Lord of Shadows

by Alix Rickloff

  Daigh’s hands shook as blood roared in his ears. Drowned out the evidence of his crimes. “I was not free to resist. But that is little comfort against your loss.”

  “And you and Sabrina . . .” Kilronan’s words caught in his throat with a strangled oath. “For that alone, I should—” His hand jumped on the trigger, his whole body crackling with violent energy.

  “If it eases your pain.” Daigh closed his eyes in expectation of yet another display of Kilronan’s hatred. Conjured again the image of Sabrina standing welcoming and warm upon the shore. Instead he saw her lost in pleasure, her face tilted up to his, the silky feel of her skin, the sweet of her lips, the beauty of their joining. The exquisite pain that followed ripped through him as sharply as the earlier pistol shot.

  “I don’t care how Sabrina defends you, I don’t trust you or your motives.”

  Sabrina defended him? What was wrong with her? He’d worked to earn her hatred. Why wasn’t she behaving as she should? Damned infuriating, pig-stubborn, brave-hearted, gallant woman.

  “What the hell are you grinning at?”

  Daigh opened his eyes on Kilronan’s expression of frustrated temper. “Paradise denied.”

  “You’re mad. I’d kill you if I could,” Kilronan ground out through clenched teeth.

  “And since you cannot?”

  “Stay away from my family, Lazarus. Far, far away.” Kilronan’s gaze flickered and went black, the Unseelie within so close to the surface, the man seemed to almost shift with a gruesome light. “I’ll do whatever I must to protect them.”

  Daigh lifted a solemn and stony face to his adversary. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “And if you find St. John before I do?”

  “Aye?”

  “Kill the miserable bastard for me.”

  Daigh’s mouth curved in a vicious smile. “In that, we agree.”

  The mail coach swayed and rocked like a boat on the sea. Windows tightly closed, and the four people sharing the compartment buried under an abundance of traveling rugs, mufflers, heavy coats, cloaks, and blankets, but still the icy draft swept through every crack, making teeth clatter and fingers ache.

  Sabrina managed to read over half the novel she’d brought and the two magazines full of optimistic spring fashions, but now she regarded her fellow travelers from beneath lowered lids so as not to seem inquisitive.

  A gentleman—perhaps in his mid-fifties—with the leathered face of a man who has spent a great deal of time out of doors in all kinds of weather, smiled paternally back at her.

  A rake-thin woman in dowdy gown and a bonnet wreathed in black ribbon eyed Sabrina and the others with suspicion and pushed herself deeper into the corner, jamming her valise between herself and the fourth occupant of the coach—the only one of the passengers who’d remained aboard since their departure from Sackville Street two days ago.

  He’d slept most of the time, hat pulled low, collar high, arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched in front of him. Awake, he remained eerily silent, only the thin gleam of his eyes visible from beneath the brim of his hat.

  Sabrina had spoken to him once during an embarrassing and frightening encounter in Rathcormuck when a drunken passenger had lurched his way next to her, his breath sour in her face, his hand groping for her breasts. At that instant, the stranger had uncurled from his seat, gripped the drunk’s wrist, and spoken in a low whisper that seemed to shiver the already frigid air.

  The lecherous drunk never moved again and disembarked at the next stop as if the wraiths of hell were after him.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said shyly.

  He snorted. “Dangerously foolish traveling alone. Does your family know what you’re about?”

  So much for being polite. She stiffened in outrage. “My family is none of your concern. And I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

  He snorted again. Shook his head. Mumbled something unintelligible but obviously disparaging.

  And that was the last time she conversed with the rude man. She only wished he’d leave her to travel on alone. Instead, at every stage there he was. Stretched out and sleeping across from her.

  Taking a handkerchief from her reticule, she rubbed the window pane and stared out into the sleet, her mind racing forward to the end of this long trip.

  For the first time, it seemed as empty and depressing as the unbroken landscape outside the coach’s windows.

  The bandraoi welcomed her back. Hustled her through the gates past huddled families and old men and women with hollowed, sunken faces who took up space in workshops and barns. Camped under hastily erected tarpaulins, their cook fires smoldering and sputtering in the damp.

  Coughing. Muttering. Babies crying. Restless, impatient sounds.

  “Who are these people?” Sabrina asked. “Where have they come from?”

  Sister Ainnir barely glanced at the cluster of humanity as she hobbled past them. “They’re Other seeking sanctuary. Fleeing rumors of Duinedon persecution.”

  “But the elders? The children? They’re harmless.”

  The priestess waved away Sabrina’s question with a disgusted wave of her hand. “Tell that to the Duinedon. They see those bearing the blood of the Fey as the devil’s brood. Even a babe in arms could grow to threaten their precious mortal world.”

  Sabrina clutched her valise, relieved when she left the tension-filled yard to climb the stairs to her bedchamber. But the images of frightened faces remained with her even in the quiet comfort of her room.

  Had her father and the group of Nine been inspired by such scenes? Had they been wrong to want a world where being labeled Other didn’t mean harassment and discrimination? Their methods had crossed a line, but when failure could mean death, perhaps that line became less clear? The border between warranted action and malicious cruelty blurred?

  She sank onto her bed, head pounding, mouth dry. The nervous energy holding her rigid through days of travel draining out of her in one gush of relief. She gazed around her. The same duck-shaped crack, the same lopsided corner cabinet. Even Teresa’s much loved and much read copy of The Children of the Abbey.

  It was as if she’d merely stepped out for a few hours rather than a few weeks.

  Sleep beckoned, but habit had her unpacking her bag, shaking out her gowns, the bright colors and sheer fabrics garish against the austerity of the chamber’s unadorned walls and bare floors.

  A paper lay folded at the bottom of her valise.

  She drew it out. Read the few words written there.

  Tomorrow. Dusk. Outside the gates.

  P.S. If you ever do something like that again, I shall wring your neck.

  B.

  Crumpled it in a shaking hand.

  Brendan. Here. Alive and scolding.

  For the first time since the horrible, terrible morning when she’d turned her back upon Daigh, she laughed.

  “Come in, Sabrina.” Ard-siúr welcomed her into the office with a wave of her hand and a rueful smile. “This is an unexpected return. Have a seat.” She shoved the cat off its perch upon the closest chair. “We have much to discuss.”

  Despite the smile and the soothing calmness of Ard-siúr’s words, Sabrina quaked with trepidation. Would Ard-siúr send her back to Aidan? Would she take this show of blatant disobedience as further proof of Sabrina’s unfitness to become a full bandraoi priestess? Would she ask questions Sabrina couldn’t answer without betraying her naive stupidity? Would the dull ache squeezing her chest ever go away?

  Ard-siúr passed around her desk. Sat down, steepling her fingers beneath her chin as she let her piercing gaze rest upon Sabrina.

  She felt the usual sense of being peeled away layer by layer until no secret remained. She played with a thread upon her apron. Ran her finger along a pocket seam. Shifted on the uncomfortable chair. Let her gaze roam the room. Anything to keep from meeting that steady, all-seeing gaze.

  All traces of the break-in were gone. The office remained the same cozy chamber of t
hick rugs, well-polished furniture, brightly woven wall hangings, and cheery comfort.

  Her eyes drifted over images of stags in flight, a scene where striped-sailed ships shared the waves with fish-tailed maidens and selkies basked upon rocks beside their discarded sealskins, and an ornate and stylized rendering of flowers drifting in odd curls and swoops, yellow, green, blue, and crimson. Every petal and every stem accented with the same black thread.

  Only one obvious gap remained in the otherwise cluttered wall where Ard-siúr had yet to hang something new.

  “I was surprised when they told me you’d arrived alone.” Ard-siúr’s brows rose into her hairline. “I had assumed you would remain in Dublin at least until early summer. Did something happen to cut your visit short?”

  Her expression told her she already knew every transgression and only waited for Sabrina to confess.

  “I chose to return ahead of schedule.” Heat rose to her cheeks, but when she spoke her voice was steady. “You advised me to test my wings before I made the final commitment to the bandraoi. I have. This is where I belong. The order is my home, and you are my family.”

  “Fine sentiments. But were you in such a hurry to let us know this epiphany that you could not wait for a suitable escort? Nor even Jane?”

  She winced under a twinge of guilt. Had her flight become known? Had she left poor Jane to suffer her brother’s not-unexpected anger?

  “I’m sorry, Ard-siúr. Truly. But I had to come back. I couldn’t stay. Not after . . .” It was those eyes. They made you want to confess. But it was too raw. Too painful yet to speak of. “I had to come back.”

  “Did something happen in Dublin, child?”

  Sabrina waved off her question with an agitated shake of her head. “No. Nothing. I’m simply ready to go through the final rituals. Please, let me join you. Don’t make me leave again.”

  Ard-siúr gave another of her inscrutable smiles. “Your devotion to us is admirable. As is your self-reliance. Not many young women would attempt such a perilous journey alone.”

  Was she complimenting her or scolding her? Difficult to tell.

  “You must truly have longed to be here.”

  “I did.”

  “Or was your desire based more upon your longing to not be there?”

  Sabrina faced down Ard-siúr with what she hoped was inscrutability.

  “Child, you have great gifts. Your healing abilities are inexperienced but powerful. Sister Ainnir has relied upon you, perhaps more than she should have. And the other bandraoi have come to view you as one of them, despite your unpledged status. We have seen you blossom from the shy, unsure girl who shrank from her own shadow to a beautiful and accomplished young woman. You will always have a home here among us should you need it.”

  Sabrina sensed a big “but” coming.

  “But I am still unconvinced that you could be satisfied with life among us.”

  “Ard-siúr, if you would listen—”

  She was cut off with a lifting of one imperious hand. “Let me amend that. I should have said content. You would be all that was proper. None would fault your dedication. But would you fulfill your duties with a heart full of gladness in the rightness of your devotion, or would you grow restless and discontented? The gods would know. They see even more than I do. And what I see is clear as the ghosts in your gaze.”

  Sabrina dropped her head. There would be no timeless, ancient ritual to calm the tempests in her heart. No safe harbor where she fit in. No place where she belonged. She was truly alone.

  “Will you send for my brother?” As if he wasn’t furious enough with her.

  “I will notify him of your safe arrival. And I will make it clear to him my feelings on the matter. But as I said, you are free to remain with us for now. We are a sanctuary, Sabrina. Not just for you, but for all who need us.”

  “Thank you, Ard-siúr.” Sabrina trembled despite the warmth of the room.

  “We shall see soon enough.” She rose, nodding to someone who must have just entered the room.

  A shadow slanted across Sabrina’s shoulder.

  “Dyma’r joc gwaethaf erioed.” The deep lilting voice rumbled through her. Her throat squeezed shut as a rush of heat swamped her frozen limbs. “Devil take it!”

  She turned to face him. Body heavy. Muscles alert and quivering. Heart pumping madly.

  He watched her from eyes black as night, features carved in savage angles and stern lines.

  Daigh. Perfect. Sinful. Breathtaking. Deadly.

  And she, as head over heels as ever.

  A fire purred in the stove, the flicker of lamplight and the scents of orange peel and dried herbs creating a calm oasis.

  Or what would have been a calm oasis if Sabrina weren’t stalking the room like a madwoman. He’d be doing the same if she hadn’t beaten him to the floor. Ard-siúr had set him up. And like the simplest of fools, he’d walked right into her trap.

  His last sight of Sabrina had been in a gown of palest green, hair a dark treacle spill of silk, lips bruised with his kisses, skin flushed pearl and pink. Yet here in the bandraoi’s drab garb, hair hidden beneath a kerchief, and features twisted with frustration and shock, she was unspeakably more beautiful.

  “I left you safe in Dublin,” he growled.

  She rounded on him, fire in her gaze. “What are you doing here, Daigh? How could you follow me after . . .” She returned to her frantic pacing. “After everything.”

  “I didn’t follow. I came two days ago.”

  He leaned against the desk, arms folded over his chest. It kept him from doing what he wanted, which was smashing the furniture to splinters. He’d meant to put Sabrina out of his life, if not out of his head. Yet she was here, only feet away, where every curve and shift of her body and every flash of emotion in her face ripped new scars across his heart. Tempted him with a lifetime of memories—the real and the glimpsed might-have-beens that plagued them both. “Your brother will see my hand in this.”

  “I can handle Aidan.”

  “Not the Unseelie that lives within him.”

  She shoved her hands deep into apron pockets. Turned away from him in a deliberate rebuff. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came for the tapestry.”

  She sucked in her breath on a silent oath, eyes wide and frightened. “But it’s been stolen already.”

  The corner of his lip curved in a cool smile. “No. A tapestry was taken. But not the one Máelodor seeks.”

  “What’s so important about a tapestry that—” Her brows contracted. “A map. A stone,” she mused. “Máelodor seeks a map and a stone.” Her gaze lifted to his. “The tapestry is the map, isn’t it? Somehow it shows the way to Arthur’s tomb.”

  “It does. Máelodor must come for it. And I’ll face him when he does.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I must end this, Sabrina.” Now that he’d begun, the words came easier. “I can’t be scraped and pulled until the only parts of me left are faded and ragged as a fallen standard. The presence is always within me. Fighting for dominion. If I don’t find a way to die, it will take me over body and soul. The Amhas-draoi give me no help. I choose the only path left.”

  Her eyes flickered and went dark, but gave nothing away. “Do you really think Máelodor would send you back to the grave?”

  “Not if given a choice.” His voice hardened. “I’ll take that choice from him.”

  “You’d face death so cavalierly?”

  “I’ve suffered it once. It holds no surprise. And I will die gladly rather than remain a slave.”

  “You’re not his slave. Máelodor doesn’t own your soul.”

  “He did once. And I feel him in my head still. He seeks to reclaim me. I’ll not allow it.”

  She gave a sharp shake of her head. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “When this is over, you won’t.”

  “What if that’s not what I want?” Now tears shone in her eyes. Glimmered in the low flicker
ing light. Sparkled like diamonds.

  He gave her a solemn smile. Opened his hands in a gesture of resignation, revealing the scars upon his palms. “Look upon me, Sabrina,” he said. “It’s what you should want.”

  “I have thought over all you’ve told me, Mr. MacLir, including the warnings about the tapestry’s safety.”

  “Then why is the cursed thing still there?”

  Ard-siúr glanced where Daigh gestured. The hanging floated in the rising heat from the stove. A casual observer would see nothing but the beauty and the artistry of the blooms. But for the one who unraveled the secret hidden within the colorful array of stylized flowers, the path to Arthur’s tomb was written plain as the black thread used to spell it out.

  “Perhaps to tempt you?”

  He flashed a startled, angry look at the old woman. “What game is this?”

  She answered him with a bland, unreadable smile. “I am interested to see what breed of man Máelodor has riven from a few ancient bones and magic best left to the demon world. Does the darkness of the Unseelie taint the life it recreates? How much of the man you were still remains?”

  Daigh longed to howl his frustration. Arms braced against the desk, he leaned menacingly forward, frightening the cat, which hissed and darted beneath Ard-siúr’s chair. “You’ve only to ask Sabrina to know the answer.”

  “Her answers might well be worth hearing. Perhaps I shall.”

  Daigh flushed, unable to meet Ard-siúr’s pointed glare. “I never meant to see her again.”

  She scooped the cat into her lap, where it settled beneath her steady strokes. Glared at Daigh from slitted yellow eyes. “But you have. So what will you do now?”

  He hunched his shoulders, his hands loose at his sides. “Hope is not for the undead.”

  “The gods bestow hope to all,” she scolded. “It is for us to hold fast. Refuse its escape. And use it to shape all we do.”

  “Spoken like a true bandraoi priestess.”

  She nodded her acceptance of his sarcasm as if he’d paid her the highest compliment. “You need not concern yourself about the tapestry. We shall see to its safety.”