Mael: Immortal Highlander, Clan Mag Raith Book 2 Page 17

  Staring at the cloud stream made Rosealise’s stomach shrivel.

  Only when she gazed around the very perimeter of the enormous cave did she finally see the unmoving figures. None of them appeared to be demons. Instead they were statues of people, hundreds of them, hewn from a pale, gleaming stone. Each had been dressed in actual garments of a bewildering assortment and deplorable state. Ancient soldiers in blood-stained kilts stood aside ladies in ball gowns tattered to ribbons. There were primitives in scabby furs who stared blindly at nobility in threadbare velvet. Many held large stones in their battered hands. Some pushed carts piled high with crystals. Terrible wounds and bruises mottled the faces and limbs of all the statues, as if the sculptor had wished to make them all appear on the brink of being worked to death.

  Mael moved silently as he guided her from one position of hiding to another, until they drew close to one of the statues. That was when Rosealise saw a Roman’s eyes shift toward them, proving they weren’t statues at all.

  These were the slaves of the Sluath, left frozen in their tracks by their masters.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  DOMNALL WALKED THE length of the buttery again and again, moving his torch from side to side as he inspected every inch of the windowless chamber. No sign of any disturbance had appeared, yet the old floor stones looked as clean as if scrubbed.

  “Like the passage to the tower,” he said to Jenna. “’Tis been scoured.”

  “It was still dirty last night. We were going to sweep it out today, after Rosealise showed me how to make some straw brooms.” His wife wrapped her arms around her waist. “She couldn’t have done all this by herself last night.”

  “Chieftain,” Edane said as he came in from the old pantry. “I found a wash basin overturned in Mael’s chamber. Water yet darkens the floor stones. He left his tartan draped on the bed, over this.” He exchanged a look with Jenna as he held out the map scroll.

  Domnall took it from him. “Mael wouldnae keep this in his chamber. What more?”

  “Naught.” The archer’s expression turned sheepish. “Mayhap the lady chose to walk outside with Mael, and they, ah, became diverted by personal matters.”

  “For the entire night, with the Sluath out there, possibly hunting us again?” Jenna countered. “They wouldn’t be that stupid.”

  “Aye, and Mael wouldnae keep the lady out to slumber in the cold.” Domnall heard voices coming from the kitchens and strode out.

  “No fresh tracks outside the keepe,” Broden said as soon as he saw them. “I’ve no’ Mael’s skill, but he leaves the largest, deepest prints. ’Twould be impossible to miss if he crossed soil.”

  “My hunters saw no trace in the forests or by the stream,” Kiaran added. “The mound remains empty. No sign in the gardens and maze.”

  Domnall felt again the weight of unseen eyes, and made an old hand signal by his side that the men and Jenna saw.

  “Mayhap they didnae leave Dun Chaill in the night,” Edane said suddenly, and scowled at the trapper. “Another trap may yet hold them. One that eluded you whilst you wasted your night preening.”

  “More likely they sought a private spot to share,” Broden said, his voice flinty, “and yet dinnae wish to be found. No’ that your worthless magic could trace them.”

  “Traps don’t dump water basins or scrub floors, Edane.” Jenna faced the trapper. “And you’re the reason Rosealise and Mael aren’t sharing anything right now, pretty boy.” When the archer chuckled she turned on him. “You think it’s funny? Really? If they’re in trouble, we’re all they’ve got.” She glared at the trapper. “Do not make this about you two and your incessant crap.”

  Both men muttered, “Aye, my lady” and stared at their boots.

  Domnall touched his wife’s shoulder, admiring her show of temper. “’Twill be well, luaidh.” To Broden and Kiaran he said, “Walk the passages again. Seek even the smallest change in what you ken of the stronghold. Dinnae risk yourselves, but make note of the place and return to the hall. We’ll consult the scroll.”

  Kiaran nodded and left with Broden.

  After making a point to check the stones that still blocked off the chamber of iron warriors, Domnall spread out the map on the trestle table where a large patch of sunlight fell on the wood. As he did, Edane moved slowly around him and Jenna, leaning over to inspect the scroll as he muttered under his breath. When at last the archer came to stand between them, he continued examining the map.

  “We cannae be heard now outside the spell circle I cast,” Edane said, “but we may be yet seen. ’Twill last until one of us crosses the circle. Behave as if naught has changed.”

  “Sorry I was so mean to you,” Jenna said as she pointed at the center of the map. “Look, here’s absolutely nothing important, so it looks like we’re talking about the scroll. I thought Broden’s bit about your magic being worthless was inspired.” She frowned at Domnall. “How long do we have to keep up this act, my love?”

  “Until we find the watcher,” Domnall told her. “The falconer now patrols the stronghold through the eyes of his birds They’ll each hover over different parts of the keepe while we make the pretense of searching again for traps. When the watcher again moves through the passages, Kiaran shall map his path.”

  Setting tracking spells inside Dun Chaill last night had required Edane and Broden to work together while staying far apart. After the evening meal Edane had gone to the mound on pretense of retrieving more iron, and there cast his spell over a clutch of rocks too small to be easily noticed. Kiaran had acted as go-between, carrying back the archer’s bespelled stones to the trapper, who had surreptitiously placed them around the stronghold while delivering fire wood for the hearths. While they slept the watcher had triggered but one spell stone that had been left in Mael’s chamber, but it was enough to confirm the chieftain’s suspicions.

  Domnall’s one regret was that none of them had noticed his tracker and the Englishwoman had gone missing until the morning meal.

  “I hope he makes a move soon.” Jenna leaned against him, and as he bent his head to kiss her, she asked, “My measurements tell me that there are a lot of internal spaces in this place. What if he’s got Rosealise and Mael chained up between the walls somewhere?”

  “Then we shall tear down the facking walls,” he murmured against her brow.

  Jenna looked up at him, a new light in her eyes. “Or I walk through them.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  SEEING HOW THE Sluath had left their slaves sickened Mael, but it explained how the demons kept the mortals imprisoned even in their absence. He wondered if the same had been done to him and the other Mag Raith after their capture. Too much of his past still lay maddeningly just out of reach of memory.

  “Can we free them?” Rosealise said, and reached out toward the Roman. Sparks burst near her fingertips, which she snatched away. “It burns, like the stone in the underground tower passage.”

  “’Tis been bespelled against other mortals.” When he tried to put his hand on the frozen slave, something unseen pushed his hand away. “And immortals. We cannae free them, my lady.”

  “We cannot leave them like this.”

  Before she could say more, she coughed into her hand. As the spate worsened, she began to shake.

  Mael lifted her into his arms and carried her away from the Roman to a large, flat stone. As soon as they drew near, it filled with light and changed its form. He stopped and looked down at the curved wooden bench, and prodded the long, tufted cushion atop it with his boot toe. It felt as it looked, but he took the precaution of setting down Rosealise before he perched on it.

  “This was Her Grace’s divan,” she said as he drew her down beside him, and at his frown she added, “It belonged to the duchess who tried to kill me.” She covered her mouth again and cleared her throat. “How can it be here? Why would the Sluath have it?”

  As Rosealise took her hand away he saw the smear of blood on her fingers. “Likely the demons stole i
t when they took you. We’ll rest here until you feel stronger.”

  “That’s unlikely, my dear sir,” she said, a troubling rasp roughening her voice. “In the end the disease that Her Grace inflicted on me will snuff out my life. There is no escaping my death.”

  He thought of his sire, whom he was sure had not lived to a great age. Fargas’s love of drink and brawls had already ruined his body, and his health would have followed next.

  “Aye, but some may dodge the end for a time, if the Gods are stirred to intervene.”

  “The Gods, sir?” Rosealise said softly. “I cannot believe they would send the Sluath after me.”

  His lady knew he carried great guilt, but not the reason for it. They might never escape the underworld and find their way back to Dun Chaill. If by some miracle they did, he owed the Mag Raith the truth. For now, he would entrust it to Rosealise.

  “I cannae make such a claim. In truth I brought the wrath of the Gods down on myself and all my brothers. ’Twas my evil that drew the Sluath to us, and damned the Mag Raith for eternity.”

  “Though I would never attempt to persuade you to tell me of it,” she said as she tucked her arm through his. “I would hear it all if it could lighten your heart.”

  “’Tis time you ken.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it before he rose from the divan. Looking upon the Sluath’s world brought back all the misery of his own mortal life. “On that day we were taken, I’d schemed to murder a man that night.”

  “You?” she said, her eyebrows arching. “You killed someone?” When he shook his head, her brow furrowed. “How can you be evil for thinking of it?”

  “’Twas but by chance I didnae carry out my plan,” Mael told her. “Had we returned from our last hunt I wouldnae have rested until his blood lay on my hands. Such rage I felt, I ken naught could stop me.”

  Coldness crept into his voice as he told her of the brute Fargas had been, and how Mael had been prevented by tribal law from protecting his family against his sire. He recounted how Fargas’s violence had grown worse with drink, until the night when his sire had lost what little control he’d had. Seeing his mother and youngest sister with broken bones had decided everything for Mael.

  “I saw then that ’twouldnae end until they died at my sire’s hand.” He looked down at his own, so like his sire’s he often wished he could hack them from his wrists. “While Fargas slept I took my máthair and sisters to the shaman, and bid him keep them safe. When I returned to our broch, I emptied all my sire’s jugs of drink. I waited until he roused, and told him he’d drained them dry. In that time, he often did, so he believed me. I then vowed to trade game for more drink if he went with me on a night hunt. ’Twas all lies, but I didnae care.”

  Rosealise sighed. “That isn’t evil, my dear sir.”

  “I lied about more than the drink, lass,” Mael admitted. “The pig I meant to hunt, ’twas Fargas. I schemed to lead him to a high cliff, snap his neck, and push him over the edge. None would be the wiser. ’Twould look as if he’d fallen. I could return to the tribe and care for my family, and he would never again harm them.”

  * * *

  Rosealise had no doubt he would have indeed murdered Fargas. She also had no doubt that doing so was the only way Mael could have saved his mother and sister. She heard that truth in every word he spoke. But his confession provided a painful clarity to his shame. He believed that just the thought damned him just as much as if he had done the thing. Few would understand, much less forgive, a son intent on killing his own father—unless they knew the lifetime of witnessing and suffering violence that Mael had experienced at Fargas mag Raith’s hands.

  “The evil came from your father,” she said firmly. “Not you.”

  His mouth twisted. “You cannae blame Fargas for the evil in my heart.”

  “He inflicted it,” she insisted. “Fargas gave you no other direction to take. Your tribe stood by and did nothing. Your mother and sisters could not fight him. You were not permitted to take them away from him. Only ending his life could put a stop to his brutality, and save your family.”

  Mael averted his gaze. “’Twas the path I chose to take.”

  “I’ll guess that you never thought of murdering Fargas until he showed you the depth of the true evil in him.” She nodded at his startled look. “What you intended for your father didn’t come from hatred. You wished to protect a helpless woman and her children. In the end, my dear sir, you couldn’t carry out your plans. You condemn yourself for something that you never did?”

  “It sprang from a heart gone dark and evil,” he insisted. ‘’Tis proof that I’m the worst of men.”

  “I could not care for such a gentleman,” Rosealise assured him. “Since I love you, I know you are mistaken.”

  “I’ve ever loved you, from the moment you fell from the sky.” He closed his eyes. “But it doesnae redeem me.”

  She suddenly knew how to address his shame. “You and your clan fight the Sluath because they stole our lives from us, and tried to make us their slaves. Jenna told me that Domnall even slew the one who struck her down when you first came to Dun Chaill. Do you think your chieftain evil for what he did? Is he damned because he ended the life of that scout, who would surely have killed you all if he had not? Should Domnall die for it?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “The scout was a demon.”

  “Yes.” She beckoned him to her, and when he crouched in front of her she touched his cheek. “Just as Fargas was.”

  Mael closed his eyes, his shoulders hunching. As a terrible, wrenching groan came from his chest, Rosealise felt her thigh burn, and saw the glyphs on her lover’s arm paling from black to silver. She slipped off the divan and clasped him in her arms. Holding him, stroking his back and making low, comforting sounds as he released all the grief inside him was all she could offer, but he needed only that.

  In this place of despair and enslavement, her lover had finally freed himself.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THE BRIGHTNESS OF the midday sun warmed Galan’s shoulders, but he kept his hood over his head to protect his eyes. Since coming to the village, he had taken to spending his nights awake and slumbering from dawn to dusk. Another curious effect had provided far more pleasure for him, but that discovery Galan had kept to himself.

  The Sluath, he discovered, had no need for sleep, although they all chose to withdraw into darkness every few nights. The utter absence of light seemed important to this ritual, as did distance from the village. He yearned to know what they did once so separated from the others, but thus far had not been able to observe a demon in such sequestration. He suspected it had something to do with maintaining their glamor, which brightened and became more detailed each time they returned from their solitary retreats.

  Now he walked along the row of bespelled mortals dressed in clean if shabby garments. Carefully he checked each face and body for any flaw that might betray their true purpose. The magic that Prince Iolar had used on them had erased the physical signs of the plague, lending them the appearance of healthy, well-fed villagers.

  Like all the others they had sent out to hunt the Mag Raith, they had been commanded to plead for help with a badly-injured druid they would describe as Galan. They would then lead the hunters back to the village, where sentries posted in the slopes would signal their approach. The demons had restored the village entirely, making it appear as it had been before the plague and the Sluath occupation. Domnall and his men would never suspect what hid in the cottages until it was too late for them to run.

  Galan stopped before one young farmer with red hair, whose wasted muscles now appeared robust and powerful.

  “This one trembled on the edge of death no’ twoday past,” he called out to the prince’s second. “How long shall he live on?”

  Danar came to inspect the mortal. “His veins darken, and his flesh yellows. His organs will fail by week’s end.”

  Galan gestured for the farmer to step out of line. “
Take him to the barn and bind him in the loft,” he told the big demon’s guards.

  Danar said nothing more until they finished their inspection and sent the bespelled mortals on their way. When Galan started for the barn and the delights that awaited him there, however, the demon clamped a heavy hand on his neck.

  “If you think to put that mortal to some other purpose,” the big demon said, “be sure it will not deny our prince his nightly pleasures.”

  Since Iolar had killed off all of the villagers without plague he had been taking the sick ones and transforming them for his sport. When his ghastly games made the cries of the suffering mortals so loud Galan was obliged to ward the prince’s cottage to stifle the noise. He had resented that as well as the waste of flesh, until he’d walked in on the prince in the midst of toying with a dying mortal.

  That night had proven most enlightening.

  “I but test on them how I shall persuade the Pritani shaman to open the underworld gate,” he assured Danar. Telling a half-truth, Galan had learned, deceived the demons when a lie could not. “He’ll be returned to the slave pens when I’m finished.”

  Though Danar released him, Galan still felt the weight of the Sluath’s gaze on his back. The demon could prove nothing, of course. Thanks to Iolar’s power, Galan always returned the mortals he used without a trace of what he did to them in the loft.

  Once inside the barn he bolted the doors and removed his hooded cloak. As he walked toward the ladder hanging from the upper level, he flicked his fingers at the lanterns, extinguishing their lights. The cool comfort of darkness accompanied him up to the small loft, where the guards had left the farmer bound to the roof post.