Gazing up into Tor’s ultramarine eyes, Deòthas could scarcely believe he’d reached her in time. Had she fallen unconscious? Was he a dream? But no, the pain from her various wounds felt too real, too agonising for it to be a figment of her imagination. He really held her against his chest, clinging to her as though he never wanted to let go.
“Not bad for someone who’s little more than food, eh?”
Tor grinned, despite the pain of his own injuries, a pain evident in the creasing of his eyes and the tightening of his jaw.
Deòthas laughed too, then winced as fire shot through her chest and abdomen. She spat out another mouthful of frothing blood as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. If Tor hadn’t been holding her securely, she would’ve tumbled sideways. Ifrinn, her body hurt, from the wound in her thigh which Cailean had poked and prodded, to the burns he’d inflicted on her face and abdomen. And she felt tired. So very tired.
A deep crease formed between Tor’s brows as he murmured, “We need to get you home, mo ghaol. We need to get you to Jäger so he can fix you up.”
For once in her life, she didn’t protest. She doubted she retained the capacity to stitch herself up anyway, even if she’d wanted to, so she nodded mutely, wanting nothing more than to return to the relative safety of the castle with her mate.
“That sounds like a really good idea.”
Someone coughed politely, and she finally noticed Tancred and Corvinus in the doorway, with a mob of gore-splattered ghaisgich behind them. A blush hit her cheeks in a sudden wave of self-consciousness and she tried to curl up tighter against Tor's chest, hiding from view. Some baobhan sith she’d turned out to be, ashamed of her own body.
“I need clothes.”
Her own outfit had been pretty well shredded even before Cailean cut it from her, and she refused to don the Manipulator's discarded cloak. She suspected Tor would’ve given her his t-shirt, except slices from sword strokes cut through the fabric, until there wasn’t a hope of it protecting her modesty. When Tancred offered his own t-shirt, she accepted without complaint, and her mate helped her pull it over a body which protested at the slightest movement. The garment drowned her, but that was no bad thing. It covered everything she didn’t want exposed, and by the time Tor helped her into the shredded remains of her leather trousers, she’d relaxed a little.
“Can you walk or will I carry you?” her mate asked.
Tor watched her with wary concern, as if she were some fragile doll. On any other day she would’ve resented that, but right then she felt fragile. She still didn’t want to appear to be the damsel in distress in front of the others, though. No more than she already did. It was enough that her comrades saw her as an outsider without being seen as a weak link too.
“I’ll walk.”
She managed to stand, but only by clinging to Tor’s arm for support.
“Don’t let go of me,” she murmured, so low only he would hear.
He cupped her cheek, his ultramarine eyes glowing intensely as he studied her, whispering back, “I’m never letting go, mo ghaol. You’re mine.”
She smiled at that statement, which declared so much more than his willingness supporting her out of the building. She wanted the promise to be true. Sharing her life with Tor would be a dream come true. It would be so much more than she’d ever imagined she could be granted. The gods had gifted her something which she’d thought to be impossible, and while she didn’t understand how it had happened, she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not again.
“Can someone get my weapons? I don’t think I can carry them.”
Even her voice sounded exhausted and she closed her eyes as another wave of pain rippled through her body from her various injuries.
Tancred indicated to Corvinus and Aodh, rattling off orders, “Corvinus, can your team go through the house. Gather any evidence that can help us determine the extend of Cailean’s plans and whether he had any accomplices. Make sure you retrieve Deòthas’s belongings too. Aodh, get your team release the nobles and see to their medical treatment if needed. Otherwise return them to their families and we’ll take their statements once they’ve been reunited with their loved ones.”
Both captains nodded, Aodh and his team dispersing to assist the Manipulator’s other captives. The nobles would bear emotional scars, but Deòthas wasn't sure she could feel much sympathy for them. A pang of guilt flared in her chest at that realisation, but she doubted many of the elite would feel sympathy for her either; for the fey-born corrupter of one of their own. So be it.
She leaned wearily against Tor as she asked, “What about the marionettes?”
“All dead,” Tancred answered. “They collapsed mid battle, my guess would be that once Tor killed the Manipulator, the puppets had no one pulling their strings. The rookie just won a battle we’ve been fighting for fifteen years. Between the pair of you, you’ve brought down our most dangerous enemy and potentially discovered how the veil was sealed.”
The veil.
Tanc's praise reminded her that she still had one task she needed to complete before she could go home. She took an unsteady step towards her discarded belongings, staggering, barely capable of holding up her own weight, and she would’ve fallen if Tor hadn’t grabbed her again. Leaning against him, she limped to the pile of discarded weaponry and tools. A groan of pain escaped her blistered lips as she leant down, pushing her lock picking kit aside and retrieving the box which once held the baobhan sith singing stones.
“We need to find them, the stones. They need to go back in the box, where their power can’t corrupt anyone else.”
Her fingers brushed over the crest inlaid into the lid of the wooden chest, over her family crest. Grief swirled in her chest for all the species who’d been abandoned in the Otherworld, all because her ancestors had created something so dangerously powerful.
“So you’re a princess, huh?” Tor asked softly, watching as she traced over the coat of arms.
Deòthas started, unsure how he’d put together what she’d kept hidden for six centuries. “I’m not legitimate...”
He shrugged, a playful smile lifting the corners of his enticing mouth as he admitted, “Illegitimate royal and disinherited noble, I’d say we make quite a pair, mo ghaol.”
She brushed her fingers over the brand under his eye again. Quite a pair, indeed. Both similar and yet different, and somehow working in harmony.
“I agree. Perfect match... Take me home, Tor.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then guided her towards the door, past Corvinus who frowned at her with regret, concern, and wonder flashing in his eyes. That would need further investigation too, but not right then. It could wait until she’d been stitched up, fed, rested, and spent some time proving to her mate that she wasn’t afraid anymore, not of him, at least. What would it be like to fall asleep in Tor’s arms every night? What would it be like to be accepted as wholly as he seemed to accept her?
“It’ll be deserved,” he whispered at her ear as he helped her up the stairs from the basement, still ignoring his own injuries. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replied without hesitation as they crossed the atrium, weaving their way between the bodies of fallen marionettes. It shouldn’t have been possible to feel a connection so powerfully, so quickly, but she’d learned better than to argue with what the gods decreed.
They’d almost reached the door when she heard it, a lyrical chanting which she’d missed as she’d been dragged into the hall. It wasn’t something Tor or any bhampair would hear, but to her it sounded as clear as the scrape of their unsteady footsteps on the stone floor. Three voices sung of the Otherworld, of magic, and of legend. She’d heard the rhythmic song before, in her childhood, and she recognised it.
“I need to go upstairs. I can hear the singing stones.”
Tor glanced between her and the staircase, frowning as he tried and failed to hear what she could, but he didn’t argue. Instead he helped her up another flight of stairs and supported her as she limped towards the sound only she could hear. When she paused by a bedroom door, Tor pushed it open, shielding her body with his until he was sure the room was free of enemies.
The room Cailean had once occupied was a mess. Clothes and weapons lay scattered across the floor, mixed with old, leather bound tomes in languages so ancient Deòthas didn’t recognise them. Notes and lists were pinned to the walls, starting in neat rows and becoming a haphazard jumble, just another sign of how Cailean’s mind had been warped by his proximity to the singing stones. As his existing hatred had become ever more dangerous, his capacity for rationality had deteriorated.
No one else could be subjected to that. The consequences were too great.
She limped across the room with Tor at her side, heading for the bedside cabinet. Lowering herself onto Cailean’s bed was the last thing she wanted to do, but as her dizziness grew worse, sitting turning into a necessity rather than a choice. Her mouth filled with blood again, and Tor’s expression tightened, increasingly concerned as she spat scarlet onto the sheets, clutching her still bleeding abdomen and chest as she did so.
“You need to go home, mo ghaol.”
“I know,” she answered as she tugged open the drawer of the bedside cabinet and pulled out three suede-like pouches. “But it’s safer for me to handle these than for them to be left in the care of anyone else.”
A tremor of magic vibrated into her hand, making her nerves sing as she opened and closed each bag in turn, checking that they contained the singing stones. The same malicious energy signature clung to the stones as had lingered in their box, the mark that indicated they’d been used for some powerful and dark sorcery. She still believed it had been the sealing of the veil. Not that she could prove it, not when she didn’t know who’d been responsible.
Opening the box she still carried, Deòthas carefully placed the stones inside, leaving them wrapped in their pouches. As the lid snapped shut again, the chanting ceased, silencing the baobhan sith voices which emanated from the royal heirlooms. It felt like cutting off part of herself, but it was safer for the rest of the world if the stones were locked away.
“You need medical attention, mo ghaol,” Tor repeated as he crouched in front of her, holding onto her arms to prevent her from swaying. “You’re losing too much blood.”
He wasn’t wrong. Her blood pooled around her and an icy chill seeped into her limbs. Her vision slid in and out of focus, and if she’d retained the energy to vomit, she would’ve done so. Staying conscious looked less and less likely.
“I’m going to faint,” she slurred, only just aware enough to feel ashamed that she’d passed out from blood loss twice in one week. Prior to her misadventure at Tor’s family home, it had been centuries since she’d last come close to passing out.
“Pathetic...”
Her self-assessment echoed in her head, the last thing she heard as the world went dark and she slumped forward into Tor’s arms.
“... transfusions, but she’s still...”
“... don’t know. Her sword...”
“... do something... losing her...”
Fragments of conversation drifted into the black oblivion where Deòthas had taken up residence, regularly enough that she suspected she should be anxious, but not enough to explain why. More than the words, it was the fear in Tor’s voice that unsettled her. However, she no sooner grasped onto that thought than it slipped away, and she retreated back into the lonely darkness where nothing mattered.
“... forever...”
“... has to be a way...”
“... wounds don’t heal...”
“... our blood...”
“... proving grounds...”
“... only chance...”
The snippets of conversation didn’t make any sense to her as she continued to drift, wondering how long it would be before Jäger stitched her up and brought her around. How long had it been since she slipped under? Hours, at least, but it felt like longer. She wanted to see Tor. She wanted to wake up, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t force herself back to consciousness. The more she struggled, the further into the silent dark she seemed to float.
“... ready...”
“... fix... mo ghaol...”
Even in the blackness, the world tipped as strong arms lifted her. She felt the sharp sting of intravenous lines being tugged from her arm, and then the steady roll of Tor’s body as he carried her. She knew it was him, even in the shadow world where her awareness lingered, she recognised his scent as it clung around her. She could hear his heartbeat, steady and rhythmic, pounding close to her ear. That sound offered comfort, even when she had no idea what was happening, and she wished she could rebel as Tor lowered her again, onto something cold and hard, and his heartbeat faded into the distance.
No. Come back. I want you close!
Why hadn’t she woken up? Why couldn’t she open her eyes? Why couldn't she make her mouth work to call to her mate?
Further, whispered conversation drifted around her, and she though she heard someone invoking Ràsbàrd’s name. They were calling on the Great Father? But who was that chanting, anyway? One of the Taghadairean? What, in ifrinn’s name, was going on?
Someone lifted her head, she guessed Tor, and then the cold rim of a cup pressed against her lips. Warm liquid poured over her tongue; blood, potent blood. She swallowed automatically, but as she did fire shot through her body, hot and all consuming. Somewhere, as if over a great distance, she heard her own voice screaming. Her agonised wailing only lasted a moment, before light washed away the darkness and she found herself sprawled on the sandy floor of a grim arena.
Tallamarbh.
Fear rose up, churning in her gut as she sprung upright. She’d died? They’d killed her? Why? How?
“Calm, Deòthas, you aren’t dead yet.”
Spinning towards the voice, she froze in place as she gawked, dumbstruck, at the one-eyed man walking towards her. The Great Father wore the garb of a warrior of old, a tunic and breeches, with a fur lined cloak hanging from his shoulders and a sword at his hip. His hair and beard were grey, shot through with gold, and his remaining eye glinted, it’s blue so deep it gave the impression of timelessness, a well of learned wisdom and ancient memory.
For a moment Deòthas could only stare, then she dropped to her knees, lowering her head in devout supplication.
“Lord Ràsbàrd, forgive me, if I’m not dead then why am I here?”
The king of the of the gods leaned down, gripping her shoulders and pulling her upright.
“There is no need for you to kneel here, bana-ghaisgeach. You’re here because the ghaisgich of the Comhairle are trying to save you, and because I have an offer to make you. You have a decision to make, Deòthas of the baobhan sith and the bhampairean.”
Frowning, she looked up at Ràsbàrd in confusion. “Bhampairean?”
“Your father,” Ràsbàrd answered gently as he began to walk, clearly expecting her to walk with him. “He wasn’t a mortal Deòthas. That’s why we allowed you to wear the brands of a bhampair warrior, and how we could give you a mate. Your sire was, and still is, a ghaisgeach.”
She stopped stock still, her heart pounding as realisation dawned. Only two warriors remained who were older than her, and her mother certainly hadn’t been Tancred’s type. That left Corvinus. Only Corvinus. The Roman was her father. Her mother had lied to her because she’d committed a sacrilege in giving her royal body to a bhampair.
“Corvinus...?”
Ràsbard nodded as he turned back towards her. “Yes, Corvinus. Your mixed heritage is why I can make you this offer, Deòthas. I can return you to your body and let the blood of the captains heal you as it would any nominee coming out of the trials, as the captains want it to, and you would continue to serve as a bana-ghaisgeach. The alternative is that I bestow on you the greatest honour I can offer a fey warrior; a place among the Taghadairean. You could stand among my shield-maidens, accepted amongst the strongest warriors in all the realms.
“All Taghadairean were fey once. Skilled fighters, honourable people, who, at the moment of death, were turned into something more. I can grant you that same future. It’s an offer I will only make once, though, so consider it carefully.”
Deòthas hesitated, awestruck. What Ràsbàrd offered was an honour. Accepting would give her a position serving the Great Father himself. It would remove her from the ranks of warriors who’d scorned her, who’d been repulsed by her, and who’d kept her on the outside. But it could also take her away from the one person who’d accepted her fully, right from their first ill-fated meeting.
“What about Tor?”
The Great Father considered her carefully before he admitted the truth she hadn’t wanted to hear.
“You can’t have everything, Deòthas. I can honour you as I would any worthy fey shield-maiden, or I can honour you as a bhampair, as a bana-ghaisgich, and by giving you your mate. I can’t give you both futures, and you must choose which to sacrifice.”
Not Tor.
The denial rang in her mind, determined and uncompromising. She couldn’t give him up, not when he’d risked himself to save her. Not when he loved her and she loved him. But could she really go back to the ranks of warriors who found her unworthy? Could she really condemn herself to further centuries of being on the outside looking in? The ghaisgich had never accepted her...
Yet, hadn’t Ràsbàrd said the captains were donating their blood? That must have been what they’d fed her before her unexpected visit to Tallamarbh. That surprised her and flooded her chest with an unfamiliar warmth, an unfamiliar fondness for the people she’d just considered leaving. The captains hadn’t offered their blood when she came out of the trials, but they were finally putting their trust in her. They chose to keep her among their ranks. They wanted her there.
If she turned her back on them, it would prove that they’d always been right, that she would choose to be fey-born rather than part of the Comhairle. Yet the Council was her life. It had been for centuries longer than the meagre sixteen years she’d spent in the Otherworld. Joining the Taghadairean meant abandoning everything she’d worked for, and she would be required to give up the only person she’d ever allowed in. Could she do that, when returning to Tor and her life was so simple? She only needed trust her fellow ghaisgich to accept her back... She only needed to trust the people who finally claimed they wanted her to serve alongside them.
“I choose the Comhairle,” she said firmly. “I choose Tor. I want to return and serve as a bana-ghaisgeach.”
“As you wish, Deòthas,” Ràsbàrd answered, then tipped his head, his gaze intense as he scrutinised her.
“It appears to me that you’ve completed the last trial,” he murmured. “You would trust your brothers and sisters in arms, and they would willingly have you fight alongside them. It seems only fair, now you’ve done so, that I should return what you sacrificed in order to earn your warrior tattoos the first time you entered Tallamarbh. I hope your ability as a spellsinger serves you well, princess of the baobhan sith.”
With that, the Great Father touched her forehead and Deòthas dropped like a stone, landing hard on the arena floor. When the stars cleared from her vision, she no longer lay in the arena. Instead she sprawled in the cavern at the entrance to the proving grounds, with Tancred and the captains gathered around her, anxiety in their expressions. Tor held her against his chest, worry creasing his brow as he gently stroked her hair.
“Mo ghaol?” he asked softly. “Are you alright?”
She was, and not just because her body had healed. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around Tor’s shoulders, pushing up to capture his lips. She kissed him urgently, the act fierce, possessive, and he returned it with equal passion as his arms slid around her waist.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmured when she pulled back, both of them breathing heavily. “I love you.”
Deòthas grinned as she cupped her mate’s cheeks, her thumbs stroking over the warrior brands and the tattoo of her name.
“I love you too, rookie. I choose you.”
Tor grinned too, kissing her again, a tender brush of his lips against hers.
“Thank you, mo ghaol. I’d have no life without you.”
Tancred chuckled, his charcoal eyes glinting as he interrupted, “Not to intrude on the love scene, but I believe your brothers and sisters have something they wish to say.”
Cloaked ghaisgich appeared from the shadows, stepping between the Taghadairean who remained in their two, perfect lines on either side of the cave. The warriors formed a circle around her, while she watched in confusion.
What were they doing?
As one, the captains and their team members pressed their fists to their breast bones, then held their fists out towards her in a gesture of respect, of comradeship.
“Welcome back, sister.”
Deòthas stared, speechless. Only Tor had ever honoured her in such a way. The gesture stunned her, touched her, and much to her embarrassment, tears welled. Her disbelief spilled off her tongue as she asked, “Are you all drunk?”
Laughing, Tancred shook his head, promising “We're all stone cold sober, I promise. You gave us quite a scare, Deòthas.”
“What happened?”
Tor’s arms tightened around her at that question, protective, like a shield engulfing her.
“Your sword. It turns out that wounds from Taghadair blades don’t heal, so when Cailean stabbed you... well, you kept bleeding. Jäger stitched you up, gave you transfusions, but you just weren’t healing. You were unconscious for three weeks before we thought to try this.”
“It was your mate’s idea,” Tancred added. “He thought that as the blood of the captains heals those who come out of the trials, it might heal you too. I asked the Taghadairean and they advised us to bring you here. They told us the Great Father wanted to speak to you, but we hadn’t expected him to make such an offer.”
The chief paused as he studied her, disbelief playing over his own expression.
“I didn’t think you would choose us,” he admitted. “I hoped you would choose Tor, for his sake if nothing else, but you chose more than that. You chose the Comhairle.”
“This is my home,” Deòthas answered simply. “I am a council warrior. I am, it seems, bhampair.”
She eyed Corvinus in mild reproach, adding, “Seriously, what did you see in my mother?”
A ripple of laughter ran through the gathered warriors. They chortled at Corvinus’s expense while the captain blushed ever so slightly. He sounded flustered as he answered, and Deòthas believed it might be the only time she’d ever see him lose his cool.
“She was beautiful and not overly interested in love. It was convenient for both of us. It just... happened.”
Narrowing her eyes at him, Deòthas struggled to keep her face straight as the ancient roman flinched. However, she couldn’t hold back a smile as she faux-grumbled at him, “You owe me six centuries of birthday presents.”
Thankfully, Corvinus took her remark with the humour she’d intended, answering, “How about I get you a few rounds at the bar and we’ll see how it goes?”
“That sounds like the best plan you’ve devised in decades,” Tancred agreed. “Up for a party, Deòthas?”
After glancing around the assembled warriors, most of whom were looking back with expectation and acceptance, Deòthas nodded. Parties were something she’d always avoided but right then, for the first time in her life, she felt like celebrating. She had a mate. She had a family among the ghaisgich. For the first time in forever, she felt truly happy.
“Sure, just let me change.” She glanced down at the pyjamas which someone, hopefully Tor, had dressed her in. “I really need to lose the Hello Kitty pyjamas.”
“I think they’re cute,” her mate answered as he pressed a kiss to her temple. “But I agree you need to change. Now you aren’t an invalid, I expect to be the only man who gets to see you in pyjamas.” He nipped her earlobe, his breath hot on her throat as he whispered, “Or out of them.”
Heat pooled low in her abdomen and she inhaled sharply as she turned her head, kissing him deeply.
“Oh, I’m more than willing to promise that, my rookie.”