Lord of Shadows (14 page)

“Sabrina. You’re wanted in Ard-siúr’s office. Immediately.”

And then she was gone.

No tirade about their lazy duty-shirking? No questioning of the hows, whys, and wherefores that allowed them to be in their bedchamber when honest hardworking priestesses were occupied in the business of the order? Not even a disapproving sniff?

Not good. Not good at all.

Jane’s hand found Sabrina’s. Her look one of encouragement.

But all Sabrina could think was, this had impending disaster written all over it.

She studied the messenger from beneath properly downcast lashes. Heavy coat and muffler, a hat he ran nervously through sausage fingers leaking water over Ard-siúr’s rugs, and a red nose equally damp and runny. But it was his stature that held Sabrina’s attention. No taller than a half-grown child, though the crags in his face and the silver-threaded hair spoke of late middle years. What manner of servants was Aidan hiring these days? Probably taken on by that woman he married.

“His Lordship has sent Mr. Dixon, here, to escort you to Dublin. You are to prepare yourself to leave, and be ready to embark no later than the day after tomorrow.”

“What?” Sabrina’s gaze snapped back to Ard-siúr. “No! I mean I can’t leave. Not now. It’s impossible. There must be a mistake.”

Ard-siúr cleared her throat. Adjusted her spectacles. Read the letter again, with only the slow tick of the case clock breaking the silence. “It all seems quite clear. Lord Kilronan requires your presence as soon as it can be accomplished. He says he must have you with him and his wife in Dublin as soon as can be arranged.”

“But why? He certainly never made any push to see me before.”

Ard-siúr glanced at the dwarf shifting uncomfortably in the corner. “If you go with Sister Anne, she’ll see that you’re housed and fed. Our guest quarters are simple, but”—her gaze fell on the dripping hat—“dry.”

He bowed, and with a final stream of water trailing from his hat brim, squelched after Sister Anne.

Ard-siúr straightened the clutter of papers on her desk. Actually now that Sabrina was noticing, the clutter extended to the whole room. Not in a noticeable way. But in jarring incremental pieces. An echo of intrusion. A lingering violence in the overwarm air. Even the cat seemed restless. Pacing the floor. Sniffing at a stain that hadn’t been there on Sabrina’s last visit. Brown. Fresh. And hastily cleaned.

I remember blood. And the mud as I fell
.

What had Daigh really been doing the night she’d found him in here? Was it connected in some way to his disappearance this morning? Had she been a gullible little
fool? She breathed through her sudden light-headedness. Focused on Ard-siúr to keep the room from spinning.

Ard-siúr removed her spectacles, her gaze long enough to make Sabrina squirm. “I would imagine His Lordship’s recent convalescence has spurred this new resolve. Many who glimpse their own mortality as your brother did this spring attempt to set their lives in order. Right past mistakes. Amend what they see as failings.”

“So am I mistake or failing?”

“You’re his sister. I’m sure he wants to assure himself of your happiness here and be certain that your heart remains committed to a life among us.”

“Or does he want to use me to achieve the advantageous marriage he scorned when he married that . . . woman?” She still couldn’t bring herself to call her new sister by name. For some reason Aidan’s hasty, ill-thought marriage rankled, though she couldn’t say why. It wasn’t as if she begrudged her brother his happiness. Only that . . .

“Sabrina, you came to us a wounded child. And we allowed you to hide among us. Use the peace you found here to recover. And you have. But now you’re a woman, full grown. You must test your strength. Return to a life beyond our walls. Only in that way can you make your choice and be sure of your path.”

“But what if he doesn’t allow me to return?”

“I’m certain your brother will not hinder you from following your heart and finding the future that is right for you.”

“Then you’ve never come up against Douglas determination. If Aidan wants something, he pounds away until he gets it.” Her imminent departure a case in point.

“Ahh, but you share that same tenacity. The irresistible force meeting the immovable object.”

How could this be happening? How could Aidan do this to her? Didn’t he know what the order meant to her? Didn’t he understand her need to remain here among the
bandraoi
? Where she felt a sense of belonging and community? Where she felt safe? But Aidan had never understood her. Never taken the time. It had been Brendan who strove to nudge her out of her shell. Or when needed, crawled into the shell with her and simply let her be her without criticism.

Sabrina clenched the chair back. Focused on the wood, cool and smooth under her hands. The draft of air moving the tapestries. All but one. The wall behind Ard-siúr’s desk gaped empty but for a frayed edge of wool caught on a nail. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze from that torn tangle of cloth. Daigh’s crime drifting on a breath of wind.

One more man she’d built up in her mind. Though at least this one had fallen from his pedestal over the space of a few days rather than a lifetime.

“Go, child. I will send someone to assist you in packing.”

“Yes, ma’am.’ Sabrina turned to go, but, struck with sudden inspiration, swung back. “Ard-siúr, did Kilronan send a maid to accompany me?”

“I’m not aware of anyone besides Mr. Dixon. Perhaps His Lordship assumed one of the sisters would travel with you.”

“Might I request someone?”

“If we can spare them. Who did you have in mind?”

“Jane Fletcher.”

Drumming her fingers, Ard-siúr considered the request. “She has been distracted since the attack. Not quite herself. Perhaps a change of scenery would do her good.” Nodded
her assent. “Aye, she may accompany you to Dublin and remain until you are well settled.”

“Thank you, Ard-siúr.”

“I am sure Lord Kilronan feels he’s acting in your best interest. You’re his only remaining family.”

Drunk on her teeny victory and resentment making her reckless, she volleyed, “Are you so certain of that?”

Ard-siúr’s drumming stopped, a new awareness in her gaze.

“You once asked if I’d ever received a letter from Brendan,” Sabrina brazened. “You believe the
Amhas-draoi,
don’t you? You think he’s alive.”

Ard-siúr spread her hands in a question. “I know only the rumors. Though they strengthen every day, they are still just that—mere speculation.”

The tangle of frayed threads caught Sabrina’s eye, the knot returning tenfold. “Do you believe he really did those things? That he was as evil and dangerous as they claim?”

Ard-siúr noted the track of her gaze. “And of whom do we speak now?” she asked gently. “Brendan Douglas or Daigh MacLir?”

Sabrina shrugged off her question with her regrets. “Never mind. It hardly matters anymore, does it?”

The wisest and most powerful of the priestesses steepled her fingers against her chin. “I believe to you, Sabrina, it matters very much.”

Cork teemed with life. Crowded, jostling bodies. The rumble and squeak of wheels through narrow streets. A choking press of sound and scents and life that only the salty, brackish sea air kept from overwhelming him. He focused on his quarry. Black Jacket had stabled his horse, threading the roads and alleyways on foot as he made his way through town. Found his way to a snug harborside inn and a private, second-floor parlor. All unheeding of the silent watcher tracking his movements. An ever-present shadow.

The parlor was located at the end of a narrow, rickety outside walkway. Below in the courtyard, ostlers shouted as carriages were hitched and unhitched, passengers chattered as bags were stowed and coaches set to. Horses pawed their impatience upon the cobbles, and coachmen swore and stamped against the damp cold. Din enough to drown out the clumsiest of shadowing. But he wasn’t clumsy. And it took a moment’s skill to crack the door. Stand idly upon
the walk outside as though doing nothing more than enjoying the spectacle below.

“. . . better be. Máelodor will have our heads otherwise.” Black Jacket’s associate. A light urbane voice. Almost effeminate.

“Has to be. I searched that place top to bottom. And look, it’s obvious this is the tapestry. The litter. The tomb. The Earl of Kilronan’s diary spoke of both.”

Daigh’s breath caught in his throat.

Kilronan. Sabrina’s brother. What the hell had he to do with this? And was Sabrina involved?

It didn’t matter. Sabrina didn’t matter. Not anymore. He ignored the gnawing ache that had been his since leaving Glenlorgan. The drag of useless emotions. Concentrated on the conversation.

A silence followed, movements within the parlor swallowed by the continuous come-and-go downstairs. Farther down the passage, a door opened. A man and woman emerging, their conversation of weather and passage bookings and the expense of their room seeming out of place among the dark plottings just a wall away. The man tipped his hat as they passed on their way to the staircase, the woman eying Daigh with blatant admiration.

“And Máelodor’s creature?”

Daigh strained to catch their words over the arriving blast of a mail coach. The jangle of harness, clatter of hooves, and a fresh bustle from the courtyard beneath him. Like ants from a kicked hill, the inn swarmed with activity, making eavesdropping nigh impossible.

Thoughts of crashing through the door in a storm of deadly violence elicited a thin smile and a twitch of
hardening muscles, the serpent stirring from the darkest corner of his soul, but he fought it back.

Better to wait. To follow.

“. . . there . . . attacked me . . . not even a
Domnuathi
could have survived that.”

“. . . fool”—the scrape of drawn chairs—”. . . take it to Máelodor . . . tell him about Lazarus . . . what he wants to do with it . . . head to Dublin . . . the
Amhas-draoi
. . .”

Shared laughter.

“. . . focus is all on Douglas. Máelodor’s dead”—the chuckle of conspirators—”. . . information for him. See that he gets it immediately.” A clink of glasses. The squeak of floorboards. The meeting breaking up.

Daigh fell back from his position. Slipped up the passage, ducking into the first open door, waiting until Black Jacket passed. Follow him, and he’d find the mysterious Máelodor. The spider at the center of this hideous web.

He’d only just swung back into the passage when the slide of a knife caught him beneath the chin. “Did you catch all that, Lazarus? Or should I fill you in on the parts you missed?” The high tenor of Black Jacket’s fellow conspirator.

The knife pressed deep into his neck. Blood dripping upon his collar. No time for the cut to heal before another slide of the blade opened a new wound.

“Inside, if you please.”

A slippery, vicious crackle of darkness burned along Daigh’s blood. It coursed within him like some foreign evil. Part of him and yet separate. Wanting blood and death and killing. An animal need to obliterate.

“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” the voice warned. “My weapons may not defeat your warding, but my magics can make you wish you were dead.”

Allowing himself to be drawn into the chamber, Daigh fought against the storm surge of clawing emotion. Cleared a space within himself free of the ferocious maelstrom. A point of sanity among the madness.

“I told Mr. Bloom you’d not surrender to the grave so easily.” The knife sliced deeper. Daigh’s flesh parting. His blood flowing faster. It scalded his neck. Seeped beneath his coat, his shirt. “Would you, Lazarus? Not now you’ve a second taste of life?”

The knife fell away, leaving him cold and shuddering against the well of poison infecting him like a disease.

“Sit, friend. Can I get you a brandy? A glass of wine perhaps?”

Daigh fell into the chair presented. Finally looked upon his assailant. Blond. Young. Features as cool and sweet-natured as his voice. A wiry body holding whipcord strength. Eyes pale and hard as stones. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing for myself how successful Máelodor was, and I have to say his claims held nothing of the braggart about them.”

“So you approve?”

“Oh, yes.” His gaze traveled over Daigh with a lingering yet professional eye. “Amazing,” he cooed. “Simply amazing.”

Daigh’s skin crawled. Every nerve jumping. “Who are you?”

“No need to be testy. I’m on your side. But you’re smart to ask. Informants could be anywhere.” He pushed back one sleeve to reveal a tattoo upon his forearm. A broken arrow and crescent.

Daigh felt his stomach roll up into his throat.

“You recognize the mark of the Nine, Lazarus?”

The name landed on him like a blow. “Aye. But not
Lazarus. It’s”—
we can only hope you don’t end as he did
—“it’s Daigh now.”

His correction was met with a razor smile. “Naming yourself? How droll. But fitting under the circumstances. I too have taken on a new name to go with the role that will soon be mine. You may call me Lancelot.”

“Are you loyal friend? Or treacherous betrayer?”

A careless shrug. “Remains to be seen.”