Murtagh

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?”

“There was no sign of them,” he said, and her eyes softened with sorrow. “Does Silna know what happened to them?”

Carabel placed a protective arm around her daughter. The sight sent a pang through Murtagh. “Alas, no,” Carabel replied. “She saw nothing of them. Tell me, if you would, how you rescued her. I would hear the whole of it, in every detail.”

“You owe me answers, cat,” he said, grim.

“And answers you shall have. But first this, if it please you.”

Murtagh took a breath and did his best to put aside his impatience. He could not fault the werecat for asking.

So he described his time at Glaedr’s barrow and how he had extracted the dragon’s golden scale from within its earthy tomb. And he explained the steps he had followed to find Muckmaw’s feeding ground, and how he had fought and killed the great fish.

The werecat listened intently, and at the point of Muckmaw’s death, she went, “Sss. Good. Let the rats eat his tail and may his bones crumble to dust.” By her side, Silna wiggled and looked up at her mother. Carabel resumed petting her. “The fish ate many a werecat over the years, human. It is good he is gone.”

“And you got me to kill him for you.”

Carabel cocked her head. “Would you have been able to gain entrance to the guard otherwise?”

“…No. Probably not.”

Smug, the cat took a sip from a chalice on the desk. “See? There was a rightness to this.” She waved an elegant hand. “You may continue.”