Chapter Ten

Cold. The wind scythed like Death's blade across his body, keen and bitter. Still there was a long scar in the land, a score of black biting into the earth, where old blood had been shed and no plants now grew. And now, there was new to join the old—two men, who'd been mere boys when their parents had been ripped away, come to try and end the same life their fathers and mothers had sought to. It had been self-defense, but life had ended as a result, and must now be sent on with proper respect.

-8-8-8-

He didn't dream as he'd thought he might, with the dark memories that delighted in haunting his sleeping mind crowding in. He hadn't dreamt, he thought as he rose at dawn still wearing the same clothes, because he hadn't slept. Instead, a nagging headache had chased him throughout the night, feeding and being fed by the unceasing pain in his chest. Still, the guilt had found its vicious way in, as had the memories.

He padded down the stairs that led to his room, and stopped dead at the bottom. A fool, he mused wearily, to think his heart couldn't break again, that the pieces couldn't be stamped into even tinier pieces. For there she was, just where he'd left her, curled into a miserable huddle against the wall with the tear tracks still staining her pale face. Not a yard away, her braid lay like a dead snake, its life pitifully crushed. He lifted her gently, found that she weighed far less than he would have thought—a ghost, untouchable and beautiful—and took her, after a moment's hesitation, to his own bed. The excuses he could have made were legion—the bed was larger, the north-facing window would let in less of the dawn light that might disturb her sleep, it was quieter. But he wanted to see her here, just once wanted to see the pale silk of her hair—still long enough to brush at the lower contours of her shoulder blades, for all he had severed nearly a forearm's length—spread across his pillow, her slender, lovely body in his bed, still as innocent, still as bright and as beautiful as she'd been when he'd first seen her.

But now she was no longer his, not even to love.

-8-8-8-

When she was settled, he left her there, and went downstairs. The cat looked up expectantly at him, anticipating breakfast. Dórainn lit the fire, set on the kettle for tea. Then he straightened up, and calmly—or maybe numbly, he knew not—turned to face the young man that had just entered his tower.

Good clothes, simple and unadorned in the way only the very rich could afford. Clean, he was, and golden from hunting and riding in the sun. He had, Dórainn noted, his father's eyes, about three decades younger. Innocent in the ways that mattered, the mage decided, with none of the false kindness that nobility so often had masking cruel, petty natures, even if he seemed no deeper than a puddle. This would be Caoin, then, the high prince and heir to the throne of Seòbhrach Rubha. Dórainn had heard good things about him, if that he had little more intelligence than a puppy.

"You're the Demon Mage?" The prince asked after the long moment, without candor. "I am Caoin. I've come for Rapunzel."

"She's sleeping. You may take her when she's woken." He turned away, went back to the fire, where the kettle was beginning to let out wisps of steam. Not quite boiling, but it would do, and it would give him something to do to keep his hands from trembling. "Wait downstairs, if you please."

"That's it?" The prince demanded. "That's all you can say?"

Dórainn flicked a glance toward him. "What do you want me to say?"

"You kidnapped her, held her captive in this tower for ten years, and all you can say is 'take her'? Haven't you any feelings?"

"What do you expect me to feel?" the sorcerer inquired, his grey eyes gone icy. He had finished, much to his regret, with the kettle, so he put it back and watched the Prince levelly. "What makes you believe I feel anything at all?"

"You committed a crime! You should at least feel guilty for that! You stole her from her parents, stole ten years from her! Do you feel no remorse?" The boy's eyes were flashing with fiery indignation, while the mage's only grew colder.

"So speaks you, who knows no guilt, and needs no remorse. Her parents, do they feel guilty for what they did to her?"

Caoin's brows beetled, a puzzled look slid onto his handsome face. "What are you talking about?"

"I see you haven't found them yet. Very well, I'll tell you. Eighteen years ago, I found a man in my garden, stealing herbs. When I called out, he ran. He returned the next day, and tried to take more," Dórainn's voice had gone quiet, deadly. "I caught him that time, and he babbled about his wife needing the plants, and that if I would spare him, I could have the child when she was born."

He watched the prince as he spoke, watched the play of emotions run across his young face. "I agreed; mostly to see what he'd do, not from any desire for a child dependent on me. But when the time came, they refused to hold up their end of the bargain. They didn't even face me, but fled, hiding her away for seven years, moving from town to town. When I found them, they had left her in the forest, alone, after nightfall. Wonderful parents, no?"

Horror etched into the Prince's expression, but his eyes remained direct. "And you locked her away in a tower! How does that make you any better?"

"How indeed," Dórainn murmured. "I gave them every chance to retrieve her. They had only to come here, and I would have returned her to them."

"To be met with a dragon, and the Demon Mage himself!" Caoin shouted.

Dórainn's eyes narrowed, keying to what the witless lad called him. "It was you, then, who gave her that name."

"That's right—I told her the truth, that's all!"

Dórainn smiled mirthlessly, the cold smile he employed in such situations as these. "Your version of the truth. Not precisely unbiased, Prince of Seòbhrach Rubha. We have not been friends, your father and I, have we? I have no doubt he resents my stepping in between Murchadh and him." He turned his back on the Prince, dismissing the boy. "But still, you've achieved your goal, and turned her to your way of thinking."

And didn't it hurt, knowing that he had played straight into the hands of this young pup and turned her away with his own temper?

"No," the Prince said slowly. "I haven't, yet. Not entirely."