“He pays for what he did to Culain,” Edgar shouted. He sliced Mac Rian’s cheek, cut off an ear, pierced a shoulder.
Mac Rian lay on the ground weeping. “No—please spare . . . please . . . . Sire, help.” His breath slowed, and his eyes turned glassy.
No, I won’t let this continue. Braedan rushed to Edgar’s side and pulled his arm back. “Finish it, now, or I will.”
Edgar’s chest heaved with rage, but when he met Braedan’s eyes, he finally nodded. He knelt and leaned close to Mac Rian’s face. “This is what you reap for killing my friend, you bastard.” He drew his dagger slowly across Mac Rian’s throat.
Braedan’s stomach roiled as Mac Rian’s screams echoed into the trees and faded.
Edgar straightened. “You’re a bit green, boy.” He trotted to meet the next opponent, Mac Rian’s blood still draining out onto the soil.
Braedan swallowed bile and knelt next to the dead duke. I can’t be sorry that he’s gone. He closed Mac Rian’s eyes, straightened, and followed Edgar into the melee.
***
The battle continued until late in the afternoon. Braedan fought at Edgar’s side until his arms ached and his legs moved only by sheer force of will. Though his leathers were drenched with blood, mud, and sweat, Edgar still swung his blades with the same strength he had when Braedan first saw him, and his reflexes hadn’t slowed. The man is nearly twice my age, Braedan thought, wiping sweat from his eyes once more as Edgar engaged one of the last Mac Rian men in the forest. All I can think about is a very long sleep, and he’s still looking for men to fight.
The traitha ran his sword into the man’s belly all the way to the hilt, kicked him off the blade, and turned to Braedan. “Any word from your other men?”
“Malcolm brought a contingent up from the south. Mac Rian’s men are subdued, and the assassins seem to have fled.” He paused. “What about Esma? Have you seen her? Did she make it back through the battle?”
Edgar sheathed his blade and put a hand on Braedan’s shoulder. “Come into the village. We’ll find her and toast our victory.”
The village wasn’t far from the site of the battle, but it took some time to step over all of the bodies and limbs and speak with the various leaders they met. Tribal losses were few, and from what Braedan could see, the Taurins hadn’t lost many men, either.
They found Esma in the large community building in the center of the village, once more dressed in breeches and tunic. She straightened from the wounded tribesman she tended and wiped bloody hands on a rag. “It’s over?”
Edgar nodded. “Mac Rian is dead.”
She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes for a moment. “The sorceress is gone, too. For now.”
“For now?” Braedan hated the faint squeak of fear in his voice. “What do you mean?”
“She was one of the Forbidden, sire. A being part human, part Syrafi,” she explained when he shook his head in confusion. “Or she used to be.”
“Used to be?”
Esma nodded. “They were born of human and Syrafi parents in the earliest days of the world. They called themselves the Blessed Ones and followed Namha, but the spells and magic they learned bound their souls to this world unless they are destroyed by the ravenmarked. You heard the keening when Olwyn died?”
Braedan nodded. “Some kind of cloud rose from her body, too.”
“Her soul. A tainted soul.” She shuddered. “I didn’t realize what she was until she tried to kill me. Only one of the Forbidden could reveal a person’s transgressions that way. She’s not dead. She will take possession of another body, the way she did Olwyn’s body, and she will not give you quarter if she sees you again.”
“How did she get to you?”
“Her underlings killed your men.” She rubbed her arms. “The Forbidden have much power, but many limits on it. They must often use humans to do their bidding. I believe the enchantments must have prevented her from coming into the great forest on her own. She could only do it once she had me.”
Braedan suppressed a shudder of his own. The dark man—that’s what he’s done with me. He used me because he was prevented from doing what he wished on his own. Gods, what a fool I’ve been. He turned to Edgar. “I am sorry, traitha. I am sorry for my father’s foolishness, and I’m sorry you had to endure Mac Rian and his daughter. I promise you, from this day on, Taurin forces will only enter the great forest at the discretion of the tribes.”
Edgar crossed his arms. “And the estate? What will you do to make amends to Culain Mac Niall’s family?”
“I will restore the Mac Niall name and estates and return them to Connor Mac Niall. As soon as I return to Torlach, I’ll draw up papers legitimizing his name and giving him a seat on the Table.”
Edgar nodded slowly. “You are not what I expected, princeling. You may yet make a good king.” He held out an arm.
Braedan clasped it. “Is it all real? The Brae Sidh, the reliquary?”
“Yes.”
“And are they safe now? With Mac Rian gone?”
“For the moment,” Edgar said. He drew a dagger and offered it to Braedan, hilt first. “The wolf tribe will recognize your reign, your majesty.”
Braedan drew the sacred blade and held it out, hilt first. “I thank you, traitha.”
Edgar frowned down at the blade. “How long has that stone been glowing?”
“Since I killed Olwyn Mac Rian.” Braedan stared down at it. “I don’t know how, but this blade saved my life. She had me under control and would have killed me, but this blade just . . .” It sounds impossible. But then, I saw a hill appear out of nowhere. How can I say what’s impossible anymore? “It came to life, and it guided my hand to stab her.”
Edgar lowered the blade in his hand. “That is not mine to take. You shed blood with it. It’s bonded to you now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you belong to that blade,” Esma said. She frowned. “It means you must go where the blade leads you.”
Braedan shivered. “Or else what?”
“Or else you die,” Edgar said.
Braedan’s legs gave out finally, and he sank down to a mat in the common hut. Esma knelt next to him. “You need rest,” she said. “Lie down. I’ll bring you water, and you’ll sleep, and we’ll discuss the blade another day.”
Braedan nodded, dazed, but in his mind he could only picture Igraine and wonder when he would see his princess again.
***
Maeve was standing outside the village as the sun set, waiting for news as the oremist swirled around her feet. The tingle of the magic comforted and soothed her, and the people in the village had a peace she hadn’t felt in years. It feels good to use the magic all together like this.
She was so focused on holding the magic and weaving the braids of air, water, and stone that she didn’t hear or see Edgar until he was next to her. She jumped. “Stop sneaking up on me!”
His wicked grin had a very satisfied undertone. “You’re beautiful when you’re flustered.”
Her heart skipped. “Is he gone? Is the king out of the forest?”
“Mac Rian is dead. The Taurins are out of the forest.”
The oremist dissipated in swirls and eddies around their feet. “Is Minerva all right?”
He nodded. “Braedan saved her life. Olwyn tried to take her, but he freed her and killed Olwyn. The Mac Rian forces are gone. Your magic worked.” He grinned. “I liked that stone talent. Having hills just pop out of the ground like that confused Mac Rian’s men and turned them around.”
“And the king? Will he still seek the Sidh?”
“The king believes now. He understands his role. He promises to keep the Taurins out of the forest, and he’ll be restoring the Mac Niall name to good standing,” Edgar said.
Maeve’s stomach lurched. “Restoring the Mac Niall name? You mean Connor—”
“I know that managing an estate and living the life his father led is not for him, but it should be his. He is th
e only one left of Culain’s line. I suggested that the king find someone suitable to manage the estate in Connor’s absence. You and I can make sure the estate is well-managed.” He grinned, but the rakish edge in it was tempered by tenderness in his eyes. “Of course, that means we’ll have to spend more time together.”
She stepped closer to him. Two can play at this. “What do you have in mind?”
“Just an occasional meeting of two leaders who are protecting their villages and caring for an old friend’s estate until his son returns.” He folded his arms across his chest. She again noticed how well-muscled he was. “I suppose that might require an occasional cup of oiska together or a meal here and there.”
“I suppose it might.” She noticed the large, bloodstained tear in his leather breeches and gasped. “You’re wounded.”
“That? It’s not bad. I’ll dress it back in the village.”
“No, you won’t. Come into the Sidh village. I’ll have a healer look at it.”
He tilted his head. “A healer? You won’t look at it yourself?”
She was grateful for the fading light. “I have no skill for healing. But I do have oiska. And food.”
He mulled that over. “It’s been almost thirty years since we shared a meal.”
“No—has it?”
“After Connor was born I hardly saw you.” He stepped closer to her. “But a meal without meat? It may be worth a try.”
He was covered in sweat, blood, and bits of bone and leather and Taurin cloth, but she could only see the man she knew thirty years before. Those eyes. “You might find that it’s more satisfying than you think.” I’m as bad as my son.
The crooked grin widened. “I suppose I might.”
“I’m not offering anything more than food, drink, and conversation.”
“And a healer.”
“Well, yes. And that.” She wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath, Edgar.”
“I suppose you can offer that as well?”
“There’s a pool behind my hut. If you are interested.”
He appraised her with a wolfish hunger. “I am.”
I’m too old for this. Her heart was beating as it had the first time she’d seen Culain more than thirty years ago. She didn’t need to say anything more. She offered him her hand to lead him through the Sidh boundary, and he fell in step next to her, seeming not to be in any discomfort from the wound on his leg. When they reached her hut, she dismissed Evie, shut the door, and forgot about calling for a healer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The One Hand brings his will around, yes.
— Rhiannon, nursemaid to Connor Mac Niall
Minerva straightened at the well and drew up a bucket of water, pausing to draw a full, deep breath. The wolf village had returned to normal in the week since the battle. Tribal losses were low, and wounded men were healing quickly under Nedra and the other earth guardians’ ministrations. Edgar had spent increasing amounts of time in the Sidh village and at the estate, discussing policy and plans with Queen Maeve and King Braedan alternately. Or so he claims, Minerva thought. Despite the impropriety of it, she had to smile. He’s not fooling anyone. He walks around the village like a newly wed warrior with that silly, besotted grin.
She watched a warrior return from the forest with a young man about twelve or thirteen. Not old enough for the initiation, but old enough to provide meat. The younger man carried a brace of coneys, and the older man had a young deer slung over his shoulders. Elsewhere, a group of apprentices sat in a circle around a guardian, listening to her lessons with looks of deep concentration. Tribal children played a game in the village streets, and women went about the business of tending animals and harvesting gardens. Minerva leaned against the well. This place is becoming home. I shouldn’t let it. And yet . . . Her palm itched, and she clenched her fist.
“Esma.”
She turned. The bucket fell back into the well, and Minerva gasped and stared. “Traitha.”
Alfrig stood before her, her mouth drawn into a tight frown and her arms folded across her chest. She jutted her chin. “So this is where you go? You risk my husband’s wrath by living right under his nose?”
Minerva forced herself to swallow. “E-Edgar said I would be under his protection. F-forgive me, traitha, I—”
Alfrig held up a hand. “Nedra wrote me. She is, perhaps, more trusting than Edgar. Or more loyal. May we talk?”
Minerva nodded and led Alfrig to Nedra’s hut. They sat down across the fire pit from each other, and Alfrig cast a glance around. “Nedra must keep a skin somewhere.”
Minerva stood again and found the oiska and a cup for Alfrig. “Forgive me for staying in the forest,” she said as she sat again. “Edgar offered me a place for the winter, and I accepted. I didn’t want to risk seeing Hrogarth again. I swear to you, I’ll be gone as soon as spring comes.”
Alfrig poured oiska. “You should not have come into the forest at all.”
“No one else could have found the tribes. None of the other sayas knew how to reach you.”
“You should not have come.”
Minerva’s palm warmed inside her fist. “What would you have had me do, traitha? Let the pretender rule unchallenged? Leave the Brae Sidh to die?”
Alfrig’s voice echoed with a cool, steely edge. “You still answer to me, guardian. Check yourself.”
She is still my traitha. “Forgive me.”
Alfrig unwrapped the fox sashes from her neck. “Nedra tells me you have trouble controlling your mark.”
I don’t know where to begin. “The earthspirit grows stronger. I need to be shed.”
Alfrig drank her oiska. She poured another cup and let it sit. “The Morrag stirs. It grows harder to sate her every day.”
I know. Minerva looked down. “I can’t control it. I left—I didn’t learn enough—I didn’t expect the Morrag to awaken.”
“None of us thought she would awaken. If we had thought she would demand so much blood, we would have taught you what you needed to know.”
“If I performed the rites—” She bit off the words. Alshada, forgive me.
But Alfrig shook her head. “The simple rites you knew no longer sate her. She requires more.”
“Can you teach me?”
“No. You would have to be part of the tribal web, and no tribe would take an oathbreaker.”
That much was true. Even though Nedra let her serve as an apprentice, that was much different than taking the oaths and finishing her training. The tribe would never accept her as a full guardian. Not that I would want the position. I only want to be rid of the power.
“Nedra also tells me how you helped the tribes defeat the thief Mac Rian. For that, I will help you.” Alfrig reached into a pouch at her side. She drew out a bone talisman that hung from a leather lashing. “Wear this. It will stifle the magic.”
Minerva’s blood ran cold. The amasidh. “Please, put it away.”
“You must.” She pushed it toward Minerva.
Minerva looked away. “Do you know what that is?” Alshada, what child paid the price for that? Her eyes watered, and she shut them against tears. “Please, I can’t look at it.”
Alfrig sat quiet for some time. “It is the only way to hold back your power. Wear it or refuse it, but it is all you have. Your blood will forgive you.”
Minerva shook her head. “I thought they were all destroyed.”
“There are a few left.”
“Why would you have such a vile thing?”
Alfrig drank another cup of oiska. “If it were my blood, I might make the same decision.” There was understanding in her voice. “I tell you only that it must be this way. I cannot shed you of the magic, and you cannot return to the tribes to embrace it. You are caught in the between place.”
Minerva couldn’t look at Alfrig, couldn’t open her eyes. “If I don’t wear it?”
“The Morrag will consume you when she becomes strong enough.”
Minerva forced her eyes open
and looked at the talisman again. It was thin, small—the bone of a rib or a forearm, a child’s bone, carved with runes and dyed with blood. The Forbidden had sacrificed Sidh children to Namha before the children came into their power. The blood of the unquickened. This was a child of my blood.
She pushed the talisman away. “I will risk death. I will not wear that abomination.”
Alfrig put the talisman back in the pouch at her side. She drank another shot of oiska, poured another shot, and pushed it over to Minerva. “Drink.”
Minerva looked at the cup. Nothing is as it used to be. Maybe nothing was ever what I thought it was. She drank. The bite of the oiska traveled down to the pit of her stomach. How many years? I can’t remember the last time I drank it.
Alfrig poured her another shot. “When you’re ready.”
“What will the tribes do?” she asked Alfrig. “And the earth guardians?”
Alfrig drank another cup of oiska. “That is not for you to know,” she said. “You forfeited that right when you left.”
Minerva nodded. Painful silence fell. “Traitha, I am sorry for leaving as I did,” she said. She looked down. “I was lost when he died.” Tears sprang up as the old pain reared its head. She still couldn’t even think his name without crying.
Alfrig said nothing for a long time. “You would not be paying this price now if you had shed yourself of the earth wisdom. You pay the price of your choice, and now it is too late. You must learn to live with it.”
Minerva nodded. She looked up. “Traitha, I ask a boon.”
Alfrig didn’t answer for a long time. If she said yes, she had to grant it, whatever the request. If she said no, she would appear dishonorable in the eyes of the tribes. “Ask,” she said at last.
Minerva took a deep breath. “I ask your forgiveness. I am sorry. I should not have left as I did.”
Alfrig’s face softened. “I forgave you years ago. You were as a daughter to me, Esma. I thought, once, that you might take my place—that you might be traitha.”
The words broke Minerva’s heart. Tears spilled over. She looked down, ashamed. There was no room for tears in front of Alfrig. “I found peace with Alshada.”
Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles) Page 45