Into the Fire (8 page)

Earlier that evening, Rohan had reluctantly agreed that if Cedar refused to step forward, he was the next best choice. She
would give him her support at tomorrow’s Council meeting, which had been called to consider any other claims for the throne. Cedar was relieved that the Council hadn’t accepted Nuala’s proposal right away. It meant that there was still a chance to stop her.

She snuggled into Finn’s side and closed her eyes, her body longing for sleep but her mind still racing with everything that had happened over the last couple of days. Had it been only last night that she’d met that stranger at Maeve’s old house? She wondered again who this man called Liam was and if he was one of the druids Nuala had claimed to have met while on Earth. Why had he told her to stay away from Tír na nÓg?

Just as she was about to drop off to sleep, another question popped into her mind, one that had been plaguing her for weeks. Somehow she’d never found the right moment to ask.

“Finn?” she whispered, not sure if he was still awake.

“Mmm?” he mumbled, cracking one eye open to look at her.

“What was Kier’s ability?”

He opened both eyes. “You don’t know? I thought Riona must have told you.”

Cedar shook her head.

He looked at her intently. “It doesn’t surprise me at all, you know. I can see it inside of you, even through the mask of your humanity.”

“What was it?” she asked.

“Fire.”

“Fire,” she repeated. Somehow, the news didn’t surprise her either. “What could she do with it?”

“Anything she wanted,” he answered. “She could create it, wield it, extinguish it… anything. If only she’d been around on the day we met,” he teased. “Do you remember?”

Cedar smiled at the memory. “Of course I do. You saved my life. Well, it felt like that anyway.”

“You were so… intriguing,” he said. “And gorgeous. I wanted an excuse to talk to you again.”

It was Cedar’s first major art show. She’d exhibited at smaller shows before, but this was the first one where she was the featured artist, where people were coming primarily to see
her
work. She had been speaking to an elderly gentleman when a soft, rich voice from behind her said, “Your work is beautiful.” She turned to say a polite thank-you, expecting to see another middle-aged patron of the arts. Most of the people her age in Halifax hit the bars on Friday nights, avoiding places like the prim art gallery on Sackville Street. This man, however, was not the typical gray-haired, pinstriped-suited admirer she had been expecting. He was tall and athletic, with wavy brown hair that tumbled effortlessly down to his stubbled jawline. A hint of a smile played on his face, and his deep brown eyes sparked with gold. Cedar opened her mouth to say thank you, but all that came out was “Ah.”

The elderly man with whom she had been speaking chortled, made an excuse, and walked away. Quickly realizing that she looked ridiculous, Cedar forced a smile and thanked the newcomer for his compliment.

“It’s amazing,” he continued. “So evocative. You have a rare gift.”

That was when she really smiled, and she felt a jolt of pleasure course through her body.

“You are very kind, um…” She held out her hand, and he took it.

“Finn,” he said. “Finn Donnelly.”

“Nice to meet you, Finn,” she said. “I’m Cedar McLeod.”

“I know,” he said with a wink. “Your name’s on all the paintings.”

She grinned. “Well, not all of the ones here are mine. But I’m so excited—okay, maybe a bit terrified—to be part of this show. It’s a huge milestone for me.”

He smiled down at her and started asking her questions about her various pieces. He seemed almost as knowledgeable about her paintings as she was. She was about to ask him why he was here at an art show
instead of out drinking with his buddies when the ear-splitting shriek of the fire alarm ripped through the air.

Everyone in the gallery froze in place, wondering if it was a false alarm. Some were covering their ears. Then came the acrid smell of smoke, and Cedar’s stomach sank. “No,” she whispered. “Not here, not tonight…”

One of the gallery officials was shouting instructions and herding people toward the exit. Cedar ran to lift the painting closest to her off the wall, but Finn grabbed her arm. “There’s no time!” he shouted over the alarm, which was still shrieking. “You have to get out of here!”

“Not until I save my paintings!” she yelled back, trying to jerk her arm free.

“It’s not safe!” he said, half-dragging her toward the exit. “Go!”

Cedar went, buffeted by the crowd that was tumbling out of the exits and onto the sidewalk. It was November, and the air was chilly. She stood on the other side of the street and watched as the fire crews arrived and poured into the building, letting loose their great hoses of water on the flames that were visible through the windows of the gallery. She wondered vaguely where the handsome man who had liked her paintings had gone, but thoughts of him were driven from her mind by the unmistakable smell of burning paint.

Without realizing it, she had started crying. The hot tears mixed with the cold air as they dripped off her chin and the tip of her nose. She knew her mascara was running, but she didn’t care. She thought of her now-destroyed canvases one by one, each with its own history, its own personality, its own special world. The crowd was starting to grow, and she was shivering from the cold, yet she couldn’t make herself walk away from those small deaths.

And then she heard her name. At first she looked around at the faces of the people who were standing the closest to her, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Then she heard her name again, from behind. She whirled around and caught a glimpse of movement in the alley
between the two neighboring buildings. Hesitantly, she wove her way out of the crowd of bystanders and walked toward the alley.

Standing there in the darkness, great clouds of air bursting out with every breath, was Finn. He was grinning so widely his teeth sparkled with the light of the nearby streetlamp. At first she just stared—she didn’t know what he was doing there—and then she looked down. Stacked neatly beside him were her paintings. Every last one.

And that was the moment she fell in love with him.

CHAPTER 4

T
he next morning Finn and Cedar arrived back at the Hall. The courtyard was crowded with people; several rows of the thin white chairs had been added outside of the Council circle, with standing room only beyond that. Cedar caught sight of Riona and Rohan, who waved to them and pointed to the empty seats beside them.

Earlier that morning Cedar had discovered the Tír na nÓg equivalent of a walk-in closet in her room—a huge carved wardrobe that seemed to grow bigger when she stepped inside of it. Dresses and robes of every color hung on either side, and toward the back were drawers filled with jewelry, ribbons, and fresh flowers for her hair. She still preferred her worn blue jeans, but she had dressed for this more formal occasion in a beautiful charcoal dress with bell sleeves and light blue embroidery crisscrossing the bodice.

They’d left Eden in the care of Riona’s friend Seisyll, who had promised to show her how to play some of the instruments that were hanging from the music branch in her room.

Cedar looked around the courtyard and saw a few friendly faces. Felix was sitting a couple of rows away from them, looking as gorgeous as he’d appeared yesterday, and Dermot was next to Dáiríne, whom she’d met at the party the previous night. Murdoch and Anya were present too, and they nodded in her direction when she smiled and waved at them.

Cedar! Behind you!

Cedar swiveled around and caught sight of Nevan’s grinning face. Sam was sitting next to her, his arm draped around her shoulders.

Many of the Danann in the crowd looked at her with undisguised curiosity. If last night’s welcome party had been any indication, they all thought she’d be making a competing claim for the throne today. She looked around for Nuala and found her in the seat directly behind the blonde councilwoman, Sorcha, who had so readily dismissed Cedar the day before. Her stomach tightened, but she knew she was surrounded by friends.

The goateed councilman stood and cleared his throat. Riona leaned over and whispered, “His name is Deaglán. Did you meet him yesterday?” Cedar nodded, scowling at the memory.

“The Council has already heard one claim for the throne of Tír na nÓg,” Deaglán continued. “This meeting has been called to determine if there are any others who believe they possess the qualities necessary to lead us. If you wish to be considered, please step forward and present us with your claim.”

A silence fell over the room. Cedar held her breath, waiting to see who would step forward. After a few moments, a man stood and walked into the center of the circle. Cedar’s spirits rose. He looked like a great warrior, strong and powerful, but with a kind face framed by a thick beard. Surely the Council would choose him over Nuala.

“Conchobhar,” the councilman said. “What is your claim?”

Cedar listened as Conchobhar began to recite the great deeds he had done, wars he had fought in, and enemies he had destroyed. Her spirits started to sink as he spoke of Tír na nÓg’s weakened condition and the human “threat.”

“The swords and spears of the Tuatha Dé Danann have grown dull!” he thundered. “We need a warrior king on the throne once more if we wish to regain our former glory—one who is noble and does not abuse our own people, but also one who is victorious!”

After Conchobhar sat down, Cedar cast a worried glance at Finn. She wasn’t sure who would be worse, Nuala or Conchobhar. And if Nuala could accomplish the same goal without taking the Tuatha Dé Danann to war, surely the Council would choose her.

There was another long silence as the Council waited for any additional claims. Cedar noticed that people were looking at her expectantly. She studied her hands in her lap, trying to ignore them. She felt Riona nudge her. “Are you certain?” Riona asked. Cedar nodded. Riona whispered something to Rohan, who immediately stood.

“I wish to make my claim,” he said. He spoke of his close friendship with Brogan and how he fought against Lorcan, refusing to accept a tyrant as king. He spoke of his years on Ériu and of the time he’d spent searching for the half-human, half-Danann of the prophecy. He spoke of finding Brogan and Kier’s lost daughter and helping to save the sidh-child Eden. She was surprised that he didn’t openly criticize Nuala’s plan, and she wondered if the Council had forbidden him to speak of it. Instead, he spoke of living in peace with humans and reminded the assembly of the many great humans they had befriended over the years.

There was a long silence after Rohan finished speaking, and then Deaglán rose again. “Thank you. If there are no other claims, the Council will—”

He was cut off by the sound of a child screaming. Recognizing the voice at once, Cedar jumped to her feet. Eden was standing beside one of the white marble arches at the edge of the assembly, which was slightly glowing. Her face was distorted with fear, and her terror-stricken eyes were trained directly on Nuala, who sat stock-still.

“Mummy, help me!” Eden screamed. “It’s her! Don’t let her get me!” Eden started to run toward her parents, but Finn was faster. He scooped up the hysterical child and swept her out of the Hall.

Cedar began to follow, but then she stopped. Every nerve in her body was burning, as if she’d been lit from within. Suddenly,
all of her protests sounded weak to her own ears. Nuala had put her child through unimaginable horrors and killed Maeve, and now she wanted to terrorize every mother, father, and child on Earth.

It didn’t matter that the Council didn’t like Cedar, and it didn’t matter that she wasn’t qualified. It didn’t even matter that she didn’t want to be queen. The only thing that mattered was stopping Nuala—and everyone like her—for good.

Fearlessly, she strode into the center of the ring. “Is this who you’d choose to be your queen?” she asked the Council, gesturing toward Nuala. “A woman so vicious that she terrifies an innocent child?”

Sorcha stood up. “This Council is assembled to hear claims for the throne,” she said, her eyes burning into Cedar’s. “Are you making a claim of your own?” There was a challenge in her voice, and Cedar’s resolve stiffened all the more.

“I am,” she said, letting the words hang in the air over the silent crowd.

“She offers you much,” Cedar continued, jerking her head in Nuala’s direction. “But she has no true claim to be your queen. Just empty promises delivered on a silver tongue. She says she has the druids on her side, but she murdered one of them, Maeve McLeod, who was a great friend to the Tuatha Dé Danann. It was Maeve who cared for Kier as she lay dying, and Maeve who selflessly raised Kier and Brogan’s child as her own, keeping her safe from Lorcan. How did Nuala repay her for this great act of service? She shot her. With a gun. A
human
weapon.

“You know who I am. I am the child of the High King Brogan and his wife, Kier. They were strong and proud, and the Tuatha Dé Danann flourished under their reign. They both lost their lives fighting Lorcan, trying to save all of you and this beautiful world you’ve created together. To repay them by putting one of their enemies on the throne would be unthinkable.

“I killed Lorcan, and I won’t stand for seeing his spy sit on this throne. Choose me, Brogan’s only child, and I will continue his legacy. Together, we will restore Tír na nÓg to its former glory, without preying on weaker races. It’s true that I have a strange gift—not fire like my mother, or opening the sidhe like my father and daughter. But it was this gift, this gift of humanity, that freed us from Lorcan’s bondage. So make your choice. Do you want more of what you’ve had for the last several years? More war? More decay? Or do you want to start anew and restore the great society that’s known throughout all the worlds for its nobility, compassion, and strength? I leave that choice to you.”

With that, she turned and walked out of the Hall, feeling the eyes of every single person in the courtyard on her back.