Page 32 of Fletcher

Silence. Duxor’s expression grew exasperated as he regarded Freja. If the Selseus wish die with their false king, then so shall they. The throne, ’tis mine.

You’re naught but the son of a traitor. Freja then thrust her head between two bars, snapping needle-like teeth at Duxor’s face as she became wedged there.

As Erskin surged forward their master held out his hand to stop him. A few more days of starvation shall persuade her to the cause.

Freja’s eyes rolled as she wriggled, helplessly snared. Then a strangeness came over her face, and she began thrashing her long body back and forth, bowing it almost in half to slam her tail into the bars. The sound of bone cracking shot through the water as she went limp and dropped slowly to the bottom of the cage.

Fiacail tasted something foul in the water that made the beast inside her grow ravenous. My lord, I think she’s dead.

Stubborn old fool. Leave her rot. Duxor shot out of the cave, and after giving her a troubled look Erskin followed.

She swam to the bottom of the cage to look into the corpse’s eyes, which had already begun to cloud over. Blood drifted from her sagging mouth, and filtered through Fiacail’s gills as she breathed in. A blurred memory of a beautiful, pale-eyed man with long white hair came into her thoughts, along with a surge of desperate emotion. The name Jamaran repeated over and over inside Fiacail’s head as she saw more images of him. The crone had loved this man, even more so than the husband who had sired her son. She’d also chosen to end herself rather than see him transformed by Duxor as she had been. In that sense, she’d proven more honorable than her or Erskin.

Fiacail tucked away all of the memories, and gently closed the dead creature’s jaw. You shall live on in me, my lady.

Fletcher stood in the arch between the kitchens and the great hall, taking a moment to watch Lark and Idonea as they stretched out a length of fine woven wool on three trestle tables they’d pushed together. Each day now the pair had come to the hall after the maids finished clearing the morning meal, and did their sewing until the time came to serve the evening meal. The pleasure his lover took in her work seemed obvious to him now, for she stroked the fabric with loving hands and smiled whenever the older seamstress spoke to her.

“’Tis a fine idea, setting the cloth thus,” Idonea said as she walked around the tables inspecting the wool. “Never had I room in the work chamber to cut all at once the pieces needed for a gown. Everyone in the Hall of Makers shall grow quite jealous over your notions, lass.”

“Using the sides of the tables to set the tenterhooks was your idea,” Lark told her. “We’ll have to remember to count them when we take them out, though. Otherwise the clan will end up hooked to the tables when they sit down for the evening meal.”

Shaw came to stand beside Fletcher. “I wonder what the laird shall make of you turning his hall into a sewing room.”

He eyed his brother. “Come you to pick a fight with me before noon now?”

“’Tisnae a brawl I desire.” The chieftain absently rubbed his inked arm. “Nyall just returned from the night patrol. They’ve no’ found any trace of Freja on the far side of the island.”

Fletcher knew that had been the last part of Caladh to be searched by the clan; they’d now covered all the shores. For their part Merrick and his men had checked every dwelling and cave in and around the bay settlement, and all the islets and shoals where she might have become trapped or stranded by injury. No trace of the widow had been found.

“You reckon ’twas the white-mouth, then?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“I cannae tell you.” Shaw shrugged. “We found naught of Freja, nor Merrick’s cousin. ’Tis making my arm itch, and that never bodes well.” He nodded at Lark. “You’ve taken to spending your nights with the wee beauty.”

Fletcher stiffened. “I didnae ken I needed tell you where I sleep.”

“I doubt ’tis much sleeping. I saw the carpenters making a fine new footboard for the lass’s bed.” Shaw’s eyes narrowed as he regarded him. “Nor have I any right shake my finger. Guard well your heart, Brother. For her sake and yours.”

Being reminded of his curse didn’t set well with him, but he nodded. The chieftain then walked down the passage leading to the lists, passing Meg on the way, who carried her oyster-gathering basket and had a determined look on her face as she approached.

“I ken,” the chamber maid said as Fletcher started to remind her of the laird’s standing orders for their vassals to avoid the shallows, tide and fairy pools. “Brochan doesnae care. He’s set on making that stew Lady Valerie favors, for ’tis her birthing day next week. He bid me take some guards.”

Fletcher considered whether going and arguing with their cook would be wise, given his dark mood. “I shall accompany you, if you’re quick.”

“Good.” Meg shoved the basket into his hands. “’Twill go faster with two.”

As they walked from the stronghold to the cliff steps, Fletcher saw a large cluster of dark shapes below in the bay, and watched them move like a school of oversize fish between two of the islets edging the mist barrier. Fletcher hadn’t seen the king take such measures since the time when Norse raiders regularly blundered their way through the barrier.

“Merrick’s commanded his own guards to protect the settlement,” the chamber maid said, following the direction of his gaze. At his surprised look she added, “Our patrollers ever gossip over their meals.”

A suspicion he’d long had came back to him. “The king, he’s the reason you wish leave Dun Ard.” He saw her lips press together and demanded, “Tell me he didnae offer for you.”

“The grand, handsome Merrick, offer anything for a tall, ugly, unmannerly wench of no importance?” Meg uttered a bitter laugh. “No, Seneschal. His majesty, he’s well and safe from the likes of me.”

He heard the hurt behind the sharp words. “I shall inquire of the headman at the valley croft by the Stone Forest. They’re ever in need of workers in their dairy and orchards.”

“Aye, and the melia magic that lingers there shall keep away the Finfolk.” She sniffed. “If only I’d been born Fae.”

Together they climbed down the stairs and went to the edge of the tide pools, where thousands of oysters created their own sprawling reefs. Sea waves spilling over the rocky fringes flicked salty spray at them. Fletcher gestured for her to stay back as he removed his boots, stepped in and scanned the water, looking for breaks that might allow a predator to swim in and attack.