by Amy Tolnitch
She started to tell Arailt just how familiar his daughter was, but held back. Vanasia was distraught enough over her unwitting involvement in Vardon’s escape. Her father’s embarrassment would only unnecessarily worsen the matter. “That is fine, Arailt. It is imperative that we find a way to harness Vardon and return him where he belongs.”
“Or vanquish him completely.”
“Kill him, you mean.”
“Aye.”
Sebilla sighed. “I fear that may end up being the only solution open to us.”
“We will find a way, my queen.”
“I hope so.”
“May I escort you to the palace?” Arailt stood a little straighter, and puffed out his flat chest. Though he was neither a tall nor particularly robust man, over his many years of life Arailt had developed a regalness about him, an appearance that fit his character and scholarly ways.
“No thank you, friend. I think I shall enjoy the tranquility of the morn a while longer.”
Arailt bowed and shuffled off.
Sebilla turned back to gaze over the water, but found her ability to simply enjoy the sight and smell of her beloved land was gone in the light of Vardon’s threat. She rose and made her way back to the marble pathway and on to her palace, grateful that it was still so early she met no one on her way. Everyone knew Vardon had escaped, and everyone knew he was a threat, though few knew the particulars.
As she walked into her rooms, she wondered how D’Ary fared. She sent up a prayer to the mother goddess that his ability to conceal his true self was as good as he apparently believed it to be.
The waiting, the not knowing, was driving her mad with frustration. She knew if there was an answer in the archives, Arailt would find it, but it was terrible to wait while she had no idea what Vardon was up to, particularly now that the true laird had returned.
Once more, she set out her scrying bowl, this time adding a scattering of moonstone fragments to the water. As she waited for the water to heat and clear, she sat on her marble terrace and closed her eyes, focusing on breathing in the fragrant scent of gardenia blossoms, opening her ears to the sounds of birdsong and the gentle gurgle of the water, willing her spirit to calm.
When she opened her eyes, the water in the bowl appeared clear and endlessly deep.
“Goddess, aid me,” she whispered. “Aid me.”
Slowly, a picture took form beneath the water. Sebilla sucked in a breath as she saw the same woman she’d glimpsed before. Now, she was no longer in the forest, but in a large stone chamber. As the image sharpened, Sebilla realized several things.
The chamber lay within Castle MacCoinneach, yet close to Paroseea itself.
The woman fairly glowed with the power of the fey.
She was the laird’s new bride.
Sebilla felt as if she’d fallen into the depths of the water, taken far from her palace terrace. She didn’t fight the feeling, but embraced it, searching for answers. Who is she? Sebilla silently asked. Who is she?
Aimili MacCoinneach is part of the key, an otherworldly voice answered. Give her the dagger.
Sebilla jerked back, stunned at the last direction. Give a human the precious dagger of Artemis? A fey human, she reminded herself. But still … every part of her screamed in protest. She could not possibly let such a powerful object leave Paroseea, leave her.
The goddess has spoken, her inner voice said.
With shaking hands, Sebilla walked into her inner chamber and retrieved the carved, gold box holding the dagger. She sat on her bed and took it into her hand, immediately feeling its surge of power. How could she give such a powerful object to another? And not just another, but a mere girl of the mortal realm.
The dagger had been in possession of the ruler of Paroseea for as long as she could remember, centuries at least. The blade was sharp and straight, the hilt intricately carved with dolphins, their eyes set with stones that changed color in the light. No one knew for certain who had crafted it.
Some said he was a powerful druid who harnessed all the power of nature to rest within the blade. Others believed the gods themselves had created it, gifting it to Paroseea as a mark of favor.
It held magic, that much was certain.
She carefully put the dagger away, knowing she had no choice. If putting the dagger into the hands of the girl called Aimili would help her defeat Vardon, then so be it.
Padruig blinked his eyes open, noting the gray of the early morning light filtering in around the window shutters. By the saints, his neck felt as stiff as … damn, he thought, looking down at the obvious bulge in his braies. He moved his head from side to side, wondering why he felt so uncomfortable.
And then he remembered.
He turned toward the bed and saw Aimili staring back at him. Her presence struck him like a bolt to the chest and for a moment he simply forgot to breathe. Her hair was in wavy disarray around her face, her eyes huge dark wells in her flawless face. In the faint light, he could see the curve of her breasts beneath her thin chemise.
Silence thickened between them as they stared at each other. Padruig swallowed with far more effort than he wished and said, “Good morn.” He winced inside at the gruff sound of his voice and the flash of hurt in Aimili’s eyes.
No, he said to himself, this way is for the best. In time she would accustom herself to her role at Castle MacCoinneach.
And what of her role as your wife? his inner voice taunted. He ignored it and rose to his feet, stretching the crick in his back. “Did you sleep well?”
“Aye.” She looked away from him, and patted Cai, who let out a contented snuffle.
Padruig felt like a green lad of ten summers. What was he to do? Get the hell out of the chamber, he thought, before she realizes your rod has other ideas. He rose and quickly splashed some water on his face, intent on doing just that, then abruptly realized that he could not go just yet.
Just be plain with the lass, he told himself. ’Tis best to begin as you intend to go on. He removed his wedding tunic and carefully hung it on a hook, then drew off his undershirt. At a soft sound from the bed, he forced himself to turn.
Aimili’s gaze had grown even wider.
“’Tis not a pretty man you’ve wed,” he said. Along with the jagged scar on his back, he sported several more on his chest and back.
“Those must have hurt.”
“Aye. A bit.” Like his skin was on fire, but he was not about to admit the same to her. “Cai has taken a liking to you,” he said, pointing to the wolf.
“I am usually good with animals.”
Padruig cast about for something else to say, but ran out of ideas. “Aimili, ’tis important for the clan to believe they have a strong leader, a leader with a loyal helpmate at his side.”
“I would think none would question my loyalty after last eve.”
He scowled, having forgotten the incident. “You shall not endanger yourself like that again.”
She scowled back at him, and lifted her chin in obvious defiance.
It was all he could do not to launch himself at the bed, so arousing was the sight.
Say it plainly, he chided himself. “When I say loyal, I also mean …” Damn, he could feel a flush steal up his cheeks. “Consummated,” he spit out.
“I am no the one who chose to sleep on the floor.”
For a moment, he just stared at her. What was she saying? That she would welcome his presence in her bed? Nay, surely not. The lass was innocent. She was too kindhearted to tell him to take his ease elsewhere. That had to be it. “I need the sheet, lass.”
“What?”
God in heaven, why was she making this so difficult? “I need to mark the sheet so that none questions the marriage.”
With a puzzled look on her face, Aimili slid out of bed and wrapped her arms around her. The air in the chamber had cooled, and, God save him, Padruig could clearly see the points of her nipples against her chemise. He rumpled up the bedcovers, and made a shallow cut on his forearm. Bl
ood dripped onto the sheet, and Cai sprang off as if the whole business was an affront to him.
“There,” Padruig said, studying the stain. “’Tis done.” He turned to gaze at Aimili and found her watching him in bewilderment.
“Why do you do this?”
“I explained. Everyone will assume I have taken you.”
“Taken me.”
“Aye. Mated.”
“Oh.” Aimili’s voice was no more than a whisper. “But you did not.”
Padruig frowned. “Of course not. I’d not subject such a tender young lass to such.”
“I see.”
“Now, will you come and break the fast with me, or would you rather rest a while?” He strapped on his sword. “I’ve duties to see to.”
“I think I shall stay in here for a bit. Could you send someone up to tend the fire, and perhaps bring some warm water?”
Padruig snapped his fingers. “Aye, a good thought. I shall have a bath sent up. The clan will understand that you might be in need of such this morn.” He smiled at her, relieved beyond measure to put the whole matter of the bedding behind them. He had much more important things to see to, beginning with locating Angus Ransolm’s payment for Freya.
“Thank you.”
With a final nod, Padruig left.
After he went, Aimili slumped down into a chair, rubbed her arms, and stared unseeing at the closed door. In all of her wildest dreams, she could not have imagined a wedding morn like this. She was freezing, her husband had no interest whatsoever in touching her, and her only sleeping companion was to be a wolf.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she told herself sternly. You’ve a fine chamber to sleep in, ample food and drink, and soon your horses. If it is not the life you envisioned, then it is up to you to make the best of it.
A short knock preceded the arrival of an army of servants. At the rear came Morainn, a bright and patently false smile on her face. “Good morn,” she said in an equally bright voice.
Cai took the opportunity to pad out of the chamber.
“Good morn, sister,” Aimili said, eyeing the wooden tub some burly grooms hauled in. Within a few moments, a fire burned, and steam rose from the tub, with soap and drying cloths set on the table before the fire. Another servant bustled in with a flagon and cups, along with a platter holding bread and cheese.
“Is there aught else we can do for your comfort, Mistress?” an older woman asked.
Aimili was so surprised to be addressed so that for a moment she didn’t answer. “I … no, this is fine. Thank you.”
They trooped out but for Morainn, who came to rest a hand on Aimili’s shoulder. “How do you fare?”
“Fine.”
“Come, let me help you into the bath.”
“I can tend myself, Morainn. I am not an invalid.” Disgusted, she tossed off her chemise and stepped into the water.
“Here,” Morainn said, pressing a cup of wine into her hand.
Aimili caught her eye. “Why are you being so attentive?”
“Well, I …” Her voice trailed off, and then she whispered, “Was it terrible?”
“It?”
“You know. He is so fierce. And such a big man.” She shivered. “I worried for you.”
Aimili took a long sip of wine. She understood Padruig’s reason for wanting his clan to believe the marriage had been consummated, but surely she could tell the truth to Morainn. “Nothing happened. I told you, he does not want me that way.”
“But, ’tis not natural. He is a man. Why would he not want to lie with you?”
“I dinnae ken, not exactly.” She trailed her fingers through the warm water, more disheartened by the moment. “He sees me as a child.”
“Well, perhaps ’tis for the best that you are spared his … attentions.”
“Perhaps.”
“As I said, the harvest was poor,” the seneschal, Alard, told Padruig for perhaps the sixth or seventh time.
Padruig was fast losing patience with the man, no matter how fawning and earnest his manner. “Because not enough seed was purchased.”
Alard’s throat worked. “Aye, Laird.”
“’Tis your responsibility.”
“Aye, Laird, but Grigor would not provide me with sufficient coin. I did the best I could.”
“Not enough.” Padruig looked down at the accounting of what stores the castle possessed. The lack of grain was bad enough, but the number of sheep was down by almost half, as well, and the number of cattle so low to be nearly nonexistent. An unknown disease, according to Alard.
The simple fact was that there was not enough to feed the clan through the winter. “Where is this coin?”
“The Lair—uh, Grigor kept it locked in a trunk in his chamber, I believe.”
Padruig gave the man a narrow look. Alard had been at Castle MacCoinneach for a long time, but not in as high a position as seneschal. Padruig didn’t really know the man, and wasn’t sure whether he trusted him or not. “Are you kin to Grigor?”
Alard looked as if he wanted to flee. “Aye, Laird. He is my brother.”
“I see.”
“Please, Laird, do not paint me with the same brush. ’Tis true our relationship is why I hold my position, but I have truly tried. I have not agreed with Grigor’s spending. Ask anyone.”
“What did he spend coin on?”
Alard’s nose wrinkled. “Trinkets for his whores. Fine garments for himself. Drink.”
“You are the seneschal. At least for the moment,” Padruig added. “What do you propose we do?”
“I … uh, well, we must determine how much coin remains, Laird. I offer to speak to Grigor myself if you wish. Perhaps we could, I could travel to Inverness to purchase additional foodstuffs to see us through until spring.”
“We shall both talk to Grigor. After I search his chamber.”
“Very good, Laird. I am at your disposal.”
“You may leave the accounts.”
Alard bowed and began backing out of the room, then suddenly stopped. “Laird, some of the villagers are here to see you.”
Though he’d paid little heed to the village on his way to Castle MacCoinneach, Padruig had little doubt that the villagers had fared even more poorly under Grigor’s control. “Tell them I will see them in the hall anon.”
“Aye, Laird. And if you require aught else—”
Padruig raised his hand. “You may be sure that I shall send for you, Alard.” He looked down at the accounts and frowned. Pray God he found enough coin remaining or they were all in peril.
He spent the next three hours listening to a litany of complaints from villagers clearly distraught and beaten down by the strictures and failures of Grigor’s rule. He’d restricted their ability to cultivate plots for their own sustenance. Many of their homes were in need of repair. It was the same story over and over. His people needed help desperately.
He vowed to see it done, but the how of it remained a question.
Finally, he sat alone in the solar, sipping a cup of ale and pondering his next move. Of his bride, there’d been no sign. Presumably, she was in the stables, readying things for her precious horses.
When he thought back to waking up in his old chamber with Aimili looking sleep tousled and far too tempting, he cringed inside. He’d handled the situation as best he could, he told himself. When he thought of actually bedding the lass, which was far too often for his peace of mind, the thought of touching all of that youthful innocence seemed so very wrong, so wicked.
And yet, she was his wife. What a damnable state of affairs.
Aimili marched to the stables, determined to seize what she could salvage of her own life. She ignored the curious stares she received along the way, and held her head high. When she entered the dimly lit stables, she found her way blocked by a man she’d never seen before.
He was, of all things, stroking Loki on his head, and the blasted beast actually seemed to be enjoying it.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I am called D’Ary, my lady,” he answered with a smile.
Aimili looked between the man and Loki, growing suspicious. This man did not appear a mere stable hand. He was tall, well muscled, with handsome, sculpted features and warm amber eyes. Despite his plain garments, he held himself as if he were a warrior. And, most surprising of all, Loki apparently liked him. “What do you do here?”
“Anything the stable master requires,” he answered with a shrug. “Though I hope to have the chance to aid you in your work. I have heard that you have a rare talent with the horses.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Nay.”
The stable master, Hugo, saw them and strode down the aisle of the stable with a grin. “Ah, so you have met D’Ary, my lady. Good.”
“Aye. He was just explaining to me where he hailed from.” Aimili rocked back on her heels and gave D’Ary a smile.
“Far away, my lady. I fear I am a bit of a wanderer.”
“Have you experience training horses?”
“Aye.”
“Lady Aimili is moving several more horses to Castle MacCoinneach,” the stable master told him. “Fine steeds, to hear of it.”
“That they are,” Aimili assured him. “Twelve mares, three of whom are in foal; three stallions, including Loki here; and five young horses I have in training.”
D’Ary gave a low whistle. “’Tis a fair amount of work.”
Aimili shrugged. “I am used to it.”
“I thought perhaps D’Ary here could be of help to you, my lady,” the stable master said. “The beasts respond well to ’im.”
“’Twould be my pleasure.”
Oddly, Aimili found herself looking to Loki for guidance. What think you?
Take the man’s aid. He is a good one.
Fine praise, indeed, coming from you.
Just so. Apparently, disinclined to comment further, Loki turned and bent down to snuffle some leftover pieces of hay.
“Very well,” she said. “We shall give it a try.”
D’Ary gestured toward Loki. “Would you like me to tack him up?”
“Not today. I thought to give him a few days to grow accustomed to his new home. Loki has been a very difficult horse to handle.”
