by Kat Bastion
A nervous spike lanced through her. She glanced toward Skorpius who stood an arm’s length away.
Skorpius boomed no words into her head. Only gave a firm nod forward that spoke volumes: Proceed without a care.
And so, Brigid squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and strode forward with confidence, as if she’d been born amongst them.
As she passed through, not one person, not English soldier nor Scottish clansmen, paid her any heed, whatsoever. All appeared to be bewitched, in truth, for not even the herald took note of her presence. Though she felt no heat of magick cloakin’ her, she’d become invisible to one and all.
Skorpius appeared to be naught but a shadow as well. For even in drab attire meant to blend, the angel stood a good foot taller than even the brawny Scotsmen, taller and broader for certain than all the Englishmen. But even to those whose shoulders brushed against his side, to the entry guards and the herald, ’twas as if the towerin’ creature in their midst simply dinna exist.
And then, by prearranged agreement, Skorpius truly dinna exist. As he’d vowed.
“Alone. With the soul and strength of a warrior,” she whispered.
But alert with watchful eyes and attentive ears, she found everythin’ had altered by wee degrees. Sounds had muted; conversations could be heard, but the words only discerned with great focus. Colors had dulled, as if overcast by storm clouds. Even movement appeared to have slowed, both of those around her and her own, like each step forward slogged through the thick water of an icy loch.
Not till she’d traversed the long stone entryway and entered the great hall, did the world resume back to normal sound, sight, and speed. And when a spark of magick tingled over her skin, she hurriedly cast her cloak and possessions off, willin’ them to stow away with the other travelers’.
At once, someone addressed her. “Ale, M’Lady?”
A wizened man raised a tray that held a silver tankard of fragrant amber brew. His graveled voice held a rich low timbre with a heavy Scottish brogue. Wavy grayin’ hair covered the man’s head but turned a wiry white the closer it grew toward his chin. Charcoal eyes sparkled at her, bracketed by deep creases as he smiled.
“Nay.” She turned away from the old man, not wishin’ to dull her senses.
And her senses…had come alive.
Sounds had amplified, without overwhelmin’: A trio of lasses whispered beside the stairway, twitterin’ bawdy gossip about their clan’s newly unseated laird. Her vision sharpened: A water droplet clung to a clerestory windowpane; the reflection within a candle’s flame crisped then flickered.
And, och! The scents!
Rain gathered in clouds she somehow knew hovered nowhere near, yet their mineral fragrance washed over her. While she focused on the distant storm, a faraway rumble of thunder replied, ticklin’ her breastbone as it reverberated through her. And although servants rushed in carryin’ trenchers of bread filled with stewed meat, her mouth watered as she inhaled the aroma of sugared berry tarts she again somehow knew bubbled in the oven.
Over a hundred men and women filled the cavernous room, many dressed in opulent fabrics displayin’ their wealth. Most stood and mingled, smilin’ and laughin’. To her surprise, a number were from the Scottish clan who’d surrendered the castle but a short time ago, to the verra English who hosted the night’s feast.
Her fellow countrymen smiled and laughed right along with their hosts.
Spyin’, most likely. No proud Scot would sleep well with foreigners on their rightful lands.
Trestle tables had been laden with a sumptuous feast, from succulent pig with root vegetables to roasted goose with apple stuffin’, from fragrant crusty breads to bubblin’ meat pies.
Brigid’s traitorous stomach grumbled.
But a far greater vibration within drove her to be patient, to search, to wait. For along with her heightened senses, her magick had returned—in force. The growin’ power of her energy illuminated fine particles of air, warmed her skin.
She drew in a shudderin’ breath as she struggled to control the power of it.
Calm. She recalled Skorpius’s instructions that had guided her release of it once before.
Exhale. His method allowed her to maintain a fine thread with the elements of the magick, without drawin’ it fully within her.
In the span of the few seconds it took to learn her boundaries and practice her skill, a familiar maleness licked across her keen senses, oily and dark.
From her dreams! Cause of her nightmares.
Such incredible power.
But far different than Skorpius’s. Brigid knew that now. Her angel’s tasted spicy and dark, snappin’ with ancient energy that teemed with the fire of life. And death.
The foreign male’s magick tainted the air with some kind of wrongness. Life, yes. Death, as well. But it reeked of decay, as if it had closed in on itself and fermented into sufferin’ and want. Yet beneath it all, substantial power roiled, cold and brutal, destructive.
The malignant magick’s source flickered somewhere verra close.
Frantic to identify the cause of the disturbance, Brigid searched the room, lookin’ for… What? She hadn’t any notion.
No one stared back at her.
Against her own stubborn will, her mind flashed to her guardian angel. But Skorpius no longer remained with her, to protect or advise. If he had been beside her, those amazin’ blue-green eyes would’ve narrowed and his nostrils would’ve flared. They’d have been kin, together in sensin’ the change in the magick currents.
But as quickly as the foreign snappin’ power had infused the hall, it suddenly abated.
A quick scan around the crowded great hall yielded no answers. As before, in the entrance hall, no one paid her any heed. Pretty young lasses twittered nonsense and batted eyelashes at eligible young men. Battle-scarred soldiers drank and boasted of their conquests. Musicians began to play. Guests proceeded to eat.
Uncertain of how to continue, Brigid edged toward a roarin’ fire where a group of men had been gathered in hushed and focused conversation. The three nearest, includin’ one she recognized as a priest, were garbed in brown. The others were cloaked in black. Aside from the priest, all wore short hair and long beards. None appeared Scottish. Nor for that matter, English.
A blond man in the group glanced up at her. His eyes widened and chest expanded, while his gaze held hers.
In recognition? Or her magick? Nay. But she glanced down to be certain. And a faint golden illumination did exist, the same as that mornin’ in the glade with the soldiers and wee ones. But visible to only her, not others. Or so she’d thought.
But by the time she glanced up again, the blond man gave a stern headshake while he stared down at the rush-strewn floor, then lowered his face from sight. And the rest of his group huddled even closer together.
None of their secretive discussion filtered into her ears. But she was disinclined to waste magick to amplify their words.
Her gaze tracked across the great hall again.
Below woven tapestries mounted on stone walls, dozens of intimate groups talked and laughed. Benches at the trestle tables were all occupied with those who feasted. The center floor had come alive with twirlin’ dancers.
All seemed to have a purpose. All but her.
On a weary sigh, she closed her eyes, feelin’ a wee bit lost.
Alone. Well and truly alone. The experience dinna transpire like she’d thought it would. Strangers surrounded her. Foreigners occupied her homelands.
At Brodie Castle, aye, she’d been alone amidst her own kin. But their well-meanin’ gestures—while all had known who she was…what she’d done—had at least included her.
She’d never ventured outside her clan before. Dinna know where to begin in minglin’ with those who were unknown to her. And some sense, down deep, warned her not to make the attempt.
“Ale, M’Lady?”
A shiver ran up her spine. The same offer. That unique accent. Yet the old man’
s voice had clarified, freed from coarseness. And somehow she suspected, before fully turnin’, that the man had altered himself. When she turned, her eyes beheld the proof: dark hair without a stitch of gray, younger frame broadened with defined muscles, a handsome face unmarred by time. But identical charcoal eyes held her attention.
“Nay.” On instinct, Brigid still declined whatever the stranger offered.
“Perchance, information, then?”
“Aye,” she whispered. The agreement tumbled from her lips, unbidden. From my magick?
His dark sinister eyes twinkled.
Then a hot pulse of magick unfurled from within her. The energy radiated outward into an invisible protective aura just beyond her skin, hoverin’ from head to toe.
The man’s inky eyes widened, then narrowed. He glanced left and right, then leaned a wee bit closer. But he stopped an arm’s length away. “Ye’r in grave danger, M’Lady.” The fierce whisper camouflaged the baritone of his voice.
“Aye.” From you?
Brigid realized the stranger hadn’t stopped at that distance by choice; her newfound magick held him at bay. And when she focused closer on her protective boundary, she detected a similar shield beyond hers, one that surrounded the charlatan. But the two shields were nothin’ alike. Hers spun and vibrated, refractin’ tones of golden light. His churned and roiled, shadowed, oily.
Anger welled forth. Whatever creature hovered beside her, no matter the guise he donned, his essence had been trespassin’ into her bedchamber—into her verra dreams.
Nay! She cast the violent fury out of her head, funneled the power instead into her magick. The stranger had not created her dreams. She had. Combined with some other energized force. One opposed to his.
The knowledge of the origins of their magick flowed into her heart with the verra next beat.
Which was the information she needed.
Her purpose hadn’t yet been clarified. But its foundation had been.
Whatever she sought to accomplish, the one beside her opposed.
The power he churned also wanted somethin’ from her, his cold greedy hunger a burn against her warmth, her light.
The disguised man drew in a slow breath, desire firin’ in the bottomless depths of his eyes. “We’d make a great alliance.”
Repulsed at the thought, she stared him down, flarin’ her power against his. “Nay.”
An instant snarl scarred over his visage. The handsome illusion flickered into sallow wrinkled skin for an instant before it snapped back into the firm mask of youth.
Then his entire form darkened and thinned, a shadow that began to swirl as it lost substance. While reedy transparent lips pressed into a tight line, a low multiple-voiced whisper emanated from his whirlpool center, “A traitor lurks amongst us…”
Mimickin’ whispers rippled through the crowd, volume increasin’ as dark magick washed over each successive guest and they joined in the eerie rhythmic chant. “A traitor lurks amongst us. Cloaked in black.”
Everyone in the great hall, to the last man and beast, scanned the room and searched for the threat, for their target. The whispers multiplied and grew louder again. “A traitor lurks amongst us. Cloaked in black. Darkest knight. Soul off-track.”
The magick-backed words gained strength, transformed into a boomin’ herald. Englishmen, Scots, men and women, all with eyes glazed over, had become enchanted.
You must leave! A hot cinnamon fragrance filled her next breath as Skorpius’s powerful presence flashed in, invisible, but vibratin’ with clear urgency. We haven’t much time.
Aye! She vowed never again to argue with his advice and fully embraced speakin’ in their heads. Chilled air swirled in his wake as he vanished yet again.
She leapt forward, then began to weave through the incited crowd, away from the trestle tables. Her empty stomach grumbled in protest once more, and a wave of exhaustion washed over her—magick demandin’ its toll. But too many maddened people stood in her way. And the innocent revelers hadn’t only fallen under a toxic spell, they’d begun to arm themselves with forks and daggers swept up from the tables.
Yet in much the same manner as she’d adorned herself in a gown, she visualized provisions for easy travel. In the next instant, her invisible satchel manifested itself, weighted heavier against her side.
And when she rushed from the great hall into a darkened larder, her dark-green cloak reappeared before her in midair. She strode through the swirlin’ fabric, and it settled around her shoulders—while her bow and quiver of arrows settled beneath it—then magickly tied itself around her neck.
As she made her way toward the far end of the darkened room, the outer door sprang open and humid night air fogged in.
To her surprise, the door was held open by a stranger with short blond hair and dark blue eyes. A torch flickered light over his face. “This way, M’Lady.”
Recognition struck as she strode out. One of the mysterious men huddled by the fire.
Wary of trickery afoot, she dug her heels into the soft earth, then darted glances left and right. But she detected no other, sensed no ambush. “And…you are…?”
“A friend.”
One with an English accent. Nevertheless, his eyes dinna appear glazed, no aggression sparked from him. Only kindness, a lightness of being.
Even so…
“Weeeel, I’ll be the judge of that.” Upon command, magick burst from her. The energy saturated the immediate space, from the open larder door, up the towerin’ stone wall of the keep, then out in a larger sphere to the edges of the surroundin’ forest, well beyond the castle’s curtain wall.
Within that wave of power—that she’d imbued with a deep sense of probin’—she detected no danger, no foreign presence of energy. Not the old man. Not even Skorpius.
She narrowed her eyes at the newcomer, suspicious on an entirely different level. Not all danger came coated in the obvious. “How did you—”
“Know?” The man closed the larder door, then moved a safe distance alongside her, his black cloak swishin’ as he paused.
Brigid arched a questionin’ brow.
“That you needed aid?” He furrowed his bushy blond ones. “I’m not certain.”
Intuition, then. She’d grown up guided by the gut awareness her whole life. Long before the magick had taken hold. In truth, magick had become an extension of what she’d always experienced. Mayhap, why she’d grown skilled at wieldin’ her newfound energy so quickly.
“And what ‘aid’ are you offerin’?” Brigid glanced at the closed wooden larder door. To offer aid herself, she visualized three of the large oak barrels that had been stacked in a corner to materialize just inside the door instead, to block the way of any enchanted pursuers.
Then she scanned behind the large man and searched for any sign of the official one sent to aid her—and thus far, the only being she trusted: Skorpius.
As far as trust will ever be granted.
With magick, she reached out into the ether. Yet she sensed nothin’ but emptiness—absolute silence. Some guardian angel.
“Safe escort,” the stranger continued, oblivious to her magickal actions. “Refuge and defense, if warranted.” The man, who held all the bearin’ of a knight, yet flew no colors, patted a gloved hand on the hilt of the broadsword that was sheathed in a leather scabbard at his hip.
Brigid scanned his garb. Found no signs or symbols. A knight who boasts no clear allegiance? His shorn hair and long, but trimmed, beard struck her as foreign. And he’d been conspirin’ with similar men. And a priest. “Who sent you?”
“No one, M’Lady.” He cast a worried glance toward the front of the castle when the cries of alarm erupted outside. “Pray, make haste. ’Tis safe no longer. Danger abounds.”
Aye. But from who? Instinct suggested the man harbored no ill will.
Yet she’d been mercilessly trained by Iain, Isobel, her clansmen, and most recently Skorpius to employ caution in all circumstances. Trust, when needed. And ev
en then, to the least degree. “How do you know?”
The man’s gaze remained steady and calm. As if a lifetime of instruction to accept and trust, combined with a wealth of knowledge, lay hidden in their depths. “’Tis been foretold.” He bowed his head toward her. “All that I’m at liberty to share.”
“All?” She arched a brow.
“And that we are here, at this moment, to serve you.”
Weel, then.
Before she had a chance to ask about his use of “we,” the knight nodded toward a far corner of the curtain wall, then strode ahead, quick steps leadin’ the way.
And on gut instinct, Brigid followed right behind him.
A dozen paces before the corner tower, the man pulled aside thick bramble to reveal a circular shadow: the mouth of a narrow tunnel. An iron grate but a wee bit wider than the breadth of her shoulders had been removed.
Beyond the shadowy depths within, the orange glow of flickerin’ light beckoned her, toward where fresh night air flowed again. Then an additional flame split from the first: torches held by more than one who awaited her arrival on the other end.
“Brothers, mine.” The knight dipped a nod toward his men as their whispers echoed through the dank stone tunnel. “’Tis the same for them. We’re here to serve, one and all.”
She’d been sent a guardian angel and knights? “For my journey?”
“For this hour,” her escort clarified. Then gestured an arm toward the inner darkness.
For a moment, she thought to test the rest of his men with a tendril of magick, but instinct reined in her temptation to overuse her power. She dinna yet understand the limits, nor the consequences. And for the duration of the verra long day, whenever she’d used her magick, another, more experienced than she, had appeared.
Onward, then. She ducked down into the tunnel, tugged her cloak tight about her body, and stooped as she shuffled forward. When her shoulders brushed the moldy stonework, she wondered how the large knight behind her, who’d have to more than double over, would make it through. When she dinna sense movement behind her, she glanced over her shoulder.