Page 6 of Connal

“I shallnae serve,” his brother said as they reached the broad meadow which the clan and the Finfolk had cleared centuries past. “If you choose me I shall decline at once. Nyall’s ever coveted your power over the clan. Name him your successor.”

That Shaw knew what he was thinking aggravated Connal, but didn’t surprise him. “Shut your mouth and stand my second.”

Once the chieftain took position on the side overlooking both walks Connal moved to the opening in the notched stones that fashioned the clan’s side. Halting there and closing his eyes, he pushed all thoughts from his mind, and then stepped onto the path.

The two circular structures spread over the length of the meadow, and had been carefully tended by the labyrinth keeper to remain free of weeds and overgrowth. On the side built by the MacMar, carved rocks rife with Fae crystals formed the winding paths to be walked by their laird, and their raw, untapped power danced around him with every step he took. Often he had come to make his way through the clan’s labyrinth alone after his sire had died, for nothing but this place could give him solace.

He had not walked the stones but once in the last year, and then he had come alone. Even this sacred place had failed to heal his pain over losing Joana.

Vaguely Connal became aware of movement, and smelled a particular salt in the air, which told him Merrick had begun his walk on the other side of the enormous entwined circles. The Finfolk had ferried tons of shells across the island while building their labyrinth, and their sun-bleached walls gleamed with pearly colors.

To walk on a matter required disciplined thought, which Prince Mar had taught him as soon as Connal had grown to manhood.

Set aside your troubles and concerns. Draw power from the stones. Become as water. Find the flow.

By the time Connal reached the overlapping center of the two labyrinths he had regained most of his composure. The truce between the clan and the Finfolk, while often tested, had never once been broken. Yet again a thousand years of peace rested on the decisions he would make here while settling with Merrick the fate of the woman he’d pulled from the sea. The woman who had chosen him over a king. The woman who had kissed him.

I can still taste her on my lips.

“Laird MacMar,” the Finfolk king said as he met him in the overlap, and inclined his head. He had donned his crown, which his people had fashioned from the powerful violet and gold alloy through which they channeled their otherworldly powers. Beyond him stood the tall, imposing figure of Jamaran, his garrison commander, whose long, snowy hair blazed in the last moments of sunset like white fire.

Although his garments remained damp, and spikes of his hair hung in his face, Connal followed suit as if sporting his ceremonial tartan and honor blades. “King Merrick.”

“You removed a young, living female from the bay,” Merrick said, getting straight to the heart of the matter. “We agreed that all such outsiders of bearing years found in our waters belong to the Finfolk.”

“Once found by your kind, aye,” he countered. “When saw you the lady?”

A flicker of impatience passed over the king’s features. “When you seized and dragged her ashore, of course.”

“She came to me first, then. By the terms of the truce once an outsider reaches the island, they’re permitted choose their fate,” Connal reminded him. “I’m the island. When you proposed taking her, she instead clung to me. By such she chooses live with the clan.”

Beyond them Jamaran winced, and he heard Shaw clear his throat.

Merrick’s lips thinned. “She doesnae yet ken I offer eternal life, a worthy mate, and the hope of bairns to love. You cannae say the same.”

Truth could not be considered an insult, even when used in such brutal fashion. “Aye. Only you cannae promise her the bairns.”

“Give her to me,” the king said flatly.

Connal knew the reason Merrick wished to take the female. Over the centuries the Finfolk had transformed many mortal women into mates for their kind. The immortals could only sire male bairns, however, and rarely more than one. That created a perpetual imbalance of too many males and not enough females. Left unattended, Merrick’s men would soon revolt and return to their ancient practice of abducting mortal females to transform them against their will. Many had ended themselves by hiding on the death islet from their unwanted mates until being so long out of the sea killed them.

To protect the women who served the clan, Connal would have to admit something he didn’t wish to believe.

“The female wears the ring I cast into the sea after my lady died,” he finally said.

The king frowned. “Lady Joana’s ring? ’Tis impossible.”

“I dinnae lie. You’ve long claimed my sire’s magic yet lingers in these waters,” Connal said. “I believe the same now. After I discarded the ring, it somehow found and brought the lady here to Caladh. ’Twould oblige me keep the vow I made on that day.”

Shaw made an incredulous sound. Merrick stared at him as if he’d sprouted fins and gills. Beyond him Jamaran shifted slightly, his hand tightening on the toothed lance he held.

Connal could not bring himself to offer an arm to the Finfolk king to end the walk, so he bowed and left.

Chapter Three

High atop a sea cliff in Aberdeen, the setting sun glared in through the large windows of Magnus Haig’s bedchamber, waking Fiacail from her afternoon nap. Anyone who looked upon her would see only the rich burgess’s wife, Rona Haig, whom she had murdered in order to take her place. As a Cait Sith shapeshifter Fiacail could assume the identity and absorb the memories of any mortal, as long as she drank their blood before killing them.

The real Rona would doubtless have been sickened by the stink in the air, but the rich scent of new death made the shape-shifter’s mouth water.