Heir of Danger (37 page)

“Maybe that’s what Brendan’s hoping for.”

Rogan’s expression darkened. “Enough talk. It’s time to go.”

She scrambled up the ladder. Passed through the companionway beneath the gaze of sullen, hard-eyed sailors. Climbed to the upper deck, where mist floated like smoke over a narrow estuary, trees rising thick and black to either side of them in the somber gray of predawn.

A dory had been lowered over the side, two men at the oars, two others seated in the bow. One in the stern. They moved like ghosts in the gauzy veil of morning fog.

“Down the ladder. I’ll not leave you with them.” Rogan glanced over his shoulder at the men still on board.

It didn’t take a mind reader to understand the danger to her if she remained. The crew stripped her with their eyes, whispered comments passing from sailor to sailor like an infection.

“Thank you,” she said, holding to her shredded dignity.

Rogan looked startled. Rubbed the back of his neck as he motioned her before him.

She stepped upon the first rung of the rope ladder, gripping it tightly as she swung out over the black water. Her slippers sliding against the wet footholds, her skirts getting in her way as she descended.

At the waterline, hands grabbed her about the waist, hauling her aboard the dory, where she was tossed into the stern beside the same pugnacious, jowly faced man she’d confronted yesterday, his pistol jammed hard in her ribs.

Brendan sat between two others, hands bound behind him, hair silvered with damp. Ugly purple and black bruises marred his sun-bronzed face, thin bloody slashes crisscrossing his face, and one eye was swollen shut. A dark red stain damped his shirt to his left shoulder.

She couldn’t help it. She started to tremble. Locking her knees together, she clamped her elbows against her sides to stifle the growing tremors. She hated being afraid. Being powerless. If only there was something she could do. Some way she could fight back.

Rogan stepped into the boat, taking a seat across from her, never once looking Brendan’s way, as if he didn’t exist. Dropping his coat around Elisabeth’s shoulders, he murmured, “Won’t do you getting a chill on top of everything else.”

The man with the gun gave a snort of crude laughter. “Such a gentleman. A chill’s the least of the bird’s worries.”

Rogan speared the man with a stony gaze over the top of Elisabeth’s head, a jackknife appearing in his hand as if conjured. “You keep your comments to yourself, Sams,” he snarled, “or I’ll see you regret them.”

Sams bristled, his face reddening. “You think so, Paddy? I’ll fucking blow your head off.”

“English bug!”

“Shut your yobs, the both of you,” Croker growled from his place beside Brendan. “If the excise tumbles to us, you can finish your arguing in Bodmin jail awaiting the assizes.”

The dory shoved off, the oarlocks muffled in cloth, the water sliding in swirls and eddies with each stroke as light spread somber and gray across the sky. Rain took the place
of mist, speckling the water as the boat ground against the rocky shoreline.

Croker took command of Brendan while Sams grabbed Elisabeth, his fingers digging into her shoulder as he propelled her out onto the slimy rocks and up into the trees. Rogan trailing behind.

The group pushed through the scrub and deeper into the spinney. Ahead, a narrow lonely track. A closed coach. And an enormous, barrel-chested man, his wispy white hair barely covering the gray skin of his head, his eyes pale as marbles.

Elisabeth peered over her shoulder, but the river had vanished back into the swirling fog. Nothing to show a ship lay hidden only yards away. No sound but the crunch of trodden leaves, the mournful call of a nightingale from a nearby tree, and the pounding of her frightened heart.

The cottage sat back off the road in a shallow valley, green, rocky hills rising up behind it. Brendan took in hasty impressions as he was hustled from the carriage to the door. The isolation. The number of guards lounging about in various poses of idleness. The way the trees closed in to the west. The narrow track into the hills that lay out of sight of the guards in the yard. And finally, the magic saturating the air. Buzzing up through his center. Not just the dark energy he expected congealing like sludge in his head, but a force outside the cottage walls that singed his mind with war and fire and images of death.

He glanced at Rogan, the focal point of the energy, standing a few yards away with Elisabeth. He must still carry the Sh’vad Tual.

Brendan felt it whispering to him. It was as if he was
expected. As if someone or something beyond Máelodor awaited his arrival.

Oss shoved Brendan forward, a guard moving to open the door and usher them through into the cottage’s surprisingly clean and comfortable interior. A tiny entry hall leading to a room at the back. A narrow set of stairs. Two front rooms to either side. One closed door. One open, from which someone called in dubious welcome.

“Back already, Oss? Do you bring us company?”

Like a knife along slate, the scrape of that familiar voice burned along Brendan’s bones, turning his blood to ice. Squaring his shoulders, he bowed his way beneath the doorway, allowing no glimpse of anything less than perfect confidence to cross his face. Máelodor wanted a groveling, terrified prisoner. Instead he’d find a mage as skillful and determined as himself.

Brendan entered the gloomy room, a sulking fire burning to a few dull coals in the hearth, shutters drawn over the narrow window. The stuffy warmth caused sweat to bead upon Brendan’s forehead and cling stickily to his back.

His host rose stiffly from an armchair. Leaning heavily upon a staff, he stepped out of the shadows.

Son of a bitch!
Bile chewed its way up Brendan’s throat as he tried not to show by even the flickering of an eyelid his complete repulsion. Was this the price for manipulating the forbidden magics? Would this have been his fate had he continued to work the dark arts?

It had been less than a year since he’d last seen Máelodor, and in that time a horrible change had overtaken the master-mage. As a
Heller,
he had always possessed the ability to call upon the power of his fetch animal—even to take on certain characteristics of that animal—but as the
Unseelie
magic consumed him, the line between animal and man was blurring in unspeakable ways.

He’d lost all his hair, his scalp and forehead rough and crusty, except for the patches that had been replaced by glistening gray-green scales. His nose had flattened so that the nostrils were mere slits on either side of a narrow bump of cartilage, his mouth no more than a lipless grinning slash. His eyes protruded beneath scaly ridges that must have once been eyebrows, the slitted irises bearing a fevered intensity.

Yet, the trade-off was obvious. Máelodor’s power throbbed the air, his personal wards impenetrable. If he’d been strong before, now he was damn near invincible. The strength needed to bring him down would need to be equally formidable.

“No greeting for an old ally, Douglas? A man you once called comrade? Friend?” His eyes blazed. “Uncle?”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Brendan replied smoothly. “Father may have honored you with his friendship, but you were always just poor old Simpkins to the rest of us. A dreary functionary with a flair for the dramatic. I see nothing’s changed.”

The backhand rattled his teeth in his head. Disgusting and disgustingly strong. A bad combination.

“Respect your elders and your betters, boy. A shame your father didn’t beat that lesson into you along with all the others. He might still be alive.” His hand shot out, grabbing Brendan’s chin, squeezing hard as he turned Brendan’s face this way and that. “You’ve more and more the look of Kilronan. The favorite son, weren’t you? How he loved you, the deluded fool.”

Brendan wrenched away, coming up hard against the servant Oss’s chest.

A slow, ugly smile parted Máelodor’s mouth in a black gape. “Touched a nerve, have I? Do you grieve for the old man still? Do you wonder how he died? I can tell you if you ask nicely. I can tell you how they all died. All but you . . . and me. Sole survivors of
Amhas-draoi
vengeance.” His voice dropped to a cold, snaky hiss. “The only two left who dared to dream for all
Other
and were punished for their vision.”

“It was madness, and you know it. Any war begun by the
Other
will end in our destruction.”

“Is that why you betrayed us?” Máelodor pushed himself into Brendan’s face, the grotesque snake-man features stomach-turning. “Or was it to save your own cowardly skin?” Clutching Brendan’s shirt at the shoulders, he ripped it away, exposing the crescent-and-arrow tattoo sloping down over Brendan’s collarbone onto his chest. “You were one of us. Trusted. Valued. A leader to those who envied our abilities. And you threw it all away.” He shrugged away with a flip of his fingers. “A shame in the end your treachery earned you nothing. And now you’ll lose everything.”

Oss’s fist shot out with inhuman speed. The kidney punch exploded along Brendan’s nerves. With a cry, he landed on his knees, his gut on fire. The follow-up kick to his ribs knocked him onto his back, the air driven from his lungs.

He slammed his mind shut before the retaliatory crack of power seared the air between them. He’d not fight back. Not while Elisabeth remained in danger. He’d bide his time. And hope there was enough left of him when the moment came to make Máelodor regret laying a finger to him.

The albino stood over him in readiness for another blow.

“Enough, Oss,” Máelodor demanded. “Where are our manners? He’s a guest.”

Oss dragged Brendan by the shoulders into a chair, where he fought back the wave of cold nausea rolling his insides. Forced himself to meet Máelodor’s gaze with a stoic, measured stare.

“Isn’t there someone else awaiting an audience? Douglas, you’ll be interested to meet him as well, I believe.”

Oss stalked to the door with a gesture to someone lurking about in the passage.

Rogan entered, his eyes searching the room, lighting for a moment upon Brendan with a grimace before settling upon Máelodor in his chair. He was not as successful at hiding his shock, but it was a reaction quickly schooled, though Brendan noted the harper’s gaze never rested squarely on the master-mage; rather, it darted here and there in nervous agitation.

Máelodor ushered him forward with an imperious wave of his hand. “I’m told you’ve brought us a gift.”

Rogan nodded as he pulled a leather pouch from his coat pocket. Turned it over in his hand to shake it. Into his palm dropped the Sh’vad Tual.

Its facets shimmered at first silver and ivory and palest gold, deepening to amber, then bronze then orange and coral, and finally black. Light flickered within it, a rippling, angry movement as if something fought to escape. The faint ringing of bells stirred the heavy air of the room, a chime deepening to a sonorous tolling that throbbed Brendan’s temples.

Images flashed through his consciousness. A hidden glade. A toppled stone. A man with hair like flame. A sky dark as blood. And always a constant overlapping of voices
in a language like music or running water or the earth as it cools in the night.

Rogan hurried forward to present the stone to Máelodor, whose smile now stretched to his ears—which, like his nose, had receded into his skull until they were but holes on either side of his head. “Arthur’s return is finally at hand. The race of
Other
will once more hold a place of authority and respect. No more will they be treated like creatures of the devil and chased into the corners of the world like vermin.” He looked down on Rogan as an emperor upon his subject. “For such a treasure, you have my eternal gratitude and may ask any price.”

Rogan swept a deep, theatrical bow. “You are generous to such a humble foot soldier as myself. I would rejoice to see that glorious and celebrated day.”

What ridiculous drivel. Brendan would laugh at the Irish blarney spewing from the old harper’s mouth if his ribs didn’t hurt so much. He restrained himself to a simple scoffing grunt that elicited matching black looks from Máelodor and Rogan.

“As you shall. As we all shall,” the master-mage answered, his gaze locking on Brendan. “And you shall help me, Douglas. For without you, Arthur’s rebirth would be naught but a castle in the air, would it not?”

“It may have been my idea originally, but it’s long passed through my hands and into yours.” Brendan found it hard to concentrate as the tip of Máelodor’s tongue darted out and back. “I no longer take responsibility for your mania, and I’ll not help you achieve anything but a slow, painful death.”

“So brazen in your threats. Since you’re the one bound and bleeding, I’ll allow you your petty confidence. I’ve
found it’s always the bravest whose destruction proves the most . . . enjoyable.” His attention turned back to Rogan. “I believe you’ve brought a young woman with you.” His gaze slid toward Brendan. “Douglas’s bride. I would see this rare beauty who has stolen the heart of our once prince of
Other
.”

Rogan shifted uneasily, his lip curled in a lecherous sneer. “The woman’s locked away as insurance against Douglas using any of his tricks.”

Máelodor’s eyes narrowed. “We are safe enough. Douglas’s powers are great, but in this, as in much, he is unequal to me. Oss, retrieve the young woman.”

Again Oss left the room, returning with Elisabeth, her face ashen, hands clutched in her skirts. She shrank from Máelodor, her terror seeming to excite him, his hand curled around the knob of his staff, a new light entering his fevered gaze.

Brendan willed a thought across the divide, a thread of reassurance and hope against the desperation and fear boiling in her dark eyes.
Hold on, sweet Lissa. This is not the end.

She stole a quick glance his way, a flash of surprise and dawning comprehension. Then, as if taking command of herself, she straightened in a regal pose of defiance, head lifting so that her flame-red hair rippled and curled down her back. The pulse fluttering in the perfect curve of her throat was the only hint she was less confident than she looked.