He swatted her hand away, and she stared, stunned. “You don’t understand,” he shouted. “You don’t see this for what it is. I can’t stop this, Mairead. If I don’t follow this, it will kill me.”
“And you leave us here to be stolen? Sold? All because you have to satisfy your blood lust?” Panic rose in her voice. “What if someone comes after her?”
Words caught in his throat. The Morrag tugged him back to the village, but his promises, his duties, his desires pulled him toward Mairead. He swallowed hard and stepped toward her, lowering his voice and drawing up his last vestige of restraint. “You don’t need me,” he said. “You know everything you need to know. You have the bow and your knives. Keep quiet, keep the fire low, and you’ll be fine.” He turned toward his horse.
“Is this how you left Aine?”
This is how I saved Aine. He turned back. “Never mention Aine to me,” he said, his voice a low croak.
Her face paled in fear. She took a half-step back, swallowed, and recovered her position. “Did you leave her with your child? Did you give her money to raise your bastard and then leave her? Is that what you’ll do to me?”
He mounted and looked down at her. No more time. If I open my mouth now, all she’ll hear is the rage of a vengeful demon.
The Morrag burned inside, exulting in the sensation of his righteous anger. It rose in a swell of sweet agony, begging to be released. Her voice caressed his spirit with a lover’s touch. My raven.
The world disappeared, and he could only think of finding the man with the rings and letting him taste steel.
***
Maeve sat up, her breath tearing at her, the strength of Connor’s will ripping at her spirit. She struggled to her feet from her bed. “Evie—”
Evie was already there, black hair in an unruly mass around her shoulders. She gasped. “Majesty, what is it?”
Maeve’s breath came in gasps and fits. She collapsed, struggling to hold onto life. Claws. Raking. “Get . . . healers . . . now.”
A flutter of wings drew her vision to the window. Bronwyn melted out of her owl form and entered the hut through the back door. “Maeve, you have to break the bond with him. Now.”
Maeve shook her head, but the pain tore into her, shredding her spirit, her soul. She fought it. Her heart was slowing, and she couldn’t draw a full breath. Icy fingers of pain needled her body. Her transgressions were laid bare before her, and the guilt of what she had done, the freedom she had stolen from her son, loomed large in front of her. “No—have to save him—”
“Maeve!” Bronwyn’s voice cracked the air. “Let him go now! If you hold onto this bond, it will kill you.”
Maeve rasped a breath. Another. Her arms stretched for Bronwyn.
Evie fell to her knees. “Majesty,” she whispered. She crumpled on the floor.
Warming stones faded, cooling and dimming as the magic of the Sidh weakened before Maeve’s eyes. Anguished cries welled up inside Maeve’s consciousness. My people. The codagha tightened, pulling the spirits of hundreds, thousands, into the darkness that consumed Maeve’s vision. All around, life faded. The Sidh are dying.
“If you die, the Sidh die,” Bronwyn said. “Let go of Connor.”
A chasm opened before her, a jagged pit of rock and shadow and agony, gaping, ready to close around her, to declare judgment on her. A woman waited, anticipating bone and flesh and muscle tearing.
Maeve struggled, pushed back from the edge, fought the maw of death. “Connor, stop.”
“He can’t.” Bronwyn knelt next to her, her voice ringing with desperation. “Your magic is not powerful enough. The Morrag is stronger. She demands these things of him. If you don’t let him go, she will kill you.”
The light of the village dimmed. Maeve closed her eyes. Is this what he lives with? Is this what you’ve made him? The maw pulled her closer, and she could no longer fight. She found the bond within her mind. Connor. I wanted to keep you from this.
The bond snapped. The chasm disappeared, and Maeve’s heart beat normally again. She took a deep, racking breath. Evie struggled up to her knees. “He did it,” Maeve whispered. “He broke it himself.”
“He was never yours to bond,” Bronwyn said, one gentle hand on Maeve’s shoulder. “Alshada allowed the bond for a time because it gave you peace in your grief, but it was always Connor’s to break.”
Maeve’s chest ached, and her limbs tingled with warmth as the elements renewed her. “This path will destroy him. The Morrag will consume him. Was he never meant to have a normal life?”
“He was meant to be what Alshada intended him to be,” Bronwyn said. “Trust your son to Alshada, Maeve.”
I can’t. Tears stung Maeve’s eyes. “I can’t. I have to go—”
“Maeve.” Bronwyn’s hand tightened. “This is for him to do.”
Maeve’s chest tightened in agony. “He’s my son,” she whispered.
“And he is also the raven.” Bronwyn’s voice remained firm. “I cannot stop you—that is not my role—but I can tell you that your place is here, with your people. You are the Sidh queen. Your duty is to protect the Sidh.”
Maeve straightened, clenched her fists, raised her chin. “Do not lecture me on duty.”
“Do not force me to remind you.” Bronwyn pursed her lips. “Leave now, and the Sidh will suffer. Your place is here.”
Evie crawled closer. “Majesty, are you well?”
Maeve closed her eyes and shook her head. My place is here. Alshada, protect my son. She stood. “I will check on the village. Fetch my gown.”
***
Pigs and grease. Connor’s senses were heightened and channeled. He focused on finding a man with rings. Pigs and grease.
Wicked laughter and the pained cries of brutalized women echoed around Connor when he reined in at the door of the brothel. He jumped off his horse and kicked open the door, his sword already drawn. Women screamed and men stood with daggers in hand. One ran toward Connor. Connor drove a dagger into the man’s chest. He looked around the common room. “Which of you bastards wears the rings?”
The slovenly brothel owner Connor had seen earlier cowered and cried out. He gestured to a room. Connor kicked the door open. The odors of stale bodies and dirty chamber pots threatened to gag him. From the tangle of naked legs and buttocks, a greasy man with a greasy brown beard looked up. “What—” But Connor grasped him around the neck and knocked him to the floor before he could finish.
The man tried to scramble to his feet. He was a big man, tall and well-muscled, but he had indulged in too much drink and too many whores to be a match for Connor. “Fuck—who are you?”
“Vengeance,” Connor said. He twisted his hand into the man’s hair and dragged him to the main room. “This bastard likes to beat women.” One hand around the man’s throat kept him on his knees.
The Morrag swelled inside Connor, controlled and sweet, begging him for blood. He hurt the girl. He’s killed others, the Morrag whispered. Connor’s fingers gripped tight around the man’s windpipe. Pinpricks of blood appeared near his fingernails as the man choked and gagged. He’s raped them and beaten them to death. Claw him. Rake him open, raven. He deserves death.
A low growling snarl came from somewhere inside Connor’s chest. “You think it’s fun? You like hearing them scream, beg for mercy?” He brought the hilt of his sword down across the man’s cheekbone. Bone cracked and blood splattered. “How does it feel, jackass? How do you like being the victim?”
The man yelped. “She was just a whore! I paid—”
Connor brought his hand across the other side of the man’s mouth, cracking his lip open. “Now you look just like her. Except she will heal. You won’t have time to.” He picked up the man’s hand and cut it off. With the man’s howls hanging in the air, Connor kicked him to the ground and silenced him with one broad stroke down the center of his body.
Claw him. Rake him open.
He twisted his sword and pulled up bowels from the man’s belly
. They hung from his sword in a grizzly stink of waste. “Any more of you feel like beating up a woman tonight?” Frightened whimpers answered him. “Any of you women want to leave, now’s the chance.” He threw the severed hand down on the ground. “Use his rings to buy your freedom. It’s the least he could do for you. And if any one of you decides to get your ‘property’ back, know that what I just did to him was merciful.” He flung the entrails into the center of the room. The stench of the dead man’s belly and bowels filled the air. “You’ve been warned. Next time, it won’t be quick. It’ll be slow, painful, and humiliating, and I’ll stick your carcasses to the ground for the birds.”
He turned to the owner of the brothel. The man quailed under his gaze. Connor pointed at him with the befouled sword. “Give me your money purse.” The man hesitated. Connor leapt at him, grabbed his hand, and held the sword over his wrist. “Your purse, jackass.”
The man yelped and pulled his money purse from his belt.
“You, the blond in red,” Connor said, and a woman near the door stopped, shaking, fear on her face. He threw her the purse. “Take the others with you.” She caught the purse, swallowed hard, and signaled to the others. They ran for the door, one of them carrying the severed hand with the rings.
Connor looked back at the owner. “If I ever hear that you’ve bought a woman or kept one here against her will again, I will be back to cut you apart one piece at a time for every coin you’ve earned off the backs of these women.” The man’s face paled. Connor’s sword point drifted down. “We’ll start with the parts you hold most dear.”
Death and fear filled the room. Grim satisfaction hovered at the edges of his awareness, and his breathing started to slow. He retrieved his dagger from the first man he’d killed and returned to his horse to gallop back to the camp.
By the time he arrived, the Morrag was satisfied. He’d quelled the need. He was rank with sweat and covered in blood and bits of body, but he didn’t care. He’d embraced the raven, and it hadn’t been like before. It was sweet and powerful. It was justice.
When he got back to camp, Mairead stood, an arrow nocked and pointed at him. Kenna slept. Mairead lowered the bow when she saw him. She set it down and ran to him as he dismounted. Her eyes were tight and red-rimmed, but her jaw was set in a stubborn line. She crossed her arms. “Are you satisfied?”
“It needed to be done.” His voice seemed far off, as if heard through a canyon. From the depths of the Morrag’s lair.
“How many?”
“Two. One who attacked me, and one who attacked her.”
“Is that it? Are you hers now—the Morrag’s?” Her voice cracked on the Morrag’s name.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
He pointed to his head. “I never told her yes. She won’t take me until I tell her yes.”
The fire hissed behind her. “Then it will always be like this?” She waved a hand at the horse. “You dashing off to slaughter someone when you can’t fight it anymore?”
“He deserved to die.”
Her voice rose, tinged with righteous anger. “You don’t get to judge that. You are not Alshada.” She swiped her eyes and turned away. “We’ll take her home, and then I want you to find someone else to guard me. I can’t do this anymore.”
Gods, no. I can’t— He reached out to take her arm. “Mairead, wait.”
She turned back. Tears spilled over. “You will always leave,” she whispered. “You left your people, your name, your mother, even Aine. You can blame the mark or the Morrag or just your foolishness, but you will always leave.”
Her tears glistened in the firelight, and Connor put his hands on her cheeks to wipe them away. “I don’t want to leave.”
She closed her eyes and whimpered. “Please don’t say that.”
He tipped her head up to his and slid one arm around her waist. The Morrag faded to a distant echo in the furthest part of his spirit. “I need you.”
Her hands pushed against his chest in one weak attempt to walk away, but then she slid them up around his neck and pulled his head down to kiss him.
He pulled her against him, aching to feel skin against skin, desperate to keep her close. I need this woman—by the spirits, I need this woman. After death, her kiss gave him life. His hands tightened on her body.
Mairead mumbled “no” between kisses. She wrenched out of his arms. “No.” She turned away, and her hand went to her mouth as she started to walk back to the fire.
“Mairead—”
“No.” She shook her head. She held her hand out to keep him away. He stepped toward her, but she turned and held him at arm’s length. “I can’t, Connor.”
“Mairead, I want you. I need you. Please, don’t walk away.”
“Do you love me?”
Time paused. Aine had asked him that same question once. With Aine, he didn’t know. With Mairead, he knew—without hesitation—the truth. The question hung between them, waiting for acknowledgement. The fire crackled, keeping random time. The horse stood close, panting. Mairead’s brilliant green eyes demanded honesty, commitment, everything she deserved—more than he could offer. I do love you. He wanted to say it, but the words stopped in his throat. Desire warred with what he knew was true—that whatever else she had done to change him, he was still ravenmarked. He would still leave. “I don’t know.”
She nodded and swallowed hard. Her voice cracked again when she spoke. “I don’t want less than your whole heart.” She went to her blanket and sat down, drew her knees to her chin, and stared into the fire.
Emptiness rushed into the gap where the Morrag had been. Connor returned to his horse and slumped against it, drawing up slow, even breaths until he felt steady again. You will always leave, she’d said. He couldn’t deny it. In a numb daze, he unsaddled his horse, rubbed him down, and gave him water. He walked to the edge of the ravine and wrapped their camp in braids of air to hide their scent.
For the first night in eight years, the Morrag folded her wings and fell silent.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Give me your cup, Alshada.
Let me drink even to my death.
— Songs of King Aiden, Book 30, Verse 12
Igraine held a kerchief to her nose as she descended the stairs into the prison cells beneath the castle. The guard, Aiden, showed her to Logan’s cell. “Her highness begs a word,” he said.
Logan looked up. They’d taken his livery, and he sat on the small cot in a homespun tunic and woolen breeches. His eyes were drawn and tired, and the dark curls on his head were unkempt and greasy. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Let me in and then leave us,” Igraine told Aiden.
Aiden glanced at Logan, who sighed and nodded. The guard opened Logan’s cell and ushered Igraine in. “You still have some authority with them at least,” she said.
“They’re used to obeying me.” He leaned back and stretched his long legs in front of him. “There’s little point in coming here. I have nothing more to say.”
“Why are you doing this? I know it wasn’t you.”
“Ronan Kerry thinks it was.”
“Why does he think that?”
He shrugged. “He saw me letting a group of people out of the castle gates. He’ll say they were assassins and that I was helping them escape.”
“Were they?”
“No. They were the few kirons and sayas I could save.” He paused. “He will also accuse me of plotting to kill you.”
“Me? Why?”
“The royal issue dagger on the assassin in the forest. I’m the one who issues those. When you were under Felix’s care, I went to the armory to count the knives. There were three missing. I had the one we found on the assassin. We haven’t found the other two.”
“What does that prove? Someone stole them—probably Matthias.”
He shook his head. “The first thing I did after Matthias attacked you was count weapons. Everything was there. This happened after he left.”
“What else does he think he can use against you?”
“Your maid—the one who is sharing Kerry’s bed—she told him I asked you to go riding with me. He thinks I tried to get you away from the castle to have you killed.”
She knelt on the rushes on the floor and took his hands. “What possible reason would you have for killing me or the kirons and sayas?”
“Kerry wants the throne. He sees me as an obstacle. Braedan’s men obey me, not him. If he can get me out of the way, he will gain control of the royal guard.”
She frowned. “But why would you confess? With a confession your life is forfeit. The law is clear. A confession means there can be no trial. You will suffer the immediate consequences of this. Why not let there be an investigation and trial?”
His hands were slack around hers. “For a promise. For assurance.”
“What—”
“Igraine. Please.” He leaned forward and put his forehead against hers. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m not afraid of death. I’ll die in service to those most important to me.”
Igraine didn’t know how to answer. She steeled her will. “Tell me who you think truly ordered this done.”
“I can’t say. No one in the castle died but your guards. It appears you were the only target inside these walls. The ones we killed were assassins, like those who killed Duncan Guinness. They were shadows. Untraceable. They had no markings to identify them.”
“Who would want me and the kirons and sayas dead?”
“I don’t know. Not Kerry. He wouldn’t want to anger your father, and he wouldn’t see the kirons and sayas as a threat.” He shook his head, frowning. “Kerry is subtle, and this attack was anything but subtle. This was someone who wanted to send a strong, bloody message that the kirok isn’t welcome on Taura.”
She nodded, slow. “What about Cormac?”
Logan blinked, surprised. “Cormac?”
“He’s been acting so strangely, and have you seen how pale and sickly he’s become? And where was he that night, or the night Matthias attacked me? Did we ever find out?”
Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles) Page 35