Enchanted Moon (Moon Magick Book II) (8 page)

Her mind swam.
Find
the wolf.
Her hand went to the place her bow usually hung, now absent.

“And what is it, my liege, that I’m to do with a wolf
once I do find it? Stoop and introduce myself? Oh, aye, we forgot to ask that,
didn’t we, Ailyn?” she muttered, exasperated with Maera.

Maera would not say why. Only that Ailyn must find it,
and that it would not kill her.

She’d like to kick something. Or scream the building
frustration out of her lungs until every last twittering bird fled from the
crazed woman invading their wood. She should turn back and demand a few answers
from her liege. In fact, that sounded a much smarter plan, indeed.

Aye. Ailyn halted, nodded at nothing in particular,
and spun around. “Back whence we came, Ailyn. Mayhap we’ll learn a mite faster
next time your future queen violates her own mother’s laws.”

Who was to say that Maera wasn’t simply sending her
away to avoid questions? She did know of the wolf, though. Ah, wolf be damned!
It was long gone by now.

Certainly a wolf would not impact Maera’s survival.
Certainly Quinlan would have returned by now with his healer. Her stomach did
an odd flip at the thought. Would she find him there, at Maera’s side, concern
drawing lines on his too-handsome face? She increased her pace. The wolf could
find her. She felt foolish to trust Maera—to be fetching it at all.

She had followed Maera’s orders blindly once again,
and possibly to both their detriment.

She set off in the direction she’d come.

What was Colm constantly telling her? Follow your
instincts first, Ailyn. Follow them even before following the queen herself. Of
course, it would certainly be easier to follow instincts if she had any.
Instead of instincts, she had questions. What and should and perhaps were what
her gut told her. Not do this or do that. At the moment, naught but hunger
gnawed her belly.

She had no business becoming a member of the queen’s
elite guard. What had Tullah been thinking, appointing her to it less than a
year ago?

She’d been too happy to be away from Kristoph’s daily
ogling to care at the time.

Kristoph was far, far away now. He could not touch her
here. Yet the weight of his interest still came down on her. Not even the
perfumed air could lighten the emotional load. She needed rest. She missed her
own bed. She was done with Maera’s games. The princess would be telling her the
truth, or Ailyn would in fact leave her here to rot.

Maera might be willing to abandon her people, but
Ailyn was not. She would return with what she knew and help where she could.
Even if it meant facing the queen’s aide she feared and loathed.

She breathed in, hoping to calm her flurrying mind.
Then the sweet, scented air gave way to a pungent odor that any hunter, guard,
or wandering child would instantly know. A feral smell.

Danger. Ailyn slowed her pace.

The wolf.

Her body wanted to run, but her wits won out. Her
vision roved over the foliage, the brambles, and the leaves for signs of
movement. A low hissing sound met her ears, sending the hairs on her neck on
end. Everything in her said this was not the wolf. This was worse. Was this the
thing Quinlan had run from?

Heat flashed over her neck. Ailyn swallowed against a
wave of nausea and ran. She willed her feet to move as swiftly and surely as
they could carry her—back to the clearing, back to the cliff’s edge.

To Maera.

To Quinlan.

To safety.

Chapter Seven

She would not make it. Within a furlong’s distance,
she recognized her body’s limitations. She’d have to face it again—and
this time, find the courage to slay it. She put her dagger in her hand, weaved
left, and halted into a crouch. The wolf followed suit, slowing, crouching, and
baring its long fangs. The morning light filtered through the boughs. Shafts of
light hit its dark coat. Not black at all. More like an ashen gray.

Only rarely had she seen a wolf in the southern
kingdoms she and the other guard patrolled, and never in her childhood. The
eastern lands she grew up on boasted several breeds of dangerous felines, but
no wolves. She’d never encountered a lone wolf face to face. The beast’s low
growl grew softer as it neared her, zigzagging as though it was as suspicious
of her as she of it.

Ailyn rotated the dagger in her sweating palm. She
watched it closely, debating on attacking its throat or its ribs. Puncturing
the rib cage required force. Slitting its throat would take expert aim. Her
hand shook, likely as much from hunger and exhaustion as from fear itself. The
wolf’s gaze bore into hers as it came to a stop a few paces in front of her,
its body at a curve, its hackles up.

“I’ve no wish to kill you,” Ailyn said, her voice
hoarse.

Its snout wrinkled to show its teeth, then relaxed.
Its growl faded as it stared. Ailyn’s gaze locked to the
beast’s
.
A shiver of familiarity went through her. Something knowing inside of her crept
to the surface. This was no ordinary wolf. But then, this was not of the Fae
world, either. This creature belonged to man’s world.

Still…

“Leave me be or come at me, wolf. Your choice.”

It shook its head. The hair along its back settled.
But it kept its head low, still staring at her, blinking. A sound akin to a
whimper escaped it. Ailyn frowned. She slowly stood up from her crouch, eyes
locked on the
creature’s
. It opened its mouth, the
tongue lolling out as it sat.

Ailyn watched, dumbstruck and at a loss for how to
proceed. Maera’s words echoed in her mind. “I don’t suppose you’d postpone
eating me long enough to come with me?”

She didn’t actually expect an answer, so its sharp
howl shocked her, jolting her and sending her back a pace. The mournful cry
echoed through the trees, tearing at her heart. She’d never heard such a sad,
sad sound. Or witnessed such sorrow as in the gaze with which the beast beheld
her. Perchance it was that gaze that kept her rooted in place when it walked
toward her.

No growl. No fangs. Only those downcast eyes pulling
at her. Beseeching her. She reached her hand out, palm up. It closed its eyes
and touched her palm with its cold, wet snout. Then it looked up at her again,
the sun’s rays revealing a shade of brown she knew all too well. Recognition
spiraled through her.

“Colm?” she gasped, dropping to one knee, taking the
wolf’s face in her hands.

He didn’t attack. He neither moved away. He merely
stared back at her—a low, pitiful moan escaping him. The eyes. A little
bit of shaping in his brow, even the pitch of the moan and howl. Aye. Down to
her bones, she felt certain that this wolf was in fact her brother.

“But…how?” she asked, shaking her head as though it
could stop her mind from spinning. No legend, no lore spoke of a Fae man
becoming a beast through the veil. Only the curse of a powerful sorcerer could
force such a change, and no blood ran pure enough for such power these days.
“Who did this to you?”

He shook out his head, nosing her hand again. “Did you
do this, Colm? Has whatever you’re involved with wrought this upon you?” The
questions tumbled through her. On which side of the veil did this happen? To
what end? And Maera. She must know. “The two of you planned this somehow, didn’t
you?”

She shot to her feet, pacing in front of him. “You’ve
both come through, risked your lives, and risked our people’s lives. Liar!
You’ve lied to me, Colm. And for what?” She stopped in front of him, not caring
that he could not answer. Unaware that he growled at her again. “For what?”

His ears pricked forward. He stared past her, his
growl growing.

“I dinna care, Colm. Mayhap it is Maera, and you two
can be on your way, fooling me, fooling everyone. Glad I am that I clobbered
you!”

He must not have liked that a bit. Snarling, he
pounced on her, knocking her to the ground with a thud. Ailyn bucked, fighting
to get her arms free, cursing the pain shooting up her back. “Get off of me!”
she spat out, struggling with his heavy form pinning her down and with fury
cascading like flames through her.

Her fool baby brother had gotten himself into
something dire and deep, and she’d never forgive him for putting her in this
position or for lying to her. Secrets she could not abide. How much they’d lost
because of dark secrets. How could he not have learned better after what their
parents suffered?

“Col—”

One moment she was pushing for space; the next, Colm
was above her, a knife at his throat.

“No!” she shouted, getting up. “Stop!”

She lunged at the hand, but not before blood trickled
over the shiny blade.

“
Nooooo!
”
she wailed, gripping the hand and pushing herself between the wolf—her
brother—and Quinlan. “You dinna understand. You cannot kill him!”

“Why in hell not?” Quinlan demanded, keeping Colm’s
scruff fisted and his knife held high and ready. “Do you care so little for
your life that you’d rather be slaughtered?”

“He’ll not kill me. I swear it. He belongs to my
liege. She ordered me to find him.” She pulled at his hand, but it wouldn’t
budge.

Colm was no help. He growled deeply, snapping his jaws
in Quinlan’s direction. Ailyn smacked him in the chest. “Settle down, Colm, or
he’ll cut you clean.” Did his foolishness have an end? Could he control himself
in his beastly state? “Quinlan, I vow to you, he’ll behave. Please. Release
him.”

His gaze narrowed on her. “If you’re wrong, my life’s
blood will be on your hands.”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll kill him myself. He’ll not attack
you.” She grabbed Colm by the snout for emphasis. Perhaps he had some wits
left, because he didn’t fight her. “Let him go.”

“You befuddle me, lass. But you’re no longer my
concern. Blessed be to you both.” He let Colm go, stepped back, and regarded
her in an oddly pained way.

If Ailyn didn’t know better, he was bidding her
farewell for good. Moreover, doing so wasna easy for him. Thankfully, her
brother calmed himself. She would never call his puckered snout and raised
hackles good behavior, but it would do. He did not attack, and that was enough.
“I’ll be taking him to my liege. I thank you for all you’ve done for us
this…day.”

Quinlan shook his head. “Fare thee well, lass.”

He turned and made his way through the wild bramble,
then paused and faced her anew. “Ailyn, if you knew the wolf, why did you run
from it?”

She had no answer. She couldn’t very well tell him the
truth—that she’d not realized the wolf was her brother. Quinlan already
thought her entirely addled. The truth would only worsen matters. “It was
dark,” she finally offered.

“Aye,” he said, regarding her thoughtfully. “It was a
dark night, to be sure.”

Once he’d left them, she exhaled loudly and nudged
Colm with her knee. “Don’t make me regret abetting whatever it is you and Maera
have schemed. Do you understand?”

He blinked at her and set off the way Quinlan had
gone.

Ailyn might not know this land, but she had at least
kept her bearings. “Wrong way, Captain.”

He loped over to catch up with her. When he barreled
past, knocking her hip, she couldn’t help but laugh. As angry as she was with
her brother, she found relief in knowing that she would be there to see him
through it.

Chapter Eight

Finding Niall O’Donnell kneeling before the cross made
Quinlan hesitate at the door. He didn’t want to interrupt his king in prayer,
particularly since he’d never seen him so ever before. Breanne’s mother, Una,
must not be faring well if her husband had become a praying man. Better to wait
outside, he decided. He moved to retreat when a mangy tabby cat hissed at his
ankles.

“No need to linger about, Quinlan. You won’t burst
into flames if you join me. I promise.” Niall looked past his shoulder, his
bearded face showing a weak smile. “I didn’t.”

Quinlan strode forward, inwardly cursing the cat. He’d
accepted Christ as readily as any Highland man, with a wary eye and a healthy
dose of skepticism. Until Christ’s word spoke of the magick of these lands,
he’d be keeping a respectful distance. “Don’t be asking me to my knees,
m’lord.”

Niall let out a grunt of humor and stood to clasp
Quinlan’s arm. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But a
seat, I’d say, is in order. I gather from your haggard face that much happened
last eve.”

Aye, haggard was the right descriptor, to be sure.
He’d not been so exhausted since his many months fighting at Edward Bruce’s
side. He missed that sense of purpose after leaving Tir Conaill. He’d thrown
all his energy into Edward uniting Ireland’s kings by becoming high king.
Regretfully, famine and an utter lack of fealty amid each tuath ended Edward’s
and thereby his men’s hopes.

Those days and nights were a blur of conviction and
effort, though, while this night played vividly through his mind over and
again.

He found no answers to this night’s enigma. Something
he’d not yet grasped was at hand. Something…bah, his mind was too blasted
fatigued to keep at it. He joined Niall in the first pew, his gaze on the stone
cross alter, waiting.

Waiting for Niall to ask his questions and give him
footing on where to begin.

“This was no clan raid, was it, Quinlan?”

“No, m’lord.”

“I suspected as much. No tartans claiming a few lifted
bulls. And to my knowledge, no real need for it this winter.
MacSweeney
had a good breeding season. And his third
daughter married into the
O’Doherty
clan nigh a
fortnight past.”

For the briefest moment, Quinlan’s mind trekked
through the list of local clans who might lift a few cattle; then he snapped
back to the facts. “This was no raid. I don’t know how to reconcile it myself,
m’lord.”

Niall regarded him thoughtfully. “How about starting
at the beginning? Wherever we end, surely we’ve faced the likes of it before.”

Quinlan bit back a remark about his very different
opinion. Better to share the events and let the king draw his own conclusions.
How did he explain all that he’d witnessed? “South of the old Druid’s home and
to the east,” he said, bearing in mind that Samhain wasna so far away, “I came
upon a bonefire.”

“Aye.” Niall eyed him.

“It was unlike any bonna night, though. The sight
hearkened back to tales my grandmother told us at her skirts. Of the old ways.”

Niall knitted his brow. “Aye.”

Again, not unheard-of. The old ways were still alive
and well in many a village in Eire. The Lord and his crucifix they sat before
could not erase generations living among
sidhe
mounds and bard tales as old as the trees themselves. “I’d estimate at least two
of the herd were part of what looked to be a sacrifice.”

“Led into the bogs?”

Quinlan shook his head. The more he spoke of what he
saw, the more benign it sounded. “Nay. Dismembered.”

Niall rose an eyebrow, huffing. “Who?”

“I couldn’t tell. As I said, they were practicing the
old ways. Painted. Masked.”

“But dismembered animals? I’ve no recollection of any
such practice. D’you?” he asked. Then he looked far away. “Better to ask
Breanne. Heremon mentored her well.”

Quinlan nodded, relieved to apparently have satisfied
Niall. He’d rather not share the details of Ailyn and her friend. Able to get
some perspective, he could see now that he’d likely overreacted. Perchance, he
got caught up in Ailyn’s panic and he’d imagined some parts of it. The dark
force was likely weather. The wolf she’d somehow tamed…well, if Breanne could
light a candle’s flame with a soft blow, why couldn’t a woman tame a wolf?

“Aye, m’lord, I’m sure Breanne would have better
answers than I have. And you can warn against such wasteful use of cattle.”
Certainly Niall’s people would err on the side of preparing well for a harsh
winter rather than worry over a few moments’ inspiration for a harvest
ceremony.

If only Breanne had better answers for her own
mother’s ailing health. A babe on the way, her husband away north negotiating
business for Niall, yet she’d handled herself with such vigor last night.
Silence stretched between them, awkward and wide. Gone was the boisterous man
Quinlan knew as a child. Seeing Niall like this was sobering. He began to ask
after Una when the king spoke first.

“I dinna ken the grip of it, Quinlan, but I can sense
it. Whatever it is that has her…I….”

“M’lord?”

Niall’s gaze returned to the room, focusing on
Quinlan’s face. “Pay me no mind. I’ve the weight of winter bearing down on my
old bones. That is all.”

Niall turned away, effectively dismissing Quinlan, who
was a bit relieved to rise and leave the older man to his worries and prayers.
His words nagged at Quinlan, but what could he do? Press the man for more? Demand
that he explain? Certainly it was none of his concern. He made his way to the
door.

“Was there nothing else, Quinlan?”

A tight sense to protect meeting Ailyn coiled inside
him. “My lord?”

But his king remained silent a moment.

“Be sure to let me know what she says,” Niall called
over his shoulder.

Quinlan’s step faltered. “Breanne, m’lord? Aye. I
will.” He’d hoped his king had meant to do the inquiring himself. That he could
be done with this business. “I’ll speak with her at her earliest avail.”

“Good, good. On with you then, lad.”

A smile tugged at one cheek as Quinlan left. Lad. He
suspected that to a man of Niall’s stature, Quinlan’s nine-and-twenty years
seemed a pittance in comparison. Perhaps he would look in on Breanne in a few
days, giving her time to attend to Maera. And give him time to forget Ailyn.
He’d no taste for the kind of trouble she attracted.

“Sooner is better, lad,” Niall called out as Quinlan
let the door ease shut.

Quinlan winced, having half a mind to act as though
he’d not heard the last. But Niall called his name from the other side in the
deep bellow perfected by fathers the
túath
over. “Quinlan?”

“Aye, m’lord,” Quinlan said, propping the door ajar
and feeling about as young as the man’s tone suggested. “I’ll speak to her today.”

Niall waved a meaty hand in dismissal. The cat that
had announced his arrival wound again around his feet. “I hope you’re pleased
with yourself. Back whence I came,” Quinlan muttered. He plucked the cat up and
stroked its ears. “But not before a bath and a shave.”

If Niall meant to recruit him into his elite warrior
ranks, he was taking his time to do so. Hopefully last night’s errand would be
the end of his king’s efforts, though. Quinlan had lived enough war to rest of
it a spell.

He’d managed only a few weary strides when a tall
shadow blocked the afternoon sun. Quinlan knew his luck and guessed exactly who
glared down at him from atop the stallion.

“Good morrow, Sir Ashlon,” he said, stepping around
the horse, careful to give its reins a hard tug of notice. The stallion paid
him little mind even as he was steered to follow. Quinlan might know what was
coming, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get some good fun in with Breanne’s
husband while the opportunity sat ripe. “Traveling north again, are you?”

“Where is she, Quinlan?” Ashlon ground out. His
impatience was like a balm to Quinlan’s sore patience.

“Where is who?”

“You know damned well who. I told her to come to you
with anything she needs in my absence.”

“Now that boon is brimming with possibilities,”
Quinlan said, enjoying a nice, slow pace toward the keep’s west yard. “Does her
brother neglect her so much?”

“Where? Or do we repeat last summer’s sport, you and
I?”

Quinlan rubbed his jaw, where a scar reminded him of
the very morning he and Ashlon came to blows over Breanne’s brother, Danny.
“I’d love a nice exercise today, Ashlon. Are you certain you have time before
your travels?”

Ashlon released a growl and got off his horse,
dropping the reins for the stable hand who came rushing forward. “She’s not at
home. She’s not at the keep. If anyone would know her whereabouts, it is you.”

Quinlan stopped, giving Ashlon a sly grin. “She must
trust me well, then, aye?”

The anger sparked from Ashlon’s eyes. “Have a care,
friend. And know the only reason your face isn’t a pulp of blood and flesh this
very moment is thanks to my wife.”

“Aye, I heard she didna speak to you for a fortnight
over this one,” Quinlan said, tapping the cheek he’d left a reminder for
Ashlon.

Since the year Ashlon had come to Tir Conaill from
England herself, they’d been ungainly allies. Quinlan once fancied himself
deeply in love with Ashlon’s wife, and while it proved untrue, the sting of
losing the object of his desire to a friend rendered both friendships forever
changed.
 
He wasna certain the
grudge between he and Ashlon would ever fade. Neither would their mutual
respect born out of love for the same woman, albeit of differing kinds, now.

At last, he pitied the man. “She’s at Heremon’s, safe
and sound, doing her best to mend and meddle.”

Ashlon visibly relaxed. “Aye, I thought as much.” Then
with a wide grin, Ashlon clapped him on the shoulder. “Ho, there!” he called to
the hand. “I’ll be needing that one back. And my friend will need his as well.”

Quinlan scratched the nape of his neck, squinting at
the sun. “I actually am without my mount, Ashlon. I’m confident you know the
way well, though.” He’d meet with Breanne about Niall’s questions after her
husband got her home, if he didn’t throttle her before they got that far.

“And miss your exquisite company? I wouldn’t think of
it.” Ashlon socked his shoulder meaningfully. “Lad, he’ll have your gentlest
mare.”

Quinlan didn’t take the barb. “Only if she’s your
slowest as well, lad,” he said with a wink.

The young man looked from man to man, then slapped his
knee with a laugh. “I’ve the perfect mount for you, m’lord. The perfect one to
be sure.”

The stable hand walked out of the stables with a sleek
and rearing dapple-gray stallion. The magnificent horse nearly outshined the
boy’s beaming grin. “Will he do, m’lord?”

Ashlon scrubbed his face, giving Quinlan a sidelong
glance that begged him to say no.

Which meant, of course, he had to say, “Aye, lad.
Saddle that wild one up at once.” He turned to Ashlon. “I’ll be sure Breanne
knows you helped me find my newest steed.”

“Do that. Just please make it before you break your
neck falling from it, will you? I like my own bed this time of year.”

Quinlan guffawed, his good humor erasing the night’s
confusion and wear. The idea of Ashlon being banished from the marital bed had
him thinking: how bad a break could a man take and still enjoy a solid gloat?