Ciara stared at her furious bruise and nearly burst into tears. The arrest had left her spotted with many scrapes and injuries, but none stung quite so badly. None of them had come from someone she trusted.
She hastily swiped away an unfallen tear, reminding herself that wounds could be healed. It was her power to make things disappear, to watch pain and suffering melt away as if it had never existed...
But, try as she might, she could not will the bruise away. "Stupid," she muttered, the third time she opened her eyes to see her hideous, hurt face. Ciara had long begun to suspect that there were limits to her powers when she had been unable to heal her own scrapes and scratches during her journey. But she had hoped...
Ciara cried out in frustration, striking the vanity. Realization came to her, sudden and terrifying. The tether that bound her to the rest of the world-- it didn't work on her. I can't heal myself. She suddenly felt so vulnerable.
She threw herself at the ebony door-frame with a shriek. Ciara angled her shoulder as a battering ram, and the pain of contact left her eyes watering. Another bruise, no doubt. But her only other option was sitting primly and quiet, as the perfect little prisoner.
So she pounded on the door until her fists bled, throwing herself into futile battle after futile battle against the immoveable stone. She slumped to the ground, searching her quarters for other exits. Silken carpets and a four-poster bed large enough to comfortably sleep a dozen people, but not a single window. For a moment, Ciara wondered if she could use the solid weight of the mahogany furniture to break down the door. But it was rooted to the floor, and impossible to drag.
The draodih in her stories were fearsome and powerful. They could control the waves, reshape the earth. Even Ayla would not stand to be imprisoned like this. But even as they gave her magic enough to make her a target, the gods would always make her weak.
She did not have the power to bring an army to its knees, as Queen Berit did. She did not have the power to command daggers and steel, as Ayla did. What little she had could do her no good in battle-- she could not even escape this room. Her power was a fragile, broken thing,
I was so close, Ciara thought, and the words stung with the sharpness of daggers. Somewhere in the palace, her caves waited, empty and expectant. A small part of Ciara was grateful she had been spared the journey. Her entire soul had plummeted when the voice asked her to make a choice. Ciara had never chosen her own gown for a ball before, much less the fate of her kingdom. But she also couldn't bear to be trapped, choice-less and alone as her father made his own decisions-- the kind to destroy her people. The kind that, if Lord Connal was to be believed, slowly destroyed the rest of them too.
Faint voices drifted down the hallway, and Ciara hastily pressed her ear against the cold wood of her door. A gentle female voice was rimmed with fury. Mother.
And then, the general's hateful voice followed. "She's confused, Moyra. You know how naive she is. Ciara heard that madman's ramblings and thought she found truth in them. I had to, before her madness spread to the rest of my men."
"You arrested our daughter!" her mother said.
"It was a political sacrifice; the only logical choice. Don't concern yourself with things you don't understand."
"Oh, I understand, Colm. I've always understood. Why you're locking her away-- why you insisted on marrying her off to that insufferable Reid boy. I just don't agree," Moyra said.
Ciara frowned. She thought that her mother was the main supporter of her marriage to Reid, always cooing on about ancient blessings and how fierce their children would be. Her father was the solid one, hiding sympathy in his quiet smiles and words of comfort. But Reid had always been the most politically advantageous choice, and her father was the one to make the politically advantageous choices for the rest of them.
"Every thing I have done-- everything I have ever done-- has been for this family! To protect her, and to protect you. I started a war for her!"
Moyra laughed. "Oh, yes," she said. "Because you have absolutely no desire for a throne..."
"Because I love our daughter!"
"I know," her mother said. "Which is why it's such a shame you love yourself more."
"You're the one that insisted she be protected," the General said. "That we keep her away from all this. That's what I'm doing, Moyra. I'm not proud of what I've done. But she's safe now. From the armies, and the soldiers, even from herself."
"Protected does not mean imprisoned! You have failed as a father!"
The general lost his composure for the first time in their conversation. "And you have failed as a wife!" he yelled. "One child, Moyra. One girl child."
Her mother's voice grew dangerously low, and Ciara had to strain to catch that last whispered curse. "A girl who can topple powerful men."
"Was that a threat, Moyra?"
"No," her mother said, all cloying sweetness and perfect composure. "A warning, nothing more."
Ciara heard the distant sound of footsteps retreating, and the slamming of a door somewhere.
"Moyra!" the General screamed. "Moyra, come back here! You would do well to watch your tongue!" But, as far as Ciara's blind ears could tell, her mother did neither.
A low curse, and her father's footfalls slunk closer to her prison. He can't know I was listening.
Ciara sprang back from the door, throwing herself into the satin sheets of her bed and folding her legs as if she had been there for a long while. Her father's keys jangled loudly as he worked to unlock the door, and Ciara frowned. Are there multiple keys? She wouldn't have been surprised. It seemed everything in Connal's Keep had several gates. It was a twisted labyrinth of secrets, and Nessa's promise echoed through Ciara's head. No one gets in. Or out.
Ciara fixated her gaze on the wall as her father entered. She would not dignify him with a reaction, and she stared at the white roses painted on her wall instead.
"I brought you breakfast," the General said. "There's honey-porridge, and I had the chefs make your favor--"
"I'm not hungry." She counted the petals on the rose to focus her mind away from the fury and betrayal that threatened to well up behind her eyes. Her father set the breakfast tray down with a heavy, metallic thud. He must have overladen it with sweets and delicacies, and Ciara almost laughed. He can't honestly think that some cherry scones will mend the wall between us?
"Ciara, darling, I am so sorry. I did what I had to in order to save my reputation in front of my men, but please don't think I have no regrets-- Ciara, look at me."
The painted roses began to blur. This man was her father, who she had loved and trusted like no-one else for eighteen years. When the very person who represented safety had become her enemy, what did that mean? Finally, she acquiesced, turning slowly.
"Your face!" the General said, surprised by the bruise. "Ciara, I'm so sorry. Can't you heal it?"
Ciara sighed, raising her fingers to the warm flesh. "No. I can't heal myself."
Her father frowned. "We'll have to get some powder to cover it up. Gods, the others can't see this..."
There was real guilt in her father's eyes, but it had been swallowed by concern for his reputation. Ciara stood, scrambling as far away from him as possible. "Perhaps you should remember that next time you want to strike me."
"Ciara, I would never..." the general started. But he couldn't finish his sentence, because he'd already proved himself wrong. So he sighed. "I brought books too. Some of your old favorites, and some new ones you might like. You should always keep your mind busy."
"No need. Thinking is your job," Ciara said. "Didn't you hear what I said, earlier? About what Connal told me? You've been killing innocents for years, father! Doesn't that bother you?"
The general sighed. "I know you have good intentions, Ciara. I know you wanted to help Connal. But he's mad. We can't trust what he says. And I know that's difficult. He was my dearest friend once, Ciara. No longer. He was cursed, but it was by a draodih, and everything else is just mutterings. Inane, insane mutterings."
"He was not cursed by a draodih. He was following my Aunt--"
Her father grew pale as the sickly moon. "Stop," he whispered. A sudden violence possessed his movements, and Ciara flinched, afraid he would strike her again. "Do not speak of her. She is dead, you hear? Dead to all of us. She was a wicked woman, and she was the one that cursed him."
Ciara was desperate to ask for more, but the look in her father's eyes was so wild that she went silent. "Surely we can know for sure if he lied," Ciara said. "He did not sound mad, Father. Not after I healed him."
"Ciara, I sent my men to the library this morning. There was nothing there."
Her father said the words with perfect confidence, and Ciara could see no sign of discomfort-- no tell of a lie. But her father was the one who had taught her to spot falsehoods, never once telling her how to spot his own. "Do you swear it?"
"Yes," her father whispered. "I swear it."
Ciara wished with all her heart it was enough for her to trust him.
"I have no interest in keeping you locked up forever," he continued. "It pains my heart to see you imprisoned in a palace that should be yours. And I still need your help..."
"No."
But her father ignored her. "Most of my men don't know you've been arrested. They hold great respect for you, Ciara. Just this morning, I've heard some of them calling you Markeri. A lovely title, isn't it? It means "Worldhealer" in Old Lowynnian."
Ciara's face went pale. Her phantom army had called her that, screaming the words in her dreams. Is this what I have always meant to become?
Knowing what the name meant sent a shudder down Ciara's back. Worldhealer was a name that suggested obligation and authority. She flinched at the idea of the responsibility of saving the entire sickly island. It was so large, too large for her alone, and she was not a hero... "Worldhealer," she breathed. The title sounded just as awkward on her tongue as it did in her heart.
He wanted to take away her name and give her an ancient title. With such words, he wanted to make her into a prettier, gentler Skaara-- herald to a hideous, violent new age.
She remembered the instructions of her voice. It had promised her that she could come to it willingly. But its tone had also been heavy with expectation.
They all wanted to make a savior out of her; they all sought to transform her into something she was not. Ciara just wanted to sleep for a thousand years, and eat cherry scones with Lugh, and go back to a world where adventures ended when she closed the book to sleep.
Her father seemed to sense the apprehension in her heart. "Don't worry," he said. "I will take care of everything. You needn't worry about the war that is coming; let my men and I concern ourselves with that. But, if you would be willing, we could let you out to meet with the soldiers. You could wave and smile and give speeches. You could continue to inspire them."
"Is that it? Will you let me go if I promise to help you?"
"Not exactly." Her father gestured slowly to the glass on her untouched breakfast tray. It was filled with a drink that was crimson and steaming.
"Maaran tea?" Ciara asked. "You want me to drink away my powers again. But why--"
"So everything can be the way it was before," her father said. "Once I become King, the people will expect you to control your powers. In some ways, your magic is a blessing, Ciara. The gods have given you power because they recognize that the Celnaers can no longer rule. Because they have seen our strength, and know that our time has at last come."
"But our men don't always see it like that. To some of them, you are the Worldhealer. But many of them still fear your power. Centuries of fear are hard to undo, Ciara. They believe that we cannot end the curse so long as you do magic. They need to see you tamed."
"And if I refuse?" Ciara said. "If I don't want to be... tamed?"
Her father smiled. "Of course you do. You never wanted your powers. You still don't."
She hated the way he could see right through to her soul. Because, in truth, Ciara wanted nothing more than to throw away her powers and become ordinary again. She remembered the soldier that she had killed, and way his furious eyes burned like fading embers. Imagining it again, it was her own hatred reflected back at her.
"Everything can be right again," her father whispered. "You've trusted me your entire life. Trust me once more, please. It will be as if none of this ever happened. And I will be so proud, Ciara. Your ancestors will be so proud."
"And if you are really the curse?" Ciara asked, softly.
"I am not," the General said. "But if I was... there's nothing you could do. Do you know the kinds of people who break curses, Ciara? They're heroes. They are fierce, brave, powerful. Not small and trembling, I'm afraid."
Tears sprung to Ciara's eyes. He may call me the Worldhealer, but he does not believe it. He doesn't believe I am capable of it.
And he was right. For if she was truly brave and heroic, why did her heart ache with responsibility? Why did her arms shake in battle, and her mind cloud with fear?
But still, she did not drink. "Forget your men," Ciara said. "You cannot love me with my powers, can you?"
"You are my daughter. I will always love you. With every beat of my heart, I love you. But how can I accept you when you don't even accept yourself?"
Ciara drew back. "Because you're the one who put that voice inside my head. When I hate myself, you are what I hear. Because now, I know the truth--"
"I saved you," the General said, shattering her revelation. "You, who would not be here were it not for my love and acceptance. I am your father. I have given you life a thousand times over. Do you not owe me your allegiance?"
She was trapped, crippled, unable to stand strong without his assistance. Ciara reached for the goblet. But the moment before the sticky tea reached her lips, when she could already feel its warmth cupping her face, Ciara paused.
"Ciara, what are you?" her father asked.
"I'm a Byrne."
He smiled, vindicated. "Good. Drink."
Dutifully, she drained every last stinging drop.