Beyond a Darkened Shore(20)

My hands tightened on the food I carried. “Of course.”

Thoughts of how Fergus would react when he learned I’d attacked my own father and had been exiled for it tried to fill my mind, but I pushed them aside. They were too painful. His gaze drifted to the food I carried, and both bushy eyebrows lifted questioningly.

“It’s better not to ask,” I said.

He frowned. “You are feeding him now?”

I kept walking. “It’s none of your concern, Fergus.”

“It is, milady. I’m to keep watch over ye.” He touched his hand to my arm. “Does your father know?”

In this, at least, I need not lie. “He does. This is to be the prisoner’s last meal.”

That silenced him for a moment. “Should I come with you?”

“No,” I said—a little too sharply. “I must speak to him privately first.”

I tried to hurry away from Fergus, but his words stopped me. “What more do you need to know? The king has returned to us safely. The Northman has nothing to offer you now.”

I stopped and turned toward my clansman. I held his watery gaze with mine, praying that I could convey the direness of the situation. “Fergus, do you believe the talk about me? That I’m a changeling?”

He floundered, all round eyes and gaping mouth. “I—” He seemed to gather his thoughts. “I wouldn’t consider myself an authority on such a matter. I only know you have the ability to . . .” And there he trailed off. “. . . control others in battle,” he said. “You are able to interpret omens.”

“Then know this. I have seen things, Fergus. Terrible things, destruction to our world I pray never comes to pass. I believe this Northman may have answers, and I will do anything to get them.”

“Even bringing him food like a servant?”

“Even that.”

Fergus nodded. “Very well, milady. But once you have your answers, if you find you cannot bring yourself to do what must be done, only call on me, and I will help you.”

He was offering to take the burden of executing the Northman for me. Not that I intended to go through with the act—not when the Northman could be the only remaining ally I had. “Thank you, Fergus, but you can be most helpful in making sure my interrogation stays private.”

He nodded once before watching me go, his brows a dark furrow of concern. My heart twisted to see his expression. Fergus had always been a friend to me. And now, because of my monstrous abilities, I’d lose him, too. With the bowl of stew still balanced precariously in my hand, I walked as fast as I could to the cave.

On the path, the wind threatened to tear the food from my hands, but I held on tenaciously. He will likely complain the stew has gone cold, I thought, squishing the bread in my clenched fist.

Silence greeted me when I entered the cave, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, the bowl of stew shattered at my feet. The Northman was gone, the chains torn from their rings on the wall.





6





I flew back down the trail as fast as I dared, cursing the Northman as I went. Obviously he’d escaped the moment Fergus had left his post. I nearly stumbled once; the goat trail was treacherous, but not nearly as dangerous in the light of day. I’d seen for myself in battle how agile the Northman was—and clearly much stronger than I’d anticipated. No doubt he’d had enough time to put distance between us. Sleipnir was my only chance of catching him now.

But as soon as I reached the bottom, I slid to a stop. Chasing after the Northman alone was madness, but what did I have left to lose?

Exiled, I told myself again, just to test the amount of pain the word would cause me—much like someone might test a wound. It nearly doubled me over. Physical pain, I could take, but the torturous thought of having to leave my home . . . my family . . .

My mind filled with the previous night’s vision: éirinn reduced to ashes, my sisters broken and lifeless, and I knew exile meant nothing to me if they could be saved. I would follow him to the depths of hell if it meant preventing that from becoming reality.

I was on my own.

“Milady!” Fergus called as I raced past. I didn’t stop, only continued to the stables. I couldn’t risk telling Fergus where I was going—if my father discovered Fergus let an exile get away, no matter if that exile was me, he would most certainly be punished. Better if he never knew at all.

My feet pounded against the hard-packed dirt of the stables, and Sleipnir flung his head up. His nostrils flared, and he snorted, as though sensing my anxiety. I stopped only to grab my sword and a bridle. The heavy wooden bar to Sleipnir’s stall clattered to the ground as I released him. He emerged and eagerly accepted the bit. Grasping a lock of long mane, I hauled myself astride, and the massive horse sprang forward.

Before we could make our escape, red hair at the entrance to the stables made my heart seize in my chest. But as the figure stepped into the light, I saw that it was Séamus instead of Fergus. His gaze fell on me, and on Sleipnir dancing in place, my hand on his neck the only thing restraining Sleipnir from galloping over him.

Séamus’s expression was as cold as ever, but I could still hear the sound of his laugh, unbridled and impossible to resist.

I opened my mouth—I wanted to say something—but before I could, he turned and left. For a heartbeat, I thought I’d call out to him, but there was nothing I could say. I had seen the depths of his mind, and I knew his true feelings toward me.