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Authors: D.L. McDermott
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speaking to her gave him comfort when nothing else did.
“Brigid,” he said, his own desire to speak her name sudden and surprising. “I wanted revenge for Brigid. She died in my arms. And you—you laid down yours and surrendered to the Druids.”
Finn had no idea why he had said it. He was supposed to be recruiting Iobáth, not alienating him, but there it was. Old anger still fresh after all this time.
Iobáth nodded. “I surrendered because I deserved torment and death. I received only torment.”
“Brigid deserved none of it.” The vehemence in his voice shocked him. He discovered that he’d broken the kindling into useless chips and needed to start again.
“Neither did many that suffered,” said Iobáth simply. “But you didn’t ask me here to review old sins. Speak to me of new.”
Finn swallowed the grief that had welled up in him and recalled his purpose. “My son, Garrett. Miach has trained him as a sorcerer, but he has no right hand, no swordsman to fight beside him when he works his spells and to protect him from physical attack.”
Iobáth stood up. “As in the past, we have misunderstood each other. I am no sword for hire.” He headed for the door.
Finn stepped in front of him. An epic piece of stupidity, because he had no weapons, and while he might be a storied leader, he was not the gifted killer Iobáth was. “I would not offer you anything so crass as money. Garrett has allied himself with Miach, and Miach is determined to stop the Prince.”
“And your son has no right hand because he has married Miach’s granddaughter and it is forbidden for a sorcerer to both marry and take a right hand.”
That was it in a nutshell. “You are very well informed.”
“Our race is dwindling. Our world with it. Perhaps it is not surprising that your domestic squabbles seem of great importance in such a tiny, contracting sphere. The Fae do little of note now. Even our feuds, for the most part, have faded to dust.”
“I don’t want my son to die,” said Finn baldly. “And he will get himself killed fighting the Prince if he has no right hand.”
“And you also want your son to return to your banner.”
“That, too,” he admitted.
“Why should I be interested in any of this?” asked Iobáth, his gray eyes as glittery cold as ever.
“Because you have always said that the Queen is rotting in a much deserved hell. If the Prince succeeds, she will again be free to run riot over this world. Only my son and Miach stand against her. Miach has his right hand. Even if they are no longer bound, friendship unites them, and Elada will fight and die for him. My son has nothing.”
“That is a matter of perspective,” said Iobáth, the ghost of a shrug touching his broad shoulders.
“What does that mean?”
Iobáth didn’t answer. Instead, he turned from Finn and paced to the hearth. With a flick of his fingers the birch logs that Finn had stacked there ignited. “Tell me about this Druid who visited your bannerman’s son,” he said.
“How do you know about the Druid?” Finn had only just learned himself a few hours ago. He’d heard talk, as far back as twenty years ago, when the Fae had gathered in New York, that Iobáth had some kind of power of foresight, a direct connection to Dana, that he was the beloved of the goddess, et cetera, et cetera, but that was crap. Dana—presuming she existed and asserted earthly influence at all—had never been one for guilt and repenting.
“Your domain is a small but lively one,” said Iobáth, with something that hinted at a smile. He poked at the fire, which was roaring now.
“Does all this knowledge mean you have taken an interest in our problems?”
“Perhaps,” said Iobáth. “This much I know: The Druid has hurt a child. He must be stopped. But I won’t be a pawn in this game between you and your son. If I choose to fight by his side, it will be because it is right and just to do so.”
Right and just weren’t exactly common
“Brigid,” he said, his own desire to speak her name sudden and surprising. “I wanted revenge for Brigid. She died in my arms. And you—you laid down yours and surrendered to the Druids.”
Finn had no idea why he had said it. He was supposed to be recruiting Iobáth, not alienating him, but there it was. Old anger still fresh after all this time.
Iobáth nodded. “I surrendered because I deserved torment and death. I received only torment.”
“Brigid deserved none of it.” The vehemence in his voice shocked him. He discovered that he’d broken the kindling into useless chips and needed to start again.
“Neither did many that suffered,” said Iobáth simply. “But you didn’t ask me here to review old sins. Speak to me of new.”
Finn swallowed the grief that had welled up in him and recalled his purpose. “My son, Garrett. Miach has trained him as a sorcerer, but he has no right hand, no swordsman to fight beside him when he works his spells and to protect him from physical attack.”
Iobáth stood up. “As in the past, we have misunderstood each other. I am no sword for hire.” He headed for the door.
Finn stepped in front of him. An epic piece of stupidity, because he had no weapons, and while he might be a storied leader, he was not the gifted killer Iobáth was. “I would not offer you anything so crass as money. Garrett has allied himself with Miach, and Miach is determined to stop the Prince.”
“And your son has no right hand because he has married Miach’s granddaughter and it is forbidden for a sorcerer to both marry and take a right hand.”
That was it in a nutshell. “You are very well informed.”
“Our race is dwindling. Our world with it. Perhaps it is not surprising that your domestic squabbles seem of great importance in such a tiny, contracting sphere. The Fae do little of note now. Even our feuds, for the most part, have faded to dust.”
“I don’t want my son to die,” said Finn baldly. “And he will get himself killed fighting the Prince if he has no right hand.”
“And you also want your son to return to your banner.”
“That, too,” he admitted.
“Why should I be interested in any of this?” asked Iobáth, his gray eyes as glittery cold as ever.
“Because you have always said that the Queen is rotting in a much deserved hell. If the Prince succeeds, she will again be free to run riot over this world. Only my son and Miach stand against her. Miach has his right hand. Even if they are no longer bound, friendship unites them, and Elada will fight and die for him. My son has nothing.”
“That is a matter of perspective,” said Iobáth, the ghost of a shrug touching his broad shoulders.
“What does that mean?”
Iobáth didn’t answer. Instead, he turned from Finn and paced to the hearth. With a flick of his fingers the birch logs that Finn had stacked there ignited. “Tell me about this Druid who visited your bannerman’s son,” he said.
“How do you know about the Druid?” Finn had only just learned himself a few hours ago. He’d heard talk, as far back as twenty years ago, when the Fae had gathered in New York, that Iobáth had some kind of power of foresight, a direct connection to Dana, that he was the beloved of the goddess, et cetera, et cetera, but that was crap. Dana—presuming she existed and asserted earthly influence at all—had never been one for guilt and repenting.
“Your domain is a small but lively one,” said Iobáth, with something that hinted at a smile. He poked at the fire, which was roaring now.
“Does all this knowledge mean you have taken an interest in our problems?”
“Perhaps,” said Iobáth. “This much I know: The Druid has hurt a child. He must be stopped. But I won’t be a pawn in this game between you and your son. If I choose to fight by his side, it will be because it is right and just to do so.”
Right and just weren’t exactly common
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