The Irish Warrior

Senna sighed deeply. “I am terribly tired of legends and things of the past. I do not know how I know these things. I simply do. And I can assure you the instructions on this page end too abruptly. There are more pages, and they are missing. And the computare for this”—she pointed to the shimmering tunic on the bench—“are on those missing pages.”

Finian drew a sharp breath. The king looked at him, then the fur on the sleeves of the king’s robe brushed against her arm as he turned to Finian.

“Anyone could have them,” the king said. He started out the door, although Finian did not move. “But it must be someone Red knew well. Assemble a small group of experienced men, Finian, men who know how to keep their heads down and their ears open. We have another contact who might have heard—”

“I know where they are,” Senna said in a clear voice. She felt like a bell ringing Prime. “I know where the missing pages are.”

The king turned back in shock.

“Where?” Finian asked in a terrible, hollow voice.

“Rardove Keep.”

Finian closed his eyes. Senna stared at the wall.

The king said simply, “We have to get them back.”

Chapter 50

It was quiet in the chamber for a long time. Then, as if invisible words had formed in the air and drifted into Finian’s ears alone, he turned and pinned the king in his sights.

“Nay.”

The O’Fáil didn’t shift his gaze away from Senna. Finian stepped directly into his line of sight. “No.”

The king looked at him then.

“She’s not going back there,” Finian said curtly.

“She will buy us time.”

“She has been used by too many people to buy off too many things.”

“You don’t see it, do you?” The O’Fáil said, the level tone of his words underscoring their seriousness. “First Scotland, then Ireland will fall to Edward, deeper and further, until they will never get out, not for a thousand years. If the Saxon king can get his men into any castle he wishes, unseen? If he can create small explosions in the bedchambers of any nobleman who opposes him?” The king’s words slowed. “Edward cannot be given such power as the Wishmés, Finian. He must be stopped.”

“So be it. I’ll kill him.”

The O’Fáil gave a bark of laughter. “If they have the recipe, you’d have to kill every king to come after as well, son. And in any event, you couldn’t get within a league of Longshanks, not with you being the one who stole his dye-witch. You’ll be killed on sight.”

Senna lifted her head and the king glanced over. She looked away, picked up a piece of straw, and began knotting it, little knots up its length. The moon was rising higher. The rounded edge of it slid into view through the narrow window.

“Ye will not be sending her back,” Finian repeated flatly.

The king studied Senna’s profile. “No,” he agreed slowly, looking back to Finian. “’Tisn’t the sort of thing you do to a soul. They’ve to choose it themselves.”

“Good.” Finian stared at the king hard, his words slowing to the pace of the dripping water in the cistern. “We are in agreement. She stays.”

The king lifted his eyebrows. “I’ll not send her anywhere.”

Finian nodded and turned. “Ye’re not to worry, lass. Ye’re not going back.”

“Of course I’m not,” she said agreeably.

He paused. “’Tis too dangerous.”

“Of course it is.”

His eyes narrowed.