----------------------------------- 
Dreamweaver 
by Judie Chirichello 
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Fantasy/Paranormal
Atlantic Bridge 
www.atlanticbridge.net 
Copyright ©2003 by Judie Chirichello

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Published by Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2003, Judie Chirichello All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.


This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Dedicated to
Mary (Leahy) Moynihan
12-22-1902 (Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland)
03-27-1984 (W. Hartford Connecticut)
AKNOWLEDGMENTS

To the members of the Paradise Bar Critique Group: Dr. Don-"I like it and I'm keeping it"-Argo, Jim Harris and his color-coordinated editing style, and Captain George Harrison “It really happened that way"Reid. I will be forever grateful for their constructive criticism and liberal use of red ink. To my steadfast critique partner Jonell Kirby, for her honesty and female perspective. To Cricket Pechstien for her knowledge, encouragement and advice. To my editor, Karen Babcock for her attention to detail and infinite wisdom. 
Learning to fly can be hard work. 
Thanks for the wings, guidance and patience.


Thank you to my husband Carmine for understanding my need to pursue my dream even when doing so meant putting up with dirty dishes in the sink, fast food for dinner and hearing me say, “Just one more sentence", -a lot! To my children, Angela and Carmine for putting up with their mother “the writer", not that they had much choice. To my Aunt Marygail for reading my very first, rough draft manuscript and still encouraging me to keep writing. To the members of the Space Coast Writer's Guild, the many generous writers I have met along the way, to my friends, and to my many co-workers and library “Friends” throughout the Brevard County Library System, especially June Bell, Rita Fetterhoff, and Evelin Reid-thank you for your friendship, support and honesty. 
You are my wind.


Thank you to Orlando Sentinel Op-ed page editor Michael Murphy, for giving me my first break, the chance to spread my wings, and for the space to soar. 
Without a place to fly, what's the use in having wings?


And a special thank you to Linda Eberharter 
"Dreamweaver extraordinaire" 
for turning my dream into a reality.


The view is great when you're flying high on the wings of a fulfilled dream!

Chapter One
St., George's Channel
off the Coast of Eire (Ireland)
AD 966
An agonized cry shattered the calm. The grisly sound lingered, its unspoken promise of agony and despair seeming to echo through the night sky like a Banshee's mournful wail.
As Galynne MacFarlane lay sprawled on the crowded deck of the wayfaring vessel Leachlainn, straining to bring forth the precious life from her exhausted body, she refused to believe herself capable of producing such an ungodly sound. Aye, denial and resolve had gotten her through so far, but she had to face facts; female pride and determination had their limits.
Even Galynne's unruly mane of vibrant, auburn curls appeared defeated as wet clumps of hair clung to her head, face and shoulders like russet-colored seaweed. Her damp woolen plaid no longer offered protection from the elements, and her skirts lay bunched beneath her, soiled with an offensive combination of bodily secretions. Fleeing her homeland in the dark of night due to the threat of a Norse invasion had been difficult enough. Enduring twelve hours of labor amidst a crowd of weary kinsmen and strangers was taking its toll.
At least the tingling sensation in her thighs had ceased. The exposed flesh had finally gone numb, and for this alone she was thankful. As if escaping Norse raiders is na’ bad enough? Curse the dreaded Fin-gael! Now me own child refuses to cooperate. Indeed! What have I done to anger the gods, so? What will become of us all?
White light flashed in Galynne's mind as if in answer to her thoughts. She recoiled from the intensity, then squeezed her eyes shut and bore down. Blurred colors and shapes melded in her mind's eye and she knew it was only a matter of time before they developed into sharp images, clearly depicting the future. It always happened that way; her abilities as a Seer relied on such vivid, foretelling visions. This night, however, Galynne resisted her gift of divine knowledge. She knew it was a selfish and lame attempt, at best, to forestall her own, tragic fate.
Death seemed inevitable.
Galynne's husband, Kendahl, sat holding her close while supporting her back. “You're doing fine, love. A strong, bonny lass you are. Try to hold on. Just a bit longer, now.” He brushed a kiss against her temple.
Galynne sighed, thinking it impossible to love him any more than she did at that instant. Aye, at times like these, his brutal, Highland-warrior image paled in comparison to the love and devotion expressed in his tender actions.
“Spread your legs, lass. Wider!” Nedda demanded, dragging Galynne's thoughts back to reality. The aged mid-wife sat perched between Galynne's thighs. Two more women, both strangers to Galynne, firmly clasped her knees, spreading her legs wide. The other weary passengers crowding the ship's deck had long-since ceased to matter. Aye, modesty was the least of Galynne's worries.
The cramps seizing her back and womb were still gaining momentum. Unfortunately, her progress had slowed and her stamina was failing. Breathing deeply, she tried to relax, but the lingering scent of salt-laden air made her queasy stomach churn in protest. The ship's constant rocking motion only added to her misery. The birth of her second child looked grim at best. Even worse, Galynne believed that a hostile essence was drawing nearer.
Calling upon her innate Sidhe-magic, she freed her spirit, releasing it into the universe.
Almost immediately, the cold, dark atmosphere seemed to penetrate her soul, chilling her to the marrow and invading her spirit. The threatening entity was too strong to be ignored, but its essence managed to remain concealed as if purposely eluding her efforts.
Opening her eyes, she glanced up at the heavens. Could me powers be failing?
Dense fog cloaked the evening sky like a death shroud, obscuring the waning, crescent moon and the eternal, twinkling light of ever-present stars. The thick misty air felt heavy, almost oppressive, and Galynne realized that the gloomy atmosphere suited her dismal mood. When the gripping pain seized her womb again, she moaned, thrashing her head from side to side. The unrelenting cramps twisted her gut like a falcon's mighty talons tearing her flesh from the inside out. The desire to surrender festered within her for a moment before her maternal instincts won out. Inhaling deeply, she held her breath and pushed.
Kendahl eased her forward. “That's it, love. You can do it. Push,” he said.
Galynne knew better. She no longer felt comforted by the familiar timber of Kendahl's deep voice, or the distinct, soothing sound of his Highland burr. His hands felt suddenly tense—no, demanding. His praise proved disheartening. Galynne groaned and leaned back against Kendahl's chest. “'Tis no use.” She shook her head. “Your child simply refuses to cooperate."
“Me own child, alone, is he now? ‘Tis a true miracle, indeed,” Kendahl said. “Och, before you know it, you'll be cradlin’ our lusty bairn in your arms. Aye, we eluded the Fin-gael, and soon we'll all be safe in Wales.” He pressed his lips to her cheek and hugged her close.
Kendahl's optimism, warmth and tenderness touched Galynne's heart. She tried to savor the pleasant moment, but a chilling sense of trepidation invaded her soul. She gasped, and looked up, her gaze frantically scanning the horizon. Though a wall of dense fog obstructed her view, she sensed an unearthly, spectral presence lurking beyond the gray mist.
Closing her eyes she cleared her mind of all thought.
Her body grew tingly all over, as if needles were prickling the surface of her skin. The sensation confirmed her already nagging suspicion. Black magic! Galynne trembled. “Dear God,” she mumbled, knowing that in her weakened state, her white spell-craft would be impotent against such demonic sorcery.
“Be brave, love,” Kendahl said. He stroked her cold, stiff arms. “Surely, ‘tis almost over now."
“Aye.” Looking down, Galynne caressed her stomach. “One way or another, it will be over soon enough."
“Do na’ despair, so. You can do it. I know you can."
“Nay.” Galynne shook her head in protest.
Kendahl gently grasped her chin and forced her to look at him. “You can, I say. A hale, hearty lass you are. And a fine healthy lad we'll have, indeed. He's just a wee bit stubborn. Why, I'll wager he's got a full head of red hair just like you. And a temperament to match.” He smiled and winked.
Galynne managed a wry smile for Kendahl's benefit. “You must surely be speaking of me sweet, gentle nature,” she said. Then she winced suddenly as her stomach grew harder. “Damn and blast!” She squeezed her eyes shut as the grinding cramps intensified. Clutching Kendahl's plaid in her hand she writhed against the pain, denying the urge to scream. When her cry of sheer agony finally rent the air, however, Kendahl uttered such a vulgar string of curses that Galynne's eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open.
She panted breathlessly and blinked up at him, her subsiding pain momentarily forgotten. After all, Kendahl had survived many fierce battles and witnessed much bloodshed. He was a mighty, Highland warrior who relied on his even temper and nerves of steel—except, apparently, when it came to the birthing of his own children. She still remembered experiencing an odd sense of pleasure from Kendahl's distraught behavior, nearly five years earlier, during the birth of their daughter, Seerah. At the time Galynne had found it most satisfying to learn that, in their own way, men suffered through the birth process as well. Now, she found the concept thoroughly heart-warming. She sighed, knowing how fortunate she was be to be loved so completely.
Then her womb contracted again.
Galynne glared at Kendahl and practically tore the wool plaid from his back. “Damn your virile rod and fertile seed to the Devil!"
The color drained from Kendahl's face, an astonished look of pure disbelief momentarily freezing his expression. “I ... me ... squeeze me hand, love.” He held his hand out to her.
Galynne sucked in a deep breath and nodded. She released his plaid and clutched his hand. Then she looked deep into his eyes, hoping to find the strength she so desperately needed.
“I've got you.” Kendahl stared intently back at her as her crushing grip tightened about his fingers.
Galynne pushed until her lungs burned from a lack of air and Kendahl's pained expression blurred before her eyes. When the punishing cramps finally subsided, she could barely hold up her head. “Seerah? Where's Seerah?"
“She's safe with Izebeth, love. Remember?” Kendahl stroked her cheek. “'Twas a wise choice to send them on ahead, I'm thinking. Your mother would have her hands full trying to keep Seerah from you now. And I promise, I'll bring them both to you the moment we set foot in Wales. Aye, we'll all be safe together, soon enough,” he vowed.
Galynne replied with a slow accepting nod, but Kendahl's optimism and compassion only added to her misery. She wanted nothing more than to gift him with a fine, healthy son. She also yearned to arrive safely in Wales, and to be reunited with her mother and young daughter.
Unfortunately, Galynne knew better; Black magic was difficult enough to oppose even under the best conditions. Deep in her soul, Galynne knew that she would never see the coast of Wales or watch her children grow to maturity. Even so, there was a much greater issue at stake. The integrity of the Light must be protected at all costs. But how? What can I possibly do now? Here? Tears trickled down her cheeks as she released a shuddering breath. “Th-there's nothing, n-nothing else I can do."
“'Tis all right, love. I'm here with you. All will be well,” Kendahl said.
Despite his calm words, Galynne sensed his distress deep in her soul. Aye, his unspoken fears of losing her were obvious from his tense demeanor and pacifying tone. His fears were also more valid than she cared to admit. And time was running out. Her contractions were coming one after another now, with scarcely a moment's rest in between. Yet she no longer cried out. She was simply too tired. “Nay, Kendahl. I can na’ go on. I...” Galynne moaned with despair as the pains began building again.
Kendahl glanced at the mid-wife, his expression a telling combination of compassion, worry, and pure helplessness. “God's blood! How long can this go on, Nedda?"
Nedda looked up and sighed. “The poor lass. She's overly fatigued, and the bairn is quite large, I'm afraid."
Galynne felt the muscles in Kendahl's lean body tense, as if his nerves were stretching to their breaking point. But Kendahl lent no voice to his obvious indignation. Instead, he took a deep calming breath. “You can do it, love. Just a wee bit longer, now,” he said.
Galynne clutched his arm. “Nay! I beg of you. Let me die. I can na’ go on. Even if I could—'tis useless. ‘Tis me fate, I'm afraid."
Tears glistened in Kendahl's eyes as he gazed down at her. “Hush, me darlin'. Do na’ speak so. The fates would never be so cruel. I could na’ bear to live without you. Please, you must try.” He stroked her matted hair.
Galynne looked away from his pleading gaze and glanced pensively at the horizon. The damp, static air stirred ever so slightly as a cold essence encompassed her spirit. She believed that it was only a matter of time before the hands of death would come for her, and she prayed that the gods would show mercy by swiftly ending her life. Reaching up, she caressed Kendahl's cheek. “Pray, forgive me?"
Kendahl clasped her hand tightly in his own. “Nay, you must go on. If na’ for me, for Seerah and our unborn child."
“'Tis no use.” She withdrew her hand.
Kendahl glanced at Nedda. “Do something!"
“There be nothing I can do now. ‘Tis obvious she's already given up. The poor gel.” The old woman shrugged.
Galynne closed her eyes, surrendering her soul to the mother goddess Anann. “Thy will be done,” she whispered.
Kendahl grasped Galynne's shoulders and shook her. “Nay! You'll na’ be givin’ up, I say. God's eyes! How could I ever have loved such a pathetic creature?"
Galynne shivered in response to his condemning glare. Aye, she understood his fury and frustration, but not his brutal wrath. Her bottom lip trembled and she lowered her head as tears filled her eyes.
Kendahl shook her again, forcing her to look at him. “Fine! Die if you wish. Simply lie down and give up so I can wash me hands of you. But, you'll na’ take me child with you!"
She blinked at him. “Your child? Simply give up? I've labored for nearly twelve hours. You have no idea.... Why, I...” she faltered, moaning as a cramp seized her gut.
“I see his head!” Nedda declared. “He's got a mighty big head, he does. Push, m'lady. Push real hard now."
“Forget it, Nedda. She's right. She can't do it,” Kendahl said. “Just let her die so I can go about finding me a new wife. Aye, a strong, healthy, Highland lass who knows how to bear a man sons. Indeed, I should have expected as much from such inferior stock. ‘Tis no fault of her own, but the mix of Irish and Welsh blood, added to her pagan, Druid beliefs. Aye, her inferior ancestry is to blame for producing such feebleness."
“Inferior?” Galynne glared at Kendahl. “Pagan beliefs? Why, you ungrateful, swaggerin’ ... Scot bully. I should turn you into a ... a...” She grunted and bore down with all her might.
Kendahl held her tightly.
“Good, good. Here he comes, now, he does. That's a good gel,” Nedda praised.
When the infant's head emerged, the mid-wife gently cradled it in her palms, helping to ease the child's way into the world. “It's ... a boy,” she cried softly, but her words held no joy.
After tying the umbilical cord, she cleared the wee babe's mouth and nose. Next, she worked fervently, poking, prodding, and even pinching his blue-tinted limbs.
Galynne collapsed against Kendahl with a muffled groan, her body drooping like a rag doll. Her gaze settled on the tiny lifeless body she had already come to love, and she felt suddenly empty.
“Forgive me, love.” Kendahl tenderly kissed Galynne's forehead.
Soft, howling wind echoed in the distance like a tortured spirit. Churning waves slapped lazily at the ship hull, causing the aged wood to creak in rhythmic defiance. The eerie night-sounds seemed to grow louder with each passing second, and Galynne felt certain that she would die of heartache as she watched Nedda bundled the lifeless babe in swaddling clothes.
When the muffled noise finally broke the strained silence, everyone froze; the frail cry sounded strangely familiar, almost like the distant bleating of an angry lamb.
Looking down at the bundle in her arms, Nedda tugged the swath from the child's face.
Kendahl squeezed Galynne's shoulders. They glanced at each other, their hope-filled eyes wide and questioning. When they turned to Nedda, her expression was a mix of disbelief and stunned fascination. “Praise be, m'lady,” Nedda croaked. She issued a brief, confirming nod and held the precious bundle out to Galynne.
Galynne stifled a sob and held her trembling arms out to accept her wailing son. “Praise God."
“And stubborn, female pride,” Kendahl whispered.
Galynne elbowed him in the ribs. “And foolish male trickery—knave."
“Enchantress.” He kissed her cheek “Soon, we'll reach Wales. Then, all will be well.” Kendahl brushed his thumb across the infant's chin, then he kissed Galynne on the lips.
Galynne sighed contentedly, snuggling against his chest as her eyes remained riveted on the tiny perfection of her son's red, wrinkled face. He rooted against her bared breast until his tiny lips found her nipple. As he suckled greedily, she felt blessed indeed. However, a nagging fear remained in the pit of her stomach; she had not perished during the birth. The threat of impending doom still lingered. Closing her eyes, she finally willed the foretelling vision to come to her.
Galynne trembled, tensing as the vivid premonition swiftly developed in her mind's eye. She saw the Norse ships descending upon the Celtic crafts. Then the raiders attacked, ravaging everything in their wake. The violent impressions of death and destruction filled her with an overwhelming sense of dread because she knew the images would soon come to pass. She also knew that nothing short of death would deter the evil beings who stood motionless in the dark, anxiously waiting for their prey. “Seerah,” she whimpered.
“Seerah be safe enough with your mother. You're still shivering.” Kendahl pulled his plaid closer about Galynne and kissed her cheek. “Tell me, honestly, how do you fair, love?"
Galynne snuggled closer, trying to find warmth in his comforting embrace. “I ... I'm a wee bit tired, don't you know?"
“Aye. ‘Tis surely understandable. But I know you well. Something else troubles you.” Kendahl tilted her chin up and looked her in the eye. “You know in your heart that I would never treat you so cruelly, unless ... I didn't mean—"
“Aye.” Galynne held her fingers to his lips, silencing him. “I know."
Kendahl caught her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “What, then?"
Galynne glanced at the child. While he nursed contentedly, sorrow and despair seeped into her spirit. “'Twas a grueling ordeal. Though ‘tis over now, I'd feel better if I knew how Seerah and Izebeth were fairing. Seerah will be devastat—uh, disappointed."
Kendahl frowned. “We will all be together soon enough. And I'm certain Seerah will forgive us for missing her brother's arrival the moment she sets eyes on him. But ... you are keeping something from me, Galynne. I know you too well. Something else is troubling you"
Galynne smiled and batted her eyelashes with feigned ignorance. “Troubles? What troubles could I possibly have with me fine, handsome husband and strapping son by me side?” She sighed wistfully, trying to appear serene and content. “He'll be needin’ a name, now. But, not just any name will do."
Kendahl cocked his brow at her as if seriously considering her words. Then, glancing at his son, he smiled like the proud father he was. “You can na’ fool me so easily. Aye, he's a strapping lad, just like his da, but—"
“Mmhmm, just like his da,” Galynne said. “Handsome, stubborn, and greedy, too. Why, there's no denying he's yours. Just look at the way he cleaves to me bosom.” She kissed Kendahl's chin.
“I love you, too.” Laughter rumbled deep in Kendahl's chest as he held her close and nuzzled her neck.
Galynne felt guilty for deceiving Kendahl. She knew what the fates held in store for them. The dark energy was closing in. Soon her family, as well as her people, would suffer at the hands of the dreaded Fin-gael; the deadly images of the Norse raiders that she'd witnessed moments ago had been vivid, their goal clearly outlined. The true prophecy had been set in motion, and nothing, not even her full, unfailing powers could alter the future now.
“What say you to Kevin?” Kendahl asked.
“Hmm? Kevin?” Galynne said, “Kevin, who?"
“'Twould would be a fine name, I'm thinking."
Galynne frowned at Kendahl. “Name?"
“For our son? ‘Tis what you were just thinking so earnestly about, was it na'?"
“Oh, aye!” Galynne nodded. “A name for our son, indeed. Kevin, you say? Hmmm, one who is gentle. Though ‘tis sweet, I rather like Anwil. It means beloved."
“Aye, and beloved he is, but ... Anwil MacFarlane? It has no ring.” Kendahl shook his head. “I know. Dempsey."
“One who is proud, aye.” Galynne nodded, smiling half-heartedly. “'Tis fair, but Dempsey MacFarlane ‘tis na’ exactly what I was after."
Kendahl scowled. “Naming a wee bairn is harder than I thought.” Glancing down at his son, he sighed. “However, there is one name I was quite partial to ... before I gave up me childish beliefs in witches and fairies."
Galynne slanted him a dubious glare.
“Now that I know better.” Kendahl chuckled. “I think Boyce would be fitting, indeed. Boyce MacFarlane, now that be a good stout name befitting his ancestry."
Galynne glanced down at the child. “From one who dwells in the woods. Boyce. Aye. ‘Tis fitting and proper, indeed."
“He will accomplish great things,” Kendahl said.
“Aye.” Galynne closed her eyes and savored the tranquil moment, knowing it would be brief. She also knew that if the evil forces prevailed, her ancestors, the Tuatha De Danann, would suffer for all eternity beneath the wicked and oppressive underworld forces. She could only pray that her efforts to pass the true power of the Light to another would prove successful. Now, her own fate, and the survival of the entire population of immortal beings, depended solely on her five-year-old daughter.
Galynne breathed deeply. May Dagdha keep you safe, Seerah.
* * * *
A woman's shrill scream suddenly pierced the air.
The shriek permeated the atmosphere as the Norse raiders attacked with a vengeance.
Holding her fretting child close, Galynne sat unmoving as if detached from the scene. She watched the battle unfold for the second time, knowing that this time it was real, not merely images in her mind.
Their dark forms barely visible, the Norsemen swooped through the murky darkness like ghostly pirates. Even before the first battle cry had pierced the air, Galynne knew that the destiny of all those present had been sealed; evil forces were in control of the universe now. Everyone whom she cared for would suffer greatly before her true destiny could be fulfilled. Sitting huddled in the shadows, she glanced at Boyce. There still be hope for both me children. I must find a way. But how?
As Kendahl stood valiantly before her, fending off the enemy, Galynne glanced desperately about, hoping to find the answer. That's when she spied Nedda.
The mid-wife's body lay face up, as still and limp as death itself, barely a hands-breath away from Galynne. Although she knew there was nothing she could have done to prevent the tragedy, Galynne's heart filled with sorrow. Then, Nedda's hand moved ever so slightly. The movement was barely noticeable, but it was enough for Galynne. “Nedda,” she whispered, scooting closer. The mid-wife's eyes were locked open in a death stare, and blood pooled beneath her head from the slit in her throat. Her discarded bundle of herbs lay abandoned by her side.
Suddenly, Galynne knew what she must do. Gently drawing Nedda's eyelids shut, Galynne whispered a hasty prayer for the old woman's soul and snatched the bundle. Next, calling upon her waning powers, Galynne laid her left hand on her son's forehead. “May Dagdha keep you safe,” she whispered, willing him to sleep with her mind.
His distressed cries subsided and his eyelids drooped closed. When he opened his mouth wide, to yawn, his face contorted and his tiny limbs quivered with release as the tension drained from his body. Then, he sighed as if thoroughly content.
Galynne kissed him good-bye and wrapped him inside Nedda's sack. Next, with a quick and furtive glance, Galynne scooted toward an island of wooden crates stacked on the deck where a lone, pixie of a woman sat crammed between two crates. “Guard this with your life!” She shoved the sack at a wide-eyed woman who sat looking as if death had just found her.
“'Tis me infant son,” Galynne said.
“Your babe? Nay!” The woman tried to force the bundle back toward Galynne. “We're all doomed, we are. ‘Tis the work of the Devil himself, I say—his evil demons have come to snatch all our souls, they have."
“Aye, they're evil indeed.” Galynne whispered, looking the woman straight in the eye. “But, ‘tis me they are here for. You see, I'm a Shee sorceress."
“God save me!” The other woman cowered, her eyes filling with a look of alarm.
Reaching out, Galynne gently touched the woman's shaking hand. “Fear me na’ ... Cordelia, is it now?"
The woman gasped. “A-aye, but how would you be knowin’ that?"
“'Tis one of me special gifts. And I swear to you, me magic be white. I mean you no harm. Please, trust me.” Closing her eyes, Galynne breathed deeply. “You will be safe from harm. I feel it. When the fighting ends, you must join the others. If anyone asks—tell them you are a healer, and that this be your sack of medicinal herbs. None will question you further. Me magic will protect you, but only for a short time.” Opening her eyes, Galynne glanced over her shoulder at Kendahl, then back to Cordelia. “Please, this child must survive."
Cordelia blinked with apparent wonder, then glanced down at the sack in her arms. “Aye. I'll guard his life as if he were me own, I will.” she whispered.
Galynne tenderly placed her open palm against Cordelia's cheek and looked deep into her eyes. “I know you will. For on the eighth day of the new moon all memories of me will vanish from your mind.” Galynne's hand fell away.
“Nay, I'll never forget you. On me mum's grave, I swear I won't, indeed.” Cordelia vowed, grasping Galynne's hand.
“But, you will.” Galynne squeezed Cordelia's hand and whispered, “Until we meet again."
Withdrawing her hand from Cordelia's grasp, Galynne hesitantly turned away.
“Until ... we meet ... again,” Cordelia repeated.
Galynne never looked back, but her steps faltered slightly before she crept back across the deck, toward the fighting, and Kendahl.
Chapter Two
“God-speed,” Cordelia whispered. She watched from her hiding place as the sorceress crept towards a tall Scot warrior. He was already fending off three raiders when a fourth man clubbed him on the head. At that moment another raider spotted the sorceress. Cordelia stifled her gasp, knowing that a cry of alarm would only serve to reveal her own presence. Tears blurred her vision as the raider captured the young woman. Her struggle proved futile when he knocked her to her knees, then effortlessly dragged her behind him. When the sorceress glanced in Cordelia's direction, however, a strange sense of calm wash over her. She felt certain that she would, indeed, see the mysterious young woman again, someday.
* * * *
When the final deathblow had been issued and the last mournful wail of grief silenced, Cordelia crept from her hiding place. Keeping low to the deck, she skulked along the ship's bulwark. She watched from the shadows as the surviving Celts were quickly taken captive; they were stripped of their meager valuables, then herded like cattle aboard three Norse war-vessels and a pirate slave-ship. Clutching her precious cargo to her bosom, Cordelia stepped from the shadows.
“Where did you come from?” a man yelled. He seized her by the shoulders and whirled her about to face him.
Cordelia gasped, and clutched her bundle. “I ... I was hiding, I was. O'er near them crates.” She motioned with her left hand.
The raider squinted his beady eyes and scrutinized her for a long, unnerving moment. His searching gaze seemed to violate her physically, lingering here and there like a lecherous caress. “What form of threat do you conceal in your sack?"
She winced as his fingers bit into her flesh. “I'm a healer. A mere woman, at that. I carry herbs to heal the sick and injured. I offer no threat."
He released her with a shove. “Off with you then.” He directed her towards a group of injured men and lads who were being loaded onto an adjoining ship. Cordelia crossed the gangplank last. She could only watch, wait, and pray as they were crammed into the dismal confines of their captors’ ships.
In a final show of power and domination, the Norsemen set fire to the corpse-laden Celtic crafts. Thick, swirling smoke camouflaged the night sky. The sweet-smelling sea air turned sour, almost suffocating, as the distinctive stench of death saturated the atmosphere. As Cordelia waited to be cast below with the injured prisoners, she continued to pray for the all those who had perished. Tears coursed down her face and she trembled, fatigue and misery intensifying the queasy feeling churning in her stomach. So far the sorceress had been right. None had questioned Cordelia's ruse. Yet, she could only wonder what would become of her now. And the poor, wee babe hadn't stirred once since she'd taken charge of him.
“Dear, God, please help me,” Cordelia whispered, fearing what she might find when she finally gained a moment to check on the infant.
Without warning, the gloomy, tranquil sky began churning. Angry, swelling clouds erupted from the blackness, emulating the volatile, ocean whitecaps below. The biting winds picked up momentum, and turbulent, gray, storm clouds rolled swiftly in from the north as if in retaliation. “Thy will be done on earth as it is in ‘eaven. Amen.” Cordelia made the sign of the cross, then drew her cloak protectively about herself and the child.
Turning her back to the wind, she clung to the ship's rigging. As deck hands scurried anxiously about preparing to set sail, the remaining prisoners, herself included, were temporarily forgotten amidst the commotion. The first droplets of rain fell like large, sorrow-filled tears from heaven, but the squall rapidly intensified. Thunder rumbled through the air, exploding with a fierce, ear-splitting crack. Brilliant, jagged bolts of lightning split the horizon, charging the atmosphere with an unearthly current. The hot energy prickled Cordelia's skin, like scores of tiny thorns raking her flesh.
Sheets of torrential rain began cutting through the sky with the fervor of an angry, grieving mother avenging her children. Cordelia huddled close to the deck. Then, blinking against the rain, she watched the raiders fight against the raging elements. A sense of satisfaction filled her aching heart to see the Norse fleet at God's mercy, now.
Someone grabbed hold of Cordelia from behind, jarring her wits. Her struggled proved futile as her assailant dragged her the short distance across the deck and then shoved her down into the cargo hold. Clutching her bundle in the crook of her arm, she grasped at the ladder with her free hand and tentatively began her descent. When the portal hatch slammed shut overhead, her feet missed the next rungs, leaving her hanging precariously by one hand, her feet flailing to gain a hold. But her strength soon failed and she lost her grip. “Ayeee!” she cried, her right hand raking the few remaining rungs as she plummeted the short distance into the dank compartment. She landed abruptly, more on her back than her backside, some lumpy sacks of supplies breaking her fall.
It took her a moment to catch her breath, and another moment to realize that the sacks were not sacks at all, but battered bodies. She inched over the injured men, moving closer to the bulwark. Then she nudged the semi-conscious bodies with her foot, creating barely enough space on the wood planking for her to sit. Her eyes adjusted only slightly to the darkness and for this she was grateful; she had no desire to see the faces that belonged to the agonized moans of despair echoing in the darkness. She could only wonder what else the fates held in store for her.
Cradling the sack on her lap, Cordelia took a deep breath and untied it. Holding it close, she gazed in wonder at the helpless babe, sleeping peacefully among the dried herbs. “'Tis by the grace of God, and your mother's white magic, that we've been kept safe from harm, I'm certain,” she whispered. “May God keep her safe as well."
* * * *
Despite the fierce winds and pummeling rain, Desruc stood fixed on the deck of the ship Predator, oblivious to the storm raging about him. “The girl, Hedly! Where's the girl?” He shouted to be heard above the din of crashing waves.
Hedly, the British steward, clutched the ships rail with his left hand and fought to maintain his balance on the pitching deck. “She's in the cargo hold, Sir!” He squinted against the ferocious, wind-driven rain. “It was rough going, though. Why, that bastard Scot killed three of our best men before we got the breeding bitch. And she put up one Hell of a fight. But she's weak as a lamb now."
Desruc swiped his blonde hair from his face and clenched his hands by his side. Standing with his booted feet spread wide, he towered over the steward. “What of Kendahl MacFarlane?"
“Dead, Sir!"
“You're certain?” Desruc leaned in closer.
Hedly used his free hand to wipe the sticky mixture of blood and sea-spray from his craggy, pox-ridden face. “I put the club to his skull myself, S-sir. Cracked open like a ripe melon, it did. W-why, his brains nearly fell out."
Desruc scowled and glanced up at the raging sky. “I curse the heavens, for I rule the fates, now. What the Gods have decreed I alone will control. My will be done!” He inhaled deeply. Then, focusing his gaze on the sky and his thoughts on the atmosphere, he willed the violent storm to subside.
As the wind and rain diminished, Desruc turned his attention back to Hedly. “What of the old woman!"
“I p-personally inspected the womenfolk, Sir!"
Desruc stretched his thin lips into a taut, deceptive smile. “And?"
Hedly grinned, his cloudy eyes gleaming with a look of reminiscent pleasure. “We gained quite a bounty if you ask me. Young, innocent misses with firm, round teats and creamy white thighs, aye."
Desruc sighed, tempering the impatience threatening to overwhelm him. “Please, do go on."
Hedly smiled wider, displaying his sparse, rotten teeth. “Unsullied treasures ripe for the taking, they are, indeed. Even some of the old crones were quite favorable. Especially compared to that scrawny, harpy shrew you're so fond of. You could easily have your way with any—"
“I want her. And the old woman. Not your worthless opinion!"
Lightning flashed over-head, and thunder rumbled through the sky.
“Aye, S-sir.” Hedly swallowed hard. “And we got the girl, I sw-swear. Only—"
“Come now, Hedly. There's no need to fear me as long as you did your best.” Desruc's eyes locked with the steward's.
“And that I did. I ... I swear,” Hedly said. “Why, you said you were after gaining an old, blind, harpy with long, white hair. But ... well ... the closest we found among all the ships was a scrawny, toothless, hen of a lass. Ugly as sin she was, too, but not nearly old enough nor blind. Said she was a healer, and she was carrying a large bundle of herbs, so she was put her aboard the Odious with the injured men. The rest of the women are on the privateer's ship, Nefarious, bound for England. I'm certain the ol’ crone wasn't among them."
In a blurring flash of movement Desruc grabbed Hedly by the throat. “I told you the old witch was tricky! She was here, I say. You failed me by letting her escape. But that won't happen again. Will it?” Desruc's manicured fingers tightened and his punishing grip grew unrelenting.
Hedly's eyes bulged and a strangled, gurgling sound rose in his throat. He managed to reply with a meager nod of his head.
“I'm so glad we agree.” Desruc eased the pressure on the old man's windpipe.
Hedly's shoulders slumped, his eyes drooping with relief.
“I still have to punish you, though,” Desruc said.
The moment understanding and panic registered on Hedly's face, Desruc tightened his grip. Using both hands, he held fast. Hedly choked and squirmed until his body went limp.
Desruc released his hold on the steward's neck, allowing his lifeless body to fall to the deck in a heap. “Somebody, take care of this ... this mess. Now!” Desruc casually brushed his hands together, then pivoted on his heel and strode toward the ship's stern.
Inside the cargo hold, he lit a lantern and hung it on a wooden peg on the back wall. He stood there for a long moment, scrutinizing the gray mass on the floor in the shadows.
The bright red, flowing tresses he remembered so clearly resembled a grimy, tangled mop. The ivory skin he still longed to caress appeared sallow and puckered. This once vital and stunning enchantress whom he still yearned to possess had been reduced to a vulnerable, waterlogged heap—but she was his now and that was all that mattered.
* * * *
Sensing her captor's presence, Galynne slowly lifted her head. She wanted to know—no, she needed to see—the vile creature who was responsible for her agony and the deaths of so many innocent people.
She forced her swollen eyelids open, but even the dim lantern-light felt harsh against her eyes. Her mind reeled and her eyelashes fluttered against the intrusive glow as she struggled to see the dark, hooded entity standing before her. She blinked hard and tried to focus, but all she could discern was a weaving, indistinct shadow. Summoning her waning energy, she closed her eyes and concentrated on her captor's essence instead.
Dark swirling shadows encompassed his spiritual form, suggesting a cold, threatening presence. The energy flowing between them was charged with such unsettling power that she knew he was learned in the ways of the Shee, and the Fili as well. She experienced a sudden rush of anxiety, and frantically searched her memory for a clue to his identity.
“My esteemed prize, welcome,” he said.
Galynne peered at his cloaked figure, trying her best to scrutinize it. Unfortunately, the lantern light cast furtive shadows about his body, and his hood hung low, sheltering his face.
“What's this? Have you already forgotten me, my sweet, Galynne? Me, the man you once accused of rape?"
Galynne gasped. “D-Desruc? I—No! It can na’ be."
“Ah, so you do remember. I'm touched, indeed.” Turning towards the light, Desruc smirked. A wicked, vengeful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, revealing a look of depraved satisfaction.
“H-how? W-what? W-why?” Galynne stammered.
As Desruc slowly advanced, shafts of hazy lantern-light encompassed his form, making him look like some forbidding, mystical being. He stopped a few feet away from Galynne and chuckled, but the wicked sound held only bitterness.
“Why?” he said. “I pledged my undying love to you, yet you spurned me for another and accused me of rape. The what will soon become apparent. As for the how—I've lived for this moment ever since our last encounter. For five long years I fought and scraped like a rodent to survive, and all because I fell prey to your whorish ways. I almost perished, thanks to you.” He leaned against a support beam. “However, Devil's son that I am, I prevailed, and now I'm back to seek my revenge. I owe you dearly, Galynne."
“Owe me? I did nothing wrong! I brought you back from the dead. Then I cared for you until you were fully recovered. You mistook me simple kindness for more. When you tried to force yourself on me—"
“Silence!” Desruc advanced until he stood towering over Galynne. “A brave girl you must be indeed, to speak such lies to my face. Yes, I was a randy young man. Perhaps I was a bit too eager to sample your beguiling wares, but you ... you insidious bitch!” He leaned in closer. “You teased me with your charms and tempted me with your wiles. Then, when I tried to gain what you had so willingly offered, this is what I received."
Pulling back his black hood, Desruc revealed the disfiguring scars he'd acquired five years earlier. His wet, shoulder-length blonde hair hung in stringy clumps, and his dark, sinister-looking eyes gleamed like shiny, black stones. “You will pay dearly for all that I have suffered at your hand."
Desruc stood so close, Galynne felt his hot stale breath against her face. She grimaced, her body trembling in response to her revulsion and fear, but she refused to cower. “I did nothing,” she said. “The fire was an accident, a result of me anger and fear. Why, me powers were still unpredictable. When you assailed me I warned you, but you did na’ heed. After Kendahl rescued us both from the fire, it was obvious to all what you had been about, but I still did all I could to ease your pain."
Leaning back on his heels, Desruc frowned. “Of course you did. Your generosity knows no bounds. And your mother, that witch, Izebeth ... I suppose she cursed my masculinity and banished me to Normandy out of kindness as well?"
“Aye. Kendahl wanted you dead after what you did."
“What I did? You played me for a fool!” Balling his hands into fists, Desruc broke into a tirade and began pacing back and forth. “You wove your spell quite well, purposely enticing me with your beauty. Then you used me to get what you really wanted. Kendahl. Ah yes, a Highland knight whose future promised lands and titles. He was also a fool, though. He put his lustful feelings for you above loyalty to me. He's already paid for his mistake, just as dearly as you will."
Desruc stopped pacing. “Ah, yes, you. When I tried to win your attention you scorned me. Then, later, you simply pitied me. It's obvious you still do.” He loomed over her, his face twisted into a ghoulish grin, his eyes sparkling with malice. “Well, as you can see, I'm in control now. I'm no longer a besotted fool and I don't want your damned pity!"
Galynne flinched from the intensity of Desruc's contempt. Aye, it was obvious that he held her responsible for all of his misfortunes. And many people had suffered and died this night, because he had been seeking revenge against her. Though she knew better, Galynne couldn't help wondering if perhaps she was somehow to blame. Bowing her head in despair, she sighed as a wave of pure hopelessness washed over her.
“Giving up already?” Desruc laughed. “My, this was easy. Too easy. I had thought you'd at least try to put up a fight. Too bad. It would have been interesting."
When Galynne looked up again, the triumphant twinkle dancing in Desruc's eyes sparked an ember of determination in her soul. “What, exactly, is it that you expect to gain from me this time?” she asked.
“All that's due me, of course. But for now, your child and your willing body writhing beneath me, should suffice."
“I'll never!” Raising her right arm, Galynne extended her index finger at Desruc and began to chant, “Fire and earth, wind and rain—"
“Threaten me not with your weak spells!” Desruc backhanded her across the face.
Galynne's head struck the bulwark with such force that shards of white pain exploded in her mind like splintered glass. She gasped and slumped forward. Then she shook her head against the mind-numbing pain—a feeble attempt she realized a moment too late, when the throbbing sensation within her skull intensified. She blinked her eyes open and tried to focus on Desruc's blurred, weaving form. “I ... weak I may be, now, but soon I will—."
“You will do as I command!” Desruc prepared to strike her again. “Defy me, and your child will pay the price.” His raised hand trembled with apparent restraint.
“I have no children,” Galynne uttered the lie with more ease and conviction than she thought possible.
“You still take me for a fool? It's apparent you're breeding!"
“I was,” Galynne said. “Me clothes are soiled from the labor of birth, na’ war. I delivered the bairn shortly afore the attack."
Desruc swiftly dropped to one knee and pressed his hand against her abdomen. Too weak to fight back, Galynne shuddered and moaned as he brutally probed her hollow, aching body.
Desruc released her with a shove. He stood, glaring down at her. “Where is the child?"
Galynne stared back at him, her icy gaze unwavering. A lone tear trickled down her left cheek as she forced the second lie from her lips. “Our son was stillborn. We buried him at sea."
“You expect me to believe you!"
“I could na’ care less what you believe.” Galynne shrugged, dismissing him with a turn of her head.
“Oh, but you should care.” Desruc sauntered over to the ladder, then stopped. Standing with his back to her, he glanced over his shoulder. “And where, pray tell, is Izebeth?"
“Gone."
“So it appears. To where?"
“I know na’ where."
“No? We shall see. With Kendahl out of the way, I will soon learn how well you lie."
“Out of the way?” Tremors of fear laced Galynne's voice. Though she refused to believe Desruc's intent, a sickening blackness threatened to overwhelm her. Aye, she had witnessed the crippling blow Kendahl received moments before her capture, but his spirit had remained. She was certain she had felt his strength and love. Closing her eyes she tried to feel his presence once again, but failed.
“You can't feel his presence, because he's dead."
“Nay.” Galynne buried her face in her hands.
Desruc chuckled. “Oh, I assure you, he is. Unfortunately, the deed was not accomplished by my hand, nor according to my plans. However, I am content with the outcome. You see, Galynne, this was no chance encounter. Why, I personally orchestrated our tender little reunion. I've been planning it since the day you destroyed my life. Look at me when I am talking to you!"
Slowly raising her head, Galynne glared at him.
Desruc stood near the lantern, the glimmering light emphasizing his marred, pallid complexion and waxen lips.
Galynne grimaced.
“That's better,” Desruc said. “As you must know by now, I have acquired some unique powers of my own. Ah yes, during my exile in Normandy, I studied the ways of the Fili. I also found that black magic suits me quite well. Unfortunately, I suffered some minor disappointments this day. Then again, my powers strengthen with each evil deed I accomplish. Not everything turned out as I would have liked, but I am satisfied, for now.” He sighed, and gestured with a trivial wave of his hand.
“May your flesh rot,” Galynne said. “And may your soul be condemned to Hell!"
A wicked-looking grin played across Desruc's lips as he gestured to his face. “A waste of a good curse, I'm afraid. But know this, and know it well. If you have lied to me about the child, or about Izebeth, I will know soon enough. And I will punish you severely. For now however, be well. Know that I look forward to your speedy recovery. Only then, things between us can be as they should have been all along. You will submit to me and bear my sons."
Galynne shuddered involuntarily.
“Your anticipation pleases me."
“You are indeed a fool Desruc, for I'll never come to you willingly. When I regain me powers, I will destroy you with the blink of an eye. If you truly be wise, you would slay me now and have done with it."
“You dare to call me a fool?” Desruc said. “You'll never regain full control of your powers. I've already seen to that. And when I decide to kill you, your death will be slow and agonizing to make up for Kendahl's hasty demise."
With a curt nod, he snatched the lantern from its peg and swiftly scaled the ladder.
A brief moment passed before the portal hatch slammed closed, shutting out all traces of light. Trying to fight the chill in her bones, Galynne wrapped her arms about herself. She knew she needed to hang on to the dwindling light of hope in her heart. There had to be some way to stop him, but how?
Starring blindly after Desruc, Galynne wondered what else the fates held in store for her. She knew that she would never hold her infant son again, but at least he was safe. And no harm would come to Seerah as long as she remained under Izebeth's protection. They would both grieve and suffer needlessly over Galynne's presumed death, but that was unavoidable. It was also imperative that they believe her soul had passed on to the after-world. What of Kendahl? And, what of me powers? Could they truly be failing?
Panic assailed her then, for if this was so, she knew it would only be a matter of time before all of her secrets were revealed to Desruc.
“Kendahl.” Placing her right hand over her heart, Galynne curled into a ball on the floor and cradled her throbbing, lifeless womb. Knowing only death could quell her aching heart, she wept openly and prayed for the comforting hands of angels to spirit her soul away to a place beyond mortal life and pain.
But the hands of death did not embrace her soul, for her destiny had not yet been achieved; the time of reckoning would come to pass. She simply needed to rest, gain her strength, and wait until the time was right to strike back. ‘Tis up to you, now, Seerah. Galynne closed her eyes and relinquished her spirit to the invading darkness.
Chapter Three
The Cambrian Mountains
Wales
A.D. 984
A shrill cry pierced the air.
Like the foretelling death-cry of the fabled Banshee, Seerah knew that the grisly, bone-chilling shriek was certainly a prelude.
The Norse galley ships and war vessels seemed to materialize from thin air, drifting through the heavy mist like phantom shadows in the night. The fast-approaching enemy crafts glided across the Irish Sea as swiftly as demon spirits emerging from the bowels of the underworld—an ambush!
Sheer terror claimed Seerah's soul as she watched the smaller Celtic skiffs and rafts flounder in St. George's Channel. Severely out-numbered, with their crowded decks hampering their sailing capabilities, they soon found themselves surrounded by the Norse fleet.
But Seerah's body refused to obey her mind's persistent urge to flee. When she opened her mouth to cry out, no sound came forth. She could only watch, praying for mercy as the dark vision continued developing in her mind's eye.
Holding their swords high, the Norsemen swooped through the murky darkness like swarming insects, and swiftly boarded the Celtic crafts. Young mothers clutched their frightened children to their breasts as old women fell to their knees and wept softly, praying in vain for salvation.
Young lasses huddled desperately against one another, their innocent eyes wide with terror as the dreaded Fin-gael attacked with a vengeance. A wild look of savage blood lust seemed to sparkle in the raiders’ eyes as they slit throats, dismembered bodies, and impaled anyone who stood in their way. The defenseless women and children could only watch in shocked horror while their husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons were savagely cut down before their eyes.
Their grief-stricken cries assaulted Seerah's brain with piercing clarity. Tears stung her eyes, and fear clogged her throat, but she could only whimper, helplessly. She saw herself then—only she was wee lass of barely five, hunkering in the shadows. A Norse raider suddenly swooped down in front of her. He was about to run her through with his sword when a young Scot warrior appeared; he seemed to materialize from thin air, like some mythical god.
Though he didn't seem quite old enough to be considered a full-grown man, he stood tall and proud on the ship's gun-wall, holding a glimmering broadsword high in the air with his right hand. The shield in his left hand resembled a star-covered wheel. He looked fearless, confident—no, knightly, like some legendary champion come to life. His golden hair glistened and his amber eyes seemed to issue a silent promise—hope.
However, Seerah also sensed something dangerous about this magical being. A destructive, unforgiving energy seemed to dominate his spirit. A cold, evil essence, like an oppressive shadow haunting his soul—vengeance!
A blast of cold air swept over Seerah, and she shivered.
Aye, she sensed grave danger. She also felt herself being drawn to him; like a bee to the down on a thistle, some mysterious, compelling force seemed to control her will. Fighting the urge to go to him, she concentrated solely on his image, blocking out the sights and sounds of suffering taking place all around her. When held his hand out to her, a queer feeling of relief washed over her. Somehow she knew, deep in her soul, that he would keep her safe from harm.
When she reached out to place her hand in his, she realized that he no longer resembled a mere lad, but a grown man and an imposing warrior. She also no longer appeared to be a wee lass, but a grown woman. The warrior pulled her to her feet and drew her into his protective embrace, comforting her with his strength and confidence. He looked deep into her eyes and she became lost in his brooding gaze; his obvious pain and sorrow made her heart ache with grief and she realized that he needed her as much, if not more, than she needed him.
He bent his head low, and Seerah closed her eyes.
She waited for his kiss, anticipating the thrilling sensation she'd only imagined—until now.
Screeech! The Banshee's cry sounded again, only much closer this time. Seerah flinched and the vivid images vanished. Yearning only to linger in the fantasy world a wee bit longer she shifted position, resisting her brain's insistent urge to wake. After all, her reoccurring nightmare had taken such an unexpected turn. She found the warrior's sudden appearance pleasantly surprising, but quite curious, indeed. Considering her general aversion toward fairy tale heroes, and men in general, she could only wonder about the warrior's odd presence.
As Seerah tried to recapture his image, the familiar aroma of damp earth and fragrant heather tickled her nose. She snuggled into a tight ball trying to get warm, only to realize that her pallet felt unusually hard and uncomfortable, as though she was lying on ... sticks and pebbles? “What?” she grumbled, her curiosity bringing her more fully awake.
She sat up and blinked for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Where?
A Peregrine falcon screeched overhead.
Recognizing the familiar cry, which had pulled her from her slumber, she looked up. “Banshee, indeed,” she said, shaking her head.
She took note of the way the full, harvest moon was situated high in the sky, a vast display of stars twinkling around it. She knew, almost instantly, that she'd fallen asleep in the glen, again. And judging from the moon's position, she'd been asleep for hours.
She remembered sitting by the oak stump earlier, and closing her eyes, thinking to rest for only a brief moment. Now, the clearing was basked in moonlight.
With a groan, she stood and brushed the dirt from her skirts. It was well past the time for her to be getting back. Not that anyone would have cause to worry. After all, she was a full-grown woman, nearly twenty-three summers old. And despite her inept ability to wield Druid spell-craft, her healing abilities were exceptional. Her clan regarded her highly for her healing abilities—almost as highly as the Druid priests and elders.
Aye, in spite of her shortcomings as a Druid sorceress, everyone knew what a capable, independent lass she was—everyone except for Gran. And Gran would have a care to worry, indeed. Why, she treats me as though I'm still a wee bairn in leading strings.
Turning away from the glen, Seerah entered the thicket. Although no light penetrated the thick canopy of leaves sheltering the deep woods, her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Like a nocturnal forest creature foraging for food, she moved deftly through the shadowy mist, becoming one with the night.
Seerah was almost upon the Druid camp when a twig snapped in the distance. She froze. Her dark, hooded cloak billowed about her in the brisk, gentle breeze. Then, dry leaves rustled as a harsh, gusting wind rose. The trees seemed to come to life, their branches bending and lashing out like twisted, sinister arms blindly groping for some unknown prey.
Seerah stood as motionless as a frightened doe, listening intently for any sound that might suggest approaching predators. The wind grew stronger; howling and swirling like a tempest, it whipped her long, black hair and cape about her face and body. Then, just as suddenly, the air grew completely still.
Like a whisper on the breeze, Gran's voice echoed softly in Seerah's mind. “Seeee-rah."
Peering through the forest, she spotted the lone tent in the distance. Glowing candlelight flickered from inside, casting distorted shadows on the thin tarp. “'Tis, indeed I, Seerah,” she called, her voice loud and clear.
“I know that, lass. And I am na’ deaf!” Gran's voice filtered through the trees, loudly this time. “'Twas a summons, you heard. ‘Twas na’ an inquiry. And I know you heard me. Poor gel, will you never learn to use the power of your mind? Why, you've got me yelling through the forest like a cranky goblin. Hurry along. I've a need to speak with you."
Pulling her hood up over her hair, Seerah sighed and headed for the Druid camp.
One of the men sitting huddled by the dwindling fire stood to greet her. “Good eventide, Seerah MacFarlane,” he said, merrily lifting his tankard in salute. His legs wobbled and he fell to the ground, still smiling as ale sloshed from his mug to his lap.
Seerah chuckled. “And the same to you, Iain O'Shaunessy. At least, until your young wife Maura learns that you're in your cups again. Och, ya’ silly sod.” With a dismissive wave of her hand, she walked past.
Ian called after her, “Tis a young father-to-be's duty, to be well in ‘is cups when the blessed event is upon ‘im."
“Rrright you arrre, Iain, me boy!” another man said. The rest of the men clanked their mugs together and boisterously agreed.
Standing near her grandmother's tent Seerah shook her head and smiled to herself.
“Are you planning on standing out there, grinning like a silly goose, all night?” Gran said.
“Nay. I'm coming now.” Bending low, Seerah pulled back the tent flap and entered.
Her eighty-year-old grandmother, Izebeth O'Leary, sat on a pallet, braiding her long, silvery white hair. “'Tis about time. Why, you'll freeze to death out in the cold. And, if dying with a smile on your face be all that you wish to accomplish, there be many a better way to go about it, I say."
Seerah gazed fondly at the petite, old woman's wrinkled face. “And, which would be the most pleasurable do you suppose, now?” She advanced.
Izebeth's sightless eyes remained closed, but their corners crinkled mischievously. “Why, with a strapping young Irishman warming your bed, o’ course."
Seerah removed her hood, allowing her black hair to cascade downward, in shiny waves, past her hips. “'Tis, indeed, an interesting notion."
“Aye, more interesting than an innocent gel like you could ever imagine.” Izebeth smoothed her long plait over her shoulder and lifted her chin like a haughty queen.
“Innocent?” Seerah said. “Do tell. ‘Tis likely I'm no longer considered a maiden due to your wicked fables. Besides, I'm a healer. Why, I know all about—well, you know."
An impish-looking grin settled on Izebeth's face. “Indeed I do. But, unlike you, me knowledge comes from personal experience."
“Faith and beggorah, na’ this again.” Seerah groaned. “I thought I made meself clear the last time, that I've no interest in your matchmaking."
“Did you, now?"
“Aye!"
Izebeth shrugged. “Tell me then, how does young Maura fare?"
“Well enough.” Seerah eyed her grandmother suspiciously. She knew Izebeth never gave up that easily. In the past, the spirited woman had tried everything from pleading to coercion, hoping to inspire Seerah's interest in the various, eligible men among their clan—especially the Irish laddies. Acting compliant and changing the subject was a new tactic Seerah found amusing, but she wasn't fooled.
“When last I checked, Maura was faring better than Iain, most certainly.” Seerah chuckled. “Her pains were coming quite far apart, though. And they were na’ as strong as they could be. I fear ‘twill be a while yet. Kieran is with her, now. They'll send for me if there be any change."
Nodding her approval, Izebeth settled back against the mound of pillows behind her. “Come, sit and keep a feeble, old woman company."
“Old you are now? And feeble, you say? What exactly be you about, now, Gran, me dear?"
“Faith! Such a suspicious young lass you are indeed. About nothing, I am. ‘Tis weary I feel—nothing more, I tell you.” Izebeth coughed and patted her chest. “Please, do as I say, lass. I've barely enough strength left to draw breath."
Seerah knelt on the ground next to Izebeth's pallet. “Aye. Weary you must be, indeed, for your gift o’ guile has failed quite sadly this night, I'm afraid. You're up to something, indeed."
“Me? Why I..."
“Do spare me your affronted display, Gran. I know you well."
“Och! You know me too well, you do."
“Aha! So, who is it this time? The brawny, dimwitted Gregor, or the clumsy, spindly-legged Patrache?"
“Neither one o’ them have a strong enough character to handle the likes o’ you, me strong-willed granddaughter. And, though ‘twould please me beyond measure to see you wed, with a dozen bairns clinging to your skirts, I know well how you feel about the matter. A unique lass, you are, indeed."
Seerah sighed, and inclined her head slightly. “I am na’ unique, Gran, just different. I always have been. Do you na’ see this? I do na’ fit in here. I do na’ belong. I never have."
“O’ course you do. You are held in the highest regard by all the clan,” Izebeth said.
Seerah nodded. “Oh, aye, but only because of me mother's legacy. And, because I'm kin to you. I'm respected for me healing abilities as well, but me failures as a sorceress have always set me apart from the rest. Then there's me contrary looks. Some think me blessed, but others believe I was cursed by the Devil at birth. I've never seen another living being with hair the color of me own. ‘Tis as black as the night sky during winter solstice. And none of the other lasses stand as tall. Why, I practically tower over the men as well. Then, there's me eyes. Even the priests speak in whispers about the way they change color at will. From blue to green to gray, they say. ‘Tis quite obvious to everyone but you, that most think me peculiar."
Izebeth shook her index finger at Seerah. “Nay, Seerah, you be wrong about this. ‘Tis the truth that you be well liked by all. And na’ just for your healing. Though I am blind, I hear better than most and I see—I know. All the lasses admire you. The men too."
“The women have always treated me well enough,” Seerah said. “From a distance. As for the laddies? Apparently they'll fancy any lass as long as she's breathing. Na’ that any have dared to steal as much as a tender kiss from me lately. Why, ever since Geoff O'Toole tried to roll me in the heather against me will, all the lads have come to mind their manners around me.” Seerah giggled.
Izebeth's crooked smirk suggested her mirth over the memory. “Who wouldn't keep their distance after watching poor Geoff suffer such a severe a case of loose bowels? He deserved to be taught a lesson, aye. But, the poor laddie suffered unduly. And now ... all the lads fear you'll poison them if they simply look your way."
“'Tis well they should. I've no use for any of them. And, with me knowledge of herbs, me failings in the art of Druid spell-craft seem less disappointing at times."
“Well...” Izebeth cleared her throat. “I ... I've been meaning to speak with you about that."
Seerah groaned with despair. She couldn't help herself. Gran's constant efforts at matchmaking were bad enough—her need to prove that Seerah could wield magic was simply depressing. Gran often said things like, “You've the ability to wield supreme mystical power, I'm certain. Why, the blood of the Shee runs through your veins. You simply must try harder."
Unfortunately, such talk only served to try Seerah's patience beyond reason. It wasn't as if she had never tried to cast spells—she had, many times in the past, only to fail miserably.
“I do na’ believe I wish to hear what you have to say."
“Come now, lass. ‘Tis a matter of great importance."
“More important than finding me a husband? Indeed!"
“Aye.” Izebeth paused, a somber expression creasing her face. “'Tis quite serious."
Seerah frowned, her emotions a mix of curious concern and apprehension. “I suppose you best have out with it then."
Izebeth's forehead creased as if in thoughtful contemplation. “You must leave here—this very night."
“Leave? The camp? What—"
“Nay. You must leave this land. You must flee Wales. And you must do so quickly!"
“Leave Wales?” Seerah shook her head as if trying to wake from a lingering nightmare. “What ... Why? Have I done something wrong?"
“Nay. If only it were that simple.” Gran sighed heavily, and clutched the bedding as if she were fighting her own emotions.
Seerah leaned in closer and placed her hand on Izebeth's forearm. “What then?"
Izebeth's eyelids sprang open, her gaze focusing as if she could see. Her fragile body trembled violently, then her eyes suddenly rolled back in their sockets so only the whites could be seen. “Galynne lives!"
Seerah gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “M-mother?
“Aye.” Izebeth's body relaxed and her eyelids fluttered closed. “Her spirit came to me this night."
Seerah's fingers trembled, her mind racing with hope and uncertainty. “Sh-she lives, you say? How can you be certain?"
“I have no doubts."
“But...” Seerah blinked back the tears rimming her eyes. “What of me da?"
“He lives as well. Though I have sensed his energy, his essence has changed. ‘Tis almost as if ... he owns two spirits now."
“Two spirits? How can that be?"
“Apparently his head was badly injured during the attack, Seerah. Perhaps..."
Seerah wasn't listening. “Is he with her?"
“Nay, but he searches for her."
“He ... you ... how?” Seerah took a deep breath, trying to slow her racing heart and thoughts. She stared at Izebeth, trying desperately to make sense of the overwhelming news. “How can you possibly know this?"
“I know.” Izebeth sighed wearily. “You see, Galynne's cloaking skills were always superior. This is why I came to believe her soul had truly found peace. I had me doubts in the beginning, but she obviously wanted—no she needed—us to believe that she had passed on to the otherworld. Until the time was right. Until now. Her spirit came to me this night because the time of reckoning nears. She needs you, Seerah."
Seerah sat for a moment trying to sort through all that Izebeth had said. As questions raced through her mind, Seerah stood and began pacing the small area. “If she truly lives, where has she been all these years? Where is she now? And why has she na’ returned for me?” She stopped. Her blood pumped with such force she could hear the sound of her heart beating within her ears. Her thoughts torn between elation and uncertainty, she stood silently before Izebeth and waited for a reasonable explanation.
“Evil forces took your mother, Seerah. She was a supreme sorceress with the potential to wield great power. Whoever took her knew this."
“Nay!” Seerah cried. “You have protected me all me life, but now ‘tis time to stop. There be no such evil forces. She left me because ... she did na’ love me.” Tears of despair began coursing down Seerah's cheeks and she crumbled to the ground in a heap. “I was as much as a disappointment to her, as me failing magic is to you now. Why ... why else would she stay away?” Laying her head in Izebeth's lap, Seerah sobbed.
“Please calm yourself, child.” Izebeth lifted Seerah's head and eased the long, wet strands of hair away from her face. “Galynne loves you dearly. She always has. And, deep in your soul you have always known that she is with you. This is why you have suffered so. Despite everything you were told about her passing, you knew the truth. Remember how you refused to believe? You often spoke of how you felt her presence within you. It was her love that you felt in the beginning, and that love has kept you safe from harm. If only you would open your heart, you would know this. The evil I spoke of is quite real, indeed. ‘Tis also what prevents her from coming to you, even now. You must have faith, Seerah."
Seerah twisted away from Izebeth's gentle ministration. “Faith, you say? Och! For years, I did nothing but pray that me parents would come back to me. And how have the gods answered me? By allowing me to suffer. Nay, I do na’ believe. ‘Tis merely false hope you bring, just like all your grand talk of divine, mystical powers."
“'Tis the truth I speak, Seerah. May me soul wander in the realm of darkness for ever more if me words ring false."
Knowing how strongly Izebeth took such vows, Seerah tried her best to sound respectful when she replied, “Simply believing does na’ make things true, Gran,"
“Why, faith is everything, Seerah. If you truly believe, anything is possible."
“Nay.” Seerah sniffled and shook her head. “I used to believe. Long ago. However, I was sorely disappointed. All faith has ever done for me, is to leave me feeling frustrated and inferior. And even if I did believe now, what could I possibly do?"
“'Tis where me dream comes in."
“Your dream?"
“Aye, the ability to dream-weave is a great gift from Dagdha. It affords us the power to alter future events."
Seerah backhanded her tearstained face. “If that be true, then why did you na’ foresee the attack? And why did you na’ know before now, that me parents survived? If they truly live, that is. Nay. ‘Tis foolish to believe that dreams can foretell the future. None can change what lies ahead."
“Always the skeptic,” Izebeth grumbled. “Controlling destiny is quite complicated, don't you know? Why, in the beginning, Cernunnos, the son of the God of darkness and chaos, was sent to vanquish our people. However, Lug, the Irish god of light, conquered King Balor of the Fomorians. Cernunnos was then sentenced to become the guardian to the gateway of the underworld. It has been a war of light against darkness, good versus evil ever since. We have bid our time well though, and now we have the upper hand."
Seerah's shoulders drooped with despair. “I ask for proof and you speak of fables passed on by foolish old wives,” she said.
“'Tis na’ fables, but lore I'm speaking of. ‘Tis the history of your own people you forsake, Seerah!"
“Dear, sweet, Gran. Even if all that you say about Cernunnos and Lugh be true, that would have happened long before our time. What could any of it possibly have to do with me, or me parents?"
Izebeth cocked her head to one side as though pondering the question. A long moment passed before she replied. “Once, a long time ago, it was believed that Galynne would rein as supreme sorceress of the Shee. That is why she was abducted, I'm certain. However, ‘twas a false prophecy. I've known for a long time now that she was merely a decoy. But I could na’ interfere. ‘Tis plain to see that your parents became pawns in the ancient struggle for power.” Izebeth nodded. A silent moment passed before she frowned. “Do you na’ have any fond memories of your time with your parents? Think back. Try to remember what it was like before."
“I—but I..."
“Try."
Releasing a weary sigh, Seerah hung her head low. Then she did something she seldom allowed herself to do, because it was too painful; she thought about her parents.
Chapter Four
Seerah cast her mind back, back before the night of the Fin-gael raid, back to a quiet evening when her mother had sat in front of the fire, drying her long, auburn hair. Galynne had let five-year-old Seerah brush her hair, and Seerah could still remember its softness, the way it smelled of heather and lilac.
“Mama, tell me again how you and da met."
Galynne's voice, lovely and low, held a smile. “Seerah, aren't you tired of that story yet? I think you could tell it to me."
“Please, Mama,” Seerah wheedled, knowing her mother didn't really mind.
And Galynne had told the story of how Kendahl, a mighty Highland knight said to be a direct descendant of Fionn MacCumhail, had been traveling on a scouting mission with the Fianna, in the desolate country near Dingle, Ireland, when one of his men became deathly ill. Though Kendahl believed not in the Druid ways, when he and his men came upon the Druid camp, he was left with no other choice but to ask their assistance. The young warrior in his charge was near to death.
Galynne, although young, was already the most skilled healer in the band of Druid settlers and priests. When she was brought forth to heal the warrior, she and Kendahl fell in love at first sight. But Kendahl's request to wed Galynne was not welcomed by the Druid priests and clan elders. Because Galynne's Shee blood could be traced to the famous sorcerer Merlin, many believed her noble lineage and exceptional powers would one day require her to reign as supreme sorceress of the Shee.
It was obvious to all that Kendahl loved Galynne with a pure heart. He was also a mighty warrior whose great courage and sense of honor were apparent. But he had openly rejected Galynne's beliefs, deeming them nonsense. Because the council elders felt that such a match would displease their god, Dagdha, it was decided that, for the sake of destiny, Kendahl would be banished from their kingdom and Galynne's heart forever.
In her misery and despair Galynne fled to the deepest, darkest part of the forest. When a fire broke out—the direct result of an incantation gone awry—her clan rushed to her rescue. By the time they located her, however, the circle of flames surrounding Galynne was too intense for them to breach. Just as the clan was about to lose all hope, Kendahl appeared in the clearing riding his war-horse. He drove his steed directly into the fire, snatching Galynne from certain death, and both emerged unharmed.
Witnessing the rescue, the council deemed that the love Kendahl and Galynne held for one another was pure. The match was declared as destined by the fates, and a ceremonial banquet was held in honor of Kendahl's valiant deed. During the celebration ritual that lasted five days and nights, the two were married, and Kendahl was dubbed Spirit of Fire, protector of the Shee.
Though her eyes remained closed, Seerah shook her bowed head in disbelief. She had loved that story as a child, and had heard it told countless times since. It had become a legend, considered the most romantic story of love and fate ever ... until the tragic Norse attack which had left Seerah orphaned at the age of five. But she was no longer a child who believed in fairy tales.
Fate? Och. ‘Tis apparently more folklore than fact. Just another tragic, Irish tale. Why, I can na’ even summon the natural earth-forces of wind, rain or fire. ‘Tis nothing but myths!
Unfortunately Seerah's few childhood memories were colored by many tales, some of which seemed to grow and change with each accounting.
According to the most popular of legends Seerah's father, Kendahl MacFarlane, a mighty Highland knight was said to be a direct descendant of Fionn MacCumhail. Kendahl's honor and courage were widely acclaimed, and he was revered by Seerah's people for his deeds as protector of the fairy people know as Sidhe or Shee.
Seerah's mother, Galynne O'Leary, was once a member of the same Celtic band of Druid settlers and priests as Izebeth and Seerah. They lived mainly in the forests of Ireland, until the Norse raid, which scattered their people throughout Wales, Ireland and parts of Scotland. To this day Galynne's mystical healing powers were said to be as divine and extraordinary as her beauty.
According to legend, Kendahl had been traveling on a scouting mission with the Fianna, in the desolate country near Dingle, Ireland, when one of his men became deathly ill. Though Kendahl believed not in the Druid ways, when he and his men came upon the Druid camp, he was left with no other choice. The young warrior in his charge was near to death.
When Galynne was brought forth to heal the warrior, she and Kendahl fell in love at first sight. Unfortunately, while many legends of old were based on the forbidden love between mortal men and divine beings, Kendahl's request to wed Galynne became the cause of much discourse among the Druid priests and clan elders. Because Galynne's Shee blood could be traced to the famous sorcerer Merlin, many believed her noble lineage and exceptional powers would one day require her to reign as supreme sorceress of the Shee.
It was obvious to all that Kendahl loved Galynne with a pure heart. He was also a mighty warrior whose great courage and sense of honor were apparent. But he had openly rejected Galynne's beliefs, deeming them nonsense. Because the council elders felt that such a match would displease their god, Dagdha, it was decided that, for the sake of destiny, Kendahl would be banished from their kingdom and Galynne's heart forever.
In her misery and despair Galynne fled to the deepest, darkest part of the forest. When a fire broke out—the direct result of an incantation gone awry—her clan rushed to her rescue. By the time they located her, however, the circle of flames surrounding Galynne was too intense for them to breach. Just as the clan was about to lose all hope, Kendahl appeared in the clearing riding his war-horse. He drove his steed directly into the fire, snatching Galynne from certain death, and both emerged unharmed. Still too history lesson?
Witnessing the rescue, the council deemed that the love Kendahl and Galynne held for one another was pure. The match was declared as destined by the fates, and a ceremonial banquet was held in honor of Kendahl's valiant deed. During the celebration ritual that lasted five days and nights, the two were married, and Kendahl was dubbed Spirit of Fire, protector of the Shee. The legend was considered the most romantic story of love and fate ever ... until the tragic Norse attack which had left Seerah orphaned at the age of five.
Though her eyes remained closed, Seerah wagged her bowed head in disbelief. Fate? Och. ‘Tis apparently more folklore than fact. Just another tragic, Irish tale. Why, I can na’ even summon the natural earth-forces of wind, rain or fire. ‘Tis nothing but myths!
“Tis na’ myths!” Izebeth fumed.
Seerah blinked her eyes open and gaped up at Izebeth.
Izebeth wagged her index finger at Seerah. “You should be ashamed for thinking such things. Your Shee blood is—"
“Shee blood?” Seerah interrupted. “Have mercy! Me Shee blood is but a fairy curse. Apparently, na’ even me thoughts are me own. And, gift, you say? Och! I'd rather have parents."
Izebeth sighed. “I told you, Seerah, evil took your parents. And your Shee blood is a great gift."
“Oh? Tell me, then, what good is such a gift if we can na’ defeat evil?"
“But you can,” Izebeth said. “Do you na’ see? ‘Tis all been a matter of timing. And now the time is right. The true prophecy can finally be completed. If only you will—"
“What?” Seerah challenged. “Have blind faith, and trust your fanciful beliefs?"
“Me beliefs are na’ fanciful. The Druid teachings are as old as time itself. And aye, you must have faith. Why, you have been chosen, Seerah."
“Chosen? Me?” Seerah scoffed. “Chosen for what?"
“To fulfill the prophecy, of course. You see, on a night such as this, when the full harvest moon is high in the sky and all is aligned in the universe, the atmosphere becomes charged with mystical energy. You were born on such a night. Of course, I knew na’ that you had been chosen until recently, but that was also part of the plan."
“None of this makes any sense, Gran.” Seerah argued. “You claim to see the future, but you knew na’ of this plan, until now. You also believed me parents to be dead. Yet, now, you suddenly tell me they live. And, you expect me to believe ‘tis all part of some grand scheme. Tell me this, if me own mother was—is—such a powerful sorceress, why did she na’ simply use her powers to thwart the evil forces. Why—"
“'Twas na’ her destiny,” Izebeth said. “'Twas your future and the future of our people she's been protecting. Dreamweavers are na’ merely fortunetellers, Seerah. We seek to achieve the truth of destiny. Our duty is to preserve the Light our Shee ancestors died protecting. ‘Tis against our nature to interfere unless we are called upon by the gods to do so. Dagdha has finally allowed me such power. Why, the images I conjured this night were no simple visions of foresight. The power of Dream-magic has allowed me to see your fate, child."
The hairs at Seerah's nape prickled and a shiver ran down her spine. “Dream-magic?” She swallowed hard, sensing that something profound was about to happen that would forever change her life. “You've ... seen me fate? What does this mean?"
“Me dream, lass. You must live me dream."
“L-live your dream! I ... What exactly is it that you expect me to do?"
“You must locate Kendahl and rescue Galynne."
“What!” Seerah's mouth fell open. “H-how? I ... I know na’ where or—"
“But, I do.” Izebeth nodded. “Galynne is being held captive in a castle, in the Highlands of Scotland, by a man learned in the art of black magic. He is vengeful man who seeks to destroy all that is good, and rule with all that is evil.” Izebeth shivered. “He is represented in me visions as a serpent, but I know him well from the past. ‘Twas he who reeked havoc on our people and abducted Galynne so many years ago, I'm certain."
Seerah wanted desperately to believe that her parents were alive, but Izebeth's ramblings were growing more fanciful by the second. “If what you say is true, who is this man? What has he to gain by torturing us?"
“Och! He is no human man, but the devil's spawn!” Izebeth spat on the ground. “Apparently, the Prince of Darkness has had his hand in this since the beginning. I should have recognized his disciple. I would have enjoyed destroying him years ago when he was within me grasp. Alas, ‘twas na’ what the fates held in store for any of us.” Izebeth sighed. “'Tis all up to you now, Seerah."
“Me! You expect me to defeat the Prince of Darkness?"
Izebeth nodded. “Apparently, ‘tis been Dagdha's plan all along. The evil one is well guarded by the spirit fires of the underworld. As of yet, he knows na’ that I observe him. But we must be very cautious, for his powers have grown. He will learn of Dagdha's plans eventually. ‘Tis inevitable. But by then, you will be well on your way."
“On m-me way?” Seerah stammered. “To what?"
“To fulfill the prophecy, of course,” Izebeth said, clearly exasperated.
“But ... h-how? Where—"
“Kendahl is near Galynne,” Izebeth said. “And he searches for her, but his efforts are in vain. He desperately needs your help, Seerah. Though I do na’ have all the answers you seek this night, I am certain of one thing—you are the only one who can save Galynne."
“I—you...” Seerah faltered, her shoulders slumping with defeat as she stared at Izebeth.
“Lend me your hand, child.” When Izebeth extended her arm out, Seerah obediently placed her left hand in the old woman's open palm. “Divine providence has intervened. ‘Tis the will of the fates.” Izebeth's gnarled fingers closed around Seerah's hand.
Seerah bowed her head low, and closed her eyes. Despite her many misgivings, now, like often times in the past, Seerah felt obligated to honor her grandmother's wishes. Seerah had also learned, long ago, that arguing with the persistent old woman was useless. Slowly raising her head, Seerah gently squeezed Izebeth's hand. “I'll begin me search at first light."
“Nay!” Izebeth clasped Seerah's hand. “You are na’ ready. Your gifts be lacking."
“Me gifts?” Seerah tried to pull her hand free, but Izebeth held fast. “I trust na’ in the likes, but I have a sharp, cunning mind and a strong body."
“Aye. That you do, indeed. But full control of your spell-craft is what you'll be needing to rescue Galynne!” The conviction in Izebeth's voice seemed to match the strength of her relentless grip.
“B-but,” Seerah squirmed.
“No more excuses.” Izebeth shook Seerah's arm with a jarring force, then released her grip. “You must have faith to realize the power deep in your soul. ‘Tis what you've been lacking these many years. In order to save Galynne, you need to become an accomplished sorceress. To do this, you must trust in the power of love, believe in yourself and in your gifts. Have you even been practicing your spells and incantations?"
“Nay.” Seerah grimaced. “But, I'll begin at once, if you wish."
“Aye.” Izebeth placed her hands in her lap. “You will do so, but na’ here. ‘Tis no longer safe. Galynne has been using her powers of faet fiada to protect you. While these innate cloaking skills of hers have always been superior, her powers are failing. ‘Tis is why I can feel her so strongly now. ‘Tis a warning. She's in grave danger, as are you."
“Danger? M-me?” Seerah blinked her eyes wide.
“Aye. And we be running out of time. When the evil one learns of your existence, he will search heaven and earth, destroying everything in his wake until he has you in his grasp."
“But, why? What threat could I pos—"
“Your powers, Seerah!” Izebeth sighed, clearly annoyed.
“Me powers? Why, if you did na’ look so serious I'd laugh. ‘Tis a ridiculous notion."
“Tis na’ ridiculous. And, serious I am, indeed. Na’ only do you possess the gifts of second sight and Dream-weaving, but deep in your soul you have the ability to levitate, shape-shift, and move objects with your mind. You can read other's thoughts as well. This be a rare combination, brought about by the true power of Light you carry within you, now. I believe Galynne passed the power of the Light to you when she was captured. She knew.” Izebeth nodded as if confirming her own words.
Seerah knew she was fighting a losing battle. When Izebeth set her mind on something there was little chance of reasoning with her. Seerah also knew the truth; all her life she'd been a failure as a Druid witch. “I can see how strongly you believe this, Gran,” Seerah began. “However, you can na’ ignore the facts. I've never been able to cause even simple mischief. I've tried many times, but me attempts have always been fruitless."
“Blocking your powers was part of Galynne's protection, I'm certain,” Izebeth said. “If you were to become an accomplished sorceress before the time was right, ‘twould have been simple for the evil one to locate you. But now ... Why, there be no telling what you can do. If only you would believe. The day of reckoning nears and you are the only one who can defeat them, Seerah. You must try, lass,” Izebeth charged.
Seerah placed her hand on Izebeth's forearm, again. “Your confidence warms me heart, truly. But, I think, mayhap..."
Izebeth shrugged Seerah's hand away. “Bah! You think too much. This has always been your problem. A bright, independent lass you are, indeed. And you have grown into a capable young woman. Why, you can do anything you set out to, but reason and doubt clutter your headstrong mind."
Crossing her arms over her chest, Izebeth scowled. “You believe in naught, unless you can see it, or hold it in your hands. ‘Tis why you reject the Druid ways, and the affections of the laddies. Why, sometimes I fear the taint of stubborn Scot blood in your veins is to blame. Your father was the same. Aye, he was quite a skeptic.” Izebeth frowned. “Then again...” she whispered, “As his love for Galynne grew ... he came to see—to believe. Just as you will!” Her words seemed much more forceful and determined as she continued. “There be no more time for skepticism, Seerah MacFarlane. You need to feel with every fiber of your being, and to believe what at times may seem most unreasonable. Above all else, you must learn to listen to your heart."
“But if me success in fulfilling this ... this prophecy, depends solely upon me powers..."
Izebeth pat Seerah's hand. “Fear na'. Though your powers lie dormant now, they will soon awaken and strengthen, I'm quite certain of this. You must practice, but na’ here. As I said, ‘tis no longer safe."
“Aye.” Seerah sighed with resign. “Where will we go, then?"
“Na’ we, lass.” Izebeth slowly shook her head from side to side.
“Alone? But ... I don't understand. Why—"
Izebeth raised a placating hand. “Do na’ fret, so. In his infinite wisdom, Dagdha has appointed you a guardian—a protector of sorts. He—"
“He? Och, I should have known!” Seerah clapped one hand against her forehead.
“Have mercy! ‘Tis no love match, Seerah! In fact, The Lord of Thunder will likely prove to be most difficult."
“The Lord of Thunder?"
“Aye.” Izebeth nodded. “He proved himself worthy in the past, so the gods have appointed him as protector of the Light. He believes na’ in our ways, but he is very powerful. He is also crucial to the prophecy. You must convince him to take you on your journey."
Seerah was past being surprised. She knew that the only thing for her to do was to humor Izebeth and hope for the best. “Oh, well ... if I must, I must. Do you have any suggestions as to how I might convince him?"
“As you said yourself, you have a sound mind. I'll trust you to think of a way to persuade him. After all, you are a beautiful, charming young woman, Seerah."
“You expect me to offer ... me ... me charms, to a complete stranger?"
“Na’ exactly. But I trust you will do what ever you must to influence his decision. Without him, all will be lost, I'm afraid."
“Och! When—"
“He will come to you in due time."
“Indeed,” Seerah said. She couldn't help wondering if this was just an elaborate—and crafty—scheme Izebeth had concocted to finally see Seerah wed. She quickly reject the notion, however, knowing that such a pretense was too conniving even for Izebeth's taste. “Where am I to go?"
“Two of our Druid priests will escort you back home to Eire,” Izebeth said. “Dingle, a small village on the coast in the kingdom of Munster, be where your journey begins. Brian Boru rules the South now, and you'll be safe there for a time. The road before you is long, and you have much to learn, aye, but always know that I will be with you ... in spirit."
“Must I leave so soon?” Seerah laid her head in Izebeth's lap.
Izebeth gently stroked Seerah's hair. “I know that you have great fear of the unknown. The pain of loss makes you doubt all that is in your heart. You never trust what you feel, but you will. For the sake of the prophecy and Galynne, you must have faith—just as you must come to know that this be your destiny."
Seerah nodded solemnly, but not because she believed Izebeth's declaration. On the contrary; Seerah would travel back to Eire, but only because she had little choice in the matter. She would always be a complete failure as a Druid witch; no divine power, magical or not, could ever change that—especially not some difficult man—Lord of Thunder, indeed. All I need to accompany me on me “quest” are me wits. I do na’ need any man, especially not some fairy tale champion with a nasty disposition.
* * * *
Gairloch Castle, Scotland
The full moon hovered high in the evening sky like a spectral orb suspended by will alone. Gossamer clouds drifted past, lending an eerie quality to the night. The dense fog seemed to float just above the ground as if purposely concealing something forbidden.
Tristan Kincaid ignored the damp chill in the air as he sat astride his gray horse and observed his surroundings; he scrutinized each shadow, every sound. Then, with his trained warrior mind already focused on the troubling task ahead, he prepared a mental list of potential hazards, leaving nothing to chance. He liked everything to be meticulously organized down to the last detail.
Four more Highland warriors passed through the keep gate riding war-horses. Armed with broadswords, daggers and arrows, the men advanced as one with their mounts, the night mist swirling about as if to scurry out of their way.
Though they varied in size and appearance, the warriors sat tall, their demeanor rigid and precise. Yet Tristan sensed something discerning in the depths of their eyes that indicated each man entertained doubts about the mission at hand—not that he could find fault with that.
Aye, Tristan had his own misgivings. Searching the countryside for a supposed magic charm didn't top his list of priorities; only one thing did—revenge. He'd vowed long ago to avenge the murders of his parents and his first love, Catrin Maclean. The man responsible for their deaths—whom Tristan referred to merely as the Bastard—deserved to die a slow painful death, at best.
And he would, in due time.
Tristan's first duty and his word of honor, however, belonged to his laird. The time will come, though. Soon. Aye, He will pay dearly. Tristan sighed, then waited as the warriors directed their horses into a straight line, with two men flanking him on either side.
“What be the plan, Tristan?” Colin asked.
Tristan remained silent, his eyes trained straight ahead.
“Aye, how are we to find the magic stone?” Zeth asked.
“There be no such stone,” Tristan said.
“Our laird believes there is. He's also quite certain you will find it,” Gareth said.
“Gareth be right, Tristan,” Greum, the last man, said. “Our laird has great faith in the belief of mysticism, and in you as well."
“Aye.” Tristan gazed at Greum. “But, as you well know, ‘tis foolish to believe in sorcery and magic charms."
“'Tis true enough,” Colin said. “Yet we ride this night. What be your plan, Tristan?"
Tristan returned his gaze to the land before him, his eyes locking on the horizon. “We will travel to Eire as our laird so wishes. To ease his mind. When we complete our mission and confirm that no such stone exists, he will see that his beliefs in such things are foolhardy."
“Mayhap, but he will na’ be pleased,” Zeth's young voice cracked with uncertainty.
“Aye.” Greum, Colin, and Gareth voiced their agreement.
“'Tis most likely he will na’ be pleased.” Tristan said. He urged his mount forward and his men followed. “But, he will finally see that his blind faith in such notions as love, family bonds, and magic are foolish.” Tristan fell silent as he and his men approached the rise.
Chapter Five
Six months later
County Kerry, Ireland (Eire)
The inn, like many of the Celtic ring-forts throughout Ireland, was built mainly of stone. Oak ceiling beams supported the thatched roof, and hardwood shutters secured two small portals lining the dining hall. A narrow stairwell led to the small chamber in the loft where Seerah slept.
Standing in the dining hall, surveying the damage, she had to admit that the homey structure was sturdy and quite spacious. It also offered protection from the elements. However, having lived in the forests her entire life, she still thought it lacking in a confining sort of way.
After setting right a chair that had been knocked on its side, Seerah turned toward the bar. “Shall I tally the profits now, Aunt Lilybet?"
Though her height and build were dwarf-like at best, Lilybet O'Shea stood as strong and proud as any Irish woman God had ever created. Silver streaks highlighted her tightly coiled, auburn hair, and wrinkles creased her freckled face, adding a certain look of distinction to her modest appearance. She was a stout woman who could hold her own with the more rancorous scoundrels who frequented the inn. “There'll be time enough for counting profits later, Seerah. We best see to the cleanin’ first. Faith, such a mess!” Lilybet chuckled.
Seerah wrinkled her nose at the stale, lingering odor of spilled ale and unwashed bodies that mingled with the aroma of peat smoke. Next, Seerah observed the empty trenchers and tankards cluttering the oak dining tables. Scraps of discarded food littered the cobbled floor and a mud-crusted trail of footprints led from the front doors to storeroom. “A fine mess, indeed."
“Aye.” Lilybet smiled and climbed into the seat of a nearby chair. “But your Uncle Marcus will be in fine spirits this night. Thank God for hungry travelers,” she said as she began wiping down the bar.
“Well coined ones at that,” Seerah said.
Lilybet chuckled again. “Tis so, indeed. And, I see Cosmo has na’ been up to his usual mischief tonight. We've been blessed, indeed."
Seerah Grimaced. “I would na’ speak so soon. Why Gran thought he'd make a good companion is beyond me. He's more master than pet, I'm afraid."
“Perhaps, but Cosmo does keep us on our toes.” Lilybet winked at Seerah.
A loud crash came from the direction of the storeroom. The clamor was followed by the distinct screech of a small, startled animal.
Seerah cringed. “And his timing is uncanny."
“Seerah!” Lilybet's husband yelled. “Get this ... this rodent out of me storeroom before I ... I—Och!"
“Yes, Uncle Marcus. Cosmo, come!” Seerah shouted.
Within moments, Seerah's pet ferret scurried from the storeroom. In a brownish-gray blur of motion, the animal scampered across the dining area toward Seerah, where he scrambled up the faded skirts of her saffron over-tunic and cuddled into a ball in her arms.
“Cosmo, why must you always provoke Uncle Marcus so?” Seerah chastised.
Cosmo simply curled into a ball in her arms, closing his eyes just as Marcus exited the storeroom.
Running his pudgy hand through the stray red hairs on his balding head, Marcus waddled across the floor toward Seerah. “Cursed I am, I say! I swear that animal has it in for me. A whole sack of grain was almost ruined, and all because that pampered rodent insists making his bed in it.” He stopped near a bar stool and climbed upon it, awkwardly maneuvering his short, pudgy body into a comfortable position on the seat. The way he sat there, red-faced, with his stubby, little legs dangling above the ground, Seerah couldn't help thinking that he looked like an angry wood-sprite instead of a full grown man.
She tried to look innocent by smiling and batting her eyelashes at him.
He glared back at her. “Who ever heard of keeping a rat as a pet anyway?"
Lilybet threw her rag down on the bar. “He's a ferret, Marcus!"
“Is there a difference?” Marcus pounded the bar with his open palm.
“Aye, there is,” Lilybet said. “And you and your grain might fare better if you would accept Cosmo.” She nodded, then swiped at a strand of hair which came loose about her forehead.
“Humph.” Marcus leaned one elbow on the bar and took a swig of ale from the tankard Lilybet had set out for him.
“I'm sorry, Uncle,” Seerah said, “Grandmother was very adamant about Cosmo."
“Aye, I know.” Marcus wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Izebeth O'Leary can be quite an evil witc..."
“Marcus Ryan O'Shea!” Lilybet placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.
Marcus scowled back. “What? Her pagan ways make me as uneasy as that animal does, I tell you."
“Izebeth has been a dear friend to me ever since we were wee gels living in Tralee. And she explained how Seerah must have something ... familiar with her."
“You mustn't keep reminding me. Talismans, charms and potions. Bah! ‘Tis nothin’ more than superstitious nonsense, if you ask me.
“Nobody did,” Lilybet said. “Izebeth's ways are exactly that. And, her wishes concerning Seerah were specific. We agreed to honor them. Seerah, be sure the door is latched and the shutters be secured. Your uncle's tongue runs away from him, as usual."
“Humph.” Marcus tugged the waist of his pants, but his thick paunch prevented them from moving.
“Humph yourself. You know better than to speak so. Izebeth explained the dangers.” Lilybet glanced at Seerah. “Have you been practicing your lessons in the attic, lass?"
“I have.” Seerah secured the wood shutters, then latched the door. “And, very careful I've been, but...” She winced. “A tapestry was ruined, I'm sorry to say. It ... it caught fire.” She shrugged.
“Not to worry.” Lilybet took up her task of wiping the bar.
“Not to worry! Between that creature's mischief and the way she tampers with...” Marcus glanced about the room as if he expected the roof to fall in. “Why, me profits go out the window before they're made. And you say not to worry. Bah!” He took another drink of ale and slammed the mug on the bar. Shifting his portly frame about, he climbed down from the stool and headed back toward the storeroom.
“Do stop complaining, Marcus,” Lilybet said. “Izebeth sent what little coin she had with the lass. We should be honored she entrusted us with her granddaughter's care."
Marcus was about to enter the storeroom when he turned on his heel. “Honored? Ever since the gel turned up at our door, six moons ago, with that ... that God-forsaken creature, we've had nothing but mischief about us."
“Accept her presence as the blessing ‘tis, Marcus. We've no idea how long she'll be with us. And seeing that we were na’ blessed with any children of our own, I can only feel as though God has dearly smiled on us."
“The devil you say!” Marcus slapped his hand against his forehead. “'Tis more likely that the good Lord will smite us because of her and her heathen ways."
“Her beliefs are na’ heathen. Why, they're an ancient and sacred part of your own culture. Besides, we're obligated to do what we can for Seerah."
“By keeping her hidden?"
“'Tis her destiny."
“What? To be a spinster?"
“Hush you, Marcus.” Frowning, Lilybet glanced at Seerah.
“I will na’ hush! Three and twenty she'll soon be. Well past her prime, I might add. Yet she remains unmarried. Though ‘tis no surprise to me.” He snorted. “Faith! The way you make her up to look like some homely serf, ‘tis no wonder why nary a man looks at her twice—when they notice her a'tall, that is. Not that her own look is much better."
Lifting his hands above his head, Marcus waved them about as if churning the air. “Dark black hair, barely a splash of freckles, and tall as a tree, she is. Then there's those spooky eyes of hers. One minute they're as gray and colorless as a soulless corpse's. The next, they're the loveliest shade of lavender I've ever seen. And, there've been times when they practically glow with green fire. ‘Tis na right for an Irish lass, I tell you."
“But she's not merely Irish.” Lilybet said. “Galynne be of Irish and Welsh decent. Kendahl's Scottish through and through. Then of course, there's Izebeth's Shee blood. So you see—"
“Shee blood? For the love of ... A Celtic mongrel she is, I say!” Marcus nodded and stuffed his hands deep in his pockets. “She is a result of what happens when people refuse to stick with their own kind. The mixed blood in her veins is the reason she can na’ land a man. She does na’ belong here, I say. And I grant you this, no self-respecting Irishman will ever wed her—with or without her ridiculous disguise. Why, we'll be feeding her and her rat for the rest of our days, and I'll likely die with nothing but lint in me pocket.” Marcus fixed Lilybet with a hard stare.
“I'm sorry, Uncle Marcus.” Bowing her head low, Seerah gently stroked Cosmo's fur. “Though I rather enjoy the guise Aunt Lilybet has provided me, as it allows me to go about unobserved by the laddies, you should know that me strong-will has always kept them at bay. Na’ that I've ever had much desire to wed.” She shrugged. “As for me gifts, if you will, they seem to be more of a curse than a blessing to me as well. No matter how I try, I can na’ seem to master them. Why, sometimes, I wish I was na’ gifted at all."
Cosmo screeched, then leapt from Seerah's arms to the floor and scurried away.
Seerah grimaced. “Cosmo!"
“He best stay away from me grain or I'll—"
“See here, now, all of you!” Still clutching her cleaning rag, Lilybet shook her fist at the thatched roof where Cosmo had settled on an oak rafter. “You behave yourself, Cosmo, or you'll be answering to my wrath.” Turning to face Seerah, Lilybet wagged her head from side to side. “My dear, gel. You must never think such a thing, much less speak it. And you, Marcus!” She glared at her husband. “Stop being such an old grump. The poor lass feels enough of a burden to you as it is. All this talk only serves to make her feel more so."
“I never meant...” Marcus shifted his feet. “I just feel..."
“I know quite well how you feel,” Lilybet said. “We all do, for that matter. Why, you tell us every chance you get. And, though I can't claim to understand any of this any better than you, I trust Izebeth with every fiber of me being. Now, go on with your grouchy self and tend your precious grain. For all that's holy, you've caused more mischief than Cosmo this night.” Lilybet dismissed Marcus with a turn of her head and a wave of her rag.
“I...” Marcus glanced at Seerah. “You do know, I meant no harm?"
Seerah nodded and offered a wan smile in reply.
Climbing down from her chair, Lilybet walked around to the front of the bar and shook her index at Seerah. “You should know better than to pay mind to your uncle's ramblings, Seerah.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she continued, “Why, he enjoys carrying tales and complaining almost as much as he enjoys counting his blessed coins. But his negative energy is harmful to your spirit. Why, you should cherish your legacy."
“You sound just like Gran."
“Thank you.” Lilybet smiled.
Marcus snorted. “That was no compliment, Lily, me dear."
“It was to me.” Lilybet glared over her shoulder at Marcus, then turned back to Seerah. “Now, Seerah..."
“I'm sorry, Aunt Lilybet. I know how important all of this is to Gran, but ... I fear that I can na’ live up to her expectations. I've no control over me so-called powers. Why, just when I think I'm getting the hang of it, something always goes awry. Like the tapestry. It caught fire of its own will, I tell you. I haven't the faintest idea why. And, such queer occurrences be most unsettling. I believe Gran is wrong about me, and about the prophecy."
“Powers and prophecies,” Marcus muttered.
“Don't your bags of grain need tending?” Lilybet fixed Marcus with a threatening stare.
“Humph.” Marcus turned and entered the storeroom.
Lilybet removed her apron, laid it on the bar and ambled towards the hearth. “Do na’ fash yourself, Seerah. Come, sit with me, by the fire."
Seerah hesitated. “The coins need to be counted."
“The coins can wait.” Lilybet settled herself in the straw seat of a small, hardwood chair by the fireplace and wrinkled her nose at the smell of burning peat. “Come along, lass. Sit beside me, on the creepie."
Seerah reluctantly advanced and sat on the three-legged, wooden stool.
Cosmo crept down from his perch in the rafters and climbed up her skirts to her lap.
Lilybet said, “Fulfilling a prophecy ‘tis indeed a heavy burden for one so young."
Seerah nodded. “Aye. And I do na’ see how it can be, that I'm to rescue me own mother. All me life I've been told that she was a supreme sorceress. I'm also to believe she's been held captive these many years?” Lightly stroking Cosmo's fur, Seerah stared into the crackling fire. “Me powers continue to elude me. Me visions are unclear, and me spells remain fruitless. At best, I'm incompetent. Yet, according to me grandmother's dream ... this prophecy ... I'm a force to be reckoned with?” Seerah shook her head dismally. “Na’ only am I expected to become an accomplished sorceress—in a very short time—I must also charm some strange man into escorting me on a journey, find me father, rescue me mother, and ... bring down the forces of evil?” She took a deep ragged breath.
“I see.” Lilybet frowned.
“I also see. ‘Tis impossible!"
“'Tis na’ so.” Lilybet wagged her head. “You still lack faith, is all."
“Faith? How am I to believe in something I can na’ see, feel, control, or understand? I even doubt that me parents truly live. I simply went along with all of this to appease Gran. She can be quite persuasive."
“Aye. But, I have something that might help you believe.” Reaching deep into the left keeping hole of the cobbled hearth, Lilybet retrieved a palm-sized, wooden box. “Izebeth told me to reveal this to you if, after a time, you still had doubts. She assured me, ‘twould be useful.” Lilybet offered the box to Seerah.
As Seerah held out her hand to accept the box, Cosmo climbed up her arm and settled on her shoulder. Holding the box in her lap, Seerah tried to open it. “The lid will na’ budge."
“Uh...” Lilybet cleared her throat. “You are to open it with your mind, Seerah."
Seerah groaned. “I should've known."
“You can do it, Seerah."
“Nay. I can na'. This is a waste of time"
“You must at least try. For Galynne."
“I ... but—"
“No buts, Seerah. And no more excuses. You must try. Concentrate. Picture the box in your mind's eye."
“But I—"
“Go on. Close your eyes. Now, I say!"
Startled by Lilybet's harsh manner, Seerah gazed down at the box and closed her eyes. When she finally pictured the box in her mind's eye, she felt the presence of an unfamiliar entity. A shiver ran down her spine and her eyes flew open.
“Do na’ fear the unknown. Concentrate,” Lilybet whispered.
Seerah swallowed hard and stared at the box as Cosmo chattered and nudged her head with his nose.
“Stop, Cosmo.” Seerah batted at his nose.
“He's telling you to open it, Seerah,” Lilybet said.
Seerah cocked her head at Cosmo. “Is that so?"
Cosmo nudged her again, as if to agree.
“See, there?” Lilybet said, “Try again, Seerah. You can do it if you can just get past your fear and uncertainty."
Breathing deeply, Seerah placed her left hand over the box and closed her eyes again. A silent moment passed, then she gasped. “I ... I see a small, odd-shaped charm."
Izebeth's voice resonated as if from thin air, “Open the box, Seerah."
Seerah flinched and glanced about the room. “D-did you hear that?"
“Hear what?” Lilybet's eyes shifted about, following Seerah's gaze.
“Uh ... n-nothing. N-never mind” Seerah looked down
As if compelled by some unforeseen force, Seerah shut her eyes again. Picturing the box in her mind's eye, she moved her hand slowly in a circular motion. “Hear me plea. Hear me bid. Allow me to open this wooden lid,” she chanted. She envisioned the lid opening and when she heard a muffled sound, like scraping wood, she opened her eyes to see that the cover of the box lay slightly ajar.
“Oh my,” Seerah gasped as she pried the lid fully open.
Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the charm and chain nestled in dark, purple satin. The crescent-moon-shaped medallion beheld a detailed depiction of a profiled, slumbering face etched into the arch. An amethyst gemstone, shaped like a star, dangled from the moon's upper tip.
As she caressed the amulet with her fingertips, the jewel began to glow with soft violet light. Then a luminous white flash suddenly ignited from within, causing Seerah and Lilybet to squint. Something akin to liquid heat surged through Seerah's fingers and she recoiled, releasing the charm as if she'd been burned.
“No more fear, Seerah.” Izebeth's voice echoed, again, her words growing fainter until they faded away. “Become one with the Amulet. Hold it in your palm. Quickly, danger nears."
Seerah swallowed hard. Then, pinching the chain between her thumb and forefinger, she lifted the amulet from the box and laid it in the palm of her left hand. As her fingers closed around it, she shut her eyes again, breathing deeply as warm energy flowed through her this time.
“Seerah?” Lilybet whispered.
“Aye.” Seerah exhaled
“Are you ... what..."
“I-it feels warm ... good ... like ... it belonged to...” A lone tear trickled down Seerah's cheek as she opened her eyes. “She lives. I feel it."
“Aye.” Lilybet nodded. “But, do you trust what you feel?"
Still clutching the charm, Seerah held it to her bosom. “I do."
Lilybet winked. “Good. It's about time. ‘Tis a powerful talisman. You are to wear it at all times. And from this moment on, you need to be very aware of the forces around you."
Seerah placed the amulet about her neck.
“Something still troubles you,"
Seerah nodded.
“What? Tell me."
“I feel so confused, as though I'm trapped in a labyrinth which offers no solution."
“Ah, but ‘tis the nature of every riddle to have an answer.” Rising, Lilybet placed her hand on Seerah's shoulder and whispered, “Faith is the key."
* * * *
“What in the name of Heaven is all that racket!” Marcus grumbled as he stirred in bed next to Lilybet.
Lilybet sighed. “Seerah,” she replied.
“Ever since you gave her that damnable charm, a fortnight ago, I've yet to get a good night's sleep."
“It's a sign.” Lilybet smiled.
“A sign o’ the Devil."
“Hush,” Lilybet said, and got out of bed. “I'll see to her.” She slipped on her house-shoes and retrieved her wrap. “You go back to sleep, Marcus."
“If only I could.” Marcus lay back and pulled a pillow over his head.
When Lilybet pushed the door to Seerah's room open, she gasped at the sight of furniture and earthenware floating about chamber. Suddenly, a fire erupted in the hearth and all the candles about the room lit themselves.
“Seerah!” Lilybet said, ducking low as a clay pot flew past her head.
Seerah sat up with a start. “Aunt Lilybet? What—” She glanced about the room. “Oh!” All the flying objects crashed to the floor. The candles and fire hesitated only slightly before they went out. “Dear, me."
Lilybet lit a taper and blew at the rising puff of smoke. “You've been dreaming."
“Aye,” Seerah whispered.
Lilybet crossed the room and sat on the bed next to Seerah. “Can you tell me of it this time?"
Seerah blinked. “I believe I saw something of the future. Only—” Grasping the amulet in her hand, she closed her eyes. “I see the blackness, now. It's very cold and evil. The serpent dwells there. I feel it.” She shivered. “I see a small, wild creature; a pig of some sort, with bloodied fangs. A fair-haired man in black stands before him."
“Fin-gael?” Lilybet whispered.
“Norseman, Aye."
“Could he be the man Izebeth spoke of—this Lord Of Thunder?"
“That's possible, I suppose. He be very powerful. He appears to be taming the pig, and the serpent, but...” Seerah shook her head. “His image is gone. Now I see a party of very large men. Four—no five Highland warriors riding war-horses. There be something ... something familiar about them, but something quite threatening as well. I sense great physical strength, overwhelming power, and—” Seerah gasped.
“What?"
“They're being followed, by a man cloaked in mail. He leads a large army of men."
“What of them?” Lilybet asked.
“They all search for ... a treasure of some kind,” Seerah said. “There be many shadows, and various rays of filtering light; colorful splintered beams, like those cast through a prism."
Seerah squeezed eyes tighter. “I see meself, now, standing in a violet, spectral haze. I sense another presence. A shadowed man looms nearby in the mist. Though his essence is cold and dark, warm golden light surrounds his form. A large, hulking man he is. I can na’ see his features clearly, but he radiates overwhelming power. He is na’ threatening though—” Seerah cocked her head, as if listening to a far off sound.
“What?” Lilybet cried.
“The fair-haired man beckons me from somewhere beyond the realm, but the shadowed man stands in me way. The two men are extremely different, yet similar somehow. I also sense something wicked. I think..."
“Nay, Seerah. What do you feel?"
“Feel?” Seerah blinked open her eyes. “Why, I feel ... drawn to each of these men. ‘Tis as if they need me—or me help, but each separately. I felt meself being pulled in two opposite directions. I also sensed an illusion. Neither of these men are what they appear to be. There be many strong forces of good and evil present, but the blackness is too great. ‘Tis all very confusing.” Seerah's shoulders slumped and she hung her head. “As usual, the images make no sense."
“They will though. All in due time. ‘Til then, we must simply wait and have faith."
Lilybet clasped Seerah's hand.
Seerah's body grew stiff; her eyes slammed shut and she clutched Lilybet's hand. “Nay! We must form a plan."
“A plan? For what? What do you see, Seerah?"
“Blood. The flash of cold steel, tearing flesh and ... blood."
“Death comes?” Lilybet gasped.
Seerah opened her eyes and stared at Lilybet. “I can na’ be certain if death comes, but these men come soon. They bring danger and blood. Definitely blood."
Chapter Six
The following evening, Seerah couldn't help noticing the way Marcus kept glancing anxiously over his shoulder, or the way he seemed to bustle the patrons about. When the last stragglers finally took their leave he practically slammed the front door shut behind them.
“Seerah hurry and count the coins, then put the cash box away. We did exceptionally well, but having all that money about makes me uneasy. Lilybet, smoor the fire. I'll lock up and clean this mess.” He stole an uneasy glance about the inn.
“Aye, Uncle Marcus.” Seerah took the coin box and set it on the bar.
“Marcus Ryan O'Shea,” Lilybet said. “Since when do you offer to clean anything?” She shot him a skeptical glance. Then, using a pair of cast-iron tongs, Lilybet dropped a hot ember from the fire into a bowl of foot water by the hearth. “What are you about, now? Why, you'll have me believing the end of the world be near if you keep at it."
“It may well be. Ever since you gave Seerah that charm, she's been plagued with dark dreams of blood and evil men coming. They have me jumping at the sight of me own shadow, I tell you.” Marcus glanced over his shoulder once again.
Lilybet placed her hands on her hips and arched her brow. “A believer you are now?"
Marcus quickly barred the door, then turned to face her. “With all the pocusy hocus going on as of late, how can I na’ believe something's amiss? I hear strange things thumping and bumping all through the night, as well. Why, I do na’ know what to believe, but I plan on being prepared for anything—especially with the moon so full."
Lilybet began raking the ashes. “Aye, Seerah's dreams have been vivid. She's certain, these men be very’ near and—"
“Seerah,” Marcus interrupted, “Take the coins upstairs. Hurry."
“But—?"
“Go. Now! Lilybet, leave the fire and dowse all hint of light. Quickly.” Marcus hurried across the room toward the hearth. He grabbed his blackthorn club, then went to the front door and laid his ear against the wood.
Seerah glanced at Lilybet and shrugged. As she headed for the stairs, she heard a faint murmur of a sound. As she listened the murmur grew into an intensifying rumble, like the sound of fast approaching thunder. “What on earth?"
“Go!” Marcus gestured for her to be on her way.
Seerah hesitated briefly, then hurried up the stairs. Half way to her room, however, she turned back. She set the cash-box on the landing and crept back downstairs. Keeping close to the wall she squatted on the bottom step, watching and waiting—just in case.
Lilybet swiftly extinguished the rush lights. Then, wringing her hands fretfully, she inched backwards toward the hearth.
The rumbling drew nearer, then stopped abruptly.
A brief moment of silence passed before a fierce pounding sounded at the door.
Seerah flinched, but remained hidden on the steps.
Lilybet stifled a gasp and as Marcus held a finger to his lips and flattened himself against the wall.
“Hail, inside. One of me kinsmen be wounded, and needs medical attention. Open up at once.” The command was thick with an unmistakable Gaidheal burr that distinguished the Highlander's Gaelic dialect from the lowland Scots and Irish.
Lilybet shivered visibly and Marcus held his trembling index finger to his lips, signaling her to remain silent.
“We know you be inside for smoke still rises from your chute,” the stranger said.
Marcus glanced at the hearth and grimaced. When he peeked through a crack in the shutters, his body seemed to sag with defeat
“I must insist upon entering,” the Highlander said, “for the sake of me wounded man. You need na’ fear us unless you refuse, for then we'll gain entry by any means necessary. I'll count to five while you make up you mind. One..."
“Me wife and I are old and alone,” Marcus spoke, his own words thick with the Irish-Gaelic accent of Gaeilge. “We know naught of healing. Should we na’ fear so many large warriors with weapons, who threaten to break down our humble doors?"
The Highlander replied, “Fear us or no, but we will gain entry. By what means be you choice, if you choose quickly. Two..."
Seerah stepped from her hiding place in the stairwell. “Aunt Lilybet?” she whispered.
Lilybet hurried forward. “Did you feel their presence?"
“Nay, but—"
“Three,” the warriors’ voice boomed.
Marcus advanced. “Hide yourself, lass,” he whispered. “You must be prepared to flee.” Then, to the men outside he called, “I'll willingly agree to grant you entry, if you agree to cast off all your weapons. I will also give you fair warning. I am armed."
“Aye,” the Highlander replied. His voice sounded like a growl and was followed by the clatter of clanging metal.
A look of distress danced in Marcus’ eyes when he turned to Seerah again. “Do as I said, lass. Hide yourself, quickly. We know not if these be honorable men."
“But I'm a healer. I could be of help, and—"
“Do as your uncle bids, Seerah. Please.” Lilybet ushered Seerah back toward the stairs and shooed her away.
Instead of climbing the stairs, Seerah crouched down and peered across the dusky room, trying to focus her energy on the strangers beyond the door.
“We've shed our weapons. Quickly, let us enter or I'll na’ be held responsible for the damage to your property,” the Highlander declared.
“Lilybet, hurry. Light some tapers, then unbar the door and get behind me.” Holding his weapon securely, Marcus took a firm stance in the center of the room.
Lilybet made the sign of the cross and hastily obeyed. After several wax tapers had been lit, she unbarred the door then hurried behind Marcus.
“Enter,” Marcus said, clutching his weapon so tightly his body visibly shook.
Seerah inched forward, thinking to go to stand beside him. When the solid oak door creaked open, however, she froze. As the three warriors entered, carrying their wounded kinsman, the first thing Seerah observed was their excessive height. Even at a distance through the dim light, it was simple to see that their heads had barely cleared the entrance.
Lilybet and Marcus were diminutive by normal standards, but they looked like mere sprites compared to the hulking men. And while the warriors’ colossal size was disquieting, to say the least, it was the their state of dress—no, their state of undress—that Seerah found most unsettling. The men wore no coats of mail, helmets or other such war-gear, only tartan kilts of green, gold and brown, secured at their waists by a thick leather band. Empty baldrics were slung across their bare chests. Animal skin sandals adorned their feet, and shiny gold war-rings, known as torques, encircled their upper arms.
Seerah was fascinated by their blatant masculinity. Why, she had never seen so much bare, sinewy muscle in her all life. She gaped openly at them, admiring their striking, savage-like demeanor. When she spied the last man, however, standing just beyond the threshold, her breath caught in her throat. She might have swooned with fear if that was her nature; instead, she swallowed hard and clutched at her throat until she remembered to breathe. Her stomach churned with trepidation as she studied the titan warrior whose towering shadow and bulky silhouette nearly blocked the entrance.
Radiant light from the full moon seemed to splinter into shafts about his sturdy frame, making him appear immortal, like some mystical being.
The shadowed man? Seerah shivered.
“I be Tristan Kincaid. Your swiftness is duly noted. As you can well see, me brother's wounds be grave, indeed.” His deep, consuming voice echoed through the room.
“Aye, he l-looks l-less than well,” Marcus said, holding his weapon close to his chest. He glanced from the wounded man to Tristan, then slowly upwards, tilting his head as far back as it would go. “I ... I be Marcus O'Shea. This, be me w-wife, Lilybet. Your men can set him on a dining table. ‘Tis the best we have to offer."
Tristan took a giant step forward, ducking his head low to clear the entrance.
Seerah could have sworn his broad shoulders still brushed the doorframe.
As Tristan crossed the threshold, Marcus took a step backward, forcing Lilybet to follow suit.
Standing motionless just inside the inn, Tristan's bearing seemed as hard and unyielding as a granite sculpture. His dark, hooded gaze appeared calculating and emotionless, but not hostile—exactly. Gooseflesh rose on Seerah's skin as she studied every inch of his imposing form.
Reddish-blonde streaks highlighted Tristan's brown, shoulder-length hair. Even compared to the other men his height and build seemed excessive, and the dark stubble shading his defiant chin made him appear ruthless. The added effect of low, flickering light caused his golden crown to shimmer. And as he surveyed the dimly lit room, shadows seemed to dance across his face, emphasizing his strong features. Aye, he was a menacing giant of a man, but he was also the most magnificent-looking man Seerah had ever laid eyes on.
When Tristan finally granted his approval, with a low grunt and a nod of his head, the other warriors crossed the main-room and laid the wounded man on the table nearest the hearth.
Tristan glanced at Lilybet. “Have you any cloth for bandages?"
Lilybet quaked. “S-some old l-linens, mayhap."
Tristan studied her for a moment. “'Twill do.” He nodded, again.
Lilybet turned and hurried off.
“We have little to offer.” Marcus relaxed his grip slightly.
“This is a pub. A dram should do nicely. Uisge-beatha,” Tristan suggested.
Although Marcus was barely as tall as Tristan's hip, he boldly righted his stance and glared up at the warrior. “Ya’ thievin’ Scot—why, I..."
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest, his cold hard stare easily expressing his annoyance. “To lessen me brother's pain. And I have coin."
Marcus held Tristan's intimidating gaze for a long, unnerving moment before glancing at the wounded man on the table. “I've no whiskey. Only ale, but ‘twill serve his pain well enough. ‘Tis in the storeroom. I'll fetch—"
“Nay! Colin, Greum, fetch the ale,” Tristan ordered.
The two bearded, redheaded warriors nodded in reply, and headed toward the storeroom. Meanwhile, in her haste, Lilybet stumbled over Seerah in the darkened stairwell. “Oooh!"
Jumping up Seerah clasped her hand over Lilybet's mouth. “It's just me, Aunt."
Lilybet nodded and took a deep breath as Seerah lowered her hand.
“Lilybet?” Marcus said, “Are you all right?"
“Fine I am, Marcus, me darlin'. Stumbling in the dark is all I'm about.” To Seerah she whispered, “Do you sense anything about these men, lass?"
“I do."
“Evil?"
“I can na’ be certain. I must get closer."
“Nay, Seerah. ‘Tis too dangerous."
“Fear na', for very cautious I'll be. Have you seen Cosmo?"
“Most likely he's hiding, as you should be. I must hurry and fetch linens. Have a care.” Lilybet squeezed Seerah's arm before she moved on.
Seerah crept down the back hall and pushed open a hidden door in the wall. Crouching down low, she crawled a short distance through a narrow tunnel to another small door. Anticipating the certain creak of aged wood, she held her breath and pushed the second door open. When no sound came, she sighed with relief and emerged behind the bar.
Remaining low to the ground, Seerah peered around the corner of the bar. She held her amulet in her palm and studied the bloodied man whose masculine frame practically covered the rectangle dining table.
His skin was tanned from his auburn head to his massive feet, and he had a strong, lean frame. His face still beheld a youthful quality, and even in a state of slumber his form was a solid mass of muscle. When Seerah realized that she was ogling the injured warrior she turned her attention to the gash in his left arm. As she focused her thoughts, the amulet grew warm against her palm. The soft, glowing light of his aura suggested a pure soul, and his essence seemed familiar in an odd, but comforting way that she couldn't quite place. A calming feeling swept over her then, and she knew he would live.
Next, Seerah turned her attention to the dark-haired, grave-looking warrior standing at the wounded man's side. Although he appeared similar in height to the wounded man, the second warrior's build was much lankier. He had smooth olive skin and boyish features. His youthful his gaze suggested compassion and worry. Seerah knew instantly that she need not fear him, so she shifted her gaze to Colin and Greum. From their wavy, fire-red hair, which hung loose about their brawny shoulders, to the length and gait of their stride, they looked practically identical; only a slight discrepancy in their height and mass suggested that the one on the left was the eldest brother. She found their obvious physical strength quite astounding, but she sensed nothing evil about them either. Taking a deep calming breath, she scanned the rest of the room to her right—until she came to Tristan.
From a distance, the sheer size and breadth of him had been impressive, indeed. Now, however, at closer range, his mountain-like proportions were extremely intimidating. He stood a good two hands above the tallest of his companions, and the power emanating from him was staggering. Even standing with his back facing her, his imposing presence commanded her full attention.
The amulet grew warm in her hand; her body grew languid and numb all over. She wondered how it would feel to caress his firm, tanned flesh.
Suddenly, he turned in her direction. A dark forbidding coldness swept over her, and the amulet slipped from her hand as she stifled a gasp. Averting her eyes to the ground, Seerah took several ragged, calming breaths. When she glanced up at Tristan again, her gaze roved over the deep cleft in his jutting chin and settled on his full crimson lips. As she imagined them pressed against her own, her stomach fluttered and the sound of her heart pounding in her ears made it nearly impossible for her to think.
When her searching gaze reached Tristan's emotionless face, she found it difficult to breathe again. He glanced at his brother, and Seerah glimpsed a hint of the true concern Tristan obviously kept well guarded. Flecks of gold seemed to twinkle in the honey-colored depths of his eyes, setting off a warm glowing light that encompassed his face. She sighed, feeling like a fanciful maiden in one of Gran's fairy tales.
Lilybet hurried across the room and Seerah flinched, snapping out of her stupor. Squeezing her eyes shut she scooted back and covered her ears with her hands, trying to drive the strange fog from her brain. She'd never been so thoroughly enchanted by any man. When she peeked around the edge of the bar again, distrust and suspicion replaced her fascination. Enchanted, indeed. Could he be learned in the art of wizardry?
“This is all I can spare,” Lilybet said, holding the white cloth out to Tristan.
“Zeth, fetch me dagger,” Tristan said.
The young dark-haired warrior, immediately moved from the wounded man's side and walked toward the door.
“I would na’ do that if I were you,” Marcus said, rushing forward to block Zeth's path.
Zeth reached down, grabbed Marcus by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him into the air.
“Let me down y'bully. Let me down so I can thrash you properly, I say.” Marcus swung his cudgel at Zeth, but missed.
“Release him, Zeth,” Tristan said.
Zeth turned toward Tristan. “I was na’ about to harm the wee man, Tristan. I was merely moving him out of me way. ‘Twould bring ill fate to a harm leprechaun.” Setting Marcus on the floor at an arms length, Zeth turned back toward the door and continued walking.
“Wee man? Leprechaun? Why, I—” Marcus chased after Zeth.
“Marcus, no!” Lilybet cried out.
Zeth stopped and looked over his shoulder as Tristan took one step forward, blocking Marcus.
Marcus came to an abrupt halt and glanced up at Tristan.
“A reckless man you are indeed, to chase after Zeth,” Tristan said. “You should know that if we wished it, you would already be dead.” Tristan motioned with his head for Zeth to go on about his task. “Zeth will fetch me dagger. If you choose to strike him, or any of us for that matter, be sure it be your own life you are looking to end. I do na’ believe in leprechauns. Nor do I have a liking for irritating little men."
Lilybet advanced. “He obviously speaks the truth, Marcus. Put down your shillelagh. Exactly what were you planning to do with it anyway? Bruise his knees? Why, any one of them could squash you with their wee little finger if they wished. Quit your foolishness, at once."
Marcus scowled at her and mumbled beneath his breath as he set the wide, knobby end of his cane on the floor.
Crossing her arms over her chest Lilybet issued a brief, satisfied nod. Then she glanced up at up Tristan. “Threaten us not again, Sir. Though I can see your concern for your ... brother, we are alone here. I do na’ find it so unreasonable for us to fear five Scot warriors."
“Highland warriors,” Tristan corrected. “And, I agree, fear would na’ be an unreasonable reaction.” He stared at Lilybet as though he were trying to measure her worth.
To Seerah's surprise, Lilybet held his gaze. Her expression suggested that she considered Tristan nothing more than an unruly child who deserved to have his ears boxed, rather than an intimidating giant three times her size. Tristan's eyes seemed to twinkle. Though his lips never curved, not even into the slightest hint of a grin, it was as if his eyes were ... smiling?
Seerah knew from experience that such commanding men usually disapproved of bold women. Strong, handsome men liked to be in control. They usually favored comely, meek lasses, with big breasts and bottoms, who never offered strong opinions about anything more significant than the weather. Men! Despite her growing angst at the male population in general, however, Seerah had to admit that she felt no evil influences surrounding Tristan, or any of his men.
Also, the warriors had offered no clear signs of open hostility, yet.
But there was still a distinct possibility that Tristan had cast a mesmerizing spell on her to keep her from sensing any danger. When she'd first laid eyes on Tristan she'd experienced a dark, chilling sense of desolation. Though the feeling had been fleeting, it was difficult to know if the experience had been a foretelling sign, or merely her own fear projected back at her. All she knew for certain was that there was something dark and foreboding about the handsome, stone-faced warrior which left her feeling quite leery indeed.
Zeth returned with his dagger just as Greum exit the storeroom carrying a small cask.
“Where be Colin?” Tristan asked Greum, but his gaze remained fixed on Lilybet.
“We came across a rat, in the store room,” Greum said.
Lilybet gasped, her gaze searching out Marcus.
Marcus lifted his cudgel. “Why I—"
“Fear na', Colin seized him,” Greum said.
“Cosmo!” Seerah shot up from behind the bar like a tightly strung arrow.
Her worry over the welfare of her troublesome pet abruptly changed to fear for her own safety as the warriors swiftly reacted to her surprise appearance. Her eyes went wide with alarm at the sight of the gleaming dagger Zeth was prepared to cast in her direction.
Seerah silently cursed her impetuous actions—then prayed for her life.
Chapter Seven
In the blink of an eye, Tristan relieved Zeth of the dagger he'd been prepared to release. “Nay, Zeth. ‘Tis just a harmless peasant wench."
Seerah's shoulder's sagged with relief for a brief moment before Tristan's words struck a chord. Pinning him with a look of open hostility, she cocked her brow and arrogantly lifted her chin in silent protest.
“A saucy lass with a fondness for rats, it appears,” Tristan commented.
“Why, I never! You ... I ... You—” Seerah sputtered.
“Silence!” Tristan demanded, dismissing her with a turn of his head. “Tear the cloth, Zeth. Greum, feed Gareth the ale. We must tend his wound."
Stunned, Seerah stood there blinking, with her mouth hanging open like a witless fool.
Suddenly, Colin exited the storeroom holding Cosmo by the scruff of the neck. “What kind of rodent do you suppose this be, Tristan?” he said. “A weasel, mayhap?"
When Cosmo squirmed and chattered in protest, Seerah skirted around the bar and rushed forward. “You're hurting him. Give him to me. There be no need to harm him.” She grabbed for him.
Colin raised his arm and held the ferret high out of her reach. “No need to harm a rodent?"
Seerah huffed. “Ferret! He's me pet. He's quite tame as well, don't cha know? And there's no need a'tall for a big strapping man like you to harm him—unless ... well, unless you have an unnatural fear of small creatures. Is that so? Do you fear mice as well?"
Colin glared at her. “Mighty sassy you are, for such a scrawny bit of goods. Why you're nothing but a saucy, peasant wench.” Colin spat on the ground near her feet.
Seerah clenched her fists at her sides and scowled up at him.
“Nay, Seerah!” Lilybet cried, just as Seerah's boot made contact with Colin's shin.
Colin didn't even flinch. He simply seized Seerah by her upper arm, with his free hand, and lifted her off the floor.
Seerah grimaced. “Och! Unhand me you filthy, damnable ... you swaggerin’ Scot brute. You're hurting me. You ... why, you've all the manners of a ... a lowly Norse raider!” She swung at him with her free hand and kicked her flailing feet in the air.
“I ought to put a hand across you insolent backside, then soap your mouth,” Colin threatened, as Zeth and Greum advanced.
Lilybet wrung her hands. “But she speaks the truth. Cosmo be her pet and he's quite harmless. Why, she was only trying to protect him."
Marcus took advantage of the opportunity and rushed over toward Gareth.
“Release her, now,” Marcus said, glaring at Colin. “Or I'll smash a hole in his head as big as your blatherin’ mouth.” He held his club high over Gareth's head.
“Enough!” Tristan said, his eyes settling on Marcus. “Step away from me kinsmen before I lose me patience completely."
“Tell him to unhand me niece first,” Marcus said. “For I've very lil’ patience left meself."
Tristan glanced at Colin and nodded. “Release her and give her the rat. Zeth, Greum, leave off. We're wasting valuable time."
Colin lowered Seerah to the floor and released her with a shove. His features creased into a menacing-looking scowl as he dropped Cosmo into her hands.
When Cosmo scurried up Seerah's arm to her neck, she screwed up her face and quickly stuck her tongue out at him.
“Why I—” Colin took a step forward.
“Leave off, Colin!” Tristan ordered. “She's na’ worth the trouble."
“Aye, but a sound thrashing to curb her insolence would be no trouble. ‘Twould be a pleasure, indeed, by my thinking,” Colin replied.
“Another time, perhaps. Gareth's health comes before your pleasure.” Tristan motioned with his head for Colin to proceed toward the table.
As Zeth, Greum and Colin advanced, Marcus backed slowly away from Gareth.
Tristan simply grunted at Seerah before turning to Lilybet. “Have you a needle and thread?"
Lilybet nodded. “Aye. Seerah fetch—"
“Nay! She stays where I can see her. I have no liking for her, nor the fact that you lied about being alone."
“She's but an unwed gel. It would have been unwise of me, indeed, to alert five strange men to her presence."
Tristan glanced at Seerah again. He actually grimaced, as though he found the mere sight of her revolting. “Fear na',” he said. “Her, uh ... virtues be quite safe from us. Fetch the needle, wench, but be quick about it."
Seerah just stood there staring back at Tristan. She couldn't help feeling violated somehow. She knew her appearance left much to be desired, but his appraisal and dismissal had been humiliating—as though he considered her less than human because of her looks. “Of all the—"
“'Tis na’ the time, Seerah,” Lilybet interrupted. “The man's wound is deep. He needs you."
When Seerah glanced at Gareth, compassion swiftly cooled her rancor. “Aye.” She sighed and nodded. Walking over to the bar, she set Cosmo on the counter. “Behave yourself,” she said. Looking back over her shoulder, she glared at Tristan, once, for good measure, before exiting the room.
* * * *
Lilybet glanced up at Tristan, an apologetic-looking expression wrinkling her face. “You must forgive me niece."
“Must I, now?” Tristan said. He couldn't help feeling that there was more going on here than met the eye. “By me own thinking, I'd have to agree with Colin. She deserves a sound thrashing."
Marcus shifted his weapon in his hands. “I ought to—"
“Marcus. Put that thing away,” Lilybet said, “If they meant to harm us, they surely would have by now. Put it o'er on the bar."
“But—"
“Now, I say!"
Marcus frowned, then headed for the bar, grumbling beneath his breath and dragging his shillelagh behind him like a scolded child.
“You trust us, then?” Tristan asked Lilybet.
“Not likely. But, I fear not for our safety. The only thing I trust, is that the sooner your ... brother be mended, the sooner you'll be leaving."
“You'll help then?"
Lilybet nodded. “Aye. If I can."
“Can you sew?"
“Not as fine as I once could. Me poor sight fails me, I'm afraid."
“'Tis more than I can offer. ‘Twill have to do."
“Not necessarily. Me niece ... uh, Seerah, is superb with a needle and—"
“Nay.” Tristan scowled.
“But she's quite skilled, indeed."
“Skilled or no, she's an impertinent, foul-mouthed crone. She lacks discipline and manners, and I'll na’ have her laying her filthy hands on—"
“Ahem!” Seerah cleared her throat, from across the room, gaining everyone's attention. “Though it be quite obvious you find me inferior to horse dung, your shallow opinion has nothing do with the matter. I'm a learned healer."
Tristan glared at her, hoping to instill a fitting amount of fear in her insolent gray eyes. Much to his surprise, however, Seerah sighed wearily instead. Next, she tilted her head and smiled like a patient mother trying to pacify a contrary child.
“I sew straight and true,” she said. “I have a strong stomach as well. It goes against me nature to mistreat others, especially the weak and injured."
Tristan didn't reply. Instead he scrutinized her more closely. The oversized, black mobcap covering her head made her head and ears look too large for her oval face. It contained her hair in such a manner that except for a few stringy strands hanging loose in her face, she looked to be completely bald. Her eyes were a strange colorless shade of gray. Her face appeared gaunt and aged well beyond her supposed youth; her ashen complexion reminded him of week-old porridge. As for the color of her teeth, brackish marsh water was the only description that came to Tristan's mind. The dingy, saffron frock she wore was practically threadbare, and it hung from her frame as if it were three sizes too large.
As a rule, Tristan distrusted all females because of their fanciful, emotional tendencies. He was also well aware of their seductive, feminine wiles and conniving ways. He'd seen first hand how easily an intelligent man could be turned into a feeble-minded imbecile beneath the allure of a bonny lass. The less-appealing ones simply had to be more clever. Aye, he'd decided long ago that for the most part their usefulness was limited to child bearing and warming his bed. Not Seerah, though. She was easily the most unsightly lass he'd ever laid eyes on.
She was also the most foolhardy, insolent lass he'd ever met. He had to admit, however, that she intrigued him. Her boldness surprised him for one who appeared to be quite meek and frail at first glance. He fully understood why she was not yet wed; she had fearlessly risked her scrawny neck for a rat, and she had stood up to Colin. Is she brave and clever? More likely she's a simpleton, Tristan mused, offering her a smug, disapproving grunt.
Seerah rolled her eyes with apparent indignation. The sigh that followed was clearly one of exasperation. She strolled slowly forward then, her body seeming to glide across the room like a feather floating on the wings of a breeze. “I brought a mixture of woodworm and ground ivy to cleanse his wound,” she said. “I also made a poultice of equisetum—common horsetail, if you will. ‘Twill keep the wound from becoming infected. Some ribbed melilot and comfrey will help the healing process."
Her voice sounded thick and smooth. Her lilting brogue seemed almost melodic and comforting—no, enchanting.
“Do you wish me to tend him?” Seerah asked.
Tristan flinched, startled by her sudden closeness. He'd been so entranced by her voice that he hadn't noticed her approach. Very curious, indeed.
“Do you?” Seerah said.
Instead of replying, Tristan frowned down at her. Next, he walked over to stand by Gareth's side. Zeth and Greum stood opposite Tristan, with Colin guarding Gareth's head.
“Well?” Seerah said.
As Tristan looked at her again, an odd thought crossed his mind. Looks can be deceiving. Though he was reluctant to entrust Gareth's well being to such a contrary lass, her knowledge and concern seemed genuine enough. Besides, she was all he had at the moment.
“Mercy!” Seerah said. “I will na’ harm him.” She moved closer and looked directly up at Tristan. “How much ale has he taken?"
It was then Tristan noticed that her eyes weren't the least bit gray. They were actually the loveliest shade of lavender he'd ever seen; something in their depths left him feeling totally disarmed. He found himself wondering how she had acquired the crescent-shaped scar near her right eyebrow. What would she do if I brushed me lips over it? Would she swoon? Or spit fire?
“Well?” Seerah prompted.
Tristan blinked, startled by the troubling direction his thoughts had taken.
“How ... much ... ale ... has ... he ... taken?” Seerah repeated slowly, as though speaking to a half-wit.
Tristan tore his gaze from her and looked to Greum. “How much?"
“Na’ much a'tall.” Greum shook his head wearily.
Tristan turned to face Seerah again, only to find that she had already shifted her full attention to Gareth. Narrowing his gaze, Tristan tried to assess the sincerity of her concern for Gareth's welfare. When Tristan noted the warm, affectionate look in her eyes, a strangely familiar pang of annoyance twisted his gut. Jealousy?
The simple notion took Tristan by surprise. “Impossible!"
“I beg your pardon?” Seerah asked, scrunching her face into a quizzical frown.
The sight made Tristan grimace. Jealous, indeed! He grunted as if to accent the thought.
“Does that mean you wish me to tend him or no?” Seerah said.
“What I wish? Nay. But simply what I must settle for."
“I see.” Seerah dismissed him with a turn of her head. “The draught of elderberry and chamomile should ease his pain and help him rest."
Her soft-spoken words seemed more like verbal thoughts rather than conversation directed at anyone in particular, but Tristan listened and watched her closely. She touched the back of her hand to Gareth's forehead. “He's fevered, but na’ overly much. The draught will help with that as well.” Next, she laid her right hand on Gareth's chest and bent her head low, bringing her ear close to his mouth. “Even in his breathing. A good sign, indeed."
Her familiarity with herbs and healing practices eased Tristan's concerns. He also found her warm, caring nature reassuring. Her sensible manner and her obvious ability to reason forced Tristan to acknowledge her skill.
He couldn't help admiring her confidence and proficiency. And as he watched her tend Gareth, something deep inside of Tristan yearned to experience her gentle touch.
When Gareth's eyelids fluttered opened, his glazed eyes shifted with alarm and he jerked away from Seerah. “What? Who?” He winced.
“Hold him still before he injures himself further,” Seerah ordered.
Before Tristan could react, Greum leaned across Gareth's legs. Colin forced Gareth's shoulders down, and Zeth took hold of Gareth's good arm.
Seerah gently touched Gareth's injured arm and peered into his eyes. Her tranquil expression seemed almost reassuring, like she was trying to communicate some secret message without actually speaking.
“St. Columba!” Gareth said. “The fair and fulsome angel of death has come to take me away."
Seerah grimaced. “Oh, dear. P-please be calm, Sir. I mean to cause you no harm, truly.” She removed her hand from his chest, acting as if she was somehow responsible for his distress. Almost immediately her worried expression changed into a look of stunned fascination as if a brilliant idea had just occurred to her. Next, leaning down low, she gently touched Gareth's hand and whispered in his ear.
The fear in Gareth's eyes vanished and he breathed deeply one last time, before closing his eyes. “Lovely. Aye, very lovely you are, indeed."
“What did you say to him?” Colin practically roared.
Everyone flinched, including Tristan.
He realized, suddenly, that he'd been standing there, just staring at Seerah as if caught in some kind of trance. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then glared at Seerah.
“I find it comforting to see how well you trust me.” Seerah granted each warrior a stern look which obviously meant to let them know they'd insulted her. Then she fixed Colin with a glare of pure animosity. “For your information, I told him to fear me na'. I also assured him that I was na’ the angel of death, but merely a human lass interested in seeing him well again. His fever makes him hallucinate."
“Apparently.” Colin snorted. “Fair and fulsome me ars—."
“Colin,” Tristan admonished.
Seerah graced Colin with an impudent-looking smirk, before turning her attention to Tristan. “I fear that what I'm to do next, will cause him much pain."
Tristan's frown deepened to a scowl.
Seerah scowled right back. “It is na’ of me doing, just what is! And you will likely have to hold him again when I begin cleansing his wound. If you wish me to tend him a'tall, that is!"
Her bold stance and biting tone stunned the bluster right out of Tristan. Why, if the circumstances hadn't been so grave, he might have actually laughed at her foolish insolence. Instead, he gazed at Gareth. He nodded and glanced up at her, again “Begin. But, know that we'll be watching you."
“Och!” Raising her hands in the air, she gestured like a fishwife berating her husband. “How could I na’ know that with four pairs of eyes boring into me flesh like poisoned daggers?” With an angry huff, she grabbed the bowl of woodworm and ground ivy and wet some of the torn linen.
Next, she took a deep steadying breath and exhaled, as if calming herself. And when she began applying the solution to Gareth's arm, she did so with meticulous care.
Gareth moaned and tried to pull away.
“Hold him,” Tristan said.
Zeth, Colin and Greum swiftly obeyed.
Cosmo jumped from the bar to the floor and scurried across the room. The movement drew Tristan's attention and he watched as the ferret climbed up the back of Seerah's skirts to her shoulders.
“The rat's back,” he said.
“Ferret,” Seerah said, without looking up. “And, Cosmo will cause less mischief if he's near me.” She inclined her head, allowing Cosmo to settle about her neck.
Tristan studied the ferret.
When Cosmo twitched his nose, appearing to wink, Tristan accepted the gesture as a natural reflex. However, when the ferret winked again, this time appearing to smile, Tristan blinked and shook his head with disbelief. He leaned closer, to better study the animal, but Cosmo had already cuddled against Seerah's neck and closed his eyes.
“You must be hungry,” Lilybet said. “Marcus and me'll fix you something to eat."
Tristan grunted in reply and continued scrutinizing Cosmo until Seerah began sewing Gareth's arm. He then tore his gaze from the ferret and moved in closer, peering over Seerah's shoulder to get a better look.
When his chest casually brushed Seerah's shoulder, her back stiffened and her head jerked up. She glanced at Tristan, a startled-looking expression played across her face and anxiety seemed to dance in her eyes.
“What's wrong, now?” he said.
“Uh ... n-nothing,” Seerah said, hastily averting her gaze to Gareth's wound.
Tristan seized her arm. “Do na’ lie to me!"
Seerah gasped. Her eyes slammed shut and her body grew rigid. “This man, Gareth,” she said. “Though you call him brother, you be na’ related by blood."
“Seerah!” Lilybet cried.
“Silence!” Tristan said, and he shook Seerah. “How do you know this?"
“I see it,” Seerah replied.
“Release her. Now!” Lilybet said, rushing forward from across the room. Tristan ignored Lilybet and shook Seerah again. “What does this mean, you see it?"
Lilybet slapped, in vain, at Tristan's elbow. “You called him brother, but he's got blue eyes while yours be brown. His hair is dark while yours is light. Though you are built similar, your coloring is contrary, and your features share no strong resemblance. ‘Tis simple to see that. Now, release her. For the love of God, you'll crush her bones!"
The truth of Lilybet's words seeped into Tristan's brain and he relaxed his grip, then abruptly released Seerah.
Seerah stumbled forward, grasping the edge of the table to steady herself.
“Seerah?” Lilybet said.
Tristan observed the bewildered look lighting Seerah's eyes as she massaged her arm and glanced at Lilybet.
“What of your arm?” Lilybet asked, raising her eyebrows in a manner that suggested she wanted to know much more.
Tristan remained silent and watched.
“Me arm?” Seerah glanced from Lilybet to Tristan and finally to Colin, her bemused expression changing to a look of open hostility. “'Twill more likely be bruised black and blue on the morrow. Thanks to these two, kindly and gentle men."
Colin glared at her.
Amused by the anger and resentment that seemed to radiate from her person like heat from a blazing fire, Tristan cast her a sidelong glance
“I warn you now,” Marcus said, glancing about the room like he expected God to strike him down. “I'll not be held responsible for what happens if you lay another hand on her."
“Quiet yourself, Marcus,” Lilybet said.
“And what, exactly, will happen if I choose to lay a hand on the lass?” Tristan said.
“Do na’ mind me uncle's ramblings,” Seerah said. “He's simply unaccustomed to your odd form of gratitude.” Her lips curled momentarily into a sneer, then she turned her attention to Gareth. A long moment passed in silence before Seerah spoke again. “How did he come by such a wound?"
“"Tis na’ your concern,” Tristan said.
“If danger follows you here, ‘tis surely our concern,” Lilybet argued.
“We bring no danger to your door."
Seerah looked up at Tristan. “The men who did this obviously wish him dead. We simply wish to know who they be. How far they be now? And how many be in their party?"
Colin slammed his fist against the table and said, “'Tis na’ your concern, wench!"
Seerah jerked her head in his direction. “Me name is na’ wench! Nor is it saucy, or peasant. ‘Tis Seerah. You'll do well to remember that in the future. And, I believe the question I asked deserves an answer.” She pinned him with a scathing glare.
Colin's eyes seemed to glaze over, like those of a man with a deadly fever. Then he began to speak, his words coming out in a rush, “An army of men attacked us just outside of Dingle. Though we were sorely outnumbered, we prevailed. A dozen or so remain, and Bram the Bold be their chief, but they've joined with Sir Nevil the Wild. They pursue us on our quest to locate—"
“Colin!” Tristan's roar-like shout started everyone—everyone, except Colin. Though he stood silent now, his trance-like gaze remained fixed on Seerah. Zeth stood frozen, his eyes wide with apparent wonder. Greum's sober expression suggested disapproval and apprehension as Seerah and Lilybet exchanged a curious, amazed look, like they were questioning each other and praising some startling achievement at the same time.
“Colin?” Tristan bid.
Colin blinked and shook his head. “Huh?"
Tristan frowned. “Your tongue runs away from you. ‘Tis na’ like you."
“She ... I...” Colin scratched his head. “I do na’ know what came over me, Tristan."
“Neither do I. But do na’ let it happen again."
Colin cast Seerah a wary glance. “Aye."
Tristan also looked at Seerah. “And you, keep your curiosity to yourself,” he said.
“I only wished to know—"
“What you wish to know be of no concern to me!” Tristan walked over and stood directly in front of Seerah. He looked deep into her gray eyes. Gray eyes? He scowled, certain that they had been lavender just moments ago. Keeping his tone deceptively calm, he said, “We will soon be gone from here. The sooner the better. ‘Tis all you need to know."
“As you wish.” Seerah sighed and bowed her head as if to resign.
“I do na’ know what you be up to,” Tristan said. “But when I find out—"
“Up to? Me?” Seerah glanced innocently up at him.
Her innocent demeanor didn't fool Tristan. Nor did the look sparkling in her fiery green-eyed gaze. Green eyes? How can that be? Tristan blinked and shook his head.
“Seerah!” Lilybet shouted.
Seerah grimaced like a guilty child. “Aye?"
Tristan noticed, almost instantly, that Seerah's eye-color appeared to be gray again. Nothing more than the dim candlelight playing tricks with me sight. He glanced suspiciously from Seerah to Lilybet. Or is it?
Lilybet wrung her hands, responding to Tristan's intense scrutiny with a withering smile. “Have you already prepared the draught, Seerah?” she asked simply, but to Tristan her tone and expression seemed to convey a sense of caution.
Seerah nodded. “Indeed I have, but—"
“Then, be about the task of healing the young man so they may be on their way,” Lilybet said.
“But he will na’ be able to travel for a day, at least,” Seerah said, “Mayhap longer. If he survives a'tall, that is. ‘Twould, indeed, be helpful to know if—"
“If he survives?” Tristan took a step closer, crowding Seerah.
She recoiled, but didn't back away. “I'm a healer, na’ a god!” she shouted back at his chest, then glanced up.
Tristan stood so close to her that she had to crane her neck to glare back at him. When she did, her rancor suddenly vanished. “His ... his wound ‘tis deep,” she said. “But I vow to do all I can for him. If all goes favorably, he should be well enough on the morrow. Me reference to his condition was only speculation. He's very weak. ‘Tis also quite obvious that the men who did this, wish him dead. If they be following you, surely me concerns be—"
“Silence!” Tristan bellowed.
Seerah squeezed her eyes shut, visibly bracing herself against the intensity of his fervor. She actually looked as though she expected him to strike her.
Tristan breathed deeply trying to control his increasing rage. Aye, he was angry, but he'd never struck a woman. Did she actually believe him to be a man without honor? The mere thought was beyond insulting, so he just stood there waiting for her to realize her error. When Seerah finally peeked her eyes open again, she cocked her head and frowned at Tristan, as if she was questioning his faculties. “You say we need na’ fear these men. Yet you run from them. Why?"
“I run from no one!” Tristan said, his voice quaking with conviction.
A smile curved Seerah's lips. “You'll be staying then?"
Tristan almost grinned at the hint of unspoken challenge sparkling in her lavender gaze.
Instead, he blinked. Lavender eyes.
Chapter Eight
Despite Marcus's vehement opposition, and against Tristan's better judgment, the warriors moved their scarce belongings inside. As they set up camp on the floor surrounding Gareth, Lilybet saw Seerah to her room.
Up in the loft, Seerah plopped down on her bed and transferred Cosmo from her neck to her lap. “You trust them Aunt?"
“Trust must be earned.” Lilybet lit a rush light. “But, I fear not for our safety if that be what you're be looking to know."
Seerah nodded and stroked Cosmo's fur.
Lilybet sat next to Seerah on her bed. “You caused the man, Colin, to speak with your mind. ‘Tis a good sign of things to come."
“If I knew how I caused it to happen it would be, indeed,” Seerah said. “I was angered with the lout for calling me a wench. ‘Tis all I know. Earlier, when I tried to calm the wounded man's fears, things did na’ go well a'tall. Why, I frightened the poor man half to death."
“Aye,” Lilybet said. “Waking to see what he believed was the angel of death must have been frightening, indeed. However, he did describe you as lovely. Somehow, you must have revealed your true self to him. What was it he said? Oh, aye. Fair and fulsome, and lovely."
“'Twas likely the effects of his fever."
“Nay. ‘Tis your powers. They're strengthening, Seerah. I noticed the way you reacted when Tristan touched you. You experienced a vision."
“I..."
“Come now, tell me of it."
Seerah hesitated. “It was most startling, for as I looked upon the wounded man, Gareth, I felt nothing unusual. When Tristan's body contacted mine I felt—nay I saw ... White light flashed in me mind and suddenly it was as if me spirit had journeyed to a different place in time. I saw a wee bairn in swaddling clothes and somehow, I knew it to be Gareth. I also knew he be na’ Tristan's brother. If only I could have held me amulet, I think..."
“Think, och! Have y'learned nothing? What did you feel, Seerah?"
“Gareth's warmth,” Seerah said. “Also, something strangely familiar, like I knew him from another place in time. I also felt Tristan's energy. Most overwhelming power Tristan has, indeed. So much so, that it causes me worry."
“Why?"
“When he gazed upon Gareth earlier, I experienced Tristan's anguish deep in me soul,” Seerah explained. “But, only for a brief moment, then it was gone. He cares for Gareth deeply, aye. But Tristan also guards his emotions. Except his hostility, that is. It be so fierce, at times, it rattles me bones. But ... I fear him na'. In fact, when I first gazed upon him, I was ... spellbound."
Lilybet nodded and smiled knowingly. “A handsome man he is."
“Och! His looks do na’ matter. Mayhap, he's an accomplished wizard in the art of black magic. Why, he could be blocking me powers, or controlling me thoughts so that I can na’ tell he is truly evil."
Lilybet sighed and shook her head. “If this be true, why has he na’ caused us harm?"
Seerah shrugged. “I can na’ be certain, but I think..."
“Do na’ think, child! Feel. What be in your heart, Seerah?"
“I ... I do na’ know.” Seerah sighed.
Lilybet patted Seerah's hand, then stood. “'Tis been a trying night for us all. You need your rest. Mayhap things will be clearer in the morning light."
“What if the dreams come this night?"
“I will come."
“Aye. But, what of them?” Seerah asked, motioning with her head to the group of men downstairs.
Lilybet smiled and shrugged. “Mayhap, they will come as well."
Seerah groaned and fell back against her bed.
Lilybet chuckled. “Rest you, Seerah. The answers will come in due time.” She turned and exited the room, closing the door behind her.
* * * *
That night, as in the recent past, Seerah's dreams were filled with frightening images of Norse warships and the ensuing battle. When the Lord of Thunder's shadowed image finally appeared, relief washed over her, just like before. Yet, when his image began to fade, something familiar in the depths of his eyes haunted her soul. Next, she saw Tristan and Gareth standing high on a mountain, before a great castle. Then, another man approached. His height and build were similar to Tristan's, but his dark olive complexion and blue eyes were more like Gareth's. The man's thick, silver hair and weathered skin added a distinguished air of maturity to his handsome looks. Unlike the other warriors this man wore his long plaid draped over his shoulder, fastened by a decorative broach, indicating his position as chief or laird of their clan.
The laird had a solemn look about him and his eyes seemed sad, like someone who'd been grieving a tremendous loss for a very long time. Gareth appeared to listen intently to the laird, but Tristan seemed trouble by the discussion; it concerned a plan to retrieve a lost object—a charm.
When the laird uncurled his fingers, revealing something in the palm of his hand, doubt and concern suddenly played across Gareth's face. Tristan, showing no hint of emotion, simply nodded and took his leave. Gareth stood there a moment longer studying the object, a strange glint of recognition seeming to flash in his eyes. His expression softened momentarily as if he was remembering something warm and familiar, but the moment was fleeting. When he finally turned, falling into step behind Tristan, Gareth's brow was tightly knit.
As the laird stood alone, clutching the item in his hand, Seerah centered her energy on his image. A warm flowing essence encompassed her. Then, suddenly, she felt utterly safe and content. When he looked down at the object in his palm, Seerah felt a rush of emotion as the familiar, crescent-moon shape of her amulet came into focus.
* * * *
The sound of heavy footsteps clamoring up the stairs filtered into Seerah's brain, but she ignored the intrusion and snuggled deeper into her bedding.
“Seerah!” Lilybet rushed into the small bedroom.
Seerah's eyes flew open and she sat up, clutching her bed covers to her breasts. “What—what's happened?"
“Be awake, lass, quickly,” Lilybet said. Dashing across the small chamber, she ducked past the earthenware and wood furniture floating in mid-air.
Seerah glanced about her room; all the candles were lit, and flames burned brightly in her small hearth despite the fact that she'd smoored the fire before going to sleep. Thinking that she must still be dreaming, Seerah blinked a second time and then shook her head in an attempt to force herself fully awake. The various objects crashed to the floor with a clatter.
The candles and fire hesitated slightly, before finally extinguishing of their own accord.
“Heavens! Seerah stared, wide-eyed into the sudden darkness.
Lilybet lit a rush light. “You've been dreaming,"
“Indeed,” Seerah replied.
The next sound she heard was the familiar timbre of Marcus’ cantankerous voice, “'Tis a sickness I tell you. You can na’ barge into a young gel's sickroom."
“What in the world...?” Seerah frowned quizzically at Lilybet.
“Cover your hair,” Lilybet said. “Hurry. It be dark enough that he'll not see your face clearly, but he'll not be put off for long."
“He, who?” Seerah asked.
“It sounded like an army attacking a fortress!” Tristan's voice boomed.
“Oh, him!"
With Lilybet's help, Seerah quickly donned the mobcap.
Tristan ducked his head low and entered Seerah's room. He squinted, scowling into the dimly lit chamber like one of the “Queen's Own", searching for infidels. And due to the slanted thatch roof, he had to remain hunched over. “What kind of sickness causes such an uproar?” he demanded.
Under the circumstances he could have easily been described as a menacing giant. To Seerah, however, he looked quite comical, indeed. Lowering her head, she covered her face with her hands and tried to stifle her amusement. Her shoulders shook despite her efforts.
“She suffers ... convulsions,” Lilybet said, using her body to block Tristan's view of Seerah. “Fits, if you will. She still trembles. Poor, dear.” Lilybet forced Seerah back against the bed. “There, there. Try to lie still,” Lilybet soothed, while covertly pinching Seerah on the arm.
Seerah snorted loudly in reply.
Lilybet issued a warning glare, then turned toward Tristan. “So fierce the fits be at times, the entire bed shakes,” Lilybet explained. “It was like that this night. See how she fights me. Why she can hardly breathe."
“She's a healer,” Tristan said.
“Aye, but skilled as she be, she has na’ the knowledge to heal herself.” Lilybet hung her head. “'Tis very sad, indeed."
Seerah's desperate attempt to keep from laughing out loud ended up sounding like a series of moans and whimpers.
When Tristan tried to side-step Lilybet, to get a better look at Seerah, his forehead hit the ceiling beam with a loud thunk. “Blast,” he muttered, grimacing and rubbing the bruised flesh with his hand. “She caused all this damage?” Arching his brow, he glanced around the room.
“Aye.” Lilybet nodded. “Sometimes she walks asleep. The poor dear, she has no control in her slumber."
“She's more trouble than she's worth, if you ask me,” Tristan grumbled and exited the room.
“And, you call me colorful yarns lies?” Marcus whispered, from the open door.
“Aye. You lie very well, Aunt.” Seerah broke into a fit of stifled laughter.
“'Twas na’ lies, but rather the gift of smooth talk granted by this magic stone.” Lilybet pulled a limestone pebble from the pocket in her nightdress. “'Tis been said to grant those who own it with the gift of smooth talk. It came from the village of Blarney. Take it. You may be in need of it one day soon.” She handed the stone to Seerah, then led Marcus back to bed.
* * * *
“The lass suffers an illness. Some sort of fits,” Tristan said. But even as he repeated Lilybet's explanation about Seerah's supposed condition to his men, doubt entered his mind.
“Fits of magic, I'd wager,” Zeth said. “It was haunts and beasties that caused the ruckus, I tell you. Mayhap, goblins as well. They be a mischievous lot."
“Poor, young, gullible Zeth,” Colin said, shaking his head. “'Tis superstitious nonsense, and you should be well rid of it. Six and ten you'll soon be. You ought to be putting such childish notions behind you. Why, the next thing you know, you'll be telling us you've seen fairies, brownies, and goblins in the forest."
“Aye. ‘Tis well past time you grew up, laddie,” Greum said. “Though Gareth and I used to entertain the same silly notions, we quit them long ago. Why, you put too much in stock our laird's fables about the pagan Celts, the Druids, the Shee and their mystic powers."
“They are na’ fables,” Zeth said. “The Laird knows all about the Shee. Once he described to me what a leprechaun looks like. Why, the little man called Marcus be the spitting image of what our laird related. You've all seen the way he brandishes his oak shillelagh. ‘Tis magical and if you be touched by it, cursed forever you'll surely be."
Greum chuckled. “I suppose his pot o’ gold be hidden at the end of a rainbow as well?” “Of course.” Zeth nodded. “And his tiny wife is but a pixie. Her task is to distract any mortal who captures him, before he's forced relinquish his riches."
“What of the wench?” Colin snorted. “Be she fairy, kelpie or imp?"
“She's a witch,” Zeth said.
Colin and Greum chuckled.
“Laugh if you wish,” Zeth whispered, “But, she carries the sorcerer's mark near her right eye. Cast her witch-spell on you, she did, Colin. With but a look, her eyes turned from gray to blue, and you were mesmerized. You know it. We all do."
Colin cleared his throat and scowled at Zeth. “Her eyes be gray."
“Aye, gray,” Greum said, “Quite ordinary and colorless, just like she is. She's but a simple serving girl, nothing more."
“Nay, she's a witch all right,” Zeth said. “Why, if she were a fair and lovely Irish lass, with flowing, bright-red hair ... ‘tis certain I'd be, that she's the enchanted lass our laird sees in his dreams."
“'Tis enough talk on the subject, Zeth,” Tristan said. Lying back against the floor, he cradled his head in his hands and stared aimlessly up toward the ceiling. Silvery moonlight seeped into the room through small openings in the thatched roof.
“What of the witch?” Zeth asked.
Tristan sighed. “I grow weary of such nonsense. The lass is peculiar, I grant you that, but ‘tis most likely due to the queer malady."
“Nay, Tristan,” Zeth said. “Due to her witch-magic, it is. She must wield it with her eyes, somehow. I've seen the way they change color, from gray to blue to green. Aye, she's a witch all right. She cast her spell on Colin she did, and now we're all doomed."
Turning his head, Tristan watched as Colin glanced about the room and shifted against the floor. Greum simply chuckled, then turned on his side and closed his eyes. Tristan frowned into the shadowy darkness. “Try to get some sleep, Zeth. If Gareth be fit we'll leave here at first light."
“If the witch does na’ enchant us while we sleep, that is.” Zeth pulled a small, wooden cross from his pouch and began reciting a prayer.
Tristan simply returned his gaze to roof and tried to assess the situation. So far the journey was proving most frustrating, to say the least. He'd been ready to give up the quest numerous times, but his sense of honor had prevented him from doing so. The choice was not his to make. He'd made a promise to his laird, and Tristan would do his best fulfill that promise, even if had to die trying. The reason was simple. It was his duty.
Unfortunately, Tristan's sense of duty had almost got Gareth killed—and all because of a worthless, nonexistent charm. When Tristan finally closed his eyes, he tried to block all the troublesome distractions of the past weeks from his mind. He breathed deeply, releasing the conflict and tension from his body, and welcomed the much-needed rest he desired.
But his thoughts turned to Seerah. Aye, an unusual lass, to say the least. Although her peculiar combination of boldness and determination implied self-confidence, there also seemed to be something quite vulnerable about her. She was easily the most unappealing, contrary lass he'd ever met, yet Tristan found himself drawn to her, and that troubled him deeply. And what of her eyes? Tristan had seen the way the light made them appear to change from gray to lavender, and then to green just like Zeth had said. But a witch with magical eyes? Indeed!
Tristan forced all thoughts of her out of his mind.
When he finally drifted off to sleep, however, strange images of Seerah plagued his slumber; in his dreams, Seerah was a beautiful, shapely, dark-haired lass with startling blue-green eyes. She dressed in a billowing, white gossamer gown like an angel—nay, a provocative enchantress with the power to defeat evil forces.
Much to Tristan's dismay, he realized the evil she sought to conquer was him.
* * * *
In the wee hours of dawn, when the sun was just beginning to rise and the heavy mist still hung low about the heather and peat covered bogs, Gareth stirred. Tristan rose immediately and stood by Gareth's side. “Gareth? Be you awake, lad? Do you know who I am?"
“Aye.” Shifting his weight, Gareth winced. “If na’ for me guardian angel, mayhap I'd be gazing upon St. Columba's halo instead of your dour face, though."
“'Twas me own sword, na’ the grace of dead saints or the wings of angels that came to you're aid,” Tristan grumbled.
“Guardian angels and dead saints?” Greum said as he rose. “What manner of talk is this so early in the morn'?"
“Gareth's awake,” Tristan said.
Greum chuckled. “So I see. And, praising the angels already? He must be feeling fit, indeed."
Zeth and Colin joined the others.
“From the look of his arm,” Colin said. “He'll be cursing the devil soon enough."
“Mayhap.” Gareth propped himself up on his good elbow, then grimaced. “But, for now I'll thank God and His angel for their tender mercy."
“'Tis na’ the work of God,” Zeth said. “Nor angels. But witches I tell you."
Gareth laughed. “Witches? Nay, Zeth. ‘Twas one of God's own guardian angels who kept me from death's door. A fair lovely she was too. Why, I fear I must confess me lustful thoughts about her to Father McKinnan, at the abbey, when we return home. Aye, it must surely be a sin to desire such a blessed creature."
“I see the draught wore off,” Seerah said. “But you still need your rest, Gareth."
Tristan jerked his head in the direction of her voice and found her standing near the stairs, smiling sweetly. As he assessed her unbecoming appearance, once again vivid memories of the seductive enchantress from his dreams flooded his mind. Nay, there was nothing about the peculiar lass standing before him that could possibly be linked with the bewitching, dark-haired lass he'd trifled with in the deep realms of slumber. With a low, disapproving grunt, he scoffed at his own overactive imagination.
“And, top o’ the mornin’ to the lot o’ you as well.” Seerah glared at the gaping group of men.
Aye, she was the same saucy wench from the previous night, but Tristan couldn't help noticing something different and almost radiant about her. Narrowing his gaze, he wondered what truly lurked beneath Seerah's drab shell. Then he grunted, again, at the curious possibility.
Seerah huffed and walked past Tristan. “I see you've no knack for pleasantries in the morn. ‘Tis really no surprise, though. Gareth, you're going to be fine, but you should lie back afore you pull the stitches from your arm."
Tristan remained silent, scrutinizing her.
Zeth clutched his cross to his chest and Colin shifted his feet. Greum simply chuckled.
Gareth frowned at Tristan. “Who's the—"
“She's the witch,” Zeth whispered.
“Aye. A smart man you are, Zeth.” Seerah sashayed across the room toward him. “A witch I am, indeed. And, powerful too. Why, if you cause me any trouble I'll turn you into a toad.” She wiggled her fingers at him.
Eyes wide, Zeth swallowed hard and fumbled with his cross.
Greum laughed heartily and slapped Zeth on the back. “'Tis plain to see she's teasing you, laddie. She only cast spells on Colin, right big brother?"
“Uh ... Aye.” Colin chuckled, but his strained laughter sounded forced as his eyes darted from Seerah to Greum.
Tristan shook his head dismally and lowered his gaze.
“Who's the saucy wench, Tristan?” Gareth said.
Covering his eyes with his hand, Tristan groaned.
Seerah walked back across the room, and stood by Gareth's side. “I'll forgive your bad manners because of your injury. But, as I told the rest of your companions last night, me name is Seerah, na’ saucy, nor wench.” She shoved Gareth backward.
Gareth fell back with a thud, then winced. “Uuuh! What the..."
“I'd like you to meet your guardian angel, Gareth,” Tristan said. Then he tilted his head back and laughed; his shoulders shook visibly as the deep, rich sound echoed off the rafters.
“Perhaps she is a witch,” Greum whispered.
“Aye!” Tristan paused to catch his breath. “A witch and a guardian angel all rolled into one."
“Nay, Tristan.” Gareth frowned and raised his head, glancing at Seerah as if he expected her to shove him back down. “Though your mirth is indeed a blessing in its own right, do na’ make sport of me. The angel was real. ‘Twas a miracle, truly."
Laughter rumbled deep in Tristan's chest.
Gareth ignored him. “A beautiful, shapely, young gel with blue-green eyes and flowing, black hair, she was."
Tristan froze. The sound of laughter died in his throat and he choked out a soft cough as Gareth elaborated.
“She wore a billowy white frock,” Gareth said. “And she told me to fear na’ for she was na’ the angel of death as I so believed, but me own guardian angel. She also spoke Gaidheal like a true Highlander. She was nothing a'tall like this shelta speaking harpy..."
“Witch,” Seerah interjected. “I was na’ teasing Zeth. The lad be quite right about me."
Tristan stared at her, wondering how Gareth's description of his so-called-angel could so accurately have matched the enchantress from Tristan's own dream.
“'Tis the truth,” Seerah said. “I prefer sorceress, but witch will do."
Lilybet hurried down the stairs and crossed the room. “Seerah? What be you about so early, this morn?"
Marcus pushed his way past Lilybet. “To the Devil with the lot o’ you for rousing me at the crack o’ dawn,” he grumbled. He stomped across the cobbled floor and headed for the bar, drawing everyone's attention. After filling a tankard with ale, Marcus drank it down quickly, only to repeat the process two more times. Finally, he glanced up at the group, belched loudly, then scowled. “What? Have you never seen a man take drink?” He filled his mug again, plopped down in the nearest chair and let loose with another rumbling belch.
Seerah giggled. “You were right, Aunt. Things be much clearer in the morning light."
“Things? What things?” Lilybet clutched Seerah's forearm.
Just then, Cosmo scampered into the room. Seerah withdrew her arm from Lilybet's grasp and bent at the waist. “Come Cosmo."
Tristan and the warriors watched silently as the ferret leapt into her arms.
“Tristan be the one who's to take me on me journey. He's The Lord Of Thunder,” Seerah said.
“What of your suspicions?” Lilybet asked.
Zeth, Colin and Greum glanced quizzically at each other, as Tristan and Gareth listened with heightened interest.
“At first, Tristan's power distressed me, indeed.” Seerah said. “In me dream, The Lord of Thunder appeared to be God-like and magical—not a'tall like the surly mortal he truly is. Then I recalled the shadowed man who stood between me and the other powerful man."
“The Fin-gael?” Lilybet asked.
“Aye. Or so I thought. When I first saw Tristan, however, he was but a menacing shadow, standing in the threshold. You see? The Lord of Thunder and the shadowed man be one in the same—Tristan. Last night, I learned from me dream that his Laird owns an amulet exactly like mine.” Seerah pulled the chain from beneath the worn collar of her robe.
Marcus clapped his hand against his forehead and groaned.
Zeth crossed himself and began muttering a prayer. Greum and Colin just stood there, with their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open. Gareth simply stared at Seerah's pendant, while Tristan advanced.
“Tell me where you got this!” Tristan grabbed at the pendant.
Seerah dodged his grasp and tucked the amulet away. Ignoring Tristan, she turned to Gareth. “You should be resting. We'll soon be traveling very far. You need to be strong for the journey.” She smiled sweetly at him.
“I asked you a question!” Tristan bellowed.
Seerah turned and glanced up at Tristan. “Did you, now? I was na’ aware that you asked me anything. I believe you issued an order. You be a rather commanding man, I know, but you should learn to control your temper. Such rancor is very bad for your health. And the way you get so easily agitated..."
“Warriors do na’ get agitated. We get angry and we get even. Now, tell me how you came to have that charm, I say,” Tristan demanded, contempt thickening his voice.
Seerah tilted her head and batted her eyelashes at him. “You'll likely get angrier."
When she drew her mouth into a pout-like expression and sighed, Tristan scowled at her obvious, though pitiful ploy to charm him. “I'm getting angrier by the moment."
“Tell him, Seerah. Quickly.” Marcus took another swig of ale and said, “Aye. Mayhap he'll become so angered that he'll bust a vein in his thick Scot head.” He belched, then chuckled.
Lilybet marched over to Marcus and cuffed him on the head. “That'll be enough of that,” she said. With a curt nod, she swiped the mug from his hand and turned her attention to Seerah and Tristan.
“For the love of—” Marcus tried to snatch the mug back.
“Shush.” Lilybet swatted his hand away, and made to smack him on the head again.
Marcus slouched in his chair with a huff.
“So much for me charms, Gran, dear,” Seerah muttered.
“What?” Tristan glared at her, his suspicions soaring.
“Oh, nothing.” Seerah shrugged. “If you must know, the amulet belongs to me mother. ‘Tis a talisman and I would na’ try to take it again, if I were you.” She glanced at Cosmo who sat perched on her shoulder.
When Tristan also glanced at Cosmo, the ferret appeared to smile and wink at him.
Seerah giggled.
“Enough of this folly.” Tristan seized Seerah by her upper arms and shook her. “Tell me what I wish to know!"
Seerah winced, then inclined her head in a serene, bored-looking gesture. “Have you ever felt a ferret's teeth sink into your skin, Tristan? ‘Tis na’ a pleasant experience, I assure you."
Cosmo bared his teeth as if to emphasize her point.
“It can also cause severe illness,” she said, glaring now. “And, you may wish to clean the wax from your ears, for I just told you!"
Tristan scowled at Cosmo, and hesitantly released Seerah. He dragged his hand through his hair and said, “Tell me again."
“I'm a Druid sorceress—a witch, and the amulet belongs to me mother."
“Aye, a witch. I told you all,” Zeth said. Colin took a step backward, but Greum and Gareth simply frowned at one another as if considering the possibility.
Closing his eyes, Tristan rubbed his temples and shook his head.
“You do na’ believe me?"
“It goes against Tristan's nature to believe in the likes,” Zeth said. “Tristan says, ‘tis foolish to trust such things as witchery and emotions, but especially women for they own no reason."
“Lord have mercy.” Marcus tried to snatch the mug from Lilybet's hand.
“Hush.” Lilybet cuffed him on the head again.
“Och! Stop that, woman!” Standing, Marcus rubbed his head and glared at Lilybet. “That's enough of this malarkey.” He stomped over to where Tristan and Seerah stood glaring at one another. “She speaks the truth,” Marcus said. “What happened last night was no illness. Why, it happens most every time she dreams. Aye, a witch she is. And I'll likely be stuck with her, her rat, and her witchcraft shenanigans for the rest of me days. Go on, show him you true self, lass."
“Aye, show him, Seerah.” Lilybet nodded.
Tristan braced his hands on his hips. “Aye, show me, indeed."
Chapter Nine
Seerah smiled, proudly displaying her rotten-looking teeth. When she scraped at them with her fingernails, however, the dark stains and corrosion faded considerably. But it wasn't until she pulled a rag from a pocket in her robe, and rubbed it vigorously against her face that understanding finally dawned on Tristan. Her skin was as white and smooth as ivory satin, not at all gaunt and ashen as he'd believed. He frowned, annoyed by her obvious deception.
Then Seerah removed her bonnet. She uncoiled and unbraided her hair, running her fingers through the black mass until it hung past her hips. It shimmered like an exquisite, sable robe fit for a queen. It looked so soft that Tristan was tempted to reach out and touch it, but he didn't. Instead, his keen gaze explored every inch of her flawless face. Her petite nose was slightly upturned, as if daring him and openly mocking him at the same time. Her full, pouting lips were a deep, inviting shade of ruby red that seemed to beckon him; his mouth went dry at the sight.
Tristan swallowed hard, his body stirring with remembrance as visions from his provocative dream about Seerah flashed in his mind. He shook his head, mentally rejecting the image, but when she began unbuttoning the dowdy robe she was wearing he froze. Relief washed over him when she revealed an ordinary frock instead of the white gown from his dream, which Gareth had also mentioned. Unfortunately, the comely, blue over-tunic and cream under-tunic enhanced her coloring and her modest feminine curves. She looked even more enchanting now, than she had in his dream ... but how could a dream...
Looking directly up at him, Seerah closed her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them, again, they appeared to be the most wondrous shade of blue-green he'd ever seen.
The air went out of Tristan's lungs in a rush.
“Me angel,” Gareth said.
“N-nay. She's a w-witch,” Zeth whispered.
“Aye.” Colin nodded.
“Nay. An enchantress,” Greum said.
“You see?” Seerah smiled and gestured with a flourish of her arm.
Tristan flinched feeling as if he'd just been wakened from a deep slumber. A scowl furrowed his brow as he glanced at each of his men. It was suddenly very obvious what had happened; his mighty warriors had easily been reduced to a band of lusting whelps by a mere lass—a shrewd, cunning lass. Why, she had almost completely disarmed Tristan as well. He clapped his hands together slowly, and said, “Aye. A magical show, indeed."
“Och! You still do na’ believe?” Seerah said, her hands settling defiantly on her hips.
“Nay. But your disguise was indeed a clever trick. It worked quite well.” Tristan arched his brow and glanced at the warriors. “You have obviously gained the reactions you were surely hoping for."
Looking momentarily startled by Tristan's comment, Gareth, Colin, Zeth and Greum swiftly checked their appreciative expressions. “There's nothing magical about such a disguise,” Tristan said, returning his full attention to Seerah. “By me own thinking, ‘tis a rather obvious, deceitful and desperate ploy for attention by a conniving lass."
“Ploy for attention? C-conniving? I'm a sorceress I tell you!” Seerah stomped her foot.
“And, I say there be no such thing."
“A hard-headed Scot is what you be then,” Marcus said, holding his hand out to Lilybet. “Give it o'er woman. I deserve a stiff drink for putting up with the likes of him."
Lilybet sighed and handed him the mug of ale.
“What about your laird and me amulet?” Seerah said.
“You have yet to tell me how you came to know such things,” Tristan said. “Or about how you came to have the pendant, but I'll wager your tale will be interesting."
“Tale? Bah! I saw the truth in a vision."
“A vision, you say?” Tristan stifled a yawn. “This game tires me."
“'Tis na’ a game, but the truth. A vision also told me that you and Gareth are na’ brothers."
“Your aunt said—"
“She was trying to protect me,” Seerah said. “Evil men also seek to find me amulet. ‘Twas the amulet Colin was about to speak of last night. I made him speak with me powers. I only asked about the men who wounded Gareth because ... well ... if they be the evil ones and they be near—danger is surely near as well."
“And, why might that be?” Tristan asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.
“They also seek to find me because..."
“Because?"
“Because ... I'm a—"
“A witch? Aye.” Tristan nodded slowly like he was seriously considering the possibility. “Now, I see. These men be after you because of your special powers."
“Aye,” Seerah said, her shoulders slouching with apparent relief. “Shall I tell you of me vision?"
“Oh, please do.” Pulling out a chair, Tristan sat down. He stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his arms across his chest. “'Twill likely prove to be quite entertaining."
“Oooh!” Seerah stomped her foot again. “Believe me or no, but you do na’ have to be insulting."
“Tell him of your vision, Seerah. He will see,” Lilybet said.
“He'll likely na'!” Seerah bristled.
“'Tis the truth, I'll likely na'. But, do tell.” Tristan grinned.
Seerah glared at him. “Make fun of me again and I'll ... I'll..."
“You'll what? Turn me into a toad?” Tristan taunted.
“Nay.” Seerah frowned, looking genuinely disappointed. “I could na’ do that."
“Just as I thought.” Tristan smirked triumphantly. “You are finally willing to admit that all this talk of sorcery and witchcraft is nonsense, then?"
“Nay. ‘Tis simply unnecessary to turn you into a toad.” Inclining her head, Seerah batted her eyelashes at him. “For you already are an ugly, insufferable, wart-ridden toad with a black soul."
Tristan felt a muscle in his cheek twitch as he fought his desire to grab her and throttle her.
As Colin, Zeth, and Greum glanced anxiously from one to another, Gareth actually chuckled. “Please,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, suppressing his obvious amusement. “Mind na’ Tristan's wrath. Speak to me of this vision, please."
In turn, Seerah graced Gareth with a pleasant smile. “Your manners be refreshing, indeed."
When Gareth smiled back, nodding cordially in reply, Tristan shot him a warning glare.
Gareth simply chuckled, again. “Come, witch-angel, Seerah. Speak freely. Please?” He issued his most dazzling smile. Tristan immediately noticed the telltale, pink blush coloring Seerah's cheeks. He couldn't believe how quickly Gareth had managed to charm her, but not without consequences.
From what Tristan could see, the charming seemed to be going both ways. “Hell and the Devil,” he muttered as he shook his head with disbelief.
* * * *
Gareth's warm, inviting smile had taken Seerah by surprise, making her feel more feminine than she ever thought possible. But Tristan's terse oath quickly let her know that her reaction had not gone unnoticed. Flustered, she shifted her guilty gaze to her hands and tried to gather her thoughts. “I-in me vision, last night, I saw you, Gareth. And Tristan, too. You both stood high on a hill before a great castle, with your laird. You were all in disagreement about a lost object, and the laird was sad—nay...” She frowned and glanced up, again. “Nay, he was deeply sorrowed as if he'd been grieving a tremendous loss for a very long time. He held an object in his hand, an amulet like the one I possess. He asked you to locate it."
“What make you of that, Tristan?” Gareth asked.
“I know na'.” Tristan stood and walked toward Seerah. “What of these evil men?"
With an arrogant huff, Seerah cocked her head at him. “They search for the stone, and me. They also be very near. I have felt the presence of the serpent and the pig very strongly since before you arrived."
“The serpent and the pig?” Tristan scoffed.
“Aye. They represent the evil ones. At first, I believed you to be evil because of your empty soul and dour disposition, but I know now it's simply you nature. Difficult, hah! ‘Twas a grave understatement on me dear Gran's part.” Seerah addressed Gareth, then. “You must help me convince Tristan to take me to your laird. I believe he has knowledge that will aide me in me quest."
“And, what be this quest?” Gareth asked.
“To find me parents. The Norseman seized them during an unsuccessful raid, off the coast of Eire, nearly two decades ago."
“You believe they still live?"
“I do. Though I'm na’ certain of me father's location, Gran assured me that me mother is being held captive in a castle in the Highlands of Scotland."
“There be many a castle throughout all of Scotland,” Gareth said. “Ireland and England as well. How can she possibly know this?"
“Gran is gifted as well."
“She has the sight, then?"
“Aye.” Seerah nodded. “Though she has been blind since birth, the gift of the seer allows her to see the past and the future. And through the use of Dream-magic, she has witnessed me fate—the prophecy."
Gareth's eyes grew wide. “She's a Dreamweaver, then?"
Stunned by Gareth's knowledge, Seerah cast him a startled, questioning look. “Aye."
“Like a fortune teller?” Greum asked.
“Nay. Dreamweaving is much more complicated than mere fortune telling,” Seerah said. “Only Dagdha can grant the power of Dream-magic. According to Gran's dream, the ... prophecy, I'm to locate me father, rescue me mother and defeat the serpent."
“How does she expect you to do this, alone?” Gareth asked. “And what makes you believe you can accomplish such feats?"
Seerah blinked back the tears of frustration and fatigue threatening her composure. “If Tristan agrees, I shan't be alone. As to why I believe. I ... do na’ know that I do—na’ completely. But ‘tis is me duty to at least try to find them and fulfill the prophecy. I've nothing else to lose."
“What say you to that?” Gareth asked Tristan.
Tristan sighed deeply as he closed his eyes. Then he rubbed his forehead like it was causing him sever pain.
“Och! You still do na’ believe me?” Seerah's hands balled into fists at her sides. When she stomped her foot this time, Marcus’ shillelagh quickly levitated up from the bar, then flew across the room straight at Tristan.
Tristan looked up, raised his hand and caught the club in mid-air, just before it would have collided with his head. He studied the cane for a long moment before glancing at Seerah.
Surprised, Seerah immediately looked at Lilybet.
Lilybet's expression conveyed a curious sort of awe and something akin to approval as she winked and nodded her silent praise.
“S-sorry.” Seerah glanced guiltily at Tristan.
“You believe you are responsible for this?"
“'Twas na’ deliberate, of course,” Seerah began. “I would never wish to cause harm to another being for spite. I'm a healer. A-apparently, you angered me unduly.” She nodded for emphasize.
“Apparently! And you are sorry now?” Tristan said, looking highly amused.
“Aye. That I missed!"
Tristan chuckled and twirled the heavy cane in his hand like it was a wee bramble. “Now, that, I believe.” His laughter increased.
“You find this amusing, Tristan?” Gareth asked.
Tristan gazed at Seerah. “Aye. It was a delightful trick. One you must teach me.” He tipped his head back and continued laughing.
Marcus refilled his tankard and began guzzling its contents. Lilybet shrugged and shook her head wearily at Seerah. The warriors glanced from one to another as though uncertain of what to do next. Seerah rolled her eyes heavenward, then groaned with despair.
“Fear na’ ... witch-angel, Seerah.” Tristan said, making an effort to contain his amusement. “We will take you ... on your journey. Won't we, Gareth?"
“If you say so, Tristan."
Seerah's hopes soared. “You believe me, then?"
Bending at his waist, Tristan leaned on the cane. Resting his other hand on his hip, he brought his face close to hers. “Nay. But, you delight me. ‘Tis na’ an easy thing to do.” He stood upright, then. “Aye. You be a wily lass, indeed. Quite winsome as well. Though less so when you frown at me that way.” He paused and studied her for a moment. “Aye. A bewitching, delightful lass you are,” he said. “And I'm thinking this journey will be most interesting, to say the least. Especially now that I know exactly what I'm dealing with. Leprechauns, magic canes, and a witchy lass, indeed.” A lopsided grin curved his lips and the sound of suppressed laughter rumbled deep in his chest.
Greum, Zeth and Colin moved in close to form a circle around Gareth. As they mumbled amongst themselves, Seerah just stood there gaping at Tristan.
“We'll be leaving today, as soon as the horses are ready.” Tristan said.
“Praise be!” Marcus jumped up and began dancing a jig in the center of the room.
Seerah flinched and looked at him just as Lilybet rushed forward and grabbed him by the arm. “'Tis no cause to be celebrating, Marcus. Seerah's leaving us."
Marcus ceased frolicking about. He glanced slowly from Tristan to Seerah, and cleared his throat. “Aaahem!” When he'd gained everyone's full attention, he glared at each man until his gaze settled on Tristan. “What, exactly be your intentions?"
Intentions? Seerah's eyes went wide and she opened her mouth to protest, but no words came forth.
“Aye,” Colin said. “What exactly be your ... plan concerning the wen ... wit ... lass, Tristan? If you have any intentions toward her, you should declare them to her family now."
Panic seized Seerah and her chest tightened with nervous anticipation. Did he have a plan? Did it include her? Did he really believe her to be delightful and winsome?
Tristan's expression grew shielded as he regarded Colin. “Me plan is...” he paused, turning to address Lilybet and Marcus. “I will agree to take your niece on her journey. Me intentions are to keep her and her charm safe. On this I give you me solemn oath."
“Aye.” Lilybet nodded her head in reply.
“Oath shmoath! You best see to it that her virtue stays intact until she's been properly wed.” Marcus shook his fist at Tristan.
Seerah gasped. “Me v-virtue?"
“Marcus!” Lilybet scolded.
“His concerns be honorable,” Tristan said. “As are me intentions. I vow to guard and protect her, her charm, and her virtue with me life.” He turned and looked at Seerah. “We'll be outside readying the horses. Gather your belongings and say your farewells. Bring only what you must, and be quick about it. I do na’ like to be kept waiting.” He nodded, then took his leave.
Colin, Zeth, Greum and Gareth silently gathered their belongings and followed Tristan outside. Marcus refilled his tankard, then wobbled over to the hearth. He sat in his favorite straw chair and began leisurely drinking his fill.
Feeling dazed and confused Seerah just stood gaping at Marcus, as if her feet were rooted to the floor. She didn't need to be taken care of—certainly not by some arrogant man. And, as far as the subject of her virtue was concerned, it needed even less protection; the mere thought of trifling with a crude, Scott barbarian, especially the likes of Tristan Kincaid, was ludicrous. Wasn't it?
“Seerah?” Lilybet beckoned
When Seerah didn't reply, Lilybet advanced and shook Seerah's arm. “Seerah!"
“Aye?” Seerah glanced at the open doorway, her gaze following after Tristan.
“All will be well. You'll be safe, I feel it.” Lilybet offered a reassuring squeeze before releasing Seerah's arm.
“Safe, aye.” Seerah frowned.
“What troubles you then?” Lilybet asked.
“What troubles could I possibly have? Indeed, it seems almost fitting that me supposed champion has less manners than a savage beast."
“But he called you winsome and delightful. ‘Tis a start."
Seerah turned to look at Lilybet. “Hah! He also called me wily and conniving. He does na’ believe me. He simply mocks me. ‘Tis obvious he thinks me dense as bog fur. And, I do na’ like his commanding tone. Why, I'm na’ one of his men. I'm a bright, independent lass. I do na’ need some man telling me what to do."
“He's brusque, I'll grant you that.” Lilybet nodded. “But, he agreed to take you on your journey. ‘Tis what you wanted. Why, he pledged to honor and protect you. And I've seen the fond way he watches you. ‘Tis na’ likely he considers you one of his men. I'm thinking he has eyes for you, Seerah.” A knowing smile curved Lilybet's lips.
Seerah's mouth fell open and she stared at Lilybet, her opposing response caught in her throat.
“Mayhap, you have eyes for him as well.” Lilybet winked.
“Me? Have eyes for the likes of that ... that ... Och! Why, he's nothing more than ... an overgrown, overbearing gargoyle with an empty soul!” Brusquely lifting her skirts, she sashayed across the room toward the stairs.
“An overbearing gargoyle and a contrary witch. Quite an interesting match to say the least,” Lilybet taunted.
“Oooh!” Seerah cried, and stomped upstairs.
* * * *
Tristan watched as the rising sun tried, in vain, to burn through the misty Ireland haze. He gazed east at the domed crests of the raised bogs, so common here and so different from the level fens of his highland home. A fresh, earthy scent hung in the cool, damp air. He took a deep, determined breath, hoping to find the patience he knew he would need to complete this mission.
When Seerah and Lilybet finally exited the inn, Tristan swiftly mounted his horse. “'Tis about time,” he said. “Where be your uncle? I will na’ be wasting time waiting around for you to bid him farewell."
“We've already said our good-byes.” Seerah pursed her lips.
Lilybet patted her teary eyes with a hanky, and hugged Seerah. “Aye, and he'll miss you despite all his grumbling. Why, when he wakes up from his drunken slumber he'll be sorry you're gone, indeed."
Tristan reined his horse about. Next, he spurred the animal forward and halted directly in front of Seerah. “Give Colin your belongings so I can help you mount me horse."
Seerah hesitated, then handed her satchel up to Colin. “I prefer to ride with Gareth. He may need me to tend his injures.” With a curt nod, she marched over to where Gareth sat mounted on his horse.
Her open defiance rankled Tristan's cool demeanor, but it was her show of preference for Gareth's company that annoyed Tristan beyond measure. “You're preferences are na’ me concern. Come here. Now!"
“I do na’ wish..."
“What you wish be na’ me concern either.” Tristan urged his mount forward.
“But I only ... aaah!” Seerah backed away as his horse headed straight for her.
Bending low, Tristan leaned to one side and grabbed for her.
“What are you do-ing?” Seerah tried to duck out of the way, but failed. “Ooomph!"
“I'm helping you mount me horse.” In one fluid motion, Tristan effortlessly caught her about the waist, hauled her up and deposited her, facedown across his lap. His mount reared up, then broke into a spirited gallop.
As the warriors fell in behind him, Seerah gasped for air and kicked her feet.
“Be well, Seerah,” Lilybet called after them.
“She will be, as soon as she learns to follow orders,” Tristan called back.
“You brute! Why, I'll never speak to you again,” Seerah vowed.
“A blessing, indeed."
“Scoundrel!” She squirmed defiantly.
Tristan chuckled.
Gareth and Colin swiftly took the lead while Zeth and Greum fell back to bring up the rear.
* * * *
After they covered a short distance, Tristan said, “If you promise to behave, you may sit up."
Seerah clenched her teeth. Behave? Allow me? Och! Although she wanted nothing more to do with Tristan, she had little choice in the matter. She didn't want to speak to him ever again, but she couldn't spend their entire journey on her stomach. She was already beginning to feel nauseous.
“Well?” Tristan prompted.
Seerah nodded.
Tristan chuckled. “Does that mean you'll behave?"
She nodded again, with more vigor.
Tristan slowed his mount, then halted.
Before she could argue or guess his intent, Tristan grasped her waist in both hands, hauled her up, and plopped her back down in his lap, her legs astride the horse with her skirts hiked to her thighs. If Seerah hadn't already sworn never to talk to Tristan again, she would've done so that instant. Instead, she huffed loudly and tried to tug her skirts down over her exposed knees.
When Tristan finally urged his mount onward, he sat tall in the saddle with an arrogant ease that made Seerah's blood boil. He was treating her like a disobedient child rather than a full-grown woman with a mind of her own. And he was obviously enjoying himself.
With the exception of that time when Geoff O'toole tried to roll her in the heather, she couldn't remember ever feeling more thoroughly humiliated, or annoyed. She had a good mind to tell him exactly what she thought of him, but she didn't dare. Aye, ‘twill be best to simply ignore him altogether.
As Tristan drove his horse hard and fast down the isolated dirt road, Seerah found it increasingly difficult to remain completely impassive to his touch. His left arm encircled her waist in such a possessive manner that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. His nearness made her feel uneasy, yet utterly safe and secure at the same time. The effect was quite baffling.
For propriety's sake, Seerah tried to remain mindful of his bared chest and thighs. Unfortunately, her thin cloak offered meager protection against the damp morning air. When she began to shiver, her sense of decorum quickly crumbled. Drawn to the warmth emanating from his body, she leaned back against his chest.
Although she longed for the protection of the thick fur mantle Tristan wore about his shoulders, it seemed obvious that he wasn't about to share. And she certainly wasn't going to ask him for anything.
When her teeth began chattering, Tristan sighed and drew the cloak about her without a word. As the warmth enveloped her, she snuggled close and closed her eyes. Inhaling deeply, she savored the musky but pleasing aroma of Tristan's masculine scent.
Finally, she exhaled slowly and relaxed, cuddling against his chest. “I miss them already. I pray to God they'll be safe."
“You, pray to God?” Tristan scoffed.
“Most certainly."
“And, you claim to be a witch? Witches do na’ pray."
Craning her neck, Seerah pinned Tristan with a scathing look. “They do so!"
“To Lucifer, mayhap."
“Och! Only wicked forces pray to Lucifer. And wicked I certainly am na'."
“'Tis still questionable by me own thinking."
“Aye? Well, such barbaric thinking can only mean one thing—that you are a rude man, Tristan Kincaid."
Tristan nodded and grinned.
“Och!” When Seerah quickly looked away, the wind blew her hood off. Caught on the wings of the breeze, the black strands danced wildly about.
“Gather your hair. I can na’ see,” Tristan grumbled.
“Say your farewells. Mount me horse. Gather you hair,” Seerah mocked. “Do you always tell others what to do?"
“Aye! Now gather you hair afore I chop it off with me dagger."
Seerah's first instinct was to defy Tristan. However, realizing that he wasn't likely the kind of man to make idle threats she thought better of the notion. She decided to concede for her own sake, this time. With a dismal sigh, she tried, but the wind continued to gust in a peculiar manner as if fighting her efforts. “Lend me a hand or I'll na’ be able to gather it all."
“Lend me a hand? Do you always tell others what to do?"
“Nay! I usually ask most politely for help because I am a sweet-natured, gentle woman. You obviously bring out the worst in me. Now, if you would please assist me, I'll be swift to follow your petty order."
“Sweet-natured m—” Tristan faltered, as he grasped a handful of Seerah's hair.
* * * *
His nostrils flared as the scent of heather from Seerah's freshly washed hair wafted about him. And like a smoldering ember revived by a brisk gust of wind, desire swiftly warmed his body. Slowing his horse's pace, Tristan entwined his fingers in her hair and breathed deeply, savoring the distinctly feminine aroma. As he relished the silken feeling of her hair against his coarse skin, he wondered if witches were different than mere mortal women when it came to lovemaking. A roguish grin tugged at his lips at the mere thought, and an unexpected curl of carnal curiosity wound through him. It was then he realized just how long it had been since he'd properly bedded a willing, lass—too long. With a low grunt, he abruptly stuffed Seerah's hair down into the collar of her cloak.
“Faith!” Seerah jerked her head away. “You can be quite the barbarian at times.” She refastened her hood and shifted position.
“Barbarian, mmmm.” Tristan mumbled as he became uncomfortably aware of the way Seerah nestled her bottom between his thighs. He breathed a deep, steadying breath and jostled her slightly forward. “'Tis good of you to say."
“Do na’ shove me, so. I am na’ one of your men. And, calling you a barbarian was na’ meant as a compliment.” Seerah attempted to reposition herself again.
“Aye, but it was taken so. And I am quite aware of the fact that you are na’ one of me men,” Tristan said. His voice sounded strangely thick and low to his own ears as he clasped a hand on her thigh to still her fidgeting.
Seerah slapped his hand and immediately tried to shift forward. “Y-you like being compared to a barbarian?"
Tristan noticed the nervous little tremors lacing her voice. He planted his hand firmly on her hip. “Aye. To be considered a barbarian is a great compliment. Be still, now,” he whispered close to her ear.
Seerah's breath caught and her back straightened. “You are p-proud to think of yourself as such?"
Tristan couldn't help wondering if she would detect the distinct firmness of his male body. He smiled to himself and caressed her thigh. “Just as you like to think yourself witch."
“I am a witch!” She pinched his hand and tried to squirm forward. “Knave! Keep your hands to yourself or ... or..."
“Or? Or what? Will you prove to me that you're a witch?"
“I ... I am a witch, I say!” She pinched his hand again, harder this time, then she elbowed him in the ribs as she struggled, ineffectively, move his hand.
Tristan barely noticed her meager pinch, but he moved his hand anyway. Then, hoping to end the provocative torture her squirming inflicted, he pulled her even closer. “And I ... am a barbarian. Tristan the Barbarian be what me enemies call me."
Craning her neck, Seerah scowled at him. “People actually call you that? Why, that's..."
“That's what?” Narrowing his eyes, Tristan bent his head low. His face was so close to Seerah's that he could see his own cold, emotionless eyes reflected in her soft, blue-green gaze; he knew immediately that a lesser man would lose himself within their emotional depths. What would it be like to experience her passion-filled gaze?
“That's...” Seerah's tongue darted out, and she licked her lips as if they were parched. “That's, s-silly,” she exhaled slowly, her body seeming to melt in his arms.
“Barbarians are na’ silly. And I assure you, the title is just as welcome as it is fitting.” He raked her face with his eyes, his gaze settling, again, on her slightly parted lips. “Seerah the witch, however..."
“N-no one calls me th-that. I ... you—” Seerah gulped and blinked hard, her eyes growing wide with a questioning look. Then her lips quivered slightly, as if in anticipation.
Chapter Ten
The sight of Seerah's quivering, parted lips, brought Tristan's thoughts crashing back to reality. He abruptly shoved her head against his chest. “Sit back. It's difficult enough to ride with a hearty lass like you upon me lap."
Seerah squirmed relentlessly. “Hearty? And, here I thought—ooh! I should've known better."
“Aye, you should have known better! And, if you know what's best for you, you'll still that fulsome rump o’ yours."
“Fulsome?” Seerah jabbed Tristan hard with her elbow.
Caught off guard, Tristan flinched in response to the sharp stabbing pain in his ribs. His mount reared up and snorted in response, jerking the reins from Tristan's left hand. When he snatched them back, he heard Seerah's startled gasp and felt her weight shift in his lap.
Holding the reins tightly in his right hand, he used his left to seize her flailing arm.
With a low grunt, he hoisted her up and wrapped his arm around her waist again, pulling her close with jarring force. “Aye. Quite fulsome."
“Why, I never!"
“'Tis apparent, but ‘tis also good. Now, sit still, Seerah the witch. For if you insist on jumping from me horse every time your tender feelings are offended, our journey will take twice as long. And, we've a long way to go afore we reach the Highlands."
“A long, silent way to go!"
“Promises, promises,” Tristan muttered.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Seerah tried to turn again, but Tristan's binding hold denied her efforts.
“Cease moving about, or you will soon find yourself lying on the forest floor crushed beneath me!” Tristan warned. His horse, Igneous, snorted, tossing his head, again, as if to agree.
Seerah grew frightfully still.
It was obvious to Tristan that she believed his advice had something to do with his foul-tempered horse. Tristan knew better; if she gazed at him with those beguiling eyes and pouting lips one more time, he'd be hard pressed not to cure her of her tempting innocence before nightfall. Dismissing his lustful thoughts, he said, “You should know, I do na’ trust people who break their word."
“If you are trying to annoy me further, so I'll be thrown from you horse and you can be rid of me ... You best remember, you promised to protect me. And, for you information, I never lie!"
“Oh? You swore never to talk to me again just after we left the inn,” Tristan said, “Yet you have been chattering like a magpie ever since. I can na’ trust your word now."
“Then we're even, for I do na’ trust barbarians!” When Seerah attempted to jab Tristan's ribs again, he nudged his horse with his knees.
The animal nickered anxiously and picked up its pace.
“Good Lord,” Seerah muttered, and clutched Tristan's arm.
Tristan simply grinned to himself with satisfaction.
* * * *
Dropping down on one knee, Ansel, a young Welsh archer, sifted dirt through his fingers and studied the crumbling inn walls. “There be fresh tracks here, Sir Nevil,” he called out, as the shabby-looking army of Norman and Welsh mercenaries approached.
Dressed in tattered hose, belted but threadbare tunics, and shabby furs, the men halted their mounts near the scout.
Sir Nevil was last to approach. The former warlord of Leinster scowled through his open-faced, nasal helmet, which boasted a bronze crest in the shape of a wild boar. Though Nevil was average in size, he cut an impressive figure decked out in full war-gear and Ansel knew firsthand that Nevil's ruthless nature easily made up for his lack of bulk.
“How fresh?” asked Sir Nevil.
A lone ray of sun struck Nevil's hauberk, casting a blinding streak of light in Ansel's direction. He squinted against the gleaming shaft. “An hour, mayhap more. And, there be blood drops, sir."
“Be it Tristan the Barbarian and his primitive band of outcast warriors?” Sir Nevil clenched his shield in his fist.
“It be them. And a lass, judging from the prints leading..."
“Leading where?"
“From that run-down shanty.” Ansel pointed. “'Tis strange. I don't recall seeing it when we passed through here last night. It was this very spot were we lost Tristan's tracks."
“Where you lost his tracks.” Nevil glowered. “You simple-minded fool, they must've been hiding in that broken-down inn. The mist was thick here. I told you to watch carefully for tracks."
Ansel swallowed hard, trying to mask his fear. “That I did, Sir Nevil. The mist was heavy, aye, but the moon was hale and hearty. Quite radiant, I'd say. It gave me the willy nillies, it did. Had there been any tracks to be found, I'd have easily seen them. Eerie it is, if you ask me. The charm you seek is said to be enchanted. Could the lass be a witch?"
The remaining warriors glanced anxiously about as their mounts pranced skittishly in the dirt.
Sir Nevil moved in close to Ansel. “You bumbling idiot. Don't start spouting that nonsense again. If you do, I'll show you something eerie when I slit your throat and mount your head on the end of my spear.” Turning, Nevil addressed the others, “Quickly, search the area."
“Be it charms and witches you search for? Tell us now, Nevil,” one man demanded.
“That's Sir Nevil to you, Bram.” Directing his horse about, Nevil approached the Welsh warrior.
Bram steadied his horse and stood his ground. “Be that as it may, Ansel is right. Aye, the blue moon was full. Even a ramshackle heap the likes of that inn would've been easy to spot. It is indeed, unearthly. I'll have naught to do with witches and the like,” Bram said. His kinsmen nodded their agreement. Some grunted and urged their horses closer to Bram, showing their support.
“You pledged your fealty to me. All of you did.” Nevil shook his shield at them.
“You paid us for our ... fealty. Not nearly enough, by my thinking,” Bram practically growled. “We lost half of our men in an attack that you said would be a simple slaughter. Tristan and his men were outnumbered, aye, but the fates were obviously on their side. Tell us now, Sir Nevil. Be it treasure or witches we hunt?"
“Treasure, of course.” Nevil proclaimed. “This is not a witch-hunt we're on, but a quest for a rare, priceless pendant! Witches had nothing to do with your failure. Tristan and his men are ruthless barbarians. They fight without fear of death while your so-called army quivers at the mere presence of shadows in the forest."
“It is believed by some that the charm of Danann be as powerful as God-almighty Himself,” Ansel said. “Others say it is cursed."
“Shut up, you idiot,” Nevil snarled. “This nonsense you spout is nothing more than myths and legends contrived by the pagan Celts to frighten their enemies. Only a dimwit would believe such tales."
“Powerful as God? Cursed?” Bram cocked his brow at Nevil. “Wicked as the Devil you mean to say. And we'll not be having any part of it. You may challenge the tales and legends of old if you wish, but you'll do it alone. Not for all the coin in Eire would I fight black magic.” Bram reined his horse in the opposite direction, and commanded his men to follow.
“You fools!” Nevil cried.
A lone warrior held his prancing mount back. He was a menacing brute of a man with fire-red hair. Scars and war paint lined his face and torso making him appear even more threatening as he held his spear high and bellowed, “It is you who are the fool.” Granting his mount its head he cried, “The Devil's fool you are, Nevil the Boar!"
“That's Sir Nevil the Wild! The Devil's adversary is who I am. And I'll see you all, including Tristan the Barbarian, rot in Hell!” Nevil shouted.
“Ahem. Sir Nevil?” Ansel timidly stepped forward.
Turning slowly Nevil glowered down at Ansel. “What?"
“Shall w-we search the inn, Sir?"
“Why are you still here? It's you're fault we lost Tristan in the first place. We had them cornered with one man wounded when you started prattling on about ghosts and fairy mist. It was your talk of witches that caused Bram and those cowardly bastards to flee now, as well. You're Welsh like Bram—don't you fear witches?"
“Aye, Sir Nevil. I have a great fear of witches, but I fear you more. And I have nowhere else to go. An outlaw I am, as you well know. Helig and I..."
“Ah yes, Helig. Where is the worthless oaf?” Nevil's beady eyes narrowed.
“By your leave, Sir.” Ansel nodded in Helig's direction.
Turning in his saddle, Nevil studied the hulk of a man who sat staring into space like a dull-witted fool.
Helig was easily a full man larger than most, and his brute strength could be compared to none. With his unruly dark hair and beard, his Norman looks were extremely intimidating, but Nevil knew that Helig was a gentle giant by nature. The mute titan of a man had accidentally killed a nobleman while rescuing Ansel from a fierce and unjust lashing for stealing a piece of rotten fruit.
“I see my quest has indeed been blessed. An oaf and an imbecile for an army.” Nevil sneered. “Search the area, quickly, then, we ride."
* * * *
Gairloch Castle
The Northwest Highlands, Scotland
“Sire, sire! They's back! Arrived just a moment ago they did. It's a miracle, I tell you. So help me, I thought never to see them two lovely birds of yours ever again. But they came flyin’ right in the belfry, just as pretty as you please. Never seen the likes of it. Scared me half out a me wits, they did. And I—"
“Cordelia!” bellowed the Highland chief. Rising from the window seat, he said, “Please. Your tongue makes me weary, indeed. Especially when you prattle on so.” He sighed deeply, then strolled across the bedchamber, his leather sandals scrapping softly against the wooden floor. As he neared the door, Cordelia, the scullery maid, stood in the hall trying her very best to look contrite.
“At best, ‘tis most difficult to understand you when you be calm, Cordelia. When you work yourself into a state, ‘tis impossible.” The laird stopped in front of Cordelia and ran his hand through his thick auburn hair. “Now, relax and try again.” He gazed patiently down into Cordelia's upturned, wrinkled face.
Cordelia readjusted her sagging mobcap then graced him with a crooked and virtually toothless grin. “Aye, sire. Y’ love doves. They's back,” she said.
“Homing pigeons."
“Sire?"
“The birds, they be called homing pigeons because they're trained to always return home."
“Oh.” Cordelia nodded, but slowly as if doubting his words. “Well, they's back. Though it sure took ‘em long enough. Seen ‘em with me own eyes, I did. Just appeared from out of nowhere. Why they's—” she faltered. “I'm doin’ it again ain't I, sire?” Cordelia grimaced.
“Aye. You're doing it again, indeed,” the laird said.
Cordelia bowed her head and fumbled with her apron, her gnarled fingers twisting and bunching the worn material.
“Now, tell me, where the devil are me ... love doves?"
When Cordelia glanced up, the laird grinned and winked at her.
“Shame on you. Such a grand tease you are, Sire. Come along and I'll show y’ just where they be.” Turning, she hurried down the hall toward the castle steps. “It'll be easier than tryin’ to tell you, that's for sure. Between your burr'n an’ me blabberin', it's a miracle we understand one another a'tall.” Cordelia cackled, as she reached the lengthy stairwell.
Pausing on the landing, she frowned thoughtfully and shook her head. “Why, I can't even begin to tell you how it troubled me when I first came to be here. Me, in the Highlands o’ Scotland. I never imagined it, that's for certain. But I get on fine, now. Praise be to yer kindness.” Glancing over her shoulder, Cordelia issued a quick, appreciative smile, then started down the steps at a steady pace. “Oh, I do wonder sometimes, about what would'a become of me. And, I shudder to think, I dearly do. On me way to who knows where, I was, when I was thrown in that ship with you. It was a dear lucky day for me, it was, those many years ago. Me and the wee babe, that is. He's been a gift to us all. A right sweet-tempered lad Gareth is, indeed."
Stopping on the last step Cordelia crossed her arms over her chest and scowled up at the laird. “Nary a'tall like that scoundrel, Tristan. A mad cuss he is, that one. No wonder to me why he was on his own. His kin probably cast him off without a thought. And a saint you are to put up with him. What he needs is a good rowdy wife to box is ears now an again. But the way he's always scowlin’ ... Why ‘ee could scare a gel right outta ‘er skin, I say!” Cordelia paused, and shrugged. “I ain't no prize. I know. Most of the gents back home would've forsaken me with out a thought. But not you. A dear kind man you are, indeed. Why who knows what would'a become of Tristan, or any o’ us for that matter, if not for your blessed—"
“Cordelia!” The laird's voice boomed.
Cordelia flinched. “Aye, Sire?"
“The birds?"
“Oh. They're right over there, just like I said.” She pointed across the great hall. “See? They're perched on y’ chair. The two of ‘em, just waiting for y’ as pretty as y’ please."
“Aye.” He nodded. “Thank you, Cordelia. You may take your leave."
“As you wish.” Cordelia curtsied, then turned and headed back up the stairs muttering to herself all the way.
* * * *
The laird sighed with relief, grateful for the silence.
As he approached the chair, the two pigeons cooed softly. He smiled, grateful for their return. “So, you've come back to me."
Picking the birds up, one at a time, he set them on his left shoulder and began stroking their feathered heads. Ever since their arrival, nearly twelve moons earlier, his dreams had become more vivid, and his hopes of remembering his past seemed possible. Shortly after their arrival, he'd even dreamt of them. In the vivid dream, a white haired old woman had called the birds by name and released them into the woods, as if sending them off to accomplish a task. Although he'd never given the dream much thought, it had inspired their names. The thought made him smile.
“Where have you been these many months? I thought never to see you again, but you both look well enough. And, I see you've put on some weight.” He stroked the male bird's round stomach, and smiled warmly at the female. “Lilybet, you have been taking fine care of Marcus, indeed."
“Laird?” a familiar voice rang out.
“Alec?” The laird turned and offered the young warrior a welcoming smile. “Come."
The warrior nodded, then advanced. “A messenger nears, sir."
“From Eire?"
“Nay.” Alec shook his head. “The pennant he bears is quite unusual. It displays a black and red serpent of some kind."
The laird returned the birds to their perch on his chair, and whispered, “Stay you near, for I've missed your company sorely.” Then he addressed Alec, “What do you make of him, Alec?"
“An Anglo-Saxon dandy by the look of him, but he offers no physical threat, if that what you be asking."
“Come. We'll meet him outside the wall.” The laird walked past, and Alec fell into step behind him.
Four more warriors escorted Alec and the laird to the outer bailey wall on horseback. When they halted their mounts outside the wall, on the drawbridge, the keep gate lowered slowly. Alec and the Laird advanced to the end of the bridge.
The approaching messenger wore a short, gold-colored tunic that could be seen clearly, even in the distance. His legs were dressed in green hose. A frilly, starched, muslin collar encircled his neck. The white bay he rode was dressed in matching-colored robes and a hood. Though the messenger was a slip of a man, he held his back straight and proud. He also seemed to take in his surroundings with a calculating eye.
“I bring greetings from Lord Viper,” he said, halting his horse.
“Who?” The laird frowned.
“Lord Viper, of Lochinver Keep—in the North. He requests an audience with you."
“I know naught of any such man. For what purpose does he request an audience with me? And from where does he originate?"
The messenger's bearing wavered slightly and his eyes shifted. “Originate?"
“Aye. He obviously is na’ a highlander by birth. Where does he hail from? Who be his people? And how did he come to acquire lands in this area?"
“It has been rumored that he came to the Highlands from Normandy. I know not else, except that ... my lord, he is interested in forming a favorable alliance with you."
“Why?"
A puzzled expression crossed the messenger's face. “It is not my station to know the details of Lord Viper's wishes. I'm merely his emissary."
“Aye.” The laird rubbed the thick whiskers on chin. “I'm unfamiliar with the emblem you display on you banner. What manner of serpent be it?"
“Why, a viper, Sir."
“Aye, so it is."
“Do you wish to grant or deny the audience, Sir?"
Narrowing his brow, the Laird scrutinized the horizon.
“Sir? I must have an answer as my swift return is expected."
The Laird glanced out of the corner of his eye at the messenger. “I will grant the audience. We will meet at Beinn-Dearge. Ten armed warriors will escort me. Your lord may bring the same number, but if this be a trick, we will slay him and his men, and me own army will attack his keep."
The messenger nodded in reply.
“I'll expect a reply in a fortnight or less."
“He'll agree to the meet."
“You be certain of this, messenger?"
“I was given strict instructions to agree to your terms, whatever they might be, in order to insure that the meet takes place."
The laird nodded. “We will meet on the rise, then—at dawn, in a fortnight."
“As you wish, Sir.” The messenger bowed his head respectfully, then reined his horse about and withdrew.
After he rode away, Alec said, “I do na’ wish to be insolent, Laird, but...” .
“Speak freely, Alec. You are me second in command during Tristan's absence. What be on your mind?"
“I find this all very peculiar.” Alec frowned as he watched the messenger retreat. “The viper is a demon sign the Norsemen often display. It suggests a hostile force."
“Fin-gael, aye.” The Laird nodded thoughtfully. “Anything else?"
“Aye,” Alec said, nodding eagerly. “The Anglo-Saxon messenger referred to this Viper as lord, an English title. He also said that his lord hails from the French in Normandy. Yet he occupies Highland soil? He also bears an aggressive emblem while he claims that his lord seeks a favorable alliance.” Glancing cautiously about, Alec lowered his voice. “'Tis said by some that Lochinver keep be enchanted. Black magic, I've heard. ‘Tis been reported that an old English knight, known as Sir Nevil, holds close associations there as well."
“Black magic?” The laird rubbed his chin. “'Tis curious, indeed. And what, if anything, do you know of Sir Nevil?"
“He calls himself Sir Nevil the Wild. His war-helmet boasts a bronze crest shaped like a wild boar. The former warlord of Leinster he is. Corrupt he is, as well. He'll do whatever it takes to line his pocket and advance his station. He also associates very closely with the learned class and aristocracy of Eire known as the Fili—mostly poets and keepers of the lore, but some seers and wizards as well."
“Hmmm. Very interesting, indeed."
“Do you intend to keep the meet, Laird?"
“Aye. But, it sounds like we should be keeping a watchful eye on Lochinver keep, and this Lord Viper. Mayhap Sir Nevil as well."
“Shall I send scouts?"
“Aye. Two to the keep, and two in search of Nevil."
“With Tristan and the others gone, we will be left at a disadvantage if war is declared against us."
“Instruct everyone to be on alert. No one exits or enters the outer bailey wall unless I personally grant permission."
Alec issued a nod, and swiftly relayed his orders to the four warrior escorts. After mounting his horse, he waited patiently for the laird.
The laird clasped his hands behind his back, and stood watching his warriors withdraw. After the men disappeared from sight, he stood there for a long moment lost in thoughtful contemplation. “I had thought to hear from Tristan by now,” he said, finally. “I know him well. He agreed to go on this journey, but he was displeased with the mission. At best, he sorely doubts the second charm exists.” Sighing deeply, the laird mounted his horse.
“You know as well as I that Tristan trusts in reason, na’ blind faith,” Alec said. “He may na’ hold with your beliefs, but he respects your judgment and your position. That is why he pledged his fealty to you. Despite his misgivings, he will carry out your wishes to the best of his ability. If the charm indeed exists, he will find it and bring it to you."
“Aye, he has always honored me. But, at times, I fear I expect too much from him."
“Tristan will na’ fail you."
“He's a fine warrior, indeed.” The laird urged his mount slowly forward, then halted before the gate.
Alec followed. “'Tis so, indeed. Tristan is a fine warrior. But, he will succeed solely because it goes against his nature to fail."
“Aye, ‘tis so.” The laird chuckled. “'Tis so, indeed. I'm thinking we will hear from him soon. And, ‘twill be good news.” With a renewed sense of certainty, he called for the guards on the wall to raise the gate.
When Alec and the laird entered the courtyard, however, a gust of cold air whipped about them. Sensing an unwelcome presence, the laird cast a suspicious glance over his shoulder. He spied nothing unusual, only his men. But he was left with the queer sensation that he was being watched. Black Magic, indeed?
* * * *
Lochinver Keep
Two white birds landed on the window ledge in the tower room. Galynne readily accepted their meager gifts of roots, berries and herbs. After hungrily popping some of the berries into her mouth, she hid the remaining provisions in the long sleeve of her gown. “So very thankful I am,” she whispered to the birds. Then she heard the familiar, hollow sound of boots clacking against the stone steps, as several men ascended the tower stairwell. “You must be off, now. Quickly. And have a care.” She shooed the birds away.
Keys jangled momentarily, then the lock clicked open. Finally the large chamber door creaked and groaned as it was forced fully open. The two guardsmen kept their eyes averted to the ground and remained in the hall, each moving to stand off to opposite sides.
Desruc advanced and leaned casually against the doorframe, his blonde hair and strikingly pale skin a stark contrast to the black hose, matching thigh-length over-tunic, and mantle he wore. The dark circles under his beady eyes only served to emphasize his pallid, disfigured complexion.
Galynne's stomach churned as he leered at her from across the tower room.
“An interesting development, my pet.” Desruc smiled arrogantly.
“I could na’ care less about what you have to say, you ... you Viper.” Turning to face the tower portal, she trained her eyes on a clear patch of blue sky.
“That's, My Lord Viper, to you!” Desruc paused. He cleared his throat, as if consciously regaining his composure. “But ... I'll overlook your refusal to address me as such, for now. I'm feeling overly tolerant today. Ah, yes, I'm entirely too pleased with myself to let you anger me.” He entered the room.
Turning slowly, Galynne fixed him with her most menacing glare and inhaled deeply, her bosom rising slowly as she fought to control her pent up rage.
“Behave yourself, Galynne,” Desruc warned. “The fact that I entered this chamber should tell you that my news is of great concern to you. I suggest you temper yourself, for I finally have the upper hand.” Desruc drew nearer and reached out with his right hand, to stroke Galynne's cheek.
She remained deathly still.
When Desruc's fingers connected with her skin, he flinched as if experiencing a biting jolt of pain. “You bitch!” His left hand rose instinctively to strike her. “Do that again and Kendahl dies a slow agonizing death.” His arm trembled as he issued the threat.
Galynne didn't flinch or cower, she simply held his gaze. “You speak nonsense. Kendahl died eighteen years ago when you attacked us and brought me here. I grieve his loss every day, as I do the loss of me son. The only reason I have na’ destroyed you yet is because—."
“Because, you can't!” Desruc's fingers closed into a tight fist. Instead of striking her, however, he breathed deeply and lowered his hand to his side. “Ah yes, when I first captured you, your powers were already weak due to your infirmed condition. But thanks to my potions they've grown steadily weaker. Though you've managed to retain some of your more annoying talents, they've proven to be more of a bother than a threat.” He boldly reached for her chin.
Galynne jerked away this time, moving just out of his reach. “Touch me again, and I'll—"
“Zap me again, and I'll punish Kendahl severely—before I kill him!” Desruc's eyes sparkled wickedly as his clenched hands trembled with apparent restraint. “Ah, yes. We did get off the subject didn't we?” Flexing his fingers, he squared his shoulders. “The game has changed, most significantly."
“Kendahl lives na', for if he did, I would feel—"
“Feel his presence?” Desruc scoffed, and began to pace. “I fear not. You see, you've spent a great deal of your power hiding the girl child from me all these years.” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. His hooded gaze seemed casual, but Galynne knew he was scrutinizing her reaction.
“Girl child?” She asked, trying to conceal her frantic emotions.
“Nice try, but not quite good enough,” Desruc taunted. “I always know exactly what you're thinking when I look into the depths of those telling green pools. Why, the love you hold in your heart for your dear daughter is almost as apparent as the hate you reserve for me.” He began pacing again. “While cloaking is a fascinating feat, it also drains you, Galynne. Ah yes, I've learned much about your powers. Thanks to some simple herb mixtures, you'll never again be the vital sorceress you once were.” Desruc stopped to stare out the window. “I assure you, Kendahl lives, and very soon he will help bring the girl to me."
“You speak lies. If Kendahl truly lived, he would find you and kill you for what you've done to me."
“Mayhap. If he remembered his past, that is. You see, he recalls nothing. Not even his own identity. And, how do I know this, you ask?” Desruc chuckled and leaned against the marble sill. “While your powers have grown weaker, mine have increased. In fact, I've seen Kendahl in my crystal. Apparently the blow that he received to his head during the invasion was not lethal. However, it did damage his brain rather nicely.” A smug grin curled his thin lips. “He knows not of you, his daughter or of his dead, infant son. He also has no memory of me or of our past together. This will make befriending him very easy, and killing him quite delightful. Why, just moments ago he met with my messenger and agreed to grant me an audience."
“He will destroy you!"
Forming his lips into a pout, Desruc shook his with mock sorrow. “So sorry that I must be the bearer of bad tidings, but the girl is the only one left who can destroy me, now.” He licked his lips as if savoring a tasty morsel. Next he frowned, a look of pensive reflection creasing his brow as he seemed to become lost in his own thoughts. “She does have the amulet. But in order to defeat my black magic she still needs the alder wand from the Fin-gaels’ cave, the sword of Nuada, and full control of her powers."
Several moments passed in silence before Desruc returned his full attention to Galynne. “You should also know that the girl is no longer shielded. Izebeth did manage to elude me during the attack. She also kept the girl well guarded all these years. But Izebeth is gone now. I'm certain. The child has been left unprotected.” Desruc grinned. “Well, not completely, but her new guardian is a mere obstacle. I know him almost as well as I know myself, and I'm looking forward to punishing him—again."
Galynne raised her chin defiantly. “I do na’ believe you."
“My sweet, stubborn, Galynne. Your powers are failing. Soon you won't even be able to cause simple mischief.” Desruc turned his back to her and walked to the door.
“Then why na’ simply slay me now and have it done with?” Galynne charged.
Desruc glanced over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, you still hold some value. The girl searches for you, so I need to keep you around a while longer. Besides, I've waited all these years to bed you. Once I have the girl, you'll have no choice but to come to me. It's inevitable. You could save everyone some time and trouble. Come to me willingly, now, and I will consider sparing your daughter's life."
“To Hell with you,” Galynne spat at Desruc.
A small spark ignited the hem of his cape, but Desruc slapped the material with his hands. He quickly doused the meager flame, then shot her a haughty look. “Is that the best you can do? Poor Galynne, it will not be long at all, now, will it? I will have the vengeance I seek. Including the bittersweet pleasure of your lithe body writhing beneath me. I also plan to plant my seed in the girl. Why, the child we create together will be all-powerful indeed."
Galynne rose unsteadily to her feet. “If you harm her, I'll ... I'll...” she paused as the room began to whirl, spinning about her in a dizzying blur.
“You're in no position to make threats, Galynne. You can barely stand on your own two feet. Use what's left of your powers to call the girl to me and maybe, just maybe, I'll be lenient with Kendahl."
“Never!” Galynne swayed, then crumpled to the floor in a heap. The sound of Desruc's evil laughter echoed through the tower-room, then her mind went black.
Chapter Eleven
Dingle, Ireland
Seerah began to tremble, then her body grew rigid. “Dear God!"
Tristan tensed instinctively. “What's wrong?"
“I felt something ... something very cold and dark pass through me. It was unearthly, indeed, as if a wicked entity touched me soul,” Seerah whispered, her voice quivering slightly.
Sensing the sincerity and depth of her fear, Tristan tightened his hold on her. He glanced back over his shoulder, allowing his gaze to sweep the surrounding area. “I see nothing amiss."
“'Tis nothing you can see—careful, you'll squash Cosmo.” Seerah squirmed to loosen Tristan's grip. “'Twas was more a ... a feeling. Aye, ‘tis certain I am, that this dark energy is a warning.” Lifting her leather pouch onto her lap, she opened the flap and peeked inside. “Be you all right Cosmo? Did you feel it too?"
Cosmo climbed out of the pouch and scurried up Seerah's arm to her neck.
“He can na’ ride there. Put him back in the pouch, now.” Tristan ordered.
“See the way his fur stands straight up?” Seerah asked. “He senses something, too. Besides, he needs fresh air."
“The needs of your rat be of no concern to me."
“Ferret,” Seerah muttered. “We've been traveling for many hours. I'd be grateful for a wee rest meself. Please?"
Tristan knew she must be exhausted, but he remained silent. Her needs were not his concern, only her safety. The needs of his men, however, were another matter. And Gareth was not yet back to full strength.
Seerah sighed heavily. “What of your men and their needs? Gareth is looking pale and weary."
Tristan didn't reply; he was too stunned by the way she'd just voiced his own thoughts. Not that he believed that she could read his mind. Her assumption was simply an uncanny coincidence. Wasn't it?
“I fear that riding the way you have, has exhausted him unduly."
Her voice had gone all soft with emotion, and Tristan couldn't help noticing the warm look in her eyes as she gazed at Gareth. Her apparent desire was obvious to Tristan. Her attraction to Gareth seemed almost natural though. After all, women were always drawn to Gareth's good looks and charming nature. Envy pricked Tristan's nerves, surprising him. Though he'd never been left wanting for female companions, most of his past experiences had been based purely on physical need and pleasure. Since Catrin, no woman had ever gazed at him with such clear, heart-felt emotion. And he didn't want them to—or did he?
Of course na'! Tristan shook off the queer notion. He didn't want such complications. That was why he sought out lustful encounters with experienced, willing lasses who asked only a coin or two for their efforts. It was worth the price to avoid the emotional games he was unwilling to play, and the promises of love he was unable to give. Since Catrin, he'd always made a conscious effort to avoid such trappings. Watching Seerah gaze at Gareth now, however, Tristan could only wonder what it would be like to win her heart. And for the first time in his life he experienced a deep sense of resentment towards Gareth.
Why? Because Tristan knew that one day Gareth would marry for love. But love was something Tristan could not, and would not afford himself. At least, not until the revenge he sought, was his. And he would have revenge, no matter what the cost; he had spent too many years tracking his enemy to forget now. He'd also spent many long nights planning the slow, agonizing torture that he would inflict on the murdering bastard; bitter-sweet dreams of revenge had driven Tristan this far, and he'd decided long ago that he would sell his soul to the Devil for the privilege. Mayhap he already had; he wasn't sure anymore.
The one thing Tristan was certain of was that no doe-eyed, contrary lass was going to get in his way. Let her try to beguile Gareth with her enticing ways. She obviously finds him more to her liking. Suddenly, a vivid image developed in his mind; he saw Gareth and Seerah lying tangled together, in a lover's embrace.
“Must you hold me so tight?” Seerah said. “Tristan!"
Tristan merely grunted.
“I had little to eat this morn, but if you insist on squeezing me about me middle, so, you will soon see for yourself!” She smacked his forearm, dragging him from his thoughts.
Tristan scowled at his foolish behavior and hesitantly relaxed his hold. Next, glancing from Gareth to Colin, Tristan noticed that Gareth's coloring was, indeed, pasty. His bearing also seemed unusually lax. Tristan immediately slowed his mount's pace and whistled through his teeth. As he directed the horse toward a thicket, Gareth rode up along side of Tristan.
“Why are we stopping, now? We've barely traveled far at all."
Tristan knew that admitting his concern for Gareth's well-being would be a grave insult, so he looked off to the left as if scrutinizing the forest. “Seerah needs a break. She is na’ used to riding for such long periods. ‘Tis also a good place to steer off the main road for a while, just in case we're being followed."
“'Twill take twice as long to reach Gairloch,” Colin grumbled.
“Aye.” Greum and Gareth agreed.
“But it will also be safer, for now.” Tristan dismounted and helped Seerah down.
“We're being followed then?” Zeth asked.
Sarah spoke up then, “I felt—"
“Weary, we know.” Tristan cut Seerah off, silencing her with a cold look. “Go see to your needs and have something to eat. When we mount again, we'll ride until we gain Killarney, County Kerry."
“Killarney be a far distance,” Seerah protested.
“Aye. So do whatever you need to do, and do it quickly,” Tristan commanded.
“Aye, aye, Sir Tristan the Barbarian,” Seerah mocked. When she turned her back to him, Cosmo leapt from her shoulder to the forest floor and scampered away. “Cosmo! Cosmo, come back!"
“I will na’ wait on your rat,” Tristan informed.
“Ferret! Ugh!” Clenching her hands at her sides, Seerah stomped off through the forest after Cosmo.
Zeth, Colin and Greum sat on the ground and unpacked the fresh cheese and bread Lilybet had sent with them. Only Gareth walked along side of Tristan, who was now following through the woods after Seerah.
“What troubles you Tristan?” Gareth asked.
“Only one thing. And, right now, she's about to get herself lost in the woods,” Tristan muttered, and stormed through the underbrush.
“Aye,” Gareth said. “What exactly do you make of her?” he panted.
“I know na’ what you be asking me."
“You do na’ believe her. I know you well, Tristan. The Devil himself could appear and you would call it trickery. Why, you still have yet to admit that God graced our victory over Nevil and his men. We were sorely outnumbered when I was struck down, and I was certain it was the end."
“So?"
“So? Do you na’ find it strange the way the mist suddenly encompassed us, blinding Nevil and his men? It clearly allowed us the advantage to retreat."
“Our fighting was superior,” Tristan said. “We had already cut Nevil's forces by half when you were wounded. And you must have hit you head harder than I thought, for we did na’ retreat in the mist—they did."
“Mayhap. But, our mission was to find the charm, and we've done that. A feat we all believed to be futile, I might add. Why did you bring Seerah along? You could have easily relieved her of the charm. There was no need—"
“I say there was."
“Ah.” Gareth halted. Bracing his hands on his hips, he bent slightly at the waist to catch his breath. “Just as I suspected. You fancy her, then. Well, she's is rather comely. Be-witching, I'd say.” He chuckled.
Tristan stopped in his tracks. Glancing over his shoulder he scowled at Gareth.
“I see you have lost all you mirth, Tristan. But do na’ anger yourself. ‘Twas a simple jest. ‘Tis obviously na’ a favorable match."
“Why? Because, you fancy her for yourself?” Tristan replied.
“Me? I...” Gareth stared at Tristan for a long moment, his startled expression slowly turning into a grin. “She is an enchanting lass. Quite bonnie. Bold to boot. And ‘tis obvious you have a strange aversion towards her. Mayhap, I should pay her more notice. Why, I think..."
“Gareth!"
“Aye?"
Tristan turned and took a menacing step towards Gareth. “I do na’ have an aversion towards her."
“I know. You fancy her. ‘Tis why you be so cross with me, now."
“Listen to me carefully, Gareth. I do na’ fancy her any more, or any less, than any other lass."
“Oh? Well, I am na’ certain I like or sanction that notion, Tristan. After all you gave you word to honor her—."
“Notion! What notion?” Tristan glowered.
“To ravish her. I—"
“I don't have any such plan!” Tristan practically roared. “For all that's mighty. I vowed to protect her and her virtue with me life."
Gareth shrugged. “That does na’ mean the thought has never crossed your mind."
Tristan raked his hands through his hair, and sighed deeply. “She's comely, aye. And while I would na’ mind bedding any willing, young lass right about now, she is na’ me type. Or yours for that matter. So stay away from her. When we gain Gairloch, she'll be our laird's problem to deal with."
“Hmmm. You find her comely, yet claim she be na’ your type. And now, you order me to stay away from her?” Gareth smirked.
“She's like ripe, willing fruit ready to be plucked, and..."
“W-willing f-fruit?” Gareth snickered.
“You know exactly what I mean. She's an innocent! She's also a superstitious, emotional, muddle-headed lass who thinks she's a witch."
“Aye. But, willing fruit?” Gareth chuckled.. “And how, exactly, would you be knowing how willing she is or—"
“Gareth!"
“Fine, fine. I will na’ question you on the matter any further, for now. But you have yet to tell me why you brought her."
“She said the charm belongs to her mother, and if that be true, I have no right to it."
“Then you do believe her?
’”Nay! What I believe is that she possess the charm, and that our laird wants it. ‘Tis me duty to do his bidding.” He turned on his heel, dismissing Gareth.
As Tristan continued stomping through the woods after Seerah, Gareth followed. “A great sense of duty, indeed,” he muttered, hurrying after Tristan.
* * * *
Sir Nevil watched impatiently as Ansel and Helig picked their way through the debris of the crumbling inn. “Have you found anything, yet?” he demanded.
“Nothing.” Ansel replied. “This dwelling is quite old. The wood is rotten. I fear what's left of the roof will cave in at any moment. It is not likely that Tristan and his men found any shelter here."
“They were here. I'm certain! What about those tracks?” Nevil pointed to the ground near Ansel. “Where do they lead?"
“Uh, nowhere. They begin here, then disappear at the edge of the clearing along with the blood drops. It is spectral, indeed,” Ansel declared.
“I'll show you something spectral when my boot lands against your skull,” Nevil threatened, before turning his attention to Helig. “What does the oaf carry?"
Helig glanced from Nevil to Ansel and protectively clutched his prize to his chest.
“A tiny, wood box."
“Have him bring it to me."
“Come, Helig,” Ansel bid.
Helig bowed his head low and wagged it in silent protest, like a disobedient child.
“He simply wants to have a look, Helig. I vow, he'll not keep it,” Ansel coaxed.
Glancing suspiciously up at Nevil, Helig hesitated. Next, he took three giant paces forward. When he extended his arm, the prominent, oversized knuckles of his massive fist grazed Nevil's nose-plate.
Nevil flinched, pulling cautiously away. When Helig slowly uncurled his fingers, Nevil hesitantly leaned closer to study the little box lined with dark purple cloth. Then he reached for the box, but Helig quickly closed his fingers around it and scowled.
Nevil glared at Ansel. “Tell him to give me the box. I want to get a closer look at it."
“He'll give it back, Helig. Go on,” Ansel prodded with a friendly smile.
When Helig tentatively revealed the box again, Sir Nevil eagerly took it. As he inspected it, he noticed that the impression in the purple cloth was shaped like a crescent moon. “They have the charm!"
Just then, the bushes near Ansel began to shift and shake as if someone or something quite large was drawing near. Ansel froze with fear.
Helig abruptly snatched the box away from Nevil. He crossed the clearing with great haste and took up a protective stance before Ansel.
To Nevil, Helig's loyalty toward the insignificant archer was as maddening as the oaf's even temper and dim-witted nature. Unfortunately, Nevil's overlord had decided that those very character flaws, together with Helig's fantastic brawn, would prove invaluable to their mutual venture. “Come back here with that—” Nevil faltered as the unknown bush-dweller emerged.
The crooked, old man stood barely half as tall as Ansel. His white hair and whiskers hung past his waist. He wore tattered rags and his feet were bare, but he held his position, boldly before Helig. “'Tis me property you be stealing. Give me back me treasures and be away from here!” His craggy voice vibrated with emotion as he thumped his bent cane in the dirt.
Helig quickly held his hand out to the little man.
“No!” Nevil kicked his horse with punishing force. He swiftly gained Helig's side, but the little man had already disappeared back into the bushes. “You idiot!” Nevil raised his spear, but the threatening look in Helig's eyes caused him to lower it again. “You—why, did you give the box, to that ... that..."
“Goblin.” Ansel peeked out from behind Helig.
“What the devil?” Nevil bellowed, his body quaking with anger.
“He was a goblin, Sir Nevil.” Ansel moved to stand beside Helig. “This be his territory and he protects it with magic. If we had kept the box, he'd have cursed us all. We should also leave here quickly. Disturbing a goblin could also bring ill luck."
Nevil fixed Ansel with a hard, simmering stare. “Enough of this nonsense. I want that box. Now!"
“But, Sir—” Ansel swallowed hard.
“You obviously fear that puny, old man more than you fear me. Oh, never mind. I'll look for it myself. The filthy beggar is probably hiding beneath your very nose, laughing at you.” He dismounted and walked toward the bushes.
“I would not go after him if I were you. There likely be brownies about as well.” Ansel took a step forward, but Helig gripped his arm. When Ansel glanced up at Helig, the giant shook his head with disapproval. “Helig senses great danger, Sir,” Ansel informed.
“I'm Nevil The Wild. I'm not afraid of—” A bolt of lightening struck the ground near Nevil's feet, stopping him in his tracks. When Nevil turned abruptly, heading back towards his mount, a gale wind whipped up with such force that it nearly lifted him in the air.
Ansel and Helig were already mounted when Nevil finally gained his horse.
“Afraid, mayhap not, but you should be more respectful of the Shee Sir,” Ansel chided.
“Shee?” Nevil reined his horse about.
“Fairy folk of the elven race, Sir. They're renowned throughout Wales and Scotland, but their domain be Eire,” Ansel explained.
Nevil groaned. “There's no such thing!"
Thunder rumbled and lightening split the sky.
“Ride, you idiots!” Nevil cried, as his horse broke into a swift gallop.
* * * *
The wind began to kick up and the air turned brisk. Although the trees concealed any hint of sky, Tristan knew instinctively that the sudden change in weather meant trouble. “A storm is brewing, Gareth. We must find Seerah, quickly."
“Seerah?” Gareth called, struggling to match Tristan's long stride.
Lightening cracked in the distance. “Seerah!” Tristan stopped suddenly, allowing his gaze to sweep the forest. “Where could she have gotten to?"
Gareth stopped also. “Mayhap she found Cosmo and headed back, escaping our notice."
“We would have seen or heard her."
“But the wind has increased greatly and the forest is quite dense."
“Aye.” Tristan nodded, frowning skeptically. “Go. I'll search the area up ahead and meet you back with the others.” As he headed deeper into the forest, Gareth turned in the opposite direction.
Thunder rumbled through the sky, and Tristan quickened his pace. “Seerah!” he called.
Lightning struck a near by tree stump. A puff of gray smoke billowed upwards and a white blur of movement caught Tristan's eye. He stopped and blinked hard. Then he shook his head with disbelief as he watched what appeared to be a short man with white hair and whiskers running through the forest.
Brilliant light exploded suddenly, and Tristan had to shield his eyes with his hand against the blinding flash. When the light faded and his eyes adjusted, he saw Seerah. She was crouched down low, looking in the same direction where Tristan had spied the man. “Seerah!” he roared, charging toward her.
Startled, Seerah looked up just as Cosmo scampered into her arms. After tucking him into her leather pouch, she rushed forward. “What's wrong, Tristan? What's happened?"
Tristan grabbed her by her upper arms. “Did you see where he went?"
“He?” Seerah glanced from right to left, her eyes wide with apparent fear. “He, who?"
“A little beggar-man with white whiskers. He was running toward where you were standing. When the lightning flashed I did na’ see where he went. I thought..."
“Lightning? I saw no lightning, Tristan. I saw no man either. Just Cosmo. Are you—is everything all right?"
Tristan glanced at the spot where Seerah had been standing. He knew he'd seen the man as clear as daylight. And the lightning had illuminated the entire area, blinding him. “No! Nothing is right. In case you haven't noticed there's a storm—"
“Please, calm yourself, Tristan,” Seerah interrupted. “There's no reason to shout at me. What's this talk of storms? I was just thinking how unusually pleasant the weather seemed."
It took Tristan a moment to realize that the wind had indeed calmed, and that the temperature had turned mild. Curious he peered at a small patch of blue sky through a break in the canopy of trees. “But ... I'm certain a storm was brewing just moments ago."
Seerah also glanced up. “I see no clouds. The sky is quite blue, indeed. Unusually so, I'd say. Are you certain—
“Did you na’ hear the thunder?” Tristan shouted. “And, the wind. Did you na’ feel the wind—or see the bright lightning?” Tristan shook her.
“Nay.” Seerah winced. “Tristan stop, please. You are hurting me."
He relaxed his grip, but didn't release her. When the bushes moved suddenly, he immediately forced Seerah behind him. Shielding her body with his own, he slipped his dagger from its sheath.
“Tristan, no!” Seerah skirted around him. “'Tis only a baby rabbit. What's wrong? What has happened?” Tiny tremors of fear seemed to lace her voice as she stood there wringing her hands.
Tristan studied her for a moment trying to gauge her reaction. Is she afraid of me?
“Tristan? Are you feeling fit? Mayhap you could do with a bite to eat."
Concern? The mere thought that she might be worried about him almost made Tristan smile. He didn't, though, because he suddenly remembered the way she'd looked at Gareth when she'd ministered his wounds. She's a healer—it's obviously her nature to worry over others. With a low grunt, he turned his attention to the rabbit. Tristan watched silently as it disappeared beneath the brush, then he finally sheathed his weapon.
“Tristan, please, say something. Tell me what has you so upset?” Seerah implored.
“Warriors do na’ get upset!” He grabbed Seerah by the arm and started walking. “In the future, do na’ run off like that."
“I did na’ run off. Let go of me!” Seerah tried to free herself from his punishing grip.
Tristan held fast and continued pulling her along.
“I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop hauling me about the woods like a naughty child.” When Tristan grunted at Seerah again, she dug her heels in the ground. “Stop! Or you will soon be dragging me through the forest on me face!"
“Cease your complaining!” Releasing Seerah's arm, Tristan turned in his tracks and stopped abruptly. Seerah plowed into him full force. The impact would have knocked her to the ground if Tristan hadn't caught her by the shoulders.
She shook her head as if to regain her senses. “I—You—"
When she swayed slightly, he wrapped one arm about her waist and pulled her closer until they stood practically hip to hip, with her hands braced against his chest.
Seerah gasped and her lips quivered slightly.
Tristan's mouth went dry, as his body stirred with desire.
Chapter Twelve
When Seerah's hands made contact with Tristan's bare chest, she gasped as heat coursed through her body like a fiery blast. When she looked up at Tristan, however, she saw only blackness. Squeezing her eyes closed, she shook her head to regain her wits. Then an icy coldness suddenly swept through her.
“Let go, please.” Seerah's cry was but a whimper. She tried to defend herself against the onslaught of misery penetrating her soul, but the overwhelming sadness and anger engulfed her, making it nearly impossible to think. Though she could see only haunting darkness, Tristan's pain, grief, and lust for vengeance seemed to overwhelm her as if the emotions were her own.
When Tristan loosened his hold, Seerah's hands fell away from his chest. The intensity of his inner torment faded, yet the memories lingered.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I ... I had no idea. I...” She blinked, and the tears trickled down her cheeks.
“You are crying. I—” Tristan stepped back, increasing the distance between them. His confused expression transformed to a look of anger. Then he masked his emotions once more, before releasing her completely. “I never meant to harm you. I—” His hands balled in to fists at his sides. “Are you ... will you. Hell and the Devil, do you think anything is broken or damaged beyond repair?"
It took Seerah a moment to realize that Tristan thought he had harmed her physically. Poor Tristan. He suffers so, yet he has no idea. Seerah brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. “You did na’ harm me. Me eyes are simply watering because ... the wind was knocked from me—when I collided with you. You happen to be built like a stone ring fort.” If na’ for the images and emotions I drew from your spirit, I would have enjoyed being held in your arms a bit longer, indeed. She smiled at the thought, then felt herself blush. “I'm fine, now, truly."
“You are certain?” Without thinking, he reached out as if to stroke her cheek, but his hand stopped short, pausing in mid-air.
“Aye.” Seerah took hold of his hand and looked deep into his eyes. “Besides, I know you would never purposely cause me harm."
Tristan wasn't so sure. He knew that if he did na’ get his lustful feelings for her under control, he could hurt her far worse than she could ever imagine. Even worse, she could easily destroy him with her beguiling—no, with her bewitching—charms. If he let her. Jerking his hand free, he grunted. “Let's go."
Seerah arched her brow at him in confusion. “Where, now? And, where did you think you were taking me before? The others be right over there.” Turning, she pointed to where Gareth stood with the others, a short distance away.
* * * *
When Tristan saw his warriors standing there, gaping at him, his body stiffened.
He knew that something strange had definitely occurred and he wasn't about to stand around trying to figure it out. He swiftly surveyed the surrounding area, then addressed Gareth. “Mount up. We ride, now!"
Colin and Gareth led the way. Tristan and Seerah came next, follow by Zeth and Greum. They kept up a steady pace until they came to a tract of open, rolling wasteland near Dingle bay.
Large petrified trees, black with corrosion, lined the desolate area. Bogs of decaying moss and peat littered the stretch of swampy coastland. Purple blossoms of spring heather covered the wet, spongy ground, signifying the renewal of life. The mist, however, rose eerily from the earth in clouds of swirling vapor.
The men halted their mounts in a line, at the edge of the forest. “The fog in the moor be thick as haggis,” Tristan said
“Mutton stew, I'd say,” Seerah countered.
Gareth cleared his throat. “Either way, ‘twill serve well to conceal our presence."
“Aye.” Tristan said. “'Twill also conceal the presence of desperate knaves, and wild animals.” He pointed towards the horizon. “See the faint outline of hillocks? Head for the nock, there, near the center of the rise. There be a timberland of colossal oaks to the west of the glen. We'll gather by the northern-most oak. It bears a large, jagged, black mark that resembles a lightening bolt. Be watchful, and tread lightly as you cross the moor—there be many hidden dangers in the mist,” Tristan warned.
* * * *
As Gareth and Colin urged their mounts forward, the murky haze seemed to devour them. Seerah shivered. There be nothing to fear. Why, with Tristan by me side I need na’ even be concerned. But she was. She was also growing more physically uncomfortable by the moment. Though she sat side-saddle, across Tristan's lap now, she found the position only slightly less trying than riding astride. Her bottom felt sore, almost numb, and her aching legs were growing stiff. Worse of all, her gaze repeatedly fell to the fascinating sight of Tristan's bare, muscular chest.
When he casually drew his arm about Seerah, encompassing her in the security of his fur mantle, she knew she should object. His closeness felt too familiar—too intimate—and thoroughly inviting. But fatigue soon outweighed her protests. Sighing contentedly, she relaxed in the shelter and warmth of his comforting embrace. But she couldn't help thinking that Tristan was easily the most perplexing man she'd ever met. He was intolerant, opinionated, overbearing, and stubborn. His rude manner and commanding nature annoyed her beyond measure. It actually seemed as though he enjoyed making her miserable.
On the other hand, she respected his sense of honor and duty. He was definitely stronger than most—more handsome too. Intimidating glares and savage behavior aside, there was something irresistibly compelling about him. Despite his devilish temperament, Seerah actually found him charming in his own rugged, overbearing way. And she found that the way he affected her physically was most intriguing, indeed. Why, he could elicit such anger from her one minute and serenity the next. She never felt defenseless in his presence, though, only slightly confused by her own conflicting emotions. It was as if the battle of wills they fought had more to do with their mutual inadequacies, rather than their strong natures and opposing beliefs.
Not that she could blame him for his skeptical nature. She still had her own doubts about her grandmother's prophecy. In fact, until she'd made Colin speak of their mission, she hadn't been certain that her powers truly worked. Making Uncle Marcus’ shillelagh attack Tristan had proved rather impressive, yet she still wasn't quite sure of how she'd managed that feat. And the one thing that continued to annoy her beyond measure was the fact that Tristan refused to believe even that which he'd seen with his own eyes.
“Tristan?” Seerah whispered.
“Aye."
“Please, tell me, what happened back in the forest?” Tilting her head, she studied the rigid line of his jaw.
“Nothing."
“Do you always get distressed by nothing?"
Tristan's neck muscles twitched. “I never allow meself to become distressed."
“Call it what you will.” Seerah slowly raised her right hand. “But something back there disturbed you. Why, you saw a storm that was na’ there. And an imaginary man. That alone would be enough to disturb anyone.” Reaching up, she caressed the tense lines of his throat with her fingertips.
Tristan flinched, swiftly staying her hand. “You are the only thing that disturbs me."
“Me?” Appalled by what she considered a rather obvious insult, Seerah tried to yank her hand free from his. “I did na’ imagine a storm or—."
“I did na’ imagine anything!” Tristan released her hand. “There was a storm, it simply blew by before you noticed. As for the man; the sun playing tricks on me sight, nothing more."
“You saw something all right.” Seerah nodded. “'Twas was likely a brownie or a forest goblin."
“I do na’ believe in fairies, goblins or—"
“Witches, I know, but—"
“But nothing, Seerah. I do na’ believe!"
Tristan's horse nickered and snorted loudly as if reacting to his master's displeasure.
“Is something amiss?” Colin called from within the mist.
“Nay, keep moving,” Tristan replied, then to Seerah he muttered, “And, you keep quiet."
“Only if you tell me why you agreed to take me to your laird."
Tristan didn't reply.
“Tristan, I asked you a question and I refuse to be quiet until you answer it. I will continue to chatter on and on until you say something because I know how much you enjoy the sound of me voice. Though I know ‘tis your nature to be stubborn, I do na’ understand why you are being so overly stubborn about this matter. I simply wish to know why—"
“Shush!” Tristan covered her mouth with his hand. “Because of the charm, and me laird. I am his vassal. He sent me to find it and bring it back to him."
Seerah tugged his hand from her mouth. “Why bring me?” She insisted.
“Your questions are of no concern to me. But, if you promise to cease you incessant chattering and try to get some rest, I will answer you.
“If your answer suits me, then perhaps I will ... cease me chattering."
“You will, I say."
“I might, if—"
Tristan covered her mouth again. This time he looked directly into her eyes. “If you insist on arguing with me, I will put a gag across your mouth for the rest of our journey together, understood?"
Seerah held his warning gaze for a moment before deciding that his counsel was no idle threat. With a sigh of defeat, she slowly nodded her compliance.
“Would you have given me the pendant?” Tristan asked.
Seerah shook her head no.
Tristan finally removed his hand. “And, I'm no common thief. If the stone truly be your mother's, ‘tis rightfully yours. Me laird wishes to have the pendant and you wish to meet me laird. Though inconvenient, ‘twas the best solution."
“Inconvenient? But ... you said I was delight—"
Tristan clapped his hand over her mouth again. “Delightful? And beautiful?” he said. “Aye, that you are. A bewitching beauty, indeed. ‘Tis too bad we did na’ meet under other circumstances for it would be interesting, to say the least, to sample you favors.” He smirked.
Seerah arched her brow at him, then sunk her teeth into his hand.
Tristan's muttered curse sounded like a feral growl as he tore his hand from her mouth and examined it.
Seerah saw no sign of blood or broken skin, only a distinct impression of dainty, pinkish teeth marks lining the flesh between his thumb and index finger. She smiled with satisfaction. “An arrogant man you are, indeed. Why, I'd sooner offer me favors to a wild, pox-ridden ... boar! In fact, you would have to be at death's door, with the saints ready to carry your wicked spirit off, before I'd ever consider touching me lips to yours—even if only to breathe life back into your black soul!"
“Indeed?” Tristan's lips twitched.
“Indeed!” Seerah replied.
Before Seerah could object, Tristan pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers. Her eyes went wide and she inhaled sharply as hot energy shot through her body. With her arms trapped beneath the crushing force of his embrace, her efforts to struggle proved futile. Then, his punishing kiss turned less brutal and her desire to protest waned completely. His tongue grazed the tender flesh of her lower lip and the air in her lungs seemed to escape in a rush. Her skin grew warm and tingly, then her mind went numb. She closed her eyes and melted slowly against Tristan in willing surrender.
A strange sensation stirred deep in her belly. It reminded her of the way a flower bursts from its bud beneath the sun's skillful rays. When Tristan teased her lips open, she could feel her heart hammering in her chest, and her blood coursing through her veins. A strange pressure seemed to be building up inside of her and she thought she might die. Then his tongue glided through her mouth and she knew she would die—of pure pleasure. She felt reckless, like a soaring bird ascending in a spiral, out-of-control flight into oblivion. Suddenly, bright light exploded in her mind. The blinding glow swiftly diminished to a blue, translucent sphere edged in golden light.
The vision reminded Seerah of blue skies and sunshine and she felt at one with the universe. White billowy mist cascaded forward, like a waterfall, from inside the orb. Then distinct images began to develop inside of it. When she saw the wee bairn in his mother's arms, somehow Seerah knew it to be Tristan. As he grew before her eyes, she saw that he'd been a happy, carefree child, full of life and love. But something had changed him? What—
The orb grew cloudy and gray. Then the comforting images were replaced with dark, violent impressions of death and destruction; she saw a beautiful young lass lying slain in the woods with Tristan cradling her limp body. There were other images of gruesome battles and Seerah soon realized that she was experiencing Tristan's past as if it were her own. First she felt his pity and sorrow. Then came his guilt and an intense sense of hopelessness. But other, colder emotions also lurked in the depths his soul.
The feelings of betrayal, anger and vengeance seemed to form a frigid barrier around his heart, and the evil intent therein made her gasp with terror. She clung to Tristan desperately and he responded by ravishing her mouth completely.
When he cupped her breast, Seerah moaned with pleasure. She prayed that he'd unearth the secrets of her woman's desire and stir her passion; she longed to experience the mysteries of what she often heard other women giggle about, in low whispered conversations. Aye, the pleasures of the flesh, indeed. However, she also feared the emptiness he might discover. She'd been kissed by a lad or two in her day, but never before had such physical yearning plagued her. She had, in fact, thought herself immune—until now.
The confusing onslaught of conflicting emotions made her head swim. And as she reveled in the fervor of Tristan's demanding passion, her visions intensified.
Seerah saw herself standing alone, a dark, ominous figure approaching her. Tristan appeared then. She reached out to him, but he dismissed her with a hostile glance as if she were responsible for his misery—nay, betrayal! He believes I will betray him? Seerah trembled. She tried desperately to block the intrusive pictures assaulting her mind, but the onslaught continued.
Gareth appeared in her vision, next. When he took hold of her hands, his warmth and kindness washed over her. Aye, she trusted him implicitly and she knew he would do all that he could to aid her. As the picture faded, however, she also knew, deep down in her soul, that all would be lost without Tristan.
Finally, the remaining gray shadows developed slowly into the cold stone of a castle. She saw faint, ghostly figures transform into armed warriors. A blonde man, dressed in black, stood before another man who was chained to a keep wall. The prisoner's hands and feet were shackled. A thick metal collar encircled his neck. The man appeared to have been brutally battered, but Seerah recognized him immediately—Tristan!
Seerah whimpered as Tristan's kiss grew deeper, his hands eagerly caressing her body. Seerah felt powerful, yet vulnerable at the same time, like she alone possessed what he desperately needed to survive. Overwhelmed by the urgency of his need, she yielded beneath his expert lips.
The visions blurred as her head began spinning out of control. She felt as if she were caught in a whirlpool somewhere between the realm of fantasy and reality, and just as she was certain she would become lost in the current, Tristan broke the kiss.
White light flashed in her mind again. Energy surged through her body and she gasped. The paralyzing images vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared. Staring up at Tristan, she sighed deeply.
“You do na’ seem to be complaining about me black soul now.” His breathing sounded heavy and ragged as he looked directly into her questioning gaze. Then he boldly caressed her breast one last time, before slowly withdrawing his hand.
Seerah blinked with confusion, then gulped the air, unable to form a reply.
“I see you have been rendered speechless. ‘Tis good to know something can accomplish that feat."
He's mocking me! Even after what we just shared ... Why, he—
Seerah was about to reply with an angry barb when the essence of her vision suddenly became clear. He needs me—to rescue him from his misery and pain. But how am I to save a man who dose na’ wish to be saved? She frowned momentarily, then glanced up at Tristan. I will find a way to save him. Aye, ‘tis up to me to save him from himself. Sighing with contentment she smiled wistfully.
Tristan furrowed his brows at her in a cynical, doubting manner as though he were silently questioning her faculties.
Seerah simply continued smiling. When she then lowered her head and leaned against his chest, the sound of his rapid heartbeat made her wonder if he'd experienced the same intense emotions as she had. She could feel Tristan watching her, and sense his bewilderment at her lack of response. A long silent moment passed before he finally spurred his mount forward again, and Seerah knew then, that their kiss had indeed affect him as much as it had her.
* * * *
At the edge of the moor, the thick fog thinned to a fine haze. After observing the hind end of Gareth's horse rounding the side of the colossal, north oak, Tristan glanced back over his shoulder. When he saw Zeth and Greum emerge safely from the mist, he nodded to himself.
With the threat of the moors behind him, he felt free to examine his peculiar behavior. He had thought to simply quiet Seerah, and rid her of her insolence. Unfortunately, he had quickly lost control of the situation. Despite her apparent innocence, she had yielded to him completely. His own lack of discipline, though maddening, seemed easy enough to explain; he was a virile man who'd spent many long nights without the company of a willing lass. Seerah's sudden complacency, however, bothered him beyond reason. “I just enjoyed your charms, yet I did na’ speak of love,” he announced.
“I know,” Seerah said.
“And, this does na’ give you cause to worry?"
“Nay.” Cocking her head, Seerah's eyes seemed to fill with hope as she glanced up at him. “Do you believe in fate, Tristan?"
“Nay."
Seerah giggled.
“You find this amusing?” Tristan scowled.
Seerah cleared her throat. “I do.” She nodded. “You do na’ believe in witches either."
Tristan's body tensed. He was about to reply when Gareth abruptly halted his mount and held his fist high in the air, indicating trouble ahead.
Tristan, and the others immediately halted.
“Why are we sto—” Seerah began, but Tristan clasped his hand over her mouth.
“Shush. Do na’ move or make a sound.” He whispered in her ear, the caution in his tone leaving no room for debate.
Releasing her mouth, Tristan rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. He glanced cautiously about, then gestured with his head, issuing a silent command to his men.
Colin and Gareth slowly urged their mounts forward.
Chapter Thirteen
Seerah watched, impressed by the way the two men maneuvered their horses through the dense under-brush without making a sound. But as Colin and Gareth disappeared into a thicket, she shivered. It seemed like an eternity had passed before Colin emerge from the trees. It wasn't until Seerah finally saw Gareth that she sighed with relief. Feeling Tristan's body tense, she gazed curiously up at him. The dark look he flashed her could only be described as open hostility. And when he turned away to watch Gareth approach, Seerah felt certain that she was somehow responsible for Tristan's ire.
“We came upon an entire colony of tinkers and peasants,” Gareth whispered. “I'm certain they did na’ see us. They also offer no threat, but ‘tis doubtful they will take our intrusion lightly."
“How far out of our way will we have to travel to avoid their camp?” Tristan asked.
“"Tis more a village than a camp and we would have to avoid the glen completely to escape their notice."
“We can na’ afford to lose so much time, now."
Seerah spoke next, “Zeth and I could ride ahead, alone, and—"
Tristan abruptly clasped his hand over her mouth, again.
Gareth cocked his brow at Tristan as if questioning his brusque manner. “She offers a sound idea,” he began. “They'll be less likely to fear a lone warrior, and a young maiden. Zeth has the least threatening appearance of us all, and Seerah—"
“Nay,” Tristan said, his voice an angry whisper. “She'll ride with no one but me.” Before he released Seerah's mouth, he muttered in her ear, “Keep you voice low. Sound travels on the breeze. Understand?"
When Seerah nodded her understanding, Tristan removed his hand from her mouth. “Gareth be right,” she said. “Your presence will likely only serve to frighten those poor people to death. Let me go with Zeth, and I will..."
“Nay.” Tristan objected. His tone, though hushed, seemed to match his bitter, silencing glare. “You are me very own responsibility. I alone will accompany you. Gareth, stay here with the others until you hear me signal.” Without another word Tristan urged his mount forward.
A young peasant woman spotted Tristan and Seerah first. With a startled gasp, she stumbled forward, snatching two children into her arms. The youngest, a cherub-faced lass of no more than two summers, let out a disgruntled cry, alerting the others to the intrusion.
Men scrambled for their weapons while women quickly gathered the remaining children together. As Seerah and Tristan approached, the people watched in a stunned silence, their expressions conveying astonishment rather than fear. “Good day,” Seerah called, offering a friendly smile to the group in general. “We mean to cause you no harm. We wish only to pass through your ballybeg, peacefully."
Four diminutive-looking men stood blocking the path, holding their slingshots and spears trained on Tristan. The shortest of the group, a man with stumpy legs and curly auburn hair stepped forward. “Be you wed to this Scot warrior, lass? Or be you his captive?” he asked, pointedly.
“Neither.” Seerah smiled, fully understanding the reason for the grumpy little man's open hostility—Tristan's dark scowl. “He is a Highland warrior and he is me protector. He and his men wish you no harm,” Seerah replied.
“Men? How many, Highlander?” The grumpy man narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Tristan.
“Four others,” Tristan said. “They're waiting nearby. We offer no threat, unless provoked."
Trying his best to look threatening, Grumpy growled low in his throat and jabbed his spear in the air.
When Tristan grunted in reply, Seerah shot him a reproachful look, then smiled amiably at the gruff little man. “Please, do na’ take offense at his surly tone. I fear ‘tis his nature. What he meant to say, is that we request permission to pass through your territory. The others wait in the woods out of respect. We feared our presence would alarm you unduly."
An old man, who had remained seated when Tristan and Seerah first appeared, rose slowly and approached Grumpy. The elder's regal demeanor and the solemn way his people seemed to regard him suggested that he was highly respected. Yet, even compared to the rest of the people, Seerah could only described him as a wee bit of a man. He wore a long, woolen robe and his straight, red hair was cut in a blunt manner that reminded her of a toadstool. As he whispered in Grumpy's ear, some of the women wandered closer. Mumbling to each other, they seemed to regard Seerah curiously. The small army of men also appeared to be more curious than afraid, but they kept their weapons trained on Tristan.
A small army, indeed. Seerah studied the cluster of people. Why they're but a colony of dwarfs, she mused, as the men drew nearer. Though they all varied in shape and size, like normal-beings, she estimated that the even tallest of the men-folk stood barely half her own height.
“These other men, be they warriors as well?” Grumpy asked.
“Aye. But, I assure you, we only wish...” Seerah paused, as the old man muttered something else in Grumpy's ear.
Grumpy nodded, then addressed Seerah, “What be you called and who be your people?"
“I ... I be called Seerah. Seerah MacFarlane. Galynne O'Leary of Tralee, and Kendahl MacFarlane of Alness be me parents."
Tristan's right arm tightened and he grumbled something beneath his breath. Seerah ignored him, watching silently as the elder approached Tristan's horse and looked curiously up at Seerah.
“MacFarlane of Alness? This Highland warrior be your protector, yet he obviously knew not that you be of his kind? Is he also ignorant of your Shee blood?"
“Enough of this folly!” Tristan commanded. “We will pass through here with or without your consent. ‘Tis na’ our wish to cause you harm, but if you stand in our way—"
“If we stand in you way,” the elder's voice boomed, “you will not pass!” Raising his hand he pointed at the sky, his eyes seeming to glow white. “For we are the Tuatha De Danann, the people of Dana. I be Ecne, son of Anu—the daughter of Dagdha, and this be my kingdom you trespass upon. We fear not your might, for we are of the elven race and we behold great power. This be sacred land we occupy, and you will remain silent until you are addressed or you will suffer the consequences!"
Tristan reached for his sword.
“Nay.” Covering Tristan's hand with her own, Seerah looked up into his eyes. “The God Dagdha, the good, had three sons. Ecne be the son of knowledge and poetry. If he speaks the truth, his words be not idle threats. I pray that you heed me now, for they will not harm us if we offer no menace. Why, he seeks only to protect his people, as you protect me. Though you believe not in their ways, what harm will be caused if I simply answer his inquiry?"
Tristan's sigh indicated a mix of sheer annoyance and indignant resignation as he hesitantly released his sword.
Ecne chuckled. “So, he does know of your Shee blood,
“Aye,” Seerah replied.
“What manner of protection can a mere mortal offer you? He does not believe in our ways and he owns no powers. Brawn and weapons be useless against our sworn enemy, the Fili,” Ecne declared.
“He has pledged to protect me with his life,” Seerah assured. “Though he does na’ believe, he is a man of honor. He will do what he must. ‘Tis his duty. Aye, Tristan will keep me safe."
All the Dana women gasped. The men also seemed visibly startled, their protective stance faltering slightly.
Ecne looked impressed, his expression conveying something akin to surprise and fascination, like he'd just made a startling, yet pleasant discovery. “Tristan?"
“Aye, Tristan the Barbar—” Seerah grimaced. “Uh, Tristan Kincaid be what he's called."
Ecne rubbed his chin and studied Tristan for a long moment. “The Magi has expressed knowledge of the great warrior Tristan. Aye, the prophecy states that Tristan be the protector of the chosen one. A young, fairy maiden.” Next, gazing at Seerah, Ecne scrunched his face as if he were trying to recall something from his memory. “Eyes of gray ... Skin so fare. A silken mane of long, dark hair. Rowan and thistle comprise the crown, of she who will pass through our fairy town. Rushes dry, twined ‘bout her wrists. Her silk gown flowing as she floats through the mists. With alder wand, spells and charms, she'll deliver the Shee from evil and harm. The defeat of the Fili, and no less, will bring to reign this destined princess.” Ecne's gaze turned almost penetrating as he searched Seerah's face. “Be this your fate, fair maiden, Seerah?"
“Uh...” Seerah shrugged and offered a wan smile. “So it seems. Aye.” Ignoring Tristan's exasperated sigh, she watched curiously as Ecne approached Grumpy and the others.
“Ryan,” Ecne said, “Prepare the treasures. The time of reckoning nears. We must aid the lass in her quest to fulfill the prophecy."
Grumpy nodded, then hurried off into the woods followed by two other men.
“Call your men, Tristan. We will feast and present you with treasures,” Ecne said.
“We have no time for this foolishness, we only wish to pass through your territory,” Tristan groused.
“And that you will. All in good time, me lad. All in good time,” Ecne drawled. “You have my word on this. First we have gifts you must receive. They are necessary to defeat the Fili. Call your men and we will deliver these gifts to you with great haste so you may be on your way."
Lightly touching Tristan's arm, Seerah looked up at him. The cold, harsh look in his eyes clearly expressed his anger and contempt. She could feel the tension in his body and she knew he was fully prepared to deny Ecne's invitation. “I know you have no belief in the Shee, or in me powers for that matter. I also know I've no right to ask this of you, but ... please ... Tristan, grant me this one boon—I need all the help I can get."
* * * *
Tristan's resolve was no match for Seerah's pleading gaze and pouting lips. Lifting his face towards the sky like a wolf, he took a deep breath and released a feral howl into the wind.
Ecne simply chuckled and smiled at Tristan.
A scarce moment later, the other warriors appeared in the clearing. Gareth reined his mount along side of Tristan. “All is well?"
“In a manner of speaking,” Tristan grumbled.
“Och!” Seerah cried, leaning closer to Gareth. “Tristan is distressed, because Ecne and his people be elven. They have offered us gifts and invited us to feast with them.” Turning to Ecne she smiled, “Ecne, this be Gareth."
Gareth offered a respectful nod.
“Welcome, Gareth.” Ecne looked from Gareth to Seerah, then back again, as if making a mindful comparison. “Hmmm, quite interesting."
Gareth raised his brow at Tristan in a questioning manner.
Tristan simply shrugged and grunted in reply. Seerah jabbed his side with her elbow and shot him a warning glare before turning her attention to the others. “Colin, Greum, Zeth. This be Ecne,” she introduced, her displeasure with Tristan obvious.
Tristan glowered at her. He didn't care what she thought of his manners. In fact he felt like a fool for agreeing to such nonsense. He wasn't exactly sure why he had. The decision went against his better judgment, completely. He also felt out of sorts, almost as if his actions were no longer his own. Glancing curiously at Ecne, Tristan wondered what it was about this place and the people that disturbed him so.
Ecne simply smiled, chuckling again. “Welcome, men. Please, join us."
The four warriors glanced at Tristan, awaiting his consent. Turning his attention on Ecne, Tristan realized that he'd allowed Seerah to sway his decision. Reason told him it would be better to end this foolishness now. Aye, I'll simply decline the offer. What can they do? He smiled, fully prepared to voice his objection—then felt himself nod instead.
“So good of you to agree, Tristan.” Ecne winked at him.
Tristan immediately lost track of his thoughts. Puzzled, he blinked and shook his head. He sensed that he'd wanted to protest about something, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what. “Aye,” he said feeling somewhat disoriented, as if waking from a deep, restless slumber.
“Oshloid?” Ecne summoned.
Tristan remained silent, trying to gather his wits as he watched a spindly-legged boy hurry forward from the group of women and children.
Oshloid approached Gareth, first.
Gareth relinquished his horse's reins to the boy's care and dismounted. As Colin, Greum and Zeth swiftly followed suit, Gareth walked around to the side of Tristan's mount and offered his hand up to Seerah.
When Seerah readily accepted, a sharp twisting sensation wrenched Tristan's gut. His hazy thoughts cleared and he focused on the pair, observing the way Gareth's hands seemed to linger at her waist. Seerah appeared to savor his touch as well; her eyes went soft and a warm, an appreciative-looking smile curving her sensuous mouth. Annoyed by their blatant display of fond regard for one another, Tristan swiftly dismounted and whisked her away from Gareth.
“Covet not the pure love of your brethren, Tristan,” Ecne said.
Tristan knew then, that he hadn't been the only one to witness the undercurrents passing between Gareth and Seerah. Stopping dead in his tracks, Tristan glared at Gareth before he turned to face Ecne. “Gareth performs his duty. Nothing more."
“I see.” Clasping his hands together, in a scholarly manner, Ecne advanced. “But, envy not the fated bond Gareth and Seerah share. And, let not jealousy rule your actions. For that which is destined ... will be."
Standing before Seerah and Tristan, Ecne studied them soberly. “Though a large and mighty a warrior you surely be, Tristan, you can not demand the affections of a young maiden fair. You must win them by honoring her with words of love and kind acts. Aye, ‘tis so. For if you gain her favors falsely, through brute strength or trickery, when you enter her body, her spirit will flee, her heart will break, and her soul will suffer in despair for ever-more.” Turning his back to them he slowly walked away.
“You assume much,” Tristan said. He didn't want anything from Seerah, except to complete his mission and to be rid of her. “Aye, too much!"
Ecne stopped again. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “I assume nothing. ‘Tis you who denies the truth. You allow your mind to govern your actions, completely. You forsake the power of magic and refuse to feel that which lies in you heart. It seems only natural that Seerah would turn to another for affection and comfort."
Although Ecne's words about love meant little to Tristan, the thought of Seerah finding comfort in another man's arms—even Gareth's—made him react physically. As his hold tightened possessively about Seerah's waist he glared at Gareth. Then, returning his attention to Ecne, Tristan said, “I do na’ believe in your faith nor your prophecies. Nor do I seek the favors of any maiden—fair or no.” Keeping his tone deceptively calm, he continued. “I offer Seerah protection, nothing more, nothing less. And I expect nothing but compliance to me orders in return. I do na’ care about this fated bond you speak of. And, I alone am responsible for her honor, as well as her safety. I have been more than patient with you. Now, be quick with your feast and gift giving for we ride before the sun sets."
A knowing, somewhat mocking smile curved Ecne's lips. “As you wish.” He offered a modest nod then retreated.
Tristan abruptly released Seerah's waist. “I gave me oath to protect you. And until we reach me laird, you are me own concern. I'll follow you to the woods where you may take care of your needs. When we join the others, I suggest you partake quickly so we may be on our way. I do na’ care if I offend these people for I do na’ believe in their ways. I also prefer na’ to shed their blood, but me patience grows quite thin."
“Faith and Beggorah! You own no patience—or manners for that matter,” Seerah replied. “Be angered and distressed by Ecne's words if you wish, but do na’ blame me. ‘Tis na’ me fault that Gareth has a more favorable and kindly manner than you do. And, I can see to me own needs.” She turned in a huff.
Tristan seized her arm and hauled her against his chest. “Do na’ test me or I'll throw you over me shoulder and haul you through the woods."
“You ... you cur!"
“Know this well, maiden, fair. Gareth, like all me men, is a warrior above all else. And me warriors are loyal to our laird and me. Until we reach Gairloch castle, you are also mine to do with as I see fit. I assure you, they will na’ stand in me way if I decide to throttle you. So, I suggest you be on your way to the woods."
“Oooh!” Seerah stomped her foot and glared up at Tristan.
“Tristan?” Gareth summoned.
“Leave off, Gareth!"
“I have no design to interfere. I wish only to have a word with you. In private. Mayhap, one of the women will go with Seerah."
“'Tis a vital matter?"
“Aye. ‘Tis a matter of great importance, indeed,” Gareth assured.
“Go.” Tristan abruptly released Seerah with a shove. “But be quick, and do na’ go far."
Seerah stumbled forward, but quickly regained her footing. “'Tis is quite touching to see how you worry after me.” She rubbed her arm.
“You're safety is me duty. Unfortunately,” Tristan retorted.
Seerah turned on her heal and strode off towards the group of women.
“What be so important, Gareth?” Tristan asked sharply, his gaze following Seerah.
“Your foolish behavior concerns me, Tristan."
Tristan's head snapped around. “'Tis na’ your place to be concerned with me actions."
“Even when you begin to turn on your own men? ‘Tis obvious you are angered with me. I wish only to know what I've done to provoke such scorn."
Gareth seemed totally unaware of his telling reaction toward Seerah. The realization only served to increase Tristan's frustration, but he refused to allow her to come between himself and Gareth.
Glancing in Seerah's direction, Tristan sighed heavily, releasing his annoyance. “Nothing. You have done nothing, Gareth."
“I see. Her looks alone be enough to cause most men to act foolish, Tristan."
“I am na’ most men.” Tristan scowled. “Neither are you."
“Neither are we gods, Tristan."
“No. But we are Highland warriors. That's close enough.” Even as he spoke the words, Tristan knew they were far from the truth. He felt almost incapable of ignoring his strong physical attraction to Seerah. Aye, he wanted her so much, the mere thought of any other man simply touching her drove him to distraction, blinding his ability to see reason. Yet he'd gone and vowed to protect her virtue, leaving him craving only that which was forbidden. If I could bed her just once, the infatuation would cease to exist. Unfortunately, he knew his sense of honor would not permit him to break his pledge.
“Tristan?” Gareth said, pulling Tristan from his deep thoughts.
“Aye. What be on your mind, Gareth?"
“I...” Gareth lowered his gaze to the ground. “Nothing."
“Nothing, indeed. Only a moment ago, what you had to say was of great importance. I know you well. Speak freely and be done with it."
“I...” Gareth hesitated. “Well, it has to do with the way you looked upon me when the old man spoke of a bond between Seerah and I."
“You are a young virile man with needs and desires. ‘Tis only natural. And you do tend to wear your heart on you sleeve.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Tristan continued, “Though ‘tis me duty to protect her, ‘tis also me duty to protect me men, including you, from her and her feminine wiles. Why, ‘tis obvious she tempts you with her charms and plays us against one another.” He nodded, pleased with this sound conclusion. “'Tis also why I looked at you so. I fear you grow enchanted with her. In all honesty,” he lied. “'tis the sole reason for me ire."
“Enchanted with Seerah? Me? Nay, Tristan.” A sincere-looking expression of pure panic seemed to light Gareth's face. His color paled as he shook his head, vehemently opposing the theory. “You misunderstand. I only meant ... that is ... when I helped her dismount something strange happened. ‘Twas as if I was spellbound. I felt—"
“You lust after her. ‘Tis all."
“Nay! ‘Twas something else entirely.” Gareth frowned with apparent frustration. “It was as if ... as if I suddenly remembered her from another time, long ago. Ecne spoke the truth. There be a bond between us, I felt it. I experienced a strange feeling like ... like ... she belongs to me—no, ‘tis more like she is somehow a part of me. ‘Twas a strong, possessive feeling. Lust? No. Definitely no!” Gareth's gaze locked with Tristan's. “I also felt the sudden need to protect her—from you. And I know you kissed her. Don't deny it or ask me how I know, Tristan. I simply do."
Narrowing his gaze, Tristan wondered how Gareth could have possibly known about the kiss. The fog in the moor had been too thick to see trees merely inches in front of them, and Gareth had led the way. A lucky guess? “What exactly be you accusing me off, Gareth?” Tristan asked.
“Of lying to Seerah, to me, and to yourself. You may na’ wish to have feelings for her, but the mind can na’ always rule the heart. And I will na’ stand idly by and let you hurt her."
“You believe I would hurt her!"
“Purposely? No. But ... Och! I know such accusations be a grave insult to you honor, Tristan.” Gareth shook his head almost regretfully. “I have no proof to justify me concerns, just a feeling. I also have no liking for the way you treat her. ‘Tis the cause of the tension between us now. This also distresses me greatly because I have sworn me fealty to you."
Not knowing what to think, Tristan studied Gareth for a long, silent moment. Gareth had denied being attracted to Seerah, almost to the point of looking physically nauseated by the thought. And he had admitted feeling the need to protect her, from Tristan. There was also Gareth's knowledge of the kiss. None of it made any sense. Neither did Tristan's conflicting feelings about Seerah. Aye, the sooner I'm rid of her, the better. “Do na’ agonize over this,” Tristan said. “I know well where your loyalties lie. As do you."
Gareth nodded. “'Tis been a trying journey,” he said.
“Indeed.” Tristan clapped his hand on Gareth's shoulder. “And, though I do na’ understand how you could possibly know, I will na’ lie to you. I did kiss Seerah, back in the moor. I had me reasons, but I realize ‘twas a grave mistake. One I will na’ make again. However, until we reach Gairloch, ‘tis me duty, alone, to see her safely to our laird. Remember this, and all will be well."
“Aye.” Gareth clapped his hand on Tristan's shoulder. “We will both focus on her safety and all will be well."
Tristan and Gareth joined the Dana People in the clearing, where long, wooden tables and benches had been set up for the feast. “Where be Seerah?” Tristan surveyed the immediate area.
“She comes forth now.” Ecne pointed to a cluster of stone ring-forts and thatched-roofed cottages in the distance.
Tristan saw two Dana women exit the center most dwelling, followed by Seerah. A woven crown of dried rowan and thistle adorned her head, and her blue-green eyes seemed to sparkle beneath the glorious sunlight. She walked slowly forward, her white, gossamer frock billowing gently about her. She appeared to float across the glen, her black hair glistening and wafting in the breeze, just like in Tristan's dream.
Tristan froze. Then he swallowed so hard he literally croaked like a bullfrog.
Chapter Fourteen
Seerah's gaze remained fixed on Tristan almost as if she was silently daring him to ignore her. He quickly realized that he couldn't have ignored her even if he'd tried—nor did he want to. In fact, he barely noticed the way all the Dana people grew silent, kneeling in honor of Seerah's presence. Awed by her regal poise and dazzled by her beauty, desire warmed his body like a fever. He could only stare as a profound sense of understanding washed over him; he didn't simply desire her—he needed her.
“Bewitching, indeed,” Gareth whispered.
Colin, Greum and Zeth walked over to stand by Tristan and Gareth. “A witch, and princess of the fairy people to boot,” Colin muttered.
“And a rare beauty,” Colin said.
“'Tis honored we should be, indeed,” Zeth whispered.
Tristan remained silent as one important question gnawed at his gut. If forced to make a choice, which he would choose—his lust for revenge or Seerah?
* * * *
“You no longer fear her witch-magic, Zeth?” Greum asked
Upon hearing Greum's remark, Seerah stopped and stood before the men.
“Nay,” Zeth replied.
“And why is that, Zeth?” Seerah prodded, curiously.
“Well, I've heard tell that the people of Dana practice only white magic. Notice how the sun shines here like nowhere else in all of Eire?"
Greum glanced up. “'Tis unusual, I grant you, but there be nothing magical about the rare occurrence of fair weather."
Zeth shook his head. “But ‘tis na’ a rare occurrence. The Tuatha De Danann dwell in the spiritual land. They revel in eternal sunshine and are nourished by magic meat and ale that grant them ever-life. Notice the cow of Goibhniu.” He pointed to a lone cow resting in the shade of a large ash tree. “'Tis Glas Ghaibhleann, a spirit of Irish lore. He offers his disciples an exhaustible feast so they may continue their fight against the Fili. The Fili be the sworn enemy of the Shee, for their black magic is based on tyranny, cruelty, greed and moral darkness."
“Aye, the Tuatha De Danann be a primitive people, Zeth,” Gareth interjected. “Like the Celtic Druids, they pray to their God, Dagdha, Lug, the god of light, and the Irish sea God, Mannanan. They also consider stones, wells, hills and trees to be holy. See the tree they call fairy thorn? When a branch falls from it, be it dead or no, they tie it back together with twine or ribbons to soothe the fairies who dwell in them."
Seerah couldn't believe what she was hearing. She glanced curiously from Zeth to Gareth. “You both be quite knowledgeable in the ways of the Shee. How is it you know these things? Gareth?"
“Our laird,” Gareth replied.
“He believes?” Seerah gasped, her hopes soaring anew.
Tristan grimaced. “Our laird received a serious wound to his head many years ago. When he came to us, he was near to death. He recovered fully, except ... he still has no memory of his past and he believes strongly in the mystical world."
“So, you believe him to addle-brained, then?” Seerah charged.
“Nay!” Tristan took a menacing step toward Seerah.
“Of course Tristan does na’ believe such a thing.” Zeth rushed forward, stepping between them, too preoccupied with the duty of defending his laird to notice Tristan's outrage. “Cursed by evil our laird is,” Zeth said. “Told me himself he has visions of an enchanting sorceress who can break the spell. ‘Tis why he seeks the stone. He believes that when he finds it, the enchantress will set him free."
“And that would be me?"
“Perhaps.” Zeth shrugged. “You do own the amulet."
Tristan grunted.
Seerah ignored his obvious displeasure. So many questions came to her mind she didn't know what to ask first. Since the amulet had belonged to her mother, perhaps this laird was the key to finding her. Gareth and Zeth seemed so casual about their knowledge. Yet Colin and Greum acted less-than-interested. And Tristan...
“How does such a man become laird over men, most of whom claim to have no belief in such things?” she asked.
“He proved himself to be a fit leader,” Colin replied.
“Aye,” Greum agreed.
“What of you, Tristan?” she asked, peering past Zeth.
Zeth cringed, his body seeming to shrink with apprehension, as if he'd suddenly realized that standing between Tristan and Seerah could be hazardous.
“You claim to be loyal to your laird,” Seerah continued. “Yet you do na’ believe in his faith. And, apparently, you believe he suffers from delusions."
“I believe no such thing!” Tristan practically growled. When Zeth ducked out of the way, Tristan took up the space so quickly Seerah gasped and instinctively took a step backward.
Tristan followed. “He is an honorable warrior and me laird. Though I do na’ believe in his faith, I respect his authority and obey his commands. Enough questions. Come, fairy princess, your disciples await.” He abruptly grabbed Seerah by the arm and headed for the wooden tables, pulling her with him.
Seerah tripped over her skirts as she practically ran to keep up with him. Then her foot hit a tree root and she stumbled. “Hell and the Devil. Slow down,” she muttered.
* * * *
Fairy maiden, indeed. God help us all. Tristan wagged his head and hauled Seerah to the nearest bench where he seated himself. “A colorful use of language, indeed, for such a virtuous maiden-fair. Saucy wench suits you much better, I'm thinking.” He pulled her down next to him.
“Knave,” Seerah grumbled, pulling at her skirts and trying to readjusted her drooping headpiece.
Tristan almost chuckled when he saw Gareth, Colin, Zeth and Greum disperse to a gathering of tables on the other side of the courtyard, though he couldn't blame them in the least.
Ecne approached and cleared his throat, drawing Tristan's attention. The little man smiled as if he were amused, then he seated himself across from Seerah.
The people of Dana served fish baked in vinegar and cumin, accompanied by watercress, water parsnips and laver bread. They supplied bowls of hazel nuts, assorted berries and apples aplenty. Ale flowed freely and the Dana children frolicked about gaily while the adults had their fill.
A pretty, young serving girl walked over carrying a bowl of apples. She moved to Tristan's side. “Avalon?” She batted her eyelashes at him.
Tristan observed the rounded swell of her full bosom pressed against the rim of the bowl.
He allowed his gaze to linger appreciatively at her generous cleavage.
“They are considered the fruit of eternal life. They quench thirst and satisfy hunger,” she said, her seductive tone implying an offer of much more than apples.
Aware of her full intent and Seerah's keen scrutiny, Tristan's mouth curved into a crooked half-smile. “Mmmm. ‘Twould be an honor to sample your ... fine wares. Unfortunately, as you can see, I'm ... otherwise occupied at the moment.” He gestured with his head toward Seerah.
Seerah pinched him on the thigh. “'Tis the apples she speaks of, you rogue.” Then to the lass she said, “Please excuse his poor manners. He's a barbarian who obviously knows na’ how to accept a simple kindness."
Looking disappointed and somewhat confused, the lass frowned.
Tristan chuckled softly and lifted an apple from the bowl.
“On the contrary. I wished only to graciously accept her generous offer.” He bit into the apple and winked at the lass. “Perhaps another time."
“Aye.” A soft blush crept into her face as she fluttered her eyelashes at Tristan, then took her leave.
“Gracious?” Seerah snorted.
“I can be, when it serves me purpose. And you can be quite naive. The apples were merely a ploy.” Tristan's eyes settled on the feminine sway of the serving lass's hips. “'Tis quite obvious she enjoys me attention. Aye, she would have served me well."
Seerah followed his gaze. “Wretch."
“Ahem,” Ecne said. “We should be about the gift giving.” He stood.
“Aye. Though the sun still shines bright...” Tristan frowned curiously. “Darkness will soon fall like a cloak and we should be well on our way before that."
“Uh ... A-aye. So, you should—indeed,” Ecne stuttered, looking as if he beheld an amusing secret. Next, with great formality, he raised his hand high in the air. “Tristan, gather your men and horses at the south side of the clearing. We, the Tuatha De Danann, will bring forth to you the treasures of Dana.” Bowing low, Ecne took Seerah's hand in his own and brought it to his lips. “'Tis been an honor."
* * * *
When Ecne gazed up directly into Seerah's eyes, she felt a soothing energy enter her body through her fingertips. Like warm cider on a cold winter night, Ecne's thoughts seemed to flow through her body. Though he spoke not a word, Seerah heard his every thought as clearly as if he had been whispering in her ear. Soon you will assume your true destiny and return as the Princess of Dana. Be patient with Tristan—though he fights the power of magic, he will come to see. A satisfying feeling swept over Seerah, and, for an instant, she felt at one with Ecne. When she lowered her head in homage, he released her hand and stepped back.
After Seerah, Tristan, and the warriors were all mounted on their horses, Ecne stood before them and waited as the people of Danann crowded behind him. Next, with great pomp and ceremony he began issuing the gifts of Danann. “First, to the young warrior, Zeth. A thirst for knowledge will keep your mind strong and help you grow into a fine warrior man. We present you with Dagdha's cauldron from Murias. No company has ever gone away from it unthankful."
A boy handed the miniature black pot up to Zeth. Zeth accepted the gift with a low bow of his head, then strapped it to his pack. Ecne turned to Colin, next. “To Colin, a brave and honorable man. Behold this spear that Lug had. It comes from Gorias and no battle was ever won against he who held it in his hand."
When the spear was handed up to Colin, he hefted it in the air. Obviously amazed by its light weight, he studied the narrow, sharp point, then frowned as if skeptical of its proficiency.
“The power of knowledge over brute force,” Ecne said.
Arching his brow as if duly impressed, Colin nodded.
“To Greum, a man of thought and ponderance, who will do great things,” Ecne said. “I present you with this sandstone pillar. ‘Tis from the ancient Lia Fail, from Falias. The pillar, known as the stone of scone, or the stone of destiny, has roared beneath the hand of every true king to take the realm of Scotland. ‘Tis a reminder that all men must answer to a higher power."
Greum nodded solemnly as he accepted the miniature pillar and placed it in a leather pouch.
“To Gareth, whose honor and courage will one day live up to his great legacy, the invincible sword of Nuada, from Findias. When drawn from its deadly sheath by one who understands its power,” Ecne paused, his gaze growing intense with unspoken meaning, “'twill not fail those you cherish.” He flung the sword to the ground.
Gareth frowned, unsure of what to do next.
“'Tis a custom,” Seerah explained. “Many believe ill fate will come to those who pass sharp instruments from hand to hand."
After retrieving the sword and sheath, Gareth issued a low, respectful bow to Ecne, and remounted his horse.
Ecne turned his attention to Seerah, then. “Lastly, to Seerah, or Seer, meaning one who sees the future. I give you the Dagdha's harp. Its sweet strain will plunge thine enemies into a profound slumber.” Seerah accepted the harp and placed it inside her mantle.
“I thank you most graciously. We all do.” She glanced at the warriors. “But...” Her smile faded. “What of Tristan? Have you nothing for him?"
Suddenly, a harsh breeze stirred the air. Ecne held his robes to shield his face from the rising dust. “The Magi,” he announced.
The Dana people gathered in a circle about the clearing and held hands as a lone, white cloud floated down from the sky. It hovered in mid-air, swelling and contracting, as colorful sparks of light glistening from within. At one point it glowed so brightly that all who looked upon it had to shield their eyes. When the fantastic light dimmed, Seerah noticed that the cloud had turned into a translucent orb of rolling mist—like the one in her vision. She watched carefully as an apparition began to develop.
The ghostly figure appeared to be an ancient man dressed in layered robes of green and white. A golden, sorcerer's spire adorned his head. “With these treasures of the Tuatha De Danann,” he began, his resounding voice seeming to echo throughout the glen, “you will go with Dagdha and fulfill the prophecy. They will aide you well.” With a flourishing wave of his arm the Magi held his hand out and uncurled his fingers, holding his hand palm up.
A vivid image of a slender willow shoot spouted from his palm. The shoot grew rapidly then twisted and shrank until it was transformed into a dry, curved twig resembling a primeval scepter. “Seerah, you alone must retrieve this alder wand from the Fin-gael's cave,” he said. “However, you must first open your heart to love. Only then will you achieve the true power of the light."
Suddenly, the twig vanished. The Magi extended his index finger and pointed directly at Tristan. “Heed me now, Tristan, the mighty warrior. Fighting that which is destined only serves to darken your soul. In order to obtain all that is in your grasp, you must look deep inside yourself. ‘Tis there that you will find the demons you seek. Banish them from your soul forever. Only then, will your heart open, allowing your spirit to feel the magic.” The image began to fade, and brilliant, white light flashed, again.
The light seemed to explode like a bursting star. It illuminated the clearing for a brief moment, then stark blackness fell, as if the sun had suddenly vanished. All that remained were tiny iridescent sparks. Like colorful embers caught on the wings of the breeze, the sparks fluttered in the air about Seerah, Tristan and the warriors.
“Seeeer-rah!” Tristan growled.
“Do na’ look to me. I am na’ yet capable of such complicated trickery.” Seerah glanced up at him. “Perhaps Ecne can explain..."
“In case you have na’ noticed, Ecne is gone,” Tristan said. “So is the village. Only a heavy, gray mist remains. And, these peculiar insects.” Tristan swatted at the air.
Leaning forward in Tristan's lap, Seerah peered into the darkness. She could still see shadowed outlines of figures and images through the shadowy mist. “Nay, Tristan they have na’ gone. ‘Tis we who have departed the spiritual land of the Tuatha De Danann. It appears as though the garden of Dagdha be a mystical shadow-land. A spiritual domain, if you will. Apparently only those who be chosen can achieve its wonder."
Holding her hand out to the peculiar sparks she smiled. “These be fairy lights you strike at. Ecne sent them to guide us.” She issued a parting wave to Ecne and the people of Dana. “Ecne bids us farewell,” she informed.
“I see nothing,” Tristan grumbled. “Colin, Greum, Zeth, Gareth, do you see anything?"
“Nay.” Colin replied.
“Me either,” said Greum.
“Only mist, Tristan,” Zeth assured.
Gareth stared straight ahead, looking somewhat bemused; his only reply was a slow, silent wag of his head like he couldn't believe what he'd just experienced.
“Hmmm.” Seerah shrugged. “That must be because none of you be Shee."
When Tristan reined his horse about, Seerah noticed the way Gareth glanced from the mist up at the sky. His puzzled-looking expression transformed into a reflective sort of awe as he appeared to gaze at the full moon in silent wonder. When he turned to follow, Seerah watched curiously as he glanced back over his shoulder. However, when Ecne waived and Gareth held his hand high, gesturing in a departing salute, Seerah knew he could still see the mystical land as well. The realization gave her pause to wonder. Her own words came back to her then. Apparently, only those who be chosen can achieve the wonder of the spiritual realm. It couldn't be that Gareth—nay. ‘Tis impossible. Or is it?
* * * *
Gairloch, Scotland
Alone in his darkened bedchamber, the laird tossed and turned in the throes of fitful slumber as ghostly visions haunted his subconscious mind. Dark, dream-images of Norse warships developed in his mind's eye. Raiders armed with swords and dirks stood on the decks of the enemy vessels. But soon they swooped down on a small company of unarmed peasant crafts. With their swords held high, the Norsemen cried out as they boarded the defenseless skiffs and rafts with an evil air of intent. They attacked, murdering the innocent Celts with precision and arrogance.
The dream grew so vivid that the laird could taste the familiar tinge of blood in his mouth. He also felt the forceful blows from his attackers as their weapons struck his body. He trembled with rage in response to the shrill cries around him. Then, he felt a wave of nausea overwhelm him as the stench of death permeated the air. It seemed so unimaginable—yet felt so real. He fought back with a vengeance, striking out at his attackers. He knew, deep in his heart, that if he failed, he would suffer a loss much worse than death,
He woke with a start, threw back his covers and jumped up, poised to defend. His heart raced in his chest as he glanced anxiously about the room, but he saw no enemy raiders—only a lone ray of light cast through the open portal, from the full moon. He inhaled slowly, trying to ease his labored breathing. He shivered as the brisk night air caressed his sweat-soaked skin.
When he finally realized that he'd merely had a bad dream, he sat on the edge of his bed. He couldn't help thinking about how real the dream had seemed. The images had elicited such intense feelings and vivid sensations. When he reached up to touch the back of his head, where he'd been struck during his dream, he felt the raised scar on his skull.
Gazing out at the full moon he rubbed the scar. Dreams ... or memories? Could such horrifying images be part of me past? He climbed back into bed and pulled the covers to his chest. He closed his eyes, welcoming the realm of slumber once more. But try as he might, he couldn't ignore the questions racing though his mind. Did I fight such a battle? When? What became of ... all who knew me—me kinsmen; did I have a family? A wife?
His eyes sprang open at the thought. He stared at the moonbeam filtering into his chamber. Did I have bairns? He found it strange that he'd never considered the prospect before.
He'd often fought to curb the frustration of not remembering his past by assuming that it had been so tragic or violent that he was better off not remembering. Tonight, however, he could no longer accept such reasoning. He longed to know what—or whom—had been left behind with his memories.
When the ghost figure materialized before him, he wasn't afraid. Like so many times in the past, soft purple light glowed about the apparition, which appeared in the form of a woman. Her red hair cascaded in spiral ringlets about her face and body. Her freckled alabaster skin seemed to beckon his touch as she floated mysteriously before him. The tears pooling in her green eyes made him reach out. He yearned to comfort her, yet knew that he could not. His heart ached for her, and for his helplessness.
She uttered not a sound, yet he experienced her innermost thoughts as if she was communicating with him on a spiritual level beyond the realm of mere mortals. As he experienced her sorrow and concern, he noticed the bundle—an infant swaddled in blood-stained cloth. She cradled it lovingly in her arms, then bared the child to reveal it was a boy. Laying him against her chest, she motioned to a blemish on the child's head, behind his left ear. The pale, acorn-sized mark appeared to be shaped like a sun casting rays of light.
Next, within the vision, she conjured another vision of a fair maiden with dark flowing hair. The lass beheld a similar, though slightly smaller crescent moon-shaped scar near her right eye. The spirit also revealed that the girl child had been gifted at birth with magic powers, and, that she beheld vital knowledge that was necessary to end the suffering of her people.
As the spirit-image began to fade, he heard a strangely familiar sound; the soft, whisper of a mortal voice, repeating the same strange word over and over. The laird muttered it aloud, “Ke-n-dahl. Ken-dahl. Kendahl?” The name rolled from his tongue with familiar ease, yet a heartfelt feeling of despair invaded his being.
As bits and pieces of memories flashed in his mind, he experienced a profound sense of loss concerning all that he'd been deprived of over that past years.
Then, came a sense of pure joy, for he knew the possibilities the future held. Keeping his eyes trained on the moon, he sighed with contentment. “Dear God, keep me family safe,” he whispered.
* * * *
Ireland
Ansel halted his mount. “The trail ends here, Sir Nevil.” He dismounted and walked over to the wall-like cloud of mist which seemed hang in the air, concealing the glen. “I see no tracks to the South, East or West. They simply vanish into the mist."
“That's impossible. There's been no rain. They must have brushed away the markings or back-tracked.” Nevil urged his mount forward.
“The earth remains undisturbed,” Ansel said. “And if they turned back, the tracks would double-back to the North."
“I know that you imbecile!” Nevil cried. “But they were here. They didn't simply disappear. You're missing something. I'm certain we've gained on them and I'll not allow your ignorance to frustrate our efforts, again. Light a torch and carefully search the glen!"
“A torch will be of no help,” Ansel said. When he extended his arm into the murky vapor, it completely disappeared from sight. “See? The mist here is thick as bog fur and laden with mystical power. Aye, he who enters the fairy-mist uninvited will become lost and wander the domain between the living and the dead for ever-more."
“Enough of your superstitious nonsense! Oaf, bring forth the torch!” Nevil commanded.
Knowing better than to argue with Nevil, Ansel withdrew his hand and nodded at Helig, issuing a silent command for him obey.
Helig dismounted. As he approached Ansel, a warm, salt-laden gale whipped up. The horses pranced and nickered, shying away. Ansel pulled hard on their reins to gain control, but his horse flared its nostrils, scraping at the ground as if in protest. “'Tis the wind of warning. I beg you to heed its counsel, Sir Nevil,” Ansel implored, his own fear intensifying.
“A simple breeze from a nearby loch may frighten you and your dumb beast, but it will take more than the forces of nature to deter me. Give me the torch.” Nevil dismounted and took the torch from Helig. “Stay close. I'll not spend a moment's time searching for either of you.” He advanced.
The instant the torch breached the mist, it appeared to extinguish. “Blast!” Nevil cursed, withdrawing his out-stretched hand. He remained silent for a long moment, staring at the still-burning torch as the flames danced with vigor, burning higher and brighter than before. “Thick mist, indeed,” he grumbled. “A sign of treacherous swampland, nothing more!"
Nevil handed the torch back to Helig and mounted his horse. “Unfortunately, Tristan is more clever than I thought. He obviously left those tracks, in the hopes that we would rush into the swamp after him. We'll ride all night if we must. Due west around the swamp, then South towards Killarney. He's within my grasp, I can feel it."
Chapter Fifteen
Tristan shifted Seerah's sleeping form in his lap, trying to better distribute her dead weight.
Seerah snuggled closer, her fingers trailing a path upward, from his waist to his chest. The feather-like touch tickled the hairs on his chest causing goose bumps to rise on his flesh. Next, her lips brushed the base of his throat and she sighed, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Tristan's body stirred with desire. He cursed his oath to protect her virtue, yet again, and issued a jarring nudge to her rump with his knee.
“Och!” Seerah's hands instinctively encircled Tristan's neck. “What—” She glanced anxiously about.
“Nothing's amiss. You simply sleep like a sack of stones."
Seerah yawned. “I...” She faltered and blinked at him like she was trying to make sense of what he'd just said
Even travel-worn and half asleep, she looked utterly enchanting to Tristan. With her hands encircling his neck, her body hugged his in a provocative embrace that scattered his thoughts. He imagined taking her bottom lip between his teeth, then nibbling and sucking it until she moaned with pleasure while his hands ... “Blast!” he muttered, forcing the erotic picture from his mind. “Me horse suffers unduly beneath the burden of your added weight.” He groaned and shifted her in his lap.
“Oooh!". Looking fully awake and outraged, Seerah withdrew her hands from his neck and set them in her lap. Her back stiffened as she sat slightly forward. “'Tis likely he suffers because his master is a ruthless brute. And, there's no need to manhandle me so. If you truly consider me such a burden, why na’ allow me to ride with Gareth or one of the other men?"
“A burden you are, indeed. But you also be me responsibility. And a brute I may well be, but merciless I am na'. I would never condemn me worst enemy, let alone one of me own men, with the duty of guarding such a troublesome lass."
“Troublesome? You be the one who—"
“Ahem!” Gareth cut Seerah off in mid sentence as he and Colin halted their mounts in Tristan's path. “We near Killarney."
“Does that mean we'll be stopping soon?” Seerah asked. “It feels as though we've been riding forever.” She glared at Tristan.
Zeth and Greum reined their horses along side of Colin's.
“Aye, we'll be stopping,” Gareth replied. “But only long enough to rest the horses and gain supplies. ‘Tis our goal to reach Blarney, County Coraigh in a sennight or less."
Seerah's shoulder's drooped with obvious despair. “We'll be traveling on horseback, for seven straight days?"
“Aye. Nights as well—and then some.” Gareth replied. “From Coraigh, we will travel South, to the coast, where we'll set sail. Then we'll travel North through St. George's Channel to the Irish sea until we reach the Mull of Kintyre. ‘Twill likely take a fortnight or more. ‘Tis our goal to reach the keep before the next full moon. From Kintyre we'll travel by horse again, day and night, until we reach Gairloch."
Seerah groaned.
Tristan chuckled. “You could, of course, use your magic to cast a spell and transport us there if you prefer."
“I would if I could. ‘Twould be preferable to being stuck on horseback for so many days, then being confined to a ship with an inconsiderate churl like you."
“You wound me deeply, maiden fair.” Tristan held his fist to his chest and bowed his head with feigned humility.
“And you give me more credit than is due. ‘Tis likely the sword of Nuada is incapable of wounding your black heart."
“Ahem!” Gareth cleared his throat again. “I hate to interrupt your cordial banter.” He fixed Tristan with a look. “But, we near the cottage as well."
“Aye?” Tristan replied.
“Where we will be stopping to gain supplies before going on to Killarney,” Gareth hedged.
“And?” Tristan replied.
“Our hostess does na’ usually take kindly to surprises.” With a discreet nod of his head, and a meaningful glance, Gareth motioned to Seerah.
“Aye, Brigit does na’ favor company. Especially Tristan's ... women,” Colin interjected.
Tristan sighed. “Seerah is na’ me woman, by any means. And ‘tis no social call. We will gain our supplies, then be on our way. There's no need for the two to meet."
“Who's Brigit?” Seerah asked.
Zeth spoke up first, “Tristan's—"
“She is a woman, whose cottage we will stop at to gain supplies,” Tristan said.
“And, you fool yourself if you believe to keep Seerah from her,” Gareth scoffed.
“Why must he keep me from her?” Seerah asked.
Tristan shot Gareth a warning glare.
Gareth chuckled. “I'll simply say that ... your presence could prove to be troublesome for him."
“Oh, I see.” Seerah gazed up at Tristan. “You believe she will misread the true nature of our ... acquaintance. Well, have no fear. If she be an intelligent woman, she'll soon see the truth—"
Seerah paused and frowned as if reconsidering her words. “Then again, if she were intelligent she would na’ have a care to keep your company. But, do na’ fash yourself, Tristan. I will gladly ease her concerns,” Seerah lifted her chin in the air, turning her back to Tristan with an arrogant toss of her head.
“You will do what you be told."
“Mayhap.” Seerah shrugged.
“You will I say!"
“Or what?” Turning, Seerah glared at him.
“Or I will put you across me lap and paddle your saucy backside,” Tristan replied.
As Seerah breathed deeply, trying to quell her growing annoyance, a cold wind kicked up.
“I beg you, do na’ anger the lass any further, Tristan,” Zeth bid, his eyes darting about the forest. “Why, just look at the way she causes the air to stir."
Colin, Greum and Gareth glanced about as their horses shuffled and fought the bit.
“Believe you or na’ Tristan, I could na’ care less,” Gareth began. “But for all our sake, ‘twould be a less trying journey if you would na’ go out of you way to provoke the lass. Tell her you will na’ lay hands on her."
Tristan gazed over his shoulder at Gareth. “I provoke no one. I gave me word to protect her and I will do so, as I see fit. That includes giving her a well deserved thrashing, if necessary, to curb her insolent nature.” Reining his horse about, Tristan confronted Gareth. “Until we reach Gairloch, she's me responsibility, as are you. Do na’ question me motives again or we will draw swords.” Tristan laid his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“As you wish.” Gareth also rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Please, Gareth, do na’ trouble yourself,” Seerah said. “I can take care of meself. Though I appreciate your concern, your duty is to him. ‘Tis na’ to me."
“Listen to the lass, Gareth,” Colin interjected. “I fear you let you manhood rule your actions."
“Aye,” Greum agreed. “'Tis na’ like you and Tristan to quarrel. Rethink your motives, Gareth. We've a duty to our laird."
Tristan nodded. “Well, Gareth?"
“'Tis shamed I am, to be reminded of me own duty.” He released his sword. “I am also shamed by the way you treat Seerah. But, I will do me best to keep from questioning your actions ... until we reach Gairloch."
Tristan held Gareth's warning gaze.
“To Brigit's then?” Greum asked.
“Aye, to Brigit's,” Colin and Zeth cheered.
Glancing over his shoulder at Tristan and Seerah, Gareth nudged his horse's sides with his heels. Colin, Greum and Zeth followed directly.
“You must na’ fault Gareth for his chivalrous nature. An honorable young man, he is indeed. ‘Tis obvious he only seeks to comfort me,” Seerah said.
“Honorable aye, but he is unwise in the ways of women. Especially young women like you."
“Like me? But, I've done naught..."
“You'll do him no favors by gaining his sympathies. As you just witnessed, his foolish protest fell on deaf ears. Vying for his affections and playing us against each other only serves your own vanity, Seerah. Clear thinking, reason, sound judgment and loyalty be what he needs to survive. He does na’ need enticing maidens who toy with his ... manliness."
Seerah gasped. “Toy with his ... Why, I've done no such thing. I simply..."
“You bat your eyes and smile tenderly at him each time he shows you a kindness."
“'Tis gratitude for the respect he shows me. Unlike you, he obviously cares about how I feel."
“'Tis the thought of burying himself between your creamy white thighs that motivates his valiant behavior."
“You disgusting, vile...” she slapped him across the face.
Tristan didn't even flinch. Seizing her wrist, he held her arm high as he pulled her roughly against his chest. “I vowed to protect your honor, but I'll ravish you meself before I'll fight me own men to defend me actions."
“Release me now!” Seerah demanded.
“Or what?"
As Seerah's blue-green eyes bore into Tristan's, they seemed to glow. Her hand balled into a fist and her body started to tremble. When she flexed her fingers, a cracking sound rent the atmosphere and lightning split the sky.
Tristan flinched. When his frighten horse reared up, he instinctively released Seerah's wrist. He grappled to gain control of the horse's reins and secure Seerah's position at the same time. It wasn't until he heard Seerah's muffled cry, and the soft thud of her body landing on the hard ground, that he knew he'd failed.
* * * *
Tristan entered the clearing near Brigit's cottage, carrying Seerah's limp form in his arms.
Gareth rushed forward. “What's happened, now?"
“'Twas an accident. A bolt of lightning startled Igneous. When he reared up, she fell. Take her pouch from me afore I drop it,” Tristan ordered.
Gareth advanced and took the pouch containing Cosmo. “I saw no lightning."
“You question me honesty now?"
“Hand her down to me. I'll take her inside,” Gareth said.
Tristan ignored Gareth and slid down from Igneous's back with Seerah in his arms. “'Twas me own carelessness that caused her to fall. I am responsib..."
“Aye, you are responsible for her safety. And at this rate she'll be dead afore we reach Killarney."
“Leave off, Gareth,” Tristan warned.
“What be the two of you about? And, why do you carry the lass? Is she ailing?” Brigit called out, from the open cottage doorway.
Tristan stepped around Gareth and walked toward her. “'Tis na’ your concern, Brigit. I'll see to her. Step aside."
“I'll not be treated like one of your warriors, Tristan Kincaid. Especially not in me own home. You'll be telling me what I want to know or you can be on you merry way.” Placing her hands on her hips, Brigit nodded at Gareth. “Go on inside with the others, Gareth. Tristan and I have a few things to settle. There be mutton stew and laver bread by the fire."
Gareth didn't wait to gain Tristan's approval. He stepped from the shadows and walked toward her. “'Tis good to see you, Brigit.” He mussed her auburn curls with his hand, then bent to brush a kiss on her freckled cheek. “A sight for sore eyes, you are, indeed.” He winked and entered the cottage without looking back.
Brigit cocked her brow at Tristan. “'Tis apparent, all does not go favorably. What is—"
Seerah moaned and stirred in Tristan's arms. When her eyes fluttered open she blinked up at Tristan. “What? Why? Where's Cosmo?” she asked, grasping for her pouch.
“Gareth took your pouch,” Tristan informed, his eyes remaining focused on Brigit.
* * * *
Following his dark gaze, Seerah glanced down. When she spied the object of Tristan's discontent, she swallowed hard. The lovely young woman's green eyes expressed a look of pure contempt. Seerah could only assume that it was being directed at her, and she understood why—Brigit was obviously one of Tristan's mistresses.
“Set me down, Tristan. ‘Tis unseemly to be carrying me about so. One might get the wrong impression."
Tristan ignored her and took a step forward. “Step aside, Brigit."
Brigit remained stationary, blocking his way. She stood a full arm's length shorter than Tristan, and soft, auburn curls framed her round face. The clusters of freckles on her cheeks and nose crinkled as she frowned at Seerah. “You speak. So, you are feeling better, then?"
“Aye.” Seerah nodded, then looked to Tristan. “Do put me down. Why, the way you be holding me one might think that you actually enjoy me company."
“Quite a saucy wench you've got there,” Brigit said, smiling.
“I agree,” Tristan grumbled. “Unfortunately she is na’ very fond the nickname."
“On the contrary, Tristan,” Seerah disagreed. “'Tis na’ so much the name itself I've taken offense to in the past, but rather the manner in which you and your men have used it. I believe she meant it as a compliment. Now, if you would let me down."
“Aye, Tristan, put the lass down. ‘Tis obvious she's tired of your sweet nature,” Brigit jeered.
When Tristan finally lowered Seerah to the ground, she curtsied before Brigit. “Me name is Seerah, Seerah MacFarlane. And please, you must believe me. Tristan has no feelings for me. Other than rancor, mayhap. You see, he's agreed to escort me on me quest. But he actually finds me to be quite bothersome. The only reason he was carrying me, was because I fell from his horse. I believe I had the wind knocked out of me. But I'm fine now. Truly."
Brigit chuckled. “Indeed, it appears as though you have plenty of wind in your lungs now. I'm Brigit. Brigit Kincaid, and I'm pleased to know you. But are you sure he did not shove you?” She cocked her brow at Tristan. “Did you cast the lass from Igneous's back, Tristan?"
“Brigit,” Tristan muttered.
“Brigit ... K-Kincaid?” Seerah sputtered. Tristan had never so much as hinted about being married. Seerah instantly remembered the kiss she and Tristan shared back in the moors. She felt her face grow hot with guilt and anger. It was suddenly obvious to her that Tristan wasn't the honorable man she believed him to be. And she could only wonder why he would do such a thing when he had such a beautiful wife waiting at home for him. Men! When she though about how she had reacted to his kiss, her stomach went topsy-turvy and her head swam.
Brigit rushed forward, taking Seerah's hands in her own. “Why, you've gone as pale as a dove's belly. And your hands feel like ice. He did toss you to the ground, didn't he?"
“Nay. Please, you must forgive me poor manners. I'm just ... weary. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet you. And, nay—though Tristan may fancy the notion of ridding himself of me, quite often.” She glared Tristan, then turned back to Brigit. “He has sworn to protect me until we reach his laird. You see, I'm..."
“Weary, she is. As am I,” Tristan said. “We came here to rest, and to gain supplies. We've no time to waste with such nonsense. Will you allow us to do this or do we leave now?"
“You have grown quite testy, Tristan. Have you not been eating enough grain?” Brigit batted her eyelashes at him.
“Grain? Do you suffer a delicate constitution, Tristan?” Seerah asked.
“Aye,” Brigit replied. “That he does. Why, if he does not eat properly he's bound up for weeks at a time. It makes him quite irritable, don't you know."
“Truly? Well, that does explain a lot. He's consumed little more than cheese and bread during our journey here. But I know a wonderful remedy.” Seerah clapped her hands together. “We'll need some common toad flax. And blackthorn—just a wee bit should do nicely."
“You know your herbs well.” Brigit nodded her approval.
“Me grandmother is a healer. She taught me all I know. Be you a healer as well?” Seerah asked.
“Enough!” Dragging his hair through his hair, Tristan sighed raggedly.
“Oh, go on with you surly self,” Brigit commanded. “I'll see to her needs. And do not bother arguing with me. ‘Twill do you no good for I'm just as stubborn as you, if not more so.” Brigit took Seerah by the arm, whisking her away from Tristan.
“You'll not be getting your way, Brigit!” Tristan bellowed.
“'Tis clear to all but you, that I already have,” Brigit replied. “Go inside and partake of some ale. ‘Twill ease you sour disposition. Mayhap, your irregularity as well,” Brigit quipped, issuing a jaunty wave in Tristan's direction as she ushered Seerah around the side of the cottage.
Tristan's muttered expletive was followed by the telltale sound of harsh, earth-crunching footsteps.
* * * *
Brigit couldn't help feeling pleased with herself. She seldom got the chance to put Tristan in his proper place anymore. Despite his large build and menacing disposition, he'd always be her little brother, a fact she never let him forget for long. And she couldn't help but like Seerah. The lass didn't fall all over Tristan like most. Nor did she act coy and timid. She actually seemed to bring out the worst in Tristan, giving him what-for in the process.
Aye, a telling sign, indeed. Brigit smiled. Next, stopping by the stone well on the side of the cottage, she hauled a wooden bucket up from the hole. After filling a dipper with water, she offered it to Seerah. “So, tell me, Seerah MacFarlane, how did you come to be with me beloved Tristan?"
“I ... thank you.” Accepting the dipper, Seerah raised it to her lips and began to drink.
“Come, now. Do not be shy. Tell me, did he kidnap you and ravish you against your will? Or did he simply beguile you with his devil's charm?"
“N-neither.” Sputtering and coughing, Seerah handed the ladle back to Brigit. “I swear to you, our company is merely ... an arrangement of sorts. I've no designs for Tristan."
Brigit knew better. She'd already witnessed the sparks flying between Seerah and Tristan. All she had to figure out now was why they both seemed so opposed to the match. Where sparks fly, fire is sure to follow. She fixed Seerah with a look. “No designs for him at all? Are you certain of this?"
“Aye!” Seerah nodded her head with such vigor her whole body shook.
“Hmmm.” Brigit replaced the dipper in the bucket, silently questioning the fierce denial. Another telling sign, perhaps. Pulling a rag from her pocket, she draped it on a nearby rowan tree. Next, with a small pebble she traced the sign of the cross on the side-wall of the well.
“You pay rounds at your well?” Seerah asked.
“Aye. To appease the fairies. Be you familiar with the practice?” Brigit placed the pebble back in her pocket.
“Aye, very. ‘Tis an ancient Druid practice. Be you of the Druid faith?"
“Nay, a God-fearing Christian I am, but like any Irish lass worth her salt, I know well the ways of the little people.” Brigit paused, and studied Seerah. “Except for the light spattering of freckles across the bridge of your nose, you do not have the look of the Irish."
“I'm part Welsh, and Scottish as well. Me father be a Highland knight. Me mother is part Irish, Welsh and..."
“Where does your Welsh blood hail from?"
“Me great-grandfather, I believe."
Brigit rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “'Tis quite a mix."
“Aye. ‘Tis to be expected with all the warring throughout the lands. Uncle Marcus once called me a mongrel. He is na’ truly a blood relation, but his wife was a dear friend of me grandmother's. Anyway, Uncle Marcus said it was likely I'd never find a husband due to me Shee blood.” She shrugged indifferently.
“Sh-Shee blood?” Brigit stammered, fear and amazement overwhelming her ability to think.
“Aye.” Seerah nodded. “But, please, fear me na', Brigit. Me magic, such as it is, is white. If you know anything about the Shee, you know that to be true."
“Aye,” Brigit whispered. “Well, I'll be. Does Tristan know this?"
“Aye. But, he does na’ believe. He has no tolerance for such things."
“I know. ‘Tis due to his commanding nature. He trusts nothing he can not control."
“Aye. And he does na’ believes in me powers. Why, he says I'm nothing more than a troublesome inconvenience."
“I see. He has he offended you unduly.” Brigit nodded with understanding.
“Oh, no. Though he is quite overbearing and rude at times, ‘tis mostly bluster. I believe ‘tis simply his nature."
“I know that well,” Brigit began. “But ... ‘tis obvious you fear him not. And, you say you mind not his harsh ways. Do his looks displease you?"
“H-his l-looks?” Seerah stammered.
“You find him to be unsightly, then?” Brigit asked, finding such a thought beyond belief.
“Unsightly? Nay. On the contrary, he's very handsome indeed,” Seerah blushed. “But, uh, I do na’ pay that much mind to how his looks appear. Please understand, I have no wish to come between you and Tristan."
Brigit stared at Seerah for a long moment, trying for the life of her to figure out what Seerah was talking about. “Come between us?"
“'Tis na’ that I could. Although I was led to believe you were merely Tristan's mis—” Seerah grimaced. “Gareth explained to me that me presence would likely cause trouble."
“Aye. ‘Tis so. There always be trouble of one kind or another when Tristan's about. And he often brings unexpected company.” Brigit chuckled.
“Och! He brings ... company often? And, you do na’ mind?"
Brigit frowned with confusion over Seerah's affronted reaction. “Sometimes I mind, but mostly I like it. I see so few people and I always end up enjoying meself because I get to embarrass Tristan. Besides, what would you have me do? Toss them into the night? I could not do it. Just look at you. We're already becoming fast friends."
“But I am na’ ... that kind of company. Even if I was ... I—I do na’ understand. You are so beautiful. And ‘tis obvious Tristan respects you for he barely resisted your commands.” Seerah sighed. “His greeting was greatly lacking, I'll grant you that. ‘Twas likely because of me presence, though. He does seem to keep his feelings private. But, is he na’ attentive to your ... your wifely needs?"
“Me wifely ne—” Understanding dawned on Brigit, leaving her momentarily stunned. She broke into a fit of laughter. “Nay. He's not attentive to me ... me needs at tall,” she managed to reply.
“If he's so neglectful and uncaring, I fear I do na’ understand your mirth."
“Neglectful he is, indeed. But have no worries, Seerah. You'll understand soon enough. Now, tell me how you came to be with Tristan.” Hooking her arm in Seerah's, Brigit escorted an utterly confused-looking Seerah through the woods back toward the cottage—and Tristan.
Chapter Sixteen
“We should na’ have come here!” Tristan grumbled, pacing back and forth across the cobbled floor in Brigit's cottage.
Gareth watched and wondered about who was more responsible for Tristan's rancor—Seerah or Brigit? Passing the bread iron over the flames in the hearth, he said, “'Tis good to see you still fear something."
“Someone, you mean,” Greum interjected.
Colin and Zeth remained silent, using their tankards to hide their grins.
“I do na’ fear Brigit!” Tristan scoffed. “The miserable wench threatened to withhold supplies and send us on our way. Though I fancy the notion, I can na’ simply storm me sister's home and take what I wish."
“Aye, ‘tis likely you would receive a hearty lashing if you tried,” Colin snorted.
Tristan stopped pacing and gazed about the room. “I do na’ see any of you standing up to her."
“I like her stew too much to anger her,” Greum offered.
Colin grinned and rubbed his jaw. “I learned me lesson that time I partook of too much ale and tried to shower her with me affections.
“Do na’ look to me,” Zeth began. “I've no complaints. Besides, I'm but a whelp compared to the lot of you. She could have me for her sup if she wished."
Gareth knew there was more to Tristan's ire than Brigit's threat to withhold supplies.
“What is it you fear most, Tristan?” Gareth asked, purposely goading Tristan's temper. “Her wrath, or her matchmaking? You obviously do na’ care for Seerah, except in seeing her safely to our laird. Brigit will see this. She's a bright woman, and she knows you well. Once she gets to know Seerah, she'll easily see how mismatched you truly be."
“You try me patience Gareth,” Tristan replied.
Standing, Gareth lay the bread iron against the hob. “Do I?"
“Indeed, you do."
Aye, Gareth knew the reason, indeed, but he'd never before seen Tristan act so driven by emotion. He seemed to be losing his carefully guarded control, and Gareth thought that, perhaps, it was the best thing that could happen. “And why is that I try your patience, do you suppose?"
“Och! You believe in angels, fairy nonsense and gallantry. You trust what you feel. Have I taught you nothing?” Tristan bellowed.
“Ah, well, Seerah seems to appreciate me—"
“Damnation! At times, Gareth, you be as much a whelp as Zeth. She plays you like the harp she now carries. A smile or a flutter of her lashes and you disregard your training in the name of chivalry.” Tristan stepped closer, crowding Gareth until they were practically eye to eye and nose to nose. “You pledged your fealty to our laird, yet you defile that pledge by challenging your chain of command."
Gareth puffed out his chest. “I honor me pledge by protecting those who cannot protect themselves."
“By this you mean Seerah?” Tristan shouted, looking amazed. Balling his hands into fists he turned and walked away, obviously trying to put some distance between himself and Gareth.
“She's as defenseless as a fierce storm. Innocent she may well be, but all women are cunning with wily ways. And if you give her your heart, she'll turn it as cold and black as—"
“Your own?” Gareth asked.
Tristan glanced over his shoulder, the look in his eyes suggesting pure animosity. “You go to far."
“Do I?” Gareth relaxed his stance and leaned back against the hearth. “You forsake what's in your heart and hide behind words like honor and duty, Tristan. All the while you be driven by hate and revenge. Tell me, what awaits you when the final battle be done? Us?” He motioned to the warriors. “Mayhap a willing wench to warm your bed? Is that enough? Aye, you command well enough. There's none I'd rather have at me side in war. But the enemy you fight now, be in your soul. The only reason I try your patience so suddenly, is because you envy me ability and willingness to care."
Pushing away from the hearth, Gareth walked over to stand before Tristan. “You denounce Seerah and her beliefs because you scorn anything you can na’ control. And, though you claim to have no feelings for her, ‘tis apparent that you despise the way she responds to me. Though I admire your position and sense of duty, Tristan, if you refuse to treat her with the respect she deserves, you best be prepared to be challenged again,” Gareth pledged.
“So, a rivalry for Seerah's affections be the cause of your discourse,” Brigit called, from the open doorway.
Tristan turned at the sound of her voice. “How long have you been there?"
“Long enough."
“Where's Seerah?"
“I think you fret unduly over someone you described as ... defenseless as a fierce storm, Tristan.” Brigit walked across the room toward Gareth.
“Where is she?"
“She's coming. On our way back from the privy, she saw some herbs she wished to gather."
“She's alone?"
“Egosh and Meegan be with her.” As Brigit neared Gareth, she winked, then whispered, “He'll come around. Trust me.” She gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she passed by.
“Egosh and Meegan? Aye.” Tristan nodded.
“I'm so pleased you approve,” Brigit scoffed.
Tristan tensed, like he was fighting an urge to strangle her. Gareth hid his knowing smile and turned his attention to Brigit. As she bent to stir the fire, he wondered if she'd choose to lighten or further darken Tristan's foul mood. When Brigit cast Tristan a baleful glance, Gareth knew he need not wonder any longer.
“She does not fear the savage hounds?” Zeth asked.
“Nay,” Brigit said. “And they took to her as if she were one of their own kind. It appears as though she bids well with all types of surly beasts."
“I've had quite enough of you bitter-sweetness, Brigit.” Tristan grumbled. “More than I care to take, indeed. Zeth, Colin gather the supplies. I'll fetch Seerah. We've dallied here long enough.” He turned to leave and almost plowed into Seerah.
* * * *
Seerah stood just beyond the threshold, blocking his path. “I fear we'll not be leaving here this night,” she said.
“And, why might that be?” Tristan scowled down at her.
“A fierce storm approaches. Notice the sky. ‘Tis teeming with wickedness. ‘Tis certain I am that ill-fate will befall us if we leave the shelter of Brigit's cottage."
“'Tis nonsense and I'll not hear any more of it. I give the orders, not you, or anyone else. We are leaving.” Tristan took a menacing step forward. The two wolfhounds by Seerah's sides hunkered down and growled at him.
“Heel, Egosh, Meegan,” Tristan ordered, holding his hand out to Egosh. The male wolfhound snapped and growled ferociously. “What's wrong with them, Brigit? They treat me as an enemy.” Tristan took another step forward and the dogs barked with alarm.
“It appears as though they agree with Seerah. If you are set on leaving here this night, ‘twill be on your own,” Brigit called.
“Go on, Egosh, Meegan. He'll not take me by force. Will you, Tristan?” Seerah asked.
“I've pledged to protect you with me life. I'll do as I see fit!” He replied.
Both dogs circled Seerah and barked, snapping furiously at Tristan.
“Please, calm yourself Tristan. They sense your anger be directed at me. They know not of your irritable bowel,” Seerah whispered.
“I have no such affliction,” Tristan muttered. “Brigit thinks to humble me with such talk in front of me men. ‘Tis also her way of getting back at me for not visiting more often. Irritable bowel, indeed."
Seerah wagged her index finger at him. “Well, you should not bring ... company by. Or kiss other lasses. ‘Tis disrespectful. And, you really should spend more time with her. Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Brigit is a beautiful, caring woman, Tristan. If you would just learn not to be so brisk. You should have greeted her kindly. Mayhap bring her a gift now and again. And, a little affection would go a long way."
Frustrated beyond measure, Tristan felt the muscles in his face twitch as he tried to restrain his growing temper. “You know not what you speak of, Seerah. Brigit has no need of affection from me."
“Och—she does, so,” Seerah whispered fervently. “Everyone needs affection, Tristan! When you be ... well, alone together. Do you not embrace her and whisper sweet words in her ear?"
“Certainly not! And, you have no idea of what you be talking about."
“Oh, but I do. Most certainly.” Seerah nodded. “I learned all about the intimacies between men and women when I was but a wee lass of seven. ‘Twas the first time I helped deliver a bairn."
Despite his growing frustration, Tristan couldn't help being curious. Crossing his arms over his chest, he cocked his brow at her. “Oh? Do tell."
“Well, when Maureen MacBain began her laboring, I was the only one around to help. I had no idea what to do. Why, I feared for her life. Alas, she'd born three other children and she was na’ feared a'tall. Actually, she acted quite dauntless.” When Seerah tilted her head, Tristan noticed the fond, far away look glazing her eyes.
“She told me exactly what to do,” Seerah continued. “Honestly, though, I did na’ do anything special compared to what she did. She was so brave, and quite cheerful under the circumstances. Once the miracle had come to pass, I was filled with joy and I so wanted to have a child of me own. ‘Twas all I spoke of for days.” She chuckled. “Aye, Gran finally decided to tell me how babes came to be.” Pausing she glanced timidly up at Tristan, then quickly averted her eyes to her hands. “I still find the whole notion to be quite unsettling. I mean, to endure such trials of the flesh, then suffer the trauma of child-bearing.” Seerah trembled. “For some, bringing forth life is quite hazardous. Why, I've seen many a lass nearly die from the pain. ‘Tis the burden of women I suppose.” She shrugged. “But, Gran assured me that the right man would be gentle and speak kind words of love when he sheathed his..."
“Seerah!” Tristan bellowed, unable to hide his dismay at her candid manner.
“Aye!” Startled, Seerah blinked innocently up at him. “Do you na’ ... speak kind words of love when you be alone with Brigit?"
“Certainly not!” Tristan scowled.
“Och! Why does the thought of uttering kind words to a woman distress you so? Oooh! You behave as if you have no desire or...” Seerah faltered. A shocked, knowing look crossed her face, “Oh—be you plague by a flaccid member as well as irritable bowel, Tristan?"
Stunned by Seerah's bluntness, and utterly appalled by her absurd speculation, Tristan felt his face grow hot.
“Do you suffer such an ailment Tristan?” Brigit moved to the doorway. “Speak up. Seerah's a healer, mayhap she can remedy such an affliction."
Turning ever so slowly, Tristan glared at Brigit. “If you were na’ me sister, I would take you across me lap and throttle you within an inch of your life!” Disregarding the hounds, he strode past Seerah and marched off into the night.
“You and what army, little brother?” Brigit chuckled.
* * * *
“B-brother?” Seerah stammered.
“Aye.” Brigit smiled. “And, have no fear. According to some of the more generous young lasses around these parts, Tristan suffers no such ailment.” Brigit smiled.
Gareth and the other warriors snickered.
“Oh, dear. They heard everything? I've embarrassed Tristan horribly, and in front of his men.” Seerah shook her head with despair.
“Aye.” Brigit nodded. “'Tis not a simple feat. You should be proud. He's been a might arrogant and pushy as of late. Why if Mother still lived...” Brigit faltered.
Seerah groaned. “You truly be his sister, then? I thought..."
“Aye, I know what you thought. Me ... his wife.” Brigit giggled. “'Tis what made your conversation so amusing. Come. I'll tell you everything you need to know about me loving, baby brother.” Brigit locked her arm in Seerah's.
“But.” Seerah peered back over her shoulder into the darkness.
“He needs time alone, to calm down. He'll come back.” With a wave of her arm Brigit dismissed the hounds, then ushered Seerah inside and closed the door.
Chapter Seventeen
“Make yourself to home and I'll fix you something to eat.” Brigit motioned to a chair Colin was already occupying. “Have none of you any manners? Colin, move your fat rump and offer Seerah your seat. Greum, take her cloak and hang it on the wall. Zeth, fetch the lass something to drink, then you all best pull up a mat and get some rest. I have a feeling you'll be needing it. Gareth—"
“Stoke the fire?” Gareth smiled.
“Aye.” Brigit chuckled.
Colin relinquished his chair to Seerah. Then, muttering beneath his breath, he moved to the far side of the room where he sank down in the corner and closed his eyes.
Brigit handed Seerah a heaping trencher of food. “There now,” she said, as Zeth and Greum hurried to do her bidding.
“Thank you, Brigit. I'm most grateful.” Seerah placed the trencher it in her lap.
“Go on with you, now,” Brigit said. “You're more than welcome to whatever I have. If there's anything else you'll be needin', help yourself. We do na’ stand on ceremonies, here. Do we, lads?"
The warriors grinned and shook their heads in reply.
Brigit smiled. “See?” She winked at Seerah. “How about a spot of me homemade Irish whiskey to go with me fine mutton stew?"
“Thank you, but I've no head for spirits. Water is fine."
“Well, dig in, then. That food isn't going to get any hotter sitting ‘round waiting for you to eat it."
Seerah smiled and lifted her spoon to her mouth. “Mmmm.” She chewed slowly, savoring the tasty fare. “Delicious it is, indeed."
Brigit beamed. “Och. Did you expect anything less?"
“Nay.” Seerah chuckled and lifted the spoon to her mouth again. She devoured the small portion of stew, then frowned thoughtfully. “I am curious, though. How did you come to be alone here, in Ireland, without any kin, and with Tristan off in Scotland?"
“Well...” Brigit glanced at the warriors.
The men glanced seriously from one to another looking as if they had been asked to divulge some deep dark secret. Finally, Gareth nodded as if granting his permission
When Brigit gazed into the fire, she sighed warily as if fighting some inner torment.
“'Tis obvious the subject causes you great pain,” Seerah said. “I'm sorry. I did na’ mean to pry. ‘Tis just ... I have na’ seen me own parents since I was barely five. I remember little about them, and I've no brothers or sisters. I thought—sometimes I wonder...” She shrugged.
“Of course you do.” A look of understanding lit Brigit's eyes. She smiled and nodded like a doting grandmother. “Do na’ censure yourself so. Wondering and asking questions be the only way to learn what you need to know.” She sat in the chair opposite Seerah. Then, in a manner that seemed almost second nature, she pulled some dry rushes from a basket beneath her seat. Without looking down, she placed them in her lap and began weaving them together. “And you do need to know about the past to better understand Tristan. It all just seems so very long ago."
“He's suffered greatly,” Seerah commented.
“Aye. He has.” Brigit said, a curious frown creasing her face.
“He's told you then? About his past?"
“Nay. Tristan is na’ the type. I doubt he even realizes how much his past rules his fate, or how much his need for revenge dominates his every action,” Seerah said.
“Aye, ‘tis true. But ... how could you know such things if he did not tell you about..."
Seerah shrugged. “I ... I've seen—things. I've also experienced the pain he carries deep in his soul. I know someone close to him betrayed him. And I know that he seeks vengeance, but why and against whom remains a mystery."
“Indeed,” Brigit whispered, her fingers diligently working the straw, almost of their own accord. “Hmmm. You've the sight then?"
“In a manner of speaking, Aye,” Seerah began. “Me powers and spells often seem to have a mind of their own, though. The only knowledge concerning Tristan that I've gained from me visions is that he suffers greatly. I believe I could help him if only ... Please, Brigit, tell me what you can. Mayhap you words will shed light on what I've already come to know about Tristan."
“Aye. Mayhap, indeed.” Brigit nodded, then launched into the story about her and Tristan's past. “Twas our older brother, D-De ... forgive me, but even after all these years I can na’ seem to bring meself to utter the evil bastard's given name.
Seerah's eyes went wide with utter disbelief. “His own brother betrayed him? How? Why? I can na’ image any human-being—"
“'Tis where you are wrong. Our brother is na’ human. The devil's own spawn he is.” Brigit nodded curtly. “Why, I'd wager that he's the spitting image of the Norse raider who raped our dear mother, Kaleah O'Malley, and left her for dead when she was barely ten and three."
“Faith!” Seerah gasped.
“Indeed,” Brigit said. “And despite the consequences of his birth, our mother tried to love her eldest son. Aye, she truly did. But she never quite found the strength in her heart. Even after she married me own father, a kindly man by the name of Dennis Donahue, she just couldn't bring herself to love her first-born child like a mother should."
“Donahue?” Seerah asked. “But I thought ... You call yourself Kincaid."
“Aye. I was barely a sparkle in me da's eyes when the fever took him. Rinald Kincaid, Tristan's father, accepted me as his own though. Our half-brother as well.” Brigit paused, a woeful look seeming to dampen her already cheerless expression. “The lad took to Rinald, too. Well, for a time. It wasn't until Tristan's birth that his true evilness began to show itself. He hid his feelings well from our mother, and Rinald as well. But I always knew he was sorely jealous of Tristan.” Brigit pulled harshly at the straw, her hands working swiftly now, with a brutal, almost punishing energy. “And Tristan idolized him. Even after his attempt to murder Tristan."
Seerah's hand flew to her mouth, stifling her astonished gasp. “Murder? His own brother?"
“Aye.” Brigit sighed heavily. “'Tis not even the worst of his misdeeds. But at the time, even though a young lass had witnessed his attempt to push Tristan off a high cliff, Tristan refused to believe him capable. When the elders of the clan sentenced him to death, Tristan helped him escape. He was such and innocent lad then. So full of love and...” Brigit wagged her head with apparent regret.
“When Tristan was but nine summers old, he developed a serious crush on a bonny lass named Catrin. Even at her young age, she was considered the most beautiful lass among the clan. This became one more thorn in our brother's side. Catrin was much too young for him. And she showed no interest in him a'tall. Even back then ‘twas believed Tristan and Catrin would one day wed."
Seerah asked, “Was she the lass—the witness to your brother's attempt on Tristan's life?"
“Aye.” Brigit nodded. “'Tristan believed she was merely being over-protective, and that her open dislike for our brother had somehow tainted her judgment. ‘Twas na’ until five years later, when Tristan learned the true extent of his evilness.” Brigit paused as if reflecting.
“Aye,” she whispered. “'Twas the summer Tristan turned five and nine. One day, after Tristan and I had ventured off high into the mountains to hunt and gather herbs, the raiders attacked. We did na’ learn until much later, when Tristan found his own dirk buried deep in Catrin's chest, that our brother had been a part of the raid. You see, Tristan had given the dirk to him, as a good luck charm, in the hopes that he would find happiness and one day return, so they could be brothers in the true sense of the word."
As Colin's soft snoring filtered through the room. Gareth, Zeth and Greum simply sat there listening, their solemn expressions suggesting the story was all too familiar.
Seerah swallowed hard, trying to hold back the tears threatening her already failing composure.
Brigit stared into the firelight, her hands working fervently, weaving the straw.
“Apparently, he always planned to return, one day—to slay Tristan. His hatred ran deeper than anyone could have imagined. When we returned from our herb collecting, the message was clear; only a select few had been harmed; Catrin had been raped and murdered; Rinald had been savagely beaten and hung; Kaleah had also been raped and murdered—his dirk remained embedded in her chest where he—the evil bastard—had carved out her heart."
Seerah fought to keep the emotion from her voice, to no avail. “H-how ... devastating,” her voice wavered and her lips trembled. “'Tis no wonder Tristan blames—"
“Aye, he blames himself. If he had not helped our brother to escape—"
“But there was no way he could have known how truly evil—was it then that Tristan struck out on his mission of revenge?"
“Aye. That very eve. I knew he was about something. I also knew that he'd never confide in me because I would have tried to talk him out of it, or insisted on going with him. As it was, when night fell and Tristan crept away in the darkness, I took all I could carry and followed after him. When we arrived at the docks near Donrobin, however, word of raiders had already spread. So many people crowded the area, all hoping to gain passage before the raiders could strike again. I lost sight of Tristan in the crush.
“Eventually I ended up in Eire, Baile Brigin, to be exact. And Tristan ... the skiff he was on got caught in a Norse ambush just off the coast of Eire, in St. George's Channel."
A vivid image flashed in Seerah's brain; she saw the ships and the raiders from her dream as clear as daylight. “Aye.” Seerah whispered. “I remember."
Chapter Eighteen
“You remember?” Brigit frowned.
“I-I do.” Seerah stammered. “I remember ... the raid. I was but a wee lass, barely five summers old when me family was set upon.” She blinked at the memories flooding her mind. “Why, everything happened so fast. When the raiders attacked, I became separated from me Gran. And I was just about to be run through when ... when Tristan saved me life."
Brigit's eyes went wide. Her hands stilled in her lap and she stared at Seerah in disbelief. “Tristan? It can na’ be so. There must have been dozens of—"
“'Twas indeed Tristan.” Seerah nodded. “Because of his courage then, the gods chose him to be me protector, now. Although I did not understand at the time, Gran told me that the Lord of Thunder was to help me on my journey. Aye, Tristan be the Lord of Thunder and the fates have brought us together, again. I'm most certain."
Brigit scrunched her face skeptically. “Lord of Thunder? Does Tristan know of this?"
Seerah nodded. “He's aware of the prophecy, but he does na’ believe. Tell me, what became of him after the raid?"
“He was captured and put aboard a Norse war-ship, the Odious, I believe.” Brigit looked from Seerah to the warriors, her gaze settling on Gareth.
Gareth nodded. “'Twas the very night I was born. ‘Tis also where Tristan, Colin and Greum first met the man who was to become our laird. Tristan, Colin, and Greum had been taken prisoner aboard the Odious," he explained. “According to what I was told years later, the laird was badly injured. Me own parents had been killed in the attack, but an old woman named Cordelia rescued me. There were many injured men and young lads. Tristan, Colin and Greum were among them. Cordelia saw to all of us as if we were her own flesh and blood. Eventually we all escaped the Norsemen, and most ended up at Gairloch castle with our laird. Cordelia as well."
“'Tis miraculous, indeed.” Seerah sighed with a sense of renewed hope. Then she glanced at Brigit. “But, what became of you?"
“I found work in Baile Brigin. And I waited, hoping and praying that Tristan would turn up. After I heard about the raid, however ... I lost all hope. ‘Tis when I met me dear-heart, Ryan McCarthy. He brought me here, where we lived and loved together as man and wife."
“You were married then?"
Brigit shook her head. “Not in the eyes of the church, but we were in our hearts. Aye, me Ryan was a looker, and a good man to boot. I loved him dearly, indeed, but he fell ill and died our first year together."
“I'm so sorry,” Seerah whispered.
“No need to be. It was our fate. I've all that I need here. And, if not for our brief time together I may never have found Tristan. ‘Twas almost five years later when Colin came knocking on me door carrying Tristan. Even bleeding and near to death I took one look at him and knew who he was. But it wasn't until after he recovered from his injuries that I realized how much he'd changed. Aye, he was quite different than I remembered—harder and colder. You see, to this day he has not forgiven..."
“Your half-brother?"
“Aye.” Brigit nodded. “But, more importantly he has not forgiven himself or accepted his fate. He still holds himself responsible for the deaths of our parents, and Catrin. And he seeks revenge with every fiber of his being. Why, hate and anger fester in his spirit like an infected wound. I was lucky. I found Ryan and his love helped me find peace. Tristan refuses to accept love from anyone, even from me. ‘Tis why he's so cross all the time. And ‘tis why I live here alone. Though I love Tristan, dearly, I find his temperament too harsh to bear for more than a day or two at a time."
Seerah sighed. “'Tis obvious that his heart needs to be healed,” she whispered.
“Aye.” Brigit nodded her agreement. “And believe me, I've tried to penetrate the thick walls he's built up, but..."
“'Tis a great task."
“Aye. Perhaps an impossible one."
Seerah smiled, warmly. “You do na’ believe that."
“Do na’ take me wrong. I love Tristan with all my heart and soul, but it drains me to be with him."
“Aye. I know what you mean, indeed.” Seerah chuckled.
Brigit nodded. “Aye. If only you had come to know Tristan afore. A joy he was, indeed. So full of life and love; he was a comfort to my heart even in his mischief."
“Aye.” Seerah smiled knowingly, then glanced at Gareth.
“Speaking of mischief, where is Cos—” Seerah began, but Gareth cut her off.
“I put your pouch in a safe place,” he assured her.
“Do not worry, your things be safe. Relax and eat. I've carried on so long your food be getting cold, your glass be empty, and the hearth flames have nearly died out.” Brigit turned to Gareth. “Be a dear and—"
“Stoke the fire?” Gareth said.
“Aye.” Brigit nodded, and cast him a suspicious glance. “What're you up to, now?"
“Me? Nothing a'tall. Twould be my pleasure to stoke your fire, milady,” Gareth offered his most charming smile and bowed graciously low, like a courtly gent.
“Hah! Go on with your brown nose, Gareth. I do na’ know what you be looking to gain, but I'll not be falling for your guileless ways this night,” Brigit scoffed.
“A brown-noser and guileless?” Gareth batted his eyes with feigned innocence. “Me?” He winked, then turned his attention to the dwindling fire.
“Aye. A charmer you are, indeed.” Brigit drawled. “'Tis no wonder Tristan be so much testier than usual. Do you charm Seerah the same way?"
Seerah shook her head vehemently and hurried to swallow the food in her mouth. “He does no such—"
“I was na’ talking to you, Seerah. Calm yourself and enjoy your meal. Gareth can speak for himself. Right, Gareth?"
When Gareth looked up from his task, Brigit fixed him with a hard, questioning look.
Seerah swallowed her next spoonful of stew with a loud gulp. “Perhaps I—"
“Hush, lass,” Brigit said, but she kept her gaze focused on Gareth. “You'll likely choke if you keep swallowing me mutton whole like that. And I've a poor hand at healing, so calm yourself, and let me speak with Gareth."
Zeth and Greum glanced warily at each other, then made themselves comfortable on some straw mats on the floor near Colin.
“Be you working your charms on Seerah, Gareth?” Brigit asked more pointedly, this time.
“Nay.” Gareth laid the metal poker against the hearth. “'Tis Tristan who's besotted as a young whelp. He denies this, of course, which only serves to blacken his temper. I fear his judgment has been sorely affected because of it."
“But, he believes you are a rival for Seerah's affections?"
“Aye.” Gareth nodded.
“Have you told him differently?"
“Aye. But, I also told him I would protect her from him."
“I see.” Brigit frowned.
“See what?” Seerah cried. “Gareth, a rival for my affections? ‘Tis pure nonsense. He's been friendly to me, nothing more. Besides, Tristan holds no affectionate feelings for me, nor I for him,” she protested.
“He kissed you Seerah,” Gareth said. “And do na’ bother denying it. He already confessed."
“B-but, I ... I—” Seerah's protest died on her lips.
Greum shifted against the floor, then lifted his head and gazed at Gareth. “He kissed her. He told you this?” Greum asked.
“I guessed, but he admitted it.” Gareth shrugged.
“How—” Greum frowned. “What led you to be suspicious?"
“I had ... a feeling."
“A feeling?” Brigit narrowed her brow in a skeptical manner. “What sort of feeling, Gareth?"
Gareth hesitated, his eyes searching the room, as if he might find the answer somewhere within. When his gaze settled on Seerah he said, “I noticed that she had an odd look about her after they passed through the moors.” He shrugged, then turned his back to the room and poked at the blazing fire.
“Exactly what kind of look might that be?” Brigit asked.
Gareth jabbed harshly the peat embers. “The look of a young lass who'd just been thoroughly kissed!"
Zeth sat up. “Aye, I noticed it as well. Come to think of it, Tristan looked odd too. Enchanted by love I'd say."
“You know that look well, do you, now?” Greum snorted. “A regular book of knowledge you are, about fairy-gibberish, witchery, and now, love as well."
“Hush. The both of you,” Brigit said. She studied Seerah for a moment. “Hmmm. I wonder,” Brigit said. “Tell the truth, now, Seerah. Be you casting some love spell on our Tristan?"
“Nay! I swear it. At least ... I do na’ think so."
“Spell? You know she's a witch?” Zeth asked.
“Aye, she came right out and told me, don'cha know?” Brigit shrugged. “Now, Seerah, what do you mean, you do na’ think so. Either you be casting a spell on him or not. Which is it?"
“I ... I'm not purposely casting a spell on him.” Seerah stammered. “But ... well, me powers do tend to be a bit contrary at times.” She grimaced.
“Contrary?” Brigit asked. “Contrary, how?"
“Well, they do na’ always behave in the manner I wish."
“Tell me,” Brigit said, “exactly what happened when Tristan kissed you."
“I—” Seerah swallowed. “I had a vision. I saw images from me own past. I also saw images from Tristan's past. I did na’ understand them until you enlightened me this evening, but they make much more sense, now. I believe that I saw images of the future. Though I need Tristan to accompany me on me quest, he needs me as well. ‘Tis the essence of me vision."
“Aye, a vision, a quest, but ... tell me, Seerah, what did you feel when Tristan kissed you!” Brigit demanded.
“What did I feel?” Seerah's eyes went wide and her mouth fell open. She couldn't possibly tell Tristan's own sister and his warriors how wondrous and magical kissing Tristan been. It was shameful the way her body had reacted to his touch. Her face grew warm at the memory.
“Out with it lass,” Brigit ordered.
Seerah swallowed hard. “Why, I felt ... warm. And ... sort of tingly. Dizzy and—"
“A nice dizzy? Or the way you feel when you be about to retch?” Brigit asked.
“Retch?” Seerah grimaced. She certainly hadn't felt ill when Tristan kissed her; she'd felt alive and desirable. But she wasn't about to admit that. “Uh ... no. It was a rather nice sort of dizziness, I suppose."
“That's good.” Brigit nodded.
Gareth threw his hands in the air, a look of utter dismay lighting his face. “What's so good about the fact that kissing Tristan did not make the lass wish to heave her innards?"
“Men!” Brigit huffed. “It means that she's attracted to him. ‘Tis a good sign, indeed. The fact that Tristan has been insufferable ever since Seerah came to join you, that be a good sign as well."
“Oh?” Gareth puzzled over Brigit's words for a moment. “Oh. Aye.” He nodded, slowly.
“Nay!” Seerah jumped to her feet in protest. “I do na wish to be ... attracted to him. I have no desire...” she faltered as the empty trencher in her lap fell the floor.
Brigit set her weaving aside and retrieved the wood tray. “Pshaw. You have plenty of desire. You simply do na’ know it, yet. ‘Tis obvious you be too busy butting heads with Tristan to know what you feel, or what to do about it. But I do.” She winked at Seerah. “Do na’ worry. Trust me."
* * * *
“S-Sir Nevil?” Ansel panted, breathlessly. “W-wake up, sir ... I've good news."
Nevil opened one eye. “For what lame reason do you disturb my slumber?” he grumbled. “Have you found another goblin?” He closed his eye and rolled from his back to his side.
“Nay, Sir. ‘Tis important. There be a cottage in a clearing, just south of here,” Ansel whispered.
Nevil lifted his head and looked over his shoulder. “A cottage?” He scowled at Ansel. “That's your important news? If I wasn't so weary I'd slay you now, just to rid myself of your stupidity. Be gone!” Nevil lowered his head to the ground and tugged his mantle tightly about his body.
“But, Sir. I also saw five war-horses tethered outside."
Nevil didn't move. “Tristan?"
“Aye."
Nevil threw off his mantle and awkwardly stumbled to his feet. “Why didn't you say that sooner? How far?"
“Still a good distance from here. The moon has risen quite high since I first left. Do you wish to storm the cottage?"
“You simple-minded buffoon!” Nevil raised his hand as if to strike. Then he stole an anxious look over his shoulder in Helig's direction. The giant sat a good distance away, near the dwindling fire, staring up at the sky. “Damn the oaf!” Nevil released a bitter sigh and lowered his arm. “Of course I wish to storm the cottage!"
Narrowing his eyes, Nevil crowded close to Ansel until they stood practically nose to nose. “Unfortunately, we've not enough men to execute a surprise attack. No thanks to you!"
The foul aroma of Nevil's hot, stale breath reminded Ansel of dead bodies rotting in the sun. He trembled, sweat dampening his forehead as he held his breath and fought the overwhelming urge to vomit.
“Ready the horses, now!” Nevil turned on his heel and strode away.
“Aye, Sir."
Helig rose and lumbered towards Ansel. Helig's eyes seemed to shift with a look of distress. He pounded his chest several times with his fist, then pointed to the sky and opened his mouth as if to speak. His face contorted with effort, but the only sound he expressed was a wounded cry.
Looking up at the sky Ansel frowned with concern.
“Aye, Helig. I see."
“What? What do you see that distresses that ox-of-a-man so?"
Swallowing hard, Ansel turned to address Nevil. “'Twill displease you milord."
“Since when has that promise earned your silence? Tell me."
“'Tis the sky."
Nevil looked up. “A few dark storm clouds. They're moving rapidly. The squall will pass swiftly. I don't see why this should cause such alarm."
“Uh ... ‘tis no simple storm of nature, Sir. But rather...” Ansel faltered beneath Nevil's warning glare. “Notice how dense and angry the clouds be. The air is teeming with evil. Helig believes that wicked spirits be out and about seeking revenge."
“Of course.” Nevil sighed. “Unfortunately, the way my luck is holding out, I'll likely be spared. What worse punishment could I possibly endure that would compare to being stuck with you and your superstitious chatter?"
“A curse could befall you, Sir."
“One already has!"
* * * *
As Tristan stormed through the forest, images of Seerah's concerned expression as she spoke of his supposed ailments kept flashing through his mind. As usual, Brigit's remarks had only served to make matters worse. Tristan knew she was likely having a good laugh at his expense.
Not that Brigit was ever any help in such matters. She thoroughly enjoyed bossing him around like a young whelp, and embarrassing him. She always had. The foolish thought was maddening.
The only thing more humiliating was knowing that Seerah believed he was inept as a man. What she thought of him shouldn't matter to him one way or another, but it did. As he stalked aimlessly through the thick brush, it became painfully clear that he was losing control of his emotions and his ability to make sound judgments. Worse yet, Gareth's earlier words cut closer to the truth than Tristan cared to admit.
Aye, it angered him greatly the way Seerah and Gareth responded to one another. However, when Tristan recalled how beautiful Seerah had looked when she first appeared from the ring fort at the Dana village, the bluster went right out of him. He stopped walking, and sighed raggedly. “A daft witch, indeed. ‘Tis more likely she's an ingenious enchantress,” he grumbled.
The steady crunching sound of dry leaves suddenly invaded his troublesome thoughts. Tristan instinctively crouched down near an oak stump, and he peered into the murky evening gloom. The mist seemed to roll in suddenly, blanketing the forest and making it nearly impossible for Tristan to see even the trees and shrubs directly in front of him. He remained still, waiting and listening.
“Tristan will not elude me this time!” A man's voice echoed through the mist.
“If the lass truly be a witch, she could very well be long from here,” a second man replied. “'Tis most likely that the amulet you seek is a sorcerer's talisman. I've heard tell that such charms can wield enough power to allow its bearer to change form. Why, she could be a rabbit or a deer and pass through the forest without our notice. Mayhap, she turned into a dove and flew away from the crumbling inn in Dingle. Aye, I know one thing for certain—if Tristan and his men had been there, it was magic that kept them hidden from us, Sir Nevil. The structure was so rotted and old, it was obvious none have dwelled there in years. And, you saw for yourself there was no place to hide. Helig thinks..."
“Silence!” Nevil growled softly.
Tristan scowled into the darkness. Sir Nevil, indeed! And Helig the ogre? A strange alliance most certainly. How could they know of the amulet? And what of the inn in Dingle? Tristan mused, but his questioning thoughts were swiftly interrupted.
Nevil said, “You insufferable twit, Ansel. Did it ever occur to you that, maybe, your incessant blubbering is what allowed Tristan to make a clean get away? They were at the inn. I'm certain. The box Helig found was proof enough of that. Now, listen to me, and listen well. Helig is but an oaf. And the girl is ... not your concern. However, the amethyst charm is of great value and our Lord Viper wants it at all costs."
“He also wants the girl,” Ansel contended.
“As a bonus,” Nevil groused, impatiently. “He's a virile man, with hearty appetites."
“But, ‘tis been rumored by many that he holds a beautiful red-haired lass captive in his tower to quench his ... appetites."
“That he does,” Nevil said. “A wench of supreme beauty, indeed."
“Have you actually seen her, then?” Ansel said.
“I have. Only once, though, when Lord Viper first captured her and brought her to Lochinver keep. That was nearly two decades ago, but she still exists, I'm certain. Sometimes, late at night, her shrill cries pierce the tower walls. She's a rare beauty indeed, with her flowing red hair and green eyes. She's also a veritable shrew, however, so Lord Viper keeps her drugged, and under lock and key. He obviously seeks a younger, less demanding captive as a distraction. Do you not understand the pleasures of the female flesh, or do you simply find men more to your liking, Ansel?” Nevil jeered.
“I like lasses just fine, Sir."
“Have you ever raped one?” Nevil asked, his voice heavy and thick like a seductive purr.
“Nay, Sir."
“Then you don't know what you're missing. To overpower another living being, and take from it what you will. Why, that's the most exhilarating feelings a man can ever know. After we slay Tristan and his men, I may allow you to take a turn with the girl. After I have my fun with her, first, of course."
“Aye, Sir,” Ansel replied.
“Aye? Indeed,” Nevil said. “Why, you've no idea what a great gift I've just offered you, have you? I wager you've never even bedded a wench, willing or nay. Well, we'll have to remedy that—and soon.” The eerie sound of Nevil's laughter echoed through the forest, then faded like a ghostly whisper carried swiftly away on the wings of shadows.
Tristan made to follow the sound, but the mist receded so rapidly he froze to keep from being seen. Ever so slowly, his hand sought the hilt of his sword as he scrutinized the surrounding area. It was as if the gods had exhaled a mighty breath, blowing the mist away like a puff of smoke. Tristan scanned the outcroppings of trees and bushes for any sign of Nevil's presence. He saw nothing. Heard nothing. Certain that Nevil had been near enough to strike, Tristan surveyed the immediate area, but he found no tracks in the dirt, not even a snapped twig or a swaying branch remained.
The notion seemed impossible, for the voices had been as clear as if they'd been coming from inside his own head.
The sound of rustling leaves brought Tristan reeling swiftly to his left. He crouched in a defensive stance, one hand resting on the hilt of his broadsword as he drew a jeweled dagger from its sheath with the other. A moment passed in silence, then the same rustling noise sounded from the opposite direction. Tristan whirled around and drew his sword. He caught the slightest movement out of the corner of his eye and whirled around again. When his eyes settled on the small creature scampering toward him through the leaves, Tristan's face fell. “Cosmo?"
The ferret's black eyes seemed to twinkle in the darkness. Then he appeared to wink and flash his shiny white teeth as if smiling.
“Wretched animal,” Tristan whispered. “Do you na’ know how dangerous it is to sneak about in such a manner? I almost ran you through with my dagger. Seerah would never forgive me had I done that. ‘Tis also likely ‘twas you've who alerted Nevil to my presence.” He glanced furtively about, then scowled at Cosmo. “We best be off before you get me killed."
Cosmo appeared to nod his head in agreement.
“And, quit that. It makes me wary when you act as if you understand me."
Cosmo appeared to wink again.
Tristan shook his head in disbelief. “First I see whiskered little men in the forest and now I'm talking to animals? I've gone daft, indeed,” he muttered.
When Cosmo turned and headed off, Tristan couldn't help noticing the way the dry forest leaves remained still and quiet as the ferret seemed to vanish like a ghost in the mist—only no mist remained. As Tristan treaded stealthily through the forest, he puzzled over the ferret's odd presence, as well as Nevil's mysterious lack thereof.
Chapter Nineteen
“So, Seerah, what do you think causes your powers to be contrary?” Brigit asked, from her seat by the hearth.
Seerah shrugged. “I know not for certain.” She gazed aimlessly about the room, where hand-coiled mats made from rye straw and plaited marram grass lay strewn about the clay floor. Straw baskets littered shelves and dry, woven rushes adorned the cottage walls. “Your weaving is impressive,” she said.
“Thank you,” Brigit said, noting how easily Seerah had been distracted from the question at hand. “There be little else to do here most of the time."
“What manner of decoration be they?” Seerah stood and moved to study one of the larger, star-shaped weavings.
“That one be called the witch's eye. The others be simple crosses, but they all be considered charms,” Brigit explained.
“Witch's eye?” Seerah asked, turning to gaze at Brigit.
“Aye. Me brother would say I'm touched by superstitions, but I believe in their power.” Brigit moved to the front door. “See the horseshoe nailed above the door?” She pointed up at the framework. “It brings good fortune if you nail it up like so. Otherwise the luck will run out the ends."
Next, Brigit moved to the hearth and removed a small charm from a peg in the wall. “A flint pebble suspended by a string through a natural hole in the stone, like this one, is called a witch stone. Like the witch eye, ‘tis the symbol of an ever watchful eye. You claim to be a witch, yet you've never seen such things?"
Seerah inclined her head thoughtfully and shrugged. “I suppose there be many different types of sorcery and witchery. I was taught to say vows to the ancestral spirit of the sacred hilltop, and to pay rounds at the well for purification, healing and fertility. We celebrate the festival of Lughnasadh, May Eve, and Samhain. We pray to Dagdha, the good, to Lug, the god of light god, and to Manannan the Irish Sea god. We also honor the trees. ‘Tis believed that they have magical qualities. They also signify knowledge."
Seerah moved about the room, touching and admiring the different decorations. “The rowan, or fairy thorn, the holly, elderberry and white-thorn especially,” she continued. “White blossoms signify spring's approach and the end of killing frost. Red berries be a token signifying the fulfillment of harvest and the promise of renewed life."
Turning she gazed into the fire. “Until I came to be with me aunt, I lived with Gran amidst a clan of Celtic tinkers and traders, most of whom practice the Druid ways. Some carried charms, but we lived mostly out of doors and had nowhere to display such finery. At the inn, in Dingle, Aunt Lilybet often hung dried twigs of rowan about, but none were as comely as these. At night, she always dropped a hot ember from the hearth into the foot-water before she smoored the fire. And she always removed the band from the spinning wheel—to make the house safe from mischievous fairies. Or so she said.” Seerah shrugged. “Some would say ‘tis no more than wives tales and folklore.” She sighed and glanced over her shoulder at Brigit.
“Not I,” Brigit said. “A God-fearing Christian I am, but I've a great deal of faith in fairy magic and the like.” She pulled at the string about her neck to reveal a small limestone. “Since birth, I've worn this witch stone about my neck to protect me from evil. Despite some minor misfortunes, I believe it has kept me safe."
Moving in closer, Seerah studied the charm. “Gran wore a similar cross, but she never called it a witch stone."
“Mayhap it's considered unflattering or vain for witches to refer to their keepsakes as such. Have you no charms of your own?"
“Only a pendant. ‘Tis my mother's.” Seerah pulled the amethyst charm from beneath her tunic.
Brigit's eyes widened. “'Tis lovely and impressive, indeed. Be it powerful?"
Seerah shrugged. “Only to one who can command it. It seems to work much better when Cosmo is near me.” Turning suddenly, she frowned at Gareth, who sat poking the fire. “Gareth, where is Cosmo?"
“Cosmo?” Brigit asked.
Gareth stood abruptly and walked over to Brigit. “Cosmo be Seerah's pet. He's in the pouch near Colin, but I fear his presence will na’ please you,” he warned. To Seerah he whispered, “She has an aversion to..."
Brigit screamed and jumped up into the seat of her chair. “A rat? You allowed a rat to enter me house? Get it out, Gareth. Get it out, now!” she demanded.
“Please calm yourself, Brigit. He's a ferret, not a rat,” Seerah explained. She slanted a chastising gaze at Gareth as she walked over and picked up the pouch.
“Rat, ferret?” Gareth shrugged. “They're all the same to Brigit.” He sighed, then went back to his spot by the hearth where he took up his task of poking the fire.
“He's very’ tame.” Seerah pulled Cosmo from the leather pouch.
Brigit grimaced and trembled visibly as she hugged herself. “He l-looks like a r-rat to me. And r-rats be evil. They cause f-famine and disease."
“Rats, aye. But ferrets be very clean and intelligent. Cosmo.” Seerah nudged him awake. “Show Brigit how very clever you be."
Cosmo yawned and stretched, then, sluggishly looked up at Brigit. After a moment, he twitched his nose and winked.
Brigit gasped. “W-will you look at that. H-he looks to be almost—almost human."
After a final stretch, Cosmo leapt gracefully to the ground and scurried over to where Colin lay sleeping. Carefully pulling Colin's pouch from his leather waistband, Cosmo unfastened the string and quickly devoured the contents of dried meat.
“The devil he is,” Brigit whispered.
“Nay, mischievous is all. Come Cosmo, you know how grumpy Colin gets when you steal his fodder."
Cosmo obediently scampered back to Seerah. “Tristan likes Cosmo not.” She picked him up. “But, as I said, Cosmo's presence seems to help me powers. Would you like to hold him?"
Brigit hesitantly reached out her hand to pet him. When Cosmo lowered his head submissively, Brigit flinched. “Oh!"
“Fear not, he likes you.” Seerah nodded.
“H-how do you know?"
“Well, he's not bared his teeth at you."
Brigit pulled her hand back. “He does that?"
“Actually, he's only done it once as I recall, and that was directed at Tristan."
“You don't say! Well then...” Brigit chuckled and stepped down from the chair. “He must be clever, indeed. Hand him to me, Seerah. If you do na’ think he'll mind."
Seerah smiled and laid Cosmo across Brigit's palms.
“He's so soft.” Cuddling him close, Brigit rubbed her cheek against his fur. “No wonder he's a comfort to you.” She reseated herself in her chair. “Now, about you powers. Is it possible that mayhap ... you lack ... concentration?"
“I doubt that. Sometimes I try so hard to concentrate that I fear my head will explode, yet my powers elude me. ‘Tis only been most recently that I have...” Seerah faltered.
“Aye?” Brigit prodded.
“I'm most certain I caused Colin to speak with my mind. And I know I made Uncle Marcus's shillelagh assault Tristan,” Seerah winced at the memory.
“Did you now?” Brigit laughed. “Do you have a mind of how you did that? I'd like to try it meself."
Seerah gazed at Colin's sleeping form. “When I caused Colin to speak, I was angered because he'd called me a saucy wench.” Placing her hands on her hips, she turned towards Brigit again. “As far as Uncle Marcus’ Shillelagh, I was quite annoyed with Tristan when he refused to believe me. And, just afore we came to be here, Tristan said some very hurtful things to me.” Seerah narrowed her brows at the memory.
“And, what did you do?” Brigit charged.
“I ... I slapped his face,” Seerah cringed.
“As you well should have.” Brigit gave a curt nod of approval, then glanced curiously from Gareth to Seerah. “What happened then? How did Tristan respond?"
“Well.” Seerah's brow was tightly knit as she tried to recalled the incident. Raising her right hand, she went on, “He grabbed my wrist so I could not hit him again. I was so furious.” She closed her eyes and curled her hand into a tight fist. “I wanted to strike him a mighty blow, but he was squeezing me ... me hand!” Seerah opened her eyes and flexed her fingers. “Why, the flash of lightening that frightened Igneous—it came from me. Through my fingers somehow, I think.” She wiggled her fingers curiously.
“I see. Maybe ‘tis not your powers that be contrary, but your feelings,” Brigit commented. “Hmmm. You said you had a clear vision when Tristan kissed you."
“Aye. The clearest vision yet, but—"
“Do you not see? When your emotions be focused, so are you powers. Aye, anger definitely works."
“But I was not angry when Tristan kissed me,” Seerah argued.
“Not angry, but passionate. Aye, passion is the key.” Brigit declared with a curt nod.
“P-passion? Nay!” Seerah protested.
“Aye, passion.” Brigit nodded. “Apparently it allows you to focus. Though it sounds as if you be most passionate when you be angered, such negative energy must be draining."
“Indeed. ‘Tis how I've felt ever since I began this journey. At first, I did na’ understand why I felt compelled to trust Tristan. I know, now, ‘tis because of our past. I was only a wee lass when the Norsemen assaulted my people, but apparently our fates have been intertwined ever since. Though Gran told me that the gods chose him be my protector ... I can na’ help thinking that I'm meant to help him, as well, somehow. He tries my patience unduly. And, weary I am indeed, thanks to Tristan, but I know he needs me. Why, if not for Gareth...” Seerah glanced curiously at Gareth's back. “Gareth,” she whispered.
“What of Gareth?” Brigit frowned, but Seerah ignored her and went to stand behind him.
“Gareth?” Seerah summoned.
“Aye?” Gareth hesitantly looked up at Seerah.
“Come here, please.” She held out her hand.
“I'm busy,” Gareth poked at the fire again.
“What be you so anxious about all of a sudden, Gareth?” Brigit charged.
“All this talk of witchery makes me uneasy,” Gareth replied.
“Since when?” Brigit balked. “For as far back as I can remember, you were the only one who never called me ways superstitious. Why, you used to help me weave my crosses and eyes when the others were not around."
Gareth glared at Brigit. “You swore to keep that a secret. Why, the others will call me a lass if they ever find out,” he complained.
“But, they be sleeping now, and Seerah will na’ tell. Will you Seerah?” Brigit winked at Seerah.
Seerah smiled. “Of course not. If you come to me now, that is."
“I can na'.” Gareth refused.
“Why?” Brigit demanded.
“Ever since Seerah came to be with us, I've felt ... peculiar. I've had dreams. I've seen strange things. I know things I have no right to know. And, I argue with Tristan. Why, we almost drew swords."
“Because you care for Seerah?” Brigit prodded.
“Aye, but not in the way Tristan thinks. ‘Tis more a ... a kindred feeling, like the way I feel toward you, Brigit. Only the bond between Seerah and I seems ... stronger. I became aware of it when we met Ecne and his people.” Gareth glanced at Seerah. His solemn expression seemed strained, like he wished to say more on the matter but didn't know how to explain.
Seerah nodded. “Aye. I know what you mean. I care for you deeply as well. I worried for you unduly when you and Colin went to scout the glen where Ecne ... the glen!” She gasped. “Gareth, did Colin find the village or did you?"
“It matters not,” Gareth replied. “Ecne—"
“Who be this Ecne?” Brigit asked, but Seerah waved her off.
“Gareth, who be your people?” Seerah asked.
“I do na’ know.” He shrugged. “I was newly born when they were ambushed and killed by Norse raiders. Cordelia became my guardian that night. She told me that my true mother was a brave lass. Beyond that the two were complete strangers."
Seerah pulled the amulet from beneath her collar. “Come here.” She held her other hand out to Gareth. “Please?"
Gareth hesitated, then held his hand out and advanced. When their hands touched, Seerah gasped. Gareth flinched and tried to retreat, but Seerah pulled him close, huddling against his chest in an intimate embrace.
“Seerah, you mustn't—” Gareth tried to free himself, but Seerah held fast.
“But ... I feel...” Seerah whispered and looked up. She smiled, her eyes filling with tears. Then she sighed breathlessly and placed a chaste kiss against his jaw. “You belong to me, Gareth."
Gareth relaxed. A look of calm settled on his face and he returned her warm embrace.
“'Tis touching, indeed.” Tristan muttered from the open doorway.
“Tristan?” Seerah whirled around. “You've misunderstood. I ... we—"
“I care na’ about what you have to say,” Tristan growled.
“Tristan!” Brigit jumped to her feet and advanced, cradling Cosmo in the crook of her arm.
“Leave off, Brigit.” Tristan stood there, his body as straight and rigid as a broadsword. “I've never raised a hand to you, or felt the need to. But I swear, do not try me this night!"
Colin, Zeth and Greum came abruptly awake. Jumping to their feet, they drew their daggers, prepared to do battle.
“Sheath your weapons!” Tristan ordered.
The warriors obeyed his command without hesitation, then glanced from one to another looking thoroughly confused.
“Tristan, you must listen to reason,” Gareth began.
“I must? Do you yet wish to draw swords with me, Gareth?” Tristan glowered.
Gareth's hand twitched at his side.
Brigit rushed to his side. “Gareth, no! ‘Twill serve naught but his foul—"
“Silence yourself, Brigit. He can answer for himself. Or can you?” Tristan said, offering them each a scathing glare.
Gareth sighed deeply and crossed his arms over his chest. “She speaks the truth. Drawing swords this night will serve no purpose. Tristan, you forget your own rule, to never let emotions rule your actions."
Tristan's body tensed. The muscles in his chest and arm twitching visibly with apparent restraint.
Seerah advanced and without thinking laid her hands against his chest. “Please calm yourself, Tristan. I beg of you, let me explain."
Tristan seized Seerah's wrists and shook her with jarring force. “Do not try to beguile me with your enchanting wiles. I will na’ be having any more of it this night.” He glared down at her. “We are leaving. Now!"
“Stop, Tristan. You are hurting me,” Seerah grimaced, and struggled to free herself. “And, we can na’ leave. I told you—"
Tristan forced her arms down against her sides and bent his head until there was barely a hair's breadth between their noses. “And, who's going to stop me?"
“Please, do na’ anger me, Tristan,” Seerah squirmed. “Be sensible and release me now afore ... afore I do something we'll both regret."
“A threat? Do tell. What exactly will you do, witch?” Tristan taunted.
Chapter Twenty
Cosmo leapt suddenly from Brigit's hands to Seerah shoulders.
“Oh!” Brigit cried, startled.
As Seerah glared back at Tristan, her body began to tremble.
Brigit scooted behind her chair, and cast Gareth an apprehensive glance.
Gareth, Colin, Zeth and Greum also backed away.
“Why, I'll...” Seerah casually glanced from Cosmo to the hearth, before returning her gaze to Tristan. “I'll guide that heavy iron pan into your thick Scot head. That's what I'll do!” she declared.
Tristan chuckled, then smiled cynically. “Do you worst, but do so quickly for I plan—” Tristan faltered as pain exploded in his head.
He closed his eyes and tried to shake the strange metallic ringing sound from his ears. When he finally opened his eyes, he stared incredulously at the iron pot hovering in mid-air. He swayed, released Seerah, and stumbled backwards. Then everything went black.
* * * *
Tristan fell to the floor and the pan crashed to the ground next to him with a resounding clang.
“I did it!” Seerah clapped her hands together with delight.
“Aye. That you did, now.” Awe and approval laced Brigit's voice as the warriors slowly gathered in a circle about Tristan.
“Is he dead?” Zeth asked.
“Dear me!” Seerah quickly fell to her knees and laid her ear against his chest. “Thank the gods, he breathes. I had na’ thought...” She glanced up at Brigit and the men. “I simply wished to show him."
“Aye. And show him you did. But good.” Brigit chuckled. “See? I told you, your powers are not contrary. Your feelings mayhap.” She gazed at Tristan and sighed.
“Do you think he'll remember what happened?” Gareth asked.
Brigit shrugged. “Mayhap. Mayhap not. But, he'll certainly have a fine ache in his head and a large knot on his skull in the morn. ‘Twill rekindle his foul mood either way."
“Aye.” Seerah nodded dismally then glanced at Gareth. “What are we to do?"
“Do na’ look to me. You be the one who laid him out,” Gareth grinned
“I ... he ... but...” Seerah fell silent, her panic-filled gaze coming to rest on Brigit.
“Leave him where he lays,” Brigit said. “Mayhap ‘twill do his stubborn hide some good to sleep on the cold floor. You best get some sleep, too, Seerah. And try not to worry. I fear tha ‘tis the best you can do."
* * * *
As Tristan stirred, he grew painfully aware of the dull throbbing sensation plaguing his skull. With a muffled groan he rolled to one side and cradled his aching head in his hands. When he finally pried his eyes open it took him a moment to gain his faculties, and to realize that he was lying on the cold cobbled floor in Brigit's cabin. He frowned with confusion and sat up—too quickly, he realized a moment too late when his head began to swim. “Damn and blast!” He muttered, then tried to focus his eyes on the hearth.
He heard the wind howling outside, and a sound like pebbles hitting the cottage exterior.
Tristan grunted with displeasure at the irritating noise, then he tried to recall how he'd come to be lying about on the floor with no mat or bedding.
A cold gust of air suddenly rushed down through the chimney chute. Ashes spewed forth and Brigit's hanging pans clanged together. Tristan held his hands over his ears and turned to study the undisturbed, sleeping forms of his warriors. He couldn't believe his eyes; not one of the men so much as flinched at the racket. When he glanced in the direction of Brigit's cot he scowled and rubbed his pained skull. He suspected that she was somehow to blame for his sorry condition, not to mention the obvious drunken state of his men.
Though he couldn't remember drinking, not even the tiniest drop of the potent whiskey Brigit kept hidden for special occasions, passing out dead drunk seemed the only reasonable explanation for his state; he knew from personal experience that one drop too much of her special Irish whiskey could induce the sleep of the dead.
Staring at Brigit's bed from where he sat on the floor, he frowned at the long tendrils of black hair flowing down toward the floor. Who? The realization hit him like a blast of cold air. “Seerah,” he grumbled.
Much to his surprise, Seerah turned in his direction. Her eyes were open and she seemed to be looking in his direction, but it was as if she was looking through him. When she rose slowly from the cot and padded to the door, Lilybet's words came to Tristan's mind, “Sometimes, she walks asleep don't you know.” Tristan rose awkwardly, steadied himself, then moved slowly toward Seerah.
She glanced over her shoulder, lifted the hem of her night-rail, then passed through the threshold. Tristan hurried forward and almost crashed into the wooden door. He frowned at the oak slat barring the door and rubbed his aching head. The pain seemed so real, yet he knew he must be dreaming. Seerah couldn't walk through wood doors. Or could she?
“Tris-tan. Help me, Tristan,” Seerah's soft, pleading voice seemed to beckon him from beyond the secured door. “Please, Tristan."
His muddled thoughts and aching head were no match for his sense of duty. He unbarred the door as quickly as he could and rushed outside. He looked left, then swiftly to his right. Dizziness washed over him, again, just as he glimpsed the ethereal white cloth of Seerah's night-rail receding into the darkness.
“Seerah!” he called, rushing forward. His head reeled and he stumbled.
“Tris-tan. Tris-taaan,” Seerah's pleading voice seemed to fade away, then he heard a splashing sound like something heavy had fallen in the well. Dazed, confused, and driven by a sense of fear for Seerah's safety, Tristan stumbled toward the well. He steadied himself against the well's stone wall and peered into the engulfing darkness.
“Seerah!” he yelled and swung his right leg over the edge.
“Tristan,” Seerah's voice seemed to echo back at him from the depths of the well.
“Tristan! No!” Brigit cried out, rushing forward from the shadows. She pulled at his arm with all her might. “Tristan! Wake up. Now!"
“I am awake.” He blinked at Brigit then frowned. “Seerah ... I must ... save Seerah.” He shoved her away and slowly swung his other leg over the wall.
“Tristan!” Seerah's shrill cry pierced the air.
Tristan and Brigit turned with a start as Seerah rushed forward. “I'm fine, Tristan. You were dreaming. I beg of you, come down from there afore you fall."
Tristan glanced down into the dark well, then back up at Seerah. “But, I saw you and I heard you call out to me. You were walking asleep.
Seerah shivered and glanced anxiously about. “We must get inside, quickly."
The wind picked up and Brigit hugged herself tightly. “Aye, I believe that blow you gave him loosened his brain a mite. Come now, Tristan. You see for yourself she's fine. Come along and..."
“Please hurry, Tristan,” Seerah tugged his arm, but Tristan was reluctant to move. “Help me, Brigit. We must get inside. There be wicked energy all around. I feel something evil closing in."
Brigit glanced warily about. “You heard her, Tristan. Move!” she ordered, grabbing hold of his other arm.
The two woman hurried toward the cottage as fast as they could, dragging a very confused and reluctant Tristan with them.
Just as the threesome gained the front door, Tristan stumbled to the ground on all fours. “Stop this nonsense!” he shouted, but Seerah was naught to obey. She grabbed Brigit by the arm and whirled her inside. Then, with all her might, Seerah shoved her foot against Tristan's backside.
“Oh!” Brigit cried, as she landed on her bottom in a cloud of dust.
Gareth, scrambled to his feet. “What—"
Colin and Greum jumped to their feet just in time to see Tristan land face down in Brigit's lap. “God's eyes!” he muttered into her skirts.
“Oh!” Brigit cried, shoving his head from between her legs.
“For the love of—” Tristan rolled to one side, cradling his skull.
Seerah nudged his ankle with her boot. “Move your feet, you big lout.” When he didn't respond quickly enough she kicked him, hard. “Now!"
Tristan flinched, instinctively drawing his knees up. “The Devil!” he muttered.
“Exactly,” Seerah replied. “'Tis what I've been trying to tell you all along. Help me, Gareth!” she cried, struggling to lift the heavy wooden slat.
Gareth shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “What happened?” he asked, as he hurried forward to help Seerah. The moment he lifted the bar into place Seerah ran in the opposite direction towards the hearth. Without saying a word she shoved past Colin and Greum, who were on their feet glancing anxiously about. Looking confused and concerned, they watched as Seerah hopped over Zeth's sleeping form, and skidded to a halt before the hearth. “Have you a closure in your chute to prevent the winds from coming in?"
Before anyone could answer, she was on her knees reaching up inside the chimney.
“Of course,” Brigit said. “But I closed it, as I do every—” The sound of the flue slamming shut cut her off. “Why, I was certain I closed it.” Leaning her elbow into Tristan's chest, Brigit used him for support as she got to her feet.
“Ugh!” Tristan groaned when her elbow jabbed him in the ribs. Than he moaned and he rolled to his side. “You must have forgotten. When first I woke,” he said, holding his head and closing his eyes, “a gust of wind blew down the chute and scattered ashes all around. ‘Twas moments before I saw Seerah...” He blinked his eyes open and tried to focus on the hearth.
“As you can see, the ashes lay quite undisturbed, Tristan” Brigit announced.
“Aye.” Seerah nodded her agreement.
When Tristan finally gained his feet he stood for a moment, like a novice sailor uncertain of his sea legs. He took a few clumsy steps, wobbled forward, then grasped the mantle to steady himself. “'Tis impossible. I saw..."
“Aye, you also said you saw Seerah. But she was inside sleeping while you were out hopping into the well, after God knows what!” Brigit declared.
“I fear...” Seerah swallowed hard. “'Twas a banshee.” Cosmo scampered from the bed to Seerah. She scooped him up in her arms, then held him close. “I heard the mournful cry. ‘Tis what woke me."
“'Twas more likely Brigit's cry of alarm that you heard,” Tristan said.
After slanting Brigit a quizzical look, Seerah placed Cosmo about her neck and walked toward Tristan. “Tell me exactly what you saw, Tristan. You said that the lass you saw looked like me, but were her clothes soiled with blood? Or did she appear to be washing bloodied armor by the well?"
“Nay!” Tristan touched the side of his head and winced. “'Twas you, I saw. You walked to the door and went outside. Then I heard you call out to me for help. After I unbarred the door, I followed you outside. I heard a loud splash from the—"
“After you unbarred the door?” Seerah asked. “You do na’ believe in me powers, yet you believe I can walk through closed doors?"
Tristan fixed Seerah with a dubious look. “Then, ‘twas this lump on my skull that caused me to see such things, not banshees."
Seerah grimaced. “Tis a nasty bruise, indeed. But ... you asked for it."
“I what?"
“Never mind about that,” Brigit interceded. “What of the banshee, Seerah?"
Seerah shot Brigit an obvious look of gratitude, and said, “'Twas certainly no banshee, thank the Gods. The evil energy I warned you of, however ... well, it surrounds this cottage as I speak."
“So does Sir Nevil,” Tristan said.
“Nevil?” Greum, Colin and Gareth asked simultaneously.
Tristan nodded, then winced. “Aye. Tis why we must leave here. Before I walked in on the ... tender moment between Gareth and Seerah...” he paused and glared at Gareth.
“You misread what you saw, Tristan,” Gareth began. “If you would listen—"
“There's no time.” Tristan rubbed his temples. “I came across Nevil in the forest. Though I did na’ see him—exactly—I overheard his plot. He is near. He searches for the stone, and Seerah."
“Is he the one who injured Gareth?” Seerah asked.
“Aye, but—” Tristan replied.
“Bloodied fangs of the pig,” Seerah whispered.
Gareth looked at Seerah and nodded. “Aye, the pig. The nasal helmet he wears boasts the crest of a wild boar.” He touched his wounded arm. “Bloodied fangs indeed."
“Enough!” Tristan bellowed. “Wake Zeth. We will leave here, now."
“But...” Seerah wrung her hands together. “We can na'. There be safety here. If we go out into the night, I'm certain ill-fate will befall us."
“I'm afraid it already has,” Colin spoke up. “Zeth will na’ stir."
Brigit and Seerah gained Zeth's side first. “Does he breathe?” Brigit asked.
Seerah leaned down close to his chest. “Aye."
“He sleeps then?” Gareth asked.
“Aye, but ‘tis a soulless slumber. And he carries a fever,” Seerah muttered.
“What does this mean?” Brigit asked.
Seerah looked up at Tristan. “You say the vision you saw, looked like me, and it passed through the closed door. Did you see me eyes?"
“I told you what I saw was due to this bump..."
“Answer me! Did you see me eyes?” Seerah demanded.
“Aye.” Tristan scowled. “They were black. Black as coal. So? What of it?"
“Have you never noticed the color of Seerah's eyes, Tristan?” Brigit asked.
“Aye. At times they appear blue, sometimes green—what does that matter? ‘Twas a bad dream. Nothing more."
“Nay, Tristan. ‘Twas a crone. She cast the curse of the changeling on Zeth to steal his spirit, and lure you outside. I must perform the ritual of..."
“'Tis nonsense you speak. Move aside!” Tristan thundered, pushing his way to Zeth's side “Zeth! Wake up, Zeth!” Tristan shook the lad's limp form, but Zeth didn't respond. Except for his shallow breathing, he appeared to be dead to the world.
“Get me some water,” Tristan ordered.
Brigit retrieved a bucket, and held a ladle of fresh water out to Tristan.
“I'll hold him. Seerah, you try to get him to drink,” Tristan commanded.
Seerah accepted the ladle from Brigit and held it to Zeth's mouth. Only a few drops made their way past his parched lips before he began to sputter and choke.
“Lay him back. We can try cool compresses and a sponge bath to reduce his fever if you insist, but ‘tis no sickness I tell you.” Seerah began unfastening Zeth's plaid.
Tristan stayed her hands and gave her a disquieting look. “We will see to Zeth's bathing."
“Despite what you think of me.” Seerah glared back. “I'm a healer, I'll not violate the boy. He needs—"
“We can see to his needs. You've done quite enough already.” Tristan nodded to Colin and Greum. When they advanced, Seerah hesitantly allowed them to take her place by Zeth's side. “Brigit, prepare some broth. Gareth, aid her if she needs it, but I warn you all, keep clear of me unless I ask for your help. I'll not tolerate any more dissension this night."
Seerah backed slowly away.
“His temper will cool,” Brigit said. She grasped Seerah's hands and offered a wan smile. “It always does. Mayhap you can mix a potion to ease the pain in his head.” She urged Seerah towards the hearth, where Gareth joined them.
Seerah looked sadly up into his eyes. “I can mix a draught to ease the pain in his head, but ‘tis the black vengeance in his heart that threatens his very existence. Evil begets only evil."
Gareth nodded soberly. “He believes I have betrayed him."
Seerah sighed. “Aye, but that has little to do with it. He is blinded by despair. And resentment festers in his soul, allowing the forces of dark to command his spirit. If only..."
“Quit your whispering and scheming!” Tristan commanded. “'Tis obvious the loyalties around me have shifted. I need no further evidence of that."
“Shame on you, Tristan!” Brigit chastised. “'Tis Zeth you should be concerned for, not your own foolish pride. You bring dissension on yourself because you are too stubborn to see simple truths. And, bluster at us no more or I'll be next to crack you upside your thick skull.” She waved a wooden spoon at him. “I mean it. Say not another word. This is my house and I will na’ stand for your foul temper any more. We all care for Zeth, just as much as you do."
The room fell silent. Tristan's bitter scowl was his only reply to Brigit's warning glare.
“Please, you must stop arguing.” Tears glistened in her Seerah's eyes as she spoke. “Me presence has caused the trouble. ‘Tis me fault alone that Zeth lays ill. ‘Tis me the evil ones are after.” She bowed her head and pulled her chain from beneath her frock.
Grasping the stone in the palm of her left hand Seerah raised her chin defiantly. “I curse the evil forces that brought me here, and implore the powers of good I can na’ control.” Taking a deep, steadying breath, she concentrated on Zeth. As the amulet began to glow, her body started trembling, and her eyes fluttered closed.
Brigit grasped Gareth's hands. “Do something!"
Chapter Twenty-One
Before Gareth could react, Seerah spoke again. “For Zeth's sake, and the sake of the prophecy, may Dagdha grant me the power to annul this wicked spell. Else he condemn me soul to Hell forever more."
Cosmo hugged Seerah's neck, his fur standing on end.
As Brigit, Gareth, Colin and Greum anxiously held their breath in anticipation, Tristan calmly transferred Zeth to Colin's arms. “Cease this dramatic display. It serves no use, but to put everyone on edge.” Standing, he walked towards Seerah.
“I have the power,” Seerah whispered. With her eyes still closed, she held her right hand up and swayed. She moved first to the left, then to the right, as if searching for something tangible to grasp.
“You have no power. And I'm telling you to stop this foolishness at once!” Tristan commanded.
“I have the power, I say!” When Seerah opened her eyes and glared at Tristan, her eyes appeared to glow bright green like the amulet.
“'Tis trickery.” Tristan grasped Seerah's wrist, but her flesh felt as cold and unyielding as stone. As he stared blankly at the impotence of his grip, Seerah spoke again.
“Moon and stars, strong tides of the sea, I command you, Tristan, release me!” Green light flashed from within her eyes and Tristan flinched, releasing Seerah's wrist as if he'd just been burned.
Still holding the amulet, Seerah closed her eyes again. “Phantom dark I summon you now, come unto me and hear me vow. Transport me swiftly to your dungeons of Hell, and work upon me your most wicked spell. Spawn of the Devil that thy be, transfer your evil from Zeth to me."
“Enough, Seerah!” Tristan made to grab her wrist again.
“Nay, Tristan!” Colin shouted. “'Tis working."
Tristan's hand stilled in mid-air and he jerked his head in Zeth's direction.
Zeth moaned. “Seerah? ‘Tis so black—so cold. Seerah? Not ... safe. No ... Oh, God. No!"
“Zeth? Can you hear me, lad?” Colin lightly patted the boy's face.
Tristan, Gareth and Brigit hurried to Zeth's side. “Zeth, can you hear us?” Kneeling, Tristan searched Zeth's glazed, open-eyed stare.
“Seerah? Please ... No!” Zeth grasped blindly at the air.
Tristan seized his hand. “Zeth, ‘tis Tristan. We're all here by your side. You're fevered. Try to preserve you strength."
“S-Seerah. Seerah?” Zeth began to thrash about.
“She's here as well. Calm yourself. You need to rest,” Tristan said.
Zeth's eyelids drooped closed and he relaxed slightly. “The blackness. Cold, so very cold.” He shivered.
“'Tis the fever that causes your chill,” Tristan explained.
Brigit touched her hand to Zeth's skin. “The fever has broken. Why, he's chilled to the bone."
Cosmo screeched, drawing everyone's attention from Zeth.
As they looked up, the ferret leapt from Seerah shoulder just before her body crumpled to floor in a heap.
“Brigit, see to her,” Tristan sighed. “Greum, fetch a fur mantel for Zeth. Gareth, fetch some broth. Quickly,” he ordered.
“Darkness and cold. So very cold.” Zeth mumbled.
“Aye, but you'll be fine now, Zeth. Quiet yourself. You need to rest, like Tristan said,” Colin bid.
Zeth's eyes fluttered open again. “Seerah? Where be Seerah?"
Tristan looked to Brigit for an answer.
“She's coming around, but she's weak,” Brigit said.
“She's coming, Zeth,” Tristan said. Then, scowling at Gareth, Tristan grumbled, “Where's the broth?"
“Right here.” Gareth handed Colin the bowl.
“Gareth, Seerah be calling for you,” Brigit said.
“Aye?” Gareth replied, but as he went to see to Seerah, Tristan eyed him ruefully.
* * * *
“How is Zeth?” Seerah whispered.
“He's asking for you. Can you stand?” Gareth replied.
Feeling as if she had woken from a sound slumber, Seerah blinked up at him. “What—what happened?"
“You swooned,” Gareth said. “I believe—"
“You crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap,” Brigit declared, as she grasped Seerah by both hands and helped her to her feet. Gazing deep into Seerah's eyes, Brigit said. “Why, you commanded the evil to come to you. You saved Zeth. Aye, you have the power. Your fear for Zeth allowed you to channel it this time. But you must learn to draw on more positive energy.” Brigit shook her head. “Anger and fear drain you, so. I fear ‘tis harmful to your—"
“Spirit?” Seerah whispered, glancing at Tristan. “Aye. Negative energy is, indeed, harmful to me spirit,” she mumbled.
Brigit and Gareth followed her gaze. “Aye,” Brigit said with a nod.
“Seerah is coming to you now, laddie,” Greum said, his worried gaze beckoning Seerah.
Seerah nodded and walked slowly forward. “Aye, Zeth. I'm right here. Tell me, how do you fare, now?” With Gareth's help, she knelt at Zeth's side, next to Colin.
“Peculiar.” Zeth gazed wearily up at her. “'Tis as if ... I'm no longer whole inside. What happened?"
Tristan glared at Seerah, his implied warning apparent. Seerah ignored him and gently touched Zeth's hand. “You were fevered, but you'll be fine now,” she said.
“But I felt...” Zeth swallowed hard. “'Twas as if the Devil himself had come for me. So very black and cold.” He shivered. “Then you spoke to me. I saw a green light and you were there, pulling me up from the depths of..."
“'Twas merely the fever,” Seerah said. “Frightening dreams and images oft times accompany a high fever. But, ‘tis over now. Take some of the broth from Greum. Then, you will get a good night sleep. I'm most certain you'll feel more yourself in the morning."
Zeth frowned. “'Twas was so real, though. I was certain—"
“'Tis due to all those superstitious notions you carry in your head,” Colin began. “They came to haunt you while you were fevered. Listen to the lass, she would na’ lie to you.” Colin winked at Zeth.
“I'll leave him in your capable hands, then,” Seerah nodded to Colin. Rising slowly, she walked back to the hearth.
As Brigit and Gareth turned to follow her, Tristan rose abruptly, and strode past them. He intercepted Seerah halfway across the room. Grasping her by the shoulder he wheeled her around to face him. “Why did you say these things to Zeth? ‘Tis obvious you do na’ believe them.” he whispered, his voice gruff.
“Would you prefer that I tell him he was right? That a wicked spirit tried to steal his soul?” Seerah whispered back, angrily.
Tristan scowled.
“I thought not,” Seerah continued. “Well, believe or not, but you be the only one who does na'. Even Greum and Colin see the truth."
Tristan glanced at his men. Then, he studied Brigit and Gareth who had already moved to flank Seerah on either side.
“Aye.” Tristan sighed deeply. “It seems as though the loyalties of those around me have fled completely. I suppose I should bow humbly to you,” he said, his gaze cynical and calculating.
“I wish not to usurp your position, Tristan,” Seerah said.
“Nay? What exactly do you wish for, then?"
“Och! Am I so very difficult, Tristan? Do me looks displease you so? Or be it simply me beliefs that irritate you beyond measure?” Seerah sighed dismally. “Why, me only wish is to honor me grandmother's wishes. I promised her I would do everything in me power to fulfill the prophecy. She has put all of her faith in me, but all this conflict between us simply drains my energy. ‘Twill not do if I am to conquer the Serpent."
Tristan remained silent.
Bowing her head Seerah blinked back the tears burning her eyes. “Believe what you will, but I'm very tired. I must try to gain some sleep if we are to leave here at dawn.” Without glancing up, she walked slowly away.
* * * *
“She has the power, Tristan,” Brigit whispered as she watched Seerah cross the room, then climb into the bed. “But she needs your help. All of our help.” She glanced at Gareth.
He nodded in agreement, then they both gazed at Tristan, who stood, scowling back at them.
Brigit said, “Do you not feel the evil forces around us? Why, you have lost the trust of your men. You also look upon Gareth as a rival rather than a brother. And all because you be afraid to accept the truth."
“I fear nothing,” Tristan sneered. “And, I believe not in fairy nonsense or witchery. I wish only to protect my men from her and her conniving ways."
Gareth shook his head dismally. “'Tis no use.” He walked away and lay down on a mat near Zeth and the other warriors.
“Tristan Kincaid, you are the most stubborn man I have ever known!” Brigit softly declared. Balling her fist at her sides, she looked deep into his eyes. “Aye, there are evil forces at work here, and I'm beginning to think they foster in your cold heart. Why, you care for her and that scares you to death."
“You could na’ be further from the truth,” Tristan said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“So you say,” Brigit scoffed. Narrowing her eyes she studied him cynically. “Then why does jealousy rot in your gut like tainted meat? For God's sake, Tristan, open your eyes. You are losing the respect of your men, and severing you kinship with Gareth. Have you totally forgotten how to care? Does the magic of love mean nothing to you?"
“I have no use for, or belief in, love—or magic."
Brigit's face fell. “You are a human being, Tristan. You cannot survive without love. Look deep inside yourself and you will see ... this ... this burden of revenge you carry will soon turn you heart black. I fear it's already begun to claim your soul.” She held a beseeching hand out to him.
Tristan ignored her offered hand. “Indeed. Mayhap, it already has. But then, that's my problem. ‘Tis na’ your business, or Gareth's, or anyone else's,” Tristan replied.
Brigit allowed her hand to fall limply to her side. “I do na’ believe that.” She shook her head. “But if you do, then the Devil's will has already been done. I will pray for you, Tristan.” Turning her back to him, she crossed the room. Then, glancing sadly over her shoulder she whispered, “Apparently, ‘tis all that's left for any of us to do."
Tristan watched silently as Brigit climbed into bed next to Seerah. After making sure the front door was secured, he went to the hearth where he sat and thought long into the night.
When sleep finally came, many strange images haunted his fitful slumber. Troubling memories from his past that he'd buried away suddenly surfaced with vivid clarity.
The horror-filled screams of women and children assaulted him first. Fighting men died protecting their own. Ships burned, casting an eerie glow into the sky. Then, he saw the young, dark-haired lass. She stood frozen with fear as a Norse raider swooped down on her. When she gazed at Tristan, her blue-green eyes seemed to fill with worry and compassion. But her concern was not for herself—it was for Tristan.
Bright light flashed in his mind, and suddenly the image changed. Catrin stood before him, young and alive. She took his hand, turned away, and tugged him playfully toward the water. She laughed merrily, her auburn hair dancing in the breeze. Tristan experienced her joy, her love. He laughed and followed after her, remembering the way it felt to be young, alive and in love.
When Catrin looked back at him, however, her smile faded. Suddenly, she clutched his hand and cried out, “Help me, Tristan!” Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her pleading expression turned to one of panic. A gash opened at the base of her throat and blood gushed like water from a broken dam. Next, images of his parents flooded his mind's eye. He saw only their brutalized bodies, limp and bloodied in death; aye, these were the disquieting, vivid images that had shattered a young boy's dreams and turned his heart to stone.
Alone in the engulfing blackness, Tristan experienced the incredible pain of heartache, intense grief, and all-consuming guilt. Then, came the misery of loneliness, and finally, deep dark despair. Suddenly he was falling; it felt as if the earth no longer existed and he was plummeting downwards into the bowels of nothingness—alone. Tristan knew that no one could fight this battle for him. No one could help him now. Not Brigit. Not Gareth. Not the warriors, or even their laird.
“Reach out to the light with your heart, Tristan,” a spectral voice echoed in the distance. White light flashed, then glowed from above. He tried to reach out and touch it, but it eluded his grasp. “Banish the demons, and feel the magic, only then will you achieve that which is in your grasp.” As the light vanished, Seerah's image melted into his brain. “Reach out to the light.” The voiced faded.
* * * *
Tristan woke to the appetizing aroma of freshly baked laver bread, and the sound of sizzling meat. His body was cramped from sleeping in the hardwood chair, so he stretched his limbs slowly, trying to ease the kinks from his muscles and joints.
Everyone else sat near the hearth breaking their fast. Everyone except Seerah. Tristan stood. “Where is she?"
“Seeing to her needs. Egosh and Meegan be with her,” Brigit offered without looking at him.
“She should na’ be outside a'tall. I told you Nevil and his men be near.” He shot Gareth a censuring glare and strode toward the front door, prepared to storm outside after her.
“I was careful to stay hidden in the trees,” Seerah announced, drawing Tristan's attention.
He was struck dumb by the sight of her, dressed as she was, in one of Brigit's muslin gowns. Unlike the billowy, satin frock the Dananns had given Seerah, the dark green material hugged every curve of her form. The scoop neck revealed an enticing, though modest view of the swell of her breasts.
Though he tried to halt in time, momentum carried him forward.
Seerah couldn't have moved quick enough if she had tried. Tristan engulfed her within his arms and twisted, somehow managing to land on his back and taking the brunt of the fall. “Oomph!"
Seerah looked into his eyes. “A-are you hurt?"
As the refreshing scent of heather from her damp hair wafted about him, his gaze traveled lower. The sight of her milky white bosom pressed against his bare chest left him speechless. Then she moved. Her hips pressed against him seductively as she shifted her weight. Tristan groaned.
She went completely still. “Oh—did I hurt you? Where does it hurt?” She tried to slide off of him.
“No. Do na’ move.” He held her steady, captivated by the twinkling green light in her eyes. Reach out to the light. The voice from his dreams echoed in his mind like a whisper on the breeze.
“Please, tell me where it hurts so I may help. I am a healer, Tristan. Tell me what you need."
Where it hurts, indeed. Tristan gazed at her parted lips. Mmmm, what I need.
“Can you hear me? Tristan?” When Seerah tried to move again, her bent knee jabbed his thigh, barely missing his groin. Tristan flinched and grabbed her leg. He sighed with relief, then said, “I am na’ injured—yet. And I plan to remain that way. Roll to your side. No. Do na’ bend your knee like that. Simply roll off. Colin, help her up."
When they were both standing, it took all of Tristan's resolve to tear his gaze from her shapely figure. He glared at her, then. “Where did you get that dress?"
Cosmo scampered toward Seerah and leapt into her arms. Cradling Cosmo in her right arm, Seerah glanced down at herself. “Brigit loaned it to me. Why? Is there something wrong with it? Brigit felt it would serve better for travel than the frock the Dananns gave me.” Looking back up, she continued, “'Tis more practical. The others I own are so old they're practically threadbare."
Tristan didn't reply. He knew he'd never be able to keep his vow concerning her virtue if she insisted on dressing in such an enticing manner. But he wasn't about to admit his weaknesses to her, or to anyone. He simply stood there frowning at her with disapproval.
“Och!” Seerah rolled her eyes with apparent frustration, then brushed past him.
Tristan's eyes remained fixed on her as she moved across the room. He thought it was strange that even in the muted light of the cabin, her freshly washed hair appeared to glisten and her face seemed to glow. As she moved toward the hearth, his gaze followed the gentle sway of her hips.
After setting Cosmo in a nearby chair she bent forward and began combing her fingers through her hair to dry it. The firelight seemed to rival her radiance. Her light, Tristan thought. Every muscle in his body grew tense as passion slowly warmed his gaze, but Ecne's words seemed to reverberate in his head. “What you desire is within your grasp,” Tristan mumbled. “Banish the demons. Reach out to the light with your heart, and allow your spirit to feel the magic."
“What's that you said, Tristan?” Colin asked.
When Tristan didn't reply, Colin cleared his throat and repeated himself, “Ahem! Tristan. You were saying something about demons and light?"
“Huh?” With a shake of his head, Tristan glanced at Colin. “Uh, demons—light. Aye. Nevil, the demon, is near. And ... now that the light of day is upon us, we should be well on our way,” Tristan said, allowing his gaze to settle on Seerah again.
“Seerah looks nice this morn, does she not, Tristan?” Gareth asked from his seat near the hearth.
Brigit spoke next, “Aye. She looks quite nice, I'd say. She does an ordinary ol’ dress a world of wonder, does she not, Tristan?"
Jerking his head in Brigit's direction, Tristan scowled at her. Next, he strode to the front door and stopped. Staring out the open threshold, he tried to concentrate on the horizon, but Seerah's image seemed to be branded in his mind. Oh, her ample bosom, the curve of her hips and those tempting lips.
“What be your plan about Nevil?” Greum spoke up, crashing into Tristan's deep thoughts.
“Nevil?” Tristan turned and looked at Greum. “Aye. Nevil. I will allow him to follow us, for now. I find that knowing Nevil's whereabouts is to our advantage. Let us gather our supplies and ready the horses. We will depart shortly. I expect everyone to be ready.” Tristan stepped outside, abruptly closing the door behind him.
* * * *
“Oooh!” Seerah cried as Zeth, Colin and Greum swiftly followed Tristan outside.
“Do na’ let him discourage you this morn.” Brigit wagged her head. “Remember, you need to draw on pleasant emotions to better focus your energy."
“But, his temper seems to be more foul than last night. How can I be expected to ignore such ... such evilness?” Seerah sighed.
Brigit looked to Gareth as if for the answer. “'Tis a dilemma, indeed. What do you suggest?"
Gareth gazed at the door, “Aye his mood be foul as ever.” Rising from his seat by the hearth, he advanced until he stood next to Brigit. Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “Seerah's appearance this morn seems to have brought out the worst of his nature. To my knowledge, there be only one cure for what ails him."
“Indeed,” Brigit nodded. “I had hoped he would be pleased with her looks, but the opposite effect? ‘Tis a telling sign as well."
“Aye, quite telling.” Gareth frowned.
Seerah looked down at herself. “If you think the gown displeases him, I'll gladly find another. Be it the color he has an aversion to?"
Brigit grinned and shook her head. “Nay, Seerah. Poor lass. He favors the way you look just fine. ‘Tis why he's so ... gruff."
“If he likes the gown, then why—"
“It has not to do with the gown itself, so much as the way you look in it,” Gareth explained.
“But, I thought ... Well, I had thought I looked rather pleasant."
Gareth smiled at Brigit. “She has na’ a clue, does she?"
Brigit shook her head. “She's as blind to it as he his. I believe he's close to going mad with desire.
“Aye.” Gareth nodded. “But, he pledged to honor her virtue."
“Aye.” Brigit frowned thoughtfully. “To acquire what he needs, yet keep his vow. ‘Tis quite a riddle."
Seerah glanced back and forth between them, trying to make sense of their curious conversation.
“On the contrary. The answer is quite obvious,” Gareth said. “If he would simply claim her, the problem would be solved."
“Oh, aye, but he'll never...” Brigit cocked her brow at Gareth. “Unless..."
“Unless?” Gareth asked.
“If he truly believe she might be claimed by another..."
“Do na’ look to me to on that matter. Knowing that she is most likely my sister—well, I could na’ act anymore enamored with Seerah than I could of you. Besides, Tristan has already threatened to run me through twice, because he believed I had designs on her."
“Claim me!” Seerah asked.
Gareth nodded. “'Tis the only way."
“Aye,” Brigit agreed. “But, convincing him of that is another matter all together. I fear, the only way he would ever wed, is if he compromised her virtue. And he vowed..."
“Wed! Compromise my virtue? Have you both gone mad?” Seerah cried with disbelief. “Why, I would na’ wed him, or...” A deep red blush crept into her face. “Or allow him to ... compromise me, if he was the last man to live and breathe!"
“Come now, Seerah, we've all witnessed the way you respond to each other,” Gareth said.
“With contempt!” Seerah balked.
“Nay, with passion,” Brigit began. “God's teeth! Do you not see it? ‘Tis a bitter-sweet passion as of yet, but the signs be clear as the light of day."
“Signs? For Heaven's sake, what signs?” Seerah cried.
“The way you irritate each other for one thing,” Brigit declared. “Then there's the way you look at each other when you believe no one be watching. Sparks fly between you whenever you touch. I've seen them with me own eyes. Why, we all have. And, let's see, there's the way you described how you felt when he kissed you."
“I felt dizzy, Brigit!” Seerah protested.
“Aye. ‘Tis a clear sign, as is the way he hungered after the sight of you this morn. Why, he looked like a starving man eyeing a succulent meal. There's only one thing left for you to do. You must seduce him, Seerah."
“Nay! I will na'. I ... I can na',” Seerah sputtered. “I feel for him, aye. He has much misery inside of him, but I do not feel that way towards him. I feel compassion for him, mayhap pity for his black soul, but..."
“Och! You be as stubborn as him! And to think, I believed you were a smart lass. Why do you think he enrages you so?"
“Because he's arrogant, commanding, stubborn and..."
“Nay! He's under you skin, Seerah. Why, you need him as much as he needs you,” Brigit declared.
Cosmo scurried from the chair by the hearth. Climbing swiftly up Seerah's skirts to her shoulder, he began chattering and persistently nudging her head with his nose. “Stop, Cosmo!” Seerah chastised. When Cosmo hissed and bared his teeth at her, Seerah gasped. “Och! You have gone as mad as them!"
“Nay, Seerah.” Brigit sighed. “He's simply telling you he agrees with us."
Cosmo screeched, then leapt to the floor and scurried over to Brigit. “See? Even Cosmo knows how badly Tristan needs you."
Seerah sighed and shook her head dismally. “Aye, that he does, but not for the reasons you obviously believe. He once saved my life and I owe him dearly. But not ... what you speak of. He simply needs his heart to be healed. He needs to forgive himself and release the anger and pain."
Brigit arched her brow at Seerah. “And tell me, lass, just how does one go about healing a heart, if not with love."
“I...” Seerah frowned. “I do na’ know exactly, but ... Even if I wanted to ... to get close to him, which I certainly do na', Tristan has already accused me of being a cunning woman with wily ways. ‘Tis obvious that I do na’ know the first thing about charming men."
Brigit smiled knowingly. “Ah, indeed. But, I do. I also know Tristan better than anyone else. I'll tell you everything you need to know.” Taking Gareth by the arm Brigit ushered him to the door. “Go on with you. Keep an eye on Tristan. I have work to do."
Looking thoroughly forlorn Gareth batted his eyes at Brigit. “But, I had so hoped to learn your secrets."
“Och! Off with your puppy-eyes and brown nose. You'll get no secrets from me with such a pitiful look.” Brigit shoved him outside and shut the door. Turning to Seerah, she leaned back against the door.
Seerah had no idea of what Brigit had in mind, but the mere mention of kissing Tristan had set Seerah's stomach to fluttering. Unfortunately, the memory of his mocking glare and accusations stilled the fluttering and set her head to aching. Even if he had feelings for her, he wasn't willing to admit it to himself, let alone to her. “I do na’ like the way you be looking at me, Brigit. ‘Tis a waste of time. I can na'."
“Do you have so little faith in yourself, Seerah?"
“Aye. I have little faith, and even less desire in the matter of seducing Tristan. Why the way he treated me after he kissed me ... ‘Tis obvious I did na’ please him.” Seerah sighed dismally. “Though I've not come up with it yet, there must be another way to heal his heart."
“Poor, dear. I see, now. You've a great deal to learn about men, and about love.” A mischievous glint lit Brigit's eyes and she smiled crookedly. “And, I've much to tell."
Seerah's eyes grew wide and she swallowed hard. “I ... I do na’ think I wish to hear what you have to say."
“Then do na’ think, just listen.” Brigit advanced. She shoved Seerah into the nearest chair, then launched into the most fascinating lecture about men and women that Seerah had ever heard.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tristan had just finished securing his saddle, when Seerah and Brigit exited the cabin. He watched silently as they hugged each other good-bye.
“I want you to have this.” Brigit handed Seerah a small object. “'Tis a harvest knot made of flax grass and straw.” Lowering her voice to whisper, she winked and said, “Keep it near to your heart, for ‘tis a love token as well."
Having heard every word, Tristan narrowed his eyes at the two women. Love token, indeed. What conniving sort of female mischief be they about?
“Thank you.” Seerah attached the small ornament to the chain holding her amulet. “But, I have nothing to give you."
Just then, Cosmo poked his head out from the leather pouch Seerah wore about her waist. He began chattering and nudging Seerah with his nose. “What be you about, now?” When Seerah pulled open the drawstring, he ducked down, then quickly reappeared holding a tiny ring between his teeth. “What's this? Oh, you wish Brigit to have it. Aye."
Seerah took the ring. She studied it for a moment, then held it out to Brigit. “'Tis one of his treasures. I know na’ how he came to have it, but ‘tis obvious he wants you to take it. If you look closely, you can see doves etched in the band. Grandmother always told me that white birds be a sign of good magic."
“'Tis lovely, indeed.” Brigit took the ring and slipped it on her pinkie. “I will cherish it always.” She stroked Cosmo's head affectionately, before Seerah pulled the drawstring closed.
It was clear to Tristan that they were up to no good, but he had a plan of his own. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a long, dark cloak. “Here, you will wear this for the rest of the journey.” He abruptly flung the garment at Seerah. “And, keep you hair bound. I do na’ want you drawing attention to yourself, especially when we pass through Killarney."
The cumbersome cloak landed full against Seerah and she stumbled back beneath its weight. “Aye,” she drawled, grappling with the heavy, woolen material. “'Tis likely five armed Highland warriors passing through a small Irish ballybeg will draw no attention,” she muttered.
Brigit pinched Seerah's arm.
“Ow!” Seerah turned with a start. She glared at Brigit, then sighed with defeat and shrugged in reply to Brigit's scolding gaze.
Tristan silently observed their peculiar behavior. They are definitely up to something, but what? He also took notice of the way Zeth, Colin and Greum seemed to busy themselves, so conveniently, by rechecking their mounts’ saddle-straps and buckles.
Gareth simply smiled, as if he were in on the scheme. “We will wear cloaks as well, Seerah, but not until we are nearer. As you can well see, they be cumbersome and we—"
“There be no need to explain, Gareth.” Tristan interrupted. “Put the cloak on.” He scowled at Seerah.
“Aye. As you wish. ‘Twill serve well to keep me warm and dry. Thank you, Tristan.” Seerah batted her eyes demurely, then began to pull the long robe-like cloak over her head.
Tristan cocked his brow suspiciously, then gazed at Brigit. “What mischief be you about, Brigit?"
“Mischief? Me?” Brigit stared wide-eyed back at him, looking as guilty a conniving woman caught in the act of deception.
“Insufferable, damnable ... whoreson!” Seerah grumbled as she struggled to free her head from the burdensome mantle.
The warriors glanced at each other with raised eyebrows and Brigit covered her mouth with her hand to keep from giggling. Tristan simply moved to stand before Seerah. With one yank on the cloth, her head emerged. “Oh!” she cried with a start, then blinked up at Tristan, bewildered and slightly stunned.
Tristan glowered at her. “What ever Brigit told you, forget it. I'll have no more dissension. You will do as I command, without question, or I will take your charm and leave you in the woods for Nevil, God help him.” Tristan glowered.
Allowing her long black lashes to hood her eyes, Seerah bowed her head slightly in a submissive gesture. “Aye."
“You have no desire to question my authority then?"
Seerah kept her eyes lowered. “'Tis na’ me place to question you. You have generously offered to protect me and I have been naught but disagreeable and ungrateful. ‘Tis what Brigit told me. Do you still wish for me to disregard all that she said?"
When Tristan looked to Brigit, she offered a smug grin and a confirming nod. “'Tis so,” she replied soberly. “I have also behaved poorly, and I apologize for this. We each owe you a great deal and only want what's best for you."
Tristan didn't know what to think. It wasn't Brigit's nature to apologize. But on the rare occasions in the past, when she had, she'd always been sincere. And she'd never been prone to lying. Looking down at Seerah, he stared at her hard, silently questioning her ability to be contrite. Then, turning on his heel, he walked over and stood beside his mount. “Come here!"
Seerah lifted the hem of the mantle and advanced as swiftly as she could, until she stood obediently before him. Without pomp or ceremony, Tristan effortlessly lifted her up and deposited her in the saddle. “What else did Brigit tell you?"
“W-well ... I ... she...” Seerah stammered. “Brigit said, I should simply try me best to ... please you."
Tristan grunted, then swiftly mounted behind her. “Do na’ forget this. ‘Tis grand advice."
* * * *
Nevil was first to exit the cave. His temper was as dark as the receding storm clouds. Helig led the horses, and Ansel followed directly. “'Twas good luck that we came upon this cave just when the storm broke,” said Ansel.
“Good luck?” Nevil growled. “If I didn't have such cursed luck I'd have no luck at all.” He glared at Ansel. “And, if I was inclined to believe in such drivel, I might actually start believing that you are a jinx. Why, it's well past dawn. Tristan is most likely already well on his way. The whoreson. I'm always one step behind him!"
“We could always return to Lochinver and simply report our findings,” Ansel suggested.
“Return empty handed? And report what? That I think I know where Tristan is. That I believe he has the stone and possibly the girl? You are indeed a simpleton. But I do have a plan. I'm tired of chasing after Tristan. I know where the honorable fool is headed. He's returning his prize to his laird. He must have a ship at his disposal somewhere south of Killarney. Probably in Coraigh. So, we will simply head south now, and gain a ship first. I'll recruit more men as well. We'll be ready and waiting for him this time."
“Aye, sir.” Ansel nodded.
* * * *
Seerah leaned against Tristan's chest. Though they seldom saw eye to eye, they had been traveling together for so long that such closeness seemed second nature. She enjoyed the smell of him and the feel of him. If only he would open his mind to the possibility...
“What do you believe in, Tristan?” She asked.
A moment passed in silence before he said, “Me laird, me men and me abilities as a warrior."
“'Tis all?"
“'Tis enough."
Seerah sighed dismally. “You've had much pain in life. ‘Tis sad, indeed."
Tristan grunted. “Everyone experiences pain. ‘Tis part of life."
Seerah shook head. “Not the kind of pain you know. ‘Tis na’ pain of a physical nature. ‘Tis more soulful, like that of a tortured spirit."
“You know nothing about the pains I have or have na’ endured. Physical or otherwise."
Seerah gazed up at him. She enjoyed sitting sideways, across his lap, rather than astride, for the position allowed her to observe him when she wished to. “Oh, but I do. I know all about your pain. I felt it, back in the forest—when I laid my hands upon you. Remember? You thought I was crying, because you hurt me? Only ... I was crying because ... well, I experienced the pain deep in your soul—for all you have lost. Your heart has been hardened by the pain of loss and despair, and it needs to be healed, Tristan.” Seerah nodded, then cuddled against his chest again. “'Tis one more reason why the gods have brought us together. You are a protector, and I need protection, in the same way that I am a healer, and you need to be healed.."
Seerah felt the muscles in Tristan's body tense, and she braced herself for his wrath. Instead, he took a long deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“Brigit had no right to tell you of me past,” he said, finally. “And, whatever you be thinking in that witchy little brain, forget it. I am na’ a man easily besotted. If you are looking for someone to work your love potions on, you have the wrong man.” He pulled the string with the “love knot” from beneath the neckline of her dress.
“L-love potions?” Seerah stammered. “I would never...” Looking up, directly into his accusing gaze, she offered a wan smile and took the knot from his fingers. “This? This..."
“Love knot,” he said.
She laughed, nervously. “'Tis merely a keepsake. ‘Tis meant to ... represent ... the love—between friends. Aye, ‘tis a reminder of me fondness for Brigit, and of her fondness for me. Nothing more.” Casually tucking it away, she averted her gaze to his chest and continued. “And, aye, Brigit told me of your past. But what she told me only helped me to understand what I already knew. Though I have come to believe that love can be a healing force, for some, you misunderstood. Love can na’ be force-fed to someone like medicine. Aye, your spirit is strong, but your soul has been deeply wounded by hate. Your heart is also heavy with guilt and sorrow. Love may be a great healing force, but ... in this case, I believe forgiveness is the cure. And, just so you know, I've little trust in the power of love meself. Why, I'm just beginning to have faith in the powers of mysticism and magic."
“'Twould seem natural for you to have faith in such powers. You being a witch and all,” Tristan scoffed.
Seerah's shoulders slumped. “Why do you refuse to believe in me powers, Tristan?"
Tristan gently nudged her chin with his index finger until she was looking at him. Unspoken challenge sparkled in his eyes and a smug grin curved his lips. “If you truly be a witch, why do you na’ simply hop on you broom and fly to me laird?"
Seerah pursed her lips to keep from laughing in his face, but the effort proved futile. Her shoulders shook and her lips twitched. Finally, a soft snort escaped her efforts. “Oh, Tristan.” She giggled. “You've been listening to too many fables. Witches do na’ fly by broom-stick."
Tristan cocked his brow at her. “But, they do fly?"
She nodded. “Some do."
“But, you do na’”
“I ... I—as of yet, no. But—"
“I see.” Tristan chuckled. “You must na’ be as powerful as you claim to be, then."
“Oh, but I am.” Seerah sat a bit straighter, as if to emphasize her words. “According to me Gran, and the prophecy, that is. I'm just ... well, I'm still learning to ... properly channel me energy."
“You are only half a witch then?"
Seerah rolled her eyes at him. “There be no such thing. Either one is a witch, or no."
“Oh? Then you must not be a good witch."
She smiled and wagged her head with dismay, her shoulders shaking as she chuckled softly, again.
“What do you find so amusing, now?” Tristan demanded.
“I am a good witch. Opposed to being evil, that is. I'm just not very skilled,” she explained.
“And, this pleases you?"
“Nay. But, there seems to be little I can do about it.” Seerah shrugged.
“I disagree."
Seerah twisted, leaning her back against his chest as if to dismiss him. He was obviously baiting her, hoping to draw her into an argument. Brigit had made Seerah vow to try her best to be agreeable, but he wasn't making it easy. If you've nothing agreeable to say—say nothing a'tall, Seerah repeated Brigit's words over and over in her mind.
“You've nothing else to say on the matter?"
“I am but trying to be agreeable."
His chest shook with laughter. “But, you do na’ agree?"
Seerah remained silent.
His chest shook again. Then he merely grunted.
They rode in silence for what seemed like an eternity to Seerah. Just when she thought she could no longer stand the silence, he spoke.
“What if I order to you disagree with me?"
“'Twould be just like you,” she muttered before she thought better of it. “I mean—"
“I know exactly what you mean, and this game tires me. Speak your mind—God help me."
Seerah turned and glared at him. “Such an arrogant man you are. Och! What I wished to say is ... you seem to think that I should have more control over me powers. In fact, you come off as some sort of expert on the matter. What I'd like to know is ... what exactly would you be knowing about me powers? Faith! You do na’ even believe in me existence."
Tristan smiled, then; his arrogant, yet teasing smile transformed his face for a brief moment, from his usually hard and unyielding countenance to one of sheer joy. When he tried to conceal his pleasure, a soft, mischievous light seemed to sparkle in his eyes.
Seerah gazed into their amber depths and sighed to herself. Now there's a pair of smiling eyes if ever I saw one. If only—
Tristan spoke then, breaking into her thoughts, “But it does na’ matter whether or na’ I believe in your existence. ‘Tis like I tell my men. If they wish to be accomplished warriors they must train hard, demand excellence and never accept defeat. They must believe they are capable."
The hard edge had returned to his voice, making his eyes seem hard and cold again. Feeling suddenly defeated, Seerah huffed and leaned back, training her eyes on the horizon. “'Tis most likely then, that I would na’ make a very skilled warrior either."
“'Tis all in your thinking. If you wish to be an accomplished witch, you should do whatever it takes to be the best you can be. What would make you a good—an accomplished—witch, Seerah?"
Seerah huffed. “If I knew that, I would na’ have a problem."
“Let me put it another way. Do you believe in yourself and your so-called powers?"
“Well ... sometimes."
“See? You lack confidence and conviction. Many young warriors suffer the same affliction."
“But I am na’ a warrior. Besides, you do na’ even believe—"
“My beliefs do na’ matter. ‘Tis only what you believe that truly matters, Seerah. Apparently you believe yourself to be unfit."
“Not unfit, exactly. I've had some good, strong visions lately. And, though I have difficulty commanding me powers, I did make Colin speak with my mind. I saved Zeth as well. I also made Uncle Marcus's shillelagh fly across the inn at you. And then, there was that little mishap with Brigit's frying pan.” Slowly, gazing at Tristan, she winced.
Tristan bent his head low and cocked his brow at her skeptically. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips and his eyes seemed to challenge her. “Do you really believe you did all that?"
He was so close, Seerah could feel his warm breath brush against her lips. She became lost in the depths of his steely gaze as she remembered the kiss they had shared. “Aye, Tristan. I surely do.” She breathed expectantly, allowing herself to be drawn to him.
“Then, mayhap...” Tristan murmured, his voice sounding thick and gravely, like his throat was parched from thirst. “Mayhap, you truly are a witch."
“Mayhap?” Seerah gasped and pulled away, turning her back to him once more. “I am a witch, I tell you!"
Tristan sighed heavily. “But, ‘tis you who needs to believe that, Seerah. Na’ I."
* * * *
As Brigit sat in a chair by the hearth, weaving, Egosh and Meegan stirred. Their ears perked up, and they both moved to the door. Growling low in his throat, Egosh scraped at the door. Meegan whimpered anxiously and pawed the ground.
“What is it?” Rising, Brigit moved to the door and peered outside.
Still growling, Egosh hunkered down low to the ground and began barking.
“'Tis times like this that I wish you could speak, laddie.” Brigit cracked the door open slightly and squinted. “Though I see not yet, I trust your keen senses."
A moment later, three riders appeared at the edge of the clearing. The leader was dressed in chain mail from head to toe. A young archer followed close behind. The last man, however, appeared to be a dark-haired Norman giant the likes of no man she had ever seen before.
Brigit was about to close the door when Egosh and Meegan made their break. “Nay!” She stumbled forward as she tried to restrain the dogs, but it was too late. As the hounds raced toward the intruders, one man pointed directly at her. She hurried back inside and shut the door, leaving it only slightly ajar so she could watch. As the men drew nearer, she said a prayer for the hounds’ safety, and then one for herself.
* * * *
“Did you see that?” Nevil cried. “There's a woman in the cottage."
“Aye, sir. Her ferocious hounds are heading straight for us,” Ansel replied.
When the dogs approached, yapping and barking their warning, the horses shied.
“You're an archer. Notch an arrow in your bow, and keep the male in your sight. But don't release it—yet. Wait for my order.” Nevil urged his mount to advance slowly. “We mean you no harm, but we will kill your hounds if they attack. We are weary travelers in need of food, water and information,” Nevil said.
“I have naught to offer. I'm an old woman alone here, but if you bring harm to me or my pets, you'll pay dearly, for these woods are filled with spirits who protect me,” Brigit called back.
“Another superstitious peasant,” Nevil grumbled. “You offered nourishment and shelter to the travelers who came before us. The tracks are quite fresh. I care not about your spirits. If you refuse us, I will kill your pets, then punish you severely for the grave insult you impose against me."
* * * *
Brigit realized she had little choice, but to comply. Though she truly believed the spirits protected her, she wasn't willing to sacrifice her dogs in order to find out the extent of their protection. As she anxiously twisted the ring Cosmo had given her, she prayed for a miracle.
Suddenly, a lone white bird swept down from the sky and landed on top of the well. As Brigit looked down at the ring, then glanced at the bird, Seerah's words haunted her mind. White birds be a sign of good magic. "Let us hope so, indeed. Egosh, Meegan come!” Brigit pulled her shawl up over her head and stepped out from the shadows.
The dogs whined in protest but obeyed. When they hesitantly took their place on either side of her, Brigit called out to leader, “You may have use of me well, if you wish. I've naught else to spare."
The leader raised his spear and held it aimed on Brigit as he motioned to the other two men to advance. They urged their mounts forward until they had almost gained the well. The giant squinted at Brigit, then abruptly halted his mount, a startled look of horror seeming to freeze his expression. The archer followed suit.
“Keep moving—you idiots.” Nevil growled, coming up on Ansel's right.
“B-but, Sir Nevil, look! The old hag is a leper!"
“A leper?” Nevil glared at Brigit.
Brigit frowned. A leper? Me? She glanced curiously at her hounds. The dogs whimpered and shied away from her. Then the white bird took to the air. Brigit watched as it flew in a circle over the cottage and landed on the roof.
Brigit didn't know for certain what was going on; either luck and the fairies were on her side, or perhaps God. At this point she didn't care. All that mattered was that the intruders thought she looked like a leper.
“Tis a trick. Tristan and his men would never..."
“Aye,” Brigit called. “But they would, indeed. If you know Tristan a'tall, you'd know he's as fearless as they come. He's also good and kind. Come, if you wish, and partake of me well. I can see now, that you mean me no harm.” Brigit allowed the shawl to slip further away from her face as she began to advance. “Mayhap, we can have a bit of fun as well. ‘Tis been a long time indeed since a virile man such as you has paid me a call. Care for a tumble?"
Nevil's mount nickered and pranced skittishly. “Nay! Stay back!” He commanded. In his haste to retreat, his horse reared up, almost unseating him. “Damn Tristan! He's done it to me again!” Nevil cried.
As they rode off the white bird took flight, following after them.
Brigit sighed with relief, then glanced her hounds. “Egosh? Megan? Come."
Without hesitating the hounds obeyed, their tails wagging.
“Curious, indeed.” Brigit patted them on the head, then stared after the departing intruders. “Be safe, Seerah and Tristan."
* * * *
Near the outskirts of Killarney, Tristan and the warriors donned their cloaks and split up. They rode at a leisurely pace, traveling at wide intervals. Greum and Zeth went on ahead. Tristan and Seerah followed shortly after. Gareth and Colin brought up the rear.
Despite the fact that they were Highland warriors passing through a small Irish town, it was Tristan's hope that their peaceful demeanor and small numbers would dispel the natural fear their presence would likely cause. “Keep your gaze low and do na’ speak a word unless I say so. I have no wish to shed innocent blood,” Tristan whispered to Seerah as they breached the center of town.
Seerah nodded in reply, but as she bowed her head, she felt the certain presence of a hostile entity. Pulling her hood low over her forehead, she secretly scanned the narrow lane. She felt a small burst of relief when she saw the hind end of Greum and Zeth's horses disappear around the bend in the distance. However, uneasiness swiftly settled over her again. Clasping her amulet beneath her cloak, Seerah closed her eyes and breathed deeply. In her mind's eye, she saw a beautiful Irish maid standing in the shadows behind a cart. Seerah knew immediately that the image was a deception, for the girl's eyes glowed red like burning embers.
When Seerah's eyelids flew open, she immediately spotted the lass standing between two tinkers’ wagons. Still clutching her amulet, Seerah began softly reciting an incantation, “Forces of good hear my plea."
“Shush!” Tristan admonished, but Seerah ignored him.
“Know what I know, see what I see."
When the young woman stepped forward, she extended her hand as if to wield a dagger.
Tristan spotted her then. He pulled harshly on his horse's reins, causing his mount to rear up. Seerah clung to Tristan, but her voice remained calm and steady as she concentrated on the girl. “Heavens above, cast the first stone. Defeat the black magic of the wicked crone."
From out of nowhere, a bolt of lightening struck the lass. When she crumpled slowly to the ground a brilliant beam was cast from her fingertips. As Tristan kicked his mount into a gallop, the shaft shot across the lane toward a small church building where it hit a stone well. That was the last thing Seerah saw as she and Tristan barreled the rest of the way through Killarney in a swirling cloud of dust.
“What happened?” Greum asked, when Tristan brought his mount to an abrupt halt.
“What of Colin and Gareth?” Zeth asked.
“What indeed!” Grasping Seerah by the chin he forced her head around. “What were you thinking!"
“I ... I.” Seerah faltered as he painfully squeezed her chin.
“You will cease such nonsense from here on.” Tristan glared at her. “This trickery of yours be dangerous. ‘Tis likely you killed that woman. And, if you did, what do you think will befall Gareth and Colin?"
“She killed a lass? How?” Zeth gawked.
Tristan abruptly released Seerah. “I know na’ for certain if the lass be dead, but she was struck down. Granted, the lass appeared to be a threat, but I had the situation under control until Seerah decided to employ her ... her witchery."
“Sh-she was a crone,” Seerah stammered. “I saw the red light of her eyes. Why, if I had na’ used my powers on her, ‘tis likely we would no longer be part of this world."
“What of Gareth and Colin? Do you think they will simply be allowed to pass through the town now? Blood will be shed for certain—mayhap, Gareth's and Colin's. What think you of that?"
Seerah closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “I see them and they be quite safe. They approach now.” Opening her eyes, she glanced towards the curve in the road just as Gareth and Colin rounded the bend.
They seemed to be relaxed and unhurried. In fact they were smiling as if enjoying a private jest. “You be looking frightfully dour, Tristan. What be the cause of your foul mood now?” Gareth said.
“All is well?” Tristan put his hand on the hilt of his sword as if he expected a crush of angry people to be right behind Gareth.
“None have followed us. In fact the people of Killarney cheered us as we passed through,” Colin boasted.
“They cheered?” Tristan said.
“Aye,” Colin said, glancing at Seerah. “They seem to believe our appearance had something to do with the miracle."
“Miracle? What miracle?” Tristan frowned.
“The holy well in front of St. Mary's church seems to have jumped across the street to the other side,” Gareth informed.
“What of the lass?” Tristan asked. “She was struck by lightning—she must surely be dead."
Gareth smiled. “We saw no lightening and none spoke of it, but a young lass was found crumpled to the ground near the base of the well.” He looked to Colin.
“Aye. She was weak, but alive,” Colin agreed.
“As we passed the site, an old woman rushed towards me and pressed her hand to my leg.” Gareth's gaze searched Seerah's. “She begged me to thank the blue-eyed angel for saving her child. She claimed that evil spirits recently possessed her daughter. She also believes the angel cured the lass by sending the holy well to her."
Seerah trembled. “'Twas the crone, just as I suspected—a sure sign of the evil that pursues me. The crone be a spiritual being, and needs a living form to exact black magic. The lass was a changeling.” Seerah's gazed settled on Zeth. “'Tis the innocent soul the crone seeks."
“Innocent?” Tristan chuckled. “Why, my cold, black heart and empty soul alone should be enough to fend off such a creature."
“Mayhap,” Seerah retorted. “But, there are other evil spirits who seek such a shadowy essence. They feed on darker emotions. They use hate and vengeance to further corrupt the dwindling light of the spirit, until all that remains is the unemotional shell of a once vital being."
“Enough!” Tristan commanded. “If we expect to gain Blarney, County Coraigh, by nightfall, two days hence, we must travel swiftly. We have a great deal of ground to cover, not to mention the treacherous Irish sea."
“But Tristan, you and the others must be prepared.” Seerah argued. “Though I thwarted the crone this time, such spirits never die.” Seerah turned to the warriors. “The telltale sign of a crone be her glowing red eyes, but a crone can take on many forms, and can change form at any given time."
Her somber gaze settled momentarily on each man as she spoke. “The only way to conquer the crone is to be fearless. You must never turn your back on her. When she wields her magic, you must look her in the eye to turn the spell back on her. ‘Tis what I did.” She gazed up at Tristan again. “You must allow me to prepare a poultice for you all to wear. ‘Twill keep your souls safe from various evils, especially in your slumber when you be most defenseless."
Tristan scowled. “I must? It appears as though your pledge to obey and please me has been suddenly abandoned."
“So it does.” Seerah glared back at him. Acting agreeable and obedient was proving to be much more difficult than Brigit had implied, and Seerah was beginning to think the task ahead impossible. But she had promised Brigit. Sighing wearily, Seerah bowed her head submissively. “If it would please you, I shall kneel at your feet and beg your forgiveness. All I ask, is that you allow me to gather a few herbs in order to prepare an adequate poultice."
Tristan grinned like a haughty king. “If you behave ... perhaps it will please me to allow this. When we reach Blarney. But, that means no more talk of crones or trickery. Do I make meself clear?"
“Aye. Most certainly.” Seerah smiled demurely, but she knew defiance sparkled in her heart and in her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Beinn Dearge, Scotland
Kendahl, Alec and eight highland warriors sat atop of their mounts along the ridge overlooking Loch Broom.
A young scout rode up the rise, halting his mount before Kendahl. “Laird, there be exactly ten warriors. Their leader wears black robes and a hood. They should breach the ridge on the other side of the Loch any moment."
Alec spoke next. “I see the black banner coming over the rise, now. There."
“Hold your positions.” Kendahl said. Then to Alec, he said, “We'll soon know exactly what this Lord Viper be about."
“Aye.” Alec nodded.
When the strangers breached the rise, they positioned their mounts in the same manner as the highland warriors on the opposite ridge. Their leader, the man Kendahl assumed to be Lord Viper, along with one warrior, advanced slowly down the ridge toward the bank of the shallow loch.
Kendahl and Alec did the same.
“He appears to be but a scrawny bit of a man,” Alec observed.
“Let not his appearance deceive you, Alec.” Kendahl narrowed his eyes. “Small creatures can sometimes offer the deadliest of threats. Though ‘tis too soon to tell for certain if this Viper be such a creature, I sense grave danger.” He and Alec halted their mounts in the water, halfway across the loch.
* * * *
Desruc also halted his mount in the water. He removed his hood. “I am Lord Viper."
Neither Kendahl or Alec reacted visibly to the sight of his scarred face. Kendahl studied Desruc, as if measuring his worth, but he revealed no hint of recognition, “Aye?"
“How should I address you?"
“Laird."
“Of course. As you wish. I know well who you are. I am honored, indeed.” Desruc bowed his head in mock homage.
“Why?” Kendahl asked, pointedly.
Desruc looked slowly up. “Your reputation precedes you. Why, you and your band of outcast warriors are well known in these parts. I admire the loyalty you earn from your men, as well as the size of the keep you manage. It is unusual for a man without birthrights to possess such a parcel."
“You assume a great deal ... Viper."
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Desruc ignored the deliberate omission of his own title. “But, I assume nothing. I know all about you, your men, and how you came to be at Gairloch nearly two decades ago. You overcame much adversity, and this is what has brought me to you now."
“Go on.” Kendahl regarded Desruc with a calculating gaze.
Desruc smiled. “Two clans wish to gain control of Lochinver Keep. I seek your assistance in forestalling them. The MacDunnas and the Macquins seek to rule the area from as far north as Durness to as far south as Glenfinnan."
“Why seek me out? I have no dispute with either clan."
“You have no alliance with them either."
“Gairloch is a stronghold. The North Minch protects us to the north, west and south. All the keep walls be as mighty as my warriors. I fear no threat of invasion."
“As it should be, I'm sure. I only wish for the same sense of security for my own holding. We are also protected by the Minch and our walls be mighty, yet my experience in the ways of war are limited. Your abilities and knowledge of battle are renowned, unlike my own, and I come to you humbly seeking only your guidance."
“What, exactly, is it you expect me to do?"
“I expect nothing.” Desruc shrugged. “It is simply my hope that we might join forces. You could survey my keep and army, and educate me as to the weaknesses in our defenses. In turn, I would pay handsomely for your sage advice. Gold, jewels, whatever supplies you desire, I will grant them. You see, my intentions are not selfish. We would each benefit equally from such an agreement."
Kendahl frowned. “I must think on this. ‘Tis a great favor you ask of me, and a greater risk I would be asking of my men. Despite any payment you offer, if the area be as unstable as you say, ‘twould be unwise to leave my own keep at such a disadvantage."
Desruc nodded and smiled, masking his frustration. “You are wise, indeed. This is why I seek your council. I do understand your hesitance, but do not think on this too long. If my keep is besieged, yours will surely follow. Though you would likely withstand such an attack, it is inevitable that many of your men would also lose their lives in the process. A tragedy, indeed. I will send my messenger in a fortnight. I'll expect an answer then. If you decide to aide me before then, you are welcome to come of your own accord,” Desruc bowed his head.
“What if I decide not to aid you?"
Desruc calmly looked the Kendahl in the eye. “Alas, I will be forced to find other means to accomplish my goal.” When Kendahl nodded in reply, Desruc reined his horse about and headed back up the rise.
* * * *
“What do you make of him, Laird?” Alec asked.
“I sense something very familiar about this Viper. His eyes call to mind something purely evil.” Kendahl stared after the retreating figures.
“You will refuse his request, then.” Alec nodded his agreement.
“I'm not yet certain of that, Alec.” Kendahl reined his horse about. “I admit, I am quite curious about him. If only I knew how Tristan and Gareth were faring. ‘Tis taking much longer than I had hoped,” he said as he urged his mount forward up the rise with Alec at his side.
“Eire be a great distance. Mayhap something as simple as foul weather has hampered their mission. The Irish sea be most unpredictable as you well know."
“Aye, but I need them here before I make my decision. Whether or not I decide to take this ... Viper up on his offer, their presence is vital. Especially now that I know..."
“You believe the dream, then?"
“'Twas more than a simple dream, Alec. The vision was a clue from my past, as well as a foretelling of things to come, I'm certain. I fear, however, that the enchantress has visited me for the last time. If I cannot look further into the past, I know she will be lost to me forever, and my fate will be doomed."
“You believe she lives as a human?” Alec frowned with uncertainty. “And, that she holds the key to your past?"
“I do. And, if Tristan and Gareth have found the stone, they may well hold the key to my future. ‘Tis why I need them here. I'm most certain this Viper is part of the overall equation, somehow. ‘Tis as if he knows me from my past. If this be true, he has me at a grave disadvantage."
“Indeed, but what can we do?"
“Nothing as of yet. Except pray for Tristan and Gareth to return safely, and before time runs out."
* * * *
Blarney, County Cork, (Coraigh)
Tristan slowed his mount to a halt. “We'll camp here for the night. We've traveled a great distance and the horses need rest."
“As do I,” Seerah said.
“While we tend the horses, you may see to your needs. But do not get lost again, for I've no desire to search for you this eve."
“And I've no—” Seerah quelled her urge to argue with him. “You've no need for such concerns as I'm quite at home in the woods. Besides, you said I could fetch some herbs when we gained Blarney."
“I said, if you behaved."
Seerah gritted her teeth and smiled. “And, that I have. I could also use a moment or two of privacy."
“Aye. But don't be dallying, and don't wander far.” Tristan pointed to an oak tree barely twenty paces away. “The other side of the oak, for your privacy, but no further,” he ordered.
Seerah wanted to scream. She hated being treated like a wayward child, especially when it was apparent that Tristan took such pleasure in ordering her about. “Aye.” She nodded, then headed for the tree. She glanced back at Tristan, smiled, and waved for good measure, then ducked behind the tree.
In spite of Tristan's warning she headed deeper into the brush in search of herbs.
She heard a strange noise in the distance, like the sound of wind howling, and a fine mist had begun settling about the woods. The hairs on her nape prickled; she felt like she was being watched. She considered turning back, but only for a moment or two; she had already spied some interesting strains of mushrooms. She knew that if she just followed the stream a bit longer she would be able to collect a variety of herbs and rare plants that would last her well into the coming weeks. Staying close to the banks of the narrow stream, she continued on.
Spotting a thatch of black medic, she knelt down near a steep slope. She was reaching for the herb when she heard a man's cry of alarm. “Have a care! Watch ... there—don't!” When Seerah looked up she pitched forward into the stream.
The frigid water was deeper than she had expected and the current pulled her swiftly along. Seerah gasped at the air, fighting the weight of her sodden clothes, but she was soon exhausted. Just when she thought she would surely drown, something caught her by the arm. The next thing she knew, she was being tossed to the ground and something—no, someone was trying to force the breath out of her by thrusting against her middle.
She coughed up some water, then began to struggle against her assailant. When he tried to remove her cloak she kicked one foot, catching him in the shoulder and sending him backward into a deep mud puddle. Stumbling beneath her wet clothes, Seerah scrambled awkwardly to her feet. She removed the sodden wool cloak and turned to flee.
“Nay, lass. Do not fear me. Please, I ... I meant you no harm. I only wished to ... well ... why, I tried, but ... then you fell and ... I only meant to warn you about ... Blast! A sorry excuse of a champion I am indeed."
Seerah chanced a look in his direction. Despite the fact that he was sitting in mire up to his elbows, he appeared to be a rather handsome, middle-aged man. His green tunic was obviously made of the finest quality fabric. A gold crest decorated his breast, suggesting that he was someone of high standing. From the way he sat there, looking so utterly dejected, Seerah knew that she need not fear him. She wrapped her arms about herself in an attempt to stop the shivering. “What are you about—aside from frightening lasses in the forest?” Seerah asked.
“I only meant ... I tried to warn ... the steepness and all ... but I ... I.” The man shook his head in despair. “Be you all right ... lass?"
“Seerah.” She slowly advanced.
“Seerah, then.” He smiled.
“Did you also pull me from the water, sir?"
“Brian."
“Aye, Milord."
“Nay, lass—I mean, Seerah. Please, call me Brian. I ... you ... well ... be you all right?"
“Aye, but what of you ... Brian? Your fine clothes have likely been ruined on my account, and ‘tis likely you'll catch your death from the chill."
“No fear, I've suffered worse. I ... well..."
“A kind man you are indeed, but your tongue does seem to be givin’ you a fine bit of trouble. Here.” Seerah pulled her aunt's pebble from the pocket in her cloak. She held it out to Brian. “'Tis a magic stone. ‘Tis been known to grant its bearer the gift of smooth talk. ‘Tis all I have to offer you for you kindness."
Brian eyed the stone, then chuckled. “Be you a fairy, then?"
“Some might say so."
“What of you, kind lady? What say you?"
“Fairy, witch, sorceress—'tis no matter to me. Unskilled as I am, me magic be white. ‘Tis all that really matters."
Brian reached for the stone and captured Seerah's hand in his own. “Aye. I can see the bewitching goodness of your magic in your eyes. Please, come with me to my home. Allow me to dress you in fine clothes and to pamper you as such beauty deserves."
Seerah looked deep into his eyes. When she closed her eyes momentarily, a vision of a crown appeared shimmering above his head.
“See-rah!” Tristan's voice boomed in the distance.
Seerah glanced anxiously over her shoulder. “I ... I thank you kindly, but I'm afraid me friends search for me as we speak. I must be getting back for they have no patience with me ... mischievous nature. Thank you again. And good health to you, M'lord.” She issued a brief curtsy then fled in the direction she'd come.
* * * *
Tristan silently counted to ten. “Seerah!” When no reply came, he headed for the oak.
“Where are you off to, Tristan?” Gareth called.
“To find Seerah, again!” He rounded the tree, but saw no sign of her. “Damnable woman.” He stomped off through the woods, following her trail and calling her name. When he came to a spot on the river-bank, the evidence seemed clear—someone had fallen in the river.
“Seerah!"
“Here. I'm here.” Seerah pushed through the bushes and stood shivering before him, dragging her wet cloak behind her.
“You're soaking wet!"
Seerah grimaced. “I slipped and fell in the stream."
“Naturally,” Tristan drawled, scrutinizing her appearance.
Her teeth clattered noisily from the cold. Her hair and clothes were dripping wet. And those big green eyes of hers; when she blinked innocently up at him like that, through the wet hair hanging in her face, Tristan’ rancor dissolved. He couldn't help thinking that she looked very much like drowned kitten. “Were you off chasing butterflies?"
Seerah blinked as if confused. “Butterflies? Nay. I was gathering herbs. You see there was this rather nice patch of black medic down by the stream. Unfortunately, the slope was steeper than I thought."
“Obviously."
Reaching her trembling hand up, Seerah dragged the long wet strands of hair from her face and frowned at him.
That's when Tristan noticed the mark on her forehead. He moved in closer. “You are hurt.” He examined the mark, brushing his fingers lightly against the bruised flesh. Her skin felt soft and smooth beneath his callused hands, and her entire body seemed to relax beneath his touch. “Does it hurt?"
“Nay.” She sighed.
Her denial sounded like a breathy whisper and her warm breath brushed his chest. “Be this your only injury?” Tristan asked, his voice sounding gruff to his own ears. Then, trying to disregard the tempting look in her eyes, he dropped his gaze. A definite mistake, he realized, noticing the enticing way her sodden dress clung to her body.
“I...” Seerah faltered, inhaling sharply.
Her chest rose in response, and Tristan openly admired the swell of her bosom, his heated gaze settling on the defined peaks of her breasts. It was more than obvious that she was chilled to the bone and he knew that if he didn't warm her up, soon, she'd likely fall ill. Getting her out of her wet clothes, as quickly as possible, was the only way. His breathing quickened and his body stirred at the thought. Feeling her shiver, he looked up. Her lips trembled as his fingers trailed slowly down her face, lightly caressing her cheek. Pushing back her hair, he cupped her face, then stroked her bottom lip with his thumb.
Seerah gasped softly. Her lips quivered and she shivered again.
“You are near to freezing,” he said, looking deep into her eyes.
“I ... I do not f-feel so cold. Actually, I feel rather...” Seerah licked her lips. “Tingly."
“Tingly is worse than cold. We must relieve you of these wet clothes afore you catch your death."
Seerah gasped as Tristan hefted her into his arms then carried her to a nearby cave. Once inside, Tristan set Seerah back on her feet and quickly reached out to unlace her dress.
Seerah grabbed his wrists, but her attempt to stop him was feeble at best. “You mustn't, Tristan. This is na’ proper. Besides, I've nothing else to wear,” she stuttered through chattering teeth.
“You will wear me plaid.” His hands began moving deftly, beneath her frigid grasp.
“B-but, what will you wear then? Stop! You mustn't!” Seerah slapped his hand, then grimaced. “Ouch!” She winced. “By the devil, that hurt!"
“That's because your hands are practically numb.” He slid the gown from her shoulders. “I must, and I will."
“The very least you could do is close your eyes!"
Tristan's hands stilled. “Close my eyes?” he asked, realizing the thought had never occurred to him.
“Please.” Her eyes grew wide and pleading.
Tristan relented and immediately heard her sigh of relief.
He made quick work of her sodden gown, hose and slippers, then stripped off his plaid.
“Oh!” Seerah cried, sounding mildly alarmed, but Tristan simply smiled, keeping his eyes closed as he wrapped his plaid around her. When he finally opened his eyes Seerah was standing, with her eyes closed tight. Tristan chuckled. “You be a healer Seerah, You must have seen naked men before.
“Aye! B-but that was d-different."
“How?"
“I ... I do not know, exactly. It j-just is."
He frowned, then. “You're still shivering. Come. The heat from my body should help."
“No! I ... I mean ... couldn't you s-simply build a fire?
“Seerah. There be no tinder nor kindling in this cave. Be still. I'll na’ harm you.” He pulled Seerah close and began rubbing his hands vigorously over the plaid covering her back.
“Mmmm. Th-thank y-you.” Seerah mumbled.
“You are still shivering mightily."
“The water was frightfully chilled.” Snuggling closer, she opened her eyes glanced up at him. “But you're so warm.” Her parted lips trembled slightly.
Suddenly Tristan bent his head low and pressed his lips to hers. His intent was merely to warm her more thoroughly, but the feel of her eager lips and pliant body caused his desire to soar. He brushed her lips with his tongue, then nearly came undone when she did the same.
Driven by pure instinct, he deepened the kiss.
She complied, her arms willingly circling his neck.
Slipping his hands beneath the plaid, he caressed Seerah's shoulders and back, her bare flesh seeming to warm beneath his touch. Then, moving slowly lower, he cupped her bottom and pulled her close until he could feel her body mold against him.
Seerah moaned deep in her throat.
Her passionate whimper could have easily driven a lesser man to distraction, but not Tristan. Dragging his mouth from hers he forced his eyes open. “Feeling better?” His voice sounded deep and raspy as he struggled to gain control.
“Aye,” Seerah replied, but her eyes remained closed. “You feel good, too. So warm,” she sighed. Then her lips brushed his jaw, “The water was so cold, and me cloak so heavy—I almost drowned—but now, mmmm. So warm.” She nuzzled his neck.
“You almost drowned!"
Startled, Seerah gaped up at him. “The currant was swift and that horrid cloak was pulling me down."
“You could have died!” Tristan shouted.
Seerah smiled, then.
Tristan couldn't believe that the daft woman was actually smiling at him like he'd just paid her a compliment. Next, she slowly stroked Tristan's face. “But I did na’ drown, Tristan. King Brian rescued me.” She pressed her lips to his throat, as her hand stroked his chest.
All thought fled Tristan's mind as he momentarily lost himself in the feel of Seerah's gentle caress. “King Brian,” he mumbled. Then, as if suddenly waking from a dream, he shook his head in disbelief. “King Brian Boru?” Grabbing her wrist, Tristan stilled her hand.
Seerah looked up. “Aye,” she replied. “Well, of course I did not know he was the king right off.” She tried to free her hand. “Actually, I did not realize he was trying to save me either. I thought he was assaulting me, so I kicked him. He fell in the mire and ruined his fine clothes, but he was not hurt. And he did rescue me."
“What, no fairies came to your rescue?” Abruptly releasing her hand, Tristan allowed his eyes to travel the length of her semi-naked body.
Seerah followed his gaze. “Och!” Quickly drawing the plaid close about her, she said, “Like you, he was a mere mortal being. But unlike you, he had a kind spirit and a gentle soul."
She frowned. “Unfortunately, he also had difficulty speaking clearly. ‘Tis why I fell to begin with. He tried to warn me, but startled me instead. He stuttered so noticeably, even after he saved me, that I gave him Aunt Lilybet's magic pebble. ‘Tis believe by some that the stone gifts its owner with smooth speech, don'cha know?"
Tristan shook his head and chuckled in spite of himself. “You are the clumsiest, most annoying, chatterbox-of-a-lass I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. And, perhaps insane. You believe a king of Ireland saved you. And you say you rewarded his valiant efforts by giving him a stone?"
“A king did save me, Tristan. And, giving him the stone was the least I could do."
“Nay. The least you could do is stay safe.” He swept her up into his arms.
Seerah blinked up at him. “I'm safe now."
“You are far from safe, Seerah.” He carried her to the back of the cave. “I know of only one way to warm you properly. Stripping the plaid from her body he laid it on the ground. Lowering himself to the ground he took hold of Seerah hand and pulled her along with him.
Before Seerah could object he coaxed her to her back, covered her with the length of his body and began his passionate assault. Although taking her virtue went against his vow and everything he believed, her welfare was at stake. Wasn't it?
* * * *
Seerah moaned deep in her throat as Tristan kissed her deeply, his hands exploring every inch of her body. When his mouth left hers and sought out her breast, she gasped with pleasure. “W-we can na’ do this Tristan. We're not married. ‘Twould be a sin against God,” she said, but her hands coaxed him to continue.
“Do you wish me to stop, Seerah? Just say the words and I will,” he replied, but his voiced sounded strange to Seerah—like a man who'd run a far distance. “Tell me, now. Do you wish me to stop?” he asked, as his hand gently stroked her inner thigh.
“N-nay!” she cried. “But...” He pressed his finger to her lips, stifling her. “You'll be me wife, then. ‘Tis the only solution."
“I ... ‘tis a bit like putting the cart before the horse, Tristan. In God's eyes, ‘twill still be a sin,” she muttered.
“Not in the Highlands."
“We're not in the Highlands."
“Do you accept me as your husband, Seerah?"
“I might, if..."
“Just say aye."
“Aye?"
“And, I accept you as my wife. ‘Tis done.” He kissed her then and began his slow, passionate assault. He ravished her mouth with his own and her body with his hands. Seerah responded eagerly, copying his actions, caress for enticing caress. Moments later he kissed her in the most intimate fashion, at the core of her femininity. Seerah shouted Tristan's name out in ecstasy as the most thrilling sensation she'd ever experienced tore through her quivering body.
He drove into her then, in one swift motion, silencing her pained moan with his kiss. When he broke the kiss, he lay very still above her, holding her close, but shielding her from his full weight. “Do na’ move. The pain will lessen, shortly,” he said, his voice breathless.
And just when Seerah thought it was all over, he began moving his hips. She felt her spirit shoot up like a flaming arrow headed straight for the moon. Then her world suddenly exploded like a bursting star. When the stardust finally settled, she floated back down to earth, slowly, the way a snowflake glides down from the heavens.
“Be you warm, now?” Tristan asked.
“Aye, very. But..."
“But, what?"
“That does not make what we just did, right.” Seerah caressed his face, almost wishing it did.
Tristan took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “I took you as me wife, Seerah. We did nothing wrong."
Seerah sighed. “We are not married, Tristan. Simply saying you wish to be married, does not make it so."
“In the Highlands it does."
“We are not in the Highlands, yet."
“You are mine, Seerah. By Highland law. ‘Twas a hand fast marriage contract, legal for one year from this day."
Seerah pulled her hand free from his grasp. “You can na’ be serious!"
“Oh, but I am."
“And what, exactly, happens one year from this day?"
“Either one of us can cancel the contract, of course. Any children we beget, however, will be mine."
“Children?” Seerah shoved Tristan from her and scrambled to her feet. When Tristan stood as well, she covered herself with his plaid.
“Do you not wish to bear children?” Tristan said.
“Nay. I mean ... I do ... someday.” She coughed then, a deep rattling cough that made her grimace.
“Good.” Tristan walked over to where her clothes lay on the ground. “Your gown is still wet. We'll have to go back to camp where we can dry it and warm you by a fire."
“'Tis madness! We are na’ married."
“Aye. We are.” Tristan walked back to Seerah.
Before she could react he wrapped her in his plaid and lifted her in his arms.
“W-what?"
“I'm taking you back to camp."
Seerah gasped. “B-but, you're naked."
“Aye. That I am."
“What of your men? What will they think?"
“Nothing, once we tell them that we're married.” Tristan exited the cave and headed off through the woods.
“Faith and beggorah!” Seerah cried, hanging her head in despair.
* * * *
When they arrived back at the campsite, Tristan walked over to the fire. Without a word to his men, he lowered Seerah to the ground. “Warm yourself, wife.” He walked over to the horses and retrieved two heavy fur mantles.
“Wife?” Gareth practically choked on the word. “You be married?” he asked Seerah.
Seerah shrugged. “Tis a possibility."
“Did you agree to take him as your husband?” Colin asked.
“Aye. That I did ... but—"
“And Tristan agreed to take you as his wife?” Greum asked.
“I did,” Tristan said. He draped one cloak about Seerah and the other around himself.
“Did you—” Zeth gulped.
“Well of course they did, lad,” Greum chuckled. “She's wearing his plaid. And they both look ... well pleased. Why else do you think that might be? Aye. Tristan married her well and good, by my thinking."
“Aye,” Colin agreed. “Why, he could not have honored his vow to protect her virtue if he'd bedded her without being married. And from the blush on Seerah face, she's been bedded quite proper, indeed!” Colin winked and elbowed Zeth in the ribs. “Good work, Tristan."
Tristan nodded and puffed out his chest, a look of arrogant pride gleamed in his eyes as he gazed at Seerah.
Seerah simply groaned and buried her head in her cloak.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lochinver Keep
When Desruc returned to his fortress his foul mood grew even darker. His emissary, Sir Nevil, had not yet returned and Desruc was growing anxious for news about the girl. He strode angrily through the castle doors. “Get me my crystal. Now!” he ordered, tossing his black cape at a nearby serving wench.
Her eyes alight with fear, the hunchback crone hurried to do his bidding.
Desruc laughed; the evil sound echoed through the main hall as he swiftly climbed the stairs leading to his altar. Sitting in his jeweled throne, he impatiently drummed his fingers against the finely carved, wooden arms. When the crone returned a moment later, she was carrying a wooden slat. A dark purple velvet cover protected the priceless crystal beneath, and the crone's hands trembled visibly as she approached the altar. Her foot missed the first step, and she stumbled forward slightly.
“Drop it, and a painful hump growing out of your back will not be the last torture you endure!” Desruc shouted.
Quickly righting herself, the crone ascended the steps and laid the slat across the arms of the throne, creating a table-like surface. “M-My Lord.” She curtsied low.
“Leave me, now.” Desruc hissed.
In her haste, the crone turned too quickly. Her slipper caught the hem of her skirts and she tumbled down the stairs, landing face-first against the stone floor. When she raised her head, blood seeped from her nose.
“You stupid, clumsy fool,” Desruc bellowed. “Allow one more drop of your blood to fall and I'll cover your body with leeches until they drain you completely. And clean the mess you've made as you take your leave. Now!"
Swiftly pulling her cap from her head, the crone pressed it hard against her face to staunch the bleeding. Still on her knees, she crawled from the room wiping the floor with her skirts.
Desruc chuckled wickedly. Next, taking a deep, relaxing breath, he removed the velvet cover from the crystal. When he peered into the glass orb, the first image he saw was Nevil's mail-clad form sinking into the ocean. Desruc scowled, knowing that his chances of finding the girl would decrease without the knight, but there wasn't enough time for him to interfere.
Such spells took time, a commodity which Desruc lacked. The time of reckoning grew nearer with each passing moment. If he didn't locate the girl and combine powers with her before the next full moon, she could easily become too powerful for him to conquer; the prince of darkness would not take kindly to such failings.
Next came visions of Kendahl. Although he had proved to be most disagreeable during their meeting, the crystal revealed that the stubborn Scot would be the least of Desruc's worries. The girl was on her way to him. She would bring Kendahl, and ... another. Desruc smiled to himself, relishing this information. A sundry of soldiers will certainly accompany them. He nodded thoughtfully. His pleasure remained undaunted, however, because he knew that his most hated rival would soon be in his clutches. Desruc caressed the crystal as if it were his lover. “Yes, you survived, but more's the pity little brother. Soon you will be at my mercy again. Only this time, you will die beneath the fury of my unforgiving hand. Ah yes, you will pay dearly, Tristan."
* * * *
Two days after her soggy misadventure, and her marriage to Tristan, Seerah and the warriors boarded the wayfaring ship Tiraslee. The days and nights since had passed without further mishap. Seerah's cough had diminished completely by the second night and she was feeling quite fit, except for the nagging feeling of dread plaguing her spirit.
She'd experienced the sense of doom the moment she boarded the Tiraslee, but she'd paid little heed to the warning. Due to her experience aboard ship years ago, during the Norse attack, it seemed natural that traveling by ship would play havoc with her nerves. Tonight, however, sitting alone in the dark, unable to sleep, she sensed the threat of danger with every fiber of her being. Something evil lingered in the atmosphere; an encompassing, oppressive, dark energy seemed to threaten the very core of her existence.
Being confined to her cramped quarters below deck only made matters worse. She understood why she wasn't allowed above deck—the warriors had enough to worry about without her getting in the way. Unfortunately, Cosmo had also deserted her soon after they'd boarded the ship. Seerah hadn't seen him since, and when she tried to call upon her powers, her efforts proved meager at best.
Her thoughts turned to Tristan—visions of their lovemaking seemed to plague her mind. She desired him like nothing she'd ever desired before in her life. Although he had barely touched her since, she knew he still wanted her as well; the air between them fairly crackled with energy whenever he drew near. He was simply much better at controlling his emotions and desires, and of ignoring the yearning for physical pleasure.
In fact, Tristan had put as much space between them as possible. For the most part, he stayed above deck, keeping company with his men or the ship's crew. Whenever Seerah drew near, his expression turned grim. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid her, completely ignoring her, as if he resented her presence. Her only comfort came from her visits with Gareth and the other warriors, and the knowledge she always gained from them about how Tristan was growing more sullen and moody with each passing day.
Aye. He misses me, indeed. Seerah smiled to herself, then closed her eyes and tried to rest. She was sound asleep when the vision finally came to her; she saw a man dressed in shimmering mail. A wild boar decorated the nasal plate on his helmet. He was aboard a Norse ship. By his side stood a dark-haired Norman giant.
Seerah woke with a start and rushed to dress, oblivious to the noise she was making as she stumbled about in the dark. When she finally opened the door to her cabin, Tristan was standing there with his dagger drawn, looking as if he were prepared to break down the door.
“Oh!” Seerah jumped back, startled.
Tristan grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the small passageway. After a discriminating glance inside her cabin he said, “You make enough racket to wake the dead. I thought you were being assaulted."
“I had a dream. I must go..."
“You are na’ going anywhere. ‘Tis too dangerous.” Tristan stood unmoving before her.
“But, I felt Nevil's presence. I must go..."
“You will stay here until I say otherwise.” Tristan commanded.
Just then, the warning sounded. “We're under attack!"
Tristan glared at Seerah.
“'Tis Nevil. I'm certain."
“Move!” Tristan grabbed Seerah's arm and hauled her behind him. When they gained the upper deck, the Tiraslee's crew was running about in a state of panic.
Circling her waist with his right arm Tristan held Seerah close by his side as he studied the enemy vessel. Seerah saw a lone warship drawing nearer, toward the stern of the Tiraslee. Closing her eyes she grasped her amulet in her left hand and began to chant, “Heaven and earth, sea and wind, obey me will to defend. Fire and brimstone, thunder and quake, obey me plea for all our sake."
“Seerah!” Tristan shook her. “I'm taking you below deck. You will lock the door and stay there ‘til I come for you. Do you understand?"
With her eyes still closed, Seerah wagged her head in denial, then whispered, “Hurl churl, fling and flail, I cast me curse upon the man in mail.” Opening her eyes she extended her arm in the direction of the approaching enemy ship.
An explosion rent the air as the ship was struck by a lone streak of lightning. Some of the crew were cast overboard from the force of the blow, and a fire erupted on the deck.
“There.” Seerah pointed, drawing Tristan's attention to a gleaming streak flying through the sky. A horrified cry filled the air, then the mail-clad body hit the murky surface of the water and sank. “'Twas Nevil. I'm certain,” Seerah said.
The wind began swirling like a cyclone, pitching the Tiraslee forward.
“Hold on!” Tristan yelled. Then, forcing Seerah between his body and the rigging, he held on with all his might. The bow crashed against the churning sea with such shattering force that anything, including crewmen who weren't secured, tumbled across the deck like debris.
Seerah knew she had to do something. Struggling against Tristan's binding hold she worked her hand free and gained hold of her charm.
“Be still!” Tristan commanded. “You've caused enough trouble already."
Ignoring him Seerah closed her eyes. “Winds of warning blow smooth and calm, guide us gently without fear of harm. Ocean tides I beg of thee, carry us safely across the sea,” she whispered.
“Stop that!” Tristan shouted, trying to grasp the amulet from her. Suddenly, the wind grew less punishing and the sea quelled. The Tiraslee sailed smooth and steady, careening through the dark as if propelled by some mysterious force.
* * * *
Gareth and the other warriors finally came to stand by Tristan's side. Gareth smiled. “I see you be gaining control of your magic.” He winked at Seerah. “With the wind at our backs like this, now, we'll reach The Mull of Kintyre in no time."
Tristan glared at Gareth. “For the love of—"
“Believe what you wish, Tristan. But you know well what you saw. We all do. She cast Nevil in the ocean, and thwarted the attack. She has the power."
“Aye.” The other men agreed, nodding their accord.
Tristan clapped his hand to his forehead. “You've all gone mad. You're beginning to sound just like her!"
“'Tis well I should. After all, Seerah and I belong to each other,” Gareth said.
“What?” Tristan practically growled as he glared at Gareth.
Seerah gasped. Greum, Zeth and Colin visibly tensed, but Gareth shrugged indifferently. “We belong to each other, but not in the way you be thinking. Seerah is your wife, aye. But Ecne was right, we share a much deeper bond. And I know you well, Tristan. You would not believe me if I tried to explain, so I won't. When we reach Gairloch, you will see the truth for yourself. Whether or not you choose to believe, that will be up to you."
Tristan's gaze fell to Seerah.
“He is right. You would na’ believe without proof, but you will see soon enough.” Seerah shrugged and looked past him. She pointed out across the water. “We near land. I must find Cosmo and gather my belongings.” Lifting her skirts, Seerah hurried off.
“We've traveled swiftly, indeed,” Colin observed. “But we've been gone longer than expected. Our laird must be anxious for news."
“Aye?” Tristan replied.
“I'm most certain, that it would please him to know of our success as swiftly as possible,” Colin hedged.
“And?"
“Seerah's obviously worn out. Why, ‘twill take us twice as long to reach Gairloch with her and—"
“What are you trying so hard not to say, Colin?"
“I'm simply suggesting that Gareth, Zeth, Greum and I go on ahead to ease the laird's mind."
“This would not have anything to do with Seerah's ... peculiarities, now would it?"
Colin bowed his head low and nodded. “Ashamed as I am to admit it, ‘tis the truth. I'm beginning to believe in her powers meself.” He looked up.
“There's another reason that we all wish to travel on ahead,” Zeth said.
“Explain!” Tristan growled.
Greum stepped forward. “Ever since we boarded ship and you locked Seerah below, you have been taking out your ... frustrations ... on all of us. ‘Tis about time you spent some time alone with you wife. I'm thinking she's feeling neglected."
Colin, Greum, Gareth and Zeth nodded their agreement.
“And it's obvious you want her,” Colin said. “So fiercely your need be, that it's driving you to distraction. You've been acting like a rabid dog ever since we boarded ship. Grant us leave to go on ahead, and take some time to ... be alone with her."
“Are you suggesting I've no notion of how to properly care for me own wife?” Tristan bellowed.
“Nay, Tristan,” Greum said. “Truth be told, we simply wish for some time away from your ... sweet-tempered disposition."
“Aye.” Gareth, Colin and Zeth agreed, then turned to walk away.
“Go bed you wife properly,” Colin called over his shoulder. “And give us all some peace."
Despite the grave insult his men had just given him, by departing without awaiting his approval, Tristan couldn't deny the fact that they were right—his need to have Seerah in his arms again was so great that he thought he would go mad if he didn't take her soon.
Originally, he'd thought to give her some time to recover; after all it had been her first time and she'd been tender the following day. The only way he had managed to keep his hands off her, however, had been by completely disregarding her presence. Ignoring her lithe body and come-hither looks had been pure torture. And now, his own men were practically ordering him to bed his own wife. He would have laughed if Seerah hadn't appeared at that exact moment.
“Where be Gareth and the others?” she asked.
“Preparing to leave."
“Good. I'm ready to be off, as well."
“We're not going with them, Seerah."
“What? Why not!"
Tristan smiled. “It appears,” He said, advancing and taking her in his arms, “as though my men have just ordered me to ... see to your needs."
Seerah gasped, her eyes growing wide with a look that bordered between astonishment and anticipation. “M-me n-needs?"
“Aye. I've been neglecting, you wife.” Slowly bending his head, he kissed her so thoroughly that he felt her body tremble with desire. His own body reacted with such yearning that he actually feared he might humiliate himself right then and there. Dragging his mouth from hers, he looked into her eyes. “Let's be away from here, now!"
* * * *
Gareth and the others rode off, swiftly, leaving Seerah and Tristan behind.
Tristan and Seerah quickly found shelter in a nearby cavern.
The first time they made love, it was fast and furiously with the hunger of two starving people. They didn't even bother to fully undress, but Seerah didn't mind in the least; consumed by her own desire, she clung to Tristan, matching him moan for moan, shattering release for shattering release.
After lighting a fire, they prepared a makeshift bed with fur mantles and took their time teasing and caressing each other with a slow, torturous pleasure that seemed to last forever. It wasn't until much later, when they lay fully sated in each other's arms, that Seerah's world came crashing down around her. Dear God! I love him. As she studied his sleeping face in the soft glow of firelight, the thought was almost more than she could bear. She knew that Tristan desired her, and perhaps he even cared for her, but that was all she could ever expect from him.
Though she'd always loved Gran, the love she felt for Tristan was more intimate and fervent then she could have imagined; her heart and soul felt more fragile and exposed than she ever could have believed. Seerah knew that such deep, unguarded emotions went against every fiber in Tristan's nature. To him, loving her would be like going into battle totally defenseless. Mayhap I have enough love for the both of us. As she brushed a kiss on his forehead, a glowing stream of light suddenly appeared near the back of the cave, drawing her attention.
Pulling Tristan's discarded plaid about her shoulders, she rose and walked toward the light.
A lone willow shoot sprouted from the ground within the ray of light. Glancing back over her shoulder she noticed that the rest of the cave, including Tristan and the fire, seemed to vanish behind a wall of mist. You must go to the Fin-gal's cave and retrieve the alder wand. The Magi's words echoed in her mind. First you must open you heart to love. Only then will you achieve the true power of the light.
Glancing back at the willow shoot, she watched as it twisted and shrank until it was transformed into a dry, curved twig resembling a primeval scepter—just like the one the magi had conjured. When she reached out and grasped it in her hand, the light glowed brighter as if it was drawing from some other source. A warm current of invigorating energy seemed to flow through her veins and for the first time she understood the meaning of the true power of the light. The ability and willingness to love. Aye.
When she turned to rejoin Tristan, the mist faded and the cave reappeared. She walked back to where Tristan lay sleeping. Kneeling on the ground next to him, she whispered. “I love you, and I will forever more."
Tristan's eyes fluttered open. He reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Seerah. I ... I...” He gently pulled Seerah down and held her close. “And I will protect you always. ‘Tis the best I can offer."
“Aye.” Placing her finger against his lips, Seerah said, “'Tis enough."
* * * *
Gairloch Castle
“Tristan has returned!” Alec informed his laird as he approached Kendahl's bedchamber.
Kendahl stood by the window. He smiled at Alec and glanced outside. “Of course he has. Why, as you can see, I've been expecting him. Have the gates raised, Alec. I wish to greet Tristan, me men and ... me children at the drawbridge."
Even though Gareth and the others had left for Gairloch castle well before Tristan and Seerah, they all breached the woods at practically the same instant, only from two different directions. They met in the clearing halfway between the woods and Gairloch castle.
Gareth glanced back at the path, then frowned at Tristan. “How—"
“Fear not, Gareth. All is well.” Tristan chuckled.
Colin smirked. “You both appear to be ... uh ... well enough, indeed. But how did you manage such a hasty journey when we left the docks before you?"
“Aye. How?” Zeth said.
“How, indeed?” Gareth remarked.
Although the shortcut he'd taken to get them to Gairloch castle from the Fin-gael's cave was a long-forgotten trail, Tristan couldn't resist the opportunity. “Well,” Tristan began. “In case you have na’ noticed, she's a talented enchantress."
“You finally believe in her powers?” Zeth fairly choked on his words.
Despite everything that had transpired, Tristan still had his doubts about her magic powers, but he was a devout believer in her seductive powers. Tristan grinned at the memory of their lovemaking.
“Aye, he believes,” Greum said.
At that moment, Tristan spotted the laird sitting proud and tall on his mount, before the drawbridge.
Seerah gasped. “Do you see him, Gareth?"
“Aye, that I do” Gareth replied.
“'Tis our laird,” Tristan informed.
“I know,” Seerah said, glancing at Gareth. “He's been expecting us."
Moments later, Tristan brought his horse to a halt in front his laird and nodded respectfully.
“Tristan. Welcome back.” The laird nodded in reply, but his eyes remained locked on Seerah. “We've ... ‘tis good to..."
Tristan fully understood his laird's reaction to her; she looked more radiant than usual today, somehow. Tristan knew that her presence would likely cause a stir. If his laird's reaction to her, now, was any indication as to how the clan would treat her—especially the men—Tristan knew he'd be hard pressed not to bash more than a few heads. After all, she was his—he wasn't about to stand idly by while other men leered at her.
The fact that his laird had been rendered speechless didn't bode well. Aye, there was something strange, indeed, about the way he seemed to hold her and her alone, in his steady gaze. Seerah's suddenly tense demeanor also left Tristan feeling a bit uneasy.
Tristan looked to Gareth, hoping for some answers, but Gareth also sat unmoving, in a trance-like state. He glanced at Colin, Greum, and finally Zeth. Each man simply shrugged, their eyes silently questioning him about what to do. Normally, it was proper decorum for the laird to speak first. Seeing that he was at such a loss for words, however, Tristan cleared his throat loudly, hoping to break the trance-like state.
The laird didn't flinch, but a smile curved his lips. “I know you are all waiting, Tristan. But you will simply have to wait a while longer."
Tristan frowned. “But—"
“Shush.” The laird held up his hand, silencing Tristan. When he finally dismounted, he managed to do so without ever taking his eyes from Seerah. Then he walked over and offered a hand up to her. “D-daughter?” he croaked.
“Father,” Seerah whispered, as she slid down from Tristan's lap into the laird's open arms and hugged him close.
Father? Daughter? What ... When Tristan realized that his own mouth was gaping open wider than any other, he clamped it shut. Questions raced through his mind, but before he could ask the laird anything, Gareth cleared his throat and coughed, as if purposely drawing the laird's attention.
Still holding Seerah close by his side the laird smiled at Gareth. He held an open arm out as if inviting Gareth to join them. “Son,” the laird said, unable to keep the emotion from his voice any longer.
Gareth slowly dismounted and joined them. “Father,” Gareth croaked. As the two men embraced in a vise-like hug, the laird's eyes grew misty. Seerah sniffled, choking back a happy sob, and the two men released each other, only to include her in their tender welcome.
“See-rah?” Tristan said, finally.
The threesome glanced in Tristan's direction, but it was the laird who spoke, “Aye, Tristan. You have been most patient. You have served me well, as I knew you would.” He motioned to the charm dangling from Seerah's neck. “Not only did you located the charm and return it to me, but you gave me back me life—me children. And together we will rescue their mother—the love of me life."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Even after Kendahl related the details of Boyce's—Gareth's—birth, and all he remembered of the raid, Tristan still found the information difficult to believe: Seerah and Gareth were brother and sister, the laird had once been a member of the Fenians of Ireland, and he was also the legendary Highland Knight, Kendahl MacFarlane—and, now, Tristan's father-in-law to boot.
'Twas almost more than Tristan could take in all at once. Though he believed that Seerah's family had been separated during the Norse attack, he still wasn't willing to consider the tales of prophecy. And their beliefs in the forces of dark and light were even harder to grasp. The laird's—Kendahl's—plans to locate and rescue his wife, Galynne, seemed rather desperate. Not that Tristan doubted their ability to rescue her. But Kendahl's dreams and Seerah's visions weren't enough to convince Tristan that Galynne had survived, or that they could even locate her.
Tristan rubbed his temples, trying to approach the situation from a reasonable point of view.
“There's more, I'm afraid,” Kendahl's voice crashed into Tristan deep thoughts. “I met with a man recently. He calls himself Lord Viper. He occupies Lochinver Keep. I had my suspicions about him in the beginning, and I know now that he is not who he first led me to believe."
“Viper?” Seerah and Gareth spoke simultaneously. They glanced at each other.
“The serpent?” Gareth asked.
“'Tis most likely that they are one in the same,” Seerah said.
“The serpent?” Kendahl replied.
“I've seen the serpent in me visions,” Seerah said.
“Please, tell me of this vision."
Seerah nodded. “The shadowed man, Tristan, is obviously me protector. Then there was the serpent—a symbol representing the evil presence, possibly this Lord Viper. But ... there was also another man—a light-haired man who appears to be taming the serpent."
“Fin-gael?” Kendahl asked.
“Aye.” Seerah nodded.
“So, my suspicion be well-founded.” Kendahl sighed heavily. “I fear Lord Viper and this Fin-gael, from your dreams, be one in the same, Seerah. He's also a villain from me own past. Once, a long time ago, I called him friend. He came to my clan, a young man alone in the world. I took him in. I trained him and fought by his side. I treated him like a brother and trusted him like no other until—och! I should have killed him!” Slamming his fist against the table, Kendahl rose and began pacing back and forth.
“What, Father? What happened?” Seerah asked.
“He became ill, and I brought him to the Druid camp where I first met you mother."
Seerah gasped. “The legend's true, then? You and Mother fell in love at first sight, but it wasn't until after you saved her from the fire that you were allowed to wed?"
“Aye.” Kendahl stopped pacing. “Izebeth told you this?"
“Aye."
“Did she also speak to you of the scorned one?"
“The scorned one? Nay. Who—
“He is the man who I took in and treated as one of me own. He was even a member of the Fianna for a short while, until he became ill. While Galynne nursed him back to health, he developed feelings for her. When he realized how Galynne and I felt about each other, he became sorely jealous of me, and when I was forced to leave the Druid camp, he tried to force himself on her."
“You mean he ra—” Seerah faltered.
“Aye. He tried to rape Galynne. But he failed. I wanted to kill him then. Instead, Izebeth cursed his manhood and exiled him to Normandy. She believed it would be punishment enough. But now he's back. He's got what he's wanted all along—Galynne. He is obviously learned in the art of black magic as well. But he will pay this time. Aye, you will pay with your life this time, Desruc!” Kendahl cried, slamming his fist against the table again.
Tristan's mouth fell open and he gazed wide-eyed at Kendahl. “D-Des-ruc?"
“What is it, Tristan?” Seerah cried. “Do you know of this ... this Desruc?"
“Aye,” Tristan all but growled the reply. Looking up at Kendahl, he said, “I know him well. He is me sworn enemy. And, unfortunately, me half-brother as well. As for his death, it will be mine. Mine alone!"
* * * *
Seerah had vehemently opposed the plan for her to stay behind like a frightened maid while the men went off to rescue Galynne. When she had tried to explain the prophecy to Kendahl, his fatherly concerns had swiftly outweighed his beliefs. Kendahl, Gareth, and Tristan were planning to fight black magic with reason and brute strength, but Seerah knew such a plan would never work. After formulating a sound plan of her own, she mixed a mild sleeping draught in their ale. When all of the men, including the guards, were snoring soundly, she slipped away, like a black cat in the night.
Gaining entrance to Lochinver Keep proved easier than Seerah had first thought it would.
Armed with the Danann's gifted harp, from Dagdha, she'd ridden up to the keep claiming be a traveling minstrel who wished only for a coin or two for her troubles. The guards readily accepted her lies with the obvious hopes of paying her for more than mere songs. Moments later the sweet strain of the harp had plunged her enemies into a deep, mystical slumber, as promised by Ecne.
With the use of her mind she swiftly located Galynne's spirit in the tower room. Pulling her black cloak tightly about herself, Seerah made her way across the vacant courtyard to the tower. As she snuck cautiously up the winding staircase, however, she realized too late that something was wrong. Pain exploded against the side of her head mere seconds before she succumbed to the darkness.
* * * *
“Where's Seerah!” Tristan all but roared, bringing Kendahl, Gareth, and the contingent of sleeping warriors quickly awake.
“What? Who?” Kendahl struggled to his feet and glanced about. “Seerah?"
“She's gone. The insolent wench drugged us. And, if I know her at all, she set out to find Galynne on her own!” Tristan bellowed, then stroked his throbbing skull.
“Hell-fire and damnation!” Kendahl yelled. “Alec, ready our horses and call the guard, we ride for Lochinver Keep, now!"
When the scouts reported back that all was quiet, Kendahl, Tristan, and the soldiers slipped from the camouflage of the forest surrounding Lochinver Keep. To their surprise, they found themselves surrounded by what appeared to be hordes of soldiers, too many in number to count.
An enemy soldier called out, “Surrender now or the enchantress dies."
“What of our warriors?” Kendahl asked.
“We've no use for them, only you and your vassal. Your men offer no threat against our vast number. They will be set free as well, if you surrender peacefully."
Neither Kendahl or Tristan trusted the enemy, but it seemed they had little choice in the matter—the enemy soldiers stood twenty or thirty deep, their ranks lining the expanse of land from border to border. The sight was mind-numbing. If he hadn't seen it with his own eyes, Tristan would never have believed such numbers. Desruc's army easily outnumbered Kendahl's full contingent of warriors by twenty to one. They had no hope of escaping, or surviving, such a battle. Slim as it was, their only hope of seeing Seerah and Galynne alive was for Kendahl and Tristan to surrender.
All Tristan could think about was Seerah's safety. He gazed at Kendahl and they nodded to one another, in silent agreement.
Next, Kendahl ordered his men to retreat. Then he and Tristan dismounted, cast off their weapons and walked slowly toward the enemy.
Gareth watched in disbelief and anger as six of Desruc's soldiers rode forward to seize Kendahl and Tristan. They were bound and gagged, then tethered behind the horses and left to walk.
They had just gained the drawbridge when one of the soldier kicked Kendahl in the head, nearly knocking him to the ground. Colin roared and hefted his spear, then released it before anyone could stop him.
“Nay, Colin—” Gareth cried, a moment too late.
The spear sailed through the air as though powered by the wings of a falcon; despite the great distance, it soared high and far, silently slicing through the night with such speed and accuracy that its flight seemed almost enchanted. When it struck its target—the soldier who had kicked Kendahl—the man fell to the ground. An instant later, both horse and rider vanished.
Within seconds, the bulk of Desruc's army also vanished, leaving barely a handful of soldiers guarding the castle entrance.
“Black magic, indeed,” Gareth muttered. He glanced at Colin and nodded.
“Attack!” He shouted the command.
As the warriors drove their horses from the woods, Kendahl and Tristan began to struggle against the several remaining men, but their effort proved too little too late. More soldiers appeared from inside the castle. Kendahl and Tristan were quickly ushered inside and the drawbridge was fully raised before Gareth and the warriors had covered barely half the distance.
Gareth drew his mount to a halt at the edge of the moat surrounding Lochinver Keep.
Colin, Greum and Zeth fell into place on either side of him.
“'Twill be impossible for us to defeat black magic with brawn,” Zeth said.
“Aye,” Gareth said. Then he pulled the sword of Nuada from its sheath. “Then we will fight with white magic. Colin, retrieve your spear—we will need all the help we can get."
* * * *
Seerah struggled against the two armed warriors who had been sent to escort her to the hall. But her efforts soon proved futile. Even if she could break free of their grasp, where would she go? Her only hope was that Tristan would form a better plan than she had. Aye, he would. He had to!
When Seerah and the guards entered the hall by way of a side passage, they abruptly released her, thrusting her forward so that she fell to the ground.
“Welcome, Seerah,” Desruc muttered, as he finished chewing the handful of fennel he'd just shoved into his mouth. “So good of you to come.” He swallowed with a gulp and glanced at a guard standing on the other side of the hall. “Have Helig bring the other one to me."
The guard opened a door and shouted, “Bring forth the Barbarian!” Only a brief moment passed before a hulking Norman serf led Tristan into the hall. An iron collar encircled Tristan's neck. His wrists and ankles were shackled. The heavy chain harness connecting his limbs made escape virtually impossible.
“Tristan! No!” Seerah cried.
“Ah yes, Tristan. As you can see, we've been waiting for you,” Desruc jeered.
Tristan eyes locked with Seerah's. “Has he harmed you?"
Seerah's eyes filled with tears. “Nay, I'm well,” she replied. Then lowering her eyes, she wagged her head from side to side. “I'm so sorry, Tristan,” she whispered.
Desruc clapped his hands together slowly. “A touching scene, truly. But what is this? No endearing words for your dear brother, Tristan?” He dipped his hand in the bowl of herbs again, and crammed a handful into his mouth.
Seerah's head snapped up. Brother? Desruc?
“Half-brother,” Tristan bitterly corrected, struggling against Helig's grip.
Seerah's mind whirled as Brigit's words about their half-brother flooded her brain. The Devil's spawn, indeed."Half-brother?” Desruc snickered, drawing Seerah's full attention. He slowly finished munching the fennel, then grinned at Tristan. “You mean bastard, don't you, Tristan?” He rose and casually brushed his hands together.
“The title does seem to fit.” Tristan glared.
“And, here I thought I was being kind when I murdered that worthless bitch, Catrin, for you. She was a whore you know."
Tristan jerked at his chains. “I can only hope to be so kind, when I slay you."
“Why, you arrogant little—as if you didn't have enough lasses willing to come to your bed, even then. Our own mother loved you so dearly, I'm surprised she didn't spread her legs for you, herself!” Desruc took a deep breath as if to calm his fevered pitch. “Please, do yourself a favor. Don't fight Helig. He's capable of breaking you in two and I would so hate to see you miss the main event.” Desruc reseated himself, casually flinging his left leg over the arm of his throne as he began picking his teeth.
“All of this, is because of your jealousy and hatred for me?” Tristan asked.
“Such arrogance, Tristan.” Desruc laughed. “Why, this is about so much more."
“But, Seerah and her family have nothing to do with us. Set them free and—"
“Silence!” Desruc shouted, motioning to Helig.
The giant abruptly dragged Tristan across the room, shoved him against the wall, then fastened his chains to an iron hook mounted there.
Desruc stood, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You will not command me. You will do as you're told! Ah, Tristan the honorable, so willing to give your life for love. But you see, her family is responsible for bringing you to me today.” He leered.
“You're insane!” Tristan replied.
“Tut, tut. You're being very rude, Tristan. Have you not heard the romantic tale of Kendahl and Galynne's true love?"
Tristan remained silent.
“And, do you also not know that you are merely a pawn in this great scheme, or that you are being used by Seerah and her grandmother to save her parents?” He turned to Seerah. “Do tell him about his role here, Seerah."
“I ... I...” Seerah faltered, confused.
“Tell him, I said!” Desruc nodded at the guard standing beside her.
The guard reached down, grabbed a handful of Seerah's hair and twisted it, practically lifting her from the floor. “I do na’ know what you are talking about!” Seerah cried.
“Oh?” Desruc frowned thoughtfully as if considering the truth of her words. “Too bad.” Desruc signaled with a wave of his hand and the guard released Seerah's hair. “Perhaps your grandmother kept her plans closely guarded from you. But I'm certain your parents know more. Bring the bitch. And Kendahl!” Desruc motion to two guards standing near his throne.
The guards nodded, then took their leave. Moments later, they reentered the main hall pushing and shoving their prisoners forward.
Galynne stumbled forward, her bound hands breaking her fall. When Kendahl attempted to help her to her feet, one guard clubbed him behind the knee, knocking him to the ground as well.
Seerah gasped. “Mother! Father!” Without thinking, she scrambled to her feet and rushed forward. Then she was on her knees, crying and hugging them both.
“I do so love tender reunions.” Desruc walked over to stand directly in front of Galynne. “Tell her, Galynne. Tell her of your mother's schemes to see me ruined. Tell her what you did to me,” Desruc ordered.
Galynne glared at him. “You tried to rape—"
Desruc raised his arm with a flourish and struck Galynne, knocking her to the floor.
The guards moved quickly to restrain Kendahl and Seerah.
Desruc's black eyes glowed red as he began to rant. “Lies! I loved you, but I wasn't good enough. The fire was no accident. You drew me into your web, then you used your powers against me, so Kendahl could save you and become favored among your people. I suffered great pain at your hand, then your mother cast that cunning curse on my manhood. Only a willing wench can stir my lust. Willing, hah! The mere sight of these scars is enough to send women running from me in fear.” Desruc clawed at his face.
“But I've waited all this time for you, Galynne, and you will come to me or I will let every one of my men have their way with your precious daughter, right before your eyes. And you, Kendahl, a brave warrior, indeed,” Desruc taunted, moving closer to Kendahl, until they were practically face to face. “I will finally have my revenge on you as well."
“Revenge? For what?” Kendahl struggled against the guard's restraining hold. “I accepted you as one of me own. I did all I could when you were near to death—not once, but twice."
“You should have left me to die. Look at me! Galynne should have been mine. Oh how I wanted her. I waited and watched. She knew I was there. She enticed me with her charms, drawing me to her with her magic spell, so I could claim her as my own. I loved her, and you stole her away from me."
Kendahl glared at Desruc. “You may have been drawn to her beauty but it was her powers you lusted after. You cared not for her. You simply wished to force the secrets of her magic from her. Aye, you thought to overpower her and make her yours, but she was stronger than you assumed. The fire was a result of the struggle, and you were surrounded by flames before you had time to implement your dastardly plans. When I rescued her, I knew not that you were even there until I heard your shrill, pain-filled cries. After I rescued you and learned what you had been about, Izebeth was in her right to punish you as she saw fit. Unfortunately, it appears she was too lenient with you. Cursing you with impotence, and exiling you to Normandy only served to further corrupt your evil soul. But you will die soon, and you will pay for your evil ways."
Desruc's lips twitched and he raised his hand as if to strike. “A brave man you are Kendahl, to tell such lies to my face. And, so close to death. Why if I were a God-fearing man, I'd be certain you were on your way to hell."
“I'm already there."
“You call this hell?” Desruc threw his head back and laughed. Then he seized Kendahl's hair, and drew him so near that they faced each other nose to nose. “Try going through life as the bastard son of a Norse rapist. Or never knowing the full extent of your mother's love, because every time she looks at you she's reminded of how you were conceived. Do you have any idea what it's like, to be incapable of pleasing the only father you ever knew, because by virtue of your own existence, he can't stand the sight of you? This is not hell, Kendahl.” Desruc released Kendahl with a shove and walked back toward his throne. “Hell is the end, and this is just the beginning. You see, if your wife refuses to come to me, my men will rape her and your daughter repeatedly before your very eyes."
Tristan strained against the shackles. “You are the Devil's own spawn, Desruc. You had Catrin raped, then you murdered her because of her love for me. All your life you have spread evil and preyed on the innocent. But now, you will die at my hand!"
Just as he was about to gain the steps, Desruc glanced over his shoulder at Tristan. “Torture the fool for his impertinence, Helig,” Desruc commanded.
As Helig lifted the leather whip in his hand high in the air, the door to the main hall burst open.
Gareth charged forward, followed by fifty armed warriors.
“Guards!” Desruc roared as he turned to face Gareth.
“They've been subdued,” Gareth offered. “I be Gareth—Boyce MacFarlane—son of Kendahl and Galynne, brother to Seerah. Many men surround your keep. Surrender to me and your death will be swift."
“Son of—” Desruc glared at Galynne, then back to Gareth. “No! It isn't possible. You died at infancy,” Desruc cried.
“Apparently not.” Gareth wielded his sword. “Prepare to die."
“You can not kill me, fool!” Desruc waved his hand, and all of the warriors behind Gareth began to cringe and moan. Some fell to the floor stiff as boards, others were brought to their knees writhing in pain. “I have the power to destroy each and everyone of you, without even raising a hand!” Desruc took a deep breath and exhaled. The air gusted at Gareth and the warriors, and their bodies grew as stiff as stone.
“Seerah, the wand!” Tristan called.
Desruc chuckled. “Yes, the wand.” He clapped with glee. “And the amulet too. Alas, they're useless in the hands of an amateur. And, that's what you are, my dear, Seerah, an amateur. Give them to me and I will be lenient with your lover."
Seerah glanced at Tristan, with uncertainty.
“Nay, Seerah! You have the power. Trust yourself. Do it. Now!” Tristan cried.
As Seerah scrambled to her feet, she glanced cautiously up at Desruc. Her eyes locked with his, and she froze. She could still hear and see, but it was as if he was somehow commanding her will.
He grinned, and held his hand out to her. “You feel powerless because you crave love, Seerah, but love is worthless compared to power. I have great power because I love no one. Come to me and you will never again feel powerless. You will rule with me.” He motioned her forward, and Seerah's body began moving slowly toward him of its own accord.
“Here, I thought you had no weaknesses, Tristan.” Desruc laughed. “Love is the most lethal weakness, indeed. I had thought you learned that the first time—when I murdered Catrin. That's it, Seerah, come to me. Because of your love for Seerah, Tristan, you will die a thousand deaths, before my eyes. One for every time I bed the new love of your life."
When Seerah stood almost directly before Desruc, she stopped. She closed her eyes and held her head in her hands, trying desperately to fight the hold Duress had on her mind. She glanced at Tristan. “I ... love—"
Tristan struggled against his chains. “Aye, Seerah. And I love you. I swear it, now, and forever! And I believe—you have the power!"
“Come,” Desruc commanded, drawing Seerah's full attention.
But Seerah didn't move. Her eyes suddenly rolled back in her head, then her lids slammed shut and her head tipped backwards. “No!” she declared. Her voice was a low growl, and her eyes sprang open. Holding her hands up in a grand gesture, she began chanting. “Fire and brimstone, sun and moon. Thunder, lightening, wind of doom.” Her eyes began to glow green, and a turbulent gust of sucked Desruc slightly forward, then blew him backwards against the steps of his altar.
Calmly gaining his feet, Desruc brushed the dirt from his cape. “You've been practicing, but you're no match for me.” With a wave of his hand, Seerah's body floated up into the air. With a flick of his writs she flipped over so that she was lying horizontal facing the floor. Then Desruc let his hand fall. Seerah plummeted to the ground, stopping mere inches before she would have crashed into the stone floor. Desruc held his index finger pointed at her, as if keeping her suspended just above the ground. Then, with a flourish he turned his hand palm up, and Seerah dropped the short distance to the floor, in a heap near Galynne.
Desruc sneered. “Seerah, Seerah. Do not insist on fighting me. It is such a waste of time and energy. You know you don't have what it takes to defeat me. Besides, I can cause much misery and pain to those you love. Perhaps I should show you."
Jerking his head in Tristan's direction, Desruc closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
Raising his hands slowly, he opened his eyes and focused his attention on Tristan.
Tristan's body quivered and wrenched. His torso began twisting, and his limbs strained against the shackles. Then, his face contorted with pain and he cried out, moaning deep in his throat as fangs sprouted from his mouth and horns grew from his head.
“No!” Seerah cried, clutching Galynne.
Galynne held Seerah close and whispered, “You must be strong. Use the wand and amulet to free Tristan. ‘Tis all up to you, Seerah."
“You can na’ fail now, Daughter.” Kendahl weakly clutched Seerah's hand in his own. “Know that we love you as does Tristan and have faith in your powers. Faith is the key,” he added, before releasing her.
Seerah bent her head low and tried desperately to concentrate. Love and faith. I do love Tristan, with all my soul. And I believe he loves me. The power of love, Aye. Izebeth's voice filtered into Seerah's mind then. For the sake of the prophecy and Galynne, you must have faith—just as you must come to know that this be your destiny.
Desruc's deep evil laugh rocked Seerah to the core of her soul. Slowly raising her head, she gazed directly at Desruc. Then, producing the alder wand from the sleeve of her cloak, she aimed it at the altar. The largest, center-most animal skull lying on the floor encircling the altar, bust into flames. Then the bowl of fennel tumbled to the ground, disrupting some stones and breaking the circle surrounding the altar.
“No!” Desruc roared. Rushing forward he tried to repair the damage, but Seerah was quicker. With her magic she sent him flying backwards, slamming his body against his jeweled throne. He cried out in pain and frustration as he crumbled to the floor and writhed in pain.
Wielding the wand like a saber, Seerah cast her magic at the chains binding Tristan next. They disengaged and Tristan crumpled to the ground in a human knot. Next, holding her amulet in her left hand, she turned toward Gareth.
As Gareth and the warriors began to wake from Desruc's spell, Seerah chanced a glance in Tristan's direction. He uncurled his body slowly until he stood his full height, revealing that the fangs and horns had disappeared. Then, raising his fists high in the air, he roared; the sound echoed off the rafters like that of a mighty lion protecting his lair.
Helig tackled Tristan from behind, but Tristan fought with the strength of a thousand men, matching Helig blow for blow, until the giant stumbled and fell to the ground. Helig's head slammed against the edge of the marble steps, knocking him unconscious.
When Seerah turned toward Tristan, his expression changed suddenly from anger to alarm. “No!” he growled, as Desruc seized her about the waist, knocking the wand from her hand.
Next, Desruc pulled a dagger from his waistband and held it to Seerah's throat. Eyeing the wand, he inched toward it. When it was within his reach, however, the wand trembled slightly, then suddenly vanished. Desruc jerked Seerah. “Bitch! Just like your mother. Give me the wand, Seerah, or I will torture Tristan by carving you to pieces before his eyes.” Shielding himself with Seerah's body, Desruc dragged her up the altar steps towards the open portal just beyond his throne.
“The sword, Gareth!” Galynne cried.
Gareth shook his head as if to clear his mind, then he moved slowly forward.
“Fool!” Desruc cried. The tip of his blade nicked Seerah's throat and blood trickled down her neck. “You'll have to put the blade through her to get to me."
Tristan slowly advanced from the opposite direction.
“Stay back or I'll jump and she'll be lost to you forever."
Tristan froze.
“We could have had everything. Power, control, riches beyond your wildest dreams, but now...” Desruc faltered. Cocking his head slightly he glanced over his shoulder to scrutinize a strange sound coming from outside the window.
Suddenly, hundreds of white birds flew through the window. As Desruc ducked against their assault, Seerah stumbled forward down the steps.
Seizing the moment, Gareth hefted the huge broadsword and cast it at Desruc.
Hilt over handle the sword careened toward Desruc, whistling as it sliced through the air. When it found its mark, the blade knifed through the center of Desruc's chest. The black screaming shadow of his evil soul rose from the cavity. The fatal blow carried his body backward, where he fell from the window. The white birds swiftly followed on the wings of the breeze, as if escorting Desruc's body to its death. The shadow of his soul remained, writhing on the floor and slowly shrinking in size until it vanished into nothingness.
Desruc's morbid cry echoed through the chamber, then ended abruptly.
Two lone birds remained. They flew directly to Kendahl on the other side of the hall and landed on his shoulders.
Seerah ran to Tristan's open arms. She clutched his waist as he bent his head low to kiss her.
Gareth directed the remaining warriors, including Zeth, Colin, and Greum to search the castle, then he joined his parents.
Just then the hall doors blew open. Cosmo scurried over to where Kendahl, Galynne and Gareth stood together.
“Cosmo. Thank the Gods. I have na’ seen you since the ship. Where have you—” Seerah began, but the ferret ignored her and scampered directly over to Galynne.
“Mother?” Galynne gasped. “I thought..."
“Well you thought wrong then, did you not?” Izebeth's voice echoed through the room.
Breaking away from Tristan's embrace, Seerah moved toward the group. “Gran?"
Tristan grabbed Seerah's hand, stopping her in her tracks. “You're not going anywhere."
Seerah glared at him, disbelief lighting her eyes. “But, Tristan—"
He smiled then, a smile that reached his eyes. “You're not going anywhere—without me.” He walked up to her, capturing her about the waist, and together they joined the others.
“Gran? Is that really you?” Seerah asked. “How—Where..."
“Aye, Seerah.” Izebeth's voice washed over the room. Bright light flashed. The hall fairly glowed for a moment or two and everyone shielded their eyes, but when the light faded. Izebeth stood where Cosmo had been. Her silvery white hair fell loosely about her shoulders and down past her hips. Her white gossamer frock billowed lightly. “Do not look so concerned, young Tristan, you have done well. ‘Tis plain to see you love me granddaughter,"
Tristan nodded and hugged Seerah close.
Seerah frowned. “But Gran ... how—” Seerah faltered.
“Anything is possible if you simply dare to dream, Seerah. ‘Tis valuable advice passed on by me dear Great-uncle Merlin.” With a wink, she glanced at Galynne and Kendahl. “Be well, I must go now, but I will see you all again. If not in this life, then in the next. Or perhaps in your dreams.” With a modest curtsy and a wave of her hand, she vanished.
“She's always been a show-off.” Chuckling, Galynne curled into Kendahl's warm embrace.
Gareth advanced, then. “Mother?"
Galynne embraced Gareth. “Boyce—I mean, Gareth, me son."
“Aye. Son, indeed.” Kendahl joined in, hugging them both.
After a moment, Galynne separated herself from the men and walked over to Seerah and Tristan. “A beautiful young woman you are, indeed.” Galynne hugged Seerah tight, before she addressed Tristan. “You will honor, love and protect me daughter?"
“Aye. Forevermore.” Tristan nodded.
Galynne hugged him next.
Gareth approached Tristan. “I'm honored to call you brother.” He held out his hand and Tristan accepted with a nod.
Kendahl followed suit. “Son. Welcome to the family.” He clapped Tristan on the shoulders.
“Wait a minute.” Frowning, Seerah released Galynne and advanced. “Technically, the way I'm understanding this marriage of ours. I can change me mind after one year has passed."
“You won't.” Tristan smiled.
“And what makes you so sure of yourself, you swaggerin’ Scot bully?"
“Would you leave the father of your children?"
“Nay. And if I decide to leave you, you won't get the chance to father any child of mine."
“And, you call yourself a witch. You are already carrying our child Seerah."
“I'm—I couldn't be.” Seerah looked down at her stomach and back up at Tristan. “Even if I was, how could you know?"
He bent his head and kissed her soundly. When he broke the kiss her said, “I have special powers, too."
When Seerah recovered from his passionate kiss she blushed beneath the scrutiny of her family. Then she reached up and slapped Tristan on the arm. “Och! You still mock me you soulless, wretched barbarian."
Tristan engulfed her in his arms. “I love you too, Seerah. Me witchy, fairy-angel of a wife."
Epilogue
Five years later...
Tristan nuzzled Seerah's neck as he pulled her down beside him in their bed. “'Tis about time those demanding bairns of yours were finally off to sleep,” he murmured as he slipped her gown down her shoulders.
Seerah giggled “Mine alone they are now? And I've never seen a bairn who's half as demanding of his mother's attention as you are of...” she blushed.
“Your passion?” Tristan guided her to straddle his hips, then slid his hands beneath her gown and cupped her full breasts.
“Aye,” Seerah bent to kiss him.
Suddenly the fire in their bedroom hearth erupted. Then several small tapers lit themselves as other items, such as Seerah's hairbrush and Tristan's sandals, began floating about the room.
“Seerah?” Tristan grumbled, his lips trailing kisses across the swell of her bosom as he eyed the floating objects.
“'Tis na’ me. You know that I've had no use for such trickery since I gained full control of me powers and defeated the prince of darkness."
When he saw a child's small wooden toy float past Seerah's head, he grunted. “If you are na'—then who?” he frowned.
Seerah captured the toy in her hand. “Perhaps...” Seerah smiled and closed her eyes. “'Tis your daughter."
Tristan's eyes grew wide. “Me—our? Kaleah? But how?"
Seerah giggled. “Apparently your son, Darwin, is fretting and Kaleah thought to get him to cease. I let her know that Cordelia is on her way to him."
“But ... then sh-she has...” Tristan faltered.
“Aye, Tristan. She has the power. As will Darwin, and our next child."
Tristan groaned, allowing his head to fall against his pillow. Then, as if the impact of Seerah's words had just impacted his brain, he blinked at her. “Our next ... ch-child?"
“Aye,” Seerah giggled. Thinking back to the year they first met, Seerah recalled Brigit's taunts about Tristan's virility, and his own boast of having powers. “It seems as though you do have a mighty power yourself—” She shot him a come-hither glance and gyrated her hips until she could feel his arousal straining against the heat of her desire. “Flaccid member, indeed. If you were any more virile, we'd have twice as many bairns in half the time,” she teased.
Tristan's gaze seemed to smolder as his hands roved slowly up over her legs, to her hips.
Then, in one swift movement he relieved her of her gown and rolled her onto her back. “I may be virile, indeed, Seerah, but you—you are the enchantress of my dreams, and you alone behold the true power, me love."
The End
About the Author
Judie resides in Central Florida with her husband, two teenage children and three dogs, Molly, Scruffy and Little Guido. Her freelance articles have appeared in the Orlando Sentinel Newspaper, Atlanta Parent magazine and on a Houghton Mifflin web site for students. Her idol is the late Erma Bombeck whose humor writing influenced Judie at the tender age of nine, and her favorite authors include, Julie Garwood, Elizabeth Beverly, Teresa Medeiros, Janet Evanovich, Brad Meltzer, and Harlan Coben.


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