Destroyed by Onyx (A Dance with Destiny Book 4) (12 page)

The rhythmic sound of her pestle grinding against the mortar played in the background as each man told of odd little things he’d heard her say or watched her do. She paid them no mind, absently humming as she wrapped her freshly crushed ingredients in a clean cloth, making a cute little bow with the string she used to tie it off.

“She can heal. She can curse. And she can bind.”

Brodder’s warm voice brought an unconscious smile to her snowy face.

“She fights like an elite warrior, yet she’s not above playing dirty,” Brian added. “Perhaps she learned thus from her opponents, perhaps not. One thing I do know. Someone taught her to fight without honor, death being the only intended outcome. That wee lass takes no prisoners. They all die, period.”

“Then she works alone, more than likely,” Eògan said. “If she allows no prisoners, perhaps it’s because she has no way to hold them, no cavalry at her command.”

Jenevier let out a tiny giggle. Finnean glanced at her delicate back, watching fondly as her grinding chore put a tiny twisting movement to the curve of her hips. He smiled.

“Or…” The men froze when her giggles gave way to her tinkling voice, she didn’t turn to face them. “…perhaps it’s because they deserve the death I bless them with,” she said. “Why drag trash along behind you?
Escorting
is not my purpose. No need for playing around with them. That only leads to trouble, little sister,” she said in a much deeper, mimicking tone. “Get in. Get it over with. And get out.”

Her soft hums returned then, filling the room. The troubled men sat in silence, six sets of bewildered stares circling the table, trying to rationalize away what they were increasingly finding too obvious to ignore.

Gráda continued writing the ever darkening list.

“So, she sheds more light than we cared to know,” Luag whispered. “If our minds are alike concerning the maid, Brothers, let’s just speak the truth of it. She’s more than likely a mercenary. An assassin, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Brodder whispered, worriedly.

Eògan snorted, crossing his massive arms over his broad chest. “Pray, tell me. Who would be mad enough to choose such a wee thing as that to be an assassin?” He motioned with his head toward his new little sister. “And what grown man would take such a thing seriously?”

“Who indeed?” Luag continued his thought. “Such would only prove to make her the perfect weapon. She’s just a wee thing at that—delicate, beautiful, child-like. And every ounce of her… completely lethal.”

“This is madness,” Brian whispered.

“Or brilliance,” Luag said. “Answer me this, Brothers.” He motioned toward Jenevier’s turned back as he spoke. “In the midst of battle, that fragile wee thing skips through the heated mêlée, approaching you, all smiles and curls. Tell me. What would you do?”

“I’d tuck her behind me,” Eògan answered quickly. “Protect her from danger. Do all within my power to remove her from peril, minus thought.”

“If I saw her there, those silver curls bouncing amid a sea of crimson covered steel, I’d run to her,” Brian said. “My blade would drip with the blood of all who dared come near.”

Gráda smiled before he spoke, a distant look in his eyes. “I would be her shield, her defender. Without question, I would sacrifice all to obtain her safety. Any cost, I’d gladly pay it.”

Each man silently nodded in agreement.

“I’d bed her,” Finnean said absently.

Brodder’s sharp intake of breath nearly strangled him, he started coughing. The snow-crowned warrior’s cheeks flushed when snorts and chuckles surrounded the table.

“Holy hell, Finnean,” Brian said, softly laughing as he shook his head, rolling his eyes.

“Each man answered true his heart,” Luag continued. “No matter how inappropriate.” He shot an amused glace at his still blushing brother. “Now tell me this,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “If she were sent there to claim your head, how hard of a time would she have with the task?”

The laughter and amusement ceased as each man played out the gruesome, yet undeniable, scene in his head.

“Like taking candy from a wee babe,” Brodder mumbled.

“Aye, that it would be,” Luag said.

“Ha!”

The pondering warriors all jumped at her sudden outburst.

“Do not take me lightly or try to explain me away. Yes, I am an abomination, to be sure. Yet dreadfully, morbidly, necessary. It took six long years, Brothers. Six torturously long years.” Her pestle stopped moving. Her back straightened. “It wasn’t as easy a thing as you might think.” She laughed softly, slipping into a strangely accented voice. “Nae a bone left within me that’s nae been snapped. Ye cannae imagine six longer years than those. Aye, Brothers, I thought them tae be worse than hell… until I strolled through hell…” Her words trailed off, her pleasant hums returning.

Brodder turned to stare at the speaking girl, her back to them, humming as she made her rose tea.

“What took six long years, wee lamb?” he asked.

She didn’t answer the curious King.

“Gealach?”

Jenevier turned toward him then. “Yes, Father?” Her voice once again her own.

“What took six years, little one?”

She cocked her head to the side, crinkling up her nose. “Six years? I know not. Is it a riddle?”

When he didn’t answer, she turned back to her aromatic task.

“Perhaps she’s mad,” Gráda whispered. “Mayhap she’s a witch. A witch driven insane by her own dark magic.”

“She’s not a witch,” Finnean growled through gritted teeth.

“Then what explanation do
you
offer?” Gráda countered.

“I’ve never heard tell of a witch trained in the ways of battle. They don’t go about claiming to command the arts of war,” Brodder said. “If she were a witch, she’d use spells, not swords.”

“There we go, all done.” She wiped her hands together as she turned to face her troubled family, finding and holding Finnean’s adoring gaze as she approached. “Come, my enchanting Guardian. Let’s take a stroll through the trees while our brothers grumble and quarrel amongst themselves over their recent summonses.” She held her hand out to him, smiling. “Come, Varick. Walk with me while the tea steeps.”

As soon as the words left her lips, Jenevier froze.

Finnean’s chair crashed to the ground when he jumped up, catching her as she swayed.

Chapter 13

Drostan

(DRAH-stun)

“Gather your men, Drostan. Make haste. We attack tonight.”

“Tonight? But, my Queen, all your troops have yet to arrive. We still have to gather provisions. And your generals haven’t even received their assignments. They know not whom they command.”

He cowered under her cold glare but held his ground.

“I said
your
men, Drostan,” she hissed. “I wish to have the maiden. You will retrieve her for me, forthwith.”

He bowed low, fist over his heart. “I understand, My Liege.”

“Do you? Do you truly?” she said, her eyes as cold as the Underworld. “What you need to understand, good Drostan, is this… You need not return without the maiden. Die in your quest or succeed. There is no other option. You’ve been there before, have you not? To the old cabin home?”

“I have.”

“They are there now—the old King and his trusted five. Do what you must. Failure is not an option.”

He was staring numbly down at the dull cracked mortar lacing gracefully between the hewn stones of the throne room floor when she breezed past him to her chambers. He rubbed his booted toe over a crumbling spot, knocking the dusty dry flecks away. He sighed.

Drostan didn’t relish taking up arms against the unsuspecting men gathered together in the old King’s secret home.

Brothers all.
He groaned inside his troubled mind.
How shall I spill the blood of the ones I once treasured, counted as family? Would that I could find a release from her vile sort of magic.

His broad shoulders were slumped when he exited the castle, making his way to the darker, forgotten places of this realm.

*****

The rusty door latch creaked as it popped open, allowing the welcoming scents of burning wood and dark ale to fill his nostrils. The gathered shadows stirred with his arrival.

“Have the necessary preparations been seen to?” Drostan asked. “Are we of one mind in this?”

Silence was his only answer.

“This will not to be a bloodbath,” he continued. “We’ll bide our time, wait for the perfect moment. Our objective is to retrieve the maid. If we can do that without drawing our blades, we will.” He eyed the loathsome group before him. “Do you understand me, gentlemen? No one is to make a move unless
I
say so.”

The crimson-clad assembly followed him from the tavern. They moved like shadows, shades of the night, one with the darkness.

There were no trees near enough for mortal eyes to spy from, none surrounding the old cabin home. The wicked party had dismounted long ago, leaving their steeds within the forest, tying them securely there and proceeding on foot. A slight rise in the landscape was their only available cover. There, they waited.

Drostan had a good view from his hiding spot, lying on his belly, peering through his looking glass. Dusk had fallen before their arrival and darkness now hung heavy around them, making the windows glow even brighter, illuminated by the fireplace within. He watched as his long lost brothers made ready for the coming night, preparing for peaceful sleep.

*****

Jenevier was pacing, uneasy, restless.

Why is the pain so sharp, so unrelenting?
she thought.

Finnean tried to console her. She refused him. She would allow no comfort, not this night, and not for a very long time.

Something is wrong… missing… lost…What the hell is it? I can’t recall.

When she had unintentionally uttered that single forgotten name… her insides rocked—a decimating quake of irrecoverable proportions. Her newly found voice escaped her, and frustration set in quickly.

Gráda had placed ink and paper out for her to use. She tried once, but she couldn’t hold her trembling hand still long enough to make her scratchy words legible.

And what was I supposed to write, anyway? I can’t even sort it out in my mind, much less on paper.

Exhausted and confused, she poured a full glass of the dark, rich wine. Silent tears dripped from her chin as the hearth’s reflection of dancing flames sparkled in her ebony eyes. She stared unblinking into the fire, moving only to tip the large goblet to her snowy lips, quickly draining the numbing liquid.

She knew not who Varick was, but even the name floating about in her mind caused her empty shell to quiver.

Ugh… just… Dammit all!
she silently roared.

When Jenevier filled her glass the second time, displacing precious drops when she swayed, Brodder took the bottle, denying her a third.

…Bloody hell. I don’t want to stop until this miserable feeling is all but drowned away.

She glanced toward the large man who only had
her
wellbeing in mind. She didn’t press the wine issue, no. She wanted to, yes. But, she didn’t.

Eventually, she just sat atop the little table near the front window, completely withdrawn, staring out into the growing darkness.

What is it? Please… someone… anyone… help me remember.

The many worried questions and vain attempts at comfort had now ceased. Her new brothers kept their distance… gave her the space she needed.

With her knees pressed to her chest, head resting upon them, the only clue betraying her continued sobs were the occasional jerking tremors of her drooping shoulders.

Perhaps she remained thus for nearly an hour before she jumped down, flinging her empty goblet into the waning fire. A chilling, throaty scream—the kind that makes your breath catch and your heart skip a beat—tore from her lips as she stormed out the door, slamming it closed behind her.

*****

Drostan had patiently watched her growing agitation, never took his eyes off the maiden. She was unlike any creature he’d ever seen, rarer even than was his Queen. He was fascinated by her tiny size and colorless pallor.

So delicate, so fragile
, he silently mused.

Then, a thrill ripped through him as he watched her stand up to those mighty Val Hal warriors, completely unintimidated by her giant brothers—fearless, full of fight and vigor and fire.

He nearly chuckled aloud.

Alas, her delicate form had not gone unnoticed by his accompanying troops, either. Darkest of the dark they were, evidence of
that
now showing plainly through their vile words, crude comments, and despicable intentions concerning the snowy maid.

The wicked, lewd actions his troops were openly speaking upon, their extremely ungentlemanly intentions toward the fair maid, gave Drostan pause in his current duty.

The lass wouldn’t live through an encounter with even two of these rogues… much less the entire eighteen
, he thought.
Dammit. How can I protect her from the vermin I have willingly brought to her door?

“No one lays a hand upon the girl,” Drostan said sternly. “Your Queen wishes her whole and untouched.”

The dismissive snorts and grunts from his companions did little to ease his mind.

Bloody fools.

When shrill screams swirled around them, carried on the wind, Drostan turned just in time to see the pale maiden exiting the cabin… alone.

He watched as she jerked two practice swords from the nearby rack and began hacking away at the wooden dummy hanging near the house.

What the—
Drostan’s thoughts were immediately interrupted when one of his scarlet-clad mercenaries made to rise.

“Now’s our chance,” the man said. “I want that wee lamb first. I can tame her, well and good.”

Drostan grabbed the man’s forearm, ceasing his advance, and motioned toward the large picture window not fifteen feet from where the maiden now stood. The old King’s imposing presence kept watch over her from there, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes fixed on her every move.

“Mind what you do… you bloody idiot,” Drostan hissed.

The echoing thud of her powerful blows, mixed with her heart-rending screams, rang through the darkness, piercing the night for many long minutes.

When the cabin door swung open, Finnean stepped outside. His shimmering white hair reflected the moonlight, sparkling as it blew on the breeze.

Drostan felt a small pang of jealousy as the rare young warrior approached the distraught maid, tenderly placing a blanket around her trembling shoulders, holding her in his strong embrace as her sobs audibly increased. He strained his ears, trying to make out the white warrior’s words over the chilly wind.

*****

Those ever-present, unknown gray eyes, ceaseless in their voyeuristic vigil, belonging to the man with no name, greedily drank in the bitterly beautiful scene those two rare creatures made.

As he watched their glowing silhouettes clinging desperately to each other, he too felt the strangely foreign emotion. A tiny green seed settled upon his barren heart, yet he knew not why.

From his distant vantage point, he watched the whole of it play out—the scarlet ones, the noble ones, and the colorless one.

Had he wished, he could have stopped some of the oncoming blood, halted a few of the drawn swords. Had he wished, that is. Alas, he did not interfere. His sole intent was for a sort of
feast-of-the-eyes
. He didn’t take sides. Now was not his time.
This
was not
his
story.

I never get involved,
he thought.
Never have, never will. Yet… perhaps…

The definitively hard line of his stoic mouth twitched up at one corner, imperceptively.

“Perhaps…” he whispered.