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“Is that what you think?”
“Can you tell me it’s not? Look what Brendan’s madness has unleashed. His father’s death. His family’s ruin. And if Máelodor ever captures the Sh’vad Tual, the atrocities could begin all over again. I knew I should never have asked. I didn’t want to know. The world of Other is cursed. Magic and the Fey and the rest of it. It’s nothing but misery and trouble.”
“Ah, but there is misery whether we live our lives as Other or Duinedon. And trouble will find us no matter whether we hide from it or meet it head-on. You have seen young Douglas’s past. His shame. His crimes as Helena might deem them. But have you not seen his bravery, his honor, and his love as well? He braved capture to return to Dun Eyre for you, he has offered the honor of his name when his actions caused your ruination, and his love?”
“He doesn’t love me. He cares for me. He worries over me, but he doesn’t love. Not in the way I once hoped he might.”
“Does he not? I would say it is his love for you and again for his family that has caused Brendan to agree to Helena’s scheme. He is willing to risk all for love. Can you not see your way clear to do the same?”
Brendan walked. He couldn’t say how many miles he wandered nor what he saw. Lanes merged into one another, crowds jostled him, the sky opened, drenching him to the skin with a miserable cold rain.
He slept for a few hours in the shadow of Kilronan House, the ruin a fitting backdrop for his mood. Was prodded awake by a constable who found himself backed against a wall, a hand pressed across his throat until the dreams receded and Brendan realized where he was. The next hour he spent eluding capture, his street skills kicking in as he moved silently and expertly through the close, dirty alleys. Crossed the Liffey at Essex Bridge, the brackish brown river gliding beneath him.
He paused for a moment, dismissing the inspiration almost as soon as it entered his head. He’d never been desperate enough to contemplate that way out, even when he’d been numbed by opium and stupid with booze. If arrogant pride was his greatest sin, it was also his greatest strength. There was always an answer. Always a way. One simply needed to attack the problem from all angles. Use all available tools at hand. Persistence and a dogged unwillingness to surrender.
Still, Elisabeth’s face haunted him. Her expression as she fought to hold to an ideal he’d known from the start he could never live up to. Now she knew it too.
On impulse, he shoved his way toward Cutpurse Alley and Macklins in case Jack had arrived. Spent an hour or two crammed into a corner, watching the door. No luck and no message. What the hell had happened? Had the Amhas-draoi found Jack? Had Máelodor? Was his cousin lying dead in a ditch or had he merely lost track of time as he fleeced the last coins from some naive patsy?
Back out on the street, Brendan pulled his coat collar up around his neck against the renewal of this afternoon’s storms. With no destination in mind, he skirted Saint Patrick’s and the tangled alleys nearby. Turning off Lower Coombe, he sensed his first stalker.
Two streets later, a second joined the chase.
By the time Brendan reached the yards behind Elbow Lane, the hunt was on.
His body vibrated like a wire. His awareness expanding as he sank into a role he’d played across countries and continents. The rabbit running before the hounds.
Were these Máelodor’s men looking to capture their quarry or Amhas-draoi determined to assassinate the Nine’s last member?
His answer came all too soon. In a blind alley behind a tanner’s yard. Nowhere to step into the deeper shadows until danger passed. No way to double back and lead them on a false scent. The Amhas-draoi warrior straddled the roadway, his features granite-hard and inscrutable, mage energy scalding the surface of Brendan’s mind with a blast of numbing power.
Drawing his knife, Brendan lunged forward, hoping to thread his way between the giant and the nearest house. Jinking sideways, he threw himself in the gap, rolling back to his feet with a yell of pure excitement, the knife still clutched in his hand.
And just as suddenly he dropped to his knees, his cry becoming a stifled scream as mage energy crushed him.
The man stood over him, victory in his impassive eyes as the battle magic knifed through Brendan, a horrible scything of joint and tendon. He curled into a ball, unable to breathe without a stabbing pain cutting into his lungs.
Spots and pinwheels burst across his vision, blood pounding in his ears, but he fought back. Raw instinct taking over as he unleashed his own powers upon Scathach’s gloating warrior.
The man reeled, his expression one of shock, then pain, as Brendan slammed his knife hilt-deep into the fighter’s gut.
The Amhas-draoi’s battle magic receded like an ebb tide, leaving Brendan shaky and sick but whole. He scrambled to his feet, heart thrashing in his chest. Ducked a wild blow. Lurched away from a second. Gauged his situation, trapped as he was between Scathach’s soldier boy and the mouth of the alley.
Without warning, the Amhas-draoi charged like a bull. “Filthy murderous pig,” he spat from a twisted, white-lipped mouth.
“Stubborn jackass,” Brendan shot back, dancing on the balls of his feet, keeping the man at arm’s length as he sought to steal along the wall. What the hell did it take to bring one of the brotherhood down? The man pressed a hand to his abdomen, his face going pale as a winding sheet, yet he continued to fight with amazing ferocity.
“You think this
wise? Anyone could happen on us. Scathach won’t be happy with questions.”
“No one’s going to happen by, Douglas. And there won’t be enough of you left for anyone to question.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?” Brendan parried a knife thrust, hammering the man a blow to the chin that should have knocked him cold, but only seemed to enrage him further—if that were possible.
With lightning speed, the Amhas-draoi swept out, catching Brendan a slice across his chest. A shallow, stinging gash, but enough to break his focus. Instantly, a numbing chill stole over him as the man sought to use the opportunity to bind Brendan in a web of mage energy. Already his limbs grew unresponsive, his muscles freezing over. Much longer, and he’d be unable to dodge a thrust through the heart.
Thank the gods for all those years of rote study. The counterspell swam up out of his hazy memory, released on a gasp of breath as the bonds of magic tightened across his chest. With a shout, he threw himself under the man’s clumsy swing, blood loss finally taking its toll. Another parry and roll, and Brendan was out. Nothing else stood between him and the street.
