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Brendan roused himself to poke at the burnt fish. Tear off a hunk of the bread. “There’s at least two blokes besides him. Twice as disreputable and three times as quick with their fists.”
“But surely your powers . . . I mean you were always so . . .”
He gave a gruff snort. “Magic can’t stop a bullet or turn a blade. And St. John’s powers as an Amhas-draoi are far greater than mine. The first time I tried to escape . . .” He wrapped his hands around his knees, his face bleak. “Let’s say, it ended badly. The second time . . .” He clenched his jaw and looked away. “The hand was the least of it. Between St. John’s mage energy and his bully-boys’ brute force, I’m stymied. Besides, I can’t leave you, and I’m too weak to protect both of us. I’m afraid if you were looking for me to play hero, I’m singularly unequipped.”
His impudent tone didn’t hide his mounting fear. She felt it as an added press upon her own sagging spirits. It wouldn’t take much to peel away his remaining bravado. And the waiting only made it that much worse. Every sound made them jump. Every shout caused them to steel themselves for St. John’s arrival. But he did not come.
Even panic loses its edge over time. The body slowly adjusts to the dry mouth, the closed throat, and the sweaty palms. Fear becomes normal.
By the time the sun dragged itself into a gray, misty sky, Sabrina had reached that stage, immune to the knots in her chest and the flip-flop of a stomach long since emptied of its last meal.
She’d offered Brendan the pallet. He slept. Finally. But it was a short-lived rest, soon broken by disjointed muttering. “Lissa . . . the stone . . . Jack!” He woke with a jerk. Scrubbed a hand over his face as he sought to pull himself from his fever dreams. “Have I been asleep long?”
Sabrina had taken to drawing patterns in the dirt with a piece of stick. “A few hours.”
“Any sign of St. John?”
“No. No one.”
Sighing, he slung his legs over the side of the bed, raking a hand through his wild hair. “Thank the gods. Not up to seeing him again right now. And Máelodor . . . well, least said about that . . .” He peered at her from his one good eye. “Have you slept at all?”
“Not much. No.”
“Here. If you squash up next to me, we can combine our heat.”
He pulled her up onto the pallet beside him, curling her into his shoulder. “There now, better?”
“Much.” She tried not to worry over the amount of heat he generated alone. “Brendan?”
“Hm?”
“Why did you do it?”
A long silence. Long enough she wanted to cut out her tongue. Why had she asked that? What did it matter now? Didn’t they have enough troubles without dredging up more?
“Which ‘it’ do you refer to?”
She couldn’t back away now. She’d asked. She’d get an answer. Even if it wasn’t an answer she wanted to hear. Because though it seemed like ancient history, the actions of those long ago days still rippled outward in ever-widening, every-strengthening circles.
“All the things they accuse you of.”
Another long silence stretching thin as spring ice. “My notoriety has grown for every year they couldn’t catch me. I’d not be surprised if I were being held responsible for blighted crops, solar eclipses, and plagues of locusts.”
“That’s not answering me.”
He sighed. “I was a different person back then.”
“What changed your mind?”
His body stiffened, his arm sliding away to leave her chilled with more than cold. “Perhaps someday I’ll tell you.”
She drew her knees up to her chest, resting her head upon them. Rain pattered against the roof. Dripped with tortured regularity upon the floor. “Why did you come back?” She hated the quaver in her voice.
Brendan’s answer came thick as if he were once again close to a slide into unconsciousness. “Heard Father’s diary had been found.” He drew in a shivering breath. “Hoped to beat him . . . didn’t work out . . .”
“Who’s Lissa?”
“No one anymore. Go . . . sleep.”
