by E. B. Brown
“Sigr bíðr!” Angus shouted, circling the pair of men. It took Dagr a moment to decipher the command of victory waits, meant to urge Gareth onward. With a trickle of blood streaking his brown beard Gareth grinned, holding the young Laird facedown until the other men counted to five.
Defeated by one of the men he commanded, Malcolm staggered to his feet. Dagr held his breath as he watched his brother’s face contort, the young man’s eyes narrowed in frustration. When Gareth held out his arm, Malcolm stared at it for a long moment. Silence stretched through the courtyard, even the cries of birds overhead seeming to cease.
Malcolm’s chest heaved beneath his torn linen tunic as he stuck out his hand. The young laird clasped arms with Gareth, and two other men shoved them out of the way to take their places.
Holding out the heavy laird’s cloak for his brother, Dagr noted the way a flush burned over Malcolm’s cheeks, rising up from his chest and throat against his fair skin.
“I should have beat him,” Malcolm muttered.
Dagr bit back a grin.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Next time.”
He handed the young Laird a cup of ale, noticing that Malcolm shook as he wrapped his hands around it. Despite his attempts to pretend it was no difficult task, Dagr could see how much it affected him.
At home, Malcolm had always been the one to stay on the sidelines, urging on the others with laughter and jibes. It had been Dagr sent out to prove his worth to the men, which was only a prelude to a good match between their father, Chief Winn, and whatever warrior had won for the day. The first time Dagr battled through three men to get the chance to face Winn. He was younger then and he was more of a scrapper than someone with brawn, but he was honored to be standing in front of their father at the end of the day. Winn took much more time than necessary to defeat Dagr that day, ending the lesson with Dagr’s face pressed into the dirt. Instead of anger at his loss, Dagr was humiliated. Dagr recalled it well.
He kneeled down at Winn’s feet. His shoulders shuddered as he tried to catch his breath, and the bleeding scrapes on his face ached as he grimaced. Dagr waited for Winn to acknowledge him, just as any defeated man should do.
“Rise,” Winn said quietly. When Dagr felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, he bit back the frustrated tears that threatened to come forth. He was a man. First Born to Chief Winn. There was no room for such weakness for leaders.
He obeyed his father but kept his head dipped to avoid Winn’s eyes.
“I am sorry, father. I fought poorly.”
Winn clamped both hands on Dagr’s shoulders and gave him a slight shake.
“Be proud. You fought well against this old man.”
“But, father, I lost. You defeated me,” Dagr replied.
Dagr lifted his eyes and met his father’s amused gaze. He burned with embarrassment, no matter what father said.
“You fought three men before you came to me. Do you think that took nothing from you, that you conquered those enemies without risk to yourself? You hold a bit of every man you battle, and you carry that with you when you rush to meet your greatest foe. Today I was your enemy, and you carried the battle from three other men with you. No, you did not beat me. But soon, you will.”
“Thank ye, brother,” Malcolm said quietly when they were out of earshot of the others.
Dagr nodded. “Of course.
Chapter 2
Skye
SHIMMERING SUNLIGHT streamed downward from the high window, illuminating her path over the polished wood floor in the quiet Dunlochy chapel. The planks squeaked and flexed in protest as she made her way across the chapel and she worried the priest would hear her coming, but the adjoining door to the cottage remained closed. When she was close enough to the altar to see the carved faces of the figurines, she slowly let out her breath.
It was just as she suspected. In the center of the stone altar was a grinning Glaistig.
Knowing what happened last time, she hesitated to touch the carving. Embedded deeply in the granite, multiple faces edged the altar, each with its own unique joyous expression. Yet the Glaistig stared back at Skye with a sickening grin, a disturbingly maleficent face in stark contrast to the rest.
Was it meant as a trap? Surely, mother would not have told her to seek the Glaistig if it would put her in danger. According to legend, the Glaistig was a Wise Woman living in solitude somewhere in the misty glen. Once a leader of the Original Blooded Ones, she left her kind after she found out her lover was unfaithful. In her rage, she used a sacred rune to send him to an unknown time and she sent his lover to another. However, using the magic in anger cost her much more than the companionship of her lover; her feet changed into cloven hooves, and from her face a thick gray goat’s beard sprouted. Some say she left when she lost the ability to speak, as only a guttural bray would issue from her lips. Yet still, she protected the secrets of the Blooded Ones. Skye had to believe that her mother was trying to help, not harm her.
She glanced down at the plank flooring beneath her feet. It was old and well-worn, but it seemed stable enough. There were not many gaps between the boards, so she could not see through to what was below, but she was willing to bet there was another hidden chamber just like the ruined chapel near Lochaber. She had been in many castles and chapels in the Highlands, yet she knew she had only seen the Glaistig’s face in one other place besides the ruined chapel – in front of her, staring back at her with a knowing grin.
Last time it needed her blood to open. She unsheathed the small sgian dubh from her waist, raising her brows at the Glaistig with a shrug. What choice do I have? She thought. Now more than ever, there was no way she could stay and marry Malcolm. She needed to find a safe place, a new home – and she could never find that in the time she was born to.
Slicing the blade cleanly across her palm, she squeezed her eyes shut as she clenched her hand in a fist. She held it over the head of the Glaistig figurine, opening one eye a slit to watch the blood drip onto the stone.
Skye opened both eyes with a frown when absolutely nothing happened.
Thankfully, the floor beneath her feet was still intact, not even a ripple of dissent echoing beneath her toes. The chapel remained peaceful, sunlight streaming in a crooked path from the high arched window down to the alter.
“Damn it!” she muttered. She placed her bloody hand on the Glaistig and lowered her head to her fist, her pounding pulse taunting her as she considered her defeat. She shifted her weight and moved her hand slightly, and suddenly the granite under her fingers shuddered.
She jerked her hand away and stepped backward. Had it moved?
When she glanced towards the cottage door it was still closed. Tilting her head at the Glaistig, she raised a brow and slowly reached out to touch it. The ghastly thing shivered as if she had tickled it, but when she removed her hand, it immediately ceased moving.
“I saw you!” she whispered. Skye slammed her bloody palm flat onto the figurine and it groaned to life, sliding backward inside the stone until the face was completely recessed. She heard she scrape of granite behind her and the creak of the floor beneath her feet, yet she stood there, fighting the urge to run for a long moment before she turned around.
Taking a deep breath, she let her hand slide away from the Glaistig. As she gingerly pivoted on her heels, she could see part of the wall in the corner of the chapel was moved. She edged along the wall, still wary of the stability of the floor, making her way toward the opening.
Jagged rays of light cast an unnatural glow into the tiny room. Unlike the ruined chapel where Skye had nearly plummeted to her death, this secret room was fully above ground and tucked neatly between the ancient stone walls. Inside she made out the edge of a pedestal, an intricately carved wood piece covered in runes. She recognized the Old Norse symbols, twisted within what she thought were Latin and Celtic. An image of Hadrian’s Wall circled the middle of the pedestal; a crest of the ancient Dal Riata kingdom graced one side. The carvings seemed placed u
pon each other, some overlapping, some appearing newly minted compared to others. The images spoke to her, filling her with the struggles of her bloodline throughout time.
Skye reached for the book upon the pedestal, despite the echoes of her ancestors screaming inside her head. Did she imagine the cries, or did their wails truly resonate inside the chamber?
“I need it,” she whispered. The ghostly murmurs grew louder, cresting into a roar as she squeezed her eyes shut and took the book into her hands.
Yet silence smothered the chamber the moment she pressed the book to her chest.
She opened her eyes, relieved to see she was utterly alone inside the room.
What did you expect? She chided herself as she left. Ghosts?
Skye did not dare take time to examine the book before she hid it in her chamber. She had already been absent long enough from the morning training session, and she knew Malcolm would be wondering why she was not there.
Pushing her Bloodstone pendant beneath her tight bodice, she patted it gently as she made her way to the hall. Skye recalled Dagr’s story of how he arrived in her time. True, all those of her kind held a Bloodstone, but until she met Dagr, she never understood how important the pendant was. It was no mere symbol of her status, no trinket for pure decoration. It was magical tool that could transport her through time, perhaps even to the past where she could be reunited with her mother.
She was aware one must never return to a time once lived, but the idea was a tempting one. It was one of the most dangerous aspects of time travel. She imagined there were all sorts of rules for her kind, but without the guidance of her mother, she felt lost. She envied Dagr for his loving family, for the chance he had to grow up among those like himself, where knowledge was shared. Anything she knew of the Blooded Ones came from distant childhood memories or stolen whispers in corridors that were no more worthy than idle gossip. It was clear her uncle took great effort to keep her compliant; the less she knew about her power, the better he could control her. Despite the magic in her blood, Skye realized she was helpless without the knowledge to wield it.
As she smoothed her green silk skirt and made her way to the courtyard, she pinched her cheeks enough to make tears spring to her eyes. She needed some sort of explanation for her absence. If she was to claim illness, she needed to look the part, and swollen eyes and red cheeks were likely to earn sympathy from the besotted young laird.
The longer she stayed at Castle Dunloch, the more practiced she became at deception. What else could she do, when everything in her life was so utterly controlled? Her uncle and cousin, her closest blood kin, had sold her to Laird McMillan as if she were a broodmare to be bartered with. Of course, they had gained land and a considerable dowry in the deal, but what had she gained? A broken heart, because she must marry a man she did not love? A lifetime of watching the man she loved serve a husband she despised? It hardly seemed fair, when the magical blood the men fought for was held solely within her veins.
Dagr assured her it was different in the future time he traveled from. There, he described how his father protected his mother, how he would never allow her to be harmed by anyone. His mother was free to love, to have children – without the ever-present threat of losing her life to the whim of devious men. It seemed like some fantasy world to Skye. Had Dagr lied about his time, as he had lied about his intentions toward her? Perhaps she had imagined some delightful, safe haven in his story because she wished to. Perhaps his world did not exist at all.
Yet as she reached the shadows of the courtyard and their gaze met across the crowd, her doubts shifted away like grains of sand blowing into the ocean. His blue eyes plowed through her, the intensity of his stare like a blow to her belly. Yes, there were secrets and lies between them, but her heart seemed to find its own path. Despite his lies, she would follow him. The desire was as strong as the beat of her heart in her chest, one she could not sway even if she wished to.
Malcolm held his arms out and Dagr helped him with his cloak. The entire scene was misplaced as if it was gleaned from some fanciful tale meant for another era. Dagr playing lackey to Malcolm? It made no sense. Although he did his sworn duty and assisted his laird, seeing Dagr next to Malcolm was like watching a bull next to a horse. Dagr’s mere presence resonated simmering power, the burly young man’s disposition dampened only by his tight-set jaw. He seemed to be waiting for something – a moment, perhaps – when he might shed the cover of his devotion and state his true intent. Would she ever know Dagr’s truth?
“You should not barter with a skill ye do not yet possess, my lady.”
She skittered back against the stone wall at Kanor Bystrom’s interruption.
“I do not recall seeking your counsel,” she replied curtly. The hulk of a Norseman shot her a lazy grin, leaning back against the wall beside her.
“Ah, well, ye looked like ye needed it,” he said. He tilted his head towards the courtyard where Malcolm and Dagr stood together. One hand rested on the knife at his side, his palm covering part of the rune-inlaid handle. “Our Laird may be young, but he has the reckless heart of a man. Best ye mind yerself with him.”
“I beg yer pardon,” Skye replied. Although she objected to his frank observations, she was afraid he was close to seeing through her.
“Hmpf,” he muttered. She backed up when he moved closer, his large body overshadowing hers. “I’ve not yet decided if I’ll let ye leave. Whatever plan ye have up yer skirts, cast it aside for now. I can see the wheels hammering away inside yer little head as we speak,” he said. To her utter astonishment, he punctuated his point by jabbing her in the forehead with one finger. She hastily stammered out a response, her lips twisting into a stubborn frown.
“I have enough kinsmen telling me where I can go and what I must bear. You have no say in it, Norseman!” she hissed. She turned away but he snatched her roughly by the elbow and shoved her against the wall, his bearded face so close she could smell the thick ale on his breath.
“Oh, I have plenty to say, lass, make no mistake of that. Get ye gone. Go on, run along. Play yer games with yer betrothed but mind me this – ye’ll not leave again without my say.”
He let her go without a fight when she yanked her arm free. Without a backward glance, she continued down the empty corridor towards the relative safety of her bedchambers.
Chapter 3
Dagr
HE WAS FAIRLY CERTAIN Skye was not noticed by the others when she fled from the courtyard. Dagr saw the exchange between her and Kanor, wondering exactly what threat the Norseman uttered to cause Skye to flee. She was a mite of a woman but she was no fading flower, characteristically unruffled by jibes from the men. Her fierce stubborness was one of the things Dagr admired in her; despite her predicament, Skye held her own. Seeing the flash of panic on her face troubled him more than he wished to admit.
Giving his regards to Malcolm, Dagr left the courtyard. He took the opposite corridor around the far end of Castle Dunloch, then circled back towards Skye’s suites on the upper hallway. Ever mindful of the risk, he knew the path well. It was one he sometimes took late at night when he could not sleep, instead choosing to assure himself that Skye was safe in her chambers. When everyone else in the castle lay sleeping, Dagr remained outside her door, content that he could guard her peaceful slumber. In a world where he felt utterly powerless, it was enough to ease him.
She opened the door seconds after he tapped his knuckles on the wood. He entered her chambers, his eyes swiftly surveying the attached solar for any sign of Skye’s chambermaids. Good. They were alone.
“You were gone too long,” he said. He chastised her to keep her on guard; perhaps if she stayed annoyed at him, he could subdue the urge to take her in his arms.
“But I found it,” she replied, bolting her chamber door. “It’s – it’s amazing. Here, you must see it.”
She bent down next to her bed, her long hair falling over her shoulders as she stretched. Pulling the book out, she sat back on her hee
ls and laid it in her lap, looking upward expectantly at him. He caught his breath at the site, his eyes scanning briefly over the book as he took her in. Her breath came fast, her slim hands gripping the volume as if it were her lifeline. With her chin tilted and he soft brown eyes focused on his, the thoughts crossing his mind had nothing to do with time travel.
“It looks like the Leabhar Sinnsreadh from my time,” he choked out, sitting down beside her on the floor. She slid the book over to share the space between their laps.
“I wonder if it is?” she murmured. She opened it and flipped through the pages, her eyes wide as she surveyed the assortment of runes. “’Tis written in more than one way. Some of it is Norse. I doona know how to read all of it.”
He nodded, trying to focus on the text. She was right. He recognized some of the Norse, and a bit of Latin on a few early scripted pages. Although the words were indecipherable, the pictures of the rune marks were clear.
“It says some of the most powerful Keys are trusted to the North Men,” she said.
“Like Kanor?” he replied. She nodded, her gaze fixed on the words. Her nose scrunched up in such a pleasing manner as she studied the book. He imagined her sitting beside a fire, reading to their children someday, but hurridly thrust that daydream aside.
“The Five North Men lines: Bystrom, Sturlsson, Klassen, Falk, and Neilsson,” she read.
“Neilsson?” he replied, catching himself before he revealed any more of who he was.