Chapter 36: Chapter 36: Into Her Own Hands

Saoirse found Shay, Captain of the Guard, in the armory alone, counting arrows at the pace of a four-year-old, “twelve . . . thirteen . . . ” Rows of bows, shields, swords, and axes lined the long, low-ceiled, windowless room. Only two lamps were lit.

Maybe the idiot enjoys standing in the gloom.

“Captain.” She spoke with authority.

Cursing, he slammed the arrows in his hand back into the bin. “You've made me lose my place . . . ” He turned; his aura bright with orange-brown disgust. As his eyes traveled over her, it shifted, blazing hot with lust.

“How may I help you?” A grin, or was it a leer, twisted his mouth. He was easily the tallest man at Castle Togair. Today, like always, he stank of old beer and urine. His small eyes contrasted with his huge nose, bulging and twisted from numerous breaks. The top of his right ear had been sliced off and sewn back on. His clothes were fine of cloth but stained from numerous meals and raunchy nights at the tavern. He preferred sandals, which exposed his toes and large, curling, troll-like toenails.

Saoirse sighed.

This is the man my father put in charge of the investigation?

Her tone might have been a bit patronizing. “Have you spoken to the two archers who were not in the castle when Seer Murtagh was killed?”

He stepped forward, now quite openly leering. “You shouldn't be here.” He glanced behind him at the empty, near-dark room.

Magic bubbled within her, white-hot, itching to find a second victim. Unbidden, Quinn's smashed face flashed before her eyes. Like hot bile, she swallowed the magic, feeling it burn down her throat. Putting her anger in her eyes, she repeated herself, carefully enunciating each word as if she were talking to a child. “Have you spoken to the two archers who were not in the castle when Seer Murtagh was killed?”

He flinched. “Yeah, we talked to them.”

“And . . . ”

“Shouldn't you be minding your needlework, or . . . ” he sneered out the words, “your lover.”

She pulled a handful of arrows from the bin. “Shall I guess? My father ordered you to count the arrows, because the assassin used an arrow with a castle-forged tip.” Searching, she found three with wooden tips. “But you don't have the sense to sort them. If you don't separate the iron-tipped arrows from the wooden-tipped arrows, how will you know if an iron-tipped arrow is missing?”

His aura blared with anger. “Lord Togair ordered me to count every arrow in the armory.”

She rolled her eyes. Fury and contempt filled her words. “What did the two archers say, who were not here when Seer Murtagh was murdered?”

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He didn't move, didn't speak.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you embarrassed?” she asked.

“What? I'm the Captain of the Guard.”

“But you haven't found the assassin. Certainly, a more competent man would at least by now have a clue. But here you are in the armory, counting arrows and bumbling that small task.”

He growled out his words. “Your father ordered me—”

She interrupted, saying each word more slowly, so his tiny brain wouldn't get confused. “What . . . did . . . the . . . archers . . . say . . . when . . . you . . . questioned . . . them?”

Behind her, her father said, “Saoirse, go to your room.”

The deafening clang of his aura, his overly proud, fear-laden aura, was like a church bell, sounding the alarm that was ringing in her own soul.

“NO! I will not!”

She whirled around, shock and horror slamming into her at the sight of his aura. It filled the doorway, oozing like hot tar, solid black and seething with hatred. He slapped her so hard she felled to the ground.

Her cheek stinging, she raced out of the armory and up the turret stairs. In seconds, she had locked the door behind her and disappeared into the passageways. On silent feet, she flew through the hidden corridors and down ladder after ladder until at last she stood before a pitch-black passageway cut from solid stone. She ignored the lantern and matches conveniently stashed in a small alcove by the entrance. Overhead, the dark green aura of a spider weaving its web illuminated the passageway entrance.

For perhaps twenty yards or more, she descended in the sloping, stone shaft. The smell of saltwater beckoned her. Coming to the end of the tunnel, she grasped the oak beam barring the door and slipped, crashing down onto her knees.

“Ahhh!!!”

For long minutes, she sobbed. She leaned her cheek against the door. Her eyelids drooped and closed. Here in the dark, the sleep that had been denied the previous night, came.

 

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