“What could the lass do, anyhow?” the king interjected. His words were flat, his question was flat, his face was flat. Expressionless.
He wanted her to explain to Finian exactly what she could do.
“Just so, my lord,” she said brightly. “There’s little I can do. Except for the middling matter that I know where the missing pages were left. I could retrieve them.”
“Or, we could burn his castle down,” Finian suggested amiably. “As we were going to do anyhow. And that will take care of the missing pages.”
“Very true. Unless, of course, Rardove has found them, and perhaps hid them away, in which case, I would have the best chance of finding them.” Finian stared at her. “Alternately, I could stall for time, let him believe I will make the dyes for him. He would give me the missing pages to do so, and then I could destroy them or bring them to you.”
“Destroy them,” the king said curtly.
“That is not yer duty,” Finian said tightly.
She gave him a sad smile. “No, ’tisn’t. Not a matter of duty.”
He took a step toward her. She was certain it was intended to intimidate, to quash opposition. “We were going to fight this war before ye came, Senna. It has nothing to do with ye.”
She nodded. “Just so. You are right.”
He took another step closer. She put her palm on his chest and said in a highly aggr
ieved tone, “Becalm yourself, Finian. I say you are right.”
They stared at each other until she coughed a little. Then a little more. She held her fingertips to her throat and coughed again, apologetically. “Might I have a drink?” Cough, cough. “In fact, I think perhaps a bit of that whisky now?”
He stared at her a moment longer, then turned on his heel, looking at the king briefly but significantly on his way by. “I’ll be back.”
He strode out, calling for a servant. She and The O’Fáil waited a minute, then the king turned to her.
“Do you know how kings are made in Ireland, lass?”
“Stop.” She got to her feet. “I shall go. But not to make him a king.”
The king rose, too, and they walked swiftly out of the office chamber. “You think you can locate the pages?”
“Aye.” Her words sounded dusty and dull, but her heart, buffeted by terror, felt bright. Fear had come hunting, and she was not running. That had to be worth something.
The king gave swift instructions for a few of his personal guards. He sent someone to delay Finian. All the while, they walked swiftly toward the stables. “Are you certain on this, lass?”
“Can you win the war if I don’t?”
He gave a grim smile. “It will not matter, if you don’t.”
“And then Finian will be killed.” Was that her voice, that thick, throaty sound?
The O’Fáil shrugged as they hurried into the bailey. “People die in battle, lass. One cannot predict such things. But if Rardove and Longshanks get their hands on that recipe, I can predict everything down to how they’ll tie the ropes around Finian’s wrists and ankles.”
“Then I am certain.”
Stars glittered sharp and bright above as they hurried to the stables. Yellow light spilled out of the windows, and the door was thrown wide, so the mud in the bailey glistened in the golden glow.
“I’ll have my men take you as far as the barrows,” the king said as they entered the stables, “and keep you in sight until you draw near the river, to make sure you’re safe.”
It was decidedly not funny, but the urge to burst into laughter almost overtook her. “Aye,” she agreed solemnly, “until I’m safe.”
Swiftly, the king had robes brought for her, as the night was chilled. Three Irish warriors saddled horses. They mounted and one extended a hand to Senna. She reached for it and he swung her up behind. The horse’s rump was warm. The back of the soldier’s armor was cold.
“Put yer arms around me, beautiful,” he murmured in his Irish lilt. “And I’ll not let ye fall.”