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Deep in the Cambrian Mountains, Wales
April 1815
Kilronan’s diary had resurfaced.
Máelodor tapped a gnarled finger against the edge of the letter as he considered the implications of this latest correspondence from his Dublin contact. For six years he’d assumed the diary had been destroyed. Confiscated during the same Amhas-draoi attack that left the old earl dead, his network broken and scattered.
Of the Nine who’d formed the inner circle, only Máelodor remained. And he’d been forced into a life of hiding and running until time and rage were spent and the Amhas-draoi found new prey.
He spat his loathing for those self-proclaimed guardians of the divide between Fey and Mortal. Interfering meddlers was more accurate. Did they think their misguided strike against the Nine could destroy an entire movement? They’d hacked the head from the Hydra. That was all. But resentments continued to smolder. Bitterness flared as each passing generation of Other was forced to deny its Fey blood in a superstitious world. So if it had become impossible to move forward among humanity’s current small-mindedness, perhaps the time had come to turn back the clocks.
To the Lost Days. A disappeared world where magic reigned, and Fey and Other passed with ease between the mortal and faery realms.
He glanced to the window, where the sun sank through dirty clouds to be clutched by the black, reaching trees, but his mind’s eye envisioned a far different scene. A golden-haired king, ambition stamped upon every chiseled feature. His Fey-forged sword beating the air as he rallied followers to his banner. Claimed his rightful place in a history that had relegated him to myth.
A rare smile touched Máelodor’s lips. If the Amhas-draoi had overlooked the diary, then perhaps the brotherhood did not know everything. Perhaps there remained a chance to fulfill the Nine’s purpose. To bring to fruition the dream that had bound them together until murder had shattered it.
Murder and treachery.
His thoughts turned black with a hate unalleviated by the distance of years. One man had destroyed it all. One man had bought his life by betraying the Nine. An easy death would not be his if Máelodor ever found him.
“Summon Lazarus.”
A young page flinched under the crack of command, but his hesitation was momentary and then he sped off to find the man Máelodor trusted above all others to complete the task taking shape within his mind.
Máelodor heaved himself up out of bed with the aid of the stick at his side. Maneuvered his wooden prosthetic into place before levering himself to stand. It wouldn’t do to give an impression of weakness. Authority rested as much in perception as reality.
He shuffled toward the window. He would have his audience there, where the setting sun might wreathe him in an aura of brilliance. Where the light would be always in the other man’s eyes, while Máelodor’s own shattered features remained hidden in shadow.
He’d just dropped into the thronelike chair when the door opened. No knock. No announcement. Máelodor would deal with the page later. Such a lapse would not happen again.
“You sent for me?” Lazarus shouldered his way into the room with the stalking grace of a tiger. Everything about him speaking of prideful conceit, from his wide-legged stance to the set of his jaw as his sinister gaze passed over the room with the curve of one arrogant brow. His eyes settling finally on Máelodor.
Máelodor couldn’t help the flush of satisfaction at this living proof of his magical skills. It had taken years of failure and had cost him his health, but he’d finally achieved the impossible. Created life from death. “I have a job for you, Lazarus. You will sail for Ireland to retrieve a book and return it to me.”
“As you wish, Great One.” The man’s agreement came without argument, as it should; yet he rested a casual hand on the pommel of his sword in a bold pose of intimidation.
Máelodor’s hand curved around his stick, though it would avail him nothing in a battle between them. Only mage energy held this ancient in bondage to him, as it would another far superior.
This time, he would not be denied his victory. This time, if all went as planned, Máelodor would forge out of the bones of the Lost Days a new halcyon age of Other. And leading the charge—the legendary King Arthur.
Kilronan House, Dublin
May 1815
Cat crouched in the bushes below the window. Branches poked her in places best left unpoked, and nervous butterflies queased her stomach, but she willed herself to relax just as Geordie had taught her. No use getting bothered. It would be the work of a minute to nip in and filch the goods. Nothing to it.
Hoisting herself up onto the sill, she scrambled for purchase on the slick, mossy granite. Turned her attention to the window, sliding the thin me
tal of her betty between the casement and sash.
She swallowed a contemptuous sniff as a jiggle and a twist of her wrist released what passed for a lock. Committing this sorry excuse for security to memory, she dropped soundlessly into the room. It might be worth her while to return another night. Not too soon. But if she needed a bit of something to pawn, it was good to know where a ready supply of pocketable trinkets might be found.
She cast a quick glance around. In the dark, furniture stood humped and unrecognizable, though the desk was easy enough to spot—an enormous black shape at the far end of the room, facing the window she’d just come through. But it was the rows upon rows of shelves that caused her breath to catch in her throat, squashing her earlier optimism.
