“I don't want to continue.” Kate took a gulp, cringed, and pushed the goblet away. “I want you to take me home. I want to see my father. He's suffering because of what you've done. Have you no compassion?”
And what of Owen? Does he yet know I'm taken?
The cavern appeared to tilt. She blinked and rubbed her eyes, wondering why the candle flames danced liked crazed demons.
“I feel so...strange.” She pushed her fingers into her temple, squinting at the goblet that now rested on the table. “Have you poisoned me, Elric?”
He growled, wrapped a hand around her wrist and pulled her upright. She yelped and stumbled against him.
“Compassion is for the weak,” he said, his voice harsh. “Of course I haven't poisoned you, foolish child. You have no idea of your true worth, or how precious you are to me. I find it pleasing to know John Harrington suffers. He took Adela from me. It is fitting, then, that I have taken you from him.”
“Precious? How can you say that after what you've done?” Kate struggled in his grasp. “My father is already on his way to whatever hell this is. And when he finds you, he will kill you.”
Overcome by whatever intoxicated her blood, Kate's legs buckled. Strong arms lifted and held her. Elric drew her close, his touch like a magnet, withdrawing all her resolve. She heard the steady thud of his heart beneath the silver medallion.
You do have a heart, then, Elric.
His words found their way into her head just before her world turned black. “You are mine,” he whispered. “John Harrington will never find me or you. Don't you see? I can steal your thoughts, so I will always know where he is.”
Chapter 17
Castle Rushen watched over the harbour at Balla Cashtal like a stern, grey-clad sentinel. The solid battlements loomed aloft as Owen and John steered their horses onto the drawbridge. The weather-beaten planks rumbled beneath the horses' hooves, which were shadowed by Lio's silent footfalls.
Owen felt a twinge of anticipation and glanced at the clear midday sky, his occupied mind calculating the days until the solstice. Eight days. Eight days until Elric performed the pagan ritual to unearth the ancient secrets buried in Kate's mind. Until then, she would not be harmed. After that...
His tightened on the reins.
As they crossed the drawbridge, two men-at-arms emerged from the gatehouse. One of them – a small, unshaven reed of a man with dark hair and sharp eyes – stepped forward. Lio, tail wagging, sauntered over to the guard, who bent to caress the wolf.
“Look what the tide brought in,” he said, casting a questioning glance over them. “Welcome back, Owen. You're not alone, I see.”
“Salut, Guy.” Owen dismounted and clasped the man's outstretched hand in greeting. It's good to see you. This is Sir John Harrington of Wraysholme. He seeks council with Lord Weylin.”
Guy inclined his head. “Welcome to Rushen, Lord Harrington.”
John returned the nod. “My thanks.”
Apparently satisfied, Guy turned and signalled to his fellow guard. A moment later, the portcullis rose, clanking on its heavy chains. Guy turned back to Owen, his expression serious. “What news of your father, lad?”
The question stung like salt on a raw wound. “Not good. He failed shortly after my arrival.”
“Merde.” Guy frowned and crossed himself. “My condolences. Madoc was a good man, may God rest his soul. 'Tis as well you were with him at the end, then, but I must say it's a blessing you've returned. Lord Weylin has been like a bear with a boil on his arse since you left. He'll be glad to see you, as will young Cedric, who I understand is about ready to fling himself off the battlements.”
Owen's grief eased beneath a flutter of amusement. “Then I'd better hurry and make my presence known.”
Despite its austere walls and stark outlines, Castle Rushen had a warm heart. Owen heard its steady beat as he and John crossed the bailey to the stables. The words of welcome and sympathy afforded to him held no hint of pretence. By the time the horses had been handed to the stable boys, Owen's spirits had lifted.
“You're well received here, young man,” John observed, after a pretty servant girl had bid Owen welcome with a blush on her cheeks and a flutter of eyelashes.
“Rushen has been my home for nigh on eight years,” Owen replied. “Many of these people are like family to me, and Lord Weylin most of all.”
“Tell me about him,” said John, as they wended their way through the castle's west wing. “What should I expect? Is he truly the legend I've heard about, or has his image been distorted by exaggeration?”
Owen glanced down at Lio, who trotted at their side. “I once wondered the same thing about you, Sir John.”
John grunted. “Which is why I ask. I'm more than familiar with inflated assumptions. So who is this master of yours, in truth? What's he like?”
“First of all, he's Welsh,” said Owen, with a grin, “which is commendable in itself, is it not?”
John rolled his eyes. “And?”
“And he's intelligent, shrewd, and respected in all the royal courts of Britain and beyond. He's a sharp mediator, often called upon to negotiate delicate political issues. Few can match him in diplomatic discourse, especially since he speaks seven languages fluently.”
“Only seven?” John gave a wry smile.
“At the last count.” Owen turned onto the stairs of the west tower. “He's a remarkable man, but I should warn you that his diplomatic tongue also has an edge sharper than any sword. 'Tis never wise to offend him.” He paused in front of a great oak door and gave it three hard raps. “He's also the kindest man I've ever known.”
“Yes, yes! Enter.” The muffled response from the other side of the door, followed by some unintelligible mumbling, fair bristled with irritation.
“Hmm.” John raised a brow. “A bear with a boil on its arse?”
Owen shrugged, and stepped into Weylin's private chambers, breathing in the familiar scent of beeswax mingled with stale wood ash. The smell always gave him an odd sense of comfort. Indeed, of all the rooms in the castle, he found these to be the most pleasing.
Tapestries of various sizes covered most of the whitewashed walls, while a scattering of deer pelts served to soften the wooden boards underfoot. Two lead-paned lancet windows allowed sunlight to spill across the floor. Between them, the ornate fireplace lay dormant, its blackened hearth redundant for the summer season. Twin armchairs sat facing the idle chimney, their red velvet cushions suggestive of comfort and intimate conversation. A large bureau stood against the back wall, next to a small door that led to Weylin's bed chamber.
Seated at the bureau, with his back to them, was the one who served as master and friend to Owen. The man's cloak of green velvet had been flung back from his shoulders to drape around his chair in soft folds. His matching brimmed hat, adorned with the quivering tail-feather of a pheasant, sat askew on his thick halo of white curls. Another feather – a sturdy grey quill – twirled back and forth between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
“My Lord Weylin,” said Owen, his voice softened by respect, “I am returned.”
The quill ceased its pirouette and Weylin heaved a sigh that spoke plainly of relief. He lay the pen down, sat back as if admiring his penmanship, and responded without ceremony.
“The past week has been most trying, Owen. That fool Cedric is sadly lacking material between his ears. Indeed, I've yet to discover why you recommended him as your replacement.” He sniffed. “My sensibilities be damned, Lio. You smell like an old sheep.”
Owen cleared his throat and exchanged an amused glance with John.
“I am not returned alone, my lord. I bring with me Sir John Harrington of Wraysholme.”
Weylin twisted in his seat, an expression of mild surprise on his face. “My heartfelt apologies,” he said, rising, his right hand outstretched as he approached. “It would seem I've misplaced my manners of late. A sincere welcome to Rushen, Lord Harrington.”
“My th
anks.” John grasped Weylin's proffered hand. “I've heard much about you, my lord. I'm honoured to meet you.”
Weylin smiled through his exuberant white whiskers. “Your name is also known to me, sir, and I confess your presence in my chambers has already stoked my curiosity.” He turned to Owen, a slight frown settling on his face. “What of Madoc? How does he fare?”
Owen's response did not come easy. “Da is...I mean...he...failed, my lord. Shortly after my arrival at the abbey.”
“Oh, my dear boy, I'm so sorry.” Weylin squeezed Owen’s shoulder, his voice choked with undisguised emotion. “May God rest his soul and forgive my selfishness. Obviously, my recent trials have been trivial compared to yours. Do you need more time to grieve? I can tolerate Cedric's ineptitude for a little longer if necessary.”
“Thank you, master, but no.” Owen took a breath. “We are faced with another matter of great urgency, which is why Lord Harrington is here. He seeks your counsel.”
“Adela's knight seeks my counsel?” Weylin's gaze settled on John's face, his scrutiny accompanied by several moments of silence. His eyes narrowed. “I perceive similar emotions in both of you. Owen's I can understand. But I find myself wondering why you, Sir John, might be equally stricken. Tell me, then, what has brought you to these shores.”
“My daughter...” John paused as if seeking to collect himself. “Katherine has been taken. Abducted from my home. We have reason to believe she's been brought to Mann.”
“Dear God.” Weylin flicked a hand toward the fireplace. “Sit, please, and tell me everything you know.”
The sun dragged shadows across the floor, marking time as the events of the past few days were related. Emotions bled into the atmosphere, thickening the air. Throughout the telling, Weylin remained silent, his responses limited to an occasional facial tic.
“So,” he muttered at last, as if speaking to himself, “the Dark One still lives. I confess I've wondered about him over the years.”
“What do you know of him?” asked John. “What manner of devil is he?”
Weylin pondered for a moment. “Elric is that most dangerous of men,” he replied, in a sober tone, “being both inherently evil and remarkably intelligent. If he has a soul at all, it is void of light. He's no doubt preparing Katherine, manipulating her mind, using her ability to his own end. Indeed, he may already have foreknowledge of your arrival here.” Eyes thoughtful, he tugged on his beard. “Unless, of course, the lass can find a way to resist him.”
“To do so might be dangerous,” said John. “He's already proven himself capable of killing, or at least using others to kill for him.”
Weylin frowned. “Which likely explains another mystery that has plagued us for the past few days.”
Owen, perched on the edge of the hearth, leaned forward. “Another mystery, my lord?”
“The king is missing a few archers,” said Weylin. “Four of them, to be precise, and some of his best men at that. I'm thinking Elric must have paid them to kill Crovan and the others.”
Hope flared in Owen's mind. “Then we can question them when they return. They might know where he's taken Kate.”
Weylin shook his head. “Elric would not be so careless as to let them live. I warrant the poor fools are already sharing a watery grave with their victims.”
“Christ help us,” John muttered. “To think this monster has my child.”
Weylin gave John an odd little smile. “Katherine is also Adela's child, which is why I don't believe Elric will do her any great harm. You should know he was utterly obsessed with Adela, and slid into some kind of insanity when she died.”
“As did I.” John heaved a sigh. “Strange that she could heal others, but was unable to help herself. The fever was terrible. She was too weak to even speak to me. If only...perhaps if I had –”
“You're not to blame for Adela's death, Sir John,” said Weylin.
“But I am entirely to blame for Katherine's abduction,” he replied. “I should never have left her unprotected.”
Owen heard tears behind John's words, and their hidden echo tore at his own battered conscience. His throat tightened. “But for the sake of an hour,” he said, “I might also have –”
“This self-castigation will stop now.” Weylin rose, went to a banded oak chest in the corner, and lifted the lid. “Neither of you are to blame for what has happened, and rearranging past events in your mind will not change their outcome. Future events, however, are still at our disposal.” Mumbling to himself, he pulled out a large scroll and frowned. “Where, I wonder, is Elric getting the money to pay all these people? Abducting a knight's daughter from her home and hiring archers as assassins would not be a piffling expense.”
Owen stood, wincing at the stiffness in his legs. “You think he's being funded somehow?”
“It's something to consider.” Weylin stepped over to his desk. “It would mean he's not working alone.”
Curious to see what the scroll contained, Owen wandered to his master's side. “Perhaps he lured them with false promises and killed them before payment was made.”
“Perhaps, although I doubt anyone would agree to such assignments without receiving at least a partial payment beforehand.” Weylin unfurled a detailed map of the island and affixed it to his desk with paperweights. “Ah, yes. This should serve our needs. But before we begin, I must speak to the king and tell him what has happened.”
Owen tensed. “With respect, master, we'd prefer this matter be kept as quiet as possible. The reasons for Kate's abduction may be misinterpreted and–”
“Owen.” His name sounded like a reprimand on Weylin's lips. “My first allegiance is to the king. This is his castle, and he must be told of his archers' likely demise. He should also be advised that Lord Harrington is here. That said, I have no intention of further compromising Katherine's safety. Allow this wily old diplomat some credit, will you?”
“Forgive me, my lord.” Owen gave a sheepish smile. “I meant no offence.”
“Hmm. Fortunately, my tolerance of your indiscretions stretches farther than it did a week ago. You can thank Cedric for that.” Weylin patted Owen's shoulder. “Now, show Lord Harrington to a guest chamber. You both look as though you could use some refreshment.” He sniffed. “And take Lio with you. Meet me back here in, say, an hour? There's much to do. You should both be ready to leave at dawn.”
John stood and cleared his throat. “With respect, my lord, I was hoping we would begin the search today. Time is moving against us.”
Weylin nodded. “Believe me, Sir John, I understand your eagerness, but this quest requires some preparation. You're obviously exhausted. As a soldier, I'm sure you'll agree that a tired man functions less efficiently than one who is rested. To my shame, I have also been remiss in offering you sustenance, an oversight I intend to rectify immediately.” He gestured to the map. “And this island, while relatively small, still presents a challenge if searching for someone who does not wish to be found. We need to look for likely hiding places and plot the most efficient route for your search. It would not be wise to commence this exercise with anything less than a body and mind primed for the task.”
Later, as they pored over the map in Weylin's chamber, Owen felt the grave enormity of their quest hanging over them like a cloud. He'd seen a brief shadow in Weylin's eyes when the map had been unfurled. Despite its modest size, the island of Mann did present a challenge. Without any leads, the search for Elric would be akin to looking for a dirty penny in a ploughed field.
Lio, perhaps sensing his master's angst, nudged Owen's hand, begging attention. Owen tugged gently on the wolf's ears, uttering a silent prayer that the beast might just stumble upon Kate's scent. Aye, and what were the odds of that? He sighed, sickened by the sudden negative speculation that clawed at him.
Weylin began by marking off remote beaches where a small ship might have landed unnoticed. Locations of isolated valleys and abandoned buildings were also noted, as well as known caves and qui
et woodlands. When daylight dwindled, candles were lit, and as the moon rose over Balla Cashtal's quiet harbour, the search route was finally established.
“I'll continue to make enquiries from here,” said Weylin, “and should I receive promising news, I'll dispatch messengers to find you. Lio's presence on the island should make you easy to find, since he's sure to be noticed.”
“What did you tell the king?” asked Owen, stifling a yawn.
“I told him of Elric’s previous obsession with Adela, and implied Katherine’s abduction is due to the man's continued madness, which is not entirely false. I made no mention of her visions. Due to the loss of the archers, however, there's now an arrest warrant on Elric's head, so others beside yourselves will be searching for him. I'm not sure if that will be a help or a hindrance, but I couldn't argue his majesty's logic.”
Owen raised a brow and looked at John, who nodded. “Understood.”
“His majesty is dining at Rushen Abbey tonight,” said Weylin to John, “otherwise he would have met with you. It seems your legendary battle with the wolf is known to him.”
John gave a grim smile. “I'm honoured, although I confess I'm in no mood to entertain royalty with the sorry tale. And speaking of the abbey – that reminds me. Is the abbot of Cartmel visiting Rushen? He was aboard our ship.”
Weylin frowned. “Not that I know of. Are you sure it was him?”
“Certain, my lord.”
“Hmm. Strange. I am normally notified of such visits. I shall make enquiries about that also. Now, gentlemen, unless there is anything else, might I suggest you both get some rest? The dawn will come soon enough.”
Chapter 18
Kate's consciousness stirred, teased by soft light filtering through her eyelids. With her eyes still closed, she frowned, aware of a distant, incessant roar. Her tongue tasted salt and her mind made the connection. Waves. Waves crashing against rocks.
She opened her eyes and stared up at a cavernous roof, her heart lurching into a reckless rhythm. This was not her dismal chamber with its solitary candle. This was the belly of the dragon. Elric's lair. The screen she had noticed previously now shielded her from the expansive space beyond.
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