Species. He had never heard the term, but in context of her phrasing, perhaps the general meaning of the word implied a race of peoples. “So, with these visions and vast knowledge you have, this explains why you know how the amulet Amice gave me was created.”
“That is correct. But I have brought you here for more than just magical charms of protection, Broderick MacDougal. You are a piece of a grand puzzle I can help you assemble.”
Broderick narrowed his eyes as he considered her words. “And what puzzle is this you speak of?”
“A prophecy.” Malloren twirled and snatched her lantern and cloak from the table. “Come, Vamsyrian.” Grabbing a handful of her skirts, she ascended the stone staircase on the opposite side of the room and faced him when she stood behind the iron railing on second level. “Let us retire to a more comfortable atmosphere. We have hours of information ahead of us to review.”
Turning her back to him, she disappeared through a door between the bookcases and he quickened his pace to catch up with the prophetess. She led him down another long corridor glowing with oil lamps. The path turned and twisted, many doors dotting the walls along the way, stimulating images of more corridors and rooms filled with tomes. Walking behind Malloren afforded him a study of her figure. She wore simple tan robes beneath a long, dark-brown apron tunic, but even this non-descript garment couldn’t hide her voluptuous figure. Her hips flared generously, and as she turned the corners through the halls, her narrow waist and heavy bust peeked through. Broderick frowned. Even her figure seemed familiar. Yet he had never seen nor even heard of Malloren Rune before, so he shook off the nagging notion.
The corridor finally ended at a wide set of oaken double-doors. With a flip of the latch, Malloren pushed the doors open and they stepped into a warm, lived-in chamber. A fire burned in the hearth where a cast-iron bean pot hung from a hook fastened to the stone by a hinge. He imagined Malloren sitting in the cushioned chair by the fire, swinging a meal over the flames to simmer in the pot.
She bustled about the chamber, hung her cloak on a hook in the wood-paneled wall by the door and placed the lantern on the mantel. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
“How did you know I would—”
“Leave your family on such an unknown quest?” She poured a beverage in the small kitchen area occupying the far-side of the chamber next to the hearth. Holding up the mug, she said, “Mead?”
Broderick shook his head.
“I thought not, but it would be impolite not to offer.” A gentle grin played upon her lips and she sat on the cushioned chair by the hearth. Broderick sat on a tapestry couch across the space from her. Malloren set her mug upon the simple, crafted table that stood between them. “I knew you would be here because I saw you in my visions. I knew exactly when to expect your arrival. I saw Amice, the Gypsies traveling with her in their caravans. I knew Amice would die before she delivered the amulet, and I knew Rosselyn would complete the journey for her.”
“I left the amulet with my family.” He settled back into the couch and crossed his ankle over his knee. “Did you see that in your visions as well?”
She nodded. “It was a wise decision to give the amulet to Cailin.”
An uneasiness settled over Broderick at all the information she had about him—his name, how the amulet came into his possession, what he did with it and when he would arrive—in comparison to how little he knew of her.
“The power of the amulet does not lie within the piece itself,” she continued, “but rather the incantation attached to the medallion. This is what I will teach to you and what you truly seek to protect those you love.”
“Why are you, a member of the Tzava Ha’or, teaching me a method that will protect my family? Why would you help one of my kind? Are we not enemies?”
“The Tzava Ha’or is not at war with the Vamsyrians. We were put in place by Jehovah to be the balancing force of their creation. But we will delve into the origin and history of the Vamsyrians while you are here. For now, let us stay on the subject of the incantation.” She sat at the edge of her seat, sipped from her mug and replaced it on the table. “There are three parts to the incantation which invokes the power of the Christian God, Jehovah. The first erects the protection, the next is the request for the protection to be removed, and the final is the response to the request, which removes the protection.”
Broderick nodded and waited for her to proceed.
She held up her palms toward him. “Veh atah adonai mahgen bah-adee, k’vodee u-merim roshee.” She recited the words with ease and they tickled his memory. The oppressive weight that fluttered across the space, however, brought back his full recollection.
“Evangeline,” he whispered. “That was what Evangeline chanted when I tried to attack her the night I—”
“Yes. The night you became a Vamsyrian. It is a Hebrew chant, and what a person envisions when they say the chant will determine its use and boundaries. When I recited the incantation, I envisioned a barrier around my person with a radius that reached only to where my palms were placed. Try to take my hand.” Malloren laid her hand open, palm up.
Broderick stretched his hand toward her and his fingers slammed into a wall…only there was no wall to see. A small wave of exhaustion rippled from his fingertips through his body as well.
“Pitkhu li sha-ahray tsedek, avoh bahm ve odeh yah. That is the request to remove the protection. Zeh ha-sha-ar adonai. Tsadikim yavou bo.” The oppressive atmosphere disappeared. “That is the response to remove the protection.”
“Why the three parts?” Broderick sat back, relieved the protection—and the discomfort it caused—was removed. “Why not just the placement and removal?”
Malloren also settled back into her chair, mug in hand. Shaking her head, she said, “I do not know. As Jehovah has proved over and over again, nothing is without purpose. The truth of that has yet to be revealed to me, at least.”
“So you are not all knowing?”
She chortled. “Far from it.” After downing the last of her drink, she rose then placed the mug upon a table in her kitchen. “Come with me.” She strolled to the double-doors, where they had originally entered. “We’ll move to a more spacious chamber where we’ll have more working room for you to learn the incantation.”
He rose to follow her. “Working room? How much space do we need to recite words?”
That knowing smiled crossed her pouty lips. “Be prepared to be shown the force of Jehovah, Vamsyrian.” She pivoted on her heels and glided down the corridor.
Broderick groaned. I have a distinct feeling I am not going to enjoy this.
* * * * *
James cursed at his lack of progress. During the summer weeks the sun did set well into the evening hours, giving him much-needed daylight, but following tracks in the mud demanded a slower pace. Thankfully, Cailin’s captors were among the first to travel after the rains, leaving only one set of tracks to follow versus trying to discern their hoof prints among many others on the road. However, though the moonlight was enough to guide him, it did not lend the illumination needed. With the lamp oil Fife gave him, a narrow branch and one of the drying cloths, James fashioned a torch to light the way. Darkness now blanketed the terrain and his arm ached from holding the torch aloft. A scream startled both him and his gelding, causing James to drop his torch and gain control of his rearing mount. Reining in the animal, he searched the ground to find a figure cowering in the amber glow of the still-burning torch.
“Have mercy!” she pleaded.
“Margeret?” James jumped from the saddle and grabbed the torch before crouching beside her.
“Master James?” She turned her face toward him and he winced at the dried blood crusted on her cheek and matting her hair in a dark, tangled mess.
“Sweet Lord, what have they done to you?” He comforted the sobbing woman clinging to his vest. Stabbing the end of the torch into the mud to keep it upright, he left her side for a moment to grab the salve, the water bladd
er and a drying cloth from his saddlebags.
“Oh, Master James,” she whimpered as he cleaned the blood from her face and what he could from her hair. “The saints be praised you found me. I knew you and Davina would not give up so easily as to wait for Lord Broderick’s return.”
“Who grabbed you and Cailin, Maggie? Do you know where they’re taking her?”
“I heard them say something about Angus’s childhood home being scrawled on a note they left behind.”
“Glen Morin.”
“I’ve never heard of Glen Morin. All I know is they may be taking her toward the Highlands, Master James. ’Tis an awfully large target to search, though.”
“Why do you think the Highlands?”
“When Broderick learned my husband was from the Highlands, he told me his childhood home was just off the shores of Loch Etive. In other conversations, he mentioned Angus’s home lay somewhere between Loch Etive and Loch Awe.” She frowned as he continued tending to her head wound. “’Tis sorry I am I don’t know the exact location, but surely ’tis better than having no direction at all.”
“Right you are, Maggie.” He struggled to keep despair from his voice. As he heard it, those two lochs stretched for miles with just as much land spanning between them. He applied some salve to the gash in her scalp. “’Tis a nasty knot you have there. Can you stand?”
She nodded and rose on unsteady legs.
He couldn’t leave Margeret here. Nor could he take her back to Edinburgh, having ridden several hours already. Certainly, he was lagging behind Cailin by at least two or three hours as it was. He couldn’t afford any more lost time. “Come, Maggie. Climb into the saddle and we shall see what we can do about getting some help.”
Once Margeret was mounted, he grabbed the torch and sat astride behind her. He kicked his heels and they started down the road again after his betrothed.
“I noticed they’re sticking to the roads,” James commented.
“Aye, the saints be praised. ’Tis grateful I am of their overconfidence.”
“Meaning?”
“They’re cocksure no one knows where they be headed and only Broderick will be the one to pursue them.”
“Well, that certainly works in our favor. I may not be behind them as far as I thought.” He could tell Margeret did what she could to keep a distance between their bodies, but she surely needed to rest. “You may lean against me, Maggie. I promise to keep my hands to myself.”
She chuckled and leaned back. “’Tis old enough to be yer mother, I am.” She continued laughing and smacked his knee before she relaxed. His soft chortles joined hers.
They were silent for a few paces while he eyed the tracks they followed in the mud. “Master James…”
“Aye, Maggie?”
“’Tis something of import I need to tell you.” She paused so long, he almost said something to coax her to finish. “Your father…”
James tightened his grip on the torch. “He was one of the captors, wasn’t he?”
“Aye.” Her voice a whisper.
Tears threatened to come forth and he fought against them. Though he had his suspicions, he hadn’t really believed his father would go as far as to put others in danger. He sought revenge against Broderick, not his family. And yet his father took the cowardly path as Campbell did. Why should I be surprised? My father has always been a coward.
“Are ye well, lad?”
He appreciated her motherly tone. “Aye, Maggie.
As they topped a rise in the road, the glow of a fire peeked between shuttered windows.
“’Tis a cottage ahead,” Margeret exclaimed.
“Aye, I see it.” He urged his gelding forward at a trot and Margeret put her hand to her wound, groaning. He slowed their pace again, praying the residents would be able to give Maggie refuge while he went after Cailin.
Pulling on the reins, he stopped the horse and reconsidered his approach.
“If we’re lucky,” he whispered and dismounted, snuffing out the torch in the dirt, “this might be them. Stay here.” Handing her the reins and the smoking stick, he encouraged her to go into the trees and wait for him. Once she was tucked away, he crouched and padded across the field. He dodged a plow stuck in soft soil, his boots sucking through the mud as he continued to advance. The baying of distant sheep echoed across the farm. The small, thatched building loomed before him and he crouched below a nearby window, noises and conversation coming from within.
“Mum, what a lovely jumper you be knittin’ there!” a woman’s voice exclaimed.
“I had to mend Richard’s today for the last time,” an older woman answered. “Yer husband certainly keeps me busy mendin’, he does.”
Male laughter was the response. “Mary, I’m forever beholdin’ to yer skillful hands.”
Only three people in the small cottage appeared through the shutter gaps. A fire burned brightly in the hearth and the aroma of some kind of mutton dish greeted his nose. Seemed safe enough to approach.
He ran back to Margeret, taking the more direct route of the well-worn path from the road to the cottage, and led the horse back along that same pathway. After helping her down from the horse, he assisted her to the door and rapped on the worn wood.
The casual conversation reduced to whispers before the door swung open and the man named Richard stood with an axe in his hand. “State yer business.”
“Well met, fine folks,” James greeted. “’Tis sorry I am to bother you, but we’re in need of assistance.”
The silhouette of the younger woman peeked around his shoulder. He pushed her back, not taking his eyes off the strange visitors. “What kind of assistance?”
Would they help if they determined how much trouble just arrived on their doorstep? Sometimes it pays to be honest. “My betrothed has been taken hostage by a clan enemy. This is her handmaid, who has only just escaped with her life.” He encouraged Margeret into the light to show the gash on her head and Richard’s wife gasped. “She needs shelter while I pursue the men who took my promised bride.” James waited with hope. Some people would shut the door on trouble like this because they didn’t want to put themselves in danger, and he could hardly blame them if these folks made that choice.
Richard’s wife tugged at his arm. He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Aye, bring her in.” Though his reply was gruff and guarded, a touch of compassion softened the man’s eyes as James and Maggie stepped through the door and into the light. The couple appeared to be in their fifties, worn by hard labor and years.
“Thank you.” James helped Margeret to a chair at the table. He offered his hand in greeting to Richard. “James Knightly. This here is Margeret.”
“Richard Drummond. My wife Bess and my mother-in-law, Mary.”
Everyone nodded their salutations.
“Mum,” the woman said with a beckoning hand. “Bring the kettle.”
“Aye, Bess.” Mary hunched to the fire and did as her daughter asked before she joined Maggie at the table. Patting Maggie’s hand, she said, “Are ye hungry, child? We have some hot mutton stew in the pot.”
Margeret smiled and raised the old woman’s hand to her lips for a grateful kiss on her wrinkled knuckles. Mary cackled softly and patted Maggie’s hand again.
Bess doused a folded cloth with hot water and pressed it to Maggie’s head then grabbed a bowl and headed toward the hearth. Richard stood in the corner, axe still in hand, his eyes following every nuance. Again, James could hardly blame him.
Stepping outside, James trotted to the horse and dug in his saddlebags for some coin. When he returned, he placed a small pile of the currency on the table. “For your troubles. I hope it will cover your needs.”
Richard’s jaw dropped and he gawked at James in disbelief. “That be a lot o’ coin, lad.”
“We’re greatly imposing on you and your family. Are you heading into Edinburgh anytime soon?”
“With that much money, I can certainly make a trip for ye.”
James sagged with relief. “Maggie here needs to get back there to let my bride’s family know what’s happened. Can you leave on the morrow?”
Richard nodded.
“I can guarantee the MacDougal’s will be generous with more coin once you see me safely home,” Margeret interjected.
“MacDougal?” Richard’s gaze darted back to James. “Knightly. Is that the same MacDougal & Knightly Shipping Company?”
“Aye, sir, that it is.” James allowed a smile.
“Ye help me keep food on the table, James. I take my wool to MacDougal & Knightly for export.” Richard put the axe down and leaned it against the wall next to him. He slapped James on the back. “It would be my honor to take Maggie home.”
“Saints be praised!” Margeret exclaimed and the room filled with laughter and voices.
“I cannot thank you enough for helping us,” James said. “Maggie, I have to make haste.”
“Aye lad.” She grabbed his hand before he stepped away. “Be careful, laddie.”
“Where are ye headed?” Richard asked.
“Maggie tells me they took Cailin toward Lochs Etive and Awe. I look for a place called Glen Morin.”
The room fell silent and Richard’s family all exchanged horrified glances. “Glen Morin?” Bess gasped.
James shivered and fear crept into his gut. “What—”
“Hush now, Bess.” Richard rubbed his wife’s back. Diverting his attention back to James, he said, “Glen Morin is a castle owned by Clan Campbell for generations. Though far from here—ye have a trek ahead of ye, lad—the tales of the place are far reaching.”
“Why?”
“It be haunted,” Mary said.
“About fifty years ago, the elder son of Fraser Campbell went mad,” Richard explained. “Killed his father, his younger brother and the entire household.”
“I lived in the Highlands as of ten years ago,” Margeret said. “I never once heard about no tales of a haunted castle called Glen Morin. How is it you know about it this far east?”
MIDNIGHT CAPTIVE: Book 2 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles Page 12
