Reluctant Adept: Book Three of A Clairvoyant's Complicated Life (39 page)

"Indeed, I am," Red replied.

I frowned, tensing up. "Maybe technically, but that's not how I think of you. I've never thought of you that way. Not ever."

Red gave my hair a gentle tug. "I know. In all eternity, I could not have found a kinder, more caring owner."

At his final word, I sagged and murmured, "I'd release you in a heartbeat if you could tell me it's what you wanted." I meant this wholeheartedly, but the nature of our binding prevented Red from seeking the release of his soul, so there was no way for me to know whether it was something he desired. "I'd miss you terribly, but I'd do it—
for you
. You know that. You're not my slave."

He shushed me. "My dearest Lire, rest easy. Had I the chance, I would not wish for things to be any different, binding or not." He caressed my cheek, the softness of his paw drawing out an involuntary shiver. "Truly."

I nodded, taking his heartfelt words at face value, allowing them to soothe the ache I always felt whenever I allowed myself to consider the moral ambiguity of our relationship. As a bound servant himself, I wondered what Drustan was thinking. He remained curiously quiet behind me.

As Drustan and his charger completed our initial circuit about the perimeter, I noted the colossal archways framing each opening to the public avenues, carved to resemble a tangle of buttressed tree roots and thickly twining vines. Sadly, my delighted ogling was cut short by the bodies of half a dozen soldiers sprawled on the ground at the nearest archway where they'd obviously been cut down in battle.

When Drustan drew his steed close enough to distinguish their causes of death, I spied the notched ends of several arrows sticking from at least four soldiers. The rest had either died from sword wounds or, possibly, offensive magic. All of their throats were intact. Blood pooled on the stone surrounding the soldiers' prone forms, looking more brown than red in the filtered light. The bodies that sprouted arrows, I noticed, wore burgundy and silvery-blue color-blocked tunics with an embroidered coat of arms featuring a creature that resembled a hydra.

"The red and blue livery must belong to the rival faction," Red observed.

When Drustan paused his horse beneath the towering archway, nothing stirred nearby except the jingling of his chainmail and creaking of leather. A strange lifelessness permeated the air, but somewhere in the distance, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of armed conflict.

We're heading down the king's private passage
, Tíereachán told me.

Be careful
, I beamed at him. My already clenched stomach swooped at the thought of something bad happening to him or any of the others.
I can hear people fighting somewhere ahead of us and there are at least six dead soldiers at this entrance. None of them were killed by strigoi, so … God. It's a good bet Nathan and his followers took the king's passage.

We're all seasoned champions
, he returned briskly.
You needn't distract yourself with worries for us. Keep your wits about you. As long as you are in the master's grasp, you share his spectral protection, but once he relinquishes you to the king, you will stand alone. Be yourself, mionngáel. Listen to your heart, don't shy from your power, and you will prevail.

Once again, I was struck speechless by the twist of fate that had brought this man into my life. How crazy was it that the one creature who I'd initially distrusted above all others would end up being the only other individual in my life, besides Red, to express so unequivocally his belief in my abilities? Every day since our disastrous first meeting, he'd showed me this faith with his words as well as his actions. That I hadn't seen this, until recently, turned my stomach, even though we both knew it was Kieran's enthralling glamour that had influenced my dismissal.

I will. Thank you, Tíer. Your support … I can't tell you how much it means to me
. I invested the thought with all the warmth that radiated through me whenever I considered our growing friendship.

You make it easy. Now pay attention
, he admonished and then shielded his thoughts from me, managing to get in the last word.

It seemed horrible to smile, even briefly, given what lay on the ground a few feet away from me, but I couldn't help it.

I tried to peer over my shoulder at my captor, catching the edge of his horned helm in my peripheral vision. "They've decided to take the king's private passage," I relayed, pitching my voice low in case the tunnel carried our voices further than I wanted.

At my back, Drustan had gone ominously still, and his horse, perhaps made uneasy by the proximity of the dead soldiers, edged sideways and threw its head impatiently. After our expeditious departure from the royal box, I'd expected us to beeline straight to the king.

"What's wrong?" I asked, inwardly cringing at the ludicrousness of asking that question when there were dead bodies practically under our noses.

"I cannot gain bearing on my master."

"What does that mean? Is the king … dead?" I again struggled to peer over my shoulder. Sitting this way might have been more comfortable, but the point of view made it impossible to converse normally.

"No," he replied. "If the wearer dies prior to bequeathing the collar, my servitude ends and I, too, pass on. I sense no new owner. He is alive."

"So, maybe unconscious?" I posed, but then had a more disturbing thought. "Or in another realm."

"Perhaps."

"I take it this has never happened before."

"No."

He sounded almost lost, a state which was so contrary to his prior steadfast confidence that I felt the absurd need to reassure him.

"Brassal and the king were together in the king's antechamber," I said. "It's starting to sound like both of them were subdued at the same time. It would be great if we could sneak in there and see what's going on without being seen. Can you do that?"

In lieu of an answer, he shifted in the saddle. Instantly, our surroundings took on an unnatural, muted aspect as his horse sprang ahead, slamming my already bruised spine into Drustan's mail-clad torso and catapulting us through the scenery at a speed that left blurred streaks in my peripheral vision. I snatched Red from my shoulder and hugged him to my chest, something I typically refrained from doing—he was a grown man, not a stuffed toy—but the thought of losing him over the side scared the bejeezus out of me. I wasn't sure whether we were in the physical realm anymore.

Directly ahead, something that reminded me of a sci-fi movie wormhole filled my vision, all the more terrifying because this wasn't make believe. My stomach seemed to take refuge in the vicinity of my throat, and I might have barfed all over the saddle if our journey hadn't screeched to a halt just as precipitously as we'd departed. Drustan's arm snaked around my waist to pin me to his icy body, sparing me the indignity of becoming a projectile at our deceleration. If I'd sailed over his horse's ears, beyond his camouflaging veil, our arrival would no longer be a secret.

This would have been a big problem, since we'd come to rest at the far end of a spacious, sumptuously appointed chamber that had clearly been ground zero of a ferocious battle.

More than a dozen dead soldiers, along with at least three shriveled husks that were probably deceased strigoi, littered the floor, most of them concentrated near each of the two magically sealed archways that led into the luxurious apartment. But what drew my eye were the three people standing near the room's center, surrounding a pale blond, amply-built sidhe who'd been strapped to one of the room's gilded chairs, his head flaccidly canted to the side. Blood, wet, glistening, and alarming in its quantity, coated his mouth, jaw, neck, and torso, saturating the supple leather of his formerly tan-colored tunic. Tarnished metal chains, which wrapped securely around his chest and waist, fixed him to the opulently decorated chair, while black leather ties at each knee, ankle, wrist, and elbow secured his limbs to its adorned wood frame. His hands, also covered in blood, splayed limply atop the chair's wide arms. And no wonder. He was missing at least three fingers from his left hand and two from his right. On the floor, blood and gobbets of flesh peppered the carpet, obscuring a portion of the rug's elaborate design.

It didn't surprise me to find that Maeve, Lorcán, and Nathan were the torturers. For a strigoi surrounded by fresh blood, though, Nathan appeared decidedly unhappy and somewhat green around the edges, a tough feat, considering his dark skin.

I could see why. Not since witnessing the Circle Murderer's demise at Paimon's hands had I seen anything so horrifying. A groan eked past my lips, and I promptly slapped my free hand across my mouth to stop any further outbursts, verbal or otherwise. That's all we needed—to be noticed by these three. The mere thought of it drove away my nausea with a hefty dose of good old fashioned fear.

It soon became clear I needn't have worried. With the way Maeve was shouting and carrying on, I didn't think they'd hear anything shy of a foghorn. Even within the muted surroundings of Drustan's veil, her angry, musical voice came through clear enough. She gesticulated wildly, her wavy blonde hair sliding across her back as she ranted in her native Silven, occasionally punctuating her tirade by roughly shoving at the unconscious man's head or shoulder.

Please don't be Brassal
, I thought fervently. On the other hand, if this wasn't Brassal, then he might be one of the dead, which wasn't any better.

"We are not fully within in their realm," Drustan said. "They cannot detect our presence."

I released Red with a murmured apology and allowed him to scramble back atop my shoulder.

"Is that—?" I started to ask, but stopped when Maeve cruelly yanked the unconscious man's long platinum-blond hair, which jerked his head backward to expose his neck and the thick gold torc that adorned it.

A collar.

I jolted against Drustan's one-armed embrace, sitting bolt upright. "Oh, God. That's … is that the king?"

In all my imaginings, I'd pictured him wearing elaborately tailored, flowing robes and a silvery circlet that arched delicately across his forehead, not unlike Elrond in
The Lord of the Rings
movies. But this man was dressed as an ordinary sidhe in his fitted leather tunic and matching leggings. Even his boots, where not covered in blood, were scuffed and plain. Unbelievably, Maeve's formal-length dress swished about her long, slender legs like a sleek emerald waterfall. She'd donned a gem-studded frigging gown for a torture session. The mind positively boggled.

"Yes," Drustan confirmed.

"And his own daughter is torturing him!"

Jesus
. This woman knew no bounds.

Granted, by all accounts, King Faonaín was hardly a saint, and I could imagine he hadn't been the best father, but that didn't excuse … this. It was one thing to kill a bunch of soldiers in a coup d'état, which was bad enough, quite another to strap someone down and start cutting bits off, piece by piece. This was the act of a depraved, thoroughly evil individual. Make that
individuals
. As Lorcán sauntered to a nearby couch, he paused to wipe his bloody dagger clean on a tufted pillow before sprawling languorously at the opposite end.

At my back, I heard Drustan take a breath as if to respond, but he ultimately held his tongue. I suppose because there wasn't much to say in response to my declaration. It's not as though he could argue. The proof of it was right there in front of us.

"Aren't you supposed to protect him?" I as much as screeched.

"I am the king's huntsman, his bound servant. I follow his express command to pursue, capture or kill, and return his marked quarry. I am constrained by my binding to do no less. Once the game is delivered, he may command my obedience again."

I guessed this meant 'no,' although his precise wording puzzled me. He could do 'no less' than return his quarry. Did that mean he could do more, whether or not he'd been asked? My gaze went back to the king, unconscious, restrained, and without the Hunt.

Bloody frigging hell.

I couldn't sit back while a man was slowly tortured. There'd be no living with myself. Besides, if King Faonaín died, who'd take his place as ruler? Maeve? Evgrenya? Some other bigoted, sadistic jerk nominated by the Tribunal, someone more like Lorcán?

Better the devil we know than the one we don't.

Besides, there was the whole issue with the Compact not being binding if the king was usurped. That alone was reason enough to ensure he stayed in power since it's what prevented the king and his people from exterminating humans whenever the impulse arose.

My thoughts stilled as I plotted my course of action. First, rescue the king. Second, find Brassal. Third, get them both to Wade for healing. After that, Kieran and the others could decide how to proceed.

I reached out with my telekinesis and immediately ran up against a ward that encompassed the king and the surrounding eight feet on all sides of his chair. Since King Faonaín was no doubt a badass in the magic department, this wasn't much of a surprise. I suspected he'd turn Maeve into a smoking pile of ash, given half a chance. As I sidestepped my TK, weaving past the ward to encompass the king, it struck me that I had no idea what type of magic he commanded. Somehow, in all of my discussions with Kieran and Tíereachán about the threat the king posed, I'd never bothered to ask.

"What's she going on about?" I asked, jerking a thumb at Maeve as I became acquainted with the king's resonance.

"She is furious at my master for refusing to relinquish the
Bráigda
—the binding collar. She says it is her birthright and will see him whittled down to a stump if that's what it takes to get it. She has ordered the
dhêala
to stop the bleeding but take no further blood. As soon as my master wakes, she wants her fair-haired co-conspirator wielding the misericorde to remove his ears, strip by strip."

Drustan paused while listening to Lorcán and then continued, "But he counsels her against further attempts at persuasion. Even though they have taken the precaution of cutting out my master's tongue, he says keeping the king alive is a risk."