by E. B. Brown
“Mal says he will bleed the child, even if Kyra will not permit it. He says we all have a right to know,” Daniel commented.
Turning abruptly, Dagr stared down at the dark-haired youth beside him.
“Where is my brother?” he asked. With a twinge of shame, he realized he had not noticed the absence of his younger sibling. It was easier to leave Malcolm to his own devices rather than risk stirring his ire, but Dagr knew there would be much more trouble if Malcolm did not show up.
“Good question. Where is your brother?”
Dagr and Daniel turned to Chief Winn at the same time. At twenty-two years old, Dagr was the same height as his father, but Winn made him feel small when they stood beside each other. Winn was the kind of man others paid attention to, even if they were not aware of his identity. With long black hair and dark skin from his Paspahegh mother he was clearly native, yet the width of his shoulders and the mass of his muscular warrior’s body was a gift from his Norse father. Some said Dagr was the image of his father, but he did not see it. He shared his father’s light blue eyes and sun-kissed complexion yet Dagr felt they were nothing alike.
“I have not seen him, father,” Dagr answered.
“Hmpf. And you, Daniel?”
Winn raised an eyebrow at fifteen- year old Daniel, who visibly paled beneath his dark skin, dipping his round brown eyes downward to avoid Winn’s stare. As Dagr faced his father, he wondered what made the younger boy so nervous.
“I – I told him to come with me,” Daniel stammered.
“Where is he?” Winn replied.
“On the hill beyond the woods.”
Winn placed a hand on Dagr’s shoulder. “Find your brother. Perhaps he is lost. I can think of no other reason he would disobey me.”
Dagr nodded. As much as he was tired of covering for Malcolm and hunting his younger brother down when he took off, he knew Winn was equally as frustrated. It seemed as if Malcolm thrived on the constant discord, and over the last few weeks, there had been plenty to go around. Even a thorough thrashing had not tempered his careless behavior after Malcolm was caught with a Nansemond brave’s sister the week prior. At the time of the incident, Dagr kept the warrior from hurting Malcolm too severely, but in hindsight perhaps he should have let the Indian pummel his brother more.
“I will find him, father. Worry not,” Dagr said.
Winn smiled. “When I ask you to do something, I never worry if it is done,” the Chief said. “Take Daniel with you and hurry back. Your mother will be unhappy if you miss the blessing.”
“Yes, father,” Dagr replied, dipping his head slightly to his father in a gesture of respect. Winn clamped his fingers tight on Dagr’s shoulder and released him with a gentle shove.
As he motioned for Daniel to follow and they left the new brick church, Dagr pushed his hood off his head. The thick bear skinned-cloak was ceremonial garb he infrequently wore, given to him by his great-uncle Erich when he reached manhood. Lined with fur edging and embroidered with ancient symbols, it was a display of his position more than a useful garment. Since his village joined with the English at Basse’s Choice, there were few times his position as Chief Winn’s son had cause for acknowledgment. Yet even though his status was of little importance to the English, Dagr still felt the pull of responsibility toward his kin – and his wayward brother.
“What is he doing up there?” Dagr asked his cousin.
“I – I don’t know. He has Old Dagr’s Leabhar Sinnsreadh,” Daniel replied.
Dagr glanced sideways at his cousin as a wave of unease settled in his chest. “What is he doing with my grandfather’s book?”
“He wants to learn to use the runes. He says it is his right as a Blooded One.”
“His right? Has he spoken to father about his rights?” Dagr demanded. “And why do you help him? You know we cannot use that magic. You know the risk.”
“I know! I – I’m sorry, Dagr. I did not know what he meant to do.”
“How did he get it?” he asked, suspecting the culprit before Daniel answered.
“It was me. I took it from Erich’s longhouse. Malcolm stood watch while I looked for it,” the young man admitted. Daniel was two years younger than Malcolm, but he was still old enough to know the consequence of what he had done. No one was permitted to use the ancient Leabhar Sinnsreadh, a book his grandfather Dagr Marcus had retrieved from the future. With the details of the original Five Bloodlines, the Leabhar Sinnsreadh was much more than just a book. It was a relic of days past and lifetimes that would never be lived. The Elders kept the book hidden to protect those it named – and Dagr was going to kill his brother for stealing it.
The last glimmers of an orange sunset cast a glow upon the hillside where Malcolm sat against a nook of stones. As Dagr inhaled the thick scent of Cyprus and Elm, he could see Malcolm sat cross-legged with the book in his lap, his head of dark curls bent down as he studied. Why would he risk such a thing? Dagr wondered. Even for Malcolm, stealing the Leabhar Sinnsreadh was beyond excusable.
Malcolm looked up as they approached. He placed the open book beside him on the ground and slowly rose up to his feet, meeting Dagr’s hard gaze.
“I’m not going to the blessing, so your trip was for naught,” Malcolm said, his voice wavering despite his apparent resolve. Dagr pointed a finger at his younger brother.
“Yes, you will go to the blessing,” Dagr replied. “Even if I must drag you back there myself!”
“Of course. Do father’s bidding, just as you always do,” Malcolm muttered.
Dagr placed a hand on the knife at his waist, pushing his cloak aside. “This is about respect for your sister and your niece. Nothing more. Give me the book and I’ll speak to father on your behalf.”
With a low snort, Malcolm shook his head, darting a glance at Dagr’s blade.
“Will you stab me with your blade, brother? Are you too cowardly to fight me with your fists?”
Turning his head slightly, Dagr motioned to Daniel, who was standing silently behind them.
“Return to the church. Tell father we will join him soon,” he ordered. Daniel obeyed the command without question, which only served to remind Dagr that Malcolm never listened to anything he was asked to do. Despite the fact that all three men and Kyra had been raised in Chief Winn’s household, somehow Malcolm had turned out quite different. Malcolm shunned every attempt to live in harmony with the English, instead focusing on what might have been if they stayed in the Norse village. Dagr knew it was that dream that drove his brother, the same notion that caused him to steal the book.
As soon as Daniel was out of earshot, Dagr stalked over to his brother and grabbed him by his collar. He was past patience with Malcolm. His father asked him to retrieve his brother, and by the Gods, he was going to do it.
“I am no coward, and you know that very well,” he growled, his face next to his brother. As much as he wished to prove that fact to Malcolm, he held back as his father would have done. Chief Winn never let Malcolm get under his skin, even when Malcolm behaved like a child.
“Then listen to me. For once, listen!” Malcolm stammered, trying to pluck Dagr’s fingers from his collar. “What good is it to have this sacred blood in our veins if we never use it? If there was a way to change the past – to make it better for us all – should we not do it?”
“You mean better for yourself,” Dagr replied. He released his grip and Malcolm stumbled backward, going down on one knee.
“I am not meant for this time as you are,” Malcolm said quietly. “Here, you are the Chief’s son. Someday you will be the Chief Protector. “And I am only a second son, as I am when I stand here before you.”
Dagr sighed, trying his best to keep his voice level. It took considerable effort, especially when his base instinct was to box his brother in the ears and drag him back to town. “Stop this foolishness now. Father sent me to bring you home –”
“The runes can take me where I belong. I know how to use them, Dagr, if you wi
ll only listen! You could go with me.”
“You belong here. That is the truth I know,” Dagr replied. “If you wish to leave, then you will face our father and mother and tell them yourself, and then you can leave on your own two feet. You need no magic for that.”
Malcolm’s green eyes blazed bright beneath his dark brows, his boyish face covered in dust as he frowned. “Someday you will envy me, brother. Remember this day. Remember that I asked you to stand by my side.”
Before Dagr could move to stop him, Malcolm took a blade from his belt and sliced through his palm. When he took his Bloodstone pendant from his neck, Dagr lunged at him, sending them both sprawling.
“No!” Dagr shouted, slamming his brother’s bloody fist to the ground. Malcolm crawled toward his Bloodstone and Dagr yanked him back, both trying to gain control of the pendant. Each of them knew what would happen if Malcolm touched the stone, yet Dagr was still stunned that his brother tried to do it. Malcolm had always complained about his role within their family, but the depth of his anger had never truly been so clear. As they fought beneath the dying embers of a golden sunset, Malcolm twisted in Dagr’s grasp and grabbed the Bloodstone with a triumphant grin.
Dagr did not think of the consequence when he grabbed Malcolm’s wrist and slammed it down. Instead of dislodging the Bloodstone, their entwined fingers fell upon the open Leabhar Sinnsreadh. As the earth beneath their tangled limbs began to shudder he closed his eyes, the sickening force pulling him down closer to the dirt.
Was that his handprint staining the pages of the Leabhar Sinnsreadh? Or did it belong to Malcolm?
He could see the outline of a rune on the ancient pages, obscured beneath a bloody handprint. His vision flickered like a fire bereft of timber, darkness engulfing him amidst the random surges of flame. Dagr never knew the power of his own blood until that moment, when he felt the air rush from his lungs and he thought he might die if he did not feel the cold earth upon his face. It engulfed him, embraced him, welcomed him, until finally, he heard a voice screaming and he realized the sound came from his own lips as he plummeted through time.
Chapter 2
Lochaber
1435.
“ARE YE READY, lass?” Uncle Ian called from the hallway. His anxious voice sent a sliver of ice down her spine, tempered by the rapidly rising anger flaring in her gut. As Skye gripped her mother’s letter in her fists, she leaned her cheek against the plank door and closed her eyes for a moment to collect her wits.
No, uncle, she wanted to scream. I’m not ready. And I will not agree to marry The McMillan’s son today.
Instead, she forced a pleasant tone from her lips and opened her eyes. She stared at the smeared words on the parchment, blurred but still legible after nearly seventeen years. Her mother’s final gift.
“Yes, uncle. I will join ye when the bell tolls,” she replied. Skye knew she had at least a quarter of an hour before the priest rang the celebration bell in Dunloch Chapel to announce her betrothal. It was enough time to gather a traveling bag and make her escape.
She ran her fingertips over the outline of the Bloodstone pendant hanging from her neck, the warmth of the stone radiating through her skin to remind her of who she was. She was a Blooded Cameron and she about to pledge her life to a Blooded McMillan. Moreover, if the words in her mother’s letter were true, there was no one left in Lochaber that Skye could trust – even her Uncle Ian.
Skye considered her options as she tied her long blond hair back with a scrap of linen. There were at least a dozen armed Highlanders loyal to her uncle in the antechamber one floor below her room, and more than a score of McMillan men outside the castle. If she meant to escape, she needed to find a way around the men – and she needed a disguise.
“Very well. I will wait fer ye then,” Uncle Ian said, his tone taking on an authoritative tilt. Skye swallowed hard as she pictured his round face puckered in a scowl and his cheeks standing out like two ripe red cherries. Ian Cameron was not a man who held his temper with any dignity, usually succumbing into a sputtering mess of stammers and threats when he was challenged. Although Skye had never been subjected to his ire, she knew the consequence of crossing him. He had plenty of men to do his bidding and the gold to keep them loyal – and in the highlands that made him a very powerful man.
Taking the brown plaid from the traveling chest in her quarters, she tucked it carefully around her head to shield her face. She had no other gown beside the plum velvet one she arrived in, so covering the extravagant fabric was the best she could do. If anyone spotted her at a distance she might be mistaken for one of the McMillan servant women, which would give her more time to get away from Dunloch Castle. The remainder of her belongings would regretfully be left behind, but it was a small price to pay for escaping a disastrous marriage.
Skye tied a small bag of coins inside the folds of her skirt and slid her mother’s letter inside her bodice. It was pure luck that she discovered it in the bottom of her traveling chest beneath the folds of a silk chemise, hidden until the moment of her impending betrothal. She could recite her mother’s instructions by memory, but it comforted her to feel the parchment against her heart as she slid her leg over the window ledge. If she died trying to escape, at least a part of her mother would be there with her.
“I hear the bells. Come out now!” Uncle Ian called.
Her foot slipped on the moss-covered stones and she felt her fingernail tear as she scrambled to grab a secure hold. Silk slippers were not meant for climbing, and despite her best effort she lost her footing. With a screech, Skye slid down the steep incline sideways in a tangle of velvet and plaid, skidding to a stop when her backside met the lower roof with a thud.
Afraid to breath and terrified to move, she slowly opened her eyes. Her breath was knocked from her lungs on landing, each shallow pant sending a stab of pain through her chest. Once she touched the letter in her bodice and confirmed her purse was still tied to her skirt, she rolled slightly to her side to see where she was.
A crash echoed from her room up above and she realized she had no time to consider her options.
“Skye!” Uncle Ian bellowed.
She closed her eyes and rolled over the edge, praying her feet would hit the ground first. When she landed in a pile of discarded rushes and staggered to her feet she could still hear her uncle’s shouts.
No one could make her marry the McMillan’s son. She would never be a wife, nor be used to breed more Blooded Ones, and she could only thank the Lord above that she discovered the truth before she wed. All her life Skye did what her uncle asked, without a whisper of dissent in any manner. She was the perfect ward, the perfect pawn in a world full of Highlanders and Norsemen who controlled her every move.
As she glanced back at Dunloch Castle, she could still hear the deep clang of the betrothal bell from the chapel. Although she was sheltered by the edge of the forest by the time she stopped running, she risked only a moment to look back.
Goodbye, Scotland. My mother says I will only be safe in the future, so the future is where I will go.
Her feet were bleeding when she finally felt safe enough to stop. Despite the frigid breeze that rippled under the edges of her plaid, her skin was flushed beneath her coverings and she could feel the damp sweat on her skin. She was a good lass who never strayed too far from home, so traipsing through a Highland forest was a physical chore her body was not accustomed to. Although her tired body ached in protest and she had no idea when she might have her next meal, she could not give up. She was through dangling like a puppet in the hands of men.
Once she found a suitable spot beneath an old Rowan tree and set down, she gently peeled her ragged silk slippers off her feet. A thorn protruded through one sole into her big toe; the other slipper was torn across the heel. As she massaged her tired feet, she looked up when she heard something rustle in the brush behind her.
“Bloody hell!” a hoarse voice muttered.
Skye rose up on her knees and leaned on the
Rowan tree, peering carefully around the trunk without making a sound.
Lying flat on his back in the dirt was a man with his eyes closed. With one glance, she knew he was no Highlander, and he did not look particularly like the Norsemen she knew, either. He was dressed in simple trews like the Norse wore, but his exquisite cloak lined with fur and intricate embroidery hinted he was an important man. His dark hair was long and straight, held back by a rawhide tie at his nape. A strong jaw and thick dark brows filled out his sharp features, set against a background of sun-kissed brown skin. So engrossed in studying him, Skye did not notice his eyes had opened until her gaze drifted from the knife at his waist back up to his eyes.
His bright blue, blazing eyes.
“Who are you?” he asked. Leaves fell away from him as he sat up, his gaze fixed on hers.
Her mouth suddenly felt dry, as if the moisture was wicked instantly from her lips.
“Who are you?” she replied. She knew he was not one of Ian’s men, nor was he one of the McMillan’s crew, so she tried to remind herself of that fact as her panic surged.
“I asked you first,” he said, his voice a low rumble. His accent was strange, his words rolled together in a pleasant teasing manner.
“None of your concern,” she shot back. She scrambled to her feet, grabbing her torn slippers in one hand and fumbling with her cloak with the other. He jumped up and blocked her way, holding both hands out away from his body in a subservient gesture.
“Wait! We are not making much progress here, I’m afraid,” he said. When he stepped toward her, she shot back a pace and he immediately widened his arms and gave her space. “I’m sorry. Please – don’t go. I willna harm ye. My name is Dagr.”
Unbidden tears filled her eyes as she stepped back and her foot slipped on a sharp rock. She bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out and tried to hide her discomfort with bold behavior.
