her hair. “I love you,” he said. The words came easily because they were true. Doyle often thanked the god Fiodóir for having his fate wound with that of Edana. Arranged marriages were not always blessed with actual warmth and affection.
“And I, you,” she answered with a smile. “I’m off, though—Da’s asked that I interview a new healer from Airgialla. Till tonight.” She kissed him again, quickly this time, and went rushing off with her maidservant. Doyle watched her until she turned left with a smiling wave, and then he turned back to the Rí Ard’s chamber as the garda opened the door for him. He entered.
The chamber high in the Keep of Dun Laoghaire smelled of corruption and stale urine that the perfumed candles seemed to enhance rather than mask. As Doyle Mac Ard leaned forward, he caught a whiff of the Rí Ard’s foul breath and had to force himself not to show his distaste as he kissed the man’s grizzled cheek and brushed back the stiff, gray hair from his brow. The golden torc around the man’s neck looked as if it would slip off the wasting flesh of its own weight.
“You look well, my Rí,” Doyle said as he straightened, then sat on a stool next to the bed. One did not stand above the Rí Ard.
Nevan O Liathain, ostensible ruler of the Seven Tuatha, grimaced and coughed wetly, spitting out a blob of green phlegm into a small silver urn alongside his bed. A chamber servant hurried forward to empty it. “Don’t flatter me needlessly, Doyle,” O Liathain said, his voice rough and broken. “I know exactly how I look and I’m sure Edana’s already given you her opinion. I can feel the crows gathering outside my window, and I hear the human ones cawing in the hallways. Damn this disease, and damn all the healers who have tried to cure me with their wretched potions.” O Liathain coughed again, a series of rattling, lung-scouring hacks. When the spasms passed, he lifted a blue-veined, thin hand on the finely-brocaded bedclothes, gesturing, and a man only a few years older than Doyle hurried forward from a seat near the window. A long and deep scar furrowed the left side of his face, running high into his skull. Where the jagged scar ran, the brown, wavy hair was interrupted by white skin.
“What is it, Da?” the man said in a childlike voice, slurred by the scar that twisted his lips. “Look! One of the ships is coming in the harbor. It’s flying red and white, so it must be from Airgialla, and there’s another flag below that I don’t recognize at all. Can I go watch it dock?”
“Aye,” O Liathain told the man, who was kneeling alongside the bed. He tousled the hair as he might a boy’s. “Go ahead, Enean.”
“I’ll go with him, Rí,” Doyle said, starting to rise, but O Liathain waved him back down.
“No, let his keeper watch after him,” O Liathain told him. “Enean, make sure that MacCamore is with you. Do you understand?”
“I will, Da,” Enean said, and bounded toward the door already calling for MacCamore, waiting patiently in the corridor outside. O Liathain sighed, watching him.
“Sometimes,” he said after the door had closed, “I wish that the boy had died with his stepmam. That would have been more merciful.”
Doyle remembered that day as well as the Rí Ard, even though Doyle had been only twelve summers old at the time. The Rí Ard had been in Tuath Gabair, staying at the capital of Lár Bhaile along the banks of Lough Lár. The Banrion (the Rí Ard’s third and last wife), seventeen-year-old Enean (just named as Tanaise Ríg the year before) and Enean’s newly named fiancée Sorcha were following a few days after the Rí Ard. The Rí Gabair’s Keep had been flung into a sudden uproar when the bloodied and lame remnants of the Banrion’s escort rode up the long hill of Lár Bhaile a few mornings later, bearing the corpses of the Banrion and Enean’s fiancée as well as a badly-injured and unconscious Enean. The gardai hurriedly gave the Rí
“And I, you,” she answered with a smile. “I’m off, though—Da’s asked that I interview a new healer from Airgialla. Till tonight.” She kissed him again, quickly this time, and went rushing off with her maidservant. Doyle watched her until she turned left with a smiling wave, and then he turned back to the Rí Ard’s chamber as the garda opened the door for him. He entered.
The chamber high in the Keep of Dun Laoghaire smelled of corruption and stale urine that the perfumed candles seemed to enhance rather than mask. As Doyle Mac Ard leaned forward, he caught a whiff of the Rí Ard’s foul breath and had to force himself not to show his distaste as he kissed the man’s grizzled cheek and brushed back the stiff, gray hair from his brow. The golden torc around the man’s neck looked as if it would slip off the wasting flesh of its own weight.
“You look well, my Rí,” Doyle said as he straightened, then sat on a stool next to the bed. One did not stand above the Rí Ard.
Nevan O Liathain, ostensible ruler of the Seven Tuatha, grimaced and coughed wetly, spitting out a blob of green phlegm into a small silver urn alongside his bed. A chamber servant hurried forward to empty it. “Don’t flatter me needlessly, Doyle,” O Liathain said, his voice rough and broken. “I know exactly how I look and I’m sure Edana’s already given you her opinion. I can feel the crows gathering outside my window, and I hear the human ones cawing in the hallways. Damn this disease, and damn all the healers who have tried to cure me with their wretched potions.” O Liathain coughed again, a series of rattling, lung-scouring hacks. When the spasms passed, he lifted a blue-veined, thin hand on the finely-brocaded bedclothes, gesturing, and a man only a few years older than Doyle hurried forward from a seat near the window. A long and deep scar furrowed the left side of his face, running high into his skull. Where the jagged scar ran, the brown, wavy hair was interrupted by white skin.
“What is it, Da?” the man said in a childlike voice, slurred by the scar that twisted his lips. “Look! One of the ships is coming in the harbor. It’s flying red and white, so it must be from Airgialla, and there’s another flag below that I don’t recognize at all. Can I go watch it dock?”
“Aye,” O Liathain told the man, who was kneeling alongside the bed. He tousled the hair as he might a boy’s. “Go ahead, Enean.”
“I’ll go with him, Rí,” Doyle said, starting to rise, but O Liathain waved him back down.
“No, let his keeper watch after him,” O Liathain told him. “Enean, make sure that MacCamore is with you. Do you understand?”
“I will, Da,” Enean said, and bounded toward the door already calling for MacCamore, waiting patiently in the corridor outside. O Liathain sighed, watching him.
“Sometimes,” he said after the door had closed, “I wish that the boy had died with his stepmam. That would have been more merciful.”
Doyle remembered that day as well as the Rí Ard, even though Doyle had been only twelve summers old at the time. The Rí Ard had been in Tuath Gabair, staying at the capital of Lár Bhaile along the banks of Lough Lár. The Banrion (the Rí Ard’s third and last wife), seventeen-year-old Enean (just named as Tanaise Ríg the year before) and Enean’s newly named fiancée Sorcha were following a few days after the Rí Ard. The Rí Gabair’s Keep had been flung into a sudden uproar when the bloodied and lame remnants of the Banrion’s escort rode up the long hill of Lár Bhaile a few mornings later, bearing the corpses of the Banrion and Enean’s fiancée as well as a badly-injured and unconscious Enean. The gardai hurriedly gave the Rí
Similar Books
