The Irish Warrior

Unlike the one they’d crossed yesternight, he supposed. “I’ll be sure to take ye to one as soon as I can.”

She was quiet a moment. “Promise?”

“Aye,” he replied gruffly. He closed his eyes.

A few moments passed. “Finian?”

“Senna?”

He opened his eyes and looked up. The leaves of the giant oak tree were dark above, and all around, stars dotted the sky.

“Did you say we were going to a town?”

“Aye.”

“Oh.” A bit of silence. “Does that seem wise?”

“Not in the least. Is that how ye think I make decisions?”

“I stand corrected. But…a town?”

“I haven’t a choice. I’ve to meet someone.”

“Oh.” She sniffed. “Someone.” Pause. “I hope she’s pretty.”

He closed his eyes. “Hard to be prettier than ye.”

That brought another round of silence. ‘Someone’ had been rather a massive understatement on his part. His contact, the spy Red, had taken a grave risk contacting The O’Fáil, letting them know he had located the precious, lost dye manual. Whoever had the manual, and a dye witch, could make the weapons. Could blow up buildings. Could win a war.

At this point, Finian would be five days late, but five days or five years, he would still follow through. And he knew Red would wait. The payoff was enormous. The risks, including death, were negligible in the face of it.

“Finian.” Her soft voice lifted again. “What were you doing in Rardove’s prisons?”

He shifted his head against the gnarled bark, finding a more comfortable spot. “Walking through a muddy river.”

“Oh. I suppose you do not mean the dampness of the cellars.”

“Nay.”

Another few moments ticked by.

“Finian?”

He dragged his eyes open. He’d been seconds from sleep. “Aye?”

“I need food.”

He bestirred himself. Grabbing their bags, he knelt at her side and rummaged through them, then handed her a hunk of bread and cheese. He watched her chew without interest. She laid her hand on her lap. The food slipped to the ground.

“Finian?”

“Senna—” he interrupted, thinking to stop her scattered, hesitant talk. Talk, or sleep. Or passion, he thought languidly, but one or another fully. He was so weary he could almost hear sleep calling to him.

“My hand hurts. Help me with it, would you?”

“Aye.” He reached for a flask. “Here.” Tugging the cork free with a muted pop, he held the vessel in front of her face.

She wrinkled her nose, pushing it away. “It stinks.”