Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance)

by Geralyn Beauchamp

  “Well, hello,” came a high-pitched voice from behind John. He turned in time to see a plump blonde woman practically skipping to their table. She briefly stopped at another table and spoke a few words to one of the villagers. John had never seen her before, having taken his meals in his quarters since his arrival.

  “’Tis Mary Wren. She’s wee Padric’s mother and the dessert-maker here. A might fine one too,” Dallan told John, seeing the bemused look on his face.

  Mary was middle-aged, with bright blue eyes that twinkled when she talked. Her mouth seemed animated as she spoke, her voice musical. The epitome of motherly love and security, thought John, looking very much like a woman out of the ancient fables of Merrie Olde England of two thousand years ago. Dallan's time to be exact.

  Kwaku, it seemed, had thought of everything. John knew that Mary, that everyone in Genis Lee had been placed in their positions specifically for Dallan, to help make him more comfortable, more trainable.

  “Good day to you, Weapons Master,” she exclaimed happily as she arrived and gave a deep curtsy to Dallan. John noticed she had an odd-accent; ancient British Commonwealth, if he was correct. “And to you too, sir,” she added as if noticing John for the first time, despite almost running into his chair in her haste to get to the table, and Dallan.

  Suddenly her eyes met with John’s and grew wide as saucers. “Begging your pardon, Lord Councilor. I… I did not recognize you. Forgive my rudeness for not addressing you first.”

  “Quite all right. Mary, is it?”

  “Yes, Lord Councilor, and thank you.” Mary gave a small curtsy.

  John leaned toward her a fraction. “You were correct in addressing the Weapons Master first,” he whispered softly.

  Mary nodded her thanks before turning her full attention to Dallan, who had stretched his legs in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, head slightly cocked to one side. His face held a look of warm affection, one new to John, who tried to memorize it before it retreated behind the Scot’s emotional walls.

  “What have ye made today, Mary?’ Dallan asked, his voice dripping warmth. John noted that too.

  Mary gave Dallan a sideways smile and looked around the room before whispering toward him. “Your favorite, Weapons Master.” Dallan’s face beamed with boyish delight. John turned from Dallan to Mary, and back to Dallan again. Where was the seething, often enraged Weapons Master? Was he gone, or simply hidden away now for the sake of the folk in the cookhouse, or for this one woman?

  “Did ye put the nuts in them this time?” Dallan asked with something akin to conspiratorial excitement.

  “Yes, I did. Just for you, Weapons Master,” she answered with a smile and wink. The boyish look on Dallan’s face exploded.

  John was positively enthralled, his mouth half open in astonishment.

  “D’ye think it possible to bring me a double portion this time? ‘Tis for John here.” Dallan nodded his head across the table at John, whose mouth hung fully open at this point. “I ken he’ll enjoy them as much as I, but I canna see parting with any o’ my own. Ye ken how partial I am to them…” His words trailed off at Mary’s musical giggles of agreement.

  “Don’t you worry, I’ll be sure to put twice the amount in. Maybe even more.” Her voice became almost a whisper. “If I can get away with it. You-know-who doesn’t like you eating too many sweets, Weapons Master. He wouldn’t be happy if he found out I’ve been giving you goodies behind his back.” She looked suspiciously about the room as if expecting you-know-who to be hiding under a table.

  “Dinna fash yerself, Mary. If he found out, he wouldna blame ye. ’Twould be me the auld heathen would come after. I’ll see yer kept safe from him.”

  Of course, thought John. Kwaku controlled Dallan’s diet as he controlled everything else in Dallan’s life in Genis Lee.

  Mary sighed in agreement. “I’ll bring you two your meals now, if you like,” she told them, escaping the uncomfortable subject.

  “Aye, Mary. That ‘twould be fine.”

  Mary bobbed a curtsy and left as John silently sighed then turned to Dallan. “Shall we continue the interview while we eat?”

  “That ‘twould be fine.” Dallan replied. “What’s the next question?”

  “If you could be anyone besides yourself, who would you be?”

  Dallan was quiet a moment. “The MacIain, my grandfather,” he finally answered, sounding a bit unsure of himself.

  John gave him a questioning look. “Why?”

  Dallan took a deep breath through his nose, lifted his chin and puffed his chest out with pride. “’Tis true he and I were not close, but I still feel I kent the man. He was everything to me and the only father I had when I was but a lad. I… I miss him.”

  He sighed, and added a Scottish snort. “The Auld Fox. I hope he got away and was able to pay the Campbells back for what they…”

  He looked to John, knowing his rising anger showed on his face, took another deep breath and suddenly… smiled? A smile oozing with charm.

  John looked perplexed for only a moment before realizing Mary must be bringing their food.

  “Here you are Time Master…” Mary blanched. “Oh, I mean Weapons Master. After all it's not really official yet … forgive me. I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to call you… that is, to infer…” She looked to John, panic on her face then stood staring at Dallan as if he held her very life in his hands.

  Fortunately Dallan didn't know what her mistake was. He knew a little about Time Masters. He still hadn't a clue he was about to become one.

  Mary then turned to John as though he just appeared out of a puff of smoke. “If you need anything else, Lord Councilor, I’ll be nearby. Just call me,”

  “Oh, uh… everything’s fine. Thank you.”

  “I’ll just be going then.” Mary turned away from the table and retreated toward the kitchen.

  John watched her leave then looked at the food in front of him. He felt his stomach do a little flip of anticipation. A bowl of hearty, mouth-watering stew sat steaming before him, a small loaf of fresh baked bread nearby. A crock of butter stood guard over the bread with a jam bowl and a cold tankard of ale at its side.

  It was enough food to feed an army, which was okay, since he felt as hungry as one. He glanced across the table to see if Dallan had fared as well.

  He hadn’t.

  Dallan was looking uncompanionably at a cabbage wedge that, to John, seemed to be wilting under the Scot’s unfriendly perusal. The cabbage had few friends on the plate to help it out should the need arise. A pile of carrots lay like orange corpses, obviously happy to let the cabbage take the full brunt of Dallan’s slicing stare. A dozen small radishes still rolled on the plate like confused chickens waiting to be slaughtered, wanting nothing more than to return to the kitchen. John wondered if they weren’t thinking of rolling off the plate and making a run for it. Sitting near the plate, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, was a small loaf of bread too weighted down by its own hefty fiber to even consider escape.

  In charge of this inedible crew was a glass filled with an odd green mixture of the Creator only knew what. It was the only thing in front of Dallan holding up under the pressure of the Scot’s scowl of revulsion.

  Now this was the Dallan John knew. He swore everything in front of the Scot cringed as he let out a snort of disgust before attacking the helpless cabbage. John felt a little guilty as he stared down at his own food, it looking eager to be consumed. He began to eat, hoping Dallan wouldn’t say anything to make him feel guiltier than he already did. Perhaps he should continue with the questioning…

  “When are you alone?” he asked Dallan between mouthfuls. By the Creator, the stew was good!

  Dallan’s face contorted as he took a long swallow of the green liquid which in turn burned his throat, making his eyes water. He looked at John, shook himself, and coughed. “Never.”

  “You mean to tell me Kwaku has never given you any time to yourself?” John asked, almost
sure the food on the Scot’s plate trembled. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, then stared at Dallan’s glass, swearing the green stuff was staring back… and smirking. He almost choked on a mouthful of stew.

  “By whose order?” John finally managed, peering closer at the glass.

  The Scot snorted as he held the entire host of carrots prisoner in one hand. It would be a massacre. “Who d’ye think, John?” In one bite, it was over. Dallan’s bread lay quivering on its plate, knowing it was only a matter of time…

  John shook himself. He was seeing things. “I’ll speak to him about it. You need that time, Dallan.”

  Dallan and the green concoction were facing off again. “He wilna listen to ye. He doesna listen to anyone.” He picked up the glass, causing the radishes to roll about on his plate.

  “Uh, the uh, others were without certain… influence. He’ll listen to me.” John replied, wondering what the radishes had planned next.

  Dallan, distracted by John’s statement, fell victim to an attack. He took too large a swallow, coughed, sputtered, and lost his breath. The bread looked relieved, but the radishes weren’t fooled for a second. They jumped off the plate and went for broke as Dallan set the glass down hard upon the table. “Mayhaps yer better equipped to handle the heathen than others,” he mused, catching a lone radish as it rolled off the table in its race for freedom and promptly did away with it. The smarter radishes had taken cover beneath the bread plate, the loaf trying its best to act casual.

  John sighed and rubbed his eyes. One could begin to see things after spending so much time deep in Muiraran territory. Couldn’t they? “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Dallan nodded, looking for the rest of the escapees.

  “Finish this sentence,” began John as he pointed to the radish’s hiding spot. “What this world needs is…” He decided to take a bite of stew, but it had gone cold, labeling him a traitor.

  “I ken well what it doesna need!” Dallan chuckled as he popped the last hapless radishes into his mouth and looked at the bread. It lay there like a lifeless lump of clay, trying to appear as unappetizing as possible. It knew it was over.

  John shook himself again. This assignment was really taxing him. He was not only seeing things during his meal, he felt the atmosphere in the cookhouse seem to come alive with, well, something. “No more Kwaku jests, please?”

  Dallan simply shrugged, and rubbed his right shoulder tenderly. He sat quietly and pondered the question while staring down the bread.

  John wondered if the little loaf could will itself to sprout mold. It was its only chance. He pushed what was left of his own meal aside while nodding to Dallan in understanding, “What is something you can do pretty well?”

  “Is the question even necessary?”

  “Yes. Shall I put weapons?”

  “What else is there? I canna think of anything.”

  John simply jotted it down. Some questions were bound to be redundant.

  The little loaf basked in freedom as Mary came back to the table. “All through are you? Shall I take these away now?” she asked giving a small curtsy.

  “Yes, Mary, and thank you.” John said, relieved she would be taking the food away. He looked up at her and realized he might as well have been talking to the bread. She seemed to be addressing only Dallan. He sighed.

  “Go right ahead, Mary, and when the wicked auld heathen asks if I ate everything, you can tell him I lost my appetite due to an unpleasant subject discussed at table today.” Dallan grinned wickedly. “Him.” She looked at Dallan, concern in her eyes, then looked at the bread.

  Mary nodded as she reached for the little loaf on its plate. “I’ll tell him. In fact, I’ll just save this for him. He’ll be in soon and…” She lost her grip on the plate, causing it to tilt slightly, and the loaf flung itself over the side, landed on the hardwood floor and broke into a thousand tiny pieces.

  The three of them stared at the shattered remains, Mary shaking her head sadly. “I’m so sorry. I don’t see how that could have happened. I’ll just take these away and then clean that right up,” she told them, gathering the plates onto the tray she’d brought.

  John just sat there, mouth agape, desperately needing one of his personal healer’s medicinal draughts. Dallan simply nodded to himself, a light smile of understanding on his face.

  Even the food hated Kwaku.

  * * *

  “Shall we continue?” John asked, relief flooding him, the blasted meal over at last. The atmosphere in the cookhouse however, remained unchanged. In fact, it seemed to have gotten… tighter, even thicker, whatever it was.

  Dallan, assuming his favorite position, nodded.

  John shook himself again. “If you were lost in the woods, and it got dark, and you had a young lady with you who was terrified, what would you do?”

  Dallan raised both brows at him. “I wouldna get lost in the woods for one thing, and as to the young lady… what sort o’ fool takes a lady into the woods except for maybe…” he snorted. “Saints man! Who makes up the bloody questions ye ha’ to ask? Give me that list!” Dallan began to reach across the table for John’s tablet.

  “Dallan, calm down. I don’t know what’s coming up anymore than you do.” John all but threw himself on the questionnaire.

  Dallan snorted again. “How many more questions are there?”

  The Lord Councilor began to unfold the list like an accordion, its contents cascading all the way to the floor. “Well, as you can see…”

  “I can see I’ve had quite enough o’ this for one day! I dinna ken how ye can get through all tha…” Dallan’s voice faded, his eyes suddenly growing apprehensive. The look on his face was one of acute, heart-wrenching longing.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” John asked.

  Dallan rose slowly from his chair, his mouth opening yet unable to speak.

  John followed his gaze to the windows near the front door of the cookhouse. Nothing there. He looked back to Dallan who appeared to be battling with the urge to bolt. His muscles tensed, his jaw tightened in a monumental effort to… hold back tears? “By the Creator, Dallan! What’s wrong?”

  Dallan slowly stepped away from the table, moving toward the windows. “Can ye no hear it?” he whispered to John in shaky breaths.

  “Hear what?”

  Dallan’s eyes darted back and forth, furtively searching the windows, his eyes beginning to water. “The music, John, ‘tis the music!” He ran to the windows, pressed his hands to the thin glass and stared outside in desperate longing.

  The villagers witnessing the emotional display all stood and watched with empathetic eyes. John bit his lip, suppressing his own reaction as he suddenly realized what caused the Scot such anguish. “It couldn’t be. Not now. Not here!” he mumbled to himself helplessly.

  “I’m afraid it is, Eaton.” John spun to face his assistant who had just entered from the kitchen. Lany swallowed hard as he watched Dallan in the throes of some deep emotional battle.

  “No, it’s too early! This can’t be happening!” John choked out in dismay. “This will ruin everything!”

  Lany grabbed his shoulder. “No, Eaton, not now. Hold yourself together, and it won’t ruin everything. This may be just what we need. Dallan has a great sense of urgency about him, to seek out and protect. He just doesn’t know what to protect yet.”

  “How much time do we have?” John asked, face contorted with emotion, hands trembling. The villagers began to leave quickly, knocking benches over as they ran, none of them wanting to be there when it hit.

  “A week, maybe less. I just spoke with Zara. I… Eaton, I have to get out of here.” Lany’s face was white, his body shaking. For some unexplainable reason, Lany was always more sensitive to a Muiraran’s inner heart at work.

  The air in the cookhouse tightened another notch making it almost hard to breathe. John nodded to Lany as he began to shove him toward the door. “Get Zara and hurry.” He looked anxiously about, his eyes finally landing
on Dallan. “Here it comes…”

  From a time and place far away, the Muiraran Maiden began to Call to her future mate.

  You that think Love can convey

  No other way but through the eyes,

  Into the heart, his fatal dart,

  Close up those casements, and

  But hear this siren sing;

  And on the wing of her

  Sweet voice it shall appear,

  That Love can enter through the ear.

  Thomas Carew

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mary came from the kitchen and moved slowly toward Dallan. His forehead rested on the cool glass, hands on either side, palms flat against the window, his body shaking from the monumental effort to hold back the racking sobs fighting for freedom. “Weapons Master…”

  Dallan froze, trying desperately to gain control of the flood of pain flowing up from within, threatening to break down the wall holding it back. His hands knotted into fists, the muscles in his forearms bulged with the effort. He could feel his heart breaking. Again.

  “Dallan,” Mary now whispered lovingly as she touched his shoulder and caught a glimpse of his tears as they fell one by one to the windowsill.

  Dallan swallowed hard, sniffed and turned his head in Mary’s direction, prompting her to put both her hands on his shoulders, preparing to hold him if need be. “Mary… it hurts…”

  “I know, I know,” she told him, patting his good shoulder, vainly trying to give him some comfort.

  Suddenly, it hit.

  Dallan threw his head back as the dam within his heart broke and let out a gut-wrenching howl of pain, shaking the glass in the windows. The remaining villagers hurried to the kitchen door, hoping to leave the Weapons Master alone with his pain, with the Call of the Muiraran.

  “You can’t fight it. Just let it happen. It will end quicker if you do.” Mary told him desperately as she tried to turn him to face her.