Beyond a Darkened Shore(8)
Conall, who loved to argue for the pleasure of it, crossed his arms over his chest. “It would be wrong for us to leave you with this barbarian, milady.” He held his arm up to the light. “This is a mere scratch.”
“Even scratches can fester,” I said. “Go and tell my sisters I’ll be home before nightfall.”
“Come, Conall,” Fergus said with a grin. “The princess can handle herself, and I’m tired of the blood dripping in my eye.”
Conall’s face was a mask of disapproval. “That may be, but we shouldn’t leave her here for long. There’s always the possibility the other raiders saw where we took their leader.” His jaw flexed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just kill him and be done with it? The king will not approve of him being kept prisoner. If he finds out—”
“And what if this Northman knows what happened at the monastery? What if my father is dead?”
Fergus and Conall glanced at each other, sharing a look of dismay. Losing my father would be unthinkable for many reasons, the least of which being that it was no secret King Sigtrygg in Dubhlinn wanted our kingdom for himself. Or rather, its riches. And if my father was dead, the king of Dubhlinn wouldn’t waste time waging war to get it.
“He’s not dead,” Conall said, but anyone could see he said it to comfort himself.
“The princess has a point,” Fergus said. “If these Northmen raided the monastery, it’s unlikely they left anyone alive to send us word.”
I glanced at the Northman prisoner again. “And I’d rather know now.”
“If he’ll even answer you,” Conall said.
I glanced back at the Northman. “He’ll answer me.”
Fergus unsheathed his sword, still tinged red from the battle. “I have no doubt of that, milady. Conall, we should scout around before returning to the castle.”
Conall watched the prisoner for a moment as if hoping he’d suddenly wake. His lip curled when the Northman remained slumped over. “We’ll be back soon, cousin,” he said, and stalked out of the cave, Fergus on his heels.
I stood at the mouth of the cave until their footsteps had long since become undetectable. I hadn’t lied about wanting to find out if these Northmen were responsible for the raid, but I was also glad to be alone with my strange prisoner. I’d taken over the minds of men bigger and wiser and older than this boy, and yet he’d been able to resist. What was so special about him? It made me feel an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability.
And then the thought appeared in my mind: What if he’s like me—someone with power?
It wasn’t a wild thought. I knew I wasn’t entirely alone in having abilities beyond those of most people. There were those who had true visions, who could prophesy. Traders told of people who could do incredible things, like calm a storm at sea. And then there was what my own clansmen whispered about me: that I was a changeling. A faerie child switched at birth with her real human counterpart. Though changelings were rare, they weren’t unheard of, and none had ever turned out to be friendly toward humans—even to the ones who’d raised them. Everyone knew magic was alive and well in éirinn, despite the majority of its citizens being Christians. Christianity kept some of the monsters at bay . . . but not all.
My father forbade such talk about me; even rumors of it caused his face to go ruddy with rage. But it did not keep the talk from the castle, whispered behind our backs. As painful as it was to see the apprehension in the servants’ eyes, I couldn’t blame them. Truly, my power was terrifying.
Was this man powerful in ways I hadn’t encountered before? I picked a spot far out of reach of his chains and sat against the wall. I pulled my legs close to my body and wished I had my green-and-gold-trimmed cloak to ward off the chill. It was cold outside and still colder inside the cave, but at least I was sheltered from the wind. When my mind inevitably wandered to thoughts of the battle, I forced myself to think of other things. The story I would tell my sisters that night when they inevitably demanded one before bed, the sound of the waves crashing on the rock just outside, the chill dampness beneath my legs—anything but the blood and death and violence of battle.
After a time, the rattle of chains broke the silence. I turned to find the Northman staring at me with eyes that appeared dark in the low light. “I find it strange I am not dining in the halls of Valhalla this night,” he said in Norse-accented Gaelic.
It took me a moment to puzzle out his meaning. Valhalla was the “hall of the slain”—the Norse equivalent of heaven. Even in death, the Northmen continued their raiding and drinking.
I stood, and he watched my every move, his gaze tracing the lines of my body. I tried to remember I was a warrior in this instance and not a maiden. Still, heat crept up my neck. “I kept you for questioning,” I said. “There are things I need to know.”
“What makes you think I will answer?” he asked, his voice lightly taunting.
“Either that or I leave you here to die.”
A ghost smile appeared briefly. “Fair enough, meyja.”
I knew only a handful of words in Norse, so I didn’t know what he’d called me, but his expression said it was meant to be mocking. “How do you speak Gaelic so well?” I asked, an edge creeping into my voice. “I thought you Northmen too barbaric to bother learning other languages.”