Ard-siúr opened her hands as if tossing away her interest. “It is not my place to assign innocence or blame. That is the purview of the Amhas-draoi.”
Who hunted Brendan and would kill him without a second thought.
Daigh had called her courageous. She didn’t feel brave, but she’d not see her brother murdered in cold blood.
Sabrina never flinched. Not even against Ard-siúr’s most focused stare. “Did you wish to speak to me about Daigh or Brendan?”
“They both concern me for different reasons.”
Holding her breath lest she lose her nerve, Sabrina rose confidently from her seat. “Then you should speak to them. Not me.”
A few rotted, slimy staves of wood, a length of old mud-caked rope, four bottles still corked and wax-sealed. This was all the cove gathered to its shores today.
Using the tip of his knife, Daigh dug out one bottle’s cork. Tasted the contents. Still good. He took another swallow. Stared out at the waves, letting the steady wash of the surf dull the interminable throbbing behind his eyes. Inhaled the pungent, briny air, hoping to break the press of dread centered low in his gut.
Neither brought relief.
Downing the rest of the wine, he tossed the bottle far out into the pewter-black sea before taking the hill path back.
The Great One’s control strengthened. Daigh could no longer deny the dark presence forcing its greasy way back into his mind. Little time remained before he would again be Máelodor’s puppet and any hope for escape was gone.
Sabrina caught sight of him as he entered the gate. Looking up from winding a length of bandage round a man’s hand, her face broke into a smile, pink flushing her cheeks.
He deliberately turned away, shoving the demon-flare of Máelodor’s magics as far from the surface as he could. Hoping she wouldn’t catch a hint of his increasing loss of control.
“Daigh?”
She’d followed him. Her gentle touch seared him like a burning brand. He jerked away, but not before the murderous thunder of his thoughts flared wildly in his eyes.
“Where have you been?” she asked, hesitation replacing the smile of before.
“Nowhere that concerns you.”
“It’s . . . he’s . . . it’s happening just like you said, isn’t it?”
He clenched his jaw against the frenzied, hot stab of pain centered at the base of his skull. Clamping around his brain until he couldn’t think, couldn’t see beyond Máelodor’s vicious anger. “Leave me. Now.”
“I can help.” She rummaged in the bag slung over her shoulder.
“There is nothing you can do.” He caught her wrist, forcing her to meet his accursed gaze. Her horror laid bare in the blue of her eyes.
“Is this scoundrel bothering you, milady?”
Neither one of them had noticed the approach of Sabrina’s patient and two of his mates. They eyed Daigh with a mix of trepidation and swagger, an edgy frustration in the flexing of their meaty fists and the squint in their broad farmer’s faces.
Sabrina pulled herself together enough to offer the men a faltering shake of her head. “No, it’s all right. Really. Thank you.”
The leader of the group tipped his wide-brimmed hat, rubbing at a thin white scar on his chin. “That’s all right then, milady. But you let Simms know if there’s trouble.” He glared at Daigh. “Watch yersself, lad. I seen yer kind afore and I’ve dealt with ’em as I seen fit.” He drew a finger across his throat. “It’s yer kind brought the Duinedon down on us. Actin’ as if yer powers make you better.”
Daigh released Sabrina’s wrist, gauging this new challenge. “It’s no act.” A red haze burned at the corners of his vision, a crackling awareness lifting the hairs upon his arms and neck. His stare moved slowly over the intruders, the venomous mage energy alive in his eyes.
They fell back with a startled oath, scuttling away like whipped curs, only the leader glancing over his shoulder with a black look of foreboding.
“They were only trying to protect me,” Sabrina said.
He shrugged off her hand, pushing his way past her. “I know, Sabrina. So am I.”
Drawing her cloak around her, Sabrina scanned the pale ribbon of road. The darkening spread of trees to either side. The sun had sunk until naught but a haze of orange and yellow brightened the western sky, a smearing of thin clouds painted bright red. Long shadows striped the ground and reached up the walls behind her. Mingled with the smoke from the fires within.
A figure topped the rise. Paused for long minutes as if judging whether to proceed.
Impossible to identify from this distance, but definitely male. Tall. Lean. A greatcoat hung open over high boots.
Sabrina leapt to her feet. Waved, hoping to coax him down.
He lifted a hand in answer. But rather than approaching, he disappeared back over the hill.
And though she waited until full dark and the rising of a late moon, he did not come again.
She slipped within the gate, her dark gown a paler black against the night, a hood covering her hair, yet he recognized her. The agile, clever movements, the slenderness of her body. And when she turned toward the stables seeking him out, her face glowed milky in the moon’s dim light. Tears glistening upon her cheeks.
He ducked farther into the gloom, and she passed him without pausing.
Whom had she left to meet? Who would draw her from the safety of the order in the middle of the night?
The answer struck.
Brendan Douglas.
His hands closed to fists, the presence uncoiling to glide up from the darkness where Daigh had chained it. He fought back but it had grown sly enough to evade his few defenses. A pitiless, reptilian smile daggered through his brain until he could barely stand, and he clenched his jaw to keep from moaning.
Máelodor read his thoughts. And celebrated success.
Like a fuse burnt to the touch hole, Daigh’s time ran out.
The true battle began now.
The child tugged her skirts. Shoved the note into her hand before running back to the gaggle of children playing tag. Sabrina looked around. Was Brendan hidden beneath the disguise of a thin-shanked farmer unloading bags of seed from a tumbrel? The man hunkered over a dice game? The messenger in tall muddy boots and a threadbare jacket idly picking his nose in the library doorway out of the rain?
She unfolded the note carefully as if it might blow up in her face, dread making her heart thump painfully in her chest.
The crossroads. Come immediately.
B.
She’d said it before: Letters never boded well.
They met upon the road, almost as if he’d been waiting for her. Despite his coarse homespun, weathered boots caked with mud, and a rough leather coat that stretched over his broad shoulders and ended at least three inches above his wrist, he strode forward with a confident air. Head up. Jaw tilted at an arrogant angle. A commanding gleam in his gaze, a broken branch clutched carelessly in a loose fist.
“Should you be out here alone?” he asked, whipping at the tall grass of the verge with his branch.
“We’re still on the order’s lands.”
“So were we once before,” he answered, falling in beside her. Nothing of the lover in the ominous, hulking anger. Electrifying an already charged atmosphere. His manner pulsed with barely repressed savagery and a thunderous rage.
She swallowed her tears before they’d show upon her cheeks. She’d known this day approached. Still it hurt with a swift, lancing pain.
Crossing a stile, they entered the orchard. Threaded their way through an arched avenue of bare mingled branches, the order’s walls glimpsed here and there beyond a fold in the hill.
“He’s mad to risk coming here,” he snarled. “Does he want to be caught?”
Her stomach shot into her throat, throwing him a horrified look.
“Aye, Sabrina. I know who it is you steal away to meet.” He hunched deeper into his coat. “As does Máelodor.”
“No!” She
tripped over a root. “You didn’t—”
Daigh caught her, muscles rigid, face harsh with anguish. “He draws me back, his power far greater than mine.”
“But the memories.”
“They’re not enough to fight his presence inside me.”
The orchard row ended at a tall, overgrown hedge. A narrow slatted gate led to the lane and crossroad beyond.
She paused, a hand upon the latch. “What will you do if Brendan comes?”
“Warn him. It’s all I can do.”
A snap of a twig, the scuttle of a fox, followed immediately by a sudden rush of beating wings and the croaking scrape of hundreds of crows as they rose into the air. Sabrina’s heart thundered, but beside her Daigh went completely still, eyes narrowed, his branch leveled for battle.
Animal rage poured off him in sour waves, a brimstone stench that churned her stomach. It pounded against her and over her like a great wave. Crushing her beneath the weight of it. No barriers she could erect strong enough to keep him out. The link between them unbreakable and unstoppable.
Mage energy fractured the air. A wall of flame leaping between them. A blast of deadly, ground-shaking battle magic.
She dropped her bag, clamping hands to her head as if she might hold it steady on her shoulders, her vision overwhelmed by a pair of baleful, snaky eyes. Pupils constricted to narrow slits. The yellow-red light of its iris streaked with fire.
She lurched and cried out, falling on her knees in the dust. Daigh, hunched and shaking across the road, his branch abandoned beside him.
A pair of shining boots stepped into the corner of her eye. She looked up into the frozen blue stare of Gervase St. John.
“I see you received your brother’s note, little sparrow.” The words slicked along her nerves like slime. Viscous and oily. He glanced over at Daigh’s shuddering figure. A long pause followed that she felt as a quiver of wild anticipation. “And you’ve brought a friend.”
Confused and shaking with sickness, Daigh opened eyes sticky with crust. Cold rain needled his face, and his clothing clung wet and chilly to his skin, making the trembling worse.
Above him, clouds rolled thick and unbroken, creating a false twilight. He sat up, rubbing at the base of his neck. Scanned the trees. The sky to the west where a dim glow marked the sun’s descent.
He’d been mistaken.
It was almost full dark. Hours lost.
Sabrina could be anywhere.
“No matter how often I see you, I’m still amazed.” St. John stepped from between the trees, his golden head darkened with rain, his greatcoat mud-spattered and damp. “That spell would have killed any normal human, and yet you . . .” He waved a careless hand in Daigh’s direction.
Rigid with fury and gut-churning nausea, Daigh’s hand fell to his waist.
“Looking for this?” St. John pulled forth a dagger. “I took the liberty of securing it along with the pistols you carried. Seemed wisest to conduct our conversation sans weapons.”
Every killer instinct screamed at Daigh to lunge for the man’s throat. Rip into him with his bare hands if need be. But the Amhas-draoi had Sabrina. Until Daigh knew where she was being held, he’d chain his murderous rage. Let St. John have his gloat.
He shoved the weapon back into his belt. “I see you’ve finally learned to appreciate my more persuasive techniques.”
“Where is she?” Daigh snarled.
“Douglas’s sister? She’s safe enough. She’s enjoying a brief reunion with her brother. Tearful. Emotional. Warms my heart.”
“You’ve no heart.”
St. John’s face fell into clownish lines, his hand to his chest. “Perhaps I had one once, and it was lost. Or stolen? Perhaps I was born without one at all? Who can say?”
Daigh’s fingers curled into his palms, the nails biting into his flesh until blood appeared. Mixed with the rain. “Let her go. She’s not any part of this. This fight is between you, me, and Máelodor.”
“She may not have started as part of my plans. A dull, tedious young woman like so many females. But she’s become such a large part, hasn’t she? You know, when you and I last spoke, I was sure she would be the bait to lure her brother in. And then it turned out to be the other way around. Funny how it all worked out, isn’t it?”
St. John propped one booted foot on a fallen log. His expression virtuous as any priest’s. His innards rotten to the core.
“What do you want?” Daigh asked.
St. John speared Daigh with a frozen stare. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the Rywlkoth Tapestry. You were sent for it. But I shall claim it. I had thought to use Lady Sabrina, but why send her when I have you?”
Daigh’s breath clogged his throat. His mind churning. “The bandraoi will never let it leave their protection.”
St. John’s smile vanished. “The bandraoi will have no choice. Not against a Domnuathi. You’ll retrieve it and bring it to me here.”
“Not until I’ve seen Sabrina and know she’s safe.”
“And you don’t see Sabrina until I have the tapestry, so”—he spread his hands—“we’re at an impasse.”
“Damn you,” Daigh ground out through clenched teeth. His skin felt like ice, and every second out here added to the miserable trembling he fought to contain.
The man shrugged. “Very well. The suggestion was made. I’ll be sure to let your little sparrow know who’s responsible for her agony. She shall curse your name with her last breath.” He laughed. “Oh wait, I forgot. You’re already cursed.” He turned to go.
Daigh threw himself to his feet. “You touch her, and I’ll—”
St. John swung around, his eyes fever bright, his voice dropped to a near whisper. “You’ll what, Lazarus? What would you do in exchange for her life? How far would you go?”
Daigh halted, blood roaring in his ears. A fire eating away at his belly. He should have known he couldn’t hide from St. John. The man saw everything with those guileless charmer’s eyes.
“You can’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity to redeem yourself. Show the Great One you’ve not failed him—again. He’s quite annoyed, you know. Wonders if you’ve forgotten your last reprimand.”
Daigh hadn’t. That memory had been carved into him along with the scars. Máelodor would enjoy breaking him. Punishment would be endless and unbearable. It would make him pray and weep and beg for death. And there would be no mercy. No rescue.
He was on his own. As he had always been.
“I’ll bring you the tapestry.” He drew himself up. Met St. John’s smug condescension with a withering glare of his own. The whoreson knew he’d won. He almost preened.
“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking, Lazarus.” He reached out a hand. His fingers barely brushing Daigh’s cheek. But even that slight contact was enough to curdle his blood and make sweat break over him.
Daigh shuddered and looked away. Afraid and hating his fear almost as much as he hated St. John.
She woke to blindness. Suffocation. And bound hands.
The bag over her face muffled sound and the coarse rasp of the weave itched. She turned herself inside out trying to dislodge it, giving up only when the heavy heat of her breathing grew unbearable and her wrists had been rubbed raw. She rested her head against the floor, curling her body into a tight ball, trying not to cry. But her throat hurt, and her stomach cramped, and scalding tears dripped salty into the corners of her mouth.
Keep calm, Sabrina. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Daigh isn’t dead. Can’t be dead. He can’t die. He’s out there. Alive. And he would save her. She just needed to stay calm and wait.
But calm was impossible. Her heart thundered, and dread pressed down on her until she thought she might die if she weren’t freed soon.
Think of something else. Anything else.
She rolled to her knees, crawling as well as she could in her skirts. Seeking to assess her prison. Weak light filtered through the sack. And a breeze. There must be a windo
w. High up. Too small for anyone to enter or exit. Sliding one foot out in front of her. Then another in a slow shuffle, she paced off the perimeter. Barked her shin. Felt around, discovering the lumpy shape of a bedstead, a thin, crinkly straw mattress. Sank down upon it, resting and nursing her sore leg.
She must have dozed. She woke to a head-pounding battering of rage and fear and despair and defiance. It struck her awake with the force of a blow. Scoured her brain with a raw, frenzied power.
“Daigh!” she shouted, shouldering herself to a sitting position. Peering through the cloth as if she held sight. But all was darkness. Not even the light from earlier. “Daigh! I’m here!”
“Damn it all to hell.” The voice came weak and raspy, but still recognizable.
Despite the circumstances, her heart beat faster, and a crazy mix of joy and anger bubbled through her. “Brendan?”
There followed a rustle, a bitten-back moan, and a tired shuffling crawl. “Hold still, and I’ll try to get this sack off you.”
Long, anxious moments and much cursing later, the bag was torn from her head. Sweet air. She gulped in great lungfuls, savoring the coolness on her face. Squinting even against the blue-black dark of night.
Her eyes slowly adjusted, revealing a face. Familiar and yet not. The man kneeling in front of her bore a rugged breadth of shoulder and a muscled frame, though he held himself gingerly as if he were in pain, and he cradled one hand close against his body. His shirt clung damp and filthy to his chest, and even in the blanketing shadows, his face bore a mottled collage of bruising, a lip split and puffy, one eye swollen shut. But the unblemished eye held a familiar gold gleam, and his smile—split lip and all—bore the lopsided charm she remembered.
Had her hands been free, she would have flung herself at him. Though whether to hug him in welcome or beat him senseless, she wasn’t certain.
He’d left her. Run away when she needed him most. Let her think he was dead. And now he was here. She could make up for that last awful parting. Tell him what he meant to her. How much she truly loved him. Or perhaps she should just give him a good fist to the jaw for bringing hell down on her head.
Lord of Shadows Page 26
