One day he would wield a sword like his father and probably be every bit as hard and uncompromising as the laird as well. These boys would be strong, but their strength would always be tempered by honor and compassion. Just as Talorc’s was, no matter how he might deny the latter.
Her heart full, she crept quietly from the room and followed her father and Eirik down the stairs. They found Abigail and Guaire going over the records of the keep’s stores at the main table in the great hall.
Abigail looked up with a smile for all of them, but her eyes were on Ciara when she said, “I am glad you came to say good-bye before leaving.”
“I would have regardless,” Ciara promised. “But we have a question for, um…father.”
Abigail’s smile became brighter and the laird’s pleasure could be felt in the air around them. So simple a thing, to use the words that had resided in her heart so long.
She wanted to apologize, but both laird and lady’s expression revealed an understanding Ciara would never take for granted.
Abigail made sure they were all seated at the table with watered wine before Talorc asked, “What is your question?”
“I should have asked it this morning, but I am unaccustomed to speaking of my secrets.” It was not quite an admission of regret, but close enough. She hoped.
“You will learn it is safe to share them with your family,” Abigail said softly. “I did.”
The laird smiled at her, a silent message passing between them. “What is your question, daughter?” he asked Ciara.
He’d called her daughter many times, but for today was the first time Ciara had allowed herself to accept the title fully. The word now caused a sweet pain inside her. “I possess a sword that Eirik believes belonged to one of the original Chrechte kings,” she said instead of asking about the luminous caves, surprising herself.
And apparently the others at the table as Abigail gasped, Talorc cursed, Guaire said, “Now, that’s a treasure to protect,” and Talorc growled, swearing a second time. Guaire did not look worried and Ciara was pretty sure the human mate to her father’s second-in-command had nothing to worry about.
“Niall…” her father snarled.
“Has said nothing he ought not to,” Guaire said with the acerbity the seneschal had become known for. He might be almost half the size of his mate, but the man was no pushover. “But I live here. I see things. I know what he does not say, when he does his best to hide things from me. You might recall I was well aware of the import of your and his Chrechte nature long before he would ever have admitted it to me.”
Her father gave Eirik a significant look and the Éan prince just rolled his eyes. “Think you that the Éan have no secrets we carry generation to generation? Whatever treasure you protect with your covert words and actions, it is safe from my curiosity. Guaire is right in saying that the fact your daughter had a sword of a Chrechte king in the trunk at the end of her bed is a secret worth knowing.”
“Because it means she really is a descendant of the original Faol kings?”
“That and the sword itself has power to help her see visions of the sacred stone.”
“Really?” Abigail asked, her soft brown eyes glowing with interest.
Ciara nodded but kicked Eirik’s ankle under the table. He hadn’t needed to share that bit of information.
The look he gave her was bland, but his tone was firm. “No more secrets, remember, faolán?”
Her father’s chuckle stopped the words of protest from fully forming and she simply nodded.
“I take it that is the second sword you wear,” Talorc observed.
“It is.” Eirik went to draw the Faol sword. “Do you want to see it?”
Her father’s nod, his eyes filled with a deep desire she never would have expected sent a sharp stab of guilt through Ciara. She should have told him about the sword long before this. She’d known it was special, even if she had not known its true illustrious heritage.
Eirik drew the sword and laid it on the table, the emeralds in the hilt not glowing like they had in her bedroom, but looking magical all the same.
Her adopted father reached out slowly, his blue gaze dark with reverence. “’Tis truly of the ancient Chrechte. Look at the conriocht on the handle.”
“Pick it up. Try the warrior’s dance with it,” Eirik said in a voice Ciara found compelling,