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What ridiculous drivel. Brendan would laugh at the Irish blarney spewing from the old harper’s mouth if his ribs didn’t hurt so much. He restrained himself to a simple scoffing grunt that elicited matching black looks from Máelodor and Rogan.
“As you shall. As we all shall,” the master-mage answered, his gaze locking on Brendan. “And you shall help me, Douglas. For without you, Arthur’s rebirth would be naught but a castle in the air, would it not?”
“It may have been my idea originally, but it’s long passed through my hands and into yours.” Brendan found it hard to concentrate as the tip of Máelodor’s tongue darted out and back. “I no longer take responsibility for your mania, and I’ll not help you achieve anything but a slow, painful death.”
“So brazen in your threats. Since you’re the one bound and bleeding, I’ll allow you your petty confidence. I’ve found it’s always the bravest whose destruction proves the most . . . enjoyable.” His attention turned back to Rogan. “I believe you’ve brought a young woman with you.” His gaze slid toward Brendan. “Douglas’s bride. I would see this rare beauty who has stolen the heart of our once prince of Other.”
Rogan shifted uneasily, his lip curled in a lecherous sneer. “The woman’s locked away as insurance against Douglas using any of his tricks.”
Máelodor’s eyes narrowed. “We are safe enough. Douglas’s powers are great, but in this, as in much, he is unequal to me. Oss, retrieve the young woman.”
Again Oss left the room, returning with Elisabeth, her face ashen, hands clutched in her skirts. She shrank from Máelodor, her terror seeming to excite him, his hand curled around the knob of his staff, a new light entering his fevered gaze.
Brendan willed a thought across the divide, a thread of reassurance and hope against the desperation and fear boiling in her dark eyes. Hold on, sweet Lissa. This is not the end.
She stole a quick glance his way, a flash of surprise and dawning comprehension. Then, as if taking command of herself, she straightened in a regal pose of defiance, head lifting so that her flame-red hair rippled and curled down her back. The pulse fluttering in the perfect curve of her throat was the only hint she was less confident than she looked.
Máelodor’s tongue darted over his lipless mouth, his nostrils flaring. “She is ripe for a man. I can smell her need. What do you think she would do to spare the man she loves? How much of herself would she sacrifice?”
No, Brendan mouthed silently, jerking in his seat, Máelodor’s threat bearing the force of one of Oss’s punches.
Rogan stepped forward. “Master, I’ve brought you the stone of Arthur, and now I would claim my price if you’d be so generous.” His gaze fell on Elisabeth. “I want the girl.”
Brendan’s eyes never wavered from Elisabeth’s face. He saw the jump of her pulse, the way she bit her lip, the turning of her wedding ring round and round her finger. He committed these things to memory as he did her honeyed, freckled flesh, the velvet in her dark eyes, her body’s luscious curves.
He’d told her once. She was home for him. A refuge from the darkness within him. A balance against the hunger for power that, had it continued unchecked, would have left him as misshapen and malignant with evil as Máelodor.
The mage rubbed his hands together, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “A steep price indeed. I would like to taste the flesh of this traitor’s woman. Have her screams bleed into the dying mind of her husband. Let Douglas know the true cost of his betrayal.”
To her credit, Elisabeth didn’t faint, though she swayed dangerously, and her face grew chalk white.
Máelodor goaded him. It was obvious in the sneer as he taunted, at the coiling probe of his mind as he sought to discover the effect of his words. Brendan bit down until his teeth ground together, emptied his expression and his thoughts of anything but bored indifference. Any show of emotion and Máelodor would never let Elisabeth go.
Rogan interrupted the seeking thrust of Máelodor’s mind just as Brendan felt the first crack in his mental barriers. “Surely you’ll be too busy, now that the Sh’vad Tual has been restored to you. Old vengeance will surrender to new ambitions as you prepare for the coming of the king. Give the woman to me as payment, and she will warm my bed nicely. Douglas can still know as death comes for him that his bride is pleasuring his enemy.” The men’s eyes locked. An instant’s meeting before Rogan dropped his gaze.
A silence followed when only Máelodor’s wheezy breathing broke the mounting tension. Brendan curled his fingers into his palms, his spine so tight he felt it migh
t snap, his brain on fire.
Finally, Máelodor turned away to hobble back to his chair. “So be it. Take her. She is yours.”
Rogan grabbed Elisabeth’s arm, propelling her out of the room before Máelodor could change his mind.
Brendan and Elisabeth had time for only one last look. He spoke his good-byes to the wind and saw her no more.
They were shown to a chamber at the top of the stairs. Locked in together with much laughing and ribbing and rude comments. Despite his slimy threats, Rogan never touched her. Only when food was brought to them that evening did he advise her to take off her gown and climb under the covers and stay quiet—no matter what.
She did as she was told, stuffing a pillow around her head, but still the vile filth leaked through.
“. . . banged her till she wept and then rode her once more . . .”
“. . . udders like melons and an ass . . .”
“. . . rogered the redheaded slag . . .”
Embarrassment and anger burned her cheeks, but she pretended to sleep until the door closed behind the guard, and they were once more alone.
She flung the covers off, glaring at Rogan. “We did nothing of the kind, and frankly I feel sordid even hearing the lies.”
