Warrior Reborn

by Melissa Mayhue

  She couldn’t lose faith now. It was much more likely that the alternative Chase had devised was waiting there in Skuld’s world, a path already woven, simply obscured by the Mysts.

  With a sharp snap of the cloth, she shook the overdress in an effort to eliminate a few of the wrinkles caused by the garment’s lying in a crumpled heap upon the floor.

  “Worth every wrinkle,” she murmured, a smile returning to her lips.

  She would not waste her energy on this worry. It could all be resolved easily enough when next she traveled to Skuld’s world.

  A glance at the deep gray light around the shutters assured her the morning’s sun hadn’t yet pushed its way above the horizon. Even now the cook’s helpers would be buzzing about the storage rooms, like bees at a hive, gathering all the ingredients for the morning meal. She had a good half hour or more before she could slip unseen through that exit.

  Plenty of time to spread the blanket back over the bed so it wouldn’t be obvious anyone had been here. Plenty of time to lie down for a moment or two, just to rest her eyes while she held to her breast the pillow that still carried Chase’s scent.

  Thirty

  STANDING AT THE window, high in his tower, Torquil surveyed the activity below. As the sun spread its rays, more and more of his people emerged from their hovels to scurry about their day’s work, indistinguishable from this height.

  Pathetic, interchangeable little beings, all of them, with no better purpose for their existence than to serve him as docile cattle.

  Not all of them interchangeable, he amended his thoughts. And not all so docile. Though the little whore who’d spent the better part of her night begging for her life would think twice before she questioned his demands again.

  Her and her ugly, muddy eyes.

  He should have given her to the beast stirring within him. Next time, he just might.

  He leaned his arms on the windowsill, drawing the crisp, fresh air into his lungs in an attempt to forestall his need for sleep. The whole of yesterday had been given over to the pursuit of the scroll’s spell.

  He was so close in his efforts, he’d actually felt his body turning to mist on his last attempt. But then his cluttered, mortal-contaminated mind had betrayed him and the moment had slipped from his grasp.

  Today, if he could but push beyond the limitations of his body, if he could but ignore his need for food and sleep, today could well be the day he succeeded.

  The air he drew deeply into his lungs burned, the acrid stench of peat searing a path up his nostrils.

  Peat? Impossible! He’d forbidden its use at Tordenet. He detested the smell. Wood or nothing, they’d all been warned; but someone down there had chosen to ignore that warning. Someone who would pay for such defiance.

  Torquil leaned out the window, searching for any sign of who had dared disobey his order. Smoke curled from every building within sight, including several stacks on his own keep. The smoke coming from the chimneys all looked the same whether it was from the soldiers’ barracks or the east wing of the building in which he stood.

  Irritation tightened his chest as he pulled his head back inside. It was as if they knew he didn’t yet dare take to wing in the light of day. As if they intentionally sought to highlight his failure.

  But that wouldn’t save whoever did this. He’d send a party of men to check each of the structures on the castle grounds, one by one. A sound plan, that. They would be found there, not within the keep itself. Though even if he were to search the keep, it wasn’t as if he needed to check every wing. There would be no fires at all in the east wing of the keep. That had been shut down since . . .

  He lunged back to the window, straining to peer out to his right.

  There should be no fires in the east wing. None of those rooms had been occupied in the months since Malcolm’s wife and her companion had been housed there. Yet, like a mystery waiting to be solved, smoke curled up from the chimney.

  And solve it he would.

  Artur. Ulfr. Come to me.

  He stepped back from the window, panting as if he’d run a long distance, more exhausted than usual from the effort required by the Magic. His night without sleep had clearly taken its toll.

  Crossing the room, he stopped in front of the fireplace, adjusting the stones under the mantel until one gave way, revealing the resting place of his treasures. He would need the scroll this day. It was his intent to master the spell of transport before he allowed himself to rest again.

  He carried the polished wooden box to the great table and placed it reverently in the center before lifting the lid. Freed of their confinement, it was as if the scrolls spoke to him in a melodic murmuring he could not yet fully understand.

  A murmuring that soothed his soul even as it soothed the sleeping beast within.

  He braced his arms on the tabletop, resting in the comfort of the sound only he could hear, while he waited for the men he’d summoned. They had no choice but to obey. It was one of the more useful spells he’d mastered from the scrolls.

  When they did arrive, two grown men doing their best to mask the confusion they felt at the compulsion of his call, he was ready.

  “Follow me,” he instructed, leading them from his tower to the stairs in the east wing. “Swords at the ready, men. It would appear we’ve an intruder.”

  That the security of his keep had been breached was of great concern to him. It was for that reason alone he’d called these two men to accompany him, delaying the start of their journey to capture the Sinclair heir.

  Only one set of rooms in this wing housed a fireplace large enough to have the chimney he’d spotted from his window. The rooms his father had built for his Tinkler whore. Deandrea’s chambers.

  Though he’d expected resistance, the door opened easily to his touch and he stepped inside the room. Through the parted curtains surrounding the bed, he spotted his prey. One lone body curled upon the bed.

  A body he recognized instantly, pushing all security concerns from his consideration.

  “I can handle this from here. The two of you have men waiting their departure for you to join them, do you no? Go, without delay.”

  He closed the door behind him and surveyed the room before silently making his way to the bed.

  Clad in nothing more than her chemise, Christiana slept on her side, one slender arm curled around a pillow she clutched to her breast, one shapely leg stretched out, freed from the confines of the garment that twisted around her body.

  He reached out a trembling hand to trace a finger along the soft white limb, from her ankle to the back of her knee and beyond, onto the smooth, warm skin of her thigh.

  She moaned in response to his touch, the sound flushing his body with heat. In that heat, the beast within began to stir.

  Stilling his hand, he leaned down over her, to whisper into her ear.

  “Wake up, little sister. I have need of you.”

  Her eyelids fluttered open to reveal the brilliant blue of their shared ancestors, the haze of sleep giving way first to surprise and then to fear.

  “Torquil.” Her voice shook with the latter emotion and her leg twitched under his touch. “What are you doing here?”

  Fed by Christiana’s fear, the beast fully awakened, requiring his attention to maintain control. He breathed through the moment, lifting his hand from the heat he desired to explore.

  “No, Christiana, the better question is, what are you doing here?”

  She pulled the pillow closer to her breast as if it were a shield. “The woman, Halldor’s prisoner, is in my tower.”

  He’d almost forgotten the wench, though the beast within roared its need for revenge at mention of her. He’d certainly forgotten that she dwelt in Christiana’s tower. No doubt Halldor’s use of the woman was troubling to his sister.

  “And so you sought refuge here, in your mother’s chambers.” In the rooms his father would have visited regularly.

  “These were my chambers for many years.”

&
nbsp; “So they were,” he murmured holding her gaze with his own.

  They had indeed been her quarters, the rooms where she spent her nights. Until his father’s demise. Until the time when he could no longer resist the temptations of flesh she presented, and he’d banished her to the tower across the courtyard.

  He reached for her hand, tightening his fingers around hers when she would have pulled away. “I grow weary of waiting for you. I’d have you travel to Skuld’s world for me now.”

  “But I canna,” she began as he pulled her from the bed. “The herbs I need are in my tower. You ken I’ve no the ability to direct the Vision without—”

  “Then we go to yer tower.”

  He was having no more of her excuses or delays this time.

  She dawdled with her overdress, running her hands over the cloth until he ripped it from her grasp and threw it to the floor.

  “Now!” he insisted, capturing her wrist to drag her forward, slowing only to scoop up her cloak from the floor.

  Not that he really cared if she suffered the indignity of crossing the courtyard in nothing but her chemise. It was only that neither he nor the beast felt particularly open to other eyes feasting upon what belonged to them.

  He all but dragged her behind him, down the stairs and out the entrance, ignoring the servants’ openmouthed stares.

  Christiana wisely held her tongue, as if she recognized the force within him driving him forward.

  Inside her tower, he tore the cloak from her shoulders and tossed it at their feet.

  “Where is the elixir?”

  “In my bedchamber,” she whispered, keeping her eyes averted from his. “I’ll go get it.”

  “No!” he roared.

  Or perhaps it was the beast who roared; he couldn’t be sure as he wrapped one arm around her waist, guiding her up the narrow winding stairs ahead of him. Up to the room at the very top of the tower.

  “Now,” he said, his voice once again his own as he forced himself to release his hold on her.

  Christiana stumbled toward the fireplace, where she pulled a clay jar from the mantel and removed its stopper before lifting it to her lips to drink.

  He waited in the doorway as she stretched out on her bed and closed her eyes as he’d seen her do so many times on the pillows in his tower. Within minutes, her breathing slowed and she traveled the pathways of Skuld’s world.

  It took longer for him to regain control. Longer to shove the beast back down into the depths where it belonged. Once he’d managed that, he moved toward the bed, his eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of the chemise covering her chest.

  An odd lump in her form caught his attention and he reached for it, dipping his fingers inside the neckline of her gown to discover what she thought to hide from him.

  A small pouch hung from a cord around her throat and, inside, two small carvings.

  Runes. He recognized them immediately, though the ability to read the future from the tiny bits of wood was her gift, not his. Two of them, Tiwaz and Berkana, the warrior and the birch tree, special enough she wore them about her neck. One to represent each of her parents, perhaps? There was no way for him to know at the moment. And certainly not important enough to disturb her travels in Skuld’s world.

  He returned the little carvings to their pouch, enclosing it in his fist, delaying its return to its original resting spot between her breasts.

  His eyes fixed again on the rise and fall of the cloth, on the way it molded to her breasts with each exhale. Frustration held him prisoner, his fisted hand motionless only inches from that which he wanted.

  It was unfair that even now he must deny himself the one pleasure of the flesh he wanted most lest the beast within break free and tear her tender body to pieces, depriving him of her foreknowledge.

  For now, willpower alone was his ally. One day, when he’d mastered the Magic and no longer needed word of Skuld’s world to guide his steps, he would reward himself with that which he wanted. On that day when he no longer needed to fear the actions of the beast, he would have her and satisfy all those craven Mortal desires.

  His breath caught in his throat when he at last slipped the pouch into her neckline, his unnatural need for her battering at his senses once again.

  Not unnatural at all.

  “Who said that? Who’s there?” he demanded, scanning the small empty room for some unseen enemy.

  Our need for her is reasonable.

  The words rang not in his ears, but within his mind.

  The beast spoke to him? It was not possible. He alone conjured the beast, and he alone controlled it.

  Not unnatural but sensible, the Beast assured him.

  “The need is totally without reason. She is but the spawn of a Tinkler,” he countered. “And fruit of my father’s loins even as I am.” It took more from him than he’d anticipated to admit aloud that last bit of degradation.

  Nonsense. Tinklers are the favored of Faeries, and what are Faeries but the counterpart of Elves? Elves, who are the favored of the Vanir.

  The words pounded inside his head, chipping away at the wall of guilt and denial he’d built up over the years.

  It’s not our fault. The desire runs in our blood.

  He had never considered these things on his own. A bubble of laughter grew in his chest, working its way up to burst into the silence of the tower bedchamber.

  It was in his blood. Though he carried Odin’s bloodline through his father, from his mother he claimed ancestry with the Vanir, her line rumored to descend from the goddess Freya. It was the reason she had been pledged to his father long before Alfor had left their home shores in the Viking longboat that carried him to this land.

  Do not fight that which we feel for her. She is the vessel to ensure the purity of our bloodline.

  Could it be true? Torquil paced the small room, sweat beading on his forehead and rolling down his face in great salty drops. Or could it be simply a new ploy by the beast, growing ever stronger each day, seeking to control them both?

  I could help us.

  Perhaps. Or perhaps it could destroy them both. He couldn’t decide which at the moment. Couldn’t concentrate well enough to keep all the barriers in place. Couldn’t stay here any longer, allowing Christiana and the beast to fragment his mind and his energy.

  There was no need for him to remain, in any case. She would be gone for hours, and once she returned to her body it would take time and energy to tease out the truths he needed. Energy he simply didn’t have.

  Down the stairs he ran, one hand sliding along the contours of the wall for balance. Not until he stepped into the light of day was he able to regain some semblance of himself.

  With a dignity befitting Odin, he lifted his head and made his way back to the keep, heading for his bedchamber. An hour or so of sleep and he would be strong enough to cope. Then he would return to his tower to attempt the scrolls again.

  But not now. Not with the beast curled in his chest, waiting to take advantage of him. And certainly not with the beast’s seductive promises ringing in his ears.

  Thirty-one

  CHASE CONCENTRATED ON the trail ahead, ducking the occasional low-hanging branch. He did his best to ignore the warning tingle running up the back of his neck, and kept a sharp eye out. Something didn’t feel right.

  His thoughts continued to wander back to the castle they had departed early this morning, to the woman whose safety was his biggest concern.

  Halldor had assured him the tower had been completely empty when he’d slipped over to check on the success of their plan. That surely meant Christiana had gone with the Tinklers when they spirited Bridget off the castle grounds. And he knew for himself that the Tinklers’ wagons were gone when they’d headed out the gates of Tordenet.

  It was good. It was all good.

  Now if he could just convince himself of that.

  Ahead of him, Ulfr held up a hand as he reined his mount to a walk.

  “We’ll rest the horses here
for a few minutes and let them have their fill from the stream.”

  It was as they’d done all day. Push the animals, slow them to walk, push the animals, give them a short rest. He climbed off his mount, suspecting the repetitive schedule was as much for the endurance of the riders as it was for the horses.

  He shouldered between two of those riders to lead his horse to the fast-moving waters, wondering once more at their number.

  “There are twelve of us. Seriously, does it take twelve heavily armed men for a two days’ ride to deliver an invitation?”

  “Are you daft, man?” the soldier nearest him asked. “You ken it’s no the invitation, but the refusal of it that requires our number.”

  “And our arms,” the one on the other side of him added.

  A few feet behind him, Ulfr spoke up.

  “Had you been present for the briefing rather than trying to raid the kitchens to satisfy yer empty belly, you’d have heard our orders along with the others. We’re to return with the Sinclair heir, whether or no he wants to accompany us.”

  So now he was to become a kidnapper. Great.

  He glanced toward Hall, recognizing his own feelings reflected in his friend’s solemn expression.

  “Have the Sinclairs done something to us to warrant this?” Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. After all, once he lost trust in Torquil, following the laird’s orders had become much harder.

  Ulfr shrugged, pushing by him to lead his mount to the water. “Our lord simply wishes to ensure the support of the Sinclair laird come spring, when we march against Castle MacGahan.”

  Kidnapping and conscription. Thank God he’d managed to get Christiana away from this. All he needed now was to find the perfect opportunity to make his own exit.

  “Seems kind of harsh to me,” he said as he backed his mount away from the stream.

  “No half as harsh as he is to the maids he takes to his bed,” the man beside him muttered.

  “What?” Could it be that the woman he’d seen this morning wasn’t an isolated case?

  “It’s no his fault they can none of them satisfy him, Fergus.” Artur led his own mount forward. “No matter how much they may look like her, none of them will actually be her, so he’ll no ever be pleased no matter how good they are between the sheets.”