He shook his head, signifying the impossibility of her request. “Skeal Eile says there is no doubt. You were seen.”
Skeal Eile. She had thought as much. “Skeal Eile hates me. You know that. If he were looking to place the blame on anyone, he would think of me first. If he has witnesses, let him produce them. Let me face them. This is wrong, Pogue. You know it is.”
He ran his big hands through his coarse, dark hair and down over his face, wiping away the tears that streaked his cheeks. “I want to believe that. I want to believe what you tell me. But something … something keeps me from doing so. Doubts I cannot shake. They haunt me. I see you with him. Then I see you with Sider.” He shook his head once more. “It drives me half mad. I can barely function. That’s why I didn’t come sooner. I couldn’t make myself.”
She put her arms around him and held him. “Something is very wrong here.
Something more than what has happened to me. Something has infected the whole village. It hasn’t felt right here for days, but I had dismissed it until I was imprisoned.
We have to find out what it is. You and I. We have to remember who we are and what we mean to each other. You are my husband, and I love you. Sider Ament is dead and gone, and the past is gone with him. You and I are the present. But we are threatened, Pogue. Our home is threatened. Glensk Wood and our friends and neighbors, too. Can’t you feel it?”
He nodded slowly. “I’ve wondered.”
“Have you sent anyone to defend Declan Reach yet? Has there been any word from Esselline?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t even thought about Esselline or the passes. Skeal Eile said …”
He trailed off. She looked in his eyes and saw the confusion and uncertainty mirrored there. This wasn’t like Pogue—nothing like him at all. He was strong and firm and decisive. He would never equivocate as he was doing now.
“Go to the council and ask that I be brought before them to answer to the charges lodged against me,” she begged. “Ask that I be given a chance to defend myself. Please.”
He nodded slowly. “I will, Aislinne. I will do that.” He sounded stronger now, less uncertain. “I should have done it before. I’m sorry. I didn’t want any of this to happen to you.”
He bent forward, this big man, and kissed her softly on the forehead. The gesture was hesitant, almost as if he thought she might break under the weight of his touch.
Then he turned and went over to the door, calling loudly for the guard to come let him out.
THE RAGPICKER, who had been listening outside, stepped away quickly and headed back up the stairs to the council chambers. The guard hadn’t noticed him; the ragpicker had used magic to make certain of that. He had suspected that it would be wise to listen in on Pogue Kray and his wife when he had heard the latter announce to Skeal Eile his plan to visit her. The council leader wasn’t a strong man when it came to his wife. Even as subverted as he was by the ragpicker’s magic and as convinced by Skeal Eile’s insistence on his wife’s infidelity, he was influenced more by his love for her than by anything else. The ragpicker had known that at some point his hold over the big man would weaken and his plans would have to change.
As he departed the building and went out into the midday sunlight, he was already considering his choices in the matter.
First, he could kill the woman. He could make it look like suicide, and once she was dead she wouldn’t be able to dispute anything. On the other hand, it would likely mean the end of any hold he had over Pogue Kray and a possible collapse of his larger plan for the village and ultimately the boy who carried the black staff.
Second, he could let the woman have her chance to dispute the charges and rely upon his own “witnesses”—compelled to say what he wanted them to say—to convince the council she was lying. That was a big gamble. The woman was strong-willed and well respected in the community, and there were already those who were questioning the decision to lock her away.
Third, he could put his larger plan into action right away and remove all possibility of disruption.
Deciding which choice to select was surprisingly easy. The ragpicker already knew which one it would be.
He walked on through the village to the home of Skeal Eile and without bothering to knock walked through the door. The Seraphic would be home. He had given him instructions to stay there until he returned from spying on Pogue Kray. These days, enmeshed as he was in the machinations of the demon and convinced that his participation would eventually yield results favorable to his own ambitions, Skeal Eile always did what he was told.
The Seraphic came down the stairs from his second-floor lodgings and looked past the ragpicker quickly, checking to see if someone had followed him. The ragpicker smiled.
Skeal Eile was still worried about appearances when appearances were the last thing he should be thinking about.