Lord of Shadows (36 page)

Confused and shaking with sickness, Daigh opened eyes sticky with crust. Cold rain needled his face, and his clothing clung wet and chilly to his skin, making the trembling worse.

Above him, clouds rolled thick and unbroken, creating a false twilight. He sat up, rubbing at the base of his neck. Scanned the trees. The sky to the west where a dim glow marked the sun’s descent.

He’d been mistaken.

It was almost full dark. Hours lost.

Sabrina could be anywhere.

“No matter how often I see you, I’m still amazed.” St. John stepped from between the trees, his golden head darkened with rain, his greatcoat mud-spattered and damp. “That spell would have killed any normal human, and yet you . . .” He waved a careless hand in Daigh’s direction.

Rigid with fury and gut-churning nausea, Daigh’s hand fell to his waist.

“Looking for this?” St. John pulled forth a dagger. “I took the liberty of securing it along with the pistols you carried. Seemed wisest to conduct our conversation sans weapons.”

Every killer instinct screamed at Daigh to lunge for the man’s throat. Rip into him with his bare hands if need be. But the
Amhas-draoi
had Sabrina. Until Daigh knew where she was being held, he’d chain his murderous rage. Let St. John have his gloat.

He shoved the weapon back into his belt. “I see you’ve finally learned to appreciate my more persuasive techniques.”

“Where is she?” Daigh snarled.

“Douglas’s sister? She’s safe enough. She’s enjoying a brief reunion with her brother. Tearful. Emotional. Warms my heart.”

“You’ve no heart.”

St. John’s face fell into clownish lines, his hand to his chest. “Perhaps I had one once, and it was lost. Or stolen? Perhaps I was born without one at all? Who can say?”

Daigh’s fingers curled into his palms, the nails biting into his flesh until blood appeared. Mixed with the rain. “Let her go. She’s not any part of this. This fight is between you, me, and Máelodor.”

“She may not have started as part of my plans. A dull, tedious young woman like so many females. But she’s become such a large part, hasn’t she? You know, when you and I last spoke, I was sure she would be the bait to lure her brother in. And then it turned out to be the other way around. Funny how it all worked out, isn’t it?”

St. John propped one booted foot on a fallen log. His expression virtuous as any priest’s. His innards rotten to the core.

“What do you want?” Daigh asked.

St. John speared Daigh with a frozen stare. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the Rywlkoth Tapestry. You were sent for it. But I shall claim it. I had thought to use Lady Sabrina, but why send her when I have you?”

Daigh’s breath clogged his throat. His mind churning. “The
bandraoi
will never let it leave their protection.”

St. John’s smile vanished. “The
bandraoi
will have no choice. Not against a
Domnuathi
. You’ll retrieve it and bring it to me here.”

“Not until I’ve seen Sabrina and know she’s safe.”

“And you don’t see Sabrina until I have the tapestry, so”—he spread his hands—“we’re at an impasse.”

“Damn you,” Daigh ground out through clenched teeth. His skin felt like ice, and every second out here added to the miserable trembling he fought to contain.

The man shrugged. “Very well. The suggestion was made. I’ll be sure to let your little sparrow know who’s responsible for her agony. She shall curse your name with her last breath.” He laughed. “Oh wait, I forgot. You’re already cursed.” He turned to go.

Daigh threw himself to his feet. “You touch her, and I’ll—”

St. John swung around, his eyes fever bright, his voice dropped to a near whisper. “You’ll what, Lazarus? What would you do in exchange for her life? How far would you go?”

Daigh halted, blood roaring in his ears. A fire eating away at his belly. He should have known he couldn’t hide from St. John. The man saw everything with those guileless charmer’s eyes.

“You can’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity to redeem yourself. Show the Great One you’ve not failed him—again. He’s quite annoyed, you know. Wonders if you’ve forgotten your last reprimand.”

Daigh hadn’t. That memory had been carved into him along with the scars. Máelodor would enjoy breaking him. Punishment would be endless and unbearable. It would make him pray and weep and beg for death. And there would be no mercy. No rescue.

He was on his own. As he had always been.

“I’ll bring you the tapestry.” He drew himself up. Met St. John’s smug condescension with a withering glare of his own. The whoreson knew he’d won. He almost preened.

“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking,
Lazarus.” He reached out a hand. His fingers barely brushing Daigh’s cheek. But even that slight contact was enough to curdle his blood and make sweat break over him.

Daigh shuddered and looked away. Afraid and hating his fear almost as much as he hated St. John.

She woke to blindness. Suffocation. And bound hands.

The bag over her face muffled sound and the coarse rasp of the weave itched. She turned herself inside out trying to dislodge it, giving up only when the heavy heat of her breathing grew unbearable and her wrists had been rubbed raw. She rested her head against the floor, curling her body into a tight ball, trying not to cry. But her throat hurt, and her stomach cramped, and scalding tears dripped salty into the corners of her mouth.

Keep calm, Sabrina. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

Daigh isn’t dead. Can’t be dead. He can’t die. He’s out there. Alive. And he would save her. She just needed to stay calm and wait.

But calm was impossible. Her heart thundered, and dread pressed down on her until she thought she might die if she weren’t freed soon.

Think of something else. Anything else.

She rolled to her knees, crawling as well as she could in her skirts. Seeking to assess her prison. Weak light filtered through the sack. And a breeze. There must be a window. High up. Too small for anyone to enter or exit. Sliding one foot out in front of her. Then another in a slow shuffle, she paced off the perimeter. Barked her shin. Felt around, discovering the lumpy shape of a bedstead, a thin, crinkly straw mattress. Sank down upon it, resting and nursing her sore leg.

She must have dozed. She woke to a head-pounding battering of rage and fear and despair and defiance. It struck her awake with the force of a blow. Scoured her brain with a raw, frenzied power.

“Daigh!” she shouted, shouldering herself to a sitting position. Peering through the cloth as if she held sight. But all was darkness. Not even the light from earlier. “Daigh! I’m here!”

“Damn it all to hell.” The voice came weak and raspy, but still recognizable.

Despite the circumstances, her heart beat faster, and a crazy mix of joy and anger bubbled through her. “Brendan?”

There followed a rustle, a bitten-back moan, and a tired shuffling crawl. “Hold still, and I’ll try to get this sack off you.”

Long, anxious moments and much cursing later, the bag was torn from her head. Sweet air. She gulped in great lungfuls, savoring the coolness on her face. Squinting even against the blue-black dark of night.

Her eyes slowly adjusted, revealing a face. Familiar and yet not. The man kneeling in front of her bore a rugged breadth of shoulder and a muscled frame, though he held himself gingerly as if he were in pain, and he cradled one hand close against his body. His shirt clung damp and filthy to his chest, and even in the blanketing shadows, his face bore a mottled collage of bruising, a lip split and puffy, one eye swollen shut. But the unblemished eye held a familiar gold gleam, and his smile—split lip and all—bore the lopsided charm she remembered.

Had her hands been free, she would have flung herself at him. Though whether to hug him in welcome or beat him senseless, she wasn’t certain.

He’d left her. Run away when she needed him most. Let her think he was dead. And now he was here. She could make up for that last awful parting. Tell him what he meant to her. How much she truly loved him. Or perhaps she should just give him a good fist to the jaw for bringing hell down on her head.

“You,” she said, her voice shaky with anger, joy, and fear.

“Try to curb your enthusiasm,” he answered dryly.

And just like that, seven years shrank to nothing. Tears spilled over. Ran like rivers down her face. “Oh gods, Daigh said . . . and the notes . . . and then . . . but I tried not to believe. I didn’t want to be disappointed. But you’re here. It really is you.” Horrible, wretched weeping shook her, making her nose run and her throat ache.

“That’s more like the response I’d hoped for,” Brendan teased.

She snuffled. “You’ve changed.”

“Seven years spent looking over one’s shoulder can do that to a fellow,” he answered through chattering teeth.

“You’re soaked.”

“Compliments of a few buckets of water from St. John’s flunkies.” He bent to examine her wrists. “I can try to undo those knots, but it may take a while. St. John’s hurt my right hand. I think it’s broken.”

She turned her back to him as he began working at the knots, an awkward silence falling between them.

What should she say? What did one say to a brother who, until a few short weeks ago, was assumed long dead? Where had he been? How had he lived? Why had he come back now?

Questions banged around inside her mouth, yet she remained speechless unable to form any of her thoughts into
words. Instead she resorted to, “You didn’t write that last note, did you?”

“Actually, I did. St. John’s arguments became overwhelmingly compelling. And extremely painful. It was only after I had done it that he stomped on my fingers for fun.” His breath came labored as he picked with frustrating slowness at the knots.

“But why does he want me? What use could I possibly be to him?”

“The sisters wouldn’t question your movements while you lurked about looking for the Rywlkoth Tapestry.”

“It really is hidden there?”

“It won’t be for long if St. John has his way. He’s got orders to retrieve it. Using any means necessary. You, my darling sister, are those means.”

“But I don’t even know what it looks like. How—”

“Shh,” Brendan cut her off. Dropped his voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell St. John that. Let him think you know what and where it is. Get him to let you go back for it. And don’t return.”

“St. John will kill you.”

“I’m safe from St. John. He may beat me black and blue, but he’s got strict orders to keep me alive. When you get back, go to your Ard-siúr. She can send for the
Amhas-draoi
. They’ll know how to handle St. John.”

“But the
Amhas-draoi
. . . they want to kill you.”

“They’ll have to get to the back of the line.” She opened her mouth to protest. “Sabrina, I’d rather face a quick execution at the hands of the
Amhas-draoi
than a drawn-out death at the hands of Máelodor. He and I have a long history. None of it on friendly terms.” A long pause, a wrench of her arms, and, “There.”

The ropes came away. She faced him, rolling her aching shoulders, rubbing her wrists. “I can’t leave you.”

His face stiffened into a harsh mask. Not at all Brendan-like. This was a man she didn’t know. A stranger. “You’ll do as your told. Do you understand? This is bigger than me. Besides, my life was forfeit years ago. Whatever St. John uses to frighten you, don’t heed him. Just get the hell out of here when you have the chance.”

Daigh paused in front of the tapestry for only a moment before tearing the cloth from its nails. Shoving it into his coat pocket and retracing his steps.

Sister Anne remained where he’d left her. Slumped unconscious across her desk. By the time she woke with a knot and a headache, he’d be long departed.

So much for Ard-siúr’s resources.

In the outer courtyard, Sabrina’s would-be protector paused in tending his cook fire long enough to challenge him, but Daigh never slowed. Instead his steps turned toward the workshops and the traveling smithy’s abandoned forge. Plucking up a sharpened billhook, he shoved it into his belt.

“What’s yer business here this time of night?” The man filled the doorway, his eyes narrowed, his glowering features pricked with suspicion.

“My business is my own.”

“Not if yer skulking about where ya shouldn’t.”

Daigh felt Máelodor now like a second consciousness. Watching with voyeuristic glee. Filling his mind with hate and violence. “Let me pass.”

“Mayhap I’ll be hollering for me mates instead. Teach ya some manners. I seen the way you look at that young
girl. Not decent. Not respectable. Pat! Jasper! We got that scoundrel cornered.”

His mates shoved their way into the closed space of the tool crib. The three of them together stoked high on gin and frustration. Daigh, a tidy outlet for their drunken rage.

He refused the black powers surging through his veins. The ruthless fury that sought blood and killing and death. Máelodor might claim him in the end, but Daigh would not make it easy.

Instead, he used the strength born of tilt-yard training and the cunning honed through countless border raids to level the first man with a quick fist to the jaw, his companions with a flurry of punches that left one doubled over in a retching heap, the other spitting blood and teeth.

Stepping over them, he slipped back into the night. Disappeared through the gate, the weight of Ard-siúr’s disappointed gaze boring into his back.

He turned back, shouting into the night. Knowing she would hear. “Your bones were wrong, old woman! There is no hope for the damned! And I have betrayed you all!”