Caledonia Fae 03 - Enemy of the Fae (4 page)

Her power swelled when she thundered back into her main sitting room. A faerie elder would never cower, but they had the good sense to take a step back when she returned. “Where is Elder Oron?” she asked sharply.

“I haven’t spoken to him,” Galen replied. Of all the elders on the conclave, besides Oron, Eilidh’s one-time mentor and current advisor, Galen had done the most to try to ease Eilidh’s transition. She treated the queen almost as a friend, rather than merely as a powerful person to be used and influenced. “Your Majesty, although unexpected, Leith’s death was inevitable. The conclave expected you to order his execution this very night anyway.”

Meet me at the prison. Now.
Eilidh sent the thought message to Oron, and although the stinging mental snap accompanying the words was unintentional, she didn’t regret it.

“I planned to sentence Leith
after
I questioned him. Curious that he died shortly after my intentions were made clear.”

Galen shrugged. “Obviously he chose to protect his co-conspirators rather than submit to further questioning.”

Eilidh stopped cold. “Are you suggesting he killed himself?”

“How else?” Setir said. “The Watchers report no intruders.”

“You will show me the prison, and you’d best pray to the Mother no one has interfered with so much as a speck of dust before I arrive.” If she hadn’t been so furious, Eilidh would have been shocked at the force in her voice. Although she perceived it, her frustrations ran so high, she barely contained her anger, much less worried what anyone would think.

Setir, the head of the joint conclave, walked in front. Eilidh and Galen followed. Her normal protective entourage followed along with the remaining elders. The group encountered Griogair and Munro in the corridors, and they took their places just a half step behind Eilidh and Galen.

“What has happened?” Griogair asked.

“The traitor is dead,” Eilidh said from between clenched teeth. “Killed before I had the opportunity to question him.”

“If I may, Prince Griogair,” another one of the elders said from behind her. “We believe he committed an honour-suicide when he learned the queen would question him herself.”

“Had he not been thoroughly questioned by the joint conclave, by both earth and azuri members?” the prince asked.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Galen replied. “He admitted little, but the evidence against him was overwhelming.” She shrugged gracefully.

Eilidh halted and met Galen’s eyes. “He did not confess?”

Setir also stopped and looked back at the queen. For the first time since she’d known him, he appeared worried. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Why was a confession not extracted? Are not the conclave the most gifted azuri fae, able to wield the astral flows well enough to do a simple questioning?”

“It is forbidden,” Galen said, her gaze cast toward the ground.

“Faith,” Eilidh swore. “By whom?”

Setir seemed confused. “The law has been thus for many centuries.”

“For centuries when everyone with the talent to break that law was killed as soon as their talents manifested?”

The elder of the earth conclave averted his eyes. He knew better than to argue with the azuri queen about the history of executing everyone with her own abilities.

Eilidh glanced at Griogair. She appreciated his presence. Sometimes she believed him to be the only faerie unequivocally on her side. Without him and Munro, she would feel trapped and surrounded all the time.

“Continue,” she snapped. She sensed Galen watching her as they departed, and Eilidh regretted being disagreeable. She was tired of so many things going wrong, not to mention being frustrated by, and suspicious of, Leith’s untimely death.

The so-called prison was, in truth, a small house in the wooded area outside Canton Driech. Eilidh noted the Watchers as she entered; their faces registered their surprise at the queen’s arrival. They gave stiff salutes and awaited orders.

Eilidh signalled Setir to stand aside. She spoke to the Watcher who wore the higher rank on his armband. “Show me.”

He bowed his head sharply and led her down a short passage before opening a small door and stepping back.

The body lay sprawled on the ground, a dark blood stain around it. She crouched beside the dead faerie, ignoring the stench. Glancing up at Munro she asked, “Can you tell if he did this himself?” She pointed to the gaping neck wound.

“A medical examiner would, but the technical details are beyond me. Looks like a clean cut with a sharp knife. One even stroke. That’s tough to do. Would take some strength and a decent blade.” He turned to the Watcher who stood at the door. “Was the weapon found?”

“No,” he said. “We notified our wen-lei as soon as we realised the prisoner’s mind presence was gone. We sealed the room, as commanded.”

Eilidh nodded. They had followed the correct protocol in informing their immediate superior. “Why did he order the room sealed?” she asked, standing.

“Because of that,” the Watcher said and pointed at the wall.

The dim lighting made it impossible to see. Eilidh wordlessly formed a ball of light in her palm, then expanded it until they could make out a rune burned into the wall. It looked like a trident within a tear. Eilidh frowned, recognising one of the fae runic characters that assumed many meanings, depending on how the creators inscribed and positioned them.

“What does it mean?” Munro asked.

Eilidh shook her head slowly.

“Nothing. It’s empty.” Griogair responded. “Curious.”

“How can it mean nothing?” Munro pressed.

“As I tried to explain earlier, our written language…”

“Save the lessons for later,” Eilidh snapped. Pausing, she tried not to sigh. She was far too tired, and neither her mate nor her druid deserved to be spoken to so harshly. She turned back to the Watcher. “You detected no disturbance in his aura as you held him?”

“None, Your Majesty.”

“No one came or went?”

He shook his head. “No one. I swear.”

She looked deep into his eyes, letting her mind relax and melt into the stream of his thoughts. “What did you do when you realised something was amiss?”

“First, I noticed the…lack. His presence had disappeared. I asked Jetrim, and he couldn’t detect the prisoner’s mind either.”

Eilidh pressed her power, and he continued, perhaps saying more than he would have without her gentle persuasion, allowing her to examine the complex patterns of his memories. “What next?”

“I felt strange when I stood up, as though I’d been asleep, but I swear I hadn’t. We went in together, and he was lying like this. We lit the room and saw that.” The Watcher gestured to the wall. “So we sent word to our wen-lei.”

Eilidh nodded and extended her senses from the Watchers to encompass the entire room and beyond. The only magic flows she detected nearby created a light illusion around Galen, but that was nothing new. The elder often used her power to enhance her appearance. It was a small vanity, and one Eilidh occasionally employed herself.

Munro frowned. “Was the blood wet?”

The Watcher glanced at him, then back to Eilidh.

“Answer him,” she said.

“We didn’t touch it.”

“Was it bright and red,” Munro pushed. “Glossy? Still seeping? Or dry and dark brown, like now?”

“Like now,” the Watcher replied.

Munro leaned toward Eilidh, carefully maintaining a proper distance. “He’s been dead a little while,” he said. “It would take hours for a blood puddle this large to dry. Another thing. When you cut a throat, blood sprays out. Arteries in the neck spurt when severed, because the heart is a strong muscle and pumps for just a second after death.” He met her eyes, waiting to see if she followed his reasoning.

She understood some of what he said, but not all. “What does that mean?”

Munro gestured at the walls. “There’s hardly any blood spray on the walls or ceiling, or even on the floor, where it might be if he was kneeling.” He glanced at her and spoke in a whisper. “My first instinct would be to wonder if someone else was in here with him, someone who got splashed pretty good. You might send a tracker to search for a blood trail leading away from here. If anyone was here, it might show you where they headed.”

Eilidh nodded, disturbed at what Munro suggested, even though he only confirmed what she suspected. “Thank you,” she said.

On the way out, she instructed the Watchers to have the body removed by a priest, but to otherwise seal the building and keep the regular watch rotations until instructed. “Make certain at least one of every watch team is azuri,” she added.

One Watcher glanced at her questioningly, then quickly saluted. “Yes, Your Majesty. We have few azuri in our command, but we will make do.”

“Tell your commander to request what he needs, even if that means transfers or changing schedules. I don’t care what he has to do. Make sure at least one azuri is present at all times,” she repeated.

It wasn’t until they were preparing to return to the castle that Oron finally approached. He made no apology for his lateness, but simply gave Eilidh a small bow.

He began to speak, but she cut him off. “Speak to the elders about what we discovered here, and discuss our findings with no one outside the joint conclave. Leith was clearly murdered. I want to know why and by whom.”

Oron raised his eyebrows and glanced at the other elders.

“Surely it was an outsider,” Setir said. “Perhaps a co-conspirator who wished to keep him from divulging what he knew.”

“We will base our conclusions on facts, not guesses,” Eilidh snapped, then took a moment to breathe, lest the strain show on her features. She turned, followed by Griogair and Munro and their personal guards while the elders stayed behind. The group moved in silence until they returned to the wing where the royal couple had their quarters and where Munro also had his own private room. “I wish to be alone with my thoughts today, my mate,” she said to Griogair. “Please do attend dinner with the Tvorskane ambassador and explain my absence as seems appropriate.”

“Of course, my love,” he said quietly, as he would sometimes do in front of servants and Watchers. “Are you sure? Solitude might only compound worrying thoughts.”

She glanced at Munro. “I’m sure. Thank you for your concern.”

Griogair kissed her hand lightly. “As you wish. I would like to make a request, if it please you?”

Eilidh nodded tiredly. “Ask anything.”

“Your druid wishes to study some texts we hope may help with the project the druids have undertaken. I think now would be a good time for him to begin. I know of an Andenan translator who will likely agree to work with him at the library in the Halls of Mist, with your permission.”

The question startled Eilidh. Even though she did want to be alone to think during the day’s rest period, she didn’t want Munro too far away. His knowledge and experience might prove useful in finding out who killed the traitor. Griogair must know this, she thought. Something in the way he held her gaze told her he was trying to communicate something more than his words. “The timing is awkward.”

“I’m sure he can return in the mornings when it’s time for rest. I see no reason for him to be separated from you.” Griogair paused. “The druids’ work may prove vital to us.”

She trusted Griogair’s judgement. He understood the undercurrents of every level of politics. “Do what you need to arrange it,” she said. She couldn’t help but worry. Already she regretted not having Griogair and Munro follow so she could cast the illusions that allowed Munro to join her during the daylight hours. As always, she had to concern herself with how it would appear to those watching from the shadows. Should she trust
them
, she wondered.

The crime scene at the so-called prison troubled Munro. Only the fae would call an ivy-covered cottage in the woods a jail. Eilidh’s snappish temperament stunned him too. She’d been under pressure and struggled these past six months. Rumours, battling invisible enemies, talk of betrayal…too many important exchanges took place in the shadows.

Then this killing. What he wouldn’t give to be able to call for SOCO, scenes-of-crime officers, as he’d done when he was a cop. They’d make a solid interpretation of the blood spatter, check for fingerprints and shoeprints, hairs and fibres. He felt like he’d been thrown into the Dark Ages. Strangely, he hadn’t missed technology since coming to the Otherworld. This place teemed with magic, which gave him more entertainment than any Xbox game or reality TV show. Today though he wished for a mobile telephone and a hundred years of forensic science research and technology.

To make matters worse, Eilidh didn’t want him around right now, just when he felt the familiar itch of wanting answers, needing everything to make sense. Something troubled her deeply. The thoughts swirled in her mind, and he had more difficulty than usual reading her. Then Griogair had suggested getting Munro even further out of the way. The whole episode struck him as odd, but he knew the prince well enough to believe there was a reason for sending Munro to the Halls of Mist. He hadn’t yet puzzled out what it was.

The pale sun had begun to rise and cast a faint glow over the horizon. He continued to ponder as he made his way to the villa, where he expected to find the other druids. They all had been changed by their magic and the Otherworld air. Improved eyesight allowed them night vision, their strength and endurance matched many of the fae now, and he and Rory had developed small points on the tops of their once-rounded ears. Munro hardly recognised himself anymore. Despite having become acclimatised to the Otherworld, the druids found joy in the sunrise. During the day, the forests of the Otherworld could almost, but not quite, be mistaken for the humans’ Scottish homeland.

Inside the villa, Munro made his way to the back. He heard laughter and what must have been Aaron plucking out a tune on his old guitar.

The atmosphere was comfortable and provided them plenty of space. Every appointment was luxurious, from the marble floors covered with hand-made tapestries to the imposing artwork. It was a home the azuri deemed worthy of important people. The furniture was fae, but the men had incorporated human touches everywhere, things brought from home: photographs, stacks of paperbacks, a basket of seashells and rocks Douglas had gotten from a holiday to Florida, a throw Phillip’s nan had made him, everyday objects the fae found exotic and strange but served to remind the druids of home.