A Storm of Passion (8 page)

If he listened, he could hear her labored breathing now, from the place in the corner where she was chained. She was not unaffected by what she’d witnessed. Who could be? Not even the cold-hearted assassin she tried to believe she was, or the one she tried to make everyone believe she was.

Finally, the pull of sleep and a welcomed respite gained strength, and he followed it.

H
e did not move for more than a day, then barely as the servants and Ranald tended to him. She looked on in a kind of shock as he recovered from the visions. Moira was not certain she would ever forget what she’d seen. Yet, if the past indicated the future, he would go through it again when the moon reached its fullness in a month.

She shuddered then, nearly losing her balance as she stood silently while he spoke to Breac for the first time since collapsing on his bed two nights before. How did he yet live if she’d attacked him at his weakest? Was her aim so misplaced that she’d not pierced his chest after all? He should be dead, and here he was, surviving another dreadful vision.

His gift must include an inhuman ability to heal as well, she suspected. ’Twould make sense—if the Fae gave such power with such a terrible aftermath of pain and suffering, they were contrary enough to also give the ability to withstand it, too, so it would not end too soon.

If one believed the stories passed down about the Fae and their dealings with humans.

After seeing the changes and the power surge through him as the Seer had his vision, she believed it. In her search, she listened to many storytellers share their wisdom about the otherworldly inhabitants of the sacred woods and glens of the Highlands of Scotland and the isles surrounding it. Even Mull had its share of standing stones and other places whispered to be the gateways to the land of the Sith or the Fae, as they were called in many lands.

She’d seen too much and learned too much more to ignore the existence of such powerful beings. She only had to remember the Seer’s face during the vision to know the truth—he was touched by the Fae.

And yet, he seemed to be unaware of it. Had no one told him? Had he never sought the truth? Strange, that the one who wanted to end his life might know more about it than he did himself. She would keep her information to herself until she knew the best way to use it.

The next several days passed quietly, with the Seer spending more and more time sitting up or moving around his chambers. The blindfold remained in place, but she saw no hint of fire when it slipped down from his brow, exposing his eyes to her. Instead, she saw only black there, no color even in their depths. And the blindness remained.

Moira was amazed at the change in him now. Gone was the agitated, angry, lust-filled man she’d watched in those days leading up to the visions. Gone was the arrogant, irritated one who demanded everything from everyone around him. In his place was a different person. And, although she heard her name mentioned over the course of the next few days, he never spoke to her directly at all.

She spent most of her time sewing and mending, for Dara had sent word of her skill with a needle and thread and Agnes presented her daily with a pile of tunics, gowns, trews, stockings, and other clothing that needed repair. As long as there was light in the room, she put her hands to use and kept her mind on those tasks, rather than on the one that brought her to this place.

And she healed. Her leg grew stronger, the bruises on her neck and back faded, and even her courses arrived and ended in that week, as though it were a sign that she had made it through the worst. Being chained to the wall and not seeing the sun or breathing the fresh air bothered her more day by day, but she was alive and still had a purpose before her.

A week after the vision, as she waited for Breac’s arrival and the removal of the splint from her leg, Moira noticed the sun’s light making a path along the floor toward her. The windows high on the wall only received direct light for a short time each day, and now it approached. When it was cloudy outside and the winds roared, she did not miss it so much. But on a day like this one, when the sun grew bright and warm, her body ached to be out in its warmth.

Edging her way to the farthest spot the chain’s length would allow, she felt the warm place on the floor where the sun heated the stones. Biding her time, she watched as that small circle moved inch by inch closer. Then, when it seemed at its closest, she leaned as much as she could bear against the collar and tried to place her face in its path. Closing her eyes, she waited for the heat to touch her.

“What are you doing?”

Her stance so unbalanced and her position so precarious, the soft question startled her into losing both. Trying not to fall with her full weight against the collar, she twisted and would have slammed into the wall if he had not caught her in his arms.

When she gained her feet, she stared at his face and his eyes. The were no longer completely black; a hint of green had reappeared around the centers.

“Can you see now?” she asked.

“Enough to wonder if you were performing some sort of suicide ritual. I have heard of such things in the old religions.” He released her and stepped away, squinting back at the place where she’d stood. “Ah, you were trying to reach that small patch of sunlight.”

Moira did not admit to her weakness; ’twas bad enough he’d witnessed it. “I try to stretch and move so my leg does not seize up.”

“By hanging against the collar with your face tilting sideways? Interesting.”

She knew he did not believe her, but it mattered not. She would not try it again, for to be so close and fail was too painful. Reminded by his very presence of her other failure, Moira stepped back to her stool, gathered up the garments there, and sat down to work on them.

“You are not comfortable talking to people, are you?” he asked. Now he leaned against the end of his bed and watched her sewing.

“I have nothing to say,” she replied, once more hesitant to acknowledge the truth. She’d been on her own so long, keeping her own counsel, that the common chatting among family and friends, even simple acquaintances, was foreign and difficult for her.

“I think you have much to say, Moira, and it is time for me to hear it.” He stood and walked closer, dragging a stool as he came. “I do not favor force in my interrogations, as Diarmid does,” he began, as he sat on the stool and faced her. “I have my methods.”

She shuddered then, unable to control it, for it was her body’s response and not her mind’s. Taking and releasing a breath, she dropped the tunic on the pile of garments and readied herself as best she could for his challenge.

“If not force, then what do you favor, Seer?”

“Connor,” he said softly, meeting her gaze. “My name is Connor.”

“The Seer,” she added, resisting his attempt to have her use his name. “A changeling some say, placed with a human family by the Sith after your mother’s passing. Others claim you walked out of the standing stones as a boy, without knowledge of your name or your past. So many stories are shared about you that it is difficult to choose the right one.”

He flinched, surprised by her words. Truly, he was a mystery. There were stories of all kinds about the Seer’s origins, and each one, she suspected, held a grain of the truth.

“The Seer came to Lord Diarmid’s attention just past six years ago, and you have been in his employ since then, trading your visions for wealth and protection.”

“For someone who has had little to say, you know much, Moira. How came you by this information?” He stood then, crossing his arms over his chest and pacing back and forth in front of her.

She hesitated to explain herself to him, especially since the entire reason she had discovered all she could about him was to find something useful in killing him. As long as she remained chained to the wall during the only time he seemed vulnerable, his death was out of reach to her. Moira stared at the floor, trying to decide how to handle the Seer’s interrogation.

“I will offer you a trade then to loosen your tongue.”

She knew it would come to this, and she was prepared to barter her body to protect herself. She exhaled and nodded at him to continue.

“One hour in the sun for what you have discovered about the Seer. Continue to answer my questions, and it could be longer.”

She stared at him as though he was insane, and in some ways he believed he might be. Almost seven years of trying to understand the power he had, how it worked, what its limits were, and this woman seemed to hold more facts about him than he knew himself. And after spending his adult life searching for his past, he might now have the one person in his grasp who could tell him more.

Her eyes widened, and she nodded before he thought she would—her pattern was always to hesitate. She must think there was nothing to interfere with her cause in telling him what she knew, or else she planned on deceiving him with falsehoods. Either way, it gave him a bargaining tool to deal with her.

“Breac,” he called out before she could change her mind. “Bring her.” Connor took a cloak of his and tossed it to Moira. “Put that on and keep the hood up.”

“My lord,” Breac began to argue, “this is foolhardy and dangerous.”

“You know the spot, Breac,” he answered, walking to the door. “The guards know I am not to be disturbed if there with a woman. None will look closely at which woman accompanies me.”

He waited only long enough to be certain that Breac would obey him, and then he began the climb to the battlements. His sight was still weak, but his eyes were almost returned to their normal appearance. He followed the walls around to the corner he preferred and nodded to the guards. Stepping into the shadows there, he waited with a sense of anticipation unlike he’d experienced before.

He had searched for his past, his parents or family, during those first years with Diarmid, but he knew now that Diarmid had simply ensured that he found nothing. With few contacts other than those appointed by Diarmid, Connor had no choice but to give up. Since then, he’d gained some who were loyal to him, but any search would draw Diarmid’s attention or that of his wide net of allies.

He heard the scuffling of feet and watched as Breac came out of the doorway with Moira tucked closely at his side. She limped along, rushing at Breac’s pace until they reached his place. He motioned Breac off a bit and waved to the guards, his signal that he expected privacy. No one would dare interrupt the Seer while he took his pleasure on a woman there. The guards turned their backs and remained at either side of the walkway.

“Stay close, Breac,” he said, when the man seemed to object. Breac nodded and walked a few paces away, also turning his back.

Connor stayed in the shadows—it hurt his eyes less than being in the direct sun—but he nodded to Moira then. “You may remove the cloak now.”

She shed it like a flower dropping its petals: The top fell away, exposing the loose and wild curls of her hair, first. Then she pulled the laces, and the cloak fell to the ground, puddling around her feet. Then, she blossomed in front of him.

She lifted her face and closed her eyes and let the sun beat down on her. The winds driven by the seas tousled her hair, but it was so short it never covered her face. He watched as she turned into the winds and stood unmoving as they buffeted her, tugging on her tunic. He thought she smiled, a thing he’d never seen her do before, but it was fleeting and gone before he could say aye or nay.

He allowed her some minutes of quiet before he began asking his questions. “How long have you searched for me?”

“Six years,” she answered.

She could not have even been ten and eight years yet, which meant she’d been just a child when she set out to destroy him.

He tried to think back to some of his early visions. He’d had no control then, no sense of how to choose the recipient or how to guide the flow of the Sight. There were no rules then, only madness and chaos.

“When was your family…when?” he asked. He watched as a tear rolled down her cheek and expected her to refuse, but she did not. The tear was the only sign of her being affected by the questions.

“Six years ago, Seer,” she snapped. “I heard the men who destroyed our village speak of you. How you had guided them to us and given instructions about our deaths.”

“You escaped. How many others went with you?”

She turned then, away from his gaze, and leaned against the stone wall. He saw her shoulders shaking and knew she was remembering that time.

“None, Seer. I was the only one out of my family to escape your death sentence.” She turned, and he saw the hatred back in her eyes. “Ask your questions about your past, not mine.”

For now, he would allow her to guide the revelations, but he would discover her past as well. “Where did you hear the stories you mentioned before? The ones about being a changeling or foundling?”

“In a small village near Kilmartin in Argyll. A wise woman there told of a woman who’d found the place where the faeries are most vulnerable and captured one to do her bidding. The wise woman confided in me that she thought it was the other way around, that the fairy—a tall, handsome one with pale hair and dark eyes—had caught the woman.”

Did he believe such tales as these? The faeries were involved? “A tale to be sure, but it could not be true,” he said, shaking his head. He thought he might be trying to convince himself, since it made more sense than other explanations.

“You have not seen yourself during one of your visions, have you, Seer?” she said staring at his face. “Has no one told you what happens when the visions approach?”

He had not. Some mumbled about the change to his eyes, others about his voice, but Diarmid controlled those permitted in the chamber, and he could approach none of them with questions. “Nay. I do not remember it once it has passed,” he admitted. “But how is this connected to the magic of the Fae?”

“You become someone, something else during your visions. Your eyes glow as though on fire, your face changes to someone else’s, someone younger, and your voice is not yours. You spoke in some other language at first, though I know it not,” she explained. “You wrote your instructions with your left hand, though I have only seen you use your right one. Surely these are all signs of…” Her words drifted off to allow him to make his own conclusions.

“All he has ever said was that it was a special talent,” he whispered. Diarmid controlled far more about his life than he’d realized.