The Irish Warrior

“Aye.”

“And are ye? Are ye a dye-witch?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Such names can get people killed, Finian.”

“I vow, I’ll only kill ye if ye don’t answer me. Are ye a dye-witch?”

Another long considering regard, then she said in a rush, “No but my mother was.”

He nodded, holding his face in a neutral way to avoid displays of amazement, hope, or any other emotion that might make her leap up and run away, because the look on her face seemed very close to panic.

Good God, he had a dye-witch.

For hundreds of years, there had been none. Bred out by invasion and the fear of discovery, caution had won over passion and the Celts let the knowledge of crafting the Wishmés die. Lost the secrets, splintered the lineage. Mothers no longer taught daughters, and somewhere in the dim past, four, maybe five hundred years ago, a branch of that tree had been allowed to wither.

But it had not died. And now he had the last fragile branch in his possession, his very own dye-witch.

Who didn’t want the task at all.

What mattered that? he thought, surprised to notice that bitterness fueled the inner query. Who had such luxury to choose against a destiny? His parents had been weak, of course, frail, unable to prevail over overwhelming desire or strong emotion, but he had been raised by The O’Fáil. Taken in by a king, lifted up. That was a rare thing. There was no cause for the taste of bitterness to be in his mouth.

No, all he had to do was consider Senna. What to do with her. Return her home as promised, or tell the Irish who she was?

It would be disloyal at best, treasonous at worst, to withhold this knowledge from his king. But Senna had no interest in dyeing. And if he told The O’Fáil about her, dye she would. Her circumstances would not be so bleak as with Rardove, not by a bow shot, but still…she would be held against her will. Made to dye. Forced. Captured. Impinged upon.

All conditions she did not prefer.

Then again, who had the choice of what their life held? He looked at her, face damp, eyebrows pinched together like they had not been since that first morning on the ridge, when they spoke of Rardove and her father and her acumen for business.

But mayhap…

“Surely, dyeing for Rardove would be a repulsive thing,” he said mildly, giving her a chance to say she’d do it for him.

Inwardly he shook his head at the awkward gambit. Outwardly, he peered at her expectantly.

She peered back, less expectantly. “I cannot make dyes.”

“But ye can, lass. Ye don’t even know what ye’re capable of. Rardove was right, the first time in his accursed life, Senna. Such things are in the blood.”

She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “So says legend.”

“No, Senna. I say.”

The look she gave him was derisive at best. “And how do you know such things?”

“These stories have been in my family for a thousand years.”

She waved her hand. “You do but prove me true. They are legends.”

He squinted at her. “Aye, legends. But why do ye think that makes them untrue?”

She looked startled. “Forsooth, I assumed. Legends after all are of a legendary nature—”

“I’m telling ye, Senna, if ye want to craft the Wishmés, ye can. Nothing could stop ye.”

“Not having the knowledge might stop me.”

He fell silent, finally.