Ayradyss’s first impression was that one of the girls from the village had come to do her wash, but she dismissed that idea as ridiculous even before it fully formed. Who would do laundry in cold salt water when there were gas-powered washers and dryers aplenty in the village? Curious, she hurried closer, her shifting balance making her just a little clumsy on the round pebbled beach. Drawing alongside, she saw clearly that her initial, fantastical impression was apparently correct—the girl was indeed dipping bits of clothing in the salt waters of the inlet.
“Miss?” Ayradyss called out, wishing she had learned more of the local idiom—although she suspected what the ghosts could teach her would be centuries out of date. “Miss? Have you lost something? Can I help you?”
At the sound of Ayradyss’s voice the girl—no, woman—rose from where she had crouched by the water, and as she rose the clothing she had been washing vanished away, but not before Ayradyss caught a glimpse of what she was certain was a swatch of the Donnerjack tartan. When the woman turned to face her, Ayradyss could see why she had initially mistaken her for a girl, for she was terribly slender—a mere slip of a thing—yet there was strength in her and a strange intensity in her green-grey eyes.
Those green-grey eyes so drew her attention that Ayradyss had closed to easy speaking distance before she registered that the woman was very beautiful. Her straight silky hair, which fell nearly to her feet, was precisely the shade of moonbeams. Although her gown was simple, hardly more than a shift with a ribbon at the throat and a sash beneath her small, round breasts, the woman’s bearing was aristocratic, and aristocratic, too, were the fine, sharp bones of her face. Her hands showed no sign of the scrub maid’s work she had been about but were as long and slim as the rest of her, with shapely, perfect nails.
“You aren’t a woman of the village,” Ayradyss said, trying not to curtsy (after all, wasn’t she the lady of this land? wasn’t her husband laird of the castle?). “Pray, tell me, who are you?”
“I am the caoineag of this land, of the old lairds who built the first keeps of old upon whose dust your husband built a castle to be your home.”
Her voice was as genteel as her form, but there was something about her cultured tones that made Ayradyss’s flesh creep and sent her hand to rest protectively on her belly.
“The caoineag? What is that?”
“The wailing woman,” said the other. “The crusader ghost calls me the banshee in the Irish fashion, his mother having been Irish, though he does not recall that.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I do, but he does not want it. When he does, he will know it for himself for all the good that it will do him.” The caoineag turned her green-grey gaze on Ayradyss. “Are you going to ask me what I am doing here?”
“‘No, I thought that you belonged here, as the ghosts do to the castle.”
“You should wonder more.” The caoineags expression was not kind, but it was not precisely unkind. “Do you know what my function is?”
“The crusader ghost said your wail has something to do with portents—portents of death,” Ayradyss said hesitantly, one hand now firmly on her belly, the other plucking at her cloak as if the weight of wool could protect her unborn child. “He said that you wail for me—for me and for my baby and for John.”
“That I do. Do you wonder why?”
“I do.”
“Death took you for a purpose, returned you for that same purpose. Your John took the bait he offered—though to be fair to Donnerjack, his way was quite different than what the Lord of Deep Fields expected.”
“Death? Expected? What do you mean?”
“Why should I tell you? What do you have to offer me? Who are you, phantom of Virtu, to order about one of noble blood?”
“Noble blood?”
“Aye, lass, the caoineag is of the house of Donnerjack, of a house older than that of Donnerjack, of the clan that gave birth to the lairds of this land that your husband has usurped with the rights of law and some claim of blood.”
“Yet… yet you say you are of the house of Donnerjack.”
“Aye, he is laird here and I am the wailing woman of this land, so I am of his house—of your house, too, phantom of Virtu.”
“Help me, then, for the sake of that house, for the sake of the ancient clan that gave you birth. Are the proud scions of this land to be used as pawns in a game—even if one of the players is Death himself?”
The caoineag smiled, a cold, thin-lipped thing. “This is all you offer me, Lady of Virtu? A chance to defend the pride of people long gone to dust for the sake of those who will soon go to dust? Why should this be enough?”
Ayradyss hid her sense of excitement—the caoineag could have vanished in a puff of indignation and a wail. In her talks with the crusader ghost, the Lady of the Gallery, and others of those who haunted Castle Donnerjack, this had happened often enough. She had something the wailing woman wanted. If only she could find it…
“What price is my knowledge worth to you, Lady of Virtu, Lady of the Castle?” the caoineag asked.
Ayradyss almost said, “Anything,” but memory of John’s bargain, well-meant but unconsidered (although without that bargain the child would not have been born at all, so… ) halted her. She shook her head to clear it of an unwelcome maze of thoughts, complexity after complexity. But the caoineag was waiting.
“I will not barter my life nor that of my man nor my child nor indeed of any living person, for lives are not to be given and traded away. Any other thing, within reason, I will give to you.”
“Careful, so careful,” the caoineag’s tone was mocking, “but you have more reason than most to know the value of care. Very well, here is my price. I was made the wailing woman against my will. As penalty for failing to warn my father of the plot that took his life, in death I must warn those who dwell in the castle of the coming of their deaths. Take my place—Lady of the Castle—and I will tell you what I know.”
“Take your place?”
“Aye, after your own death, however so long away as it may be. I do not ask for your life, only for your afterlife.”
“Afterlife…”
Ayradyss wrinkled her brow, trying to force into her memory the substance of her time in Deep Fields. It had been… It had not been… It had not been precisely… She could not remember what it had been or what it had not been, except that she had been. There had not been a cessation of herselfness.
“I agree,” she said, before she could think further. “On my death, whenever that shall be, I shall take your place as the caoineag.”
“It is done,” said the wailing woman, and with those words Ayradyss knew that it had been; some silken tether had looped itself around her, anchoring her to her fate as securely as the crusader ghost was anchored to his chain.
“Now, tell me what you know of Death’s plans. Tell me why you wailed for me and for my menfolks.”
“You are cold,” the caoineag said, and Ayradyss realized that she was. “After you have done so much to preserve your son, you should not risk him before his birth. Go inside, eat and drink. When you are alone, I will come to speak with you.”
“But…”
“Away…” The word was shouted shrilly, on a rising note. The wailing woman vanished, leaving only the echo of her voice against the cliff.
“Ghosts,” Ayradyss said to no one in particular, “always get the last word. I suppose there is some comfort in that.”