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“That’s right. It’s all very well to play the hero with your own life, but if she were to suffer for your continued silence?”
“I’ll answer for my own crimes. Not her.”
“Your father was so proud of you, but surely you knew that. He held you up as proof of Other supremacy in general and Douglas superiority to be specific. The Fey blood ran hot in you. Powerful.”
Brendan’s lips pinched tight, his expression hardening.
Máelodor shook his head with mock sorrow. “I can only imagine what his disillusionment was when he realized it was you who betrayed him to his death.”
Sabrina uttered a strangled gasp.
“What’s this? Your sister doesn’t know? Aye, Lady Sabrina, it was your brother and Kilronan’s favorite son who betrayed us all to the Amhas-draoi. I suspected it but had no proof. And would Kilronan hear my warnings? He accused me of jealousy. Ignored me. And in doing so, sealed his fate. And that of us all.”
Brendan focused on Máelodor with enough venom in his gaze to kill. “It was a lost cause then, and it’s a lost cause now. The Duinedon will fight with every weapon at their disposal.”
“Perhaps, but their numbers have been sorely depleted in this century of war. Their soldiers are weary. The people dispirited with their current rulers. They want peace. Prosperity. A new beginning. Arthur can give them that. He can restore the world as it was in the Lost Days.”
Brendan’s defiance mounted, though he had not once looked to Sabrina. As if afraid of the emotion he might encounter. “Even weakened as you claim, the Duinedon are still strong enough to defeat us. We can’t hope to succeed against their numbers. You’ll have brought the High King back to certain slaughter and ignoble defeat.”
“There are those who could be brought to fight on our side. For the price of their freedom.”
Daigh hadn’t thought it possible for Douglas to go any whiter, but his whole face seemed to collapse, his body crushed by this revelation. “They can’t survive in this world. You know that.”
“Not in their current form. But if presented with human hosts . . .”
“You’re mad. Their fealty will last only as long as their prison walls.” He sought St. John’s aid. “What he proposes is madness.”
St. John lashed out with a boot, sending Douglas sprawling. “A chance I’m willing to take.”
Máelodor raised a hand. “Enough. My powers are not so lacking, son of Kilronan. And with your help, I will be greater still.”
“It won’t work,” Douglas muttered.
“Give me the location of the Sh’vad Tual, and we shall see who is right and who is wrong.”
“Never.”
Máelodor motioned Daigh forward. “Kill her,” he ordered. “Douglas needs to see his sister die and know he could have stopped it had he only been more cooperative.”
“You kill her and you’ve lost your only bargaining chip,” Douglas brazened. “Besides, I’m no fool. Either way, you’ll not leave anyone alive who can raise the warning against you.”
“Always so clever, young Douglas,” Máelodor sneered. “Then I shall amend my words. I can kill her quickly or I can kill her slowly. That becomes your choice.”
Daigh risked his first glance at the woman whose fate hung by a thread. She hunched as far back against the wall as she could, hands clutching her stomach, face eerily expressionless.
For an instant, their eyes locked, hers shiny with tears. But it was he who looked away first, unable to offer her anything but a clean death.
“You’re not his slave,” she whispered.
Daigh kept his gaze fixed upon the battle of wills between Douglas and Máelodor.
“Don’t let him win.” Her voice came soft as a last breath.
His blood moved sluggish and frozen in his veins, his mind carrying naught but a soldier of Domnu’s cold-blooded indifference. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only listen to her futile pleading.
“You’re not Lazarus. You’re Daigh.” One final entreaty, this one ending on a sob that would have torn at his heart had he one left. But that, like his memories, had been taken from him, leaving naught but the presence in its place.
“Kill her,” Máelodor commanded. “Prove your allegiance.”
