Crystal Dreams

by Astrid Cooper

  He pushed her away. Jenna scurried backwards, her face red with fury and desire. He knew she burned with longing, for her sultry dark eyes swept over him. His stomach clenched, not with longing. With loathing. Loathing—of his Jenna!

  “It was a wrong you did Liandra and tomorrow you shall apologize to her. I will let you know what other correction you are to receive for your conniving."

  Jenna's lips tightened. “You go too far, even for you Connal MacArran. I will not apologize to that bitch, not for anything! Not for anything! No matter what you do or say to me!"

  Connal rested against he bed, propped up on his arms. “That sounds very much like a challenge, Jenna MacLeod."

  She tossed her head. “Take it as you will. You have not been the same since that bitch came to Caledonia. Nothing I can say or do makes a difference. Never one to spurn me from your bed, now you have so many excuses, so not once in weeks, have I loved you. That witch's dreams have turned you. Surely not for good? Have a care, My Lord. Though I have kept myself exclusively for you, do not expect it of me in the future. Make your choice—the alien-witch, or me. Do not keep me waiting. Others are eager to assume the place you once, so willingly filled..."

  Connal smiled grimly. “That may be so. Will my successors satisfy you as I?”

  Jenna flung her cloak around her shoulders. She reached the door and as her hand fastened on the knob, Connal's voice halted her.

  “And tomorrow before the entire house you will make your apology to my guest."

  Jenna cast a furious eye on him. “Try and make me."

  Connal sucked in his breath. “I can and will. Much better for us both, though, if you do not force me to make you. Think on that tonight."

  Jenna slammed the door with such force that the weaponry adorning his walls quivered on their mountings. Connal slipped off the bed and strode out onto the balcony. Leaning on the balustrade, he looked out across his lands.

  Jenna did have the right of it. He had not had her since returning from off-world. Too busy. Well, that was one reason. There were others. How could he tell her that at the thought of bedding her, he felt nauseous. Arran's Mercy what is wrong with me?

  His eyes, with a will of their own, glanced down to Liandra's dark apartment. What am I going to do with you, My Lady Witch? He smiled without humor. In his current state, he knew what he would like to do with her, to test whether the reality of loving her would be as intense as their dream.

  No, he could not go to her. That would be base, no more than an easing of the ache in his loins and he had would never use a woman in that way. Not even an alien whore. And Jenna. What was he going to do about her? In the past, he had found her jealous little tantrums intriguing, but this latest episode...

  He frowned. How could he once have found her so desirable? Jenna did not know it, though she soon would, that forevermore, she was no longer welcome in his bed.

  Was Jenna right? Had Liandra cast some spell over him, sapping his manhood? Though still as hot-blooded as any man, his passions were not about to be assuaged. He could take another lover ... What an appalling thought! The alternative was sleepless nights and cold baths, at least for the foreseeable future. Connal glanced down, again, at Liandra's apartment. So near, yet so far.

  Damn! He retreated into his bedchamber and ate the rest of the pie, all the while looking at the piece of paper with its strange mark of rainbow colors.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Liandra shivered, not from cold, but because of the many pairs of eyes focused upon her. She glanced around the funeral assembly. The flickering amber light from fires burning in huge braziers cast shadows about the field and upon the faces of the hundreds of men and women of Connal's household. Dotted about the field's perimeter were tall fluorescent light sticks. Fires and high tech. lights—another anachronism. Another mystery. She didn't like mysteries, she thought, drawing the long cloak closer about her body.

  “The people are curious of you, Liandra. They mean no disrespect,” Fianna said.

  “I know. I'm glad you insisted I wear this."

  “Aye, if Connal sees your suit he will likely have a fit. ’Tis indecent.” Fianna smiled.

  “Is it?” Liandra laughed, her eyes sweeping the field.

  Connal stood alone, beneath a large banner of MacArran tartan. Her heart quickened its pace as she saw him, resplendent in a different style of kilt. The material draped his body in elaborate folds, the plaid held in place by a wide belt. One end of the material had been drawn diagonally across his chest to form a sash that hung over his shoulder, down his back, to his knees. It was fastened at the shoulder by a large, circular brooch. Beneath the sash, he wore a ruffled shirt with a froth of lace at neck and wrists. A sword hung at his side. Every other man and woman also wore his or her best, bejeweled and girt with weaponry.

  Across the arena Connal nodded to her and beckoned. Liandra hesitated.

  “You had best go to him, else he will come to you,” Fianna said.

  “I don't want to leave you alone."

  “I am all right. Do not make Connal angry. His mood has been awful for days."

  “Don't I know it,” Liandra replied.

  “It seems only you can soothe him, Liandra, so best do it."

  Liandra glanced back over her shoulder as she walked towards Connal. She was pleased to see several young women and an elderly man come to stand beside Fianna. In her time of need she was not alone.

  “You requested my presence, My Lord?"

  Connal smiled. “Almost you sound like a Caledonian, though your accent betrays you."

  “Perhaps it's because the word chokes me. You aren't my lord."

  “Am I not? I thought I had already settled that misunderstanding."

  As Liandra folded her arms, her cloak fell apart, revealing her body suit. Connal's gaze took all of her in. She saw the narrowing of his eyes in silent warning, and hastily drew her cloak about her. “What did you want me for?” she asked.

  “Can a man not have company when he wishes it?"

  “I thought you'd much prefer Jenna's intercourse to mine."

  Connal laughed. ’Tis a strange way of putting it."

  Liandra flushed, wishing time could go backwards, so she could retract that double entendre. The incident on Connal's balcony had both intrigued and unsettled her. After it, she hadn't been able to sleep. She found it frustrating that Connal and Jenna would have spent the night in each other's arms; when she was bereft of company, save for one hairy dog. And now, her comment sounded as if it was spurred by jealousy. Ridiculous!

  Connal squeezed her shoulder, his hand warm and gentle. “I called you here to thank you for the pie. Without heather-sugar, ‘twas most enjoyable.” He laughed and despite herself Liandra managed to smile back. “I am curious about that colored swirl on the paper."

  “My signature. It's the pattern of my aura."

  “Ah, as I recall, you cannot write."

  “No."

  “Have you ever thought to learn? We have excellent teachers in the Castle, I could ask..."

  Liandra shook her head. “It's not for want of trying, Conn—Lord. It's because of what I am. Dream-weavers see things differently to other people. We think in color and sound. That's why, to me, any form of writing is gibberish."

  Connal frowned. “Why did you not explain to me before that you are incapable of reading, when I accused...?"

  “Lord MacArran did not want to listen to reason at the time."

  His smile held little warmth. “Aye, I know. I was tested beyond reason by you.” He paused. “Books are important to Caledonians, Liandra. Yet, to read a book, from a machine's perspective, surely you would not catch the author's intent behind his every word?"

  “I don't know."

  “Computers are a poor substitute for the voice of a man, or woman.” He stared down at her. “I also owe you an apology, Liandra. I too readily accused you of wrongdoing with that tart. I should have thought first. Will you forgive me?"

&nb
sp; Liandra glanced up at him. His fingers ever so lightly kneaded her shoulder again, making it difficult for her to think. “Yes,” she whispered. “I forgive you."

  He smiled, with that gentle intensity he so rarely displayed. It made her stomach muscles clench. His eyes, catching the firelight, flickered amber gray. Warm and sensuous. She could only stare at him.

  “I do not want to see you choke over the word, so an easing of your punishment. My way, if you will, of thanking you for that tart. Henceforth you can, again, call me Connal."

  “Thank you. Will you satisfy my curiosity?"

  His eyebrow rose. “If I can."

  “Your clothes, and those of your kinsmen, they're different. Why?"

  “'Tis an ancient form of dress, the breacan an fhelidh."

  “A belted plaid. Why is Caledonian so unpronounceable?"

  Connal's face reflected pure anguish. “You are going to have to practice your Caledonian. ’Tis quite appalling. We wear the belted plaid for ceremonial occasions, such as a hand-fasting, a funeral, new year, or for Council. ’Tis a mark of respect and honor. Twelve yards of plaid are wrapped around the body and held in place by a special belt and brooch."

  “No other fastenings?"

  “None."

  “What keeps it from falling down?"

  “The belt, and luck!” Connal grinned. “After the gathering, I have a surprise for you. Before the household, Mistress Jenna wishes to make amends."

  “I—What is that?” Liandra recoiled in horror, as she heard the most awful blood-curdling noise.

  “What is wrong?” Connal asked, his arm around her shoulders.

  Laindra stared, terrified, as Connal's pax-man entered the field. He carried a strange looking creature, its skin the same pattern and colors as the MacArran tartan. Several long things extruded from its body, one of which had attached itself to Dougall's mouth. She had never seen such a symbiotic relationship. Why was the monster screaming?

  “Dougall's being attacked! You have to do something!"

  “He is—what?” Connal's hand strayed to his dagger.

  “The creature on his body. Quickly!”

  Connal chuckled. “They are bagpipes, Liandra. A Caledonian musical instrument.”

  “You call this screeching—music?"

  “Aye. Dougall and his band are famous for their skill. It takes many years to learn to play. Few can hold a candle to my pipers."

  Behind Dougall, other men entered the field, each carrying a set of bagpipes. Liandra felt a fool. Yet, who was the greater fool? She for being afraid of a musical instrument, or Connal MacArran for insisting that this piercing wailing was music?

  “Now they begin the lament. Listen to it. In this way we mourn Garris."

  Liandra heard the different tempos of the dirge. Slow and sorrowful. Fast and furious. Though she had attended many funeral services, this was the strangest and the most moving. Tears sprung to her eyes. Seeking solace, her body of its own accord leaned into Connal. In response, his arm tightened across her shoulders, drawing her even closer. His hard thighs pressed against the backs of her legs, her bottom molded against his, his... Oh... She swallowed, trying to concentrate on anything except his male warmth, his scent.

  The lament ended abruptly, with one note straining high. It echoed about before slowly drifting away across the field.

  “I must speak the eulogy, now,” Connal whispered against her ear. He set her from him. She retreated behind the tartan partition where, unobserved by the household, she could watch and listen.

  Liandra listened to his reminiscences. There was humor amid the sorrow, though all his words reflected his love and respect for Garris.

  “You have taken the high road, friend.” He said, a faint tremor to his deep voice, the only indicator of what he was truly feeling. “Garris, return home to us on the low road. This, from me, to light your way.” Connal set a torch to the bier that was adorned with heather, and draped with a cloak. Upon it lay a great sword; similar to the one Connal wore, similar to the one that they had used as the dream-search focus. The roaring flames stretched high into the night sky, the crackling of the flames the only sound, the scent of burning heather wafting over the field and its clusters of mourners.

  With his eulogy concluded, Connal again drew Liandra to his side. Together they listened as others spoke about Garris. Liandra felt his body trembling with the effort to control his emotions. She rested her hand on his arm, but he didn't seem to notice.

  “Will you explain to me, Connal, what is the high and the low road?"

  “'Tis an ancient belief that if a clans-man leaves his home, he does so by always taking the high road. If he dies away from his kin, then his soul will return by the low road. The road of death. Please, no more questions."

  Occasionally Liandra glanced at Fianna. Throughout the ceremony, she stood proudly, her friends and clan-folk clustered around her.

  With another wailing melody from the bagpipes, the ceremony concluded. Instead of returning indoors, the gathering remained on the field. Servants brought out trestle tables upon which were heaped great platters of food and casks of drink.

  “Dougall.” Connal beckoned and his pax-man strode across the field.

  “Aye My Lord?"

  “Liandra is curious about your pipes. Will you show her?"

  Dougall's round face burst into a wide grin. “My pleasure, Lady,” he said bowing.

  Liandra touched the bagpipes and almost jumped out of her skin as the air rushed out of the instrument in a sound almost like a snarl. “I haven't seen anything like it, not in all the League Worlds."

  “Is that a compliment?” Dougall's eyebrows hackled.

  “Yes. The League reveres the diversity of culture, no matter how outlandish."

  “'Tis a backhanded compliment, Mistress,” Dougall said, grinning.

  “You have the right of it.” Connal laughed.

  “My piping has given me a thirst. I want to sample some ale before the others drink the barrels dry.” He bowed to them both and hurried away, his kilt swinging high with his haste.

  Connal smiled down at her. “Liandra, point out which pastries are your handiwork. I will sample each and let you know how your lessons are proceeding. I hope you are still finding your kitchen work a punishment?"

  “I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it. I suppose now with that admission, you'll set me to work elsewhere."

  Connal frowned. “Thank you for your honesty. ’Tis precious little you find to like on my world, so I will not rob you of something that gives you pleasure. What sort of man do you think I am?"

  “That I won't answer."

  “Will not? Or cannot?"

  “For my own sake. Will not."

  Connal laughed and with a hand under her elbow, he guided her to a table. “Here, you must try this,” he said, pushing a plate into her hands. “And this. And of course, this leek pie."

  “I can't, I'm not hungry. Please.” She tried to evade the food he piled onto her plate.

  “You will be fading away, Mistress Tavor. I insist you try a little. Just to please me."

  “Very well.” She spooned a mouthful to her lips and swallowed, forcing it down her throat. Anxiety knotted her stomach. Connal's doting, gentle presence, at odds with his normal brusqueness, coupled with anxiety to put her escape into action, made her so tense, she could hardly eat a thing.

  The solemnity of the occasion soon became lost, no doubt due to the amount of wine drunk, Liandra thought. The laughter, the trilling of flutes and screech of bagpipes was a cacophony of noise, which made her senses reel.

  “I will be away now,” Connal whispered. “I must be seen to mix with my clan-folk, though I much prefer your company. Your silent company,” he added, leaning closer, his breath tickling her cheek. “Have I your permission to leave your side?"

  She frowned at him. “Yes."

  Liandra wandered about the field, speaking to friends.

  “Mistress Liandra, there yo
u be!"

  “Angas...” she began, uncertainly. Glancing about, she saw Connal in the company of kinswomen. They eagerly vied with each other for his attention and he sampled their offerings with great appetite.

  “Later on this eve there will be dancing. Promise me a dance, or two. At least two, aye?”

  “I—I have a head-ache, Maer Angas. Please, release my hand."

  “I have just the thing for a head-ache. Do not call me Maer. Angas will do just fine. That it will."

  “Please, let me pass.” She used her counselor's voice, and Angas stepped back.

  “Aye, of course,” he said. “When the dancing begins, I will find you."

  Liandra slowly slipped away from the mourners. If she had her crystals, she would have been able to glamour herself and leave undetected, but thanks to Connal for his confiscation of her property, that avenue was closed to her. Instead, she had to rely on stealth, and her cloak to make her indistinguishable.

  Terrified of discovery, with every step she took, her heart thudded against her chest, Liandra crept from one shadow to the next until she finally reached the main gate. She passed through the orchard, reached the outer meadow and began the long, arduous descent to the river's edge. Glancing back, she saw Castle MacArran silhouetted against the moon. From the distance, she could hear the sounds of revelry.

  She bit her lip. Indecision and another sensation—remorse—flooded through her. Such an inappropriate time to escape, Fianna needed her. But when might another opportunity present itself? Besides, Connal had said that Jenna was going to make amends to her. Seven Stars! She knew for a certainty that her enemy would not do so unless coerced. And what would Jenna's future revenge be for the humiliation of a public apology? It didn't bear thinking about.

  Liandra hurried along the riverbank, leaving Castle MacArran and its chieftain far behind—in distance, but certainly not in thought.

  * * * *