by Amy Tolnitch
“With Lady Iosobal,” Hemming said.
Lugh wondered how the man managed to always appear as if he had something permanently stuck up his arse. Bad humors, to be sure. “Where?”
Niamh shot Hemming a look, and Lugh walked closer. Hemming shrugged.
Lugh’s hand went to his waist, where he had tucked a dagger. “I asked you where,” he said softly.
“The child is safe with Lady Iosobal,” Niamh said quickly. “Would you care for a cup of ale, my lord?”
“Where are they?”
Hemming let out a long sigh. “Must you be so overbearing? The bairn is safe. Surely, even you realize by now that Lady Iosobal would never harm a child.”
Lugh leaned close. “Must you be so secretive? By the saints, just tell me where to find Ailie. Surely, even you know by now that I shall not harm the Lady Iosobal.” He managed to avoid bellowing, but just barely.
Naturally, Hemming didn’t flinch a hair. Niamh kept chopping herbs.
Suddenly, Lugh had visions of his child’s eyes wide in pain, her tiny, flat chest heaving with coughs. He drew his dagger and pressed the edge to Hemming’s throat. “You shall take me to Lady Iosobal. Now.”
“Where did you get that blade?” Hemming snapped.
Lugh just smiled.
With a huff of disgust, Hemming strode out of the kitchen, Lugh close behind him. They walked into the expansive courtyard and across a stone path to the far side of the palace away from the sea. Without a word, Hemming led Lugh into a big open space in the corner and up winding stairs to the top of the structure. At last, they came to an intricately carved door set into the stone wall.
“Here,” Hemming said.
Lugh tried the door, but it was locked. He glanced at Hemming, whose mouth held a faint, yet clearly smug smile.
“I suggest you sheathe your dagger before entering.” Hemming turned to go and shot a look at Lugh over his shoulder. “If she allows it.”
Lugh glared at him and pounded on the door. The sound echoed along the long corridor that stretched on either side. “Iosobal!” he yelled.
He heard a rustling sound within the chamber, and pounded again. “Open the door. I seek Ailie.”
“I am tending to her,” Iosobal’s voice came through the door.
Lugh gritted his teeth and fought to reign in his irritation. “I wish to see her.”
There was silence before she said, “Just a moment.”
Lugh waited for what seemed like an hour before the door slowly swung open. He marched through with a scowl for Lady Iosobal, who just stared back at him without expression.
She gestured with her hand. “As you can see, naught has befallen her.”
Ailie lay upon a long, cushioned bench, with a pillow beneath her head. She turned and gave Lugh a sunny smile. “I am feeling much better, Father.”
Lugh walked over and tucked a strand of her golden hair behind her ear. She did look a wee bit improved, he told himself. Not quite as pale and drawn. He straightened and slowly slid his gaze around the room, gradually realizing he stood in a very peculiar place.
The chamber had five corners, each holding a copper bowl propped over a brazier. The air was smoky with the pungent scent of herbs and a trace of something sweet. Under his feet, the floor seemed to ripple in waves. He gazed down and saw the pattern of tiles in countless shades of blue, the mosaic bringing the sea to mind. “’Tis an odd chamber,” he said, with a pointed look at Lady Iosobal.
“I think it is beautiful,” Ailie said, reaching up and grabbing his hand. “Look at the walls, Father.”
He did and his sense of strangeness intensified. Sea creatures adorned the walls, both real and fanciful: dolphins, seals, mermen, and mermaids. They swam against a deep blue background, the paintings so vivid, Lugh almost had the sense he was underwater.
“Are they not wonderful?” Ailie asked. She squinted her eyes. “If I look just right, I can imagine I am swimming with them.”
Lady Iosobal smiled at her. “And one day you shall.”
Lugh grunted. “I would not count on finding a mermaid, little one. They only exist in the minds of sailors too long from home.”
Ailie chewed on her lip. “You have never seen one?”
“Nay.”
“Perhaps your father has not looked in the right place,” Lady Iosobal said as she walked over to a shelf mounted on one of the decorated walls. She began mixing something in a copper bowl, effectively dismissing Lugh as if he were no longer there.
“What are you doing?” he asked her.
“Making a salve to rub into her chest,” she replied as she walked over to them. “Why are you not at the cave?”
Her tone implied that he should be faithfully doing her bidding each moment, like an unpaid servant. “Why is my daughter not healed?”
Iosobal gave him a cool glance. “She is improving.”
“And I have moved many rocks away from your precious cave.” He frowned. “Today I am going to use one of your horses. After I train.”
“Father is very skilled with his sword,” Ailie injected. “The very best in the Highlands.”
Lugh smiled down at her and nodded. “Aye, that I am.”
“Little good that it does,” Iosobal commented.
Was the woman daft? Lugh wondered. “A man’s skill with a blade is what makes him a man, allows him to protect what is his.”
Iosobal slid him a glance. “Not on Parraba.” Her voice dropped. “Your sword cannot heal Ailie.”
Lugh felt her words like a punch to the gut. That the woman was right did nothing to assuage him. He straightened his shoulders and gave Iosobal a stern look. “My skill with a blade allows me to protect my people. And my training gives me the strength to move your blasted rocks.”
Iosobal ignored him and lit a collection of candles placed around Ailie. The air suddenly smelled like flowers.
“Will you bring me back some sand, Father?”
Lugh shook off his feeling of unease and turned his attention back to Ailie.
“Sand?”
She nodded. “I can pretend I am on the beach even if I am not yet able to go there.”
Damn, his eyes were wet yet again, Lugh silently cursed. He blinked and forced a smile to his face. “If my lady wishes for sand, then she shall have it.”
“You may go,” Iosobal said. “I shall tend to Ailie.”
He looked into her eyes. What was the woman up to in here? It was more than simple healing with some herbs, he was sure. Something about the chamber itself seemed odd, and the burning scent was muddling his thoughts. Or was it the lady herself who had such an effect? Leave it, he told himself. As long as Ailie improves, let the woman do as she wishes, no matter how strange. He pressed a kiss to Ailie’s forehead. “I shall see you anon.”
“Do not forget the sand.”
“Dinna fret. I would never disappoint my finest lady.” He watched Iosobal lift Ailie’s chemise and begin rubbing some kind of ointment onto her chest. The scent was so pungent it made his eyes water even more, but it seemed not to bother Ailie, who stared up at Iosobal with adoration. “How long will this take?” he asked.
Iosobal’s body stiffened. The woman who turned to him was the one he had decided, after far too much thought, to name Queen Iosobal. “As long as it takes.”
“It is all right, Father,” Ailie said softly. “The Lady Iosobal shall take care of me.”
Lugh nodded, with a smile for his daughter. “See that you do,” he said to Iosobal and left.
“AYE, I AM WILL.” THE MARSHAL OF TUNVEGAN SPIT on the ground at the mention of Lugh’s departure. “A dark day for all of us, it was,” he said.
“Can you tell us where he went?” Piers asked.
Will glanced at one of the grooms shoveling out a stall, and shrugged. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
Gifford appeared with his skin of ale and passed it to the man. After a long swig, he nodded, as if coming to a decision within itself. “’Tis a legend
in the Highlands. Has been for as long as anyone can remember.” He looked off into the distance.
“’Tis said that long ago, a mon was sailing toward the Isle of Skye when a fierce storm came out of nowhere. He lost his way, but eventually landed on another island.” The stablemaster stopped and crossed himself. “The legend says that it lies due west from the coast. An island ruled by a woman not truly of this world. The sailor and she fell in love, but after a time, he was not content to remain on the island. According to the stories, he returned to the Highlands to live hidden in the hills until he finally died.”
“Why would Lugh go there?”
“The legend also says the Lady of the Isle is always a great healer.” Will shook his head. “The laird knew his poor bairn was dying.”
Piers nodded. “West, you said?”
Gifford took back his ale skin and drank. “We leave now,” he announced.
“I shall see that your mounts are readied,” Will replied.
“Keep some of our ale for yourself,” Gifford said. “You’ll need it to deal with that one in there,” he added, with a glance toward the main tower.
“Aye.” The marshal muttered something under his breath. “Be careful. ’Tis also said that the Lady of the Isle rarely allows any to land safely.”
Piers exchanged a look with Gifford, whose eyes were alight. “An adventure,” his uncle said.
“Aye.” Piers smiled.
AFTER A LONG AND FRUSTRATING DAY OF TRYING TO clear the cave that Lugh was truly beginning to hate, he returned to the palace to check on Ailie. He found her in their chambers lying on the window seat, her legs tucked under her, her eyes closed.
The late afternoon sun clearly showed the pallor of her skin. Though she slept, she was not still, her small face frowning, her body restless.
As Lugh gazed down at her, his heart splintered.
The Lady Iosobal is right, he thought. All of his strength, his skill with a sword, his leadership of his people mattered naught. The knowledge stuck in his throat like a chunk of rancid meat.
He was losing his child. He could see it in the wanness Ailie tried to cover with a smile, sense it with his heart.
He drew in a deep breath and gritted his teeth. No, by God, he would not watch her die. What was Lady Iosobal doing? Why had she not healed Ailie? Suspicion flickered to life in Lugh’s mind and he paced across the floor.
His thoughts whirling, doubt gradually grew until it blossomed into a cold, hard knot in his stomach. He grasped the hilt of his dagger, and rapped on the door to Branor’s chamber.
Branor opened the door. “Laird?”
“Watch over Ailie. I am going to seek the Lady Iosobal.” As he snarled the words, Branor’s eyes widened.
“What is amiss?”
“Ailie …” He made himself breathe. “Is not well.”
Branor’s gaze glimmered with sympathy. “Aye, I ken.”
“And I would know why,” Lugh finished. With that, he left their chambers in search of Lady Iosobal. As he walked, his worry over Ailie shifted to anger. Anger directed solely at Lady Iosobal, supposedly a powerful healer, surely an unusual woman, yet so far unable or unwilling to cure his child.
He stopped in the courtyard and gazed around, trying to determine where the lady’s chambers might lie. It struck him as he took in the garden overflowing with flowers in shades of pink and yellow and white, the heavy scent of climbing roses in the air, that Agatha would have loved this place. How ironic that the place he’d sought to aid their child was exactly the kind of place Agatha would have found a paradise. Though she’d done her best at Tunvegan, the harsh climate restricted the wealth of her garden. Here, there were no cold winds, no high walls, but just leagues of flowers. The realization only served to intensify his ire.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Niamh walking along the far walkway. “Niamh,” he called.
She paused and looked down at him over the railing. “Aye, Laird?”
“Where is the Lady Iosobal’s chamber?”
For a moment she stared at him, then shook her head. “You are not permitted there.”
He growled low in his throat. “I must speak to her. Where is she?”
Niamh took a step back and shook her head once more.
“I shall find her myself, then. Even if I have to search every corner of this damned palace.” He strode off toward the closest doorway, trying but utterly failing to keep his anger from growing yet deeper. As he walked down the stone corridors, he hollered, “Lady Iosobal! Lady Iosobal!” Naturally, she did not answer. He flung open doors into one lavish room after another, empty but for exquisitely carved furniture and silk hangings.
Finally, he reached a closed door at the upper end of the palace in a corner overlooking the sea. He tried the door, but it was locked. “Lady Iosobal!” he roared.
“What do you want?” a cool voice answered.
“I must speak to you.” He banged on the door again, just in case she failed to grasp the urgency.
“Has Ailie worsened?”
“Open the blasted door.”
“I am very weary. We can talk in the morning.”
“I. Must. Speak. To. You. Now.” The last word came out as a bellow, but Lugh was beyond caring. “Open the door or I shall break it down.
“You could try,” she replied, a hint of amusement in her tone.
He backed up and barreled at the door, throwing his body against it with every bit of the angry fear boiling in his blood. With a crash, the wood gave and he tumbled into the room.
Iosobal looked at him in shock, her mouth open, her eyes wide violet pools. To her side, Artemis barked and growled at Lugh’s appearance. “Easy, Artemis,” Iosobal said. She pointed at the now splintered door. “You … you destroyed my door.”
“You should have opened it when I bade you.”
She drew herself up and gazed at him through hard eyes. “These are my private chambers.”
He glanced around the sea of pink and white, and inwardly shuddered. “I see.”
“You are not welcome here.”
“It matters not.” He crossed his arms and scowled at her. “Ailie is not healed.” It sounded like the question it was.
“I am trying. Her illness is strange to me.”
“You professed you could heal her.” He took a step toward her.
“I said I would try to heal her. And I am.”
“Are you?” He took another step. “The villagers claim that you take care of them, though you do not set foot in the village.”
Iosobal slowly nodded. “That is so. I see to my people’s welfare.”
“How?”
“I have my ways. ’Tis not your concern.”
“Oh, on that you are very wrong. It is exactly my concern.” He thought of the old villager’s words, and distrust clamored in his mind. “I see my child’s skin grow paler each day. I see her struggle to draw breath, to find her ease. Aye, it damned well is my concern.”
Her gaze flickered down to his dagger, but she said nothing.
“I asked you if you were a sorceress. You said nay.” He drew a slow breath through his nostrils. “I care not. Heal my child.”
“I am trying,” she snapped. “You must be patient.”
“Why can you not simply make it happen? As you do with the villagers?”
“I told you. Your daughter’s illness is unfamiliar to me.”
“Is that so?” He narrowed his gaze. “Or is it because I have not yet cleared your cave?”
The accusation hung in the air between them like an ugly, living, black thing. Lugh watched Iosobal’s expression turn from surprise to fury. The very air rippled with it.
“How dare you?” Iosobal said in an icy tone. “How dare you imply I would allow a child to remain ill for my own goals?”
“Are you?” He cocked a brow.
“No!” she shouted.
With the word, Lugh gasped as a swirling glow of white light erupted from her body. He bar
ely had the chance to grasp what his eyes beheld before he found himself hurtling through the air. He crashed into the wall and ended up in a stunned heap on the floor.
“Dear Saint Columba,” he whispered and crossed himself. “What are you?”
Iosobal stared at him on the floor, shock and horror stamped on her features. He saw her draw in deep breaths, as if she struggled for control. “I am no demon,” she finally said.
He stood, his gaze hard, his hands fisted. “Whatever you are, heal my daughter.” He turned and walked out the open doorway.
IOSOBAL COULDN’T STOP SHAKING. SAINT BRIGID, WHAT had just happened? She had never done anything like that, never even imagined she could.
She sucked in a breath and stared out her now broken doorway. He’d made her so angry, she thought. More angry than she’d even been. No one else has ever had the courage to even contemplate provoking you, she told herself. No one else would dare to rouse your slightest displeasure.
But not Lugh MacKeir. “Mother, what is happening to me?” she whispered, praying that somehow her mother could reach across time to answer her. If only she had access to her cave, she thought. Without it, she had lost her only source of guidance, of solace.
“Artemis, what have I done?”
For a moment, she gave in to pure despair and slumped down onto her window seat. With a soft whine of understanding, Artemis laid her head in Iosobal’s lap. The sea air fanned her heated cheeks, but brought her no comfort. She’d been right, she thought. The arrival of Lugh MacKeir had sent a disturbance through the placid ripples of her life. And he was right as well—she should have been able to heal Ailie by now.
She tilted her head back and breathed deep of the salty air. “Mother, aid me,” she whispered.
No one answered, and it struck Iosobal just how very alone she was. For the briefest moment, she thought of seeking out Niamh, thought to sit in the warm kitchen and sip a glass of wine.
But no. She was the Lady of Parraba. A woman between two worlds and destined to be alone. It would have to be enough, as it had been for her mother and her mother’s mother before her.
Unbidden, a single tear slid down her cheek.