Dragon's Moon

by Lucy Monroe

  “No,” Ciara answered. “No sign at all.”

  But still she believed the Faolchú Chridhe was out there to be found. Her connection to it had to be very strong.

  “And you are still dreaming about it?” Guaire asked.

  “Yes.”

  Guaire nodded. “Clearly, you must heed these dreams.”

  Niall nodded his agreement. The Sinclair scowled and Eirik knew it bothered him that his daughter had been plagued by something he could not fix, regardless of his strength and position.

  “If for no other reason than that until you do, you will continue to lose sleep,” Abigail said with a look of motherly concern to Ciara.

  Eirik moved his hand from her shoulder to the nape of Ciara’s neck, giving a squeeze to let her know she was not alone. He did not question the impulse. For now he would follow the instincts of his beast.

  “The dreams have grown urgent. The stone calls to me now, even when I am awake.” She looked up at Eirik, her green gaze haunted, before turning her attention to her adopted father. “I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. The Faolchú Chridhe must be found.”

  “Aye.” There was a wealth of determination and the confidence of a clan chief in that single word.

  Ciara released a soft sigh of relief. No matter that the secrets she kept might imply otherwise, she trusted the Sinclair. Wholly and completely.

  She would learn she could trust Eirik just as deeply. His dragon demanded it and his raven insisted it should already be that way.

  “Before my father and his cronies find it,” Mairi added, fear wafting off of her in a sour wave.

  The laird turned on her. “Your father knows of the Faolchú Chridhe?”

  Mairi jumped, but she settled and her fear dissipated in the air around them when Lais put his arm across her shoulder and tugged her into his side.

  Her face pinked with embarrassment though and despite the obvious comfort it gave her, she tried to push Lais away. He didn’t budge.

  She frowned up at him, confusion clear in her blue gaze. Lais merely smiled and Eirik found his own lips curving in amusement. It would not be an easy mating, but it would be a good one.

  Mairi then gave a good imitation of someone unaware that a warrior twice her size stood so close. “Many of the Faol know old stories about the Faolchú Chridhe. Chrechte history is taught to the young in some packs with far more diligence than it sounds like it is among the Sinclairs.”

  The pack alpha could have taken offense at what was clearly the accusation of a shortcoming, but he merely nodded. “You are right. My grandfather wanted our pack to integrate more fully into the clan and decreed the ancient stories were no more than myth and there was little benefit in sharing them.”

  Ciara gasped in shock.

  Talorc’s mouth twisted in an understanding grimace. “It is surprising considering how important he thought that the ancient Chrechte laws are to all of us.”

  “Perhaps it is time to change things in our pack,” Abigail said.

  The Sinclair gave his wife an approving look and nodded. “Perhaps it is.”

  “But the MacLeod has more recent information than old stories, does he not?” Guaire asked Mairi, his tone musing.

  “He does. My mother had the sight as well,” Mairi said, sounding apologetic, though Eirik could not understand why. “She dreamed of the stone when she was pregnant with me. I think because my father is distantly related to the family of the Faolchú Chridhe.”

  “You said last night that Ciara was the keeper of the stone,” Eirik said.

  “She is. Unlike my father, she is of direct descent from the original keepers of the stone. She is the princess of the Faol. If we lived in the days of our ancestors, she would be our queen.” Mairi looked at Ciara, her blue gaze shining with esteem and hope.

  Ciara shook her head, a sound of protest coming from her, her distress clear. Shock was in the air around them, and worry.

  Eirik ignored it all to drop to his haunches in front of the reluctant princess. He willed her to meet his gaze and she did so, her head coming up just enough that her emerald eyes locked with his.

  “To be a keeper of the stone is a great responsibility, but it is also a blessing.”

  She tried to shake her head, but his hold on her face stopped her. “I don’t want to be a princess.”

  “Would you deny your children their rightful place among the Faol because yours was denied you?”

  “No. Of course not. I’m not going to have any children!” she wailed.

  His dragon rumbled in denial of that statement, but Eirik did his best to ignore it. “There is nothing to fear in this.”

  “There is everything to fear.”

  “I will help you.”

  “You hate me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me.”

  “You are truly a prince…I am just a—”

  “There is no just. The stone has called to you, claimed you. You can do naught but answer that call.” He had known this since he was a small boy. To be born into the royal family of a Chrechte people dictated much about a man’s life from birth.

  He would help Ciara learn to deal with this truth.

  “I am also a seer and I have dreamed of the power for good she wields with the stone.” Mairi’s voice rang with conviction.

  “Ciara is a direct descendant of the original keepers of the stone, of Faol royalty?” the Sinclair asked as if still trying to take in the truth.

  There was no doubt in Mairi’s set expression. “Yes.”

  “I can’t be,” Ciara said, but her voice lacked any conviction. Her eyes beseeched Eirik. “Wouldn’t my parents have told me, my brother at the very least?”

  Eirik foolishly wished in that moment he could lie. “As you said, he had plans to wield the power of the stone on his own behalf.”

  “But we were family.”

  “And he saw the goodness in you, the inability to hate another race of our people simply because they were different in their beast nature.” And finally, Eirik knew that to be true.

  He still did not trust this woman entirely. She hid too many secrets, but he did not doubt that she had never intended the Éan harm.

  “He wanted to create conriocht,” she admitted in a whisper.

  Lais gasped. Mairi moaned with worry, but Talorc and Eirik met one another’s gaze with purpose. The Faolchú Chridhe would be found and brought to safety before it could fall into the hands of Chrechte that would misuse its power to destroy other shifters.

  “All will be well,” he promised her, willing her to believe him.

  Finally, she nodded, worrying her lower lip.

  He groaned and before Eirik could give into an almost overwhelming need to kiss the Faol princess, he surged to his feet and moved back to his stance at her side.

  “There is an elder among the Balmoral that knows all the ancient stories of the Faol,” the Sinclair said in a tone that showed more than anything how much he regretted there was no such elder among his own clan. “We need to speak to him.”

  “I will go to Balmoral Island,” Eirik announced, not even considering the laird might prefer to send a Faol for this mission.

  But Talorc nodded his approval. “You will lead this quest.”

  “What? Why?” Ciara asked, clearly uncomfortable with her adopted father’s edict.

  What did she think? That Eirik as an Éan would do something sinister with the wolves’ sacred stone? Little did she know, but the sacred stones of the Chrechte could not be destroyed and the Faolchú Chridhe would continue to call to Ciara until it was found and used by her.

  The Sinclair looked like he would not answer his daughter’s challenge, but Abigail smacked him on the shoulder and Talorc’s expression changed.

  Whatever the laird’s wife had said to him over the mindspeak of mates, he looked properly chastised. “As prince of the Éan, Eirik’s knowledge of the Clach Gealach Gra and ability to defeat any who would t
ry to take possession of the Faolchú Chridhe make him the best warrior for this mission.”

  “I am sorry I questioned your decision, laird.”

  “I do not expect the same unquestioning acceptance of my orders from family as I do my soldiers,” the clan chief said, as if reciting something he had heard many times before.

  Eirik had to stifle an urge to smile, confident he knew exactly where the laird had heard those words from. Abigail’s smile of approval confirmed his guess.

  Talorc turned to Eirik. “You will take Ciara with you. As she is the keeper of the stone, Abigail believes it will continue to draw her to itself.” The Sinclair’s jaw hardened, his head giving a short jerk as if in answer to a silent question. “And your dragon will continue to protect her dreams so that she does not become ill.”

  Eirik noted he was not the only one biting back amusement at his laird’s obvious discomfort at having given permission for such. But once again, the man’s wife looked quite pleased and he for one, had no desire to draw her wrath.

  She was a wily one, he knew.

  Ciara opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she meant to say, whether protest or acquiescence, was drowned out by Mairi’s plea. “Please let me go, too. I have had many dreams of this stone…I don’t know why, but I feel I am supposed to come on this journey as well.”

  Lais frowned down at her. “You need more time to heal.”

  “Is it that you feel that you should be there, or you crave the wolf your dreams have told you the stone will give to you?” Eirik asked, remembering what the human woman had claimed the night she was found.

  Mairi showed no signs of embarrassment at his question. “If you had been beaten as often as I have for nothing more than the fact I have no wolf, you would not be so dismissive about the power of the Faolchú Chridhe to heal all Chrechte. It is my right as much as any other to be gifted that healing.”

  “Of course it is,” Abigail inserted.

  And no one gainsaid her. She was human, but she was lady of the clan and an acknowledged member of the pack despite her lack of wolf.

  Mairi nodded her thanks and then frowned at Eirik. “But that is not why I believe I am supposed to be there. Once the stone is found, many will be touched by its power. My turn will come, later or sooner, but it will come. I must be allowed to accompany you on this quest because such is in my dreams. If God gives you a vision, do you cut out the bits that are not convenient or logical and expect the vision to come to pass?”

  Eirik shook his head at the warm approval in Lais’s eyes for Mairi’s words. The man had it bad, but it was no excuse for condoning the human woman’s disrespectful tone.

  Ciara’s glare directed at Eirik was even more unwelcome, however, and he arched one brow in question. What had he done?

  “Answer her,” Ciara demanded.

  Eirik opened his mouth to lambast both women for their disrespect and then repeated Mairi’s words in his head and decided she had some reason for her acerbic tone. “I have never had a vision. I would not know.”

  “I have,” Mairi said. “More importantly, my mother taught me the importance of paying attention to every tiny aspect to these special dreams. If she had, she would still be alive.”

  “If my brother had listened to me about all the points of my dream, I believe we would have found the Faolchú Chridhe by now.” Ciara frowned up at Eirik as if it were his fault.

  As far as he was concerned, that particular failing was for the best. “It is good that he did not then.”

  Ciara flinched at his words and damned if he did not have to fight the desire to comfort her, but the slight incline of her head acknowledged their truth.

  “We will fly to Balmoral Island tonight.”

  Chapter 12

  All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.

  —GALILEO GALILEI

  “You intend Ciara to ride on your dragon?” the Sinclair asked.

  “Aye. Ciara has proven herself an adept rider.” And Eirik’s dragon wanted her to ride again, craved it like the beast had shown desire for nothing else.

  Lais scowled, his blond brows beetled. “You would have my…Mairi ride your dragon as well?”

  “You could take her across on a boat,” Eirik offered, expecting Lais to refuse.

  An eagle preferred to fly.

  Besides, the ride to where the Sinclairs kept their boats for the crossing combined with the crossing itself would take several hours longer than direct flight. Even if the eagle was considerably slower than a dragon in the sky.

  But Lais nodded rapidly. “’Tis a sound idea, that.”

  It was a daft idea, but since Eirik was the one to recommend it, even expecting it to be dismissed, he refused to withdraw his words now.

  “I will accompany Lais and Mairi in the boat.” Ciara sounded far too pleased at that option.

  Eirik and her adopted father both said, “No,” at the same time.

  Surprised that the vehemence in the laird’s tone matched his own, Eirik let the other man explain it to his daughter.

  “But why not?” Ciara asked just as Eirik had expected her to.

  “From the moment you leave this keep and until you return to it with the Faolchú Chridhe, you will not leave the dragon shifter’s side.”

  Ah, the man wanted Ciara protected at all costs. ’Twas understandable. Not only was she the laird’s daughter but she was princess of the Faol. The Faolchú Chridhe would be of limited use to their people without one of her blood to bring forth its full power.

  “It is a matter of your safety,” Abigail said to her daughter. “Please do as your father asks.”

  Ciara’s eyes filled and she nodded without another word. Her love for her adopted family at least was not in question.

  No one commented on the Sinclair’s muttering that, “’Twas not a request.”

  There was little Ciara needed for her journey to the Balmoral holding.

  Laird Lachlan, her adopted uncle, would provide for all their needs on his island, but where their journey would take them after that, she did not know. Best to be prepared.

  She attached a purse made of the Sinclair tartan and lined with leather to the chain she wore around her hips. Inside was a small knife, used mostly for paring vegetables but useful in other circumstances as well. She’d also packed a handkerchief, a packet of herbs to make a tea both good for calming and to pour over a small wound for cleansing, and her last memento of her brother, his ring.

  Under the sleeve of her blouse, Ciara wore the arm circlet of bronze her father had given her mother on their wedding day. She only took it off to shift. The etched image of two wolves rubbing noses and surrounded by intricate lines had always given her comfort. She needed every boost to her courage she could manage for what was to come ahead. Of that she was certain.

  She’d fought the call of the Faolchú Chridhe for so long, giving in to it made her mouth dry with fear.

  The fear shamed her and she would not give in to it.

  Ciara added the short and very sharp dirk with the jeweled handle passed down by her great-great-grandmother. She settled the thin leather around her hips so it rested under her chain and the dirk was almost hidden by the small purse attached to it.

  Then she opened the low trunk Abigail and Talorc had given Ciara when she first came to live with them. They’d told her to keep her treasures in it, and she had. Those she’d brought with her and the few she’d accumulated since.

  She pushed aside the first Sinclair plaid she’d ever been given, just a shawl really. Abigail had explained that Ciara could wear it over her shoulders while still wearing the Donegal’s colors as her skirt. It had given her the opportunity to show her loyalty to the Sinclair while taking her time to give up her old clan…the last link to her dead family.

  Giving her that shawl was the first of many compassions Abigail had shown Ciara.

  Underneath the shawl was a carefully folded plaid of the Donegal c
olors. Ciara had last worn it six months after coming to the Sinclairs. Abigail had presented her with a skirt in the Sinclair colors, a new, smaller shawl that barely covered her shoulders and pins of bronze stamped with the Sinclair crest to hold it to a new blouse so white, Abigail had to have taken great pains to bleach the fabric.

  The laird’s lady had also included a bodice of finely spun black wool and explained the clothing a fashionable mix of her homeland and the Highland colors. It was too many layers for a shifter to wear expediently, not to mention too English, but Ciara had found herself unable to tell the human woman such.

  She’d merely spoken her thanks and come down the next morning wearing a similar outfit to the one she’d worn every day since. Abigail had made herself a matching tartan and bodice, showing the world they were family, if not by blood.

  Ciara pulled out the Donegal plaid and laid it on her bed, then unfolded it to reveal the sword within. With emeralds the same deep green of those on her dirk and the size of her thumb decorating the hilt, it was easily more than half as tall as she was.

  It had been her brother’s, and their father’s before that, and their grandfather’s before that. She did not know how long it had been in their family, but the heavy bronze shone with years of care.

  The raised images of a conriocht, a dragon and a griffin surrounded the grip. The conriocht was in the center, with a smaller emerald than the ones on the hilt above the beast’s head. The dragon clutched an amber stone in his claws and the griffin had a deep blue sapphire under a forepaw.

  The sword was heavy and solid, a fitting sword for a king, she’d always thought.

  Ciara’s knees turned to water and she sank to the floor beside the bed.

  A sword fit for a king.

  But surely if he was descendant of the original Faol kings, Ciara’s father would have been laird. He had not been a leader, though. He’d been loyal to the laird before Rowland and transferred that loyalty to the laird that did so much to hurt the Donegal clan.

  Her father had been long dead by the time Barr had taken over as acting laird of the Donegal clan at the order of Scotland’s king.

  And Galen had already been firmly under Wirp and Luag’s influence.