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Aidan continued, “But the Amhas-draoi don’t know the whole truth either.”
The note. The open window.
“Is that why you came to Dublin?”
“The Amhas-draoi are searching for Brendan. They believe he, not Máelodor, is behind this new threat.”
“Máelodor has dispatched a rogue Amhas-draoi named St. John to capture Brendan.”
Aidan started forward in his chair, his hands grasping the arms with sudden excitement. “Gervase St. John? Is that who you mean? How do you know?”
“Daigh warned me.”
“Why would that devil care what happens to Brendan?”
Swallowing back the sudden lump choking off her breath, she met Aidan’s critical gaze head-on. “Because he knows—more than anyone—the pain of being Máelodor’s victim.”
The Amhas-draoi knelt before him, golden head bowed, a hand to his heart. “I’m honored you sought me out for this task, Great One. I’ll do my best to justify your faith in me.”
Máelodor placed a hand upon St. John’s shoulder. “If you truly desire a place at Arthur’s side, I expect better than your best. The High King will need trusted companions to guide him as he gathers his army. Prepares for the uprising. Bring me the Rywlkoth Tapestry, and you shall ride at his side at the final battle. There can be no higher reward.”
“How will I recognize the tapestry?”
“Kilronan’s suspicious nature led him to disguise it, and though I’ve studied his diary thoroughly, I’ve found no description of its alterations. I’m therefore left with only the original inscriptions to go by. These you have.”
“A puzzle within a puzzle.”
“Hidden somewhere within the concealing design are the clues to lead us to Arthur’s tomb.”
“It could be anywhere within the bandraoi’s precincts. Those shriveled up old besoms aren’t likely to invite me in to poke around,” St. John said.
“Is this task beyond you? One of Scathach’s vaunted warriors?”
“It shall be difficult and time-consuming.”
“All worthy goals carry a degree of difficulty. A true peer of the High King would not flinch. Nor would he snivel like a coward.”
St. John went rigid with insult—as expected. So quick to take offense. So needy to prove himself worthy. Control lay in knowing what strings needed to be plucked to make the puppet dance. The Amhas-draoi’s had been obvious from the first. His inadequacies so close to the surface.
“I shall find a way, Great One,” he responded in a clipped tone.
Máelodor nodded. “There is always a way.”
Exhaustion and brittle bones undermined him, and he leaned back in his chair, gasping to catch his breath. Ease the pains in his hips and back. The journey from Holyhead to Dublin had been more wearying to his aged body than he cared to admit. He needed to conserve his strength. It wouldn’t do to fail just at the time when he most needed his powers.
St. John lifted his head. “And what of Douglas? Is he still a priority?
“Oh yes. Brendan Douglas must be found. He is the only one who knows where the Sh’vad Tual is hidden. He must be made to surrender that information.”
“And after?”
Máelodor sensed the man’s quiver of excitement. It touched a chord deep within himself. A slithering curl of eagerness that kindled the physical fusion of fetch animal and man known as the Heller change. He’d not done it in years, but now and then a moment of stimulation brought to the surface hints of the serpent. A calculating ruthlessness unmarred by weaker human emotions. And now was not the time for weak emotions. Not when the world of Other remained under siege by a growing Duinedon malevolence.
Brendan had surrendered to cloying sentiment. He deserved his fate.
He shivered against the bone-deep cold that accompanied the Heller’s emergence. “As long as he comes to me still breathing, you may do as you wish.” He motioned him to rise. “But right now, all your skills must be bent toward capturing the tapestry. Bloom has failed. Lazarus has vanished. It lies now in your more-than-capable hands.”
A glittering excitement fired the Amhas-draoi’s eyes. “I’ve seen the Domnuathi.”
