by Karey Brown
Several back stairwells routed to various sections of the castle including Broc’s library. No doubt he was there, downing scotch, as was his way whenever they disagreed. At this rate, he’d be a raging alcoholic. His door slightly ajar, his voice now a familiar monotone, she smiled at being able to predict where he’d be.
“Every day that I look upon her face, I see the eyes of mi’ dead clan lookin’ back.”
Emily stilled, unable to push open the door; unable to enter his library.
“She’s forever beggin’ ta’ return to her home. Send her on her way. Rid us of the nightmare before it begins. Again, milord.”
Reignsfeugh? That’s what he thought of her as? A nightmare?
“Four more sentries are dead. Mutilated. Not much of them ta’ even offer the eastern winds.”
More deaths? What the hell? Shouldn’t authorities be called? Did any exist here?
“Aurelia turned her back on mi’ people. By her own confession, they’d been rough on her and for that, they deserved ta’ die? Where was her great magic when the very people offering her shelter were slaughtered? Perhaps she consorted with the Lumynari devil even then!”
“It warrants thinkin’ upon.”
“You’re patronizing me.”
“Lady Emily is a modern. She’s no’ even half aware of who and what Aurelia was. As for Na’Dryn, I saw wi’ mi’ own eyes the cruelties they rather enjoyed doling out to yer’ wife when you were away. Aurelia was verra kind to me when none other dared. Remember, it was a time when I was still looked upon as a wild man, no’ part of yer’ clan. Aye, I patronize ye’, hoping ye’ will see the ridiculousness of yer’ accusations.”
“Perhaps ye’ warmed her bed as I warmed Na’Dryn’s?”
“Perhaps ye’ would care ta’ step out into the lists that I might show ye’ a thing or two ‘bout respect? A thing or two we Celts are still known for, even in Emily’s realm!”
“I canna keep her here. If she’s well enough ta’ lie about her whereabouts, then she’s well enough ta’ leave mi’ keep.”
“Pendaran will have your head. Hell, mohn, all of us will perish from that one’s wrath.”
Something slammed wood. Emily jumped.
“Think you, I give a damn what trickery that wizard will mete out this time? For all Pendaran’s power, he arrived to take Aurelia’s corpse. Corpse, Celt. They dinna arrive ta’ save her, they waited until she was dead. Where were these Elders when Aunsgar’s sister attempted ta’ take Aurelia’s soul? Hmmm? She dedicated thirteen years o’ her youth to them. When most maids marry, ‘ave bairns, Aurelia did not. You were yet ta’ join us. You do not ken the trials I spied that wee lass being put through. And you ken their appreciation? She was sent home under the guise her training complete only ta’ arrive in time ta’ face her mother’s sword, and her father’s demise. Aurelia killed her mother in self-defense, but was too late to save her father. That very day, she lit his burial pyre, and sent his ashes to Danu. Did they save her from Drakar, her half-brother? Did they save any of us from Drakar?”
“The lass possesses uncanny ability again. But nary a sign of Pendaran or the Elders, if they even exist. None has seen them since our banishment.”
“None have spied Pendaran since Aurelia’s passing either, Celt, yet here he is, in this photo, posing for the wench!”
Long silence passed. Emily reflected on what she’d heard. Whomever these Elders were, they sounded like a group of assholes. The sound of a lid spinning off a bottle reached Emily. Liquid poured. A male sigh followed. What Broc said next, she wished she’d come down the main stairwell, joining the others in their meal. Sometimes, ignorance really was bliss.
“Whether she be Aurelia, or Emily, she is a whore and the cause of mi’ people ta’ die, just as she was three millennia ago.”
“Doona allow Garreck ta’ hear ye’ speak in anger.”
Neither man realized that, outside the very aged door, a woman’s lip trembled over ultimate insult. Whore. Peter had said as much as well. Whore.
The word repeated over and over in her mind.
“Too quick ta’ be her hero and escort, I can only conclude he’s sampled the traitor’s wares as well. Lugh’s blood, we ‘ave our very own Lancelot.”
Reignsfeugh gave a short laugh. “Ye’ hardly resemble Arthur.”
“Nay, and she is hardly the lady of the castle, now is she? Pack her up, send for Allen, I wish her gone from mi’ sight by fall of this night. Let the bitch destroy someone else’s life and clan. These photos prove she conspires ta’ bring down upon us our doom and I willna’ suffer treasonous whores.”
“I think your words harsh and spoken in light of old angers and accountability, but if the lass’ departure is what ye’ seek, aye, I will assist her. Stay yourself from her person. Ye’ may badmouth the lady in private, but I’m no’ at liberty ta’ turn a deaf ear if ye’ insult her directly. I will raise mi’ sword against ye’.”
“Aye, Celt, I’ve never doubted ye’ wait fer a chance ta’ stick yer’ knife in mi’ gut.”
“Drink your misery alone, Forest Lord, I have a lady ta’ prepare for departure and a Sassenach spirit ta’ endure. Ye’ make a grievous mistake, as ye’ did thirty-six hundred years ago, but ‘tis yer’ clan ta’ destroy, no’ mine.”
“Stay yer’ quickness ta’ do my bidding. The scheming bitch requests ta’ dine. I’ll no’ have it said Broc MacLarrin lacks etiquette.”
Chairs scraped. It was all Emily could do to galvanize down the hall, slipping into a darkened alcove without a moment to spare.
A very long time passed, crying and humiliated over Broc’s words. Her name echoed throughout, several calling out to her. There was no way she’d ever show her face to any of them again. What did it say about her if even ancient warriors loathed her as much as Peter, a modern man, had? First her aunt, then Peter, and now, Broc. Not even a whisper from Dezenial since her ‘rescue’. Discarded. What had she done to the Fates to deserve such hatred from each significant person in her life?
She dried her eyes.
Can’t stay here. Broc may have closed off the way one reaches here by car after the Peter-Incident, but I know there’s a way Allysyn and the others still get here, since they show up nearly every day.
First thing, though she wondered the wisdom of it, was to see these photos Broc had mentioned. He’d said they proved she conspired with another to bring down his clan. She’d taken landscape shots and then snapshots of the hams around her, each loon striking a pose of exaggerated manliness every time her borrowed camera swung their way. Usually, she ended up laughing too hard and knew the pictures were probably going to come out blurred, due to much doubling over and laughing until her sides ached. Gah, medieval they may be, but they sure loved to show off.
Except when on duty up in the towers or the wall-walks.
They took sentry duty very seriously. Then, they’d come down, having exchanged their watch with the next shift. They’d share ribald tales of days gone by while she taught them a game of Quarters. Colin’s cello oft times played in the background, and on several occasions, Reignsfeugh added in the sounds of his bagpipes. These were the photos she couldn’t wait to view, men on the watchtowers; life in the great hall. Allysyn had said it would be two weeks before they were ready. And then, Peter’s attack. In all honesty, she’d completely forgotten about her hobby. Bless-his-heart, Allen must have brought them for her. Or Allysyn, being that she’d recently begun helping Maeve with castle-chores.
Emily pushed open the door to what was now dubbed ‘The Pout Room’. She made a face over the days earlier argument she’d had with Broc. She’d referred to him as Sir Pout. Reignsfeugh had teased, along with Kavan, about making a nameplate for his library door. Lord Cretin.
Emily’s heart iced over, pushing the memory away.
After what she’d just overheard, nothing about these men warmed her.
A cursory glance up and down the corridor, she slipped further in and pushed his do
or closed. Upon his massive desk, her photos were categorized into three columns. The first consisted of Forest Lords captured in various stages of their everyday life. Even in the face of ugly, Emily caught herself grinning. Aedan was being chased by Kavan. Having filled Kavan’s helmet with watered down waffle batter, Kavan resembled more a statue having come to life chasing after Aedan, than a seasoned warrior. The next pile consisted of landscapes. Snow. Trees covered with snow. The castle. Views from atop various wall-walks. Emily moved to the next pile.
So far, not one shit piece of proof necessitating me being labeled a whore.
Shuffling the final column of photos into a singular pile, she picked them up and began sifting through each. One-by-one, if she didn’t see anything telling, she flung the photo like mini Frisbees. A shadowed photo of Kavan up in the battlements gave her pause. She stared for several moments, impressed with her accidental perfect shot. She’d have to have this one enlarged, and framed. Pfff. Nope. Not now.
She’d vacate exactly how she arrived: with nothing more than the clothes on her back. Minus the blood.
Emily glanced the next photo, but was drawn back to her handiwork of how Kavan and the setting sun—
Emily jerked back to the next photo in the line-up.
She launched from where she’d leaned against Broc’s desk.
Hyperventilate or start screaming??!!
What the hell was Peter’s chauffeur doing here?! How did she not see him when she’d snapped the shutter? She’d intended to capture the double doors leading into the keep. They’d been done like an architectural frieze, a scene depicting horses. Life-size. Running through water towards whomever was about to lift the knocker—strategically placed to look like a nose ring in the lead horse’s flared nostrils—hell, even the water seemed alive, waves ready to flow down and flood over the wide half-moon stone stairs. Awestruck, she’d stared at it for a long time. So, as soon as she’d learned of Broc owning a Minolta, it had been top of her list to capture the craftsmanship. And, she’d made damn sure no one was around, not wanting a body to be in this particular photo!
Arrogantly, the chauffeur leaned against those double doors, arms folded and smirked straight at her lens! Straight-at-her-lens! Intentionally posing! How did I miss this? How could I have not seen him? This is not a face one fails to notice. This is a face that stops traffic. Makes women drool. Bastard! Long black hair. Black breeches. Black billowing shirt. Sword at his waist. And as casually standing there, like he belongs—
His casual demeanor meant Broc must obviously know him. Know him. Photos slipped from her trembling hands. Know him. Know him. Over and over, her mind repeated the obvious. This entire stinkin’ journey, from boarding the plane—had even her auto accident been planned? Cripes, she’d nearly been killed! Emily scooped the rest of the photos from the desk and flung them.
Every single event leading her to this moment had been prearranged. A puppet.
And I’ll bet Broc’s chafed ass is caused by thinking this guy controls my strings.
Hot, deep anger uncoiled from deep within her and consumed. Emily hit mental rewind.
She’d walked in on Peter and his real fiancé, though neither had realized she was present. The driver had convinced her to take Chase up on his offer to enjoy a few days in Scotland while at the same time, taking photos of a castle he’d been offered to sell. ‘Nothing like an all-expenses paid vacation, of sorts, to make a girl feel better’, he’d said. ‘Heal your heart, lass, just as the boss offered.’
Sham. Games. Manipulations. Everyone wanted something from her—and for her to be Aurelia. None cared about the one thing she wanted: to belong. To actually matter to someone.
Emily snatched the photo from the floor, glowering down at it once again. And she knew, oh how she knew, this was who Broc accused her of bedding down with; of plotting against Clan MacLarrin. Her nostrils flared. Plotting what, Broc? I’m from Texas. Several weeks ago, I didn’t know shit about you. Now, suddenly, I’m scheming, conniving, oh, and a whore. Rat bastard.
She looked down at the photo again. And suffered an uncanny feeling she’d known this imposter from somewhere having nothing to do with her life in Texas. Gah. I’ve been here too long. Next, I’ll see nymphs. And the tooth fairy. Broc didn’t even bother coming to me and asking questions. Just made his judgments. Like he did, long, long ago about Aurelia. And we know how well that ended.
She slammed out of Broc’s library, not giving two-shits that the door crashed against stone wall, alerting Forest Lords and ghosts. Lethal right now, she truly hoped their laird would be dumb enough to show his face. She’d have her answers. And then she’d have her plane ticket. One couldn’t play games if all the players weren’t present, and she knew she was no longer going to be a part of this cuckold. Whore. Yeah, show your face, Broc. Dare you.
At that moment, her heart laced up its frayed folds. Males were never to be trusted. One betrayed her, then beat her. Another set her up. Still another called her whore. And then, there was the one who deserted her. No matter hateful words or deceptions by others, his desertion cut deepest. But for now, Broc and his posse of ingrates needed to be eradicated from her vicinity. One rolled ‘R’ and she knew, without a shadow of doubt, she’d spend the rest of her life dressed in prison orange while maniacally grinning that Broc lay dismembered.
Her heart hammered in cadence with her temper as she slammed Broc’s chamber door closed and dropped the bar. She’d expected to find her secret door locked. Evidently, they’d not thought her clever enough to have discovered the damn thing. Bummer for them.
“Blade?”
“Milady?”
Emily squealed and twisted around. “Cripes, you scared me.” She straightened, feeling silly. “Thought you were to remain hidden?”
“It would seem these tunnels took over my sound judgment. I felt better to study their various paths, in the event an escape became necessary.”
“One is needed now.”
“We are under attack?” Blade shimmered. “Take my hilt, close your eyes, I will reacquaint you with the steps that place you and I as—“
“Pipe down, cupcake. No, we’re not under attack.” She glanced the now closed secret door, then back at the hovering sword. A bit unnerving, this conversing with an inanimate object, or so to speak. “I want information, Blade.” She whipped out the photo from her back pocket, and unfolded it. “Do you recognize this man? Who is he, if you do? Do not underestimate my fury right now by handing me some bullshit lie.”
Blade’s point came around until floating just above the photo, his hilt over her shoulder. Abruptly, he zipped away from her as if unseen hands yanked his hilt. “How is it possible you imprison him in that parchment? I have grossly underestimated your power. You will suffer severe consequences for harming him—“
“Imprisoned? Oh.” Emily shook her head. “No, no, no. This is a picture. In your day, they used to paint. Now, we use a small machine called a camera. This is merely his portrait.” She scrutinized the closed door again. Malevolent foreboding tapped her shoulder. Fear tightened the nape of her neck. She rolled her shoulders to loosen the odd sensation. Probably picking up on Broc’s rage. His search. And whatever ghosts had not revealed themselves to her. Still, it was uncanny how, instead of feeling cold indifference, she felt . . . terror. Primal.
Blade hesitated mere seconds before coming around again to resume his scrutiny of her photo. “It is a very good rendition.”
“Who is it?”
“One should not utter his name aloud.”
“Why, is he evil?”
Blade remained mute.
“Blade? I promise you, now is not the time for secrets and half-truths. I especially have zero tolerance for twenty questions. Last time, who-is-this-bastard?”
“Pendaran,” the weapon whispered. “Rage seeps from you, flooding my senses.”
“I have heard this name, the night Peter attacked me.”
“You were attacked?”
> “I’ll share details later. Who exactly is this man?”
“What is he, should be your question, Princess Emily.”
Emily glared.
Blade sighed. “I will explain all, but for now, should you not be concerned that the Outlander searches for you, and is most fervent in his quest?”
“He’s down in his hall, scarfing while sending one of his goons to fetch the whore.”
“I’m not sure why you choose such a foul word, but you would be wrong concerning his whereabouts. The Outlander storms the chamber you just vacated. Interesting. His rage matches your own.” Blade floated closer. “If what you imply is true, I will kill him for his treacherous words.”
“I get first kill, so back off. I’m finished with the hero types, so save yourself the trouble.” Maybe Broc returned to his Pout Room and discovered photos strewn all over the place. Yeah, bet he’s really freaking out now. “I’m leaving.”
“Where would your journey take you?”
“Home.”
“We return to Quemori?”
Emily stopped. “Where?”
“Did you not say Urkani teaches you history?”
“He never mentioned Quemori. Wait. Yes, once. It’s a forbidden language.”
“Aurelia’s kingdom.”
“And why would I be going there?”
“It is ultimately where you will end.”
“As in die? We call it Heaven now.” Emily swiveled her gaze towards the dark alcove. Hair on her nape prickled, the fine down on her arms standing at attention. Her skin puckered. All this because Broc was having a hissy-fit? No. Something else. Something off kilter.
Fear grappled her. She felt heavy, drunk, almost.
“I do not know of this Heaven. Seems a strange thing, to hover in skies amongst the stars and galaxies when you have passed from this life. As for Quemori, the kingdom would much rather you arrive alive versus burning atop your funeral pyre.”
