The Blooded Ones

by Elizabeth Brown

  “Winn?” Maggie whispered.

  “I will do it,” Winn said. So his brother was near as well, as it should be. He hoped Chetan was there to show him to the spirit world. He would be very angry at them if his spirit should wander.

  He felt her fingers twist into those of his good left hand. He thought he squeezed them, but he was not certain until he heard her let out a sob and then he instantly regretted it. He could not raise his limbs to comfort her. He did not want her to cry for him.

  A baby squealed. It was a hearty bellow from a robust babe. He recalled Winn saying what a plump greedy fellow Young Dagr was growing into. He was the only newborn in the village; it could be no other than the cry of the blooded MacMhaolian.

  Suddenly a warmth washed over him. He heard the voices fade to murmurs, and the scent of blood filled his dried nostrils. Yes, it was unmistakable, the scent of death. Or was it the aroma of life? His chest felt heavy, as if it meant to burst free from his body, and with one sweeping whoosh he felt air rush into his broken lungs. He cried out when his back arched and the fire left him, replaced by a gentle wave of mist that settled him softly back onto the pallet. Like a mischievous tingle of life it embraced him, dancing around him, holding him within the sweetness that was living. He felt it trickle away and he felt bereaved of it.

  “Come back,” he whispered. A resultant chucked erupted around him, and then the images began to slowly focus in his vision.

  “Ye canna keep them, lad,” Gwen laughed.

  “Rebecca?” he replied. More laughter.

  “I’m here, husband,” she whispered. He brushed the smeared dirt and tears from her cheek. He recalled it all now, and he felt shame for doubting her. She smiled and kissed his fingers, not budging when Gwen tried to shove her aside to make him drink.

  Chetan stood next to Winn at his bedside, and they both smiled. Winn’s arms were wrapped firmly around Maggie’s waist, and in her arms she clutched Young Dagr. When Makedewa met the boy’s gaze, the infant stared calmly back as if he knew his exalted blood had saved a life. The boy had a fresh bandage on his heel.

  Something had happened to him, beyond the scope of sense or reason. It was nothing that could be explained by legend or lore, nor by the Great Creator or God himself. It was simply the heart of a child, the blood of an ancient one, given freely by those who guarded him.

  With his wife clutching his hand and his brothers at his side, suddenly he knew he had everything to live for. He had everything to fight for, everything to protect. And it was more than any man could ask for in one meager lifetime.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. He met Maggie’s gaze, and she smiled back.

  When Gwen gave him the elixir to ease the ache in his healing body, it also brought him a short measure of sleep. The irony of waking in the Northern Hall was not lost on him; the Noroanveror Skali was the place they had taken Marcus when they knew his time was short. He supposed it was only natural to bring him there when they knew his wound was fatal, and fatal it would have been but for the blood of his brother’s son.

  The others did not notice him rouse as they sat drinking mead around the long table, too caught up in their argument to see him wake. It was the vehement disagreement that stirred him from slumber, so loud he was surprised the women were not cackling at the men like hens over it.

  “Kaleb saved my brother’s life by bringing him here,” Winn announced.

  A chorus of dissention rose like a rumble through the older men, especially Erich. Makedewa could pick out his seething grunt amongst the others with ease.

  “The lass saved yer brother. The Englishman would have run. He’s a coward, and now he knows too much,” Erich answered. Although others voiced their support of Erich, he was the only one who would openly voice his opposition to Winn. Makedewa expected Cormaic to support his father and he was almost disappointed when he did not. Cormaic stood amongst the men to make his point.

  “We canna kill him. He’s done no wrong. It was our fault he saw what he saw, we shoulda thought to keep him out. But see it, he did, and now he knows what Young Dagr is. Let it rest on us to protect our own, as it always has. We are no better than the English if we kill him for crimes he has not yet committed.” Cormaic said. It was a wise speech, more than was usual for Cormaic, and Makedewa wondered if age and time had not given him more heart and brain than his brawn. If so, he would serve Winn well. Chief Winn needed men to challenge him, to make him think when there was so much at stake.

  Until Young Dagr’s blood had saved his life, Makedewa had not realized how much they had to lose. It was worth all of them to protect it, yet with that responsibility a great patience was needed. They needed a level head, a calm disposition, the strength to take care and step back before one stepped into battle.

  Makedewa sat up from the fur covered pallet.

  “Cormaic is right. Let him go. He will not share our secret. I shall take it on myself to stand for him.”

  His muscles ached on the side where he had taken the blade, but when he stretched his shoulders back and raised his arms above his head they loosened quite nicely. He ached as if he had slumbered for days, not a few hours, and his skin prickled at the surge of sensation that washed over his flesh. He felt renewed. Alive. And he owed that in part to Kaleb Tucker.

  “If Makedewa stands for him, then I shall let no man bring him harm,” Winn said. “The Englishman will have my protection to return home.”

  “Aye, Chief!” Erich shouted, raising his tankard in salute. The others milling about the table responded in kind, and Cormaic stood up to echo his agreement to his Chief with a wide grin gracing his blond bearded face.

  Makedewa placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder. Chetan was conspicuously absent from the celebration. When Makedewa made his exit and left the Northern Hall in search of his wife, he found his brother by the fire with Rebecca. Kaleb sat alongside, entranced by the dance before him.

  Chetan crouched down, then rose up, his movements fluid as he waved the essence of life toward the fire. He held Rebecca’s hand as she mimicked the dance at his side, dressed only in a simple thin shift that showed the curve of her sculpted calves as she twirled. Her hair was loose, alive around her shoulders, and she closed her eyes as Chetan uttered the magical chant. Makedewa recognized the ancient dance, one meant to show the life force to the afterworld, to ensure a speedy journey free from the temptation of an earthy life. Sometimes it was difficult for a spirit to leave ones it loved; it wished to cling to those earthbound beings like stubborn moss to a stone. With the sacred dance, the spirit was shown the proper way to leave, ensuring it a place alongside the Great Creator.

  He watched them silently until they finished, and then he joined them beside the fire. Eyes glowing like embers, Rebecca smiled when Chetan placed her hand into his.

  “Young Dagr gifted you a spirit. You asked it to stay, brother. You know you cannot keep a spirit bound to you,” Chetan said.

  “No, I cannot. But this woman here, I can keep her bound to me. That is something I can do,” he replied. “If she wishes it, that is.”

  “I do wish it. I meant every word of my vows. And I shall keep my word … if only I have a promise from ye,” Rebecca said softly. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Oh? If you ask it of me, then you shall have it.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead to his. He could feel the curve of her body fit neatly into his, and he was pleased to feel that his body was blessedly intact in every way.

  “Never doubt me again. Trust in me as I trust in ye.”

  She kissed him gently on the lips, despite the audience around them, then raised her brow at him in question.

  “Well?” she asked, her words throaty and low.

  “You have it, wife. It is yours.”

  Makedewa and Rebecca rode out with Kaleb to the edge of the meadow, well past the entrance to the narrow path through the hills. It was far enough away that Kaleb would not easily find his way back, a
nd they decided that it was better that way for all of them. With Kaleb’s pledge to never speak of the magic he witnessed, Makedewa took that vow and held onto it. After all, the man had helped haul him back to the village, and thus saved his life. The Englishman could have taken Rebecca back to Elizabeth City and left him for dead. That knowledge alone was enough to give Makedewa some confidence in his honor.

  When Kaleb turned back to them, his eyes fell downcast and his shoulders slumped. It was a small gesture, but enough for Makedewa to see the man meant what he said: he would keep his word of silence, although he knew he might face questioning for it. A thought of running the Englishman through with his knife entered Makedewa’s thoughts. It was a fire, smoldering under his skin, the urge to silence the voice from the coward’s lips nearly leaving him singed.

  Yet feeling the young woman beside him, so close that her golden hair grazed his skin, gave him the strength to battle down the rage as it surfaced. Another death would serve no one; and in this acquiescence, Makedewa felt the debt was paid, if ever there was one.

  “Go. Take her, take the horses. Go back to yer people,” Kaleb demanded. “Make haste. Let me never see ye again.”

  Makedewa swung up on the horse. Rebecca took his hand and lifted up effortlessly behind him. She was nothing like the frightened girl he had rescued from the Massacre that day.

  “Indian,” Kaleb called out in a strangled voice.

  Makedewa swung the horse around.

  “I knew what he did at Henricus. I did nothing. I knew it, and I did nothing,” Kaleb said hoarsely. “I was weak. I am sorry.”

  He felt Rebecca’s fingers tighten into the fabric of his tunic, her hands clenched into fists at his sides. Makedewa stared down at the man, and as he looked into the Englishman’s eyes he felt something leave him. It was a hint of the spirit, the whisper of a life past, and he was glad to see it go.

  “I know, Kaleb,” Makedewa replied. “I know.”

  He turned the horse toward home, and this time it was Rebecca who planted her heels into the beast to urge it on.

  CHAPTER 18

  Benjamin

  THEIR WEDDING WAS a muted affair. Attended by Agnarr and a decidedly complacent Reinn with a fresh bandage on his hand, Benjamin expected to be struck down by lightening before they left the church. After all, was it not a sin to enter into marriage with lies between two people? Whatever truth could be said, at least Benjamin knew Jora was glad to be at his side, and that was much more than he could say for his previous marriage.

  He shook off the memory. It was not one he would think on.

  Not ever again.

  For all intent and purpose, he was a man without kin, a man with no blood ties. The closest tie to the past he now had was the man standing beside him, a filthy rich blond-haired devil with a spawn of loyal Englishmen in his employ. Somehow there was a connection between them, and someday Benjamin knew he would find it. It would take patience, he must be canny; he could make no mistake in his quest to reveal what need Agnarr had for the blooded MacMhaolian.

  The memory of his father demanded it. The memory of his lost brother required it. As for love lost, well, perhaps some semblance of care might be gained through the alliance with Jora.

  She was a pleasing lass, quite bonny to look on, and for that alone he knew he was a fortunate man to have her as his wife. Women were still quite scarce in the colony, and to have a beautiful young lady at his side leant him an air of admiration among the men. This time he had given all he had for a woman he did not trust; perhaps as time wore on something more might come of their union.

  Benjamin and Jora would leave the plantation to live at the tavern in Elizabeth City in the morning, but their wedding night would be spent at Wakehill. He was eager to have it finished and be gone from Agnarr’s watchful eye. Both he and Jora would rest easier without the constant supervision.

  As Benjamin prepared to enter his room, Agnarr stopped him with an offer of brandy. It was an expensive batch, newly acquired off a ship from England. Agnarr consumed only the best, and Benjamin supposed he should feign a gracious attitude that his benefactor shared it.

  “Thank ye,” he murmured, sipping the brandy as quickly as he could without causing offense. Agnarr noticed, of course, in that introspective manner he had of seeing through the façade of any man. This time, however, he played it off to Benjamin’s eagerness to bed his bride, and a wide grin graced his face as he sipped.

  “Such a hurry? Well, I shall not keep ye from yer task,” Agnarr chuckled. Benjamin gripped his crystal glass, wanting nothing more than to smash it into Agnarr’s smirking face. Instead, he smiled and tipped the glass gracefully to his benefactor.

  “Did ye learn much from yer Time Walker kin, lad?”

  Benjamin froze with his hand on the door latch. Why would Agnarr bring such a thing up now?

  “Nay. I knew nothing. I told ye, I was a boy when I traveled,” he replied. He did not turn back to Agnarr, hoping it would be the last of his inquiry.

  “Well. Then I suppose ye do not know if ye were bled when ye were a bairn, now would ye?”

  At this Benjamin stirred, his curiosity piqued. Bled?

  Always up for a story, Agnarr noted his interest and continued on to explain.

  “Ye see, when a Blooded One’s child is born, or even the child of a Chief Protector’s line, there is a ceremony to… let’s say, test the blood. It takes only a drop from a true Blooded MacMhaolian to give life to the dead. Are ye sure ye know nothing of this tale, lad?”

  Benjamin shook his head. In his time in the village, he had heard not a whisper of such a thing. For once he was glad he had not learned enough from his father; if he knew any more, it would be too easy to see it in his face, and knowledge of any such powerful magic was exactly what Agnarr sought.

  “I see not why this should concern me tonight,” Benjamin muttered, refusing to meet Agnarr’s gaze. He heard the man utter a soft laugh.

  “Not tonight, lad. It shallna concern ye tonight. Enjoy yer bride. I wish ye happy tidings in yer new marriage…and many children.”

  Benjamin entered the room without another glance at Agnarr, still clutching the crystal glass in his hand. He slammed it down onto the mantel along with his fist. Whatever evil Agnarr plotted, Benjamin would find it. Agnarr’s newest story was just one more reason to strengthen his resolve.

  “Benjamin?”

  Her voice was tentative, soft. Like her skin when he turned and took her in his arms. Jora did not merely yield to his touch, she welcomed it, seeking to shed him of his clothes as fast as he meant to rid her of her gown.

  If he was meant to be a wicked man without honor, then so be it. As he sank down into the bed with his wife he thought, wickedness and betrayal could be no sweeter.

  ALL THAT REMAINS

  BOOK 4

  Prologue

  James County, Virginia

  October 2012

  Winn

  He ran his hand over his head, his fingers brushing down through the prickly short hairs on his fresh shorn scalp. It felt strange without the weight of his braid down his back, and he could feel the autumn breeze at his nape as he crouched down. The journey through time had been very much as Maggie described; pulling his body down, the unseen force urging him to submit, until finally, when he pressed his face to the earth the sky exploded into darkness.

  He woke lying flat on his back, staring up at grey storm clouds overhead. Scattered raindrops dotted his skin as he sat up. As he looked around to gain some sense of reality, he saw an English-style house with the soft glow of lights inside through the glass windows. To his other side was a large red barn with the door slightly ajar. The future had some fragrance of the past, but most of the scents assaulting his senses were dank. As he crept up to the house and kneeled down next to the window, he could hear the sound of a man speaking. Without being able to see who was in the house, he could only assume the man was daft by the way he carried on a conversation alone. He peered through
the window and saw one of the things Maggie had described to him. It was a picture box, one where people acted out stories on a flat screen. Although his wife had told him it was called a television, his heart still raced at the sight of it and he recalled a fight they once had.

  “You have no idea what my life was like!” she shouted.

  Yes, she was right.

  No matter how much she described the future, he still had no idea. The truth of her words felt heavy in his belly as he sat there in her future time, so far away from all those he loved. What if he was unable to return to them?

  Winn swallowed hard and took a deep breath. There was no time for hesitation. He needed to find Marcus and get what he came for. As he stood up, suddenly the door flew open and slammed against the shingles of the house and a woman stalked outside past him. She clutched a red coat around herself, muttering under her breath as she bent her head against the wind.

  His heart hammered in his chest as she turned his way. Her auburn hair whipped over her shoulder and her soft green eyes lay beneath red-rimmed eyelids. Her face was round and she carried more weight on her frame as she had on the day they met, and as he took in the rest of her attire he could hear his own pulse throbbing in his head.

  Maggie stood in front of him.

  The denim trousers, the heavy buckskin colored boots. The strap of a pink undergarment peeking out at one shoulder where her thin cotton shirt exposed her skin. She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her trousers and raised her eyebrows at him. Defiant and unamused, the woman who would someday be his wife stared at him with restrained indifference.

  “Well?” Maggie said, as if he had failed to answer a question. His words caught between his dry lips as he stumbled over what to say to her. She made no effort to hide her eyes as she surveyed him head to foot, her brows squinting down and her lips pursed. If he had ever thought her behavior bold before, the way she confronted him now leant some indication of how she was accustomed to speaking to men.