Lord of Shadows (32 page)

His last sight of Sabrina had been in a gown of palest green, hair a dark treacle spill of silk, lips bruised with his kisses, skin flushed pearl and pink. Yet here in the
bandraoi
’s drab garb, hair hidden beneath a kerchief, and features twisted with frustration and shock, she was unspeakably more beautiful.

“I left you safe in Dublin,” he growled.

She rounded on him, fire in her gaze. “What are you doing here, Daigh? How could you follow me after . . .” She returned to her frantic pacing. “After everything.”

“I didn’t follow. I came two days ago.”

He leaned against the desk, arms folded over his chest. It kept him from doing what he wanted, which was smashing the furniture to splinters. He’d meant to put Sabrina out of his life, if not out of his head. Yet she was here, only feet away, where every curve and shift of her body and every flash of emotion in her face ripped new scars across his heart. Tempted him with a lifetime of memories—the real and the glimpsed might-have-beens that plagued them both. “Your brother will see my hand in this.”

“I can handle Aidan.”

“Not the
Unseelie
that lives within him.”

She shoved her hands deep into apron pockets. Turned away from him in a deliberate rebuff. “What are you doing here?”

“I came for the tapestry.”

She sucked in her breath on a silent oath, eyes wide and frightened. “But it’s been stolen already.”

The corner of his lip curved in a cool smile. “No. A tapestry was taken. But not the one Máelodor seeks.”

“What’s so important about a tapestry that—” Her brows contracted. “A map. A stone,” she mused. “Máelodor seeks a map and a stone.” Her gaze lifted to his. “The tapestry is the map, isn’t it? Somehow it shows the way to Arthur’s tomb.”

“It does. Máelodor must come for it. And I’ll face him when he does.”

“You can’t.”

“I must end this, Sabrina.” Now that he’d begun, the words came easier. “I can’t be scraped and pulled until the only parts of me left are faded and ragged as a fallen standard. The presence is always within me. Fighting for dominion. If I don’t find a way to die, it will take me over body and soul. The
Amhas-draoi
give me no help. I choose the only path left.”

Her eyes flickered and went dark, but gave nothing away. “Do you really think Máelodor would send you back to the grave?”

“Not if given a choice.” His voice hardened. “I’ll take that choice from him.”

“You’d face death so cavalierly?”

“I’ve suffered it once. It holds no surprise. And I will die gladly rather than remain a slave.”

“You’re not his slave. Máelodor doesn’t own your soul.”

“He did once. And I feel him in my head still. He seeks to reclaim me. I’ll not allow it.”

She gave a sharp shake of her head. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“When this is over, you won’t.”

“What if that’s not what I want?” Now tears shone in her eyes. Glimmered in the low flickering light. Sparkled like diamonds.

He gave her a solemn smile. Opened his hands in a gesture of resignation, revealing the scars upon his palms. “Look upon me, Sabrina,” he said. “It’s what you should want.”

“I have thought over all you’ve told me, Mr. MacLir, including the warnings about the tapestry’s safety.”

“Then why is the cursed thing still there?”

Ard-siúr glanced where Daigh gestured. The hanging floated in the rising heat from the stove. A casual observer would see nothing but the beauty and the artistry of the blooms. But for the one who unraveled the secret hidden within the colorful array of stylized flowers, the path to Arthur’s tomb was written plain as the black thread used to spell it out.

“Perhaps to tempt you?”

He flashed a startled, angry look at the old woman. “What game is this?”

She answered him with a bland, unreadable smile. “I am interested to see what breed of man Máelodor has riven from a few ancient bones and magic best left to the demon world. Does the darkness of the
Unseelie
taint the life it recreates? How much of the man you were still remains?”

Daigh longed to howl his frustration. Arms braced against the desk, he leaned menacingly forward, frightening the cat, which hissed and darted beneath Ard-siúr’s chair. “You’ve only to ask Sabrina to know the answer.”

“Her answers might well be worth hearing. Perhaps I shall.”

Daigh flushed, unable to meet Ard-siúr’s pointed glare. “I never meant to see her again.”

She scooped the cat into her lap, where it settled beneath her steady strokes. Glared at Daigh from slitted yellow eyes. “But you have. So what will you do now?”

He hunched his shoulders, his hands loose at his sides. “Hope is not for the undead.”

“The gods bestow hope to all,” she scolded. “It is for us to hold fast. Refuse its escape. And use it to shape all we do.”

“Spoken like a true
bandraoi
priestess.”

She nodded her acceptance of his sarcasm as if he’d paid her the highest compliment. “You need not concern yourself about the tapestry. We shall see to its safety.”

“Máelodor is determined to have it. He won’t give up.”

“As Ard-siúr, I am not completely without resources, Daigh.”

“You’ve never spoken my name before.”

She continued stroking the cat, its purring loud against the taut silence. Finally she tilted her head, speared him with a look that drilled straight to his core. “And is Daigh your name? Or does it remain Lazarus? You must choose.”

“I returned to warn you, didn’t I?” he snarled.

She sat back. “Then you have your answer. And your hope.”

“Mother? Is that you?”

“Hush now. Try and go to sleep.”

“I can’t. I’m too excited about my birthday. Paul said he’d be home, Mother. He promised.”

Sabrina pulled the covers back up over Sister Clea. Offered her a sip of water.

She’d waited for Brendan as instructed. Hours had passed as she watched the clouds pushing east across the sky until even the most fractious child had fallen silent and the earth cooled and creaked in the early hours before dawn.

Only then had she retreated here to the dimly lit hospital ward. The whisper of sleep among the sick and elderly priestesses. The rain pattering against the windows. Once again, she was struck by the odd sensation of time folding back upon itself so that the past weeks were erased as if they’d never been. Leaving her secure in the knowledge that no matter what occurred beyond these walls, this place, these women, this life would remain.

She’d chafed at the unfaltering routine and the stifling bonds of tradition. Had looked at the horizon and questioned what lay beyond the boundary between earth and sky. And had come away heartsick and frightened at what she’d found. Brendan. Aidan and his wife. Máelodor. St. John.

Daigh.

Too many questions. Too many dangers. Too many ways to be wounded body and soul. If only she could convince Ard-siúr of her devotion. Her need for a life among the steady tread of ancient traditions and out of the rushing current of life outside. She sank upon a chair, arms pressed to her stomach as the gnawing ache of her own stupidity spread from her gut to her chest.

Sister Clea’s voice broke the stillness. “Paul has never broken a promise before. He’ll come. I know he will.”

Overwrought, Sabrina lashed out. “He’s not coming. Do you hear? He’s not. I don’t care what he promised. They were lies. Like everything he ever told you. He’s toying with
you. Making you think that it can be all right again. But it can’t. It can never be what it was. Not even here. Not even where it should be.”

Sister Clea’s eyes rounded in startled surprise, her mouth pursing and opening, passing the hem of the blanket back and forth in her hands. “Paul doesn’t lie, Sabrina.”

She started up. Sister Clea had never called her by her name.

The old woman’s eyes shone with foggy tears, but her gaze raked Sabrina with a sharpness to draw blood. “And neither does Brendan Douglas. He’ll come. He’ll be with you soon.”

What did the
bandraoi
see? What precognition had swum up through the calcified walls of her mind to glimmer upon the surface for one sparkling moment? Sabrina couldn’t ask. Would never know. The clarity was gone. Vanished.

“It’s my birthday soon,” Sister Clea mumbled. “And my brother will be home.”

Daigh looked up at the tall, slender stone, its face glimmering with quartz where moss had yet to take over. The air around it blurred and danced, throwing shadows that had nothing to do with the moonlight moving among the surrounding trees. As he drew closer, the temperature dropped, leaving him chilled. Only his purpose for coming raised a sweat between his shoulders to trickle down his back.

The true
Fey
could grant him death.

Helena Roseingrave had given him the idea, just as it had been her hatred that had torn loose the last bindings upon his memory. The years since his summoning as mirror-bright and steeped in blood as his sword. Máelodor’s
calculated torment. Inflicted and withdrawn without warning. Long weeks where he received no mercy for his pleading and where his screams begot only more painful treatment. Other times when his every need had been sated and he became a feted prince among men. The Great One’s prize and greatest treasure. His sword hand. His strength. His killer.

Would Arthur suffer the same fate? Or would Máelodor’s desire to win the hearts and minds of the race of
Other
with his resurrected warlord and king outstrip his darker desire to cause torment? Would the legendary High King fight his slavish bondage to Máelodor as Daigh had tried and failed to do for so long, or would he rejoice at the chance to reclaim his ancient reign? Begin his domination with the toppling of England’s mad monarch and his fat princeling son? Would he venture beyond the isles as his army of
Other
grew more confident and more drunk upon their magic until the
Duinedon
world trembled at the unfettered mage energy and even the true
Fey
thought themselves lucky to be safe within their hillside barrows?

Daigh would use every skill he possessed to secure the Rywlkoth Tapestry away from St. John and Máelodor. But he couldn’t trust to those same skills to achieve his true and final aim. He would never be allowed to return to the grave. For that release, he would need the help of those more powerful than even Máelodor.

Gritting his teeth, he placed his hand flat upon the stone. The slam of mage energy exploded up his arm. Knocked him back into the grass to stare up into the curl and sparkle of light as it burst like shrapnel from the rock face. He shuddered as jolt after jolt passed through him. It charred his nerves until Máelodor’s
Unseelie
magic renewed
his body. Stopped his heart for long seconds before the poisonous presence within him revived its beat.

The
Fey
knew him for what he was. They would not suffer his presence. Nor heed his call. Not without a fight.

Refusing to be denied, Daigh crawled to the stone. Placed not one but both hands upon it. Closed his eyes to invoke any and all prayers he thought might summon one of them. And again was tossed backward into a tree, his ribs snapping at the force, only to knit themselves together with a pain barely noticeable against the mage energy flowing wild and seeking around him.

He lay among the dead leaves and broken branches for what seemed minutes then hours then days. Begging the
Fey
to answer his call.

He’d grown good at begging. Grown used to being denied.

It still hurt.

“This way. Hurry. Please.”

The child dragged Sabrina toward a workshop used by an itinerant smithy. A dusty, cobweb-infested building with enough nooks and crannies to entice the most rabid of hiders and seekers.

Inside, the gloom fell like a blanket over her head. But the child pulled her blindly deeper into the musty space where only a lurching jump sideways kept her from barking her shins on the huge, rusty anvil in the middle of the room.

“She cut herself. There’s blood.” The child’s fear trembled her voice. Her hand clutched Sabrina’s.

Threading their way between a rickety ladder and a stack of crates, they entered the smith’s storeroom. Tools hung from pegs upon the wall or lay covered in a fuzzy layer of dust on shelves and counters. In one corner leaned a broken shovel, a scythe with a bent blade, two rakes with missing tines, and a sagging burlap sack. Muffled weeping and loud snuffling came from a corner near the smashed
remains of a barrel. One skinny, stockinged leg sticking out at an awkward angle.

Sabrina knelt, plucking aside the splintered staves to discover a scrawny, bedraggled, tear-stained young girl. The gash on her forehead bled all over her pinafore, but it was her ankle that would require Sabrina’s aid. Painfully swollen already and bent in what had to be an uncomfortable position. “What on earth did you do to yourself?”

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. Dabbed at the cut. Like most head wounds, more blood than harm.

“I was tired of being caught first. I tried hiding up there.” The child pointed to a narrow ledge some ten feet above them. Wide enough to accommodate her skinny body, but inconspicuous in the dim space.