My Shadow Warrior

by Jen Holling

  He sighed and dropped his hand. “I cannot help the lad.”

  At this revelation everyone began to talk at once.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How do you know?”

  “You haven’t even looked at his back!”

  “You won’t even try?”

  “Do you even know what ails him?”

  The lad himself said nothing; he only stood there, staring down at his hands braced over the top of his cane. William gritted his teeth, feeling like an ass and a fraud.

  Rose gazed up at William, studying him with a small, worried frown. “You are unwell.”

  He thought to deny it, but in truth, he wanted out of this room and away from these people, so he nodded.

  “Lord Strathwick is unwell,” Rose announced, her hand on his arm, propelling him toward the door. “We’ll continue this on the morrow.”

  “How convenient,” Roderick said, shaking his head contemptuously. “Well, on the morrow I will have many questions, healer.”

  Drake bumped into him rather violently and unnecessarily on the way to the door. Roderick went for his dirk, but Sir Philip’s hand was on his shoulder, his back to them. He lowered his head to speak to Roderick in a low voice. Planning the lynching, no doubt.

  The door closed behind William, Drake, and Rose.

  “I am going to kill your uncle,” William said mildly.

  Rose’s shoulders slumped. “What would you think if you were him?”

  William’s jaw tightened. “That I was a fake.”

  “I would, too, if I hadn’t seen you heal.” She started walking, and William and Drake followed. Her words made William’s head pound harder. He felt like a fake, which was absurd and made him even angrier. He glanced at Drake, who glowered at her back. William elbowed him, and he directed his scowl elsewhere.

  She led them up two curving stone stairways, then down a short hall to a door. “You’ll have to share. The earl and all his retainers take up a lot of room when they visit.”

  Drake crossed the chamber and threw himself face-down on the bed, giving William a moment alone with Rose.

  He leaned against the wall beside the door. “I am sorry.”

  And he was sorrier than he’d ever been for not being able to help someone he didn’t know. He knew nothing of Alan MacDonell but what Rose had told him. Whether the man lived or died was nothing to him. But it mattered to Rose, and so now it mattered to him.

  “Why can’t you heal him? I don’t understand.” There was a faint note of accusation in her voice, though she tried to hide it from him.

  “But you do, if you’ll think on it. What did you see when you looked with your hands?”

  She looked down at her open palms. “His light…it is weak. Growing weaker.”

  “But nothing else. No sign of illness, aye?”

  She shook her head, still staring at her hands as she clenched them into fists.

  “That is what I saw. I cannot heal what is not there.”

  She crossed her slender arms beneath her breasts, her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. What is killing him?”

  “I think I know what ails him but not how to fight it.”

  Her head came up, hopeful eyes on him. “You do? What is it?”

  “Witchcraft, Rose. Someone is murdering your father with magic.”

  The hope evaporated from her expression. She shook her head. “That’s what I thought at first, too. But who? Why? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know not, but I’ve seen it before. What else could it be? Have you ever seen aught like that before?”

  She raised her brows and her shoulders simultaneously. “No…but that doesn’t mean we have to act like hysterical elders, crying witchcraft.”

  He arched a brow, taken aback by her sarcasm. How could she be incredulous about this? Her sisters were both witches. She was a witch. And she couldn’t fathom someone using witchcraft to murder her father?

  She held up a hand for peace. “I understand why you think it’s witchcraft, but I’ve already examined that possibility. I’ve been through every grimoire I own and have found nothing. Gillian has consulted with ghosts. Isobel has searched for visions. But more important—who would do such a thing? No other witches besides my sisters and I have been near my father. And besides, he became ill before he brought us home. Who would do this?”

  William nodded, seeing her point, but he was not ready to give up his theory until he tested it. “Humor me, aye? Not everyone wields magic as we do. Some use spellcraft.”

  “Spellcraft.” She rolled her eyes. “I have tried this spellcraft and find it useless. A person either has magic or they don’t. No amount of words will make it so. You make no spells when you heal, do you?”

  He couldn’t deny that. “I have not studied spellcraft, but there are…wizards, magicians, who can makes curses and evil spells.”

  Rose sighed. “Very well. Perhaps it is witchcraft. How are we to counter it?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

  After a moment of silent thought she reached her hand out to him, and he took it. She squeezed it as she gazed up at him. “I know you tried. I know if you could have, you would have healed him, and I welcome any help you are willing to give. I thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  He held onto her hand when she would have pulled away, stroking the soft skin on the back with his thumb. His heart thudded, his blood running thick. He wanted to kiss her again, and this time do far more than kiss her. She did not protest or even speak; she just gazed up at him with wide eyes. A flush stole up her neck, igniting a fire in his blood. He tugged at her hand, drawing her closer.

  A loud throat-clearing destroyed the moment. She yanked her hand away and abruptly bid him goodnight.

  William turned to the bed and scowled at his brother.

  Drake pushed himself up on his elbow and grinned lecherously. “I guess we’re staying for a bit, aye?”

  “Aye, we are.”

  Drake dropped onto his back and stared at the ceiling. “The uncle will be a problem.”

  William didn’t argue, though it wasn’t the uncle he was worried about but the soon-to-be-arriving betrothed.

  Chapter 10

  He climbed the stairs to his chambers, excitement rushing his blood. Finally, Rose had returned with the healer. Everything was in place. When Alan expired under the Wizard of the North’s watch, no one would even think to look elsewhere. Not that they did now. No one suspected what really ailed Alan—all believed it was some illness that could be cured if they could just find the right healer.

  He closed himself up in his chambers and threw back the heavy rug. He kept his instruments beneath the floor. He drew out a bowl containing naught but a blob of wax. He lit a fire beneath it and waited for it to melt. As he waited, he withdrew the strands of curly black hair he’d retrieved from Gillian and the earl’s chambers after the bairn had returned to her father. Deidra was her name. The name meant sorrow. But the sorrow she brought would not be his. He would make certain of that. She was the one kink in his plan, the one thing he’d not anticipated.

  There are bad things here…the animals are afraid, they say there is a bad man here. Childish fancies, most likely, but he had to be certain. He couldn’t have her messing things up for him. Her father might be useful, but she could be cause for concern.

  The wax bubbled and swirled in the bowl. He dropped a few of the hairs in, saving the rest to place on top. He drew a razor across his thumb and watched the blood ooze and drop, mixing in with the wax. He added the rest of the ingredients and said the words. He removed the wax from the fire to cool. When it became malleable like dough he would give it form. Then she would be his puppet. No longer a threat but useful.

  Peace settled over him as he waited. Events were unfolding exactly as he’d planned. Soon it would be over, and another witch would burn.

  By the next morning, William had formed a plan. Perhaps not a great plan
, but it was the best he could cobble together. It had been the countess’s idea, really, or at least she had been the inspiration for it. She had brought Deidra to him the evening before after feeding her and giving her a poppet.

  Deidra had chattered on and on about the countess’s wonderful deerhound and how much fun she’d had with the countess, her earlier fears—to William’s relief—completely forgotten.

  “She was so wonderful with Broc,” the countess said, smiling fondly at the child. “He is a difficult hound yet he responded so well to her, as if they understood each other.”

  William gave her a strained smile and slid his daughter a sidelong look. She was oblivious, playing with her poppet’s curling hair. How many times had he heard those same words and thought not a thing about them? How blind he’d been.

  “Forgive me,” Lady Kincreag said. “You must be tired. I ken she is.”

  Deidra yawned, as if on cue.

  But the countess did not leave. She tilted her head and asked, “I heard the healing did not go well.”

  William shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry I could not help your father.”

  “Prithee accept our thanks for your effort. You came a very long way, and we do appreciate that.”

  William inclined his head.

  “I wonder if I shall see him after he passes,” she mused, her large gray eyes distant, and William had surmised she was the necromancer.

  “Are there many restless spirits here at Lochlaire?”

  “Not many that I’m aware of. But then, I’ve learned spirits are territorial, and I haven’t been all over Lochlaire since I regained my ability. So there may be more.”

  That had been the seed of the idea. Isobel and Gillian were wasted resources, and with their permission, he planned to make use of them.

  When Rose came to fetch him, he told her of his plan. “Whoever is responsible has surely covered their tracks well. Your sisters are privy to information no one else is. With their help we might see what is otherwise hidden.”

  “I told you we’ve already tried that.”

  “Aye, but did you send Dame Isobel to sort the dirty laundry?” From the look on Rose’s face, sending her delicate sister to do such a lowly task hadn’t occurred to her. “Has she touched the dirty dishes? And the countess told me she’s not yet been all over the Lochlaire in search of ghosts. There might be more to discover yet.”

  Rose nodded thoughtfully. She looked tired, her skin pale, a soft bruising beneath her eyes. She’d withdrawn from him days ago, but it had been a studied, deliberate withdrawal, likely done for the same reasons he’d withdrawn from her. This was different.

  William caught her arm outside her father’s door. “What is it, Rose? You did not sleep last night? Nightmares again?”

  She looked down and to the side, then nodded.

  His jaw hardened, wondering if her nightmares had been brought on by his failure to heal her father. He longed to heal whatever caused her such distress, to make it all go away so that she smiled again.

  “I promise, Rose, if I can help your father, I will.”

  “I know.”

  Her smile was small and sad as she opened the door to her father’s chambers, hollowing out his heart. She didn’t believe there was anything he could do. She’d given up.

  The room was dim and quiet except for the crackling fire. Alan MacDonell was asleep; his dog was curled up beside him. Hagan sat in a chair nearby, darning his hose. He looked up when Rose entered and nodded a greeting.

  “Hagan,” Rose said in a harsh whisper, crossing to the bed and picking up the sleeping terrier. It didn’t stir. “What did I tell you about this?”

  Hagan looked abashed and didn’t reply until Rose put the dog outside and closed the door behind it.

  “He loves the wee thing. I see no harm in allowing him his favorite pets, aye? It gives him peace.”

  Rose planted her hands on her hips. “After he gave Broc to Gillian, he did not have any pets. Why did you allow him another?”

  “It was a gift from his brother.”

  A muscle ticked in Rose’s jaw. She seemed on edge, ready to explode at someone or something. “I told Uncle Roderick no more dogs, too. What is so hard for everyone to understand about that?”

  Hagan looked at her helplessly, beefy hands spread before him. “I just don’t understand, Rose. You say you fear that the dog’s fur affects his breathing, but I don’t see it. He breathes no different with or without the dogs. And besides,” Hagan’s voice lowered, “the man is dying and the dogs comfort him. Can you not allow him that?”

  Rose was definitely on the verge of some explosion, so William placed a hand on her shoulder. “Should we come back?” he asked Hagan, nodding to the sleeping figure on the bed.

  Hagan shook his head, returning to his darning. “Nay, he had a bad night but has slept most of the morn. He’s well enough I reckon, and his birse will be up if he finds out I didn’t wake him for your visit.”

  “Och—he’s a gift for exaggeration,” came the gruff voice from the bed.

  Hagan smiled to himself. “See you there? He’s already awake and in a chuff.”

  “You’ll see me in a chuff if I don’t have some food posthaste.”

  Hagan stood, setting his hose on the chair, and left Rose and William alone with Alan.

  As William approached the bed, he saw that the MacDonell’s show of spirit was for the guard’s benefit. He looked worse than he had the night before; his face was gaunt, and a gray pallor tinged his skin. The arm that rested atop his blanket was bruised.

  William leaned forward to inspect the marks. “How did this happen?”

  Alan shrugged and sighed. “I know not.”

  Rose stared at the bruise, her face slack with disbelief. “They’ve begun again, the nightmares?”

  Alan reached for his daughter’s hand. “Aye, they have. Worry not for me, love. I’ve told you, I remember nothing of them when I wake.”

  But William could see she was more than worried. She was grief-stricken and unable to adequately hide it anymore. However, William found the bruises encouraging—at least in light of his theory.

  “Rose, these bruises, they reinforce what I mentioned to you last night.” William passed his finger over it, outlining the crescent shape. “An odd thing to appear while one is asleep—and in such a shape. This is nothing natural.”

  Alan studied him with weary green eyes. “What is your opinion?”

  “Witchcraft. I believe there is a spell or curse on you.”

  Alan glanced at Rose, who tried to smile encouragingly but failed, her mouth a wobbling line, eyes bleak.

  “And if this were a spell,” Alan asked slowly, “what could be done about it?”

  William sighed. “I know not. I do not deal in spells. I think our first task should be to discover who is behind it. Only they can undo it—or mayhap, with some persuasion, tell us how. Rose can think of no one, but what of you? I understand your family has been apart for a dozen years. Perhaps there are things your daughter doesn’t know.”

  Alan frowned thoughtfully. “Another witch wishing me ill? Aye, there is one.”

  Rose blinked and stepped forward, her eyes finally showing some life. “Who?”

  Alan reached a hand out to his daughter, and she grasped his fingers. “Your late stepmother. You never knew her. She died in childbirth. She was a bit of a witch, but she’s dead, aye? So it cannot be her. Her father is the person I speak of—Sir Donnan. He lives still and blames me for his daughter’s death. He used to send me terrible, evil letters with ill wishes inside.”

  Rose looked at William hopefully. “Could he cast such a curse from afar?”

  “I know not. Perhaps if he had personal items—hair and nails—he could make an effigy.”

  Alan fingered the white hair of his beard. “But how would he get such things?”

  “Perhaps he has paid someone in your employ.”

  Hagan returned with a tray of food, filling
the room with the warm scent of pottage and honey.

  “Fetch me Sir Philip,” Alan said, and after setting the tray near the bed, the Irishman left again.

  “Most importantly,” William continued, “we need to discover if he has an accomplice. I think your other daughters could help with that. Dame Isobel could go through the castle and touch the inhabitants’ things—laundry and dirty dishes and such-like. Perhaps her visions will reveal something. The countess said she doesn’t know if there are more ghosts in Lochlaire. Perhaps there are, and they have observed something.”

  Alan nodded thoughtfully. He raised a gray brow at William. “You’re a clever lad. How old are you?”

  “Nine and twenty, sir,” William said, though he couldn’t imagine what his age had to do with anything. He smoothed his hair absently. “Most think me older because of the gray.”

  “Are you married?”

  “My wife died in childbirth.”

  “Ah. It’s sorry I am to hear that.” Alan’s eyelids drooped sadly. “My second wife passed that way, too. My brother has lost two wives in such a manner and is frightened for his Tira. We all are.”

  “When is she expecting?”

  “Any day now,” Rose answered. “She is great with child. It will be a big one. I fear for both her and the wean’s life.”

  William could see the worry in the faint lines that creased her brow. So much she took on her lovely shoulders. He said, without a thought to the consequences, “I’ll be present for the birth, if you wish. If aught goes wrong, I will help. But I must know first who is most important to your brother—the wean or the wife?”

  Alan just stared at him, his brows furrowed. William felt the weight of Rose’s gaze on him and glanced up at her. She regarded him with a sort of horrified surprise but quickly averted her eyes to contemplate the ground with unusual intensity.

  William felt exposed suddenly, his shoulders tightening. Ridiculous. He’d said nothing revealing, had he? He’d just asked a question—a very important one, to his way of thinking. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps one of you can ask Roderick, aye? I think he likes me not.”

  “He’s just being protective,” Rose murmured, gazing down at her father.