by E. B. Brown
The only question was what time he had arrived in.
Dagr did not know how long it took him to stagger through the woods, or how far he would have to walk before he found help. He fought the urge to lay down against the earth, to ease the spinning sensation in his ears. It was only the temptation of blissful unconscious, that place in time and space where he was sheltered from pain and ushered into the light.
The bandage around his belly was soaked through. He knew he was losing blood. He simply did not care. He stumbled, going down on one knee, and when his body continued forward and he hit the ground he thought, only for a moment.
Light flickered. It taunted him, burning as he opened his eyes. He expected to see the sky once more, but instead he was greeted by the wide plank rafters of a cottage. He was tucked neatly in a bed, and when he ran his fingers over his belly he could feel there was a fresh bandage on his wound. Yet there was only one prayer that ran through his mind as his vision swirled in a fog, and when the shadow of a young woman bent over his cot, he grabbed her wrist.
“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, “What year is this?”
She came slowly into focus, and the familiar dark-haired woman crinkled her nose. “Why, ‘tis 1648, of course,” his sister replied. “Why would ye think anything else? And what in the name of God happened to ye?”
THE NINTH KEY
Chapter 1
Basse’s Choice, 1648
Dagr
DAGR LET HIS HEAD fall back down onto the feather pillow. Had the Fifth Key truly returned him to the time he left from?
“I was wounded,” he replied. She snorted. It was an unbecoming sound for a lady, yet coming from his older sister, it was a much milder retort than he expected. She pushed a loose strand of her dark hair behind one ear as she leaned over his wound, poking it with one finger.
“I see that, ye bloke. How did ye manage it? And I’ll not forgive ye fer missing the blessing, so doona plead yer case to me. Really, Dagr, yer own niece? ‘Twas a poor time fer ye and Malcolm to play with that bloody heathen magic!”
“You know?” he asked, stunned. How much did Kyra know about what happened?
“Aye, Malcolm confessed. Father did not take it well.”
“Surely father is glad to see him return.”
Kyra sat down beside Dagr, pushing him over a bit with her hip as she sank down onto the feather mattress. She smiled ruefully at him, her blue eyes betraying a hint of sadness.
“Brother, Malcolm told us you were dead – killed in front of his own eyes. ‘Tis been weeks since ye left. I fear there is much ye need to know,” she said. Her voice was gentle, a tone he rarely heard in his sister. Kyra was full of fire and stubbornness, never softness, so it was with increasing unease that he listened to her.
“Skye?” he blurted out. Kyra’s dark brows narrowed.
“What of her? Mal left the Scots woman with father and mother.”
Dagr pushed into a sitting position. He winced at the stab of pain in his side.
“Help me up,” he demanded.
“Yer wound is too fresh!”
“I canna let her think I am dead!” he shot back.
Kyra quieted at that. “You mean mother?”
“Skye. ‘Tis Skye I must see.”
She stood up and let him shift to the edge of the cot. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she looked at her two daughters sitting by the fire. In his stupor, he had not noticed his two young nieces playing quietly, and he felt regret that they witnessed the scene. Surely, they were just as confused as Kyra was to see him alive, when apparently, everyone thought him dead.
“Rebecca, run to Auntie Gwen’s house, tell yer father and Uncle Erich I need their help. Tell them to hurry,” Kyra said. Seven-year-old Rebecca handed her patchwork doll to her younger sister and stood up, her head of golden curls bouncing as she nodded.
“Yes, mama,” Rebecca replied. “Should I tell Papa and Uncle Erick that Uncle Dagr is here?”
Kyra shook her head. “Let me tell them. You just send them here.”
Young Rebecca sprinted out the door, banging it shut behind her as she left.
“Thank ye,” Dagr said. He was still trying to wrap his head around the time change. Kyra said it had been weeks since the blessing ceremony for baby Finola, who he imagined was the infant that slept soundly in the cradle by the fire. Not much time had passed, but if all of his family believed him dead, it would be a shock to see him return. As for Skye, at least he knew she was safe with his kin.
“I think there are things ye must know before we leave,” Kyra said.
Dagr pulled his tunic over his head and fastened the loose ties. His hands felt numb, and he could see the tips of his fingers were tinged blue. He knew he had lost a considerable amount of blood, especially considering each deep breath he took made the room spin and his vision blur. He gladly took the drink Kyra offered him, quenching his dry throat with a swallow of thick cold ale.
“Why must ye see that Scots woman?” Kyra asked, her voice careful. Dagr glanced at his sister from over the rim of the cup, handing it back to her when he was finished.
“If ye have a question, then ask it, sister,” Dagr replied. He was in no mood for games. He did not know what tales Malcolm had told of their time travel, and until he saw Malcolm and Skye he was reluctant to explain anything to Kyra.
She turned and took a knife from the table, looking down at the blade as she rotated it in her hands. The inlaid silver rune marks shimmered in the glow of the firelight, the dark Bloodstone in the hilt staring back at him. It was his new blade; the one he accepted from Kanor when he made the pledge to be Chief Protector.
“Why do ye have a knife like the one father wears? Where did it come from?” she asked.
He stared at her, meeting her suspicious gaze as he held out his hand. She placed it in his outstretched palm and crossed her arms over her chest.
“’Tis mine now. I made the vow. I am a Chief Protector, like father,” he finally answered after a long silence. What else could he say? Despite Kyra’s dismissal of the magic in their bloodline, his sister knew as well as any other what that meant.
“So then it is your duty now … to watch over the Blooded Ones?” Kyra said softly.
Dagr nodded. “Yes.”
“We all thought you were dead, brother,” Kyra said. “We – we all did. We thought you were gone.”
Her words chilled the blood in his veins. He knew his sister well, and he could see there was much more to her words than she was yet willing to reveal. What exactly had happened in the time since Malcolm returned home?
The door banged open. Kyra’s husband, Morgan, entered the room, with Dagr’s Great-Uncle Erich following close behind. When Morgan stopped short at the sight of Dagr, Erich stumbled into him, eliciting a jumble of Norse swear words from the older man.
“Fer fook’s sake, ye bumbling fool, ye dinna need to …” Erich’s voice faded when his eyes locked on Dagr. Dagr used the last of his fading strength to stand, brushing off Kyra when she tried to thread her arm through his. He fumbled with his belt, trying to slide his new blade into place as he faced his kin.
Dagr was as shocked as any when Erich uttered a gasp and went down on one knee before him.
“Uncle –”
“My lord, I thank the Gods for yer return,” Erich announced, his head bent low. Erich was no longer a young man, and Dagr could see that it pained him to kneel. Catching his uncle by both arms, Dagr pulled him gently to his feet. As he clasped arms with Erich, Morgan pushed Erich aside and grabbed Dagr around the neck, pulling him into a brotherly embrace.
“’Tis a miracle!” Morgan said, his voice thick with emotion. Dagr grinned at the Englishman. Although they were worlds apart by birth, they had always been good friends, and Dagr could see the relief in his brother-in-law’s eyes. Erich, however, stared at the Dagr’s blade, then shifted his gaze up to his. Erich looked tired, his reddish beard standing out against ruddy skin.
&n
bsp; “Ye return to us not only as a man, but now ye are Chief Protector?” Erich said.
Dagr nodded. It was a vow he made without consideration, an agreement that would lead him back to the woman he loved. Now, staring at his uncle, Dagr was reminded of the weight of that vow and what it meant to those of his kind. There was a reason Erich kneeled before him – Erich knew better than any other what that vow entailed.
“I am. I – I have much to tell you,” Dagr replied.
Erich grunted an oath. “And we have much to tell ye as well. Morgan, take his arm, and I’ll help on this side. I see our young Chief is bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Dagr glanced down at his side, where a smudge of bright red blood was seeping through his tunic.
“I’ll abide,” he muttered. As glad as he was to see his kinsmen, Dagr had more pressing issues to attend to.
“Oh, aye. Ye’ll need to explain to yer father why he should not kill Malcolm. I fear ye are the only one who will be able to stop him.”
Dagr shook his head. He needed to see Skye. All other issues could wait, including whatever trouble Malcolm stirred up with their father. Dagr was in the right place, and the right time – and that was all that mattered.
Chapter 2
Skye
“FOR PETE’S SAKE, sit down!” Maggie admonished her. Skye scrunched her brows at the irate red head and rolled her eyes. There was plenty of food to be cooked, and there was no use sitting around watching Maggie do it all by herself. Despite the older woman’s insistence that she had everything under control, it was painfully obvious that she was not a skilled cook.
“Truly, my lady, I can help,” Skye insisted. She immediately regretted her words when Maggie’s face contorted into a scowl.
“If you don’t stop calling me that, I’m gonna tan your hide with my spoon!” Maggie hissed, shaking a wooden ladle in Skye’s direction.
Skye bit back a smile and nodded. After living with Malcolm’s family for the better half of a month, she was well aware that the path of least resistance was the one that made Maggie happy. She was a woman like no other Skye had ever known, a woman who kept her family in order like a general commanding a militia. With her bright green eyes and flaming red hair, her very image was a beacon of warning. When she barked out her orders, she was an entity no one in her household dared question.
“My apologies,” Skye murmured. She placed her own ladle on the hearth and picked up a stack of clean trenchers. At least if she could set them out, she wouldn’t feel so useless. When Malcolm left her with his parents, she thought it would give her a measure of relief, yet her very existence as a dependent of his family made her feel even more helpless than she did in her own time. Although Skye had been raised by her uncle to obey her elders without argument, the urge to earn her keep was not one she could easily shake.
Seated cross-legged by the hearth, eight-year-old Jonathon Dixon shook his head and uttered a half-snort, half-laugh. “Do not rile my aunt, unless ye wish to bring her ire down on all our heads,” the boy muttered. Malcolm’s father, Winn, overheard the exchange and smacked the boy lightly in the back of the head as he and his father, Marcus, entered the room.
“Pay him no mind,” Winn said with a wink. “My wife is as meek as a mouse.” He placed his hand on Maggie’s waist and kissed her neck behind her ear, whispering something low to her that caused her to smile.
“Oh, I’d dare say she’s all talk,” Marcus added.
“You two keep running on like that and see where it gets you,” Maggie replied.
It was those carefree moments they lived that made Skye’s heart ache. Even though she knew Winn was not Dagr, her pulse still skipped a beat every time he entered the room. Tall and defined, with his sun-kissed skin and long dark hair, he was everything she remembered so vividly about his son. The way he looked at his wife made Skye blush, and sometimes, when her thoughts were not guarded, she closed down and let fantasy take over. She listened to his deep voice and watched his every move, as if somehow, for at least a moment, she was beside Dagr once more.
Always the observant one, Marcus caught her gaze as her thoughts wandered. Once Skye met Marcus, the ties of family resemblance made much more sense. Dagr was the image of his father, Winn, yet Malcolm carried the look of his grandfather. Tall and broad, with a swatch of dark hair that curled around his neck, the patriarch of the family had an easy way about him. He was not as boisterous as the rest of the family, but his humor came in little moments when a sly grin was more appropriate. Although he was Winn’s father, it seemed Marcus and Maggie were often the two heads bent together as if they alone decided the fate of everyone around them.
Skye longed to know where they all came from and how they came to live so peacefully in the seventeenth century. There was rarely a mention of time travel or magic in the household, and she had never heard even a whisper of the notion of Blooded Ones. The simple fact that Maggie was a powerful Blooded One merely hovered there, unacknowledged, yet protected by the men around her with their unspoken word. Blooded Ones were in no danger at all, it seemed. It was something Skye still found difficult to adjust to after being used as a pawn her entire life.
“Ah, ‘tis no hurry. Looks like we’ll be a bit longer before the meal,” Marcus said to her. He tipped his head towards Maggie and Winn, who were speaking in lows tones by the cooking fire.
“Oh, of course,” Skye replied. “Shall I make a place for Daniel?”
“I think not. If he visited with Benjamin and Malcolm, he’ll not return today. Perhaps tomorrow,” Marcus said.
Skye turned her focus to her work. The last thing she wished to do was discuss Malcolm, but rarely a day went by that someone failed to bring up his name. It wasn’t that she was angry at him anymore or didn’t wish to see him; it was the simple fact that his presence reminded her of the past she left behind. Shortly after they traveled through time and returned to Malcolm’s home, Malcolm and his father went off in the woods together. When they returned an hour later, Malcolm refused to discuss what had happened. Things happened quickly at that point. One moment, Malcolm was confirming their betrothal in front of his family as witnesses, and the next moment he explained he was leaving to work with his uncle Benjamin. Malcolm told her his family would look out for her until he returned – and that when he returned, they would be married.
What could she do? No, she did not wish to marry him. Yet in that one respect, she was just as much trapped as she had been in the past, if not more. At least in the past she had means to find the keys for time travel. In the seventeenth century, however, it was if none of that existed. Skye had no choice but to live among them and abide their customs – and one simply did not just abandon a betrothal. Especially when she had no means to survive on her own.
Marcus kneeled down beside Jonathon and ruffled the boy’s dark hair.
“Rest yer mind, Skye,” Marcus added. “I see it running like a rabbit inside yer head.”
Skye placed another trencher down on the long table. “I have no worries on that. But thank ye,” she replied.
“Right then,” Marcus said.
Skye returned her attention to her task. She did not look up when there was a commotion in the courtyard outside and a clattering at the door, accustomed to the frequent visitations at all hours of day and night. When the door flew open and slammed against the wall, however, her reflexes kicked in and startled her out of her daydream.
“Oh, just give us space!” Kyra barked. Malcolm’s sister burst into the house first, shoving her two young daughters in front of her. The girls scattered quickly over to where Jonathon sat, seeming eager to get out of the way. Jonathon was Benjamin’s son and companion to the girls, older than Rebecca by two years. Behind Kyra was her husband, Morgan, and her uncle, Erich, and between the two men they hauled another man who was making his best effort to stand upright.
Why was Winn being carried inside the house? And why did he have a bandage around his bared chest that was stained with dark
red blood?
All the boisterous noise in the room came to an abrupt halt. Winn lifted his head, each of his arms wrapped around the shoulders of his companions.
“Thank the Gods, you’re here,” he said.
Skye turned her head to where she last saw Winn, which was beside the cooking fire with his wife. Winn was right where Kyra thought he should be with Maggie, and both of them looked to be frozen in place. Her fingers went numb as she tightened her hold on the trenchers in her hand and turned back to the men at the door.
It was not Winn who stood before her with a fresh wound to his belly.
“Dagr!” Maggie cried, running to her son. Maggie was crying when she threw her arms around him, and Winn was near the same. As everyone swarmed around him, Dagr’s gaze stayed locked on Skye’s. It was not until the trenchers fell from her hands and clattered to the floor that Dagr was able to push through his family to get to her side, catching her with the assistance of Marcus just as her knees buckled.
“Yer not Winn,” she whispered, aware she sounded like a raving fool.
Dagr kneeled down on the floor beside her, cradling her in his lap. “Not since my mother named me, I’m afraid,” he said softly.
She smiled and placed her hand over his where he cupped her cheek. Even if it was a dream, it was a lovely dream, and she wanted to touch him despite the fact that his entire family was watching their every move.
“Someone needs to ride out for Malcolm. He needs to know his brother returned from the dead,” Kyra interrupted. The sharp tone of her voice was unmistakable, accompanying the hard stare she leveled at Skye.