Ciara—Her Father's Daughter.

	Ciara got out the door and halfway down the steps before anyone could catch her.  Emer reached her first and tried to take her arm to lead her back, but she shook the child away and kept going.  She was supported now by fear for her father, and also by a wild anger at his recklessness.  The cold air revived her and at the bottom of the steps she broke into a run, determined to be the first to meet her father at the gate.
	She didn’t make it that far.  When she was only half-way there, Marcan stepped out of an alley.  She wasn’t agile enough, now, to dodge around him, but she was able to stop just out of his reach.  He stopped, too, and stared at her for a moment.  Then he folded his hands in an attitude of prayer and looked up at the sky.
	“Why did you come back?  It took me four years to plan all of this out,” he said.
	She bared her teeth at him, but there were no room left in her for any fresh outrage.  All she could feel instead was a hollow emptiness in her stomach that numbed her whole body.
	“To plan what out?  The war?” she said.
	“I had to,” said Marcan “For my brother, who was murdered in the siege.  For all of the foxes who died that day.”
	“What about the lynxes who died?  What about their brothers and sisters?  You aren’t the only one who suffered,” said Ciara.
	Marcan opened his eyes and looked down at her over the tips of his fingers.  His expression was grim, and his jaw trembled with anger.
	“You’re defending them?  Can you stand there, with your father’s blood in you, and say such things to me? he asked.
	He was faster than his size suggested and he clamped one hand on her bad arm and one around her muzzle.  The pain made her whimper.  Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and she hated him more than she could have imagined.  He squeezed her jaw hard, and forced her to look toward the gate.
	“There is your father.  Look at him now, and ask your questions again,” said Marcan.
	It was Deirdre that she saw first.  Her mother was panting, and she winced in pain every other step or so.  Deirdre was spattered with dried blood and she carried what looked like a heavy bundle of rags.  It was only after Ciara realized that most of the blood was someone else’s and that the rags were familiar, that she understood.
	“You did this,” said Marcan.
	He squeezed her arm until she was ready to scream, but she refused to give him that.  She scrabbled at his wrist with her claws to make him bleed, until a memory of Alana rose up and made her gasp.
	Deirdre stopped in front of them and stared straight ahead, blank-eyed with grief.  But after a moment the older vixen summoned enough energy from somehwere to rouse herself and when she looked at Marcan, Ciara felt him recoil.
	“You and your bastard have killed my city,” Marcan said.
	“This isn’t your city, never again.  Let go of my daughter, and show some respect for your king before I spill your guts on the ground,” said Deirdre.
	“You have no right to threaten me.  You’re a traitor to your city, and your species, and you have no voice here,” said Marcan.
	Ciara kicked backwards, and her foot connected with Marcan’s knee, which buckled and made him grunt in pain.  He didn’t let go of her, but she was able to twist enough in his grasp to see that her friends had caught up to her.  Emer reached them first, and the child sank her teeth in Marcan's wrist until he screamed.  He let go of Ciara to grab at Emer, who was already hiding behind Deirdre, and Ciara ran to the safety of Niamh's arms.
	Fithir stood stock still behind the fat priest, all of her attention on the bundle in Deirdre’s arms.  Deirdre held Connor’s body out and waited until Fithir was able to force herself to walk over and pull back the cloth that covered Connor’s face.  The worst part were his eyes, which were still open, and glazed over with his blood.  He stank of whiskey and smoke, and his throat had been cut.
	“He was dead by the time I got to him.  I’m sorry,” said Deirdre.
	“When I woke up this morning, I knew he was gone,” said Fithir.
	“It was Sabia who killed him.  She ambushed him, then ran when she saw me.  She hasn’t finished, either.  She’s on her way here, now, with everything she has left,” said Deirdre.
	Marcan slapped his hands together and gave them all an ugly grin.
	“That is good news for you, then, General.  With this injustice to rally the city we will crush her when she comes.  You might have a chance to redeem yourself in the eyes of God,” he said.
	“When she arrives, we will talk to her,” said Fithir.
	Marcan’s grin melted into a snarl and, for just that moment, Ciara was on his side.  She didn’t want to talk to Sabia anymore.  She wanted to see the old cat bleeding on the ground, just like Alana.
	“How can you even think of doing such a thing when your king lies dead?” said Marcan.
	“He wanted peace.  And it wasn’t Sabia who killed him.  It was you,” said Fithir.
	Ciara advanced on him, dragging Niamh and Emer along with her as they tried to stop her.  Marcan backed away from them, until Fithir grabbed his arm.  He didn’t bother to fight but he held his head up and looked straight at Ciara, like he was proud of what he had done.
	“She’s right.  Sabia stabbed my father, but you were the one who killed him.  You said you planned it all out.  What did you say to my father, to get him to help you?” said Ciara.
	“Only the truth.  I was trying to help him.  His soul was tainted because of what he had done, and he knew the Will of God as well as I do,” said Marcan.
	“Better than you, I would say.  He would never drive someone to commit one sin by promising that it would absolve them of another.  But you wanted him to go to war, and that is just murder by a another name,” said Fithir.
	“That doesn’t matter now.  Sabia is approaching and Connor’s sin has passed to you.  You must do as I say, or your own soul will be in peril,” said Marcan.
	“Must I?  Is that what you said to my Connor before he went off to die?  Is that what you said to all those fine boys and girls who followed him?” said Fithir.
	She shoved him, hard, so that he fell to his knees in front of her.  Then she grabbed him by the scruff of his neck before he could rise and held him in place.
	“You were going to turn Ciara away, even though you knew how badly she as hurt, and you sent a child to do your work for you.  I never thought I hated anyone until I met you,” said Niamh.
	Fithir gave Marcan a shake, then let him go and wiped her hands on her skirt like she’d been holding something filthy.
	“You’re finished here.  We’ll see to Connor first, and we’ll talk to Sabia when she gets here.  I want you gone by the time we get back,” said Fithir.
	She turned and walked away from him, and didn’t look back.  He stayed on his knees while Deirdre went past him, too, and while Niamh hurried Ciara after them.

	Ciara felt emptied out, and cut off from the rest of the world.  She could sense the ground under her feet.  She could feel Niamh clinging to her, and everyone else pressing in too tightly around her, to comfort themselves.  She knew she was crying because she could feel her tears leaving damp trails down her muzzle.  But she was curled up tight around herself where she was safe from everything, including her own anger.  She didn’t want to talk to Sabia.  She didn’t want to make peace.  What she wanted to do was to make Sabia hurt as much as she did.
	As they walked through the city, a crowd of foxes gathered around them until they were being followed by what looked like every fox in Cearnach.  They each abandoned what they were doing, some even leaving their tools or their bags of groceries in the street to join the procession.  None of them spoke.  Ciara felt Niamh squeezing her hand and she dimly remembered why.  She pulled Niamh closer, hoping that would be enough to make the girl feel better, but Niamh only squeezed harder.
	“Don’t leave me now.  I still need you, more than I did when we started,” said Niamh.
	“She murdered him.  He went there to talk, just like I asked him to, and now he’s dead.  Because of me,” said Ciara.
	“You haven’t done anything wrong.  Don't blame yourself for someone else's crime,” said Niamh.
	“I've never wanted to kill anyone before.  Not until I saw my father... like that,” said Ciara
	“That will pass,” said Niamh.
	“No.  Nothing will be the same again,” said Ciara.
	The crowd slowed as they got near the castle and Ciara thought they were going to carry Connor in through the front doors.  There was a small, private hospital inside, where her mother had always been taken when she had gotten hurt when she was a pup.  But Fithir turned before they got to the steps and went down a shallow slope on the other side of the castle instead.  They followed the wall for a few minutes, until it went down another slope and Fithir turned into an alcove that Ciara had never seen before.  The wall there was blank stone, until Fithir took a key out of her pocket and slid back a false panel on one of the decorative pillars flanking the depression.  A heavy door swung open and released a gust of cold, damp air that tasted of mold.
	“The last King of Cearnach.  God forgive me, he deserves better than some ancient beer cellar, but there’s no time to do any more for him now,” said Fithir.
	“He would understand.  The living come first.  He made me promise him that when we were still together,” said Deirdre.
	“And me.  But I never thought it would be this soon,” said Fithir.
	Fithir brushed her fingers across Deirdre's arm just once, so fast that Ciara wasn't sure if she saw it until Deirdre smiled.  Then that faded, too, and they stepped through the doorway together.
	The cold deepened as they went inside.  The floor was stone and it was covered with a layer of frost that first burned Ciara's feet, then numbed them, but that helped her to ignore the pain in her arm.  She willed the feeling to spread, hoping that it would dull other pains as well.  In the middle of the room there was a low stone table with a slightly dished top.  It was stained, with what she didn't want to guess, and cracked, but it was sturdy enough.  Fithir nodded at Deirdre, who laid Connor on top of it.  Deirdre kissed him on his forehead and took a small step back.
	“I’m not good with words.  I was taught to fight before I was taught to read.  But I want to help,” she said.
	“I know, but you can’t.  Neither can I.  By law, the safety of the city is up to Connor’s heir,” said Fithir
	Fithir's words swirled in Ciara's ears and she had to hold on to Niamh with both hands to steady herself.
	“I want Sabia to die. For my father, and for Alana, too.  She murdered her own daughter for trying to help me,” said Ciara.
	Ciara walked over to where Connor lay and put her left hand on his chest, over his heart.  Even with the cold, and all the time that had passed since his death, she was sure she could fell some small bit of warmth left in him.  That warmth crept up her arm, and some of the stiffness and pain left her.
	“What I want isn’t important.  If he was going to talk to her, then that’s what I will do.  He was going for me, so it’s only fair that I go for him,” she said.  Then she laid her head on her father's chest and wept.