The Renegade's Heart (38 page)

The man smiled. “What good fortune, then that
I count four. His choice to descend into the known danger of this
place to see his family property returned is another, for he knows
the tale of Tynan’s death.”

The Elphine Queen fumed.

The other man slanted a glance at Elizabeth
that filled Alexander with dread, then disappeared in a flash of
light.

“No!” the lady raged, but there was a crack
as loud as thunder. Rock rumbled overhead, dust beginning to fall
as the cavern shifted. Alexander could hear stones beginning to
move and was certain they would all be swept into the sea.

The lady screamed as the orb in her hand
cracked like an egg. It split open and the heart within
disappeared. Murdoch fell to his knees and Alexander feared the
worst. But when he looked up at Isabella, his pallor had
disappeared and the marks on his skin had faded. It was clear his
heart pounded with new vigor.

Alexander had a moment to believe Murdoch
hale, then that man cried out in pain. He tore at his chausses, his
horror evident as he exposed a festering wound that ran the length
of his thigh. It was putrid with infection, as sure a portent of
death as there could be. Murdoch looked up in a daze, his eyes
glittering with fever and his face suddenly flushed.

“You could have had your every desire,” the
lady hissed. “You have your choice, mortal, though you will not
have long to savor it. I return you as I found you.” Her eyes
glittered as she smiled. “You see that, in the end, I will always
have my due. I do not like to lose.”

With a flash of light, she disappeared.
Murdoch tumbled to the ground, unconscious, and Isabella cried out
as she fell to her knees beside him. The dust was falling in
earnest amongst them, gravel and small stones mixed into the
cascade.

Alexander leapt forward, freed from the spell
that had kept him motionless, and seized Isabella’s arm. “Run for
the bailey!” he told her. “Run with Elizabeth and get to
safety.”

“But Murdoch!” she protested.

“Take the relic. Take the cup and chalice. I
will see him to safety.”

Isabella’s eyes filled with tears. She
touched Alexander’s shoulder and pushed the chalice into
Elizabeth’s hands. The fair-haired squire of Murdoch’s grabbed the
platter, and Rhys lifted Murdoch’s shoulders. Alexander took
Murdoch’s other side, the older man who had accompanied the knight
grasping his boots. The dark-haired squire seized his master’s
sword, and cleared rubble as they hastened out of the collapsing
caverns.

* * *

Once again, Ravensmuir rumbled and once
again, the caverns collapsed. Isabella pushed Elizabeth out into
the light, the ground shaking beneath their feet. “The horses!” she
cried. “Get them beyond the curtain wall where the land is
solid.”

Elizabeth ran, Murdoch’s squire fast behind
her. Isabella could not leave until she knew for certain that
everyone was safe. The ground heaved and shuddered, and she gasped
as the rock began to cascade toward the sea.

“We are here!” Alexander cried as they lunged
over the last of the rubble. The men carried Murdoch between them,
his wound terrifying Isabella with its severity. Gavin stumbled out
of the shadows last, but Isabella caught his arm and hauled him
toward safety.

Ravensmuir’s bailey shook.

Rock grumbled.

They had no sooner reached the curtain wall
than the entire point of land fell into the sea in an avalanche. It
made a ferocious noise as the rock crackled and splintered and
fell, then splashed into the ocean.

Isabella held the reliquary tightly against
her chest, thinking of what a near miss they had had. It was barely
midday, the sky clear and the sun high overhead. The wind was
utterly still, for the first time in weeks. She looked down at the
massive tumble of rocks now in the sea.

“And so falls Merlyn’s pride, Tynan’s bane
and Malcolm’s legacy,” Alexander said quietly and Isabella paused
beside him to consider the wreckage.

“I hope the spriggans were not killed,”
Elizabeth said, standing on Isabella’s other side. “They are vexing
creatures, but still I would not wish them dead like this.”

“They might have escaped through the portal
to the realm of the Fae,” Isabella said, wanting only to cheer her
sister.

Elizabeth brightened. “I shall hope that they
did.”

Isabella could only wonder where they would
erupt into the mortal sphere again.

“There were so many of them in recent days,
as if they gathered for some purpose. Perhaps they have embarked
upon it,” Elizabeth concluded with a nod. It was clear the idea
consoled her, though Isabella would be glad to never see a spriggan
again.

Alexander slid his arm over Isabella’s
shoulders then. “I am sorry,” he said, giving her an intent look.
“I misunderstood Murdoch Seton.”

“He gave you cause to do so,” Isabella said,
taking a deep breath. “But he had little choice.”

“I see that now. I see too that you love him,
that he loves you, and that he fights to live.” Her brother
squeezed her shoulders tightly. “Come. Let us take him to
Kinfairlie. If any healers can save him, ’twill be you and Eleanor
together.”

Isabella took one look at Murdoch’s wound and
wanted to cry. “I am not certain...”

“You must believe,” Alexander whispered with
heat. “For if you have not the faith that you can heal him, then
you will not. So it is that we give life to our dreams.”

* * *

Despite Alexander’s conviction, Isabella knew
from Eleanor’s initial reaction that this battle would not be
easily won. Still, Eleanor was not readily daunted. With Isabella
as her right hand, she called for fire and she called for water.
She lanced that wound and pushed the toxin from it. She bathed it
and wrapped it in herbs, and merely a few hours later, they
repeated the sequence again.

When evening fell, Isabella insisted that
Eleanor rest, for she was clearly weary. She did as Eleanor had
done, all the night long, knowing that she would not sleep until
Murdoch was recovered.

Morning’s light revealed little difference.
Indeed, the wound seemed to breed disease with startling speed. The
wound was clean, but deep, but his fever raged and the pus was
endless. He did not awaken, not once.

Eleanor took one look at him in the morning,
and frowned at Isabella’s tidings. “It will be thirst that kills
him,” she said grimly. “Unless we can turn the tide.”

All the day, they labored as one, and not a
whit of difference could either discern. They tried to trickle
water into his mouth, but his lips were so firmly clenched that he
might have willed to go without. His hands were clenched into
fists, and Isabella wondered what battle waged within his
thoughts.

And so that night passed as the first, and
the second day as the first. His breathing changed, for it became
more shallow, and his pulse weakened. His skin became more pale and
those lines were more clearly visible than before.

As they sat vigil, Isabella told Eleanor all
that she knew, and the older woman’s manner grew more quiet. They
both remained with him for the third night, as Eleanor would not
leave him. His breath has begun to rattle in his chest.

“You should sleep,” Eleanor said to Isabella
without meeting her gaze. “Go upstairs and sleep. I shall do all
that can be done here.”

Isabella straightened, recognizing her
mentor’s tone. “You think he will die this night.”

“I think you should not be here this night,”
Eleanor said, her tone both firm and practical, her gaze fixed upon
Murdoch. “You love him. Think of him in the moment when he claimed
your heart.”

“I will not leave his side!”

“What you witness this night might haunt you
forevermore,” Eleanor said quietly. “I think only of your welfare,
Isabella.”

“I know. But I will not leave him.” Isabella
fell to her knees beside the other woman. “Would you leave
Alexander?”

Eleanor smiled fleetingly. “No, I would not.
You are right in that.” She reached out and squeezed Isabella’s
hand.

Isabella felt that her heart was in her
throat and that she could not take a breath. She did not wish to
see Murdoch die, nor did she wish to abandon him. Would the Elphine
Queen claim him all the same? She blinked back her tears.

Only to find a bearded man in glowing raiment
crouch down beside her. “A feeble victory,” he murmured, his
expression one of concern. “Yet again, her sorcery surprises
me.”

“Can you not aid him?” Isabella asked, aware
that Eleanor looked askance at her.

“I do my best,” Eleanor whispered, clearly
not seeing the Fae king.

“And I have done mine,” Finvarra added with a
smile. He reached out and let his hand hover over the wound,
grimacing at whatever he discerned. He flicked a glance at Isabella
as he withdrew his hand. “What was it that he risked so much to
regain?”

“The hand of the Magdalene,” Isabella said,
not truly thinking about such mundane details. Surely Murdoch could
not die.

“The hand of the Magdalene?” Eleanor glanced
up. “Is it not reputed to heal?”

Isabella gasped. “It is!”

Eleanor shrugged and pushed to her feet,
Moira there immediately to rub her back. “I am not much for such
remedies, but it cannot hurt at this point.” She turned and raised
her voice. “Anthony! Will you send word to Father Malachy, that he
should come and bring the relic destined for Seton Manor?”

“Of course, my lady,” the castellan said,
bowing deeply.

But Isabella had already fled to the village
to do that very thing.

* * *

Murdoch found himself in a dark forest, one
filled with fog and menace. It seemed an endless wood, for he could
find no path out of it, nor discern any place where the trees
thinned and the sky was brighter. He wandered endlessly, uncertain
how far he had walked, where he was or where he arrived. There was
neither day nor night in that forest, just an overwhelming shadow
of grey.

And silence. Silence unbroken.

There was a deep frost claiming his body, an
ice that claimed his sinews and froze his very bones. It emanated
from his thigh, from the blow that had changed everything in his
life. He was delirious and he knew it. He hoped only that it did
not begin to snow.

There was a river in that endless forest, its
surface like a black mirror, and when he bathed in it or drank from
it, he caught glimpses of people he had known and loved. They were
insubstantial, unaware of him, passing like mist in the wind.

He had only just realized that they were all
dead, when the fire touched his body. It seared him like a raging
inferno, shooting through his veins like Greek fire and exploding
in his chest. He was certain that flames sprouted from his
fingertips, that sparks danced from his hair, that his skin itself
crackled and burned.

But when Murdoch opened his eyes, there was
sunshine. Golden sunlight spilled over him, warming him with its
caress. The forest was gone, the darkness was banished, and his
Isabella, tears running down her cheeks, leaned toward him.

“Murdoch!” she whispered in wonder. “You
awaken!”

He saw a blond woman behind her. On his other
side was a priest, one who held the reliquary destined for Seton
Manor, and that treasure seemed to glow with unholy light.

“He awakens!” the blond woman cried and
Murdoch heard footsteps.

Behind the woman appeared the Laird of
Kinfairlie, a small boy on his shoulders, and Rhys, the cursedly
effective Rhys, another young boy on his shoulders. Rhys’ lady
stood behind him, their babe in her arms. There were two other
young women, who must have been Isabella’s other sisters were
there, one with auburn hair and one with hair of ebony. Murdoch saw
Stewart, that man’s lined face alight, and Gavin gave a hoot of joy
beside him.

They were all smiling at him, as if he had
come back from the dead.

Murdoch tried to move and to speak, only then
realizing how weak his body had become. “My Isabella,” he
whispered, and she lifted a cup of water to his lips. “My Isabella,
there is a silver ring in my purse. I would be honored if you would
be my wife and wear that ring upon your hand.” He took another sip
of water with her aid as Gavin hastened to fetch his purse. “I
would ask your brother for his blessing, but I believe your uncle
has already given us one.”

“And I would wed you either way,” Isabella
whispered as she kissed his cheek. She trailed one hand down his
face and he knew he was a sight, but if she could look upon him
with such favor in this state, that she must love him. “Your eyes
are blue again.”

“Because my Isabella healed me,” he said.
“Just as I always knew she would.” And he caught her close,
pressing a kiss into her hair, profoundly glad that she would be
his Isabella for all his days and nights.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

The wedding service was all Isabella might
have dreamed it could be.

It was the first of February, the morn after
the new moon, when she and Murdoch were to exchange their vows. The
morning dawned crisp and clear, the sky cloudless with nary a
breath of wind. Moira pronounced the weather a good portent for the
match, although Isabella needed no such warranty.

Kinfairlie’s keep had been noisy these past
weeks in preparation for Isabella’s nuptials. Madeline and Rhys
were already present, of course, which was fortunate for they lived
at the greatest distance. Vivienne and Erik had journeyed south
from Blackleith, their young daughters racing through Kinfairlie’s
hall each day until they dropped with exhaustion. Roland was
enchanted with his cousins, and – even better – Eleanor’s stomach
had finally settled.