His Enchantment

by Diana Cosby

  “Nay,” she replied, a wisp of regret slipping through, “your king can be of little help.”

  Trálin gave a soft chuckle. “You make the situation sound so dire, but lass, do nae doubt a king’s might.”

  “I wish ’twas so simple.” The mirth in his eyes faded, and her heart broke. She should have left before he had kissed her, before she had allowed him to believe that between them there could be more.

  “Who is your father?”

  Panic swept her. She was making a muddle of this. Or was she? How would he react to the truth? Would he believe her? Or, would he think her daft? Dare she tell him? Dare she nae?

  On a trembling exhale, she braced herself. “My father is King Leod MacLaren.”

  “Play no games, lass.”

  He didna believe her? Hurt tore through her. “I play naught.”

  “Nay? Never have I heard of a king named Leod MacLaren.”

  “Nor would I expect you to,” she replied, unsure how to convince him of her heritage, but needing to try. A long moment passed, then another, before she gathered the courage to explain. “My father is, as I and my warriors are, from the Otherworld.”

  Chapter Five

  Trálin waited for Catarine to smile, to expose her claim as naught but a jest. At her silence, a low pounding built in his head. With a muttered curse, assured he was as loony as the old man secluded in the northern bens, he rubbed his temples. He scowled. “The Otherworld?”

  “A sword’s wrath, lass,” Atair spat as he stepped through the thicket, his boots crunching as he walked through the snow. “What have you done?”

  “’Tis foolish to keep the truth from him,” she stated. “In the end, ’twill serve naught but cause more problems.”

  Atair’s mouth tightened. “’Tis a mistake to tell Lord Grey anything more.”

  Suspicion filled Trálin as he took in the warning glare from Atair to Catarine. What in bloody hell was going on? First the lass dare tell him that her father is a king he has never heard of, that they were from the Otherworld, and then her knight warns her to say nay more? ’Twas naught but a well-planned ruse.

  “He risks his life in helping us,” Catarine defended. “Do you nae think he deserves to be told the truth?”

  Trálin’s mind spun. Her anger appeared real. As did her knights’. Were they from the Otherworld? Nay, he was going mad. Enough. “The Otherworld is the home of the fey.”

  At his interruption, her worried eyes rested on him. “Aye, because that is what we are.”

  He shot a glance from one, then to the other.

  Neither smiled.

  “You and your knights are from the Otherworld? Impossible.”

  “’Tis possible,” she replied, her voice quiet, “Very much so.”

  Anger slammed him. He stepped back. “I am nae sure what mischief is about, but by God I will nae stand here and be made a fool of.”

  “Wait!” Catarine rushed out, “I will prove it to you.”

  “Do nae,” Atair warned.

  “How?” Trálin asked, ignoring her guard’s comments, skeptical such a feat could be achieved.

  “As long as I hold my breath and think it,” she explained, “I can remain invisible.”

  Trálin laughed. “Lass, I have heard many a bard’s tale, but never have I—”

  Catarine inhaled.

  Fat flakes of snow swirled down where seconds before she’d stood.

  Stunned, Trálin gasped. “It canna be.”

  Catarine reappeared, her eyes searching his for belief.

  “God in heaven,” Trálin whooshed out. “You are telling the truth?”

  “Aye,” she replied.

  “A fairy,” he stated, needing to say the words, struggling to find fact in what should be but a tale. “How did you come to Scotland?”

  “We travel through stone circles,” she replied.

  The sturdy pillars near where he and his men had fought came to mind. However outrageous her claim, a moment before he’d witnessed proof. He scrubbed his face again. ’Twas already a long day, and ’twas but morning.

  “’Tis much to take in,” she said, a smile curving on her lips.

  “For a human,” Atair added, his voice dry.

  “The English knights you chase,” Trálin asked. “Is that the truth as well?”

  Her smile faded. “Aye.”

  Scraping for coherent thought, struggling to accept what he’d witnessed as real, he focused on logic. “How did English knights travel to the Otherworld?”

  “A question we are anxious to solve,” her senior warrior replied, “and the reason we must find them.”

  “Your uncle?” Trálin asked Catarine.

  She gave a shaky exhale. “He was murdered by the English knights yesterday past.”

  Trálin rubbed his chin, mulled the situation. “I didna know ’twas possible for humans to enter the Otherworld.”

  Catarine glanced toward Atair. “We didna either, nor do we believe ’twas without aid.”

  “They were helped by another of the fey?” Lord Grey asked.

  “’Tis the only explanation,” she replied. “We believe the English knights were allowed into the Otherworld through a spell.”

  Could this day could grow stranger? “Magic?” Trálin asked.

  Hope illuminated Catarine’s face. “You believe me?”

  “It should be impossible.” But the image of her disappearing, then reappearing was etched in his mind. “Aye. Please, start from the beginning and explain.”

  In short—and beneath Atair’s disapproving look—Catarine related all that’d taken place and their journey since yesterday.

  Trálin weighed her words, her explanation still a touch hard to accept as real. “So you believe when we return to the stone circle, I will see the English knights’ trail, because whoever is behind this has cast a spell erasing the tracks to fey eyes?”

  “That is what we are hoping,” Atair grudgingly agreed.

  “What of the snowfall since we departed?” Lord Grey asked.

  “’Tis unfortunate,” Catarine replied, “but if the land remains undisturbed and the snow has melted, there still may be tracks you can see.”

  “Regardless,” Trálin said, his mind working through the glut of information, “I know many people throughout Scotland. If English knights pass, they will tell me.”

  She gave a relieved sigh.

  “Once the king and queen are freed and if I canna see any tracks, once I can reach trusted sources, I will send runners to search for information.” He paused. “I will try my best, but I can nae promise we will find the men who killed your uncle.”

  Her face solemn, she nodded. “We understand.”

  A thought occurred to him. Stunned, he stared at Catarine. “You said your father was a king?”

  Confusion wrinkled her brow. “Indeed.”

  “Then you are . . .”

  “A princess,” she said.

  “A princess,” he repeated, the words tasting like dust. Though he was a noble high in the ranks, she was the daughter of a king. “And the man to whom you are betrothed?”

  “A prince,” she supplied. “And instead of the formalities while we travel, I ask again that as my men do, call me Catarine. And unless a formal occasion, ‘my lady’ works as well.”

  Lord Grey’s eyes clouded. “’Tis nae—”

  “Proper?” she interrupted. “’Tis the way of the Otherworld.”

  The grimace on his mouth tightened. “If you wish.”

  “I do,” she replied.

  Atair cleared his throat. “We must inform the men that Lord Grey knows who we are, then leave.”

  Catarine nodded.

  His each step as if laden by stones, Trálin walked beside Catarine toward their makeshift camp. A fairy princess of the Otherworld. Never would he have believed such a fact. Except she’d proved her claim.

  And what of his attraction toward her? As if it mattered? She was engaged to a fey prince. And he was
committed to serving his king, one who if he didn’t reach him in time would be dead.

  Snow, fat and thick, plunged down around Trálin. Long past were the light flakes of this morn that were swept away by the wind. The sun’s warmth had done them little favor. Another burst of icy wind battered him, and he shielded his face as he trudged forward.

  At his side, Catarine glanced over. “How far are we from Stirling Castle?”

  He scanned the mountains looming before them. “As long as we have no delays, at best, another day’s hard travel.”

  Fir branches weighed by a thick blanket of snow swayed against the wind. Trálin shoved aside a branch, and was rewarded by a blast of hard-edged snow. With a curse, he wiped the icy shards from his face, and pushed onward. Soft crunches of the fey warriors moving behind him blended with the wind.

  “There is a pass ahead,” Trálin said.

  She shoved aside another limb. “Would it nae be faster to cross the open field?”

  “Nae with the snow so deep,” he replied. “Nor is it safe. This high up, there are many openings in the cliffs. We have no way of knowing what dangers the snow is covering and must take every precaution.”

  As they topped the next hill, the two peaks framing the pass came into view. The fierce crests of stone and ice stood like ominous guards to the break in the land he’d so often used.

  She gasped. “’Tis beautiful.”

  “It is,” he replied, as he took in the steep snow-covered peaks, “and dangerous. A footpath skirts the cliffs, but we must be careful.” He glanced at her and arched a brow. “You can nae cast a spell to bring us to Stirling Castle?”

  A smile tugged at her mouth. “Nay, nothing so grand. A love spell, mayhap giving someone meddling a twinge or two, but naught more.”

  “I thought the fey held many powers?” Trálin asked, thankful the tension between them had eased.

  Amusement sifted in her eyes. “The bards of your world find many a tale to spin of our abilities.”

  “Alas, I have been duped,” Lord Grey said.

  She smiled. “You and many others.”

  “Nor should he be telling anyone else of our origin,” Atair said, shooting her a warning look.

  The lightness of the moment faded.

  Trálin nodded. “I will say naught.” In silence, he trudged forward, fighting to ignore the pain in his side. Without the white willow bark Catarine had given him to ease the pain, he would never have been able to continue.

  As they neared the top of the heavily wooded land, the rush of water echoed from far below. He shoved aside a large limb. “Blast it.”

  “What is wrong?” Atair asked, moving to his side.

  “Look ahead.” Trálin pointed to where large limbs smeared with snow hung like broken arms across a narrow expanse above a gorge.

  Atair shielded his eyes, studied the landscape. “I see naught but fallen trees and snow.”

  “Look farther to the left,” Trálin said. “There is a narrow path that follows the cliff, connected by a wooden bridge.”

  “I see it now,” Atair said.

  “Since I was here last, there must have been a landslide that covered the entrance to the bridge.” Frustrated with the delay, Trálin searched the sheer cliff and the sharp angle of the mountain on either side, then met the lead warrior’s hard gaze. After their confrontation this morning, he’d made no friends with this man. “We will have to climb over the debris to reach the bridge. With the snow atop, ’twill make the crossing dangerous.”

  “But navigable,” Atair said.

  Trálin glanced toward Catarine. “Do you think you can make it?”

  “I can hold my own,” she replied.

  “Stay behind me.” Trálin stepped into the clearing and started up the steep incline. His boot slipped once, then again. On the third try he found a solid foothold. “Careful, the rocks are covered with ice.”

  Without the shield of trees, wind thick with snow rushed past. As Catarine stepped forward, she slipped.

  “Careful now,” Trálin said as he caught her arm and steadied her.

  “My thanks.” She glanced back, struggled to see the last warriors in the line. “The snow is falling harder.”

  “Aye,” Atair agreed. “A storm is moving in.”

  Uneasy, she studied the bulky limbs covering the ancient wooden bridge rocking to and fro.

  “What is wrong?” Trálin called back.

  “The bridge is swaying,” she replied.

  Concern darkened Lord Grey’s eyes. “Are you afraid?”

  “Nay.” The truth. The bridge didn’t terrify her. ’Twas heights.

  “Come,” Trálin urged. “We must reach the other side before the worst of the storm hits.”

  With a fortifying breath, she shoved up the slippery incline.

  Trálin reached the first fallen tree, caught a gnarled root, and pulled himself up. He reached down. “Give me your hand.”

  The twist of roots of the fallen tree reached into the snow-thickened sky like bony fingers. She shivered, moved closer to the time-battered bridge. “I can make it.”

  A look of pure exasperation settled on his face. “Aye, of that I am confident. Now let me help you.”

  He must see her nerves. So be it. Catarine laid her hand in his strong one. Wind tugged at her hair and with his aid, she half-climbed, half-pushed through the tangle.

  “Steady now,” Trálin said as she halted on the trunk, and stared at the wooden bridge.

  A strong gust of wind pummeled her, and she started to slip. She clutched a nearby root and kept her balance. Barely. She refused to give in to her fears or to look down. Her realm depended on the success for their mission.

  Trálin’s mouth thinned. “Hang on to me as we cross.”

  Her body trembling, she nodded. Snow-drenched gusts of wind battered her, the hard flakes like needles upon her skin. With her free hand, she caught the thick braided hemp rope secured along the bridge posts. Half-bent to keep her balance, step by treacherous step, she followed Trálin as he worked his way across the wooden bridge.

  Wind howled past.

  The bridge rocked in a frenzied dance.

  A loud crack echoed from behind.

  Catarine whirled. The limb of an enormous fir broken by the fierce wind swung wildly high above the warriors. Another gust of wind tossed the half-torn branch up. With a snap, the large limb tore, then fell.

  “Sionn, watch out!” Catarine yelled.

  The fey warrior glanced up. With a curse, he dove to the side.

  Snow spewed as the bristled branch hit, the whip of wind hurling away the flakes.

  Her heart pounding, she searched the mottled bank for her men. All there. “Sionn, are you all right?”

  Snow dusted his blond hair as the lean warrior met her gaze. He nodded.

  Thank God.

  “Hurry,” Trálin yelled back.

  Her entire body trembling, she stepped forward. The wood groaned, held. She slowly made her way, climbing over fallen branches, several half-caught and twisted in the hemp. Holding the rope tight, she took another step. As her foot settled on the next slat, the wood gave.

  She screamed.

  Trálin reached back, caught her hand, and helped her climb back on the bridge. “The falling limbs must have damaged the wood. And with the blasted snow and branches, you canna see.” He frowned at where the fey warriors had started to make their way onto the bridge. “Atair,” he called, “pass to the others that the bridge is damaged in places.”

  Her senior fey warrior nodded.

  Her body trembling from her near accident, she glanced down. Stilled. Far below, the churn of water pounded with angry slaps against the banks. With each slam against boulders littered within the surging water, the spray hurled up, hard blasts of white to coat thick icicles longer than a man.

  “Catarine?”

  At the concern in Trálin’s voice, she met his gaze.

  “We are over halfway,” he said as he gave her
hand a squeeze. “You can make it.”

  She nodded. If she spoke, he’d hear the fear in her voice. With her hand tight in his, she made her way across, each step as if a miracle given.

  Several paces from the opposite ledge, a gust of wind slammed them.

  With an ominous groan, the bridge began to rock.

  “Hold the rope tight!” Trálin ordered.

  Catarine’s grip on the weathered line tightened. In moments, the swaying began to gentle.

  He tugged her hand.

  Relief swept her as he stepped onto the opposite ledge of the gorge. Now to—

  A loud rumbling echoed from above.

  She glanced up.

  From the top of the mountain, a huge mass of snow and debris raced down the slope, growing with each moment.

  “Avalanche!” Trálin pulled her toward him. “Catarine, jump!” Fear tore through him as Catarine’s fingers clutched his, her eyes wide with terror as the avalanche grew closer. “Move, lass!”

  Her body shaking, she started forward.

  Snow and debris crashed against her, jerked her from his hold, and hurled her onto the rocking bridge. Bloody hell! Trálin dove. Snow slapped his face as he grabbed her hand. He caught a post wedged in the sheer rock behind him, and clung tight.

  “Hold on!” His arms aching, he pulled her toward the ledge.

  Clumps of snow pummeled the wooden slats of the bridge as they moved back.

  A loud groan echoed.

  Hemp snapped. The wood beneath her shuddered, sagged.

  God no! “The bridge is going!” he yelled. Adrenaline pumping through him, Trálin wrapped his free arm around a sturdy pole, shoved to his feet, tugged.

  Catarine’s body jerked against him.

  He hung on.

  Barely.

  The slide of snow surged around them with a thunderous roar. The upheaval slowed, then another clutter of debris-laden snow plowed into her.

  Muscles in his arm burned as he strained to hold her as she was tossed out, then slammed back against the ledge.