The Protector’s Promise
Border Series Book Seven
Cecelia Mecca
Contents
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The Legend
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
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Also by Cecelia Mecca
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The Legend
While beautiful and ethereal in her wildness, Scotland held within her so much power, she could very well tear herself apart. To ensure Scotland’s safety, an ancient order of druids decided to safeguard her very heart.
They made a stone of the purest emerald green, protected by a necklace wrought of gold and iron, and locked her soul within it, imbuing the stone with magical properties no mortal could ever destroy. For every generation to come, the soul of the stone would select a protector, a woman with a pure heart and the ferocity of a warrior. Upon her death, the immortal stone would then seek the security of its next protector. But the battle of light and dark is as old as time, and nature has a way of balancing itself—whether for good or evil.
When the reach of the stone stretches toward its next guardian, so too does the call go out to the opposing force—a man whose heart is set on reclaiming Scotland for his own purposes. Both guardian and nemesis receive their mark and are drawn toward the stone that lies in wait within the glittering shallows of the fairy pools guarded by the Priestess of the Stone.
Scotland’s darkest days will emerge if the stone should fall into the wrong hands. The fate of the chosen is a never-ending battle for the stone, Scotland’s lifeblood, between the protector and her adversary. For when one dies, a new struggle will begin again until the end of time.
1
Isle of Skye, Scotland, 1273
“Give me a reason not to kill you.”
With the tip of his broadsword to his attacker’s throat, the Lord of Camburg stood immobile, waiting for the Scotsman’s answer. The guard stared back at William.
No response.
He tried again. “What are you guarding?”
Nothing.
He’d not traveled all this way, from the borderlands of North West England, to be stopped so close to his goal.
Suddenly, the big, bearded man who’d tried to lop off William’s head from behind shifted before his eyes. A scared young boy, too young to grow a beard, lay in his place. The vision disappeared, and William found himself staring once again at the man who had followed him from the moment he’d begun his ascent up the mountain. The winding path had hidden his pursuer from sight, but the silence had done nothing to mask the big man’s telltale footfalls.
The visions came more often now. He had gone years without them, but since arriving in Scotland, they occurred nearly every day. Most often, they were altered versions of that which was in front of him and other times of what was to come. Perhaps whatever was at the top of this mountain might provide some much-needed answers. He hoped so since they were becoming harder and harder to disguise.
Though he would likely regret it, William pulled back his sword. The fleeting visions that had plagued him his entire life had come more readily each day of this voyage. They showed him glimpses of the past or the future, and after seeing the lad the guard had been, he could not harm him. Sheathing his weapon, he moved away from the guard, who scrambled to his feet.
“I am guarding no one,” the man insisted.
He lied.
“We shall see.” William pointed to the path ahead of them. “Lead the way.”
They had nearly arrived. He knew neither what nor whom he sought, something he would never willingly admit to his friends or foes. They’d think he’d descended into madness if he told them, and William may be inclined to agree. But the call that had taken him away from Camburg Castle across the borderlands and to this mountain had been too strong to ignore. Now, after days of aimless wandering with only the strange pull to guide him, William was close.
This man’s presence told him as much.
“If you attempt to harm her, I will kill you,” the Scotsman said as he picked his way along the rocky path.
“Her?”
The guard spun around, his brows furrowed. “Who are you?”
Finally, perhaps, he could get some answers. “An answer for an answer.”
The guard responded with a curt nod.
“Who do you protect?”
“Scotland.” He answered so quickly, William would have been inclined to believe him if not for the outrageousness of his response. Then again, he’d come here alone, for no better reason than he’d felt drawn to. There was no denying his situation was outrageous.
“Who do you protect”—he pointed—“up there?”
“Scot—”
“You are telling me Scotland resides at the top of this mountain on the Isle of Skye?” He was losing patience. After days of questions with no answers, he was ready for real information. “Try again.”
“The Priestess of the Stone. But you knew that already.”
Priestess? Stone? What had he stumbled his way into?
All the same, he was a man of his word—he’d promised to answer the man’s question in exchange for information. “I am William Thornhurst, son of Lord Ranville and seneschal of Camburg Castle.”
“Why are you here?” The man’s hands itched at his sides, reaching for a sword that was no longer there.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. Though he had dozens of questions to ask—Who was this priestess? What was the significance of the stone? Why had he been drawn to this secluded place?—the guard’s expression threw him off. The man looked at him as if he’d just seen him for the first time before averting his eyes and looking around frantically, as if searching for an escape.
“An answer for an answer,” he reminded the guard. “Why do you look at me that way?”
The man’s chin lifted. “You will find out soon enough.”
With that, he turned away once again and ran ahead. If he hoped William would follow, running headlong into some trap, he would be disappointed. Instead, he continued to make his way up the mountain, listening and waiting. This was not his land, and the guard’s knowledge of the terrain would be a profound advantage for him should he decide to make another attack.
William should not have let him live.
The irrepressible urge to come to this place had begun the morning he’d awoken with that odd mark on his hip. Appearing while he’d slept and seemingly in the shape of a small dagger, the mark ushered a new reality into his life, one filled with the visions of his youth. Nothing had made sense since. Though his men were not surprised he’d wanted to travel alone up north, they’d insisted on joining him. And so William had snuck off under the cloak of darkness, driven by fleeting visions of his destination—the renowned pools of Skye. The visions had served him well in the past, and so he trusted them now once again.
William stopped, the sound of a waterfall ahead drowning out everything else. He could be more easily ambush
ed now, so he forced himself to slow his steps. Turning another corner, his eyes bulged at the sight before him.
Was it from this world?
Though the oak trees that dotted the landscape had become smaller as he ascended the mountain, one in front of him stood tall and proud next to a waterfall, defying logic. The coloring of the pools at the foot of the small falls baffled him—he’d never seen such shades of green and blue in nature—and the moss-covered rocks that cradled the pools appeared almost unnatural in their smoothness.
A woman stood at the center of them.
Her hooded, dark green cape revealed nothing more than the lower portion of her face and narrowed eyes. The guard that had fled earlier stood by her side, eyeing him warily.
William approached them with equal wariness, watching the lady’s back straighten as the guard spoke to her. The waterfall drowned out their words, but he didn’t need to hear them talk to notice the change in her expression. It hard turned almost . . . murderous.
“Stop there,” she called, the lilt of her voice what he imagined a siren’s call would sound like. Oddly, he heeded her bidding.
“Go,” she said over the sound of the water descending into the pools below. “Go back to England. Forget this place.”
Did she really believe he’d traveled this far only to turn back? He needed answers!
“Why did you call me here?”
The words made no sense, even to his own ears. As he said them, memories flashed before him as clearly as if they’d just happened to him. His father introducing him to Sir Richard. The look on Richard’s face when he told William his father had died, leaving him an orphan. The first time he met Lady Sara, the girl who’d been his childhood companion, the girl who was too fine of a lady for a lowly baron’s son to wed. Richard granting him Camburg. His visits to court. His dream of attaining his own title, one not handed to him by an indulgent overlord . . .
The priestess watched as the memories pounded through him, each leaving behind enough emotion to bring him to his knees.
“Tell me what it means,” he demanded, knowing somehow that she would not.
“Go,” she shouted, the word etching itself into his very soul.
Instead, he took a step toward her . . . and then saw it.
Disguised as a regular rock, the gray stone in the center of the shallow pool at her feet gleamed a brighter green than anything found in the natural world. She had not called to him. That stone had summoned him, as mad as that sounded. She did not want him to know it was there, and while it had already turned back to gray, William had seen it for what it was: a relic. One that would help him on a mission that he should be back at Camburg preparing for even now. The king’s regent would not be happy if he learned of William’s journey. But somehow, when he saw the stone, he knew it would help him capture Moordon Castle.
He jumped into the pools, stumbling toward the stone before the priestess or her guard could even realize his intent. Grabbing the stone, William ran faster than he’d ever run in his life. As he navigated roots and pebbles, nearly falling down the steep incline, William did not pause to look for his pursuer, though it did surprise him that the man hadn’t yet caught up. Instead, he made his way as quickly as possible down the mountain, anxious to get away from it all.
The guard . . . the priestess . . . this island. Away from Scotland and the strange forces that had drawn him there.
“My lady,” one of Marion’s guards called from behind, “there is nothing here but more trees and rocks. We should turn back.”
She’d heard that same refrain for the last hour, and Marion was no more inclined to do so now than she had been earlier despite that she felt the stone’s pull less now than she had earlier in the day.
Since embarking on this journey, the men who had been told to follow her orders had done everything but. She’d invoked her father’s name, her mother’s admonitions, and every other argument she could think to make.
Yet, as men were wont to do, they simply refused to listen. So she had stopped trying to convince them. Forging ahead of each of the men sent to protect her, Marion wound her way around the muddy path leading toward her destiny.
And then it was there before her.
“Priestess of the Stone . . . ,” Kenneth muttered as he nearly knocked her over from behind. She supposed it was her fault for stopping so abruptly. But at least Marion could cease trying to convince the men, most especially her father’s captain, of the existence of the Priestess of the Stone. For standing in front of them, just under a massive oak tree that should not have stood so tall this far up, was the very woman they’d journeyed here to find.
Some said her hair was the same color as Marion’s, a flaming red not often found even in these parts. Others believed the priestess was an old woman, her wisdom a testament to her advanced age. Neither tale had any truth to it, for the priestess had flung back the hood of her cape, revealing black, flowing hair. At least one aspect of the stories was true—the woman who guarded the heart of Scotland, the stone that would be entrusted to Marion, was beautiful.
Marion felt surprisingly calm as she made her way toward the priestess. Her mother had assured her that she had nothing to fear, but she’d always wondered how she could know such a thing. The legend was, after all, just that. No one had met the priestess before, and her location had always been a well-guarded secret. Until now.
“Come,” the priestess said, the soft lilting voice comforting her.
Marion obeyed, walking around the glittering blue and green pools to reach the priestess, who held out her hands. She chanced a glance over her shoulder. Her guards were gaping at them, their mouths hanging open.
Instead, Marion placed her hands on top of the priestess’s outstretched ones. They were so soft and smooth, just like the even tone of her voice.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
“My mother bade me come,” she said, her tongue heavy and awkward. “The mark appeared on my hip, and I was drawn here.” Just as the legends foretold, it was the shape of a small dagger. It had appeared after a strange rumbling shook the earth. After four and twenty years of hearing the tales, Marion had understood at once.
The previous protector had died. She was being called to take the woman’s place.
Back home, at Ormonde Castle, Marion had sometimes been accused of being haughty rather than poised, but standing next to this priestess, she felt like a young child, her words forming slowly and awkwardly.
“A wise woman,” the priestess said. “We’ve much to discuss, and quickly.” She glanced down at the pools. “The stone has been taken.”
Had the priestess not held her hands firmly, she may have fallen at that declaration. “Taken?”
Marion followed the woman’s gaze and saw nothing but calm, green-hued water and rocks in the pool at her feet. She glanced then at the guard who stood not far from them.
The priestess tugged on her hands. “Aye. And there’s much for you to learn. But as I said, there is no time. You must act quickly to recover the stone.”
Marion allowed her hands to drop when the priestess let them go.
“You have been chosen as Scotland’s protector. Now that you’ve been summoned to protect it, the dark forces that oppose us, that oppose you, have stirred to life once more. I know not why it happened, only that it has.”
Marion didn’t understand. She’d never heard there was another side to the ancient tale. Her mother had said nothing of dark forces. Of anyone else trying to take possession of the stone.
“An Englishman by the name of William Thornhurst. He took the stone and disappeared earlier today,” she explained. “You can detect malintent, can you not?”
“Aye, or at least, I believe so. I have always been able to sense when someone wishes harm to myself or someone I love. ’Tis why my mother was not surprised to see the mark. She always believed I would be the next Protector of the Stone, knowing each garners a special ability from it.”
“
I do not understand this man’s ability, but he was able to recognize the stone from where it was hidden, disguised as an ordinary rock. Though without my enchantment, it will now appear as it is, a precious emerald hanging from a chain of gold.”
Now Marion knew why the priestess continued to glance down into the pools.
“He has likely returned to England. To Camburg Castle. You must find him and recover the stone. He will reveal his purpose before two moons pass, so you must act quickly. Trust the stone or—”
“Scotland will suffer.” Her duty was clear, and Marion would not disappoint the priestess. Or her parents. Or Scotland. She would recover the stone from this Englishman before the time was up.
“Be careful,” the priestess said. “He is smart and strong. And—”
She hesitated.
“And?” Marion prompted her.
“Handsome.”
She nearly asked, Why should that matter? but held her tongue.
“Do not be deceived by him. The last time the stone fell into the hands of an Englishman, Scotland’s king lost Northumbria to King Henry.”
“Surely that was not because—”
“The fate of our land rests on the possession of that stone.”
The priestess was so confident and serious, Marion did not doubt the truth of her words.
Marion surprised herself by taking her advisor’s hands once again and squeezing them.
“I will recover the stone and protect it for the remainder of my days,” she said. “I will not disappoint you.”
The Protector's Promise (Border Series Book 7) Page 1