by Brenda Joyce
“Ye’re as stubborn as that boy was,” Macleod said, unperturbed. “But Coinneach is cunning. Ye’re a fool. Ye survived the massacre fer great reasons! And ye heard the gods just now—in a rage over yer pursuit of an Innocent.”
“No one commands me, MacNeil. Not even yer gods.”
“Now ye deny yer mother’s faith?”
He was furious, enough so that the branches on the nearby firs started waving wildly about their heads. “Dinna dare speak to me o’ Elasaid!”
“Ye survived that terrible day so ye could become a great Master—so ye could take yer vows to protect Innocence an’ keep Faith. Most Masters take their vows at an early age, but yer over a hundred years old now. Ye can hardly delay fer much longer. An’ I’ll discuss yer mother if I wish. She must be very disappointed, lad.”
Macleod was enraged. “Mention her again an’ suffer the consequences!”
“I hardly fear ye…an’ I willna fight ye, not now, not ever.”
His duty was to his father, the great William, first and always. Elasaid would understand. He had no intention of taking his vows and joining the brethren—ever. He did not mind fighting evil—he fought evil as naturally as he took women to his bed. He did both every single day. His heart might be made of stone, but his word was written in stone, as well. If he took the vows MacNeil was speaking of, those vows would rule his life. The gods would rule his life. Protecting the Innocent would rule his life. And then he would have to forgo—or even forget—his duty to his dead kin and to Blayde. And that he would not do.
“’Tis time. Come to Iona and make yer vows.” MacNeil laid his hand upon his shoulder again. “Before yer Destiny is taken from ye.”
“Let them take my damned Destiny,” Macleod snapped. “It would please me greatly!”
“Ye act fourteen years old!” MacNeil exclaimed. “We both ken ye can control that rage o’ yours. Ye do so when ye hunt an’ war—ye can do so now.”
“Ye push me more than I’d ever let any other man push me, MacNeil. I let ye do so because I owe ye still. Ye arrived at Blayde that day with yer soldiers to help me turn the enemy away. Blayde would have been lost if ye hadn’t come. Ye helped me bury the dead—ye helped me rebuild. But I watched two Frenchmen stab my father in the back. I was held captive an’ I could not go to aid him, to defend him! My mother died in the fires that day, carryin’ my brother or sister in her womb. My two older brothers died that day, fighting against all odds.” Now, the placid river was raging, racing past them. “When every MacDougall is dead, I will come to yer island and swear on yer holy books to serve the Ancients and protect Innocence. But as long as a single MacDougall lives, my duty is to Blayde.”
“Are ye nay tired of yer endless wars? Have ye never thought of havin’ a different life—a pleasin’ one?”
“Ye’re the fool now.” He turned and whistled for his horse, aware that it was but a short distance away, grazing in a nearby glen. He’d leaped from it to pursue Alasdair on foot.
MacNeil sighed. “Ye’ve had yer revenge—ye’ve had yer revenge for over ninety years. No man would ever fault ye, Guy. Ye have done yer duty to yer father an’ mother.”
“My duty will never be done.” As he spoke, he glimpsed that young boy again, and his presence infuriated him. That boy was weak and he’d failed everyone. “If ye cease yer harangue, ye’re welcome at Blayde an’ I will be pleased to offer ye wine, a woman and a bed.”
Hooves sounded. The huge black charger came galloping up the riverbank, its eyes bright with interest. Macleod seized the bridle, then gave the animal a single stroke upon its neck.
“Ye’ve enchanted yer horse. Yer powers are meant to be used against deamhanain an’ their lackeys, not on mortals an’ not on the gods’ earthly creatures.”
Macleod shrugged. Shortly before the massacre—as if the gods had known he would lose his family and become laird—he had learned that he could hear the thoughts of others and bend the will of either man or beast with a simple direct thought. It was a useful power. And just after the massacre, he had found his other, god-given powers, powers that could destroy a man or a deamhan with a single blast.
But MacNeil showed no sign of being ready to return to Blayde. “Do ye ever wonder why yer powers sometimes defy yer very will?”
It was common knowledge that he often could not control his own powers, especially when he was angry. Even those closest to him were afraid of his errant powers and his terrible temper. “I dinna care if the occasional stone wall falls when I take an extra breath.” But he was curious now.
“When ye take yer vows, ye’ll be master of yer powers, Macleod, but until then, they’ll escape ye when ye need them most. The gods toy with ye—a punishment fer yer refusal to obey them.”
He had seen MacNeil use his powers, and they never failed him. Suddenly the explanation made so much more sense than his assumption that he was simply less skillful or powerful. “I have enough power, more than any mortal man,” he said slowly. “Ye should remind the gods that I never use their powers to dispatch my enemies. I always use my dagger, my sword or my bare hands.”
“We ken,” MacNeil said. “’Tis hardly enough, lad.”
He hated it when MacNeil looked at him as if he was looking into his very heart and soul, seeing secrets even Macleod did not know. MacNeil had great Sight. He could see the future and the past. If anyone could look into a man’s most private and unspoken thoughts, it was MacNeil. “I am ready fer wine,” he said, leaping onto his horse. “Ye have no mount, but then, ye undoubtedly leaped to Melvaig.” MacNeil could leap to Blayde to meet him there.
MacNeil seized the bridle.
“Ye were spared that day because the gods wrote yer Fate. ’Tis time to take the vows an’ serve them—or suffer their displeasure.”
That sounded like a threat! “Aye, the damned gods wrote my Fate—ye’ve told me a hundred times. But the massacre was Highland madness. The gods dinna care to save my family and I’m a mad Highlander now!”
“No god can save every man, woman or child,” MacNeil fired back. “’Tis impossible!”
“Let go of my horse.”
“I fear for ye now.”
“Dinna bother to fear fer me. An’, MacNeil? The boy will die another day.” He reached down and jerked his reins free.
“Ye had better think on yer ways,” MacNeil warned, his eyes dark and fierce now. “Because if ye dinna take yer vows soon, the gods will turn against ye.”
Macleod froze. The gods could not turn against him. His mother had been a holy woman. While no one could worship the old gods openly—it was heresy—she had been their priestess and he had been raised in those ancient beliefs. He still worshipped the Ancients secretly, while outwardly conforming to the Catholic Church. For ninety-seven years, he had been told that the gods had spared his life so that he could serve them as a holy warrior.
How could the gods turn against him? He was one of them.
“I came here today to warn ye, Guy. Continue to displease the gods, an’ they will disown ye. Ye will live a long an’ bleak life, without friends, family, without a wife or sons an’ daughters, huntin’ yer mortal enemies, each day the same. A man of stone, without a heart, without a reason to live.” MacNeil’s eyes flashed and he vanished.
Macleod stared at the boulder-strewn river, the water frothing white now. Without a reason to live? He had a reason to live. He was living each and every day because of that reason—revenge. His life was the blood feud. It was his duty. He did not need friends, family, a wife or children. MacNeil’s threats meant nothing, not to a man like him.
HIS HORSE KNEW the lay of the land as well as he did, and it was eager to reach the stables at Blayde. It was easier to ride along the coastline than follow deer and game trails in the interior, even if the going was rocky at times. But when Blayde appeared high upon the cliffs ahead, Macleod abruptly halted the animal. It was dusk, the moon beginning to rise. He was breathing hard and as lathered as his horse.
&n
bsp; He hadn’t meant to cross this beach, the very same beach where he’d sent his family and kin to their graves at sea. He hadn’t been back to this small cove since the sea burials, not once. But suddenly he was at that precise cove. He could smell the smoke…he could smell the blood, the death.
He slid from his horse and silently told it to go home. The stallion snorted, sending him an almost human glance before trotting away.
Slowly, Macleod turned.
Roiling white waves broke upon the shore and the rocks there. The surf was always rougher at night, boiling and dangerous. But as he stared, the waves gentled, softly lapping at the beach. The dark sand shimmered, becoming the color of pearls—except where it was stained with blood. The sky became lighter as dawn came and the red sun tried to rise in the gray, smoke-filled skies. A boy stood there on the beach, vowing revenge, filled with guilt and desperation and trying not to cry.
He did not want to remember. Another man might hope to go back in time—especially considering that such a power might be attainable—but not he. He’d been told that the past could not be changed, and he believed it.
He started walking toward the churning ocean. The boy knelt in the sand, watching the funeral pyres as they drifted out to sea.
Although he was observing the boy with complete detachment, he was aware of a deep, dark tension. He paused, staring out across the ocean, but not at the rising moon. He still saw the bleak dawn horizon. The galleys were rocking upon the waves, their sails limp and flaccid, eighteen in all.
He had lost everyone that day.
But he’d found his mother’s amulet in the hand of a dead enemy soldier. Elasaid had worn a small talisman, never taking it off—a small gold palm with a bright white stone in its center, a pendant with great magical powers. He hadn’t been able to send it to sea. He kept it locked in his bedchamber in a chest.
He had not been able to defend his father, his brothers or his mother, or anyone else. He had failed them all. Yet he had survived….
He watched the boy, now on his knees. He began to vomit. Macleod almost felt sorry for him.
It was worse this year, he somehow thought. The boy was closer than ever, when he hoped to forget his very existence. He closed his eyes. Why was the boy so close, after ninety-seven long years?
He was never going to be able to make up for his failures, he thought grimly. He could murder a hundred MacDougalls, but William would remain in his sea grave, and Elasaid’s bones would still be dust.
Suddenly Macleod tensed.
He was not alone.
Let me help you.
Surprise stiffened him. She had returned.
He began to breathe harder, afraid to move, remembering. The boy had been kneeling on the beach, watching the funeral ships as they drifted away, when he’d felt the woman’s soft, warm presence. He’d heard her, behind him. She had said, “Let me help you.” When he had turned, he’d thought he’d glimpsed a golden woman, but no one had been standing there.
In that first decade after the massacre, she’d come to him in his dreams, offering comfort, whispering, “Let me help you.” In his dreams, she had been beautiful, strangely dressed, with long golden hair, a dozen years older than he was. She had been so vivid and so real that when he had reached out in his dreams he could touch her. Even though her audacity had angered him, he had wanted her immediately, the urgency stunning. But every time he had tried to bring her into his embrace, to take her to his bed, she had vanished.
He had stopped dreaming of the massacre and the dawn burials years ago. But when he was very tired after a terrible and vicious battle, she would suddenly appear. He would feel her strong, comforting presence first. Then he would hear her. Let me help you. And when he turned he would see her shimmering apparition. It hadn’t taken him long to realize she was a ghost—or a goddess.
She had been haunting him now for almost a century.
Macleod was certain she was present now.
Let me help you.
Slowly, Macleod stood and turned.
For one instant, he saw a flushed face, wide, concerned eyes and golden hair—and then he saw nothing but the beach and the cliffs above.
It was dusk again. There was no smoke, and two stars had emerged in the growing darkness, along with the rising moon.
He glanced warily around, straining to see in the twilight, but he no longer felt her presence. He knew she would come back. What he did not know was why. He did not care for her haunting. He preferred a flesh-and-blood woman to an elusive ghost or goddess. But one day he would detain her. One day he would find out what she wanted from him.
He started toward the cliffs, where a path led up to Blayde. At least the boy was gone, too.
HE COULDN’T SLEEP.
The massacre was on his mind now. If he tried, he could relive that day. If he slept, he might dream about it. Instead, he slipped from his bed, clad only in his leine, leaving the woman sleeping there alone. Without thinking, he stepped into his boots, as the floors were icy cold, and picked up his belt and brat. As he stalked to the hearth he belted the tunic and pinned the plaid over one shoulder to ward off the chill. Outside the chamber window, an ebony sky was filled with stars and a waning moon. A wolf was howling.
The woman he’d taken to his bed suddenly awoke. He knew it without looking at her—he felt her fear and nervousness. They all feared him, although he didn’t really know why. He never beat his dogs, much less a woman. He didn’t know her name—she was new in the household. Not looking at her, he said, “Bring wine and tend the fire.”
She leaped naked from his bed, seized her clothes and fled.
His head seemed to throb, almost hurting him. He stared grimly at the fire, wishing he hadn’t decided to hunt his enemies that day.
Let me help you.
She had returned. He was incredulous. His eyes wide, he glanced about quickly, expecting to see her in his bedchamber. She was close by, he was certain, and she was coming closer by the moment. He wanted to end this haunting—he was determined to end it, now, and learn what she wanted from him.
But she did not manifest.
He stared into the shadows of the chamber, waiting for her to show herself. She did not.
“What do ye want?” he demanded of the empty room.
There was no answer.
He smiled without mirth. She’d never amused him, not even that first time.
For one moment, he thought she was about to appear. But as he waited for the sensation to intensify, it vanished instead.
She was toying with him. He did not like that. But suddenly he looked at the chest that was locked at the foot of his bed.
He thought about Elasaid’s amulet. Uncertain why he wanted to suddenly look at it, he took a key from his belt and unlocked the chest at the foot of the bed. He took out the gold talisman and stared thoughtfully at it. The pendant had always had great magic for his mother. He almost felt expectant or uncertain—and he was never uncertain.
The moonstone in the gold palm’s center winked brightly at him.
The room seemed to shift.
He knew he had not imagined the slight movement of the floor and bed. The sense of expectation intensified. It was as if a gale was about to blow in, but no storm was coming. The necklace burned in his palm.
The maid skittered into the chamber, carefully avoiding looking at him as she set the tray with wine down on the chamber’s only table. Macleod waited while she lit the rushes in the room before hurrying out.
He put the pendant back in the chest and was locking it when he felt her presence filling the bedchamber.
This time, he was not mistaken.
This time, he felt the holy power with her.
Startled and wary, almost certain now that she was a goddess and not a ghost, he scanned every shadowy corner. He could feel her power, strong and white and so terribly bright, but he could not see her yet. “Show yourself,” he ordered. “I am tired of this haunting. What do ye want?”
In answer, he felt the entire room shift.
Come to me.
Her soft words washed over him, through him. He was incredulous now and even more wary. Her message had changed.
She was summoning him.
“Show yourself,” he said again. Could he enchant a goddess with his powers of persuasion? “Tell me what ye want. Why are ye botherin’ me so much today?”
Come to me.
His blood surged. Not only had he heard her speaking, her voice was becoming clearer, even if her English remained strange. She sounded closer. Maybe he would finally discover what she wanted from him.
Come to me.
He looked around the chamber again, and the sense of her presence intensified. The woman was very powerful and he prepared for battle with her.
By the fire, the air shimmered, as if gold dust danced on the air.
He stared, certain the flames were causing the air to sparkle. But the shimmering intensified; the gold dust began to congeal. Almost disbelieving, his heart thundered as the gold dust began to shape itself and form, so transparently he could see the hearth and fire through it.
Come to me.
He stood absolutely still. Her words were even louder now, but they still echoed oddly. He waited as the dust finally formed into a woman’s tall, lush, truly perfect figure and strikingly beautiful face. He inhaled. In that moment, he wanted her to be real because he desired her so greatly.
If she were a flesh-and-blood woman, he’d end this soon enough with her immediate seduction. But he could see through her to the other side of the chamber. She wasn’t mortal. He was disappointed but not daunted. Even if she was a goddess, he intended to triumph over her.
She stood before him, shifting and swaying, as if on a breeze, and her eyes were golden and mesmerizing. He could not look away. Their gazes had locked. “What do ye want?” He was careful now. He did not want her to vanish.
“Come to me.”
Before he could ask her where she wished for him to go, the air between them visibly sizzled. Macleod tensed and felt the space around him lurch, putting him off balance. The chamber seemed to sigh—or was it a breeze from the sea? And then such a profound stillness came, with such an absolute silence, that he knew it was the lull before the storm, the interlude before the cataclysm.
