Читать книгу Silver's Edge - Anne Kelleher - Страница 13

“Slide the bolt,” Cadwyr said from the shadows, as Donnor turned away from the door. “What’d she want? I thought you said she never comes here.”

The insolence with which Cadwyr referred to Cecily made Donnor frown. Angry as the sight of Cecily and Kian together made him, it burned in his stomach to lie to her. He was already taken off guard that Cadwyr should suddenly appear, just as afternoon was fading into dusk, unannounced and accompanied by only one companion—a companion who was standing still and silent beside the empty hearth, his black hood pulled low over his face. Donnor folded his arms across his chest and pinned Cadwyr with his most piercing stare. “So what’s this about, Cadwyr? Why have you come sneaking into my house like a thief in the night?”

Cadwyr grinned, showing even white teeth in a face many thought handsome, and glanced at the other. His nostrils flared, and Donnor narrowed his eyes. The younger man’s face was flushed, the color high in his broad cheekbones. There was a furtive quality about the way he hunched on the stool, in the way he clasped his hands together on the unpolished surface of the table and spoke in a hoarse voice so low it was nearly a whisper. “I’ve brought someone I want you to meet, Uncle.” He glanced once more at his companion, then licked his lips. He turned back to Donnor, eyes dancing in his sweat-streaked face with some suppressed emotion Donnor could not read. He looked at the stranger, standing so motionless and quiet beside Cadwyr, his black cloak falling around his tall, lean frame as fluid as a shadow. “Who are you?” Donnor barked. “Show yourself, man.”

The stranger bowed. “As you wish, my lord of Gar.”

Cadwyr made a sound that might have been a chuckle as Donnor hissed in reaction to that unmistakable cadence. The stranger raised black-gloved hands and pushed the deep cowl off his face, and for the space of a heartbeat, Donnor stood mesmerized. Coal-black curls fell in lush waves to the sidhe’s shoulders, framing a fine-boned face the palest shade of gold, in which green eyes glittered like emeralds in the wavering flame. A scent, sweet as summer meadows and clear water, rose from the folds of his garments. Then the implications of the presence of a sidhe in his own bedchamber broke the spell and he stepped back, staring in disbelief. “Cadwyr—by all that’s holy and all that isn’t—what have you done?”

Cadwyr coughed. “Uncle…Donnor, Duke of Gar, may I present the Lord Finuviel, Prince of the Sidhe.”

Donnor gasped. The creature before him glowed like a candle in the low-ceilinged room, which suddenly seemed far too small for all three of them. “Great Mother,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you’ve done this.” Heedless of the sidhe, he gripped Cadwyr by the upper arm and half-lifted, half-dragged him into the inner chamber, where his bed and a few chests beneath the windows were the only furnishings. He slammed the door shut, then rounded on Cadwyr. “Whatever are you thinking? If this is known, every poor wretch down there who isn’t dying of his wounds will die of terror. What about Far Nearing? Have you forgotten what we’re in the midst of here? What madness is this?” He tried to keep his voice to a low hiss, for from the open courtyard far below, the voices of the guards floated up in disembodied snatches, signaling the changing of the watch. He ran a hand over his balding head, forcing himself to remain calm. “First that disaster of a battle and now this. What in the name of the Great Mother are you thinking?”

Cadwyr glanced at the door, then looked back at Donnor, a wolfish smile on his face, bright hair gleaming like the morning sun. He reached out and gripped Donnor’s forearm, his eyes excited in the uncertain light. “That battle was no disaster, for they suffered losses as heavy as we did, if not heavier. But that’s of no matter now, Uncle, for I bring us hope—no, even better. I bring us victory—victory assured and certain.”

“Victory?” The word felt like gravel in Donnor’s throat. There was a damp flush on Cadwyr’s face and his lips were full, swollen, as if he’d just swallowed wine. He looked drunk or worse, thought Donnor, like a boy in his first rut. Donnor narrowed his eyes and shook free of Cadwyr’s eager grip. “Control yourself, man. That sidhe has you all unsettled.” He drew a deep breath to calm his own beating heart. “Now tell me, if you can, why you’ve brought this creature under my roof when it could be the ruin of everything before it’s scarcely begun?”

“Uncle.” Cadwyr’s voice quivered with suppressed excitement. “I am not moonmazed, I swear it. Finuviel has offered us victory; indeed, he hands it to us on a plate. We have a chance to strike decisively at the Queen before the main body of the Humbrian army reaches our shores. If we can crush them now—now while they believe we wait for the clans to rally—we can drive the Pretender and the Queen into the sea before the rest of the scum ever reaches our shore.”

Donnor hesitated, for the strategy that Cadwyr outlined was ideal. Indeed, it was why he so desperately awaited word that the chiefs had answered his call. But the idea that help could come from the sidhe—the Shining Ones who treated mortals as playthings at best—was so preposterous his mind refused to consider even the possibility. He snorted at the sheer absurdity. “And you believe him? No good ever comes of anything they meddle in for they delight in making fools of us and worse. Have you forgotten that some say they’re to blame for Hoell’s fits? And don’t you recall my own great-grandsire? He was trapped in TirNa’lugh more than a hundred years and when they finally let him go he was a wreck of a man. What’s this one promised you?”

“He’s promised us an army of the sidhe. Archers, foot and horse of his own house who can’t be slain by mortal weapon—”

“Save those of silver,” finished Donnor sourly. “And what’s he want of you?”

Cadwyr flushed a dark red and he drew back as though stung, but he lifted his head and met Donnor’s eyes with a brazen assurance. “Nothing that will matter to either of us. But I’ll let him explain. You’ll see.” A high thin wail curled through the open window as a lone piper called the changing of the watch, and Cadwyr jerked his head in the direction of the door. “Come, Uncle, the Prince is here. ’Tis rude to keep him waiting.” With a dark look, Donnor shouldered past Cadwyr, flung the door wide and strode back into the antechamber, where Finuviel waited beside the empty hearth. In the light of the single candle, he cast an enormous shadow against the dark bricks. “Why’ve you come here?” Donnor asked without preamble.

There was a brief pause while Cadwyr and Finuviel exchanged a look Donnor didn’t understand. Then the sidhe began to speak, and Donnor was forced to concentrate, lest he lose the thread of meaning in the seductive rise and fall of the sidhe’s speech. “I understand you mortals are at war amongst yourselves because you seek to wrest the throne of your country from the mad King who reigns over it, and from the foreign Councilors and the foreign Queen who rule in his stead.” As musical and as lilting as the voice was, it was yet entirely and completely masculine. Donnor blinked, trapped for a moment in the full thrall of that compelling stare, so vividly green in the candlelight, as Finuviel continued. “And just as you have need of my help to drive the foreign infection from your soil, I have need of yours.”

Repelled, but utterly fascinated, Donnor found himself wondering if Finuviel’s skin really were as velvety as it appeared, if the curls that spilled over his hood and brushed against his smooth-shaven chin were truly as soft as spun silk.

Abruptly Donnor straightened, even warier than before. “And what do the affairs of your kind have to do with us?”

Finuviel had grace enough to shrug. “Not a thing that need concern you, my lord Duke.” Once again his eyes locked with Donnor’s. They glittered with an alien light, so cold, so foreign, that despite the superficial perfection of his manner, his look sent a chill down Donnor’s spine.

“Then what kind of help do you look for from us?”

Cadwyr leaned forward, as if he feared Donnor would insult the sidhe. “My lord—”

“Hush, Cadwyr.” With a flick of his hand, Donnor silenced Cadwyr and turned back to confront Finuviel. “Let him answer.” The idea that there was something within their ken a sidhe needed enough to bargain for was even more unbelievable than Cadwyr’s sudden arrival in Finuviel’s company. For all the old stories—especially the ones about the great-grandsire who’d been seduced by the Queen of the Sidhe herself—emphasized that the sidhe treated humankind as playthings, and at best, in something of the same way as Donnor might a favored hound. He met the sidhe’s eyes and this time steeled himself against the beguiling charm. “Well?”

Finuviel’s gaze shifted to Cadwyr, who shrugged and answered. “He only wants a dagger, Donnor. I told you ’twas nothing we couldn’t provide easily. He only wants a dagger—a dagger made of silver.”

“Made of silver? What for?”

“That’s none of your concern, mortal.” Finuviel’s voice was so cold, Donnor swore the temperature in the stifling room dropped noticeably.

But Donnor was the veteran of more battles than together he and Cadwyr had years and he would not be intimidated. “You agree this is an unusual request, my lord sidhe. For a silver dagger must be commissioned—it’s not that we have such things lying stored. How soon must we produce this? And why would you be wanting or needing such a thing? Is not the touch of silver poison to all your kind?”

“The hilt will be of leather and bone,” burst in Cadwyr. “The blade itself won’t hurt him so long as he doesn’t touch it. And what does it matter to us how he means to use it? And as for where to find it, we go tomorrow night to get it.”

“Where?”

“I went to your favorite smith, Donnor. Dougal—the smith who forged your own sword.”

At that Donnor felt as though the air had been punched from his lungs, and he sagged as though he’d been struck. For a moment, he said nothing, as he gathered his scattered, racing thoughts. He wondered if perhaps exhaustion had finally brought on some sort of waking dream state. But the stench of his own sweat and the ache in his muscles assured him that he was indeed wide awake. “You went to Dougal?” he said at last. “Dougal of Killcairn?”

“And why not? Is he not most skilled? And there’s some story of how he was taken into Faerie—”

“It was his wife, not him,” Donnor muttered.

“That’s not the story I’ve heard.”

“What matter the story? What story did you tell him? What did he say when he saw a sidhe at his own door?” Donnor sat back, incredulous at Cadwyr’s daring. He could not imagine how Dougal had reacted, but something Cadwyr said must’ve convinced him to do such a thing. That or what Cadwyr had offered to pay. Or what Cadwyr had threatened to do. Suddenly a cold finger of fear traced itself down his back. What else would Cadwyr dare?

“I told him we needed such a dagger to win the throne of Brynhyvar. What else would I tell him but the truth? For that is the truth, Uncle. Think of it—a host of the sidhe—with such a force we need not wait for the northern chiefs to bestir themselves, nor crowd upon the walls, searching the horizon for signs of allies. We need not beg for favor or parley away that which is not even ours yet to parley. We need not rely on the strength of new friendships bandaged over old sores. With a company of the sidhe we can draw the foreign scum through the Ardagh Pass and drive them into the sea. Just think of it, Uncle.” Cadwyr shook Donnor’s forearm. “Think of it. Renvahr and the Queen can never prevail if we have troops that can’t be killed—”