Elizabeth English - The Borderlands 02 by Laird of the Mist Read Free Book Online Page B

the man was real—and known to her husband! But how well
known? What was he saying to Brodie now? One careless word, one chance remark,
and Brodie would fly into a killing rage.
    Brodie held out his hand and Alistair took it. From
the smile on her husband's face, Deirdre could tell he'd made a bargain to his
liking. She breathed again, her knees shaking with relief. It was all right, at
least for now. But whatever must Alistair Kirallen think of her? How deep did
his friendship for Brodie run?
    As Brodie strode off Alistair frowned and wiped his
palm on his jerkin, then turned and looked straight into Deirdre's eyes, as
though he understood her fears and was trying without words to reassure her.
    Before she could decide whether to acknowledge his
gesture, his head whipped around toward the bard seated in the center of the
hall. Puzzled, Deirdre followed his gaze, then the words of the bard's song
reached her.
     
    "As I was walking all alone,
I heard twa corbies making a moan;
The ane unto the t'other say-o,
'Where shall we gang and dine to-day-o?'"
     
    Twa corbies. That's what he had
said that night when she spoke of the two ravens behind him.
    The talk and laughter of the crowded hall faded into
silence. There was nothing but the bard's song, and by the pricking of the
tender skin of her neck, Deirdre recognized the presence of strong magic in the
room. How could they not feel it? she thought, looking at the laughing faces
around her. But they did not.
     
    "In
behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
Naebody kens that he lies there-o,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair-o."
     
    What did it mean?  Alistair had
gone dead pale and his eyes were wide as he listened to the tale unfold. He
looks like a man hearing his own fate told, Deirdre thought. Then she shivered,
knowing she had hit upon the truth.
     
    "His
hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate-o,
So we may mak our dinner sweet-o."
     
    Deirdre listened with growing horror as the birds went
on discussing the dead knight, planning how they might make use of him.
     
    "Ye'll
sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny gray een;
Wi' ae lock o' his golden hair-o
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare-o."
     
    She glanced at Alistair, at the
wide gray eyes and golden hair, and before she knew it she was across the room,
laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. His fingers gripped hers hard, but he
didn't take his eyes from the bard as the tale reached its mournful end.
     
    "Mony
a one for him makes moan,
But nane shall ken where he is gone;
O'er his white bones, when they we bare-o,
The wind shall blow for evermair-o."
     
    The song ended and the bard stopped his fingers on the
harp.
    "The twa corbies?" she asked, her voice sounding
shrill to her own ears. "Are they with you still?"
    He glanced at her, surprised, and with a rueful smile
unloosed his grip upon her hand. "Aye, they are. And now we both ken
why."
    "Nay," she whispered. "It means naught,
'tis just a song—"
    "Just a song?" he repeated with a lift of
one brow. "Music has its own magic, lady."
    She bit her lip and made no answer, for he was right. But
now, even knowing all she knew of him, she could not accept it as the truth. How
many nights had she stared with aching eyes into the darkness, reliving every
detail of her Beltane dream? How many days had she clutched its memory against
her as she went about her work, the marks of Brodie's hand upon her skin?
    And all that time he had been a living man, warm and
strong and real, not a dream and never hers at all.
    "Well, I have neither hawk nor hound—nor lady
fair-o, for that matter," he said with a wry twist of his lips. "Perhaps
'tis not time yet."
    "How can you jest about it?" she asked in a
horrified whisper.
    "How can I not?" he answered with a shrug of
his broad shoulders. "I've known since spring they boded me no good."
    "The lady—in the song—she must