Ciaran looked around him, knowing what the hero of legend must have felt—the helplessness, the anger, the same emotions he himself felt whenever he thought of leaving Fallon behind.
"He argued with the fairy king, fought with him, tried every means he could think of to outwit him. But the king was too cunning. At last, in desperation, Ciaran came up with a plan, a way that the people could feel his presence even when he wasn't able to help them, a way that he could shelter both their bodies and their spirits."
"By building a castle? Fallon, I don't understand how that could make any difference."
"This is holy ground, Ciaran, from long before St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland, even before the triple goddess and the horned god of the druids. There are places like this, scattered about the earth, places where the pulse of all life can be felt. Men give it different names throughout time. Call it what you will—Olympus, Eden, the druid grove, like the one at Chartres—but if you open your heart, trust your senses, you can feel it."
He could. The pulse traveled from the earth, tingling through his boot soles, sending rivers of sensation up his legs. It seeped into every fiber of his being, a sense of union with every creature who had lived before, every joy and sorrow, betrayal and love. Echoes of life.
"There were caves beneath this place, secret passages since time began, where generations had stored their treasures. There were paintings of men hunting on the walls, bits of pottery, gold torques, bronze ax blades. Crosses have been carved in the stone, and messages written in ogham script at the time when the standing stones were new. Ciaran built his castle here as a shelter, to protect the treasures of ages from being plundered. All treasures. Not only objects, but people, too."
Ciaran reached out, gliding his fingertips over a carving in the stone, as if he were trying to memorize a lover's face.
"There was a time here when bards were outlawed, hunted. The English claimed the sounds of the harp and the pipes stirred up the spirit of rebellion." Her lips curved in an aching smile. "It may be that they were right. Yet, all of our history, every tale of love and valor, the very soul of a whole people, was twined in the threads of that music, Ciaran. It would have been more merciful just to sink Ireland into the sea than to try to steal the tales and the music away."
Tales like that of a hero bewitched away toTir na nOgby enchanted cherries, loves like the star-crossed Deirdre and Naosi, brave deeds of Cuchulain. Was it possible that Fallon was right? That such stories were far more precious than any gold or jewels or land that a conqueror might plunder?
"A man could be killed for playing the harp or the pipes—even for speaking Gaelic, their own language. Just one more of countless attempts to turn them into proper English subjects."
"A murder of the soul," Ciaran said, turning toward her.
Fallon's delicate brows rose, and she nodded, slipping her hand into his. "A woman named Eilish Fallon was the keeper of the brooch then. She summoned you back—Ciaran back—and begged him for help. She was an artist, they say, and couldn't resist capturing his face on canvas. It's said she memorized one feature at a time while he worked on the castle, and spent every night trying to capture it, failing then trying again. He disappeared before she was finished. I saw the portrait once when I was a little girl."
"You saw it? Then you know what Ciaran looks like?" Every muscle in Ciaran's body tensed. "Is he... Am I..."
"In the end, Eilish couldn't capture the likeness well enough to satisfy herself. So she began again. In the only image that survived, his face is half-turned, the mist swirling, so you can't see all his features."
Ciaran couldn't stem the bitter sense of disappointment. "Then the thing is worthless."
"No. His expression in the portrait is so wistful it broke my heart. It made every woman who saw it want to love him, and every man who saw it want to become a hero. Ciaran built the castle over the labyrinth of caves and added his own maze of souterrains—tunnels—beneath. It's said that no enemy of Ireland can escape it once he enters, and no one who loves the land can ever be lost. Fiachra O'Riordan, one of the greatest bards who ever lived, took shelter here. For fifty years he taught his students here, passing on the epic poems, the ballads, the history. Legend says that he went blind from being in the darkness so long, and yet he didn't mourn the loss of his sight. He said that within the heart ofCaislean ag Dahmsa Ceo, he found a brighter light than any he'd ever known."
"But didn't the English hunt him here? You can't keep such a place secret for hundreds upon hundreds of years."
"Once, it's said, the soldiers attempted to find him. But he merely wound through the passages, drifting out notes to lure them after him. One passage leads to the sea, a drop off so sudden that you don't know you've fallen until you strike the rocks below. So skilled was Fiachra with his harp, he hurled the notes beyond that opening, made them dance upon the air. The soldiers followed and crashed to their deaths. Sometimes, when the moon is full, people say you can still hear the faint sounds of hisclarsah'sstrings being plucked. But you mustn't follow, lest you join the soldiers who crashed to the stones.
"Then, when Cromwell came, he slighted the castle, bombarded it, wanting to turn it to rubble. His Roundheads butchered everything, everyone in their path. A woman took shelter in the souterrains here, and as the cannons pounded, she gave birth to a son. When her son grew to manhood, he became the savior of the people Cromwell had left to starve in Connaught. He banded them together, taught them how to grow food on the barren, rocky ground, kept the fire of hope alive inside them."
"And now this place is a den for smugglers? Common criminals like this Silver Hand?" The thought sickened Ciaran, as if something holy had been defiled. The fact that he might have defiled it was almost unbearable.
"In some ways, Silver Hand is a hero. He smuggles out the wool the English won't let us sell. They've blocked our trade in an effort to protect their own farmers—shackled us by that means as they have so many others. Because of Silver Hand, people are able to survive."
It made Ciaran feel a little better. He turned his gaze out to sea.
"If the assizes ever catch him, or Redmayne's soldiers—"
Disaster, again, for these brave, beleaguered people, Ciaran thought. But the greater danger was losing this castle with the hopes of the ages woven through its broken stones.
What would happen if Redmayne succeeded in tearing it down? The captain's plan was diabolical, brilliant, the possibility that he might succeed unthinkable.
"I'll stop Redmayne, Mary Fallon," Ciaran vowed. "I swear it."
"I know you will. That's why I summoned you back."
He wanted to kiss her wistful mouth, wanted to draw her into his arms, to keep her safe, the dreams in her eyes untarnished. Instead, he turned to the stones.
"Have you ever ventured beneath the castle? Through the souterrains?" he asked then grimaced. What a pointless, absurd question. "Never mind. Just show me the entrance and I'll go down into the labyrinth."
Her chin tipped up at that resolute angle he was coming to dread. "Not unless I come with you."
