Page 43 of Nyall

He closed his eyes for a moment as he recalled the Cait Sith that he and his brothers had fought when they had gone to Aberdeen to rescue Valerie from the shifters. The shifters had worn the mortal forms of sailors when they had attacked, but he recalled one that had been unusually small.

They shall show her no mercy.

Connal had never known the magic folk to make such a demand before now, but word of the brutality of the attack and the dozens slain had spread among his allies on the mainland. Most of the mortals there blamed Norse raiders, who sometimes still conducted stealthy raids in darkness on the coast. That a tiny halfling shifter on her own had killed so many explained the druids’ condition. Left to roam on her own, this wolf in lamb’s fleece might attack other tribes.

Understanding their reasoning did not relieve his uneasiness. Assuming he could capture and deliver the halfling, he would have no say in what happened to her once he handed her over to the council. Although known for avoiding violence, when provoked the peaceful magic folk could be nearly as cruel as the Fae when it came to punishing those who had deeply wronged them.

A knock came on the door, and Connal tucked away the portrait before calling for them to enter. Instead of one of the senior chieftains he expected, the clan’s healer came in.

“My lord.” Duncan bowed. “Forgive me for the intrusion. I need speak with you about something I found while assisting the search for the missing scullery.”

He frowned. “That lad Kai? Come in and tell me.”

The healer looked uncomfortable as he closed the door and then came over to place a bulging bundle of sacking on the table. He unwrapped it, showing inside a hide garment worn by Finfolk males, one that had been ripped apart at the seams. The inside appeared mottled with dark stains that suggested the wearer had been badly injured.

Connal picked up the suit and studied the damage. “You found the garment washed ashore?”

“No. ’Twas buried beneath the rocks that line the south side of the bay,” Duncan said. “I found the thing only by chance when I lost my footing while climbing. When I put down my hand in the water, I touched a small edge of the hide.”

“The style, ’tis much like that King Merrick wears, but no’ quite the same.” He turned it over, and saw the stylized symbol worked into the hide that indicated the wearer was of royal blood. “’Tis Bered’s.”

The healer shook his head. “I made inquiries before I came, and learned the outcast yet lives, and his suit, ’tis intact. The only other Finfolk male of royal blood, ’tis Duxor.”

Connal frowned. “You didnae show Merrick the garment?”

“I had good reason.” Duncan pulled up the front of the hide suit, arranging it as it would look when worn. A large, stained gap ran from one side of the collar to the other. “A white-mouth couldnae cut Duxor’s throat, and the Finfolk never kill in such fashion. Cutting through the hide and the flesh beneath required a stronger hand than a mortal possesses. ’Twas done by MacLeir, or a MacMar.”

“No.” He jerked the suit away from him. “You’re mistaken. The ferryman wouldnae kill anyone by blade. None of our brothers should dare attack a royal in secret. I’d first wager that cowardly bastart cut his own throat.”

“Then why should I find the thing so well concealed?” the healer countered. “The rocks couldnae by themselves pile atop the garment, some weighed as much as me. You well ken the resilience of hides tanned by the Finfolk, and how naught in the sea touch them. Destroying the garment, ’twould take much time. ’Twas simpler for the killer hide the thing.”

“Why didnae you find a body with the garment, then?” he countered.

Duncan grimaced. “’Twouldnae take long, disposing of a corpse. A white-mouth likely devoured him, only it wouldnae eat the garment.”

“You didnae tell anyone else?” When the healer shook his head he gathered the suit into a tight bundle and wrapped it up in the sacking. “Say naught, then, and leave the problem with me.”

“’Tis a matter you cannae long conceal, my lord. The Finfolk, they’ve searched for Duxor for weeks now. His body, ’twas likely hidden as well. Should they find him...” He hesitated before he sighed. “Naught may break the truce faster than a male of royal blood with his throat cut.”

He wasn’t saying something, Connal sensed. “You reckon you ken who murdered Duxor, aye? Say his name.”

Duncan’s dark eyes narrowed. “I’ve no proof nor reason believe such as yet, but the signs, they’ve been clear for a time now.”

“Never.” Finally he understood the other man’s reluctance and hesitations. “’Twasnae Shaw.”

“Name anyone better with a blade,” the healer said, his expression growing sad now. “The chieftain ran from the stronghold when Mistress Parish saw through his ruse. From what the guards tell me I’ll wager he’s no’ slept in months. You’ve watched him destroying targets in the list, and beating his fists against that bloody wall you built for him. I ken how much you love Shaw, Brother, for I’ve the same affection for him. Yet if in some madness he lost control of his demon–”

In three strides he had Duncan by the front of his tunic. “Shaw didnae kill Duxor.”

The healer put his hand over his fist, but simply held it. “I’ve never wished for anything as much as hoping I’m wrong, my lord. Only I must speak truth as I see.”

Connal saw the trueness of that and released him. “Leave this matter in my hands, and tell no one.”

Duncan nodded, bowed again and then left.

After locking away the garment in a trunk, Connal went to the window and looked out at the bay. In all the years since Shaw had been rescued from the Pritani and returned to the clan, Connal had watched him closely. He knew his younger brother had long struggled with the damage enslavement had done, both to his mind and his heart. Although he had pressed Shaw several times about the skinwork on his arm, and the dark ways in which it had altered him, the chieftain had flatly refused to reveal the details.

Now this ruined garment, and the ominous portent it might present.