"Blast it, Fallon, what if we stumble across someone dangerous?"
"If there is someone hostile down there, they wouldn't need to bestir themselves to do away with you. You'd just bumble around until you fell through one of the holes or stepped from a hidden drop off. The one thing I can guarantee you is this—you'd never find your way out."
"And Fiachra might lure me to break my body on the cliffs?"
"He might. Ciaran, I had started to hope... believe you were beginning to understand. The magic of this castle, the magic that summoned you was entrusted to me. This is my quest, too."
Ciaran wanted to deny it. There must be a dozen ways to keep one obstinate woman out of the labyrinth and safe. Any sane man would make use of one of them. And yet, she'd been so determined, so brave from the very beginning, a lonely and desperate young woman who had known too little love in her life, a dreamer with the courage to test a legend, have faith in magic—not realizing that the real magic lay in the fact that after all she'd seen, all she'd suffered, all she'd endured, she was still able to believe so fiercely in the power of good over evil, right over wrong, love over hate.
She stood before him, magnificent in her strength. And he knew that to leave her behind now would be a betrayal of the worst kind.
Besides, Ciaran reasoned, wouldn't she be in as much danger out here, with Redmayne and his men prowling about? Perhaps she was safer beside him.
Ciaran peered down into those lake-blue eyes. "You're right. This is your quest, too."
Despite the tension, the uncertainty, the possibility of danger, her face glowed, suddenly incandescent. Ciaran's heart lurched. She'd offered him so many gifts since he'd staggered into her life. He was certain that this act of his—trusting her abilities, acknowledging her strength—had returned a small measure of what she'd given him. He wanted to smooth his fingertips over the soft curve of her cheek. But if he did, he might never have the strength to pull away again. He curled his fingers into his palms and turned away.
"Show me the way," he said quietly, realizing she'd been doing just that, time and again.
She crossed to an overgrown section of the castle, where vines laced the wall. Fallon knelt down, her slender fingers easing into a crack outlining a stone block. She slid it free, revealing a nook beyond. He marveled at what it contained: a length of rope, several torches, a bundle of candles and a battered tin candleholder, a tinderbox containing flint and steel. She lit the torch within moments, and he eased the stone back into place.
Holding the flickering light before her, she led him to the secret door Ciaran of the Mist had fashioned centuries before. He followed her, his enchantress with the fire of ancient Celts still coursing in her blood. And if she'd guided him through a window in time, to this place, thisTir na nOgshe'd spoken of, he'd not have been surprised.
Ciaran felt at his waist for the hilt of his dagger. He would find answers here. He had to uncover his past life before he could hope for a future. He had to find some way to shelter the time-worn stones, the fairy rings, the mist-touched souls of the people Fallon loved.
Once inside, he and Fallon sealed the entryway again, so none could follow. Darkness closed about them, held back only by the circle of golden glow from the torch. Down Fallon led him, through winding passages where, here and there, lay the treasures she'd spoken of.
An iron axe head from ancient times was tucked on a ledge of stone, part of its wooden handle still attached. A sword, its once sharp blade eaten away by time until it had the appearance of iron lace, lay on a bed of embroidered linen so fragile it looked as if a touch would make it disintegrate.
Perhaps the labyrinthwasenchanted, for he could almost hear the whispers of all who had sought shelter here, feel their presence pressed into the stone.
Was this the kind of place Silver Hand would choose for his lair? It felt as if no man since Fallon's Fiachra the bard had dared these narrow passages.
Fallon's torchlight ran orange-gold rivers of light across the rough walls, and Ciaran saw carvings here and there. May God have mercy on our souls, the plea was etched in an uneven scrawl, names carved alongside—Aisling MacConnell, Michael Moriarty, Fr. John Donnelly. How had they chipped the names into the stone? It must have taken forever. Had they wanted to immortalize themselves? Leave the writings as a testament to their suffering? Or had they chipped into the wall slowly, painstakingly during the time they were trapped here, to keep themselves from going mad?
The path was leading downward, the man-made tunnels opening into caves carved by nature's hand. Fallon edged around gaping holes in the floor, guided Ciaran past ledges that beckoned to certain death—cunning traps, set by the desperate, who had tucked bits of crude gold jewelry on the far side of the openings to tempt the greedy.
As they wound deeper, Ciaran saw a cradle, carved with interlacing, tucked into one nook. Was it here the savior of Connaught had been rocked, taught the resourcefulness that would save at least a few from being crushed beneath Cromwell's boot? A kettle for boiling lay overturned, a gaping hole staved into its bronze belly. A primitive stone quern for grinding grain stood silent beside it. Ciaran wondered how grain had been brought to that quern—at what price in danger? Had it belonged to the woman who had rocked the cradle? Had her husband, her lover, stolen out after darkness to find food for her and the little one? Had he carried the horrible knot of terror in his gut, the agonizing question—what would become of his wife and child if he were killed?
The musty remains of a makeshift bed made Ciaran's chest hurt. What would it be like if Fallon were that woman? If the cradle held their child, and he was all but helpless to protect them? An enemy stalking, hunting them?
A sound shattered his thoughts, and in an instant the dagger was in his hand. But Fallon laid gentle fingers on his arm.
"It was only loose pebbles," she said. "You grazed them with your boot."
It was true. His heartbeat slowed, but that did nothing to calm his self-disgust. This time it had been only pebbles, but it might have been Silver Hand or his men, and he would have been caught completely by surprise.
Fool, he berated himself. No matter how the ghosts in these souterrains clamored for his attention, he had to remember there was more immediate danger. Redmayne. Silver Hand. Maybe his own undiscovered past.
He searched, his gaze newly focused as they continued, saw the print of a man's boot heel, a broken bottle that smelled of madeira, tufts of wool snagged on rough stone—the tiniest signs that someone other than Fallon's fairy spirits had wandered here of late.
He tried to concentrate, tried to fit this place into his memory, grasp something familiar. But all he got for his effort was a fierce throb that made his head ache again. He could hear a roaring in his ears.
No, by thunder! He could feel a sudden dampness in the air, and the roaring was the sea! Grabbing Fallon's hand, he charged toward the sound. A few minutes more, and they were standing in a high-ceilinged cave, a miraculously calm crescent of water lapping at its exit. Boats, pristine and well cared for, were overturned on the ground, neat bales of wool stacked in dry alcoves. Beside them were wooden boxes, unopened. Ciaran wondered what they were. Expensive laces or liquors so the rich could pinch a few more of their precious coins?
He stalked over to the boxes, grabbed a long iron bar, and pried off the nearest lid. Had a captive mermaid sprung from its confines, he would have been no more startled.
Fallon leaned over, bringing the light with her. She gasped. "What... what is this? Simple crockery, foodstuffs, leather shoes. Surely no smuggler in his right mind would risk his neck to bring such things to Glenceo."
