Beyond a Darkened Shore(91)
It made me sick with confusion and rage.
“Don’t make me break down this door,” he threatened, and it so incensed me that I strode over to the door and wrenched it open.
“How dare you—”
He plunged both hands into my hair and kissed me, his full lips soft against mine. I felt my eyes flutter closed before I finally pushed him away. “No. Why would you think you could kiss me right now?”
He let out a shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry, Ciara. I don’t know what to do—I can’t stand the thought of us going back to the way we were when we first met . . . not after all we’ve been through.”
He reached toward me, and I jerked away.
His nearness was torture. I wanted to throw myself into his arms and bury my face against his chest, but then I would look up at his eyes—Jarl Frey’s eyes—and see Alana dying again.
“Don’t pull away from me,” he said. “Not now. Not again. I am not my father.”
“Did you know?” I countered. “Did you know your father murdered my sister? I told you the story—how could you not have known?” I suddenly felt sick. “Were you there?”
I backed up in horror, but he grabbed hold of my hand. “By all the gods, I swear to you, I didn’t know until the moment you recognized him. I stayed here when he went on raids to éirinn to keep watch over Arin and Finna.”
I believed him, but it didn’t make it any better. “I can’t bear to look at you right now, Leif.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but he relented and moved toward the door. Just before he left, he turned to me and said, “Just because it’s my father doesn’t mean I don’t understand how you feel. I made it my life’s mission to track down the j?tnar and have my revenge for what they did to my sister. She was murdered, too, and if I came face-to-face with her murderer . . .” He trailed off, but his eyes were so full of sorrow and sympathy for me that I had to look away.
I was left alone for a time, while I paced my room like a caged animal. What would my father say if he knew I’d come face-to-face with Alana’s killer and done nothing? And Máthair?
No, there was only one option: I would have my revenge.
It wasn’t difficult to find the jarl’s room. The door with heavily carved knotwork gave it away. To my horror it was only one door down from my own bedroom. I’d been separated from my sister’s murderer by only a few walls this whole time.
I waited in the shadowy hallway until one of his servants left his room, and then I opened his door and strode in as if I belonged there. I gripped the hilt of my sword as my eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The feast had ended long ago, and I knew with the jarl’s injuries he would retire early. He writhed on his bed, his breathing ragged and pained, and I could tell it was his leg that tortured him. I hated this broken man. Hated him for taking away my right to confront him for killing my sister, to demand justice. How could I demand justice from an infirm, elderly man? A man whose injuries had clearly been punishment enough all these years. Did he even remember killing my sister? Or was she just one of many faceless victims?
I stalked over to him, my blade catching the light of the fire as I passed by. As I stood over him, I contemplated all the ways I could kill him: the point of the blade thrust into his heart, a slash to his throat as he’d done to my own sister, a stab to his gut to make him die slowly and miserably.
He moaned in his sleep, and my hand turned white on the hilt of my sword. This man was nothing like the one from my memory—the heavily muscled monster. Now he was only a shriveled old man. I sighed heavily and took a step back.
“Jarl Frey,” I said, just loud enough to wake him. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then those ice-blue eyes stared up at me.
“Have you come to put me out of my misery, then?” he asked, his gaze flicking to my sword.
I shook my head in disgust. “I told you before—you don’t deserve such mercy.”
“Then why have you come?”
“I want to know why you took my sister’s life, but I know you won’t be able to tell me. I’m sure she was only one of hundreds you’ve killed in your miserable life.”
His eyes clouded over with pain. “You’re wrong. I do remember.”
I had the briefest sense of reaching toward his mind, and then I found myself completely immersed, as real as if I suddenly dived below the surface of the sea. There was no resistance from him. Not even the smallest protest that I had grabbed hold of his mind.
Show me the attack on my father’s castle, I commanded, and the memories were wrenched toward me so fast I flinched before them.
There was Jarl Frey’s longship landing on our shores, his men pouring over the sides with eager shouts. But Jarl Frey hung back, his hand upon an adolescent boy’s shoulder.
“This is your first battle, so stay close to me,” he said. “Your mother will skin me alive if one of the Celts kills you.”
The boy grinned and flexed his lean muscles. “I’m stronger than I look, Uncle.”
The memory shifted, moving rapidly through the battle that took so many of my clansmen’s lives. And then the boy appeared again—seen through Jarl Frey’s eyes. The boy stayed close at first, but they were soon separated by the chaos of battle. When Jarl Frey caught sight of him again, he was on the far side of the courtyard. The boy managed to take down one or two of my clansmen before another struck a blow to his side, placing him in the path of another man. With a jolt of recognition, I watched as my own father strode toward the boy, sword drawn. The boy tried to deflect my father’s attack, but he was knocked back easily. With a twinge of horror, I watched my father run him through with his sword. The boy fell, his eyes wide and unseeing before he even hit the ground.