He swore once more. He had rescued Silna. But would Carabel still give him the answers he sought if he couldn’t deliver the youngling to her? He chewed on the question for a time. It left a bad taste on his tongue.
If the werecat refused…he would insist. That much he was sure of. After everything he’d done for Carabel, he was due his answers. And if, by insisting, he ended up turning werecats as a whole against him—and Thorn—well, that was the price they’d have to pay.
There was only one way to find out.
He pulled his hood over his head and hurried deeper into Gil’ead.
CHAPTER XIII
Confrontation with a Cat
It was still early dawn, and all was grey and silent except for the occasional tromp of soldiers and the cry of the watch.
A direct approach to the fortress would have been suicidal, so Murtagh skirted the center of the city and kept to alleys and side streets where possible.
The few folks he encountered gave him suspicious glances, but no more than the situation warranted. All of Gil’ead felt tense, alert, as if violence could break out at any moment. Shutters in houses swung shut seemingly of their own accord when he lifted his gaze, and he saw members of the guard posted along the main thoroughfares.
Murtagh couldn’t stop worrying about Silna as he made his way through the city. Difficult and standoffish though she’d been, he hoped that she was safe and that the guards wouldn’t catch her. She was so small and young…. I should have done a better job of watching her, he thought.
As he neared the fortress, he slowed to a measured walk, not wanting to rush headlong into a dangerous situation.
Without too much trouble, he found the house that Bertolf, Carabel’s manservant, had brought him to before. Murtagh wondered if Carabel owned the elegant building or if she had an arrangement with whoever did. It seemed risky to be ducking in and out of a secret tunnel on a property where you didn’t know who might be watching.
With quick steps, he descended the stone stairs to the well set ten feet or so below the surface of the ground. There, he pushed on the same piece of carving as had Bertolf, and the hidden door swung open.
Murtagh wasn’t eager to again enter a tunnel, but at least he was familiar with this one, and it was far, far shorter than the maze they’d spent most of the night wandering. The thought reminded him of his lost sleep, and he fought back a powerful yawn. Two bad nights in a row took their toll.
He ducked beneath the lintel and walked in. Behind him, the door swung shut with a thud of deadly finality, and darkness swallowed him.
Somewhere ahead of him, the skittering footsteps of a mouse sounded.
“Great,” he said, starting forward with one hand against the wall for balance. “Just great.”
Murtagh growled as he entered the storage room at the end of the tunnel and his shin banged against the lip of a step. Once he closed the tunnel’s other entrance, he listened for anyone in the hall outside. This time he used his mind also, sending his thoughts searching for nearby beings. The only one he found was a rather frightened mouse in a crack along the wall of the storeroom.
Now! Murtagh left the storeroom and hurried through the same side passages Bertolf had led him through during his last visit. He was grateful that the path had been easy to remember and that it was still early enough that most of the fortress’s inhabitants had yet to wake. Plenty of the servants would already be after their duties, but he didn’t think he needed to worry about running into the castle’s baker that far outside of the kitchens.
Nevertheless, he was happy to reach the paneled door to the werecat’s study without incident.
He didn’t bother knocking; he lifted the latch on the door and pushed. It wasn’t locked or barred and swung inward with hardly a sound.
Carabel was sitting on the velvet cushion behind her desk. She was in the shape of a cat, tassel-eared, with a large mane around her neck and down her spine, and beautiful white fur that shone like satin. In size, she was perhaps three times larger than a normal cat, and lean muscles rippled beneath her hide in a way that spoke of savage strength.
She was purring and licking with her pink tongue the matted head of none other than Silna, who lay curled against her side, eyes closed in apparent bliss.
Murtagh paused at the entrance of the study, surprised and somewhat off-balance, but—for many reasons—relieved to see Silna safe. Then he moved in and closed the door behind himself.
“I take it she found you,” he said. He dropped his bedroll on the floor.
Carabel looked at him, and her purring deepened. He felt the touch of her mind, as if she were attempting to communicate with her thoughts, like Thorn.
He armored his consciousness against her and shook his head. “Oh no. Not like that. We talk with words or not at all.”
The werecat’s ears flattened against her narrow skull. Then her form blurred and wavered, as if seen through rippling water, and after a few seconds, she again resembled a short, thin human.
Only she was without clothes.
Murtagh did not care. In other circumstances, her figure might have been distracting, but right then, it had no effect on him. He kept his gaze on the werecat as she picked up her shift from the desk and pulled it on.
“How inconvenient,” said Carabel, showing her pointed little fangs.
Silna made a mewl of protest at being abandoned, and Carabel turned back and began to gently draw her sharp nails across the top of Silna’s head. The kitten nestled closer to Carabel, and Murtagh would have sworn there was a smile upon her tiny lips.
Murtagh planted himself on the center of the knotted rug, directly before the desk. Uncomfortable suspicion soured his mouth. “The two of you are very familiar.”
“Of course,” said Carabel, directing a fond look toward Silna. “She is my daughter.”
“Your daughter.”
“One of many, yes. My youngest.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The werecat looked at him with solemn eyes. “Because names are powerful things. If you had known, it is possible our foes could have discovered the truth from you, and then they might have used Silna against me.” She cocked her head. “You of all people ought to understand the danger of one’s name, Murtagh son of Morzan.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It is who you are, human.”
Murtagh fought to control his temper. “So they didn’t know Silna was yours?”
Carabel shook her head. “No.”
“It was just happenstance that they took her?”
“As best I can tell.”
He growled and paced about the rug. “Why did they kidnap her, then? Excuse me, kittennap her? And the other younglings. Has she said?”
Silna began to purr—a soft, steady rumble—as Carabel scratched along her cheek. Carabel said, “Only that the magician was involved—”
“Arven.”
“Yes, that was his name. And Captain Wren too. They spoke of sending her somewhere farther south.”
Murtagh’s irritation with the werecat receded into the background as he stalked back and forth across the width of the study, trying to puzzle out the situation. “Lord Relgin has to be told.” He stopped and gave Carabel a sharp look. “Or was this done at his command?”
Her expression grew severe. “I do not know,” she said in a dangerously quiet voice. “And I would not care to hazard a guess. In this matter, safety will only be found in surety, and so far, surety eludes us…. I take it you did not find any of our other younglings?”