Ranald stepped forward, at his side, and managed to clear the chambers within a mere minute or two, leaving only the Seer and her alone there. Even hating him as she did, knowing what would come now was not easy. He slid from his chair to his knees and crumpled over in pain as the terrible price of his visions hit him.
It seemed to last an eternity, pain tearing through his body and his eyes. She watched as he fought against it, not allowing himself to scream out the anguish so obvious to her. Moira bit her own tongue, trying not to cry out for help. Wave after wave, it struck him over and over. When she thought it finished, it began anew, longer this time than the one she’d heard here last month.
He rolled now on the floor, the expensive rugs softening some of the hardness beneath him, every part of him spasming, as he clutched his head and then pressed his palms against his eyes as though it helped. Once he opened them as he struggled, and the strange green light filled the room. Moira threw her arms up around her head to block the sounds and sight of his suffering and slid down along the wall until she sat with her good leg bent, leaning against it to protect her face from the scene before her.
His struggles lessened, and the sound of him fighting the pain ceased, leaving only his body on the floor in the middle of the room. She raised her head and watched as he took in one hitching breath after another. Minutes passed before his breathing eased into something less strained. Still, he kept his eyes shut tightly and his hands pressed against them.
Finally, he quieted and lay unmoving on the floor.
Now it was her time to force a breath or two into her own body, for the tenseness of watching him suffer was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and she hoped to never experience it again. This was not the way she pictured the vision happening or the aftermath of it. It wasn’t until she lifted her face that she realized tears poured down her cheeks.
She cried for the Seer.
Nay! She could allow herself no sympathy for the man who caused the massacre of her family and countless others.
Moira dashed away the tears and tried to find her anger and her hatred. Instead, all she could draw from within was pity. Pity for a man cursed, not blessed as she first thought. Cursed by something he could not control and tortured as its price.
Damn him for making her feel anything for him! She’d lived for too long without those other feelings clouding her thoughts and distracting her from her one purpose, and she’d be damned if she would soften now because he suffered. He deserved to suffer this and more for what he’d done.
Rubbing her face with her sleeve to remove any sign of her tears, she watched as he pushed himself onto his knees and then onto his feet. Wobbling and staggering, she thought he would fall more than once before he gained some sense of balance.
“Ceanna?” he whispered, turning toward one side of the room and then the other.
She shook her head, unable to say a word in reply.
“Moira?” he asked again, tilting his head to one side and waiting for her to speak. “Can you hear me?”
“Aye,” she finally answered. He lifted his head and looked around the chambers as though he could not tell where she was.
“Speak again, Moira,” he pled in a low voice. “I cannot find you.”
Her head shook on its own as she realized the reason for it. Denying it did not make it a lie, and when he opened his eyes then and she saw the terrible burning there, she knew the darkest secret of all.
The Seer was blinded by the visions he conjured!
She must have gasped for he began to walk toward her, hands spread as he tried to get his bearings. He did not know how close she was or what lay in his path, for he tripped on the edge of a table and landed hard into the wall. When he would have walked into the screen, she called out to him.
“Seer,” she said. “The screen lies in front of you.”
He nodded then, seemed to know where he stood, and then eased his way along the screen until he found the end and stumbled to the bed. Guiding himself along the edge, he climbed on it and lifted a piece of wool left there by Ranald.
Stunned by all of it, she could only watch now as he tied the strip around his head, hiding the truth of his burning, blind eyes from anyone who might enter. He did not lie down as much as he collapsed on the bed, and she feared, nay thought, he might have fainted from the pain. It was only his hoarse voice that told her he was yet awake.
“Moira…”
He said it once and then made no more sounds at all.
Connor could sense her terror rather than see it or hear it. No one, not even Ranald, had seen the full aftermath of the visions since it had become this bad. He did not know if she’d realized the extent of the punishment his body took, but she’d heard it last time. This time, she witnessed the entire process.
First she was witness to his weakness of the flesh and now to the weakness in his body and soul.
His strength seeped away, and he could do nothing but lie silently and try to let sleep take him now. He would have laughed at the irony that struck him about this situation: he finally had her in his grasp and could not raise a finger. The visions burned the sight from his eyes and the desire from his blood, and it was the only time his body was at peace.
Except when he was deep within her.
Had it been just a dream? Had he only imagined that the pain and burning had lessened after he’d worn himself out on her body, or had it truly been different three months ago? What was her part in this, and did she hold the truth of it even now?
If he listened, he could hear her labored breathing now, from the place in the corner where she was chained. She was not unaffected by what she’d witnessed. Who could be? Not even the cold-hearted assassin she tried to believe she was, or the one she tried to make everyone believe she was.
Finally, the pull of sleep and a welcomed respite gained strength, and he followed it.
Chapter Nine
He did not move for more than a day, then barely as the servants and Ranald tended to him. She looked on in a kind of shock as he recovered from the visions. Moira was not certain she would ever forget what she’d seen. Yet, if the past indicated the future, he would go through it again when the moon reached its fullness in a month.
She shuddered then, nearly losing her balance as she stood silently while he spoke to Breac for the first time since collapsing on his bed two nights before. How did he yet live if she’d attacked him at his weakest? Was her aim so misplaced that she’d not pierced his chest after all? He should be dead, and here he was, surviving another dreadful vision.
His gift must include an inhuman ability to heal as well, she suspected. ’Twould make sense—if the Fae gave such power with such a terrible aftermath of pain and suffering, they were contrary enough to also give the ability to withstand it, too, so it would not end too soon.
If one believed the stories passed down about the Fae and their dealings with humans.
After seeing the changes and the power surge through him as the Seer had his vision, she believed it. In her search, she listened to many storytellers share their wisdom about the otherworldly inhabitants of the sacred woods and glens of the Highlands of Scotland and the isles surrounding it. Even Mull had its share of standing stones and other places whispered to be the gateways to the land of the Sith or the Fae, as they were called in many lands.
She’d seen too much and learned too much more to ignore the existence of such powerful beings. She only had to remember the Seer’s face during the vision to know the truth—he was touched by the Fae.
And yet, he seemed to be unaware of it. Had no one told him? Had he never sought the truth? Strange, that the one who wanted to end his life might know more about it than he did himself. She would keep her information to herself until she knew the best way to use it.
The next several days passed quietly, with the Seer spending more and more time sitting up or moving around his chambers. The blindfold remained in place, but she saw no hint of fire when it
slipped down from his brow, exposing his eyes to her. Instead, she saw only black there, no color even in their depths. And the blindness remained.
Moira was amazed at the change in him now. Gone was the agitated, angry, lust-filled man she’d watched in those days leading up to the visions. Gone was the arrogant, irritated one who demanded everything from everyone around him. In his place was a different person. And, although she heard her name mentioned over the course of the next few days, he never spoke to her directly at all.
She spent most of her time sewing and mending, for Dara had sent word of her skill with a needle and thread and Agnes presented her daily with a pile of tunics, gowns, trews, stockings, and other clothing that needed repair. As long as there was light in the room, she put her hands to use and kept her mind on those tasks, rather than on the one that brought her to this place.
And she healed. Her leg grew stronger, the bruises on her neck and back faded, and even her courses arrived and ended in that week, as though it were a sign that she had made it through the worst. Being chained to the wall and not seeing the sun or breathing the fresh air bothered her more day by day, but she was alive and still had a purpose before her.
A week after the vision, as she waited for Breac’s arrival and the removal of the splint from her leg, Moira noticed the sun’s light making a path along the floor toward her. The windows high on the wall only received direct light for a short time each day, and now it approached. When it was cloudy outside and the winds roared, she did not miss it so much. But on a day like this one, when the sun grew bright and warm, her body ached to be out in its warmth.
Edging her way to the farthest spot the chain’s length would allow, she felt the warm place on the floor where the sun heated the stones. Biding her time, she watched as that small circle moved inch by inch closer. Then, when it seemed at its closest, she leaned as much as she could bear against the collar and tried to place her face in its path. Closing her eyes, she waited for the heat to touch her.
“What are you doing?”
Her stance so unbalanced and her position so precarious, the soft question startled her into losing both. Trying not to fall with her full weight against the collar, she twisted and would have slammed into the wall if he had not caught her in his arms.
When she gained her feet, she stared at his face and his eyes. The were no longer completely black; a hint of green had reappeared around the centers.
“Can you see now?” she asked.
“Enough to wonder if you were performing some sort of suicide ritual. I have heard of such things in the old religions.” He released her and stepped away, squinting back at the place where she’d stood. “Ah, you were trying to reach that small patch of sunlight.”
Moira did not admit to her weakness; ’twas bad enough he’d witnessed it. “I try to stretch and move so my leg does not seize up.”
“By hanging against the collar with your face tilting sideways? Interesting.”
She knew he did not believe her, but it mattered not. She would not try it again, for to be so close and fail was too painful. Reminded by his very presence of her other failure, Moira stepped back to her stool, gathered up the garments there, and sat down to work on them.
“You are not comfortable talking to people, are you?” he asked. Now he leaned against the end of his bed and watched her sewing.
“I have nothing to say,” she replied, once more hesitant to acknowledge the truth. She’d been on her own so long, keeping her own counsel, that the common chatting among family and friends, even simple acquaintances, was foreign and difficult for her.
“I think you have much to say, Moira, and it is time for me to hear it.” He stood and walked closer, dragging a stool as he came. “I do not favor force in my interrogations, as Diarmid does,” he began, as he sat on the stool and faced her. “I have my methods.”
She shuddered then, unable to control it, for it was her body’s response and not her mind’s. Taking and releasing a breath, she dropped the tunic on the pile of garments and readied herself as best she could for his challenge.
“If not force, then what do you favor, Seer?”
“Connor,” he said softly, meeting her gaze. “My name is Connor.”
“The Seer,” she added, resisting his attempt to have her use his name. “A changeling some say, placed with a human family by the Sith after your mother’s passing. Others claim you walked out of the standing stones as a boy, without knowledge of your name or your past. So many stories are shared about you that it is difficult to choose the right one.”
He flinched, surprised by her words. Truly, he was a mystery. There were stories of all kinds about the Seer’s origins, and each one, she suspected, held a grain of the truth.
“The Seer came to Lord Diarmid’s attention just past six years ago, and you have been in his employ since then, trading your visions for wealth and protection.”
“For someone who has had little to say, you know much, Moira. How came you by this information?” He stood then, crossing his arms over his chest and pacing back and forth in front of her.
She hesitated to explain herself to him, especially since the entire reason she had discovered all she could about him was to find something useful in killing him. As long as she remained chained to the wall during the only time he seemed vulnerable, his death was out of reach to her. Moira stared at the floor, trying to decide how to handle the Seer’s interrogation.
“I will offer you a trade then to loosen your tongue.”
She knew it would come to this, and she was prepared to barter her body to protect herself. She exhaled and nodded at him to continue.
“One hour in the sun for what you have discovered about the Seer. Continue to answer my questions, and it could be longer.”
She stared at him as though he was insane, and in some ways he believed he might be. Almost seven years of trying to understand the power he had, how it worked, what its limits were, and this woman seemed to hold more facts about him than he knew himself. And after spending his adult life searching for his past, he might now have the one person in his grasp who could tell him more.
Her eyes widened, and she nodded before he thought she would—her pattern was always to hesitate. She must think there was nothing to interfere with her cause in telling him what she knew, or else she planned on deceiving him with falsehoods. Either way, it gave him a bargaining tool to deal with her.
“Breac,” he called out before she could change her mind. “Bring her.” Connor took a cloak of his and tossed it to Moira. “Put that on and keep the hood up.”
“My lord,” Breac began to argue, “this is foolhardy and dangerous.”
“You know the spot, Breac,” he answered, walking to the door. “The guards know I am not to be disturbed if there with a woman. None will look closely at which woman accompanies me.”
He waited only long enough to be certain that Breac would obey him, and then he began the climb to the battlements. His sight was still weak, but his eyes were almost returned to their normal appearance. He followed the walls around to the corner he preferred and nodded to the guards. Stepping into the shadows there, he waited with a sense of anticipation unlike he’d experienced before.
He had searched for his past, his parents or family, during those first years with Diarmid, but he knew now that Diarmid had simply ensured that he found nothing. With few contacts other than those appointed by Diarmid, Connor had no choice but to give up. Since then, he’d gained some who were loyal to him, but any search would draw Diarmid’s attention or that of his wide net of allies.
He heard the scuffling of feet and watched as Breac came out of the doorway with Moira tucked closely at his side. She limped along, rushing at Breac’s pace until they reached his place. He motioned Breac off a bit and waved to the guards, his signal that he expected privacy. No one would dare interrupt the Seer while he took his pleasure on a woman there. The guards turned their backs and remained at either side of the walkway.<
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“Stay close, Breac,” he said, when the man seemed to object. Breac nodded and walked a few paces away, also turning his back.
Connor stayed in the shadows—it hurt his eyes less than being in the direct sun—but he nodded to Moira then. “You may remove the cloak now.”
She shed it like a flower dropping its petals: The top fell away, exposing the loose and wild curls of her hair, first. Then she pulled the laces, and the cloak fell to the ground, puddling around her feet. Then, she blossomed in front of him.
She lifted her face and closed her eyes and let the sun beat down on her. The winds driven by the seas tousled her hair, but it was so short it never covered her face. He watched as she turned into the winds and stood unmoving as they buffeted her, tugging on her tunic. He thought she smiled, a thing he’d never seen her do before, but it was fleeting and gone before he could say aye or nay.
He allowed her some minutes of quiet before he began asking his questions. “How long have you searched for me?”
“Six years,” she answered.
She could not have even been ten and eight years yet, which meant she’d been just a child when she set out to destroy him.
He tried to think back to some of his early visions. He’d had no control then, no sense of how to choose the recipient or how to guide the flow of the Sight. There were no rules then, only madness and chaos.
“When was your family…when?” he asked. He watched as a tear rolled down her cheek and expected her to refuse, but she did not. The tear was the only sign of her being affected by the questions.
“Six years ago, Seer,” she snapped. “I heard the men who destroyed our village speak of you. How you had guided them to us and given instructions about our deaths.”
“You escaped. How many others went with you?”
She turned then, away from his gaze, and leaned against the stone wall. He saw her shoulders shaking and knew she was remembering that time.
A Storm of Passion Page 9