Lord of Shadows (29 page)

She gritted her teeth until she thought they might crack. “Do you really want to go down that path, Aidan? Because I’m certain your wife would be interested in hearing your opinions on a woman’s virtue.”

His jaw clenched, contrition instantly flaring in his bronze brown gaze. “Did you ever think it might be because of Cat that I’m as furious with you as I am? One misstep. One hint of scandal and they’ll pounce. Shred you to bits with their gossip and their barbs and their hypocritical outrage. Tear you down until there’s nothing left. I don’t want you to suffer what she has.”

He scrubbed his hands through his hair in an impatient and frustrated gesture, and for the first time, she noticed the gleaming silver strands among the gold. The worry lines creasing the corners of his eyes. The tension thickening the very air around him. Much had happened to her oldest brother while she remained oblivious within the sanctuary of the order. Desolation. Suffering And horrible pain. Hints of them plagued him still. In the darkness of his gaze. The solemn austerity of his expression.

“Is that why you and Cat avoid Dublin?” she asked.

He shrugged. “In part. Cat’s memories of the city are painful ones. And for myself, I lost interest in the gilded dog pit that is the beau monde years ago. The loss of Kilronan House offered a good excuse for our exile.” He shook his head. Sighed again as he toyed with the jagged pieces of the broken pen. “Sabrina . . . how . . . what would ever
make you . . . knowing what he is . . . that’s what I don’t understand.”

His troubled gaze wandered over her as if he didn’t recognize her. Perhaps he shared her sense of confronting a stranger. She sank slowly into a seat, exhaustion rushing in to replace her earlier hostility. “He cared for me, Aidan. I know it’s hard to believe, but he did. I would have detected deceit or treachery.”

But would she? Or had he hidden his true intentions behind the blast furnace of emotion that scoured her brain with such frequency? Had his mind’s churning turbulence obscured the real purpose behind his attentions?

Aidan leapt to his feet. Hand tapping nervously against his bad thigh. His limp hampering his angry strides back and forth across the carpet. “Lazarus cares for nothing. He’s guided by Máelodor in all things. And if he made you believe he cared then it was only because his master bid him do so.”

“No. I won’t believe that.” She couldn’t because that meant she’d been wrong. Stupid. Naive. And Daigh’s insults had been true.

“You forget. I’ve crossed paths with him before.” He placed a hand over his heart with a wince hardening the already sharp lines of his face. “I could show you the scar.”

She lifted a stubborn chin. “And Daigh’s scars? Máelodor has tortured him into subservience. Has infected him with evil. It’s not Daigh’s by right. Not his by choice.” She fisted her hands together. Sucked in a ragged breath. Was this her chance? Could she tell Aidan about her visions? Would he believe her, or would he dismiss the connection as a girlish fantasy as Daigh had?

Brendan would listen. Would believe. But Brendan
wasn’t here. Aidan was. And for better or worse he was her only family. Perhaps he’d even understand what was happening to her. She surely didn’t.

Her voice dropped low as she struggled against the weight in her chest. “I’ve met him before, Aidan. Known him. Not as he is now, but as he was. Before Máelodor’s summoning. Before he was brought back against his will.”

Aidan paused, one hand upon the mantel, his gaze fastened on the refreshingly fire-colored flames. A tiny victory amid Aunt Delia’s decorating extravaganza. “What are you talking about?” he growled.

“Daigh.” When he tried to interrupt, she rushed ahead. She had to speak of it. To explain herself. To make him listen and not just push her story away as a child’s silliness. “I know it sounds like insanity, but I’ve traveled into Daigh’s past. I’ve walked with him. Spoken with him. Loved him. At first I thought I was dreaming, but Daigh remembers me too. He remembers us together. I don’t know how or why, but when I’m in Daigh’s past it’s as real to me as this moment.”

He cast aside her words with a careless wave of his arm. “More of Máelodor’s black magics. You see what he wants you to see.”

She hadn’t thought of that. Could it be? Could Daigh have cast some demonic spell over her? No. Her visions were too full of hope and life and affection to be the work of dark powers.

“Máelodor will stop at nothing to gain his victory. And if it includes destroying an innocent girl, so be it,” Aidan scoffed.

“What does Máelodor want? Who is he? You talk of his malice. Daigh spoke of his evil. Even Cat trembles when she speaks his name.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll leave for Belfoyle, and that will be an end to it.”

She stiffened. “If I go anywhere, it shall be back to Glenlorgan.”

He sank into a seat nearby. Stretched his bad leg in front of him, kneading his thigh. “Rejoining the
bandraoi
is out of the question. Father’s murder won’t continue to splinter our family as it has for the past seven years. You’re my sister. You belong with me.”

“I may be your sister, but I’m not your child. So stop acting as if I am. My future is my own, Aidan. And if I choose to return to the
bandraoi,
there is nothing you can say. I’m a healer. It’s my birthright and my calling. It’s who I am. I can’t turn my back on that gift any more than you could . . . could turn your back on Belfoyle or the earldom.”

He lifted his head, crossed his arms. The picture of unyielding obstinacy. Any more arguing would only set his back up higher. She subsided. For now. “You haven’t answered my questions about Máelodor.”

“Tell her, Aidan.”

Sabrina hadn’t heard her sister-in-law enter the room, but there she was. Her black hair and green eyes emphasizing her ghost-white skin. She crossed to Aidan’s side, resting upon the arm of his chair. His hand came up to run over her back. Rest there possessively.

Their affection made Sabrina hurt with a jealousy she couldn’t put into words. If her visions were of Daigh’s true past, she’d had this same closeness once. Had it and lost it.

“Sabrina’s as involved as any of us,” Cat urged. “And as she’s found at great cost, what is unknown can be as dangerous as what is known.”

Sabrina added her arguments to Cat’s. “Máelodor has
tried to kill you. He’s used me to find Brendan. What does he want from the Douglases? What have we done to be singled out for his animosity? Please, Aidan. Tell me.”

Aidan glanced at the door. Hunched deeper into his chair. Stared long and intently into the flames before giving a faint nod as if coming to a decision. He paused, seeming to weigh his words. “Máelodor was one of the mages who studied with Father. Driven by the same sinister ambitions. The same hellish dream as Father and all of his associates. They believed in a world where the race of
Other
would not only be free to live without fear of persecution, but would control that world and the destinies of the
Duinedon
who served us.”

A cold wave of nausea washed over her. “Impossible. It could never happen.”

“Father believed it could if the
Other
were united under their last and most legendary king. A warlord who wielded his considerable power during the last golden age of
Other
dominance.”

“Arthur. But how on earth . . . Arthur’s dust. He’s . . .” She clamped her mouth shut. Of course. A soldier of Domnu. One of the
Domnuathi
built from the bones of his former life.

Aidan nodded. “Father and the mages he’d turned to his cause strove to resurrect Arthur as a new leader—literally. To use him as a rallying point for all
Other
. Máelodor searches for the map that will lead him to Arthur’s tomb and the stone that will open the protective wards. Once these treasures are in his possession, he’ll have all he needs to complete the Nine’s work and bring the High King back from the dead.”

A question she hated but had to ask. “Brendan was
involved, wasn’t he? The
Amhas-draoi
didn’t lie when they accused him.”

“No. They didn’t lie.”

The days leading to Samhain. A pile of dead wood heaped in the inner courtyard in preparation for the bonfires lit to signal the day of the dead. Brendan in a quiet but heated discussion with Father, both men staring at each other, eyes matching in intensity and cold arrogance. A hand upon Father’s arm shaken off. Brendan disappearing into the stables. Father closeting himself in his library. Unease blanketing the house. Shortening tempers. Filling reproachful silences. Brendan’s sudden departure from Belfoyle only adding fuel to the gathering storm.

Aidan continued, “But the
Amhas-draoi
don’t know the whole truth either.”

The note. The open window.

“Is that why you came to Dublin?”

“The
Amhas-draoi
are searching for Brendan. They believe he, not Máelodor, is behind this new threat.”

“Máelodor has dispatched a rogue
Amhas-draoi
named St. John to capture Brendan.”

Aidan started forward in his chair, his hands grasping the arms with sudden excitement. “Gervase St. John? Is that who you mean? How do you know?”

“Daigh warned me.”

“Why would that devil care what happens to Brendan?”

Swallowing back the sudden lump choking off her breath, she met Aidan’s critical gaze head-on. “Because he knows—more than anyone—the pain of being Máelodor’s victim.”

The
Amhas-draoi
knelt before him, golden head bowed, a hand to his heart. “I’m honored you sought me out for this task, Great One. I’ll do my best to justify your faith in me.”

Máelodor placed a hand upon St. John’s shoulder. “If you truly desire a place at Arthur’s side, I expect better than your best. The High King will need trusted companions to guide him as he gathers his army. Prepares for the uprising. Bring me the Rywlkoth Tapestry, and you shall ride at his side at the final battle. There can be no higher reward.”

“How will I recognize the tapestry?”

“Kilronan’s suspicious nature led him to disguise it, and though I’ve studied his diary thoroughly, I’ve found no description of its alterations. I’m therefore left with only the original inscriptions to go by. These you have.”

“A puzzle within a puzzle.”

“Hidden somewhere within the concealing design are the clues to lead us to Arthur’s tomb.”

“It could be anywhere within the
bandraoi
’s precincts. Those shriveled up old besoms aren’t likely to invite me in to poke around,” St. John said.

“Is this task beyond you? One of Scathach’s vaunted warriors?”

“It shall be difficult and time-consuming.”

“All worthy goals carry a degree of difficulty. A true peer of the High King would not flinch. Nor would he snivel like a coward.”

St. John went rigid with insult—as expected. So quick to take offense. So needy to prove himself worthy. Control lay in knowing what strings needed to be plucked to make the puppet dance. The
Amhas-draoi
’s had been obvious from the first. His inadequacies so close to the surface.

“I shall find a way, Great One,” he responded in a clipped tone.

Máelodor nodded. “There is always a way.”

Exhaustion and brittle bones undermined him, and he leaned back in his chair, gasping to catch his breath. Ease the pains in his hips and back. The journey from Holyhead to Dublin had been more wearying to his aged body than he cared to admit. He needed to conserve his strength. It wouldn’t do to fail just at the time when he most needed his powers.

St. John lifted his head. “And what of Douglas? Is he still a priority?

“Oh yes. Brendan Douglas must be found. He is the only one who knows where the Sh’vad Tual is hidden. He must be made to surrender that information.”

“And after?”

Máelodor sensed the man’s quiver of excitement. It touched a chord deep within himself. A slithering curl of
eagerness that kindled the physical fusion of fetch animal and man known as the Heller change. He’d not done it in years, but now and then a moment of stimulation brought to the surface hints of the serpent. A calculating ruthlessness unmarred by weaker human emotions. And now was not the time for weak emotions. Not when the world of
Other
remained under siege by a growing
Duinedon
malevolence.

Brendan had surrendered to cloying sentiment. He deserved his fate.

He shivered against the bone-deep cold that accompanied the Heller’s emergence. “As long as he comes to me still breathing, you may do as you wish.” He motioned him to rise. “But right now, all your skills must be bent toward capturing the tapestry. Bloom has failed. Lazarus has vanished. It lies now in your more-than-capable hands.”

A glittering excitement fired the
Amhas-draoi
’s eyes. “I’ve seen the
Domnuathi
.”

“Where?”

“Here in Dublin. But he may no longer be an asset to your work. He’s grown dangerously unstable. Has strayed from your purpose.”

“We shall have to remind him of his indebtedness to us. It’s rare to be given a second turn upon life’s wheel.” He ran a tongue over his lips, his hands curling into fists as he relived their last cautionary encounter. This time Lazarus would realize his gratitude. Or suffer still greater agonies than previously.