Page 40 of Shaw

The old men exchanged a narrow look before the taller one said, “You’ve come to Jethart in the borderlands, Mistress.”

Shaw looked to the south. “What of the Britanni?”

“We’ve a treaty now, Chieftain,” the shorter druid said, folding his hands in his sleeves and smiling benignly. “They dinnae hunt us for sport, and we dinnae cast withering spells on their most precious parts.”

“What’s the most precious…oh,” Julianne said, and snickered. “Good one, druid dude.”

Shaw almost laughed along with her, but she suddenly fell silent, swayed and pressed her free hand to her head.

“Whoa,” she said, her voice wavering. “Did you use some kind of dizzy spell on me?”

The taller druid made a tsking sound. “You’re a mortal, lass. As such you shouldnae carry that woodland enchantment, for you’re no’ fashioned for bearing up under such power. ’Twill soon bring about your end.”

“May we ask sanctuary from your tribe?” Shaw said as he put his arm around her shoulders. “Only for the night, so my lady may rest.”

The shorter druid’s nostrils flared. “If you vow you shallnae ever again return, aye.”

Shaw followed the pair along a badly overgrown path through the woods, keeping Julianne pressed to his side. She began leaning on him heavily by the time they reached a broad clearing where dozens of small cottages with thatched roofs formed a wide circle. Encompassing the settlement was a long, tall fence of white standing stones with carvings that appeared light and airy, as if spirits made of air danced across their smooth faces.

“Your tribe’s name?” Shaw asked, unable to look away from the carvings, some of which appeared the same as certain symbols the slavers had inked on his skin.

“We’re the DayBridge,” the taller druid said, regarding him with a solemn expression. “I believe you’ve met those we exiled from our tribe. You bear the mark of their dark magic.”

Julianne looked up at him. “Don’t be afraid of them. I know they’re the good kind. We used to be…I think…” She fell against him. “Sorry.”

Shaw swung her up into his arms. “Call your healer, druid.”

“They’re gone, Seneschal,” the guard said as Fletcher went into his brother’s bed chamber. “Only they didnae leave through the door.”

“I ken.” He looked around the room for any sign that Shaw had harmed Julianne Scott, or had somehow used his dark magic to take her away from the stronghold unseen. On his skin he could almost sense an enchantment, but not like any he’d ever encountered. When he went over to the bed he saw how the linens had been shifted, and the depression of a small head on one pillow. The surface of the fabric seemed to sparkle here and there. The air smelled of Fae magic, his brother, and oddly, the woods. “Keep your posts, and send for me when they return.”

If they return, Fletcher thought as he went to the infirmary.

Duncan had one of the carpenters on his exam table, and was removing a large sliver of wood that had pierced his palm. “I shall attend you shortly.”

“Ferran, I need a word with the healer,” Fletcher said once his brother had taken out the splinter. “Might you wait a moment for bandaging?” When the carpenter nodded he pulled Duncan out into the passage and closed the door. “Shaw’s vanished with Mistress Scott.”

“They’re lovers now, I’m told.” The healer absently rubbed his hand. “Doubtless they shall soon return.” He squinted at him. “What more?”

“The air in Shaw’s chamber, ’twas rife with Fae magic, and something stranger.” He described the shadowy scent of the forest he’d detected, and then added, “Shaw told me she showed a strong aversion when he took her to the Stone Forest. What if Mistress Scott calls a melia màthair?”

Duncan sighed. “Julianne’s no’ a halfling like us. I dropped a Fae slumber charm in her hand and she didnae even yawn.”

“The melia on the island cursed themselves when our sire died,” Fletcher reminded him. “What if their kin sent Mistress Shaw as their means of seeking vengeance?”

Duncan eyed the seneschal. “You reckon such took them a thousand years?”

“Och, dinnae prod me when my brother’s gone missing.” He dragged a hand through his sun-streaked hair. “Connal’s avoiding me, Nyall refuses look me in the eye and even my wife tiptoes round me.”

“You forget your temper, Brother. The rest of us dinnae.” Duncan cuffed his shoulder. “Wait and watch for Shaw and Mistress Scott. If they dinnae return by nightfall, we shall advise the laird, and begin searching for them.” He went back into the infirmary. “Forgive me, Ferran. Permit me wash out that wound, and then I shall apply the healing salve and bandage you.”

From there Fletcher went to Lark’s work room, but found it empty. Walking about the chamber, he pretended to examine the garments she had pieced together while recalling every vague memory he had of the melia before his sire had died. They had been shy, mysterious creatures, emerging from their trees only when Prince Mar made his way through their forest. Sometimes, when Fletcher had accompanied him, the melia would smile and laugh, and say things that made no sense to him.

Such a grand lad. May he never fall forever.

A great love never ken, a great hate in return.

The unwanted bride shall defeat the unseen bride, all for his sake.