Dallan left his cottage, one thought burning in his mind, a rekindled idea that always gave him hope. With determined steps he strode to the Lord Councilor’s quarters, his face etched in firm resolve. No matter what it took, this time he’d do it.
This time he’d escape.
* * *
John stared at the dying fire, his face locked in serious contemplation.
The Scot was unstable.
Not only was he unstable, he was frustrated and discouraged. A nasty combination any way you looked at it. How in the Creator’s name was John going to get him to open up?
He sighed, saddened by the circumstances surrounding the Weapons Master’s removal from his home by Kwaku ten years ago. The Time Master should never have allowed Dallan’s deep emotional wounds to go unhealed, or let bitterness and vengeance be used to bind them. John’s people knew from experience that bitterness and vengeance were poor healers.
A knock at the already open door snapped John out of his thoughts. He sat up and turned in his chair. “Come in.”
To John’s surprise, Dallan entered. “Were ye no expecting me, sir? Ye look as if I’ve given ye a start.”
John quickly collected himself. “No, you didn’t startle me. I just didn’t expect you this soon. I thought you would need more time to get cleaned up.”
“Ye thought wrong.”
“Yes,” John began as he judged the stern tone in the Scot’s voice. “Please, sit down.”
Dallan took a chair opposite John’s and placed it before the dying fire. He sat and immediately assumed what John had learned was his favorite position, legs outstretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, his massive forearms crossed over an impressive chest. The Scot’s six-foot-six frame, in a one-room cottage, seemed even larger and more intimidating. John was glad Dallan requested the door to the cottage remain wide open. It meant an easy escape route should the need arise, which luckily it hadn’t.
“I still have some questions I need to ask you, Dallan. I know we’ve discussed things you may not understand,” John began calmly. “I want to help you make sense of as much of it as possible.”
“If yer referring to all that Time Master nonsense, yer wasting your time. I dinna believe a word of it.”
The Lord Councilor took a slow, deep breath. This was not going to be easy, but no use stalling. He leaned forward slightly, fixed his eyes on the Scot, and let him have it. “Tell me, Dallan. What do you feel most ashamed of in your past?”
The Scot stared at him as if the previous day’s interview had been the most monumental waste of time he could recall. His mouth twisted up to one side in a silent snarl, silence his only answer.
John didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Dallan’s face calmed. He tried not to let him see how sorry he was to have asked the question, that it was only his job. But he could see Dallan read the reaction for what it was. Perceptiveness was one of the Scot’s many attributes the Elders deemed valuable.
“There is nothing in my life that I be ashamed of, sir,” Dallan said quietly, too quietly as far as John was concerned. He knew the Scot’s past and also knew the question had to have set off a multitude of unwanted emotions inside the man.
John decided to take a risk. “Not even of Alasdair?” It wasn’t a question so much as a frontal attack. John stiffened slightly in his chair and waited for the verbal storm to come.
Dallan suddenly sat up straight, the transformation from man to warrior complete within two seconds of the question’s utterance. He sucked a long breath through his nose, then sat back in his chair and assumed his previous position. “What happened in Glencoe,” he began, a slight challenge in his voice, “wasna my fault.” His bright green cat’s eyes bore into John, piercing his concentration and weakening his resolve to get through the remainder of the interview by tomorrow night.
John knew he was definitely going to need more time with this man. “Are you ashamed of it?” He asked, accepting the challenge in Dallan’s eyes head-on.
Dallan leaned forward in his chair until he was as close to John’s face as he could get without actually leaving his seat. “No.”
John noted the nonverbal message and tried a different approach. “Have you ever known shame, Dallan? Has shame ever touched your life? If not, I find it hard to believe. Shame has a way of touching us all in one form or another.”
“Aye,” Dallan began. “There is one thing that shames me.” His eyes sought and captured John’s at that moment, holding them fast.
The Lord Councilor stiffened. Dallan was going for a kill.
“You shame me, John. You and yer people who keep telling me they will send me home, yet nothing happens! Ye keep me here against my will and treat me like some prized stallion being prepared for sale.” The Scot’s eyes narrowed further and seemed to suck the very air from John’s lungs. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it?
“Oh, I’ll admit ye give me my freedom to move about and go where I please. Within reason o’course.” Dallan’s burr thickened with sarcasm. “But I canna leave. I havena even been able to travel to the city! Why is that? What is there that ye canna bear for me to see? Or are ye afraid I might find my escape there, slip from yer grasp and be gone from this place forever?”
Dallan’s position changed too fast for John to react. Before he knew it the Scot’s face was inches from his own, those piercing green eyes practically drilling holes through his skull and out the wall behind him.
“What else?” Came John’s seemingly calm reply. He felt it to be a rather brave thing to say, considering he had two hundred eighty pounds of wound-up Highland warrior breathing into his face like an angry beast.
“What else?” Dallan snorted as he stood suddenly upright. He towered over John, who still seated noticed he was a good six feet from the chair Dallan had so recently occupied. How could a man of such size move so fast? His attention was suddenly drawn to the twitch in the Scot’s jaw, and he stiffened in preparation for whatever Dallan might say or do next.
“What else, ye ask? What else indeed! I’ll tell ye what else, Lord Councilor. You try to spend yer life being followed around by a heathen the size of a bloody tree! You spend day in and day out defending yerself against him!” The Scot waved a finger in John’s face as he emphasized each of his next words. “Because ye ken if ye make one mistake, one wee slip, he’ll have his chance and make ye regret ye ever let him have it!” He turned away from John briefly in an attempt to calm himself down.
It didn’t work. “I wasna careful today and look what he did!” Dallan spun to face him again and pulled the Sark away from his shoulder, displaying the heathen’s handiwork.
John gasped. It was a sight indeed, spreading from the base of Dallan’s neck to the end of his shoulder and down his arm. He noted the injury was on Dallan’s right side, his main weapons arm. It must have hurt like burning bells and probably still did. By the Creator, how could the Scot keep the pain hidden so well?
“You’ll need to have that shoulder wrapped. The bone may be bruised.”
John shot Dallan a stern look. “Why didn’t you have that looked at before our meeting?”
“Because,” Dallan growled, “I didna want him to have the pleasure of knowing he’d gotten me. Again.”
John’s face took on a look of amazement. The Lord Councilor was utterly shocked at how far the ancient Scot would go to protect his foolish pride. His face changed to a deep frown. “And did he hurt you?”
Dallan took in the frown and calmed somewhat, pacing to the opposite end of the room and back. “Weel,” he began almost sheepishly, “it doesna feel as though I’ve been kissed there, if that be yer meaning.”
The confession drew a smile out of John and he leaned closer, tilting his head up to get a better look at the damage. The Scot, quite unexpectedly, bent down on one knee for him to do so.
John winced as he examined the area. Kwaku Awahnee was incredible with a quarterstaff, and he had obviously gotten one of his bette
r shots. “You will get this taken care of, and you will do it now,” he commanded and rose from his chair, motioning the Scot to get up as well. As he ushered Dallan to the door, he became furious with both Kwaku and the Scot. At this rate, there would be nothing left of the only hope the Humans had for survival.
Without Dallan MacDonald, simply put, they had no hope.
* * *
“How’s it going?”
John looked up from his notes just in time to see his assistant enter the cottage, a small knapsack in his hand. He stretched, welcoming the distraction Lany offered. He’d sent Dallan to the healer over an hour ago and had been deep in thought pouring over Dallan’s case ever since. The Scot’s mental and emotional instability, his many thwarted escape attempts on file, his anger issues with Kwaku. The list went on and on …
John let go a weary sigh. “Well enough for now. I would like to see Dallan open up to me more, but that will take time.”
Lany frowned. “Time is not something we have much of, Eaton.”
“What makes you say that? The Maiden has been found and is being guarded. Now the only thing left to do is prepare Dallan, something I would rather not rush if it’s all the same to you.”
“You mean the Elders.” Lany commented flatly.
John sighed and nodded his reluctant agreement. The Muiraran’s had their own set of “Elders,” or rather leaders of their Seven Royal Houses. The human Elders John dealt with were the elite table of individuals who controlled every governmental function of Sutter’s Province, the largest human settlement of the Known Lands. John knew all of them well. Well enough to be able to judge whether or not a decision being made was in the best interest of the people or simply a way of one of them getting what they wanted. Thankfully, it was almost always the former. Otherwise, another revolt might very well take place, like fifty years ago, when a few Elders decided they didn’t want Muiraran involvement anymore, thinking Man was better off on his own. After all, couldn’t Man come up with his own forms of power to help him dominate the planet? And with any luck, they’d dominate the Muirarans as well. Not the brightest idea, there had been casualties on both sides. The severe breach in relations with the Muirarans was now thankfully mended, but took a good fifty years to do the mending. As far as John was concerned, not enough time had passed since then.
“Give me an idea of what you’re doing with him. Maybe I can help.” Lany offered as he leaned forward in his chair.
John sighed again. “I’m trying to get him to talk about what happened concerning his brother.”
“Alasdair?”
John nodded. “Dallan must have a horrible sense of loss and frustration at not knowing what happened after Kwaku took him." He looked right at Lany. “And Dallan will ask me, demand to know. Blazing Bells, what am I suppose to tell him?”
“How about the truth?” Lany offered simply.
John let go a nervous laugh. “Yes. But what is the truth? Guess what Dallan,” he began sarcastically, "As the new Time Master you get to step in and keep the race of Man from annihilating themselves and oh! Did I mention you have to get married to something with enough power to possibly tear the planet apart?"
Lany gave John a blank stare before he readjusted himself in his chair and dug into the knapsack. “I’d say that about covers it.” He pulled out a tiny bundle of white linen and began to unwrap it.
John leaned forward, intent on Lany’s bundle. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, awaiting the final piece of cloth to be thrown back to expose the contents.
Lany smiled. “Yep. Sunflower cookies. My dear wife thought she’d try her hand at my recipe. Turned out pretty good too, for Cari that is. She made them for me just before Vyn and I left for Mishna.” He held the bundle out to John. “Want one?”
John took three. “Vyn is here with you? Is that wise?”
“Yeah, Genis Lee should survive. He wanted to come along as his birthday present. " Lany took a generous bite of cookie. “All his little class mates don’t expect him to return from this trip. The Muirarans will probably eat him, they say.”
John laughed, reaching for another cookie. Lany’s eyes widened, realizing the man had already gulped down the three he’d taken earlier. “Hey, take it easy with these. There aren’t that many.”
John simply nodded as he chewed and eyed the rest of the pile. “How old is Vyn now? Nine?”
Lany covered the cookies protectively with the cloth. “Seven, yesterday. And looking forward to a long and prosperous year of torturing the populace no doubt.”
John suddenly stopped chewing, his face somber.
Lany knew this routine. “You’ve got an idea. Admit it.”
John began chewing again and wagged a finger at his assistant. “I need Vyn.”
“Vyn?” Lany began a hint of concern in his usually apathetic voice. “Whatever for?”
“I think all Dallan needs is a little prompting. Perhaps if he let himself be around a child like Alasdair for a day or two, he might want to get it off his chest. He’s got to let go. He can’t hold onto the pain forever and besides that…”
“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Lany suddenly interjected, his voice a whisper.
“I’d like Vyn to spend some time with Dallan. Padric was supposed to be doing it, but he’s too shy. Vyn is more outgoing. I think he’d be able to do what Padric couldn’t.”
“What!” Lany stood. “Eaton, are you out of your mind? My living stars! As unstable as the Scot is? Why he’ll… he’ll…” Lany gulped.
“I’m sorry, Lany,” John began, his face filled with concern. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. You’re right, Dallan might very well unintentionally hurt Vyn.”
Lany plopped down in his chair. “Vyn? Who’s talking about Vyn being hurt? I’m telling you that by the time my son gets through with the Scot, there won’t be enough left to paint half a picture of him!”
John’s eyes widened as realization hit him: it was Lany’s son Vyn that had accompanied his father on this journey, not his eldest son Jeremi. He shuddered. How could he possibly get the boys mixed up? They were the difference between a quiet calm summer day and a natural disaster. Even Kwaku avoided young Vynant Mosgofian and that more than anything else defined the boy. “You’re right. I can’t subject Vyn to Dallan, or vice versa.”
“Eaton,” Lany began, “you’ve been working too hard.”
John tossed him a bewildered look.
“Don’t you look at me like that, I know you too well. You’re exhausted. You’ve been worrying too much about this whole thing for months. Worrying won’t bring you results. Only action can do that.”
John let go a heavy sigh as he nodded his agreement.
“You know, let me talk to Vyn. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.” Lany mused then added hastily. “Just so long as it’s done in a controlled setting. I wouldn’t want to give Vyn free rein; he might plunder the Scot you know.”
“I wonder if Kwaku will approve. I’ll have to go through him. He does have the final say.” John quickly reached for the last hidden cookie, a sheepish grin on his face.
“Oh, here.” Lany handed the morsel to his superior, annoyance in his voice. “I’ll give Anwen the recipe when this is all over. How long has it been since you’ve seen your family, anyway?”
John frowned and stopped chewing, the taste of the cookie turning sour. “Too long. I’ve been in Genis Lee for a couple of weeks and in Mishna before that.”
Lany could hardly imagine Eaton being separated from his family for so long. His wife Anwen and five daughters were everything to him. He sat up in his chair. “Don’t tell Kwaku a thing. If you think Dallan would benefit from exposure to Vyn or other children then let’s just do it."
John nodded. “Not all medicine is easy to take. But I’m positive it’s what he needs at this point.” He threw Lany a stern look. “Kwaku won’t like us going behind his back.”
“As if he’s never done the same thing? C’mon, you
know how Kwaku is. The Scot’s like a toy to him. He has complete and total power over him and loves every minute of it. I think Kwaku needs to have the rug pulled out from underneath him a time or two.
Lany went to his superior, bent slightly and rested a hand on the Lord Councilor’s shoulder, at once noticing the tension beneath his fingers. He gave the shoulder a light squeeze. “It’s going to be fine. From what Zara tells me, the Muiraran and the Scot should bond immediately. Trust me. It’ll be love at first sight.”
John shook his head, buried his tired face in his hands and mumbled through his fingers. “I hope you’re right, Lany. I pray that you are. Because if any of us are wrong in this…”
Lany nodded stoically. "We'll just have to stand and fight."
John brought his face out of his hands. “Yes. But how do you fight something you can’t even see? The outer regions are becoming a morgue. They don’t even know what they’re fighting about. At this point it takes just one little thing to set the people in those sectors off and there you have it! Enough to start a civil war! Add to that reports of the old Rites being practiced again, talk of monsters and other strange creatures roaming in the wilds. Then of course you have people disappearing left and right never to be seen or heard from again.” John balled one hand into a fist and made like he was going to hit something. “I can’t wait to get my hands on the person responsible!”
He then caught and calmed himself. “But Dallan has got to be ready to do his part.”
Both John and Lany became somber. Kwaku Awahnee’s wife Zara was entering into her fertile stage. Neither was allowed to serve once she became pregnant. And even though that could be months even years down the road, the Elders wanted Kwaku to give up his post early and install Dallan MacDonald as the new Time Master. Have him be the one to find the culprit behind all the instigating and put a stop to it.
John and Lany looked at each other, their expressions grave.
Mankind’s entire existence was about to be borne upon the shoulders of a very reluctant ancient Scottish Highlander who as yet had no idea that in order to save them all, he would have to willingly join with a specific Muiraran from the royal house of Shamaelon. In all probability, once joined, the most powerful creature the humans or Muirarans had ever seen.
Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) Page 4
