Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Mathison opened the bedroom door for Mynlis, breathing somewhat easier when Calia didn’t open her eyes or move from her tightly curled position in the crimson wingback armchair.
The sight of her suffering like a terrified stray was heart-wrenching.
A change in realities often caused physical distress to those most sensitive to the ebb and flow of time’s tapestry.
He longed to hold her, comfort her, lend her his strength, but knew, at the moment, that would only make matters worse.
The efficient housekeeper marched into the room with a pair of maids while pressing a finger to her lips in a stern command for silence.
The young selkie shifters nodded and hurried to sort the trays with fresh tea and toast, and a pot that possessed the nose-tingling scent of steeping herbs.
They stoked the fire and saw to the chamber pot before hurrying back out of the room.
Mathison closed the door behind them, then leaned back against it, eyeing the poor woman who had been ripped away from everything she had ever known.
At least her dog had managed the transition well.
Otto was currently sniffing and exploring every bit of Wraith Tower.
A team of maids and footmen followed him, keeping him out of harm’s way.
“Might we should let her sleep?” Dubh asked in a hushed voice as if Calia could hear him.
“I promised to tell her of the curse,” Mathison said, speaking aloud but quietly.
It no longer mattered if she overheard him talking with his wolf.
He went to the trays on the cabinet and prepared a cup of the herbal mixture that Mynlis had promised would help.
It smelled like brackish bog water, but if the housekeeper swore it would chase away Calia’s pain, then it would. Selkies knew their remedies.
He crossed the room, knelt in front of Calia, and gently touched her arm. “Lass—.”
Her eyes flew open, and she flinched away from him as if she had forgotten who he was.
“Calia, ’tis me. Mathison.”
She blinked rapidly while rubbing her forehead. “Mathison,” she repeated in a raspy whisper. “Sorry. Of course, it’s you.”
A raging protectiveness surged through him. “Who hurt ye, lass?”
She squinted up at him and curled tighter into herself. “I fell asleep, and you startled me. That’s all.” Wrinkling her nose, she eyed the cup with a look of disgust. “What is that unholy smell?”
“Hold yer breath and drink it. Mynlis swears it will help take away the pain in yer head.”
The murky brew swirled in the cup as though it were a living being. Calia drew back from it. “That looks…questionable.”
“It will bring ye no harm. Mynlis can be trusted.” The loyal selkie outcast had saved his life with her healing remedies on more than one occasion. “Shall I taste it first? Would that help ye trust it?”
She pushed it toward him. “Go for it.”
Bracing himself for the worst, he hazarded a sip and forced himself not to react. “If ye dinna breathe with it on yer tongue, it goes down easier.” While she gave the concoction another dubious look, he fetched her a cup of water to wash away the aftertaste. “Here, lass. To chase it with.”
After a deep breath, she downed the herbal, then hurried to follow it with the cup of water. A hard shudder overtook her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
He ran to fetch the clean chamber pot and held it in front of her. “Here, lass, if it comes back out, ye can try again later.”
With her mouth still covered, she forced a hard swallow several times, then sagged back, deeper into the chair with her head once more pillowed on the armrest. “I think we’re good. For now.”
He set the pot on the floor beside the chair just in case. “Will ye have a piping hot cup of tea now? The maids brought a fresh crock of honey up with the tray. That might help rid ye of that taste too.”
“Maybe with just a little honey.” She started to rise. “But I can get it.”
He stopped her. “Nay, lass. Allow me. Please.” The guilt he bore for her wretched state was killing him.
If there was anything he could do to ease her suffering, he would gladly do it.
He poured her a cup, sweetened it a bit, and brought it to her along with one of Cook’s biscuits.
“Here ye are. The biscuit might help settle ye as well since ye’ve had nothing to break yer fast.”
She pushed herself upright, keeping her feet tucked up under her. “Thank you. I guess the stress is bringing me back-to-back migraines.”
“Crossing the Veil often causes pain.” Shifters also suffered in such a manner whenever their inner beings had difficulty taking form, but it was best he not share that with her just yet, since she didn’t seem to realize her inner voice was the pale alpha.
At least, if Dubh was correct about the identity of the voice he’d overheard.
“Ye appear to be highly sensitive to the many threads of the tapestry.”
She eyed him over the rim of her cup as she sipped. With one eye squinted shut, she dipped the biscuit into the tea, then nibbled on it, flinching as though biting the baked morsel caused her pain. “You mentioned a curse?”
With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in his chair. “Aye. The curse I have borne since the death of my wife.” He scrubbed his face with both hands, then blew out a heavy sigh. “It happened three hundred years ago—”
“Wait.” Calia nearly spilled her tea as she jerked to sit up straighter. “What?”
Feckin’ hell. Might as well get that revelation out of the way as well. He was already as good as damned in her eyes. He could see it as plain as day. “I am seven hundred years old.”
“You are seven hundred years old,” she repeated. “That is not possible.”
“It is verra possible here, lass. Shifters live thousands of years. Even though a bit of silver streaks my hair, I am not considered old by any means.” Her pallor concerned him. “Would ye be more comfortable in the bed?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable again.” She placed her tea and what remained of her biscuit on the small table beside the chair, then curled back into the tight little ball of earlier.
He fetched a blanket and tucked it around her. “I am so sorry.”
“So you keep saying.”
His heart fell. “I know, lass, but I truly mean it.”
“Continue your story.” Her icy aloofness from when they first met had returned in full force. She’d surrounded herself with walls thicker than Wraith Tower’s fortifications.
There was naught to be done but get on with it. He decided not to mention that once they reunited their souls, her lifespan would match his.
“It was an arranged marriage,” he said, “to strengthen the clan of my wife’s origin and provide an heir to my throne.
” He leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees and rubbing his hands together.
“Aluwyn of Clan Silverwood was a good woman. Kind and just. An appropriate match to help me rule the Realm with the honesty and fairness the people deserved.”
“But you didn’t love her.”
“No, and neither did she love me. What we shared was an amiable companionship born of circumstances.” He resettled himself in the chair, unable to sit still. “It pleased all the clans when she conceived so quickly.”
Calia gathered the blanket tighter around her. “But it didn’t please you?”
He paused before answering, choosing his words with care. “At the time, I wished to wait to ensure the child was mine.”
“Had she been unfaithful to you?”
The hint of concern in her tone gave him a bit of hope. “No. But I possessed doubts because the conception happened with such speed. We had only coupled a few times. Such fertility is rare among shifters—even those known to have found their fated mates.”
“I see.” She shifted in the chair and reached for her tea. “Go on.”
“She died bringing my sons into the world. Talon and Tanner were fine, strong lads, but their mother was not. Aluwyn had always been a fragile thing, and becoming a mother was her undoing.” He bowed his head.
“Her last words were, ‘Tell my sons I will always watch over them.’” He swallowed hard, still touched by his wife’s powerful spirit even though he had never loved her. “She was a good woman.”
“But she cursed you before she died?” Calia recovered her half-eaten biscuit from the table, dipped it in her tea, and nibbled on it, while never taking her gaze from him.
“No. Her mother did. Clan Silvercord’s witch, Bansys.”
“She blamed you for her daughter’s death?” Calia frowned. “That hardly seems fair. Did she not realize the two of you might have children? Or did she not have a say about her daughter marrying you?”
“’Twas she who arranged the match.” A wry snort escaped him. “Chieftain Lanrick might be the head of the Silvercord Clan, but old Bansys is the neck. Nothing happens there without her approval.”
“So, what is the curse other than her taking your children away?” Calia flinched. “Sorry. That sounded heartless. Having your children ripped away is curse enough, but I sense there’s more.”
“My life was stripped from me. Rather than be known as Grand Chieftain Mathison Shadowmist, ruler over all the clans of the shifters of the Ninth Realm, I am now the Wraith—the spirit cursed to wander the lands. Anyone who ever knew me as my true self thinks me dead, because the curse prevents them from recognizing me. Whenever I attempt to stir the memories of my closest friends or any of my origin clan, Clan Shadowmist, I disappear into a swirling mist before their verra eyes, even though I still stand before them. They become blind to me.” He gripped the arms of the chair so tightly that the wood splintered, but he didn’t care.
“My sons think their father died the same night as their mother, leaving them in the care of their mother’s clan.
Bansys murdered my entire being without so much as touching a hair on my body. ”