Page 92 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
“Wait for England tofall?”
“Everythingfalls. War always wins. I have seen it over and over.” I knew the savagery of it, the inevitability of humanity’s self-immolation. It was like my mind had been raised to a godlike perspective, dispassionate, staring down, judging…
“You are not hearing yourself,” he cried. “Would you make me choose between England and you?”
“There is no choice! England is lost. You are here.”
“I can go south. Buy a horse. Buy a ship. Walk.”
“Do not joke.”
“Do I look like I am joking?” He shouted it, his face ashen, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering, but when he resumed, his voice was deadly soft. “You lied at Pemberley because you knew my answer. No, I will not hide. I will find a way south and then I will heal the song, with or without the flute. If that fails, I will battle the blight. If that fails, I will don a uniform, shoulder a musket, and fight. But I willnot hide. And the woman I love would not hide, either.”
“That is fantasy. If you even reached the south, Fènnù would sense our binding…” The rest faded from my lips. At the word Fènnù, the anger in me had twisted into malevolent, raw fury…
“Then I will die,” Darcy said.
“Stop,” I whispered. A darkness folded, wrapping my soul. A voice caressed my mind,wyfe of war, arise.
“I willnotstop—”
I reached out blindly, palm skidding over his vest buttons. “Stop!” I gasped, and this time he did. “Something is wrong… something is coming…” My vision dimmed like ink had spilled across the sky.
Awell-dressed man walked around the ragged wall into the castle. Three husky roughs with wooden cudgels followed, dragging the beaten guard.
“What hae ye done?” Mistress MacLeod cried.
The well-dressed man touched his hat in recognition. “Mistress MacLeod.” He noticed her husband. “And mister.”
“What madness is this?” Darcy said, striding toward them.
The well-dressed man squinted at him. “Who’re you?”
“Mr. Darcy.” He spoke it as a threat.
“I’m Patrick Sellar,” the man responded, “factor for this land. Ye best be keepin’ accusations of ‘madness’ to yerself. We’re arresting the MacLeods. They’re troublemakers, and now they’ve overstepped to thievery.”
“Och! I’m not a thief, ye thief!” Mr. MacLeod exclaimed.
Sellar laughed. “Ye poached a half-dozen sheep. Says so on my warrant.” He patted his pocket.
“Theydid not poach your sheep,” Darcy said contemptuously. He faced the men holding the guard. “Release him!”
One man actually let go. Another sneered and gave the half-conscious guard a shake for good measure.
Two new men from the village ran into view around the corner. When they saw Sellar, one raised a heavy belaying pin. Every hand reached for a cudgel or knife.
“Stop it, ye fools!” Mistress MacLeod shouted. “Do ye nae see she carries—”
The villagers charged, screaming. Mr. MacLeod attacked the men holding the beaten guard, swinging hunger-thinned arms still tough with sinewy muscle. He punched one man in the eye, who swore and staggered.
Darcy was shouting explanations. “They did not take your sheep—”
A crazed laugh skidded through my throat. As if facts mattered. As if the law were not just another weapon.
Sellar strode to Mistress MacLeod and shoved his wooden cudgel crosswise, banging her shoulder and jaw. She fell back a step and spat blood. Mr. MacLeod, grappling with one of the men, went berserk trying to reach her.
A voice caressed my mind,wyfe of war, arise.
