Chapter 2
The air rushed out of Temair’s lungs. Her legs buckled. She collapsed onto her knees.
She was unable to speak.
Or breathe.
Or blink.
Or look away.
She felt like she’d been punched in the stomach.
She stared in horror at the motionless heap that had been her sister.
After an agonizing span of time, the hounds, troubled by Temair’s shocked silence, began nudging her, licking at her face, urging her to get up.
But she couldn’t. She was stuck fast. Frozen in time.
Only the sorrowful wailing of the servants discovering Aillenn’s broken body at the base of the tower finally roused Temair.
She had to go.
She’d promised Aillenn.
She had to go.
Now.
She drew in a ragged breath and rose on trembling limbs. Turning blind eyes toward the forest, barely able to command her legs, she nonetheless forced one unsteady foot in front of the other.
Eventually, she reached the trees.
Shock gave way all too soon to anguish. The path blurred in her vision as her eyes brimmed with tears. Her throat ached with grief. Her chest felt cold and hollow, as if her heart had been ripped from her body. Her limbs seemed to be made of lead as she dragged herself forward.
She staggered along the trail, using the patches of moonlight that sliced through the overlapping branches like stepping stones.
She had to get away. Far away.
If she hurried, maybe she could elude the despair threatening to engulf her.
If she ran fast enough, maybe she could escape the image that was seared into her brain…
Her sister falling.
Over.
And over.
She ran until the trees muffled the sound of the keening servants.
Until the wind no longer pierced the leafy wood.
Until the moon ceased lighting her way.
Where she was going she didn’t know. Nor did she care. She only knew she needed to get as far away from the tower as possible. Hooking her fingers beneath the hounds’ collars, she let them lead her deep into the wood.
She was dimly aware that there were dangers in the forest. Wolves. And outlaws. But there was no room for fear in her heart.
Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, stinging her cuts. But the pain wasn’t enough to distract her from the chaos of her thoughts.
How could her sister have taken her own life?
Why had she done it?
Why hadn’t she just run away with Temair?
And the most tormenting thought of all…
Could Temair have done something to stop her?
She sobbed with the burden of her guilt—deep, racking sobs that came from the tortured depths of her soul. And even at twelve years old, she knew that question would curse her forever.
She lurched onward for miles, out of Tuath O’Keeffe, farther than she’d ever gone afield alone.
Until the moon rose high over the trees.
Until the hounds led her off of the main path, as if they knew where they were going, taking a trail that twisted through trees and landscapes unknown to her.
Until her sides ached with fatigue.
Yet it still didn’t feel far enough.
At last, when she was weary with sorrow and her fingers were half-frozen, the toe of her brog caught on a root, and she pitched forward, falling onto her hands and knees.
All at once the weight of her sister’s death pressed down on her like a heavy hand. Unable to rise, she hung her head, weeping brokenly, letting the moss absorb her tears.
Flann nudged her with his wet nose, urging her on. But she had nothing left. She could go no farther. Her legs were useless. Her eyes were swollen and sore. Her mind was exhausted.
She collapsed atop the leafy ground, curling in on herself, pulling her brat around her.
Surrendering, Bran and Flann circled and bedded down in the ferns beside her. The last thought Temair had before she fell into the blissful oblivion of sleep was that if she died tonight, at least it would be in the company of her last two friends in the world.
Nobody woke Cormac O’Keeffe. Anyone who dared to wake him from slumber learned quickly what a grave mistake they’d made. Which was why the clann chieftain didn’t hear the news until late the next morn.
When he finally pried open his groggy eyelids, it was to the sight of his sniveling servant, hovering over his bed. The man bunched his cap in white-knuckled hands. His eyes were red and raw. His chin was quivering. The man looked as if he might piss his trius at any moment.
Cormac growled low in his throat. He wondered how long the dullard had been standing there, watching him sleep. Long enough, apparently, to prod the banked fire on the hearth to life.
“What?” Cormac grunted, wincing at the throbbing in his head.
He’d indulged in the brew from the monastery again last night. The strong stuff made him forget his troubles easily enough. But it punished him like the devil the next morn.
“Sorrowful tidin’s, m’lord.”
Cormac scrubbed at his eyes. What was it this time? Escaped cattle? A pregnant servant? Bugs in the wheat stores? “Spill it.”
The man looked ready to crumble. “I regret to inform ye…your daughter is…she’s dead, m’lord.”
Cormac halted. Surely he’d heard wrong. He gave his head a shake. “Say that again.”
The servant wiped his wet nose with the back of his hand. “She’s dead, m’lord. Your daughter’s gone.”
Cormac blinked.
He felt nothing.
Not regret. Not even surprise.
To be blunt, he’d never really liked the lass anyway. Temair was a useless wench and too mouthy for her own good. It was no shock to him that that mouth of hers had finally gotten her killed.
He tried to remember what had happened last night. It was all blurry in his mind. He’d knocked the lass around a bit. But he was sure he hadn’t beaten her that badly. Temair was a tough imp.
If she was dead, it wasn’t by his hand.
“The lass was lucky to live as long as she did,” he grumbled. “Temair’s wayward tongue was bound to—”
“Oh, nay, m’lord, not her.” And then, as if to soften his bad news, he added hopefully, “I’m sure Temair is alive and well.”
Which didn’t cheer Cormac in the least. He narrowed his eyes. His breath stilled. “Not Aillenn?”
The servant nodded. “She fell from the top o’ the tower last night.”
Cormac’s heart dropped.
Nay. It couldn’t be. Aillenn couldn’t be dead.
He compressed his lips and began to grind his teeth. He could feel the blood start to simmer in his veins.
The servant must have sensed the coming storm. He excused himself with a hasty, “I’ll leave ye to your grief, m’lord.” Then he scurried from the chamber.
Cormac’s bushy beard quivered as the rage built inside him. Nay. Aillenn could not be dead. Not his oldest child. Not the heir to his land. Not the bride he intended as barter for a rich English lord.
How dared she? How dared she die?
He snatched up the crock of ale beside his bed, intent on taking a bracing swig. It was empty. With a curse, he flung it across the room. It shattered against the plaster wall.
How had this happened? How could Aillenn be dead?
She wasn’t the type of girl to clamber on top of the tower wall. That was something Temair would…
His brow clouded.
Temair.
Could she have pushed her sister from the tower? It did seem like the sort of foul deed the wicked whelp might perpetrate.
He felt the steam roiling between his ears.
If Temair was indeed to blame for Aillenn’s death, he’d give her such a beating, she’d be lucky to survive it.
Beside himself with ire, he hurled off the coverlet.
It was then he spied the crimson stain on the bed linens.
The breath caught in his lungs.
Now he remembered.