat and dark circles under her eyes. Aiden was at her side, feeding her a bit of soup and tea. Seeing Keara, a sense of guilt washed momentarily over Maeve.
Look at her, it's me fault that she nearly died in the effort.
“How are yeh, me darlin'?” Maeve asked. She knelt on the other side of the bed, brushing back the damp strands of hair from the young woman's forehead.

“I'll be fine,” she answered, though her voice was but a whisper. She coughed, and a bit of fog slid from her mouth. “I don't think I can do much more for yeh, though. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be,” Maeve told her, smiling. “Yeh've done more than anyone else could'a. Yeh've made it possible for Colin to come back, and for us to do what we planned to do all along. We'll be in the other world soon, I promise.”

Keara's eyes moved, and her gaze found Colin. A glimmer of a smile touched her cracked lips. “Colin, we di'nah think yeh'd come back in time.” Her eyes shone with tears. “Maeve said yeh would, said she'd make it so, but I was afraid it might all be for naught.”

The words cut at Maeve, even as Keara gave her a look that spoke of adoration and affection.

Aiden was staring toward Colin with hard, dark eyes, his hand clasped in Keara's. “She would have died for the Morrígan, gladly. 'Twas a sacrifice she'd make for all of us. She was willing to do whatever was asked, no matter the cost to herself.”

“What you've done wasn't wasted,” he told Keara and Aiden both, evidently aware of the undercurrent of their words. “I'm here to help Maeve open the gateway.”

A nod, from both Aiden and Keara, was his only answer. Keara's eyes closed, then opened again. “Sorry, m'Lady,” she whispered. “So tired.”

“You rest, then,” Maeve told her, stroking her cheek. “Rest and know that without yeh, nothing a'tall would have been possible. Yeh are the true hero of our tale, and I'll make sure yer part is sung afterward. Would that please yeh, to be part of a song?”

The smile flitted over Keara's lips again, but her eyes closed. Her breathing deepened. “Let her sleep as long as yeh can,” Maeve told Aiden. “But when yeh hear the leamh begin their attack, yeh must take her directly to the mound. Them that the leamh capture and put on their ships might not be able to reach the gateway when it opens, and I won't have Keara left behind after her sacrifice for us all. Do yeh understand?”

“Aye, Morrígan,” Aiden said. “We'll be there.”

Maeve nodded and stroked Keara's cheek once more. Then she rose, swiftly, and with a gesture to Colin to follow, left the room and the cottage.

Outside, the fog was still heavy but already noticeably thinning, and they could both feel the wind off the Atlantic. Colin could see the glow of the sun overhead through the clouds. Maeve glanced upward as well and scowled. “Not much time,” she said. “The Old Ones don't have the power they once had, or perhaps the land itself is angry that we're leaving.” Maeve sighed and tugged her cloak tighter around her.

“Come on, then,” she told Colin. “We have our work to do.”

Back at in her own house, Maeve bustled about, dragging the various components of the spell from where she'd stashed them in the bedroom—material she'd been collecting since she and Rory had found the cloch back in '47—and checking again that all the necessary ingredients the voices of the cloch had told her she needed were there. She could feel Colin watching her from the bed as she hurried, putting everything in a small chest. She heard the intake of his breath when she added the scabbarded iron dagger with an ornate copper hilt.

“Yeh know that the spell requires blood,” she said, drawing the weapon from its scabbard. The leaf-shaped metal blade was dark with oxidation except where the edges had been filed to a bright polish; the oaken hilt was dull from the ravages of time and the hands that had touched it over the centuries, nearly black in the hollows of the knots engraved in the oak. “'Tis a blade I've kept for, well, a long time, and 'tis the one I must use.” She softened her voice then. She could nearly taste the fear in Colin, and that made her suddenly uncertain—which she couldn't afford. The spell demanded concentration and certainty. “Yeh haven't changed yer mind?”

He was staring at the weapon, eyes wide. His hand was in his pocket, and she knew it was wrapped around the cloch. She wondered if the voices were whispering to him, wondered if they were warning him of her lie.
No, they wouldn't do that. They know what the cloch was sent to do, and they know the bard's role.
“It's just . . .” he managed, then stopped to swallow. His gaze moved to her face. She placed the blade back in the well-worn leather and put the knife quickly in the box. “No,” Colin said, but the word was no more than a husk. “I haven't changed my mind.”

“Those were brave words yeh said to Niall back in the tavern, and to Aiden and Keara as well.”

“Thanks.” His gaze was fixed somewhere just past her face, or perhaps somewhere inside himself. “They all . . .” He stopped again, licking at his lips as if they were dry. “They all love you, Maeve. And more than that. They worship you. You're the one they'd follow anywhere, to any fate.”

“I love them, also,” Maeve told him. “I love
yeh
as well, Colin,” she added. “An' the way I love yeh t'ain't the way I love them. I hope yeh know the difference. 'Tis what makes this so difficult, for all of us.” She crouched down in front of him, taking his face in her hands and forcing him to look at her. She saw his regard snap back into focus as the Morrígan rose within her. Even her voice sounded different to her own ears. “I've told yeh; there's another way, and that's what I'll do: I
will
cut yeh, aye, and 'twill be a deep one but not a deadly one. Do yeh believe me? If yeh would die, then part of me would die with the spell, too.”

“I believe you,” he answered. He seemed to be searching her eyes, as if behind them there might be another answer, as if he knew that what she just told him was a lie.
Slippery truth, indeed . . .

He must have seen the despair in her face; he attempted to smile. “It's okay, Maeve. I said I'm willing to do this. You just have to promise me it won't be for nothing.”

In answer, she leaned forward to kiss him, a long and lingering embrace. When she pulled back again, she took his hands. “Yer a singer of the old songs, Colin, and yeh know what history and truth they hold for people. I promise yeh what I promised Keara: when the songs are made about this day on the other side, in Talamh an Ghlas, yeh will be a great part of them. Yer name will never be forgotten, not by any of us, and the songs about yeh will always be sung. 'Tis what I can promise yeh for certain.”

Colin's eyes narrowed. “Maeve, are you saying that I can't go with you through the gateway? Is that what you mean?”

“Aye,” she told him. “Yeh can't come with us to where we're going. The spell doesn't allow that.” The corner of his mouth lifted, and his thumb brushed away another tear from her cheek. She hurried on before he could speak, before the Morrígan inside could stop her. “But if this isn't what yeh want, Colin, I won't hold yeh to any promise yeh've made. I'll understand and I'll let you go. All yeh need do is stay here and when the leamh come, surrender yerself an' go with them. But let me be blunt . . . yeh also have to know that if yeh do that, it means the death of everyone else here, mine as much as anyone. None of us will surrender, even if the spell fails. It's yer choice, love. Either way, we were never destined to be together except for the brief time we've already had, as much as we both might have wanted more.”

She could see the struggle inside him, battling the vow he'd made. Over the centuries, a thousand heroes had worshiped and feared her, had taken oaths in her name over and over again, and she had watched them fight and bleed and die. Lugh, Cúchulainn, Indech, Odras . . . the names flowed on and on; it was no accident that many named the Morrígan the Goddess of Death.
This is what heroes, men and women alike, do and have done forever. They die, and nothing can stop that—it's their destiny. If his name is to be among their roll, Colin will do the same. A part of him knows that as well as I do.
She watched his face, watched the struggle underneath subside slowly.

Colin nodded, though his cheeks were pale. “I gave you my word,” he told her. His voice was like the gravel under a rushing brook. “And I'll keep that word.”

As if he'd uttered a premonition, a low, mournful wail sounded through the thinning fog from the direction of the harbor: a ship's horn. Maeve's head came up and she stood, looking a final time into the box to make certain that everything was there.

“We need to go now,” she told Colin. “The leamh are coming.”