Lord of Shadows

by Alix Rickloff

  A cold wave of nausea washed over her. “Impossible. It could never happen.”

  “Father believed it could if the Other were united under their last and most legendary king. A warlord who wielded his considerable power during the last golden age of Other dominance.”

  “Arthur. But how on earth . . . Arthur’s dust. He’s . . .” She clamped her mouth shut. Of course. A soldier of Domnu. One of the Domnuathi built from the bones of his former life.

  Aidan nodded. “Father and the mages he’d turned to his cause strove to resurrect Arthur as a new leader—literally. To use him as a rallying point for all Other. Máelodor searches for the map that will lead him to Arthur’s tomb and the stone that will open the protective wards. Once these treasures are in his possession, he’ll have all he needs to complete the Nine’s work and bring the High King back from the dead.”

  A question she hated but had to ask. “Brendan was involved, wasn’t he? The Amhas-draoi didn’t lie when they accused him.”

  “No. They didn’t lie.”

  The days leading to Samhain. A pile of dead wood heaped in the inner courtyard in preparation for the bonfires lit to signal the day of the dead. Brendan in a quiet but heated discussion with Father, both men staring at each other, eyes matching in intensity and cold arrogance. A hand upon Father’s arm shaken off. Brendan disappearing into the stables. Father closeting himself in his library. Unease blanketing the house. Shortening tempers. Filling reproachful silences. Brendan’s sudden departure from Belfoyle only adding fuel to the gathering storm.

  Aidan continued, “But the Amhas-draoi don’t know the whole truth either.”

  The note. The open window.

  “Is that why you came to Dublin?”

  “The Amhas-draoi are searching for Brendan. They believe he, not Máelodor, is behind this new threat.”

  “Máelodor has dispatched a rogue Amhas-draoi named St. John to capture Brendan.”

  Aidan started forward in his chair, his hands grasping the arms with sudden excitement. “Gervase St. John? Is that who you mean? How do you know?”

  “Daigh warned me.”

  “Why would that devil care what happens to Brendan?”

  Swallowing back the sudden lump choking off her breath, she met Aidan’s critical gaze head-on. “Because he knows—more than anyone—the pain of being Máelodor’s victim.”

  The Amhas-draoi knelt before him, golden head bowed, a hand to his heart. “I’m honored you sought me out for this task, Great One. I’ll do my best to justify your faith in me.”

  Máelodor placed a hand upon St. John’s shoulder. “If you truly desire a place at Arthur’s side, I expect better than your best. The High King will need trusted companions to guide him as he gathers his army. Prepares for the uprising. Bring me the Rywlkoth Tapestry, and you shall ride at his side at the final battle. There can be no higher reward.”

  “How will I recognize the tapestry?”

  “Kilronan’s suspicious nature led him to disguise it, and though I’ve studied his diary thoroughly, I’ve found no description of its alterations. I’m therefore left with only the original inscriptions to go by. These you have.”

  “A puzzle within a puzzle.”

  “Hidden somewhere within the concealing design are the clues to lead us to Arthur’s tomb.”

  “It could be anywhere within the bandraoi’s precincts. Those shriveled up old besoms aren’t likely to invite me in to poke around,” St. John said.

  “Is this task beyond you? One of Scathach’s vaunted warriors?”

  “It shall be difficult and time-consuming.”

  “All worthy goals carry a degree of difficulty. A true peer of the High King would not flinch. Nor would he snivel like a coward.”

  St. John went rigid with insult—as expected. So quick to take offense. So needy to prove himself worthy. Control lay in knowing what strings needed to be plucked to make the puppet dance. The Amhas-draoi’s had been obvious from the first. His inadequacies so close to the surface.

  “I shall find a way, Great One,” he responded in a clipped tone.

  Máelodor nodded. “There is always a way.”

  Exhaustion and brittle bones undermined him, and he leaned back in his chair, gasping to catch his breath. Ease the pains in his hips and back. The journey from Holyhead to Dublin had been more wearying to his aged body than he cared to admit. He needed to conserve his strength. It wouldn’t do to fail just at the time when he most needed his powers.

  St. John lifted his head. “And what of Douglas? Is he still a priority?

  “Oh yes. Brendan Douglas must be found. He is the only one who knows where the Sh’vad Tual is hidden. He must be made to surrender that information.”

  “And after?”

  Máelodor sensed the man’s quiver of excitement. It touched a chord deep within himself. A slithering curl of eagerness that kindled the physical fusion of fetch animal and man known as the Heller change. He’d not done it in years, but now and then a moment of stimulation brought to the surface hints of the serpent. A calculating ruthlessness unmarred by weaker human emotions. And now was not the time for weak emotions. Not when the world of Other remained under siege by a growing Duinedon malevolence.

  Brendan had surrendered to cloying sentiment. He deserved his fate.

  He shivered against the bone-deep cold that accompanied the Heller’s emergence. “As long as he comes to me still breathing, you may do as you wish.” He motioned him to rise. “But right now, all your skills must be bent toward capturing the tapestry. Bloom has failed. Lazarus has vanished. It lies now in your more-than-capable hands.”

  A glittering excitement fired the Amhas-draoi’s eyes. “I’ve seen the Domnuathi.”

  “Where?”

  “Here in Dublin. But he may no longer be an asset to your work. He’s grown dangerously unstable. Has strayed from your purpose.”

  “We shall have to remind him of his indebtedness to us. It’s rare to be given a second turn upon life’s wheel.” He ran a tongue over his lips, his hands curling into fists as he relived their last cautionary encounter. This time Lazarus would realize his gratitude. Or suffer still greater agonies than previously.

  “He could still be useful.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s formed an attachment to the Douglas girl that could be valuable if played correctly.”

  “Has he?” Máelodor’s smile stretched his sagging skin taut. “Perhaps his game may be deeper than we know.”

  Leaning against his staff, he groped to rise, his frailties slowing him to a snail’s crawl. His body weakened, every day a new pain. Every night an empty hole where a piece of his soul used to be. It would all be worth it, though. When Arthur bowed before him in sun-rayed splendor. When the Duinedon scattered before the combined might of the Fey-born Other until surrender or slaughter was their only choice. When Arthur, with Máelodor at his side, presided over a new golden age, none of the aches and embarrassments of his broken body would matter.

  He would succeed where the Nine had failed.

  It would truly be his golden age.

  But until then—“Assist me to my carriage.”

  St. John hurried to his master’s side, guiding him down the narrow stairs. Across the hall and out to the waiting barouche. A break in the rain had thickened the crowds. Máelodor leaned heavily upon St. John to keep from being knocked down by the rushing passersby. Gentlemen with umbrellas, bundled against the damp. Women in dark woolens, their hats and bonnets drooping against the drizzle.

  A woman in black, her face obscured by a heavy mourning veil brushed past him, shooting a tingle of mage energy up his arm where they touched. He glanced back, but she’d disappeared into the swarm of pedestrians, and then the coachman was there. Opening the door. Letting down the steps. Bundling Máelodor into the warmth of the carriage.

  St. John bent close. “I shall not let you down.”

  Máelodor let the full force of his power harden in his
gaze. “See that you don’t.”

  “You can’t, Sabrina. They’ll find out,” Jane pleaded.

  “They won’t find out anything.” Sabrina turned a deaf ear and continued stuffing her satchel. Extra gown. Pair of slippers. Two shifts, a shawl, and a third pair of stockings. Looked around for anything she might have missed. “I’ve arranged it all.” Removed the shawl. No room. “Aidan and Cat think I’m leaving with Aunt Delia for Belfoyle. They agree I should get away and rest.” In other words, retire as far away from Dublin and any hint of scandal as soon as possible. “And Aunt Delia believes I’ve taken suddenly ill and must remain here. She’s leaving for Bray to visit a friend of hers.”

  “You put that idea in her head, didn’t you?”

  “I might have hinted, but she was more than happy to go. I think she’s had it up to her ears with Aidan’s black looks every time they meet. She’s never forgiven him for breaking that statue of Ares in the drawing room. Swears it was on purpose. I think she’s kept the pieces.”

  Jane giggled before stifling it behind a suitably stern look. “I still don’t think this is a good idea. How will you travel? Where will you stay along the way? What will people think? Lord and Lady Kilronan will kill me when they find out. And I’m too young to die.”

  Sabrina ticked off her answers on her fingers. “One—I’ll go by mail coach. It leaves from Sackville Street every evening. Two—I have money enough to pay the fare and extra for food and lodging. Three—People will think whatever they want to think. And four—I’ll write telling Aidan where I am once I reach Glenlorgan.” She huffed the hair from her eyes. Stood back, studying her satchel. Did she take enough? Too much?

  “At least let me come with you. I can be ready in a half hour.”

  “I need you to stay behind to allay any suspicions. Tell them I’m not well and need to be left alone.”

  “And when they discover you missing?”

  “Claim you didn’t know anything about it. Or that I threatened you with physical harm if you told.”

  Jane twisted her handkerchief in her hands as if she wrung a neck. Probably Sabrina’s. “Can’t you simply ask Aidan to take us back himself and save all this subterfuge?”

  “I have. And he refused. More than once. He’s said a return to the bandraoi is out of the question. He wants me at Belfoyle where I can be properly looked after. His idea of properly being a guard at my door, meals of bread and water, and Aidan prowling the house like a fire-breathing gor—dragon.”

  Dragons breathe fire. Gorgons turn you to stone.

  She swallowed back tears. Ard-siúr had termed Daigh a wounded animal. Warned Sabrina what would happen if she followed her heart and tried to save a man who was beyond saving. She’d no one to blame but herself if her life lay scattered and broken around her.

  She missed Ard-siúr, Sister Ainnir, even Sister Brigh. Her cluttered, crowded bedchamber. Long nights in the infirmary and long days in study or working. Her friends. Her life.

  She wasn’t brave. Or independent. Or mature and worldly wise. She’d made a complete hash of everything. And now she just wanted to go home.

  “He should be relieved if I retire into the order. All I’ve given him is trouble. He can write me off as another disappearing family member.”

  “You can’t keep running away, Sabrina. From your family. Your past. It lives inside of you. They’re what makes you, you.”

  “If you’re going to tell me I’m using the bandraoi as a way to hide from myself, join the queue. Why won’t anyone believe that the life of a High Danu priestess is what I want? Is it so hard to believe?”

  Jane pulled a face. “In short—yes.”

  Daigh slammed his knife back into its sheath. Breathed deep to allow himself space to recover from the crumbling cliff edge of insanity. He’d come here ready to free himself once and for all of St. John’s threats. After storming from room to room, it became clear he’d come too late. Furniture had been covered. Beds stripped. Hearth black and cold. The Amhas-draoi had fled. Yet his scent lingered in the air. Heavy. Musky. Stomach-turning. Just inhaling sickened Daigh.

  He sank down on a chair. Dropped his head in his shaking hands. Fought back the nausea and the rage and the bitterness. Would these feelings end with St. John’s death? Máelodor’s? Or was he doomed to know only the darkest of emotions? Live only among the shades of his shattered past? A deathless specter unable to escape this world for the next?

  The presence called to him. It locked onto his despair, feeding it with ever greater torment until his vision narrowed to a pinprick. His muscles twitched with denied violence. It would be so easy to allow Máelodor complete control. Lose himself in the mindless cruelty that was the master mage’s wish. It would be quick. Safe. Much less painful. Already his head pounded as the dark mage energy swam through his body. As the brutal Unseelie magics tried to take hold.

  He drew in a ragged breath. Fought back as the old woman had shown him.

  Offered up Sabrina.

  Standing upon the rocks. The sea lapping at her bare feet. Hair loose and free of its kerchief. Head raised to the wind. She turned to him, smiling. Her blue eyes as clear as the sky, aglow as if someone lit a fire within her.

  It had been a single second in time. But he remembered it. Used it to feed the beast rooted beneath his skin. Ease the jagged press of Máelodor’s possession.

  There would be no more to take its place. He’d made sure of that with his cruelty. But better she hate him than grieve for him.

  He hardened with newfound purpose. He’d turn his new knowledge back upon his tormentor. Use the very attributes Máelodor had gifted him to thwart the master-mage’s plans. The Rywlkoth Tapestry lay with the sisters of High Danu. He’d seen it, though he’d not understood its significance at the time.

  But times were different.

  He would retrieve the tapestry as originally instructed. But Máelodor would never lay hands upon it. Not as long as Daigh held to life.

  And thanks to the dark mage, he always would.

  He held his breath at the creak of the outer door opening. A squeaky floorboard. Quiet breathing.

  St. John returning? Would Daigh have his chance at vengeance after all?

  Unfolding from the chair, he took up position behind the door. Slid his pistol free. Cocked it.

  In one gliding flow of motion, he swung around the door. Targeted the man in his sights. Leveled the gun. And squeezed off a shot, jerking the weapon aside at the last moment as the intruder spun around, his own pistol raised to fire.

  Daigh’s bullet went wide, exploding into the wall.

  Lord Kilronan’s aim was true. It slammed Daigh backward as it tore through his ribs.

  He lay upon the floor, blood pooling beneath him, the fire of healing as painful as the wound itself. He tried breathing around the knifing pain but couldn’t bring his lungs to fill. His heart to beat.

  “You.” A shadow loomed above him. Kilronan’s empty stare, a frightening reminder of how far the earl had gone to try and defeat him.

  Would he take the final step? Would he succumb to the Unseelie magics to finally gain his revenge?

  Daigh closed his eyes and waited for the answer.

  “Where is he? Where’s St. John?” A sharp kick to the ribs that shocked the lightning burn along Daigh’s bones. Into his blood. His heart fluttered then settled into a steady beat. His chest rose and fell. “Where’s the Amhas-draoi? I’ve some questions for him.”

  Daigh opened his eyes. Dropped his gaze to the spent pistol gripped in Kilronan’s hand. “This grows to be a habit with you, my lord.”

  “One I’m happy to continue.” He pulled a second pistol from his coat. “Shall I indulge again?”

  “Not if you want to learn what you came for.” He touched his side. Sticky with blood, but healed. As always. He climbed slowly to his feet. Straightened against the afterflashes of pain. All under the watchful, angry eyes of Sabrina’s brother. “St. John is gone. Otherwise he’d be dead by m
y hand.”

  That obviously wasn’t what Kilronan had expected. His brows contracted on a scowl. “Leave none behind to lead us to your master?”

  “My enmity is my own, not Máelodor’s.”

  Kilronan cursed, stalking the room with angry, crippled strides.

  “Be warned,” Daigh said. “Máelodor hunts Brendan Douglas.”

  “For what reason?”

  “For the stone. The Sh’vad Tual. Douglas hid it. Máelodor seeks it. The last piece in his quest to resurrect Arthur. The Great One will break your brother, and Douglas will give up the stone’s hiding place. He will have no other choice. Then, if he’s lucky, he will be allowed to die.” He clenched a jaw over the pummeling of recovered memory. The torture. The brutality. Never ending no matter how much he screamed. “If he’s very lucky.”

  Kilronan’s gaze narrowed with suspicion. “Why tell me this?”

  Daigh spread his arms in a surrender gesture. “My own reasons.” He allowed himself a wry twist of his lips at Kilronan’s snort of disbelief. “Believe me or no. It matters not.”

  Kilronan’s voice came low and caustic. “The Amhas-draoi think Máelodor is fiction. My attempt to distract them from Brendan’s plotting.”

  “Máelodor has done well in concealing himself. Throwing Scathach’s army off his scent. If Douglas dies, the Amhas-draoi will believe the threat is over. None will question how he died. Nor what information he surrendered before he was killed.”

  The two remained locked and unmoving. Neither one prepared to attack or give way. Cold frosted their breath. Rain beat against the windows. Shadows moved across the floor.

  Kilronan spoke first. “You tried to murder me. You did kill my cousin.”

  A man’s hatred. A woman’s pleading.

  Jack O’Gara didn’t deserve to die the way he did. He shouldn’t have been trying to play hero.