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“I’d know you were lying. Shaw will whisper sweet nothings in your ear, and you’ll remember why it was you wanted to marry him. And why I’m the last person you want in your life.”
He was right, of course. What on earth had she been contemplating in the dark with the music in her head, the listening shadows surrounding them, and Brendan’s dangerous magnetism working its spell? She shook off her fancies with a stern inner reproof. “Gordon is a good man, isn’t he?”
“I’d say he’s a typical representative of the male species.”
“You don’t like him.”
“Does my liking him signify? It’s your feelings that matter. Do you like him?”
Angry with herself for being taken in—even momentarily—by lost dreams, she straightened, scowling down at him as if he’d thrown her a challenge. “I love him as I ought to.”
“Then marry him and be happy.” He quirked a teasing eye in her direction, and the lovelorn strains of Mozart’s concerto rang once more. “Sleep well, Lissa. If luck is with us both, I’ll be gone from here when you wake.”
She left him still playing. But alongside her relief, grief spiked her heart and hot tears burned the backs of her eyelids. She’d marry Gordon. And be deliriously, ecstatically happy. So take that, Brendan Douglas!
Brendan followed the riverbed from Dun Eyre, picking his surefooted way through stands of birch and willow, the pungent scent of ferns and boggy earth filling his head, the river a slow lap and gurgle against the muddy banks.
Joining the lane skirting the village, he climbed the hill leading away from the cluster of cabins to the far meadows. From here it was a short hike across the fields to Belfoyle’s eastern boundary. Spring fragrance laced the night air, carried on the ever-present wind as it swirled up over the nearby cliffs, blew out over the wide, treeless meadows. The towers of the house rose up to his left, a roofline glimpsed between trees, a lighted window, a horse whinnying from the nearby stable block.
The sky burned with a million stars while a low moon rose up over the far hills behind him, casting its borrowed light out over the
landscape, his shadow stretching long in front of him as he walked. His aim was true. Even now, his feet led him unerringly in the right direction.
Ahead of him, the ward stone stood like a sentry, moonlight glittering over the uncut ridges and folds within the ancient limestone. One of four set at each corner of Belfoyle’s boundary, the stone released mage energy that flowed southwest and north in a never-ending invisible wall. No magic-bearing creature could pass through without first appeasing the silent guardian.
Still fifty feet away, he felt its power spreading outward within the earth, pushing up through him like an infinite vibration. Closer, and the mage energy coalesced into a constant pulse like a second heartbeat.
It had been years. Years since he’d exercised his powers. In the beginning, shock and revulsion and self-loathing had led him to deny his Other blood. Later, surviving meant leaving no trace. No trail of magic for any to follow. He had lived by his wits and his dagger alone as a Duinedon.
Only since returning to Ireland had he allowed himself to draw upon his Fey blood. And only then had he come to realize the wraith he’d become. Neither Other nor Duinedon. Neither living nor dead. A man of naught but shadows.
The way he needed to be if he was to remain free long enough to complete his task.
He placed his palm upon the standing stone and the mage energy burst in a flash of ribboning rainbow color. Numbing his fingers, singeing up his arm with a heart-stopping jolt before burying itself deep within him as it sought to identify in all ways who and what he was.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the space around him. The feel of the grass beneath his boots, the moon above, the wind upon his face, and the push of his blood through his veins. Braced himself for the blasting rip curl of denunciation and refusal.
Nothing.
The caress of welcome sank through him like a soft weight, settling itself in the center of his chest. His name whispered in the oldest of ancient tongues.
Son of the house of Douglas. Son of Kilronan.
Breán Duabn’thach.
If he wanted to, he could follow the path down to the house. Cross the courtyard to the iron-hinged front doors. Wander the familiar corridors or stand as he used to at his bedroom window, staring out over the stretch of ocean below to the far horizon. The stones would not impede him.
Instead, he dropped his arm to his side, stepped back, the mage energy seeping away, leaving him hollow with renewed loss.
Once the Sh’vad Tual was in Scathach’s possession. Once he’d been freed from the Amhas-draoi death sentence. Once the threat of Máelodor had been defused.
Would he go home then?
He turned away with a grim laugh.
Not even gamester Jack would take odds on that question.
Upon returning to Dun Eyre, Brendan waited until the house grew quiet. Then, to be safe, he waited an hour more.
