by Amy Tolnitch
“What do they say to you?”
“They want me to grab hold of a fin.”
“Then, let us do it.” He wrapped a hand around the top fin of the blue dolphin. “Come on, Aimili. I have done this before.”
She took hold of the pink dolphin’s top fin and shrieked when the dolphin rose slightly off the water’s surface, then sped across the water. By the saints, what an amazing feeling, she thought. She could feel the dolphin’s powerful body flex back and forth as they sliced through the water. It was almost as good as riding Mist across the moors.
The sun lit the water to silvery blue, and Aimili tasted the salt of the sea, felt the rush of water against her legs. Thank you, she told the dolphin.
My pleasure.
Aimili let go and slowed, turning onto her back to simply float. The violet dolphin came up beside her and tilted its head to the side, gently touching her body, almost as if it just wanted to idly float with her and soak up the perfect weather. “Is it always like this?” she asked D’Ary, who floated nearby.
“Aye.”
She sighed. “I could grow accustomed to this very quickly.”
“You would be welcome.”
Something in his voice made her lift her head.
He cocked a brow. “There would be a place at Paroseea for you if you wished it.”
“D’Ary, I cannot imagine leaving the Highlands.”
“Dinnae make up your mind until you see the rest of Paroseea.”
Aimili spent the next hours doing just that. As promised, D’Ary sought out Sebilla, who graciously agreed to provide Aimili with dry clothing. Aimili felt like some kind of fairy princess. The chemise and bliaut she wore were a soft, light sea green and jeweled slippers covered her feet. One of Sebilla’s attendants plaited Aimili’s hair with silver and pale green ribbons.
Before setting off to explore Paroseea, they’d dined on creamy cheese wedges, fluffy white bread, savory slivers of fish, and honeyed wine. Once they began walking the central roadway, Aimili was astounded at the lavishness of the stone dwellings, the rich fragrance of the gardens, and the idyllic feel of the place. Everyone they encountered had a ready smile and an air of contentment.
It struck Aimili that she felt accepted here, felt that she had found friends in both Sebilla and D’Ary. Friends, who viewed her ability to communicate with animals as perfectly normal, even desirable. She could never remember feeling so at ease, so unfettered, not even when she raced Mist into the wind.
“I can see why you would go to great effort to protect this,” Aimili told Sebilla. “’Tis paradise.”
“Aye.” She slid a glance at D’Ary, who walked beside them.
Aimili hid a smile. It was apparent that Sebilla was every bit as interested in D’Ary as he was in her, but wouldn’t reveal it. “How do you choose your ruler?” Aimili asked.
“It has always been a woman of my lineage,” Sebilla said. “If there is more than one woman eligible at once, all of the Paroseeans have a vote.”
“Do you have a designated successor?”
“Nay. We live for many years. My hope is that one day I shall have a child to follow me.”
Aimili cut a look toward D’Ary, who was trying very hard to appear only mildly interested in the subject of their conversation. “Then I suppose you must wed.”
“That would be best, yes.” Sebilla sounded rather forlorn over the prospect.
“Have you a man in mind?” Aimili watched D’Ary’s head snap up.
“I … I have not given it much thought. The problem of Vardon has occupied my thoughts.”
D’Ary let out a snort.
“Did you say something, D’Ary?” Aimili asked him.
He looked at Sebilla. “You will have to let a man close, first.”
Aimili dropped back a step. Neither Sebilla nor D’Ary noticed. “You say that as if I am incapable of doing so,” Sebilla snapped.
D’Ary shrugged. “Are you?”
“You … you are without exception the most …” Sebilla finished with a groan of frustration.
“Intriguing man you know?”
Aimili giggled.
“I know many interesting men. Educated, thoughtful men.”
“Men to fawn over you.”
“I am queen.”
D’Ary glanced back at Aimili and winked. He cradled Sebilla’s chin with his hand and leaned close. “Have we not had this conversation before? Your majesty?”
“I cannot possibly recall every conversation I have.”
He laughed. “I shall be happy to remind you.”
This time, Sebilla’s gaze found Aimili, her eyes pleading for aid.
Aimili just smiled.
“You are a woman, Sebilla. And not a woman who needs a weak-willed man who places her on a pedestal to worship from a respectful distance.”
“You scarcely know me.” She tried to twist out of D’Ary’s grasp, but he easily held her.
“I know you. Soon, I shall know you even better.”
“A promise or a threat, D’Ary?”
“Mayhap a bit of both.” He smiled and released her. “For now, ’tis time for Aimili and I to return.”
They had already discussed the progress, or lack thereof, on eliminating Vardon. Sebilla was convinced they had all but a few lines of the spell needed, but it was not yet enough to take on Vardon, whomever he was pretending to be. Aimili lightly touched Sebilla’s arm. “Thank you for sharing Paroseea with me.”
Sebilla’s face relaxed. “I am pleased that you like it. It is, after all, a part of your heritage.” She straightened and gave D’Ary a cool look.
“It was a pleasure to see you, your majesty,” he said. “I hope that you have a most pleasurable evening and dreams that satisfy your every desire.”
He took Aimili’s hand. The last thing she saw was Sebilla’s face, eyes open wide, cheeks a deep pink, and an expression somewhere between outrage and keen interest.
One moment, Padruig was grooming his destrier, Thor, and in the next his wife appeared. He blinked, his hand resting on Thor’s withers, more for support than anything else. “Aimili?”
She slowly turned to where he stood in Thor’s stall.
Padruig sucked in a breath. He had never seen her look so beautiful, but there was something more in her eyes, in the way she held herself. She wore a pale green gown that floated around her ankles, her hair was arranged in an elegant array of braids and ribbons, and her dark eyes seemed fathomless.
Behind her stood D’Ary, sporting the kind of light smile that made Padruig want to cleave the man in two.
He blinked again as realization sank in.
“You,” he said, pointing at D’Ary. “You will attend me in my solar.”
“As you wish, Laird.”
Padruig put aside the brush and closed Thor’s stall. Aimili had yet to say a word. Suspicion and anger pooled into a hard lump in his belly. He stopped before her. “I trust you enjoyed your visit?”
She flinched at his mocking tone, but held his gaze.
“Very much.”
“You neglected to tell me you were taking a companion.” He was surprised he could speak, his jaw was so tense.
D’Ary stepped forward. “I see it as part of my duties to accompany Aimili when she ventures outside the castle.”
“My solar. Now.”
“You have no right to be angry,” Aimili said, lifting her chin.
“Oh?” He closed the space between them.
“Nay.”
“I will speak with you after I finish with your”—he glared at D’Ary—“guardian.”
Aimili rolled her eyes. “Addlepated fool,” she muttered. “I am going to find Gifford. At least he displays some sense.”
Sense? Padruig wanted to shout. Nothing made sense anymore. He was receiving advice from an alesotted man he barely knew and his sister’s ghost, his wife had just popped into view like some sort of woodland fairy, and his newest stable hand was obviously much more than t
hat.
To top it off, he still had no idea who Vardon might be.
He glanced at D’Ary, whose expression remained faintly mocking, and stalked off toward his solar, with the other man following.
By the time they reached his solar, Padruig found his fingertips repeatedly brushing the pommel of his sword. He walked in and poured a cup of wine from the ewer left there.
The door shut.
“There is naught between Aimili and me but friendship, Laird,” D’Ary said. “My interest lies elsewhere.”
Padruig took a sip of wine and looked at the other man. D’Ary stood in the center of the solar, his arms crossed, with an accusatory gleam in his eyes that Padruig chose to ignore. “You are of Paroseea,” Padruig said.
“Aye.”
“Why are you here in the guise of a simple stable hand?”
“You are thinking that perhaps I am Vardon?” He shook his head, his expression turning hard. “The whoreson slew my only brother.”
“You are here for revenge.”
“Justice.”
Padruig smiled at that. “’Tis often the same.”
“Words. I want the bastard dead. That is all I know.”
“Do you know of Sebilla’s pronouncement? That I must aid her in defeating Vardon?”
“Yes. Along with Aimili.”
“I have not agreed to that.”
“You may not have any choice.”
“There is always a choice. The question is whether a man makes the right one.”
“Just so.”
Padruig’s eyes narrowed as he studied D’Ary. He supposed that to a woman, the man would be appealing. He was nearly as big as Padruig, clearly strong, and without a single visible scar. Perhaps the people of Paroseea do not scar, he thought, disgusted at the envy such an idea provoked. “You have been spending much time with my wife.”
D’Ary cocked a brow. “I have come to consider Aimili a friend. She is an interesting woman.”
“She is an innocent.”
“Is she?”
Fury ripped through Padruig and before he thought about it, he drew his dagger. “What do you say?”
“I have not touched her.”
“Why should I believe anything you say? You have lied from the moment you arrived at Castle MacCoinneach.”
“It would not be good for Vardon to learn of my presence.”
“Who is he?”
“I do not know yet.”
Padruig lips curled in a derisive snarl. “I see. You people of Paroseea are quick to give dire warnings, make impossible demands, but slow to provide any real information.”
“Impossible demands?” D’Ary cocked his head. “Ah, we are back to Aimili.”
“We have never been far from her.”
“You say she is innocent. I think you tell yourself that to keep the lady at a safe distance.”
Well, hell, Padruig thought as he stared at D’Ary. Were these Paroseeans mind readers, too? “I will not let her sacrifice herself for anyone.”
“Nor will I. As I said, Aimili is my friend.”
“Your friend.”
“Aye.” D’Ary’s gaze challenged him.
Slowly, Padruig replaced his dagger. “You said your interest lies elsewhere. With whom?”
Padruig watched with no small amount of astonishment as D’Ary’s stony expression turned soft. By the saints, ’tis another one, he thought, wondering if there was something in the air to create one lovesick casualty after another.
“A woman in Paroseea,” D’Ary bit out. “’Tis no concern of yours.”
By God, this was the most enjoyment Padruig had had all day. “Hmm. Does the lady know of your intentions?”
“She is … stubborn.”
“Sebilla.”
D’Ary’s face turned from red to white in an instant. “Nay, I—”
Padruig waved a hand and laughed. “Good luck with that one.”
“I shall need it,” D’Ary muttered as he left the solar.
Padruig laughed again.
The first thing Aimili removed was her belt with the dagger attached. She set it on a blanket next to Loch Moradeea, even going so far as to look around, as if she sought to reassure herself no one was nearby.
Please, let Vardon be watching, she silently chanted. She’d decided that she alone may not be sufficient bait for him to risk an attack so close to Castle MacCoinneach. He wanted the dagger though. Badly.
Hidden behind a thick bushy growth Magnus and Alasdair stood watch.
She removed her slippers and stuck a toe into the cool water, mentally comparing it to the Crystal Sea. Had it only been that morn that she’d basked in the warmth and sun of Paroseea? Within moments of her return, she’d faced a clearly annoyed Padruig, who had yet to seek her out at all. Perhaps that was just as well. What could she say to him? Yes, she had enjoyed her time in Paroseea, far more than she’d expected. She peered up at the leaden sky. Though it was just past noon, the sun was well cloaked by clouds and a cool breeze blew across the loch.
Not the best day for a swim, but with luck she wouldn’t be in the water all that long. Fighting the urge to glance toward Magnus and Alasdair’s hiding place, she sat on the blanket, wrapped another around her shoulders, and gazed out over the loch as if she were deep in thought.
Come on, you whoreson, she thought. Show your evil face. Here I am, all alone. Easy prey.
A low bank of clouds swept across the sky, and the breeze died down. Aimili focused on taking deep, even breaths, and bent her head as if in prayer.
After a time, she stood and dropped the blanket. Aimili slowly removed her beautiful silk bliaut and set it with her pile. She felt a little discomfited at Magnus and Alasdair seeing her clad in only her chemise, but she wanted to appear as vulnerable as possible.
Glancing at the dagger, she took a last look around her before wading into the water. Though she knew it was cool, she felt warm as she floated away from shore.
Before Vardon appeared, she sensed him, the hint of malice in the air, the feeling of a threat nearby. She stayed in the water, but idly moved closer to shore.
By the time he came into view, she was only a few feet from the edge of the loch.
Hatred poured from him so strongly Aimili was surprised she didn’t see it shimmering in the air.
“Bitch,” he snarled, snapping up the dagger.
She forced a mocking smile to her lips as her feet found purchase in the muddy bottom of the loch. “I thought you dead.”
“’Twill take more than a puny lass to end my life.” He laughed. “Particularly since I have the dagger of Artemis.”
Aimili inched closer. As before, the man’s features were concealed. The eyes, she thought. I know those eyes.
Magnus and Alasdair stepped out from the bushes, swords drawn. “You have more than a lass to face this time,” Magnus snarled.
Vardon turned. “Only two of you? It hardly seems worth the effort.”
“Did you kill Brona?” Magnus demanded.
“Of course not. Everyone knows ’twas Symund MacVegan.”
“Show yourself,” Alasdair said, taking a step forward. “Only a coward hides his face.”
Instead, Vardon drew his sword and lunged.
Aimili sprang out of the water, drawing the real dagger of Artemis from its sheath tied to her leg. She looked for an opening to attack Vardon, but he was surrounded by Magnus and Alasdair.
They tried to force Vardon back, but he held his own, twisting and slashing his sword. The thwack of blade against shield filled the air, the grunts and shouts of the men intensifying as they continued to fight.
And then Alasdair stumbled.
Vardon smiled and leapt toward him, his sword raised for a killing blow.
“No!” Aimili shouted, and charged into the fray. She held the dagger tight, the blade warm and vibrating in her palm. Before Vardon could bring his sword down, she ducked under his arm. She drew back to plunge the blade into his chest, but he d
anced away and she only managed to slash across his chest.
“Aimili, no!” Magnus shouted.
She watched in horror as Vardon whirled, his sword still poised to strike. Distracted, Magnus failed to raise his shield in time. Aimili felt as if she were trapped in a slow-moving whirlpool. Red bloomed on Magnus’s chest. He met her gaze and slowly crumpled to the ground.
Over her daze, she heard Alasdair shouting at her, but couldn’t make out the words. Then, she heard a bellow of pure rage and the pounding of hooves. She looked up to see Padruig bearing down on them, his sword drawn. “Get back, Aimili,” he yelled. “Alasdair!”
Vardon looked at her and smiled in triumph.
Aimili fought Alasdair’s arms pulling her away. The dagger burned in her hand. “Let me go! I can help.” Helplessly, she watched Padruig close in, terrified that he could not match Vardon.
But instead of engaging Padruig, Vardon bolted for the loch. He plunged beneath the water and disappeared.
Padruig reined in, jumped from his mount, and raced toward the loch. There was not even a ripple to mark Vardon’s passage.
Aimili saw Padruig’s shoulders stiffen and dreaded the moment he turned around. She pulled away from Alasdair and dropped to Magnus’s side, touching his neck in desperate hope of finding a heartbeat, dropping her head in relief when she did. “Magnus.”
“I am sorry, my lady. I failed you,” he whispered.
“Nay.” She started to say more, but her words halted when strong hands hauled her up from the ground and thrust her aside.
Padruig put Magnus up on Thor and mounted behind him. He glared down at her.
“Padruig, I—”
“Do. Not. Say. One. Word. Alasdair, please see that she returns to the castle.”
“Aye, Laird.”
Padruig kicked Thor and they ran for the castle.
Alasdair gently put a blanket over her. “My lady, let us go.”
For a moment, Aimili just stared out over the loch. “Cowardly bastard,” she spat.
“Would that we had seen his face.”
Aimili slid on her slippers and followed Alasdair to the castle. By the time they reached the great hall, the castle was in an uproar. Men streamed over the high wall walk, clearly looking for signs of Magnus’s attacker. Alasdair took her arm and led her silently into the great hall.
