“Yes."
“For that I thank you, but I want you to know I am outraged by your insistence that I am to be punished and in such an uncouth way."
“Your objections are noted, Mistress. Now away with you."
* * * *
Liandra glared once at him as he sat in his chair, with that self-satisfied look on his face. How she wanted to wipe that smirk away!
But, again, that uncanny knack of his to find a suitable punishment for her! Damn him!
She closed the door and turned to find Dougall outside, hovering in the shadows. As she walked down the passageway, he fell into step beside her.
“You survived that encounter remarkably well."
“Yes."
“I thought to get some liniment from the healer's stores, but do I have the right of it, Connal did not...?"
“He didn't. I have a more suitable punishment. House work."
Dougall roared with laughter. He drew Liandra to a halt, his huge hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “You frightened us, Mistress. And our chieftain most of all. When he brought you back to the Castle more dead than alive—more often than not it was he who tended you.” He shook her once. “It was a foolish, willful thing to do, without hope of success. Do we have your promise that you will not try such again?"
“Yes.” But she would find another way to escape her captivity without breaking her promise; another way to warn her people of the dangers facing them. She must never give up. “My word is given."
Dougall smiled. “Arran be praised!"
“Did Connal truly tend me when I was sick? He said Fianna did."
“She assisted. It was Connal who had your bed re-assembled and it was he who sat beside you, soothed you while you were in fever. Though if he knew I told you, I would be set to house-work, too."
“I thought he'd be the first person to celebrate the loss of a troublesome alien witch."
“No one thinks of you as such."
“No one?"
Dougall grimaced. “Well, Mistress Jenna may. However, for the moment she is of no account in the Castle's scheme of things. And I suspect her diminished status, as far as Connal is concerned, will become permanent."
“What has happened to her?"
“For her harassment, she has been sent to the kitchens for four months. She loathes any work, and it is made doubly worse because she and Amilia are not ever on amicable terms."
“Then, I'm sorry for her, I..."
“Sorry?” Dougall's voice was shrill with disbelief. “I cannot understand you! The woman is your enemy, yet you sympathize with her plight.” He shook his head. “'Tis a strange one you be. I want you to make me a promise, Mistress."
“Only if you'll call me Liandra."
“Aye,” Dougall said. “If any man or woman in the County bothers you again, in any way, you tell me. Here, no one leads a life made miserable by the actions of another."
“Are you exempt from Connal's shunning?"
“He has done that to you?"
“Aye. I mean yes."
“I will speak to you as often as I wish. Until he orders me otherwise."
“Aren't you afraid of what he'll do to you?"
Dougall laughed. “Connal holds no fears for me. I have been his pax-man before he was weaned from his mother. And truth to tell, when he was a boy, it was I who took a birch to his backside when he became unruly."
“You beat him?"
Dougall's brows drew together. “I hear reprimand in your voice. As a boy, Connal could be difficult and there were reasons enough, so I indulged him up to a point. When it was necessary, I never hurt more than his pride, Liandra.” He paused. “We are not monsters or child-beaters!"
“Your—chastisements did not work. He is still incorrigible."
Dougall laughed. “Whatever you may think of him, Liandra, he is not a cruel man. He listens to the wishes of others when he can, where the needs of the clan are not compromised."
“He doesn't listen to me."
“You are wrong. Connal tries to do his best for you, and for his clan. ’Tis all you can ask of any man. Now inside with you. I have orders to see you locked in your chamber."
Liandra nodded and as the key scraped in the lock behind her, she walked to the door leading to the patio. It, too, was locked. She rested her forehead on the cool glass and closed her eyes. All her hopes rested on the Council. Would they listen to her petition?
She didn't hold out much hope. Connal was foremost in the Council.
And if the Council refused her? How would she survive? What was she to do? She'd never acclimatize herself to this world. Caledonia. Almost a pleasant, lyrical name. But there was nothing poetic about this barbarous world. She had experienced its true nature. And nothing, no power in the universe, could induce her to risk another such encounter. Nothing. Not ever!
But that did not mean she would remain on Caledonia. Somehow, someway she must escape to warn her people; to fight the menace threatening the League Worlds. Fear cramped her stomach and illness welled up inside. What was she to do?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They deliberately made the work difficult for her, Liandra thought grimly. No matter how hard she tried, she could not please her new overseer. Unlike Amilia's placid nature, Head-woman Vanora found fault with everyone. With everything. Especially with her, Liandra knew only too well. Today was no exception.
The other girls and women had finished their work for the day. Only she was ordered to remain and re-scrub and re-polish the floor that she considered spotless, though Vanora scathingly called it “filthy".
Liandra knew better than argue, for Connal's orders were quite specific: Vanora's word was not to be questioned. If she did so, then Connal would intervene. And she knew what would happen to her then! Dougall would have to fetch that liniment from the healer.
Seven Stars! And maybe Arran might show her a little mercy, too! Every bone in her body ached, and her muscles—they had given up protesting long ago. Even if she wanted to complain, the shunning meant she was neither seen nor heard by anyone, except Vanora.
Liandra blinked back the tears. They came easily to her these days, and she cursed herself for her weakness. No use crying; she had brought the punishment on herself. Not that she deserved any such thing! But she understood Connal's need to be seen to maintaining discipline over his household. That much she accepted.
What she couldn't accept was her inability to help her friends against the alien menace. Marooned on a primitive planet, stripped of her crystal bed, she was rendered ineffectual. Her impotency stung her, reducing her to tears, but she was always careful to make sure that she gave vent to her sorrow in the privacy of her apartment.
The drudgery of housework might keep her physically occupied, but mentally it proved a curse and a blessing. A curse in that she fretted over what was, and what might be and a blessing in that it gave her the opportunity, uninterrupted, to formulate strategies to alert the League to its danger. Yet, every plan was flawed and eventually rejected. There seemed no way she could help.
And it came as a shock to her, one day, to realize that it was an arrogant presumption on her part that she—and she alone—knew of the menace and could deal with it. Her father, not to mention the other Weavers, would realize their danger and would be countering it! She had to believe that, or go mad with worry. But when her physical fatigue eroded her mental confidence, there always came the nagging fear of what might be. And when that fear became dominant she bent to her work with a ferocity that surprised even Vanora.
Her only hope, if it could be called that, lay in the sympathy of the Caledonian Council.
She dipped her brush into the bucket and scrubbed at the flagstones. Connal had been gone from the Castle ten days. By now, he would be at the Council meeting. What would the other clan-leaders make of her petition? Castellan Ranald and she had spent hours preparing the document.
She smiled as she remembered. A taciturn man, Ranald, had been quiet and respectful
of her, transforming her hesitant oral submissions into written form for presentation to the Council. He had even written down some suggestions she had not considered. Daily, she worked with him in the storeroom, and although he could not speak to her, because of the shunning, he made it plain in other ways that he was a friend. He left small presents for her on the desk they shared, so that each morning a bauble or a flower would greet her.
Some of her other friends passed by her as she worked around the Castle. Ostensibly they appeared as if on routine duties, but they always made a point of stopping and smiling at her, before hurrying away. In such ways Liandra was comforted to know they were still her friends, though forbidden to have anything to do with her for the two weeks of her shunning.
Liandra paused in her work, her spine tingling in warning. Someone was watching her. Casting about, she saw a small shape huddled beside the curtains. Under the guise of her scrubbing, on hands and knees, she edged slowly forward. The unknown watcher retreated behind a curtain, though two tiny feet protruded. Liandra touched one foot and heard a gasp. A girl peered at her between the parted curtains.
“Who might you be?” Liandra asked.
Before the girl could answer, Jenna emerged from the passageway entrance. “Mind your work, witch!” Jenna hissed.
Liandra sighed. In Vanora's absence, Jenna assumed the Head-woman's position. The two women conspired to make her life miserable. Connal had said that Jenna was consigned to the kitchens, but it did not appear to be so; Jenna was always at hand.
Liandra glanced up at Jenna, then frowned down at the trail of mud that had come from Jenna's boots. All along the passage—her clean passage! Ruined!
Lightning fast, Jenna reached into the curtains and drew out the girl. “Be off with you, Bronnia. The one you spy upon is a witch. She will turn you into a beetle and squash you flat beneath her heel.”
The child's eyes grew enormous in her pinched face. She fled down the corridor, crying. Jenna laughed maliciously.
Slowly Liandra came to her feet, her fists balling around her cleaning brush. She glared at her nemesis. “That was uncalled for."
“I thought I heard someone speak. Doubtless, ’tis my imagination!"
Liandra pursed her lips. “Shun me if you want, but..."
“A warning, witch! Leave the child. She is quite unstable. Comes of her tainted blood."
“Oh?"
“She is a bastard. A by-blow no man laid claim to. Now, get on with your work! Or I will see to it that your duties are increased. No time then to play games with anyone. Connal is too soft with you, so it is left up to me to see to your punishment. And so I shall. Get to work!"
Liandra flung the brush at Jenna's feet. I..."
“Ah, Mistress Vanora, good day to you,” Jenna said, smiling sweetly over Liandra's shoulder.
Liandra turned. The telltale hands on Vanora's thin hips were her trademark, a precursor to a scolding, or worse.
“Look at the dirt! You can start again, witch! I do not care if you stay here until mid-night. I want this so clean and shining that you can eat from it. Do you understand?"
Liandra glared at the two women. Arguments against them were useless. Smiling wickedly to herself, Liandra bent down meekly and fumbled with the bucket. It fell from her hands, spilling its dirty water over her enemies.
“How clumsy of me!” Liandra said.
“That putrid water! My dress! My boots!” Jenna wailed.
Vanora's face was beet-red with rage as she silently regarded the waterlogged hem of her robe. “You will pay for that, witch!"
Liandra shrugged, hiding her triumphant smile as she bent down to retrieve her bucket and brush. Doubtless, Vanora and Jenna would find means of retribution for the ‘accident', but for her small victory, Liandra savored the moment.
“When you have finished the passageway, you can scrub the passage walls from ceiling to floor, all before you retire. Get on with it!” Vanora snapped.
“Yes, get on with it, witch!” Jenna said, smiling in triumph and with her head held high, she strode down the corridor, with Vanora laughing beside her.
* * * *
Hours later, Vanora having finally approved her work, Liandra returned to her chamber, too tired to go to the kitchen to prepare a meal. When she entered her bedroom she found a covered tray on her desk. Lifting the lid she saw her favorite foods. More gifts, this time from Amilia and Fianna.
Liandra took the tray and sat before the fire. She shivered with cold. For the thousandth time she regretted the loss of her enviro-belt. Despite Fianna bringing her “suitable clothes", Liandra kept to her own suits, though over all she wore a heavy shawl. Whatever else, she couldn't get used to the cumbersome skirts, which Caledonian women seemed to wear with ease.
Fergus planted a wet nose on her hand and absently she scratched his head. Like her, the hound had recovered from his mauling, though the fur would never grow again over the scars on his ears and neck. Liandra regretted his injury and pain. Every evening, the hound became her constant and only source of companionship, though how and where he spent his days she didn't know.
* * * *
“Two weeks have passed, Mistress Liandra,” Ranald said. “I have nothing for you to do this morning. Why not go for a stroll outside? ’Tis a lovely day."
Resisting the urge to hug him, Liandra flew to the garden. It looked brighter than usual, the scents seeming more pungent after her long absence. She sat in the sun and just drank in the sights, sounds and fragrances.
She lost herself for time uncounted in the beauty around her, only wrenching her mind back as she heard the snuffling, like someone's muffled crying. Standing up, she followed the sound and parting a bush, stared down at the bowed head of a child. The little girl looked up at her, her violet-blue eyes brimming with more tears.
“Don't be afraid,” Liandra said, holding out her hand. “You're Bronnia, aren't you?"
A slight nod of that tousled auburn head.
“Whatever Mistress Jenna said, I'm not a witch, and I won't turn you into an insect. Why are you crying? What's wrong?"
“Lost Heather."
“Heather?"
“My friend."
“I'll help you look for her, if you like. First you have to come out of there. Now, be careful, the bush has terrible thorns."
Even as she spoke Liandra saw the scratches on the child's thin arms, the rips in her clothes. Such pallor and with dark circles under her eyes, if she didn't know better, she'd say that Bronnia was malnourished. Liandra tried a surface probing, recoiling from the illness and sorrow she read within the child. But that was all. Bronnia had an almost impenetrable mental shield erected around herself.
Liandra gently brushed the dirt and twigs from Bronnia's clothing. “Now, let's look for Heather. Where shall we start?"
“Do not know. Lost."
“What does she look like?"
Bronnia held out her hands a foot or so apart. “Heather is this big. Got a bit of black hair and one blue eye."
Liandra gasped. “I've never seen any one like that in the Castle! Was she in some sort of accident?"
Bronnia looked up at Liandra, bewildered. “Dolly!"
“Pardon me?” Liandra asked.
“Heather is my dolly."
“What's a dolly?” Concentrating, Liandra caught the fleeting image from Bronnia. She laughed at her stupidity. A toy! Heather was a child's toy, not some flesh and blood creature. She knew about toys, she had a room full of them back on Asaria. But of all her high-tech playthings, the one she had most cherished as a child was a cushion with eyes. The universe over, it seemed, a child's love was bestowed on the most unlikely objects.
“Where did you last have Heather?"
“In orchard."
“Then we'll start there.” Slowly Bronnia placed her tiny fingers into Liandra's outstretched hand.
By mid-afternoon, they both admitted defeat. Heather remained missing.
“I'll take you to the store room.
I'm sure we can find another dolly."
Bronnia pulled away. “No! Want Heather!"
“Is she very special?” Liandra knelt before the sobbing girl.
Bronnia nodded. “Mama made it for me."
Liandra smiled. That cushion which she so treasured as a girl had been the handiwork of her own mother. “I understand. Maybe your mama could make you another one?"
“Mama dead."
“Oh, I'm sorry.” Liandra wiped the girl's tears away. “You have other family in the Castle?"
Bronnia nodded slightly and looked down at her feet.
“We'll go and see your family.” Liandra held out her hand and Bronnia flinched away, new tears brimming in her eyes. “I'm sure they'll get you another dolly."
“Won't! Uncle Fraser hates me."
Liandra gasped. “I'm sure he doesn't."
Bronnia snapped her head up to meet Liandra's eyes in a terrified gaze. “Please, not tell him!"
“Tell him what?"
“That I lost dolly. Clumsy ... I lose things, always. He gets angry with me."
Liandra studied her deeply. She caught a hint, a whisper, of something that almost escaped the child. Bronnia's elfin face was gaunt, and her dress threadbare. As far as Liandra knew, everyone in the MacArran household lacked for nothing. Perhaps she'd missed something. For if a child was mistreated, what other horrors might also have been hidden from her? Now, she'd keep a wary eye on them all!
Liandra put aside her foreboding and smiled down at Bronnia. “Heather is your special friend?"
She nodded.
“Would you like to be my friend?"
Bronnia glanced up at her uncertainly. “You be a witch."
“No I'm not. I'm an off-worlder, but that doesn't make me something you have to be afraid of. At home, I've got lots of friends. They can't visit me here. I'm always lonely. I'd like to have a special friend. Will you be mine?"
Bronnia nodded. “Tell me about your friends off-world."
“There's so many—perhaps I could tell you about one each day? Now, Telocthan is an Xadian..."
They sat side by side under a large oak tree. By the time Liandra had finished telling her about Telocthan, Bronnia was gurgling with laughter. Her humor fled the instant a stranger strode into the garden.
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