My Shadow Warrior (32 page)

She put her hands on Liam and called on her magic. It swirled up inside her, warm and pulsing. She sent it down her arms to her hands. It embraced the blackness around Liam’s heart, only this time the ailment didn’t leave as readily as her father’s and Tira’s had. It struggled to keep its hold on the heart. Her mouth opened in shock and pain. She redoubled her effort, commanding it to return. With the sudden force of a door unjamming, it rushed into her, slamming into her chest and stealing her breath.

Liam let out a lusty scream, balled fists raised to the heavens. His color strengthened until he nearly glowed a rich copper-orange. Rose collapsed onto the bed. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest, and every heartbeat ripped through her, excruciating to breathe. She could not move or speak; she could only stare mutely at the carved wooden canopy above, fighting for her next breath. And then the next. And the next.

Her uncle picked up Liam from where he screamed beside her. Her vision shimmered red with pain. She willed her arms to move, to grab him, but she had no command of her own limbs. He murmured to the child and moved away. Rose did not know how long she lay there, or where her uncle went, but suddenly he was beside her again, staring down at her.

“You
are
a great healer,” he said, his voice soft with awe. “Like Finian the leper. That’s why it grieves me so to have to do this.”

“You promised,” she said, her voice a breathy croak. A vise crushed her chest. Speaking made her head swim. Pinpoints of light danced at the edges of her vision.

“I know,” he said, sounding disappointed. “But we both knew I was lying. You played the game and you lost. I will tell Alan that you followed your wizard lover and were attacked by broken men. We will all mourn you.
I
will mourn you.” He placed a fatherly hand on her hair, looking down at her with sadness and regret.

Rose closed her eyes, wishing she could smite him somehow through her head, but it didn’t work that way. She tried to lift her arms to grab him, but they were leaden.

“You were my favorite, you know. It was my idea to send you and your sisters away all those years ago. You were right, before. I
was
the one who set the villagers on your mother. I feared what I did to Lillian would have consequences I didn’t anticipate or want, so I urged Alan to send you to safety. I cursed Lillian’s ring and gave it to Gillian. I feared your mother’s spirit would attempt to contact her. And you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve gone to, removing items or placing shielding spells on objects so Isobel remains ignorant. I couldn’t bear to hurt any of you, but I needed you here, back at Lochlaire. I’d long meant for Alan to die of a wasting illness, and I needed witnesses, others to vouch that no poison or other foul means had been involved. I thought my lovely nieces would never suspect me, that they loved me as I loved them.” He took Rose’s face between his hands and stared at her, begging her to understand. “I never wanted to harm any of you. Do you understand? I loved you all as if you were mine.”

Rose wished she could spit in his face. As it was she could only stare at him with all the loathing in her heart. He had killed their mother, cursed Gillian, was slowly murdering their father, had given William to a witch-crazed mob, and now he planned to murder her. He loved no one but himself.

He disappeared from her line of vision. Rose’s breath came in small, painful gasps. Tears wet her hair at her temples. She was going to die, and Roderick would win. William would burn.
William.

He was back, a large pillow between his hands. “I am sorry, Rose,” he said, as the pillow came down, blocking his face from her vision. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe as the linen pressed into her mouth and nose, stealing away what little breath she’d been capable of.

Grab him! Do it!
She forced her arms to move. Pain tore through her, but she had him. She clutched the arms pressing the pillow over her face, and felt the blackness rush eagerly out of her. He tried to throw her hands off, but she clung to him as her strength returned. He cried out. She bucked frantically, throwing her uncle and the pillow off.

She slid onto the floor but quickly regained her feet, turning in a stance of readiness. There was no need to fight. Her uncle lay across the bed, motionless except for his eyes, blinking as he stared at the wooden canopy, occasionally twitching his fingers. She knew what he felt. The crushing pain made it impossible to move or speak. She stared down at him, devoid of even pity.

“I’m not sorry,” she said and left him there.

William sat in the cellar alone. He did not know where his daughter was. He did not know what would happen when they came for him again. He opened and closed his hand—mangled the day before, now mended and whole. This would not go well for him. He kept it wrapped in the bloodstained bandage, hoping no one decided to check on it.

He tensed as the racket started up again—screaming, strange animal noises. He stared at the narrow slats of sunlight streaming between the boards covering his hole. What was happening up there? He was afraid to contemplate it. Something odd had been going on since sometime in the night. It had started with food being dropped into his hole. Two loaves of fresh crusty bread, a large chunk of meat, five apples, a bag of nuts, a sausage, a hot cooked eel, and an onion. Much better fare than any prisoner deserved—and all of it strangely damp but edible after William brushed the dirt off.

Then the screaming had started. At first it had been some far-off screams he’d paid no mind to, but soon they’d drawn closer, punctuated with squawking ducks, bleating sheep, and, near his hole, a savagely growling dog that had soon been silenced by someone beating it. It had whimpered in pain for some time near his hole before it had either died or been removed. Then later there had been a pounding above him that had set the earth shaking. Dirt had crumbled from the walls and ceiling of his hole, and he’d feared he would be buried alive. A stampede.

Whatever was happening in the world above, it kept the villagers sufficiently occupied to forget about him for a very long time. He’d had plenty of time to think and worry. He’d given the witchpricker one name. Roderick MacDonell. He’d vowed he knew of no other MacDonell witches, and the witchpricker had seemed to believe him. He’d taken Deidra and sent William back to the cellar, presumably so they could verify his story, or take Roderick into custody…. Who knew? William couldn’t fathom what might happen. His only hope was that if he had to burn, Roderick would burn with him.

The hole in the ceiling opened. “Will? Are you down there?”

William shielded his eyes. “Bloody Christ—Drake? Is that you?”

“Wait—I’ll get something to lower down to you.”

“Drake?” But there was no answer. He closed his eyes, profound relief washing over him in waves. His brother was not dead. If Drake was alive and able to rescue him, it meant one thing—Rose was behind this. His heart contracted with painful fear and longing. He should have known she’d not sit by complacently, waiting for her father to die.

A wooden ladder was lowered down to him a few minutes later. William climbed out of the hole, squinting the whole while. As soon as he was clear of the hole, his brother grabbed him and embraced him hard. William clasped him back, his eyes so dazzled by the sunlight that he could hardly see.

“Deidra—where is she?”

“Down this way, we think. Come on.”

And he raced off. William jogged after him, blinking at the sights around him in disbelief. It looked as if a storm had hit the village. The debris-littered streets were devoid of people, the cottages shut up tight, shutters closed fast.

“What happened?” William asked.

“I know not,” Drake called over his shoulder.

At the far end of the village a small group gathered before a cottage—the same cottage where he had previously been tortured. Animals surrounded the cottage—ducks, sheep, horses, cows. All lounging. William’s gaze was immediately drawn to the red-haired woman leaning heavily against a balding blond man, also in contemplation of the cottage.

“Rose!” William called.

She turned her head toward him. It was Wallace who held her. She took several steps toward him, then he caught her up in his arms. He embraced her as tightly as he dared, knowing she suffered from Drake’s wound. “You did it, Rose,” he whispered into her hair.

She clung to him, her breath warm on his neck. “Thank God you’re alive.” Her voice cracked with emotion. “I feared we were too late.”

“We have a bit of a problem,” the earl of Kincreag interrupted. William released Rose reluctantly, keeping an arm around her to support her. She leaned heavily against him.

The earl nodded to the cottage. “Have a look.”

William left Rose and went to the open door of the cottage, passing through the mob of loitering animals. They took scant notice of him.

The interior of the cottage was dim, but his eyes adjusted quickly. The witchpricker sat on a bench, Deidra beside him. He looked much different than he had the last time William had seen him. His face was pale, and his sparse gray hair was sticking up in tufts about his head. His fine black robes were torn and filthy. He held a dirk to Deidra’s neck, his wild gray eyes fixed on something in the far shadows. William turned his head, peering into the dark, and took an involuntary step back at the sight that greeted him.

Three wolves sat in a line, tongues lolling from their mouths, staring at Luthias Forsyth. They seemed to be smiling, daring him to do something with the dirk.

“Make her call them off!” Luthias cried. Sweat trickled down his temples.

Deidra gave William a worried look. “I’m sorry I told, Da, but I was afraid he’d hurt me.”

“It’s all right, Squirrel.” William took in the terrified witchpricker, the animals crowded around the cottage, and the waiting wolves. Something strange and sick and proud turned in his chest. “What happened here? Did you ask the animals for help?”

She nodded hesitantly. “He says he’ll kill me if the wolves come near. But I think he’ll kill me if I make them go away. You, too. The one I sent to guard you was killed.” Her bottom lip wobbled, and her eyes filled with tears.

His daughter. Jesus God. She’d set the animals on the village and had probably kept them both alive long enough for Rose and Drake to arrive with reinforcements. He’d not understood. He’d thought he’d understood.
Communing with animals.
They surrounded her, protected her, did her bidding. They’d brought him food, and at least one had been killed for it. It made him weak to think of what she was capable of and how others would perceive this act.

“Where are the villagers?” William asked.

“They ran,” Luthias said, lip curling. “They deserted me. I know not where.”

“Da,” Deidra said, a whimper in her voice, her eyes bright. “I want to go home.”

One of the wolves fidgeted and whined. The witchpricker’s eyes widened.

“Mr. Forsyth, if she sends the wolves away, will you put down the dirk and release her?”

The witchpricker looked at him incredulously. “Are you mad? This is a dangerous witch. It is not in my authority to question a child, even if she is a witch, but it is in the king’s. He will be most interested to make her acquaintance.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” William unwrapped the bloodstained linen from his hand, exposing a perfectly functional hand.

The witchpricker gasped, his gaze darting to William’s other hand, as if this might be a trick and he’d find the other the mangled mess. William held them both up for his inspection.

“How is this possible? Your hand was ruined.”

“Aye, I know. Do you understand, Mr. Forsyth, what you’re dealing with? Let the child go or you will not leave here alive.”

The witchpricker’s thin throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I will not stop my fight against the enemy, against
God’
s enemies, until there is no more breath in my body. Satan will not prevail so long as I live!”

Splendid. Perhaps it was better if the man was dead. Then he couldn’t run to the king or regroup the villagers to lynch them all.

William felt someone beside him and looked down. Rose had joined him, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

She touched his arm and gazed up at him with worried eyes. “Jamie MacPherson is coming.”

William stepped away from the door to look. MacPherson rode up the street with a handful of men, looking about him with the same bewilderment William had felt. When he saw Kincreag, then Drake, his gaze cut to William and Rose. His nose was a swollen, misshapen mess, the skin around it mottled purple and black.

He pulled his dag out and trained it on William. “Who did you kill, aye?” The gun barrel stabbed the air at Drake before leveling on William again. “Who did you kill to save him?” His voice was thick and nasal.

“Put the gun away, MacPherson,” Lord Kincreag said, annoyed.

“Stay out of this, my lord—”

The earl stepped forward, his black eyes narrowed with anger. “I’m in it, MacPherson. Now put the gun away before I make you verra sorry.”

MacPherson pointed the dag at Kincreag. “No! The bastard killed my father and dammit, he will pay!” He dismounted, gun aimed at William again. “You will fight me, Wizard, just like we agreed.”

William held out his hands, placating. “I don’t want to fight you, MacPherson.” He had other worries right now—his daughter in the hands of a zealous witchpricker was primary.

“Not your decision.” MacPherson closed the distance between them until the barrel of his dag nearly touched William’s forehead. His lips pulled back from his teeth, his eyes wild. “I wonder, if I shot you here, could you heal yourself?”

William said nothing. His heart beat swiftly and his muscles tensed, waiting for MacPherson to make a move.

MacPherson pressed the barrel into William’s forehead. “I’ll make certain you’re dead, Wizard. I’ll cut off your head and burn it.”

“Leave off!” Rose cried, pushing away from the doorframe and coming to stand between them. She put her hands on MacPherson’s arm, trying to force it down. “You were a child when your father was killed and William was acting on his chief’s orders—”

MacPherson’s hand shot out, striking Rose across the face and sending her reeling back into the stones of the cottage. Black fury surged through William. He grabbed Jamie’s arm, wrenching it down. The dag discharged harmlessly into the dirt.

MacPherson pulled a dirk from his boot and slashed. William moved back but not soon enough. It slashed across his belly, slicing through plaid and shirt and into his skin. Before he could react, the wolves from the cottage flew out the door and attacked MacPherson, snarling and ripping. He screamed, trying to beat them off, but there were too many.

“No, Deidra!” William bellowed. “Make them stop!”

“I can’t!” she cried. “They don’t want to!”

He whirled toward his daughter. “Make them!”

Tears streaked her face, and the witchpricker was such a shade of white that William thought that soon they would have no worries about him—he would faint.

Deidra’s brow furrowed, as if she were in deep concentration. Abruptly, the wolves left MacPherson and docilely returned to the cottage, resuming their place before Deidra and the witchpricker, muzzles glistening with fresh blood.

Rose knelt beside MacPherson, who lay motionless on the ground. William dropped down beside her. The lad was covered with blood, his throat ravaged, but he was still alive, his eyes wide and staring, the breath laboring out of him. Blood pulsed from his throat and foamed at his lips as he tried to speak.

Rose met William’s eyes and shook her head slightly. “You cannot. He wants you dead. He’ll kill you as soon as you heal him.”

“I must. I
owe
him.” Besides, Deidra was responsible, and William had to set things right before he taught his daughter control.

With great reluctance, he set his hands on the dying man.

Rose watched, her heart in her throat, as William healed Jamie MacPherson. When he fell back, his hand to his throat, Rose rushed to his side, pulling his head into her lap and shielding him with her body. Her own shoulder ached with a deep pain from healing Drake, but she was functional. Though seriously wounded, Drake had not been near death when they’d found him on the mountainside.

Jamie pushed himself up, his hands to his throat, blinking in confusion. His nose was even healed, perfect and aquiline again.

“Stay away from him!” Rose yelled, clutching William closer. The earl and his men surrounded them, protecting William, but she still feared Jamie would somehow harm him.

Jamie said nothing for a long while, staring at Rose and William, his expression odd. Then his gaze moved to the doorway of the cottage. The witchpricker stood there, no longer holding a dirk to Deidra’s throat. His hand was still on her shoulder, though. The child looked up at the witchpricker. When his eyes remained fixed on Rose and William, she broke away, throwing herself on her father’s inert form.