Naamah's Kiss - Jacqueline Carey [16]
Although they had been very good sausages.
"Father!" Cillian said breathlessly. "I've brought them."
The man inclined his head. "Fainche."
"My lord Tiernan." My mother dismounted deftly, sliding one leg over the mare's neck. She helped me down. "This is Moirin, my daughter."
I stood gazing up at them. They sat gazing down at me. Cillian rattled off their names. Far below us, the grey sea crashed on rocks. At last, Lord Tiernan's gaze shifted to my mother. "That child was never sired by one of Alban blood."
"Nor did I claim she was," my mother agreed.
"Who?"
She shrugged. "Since when do the Dalriada concern themselves with the lineage of the Maghuin Dhonn?"
His mouth quirked. "Others might. Or do the wild kin of Alais' line forget whose blood runs in their veins?"
"We do not."
"Poor mite!" one of the women whispered audibly. "Living like a savage."
"What do you expect?" another murmured.
I glanced at my mother's face and saw her eyes take on an ominous glitter. I was angry on her behalf and gave the woman who'd spoken first a glare of my own. She flinched and made a warding gesture.
"Peace." Lord Tiernan held up his hand, silencing them. "Why not bring the child to be raised at Innisclan, Fainche?" he asked in a reasonable tone. "At least during the winter months. Surely it would be an easier living, and if she's an appetite for learning, it would be indulged."
She shook her head. "When Moirin is older, she may choose her own path. For now, she stays with me, and our place is in the wild."
He sighed. "Dagda Mor, you're a stubborn woman." His gaze shifted back to me. "What do you will, child?"
I curled my bare toes on the stony ridge. "For Cillian to visit."
Lord Tiernan's expression softened. "So little? All right, then. If the lad wills it, I see no harm in it." He hesitated. "Fainche…"
My mother raised her brows coolly. "Aye, my lord?"
Whatever he was going to ask, it withered in the face of her implacable stance. "Stubborn woman," Lord Tiernan repeated. His grey gaze lingered on me. "I reckon the truth will come out in time." He gave his son a brisk nod. "Cillian, so be it. I'll expect you home by supper."
Cillian grinned. "Aye, Father!"
So it was decided.
In the years that followed, Cillian came without fail whenever he could. Not so often in the winter when the snow and cold made travel difficult, but he taught me enough before the first snowfall that I was able to read on my own, and as he had promised, he brought books borrowed from the Academy's considerable library. They were tales of Alban history, Alban heroes. During the long winter nights, I read them aloud to my mother by the light of the little fire that warmed our cave when we couldn't use the wind-scoured hearth, both of us huddled under furs and blankets.
During the day, it was different. Cold as it was, I liked the woods in winter. It was quiet, so quiet! Almost all the world slept. There was only the murmur of pine trees, boughs pillowed white with snow, and the occasional bright crackle of holly. Animals were scarce. One could feel oneself alone in all the world beneath the vast sky, breathing plumes of frost into the bright air. No magic, only being.
At such times, I could not imagine wanting aught else.
But at night there were tales, and I hungered for more.
Spring came, and Cillian came more often. He'd grown over the winter, turning lanky and rawboned.
"Look at you," he teased me. "You're no bigger than a frog!"
"I am!" I said indignantly.
"Hardly!"
My mother watched us indulgently.
It wasn't until early summer of that year that Cillian spoke of my parentage. Ever since our meeting with Lord Tiernan, I'd feared he'd broach the subject, but he'd waited, cunning as a hunter in his own way. We'd been roaming in the woods and were lying on our backs in the sunny meadow, head to head, in comfortable companionship.
"So." Cillian flicked a spray of bluebells with one finger. "Do you know who your father is?"
I sighed.
He rolled onto his belly. "Do you?"
I veiled my eyes with my lashes and