Anywhere in Time (Magic of Time Book 2) Page 2

  “My thanks, little sister,” he said, gently removing her arms from around his neck so that he could straighten up. “Now, doona you fash yer pretty head over Orabilis for one more moment, aye?”

  “Aye,” she agreed, backing away as he mounted the big, black horse he favored.

  A slight pressure on the reins and he trotted toward the portcullis, turning only once to lift his hand in farewell before passing through the gates and out onto the road.

  The creaking of chains sounded as the iron grate slid shut behind him and, for the first time in many days, he felt as if he could draw the breath of a free man.

  He loved his little sister and had nothing but admiration for the man she’d married. Christiana and Chase had gone above and beyond in their efforts to make him feel welcome during his stay. But since that night out on the parapet, he’d wanted nothing so much as to be gone from this place. On that night, alone in the glow of the setting sun, he’d realized that the happiness he saw his sister and her new husband sharing could well be his own. All he’d needed was to accept his feelings for the woman he’d left behind at Castle MacGahan. If she felt for him as he felt for her? Well, then, everything else be damned. They’d find a way to make it work.

  He licked his lips and could well imagine the taste of her lingered there still, even though it had been over three months since he’d been compelled to steal the kiss that had changed his life.

  A smile spread over his face as he anticipated his future for perhaps the first time since his childhood. As the third son of the MacDowylt laird, his lot in life had never been to marry well and settle into a home of his own. As third son, the best he could hope for was a trusted place in his brother’s home.

  But all of that had changed the night he’d dared to rashly give in to his desire to kiss Syrie. From that moment, the need to be with her had taken root. The root had spread as he’d spent time with Christiana and Chase. If ever there had been a love story that shouldn’t have been, their story was it. If they could find their happiness, then there was a chance for him to find his, as well.

  It wouldn’t be long now. A few hours’ delay, at most, as he checked on Orabilis and then he’d ride like the wind, determined to reach Castle MacGahan in record time. The stars in his life were aligning at last.

  His optimism lasted no more than an hour, dying a sudden death as, in the distance, he spotted the wagon Orabilis had been driving when she’d left Tordenet the day before. From all appearances, his sister had been right in her worries. The wagon lay tipped on its side, the horses and their rigging nowhere in sight.

  For a moment Patrick considered that Orabilis might have continued on her journey home with the missing animals. But when the bundle of cloth beside the wagon began to move, he knew he’d been wrong.

  Urging his mount to speed, he reached the wagon in a matter of seconds and jumped from his horse’s back to kneel beside the old woman.

  “Tell me where yer hurt, Orabilis,” he said, praying she’d open her eyes. When she did, he slid his hand over her forehead. “Can you speak to me?”

  “Of course I can speak, whelp,” she growled, though not with her usual vigor.

  For a fact, she actually smiled, in spite of her words.

  “Can you stand?”

  She shook her head. “No’ on my own, I fear. My knee fair twisted under me when the wagon sent me for a tumble. Save that, I could have walked home by now.”

  Patrick lifted her in his arms, ignoring her little squeak of surprise when he stood.

  “Here now, lad, what do you think yer about? Put me down.”

  He ignored her protests, climbing up on his horse while doing his best not to jostle her too much. “We’ll get you back to Tordenet where Christiana can have a look at you.”

  “Oh, no, you willna,” the old woman protested. “You’ll take me to my own cottage, where I belong. I can see to my own healing, thank you very much.”

  “I’m sure you can,” he said quietly, continuing on the course he’d already set. “But we’ll no’ take a chance on that for now.”

  “Do you have any idea what I could do to you for yer disobedience, lad?” she protested, actually putting some strength into her struggles this time, though it wasn’t enough to deter him.

  “I’ve an idea,” he answered, urging the horse to move more quickly. “But I’m also well aware of what my wee sister is capable of when she’s riled. That being the case, we’ll give her a go at you first. Then, when she gives us leave, you’ve my word that I’ll personally see you home safely. Now quiet yer fussing before you make that knee worse than it already is.”

  As if mollified by his promise, the old woman stilled in his arms and seemed to relax.

  They rode in silence for close to an hour before she spoke again.

  “Was it by accident you found me?” she asked.

  “Only if you’d consider Christiana’s concerns for you an accident,” he responded, grinning down at her.

  “I see,” she murmured, as if considering what to say next. “I take it that means you detoured from yer travels back to Castle MacGahan to check on me.”

  “Aye,” he responded. “It was the only way to soothe my sister’s fears. Well-founded fears, I might add, considering yer plight when I came upon you.”

  Again they rode in silence, this time until the white walls of Tordenet shone in the distance. As they approached the big gate, Orabilis spoke once again.

  “You always were a good brother to Christiana, Patrick MacDowylt, and I can see you’ve grown into a fine man, as well. Though you rescued me for the sake of yer sister, you still rescued me, all the same. For that rescue, I’m in yer debt.” The old woman was quiet for a moment, then she turned her face up to him, a wide smile stretching her thin lips. “And let me assure you, lad, there are far worse things than having old Orabilis owe you a favor, aye?”

  “Aye,” he agreed, returning her smile. “I’d well suppose there are.”

  Who could say? Though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine a need arising, one day he just might want to call on her for that favor.

  Chapter 3

  Wyddecol

  Land of the Faerie

  “Do you deny any of the charges for which you stand accused?”

  Deny the charges? No, she could not. But Syrie fairly ached to explain why she’d done each of the things the Reader of Complaints had enumerated.

  Instead, she gritted her teeth together to keep herself from speaking. Explanations would do her no good here. While the Mortal world functioned in shades of gray, the world of Faerie consisted of only black and white when it came to their laws. In this place, in front of the High Council, there existed only right and wrong, guilty and innocent, with no room in between for explanations or reasons.

  That had always been Syrie’s problem. Her mind and her heart functioned best in that nebulous in-between, in the gray world of contradictions. Perhaps that was why she’d always felt so comfortable in the Mortal world. She knew right from wrong as well as the next person, but, sometimes, obeying the rules felt more wrong than treading into the waters of the forbidden.

  “Surely you must have realized the risk the Earth Mother took on your behalf when she, herself, broke the rules to allow you to cross through the veil between worlds with your Magic fully intact. And yet, in spite of the risk to you and to her, you disobeyed her instructions and used that Magic whenever you saw fit, without regard to the rules so meticulously crafted by the Lawgivers of Wyddecol. You disobeyed even after warnings were sent to you. Repeated warnings, I might add.” The Supreme Leader of the High Council peered over the top of the scroll she held in her hands, her disapproving eyes shifting from Syrie to the Earth Mother and back again. “At this time, we enter into the record all the individual instances where your lack of control and good judgment led you down the wrong path. It is not our task to judge you as a good or bad being, Elesyria Aĺ Byrn. It is our task to see to it that you are held responsible for th
e rules you have broken. As a result, we are in unanimous agreement that you must pay for your repeated willful disobedience, and your punishment has been determined to see that you do exactly that.”

  Keeping her head bowed, Syrie cast a covert glance toward the Earth Mother, as if there might be some reprieve coming from that direction. She should have known better. The Goddess sat in her chair, back ramrod straight, any emotions she might have felt securely hidden, except for her oddly pursed lips.

  No help would be coming from that quarter.

  Perhaps the Council would be lenient. Perhaps they wouldn’t sentence her to anything as severe as living out her days in the Earth Mother’s Temple. Perhaps, if anything, they’d choose to exile her to the Mortal world, to live out her days without her Magic, as if she were but a regular Mortal.

  Her heart quickened at the thought. While it would surely seem a harsh punishment to the Council, it wouldn’t really be so bad. Not for her, anyway. The loss of her Magic would pain her deeply, but she could be with Patrick. Exile was the most severe punishment she’d ever heard meted out by the High Council, and then only for the most serious of offenses. Surely, the things she’d done could hardly be considered among the most serious.

  And yet one look at the faces of the Council members assured her that they must consider her transgressions among the worst they’d ever encountered.

  The Council members rose from their seats as one and slowly made their way, single file, to the chamber floor where Syrie stood. They stopped only after they’d formed a circle, with her in the center.

  Once again, the Supreme Leader of the Council spoke, this time without her scroll in front of her.

  “Exile is your Judgment, Elesyria Aĺ Byrn. Exile to the Mortal Plain.”

  The Mortal Plain! Once again Syrie struggled to keep her eyes downcast. It was exactly as she’d hoped.

  “Through the River of Time,” the Supreme Leader continued, her voice droning on without any trace of emotion. “Stripped of your Magic and your memory.”

  “What?” Syrie exclaimed, her head snapping up so that she might meet the eyes of her judges.

  “Surely service in my Temple—” the Goddess said from behind her, but any protest was cut short.

  “Service as one of your handmaidens did nothing to prevent the transgressions for which she stands accused,” the Leader said. “If anything, her relationship to you only emboldened her disobedience.”

  “I see nothing in this punishment that will aid in her reform,” the Earth Mother said.

  “As we made no attempt to judge this woman as good or bad, so we make no attempt to reform her. Our judgment is that she be punished for what she did wrong. Punishment we mete out now.”

  The Council members joined hands and the first flicker of soul-searing pain racked through Syrie’s body. Like bolt after bolt of lightning, the pain burned through her body and her mind until she lost her ability to stand under her own strength and was held upright only by the strength of the power that continued to assault her.

  Wave after wave the attack continued, bringing a merciful blackness to close in around her, obliterating all thought. All thought except for the picture she held in her mind of Patrick’s face, the feel of his lips on hers, clinging to his image as if she could sear her memory of him so deeply into her soul it could never be taken away from her.

  Brave, strong Patrick. He would have withstood this, she had no doubt. For him, for her love of him, she struggled to hold on until, at last, even that one precious image dissolved, ripping a scream from her throat as the void took her, body and soul.

  * * *

  Being a Goddess was never easy. Especially not when the beings who’d raised you to the level of Deity put so much effort into stealing the power they’d bestowed upon you in the first place.

  The Earth Mother studied the members of the High Council circled around her handmaiden, wondering at their audacity. Didn’t they realize she could feel how they economized on the power they put into the Magic racking poor Elesyria’s body? Didn’t they realize she’d know what they plotted?

  Though, in their favor, she had been slow to recognize their intent until it was too late to prevent what they had so obviously planned. Even now she could feel the tendrils of their power winding around her body, encasing her, ensnaring her, sealing her away from her own power.

  Careless of her, really.

  This particular group of Fae, more than any in a very long time, was excessively power-hungry. From the time they’d deposed the royal family and banished the queen from Wyddecol, she’d suspected their ultimate intent. Oh, they said all the right things, did all the right things, held to all the proper rituals.

  But she’d known this day was coming. In her heart she’d known. It had been only a matter of time.

  Little doubt now that one of her trusted handmaidens was a traitor, loyal to the High Council rather than to the Goddess. She searched her memory, struggling to identify who it had been that had brought the High Council’s summon to this trial.

  In the center of the circle, Elesyria screamed, Magic sparkling and sizzling as her being faded and, after several long, agonizing moments, disappeared completely.

  If nothing else, the Earth Mother could be certain that Elesyria was not the traitor. Though the knowledge was of little use, it did give her some comfort. Elesyria had long been one of her favorites, as much for the depth of her raw abilities as for her wild and passionate nature. It was good to know that one such as she had not betrayed her Goddess.

  It was also good to know that through their choice of which handmaiden to sacrifice and how they had gone about the process, the High Council had unwittingly given the Goddess a potential weapon to use in regaining her own freedom.

  She might have thought it odd that this august group had opted to seal off the handmaiden’s Magic rather than strip it from her as they’d declared they would. Perhaps they didn’t remember the dangers of their actions. Perhaps they’d never known. More likely, their only thoughts had been for the preservation of their own powers so that, together, their circle of nine might imprison their Goddess. Only by combining their powers were they strong enough to accomplish such a thing.

  “True Love,” she whispered on a hiss of air, just before the tendrils of the High Council’s Magic thickened around her, encasing her in a semi-transparent tomb of pulsing silver light.

  “You know now, don’t you, Goddess?” the Supreme Leader asked. “Your Temple has been sealed, separating you from the Ether of your Magic. You are powerless now. A prisoner as much as your unfortunate handmaiden. We have won and Wyddecol is ours, without the need for a single hand lifted in violence.” A broad smile covered the woman’s face before she turned her back to make her way from the chamber, followed by the other eight members of the High Council.

  Yes, she knew well enough now. She knew of their treachery and something else, as well. The High Council had seriously miscalculated what had just happened here today. All was not lost for the Goddess. Though the nine usurpers may well have won this battle, the war was far from over. They might have sealed away the source of her power, but not before she’d released a weapon of her own. The most powerful Magic possible was loosed in the world, seeking a way to right the wrongs of this day. A Magic that, once set in motion, could never be defeated.

  The Magic of True Love.

  Chapter 4

  Highlands of Scotland

  1295

  The oft-delayed homecoming was so close, Patrick could almost hear the greetings of his family ringing in his ears. Anticipation pulsed in his chest, causing an unfamiliar bubble of discomfort to writhe deep in his belly. Perhaps it was excitement that had taken him captive.

  Castle MacGahan rose above him in the distance, growing closer with each long stride his mount took.

  Dampened reins slid through his fingers as he readjusted his cramped grip, and the serpent in his belly reared its head more forcefully.

  At last he re
cognized the emotion tormenting him. Not anticipation. Not excitement.

  Fear.

  Given a name, the unfamiliar emotion blossomed in his gut.

  Ridiculous!

  It wasn’t as if he were riding headlong into battle. He bore no bad news, no evil tidings. There was no reason for this feeling. He couldn’t think of one single possibility. Nothing.

  Nothing, that is, except…

  Syrie.

  She loomed large in his thoughts as he lifted an arm to greet the guard on the wall. Her sparkling eyes, her unruly red curls, her sharp tongue, everything about her that was so familiar. So dear. Equally large was a vision of her shocked expression when he announced to her his feelings for her. So real was the fear of her possible rejection that he could almost hear her laughter in the recesses of his mind.

  He must be losing his sanity.

  “Fate of the lonely warrior,” he muttered as he hurried through the tunnel and out into open bailey.

  “Patrick!” His brother, Malcolm, called to him from across the bailey, his steps picking up speed as he trotted toward Patrick.

  When they drew close to one another, Patrick halted his horse and dismounted, just in time for his older brother’s warm embrace.

  “So good to have you returned home, brother,” Malcolm said, grinning as he stepped back. “We were beginning to fear you’d decided to stay with Christiana and Chase.”

  “Little enough danger of that, Colm,” Patrick answered.

  Though they’d been born and raised within the walls of Tordenet, the castle held far too many painful memories for either of them to ever willingly call it home again.

  “Good.” Malcolm nodded in agreement, as if he could hear Patrick’s unspoken thoughts, before laying an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Though it’s selfish enough of me, I’m more than pleased to have the captain of my guard back where he belongs. Let’s get you inside. You’ll want food and drink after a long journey such as yers.”