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Her eyes flickered and went dark, but gave nothing away. “Do you really think Máelodor would send you back to the grave?”
“Not if given a choice.” His voice hardened. “I’ll take that choice from him.”
“You’d face death so cavalierly?”
“I’ve suffered it once. It holds no surprise. And I will die gladly rather than remain a slave.”
“You’re not his slave. Máelodor doesn’t own your soul.”
“He did once. And I feel him in my head still. He seeks to reclaim me. I’ll not allow it.”
She gave a sharp shake of her head. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“When this is over, you won’t.”
“What if that’s not what I want?” Now tears shone in her eyes. Glimmered in the low flicker
ing light. Sparkled like diamonds.
He gave her a solemn smile. Opened his hands in a gesture of resignation, revealing the scars upon his palms. “Look upon me, Sabrina,” he said. “It’s what you should want.”
“I have thought over all you’ve told me, Mr. MacLir, including the warnings about the tapestry’s safety.”
“Then why is the cursed thing still there?”
Ard-siúr glanced where Daigh gestured. The hanging floated in the rising heat from the stove. A casual observer would see nothing but the beauty and the artistry of the blooms. But for the one who unraveled the secret hidden within the colorful array of stylized flowers, the path to Arthur’s tomb was written plain as the black thread used to spell it out.
“Perhaps to tempt you?”
He flashed a startled, angry look at the old woman. “What game is this?”
She answered him with a bland, unreadable smile. “I am interested to see what breed of man Máelodor has riven from a few ancient bones and magic best left to the demon world. Does the darkness of the Unseelie taint the life it recreates? How much of the man you were still remains?”
Daigh longed to howl his frustration. Arms braced against the desk, he leaned menacingly forward, frightening the cat, which hissed and darted beneath Ard-siúr’s chair. “You’ve only to ask Sabrina to know the answer.”
“Her answers might well be worth hearing. Perhaps I shall.”
Daigh flushed, unable to meet Ard-siúr’s pointed glare. “I never meant to see her again.”
She scooped the cat into her lap, where it settled beneath her steady strokes. Glared at Daigh from slitted yellow eyes. “But you have. So what will you do now?”
He hunched his shoulders, his hands loose at his sides. “Hope is not for the undead.”
“The gods bestow hope to all,” she scolded. “It is for us to hold fast. Refuse its escape. And use it to shape all we do.”
“Spoken like a true bandraoi priestess.”
She nodded her acceptance of his sarcasm as if he’d paid her the highest compliment. “You need not concern yourself about the tapestry. We shall see to its safety.”
“Máelodor is determined to have it. He won’t give up.”
“As Ard-siúr, I am not completely without resources, Daigh.”
“You’ve never spoken my name before.”
She continued stroking the cat, its purring loud against the taut silence. Finally she tilted her head, speared him with a look that drilled straight to his core. “And is Daigh your name? Or does it remain Lazarus? You must choose.”
“I returned to warn you, didn’t I?” he snarled.
