by Amy Tolnitch
“A brave lass you have, Padruig,” Alasdair said.
“Aye. At least now she has learned her lesson.”
“Where is she?” Efrika asked.
“Abed. She was exhausted from her travails.”
Magnus slid in beside him. “I can imagine,” he commented, with a pointed look at Padruig’s tunic.
Padruig glanced down and cringed. By the saints, he’d put the garment on inside out. He clenched his jaw and motioned for food to be served. “’Tis not every day a lass faces down an armed man.”
Freya peered around Magnus. “Who attacked her? Is he dead?”
“She could not identify him. He concealed his face, but aye, he is dead.” He smiled at his sister, whose face remained pale. “Do not worry, Freya. You are not one to take the kind of risks Aimili does. No one shall harm you.”
“Ye cannot promise that, Padruig. If … Loki …”
“Shush,” Magnus told her, taking her hand. “Angus Ransolm shall never hurt anyone again.”
“I wish to learn how to defend myself,” Freya announced. “Like Aimili.”
Oh, no, Padruig thought. All he needed was for his sister to begin emulating his bride. He would have two irresponsible women to rein in. “No.”
“’Tis a good idea, Padruig,” Magnus said. “I shall see to her training.”
Padruig looked at Freya’s determined expression and knew he didn’t stand a chance. “Very well. It cannot hurt to teach her a few tricks.”
“Perhaps all of the women in the castle should learn some basic defense,” Efrika commented.
Visions of Efrika and Freya leading a troop of women all bearing swords danced through Padruig’s mind. “Efrika, ’tis man’s duty to protect the women of the clan.”
“And we appreciate it.” She beamed a smile at Alasdair. “Still—”
“Fine,” Padruig said. “Do as you will. Just try not to hurt yourself or anyone else.”
Efrika scowled at him.
Padruig ignored her and speared a chunk of cheese.
“You must be heartily relieved to find your wife unharmed,” Magnus said, his tone suspiciously light.
“Of course. ’Tis a miracle.”
“So relieved that you finally claimed her as a woman.”
Padruig sighed. “Aye, but—” He halted himself and glared at Magnus, who grinned back at him. “’Twas a mistake.”
Magnus cocked a brow.
“’Twill not happen again.”
“Oh?” Magnus swigged down some wine. “Would you care to make a wager on that?”
“I would, but it would not be seemly.”
Magnus burst out laughing. “You are a terrible liar, Laird.”
Padruig looked away and found himself gazing into Efrika’s knowing eyes. He put his attention to his food. Damn romantic fools, he thought. He was surrounded by them. Efrika and Alasdair looked at each other like lovesick puppies and he could tell Freya and Magnus were but days away from exhibiting the very same. Even his wolf was fast becoming attached to a knot of yarn with the ridiculous name of Lyoness.
God forbid that he fall prey to such soft emotions.
He gripped the stem of his goblet so tightly it snapped in two. Over laughter, Magnus sent for a new one. “You are in a sorry state, indeed, Laird.”
“Did you find out if anyone else had taken a horse, or have you been too busy drooling over my sister?” Padruig tried to sound harsh and demanding but found he couldn’t. Truth be told, he was pleased that a man such as Magnus found favor in Freya’s eyes.
“None whose whereabouts I could not verify. ’Tis a puzzle. Could it have been a MacVegan, do you think?”
“Why hide his face? A MacVegan would want me to know who had killed my wife.” The thought of it sent such fear into Padruig’s mind that he wanted nothing more than to rush back to his chamber to make sure Aimili was, indeed, alive.
But you know that very well, he told himself, unable to keep his mind from drifting to the past hours. In the shock of believing her dead, and then finding her alive, he’d lost what few wits he’d managed to keep intact after Aimili de Grantham entered his life. He should have had more control than that, but instead he’d taken her hard and fast, without regard to her youth and innocence.
She didn’t seem to mind, his inner voice mocked.
By the saints, what a tangle.
“I have tasks demanding my attention,” he announced, unable to remain at supper a moment longer under the watchful and knowing eyes of his kin.
“As you say, Laird,” Magnus replied, his eyes twinkling.
Padruig suppressed a groan and strode out of the hall.
Chapter Fourteen
Sebilla was conferring with Lucan when one of her attendants announced that Arailt and Vanasia sought to speak with her. “Send them in,” she told the attendant, exchanging a hopeful glance with Lucan.
Arailt entered first, his countenance unusually grim. Sebilla’s hopes dipped. He moved aside and Vanasia rushed forward, her head bowed. She sank to her knees clutching a sheaf of old vellum, her hands visibly shaking.
Sebilla looked from the girl to Arailt, then back again. “She told you,” Sebilla said to Arailt.
Arailt gave a jerky nod, far from his typically courtly demeanor.
“There was no need,” Sebilla told the girl.
Vanasia did not look up. “I … I remembered everything, your majesty. I felt I had no choice but to confess my shame.”
“You remembered?”
“Aye, your majesty.” The words came out on a sob.
“And Ulf?”
The girl’s head hung lower. “Aye.”
“How interesting,” Lucan commented.
Sebilla looked at him, puzzled, as well. “Perhaps Vardon’s power weakens?”
“’Twould be folly to assume such a thing, but it is a possible explanation.”
“I shall, of course, immediately withdraw as your advisor and as master of the archives,” Arailt said.
Sebilla rose and went to him. “You shall do no such thing, old friend. Now, come, both of you, and sit.” She took Arailt’s hands and pulled him to a chair.
Vanasia didn’t move.
“Lucan?” Sebilla asked, gesturing to the girl.
Lucan murmured something to her, and eventually Vanasia sat beside her father.
“I found something,” the girl whispered.
Sebilla’s breath hitched. “Tell me.”
Before speaking, Vanasia cast a glance at her father’s stricken face. The barest flicker of emotion appeared in his eyes.
“I am close to the answer, your majesty.” She slid the sheets of vellum toward Sebilla. “’Tis complicated, though.”
“Tell me. Now.”
Aimili woke up and slowly stretched, her eyes still closed. What wonderful dreams she’d had, she thought with a smile. Padruig had finally looked upon her as more than a child to be endlessly cosseted. Her husband had become one in truth, loving her with an intensity she never realized simmered beneath his controlled surface. She sighed, reveling in memories of his warm, hard body pressed to hers, the slide of skin, her unexpected burst of pleasure.
Her eyes flashed open. By the saints, it had not been a dream. She looked around the chamber, but Lyoness and Cai were the only other inhabitants, curled together at the bottom of the bed.
Where was Padruig?
It was then she remembered all of it. Yes, he’d loved her, joined with her so sweetly, so desperately that it had been all she’d ever imagined and more. They had actually talked without him passing judgment on her. He’d been so accepting Aimili had begun to think perhaps the Padruig of her dreams still existed.
And then he’d turned from her, appalled at what he’d done. He’d not even been able to look at her before he left.
She climbed out of bed, trying to tell herself that it was still a beginning of sorts. Wasn’t it? She’d barely dressed when the door swung open and the object of her thoughts stood there
.
“I found it,” he said.
“Good morn to you, too,” she replied, pulling on her boots.
“Aimili—”
“I am coming.”
He eyed her as if he wasn’t sure it was safe to be in her presence. “Are you… well?”
“Fine.” She marched over and looked him in the eye. Thankfully, anger overrode her feelings of disappointment and hurt. “Let us go.”
She followed Padruig’s steady stride out of the tower and into the bailey. It was very early, dawn barely a hint of light gray in the sky. Aside from the occasional clump of a guard’s footfall from the wallwalk, the bailey was quiet. Aimili remained silent as she followed Padruig.
Eventually, they came to a narrow door. It was cut into a big stone tower flanking the main tower. If Padruig had not led her straight to it, Aimili would have passed it by without a second glance, so cleverly cut into the wall it was.
Inside, a single candle split the inky blackness. Cold air drifted from someplace inside. Padruig lit a rushlight and glanced back at Aimili. “Stay close.”
“What is this place?”
His voice echoed off the thick stone walls. “Over the years, it has been used for many things. Storage of supplies.” He lifted the torch higher, illuminating a small alcove cut into the wall. Broken pieces of iron littered the earthen floor. “Prisoners.”
Aimili’s gaze fixed on a rust-colored stain on the stone.
The passageway curved, then led to steps leading down. The air grew close and heavy with the stale smell of disuse. Once they reached the bottom of the steps, Padruig paused. “These passageways are not known to the clan. Only to me.” He gave her a meaningful look. “And now to you.”
Aimili’s heart thumped. “I will not tell anyone.”
“I did not think you would.” He pressed three stones in quick progression and an opening appeared. Padruig had to bend down to clear it, but Aimili had no problem.
They continued walking, and Aimili gradually realized that the walls reflected the rushlight in tiny flickers of silver. “Padruig, what is in the stone? I can see flashes of something shiny.”
She sensed more than saw his shrug. “I dinnae ken.”
It didn’t take long for Aimili to become completely disoriented. They turned right, then left, climbed down steps, then up others. Several times Padruig stopped and found an opening in the wall that had not been there before. Aimili silently focused on keeping calm, repeatedly telling herself that Padruig knew where he was going and, more importantly, knew the way out.
“There,” Padruig finally said, lifting the torch high.
She looked up and blinked in surprise. Carved into the stone was the very image etched into the dagger. “’Tis the same.”
“Aye.”
“But … there is nothing else here.”
“No.”
“I do not … wait.” She bent close to study the stone. “Look. ’Tis the shape of an opening of some kind.”
Padruig brought the light close. The flames showed the faint outline. “I know of no way to open this.”
Aimili put her hand against the stone and pushed. For a moment, nothing moved, then she felt the slightest shifting of stone. “Padruig, help me.”
To her surprise, he put his hand over hers and pushed.
The stone opened so easily Aimili fell forward, landing on her knees. The light wavered behind her, and then Padruig apparently caught himself. Aimili looked around, sensing space, but unable to see beyond the pool of light.
Padruig touched the flame to candles mounted on the walls, and the chamber gradually came into view.
Aimili’s breath caught when she spied the center of the large chamber. It was a circular pool, the water’s surface as smooth as the loch on a windless day.
“By the saints, what is this?” Padruig asked. “My father never mentioned this chamber.”
“Perhaps he did not know of it.” Aimili stood and brushed off her braies. She walked to the edge of the pool. “Mayhap ’tis the gateway to Paroseea.”
“Aimili, ’tis simply a pool. Most likely, at one time the clan used it for a source of water immune from poisoning by its enemies.”
The water rippled.
“I do not think so, Padruig.”
Padruig tromped around the chamber, shining his light into the corners. “I hoped to find something of use in here, but ’tis empty.”
The ripples widened and a soft mist formed on the water’s surface.
“Not empty,” Aimili said.
“Water is not what the clan needs.”
The mist thickened.
“Perhaps this will help,” a woman’s voice said.
Padruig whipped around so fast, his rushlight dropped to the ground and sputtered out.
Queen Sebilla stood next to the pool. Her silver hair was elaborately braided into what looked like a crown. She wore a flowing bliaut of shimmering, pale blue silk and silver slippers adorned her small feet. Around her neck hung a pendant bearing the dolphin symbol. She held a dark blue velvet pouch in her hand.
“Good morn, Queen Sebilla,” Aimili managed to say over a smile. The expression of amazement on Padruig’s face was even better than when she’d bested him with her “wee sword.”
“Greetings, Aimili,” the queen said. “And you are Padruig, Laird of the MacCoinneachs, descendent of Aelfric.”
It took Padruig a few attempts, but eventually he said, “Aye, my lady, uh, your majesty.”
“Sebilla will do.” She turned to Aimili. “I am very pleased to find you unharmed.”
“The dagger saved me.”
“Aye. I thought it might be of aid.”
Aimili was surprised when Padruig moved up to stand beside her. “What do you know of the attack?” he demanded.
“’Twas Vardon, of course.”
“Vardon? There is no man of that name at Castle MacCoinneach.”
“He would not use his real name.”
“Well, regardless of what he calls himself, he is dead by Aimili’s hand.”
Aimili peered up at him. Was that pride she heard in his voice?
“I fear not,” Sebilla said.
“But I stabbed him,” Aimili told her. “Blood was everywhere. No man could survive such a wound.”
“I agree, but Vardon is not simply a man.”
“I do not understand,” Padruig said, his frustration evident.
“Nay, you could not. I ask you both to come with me. We must talk and I would prefer to do so in more comfortable surroundings.”
“How?”
Sebilla smiled. “All you must do is step into the pool.” She walked close and put the pouch into Padruig’s hand. “You may leave the pouch here. No one will find it.”
He tugged the top open and peered inside, his eyes widening. “My thanks.”
“’Tis in part my fault that your clan is in trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“Please. Come with me and I shall explain as best I can.”
“Come with you where?”
“To Paroseea, of course.” She walked into the center of the pool, gliding across the surface as if it were solid.
Without thinking, Aimili slipped her hand into Padruig’s and held tight. She sensed no danger from Sebilla, but this was by far the strangest invitation she’d ever received. At the same time, she felt compelled to go.
As soon as she and Padruig stepped into the water, the chamber vanished.
“Welcome to Paroseea,” a woman’s voice announced.
Aimili had to blink a few times to clear her vision and recognize the voice as belonging to Sebilla. She and Padruig stood in a large chamber ringed with columns. The floor beneath them was of creamy white marble, the golden wood furnishings piled with brightly colored cushions. There were no walls and the air was warm and sweet smelling. The sounds of splashing water and birdsong broke the silence.
“Please, be comfortable,” Sebilla said, gesturing to a grouping
of long wide benches covered by cushions. She clapped her hands and a young woman appeared. The woman had pale skin, long flaxen hair, and her pink bliaut was so light it wafted about her legs with each floating step she took.
Aimili noted her glance of surprise and fought the urge to grimace, aware she must look like a drab sparrow next to a delicate butterfly.
“Cinara, please see that refreshments are brought at once for my guests.”
The woman nodded and glided from the room.
Aimili carefully sat on an emerald green pillow. Clearly ill at ease, Padruig posted himself by her side, but did not sit. “This is lovely,” Aimili told Sebilla.
The queen’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, you have seen but a tiny bit of the beauty of Paroseea.”
Behind her appeared three men and three women. They were each dressed in fabrics finer than Aimili had ever seen and each carried himself or herself with an air of elegance.
“Laird MacCoinneach, Lady Aimili, may I present my advisors. Lucan, my chief advisor,” she said waving her hand.
A handsome, dark-haired man clad in a deep blue tunic and matching braies bowed low.
One by one, they each made a sign of respect. Toward the end of the presentation, Aimili looked at Padruig in puzzlement. He just shook his head, clearly as bewildered as she.
Sebilla remained quiet while another troop of people delivered platters of food and colored-glass ewers of drink.
Aimili took a hesitant sip of wine from a blue glass goblet. It was unlike anything she’d ever tasted—light and golden with hints of fruit and honey. Padruig remained standing, his wine untouched.
“Where are we?” Padruig asked. “What is this place?”
“You are in the receiving chamber of my palace.” Sebilla gave him a soft smile. “Paroseea is a special place, a magical realm, if you will.”
“I know naught of magic.”
“Mayhap not, but surely you have heard of places most people never see. The otherworld of the druids? The secret refuges of the Tuatha de Danann? The fabled island of Atlantis?”
“Legends. Stories told when the snowy winds howl down from the mountains and there is little to do.”
