“Her left eye. Oh, gods.” Celyn leaned away from her. “You didn’t take her eye, did you? To use for some . . . ritual?”
She let out a harsh, abrasive sound that grated on Celyn’s exhausted nerves, even though he knew deep down that was her laugh. “Don’t need no worthless human’s eyes, boy, to bring me power. I make me own power.” She walked to the bed, looking down at Elina. “But she ain’t had no eye when you brought her here. If ya want me to guess . . . it’s probably around the neck of the one who done this to her. Like a trophy.”
Horrified, Celyn stared down at Elina. How could he tell her this when she woke up? How could he tell her what had happened to her?
“But you’re powerful. Can’t you do . . . something?”
“If the eye was still there, yeah. I could probably fix it. At least make it look like mine. But ain’t no eye there to fix, is there?” She patted his arm. “But look. I helped with the scars she was gonna have, didn’t I? She had slashes from her neck to over her right eye. Skin hanging off and all. But I fixed that up real nice. You probably won’t even be able to tell . . . much . . . after a while.”
“I don’t care about her scars.”
“Well, humans do. They get real upset about that sort of thing.”
“But her eye . . .”
“What do you want me to say? Can’t create it out of air, can I?”
“But what do I tell her?”
“What do you tell her? How about she’s lucky to be alive?”
Celyn faced his kin—although he really thought of her as his ancestor—and said, “Her mother did this. Her mother. How does a mother do that to her offspring?”
Brigida, unmoved, shrugged. “Don’t know. Me mother was known for being pure evil . . . but she liked me. We got along real well. But this girl . . . her mother aimed for the arteries. I think she only missed because your human moved. Tell me this, did the attack stop after this cut or did you have to step in?”
“I stepped in. So did her sister.”
“Then what you tell this girl is that she’s lucky to be alive.”
Assuming he had no choice in the matter, Celyn sat down on the edge of the bed.
Brigida stared at him for a bit before asking, “How old are you?”
“One hundred and fifty-eight.”
She snorted. “Then you’re too old for this.”
“Too old for what?”
She waved at him, her face contorting as if she were searching for the right word. “For all this . . . concern.” And she said that last word with utter disgust.
Celyn rolled his eyes. “Really?”
“It’s a weakness.”
“It is not a we—”
“And your mother’s fault.”
“How is my mother to bl—”
“Like all the females of me line, they baby their boys. Make them weak. Make them think that the world is filled with sweets and roses.”
“Ghleanna the Decimator did not baby me. She babied none of her hatchlings.”
“Hard on her females, I bet she was. But cuddling and showing affection to her males.”
“That’s not true. My mother was hard on us all and loving to us all. In equal measure. And I’d ask you not to speak ill of my mother.”
“Fine. Your father’s fault then.”
“What’s wrong with my father?”
“Nothing, actually. He’s not much with strength, but he’s smart. We need more of that in our line. Too many of the Cadwaladr males are big and dumb . . . like oxen.”
“That’s me and my kin you’re speaking of.”
“No. You take after your father a bit, I think.”
“My poor father wishes. But none of us are like our da.”
“You are, more than you realize. I remember him, you know, as a whelp. He couldn’t stop staring at your mum, but like most Cadwaladr females, it took her forever to realize it.”
Elina stirred beside him, grimacing in her sleep, her fingers reaching for her wounded face.
Celyn took her hand in his and gently held it. With his other hand, he pushed her hair off her face.
The move seemed to calm her and she settled back into deep sleep.
When Celyn suddenly remembered he wasn’t alone in the room with Elina, he looked up to find the old witch watching him. And gods, she was so very old, but she still had her mind. Something told Celyn that would be the last of her to go.
“It’s not your fault, boy,” she abruptly told him, with something akin to kindness in her voice.
“I was supposed to protect her.”
“She’s alive, ain’t she? If it hadn’t been for you, I can promise you . . . she wouldn’t be.”
“Aye, but—”
“Her mother wanted her dead. Long before your little Rider even knew your name.”
He knew the witch was right, but still . . .
Brigida shook her head. “Aye. Your father’s child, you are. All thoughtful and caring, feeling everything deep.” She let out a sound of disgust and turned away from him.
“It’s not considered a flaw among our clan to be thoughtful and caring,” Celyn argued. “As long as you’re good with a sword or hammer, you’re bloody golden among the Cadwaladrs.”
“So you’re telling me my entire line’s gone weak?” She made her slow way across the alcove. “You know who’s fault that is, don’t’ cha?”
She let out a harsh, abrasive sound that grated on Celyn’s exhausted nerves, even though he knew deep down that was her laugh. “Don’t need no worthless human’s eyes, boy, to bring me power. I make me own power.” She walked to the bed, looking down at Elina. “But she ain’t had no eye when you brought her here. If ya want me to guess . . . it’s probably around the neck of the one who done this to her. Like a trophy.”
Horrified, Celyn stared down at Elina. How could he tell her this when she woke up? How could he tell her what had happened to her?
“But you’re powerful. Can’t you do . . . something?”
“If the eye was still there, yeah. I could probably fix it. At least make it look like mine. But ain’t no eye there to fix, is there?” She patted his arm. “But look. I helped with the scars she was gonna have, didn’t I? She had slashes from her neck to over her right eye. Skin hanging off and all. But I fixed that up real nice. You probably won’t even be able to tell . . . much . . . after a while.”
“I don’t care about her scars.”
“Well, humans do. They get real upset about that sort of thing.”
“But her eye . . .”
“What do you want me to say? Can’t create it out of air, can I?”
“But what do I tell her?”
“What do you tell her? How about she’s lucky to be alive?”
Celyn faced his kin—although he really thought of her as his ancestor—and said, “Her mother did this. Her mother. How does a mother do that to her offspring?”
Brigida, unmoved, shrugged. “Don’t know. Me mother was known for being pure evil . . . but she liked me. We got along real well. But this girl . . . her mother aimed for the arteries. I think she only missed because your human moved. Tell me this, did the attack stop after this cut or did you have to step in?”
“I stepped in. So did her sister.”
“Then what you tell this girl is that she’s lucky to be alive.”
Assuming he had no choice in the matter, Celyn sat down on the edge of the bed.
Brigida stared at him for a bit before asking, “How old are you?”
“One hundred and fifty-eight.”
She snorted. “Then you’re too old for this.”
“Too old for what?”
She waved at him, her face contorting as if she were searching for the right word. “For all this . . . concern.” And she said that last word with utter disgust.
Celyn rolled his eyes. “Really?”
“It’s a weakness.”
“It is not a we—”
“And your mother’s fault.”
“How is my mother to bl—”
“Like all the females of me line, they baby their boys. Make them weak. Make them think that the world is filled with sweets and roses.”
“Ghleanna the Decimator did not baby me. She babied none of her hatchlings.”
“Hard on her females, I bet she was. But cuddling and showing affection to her males.”
“That’s not true. My mother was hard on us all and loving to us all. In equal measure. And I’d ask you not to speak ill of my mother.”
“Fine. Your father’s fault then.”
“What’s wrong with my father?”
“Nothing, actually. He’s not much with strength, but he’s smart. We need more of that in our line. Too many of the Cadwaladr males are big and dumb . . . like oxen.”
“That’s me and my kin you’re speaking of.”
“No. You take after your father a bit, I think.”
“My poor father wishes. But none of us are like our da.”
“You are, more than you realize. I remember him, you know, as a whelp. He couldn’t stop staring at your mum, but like most Cadwaladr females, it took her forever to realize it.”
Elina stirred beside him, grimacing in her sleep, her fingers reaching for her wounded face.
Celyn took her hand in his and gently held it. With his other hand, he pushed her hair off her face.
The move seemed to calm her and she settled back into deep sleep.
When Celyn suddenly remembered he wasn’t alone in the room with Elina, he looked up to find the old witch watching him. And gods, she was so very old, but she still had her mind. Something told Celyn that would be the last of her to go.
“It’s not your fault, boy,” she abruptly told him, with something akin to kindness in her voice.
“I was supposed to protect her.”
“She’s alive, ain’t she? If it hadn’t been for you, I can promise you . . . she wouldn’t be.”
“Aye, but—”
“Her mother wanted her dead. Long before your little Rider even knew your name.”
He knew the witch was right, but still . . .
Brigida shook her head. “Aye. Your father’s child, you are. All thoughtful and caring, feeling everything deep.” She let out a sound of disgust and turned away from him.
“It’s not considered a flaw among our clan to be thoughtful and caring,” Celyn argued. “As long as you’re good with a sword or hammer, you’re bloody golden among the Cadwaladrs.”
“So you’re telling me my entire line’s gone weak?” She made her slow way across the alcove. “You know who’s fault that is, don’t’ cha?”
