Just talking about it brought the memories flooding back. The crazy infatuation prompting her climb into the ancient, gnarled, walnut tree. The beautiful, young man pacing below her, muttering to himself in a language she didn’t understand, though just hearing it made her skin crawl.
“Aunt Fitz didn’t scold me as much as you did,” she said.
Brendan relaxed enough to pull up a stool that looked as if it had recently been broken over someone’s head. “It rained that day too,” he grumbled.
“Buckets. I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life as when you came striding through the wood like a hero to my rescue.” Her young heart had done flips. She’d been sure he heard it thundering against her ribs when he scooped her into his arms to carry her to the house. She’d lived on that one moment for months.
His brows lifted in amusement. “Hero? Is that what you thought? Talk about off the mark.”
“So it turned out.” She sighed. “But at the time . . .”
She’d thought him magnificent. Proud. Haughty. And far superior to the raw young men she met at the assemblies in Ennis and Dublin. They were callow youths with no thoughts more weighty than the height of their shirt-points and the depth of her pockets. His intelligence and wit glittered. His looks dazzled. She’d fallen hard and fast for Brendan and paid for it dearly.
He’d left her heart in pieces. Abandoned her to ridicule and pity and murderous rumors. She’d learned the hard way how easily pedestals crumbled.
No man would make her feel that heart-galloping, hot and cold, tongue-tied, and quivery again. No man had. She’d accepted Gordon as much for the way he didn’t make her feel as the way he did. Her calm affection for him the sheen of a tranquil lake after Brendan’s violent emotional thunderstorm.
She blinked back tears. Focused on drying her arms and face with her shawl. Quickly changed the subject. “Aidan and Sabrina will be thrilled to have you home. They’d given up hope.”
His face lost the glow of easy conversation. “My brother and I didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. And Sabrina, well, I only hope . . . but it doesn’t matter. The years have changed us all. It won’t ever be as it was. Mayhap that’s a good thing.”
He toyed with the pendant, running his finger up and down its chain, though he never touched the stone.
Hanging her damp shawl by the fire to dry, she asked, “Why is Máelodor looking for the stone? What’s so important he’d kill for it?”
His hand paused upon the chain, his eyes suddenly wary.
“After everything that’s transpired, I deserve an answer, don’t you think?” she asked.
“At least one, but deserving answers and wanting answers are two different things. Do you want to know? Truly?”
Again she had the impression Brendan ached to unburden himself, but feared it too. And perhaps with cause. For as long as they’d known one another she’d shied away from too much knowledge. Too much involvement. It’s one thing to be conscious of the existence of the Other. Far different to embrace it.
She shuddered with sudden cold as if a goose had stepped upon her grave. “No. I don’t want to know. I don’t want anything to do with you or your stone or this man, Máelodor or magic or Other or any of it. But . . .” She paused. “My life has been torn apart because of it all. I have to know. Don’t you think?”
For the first time he seemed at a loss for words, fiddling with the items upon a table. A bent brass candlestick. A chipped bowl.
“Brendan?”
He rubbed a tired hand over his chin. Stood abruptly to pace, hands behind his back. “Bear in mind it may sound slightly mad.”
“You mean I haven’t heard the mad part yet? What’s happened so far passes for normal to you?”
“You’re not making this any easier.”
“Good.”
“Do you want to hear or not?”
“Onward with the insanity.”
He gave her a pained look before continuing. “The stone in the pendant is a key. With it, one can unlock the spells protecting Arth—You’re sure you want to hear this?”
She folded her hands across her chest, cocking a brow in impatience.
“Very well. Protecting Arthur’s tomb.”
“Arthur who?”
“Arthur. The Arthur. You know, the High King and legendary Arthur. Defender of Britain. Scourge of Saxon invaders everywhere. His tomb is warded from intrusion by spells placed upon it at the time of his death. The Sh’vad Tual is the key to breaking those spells and opening the tomb.”
“Arthur’s a nursery tale. He’s not a real person. He’s a . . . a fable. A myth. The sword from the lake, the green knight, Morgan le Fey’s evilness and Galahad’s faith. They’re stories.”
“Are you through denying my history now?”
“Your history?”
“Arthur was the last great king of the Other. He ruled during a golden age. A period when carrying Fey blood was a wondrous gift. Magic needn’t be hidden away in attics and cellars. We weren’t persecuted. Targeted as freaks or witches or devils. Our families didn’t pretend we didn’t exist or refuse to acknowledge us as if we were crazy.” His gaze landed squarely on her.
She flushed but refused to rise to the bait. “Why does Máelodor want to open Arthur’s tomb? Is it full of treasure? Gold and jewels?”
“If only it were that simple. Máelodor is a master-mage. He’s studied for years, every scrap of knowledge he could get his hands on. He begged, borrowed, and stole whatever he had to in order to further his understanding of magic and the Fey world. He delved into powers he shouldn’t have and played a dangerous game with creatures from a nightmare. Arthur would be his greatest masterpiece. A feat unlike any ever undertaken.” Brendan’s eyes took on a feverish light as he spoke, his face transfixed. Almost as if he’d conjured the mask of the fith-fath to become once more a stranger.
“Unlocking his tomb?”
His gaze snapped back with knife-point intensity. The look of excitement dimming. “No. Bringing him back.”
She must have shown her confusion, because he pressed on.
“With the bones of the king in his possession, Máelodor can resurrect the man. He can bring Arthur back to life. He would be all he was previously. A glorious warrior. An amazing statesman. Cunning. Wise. Courageous. Resourceful. Everything a leader should be. Everything one looks for in a ruler.”
“I still don’t see—”
“The Other are hungry for a return to that lost age. With Arthur to unite them, they could rally an army unlike any this world has seen. The superstitious Duinedon would fall before his power and a new reign of Other would emerge.” He drew in a deep breath through his nose. Let it out on a defeated sigh. “That’s the idea anyway. There aren’t enough of us nor are we strong enough to take on the Duinedon and their armies, but Máelodor is beyond caring.”
“That’s why he wants the stone.”
“That’s why he wants you. He believes you have the stone. Or know where it’s hidden. He’ll stop at nothing to achieve his ends. Torture. Murder. He’s obsessed to the point of insanity.”
She sat there quietly, sorting through all he’d told her. Unable to take it all in. He was right. It did sound mad. And yet, why tell such an outlandish tale unless it was the truth?
“Lissa?” he asked gently.
She came to, throwing herself to her feet. “How dare you drag me into this? How dare you hide something like that with me? Are you bird-witted? What were you thinking? Didn’t it ever occur to you I would be in danger if this madman murderer found out where you’d hidden it?”
“I was out of time and being hunted. I had to find a safe place for the stone. It was my insurance. It still is.”
“Insurance against what?”
His gaze grew somber. “Against being murdered like my father.”
Elisabeth made a nest among the pile of empty sacks, Killer’s comforting weight in her lap. Brendan had stepped out. He’d given no explanation, o
nly a terse command to stay put, followed by a more sympathetic “Try and get some rest.”
Rest? She wished she could. She wished she could close her eyes and wake in her own bed with Aunt Pheeney’s cajoling and Aunt Fitz’s scolding and the sun streaming across her coverlet and the larks in the trees outside her window and a thousand other little moments that until she’d lost them had seemed inconsequential.
At every voice in the passage or approaching step outside, she braced herself for Brendan’s return.
Murdered. Like my father.
His words had hung frozen in the air between them. She’d ached to push him further. To make him explain and yet another part had held back. Too frightened by what he’d revealed. Too afraid of what else she might discover. Already she felt as if she’d waded unknowing into a bog, the ground unstable beneath her feet. Every step taking her deeper into treacherous grounds where she might never find her way out again.
Through the walls, the soft chords of a harp broke through the babble of conversation and crude male laughter. A simple run of strings transforming into a sentimental melody.
She leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes. Seeing once more the heroic figure of Brendan striding through the swirl of mist and drizzle to sweep her up into his arms. Muttering the entire time he’d carried her about the extreme silliness of females and his incomprehension of a sex possessing more fluff than brains. She’d laid her head upon his chest, listened to the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body against her cheek, and been in complete ecstasy.
The harper’s tune changed. His voice joining in. Lifting in the melancholy longing of a soldier’s song. The image of Brendan dissolving into bleaker, sadder scenes.
The fear and confusion following the bloody murder of Lord Kilronan. Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney taking turns to stay with Her Ladyship in the weeks following when her widow’s grief held a wild and unpredictable ferocity. Aidan, wearing his new responsibilities like a heavy chain about his neck. Sabrina, every day growing thinner and grayer and quieter until she vanished completely into the peace of the convent. The charmed glamour of the Douglas family disintegrating before Elisabeth’s eyes.
And everyone asking the same question: Where’s Brendan?
Now she knew. He’d been hiding. Running. Surviving.
He’d grown hard, dangerous, careful, and cynical. He’d become a man who guarded his words and trusted few. His gaze, once clear and bright as a summer sun, held deep and violent shadows. His formerly whippet-thin body had toughened to a rugged leanness.
And yet, for a few moments as they’d laughed over a young girl’s folly, he’d been the boy whose smile broke hearts and laughter made her hurt for something she couldn’t define.
The harper’s tune changed again.
Killer sat up, ears pricked.
Whining, he jumped from her lap to scratch at the door, his whole body quivering. It had been quite a few hours. Perhaps nature called. Brendan had warned her to stay in the room and out of the way of the tavern’s patrons, but Killer’s whines grew in volume and intensity. He sniffed along the bottom of the door, pawing at the gap.
“Just for a moment and then come right back. Do you hear?” she ordered.
He barked once. Sat obediently as she cracked the door. And was out like a shot, bolting down the passage, disappearing around a corner.
A half hour passed. Then an hour. Had he abandoned her? Had Brendan? Neither had come back.
A dog barked. A ferocious yipping and snarling. Then a sharp cry as if the animal had been kicked or hurt.
Elisabeth threw open the door. “Killer?”
Onwen drowsed, head down, back foot cocked.
Brendan brushed her until she shone. It gave him a task when he most needed to keep his mind and hands busy. A way to stop the eternal roundabout of what-ifs and regrets.
What if he’d spoken out—even once—against the growing madness infecting his father and the Nine?
What if he’d walked away as soon as he’d realized where the plan would lead the Other?
What if he’d intervened when Freddie lay dying amid the flames of his house and the bodies of his family?
What if he’d warned the Amhas-draoi himself instead of sending Daz Ahern in his place?
Would events have turned out differently? Would Father have come to the same realization as his son, or would he have seen Brendan’s hesitation as weakness and his second thoughts as treachery? Would the Amhas-draoi have listened, or would they still have attacked blindly and savagely, seeing death as the only way to deal with such sinister evil as the Nine hoped to unleash? Had Father died cursing his youngest son’s name?
There were no answers, no matter how many times he went round and round in his head. Only more questions. More pain. More voices infecting his sleep. More faces crowding his dreams.
But tonight new questions buzzed in his brain like sand flies.
What if he’d succeeded seven years ago in handing the Sh’vad Tual over to the Amhas-draoi?
What if he’d not had to escape retribution? What if Máelodor had died with the rest of the Nine?
Would Brendan have married Elisabeth as he’d intended? Would he even now be a sedate father and husband? His days spent playing the responsible landowner? His nights entwined with a passionate wife?
In the years of his exile, he’d refused to ask those sorts of questions. The future had been the next hour, the next day, the next week. There was no energy to spare to look deeper.
Only recently had he begun to envision an existence beyond that of fugitive. Yet it had been too long since he’d sought to dream. He could see nothing beyond his interview with Scathach. Beyond crawling from under the weight of his past deeds. If he tried reaching further, all was vague, indistinct, unknowable.
All but for a wild mane of red hair and a pair of bewitching brown eyes.
For some reason, he’d always thought she would be the one person he could count on. If all else collapsed around him, Lissa Fitzgerald’s childlike faith would never falter.
Tonight, he’d attempted to put that theory to the test.
He curled and flexed his fingers, the ache of his injury a dull throb. The fear in Lissa’s eyes had punched him hard. He’d not anticipated how hard. Elisabeth knew of the Other and still she shrank from them.
From him.
He gave a wry bark of laughter.
Smart girl.
eight
Thanks to Jack’s gold, Brendan had planned to hire a chaise. Make the rest of the journey in comfort if not style.
He drew back into the alley beside the coaching inn.
So much for plans.
How he knew the three men standing within the circle of lantern light belonged to Máelodor, he couldn’t say. Nothing marked them as such. No great “M” sewn upon their chests. No aura of death surrounding them. In fact, they looked rather ordinary. Unassuming expressions. Clothing neither filthy nor finicky. But Brendan had lived within Máelodor’s sinister shadow for too long to ignore the warning bells going off in his head or the prickle of magic crawling under his skin, lifting the hairs at the back of his neck.
He retreated, already reevaluating his options.
Was their appearance here sheer coincidence? Unfortunate, but nothing to fear as long as he stayed out of sight until they departed? Or had they followed his trail from Dun Eyre and any movement on his part would be seized as a chance to capture him and the stone he carried?
He couldn’t wait to find out. He was already behind schedule. Jack would be waiting for him in Dublin. The longer he delayed, the greater chance for something else to go wrong.
Ducking down the narrow passage between the posting inn and stables, he made his way back to Elisabeth. Prayed she’d stayed put as he’d ordered her and not gone wandering off. She seemed convinced the danger was real, but he couldn’t stake all on her common sense. As he remembered, she’d never been a paragon of obedience. And from what he’d seen
so far, time hadn’t improved her.
The tavern he’d picked catered to the Irish scraping a living in the cabins and cottages clustered on the outskirts of the lakeside market town. They smoked and drank and cursed and fought in the two rooms making up the tap. Slept it off before a roaring fire, their breathing loud, their smell overpowering.
He’d slipped the publican a few extra pennies for the privacy of a chamber off the kitchen. Not exactly the best of accommodations, but at least they could relax out from under the suspicious, hostile glances of the normal patrons.
That had been the plan.
Once more, his plans had failed him.
As he ducked beneath the low lintel into the murky, smoke-filled room, his watering eyes fell immediately on a tableau he wouldn’t have believed had he not seen it for himself. A crowd of men listening in attentive silence to a harper upon a stool in the chimney corner. Eyes closed in a gaunt, weather-beaten face, his fingers darted and slipped over the frets of the ash-wood harp in his lap. But the plaintive beauty of the music was nothing compared to the singer accompanying him, whose poignant longing was wrung from every note as she sang of love and loss and war.
“Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin . . .”
What the hell was she about? Could he not leave her alone for two seconds without catastrophe following? He checked his impulse to drag her away by the hair. With Máelodor’s assassins close, the last thing he needed was to draw attention. Nor did he particularly need twenty drunken farmers denied of their entertainment venting their anger on him. He liked all his limbs just where they were, thank you very much.
Across the room, Elisabeth’s eyes lifted to his. Her face pale as moonlight compared to the ruddy, wind-chapped features of those watching her in rapt attention. Her red hair aflame in the low light from the fire.
“. . . Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom . . .”
Had she always possessed a voice like this? He couldn’t remember. It made him wonder what else about the hoyden tagalong he’d forgotten. Or overlooked.
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