by Amy Tolnitch
God, what an arrogant idiot he’d been.
The only time he’d sought to exert any control over Brona had been on the subject of her marriage. He should have known she would defy him and go her own way. It was her nature.
Just as it was Aimili’s.
Before he could stop it, the images of Brona shifted, took on Aimili’s visage. Instead of blank blue eyes, he saw brown. Instead of a bloody bliaut, he saw a worn, once green tunic.
And she reached for no one. Why would she?
He sensed movement behind him and whirled, drawing his sword. His mother’s contemptuous gaze bored into his. “So, guilt drives you even now to her grave,” she spat.
Padruig realized that until this moment, he’d not seen his mother outside her chamber, though he’d heard of her confrontation with Aimili in the chapel. He turned back to look upon Brona’s grave, wondering what his mother would say if he told her he’d seen and spoken to Brona’s ghost many times. Probably fault him for that, too.
“She would have been nineteen years of age in three days.”
There was nothing for him to say.
“Would that Symund MacVegan had taken his ire out upon you instead of my poor Brona.”
“Why would he have borne me ire? I supported his suit.” He told himself to ignore the fact that his own mother would have preferred him dead.
“So easily fooled. How does it feel, Padruig, to know you were such a fool?”
“I made a mistake in favoring Symund, Mother. I have never denied that.”
“Yet still you remain a fool,” she said, her voice taking on a sly tone. “I have seen your new bride.” She laughed. “’Tis fond she is of that handsome stable hand. But you probably do not see that, either, telling yourself you are such a man that she would never betray you.”
“You do not know me at all if you believe that.” He turned to look at her, struck anew by her appearance. Though her eyes flamed with hatred, the rest of her was a faded husk of the woman she’d once been.
“I know you do not deserve to be laird any more than you are worthy to stand at the grave of my daughter.”
“And my sister.”
His mother’s lips curled. “You remember that now, when ’tis too late.”
“I always remember. What of you? I understand your hatred of me, but what about Freya? She has done nothing wrong.”
“She is alive,” his mother said dully. “She is alive while my Brona is dead.”
It was then Padruig understood his mother’s grip on sanity had snapped. In a strange way, it took some of the sting out of her words, yet in another it compounded his guilt. “I shall leave you to your prayers,” he told her and turned to go.
As he walked down from the hilltop graveyard, he heard his mother’s prayer.
“Dear God, please see that Padruig receives the punishment he has so richly earned. Banish him to hell where he belongs.”
She really doesn’t know me at all, he thought. For I am already there.
The next morn, Aimili was attempting to teach Tor a sideways movement when he stopped, dropped his head, and let out what could only be termed a long-suffering sigh.
Aimili clucked at him and tried to push him over with her leg, but he craned his head around and just looked at her.
From his position outside the ring, D’Ary started laughing. “I dinnae think that is working.”
“Nay.” Aimili leaned back and briefly closed her eyes. “I should have known better than to try to teach him today. My thoughts are too jumbled.”
Are we finished? I am hungry, Tor told her.
She patted him. You are always hungry, my friend, but aye, we are done. I am too distracted today.
Are you all right?
Yes, but there are many difficult issues in my life at the moment.
The laird.
And others.
Danger.
Yes. I need to discover the source.
Would that I could help you, but it is as if a blanket conceals danger’s true face.
“Aimili,” D’Ary called over. “I have an idea.”
She lifted a brow.
“Come closer. I’d not announce this to others.”
Dismounting, she led Tor over to D’Ary.
“Did you have a chance to see much of Paroseea yesterday?”
“No.” She frowned. “Padruig was anxious to return.”
“Let us go, then. It is a wondrous place.”
“Is this an excuse for you to see Queen Sebilla?”
He grinned. “I shall never admit to such.”
“Och, no, of course not.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Who are you, D’Ary? Really? Sebilla told us something of your culture.”
“I am of old blood, my lady.”
What a curious way to put it, Aimili thought. “Do you have … powers, as well?”
D’Ary threw back his shoulders, spread his legs, and gave her a haughty look. “Oh, yes, my lady,” he said in a gravelly voice. “I surely do.”
She giggled.
“We must let your laird know, or he shall go into a panic if he finds you gone.”
“I suppose.” Aimili wrinkled her nose, reluctant to seek Padruig out.
“You should probably inform him without me by your side. He is already jealous.”
Aimili rolled her eyes as she led Tor back into the stable. “Shall I meet you …” She paused and looked carefully around them. “Inside the tower?”
“’Tis not necessary.” He leaned close and winked. “One of my powers.”
Despite Aimili’s concern that Padruig would prove difficult, he just absently nodded in response to her announcement, his gaze never even leaving the sheet of parchment in his hand. Aimili sternly admonished herself to be grateful and almost managed to stamp down her hurt at his indifference.
“You will let me know if Queen Sebilla has made any further discoveries,” he said.
“Aye.” She waited for him to look at her, but when he didn’t, she slipped out. As she walked back across the bailey, she realized she’d not told him D’Ary was to accompany her. In fact, she’d not told him D’Ary was from Paroseea.
Padruig would not be pleased about it, either, but it was his own fault. Why should she bother to discuss anything with a man who wouldn’t bother to look at her?
After Aimili left, Padruig slowly looked up from the parchment he’d been pretending to read. He set the sheet aside before he gave in to temptation and crumpled Alasdair’s carefully written inventory in his fist.
At least the clan’s fortunes had improved. Between the provisions Giselle sent and the valuables from Sebilla, he could protect the clan from starvation. Assuming Vardon did not find a way to further sabotage them. He scowled and rose to look out the partially open window shutters. It was a typically dreary Highland day—cool and damp with the promise of rain in the air.
The same kind of day upon which Brona had died. His thoughts returned to that day, as they so often did. Why had she and Malcolm gone so far from the castle? Had she been cold? Had she watched Malcolm die, or had Symund killed her first? Had she felt much pain, or had death claimed her quickly as he hoped? Had she cursed Padruig with her last breaths, blaming him for giving Symund the belief she belonged to him?
Perhaps one day he would ask her, if her ghost ever made a reappearance.
As rain began to drip from the skies and tendrils of mist formed over the loch, he thought of Paroseea. It seemed made of sun and warmth, and he’d not even seen most of it.
Such a place was not for him. He belonged to the rugged landscape of the Highlands, to steep, rocky crags; crystalline streams; and slate-colored skies.
At a sudden noise, he turned.
Gifford burst into his solar. “Ah, Padruig,” he said, careening to a stop. “I am in search of your lady fair. Where might she be?”
Something told Padruig that Gifford would accept the existence of a place like Paroseea far better than Padruig did, but it was
not his secret to reveal. “I dinnae know. The stable, most likely.”
“Already checked there.” Gifford perched on a window seat and tossed back a drink. Padruig had never seen the man without a jug of ale in his grasp. “Have to introduce your wife to Piers. Both of them crazy for horses, though of course, now that Piers pulled his head out of his arse and realized what a treasure he had in Giselle, he focuses on his wife.” Gifford beamed a smile at Padruig.
“Piers is a lucky man to have a special woman like Giselle.”
“Aye, even with that business of her having the ‘sight.’” He sighed, shaking his head. “What a family I have. Not boring at least.” Gifford tipped back more ale and peered at Padruig over the top of the his jug. “You dinnae look surprised to hear about Giselle.”
“Nay. She confided in me the first time I found her in the forest.”
“Lucky, that. You will always have the deepest gratitude of the Veuxfort family.”
“The supplies you brought are more than sufficient thanks.”
“Weel, I feel there might be a bit more good I can do whilst I am here.”
Oh, no, Padruig thought. He had just enough experience with Gifford to know that the man was, at best, unpredictable and meddling.
“What are you doing, Padruig?”
Padruig pretended not to understand. “I am very busy being Laird of the MacCoinneachs. After my departure things fell into disarray. There is much to be done.”
“By the saints, you sound like the old Cain. Always prattling on about the state of the fields, the health of the cattle, and such.” Gifford drank more ale and pulled himself up straight, fixing Padruig with an intent stare. “I am speaking, of course, of your bride.”
“What of her?”
Gifford slammed a palm against his forehead. “I was right.”
Padruig had the sinking feeling he could not dismiss Gifford as easily as he did Magnus.
“She is not happy, Padruig. What are you going to do about that?”
“Gifford, I appreciate your concern, but you have newly arrived. Aimili and I are but weeks into a marriage neither of us expected. ‘Twill take her time to settle into her new life.”
“What a load of horse dung. Any fool can see that you are in love with her and she with you, though to be brutally honest, I am beginning to wonder why.”
Padruig’s mouth dropped open. “You… you have misread the situation. Aimili is very young. She is also, as you noted, interested solely in her horses.”
“Have you bedded her?”
“I am not going to answer that question. ’Tis none of your affair.”
Gifford snorted. “You have.” He eyed Padruig with amusement. “Probably shook you so badly you ran like a hunted rabbit.”
Padruig stuck his head out the door and bellowed for someone to bring him wine. Dear Lord, how had Gifford read him so easily? He returned and gave Gifford a solemn look. “Aimili is nearly a child.”
“Reminds you of your sister, doesn’t she? The one who died, I mean. Aye, I heard the story. Terrible thing, that.”
“It was.”
Gifford leaned forward. “Do ye think ye are the only one to make mistakes?”
“Of course not.”
“Hmm. Just the only one who is not permitted to.”
Where is that wine? Padruig went to the door, relieved beyond measure to spot a servant rushing toward him with an ewer and two cups. He seized them from the man’s hands and shut the door.
“Your sister made the decision to leave the castle with no protection. She defied you to be with her lover.”
Padruig splashed wine into a cup and took a long drink. “She did not understand the danger.”
“Oh? I understood she was a woman grown.”
“I failed her, Gifford. ’Twas my responsibility to protect her and I failed.”
“What of this Malcolm?”
“He did not possess the skill. ’Twas but one of my objections to him as a husband to Brona.”
“Yet she chose him.”
“I was and am laird. Brona was my innocent sister. It was my duty to see to her welfare, just as it is my duty to see to Aimili’s welfare.”
“By the saints, you really do love her.”
Padruig gulped down half a cup of wine. “Nay.”
“My brother is a terrible liar,” a woman’s voice said.
Gifford teetered, nearly dropped his jug, then recovered himself. “Brona, I presume,” he said politely.
Padruig tilted his head back and groaned.
“Aye,” Brona said as she floated over and settled next to Gifford.
To the man’s credit, he didn’t even flinch. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I am heartily sorry it could not be in the flesh.”
Brona shrugged. “One becomes used to it.”
At that, Gifford shivered slightly. “’Tis good you are here, my lady. We have much work ahead of us with your brother.”
“He is terribly stubborn.”
“He is also sitting right here listening to you both,” Padruig said with a frown.
“Not well enough, obviously,” Gifford retorted. He crossed his legs and turned toward Brona. “I am most disheartened by the attitude of these young men. My nephews were much the same as your Padruig.”
“Determined to complicate something as fundamental and uncontrollable as love.”
“Exactly.” Gifford reached out to pat Brona on the arm, then apparently realized she lacked substance and brought his hand back. “I vow I do not understand it. Was your Malcolm like that?”
Brona smiled. “Oh, no, not at all. ’Tis one of the reasons I loved him.”
“Well, at least you had that, though for too short a time.”
“Aye. I wish the same happiness for Padruig.”
They both turned and stared at Padruig as if he’d done something wrong. “What?” he asked.
Gifford sighed. “Brona, now that you are here, I have an important question for you.”
“Gifford—”
The older man cut him a glance made of steel. “Shush. Now, Brona, do you blame Padruig for your early demise?”
Her form faded a bit. “Nay. None of what happened was his fault.”
Gifford looked at him in obvious triumph.
“Brona,” Padruig said, his heart sinking as she faded farther. “What do you mean? Tell me!”
She disappeared.
Gifford frowned and tipped back some ale. “Hate it when they do that. Just when you think you’ll get some real answers, these ghosts up and vanish. Death apparently steals them of manners.”
Padruig hadn’t a thing to say in response to Gifford’s calm pronouncement.
“Seems to me you’ve been given a second chance, Padruig,” Gifford said as he stood. “You are laird again and you’ve a beautiful, kind young bride. Make something of it!”
“I intend to.”
Gifford rolled his eyes. “Duty is all well and good, Padruig, but there is more in life. Much more. Dinnae hide behind duty, else you will miss the best parts.”
Within moments after taking D’Ary’s hand, Aimili found herself standing on a beach made of soft, powdery pink sand and stretching as far as she could see. The water was a clear turquoise blue, gently lapping against the shore.
“We call this the Crystal Sea,” D’Ary said. “It surrounds Paroseea.”
“’Tis beautiful.”
“Aye.”
Aimili turned and shielded her eyes from the bright pinkish gold sun. Beyond the silken beach, deep green bushes awash in yellow flowers led to stands of odd-looking trees, with smooth bark and wide canopies of big green leaves. A marble-paved path led through the trees, and beyond Aimili could see the rise of a mountain in the center of the land.
The air was warm and soft, the salty tang of the sea blending with an exotic floral scent. She bent down and picked up a handful of sand. It felt as powdery as it looked, slipping through her fingers like water.
Suddenly,
a series of screeches split the air.
D’Ary laughed. “You have a visitor, Aimili.”
She looked up to see a dolphin skittering across the water on its back fin. A real dolphin! “I have never seen such a creature. And it is pink! I did not know they were pink.”
“Not all of them are. In your world, I believe they are a grayish color. On Paroseea,” he stopped and pointed, “they are different colors.”
Aimili’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the water. Two other dolphins had joined the first. One was a sparkling blue color, the other a rich violet. They jumped and splashed in the water.
“Can you communicate with them?”
“Oh. I do not—”
Come and swim!
Yes, come swim with us.
“I suppose I can,” Aimili finished.
“Can you swim?”
“Aye. I often swam in the loch as a child, much to the dismay of my father.”
The violet dolphin came close, rolled over onto its back, and slapped the water with its tail fin.
“I do not speak dolphin, but I think that is an invitation.”
Aimili pulled off her boots, regretting that she’d not brought different garments with her. It was so warm she could have easily swum clad in nothing at all, but not in an unknown land with D’Ary present.
“I am sure Sebilla will lend you dry garments,” D’Ary said, clearly guessing the reason for her hesitation.
“Think you?”
“I am sure of it.”
Aimili grinned and dove into the water. It was every bit as soft and warm as it appeared, gliding over her skin as she swam out into deeper water. She heard a splash behind her and turned. D’Ary swam toward her, his wide shoulders bare, and a wide smile on his face. “’Tis too fine a day to stay on the beach.”
The three dolphins encircled them.
Take hold of my fin, the blue one said.
No, mine, the pink one insisted. I saw her first.
But I am the prettiest, the violet one said.
Aimili giggled. You are all beautiful. She reached out and stroked the nearest one, who happened to be pink. “This is incredible,” she told D’Ary.
