Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 (29 page)

"Another half-baked plan," Alistair muttered.
"Typical!"

Deirdre tightened her arms around him. "Ronan, we
must stop. He can't go on like this—he's out of his senses—"

"'Tis not entirely my fault," Ian said,
stung. "If not for your fears and your thrice-damned sense of honor, you
would have wed Deirdre long ago. But no, you would never do anything so simple!
You always have to twist things up into such a muddle, even you canna make sense
of it!"

"Alistair," Ronan said. "Look at me. Can
you hear me?"

Fitzgerald looked terrible, Alistair thought, dark
hair plastered around his ashen face, one eye swollen almost shut and a long
gash across his brow.

"Aye, Fitzgerald. I hear ye."

"Who are you talking to?"

"Ian," Alistair said. "Ye canna see him.
But he is there."

"Oh, dear God," Deirdre breathed. "Ronan,
we cannot go on, we have to stop right now."

"'Tis all right," Ronan said unexpectedly. "There
is
something there—look at the dog!"

Finn was walking stiff-legged beside Deirdre's horse,
staring at Ian with hackles raised.

"Off with ye, hound!" Ian cried suddenly,
waving his arms. The dog yelped, then ran to the other side of Ronan's horse. Ian
laughed.

"Holy St. Brighid, what is it?" Deirdre whispered,
clutching Alistair tightly against her as she stared wide-eyed at the space
beside her horse.

"'Tis Ian," Alistair said, shooting Ian a
withering glance. "Thinks he's amusing."

"Don't worry, Dee," Ronan said. "If
Alistair says to keep going, that's what we must do."

"Not a bad sort, Fitzgerald," Ian said. "Young,
but he'll get over that. As for your Deirdre—" He sighed dramatically. "If
only I were still alive... But then again, perhaps 'tis just as well. 'Twould
seem her heart is set."

Alistair gathered all his courage into a single
question. "Will I see my child?"

Behind him, Deirdre stiffened and leaned forward to
look into his face. Alistair tried to smile reassuringly, but from the
expression on her face, he didn't think he'd managed very well. "Hold on,
lass," he whispered. "Nearly there."

Ian frowned, staring up into the rain. "I would
tell ye if I could. But that knowledge has not been given to me. Ye may have
fifty years or ye may be dead by sunset. All I know is that if Jemmy walks into
that chapel..."

"What?" Alistair asked. "What will
happen?"

"This thing between Darnley and Kirallen—'tis
old, Alistair, older than either of our families, something that has always
been here, waiting... It takes men—aye, and women, too—and turns them to its
purpose. We've all been touched by it, me and you and my poor father—all but
Jemmy. He saw it when he was a bairn and ran like hell. Verra sensible of him,
too," he said approvingly. "Now for some reason it canna get ahold of
him. Not like us. D'ye ken what I am saying?" he asked, peering sharply
into Alistair's face.

"Aye. Vengeance."

"Aye," Ian said. "'Tis an evil thing. Jemmy
doesna feel it as we do. And that lady he wed—she's a bonny thing, is she no'? 
Seen from here, she burns like fire. The two of them together are a powerful
force, and today, should they be vanquished—" He shuddered. "The evil
will be free again, stronger than before. What happened after Stephen died will
seem like naught compared to what will happen now. Malcolm will try, but he
will no' be able to stand long. 'Twill go on for years and years, until the
last Kirallen is dead. And then it will find others." 

He looked into Alistair's face. "'Tis a heavy
burden, Alistair, I ken that, but there's no help for it. You are the only one
to stop it. Jemmy canna rule without ye."

Alistair groaned aloud. "Enough," he said. "I
canna think any more."

Deirdre halted the horse. "Aye, 'tis is
enough," she said. "Ronan, help me get him down—"

"Nay!" Alistair said firmly. "Go
on."

"Just one thing more," Ian said. "I'll
no' have another chance. If ye make it through today, ye must let Darnley go.
He'll be taken care of. Dinna fash yourself about him."  He frowned, then
added, "Unless...ye may still have part to play in that. Should a woman
should come to you and ask something in my name, then you must do it. Will ye
remember that?"

Alistair sagged forward, saved from falling only by
the strength of Deirdre's arms.

"Hold on," he tried to say, but his lips
were too numb to form the syllables. He tried again and this time the words
were clearer. "Hurry. Get me home."

A
listair fell full length on the cobblestones when he
dismounted. At his order, Deirdre and Ronan hauled him up and they walked
together toward the chapel.

Ian was gone, if indeed he had ever been there. Alistair
wasn't sure of anything any more. He only knew he had to reach the chapel. But
halfway across the courtyard, he staggered and went down.

"Pick him up, Dee," Ronan urged. "Hurry."

"No! I will not do this. He's mad, Ronan, he's been
raving all the way back here—why do you insist on acting as though he's making
sense?"

"Because something is wrong, and he's the only
one who knows what it is. Now lift him up and put him on his feet."

Alistair heard their voices from a great distance, felt
them dragging his weightless body to its feet. And then all at once, Alistair
was standing on the other side of the drawbridge, a chill wind whipping in his
face. Mist was rising from the hollows of the ground, and Ian sat on his own
horse, looking down at him with a grin.

"I canna waste the morning waiting about for you!
You can catch us—and hurry, man, 'tis late enough already." 

"Wait!" Alistair cried. "Don't
go!"

He began to run, and then he was in the forest again,
Ian racing along the path ahead. "Wait!" he cried, his voice no more
than a whisper. "Don't go. 'Tis a trap."

He rounded the corner of the path and skidded to a
stop. The forest was gone. The corridor of Ravenspur stretched before him, an
endless expanse of gray walls and flagstone. At the far end a group of people
walked slowly toward the chapel. The door began to open and a sliver of golden
light spilled from within. A cloud of incense rolled into the corridor and the
plainsong of the priests drifted eerily down its shadowed length. At the head
of the procession, a dark head rose above the rest.

"Ian—" Alistair began, then stopped and
pressed his hands against his temples. Past and present stood side by side,
clashed and mingled and became one terrible moment that seemed to stretch into
eternity.

D
eirdre came breathless to Alistair's side, fearing he
had reached the limit of his strength. But even as she reached for him, his
hands dropped from his head and he started forward at a run.

"Jemmy, wait!" he shouted. "Don't go in
there! 'Tis a trap!"

Jemmy looked back over his shoulder, eyes narrowed as
he took in Alistair's muddy, blood-smeared, dripping form and burning eyes.

"Move," Alistair said in a harsh whisper
that only Deirdre, just beside him, heard. "Oh, God, not again—Jemmy,
move
!" 

He
is
mad, Deirdre thought, and it is my fault,
I brought him here— 

Jemmy dropped into a wary crouch, one hand sweeping
the dagger from his belt as with the other arm he pushed Alyson behind him.

The line of mourners was thrown into confusion as Jemmy
shouted for his guard. Alistair turned to one of the men. "Your
sword," he ordered, and when the man hesitated, he struck him down and
tore the weapon from his hand with the terrible strength of madness. Deirdre
ran after him, calling to Ronan over her shoulder.

"Ronan, help me—stop him—"

Even as they drew even with Alistair, the chapel door
flew open and crashed against the wall.

Men rushed screaming from the chapel, weapons drawn. Jemmy
had his sword out now, was slashing furiously as he tried to get Alyson to
safety. Then Sir Donal was there, his brother just beside him, while the others
jostled the panic-stricken men and ladies out of the way.

Deirdre hit the wall hard as Jemmy's guard rushed past
her. But they were cut off from him, and he was trapped on the far end of the
passageway with only a handful of his closest men.

Alistair walked steadily through the screaming and
confusion, looking neither right nor left. A man rushed at him from the right
and Alistair cut him down without pausing. Deirdre watched him, hands pressed
against her mouth, as he went on, step after relentless step, making straight
for Jemmy.

She looked wildly about for Ronan and saw him in the
midst of the fray. He had found a sword and was cutting his way toward the
chapel door. Malcolm and Haddon Darnley stood just beside the frame, daggers
clutched in shaking hands, Alyson between them. Jemmy stood before his wife,
his nephew and his fosterling, shielding them with his body as he fought two
men at once.

Jemmy's foot slipped in a patch of blood; he nearly
went down, but recovered himself at the last moment, driving upward with his
dagger as he straightened. One man fell, but the other redoubled his attack. Jemmy
was forced from his position, leaving Alyson and the two boys in the open and
his own back undefended.

As Sir Calder moved with lightning speed to take Jemmy
from behind, Deirdre's cry of warning was lost in the confusion. She watched in
helpless horror as Sir Calder's sword rose, began its swift descent—and was
halted inches from Jemmy's shoulder with a clash of steel on steel.

Calder's face contorted into a mask of fury as he
glared down at this new opponent. Alistair retreated a step, his back just
touching Jemmy's, and chanced a quick glance over one shoulder, meeting his
kinsman's startled gaze. As Jemmy turned back, Deirdre saw the fierce grin
flash across his features.

Deirdre let out a sobbing breath of mingled terror and
relief. Not a traitor, she thought dizzily. He's not and never has been. How
could I have doubted?

Calder towered over Alistair, his face flushed and
lips drawn back into a snarl. Alistair looked up at him with eyes like chips of
ice. His first feint was a sideways slash that Calder caught easily on his blade,
twisting his weapon to knock the sword from Alistair's hands. Alistair
disengaged before the movement was complete and came at him from the other
side, all done in one single, graceful movement that took Calder by surprise. The
dark-bearded knight blocked the blow, but only barely, and edge of Alistair's
sword caught him on the upper arm.

Calder leaped back, both feet planted squarely on the
floor, and attacked with a rain of heavy blows. Alistair fended him off, though
Deirdre could not make out how he did it, for his blade hardly seemed to move. Yet
as the encounter wore on, he began to tire. Even Deirdre could see that much.

Alistair was leaning openly against Jemmy now. He
blinked and shook his head, as though blinded by the sweat streaming down his
face. Calder began to smile; he increased the force of his blows, and Alistair
seemed just a bit slower; his blade was sagging and after one terrible slash
that he barely managed to deflect, he staggered and went down upon one knee.

This was obviously the chance Calder had been waiting
for. He bent down, sword raised—and Alistair, with a cry that tore through the
sounds of combat, leapt up to meet him with a two-handed sweep of his blade.

Deirdre turned away, retching, as the black-bearded
head flew from the brawny shoulders in a fountain of bright blood. When she
looked again, Calder had fallen to the stone floor. Alistair was nowhere to be
seen.

At that moment the door burst open behind her and a
crowd of men rushed in; not knights, Deirdre saw, but stable lads, farmers, and
drovers by their dress, and the weapons they wielded were the tools of their
trade: scythes and cleavers and pitchforks.

"A Kirallen!" they screamed, streaming into
the passageway, cutting a path that Deirdre followed. She ran unheeding through
the fray, and at last reached the farthest end of the passage. Jemmy had flung
open the chapel door and was guarding it as Alyson was helped inside. She
looked dazed and sick and stumbled between Malcolm and Haddon, each of them
holding her by one arm.

"Lady Maxwell," Jemmy shouted. "Get
inside."

Deirdre ignored him, her attention fixed on the bodies
littering the floor. Her glance passed over one of the red-haired twins—Donal
or Conal, she didn't know which—continued past a dozen other men, most of them
in Maxwell's plaid, and fixed at last on a spill of bright gold against the
flagstones.

A hand jerked her roughly by the arm. "Inside,"
Jemmy snapped, nodding toward the chapel door.

"No!" Deirdre shook him off and dropped to
her knees, pushing at the headless body of Sir Calder. At last she succeeded in
rolling him over and looked down into Alistair's face.

"Help him," she cried, turning to look at
Jemmy. But Jemmy was already gone. She seized Alistair by the arm and began to
drag him toward the chapel door. When at last she reached it, she found that it
was shut fast, bolted from within.