by Ann Gimpel
“Will ye be wantin’ supper at six?”
“Bring a tray to my rooms.”
She glanced up at him through dusky lashes. “Would my laird wish company with his meal?”
“Not tonight.”
“As my laird wishes.”
“Vanessa.”
“My laird?”
“Ye will think the question strange, but what year might it be?”
She shot him an odd look before dropping her gaze again. “Why the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and sixty-seven, laird.”
“Thank ye kindly. Ye may leave me now.”
Lachlan paced the length of his rooms over and over. His heart ached for Maggie, and his mage’s soul ached for the dragon who’d become first a part of him and now a part of them—him and Maggie. Because the turmoil in his mind was making him crazy, he left his quarters and loped down the stairs, intent on taking a horse and riding to the Celts’ sacred grove. Mayhap he’d find one or more of them and discuss his problem. He considered using his magic instead of a horse but was reluctant to test it quite yet. He’d lost Maggie and Kheladin—perhaps not permanently, but they were gone nonetheless. Lachlan didn’t think he could stand any more unpleasant revelations today.
Doona hope for too much, he cautioned himself and threw a leg over Brandywine, a favorite stallion that he remembered well. The horse tossed its head, whinnied, and took off at a near gallop. Lachlan didn’t mind. The wind in his face and hair cooled the fire raging inside. Fear for Maggie ate at him. What had happened to her? Was she still in the future? Had she found her kinswoman, the grandmother with magic strong enough to protect her?
The grove was empty, but he’d expected as much. Beech, ash, and hawthorn trees grew tall and straight, interspersed with standing stones. He gathered simple magic and commanded the horse to stay within the grove. That done, Lachlan knelt to pray. He opened his mind and his heart. The tears he’d held back in his own courtyard streamed down his face. He clawed great handfuls of dirt and let agony pour through him. Maybe it was better Kheladin was gone. If the dragon saw him like this, mad with grief, he’d never respect him again.
“Lachlan.” A gentle hand settled on his shoulder. He started, scrambled to his feet, and looked into Ceridwen’s ageless face. “Doona speak,” she crooned. “I will read what is in your mind.”
While she stood, one hand on his shoulder, another atop his head, Gwydion and Arawn materialized. Time slipped away. The sky passed from day into night before the goddess released her hold and exchanged glances with the other two gods.
“Ye wish our help,” Gwydion intoned. Not trusting himself to speak, because if they turned him down, he had nowhere else to turn, Lachlan nodded.
“We must confer,” Ceridwen said. “At present, Rhukon is nothing but a mischief-maker, and the Morrigan is useful on the field of battle, though nowhere else. The only red wyvern I know about presides over the red dragon clan across the great ocean in the New World.”
“Ye might scry the future, now ye know where to look.” Lachlan shook his head. “’Tis sorry I am. Ye will find your own way without my paltry suggestions.”
“Apology accepted.” Arawn favored him with a rare smile. It transformed the severe lines of his face into something quite striking. “Ye love this woman.”
“He must,” Ceridwen said. “I wouldna have officiated at their mating if I dinna sense their commitment, one to the other.”
“I cherish her, love her more than life itself.” The words cut like sharp glass as they tore out of him. “Rhukon is strong enough to rip me from the future and strand me here. I fear what he may have done with Maggie.”
“She has magic of her own,” Gwydion pointed out. “Witch powers.”
“Aye, but she is untrained.”
“Why would a woman fully-grown not have taken her magic to hand?” Arawn frowned.
“Things are different in the twenty-first century. Everything seemed magical to me there. Invisible waves travel through the air and make small things ye can talk on ring…”
Ceridwen held up a hand. “Enough. I will scry what is to be seen in my cauldron. We will come to you with our decision.”
“Please.” Lachlan heard pleading in his voice, knew he was groveling, and didn’t give a damn what they thought of him. “Please. I doona fully understand this, but I canna live without her by my side. She is part of me. Part of a prophecy that links us through time.”
“Aye.” Gwydion nodded. “We saw that in your mind.”
Arawn added, “I must speak with Bran. As the god of prophecy, he will know of it if ’tis truly of import.”
Lachlan fought despair. If the prophecy was so obscure Arawn didn’t know about it, perhaps it didn’t hold the power he hoped.
“Shield your mind. It bleeds like an open wound.” A corner of Arawn’s mouth turned down. “Prophecies havena been of much use to me. The dead who walk my halls often cite failed divinations.” He shrugged. “They are just as dead. I doona pay much heed to foretellings.”
“When I spoke with you in the future,” Lachlan said slowly, “ye knew of the prophecy then.” Arawn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t reply.
“Waiting is hard.” Ceridwen met his gaze. “I suggest ye make things up with Kheladin. He, too, is part of this. I doona know if ye can find the woman without him.”
Arawn nodded. “Twisting the strands of time is difficult, even for us. ’Tisn’t a matter of simply thinking ye wish to land in a certain year. Ye must lead with your heart.”
Understanding blossomed. “My heart must be the same. When I met the lass, it was linked to Kheladin.”
“Not only that,” Gwydion said. “The lass rode the dragon and bears his mating bite. She is joined to the two of you.”
“Furthermore.” Arawn winked broadly. “I shouldna tell you this, but dragons were the first to master time travel. How do ye think they get back and forth to Fire Mountain, a world outside of time? ’Tis far easier for them than for us.”
“Enough.” Ceridwen’s voice rang, loud and grating. She shot Arawn a withering look. The air in the grove shimmered. When it cleared, Lachlan was alone.
“What do you mean I wouldn’t be able to get back?” Maggie heard the shrill note in her voice and didn’t care for it.
“Which part of it wasn’t clear?” Mauvreen asked, quirking a brow.
“We doona know that. Not for a fact.” Ceridwen focused her energy on Maggie. Warmth, persuasion, confidence she’d make the right decision rolled over her in waves.
Maggie shook her head. “Stop that. I can’t think when you bombard me with magic.”
“Good for you,” Mary Elma muttered and turned so she faced both Maggie and Ceridwen. “This gathering,” she made an encompassing gesture with both arms, “was a war council, was it not?” At Ceridwen’s terse nod, Mary Elma continued. “Is it also not true that if you send my granddaughter back in time, back before Lachlan slept ensorcelled like Sleeping Beauty, it kills two birds with one stone? Presumably, the dragon shifter wouldn’t be so stupid as to be caught twice. With Lachlan wide awake and vigilant, Rhukon could never tap into the amount of power he now controls.” She slapped her hands together. “Voila! No more problem. No need for a war council. No need to corral the Morrigan.” She glared at Ceridwen. “One of your own, I might add.”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. As usual, her grandmother got an A+ for being astute and cutting to the chase. “I get it. But they don’t really need to do a thing for me. Lachlan’s already back in the middle of the fifteen hundreds, over a hundred years before Rhukon became a threat.”
“Smart lass,” Ceridwen said, with a smile reminiscent of a scimitar. “Doona be so certain about Rhukon being less of a threat four hundred years ago, though. Once a mage has developed certain skills, they often retain them, no matter where they land in time.” She shrugged. “Returning to the topic of you and your beloved, we were just being kind.”
“Hogwash!” Mary Elma sniped. “You Cel
ts are never kind. You have some sort of ulterior motive. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Well, I have,” Mauvreen said. “Regardless of what they know—or don’t—about the extent of Rhukon’s powers, they want to make certain Lachlan stays put long enough to at least try to short-circuit all the damage Rhukon, the Morrigan, and the red wyvern have done.”
She took a measured-sounding breath and blew it out slowly. “The best way to accomplish that is to ferry Lachlan’s lady love to his side. Otherwise, he’ll move Heaven and Earth to find her. Even now, he’s probably half mad with worry and fear that something’s happened to her.”
“Sort of how I’m feeling about him,” Maggie said softly. “If I weren’t so stubborn, I’d have told him I loved him. Now I’m afraid I’ll never see him again. Never have the opportunity.” Her heart constricted. Maggie had always prided herself on cool rationality, but when she reached for it, it flitted away. In its place loomed pain and loss; a lifetime without Lachlan might be fitting punishment for her years of emotional detachment, but she didn’t want to go there.
“What do you want?” Ceridwen asked. Compulsion ran beneath her words.
“Be careful,” her grandmother cautioned. “Best to say nothing, than be snared in their magic.”
“Is this like the genie in the bottle and three wishes?”
“I don’t know,” Mary Elma said with a little sniff. “Until we do, prudence is your best path.”
“Okay.” Maggie spread her hands in front of her. “Why couldn’t Lachlan get back to modern times? If he could go one way, why not the other?”
Ceridwen didn’t answer, which told Maggie that Mauvreen was onto something. The Celts were willing to help her move back in time because it fit with one of their strategies to avoid out and out war. Once she was back there, they didn’t need her anymore, and Lachlan was better placed there than he’d been in 2012.
Well, how do I feel about living in the late middle ages? What do I even know about life then, except on the most cursory level? Short life spans, rampant disease. Zip in the way of any conveniences but lots of servants. So my choices are living in comfort in familiar surroundings without him or trading everything I’ve ever valued for love.
“Holy crap!” she muttered. “I really don’t like my options here.” She rolled her eyes. “Knowing what you all do, why can’t some earlier version of yourselves kill off Rhukon, hobble the Morrigan somehow, and as an act of kindness, return Lachlan to 2012? It’s not as if he didn’t live through the years after he was ensorcelled. He doesn’t deserve to have to live them again.”
Gwydion stepped to Ceridwen’s side. “What ye ask, lass, is far more work than simply moving you back in time.”
“Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How about if I pay you for whatever extra effort it takes? I can show you where Kheladin’s hoard is here. There’s a fortune in gold and gemstones.”
“Stealing a dragon’s hoard means lifetimes of bad luck.” Gwydion waggled a finger at her.
“I don’t see it as stealing, since it’s unlikely Kheladin will ever lay eyes on it again. What then? Surely there has to be another way. One that meets all our needs, not just yours.”
“I’d applaud,” her grandmother hissed into Maggie’s ear, “but it would just piss ‘em off.”
“I heard that, witch,” Ceridwen said and cracked a wry grin. “And ye’re right. ’Tis damned easy to piss us off these days.”
“Why are you haggling?” A tall woman, built like one of the ancient Valkyries and dressed in battle leathers, stepped forward. “I am Andraste, goddess of victory. I like my battles clean, not full of sub rosa bargainings. We clearly have an enemy lurking in the past. I say we pluck him off afore he causes us angst.” She gathered her heavy, blonde hair and pushed it over one shoulder. Aquamarine eyes glittered with bloodlust.
The Celts fell into a spirited discussion, mostly in Gaelic. Maggie blew out a breath. Good. It would give her time to think. Her grandmother, Mauvreen, and several other women who had to be the Inverness witches gathered around her. “I’m proud you stood up to them,” Mary Elma murmured.
Is that what I did? Maggie shrugged. “Maybe it’s all those years of dealing with mentally ill people. They’re not the easiest to reason with sometimes, but there’s usually a way to find common ground.”
Mary Elma pulled her off to one side while the other witches spoke low to one another. “I know Ceridwen asked this, but what do you want to do?” Mary Elma caught Maggie’s gaze and held it. “I love you, child. I’ll support whichever way you want to go, even if it means I never get to lay eyes on you again in this life.”
Maggie’s thoughts ran in circles, but they always returned to the same place. She nodded to herself and let the words loose. “I love him. I can’t imagine my life without him, Gran. No matter what the Celts decide, I’ll do whatever it takes. If I have to live my life in a drafty castle with rats and moldy bread, I guess I’m up for it.” She’d no sooner spoken than her head cleared. Doubt fell away like yesterday’s news.
“That means you made the right decision.” Mary Elma kissed Maggie’s cheek, having obviously read her mind.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t take this wrong, but I am so grateful something finally touched your heart. I worried about you for years. You were just so…removed from everything.” Her grandmother patted her cheek. “Before we consign you to that drafty castle, let’s see how this plays out. You may have found an unlikely ally in Andraste.” Mary Elma made a sound between a snort and a grunt. “The last time I saw her, blood was dripping from her chin, and she held her enemy’s heart in her hand.”
Chapter Nineteen
Lachlan clucked to Brandywine; the bay stallion trotted over and nuzzled his hand. He started to mount and then changed his mind. He needed Kheladin back, but was that even a possibility? Is my magic gone, right along with the dragon? He’d done a few small things since Rhukon had chucked him hundreds of years back in time, but even the rawest acolyte could summon a mage light or corral a horse. Lachlan remembered his long years of training to make him worthy of the dragon bond and grimaced.
He slapped the horse on its rump and sent it home. People might worry about him when the horse returned riderless, but he planned to be back before daybreak. Once the horse was well and truly out of the way, he cast one spell after another, pulling so much magic, his body thrummed with the effort. Time passed. Hours. When the sky was just beginning to lighten in the east, he was shaky and drenched in sweat but satisfied that his magic was unaffected. He had every bit as much as he’d ever had, no matter what year he found himself in.
Thanks be to the gods. Lachlan bowed his head in a moment of silent prayer.
“Finally, something went right,” he murmured as he summoned one last spell to return him to the castle without the ignominy of having to walk. He planned to sleep for a few hours and then work on re-bonding with Kheladin. Something Arawn had said was intriguing. If dragons could travel through time, maybe he didn’t need the Celts to return to Maggie and 2012 after all… So long as Kheladin had mastered that particular skill. Lachlan frowned. If the dragon could manipulate time, it was odd he hadn’t mentioned it when they’d found themselves stranded hundreds of years in the future.
“Och aye,” Lachlan muttered, his earlier elation fading. He wasn’t truly any closer to Maggie than he’d been before. “Just because my magic hasna eroded doesna mean my dragon will return at all. And even if he does, he may not know anything about time travel.”
Lachlan set his jaw in a hard line, gathered his half-constructed spell, and returned to the castle. His hopes of sneaking inside shattered when he ran into one person after the next, beginning with cooks he surprised in the side yard, where he materialized just inside the postern gate. Though the many people who worked for him—both as servants and indentured labor—were used to his unusual comings and goings, nonetheless it had to be damned unsettling when he emerged from thin
air. After half a dozen conversations, Lachlan finally let himself in the castle’s main door and strode through the great room, hoping to make it to the far end without further interruptions.
“A moment, if ye please, laird.” His steward walked out of the small parlor. “If ye could take a quick look at planned assessments for the farmers…”
“Aye, and when ye’ve finished with him, I’ve a wee bit of a problem,” his chamberlain murmured. “Early flooding and all. We must plan carefully, or there shan’t be enough food through next winter.”
“Of course.” Lachlan followed the steward. Irritation ate at his stomach, making it burn, but these were his people, his lands. It wouldn’t be right to tell them he was too busy to help. “What would you do if I wasna here?” he asked his steward.
The man, actually one of Lachlan’s younger cousins, tossed a mischievous grin his way. “Ye can scarce be angry for decisions made by others when ye’re not available.” He shrugged slightly and waited for Lachlan to sit at his work desk. “When I canna find you, I do as I think best.”
Lachlan considered that as he reviewed long columns of numbers. The estate was well-run. His steward and chamberlain would do just fine without him. If he were gone long enough, the next male in line would become laird of Clan Moncrieffe. Given his lengthy sleep, that had probably already happened within months of his disappearance a hundred years hence. Feeling less guilty about his half-formed plans to fight his way back to Maggie any way he could, he stumbled to his rooms mid-morning, fell face down on his bed, and slept.
A fist pounding on his door vied with dragon trumpeting to wake him. Still drunk with sleep and groggy, it took Lachlan several moments to orient himself. “Laird.” The fist thudded on his door again.
“Come.” Lachlan pushed to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. He was still tired. Without the current interruption, he was certain he would have slept at least a few more hours.
The door opened; Vanessa slipped inside. “Sorry to disturb your rest, my laird,” she bowed low, “but a dragon is askin’ for you. A talkin’ dragon,” she clarified and then clasped her hands together in front of her. “Of course, he’d have to be able to talk since he is askin’ for you. And I’m supposin’ they all talk, but one has never actually talked to me afore…” She shook her head in irritation. A few wisps of red curls escaped to frame her face. “Doona be mindin’ me. I’m blatherin’. ’Tisn’t like creatures such as he—or mayhap, ’tis a she—stop by the castle every day.” With a half-bob of her head, she backed out of his rooms.
