Ravenmarked (The Taurin Chronicles) (31 page)

She stabbed, but he grabbed her forearm and unbalanced her. She struck his thigh with the blade in her other hand. Instinct told her to twist it and slice as deep as she could. He cursed and went to one knee, holding her arm. She sliced through the muscles in his arm—once, twice—until his hand went slack. He howled. “Bitch!” He looked down at the blood staining his breeches. “Fucking bitch! What did you—”

She didn’t give him a chance to finish. With every ounce of strength she could muster, she stabbed her dagger straight into the base of his skull. He shuddered and fell, and she drew the blade out and ran toward the camp again. Overhead, the raven flapped and cawed and croaked, diving and rising. Voices drifted through the trees—cursing, grunting, wicked laughter.
Connor!
She stepped closer to the clearing and saw the four men gathered around him, beating him.
The horses—
They were close, and her bow hung from her saddle.

Connor wasn’t making any noise.
Hang on. I’m coming.
She shushed the horses and took her bow and quiver down. She nocked an arrow and shielded herself between the horses.
Nock, aim, release. How many times have I done this?
Her hands shook. She steadied herself.
Don’t miss. You have one chance.

The arrow landed with a
thunk
in the back of one of the men holding Connor. The others stopped, but she already had another arrow nocked. She aimed, fired, and took down another man who ran toward her.
One more—nock, aim, release.
Another man fell.

The fourth was too close. She dropped the bow, drew a dagger, and threw it. It landed in the grass. The man flicked her other dagger from her hand in a single swipe, but she twisted his hand away and grabbed his forearms. Her knee came up hard into his groin, and he groaned and fell. She picked up her dagger, pulled his head back, and slit his throat.

Blood soaked the ground as she straightened and whirled, looking for more of them. Connor lay on the ground, bound at hands and feet, choking out ragged, desperate breaths. “Connor.” She ran to his side and cut the ropes. She turned him to his back. “Can you talk?”

He gasped, trying to draw breath. His eye was blackened and shattered, and a seeping welt marred his jaw. A ragged cut ran across one forearm. She could barely make out his tattoos with all of the welts on his torso, and his sword hand was swollen almost beyond recognition. “Mairead—you’re all right. I thought they’d—”

“Just tell me how to help you.”

“Make sure they’re dead.”

She picked up his sword and stabbed the three she’d shot, then returned to his side. “Now what? What can I do?” She pulled him against her lap.

He groaned. “Just need a few minutes.” He coughed and winced. “Ribs broken. Hard to breathe.”

Gods, we’re nowhere! There’s no help!
“Connor, I don’t know where to take you—”

“I can help, yes.”

A tall woman with a long gray braid, freckled skin, and fierce golden-green eyes stood at the edge of the trees. She surveyed the dead men, hands on her hips and mouth in a tight line. “Well, I suppose they got what they deserved.”

“Who are you?” Mairead asked.

“Bah. I knew this mulehead in his youth.” She folded her arms over her chest. “It’s like looking at your father, yes? You’ve grown up.”

Connor’s body went limp against Mairead’s lap. “Rhiannon. It’s good to see you.”

“And it’s good to see you alive—Connor Mac Niall.”

Chapter Nineteen

In the Keep of the Syrafi lies the source of the animstone.

Those who wear it bear the mark of creation in their souls.

— Legend of the Syrafi, oral tradition

Igraine stood in the castle courtyard wrapped in a fur-lined cloak as Braedan prepared to leave for the Mac Rian holdings. Surrounded by his personal guards, the soldiers standing in formation, the horses, the stablemen, the supply wagons, and various other servants, she was starting to regret her decision to see him off. “Perhaps I should return to my chambers and wave to you from the window,” she said.

“I want you here. Stay.”

“I’m merely an obstacle.” She stepped aside for a stableman rushing past with a piece of repaired tack for one of the king’s guards.

“You’re not an obstacle.” He tugged at the wool doublet he wore, loosening it around his neck. “Are you certain I need to dress in such finery just to ride?”

“Would you rather look a servant, then?” She adjusted his collar for him. “You fidget like a new-made squire, love. Stand still.”

“Silk and wool just to lead men out of the city? This is the kind of foppish finery my father enjoyed.”

She put her hands on his cheeks. “You are king. I know you want to lead by vision, but even the best visions need to catch the eye first.” She brushed a smudge from his shoulder and ran her fingers through his short black hair. “I suppose you’ll suffice.”

“Should I find a maid to dress me each morning to make sure I portray the proper image?”

She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Only if you never want to return to my bed.”

He laughed, and his eyes twinkled. Her heart skipped.
He makes my knees weak. What a foolish girl I am.
But as she stepped away to watch him give final instructions to his captains and reject, once again, Cormac’s suggestion that he take a carriage, she realized once more how much affection had grown between them.
He is not the man I expected when I came here.

The week since Duncan’s death was colored by grief, filled with frantic preparations for Braedan’s trip north, and accented by Igraine’s own new duties as a legal advisor to the Taurin crown. During the day she maintained an uneasy truce with her emotions, presenting her usual practiced cool competence to the lords and ladies in the castle, but at night, with Braedan, she abandoned decorum.

Braedan’s arms welcomed her whether she cried, raged, opined, or seduced. He pleased her the way previous lovers never had. They shared his bedchamber, occasionally beginning to undress each other even before they reached his chamber door. She all but forgot Matthias’ attack when she was in Braedan’s bed.

She developed a grudging admiration for how he managed his army, his guards, and the castle affairs. In the calm aftermath of his ascension, he let designated leaders handle their own affairs with only casual oversight. He took Igraine’s advice and appointed men to help him govern—judges who could hear disputes in his stead and dispense the king’s law fairly—and the appointments freed him to pursue some of his other visions.

Unfortunately, one of the men he appointed was Ronan Kerry. Braedan had decided not to take him north and instead appointed his uncle Lord High Chancellor, only one level below a regent. When he told Igraine, she sat up in bed and slapped his shoulder. “You fool, Braedan. You’ve just handed him your throne.”

Braedan sat up and leaned against the pillows, one hand behind his head. “He is my uncle. He’s no threat to me. He practically raised me.”

She stood up and pulled on a robe as anger rose. “And so you waited until now to tell me—when you leave tomorrow and I have no chance to sway you and you’ve already bedded me? You ass.” She poured wine and stood near his window, facing him. “I gave you a way to rid the castle of him. I told you to send him north, and I told you to go with him so that you could watch him, and now this? D’ye not see what he’s doing, lad?”

Braedan laughed and stood. “You’re angrier than I thought you’d be. Your Eiryan is showing.”

“Damn it, pay attention. Your uncle has designs on your throne.”

Braedan folded his arms across his chest. “It’s no secret that you and Ronan don’t like each other. But unless you have some proof that he’s plotting against me, this only sounds like the anger of a woman scorned or a jealous noble.” He paused. “Do you have some proof?”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t need proof. I’m not wrong about these things. He has too much power.”

“Jealous?”

“No. I have no right to a position as chancellor. I’m not Taurin. But surely there are other men as competent and more trustworthy. Why not give Ronan some high foreign post where he can’t make any moves against you—an ambassadorship to Espara, perhaps? He could take his lady wife home to her family.”

“He says he doesn’t like it there.” Braedan put his hands on her arms. “Don’t worry. Ronan won’t hurt your position or my power. He helped me get here.”

But watching Ronan’s men in the courtyard gave Igraine pause. The men from Stone Coast milled around the gate, ramparts, and courtyard. None of them were assigned to Braedan’s contingent.
Kerry has managed to stay here with all of his men, while Braedan leaves with all of his closest guards.
She spotted Logan.
Well, almost all of them.
Fortunately, Logan had insisted on remaining behind to command the men from Stone Coast and the remaining Taurin troops. Still, Igraine could not resist an uneasy shiver.
This will come to blows.

Braedan noticed. “Cold?” He took a piece of parchment from Cormac.

“No. Anxious.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious about. This is what kings do.” He opened the parchment and started reading.

Leave their thrones in the care of men who would usurp them?
The cool autumn breeze teased his hair, and Igraine pursed her lips. “Braedan.”

“Hmm?” He stood between his horse and Cormac, staring at a piece of parchment. “What is it?”

“I wondered if we might have a moment before you go.”

He wrinkled his brow.

She cleared her throat. “Alone.” She gestured to the chaos in the courtyard.

He blinked, surprised. “Yes. Of course.” He handed Cormac the parchment. “Reply to Lord Seannan and tell him the crown doesn’t owe him or the Lady Aislinn anything more. I will not offer restitution for the loss of his son-in-law. I will consider making some small public improvements to his holdings in the spring, but his defenses and his wall are his responsibility. I’ll not pay for them.” Cormac inclined his head, and Braedan turned to Igraine. “Inside the great hall?”

She nodded and twined her arm around his. “The atmosphere in the courtyard is not conducive to a final goodbye, Braedan.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” A guard opened the door to the great hall, and when they entered the relative quiet, Braedan pulled her into his arms. “Didn’t we have enough privacy this morning? I thought we took care of everything.”

“We did. I just wanted one more moment with you,” she said.

“For what purpose? If I had the time, I would gladly find a quiet room to indulge you once more.”

“It’s not that.”
He’ll think me a fool.
“Forgive me, Braedan. I shouldn’t have . . .” She started to go.

He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Igraine, I should not have neglected you. I’m sorry for that.”

She took a deep breath. “In Eirya, it is customary when lovers must be apart for the lady to give her lord something to remember her.” She pulled a small scarf of blue silk from the silver belt she wore and held it out to him. “I took this from the scraps of the blue dress you care for so much. I thought it might remind you of me. It’s silly, Braedan. I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

He took the silk. “It’s not silly. I like when you share Eiryan traditions with me.”

She draped the silk around his neck and pulled him closer. “This week has been difficult, but it has also been delightful. Passionate.” She closed her eyes. “I’m as besotted as some foolish shepherdess in a story.”

He lifted her chin, and she opened her eyes to see him smiling. “As am I.” He lowered his voice as a servant bustled past. “This is an unfamiliar role for me—the doting lover and future husband. I don’t know how to act.”

“Act as if I am your entire world. Act as if I am more important to you than your kingdom.”

“You are.”

She smiled. “Don’t ever say that to anyone but me.”

“Do you ever stop thinking of politics?”

“Only when I am thinking of the law.”

He grinned again. He held the blue silk to his face. “You’ve scented it with your perfume.”

“I hope it reminds you of me while you are away.”

“Perhaps I can think of some unique ways for us to use it when I return.”

The thought of that made her shiver. “You render me speechless, majesty.”

“I doubt that, highness.” He twined the silk around both their hands, joining them in an imitation of the kirok handfasting. “Are you certain you won’t join me? The nights will be cold without you.”

“I have no wish to travel north at this time of year. I’m enjoying my autumn without ice and snow. Besides, Cormac is ailing, and I don’t trust your uncle. You need someone here to watch the kingdom.”

“I suppose I knew you would say that.” He untied the silk and put his arms around her waist. “One more kiss?”

“If I must.” His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her. His hands slid up her back, under her hair, and his mouth drifted down her neck. She sighed.
He is very good at this.

At last, he pulled away from her and stared down, satisfied. He smiled and lifted the blue silk. “Thank you for this. I will think of you every time I hold it.”

If it keeps you away from Olwyn Mac Rian, it will serve its purpose.
“I am pleased that you like it.”

They walked out of the great hall arm in arm. He mounted his horse and reached down to grasp her hand. “Commander, I’m trusting you to be at the lady’s service while I’m gone. Please escort her wherever she’d like to go.”

Logan bowed. “As you wish, your majesty.”

Igraine met Braedan’s eyes.
He trusts me.
“Safe journey.”

He squeezed her hand and winked at her with a roguish grin. The drumroll began, and the king led the retinue out the castle gates.

Igraine’s eyes stung. Logan held out a kerchief. “Damn cold air,” she said.

“Of course, my lady.” He offered his arm, and together, they wound their way back to the castle.

Her days fell into an easy routine once the king’s retinue left. She heard petitioners with Cormac and Ronan, and together, the three of them conducted the business of the state and the castle. She wrote letters and waited for responses. She wandered the city, Logan and her ladies at her side, and greeted the merchants and commoners alike. The more she knew of them, the more she could picture herself as queen of Taura.

A week after the king’s departure, Logan came to her study one afternoon. One of her maids let him in, and Igraine looked up from her work. “Commander. What can I do for you?”

“I thought I might be able to offer you something, highness. It’s a beautiful day. Would you like to go riding?”

“I have a fair bit of work to do. Petitioners are trying to get home before winter snows hit. I don’t want them held up.”

“Perhaps you will find it easier to concentrate after some fresh air.”

His voice carried an urgency she’d learned to recognize. He gave a barely perceptible nod. “All right. Let me change.”

“I’ll have the horses saddled.”

When she arrived in the stables, he was waiting with a white mare and his own gray stallion. They rode toward the north gates of the castle and reined in near a large round stone building with a high roof.

The former smokehouse was one of the first buildings erected at the castle site. When the earliest kings and queens of Taura needed a place to stay while the great castle was built, they had used the building for living quarters. In later years, it was used for a smokehouse and then a storage building. At Igraine’s insistence, Braedan had ordered it made hospitable for the sayas.

Igraine didn’t relish the idea of seeing Sayana Muriel. “Must this be done today?”

He nodded as he helped her off her horse. “I wanted to send this lady off some while ago, but you were busy with the king. The lady has family in the north. If she leaves now, she can reach them before the snows are too heavy.”

“Who is it?”

“Saya Cait.”

Igraine nodded. She let Logan open the door for her and entered the building as she removed her riding hat and gloves.

The sayas had turned the interior of the building into a warm, inviting home. Logan had ordered bunks and modest furniture built for them, and the women had used every bit of it. Beds lined the curve of one side of the building, and other portions of the interior were dedicated for washing clothing, preparing meals, and storing food. A small door led to a fenced yard where they could walk on sunny days, and Igraine knew they were making plans to plant a small garden in the spring.