Kanyth (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 4): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “For now, you will. None of this was your fault, Perr.” Emeline hesitated, and then held up Perrin’s throbbing hand. “While you were quarreling, Ka’s battle spirit marked you.”

  Seeing the circle of scars on her palm made Perrin take in a sharp breath. “No, it’s a mistake.” She shoved her hand under the coverlet. “I’m not his mate, okay?”

  “I think all the screaming you did after you were marked convinced Ka of that.” Emeline tucked the blanket around her. “Don’t fret. We’ve sent for Bhaltair Flen, and I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

  Chapter Seven

  BHALTAIR LIMPED THROUGH the snow drifts toward the sacred oak grove outside the conclave’s settlement. He took no joy in it, for the cold numbed his bones and burned in his chest. After spending the night pouring over the archives he drooped with weariness. But it was his guilt that worried and weighed on him more than his heavy travel satchel. Try as he would to meditate away its bite on him, it would not loosen its teeth. Always in the back of his mind nagged the question he could not answer.

  Why should Gwyn’s granddaughter wish me dead?

  Bhaltair also knew he should have bid his friends at the conclave to fare well before journeying to the midlands. They had not blamed him for being deceived by Oriana Embry. Indeed, they had been gentle and kind with him. But in their eyes he had clearly seen sympathy, of the like shown to the very young, or the very foolish.

  During this long and arduous incarnation Bhaltair had inspired much feeling among his brother conclavists, but never pity.

  He stopped at the frost-furred stones encircling the grove portal, and tried to clear his thoughts. Any stray notion might tempt the sacred oaks to send him somewhere other than his desired destination. What he could do to save Perrin Thomas from an unwanted mating with Kanyth Skaraven he knew not, for druid magic held no sway over Pritani battle spirits. Still, the weapons master had asked for his help. He could not refuse Brennus’s half-brother without causing offense anew. Yet the last time he’d visited the McAra, he’d unwittingly spilled a secret that had come close to igniting a clan war.

  Once the traitors and their murderous famhairean had been defeated, he might go into seclusion. He could spend the rest of his days growing a small thatch of golden mistletoe, or perhaps tend a little orchard. He missed his pear tree. Yet as peaceful as solitude might prove, he’d have no one to teach, or care for, or watch over again. The conclave would replace him with a younger druid who would not have his knowledge or experience in dealing with evil. His name would fade from the memories of his people.

  He’d die alone, useless and forgotten.

  Bhaltair glanced up at the heavens to beseech the Gods. “Guide me in all ways, that I may do your work.” He took a firmer grip on his pack, and stepped into the stone circle.

  As he envisioned the Sky Thatch settlement, the frozen ground beneath his boots vanished, and he fell into the tunnel of spinning oak branches. As he plummeted through the threshing power of the grove, Bhaltair felt it leech away his weariness. The oaks provided healing as well as conveyance, and by the time he stepped out of the circle in the midlands new strength and purpose coursed through him. Scythe-bearing defenders rushed to surround him, and he regarded them with some surprise.

  “You yet guard your portal?” Bhaltair asked them.

  “Aye, by order of the conclave.” The eldest gestured to the others, who fell back but did not lower their weapons. “What do you here, Master Flen?”

  “I travel, lad. ’Tis why we use portals.” Bhaltair frowned. “You’re bade to question an elder who serves on the conclave?”

  “I’ll vouch for this old curmudgeon, Brothers,” Fingal Tullach said. The Sky Thatch’s headman came through the other druids to clasp Bhaltair’s hand. Although he appeared hardly more than a lad, his many incarnations made him Bhaltair’s equal. “I’d welcome you back, old foe, but I ken you’ve no’ come for a visit.”

  “I’m summoned to the McAra, Fingal.” Bhaltair glanced at the unhappy defenders before he accompanied the headman along the path to the settlement. “Dare I borrow a pony to make the ride, or shall you first search me, and take some property as forfeit?”

  “Dinnae mount the horse before ’tis lent,” Fingal advised him, sounding weary. “We’ve had much to manage since you departed, and none of it happy. Do you wish to break your fast with me and Cora?”

  Bhaltair could not put off the Skaraven. “No, lad, I’d best get to it.”

  As they entered the snow-shrouded druid village Bhaltair saw mortals freely moving among the tribe. Most looked battered, with grievous bruises and burns. Two druidesses tended a flock of children dressed in garments too large. When the mortals noticed them walking into the settlement, they began to dart about and disappear.

  The Sky Thatch had long traded with mortals from the surrounding villages, but they had no place living among druid kind. The poor condition and fearful behavior of the strangers helped Bhaltair guess why they’d come to the settlement.

  “These folk, they’re survivors of the midland attacks.”

  “Aye. More gifts from Hendry and Murdina,” the headman told him as they reached the tribe’s stables. “Twenty-seven over the last weeks, and more expected. They’ve naught left in the world but each other and our compassion.”

  Once inside the barn, Bhaltair asked, “Can you feed so many until the snows recede, Brother?”

  “Mayhap. I’ve begged aid from the southern tribes. The snows have cut off the roads to the north and east.” Fingal went into a stall, and led out a sturdy brown mare with gentle eyes. “We’ll make do. But ’twill be a very long winter.”

  The headman secured Bhaltair’s satchel, helped him into the saddle, and walked with him to the edge of the settlement.

  “Give Cora my apologies for hastening away, Fin,” Bhaltair said, but the headman’s attention had shifted to the horizon, where a too-low black cloud billowed. “’Tis another attack?”

  “I fear aye,” Fingal said, his brow wrinkled with worry. “And this one close.” With a quick shake of his head, he turned the horse around. “My regrets, Brother,” the headman said as Bhaltair began to protest. “But death walks the midlands, and sets it to burn. I’ll no’ see you go there alone.”

  “Fingal, come now,” Bhaltair said, trying to reason with his friend. “I need no escort.”

  “Yet you’ll have one,” Fingal said, cutting him off. “I’ll have the men to spare in the morning, when ’twill be light.” He held up his hand to stop more protests. “Easy, Brother, lest you remain my guest on the morrow as well. I may find this mare in need of new shoes.”

  Bhaltair sighed and sat back in the saddle. “Dinnae mount the horse before ’tis lent,” he muttered.

  “Aye,” Fingal agreed as they entered the barn. “Wise words.”

  Chapter Eight

  KANYTH WAITED IN the hall as Emeline quietly closed the door to his chamber.

  “She’s gone back to sleep,” the nurse said. “She was a bit bewildered, and the screaming left her throat sore, but otherwise she seemed fine.”

  He wanted to go in and see for himself. But the memory of how she had screamed after coming to and seeing him kept him in the hall.

  “What of her hand,” he said, “and the mark?”

  “It’s still there.” She stepped away from the door, and her voice grew softer. “It’s a confusing business to be sure, but so these things are. Once we were marked Althea, Lily and I were fine. Eventually we all fell in love with our husbands, and accepted being chosen as their mates. You know what Ru would say: trust in the Gods.”

  She implied that Perrin would do the same as the other women. Ruadri must not have told his wife about Kanyth’s power, or the grim reality of being the Skaraven forge.

  “The sight of me fills the lady with terror, no’ love.” He still heard her piteous screaming in his head, a sound that would haunt him forever. It made it easy to add, “I dinnae want her as wife.”

>   “Then I hope for both your sakes the old druid has a spell to unmark her. Let me know when he’s here.” Emeline smiled sadly before slipping back into the chamber.

  Kanyth would have remained pacing before the chamber, but Flen would soon arrive. He wouldn’t let the old meddler lay a finger on Perrin until he explained in detail what he meant to do. The lady would not suffer another moment of fear or pain because of him.

  “You look in need of whiskey,” Maddock said as Kanyth came down to the great hall, and beckoned to a passing maid. “Lass, bring a bottle of that malt from Skye that ever sweetly pickles my belly.”

  Since awakening to immortality Kanyth had become immune to the effects of drink, but the whiskey would doubtless scour the bitterness of despair from his mouth. He joined the little laird at the table, and glanced over the map he’d unrolled.

  “Your lands, my lord?”

  “Aye, and McFarlan’s,” Maddock said as he removed some of his rings and set them in different places on the scroll, identifying them as he did. “My castle and his. Here the villages attacked. All lay on the borders between our lands, and share no kinship with either clan.”

  Kanyth studied the various positions. “Which claims their loyalty?”

  “Coin.” The laird made a lazy gesture. “The first two supplied wool and mutton to McFarlan. Colbokie here, burned yesterday, provided his milk and beef. Since we McAra raise our own, we did little trade with them.”

  The distance between the two clan’s strongholds appeared split down the middle by the attacks. Yet the fact that all the villages that had been burned sold their goods to McFarlan suggested that as a common connection.

  “Why should they move against your ally, and no’ you?”

  “McFarlan claims greater holdings, but I’ve the larger clan as well as immortal allies.” Maddock rubbed his chin. “Something feels amiss here, but I dinnae see it.”

  The maid arrived with the whiskey, and set it on the table before bobbing and hurrying off. The laird poured a measure for them both before he retrieved his rings and rolled up the map.

  “Come and sit by the fire. You maynae feel the cold, but my bones do.”

  As they sat and sipped the very fine malt Kanyth stared into the flames. Until Perrin had fully recovered he couldn’t risk taking her by water back to Dun Mor. Nor could he leave her here alone and defenseless. Even if the mad druids and their giants had targeted McFarlan instead of the McAra, that could change overnight.

  “McFarlan’s stores shall see his clan through winter,” Maddock said, setting aside his goblet. “He’ll feel the loss once the planting and breeding season begins. Rebuilding those villages shall cost him dearly. I’ll wager he marries off his son to an heiress—if he can find one gone blind.”

  Kanyth recalled something from the time they had gone riding across the midlands in search of Cadeyrn and the missing druidesses.

  “How many midlanders fell to the plague this past harvest season?”

  The laird thought for a moment. “I cannae say exact, but it took dozens of farms and villages to the south. I sent men to help bury the poor souls, and they toiled for weeks. Their fields remain unworked, for fear they’re yet tainted, or cursed by the Gods.” He gave him a narrow look. “You fathom something from that, Skaraven?”

  Cadeyrn would have, in an instant. The war master’s owl spirit gave him the gift of strategy unmatched by any other Skaraven. Even so, Kanyth knew weapons of all manner, even those not created of iron but of want.

  “To lay siege to a castle you first cut off their necessities, my lord. Grain from the south fell to the plague. Now the giants burn out the stockmen and their spredith to the west.”

  Maddock nodded. “And McFarlan maynae have the stores I’d reckoned.”

  One of the sentries approached them, and bowed before offering Maddock a small scroll. “’Tis from the tree-knowers, my lord.”

  The laird took and unrolled it, and glanced at Kanyth. “Flen is delayed with the Sky Thatch. Likely that murderous acolyte of his. The wench serves a bone-conjurer so vile even thought of her makes me boak. He writes that he’ll come on the morrow.”

  Kanyth drank down the rest of his whiskey. “May I remain the night, then, my lord? Mistress Thomas shouldnae be moved, and Lady Emeline will want some rest.”

  “As you wish.” Maddock yawned. “Only keep her quiet after we retire, for my lady needs her sleep. Indeed, when we heard the lass scream before from the gallery, I thought she’d set herself afire.”

  Chapter Nine

  ANA HELD HER candle aloft as she climbed the dark, spiral staircase from the keepe’s wood pile. With legs too short for the tall stone steps, the bucket of small logs she carried scraped each worn stair. Not even being Bhaltair Flen’s acolyte had been such work. She set the firewood down, panting a little, and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

  Ever the servant, for none really see them.

  Though it was a ruse that had served her well many times, playing Ana the maid had lost all its dubious amusements by the end of the first day. Now it had become beyond tedious. With her power, she could enslave every mortal inside these walls to do her bidding.

  But no’ yet, no’ yet.

  For a moment, Ana thought the flicker of her candle brightened. But soft footfalls above her were accompanied by a growing light. As she picked up the bucket and resumed her climb, Wynda appeared. It was almost like looking in a mirror.

  Wynda, one of the scullery maids, held her candle aloft as well, except her pail was empty. The other servant stopped so abruptly that she almost toppled forward.

  “Ana,” she gasped, her pail hitting the curved wall as she braced herself. “Gods, but ye gave me a fright.” Her grimace turned to a puzzled frown when she saw what Ana carried. “Why do ye fetch wood?”

  As a chambermaid, Ana should have been lighting torches and the like. But tending fires allowed her to enter any room with a hearth.

  “’Tis the laird’s bidding,” Ana said, putting her back to the wall as she sidled up a step, hauling the bucket behind her. Invoking the highest authority in the castle usually stopped further inquiry. “Lady McAra wants for more warmth in the solar.”

  “The solar?” Wynda scoffed. “’Tis like summer in there.” She put her back to the wall to allow Ana to pass, but still gazed at the wood. “’Tis my duty,” she muttered, pouting a little. “The laird should’ve called for me.”

  As Ana passed her, their faces were level for a moment. Ana leaned in and whispered, “The laird orders me to silence on it.” She was gratified to see Wynda’s eyebrows shoot up. “None may ken it.”

  The other servant pursed her lips, took one more look at the logs, and turned back to the stairs.

  As Ana climbed, she thought of the dagger hidden in her skirts. She paused and glanced over her shoulder at the descending scullery maid. Then she thought of having to drag the body up the steps. She blew out a breath and resumed her climb. The bucket of wood was heavy enough.

  Chapter Ten

  AFTER LEARNING THAT the old druid had been delayed Emeline reluctantly agreed to allow Kanyth to watch over Perrin while she tended to the laird’s wife.

  “She hasn’t stirred, and she may sleep through the night. If she does wake, give her a spoon of the herbed honey before she takes any drink or food.” The nurse gathered her things, and went to touch Perrin’s brow before she regarded him. “I have a room in the solar near the family. If there’s any trouble at all, send one of the maids for me. Especially if you feel a surge of battle spirit.”

  “Aye, mother hen, your chick shall be kept warm and coddled until morn.” As she moved away from the bed Kanyth stopped her. “Forgive me. I shouldnae jest.”

  “Yes, you should. I’ve never seen you so surly as you’ve been since Ruadri and I returned.” Her brows drew together. “You’re always so dour with Perrin.”

  “I’ve hardly spoken to the lass,” he countered.

  “Ka, you
talk to everyone except Perrin. Her you treat like a plague carrier.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Try to be your charming self for a change. She might like you better.”

  “I dinnae wish her to like me,” he muttered as Emeline left. He went to the bed, his bulk casting a shadow over Perrin from her head to her hips. “She thinks me made a fuzzy-cheeked lad by you.”

  What needled him was the suspicion that the nurse had hit on the pitiful truth.

  He couldn’t stand over her in that manner, for if she woke and saw him looming she might start screaming again. Scowling, he retrieved the biggest chair in the chamber and brought it over to her bedside. When the legs thumped on the floor she stirred, and he went still. Her slender hand moved, lifting and reaching out to him.

  Both shall you burn.

  Kanyth folded his arms to tuck his fists away from her. All he wanted she offered, even in slumber. He wished to touch her, and watch her eyes open, and her lips curve at the sight of him. He wished to hear her speak his name. But the last time he’d held her hand he’d unleashed his battle spirit on her. He’d made her scream.

  She wouldn’t greet the bastart who’d branded her with a smile .

  Her hand fell back to the coverlet, but Kanyth waited until he was sure she slept deeply before he gingerly sat down. From there he looked upon her hand where it lay on the coverlet, but no mark showed. For a moment he hoped his battle spirit had done the work of the druid, but when he lifted his head to look over her he saw the mark on her other hand.

  “Forgive me, lass,” he whispered, ashamed all over again.

  The circlet of flames that the forge had fashioned looked delicately pink. At times when he thrust worked iron into his slack tub it briefly glowed that same shade as it cooled. The brutality of his work offered little beauty, but now and then the forge showed him that which few men ever beheld: the bright yellow of the metal when it had been heated enough to work, like that of summer’s sun; the white glow when the iron became like thick water, and showered him with thousands of tiny orange sparks with every blow; the bronze gleam of a blade as he scoured away the last of the scale to reveal the finished work.