Lost Touch Series

by Amy Tolnitch

  Bile teased the back of Freya’s throat. She knew she was beautiful, of course. Everyone at Castle MacCoinneach had told her so repeatedly, just as they had pampered and indulged her all of her fifteen years.

  Until today. She lifted her chin and took a step forward. “I shall never marry the likes of Angus Ransolm. He is old, filthy, and”—she gulped—“all have heard the tales of his … appetites.”

  “Rumors,” Grigor said, waving a hand. “You should be thankful. Angus is a powerful laird, and the clan is a prosperous one.”

  Freya glanced back at her mother, Mairi, who hovered in the doorway. How she wished that her mother would fight for her, but there would be no aid there, despite the burn of anger Freya saw in her mother’s gaze. Life and the loss of Brona had left her mother a broken shell of herself, beaten and bitter. Freya turned her attention back to Grigor, whose gaze ran over her in a very uncousinlike manner. “Angus Ransolm is a pig!” she spat.

  “’Tis unwise to voice such slurs about your future husband.” He sipped more wine. “And master.”

  “Nay.” This time Freya could not help her voice from shaking. “How much did he offer you?”

  “Tis no concern of yours. The bargain was well met.”

  Freya was seized by the nearly uncontrollable urge to throw Grigor’s cup of wine in his face. How could he do this? As she stared at him, she realized how. He cared for nothing and no one but himself and the power he’d seized. It made no difference to him at all that he would sacrifice her to a depraved old man, who would likely kill her with his enthusiastic abuse.

  Another figure appeared in the doorway, and a fragment of hope unfurled in Freya’s chest.

  Alasdair, her brother Padruig’s former advisor and the man who should be laird, stepped into the solar, his expression grim. “Grigor, mayhap you should reconsider this match. Freya is young and beautiful.” He gave her a glance of support. “She can do much better than Angus Ransolm.”

  Grigor leapt to his feet and slammed down his cup. “I need no advice from you, old man.”

  “I will not do it,” Freya shouted. “I have heard the stories myself.” She shivered. “The man is foul and cruel. I will not wed him. Ye cannae do this to me.”

  The blow came so quickly that she had no time to duck. Stumbling backward, she would have fallen if Alasdair had not caught her in his arms. Her face burned and she stared at Grigor in disbelief.

  But for a spark of satisfaction in his gaze, his expression remained calm. “You will wed Angus Ransolm by All Hallows’ Eve.”

  Despite her fear, Freya could only shake her head. The horror of what he demanded was too much to bear.

  “Rauf!” Grigor shouted.

  Rauf, a beefy guard, lumbered into the solar, his thick lips flattened into a mocking smile. Grigor nodded toward Freya. “See her to her chamber and lock her in.”

  From outside the solar, Freya heard a soft moan.

  Grigor’s lips curled back into a chilling smile. “Do not gainsay me in this, Freya. I am your laird and I have made my decision. You shall abide by it.”

  “Or?” she whispered.

  “Or,” he leaned closer, “I shall do whatever is necessary to persuade you.” He chuckled. “Mayhap Angus would like to visit his future bride before the blessed event.”

  Terror gripped Freya’s belly and she nearly spilled the contents of her stomach upon Grigor’s fine tunic. “You would allow him to …” She could not say it, the idea was so repellent.

  “Grigor, nay,” Alasdair said. “Ye cannot treat the lass so. She is the daughter of the laird.”

  Grigor’s gaze flashed anger. “The former laird, whose only son left in disgrace.”

  “Duncan would never approve of this. Nor would Padruig.”

  “Well, Duncan is naught but bones and ashes, and your dear Padruig is not here, so what they may or may not approve of is of no matter.”

  “Grigor—”

  “Cease!” Grigor barked. “Rauf, take her from my sight. And you, Alasdair, would be wise to remember that ’tis only by my sufferance that you remain here at all.”

  Rauf half-pulled, half-dragged Freya from the solar. Within a few minutes, she found herself thrust into her chamber, the sounds of a bar being mounted on the door confirmation of the horrific fact that Grigor did, indeed, intend to sentence her to life with Angus Ransolm.

  The only boon was that most likely that life would not be long, she thought, hysteria creeping into her mind.

  She buried her face in her hands and wept. Oh, Padruig, how I wish you were here, she silently chanted.

  Aimili woke in her bed, terror lodged tightly in her throat. She scanned her chamber, the glowing embers of a fire leaving most of it in deep shadow. Slowly, she took a deep breath and let it out, focusing her senses.

  Naught but the rumbling snore of her hound, Bobo, sounded in the room. She clasped the bedcovers in her hands and stared into the dying fire as if it could give her answers.

  Chills rippled down her back that had nothing to do with the coolness of the chamber. She tried to remember her dream, tried to draw out the details, but instead could only barely grasp a feeling.

  It was a feeling of evil. Covetous, angry evil.

  And it was coming into her life.

  No, Aimili, she told herself. It was only a dream. A silly dream, no doubt brought on by your stuffing your mouth with one too many of Cook’s apple fritters.

  She yawned and stretched, telling herself to stop being foolish. The de Grantham holdings were secure and peaceful for the most part. Nearly hidden in the heavy forests around Loch Fynnen, they lived a fairly isolated and protected existence. And though her father could be harsh at times, the people held great loyalty to him.

  For a moment, an image of Wautier’s face sprang into her mind, but she pushed it away. Wautier was arrogant and disapproving, but she could never suspect him of harboring the kind of evil she’d felt in her dream.

  An unsettling tendril of it clung to her even now.

  She gathered up a blanket and slid to the floor, huddling close to Bobo so that she could put her head on his furry belly. He let out a sigh, but didn’t shift away from her.

  Snuggling close, Aimili absorbed the dog’s warmth and told herself to forget the strange dream. You are as adept at sensing danger as you are at communicating with animals, her inner voice reminded her. No, Aimili told herself. It was simply a bad dream. Evil has no place here.

  Yawning again, she closed her eyes. But as she drifted into sleep, a fragment from her dream would not fade. Like an insidious vine, it wound around her mind, dark and slithering just beneath her consciousness.

  She clutched Bobo tighter.

  Sebilla, Queen of the fey kingdom of Paroseea, gaped at Artur in disbelief. He knelt before her on the cool, white, marble floor of her palace, his head bowed. The pink rays of the afternoon sun glinted off his silver hair. “How … how could this have happened?” she whispered, dread coiling its cold tendrils through her body. “How?” she asked again when Artur did not answer.

  “I am no sure, my queen.”

  “You are no sure?” She fisted her hands in rage, forcing herself not to expend her anger on Artur simply for delivering the news. “Caradoc is … was one of our finest warriors.”

  “When Caradoc did not return, some of us took the risk of journeying to the surface.” His throat worked. “We found his body in the loch.”

  “Curse that whoreson, Vardon!”

  One of her attendants rushed to Sebilla’s side, her pale pink silk gown fluttering around her like butterfly wings. Sebilla waved her away. “Leave us.” She jumped from her gilded throne and paced across the floor, her soft slippers barely making a sound. “I do not understand this, any more than I understand how Vardon escaped. The cavern of sorrows held him for hundreds of years!”

  If possible, Artur looked even more miserable.

  The choking beginning of a sob caught in Sebilla’s throat. Caradoc had been more than a
fine warrior. He had been her friend. She shoved back her grief and replaced it with angry determination. “He shall have a funeral of honor. I will preside over it myself.”

  “As your majesty wishes.”

  “Oh, for the goddess’s sake, Artur, stand up,” she snapped. “You’ve no need to stay on your knees. I am hardly likely to punish you for this … this latest travesty.”

  Slowly, Artur stood.

  She studied him for a critical moment. His clear blue gaze met hers, his jaw set into grim lines. Artur had long been in charge of the men ensuring that Vardon never left his barren prison. She knew Artur took it as his personal failure that Vardon escaped and, as yet, could not be retrieved. “Have you no idea how he escaped?” Though she’d asked the same question again and again, she couldn’t help asking once more.

  Artur shook his head, but Sebilla caught the flush of red on his cheeks and paused. “Tell me,” she ordered.

  “’Tis only my suspicion, a theory,” he stuttered.

  “Surely, you know how bad this is? You know the kind of man who is now free.”

  “Aye, my queen.”

  “Then, tell me what you suspect.”

  “One of the young guards spoke with Vardon often.” He frowned. “You know how manipulative Vardon can be, how … charming. I believe that over time, Vardon became able to direct the guard, and to learn his thoughts somehow. Vardon discovered the spell to lower the shields imprisoning him for the instant he needed to escape.”

  “How would a simple guard know such things?”

  “My queen, I do not fault him or …”

  Sebilla’s lips tightened. “Or whom?”

  Artur flexed his jaw. “Vanasia.”

  “Arailt’s daughter?”

  “Aye. She and the guard, Ulf, have long been involved. I do not believe Arailt even knows, but I happened to come upon them once.”

  “Vanasia works in the archives.”

  “Just so.”

  “Fools!” Sebilla snapped. Though a part of her wanted to summon the lovers to her at once for punishment, she realized that Artur was right. Vardon had outwitted them all.

  “At least we know where he is now. Castle MacCoinneach.” Artur shook his head, his puzzlement evident. “I dinnae understand why he remains so close.”

  Blindly, Sebilla reached out for the arm of her throne to steady herself. No, Artur would not know why Vardon would seek out the MacCoinneach clan, but Sebilla did. Revenge.

  Artur stared at her, his face hard and tight. “We await your instructions, my queen.”

  “I … I must consult with my advisors. We will conceive of a plan to return that creature to where he belongs.”

  Unfortunately, despite her confident tone, Sebilla had no idea how to accomplish such a feat. Simply put, her people did not leave the kingdom of Paroseea. Such a thing was strictly forbidden, except in the direst of circumstances. Their safety, their way of life, depended upon remaining a secret, one that had survived so long that those in the mortal world thought lands such as Paroseea no more than fabled legends.

  She rushed from her receiving chamber in search of Lucan, her chief advisor. Shock, anger, and confusion swirled in her mind, the emotions leaving a trail of golden sparks in her wake. Vardon had been imprisoned so long Sebilla had nearly forgotten him, believed the threat to their peaceful existence within Paroseea vanquished.

  The cavern of sorrows had been designed specifically to hold its lone occupant. Sealed with powerful magic, the cavern should not have been subject to breach, nor should Vardon have been able to so completely manipulate two innocents.

  No, there was only one way he managed to escape.

  The same way he’d been able to so easily vanquish Caradoc.

  He’d become even more powerful.

  And far more dangerous. A creature such as Vardon would be nothing short of lethal to the MacCoinneach clan.

  A sennight after leaving the refuge he’d discovered over a year ago, Padruig began to see the familiar landscape of the Highlands near Castle MacCoinneach. He drew to a halt at the top of a fell overlooking a dense growth of pine and rowan trees. The silver thread of a small stream wound though the land before the woods. Beyond the next fell lay a wide vale that gradually led to another forested area where Castle MacCoinneach waited for him.

  He drew in a deep breath of the fresh air, his senses glutting on the smells and sights of his beloved Highlands. Maybe it was his imagination, but the very air seemed cleaner, sharper, the scent richer, deeper than in England.

  Padruig guided his mount down to the stream, with Cai loping alongside. As they neared the water, Cai suddenly stopped and let out a low growl. Immediately wary, Padruig drew his sword and slowed, his gaze scanning the area ahead.

  From the trees, a man emerged. The ragged condition of his clothing told Padruig he’d been traveling for some time. Padruig squinted, trying to make out whether the man posed a threat, at the same time flicking his glance around to see if he was alone.

  “Cai, easy,” he murmured as he rode closer.

  The man’s face remained partially shaded, as if he waited for Padruig to grow near. Suddenly, the man let out a whoop and ran straight toward Padruig. Bringing his sword up, Padruig prepared to charge the running figure, as Cai readied himself to lunge.

  Before he could spur his horse forward, to Padruig’s utter amazement, he heard his name being called.

  “Padruig! By the saints, man, I cannae believe it.”

  Padruig’s jaw dropped as he found himself staring into the eyes of his old friend and clansman, Magnus. “Hold, Cai,” he ordered, lowering his sword.

  Magnus came barreling to a stop, a wide grin on his tan face. His blond hair had grown long, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a bath in months. His bright green eyes were so welcoming that Padruig had to return his smile. “I thought you long dead, my friend,” Magnus said.

  Padruig jumped off his horse and slapped Magnus on the shoulder. “I probably should have been.”

  Magnus gestured to Cai, who stood patiently, studying Magnus through intent round eyes. “A new companion?”

  “Aye. One of the best.”

  “I cannae believe you’ve come back, thank the saints. I thought never to see your ugly face again.”

  Padruig snorted. “We cannot all be as pretty as a young lass.”

  “What brings you back?”

  “You would not believe me if I told you.”

  Magnus’s mouth quirked in a smile. “I just might. Come. If your friend there does not object, I’ve drink and some food.”

  Padruig took his horse’s reins and let him drink from the stream, before tying him close to Magnus’s horses and taking a seat before a small fire. Magnus handed him a skin and Padruig took a long drink.

  He opened his eyes wide and coughed as heat shot through his body. “What is this?”

  “Nectar of the gods, by way of Balcharn Abbey.” Magnus’s eyes twinkled. “I traded the good monks a fine chalice for it.”

  Padruig took another sip. “’Twas worth it.” He eyed Magnus. “A trader, are you now?”

  “Aye. I cannae bear to remain long at Castle MacCoinneach with Grigor in charge.” He spat onto the ground, then lifted a knowing gaze to Padruig. “Are you back, then, Laird?”

  Laird. A title he once wore with pride and lost through arrogance. Padruig gritted his teeth and nodded. “I am.”

  Magnus eyed him closely. “Twill not be easy to take MacCoinneach. Grigor has many loyal to him. Particularly after …” He fell silent and looked away.

  Padruig’s throat burned with something other than the potent drink. “After my terrible lack of judgment caused my sister’s death and the death of many of our clansmen.”

  “Och, well, I have long suspected we do not know the whole of that story, Padruig. But, aye, to be sure, there are those in the clan who will not easily trust you. Others will, though.”

  Padruig chewed on a piece of dried beef, thinking as he had th
is sennight past of how best to approach Castle MacCoinneach.

  “Ye must challenge Grigor. I shall aid you as I can, but ‘twould be better to have a few more men at our backs.”

  “Grigor will die before he gives up his position.”

  Magnus raised a brow. “How do you ken?”

  “You will think me a lackwit.” Padruig frowned at Magnus, who said nothing. “’Tis Brona,” he finally said.

  “Brona? But… but, Laird, she is dead.”

  “Just so.”

  Magnus’s mouth flapped open then shut so many times that Padruig was tempted to laugh. “A … ghost?” Magnus’s gaze shot around the clearing where they sat as if he expected the trees to be harboring Brona’s spirit.

  “She is no here at the moment.”

  “Give me that flask.”

  Padruig handed it over and Magnus took a long slug. “You say your sister has visited you?”

  “Aye. She is verra insistent that I return to Castle MacCoinneach.”

  “Well.” Magnus took another drink. “Well, then.”

  “But I agree that ’twould be foolish to do so alone. I thought to seek out the Laird of the de Granthams for aid. He has long been an ally of our clan and was a boon companion to my father.”

  “Aye, ’tis a fine idea.”

  Padruig sucked in a breath, knowing that he was about to take one more step toward a destiny he’d once foresworn. “Will you accompany me?”

  Magnus slowly smiled. “Aye, Laird, I shall indeed.”

  Chapter Two

  Freya heard the scratch of the bar at her door being lifted, and her heart lurched in panic. Dear Lord, save me, she silently prayed. Please let it not be Angus Ransolm. She knew he could not have arrived so soon, but the prospect was so terrifying her thoughts were without reason. As the door edged open, she held her breath, slumping with relief when she saw it was only Huwe, one of the newer guards, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle and a flagon.

  “My lady,” he said. “How do you fare?”