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Daigh’s fingers curled into his palms, the nails biting into his flesh until blood appeared. Mixed with the rain. “Let her go. She’s not any part of this. This fight is between you, me, and Máelodor.”
“She may not have started as part of my plans. A dull, tedious young woman like so many females. But she’s become such a large part, hasn’t she? You know, when you and I last spoke, I was sure she would be the bait to lure her brother in. And then it turned out to be the other way around. Funny how it all worked out, isn’t it?”
St. John propped one booted foot on a fallen log. His expression virtuous as any priest’s. His innards rotten to the core.
“What do you want?” Daigh asked.
St. John speared Daigh with a frozen stare. “Isn’t it obvious? I want the Rywlkoth Tapestry. You were sent for it. But I shall claim it. I had thought to use Lady Sabrina, but why send her when I have you?”
Daigh’s breath clogged his throat. His mind churning. “The bandraoi will never let it leave their protection.”
St. John’s smile vanished. “The bandraoi will have no choice. Not against a Domnuathi. You’ll retrieve it and bring it to me here.”
“Not until I’ve seen Sabrina and know she’s safe.”
“And you don’t see Sabrina until I have the tapestry, so”—he spread his hands—“we’re at an impasse.”
“Damn you,” Daigh ground out through clenched teeth. His skin felt like ice, and every second out here added to the miserable trembling he fought to contain.
The man shrugged. “Very well. The suggestion was made. I’ll be sure to let your little sparrow know who’s responsible for her agony. She shall curse your name with her last breath.” He laughed. “Oh wait, I forgot. You’re already cursed.” He turned to go.
Daigh threw himself to his feet. “You touch her, and I’ll—”
St. John swung around, his eyes fever bright, his voice dropped to a near whisper. “You’ll what, Lazarus? What would you do in exchange for her life? How far would you go?”
Daigh halted, blood roaring in his ears. A fire eating away at his belly. He should have known he couldn’t hide from St. John. The man saw everything with those guileless charmer’s eyes.
“You can’t say I didn’t give you the opportunity to redeem yourself. Show the Great One you’ve not failed him—again. He’s quite annoyed, you know. Wonders if you’ve forgotten your last reprimand.”
Daigh hadn’t. That memory had been carved into him along with the scars. Máelodor would enjoy breaking him. Punishment would be endless and unbearable. It would make him pray and weep and beg for death. And there would be no mercy. No rescue.
He was on his own. As he had always been.
“I’ll bring you the tapestry.” He drew himself up. Met St. John’s smug condescension with a withering glare of his own. The whoreson knew he’d won. He almost preened.
“I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking, Lazarus.” He reached out a hand. His fingers barely brushing Daigh’s cheek. But even that slight contact was enough to curdle his blood and make sweat break over him.
Daigh shuddered and looked away. Afraid and hating his fear almost as much as he hated St. John.
She woke to blindness. Suffocation. And bound hands.
The bag over her face muffled sound and the coarse rasp of the weave itched. She turned herself inside out trying to dislodge it, giving up only when the heavy heat of her breathing grew unbearable and her wrists had been rubbed raw. She rested her head against the floor, curling her body into a tight ball, trying not to cry. But her throat hurt, and her stomach cramped, and scalding tears dripped salty into the corners of her mouth.
Keep calm, Sabrina. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Daigh isn’t dead. Can’t be dead. He can’t die. He’s out there. Alive. And he would save her. She just needed to stay calm and wait.
But calm was impossible. Her heart thundered, and dread pressed down on her until she thought she might die if she weren’t freed soon.
Think of something else. Anything else.
She rolled to her knees, crawling as well as she could in her skirts. Seeking to assess her prison. Weak light filtered through the sack. And a breeze. There must be a windo
w. High up. Too small for anyone to enter or exit. Sliding one foot out in front of her. Then another in a slow shuffle, she paced off the perimeter. Barked her shin. Felt around, discovering the lumpy shape of a bedstead, a thin, crinkly straw mattress. Sank down upon it, resting and nursing her sore leg.
She must have dozed. She woke to a head-pounding battering of rage and fear and despair and defiance. It struck her awake with the force of a blow. Scoured her brain with a raw, frenzied power.
“Daigh!” she shouted, shouldering herself to a sitting position. Peering through the cloth as if she held sight. But all was darkness. Not even the light from earlier. “Daigh! I’m here!”
