24
The lavender-and-poppy tincture had soothed Idhri into sleep.
Braithe peeked around his curtain now and again to be sure his eyes were still closed.
Satisfied that he was resting, she wandered the house, worrying about Morgana, trying to cope with the shock of the things Emerlyn had said.
She had begun to think of the councillor as an ally, as someone to be trusted.
She was sympathetic to their cause, at least, but to say such things about humans—to think such things—it was more than Braithe could comprehend.
She supposed Emerlyn was simply a product of her culture.
As far as Braithe knew, the councillor had never traveled beyond the confines of the White City.
The only humans Emerlyn knew were servants.
Inferiors, in her view. Not to be maltreated, perhaps, but neither to be respected.
Perhaps the Rule had been meant to protect the fae from learning about humans, rather than protecting humans from the fae themselves.
She herself would have been a different woman if she had never left the croft.
She would not have learned the skills of an acolyte.
She would have no idea of what lavender tincture could do, for example, or any of the dozens of other remedies she had studied and been taught to prepare.
She wouldn’t know how to forage for the beneficial herbs and nourishing plants that hid in the forest glens.
And she would never, in her wildest dreams, have thought herself capable of magic.
She grew weary of trying to make sense of it all, and tiptoed back into the kitchen to have another peek behind Idhri’s makeshift curtain.
The curtain had been pulled back. It hung half open across the entrance to the tiny room. Her heart began to race, and she hurried the length of the kitchen to be certain.
It was true. Idhri’s cot was empty. There was nowhere in the little niche he could be hiding, nor could he have passed her in the hallway, unseen.
Her heart thudding so hard she could hear it, she spun in a circle, wondering how he could possibly have left the house without her knowledge. Or without a cantrip!
When she realized what he had done, she gave an anguished cry, though there was no one to hear.
Those small, high windows were unreachable for someone of her size, but Idhri’s legs were twice the length of hers.
His body was whip-thin, with the flexibility only the very young possessed, and he had managed to wriggle through one of those unglazed windows without making a sound.
There was no point in searching the rest of the house. He was gone.
Idhri was sorry to worry Braithe, but he had heard the councillor describe the penalties for Skye and Faolin.
They were not enough. Giving up their homes, their possessions, was nothing.
Even losing their magic was a minor punishment.
He would never shake the ghastly memory of Skye casually ending his mother’s life as if she were no more than a partridge to be roasted on the cook fire.
It ran over and over in his head, torturing him.
If he did not avenge Ainslie’s murder, he could never rest again.
He didn’t tell Braithe his plan. She would only try to talk him out of it. She had a soft heart and had been kind to him. He would never forget that, no matter what was about to happen. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had no choice. He hoped she wouldn’t think he was ungrateful.
He put on his servant’s clothes and belted Skye’s knife beneath his tunic, having to wrap the belt twice around his narrow middle to secure it.
Cautious and silent, he climbed onto the edge of the sink, then lifted himself up to the window above it.
The opening was too small, but he edged himself into it by turning his shoulders at an angle.
He managed to scramble through, winning painful scrapes on his shoulders and his knees.
For a moment he hung from the outer sill by his fingers, listening for any sign that Braithe knew he had escaped.
When he heard nothing, he dropped down into the garden.
Clambering up and over the garden wall was easy.
When he reached the lane, he double-checked that the knife was still in place, then broke into a trot toward the boulevard.
Vivyan had said he could never find his way through the city on his own, but she was wrong. He had paid attention, as he had been taught, noting every turn, every street and lane. He knew precisely how to get to Skye’s house.
In his servant’s clothes, no one paid him the slightest attention as he traversed the boulevard and then the lanes that led to his destination.
The knife was heavy and cold against his skin, jostling as he hurried, growing warmer with the heat of his body.
The afternoon sun burned his head and the back of his neck.
The reflective white walls of the buildings turned every street into a furnace, and by the time he reached Skye’s house, he was dripping with perspiration.
He knew it was possible the fae would not be at home, but he told himself he would wait.
He could lurk in one of the alleys, although he would much rather not.
He had no fear that he would lose his nerve, but he didn’t want to spend hours in anticipation.
He meant to do what needed to be done as quickly as he could, then race back to the guesthouse so Braithe wouldn’t worry any longer than necessary.
He wouldn’t hide. He wouldn’t deny anything.
He would accept whatever punishment she and Priestess Morgana wanted to mete out.
At least he had no magic to be taken away.
He approached Skye’s house and was relieved to see the fae moving past one of the windows, carrying something in his hands. Idhri moved closer. Skye was collecting things from cupboards and packing them into a case. Losing his house was part of his penalty. Idhri wondered if he had someplace to go.
But it didn’t matter. Skye, the seducer, the murderer, wasn’t going anywhere.
Idhri patted his waist to assure himself the knife was ready, then banged on the door of the house with his fist.
In moments Skye stood in the doorway, his eyes dark and angry. “I guessed it was you,” he growled. “No one knocks on doors in the White City. It’s vulgar.”
Idhri ignored that. “I know what you did,” he said. His voice broke despite his efforts to keep it steady. His throat suddenly dried, and he swallowed to moisten it.
Skye leaned against the doorjamb. “You don’t know anything, boy. Nothing.”
“I do. I remembered.”
Skye looked Idhri up and down as if he were a carcass in the abattoir, ready for butchering. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “If you had some kind of nightmare, it’s not—”
“It wasn’t a nightmare! It was real. I saw you do it. My mother—” To his horror, Idhri choked on a sob.
“Your mother.” Skye’s mouth curled in his mirthless grin. “I don’t even remember her name. Pretty at first, but as you’ll find out, humans don’t age well.”
“Her name,” Idhri cried, “was Ainslie. And you murdered her!”
“Do you say so? I don’t recall.”
“I do say so, because I do recall, and you’re going to pay for it!” Idhri pulled the knife from beneath his tunic and held it in his fist. His lips were trembling, but he couldn’t steady them. The image came to him again and again, as fresh as if it had just happened.
Skye eyed the knife, still grinning, and laughed. “Well, look at you!” He reached inside his own shirt and pulled out a different knife.
It was a terrifying weapon. It was twice as long as the one Idhri had, with a blade of dark steel and a point that glittered in the sunlight.
Skye’s grin faded as he held up his knife for Idhri to get a good look. When he spoke, his voice was silky, dripping with menace. “Did you think I only had one knife to my name, half-blood? That wasn’t very smart. You do realize if I dispatch you now, I evade the penalty?”
“I don’t care!” Idhri was crying then, his mouth crumpling, tears running down his cheeks. “You killed her! My poor mother, you just—you just—” He couldn’t finish. There was no point in any case, because Skye wouldn’t care what he said. Skye didn’t care about anything as far as Idhri could tell.
The time had come. Idhri thrust aside any squeamishness, any reluctance, and lunged at the fae with his knife held out before him.
Skye made a gesture with one hand. While Idhri charged into the doorway, ready to stab, Skye suddenly wasn’t there.
Without Idhri seeing him move, Skye was outside on the walk, his long knife balanced in his hand.
Idhri, deceived by the glamour, nearly fell, and had to catch himself on the wall. He spun to face his enemy.
“You’re overmatched, half-blood,” Skye said softly. “I thought I had dealt with you long ago. Weakness on my part, but it won’t happen again.” He turned his knife in his fist, the point out, and ran at Idhri.
Time abruptly slowed to a crawl. Idhri’s tears dried.
His lips no longer trembled, nor did he feel any emotion, but he saw every movement Skye made.
It was as if he were rowing but had begun wielding his oars backward.
He had plenty of time to observe the placement of the fae’s feet, the flex of his jaw, the tensing of his arm as he lifted his knife.
He saw the tendons stand out in Skye’s neck as he prepared to strike.
With his free hand, Skye made another gesture and appeared in the hall again, his knife flashing toward Idhri’s heart.
But Idhri wasn’t there.
This time he had seen through the glamour.
He was young and lithe and assisted by Priestess Morgana’s charm.
He felt as if he possessed some half-fae magic of his own as he crouched low, tucking his own knife to his chest, then rolled beyond Skye’s reach.
The knife strike meant for Idhri collided with the wall.
The blade skittered to one side. Skye grunted, and Idhri guessed his shoulder still hurt, more so because the knife had not found its softer target.
Idhri leaped to his feet, brandishing his smaller knife. Time resumed its momentum, and when he spoke, his voice settled into the deep range of manhood. “Come and get me!”
All fear had evaporated, leaving in its place a surge of bloodlust. It was a new sensation, powerful and hungry, and he had no wish to deny it. He taunted, “Come and get me if you can, murderer!”
Skye snarled, “You’re going to pay for this, half-blood!”
“Son, you mean?” Idhri cried. He bounced on his toes, readying himself for the next attack. “Can’t bring yourself to say it?” He feinted, dancing forward, then back, his knife straight out toward Skye’s chest.
Skye tried to make the gesture again, the one that created the glamour, but Idhri anticipated him.
He slashed at Skye’s hand, and the fae had to snatch it out of the way, ruining his attempt.
“Fool!” Skye shouted. “This ends now!” Made careless by his frustration and his fury, he threw himself toward Idhri.
Idhri, in his exaggerated awareness, saw clearly that the longer knife would reach him before his shorter one could slash at Skye.
He twisted his body so that Skye’s knife sliced past him and into empty air.
The momentum made the fae lose his balance, and though he tried to catch himself, he stumbled over the doorsill and fell backward onto the path.
Idhri, with a wordless cry of triumph, leaped forward.
He raised his knife, ready to plunge it into Skye’s body, exactly what the fae had done to his mother.
He felt no compunction, no reluctance, no hesitation.
He was convinced of the rightness of it and gratified by the justice.
He craved the satisfaction. He readied his grip and stabbed downward.
His knife stopped before it reached its target.
Idhri gasped, shocked. It had not been his intention to stop. Something—someone—had stopped him.
When he heard her deep voice, he knew what had happened.
“We will deal with him, Idhri. There is no need for you to bear this on your conscience.”
Slowly, panting now, caught in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, Idhri straightened.
He was angry at being interrupted, but he was also, deep in his heart, relieved not to have felt his knife pierce a man’s flesh.
He longed for revenge, but he also felt a wash of gratitude that it would not be he who had to deal it out.
He looked at the knife, shaking now in his hands, rendered impotent.
With a cry of frustration and confusion, Idhri hurled the knife into the street, where it clanged against the cobblestones and rolled to a stop.
He was shaking. His chest heaved as if he had been running, and sweat trickled over his ribs. His empty hand yearned for the knife even as his heart fluttered with relief, and time returned to its usual pace.
When Skye started to get up, Priestess Morgana spoke again. “Skye, stay where you are. Idhri, come to us.”
Idhri turned. Priestess Morgana, her silver hair brilliant in the slanting light of the waning afternoon, stood with one arm extended, the palm glistening as if a lamp burned there.
She kept her eyes on Skye, who had frozen in place.
Braithe was beside the priestess, and she held out a hand to Idhri.
Her eyes brimmed with sympathy and understanding. He saw no criticism in them.
Morgana picked up Idhri’s knife and stepped forward, taking care to keep Skye bound, and took his as well. She gave both to Braithe, and then, with a flick of her fingers, she released the fae man.
He made a small, painful-sounding noise in his throat as his agency returned. Slowly, he pushed himself up, straightening until he was upright. In a halfhearted way, he made the glamour-creating gesture with his hand, the same sign he had made before, but the glamour didn’t materialize.
“You see. You have used the last of your magic, Skye,” Morgana said. “The council ruled a short while ago, and they have blocked it. You will never use it again.”
Skye’s mouth opened, and for a moment he stared at the priestess as if he might beg for her mercy. When he closed his lips, apparently understanding a plea would be pointless, his features sagged. He put a hand to his injured shoulder, looking as if he had aged a lifetime since the morning.
“You are banished from the White City,” Morgana said.
Skye said, his harsh voice weak with fear, “Then where am I to go?”
“Try the Romans,” Morgana said. “I understand they are tolerant of murderers.”
His eyes flashed up to hers, but there was no defiance left in them. “The Romans,” he muttered. “They would enslave me.”
Morgana said, “Probably,” and turned her back on him. She addressed Braithe and Idhri together. “We can go home.”
“By the Lady’s hand,” Braithe whispered.
Idhri said, though his throat was dry and his mouth felt full of ashes, “May it be so.”