Fagan couldn’t believe the man’s idiocy. “You ordered the stables burned?”
It wasn’t really a question, but Fagan was having a difficult time imagining such stupidity. “You do know that my family holds those lands only as long as the horses are content with their treatment. If they should decide we are too weak to protect them, they will leave. When that happens, you will no longer have a job, and I will no longer have a home, much less access to the family wealth.”
“Yes, sir, I understand, but it was that or remain there to die. I felt it was necessary to ensure that at least a few of us survived to warn you of your niece’s treachery. If you had returned to the keep without our warning, you would have been riding into an ambush.”
True. There was that. Fine. For the moment he would let the fool live. Judging from the ripe condition of the man’s clothing, he’d run from the keep with nothing but what he was wearing at the time. That was something else Fagan would have to deal with. He reached for his purse and dumped out a fair number of coins.
“Take this and find rooms for you and the men in one of the local inns. Once you’re settled, send word where you’ll be. I’ll let you know what my course of action will be once I’ve had a chance to consider all the implications.”
Olaf recognized a dismissal when he heard one. He pocketed the money and rose to his feet. “Thank you, my lord. I will await your orders. I hope you will allow me to fight at your side when you are ready to retake your family home.”
Then he bowed and walked away.
Undoubtedly Olaf would be part of the effort to regain control of the keep, but it was almost guaranteed he wouldn’t survive the fight. If necessary, Fagan would see to it personally.
He noticed a servant hovering on the far edge of the garden, waiting to be noticed. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? It was too late to worry about it.
Fagan waved him forward and held out his hand for the paper the man held clutched in his fingers. His tension warned Fagan who had sent the note. Only Duke Keirthan inspired such fear with a simple summons.
“Thank you. You may go.”
The servant bowed his head but remained rooted right where he stood. “I’m sorry, sir, but the duke made it clear that I was to escort you to his chambers.”
Fagan knew where those chambers were—both of them. The duke used the one off the great hall to greet visitors, to hold court, and to render judgments. Decorated in gilt and gold, it was his public face.
It was the possibility of being summoned to the second chamber that had Fagan’s knees threatening to buckle. Located one floor below the great hall, it was very near the heart of the labyrinth where the duke practiced…whatever dark arts he wielded.
To date, Fagan had only heard rumors. People whispered of muted screams and echoes of thunder beneath their feet, not to mention the frequent disappearances of both people and animals. As much as Fagan wanted to believe it was all rubbish, there was something different about the duke, something off, that gave all those whispers the weight of truth.
He very much feared he was about to learn the real nature of what kept the duke occupied down below for hours and sometimes days at a time. The man servant cleared his throat, a reminder that Fagan had been dithering too long. It wouldn’t do to keep the duke waiting.
“Lead the way. My life is the duke’s to command.”
As was his death, but he tried very hard not to think about that. Trying his best to look unconcerned, he followed his guide back inside the citadel and down the winding staircase to the chambers below.
The Damned were more at home serving in the deepest shadows and darkest places. But here in the keep, all five warriors had joined the work parties, throwing their superior strength into tearing out the last of the charred and broken timbers in the stable.
Their efforts had gone a long way toward convincing Merewen’s people that the warriors were on their side and not to be feared. Over the past few days, considerable progress had been made. By nightfall, they’d have the stable stripped down to bare bones. The rebuilding would begin in the morning, which should please Merewen.
On the first day after the fire, she had introduced Gideon to the carpenter, who would oversee the repairs. After discussing what would be needed for the stable, Gideon had waved Kane over to join the conversation. He’d had made a list of suggestions meant to increase the security offered by the palisade. At first, the carpenter had been understandably nervous to be in such close proximity to the mage-marked warrior.
But once he realized that Kane not only respected his skills and knowledge but also had considerable experience with carpentry himself, the man had calmed down and made a few suggestions of his own. Gideon had walked away, leaving them to it. Over the past three days, the two had become inseparable, working side by side as they reinforced the palisade that surrounded the keep.
They were almost finished with the modifications, which was a good thing. Merewen’s uncle and his men could appear on the horizon at any time now. Gideon was under no illusions that Fagan would withdraw his interest in the family estate and leave his niece alone.
No, a fight was coming. He felt it in his bones.
It was the not knowing when that battle would begin that had Gideon prowling the bailey and looking for a way to burn off some of his restlessness. Maybe some weapons practice would help. He drew his sword and yelled for the guards to join him. They could all use the training, because he very much feared they would be putting it to good use all too soon.
Chapter 22
“Fagan.”
The duke’s voice echoed through the dark, dank passageway. It sounded raspy. Cold. Inhuman, even, but Fagan quickly squashed that thought. Approaching the duke’s private domain was daunting enough without Fagan’s own imagination escalating his fear. Control was important when clear thinking might mean the difference between life and death.
“Yes, my lord. I came just as you requested.”
Actually “ordered” was a better description, but again Fagan settled on the cautious side of discretion. He kept walking forward. How much farther would he have to go to actually find where Keirthan was lurking in this endless tunnel? Finally, it widened out, and the light at the far end was brighter. Fagan instinctively hurried his steps even though in truth he wasn’t all that eager to find the man.
All too soon he reached the point where the passage gave way to an enormous room. The ceiling vaulted high overhead, giving the impression of immense space. Torches illuminated all but the uppermost reaches of the room, their pale, flickering light barely holding back the shadows. A circular fire pit burned hot in the center of the oval-shaped room, making the temperature uncomfortably warm despite being so far underground. Some believed the afterworld for those who transgressed in this one was desolate and cold. This room, with its shades of darkness and sweltering heat, rang more true to Fagan’s own beliefs.
He hated it on sight.
The duke stood behind the stone altar located in the center of the dais at the far end of the room. The altar was empty and devoid of any decoration except for the sturdy posts located at each corner. The heavy shackles that dangled from them sent a spark of fear shooting straight up Fagan’s spine.
He kept moving, each step demanding more and more effort. He slowed to a stop just short of the stairs that led toward the ornately carved throne located to the right of the altar.
Keirthan finally wiped his hands on a cloth and set aside the knife he’d been polishing. “Ah, Lord Fagan, I see you have found your way to the true seat of my power, a visit that is long overdue.”
Keirthan’s welcoming smile was broad but not at all warm. “Don’t be afraid. Come closer.”
Fagan sketched a small bow before daring to tread on the first step up toward the altar. Keeping his eyes averted from both the knife and the dangling chains, he asked, “How may I be of service, my lord?”
The duke made himself comfortable on the throne. He made no off
er to allow Fagan the same courtesy despite there being a small bench near where he was seated. Keirthan leaned forward to look down at him.
“My dear friend, I regret to say that just this morning I have heard some most disturbing news.”
The way the duke’s eyes glittered, reflecting the dancing flame of a nearby torch, had Fagan’s stones drawing up tight in fear.
“News, Sire?”
“Your keep has come under attack in your absence.” Keirthan shook his head in feigned sympathy. “I regret that circumstances requiring your presence here at court have left your home vulnerable.”
Fagan kept his eyes focused on a spot to the right of the duke’s shoulder, not wanting to make eye contact. He always had the uncanny feeling that Keirthan could see straight through to a man’s soul. The last thing Fagan wanted was for the duke to go rummaging around in his.
Hoping his expression showed the right amount of concern and regret, Fagan acknowledged the truth of what the duke had heard. “I just learned of the attack myself, Sire. The captain of my personal guard rode night and day to bring me the news. I had just sent him off to rest and recuperate from his travels when I received your summons.”
All of which made him wonder how the duke had found out before Fagan had. Did he have spies among the men who served the keep? Fagan thought it likely. After all, it was what he’d do if their roles were reversed.
“And your niece? What of her? Was your man able to tell you anything about her situation?”
Fagan had yet to come to terms with her treachery. He figured Olaf had exaggerated the strength of the attacking force to make himself look less the coward for surrendering the keep so quickly. Even so, where had Merewen managed to find allies willing to fight on her behalf? What had she promised them? She had nothing of value to offer except the horses—or herself.
He cut off that line of thought. If she was trading her wares for protection, the last person he wanted to learn of it was sitting right in front of him. If the truth wouldn’t work, he settled for a believable lie.
“She was taken prisoner as was my own lady wife, my lord. With your permission, I will return to my keep to dislodge the usurpers as soon as my men have rested.”
His fingers steepled, the duke stared down at him. The chill of his gaze left Fagan convinced his actions were being weighed and judged—and somehow he’d failed to meet the duke’s expectations.
Fagan’s late brother used to have the same expression on his face as he culled the herds of stallions that lacked the characteristics he wanted to breed into the next generation. A quick flick of the knife and they were gelded, all their fire and fierce nature gone. He shivered at the memory.
The duke was talking again.
“I made myself clear to you, Lord Fagan. Your favor with me depends entirely on your niece’s remaining untouched until I have need of her services. As your sovereign, I claimed her as my own to use as I see fit.”
Please, gods above, save him from this. A better man might worry about what Keirthan had in mind for Merewen, but right now she wasn’t the one standing before the duke in his private arena.
Fagan dropped to one knee. “Since you first expressed your interest in my niece, Sire, I have refused any and all possible suitors. Before I journeyed here, I ordered my captain to restrict her movements to limit contact with anyone from outside of my own holdings. When I left home to answer your summons, Lady Merewen remained chaste. This I swear to be true.”
Keirthan looked far from pleased. “I believe your intentions were good, Fagan. It’s your execution of those intentions that gives me cause for concern.”
Without warning, he rose to his feet and reached for the knife he’d laid upon the altar. Fagan flinched, despising himself for showing fear. He and Keirthan had much in common, including taking pleasure in watching a subordinate squirm. The difference was that Keirthan wielded a magic strong enough to burn Fagan to a crisp right where he knelt. Running would do him no good.
All he could do was remain frozen in place and pray that the duke would show mercy. A laughable idea, once he thought about it, or it would have been if he weren’t the butt of the joke.
Keirthan caressed the blade of the knife with his fingers, his eyes glittering with an unholy fire. When he tested the point with a fingertip, the blade drew blood and drank it down greedily, leaving a small red streak in the metal.
Keirthan wandered closer, making his approach seem aimless when it was anything but random. When he smiled, Fagan almost pissed his pants.
“Your hand, please, Lord Fagan.”
The duke held out his own, palm up, and waited for him to comply. What choice did Fagan have? None. He wiped his hand dry on his tunic before offering it up.
“We both understand that men of power must make sacrifices, don’t we, Fagan?”
“Yes, my lord.” He hated the quiver in his voice. It made him appear weak and only fed Keirthan’s twisted pleasure.
“Listen well, then, Fagan. You will leave on the morrow with your men and a troop of my personal guard. With their help, you will regain control of your family’s estate. The price for my aid in this matter is your niece and your wife to use as I see fit. Are the terms acceptable?”
“Yes, Sire. You are most generous.”
“Good. I am pleased that we understand each other. However, there a couple of small details. First, you will swear to me in blood that you will succeed or die trying.”
“Yes, Sire, I so swear.”
“And if your niece is no longer a virgin, you will personally join her in the ceremony to bring forth my full power from the darkness.”
The taste of such bitter fear was unfamiliar to Fagan. Normally, he was the one in a position of power, watching others squirm. Not this time. He fought to control the shaking in his hands and somehow found the strength to simply nod.
Keirthan shouted to the ceiling, “Let it be so sworn!”
Then in a flash of silver, he brought the knife slashing downward to lay Fagan’s palm open to the bone. He screamed in pain as the blood spurted from the deep wound. The knife drank his blood before any could spill down onto the floor. The blade slowly changed from mirror bright to a dark crimson that pulsed in time to Fagan’s heartbeat.
As Fagan’s head grew dizzy from blood loss, Keirthan murmured words in a language that grated on the ear. He couldn’t discern their dark meaning, but the wound on his palm slowly sealed shut until all that was left was a pale scar.
It did nothing to lessen his pain.
Keirthan helped Fagan to rise to his feet. “Go now, my friend. Rest and regain your strength. Tomorrow you will ride as if your life depended on it.”
He smiled again, showing far too many teeth. “As indeed it does.”
Clutching his aching hand to his chest, Fagan forced himself to walk with dignity as he crossed the room. The fire glowed brightly in the pit but no longer had the power to warm him, not when the chill of his fear went bone deep. He had to get out there, back to where he could breathe and collect himself.
And as Fagan made his way to the distant door, the duke’s laughter chased after him. As he hurried back down the tunnel, the shadows seemed to whisper that there was no place to run where Keirthan couldn’t follow.
Chapter 23
“Murdoch! Fetch Gideon. Kane, too.”
Having issued his demands from the top of the stairs, Duncan disappeared back in the direction of the library. Averel gave Murdoch a puzzled look, but he just shrugged.
“Obviously the damned fool thinks we’re his messenger boys.” Murdoch smiled and tested the blade of his favorite knife for sharpness. “Ordinarily, I would show our friend Duncan what I think about that idea, but I’m guessing he’s finally found something of use in all those dusty manuscripts and scrolls.”
He finished the last of his wine and stood up. “You find the captain. He’s usually doing weapons training with the guards about now. I’ll hunt down Kane.”
Averel whistle
d for his dogs and headed outside. They raced across the hall, tripping over each other to be the first out the door. Shadow, on the other hand, took her time standing up. She stretched, leaning back on her haunches.
Murdoch gave up waiting for the cat to get moving. She’d follow if she was so inclined. He headed toward the carpenter’s workshop, figuring that was where he’d find Kane.
Sure enough, he could hear the deep rumble of his voice. When he was a short distance from the door, he called out, “Kane, Duncan has summoned us to the library.”
His friend peeked out the door. “Tell him I’ll be along presently. We’re almost finished.”
“You tell him. He wants us now.”
Kane frowned. “Has he found something?”
“He didn’t say, but he wouldn’t call us without reason.”
“I’ll be right out.” Kane ducked back inside.
Murdoch decided to wait. There was still no sign of Shadow. That cat was nothing but lazy unless there was a meal to be had or a fight to be fought.
As he waited, he tried to keep his eyes on the bailey, studying the changes Kane had wrought in the defenses in the short time since they’d driven Fagan’s men away. Impressive, but then Kane had a real talent for strategy. The improvements would provide the maximum protection for the defenders and make it that much harder for anyone to breach the walls.
But admiring his friend’s work wasn’t enough to hold Murdoch’s attention for long. All too quickly, he gave in to the urge to stare up at Lady Alina’s window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. His conscience bothered him fiercely because of this fixation. This driving need to see her, to talk to her, to touch her, continued to grow in strength. May the gods forgive him, but he couldn’t help himself.
As he’d half hoped, Alina was up there looking back down at him. He straightened and leaned forward. Was he seeing what he thought he was? That damned animal! Shadow sat at Alina’s feet, no doubt giving him one of her smug looks that he hated. How absurd was it to be jealous of his avatar? Something else he couldn’t help.
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