“Why would you heal him?” Derek asked Logitt suspiciously. “He’s your enemy. Your chieftain hates him.”
“Yes, he does,” the woman said as she rose. “He wants to see if the wolf can fly like an eagle.”
“What does that mean?” Derek demanded, but the healer didn’t answer.
Callan shut his eyes briefly, suppressing a shudder. He could have told him exactly what it meant but didn’t. Executions, even those of spies and prisoners of war, were rare in Agienna, but they were always brutal—and the “blood eagle” death, wherein the victim’s ribs were cut from the spine and pulled apart in a mockery of wings, was perhaps the most gruesome of all.
Logitt knelt beside Derek next. He flinched at her touch, but she hushed him again and put her hand on his left shoulder, murmuring some sort of a spell. Derek arched, convulsing with what had to be agony, and then sagged against the wall, wheezing.
“Rest,” Logitt threw behind her shoulder as she headed for the exit.
“My shoulder,” Derek said wonderingly as the door closed and they were alone once again. He raised his left arm and flexed his fingers, looking at it as if he’d grown a new limb. “She really did heal it. I didn’t…believe it was possible.”
“Don’t trust her,” Callan pushed out. “Don’t trust her magic. I don’t know why she did that or what they have in store for you, but you have to try and get away.”
“I’m not leaving without you,” Derek said stubbornly, tearing his eyes away from inspecting his newly healed arm.
“Yes, you are,” Callan bit out. “You’ve heard her. Aegir won’t listen to anyone. He wants my blood, and frankly, I can’t blame him.”
“She might have said it just to scare you,” Derek said firmly, with a conviction as false as the intention behind it was heartfelt. “I saw the faces of all those other people who were sitting there with Aegir. They are as disinclined to engage in another conflict with Mulberny as we are with them. He’s the only one who’s pushing for it. The others aren’t as blinded by anger as he is; they wouldn’t let him execute you on a whim.”
Callan shook his head. He didn’t fail to notice Derek had said “we,” and that small word pierced his heart with the simplicity of its meaning. But there could be no “we” for them now, and the realization cut as deep as any sword. He’d been too proud, too self-absorbed to see what a precious gift he’d been given the day the priestess joined his and Derek’s hands together, and now it was too late to beg the gods for another pass. He’d squandered all his chances, save this last one.
Whatever the reason behind Logitt’s benevolence in healing his concussion, now he was able to think clearly once again, his mind unclouded by the fog of pain and disorientation—at least until the torture started. It was a narrow window of opportunity, but he had to take advantage of it to make sure Derek didn’t share in his fate.
“Promise me,” he said, dropping his voice, “that you won’t show them we care for each other. The only way for you to survive this is if they think this marriage is nothing more to us than a seal on paper.”
There was a pause as Derek seemed to consider his words.
“Do we?” he asked finally. His voice was low as well, almost intimate. “Care for each other?”
Callan realized, with a pang of regret, that he’d never hear him use this tone of voice under different circumstances, in another sort of darkness.
“I do,” Callan said.
Only two little words. Saying them aloud was like tearing a protective layer off his soul, leaving it raw and exposed, yet they’d never felt more right than at this moment.
“I do too,” Derek said softly, a heartbeat later, and for the first time since their capture, Callan found himself fighting back tears.
Chapter Eleven
THEY’D TAKEN CALLAN away just as evening was setting in. Panicked, Derek had tried to object, to demand the guards tell him what was going on, but they ignored him as they would a yapping dog. Callan had thrown him a quelling look, and Derek clamped down on his outrage, if not his worry.
He fidgeted, wide-awake despite the late hour, his heart racing. He strained to hear what was going on outside his small prison but could hear no roar of an incensed crowd clamoring for blood. Either the execution was taking place somewhere farther away, or it had not happened yet.
With every ounce of his being, he prayed for the latter. But prayers were not enough. The gods never answered prayers that weren’t backed by actions, and as usual, he only had his own acumen to count on to get Callan out of this mess.
He knew Callan was certain this was the end for him. He’d seen the bleakness in his eyes, born not of despair, but of acceptance. Callan had steeled himself for the punishment he believed was his due, for the death he’d been courting his entire life.
Well, fuck that. Derek wasn’t going to take the solution Callan had proposed, serving as a harbinger of tragedy to be sent back to Duke Bergen. For Derek, their earlier whispered “I do’s” hadn’t been a goodbye; they’d been a promise, and he was damned if he’d break it while he still breathed.
The dull pain, his constant companion since the arrow had gone through his shoulder at Laurel Falls, was gone. Derek tried not to dwell on the reason why the witch had bothered to heal it; for now, it was enough that his arm was as strong as it’d ever been. The cut on his thigh still smarted when he moved, but the pain was bearable.
The chain attached to the metal cuff around his left ankle was bolted to the wall. Made of sturdy metal links, it was rusty with age and disuse, as were the bolts that held it in place. He could try to yank it off the wall, but there’d be no hiding the racket. The guard stationed outside the door would be on him in moments, and he wasn’t deluded enough to think he could overpower him bare-handed—or, indeed, at all.
Perhaps he could try talking to the clan elders, appeal to their common sense, make them see Callan was not the man they thought he was. He could promise to broker some sort of renewed understanding between the Danulf and Mulberny, one that wouldn’t be fraught with prejudice and distrust. But he had to do it as fast as possible and be clever enough not to let his desperation show.
After a few minutes, the guard unlocked the door in response to Derek’s insistent shouting.
“I want to speak with somebody,” Derek said quickly, before the burly Agiennan could shut him up with a well-aimed slap. “Somebody from the council. I have important things I want to discuss with them.”
He didn’t know whether the man understood him, but he shut the door again, plunging the space into complete darkness. The hut had no windows, and the only source of illumination was the thin crack under the door.
He shouted some more, to emphasize his point, but for long minutes nothing happened. Maybe simply trying to pull the chain wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all since he was being ignored anyway. He was seriously considering it when the door opened again, snapping his attention.
Logitt stepped inside, carrying a clay oil lamp. The tiny flame cast harsh shadows into the recesses of her wrinkled face, giving it a sinister appearance, though Derek suspected some of the effect was generated by his own imagination. With the practice of magic forbidden throughout Ivicia, these had been his first direct encounters with it, and he couldn’t quite hide the deeply ingrained fear they inspired.
“You’re a fussy one,” the woman observed, regarding him dispassionately as Derek cowered before her on the straw-covered floor. “What do you want?”
She wasn’t the one he’d hoped to speak with, but he had a feeling no one else was coming.
He recalled Mathis’s words, about witches going mad, succumbing to their magic. But Logitt didn’t seem in any way unsound. If anything, her gaze was only too sharp and cunning for his comfort.
“First of all, I want to know where your people had taken my husband,” he said, sitting upright with as much dignity as he could muster. “Is he dead?”
“Not yet,” Logitt said.
It wasn’t a very satisfactory answer, but Derek was willing to take what he could if it meant Callan was still alive.
“I know you don’t like him,” Derek said. “Believe me, I can understand the sentiment. But you have to ask yourself, is the death of one man worth the lives of so many people who are going to carry the brunt of another war? You have the perfect chance to change the tide for all of Agienna. If you release us and prove your good faith both to the Duke of Mulberny and the High Queen of Ivicia, you have my word that the terms of the peace treaty will be amended. There shouldn’t have to be any more bloodshed for Agienna to prosper again.”
“Your word?” Logitt repeated. She knelt before Derek with much less effort than he would’ve expected for someone her age, and brought the flame closer to his face, making him blink and squint against the light. “The elders of the clan will not respect your word. To them, you’re nothing but a child hiding behind a meaningless title, a sparrow caught up in a murder of ravens. Now, your husband… We’ve taken his word. Do you know why?”
Derek shook his head, mesmerized by the fire’s reflection in Logitt’s pale eyes.
“Because he’s our kin. The Dukes of Mulberny, as they call themselves now, came from these Isles centuries ago, before your great unified realm ever existed. They were witches, mindbenders, sorcerers. Oh, they want so badly to forget it. They call it a curse and try to deny the magic that flows in their veins, to erase the time when they ran with the wolves and called upon winds and rain, but it still sings in their blood, even if it takes different forms now.”
Logitt’s words resonated weirdly with what Callan had done what seemed like eons ago, on the night when Derek had come upon the lone wolf in the woods. But he said nothing to Logitt about it. It felt much too private to be shared with anyone.
“We believed Duke Bergen when he forced us to sign that miserable treaty, promising us prosperity. But in reality, it cut us off from all trade and fishery by forbidding us to come near the shores of Mulberny. We believed his son when he vowed to build a new future with one of our daughters. But yet again, they’ve shown how little they care for those who were once their people. The war might be over, but we are still starving because of Bergen’s decrees, and Idona of the Danulf is dead. No words can change that. The hope we had for a new future is gone.”
Derek licked his lips nervously. He could try arguing with her, but he sensed it would be futile. He was painfully used to his arguments being ignored.
“If I’m so insignificant to you, why did Aegir have the Undin kidnap me?” he asked.
“Aegir doesn’t command the Undin. No doubt they realized the Danulf would pay a pretty price for Callan and seized the opportunity. You were merely collateral.”
That left Derek puzzled. Whatever the Undin wanted with him, they’d targeted him specifically. Callan and Leandre coming to his aid with such disastrous consequences had not factored into their plans, as far as he could tell. No doubt, Callan was a much bigger prize, and that had made them change their course for promise of a larger profit. But their original intent regarding Derek remained a mystery since it was clear either the Danulf had no hand in it, or Logitt was badly misinformed. Whatever had transpired, Derek refused to be the cause of Callan’s downfall.
“You can’t just kill him,” he said, putting every ounce of his conviction into the plea. “Please.”
There was a pause as the old witch studied his face by the flickering light of the homemade lamp.
“Blood begets blood,” she said finally. “There’s no breaking that cycle—not until the Mulbernians look back to their past and honor it, until they see us as kin and do right by us, accepting their ‘curse’ as their birthright. Only then can our trust be rebuilt and the course of the future set on a different path.”
“But Callan can’t do any of those things if he’s dead!”
“As I said, he’s not dead yet, and neither are you, little lordling.” Logitt rose to her feet and headed for the door without so much as a backward glance. “Remember, I didn’t waste my magic on you for nothing.”
LONG HOURS PASSED, and the world outside grew quiet, with only the distant hooting of an owl somewhere in the forest that surrounded the village breaking the silence. A tiny flame still flickered in the oil lamp Logitt had forgotten on the floor beside him.
He knew he should get some sleep, but he was too anxious to relax, despite the exhaustion. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured his mother crying, his siblings (yes, even Macon) holding a funeral vigil with an empty casket. He imagined Callan kneeling before Aegir as the chieftain raised his battle-ax, and opened his eyes quickly so as to not see the rest.
Somehow, over the course of the last few chaotic days, his feelings toward his arranged husband had changed. He’d gotten to know something of the man beneath the cold, sometimes menacing exterior. Certainly not everything, but enough to want to find out more about him. To want him, and not just in a sensual way—though there was no denying the physical attraction. Lust, Derek could deal with, but these tentative feelings he was afraid to put a name to were entirely new to him. He couldn’t have denied them even had they been one-sided—which, by Callan’s own admission, they weren’t. Callan had come to his rescue when Derek needed him and was now about to pay the ultimate price for his unfortunate attachment.
The thought of losing him was far more terrifying than the fear of his own uncertain future. Derek’s failure at diplomacy didn’t mean he could give up. He wouldn’t sit here and bemoan his own helplessness.
He sat up and cast about his empty cell with renewed determination, making use of the feeble light from the lamp. But there was nothing he could use to pry the shackle open without drawing the guard’s attention. The locked door was the only way out. His clothes were filthy and torn, he was barefoot and shackled, and all he had at his immediate disposal were straw and a bucket of stale water.
None of it was particularly helpful. Pushing down on growing despair, he forced himself to calm down and think, until his gaze fell again on the oil lamp. The thick wick, sticking out of a hole in the clay dish, burned steadily.
Derek stared at orange flame, his thoughts racing. Maybe the witch hadn’t forgotten the lamp. Maybe she’d left it on purpose—and he could use it to his advantage. Stealth wasn’t the way to go about it at all; what he needed was a distraction, and the larger, the better.
Not giving himself the chance to consider how risky the idea was, he kicked the lamp hard with his left foot. The lamp landed on the pile of straw that’d served as Callan’s pallet, the oil splashing. Fire caught on to it immediately, but for a moment, it seemed as if the straw might be too damp to support it.
Don’t die out, don’t die out. Derek pushed himself to his feet and upended the water bucket onto his own pile of straw. Then he crouched and blew on the tiny flames until they took hold.
Blood pounding in his ears, he waited, watching the fire build until the waves of heat rolled over his face. Finally, judging the situation to appear dire enough (which it undoubtedly was, considering he was trapped and practically tied to one spot), he took a deep breath and screamed.
“Fire! Help! Anybody!”
A few seconds later the door opened, and the guard poked his head inside. All traces of sleepiness and irritation evaporated from his bearded face as he caught sight of the flames licking the ceiling beams.
“Please, undo me! I’m going to burn!” Derek pleaded, wide-eyed, injecting as much panic as he could into his voice. To emphasize his words, he yanked at the chain as he backed away from the fire, clutching at the bucket he pretended to have used to douse it, and whimpering with fear that was only half-feigned.
The guard glanced at the bucket, but it was decidedly empty, and there’d hardly be any time to fetch another one.
With what Derek assumed to be profuse swearing, the man crossed the cell and bent beside him to undo the leg cuff with a pin key.
Derek raised the bucket and brought it down hard
on the guard’s head. The man toppled into the wet straw by Derek’s feet, the pin flying out of his slackened hand.
Derek hissed in frustration and dropped to his knees, sifting through the straw. Acrid smoke burned his eyes and nostrils, making him cough violently. His hands were shaking with the surge of genuine fear, but finally, he managed to fish out the long rusty pin and hurriedly unlock the cuff. He gripped the unconscious guard under his arms and dragged him outside, leaving him well away from the little prison that was nothing more than an outbuilding of the chieftain’s main hall. Enemy or not, the man had tried to help him, and Derek wasn’t about to let him be burned alive.
Shutting the door behind him to contain the fire for a few more minutes, Derek glanced around furtively, shivering with the sudden chill. The backyard of the large house was deserted save for a few stray rats and empty carts. No one had spotted him yet, but the hardest part would be finding where Callan was being kept before someone caught a whiff of the smoke or discovered the fire. Guided by the moon and the faint glare from the burning structure, he circled the yard, keeping to the deeper shadows.
Could Callan be inside the hall? No doubt, there’d be people sleeping inside it at this hour, and Derek was afraid to try to find his way in an unfamiliar space, full of potentially hostile and pissed-off people. There were no windows, only skylights that were too high on the wall for him to peek through, so he crept around the long house until he reached the wide-open yard around the front steps.
A low fire, barely more than glowing embers, was burning in a deep pit at the center of the yard. Behind it, under the shallow stairs that led inside the hall, stood a high pillory with a man slumped against it, his neck and wrists trapped in round holes formed by two heavy boards. It was positioned so he could only stand, leaning on the supporting pole that was rooted deep in the ground. The man was stripped to his waist, his dark matted hair obscuring his face, but Derek had no doubt who the unlucky prisoner was.
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