same way the gray contrasted with the young-looking face. Rory couldn’t say just what it was.
He was heavyset and solid, clothed like Rory’s twin in bright blue and purple with a replica of the spiraled image woven into the front. His fur cloak was white, amazingly bright in the crisp morning sun. Rory couldn’t hazard a guess on how many animals had died to make the garment. A gold chain held it in place, and it didn’t surprise Rory in the least that the clasp was yet another jeweled triple spiral.
The black horse his twin rode tossed his head again, and instinctively Rory tightened his thighs, holding on when the horse reared in agitation, understanding how stupid it was even as he did it.
“Control that beast,” the man beside them said. He flicked a quick glance over Rory’s twin, and there was a perplexing mixture of contempt and regard that caught Rory by surprise. And strangely enough, that unfathomable look brought with it absolute recognition. Rory hadn’t seen this man for twenty-five years, but he knew instantly and without a doubt who he was. Impossible, unbelievable, and yet undeniable. The man was Cathán MacGrath. Rory’s father.
A wash of incredulity stole his breath and filled his lungs even as tears burned his eyes and blurred his vision. How many childhood fantasies had included moments like this when Rory would singlehandedly find the man he’d loved more than anyone? The man whose loss he felt responsible for?
Memories came at him like lightning in the thunderstorm of confusion. The last time he’d seen his father had been that night beneath the ruins when they’d both held the Book of Fennore between them. When they’d fought each other and the demons inside to control it. How was Cathán here, in this bizarre fantasy that continued to warp and race to inexplicable ends? And did his being here mean the Book was, too?
“I don’t like it,” Rory’s twin said angrily. “We can call them out and stomp them to dust if that’s what yer wanting, but this skulking y’ have us doing is not right.”
“Christ, but you’re like your mother.” Cathán spoke in the same strange tongue, only betraying himself by drawing out his “yous” instead of clipping them short.
Rory’s twin obviously found this offensive, and the simmering rage Rory sensed in him boiled into festering fury. “If the men knew of yer plans, they’d be of the same mind,” he insisted coldly.
“Which is why they don’t know of it, you fool. We’ve been stomping Bain’s fucking people to dust for ten years and still they defy us. I see them gaining power, working the sympathies of others against us. This will take the heat from their flame. They will be powerless.”
“They’d be powerless dead,” Rory’s twin insisted.
“No,” Cathán said, his tolerance departing with the one word. He reached over and grabbed Rory’s twin by the front of his tunic, crushing the fabric in a tight fist. “They’d be martyrs, and there’s no worse an enemy than a martyred one. Now shut it and do as you’re told.”
“Wed the witch.”
“Aye. Wed and bed her, you pathetic imbecile. Get her with child and be quick about it. Only then will we own her. I wish to Christ I could do it myself.”
Rory stared at his father with disbelief, trying unsuccessfully to put his memory of his father into this sharp, hard mold.
“I give you this chance to be a man, Ruairi. Do not fail.”
“I am a man already and y’ give me nothing,” Rory’s twin said angrily, jerking away.
To that, Cathán’s response was cold, mirthless laughter. “You are what I say you are. A beast as sure as the one you sit on. I mean what I tell you, boy. You’ll not harm her. We’ve tried the whip, now it’s time to try the honey.”
Rory’s twin clenched his jaw on whatever he wanted to say, but his ire shimmied around him like a silent windstorm. Rory recognized it. Saw it in the taut line of his shoulders and the dark scowl on
He was heavyset and solid, clothed like Rory’s twin in bright blue and purple with a replica of the spiraled image woven into the front. His fur cloak was white, amazingly bright in the crisp morning sun. Rory couldn’t hazard a guess on how many animals had died to make the garment. A gold chain held it in place, and it didn’t surprise Rory in the least that the clasp was yet another jeweled triple spiral.
The black horse his twin rode tossed his head again, and instinctively Rory tightened his thighs, holding on when the horse reared in agitation, understanding how stupid it was even as he did it.
“Control that beast,” the man beside them said. He flicked a quick glance over Rory’s twin, and there was a perplexing mixture of contempt and regard that caught Rory by surprise. And strangely enough, that unfathomable look brought with it absolute recognition. Rory hadn’t seen this man for twenty-five years, but he knew instantly and without a doubt who he was. Impossible, unbelievable, and yet undeniable. The man was Cathán MacGrath. Rory’s father.
A wash of incredulity stole his breath and filled his lungs even as tears burned his eyes and blurred his vision. How many childhood fantasies had included moments like this when Rory would singlehandedly find the man he’d loved more than anyone? The man whose loss he felt responsible for?
Memories came at him like lightning in the thunderstorm of confusion. The last time he’d seen his father had been that night beneath the ruins when they’d both held the Book of Fennore between them. When they’d fought each other and the demons inside to control it. How was Cathán here, in this bizarre fantasy that continued to warp and race to inexplicable ends? And did his being here mean the Book was, too?
“I don’t like it,” Rory’s twin said angrily. “We can call them out and stomp them to dust if that’s what yer wanting, but this skulking y’ have us doing is not right.”
“Christ, but you’re like your mother.” Cathán spoke in the same strange tongue, only betraying himself by drawing out his “yous” instead of clipping them short.
Rory’s twin obviously found this offensive, and the simmering rage Rory sensed in him boiled into festering fury. “If the men knew of yer plans, they’d be of the same mind,” he insisted coldly.
“Which is why they don’t know of it, you fool. We’ve been stomping Bain’s fucking people to dust for ten years and still they defy us. I see them gaining power, working the sympathies of others against us. This will take the heat from their flame. They will be powerless.”
“They’d be powerless dead,” Rory’s twin insisted.
“No,” Cathán said, his tolerance departing with the one word. He reached over and grabbed Rory’s twin by the front of his tunic, crushing the fabric in a tight fist. “They’d be martyrs, and there’s no worse an enemy than a martyred one. Now shut it and do as you’re told.”
“Wed the witch.”
“Aye. Wed and bed her, you pathetic imbecile. Get her with child and be quick about it. Only then will we own her. I wish to Christ I could do it myself.”
Rory stared at his father with disbelief, trying unsuccessfully to put his memory of his father into this sharp, hard mold.
“I give you this chance to be a man, Ruairi. Do not fail.”
“I am a man already and y’ give me nothing,” Rory’s twin said angrily, jerking away.
To that, Cathán’s response was cold, mirthless laughter. “You are what I say you are. A beast as sure as the one you sit on. I mean what I tell you, boy. You’ll not harm her. We’ve tried the whip, now it’s time to try the honey.”
Rory’s twin clenched his jaw on whatever he wanted to say, but his ire shimmied around him like a silent windstorm. Rory recognized it. Saw it in the taut line of his shoulders and the dark scowl on
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