"I hope it is worth it to you, my son, this dangerous quest. I am sure it is not to your lady."
Garret remembered Ashleen's pleadings, her ragings, her stormy tears, and he remembered the resignation in her face that had burned inside him.
The priest was watching him, and Garret had the uncanny sensation that the old man could peel away layers of defenses as magically as Ashleen could, to see what lay beneath. Garret was sick and tired of people burrowing into corners of his heart that were secret, private; he was tired of that damn empathetic, knowing expression.
With a brusque motion he set the mug down on the bench and levered himself to his feet. "Ashleen is on a farm called Stormy Ridge about three days travel northeast of here. She—"
"Stormy Ridge? Is that not... not the MacQuade place? Was it not so long ago?"
Garret's lips thinned. "It was my father's place. I've come back."
"You. You are the boy... Garret. I remember."
The priest's eyes darkened with sorrow, one aged hand drifting onto Garret's shoulder as if he were still only a child. Garret would have knocked it away, but it felt strangely comforting. He had been so distraught when Kennisaw's priest had come that he had no memory of his face or features. But he knew instinctively that this was the man who had ridden onto the farm on the back of a donkey; he felt an unwelcome bond between himself and this man who was a stranger.
"I have prayed many times for you, Garret MacQuade. You and your mother and father and sister. I have never forgotten."
"I've tried to," Garret confessed. "I never could." Unable to bear the priest's light touch another moment, Garret turned and paced toward the wall, examining the twisted vines crawling heavenward as if they held the secrets of the universe.
"You'll go to her," he said at last. "To Ashleen."
"I swear by all that is holy."
Garret swallowed hard, his eyes blurring as he stared down at his boot toes. "Thank you."
Again came that feather-light touch of Father Dominic's gnarled fingers, as if in benediction, again that sweetly stealing sense of peace.
The priest's voice sounded again, this time brusque, yet still infinitely warm. "You will sit now, for a little while, Garret MacQuade," he said. "Let me fill your stomach before you ride off on your journey."
Garret started to go with the old man, but Father Dominic held up one hand. "Wait here. Drink in the sunshine and the silence. I find this grotto nourishes me in a way Father Andrew's stew never could."
Garret nodded, sinking down onto the bench again, suddenly glad of the quiet, the solitude, glad of this moment to gather bits of Father Dominic's peace to carry with him on the trail.
Yet instead of the peace the old priest had promised, it was as if ghosts slipped from the shadows of the vined wall in Father Dominic's absence, the aged man's words setting up a gentle haunting that ate at Garret's soul.
He could see his mother, Beth, Pa, could see Kennisaw, his face torn by an inner hell Garret could only now understand. He could taste Renny's stark betrayal, touch Liam's fear, feel Meggie's unquestioning faith. And he could feel Ashleen's love as well, feel her loneliness, her terror, lying like a stone upon his heart.
I hope your quest is worth the risk to you.... Father Dominic's words seemed to echo through the little walled garden.
Muscles tensing at the subtle reproach, Garret slipped his hand into the pocket of his buckskins, his fingers closing about Meggie's gift to him. Slowly he withdrew the little talisman, rubbing his thumb across the awkwardly stitched lace as if to draw from it some of the warmth, some of the peace he had felt during that brief time he had spent in the circle of Ashleen's love.
Meggie had told him to unleash the parcel's magic to ward off dragons. And never had he felt their presence more strongly than he did now. Throat tight, Garret unfastened the knot and spread the fabric open.
His fingers froze, his heart slamming to his boots as he stared down at the object glowing in his hand.
Magic. Since time began there had been men held captive by the magic in the thing now glinting in Garret's palm—men who had sold their soul to touch it, take it, men who had lost everything in a mad quest to possess it.
Gold.
Where in God's name could the child have found such a thing on MacQuade land? Impossible. It was impossible.
"Hellfire." The oath breached Garret's lips, and he dropped the nugget as if it had burned him, his mind filling with images of shattered strongboxes, blood, death—Garvey's fists smashing again and again into his father's face. He could hear Ashleen's voice as she gave him Kennisaw's message, as she told him about the treasure—a treasure Garret had assumed had fallen into the Garvey's hands.
Gold. Santa Ana's gold.
From the first Garret had thought Kennisaw's murder had been one of vengeance, payment for countless years rotting behind prison bars. Never had he suspected that Kennisaw might be the key to finding riches beyond imagining.
Riches that must still be hidden away somewhere on Stormy Ridge.
