Even if it was true, that wouldn’t change very much. Sophia and Cathal would still be in a castle, still surrounded by witnesses; she would still be leaving; and it would still go against what she’d been taught was proper. One wall had a few cracks in it. All of the others remained standing, remained sturdy.
That was another thing that she could tell herself—another thing that she suspected she’d need to hear.
Twenty-three
From the mirrored surface of the scrying pool, Artair MacAlasdair gave his youngest son a grave look. Neither distance nor magic blunted the impact very much.
If Cathal was larger than most men, his father was huge: near seven feet tall and broad-shouldered. His hair was almost pure white now, his craggy face seamed with lines, but his eyes were as they ever had been, the cold, clear blue of winter lakes, where an unsuspecting mortal could freeze to death in minutes. When they focused on Cathal, he still had the urge to scuff his feet and look down.
“Demons, now?” Artair asked. “You’ve made yourself quite the enemy, boy.”
Cathal contemplated excuses:It was only theonedemonandI didn’t see much way around itandI suppose you’d have charmed Valerius into surrender, then, or mayhap just eaten him?None became a man of his age and dignity. He settled for a stone-faced “Aye.”
“Aye,” Artair repeated, not asking for elaboration. “Well. I can remind you of the wards. I presume that’s why you needed my presence.”
“I’m not overburdened with blood or amethyst, no.” Time was also often an issue for scrying. Even aside from waiting until his father could respond to the summons, the ritual to activate the pool was a lengthy one and required a specific alignment of day and hour. Agnes and Douglas had understood the principle. Cathal had simply bludgeoned it into his mind.
He wished he could have told Sophia about it. She would, he suspected, not only understand but see angles of possible improvement.
The entire family would have killed them both. Anyone in the village, and a few beyond, knew that the MacAlasdairs weren’t merely human. Other secrets stayed strictly in the bloodline, or on rare occasion with spouses, where the wedding vows provided geas enough for secrecy.
“I thought it urgent,” Cathal said into the silence. “If the wards will even work.”
“They should. You’ll need to take a hair from the lady or a drop of blood. She’ll have to stay until this business is over, mind you.” Artair frowned, his just-in-case-you-were-thinking-otherwise look. “You’ve gotten her into very dark matters. She’s a door now. At Loch Arach, you’ve enough power to hold it shut. Let her walk unguarded elsewhere, and in time, people will die for it.”
“I hadn’t planned on it,” said Cathal. “Even now she has guards wherever she goes.”
“And she’ll not need them once you’re done, so long as she stays in the castle. Understand that well. You’re at the source of your greatest strength there. The land—”
“—knows my blood. Our blood. Yes.”
Artair’s eyes glinted. “You still remember, then? I’m glad to hear it. Allow an old man his doubts. A few decades tend to blunt memory.”
The young wolf snapped; the old one bared his teeth; no more was needed. Cathal dropped his head. Impatience had only been the easier path, anyhow.
You’ve gotten her into very dark matters.
If Cathal said that Sophia had chosen her path, that he’d offered a way out, his father would be neither surprised nor moved. He’d spoken as fact, not in accusation. Cathal knew his voice, in his own ears, would have the ring of an excuse, and so he was silent again.
“Howbeit,” Artair said, his tone more thoughtful now, “this mischief will have left tracks.”
“It came through the air,” Cathal said. “Not flying. I don’t think any of us could trace its path.”
Artair shook his head. “Not that sort. All magic costs. To wrench a demon out of hell has one price. To point it at a target and send it across miles has another. And I doubt your foe is lurking just outside the castle walls.”
“Costs,” Cathal repeated. He looked down at his wrist, where the cut was already mostly healed. He knew not at what price the oracle chamber or the air spirits had come; that work had been done without him. Sophia’s work took herbs and jewels, flame and spirit. The scrying pool took jewels too—and blood. “Messy ones?”
“From all I’ve ever encountered, very. It’s easier to hide death in war, but these would be noticed, unless your man took great care to hide them. He does not,” Artair added with a curled upper lip, “seem the careful sort, past what is absolutely needful. There would likely be talk.”
“And he’ll not be able to send too many demons.”
Artair shrugged, massive shoulders moving like stones beneath his plaid. “Not too many. We’ve both seen war. There’s always a few who won’t be missed…along with the army, if not in it. The spell itself should limit it more.”
“The alignment of the planets?”
His father looked surprised, a memory Cathal would treasure. “You’ve picked up a few things. Aye, that. And the other costs, which I don’t know. And it’ll likely take a bit out of the man too, though not enough for my taste.”
“I thought…” Cathal said. “If Moiread’s sources were right, he made a pact?”
