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The door swung open on the shuttered flame of a lantern. The light splashing up onto Rogan’s drawn and tired features, his eyes bleary and uncertain.
Brendan’s gaze narrowed, his jaw clenched against the curse forming on his lips. Whatever his crimes, Rogan was right. He was all that stood between Lissa and the crew’s lust. Brendan needed the harper alive. Better yet, if Brendan could convince Rogan of his mistake, perhaps he’d be a powerful ally at the moment of decision.
Rogan hung the lantern from a peg above the table. He sat across from Brendan, his eyes widening at Croker’s handiwork, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he ran a finger over the scarred tabletop, clearing his throat. “Elisabeth is well. I wanted to let you know I’ve seen to it they stay away from her.”
Brendan had tried closing his mind to what might be happening to Lissa, but at Rogan’s assurances, he felt the throbbing pain in his temples and the tightness in his chest ease.
“You said you’d scryed what the future held,” Rogan continued, his voice thready in the tense silence between them. “What Arthur’s return would mean for the Other. What have you seen?”
Brendan closed his eyes, the backs of his lids dancing red with flames. A spreading, suffocating pressure building up through him as the stone drew closer to its destination. “Arthur is cursed, Rogan. His reign fated to fail. I’ve seen the battle’s end. Arthur is defeated. The Other lie scattered and destroyed. There is no return of a golden age. Only fire and death and ruin.”
Rogan’s lips pressed to a thin white line. “I don’t believe it. Arthur was a great and glorious king. His power almost rivaled that of the Fey themselves. He couldn’t possibly fail against a horde of weak and powerless Duinedon. They won’t have a choice. They’ll be forced to live with us in peace.”
“A peace bought with so many innocent dead is no peace. It’s tyranny. With Máelodor at its head. And Arthur his slave-born puppet.”
“You lie.”
“If you’re so certain, why did you come? I don’t think you’re as confident of your convictions as you pretend.” He paused, trying to gauge the man’s mood. “Does Lyddy know where you are?” Brendan ventured.
“Leave her out of this. She’s not involved.”
“Neither was Elisabeth,” Brendan answered quietly.
Rogan blanched. “Enough talking.” He rose, fumbling uneasily with his pipe. “We’ll be arriving off Cornwall in a few hours.”
Brendan nearly choked on the request he was about to make, but he’d had too long to dwell on the possibilities to leave this one unaccounted for. “Then time runs out. I would ask a favor from one I thought of as a friend and one whom I think still could be.”
Rogan turned back, the lantern swinging wildly in his hand. “I won’t free you.”
“I don’t ask for myself, but for Lissa. See to it she’s kept safe after. You understand what I’m trying to say: after. And if you’re able to, escort her to Belfoyle. She’ll be sheltered there if the worst should happen and war begins.”
Rogan’s face seemed to sag, and he looked as if he might speak, but he merely nodded before departing, the key once more scratching in the lock, the darkne
ss crowding back in on Brendan like closing walls.
He swallowed back his fear. He’d been here before. Surely nothing could be worse than St. John’s repulsive advances, his degradation, his power-mad sexuality that had left Brendan retching and sickened with his own body.
He closed his eyes, willing a calm he did not feel. The words burned up through him. Buried themselves in his brain. A whisper on the wind. An echo in the water.
It is my curse and my fate. What can mere mortals do against that? What can you do?
He lowered his head. His curse and his fate.
What could he do?
Alone had meant safe. Alone had meant deadly. But alone had also meant alone. He’d weakened and this had been the outcome. He’d sought to outrun his curse and his fate. Had only succeeded in pulling his ruin down on Elisabeth as well.
twenty-four
A rough shake of her shoulder dragged Elisabeth awake. Rubbing her sticky eyes, she peered up into Rogan’s anxious, sweating face. Milky gray light spilled from the open hatch, the air damp and drizzly. The ship rocked softly, no sound to break into the quiet birdsong and murmured lap of water against the hull.
“We’re going ashore,” he said.
“Where’s Brendan?” she asked. Anger holding her fear in check—barely.
“Topside.”
He pulled her to her feet, skirts sodden, stockings clinging uncomfortably to her legs. She tried pinning her hair up in a quick knot, but the damp had caused her curls to frizz into an untameable mess and a crick in her neck made turning her head painful.
