Was that wrong? Should she have told Alistair they’d perished, drowned? Barrow’s face glared at her, accusing. Ember buried her head against Alistair’s shoulder.
“You’re lying.” Alistair’s lips were at her ear, hot and unrelenting. “Tell me the truth.”
Ember twisted her hands in his shirt, pulling her body closer to his. “I left them.”
“Why?”
His face was warm against hers, and Ember didn’t know how they’d come to be so close. She couldn’t be sure of anything, except that if she let him go, she would fall.
“Because I was wrong to leave,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
Alistair laughed, his breath beating against her neck. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m here now.” Each word Ember spoke felt more pathetic than the last.
“You’re here for Agnes,” Alistair told her. “Which is the one noble act you’ve accomplished since you first set foot in Conatus. I can honor that.” His fingers lifted her chin. “But you are not here for me.”
Ember opened her mouth, but her protest died in her throat. She’d failed. Failed before she ever made the decision to return. Alistair despised her.
More tears stung as they gathered at the corners of her eyes, and Ember hated herself for it. She let her eyelids close in defeat. A moment later, she felt Alistair’s lips on hers. The sudden warmth and silken touch of his mouth provoked an instinctive reaction from Ember; her hands released his shirt, sliding around his neck to pull him closer still. When his tongue slipped into her mouth, she didn’t fight him, desperately needing a reprieve from his hostility. Seeking any sign that he still wanted her, she was not ready to face what it would mean if he didn’t.
Alistair broke off the kiss suddenly. Ember’s eyes were still closed when he pushed her back into her seat. He left the room without speaking or looking back at her.
Ember sat, gripping the arms of the chair. Her body still trembled as waves of heat and cold coursed through her. She stared at the door, terrified by the fact that she had no idea what had just happened.
ALISTAIR HAD KNOWN THE encounter would be a struggle, but it had been more trying than he’d imagined. He hadn’t planned to kiss Ember, or more accurately, he had planned to avoid kissing her. In his first real interaction with Ember since her return, Alistair had hoped to show her only disdain.
Temptation had proved too great. The kiss had been provoked not because Ember had been molded against him, nor because he watched the way her breasts rose and fell with each short breath she took. It was her desperation that had pushed him over the edge. The way she’d held on to him as if her life depended on it.
In some ways, Alistair supposed, Ember’s life did depend on him. But the way she had needed him to give her something. The smallest token that she remained of some worth to him. Ember had always been defiant. To see her quaking with fear made him feel stronger, more alive. And more determined.
Though he hungered for more of Ember, Alistair knew that giving in to his desire meant he would have to keep himself away from her again. At least for a length of days that would leave her ill at ease. He needed her to be unsure of him.
As usual, Bosque’s advice had proven wise and effective. Alistair meant to spend the majority of his hours becoming the protégé that would give Lord Mar the most pride.
Making his way to the catacombs, Alistair nodded as he passed Father Michael working at a scribe’s table in the chapel. The priest bowed slightly in response and then returned to his studies.
Alistair entered the cellar door, rapidly descending the staircase. He hurried past the wine casks. He hated being in this dark, musty room, so filled with memories of fear and humiliation. His trial against those wretched hobgoblins had been an exercise in cruelty, Alistair had decided. An unfair game set up for the entertainment of Lukasz and Barrow, who were predisposed to dislike Alistair because of his noble blood.
Though Kael had left with them, Alistair found it hard to fault his mentor, instead preferring to believe that, like Ember, Kael had been deluded by their lies. Behind the rows of wooden casks, Alistair ran his hands over the floor until his fingers found the iron ring. Alistair tugged hard on the ring, and the trapdoor groaned open, revealing another, much older staircase.
Happy to leave the cellar behind, Alistair disappeared beneath the floor, pulling the trapdoor shut. He was plunged into darkness but didn’t mind, knowing it would soon abate. Alistair had made this journey often enough that he no longer had to follow the curve of the wall. He knew the precise angle and distance it took to reach the next door. Even in the pitch-black, Alistair had no trouble finding the door handle. He pushed the door open and entered the realm of the dead.
Before Bosque’s instruction to use them, Alistair hadn’t known of the catacombs’ existence. He gathered that few in Tearmunn did. The ever-curving passage sloped steeply down as if the corridor led to Hades itself. Alistair had wondered upon his first entry into the catacombs how many years had passed since any man had fired the torches that now lit his path.
Alistair kept up his quick pace until he reached the lowest and last section. Here the narrow, tomb-lined corridor widened into an open chamber. More hollows had been carved in the rock of the chamber’s four walls to offer holding places for sarcophagi. The most ornate resting places for the dead were featured on carved platforms at regular intervals.
Stepping into the broad chamber, Alistair took a deep breath, letting tension melt from his body. This was his workplace. The only solace he could find from Ember’s pull.
Hamish was already at work. A mortar and pestle, bundles giving off pungent scents, and copper bowls of varying sizes were spread before the cleric.
Without looking up from his notes, Hamish said to Alistair, “The first one is dead.”
“But you expected that,” Alistair answered, leafing through his own pile of scribbled-upon parchment.
Hamish nodded. “The problem was in the merge. Too many organs or too few. I won’t know until I open him up.”
“You’ll do that today?”
“Before the rot sets in,” Hamish replied. “Do you want me to wait to begin the third trial? To see what I can learn from taking a peek inside the first?”
Alistair grunted, not liking the delay, but conceding that it was prudent. “Yes.”
“Very well.” Hamish picked up a serrated blade. “I’ll get to it.”
A high-pitched yip pierced the chamber, bouncing off the catacomb walls. Soon a chorus of whining barks were ringing in the air.
“They’re hungry,” Hamish said, looking at Alistair.
“That only means they’re awake,” Alistair answered drily. “They have two ways of being right now. Asleep and hungry.”
Hamish turned to leave, but Alistair caught his arm. “How’s the mother?”
“She’s a bitch,” Hamish answered.
Grimacing, Alistair told him, “Even the first time, that joke wasn’t very funny.”
Hamish grinned in return. “I still like it.”
Alistair kept stony eyes on the cleric. “How is she?”
“Not fond of me, as usual.” Hamish lifted his chin toward one of the walls. “Probably because I keep stealing her blood.”
“She’s not weakening, though?” Alistair’s gaze moved to the sealed earthenware carafes that lined a shelf. In another place they might have been used to serve wine, but not here.
Hamish shook his head. “She’s a fighter.”
“Good,” Alistair said.
Sticking a finger in his ear, Hamish shook the knife at Alistair. “Now will you shut them up?” he asked. He walked off, muttering under his breath.
The cleric’s perpetual sour mood might have dissuaded Alistair from taking him on as a collaborator. Some days it still grated on Alistair’s nerves, but Alistair couldn’t deny that Bosque had been right in identifying Hamish’s potential.
The cleric had studied Alistair’s notes and sket
ches exhaustively. Within a week of his joining Alistair, Hamish had already brought the knight’s vision to life.
Or a rough rendering thereof.
Alistair refused to be frustrated. Trials of this sort required patience, the willingness to fail and begin again.
Taking an opposite course from Hamish, Alistair moved through the chamber. The piping calls for food grew ever louder as Alistair walked. Pausing at the larder, Alistair collected strips of venison to fill the hungry bellies. There were other sounds in the room too, coming from the cages that were hidden in a corner chamber that was a smaller version of the main tomb. Alistair ignored those sounds, unpleasant as they were.
When the yips became more fervent and faster, Alistair knew they’d spotted him coming. He deposited the venison in the hollow closest to the holding pen, then continued on his way.
Alistair paused at the edge of the pen. Small paws tried to scramble up the sides of the pen as tails wagged furiously. Six furry faces and shiny black noses lifted, seeking his attention. Looking down at the wolf cubs, Alistair marveled at how much they changed with each day. The cubs, four males and two females, still tottered a bit as they jostled against each other, trying to reach him, but they moved with much greater control of their feet. Their eyes were bright and alert, ever observing their world.
Alistair opened the gate and joined the cubs, who swarmed around his feet. They were an array of shades ranging from mottled gray like their mother to the silver-white of the moon. Alistair scooped up the male who had steel-gray fur on his back but a white chest and stomach. He could easily hold the cub in one hand. The little beast wriggled, its yips mixing with tiny grunts and mewling. Alistair let the cub rest against his chest, and it gave itself over to licking his neck incessantly. The tickling sensation made Alistair laugh, and the cub barked in reply.
He carried the cub into the chamber from which plaintive cries emerged, picking up his stash of venison strips on the way.
Concentrate, Alistair reminded himself as he forced one foot in front of the other. Focus.
The feeding wasn’t troubling, but the place the meal had to occur was. The cries fell silent when Alistair entered the room. Six cages had been placed in the chamber, three along each wall. The village children’s wide, frightened eyes fixed on Alistair. Though he refused to look at his captives, Alistair could feel their stares, sense the quivering of the prisoners’ limbs as he reached the center of the chamber.
Settling onto the floor with the cub in his lap, Alistair took his time feeding the cub small morsels of the raw meat. The gray-and-white wolf gulped the venison down greedily, his attention fully consumed by the bloody flesh. Not once was the cub distracted by the caged children who shrank against the bars at the back of their cages, away from the man and young predator in his arms. Alistair was pleased.
After the cub had his portion of meat, Alistair sat with the wolf. He let the cub play at chasing him or wrestling with his arm until it tired. Only when the little wolf climbed into his lap and curled into a ball to sleep did Alistair return him to the pen. Setting the sleepy cub down, Alistair picked up his sister. He went through the same cycle with each of the six cubs. He’d been with them each day since their birth. He would continue to be there each day as they grew. And with each meal, they’d become accustomed to the scents of the six caged children, as they needed to be.
It was Hamish’s task to bring Alistair’s vision to life. But Alistair’s work would ensure its success.
EIRA HAD HEARD AS MANY complaints as she could bear for that day. The scraggly shepherd bowed as she promised for the twelfth time that day to address some villager’s concern. Most of their fears were petty, born of superstitions that had run wild since Bosque’s wraiths had attacked the village. Since Bosque kept her informed of what creatures had crossed over from the nether to the earth, Eira could quickly discern those of the villagers’ tales that were true and those that were only their nightmares spoken in the light of day.
Other pleas brought before Eira were of a more serious nature. Those petitions were what provoked Eira to ask Bosque to accompany her to her chamber after she’d held court.
“I suffer through this on your advice,” Eira told him after he’d closed the door.
Bosque nodded. “And though I’m sorry for your pain, I would give the same counsel if asked again.”
“Why do you think the villagers matter?” Walking back and forth through the room, Eira stretched her arms and neck. She’d been sitting far too long that day. Casting her gaze toward the window, Eira wondered where Cian was and if her sister might be game for an hour or two on the practice field.
“The villagers do matter,” Bosque told her. “If they fear you, they will submit to you, but if they love and fear you, they will fight for you.”
“With pitchforks and brooms?” Eira arched her brow at Bosque.
“Don’t underestimate them,” Bosque replied.
“Very well,” Eira said wearily. “What about the children?”
“What about them?”
Eira frowned. “Don’t be coy.”
“Children go missing all the time,” Bosque said. “They drown in the lake. They fall from cliffs. They are lost in the woods.”
Pursing her lips, Eira said, “What are Alistair and Hamish doing with them?”
“Making progress,” Bosque answered.
“Are you trying to annoy me?” Eira’s hands went to her hips.
Bosque smiled at her. “Perhaps. But more likely I seek to delay you.”
“Why would you do that?” She went to her desk. The stack of parchments grew taller each day. Each new letter confirming the spread of her message across the known world.
“You know Lord Hart as a soldier,” Bosque said. “But I’ve asked him to become an artist. This is his great work. I wouldn’t have it spoiled for you because you saw an unfinished masterpiece.”
“Hmmm.” Eira looked up. “We still have little news from the Holy Land.”
Bosque made a noncommittal sound. “I expect they’ll resist the longest. The places where things begin often prove the most reluctant to let those things go.”
When Eira didn’t reply, Bosque laughed. “Why do I suspect you long for an uprising?”
Eira’s furrowed brow gave way to a smile. “Is that what you think?”
“I think your hand would rather grip a sword than a quill,” Bosque replied. “And I don’t fault you for it. The business of politics is often dull.”
Looking at him with curiosity, Eira said, “Are there politics in your world?”
“There is no war without politics,” he said.
Turning away from her letters, Eira asked, “Will you speculate as to when I can see this masterpiece that Alistair creates?”
“Another week,” Bosque answered. “Perhaps a few more days than that, but not long.”
“I’m intrigued,” Eira told him. “You’ve guarded this secret like a hoard of treasure.”
“I assure you,” Bosque said, “it’s much better than treasure.”
Eira laughed. “If you want to keep me from spoiling your great day of revelation, you shouldn’t entice me with such promises.”
“Alistair’s work points to the future,” Bosque said, brushing aside her playful tone with his newly serious manner. “It brings to mind something you should also be considering. Something to do with politics. And war.”
“How so?” Eira began to unbraid her hair, which she’d bound too tightly in the morning; it had caused her head to ache.
Bosque watched as waves, copper bright, fell section by section upon Eira’s shoulders. “Your legacy. I would see you secure it.”
“My legacy,” Eira murmured. She rubbed her temples.
“Who will rule when you are gone?” Bosque continued. “Though I assure you, that will be many years from now.”
Though her eyes were closed, Eira smiled. “You are always so certain, Lord Mar.”
“I am.” His voice w
as much closer. Eira opened her eyes to find him standing before her.
Bosque’s gaze lingered on her face. “I would like you to think about your heir.”
Eira laughed. “An heir?”
When Bosque showed no sign of joining her bout of mirth, Eira said, “You spoke of Alistair. Is it your wish that I should name him my successor?” She didn’t dislike the idea. Though he often frustrated her with his youthful whims and irritating obsession with Ember Morrow, Eira held Alistair in high regard. Her affection for him grew daily.
A hint of a smile touched Bosque’s mouth. “You need Alistair to be your general, and in that role, he will serve you well, but someone else should take your throne.”
Eira frowned at him. “Who?”
“Why not your own child?” Bosque asked.
She took a step back, half turning from him. Twisting her fingers in her loose hair, she said quietly, “My years to bear children are past. I chose another life than that of wife and mother.”
Unsettled, Eira smoothed her hair back, intending to braid it once more. But Bosque was suddenly at her side, pushing her hand away.
“Leave it down,” he said in a voice that reached beneath her skin, making her tremble.
She drew a startled breath when he placed his palm low on her belly. Leaning close, he murmured, “Life would still quicken within you.”
“Why do you speak to me of this?” Eira couldn’t move. No man had touched her, desired to draw close to her, before now.
But he isn’t truly a man.
Her mind tried to grasp that small, fearful voice, but her body responded to the warmth of Bosque’s hand and the caress of his breath on her neck. When she closed her eyes, attempting to focus, the image of Bosque appeared, emerging naked from the waters, rivulets of seawater chasing each other down the carved lines of his chest and abdomen.
Eira’s eyelids fluttered open and she shook her head, trying to dispel the memory.
“Does my touch offend you?” Bosque asked. His fingers pressed into her as he slid his hand from her stomach to grasp the curve of her hip. Bosque drew Eira close. Her back fitted against his chest, and she could feel the strength of the body her mind’s eye had memorized so well.
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