by Scott, Amber
He should mind his own affairs. Bringing Breanne here completed his sense of duty. Should she need further help, he’d give it, but Ailyn and her friend were hers to attend to now. He couldn’t stop himself from scanning the tree line for her shadow, though, or from sending a prayer for the firebrand’s safe passage to wherever her journey next took her.
~
Ailyn’s hands shook. Fine, Maera had acquiesced after much argument. If you won’t leave, find the wolf.
Color seeped through the sky as the sun’s bright rays eased up the horizon. Droplets from the rain lit from within. Birds sang. Critters scampered. Yet Ailyn heard no whisper of enchantment at all. It was true, then. Man had no magick left. And the Fae had so little.
How did one attract a wolf? Ailyn focused on each step, careful of the slippery path where moss and mud could lead her to a sharp fall straight onto her arse. Maera’s shoes fit a bit loose, but their fine soles soothed her skin.
Her mind swam. Find the wolf. Her hand went to the place her bow usually hung, now absent.
“And what is it, my liege, that I’m to do with a wolf once I do find it? Stoop and introduce myself? Oh, aye, we forgot to ask that, didn’t we, Ailyn?” she muttered, exasperated with Maera.
Maera would not say why. Only that Ailyn must find it, and that it would not kill her.
She’d like to kick something. Or scream the building frustration out of her lungs until every last twittering bird fled from the crazed woman invading their wood. She should turn back and demand a few answers from her liege. In fact, that sounded a much smarter plan, indeed.
Aye. Ailyn halted, nodded at nothing in particular, and spun around. “Back whence we came, Ailyn. Mayhap we’ll learn a mite faster next time your future queen violates her own mother’s laws.”
Who was to say that Maera wasn’t simply sending her away to avoid questions? She did know of the wolf, though. Ah, wolf be damned! It was long gone by now.
Certainly a wolf would not impact Maera’s survival. Certainly Quinlan would have returned by now with his healer. Her stomach did an odd flip at the thought. Would she find him there, at Maera’s side, concern drawing lines on his too-handsome face? She increased her pace. The wolf could find her. She felt foolish to trust Maera—to be fetching it at all.
She had followed Maera’s orders blindly once again, and possibly to both their detriment.
She set off in the direction she’d come.
What was Colm constantly telling her? Follow your instincts first, Ailyn. Follow them even before following the queen herself. Of course, it would certainly be easier to follow instincts if she had any. Instead of instincts, she had questions. What and should and perhaps were what her gut told her. Not do this or do that. At the moment, naught but hunger gnawed her belly.
She had no business becoming a member of the queen’s elite guard. What had Tullah been thinking, appointing her to it less than a year ago?
She’d been too happy to be away from Kristoph’s daily ogling to care at the time.
Kristoph was far, far away now. He could not touch her here. Yet the weight of his interest still came down on her. Not even the perfumed air could lighten the emotional load. She needed rest. She missed her own bed. She was done with Maera’s games. The princess would be telling her the truth, or Ailyn would in fact leave her here to rot.
Maera might be willing to abandon her people, but Ailyn was not. She would return with what she knew and help where she could. Even if it meant facing the queen’s aide she feared and loathed.
She breathed in, hoping to calm her flurrying mind. Then the sweet, scented air gave way to a pungent odor that any hunter, guard, or wandering child would instantly know. A feral smell.
Danger. Ailyn slowed her pace.
The wolf.
Her body wanted to run, but her wits won out. Her vision roved over the foliage, the brambles, and the leaves for signs of movement. A low hissing sound met her ears, sending the hairs on her neck on end. Everything in her said this was not the wolf. This was worse. Was this the thing Quinlan had run from?
Heat flashed over her neck. Ailyn swallowed against a wave of nausea and ran. She willed her feet to move as swiftly and surely as they could carry her—back to the clearing, back to the cliff’s edge.
To Maera.
To Quinlan.
To safety.
Chapter Seven
She would not make it. Within a furlong’s distance, she recognized her body’s limitations. She’d have to face it again—and this time, find the courage to slay it. She put her dagger in her hand, weaved left, and halted into a crouch. The wolf followed suit, slowing, crouching, and baring its long fangs. The morning light filtered through the boughs. Shafts of light hit its dark coat. Not black at all. More like an ashen gray.
Only rarely had she seen a wolf in the southern kingdoms she and the other guard patrolled, and never in her childhood. The eastern lands she grew up on boasted several breeds of dangerous felines, but no wolves. She’d never encountered a lone wolf face to face. The beast’s low growl grew softer as it neared her, zigzagging as though it was as suspicious of her as she of it.
Ailyn rotated the dagger in her sweating palm. She watched it closely, debating on attacking its throat or its ribs. Puncturing the rib cage required force. Slitting its throat would take expert aim. Her hand shook, likely as much from hunger and exhaustion as from fear itself. The wolf’s gaze bore into hers as it came to a stop a few paces in front of her, its body at a curve, its hackles up.
“I’ve no wish to kill you,” Ailyn said, her voice hoarse.
Its snout wrinkled to show its teeth, then relaxed. Its growl faded as it stared. Ailyn’s gaze locked to the beast’s. A shiver of familiarity went through her. Something knowing inside of her crept to the surface. This was no ordinary wolf. But then, this was not of the Fae world, either. This creature belonged to man’s world.
Still…
“Leave me be or come at me, wolf. Your choice.”
It shook its head. The hair along its back settled. But it kept its head low, still staring at her, blinking. A sound akin to a whimper escaped it. Ailyn frowned. She slowly stood up from her crouch, eyes locked on the creature’s. It opened its mouth, the tongue lolling out as it sat.
Ailyn watched, dumbstruck and at a loss for how to proceed. Maera’s words echoed in her mind. “I don’t suppose you’d postpone eating me long enough to come with me?”
She didn’t actually expect an answer, so its sharp howl shocked her, jolting her and sending her back a pace. The mournful cry echoed through the trees, tearing at her heart. She’d never heard such a sad, sad sound. Or witnessed such sorrow as in the gaze with which the beast beheld her. Perchance it was that gaze that kept her rooted in place when it walked toward her.
No growl. No fangs. Only those downcast eyes pulling at her. Beseeching her. She reached her hand out, palm up. It closed its eyes and touched her palm with its cold, wet snout. Then it looked up at her again, the sun’s rays revealing a shade of brown she knew all too well. Recognition spiraled through her.
“Colm?” she gasped, dropping to one knee, taking the wolf’s face in her hands.
He didn’t attack. He neither moved away. He merely stared back at her—a low, pitiful moan escaping him. The eyes. A little bit of shaping in his brow, even the pitch of the moan and howl. Aye. Down to her bones, she felt certain that this wolf was in fact her brother.
“But…how?” she asked, shaking her head as though it could stop her mind from spinning. No legend, no lore spoke of a Fae man becoming a beast through the veil. Only the curse of a powerful sorcerer could force such a change, and no blood ran pure enough for such power these days. “Who did this to you?”
He shook out his head, nosing her hand again. “Did you do this, Colm? Has whatever you’re involved with wrought this upon you?” The questions tumbled through her. On which side of the veil did this happen? To what end? And Maera. She must know. “The two of you pla
nned this somehow, didn’t you?”
She shot to her feet, pacing in front of him. “You’ve both come through, risked your lives, and risked our people’s lives. Liar! You’ve lied to me, Colm. And for what?” She stopped in front of him, not caring that he could not answer. Unaware that he growled at her again. “For what?”
His ears pricked forward. He stared past her, his growl growing.
“I dinna care, Colm. Mayhap it is Maera, and you two can be on your way, fooling me, fooling everyone. Glad I am that I clobbered you!”
He must not have liked that a bit. Snarling, he pounced on her, knocking her to the ground with a thud. Ailyn bucked, fighting to get her arms free, cursing the pain shooting up her back. “Get off of me!” she spat out, struggling with his heavy form pinning her down and with fury cascading like flames through her.
Her fool baby brother had gotten himself into something dire and deep, and she’d never forgive him for putting her in this position or for lying to her. Secrets she could not abide. How much they’d lost because of dark secrets. How could he not have learned better after what their parents suffered?
“Col—”
One moment she was pushing for space; the next, Colm was above her, a knife at his throat.
“No!” she shouted, getting up. “Stop!”
She lunged at the hand, but not before blood trickled over the shiny blade.
“Nooooo!” she wailed, gripping the hand and pushing herself between the wolf—her brother—and Quinlan. “You dinna understand. You cannot kill him!”
“Why in hell not?” Quinlan demanded, keeping Colm’s scruff fisted and his knife held high and ready. “Do you care so little for your life that you’d rather be slaughtered?”
“He’ll not kill me. I swear it. He belongs to my liege. She ordered me to find him.” She pulled at his hand, but it wouldn’t budge.
Colm was no help. He growled deeply, snapping his jaws in Quinlan’s direction. Ailyn smacked him in the chest. “Settle down, Colm, or he’ll cut you clean.” Did his foolishness have an end? Could he control himself in his beastly state? “Quinlan, I vow to you, he’ll behave. Please. Release him.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “If you’re wrong, my life’s blood will be on your hands.”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll kill him myself. He’ll not attack you.” She grabbed Colm by the snout for emphasis. Perhaps he had some wits left, because he didn’t fight her. “Let him go.”
“You befuddle me, lass. But you’re no longer my concern. Blessed be to you both.” He let Colm go, stepped back, and regarded her in an oddly pained way.
If Ailyn didn’t know better, he was bidding her farewell for good. Moreover, doing so wasna easy for him. Thankfully, her brother calmed himself. She would never call his puckered snout and raised hackles good behavior, but it would do. He did not attack, and that was enough. “I’ll be taking him to my liege. I thank you for all you’ve done for us this…day.”
Quinlan shook his head. “Fare thee well, lass.”
He turned and made his way through the wild bramble, then paused and faced her anew. “Ailyn, if you knew the wolf, why did you run from it?”
She had no answer. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth—that she’d not realized the wolf was her brother. Quinlan already thought her entirely addled. The truth would only worsen matters. “It was dark,” she finally offered.
“Aye,” he said, regarding her thoughtfully. “It was a dark night, to be sure.”
Once he’d left them, she exhaled loudly and nudged Colm with her knee. “Don’t make me regret abetting whatever it is you and Maera have schemed. Do you understand?”
He blinked at her and set off the way Quinlan had gone.
Ailyn might not know this land, but she had at least kept her bearings. “Wrong way, Captain.”
He loped over to catch up with her. When he barreled past, knocking her hip, she couldn’t help but laugh. As angry as she was with her brother, she found relief in knowing that she would be there to see him through it.
Chapter Eight
Finding Niall O’Donnell kneeling before the cross made Quinlan hesitate at the door. He didn’t want to interrupt his king in prayer, particularly since he’d never seen him so ever before. Breanne’s mother, Una, must not be faring well if her husband had become a praying man. Better to wait outside, he decided. He moved to retreat when a mangy tabby cat hissed at his ankles.
“No need to linger about, Quinlan. You won’t burst into flames if you join me. I promise.” Niall looked past his shoulder, his bearded face showing a weak smile. “I didn’t.”
Quinlan strode forward, inwardly cursing the cat. He’d accepted Christ as readily as any Highland man, with a wary eye and a healthy dose of skepticism. Until Christ’s word spoke of the magick of these lands, he’d be keeping a respectful distance. “Don’t be asking me to my knees, m’lord.”
Niall let out a grunt of humor and stood to clasp Quinlan’s arm. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But a seat, I’d say, is in order. I gather from your haggard face that much happened last eve.”
Aye, haggard was the right descriptor, to be sure. He’d not been so exhausted since his many months fighting at Edward Bruce’s side. He missed that sense of purpose after leaving Tir Conaill. He’d thrown all his energy into Edward uniting Ireland’s kings by becoming high king. Regretfully, famine and an utter lack of fealty amid each tuath ended Edward’s and thereby his men’s hopes.
Those days and nights were a blur of conviction and effort, though, while this night played vividly through his mind over and again.
He found no answers to this night’s enigma. Something he’d not yet grasped was at hand. Something…bah, his mind was too blasted fatigued to keep at it. He joined Niall in the first pew, his gaze on the stone cross alter, waiting.
Waiting for Niall to ask his questions and give him footing on where to begin.
“This was no clan raid, was it, Quinlan?”
“No, m’lord.”
“I suspected as much. No tartans claiming a few lifted bulls. And to my knowledge, no real need for it this winter. MacSweeney had a good breeding season. And his third daughter married into the O’Doherty clan nigh a fortnight past.”
For the briefest moment, Quinlan’s mind trekked through the list of local clans who might lift a few cattle; then he snapped back to the facts. “This was no raid. I don’t know how to reconcile it myself, m’lord.”
Niall regarded him thoughtfully. “How about starting at the beginning? Wherever we end, surely we’ve faced the likes of it before.”
Quinlan bit back a remark about his very different opinion. Better to share the events and let the king draw his own conclusions. How did he explain all that he’d witnessed? “South of the old Druid’s home and to the east,” he said, bearing in mind that Samhain wasna so far away, “I came upon a bonefire.”
“Aye.” Niall eyed him.
“It was unlike any bonna night, though. The sight hearkened back to tales my grandmother told us at her skirts. Of the old ways.”
Niall knitted his brow. “Aye.”
Again, not unheard-of. The old ways were still alive and well in many a village in Eire. The Lord and his crucifix they sat before could not erase generations living among sidhe mounds and bard tales as old as the trees themselves. “I’d estimate at least two of the herd were part of what looked to be a sacrifice.”
“Led into the bogs?”
Quinlan shook his head. The more he spoke of what he saw, the more benign it sounded. “Nay. Dismembered.”
Niall rose an eyebrow, huffing. “Who?”
“I couldn’t tell. As I said, they were practicing the old ways. Painted. Masked.”
“But dismembered animals? I’ve no recollection of any such practice. D’you?” he asked. Then he looked far away. “Better to ask Breanne. Heremon mentored her well.”
Quinlan nodded, relieved to apparently have satisfied Niall. He’d rat
her not share the details of Ailyn and her friend. Able to get some perspective, he could see now that he’d likely overreacted. Perchance, he got caught up in Ailyn’s panic and he’d imagined some parts of it. The dark force was likely weather. The wolf she’d somehow tamed…well, if Breanne could light a candle’s flame with a soft blow, why couldn’t a woman tame a wolf?
“Aye, m’lord, I’m sure Breanne would have better answers than I have. And you can warn against such wasteful use of cattle.” Certainly Niall’s people would err on the side of preparing well for a harsh winter rather than worry over a few moments’ inspiration for a harvest ceremony.
If only Breanne had better answers for her own mother’s ailing health. A babe on the way, her husband away north negotiating business for Niall, yet she’d handled herself with such vigor last night. Silence stretched between them, awkward and wide. Gone was the boisterous man Quinlan knew as a child. Seeing Niall like this was sobering. He began to ask after Una when the king spoke first.
“I dinna ken the grip of it, Quinlan, but I can sense it. Whatever it is that has her…I….”
“M’lord?”
Niall’s gaze returned to the room, focusing on Quinlan’s face. “Pay me no mind. I’ve the weight of winter bearing down on my old bones. That is all.”
Niall turned away, effectively dismissing Quinlan, who was a bit relieved to rise and leave the older man to his worries and prayers. His words nagged at Quinlan, but what could he do? Press the man for more? Demand that he explain? Certainly it was none of his concern. He made his way to the door.
“Was there nothing else, Quinlan?”