by Alexa Egan
“Age happens to the best of us, I’m told,” she answered with a wry smile.
“Yes, but . . .” He waved a hand in her general direction. “The curls are gone”—replaced by soft waves of honey-colored hair—“and your figure has matured”—the gawky, flat-chested girl of his memories was now a woman of luscious feminine curves and long elegant limbs—“and you used to have . . . I mean there were the . . . the . . .”
She wrinkled her nose. “Spots. I know, they were positively horrid, but thankfully long gone. Lemon juice and oil of talc every evening before bed. But surely, I haven’t changed that much.”
“No, not exactly.” His gaze traveled over her from head to foot and back. The ghost of the old Meeryn lingered in the narrow elfin face, pert chin, and full coral lips, but there was a shrewdness in her eyes and a severity to her jaw that had never been present in the laughing playmate of his youth. “And then again—yes.”
“Well, you haven’t. You look just as you always did.”
His smile came laced with bitterness. “That’s the first lie I’ve caught you in tonight.”
“It’s true. You do look the same. A bit longer in the tooth and leaner in the face, of course, but that’s to be expected after . . . well . . . after all you’ve been through.”
She couldn’t say the words. He didn’t blame her. It had taken months before he could speak of his banishment without vomiting his guts until his throat and stomach were raw and even then he’d not been able to say the word. A sensibility he’d overcome as he had so many others. There was no room in his life for sentiment. He rubbed his scarred palm without even thinking. Dropped his hand to his side when he caught her watching him.
“I heard rumors that you’d lifted the curse,” she said.
“Contained . . . not lifted.”
“But it’s night”—her gaze cut to the window—“the sun is down and you’re still . . . they said when the sun left the sky, you were forced to become your animal aspect. Forced from man to beast against your will. That’s what I was told.”
“There are ways to hold the spell at bay and keep to the form I choose, but it comes at a price.” He poured and handed her a glass of brandy from the decanter permanently set beside his bed for those nights he couldn’t sleep.
“Things never change, do they, Professor Gray? Still got your nose caught in a dusty old book,” she commented with a nod of her head toward his cluttered desk.
“That’s where the answers are,” he answered. He cleared away the various manuscripts he’d been studying, arranging his pencils in a row, pocketing the four ancient metal disks, being careful to return the Krylesos Pryth, the silver disk of the Gylferion, to its leather drawstring bag. The draught made him sick enough. He needn’t add silver’s poison to his list of illnesses.
Laughter danced in her eyes. “Your response hasn’t changed either. How long has it been—ten years? It’s hard to believe.”
Ten years—the blink of an eye. An eternity. They’d grown up together; duke’s grandson and duke’s ward. Close as siblings—closer even. His brother had been eight years his senior and barely noticed Gray except as a nuisance to be shed at the first possible opportunity. Meeryn had filled that slot, becoming his boon companion in all things, from illicit raids on the Deepings kitchens and nasty pranks on the string of tutors and governesses when they were young, to illicit raids on the Deepings wine cellar and midnight forays beyond the protections of Deepings’ walls as they grew older.
As a child, he’d foolishly imagined their friendship would last forever. First school, then university, and finally the army ended that dream. Yet, she’d remained a bright memory among so much he’d tried to put behind him when he’d been condemned to exile. Was that remembrance, like so many other things in his life, about to be irrevocably shattered?
“Why are you here, Meeryn? And why sneak in?”
She offered him a flippant roll of her eyes. “Would you have welcomed me if I’d knocked and presented my calling card?”
“Not while Pryor and his enforcers scour London, hunting those they believe to be in league with me.” He poured himself a brandy.
“But, you see, it was Pryor who sent me.”
He froze with the glass halfway to his lips, but there was no hint of mockery in her placid expression. She was dead serious. “Did he? Interesting.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Gray, but you can relax. I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to bring you home.”
“I am home,” he replied just as solemnly, placing his still-full glass on a nearby table. This conversation called for stone-cold sobriety.
“Don’t be clever. You know what I mean—home to Deepings.”
“Why would I do that?”
“To prevent more bloodshed? To broker peace between your rebels and the Ossine?” She paused. “To save the Imnada?”
“Dromon was clever in sending you as his emissary. Anyone else would have been shown the door . . . or the end of my sword. Meeryn, you have five minutes to explain, then you leave.”
Defiance lit her unflinching stare. “The duke is dying.”
Gray closed his eyes briefly on a silent prayer, though for what he couldn’t say. For some reason, he’d always just assumed the old man would live forever; a craggy irascible rock upon which the world crashed and broke. His presence solid and eternal as the cliffs below Deepings.
“He’s been ill since you . . . since the summer you were sent away,” Meeryn continued. “Then this past spring he took a turn for the worse. It’s his heart. They don’t expect him to last more than a few weeks.”
“And if I said good riddance to the old bastard?”
Candlelight flickered over her face, glinting in her auburn hair, as flames were reflected in her deep brown eyes. “You don’t mean that. He’s the only family you have left. When he dies, you’ll be—”
“Duke of Morieux,” he finished her sentence.
“Leader of the five clans,” she amended.
Neither role had been his by birth—a fact his grandfather had never ceased to remind him of, even as Gray struggled to fill his dead brother’s shoes. He’d finally escaped into the military, unsure by then whether he hoped to win honor in battle or a quick death. There, he’d finally found the praise he’d sought in the letters that arrived from home. A pride that ended in the Gather’s circle with the flames charring the clan mark from his back.
“Sir Dromon Pryor is leader in all but name.” He stood at the hearth, a hand upon the mantel as he stared into the cold expanse, wishing he might glimpse the future, but seeing only the past.
“His grip isn’t as secure as he wants you to believe, and it will only worsen if the duke dies without an heir in place,” Meeryn explained. “Rumors spread as your rebellious Imnada grow in numbers. The Gather elders chafe under his heavy-handed authority, and the brutality of his Ossine enforcers only make things worse. Summary executions of clansmen on the mere suspicion of sedition are becoming common.”
Gray had known there would be problems once the Imnada made their existence known to the Fey-bloods. Not for nothing had the shapechangers hidden after King Arthur’s murder sparked the savage purges of the Fealla Mhòr, and those born with the blood and power of the Fey sought to wipe the offending Imnada off the map. Only the great N’thuil Aneavala wielding the power of Jai Idrish had saved the shapechangers from extinction a thousand years ago by calling upon the sphere’s power to erect the Palings, the great walls of mist that hid and protected their holdings from a dangerous world.
For centuries this had been enough and the clans had continued on untroubled by outside threats. But as the clans numbers declined, so too did the power of the Palings. It would be only a matter of time before the Fey-bloods discovered a way through the wards. Would they come extending an open hand of friendship or the closed fist of war? The years of seclusion and secrecy had hardened the prejudices on both sides until now every encounter was fraught with peril and salted
with misinformation.
Gray’s rebellious Imnada and open-minded Other sought to fight these ancient perceptions, but for every step forward there seemed to be ten steps backward. Every inch of this battlefield had been won with blood and tears and the bodies of fallen companions. The strife within the clans only added to a body count the Imnada could ill afford.
As if reading his mind, Meeryn added, “The clans won’t survive an attack from without while they are beset from within.” Tension strained her gaze. “Pryor concedes this and wants to talk.”
“Pryor’s tongue is as crooked as his brain. Why should I trust him?” Gray asked coolly.
“Don’t trust him. Trust me.” She smiled, her eyes alight with mischief. “As N’thuil, I can guarantee you safe passage on holding lands. So long as you’re with me, you’re protected.”
She spoke. He saw her lips move, but he heard nothing after the bit about Meeryn being named N’thuil. Voice of Jai Idrish. Living vessel of the Mother Goddess.
Idrin the Traveler, the father of their race and the founder of his house, had brought the clans safely through the Gateway guided by the crystal sphere of Jai Idrish—the Imnada’s most sacred relic. He had been the first of a long and distinguished line of N’thuil, bearers of the awesome power and grave responsibility that went along with the mental bond between stone and flesh.
None knew how or why the sphere selected any particular host, but all acknowledged that those the crystal selected stood equal to the wisest of Ossine shamans and the strongest of clan leaders in a strange triad that had served the Imnada since the first comers arrived in their new home—or had at one time.
Jai Idrish had remained stubbornly silent since before Gray’s grandfather’s grandfather had been born. For the last hundred and fifty years, the Arch Ossines had taken it upon themselves to select the N’thuils, each one more subservient and useless than the last. The respect for the office of vessel and voice eroded with each passing year and each pointless placeholder, until these days it was barely more than a figurehead.
“Sir Dromon selected you to take Tidwell’s place? He’s never chosen anyone not shaman-trained.”
“Sir Dromon did not do the choosing.”
“Then who . . .?” His words trailed off as the truth dawned. “Jai Idrish chose its N’thuil? That’s impossible.”
There must be a mistake . . . perhaps he’d misunderstood . . . perhaps she teased him. She’d always been a devilish hoyden . . .
The anointed keepers of Jai Idrish were wizened and learned men with years of experience and acumen to draw on as they guided the clans through tumultuous times. They were not curvaceous honey-blondes with clever smiles and secretive brown eyes who smelled of cold seas and warm sun and tempted him with memories of home.
She dragged the robe from her shoulders and twisted around so her back faced him. There, high upon her shoulder blade, was the crescent of the Imnada, a whorl of black against her golden skin. And just to the right of it, still pink at the edges, was the smaller circlet that signified her ascension to the seat of N’thuil.
No mistake.
Unthinking, his fingers traced the needle’s narrow marking as it curved up over her shoulder blade to the base of her neck. She shivered and cast him an arch look, the laughter dying in her eyes to be replaced with something uncertain and almost shy. His finger became his hand. The skin of her back was like silk beneath his palm as he caressed downward along her spine to the point where her hips flared and the robe and his own self-control stopped him from descending farther. Her lips parted, and he sensed the suspension of her breath, the tremors running beneath her skin. Her eyes darkened within the thick fringe of her lashes. Was it longing he saw? Excitement?
His heart thrashed against his ribs, and sweat splashed hot and cold over his skin. He wanted to tempt Meeryn further; an inch lower, a breath nearer. Then a breeze teased the candle’s thin flame. Her look vanished as if it had never been, and he surfaced from the lecherous swirl of his desire just before he made an utter ass of himself.
“When was your ascension to N’thuil?” Thankfully, his voice emerged only slightly raspy.
Meeryn yanked the robe up to her neck, her body rigid, her gaze fierce. “A month ago. I’m surprised you didn’t hear.” Her voice trembled, though the emotion behind it was difficult to decipher. “Sir Dromon claims you have spies in every household and know our secrets before we speak them.”
“I’m flattered, but unfortunately, my network isn’t quite that extensive or well informed.”
She opened her mouth as if to respond, her gaze swimming with thoughts left unspoken. Gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head before continuing on. “Muncy Tidwell died unexpectedly a few weeks ago.”
Somehow he doubted that was what she’d originally intended to say, but if she wasn’t going to remark on his boorish behavior, he sure as hell wasn’t. And so the awkwardness dissipated ever so slowly.
“A more useless N’thuil the world has never seen,” Gray replied. “But enough about him. Tell me of your choosing. How did it happen?”
She ducked her head, looking almost shy . . . or ashamed. “It wasn’t my fault, Gray. Honestly. I woke one night as if someone had called to me. I walked out into the corridor, thinking I was being summoned; that His Grace needed me. I don’t remember much after that, bits and pieces, but the next thing I knew I was standing in the tower sanctuary, the crystal glowing warm beneath my fingers. It was as if a piece I never knew was missing had suddenly slotted itself into place and I was whole.”
“The clans must be in a tumult over Jai Idrish’s waking.”
“Hardly. I’m not exactly the N’thuil they were expecting. Nor has the sphere spoken to me since the night of my choosing. I’ve tried everything, and it remains as cold as the grave under my hand.”
“What was Sir Dromon’s reaction?”
“The Arch Ossine wasn’t happy, but there was nothing he could do once Jai Idrish had chosen its Voice. The laws are clear, and if Sir Dromon is a stickler about anything, it’s following clan law.”
“Hoisted with his own petard.” A smile quirked Gray’s lips as the implications of this news sank in. “He must have been furious after so many years with a compliant toady like Tidwell serving as mouthpiece and cover for his crimes. Perhaps that’s why Jai Idrish chose you. You’ve never been compliant in your life.”
A fact he just might be able to use to his advantage.
* * *
The old man slept—finally. For hours he’d tossed and turned in his bed, whimpering and mewling like an infant searching for his mother. The once massive, bearlike leader of the Imnada clans who’d inspired equal parts awe and fear in friend and enemy alike had shrunken to a palsied shell of himself, his shock of white hair yellowed and sparse, his piercing blue eyes faded to a watery gray with age and pain.
Sir Dromon had sat with him, murmuring pap in hopes of keeping him quiet. Soothed him with stories of the golden days before the duke’s son, daughter-in-law, and eldest grandson had died in the stormy seas, only the youngest and weakest of the brood spared from the drowning drag of the waves. Major de Coursy he called himself . . . as if denying his courtesy title of Earl of Halvossa could erase the events of that lost summer day and his guilt in the tragedy.
“Deepings used to ring with laughter, Pryor. Do you remember? The parties and the picnics, the dances and the dinners. Such good times we had then.”
“I remember, Your Grace.”
“Never again, Pryor. Such a little boat it was. I warned them not to take it out, warned them of the storm. Do you suppose they suffered long?”
“I don’t suppose so, Your Grace.”
“The boy is all that’s left. Why would the Mother spare me the mewling runt and take the others? Is there a lesson in that?”
“Only the goddess knows, Your Grace.”
“None left of my house, Pryor. None but a weakling who bears a Fey-blood’s curse. A cast-out, unmarked emnil.”
And a treasonous, slime-riddled bastard rebel. But Sir Dromon hadn’t poisoned the duke’s ears with that truth. He hadn’t needed to—not anymore.
The conversation had quickly dwindled to self-pitying complaints, unintelligible babbling, and finally, ragged weeping before the duke drifted into a restless sleep.
Sir Dromon tossed one last contemptuous glance toward the draped tester bed where the duke whuffled and snored. Each day, his grip weakened. Each night his strength failed a little more. Time ran short. If the duke died and Major de Coursy inherited the title, all Sir Dromon had worked toward over his lifetime could be thrown in jeopardy. The whispers second-guessing de Coursy’s exile and the blame surrounding his own part in it grew daily. If he didn’t put an end to it, the Gather elders might seek to overturn de Coursy’s sentence and place him on his grandfather’s throne.
No, it couldn’t happen. Sir Dromon wouldn’t let it. He’d worked too hard to have that prize snatched from his fingers. While de Coursy remained alive, he remained a threat; a rallying point for all disaffected Imnada. Yet, killing the last son of Idrin’s house outright held equal risks. Wavering allies might balk at assassination. Sympathetic clansmen might be swayed to join de Coursy’s growing rebellion. No, the traitor must be discredited first. Accused of a crime so heinous that all Imnada would see his death as justice—not murder.
“His Grace is sleeping. I want none to disturb him,” Sir Dromon ordered the footman standing watch outside the bedchamber. “But come to me if there is any change. I want to know immediately, day or night.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Pryor retreated to his bedchamber a floor and a wing away. He’d moved into the duke’s residence two summers ago, ostensibly to assist His Grace during his time of grief following the exile of his heir. But after two years he’d firmly established himself as master of the house with unquestioned authority. Or would have, but for one upstart female with delusions of grandeur—the duke’s ward, Meeryn Munro. She’d always been a nuisance, but her recent ascension to N’thuil had transformed the irritating thorn in his side to a dangerous dagger at his throat.