Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
POSTSCRIPT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
SON OF THE SWORD
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2001 by Julianne Lee
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0811-3
An ACE BOOK®
Ace Books first published by The Ace Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): July 2001
For
Alan Ross Bedford, Sr.,
my first and best role model
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the following, for all your support, moral and otherwise: Jersey Conspirators Keith DeCandido, Marina Frants, Laura Anne Gilman, Sue Stiefel, Donna Dietrich, Ashley McConnell, Doris Egan, Cleindori, Karen Jones, and Margie Maggiulli; swordmaster F. Braun McAsh; fight consultants Rev. HyeonSik Hong, Sam Alden, Cecily M. McMahan, and Aaron Anderson; Ernie O’Dell and the Green River Writers of Louisville, Kentucky; Gaelic language instructor John Ross; the sweet and helpful ladies of the Ft. William, Scotland, Public Library; native guides Gail Montrose and Duncan MacFarlane of Glenfinnan, Scotland; High Hallack Research Library, Murfreesboro, Tennessee; Teri McLaren; Susan Bowmer; Trisha Mundy; Diana Diaz; Sue Wolven; Jenni Bohn; Candy Gaskin; Dale Lee; and especially Ginjer Buchanan, editor extraordinaire.
PROLOGUE
The aristocratic voice of the red-coated English Captain droned as he read the order of eviction, words snapping one after another in his hurry to say them. His precise enunciation never faltered. Sinann Eire watched from the cover of high branches in a nearby tree, as aghast as those whose belongings were being loaded into the wooden cart.
Ending in a perfunctory monotone, the Englishman then refolded the document and stuffed it into his coat pocket. He sat straight as a ramrod and spurred his light sorrel gelding to the other side of the cart, riding as if he had been born in the saddle. More Redcoats, each with a musket slung over his back and a sword at his side, scurried to and fro, methodical as ants. It was a misty day, and though patches of blue sky were visible, there were showers along the southern ridge and low clouds hugged granite crags that jutted on either side of the tiny glen.
A black and white sheepdog barked and danced around the yard at a safe distance while young Alasdair, the father of the displaced family, railed under his breath in venomous Gaelic against the English monsters. His wife, Sarah, urged him to be still. She herded their three small children into a cluster behind her and took the youngest onto her hip, but though she tried to draw her husband away from the soldiers, he shook her off. Her voice went shrill with desperation. Sinann, too, could see blood in Alasdair’s eye and knew the wife had no hope of calming her husband. The faerie longed to fly down there, but if she let anyone see her it would only make matters worse, witch-hunts being what they were. In her rage she jumped and shook the branch that held her weight. Nobody below noticed the tree rustling in a nonexistent breeze.
One dragoon, carrying a long bundle, ducked out of the door of the low, thatched peat house. Alasdair gasped and swore, his already ruddy cheeks darkening to feverish red. He made a move to intervene, but Sarah held him back, her fingers digging deep into his arm. In the soldier’s hands, wrapped in a ragged old Great Kilt, was the ancient claymore sword handed down through five generations of fathers and sons. Alasdair’s eyes followed the dirty and crumbling feileadh mór, from which protruded the two-handed grip decorated in Celtic knot design and straight double quillons, as the dragoon offered the gigantic sword to his superior.
“Lookit what I found, buried in a corner.”
The Captain grunted. “In the cart.” He gazed about, satisfied with the find. “There’s one less sword to kill our men.” He said it as if he’d single-handedly saved untold English lives.
The dragoon set the weapon in with the other household goods: wooden bowls, linen clothes and sheets, iron pots and utensils, sacks of wheat and oats, wool, flax, a plow, a harness, a sickle, stools, a wooden table, bedding, and the small family Bible in the English of King James I.
Sinann was the only one who saw the look of hopelessness cross the Scot’s face at sight of the Bible, and she understood he had decided to die rather than watch the English take everything. She emitted a long, loud cry of despair, which nobody heard for she’d hidden the sound of herself from the mortals, as well as sight of her. Tears sprung to her eyes, as she remembered her dear Donnchadh, who had died horribly not so long ago at the hands of this very Sassunach.
Alasdair shook himself loose from his wife, lunged at the Captain, and caught the blood-red coat in his fists. The officer’s hat flew from his head and landed on the sod behind. He cried out and kicked at his assailant. The Scot, his nose bloodied, kept hold and tried to pull the Englishman from his horse. The animal whickered and backed away, but the young man followed. The officer kicked again, swore, then called to his men.
“Get the bloody bastard off!”
The nearest dragoon, lips pressed together, hauled back with the butt of his musket and knocked Alasdair sideways. Sarah screamed and set the baby down with his brothers. The children cried, more at their mother’s terror than any real understanding of what was happening. Undaunted, the Scot pursued the retreating horse and attempted another hold on the officer, who hauled back in the saddle as far as he could and kicked again so Alasdair stumbled. He hit the dirt with a grunt. As he tried to rise and renew his assault, the dragoon turned his musket and fired.
The back of his head was blown off by the force of the ball, bloody bits strewn over the dooryard. Still Alasdair stood for the briefest moment, his chin on his chest, until he dropped to his knees, then all the way to the ground so his face thudded on the sod. A pool of dark blood quickly stained the ground and soaked into the turf. Sarah shrieked in terror.
The horse danced, skittish at the excitement and noise. The officer reined away with a hard yank at the bit and circled from the corpse to bring the steed under control. A look of disgust crumpled the well-bred lines of his face, and he looked away as the woman ran to her dead husband. The children were all screaming now, like hysterical t
in whistles, taking little steps this way and that as if unsure whether to approach their dead father and grieving mother. Tears streamed down Sinann’s face.
“Sorry, sah.” The soldier who had fired stared at the body spoke as if he’d had to shoot a mad dog.
The officer sniffed and brushed a piece of pink skull from his coat. “Oh, well. Nothing for it, I suppose. Can’t expect sense from them.” His clear, brown eyes narrowed at the cacophonous brood. He addressed his men.
“Hurry this along. Before their relatives come swarming and we have to shoot our way out of this wretched place.”
“Aye, sah.” The soldiers hurried at the loading, having their orders.
Sinann’s fists clenched and unclenched. Oh, how she wished to curse them all! How she would love to wave her hand and bring them bad luck and death as she had done many times in the far distant past! She waved her hand, but only succeeded in popping two buttons on the Captain’s coat. They went ignored. If only her powers weren’t failing. She leaned her face against the trunk of the tree in which she sat, and fought the tears. If only her people weren’t so powerless! If only Donnchadh . . . she sobbed, her heart broken. If only.
She sighed and watched the loading of the cart, then the lighting of the house as a torch was thrown onto the thatching. Quickly, the dried straw caught, and flames licked from thatching to peat walls. Fire grew and consumed, and grew stronger. The remnants of the family watched their home burn, until the roof tree collapsed in a rain of sparks and the fire slowly died into blackness and glowing red embers.
Having seen their task accomplished, the soldiers mounted their horses and the order was given to ride out with the herd of cattle. The cart with two goats tied to it brought up the rear, pulled by a single mare and driven by a soldier who perched on the front rail. The claymore, bundled in faded, rust-colored tartan, stuck out of the rear of the possessions like a captured flag.
Sinann’s heart galvanized and she hiccuped through her tears. Her voice became low and dangerous, roughened as it was by her crying and anger.
“I think not, laddies.”
She leapt from the tree and spread her white wings to swoop down on the cart. She hovered for a moment over the hilt of the claymore, gathering her strength, then grabbed it by the quillons and pulled.
It didn’t budge. She muttered some very bad language, even for faeries, flew to catch up with the moving cart, and grabbed it again. This time it loosened from the other goods. One more yank, and the sword flew free. Taken by surprise, Sinann almost dropped it. But she was determined not to let the English have this weapon, so she held on and kept it airborne. The dragoons rode onward, unaware of the theft to their rear. She swooped and wobbled, then steadied herself over the road. Each hand held a quillon, and she carried it back to the destroyed house.
Sarah and the children had fled to safety, most likely the Tigh in Glen Ciorram below, and it would be a bit of a walk over steep terrain to the castle on the loch. The corpse lay where it had died, to be buried by the clan when the men could be summoned.
Sinann rose into the air. The large claymore pulled at her arms and tried to slip from her fingers. She was scarcely four and a half feet tall, thin and not strong. But something had to be done. The killing had to end. Tears returned, and she blinked them back. Yes, something had to be done about these English, and if she was powerless to stop them and her people were powerless, she still had to do whatever she could. She let go of the sword, then hovered and watched it fall to earth to stick in the sod below.
She settled to sit cross-legged on the ground, gasping to catch her breath. The sword stood over her, a silhouette against the now-purple sky. One or two stars had made an appearance. After a short rest, she stood, nearly as tall as the sword, and squeezed her eyes shut to cast the spell in the old tongue:
“Ancient sword of my people, the life within you brings life to those who belong to this land. Bring me a hero, a Cuchulain, to save from tyranny the sons and daughters of this land. Let a Matheson lay hands on you and become that hero. By the powers of earth, moon, and sun, by the powers of air, fire, and water, the will of the great art be done.”
Sinann then stood back as the sword glowed for a moment. It shimmered in the gathering gloom, with a promise of power the faerie hadn’t felt in ever so long. Her heart swelled with hope.
She turned as the pounding gait of a galloping horse came from up the road, and her moment was shattered. The English officer rode up, blond queue flying, and reined his horse to a skidding stop as he searched the ground. Sinann stood still as she willed him to go away, but his knees urged the horse farther on, until he found what he was looking for: his hat.
Quickly he leapt to the ground, snatched up the hat, and slapped it against his breeches to remove some dirt. Then he set it on his head and remounted.
Sinann breathed with relief. He would leave.
But, just as he was about to spur his horse after his troops, he spotted the sword stuck in the dooryard sod. He uttered a disgusted noise, then guided his horse to the sword, nearly overunning Sinann as he did so. With one hand he reached down and pulled the claymore from the ground, held it with the long blade away from himself and the horse, and galloped away to his men.
The faerie sagged to the ground, her wings drooping, and laid her face in her hands.
Moments passed. Mere moments, she was sure, though it could have been longer. It could even have been much longer. The sun was almost gone, though it was not quite dark. But a glow came to the air above the spot in the dirt where the sword had been. Warmth gathered. Sinann looked up, hardly able to believe her eyes. The light grew bright, until it began to take shape. It was a man. A tall man, wearing kilt and sark. Then, as the glow died, the form became solid. Braw and bonnie, he was, real and breathing.
Sinann’s heart soared, and she fluttered into the air, eye level to him.
He looked around, his eyes wide. Sinann examined him closely, for he couldn’t see her unless she willed it. He swallowed hard and blinked, then shook back a shaggy lock of dark hair long enough to tie in a queue but too short to bother. His eyes were blue, though his skin was the darkest she’d ever seen with the exception of the southern races from over the sea. But he wasn’t a Moor, nor even a Roman. He was a Scot, all right; she could see it in the line of his brow and the light of his blue eyes.
The man squeezed those eyes shut, and when he opened them didn’t seem any more pleased with the view than before. He turned, looked, and turned again. Then he spoke, and Sinann’s heart clutched with alarm. His words were English.
“Holy moley,” he muttered to himself. “What just happened?”
CHAPTER 1
Dylan Matheson drifted to consciousness with a morning laziness rare for him. A smile formed on his face for no reason that came to mind. He floated in a half-dream of sun-soaked water. Wetness and heat. Ah, yes, reality formed around him, even more pleasant than the dream he abandoned, and he took a deep breath to wake up. Ginny would be there very soon, and today was the Games.
It was a glorious morning, and the rising sun reflecting from the white walls of his bedroom made him blink. He slid from the bed, and went to the sash window to raise it by smacking the heel of his hand upward against the frame. It creaked and made cracking, rattling noises, groaned in the slides, and shuddered up high enough for Dylan to lean out.
He rested his elbows on the sill to gaze across the lake where the sun peeked over the trees. The Main Street causeway a block to his left was backed up with vans, sport utility vehicles, and station wagons filled with soccer moms taking their children to the city fields up Drake’s Creek. Soccer was a Saturday ritual in this upper–middle-class suburb. He knew his mother had loved the mornings she’d spent cheering him on and visiting with other women. They may or may not have been friends, but at least they’d all had something in common, with sons nearly the same age. Dylan suspected his mother missed his childhood more than he did—which was not at all.
&nb
sp; He took deep breaths of the fall air, which today was devoid of the humidity that all his life had made Tennessee summers so evil, and the lack of which made Tennessee falls so fine. This last day of September promised sparkling weather for the Highland Games at Moss Wright Park.
His attention was caught by the curling paint on the outer sill, which he flicked off with his fingers. He owned this building and would have to paint it himself, a job he dreaded. Though it was on the wrong side of the creek from the fashionable neighborhood where his parents lived, and was situated between a thrift shop and a run-down apartment building half a block off Main Street, he knew he had the better deal than the more affluent folks across the water. From his bedroom window he enjoyed a spectacular view of rambling mansions, exquisitely groomed lawns, and lush trees that just now were turning amazing shades of red, orange, coral, purple, and yellow. The high-rent neighborhood yonder, though, had a panoramic view of . . . his place. Rickety wooden stairs zagged down the otherwise blank rear wall of his building, giving exterior access to the apartment where he lived over his place of business. For foliage, other than the grass along his section of shore, there was only a lilac bush and a young willow tree under which he kept a rowboat stored upside-down on blocks. This town had an ordinance against parking RVs in yards, but around here boats were privileged and his qualified, no matter how ugly.
He stretched and yawned, then scrubbed his scalp with his fingers to wake up. It was a quick trip to relieve his aching bladder in the tiny bathroom off the bedroom, and on the way out he reached to the shelf behind the door and snagged a towel, which he threw over his shoulder. Then he headed for the balcony living area overlooking the dojo. Another yawn took him, and he had to shake it off.
The kitchen was tucked into a corner of the upstairs by the backdoor, and he stopped for an apple from the fridge. The phone rang, and he picked up the wall unit as he bit into the apple. Around a large chunk of fruit, he said, “Hwwow.”
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