by Hazel Hunter
Or to me.
Bhaltair took heart from the knowledge.
“Now we must begin.” She set down the urn and removed the top. As soon as she did dark tendrils of magic began to slither over its rim. “The mage said the urn takes some time to digest its meal. None return to relate this, but I reckon ’tis most unpleasant to feel it gnawing apart your very spirit, and suckling from the bones of your being.”
Bhaltair shifted back, and felt something sharp poke his hand. He moved his cramped fingers along the object and realized it was one of Gwyn’s quill blades poking out from a shelf. He shifted forward and grasped it by the blade so he could work it against the rope binding his wrists. But then he paused as he realized he had a distraction.
“Before you feed me to that jar, you should have Gwyn’s final letter,” he told her. “’Tis in the scroll box in my traveling satchel there. He spoke at length of you.”
Barra seized his satchel, tearing it open and dragging the box from its depths. When she found that she could not open it she made a contemptuous sound.
“Another pathetic trick.”
“’Tis a puzzle lid. You recall how clever he was.” He nodded toward the work table beside her. “Place it there, and I shall tell you how to open it.”
The bone conjurer put down the box. “I dinnae trust you,” she said, and cast a protective body ward spell over herself. “Now, tell me.”
Bhaltair worked his bonds against the blade as he instructed her on how to turn the leaves into the shape of a triquetra. He stabbed himself several times in the fingers and wrists, but kept his expression blank.
Barra reverently removed the scroll from the box and unwound it, her eyes dreamy as she began to read.
Clearing his throat to cover the sound, Bhaltair strained at the rope and felt the last shreds snap. He kept an eye on Barra’s fading smile as he carefully pushed the quill blade back onto the shelf, stripped the cut cords from his wrists, and pressed his bloodied hands against the bookcase.
The old wood felt rough against all the tiny wounds of his hands, but it also contained traces of the magic his old friend had used throughout his life. Drawing on them to connect him to the earth, and through it the power of the natural world, Bhaltair began to channel all he could into his body.
“No,” Oriana whined. Her hair flew wildly as Barra shook her head. “’Tis no’ true. Gwyn could never accept that we’re soul-mates, but in time I should have convinced him.” She ripped the scroll in half. “’Tis all lies. A forgery you created to deceive me. I ken my beloved’s heart. He cannae remain in the well for eternity. He shall return to me–”
“He shall never incarnate again,” Bhaltair told her. “’Tis the one place he’s safe from you and your evil.”
Barra threw the scroll box at his face, but Bhaltair caught it. Setting it aside, he rose to his feet.
“I may appear decrepit to you,” he told her as he summoned his power. “But the portal healed my body, and my magic draws on the knowledge gained from dozens of incarnations.” He smiled a little. “I’m far from the most powerful druid to walk the mortal realm, but fortunately, he did train me.”
“You bastard,” she hissed as she drew a ritual dagger from her pocket. “I shall enjoy cutting your heart from your chest and shoving it down your screaming throat.”
As she launched herself at him, Bhaltair released a bolt of power that smashed into her chest and drove her back across the room. Furnishings smashed and crystals shattered, and Bhaltair gathered their remnant energy as he advanced on her.
“You shall beg me end you,” she promised, panting as she drew a bottle of potion from her bodice and smashed it on the floor. A noxious cloud of green smoke rose between them, out of which came another blade.
Bhaltair batted it away from his chest, and directed his power at the hearth, which flared out and incinerated the poisonous fumes.
“If you end me, you end Oriana Embry,” Barra taunted him as she inched toward the white urn. “Gwyn so loved her.”
“He never met the lass, thanks to you.”
Another vile smashed to the ground in the spell circle, but Bhaltair ducked to avoid a stream of green smoke, just as a second blade impaled itself in his shoulder. He grunted as he scooped up the crystal from the spell circle. Removing the plant root inside it, he tossed it into the hearth to burn.
Barra pounced on him, trying to force him to the floor beneath her. Yet Oriana’s body proved light enough for him to fling her away with one arm. She struck the wall and slid down it.
“You should stay there,” he said calmly.
As she pushed herself to her feet, he thrust his hands forward, channeling the gathered energy. With a quick turn of his wrist, Barra spun around and smashed into the wall, face first.
She struggled, shoving at the wall as she whipped her head back and forth, trying to see him.
“Coward. Show yourself.”
Bhaltair picked up the ritual blade she had dropped. He collected the two halves of the torn letter scroll, and brought them back to the box Gwyn had made. Behind him he heard Barra utter a spell to pit her own power against his magic. He tugged the blade from his shoulder, and blood from the deep wound soaked through his robe
“Gods above, hear me,” he said, placing the ritual blades and the scroll pieces into the box. “I seek justice for my old friend. I wish to free an innocent from unwilling possession. I call on you, and every soul tainted or captured or destroyed by Barra Omey. I beseech you, aid me now.”
The bone conjurer shrieked with triumph as she freed herself. But Bhaltair merely stepped out of the spell circle, and waited until she rushed inside it. He spread his hands before him, stretching out his fingers, and summoned magic from every object in the room. Some rattled in place, while others floated, but all glowed with a pure white light.
Barra went still, her mouth still hanging open on a cry she would never finish.
Bhaltair placed the open scroll box inside the spell circle, and stepped back. “Oriana Embry, I ken you hear me. This bone conjurer stole your life from you. She cannae return to you your grandfather. All that she has told you, ’tis a lie. Take back your body, and cast out her soul.”
Oriana’s body writhed as the two souls inside it struggled, and then a brackish light streamed from the lass’s nose and ears and mouth. A soft, gentle radiance came from the scroll box, into which it poured. When the last of the darkness had left the lass’s body, the box’s lid closed with a snap, and the leaves on the lid turned, locking it.
Bhaltair used his boot to smudge the spell circle before he reached inside to take the box. Oriana watched him, her eyes huge as he replaced the top on the urn, and carried it and Barra’s trapped soul out of the cottage.
Snow fell on him as he made his way to the sacred grove outside Gwyn’s abandoned village. He heard the footsteps crunching in the drifts behind him, but did not slow his pace. The weight of the box and the urn grew heavier with every step he took, but at last he reached the ring of stones. He had to tuck the box under his arm as he bent to touch the ground, and felt the wood shudder as Barra’s soul struggled to free itself.
“’Tis impossible for druid kind to pass judgment on one such as Barra Omey,” he said as Oriana came to stand beside him. “I believe the Gods must do so.”
The lass looked almost disappointed. “I reckoned that you’d feed her soul to the urn, as she meant to do with yours.”
“I never use dark magic, lass. I follow the path of the light.” He tossed the urn into the portal before handing Oriana the scroll box. “Shall you?”
“All I ken came from Barra.” She looked down at the shaking box. “But I should like to enter the light, for my grandfather.” With a sudden heave she threw the box into the portal.
Bhaltair took hold of her hand as they watched the portal close. “I deeply regret my part in causing Gwyn’s death. I loved your grandfather, and I wish I had done more to protect him from Barra and the famhairean.”
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Oriana looked at him for a long moment. “I forgive you, Master Flen.”
“There now,” he said, smiling at her despite the pain in his shoulder. “That ’twas your first step on my path.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
STREAMING THROUGH THE sky in spirit form, Ochd flew across the highlands to the east. When the wind died, and everything below him turned black and white, he descended to the Wood Dream settlement.
White smoke wafted around him as he made his way through the blackened oaks and pines. The other body he had discarded no longer occupied the grove where he’d left it. He followed the scent of his form to the center of the ruins.
Outside her cottage Murdina stood beside an enormous fire, into which she cast garments. Ochd recognized the clothing as belonging to Oriana Embry, and then saw what more the mad druidess was burning: his other body.
“You neednae do this, sweeting mine,” Hendry said as he joined her, and tried to guide her away from the blaze. “They’ve gone.”
“That slut shallnae have my Hendry,” Murdina said, jerking away from him. “Nor my cottage, or my garments, or my cloak.” She frowned at him. “She stole my cloak, Dirkus. She took it with her when I sacrificed her to the Gods. You must fetch it back from her. Then we shall feed her to your pigs.”
She no longer recognized her lover, Ochd thought. Whatever Murdina had done to the young druidess, it had taken from her the last of her sanity.
Aon came at Hendry’s beckoning, and watched the druidess muttering to herself as she cast more garments into the flames.
“Watch over her,” the druid said before he retreated.
Without a form to embody, Ochd’s choices became limited to inhabiting one of the dead trees, or remaining disembodied. He drifted into the clearing, and saw the totems standing ready. He chose the biggest, and descended to merge his spirit into the gigantic form.
The embodiment came with a sharp sense of bitterness. All of the refinements Hendry had given him had been lost now with the destruction of both bodies. He could see through the totem’s eyes, and had a rudimentary mouth through which to speak. Sound came to him through the wood of his form in vibrations. He could no longer indulge in smell or touch, senses he had come to appreciate.
The form felt strange and yet familiar, like a half-forgotten memory. He’d once been a totem, centuries past, in the days when the tribe yet flourished. He recalled standing and watching the druids’ young ones playing together in this place. Most of the other defenders had retreated into the long rest of their kind, making them indifferent to the tribe’s daily life. As one of the watchers Ochd had remained alert, and dreamed of what it would be like to have his own child.
Rowan had taken that hope from him.
He let his spirit spread throughout the totem, gaining full control of its limbs. It felt huge and clumsy compared to his refined forms, but he would adjust to it. Once he completely embodied it he would use it to go to Hendry and reveal the attack the Skaraven had planned. With the other totems he would smash the highlanders, and one in particular would have his attention. But as he envisioned it, he went still.
Hendry would kill Rowan and the other druidesses.
Rowan.
Though she had denied him his dream, he knew with certainty that he could not see her die. Even through his anger, the thought of losing her filled him with misery. She had lied to him, and given herself to the Skaraven, but he could not go on without her. If Hendry ended her, somehow Ochd knew it would finish him too—and he wanted to live.
Surely Rowan would feel the same, even if her dreams were taken from her too.
The Skaraven would soon arrive. Ochd would wait until they did, kill Taran himself, and take Rowan to safety. He’d protect her until the others prevailed over the clan. Then she’d have no choice but to become his mate.
Hendry need never know of her betrayal.
Chapter Twenty-Six
TARAN’S REPORT ON the battle with Ochd convinced Brennus that the Skaraven should attack the Wood Dream settlement immediately.
“I’ll no’ wait for that giant to lead them back to Dun Mor,” the chieftain told his clanmasters. “Cadeyrn, ready the men. Ruadri, see to our ladies. Taran, you’re to guard Rowan. Where is that facking druid, Althea?”
“The facking druid has returned, Chieftain,” Bhaltair Flen said as he limped into the great hall, looking battered in bloodstained robes. “I’ve been healed by the portal,” he assured Ruadri and Emeline as they rushed over to him. “’Twas but a flesh wound.”
Brennus walked up and surveyed him. “You couldnae wait for the clan’s attack to fight?”
“Barra Omey chose no’ to,” the old druid said drily. “I’ve seen to it that she’ll plague us no more. Do we no longer wait for sunset?”
As Brennus related the details Taran drew Rowan away. “Ochd shall have a new body by now. You’re no’ to leave my side.”
“I’ll do my best.” She glanced at Bhaltair. “Healed or not, the old guy looks pretty worn out. You’ll need to stay close to both of us. Let’s go get the horses.”
Taran and Cadeyrn had worked together for their method to empty the stables quickly. Rather than bring the horses out to their riders, he had each Skaraven go to the stall to saddle their mount, then ride out in water-travel formation. He remained behind to assure the herd stayed calm as they rode down to the river, then swung up on Gael and met Rowan and Bhaltair.
“Horse Master, I ken you dinnae wish to speak to me,” the old druid said as they trotted down the bank. “Yet I must say this to you. I did you great wrong, both as a Skaraven and a fellow druid. I dinnae expect your forgiveness, nor your tolerance, but I offer my deepest apologies all the same.”
“And that topic is now closed until after the battle,” Rowan said as Taran eyed him. “Guys, I’m going to need you both to have my back for this. Rumble with the giants, not each other, okay?”
“Of course, Mistress,” Bhaltair said.
Taran gave him one last look before he met his mate’s concerned gaze. “Aye.”
Cadeyrn and Lily had entered the river at the very front so she could use her mind-mover power to break through the ice covering the Wood Dream’s loch. She did so at the point where Rowan had specified as providing the most cover, about half a league from the settlement. Her mate then directed the ranks to reform in attack positions as soon as they arrived.
Anticipating that their horses would react skittishly to entering the dead territory, Taran had instructed the herd’s alphas to keep the calm until he arrived. When he rode up out of the stagnant water, he saw that the stallions had done so with admirable self-control. He used his power to praise his herd leaders while soothing the few mounts still agitated.
Brennus rode up to the front of the men to address the clan. “We’ve one chance to do this, but thanks to Mistress Thomas ’twill be to our advantage, no’ theirs. You have your orders. All of you, watch your backs and your necks, and protect our ladies at all cost.” He looked at the men’s faces and nodded. “This day we ride for our brother, Ailpin, heart of the fox.”
“For Ailpin,” the men murmured.
Althea, Brennus, Cadeyrn and most of the Skaraven rode to the forest and disappeared into it. Ruadri and Kanyth remained behind with their mates and Lily, who now began opening dozens of small rifts in the loch’s frozen surface.
Perrin rode up to her sister’s side and reached over to give her a fierce hug. “Do not get yourself killed,” Taran heard her say. “Kanyth sends you this.”
Perrin handed her a handsome dagger, the handle sized for a smaller hand.
“I personally never get killed,” Rowan said, taking the blade. She slipped it into her boot. “It’s the rest of you that do that.” She drew back and tucked a piece of bright hair behind Perrin’s ear. “You need a trim.”
“You need a clan ring,” the dancer replied, and gave Taran a surly look before rejoining the other ladies.
The theft of his cl
an ring had quietly gnawed at him since his return to Dun Mor, and now he saw Rowan glance at his bare hands.
“Ochd took it from me, that first day in the barn,” he told her. “I will take it back today.”
“I don’t need a ring,” she told him. “I’ve got you.”
As Taran rode with his lady and the druid toward the clearing, Bhaltair asked, “I see you bear a mating mark around your wrist, Mistress Thomas.”
“Yep.” She skirted around a mass of leafless vine. “Got it today, courtesy of the centaur.”
“Ah.” The old druid glanced at Taran. “I mention it only as it didnae please your sister to be thus marked by Kanyth’s forge.”
Rowan nodded. “She’s picky. I’m not.”
“’Tis unusual that a Pritani battle spirit should mark a soul-mated druidess.” He sounded intrigued now. “Particularly when she shares an enemy’s bloodline.”
“They share mine, it’s older than theirs, and Taran and I are not druids,” Rowan told him. “We’re Skaraven.”
Taran’s annoyance faded. She had claimed him, and his clan, and as soon as he retrieved his ring from Ochd he would give it to her. After all she had endured and sacrificed, the Gods would grant her an immortal life.
A short time later they reached the deserted clearing, where they dismounted. Taran sent the horses back to the loch before he scanned the empty glen, and the long rows of totems still standing at its borders. The silence didn’t prey on him as much as the sense that they were not alone here, but that he attributed to the giant defenders.
“You must be quick,” he told Rowan as he walked with her and Bhaltair to a newly-erected altar on the tribe’s sacred ground. “Hendry shall sense what we do. Remember, once you begin you cannae stop until ’tis finished.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Opening the druid’s satchel, Rowan began removing various objects and placed them on the ground before the altar, along with bundles of herbs and bowls of dried fruit. When she straightened, Taran pulled her into his arms for a final kiss.