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Wiping the knife on his breeches, he continued down the passage to the grille. A heavy iron bar had been drawn aside, the grate pulled back to reveal a cavernous opening, the first few damp, slimy steps down into the ship’s forward hold.
Had the dead sailor just come from there? Were others waiting below?
Brendan adjusted the knife in his hand, a wild keenness firing his body. He would never say he reveled in bloodshed, but the kick to his heart and the sharpening of his senses had its advantages. The kill-or-be-killed survival instinct had saved him more than once.
He placed a booted foot upon the first riser, a familiar buzz of magic zinging through his head.
It couldn’t be. Not him. Not here. Not unless . . . Shit, shit, shit.
Shouts followed by the running stamp of feet and the ship made a sudden heel to starboard. He stumbled, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from voicing the howl of fury burning up through him.
And then chaos broke loose. The ship lurched, his foot slid on the damp stair, and a rake of cannon fire sent splinters and debris flying as he slithered and dove into the dark hold.
“Why?” Elisabeth pressed as far back into the corner as she could. As if through sheer willpower she might disappear through the decking and float away with the froth.
Sitting on an upturned bucket, Rogan clasped his hands between his knees, regret and defiance battling it out.
“It’s not my fault,” he whined. “I never meant for you to be hurt. I only wanted the stone. The Sh’vad Tual for Arthur’s rebirth. I tried to talk Croker and Sams out of it. Tried to convince them to leave you both behind.”
“So, what went wrong? Why kidnap us if you have the stone?”
“They wouldn’t listen to me. The bounty on Douglas is triple what a normal man can make in a lifetime. Máelodor wants him, stone or no stone.”
“And me?”
Rogan shook his head. “They took you as security. If Douglas tries anything, it’ll be you that suffers.”
Elisabeth swallowed. Somehow she’d known that already, but hearing Rogan say it only cemented it like a weight in her chest, pinning her to the floor, feeding the whirl of her thoughts. More than anything, she wanted to burst into copious amounts of weeping and wallowing, but she refused to give Rogan the satisfaction.
Clamping down on the impulse to blubber, she asked, “Do you know where they’re taking us?” hoping the squeak in her voice wasn’t audible.
“Cornwall. We’ll be there by dawn tomorrow.”
A roar of sound exploded the night. Screams and running feet and shouts of command followed just as another whistling explosion pummeled the air, knocking her hard against the hull, sending dust drifting into her eyes.
Rogan threw himself to his feet as someone came half falling, half leaping into the hold, righting himself at the last instant to land crouched, ferocity washing off him in waves.
Brendan. Awash in blood, his eyes seeking her like blazes of wild light. A thin slash began at the top of his left cheekbone, ending by his chin. A second, uglier score marred the
side of his neck.
“Lissa!” he shouted.
A cannon’s bellow, this time coming from above. The captain was firing back at their attackers. Could it be Helena? Could she have found them so quickly?
The ship seemed to shake with exertion, sails cracking like gunshots, the hull creaking threateningly. Brendan used the distraction to throw himself at Rogan, who leveled his gun at Brendan’s chest, startling him to a halt. “Kill me, you lose your best hope for keeping Miss Elisabeth safe.”
“The stone?” Brendan demanded with an icy menace even Elisabeth found chilling, and it wasn’t even directed at her. “Where’s the damned stone, Rogan? Tell me it’s safe. Tell me Helena has it still.”
Rogan flinched but did not weaken, the rightness of his cause trumping his obvious fear. “I have it.”
Elisabeth hadn’t thought Brendan could grow any more frightening. She was wrong. Something bloodthirsty entered his gaze. Something that held nothing of humanity, as if the Fey in him had taken over. Yet this was no shimmery, ethereal splendor but a heartless, implacable brutality. Elisabeth was reminded of the image in the scrying glass—the heir of Kilronan watching as evil was unleashed. This was a man capable of murder. Of malice.
“You son of a bastard—the Sh’vad Tual is all Máelodor needs to open the tomb and complete the summoning.”
Rogan’s eyes darted wildly in the flickering glow of the lantern, both his gun and his voice shaking as he responded. “Exactly. The king will finally return. The Other will have the leader they need to defeat the Duinedon.”
“It won’t happen, Rogan. It’s impossible. I’ve seen it. Arthur doesn’t succeed.”
