Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  The stone barely touched his palm before the visions crashed through his brain.

  A man picking among the fields of dead, cheeks blackened with dirt and sweat, streaked with tears. Finding one body among the hundreds, he dropped to his knees, cradling the corpse as if it were a sleeping child. Lifted his head to hurl a curse to the sky, his face caught by a bloody sun. Eyes burning hot and gold as molten steel.

  “It can’t be,” Brendan whispered. “I won’t let it happen.”

  Dropping the stone as if scalded, he dragged in a breath like a drowning swimmer. The defeated warrior and his fallen comrade, both fading beneath a pall of smoke and fog and gold-edged mist.

  Once again he was in the wagon with Elisabeth. Somewhere on the road between Dun Eyre and Dublin. A distant ringing of bells still echoing in his ears.

  “Did you really think you could return to Ireland and not be caught?”

  “Let’s say I was hopefully optimistic.”

  The wagon hit a bump, the jolt like an explosion of nerve endings from his shoulder to his fingertips. “Does he do that on purpose?” Brendan groused.

  Helena Roseingrave gave a smile of half amusement. “Rogan’s no member of the Four-in-Hand, but his other talents make up for any lack of skill at the ribbons. It was he who discovered your trail outside Gort and tracked you down. Lucky for you.”

  Luck? She called this luck? Lying in the back of a wagon with a hole in him that hurt like the devil at the mercy of a woman he knew by reputation as being driven, dangerous, and, according to Jack, the world’s best kisser? Though he doubted he’d ever be in a position to test that last quality.

  “He’s a mage-chaser?” He cast a respectful glance at the hunched back of his tormentor on the box. Many Other possessed the ability to sense mage energy. Those skilled enough to follow it like a hound follows a scent were rare indeed.

  The wagon dropped with a rattling thud into another pothole, slamming his shoulder into the side of the wagon. Spots shot before his eyes, and he almost passed out at the pain. “Bloody hell, that hurt like a m—”

  “Shh! You’ll wake your captive.”

  Elisabeth lay rolled in a blanket, a folded coat as her pillow. In the narrow bed of the wagon, she’d curled uncomfortably close to him. A peep of red hair and the curve of a pink cheek was all he could see above the blanket, but she gave off heat like a furnace, and if he stretched his hand just a bit to the left, he’d be able to rest it on the swell of her hip. Not that he would. Of course not. This was Elisabeth. He needed to gain hold of himself.

  “Is that what she told you?” Somehow he’d thought they’d moved beyond Elisabeth’s initial fury. Knowing she still regarded him as the devil incarnate hurt more than he thought it would.

  “That was the least insulting thing she told me. Though, for a prisoner, she seemed awfully concerned over your survival. Cried all over you. Rogan had to pry her away before I could sew you up. Let me guess, your incredible Douglas magnetism swept her off her feet.”

  “That’s right. Nothing like a little mayhem and terror to get the blood pumping. Better than oysters and sentimental poetry.”

  Guilt gnawed at him. It was his fault Lissa had been dragged into this. His fault she’d almost been killed back there. “Elisabeth’s involvement was a mistake. She’s nothing to do with any of this debacle,” he said.

  “Another victim of Brendan Douglas? Shocking. You must be racking up quite a count of people who’ve paid for your errors.” Her eyes bored into his.

  “Why didn’t you let me die back there? Or kill me yourself?” he snarled.

  She gazed upon him coolly. “Perhaps you’d prefer that. A swift clean death at my hand to what waits should Máelodor recapture you?”

  “You’ve made quite a study. Should I be flattered?”

  “Warned.”

  “You haven’t yet told me why you came to our aid? Was it merely so you can execute me at your leisure? The cat playing with the wounded mouse?”

  She arched one sarcastic brow. “That’s more in your line, isn’t it?”

  He breathed slowly as he sought to banish the memories. Or at least manage them. But illness and pain broke down his usual iron control. Images burned hot in his mind, whispering figures moved through his consciousness like ghosts.

  “No, I’ll not grant you your death wish, Brendan Douglas,” she said smoothly. “If I’m not mistaken, your greatest punishment is living.”

  “No,” he answered, “it’s remembering.”

  Her gaze froze him with its malice. “Then may you live until you’re old and gray and never forget. I know I won’t.”

  They pulled the wagon off the road into a meadow. Unhitched the ponies to graze. A heavy sky threatened rain, gauzy mist threading the streambeds and bottomland. But the temperature remained pleasant, and Elisabeth shed her shawl as she crossed the grass to kneel beside Brendan.

  “Miss Roseingrave’s ridden ahead. Now’s your chance.”

  Brendan fumbled with the plate of sausages on his lap. “My chance to do what?”

  “Poof us out of here in a cloud of smoke. Turn Rogan to a toad. I don’t know.”

  “You really do have an odd notion of Other, haven’t you? And all along I mistook ignorance for hostility.”

  “It was not!” She lowered her voice when Rogan looked up from pouring himself a cup of coffee. “It was not hostility,” she hissed. “I just don’t . . . or rather, it’s not as simple as that . . . that is to say I don’t . . . Oh, bother, I’m not going to waste my time explaining to you.”

  If she couldn’t articulate it in her own head, how would she make Brendan understand her conflicted fascination-repulsion with the Other? Easier to let him think her unreasonable, even if it reflected badly. After all, she didn’t care what he thought.

  Did she?

  He juggled his fork and cup in his left hand, his right arm immobile in heavy bandages. “I bear Fey blood, Lissa. I’m not one of the faery folk myself. I don’t poof. And as chummy as you and Rogan have become, I’m surprised you’d even entertain the notion of his being transformed into a toad.”

  “Just a temporary sort of spell. Nothing permanently scarring.”

  Brendan scowled at a sausage evading all his attempts to spear it. One-handed, he couldn’t manage holding plate, fork, and knife. At every stab, the sausage wobbled and slid away from him. “The answer is still no. I can’t cast a spell over Rogan turning him into a newt, a snake, or a flea on Killer’s backside. He’s Rogan, and Rogan he remains.”

  “But you said yourself they’ve been hunting you.” Unable to watch his frustrated fumblings another moment, she took his plate and utensils and carved the offending sausage into bite-size pieces before handing it back. “That Máelodor and the Amhas-draoi are both out to kill you.”

  “Thank you.” He speared a piece of sausage, popping it into his mouth with a vicious smile. “To clarify, the Amhas-draoi want me dead. Máelodor wants me alive. Torture’s more fun that way. At least for the torturer.”

  She dropped beside him against the wall, the ground damp under her skirts and liable to leave a muddy spot, but in this dress, who’d notice? “Then Helena—”

  “Is not playing by the rules, which generates all sorts of interesting questions.” He finished his sausage. Sipped at his coffee. Leaned his head back against the wall, staring off into space with a sigh. “I won’t draw on my powers more than necessary, Lissa. It would be . . . unwise.” He blinked, and the anguish she thought she saw within his eyes vanished. “Besides, while I’m hampered with this damned shoulder, any escape attempt would end badly.”

  “So we do nothing?”

  “So we’re a ‘we’ now?” Amusement brightened his features.

  “As much a ‘we’ as they are a ‘them.’” She frowned. “You know what I mean.”

  “Which in itself should be enough to give us both pause.”

  He sighed again, adjusting his sling as if his shoulder ached. She shouldn’t
push him. His fever still came and went, the marks of his injury etched in every fresh line upon his already finely drawn features.

  “Until I sort out my business with the stone, you’re trapped with me, and while I’m vulnerable as a bloody kitten, we’re trapped with them,” he said. “Could be worse.”

  “I can’t begin to imagine how.” No, she shouldn’t be insisting, but neither should he be taking this whole business as some sort of schoolboy lark. “You said you’ve spent seven years running from these people.”

  “Yes, but as I also said, Miss Roseingrave is behaving decidedly un-Amhas-draoi.”

  “Meaning you’re still alive.”

  “Precisely. For whatever reason, she wants to keep me that way. Máelodor’s men might find a wounded man and a young woman easy targets. Not so a battle-trained Amhas-draoi warrior. We’re safe as houses for the nonce. I, for one, plan to enjoy the respite.” He lifted his good arm behind his head. Closed his eyes.

  “You are the most infuriating man,” she huffed.

  “Yes.” He smiled, eyes still closed. “But you love me anyway.”

  Elisabeth sat on the box beside Rogan, watching the road unfold before them, the landscape to either side vibrant green with spring. She lifted her face to a weak sun moving in and out of low, thick clouds, scattering shadows over the fields to either side. Let the stiff wind give her mind a thorough sweeping as she inhaled the heady spring scents of turned earth and new growth. Birds chattered and sang in the hedgerows, and once or twice she caught sight of a fox, a red flash through shady woods strewn with wildflowers.

  Brendan slept. Helena Roseingrave left them on their way through Banagher with a promise to meet up with them later in the day. No explanation, though she and Rogan spoke quietly together for some minutes before she swung up into the saddle.

  Passing the wagon, Helena reined in the gelding, her level black gaze resting on Elisabeth until she wanted to squirm. Horrid, smelly dress. Hair a messy tangle. She could well imagine the wonderful picture she made.

  “He abducted you in order to protect you from Máelodor?” As if Helena found it hard to believe Brendan would act from a purely altruistic motive.

  Elisabeth flushed. “That’s what he says.”

  “He’s not the way I imagined him.”

  “No. He isn’t the way I imagined him either.”

  Elisabeth’s initial terror had receded far more quickly than she thought it would. After the first night, when she’d started at every sound, she’d since slept like a log. She’d never realized how sheltered and protected she’d truly been. How privilege had insulated her from more than poverty. And how much she would enjoy this strange taste of freedom.

  Long days of travel left her exhausted by nightfall. An inexplicable curiosity at the ever-changing scenery pulled her from her blankets at dawn. That and Rogan’s breakfasts of thick slices of ham and eggs fried to perfection accompanied by crisp potatoes, which she shared with Killer.

  The little dog came and went, sometimes disappearing for long stretches when Elisabeth would finally decide he was gone for good. Then, just as she’d given up hope, he’d turn up trotting along beside the wagon as if he’d never been away. Helena despised him. Rogan tolerated him. Brendan ignored him, but Elisabeth found Killer’s company strangely reassuring and wouldn’t hear a word against him. At times, she almost felt as if he knew what she was thinking and might at any moment open his mouth to tell her everything would be all right.

  “Ah, Miss Fitzgerald. Twenty more points for me. Look there. A flock of sheep.” Rogan’s voice jolted her from her thoughts as he pointed to a meadow up ahead.

  “You win.” She laughed. “I’ll never surpass you unless I’m presented an entire parade of post chaises and an old woman or two.”

  “Not your fault. I’ve more practice at travelling piquet. On the road as much as I am, I see what’s about. Besides”—he glanced at her from the corner of his eye—“you’ve been a thousand miles away all day. We could have passed flocks of dancing pink sheep and you’d not have noticed one of them.”

  She ran her finger over the gnarled wood of the seat. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “A dangerous thing for a young lady to be doing,” he teased, laughter in his voice.

  “My family and friends must be worried sick. My aunts are probably out of their heads wondering what’s happened to me. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “No?” He shot her a crinkly eyed smile. “I’m a big believer in destinies, Miss Fitzgerald. Perhaps you’re exactly where you need to be.”

  “Completely compromised, fleeing for my life, and heading who knows where for who knows why?”

  “That about sums it up. Look on it as an adventure.”

  She gazed out over a lush green meadow, so beautiful it caused a pain low in her chest. “Catastrophe, more like.”

  He nudged her playfully with an elbow. “It’s what you make of it. You can let it beat you down or you can shape it into something better.”

  “Like taking lemons and making lemonade?”

  “I prefer barley into whiskey.” He grinned. “You drink what you like, and I’ll drink what I like.”

  Chivied out of her melancholy, she returned to watching the unfolding of the road ahead, the sun warm on her back. Dwellings clustered close to the road, a scattering of cottages and storefronts. Traffic increasing so that Rogan had to slow the wagon, the ponies tossing their heads and whinnying their greetings. Two dogs ran from a yard, barking and racing after them. Killer responded with a series of yaps, the fur on his back in an angry ridge.

  Elisabeth grabbed him by the neck. “Don’t even think it. They would eat you alive.”

  The terrier didn’t seem to take notice of her warning. He went on snarling and barking at the village dogs as if to say, Back off. These are my people.

  Rogan chuckled. “If Helena sees that dog up here, she’s liable to have my head on a platter.”

  “Miss Roseingrave isn’t here and you won’t tell her, will you?” She turned her best wheedling smile in his direction.

  “Arrah, now, Miss Fitzgerald. Would I snitch on the little bugger? Not likely.” He scratched Killer behind an ear, the terrier leaning against the harper with eyes half-closed in joy. “He’s good company when he’s not stealing the cheese from my lunch.”

  Rogan pulled up outside a blacksmith’s shop, the ring of a hammer matching the thump of her brain against her temples. He leapt down from the box to tie the ponies and give them a rough scratch upon their heads. “You stay with Douglas while I purchase provisions.”

  Once he was gone, she drew aside the curtain to check on Brendan.

  He slept on, his face chalk-white but for two vivid spots of color high upon his cheeks. Sweat damped his hair, sickness dulling the vibrant brilliance of him like a shade placed upon a flame. Where was his glittering Fey beauty now? Where was the rakish charmer who could twist her into knots simply by looking at her? This efficient killer possessed a savagery and a harshness she’d never experienced in the men she’d known. A dark heart to the diamond. A wolf among lapdogs.

  So, why did her heart race remembering their one and only kiss? Why did she, even for a second, imagine the life she might have led if not for his disappearance? Why did Brendan crowd her thoughts to the detriment of common sense?

  Her skin prickled, a fizz of excitement bubbling through her. Was this some cosmic plan in motion? Was Rogan right? She shook her head. Right or wrong, there was nothing and no one for her here.

  He couldn’t sleep. The air pressed cool and wet against his face. Killer pressed hot and furry against his ribs. Rogan snored and smacked his lips. Elisabeth remained a hump of a blanket across from him. Roseingrave? Who knew? She appeared and disappeared on a regular basis. No announcements of her departure. No sound to mark her returns. The Amhas-draoi warrior elevated inscrutable mystery to an art form.

  Her intentions toward him remained an unanswered question, though he was still alive, whic
h boded well. Surely the fact she’d not executed him immediately meant she had other plans for him. Plans that did not involve a quick severing of his head from his shoulders. She wanted something. He could well imagine what that something was.

  Brendan closed his hand round the stone. The jolt of its power kicking against his chest. A flash of fire pouring between his fingers.

  Rose and orange and gold and bright white burst across his vision. Cleared to reveal the same field of dead. The same pall of thick, choking smoke. But this time, the defeated king lifted his head, and Brendan felt the connection between them like a current. The mage energy charging through his tired body.

  Arthur pointed with the broken edge of his sword. Brendan’s gaze following. One body among the hundreds and thousands. A corpse, bloodied and hacked, a mess of gristle and bone. The face, a little older, a little more careworn, but still recognizable.

  Aidan.

  His brother. A curl of auburn hair fell across a forehead blue-white in death. Sightless eyes staring toward a sky wheeling with crows.

  Brendan slammed his hand against the side of the wagon, pain shooting up his arm. Shattering the vision into a million dancing shards of light.

  Not a vision of past battles. But a prophecy of what lay in store for the Other should he fail.

  Roseingrave, Máelodor, Elisabeth be damned!

  He wouldn’t fail.

  ten

  “It’s not as grand as you’re probably used to, but it’s home.” Helena ushered them into her tidy comfortable parlor with an imperious wave of her hand before sinking into a chair, exhaustion clear in the tight lines beside her mouth.

  After days on the road, Elisabeth’s bones rattled and road dust lay in gritty layers upon her skin and in her hair. She couldn’t wait to peel herself out of her gown and scrub every particle of her body until it squeaked.

  Rogan sauntered into the room as if long familiar with its comforts. Despite the circumstances, Elisabeth had grown to like the enigmatic harper. Over hours of conversation, he’d proven to be a man of many talents and many faces. Cunning and resourceful. Always quick when spirits flagged to play a tune upon his harp and jolly them along with a song or two.