But Dallan never turned around.
Th e night is dark and your
Slumber is deep in the hush of
My being. Wake, O Pain of
Love, for I know not how to
Open the door, and I
Stand outside.
Rabindranath Tagore
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Time Master,” John whispered to Kwaku who stood behind Dallan’s slumped form. “A word with you if I may?”
Kwaku chuckled at John and nodded, his eyes focused on the back of Dallan’s head.
John moved toward the Azurti warrior, playing full the part of a Lord Councilor of Sutter’s Province, a position not far below the Time Master and the Elders. “Outside please,” he requested none too politely. Kwaku obliged, still chuckling to himself as he headed out into the bright, happy sunshine.
“What happened in there?” John demanded of Kwaku, who idly smirked and studied his toes peeking out from under his bright yellow and purple robes.
Kwaku held out both hands and shrugged his shoulders, a bewildered look on his face, then began laughing again.
“Tell me what Zara did to him,” John spoke as seriously as he could.
Kwaku turned toward a nearby grove of trees, put a long arm around John and, practically pulling him off his feet, led him from the cookhouse toward the grove.
Just as the two men came upon a tree, Zara stepped out from behind it, glanced at the cookhouse not fifty yards away, and then retreated behind the huge expanse of trunk and branches. She knew the moment she spoke Dallan might sense her. She had to be careful.
Kwaku went to his wife and kissed her tenderly. “My Beloved…” he whispered in English. Zara responded with a passion barely restrained and clutched at his arms as he pointed to the cookhouse, then John, and gently laughed.
Amazing what a good woman could do to a man, John thought. He stood quietly off to one side and studied the exchange. Zara was indeed tall, taller than John, nearly Dallan’s height, and possessed a unique grace and sophistication about her. Kwaku had the ebony skin of the Azurti, Zara a rich mahogany.
Muirarans were born any color, parental genes having no bearing on individual pigmentation. Future mates, on the other hand, did. While bonding, each became the desire of the other as their hearts prepared for joining. Zara’s sister as John recalled, was pale skinned and blonde.
Zara turned to John and extended her hands to him. He promptly took them into his own, bowed low and held them to his forehead in a formal greeting, then rose slowly placing her two hands upon his heart for a moment before letting them go.
It was the greeting to be given to the Time Master’s Muiraran. Hands to head, in honor of the many deeds the hands of she and her people had done to help his own. Hands to heart to keep alive the love she had for her husband, who held the power to wield it all. Everything she was, everything she had, he controlled. The Muiraran and her abilities were much like a weapon, the Time Master the wielder of it. One could not work without the other, and both would die without the other. They were irrevocably and irreversibly joined. One.
“Zara,” John began. “While Dallan was receiving the Call, you did something to him. I wish to know how you interfered. Such is not allowed, I was told.”
Zara merely smiled as Kwaku chuckled under his breath. “My Lord Councilor, I am well aware of the danger in tampering with the Call. Let me assure you that what I was doing had nothing to do with the Weapons Master. I was not helping him or doing anything to sway his decision.” Her silken voice caressed John, and he had to straighten himself to stay steady on his feet.
A familiar nervousness began to slowly creep up his back. He was, after all, confronting an incredibly powerful creature. “But you sang.”
“Yes, a song of healing.”
“But such is not allowed. The Scot has to accept the Call on his own. It must work itself out. You know it is the only way to confirm the Call is really for him.”
She smiled gently. “Of this, Lord Councilor, I am fully aware.”
John took a deep breath to calm himself while Kwaku stood and laughed quietly, keeping an eye on the cookhouse. “Then what was your action? What was the singing about?”
“Lord Councilor, I did nothing to interfere.”
“Nothing? You sang. The Scot was in pain and you sang. You interfered!” He began to pace. It was all he could do to keep control of his rising frustration. Or was it nervous fear from being in her presence?
“Lord Councilor,” Zara began softly, “it was not the Weapons Master’s pain I eased.”
John suddenly looked at her, shock on his face as the truth hit him. Of course. How stupid could he have been?
“It was the pain of the Maiden. She is of my people, trapped all her life in a hostile place and surrounded by savages. True, who ever took the Maiden so long ago left her with people who appear to care for her, and I pray things stay that way until we are able to properly retrieve her. But until then she has no knowledge of what is happening to her.” Zara’s words were full of regret and her own sorrow. “It was her pain I sought to ease. She stands a better chance of losing her life to the Call than he does.” She looked directly into John’s eyes. “Ignorance can kill, Lord Councilor.”
John lowered his gaze to the grass beneath his booted feet. “Of course. How could I have forgotten?”
“Easily enough, my friend!” laughed Kwaku, speaking up for the first time. “You have no experience as yet wid de Call and its ways. Dere are no set guidelines dis time. De Maiden, she is not trained, her inner heart and instinct act on deir own. Dey know no rules.”
John began to pace back and forth, his hands behind his back, then turned to Zara. “I apologize for my outburst. The Muiraran Maiden, she is well?”
Zara looked to her husband, who was no longer laughing. “Time, Lord Councilor, is running out.” She began to walk in the direction of the cookhouse, then turned to John. “She is ready.”
“By the Creator, no!”
“Yes.”
John sagged slightly, suddenly weak in the knees as his stomach threatened to serve the stew he’d eaten earlier an eviction notice. He had been sure they would have more time, but if Zara was saying what he thought she was… “How soon?”
Zara turned again, walking toward her husband, her human features fluxing to Muiraran as he gave her a silent command. She turned to face John who was immediately captured by her, an odd tingling sensation surrounding him. He swallowed hard. Once in a day to see a Muiraran in action was enough to shake anyone up. But this Muiraran, twice in one day, was too much. He trembled out of both fear and awe as she stepped toward him, and he found himself unable to move.
She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her, her Elvin features jumped out at him, holding him. “I will show you,” she told him softly, so close now he could feel the delicate brush of her breath. He was vaguely aware that Kwaku had left, but didn’t care. He had more pressing matters to worry about, like wondering what in the world Zara was going to do to him.
His worst fear was then suddenly realized. Zara opened her mouth, and began to sing…
* * *
Dallan was at the window again, looking to the forest, searching. The lingering emptiness clung tenaciously to him, refusing to grant any quarter. He groaned, rested his hands on the sill, closed his eyes and leaned toward the glass, as if touching it would make the pain go away.
“Dallan?” came Mary’s voice from behind him.
“I’m all right, Mary, just tired.” He decided he had worried her enough this day, and besides, it was true. He was dead tired now, and he knew the emptiness wasn’t going to let him sleep. It never did.
A large black form loomed in the doorway of the cookhouse. “Boyeee…”
The voice immediately irritated Dallan. He turned his head to glare at Kwaku, his green eyes narrowed. Just for a moment, he thought he could feel her again, his wee lass. It hurt.
“You, Boyeee,” Kwaku
suddenly boomed. “You will answer de next time it comes.”
Dallan suddenly stared at the Time Master like a confused child. “How?”
Kwaku began a chuckle, which quickly turned into a belly laugh.
“My God…” Dallan breathed. The heathen knew. He pulled himself up to his full height, unfortunately still shorter than Kwaku’s. “How do I get out o’ here? Tell me!” His tone was menacing, carrying ten long years irritation with it.
Kwaku shot Dallan a knowing look. “Not how, Boyeee,” Kwaku told him almost gently. “When.”
Dallan’s face fell. “What?”
“When. Soon Boyeee, soon.”
Dallan’s eyes locked with Kwaku’s. “But how?”
Kwaku shrugged. “Answer de Call, Boyeee.”
Irritation took over and Dallan punched out each word. “I dinna ken how to!”
“Ahhhh, but you do.”
“I… oh, what’s the bloody use of even trying to get a straight answer!” Dallan huffed. “I’ve had enough. I’m going to my cottage. Tell John where I am, will ye, Mary?”
“That I will, Weapons Master.” Mary, who had been standing quietly in the same spot since Kwaku entered, finally darted for the relative safety of the kitchen.
Dallan watched her disappear behind the hearth then turned his attention back to the heathen. “Out o’ my way, I’m leaving.”
Kwaku, still in the doorway, didn’t move a muscle.
“This again, is it? I’ve no time, nor am I in the best o’ moods to oblige ye in yer game.” Dallan stood in front of Kwaku, arms folded across his chest, his weight leaning slightly on his right foot.
This was Dallan’s stubborn stance, Kwaku’s favorite, and it always delighted him when he could get the Scot to use it.
“What are ye staring at? Have ye nothing better to do than stand there a-gaping at me? Out o’ my way!” Dallan continued his stance, but his eyes and voice pushed Kwaku from the doorway. He went to move past.
Kwaku grabbed Dallan’s arm as he blocked the doorway with his other.
He leaned into Dallan’s face. “De Call, you will answer de next time it comes, yes?”
“What will happen if I do?” Dallan couldn’t believe he’d said it. Both men raised a shocked brow at the question.
“Go home, Boyeee. You will go home.”
Kwaku released Dallan and quickly strode away, his long legs carrying him swiftly toward a grove of cedars about fifty yards off.
Dallan stood in stunned silence, allowing the heathen to escape. Home? He shook himself, gathering his senses. “Wait!” he yelled after Kwaku as the yellow and purple robes disappeared into the trees.
Dallan took off at a full run, covering the distance in seconds, his muscles straining as he pushed himself harder, his blood racing at the teasing thoughts of home. Anticipation spurred him past the first tree and around the second… and right into John. The collision knocked both men off their feet, each flying in a different direction. Dallan, trained to react, landed skillfully and was on his feet again, ready to fight before the Lord Councilor even hit the ground.
“John!” Dallan yelped, discovering whom he’d just sent flying. “Are ye all right, man? Can ye talk?”
John, his white Councilor’s robes bunched around his knees, his blonde hair and composure a complete mess, studied the grass stains covering his clothes, then looked up at Dallan, mouth agape. He wasn’t able to speak yet, which was just as well considering the words running through his mind. He pushed them aside, thinking of something more tactful to say, if he ever got his breath back.
“John?” Dallan asked, concern in his voice as he stared into the forest.
Kwaku was gone. He cursed to himself in Gaelic.
“H… help me up, will you?” John’s breath returned as he began to struggle to his feet.
Dallan gripped John’s arms and pulled him up the rest of the way. “Did I hit ye that hard, then?”
John, hands on knees, fought to remain calm. “I’ll be all right, Dallan. Just give me a moment.” His fall forgotten, he tried vainly to recover from what Zara had shown him.
The Maiden ... so little time …
John worked to keep his lunch down, then stood upright to see Dallan was still staring intently into the forest.
Zara. John knew she was making her way back to Mishna to tell the Elders and Muirarans what she had discovered about the Maiden’s current state. “Kwaku’s gone to the city.” He said to distract Dallan.
Dallan turned to face him. “And when might ye be going?”
John spoke reluctantly. "As soon as you and I finish our business.”
“Good. I’m going with you.” Dallan turned and began striding in the direction of the cookhouse.
John started after him again. “Um, I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”
“And why not?” Dallan turned abruptly and thrust his face into John’s.
“Ah, well.” John couldn’t believe he was actually stammering. “Well, for one thing you… you…”
“Canna leave the village?”
John shrugged. “Yes, that’s one reason.”
“The other is that bloody heathen not wanting me to ken what he’s up to.”
John tried to turn away from him but Dallan grabbed his arm. “Dinna make me stay here. Take me with you.” His body shook with the intensity in his voice, then, as if catching himself, relaxed suddenly, releasing his mental and physical hold on John. “Please.”
The Scot’s eyes now held the simple need of a child in them. John felt his resolve to keep all his knowledge to himself slip a notch. He sighed heavily. “We’ll finish the interview first. Then I’ll see what I can do.”
Dallan gave him a single nod in acceptance as they set off back to the cookhouse. John needed his papers. Dallan needed Mary. Or rather, something Mary promised to give him. Nothing, not the events of the day, not even the Call, was going to keep Dallan Keir MacDonald from the ‘flat cakes’ Mary had promised—what John’s people referred to as chocolate chip cookies. After all, a man has to have his priorities. And, he reasoned, he’d had the ‘flat cakes’ often enough to know that they, at least, were real. At this point he wasn’t sure what else was.
My dove in the clefts of the rock, in the
Hiding places on the mountainside, show
Me your face, let me hear your voice;
For your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely.
Song of Songs 2:14
CHAPTER NINE
“What makes you feel frustrated?” John asked to start the remainder of the interview.
They were in Dallan’s private lodgings, a one-room cottage somewhat resembling the dwellings of the ancient Scottish countryside. The little house had a high-pitched thatched roof that the Weapons Master insisted on taking care of himself, and some of the most exquisitely carved windows John had ever seen. With the high ceiling, the interior was light and airy, making it appear larger than it was. A cozy stone hearth graced one wall while Dallan’s bed took up another, directly beneath one of the windows. A battered wooden trunk sat at the foot of the bed. The other furniture had been hand-made by Dallan with great care. It was a homey room, not unlike John’s—or anyone’s—quarters in Genis Lee. The difference was that this particular one belonged to the Weapons Master. It was all he owned.
Faded tartan plaids from his clan hung upon the walls and bed, one especially worn one carefully folded over the trunk. It was Dallan’s favorite, the one he had been wearing the night he was taken from his beloved Scotland by Kwaku.
John wasn’t quite sure how Kwaku had managed to acquire all the specific MacDonald highland paraphernalia in the room, but he knew Kwaku had done everything possible to make Dallan feel at home. Perhaps however, it had had the opposite effect and made it all the harder for Dallan to shake the homesickness.
Private journals alongside tiny books, aged and fragile, sat neatly upon a table at the wall, and John noted with interest that they were books of
poetry. Dallan’s sword and shield rested near the hearth, his sporran hanging on a peg near his bed. A pitcher and wash-bowl sat on the table with the books, a linen towel neatly folded by their side. A woman’s necklace, probably his mother’s, hung from a small nail pounded into the stone of the hearth. What looked like a child’s toy rested on a windowsill near the door, while various weapons were tucked here and there where space allowed.
Dallan thought about John’s last question as he lay on his bed munching the last of the flat cakes Mary had given him. He wiped the crumbs away then looked to John helplessly, making no attempt to ensnare him in a stare. “I dinna understand what is happening to me when I feel like… like dying. Not knowing, to no be able to understand something. That frustrates me, John.”
John’s eyes, for once, captured and held Dallan’s, the Scot wanting him to take charge, to give him answers. John could only offer understanding. The answer had already been given but Dallan needed to accept and believe it.
The Call. John said a silent prayer that he would come to believe, quickly.
“John?”
“Oh.” John was startled out of his appeals to the Creator. “I’m sorry, I…was giving the matter some thought.”
“The matter?”
“Uh, yes. What happened to you today…” John’s voice sounded reluctant even to his own ears. "… from what Kwaku tells me, was different.” John shook his head, obviously making up his mind about something. He set his tablet and writing instrument down on the floor and leaned forward in his chair, closing the space between them.
Dallan sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and shivered; frequent chills were another side effect of the Call. “Who do I believe, John?” he whispered.
“Believe who you think is right.”
“Who?” Dallan’s posture said he was skeptical, while his eyes pleaded for an answer he could believe.
John closed his own eyes for a moment, head bent low, preparing for the only answer he knew he could give, risky though it was. “You are, Dallan. You know what the right answer is.”
Time Masters Book One; The Call (An Urban Fantasy, Time Travel Romance) Page 11
