by E. B. Brown
“You will live your life at my side,” he insisted, his voice hoarse.
For a long moment, she did not answer, her eyes closed as her mouth fell slightly open. Finally, with a sudden burst of strength she stirred, clutching his tunic with her blue-tinged fists.
“Please, stay with me,” she said.
“Always,” he replied.
He meant it.
Makedewa held her long after the breath left her body. If he did not let her go, she could not leave him.
CHAPTER 5
Maggie
The men stayed away from Gwen’s dwelling while the women tended to cleaning up. They were all accustomed to their duties and expected to carry on, each member of the community pulling together to finish the task. The sounds of muffled sobs littered the air inside the longhouse as they worked, scattered among the scent of childbirth and blood.
Maggie patted Gwen’s hand and tilted her head, giving her aunt notice that she needed a moment. Gwen nodded, and Maggie wiped her hands on her apron and left. Away from Rebecca’s shrouded body. Away from the sweet woman who had called Maggie sister.
Away from the squalling babe in the cradle who would never know his mother.
Although the Northern Hall was quiet, Maggie imagined the men must be gathered there with Makedewa. Wishing to feel the crisp night air across her face, she pushed her wool hood off her head and took a deep breath.
Oh, Rebecca, she thought. It was so unfair, so wrong.
The courtyard was empty save for a lone man who sat by the well. He was not difficult to make out, sitting on the edge of the well with his face in his hands. The fur mantle shrouded his slumped shoulders, and while his face was difficult to see in the moonlight, she noted the glimmer of dampness on his cheeks.
In his own way, Cormaic had cared for Rebecca. Despite his brawn, there was a gentle side to him, one he let loose around those he cared for. When Rebecca married Makedewa, it was Cormaic at her side pledging to remain her friend. It was Cormaic who honored her by making Makedewa fight for her hand. Whatever feelings he had for her he kept silent, supporting her choice and giving every outward appearance of acceptance.
Maggie gently touched his mane of copper hair. He uttered a deep sigh but did not look up, keeping his face buried in his massive hands. For want of knowing how to comfort him, she remained silent, merely sitting down beside her cousin. She looped her arm through his elbow and laid her head against his shoulder, feeling tears slide down her cheeks as he shuddered.
Finally he placed his hand over hers. A slight squeeze, enough to acknowledge the pain they shared. He raised his head and stared off into the sky, wiping the back of his hand over his face.
“She was not mine to mourn, but still…still it pains me,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened and he sat up straighter.
“Is that Makedewa?” he asked.
Maggie turned to see who he referred to, and sure enough, it was Makedewa stalking across the yard toward them.
“I thought he was with his brothers,” she replied. As he drew near, the look on his face sent a current of despair down deep in her bones. Whether it was grief that drove him or anger she did not know, but from him she knew to expect anything.
She stood up and walked to meet him, concern winning out over fear. Although he had not yet held his son, she hoped he might remedy that and find some comfort in the child Rebecca had wanted so desperately.
“I – I’m going back to help Gwen. Your son –”
“Heal her,” he interrupted, grabbing her wrist. “Use your magic, use the Bloodstone. Heal her as you healed me once.”
His grip was on the edge of painful, but she tried to ignore the sting as she looked into his desperate face. His mouth was set firm, his breath coming in short bursts. Black eyes reflected his darkness, and with a sickly feeling of recognition, she saw the beast within him surge to the surface.
“I – I can’t,” she stammered. He knew as well as she did that only the newborns of her line held that power. The power to heal was a sacred gift, one that was too potent to carry as one aged. It was Dagr’s blood that had saved Makedewa’s life once, and now all the Blooded MacMhaolians were past that time. The only way she could heal death would be to give all of her blood, and as such, her life.
“You cannot? Or you will not?” he asked.
“Let her go,” Cormaic growled, his voice surfacing at her side.
“Makedewa,” she said softly. He was her husband’s brother, her family. He would not hurt her. Or would the grief drive him to place he could not return from?
“You saved my life once,” he hissed. “Why? So I should live without her?” She felt the sting of his fingers as he clenched her wrist, but it was the desperate depths of his black eyes that kept her attention. She tried not to move, afraid her efforts would send him further over the edge.
“We all love you,” she said, at loss to give him any sensible answer.
“I have nothing.”
“You have a son,” she whispered. His eyes narrowed.
“I only wanted her,” he replied.
Cormaic placed his hand over Makedewa’s, and chaos broke loose as she was jerked free. She hit the ground bottom first, scraping her palms on the stony earth as she was shoved away from the melee.
She winced as Makedewa threw a punch, landing it squarely in Cormaic’s ribs. Cormaic bent over at the blow and rammed his shoulder into Makedewa’s gut, sending both men crashing to the ground. They rolled together, entwined in a knot of flailing arms and kicking legs, each striving for the upper hand in a battle no one was meant to win.
“Stop it!” she shouted to no response. They were too lost in the fight, too embroiled in pummeling each other. She heard shouts from the Northern Hall as the two men continued wrestling, and her breath caught in her chest when Makedewa rose above Cormaic with his knife drawn.
“No!” she cried.
“I’ll kill you,” Makedewa growled, his brow dripping with sweat and blood. Cormaic was bested for the moment but he was not a man to underestimate; both men were bloodied and bruised.
Moonlight glanced off the blade in Makedewa’s hand. When Makedewa pressed the knife beneath his chin, Cormaic slowly let his head fall back.
“Kill me then,” Cormaic said, the words ground out between gritted teeth. “Do it! Release yer burden. It willna bring her back.”
At that, Makedewa pulled away, falling onto his haunches next to Cormaic. He hovered for a moment then scrambled to his feet, staring first at Cormaic and then at Maggie. He took a step backward and stumbled a pace, righting himself as he looked at the blade in his hand. His eyes widened and he swallowed, as if seeing the weapon for the first time.
His haunted eyes met hers. The knife slipped from his hand, impaled in the dirt at his feet. His lips parted as if he meant to speak, but his voice failed to surface.
She watched silently as he turned and left.
“Here. Yer bleeding,” Cormaic said. The sound of fabric tearing was dull, muted by the ache in her chest. Cormaic pressed the makeshift bandage to her scraped hand. She had not noticed she bled until the sting of the cloth hit her palms. When she looked up at Cormaic, she was relieved to see he was bruised but otherwise intact.
“What happened here?” Winn asked as he arrived with the other men. She watched as Makedewa disappeared into the woods and she knew Winn saw him as well. When he moved to follow, she grabbed his hand.
“Let him go,” she said softly.
He turned back to her as if to protest, but then his eyes fell on the bloodied cloth she pressed to her hand. As he inspected the wound, she closed her eyes briefly and leaned into him.
“Was it him? Did he do this?” Winn demanded. Her voice faltered in her dry throat, the urge to deny it strong. As much as Makedewa had frightened her, it was clear he suffered. When she shook her head in denial, Winn clenched his hands on her shoulders.
“Corm
aic?”
Winn’s voice did not waver. Erich joined them, and she spotted Chetan standing by the wood line.
“Aye. It was him.” Cormaic paused, his green eyes meeting hers before he answered. “He was not himself,” he added.
Winn sent a silent message to Chetan with a slight nod of his head, and Chetan disappeared into the woods.
“I’m going back to the longhouse,” Maggie murmured.
Winn dropped his hands away from her.
“Have Gwen tend your wound,” he said. “And I will join you soon.”
“All right,” she agreed.
Maggie left while the men stayed behind. It was up to Winn to decide what to do for his brother, and for once, she was glad to follow her husband’s orders.
*****
She found Gwen alone in her longhouse, rocking the baby as she sat by the fire. Maggie’s uncle was a skilled craftsman, constructing the rocking chairs she described from the future with only her description to work from. A rocker sat by nearly every hearth in the village, and each time she spotted one she was reminded of where she came from.
“How is he?” she asked quietly. Gwen gazed down at his face, smiling as she answered.
“Fine fer now. But he willna live if we cannot feed him. He canna survive on water and mash, not now. Maybe if he was a mite older, but…” her voice trailed off. Maggie swallowed hard at her aunt’s blatant assessment of the situation. Gwen knew the infant would not survive without milk, and she made no bones about it. To her, it was simply a fact of life.
“We can send to the Nansemond for help. They must have someone who can nurse him,” Maggie answered. Gwen shook her head sadly.
“It will be two days before they could return with a woman, if one agrees to it. It’s too long. Perhaps we should just send the babe to them, and let his father come for him if he pleases.”
The child opened his mouth into a yawn, and then released a tiny cry. Patting his bottom, Gwen soothed him back to slumber.
“Gwen?” Maggie said. Lost in her own heartache, she finally felt strong enough to ask the questions she kept buried. She needed to know more about the magic in her blood – how it worked, how she could wield it. How could she be useful to anyone without the knowledge to control her own power?
“Hmm?” Gwen replied.
“I need answers. I know you think you’re protecting us by never speaking of the how to use the magic, but you’re not. I need to know how it works. I need to know how to control it, how to use it,” Maggie said. “Please. Please tell me.”
Gwen did not stop rocking, nor did she raise her head. Her cheeks, however, betrayed her discomfort with Maggie’s demand, and a flush blazed across her skin. She shook her head, as if to herself, and then let out a short sigh.
“Yer own mother died using that bloody magic. Is it worth that much to ye?” Gwen asked.
Maggie swallowed hard but nodded. If she could bring Rebecca back, yes, it was worth it.
“Yes. It is. Tell me what you know, and let me decide for myself.”
“She was barely grown when she met yer father,” Gwen said. Her voice lowered a bit and she cleared her throat. “Yer father dinna tell her who he really was, and when she found out it broke her heart. I think she never did forget him, even when Dagr took her away to your time.”
“I can’t remember her at all,” Maggie whispered.
“Ye have her look about ye. It’s quite clear,” she added, raising an eyebrow to glare at Maggie. “She was young – and foolish. Ye have that part of her as well.”
Maggie bit her lower lip but said nothing.
“Dagr told me Esa tried to return here from yer place, but she went to the wrong time. She met herself here, and that is why she died. One cannot return to a time once lived. It’s just not natural.”
“But why did she die?” Maggie asked.
Gwen stopped rocking and leaned forward in her chair.
“A soul cannot beat in two hearts at once. If ye go back to a time and find ye face yerself, then yer own heart will stop. She made a mistake, and she paid for it with her life.”
“Wait. A mistake?”
“Some of us still know the runes. If ye paint the runes on yer skin, ye can make it take ye where ye need. ‘Tis the only way to truly control that bloody stone. Else it takes ye where it wants ye to be, and then yer truly and rightfully fooked,” Gwen said. “Yer ma had not yet learned the runes. Old Malcolm knew Esa was not ready.”
“So my raven didn’t bring me here?” Maggie sputtered, still grasping to understand. If the magic could be controlled, directed, then there was some use to it she could wield. Could she change what had happened to Rebecca?
“Of course it did. All those trinkets are marked with a rune. They link them together. That’s why Benjamin dinna travel far when he tried. Ye gave him his eagle, and it was tied here, to the others.”
“My raven. And the other ones Erich made.”
Gwen nodded. “It helps when one gets lost. ‘Tis easy to find yerself trapped and alone when ye mettle with time.”
Maggie glanced at the figurines on the hearth. She noticed a few new ones in the bunch, all made in the image of an animal. A deer, a turtle, and a fox graced the ledge, each a tiny replica made with great care.
“So my mother was a fool. And what of my father, Gwen? Why is he never spoken of?” Maggie asked quietly, keeping her gaze steady on the figurines. Afraid to look at what she knew would be condemnation from Gwen, she tried to keep her voice steady with her demands.
Instead of Gwen’s response, the gravelly voice of her uncle cut in.
“Because he was a Sturlsson and our enemy,” Erich said. Maggie turned to face him, swallowing hard as she noted her husband beside her uncle.
“It’s my right to know,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. She raised her chin a notch, her hands falling to her sides where she clutched her gown.
“Aye, it is. But what do ye mean to do with this knowledge, niece, if it not something foolish? I will tell ye what ye wish to know, if I have yer promise not to act on it. There’s a reason we fall under command of the Neilsson Chief, a good reason,” Erich said. His shoulder sagged as he removed his weapons, laying them across the table before he sat down. He motioned to the bench at his side and she took his invitation, sliding stiffly down beside him. Winn moved closer to the fire but remained standing, watching them in silence.
“I won’t do anything foolish,” Maggie muttered. She was incensed when everyone in the room laughed, even Winn, who coughed and tried to pretend he had not joined in. Erich, however, chuckled and sputtered in his amusement, finally taking up a mug of ale to clear his throat.
“Oh, no, ye’d never leap with yer heart first. Not my niece,” he muttered. Winn looked at the floor, hiding his grin.
“Yer like yer mother, through and through,” Erich added, his voice leveling off to a more thoughtful tone. He wiped a trickle of mead from his greying beard and leaned back. “Her heart was kind, as I know is yers. I loved my sister, but for the Gods, she was a stubborn one! She met the Sturlsson boy and hid it from us, and we dinna find out until it was too late.”
“Too late?” Maggie asked. Erich nodded, and Gwen looked away.
“When yer father revealed his plan to my sister, the deed was done. She was with child, and it broke her heart to know he only meant to use her blood for his own gain.”
Maggie glanced at Winn. Quiet throughout the conversation, Winn’s jaw seemed tight and he would not meet her gaze. With a sickly feeling, Maggie realized that this was not news to her husband. She wondered how long he had known, how long he had chosen to keep the details to himself. True, she rarely spoke of her parents, but only because they did not seem real to her. She was not a woman who had grown up longing for the care of her missing parents; rather, she had learned early on to harden her heart to those who had abandoned her and take comfort in the love she was given by her grandfather and Marcus. For her entire life, it had been
enough, but now, standing before her uncle, she was taken over by the desire to know them.
To know her mother. To know her father. Perhaps it was because she was a mother to her own children, or because she was a wife to her husband. Her lifeline was entwined with that of her kin, and even though she could not miss a mother she had never known, she felt some kinship with the image of her. It irritated her to hear her uncle thought her foolish like her mother, but on some level, it warmed her. At least she shared something of the woman.
“What did he plan to do?” she asked quietly. Winn looked up at her question and glanced at Erich. Erich stood up from the bench before he answered, facing the fire with his back to them.
“He wanted yer mother’s blood to take him back in time,” Erich took a swallow from his mug, then spit into the fire. “He planned to take her back, see ye born, then use yer blood to change his father’s death. Then he would have control of her, and all the Clans would bow to him. In that place in time, the Chief that held a Blooded One had all the power.”
So her father had used her mother, in one of the most heartbreaking ways a man could use a woman. Her fist tightened as she stared at her uncle, and she tasted a stab of that betrayal her mother must have felt. To know she was only a means to an end must have been devastating, and then to be left carrying his child? Well, Maggie could not condemn her mother. Even knowing that truth, the fact that own father was a bloody scheming scoundrel was difficult to process.
Erich and Gwen told her often she was like her mother. Yet the burning question in her mind was how much she was like her father.
“Why not just have my mother take him back to prevent his father’s death? Then he wouldn’t need the blood of a newborn,” Maggie muttered. It was more of an observation than anything, but Erich made a low snorting sound at her question.
“Have ye heard nothing? One canna go back to a time once lived. Yer father couldna go back to his kin, fer he was there with his da when he died. Yer father is a brazen swine, but he’s a smart one. He would never risk his own life if he could serve up yers instead.” Erich ran a thick hand over his head with a sigh. “If ye meet yerself in another time, girl, best ye run the o'er way,” he said.