Lord of Shadows

by Alix Rickloff

  Surrendering to Jane’s buoyant cheerfulness, Sabrina stretched. Two hours of sleep would have to do. “I have. And spoken with him.”

  No need to reveal her schoolgirl flight. Even now she writhed with mortification. What had frightened her into running away in such a ridiculous fashion? Teresa, yes. She was barely seventeen. Wet behind the ears and still in that giggly, graceless stage. But Sabrina had left that awkward childhood self-consciousness behind long ago. Hadn’t she?

  “Is he handsome as they say?” Jane leaned forward eagerly.

  “Who says?” Teresa chimed in.

  Thankfully, Jane’s attention drifted back to Teresa, relieving Sabrina of the need to explain the man’s primal, yet sensual appeal. Not that she could. Even to herself.

  “Two of the sisters. They said he was delicious as sin and wished they could—”

  “Jane!”

  She sniffed. “I’m only relating the comments of others.”

  People would be surprised at the earthiness found within the confines of an all-female community. With no men to hinder tongues or curb actions, normally taboo subjects could be openly discussed, joked about, or explained in depth. Sabrina only wished this particular discussion would end before the heat flooding her cheeks was noticed.

  “So is he?” Jane prodded Sabrina. “Handsome, I mean.”

  A prickly tingle cruised her skin like static. “You could call him that,” she murmured.

  Somewhere a bell was ringing. Or was that the roaring of blood in her ears?

  A pillow caught her square in the face.

  “Blast! We’re late! There’s last call.” Jane and Teresa dashed from the room, leaving Sabrina alone and wishing for a good dousing of Sister Brigh’s ice water.

  He tried not to squirm beneath the unblinking stare of the old woman, but it was difficult in his present position—flat on his back and naked—a few thin blankets the only shield between him and the hefty mountain towering over him.

  “Sister Ainnir says you have no recollection of how you came to be washed up on our beach with enough seawater in you to float an armada.”

  “No, mistress. I remember nothing before waking in this chamber yesterday.”

  A flicker of her eyes. A slight shifting in her pose. But what she reacted to, he couldn’t tell. Something he’d said? Hadn’t said? Did she know who he was? Did they all know, but chose not to tell him?

  “Not even your name?” she asked.

  Anger flared along nerves like a lit fuse.

  “I told you. Nothing.”

  Again came the infinitesimal glimmer of knowledge in the woman’s eyes, causing his hands to fist at his sides as he struggled to quell a mounting rage he didn’t comprehend.

  “And that brand on your forearm?” she continued, smooth and cool as glass. “It’s an unusual symbol.”

  His hand rose to touch the brand burned into his left forearm, a broken arrow and crescent.

  “Can you recall what it signifies?” she prodded. “Why you would mark yourself in such a grisly fashion?”

  Did she think he lied? That he was feigning memory loss for some hidden purpose? He only wished it were that simple. His anger swelled, twitching muscles. Bringing him to an edgy awareness of his surroundings—the inches separating them, the rain hissing against the window, the thick, humid air. His awareness expanded to the blood moving through arteries and veins, the quickening beat of his heart, the breath filling his lungs. And something more. Something that was and wasn’t a part of him. A sliding, slithering presence lurking in the hidden recesses of his mind. Seeking access. Seeking control.

  “I don’t know,” he snarled. “I can’t remember.”

  He pushed back. Harder. Defied the questing sensation. Damped the fury to manageable levels, though it cost him in a burst of pain across his temples. Gut-gripping nausea.

  A satisfied smile creased the wrinkles of her face, and she nodded as if making up her mind of something. “Very well. We can’t simply keep calling you the man in the still-room. Until you recall your own name, we’ll choose one for you. How about”—she tapped a thoughtful finger to her lips—“how about Daigh?”

  He cocked a questioning brow, caught off balance by her sudden change of topic.

  Again one of those wise, all-knowing smiles, this time with a hint of humor. “I had a younger brother named Daigh. He had a bit of your dark looks.” The seams of her face resettled into properly stern lines. “We can only hope you don’t end as he did. Anyhow, let’s see. Daigh”—the finger kept tapping—“Daigh . . . Daigh MacLir.”

  It was his turn to favor her with a smile, though it felt feeble and unnatural on his face. “Son of the sea. How poetic of you, mistress.”

  She straightened, shoulders back. Head up. “I am Ard-siúr and head of this community.”

  “Where am I? What is this place?”

  Her brows disappeared into her kerchief. “You’ve washed ashore in Glenlorgan among the Sisters of High Danu. An order of bandraoi priestesses devoted to a spiritual life. One where we may remain true to our Other heritage away from the mistrust of our Duinedon neighbors.”

  He knew those terms. Other—Fey-tainted human half bloods. Duinedon—mortals without the powers that signified their mage-touched human neighbors. Why did he know this? What did Other and Duinedon mean to him? What part did they play in his life?

  “You risk much to tell me this. Suppose I betray you all?”

  “That is a possibility. But my bones tell me you will not do so.”

  “Your bones?”

  “I sense great pride in you. Some might see it as arrogance even. But there is also much honor.”

  “If you know all that about me, why the questions?” That flash of anger sparked anew. His hand closed around an invisible weapon. Felt the lack with a strange twinge of regret.

  The priestess had raised inscrutability to an art form. She leveled him with a quiet stare that seemed to penetrate blankets, flesh, bone, and a few layers of soul to his very core. But her gaze drew away, confusion disturbing a woman who, he suspected, was used to certainty.

  “Because of what I do not sense, Mr. MacLir. That is what worries me.”

  “Time to eat.” Juggling a tray while maneuvering open a door with her elbow, Sabrina backed her way into the still-room. Luncheon was late today. A product of too many bandraoi spoiling the broth. Household magic was well and good, but an excess of mage energy in an enclosed space could make for chaos—as those assigned to the kitchens found when the stove began belching black smoke and the scullery sinks sent rivers of dirty dishwater spilling over the floors. “I apologize for the delay, but—”

  Turning, she gasped, jiggling her tray ominously. Her patient was abed no longer. Nor was he comfortingly obscured by mountains of blankets. Instead he loomed above her like some titan from myth, his head scraping the low ceiling, his body seeming to fill every spare inch of room. Even air was at a premium. She couldn’t get enough to catch her breath.

  She blinked, her gaze traveling over a bare muscled torso chiseled as granite, the accumulation of scars like some strange warrior’s language written upon his body in blood. But instead of wielding a battle-notched blade or an infantryman’s musket, he held only a shirt.

  “Up here,” came an amused growl.

  Heat rushed to her face as she lifted her gaze to his, the view only staggering her anew. Not handsome in the classical sense. No, his visage held too much toughness to be considered good-looking. All rugged angles and strong lines, a clenched jaw hewn from stone. Straight, firm mouth. Hair cropped unfashionably short and close to the head. And always that devouring black stare stripping her down to an awkward girl.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she stammered. “I didn’t know . . . no one told me . . .” With a few shuddery gulps, she fought to recover her lost aplomb. “That is, I’m surprised to see you up and dressed.”

  “Dress-ing. As you see.” He spread his hands, the shirt clasped on one great fist.


  “Yes, well . . .” She tried looking anywhere but at him. “At least you’re wearing breeches.”

  Again came gruff amusement. “At least.”

  Had she really said that? Had she really looked . . . Oh, if only the floor would open and swallow her whole. Her entire body flamed with humiliation. A bandraoi did not go about ogling men. Not even if the man in question was exquisite ogling material.

  He eased the tray from her before she dropped it. Placed it on the bench. Drew the shirt over his head, snapping her out of her daze.

  She wiped her damp hands down her apron. Shifted under his enigmatic stare. “I best be getting back. Sister Ainnir will—”

  “Stay.” A request that sounded very much like a command.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stay with me. Please.” His eyes pleaded with her as if he were drowning and she held his only lifeline. “Sabrina.”

  With his fluid lilting voice, her name on his tongue rolled and rippled like water. Sent a shivery rush straight to her center.

  “Your Sister Ainnir doesn’t talk, she glowers. Ard-siúr asks questions but provides no answers.” He plowed a hand through his dark hair. Exhaled a heavy sigh. “I need to learn what brought me here. Who I am. That’s impossible closeted in this monk’s cell.”

  He held his fear close, but flashes of it speared her consciousness. Punched through her strongest defenses until she sensed his dread. Understood his panic. Her mind reeled with untamed emotion. It hammered behind her eyes. Kinked the muscles at the base of her neck. Never had anyone affected her in such a dramatic fashion. Bursting into her consciousness like a tidal wave.

  Did he know what effect he caused? Or was his invasion unintentional?

  She forced herself to relax. Clasping her hands in a posture of patience, she focused on locking her mind more firmly against his intrusion. It worked. Somewhat. At least she could breathe again. But the sensation of being caught and buffeted in the rip curl of his thoughts and feelings lingered.

  “I’ll help if I can, but there’s not much to tell. One of the village children discovered you washed up in the shallows.” There. She’d managed two complete sentences without stammering like a child. “It’s an odd sort of cove. The current brings all sorts of things into the rocks there. Old timbers, broken barrels washed off ships. Bodies or what’s left of them.” Catching her gaffe, she stuttered to a halt. Just when she found herself easing into normalcy, she stepped right in her own words.

  His gaze flickered and went still. A hand fisted at his side.

  “I can take you there if you’d like.” She heard the words. Looked around in surprise as if someone else had just suggested a lonely trek to the cove. Was she mad? The last thing she needed was to be alone with this man who made her feel as if she’d been turned inside out, upside down, and back to front.

  He didn’t answer until she wondered if he’d even heard her. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken aloud after all. Perhaps she was saved from her own foolish impulses. Uncomfortable with his continuing brooding silence, she filled it with the first thought that popped into her head. “You speak Welsh.”

  “I do?” An excited glimmer brightened his dark gaze.

  Her pulse sped up, but she met his eyes with a sheepish smile. “You did last night in your sleep. Just a few words. Nothing that made sense.”

  “You kept this from me.” The accusation implicit. “What else have you learned?”

  Tipping her chin in a determined show of reserve, she ignored the drumming of her heart. “You mentioned a diary.”

  His brows drew together in a scowl of concentration. “A diary? What did I say?”

  “You were asking for it. Demanding it. Does that mean anything to you?”

  He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. His effort to make sense of the riddle she’d presented almost tangible. When he opened them again, tension shivered off him. Stirred the air like a storm charge. “I have sensations. Impressions. But no memories. Not about a diary. Not about anything. My mind’s empty of the past.”

  “Except for the woman,” she reminded him, “The one in your dream.”

  His gaze narrowed on her with renewed determination. “It was your face. I must know you. I just can’t remember from where. But it’s you. Of that, I’m certain.”

  Impossible. She’d know if she’d met this devastating giant of a man whose mage energy radiated like an electrical storm. Men like him didn’t visit the bandraoi. And she’d not traveled farther from Glenlorgan than Cork in the last three years.

  “People imagine funny things when they’re ill,” she suggested.

  “Do they imagine women they’ve never met? I don’t believe it could be so, Sabrina.” Her name like a caress.

  Butterflies threatened to explode out her stomach. Smoothing her apron, she cleared her throat with nursely efficiency. “I should be getting back to my duties.” Patted his shoulder like she might a child, though the masculine frame beneath her fingers was decidedly un-childlike, and she was certain he felt her trembling. “You were more dead than alive when the villagers brought you to us. It will take time for you to recover your memory, but I’m sure it will happen.”

  He gazed down on his calloused palm, the slash of old cuts evident even there. Closing his fist, he shrugged. “You’ve seen my scars,” he replied, hunching his shoulders as if warding off a blow. “Perhaps it’s best if I don’t.”

  “I’ve made up my mind.” Ard-siúr held up a hand before Sister Brigh could argue—again. “And that’s final.”

  From her inconspicuous seat behind Sister Ainnir, Sabrina clamped her lips together, smothering a smile. She couldn’t help it. She loved seeing the cranky old priestess stymied every once in a while.

  Sister Ainnir’s low-pitched voice responded to Ard-siúr’s resolve. “We can’t make him remain if he chooses to go.”

  “No, we can’t force him to stay, Sister Ainnir,” Ard-siúr agreed. “But we can make it clear that his injuries still impair his mind. And while he may feel he’s fully healed, his body can weaken without warning. Dizziness. Fatigue. Headaches. Until he recovers his memory, it would be better for him to remain.”

  “But his continued presence disrupts our routine,” Sister Anne chirped. “Already rumors circulate among us. He’s a wanted brigand. A smuggler. A murderer. Each story more hair-raising than the last.”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised,” Sister Brigh sniffed. “You just have to look at him to see he’s a dangerous rogue likely to slit your throat. No respectable gentleman carries scarring like that.”

  It was true. The man’s body spoke of untold violence and a sinister past as dark as his eyes. But Sabrina had seen no signs of murderous intent. Felt no fear in his presence other than the fear that she was making a fool of herself.

  Sister Brigh’s assumptions were taken up with worried agreement by the others. Argument ensued, voices competing for dominance as each brought their views before Ard-siúr.

  Sabrina burrowed deeper into her chair. Why she’d been included in this afternoon’s meeting had not been made clear—possibly because Sister Ainnir’s work in the hospital fell more and more to Sabrina as the elderly priestess’s health waned—but she didn’t want anyone to suddenly question her right to be included. That “anyone” most likely to be Sister Brigh, who questioned every decision and took every opportunity to challenge Ard-siúr’s authority.

  Ard-siúr’s quiet control cut through the squabbling. “All your concerns are understandable and duly noted, but my decision is made.” Ard-siúr’s pointed stare directed squarely at Sister Brigh. There followed the rustle of skirts, the babble of conversation. “You may go, my sisters.”

  Sabrina eased out of her chair. Took up her place at the end of the line of chattering women.

  “Hold a moment, Sabrina,” Ard-siúr said with a hand upon her arm. Waiting until the flock of women withdrew before ushering her back to her seat. Leaning against her desk, arms folded, lips tipped in amusement. “Do you agree w
ith my decision? Or, like Sister Brigh and the others, do you think I should have sent the poor man on his way?”

  The head of the order asked her opinion? This was a first. And a hopeful portent. Perhaps her elevation to full priestess drew close. She hesitated, weighing her words. It wouldn’t do to queer things now with some rash, unthinking response. “I believe, Ard-siúr, you acted in the only way you could. That is to say, all sorts of dangers lay beyond our boundaries. Worse for someone who’d have no idea from where the danger might come.” Her words came faster, her thoughts racing ahead of her tongue. “No, he must stay. At least until he recovers his health. And I discover . . . I mean, we discover who he is and what happened to him.” Now she babbled, plain and simple.

  Ard-siúr’s wrinkles stretched in a half smile. “You’ve taken quite an interest in Daigh MacLir’s fate.”

  Heat crept up Sabrina’s throat to stain her cheeks.

  Ard-siúr nodded her dismissal, moving past Sabrina toward the door. Turning in a swish of skirts. “I nearly forgot. The letter.” Returning to her desk, she pulled a folded and sealed page from a drawer. Handed it over. “I believe it’s from your brother.”

  “Kilronan?” Sabrina asked stupidly, the smooth, expensive foolscap slippery beneath her fingers.

  Ard-siúr caught her in a sharp, appraising look. “Would you be expecting word from another brother?”

  A dull lump swelled in her chest. Oh, why had she felt it necessary to put the whole horrible episode down on paper? She’d not dwelled on her family’s fractured separation for years. Now she knew why. It hurt too much. “No, ma’am. No letter. Nothing.”

  “Very well. You may go.”

  Sabrina slid the letter into her apron pocket. Moved with stinging eyes toward the door. Wiped them with the back of her sleeve. She’d tried putting her family behind her. But reliving that tragic day had brought all her hurt and abandonment to the surface like oil upon water.

  “And Sabrina?”

  “Ma’am?”

  Ard-siúr’s solemn, weighty stare pinned her to the floor. “Should Brendan Douglas ever attempt to contact you, you will let me know, won’t you?”