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She sat back. “Then you have your answer. And your hope.”
“Mother? Is that you?”
“Hush now. Try and go to sleep.”
“I can’t. I’m too excited about my birthday. Paul said he’d be home, Mother. He promised.”
Sabrina pulled the covers back up over Sister Clea. Offered her a sip of water.
She’d waited for Brendan as instructed. Hours had passed as she watched the clouds pushing east across the sky until even the most fractious child had fallen silent and the earth cooled and creaked in the early hours before dawn.
Only then had she retreated here to the dimly lit hospital ward. The whisper of sleep among the sick and elderly priestesses. The rain pattering against the windows. Once again, she was struck by the odd sensation of time folding back upon itself so that the past weeks were erased as if they’d never been. Leaving her secure in the knowledge that no matter what occurred beyond these walls, this place, these women, this life would remain.
She’d chafed at the unfaltering routine and the stifling bonds of tradition. Had looked at the horizon and questioned what lay beyond the boundary between earth and sky. And had come away heartsick and frightened at what she’d found. Brendan. Aidan and his wife. Máelodor. St. John.
Daigh.
Too many questions. Too many dangers. Too many ways to be wounded body and soul. If only she could convince Ard-siúr of her devotion. Her need for a life among the steady tread of ancient traditions and out of the rushing current of life outside. She sank upon a chair, arms pressed to her stomach as the gnawing ache of her own stupidity spread from her gut to her chest.
Sister Clea’s voice broke the stillness. “Paul has never broken a promise before. He’ll come. I know he will.”
Overwrought, Sabrina lashed out. “He’s not coming. Do you hear? He’s not. I don’t care what he promised. They were lies. Like everything he ever told you. He’s toying with you. Making you think that it can be all right again. But it can’t. It can never be what it was. Not even here. Not even where it should be.”
Sister Clea’s eyes rounded in startled surprise, her mouth pursing and opening, passing the hem of the blanket back and forth in her hands. “Paul doesn’t lie, Sabrina.”
She started up. Sister Clea had never called her by her name.
The old woman’s eyes shone with foggy tears, but her gaze raked Sabrina with a sharpness to draw blood. “And neither does Brendan Douglas. He’ll come. He’ll be with you soon.”
What did the bandraoi see? What precognition had swum up through the calcified walls of her mind to glimmer upon the surface for one sparkling moment? Sabrina couldn’t ask. Would never know. The clarity was gone. Vanished.
“It’s my birthday soon,” Sister Clea mumbled. “And my brother will be home.”
Daigh looked up at the tall, slender stone, its face glimmering with quartz where moss had yet to take over. The air around it blurred and danced, throwing shadows that had nothing to do with the moonlight moving among the surrounding trees. As he drew closer, the temperature dropped, leaving him chilled. Only his purpose for coming raised a sweat between his shoulders to trickle down his back.
The true Fey could grant him death.
Helena Roseingrave had given him the idea, just as it had been her hatred that had torn loose the last bindings upon his memory. The years since his summoning as mirror-bright and steeped in blood as his sword. Máelodor’s calculated torment. Inflicted and withdrawn without warning. Long weeks where he received no mercy for his pleading and where his screams begot only more painful treatment. Other times when his every need had been sated and he became a feted prince among men. The Great One’s prize and greatest treasure. His sword hand. His strength. His killer.
Would Arthur suffer the same fate? Or would Máelodor’s desire to win the hearts and minds of the race of Other with his resurrected warlord and king outstrip his darker desire to cause torment? Would the legendary High King fight his slavish bondage to Máelodor as Daigh had tried and failed to do for so long, or would he rejoice at the chance to reclaim his ancient reign? Begin his domination with the toppling of England’s mad monarch and his fat princeling son? Would he venture beyond the isles as his army of Other grew more confident and more drunk upon their magic until the Duinedon world trembled at the unfettered mage energy and even the true Fey thought themselves lucky to be safe within their hillside barrows?
Daigh would use every skill he possessed to secure the Rywlkoth Tapestry away from St. John and Máelodor. But he couldn’t trust to those same skills to achieve his true and final aim. He would never be allowed to return to the grave. For that release, he would need the help of those more powerful than even Máelodor.
Gritting his teeth, he placed his hand flat upon the stone. The slam of mage energy exploded up his arm. Knocked him back into the grass to stare up into the curl and sparkle of light as it burst like shrapnel from the rock face. He shuddered as jolt after jolt passed through him. It charred his nerves until Máelodor’s Unseelie magic renewed his body. Stopped his heart for long seconds before the poisonous presence within him revived its beat.
The Fey knew him for what he was. They would not suffer his presence. Nor heed his call. Not without a fight.
Refusing to be denied, Daigh crawled to the stone. Placed not one but both hands upon it. Closed his eyes to invoke any and all prayers he thought might summon one of them. And again was tossed backward into a tree, his ribs snapping at the force, only to knit themselves together with a pain barely noticeable against the mage energy flowing wild and seeking around him.
He lay among the dead leaves and broken branches for what seemed minutes then hours then days. Begging the Fey to answer his call.
He’d grown good at begging. Grown used to being denied.
It still hurt.
“This way. Hurry. Please.”
The child dragged Sabrina toward a workshop used by an itinerant smithy. A dusty, cobweb-infested building with enough nooks and crannies to entice the most rabid of hiders and seekers.
