by Hazel Hunter
The smell of sweet, ripe fruit came pouring out of the dark interior. Jenna saw the outlines of a large, primitive press and tall baskets filled with apples and pears. At least she wouldn’t starve to death while the men decided what to do with her. She stepped over the threshold, and then turned to look at her savior.
Don’t leave me alone. That thought bothered her, but not as much as the next one that popped into her head. Come into the dark with me.
“Forgive me, lass,” the overseer said before he locked her inside.
Domnall used an old trail leading from the cider house to walk to the orchards, where he’d sent his hunters to await him. He signaled them to follow him to his cottage. None of the men spoke as they filed inside and gathered near the hearth. He went to the woodpile for a split of juniper to toss on the glowing embers before he regarded the other Mag Raith.
“I’ve locked Jenna Cameron in the cider house, as Galan bade me.” And he might never forget the stricken look she’d given him as he’d closed the door in her face. “He didnae welcome her when I brought her to the tribe. He accused her of serving masters who scheme to take our lands.”
Mael, Domnall’s tracker, shook his head. “That dreary fack’s gone crazed again. Next, he’ll order you take her head, and then I shall break our vow and–”
“Guard your tongue,” Edane said and went to the window to glance outside.
The reminder that his archer no longer felt safe in speaking openly, even away from the settlement, added more weight to Domnall’s doubts. Edane had always been sensitive to the moods of others, and often of late seemed deeply disturbed by the headman’s increasingly zealous nature.
“By the Gods,” Mael said. “Dinnae tell me you believe Galan’s blethering. She’s but a wee lass, left helpless and fearful.” His topaz eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted to the archer. “You drew closest, Brother. Did she stink to you of enchantment?”
“She smelled of rain,” Edane replied as he tugged absently on one of the thin, bright red braids he’d woven in his unruly mane. “I felt naught of magic from her. I reckon she’s no’ come to do harm to us or the Moss Dapple.”
“You cannae claim thus,” Broden said, his handsome face as cold as his rasping voice. “The finest lures dangle soft and sweet and helpless.”
“So speaks the master trapper,” Kiaran said and gave a comforting scratch to the neck feathers of the small, agitated kestrel perched on his shoulder. The raptor immediately calmed. “I stood too far to see much of the lass, but she didnae behave with treachery. More like wholly bemused to my mind. Would she no’ have attacked you, had enemies sent her?”
Domnall considered all he’d sensed from Jenna, as well as the startling similarity her plight bore to their own.
“She’s no’ evil.” He met Broden’s narrow gaze. “You didnae see her when she woke. I saw in her eyes the same as I felt when we first came. No memory of how she’d landed there. The skinwork on her back, ’twas done in the same fashion as ours. ’Tis near a match for my own.”
None of the Mag Raith had ever remembered what had taken them, marked them and then discarded them. Their second lives had begun on the day they’d awoken in the Moss Dapple’s forest after being rescued from the underworld by Galan. Whatever had captured them had removed their Pritani ink completely, along with the battle spirits that had once guided them. The dru-wid had claimed that only the Gods had the power to do such things. Since none of the Mag Raith could remember a moment of their ordeal, they had accepted his explanation.
Now Domnall wondered if the headman had told them all he’d known.
“She’s a brave one,” Mael said, ending the stretching silence. “No’ once did she weep or rail at her predicament. Few lasses have such courage.”
“She doesnae seem to me Scots or dru-wid kind,” Edane said, sounding thoughtful. “Her words, some confounded me. I’ve no notion of what ‘architect’ means.” As the other men muttered in agreement, he glanced outside. “We’ve to patrol soon. Mayhap we should decide our path before enraging the headman anew.”
“The lass cannae live on apples,” Mael said. “She’ll want a proper meal, and some warming brew.”
“Garments and shoes as well,” Kiaran said. “Galan shallnae permit the tribe to provide them to an outsider. She’s nearer your size, Edane.”
The archer sighed as he looked down at his lanky body. “Aye, torment me again on what a fine wench I’d make.”
“Mayhap we should take turns to spoon-feed the poor lass,” Broden said sourly, folding his arms. “Then cobble her boots and sew a fine gown. Edane may beseech the Gods to favor her. Aye, why no’ we all pledge loyalty to the wench?”
Mael scowled back at him. “She’s a dove, you great thick-skull, no’ a wolf.”
“Or she’s a wolf in dove’s feathers,” the trapper countered. “Mayhap architect means ‘devourer of men’s hearts.’”
Edane gestured toward Broden’s chest. “If she’s that hungry, we’ll feed yours to her. You’ve no use for it.”
“At least I’ve one,” the trapper countered.
“’Tis no fathoming this for now,” Domnall declared. He didn’t want his hunters’ bantering to escalate into a quarrel. “Edane, fetch something for the lass to wear before you go on patrol. Mael, round the cider house, then join him. Kiaran, stand sentry at the settlement, and keep watch on the headman. Listen for my signal. We may want to move quickly.”
“And me?” When Domnall eyed Broden, he folded his arms. “I’m Mag Raith, no’ a tree lover. Bid me do, and I shall see ’tis done.”
His trapper might nag like a fearful old crone, but in the end, he always remained loyal.
“I’ll want you at the river entry,” he told him. “If the dru-wid decides against the lass, I’ll take her out to the nearest village. All of you, listen for my signal.”
“You’d defy the headman to see the lass saved?” Broden demanded. “When you ken naught of her?”
Every word rang true, and yet not. Domnall did know something of Jenna. He’d felt that in his bones since the moment he’d spotted her in the grove. Like so much that had happened to him and his men, he could not put a name to it. He didn’t have a single memory of her, and doubted they’d ever met. Still, he knew he had to protect the lass until the truth about her could be revealed.
“I ken she’s as Galan found us, our minds empty and our hides branded by the gods,” he said finally. “She’s lost all her memories, so she cannae even speak to her tribe. She’s no one but the Mag Raith to protect her, and that I shall do.” He scanned their faces. “What say you, brothers?”
“Aye, Overseer.” Mael thrust his fist out. “Mag Raith gu bràth.”
The other hunters echoed him as they added their fists to the tracker’s, forming a wheel of arms.
Domnall reached out and covered their fists with his broad hand, sealing the agreement. “Mag Raith gu bràth.”
Chapter Three
Futility and fury dogged Galan Aedth as he retreated into the privacy of his cottage. As headman of the Moss Dapple he had labored for more than twenty incarnations to obtain an elusive prize. In vain, even he would admit, for he had come no closer to obtaining his heart’s desire. The arrival of Jenna Cameron once more pushed his face into the ever-steaming pile of his own failure.
Yet this wench might provide him with a new chance to crawl out of his own cac.
Shedding his outer robe, Galan strode to the small, windowless chamber at the very back of the cottage. The cold, heavy air within smelled of the meditative herbs he’d burned the previous night in a wasted effort to restore his balance. He went to his alcove to study the focal stones and crystals he kept there. Most had grown dusty from lack of use, but the power they contained yet shimmered in their depths. He selected a broad, flat-sided chrysolite the color of curled, new leaves, and carried it to the spell circle in the center of the chamber.
The cairn stele he’d built for his castings contained stones ga
thered from dozens of sacred oak groves. Long ago Galan had discovered a secret that he’d kept to himself. Over the millennia the stones absorbed some of the magic from the portals. Using such stones increased his own power tenfold, and enabled him to become one of the most formidable spell-casters among all druid kind. As soon as he placed the chrysolite in the niche atop the stele its depths brightened. After kneeling and beseeching the Gods to aid him in his quest, Galan focused on the crystal.
“Show me from whence this female calling herself Jenna Cameron came.”
The yellow-green surface of the crystal grew clouded, the murky grayness burgeoning and darkening. Yet as Galan watched nothing clearly showed. Just as nothing had every time he’d tried to see into the past of his Mag Raith defenders. Only fogginess, and then blackness as the crystal went dark.
“’Tis the grove of stars that took her?” he asked. “Please, I beg you, help me see.”
When not a flicker of light reappeared, he seized the crystal and threw it across the chamber. It bounced off his meditation chair and fell to roll lazily back to him, rocking back and forth as if to say no.
The Gods ever deny those who would demand of them, lad, his old trainer had told Galan in his first incarnation, when he’d indulged in a youthful fit of temper. You must entreat, entreat, entreat.
He dragged in deeper, slower breaths until his resentment subsided. Bowing to the ground, he pressed his brow against the floor boards.
“Forgive me my ire. I would only ken what I must to protect my tribe.”
That was a half-truth, one of many he’d told the Gods since discovering the Mag Raith hurled naked and unknowing into the Moss Dapple’s enchanted forest. Since that day Galan had struggled in vain to solve the mystery of what had happened to the hunters, and yet had found not a trace of the truth.
Now this wench had appeared, speaking in that strange accent and looking as if she’d been bathed in milk and massaged with perfumes every day of her young life. Claiming herself to be an American, when no such country existed, and an architect, which he knew to be utterly ludicrous. But he shouldn’t have accused the wench of treachery. The overseer’s cool eyes had filled with contempt for him—again. Keeping his hold over the Mag Raith required them to feel they owed him their service. Domnall’s sense of obligation waned each time they clashed, and soon–
A timid knock came at the chamber door, and when he jerked it open the young druidess standing outside took a quick step back. He looked over the novice, whose dark red hair and pale brown eyes indicated she was one of Aklen’s brats. He would have to speak kindly to her, or the tribe’s shaman would again have hard words for him.
“What do you want of me, Sister?”
“My sire bid me bring you a calming brew, Master Aedth.” Her hands shook as she extended the steaming cup. “Might I prepare your evening meal?”
Had it grown that late? Galan had lost track of the hours. “No, Sister, but go with my thanks to your sire.” He took the cup and shut the door.
Aklen had been meddling much like this of late. It annoyed Galan that he could barely control his own people anymore. Keeping the Mag Raith subservient to him much longer already seemed unlikely. Domnall had openly refused to obey his orders more than once now. If the overseer decided to abandon his vow to protect the Moss Dapple, Galan would never discover what had given the Mag Raith their extraordinary abilities as well as their unique nature.
He now had no doubt that the five Pritani had been changed by some great, unknown power. But how? What had been done to them had not come from druid kind. Of that Galan was convinced.
Domnall and the hunters could heal from any wound, no matter how grievous. During long winters when food had grown scarce, they’d given their shares to the tribe’s children, and yet never suffered from starvation or sickness. Each hunter also had been given a unique ability that provided him startling power, yet wholly unconnected with magic.
Nor did any of them seem to age.
That such simple-minded brutes possessed what Galan had so long coveted never failed to cease chewing at the headman’s gut. He gulped down Aklen’s brew, scalding his tongue and throat. The pain felt distant compared to the envy burning in his soul. Reincarnation required him to wait for his new form to mature, a tedious interval. Thus far he had always come back from the well of stars, but he dreaded the yawning darkness between each lifetime. If he had what the hunters possessed he need never surrender to death. He could at last find the means with which to bring back that which his cursed son had stolen from him at birth.
Fiana.
For his dead love Galan would learn the secrets of the Mag Raith, if he had to drag the hunters and Jenna Cameron into the afterlife himself.
Chapter Four
Jenna had listened to the heavy sound of Domnall’s footsteps as he’d walked away. She didn’t want to be left alone, but the big man would be back. She simply had to be patient. As for this nameless attraction she’d developed for him—a man she’d met barely an hour ago—it was probably due to whatever trauma she’d suffered. Yes, of course it was due to the trauma, and the fact he was big and kind and strong, and had those beautiful feline eyes in such an arresting face. He probably made every woman indulge in secret fantasies of being alone with him, and stroking her hands over that magnificent body and all those beautiful muscles…
Enough of that. You don’t even know him.
Picking up a small, red-gold apple, Jenna walked around the press. The wooden components of the crude mechanism had weathered to silver, but appeared clean and well-maintained. Rows of empty barrels in various sizes had been neatly stacked to one side, along with rolls of rough-woven hemp. Several troughs also stood ready for use. She envisioned the cider house workers collecting the leavings to feed them to the livestock after the fruit had been pressed.
How do I know what they do with it? I’m an architect, not a farmer.
That could mean that she’d come from farming people, or lived near a small agricultural community.
Light filtered in through some slits in the wall too narrow for Jenna to squeeze through, but the straw covering the dirt floor looked clean. She spotted a pair of large leather gloves that would definitely be too big for her, a stained apron hanging from a peg, and a set of wooden clogs. A quick check revealed the shoes were a fit. Slipping them on, she sat down and took a bite of the apple, which flooded her mouth with tarty sweetness. Suddenly hungry, she ate every bit down to the core, and then dropped it in one of the troughs. Her sticky hand made her grimace, but she didn’t see any water she could use for washing.
Would Domnall keep her here for hours? Days? Why had Galan treated her like an enemy? What would make him think she could be one?
Jenna blew out a long, shuddering breath. All she had was questions and nothing to do but wait. She leaned back against the wall and forced herself to close her eyes. Though she wasn’t tired, she was just beginning to realize what she did feel: overload. The more she thought about it, the more everything around her felt wrong. The buildings, the people, and even the forest didn’t seem right. That had to be because she didn’t belong here.
As for where she did belong, she felt completely disconnected from it, as if she hadn’t fit there either.
“I’m an architect,” she muttered.
Going back to the one thing she knew about herself made her feel a little more at ease. She was an architect, which she knew meant she designed buildings. Judging by her recognition of the cider house’s features, she at least knew how to build house-size wooden structures. She studied her hands, which appeared small but nicely shaped, with short-trimmed nails and calluses in a few spots. She rubbed her thumb against the hard patch on the side of her middle finger. She must work with her hands a lot, drawing things to be built, yet nothing she’d designed came back to her.
Maybe she wasn’t an architect. She could be pretending to be one. Sure, for my scheming masters. Galan’s zany accusation made her laugh a little. Wha
t is that man’s problem, anyway?
Time passed at a slow, uneasy crawl. As her patience finally ran out, Jenna got up and went to the door, leaning against it to listen for any noises outside. As far as she knew she’d only technically trespassed on the tribe’s lands. If Domnall and his men had done the same thing, then why weren’t they locked up with her? None of this made sense. She needed to get out of here and find out what had happened to her. As that last thought ran through her head, she felt her hand against the door grow warm, as if she held it over a stove.
As she stared down at it, her fingers turned opaque and sank into the wood.
“No.”
Jerking back, she stared at her hand and then the door. Her fingers shook as they returned to normal. Gingerly she flexed them, and turned her hand over and then back again. She let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
“What the…”
She balled her hand into a fist and glanced at the door. Her head told her that what she’d just seen was impossible, but the surge of adrenaline coursing through her body told her to do it again. She flexed her fingers one more time, and they seemed the same as they ever had. With a small nod, she squared herself to face the door. Slowly she touched her fingers to the wood.
Watching them, she felt the warmth in them spread to her palm and then down into her arm. She pushed, and her hand changed again and went through the wood, followed by her arm to the elbow. She froze as she felt wind brush against her skin. Her hand and forearm were on the other side of the door.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Jenna let the warmth engulf her. Her body followed her arm, passing through the wood. A heartbeat later she stood outside the cider house.
“Wow.”
She turned around, her body growing even warmer as she stepped back through the door into the cider house. On the other side she staggered a little, her knees shaking as if she might collapse. She stood still until the shakes passed and her panicked breathing slowed. Sweat trickled down the side of her face like hot tears.