Warrior Reborn Page 4

  Danu would be even more displeased with her actions than Malcolm MacDowylt could ever consider being. And the wrath of the goddess was a far more formidable threat than any tantrum the MacGahan laird might pitch.

  She sighed, glanced down to her clasped hands, and forced them to her sides.

  “Ridiculous,” she huffed under her breath.

  She was no timid girl to be wringing her hands over her laird’s anticipated tongue-lashing, even if that was the part she’d allowed herself to be coaxed into playing. She was Elesyria AÍ? Byrn, a full-blood Faerie at the height of her magical strength.

  “Though for how long I’ll remain that way is another matter all together,” she muttered, the nagging guilt washing back over her. Once her goddess discovered what she had done . . .

  She clamped her lips together and lifted her hand once again to rap upon the wood, but the door opened before her knuckles made contact. The laird’s brother Patrick stood on the other side, wearing his usual stoic expression.

  “I’d wondered how long before you’d show up,” he whispered, motioning for her to follow him to a spot at the side of the room, and indicating with a finger to his lips the need for her silence.

  As if he thought she hadn’t the good sense to keep her mouth shut in the crowded room!

  With a scathing look, she stepped back against the wall, making herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  Six men hovered around the table where their laird engaged in discussion.

  Malcolm, his face a mask of obstinate authority, bent toward the young woman across the table from him. Almost as tall as Malcolm, she gave not an inch, standing her ground, her expression matching his.

  “I want Jamesy called home,” she insisted. “Our father’s murder cries out for vengeance, and if yer no going to see to it, then it’s up to us.” Her whole body radiated her anger.

  Curious, Syrie decided having her questions answered was worth the irritation of speaking to Patrick.

  “Who is she?” she whispered, stretching up on tiptoe so her words wouldn’t travel beyond his ear.

  “Bridget MacCulloch,” he whispered back. “Hamud’s daughter.”

  The guard who had accompanied them on their journey to Tordenet Castle in their quest to rescue Malcolm had been a pleasant fellow, kind and helpful. Right up to the moment he’d been hanged on the orders of that abomination from the old gods, Torquil MacDowylt.

  “I’ve already told you, Brie, that I sent word to yer brother,” Malcolm said. “He kens by now what’s happened to yer da. But it’s best for everyone if he stays where he is. He’ll do us more good in Edinburgh than he can here.”

  Again Syrie stretched up on her tiptoes to speak, bumping her nose against Patrick’s chin as he leaned down toward her.

  “And this brother of hers, this Jamesy, what is he doing in Edinburgh?” she whispered.

  Patrick’s attempt to answer was lost as Bridget’s hand slammed down on the table.

  “Best for everyone?” Bridget demanded incredulously. “Best for you, you mean. You think by educating my brother you’ll have another MacCulloch indebted to you, willing to give his life for you. It was yer life my father gave his own to save. And yer no even going after the bastards what murdered him.”

  “That’s enough, Bridget!” one of the older men in the group cautioned.

  “No, Uncle, it’s no even close to enough. I’ve only begun to have my say,” the girl fired back. “I’ll have their heads with my own sword if there’s none here man enough to do the deed.”

  Patrick took Syrie’s arm and quietly edged her toward the door and out into the hallway.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

  “Because I saw that look come over yer face. You were but moments away from inserting yer own voice into the fray. You canna leave well enough alone when you think someone the victim.”

  His assessment of her personal weakness was too close for comfort. It was that inability to let people deal with their own problems that had resulted in the act of disobedience that brought her here to speak with Malcolm in the first place.

  “About that,” she began, clutching her hands in front of her to keep them from fluttering around. “I’ve just the tiniest issue I need to bring to Malcolm’s attention as soon as he has a free moment.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “What mischief have you brought upon us now, Elf?”

  Elf, indeed. She cut her gaze up at him, making no effort to hide the irritation spiking through her body. The man was eternally suspicious, especially when it came to her. Naturally he’d think the worst of her, simply because he didn’t like her kind.

  He met her scowl with no show of emotion, bathed in the obvious calm she always found so arrogant and irritating. His reaction was made all the more annoying by the fact that this time his suspicion was well deserved.

  She had caused a problem, and she had precious little idea of how to make it better.

  “Out with it, Elf. What troubles you?”

  Syrie straightened her back, meeting Patrick’s gaze. Though his face reflected none of his thoughts, a glimmer of concern in his eyes gave him away. They were cut of the same cloth, he and Malcolm, both convinced it was their purpose in life to carry the burdens of others.

  Neither of them would understand that the larger part of this burden was hers and hers alone to carry. She’d put herself in this predicament, and she alone must pay the price for her poor choices.

  Still, part of it concerned them. And that part was what she needed to share.

  “There in the glen, before the battle, before you arrived, I gave my oath to your sister. I have now fulfilled the promise I made.” She paused, her gaze flickering away and back again before continuing. “With only the tiniest hint of an issue, I assure you.”

  She could swear the corner of Patrick’s eye twitched.

  “What could my sister possibly have asked of you? She has no need and certainly no wish for the troubles caused by the Magic yer kind possesses.”

  Patrick didn’t know his sister as well as he thought. Faerie Magic was exactly what she’d asked for. Insisted upon, in fact.

  “Christiana wanted my assistance in locating a man she has seen in her visions, a warrior who is to play a vital part in obtaining her freedom. She asked that I use my Magic to help this man in his quest to reach her.”

  Patrick’s eyes widened. Whatever he had expected, this apparently was not it.

  “Well then,” he said, wiping any trace of surprise from his expression. “Where is this wonder of a man you’ve discovered?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You have no idea,” he repeated slowly, adding emphasis to each word. “Yer promise was to find the man, aye? To find him and aid him in reaching Christiana. If you’ve no idea where he is, that does no sound to me as though you kept yer promise. It sounds to me as if you failed in yer oath.”

  “It only sounds that way because you don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you.”

  She made no attempt to hide her irritation with him. The thickheaded Northman was missing the whole point of her having come to him in the first place. If it were as simple as merely locating someone and sending a messenger, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. If it were that simple, she wouldn’t have to live in dread of Danu’s discovery of her actions.

  “Then perhaps you’ll be so kind as to enlighten—” His eyes narrowed in that annoyingly suspicious way he had. “Or is this the ‘tiniest issue’ you mentioned earlier?”

  Perhaps he was a tad quicker than she’d given him credit for.

  “Exactly.”

  “Out with it, Elf,” he all but growled. “With yer powers, how could you fail in finding the man? What’s gone wrong this time?”

  She resented his implication, but arguing was more difficult when he was so close to being absolutely on target.

  “I didn’t fail in finding him. There was little challenge in
that and I located him easily enough.” Her hand fluttered into the air as if with a mind of its own and she drew it to her side, clenching her fingers into fists. “It was only when I set the Magic to pull him back through time that everything got a little . . . messy.”

  Time travel was tricky. Like any unpracticed Magic, it required the utmost of concentration to accomplish. The guilt burning through her fingers as she’d sent the Magic out into the ether had distracted her. The goddess, Danu, had allowed her into the Mortal world with her Magic intact only for the purpose of dealing with her daughter’s disappearance, and nothing more. But she’d disobeyed Danu’s edict by using the Magic to help Christiana. There would be a price to pay for her disobedience, she had no doubt.

  “What in the name of Freya were you thinking, woman? You’ve drawn another innocent through time? And if that alone wasn’t bad enough, you lost him? Have we no enough troubles what with the threat of Torquil’s revenge hanging over our heads? Now we’ve some poor soul wandering around lost in a time not his own.”

  “I didn’t say he was lost,” she denied, though in truth, that was exactly what she was saying. “It’s more a matter of his being misplaced. Temporarily, of course.”

  No point in explaining to this one the intricacies of working with Magic. No point at all in trying to tell him how the Magic fought you, always seeking its own end. “My intent was to—”

  The door to Malcolm’s solar burst open and Bridget stormed out. The men who’d witnessed her confrontation with Malcolm followed more slowly, as if they had no desire to cross her path at the moment.

  Malcolm emerged last, rubbing his brow. “Unpleasant, that,” he muttered, glancing toward the bodies disappearing down the hallway. “But at least I’ve one less odious task on my hands now.”

  “About that.” Patrick caught Syrie’s arm and pulled her toward the doorway. “I’d no be counting my hands empty just yet if I were you. The Elf here has a little something she needs to tell you.”

  Six

  GLEAMS LIKE A jewel in the sun, does she?” Halldor muttered. “My arse!”

  Chase bit back a grin at his new friend’s irritation. That whole sun description thing was of course dependent upon the sun actually shining. If he’d needed anything to convince him he was in Scotland rather than Montana, the weather here was doing its best to accommodate, alternating between plain overcast gray and cold gray drizzle.

  Definitely not the semi-arid, sunny landscape he’d ridden through only days before.

  “How are your feet holding up?” Halldor asked.

  Chase shrugged. “They hurt like hell.”

  Thanks to the inopportune moment the Faeries had chosen for zapping him through time, not only had he ended up without clothing, he also had no shoes. From his big leather bag, Halldor had produced a couple of thick, furry skins and a length of fine cord for Chase to secure them around his feet. They provided protection and warmth but weren’t sturdy enough for the two days of walking he’d just put in. He was pretty sure he’d worn a hole in the bottom of one of them.

  “A bother it is that I parted with my spare animal before we met. Should we stop for a rest?”

  Though Halldor attempted nonchalance, keeping his eyes fixed to the road ahead of them, Chase could hear the concern in his friend’s voice. The man had more than earned Chase’s admiration over the past two days. Not once had he pursued any of what he had to see as strange questions that Chase asked. Only once had he remarked on Chase’s past, and that was simply to comment on the tattoo emblazoned on Chase’s upper arm. Halldor had laughed and joked, had accepted him without question, and had done everything in his power to help Chase. He even walked his own horse behind them, matching Chase step for step when he easily could have ridden.

  “No. Let’s keep going. It’ll be fine.”

  It would be, too. Of all the skills he’d gained during his tours in Afghanistan, endurance was high on the list.

  Halldor nodded and pointed down the trail. “It’s not what I’d call gleaming by any stretch, but does that not look like a white tower off there in the distance?”

  It did indeed.

  Another hour of steady walking and they reached the massive gates.

  “Wow,” Chase murmured as they at last drew close. The rock walls stretched out in both directions, encompassing an enormous area.

  “Impressive, indeed,” Halldor agreed. “Let’s see if the MacDowylt laird who rules here is equally impressive.”

  “State yer business or be off with you,” a man called down from the wall above them.

  “We’re here to see your laird, the Lord of the Katanes. We were sent by one of your own, Artur, right hand to Ulfr.”

  Chase felt like he’d just fallen into a scene straight out of a Tolkien book. When the heavy chains began to clank and the metal grate slowly lifted, he half expected to see a horde of angry orcs raging out.

  He shook his head at his own fancy. That healthy dose of skepticism lasted halfway into the tunnel leading to the castle yard, at which point it deserted him entirely.

  A shiver ran down his spine and he took a deep breath, as if some strange, heavy air surrounded them. Beside him, Halldor took a similar deep breath.

  Chase slowed to a stop, looking over his shoulder at the metal grate sliding back into place behind them. The bizarre events of the last few days must finally be taking their toll. Either that, or he was headed down the batshit-crazy trail.

  “This is where I need to be,” he whispered, reminding himself that there was a reason for everything. His father had promised him as a child that one day the Fae would send him to his destiny, and since this was where they had sent him, this was obviously where he belonged. And if he was where he belonged, perhaps she was here—the woman he’d waited his whole life to find.

  “What is it that troubles you, my friend?” Halldor’s footsteps had ceased as well, his expression more serious than Chase had seen it before.

  “Nothing. Weird vibe to this place, that’s all.”

  They both began to move forward again, their steps a bit slower than they had been. With the grate clanking down behind them, they were committed to their forward course.

  “This ‘vibe’ you speak of, is it a feeling that crawls upon your skin?”

  Chase nodded, glancing up at his friend. Halldor’s eyes were fixed ahead of him on their destination. If Chase was on the batshit-crazy trail, at least he wasn’t marching down it alone.

  Armed warriors ringed the entrance as they emerged from the tunnel. One of their number stepped forward, his hand on the sword at his side.

  “I am Ulfr, captain of the MacDowylt’s personal guard. Your names?”

  “I am Halldor O’Donar and this . . .” Halldor paused, one corner of his mouth twitching up as he glanced in Chase’s direction. “This is my brother Chase.”

  Only years of training allowed Chase to school his expression. Whatever reason his friend had for introducing him as such, he’d honor it. Halldor had given him no cause to doubt him.

  “O’Donar, eh?” Ulfr asked, strutting back and forth in front of them, reminding Chase of a shooting-gallery duck. Or maybe a peacock on parade. “Irish, are you? What brings you to Scotland?”

  “I did indeed cross the sea from the island,” Halldor agreed. “To find my brother.” He slapped Chase on the back, his usual big grin returned to his face.

  “And now you’ve come to Tordenet to join us in service to our laird.” Ulfr spoke as if their reason for being here was a foregone conclusion. “Orwen will show you to yer quarters in the—”

  “Not so fast, Ulfr, captain of the guard,” Halldor interrupted. “I would bargain for the price of our service before we commit ourselves. I would meet the man to whom we offer our weapons.”

  “Impossible,” Ulfr huffed. “It is not done in that way at Tordenet.”

  “Nevertheless, this is the way I do it,” Halldor replied, his determination on display with every word. “I would have this lai
rd of yours come out to meet with us. I would look him in the eye to judge the cut of his cloth before we pledge our swords to him.”

  Surprise danced across Ulfr’s expression before he turned away to focus his gaze upward. In the tallest tower, a face peered down at them from a large window. Ulfr lifted an arm and the face withdrew.

  “Our laird will join us momentarily.”

  They waited, surrounded by a contingent of men with their swords drawn. Waited in a silence so uncomfortable Chase wondered that Halldor didn’t draw his own sword. Apparently even ancient warriors understood the importance of not letting them see you sweat.

  At last a man appeared at the top of the huge staircase at the castle entrance.

  He was tall, close to Chase’s own height and build, with blond hair similar in color to Chase’s. There the similarity ended. This guy was pretty-boy blond, with hair down around his shoulders. After a closer look, Chase saw that two odd white streaks shot through his hair, one on either side of his head.

  The assembled men all dropped to one knee as he approached.

  “Ah,” Halldor breathed. “It would appear, little brother, that we have both found the place we need to be.”

  Seven

  TORQUIL STOOD IN the center of his tower chamber, as he had since before the first light of day broke through the open window: hands pressed together in front of him, eyes closed, back straight. His mind fought to overcome the human weakness he’d yet to eliminate from his soul.

  Until he found a way to push aside that small piece of him that had not come from Odin, he wouldn’t have the ability to master the spell from the ancient scroll he’d found hidden in his father’s things.

  His jaw tightened as a wave of anger shimmered through his mind.

  As if his father thought he’d never find those things.

  His eyes opened and he allowed his arms to drop to his sides. Pain lanced through the muscles held in position for so many hours but he ignored it, envisioning himself scooping the pain into a large wooden chest and slamming the lid shut.