Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  “Is that why you betrayed us?” Máelodor pushed himself into Brendan’s face, the grotesque snake-man features stomach-turning. “Or was it to save your own cowardly skin?” Clutching Brendan’s shirt at the shoulders, he ripped it away, exposing the crescent-and-arrow tattoo sloping down over Brendan’s collarbone onto his chest. “You were one of us. Trusted. Valued. A leader to those who envied our abilities. And you threw it all away.” He shrugged away with a flip of his fingers. “A shame in the end your treachery earned you nothing. And now you’ll lose everything.”

  Oss’s fist shot out with inhuman speed. The kidney punch exploded along Brendan’s nerves. With a cry, he landed on his knees, his gut on fire. The follow-up kick to his ribs knocked him onto his back, the air driven from his lungs.

  He slammed his mind shut before the retaliatory crack of power seared the air between them. He’d not fight back. Not while Elisabeth remained in danger. He’d bide his time. And hope there was enough left of him when the moment came to make Máelodor regret laying a finger to him.

  The albino stood over him in readiness for another blow.

  “Enough, Oss,” Máelodor demanded. “Where are our manners? He’s a guest.”

  Oss dragged Brendan by the shoulders into a chair, where he fought back the wave of cold nausea rolling his insides. Forced himself to meet Máelodor’s gaze with a stoic, measured stare.

  “Isn’t there someone else awaiting an audience? Douglas, you’ll be interested to meet him as well, I believe.”

  Oss stalked to the door with a gesture to someone lurking about in the passage.

  Rogan entered, his eyes searching the room, lighting for a moment upon Brendan with a grimace before settling upon Máelodor in his chair. He was not as successful at hiding his shock, but it was a reaction quickly schooled, though Brendan noted the harper’s gaze never rested squarely on the master-mage; rather, it darted here and there in nervous agitation.

  Máelodor ushered him forward with an imperious wave of his hand. “I’m told you’ve brought us a gift.”

  Rogan nodded as he pulled a leather pouch from his coat pocket. Turned it over in his hand to shake it. Into his palm dropped the Sh’vad Tual.

  Its facets shimmered at first silver and ivory and palest gold, deepening to amber, then bronze then orange and coral, and finally black. Light flickered within it, a rippling, angry movement as if something fought to escape. The faint ringing of bells stirred the heavy air of the room, a chime deepening to a sonorous tolling that throbbed Brendan’s temples.

  Images flashed through his consciousness. A hidden glade. A toppled stone. A man with hair like flame. A sky dark as blood. And always a constant overlapping of voices in a language like music or running water or the earth as it cools in the night.

  Rogan hurried forward to present the stone to Máelodor, whose smile now stretched to his ears—which, like his nose, had receded into his skull until they were but holes on either side of his head. “Arthur’s return is finally at hand. The race of Other will once more hold a place of authority and respect. No more will they be treated like creatures of the devil and chased into the corners of the world like vermin.” He looked down on Rogan as an emperor upon his subject. “For such a treasure, you have my eternal gratitude and may ask any price.”

  Rogan swept a deep, theatrical bow. “You are generous to such a humble foot soldier as myself. I would rejoice to see that glorious and celebrated day.”

  What ridiculous drivel. Brendan would laugh at the Irish blarney spewing from the old harper’s mouth if his ribs didn’t hurt so much. He restrained himself to a simple scoffing grunt that elicited matching black looks from Máelodor and Rogan.

  “As you shall. As we all shall,” the master-mage answered, his gaze locking on Brendan. “And you shall help me, Douglas. For without you, Arthur’s rebirth would be naught but a castle in the air, would it not?”

  “It may have been my idea originally, but it’s long passed through my hands and into yours.” Brendan found it hard to concentrate as the tip of Máelodor’s tongue darted out and back. “I no longer take responsibility for your mania, and I’ll not help you achieve anything but a slow, painful death.”

  “So brazen in your threats. Since you’re the one bound and bleeding, I’ll allow you your petty confidence. I’ve found it’s always the bravest whose destruction proves the most . . . enjoyable.” His attention turned back to Rogan. “I believe you’ve brought a young woman with you.” His gaze slid toward Brendan. “Douglas’s bride. I would see this rare beauty who has stolen the heart of our once prince of Other.”

  Rogan shifted uneasily, his lip curled in a lecherous sneer. “The woman’s locked away as insurance against Douglas using any of his tricks.”

  Máelodor’s eyes narrowed. “We are safe enough. Douglas’s powers are great, but in this, as in much, he is unequal to me. Oss, retrieve the young woman.”

  Again Oss left the room, returning with Elisabeth, her face ashen, hands clutched in her skirts. She shrank from Máelodor, her terror seeming to excite him, his hand curled around the knob of his staff, a new light entering his fevered gaze.

  Brendan willed a thought across the divide, a thread of reassurance and hope against the desperation and fear boiling in her dark eyes. Hold on, sweet Lissa. This is not the end.

  She stole a quick glance his way, a flash of surprise and dawning comprehension. Then, as if taking command of herself, she straightened in a regal pose of defiance, head lifting so that her flame-red hair rippled and curled down her back. The pulse fluttering in the perfect curve of her throat was the only hint she was less confident than she looked.

  Máelodor’s tongue darted over his lipless mouth, his nostrils flaring. “She is ripe for a man. I can smell her need. What do you think she would do to spare the man she loves? How much of herself would she sacrifice?”

  No, Brendan mouthed silently, jerking in his seat, Máelodor’s threat bearing the force of one of Oss’s punches.

  Rogan stepped forward. “Master, I’ve brought you the stone of Arthur, and now I would claim my price if you’d be so generous.” His gaze fell on Elisabeth. “I want the girl.”

  Brendan’s eyes never wavered from Elisabeth’s face. He saw the jump of her pulse, the way she bit her lip, the turning of her wedding ring round and round her finger. He committed these things to memory as he did her honeyed, freckled flesh, the velvet in her dark eyes, her body’s luscious curves.

  He’d told her once. She was home for him. A refuge from the darkness within him. A balance against the hunger for power that, had it continued unchecked, would have left him as misshapen and malignant with evil as Máelodor.

  The mage rubbed his hands together, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “A steep price indeed. I would like to taste the flesh of this traitor’s woman. Have her screams bleed into the dying mind of her husband. Let Douglas know the true cost of his betrayal.”

  To her credit, Elisabeth didn’t faint, though she swayed dangerously, and her face grew chalk white.

  Máelodor goaded him. It was obvious in the sneer as he taunted, at the coiling probe of his mind as he sought to discover the effect of his words. Brendan bit down until his teeth ground together, emptied his expression and his thoughts of anything but bored indifference. Any show of emotion and Máelodor would never let Elisabeth go.

  Rogan interrupted the seeking thrust of Máelodor’s mind just as Brendan felt the first crack in his mental barriers. “Surely you’ll be too busy, now that the Sh’vad Tual has been restored to you. Old vengeance will surrender to new ambitions as you prepare for the coming of the king. Give the woman to me as payment, and she will warm my bed nicely. Douglas can still know as death comes for him that his bride is pleasuring his enemy.” The men’s eyes locked. An instant’s meeting before Rogan dropped his gaze.

  A silence followed when only Máelodor’s wheezy breathing broke the mounting tension. Brendan curled his fingers into his palms, his spine so tight he felt it migh
t snap, his brain on fire.

  Finally, Máelodor turned away to hobble back to his chair. “So be it. Take her. She is yours.”

  Rogan grabbed Elisabeth’s arm, propelling her out of the room before Máelodor could change his mind.

  Brendan and Elisabeth had time for only one last look. He spoke his good-byes to the wind and saw her no more.

  They were shown to a chamber at the top of the stairs. Locked in together with much laughing and ribbing and rude comments. Despite his slimy threats, Rogan never touched her. Only when food was brought to them that evening did he advise her to take off her gown and climb under the covers and stay quiet—no matter what.

  She did as she was told, stuffing a pillow around her head, but still the vile filth leaked through.

  “. . . banged her till she wept and then rode her once more . . .”

  “. . . udders like melons and an ass . . .”

  “. . . rogered the redheaded slag . . .”

  Embarrassment and anger burned her cheeks, but she pretended to sleep until the door closed behind the guard, and they were once more alone.

  She flung the covers off, glaring at Rogan. “We did nothing of the kind, and frankly I feel sordid even hearing the lies.”

  “You keep that to yourself unless you want to end as Máelodor’s plaything,” Rogan growled. “As long as they think I’m screwing Douglas’s whore, you’re safe.”

  “Safe? You call this safe? Locked in a room with my kidnapper while steps away a crazed snake-man threatens to torture my husband before he brings a dead myth back to life to begin an all-out magical war? Have I left anything out? Any other dangerous, threatening, or otherwise horrific detail?”

  Instead of growing angry, Rogan laughed, which was like throwing oil on the fire. “No, I think you’ve summed it up nicely.”

  She leapt out of bed, ignoring the fact that she was in naught but a chemise and petticoat, not even stays to add an extra layer of armor. She felt like a turtle out of its shell. “You find this amusing? We trusted you, Rogan. Helena trusted you.”

  He sobered instantly, and for a moment she thought he might strike her. “Helena will understand once she sees Arthur in the flesh. Once she understands what his presence will do for us.”

  “And when she sees Máelodor in the flesh? There’s a sight to inspire loyalty. The man’s a monster—literally!”

  “He does what he must for the good of all Other. Just as I do. This is about creating a future for our race that does not rely on Duinedon benevolence, but our own superiority.”

  “Killing thousands of innocent people makes you superior?”

  “You’re Duinedon. You don’t understand.”

  “I’m human. As are you. I understand war. Death and grief. You tell me how we’re different.”

  That was their last conversation. Elisabeth subsided into silence, curling up on the bed with the blankets dragged about her shoulders, hands over her ears, though it did little to drown out the sounds of violence from below or the crude laughter of men hard with violence and stupid with drink.

  Through it all, Rogan sat at the chamber window, looking out upon the dark, lonely valley, a pipe clamped between his teeth, smoke wreathing his head, shoulders hunched at every sound of breaking glass or stifled groan.

  When Elisabeth finally fell into an exhausted doze, her dreams returned her to a sudden storm and a dazzling boy holding her tight in his strong arms. Only this time, instead of the tongue-lashing she remembered, he kissed her, his mouth upon hers, firm, demanding, his heart a steady safe drumbeat beneath her palm while the rain burned her cheeks like tears.

  A rooster pulled her awake, the chair by the window empty, the sky low with clouds. An ominous waiting silence hanging over the cottage as if someone had died. She squeezed her eyes shut. No. Not dead. He couldn’t be dead.

  Squashing the thought as far down in the back of her mind as she could, she opened her eyes, fear battling lack of sleep fighting with self-pity. The result leaving her surprisingly numb, as if she were watching events happening to someone else like a bad play. The defenseless heroine at the mercy of dastardly villains.

  If only she could walk out at the intermission.

  She rose from bed, splashing her face with water from a basin upon the washstand. Searched for a clean linen to wipe the dirt from her hands and cheeks.

  Rogan’s coat lay draped upon the chair back. Hoping to find a handkerchief, she rifled his pockets, smiled as her fingers closed around the cold butt of a pistol.

  This heroine was defenseless no longer.

  The chamber door opened, whirling her around, the pistol concealed within her skirts.

  A hand upon the knob, Rogan raked the other through his hair. “They’ve gone.”

  No need to explain. She knew who had departed in the night and why. “When did they leave?” She heard the difference in her voice. Bolder. Confident.

  Amazing what a weapon did for a girl’s self-confidence.

  Rogan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice anything different. And, in fact, didn’t seem to be noticing much of anything. Dark shadows smudged a tired face, his mood sullen and glum. It was hard to feel sorry for him—extremely difficult, actually—but Elisabeth couldn’t help sympathizing with his obvious self-pitying moroseness. After all, she’d felt the same way until moments ago. “They rode out a few hours before daybreak.”

  “And Brendan?”

  Rogan closed his eyes for a brief, frightening moment. “Máelodor knows how to break a man slowly.”

  Rage burned away her sympathy. She wanted to throw herself at Rogan and tear him limb from limb. Call him every name she could think of. Possibly make up a few. This was his damn fault. But indulging in hysterics would gain her nothing. She needed Rogan. Now more than ever.

  “Do you know what direction they took?”

  “No, and if Máelodor’s smart, he’ll not stay long to the main road but leave his escort and move quietly. He’s been clever enough to stay hidden this long. He knows how to move without being seen.”

  “But you can track him.”

  His brows shot up, the first real interest he’d taken in the conversation. “Me? To do what?”

  “Rescue Brendan.”

  He laughed. “Am I looking like a fool?”

  She lifted the pistol in both hands. “No. Like a mage-chaser.”

  That definitely gained his attention. He went still, sucking in quick a breath. “Now, Miss Elisabeth. I kept you from Máelodor as I promised Douglas I would. More than that’s beyond me.”

  She cocked the hammer. At this range, there was no way she could miss. “The countryside round Dun Eyre can be a dangerous place. Brigands and housebreakers abound, and it’s important for everyone to know how to handle a gun. Even the women.”

  Rogan gave a humorless chuckle, though his eyes remained wary as he fingered a bruise upon his cheek. “If you handle it as well as you do a poker, I’m inclined to be on my guard.”

  “I handle it much better, I assure you.” Her smile was thin as a dagger as she fought to keep her arms straight under the awkward weight of the pistol. The dratted thing was heavier than the gun she’d fired back home. If Rogan didn’t surrender soon, her arms would droop like limp noodles. “Will you help me or not?”

  He sobered, holding his arms out as if warding her off. “I’d not wanted you mixed up in this. You’ve got to believe me. You or Douglas. All I want is justice. For me. For Lyddy. For all the folks like us who’ve been treated as less than human by the likes of you magic-lacking Duinedon.”

  Elisabeth felt the fear drain out of her, replaced by a crystal-bright clarity. She’d never killed anyone before, yet she knew without the hint of a doubt she would shoot Rogan unless he complied. But if Madame Arana’s scrying glass had spoken truth, her plan would work.

  Rogan would help her.

  She would be there when the tomb opened.

  When Arthur emerged.

  When Brendan died.


  twenty-five

  Brendan fell against the roots of an enormous sycamore. He peered up into the dizzying heights of leaves and branches through eyes swollen to mere slits and crusted with dried blood. Cradled his smashed hand close against his ribs.

  Gods, he was a damned mess.

  On the bright side, at least he’d never annoy Elisabeth with Mozart anymore.

  They’d been walking for hours, the trees growing closer together the farther they penetrated, the leafy canopy closing over them until the very air shone green and gold. Moss clung thick to the trunks while thickets of brambles clawed his arms and left long cat scratches upon his cheeks. And yet, there seemed to be no end in sight to the great cathedral of overlapping branches, as if they’d stepped back to a previous age before the land had been cleared for field and farm.

  Hidden watchers slid between the dappled shadows. A faint and gossamer chime stirred the humid air. The Fey protected this primordial forest and made it their own. He could only hope they would be on his side when the time came.

  Someone dragged him back to his feet, thrusting him forward. He arched against the touch upon his lashed and bloody back, clamping his mouth shut upon the groan of pain churning up through his gut.

  Shoving a hand in his pocket, he found Daz’s tiny bit of looped twine. He smiled through parched lips as he slid it onto his finger as he might have done Sir Archibald’s ring had Jack ever handed it over before Helena had claimed his undivided attention.

  Brendan shook his head. Poor, bloody, noble Jack. Spent the past year playing nursemaid. Turned his back for a few hours and bang . . . and with Roseingrave of all people.

  Both Brendan’s minders gone at the very moment he’d needed them.

  Concentrating on the path ahead, he didn’t notice the shiver of mage energy beneath his skin at first. A prickly, scratchy feeling as if he’d fallen into a patch of nettles. Not surprising if he had. He’d spent more time on his hands and knees than upright, thanks to a strained knee and a spiteful guard. But no, there it was again. A fluttering of magic against his brain. This time brushing past him, turning leaves, dimming the light as if rain approached.