Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  LUGH STOMPED DOWN THE CORRIDOR, HIS MIND SPINNING with what he’d just witnessed. By the saints, who was the Lady Iosobal? Or what?

  On the heels of his questions came the understanding that she had obviously lied to him. There was only one possible name for what she’d done.

  Magic.

  He scowled and went in search of Hemming. If nothing else, he would gain his sword.

  Chapter

  VI

  The next morning, Lugh marched off to the stables with Branor in tow. He’d barely been able to sleep the night before, just dropping off to have his dreams filled with images of Lady Iosobal, standing like some kind of vengeful goddess, hurling bolts of white light down on him, her purple eyes glowing from within.

  Finally, he’d given up and gone to Ailie’s bed, holding her close and praying to God and every saint he could think of to save his child.

  At least he’d retrieved his sword. When he’d finally located the ever-disapproving Hemming, Lugh had been so fierce in his demands that the man had given in. As he and Branor walked into the stables, Lugh’s sword slapped against his thigh, giving him a measure of comfort, though in light of what he’d witnessed last night, it was small comfort indeed.

  I am the Laird of Tunvegan, he told himself. What I seek, I gain. I do not lose and I never give up.

  “You there,” he called to a man carrying a bundle of hay. The man started and dropped his bundle.

  “What name have you?” Lugh barked.

  “Uh, Art,” the man sputtered,

  Lugh rocked back on his heels. “Well, Art, I have need of a strong steed. Which one of the horses is the most stalwart?”

  Art bit his lip. “That would be Finian,” he said, with a nod toward a big, gray horse.

  The horse stuck its head out of the stall, and gazed at Lugh through dark brown eyes. He walked over and let the horse smell his hands, then ran a hand over his withers. “We need to borrow him.”

  “If you are looking for a horse to ride, I would take Argante instead. Finian is a good boy, but the Lady Iosobal is the only person to have ever ridden him.”

  “I am no looking to ride,” Lugh answered as he put a halter over Finian’s head.

  Art looked puzzled.

  “We are clearing the entrance to a cave for Lady Iosobal,” Branor told him. “The horse is to aid us in moving the larger boulders.”

  “I see,” Art said, though it was clear he didn’t see why Lugh and Branor would bother with such a task. “Lady Iosobal has given you permission to use one of her horses?”

  Lugh led Finian out of his stall. “Aye,” he lied. “We have need of a length of rope as well,” he added.

  Art disappeared into a room in the center of the stable and emerged with a coil of rope. Branor reached for it. “Thank you. We shall return Finian when we finish.”

  “Take good care of him. He is Lady Iosobal’s favorite.”

  Lugh frowned as he led the horse out of the stable. By the saints, they would gain a path to the lady’s cave today. Despite her denials, he no longer trusted her words. It just did not make sense. Why would Ailie be so different? Why, out of all the people Lady Iosobal had supposedly healed, would Ailie be the one she could not aid? He didn’t believe it. He could not believe it.

  “Did you speak to Lady Iosobal last eve?” Branor asked as they walked away from the palace.

  Lugh gritted his teeth and pulled the horse along. “Aye.”

  “And? Did she explain why the bairn still ails?”

  “Not to my satisfaction.”

  Branor put a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think?”

  “I do not know.” Lugh gazed out over the placid, blue water of the sea beneath them. “What I do know is that Ailie is no getting better. There are times when I think she is improving, but,” he shook his head, “I can see that she is not.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Clear the damned cave.”

  “You think that is the reason Lady Iosobal has not healed Ailie.”

  “I do not want to, but ’tis a thought that will not leave my mind.”

  “Well, then. We will clear the cave. Somehow.”

  “Aye.” They walked in silence down the rocky path toward the cave. As they grew nearer, Finian let out a neigh and planted his feet on the ground. Lugh gave the rope a yank. “Come on, boy.”

  The horse flicked his ears back and forth, but stepped forward.

  “He is not happy about this,” Branor commented.

  Lugh glanced at the horse. His muscles were tensed, and his ears were pricked forward toward the cave. “Easy, boy,” he said, rubbing the side of his withers. “It is just a pile of rocks.” With each step, the horse grew more resistant until Lugh was dragging Finian along.

  By the time they reached the cave, the horse was dancing sideways and kicking out with his back hooves. “Easy, boy,” Lugh said again. “Tie one end of the rope to his halter,” he told Branor.

  Branor managed to secure the rope, though Finian refused to stand still.

  “Tie it to that big stone,” Lugh told him.

  As Branor moved to tie the rope, suddenly one of the rocks dislodged and tumbled to the ground. Finian let out a loud neigh, and bolted.

  “Ahhh,” Branor yelled, trying to hang onto the rope. Lugh lunged for the horse, but missed and watched in dismay as Finian dragged Branor partway down the hillside before pounding down to the shore.

  “Damned beast,” Branor yelled. He trudged back up the hill. Finian never looked back, the rope trailing behind him.

  “Crazy animal,” Lugh grumbled. “He needs to be ridden hard.”

  Branor gave him a look. “I am no sure that is it.”

  “Some of the villagers must have oxen. We will borrow one on the morrow.”

  “And today?”

  Lugh picked up a rock and tossed it aside. “Today, I have a need to work myself. The horse will no doubt find his way home.”

  “Lugh,” Branor said.

  “Aye?”

  “Look.”

  Lugh straightened and gazed down toward shore. The damned contrary beast had stopped by Lady Iosobal, who stroked him as she untied the rope. She looked up at Lugh and Branor, then vaulted atop Finian and galloped down the sand.

  Branor let out a whistle. “He calmed as soon as she touched him.”

  “Witch,” Lugh said under his breath as he hefted another rock. “Put yourself to the task, Branor. We’ve no time to waste thinking of Lady Iosobal.”

  “Aye, Laird,” Branor said as he tackled another pile.

  But throughout the warm day, grunting with exertion as he moved rock after rock, Lugh could think of nothing else. The woman was as mysterious as she was beautiful. He supposed he should fear her, but found he could not. Behind her reserve, her efforts to distance herself from mere mortals such as him, her unusual powers that Lugh knew he had seen but a tiny glimpse of, he sensed a lonely woman.

  What had happened to her family? Why was she alone? Had it always been such? He told himself not to care, but it was not in his nature. As he dragged another rock away from the cave, he decided that the Lady Iosobal was one mystery he would solve. And perhaps along the way, find the means to aid his child.

  Eventually Lugh picked up another rock and flung it to the side with a snort of disgust. He paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

  Branor labored next to him, looking every bit as hot and tired as Lugh felt. “Cease,” Lugh said.

  Branor straightened and let out a sigh. “At this pace, we shall be here for months.”

  “Aye.” Lugh scratched his chest. “Let us try the ox.” He gazed up at the cliff overhead. “I donna understand how this could have happened. I am going to look above while you fetch the beast. And bring plenty of rope.”

  Branor drew on his tunic and tromped down the hillside.

  IOSOBAL TOOK ANOTHER PATH BACK TO THE PALACE TO avoid encountering Lugh MacKeir. Finian loped along, at ease now that he was away from
the cave. She slowed him to a walk as they approached the palace, and led him into the stable.

  “My lady?” Art said as she slid off Finian. Her stablemaster looked at a spot over her shoulder. “What happened? I thought the laird had Finian.”

  “He did, but Finian ran off. Can you brush him down?”

  “Of course, my lady.” Art took the horse and tied him to one of the stall doors.

  Iosobal walked out and made her way to the kitchen in search of Ailie. When she walked in, she had to smile. Her small face screwed tight with concentration, Ailie was pouring honey into a bowl.

  “That is enough,” Niamh said.

  Ailie ran her finger along the edge of the jug and licked honey off her fingers with a grin. “Are you sure? ’Tis very good.”

  “Aye,” Niamh said with a smile. “Otherwise the cakes will never hold together.”

  “Ailie,” Iosobal said as she sat on a stool. “How do you fare today?”

  “I am helping Niamh,” she said proudly.

  “I can see that. Are you feeling better this morn?”

  Ailie shrugged and covered her mouth as she coughed.

  Iosobal frowned. “Come with me.” She stood and held out her hand. “I have an idea.”

  “Will you save me some honey cakes?” Ailie asked Niamh.

  “Of course,” Niamh said with a wink. “I shall hide them from Hemming.”

  Iosobal led the child across the courtyard and up to the same room they had been in when The MacKeir had barged in. Ailie skipped away and ran her hand over the picture of a dolphin frolicking in the waves. “I like this room,” she said.

  “As do I,” Iosobal said as she began mixing herbs into a cup of wine.

  The child came over to study what Iosobal was doing. “Is there honey?”

  Iosobal laughed. Her gaze met Ailie’s and the child giggled.

  “I love honey,” she said.

  As Iosobal turned back to her task, a strange feeling unfurled in her chest. When had she last laughed? she wondered. Before her mother had turned ill. Before her mother forbade her to heal her sickness, insisting that her time to pass on had come. She stirred the ingredients together carefully, and then pressed the cup into Ailie’s hands. “Drink this.”

  The child gazed up at her, a piercing look in her aquamarine eyes. “Is it true that you are a sorceress?” she whispered.

  Iosobal flinched. “Why do you ask me such a question?”

  “I heard my father muttering to himself. He thought I was asleep.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think it would be wonderful to be able to do magic. Can you?”

  Once again, the child’s directness left Iosobal at a loss for words. “I …”

  “I willnae tell anyone. Even my father. He does not believe in such things.”

  He does now, Iosobal thought.

  “Have you ever seen one of the fin-folk?” Ailie asked, blinking. “I would so love to see one.”

  Iosobal stared at her in shock. “I … no, I have not seen any.”

  The child took a sip of her drink. “But you are magical.” She announced it with such calm certainty that something tight in Iosobal’s chest loosened.

  “Aye.”

  “That is why you shall make me better.”

  “I am trying.”

  “Can you teach me?” She drank more and set down the cup.

  Iosobal shook her head. “It is not something that is taught. It just is.”

  Ailie’s face fell.

  The child looked so disappointed that Iosobal took her hand. When she did, she felt a strange jolt, as if something passed between them. “Perhaps,” she began, then stopped.

  “I would love to be special, like you,” Ailie said softly.

  Iosobal squatted down so that she was at eye level with the child. “You are special, in your own way.”

  Ailie looked doubtful.

  “If you could do something magical, what would it be?” Iosobal asked.

  “Make something beautiful.”

  Iosobal took a deep breath and nodded. “Then, that is what we shall do.” She clasped Ailie’s hand tightly in hers. “Think about what you would like to create.”

  Ailie’s brow furrowed, but then she smiled. “I like rainbows,” she said and closed her eyes.

  Where their hands clasped grew warm, and the air before them began to color. Iosobal blinked, surprised to see an image slowly form. “Ailie,” she said. “Open your eyes.”

  The child opened her eyes wide and smiled. “’Tis wondrous,” she whispered.

  “Aye.” Swirls of mist danced in the air in shades of violet, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red. The mist glowed with its own light in a soft wave of color.

  Ailie stepped forward to touch it, letting go of Iosobal’s hand. As she put her small hand into the violet mist, it faded away. “Oh,” Ailie said, her voice dejected. She turned back to Iosobal. “Thank you.”

  Iosobal nodded. “You should finish your drink.” This time she’d added something different, ground leaves from a plant for which even she had no name. It had been the one thing to keep her mother going as long as she did.

  “Why are you magical?” Ailie asked as she picked up the cup.

  “I …” Dear Brigid, what was she to say? Never the truth. Such things were not spoken of.

  “My Uncle Gifford told me a story once. Well, he’s truly my mother’s uncle. He says that there are special beings that we donna see because we no longer believe in them.”

  “Oh? Do you think he is right?”

  “Aye. Uncle Gifford is looking for Merlin.”

  “Is he, now?” Iosobal smiled. If there had been a man named Merlin, surely he was long dead.

  Ailie nodded and sipped her drink. “He says there is magic all around us if we know where to look.”

  “He sounds like an interesting man.”

  Ailie giggled. “He is. And very funny. My father says ’tis because Uncle Gifford is never without a cup of ale in his hands.” She cocked her head to the side. “You dinna answer my question. Is it a secret?”

  Iosobal opened her mouth, then shut it and just nodded. “Yes. A secret of the Lady of Parraba.”

  “That’s all right. I understand.” Ailie finished her drink and put the cup down. “I donna care if you are different. I like you.”

  For a moment, all Iosobal could do was stare at the child, at her open expression. Such simple words, but ones she could not recall ever hearing directed at her. She drew in a breath. “I like you too. Now, you should rest.”

  Ailie wrinkled her nose. “I am tired of resting. ’Tis boring.” Her gaze brightened. “Could you tell me a story?”

  Though Iosobal longed for solitude to sort through the disconcerting events of the day, she found herself walking with Ailie to her chamber, sitting next to her on the window seat, and spinning a tale. The story she told was of a magical mermaid, who longed to walk on the earth as a woman. Eventually, Ailie fell asleep and Iosobal put her hand against the child’s brow. With a start, she realized that Ailie appeared improved. Her cheeks held color, her forehead was not overly warm, and she breathed evenly. Iosobal stood and shook out her skirt. She needed more of the plant, she decided. It must be what was working.

  Optimistic for the first time since Ailie’s arrival, Iosobal left the palace.

  WHEN IOSOBAL EMERGED FROM THE FOREST, SHE STOOD atop a ridge overlooking the sea and gazed out at the water. She sensed two men approaching in a small boat laden with barrels though they were still too far away to be seen. In the distance, she spied The MacKeir hefting a rock, his broad chest glistening in the sun.

  Who were these men? She closed her eyes, breathed deep and focused on the craft.

  “Plague it, Gifford. You could help instead of drinking your way through our voyage,” a man said. He was well-dressed, in a tunic of dark green and black braies. His light hair blew back in the wind over shoulders nearly as broad as The MacKeir’s, and his brown eyes twinkled.r />
  The other man in the boat waved a hand. “’Tis an easy voyage. You’ve no need of aid from an old man.” He tilted a cup back and took a drink. Barrels surrounded him where he sat in the boat.

  The first man sighed. “I do not see any island, enchanted or not.”

  “Patience, boy. The MacKeir must have found something, to still be gone from Tunvegan.”

  “My belly is empty,” the first man complained. “We would have had more room for food if you did not insist on bringing so much ale.”

  The older man snorted and refilled his cup.

  Iosobal opened her eyes. The older man had to be Ailie’s Uncle Gifford. She bit her lip, considering what to do. Inwardly, she groaned. More outsiders? Uncle Gifford appeared harmless enough, but she wasn’t sure about the other man. Beneath his affable appearance, she sensed a harder edge. Not for the first time, she wished she could ask her mother for advice. There is only you now, she told herself. You are the Lady of Parraba.

  With a sigh, she turned toward the palace. She would let them land. Perhaps their arrival would cheer Ailie. With the child improving, they would all be gone very soon anyway.

  Why the thought brought a thud of loneliness into her chest she refused to examine. She would gain her life back. That was all that mattered.

  IOSOBAL WAS SITTING IN THE GARDEN WITH AILIE AND Saraid when her visitors arrived. Ailie jumped up and swayed slightly against Iosobal’s legs.

  “Uncle Piers!” Ailie called with a bright smile. “Uncle Gifford!”

  The two men paused and gazed around at the palace. The one called Piers grinned and walked over to pick up Ailie in a fierce hug. Gifford’s gaze fastened on Saraid, who pretended not to notice.

  Iosobal stood. “Welcome to Parraba.”

  Gifford swung his gaze to her. “Who are you, my lady?”

  “This is Lady Iosobal,” Ailie said. “She is helping me.”

  “Ah. Very good.” Gifford gave a bow. “Gifford Blanchard at your service. And this is my nephew, Piers Veuxfort, brother to the Earl of Hawksdown.”

  Piers stared down at Ailie; then he gave Iosobal an appraising stare. “What is wrong with her?”

  “I am not sure. Yet.”