by E. B. Brown
Skye knew where to find the Glaistig. She just had to find a way to free Dagr so they could retrieve it.
Chapter 5
Castle Dunloch
Dagr.
HIS TREWS TORE at the knees as they dragged him across the flagstone courtyard. It was enough pain to startle him back into consciousness and he immediately wished someone would hit him in the head once more. Not knowing what they did to him was much more tolerable than actually being awake during a beating.
With a man holding each of his arms and another to strike him from behind should he falter, Dagr tried to raise his head as they pulled him up the stairs into the castle. At last, they stopped and forced him to his knees and he was able to catch a glimpse of his surroundings as he chewed on the gag between his teeth. He assumed the men were in the employ of Skye’s uncle or her jilted husband-to-be, but since they did not take care to announce themselves before they beat him, he could not be sure who his captors were.
He had heard stories of lands beyond the Great Sea where men built cities with tall houses made of stone, and his mother even possessed a book which told the tale of a princess who lived in a castle. Reading about such a place was no preparation for seeing it with his own two eyes, and he could not help but stare at the grandiose surroundings where he was a prisoner. They took him into some sort of inner chamber, through a tall wood plank door edged with gray hammered metal, and it was there he was forced to kneel. To the right of his vision he noted long colorful banners in a row across the ceiling beams; to his left a wall held a string of portraits. Enclosed in gilded frames, he recognized them to be similar to those the English kept in their grand homes in his time.
One of the men slapped him on the back of his skull and he dropped his head.
“Milord, this is the man we found with the lass. He near took out Gareth’s eye in the fight. I ask ye let us repay him in kind,” the man standing behind Dagr said. He recalled that he fought quite well when they surrounded him in the ruined cottage, and he imagined he was guilty of trying to pluck the man’s eye from his skull. In all fairness, it was six men to one, so he thought that should count for something in his favor.
“Bring him closer!” a voice called out. He desperately wished to see his accuser, but each time he lifted his head he was given a slap. His only option was to cooperate the best he could under the circumstances, which was difficult to do when he was bound and gagged.
“Careful, milord,” the man holding Dagr warned.
Hands gripped his hair and jerked his head up, and when he saw his captor, he was glad for the gag across his mouth.
Before him stood Malcolm, dressed in a fine velvet tunic over brown trews. He wore dark calfskin boots clear to his knees with black stockings peeking out beneath them, and from his low angle, Dagr could see a row of pearls sewn into the edging of his vest. Around his neck, his collar seemed excessively tight, and as Dagr watched his brother’s face turn an alarming shade of gray, he wondered how fast he could throttle Malcolm once he was untied.
“Release him,” Malcolm said, his voice unsteady.
The man behind Dagr protested. “Milord –”
Malcolm snatched a knife from his belt and cut through the binding on Dagr’s wrist. With his gaze steady on his younger brother, Dagr pulled the gag away from his mouth and dropped it on the floor.
“Get out. All of you – leave us!” Malcolm demanded. The men who brought Dagr into the castle left, but not without a chorus of dissent grumbled in their wake. Even the servants left the hall, and once the last person took leave Malcolm slammed the doors shut.
“What are you doing here?” Malcolm hissed.
Dagr ignored his brother for the moment and sat down in what he assumed was Malcolm’s chair, an intricately carved wooden seat placed atop a dais of stone stairs. Every part of his body ached, from his bruised head to his shredded knees. His clothes were filthy and torn, and he smelled like something one might find rotting in a river. Yet standing before him was the perfect picture of robust health and extravagance. Malcolm, the brother Dagr followed through time – the brother he feared was dead.
“That question is best answered by you. And by the Gods, Malcolm, make it quick,” Dagr said quietly. He bent down and placed his head in his hands, either the lack of food or the effects of the beating he endured making his head throb.
“Here, take this. ‘Tis fresh mead – none like ye ever tasted.”
Dagr took a full cup from Malcolm and slowly downed it as he stared at his brother over the rim. Mal was right. The brew was thick and honeyed sweet, soothing his dry throat and filling his belly with a pleasant warmth. When he finished, he held the empty cup out for a refill, which Malcolm immediately obliged.
“I’ve been here for months, Dagr,” Malcolm finally admitted. “I dinna know if you followed me or not. I thought you were dead.”
“You seem quite shattered by that thought,” Dagr muttered.
“Of course I am! I mean, I was,” Malcolm added sheepishly. “You don’t know what it’s been like. Everything is so…different here.”
Dagr uttered a coarse snort as he shook his head, “I have some notion.”
Pacing in a nervous manner across the hall, Malcolm opened the door a crack and shouted a short command in a tongue that seemed vaguely familiar. It took Dagr a moment to realize his brother spoke what sounded oddly like the Old Norse words a few of their kinsmen spoke at home.
Too tired to get up to investigate, Dagr remained in Malcolm’s extravagant chair. The seat was lined with a plush pad, easing the strain on his bruised backside as he settled his weight back. Whatever explanation Malcolm gave for the situation they were in suddenly did not matter to him. There were more pressing issues at hand, but one in particular he needed to know right away. Where was Skye?
“Tell me where the girl is,” he said as Malcolm took a basket from a serving woman and shut the door. When Malcolm approached, Dagr felt the heat of his anger surge and give him a burst of renewed strength as he was forced to repeat his question. “The girl?”
“Safe above us, likely soaking in a warm bath as we speak,” Malcolm replied.
“I have your word she is unharmed?” Dagr demanded.
“Of course! What need would I have to harm a woman? Truly, brother!” Malcolm objected. He set the basket down on a granite-inlaid table beside Dagr, fumbling through the contents until he produced a soft loaf of bread. Still warm from the oven, it was too much for Dagr to tolerate without a hefty dose of mead. He held his cup out for yet another refill as he swallowed chunks of bread and eyed Malcolm warily.
“I told you I’ve been here for months – so much has happened,” Malcolm explained. Dagr listened without interruption as Malcolm told his tale. Like Dagr, Malcolm was sent through time, but it seemed his younger brother was found unconscious by the Laird’s men. When Malcolm woke, he found himself in a well-appointed suite, tended by a chambermaid with his every need satisfied. He was told the Laird was away on an important duty, and when he returned Malcolm would see him post haste.
“By the time the Laird returned and I met him, you see, I had grown quite accustomed to living a certain way,” Malcolm said. “Have you ever seen such finery? My castle makes even the English Governor’s frame house seem small.”
“Your castle?” Dagr asked, incredulous. What on earth was Malcolm trying to say?
“That’s what I’ve been attempting to tell you. The Laird traveled to meet with King James on a matter of utmost importance. The Laird’s son and only heir – formerly thought dead – was indeed, alive, and now safe in his home. The Laird secured a letter from the King in support of his claim, which he presented to his allies upon his return.”
“What does any of that have to do with you?” Dagr asked. A sickening wave rushed through him as he started to put the pieces together.
“They say I look just like him,” Malcolm said. He filled a cup and took a swig of mead, a twisted smile on his face. “Even the kinfolk
of the Laird think I am him.”
“But surely the Laird himself must know you’re not his son.”
“Of course,” Malcolm admitted sheepishly with a shrug. “He saw my Bloodstone and the mark upon my hand, so he knew from the start I was a Blooded One. At first, he truly thought I was his son. In fact, he was quite insistent I had merely been addled somehow and lost my memory – he says the resemblance is that close. When I told him where I came from, he said I was a son of his blood from the future, and that I was as good an heir as any.”
“To what end will you carry on this farce, Mal?” Dagr interrupted. He watched, incredulous, as Malcolm spread his arms wide and gave a hearty laugh. He pivoted around as he looked up toward the rafters, a childlike grin stretched across his face.
“Don’t you see? This is all mine,” he said. “This castle, this life – it belongs to me. Laird McMillan needs an heir to keep his cousin from claiming his title and lands. I saved him from ruin, and in return, I am an important man.”
“Laird McMillan?”
“He’s kin of our mother, through his brother’s line. He says the McMillan line is a strong one, one of the Five Blooded Families. Here, men like us wear their Bloodstones with pride. People revere me for being a Blooded McMillan. I need not hide who I am as we do in that forsaken time we were born to.”
“You’re a Neilsson. You’re the son of a Chief,” Dagr said, standing up with a sudden strength born of ire. He could not believe the words spilling from his brother’s mouth. “You belong in our time. With our family. At our father’s side.”
Malcolm grunted a bitter laugh. “No, brother. You are the son of a Chief in that time, and I am nothing. Return there if you wish, but I have found where I am meant to be. This is my time, my place – and I shall remain here.”
Dagr approached his brother with even strides, grabbing him by his starched collar before Malcolm could utter a protest. He slammed him up against the wooden door, a surge of satisfaction running through him when he heard Malcolm groan.
“I won’t leave this place without you,” Dagr said, praying his words made an impact on what was left of Malcolm’s common sense. The impetuous brother he knew no longer existed, replaced with some shell of a young man he did not recognize. Gone was the mischievous grin, the surly laughter. Before him was an entirely different young man.
Spoiled. Confident to a fault. Recklessly powerful. It was a dangerous combination, and Dagr wondered if there was any hope of saving his brother from himself. He slowly released his brother, stepping back away from Malcolm as he tried to gather his racing thoughts.
“Then stay. Think on it. See how good my life is here,” Malcolm offered. He straightened his collar, tucking wayward strands of his dark curly hair behind his ear. “If ye still wish to return to your time, I will help you. My priest holds the Leabhar Sinnsreadh and I may use it if I please. The book contains the location of all of the Keys for time travel – and runes for other feats as well. It’s no grand thing to send you back where you came from.”
Dagr noted the way Malcolm spoke of their time, as if their lives and family meant nothing to him. What could he do but try to convince his brother to come home? It was clear Malcolm enjoyed the privilege of being the McMillan heir, a status he would never have in the time they came from. Here in the past, Malcolm lived the life of an important man, one of means who had a clan of powerful men at his disposal. It was the life Malcolm always wanted, and Dagr knew with a sickness in his gut it would take something extraordinary to tear him away from it.
Malcolm held out his arm expectantly and Dagr stared at for a long while before he clasped it.
He had a duty to his father, a duty to his family. Somehow, he would bring his brother home. If it meant he must stay in the fifteenth century and play lackey to a pretender, then it was what he must do.
They agreed to a truce for the time being. Dagr would claim to be an advisor to the Laird’s son, keeping his knowledge of Malcolm’s identity a secret. In return, Malcolm would send Dagr back to his own time whenever he choose to go. It was a tenuous agreement at best. Malcolm knew Dagr would keep trying to convince him to leave, and Dagr had every intention of doing just that.
As Malcolm ushered Dagr away into the care of his steward, he put a hand on his shoulder in a brotherly fashion.
“I must thank you, friend,” Malcolm said, stressing the importance of their supposed friendship while in the presence of his servants. “As glad as I am to see you, I am even more thankful for yer loyal service.”
Dagr raised a brow in question. “My service?”
“Why, for escorting my bride back to me. I was quite worried when Lady Skye wandered from the safety of my lands. ‘Tis my fortune to have her returned and I thank ye.”
He clenched the edge of the doorway so hard if it were not stone it would have crumbled. Dagr closed his eyes briefly, struggling to control the surge of rage in his blood.
Skye was running from Malcolm. Skye was pledged to marry his brother.
Somehow, he accepted Malcolm’s praise. He let the maid escort him to a fine chamber, where she gave him fresh clothes and left him to a hot bath. As he lay in the water and stared at the rafters above his head, his exhausted mind wondered where Skye might be.
Despite the complications, Dagr was sure of two things.
He would do his duty and bring Malcolm home.
And he would keep his promise to help Skye find the Seventh Key.
Chapter 6
Castle Dunloch
Skye.
IT WAS NO SURPRISE her door was unlocked, but she felt no less a prisoner as she left her room. Uncle Ian’s threat was clear and she knew she had no way to escape. Prior to fleeing from Castle Dunloch, Skye had been a valued guest in Laird McMillan’s household, watched over by all and questioned by none. After the entire staff had witnessed Angus drag her back into the castle, however, she knew escape was no longer an option. She suddenly had more than just her own life to consider – Dagr’s life was dependent on her behavior as well.
Wrapping a plaid around her chemise, she followed the dark hall toward the stairwell past Malcolm’s room. There had been many occasions where she had seen Angus go below the keep, and she suspected there was some sort of prisoner’s cell beneath the main hall. She recalled playing in the catacombs beneath the castle as a child, running after the Laird’s son and teasing him mercilessly. Perhaps she would find a hint of Dagr’s whereabouts if she looked about downstairs.
In truth, it was not the idea of marrying Malcolm that she was opposed to. From what she recalled of him as children, she had no complaints; he was a bit spoiled but had a kind heart, and she loved to tag along with him when he created some adventure or scheme to entertain them. She had spent half of her childhood shuffled between the households of Cameron and McMillan, living as a ward of the McMillan since he was a friend to her uncle and she was meant to marry his son. Once young Malcolm was fostered to the one of the Five North Men, Skye never spoke to him again until she arrived at Castle Dunloch to be married.
The adult Malcolm was nothing like she recalled, except in appearance. Although he had grown into a handsome young man, his manner was skittish and unsure. He wielded his authority like a flailing sword, flashing it at the least bit provocation. She imagined his failings came from his tribulations as he tried to return to his family after being taken hostage, and she tried to feel sympathy for him when he told his tales. It was fortunate for his father that Malcolm found his way home since Laird McMillan stood to lose his lands and title without an heir of the McMillan line to take his place. For Skye, Malcolm’s return only worsened her plight.
A servant holding a candle left a room at the end of the hall and Skye panicked. Grabbing the first handle she could find, she let herself into the guest chamber beside Malcolm’s room and quickly closed the door, leaning her head against the smooth wood as she tried to steady her breathing.
“Skye?”
Slowly turning towar
d the voice, she froze when she saw Dagr sitting up in the guest bed. He stood up, the fine silk sheets falling away from his body as he left the comfort of the bed. Wearing nothing but a thin pair of trews, he seemed not to notice his state of undress until her cheeks flared hot pink and she averted her gaze.
“Are you all right?” he asked with a hint of hesitation.
“I – I thought you were dead – or worse!” she stammered, fighting back frustrated tears. She bowed her head when he placed his hands on her arms, feeling his warm breath whisper against her hair as he tried to console her. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in the dungeon?”
She felt his body tense and suddenly he let her go. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, an undisclosed pain simmering in his soft blue eyes.
“The Laird’s son. He – well, I am in his employ. I am his new advisor.”
The strength ran from her limbs in a pool of icy despair. She leaned back against the door as he spoke of agreeing to provide counsel to Malcolm, and how his initial treatment was an unfortunate mistake of some sort.
“You traitor. How could you?” she whispered. Dagr said he was from another time, but he accepted employment with the man she was being forced to wed? A memory of being in Dagr’s arms flooded through her, the care in his touch and the softness in his gaze sending her back to that moment where she wished desperately to stay.
“Let me explain –”
“No,” she shot back. As she opened the door he slammed it shut, trapping her between his arms against the wood. “Release me,” she demanded, her face entirely too close to his. Although their bodies touched with each staggered breath, he was distant in a way she could not understand. He closed a hand on her shoulder as if to pull her close, then quickly removed it and placed it back on the door at her side. His lips brushed across her cheek when he whispered her name, yet when she tilted her chin he pulled sharply away.
“Skye,” he said softly. The sound of her name on his lips sent ripples down her spine. For a moment she wished to lose herself in his arms, to have a stolen moment where he cared for her simply because he wanted to.