Wolfsbane: 3 (Rebel Angels) (10 page)

‘You go on sacrificing your people to diplomacy,’ I said, ‘and you’ll find yourself in my protectorate whether you want it or not.’

That wasn’t something I had a right to do, and he opened his mouth to remonstrate, but Sionnach intervened.

‘What Murlainn means,’ he said, ‘is that we should put an offer to your village. See how they answer.’

Heavy silence blanketed the group. Sionnach actually talking must have unnerved the captain, because he back-tracked swiftly, averting his sullen gaze.

‘It’s not that we aren’t grateful,’ he muttered at last. ‘Lusadair’s right, it had gone too far. I thank you for your action, and for your offer. But I
decline it.’

‘Good call, Nuall.’

The impeccably-blocking newcomer, flanked by two more fighters, hitched himself onto the neighbouring table and rested his booted feet on its bench. He took his time smiling around us all,
though his companions wore baleful expressions.

‘Dunster has a certain minor strategic importance. Kate values that, and your neutrality. Don’t piss it away.’

‘Buy you a beer, Cuthag?’ asked Braon brightly. ‘It’s the least I can do before I gut you.’

‘In your fevered dreams, Shorty.’

I winced, and Fearna sucked in a breath through his teeth, but Orach laid her hand on Braon’s shoulder. ~
Let’s all be grown ups, shall we?

‘You want to pick a fight, you take it out of Dunster,’ said Nuall darkly.

‘That’s fair enough,’ I said mildly, ‘but nobody wants a fight right now. Do they, Cuthag?’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said the pompous little shit. ‘It’s not the time or the place, and Murlainn knows it, even if his pack dogs don’t.’

I heard Braon’s intake of breath, and this time I put a hand on her arm, feeling the muscles twitch. ‘You may not want a scrap but if you’re going to insult my fighters, you
should stop fingering your pommel.’ I gave him a sweet smile. ‘Anyway, you’ll go blind.’

Braon sniggered as Cuthag snatched his fingers from his knife hilt, glaring at me. ‘I don’t have to pick a fight with rebels. Ask around, Murlainn. MacSween’s clann don’t
want any part of your treason either.’

His lieutenant chipped in. ‘You’re on your own, Murlainn. You’ll be on your knees to Kate before the year’s out.’

‘That’s two separate statements.’ I felt the smile thinning on my face, and I stood up. There was no point trading insults with Cuthag and his sidekicks.

Cuthag took it for an admission of defeat; I could tell by his grin. ‘The Bloodstone is Kate’s by sovereign right. Let me know when you want to hand him over, Murlainn.’

‘Oh, I’ll be in touch long before then.’ I could feel my temper fraying, and Braon was on the point of killing him. I felt warm breath on my hand and glanced down to see
Branndair lick it, then grin up at me. When a wolf had to remind me not to lash out, it was definitely time to leave.

I abandoned my beer half-drunk and let my fighters follow me away from the tables where Cuthag was installing himself. The village captain Nuall followed me.

‘I’m not trying to offend you, Murlainn.’ He matched his pace to mine with difficulty. ‘Dunster isn’t just strategic, it’s vulnerable.’

Orach knew I wasn’t going to engage him in conversation while he made excuses. ‘Your vulnerability isn’t anything to do with your geographical position,’ she
remarked.

He shot her a glare. ‘But Cuthag was right. You haven’t got enough support to defy Kate.’

‘Support’s irrelevant,’ I said. ‘She wants the Veil destroyed. I’ll fight her to my last breath. Or hers.’

‘And take half the clanns in the west with you?’ he exploded. ‘Don’t follow your brother to certain death. He’s lost and so is your cause.’

Admirable, that willingness to throw Conal’s death in my face. I came to a halt, turned and stared into his eyes, but he had more nerve than I gave him credit for.

‘I told you, Murlainn, I don’t want to quarrel with you. There are plenty who agree with you, plenty who dread the Veil dying, but Kate has the power and Kate will have her way. Why
cling to a doomed life?’

‘It’s life I’m clinging to, Nuall, doomed or not. You won’t hang onto it yourself if she kills the
Sgath
.’

‘That’s a matter for debate. She promises us protection, and she says she’ll keep the full-mortals under control.’

‘Aye, right.’ I smirked. ‘Because they’re
so
easy to control, and
notoriously
fond of us.’

An apologetic shrug. ‘You can’t force our support.’

‘But Kate can.’

He inclined his head. ‘Maybe that’s so. That’s the way of it, Murlainn. Of course you won’t let her take your son, but she isn’t threatening to take mine. I’m
sorry.’

‘I understand,’ I gritted. ‘Believe it or not.’

His voice lost its fierce courage, as if he was suddenly afraid of being overheard. ‘And I do thank you for dealing with the Lammyr,’ he muttered. ‘You’re right. We
couldn’t do it ourselves or we’d rouse Kate against us. We’re grateful to you.’

When I walked on, he didn’t follow, and I felt a disproportionate tide of relief. I didn’t want to continue that argument. My sense of righteousness was easily shaken. He was right:
Conal was dead, and no doubt with him any chance we’d ever had of defying Kate. I wished I could believe in our eventual victory. Still, I had to try harder. There was no common ground. Kate
wanted Rory, the Bloodstone; she couldn’t have him. Even if I lost all faith in Conal’s beliefs – even in the unlikely event my clann did too – there was no getting past the
fact of Rory.

We’d left the horses in a shallow rocky bowl between the two low hills to the south of Dunster, untethered by anything but our wills. The blue roan might have defied me if he’d felt
like it, but he’d clearly chosen proud contempt over disobedience. He hated being left out of a fight.

I mounted him, and turned his head towards the dun. The others fell in at my back, silent. Orach’s mind brushed mine, sympathetic but a little reserved, and my mood blackened. So now
successful raids saw us sent packing from rescued villages with our tails between our legs. Five dead Lammyr, and an end to their spree of sly killings, left small sense of triumph.

Kate was getting better. And I’d have loved to know where she was getting her freshly-minted confidence.

‘Ah, boy.’ Gocaman’s voice quietened. ‘There are humans who touch a Lammyr’s desiccated heart. They fall in something like love. Skinshanks had a
protégé, and he tired of him, and that is all.’

Jed knew fine there was something wrong with the scenario. The infant Rory had vanished. The horse he rode was a ghostly skeletal nag, and though Gocaman was at his back, he could feel no
heartbeat. Nor was Gocaman’s touch warm and reassuring; where his fingers touched Jed’s bare arm they were cold and clammy, and Jed was filled with so dark a foreboding, he didn’t
dare look round.

All the same he had to, because he always did. It was the only way he knew out of the wretched dream after so many times. Often he’d waited longer to do it, in the hope of finding that the
dream led somewhere else, somewhere better, that he could evade the moment of turning. But that wasn’t a hope he held on to any more, not even in his sleep.

‘Why, Jed. So nervous! Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you, after all. I like you!’

Jed took a deep sobbing breath, starting to cry so humiliatingly as he always did. Then, as he always did, he turned.

It was Gocaman’s dirty rag of cloth wrapped round its head, Gocaman’s leather hat tipped rakishly over its eyes, but it wasn’t Gocaman’s head. It was the head of
Skinshanks, smiling at him, the head he’d last seen tied by the hair to Seth’s horse. And because that was all, that was it done with for one more night, it was almost with relief that
Jed let himself scream.

‘Jed. Jed.’ Iolaire’s hand was on his shoulder.

He sat bolt upright, leaning his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands across his cropped head. The casement window was wide open, but it was too hot in here. He could feel sweat on his
scalp, and the back of his neck was wet with it.

‘Jed. Rory is here. He’s in the dun. It’s okay.’ Iolaire’s voice was low and soothing.

‘It wasn’t Rory.’

‘Skinshanks, then. Again?’

Jed nodded. Shoving the blankets off his body he went to the pitcher of water by the door, gasping as he upended it over his head. The water wasn’t tepid at all, it was bitingly cold. It
shouldn’t be that way on such a hot night. He turned to the white wolf sprawled by the unlit fire, her head raised and her amber eyes fixed on him. Then he frowned at Iolaire, who was tugging
the blanket back around his nakedness. ‘Is it cold?’

‘It ain’t warm.’ Iolaire shook his head. ‘Get dry and come back to bed, Jed. You’ll catch your death.’

Jed scraped his fingernails across his scalp again, shivering as his wet skin at last felt the cool air. Better. ‘I won’t catch my death. Not till
he
does.’

Iolaire lay back grinning, arms behind his head. ‘I take it you want to go hunting again.’

‘Again.’

‘Ten years, Jed. Ten years you’ve been hunting him, since you learnt to wield a sword and since you grew enough years on you to do it. Skinshanks has been dead for thirteen. Do you
think you’ll ever get Laszlo now? Do you think the dreams will stop if you do?’

Jed blinked. But why had he learnt to wield a sword, if not for that? The man Laszlo had slaughtered was, if not his father, then the man who should have been his father, and Laszlo had killed
him with trickery. He’d trapped Conal through the people he loved. He’d killed him through Eili and Finn and
Jed,
and that was what Jed couldn’t forgive. He didn’t
see why he should.

Jed scrubbed at his head with a thin towel, digging his fingers into his skull. Sometimes he thought if he scraped hard enough, he could dig the dreams right out.

‘I don’t care about the dreams,’ he lied. ‘I’ll kill him anyway. If I get twice the dreams, if he haunts me for a hundred years, I’ll kill him anyway.’
And that part was true.

Iolaire flung back the blanket. ‘All right. You want me to freeze to death too?’

Grinning in defeat, Jed lay down at his side but propped himself up on one elbow as he pulled the blanket back around them both. ‘It’s pleasantly cool, you big girl.’ He stared
down into Iolaire’s laughing eyes. ‘Will you come with me anyway?’

‘Always. You know that.’

‘Iolaire.’ He placed his hand on the man’s ribcage to feel his heartbeat. ‘Do I… do you think I…’

‘Could turn into a cold psychopathic killer without the love of a good man? Oh, absolutely.’ Iolaire winked solemnly.

‘Don’t joke.’

‘Jed.’ Iolaire laid his own hand over his and linked their fingers. ‘So Skinshanks liked you. Skinshanks is
dead.
Who knows what goes on in a Lammyr’s head?
Maybe just a notion to torment you for years with a throwaway remark.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Maybe. Meanwhile I like you too, and look at it this way: I’m alive and I’m not a Lammyr.’ Iolaire laid his other hand against Jed’s cheek, and Jed leaned his
head into it, closing his eyes.

‘It’s not just the Lammyr,’ he mumbled wretchedly. ‘The Selkyr wanted me. One of the ones that took Leonora Shiach. I used to think I’d misunderstood, that it
wasn’t me at all, that it was going for Conal because he was wearing his death on him by then like a coat. But I know in my heart it wasn’t. It wanted me, Iolaire.’

‘Hush.’ Iolaire drew down his head and kissed him. ‘It’s the middle of the night. Things look worse than they are. Dreams hang heavy. If a Selkyr wanted either of us
it’d be me. I’m the renegade, I’m the one with the price on my head, so don’t you go getting ideas above your station.’

Jed laughed. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

‘We’ll hunt tomorrow and that’s what’ll make you feel better. Who knows? We might even track him down. Now for once, will you let me give you sleep?’

‘No. Not even you.’ Jed lay down as Iolaire’s arm closed round his shoulder. ‘And don’t sneak it to me thinking I won’t notice. I’ll know.’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ There was laughter in Iolaire’s throat.

Jed closed his eyes, lulled by the echoing beat of his lover’s heart through his ribs. He knew the dream wouldn’t come again, not tonight, but he thought sleep wouldn’t either.
He was wrong. It was Iolaire who lay wakeful and motionless, staring at the play of reflected sea-light on the wooden rafters and listening to the little dream-grunts of the white wolf, unwilling
to move, unwilling to risk waking Jed.

Sleep was one thing, dreams another. Iolaire lifted a hand and rested it gently, so gently on the back of Jed’s neck.

Deviousness and treachery came easier to him than they once had. And one small breach of trust might be forgiveable. His fingertip tingled where it touched the very base of Jed’s
skull.

Anyway, who said memories couldn’t spark unbidden?

Nearly two years. So much less distant than Skinshanks, he’d have thought fate might be kind enough to let him dream that every night, instead of the Lammyr. All the
same, even in his sleep Jed felt a disembodied kind of shock at the sudden chill and pleasure of the recall.