by Hazel Hunter
“Nor I a lady.” They should teach it, Ruadri thought, for surely none had ever done so well with the thing as they had. “I speak of the affliction.”
“What affliction?” she said against his mouth, slurring the words as she caressed him with her soft lips.
Ruadri forgot his intentions and shifted her into the cradle of his arm. He couldn’t get enough of her sweetness, and the thrill of holding her made the pleasure so keen he thought he might never end the kiss. He knew he should, but she’d stolen away all of his will. Some days from now they’d be found locked together like this, and even then, it would take all the clan to pry them apart.
“Wait.” She wrenched her mouth from his, and when he would have kissed her again she put her fingertips to his mouth. “Something’s wrong. My ankle.”
He heard her, but it took another moment to emerge from the sensual daze and put her at arm’s length. “I hurt you?”
“No.” She peered at her feet, and her eyes widened. “Look.”
Ruadri turned his head and saw only a shapely foot with no bruising or swelling. When he reached to touch it, a pale white glow radiated from his forearm to her flesh, settling in the cuts there and reshaping them into a crescent.
His moon had marked her, and it should have shocked him. Instead Ruadri traced the curving scar, feeling a possessive pride, and felt her shiver beneath the crescent.
“You’ve been healed,” he told her, glancing at her flushed face. He saw no fear in her eyes, only bewilderment. “’Twas my battle spirit. It marked you with its crescent.”
“But it didn’t take away these feelings.” Emeline pressed her hand to her abdomen. “I can still feel it growing, like an infection. But that’s not right. I can’t be sick. Cade told Lily that anyone with druid blood is healed of their wounds and illnesses after they come through a portal.” Her shoulders drooped. “Maybe I’m not druid kind after all.”
“If ’twere so, you wouldnae be such a powerful soul-sharer.” Ruadri thought for a moment. “When you were with Hendry and Murdina at the mill, did either put hands on you?”
“They both did.” A shudder ran through her. “So did some of the famhairean. I always felt sick after it. Sometimes I couldn’t hold down my food for the next day.”
All became clear to Ruadri then. Over time she had likely absorbed through touch the druids’ anger and lunacy, as well as the giants’ blind hatred of all humans. Such a combination would have slowly driven any soul-sharer mad.
“’Tis how you became afflicted,” he told her. “Emeline, you must dispel these dark feelings from you.”
“I don’t know how to do that. Do you?” When he shook his head, she wrapped her arms around her waist. “What happens now? Do I go crazy, like them?”
“No, my lady. I’ve sent a message to an old, wise druid who mayhap can help. I’ll send another, urging his reply.”
“We dinnae—don’t have that much time.” She swallowed hard. “It’s growing too fast. I think in a few hours I’ll lose control again, the way I did with Rowan. You should keep me here or toss me into a…” She paused and stared at him. “If you took me through a portal to a safe place, and then brought me back here, do you think it would remove the emotions they put inside me?”
Ruadri knew the sacred oak groves would heal damage done to any mortal with druid blood—both to the body and the spirit, according to what Galan had told him. To take her to the portal would defy Brennus’s orders. He’d have to secret her out of the stronghold. Yet even if he returned her whole and well to Dun Mor, the chieftain might still choose to send her to her blood-kin. Then he realized how he could prevent that.
“We shall attempt it,” he told her, and helped her to her feet. “Can you walk unhindered?”
Emeline took a few steps. “Yes. I’ll need some boots, and a cloak to cover me.” She smiled at him. “Thank you for this.”
“’Twas your notion,” he said, making himself smile back.
Ruadri guided her over to the rope ladder, and hoisted her up before he climbed with her out of the eagalsloc. Because she didn’t know he was half-druid, she remained unaware that he could also control the portal. He would direct it to send her to the only place where she would be safe. There she would arrive healed and ready to go on living the life she’d been born to.
To keep Emeline from going mad, or becoming a pawn of the McAra, Ruadri had to send her to her own time.
Chapter Seven
CHILL AND WEARINESS took turns gnawing on Bhaltair Flen’s bones as his mount clopped along the midlands road. Overhead flocks of small birds flitted hastily south, chased to warmer climes by the arrival of the bitter dark months of winter. He envied their wisdom, for if he’d had any sense he’d be safely installed in his cottage now, sipping brew by the hearth as he pondered matters important to no one but himself.
Only the cottage and his quiet life there had been destroyed. After finding the druid settlement abandoned, Hendry Greum and his famhairean had set fire to Bhaltair’s home. According to reports from the druid watchers not even the old pear tree had survived the flames. It had been like losing part of himself. He’d lived in that cottage for all of his current incarnation, and two others before that. And while the loss of his home could not compare in scope to the many villages and countless lives destroyed by the mad druids and their giants, it was as if he’d lost yet another old friend.
Hendry had a talent for inflicting wounds that could never entirely heal.
Bhaltair knew some of his pain came from the exhaustion dogging him. He’d had no time to rest when he’d returned to Aviemore. The meeting with Brennus Skaraven and Maddock McAra demanded he set off for the midlands directly. The weight of his responsibilities challenged the limits of his strength and vitality, both of which he knew to be failing him. He’d been sleeping harder and deeper these last weeks, and had trouble rising near every morn.
Not for the first time did he wonder if he truly was getting too old to manage the onerous duties thrust upon him. What other druid of his age and stature trotted about the countryside chasing immortal warriors and their deranged enemies? Yet he would not complain, for it had been his grievous mistakes made in a previous life that had done much to help create this nightmare. It had been his plan to trap the immortal famhairean in a wood henge for all eternity. He’d also cast Hendry and Murdina into the stone of the Storr on Skye, also imprisoned there as immortals so they could not reincarnate.
It should have kept the mortal realm safe, but Bhaltair’s plan had utterly failed. Something in the distant future had set all of them free, and they had returned to this time to take up again their evil work. Once they destroyed him and his tribe, the traitors meant to exterminate all human kind from the earth—and now they had the power to do so.
Bhaltair had summoned the only ally that druid kind had to stand against the mad druids and their giants: the Skaraven Clan. He had awakened them from their graves as immortals, and in return for the tremendous gift, he had asked they help protect mortal and druid kind. It had stunned him when they’d flatly refused and used their new powers to disappear into the highlands. Only recently had he been able to persuade Brennus Skaraven to meet and talk with him again on the matter.
This meeting at the McAra stronghold would be the most important of Bhaltair’s existence. If he could not persuade the chieftain to fight once more for them, druid kind would be doomed to extinction. Ultimately, so would every living human in the world.
He left his troubled thoughts when his acolyte trotted up beside him. Oriana Embry’s young face glowed with rosy color, and excitement sparkled in her usually serene eyes. “My thanks for permitting me to accompany you, Master. I shall attempt to make myself useful.”
He gave her a reassuring smile. “You are that and a joy, my dear one.”
Privately Bhaltair still wondered if he’d made the right decision in allowing her to join him on this sojourn. Oriana had barely begun her druid training with him, so she ha
d few skills with which to defend herself. She’d also repeatedly shown contempt and anger toward the Skaraven Clan, whom she partly blamed for her grandfather Gwyn’s gruesome death. But the lass was very young and determined to be of use to him. Indeed, her devotion to serving and protecting Bhaltair had already caused her to defy his instructions several times and follow him into dangerous predicaments. This time he’d brought her along simply to keep her placated, and where he’d known she could come to no harm.
They reached the druid settlement at the edge of McAra territory late that afternoon. Along the edges of the midland pastures and grain fields stood a wide, dense stand of evergreens that seemed to stretch the length of the horizon. Several young druids in dark robes emerged from the tree cover. Carrying golden scythes, they moved to block the road.
“Name yourselves,” one of the druids called out.
“Bhaltair Flen and Oriana Embry.” He slowly dismounted and stood still as they approached for a closer inspection. “I sent word by dove to your headman to expect us.”
“Forgive our caution, Master Flen,” a red-haired youth said, coming forward and bowing low. “The havoc caused by the traitors and their monsters has made us all uneasy.”
“Never apologize for protecting your tribe, lad,” Bhaltair told him, and touched his shoulder. “I sent my own into hiding to do the same.”
The other defenders took charge of the mounts, while Oriana unfastened their satchels and carried them into the trees. The pines and firs rustled around them before fading away as they breached the illusion spell, and entered a small, prosperous-looking settlement of cottages.
The Sky Thatch tribe had already harvested their food and spell gardens, and the surrounding fields had been well-readied for the cold season with layers of oak leaf and bog mud. Beneath the snow the layers would slowly rot and nourish the soil until the time came for spring planting. A bare-branched apple orchard behind some storage barns had also been properly prepared, the trunks of the youngest trees wrapped in protective hemp cloth to prevent the thin bark from frost-splitting.
The red-haired lad escorted them to the headman’s cottage and waited until an even younger druid emerged before bowing and departing. The headman’s adolescent appearance belied his pure white hair and the ancient craftiness in his eyes.
“I’d welcome you, old foe, but I dinnae care for uttering falsehoods.”
The insult made Bhaltair chuckle. “Nor would I expect them from an elder with such cheek as you, Fingal Tullach.” He regarded Oriana, who stared wide-eyed at the headman. “My acolyte, Oriana Embry, who now thinks us both deranged.”
“Mistress Embry.” Fingal smiled and bowed to her. “Come in and warm yourselves by the hearth. Cora has used the last of her strength to prepare hot brew and pottage for you.”
“I’ve more strength in my smallest finger than you’ve in the whole of that skinny carcass, Beloved,” an older woman’s voice called from the cottage.
Inside the simply-furnished home a petite elderly woman stood filling bowls on a table with a thick vegetable stew. Her wrinkled face and work-worn hands did not eclipse her natural beauty, Bhaltair thought, but rendered it more obvious, like a bloom shedding petals. She glanced up and glared at Fingal before she regarded Bhaltair and Oriana with a more benign expression.
“Never listen to a word that comes from my husband’s lips,” Cora Tullach said, winking at Oriana. “He’s ever the poor jester. I reckon the Gods must toss him from the well each time he arrives.”
The young lass glanced at Fingal. “Forgive me, but the two of you are…mated?”
Both of the Tullachs laughed.
“Aye, lass, in this and every other incarnation,” the headman told her. “We’re destined to find each other no matter when we return from the well of stars—and to love no other.”
Bhaltair was surprised to see Oriana’s mouth flatten, and murmured to her, “They’re soul-mated—pledged to share every incarnation as husband and wife.”
“Ah.” Her expression cleared. “I’ve heard of such, of course, but they’re so rare.”
“Aye, few like us will mate, for ’tis eternal, and the time of rebirth cannae be chosen. Likely when I next come back he’ll be the old one, and we’ll scandalize the next generation anew.” Cora gazed fondly at Fingal. “We dinnae mind so much, even when we must wait for the other to grow enough to bond proper.”
“’Tis a true testament to love and patience.” Bhaltair saw his acolyte blink rapidly, as if fighting tears, and knew her sorrow over Gwyn’s death remained keen. “Fingal, might I beg some joint salve, if you have any? My knee sorely plagues me.”
“I’ve a crock in the back pantry,” Cora told them as she picked up a covered basket. “I’m off now to look in on Magda and her new bairn.” She nodded to Oriana before leaving the cottage.
Once he and the headman had moved out of the acolyte’s earshot, Bhaltair said, “Some weeks past the lass lost her grandfather to torture and murder by the famhairean.”
“Ah, that explains her forlorn looks.” Fingal nodded as he stopped in front of a wall of shelves filled with pots, bottles and crockery. “With a troubled heart, she should be with her tribe.”
“I cannae bring myself to send her home. She’s an orphan with no blood-kin left, and they mean her for tending sheep.” He grimaced. “She’s a born speak-seer, Fin. Someday to become one of the most powerful among us, I believe.”
“By the Gods. No wonder you keep her close.” The headman took down a cloth-covered jar. “Cora makes this from heather flower, dock root and mallow leaf. I’ve more of the root, and yarrow as well, if you’d want a potion to help.”
Bhaltair shook his head. “I’ve meadowsweet for the pain. Dock root ever turns my teeth black and makes me doze, and my slumber has been too heavy of late. Fin, I shallnae take Oriana with me on the morrow. She’s no’ yet learned to guard her tongue, and I cannae risk riling the Skaraven. But if I leave her behind, she’ll try to follow after me.”
“Ever determined the young—as well I ken.” The headman chuckled. “Leave her to us. We’ll keep her from causing mischief. One of our brothers cares for injured birds, and among them he has a pair of newly-hatched owlets. I’ll go to Magda’s now and speak to Cora on arranging a visit in the morning.”
Out at the dining table Oriana sat waiting for him, her food untouched. “Do you wish me to help with your knee, Master?”
“’Twill wait.” Bhaltair put down the salve crock before he eased down on the bench seat across from her. As soon as he smelled Cora’s brew he knew it contained honey, which would likely keep him awake half the night. “I cannae drink sweet brew this so late,” he told Oriana, pushing away the mug. “Would you fetch me a cup of water from the kitchen, dear one?”
“Of course, Master.” The acolyte smiled as she rose and walked into the next room.
Bhaltair had little appetite, and noticed that the amount of pottage in Oriana’s bowl was slightly less than his own. He switched the bowls, pouring half of his back into the pot to make it appear as if he’d eaten a portion.
“Mistress Tullach’s broth smells delicious,” Oriana said as she set down the cup beside him.
“’Tis the herbs she uses, I reckon.” He forced down a few mouthfuls while he watched the lass devour her bowl. “I didnae remember to bring food for the journey here. Forgive me for starving you, dear one.”
“You ate naught on the way either,” she scolded gently, nodding at his unfinished bowl. “You should have the rest, to keep up your strength, Master.”
With a sigh Bhaltair spooned up the last of the pottage, and then sipped some of the cool water she’d brought. “Oriana, when we’re done here, I shall take you to visit your tribe.”
“If ’tis your wish, Master, of course.” She rested her chin on her hand. “I should like to show you my grandfather’s home. He has…he had so many beautiful spell scrolls. He would spend every night illuminating them. I’d watch him at the work for hours.
”
He saw how her gaze had gone dreamy, as it often did when she retreated to happier times with her grandfather. Yet she was too young to have spent all her days doting on Gwyn. It perplexed him, for he knew his old friend preferred his solitude. Why hadn’t Gwyn convinced Oriana to keep more company with druids of her own age?
“Perhaps ’twould be better to reunite with your friends among the tribe,” Bhaltair suggested. “Surely they miss you as much.”
“I had no friends. The other druidesses didnae care for me.” Her voice grew dull. “They spoke against me in secret, or when they reckoned I wouldnae hear. But I did. ’Twas very hard to bear. I oft thought…” A yawn interrupted her. “Gods above, but I’m so tired.”
Filled with new sympathy, Bhaltair reached to pat her hand. “We all struggle with such dark feelings in the presence of one so naturally gifted as you.”
Oriana blinked at him. “Did you envy Gwyn?”
“More oft than I care to recall.” He sighed. “All who came to ken your grandfather loved him. He could charm anyone, but even more, he could truly befriend them. Never had I such sway over the hearts of others.”
“No one loved him as I did.” She rubbed her eyes before she slowly finished her pottage.
Past her shoulder he saw the bespelled night torches outside flare to life and shed their golden glow over Fingal and several older druids gathered around him. From their expressions they spoke of some amusement, for they laughed before parting. Seeing that small, simple exchange made him long for his own tribe, and talk of things that made them feel such happiness.
Tomorrow he would have none of that with Brennus Skaraven, but he would attempt to at least keep things civil. If the chieftain had wanted him dead, he would have killed him after the clan’s awakening, at the old burial site. Bhaltair also suspected Brennus had not confided all to the McAra, or the laird would hardly welcome him.
I must make amends to the Skaraven for what was stolen from them, but how?