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His brows shot up, the first real interest he’d taken in the conversation. “Me? To do what?”
“Rescue Brendan.”
He laughed. “Am I looking like a fool?”
She lifted the pistol in both hands. “No. Like a mage-chaser.”
That definitely gained his attention. He went still, sucking in quick a breath. “Now, Miss Elisabeth. I kept you from Máelodor as I promised Douglas I would. More than that’s beyond me.”
She cocked the hammer. At this range, there was no way she could miss. “The countryside round Dun Eyre can be a dangerous place. Brigands and housebreakers abound, and it’s important for everyone to know how to handle a gun. Even the women.”
Rogan gave a humorless chuckle, though his eyes remained wary as he fingered a bruise upon his cheek. “If you handle it as well as you do a poker, I’m inclined to be on my guard.”
“I handle it much better, I assure you.” Her smile was thin as a dagger as she fought to keep her arms straight under the awkward weight of the pistol. The dratted thing was heavier than the gun she’d fired back home. If Rogan didn’t surrender soon, her arms would droop like limp noodles. “Will you help me or not?”
He sobered, holding his arms out as if warding her off. “I’d not wanted you mixed up in this. You’ve got to believe me. You or Douglas. All I want is justice. For me. For Lyddy. For all the folks like us who’ve been treated as less than human by the likes of you magic-lacking Duinedon.”
Elisabeth felt the fear drain out of her, replaced by a crystal-bright clarity. She’d never killed anyone before, yet she knew without the hint of a doubt she would shoot Rogan unless he complied. But if Madame Arana’s scrying glass had spoken truth, her plan would work.
Rogan would help her.
She would be there when the tomb opened.
When Arthur emerged.
When Brendan died.
twenty-five
Brendan fell against the roots of an enormous sycamore. He peered up into the dizzying heights of leaves and branches through eyes swollen to mere slits and crusted with dried blood. Cradled his smashed hand close against his ribs.
Gods, he was a damned mess.
On the bright side, at least he’d never annoy Elisabeth with Mozart anymore.
They’d been walking for hours, the trees growing closer together the farther they penetrated, the leafy canopy closing over them until the very air shone green and gold. Moss clung thick to the trunks while thickets of brambles clawed his arms and left long cat scratches upon his cheeks. And yet, there seemed to be no end in sight to the great cathedral of overlapping branches, as if they’d stepped back to a previous age before the land had been cleared for field and farm.
Hidden watchers slid between the dappled shadows. A faint and gossamer chime stirred the humid air. The Fey protected this primordial forest and made it their own. He could only hope they would be on his side when the time came.
Someone dragged him back to his feet, thrusting him forward. He arched against the touch upon his lashed and bloody back, clamping his mouth shut upon the groan of pain churning up through his gut.
Shoving a hand in his pocket, he found Daz’s tiny bit of looped twine. He smiled through parched lips as he slid it onto his finger as he might have done Sir Archibald’s ring had Jack ever handed it over before Helena had claimed his undivided attention.
Brendan shook his head. Poor, bloody, noble Jack. Spent the past year playing nursemaid. Turned his back for a few hours and bang . . . and with Roseingrave of all people.
Both Brendan’s minders gone at the very moment he’d needed them.
Concentrating on the path ahead, he didn’t notice the shiver of mage energy beneath his skin at first. A prickly, scratchy feeling as if he’d fallen into a patch of nettles. Not surprising if he had. He’d spent more time on his hands and knees than upright, thanks to a strained knee and a spiteful guard. But no, there it was again. A fluttering of magic against his brain. This time brushing past him, turning leaves, dimming the light as if rain approached.
He lifted his face to it, letting the touch of it sink into his flesh, know him and return to its sender. What harm in offering himself up to the tracing? Any not of this company would surely come as a friend.
Unfortunately, Máelodor must have felt the brush as well.
The group stopped as he lifted a hand, his fingers flicking, his curse a mumbled slither of words on an oily breeze.
Immediately, the link was severed, the comforting presence withdrawn, leaving Brendan more alone than he’d ever been.
He forced himself to limp along through gritted teeth. His painful progress slowing as he hoped for a renewal of the encouraging presence.
