The Irish Warrior

Finian considered de Valery before he spoke, as if planning an attack. When it came, it came bluntly. “She wasn’t partial to the way he tried to force her into a marriage—”

De Valery half rose off his seat. “What?”

“And I admit, I saw her reasoning. So, she left. And freed me on her way. I was in the prisons.”

“Why?” he asked sharply, keenly.

“That is a mighty long story,” Finian said wearily, “and goes back to old days. I haven’t got the time to tell it to ye now. Except to say, Rardove is about to get yer sister back, and there’s no worse place in all the world for her to be.”

A log exploded as the fire suddenly reached a pocket of air. Hissing red flames shot out of the monstrous fireplace opening, and the log thudded as it rolled over. De Valery’s narrowed eyes never left Finian.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered, then got to his feet.

Finian shrugged. “’Tis the truth.”

As de Valery paced, flames from the fire picked up glints from his armor and shot flashes of rust-white light across the room. “Ah, but so claims Rardove, which brings us full circle.”

“Ye’ve a long way to fall, if ye’re relying on Rardove for yer truths.”

De Valery’s step slowed and he looked over his shoulder. “If you have something else to say, O’Melaghlin, you’d best say it straight away.”

“Yer mother was a dye-witch?” De Valery started. “Do not deny it. ’Tis the only thing that kept yer sister alive in Rardove’s care.”

The young de Valery exhaled around a curse and sat down opposite Finian, on the other side of the table. “Legend,” he said.

Finian’s gaze went hard. “We haven’t time for that sort of thing. We’ve been here ten minutes, and that’s nine too long. ’Tis not legend, and yer family knows it.”

“What do you know about my family?” de Valery demanded.

“Och, I could tell ye things about yer family that would make yer head explode. But right now, I need yer help. There’s going to be a war.”

“I am well aware of that,” de Valery said dryly.

“And ye’re going to have to choose sides.”

De Valery pushed back in his seat and shoved splayed fingers through his hair. “Christ on the cross,” he exhaled in a stream of mutterings. “Senna has ever been trouble, and when I lay my hands on her again…” were the sorts of things they heard. Then de Valery looked across the table. “Do you know who my lord is?”

Finian nodded. “Longshanks.”

The English knight lifted a brow and smiled sardonically. “I didn’t expect you to say that. Not many people know.”

“I make it a point to know about the men who are deeded my family’s lands. I surely know more about ye than yer sister does,” he added.

De Valery sat back and gave him a considering look. “Do you know what I do for ‘Longshanks’?”

“Ye kill, maim, and otherwise get people out of the way whom Edward deems bothersome.”

De Valery gave a pale smile. “Do you know he is starting to consider you such a bother?”

Finian leaned his elbow across the table, closer to the candle flickering in the center. “Ye can tell him the feeling is mutual. I think he’s a son of a bitch too.”

De Valery threw his head back and laughed. A single bark of laughter, that was all, and before it finished bouncing off the stone walls, he was looking at Finian again.

“It wouldn’t be sensible to join with you, O’Melaghlin, since my fealty for these lands lies with Edward.”

“Aye. Treason it would be. Listen, English. I’ve need of speed just now, and ye’re slowing me down. Ye’ll have to look into yer own heart for the truth. Ye’ll either join us, or kill us. But ye’ll have to decide quick, for I’m getting up now.”

The rumor of swords and violence was ringed around the hall. Finian pushed to his feet. The bench stuttered back across the floor, knocking into one of the soldier’s shins.