Crystal Dreams

by Astrid Cooper

  “MacArran!” MacLachlan's voice called and Connal turned to look over his shoulder. Beside the older man, as always, was the young shadow, Andrew MacTiernan. The two men strode quickly forward and came to stand on either side of him.

  “We have been seeking you, MacArran. MacEwen is disputing our agreement of the land transfer. He looks fit to draw blood. You had best come quickly!"

  Connal frowned at the older man. MacLachlan's hand on his shoulder propelled him forward. He glanced back at the now empty corridor, torn between duty and Liandra. Still, if there was to be blood spilt in his halls ... Business always before his pleasure—ever it had been so. Only now, he would give it all up just for a few words to the witch! Although what would be the use? She wanted no more of him and his world.

  “Connal?” Andrew MacTiernan asked.

  “Aye, I am on my way. ’Tis a sorry day indeed when a man cannot have peace in his own house! Lead on Andrew. ’Tis I who might be doing some blood-letting, I be just in the right mood."

  MacLachlan roared with laughter. “Twice in one day, Connal, you and I agree on something."

  * * * *

  Liandra slowly walked the silent, brooding corridors. Never had she felt so alone in her life. She delayed the inevitable for as long as she could, finally coming to the courtyard.

  Crossing the grass to the scout-ship, she paused to see the crowd gathered on the field. At her approach, Dougall and his pipers started up their bagpipes and began a tune, which was so mournful, she knew it was his way of bidding her good-bye.

  After the lament, she was kissed and embraced by the whole household. The whole household, save one. And it was that one whom she wanted more than anything to be there, to farewell her above all others. Angas, she saw, stood at the back of the crowd. Clustered about him were several young women. Notorious Angas. He returned her smile with a lop-sided grin.

  A high-pitched yelp made her spin around. Fergus! The hound strained forward. She tried to mask her disappointment that at the end of the leash was not Connal, but Dougall. Liandra dropped to a knee and fondled Fergus’ massive head.

  “Take good care of him, Dougall,” she said, pushing herself to her feet.

  “Aye,” he replied. Their gazes locked. The unspoken thought between them. Take good care of Connal.

  Liandra glanced back at the Castle, waiting, hoping, until a member of the ship's crew ushered her inside. With a low hiss, the hatch sealed behind her. Slowly she sat beside her father.

  He glanced at her sharply. “You're coming with me?"

  “Yes."

  “I thought you would stay,” he said.

  “I wasn't asked."

  Alleron raised his eyes heavenward. “You're always so stubborn. Your greatest failing, as it is with your mother. Why do you think he didn't ask? Maybe you gave him no encouragement."

  “Don't be ridiculous."

  “A man does not have to speak the words. You have only to look in his heart and soul."

  “He doesn't allow me to."

  Alleron Tavor smiled sadly. “He might have, if you gave him a chance. Stubborn! Both of you!"

  “Please don't say anything to me."

  At the subtle increase of cabin air pressure, she gripped her seat with both hands. Minutes later she forced herself to look out the porthole. The green and purple world of Caledonia hung in the velvet of space, one jewel in a shimmering midnight tapestry. She closed her eyes against the sight.

  “Goodbye my beloved,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Connal twirled the goblet between his fingers. Sitting at his feet, Fergus eyed him mournfully.

  “And you needn't be looking at me like that, you blasted hound! ’Tis nothing I can do!”

  As Fergus whined, Connal swore in exasperation. The dog had been a misery for weeks, and off his food. Much like his master in both respects. He absently stroked the ring on his finger. The circle of gold had seemed so small when he put it to the tip of his little finger, but League magic being what it was, the metal had expanded to fit snugly around his flesh. He remembered how difficult it had been to remove the ring from Liandra's finger that day so many days ago. And in remembering he re-lived, anew, the honey-taste of her silken skin. He swallowed down hard against the memory.

  But now, it appeared that the fire-stone was dying. Was that possible? Night after lonely night, he had come to know its every hue. Ever since Liandra's departure, twenty days ago, it had begun to lose its vibrancy. Now it was a pale, lusterless thing. Perhaps it reflected the inner pain of its new owner?

  Connal cursed himself. He was behaving like a boy, when a man ... A real man, Connal MacArran, would not have allowed her to go! Again, Dougall's words returned to haunt him. Connal smiled grimly. Dougall had never been backward in coming forward, an invaluable trait over the years. Now the man's candor was infuriating. Another reason to stay away from the hall, that and the silent condemnation of his friends—Liandra's friends.

  Connal closed his eyes. Exhaustion nagged him, making him feel sick. He no longer sought his bed. Too damn cold and lonely. A chair beside the fire was as good a place as any to try to sleep. Again, he stroked the ring. My Lady Witch ... He closed his eyes.

  Across the vastness of space, she turned and smiled. As she ran to him her long strapless gown billowed out around her. They met in an embrace, which took his breath away. As he bent to kiss her, he sensed the difference. Two souls greeted him, not one.

  He frowned and she smiled up at him, placing his hands on her stomach. He smiled, too, as he felt the life within her, which together they had created.

  My Lady Witch! What other surprises do you have up your sleeve?

  My robe does not have sleeves. She laughed.

  He swept her up into his arms and...

  Connal jolted upright in his chair. The pain of memories and longing tore him asunder. By Arran and the Seven Stars! He breathed in a shuddering, ragged breath, and flinched as perspiration ran down his spine. Yet another dream to bedevil his nights! He ran a hand through his damp hair. How long will this continue?

  As long as it takes, MacArran, to make you come to your senses! Connal's inner voice rebuked.

  By his reckoning he had two choices. Stay on Caledonia, alone, and go quietly insane, or head off-world and bring the witch back. Abduct her again, if necessary. Even if she rejected him, argued with him the rest of his life, it would be a thousand—a million—times better than not having her with him at all.

  And the bairn? What a ridiculous dream! As a professional counselor she was incapable of conceiving. She had told him that in the cottage. Besides what were the odds of making a child with an alien woman when they had bedded down only ... Connal closed his eyes, willing the memories away.

  A bairn could be planted at the very first loving. Every Caledonian boy knew that. And as for odds, were not the odds even more unlikely that Connal MacArran would fall in love with a green-haired alien witch? Connal flung himself out of the chair and strode to the door. Wrenching it open, he stared in disbelief.

  “Dougall?"

  “Aye My Lord?"

  “What are you doing sitting out there?"

  “Waiting for you to come to your senses and give me the appropriate orders."

  Connal snorted. “Get on with it, then!"

  “About bloody time!” Dougall muttered, as he raced down the corridor.

  * * * *

  No sensors squealed in alarm as the door swished open. Garris’ phonnic lance worked well—too well. If he could break into her home this easily, then so could another. Connal strode into the apartment, stopping in stunned amazement. If he did not know better he would swear he was in the wrong place.

  The colors were still the same, the swirling opalescent rainbows, but about him, he saw all the artifacts she had taken from Caledonia, and more besides. Hanging on the wall, two claymores crossed over each other, the dagger he had given her at the center. Strips of MacArran and MacLeod tartan hung aroun
d the display. Why had she decorated her quarters in such a way? She hated everything about his culture.

  He drew out one of the claymores and tested it. Perfect balance, a man's sword in every respect. That being so, what was it doing in Liandra's lounge-room? Was it possible that she had a man, or men, living with her? By Arran he would wring the neck of any man who touched his woman! If he found evidence of it, they would be sorry and so would Liandra! Seven Stars she would!

  He stalked about the chamber. On the table, held in a stasis field, was a sprig of heather. Next to it stood a 3-d image of Bronnia dressed in Asarian robes. The child looked healthy and happy, a far cry indeed from that forlorn waif he had adopted as fosterling. Bronni was doing just fine; unlike himself!

  Two sofas, draped with MacArran tartan rested against the far well, near the view-screen. It had changed, too. No longer the underwater antics of those creatures he had watched before, now it was a duplication of the scene from her Castle apartment. As he stepped closer to it, he heard, as if from the distance, the faint wail of bagpipes. He breathed in the scent of heather. The illusion was so real.

  “What can I do for you?” a voice behind him droned.

  Cursing, Connal twisted around, hand reaching for his dagger, too late remembering he had left it behind on the star-ship. Garris had insisted that he come unarmed, otherwise he would not pass through any security sensor, no matter what tools he had at his disposal.

  Connal stared at the owner of the voice. Although the silver thing was man-shaped it had no face, just a semblance of a head and two glowing orbs for eyes.

  “Who be you?” Connal asked. With narrowed eyes he regarded the creature.

  “I be Dougall, Mistress Liandra's butler-droid. At your service, Master."

  Connal glared as the machine bowed. Dougall? What would his pax-man say when he learned he was namesake to an electronic gadget?

  “Where is Mistress Liandra? I demand to know."

  The butler-droid was silent.

  “Can you not understand me, you rusty bag of bolts?” Connal asked.

  “I am programmed in a thousand languages. Caledonian is my specialty, Master."

  Connal grimaced. He liked it not that a machine could speak his tongue. No doubt, though, as things now stood it was something he would have to get used to!

  “I am looking for Liandra Tavor."

  “Mistress Liandra is not at home."

  “That I can see, you electronic monstrosity.” Connal ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't expected this, not any of it. Not in a million years. “Dougall, how long will Mistress Liandra be away?"

  “The Mistress has gone to Central Market to buy commodities."

  Connal swore beneath his breath. What little experience he had of women and marketing—he could be in for a long wait. Why had she not used her computer dispenser? She had no reason to leave her apartment to do something so mundane.

  “Can I offer you some refreshment while you wait Master?"

  “Aye, I suppose. Do you have whisky?"

  “The finest malt in the galaxy. Would you prefer Terran or Caledonian?"

  “Terran whisky, if you will."

  “Aye, right away, Master. Please be seated."

  If the circumstances had not been so desperate, Connal might have laughed. What would they say back home if they could see him now? That a metal servitor was waiting on him, bringing him a draught of Terran whisky. By Arran! He really had lost his mind!

  Dubiously, Connal accepted the proffered drink from the ‘droid. It bowed to him before moving away to stand in a corner. Truly, an amazing machine. Perhaps Liandra did have the right of it. Machines and technology were not the problem. It was how they were used. And by the actions of the League members in his castle, it appeared they utilized their science for the purest of motives. Perhaps the measure of a man was not whether he had machines, but in the way he used them. Still, any day he would prefer flesh and blood servants to a silver ‘droid!

  He sat down on the sofa, his position strategically chosen. Half hidden behind an iridescent, crystalline screen, he could watch the door. When Liandra entered her apartment, she would not see him. Not until it was too late.

  Connal eyed the whisky and tentatively took a sip, almost choking in surprise. It was damn good! If Terrans could make such a passable whisky, then surely as a race, they could not be so bad? He had a sudden urge to see the land of his ancestors. To see, if it still stood, the castle of the enemy from where the suit of armor—Liandra's ‘robot'—had been seized.

  Two glasses of whisky later and Connal's nerves remained taut. If anything he felt worse now than he had before he entered the apartment. The waiting was getting on his nerves and the worst of it, Liandra's aura clung to everything, tormenting him further. Connal swallowed the last of his drink.

  “Can I bring you another whisky, Master?"

  “No thank you. Dougall, when the Mistress returns, I do not want you to announce me. I want my visit to be a surprise."

  “My Mistress likes surprises."

  Connal grinned wolfishly. “Then you will keep silent about my presence?"

  “Aye Master."

  Connal pushed himself to his feet and paced around the chamber. The wall shimmered open and he stepped into her bedroom. Her crystal bed, now repaired, stood in the center, as before. Metal cases lay strew over the floor. Some were half full of her clothes and other possessions. Where was the witch thinking of going? Not anywhere but Caledonia, that was for damn certain!

  He heard the swish of the outside door and stealthily returned to his hiding place. In amazement he watched two golden balls, which he had assumed were wall ornaments, leave their perches and fly across the room chiming an electronic greeting.

  “Be welcome home, Mistress. We have missed you,” the silver man-droid said.

  “I've missed you too, Dougall."

  Liandra stepped into the lounge-room. Although dressed in her usual body suit, over it she wore a short cloak made of MacArran tartan. She shrugged off her coverlet and Connal drank in the sight of her sweet curves. What a fool he was to have allowed her to slip away so easily!

  “Be welcome home, Mistress. I have missed you,” Connal drawled.

  Liandra gasped and turned. She stared in shock to see Connal leaning against the wall; arms folded just staring at her. By Arran! Her whole nervous system flared at the sight of him. She closed her eyes. She must be dreaming again. Though when she opened her eyes, he was still there.

  “C—Con? Is it truly you?"

  “Aye."

  Liandra took a tentative step forward, her hand outstretched and then she steeled herself. She must not make a fool of herself, or embarrass him with any display of emotion, which he could not requite.

  Then something prickled her memory. Connal was wearing his belted plaid. Surely his visit was not an occasion that warranted his traditional costume? Unless...

  Something ominous was just going to happen—she just knew it.

  “What brings you to my home, Connal MacArran?” she asked lightly, trying to alleviate her foreboding. “How did you gain access to my home? You're not using the trans-mat again?"

  Connal smiled without humor. “The infernal machine is under lock and key. When I left the Castle it was being studied by a group of League scientists. They were swarming over it like bees around the honey pot. As to why I am here, I have unfinished business with you."

  “You do?"

  He pushed himself away from the wall. “Aye, witch! If you be thinking I would allow my child to be raised in this alien menagerie you be very much mistaken!"

  Liandra gasped. “You know! But how?"

  Connal smiled grimly. “I had a dream about you. I did not know for certain until now, when you confirmed it. Why did you not tell me?"

  “I would have, when the time was right."

  “By Arran! By those blasted Seven Stars of yours, Liandra Tavor! The right time for telling me was before you left Caledonia! And how long
did you intend to keep me in ignorance of my own child?"

  “Eventually I would have brought Alaric to meet you. It would be unthinkable to deny him his heritage."

  “His? Alaric?"

  “Our child. He and I have touched consciousness. His name is Alaric."

  Connal smiled tentatively. “A son?”

  “Yes, a son."

  In an instant his smile was gone. She drank in the sight of that steel-gray gaze of his, the clench of his jaw, and its all too familiar throbbing tic. Even angry, he was still beautiful, her Connal. How could she have ever left him? Now having him here enraged was better than not having him with her at all! She swallowed down hard, marshalling her frazzled nerves.

  “But a son, how—how...?” Connal asked.

  “The cottage, if you remember."

  “Aye I remember our joining well enough. Too well, in fact! You said you could not conceive. Yet you have!"

  “Father said it was because of the trans-mat. The machine has an in-built safety feature to screen out any harmful substances, or viruses. It removed the chemical implants from me when you and I used it to transfer."

  “How ironic. You have been caught out because of your reliance on League technology!” He laughed, yet there was no humor in the sound. “My son will be raised as a true MacArran. How fortuitous that you have been packing, for I be here to take you back to Caledonia. Both of you!"

  “Have I no say in this?"

  “That depends upon you, My Lady Witch! Return to Caledonia where we can discuss this..."

  “We can discuss it now. Or are you going to abduct me again?"

  “If I must, to make you see reason."

  “Why is it that your reason is the only viewpoint? You're so stubborn! You can't just come barging in here and demand this or that from me. What about my life? My work?"

  “Understand this now, Liandra Tavor. My woman shall not work like that again. I will not have you sharing with another man."

  “Physically, I have never done so! You of all people should know that. My dream-weaving was always just that. Never anything more."