Page 52 of Darro

“Enjoy your wee victory now,” Tasgall muttered. “For soon you shall face defeat and misery as you’ve never ken.”

“Yes, yes. If it makes you happy, keep deluding yourself.” He made a shooing gesture. “Now get back to work.”

Once the laird trudged out, Bodach decided to visit the kitchens, where earlier he had commanded the Cook and her wenches to prepare him food. The women worked like robots, their movements abrupt and graceless. What dishes they made they slopped onto platters and into bowls as if they meant to feed them to livestock.

“How is this a fine meal, Doon?” he asked the tall, ugly cook. “It looks like pig fodder.”

She didn’t reply, but like the laird she had raw hatred in her eyes. It seemed the poison did not entirely take over the emotions of his zed; he would have to complain to Mirry once he returned to the outside world.

“You should regard your master with respect,” he chided as he took the knife out of Doon’s hand, and poised the tip just under her eyelashes. “If you can’t, I might assure you can never look at anything ever again.”

The hatred melted into fear, making him chuckle.

“That’s better. Throw out this unappetizing shit and make something prettier for me.” He put the knife back in her hand and walked out into the gardens.

The head gardener, an old man whom he had commanded to search the outbuildings, hobbled over to him. Covered in loose straw and dirt, he appeared to have fallen and broken one of his legs.

“You searched the stables?” Bodach asked. When the old man nodded, he looked past him. “Show me where you fell.”

An arrow flew in between them and buried itself in the ground a few steps from where he stood. When he looked up he saw a line of archers preparing to fire from the rooftops.

“How the hell did you escape my darlings?” Bodach scowled, and then yelped as another arrow grazed his sleeve, cutting into his flesh. Gripping his arm, he ran back into the kitchens and barred the door before examining the growing blood stain on his tunic. “And how did you wound me?”

He grabbed the knife from the cook again and cut open his sleeve, revealing a deep gash that glittered with greenish-brown residue. The arrow that had struck the glancing blow had possessed a head carved from Fae-enchanted stone, which was impossible. The McKeran might have Fae blood, but they could not wield magic. No full-blood Fae had been caught in the spell trap; Bodach would have sensed them at once. So where had they gotten the enchanted stone to make such weapons?

He recalled seeing the armorer place a carved rock on a threshold, one he’d assumed had been a druid spell stone. What if Rory McKeran had a supply of stone that had been enchanted by Fae?

“Come here,” Bodach shouted, and all the women in the kitchen stopped working and trudged over to gather before him. “Go to the rooftop. Find the armorer and bring him to me.”