With sudden, blinding clarity the answer came. Loyal.
True’s eyes and Loyal’s were the same.
Why had she never realized that before? Because Loyal was a hound and True a man.
Wasn’t he?
And now with each pound of the pony’s hooves she moved farther and farther away from him. Every part of her protested that. And she could feel…
The bond between them stretching, drawing out painfully. But never breaking.
Never.
She caught her breath in wonder at the thought possessing her mind.
Impossible. And yet…
He’d told her from the beginning he’d been through a great transformative experience. That magic had sent him. And she believed to the root of her soul that magic could accomplish anything.
Yet now he’d been left far behind her. She found herself in the very clutches of peril with no means to ask True for the truth.
Dared she try and break free, to run back to him who, in any form, possessed her heart? For she knew herself linked with him—spirit to spirit. The rest was just the clothing they wore.
She shifted in her captor’s arms, and he grunted at her. He had put away his sword and held a dirk clutched in his fist instead—a sharp, nasty thing she knew could end her life in the wink of an eye. He wanted safe away; she was his hostage.
She tried to fight through her tangled emotions and think clearly. So very often in the past she’d acted too swiftly and foolishly. But she’d learned better. The costs could be unbearably high.
But where might this savage take her besides away into the night? Would he drag her all the way to Dal Riada, where she would spend her life as a slave?
Would he slit her throat as soon as he thought himself far enough away?
But…her inner knowing told her that might not be so easy as he believed. For she could feel quite distinctly the cord that bound her to True vibrating. And that told her he followed.
How? Surely not on foot—he’d been sore injured. Had he caught one of the other ponies?
It did not matter; he came.
“He follows after us,” she told her captor in her own tongue. Would he understand?
He grunted again and grated into her ear, also in her language, “Who does?”
“My mate.”
“He will not catch us. And if he does, he will then watch you die.”
Oh, True, oh, True—my love. Have a care, my love.
Chapter Thirty-Two
True’s breath scorched his lungs, every gasp like fire. The slash across his chest, though not deep, nevertheless seeped blood steadily, draining his strength. How long had he followed the pony with its precious burden? He could not tell; he had little orientation amidst the blowing snow and darkness. He followed by sheer instinct, nearly blind.
The brilliant cord that bound him to Barta stretched far but held tight. He found if he narrowed his gaze against the darkness and pain he could glimpse it. That made it easier to follow even than the faint scent of pony and the reek of the westerner.
He cursed as he ran—lamented the limitations of this body in which he found himself. Four paws, as he knew, were swifter than two feet. A hound’s deep lungs could gather more air. And a hound’s endurance surpassed that of a man. His body might be as fit as that of any person, but he could already feel it flagging. Some while back he’d begun substituting will for strength and knew his condition would only worsen.
A pony carrying double, especially through the dark and storm, should be easy for a hound to catch. As it was, he kept up but doubted he could close the distance between them.
Not but he was willing to die trying. He had died for Barta before and would again. Did she know he followed? He believed so and hoped it gave her heart.
Where might the man with the yellow hair take her? Surely not all the way to the Gaels’ far western settlement? If not—if he kept hold of her only until he believed himself safe away and then slit her throat…
True gulped more air, his heart near bursting. He could not bear it; he did not want to live in the world without her. He saw suddenly what a gift it had been for him to die first, the last time. But no, for his heartbreak at their separation, his longing for her, hadn’t ended with death. Wasn’t that what had put him here now?
He dug deeper for strength, commanded his failing limbs to serve him, and ran on.
Barta, Mistress, wife, can you feel me? Do you know I follow after you?
No response but he fancied the cord between them once more flared bright.
Please, Lady, he prayed to the goddess, only let the pony falter before I do.
****
“We need to let the pony rest.”
Barta’s captor spoke her language in an ugly burr, its music lost, but yes, she could understand him.
He drew up the pony, which blew and huffed, and wrestled Barta from its back, never once loosening his grip on her.
She strained to look back the way they had come but of course could see nothing.
“Does he get closer, this mate of yours?” The blond Gael was all too aware, too astute. His eyes gleamed at Barta, and he bared his teeth in a vicious smile. “I suppose I cannot kill you yet.”
“Is that what you mean to do—kill me?” Barta despised herself for asking, but her heart thumped in her chest, and she thought of True. She would not want him to risk himself just to stumble over her corpse.
Her captor shrugged, answer enough. She wondered if his grasp of her language allowed for more. His kind had plenty of Caledonii slaves, which they called blue men. They would, however, expect those slaves to learn their tongue.
She shuddered. Surely death would be preferable to servitude. At least then her spirit would fly over the land, over the water and enter bliss.
Or—tethered to True’s spirit—would it?
“Let me go,” she said, “and he who follows may spare your life.”
Her captor laughed in scorn. “A great warrior, is he?”
“The greatest. And he possesses magic—enough to defeat you.”
“Magic.” He spat the word.
“Do you not believe?” Could he be so foolish?
“I believe in magic.” He bared his teeth again. “But what makes you suppose I don’t possess it also? I am the man bold and blessed enough to have conquered so much territory east of Dal Riada. I shall be the one to defeat your people and claim all this land as my own.”
“Defeat? That outpost back there just fell to my men.”
“Your men? Commanded by a woman?” His gaze raked her from her hair downward. “Is it that to which the blue savages must resort in the face of our swords and chariots?”
“Your chariots lie burned.”
“We can build more. And we will return.”
Barta jerked up her chin. “If you do, you will find a grand fortress. We will not surrender our ancestors’ lands twice.”
“You have put up a good resistance, I grant you that—better than any we met farther west. But you will fall just like all the others.”
He eyed her again, this time with speculation. “There is more than one way to conquer. I’ve had blue men’s women before, of course, but they were all slaves. I’ve never enjoyed one who thought herself a warrior.” He glanced about. “Amid a storm.”
The breath stuck in Barta’s throat. Would such a vile act delay them long enough for True to catch up? Did she want him to catch up? If he did, would he then fall to this man’s blade?
She could almost feel True’s heart beating as he followed after her. Wounded—exhausted—would he be in any condition for the fight of his life?
****
True’s heart foundered in his chest. How far had he run? Impossible to tell. He could still feel Barta somewhere ahead of him in the night, the cord that bound them glowing like a guiding light. How far ahead? Also impossible to tell.
Now a mist hung before his eyes, obscuring his vision, and pain held him in a deadly grip. His
lungs could no longer reach for air; his legs trembled beneath him.
The terrain underfoot sloped upward—because of the snow he could not see how far, but the gradient further taxed muscles already spent.
He stumbled.
Do not let me fall.
To whom did he pray? To the goddess, to the night, to Barta herself. To the ties between them, holy and magical.
If he fell, he doubted he could get up again. And he would not allow himself to fail her; he refused to fail their love.
The wound across his chest still bled. Pain there mingled with that in his heart, which suddenly contracted and nearly brought him to his knees, forcing him to slow for the first time.
A pony, as he knew, could be run to death, as could a hound. A man?
Gasping for breath, he shook his head. As a hound, with greater endurance, he would have a much better chance.
Struggling mightily, he forced his body on. The slope of the hill increased, and when he reached the top his legs gave out beneath him. He went down.
It felt as if the hard ground came up to meet him, all frost and stones. He lay as fallen, cheek pressed against the rubble, desperate for breath that would not come. The shining cord tugged at him, demanded that he rise. But as if his spirit no longer commanded this body, he could not obey.
The snow swirled around him, the wind came and blew over. A bleak and lonely place to die. But he would not allow himself to die and fail Barta.
Using the last of his will, he picked up his head and howled at the sky—he hollered his pain the way he had the night he’d given his life for Barta’s, when the goddess answered him.
Would she answer now?
Nothing and no one answered—just the wind in his ears and the cold creeping in. He could no longer see, and could barely move. Paralysis seemed to creep from his head downward; his chest burned.
“Poor hound.” A gentle touch on his head that almost felt like Barta’s.
He stiffened in every limb, yearning, wishing he could see, but his vision had failed him.
Someone knelt at his side, her touch a balm. She didn’t smell like Barta, whose scent he would know anywhere.
The goddess, then? Yes, for he could sense her light, like that of the moon, embracing and warming him.
Please, he thought.
“Here, hound,” she replied calmly, “our venture has gone badly. You made a fine man, but your heart remained that of a hound.”
“My heart is my heart and will never change.”
“That is your greatest strength as well as your greatest weakness. Look what has come of my boon. You are dying after all.”
“Please. Save me again.”
“Why should I? For her sake?”
“Everything is for her sake.”
“But she is wayward and headstrong. Selfish to a fault.”
“She has changed.” Lying there on the stony ground, he wept. “Though she had no need to. In my eyes she was always perfect. I live for her.”
“And die for her once more. Foolish hound.”
“The tie between us is still strong; it draws me on. But I lack the strength to rise.”
For a long moment there was silence. True felt the snowflakes melt against his cheek one by one. When the heat of his body faded, they would gather and cover him.
What would happen then to Barta?
“Hound, I have been more than merciful to you. It takes temerity to ask for more.”
“Yes, Goddess.”
“I tell you, however—in my mercy I will grant another boon. If you can get to your feet, I will grant you the strength to go on. But I do not think you will catch them. They are already far ahead.”
True began to pant. Get to his feet unassisted? An impossibility. He could not see. The will that carried him so far had at last flagged; he tingled with weakness.
“Arise, True. Let us see of what you are made.”
“Yes.” If will would not serve, perhaps love would. He gritted his teeth and thought of Barta: the laughter that filled her face when they played together, the comfort of her presence. The sense of belonging he found in her arms when they lay together, when he gave her his seed.
The cord that connected them trembled. It pulled at him with a mighty force. His heart flailed in his chest.
He could not.
He must.
Arms trembling, palms fused to the cold ground, he pushed himself up. Somehow his legs moved beneath him; he knelt. Love and the desire for Barta’s presence flooded him. From nowhere strength came.
Shaking in every limb he hauled himself to his feet. Vision clearing, he gazed into the goddess’s silver eyes.
“Thank you, Mistress.”
“I did not accomplish that. You did. Loyal hound! Very well, I will grant you the strength to run on. I can but return the strength you had; I cannot grant more. I tell you with regret and in honor of your courage, I do not think you will be quick enough.”
“I would be swifter as a hound.”
“So you would, and gifted with far greater endurance.”
“Then for her sake, I ask to be once more a hound.”
“Do you realize what you say? What you request?”
“Yes.”
“If I grant what you ask, if I change you back into what you once were, there can be no recourse from it. This will be the last favor you receive from me.”
True trembled where he stood.
“Loyal hound, I can hear what is in your heart. Are you willing to live the rest of your life—short a time as that may be—as a beast, for her sake?”
“Anything for her sake.”
“Bend your head.”
He did, eyes closed, and felt the touch of her hand. There came a flash of light that reached through his eyelids, blinding, before he stood but shoulder high to the goddess and on four paws.
Without so much as waiting to thank her, he bounded off into the night.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Barta prayed for morning to arrive and put a finish to this endless night. Then it came to her—morning must long have dawned, yet the storm held the light at bay. They rode into fiercer weather rather than out of it, the intensity increasing as they went.
She did not see how True could possibly follow—how anyone could, especially on foot. Yet she could still feel him, and some short while ago the terrible pull of the cord that linked them had begun to slacken.
As if he drew nearer.
But how?
Now the pony faltered again—it needed another rest, but Barta did not think her captor would pause. Instead he tightened up on the reins and slowed the pace slightly.
He’d not spoken to her—not so much as a grunt—for some time. He must be as exhausted as she. Barta wondered if she should act while he remained distracted by the pony’s condition and before they went any farther west. But the man’s arm, like an iron bar, remained clamped across her midriff; his dirk now rode in a leather strap on the pony’s neck, in easy reach of his hand.
What if Barta went for the dirk? Could she best him? Step after jogging step she contemplated it. Would she move swiftly enough? Her fingers, half frozen, might fail her. Then again, her captor’s hands must also be chilled to the bone. Who was to say he’d move more quickly than she?
She thought of the man following behind them—of her love for him—and bared her teeth. Lifting her head in a sudden movement she let out a whoop that startled both man and pony, and went for the dirk.
The pony faltered and halted. The man swore, reached for the dirk also, and grasped it an instant before Barta’s fingers closed on the hilt.
His hand knocked hers aside. He raised his arm, and she saw the blade coming at her, certain she would now die.
I am sorry, my love. I do not want for you to find me dead.
But the Gael’s forearm, rather than the blade, caught her in a sweeping movement that knocked her from the back of the pony and took her to the ground.
She landed hard,
and pain speared through her shoulder. For an instant, winded, she lay while her mind screamed at her to run. She scrambled up just as the Gael’s boots came into her line of vision, telling her he’d dismounted. On her hands and knees she fled, crawling back the way they had come.
The cord between her and True glowed so brightly—felt so strong—she should have no trouble following it. Yet she heard the tramp of feet coming behind, far too swiftly. How many strides before her captor caught her? She struggled to her feet and ran.
****
Loyal panted, his tongue hanging nearly to the ground. A film of snow skittered beneath his paws, and the slash across his chest—which the goddess had failed to heal—still oozed blood slowly, a drop at a time.
But his lungs, now those of a hound, worked far more easily, garnering strength from deep breaths of air. And his heart once more beat steadily, deep and true, as if it gained might with every step nearer to Barta.
Now he knew she must be just ahead. He could feel it. And gladness possessed him, along with a hint of doubt.
Once more had he changed. Not only had the goddess transformed him back into a hound, but she’d left visible signs of enchantment. His great paws that reached for the ground were white—all of him, he saw, had become white as the snow that flew around him.
A gift of concealment, a boon to help lend surprise to the attack he planned? Loyal thought not. From Mistress Essa, he’d long ago learned white was the color of enchantment—animals who came from the otherworld appeared in that pure and ghostly hue.
The Lady had marked him. Not only had he changed from the man Barta had wed, but he no longer looked completely like her beloved Loyal either.
Would she know him?
Did it matter? His one aim in existing had now become delivering her from danger. Once more a single-minded hound, he could allow for nothing else.
But he’d run a great distance, for a long time, carrying a heavy wound. He could sense, if not discern, that dawn had broken behind him. Even his restored vitality began to flag.
How much farther could she be?
As if in answer he heard a scream just ahead, uttered in a voice he knew.
Mistress.
Loyal and True Page 20