Lord of Shadows

by Alix Rickloff

  “Máelodor is determined to have it. He won’t give up.”

  “As Ard-siúr, I am not completely without resources, Daigh.”

  “You’ve never spoken my name before.”

  She continued stroking the cat, its purring loud against the taut silence. Finally she tilted her head, speared him with a look that drilled straight to his core. “And is Daigh your name? Or does it remain Lazarus? You must choose.”

  “I returned to warn you, didn’t I?” he snarled.

  She sat back. “Then you have your answer. And your hope.”

  “Mother? Is that you?”

  “Hush now. Try and go to sleep.”

  “I can’t. I’m too excited about my birthday. Paul said he’d be home, Mother. He promised.”

  Sabrina pulled the covers back up over Sister Clea. Offered her a sip of water.

  She’d waited for Brendan as instructed. Hours had passed as she watched the clouds pushing east across the sky until even the most fractious child had fallen silent and the earth cooled and creaked in the early hours before dawn.

  Only then had she retreated here to the dimly lit hospital ward. The whisper of sleep among the sick and elderly priestesses. The rain pattering against the windows. Once again, she was struck by the odd sensation of time folding back upon itself so that the past weeks were erased as if they’d never been. Leaving her secure in the knowledge that no matter what occurred beyond these walls, this place, these women, this life would remain.

  She’d chafed at the unfaltering routine and the stifling bonds of tradition. Had looked at the horizon and questioned what lay beyond the boundary between earth and sky. And had come away heartsick and frightened at what she’d found. Brendan. Aidan and his wife. Máelodor. St. John.

  Daigh.

  Too many questions. Too many dangers. Too many ways to be wounded body and soul. If only she could convince Ard-siúr of her devotion. Her need for a life among the steady tread of ancient traditions and out of the rushing current of life outside. She sank upon a chair, arms pressed to her stomach as the gnawing ache of her own stupidity spread from her gut to her chest.

  Sister Clea’s voice broke the stillness. “Paul has never broken a promise before. He’ll come. I know he will.”

  Overwrought, Sabrina lashed out. “He’s not coming. Do you hear? He’s not. I don’t care what he promised. They were lies. Like everything he ever told you. He’s toying with you. Making you think that it can be all right again. But it can’t. It can never be what it was. Not even here. Not even where it should be.”

  Sister Clea’s eyes rounded in startled surprise, her mouth pursing and opening, passing the hem of the blanket back and forth in her hands. “Paul doesn’t lie, Sabrina.”

  She started up. Sister Clea had never called her by her name.

  The old woman’s eyes shone with foggy tears, but her gaze raked Sabrina with a sharpness to draw blood. “And neither does Brendan Douglas. He’ll come. He’ll be with you soon.”

  What did the bandraoi see? What precognition had swum up through the calcified walls of her mind to glimmer upon the surface for one sparkling moment? Sabrina couldn’t ask. Would never know. The clarity was gone. Vanished.

  “It’s my birthday soon,” Sister Clea mumbled. “And my brother will be home.”

  Daigh looked up at the tall, slender stone, its face glimmering with quartz where moss had yet to take over. The air around it blurred and danced, throwing shadows that had nothing to do with the moonlight moving among the surrounding trees. As he drew closer, the temperature dropped, leaving him chilled. Only his purpose for coming raised a sweat between his shoulders to trickle down his back.

  The true Fey could grant him death.

  Helena Roseingrave had given him the idea, just as it had been her hatred that had torn loose the last bindings upon his memory. The years since his summoning as mirror-bright and steeped in blood as his sword. Máelodor’s calculated torment. Inflicted and withdrawn without warning. Long weeks where he received no mercy for his pleading and where his screams begot only more painful treatment. Other times when his every need had been sated and he became a feted prince among men. The Great One’s prize and greatest treasure. His sword hand. His strength. His killer.

  Would Arthur suffer the same fate? Or would Máelodor’s desire to win the hearts and minds of the race of Other with his resurrected warlord and king outstrip his darker desire to cause torment? Would the legendary High King fight his slavish bondage to Máelodor as Daigh had tried and failed to do for so long, or would he rejoice at the chance to reclaim his ancient reign? Begin his domination with the toppling of England’s mad monarch and his fat princeling son? Would he venture beyond the isles as his army of Other grew more confident and more drunk upon their magic until the Duinedon world trembled at the unfettered mage energy and even the true Fey thought themselves lucky to be safe within their hillside barrows?

  Daigh would use every skill he possessed to secure the Rywlkoth Tapestry away from St. John and Máelodor. But he couldn’t trust to those same skills to achieve his true and final aim. He would never be allowed to return to the grave. For that release, he would need the help of those more powerful than even Máelodor.

  Gritting his teeth, he placed his hand flat upon the stone. The slam of mage energy exploded up his arm. Knocked him back into the grass to stare up into the curl and sparkle of light as it burst like shrapnel from the rock face. He shuddered as jolt after jolt passed through him. It charred his nerves until Máelodor’s Unseelie magic renewed his body. Stopped his heart for long seconds before the poisonous presence within him revived its beat.

  The Fey knew him for what he was. They would not suffer his presence. Nor heed his call. Not without a fight.

  Refusing to be denied, Daigh crawled to the stone. Placed not one but both hands upon it. Closed his eyes to invoke any and all prayers he thought might summon one of them. And again was tossed backward into a tree, his ribs snapping at the force, only to knit themselves together with a pain barely noticeable against the mage energy flowing wild and seeking around him.

  He lay among the dead leaves and broken branches for what seemed minutes then hours then days. Begging the Fey to answer his call.

  He’d grown good at begging. Grown used to being denied.

  It still hurt.

  “This way. Hurry. Please.”

  The child dragged Sabrina toward a workshop used by an itinerant smithy. A dusty, cobweb-infested building with enough nooks and crannies to entice the most rabid of hiders and seekers.

  Inside, the gloom fell like a blanket over her head. But the child pulled her blindly deeper into the musty space where only a lurching jump sideways kept her from barking her shins on the huge, rusty anvil in the middle of the room.

  “She cut herself. There’s blood.” The child’s fear trembled her voice. Her hand clutched Sabrina’s.

  Threading their way between a rickety ladder and a stack of crates, they entered the smith’s storeroom. Tools hung from pegs upon the wall or lay covered in a fuzzy layer of dust on shelves and counters. In one corner leaned a broken shovel, a scythe with a bent blade, two rakes with missing tines, and a sagging burlap sack. Muffled weeping and loud snuffling came from a corner near the smashed remains of a barrel. One skinny, stockinged leg sticking out at an awkward angle.

  Sabrina knelt, plucking aside the splintered staves to discover a scrawny, bedraggled, tear-stained young girl. The gash on her forehead bled all over her pinafore, but it was her ankle that would require Sabrina’s aid. Painfully swollen already and bent in what had to be an uncomfortable position. “What on earth did you do to yourself?”

  She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. Dabbed at the cut. Like most head wounds, more blood than harm.

  “I was tired of being caught first. I tried hiding up there.” The child pointed to a narrow ledge some ten feet above them. Wide enough to accommodate her skinny body, but inconspicuous in the dim space.

 
“Here. Press this against your forehead while I examine your ankle.”

  The child sniffed. No more than seven or eight, she gazed up at Sabrina with worshipful, pain-filled eyes.

  “And?” Sabrina probed the ankle with gentle fingers.

  The girl flinched but didn’t cry out. “I used the barrel to climb up, but it broke, and I fell.”

  “That ankle will have to be set. Here, can you . . .” Sabrina tried levering the girl up, but she moaned, new tears streaking her bloody face.

  The floor creaked as someone entered behind them. “Let me help.”

  Of course. It had to be Daigh. Just his voice sent a buzzing skitter up her spine. The room shrinking and shifting until his presence took up every square inch. She hoped the embarrassing flush of awareness didn’t show on her face. Angry at him for her own silly reaction. “Is this your idea of a game?” she hissed. “Stop following me.”

  “I didn’t follow.” He drew her eye to the wood splitter he carried before leaning it against the wall.

  Stepping closer, he scooped the child into his arms. For a moment, the obsidian gaze brightened. A rough-edged smile tipped a corner of his mouth. “What’s this? No tears now. Be a brave lass.”

  The child hiccoughed and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of one hand, though whether it was due to Daigh’s words or stunned awe at the grim-faced giant carrying her, Sabrina couldn’t tell.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she charged.

  “Helping, or will you carry her yourself?” He made as if to hand her the child.

  She stepped back. “She’s too heavy. I’d hurt her ankle if I tried.”

  “Then out of my way so I can.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. Simply ducked his head beneath the doorway, leaving Sabrina hurrying after him, fuming and grateful and furious and excited.

  In the hospital ward, he laid his burden upon a cot. Stood back with a reassuring nod.

  “What’s this? New trouble?” Sister Ainnir approached in a whirl of gray, glancing between Daigh and Sabrina, lips pressed together, eyes gleaming in her wrinkled face. Snorting, she knelt to examine the little girl’s ankle and the gash on her head. “These people keep me running from dawn to dusk with their complaints and their troubles. Half the time they don’t even heed my advice. I’ve not seen my bed for the space of ten minutes together since they began arriving. I’m too old for this.”

  “Let me.” Sabrina tried taking the roll of bandages from the priestess’s hand.

  Sister Ainnir snatched them back with a sharp look. “It’s no longer your place.” Sabrina blinked stupidly as the woman softened her tone. “Ard-siúr’s orders. You’re to be treated as a guest until your brother arrives to claim you.” She put a gentle hand on Sabrina’s shoulders. “I’d have you back in a wink if I could. You know that.”

  “But—”

  She shooed Sabrina along as if she were no older than the child before them. “Run along, my lady. I’ll fix the moppet up and send her back to her parents.”

  A guest? No longer allowed to heal? To help? Aidan claiming her? What was she? A stray puppy?

  The words piled on her chest like stone after stone. Making her imminent exile real. She would have to leave. And this time, she knew there would be no returning. She would be taken to Belfoyle and there she would remain until Aidan chose to loosen his restraints upon her. After her escape from Dublin, he’d probably lock her in and throw away the key. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The walls closed in around her.

  Warm hands settled on her shoulders. A voice droned in her ear. And she found herself propelled out of the scrubbed infirmary into the clear bleached light of day. A cool wind chilled her face. Snapped her from the downward spiral of her panic. She drew in a quick gasping breath, salty tears sliding into the corners of her mouth. “Oh gods, what have I done?”

  Daigh’s eyes burned through her, sending a flare of familiar heat low in her belly. “You sought to save a man from drowning. You’d no idea he’d pull you down with him.”

  Sabrina staggered into the dormitory passage. Toward the stairway to her bedchamber. If only escape could be found in a locked room and dreams. But it couldn’t, and so no surprise met the sliding crystalline fog, the lurching dizziness as she tumbled into Daigh’s past. The thinning veil of mist revealing a smoke-filled hall full of confused voices. Men and women moved like wraiths, their eyes weary, their bodies crouched and distressed.

  Daigh prowled just beyond the firelight. She knew his stance, the cock of his head, the quiet intensity behind his every gesture. He greeted a crew of rough-looking men who’d only just arrived. Mud-spattered. Breathing hard. Daigh looked her way, the flames’ flicker dancing across his eyes. His gaze sharpened on her face, his love winding its way through her, stronger even than his nervousness or the gravity she sensed hung around him like a heavy cloak.

  The fog closed in, the scene fading back into the gray swirl of cloud, talons sinking into her shoulder wrenching a startled cry from her lips.

  “Gotcha, girl.”

  Sabrina jerked her head up and into the face of Sister Brigh, more shriveled and dried up than usual. “If you think to scold me for shirking my duties, you’re too late. I’ve no duties and you’ve no authority,” she snarled, taking out her anger and confusion on the old woman.

  “But I’ve the sight in my eyes and I know what I see. You and that man. He arrives then you arrive. Neat and tidy. And now I see your boldness when you look upon him. And his lust when he meets that look.”

  “You’re eyesight’s failing. Mr. MacLir doesn’t look at me with anything but scorn.”

  She tried wrenching away, but the old priestess’s fingers bit deep into Sabrina’s flesh. “You’re a fool, girl. He watches you. Always with that empty, black stare. The mage energy swirling round him like a storm cloud. I know what he is. I hear things. Notice things. You should be careful, girl.”

  “Careful of what?”

  Sister Brigh’s eyes darted fearfully to the door as she wrung her bony, grasping hands. “He’s dead risen. What they speak of as a Domnuathi. Evil gave him life. Evil follows him. I see the beast upon his back. The Morrigan’s ravens flying close at his heels. No good can come of it.”

  “Daigh wouldn’t harm us. We saved him.”

  “He’ll do as his master bids with as little remorse as grinding a bug beneath his heel.” A cruel smile creased Sister Brigh’s face. “You fear it’s true even as you defend him. I can see it on your heart. He’s hurt you already.”

  Sabrina slammed closed her mind from Sister Brigh’s prying, but the priestess had decades of training at infiltrating even the most shuttered thoughts.

  “I protect what’s mine, girl. This order. My sisters. MacLir must go. If he leaves, the evil and the danger go with him.”

  “If he leaves, the evil will take him over, and we’ll be worse off than we are now.”

  “The sisters of High Danu survived the ages by keeping our heads down and our magic quiet. I’ll not have that destroyed. Not by you, Ard-siúr, or him.”

  Sabrina finally tore herself free from Sister Brigh’s vitriol. The dormitory no longer a refuge, she stumbled back into the yard. Daigh hadn’t moved from the spot where she’d left him. His eyes lifted to hers, and that same bond of unshakeable love passed between them as in the hazy gloom of a Welshman’s hall.

  Clouds passed over the sun, throwing his face into shadow. The connection severed.

  Daigh turned away.

  The men bowed aside and the women displayed shy smiles as Sabrina moved among the refugees. Asking after children or aged parents. Answering questions about a fever here. A rash there. Ard-siúr may have refused her the order’s resources, but her skills were hers alone and couldn’t be taken away. These she leant willingly along with advice and reassurance.

  According to a frantic note from Jane, it would be only a matter of days before Aidan arrived and even these small duties would be forevermore denied
her. Poor Jane. Sabrina owed her. It sounded by the tone of ill-usage in the scribbled missive that Aidan had not been exactly pleasant since Ard-siúr’s letter had arrived. She would make it up to her. She would grovel as only a best friend could.

  “Heard they burned three farms over by Ballenacriagh.”

  “Is it true the government’s begun registering Other?”

  “Will the Duinedon attack us here?”

  “They say barracks are being reinforced with regiments home from the wars.”

  “They treat us as if we were less than human.”

  “I’ll fight rather than let the Duinedon round us up like sheep.”

  “That goes for me as well. Let them come, I say. We’re more than a match for the Duinedon.”

  Rumors, like illness, thrived in cramped conditions, and long hours passed as she refuted false reports and calmed troubled minds.

  “Gossip is a many-headed hydra. Attack one story and three more grow in its place.”

  She wasn’t surprised to find Daigh watching her from the open barn door. His haunted grave-black eyes, the severe magnificence of his angled features, the herculean strength in his crossed arms and the broad curve of his shoulders. Her resident butterflies took flight once more, beating against her insides until she quivered with excitement.

  He motioned toward the cook fires and makeshift tents. “Máelodor is skillful at fertilizing already rich soil. Look at them. Resentful. Afraid. Angry.”

  “Is it any wonder? We’re taught from the cradle to hide what we are from those who don’t understand and would label us monsters.”

  His lips curved in the merest hint of irony. “Yes,” he answered softly before nodding once more toward the gathering. “But listen closely. The agitation. The defiance. Us versus them. These are the seeds of revolution.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, seeing what Daigh saw. The pinched, sour faces, the clenched jaws, the growing impatience. Shuddering, she pulled her shawl close around her. “Is Máelodor powerful enough to manipulate an entire race?”