Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles)

by Amy Rose Davis

  “Aye, lad. And we’re needing a bit of something from ye about your people.” He signaled to the men behind Connor. One kicked him in the kidneys and pushed him down to bind his legs. They lifted him to his feet to face the greasy man. The man picked up a stick and hit Connor across the face. Light flashed and pain erupted as bone shattered around his eye. “Ye’ll tell me where to find your mother, lad, or we’ll be turning ye over to the kiron. He likes a big boyo like you, and then we’ll all be having a turn.” He swung the flail a few times and then connected with Connor’s torso.

  Connor gasped as ribs cracked. He tried to draw air, but couldn’t. The blow should have caved his chest in. They don’t want me dead. He doubled over, but they pulled him back up by the hair.

  The man hit him again from the other side. Bone crunched. “Call up your magic if ye want. Let the raven take ye. ’Tis what you’re afraid of, aye? That it’ll take ye? Make ye something wicked? Let the Morrag save ye.” Connor couldn’t count how many fists pummeled him. “We’ll stop if ye tell us where to find your mother.”

  Connor spit blood. “Fuck you. Find her yourself.”

  “Your little lassie’s a pretty one. The kiron, he’ll enjoy that one. Ye want to watch? Ye can watch us all have a turn—see her pretty little legs splayed for all of us, hear her scream, watch her bleed.” He grinned. “Mayhap if ye play nice, we’ll leave ye a bit of her. ’Twill be a ragged bit, mind. Ye’ll not get that sweet bit ye been wanting.”

  Don’t listen. Focus. There must be an out. There’s always a way out. But only pain answered.

  Kill them, raven.

  Something flared in Connor’s chest. The Morrag—no—don’t— But he couldn’t stop it. It swelled, sweet and powerful and strong, as the men pounded him. The pain only served to feed the Morrag. Strength gathered in his arms, legs, shoulders. Muscles that had lost feeling answered again. He tugged against the hands holding him. I could escape. I could fight, but at what price?

  I will give you strength, raven, the Morrag said. She laughed, a high, cackling, exultant sound. You’ll be mine.

  No—I won’t! Connor pressed her voice aside. He tried to draw a full breath. His ribs protested every move, and every blow sent agony through his limbs. Strength faded as he pushed the Morrag back. “No.” He spit blood.

  The man laughed. “No? Ah, lad, we’re just getting started.” He swung and hit again. “Tell me how to find your mother.”

  Connor gasped, spit more blood. Strength retreated. His knees crumpled and his arms went limp. They’ll kill me and rape Mairead and find my mother. Is this it? How it ends? And then, the thought he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. This is what you wanted. You wanted someone else to kill you—destroy you and keep you from the raven.

  Tears stung. It’s what I wanted. I wanted to die. He thought of Mairead. I should have promised you everything. He closed his eyes. Weakness overtook him. “Fuck all of you.” At least the raven won’t have me.

  The men laughed. “To the end, eh? All right—if ye must.”

  “The kiron’ll want his chance. Just make it so he canna fight.”

  Connor fell. Fists and feet pounded him. Sounds faded. Mairead, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  Above, the raven’s caw faded into the distance.

  ***

  By the time Mairead talked herself down from her anger and stopped walking, there was no sign of the camp. She slumped against a fir tree, sliding down to curl her knees to her chin. She closed her eyes and took several long, deep breaths. Only the subtle sounds of the forest surrounded her—night bugs, an owl, a raven in the distance. She folded her hands. “Alshada, give me wisdom. I care for him. Forgive me, but I do. Show me how to speak your truth to him.” Only crickets answered, but Mairead rested her head on her knees, finding comfort in the words and the ritual.

  Footsteps approached. Mairead readied herself for words with Connor, but smiled when she saw Gavin. Perhaps he can pray for Connor with me. “Gavin. I’m surprised Connor let you follow me.”

  “Forgive me, Mairead.” He knelt before her. “I thought perhaps you might wish to have a sympathetic ear.” He offered her a thin smile. “Connor is protective, isn’t he?”

  “We’ve had a few close calls since we started our journey. He fears losing me, I think.” I should tell him we aren’t married. I don’t like lying to him. But then Connor will be even angrier.

  “You have such a strong faith. How did you find yourself wed to a man with a faith so weak?”

  She thought for a moment. No more lies—I can’t lie anymore. “Gavin, I should tell you something.”

  “Yes?” He shifted his weight.

  Overhead, the raven’s cawing grew closer.

  Mairead tensed. He wants something from me. She put subtle hands on the hilts of both knives in her boots. “Nothing. Never mind.” She started to stand. “We should—”

  But there was no time to finish. Gavin’s placid face turned cold. He lurched toward her. She scrambled to one side of the tree, and his hand fell on her foot. She kicked with her other foot, hitting him in the face. He jerked back, blood streaming from his nose, while she drew both knives and jumped to her feet. “Who-who are you?”

  His arm came toward her, and she slashed. Blood sprayed from the slice in his forearm. “What do you want from me?”

  He flicked blood aside and lunged toward her again. She slashed. He grabbed her arm and swung a fist at her. She ducked and stabbed toward his side, but the knife bounced off a rib. He howled in pain and let go of her, clutching his side.

  Mairead hesitated. He’s wounded—I can run. But what if he chases me? Can I make it back to Connor in time? Oh gods—Connor was right! What if they’re attacking him?

  Gavin straightened, preparing to lunge. Mairead gritted her teeth, took one step toward him, daggers crossed before her in an X, and slashed his throat open with a quick slice in two directions. He screamed and clutched at his throat.

  Mairead stepped back, horrified, as Gavin’s blood sprayed out onto her and his gurgling cries echoed through the trees. He clawed at his neck, frantic at first, then slower. Her heart thundered against her chest. Finish him. Stop the screaming. She stepped toward him and stabbed between his ribs, and his arms went slack.

  Connor—what have they— She started toward the camp, but another man appeared out of the trees—a large, heavy mass of muscle and hair. “Oh, lassie. They dinna tell me ye’d be such a lovely.”

  She stabbed, but he grabbed her forearm and unbalanced her. She struck his thigh with the blade in her other hand. Instinct told her to twist it and slice as deep as she could. He cursed and went to one knee, holding her arm. She sliced through the muscles in his arm—once, twice—until his hand went slack. He howled. “Bitch!” He looked down at the blood staining his breeches. “Fucking bitch! What did you—”

  She didn’t give him a chance to finish. With every ounce of strength she could muster, she stabbed her dagger straight into the base of his skull. He shuddered and fell, and she drew the blade out and ran toward the camp again. Overhead, the raven flapped and cawed and croaked, diving and rising. Voices drifted through the trees—cursing, grunting, wicked laughter. Connor! She stepped closer to the clearing and saw the four men gathered around him, beating him. The horses— They were close, and her bow hung from her saddle.

  Connor wasn’t making any noise. Hang on. I’m coming. She shushed the horses and took her bow and quiver down. She nocked an arrow and shielded herself between the horses. Nock, aim, release. How many times have I done this? Her hands shook. She steadied herself. Don’t miss. You have one chance.

  The arrow landed with a thunk in the back of one of the men holding Connor. The others stopped, but she already had another arrow nocked. She aimed, fired, and took down another man who ran toward her. One more—nock, aim, release. Another man fell.

  The fourth was too close. She dropped the bow, drew a dagger, and threw it. It landed in the grass. The man flicked her other dagger from her
hand in a single swipe, but she twisted his hand away and grabbed his forearms. Her knee came up hard into his groin, and he groaned and fell. She picked up her dagger, pulled his head back, and slit his throat.

  Blood soaked the ground as she straightened and whirled, looking for more of them. Connor lay on the ground, bound at hands and feet, choking out ragged, desperate breaths. “Connor.” She ran to his side and cut the ropes. She turned him to his back. “Can you talk?”

  He gasped, trying to draw breath. His eye was blackened and shattered, and a seeping welt marred his jaw. A ragged cut ran across one forearm. She could barely make out his tattoos with all of the welts on his torso, and his sword hand was swollen almost beyond recognition. “Mairead—you’re all right. I thought they’d—”

  “Just tell me how to help you.”

  “Make sure they’re dead.”

  She picked up his sword and stabbed the three she’d shot, then returned to his side. “Now what? What can I do?” She pulled him against her lap.

  He groaned. “Just need a few minutes.” He coughed and winced. “Ribs broken. Hard to breathe.”

  Gods, we’re nowhere! There’s no help! “Connor, I don’t know where to take you—”

  “I can help, yes.”

  A tall woman with a long gray braid, freckled skin, and fierce golden-green eyes stood at the edge of the trees. She surveyed the dead men, hands on her hips and mouth in a tight line. “Well, I suppose they got what they deserved.”

  “Who are you?” Mairead asked.

  “Bah. I knew this mulehead in his youth.” She folded her arms over her chest. “It’s like looking at your father, yes? You’ve grown up.”

  Connor’s body went limp against Mairead’s lap. “Rhiannon. It’s good to see you.”

  “And it’s good to see you alive—Connor Mac Niall.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In the Keep of the Syrafi lies the source of the animstone.

  Those who wear it bear the mark of creation in their souls.

  — Legend of the Syrafi, oral tradition

  Igraine stood in the castle courtyard wrapped in a fur-lined cloak as Braedan prepared to leave for the Mac Rian holdings. Surrounded by his personal guards, the soldiers standing in formation, the horses, the stablemen, the supply wagons, and various other servants, she was starting to regret her decision to see him off. “Perhaps I should return to my chambers and wave to you from the window,” she said.

  “I want you here. Stay.”

  “I’m merely an obstacle.” She stepped aside for a stableman rushing past with a piece of repaired tack for one of the king’s guards.

  “You’re not an obstacle.” He tugged at the wool doublet he wore, loosening it around his neck. “Are you certain I need to dress in such finery just to ride?”

  “Would you rather look a servant, then?” She adjusted his collar for him. “You fidget like a new-made squire, love. Stand still.”

  “Silk and wool just to lead men out of the city? This is the kind of foppish finery my father enjoyed.”

  She put her hands on his cheeks. “You are king. I know you want to lead by vision, but even the best visions need to catch the eye first.” She brushed a smudge from his shoulder and ran her fingers through his short black hair. “I suppose you’ll suffice.”

  “Should I find a maid to dress me each morning to make sure I portray the proper image?”

  She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Only if you never want to return to my bed.”

  He laughed, and his eyes twinkled. Her heart skipped. He makes my knees weak. What a foolish girl I am. But as she stepped away to watch him give final instructions to his captains and reject, once again, Cormac’s suggestion that he take a carriage, she realized once more how much affection had grown between them. He is not the man I expected when I came here.

  The week since Duncan’s death was colored by grief, filled with frantic preparations for Braedan’s trip north, and accented by Igraine’s own new duties as a legal advisor to the Taurin crown. During the day she maintained an uneasy truce with her emotions, presenting her usual practiced cool competence to the lords and ladies in the castle, but at night, with Braedan, she abandoned decorum.

  Braedan’s arms welcomed her whether she cried, raged, opined, or seduced. He pleased her the way previous lovers never had. They shared his bedchamber, occasionally beginning to undress each other even before they reached his chamber door. She all but forgot Matthias’ attack when she was in Braedan’s bed.

  She developed a grudging admiration for how he managed his army, his guards, and the castle affairs. In the calm aftermath of his ascension, he let designated leaders handle their own affairs with only casual oversight. He took Igraine’s advice and appointed men to help him govern—judges who could hear disputes in his stead and dispense the king’s law fairly—and the appointments freed him to pursue some of his other visions.

  Unfortunately, one of the men he appointed was Ronan Kerry. Braedan had decided not to take him north and instead appointed his uncle Lord High Chancellor, only one level below a regent. When he told Igraine, she sat up in bed and slapped his shoulder. “You fool, Braedan. You’ve just handed him your throne.”

  Braedan sat up and leaned against the pillows, one hand behind his head. “He is my uncle. He’s no threat to me. He practically raised me.”

  She stood up and pulled on a robe as anger rose. “And so you waited until now to tell me—when you leave tomorrow and I have no chance to sway you and you’ve already bedded me? You ass.” She poured wine and stood near his window, facing him. “I gave you a way to rid the castle of him. I told you to send him north, and I told you to go with him so that you could watch him, and now this? D’ye not see what he’s doing, lad?”

  Braedan laughed and stood. “You’re angrier than I thought you’d be. Your Eiryan is showing.”

  “Damn it, pay attention. Your uncle has designs on your throne.”

  Braedan folded his arms across his chest. “It’s no secret that you and Ronan don’t like each other. But unless you have some proof that he’s plotting against me, this only sounds like the anger of a woman scorned or a jealous noble.” He paused. “Do you have some proof?”

  Her jaw tightened. “I don’t need proof. I’m not wrong about these things. He has too much power.”

  “Jealous?”

  “No. I have no right to a position as chancellor. I’m not Taurin. But surely there are other men as competent and more trustworthy. Why not give Ronan some high foreign post where he can’t make any moves against you—an ambassadorship to Espara, perhaps? He could take his lady wife home to her family.”

  “He says he doesn’t like it there.” Braedan put his hands on her arms. “Don’t worry. Ronan won’t hurt your position or my power. He helped me get here.”

  But watching Ronan’s men in the courtyard gave Igraine pause. The men from Stone Coast milled around the gate, ramparts, and courtyard. None of them were assigned to Braedan’s contingent. Kerry has managed to stay here with all of his men, while Braedan leaves with all of his closest guards. She spotted Logan. Well, almost all of them. Fortunately, Logan had insisted on remaining behind to command the men from Stone Coast and the remaining Taurin troops. Still, Igraine could not resist an uneasy shiver. This will come to blows.

  Braedan noticed. “Cold?” He took a piece of parchment from Cormac.

  “No. Anxious.”

  “There’s nothing to be anxious about. This is what kings do.” He opened the parchment and started reading.

  Leave their thrones in the care of men who would usurp them? The cool autumn breeze teased his hair, and Igraine pursed her lips. “Braedan.”

  “Hmm?” He stood between his horse and Cormac, staring at a piece of parchment. “What is it?”

  “I wondered if we might have a moment before you go.”

  He wrinkled his brow.

  She cleared her throat. “Alone.” She gestured to the chaos in the courtyard. />
  He blinked, surprised. “Yes. Of course.” He handed Cormac the parchment. “Reply to Lord Seannan and tell him the crown doesn’t owe him or the Lady Aislinn anything more. I will not offer restitution for the loss of his son-in-law. I will consider making some small public improvements to his holdings in the spring, but his defenses and his wall are his responsibility. I’ll not pay for them.” Cormac inclined his head, and Braedan turned to Igraine. “Inside the great hall?”

  She nodded and twined her arm around his. “The atmosphere in the courtyard is not conducive to a final goodbye, Braedan.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry.” A guard opened the door to the great hall, and when they entered the relative quiet, Braedan pulled her into his arms. “Didn’t we have enough privacy this morning? I thought we took care of everything.”

  “We did. I just wanted one more moment with you,” she said.

  “For what purpose? If I had the time, I would gladly find a quiet room to indulge you once more.”

  “It’s not that.” He’ll think me a fool. “Forgive me, Braedan. I shouldn’t have . . .” She started to go.

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Igraine, I should not have neglected you. I’m sorry for that.”

  She took a deep breath. “In Eirya, it is customary when lovers must be apart for the lady to give her lord something to remember her.” She pulled a small scarf of blue silk from the silver belt she wore and held it out to him. “I took this from the scraps of the blue dress you care for so much. I thought it might remind you of me. It’s silly, Braedan. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

  He took the silk. “It’s not silly. I like when you share Eiryan traditions with me.”

  She draped the silk around his neck and pulled him closer. “This week has been difficult, but it has also been delightful. Passionate.” She closed her eyes. “I’m as besotted as some foolish shepherdess in a story.”

  He lifted her chin, and she opened her eyes to see him smiling. “As am I.” He lowered his voice as a servant bustled past. “This is an unfamiliar role for me—the doting lover and future husband. I don’t know how to act.”